Chapter 9 - The Crimson Perimeter
Marcus slammed his foot on the brake, the heavy truck fishtailing across the slick asphalt before grinding to a halt at the edge of the intersection. Rain pounded against the windshield like gravel.
Two hundred yards ahead, the suspension bridge that served as the primary route out of the city was completely blocked. Three military-grade mobile command vehicles sat parked horizontally across the lanes, their blinding floodlights cutting through the driving rain. Men in charcoal tactical gear were methodically checking every civilian vehicle, automated license-plate scanners sweeping back and forth.
"Julian declared a city-wide quarantine," Althea said, staring through the rain-streaked glass. "He used his political connections on the State Health Board. He told the governor an experimental pathogen escaped from the university lab. They’ve locked down every bridge, tunnel, and ferry port within thirty miles."
"They're not looking for a virus," Marcus growled, looking at his dashboard fuel gauge, which hovered just above a quarter tank. "They're looking for us."
From the backseat, the infant let out a soft, hungry whimper. Clara had unbuttoned the front of her soaked hospital gown, cradling the tiny child against her skin to share body heat. The baby nuzzled against her breast, seeking comfort in a world that had offered nothing but violence since her first breath.
"She needs food," Clara whispered, her voice trembling with exhaustion. "Marcus, she's burning up. Her forehead feels like fire."
Althea turned completely around in her seat, reaching back to touch the baby's neck. Her face went deathly pale. "It's not a fever from an infection."
"What is it?" Clara asked, terror gripping her chest anew. "Tell me!"
"The CRISPR vector," Althea said, her voice shaking for the first time. "The genetic sequence isn't stable yet. It requires a synthetic stabilizer enzyme every twelve hours until the child's bone marrow reaches full cellular homeostasis. Without it, the modified genes begin attacking healthy white blood cells."
Marcus stared at Althea in the rearview mirror. "How long does she have?"
"She was born an hour ago," Althea answered, her voice dropping into a flat, agonizing whisper. "We have eleven hours before systemic organ failure begins. And the only remaining batch of that stabilizer is locked inside Julian’s private research penthouse at the top of the Vance Tower downtown."
Marcus let out a ragged breath, looking out at the barricaded bridge, then up toward the city skyline where the gleaming glass needle of Vance Tower pierced the dark, stormy clouds like a silver dagger.
"He knows we can't leave the city without it," Marcus realized, his hands tightening on the steering wheel until his knuckles cracked. "He didn't just block the bridges to keep us in. He blocked them to force us to come to him."
"It's a slaughterhouse," Althea said, checking the remaining ammunition in her sidearm. "The tower is a fortress. He has sixty private operatives on site and full facial-recognition surveillance across the entire perimeter."
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Clara looked down at the tiny girl nestled against her chest, watching the infant's chest rise and fall in rapid, shallow breaths. She reached out, her trembling hand finding Marcus’s shoulder.
"We aren't running anymore," Clara said, her voice dropping all traces of fear, replaced by a cold, terrifying clarity. "We go to the tower."
