The Liger Plague (Book 1) Read online

  The Liger Plague

  Joseph Souza

  Copyright 2013 by Joseph Souza. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, contact Joseph Souza via www.JosephSouza.net/

  The Liger Plague is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in the story are the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Author photograph by Doug Bruns

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  About the author

  Dedication

  To my wife Marleigh for her unwavering support.

  Chapter 1

  Colonel Taggert Winters stood at the podium inside Harvard Medical School’s Gordon Hall and looked down at the scientists and physicians seated in front of him. It would be the last time he would deliver such a speech in his capacity as director of the United States Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Disease. He ruffled his sheaf of papers and arranged his copious notes. Although he was a very good public speaker and knew the material inside and out, it had taken him a good part of the week to tie it all together.

  It had been a long time since he’d been back to Harvard University. Not since he’d been a medical student here many years ago had he returned to this campus. Hard to believe that he hadn’t come back in all that time, and now he was the keynote speaker at the most prestigious infectious disease conference in the country.

  He’d given speeches like this many times before, yet he still got nervous whenever he was about to deliver one. The subject of biologically engineered weapons was one on which he was well versed, and he could usually speak at length on the topic, without notes or prompters. And yet just about everyone in this room was an expert in their field. Some of the finest minds in the world had gathered here for this conference.

  He stood staring down at all the intelligent faces looking up at him and waiting to drill him with questions, dent holes in his theories, and challenge well-held assumptions about the topic of infectious viruses. Many of the faces he knew from a lifetime of collaboration. Some were even good friends. Sweat dripped from his armpits as he shuffled his notes. He sipped his glass of water and then dove into his presentation.

  Once he began to speak, all the anxiety disappeared, and he fell into a natural rhythm, speaking fluently and with minimum use of his notes. Time seemed to stop when he spoke, and before he knew what had happened, the audience began applauding. It felt like the talk had just gotten started by the time he wrapped it all up.

  After a brisk and sometimes hostile round of questions, the conferees started to file out of Gordon Hall. One man remained, hand raised and clearing his throat. A few of Colonel Winters’ colleagues waiting for him to make his way down the steps turned and looked at the questioner.

  “James Bacon with the Times, Colonel. Can you answer one question?”

  “Of course.”

  “How long will it be before a terrorist organization develops the capability to create a biologically engineered organism containing multiple agents and with lethal or at least disabling capabilities?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that question, James. Creating one lethal virus is difficult enough, especially when you factor in all the components needed to achieve a high mortality rate combined with an effective method of transmission. Then there’s the difficulty of combining two separate viruses, owing to their distinct genetic makeup. So in a nutshell, I don’t anticipate seeing anything like that being developed in the near future. Now if that’s all, I must really be going.”

  “But, sir—”

  “I’m sorry, I really must be going.”

  Tag walked down the steps and shook the hands of his colleagues waiting for him, accepting their kind words and congratulations. Though he knew the gist of his speech and the subject matter inside out, he always found it ironic that he could never quite remember the specific details of the presentation he’d delivered.

  “That was a hell of a speech, Colonel,” Dr. Simon Wolfe said, vigorously shaking his hand. Wolfe was Harvard’s director for the Center for Epidemiology and Infectious Diseases. “Scares the bejesus out of me hearing about the kind of work your outfit is doing.”

  “Someone’s got to keep the bad guys on their toes, Simon.”

  “I suppose you’re right. And to think I can remember your humble beginnings here as a lowly medical student dissecting your first cadaver. Amazing how far you’ve come since then, Taggert.”

  “A humble medical student is exactly what I was in those days,” he said, laughing. “You should have seen my lowly apartment in Jamaica Plain, cockroaches and all. It’s a good thing I never spent much time there.”

  “You were a diligent student and practically lived in your lab.”

  “More like the living dead, living and working among the cadavers.”

  “The offer still stands, Taggert. We have a tenure-track position open at the medical school if you’re interested.”

  “Believe me, Simon, there’s nothing I’d love more than to come back to Cambridge and teach after I retire from the army. Of course, my wife has the final say in regard to where we go next. She’s spent the last ten years in Maryland, and after being an army brat for the last fifteen years, it’s now her turn to decide where we live.”

  “Maybe after I have a word with Monica I’ll be able to convince her of the benefits of living near Harvard. Boston’s become a great city for artists, Taggert. She’d be right at home showing off those fabulous new glass sculptures of hers.”

  “I’ll give you her number and let you go to work on her. I think you’ve got your work cut out for you, though, Simon, because Monica’s got warmer climes in mind.”

  The two men laughed.

  “Come on now, Tag. We have a cocktail reception waiting, and you have some important people to meet.”

  “Unfortunately, Simon, I can only stay for about fifteen minutes. Monica and Taylor are waiting for me on Cooke’s Island this weekend. My other two kids are meeting us there later in the week for our annual family reunion.”

  “At least we’ll have you for a short while. And maybe longer, depending on your final decision.”

  “Monica’s decision,” he said. “But I must admit that the title of Professor Winters sounds rather nice.”

  “Try the Sumner Dalton Professor and Chair of Infectious Diseases.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, it is Monica’s decision, after all.” Simon patted him on the shoulder and laughed.

  Tag felt as if he were on a cloud as they walked out of the grand room and into the ornate hallway, his heels clicking loudly on the marble floor. Peo
ple shook hands with him as he passed, treating him like a celebrity. They entered the Coventry Room where he was immediately greeted with a cocktail and a light round of applause. He looked around and saw some of the most recognizable names in the field of epidemiology and infectious diseases. He sipped his drink, promising himself not to have more than one. A two-hour drive to Maine awaited him, depending on traffic, followed by a twenty-minute ferry ride to Cooke’s Island. The thought of being able to relax on the island with a cold beer and some steaming lobsters filled him with happy thoughts.

  A researcher with the CDC made conversation with him, and he forced himself to concentrate if only for a few minutes more. Soon a few people had gathered to hear him speak. He loved the intellectual stimulation of dealing with peers in his field and speaking the shared idiom of the tribe, but all he could think about at the moment was sitting on the beach and looking out at the waves rolling in off the Atlantic, a cold Shipyard in hand. After nine grueling, yet enjoyable years leading the Institute and helping to keep the nation safe from a biological attack, he felt a tinge of sadness at the notion of his pending retirement from the army. Public service had been his calling, yet he felt excited to do something new and start the next phase in his life.

  He was in the middle of a conversation with a top CDC researcher when his phone started to chirp. He excused himself and answered it.

  “Colonel Winters speaking.”

  “I’m pleased to announce that the liger has landed,” a computer-enhanced voice said.

  “Excuse me? I’m afraid you have the wrong number.”

  “No wrong number, Colonel. The liger has landed, and he’s a very bad and beautiful creature.”

  Tag walked to the far corner of the room and cupped his hand over his other ear. “What the hell are you talking about? Who is this?”

  “You do know what a liger is, Colonel, do you not?”

  He had half a mind to hang up on the creep, but something about the caller’s manner convinced him otherwise. “Of course I do. It’s a hybrid species, half lion, half tiger.”

  “Very good. More specifically, the liger is spawned from a male lion mating with a tigress. It doesn’t occur in nature, as you already have guessed. These cute little breeds are thousand-pound killing machines that exist only in captivity and never in the wild.”

  “I’m not following you. What is it you want from me?”

  “The liger has landed on Cooke’s Island.” The caller paused a beat. “Do you know who that island was named after, Colonel?”

  “Captain Ezekiel Cooke settled the island in the 17th century.”

  “‘Settled’ might be too kind a term. And it was 1619 to be exact. About thirty members of the Wabaseekit tribe had been living on the island for God knows how many years. Once the good captain and his family arrived, the Wabaseekit clan was doomed to extinction.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Smallpox, Colonel. It was how the good captain ‘settled’ the island. In his private journal he wrote that the smallpox plague that wiped out the natives was ‘God’s work.’”

  “So what does that have to do with me?”

  “I thought it only fair that I give you a heads up before your wife and daughter meet up with the beast. Of course, it’s too late for all the other citizens already on the island. You best hurry up to Maine before it’s too late. Go on now, before you get stuck in Boston traffic.”

  “Who the hell is this?” Tag said loudly, causing people’s heads to turn. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in the same building as you, Doctor, but don’t waste your time trying to find me because the lives of your loved ones are at stake. Now go! Make sure you keep your phone on at all times. And whatever you do, Colonel, do not call the authorities, or I assure you that your wife and daughter will not make it off that island alive. When the time is right, I’ll give you permission to call them. If you do as I say, they may live. If not, then I guarantee you that they’ll suffer a terrible, torturous death.”

  The line went dead.

  Tag stared at his phone. Had the call been a prank? He didn’t care to find out. He retrieved his briefcase, said a quick goodbye to Simon, and sprinted out of the reception room. Fear gripped him as he ran down the hallway and emerged into the warm summer air. Down below, people lounged about in shorts and summer skirts, their feet either bare or clad in sandals. A few students tossed Frisbees across the manicured lawn. He scampered down the steep steps of Gordon Hall and dodged the pedestrians strolling lazily along the sidewalk. Then he took off, sprinting the four blocks on Longwood Avenue to where his car was parked.

  Clutching his keypad as he neared, he thumbed the remote and heard the electronic chirp chirp of his Jeep Liberty unlocking. He whipped open the door, tossed his briefcase onto the passenger seat, and jumped inside, sweat coursing down his face and neck, dampening his shirt. He removed the heavy green army jacket and tossed it in the back. The inside of the Jeep was sweltering, and the second he started the engine, he turned on the air-conditioning and shut off the CD, which had been blaring The Who’s ‘Behind Blue Eyes.’

  He sped recklessly along Longwood Avenue, barreling through intersections as he searched for his cell phone. Utilizing the car’s Bluetooth, he hit the talk button, called out the number, and waited for a response, but heard nothing except the depressing sound of a dial tone. Cars jutted out in front of him, causing him to swerve around them and pound the steering wheel in frustration. Why wasn’t his wife picking up her phone? His daughter’s iPhone had recently broken, and she’d been forced to use her tablet in order to communicate. Entering her junior year at Colby College, she was spending the summer taking classes in Paris but had come home for a week to take part in Cooke’s annual Art Festival.

  The cold rushed in and filled the Jeep with chilled air. He raced along Brookline Avenue until he reached Storrow Drive, swerving in and out of the busy, two-lane traffic. The angry beeps of the other cars competed with the sound of the humming air conditioner. To his left flowed the murky Charles River. To his right rose the old brick buildings comprising Beacon Hill. He charged up the long, gradual bridge leading to Route 93. Once he moved over to the left lane, he punched the gas and headed straight to Portland, Maine, and to where the ferries carried passengers over to Cooke’s Island.

  He tried calling his wife again but still got no reply. The worst-case scenario crossed his mind, and for a second he debated defying the caller’s instructions and calling the authorities. The computer-generated voice over the phone had been unrecognizable. He racked his mind, trying to remember each and every person that had attended the conference. There must have been well over a hundred scientists in attendance, and although he knew most of them, he certainly didn’t know them all. He’d always known that his line of work was dangerous, fearing for the wellbeing of his family more than himself, but that was for entirely different reasons. And yet he knew he had to allow his family to live their own lives as free and uninhibited as possible.

  The liger.

  What had the caller meant by that? He knew that a liger was a combination of a lion and tiger, two of the fiercest hunters in the animal kingdom. Was it a metaphor for something else? Where had he heard that term before? He tried to recall the term liger and its significance in literature and art. Two of the most dangerous animals paired to create a unique hybrid. And the caller specifically mentioned that it could only be done in captivity.

  Then he remembered where he’d heard it. There was a local author on Cooke’s Island who’d penned a popular children’s book called Lenny the Liger, which sat front and center in the window of Cooke’s Island Books. It had been one of their best sellers, and even his kids had read it when they were little.

  He swerved dangerously into the middle lane and then cut back over to the left. Cars behind him honked and flashed their high beams, but he didn’t give a shit about any of that now. All he could think about was his family.

  They’d owned th
e vacation home on Cooke’s Island for fifteen years now. It had been the perfect place to relax and unwind after many long, grueling months performing in the hot lab. Back in the early days, when he’d been dissecting human and primate corpses, and dealing with the most lethal viruses known to man, a vacation home such as the one they had on Cooke’s had been a godsend. It hadn’t been cheap, but it had been worth every penny, and its value had increased significantly throughout the years.

  A frightening thought occurred to him as he crossed onto Route 95, sending shockwaves of panic through his system. He thought he understood now the meaning of the liger. It was a metaphor for a hybrid virus. Why hadn’t he made that connection before? An engineered, hybrid virus that didn’t occur naturally in nature but was engineered in a lab. Only under such controlled conditions could a sophisticated organism like that be created. Had that lunatic unleashed a killer virus on the island? And a hybrid virus to boot?

  His hand trembled on the steering wheel. The caller claimed that he or she had been in the building at the same time as he was. It meant that the person was either known to him or someone with a well-known reputation in the scientific field. Only a person with such esoteric knowledge and skills could possibly even hope to engineer a lethal hybrid virus, and there were only a handful of people in the world that possessed such capabilities. He reminded himself to call Simon and get his hands on the list of attendees to the conference, including that reporter who’d asked that unusual question.

  Panic gripped him as he weaved between the cars. Cooke’s Island was located roughly four miles from downtown Portland and was home to just under one thousand residents. At this time of year, however, the island population swelled to nearly seven thousand people. The ferries ran like clockwork on the hour, shuffling people back and forth. If a lethal virus had already been released on Cooke’s, and he prayed that it hadn’t, it meant that many people would be transporting the organism to the mainland or vice versa. If that were the case, why would the caller have warned him ahead of time?