The Darwin Variant by Kenneth Johnson

Author:Kenneth Johnson
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
ISBN: 9781503954113
Publisher: 47North
Published: 2018-06-11T22:00:00+00:00

15

QUARANTINE

Dr. R.W. Hutcherson. . .

The Everett Biochemical plant was in an industrial park on the north edge of Atlanta. It was a multifaceted division of parent company BioTeck Industries, which produced bulk chemicals for industrial use as well as pharmaceutical medications. Before coming to the plant, I’d left Lilly at her condo in the care of Susan’s friend Justinia Marquez.

I’d seen plenty of biochem plants, but to an untrained eye, particularly at night, it’d seem like an impossible confusion of various-sized pipes running from one concrete building to the next. Steam was venting from some junction points.

I had inched my old Durango pickup to a stop some distance from the security gate. I saw an administrator-businessman type, middle-aged black gentleman walk out the office entrance and toward the inner parking lot.

Clarence Frederick. . .

The pavement was damp from the misty rain that began a few minutes before I came out. I waved to the security guard. “’Night, Sam.”

Sam smiled back. He was sixty and close to retirement. Like me, Sam was African American and was pleased that I’d risen to a prominent position as vice president and deputy plant manager. A fact I was proud of, but I tried to never put on airs. I’d also helped Sam’s daughter, and quite a few deserving folks of all colors, find entry-level positions with Everett. Sam called out as usual, “You have a good one, Mr. Frederick.”

“You, too, Sam. And say hi to Mazie for me.”

Dr. R.W. Hutcherson. . .

My palms were sweating. I felt like the next calf waiting in line to get branded. I’d never been involved in anything remotely clandestine or even sneaky. I knew I was risking some kinda censure for nosing around here, but the startling events of recent days combined with the ominous discoveries that Katie, Susan, and I’d made—and that Prashant had likely died for—made it vital to investigate further.

The plant administrator drove his Prius silently out through the gate and into the drizzly night. Then I drew a tense breath and eased the Durango up to the gate. I heard a baseball game on the guard’s radio, tried to sound casual as I handed him my ID. “Hiya, Sam.”

The guard squinted. “Evening, sir, do I know you?”

I yawned. “Hutcherson. CDC safety. Usually come during daytime.”

As the guard scanned the ID, I watched tensely and waited. And waited.

I finally broke the silence. “What inning?”

“Bottom of the seventh. What’s your access code?”

“AA one-oh-seven. Who’s winning?”

The guard entered the code. “Damn Yankees.” His computer made a strange burping sound, and I clutched. But Sam handed back my ID. “Here y’go. Be sure y’avoid any restricted areas marked with yellow tape.”

“Will do, Sam. Thanks.” I eased the pickup forward, trying to breathe normally.

I drove past some new construction with several temporary office trailers. All were dark except one with a sign reading “Security.” Inside I saw two men uniformed like the gate guard, sitting at a table eating. A pair of gray-suit types were also in there. They didn’t notice me passing.

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