Doug Simpson read the report again, hoping that he had missed something the first time, but the results remained what they were.
The problem wasn’t the data. It was him. He was in over his head.
It had been foolish of him to think that he was up to a job like this, and indeed, when he had applied with the company, fresh out of the biotech program at UC Davis, he had not really expected to land the position. He was better suited to being a lab assistant, not head researcher, but the company was desperate for qualified personnel. The company was flush with cash, but nobody reputable wanted to work for them. There were rumors of unethical, even criminal behavior, but Simpson had ignored them. The scandals were yesterday’s news. The biotech world was fickle that way; today’s hero was tomorrow’s goat, and who could tell what next week would bring?
As far as his own qualifications were concerned… well, hell, research was all trial and error anyway, wasn’t it? He could handle that.
Now people were going to die because he couldn’t pull a miracle out of his ass.
The field team had brought back more than a dozen subjects. A sternly worded memo, straight from the boss’s desk, had directed that they be referred to that way — not victims or patients, but subjects. All were presently in isolation, under Bio-Safety Level IV conditions, each one receiving a different treatment regimen to knock out the as yet unidentified infection that was killing them all.
Disgusted, he pushed away from his computer workstation, and was about to head out for a cigarette when the door to the lab opened and the boss walked in, accompanied by the red-haired Latina who had led the field team. Simpson didn’t know her name; he wasn’t even sure if she actually worked for the company, or had been brought in as an outside contractor.
He jumped to his feet. “Mr. Sca—”
The boss raised his hands, cutting him off. “Doug, you know how I feel about that. My dad was Mister.”
Simpson gave a contrite nod. He was still having trouble getting used to the whole first-name basis policy. It just felt wrong, especially when addressing the head of the company, but the boss was insistent. Just as he insisted that the people in the isolation unit be referred to as subjects.
“Alex,” Simpson amended. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“Sir?” Alex shook his head in feigned disgust. “That’s really not much better.” He did not introduce his female companion, but looked past Simpson, staring at the information displayed on the computer monitor. “How goes it?”
Simpson swallowed nervously. “Not good, I’m afraid. None of the therapies we’ve tried have had any effect. I mean, zip. Nada. We’ve lost three already, and two more are in bad shape. The others… ” He shook his head.
“None of the conventional treatments are working?” Alex said, though he didn’t sound at all disappointed. Simpson thought he actually sounded excited about the news. His face must have revealed his shock because Alex went on. “Don’t forget our mission, Doug. We’re innovators. The whole point is to develop a new therapy. It’s good that this thing beats everything else we’ve got. If it didn’t there wouldn’t be any need for something new. And we would all be out of a job.”
It was a rather cynical outlook, but Simpson understood. As terrible as this disease was, its resistance to the usual battery of drug treatments represented a singular opportunity in the highly-competitive biotech industry. The cure would be a silver bullet, effective not just for treating this disease, but potentially dozens more. And they would control the patent for it.
But only if he could find that cure.
“If we can’t find something that works in the next forty-eight hours,” Simpson replied, “we may be out of a job anyway. At least as far as this agent is concerned. The progression is like clockwork, and so far, we’re looking at 100 % mortality, though our sample size is admittedly very small. Aside from the obvious tragedy of that, it’s going to pose a real problem with the research.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re having difficulty culturing the agent outside of a living host. It evidently needs a very specific set of biological, chemical and physical conditions in which to propagate. Which means that when the last of the patients die, we won’t have a way to test any of our therapies.”
“What about lab animals? Rats? Monkeys?”
“The white mice seem to have a natural immunity. We suspect it has something to do with their naturally high metabolism. If that’s the case, we’d be looking at the same limitation with most small animals. We might have better luck with a larger primate — a chimpanzee for instance, but we don’t have any here.”
“Get some. I don’t care what it costs.”
“It’s not just a question of money. There are strict international rules governing the use of primates in research. Transparency is a big deal. We might be able to get a few through… um… unofficial channels, but that’s a very high-risk solution.”
“That sounds like an awful lot of trouble.” Alex frowned and glanced over at the red-haired woman. “Do you think you can locate a few more human subjects?”
Something about the casual way he said it sent a chill down Simpson’s spine.
“It shouldn’t be a problem,” the woman said. “But this is a waste of time. I told you. There is only one way to remove maldición de la sombra.”
Alex smiled broadly, showing lots of teeth. Simpson imagined crocodiles smiling like that just before they chomped on their prey. “So you keep telling me. But I need results sooner, rather than later. You go find your lost… whatever it is. And Doug here will keep pursuing his line of research. Maybe we’ll both get lucky.”
“Maybe it’s already burned itself out,” Simpson said, nervously. “That would be lucky.”
Alex turned to Simpson. “Don’t be such a gloomy Gus, Doug. We didn’t give the world death and disease. That was God’s doing. We’re just turning something bad into an opportunity.” He leaned closer. “You find the cure for this, and we’ll be the gods of a brave new world.”
CHAPTER 12
Maddock leaned forward over the steering wheel, as if by getting closer to the windshield, he might have a better chance of seeing through the deluge. It was a futile effort. The tropical rainstorm, which had come seemingly out of nowhere, was dumping water by the bucketful. He could see the windshield wipers — twin black lines waving back and forth furiously in a losing battle with the rain — but everything else was a green-gray blur. He let his foot off the gas pedal, moved it to the brake pedal, and brought the rented SUV to a complete stop.
“Have you considered pulling off the road?” Angel asked from the passenger seat.
He shook his head. “Too much chance of getting stuck.”
“Or swept away in a mudslide,” Bones put in from the back seat. “God, this place is a hole. I can’t believe we traded Cancún for this.”
Maddock glanced in the rear-view mirror, curious to see what Bell’s reaction would be. They were only in Honduras because the archaeologist had insisted that the ancient Maya city of Oxwitic — better known by the Spanish name, Copán — was the most likely location for “the tail of the serpent,” the beginning of the road that would lead them to the City of Shadow.
Maddock wasn’t so sure. While it was true that Copán had been one of the most important cities in the southern portion of the Classic Maya cultural area, Copán wasn’t exactly a “lost” city. The site, located in western Honduras, near the border with Guatemala, had been thoroughly explored and cataloged by archaeologists, and it seemed very unlikely that they would simply happen upon something new. Additionally, it was well over four hundred miles away from the cenote where they had found the guidestone. While that wasn’t a lot in modern terms, it would have been a significant distance to the ancients.