The Judas Strain - James Rollins [132]
She nodded. “I see Dr. Pollum is not here. Was he able to finish the protein assay on the viral shell?”
Lisa had ordered this test, too. It wasn’t truly necessary, but it had promised a good couple hours of extra labor.
“One moment,” Chénier said. “I have the results here.” She turned to one of the monitors and began collapsing screens while narrating. “It might interest you to know that we were able to classify the virus from genetic assays into the Bunyavirus family.”
Henri noted the pinch to Lisa’s eyes and explained. “It was what we were discussing before you arrived. Bunyaviruses typically infect avian and mammalian species, causing hemorrhagic fevers, but the vector for transmission is usually arthropods. Biting flies, ticks, mosquitoes.”
He slid over a notepad.
Lisa glanced to the open pages. Henri had diagrammed the pathway of infection.
Henri tapped the center. “Insects are necessary to spread the disease. Bunyaviruses themselves are seldom transmissible directly from human to human.”
Lisa rubbed her temples. “Unlike the Judas Strain.” She picked up a pencil and altered the diagram. “Instead of an insect to spread the disease, it takes a bacterial cell to pass the virus from one person to another.”
Henri frowned. “Yes, but why did—?”
Gunfire blasts cut off his words. All of them jumped.
Even Devesh dropped his cane. With a muttered curse, he recovered it and headed to the door. “You all stay here.”
More blasts followed, along with guttural cries.
Lisa stood up. What was happening?
1:24 A.M.
DEVESH COLLECTED TWO guards stationed in the science wing and hurried over to the middeck security post by the elevators. Automatic gunfire erupted in sporadic bursts, as loud as detonations in the confined space.
Shouts rang out between the blasts.
Keeping his guards ahead of him, Devesh followed more cautiously as the post came into view. Six men manned the security detail. The leader, a tall African soldier from Somalia, noted Devesh and fell back to his position.
He spoke tersely in Malay. “Sir, a dozen of the afflicted broke out of one of the back wards. They rushed our line. Attacked.”
The leader nodded to one of the guards, seated to the side, cradling a bloody arm. He had his sleeve rolled back, revealing a deep bite wound.
Devesh took a step forward and pointed absently to the wounded man. “Isolate him.”
Beyond the security post, a hallway extended toward the stern. Some doors stood open, others closed. Down the passageway, a few bodies sprawled, riddled with bullets, blood soaking into the carpet. The closest two—a naked obese woman and a shirtless teenage boy—were tangled together. Devesh noted the bubbled rashes and the blackened boils on the corpses.
He fought to control his temper, breathing heavily through his nostrils. The stern section of this level housed the most debilitated patients, making them readily available to the research team. Devesh had outlined a firm protocol when dealing with patients on this level. Such lapses would not be tolerated. Not when he was this close to success.
“I’ve called in reinforcements,” the sentry leader said. “When we started firing, some of the afflicted fled into open rooms. We’ll have to flush them out.”
A moan arose from farther down the hall.
A man rose up to an elbow. His other shoulder was a bloody ruin. He wore a medical smock. One of the doctors. Caught in the firefight.
“Help me,” he croaked out.
From an open doorway at his shoulder, a hand lashed out and grabbed his jacket. Another tangled in his hair. He screamed as he was yanked halfway through the door. His legs still protruded into the passageway, his heels kicking and pounding.
The sentry leader glanced to Devesh, asking permission to proceed forward.
Devesh shook his head.
The doctor’s screaming suddenly cut off—but his heels continued to beat a rhythm of agony.
Devesh felt no sympathy. Someone had been careless with a restraint or door lock. He heard the booted tread of reinforcements echoing up the stairwell.
Devesh turned away but waved an arm back