Instinct: A Chess Team Adventure - By Jeremy Robinson Page 0,108

wrong.”

“And now they do, right? By allowing the human race to go extinct?”

“That’s not my fault!” Weston was back on his feet, pacing and agitated. “Humanity is doing that to itself.”

“How convenient for you.” She shook her hands at him. “Just give me the damn cure and let me go!”

Weston paused his pacing, surprised by the tone and volume of her voice. For a moment he looked at her with different eyes, the same way he looked at King. Like a threat. “I’m afraid you would not enjoy receiving the cure the way I did.”

Sara thought about the implications. About what she knew of Weston’s time in the jungle. “From the old mothers . . .” Her hand went to her mouth as she realized the truth. “It’s an STD?”

“A filthy way of saying it is transmitted through the blood, but essentially correct. That is one way it can be transferred. I have not, clearly, been able to study how it works in detail, but that is my best theory.”

“Something is transferred,” Sara said, her mind on the hunt for Brugada’s cure and not on the rancid-smelling man beside her. “A virus, most likely, that modifies the DNA and disables whatever gene allows Brugada to become a killer. It’s eloquent, really. An avian flu virus delivers the active gene and a second shuts it off. Viral competition.”

“Interesting. The male Nguoi Rung population died off quite quickly. But the females survived. At some point, they contracted a virus—your competing virus—and it altered their genes, protecting them and future generations from Brugada. If not, the Neanderthal race would have ended with the deaths of the old mothers.”

Sara’s face brightened as she understood. “It makes sense. What were your symptoms?”

He thought for a moment. “Swollen glands. A slight fever. And a rash that eventually blistered, crusted over, scabbed, and healed. Really quite minor.”

Sarah couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It wasn’t just like an STD, it was an STD. Weston had just described a classic case of herpes; granted, most likely a new strain, but herpes nonetheless. What made this even more believable was that herpes was frequently used in gene therapy, as it readily accessed and altered the genetic code. Several lab-engineered herpes-based cures were already in development for HIV, cancer, liver tumors—the list was extensive. In this case nature had done all the work, shutting down the SCN5A gene activated by the bird flu. “It’s amazing.”

“I’m tickled you think so, but you can wipe that look of hope from your face.” Weston faced her. “I will not be sharing my blood with you and I am not a philistine, so do not think you can receive the cure from me through . . . other means.”

Weston squinted suddenly, his eyes no longer meeting hers. She feared he was ogling her, but his expression was all wrong.

“What is that?” he asked. “On your wrist. It just changed color.”

“It’s a—” Sara froze as she looked at her outbreak meter. It glowed a deep, bloodlike red. Brugada was out.

The pandemic had begun.

She gasped. “No . . .”

Weston stepped forward, took her wrist, and looked at the rainbow of warm colors. “What kind of watch is this?”

Sara yanked her arm away. She held her wrist up in front of his face. “This means that the pandemic has begun. People are dying. You need to let me go.”

Weston stared at her.

“Please,” she said, her voice wavering with desperation.

“You know I can’t.”

Sara’s fear turned to rage. “Not a philistine? You’re allowing the human race to face the possibility of extinction!” She shook her head. It was useless. They’d had that conversation already. She looked at the wedding band on his finger. Time to push his buttons, she thought, before saying, “What about your wife? She’s still out there, right?”

“I warned you not to talk about her.”

“Did you love your wife? Did you ever?”

Veins appeared on Weston’s forehead as he grew angry. “I said don’t!” He raised the gun toward her.

The gun gave her pause, but Weston hadn’t taken her all this way to shoot her. “What about children?”

Weston walked toward her, menace in his eyes.

“A daughter?”

No reaction. But she could see by the widening of his angry eyes that she was about to stumble on the truth.

“A son.”

Weston paused, his eyes tearing.

“He’ll be one of the first to die. Brugada affects mostly males. Let me go and I—”

“My son is dead. Drowned. I left him alone for ten minutes. Ten minutes. When I found him it was