Arize (Book 1): Resurrection Read online

  RESURRECTION

  Arize #1

  By Scott Nicholson

  Published by Haunted Computer Books

  Copyright©2018 by Scott Nicholson

  ***

  “One of the most thrilling writers working today. Miss him at your peril.”

  – Blake Crouch, Wayward Pines

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Arize #2: Revelation

  About the Author

  Other Books

  UK Kindle Links

  ***

  “And in those days men will seek death and will not find it; they will long to die, and death flees from them.” – Revelation 9:6

  CHAPTER ONE

  The end was in the beginning.

  Put three paleovirologists in a room and they’d argue about the human genome, protein folding structures, and molecular clocks. Give them an audience and they’d generally agree that viruses may not have been the origin of life but hijacked it as soon as possible. Get them drunk and none of their knowledge would protect them from the behaviors that helped viruses thrive.

  Get Dr. Meg Perriman drunk and she’d tell you the human race was already dead and just didn’t know it yet.

  Peering at the sample in her electron microscope, she’d tell you the same thing sober.

  “Any news?” Werner Lang asked, leaning over her shoulder, his breath smelling of sauerkraut and old coffee.

  She jumped, nearly bonking him in the nose with the back of her head. She spun away from the workstation to face him. “You jerk. Have you ever heard of ‘personal space’?”

  He smirked, arrogant in his Teutonic good looks and genius. “At Toolik, we all learn to work in tight quarters, Dr. Perriman.”

  His use of her professional title was just another affectation designed to annoy her. True, Toolik Field Station was a small settlement of research facilities 370 miles north of Fairbanks, Alaska, and their lab barely afforded room for three people. But she was mostly annoyed that she hadn’t noticed him enter. She’d been too consumed by her discovery.

  Meg responded by referring to him by last name only, maintaining aloofness. “I can adapt to any environment, Lang. But conditions are most favorable when I’m not invaded by foreign bodies.”

  She stepped aside to put some distance between them, which was apparently his goal. He bent toward the microscope to see her sample. She darted to block his path, nearly bumping into him again.

  “Dr. Perriman,” he said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you like me in your personal space.”

  “I’m married, and you’re…” She waved a dismissive hand. “…whatever you are. There’s nothing personal about this.”

  “Except your need to win.”

  “I read your preliminary report, of course,” Meg said. “But this isn’t a plant virus. This discovery doesn’t support your theory.”

  “You’re looking for the most complex answer when simplicity is staring you in the face.”

  “The truth doesn’t care who wins or loses.”

  “The animal died of natural causes, as the evidence clearly demonstrates. That only confirms my wider theory regarding the Pleistocene extinctions. Besides, my theory also benefits from contemporary political beliefs and the current zeitgeist of human self-loathing.”

  “Either your imaging was wrong, or the sample has mutated since last night.”

  “Impossible,” Lang said, defiance and anger creeping into his voice. “You just hate being wrong, don’t you?”

  She studied his cold blue eyes, which were bloodshot and watery from lack of sleep. Did he read her ambition that easily? But it wasn’t exactly a secret. She’d compiled a number of publications in her brief career and received several prominent grants. The field was small enough that all the scientists were able to keep tabs on one another.

  And they all raced for answers to the same questions.

  When humans crossed the Bering Land Bridge more than sixteen centuries ago, the Pleistocene Epoch was drawing to an end. Their arrival coincided with the extinction of large mammals. Lang backed the conventional theory that hunting and climate change caused the wave of extinctions. Meg accepted those factors but also believed migrating humans carried deadly infections that spread among the vulnerable fauna of what later became North America. Both doctors now focused on a pristine specimen that might provide the final clue to the mystery.

  A giant ground sloth carcass had been discovered in a glacial crevasse in the Brooks Range, and though much of its upper body had been exposed, thawed, and decomposed, field researchers had recovered several mounds of its dung still preserved in ice.

  Lang had first crack at the analysis because he was in the lab when the researchers brought in the samples. Instead of summoning Meg, he’d compiled profiles of the organic matter and estimated the dung was ten centuries old. He’d filed a draft report of his findings, pulling an all-nighter while Meg slept through the initial discovery.

  He’d left some prepped material for her along with a note saying he didn’t want to wake her. Worst of all, he’d signed off with a smiley-face drawing.

  “This isn’t a virus,” Meg said. “It’s a bacteriophage. But there’s something strange about it.”

  Did he pick up on her subtext of doubt? Like a wolf sniffing weakness in prey?

  “Nonsense. Just because dung is loaded with bacterium doesn’t mean the virus infected it and reproduced inside the bacterial cells.”

  “This DNA sample,” she said. “It’s double-stranded and has circular genomes. It’s definitely a bacteriophage, but there’s something peculiar about the morphology.”

  She motioned for him to look, and he studied the sample for a full minute without speaking. Still glued to the scope, he said, “This isn’t what I saw earlier. This looks like two tails and a third strand. Must be a flaw in the optics, because this can’t exist.”

  “Can’t exist, or just hasn’t been discovered yet?”

  Lang looked up from the scope. “There is no genesis virus that sparked all life on Earth. If anything, viruses co-evolved with other forms of cellular life. The finest research facilities in the world haven’t been able to confirm what you think you’ve found in the scientific equivalent of a broom closet.”

  “That’s why I’m having samples shipped to RTP,” she said, employing the acronym for Research Triangle Park in North Carolina.

  The Alaska lab lacked some of the more sophisticated equipment Perriman would need for a full analysis. She worked as an adjunct professor at North Ca
rolina State while conducting private research with several local firms. She could work close to home for a few days to confirm her discovery. And hope Lang didn’t revise his report in the meantime.

  “And it’s Easter Break at grade school,” Lang said. “How convenient.”

  “Some of us have families and can’t devote all our energy to work.” She was more defensive than she wanted to be and wondered if she resented his freedom. But after six weeks at the remote station, she missed her husband and two children.

  “The images are recorded,” Lang said. “My data stands. Maybe you’ll get lucky, find something on the nucleic-acid profile, and get a virus named after you. In the meantime, I’ll just keep testing more samples and building a case study to support my theory.”

  “Plenty of sloth crap to go around. Knock yourself out.”

  She removed the sample from the microscope, made sure the vial was properly marked, and returned the collection of vials to cold storage. She didn’t think Lang would stoop so low as to contaminate or switch her sample. Because DNA didn’t fossilize, finds like the Brooks Range sloth were rare opportunities to trace the virology of a different era. Lang would respect that, even if he didn’t respect her.

  But he had a stake in this, too.

  “Your genesis theory has a certain philosophical appeal, but it’s far too complex,” Lang said. “Life is simple.”

  “Giant sloths were around for ten million years, and they just happened to die out shortly after encountering humans for the first time. Seems pretty simple to me.”

  “Hunting, climate change, migration disruptions, food shortages, a plethora of other apex predators like the saber-toothed cat—”

  “—which also died out after human contact.”

  Lang arranged his own samples across the workstation bench. “A theory is just a theory until it’s proven as fact. I’ll admit this is a bit unusual, but I see nothing here that changes my mind.”

  Meg peeled off her latex gloves and safety goggles. “If you prove your theory, I’ll be the first to offer congratulations. It’s not like either of us will run out of things to argue about. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a shuttle to catch.”

  “I’ll make sure your sample goes out on the truck. It’ll probably beat you to North Carolina since it will route through Anchorage. Enjoy your vacation,” he added, already dismissing her and submerging himself in his work.

  Meg entered the decontamination booth, underwent the protocols, and then quickly showered. She dried her hair as best she could, donned another layer over her flannel underwear, and slipped on a parka. Even though it was spring in the Northern Hemisphere, the outdoor temperature at the field station was in the teens. The sun was setting early, and she wanted a good night’s sleep before tomorrow’s eight-hour truck ride back to Fairbanks. From there, she’d catch a flight to Seattle with a layover in Chicago and be home for Good Friday.

  She smiled to herself as she crunched through the snow. She pictured the faces of Jacob and Ramona as they decorated their Easter baskets and Ian’s half-lidded gaze of desire. She wiped at the slick drop of mucus that collected on the tip of her nose.

  The cramped common areas of the field station meant that the various researchers—from climatologists to geologists—were often in close contact with one another. Meg knew better than most what a ripe environment they provided for disease. She hoped she wasn’t catching a cold. That would definitely make the long journey home even harder than it already was.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jeremiah Drew was feeling pretty good for a Wednesday night in April, even in dead-as-hell Anchorage, Alaska.

  He passed the bottle of Old Crow to Freddie Stiller, who was two drinks behind and took the business of shuffling suitcases far too seriously. “Take it easy, man,” Jeremiah said. “Those cubes ain’t going nowhere, and we don’t even need ‘em on the apron for another half hour.”

  Freddie took only a small sip, more to be sociable than to catch a buzz. He was already on probation for missing a shift without notice, but that was Denita’s fault. She’d threatened to move out and had even gone so far as to clean out the closet and throw all her clothes on the bed. Freddie was lucky they were both broke, or she would’ve been on the next flight out of what she called “The Rape Capital of the World.”

  Freddie was sure other places had more rapes, especially where they let immigrants swarm the country, but he didn’t know shit for statistics. All he knew was that half of Denita’s girlfriends had been assaulted at one time or another, and most of them ended up leaving for the mainland.

  The warehouse was cavernous and cold, with a brisk breeze blowing through the open bay doors at each end. The piles of packages were already sorted by country, and the next task was to get each country’s shipments together so they could be loaded onto cargo planes.

  As their shift boss, Morton, liked to tell them in his nasally whine, “We’re an equidistant hub to Frankfurt, Tokyo, and New York City.” While Freddie didn’t know shit for statistics, Morton could pop them off like farts at a chili-eating contest. Maybe that’s why Morton was the boss and Freddie was stuck sharing whiskey with an ex-con.

  “You alright,” Jeremiah said, sitting on a palette of packages bound together by clear plastic wrap. He extended the bottle again. “Not many white folks would swap slobber with a brother.”

  “I’m not your brother,” Freddie said, waving the bottle away.

  “Bet you’d drink with an Eskimo.”

  “It’s not cool to call them ‘Eskimos,’” Freddie said. “That’s like calling you the N-word.”

  “Well, there’s more Eskimos than brothers around here,” Jeremiah said, taking another swig. He wiped his sleeve across his mouth and reached into his shirt pocket for a smoke.

  Freddie read the manifest on a clipboard hanging from a metal shelf. He checked the lot number of the packet Jeremiah was sitting on. “That’s bound for New York,” he said.

  “Got another one back there on the same shipment,” Jeremiah said, casually flipping his thumb over one shoulder. “It’s a doozie.”

  “Stack, pack, and stay on track,” Freddie said, quoting a Morton-ism. “We’d better get this lot together before Morton shows up.”

  “Morton can do it his own damn self.”

  Apparently Jeremiah didn’t care if the pallets got to the right place or not. He sucked on his cigarette and released billows of gray smoke in long, leisurely draws. Freddie hoped there was nothing flammable in any of the shipments. Such material was technically prohibited from regular ground shipping but Freddie had seen all kinds of weird stuff in broken packages. To get most banned materials through the system, basically all you had to do was lie.

  A howling gust blew through the warehouse door at the far end that led to the tarmac. A commercial airliner taxied down the runway in the distance, its engines revving for takeoff. Beyond it swam the lights of Anchorage, twinkling in the watery darkness. Freddie pulled his jacket collar high around his neck.

  He walked down the open aisle between the rows of pallets until he found the lot with the New York destination. Jeremiah was right; this one was stacked twelve feet high and bulged with lots of odd-sized parcels. It was too cumbersome to slide a dolly underneath. He’d have to use the fork-lift.

  It was just as well that Jeremiah had left the job to Freddie. As drunk as Jeremiah was, he’d probably drive the fork-lift into a wall. That would really send Morton into a fit. If he lost this job, Denita would dump him faster than he could say “You betcha.”

  Freddie climbed into the fork-lift’s cage and triggered the electric engine. He accelerated and approached the pallet like a crab moving in on a shark carcass. He eased the forks under the pallet and slowly lifted. The cargo wobbled as he backed up and turned toward the area where the rest of the Louisville shipment waited.

  He strained to see over the towering stack of cargo, which consisted of cardboard boxes, a few metal lockers, and one larger wooden crate. />
  “Watch it, man!” Jeremiah shouted.

  Freddie slammed on the hydraulic brake and the cargo tipped forward, the machine’s rear wheels lifting in the air. The tips of the forks grated against the concrete floor, the metallic squeal setting Freddie’s teeth on edge.

  Jeremiah appeared at the side of the cab, cigarette in his mouth as he waved his hands. “Back it up.”

  Freddie geared it into reverse, but the rear wheels spun uselessly, still suspended in the air. The load exceeded the machine’s weight limit. Morton was just going to love this.

  “Climb on the back,” Freddie shouted. Another crew worked at the far end of the warehouse, and they might come investigate if the commotion grew too noticeable.

  Jeremiah jumped into the cab and crawled behind the seat, giving Freddie an inadvertent kick in the head. Jeremiah was tall and scrawny, but his weight was just enough to tilt the fork lift back to level. The only problem was that the load of cargo had slid so far off the forks that the sudden shift pitched it to the concrete floor and onto its side.

  “Now you done it,” Jeremiah said, hopping off the back of the fork-lift and strolling around to inspect the damage.

  Freddie put the fork-lift in neutral and joined him. The load of cargo was so tightly bound that most of it was still intact, strapped to the pallet. However, a few smaller boxes had squirted out the top and bounced across the floor. Freddie didn’t want to think about how much of the merchandise had been damaged. He only hoped he could get the stack upright again and loaded onto a plane without anyone catching on.

  “S’alright,” Jeremiah said, slapping one of the packages. “I’ll just scoop it up and push it straight up again.”

  “What’s going on down there?” came a booming voice from somewhere deep in the warehouse.

  “Oh, shit,” Freddie hissed in a hoarse whisper. “Morton.”

  Jeremiah slung himself into the cab and backed up the fork-lift, the warning beeps piercing the air. He swerved and lurched forward, scraping the tines across the concrete and gouging the bottom layer of packages. A snow of Styrofoam flew out. He lifted until the bundle was nearly upright, and Freddie gave it a shove to finish the job. Another couple of cardboard boxes tumbled off in the process.