Virals(23)

"Oh yes, sir!" Safer ground. "The gates were closed and locked. And both of the building's outer doors remained secure."

Carl scratched his head, stumped. "I even went inside. Nothing missing, nobody there." A pause. "Of course, I couldn't sweep the back part, upstairs."

"Not your concern!" Karsten spoke more sharply than he'd intended. "That area is safe, I assure you. No one can get in there."

Carl blanched. "But sir, that's the sector that was breached."

Karsten froze. "What?"

"The alarm that activated," Carl mumbled. He could tell Karsten was taking this news badly. "The signal came from the new electronic lock, upstairs."

Karsten's mind rifled the terrible possibilities. He'd assumed only the first floor had been violated. The building entrance wasn't alarmed, but two inner doors were.

Think, he chided himself. Gates, locked. Doors, locked. No signs of forced entry. Yet something had tripped the most secure alarm in the complex.

"Who else is here?"

"No one," Carl answered quickly. "I checked everywhere. Not a soul. Mr. Blue's first shuttle won't arrive for another hour."

"The steel door was closed when you arrived, yes?"

"Yes, sir. Doctor."

The alarm malfunctioned, Karsten told himself. Nothing else made sense.

"The storm must've tripped the sensor. Go finish your report. I'll verify upstairs."

Carl wavered. "I'm supposed to look myself, for the report, or--"

"Guard." Karsten's voice was granite. "You are dismissed. I will let you know if further services are required."

That was enough for Carl.

Karsten watched the guard waddle off before entering the building.

The subject, he thought, racing up the stairs. The subject must be secure!

One look sent Karsten's hopes crashing.

The wolfdog was gone.

Karsten struggled to process the magnitude of the calamity.

Professionals, he thought. Burglary specialists. No one else could have breached the gates, the doors, and the keypad lock. No one else could have evaded capture so seamlessly, left no trace of a crime.

Karsten had always suspected there were factions who wanted to steal his research. His findings could one day be worth millions, perhaps billions. But how had they discovered this lab?

Particles of an idea coalesced with a jarring shock. The intruders must have known the cameras were down!

Dear God! An inside job!

They've no idea what they've done.

Horror flooded Karsten's mind. Subject A was infected with the experimental strain of parvovirus. Though he'd told no one, he had a terrible suspicion about XPB-19.

Karsten picked up the phone and dialed with trembling fingers.

"Dr. Marcus Karsten here. My business is urgent."

Karsten listened to dead air as his call was transferred. A click. Two long beeps. A voice answered.

"Yes."

Karsten forced his voice calm. "We have a problem."





Minutes later the professor stood with gut clenched, receiver still clutched in his hand. Thinking one thought: I need a drink.

His instructions were clear.

Find the dog.

Or else.

And he'd held back the worst of it, even from him. Hell, especially from him. That news was far too dangerous to share. His sponsor was far too dangerous a man.

Karsten rummaged through his pockets, found a key ring, and unlocked a desk drawer. Yanking papers and scattering files, he finally located a document at the bottom of the stack.

Karsten recognized his own handwriting at the bottom. He examined the record again, wishing it read differently.

It didn't. His words screamed from the page. Accusing.

"The highest caution must be employed. Due to its radical structure, Parvovirus strain XPB-19 may be infectious to humans."





CHAPTER 16


Is at in the Bolton Prep library, researching on my lunch hour. After a dozen Googles, I knew my adversary. Nasty. Heartless. A serial killer that fought dirty. But my investigation confirmed that the enemy could be beaten.

Parvo. The puppy plague.

Unvaccinated dogs are virtually defenseless against it. A remorseless assassin, parvovirus often kills within days of invading its host.

Not on my watch.

I vowed to deprive the microscopic murderer of yet another victim.

Monday morning. A new school day had me back in uniform. Dull plaid tie and matching pleated skirt. White button-down shirt. Black knee socks.

Blech.

I shouldn't complain. Without the dress code the Bolton Prep hallways would host a yearlong fashion show, one in which I could never compete. Unlike some girls, I play the outfit straight and don't slut it up at every opportunity.

The information I'd downloaded wasn't pleasant. My memory had been correct: no cure exists for canine parvovirus. But the survival stats provided a glimmer of hope. I clung to it like an anaconda.

A voice sounded from directly behind my chair. "Hey, Tory, shopping for prom dresses?"

I spun, defenses slamming into place. All year I'd been the target of ridicule. I knew the drill.

But it was only Hi, strolling to the neighboring computer station, his Bolton Prep jacket inside out to expose the blue silk lining. Hi claimed that if he wore the required attire, he met the dress code. Period. The administration disagreed, but after a year of defiance, Hi had prevailed. Teachers seldom tried to make him conform anymore.