The Day Las Vegas Dies

By Craig Markley and Jim Long

The military—vis-à-vis, the government—races to develop a bio-agent for the creation of super-soldiers, ignoring the axiom: just because you can, doesn’t mean you should…

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781682226810

Craig Markley

Craig Markley is a science fiction enthusiast with a BA in history from Ashford University. He co-starred in a music video entitled “Soldier’s Light.” He lives with his wife and daughter in Little Rock, Arkansas.

Book preview

2

Part 1:

Road Trip

Chapter 1

In his office laboratory, the young doctor—a physician/biochemist—sweats profusely inside his BSL-4 (biosafety level 4) suit, the attached, coiled orange positive-pressure umbilicus trailing out behind him. But he sweats not because it is hot in the suit; he sweats because of the lethal nature of the biologic agent he is working with. It is code-named EIB-MO2-5102. It is a binary compound—two components that when mixed become deadly.

He is nervously filling the second vial with colorless liquid, soon to join the first vial already resting in its molded nest of closed-cell polyurethane foam inside a small and sturdy aluminum case. When he has finished, he looks with trepidation at the two glass containers nestled in the case, like twin innocent-looking babies swaddled and quietly sleeping in their cribs. But when awakened, these newborns bring only the promise of death. My God, he thinks. What have I done?

Shed now of his protective gear, he packs the case into a dark brown attaché, snaps it closed and sets the combination lock. Then, checking one last time in the office and lab to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything, he turns out the lights and departs, locking the door behind him.

Chapter 2

Zoey has one of those digital clocks that when the alarm sounds it begins quietly with a gentle beeping. After a few seconds, the beeping gradually becomes louder and insistent, followed by an undulating and annoying electronic whoop, guaranteed to wake the dead. This cycle repeats every eight minutes for an hour.

Fuck! shouts Zoey from under the covers. She peeks at the clock: six a.m. Oh shit! My head! She licks her lips trying to moisten them. Her mouth is desert dry, eyes crusty and her teeth feel furry. She observes that she smells like beer and what…gin? Oh yeah, and cigarettes, thinking: You’re headed to hell in a hurry, girl. What gets into you?

Then she remembers—the trip—this morning. She looks to her bedroom window, seeing only early-morning darkness. Whose idea was it to leave so early anyway? Probably Kris, ever the practical one. Well, they can just wait, she thinks, throwing back the covers and planting her feet on the floor. When she stands to walk to the bathroom, the room starts to spin and she wobbles, unsteady. Whoa, she murmurs, sitting back down. Damn! I think I’m still a little drunk. She chuckles as she stands again, more careful now.

Zoey looks at her image in the medicine cabinet mirror and grimaces. She sees the crow’s feet, bloodshot eyes and the beginning of a chicken neck. Lucky you’ve still got a smokin’-hot body, girl, she groans. Men don’t look at the face anyway. Okay, first things first: eye drops, then a scalding shower, then makeup.

She hears the cell phone ringing in the kitchen as she steps into the steaming shower. The ringtone is, of course, the first few bars of ‘Wild Thing’ by The Troggs. She lets it go to voicemail.

She sits on a stool at the breakfast nook in her smallish apartment. She’s wrapped in a bath towel, her bottle-blonde hair still damp from the shower. She takes a sip of coffee fresh from the Mr. Coffee machine on the counter and lights a cigarette. Better. Much better, she sighs, grabbing her phone to see who called.

On the phone’s screen she sees the familiar number of the last incoming call—Kris. Of course, Kris. She punches the message button and hears the oh-so-urbane voice of her clique member: Zoey, this is Kris. Are you up? Call me when you get this; we need to get going soon. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes to pick you up. Ta-ta. Zoey rubs her temples and sighs, thinking of what to pack.

#

After leaving a message for Zoey, Kris hangs up the phone and admires herself in the full length mirror on the back of her bedroom closet door. Not bad, she thinks. Getting a little paunch along with the beginning of a muffin top. Have to start counting calories again. Otherwise, not bad at all.

She has been up for two hours, primping and packing. The other girls knew her, knew her fussy narcissism, and would have confidently placed bets on what time she would get up to prepare for the trip.

She was not unattractive, though bookish in a way that evoked ‘librarian’, or ‘schoolmarm’ in people’s minds. A slightly aquiline nose, sensible brown eyes, pencil-thin eyebrows and brunette hair tightly coifed—almost a bun—lent credence to that first impression. People said that she reminded them of the actress Bebe Neuwirth (Lilith of ‘Cheers’ and ‘Frazier’ fame). She actually is a teacher, and a good one, she always thought, trying to turn upper middle class high school freshmen and sophomores into respectable members of society.

She tried marriage once; it lasted ten months. The other girls said among themselves that it was because the husband—a boyishly handsome engineer—became bored to death with Kris’s primness and ran screaming from the house yelling: Free at last! over and over again.

#

Samantha (Sam, to her friends) bustled about her kitchen preparing breakfast and packing lunches for her three kids: Billy, Jake and Mandy. C’mon, guys, she said to the children, looking at the wall clock, get a move on. Sit down and eat your breakfast before it gets cold. Daddy’s taking you to school today.

Her husband, Joe, was sitting at the table watching her frantic agitations. Is this trip really necessary? he said for the fourth time. Look at you, getting yourself all in a tizzy and upsetting the kids, all over loopy Lindsay getting engaged. For the third time.

She’s not loopy. She’s just excited. This is a big deal for her. I think this is the one; Mark is a really nice guy.

Well, I think you should just stay home and tend to your house and family.

Wouldn’t hurt you to help out this morning, she said, what with all I have to do, and I haven’t even started packing.

"Don’t you go getting uppity with me missus. I work plenty hard around here."

Hmmph! she muttered.

Joe got up from the table, slamming his chair into the wall behind him, and left the room.

Samantha, crying, wiped her eyes with the dishtowel. She cleared the table and finished packing the kid’s lunches, then headed to the bedroom to get her suitcase ready. God, it’ll be good to get away for a while, she thought. Who knows, maybe I’ll even have a good time.

Samantha and her husband fought all the time now, it seemed. He wore her down, and wore her out. She was exhausted from all the stress. To compensate, she ate. Only thirty-six-years-old, five-four, and already pushing a hundred and ninety pounds.

From the third drawer of her dresser, she pulled out a robin’s-egg-blue one-piece bathing suit and held it up, looking at it sadly. Should I bring it along? Then, she just smiled and put it in the suitcase. There are guys who like large women. Could be I’ll get lucky.

She could hear Joe and the kids headed out the door for school. She finished packing and went to the kitchen and just sat, waiting for Kris and Zoey to come pick her up to go to Lindsay’s house. Maybe, she thought. Just maybe.

#

Mark was busy making toast and scrambled eggs for Lindsay and himself, humming a nonsense tune all the while. Just about ready, hon, he said.

Thanks, sweetie, she replied, and thanks for all your help with the packing.

You’re welcome, Linds. Just wish you didn’t have to go.

She came out of the bedroom dressed in jeans and pink top, with sandals. She hugged him.

Ooh, you smell nice, he said, inhaling the fragrant scent of soap and strawberry shampoo. Her auburn hair glistened in the warm sunlight of the kitchen.

I hope that you’re not too upset with me going away with the girls this weekend.

"I will miss you; I can’t deny that, but you