Triple Threat - James Patterson Page 0,66

felt them tenfold.

I shared with her, Sarah, and Dr. David Stapf—Sarah’s biochemist friend from grad school—what I saw happen to Tanaka in the minutes before he went rabid. I wanted us all to be on the lookout for similar warning signs: sweaty brow, red face, clenched fists, arguing, and aggressive behavior.

And just in case we miss them somehow, Sarah’s given us permission, if she starts acting dangerously, to put her down. Like an animal.

I respect her bravery, but, God, do I hope it doesn’t come to that.

Except now, it’s looking like it might.

We’re wrapping up day six locked in the bowels of the University of Nevada science complex, trying to program the stem cell genetic sequence that will bring dead white blood cells back to life in a petri dish. So far, we’ve crammed about two months of research into one grueling week. And I feel it. My back aches from hunching over my microscope eighteen hours a day. My eyelids are heavy, my mind foggy.

I glance over at Eli, on the floor in the corner, playing with a collection of lab equipment serving as toys. Rubber gloves, plastic funnels, safety goggles. Just watching his innocent smile is enough to keep me going.

Next I look over at Chloe, working furiously at her lab station, pipetting solutions into test tubes. Her dedication makes me love her even more.

Then I notice Sarah, also working hard…but with more intensity somehow, almost with an anger in her eyes. Could this be the first sign of aggressive behavior? I watch as she subtly dabs some sweat off her forehead. It’s hot and stuffy down in this lab; I’m sweating, too. But maybe that’s another symptom of her impending change?

“You guys, check this out!” David exclaims, leaping off his lab stool.

Chloe, Sarah, and I head over and take turns peering into David’s digital microscope.

“Oh my God,” Sarah says, seeing it first.

“Incredible,” Chloe adds after she looks.

Finally, it’s my turn—but I don’t have any words. Just silent joy.

I’m watching thousands of previously dead white blood cells regenerate right before my eyes! I clap David on the back with excitement.

“Amazing, right?” he says. “Obviously there’s no way to know if this nucleotide chain will have the same effect inside a feral human brain. I think it should, but—”

“David,” I say, “we don’t have time to ‘think.’ We need certainty. Now.”

Chloe suggests we share our results with the new DOE team, with whom we’ve been in sporadic touch the past few days, so they can run with it themselves.

“For sure,” I say. “But first, get these stem cells into a nasal spray canister. When Sarah starts…transforming…at least we’ll have something to try on her.”

Everyone soberly agrees, and David eagerly sets to work. We all do. That was just the kind of moral boost we needed. Maybe we’ll cure this thing after all.

But then, barely two hours later, everything changes.

Every single light and device and computer in our lab flickers off.

“Incroyable!” Chloe shouts, enraged. “We are on the brink of saving mankind and we lose electricity?”

“It’s all right, honey. Relax. I’m sure it’s just…”

In the near distance, we can hear glass being shattered. Guns being fired. And humans screaming, grunting, roaring.

Feral humans.

We all immediately realize we’re no longer safe here.

I turn to David. “How many nasal injector serums did you make?”

“Just…just one,” he stutters. “For Sarah.”

Great.

“Make sure you bring it,” I say. “I have an awful feeling we’re going to need it.”

Chapter 37

All five of us—Chloe, Eli, Sarah, David, and myself—race up the stairs and outside. It’s the first time we’ve stepped foot out of the lab in days. The sun is setting and the mostly empty campus is bathed in eerie, shadowy orange light. Only eerie, shadowy orange light. It looks like the entire school has lost power.

Scratch that. Glancing around in every direction, I see that the blackout stretches across the entire city of Las Vegas.

I also see the source of those feral war cries.

A band of rabid humans is stalking across the campus—a dozen, at least, maybe more, chasing and ferociously attacking everyone they encounter. They’re also a distorted reflection of Vegas society. One is wearing the black vest and green visor of a blackjack dealer. Another, the heavy makeup and skimpy dress of a cocktail waitress or maybe a prostitute. Another is a Vegas cop, in uniform, firing his sidearm.

“What do we do?” asks Sarah, panicking.

The truth is, I have no goddamn idea.

We can’t just stand here, but we don’t have a plan, either. We don’t