Dark Cure: A Covid Thriller (Dark Plague Book 1) Page 2

  “Praise be to the Lord,” Father Healey said.

  “I gave the trial drug cocktails to Dr. Turney and he said he’d add one to the IV drip,” Sal said. “If Steph survives the caesarian, maybe she has a chance.”

  Pat was back in tears, but this time with joy. She hugged her husband and he gestured for Barb to join their embrace. Greg stood to the side, uncertain whether this was a Maggio-only group hug or a more inclusive act. After a pause, he walked up behind Sal and put his awkward arms around the trio.

  * * * * *

  Tom Petty sang that the waiting was the hardest part. Barb’s live-in boyfriend Jaime Gonzalez had joined the three Maggios and Greg for the longest two hours of their lives.

  Folksy Dr. Turney poked his head into the room. “Stephanie is in the recovery room with weak but stable vitals. Her fever’s broken, which is miraculous under the circumstances. You have a new family member as well. He weighed in at five-and-a-half pounds and we’ll keep him in the neonatal ward for a couple of days while we wait for test results. Based on how well his lungs work, he should be fine. Is the father here?”

  “That’s me,” Greg said. “Steph wanted to call him Tyson.” He managed a nervous smile.

  “Congratulations. Follow me downstairs for a mountain of paperwork.”

  “Sure,” Greg said, now sandwiched in a non-CDC-authorized hug from his in-laws while Barb and Jaime shared one of their own.

  The doctor surveyed the Maggio clan. “You all look like I feel. Everyone go home, have a belt of Buffalo Trace and get a good night’s sleep.”

  Before the physician left with Greg, Sal managed an aside. “Did you give my grandson the second dose?”

  “No, I didn’t. He was born fever-free and breathes well. We swabbed him and will run a CAT scan tomorrow to check out his lungs, but it doesn’t appear that he has the virus.” The chubby doctor reached into his pocket and pressed a vial into Sal’s hand. “If we need it, I’ll call you. It’s too early to tell, but it may have been a silver bullet.” Dr. Turney gave Sal a close look. “You’re a persuasive man, Mr. Maggio. I look forward to reading the results of the clinical trials when they’re published next month.”

  * * * * *

  The call had come at 4:57 a.m. Fearing the worst, Sal had answered wide-awake. Now it was 5:45 and Nafarm’s parking lot was awash in rotating red and blue lights. The fire was out and the only structures standing were steel girders and the partially collapsed external walls. Two ambulances were parked with occupied twin gurneys behind the open doors. The EMTs minded their phones as they awaited instructions.

  Sal shook his head as the sunrise illuminated the ghastly scene. How in the hell did their offices burn down the morning of the ChemFil closing? That was two-point-five million dollars down the Suwanee. And where was Nancy? Her cell was out of service and no one had picked up the landline. The cops were on their way to her house, but he knew that she hadn’t made it out when he spotted her car in the parking lot. He stared at the two gurneys. Nancy Jacobs, loyal to the end.

  A touch on his elbow startled him. It was Fraser Burns, hair wet from the shower. Sal was irritated that he wasn’t wearing a facemask. “What in the hell happened?” Burns queried.

  Sal flared at the accusatory tone and stifled an impulse to punch his ex-boss. “Let’s find the fire chief and hear it from him. And put on a mask.” At the very least, he’d have a witness to whatever Burns might say or do. Burns pulled out a used flimsy mask and struggled to get it to stay on in light of an elongated ear loop.

  The chief didn’t mince words. “The building went up too fast and burned too hot to be an accident. I’ve called in the arson investigators. With at least two dead, whoever lit the match faces a murder charge.” He returned to confer with his firemen in their fluorescent-striped uniforms and grime-streaked faces behind full face shields.

  “Who was in the building?” Burns asked. “It should have been empty.”

  “We had a contract with an outsourced security company that ended June 30,” Sal said. “The night watchman’s last shift was supposed to end at six o’clock this morning. And I hope to hell I’m wrong, but I suspect the second person was Nancy Jacobs. She worked a lot of late nights and often slept in the office. That’s her car over there.”

  “Why on earth was she here?” Burns asked. “Didn’t you fire her along with everyone else?”

  “Nancy chose to work out her notice as long as the lab was intact. She was doing her best to find a cure even to the end.”

  “Whatever for? You told me the day after the board meeting that her team didn’t have any saleable IP.”

  “She was working on a side-project that she thought showed promise. I gave her permission to keep at it until we handed over the keys later today.”

  “Did she produce samples or keep records? I want to see the details.”

  “All her lab notes and emails will be backed up in the cloud,” Sal said. “I have no idea whether she had anything worthwhile. I’m still processing that it’s her on that gurney over there. Can we discuss this later, please?”

  “Mention that ChemFil is the lead arson suspect when you speak with the police.”

  “The CEO of ChemFil flew in last night from Vancouver to attend this morning’s closing. They have decontamination cleaners coming in at noon. Why on earth would they burn it down?”

  Burns gave him a look reserved for idiots and the senile. “So, they can buy the real estate for cheap and purpose-build whatever they want. Now we won’t have the three-point-three million we needed to repay Bueno Cap.” He clapped a firm hand on Sal’s shoulder. “You wrap up here. I have to run.”

  “Run where? It’s not even 7:15 and the fire chief told us to give the police statements.”

  “You can handle the bobbies. I have a tee time at 8:00 at Marin Golf Club. Potential new employer; don’t want to disappoint. Let’s speak early next week when we know whether the insurance will cover the loan shortfall.”

  “Our fire insurance lapsed at the end of June. If the fire started after midnight, we were uninsured.”

  “Ouch. Well, I’m sure you’ll manage,” Burns said before he ducked into his foreign sportscar. The dark blue Jag emitted a throaty growl as it sped off.

  Sal was so upset by Nancy’s death and Burns’ possible complicity that on the drive back, he rear-ended a garbage truck three blocks from home. The good news was the absence of damage to the City of Kentfield’s sanitation wagon. The bad news was his Lexus required a tow truck and needed a new front end.

  chapter four

  MIRACLE CURE

  Monday, July 6: Kentfield, California, night

  “A toast to Stephanie and Tyson!” Sal hoisted the champagne flute, his face flushed by the unaccustomed imbibing.

  “To Stephanie and Tyson,” the Maggio family and their partners intoned. They were seated at a long table on a deck with a stunning twilight view of Mt. Tamalpais State Park. The objects of their salute stayed seated as the newborn suckled at his mother’s breast. From her chair, Stephanie beamed and lifted a glass of apple juice. Even that minimal movement left her sapped.

  Patricia led the assembly in a brief, heartfelt prayer. She still couldn’t believe Steph’s miraculous recovery from the last rites a week ago to coronavirus-free and discharged earlier today and baby Tyson healthy as can be. They were truly blessed.

  The smell of sizzling meat wafted from the grill while Sal eyeballed ribeyes. The Maggio clan passed plates up and down. When everyone had a steak, Sal presented his vision. “I worked on this plan for a long time and went into overdrive once the WHO declared a pandemic in March. Everyone at this table forms the core of what I’m calling the Manned Mission to Mars program, or ‘the 3M’ for short. I envisage thirty people settled in northern British Columbia on the 640 acres I closed on last week.”

  A masked Sal smiled at his audience’s newfound attentiveness and took a seat at the head of the table. “I bought the land from absentee First Nations owner
s. There’s a gravel road from the Alaska Highway to a dilapidated house, a barn, fallow fields, woods and two miles fronting the Kitsaw River. It’s off the grid which means we’ll use solar panels for electricity, and heat with wood. We can put up satellite dishes for internet and cable TV provided that those services continue. We’ll need to clear the land and plant hay for horses and cattle and grow whatever foodstuffs the climate allows. The foraging should be fertile and the river’s full of salmon every summer and fall. There are plenty of moose, deer and elk, too.”

  “Dad, what do you know about living off the land?” Barb asked.

  “Nothing, but you have a degree in regenerative agriculture, and we’ll follow your lead. We’ll go one hundred percent organic at lower cost than if we relied on Big Ag for genetically altered seeds, fertilizers, and pesticides—substances which won’t be available for very much longer in any event. The bonus is that we won’t poison either the soil or our bodies.”

  “My work’s centered on the Central Valley,” Barb protested. “I know we won’t be planting almonds or pistachios. How far north are we talking about?” Her partner Jaime filled her champagne flute.

  “About fifty-eight-degrees north, three thousand kilometers from San Francisco. For the gringos, that’s eighteen hundred miles. With global warming, it’s the top end of North America’s new temperate zone.”

  Greg had been watching his son struggle to coax milk from his wife’s breast. The little fellow had fallen asleep, perhaps from exhaustion and not satiation. “Sal,” he asked, “Is your plan to move once the travel restrictions ease? That might not be until next year.”

  “If you believe Pat’s interpretation, we have witnessed the hand of the Lord and He doesn’t like delays once He’s made His will known. First the pandemic, next my company burned to the ground, and now Steph’s illness. We’ll leave soon, before month-end in any event and I’ll feed and house everyone through next spring.”

  “How will you get across the border?” lawyer Greg persisted.

  “We’ll cross somewhere remote at night. I already lined up a guide who operates east of the Rockies where Idaho and Montana meet Canada. He says that the security will tighten if people start to flee the U.S., as I predict. That’s another reason why the 3M needs to get underway.”

  “I wouldn’t trust a coyote,” Jaime said. “In Mexico, they’re crooks.”

  “With a former Marine sergeant by my side, I don’t think he’ll give us any trouble.” Sal plucked at the Caesar salad.

  Jaime exchanged a doubtful look with Barb who tonged another section of garlic bread onto her already crowded plate. Greg’s expression was screwed in concentration as he considered the ramifications of illegal immigration, while Pat’s eyes darted around the table as she silently beseeched everyone just to get along.

  While her father processed a mouthful of lettuce, croutons and dressing, Steph offered her thoughts in a barely audible voice. “It sounds like you’re serious, but I’m not sure you’ve thought things through. You want my husband to quit when he’s one step below partner. Last week, Father Healey read me the last rites. I don’t know when I’ll be healthy enough to travel and Tyson arrived two weeks early. If Jaime’s deported from Canada, he could lose his green card. Barb’s NGO work requires high-speed internet which you said we might not have. This move is great for you, Dad, because you’re rich and just retired, but not the rest of us.” She slumped back in her chair.

  Pat opened her mouth to speak, but Sal talked over her. “You’re all grownups and you’ll do what feels right,” he said as his wife glared at him and topped up her Syrah. “You’ve heard me on this topic before, so I won’t flog a dead horse, but this pandemic has shined a light on the fragility and unsustainability of the consumption-led, climate catastrophic pleasure dome that the U.S. created. Decades of underinvestment, too much debt and a dysfunctional political system have left our country—and the Western economic model—bankrupt. All it took was a single jump in hosts from animal to human to halt the world in its tracks—”

  “Dad, you’re beating that horse again,” Steph said.

  Sal carved out a piece of steak, charred on the outside and medium-rare within: It almost melted in his mouth. “After the next eco-catastrophe,” he continued, “there will be no electricity or food once a solar flare takes out the power transmission and distribution grid, or Yellowstone erupts, or a tsuna—”

  “Sal, enough already,” Pat said. We’ve heard the doom-and-gloom story. We’ve read that dreadful Deep Adaptation article that upset Steph. It makes no sense to—”

  “To what? Risk being deported from Canada if they catch us? It’s not like we’d be dodging the Mounties all day. Where we’re going is very lightly populated. Greg’s the only one with a real career. The rest of you can get a job just like the one you left if you decide to come back. Greg, maybe you ask for extended unpaid paternity leave, say for six months, to look after your convalescing wife and new child? By that time, you’ll have a better idea of whether Canada works for you.”

  Greg looked to Stephanie for support. She stared back, eyes pleading him to speak up. Instead, he said nothing and picked up an ear of roasted corn.

  Sal continued his pitch. “I’m not asking for a lifetime commitment. I admit that my global outlook is pessimistic. But I’ll take the financial risk and buy the motor homes, construction materials, tools and the first winter’s food. You’re responsible for your clothing and creature comforts. If I’m wrong about the state of the world, come back home in 2021 and view it as a long vacation. But if you sign on, you’ll have to work like hell. We’ll have limited time to become self-sustaining at the Thunderdome.”

  Jaime rolled his eyes. “The Thunderdome, huh? And I guess you’ve worked out a deal for Tina Turner to supply pig crap for our generators?”

  “Yes, it’s tongue-in-cheek, but I picked a cartoonish name for security. For my plan to work, you can’t tell anyone. On this ark I’m Noah, and I approve all the animals.”

  “Sal, your steak’s getting cold and no one’s eating,” Pat said. “Please, can we talk about a weekend to schedule the baptism? If we’ll be on the road soon, we’ll need an early date with Father Healey.”

  * * * * *

  Carla Maggio, the only child of Sal’s older brother, greeted her uncle with an elbow bump. The masked duo placed their orders at the counter, then retreated outside to the shaded patio.

  “You look a little haggard,” Sal remarked. “These are busy times for a research biologist. Thanks for sneaking out on short notice. As I mentioned, it’s important.”

  Uncle Sal was Carla’s favorite out of her father’s warring siblings. She had fond memories of his out-of-tune Springsteen singalongs with her and Steph as he drove them to-and-from their junior high soccer matches. That was more than fifteen years ago, and life these days was less joyful.

  “How’s Stephanie? Great news that she’s out of the hospital. And little Tyson looks adorable.”

  “Her recovery’s been miraculous. Those aren’t my words, they’re her doctor’s. That’s one of the reasons I came to see you.” Sal stopped as their sandwiches arrived, bratwurst for him and a Mexican vegetarian wrap for her. In between bites, Sal briefed his niece and slid a padded envelope across the table.

  “What’s in here?” Carla asked.

  “Twenty milliliters of the last of an adjuvant that Nancy Jacobs synthesized before she died. I hope you can reverse engineer what she called 896MX and make another batch. It could be a cure for Covid-19. You’ll also find a thumb drive with all her emails, files and lab notes.”

  “Who owns the rights to this? Shouldn’t they do the follow-up?”

  “Normally, I’d agree with you, but last night I received an email from the CEO’s law firm. He mismanaged the R&D budget and conspired with the VCs to pull the plug. In return, the board gifted him a million-dollar severance package that he bartered for Nafarm’s intangible assets, among them drug formulations and research. The l
awyer’s letter directs me to hand over any drugs in my possession, plus papers and/or digital media. I wanted you to have this before I responded because Burns shouldn’t have the sole right to these things.”

  Carla nodded. “Well, as it happens, I specialize in zoonotic coronaviruses. I’ll just add what you have to the drug panel and run it.”

  “Don’t put yourself at any risk. It’s not worth it.”

  “As long as they can’t trace it from you to me, you’ll be fine. If it doesn’t work, I’ll keep it off the books.”

  “They may not be able to prove it, but they’ll look hard at you.” Sal looked over his shoulder in a survey of fellow diners’ faces. He came up empty.

  “Why? What did you do?”

  “I hired one of Nafarm’s IT people to wipe the cloud server after he downloaded Nancy’s side project material. If he talks, I’m toast but he said he was headed to Mexico.”

  “Uncle Sal, you could end up in jail.”

  “I doubt it given today’s world. That brings me to the second reason I wanted to see you. I bought a large property in British Columbia that should support at least thirty people. I’m recruiting a group to move up there maybe by month-end. I think Steph and Barb are in, along with their partners. We could use your skills.”

  “What skills? I’m a research scientist who studies viruses with the potential to jump from animals to humans.”

  “If what I gave you works, we’ll need you to make more of it, maybe a lot more. We can’t sit around waiting for herd immunity, not after Covid-19 almost killed Stephanie.”

  “I take your point.” She leaned forward. “Don’t tell anyone, but there’s evidence that SARS-CoV-2 has mutated. The new strain is very virulent, maybe as high as seventy percent fatal unless detected within the first day or two of infection. Three days ago, we received lab samples from India and Bangladesh. Yesterday, we had a video call with the CDC, and they agree with our recommendation: The U.S. should enter a total lockdown with everyone confined indoors. As of this morning, there are already confirmed Covid-20 deaths in Philadelphia, New Orleans and Oakland.”