April 25, 10:22 A.M. CAT
Katwa Mining District, Democratic Republic of the Congo From the helm of his yacht, Nolan De Coster stared at the destruction he had wrought. It was one matter to consider it from a distance. It was another to see it up close.
He guided the sixty-foot vessel down the river past the ruins of the former mine. He gazed at the massive crater, which still smoldered. A new tributary split off from the river and drained into the smoky basin, slowly filling it, forming a toxic lake.
On the other side of the river, the jungle had been knocked flat, bulldozed by huge barges that had been blown into the dense forest. Their hulks would likely rust in place for centuries, serving as giant monuments to his power.
Most other men might be appalled at the level of destruction. He only felt a thrill, part pride, part awe.
This is my handiwork.
It was a crowning achievement, one that far outshone any centuries-old artifact. He stared across at the Abyssinian ceremonial headdress, adorned in gold and jewels. It rested next to him on the helm. He had absconded with the treasure as he abandoned his office and fled down the private stairs to the ATV. He’d had no trouble making it unmolested to the armored ship. With Ngoy’s help, he had been able to quickly cast off and head downriver.
He stared behind him as he cleared the blast site.
He pictured the same level of destruction out in the mountains to the east.
While motoring away from the island, he had received confirmation of the successful bombing. He had also arranged for a helicopter to rendezvous another mile downriver, to airlift him to Cairo, then to his offices in Belgium.
There would be legal storms to weather after all of this, but he was a survivor. His billions would be a castle that no country or army could breach. He would use his wealth to rewrite history, to paint himself as a savior as his corporation funded hospitals throughout the Congo during the plague. Likewise, he would silence any detractors, bribe and blackmail and coerce his way to keep his stranglehold on this region.
He reached over and placed a palm atop the gold crown, knowing it was his birthright, as was all of Central Africa.
And soon the entire continent.
A shuffle of boots drew his attention from the wheel. He turned to the door of the wheelhouse as Ngoy appeared, freshly showered, looking far less terrified.
Ngoy pointed downriver. “How much longer until the helicopter—”
Nolan backed from the researcher, his heart choking his throat.
Ngoy read the terror in his face and ducked around with a flinch. As he did, he revealed what had quietly leaped up from the stern deck and landed behind the wheelhouse, trapping its prey.
The massive jungle cat bristled, a mountain of shimmering black fur. Even in the light of day, it looked more shadow than flesh. Out of that darkness, golden amber eyes glared coldly. White whiskers spiked from snarled lips. It didn’t make a sound. The bared scimitars of its fangs were threat enough.
Ngoy screamed.
The cat struck out with a single paw. Claws slashed the man’s head, ripping his face clean off, spinning him full around. Still, Ngoy screamed through torn flesh and bloody bone. The man crashed to the floor, writhing in agony.
The cat stalked over him, ignoring his wails.
The researcher was not the beast’s primary target.
Nolan knew this.
For weeks, he had brutally tortured the cat during its captivity, earning its wrath. The altered beast must have lain in wait in one of the lower holds, possibly drawn by Nolan’s scent that permeated the ship.
Nolan backed to the starboard side, toward an open window in the wheelhouse.
The cat paced him, toying, only now growling a note of fury.
Nolan turned and dove for the opening. Claws caught the back of his leg, ripped through linen and skin and meat. Still, he made it through the window. He tumbled and crashed two stories into the river. The dark waters swirled and frothed around his flailing limbs.
Panicked, he sputtered up and kicked toward shore. His torn leg burned underwater, but he did not relent.
Have to get hidden.
The yacht motored past him, the engine still engaged, but unmanned now—or nearly so. A glance back showed the cat leaning out the window. As claws dug into the sill, it raised its head, stretched its neck, and roared at the world.
In that moment, Nolan knew he was far from the king of this land, of these jungles. He kicked harder, praying for some measure of providence, even mercy. It was granted as he saw the yacht angle away from him, aiming for the far shore, carrying the beast with it.
He swam faster.
The forest rose higher ahead of him.
Nearly there.
A shatter of wood and a crunch of steel drew his attention across the river. The ship nosed hard into the far bank, driving deep into the jungle’s edge. Once it came to a stop, a dark shadow leaped and vanished into its depths.
Nolan kicked the last distance to shore. He studied the river, search ing for any attempt by the cat to swim to this side. So far, the jungle over there remained dark and impenetrable. He let out a sigh of relief as he reached the riverbank and kicked and crawled out of the water and sprawled flat in the mud. The recent floods had begun to recede, leaving tall slippery slopes stripped of vegetation.
Can’t stop.
He dug his toes into the earth and fought his way up the steep bank. The slick mud resisted him. It was made all the more difficult as his legs began to tremor, rapidly weakening. His fingers dug hard, trying to claw for purchase. But his hands refused to cooperate. He thought it was panicked exhaustion—then remembered.
He twisted to stare at the tears in his leg, streaming blood, showing muscle.
Even the wound wasn’t the issue.
His body continued to succumb to the poison in the cat’s claws. Nolan’s research team had identified it. A derivative of the succinylcholine, a drug used by anesthesiologists as a neuromuscular blocker. The compound paralyzed muscles, but it left one fully conscious and capable of feeling everything, including pain.
As his limbs grew progressively more leaden, he sagged into the mud. Fearing suffocation, he found the energy to roll onto his back. Unable to stop, he slid down to the water’s edge.
The pain in his leg persisted. He felt hot blood running along his thigh and across his chilled calf. The paralysis made it harder to breathe, but he forced his ribs up and down.
Just have to wait it out.
The poison wasn’t deadly on its own. Over time, an hour at best, it would fade.
He held out hope.
He shouldn’t have.
He knew the Congo better than that.
His blood trailed through the water, pooled in the mud around him. It drew the jungle to him—ready to feast on the king of Africa.
First came the crabs.
30
May 29, 10:42 A.M. CAT
Kisangani, Democratic Republic of the Congo
On the third floor of the University of Kisangani’s science building, Charlotte leaned over Frank, resting a hand on his shoulder.
Dr. Lisa Cummings flanked on one side, Benjie on the other.
They had gathered for the virologist’s daily briefing in his makeshift biolab. The original facility on the fourth floor was still under reconstruction following the firebombing last month. Frank’s new space was only one of countless research labs around the world currently working on recovery efforts.
“I think I’m beginning to understand how this virus works,” Frank said. “At least in regard to a patient’s neurological recovery.”
Lisa leaned closer. “Show us.”
The American doctor had been assisting Charlotte, along with a team of clinicians from around the world. It had been a little over a month since they had secured the counteractant to the stubborn Omniviridae—as the pathogen had come to be called, courtesy of Frank’s original nickname for it. The virus still maintained a stubborn beachhead in the Congo. Cases continued to trickle in from outlying villages and towns, but at least the deluge had slowed.