Fall of Night

by Jonathan Maberry

  Moonshiner said, “Sorry, boss…”

  “No,” said Sam, “it’s cool. None of you have ever been in this kind of fight before. There are no rules except the ones we make. So let’s make rules we can live with when we’re done.”

  “Yeah, I’m down with that,” agreed Moonshiner.

  Gypsy, however, cocked her head and appraised Sam. “Boss … you said that none of us have ever been in this kind of fight. Have you? I mean, I thought this was all new shit.”

  Sam gave her a weary smile. “The team I used to run with dealt with something a lot like this. Different pathogen, but similar effect.”

  “Zombies?”

  “Close enough for government work,” said Sam.

  “What happened?”

  Sam adjusted the fittings on his HAMMER Suit. “Bad things.”

  They climbed back into their Hummer. No one spoke at all for nearly a mile.

  Shortstop finally broke the silence. “Boss, they’ve got jammers running, right?”

  “Yes. Nothing’s getting through except one channel reserved for the Guard.”

  “What about us?” Shortstop tapped the small earbud he wore. “What about the team channel?”

  Sam jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “We have a booster in the back, tuned to provide a dedicated channel for this mission. Good news is that we’ll have a clear signal. Bad news is that the effective range is about one mile.”

  “That kind of blows,” said Moonshiner.

  “Yes, it does,” said Sam. “So consider it an intimate conversation between friends.”

  “Makes me all tingly,” muttered Gypsy.

  Then Boxer tapped the steering wheel to get their attention and pointed to something at the extreme range of the headlights. “We got movement, boss.”

  Imura saw it. A pale shape, vague and indistinct more than a hundred yards away. “Get off the road.”

  Boxer killed the lights and pulled off the road, climbing the verge into a field. A tractor sat cold and quiet in the rain, and beside it was a huge flatbed piled high with harvested vegetables. The humid air was thick with the smell of onions and dirt.

  Gypsy leaned between the seat backs and handed a pair of night vision goggles to Imura. He put them on and adjusted the settings, then opened the top hatch of the Humvee and leaned on the big machine gun to steady his line of sight. There were no streetlights this far into farm country, and the sky was utterly black. Then, as he turned on the night vision goggles, the landscape was transformed into a thousand shades of sickly green and ghostly gray.

  Because of the new position of the Humvee it took almost a full minute before the thing that Boxer saw came into sight.

  “Looks like a group of people. Three of them. Just them. Don’t see anyone else.” He didn’t whisper because the sibilant “S” sounds carried, and instead he spoke quietly. “Civilians. Two men and a kid.”

  “Are they infected?” asked Boxer.

  Sam slid back down into his seat, pulling the hatch closed. “Can’t tell.”

  Moonshiner pulled on a second pair of goggles. “Let me go take a closer look.”

  “Roger that. Gypsy, go with him.”

  They opened the doors and got out. The dome light of the Humvee had been disabled. Gypsy put on her night vision goggles, then drew small arms and began moving down toward the side of the road. It is impossible to move with total silence through ankle-deep mud; however, the sound of the rain masked most of the noise. Moving without haste hid the rest. Moonshiner was on point with Gypsy behind and to his right, mindful to keep him out of her line of fire.

  The three figures were a hundred yards away. Both men were dressed in work clothes that were pasted to their bodies by rainwater. The child wore jeans but no shirt. No one carried an umbrella. No one seemed to give much of a damn about the cold rain.

  “Uh oh,” said Gypsy very softly.

  An old slatted wooden fence ran along part of the road and angled up to create a property line with the next farm. Moonshiner angled that way and he and Gypsy squatted down by the corner post. While Moonshiner kept his pistol aimed at the three figures, Gypsy tapped her earbud.

  “You seeing this, Ronin?”

  Ronin—Sam Imura—said, “Rain’s too heavy. What are you seeing?”

  She told him. “You want us to let them pass or take them down?”

  “Hold your position,” he said. “I’m coming out.”

  A few seconds later the rest of the team converged on the corner post.

  The lead figure was the oldest. Maybe forty-five. A tall man with a black beard.

  “See any bites?” asked Boxer.

  “Negative,” said Moonshiner.

  “We can front them to make sure,” said Shortstop. “See if they’re responsive to verbal commands.”

  “Let’s try it,” said Sam. He stood up and began walking slowly toward the road, his pistol down at his side. Shortstop followed in his wake. The others fanned out to cover the road from several points.

  Come on, thought Sam, happy ending here.

  Sam stepped into plain view. “U.S. Army,” he announced in a clear voice. “We’re here to help, however I need you to stop right there. Raise your hands and allow us to check you for signs of infection.”

  At first it seemed that the three figures would walk past him without taking note of him. But then Sam realized that with the heavy rain they may not have heard him. He tried it again, repeating what he’d said.

  Be cool, now, he thought. Let’s everyone be cool and be friends.

  The bearded man peered at him for a moment, his eyes dark in a pale face. Then he smiled at Sam, showing big white bucked teeth.

  Only it wasn’t a smile.

  “Sir,” said Sam with flagging optimism, “I need you to—”

  And those teeth parted as the lips curled back from them. With a howl of aching hunger the man came rushing at Sam Imura, pale hands reaching, pale teeth snapping at the air. Behind him the younger man and the boy immediately rushed after him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  STEBBINS LITTLE SCHOOL

  STEBBINS, PENNSYLVANIA

  Dez tagged six adults to stay with the kids and stand watch and ordered everyone else down to the gymnasium. Not asked, ordered.

  Trout knew the six she picked—middle-aged farm owners. Fathers and mothers. The kind of steady people that you could count on.

  Everyone went. Even Gerry, the dazed man who had been singing to the little girl. One of the women in the group held his hand, though Trout didn’t recognize her. It was a comfort gesture, he supposed; nothing even remotely romantic in it. Human contact.

  The stick-thin principal, Mrs. Madison, walked with Dez with Trout following behind. They were the two most powerful women left in Stebbins and they were as different as two people could possibly get. Mrs. Madison was tiny, older, highly educated, very cultured and mannered, and the exact opposite of what Trout would consider a “physical” person. He couldn’t even imagine her going to the bathroom.

  Dez, on the other hand, was raw and powerful in a way that was entirely different from male power. She was never mannish, and could even be feminine—or so Trout remembered with an aching fondness—but she was neither delicate nor mannered. If anyone had the sheer lack of personal survival skills to suggest that Dez was a member of a “weaker sex,” Trout knew that what was left of that sorry individual would regret the ill-chosen and archaic sentiment for what remained of his life. Dez was a boozy redneck country girl who would be equally at home in a Mississippi trucker bar or a Kentucky holler. She exuded a feral power in exactly the same way the big hunting cats do. Quick to anger, glacially slow to forgive. And yet, Trout loved her and respected her even though at times he felt like they were from entirely different branches of the evolutionary tree.

  When everyone was downstairs, the group formed a loose circle around Dez and Mrs. Madison. Trout did a quick head count. One hundred and eight-two, plus the two upstairs. More women than me
n by a two-to-one ratio.

  Mrs. Madison took point and raised her hand for silence. Trout remembered her doing it the exact same way when she was his fourth-grade teacher. So, apparently, did most of the people here. An uneasy, expectant silence fell over the group.

  “Thank you,” said the principal. “Officer Fox would like to say a few things. She and I have already discussed these matters and we are of a mind. I believe that what she has to say and the things she will suggest are what’s best for everyone concerned. Officer Fox?”

  Mrs. Madison stepped aside and turned to face Dez, and Trout recognized it as a tactic used by speakers who are practiced at validating another speaker through their own visible attention. It worked, too, because Trout saw the focus of the entire crowd zero in on Dez. He suppressed a smile, appreciating the way that was handled.

  Dez, however, was no public speaker. She glared at the crowd with open suspicion and hostility, and Trout prayed she wasn’t going to use more threats and bullying to get things done.

  She surprised him, however.

  “Okay, listen up,” she said in a neutral tone, “here’s the situation as we know it. We finished our sweep of the building and there’s no one else left inside who has any bites or any sign of infection.”

  The crowd nodded. They’d all been part of that search. Even so, it was good to hear it said.

  “We have to face some realities here,” Dez continued. “First, we have to stay inside the building. The National Guard made that clear and I don’t think they’re going to cut us any slack. So, for all intents and purposes we’re stuck on an island in the middle of the ocean. The good news is that we have our own generator and enough fuel for five days. Because this is the town’s emergency shelter, we have blankets, flashlights, batteries, first-aid kits, water, and a lot of food. Enough for maybe a week with the number of people we have. When we get low, the Guard says they’ll drop more on the roof. So we’re good for now, and this thing will all be over by then.”

  “Over?” asked Jenny DeGroot, one of the teachers. That one word was heavy with meaning and implications.

  “You know what I mean, Jenny,” said Dez. “They’ll get us out of here and then we can all…” She paused, fishing for the way to say it. “So we can all take care of what needs to be taken care of.”

  Most of them said nothing and just looked at her; a few—the ones Trout thought were the steadiest among them—nodded. Grief was tomorrow’s problem. Today’s agenda was all about survival.

  “Now, the first thing we really need to talk about,” said Dez, her mouth, eyes, and voice hardened, “is rationing. We are going to share everything. I’m going to put a few people in charge of inventory, someone else will be in charge of allotment, and some others will take care of cooking and food prep. No one else touches any food unless it’s on their own plate. No one hoards anything. Not food, not anything. If the supplies do get low, then the kids eat first and we eat second. Does anyone have a problem with that?”

  Trout scanned the crowd. If anyone had a problem with it, no one said so. He even thought he saw some relief on their faces, and Trout could understand that. A plan was evidence of structure, and structure was stability. It was something they could react to.

  “Good,” she said. “Next is the generator. The town’s power is out, so the generator is all we have. I don’t want to use it anymore than we have to. If we turn it off during the day we can stretch it out for longer than a week if we have to. That means that we eat the stuff in the cafeteria freezers first. After that it’s Spam and canned beans, unless they drop us some McRib sandwiches.”

  That got a few small smiles. It was a dent, and Trout was relieved to see Dez attempting humor. It meant that she was on sounder emotional ground herself.

  “Now we come to the real issue,” continued Dez. “Security. We need to secure this building. If the Guard is wrong and there are more of those—things—out there, then we need to make sure they don’t get inside. Partly because we don’t want to turn this place into a Denny’s for dead motherfuckers.”

  No one laughed at what was an intensely lame joke. Dez colored a little but plunged on.

  “And if the Guard think that our security has been compromised then they’re going to finish what they started.”

  She cut an inquiring look at Trout, who mouthed the words, Go for it.

  “And there’s more,” said Dez gravely. “We all know that the military wants to sterilize all of Stebbins, which means wiping out everyone and everything. Right now the only thing stopping them is the broadcasts Billy made. That … and one other thing. They think Billy has some information that might help them fight this disease or whatever it is.”

  The people turned to Trout, and many of them moved back from him like he was infected.

  “Does he?” asked Mrs. Madison.

  “No,” said Trout, and he briefly explained about Volker, the flash drives, and Goat.

  “As long as they think he has the stuff, we’re probably safe,” said Dez. “But there’s also a chance they could kick down the doors and come in here to take it.”

  A murmur of dismay rippled through the crowd.

  “Wouldn’t they leave us alone if they thought we didn’t have it?” asked Jenny. “Wasn’t that the deal? We stay in here and they leave us alone?”

  “That was the deal,” said Dez. “Sure. But right now I’m not feeling too filled with the spirit of trust and belief.”

  One of the farmers asked, “So what do we do? Looks like we’re in deep cow shit no matter how this thing goes.”

  Dez nodded. “We do the only thing we can do. We fortify this place and do whatever it takes to protect the children, and everyone else in this building. It’s as simple as that.”

  “That’s all well and good,” said Jenny, “but nailing boards over the windows isn’t going to stop those helicopters.”

  “I don’t think they’ll use the helicopters again.”

  “Why not? We can’t fight them.”

  “No,” Dez agreed, “but if they use heavy weapons then they can’t guarantee they won’t kill Billy and destroy those flash drives.” She shook her head. “If they come in here, it’s going to be with regular men and guns, and we can stop them.”

  The farmer looked uncomfortable with that. “I don’t want to get into a firefight with our own troops.”

  “Neither do I,” said Dez. “You think I’m nuts? I’m not saying we start a war, but we have to be ready to defend this building if they try something. I mean … what choice do we really have?”

  No one had a good answer to that. Trout wanted to punch a wall because the situation was so frustrating and awkward. Nothing was a clear choice. Nothing really made sense to him. All trust in the system was gone.

  One of the parents cleared his throat. “Okay, so … um, how do we do that? Secure the place, I mean? Do we, like, barricade the doors and stuff?”

  Daz managed an encouraging smile.

  “That’s a start,” she said.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  TOWN OF STEBBINS

  ONE MILE INSIDE THE Q-ZONE

  The three infected left the road and came splashing and slogging through the mud toward Sam Imura. Each of them ran differently. The boy’s gait was erratic, like a stroke victim trying to run. The younger man barely shuffled along, his limbs stiff and awkward. But the older man ran with an almost normal gait. Fast and with clear determination.

  “Ahh, shit,” said Boxer’s voice in Sam’s earbud.

  “Boss?” asked Moonshiner.

  “I got this,” said Sam, and he could hear the sadness in his own voice. He raised his pistol and sighted along the black length of the Trinity sound suppressor. He slipped his finger inside the trigger guard and squeezed.

  A black dot appeared an inch above the right eyebrow of the bearded man, and his head snapped back. Sam used a .22 automatic. The bullet punched in through the front of the skull but it lacked the force for a through-and-through. Instead
the lead bounced around inside the man’s skull and destroyed the brain. The efficient mechanics of the infected man’s gait were destroyed in a microsecond. His legs and arms stopped pumping and instead they flopped uselessly, like a puppet whose strings had all been cut. He fell badly, landed on his face, and did not move.

  The younger man was three paces behind him and only with the third of those running steps did he try to move around the obstacle. As if it took that long for whatever drove its brain to identify the obstruction and attempt a course correction. It was too little and too late, and his foot struck the dead man’s outflung leg. The younger man pitched forward, hit hard, and slid five feet through the mud.

  Sam Imura ignored him for a moment and watched the boy. He was maybe eleven or twelve. A good-looking kid in a hayseed kind of way. Probably would have been a farmer when he grew up. Probably liked sports and girls and his folks. Probably a pretty good kid.

  Sam shot him.

  The boy fell and stopped being anything. Not a boy, not a monster. He was meat that would cool in the relentless rain.

  Something ignited in Sam’s chest. He’d been in firefights before with other kinds of infected. He’d had to pull the trigger on what the military shrinks called a mercy killing and what his commanding officers filed away as a righteous shoot. However Sam knew full well that when any sane person pulls a trigger on a child—even an infected one—there was no mercy in the action. And it was in no way righteous. It was an act that made him feel complicit in a process of deception and abuse that was as old as warfare. Once, when a fellow operative made a crude joke about such kills as “collateral damage,” Sam took him outside and attempted to beat some conscience into the sonofabitch. The lesson hadn’t worked, it didn’t change the asshole and it hadn’t made Sam feel any better. Though it felt good at the time.

  His shrink had a field day with that.

  Now, standing in the rain and watching the boy fall, Sam thought about the pathogen. Lucifer 113. Named for a fallen angel.

  He wondered how far he was falling. How far he had yet to fall.

  The third infected was struggling to his knees. Sam almost shot him.