Zoo II by James Patterson

snorting, the colts ram us again, head-on, with incredible force, first knocking the Suburban onto its side and then flipping it onto its roof.
    Shattered glass rains down around me as I dangle upside down, pinned, suspended by my seat belt. Beside me, Sarah and Freitas are also hanging—it looks like the impact of the crash has knocked them both out cold.
    I start to get woozy. Images of Chloe and Eli flash through my mind. If I’m dying, I definitely want those two to be my final thoughts.
    My head flops over in the other direction. Through the dusty haze I can make out the yellow hazmat vehicle.
    It’s also been tipped over and is being pummeled just as mercilessly by multiple mustangs, its white-suited passengers as helpless as we are.
    One of the horses manages to bash open the back doors—and the animal suddenly rears up on its hind legs in terror.
    Helen is inside, still strapped to her gurney, but the plastic quarantine tent around her is badly torn, and she’s screaming and baring her teeth at the horse.
    Another mustang notices. Then another, then another. Before long, the colts have regrouped and are charging yet again— away from us.
    The rest of the horses rejoin the fleeing pack and kick up another massive dust cloud in their wake.
    When it finally settles, they’re gone.
    Wrecked vehicles and bloody horse limbs litter the desert ground. Human moaning wafts through the hot air, along with Helen’s feral screams.

Chapter 22
    My sneakers and rubber-tipped cane squeak against the floor as I hobble down this long, sterile hallway. I’m late to one of our frequent all-hands meetings, thanks to a pit stop at the lab’s infirmary to grab a fresh handful of painkillers.
    Over the past forty-eight hours, I’ve been popping those little guys like candy.
    I push open the door of the conference room, which isn’t easy. The stitches in my shoulder are still sore, and my busted knee still aches. Not to mention my three chipped teeth, sprained wrist, and the cuts and bruises over my whole body.
    Seated around the giant marble table, their meeting already in progress, are Freitas, Sarah, Leahy, and most of the other scientists on our team. I say “most” because, between the feral human attack in the jungle and the mustang stampede on the highway, we’ve lost six colleagues in half as many days.
    As I gently, painfully, sink into an empty chair, I have to remind myself how much worse my fate could have been.
    Dr. Marilia Carvalho, a neuroscientist from São Paulo, is showing a series of colorful MRI brain scans on the large display screen. Since we arrived at the Idaho National Laboratory, we’ve been meeting like this often to share our research.
    “But as you can see, while the subject’s neurological structure is still identical to that of a typical human’s, the vast majority of her neurological activity is occurring in the cerebellum, the medulla, and the basal ganglia.”
    “The so-called reptilian brain,” Sarah offers. “An anatomical holdover from our days in the wild.”
    “Precisely. The higher capabilities in Helen’s mind, like emotion and reason, have somehow been switched off. She most likely sees us modern humans as threats because her brain is literally functioning like a Neanderthal’s.”
    “But why?” booms Leahy, jabbing his bulky arm cast in the air for emphasis. “That’s the question Washington is paying you all to find out!”
    “Our working theory is still pheromones, Mr. Leahy,” says Freitas, who has two black eyes and a broken nose covered with a thick beige bandage. “We believe that explains why, as soon as the mustangs ‘smelled’ Helen, they backed off.”
    “But why is it happening to some folks and not others?” Leahy demands. “Why in some places and not others?”
    Those are all fair questions. But I have an even more pressing one.
    “Why hasn’t it shown signs of regressing?” I ask. My colleagues all turn to me quizzically. “And why aren’t any of