Free The Liger Plague (Book 1) by Joseph Souza Page A

He cut across the northern tip and made his way to the eastern shore, where the harbor provided much better protection for all the boats docked there. He took a hard left onto Cooke’s Way and parked at the end of the street. Then he ran down toward one of the small docks fronting the magnificent waterfront homes facing toward Portland. Two power boats bobbed on either side of the dock. Concealed by the darkness, he knelt down next to the first powerboat and, using the battery-operated power tool, he drilled a series of holes into the fiberglass hull just below the waterline. He did the same to the powerboat docked on the other side. Satisfied that he’d disabled both crafts, he hopped back in his golf cart and sped off. Looking over his shoulder, he saw them start to submerge into the bay.
    He managed to drill holes in all the boats docked along the eastern waterfront, insuring that none of the residents would be able to make their way over to the mainland. The closer he got to Cooke’s Landing, the more shadows he saw loitering around the ferry terminal. Hundreds of people had camped out there for the night, hoping that a ferry or rescue ship might pick them up and return them back to Portland. On the hill high above, he saw streetlights glowing on Main Street. Sparks and ash flew up into the night, a result of the still-blazing church fire. He knew full well that the explosion had not been caused by a gas leak. Someone had rigged that church, and it was only by a stroke of good luck that no one had died or gotten seriously injured when it went up in flames.
    He stopped the golf cart roughly a hundred yards from the ferry terminal. It would be risky to try to make it through that desperate throng without getting mobbed. They would block his path and possibly become violent, begging for food, information and assistance. It wasn’t their fault. Desperate people did desperate things, especially if they had no lodging, food or information about the crisis facing them. Rather than try to motor past the crowd, he took a left on Cod Lane and swerved through the labyrinth of winding backstreets. Stragglers wandered along the streets, calling out to him as he passed, begging for help. He wished he could be of some assistance to these poor souls, but for now he had to insure that the island remained shut off from the mainland, meaning that he had to disable every boat, raft or jet ski he could find. Breaking the quarantine was not an option, and he had to do everything in his power to prevent the organism from escaping into the general population.
    Pedestrians tried to block his path, but he swerved easily past them, not bothering to answer the myriad of questions they shouted out to him. He managed to make his way around to the south-east part of the island, where the largest marina on the island was located. Dozens of power craft were moored on the southern tip of Cooke’s, and a small group of people were walking toward the dock. Were they trying to escape? He sped toward them, and as soon as they heard the high-pitched whine of his golf cart, they turned and looked at him. Tag recognized the tall man with the shoulder-length hair and horn-rimmed glasses. It was Dr. David Goldstein, one of the most respected brain surgeons in the country and the owner of the Cera Bellum , the forty-two-foot cabin cruiser docked at Cooke’s Marina. Goldstein’s six-thousand-square-foot summer home sat atop the island and had the best views of any other home.
    Tag had been invited to a few parties at Goldstein’s house in the past few years but got the sense that the surgeon looked down on him for being a lowly army doctor, having never actually checked out his military credentials. Goldstein’s home was spectacular, and Tag always marveled at both the amazing ocean views and the grandiosity of its architectural design, which had been featured in more than a few home and garden magazines.
    He pulled up to the group and could tell right off