The First Bird: Omnibus Edition

by Greig Beck

  “You never have.” Hew smiled back sadly.

  “How is he?” Carla asked.

  “Reed’s okay. You did a good job cleaning the wound. He’s been given blood and antibiotics. But there are bullet shards embedded in the wall of his heart. He’ll need a delicate operation, one we can’t do here. For now, he’ll get by.”

  Carla looked anxious. “Is he …?”

  Hew shook his head. “He’s clean. From what Matt and Megan told me, you took the full viral blast from the bloomer. You inhaled the larvae, and, well, we need to deal with that.”

  “I need to get to work.”

  He held up his hand. “No, you need to—”

  “I need to get to work! Put me in a suit, keep me in isolation, but I need to help with the analysis, synthesis, and distribution. This is too important. Use me, while you’re still able.”

  He looked at her, grimacing, but she knew he couldn’t disagree with her. “‘Look, there’s no argument about needing you.” He turned away, torn.

  “From a toxicological specialization standpoint there’s no one better.” She reached up to the shoulder of his suit and slowly turned him back toward her.

  “Hew, we need to hurry. Indecision is what will kill us all now.”

  He nodded slowly. “Perhaps we can rig up some sort of suit for you, to allow you to work … and keep you in your own personal isolation. But it’ll have to be from outside. We can’t afford to let a bloomer – er, someone infested – into the building.”

  Carla nodded. “I agree, and fully understand. Set up a remote link and get me a headset, so we can stay in continual contact.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “Why will I need a headset when I’ll be right here beside you?” He shrugged. “Besides, you know as well as I do that if this fails, it’ll only be matter of time before we’re all dead.”

  A klaxon horn sounded, making both scientists flinch. Carla gritted her teeth and turned to him. “Contamination – is it a breach?”

  Hew shook his head. “I don’t think so. Something else.”

  There was a soft popping sound from outside the laboratory, followed by a deep thump that made the equipment rattle and white dust sprinkle down upon them.

  “What the hell? Wait here.” Hew raced out of the room.

  *****

  Bennings watched through high-powered binoculars as the massive mobile launcher was driven to the distant end of Houston Mill Road. It pulled in behind an abandoned bus, and the four-sectioned box was lifted to clear the bus’s body.

  Bennings groaned. Machine-gun fire rang out, and a few RPGs looped toward their compound, falling well short. They didn’t matter – it was the launcher that gave him the cement-like feeling deep in his gut. He knew that each of those four sections housed a deadly surface-to-air missile, twenty feet long and weighing over fifteen hundred pounds apiece. He brought the drab green launcher into focus.

  “Shit. Looks like a MIM-104. Proximity fuse and a full bank of high-explosive fragmentation missiles – those bad boys will reach Mach 5 a second after launch, and if it’s a PSAC3, then it’s got a laser guidance system that can place one between your eyes.” He lowered the glasses. “Just one of those will punch a hole right through this building like cheese. Four of them, and we’re gonna end up sitting in a crater.” He turned to Cohen. “What’ve we got at our disposal?”

  “RPGs, some high-cal sniper rifles, and plenty of M16-A2s. But they’re …”

  “Yeah, I know. They’re out of our range, but we’re not out of theirs. We need to execute a frontal assault, but trying to engage armed hostiles while we’re stuck inside hazmat suits will be suicide … and fighting without them will be even worse. So let’s hear your best Plan B.”

  Cohen looked back at the screen and shook his head. “There’s only one … and it’s not a good one.”

  Bennings nodded. “We’ve got to go out, but not in force.”

  “We need a small team.”

  “The smallest. Maybe one man – perhaps one with nothing to lose.” Bennings sighed. “Goddamn, I hate this part.” He looked back at the missile launcher. It had swung around toward them. “They’ll be talking to us soon – a list of demands. Whatever they want, just keep ’em talking, and buy us some time.”

  *****

  Bennings sat on the edge of Reed’s bed. The soldier looked remarkably well, given the trauma he had suffered to his chest. Reed shrugged.

  “I feel fine, sir. I’m ready for duty.”

  Bennings patted his forearm. “You’ve got a bullet fragment embedded in your ventricle wall.” He shook his head, but held the young man’s gaze. “It’s not good, son. You feel fine because I ordered them to give you enough steroids, adrenalin, and chemical stimulants to take on the entire Russian track team.”

  “Go Juice.” Reed lifted his hands and flexed his fists. He dropped them and looked at his superior officer. “It’s not over, is it, sir?”

  Bennings stood and straightened his jacket. “No, son, the nightmare keeps coming – right to our front door. You’ve done a lot for us … more than most. But I need to ask you something – something real hard. Feel free to tell me to go to hell at any time.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “You don’t know what I’m going to ask you.”

  Reed smiled without humor. “I heard the gunfire and the larger impacts. The barbarians are at the gate – at our front door, right? Can’t let ’em in, can we, sir?”

  Reed threw his legs over the side of the bed and winced. “What do you need me to do?”

  Bennings reached out and gave Reed his arm, steadying him as he stood.

  “I need you to walk into Satan’s parlor and blow him back to hell.”

  Reed gripped the older soldier’s arm. “With pleasure.”

  *****

  Dillon sat in the cabin of the mobile launcher behind a busy console, with multiple screens for radar, targeting, guidance, and arming initiators. None were active. He leaned forward to look through the windscreen and down at the three captured soldiers, handcuffed together. They were still in their hazmat suits … for now.

  He sighed. “Once more into the breach.” He let his fingers walk along the console, flicked on the radio, and sat back. “Hello again, my dear Captain Cohen. I love you dearly, but I do hope you have finished boring me. My request is simple – so simple I’m sure even someone like you can appreciate its clarity. Send out all army personnel holding their weapons over their heads. Those who choose to approach, naked and ready to embrace our flock, will be immediately accepted into our group. The others will be kept safe as our … guests.”

  He licked his raw lips. “Our warm and tender guests.” He laughed softly. “Oh, and if your men decide to come out firing, we will launch a Patriot. Just one. I may decide to launch another. We have plenty, you know.”

  “I believe you, Mr. Dillon. Can the men and women cover up their genitals for, ah, modesty?”

  Dillon shook his head. “Modesty? Did you say ‘modesty’?” Dillon let his head fall back for a moment. “Your scientists have polluted our world and turned people into the living dead, and you ask us to accommodate your bashfulness?” He felt his anger rising. “Your entire revolting framework of skin and hair disgusts me. Maybe I should help you overcome your shyness. A demonstration of our power.”

  Cohen’s hurried voice filled the cabin again. “No, no, please, Mr. Dillon, we believe you. But you only asked for the soldiers to come out. What about all the medical, scientific, and administrative personnel we have in here?”

  Dillon clenched his fist and squeezed. “You mean those who created this, started this, and now work to develop something even worse? Oh, I have plans for them, my dear man.” He closed his eyes and smiled. “They stay right where they are, and await my arrival.”

  “Okay, Mr. Dillon. That’s a lot to action, and may take some time to organize. How about …”

  “Silence!” Dillon sat forward. “You want time? How about I gi
ve you one hour. Then, in one hour and ten seconds, I’ll fire a missile. Maybe two or three, to show you how patient I am. After that I’ll have my people walk in and scoop what’s left of you all into buckets. How does that sound?”

  “I need more time. There are hundreds of men and women. I need …”

  “One hour, and then boom. Your choice.” Dillon leaned forward and waved down at the three handcuffed soldiers. “Got to go now, Captain. I’ve got some job applicants to interview. Toodle-oo.” He flicked off the microphone.

  *****

  The three men, cuffed wrist to wrist, were led to Dillon. He held up his hands in elaborate disappointment. “Please, uncuff our guests. They must be so uncomfortable. And let’s all stand near the fire to keep warm.” He looked each man over as he walked along the line. Two were youngish; the third was older, perhaps in his forties. Dillon stopped and lifted the chin of one, peering into the faceplate. “Hmm, not even a whisker yet. Nice.” He continued to the older man. He was the only one to meet Dillon’s eyes – challenging, full of fight. Good, Dillon thought.

  Papers were handed to Dillon and he flipped through them, nodding and hmming as he paced. He pointed a finger at each man, as though ticking them off a list.

  “Excellent, all here.” He went back to the youthful soldier and stood before him. The young man stared at the ground. Dillon reached up and began to unwind the bandages from his head, slowly gathering the stained material into a sodden bundle as his face was exposed.

  “Look at me.”

  The young soldier slowly looked up, and sucked in his breath. Dillon was little more than a glistening skull, all exposed muscle and tendon. His eyes were lidless, giving his eyeballs a hellish, popping stare that was now fixed on the young man. Dillon leaned in close.

  “Do you think I’m pretty?”

  The young man’s head went down again. Dillon reached out and lifted his chin.

  “I think you already know what I want.”

  “Tell them nothing.” The older soldier strained against the bandaged men holding him.

  Dillon crossed to him, glancing briefly down at the papers in his hand. “We already know nearly everything.”

  He pointed at the older man’s chest. “Captain Alfred Rogers. Nice to make your acquaintance.” Dillon grinned like a red skull. He pointed at the next young man in line. “First Lieutenant Aaron Goldberg, targeting and logistics. Very pleased to meet you.” Then to the last man. “And Second Lieutenant Ben Lin, administration and security.” Dillon gave him his best horror-show grin. “Or should I say, administration and launch codes. Happy days. You and young Goldberg are very important to me.” He turned to Rogers. “But you … not so much. For now, I’ll simply refer to you as ‘motivation’.”

  Dillon’s grin fell away. “I want the launch codes to the missiles, and I want the laser targeting unlocked and assigned to my authority. You will do that for me.”

  “Go to hell.” Rogers lunged again, pulling away from the men holding him and then falling at Dillon’s feet. Dillon put his boot on the back of Rogers’ head.

  “My dear Captain, you stopped being in charge the moment you and your men fell into my possession.” He lifted his boot and motioned for Rogers to be lifted. Dillon looked into the Captain’s faceplate as he rewound the bandages over his face. “Go to hell? You first.”

  Dillon motioned to the fire, and Captain Rogers was ripped out of his suit. His wrists and ankles were bound with rope. Struggling, he was pulled down flat, and then lifted – onto the flames. His hair burnt away in a flash of sparks, and within a few moments, greasy smoke carried the smell of cooking meat.

  “Mmm, anyone else feeling hungry?”

  Rogers thrashed and writhed in maddening pain. After another few moments, Dillon motioned for him to be lifted free. The older soldier was held upright, his body in an unconscious slump.

  Dillon turned to Goldberg and Lin. “It is not me that tortures or binds you, it is your fears and your pain.” He pulled a lighter from his pocket and held the flame under his chin. The skin smoked, crackled, and hissed, but still Dillon didn’t flinch. At last he pulled it away. “We are free from pain. We are the enlightened. But you, and even you …” he motioned to Rogers. “You will all endure untold horrors until you give me what I want.”

  He waited. “Ready to help?”

  The soldiers kept their heads down. Goldberg sobbed quietly.

  “Not yet?” Dillon shrugged and then made a twirling motion with one hand. Rogers was spun around to face the fire. Goldberg looked up and cried out at the sight of his captain’s back.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to help? Captain Rogers won’t thank you, you know.” Dillon spoke to the bandaged figures holding the ropes. “Wake him up.” A bucket of water was thrown in Rogers’ face. Rogers shook his head, sucked in a long breath, and then screamed for what seemed like ages.

  “By the way, Goldberg, you’re next.”

  Rogers was lifted and angled over the flames. Once again he screamed and thrashed. Dillon pulled out a gun and pointed it at the back of the captain’s head. “Fast death or slow burn – the money or the gun?” He grinned. “Here we go – 10, 9, 8, 7, 6 …”

  Goldberg wailed, his eyes crushed shut. “Help, please help, help us …” No one answered, other than some laughter from the swarms of bandaged men and women witnessing their leader’s interview techniques.

  Dillon shook his head. “Dearest Aaron, there’s just us here, no one else. We’re all alone this day, dear boy. Now, where was I? Oh yes … 5, 4, 3 …”

  “Please.” Lin kept his eyes on the ground.

  “… 2, 1 …” Dillon turned back to Rogers.

  “Stop.”

  “Pardon me? I didn’t catch that.” Dillon lowered the gun.

  Lin’s voice was barely a whisper. “Please stop. I’ll help …”

  “Don’t – say – a fucking thing – soldier.” Rogers’ words sounded wet and tortured. Dillon turned back to him and flicked his hand. The captain was dropped facedown onto the flames. His screams seemed endless. Goldberg fainted, and Lin fell to his knees. Dillon quickly knelt before him, the sound of Rogers’ hellish torment filling the air.

  “End it, please end it. Don’t let this happen to young Goldberg as well. I beg you.” He placed his hands on Lin’s shoulders. The young man nodded, his eyes squeezed closed.

  Dillon hugged him. “Good boy.” He stroked his head through the hazmat suit. “Good, good boy.”

  Dillon stood and shot Rogers in the head. His body immediately stopped moving. “Now, unlock those Patriots, enter the launch codes, and assign all targeting authority to me … right now.”

  The soldiers nodded. Dillon grunted and looked at the now-still body, grilling on the flames.

  “Dinner is served.”

  *****

  Carla sat slumped in the empty laboratory. The sound of explosions had ceased, but Hew was yet to return. Her gaze was directed to a few pea-sized lumps on the back of her hand. She prodded one – there was no pain, no itch or irritation at all. In fact, her skin now felt like it belonged to someone else.

  She pressed it again. It was like a blister, but without fluid – just raised skin. But she knew it wasn’t empty. It was a brood chamber for hundreds, if not thousands, of young parasites. Her body would produce countless more extrusions like these. They would swell until they burst. She was a walking biological time bomb.

  She swallowed, feeling some constriction in her throat – just nerves, she hoped, but she tried hard not to think about what was going on inside her body.

  Carla Nero dropped her hands and closed her eyes. “Soon, Maddie. See you soon.”

  *****

  Reed had exited the Atlanta CDC building via one of the service tunnels, coming up a block behind the massive ash-gray edifice. He staggered; the extra weight he carried was heavy, but he still needed to walk several miles. Even though the chemicals he had been given gave him near-superhuman strength and endurance, the
effect would be fleeting. He had an hour, max, and then he’d simply collapse. He would need every second.

  Reed wore a bulky long-shoreman’s coat that finished above knees wrapped in loose sheeting. His hands and head were likewise covered, the cloth stained with brown, red, and ocher colors. He hoped the camouflage would allow him to infiltrate the bedraggled creatures that had gathered to witness the fall of the CDC stronghold.

  Rounding one last corner, he saw them. The fires burning, the dancing and gyrating bodies, like a tribe of primitives performing a war dance prior to an attack. The Patriot Launcher stood like a colossus at their center. Its bank of four missiles were raised and aimed – and hopefully armed. If they were already primed, then an impact could set them off. That’s what Patriots did – proximity detonate. Reed said a silent prayer of hope.

  A large fire burned close to the launcher with what looked like a boar or some other large animal being roasted upon it. People reached over coals to pull bits of cooked meat from its bones. He looked up to the truck’s cabin. There were three figures inside – two in army fatigues, with what looked like hazmats pulled down to their waists. Two of the missing technicians, he bet. The third person inside was large and wrapped in bandages. The man’s very demeanor spoke of power and dominance – Reed had found his goal. He lifted his pace.

  In a few minutes he entered the throng. Even with his nose wrapped, the smell was horrendous – rotting flesh, body odor, and the coppery scent of blood mixed with excrement. It was like the final party of the damned souls of hell, just waiting for the gates to open.

  Reed pushed through the crowd, his bandages making him invisible amongst the revelers, who were all similarly covered, or naked, skinless, and gleaming with leaking fluids. He approached the massive truck, stopping just before the fire. He grimaced when he saw what was cooking over the flames, then lowered his head and swallowed, a dry lump of fear in his gut. The body’s limbs had been stripped of meat, and now the masses reached in to pull handfuls of charred flesh from its back.