All Fall Down

LOUISE VOSS AND

MARK EDWARDS

All Fall Down

For Claire Finch and Ali Cutting

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue: Patient Zero: California

Chapter 1: Surrey, England

Chapter 2

Chapter 3: Oxfordshire

Chapter 4: San Diego

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

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Author’s Note

Read on for a thrilling extract of Forward Slash

About the Author

Also by Louise Voss and Mark Edwards

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue: Patient Zero

California

John Tucker sneezed violently, jerking the steering wheel to the left, the car swerving and almost clipping the median strip. A truck rumbled past in the outside lane, its horn blaring deep and low, and John raised his middle finger and shouted a curse that nobody could hear.

He was twenty-eight years old and had nothing. No woman, no job, no apartment and no money – apart from the five hundred bucks Cindy had given him.

He’d met her in Hollywood, only a few days ago, though it felt like weeks. He had just spent the last of his money on a night in that sleazy pit, the Capitol Hotel. On that hot summer’s evening he’d been contemplating a night on the streets unless something miraculous happened.

John had been sitting in a bar, the last of his cash gone on a beer that was warm from where he’d been nursing it so long, staring down at the tabletop, his long greasy hair blocking out the world. He became aware of a presence by the table and a female voice. ‘Mind if I join you?’

She was beyond beautiful. Long dark brown hair, a heart-shaped face, hypnotic eyes. She was wearing a leather biker jacket over a white T-shirt that hugged her breasts. He managed to croak, ‘Sure.’

She sat down opposite him. ‘Thanks.’ Her voice was soft and southern, from someplace like Alabama or Georgia. ‘I’m Cindy.’

‘Are you an angel?’ he asked.

And she’d laughed, the sweetest laugh he’d ever heard.

‘Well …’ was all she said.

That night, during which she bought him several beers, shrugging off his half-hearted protests, he told her his pathetic story. About coming to LA to be a rock star, about how the band never took off and his bandmates had either drifted into regular employment or embraced drugs and booze, leaving him to his own addiction.

Not alcohol. Not smack. No, he got dizzy from the spin of the roulette wheel, the whirl of the slots, the roll of the dice. The weekend after the band finally broke up, he’d taken off to Vegas and hadn’t surfaced until he’d lost everything, emerging in a daze into the desert heat without a cent left to his name.

It had been the same for years. Everything he earned, he threw away in Vegas, driving to Nevada with that sick feeling deep inside him, the itch he had to scratch. But Lady Luck never favoured him. She’d tease him, sure, then snatch it all away.

He told Cindy all this, his eyes stinging with the shame of it, and she reached across the table and stroked the back of his hand with long gold-painted fingernails. Her own eyes were wide and shining with compassion, but she kept smiling.

‘You can be saved, John Tucker,’ she said. ‘All you need to do is open your heart.’ She squeezed his hand and leaned forward, dipped her face coyly and looked up at him through her lashes. ‘Will you come with me, John? I feel like you shouldn’t be alone tonight.’

They had left the Capitol Hotel bar around midnight. In the parking lot, John had whistled when Cindy opened the door of a gleaming white Porsche Cayman. He moved to open the passenger door but Cindy shook her head. ‘Take your car and follow. Don’t worry, I’m gonna to take it nice and slow.’

The way she looked at him as she said this made him wobbly with lust.

He’d followed her for two whole hours along the highway until, finally, she’d pulled up to the gates of a large house. All the lights were off so he couldn’t see well with only starlight to go by, but it looked like some kind of ranch house. The kind of place he’d expect a woman who drove a Porsche to live.

She opened the gates and he followed her through. When the cars drew to a standstill all he could hear was the throbbing of crickets and his own heartbeat. Cindy opened the door of his car and leaned inside, putting her hands behind his head. He thought she was going to pull him into a kiss. Instead, she tied a blindfold around his eyes.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, excited.

‘Shush …’ She took him by the hand and led him across a crunchy path and into the house. All was silent. She steadied him as she led him up a staircase, then he heard a door open with the faintest creak, then shut behind them.

‘Can I take this off now?’ he asked.

She put her finger to his lips. He tried to put his arms around her, to grab her butt and press himself against her, but she slipped out of his embrace like a wisp of smoke.

‘Cindy?’

‘Sleep,’ she whispered, and before he could say a word she had gone, closing the door behind her.

Shocked, he pulled off the blindfold. He was in a small room with a single bed. A candle burned on a low table. He tried the door. It was locked. There was a narrow adjoining room that contained nothing but a toilet and a basin. No way out.

He knocked, shouted, tried knocking on the window too. What the fuck was this? Some kind of kinky game?

Or was some guy – Cindy’s boyfriend – about to arrive with a gun or a hunting knife?

He felt in his pocket for his cellphone, then remembered he’d left it in the car.

After a while he stopped yelling and sat down on the bed. He didn’t feel horny any more. Eventually, he went to sleep.

In the night, he thought he sensed someone standing over him, felt something on his face. But when he opened his eyes, there was no one there. Just the locked door.

When he woke up, there was a basket of food on the floor: fresh bread and fruit, a pitcher of OJ. He ate and drank greedily. Then he banged on the door again, not really expecting anyone to answer. But within seconds, Cindy stood before him, as beautiful as he remembered.

‘What in hell is going on here?’ he demanded, but she simply smiled that beatific smile of hers and said, ‘Relax, John. You’re here to rest. To get better.’

‘But I’m not sick,’ he protested. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’

She shook her head like that was the saddest, most misguided thing she’d ever heard.

Then she’d sat with him for an hour, talking to him, soothing him with words that he was barely listening to. He was too busy staring at her, aching to touch her creamy skin, to stroke that hair. Aching to fuck her. He felt like a teenage boy on a first date.

But she wouldn’t let him touch her. After that hour, she went away. Later, she came back with another tray of food, which she set on the floor before leaving without a word. He banged on the door some more but nobody came.

This pattern continued for three days. Evenings alone in the room, going mad with his thoughts, before crashing out on the bed. Fresh food and drink left by his door. And that sense, in the night, of someone standing over his bed.

On the morning of the third day, he awoke with a scratch in his throat and a different kind of ache that made his skin shiver and feel sore to the touch. His head hurt too, and he kept sneezing.

He tried knocking on the door but he felt too rough. He wanted to go back to bed.

Funny, he’d thought as he lay down, if my life wasn’t so shit maybe I’d be busting my balls trying to get out of here. But he actually liked it here – especially the hour when Cindy came and sat with him. It was a kind of instant Stockholm syndrome.

And then, that evening, she came and told him it was time to leave.

‘What?’ he asked, sniffing.

‘You’ll be better now,’ she said.

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

Then she held out the money. Five hundred bucks. He looked at it like a dog eyeing a steak.

She put the blindfold back on him and led him down the stairs. He had a feeling there were other people around, could hear them breathing. But by the time he was seated in his car, and Cindy removed the blindfold, the door was shut and there was nobody in sight.

‘Go, John Tucker,’ she said, pressing the money into his hand.

‘Come with me?’ he asked, though he knew she would say no.

‘Om Shanti, John.’

The highway was dark, the moon full overhead. One day, he guessed, he’d look back at this strange episode and laugh. For now, though, he only felt confused and sick. He wanted to get back to LA, find a beer and a bed. Maybe rent himself one of those crack whores to unleash his frustration on. He turned up the radio when an old Nirvana tune came on. Then he saw the sign.

EEL CREEK RESERVATION AND CASINO. 1 mile.

Like an alcoholic watching whisky splash into a tumbler, the compulsion hit him in the gut.

Casino.

He’d been to casinos on Indian reservations before. They were a poor substitute for the Class A drug that was Vegas, but they were still places where men like him could change their lives with one stroke of luck, one clever play.

He became acutely aware of the five hundred dollars burning in his pocket.

No, he told himself. Keep driving. Get to LA, get yourself holed up, you’re going to need that money. It’s all you have.

But the itch had started. By the time he was only half a mile from the reservation, his whole body was crawling with it. Surely, whispered the devil on his shoulder, there’s no harm in dropping in, seeing what it’s like? He could set himself a limit of fifty dollars, leave the rest locked in the glovebox.

Here was the turning. The moment to decide. He sneezed yet again. Didn’t he deserve some pleasure, some fun, especially when he was feeling so lousy, after spending half a week imprisoned in a tiny room? Just a couple of spins of the roulette wheel and then he’d be out of there. There was no harm in it.

He signalled right.

He entered the casino with the whole five hundred dollars in his pocket. He wasn’t going to spend it all though, no way. Besides, he felt lucky tonight. He was tingling.

Bored staff looked him over coolly as he passed into the dark interior of the casino, the electronic clatter of the slot machines making the tingles turn to tremors.

He paused by a slot machine, where an obese woman sat in a motorised wheelchair, joylessly feeding coin after coin into its hungry mouth. Across the other side of the dim room lay the object of his desire. He strode over, trying to ignore the scratching in his throat, the heat around his temples. Since getting out of the car and into the air-conditioned building, his flu had felt considerably worse. But, fuck it. Nothing was going to stop him enjoying tonight.

The dealer at the roulette table was a tall, good-looking Indian guy of about thirty. He looked impassively at John as he took a seat. A waitress came over and took his order, JD on the rocks.

‘Evening, sir,’ said the dealer.

‘Evening.’

John exchanged one hundred dollars for chips. As he handed over the cash, he sneezed, spraying the dealer with spittle.

‘Shit, I’m sorry, dude.’

The dealer blinked but didn’t show any emotion. John sipped his drink, the burn of the whisky easing the soreness in his throat, thought about his strategy, and ended up doing what he always did.

Bet on black.

Two hours later, he emerged from the casino in a daze. He felt hot and dizzy. His nose was blocked and his throat burned like he’d swallowed a razor. His skin was damp and clammy and his head was pounding.

But he didn’t give a damn.

He unlocked his car and flopped on to the front seat, pulling the wad of dollars from his jeans pocket. He couldn’t believe it. He’d walked into the casino a broke bum and come out, if not a tycoon, then considerably richer.

Five thousand bucks. He’d got back ten times his stake. He’d never been so lucky in his whole miserable life. The ball kept falling on black, black, black again.

It was freaking unbelievable.

He let out a hoarse whoop that turned into a cough. With this money he could set himself up in LA, get a place, a job, actually do something with his life. Screw you, Cindy. John Tucker didn’t need you.

Tomorrow, his new life would begin. But right now, he needed somewhere to crash. The Capitol Hotel was a ninety-minute drive away. A good night’s rest there and he’d be raring to go in the morning.

He put the five thousand in the glovebox and locked it, pausing a moment to stroke the cash and murmur a final, ‘Unbelievable.’

Tucker never made it back to the Capitol Hotel. Nine days later he was found in a boarded-up deserted diner on the outskirts of LA. Too sick to face the gridlock of the city or to find a motel, he’d managed to break in through a window at the rear of the building, presumably to use the facilities – which had been well and truly utilised – Tucker had covered every inch of it with his bodily functions: toilet, basin, tiled floor, mirrored walls, before the final seizure that ended his life. A highway patrolman called Michael Vane who had spotted Tucker’s abandoned car found him dead on the floor, fifty-dollar bills glued with bubbles of black matter to the tiles around him, and the green skin of his cheeks stretched in a taut rictus of agony over his face. Flies buzzed around the cadaver; one landed on Vane’s face, on his lip, and he batted it away with disgust.

As he pulled out his radio to call for assistance, Vane paused. There were more fifty-dollar bills scattered beside the body, some of them splattered with drops of mucus but most of them clean. He quickly counted the notes: just under five thousand dollars.

Vane, who had debts close to that amount and a pregnant wife, thought about it for a minute. Nobody knew he was here. Nobody need ever know he’d found this poor bastard. Heart pounding, he stuffed the dollar bills into his pockets, including some of the stained ones. He slipped out of the building, checking to make sure there was nobody around to see him sneak back to his patrol car, trying his hardest to shake off the sight of the corpse and ignore the rank smell that wafted from the diner. Before heading back to the precinct he would first go home, hide the money in his closet.

And so he left, headed onto the freeway, nauseous and blissfully ignorant of the death sentence he had imposed upon not only himself and his pregnant wife but many of his Highway Patrol colleagues; a death sentence that they in turn would spread into the air, like the noise from the siren on their patrol cars, into the great, shining city of angels.

1

Surrey, England

A poster on the door read: TODAY 7 P.M. – THE FACULTY OF SCIENCE PRESENTS A FREE LECTURE – ‘A NEW BREED OF AIRBORNE VIRUSES: THE STUFF OF SCI-FI OR A REAL AND PRESENT DANGER TO US ALL?’ GUEST SPEAKER: DR KATE MADDOX FROM OXFORD UNIVERSITY.

MI6 officer Jason Harley had intended to wait outside for her, but heavy rain had begun to splatter the pavement around him, and was already starting to soak into the shoulders of his suede jacket. He’d had to park his elderly Jaguar too far away to be able to sit inside and listen to cricket on the radio; not without the risk of missing her, at least, so he pulled his baseball cap – part rain protection, but mostly male-pattern baldness disguise – lower over his forehead and went in.

It was warm and dark in the lecture theatre with forty or so students in attendance, many of them pecking away on mobile phones or laptops. As Harley climbed the stairs to slide into the back row of raked seating, he noticed that most of the screens displayed social networking sites and games. He couldn’t prevent a quiet but judgmental sort of tut slipping out at their seemingly total lack of interest. Why bother to show up if you were going to sit and play Angry Birds instead of listening?

‘Of course, what is of primary concern to us virologists is the way in which West Nile disease is transmitted. It’s not airborne, as I’m sure you know, and therefore not strictly relevant to my lecture today, but I’ll talk about it for a few minutes, because it’s really fascinating …’

The speaker was a slim woman with long, shiny brown hair and a mid-Atlantic accent. She stood on the stage with her back to the audience, and Harley admired her high heels and tight pencil skirt as she pointed to a PowerPoint slide of the map of the world, dotted in various locations with outsize illustrations of mosquitoes, their long thin legs dangling like a toddler’s faint scribbles. Kate Maddox, he thought, you are damn lucky to be alive.

‘Mosquitoes become infected after feeding on virus-carrying birds, such as crows, and the mosquitoes can then infect humans …’

He wondered if she remembered him. He was pretty sure that his appearance would not be a welcome one, especially when he explained why he’d been sent to talk to her.

‘… and this map shows the increase of West Nile encephalitis in the Western world in the last decade …’

Kate turned back round to face her audience, and it struck Harley how beautiful she was. She was unrecognisable as the wild-eyed woman she’d been two years previously, when he’d first seen her during the raid on a lab, the secret HQ of a criminal virologist named Gaunt. Kate and her boyfriend Paul had been held prisoner there, a fate doubly painful to her, in the knowledge that her little boy had just been sent out into the world with a deadly virus. It had been a frantic race against time to get them out, find the antivirus – and then find her son, Jack.

‘One biotech company has found that blocking angiotensin II can treat the “cytokine storm” of West Nile virus encephalitis – and, even more exciting, of other viruses too. The potential of this is enormous, and I feel we scientists are getting close to developing a vaccine that will work on a variety of strains of similar mosquito-borne viruses.’

A fleeting look of anxiety passed across Dr Maddox’s features as she talked, clearly noticing the students shifting in their seats, playing games on their phones, or whispering, but it was so brief that Harley was probably the only one to notice it.

She’s losing them, he thought, half sympathetically, half curious to see how she would react. He watched her closely as she pushed back her shoulders and inhaled deeply. A subtle movement, but one that denoted a gathering of control. Harley recalled the last time they’d met: at the funeral of the poor bastard killed in the same lab raid. Stephen Wilson, Paul’s twin brother. A weird one, as they all thought Stephen had died years earlier anyway, in a fire. Must have been like burying a ghost. Harley remembered a blistering hot day, with the floral tributes already withering on the grave. Not much body left to bury – the virus had turned it to purée within minutes of being unleashed. He shivered.

‘But it’s the lab-manufactured ones we need to be more concerned about. “Designer” viruses, created to cause havoc, that could quite conceivably wipe out whole continents if they got into the wrong hands – or rather, remained in the wrong hands.’

The students stopped fidgeting and visibly sat up straighter, as did Harley, even though he was well aware of the facts already. A heavily tattooed boy near the front whistled softly.

‘Seriously? So that shit really does go on?’

Dr Maddox smiled at him. ‘I shouldn’t say that kind of thing – walls have ears, ha ha! But take haemorrhagic viruses, for example, my primary area of expertise. My partner, Dr Isaac Larter – some of you may have heard of him, he’s extremely well-known in his field – and I have been studying one particularly virulent strain for years, the Watoto virus, which is similar to Ebola but airborne, making it easier to transmit. Its origins are natural – the word Watoto means “child” in Swahili, as its first victims tend to be children – and there have been several breakouts in West Africa. Fortunately these have been restricted to remote and contained areas, but we always have to be on the lookout for shifts in its genetic make-up. And you may have heard of the recent case in which two sets of researchers found a way to make bird flu infectious through airborne transmission – which could ultimately wipe out half the human race. Because of the fear of bioterrorists stealing the virus, or the new strain escaping from a lab, the researchers agreed to stop research …’

Kate Maddox looked out at the now rapt, if slightly blurry faces in front of her. She intentionally never wore her glasses to give lectures, as a means of not allowing herself to get intimidated by her audience – public speaking had never been her strong suit, although she knew it came with the territory. She hadn’t needed her specs, though, to discern that they’d been rapidly losing interest up until this point.

Phew, she thought. Got ’em back again. A mention of the threat of global annihilation usually did the trick. This lecture was proving hard work, though. She wished she could be back in the lab in Oxford, bantering with Isaac – her ‘work husband’ as Paul referred to him, without rancour, for Isaac was a good friend to Paul as well as to Kate. We must have him and Shelley round soon, Kate thought, as she talked through the grisly symptoms of Influenza A virus, subtype H1N1. It’s our turn to cook them dinner. Isaac was in the US at the moment, at the big immunology conference, rubbing shoulders with many of the top researchers in the field. Kate was supposed to be there too – had even booked her ticket – but last week Jack, ironically, had come down with chickenpox. He was fine now, just a bit spotty. He’d been lucky and hadn’t suffered too much, but Kate hadn’t wanted to leave him.