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Skip to content Skip to search. Home All editions This edition , English, Book edition: Language English View all editions Prev Next edition 2 of 2. Subjects Bioterrorism -- Prevention -- Fiction. Government investigators -- Fiction. Summary "New York FBI counterterrorism agent Nathan Donovan receives a phone call from an eighty-year-old man named Li who has a story to tell - a story too fantastic to believe but too terrible for Donovan to ignore. They must find the Plague Maker before it's too late - for everyone. View online Borrow Buy Freely available Show 0 more links Related resource Publisher description at http: They have three grown children.
No one's rated or reviewed this product yet. Skip to main content. Soon the sky will explode in cascading showers of silver and gold. Everywhere, faces will turn skyward in wide-eyed wonder. Then the sky will grow dark again—but it will not be empty. The air will be filled with clouds of smoke and specks of debris will rain down everywhere. Some will brush away still-burning sparks or embers. And it would do them just as much good--because outside the plane, he heard the trailing whine of the engines as they began to lose power.
Then the nose tipped forward, and the plane started down. Donovan watched stone-faced as the image before him erupted into motion.
Plague maker / Tim Downs. - Version details - Trove
There were shrieks and sobs and mournful wails, some more animal than human. Long-unsaid prayers were dredged up from childhood memories; complete strangers embraced; mothers clutched at wild-eyed children, combing hair and straightening collars as if they were preparing for school photos and not death. Some wept quietly, some spoke aloud to no one in particular, and some sat in peaceful serenity.
And over the intercom, through tearful sobs, a flight attendant offered insane instructions on how to "prepare for an emergency landing. Donovan looked out the window and measured the angle of their descent against the horizon; they were coming down like a mortar shell. It wouldn't be a landing; it would be a detonation, with six thousand gallons of high-octane jet fuel erupting on impact--half of it vaporizing in a roiling fireball and half of it spewing like napalm over whatever godforsaken neighborhood or trailer park happened to be nearby.
The debris would be spread over half a mile; a week from now a DMORT team would be sifting through the wreckage, searching for bits of bone and tooth, fragments of DNA to offer comfort to grieving families. They'll be mailing us home in envelopes , Donovan thought. That's all that will be left. He listened for the feeble voice on the intercom again and slowly shook his head. You can put your seat back in an upright and locked position, you can put your head between your knees, but you're still going to die.
That's all there is to it; that's how it is. The good people of United flight to Denver were dead, every last one of them, and there was nothing they could do. Then Donovan looked down at his feet. There sat the little red-and-white cooler nestled between his feet, blissfully unaware of its impending destruction. But-- would the crash destroy the cooler utterly and completely? Inside that cooler was a life-form, and like all living things, it would do everything in its power to survive.
He visualized the crash again: The virus was a living thing, yes, but it was a living thing sealed in an airtight container, packed in dry ice, cradled in thick foam, shielded by plastic armor. Was the cooler fireproof, he wondered? Would it disintegrate on impact? Would the plastic crumble, the dry ice vaporize, and the canister rip apart like a tin can in a campfire?
Or would the plastic casing only fracture? Would it bounce and roll and ricochet, but still survive the impact? Or would the blast throw the cooler free of the plane? Would the cooler be the handbag this time? Would it crack, and split apart, and dump its living contents onto the surrounding debris? And when the DMORT team worked its way through the wreckage, would some hapless deputy coroner lift the empty canister and peer inside? Would he casually toss it aside, then wipe the sweat from his forehead or rub the smoke from his eyes?
And when he went home that night, would he kiss his wife? Would he hug the kids? Would he pat the dog and shake hands with a neighbor? Donovan looked around the plane. It was a ghost ship, filled with specters already beginning to fade away. They were already beginning to grow quiet, already acquiescing to their inevitable doom. They were already dead, every one of them. There were maybe two hundred on the plane--but on the ground, there were millions.
Donovan looked out the window. He had about a minute, no more. He jerked the cooler up onto his lap and began to tear away the long gray strips of tape.
When he opened the lid, a silent mist poured over the sides and down onto his legs. From the center of the ice he slid a tall silver canister and began to tug at its lid.
- Da dove viene il vento (I coralli) (Italian Edition);
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It opened with a dull pop. He held his breath and peered down into the black interior. Then he turned to his right and dumped the gelatinous blob in the center of the aisle. The mass seemed to hesitate for a moment, then dissipate into the carpet.
It seemed to spread and grow, putting out feelers like a vine, reaching out just like the rest of the passengers for someone, something, to hold on to. But it didn't matter--it was unprotected now, and it had no more chance of surviving than they did.
Plague Maker
The thought crossed Donovan's mind for the first time. He took a deep breath and leaned back in his seat. He had never been afraid of anything in his life, and he was not about to start now. He closed his eyes and put death out of his mind.
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He'd never feel it anyway. Then, from outside the window, he heard the rising drone of the engines, followed by a heavy, sinking tug in his gut. Everywhere around him people gasped and stiffened, anticipating the impact--but the impact never came. Instead, the nose of the plane began to turn upward.