“What do you see?” Conner asked. “Do they know yet?”
“No. The tests comparing the viruses have been delayed. Their infection models are way off.”
“Good. Download everything and get out.”
In his stateroom, he watched the video feeds. Desmond was in the middle of some push-ups. The three programmers were camped out beyond the glass, typing furiously. The area around them was starting to resemble the pigsty Conner had found them in: crushed Red Bull cans and microwave meal wrappers littered the floor.
Another feed showed the redheaded CDC physician. She was strapped to a bed in the medical wing. She’d been sleeping since the surgery.
Conner switched the feed to Peyton Shaw. She was just waking up. She staggered to the tiny bathroom in the cell and stood over the sink, bringing water to her face. She gagged once, then moved to the toilet, waiting, but nothing came up. She rested her back against the wall, staring at nothing for a long moment.
Slowly, she stood and stripped off her clothes. Water washed through her dark brown hair, over her curves, down her body. Conner studied her for a long moment. She wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous—not like the girls every guy went for—but he thought she had something even more attractive: an unassuming confidence. It drew people like a magnet, put them at ease, compelled them to want to be around her.
He was the opposite. He repelled people. Repulsed them. He had since childhood. Everyone who saw him instantly had the same reaction. Smiles disappeared. Eyes grew wide, raking over the scars on his face.
Soon, he would create a world where that didn’t matter, where no child would have to grow up a monster, alone, rejected by every person who saw him.
After her shower, Peyton lay on the narrow bed, her wet hair soaking into the mattress. She was scared. For her own safety, for Hannah’s, and for everyone in Kenya and beyond. If the virus went global, it could claim millions of lives. Maybe more. It felt like her entire world had been turned upside down. She had felt that way only once, when she was six years old.
Her family had lived in London then, in a flat in Belgravia. She’d been asleep in her bedroom when the door flew open. Her mother rushed in, shook her, spoke urgently.
“Wake up, darling. We’re leaving.”
Her mother made her dress and leave home with only the clothes on her back. She crowded Peyton, her sister Madison, and her brother Andrew into a black cab, and they sped to Heathrow. The four of them left London forever that night.
The first flight took them to Amsterdam, the second to Paris. A private car drove them through the night to Le Mans. At daybreak, they boarded a small plane that flew them to America.
For a few months, they lived in hotels, never staying in the same place for more than a few nights. Peyton’s mother told her children it was an extended vacation and “tour of America.” But Peyton sensed something was very wrong. Her sister and brother did too.
Periodically, Peyton asked her mother where her father was, why he couldn’t join them.
“He’s busy, dear.”
Peyton tried to listen in on the calls her mother conducted in secret, often stretching the phone cord into the hotel bathroom and shutting the door with the shower running. Peyton could make out only bits and pieces. Someone had lost their dog. A beagle. Her mother was very worried about it. She was constantly asking about finding the beagle, which was strange, because she had never been one for dogs—or animals of any kind.
Finally, after four weeks, her mother sat the three children down and told them that their father wouldn’t be joining them. With dry eyes, she said, “There was an accident. I’m very sorry, but your father has passed away.”
The words destroyed Peyton instantly. Andrew met the news with disbelief that soon turned to skepticism. Then anger. He asked questions their mother refused to answer.
How did he die?
When was the funeral? Where?
The lack of answers only enraged Andrew more. He shouted and argued with their mother.
I want to see him. I can see my own father. I want to see his grave. You can’t stop me.
I want to go back to London. It’s our home.
Andrew became increasingly distant. Peyton was nearly catatonic. Her sister Madison was there for her, holding her as she cried each night for a week. Their mother was stoic, withdrawn. The calls continued. The secrecy only made them trust her less. Maybe it was simply because she had been the one who’d told them, but to varying degrees, all three of them blamed her for their father’s death.
Despite Andrew’s demands that they return to London, Peyton’s mother refused to relent. They settled near San Francisco, in Palo Alto. They changed their last name to Shaw, and Andrew completed his last two years of high school, then left for college, then medical school.
It took time for the family to come together again. In fact, it took more than time—it took Andrew’s death in 1991 to finally bring them all closer again. It was just the three of them after that—Peyton, Madison, and their mother, Lin—and they shared a strong bond.
Peyton hadn’t thought about that night in London in 1983 for a long time. As she drifted off to sleep, she wondered why she had thought of it now.
She awoke to the worst headache of her life. She returned to the sink and gulped down two mouthfuls of water. Bloodshot eyes stared back at her. She lifted up her shirt, afraid of what she would see. She swallowed hard when she saw it—a rash reaching up from her abdomen toward her chest.
She was infected.
Day 8
2,000,000,000 Infected
400,000 Dead