Fall of Night

by Jonathan Maberry

  The president nodded. “If there’s more, Doctor, let’s hear it.”

  “The central element of the entire Lucifer program was the transgenically rebuilt green jewel wasp, a parasite that normally targets cockroaches. The wasp’s venom blocks the neurotransmitter octopamine in the target, and from that point on, all movements of the host are controlled by the imperative biological needs of the wasp. Those needs are, of course, reproduction. With the combination of the toxoplasma, the wasp, and the flukes, the host has essentially become an organic robot whose sole operational software requires that it attack, bite, feed, and then seek other prey.”

  The president looked sick, but his mouth was a hard, flat line. “About the feeding,” he said, his voice thicker than it had been, “field reports indicate that the infected stop feeding on their victims after a while. Why don’t they consume the entire body?”

  “They can’t and won’t,” said Price. “That’s a design requirement. If the infected lingered to consume their victims, there would be no new vectors, and it would stall the overall rate of infection. Mind you, they do need to feed, but only for the raw protein to feed the parasites as they spread throughout the bloodstream and infuse the mucus membranes. The hyperaccelerated life cycle of the parasites expends a great deal of energy. They need fresh protein to make more larva so that every single drop of saliva is crammed with millions of eggs ready to hatch. But of equal importance to the infected is the need to spread the disease. That far outweighs their need to continue feeding.”

  McReady spoke aloud for the first time. “If I may, Mr. President? Dr. Price,” she said, “what triggers the host to stop feeding on their victims? What’s the biological off switch? We’re hoping that there may be something there we can use as a prophylactic measure.”

  Price shook his head in grudging approval of the question. “It’s partly a reaction to nerve conduction but it’s mostly triggered by blood pressure. The normal intensity of blood pressure sparks aggression and appetite, but as it diminishes through injury and subsequent blood loss, it sends a signal to the parasite that the target is no longer a viable food source. That’s the off switch, Dr. McReady, and God only knows how long it took the Soviet’s to crack that, especially with the crudity of genetics during the Cold War.”

  “Doctor, when you’re done congratulating madmen,” the president said drily, “perhaps you can tell us about what your team has developed as a countermeasure. Can we kill the parasites?”

  Price cleared his throat. “We, um, were never able to actually kill the parasites, Mr. President. Not the way you mean, not with a vaccine or anything of that nature. Not in an active vector. By the time the victim has become a host the parasites have spread throughout his body; however, this corresponds to a dramatic drop in circulation. The host is very nearly dead in clinical terms, with minimal brain function, respiration, circulation, and nerve conduction in play—just enough to allow it to continue acting as an aggressive vector. The Soviets did their work very well, however, and they designed it so that there was not enough circulation in play to transmit any kind of parasite-specific toxin throughout the host. Only destruction of the host stops it, and by that I mean either isolation long enough for the larvae to die off—say five, six weeks—or, more practically, incineration of all infected tissues.”

  The president closed his eyes for a moment. “Dear God,” he murmured.

  However, McReady said, “Wait a minute, Doctor,” she snapped. “You said that you were working on a countermeasure. Short of headshots, did you actually come up with anything?”

  “We … um…” hedged Price. Then he took a breath and said it. “We found that the only possible or practical response was along the lines of fighting fire with fire.”

  “Which means what?” growled the president.

  “We created a different parasite,” he said. “One that is genetically designed to attack and consume the larva of the green jewel wasp. We’re in the earliest stages of testing it. But … I think it might work.”

  The president suddenly looked at something off screen and Price heard someone that he couldn’t see say something. Price couldn’t hear most of the words, but he saw the way in which those words affected the president. Anger and concern were replaced by shock and then a twisted mask of what appeared to Price to be absolute horror. The same horror was mirrored on the faces of Blair and McReady.

  “Oh my God…” breathed McReady as she covered her mouth with her hands.

  Panic flared in the eyes of Scott Blair.

  The two words Price did hear hit him like punches to the face.

  “… quarantine failed…”

  If he heard more, his mind was momentarily unable to process it.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  STEBBINS LITTLE SCHOOL

  STEBBINS, PENNSYLVANIA

  Dez and Billy sat on opposite sides of a teacher’s desk in an empty room. Dez had swept all of the items from the desk and had covered it with rifles, handguns, and boxes of shells.

  “This is what we have,” she said. “Not counting the pieces I gave to Piper and a few of the others. Three rifles with fifty rounds each. Two shotguns, but only forty-four shells left. Three Glocks and nine magazines, all full, and this piece of shit thirty-eight.” She nudged a Ruger LCR revolver. “I don’t know why I even brought it. But there’s a box of hollow-points for it, so it’s not entirely like giving a blow job.”

  Trout smiled thinly. “Didn’t Sirhan Sirhan kill Bobby Kennedy with a twenty-two?”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Thirty-eight’s a bigger gun.”

  “It’s not the caliber that matters, Billy. It has a five-round cylinder.” She patted the Glock 22 Gen4 holstered at her hip. “Extended magazine with seventeen rounds. Which would you rather have if the shit comes down again?”

  “I can’t hit a barn with a baseball, Dez, so I’m not sure it would matter.”

  Dez leaned across the desk and pushed one of the shotguns toward him. “It’s Korean, but don’t hold that against it. Daewoo USAS-12. Gas operated with selective fire. Very nice in close-combat situations, which is pretty much the definition of life as we know it. I have a ten-round detachable box magazine or a twenty-round drum magazine, take your pick. Fires twelve-gauge.”

  He hefted it and winced. “Shit, this thing is heavy.”

  “Thirteen pounds fully loaded,” she said. “Don’t be a pussy.”

  “I have a bad back.”

  “Really? I thought maybe you had menstrual cramps.”

  “Dez…”

  She grinned at him, and it was the first time he’d seen an unguarded smile on her face in a long time. “I’m just messing with you.”

  He grinned back.

  Dez picked up a pistol that didn’t look like it could fire anything. There was no barrel.

  “What’s that, a Taser?”

  “Close. Nova SP-5. Five-shot stun gun.”

  “Bulky.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed and she affixed the holster to her belt.

  “What’s the point? I thought only headshots bring them down.”

  Dez snorted. “How many human assholes have we dealt with so far?” she asked. “Much as I’d love to pop a cap in some of them—and the name General Zetter comes to mind—I don’t think that would go over well.”

  “And you think Tasing him would?”

  “They don’t execute you for making a dickhead general piss his pants.”

  Outside the storm battered at the building. Dez walked over to one of the windows and looked down at the parking lot. On one side of the lot the National Guard had set up their camp, and there were all kinds of vehicles and portable structures down there, all of it turned gray by the rain. However, at the other end of the lot were big yellow school buses. Lots of them. Some from Stebbins and at least twice as many from surrounding regions. Buses that had brought the kids here to the emergency shelter.

  Trout joined her and looked out.

&nb
sp; Some of the buses had burned. Others were wrecks, torn apart by gunfire. The dead had attacked while the kids were being off-loaded. Thousands had died, but there were fewer than a hundred bodies. The rest had walked off. Trout wondered how many of them had been killed along with JT.

  “They could clean out those buses,” said Dez. “They could hose them out and put some heavy-grade clear plastic over the windows.”

  “To what end?”

  “To get us out of here. There are places they can take us. Places where they could quarantine us but where’d we all get better food and medical attention.”

  “Maybe they will,” he said. “Maybe in the morning.”

  She just shook her head. He studied her profile, and then he saw her sudden frown. He followed her gaze and saw that something was happening down there. People were suddenly running everywhere, soldiers scrambled to climb into troop transports, and beyond the fence the big vanes of a dozen helicopters were beginning to turn.

  “What is it? Are they coming for us?”

  “No,” said Dez, “I think … this is something else.”

  As they watched, the soldiers dragged boxes toward the armored personnel carriers.

  “It looks like they’re leaving,” said Trout. “Why do you think? Because of the storm?”

  Dez shook her head.

  “Maybe,” Trout began, “maybe it’s over. Maybe they’ve stopped this thing and they’re standing down.”

  Dez turned to him and gave him a brief, harsh look. “Does it look like anything’s over, Billy? Is that what it looks like to you?”

  Trout hesitated before answering. His statement had been on the stupid side of hopeful and they both knew it. The troops below did not move like people whose long, dark night was over. There was none of the postcrisis malaise in anything they did. There was none of the laughter that comes at the end of great tension. Every movement down there was fast, but not everyone moved with the smooth and practiced ease of professional soldiers.

  “They’re definitely leaving.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Dez. “And in a big damn hurry.”

  Trout saw people collide into each other. He saw them drop things. He saw people running for transports only half-dressed. There was only one word that appropriately described what he and Dez were seeing.

  Panic.

  PART THREE

  COLLATERAL DAMAGE

  Pale death with impartial tread beats at the poor man’s cottage and the palaces of kings.

  —Horace, Odes

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  WHAT THE FINKE THINKS

  WTLK LIVE TALK RADIO

  PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA

  “If you’re just joining us, folks, it has become a wild, wild night in western Pennsylvania. There are unconfirmed reports of military activity in the vicinity of Stebbins County. That is correct, you heard me when I said it. Military activity. So, what does the Finke think about that? Well, we know that the National Guard is on call for flood control and disaster aid, and FEMA has also announced its presence. The president of the United States made a rather vague statement earlier in which he talked about natural disasters and cyber-terrorism. Every word of that speech has already been dissected by the brain trusts on MSNBC and FOX, both of whom need a GPS and Sherpas to find a clue. FOX is talking about zombies. MSNBC is spouting some socialist claptrap about military helicopters firing at a school in order to stifle the live broadcasts of some whack job who claims to be reporting live from the apocalypse … and unfortunately that whack job is a longtime friend of the show, Billy Trout of Regional Satellite News. We tried to contact Billy to get him to tell us his side of the story—or to find out what he’s smoking—but it looks like Superstorm Zelda has knocked out more than the lights. There’s no cell reception at all in or out of Stebbins County and large parts of Fayette County.”

  Gavin paused to light a cigarette.

  “So, again you ask me, what does the Finke think?”

  He laughed.

  “For once, my friends, the ol’ Gav has to admit that I don’t have a clue. Not tonight. This one has me stumped. So, help Uncle Gavin out and call in to tell me what you think is happening on this dark and stormy night.”

  Once more all the call lights lit up.

  Gavin Finke took a long drag, blew smoke into the air, and took the next call.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  THE SITUATION ROOM

  THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “How bad is it?”

  The president fired the question off as he hurried into the Situation Room. It was the tenth time he’d asked the question, but so far no one had been able to give him a definitive answer. Even now each of the faces that looked up from the table gave mixed signals—doubt, anger, frustration, determination, and naked fear.

  “Sir,” said Scott Blair as he came to intercept the president, “here’s what we know. The—”

  “I was told there was an attack on one of our checkpoints.”

  “There was,” said Blair, “and we lost a soldier, but the other man on that post eliminated the infected and, ah, resolved the resulting infection.”

  It took the president a beat to understand what that meant. He blanched. “Jesus Christ.”

  “The checkpoint has been reinforced and all checkpoints are on high alert,” said Blair, but he was shaking his head as he said it. “The problem, however, is elsewhere.”

  A map of Stebbins County filled one window on the big plasma screen. A red dot glowed beside one of the major highways.

  “There was an attack at a Starbucks on Route 653.”

  “How many casualties?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Blair.

  “How the Christ can it not—?”

  “Sir, the victims of that attack were able to leave the Starbucks and they wandered into traffic. Their presence resulted in multicar pileups. Both directions.” Blair pointed to a second screen, which showed an aerial view of a terrible traffic accident and what appeared to be a riot. Helicopter spotlights ranged over the crumpled wrecks of dozens of cars and trucks. Bodies lay in the road, some of them clearly crushed under or between the vehicles. The president walked numbly over to the screen to study the scene more closely. The pileups completely blocked the highway in both directions and even spilled over into the Starbucks parking lot, which was positioned on a wide spot in the median. Behind the roadblocks, lines of cars stretched for miles in bumper-to-bumper traffic, headlights on, windshield wipers slashing back and forth. And everywhere—everywhere—running between the cars, crawling over the wrecks, moving along the lines of stopped cars, filling the median, were people.

  Fighting.

  Struggling.

  Rolling over and over in the mud or on the slick streets.

  Punching and kicking.

  Biting.

  Biting.

  Biting.

  The president tried to say something. His mouth worked, but there was no breath in his lungs, no air in the room.

  No words.

  General Zetter’s voice croaked from the speakers. “Mr. President … my God, Mr. President. Permission to engage. Permission to engage.”

  He said it over and over again as on the screen hundreds—no, thousands—of people fought, and screamed, and died.

  And came back.

  To kill.

  To eat.

  To …

  Scott Blair touched the president’s arm. Lightly, almost gently. A gesture of pleading.

  “Mr. President,” he said in a ragged whisper, “give the order.”

  The president looked at him with eyes that were filled with so much confusion that it was clear the man teetered on the edge of collapse.

  “Mr. President … please.”

  “Congress,” muttered the president. “I need to inform them. I need approval for this. I can’t … I can’t … the nation…”

  “There isn’t time, Mr. President. If we don’t act now there won’t be a nation to save.”r />
  The president’s staring eyes blinked, blinked again, and then suddenly filled with a measure of understanding.

  “Do it,” he whispered.

  It was the loudest sound in the room.

  Blair wheeled around. “General Zetter, the president has authorized you to go weapons hot. Engage the enemy with all resources.”

  “Acknowledged,” said Zetter breathlessly, “going weapons hot.”

  The guns on the helicopters opened up and instantly the screams of the dying were drowned out by the heavy growl of machine guns. The running figures began juddering and dancing as the rounds punched into them. Other helicopters—Apaches and Black Hawks—moved down out of the storm, flying awkwardly in the high winds. The pilots kept as much distance from each other as they could, but this was worst-case scenario for any pilot. High winds, heavy rain, enemies who looked like civilians, and no clear set of targets.

  “Some of the pilots are not engaging,” said one of the officers in the room.

  “General Zetter,” growled Blair, “half of your pilots have not engaged.”

  There was the sound of arguing and shouting from the speakers and they heard Zetter yell, “There are no civilians, goddamn it. This is a target-rich environment. Fire at will. Anything moving is designated an enemy combatant.”

  Even with that some of the pilots repeated requests to verify those orders. Finally the president himself had to yell into the mike, repeating the same words Zetter had used.

  Blair thought about how clinical and detached those words were. Target-rich environment.