Alex was the problem.
And just like that, he knew what he had to do.
He reached out to Maria, touching her face, caressing her. His gloved fingertips left a smear of fresh blood.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again. “This is the only way.”
He turned away, unhooked his air hose from the room supply, and headed for the airlock. Before he went in however, he called Alex on the intercom. “I’ve made a breakthrough,” he said, aware that the quaver was back in his voice and hoping that his employer would chalk it up to distortion caused by the environment suit.
Alex’s voice crackled from the speaker. “Excellent. I knew you just needed the right motivation. Is it a treatment? If so, I want you to move ahead with human trials.”
“It’s something else. I can’t really explain it. I’ll have to show you. Can you meet me outside the isolation ward?”
“I’ll be right down.”
Simpson let go of the intercom button, severing the two-way connection. His heart was pounding. He was terrified, not because of what he was about to do, but because he knew he would only get one chance to do it right.
He waited two full minutes before venturing into the airlock and shutting the inner door behind him. The light was still red, indicating that the environment was unsafe. The exterior of his suit was probably covered in invisible fungal spores.
The safety protocol dictated that he should begin the disinfectant shower immediately after entering the airlock, but instead he went to the outer door and peered through the viewport, watching for his employer’s arrival.
He did not have to wait long. Alex burst into the staging area a few seconds later, an eager question already on his lips. He hesitated when he saw Simpson staring back at him from inside the airlock.
Alex shouted something, probably an exhortation to hurry up, but the thick walls of the airlock prevented Simpson from hearing him.
“I’ll be right out,” he said, and then threw his shoulder against the outer door.
The airlock doors were controlled by the same computerized system that operated the disinfectant shower, but the system had been built to keep microscopic life forms from accidentally escaping. The individual isolation rooms were equipped with heavy duty locks to ensure that none of the subjects escaped, but the airlock doors utilized a simple electronic lock, just sturdy enough to withstand slight pressure changes. The lock would not disengage until the sanitization cycle ran its course, but it was by no means an impregnable system. The lab’s designers had rightly assumed that, knowing the consequences of such an attempt, no sane researcher would ever even think of breaking protocol.
Alex’s eyes went wide in disbelief as the door shook from the impact of Simpson’s full weight against it.
The lock held but it hardly mattered. The blow had been sufficient to break the seal, if only for a millisecond, and that was enough to initiate the emergency fail-safe system. Outside the airlock, the lights went red and a harsh klaxon alarm began sounding. Simpson knew that, all over the facility, electronic locks just like the one on the airlock door would be activated, sealing off every room and corridor.
That was only the first stage. Simpson knew that he now had slightly less than five minutes to live.
Following a suspected biohazard safety breach, a countdown would be immediately initiated, just enough time for the facility’s safety officers — if there had actually been anyone serving in that capacity — to determine if the danger of a BSL–IV agent getting out of the lab was real, and for an evacuation of all personnel in non-affected areas to begin. If the fail-safe was not countermanded by the safety officer, at the end of the countdown, a thermobaric explosive device, located directly beneath the isolation ward, would be detonated. The resulting blast would immediately incinerate the lab, igniting all available oxygen in the process.
No trace of the fungal agent would remain. Maria and the rest of the infected patients, who were already facing a cruel death sentence, would be spared days of dehumanizing misery — at least, that was what Simpson told himself. He too would perish, but his death would save countless lives from Alex’s mad scheme.
But ensuring the destruction of the Shadow fungus wasn’t enough. He had to be sure that his employer would never get a second chance to destroy the world.
Simpson threw himself at the door again, harder this time.
The lock bolt snapped with a sound like a gunshot, and the door to the airlock flew open, spilling Simpson onto the floor of the changing area. As he fell, his suit snagged on the door handle, tearing a gaping hole that allowed cool and potentially microbe-infested air to rush in. Simpson didn’t care. He knew he wouldn’t live long enough to begin showing even the first signs of infection. He scrambled to his feet, located Alex, who was now backpedaling toward the locked door out of the room, and sprang at his employer.
But as he crossed the distance, Alex turned to meet him. There was an unexpectedly fierce gleam in the other man’s eyes. As Simpson reached for Alex’s throat, he glimpsed movement, and then something slammed into the side of his head and he saw nothing at all.
Alex leaped back, putting as much distance between himself and Simpson as the enclosed room would allow. His fist smarted where he’d struck the researcher and he absently rubbed his hand against his pant leg, knowing that doing so would have absolutely no effect on any microbial agents that might have been transferred.
No, he thought. There’s no way that happened. I’m clean.
But he knew that was the least of his worries right now. Simpson had initiated the fail-safe, and the clock was ticking.
He fought back the urge to stomp the spineless researcher’s skull to a bloody pulp. Alex knew he had only himself to blame for not recognizing Simpson’s weak-mindedness. Simpson had already sealed his own fate, but there was still time for Alex to save himself.
He turned back to the door, trying the handle to no effect.
Get a grip, he told himself. Think.
The door was equipped with a seldom-used numerical keypad — it was rarely locked during normal operations — but the fail-safe automatically blocked employee access codes. Alex however was no mere employee. His executive code trumped even the immutable fail-safe. He punched in the four-digit code and heard a click as the latch disengaged.
The minor victory brought little satisfaction. There were several more locked doors in his way, and even if he got through them all, escaping the immolation of the lab would be a close thing.
How much time was left?
As he ran down the corridor, he dug out his phone and placed a call. He could barely hear the ringtone over the claxon, but after only a second or two, his pilot’s voice came over the line.
“Get the bird fired up,” Alex shouted.
“Already started,” came the frantic reply. “It’s gonna be close though.”
Alex didn’t reply. The pilot knew his job, and nothing Alex could say would change the fact that the minimum amount of time for an emergency helicopter start-up was about three minutes.
It took him nearly that long to clear all the doors to reach the landing pad. Along the way, he encountered a few of the small skeleton crew of researchers and technicians, all of whom greeted him like a savior. He brushed them off, urging them to remain at their stations while he headed to the operations center to override the fail-safe. It was a lie, of course. There was no saving the lab, and not nearly enough room in the helicopter for him to save everyone.
By the time he cleared the last stairwell up to the helipad, the Bell 407 was idling steadily, its rotor blades spinning in a flat disk overhead. The pilot waved to him, urging him onward.