Instinct: A Chess Team Adventure - By Jeremy Robinson Page 0,90
the birth rate, taking into account the high infant mortality rate, we’re probably close to two thousand now.”
“Two thousand.” Sara was astonished, but managed one more question. “From how many sets of parents?”
“Thirty Neanderthal mothers. One human father.”
Sara fought the urge to place her hand over her mouth. Weston was the father of an entirely new species of primate—neither human nor Neanderthal. Hybrids, she thought.
Weston turned to Lucy. “I have an important task for you.”
She brightened and clapped her hands.
Weston motioned to King. “Take him to a room. Watch over him and do not let him leave. But do not harm him . . .” He looked at King, a twinkle of menace hidden beneath the intelligence in his eyes. “. . . yet.”
Lucy hopped over to King.
“Stay away from me—” King grunted as he was flipped over. She took him by the waist of his pants and picked him up as though he were a briefcase. Then she was off, carrying him through the caves, hooting all the way.
Sara watched in renewed fear. In the hands of this child, King was helpless.
FORTY-ONE
Washington, D.C.
COLLEGE SEEMED LIKE a distant memory, with its late nights, early mornings, and copious amounts of caffeine to battle the extreme weariness that resulted. Today, Duncan felt like he’d returned to a more hellish version of college where failing a surprise exam resulted in death, as it had for several of his staff confined within the historic walls of the White House.
In each and every case, the implanted cardioverters had done their job, shocking the healthy hearts back to beating again. But the look of fear in the eyes of those who had succumbed to the weaponized disease broke his heart. They weren’t soldiers. They were secretaries, cleaning staff, and chefs. Senators, congressmen, and aides. He doubted many of them would have joined the White House staff or chosen to serve their country if they perceived any risk of death.
Those who had fallen to Brugada only to be revived could be distinguished by the pallor of their skin, or wideness of their eyes. Those who had not yet fallen viewed those who had with a suspicious eye. Tension filled the halls, threatening to turn the people trapped inside the White House against each other.
The only group that had yet to fall at the hands of Brugada was the one most prepared for its effect. The Secret Service hadn’t suffered a man down. Domenick Boucher, too, had not tasted the temporary sting of Brugada, but his entry into the Oval Office was greeted as though he were Death himself, scythe in hand. He stepped inside the room, closed the door gently behind him, and leaned against it.
The man looked pale. In fact, he looked paler than the men and women who had risen from the dead.
Duncan sat up straight despite his fatigue. “Did it get you?”
“Not me.”
“Who?”
Boucher sat on one of the two couches. “Beatrice Unzen. Age sixty-nine. At a downtown CVS.”
“Here in D.C.?”
Boucher nodded. “She survived, which is how Brugada was able to be determined. We’ve managed to keep the doctors silent, primarily because, as far as they know, this is an isolated case.”
“But . . .”
“It’s not. There have been six deaths in the D.C. area. All healthy adults. Cause of death: unknown.”
“How did this happen?”
“Seems Brentwood’s driver forgot to mention he stopped at a conve nience store for some scratch tickets. Security tapes show him sneezing while perusing the store, touching every damn Twinkie and Slim Jim he passed.”
Duncan rubbed his temples.
“I’ve had analysts counting the number of visitors to the store since the driver’s visit. At last check they were up to one hundred and thirty-one. Most can’t be identified because the images are grainy and they paid in cash.”
“Where does this leave us?”
“Honestly?”
Duncan nodded.
“We’re screwed.” Boucher sighed. “Our only saving grace at this point is that the press hasn’t put two and two together. They know about Brugada, but the cases appear to be innocuous among the average number of deaths seen in this city on a daily basis, so that no one has yet to notice. All eyes, thankfully, are still focused squarely on this office. With the White House locked down and the president apparently at risk of death, a few stiffs in the streets of D.C. aren’t raising any eyebrows.
“But when the body count rises; when some smart young reporter digging for a new angle figures things out . . . well, Brugada will be just one of many worries.”