Year One Read Free Page A

and backslaps with his brother, a squeeze and kiss on the cheek with Angie. “See you next week.”
    â€œKeep me up on the Colridge account,” Ross told him.
    â€œWill do. Short flight to London. If there’s anything you need to know, you’ll have it when you land in New York. Get some rest on the plane. You’re still pretty pale.”
    â€œYou look a little off yourself.”
    â€œI’ll perk up,” Rob told him and, gripping his briefcase with one hand, gave his twin a quick salute with the other. “On the flip side, bro.”
    Rob and Jayne MacLeod carried the virus to London. On the way, they passed it to passengers bound for Paris, Rome, Frankfurt, Dublin, and beyond. In Heathrow, what would come to be known as the Doom spread to passengers bound for Tokyo and Hong Kong, for Los Angeles, D.C., and Moscow.
    The driver who shuttled them to their hotel, a father of four, took it home and doomed his entire family over dinner.
    The desk clerk at the Dorchester cheerfully checked them in. She felt cheerful. After all, she was leaving in the morning for a full week’s holiday in Bimini.
    She took the Doom with her.
    That evening, over drinks and dinner with their son and daughter-in-law, their nephew and his wife, they spread death to more of the family, added it with a generous tip to the waiter.
    That night, ascribing his sore throat, fatigue, and queasy stomach to a bug he’d caught from his brother—and he wasn’t wrong—Rob took some NyQuil to help him sleep it off.
    *   *   *
    On the flight across the Atlantic, Ross tried to settle into a book but couldn’t concentrate. He switched to music, hoping to lull himself to sleep. Beside him, Angie kicked back with a movie, a romantic comedy as light and frothy as the champagne in her glass.
    Halfway across the ocean he woke with a violent coughing fit that had Angie shooting up to pat his back.
    â€œI’ll get you some water,” she began, but he shook his head, holding up a hand.
    He fumbled to get his seat belt off, rose to hurry to the bathroom. His hands braced on the basin, he coughed up thick yellow phlegm that seemed to burn straight out of his laboring lungs. Even as he tried to catch his breath, the coughing struck again.
    He had a ridiculous flash of Ferris Bueller speculating about coughing up a lung as he hocked up more phlegm, vomited weakly.
    Then a sharp, stabbing cramp barely gave him enough time to drag down his pants. Now he felt as if he shat out his intestines while sweat popped hot on his face. Dizzy with it, he pressed one hand to the wall, closed his eyes as his body brutally emptied out.
    When the cramping eased, the dizziness passed, he could have wept with relief. Exhausted, he cleaned himself up, rinsed his mouth with the mouthwash provided, splashed cool water on his face. And felt better.
    He studied his face in the mirror, admitted he remained a little hollow-eyed, but thought he looked a bit better as well. He decided he’d expelled whatever ugly bug had crawled inside him.
    When he stepped out, the senior flight attendant cast him a concerned look. “Are you all right, Mr. MacLeod?”
    â€œI think so.” Mildly embarrassed, he covered with a wink and a joke. “Too much haggis.”
    She laughed obligingly, unaware she’d be just as violently ill in less than seventy-two hours.
    He walked back to Angie, eased by her to the window seat.
    â€œAre you okay, baby?”
    â€œYeah, yeah. I think so now.”
    After a critical study, she rubbed a hand over his. “Your color’s better. How about some tea?”
    â€œMaybe. Yeah.”
    He sipped tea, found his appetite stirred enough to try a little of the chicken and rice that was on the menu. An hour before landing, he had another bout of coughing, vomiting, and diarrhea, but judged it milder than before.
    He leaned on Angie to get him through customs, passport security,