Chapter 15 #2
"What did you use from the shipment?" I asked, my mind racing through possibilities. "The blankets, the food—what got distributed first?"
Zohra's brow furrowed as she thought back. "Only the blankets. "Once everyone started falling ill, we needed them." Her eyes met mine, suddenly sharp with understanding. "Why? Jordan, what are you thinking?"
"I don’t know yet,” I shook off her question, my mind still scrambling to piece together a theory. “The packaging," I said, fighting to keep my voice level even as my pulse thundered in my ears. "Do you still have it? The boxes, bags, whatever they came in?"
Zuhra studied my face, and whatever she saw there made her straighten. "We unloaded the boxes so the CDC could spray everything down with disinfectant, but we save everything for reuse. She didn't ask why. She just turned toward the door. "Follow me."
The storage building crouched at the edge of the compound, one of those structures you pass a hundred times without really seeing.
Inside, the air was thick with the earthy scent of root vegetables and cured meat, cut through with the sharp bite of antiseptic.
Zuhra navigated the narrow aisles like she could walk them blindfolded, past shelves sagging under the weight of preserved foods and neatly folded textiles.
"Back here," she said, leading me to a shadowed corner where cardboard had been broken down and stacked against the wall. "Everything from the last few months. That donation was the only one to come in right before..." She didn't finish. She didn't need to.
I dropped to my knees, the concrete floor cold even through my jeans. My hands trembled as I began sorting through the pile. Generic brown shipping boxes. Plastic bags emblazoned with church logos and cheerful slogans about community outreach. Nothing, nothing, nothing—
And then my fingers froze.
White cardboard. Clean edges. A logo stamped in the corner that made my blood run cold.
Franklin Memorial Hospital.
The same crisp white boxes I'd walked past at the nurses' station. The same address label format. The same everything.
I pulled it free from the stack, and the world seemed to tilt sideways.
The memory ambushed me—Mrs. Henderson's AP History class, junior year. I could practically smell the dry erase markers, feel the afternoon sun warming the back of my neck as it slanted through those tall windows.
"Fort Pitt, 1763," Mrs. Henderson had said, advancing her PowerPoint with a click.
"The siege was brutal. But what happened next.
.." She'd paused, making sure we were all paying attention.
"Traders gave blankets and a handkerchief to Lenape and Shawnee representatives.
Gifts, they called them. Acts of goodwill. "
She let that sit for a moment before adding: "The items came from the smallpox hospital."
I remembered the collective intake of breath, the way everyone had sat up straighter.
"The commanding officer wrote about it in his journal," Mrs. Henderson continued. "Used the word 'extirpate.' Anyone know what that means?"
Silence.
"To destroy completely. To eradicate. To wipe from existence."
Jake Morrison had muttered from the back row: "Shit, that's evil."
For once, Mrs. Henderson hadn't told him to watch his language. She'd just nodded slowly and said, "Yes. Yes, it was."
The memory dissolved, snapping me back to the present.
I was still kneeling on the cold storage room floor, that pristine white box cradled in my trembling hands.
Franklin Memorial's cheerful logo smiled up at me—the same hospital where I'd walked those sterile corridors, where I'd watched Darla and her team pack up boxes just like this one.
Nadine's pet project, Darla had called it.
My stomach lurched.
No wonder we couldn't find patient zero.
There was no patient zero. No mysterious traveler who'd brought the disease from outside. No unlucky villager who'd picked it up at a market or clinic somewhere beyond our borders.
Someone had sent it here. Packaged it up in cheerful white boxes with smiling logos. Disguised it as charity, as goodwill, as humanitarian aid. All of it contaminated. All of it weaponized.
History repeating itself, centuries later, with the same calculated cruelty.
My vision blurred at the edges. I thought of everyone who'd gotten sick—the children crying in the night, the families huddled in quarantine. I thought of how quickly it had spread, how it had seemed to appear everywhere at once. Because it had been everywhere at once.
"Zuhra." The word scraped out of my throat like gravel. "I need you to gather everything that came in these boxes. Every blanket, every tin of food. All of it. Right now."
She froze mid-reach, her dark eyes snapping to mine. "What? Jordan, why would—"
"Just do it. Please." I couldn't keep the urgency from bleeding into my voice. "And then lock it somewhere. Somewhere isolated. Somewhere no one can accidentally touch it."
"Jordan, what is wrong?" But even as she asked, she was already moving, her hands flying across the shelves, checking labels with growing alarm.
I set the box down with exaggerated care, as if it contained a live grenade.
My hands wouldn't stop shaking. "I need to make a phone call first. But Zuhra—" I caught her wrist as she reached for a stack of blankets.
"Don't touch anything with your bare hands.
Use gloves. Double up if you have to, and when you're finished, scrub yourself down with disinfectant, hottest water you can stand. "
The color drained from her face like water from a broken vessel. "Oh my ancestors." Her voice dropped to a horrified whisper. "You think—" She couldn't finish, just swallowed hard, her throat working. "You think it has something to do with the disease? With what happened to us?"
I wanted to answer. Wanted to tell her I was wrong, that I was being paranoid, that there had to be another explanation. But the words stuck in my throat like shards of glass.
The look on my face must have told her everything she needed to know.
I found Ruka in our cabin, hunched over his rough-hewn desk with Mahlek, the two of them deep in the thrilling world of weapons management.
Clipboard. Pencil. How many arrows were needed for the upcoming hunt.
The mundane domesticity of it all felt like stepping into a parallel universe after what I'd just uncovered.
"Ruka." The sharpness in my voice sliced through their discussion like a blade. "I need to talk to you. Now. Alone."
His head snapped up. Whatever expression had taken residence on my face made him thrust the clipboard at Mahek without hesitation. He nodded for the massive warrior to leave and Mahek obeyed without question.
The moment the door clicked shut, I was at the basin, scrubbing my hands raw.
Never mind that I'd already doused myself in antibacterial gel after discovering those damned boxes.
My skin burned under the harsh soap, but I couldn't stop.
My heart was doing its best impression of a war drum, and my mind kept circling the same horrifying conclusion, desperately searching for an exit that didn't exist.
Ruka's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. "What is wrong, my mate?"
I gripped the edge of the basin, knuckles white. "The donations from Franklin Memorial. The blankets, the supplies..." Each word felt like pulling teeth. "I think they were contaminated. With smallpox. On purpose."
The silence that followed could have shattered glass.
"Is that possible?" Ruka's voice had gone dangerously quiet. "You said that smallpox was eradicated decades ago."
"From the general population, yes." I started pacing, my body refusing to stay still.
"But the virus itself? Still very much alive.
Two labs in the entire world keep samples—CDC in Atlanta, and one in Russia.
For 'research purposes.'" I made air quotes, bitter sarcasm dripping from every syllable.
"But here's the thing about deadly pathogens locked in high-security freezers—they make excellent weapons if you're the kind of psychopath who thinks genocide is a viable solution to your problems."
Ruka dropped into his chair like a puppet with cut strings. "You think someone tried to harm us on purpose?"
"Harm?" A laugh escaped me, sharp and humorless.
"That's a nice word for it. Sanitized. Let me try again—I think someone attempted premeditated mass murder and wrapped it up in charity boxes with pretty little bows on top.
" My voice cracked, rage and horror fighting for dominance.
"Four people, Ruka. Four innocent lives.
And it wasn't bad luck or divine intervention or some cosmic accident.
Someone sat down and planned this. Someone made this happen. "
"Who?" The word came out like gravel scraping against stone, his eyes transforming into chips of amber ice. Shock was crystallizing into something far more dangerous. "Who would do something like this?"
I stopped pacing long enough to meet his gaze head-on.
"Oh, I think I know exactly who. But knowing and proving are two different animals.
" I pulled out my phone, nearly fumbling it in my still-trembling hands.
"I need to call Sarah. Get Dr. Carter at the CDC involved.
Those blankets need to be tested, and we need to find out—" The implications hit me like a freight train.
"God, Ruka. What if we weren't the only ones?
What if there are other Orc communities out there, opening boxes from Franklin Memorial right now? "
Ruka was on his feet in an instant, his massive frame seeming to fill every inch of available space. "We will take the Hummer."
My phone felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. I clutched it against my chest, looking up at him, and felt the full weight of what we'd uncovered crash down on me.
"We'll have to drive halfway down the mountain again just to get a signal," I said, the practical concern cutting through my rising panic for just a moment.
It was something I'd been meaning to talk to him about anyway—getting a cell tower installed nearby, or at least a couple of satellite phones.
The outbreak had made the isolation feel less like peaceful seclusion and more like dangerous vulnerability.
Every time I'd needed to make a call, coordinate with the CDC, or reach out for help, I'd lost precious minutes bouncing down that mountain road.
It would be first on my to-do list. Right after we caught a murderer.
"Ruka." His name came out fractured, barely holding together.
"What if I'm right? What if someone actually sat in an office somewhere and decided that everyone here should die?
" My mind was spiraling, but I couldn't stop it.
"What if they had meetings about it? Calculated the optimal contamination levels?
" The horror of it was a living thing, clawing its way up my throat.
"What if they packed those boxes knowing—knowing—that children would curl up in those blankets? "
The nausea hit like a sucker punch. My mind conjured images I'd spent weeks trying to forget.
Keena's tiny body wracked with fever, her skin erupting in angry pustules.
The elderly woman from the first wave—Morna—drawing her last rattling breath.
Morg's haunted eyes as she watched her people suffer and die while I'd scrambled uselessly to save them.
Someone had wanted this. Planned it. Orchestrated every horrifying detail.
"What if I'm right?" The words barely escaped, fragile as spider silk.
Ruka moved like lightning given form, closing the space between us before my next heartbeat. His hand rose to cup my face—rough calluses against my cheek, surprisingly gentle for someone so lethal. He tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze.
What I saw there stole what little breath I had left.
His amber eyes blazed with a fury so ancient and absolute it seemed to reach back through generations.
This wasn't anger. This was wrath—primal and patient and utterly implacable.
This wasn't Ruka, the chieftain who ruled with wisdom and patience.
This was an Orc warrior ready to unleash hell on whoever hurt his people.
"If you are right," he said, his voice dropping to something barely above a whisper yet somehow more terrifying for its quietness, "then they have already sealed their fate.
Every person involved will answer for what they have done.
" His thumb traced my cheekbone, the tenderness at odds with the steel in his words.
"I swear on the bones of my ancestors and the blood of our dead—they will answer. To us."
It wasn't a promise. It was prophecy.