Doctor Mosquito: A Novel

By Richard C Dellinger

Richard C Dellinger’s debut novel gives us a terrifying glimpse into the near future. An intense, pulse-pounding ride that will dig its genetically modified claws into you and won’t let go. A book for the fans of Michael Crichton’s clever techno-thrillers (Jurassic Park) and Stephen King’s nerve-shredding horror

• Language: English
• Publisher: White Acorn Press, LLC
• Release date: Mar 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9780998697826

Richard C Dellinger

Richard C Dellinger began his career as an advertising creative in Chicago. He has spent the last twenty years in the tech industry serving in a variety of web development, leadership and consulting positions. Now he spends most of his time ten years in the future. Doctor Mosquito is his first novel.

Book preview

PART ONE

White Mouse

1

Dr. Samuel Pierce scanned the neighboring campsites but nothing suspicious caught his eye tonight. To his left, a middle-aged couple sat under the canopy of a vintage Airstream while they played cribbage and sipped Moscow Mules from copper cups. Not a threat. To his right, a group of twenty-somethings played a game of cornhole and listened to My Chemical Romance on a portable speaker. But no one from their group even gave Sam a sideways glance. The sweet smell of pine mingled with camp smoke, bug spray, and meat cooking over a fire. It brought back the memories of camping as a kid, but not the joy. It had been so long since he had felt joy. He wasn’t sure he could feel it anymore.

Sam sat in a tattered green camping chair and rubbed the smoke from his eyes. Whichever side of the fire he sat on the smoke seemed to follow him. He picked up his chair and repositioned it to the other side. Sam’s two boys, seven-year-old Doug and nine-year-old Aaron, were leaning into the fire with skewers made from branches they had stripped clean. They were silent just like Sam taught them and focused on the hotdogs roasting on the ends of their sticks. Sam had stolen the pack of hotdogs from the camp store and the boys devoured most of them uncooked. They had scarcely eaten for days. How long had it been since they had a proper meal? Four weeks? Five? Sam couldn’t remember. The hunger and lack of sleep left him foggy.

He could hear his wife, Claire, poking around in the hatchback of their rusted VW Rabbit that was hidden in the bushes. The car had no license plate but the campground manager didn’t notice when they stopped to register. Sam made up a plate number as they signed in and they motored in as casually as they could.

Claire touched him on the shoulder and he jumped.

Christ, he said and put his hand on his chest.

You need to relax. We haven’t seen them for almost two weeks, said Claire. He knew that didn’t mean anything. They could blend in. One of them was a middle-aged woman serving ice cream at a DQ in Dubuque. That was a close call. Another looked like a friendly old man at a gas station in Fargo but Sam saw a gun tucked into the man’s belt when he bent over to pick up a coin. They were tapped into his family’s email accounts and cell phones. Sam ditched those months ago. Credit cards were out of the question. Any electronic transaction made it far too easy to track him so Sam zigzagged across the country for a while. And backtracked. He paid only in cash. The most important thing was to keep a low profile. Blend in. Do your best to never get noticed.

You did that on purpose! screamed Aaron. Sam jerked his head around. The boys were fighting over a hotdog that had fallen to the ground. It was covered in dirt and ash.

Sam let out a quick shhhhh! but the boys didn’t hear him and started to push each other.

Dad, he knocked mine into the fire on purpose! shouted Aaron.

Did not! Doug shouted back.

Sam looked around in a panic. None of the other campers seemed to be paying them any attention. At least not yet. He had to stop this.

I said be quiet, he said in an angry whisper.

Give me yours! shouted Aaron.

No! Doug shouted back. Mom, he’s taking my hotdog!

Sam jumped up and grabbed both of them by the arms. The force knocked Doug’s stick out of his hand and his hotdog fell to the ground too. He started to cry.

Shut up! said Sam. But the boy only cried more loudly. Sam shook him.

Dad, stop! said Aaron. Don’t hurt him!

But Sam had lost control. He slapped Doug. Then he picked him up and put his hand over the boy’s mouth. Aaron kicked his father in the leg.

Stop it Dad! He can’t breathe! shouted Aaron. Doug’s face was turning red and his eyes were wide with fear.

Is there a problem over here? A booming voice startled them. A large man in a flannel shirt and a beard was walking by and noticed the commotion. Aaron thought he looked like the lumberjack on the side of the paper towel package, except this man was bald.

Mind your own business, said Sam.

If I see some guy beating on his kids, I’m making it my business, said the man. He shined his flashlight around the campsite, then directly into Sam’s face. Claire cleared her throat and the large man shined the light on her. He hadn’t seen her in the shadows.

Sam, dear. Please put Dougie down, she said. Sam looked at her then back at the man. He put Doug down and the boy ran into his mother’s arms. She held his hand and walked slowly toward the man with the beard.

Everything is fine, she said in a soothing voice. The man softened his stance and lowered the flashlight. Tell the man everything is fine, she said to Doug. But Doug buried his tear-streaked face into his mother’s side. I appreciate your concern. We are all a little grouchy tonight. We get like that when we haven’t had dinner. You understand, right?

The man looked at her, back at Sam, then back at her again.

If you need help, I’m two sites down, said the man. Enjoy your evening. Then he walked away.

Damn, that was close. The last thing Sam wanted was an altercation. If it had gotten out of hand someone could call the police then it would be all over. Sam bent over and picked up the hotdogs and brushed them off on his jeans. He offered one to Aaron but he refused it. Then he brought one to Doug, but he wouldn’t make eye contact. So Sam sat on the picnic table and ate the hotdogs himself.

Claire sat Doug down in a chair near the fire then walked up behind Sam and rubbed his shoulders. God, this woman was a saint. How could he have put her in this situation? How could he have done this to his boys? He didn’t know it would come to this. He didn’t know that they would be hunted.

You need to sleep, she said. You are no good to us when you are like this. I’ll keep watch. Sam started to refuse but he felt weak. She was right — he had reached his limit. It wasn’t the first time. A mosquito bit him in the neck and he smacked it. His arms and legs were covered with itchy swollen red marks. Damn bugs. He was getting eaten alive. He unzipped the tent, climbed inside one of the dirty sleeping bags and closed his eyes. His mind was a whirlwind.

He needed a plan. He couldn’t keep running. The world needed to see what was coming. But was it ready to see? Would it accept the truth, crazy as it sounded? Should he put it online? The photos. His research. A map of the facility. They would take it down in the blink of an eye. They controlled it all. He could go to the media. Find a sympathetic reporter — a young gun looking for his first big story. This was Pulitzer material, but would any reporter take him seriously? He looked and smelled like a crazy homeless guy, his hair tangled and dirty, his clothes stained and torn. His story would sound like the rantings of someone who had come unhinged. No, he couldn’t risk it. If he put his neck out, he would lose his head. Better to keep low. Keep moving.

Then he heard a scream.

Sam, get out here! It was his wife. But where was she? He heard horrible choking and gurgling noises outside as he desperately groped around in the dark, his mind half awake. The sides of the tent bulged as he beat and tore at them. When he found the zipper he ripped it open and crawled out of the tent like an animal scurrying out of its den. He saw the boys first. They were both lying on their sides next to the fire. Aaron was completely still but Doug twitched as he vomited green bile. His wife had collapsed over the picnic table. Sam felt his chest getting tighter and tighter as his breath was squeezed out of him. Had they been poisoned? It must have been the hotdogs! But how did they find us? How did they get into the food? No, it was impossible. Sam crawled toward the boys but a blinding pain erupted in his head and rippled through his body. As he gasped his last breath the glowing embers of the fire faded into black ash.

2

Sheriff Daniel Carlsen slowly pulled his car into the long gravel lane that led to The Friendly Moose Campground. No need to use the siren today. Ahead he could see Deputy Vernon Cole’s cruiser on the side of the road. Cole was doubled over behind the car vomiting into a patch of alfalfa.

The Sheriff had seen his fair share of strange happenings in his twenty-seven years on the job. He chased down a disturbed teen who was slaughtering livestock in the middle of the night with a chainsaw. He covertly collected evidence on Ted Barnes who was quietly dealing crystal meth out of his used car lot. When he lowered the boom on Ted, he lost a long-time friend and a stalwart of the community. He rescued a child from a burning car, broke up countless domestic disputes that involved alcohol and shotguns, and even helped capture a fugitive who had holed up in a cabin on Route 2 by Harley Lake. A small town like Bemidji, Minnesota was not immune to the fringe behaviors of humanity and in fact might have been more vulnerable because of the relentless snow and endless nights of winter. The absence of sunlight and the utter isolation of the deep woods could drag the mind to a dark place. He had seen it all. Or so he thought, until this morning.

Christ on a cracker, Vernon, he said as he stepped out of his cruiser. What the hell is going on?

Deputy Cole did not look up but kept his hands on his knees and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He pointed toward the small cabin that stood at the entrance of the campground. The Sheriff could see Hilda Green, the owner of The Friendly Moose, sitting on the front steps with her face buried in her hands. She was flanked by two other deputies who were trying to comfort her. Sheriff Carlsen pulled up his sagging pants and walked toward the cabin.

Can someone please give me the sitrep, said the Sheriff as he approached. He had never served in the military but admired the discipline and lingo.

It was Hilda who spoke first. They’re dead, Sheriff.

Who?

She slowly looked up with puffy eyes and tears running down each cheek. All of them.

The Sheriff spun around and looked into the thin woods where he could see smoldering campfires, trailers and dozens of tents in red, orange, green and blue. Then he saw the bodies. They were collapsed in the middle of the dirt lanes between campsites, hunched over picnic tables, and curled up in camp chairs like they had simply fallen asleep at the fire. He could see the doughy mass of a middle-aged man who was returning from the showers, his towel now unwrapped and his naked white ass shining bright as a harvest moon.

Oh my God, he whispered. We need to call in some help.

They are already here, said one of the deputies pointing to two black SUVs and a white van on the edge of the grounds. The side of the van said FBI in large blue letters next to the seal of the United States. Below that it said, Evidence Response Team.

The van opened and half a dozen people in white hazmat suits and yellow boots fanned out into the campground to examine the bodies and bag evidence. Behind them two men in dark blue windbreakers with large yellow FBI lettering talked on their cellphones. When they saw the Sheriff, they put away the phones and walked to the small cabin.

Sheriff, my name is Agent Modi, said the older agent. He had a slight Indian accent, brown skin, gray temples and a scar that sliced his left eyebrow into two pieces. He was five foot eight and a hundred and fifty pounds at most, but he carried authority in his voice and posture. This is a federal investigation and I’m going to have to ask you and your men to give us some space to work. Modi had struggled with testosterone-laden lawmen in the past and they always bristled at the feds claiming jurisdiction. But to his surprise, the Sheriff didn’t put up a fight.

Yeah, whatever you guys need, said Sheriff Carlsen. I mean, this is pretty far out of our… I mean… Christ. He rubbed his hands together. This is just fubar.

Behind them they heard Deputy Cole staggering up the lane. Was this a terrorist attack? Was it the Muslims? he asked. The deputy eyed Modi with suspicion. He kind of looked like them — those middle eastern devils.

Modi’s partner, Agent Connor Schwartz, spoke up. Schwartz was in his early thirties, buzz-cut and well-muscled. He looked like a Top Gun pilot with an all-American chin. Only his crooked teeth spoiled his fitness magazine look. No, deputy. Terrorists go for high profile targets. The Friendly Moose does not exactly fit their MO, he said. He was trained on how to talk without condescension and his words were measured and matter-of-fact. If you fellas could secure the perimeter for us, that would be very helpful. The officers eagerly climbed back into their cars and repositioned them several hundred yards down the road.

Modi watched as the agents in white suits lifted the body of a young boy into the back of the van. Let’s see if we get some answers, he said.

A woman with a tablet computer, her white protective suit peeled down to her waist, stood next to the van taking notes.

Those suits work better with the hood up, Agent Davenport said Schwartz to the team’s forensic examiner.

I think we are safe from here. Besides, that would mess up my hair, she joked. Davenport had fiery red hair and a personality to match. Give me an hour, she said. You guys go grab a cup of coffee and do whatever it is you do while the rest of us work.

When Agent Davenport emerged from the van two hours later her hair was tussled and she had blue ink on her lips from chewing on a pen.

What do you think? asked Modi. Is this our guy?

I need you to examine me, said Davenport.

What?

She held up her long curls of hair exposing her neck and shoulders. Check me for mosquito bites. I didn’t feel any, but…

Modi scanned her neck, arms and shoulders. There were no bites. You’re clear.

Let me check you, she said. Both of you.

They stood like statues as Davenport walked around them poking and prodding at every blemish.

Are you going to tell us what this is about? said Schwartz.

I tested ten bodies. Each of them twice just to be sure. She flipped through the notes on her tablet. White male, approximately forty. Died of malaria. Modi and Schwartz exchanged looks of confusion. White female, twenty-five — Yellow Fever. She swiped to another page. The others had West Nile Virus, Chikungunya, and several others I couldn’t identify with field tests. As far as I can tell, they all died from different diseases. Virulent strains too. Killed them quickly.

How is that even possible? asked Modi.

Do you think this was a getaway for terminally ill people? added Schwartz. You know, like a Make-A-Wish Foundation outing or something?

And they all happened to die on the same night? said Davenport. No, all of these diseases have a common vector.

What’s that? asked Modi.

Mosquitoes.

Modi took off his sunglasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. You’re saying that these people all died from mosquito bites? From mosquitoes carrying a dozen different diseases? he asked.

That’s what I’m saying.

Sounds like our guy…

I don’t think this is enough to pin it on him, said Davenport. The tools for genetics have exploded in the last three years. There are hundreds of labs around the world who could do it. I know twelve in California, three in Boston, one in Florida, Japan, South Korea, and probably North too. Russia, all of the European countries…

Okay, I get it.

Davenport folded the cover over her tablet. I think we are coming at this from the wrong direction. We need to figure out who these victims are. Find a connection. That’s the only thread we’ve got.

Modi nodded. We’ve been looking into the victims outside of Smiths Ferry and Decatur. So far, nothing, he said. He scanned the line of body bags. Get me IDs on these poor bastards as soon as you can.

What are we going to tell the Sheriff? asked Schwartz.

It was a gas leak, said Modi. He pointed to a propane tank near the cabin at the entrance of the park that was the size of a pickup truck. That tank leaked and these people suffocated. No need for panic.

Think that’ll fool them? asked Schwartz.

We’ll write up an official FBI report and give the Sheriff copies. If it is on our letterhead, they’ll believe anything.

3

Peter Birch knocked on the door of apartment 211, but Mrs. Orr didn’t answer so he pulled out the large ring of keys that hung on his belt, found the key to her apartment and let himself in. Mrs. Orr, a stump of a woman whose brown face was framed by white curly hair and glasses as round as owl’s eyes, was standing in the entry to the kitchen drying her hands on a dish towel.

You think that just because you have keys to everyone’s apartment that you can just waltz in whenever you want? she asked.

I knocked, said Pete. For several minutes, in fact.

I was standing right here the whole time. Don’t you think I would have heard you knocking? But Mrs. Orr was seventy-nine and her ears were even older. She wouldn’t have heard him if he had kicked down the door with steel-toed boots. She waved him inside.

The first thing he noticed was that Mrs. Orr’s apartment didn’t smell like the rest of the building. As the maintenance man, Pete had been in every apartment and though they shared the same layout it was striking how different each one smelled. Mr. Tejeda’s apartment was spare and cold and smelled like Band-Aids and model airplane glue. The Cadena’s were a young couple with a baby and their apartment smelled of baby wipes, bleach and crushed peas. Pete’s own apartment smelled of stale coffee and magic markers. His daughter Sadie hated ballpoint pens and used magic markers on everything from the grocery list to math homework. But every apartment had a faint urine smell that couldn’t be fully masked. It was part of the building’s DNA. The tenants had become nose blind and didn’t notice anymore, but sometimes the smell was mysteriously stronger and it was like living downwind from a homeless man in a cardboard box. Yet somehow, magically, Mrs. Orr’s apartment smelled simply of cough drops and something Pete could only describe as bitterness.

You were supposed to be here yesterday, she said.

Sorry, said Pete. Things are a little backed up.

Mrs. Orr sneered and shook her head. She scrutinized Pete like a TSA agent at the airport on Thanksgiving weekend. He towered over her at six-foot-two. He was forty-seven with a full head of dark hair and just a touch of gray at the temples. He kept fit by running races — marathons in his early thirties, but only half marathons later. His knees were the only part of his body that was failing him as he got older. His chiseled face and blue eyes still got attention from women when he entered a room. It all added up to a man who looked ten years younger than his real age, but he hadn’t laced up his running shoes in three years and the hard living was catching up to him. He had bags under his red, swollen eyes and his pants were getting tighter around the belt line.

You seem sober today, she said. Liquor cabinet empty? Pete held his tongue so she poked at him again. That poor girl of yours deserves a real parent. She is such an angel. Hard to imagine she came from one of your miserable sperm. Even at seventy-nine Mrs. Orr’s wit was as sharp as a fillet knife, but her perception was a little off. Pete was not sober, but he wasn’t stumbling drunk either.

The apartment was identical to his but in reverse. She kept a clean and tidy home. Embroidered pillows covered the pale blue couch and an antique desk stood open by the entry door, bills in one slot, letters in another. The room was freshly painted in ivory, but it was like trying to polish a turd. The building was a low-rent hellhole held together by spackling paste and plumber’s putty. The main residents were cockroaches the size of rats. There was no keeping them out. They owned the building free and clear.

Are they mostly in the kitchen? Pete asked. He held a plastic bag with three roach bombs.

Until after dinner, she said. Then they samba into the family room to watch Jeopardy.

Pete and his daughter moved into this run-down roach hotel when the bank took back their house. When he was sober enough to stand, he helped his neighbors with small repairs. He was a gifted fixer-of-things. When the building repairman was found dead in a dumpster, Pete got the job.

He put his cheek on the floor and looked for droppings. His head spun violently and the nausea hit him like a wave of foul sewage. He needed a drink. His hands were shaking and his head throbbed. He was trying hard to keep it together. This wasn’t exactly a dream job, but it put food on the table. Mrs. Orr was just the type to cause a stink and get him fired.

I suggest you go out for dinner tonight, Pete said. Everything is going to be covered with pesticide. But his slightly-drunk mouth said pastacide instead of pesticide. He stumbled and caught himself on the desk chair.

Where do you suggest I go? said Mrs. Orr. Pete had a suggestion, but he knew it wasn’t wise to kick a bee hive so he kept his cool and suggested the laundromat across the street. Mrs. Orr made a snorting sound, pulled on her thin overcoat and walked out.

Where were the little bastards hiding? He crawled on his hands and knees into the kitchen and shined a flashlight under the refrigerator. The floor was thick with droppings. He opened the upper cabinets then the lower ones and found spices, cereal, canned soup, dishes, pans and rat shit. He lifted up a bag of rice and found that something had nibbled a