by Scott Sigler
“COOOOOPERRRR … YOU HURT?” Monster Jeff rubbed his chest, then his stomach. “HURT INSIDE?”
Cooper glanced around the room, at all the others who had yet to rise. Were they sick? If so, should Cooper pretend to be the same way?
Jesus Christ save me get me out of this I swear I’ll lead a better life Jesus please please please …
The Tall Man coughed again, worse this time, the convulsion making him double over.
Fake it be like them whatever it takes be like them …
“Yeah,” Cooper said. “I hurt, Jeff. Inside.”
He looked around at the band of murderous cannibals. Two were asleep. The other three sat near the fire, one sneezing, the last two coughing, just like the Tall Man was.
And those coughs … wet … powerful … familiar.
They sound just like Chavo did.
Monster Jeff stood. He turned toward the spit, his thick body blocking the firelight and casting a shadow across the marble floor. His left hand reached out; the bone-blade stabbed into Sofia’s blackened butt cheek. He used the right-hand blade to slice at the charred corpse, then lifted his left arm — stuck on the point of his scythe was a chunk of whitish meat, still steaming and sizzling and popping.
Jeff turned, extended his left arm toward Cooper.
The hunk of meat dangled inches from Cooper’s face. Juice dribbled down to the floor.
“EAT,” Monster Jeff said. “FORRRR, STRENGTH.”
Cooper gagged. In the same moment, he brought his fist to his mouth, hid the gag with a forced follow-up cough. He coughed again, made it as loud as he could, let everyone see it and hear it.
Fake it be like them whatever it takes be like them …
He looked over at the Tall Man, who was biting into a greasy handful of flesh. Chewing.
Be like them …
Cooper reached out and gripped the handful of hot meat, slid it off Jeff’s hideous, pointy bone-blade — Sofia’s flesh came free with a slight squelching sound and another bomb-run pattern of juice.
Jeff smiled his long-toothed smile.
Cooper Mitchell was going crazy. He knew it, he could feel it, because only a crazy murderer-coward would do this unforgivable thing to stay alive. If he had to choose between sanity and death, he’d wear the straitjacket well. That was the price of life.
Cooper raised the piece of Sofia to his mouth. He hoped no one could see the tears that stung the corners of his eyes, or, if they could, that they’d think it was from the coughing.
He bit down, and tasted her.
BAT TWELVE
“Factories?” Blackmon said. “They’re destroying our factories?”
Nancy Whittaker was the latest bearer of bad news, and her news was a doozy. If Murray hadn’t been so bone-tired, he would have felt sympathy for the woman.
“No question, Madam President,” Whittaker said. “Four hours ago, CNN covered an attack on a brewery in Bakersfield. After that, the Converted started attacking breweries, bakeries and transportation centers all over the country. The methods are different in each city, so it doesn’t look like a coordinated attack. The news coverage must have given them the idea.”
Blackmon slapped the table. “But we protected those facilities! We assigned police, National Guard, even what regular army we could spare.”
“From what we can gather, the Converted know enough to attack in large numbers,” Whittaker said. “In some places, they overwhelmed defense forces. In others …” Whittaker cleared her throat, tried to work out the final words. “In others, it appears that some Guard members and police were Converted themselves.”
Blackmon’s face reddened slightly. “How much production capacity have we lost?”
“Around sixty percent, so far,” Whittaker said. “But the attacks are still under way. We assume we’ll lose at least another twenty percent.”
Blackmon fell back into her chair, as if an invisible hand had gently pushed her. She stared off.
Everyone waited. Murray didn’t know what she would decide next. She’d pinned America’s hopes on high levels of inoculation. The Converted were taking that option away.
“Director Longworth,” she said. “How bad does this hurt us?”
Murray wanted to give her something positive, but there was no way to put a happy face on the facts.
“If our production is cut by eighty percent, our strategy isn’t sustainable,” he said. “We won’t be able to produce enough of Feely’s yeast. In a week, maybe two, even the people we’ve already immunized will again be susceptible.”
Blackmon sighed. She had moved heaven and earth to do the impossible. With one simple, strategic shift, the Converted all but wiped out the gains she had made.
“Director Vogel,” she said. “What is the status of finding other patients who had the same stem cell procedure as Candice Walker?”
“There were ten patients in the trial,” Vogel said. “Eight — including Candice Walker — were from the western Michigan area, which is completely overrun by the Converted. One other was from New York, and one from Germany. We haven’t found any of them. We’re doing the best we can, but I’m not hopeful. We’ve put the word out to news organizations. Our best chance is that one of the patients will see the story and contact us.”
The president nodded, just a little, as if to say that’s less than helpful, idiot.
She turned to Murray “Is Montoya on the line?”
“Yes, Madam President.”
“Put her on the screen.”
Murray did. Margaret appeared, sitting at the Coronado’s small conference table. She looked better than the last time Murray had seen her. Margaret seemed sharp, intelligent, with a serious stare that rivaled Blackmon’s best.
“Hello, Doctor Montoya,” the president said. “It’s good to see you well.”
“Thank you,” Margaret said. “Truth be told, I’ve never felt better.”
Blackmon put her hands palms down on the table, made slow circles as she talked.
“Our inoculation strategy has suffered a setback,” she said. “We might not be able to sustain repeated dosing of those who have had a first round of treatment.”
Margaret nodded. “I’m not surprised. It was too big of a project to work. I told you to pursue the hydra solution. You, Murray, Cheng — you didn’t listen to me.”
“We didn’t,” Blackmon said. “And we’re doing everything we can to track down the other HAC stem cell patients. I ignored your advice once, Doctor Montoya, I won’t do so again. If we can’t find those patients, what else can be done?”
Margaret stayed still, showed little reaction, but Murray had known this woman for years. Her eyes squinted a little, wrinkled at the corners. That only happened when she laughed. Was Margaret trying to hold back a smile at all this?
“What else can be done,” she said, mimicking Blackmon’s words. “I gave you a solution, you didn’t use it. Now it’s too late. There are no other options. It’s over.”
Blackmon’s demeanor darkened. “So you’ve given up? You, the undefeatable Doctor Margaret Montoya, you want us to just roll over and die?”
Margaret shrugged. “Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of all the species that ever lived on this planet were extinct before our ancestors even discovered fire. Extinction is the rule of life, not the exception. Humankind doesn’t get a special exemption, Madam President.”
Blackmon’s lips tightened into a thin line.
“Doctor Montoya, I find it hard to believe God would let his greatest creation be snuffed out.”
“You religious types have a saying, I believe,” Margaret said. “The Lord works in mysterious ways. Extinction occurs because a species gets outcompeted for territory and resources — or just gets eaten. From observations and the reports we have so far, the Converted are faster, stronger and more ruthless than normal humans.”
Murray noticed that Margaret had avoided the phrases evolution and survival of the fittest. Maybe she didn’t want her messa
ge to get lost in the details.
The rest of the Situation Room seemed to fade into the shadows. Somehow this had become a battle of wills between Montoya and Blackmon.
“The Converted can’t win,” the president said. “We’ve got the weapons and the technology.”
Margaret held up her hands, wiggled her fingers. “The Converted have these, just like we do. They can use the same weapons we use. And our high-tech tanks and planes give us an advantage only as long as there is gas to run them, places to repair them. Once the fuel and bullets run out, Madam President, this fight will come down to knives and spears and rocks. If that happens, humanity will lose.”
The president’s hands curled into fists, fists that pressed down on the table. The predator’s gaze tightened — at that moment, she hated Margaret Montoya.
“You are wrong,” Blackmon said. “I have faith that we will find a way.”
“The wonderful thing about science, Madam President, is that it doesn’t ask for your faith, it just asks for your eyes. In a week, you’ll be looking at three-quarters of a billion psychopaths spread out across the world. Even the most powerful army on the planet can’t handle …”
Margaret’s words trailed off. She blinked, raised her eyebrows, shook her head a little. Murray had seen her do that before, too — Margaret did that when she’d been lost in a train of thought and wanted to come back to the present.
“Sorry,” she said. “Listen to me, Madam President. Please. You need me there with you. I know we can find a way to beat this thing. I’m clean. I’m immunized. Fly me to D.C., today, and I’ll be by your side.”
That was the best idea Murray had heard all day. Cheng’s fat ass could stay on Black Manitou. Margaret was right — the real brains of the operation belonged here, in the Situation Room.
André Vogel suddenly stood up, fingers pressed to his earpiece.
“Madam President, we just received actual footage of one of the larger forms.”
Blackmon nodded quickly. “Doctor Montoya, we’ll get back to you shortly.”
Margaret started to say something, but Vogel cut her off. The monitor flashed with low-resolution video, black and oversaturated white — typical output from the cameras on combat aircraft.
“This is from Manhattan,” Vogel said. “Seventy-Second and Columbus.”
“Manhattan is cut off,” Blackmon said. “Didn’t we blow all the bridges?”
Vogel nodded. “Yes, Madam President, we did. A Pave Hawk helicopter was collecting reconnaissance footage and captured this.”
The image on the screen looked slightly fuzzy, the signature of a camera pushed beyond its range. Still, Murray could easily make out a mixture of five- to ten-story buildings, the redbrick and tan concrete so common in New York.
Two people ran down the middle of the street, cutting in and out of the burned-out vehicles that littered the pavement. Farther back, a dozen others gave chase.
It was recorded, Murray knew that, but he silently willed the two front-runners to move faster.
More people poured out of doorways, alleys, some even from the interior of vehicles. They all joined the pursuers. The pack swelled to two dozen, then three, then four.
The distance between the hunted and the hunters shrank.
Vogel paused the playback. “The next voice you hear is the Pave Hawk pilot.” He let the video continue.
The pilot keyed his mic, filling the Situation Room with the scratchy sound of the helicopter’s engines and rotor.
“Command, Bat Twelve, I have two civilians being pursued by hostiles, request immediate permission to engage.”
“Negative, Bat Twelve,” came back an even scratchier voice. “You don’t know who is healthy.”
“I can fucking see it,” said the pilot. “There are these … things … in the pack, chasing them, things that aren’t human.”
The image zoomed in on the pursuers. In the cluster of blurry, sprinting people, Murray saw something that was bigger than the rest. Much bigger.
Vogel paused the playback. On the screen, a hideous, out-of-focus creature was hurdling a Toyota. Shredded clothes, sickly yellow skin, a head and neck so big they made its face look disproportionately tiny. It carried some kind of long blade in each hand.
A wide-eyed Blackmon slid a hand into a pocket. It came out holding a gold chain, swinging slightly from the weight of a dangling gold cross.
“Jesus Christ,” she said. “Satan walks among us. Let it play.”
Vogel did.
The picture whipped back to the hunted. Murray saw that the woman had something clutched to her chest.
A baby.
The pilot spoke again. “Command, the woman appears to be carrying a child. Moving to engage.”
“Negative, Bat Twelve,” said the second voice. “Do not engage!”
Bat Twelve, apparently, wasn’t interested in listening to orders.
“Right and left guns, engage the targets chasing the woman and child. You’re cleared hot!”
The image vibrated slightly as the Pave Hawk’s guns opened up. Long streaks of white shot out, slammed into pursuers, cars and pavement alike. Some of the pursuers stopped moving, some scattered sideways, but most continued the chase. Among the crowd, Murray saw tiny flashes of light.
“Hostiles are returning fire,” the pilot said calmly. “Where they hell did they get all those guns?”
The helicopter kept firing, but there were too many pursuers. Others came pouring out of doorways, cutting off any escape for the two — no, the three — hunted people. There was nowhere left to run.
The mob closed in from all sides. The man, woman and child vanished beneath a quickly growing pile of killers.
Vogel switched it off. The ever-increasing numbers of infected, Converted and dead took their normal place on the screen.
Blackmon stared. She scratched her right eyebrow. The Situation Room filled with another, familiar long silence.
“All those guns,” she said. “Where did the Converted get all those guns?”
Murray laughed. He choked it down instantly, but he was so tired he couldn’t help the reaction.
“Sorry,” he said. “Madam President, we are the most well-armed nation in the world. There are a quarter-billion guns in the United States — the Converted didn’t have to look far.”
Millions of guns. Millions of Converted. Millions of armed insurgents. Could it get any worse?
As if on cue, Admiral Porter leaned forward again, a phone still pressed to his ear.
“Madam President, I regret to inform you that we have word from Fort Stewart and Hunter Army Airfield in Georgia. They each suffered coordinated attacks by a large number of Converted, and” — he paused, swallowed — “and significant numbers of soldiers stationed at those facilities assisted in the assault.”
Blackmon’s gold cross dangled.
“Reinforcements,” she said. “Let’s get them help. What do we have in the area?”
Porter shook his head. “Fort Stewart has fallen, Madam President. So has Hunter. Both facilities are now in enemy hands. The Third Infantry Division was stationed at Fort Stewart — that division has been destroyed. And we’ve also got word that Andrews AFB is under organized attack.”
Murray’s body sagged. Third Infantry, the Rock of the Marne, a unit that had fought in both World Wars, in Korea and Iraq, over fifteen thousand soldiers … completely wiped out. And Andrews AFB, where Air Force One resided, under attack. The base also housed the 121st Fighter Squadron, an irreplaceable asset.
But far more important than the base’s aircraft was its geographical location.
Andrews AFB was just twelve short miles from Washington, D.C.
THE RESPONSIBLE PARTY
“COOOOPERRRR. SICK?”
Cooper wasn’t sick. At least not physically; he’d eaten human flesh — what could be sicker than that?
Do what you have to so you can stay alive. Whatever it takes.
He sat cross-legged on a
pile of clothes, probably gathered from one of the hotel rooms on the floors above. The fire warmed his face and chest. He held his gun in both hands. The barrel rested on his calves.
The Monster Formerly Known as Jeff sat next to him. It could almost have been a campfire scene, maybe a hunting trip to the Upper Peninsula, the two of them drinking Labatt, staring at the stars and talking about women.
Cooper wished the transformation had been more severe, that Jeff’s face didn’t look like Jeff, but the eyes, the nose … no mistaking his lifelong friend.
Jeff wanted to know if Cooper was ill. Cooper was trying to decide if he could put the barrel of his pistol to Jeff’s ear and pull the trigger.
Shoot him shoot him but if you miss or don’t kill him he’ll kill you he’ll eat you …
“COOOOPERRRR?”
“Yeah, Jeff,” Cooper said. “I’m sick.”
Other than Jeff, the cannibals were out of commission. They were sick, obviously hurting pretty bad. Even the Tall Man was down for the count.
Jeff reached a hand behind Cooper. Cooper froze … he tried to lift the gun, but he couldn’t move a muscle.
Please God make this stop make him go away make him go away I want to live I want to live I—
Something touched his head. Something hard. Something pointy. The bone-blade. Jeff was going to carve him up, rip him to shreds.
Get up and run and fight shoot him shoot him no-no-no you’ll miss you can’t win play dead please God please don’t let him kill me please.
Cooper started to tremble.
The thing touched his head again, only it wasn’t the bone-blade at all … it was Jeff’s fingers, brushing from Cooper’s temple to the top of his head. He felt the same thing a third time, and a fourth.
He’s petting me. He thinks I’m sick and he’s petting my head.
