The rest of the drawer was filled with more research—documents of their trials. The drawer below that one had folders on distribution methods. They had tried air fresheners, hand soap, even cologne. All had proved either too expensive or ineffective.
The next drawer had folders marked with locations. Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Dakar, Senegal. Harare, Zimbabwe. Lusaka, Zambia. Bamako, Mali. Conakry, Guinea. This is it, William thought.
He opened the first folder, read quickly. It was a study of the location’s population, economy, transportation, and infrastructure. The page heading read, Index Site Study. These were places they had considered starting the outbreak. One of the files was marked Mandera.
William slammed the drawer shut, pulled open the last one.
A folder marked Supply Shipments sat in the very front. He pulled it out and let it fall open. Inside were shipping manifests—hundreds of them. Medical supplies. Water. Food. Were those words used as code for the virus, or the cure? They certainly wouldn’t list “virus” or “cure” on the shipping manifests. No. This had to be it.
Into his mic, he said, “Desmond, Avery. I’ve located the target. Level three, front left corner.”
He studied the folder, lost in thought.
Desmond’s voice came over the comm. “William, I’m almost to you.”
The explosion that ripped through the office threw William against the wall. The metal filing cabinet toppled over, trapping his leg.
In the home’s living room, Peyton heard the explosion. She leapt from the couch and raced into the street. The largest building in the complex was on fire. Another explosion went off, blasting brick and roof tiles from the facade like lava spewing from a volcano. She didn’t hesitate. She began running toward the building, coughing as she went, her lungs already burning.
Chapter 90
The blast knocked Desmond off his feet. He rolled across the white tiled floor. Ceiling tiles rained down on him. He curled up, waiting for it to stop.
When the building fell quiet again, he had caught his breath. He rose and ran toward the blast location. In the corridor, long fluorescent lights hung by wires from the ceiling. Doors stood open. Plate glass windows were shattered. Shards crunched under Desmond’s boots.
In the stairwell, he felt warmth from above. He ascended, driving toward the blaze. When he pushed open the door to the office wing, a wave of heat blew past him.
A cubicle farm spread out before him; offices with exteriors windows lay along its perimeter. Smoke and flames filled all of it. The fire was finding plenty to consume: papers, old wooden furniture, and most concerning, the wood studs in the walls.
“William, do you copy?”
William’s voice was weak. “Copy, Desmond. I’m pinned. I found it. I’m going to read you the location where the supplies were sent—”
“Sit tight. Prep for evac.”
Desmond studied the inferno churning through the office, trying to find a path to the corner office. Most of the cubicles and desks were burning, and the fire was moving quickly. For a moment, he was back in Australia, at his childhood home, watching the blaze. Just like then, he gathered his courage as he prepared to wade into the flames.
But this time, a hand caught his shoulder.
Avery stood behind him. “Don’t, Desmond.” She grabbed his arm, pulled him, but he threw her off.
“Come with me or stay,” he said. “But don’t get in my way.”
Without another second’s hesitation, he raced into the fire.
Outside the building, the snow fell faster, sticking to the gravel courtyard. Peyton’s footsteps left a track of prints in ash-coated snow, a trail that led directly to the front door.
The heat of the fire was excruciating, but the asphyxiation was worse. Desmond held his breath as long as he could, then inhaled and coughed.
He was close to passing out when he reached the corner office. The blast had blown out the windows, and cool air rushed in, fueling the fire. Desmond inhaled for a few seconds, gathering his breath.
Ahead, he saw William lying under a steel filing cabinet, flailing about, looking for any means to work his way out from under it.
Desmond raced to him and gripped the steel cabinet. He was shocked when he heard steps behind him. Avery. She took hold of the filing cabinet as well, and together they pushed. The cabinet was not only heavy, it was buried under debris from the wall and ceiling. But it moved just enough for William to wriggle free. He stuffed a folder inside his body armor and tried to stand. One leg was fine, but he winced when the other touched the ground.
Desmond didn’t wait for discussion. He leaned forward, pressed himself against William’s abdomen, and lifted the man up onto his shoulder. Desmond estimated he weighed about 170 pounds, and Desmond’s body protested under the added strain; his ribs still hadn’t healed. But he pressed on, putting one foot in front of the other. Avery led the way, pushing desks and debris aside as they went.
Soon, Desmond let out the breath he had held, sucked in hard, got a mouth full of smoke, coughed, and stumbled—but he stayed upright. If he collapsed now, Avery would have to choose which one of them to drag from the flames.
He felt himself getting dizzy. His head swam, vision blurred. He was staggering. He felt Avery’s hand grip his arm, pulling him forward.
Spots appeared in his vision. He was only vaguely aware of walking now. Waves of nausea washed over him.
The smoke was a wall of black. He thought he should have been clear by this point. The fire must have advanced since he entered the blaze. He had no hope of escape. His body was shaking, wobbling, as if he were being rolled in a washing machine, bounced around. His legs gave out. He fell to the floor, William on top of him. Everything went black.
Peyton stopped just short of the burning rows of cubicles. She panted, trying to catch her breath. Her chest heaved and ached. But she had to push on. She covered her mouth and drew the deepest breath she could, preparing to rush in.