Operation Atlas Lion

by Addison Gunn

  An Abaddon Books™ Publication

  www.abaddonbooks.com

  abaddon@rebellion.co.uk

  First published in 2016 by Abaddon Books™, Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK.

  By Anne Tibbets (writing as Addison Gunn)

  Editor-in-Chief: Jonathan Oliver

  Commissioning Editor: David Moore

  Cover Art: Edouard Groult

  Design: Sam Gretton & Oz Osborne

  Marketing and PR: Rob Power

  Head of Books and Comics Publishing: Ben Smith

  Creative Director and CEO: Jason Kingsley

  Chief Technical Officer: Chris Kingsley

  ISBN: 978-1-78618-010-0

  Abaddon Books and Abaddon Books logo are trademarks owned or used exclusively by Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited. The trademarks have been registered or protection sought in all member states of the European Union and other countries around the world. All right reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  1

  HUMANS WERE AN endangered species in New York City. Alex Miller wasn’t sure how they were faring in other parts of the world, but from where he stood—in the bowels of the city’s streets, holding a can of spray paint—wildlife was flourishing. Thug behemoths bred out in the open, terror-jaws had evolved to almost twice the size they’d been since he’d first laid eyes on them, and titan-birds had easily tripled their numbers, as far as Miller could tell.

  Humans? They weren’t doing so hot. In fact, with each passing moment, they were harder and harder to come by.

  Miller shook the can and sprayed the cement again. At least there were fewer angry mobs of Infected to fight. What communes he and Cobalt squad had found in the four days since their return to the city were starved, dying, driven to mindless aggression by the wasp larvae growing in their skulls—even worse than before, if that could be believed.

  In the hysteria that followed when a den of Infected was discovered, it was clear the Charismatics couldn’t maintain control over the masses anymore—they scattered as soon as the first bullet flew. The packs—whole communes—were disorganized, weak and easily destroyed. It almost felt unfair.

  But truth was, in the days since they’d returned, Miller hadn’t seen any uninfected humans at all.

  Bad sign.

  Miller cramped from pressing the spray paint nozzle, but he pushed down harder, squeezing out the last drops.

  Du Trieux, standing guard at the curb, eyed their surroundings, her Gilboa held low. “You done yet?”

  Miller nodded and dropped the empty can. It rolled, slid down the sidewalk, and landed in the gutter. “Yeah.” They walked away from the abandoned museum, back toward the temporary camp they’d established a few blocks east.

  They’d moved camps twice already, just to be safe, but Miller was beginning to wonder if this was why they were having such a hard time finding Samantha and the Archaeans. Maybe if they kept to one place, they would find them?

  Then again, Miller reasoned, maybe the Archaeans weren’t responding to the tags because they’d moved out of the city to avoid the wasps. He certainly wouldn’t blame them. Samantha had said they liked to keep on the fringes, avoiding violence when they could. The wasps had spread, covering every square inch of the city like a blanket.

  The wasps were why he’d eventually led his group out of Astoria and across the Queensboro Bridge. They were in Mid-town now, by the Museum of Modern Art. He’d been painting pictures of a straight-edge razor all over any flat surface he could find, in the areas surrounding Astoria, Hell’s Kitchen, and now Mid-town, then gone back the next day to see if there’d been any sort of response from Samantha.

  So far—nothing.

  Maybe she didn’t understand the reference?

  “This isn’t working,” du Trieux said. “We need another plan.”

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  She fell silent.

  Miller listened to their crunching steps on the broken asphalt of West 53rd Street until she found her words.

  She sighed, then said, “What about a covert operation? You and me find a way inside the compound and we stick Harris through the ear with a blade. Simple, non?”

  His first inclination was to laugh, but she wasn’t kidding. “Without knowing what’s inside the compound now,” he said, “we have no idea what we’d be walking in to. There’s only four of us. I’m not risking even one without some sort of plan.”

  “I thought that was a plan.”

  He raised an eyebrow at her. “A better one.”

  “How are the Archaeans supposed to help us with that?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” he admitted, “but at least there will be more than four of us.”

  She stopped in the middle of the road. “I don’t trust them. I know you have a history with that woman. But she’s not who she was. This is beyond risky—it’s reckless.”

  “I know. But truth be told, I don’t know what else to do.”

  They turned down the Avenue of the Americas, passing an old hotel and skirting by an empty car at the curb teeming with terror-jaw pups. The sound of shuffling footsteps made them both freeze.

  Down the block, on the east side of the road, an Infected approached alone. Shuffling their feet, the person moved forward, their head hung low, their arms swinging loose.

  “Not another one,” du Trieux said, sighing deeply.

  Miller drew his sidearm, although he suspected there wasn’t need for it. Lone Infected weren’t typically aggressive. In truth, Miller wasn’t sure if they should be considered Infected at all. They were finding them quite frequently since their return. More often than not, a single Infected wandering the streets, upon inspection, would be found in some sort of catatonia—unresponsive and blinded by the super-wasps hatching out of their eyes.

  As if unaware of the wasps crawling on their face—or even of Miller pointing a gun to their head—the Infected would continue shuffling forward, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. They merely stumbled on, unresponsive to everything until they were attacked and consumed by some predator, or collapsed in a heap and stopped breathing—wasted away like a spent cocoon.

  Miller and du Trieux watched the Infected pass them on the other side of the street, ignoring them both.

  He holstered his weapon. Why waste the bullet? This one, from the looks of him, would be dead within the hour—especially since he was shuffling straight toward the terror-jaw pups they’d passed not five meters behind them.

  Unmoved, they continued back toward camp, saying no more on the subject. There was nothing to say. With no way to help the catatonics, his only course of action was to move ahead with his plan, such as it was, and hope a solution would present itself. That was, if the Archaeans were still around and hadn’t been lobotomized by wasps.

  Miller frowned. The number of ways his plan could go wrong were not lost to him. Doubt riddled his thoughts. There were times his misgivings crippled him.

  What if the Archaeans wouldn’t help? What if they couldn’t? What if they did, and it led to Cobalt’s destruction?

  Perhaps du Trieux was right, and they should attack by stealth. If you couldn’t trust anyone, surely keeping your numbers small was prudent?

  Just as the wasps had claimed the island of Manhattan, doubt had commandeered Miller, and with each
passing day—as Cobalt’s food rations dwindled, and Morland developed a hacking, phlegmy cough—it grew worse.

  How was collecting caches of ammunition stashed around town doing any good, if there was no one left to use them? What difference could four people make against the compound security forces—even if they were a quarter of the size they once were? Cobalt was outnumbered, outgunned, and outmatched. If there was ever a lost cause, this was it.

  He knew they should walk away, save themselves. Maybe they could travel to Boston or Washington DC and find an Army base and join forces with a troop or squad there—try to make a difference. Or, maybe he should finally desert his position like the majority of the armed forces had and attempt to find his folks back home. It would be so easy to simply stop fighting, tuck tail, and run.

  People were dying whether they were inside or outside the compound walls, he was certain—the wall didn’t protect anyone anymore. The super wasps he’d helped Harris distribute knew no boundaries.

  And that was partly his fault, but mostly Harris’s. Harris was the true madman. He’d tried once to procure a nuclear weapon, intent on blowing the Infected sky-high—and anyone caught in the way—and if not stopped, he’d probably try again.

  If Miller and Cobalt weren’t there, who would stop him next time? What were the chances Miller could stop him again? For that matter, should Harris be stopped? Who was to say they shouldn’t blow up the whole of Manhattan island and let it burn?

  There wasn’t anything left worth saving.

  And what good were they—four starving soldiers— against all that? Against a wild army of Infected? Against hordes of mindless drones marching toward collapse?

  Miller’s mind looped in an endless cycle of doubt and depression, but kept coming back to the same point, no matter which way he turned, over and over again.

  Why didn’t he just leave?

  Because there was no one else left who could stop this.

  Because there were people still inside that compound. Doyle, Lewis, Gray, Gray’s children—James and Helen—and the surviving refugees.

  Would Miller be able to sleep at night, ever again, knowing he’d walked away from the only innocent people left on that forsaken island?

  MILLER KICKED THE gravel under his feet and sighed. He was about to speak when another movement caught his eye. To the right, near the intersection on 50th, a small band of soldiers were on patrol.

  Miller pulled the strap of the M27 off his shoulder and crouched behind a hunk of broken concrete as he watched their approach.

  Du Trieux got low, following suit.

  The soldiers wore the black security uniforms of former Schaeffer-Yeager team Dagger and Cyclops-Northwind, but Miller was savvy enough to be suspicious. They could be decoys. They could be Infected.

  “Got any eyes on you?” Miller asked.

  Du Trieux wordlessly handed him a pair of compact binoculars from her vest. Adjusting the focus, Miller zoomed in on the approaching patrol and searched the oncoming faces for signs of fungal infection. There wasn’t any he could see—although most of the troops wore gas masks, despite the wasps being fairly light in this part of town.

  “They look clean,” he said, handing the lenses back to du Trieux, who took a look for herself. “But I can’t be certain.”

  “They’ve got a rocket launcher,” she said. “The tall one with the neck tattoo in the back row.”

  “I saw.”

  “We could use that,” she said. “Especially since we have a missile in want of a launcher.”

  “We do. But I have other plans for that.” Without going into further detail, he swatted a wasp from his face and squinted at the approaching men.

  There were about a dozen in the squad, maybe more. He knew he should do something, anything—establish contact, at least, and determine if they were hostile—but doubt left his feet cemented to the ground.

  “Suppose we can break them up, take them in smaller groups?” he asked du Trieux.

  She gave him a funny look, then held out her hand. “Hold on…” she said, still peering at the advancing patrol. They’d turned at the intersection, and were now coming directly toward them. Just their luck. They would have to move in the next few seconds.

  “Lewis is with them,” du Trieux said.

  “Let me see.”

  She handed him the binoculars.

  “Where?”

  “Look at the legs,” she said.

  Miller focused and swore. Lewis was with them. Walking near the middle of the squad, his Uzi-Pro poised for action, he limped along on two battered prosthetic legs, the straps of his gas mask tight across his shaved head.

  Miller shifted behind the concrete slab, but still failed to rise. Du Trieux nudged him with her elbow, but he remained down. Sweat beaded on his brow and dripped to the tip of his nose.

  Was this was a trap? What if Harris sent Lewis out of the compound to draw Miller out?

  He scoffed at his own logic. How would Harris know he had survived the helicopter crash?

  Peering over the debris, Miller continued to watch the patrol approach, debating with himself.

  When Infected troops marched, they were scattered, disorderly. These walked in formation—but that still wasn’t a guarantee they were safe to contact.

  He couldn’t be certain that Lewis wouldn’t take a direct order from Harris. Maybe he was on patrol for the compound? He had given him a speech about following orders. Or maybe Lewis had gone rogue?

  Miller hated his uncertainty, but it didn’t matter anymore—they’d missed their window. The squad would spot them no matter what they did now.

  He shook his head and, gathering his bravery, stood. “Only one way to find out.”

  Du Trieux frowned. “What?”

  Advancing toward the squad, Miller raised his M27 to his shoulder. “Halt! Identify yourselves.”

  Twenty assault rifles all swung to point at him—luckily, none fired.

  “Hold fire.” Lewis pulled the gas mask off his face and gaped up at Miller with an expression of pure awe. “Well, I’ll be damned. Miller, you crazy son of a bitch. I’d given up on you.”

  “Masks off, everybody, I want to see your faces,” Miller demanded.

  “Whoa, there, son,” Lewis said sternly. “We aren’t the enemy here.”

  “No offense, sir, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to see who I’m dealing with. The wasps are light in Mid-town. It’s safe enough.”

  “We’ve got twenty guns pointed at you, what makes you think you’re in any position to ask us to do anything?”

  “Du Trieux?” Miller shouted.

  From the opposite side of the squad, du Trieux popped up from behind a dilapidated car, her Gilboa raised. She’d flanked them in a matter of seconds. “Oui?”

  Lewis eyed du Trieux and sighed. Still looking unconcerned, he nodded at his men. “Go ahead. Just for a minute.”

  In rapid succession the soldiers pulled off their gas masks.

  As far as Miller could see, no one appeared Infected. And nobody had shot him on sight, so it was probable they weren’t working for Harris either. Cautious but sure-footed, Miller met Lewis at the front of the squad.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes, son,” Lewis said, slapping him on the shoulder with a little too much force.

  Miller clenched his jaw. “It’s good to see you too, sir.”

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Getting my ass back from the Delaware coast, sir. Shank attacked the freighter.”

  Lewis nodded slowly. “I’d heard. Glad to see you out and about. Were you able to secure the cargo?”

  “That depends, sir. Who are you working for?”

  Lewis’s eyes went wide, then narrowed. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

  “Are you out here on Harris’s orders,” Miller asked, “or in spite of them?”

  Lewis ran his tongue along the edge of his teeth. “You haven’t heard, then?”

 
; Miller’s palms grew slick with sweat and he took a step back, ready to run if he had to. He doubted there would be a need—or that he would get very far with twenty rifles aimed at his head—but still, Miller wasn’t sure he could trust his instincts anymore.

  “Right before you left,” Lewis explained, “Dagger and Cyclops were sent outside the compound to clean out some Infected communes nearby.”

  “I remember you saying.”

  “Except there weren’t any communes.”

  “Come again?”

  “It was a setup,” Lewis said, “an excuse to get Gray loyalists out of the way so Harris and Shank could stage a coup and assume control of the compound.”

  Everything Miller had feared. “Fuck.”

  “When the squads reported back to the gate,” Lewis continued, “Shank opened fire. These few were able to escape, but not many.” He stuck a thumb over his shoulder. “Gray confronted Harris, but the bastard was one step ahead of us the whole time. He’d taken Gray’s ex-wife and children into custody, and demanded Gray step aside as CEO.”

  Miller felt his hands clench on his M27. They weren’t his kids, but the thought of James and Helen in Harris’s custody was enough to make Miller’s skin crawl.

  “It was a matter of time before they came for me,” Lewis said. “I tried to get Gray to come with, but he wouldn’t leave the compound so long as his family was still inside, so I grabbed what and who I could, and we shot our way out. It was bloody. Those of us that are left have been living on the outside. We’ve tried assaults on the supply trucks coming in and out, but we don’t have the numbers. We’ve assisted a handful of refugees who’ve managed to escape the compound, getting them to safer territory, and we even tried to track the transports, but lost most of them once they crossed the bridge.”

  “Transports?”

  “Harris is sending busloads of survivors out of the compound. We can’t tell where they’re going, or why. My guess is he’s sending the sick and dying away so he has less mouths to feed.”

  “Good God.”