Valhalla Virus by Nick Harrow (best management books of all time TXT) 📕

“Good,” Gunnar said, then coughed again. “What a mess. Any idea what the hell caused everyone to go insane?”

“Vegas shit,” Bridget said with a disgusted shake of her head. “Full moon? Bad crab legs at the buffet? Who knows?”

Ray winced at their confusion. Telling them the truth wouldn’t soothe their nerves, and her agreement with DHS was to keep her mouth shut about the virus.

Though she doubted that mattered anymore. Twenty-four hours ago, the information she’d stolen from YmirRe’s database would have been invaluable. Now it was useless. The barn door wasn’t just open—the horse had blasted out and trampled the farmer’s entire family into bloody mud. Ray blinked hard and pushed her worries down deep. She had to hold it together long enough to get them all out of danger. She could break down later, preferably with Gunnar’s arms wrapped around her.

Rayleigh still couldn’t believe how Gunnar had slipped out of her life. She’d tried to keep him on the straight and narrow, but the boy seemed destined to be an outlaw. There’d been far too many sleepless nights trying to find some path back to Gunnar that wouldn’t torpedo her career.

If only he’d come to her instead of running off. Her career was important, sure. But so was her relationship with Gunnar. They could have put their heads together, figured something out. And even if there’d been no other way, she’d deserved to make that choice herself. It was good to have him back, even if the world was going crazy, but she couldn’t help but be irked that he’d taken the decision out of her hands all those years ago.

Knowing what she knew now, she wondered if her job had even been worth saving. Maybe she should have gone on the road with Gunnar. They made an amazing team.

“Hook a right out of the parking garage,” Gunnar said, his gravelly voice pulling Rayleigh back to the present. “Drive north until I give you more directions.”

“Sure,” Ray said. “How are you holding up?”

Gunnar’s face looked washed out under his short-cropped golden hair and five-o’clock shadow. His cheeks were sunken and dotted with red, and his glassy eyes drifted closed of their own accord. Ray was positive he was running a fever, and that scared the hell out of her. It was the virus’s first calling card, a flushed little fuck you before it really got to work.

“I’m all right,” he insisted, blinking at the tiny screen of the burner phone clutched in his left hand. The thing looked comically small in his grip. “Keep driving. I’ve gotta make a call.”

Ray clung to the wheel as the Accord burst out of the garage onto Frank Sinatra Drive. The old car’s crappy shocks squealed, and it bottomed out in a spray of sparks. The stink of burning oil became much more intense, and a gust of black smoke unfurled from beneath the hood. Ray kept her foot on the gas, ignoring the engine’s groans of protest and leaving a greasy slick behind the car. She wanted to get as far away from Caesar’s Palace, and the Strip, as possible before the junker gave up the ghost.

Because what she saw in the rearview mirror was beyond her worst nightmares. As much as she didn’t want to believe it, YmirRe had unleashed the Valhalla Virus on the city. Fifty percent of those exposed to it would go through twelve hours of violent rage before the fever burst their brains like burnt-out lightbulbs. The rampage of the infected would, conservatively, take out another thirty percent of those in the area. Ray hadn’t believed such a ridiculous death toll was even possible.

She believed it now.

Ray glanced at Gunnar and prayed he’d beat the odds. Because if the giant of a man next to her went crazy inside the cramped Accord, she and Bridget were dead. The rage defied reason. The infected couldn’t tell friend from foe. They didn’t care whose blood they spilled, as long as the red stuff kept on gushing.

“Thanks for getting us out of there,” the white-haired woman from the back said. “I don’t live far from here. If you could take me to my place, I’d really appreciate it.”

“We’re going to a safe place,” Gunnar croaked. His voice was so raw it gave Ray sympathy pains. “It’s too dangerous to drive all over the city until we know more about what’s going on. I just need to make a call.”

Ray met Bridget’s eyes in the rearview mirror. She offered her a warm smile and hoped the platinum blonde would understand she was in good hands.

Even though Ray was still miffed about the choice Gunnar had made for them both, she knew he wouldn’t let anyone hurt her.

Gunnar reached over and squeezed Rayleigh’s thigh. The firm grip of his calloused fingers against her smooth skin comforted her. With this guy on her side, Ray knew she’d be all right. She shivered just thinking about their time together. The memory of his arms around her, holding her tight, his big hands clutching her, a drowning man hanging onto a life preserver. The way he’d filled her, his long, thick—

“Mimi?” Gunnar’s hoarse voice dragged Rayleigh’s attention back to the here and now. He was getting worse by the minute. She had to get off the road, tell him what was coming before it was too late. “I need a place to crash. I know. No. Listen—”

Angry squawks drove Gunnar’s ear away from the phone. He held the handset at a distance and let whoever he’d called rant into the Accord’s stinking interior. When the angry shouts subsided, he returned the phone to the side of his face and continued. “I won’t be there long. Shit’s gone off the rails out here. Do me a favor here.”

After a few moments of silence, Gunnar nodded. “I understand,” he said, his voice a choked rasp. “Thanks, Mimi.”

“Everybody hang tight,” Gunnar said, his hand still on Ray’s thigh. “Take a right on Sammy Davis, and another