"No," she admitted, hollowly. Arvin shook his head, stared down at the floor and his shoes.
"Then that leaves us back at square one, don't it?"
Although people were still talking, the arguments had lost their heat and people's voices had calmed. Sporadic conversations reached their cot, but the words were faint buzzings, easy to ignore. After a moment of quiet between them, D'Andre spoke up again.
"I ain't saying it'd be easy, killing them, but better now than later. You know that, right? You two were out there," he waved his hand toward the door. "You saw what those things do, saw that old man and that old woman get ripped to pieces. That how you want to go out? Become one of those things, that what you want for these people?"
"We don't know if they'll even change," Arvin whispered. "Could be they'll just bleed out and die."
"Maybe, yeah. But by the time we know for sure, one way or the other, it's too late innit? They die and they change, or they die and they don't change. Those are the only two options here, man. Either way, they both die. Question is, how many of us die with them? Because of them?"
"He's right," the white woman said. "He's right."
Arvin sighed. He hated to admit it, but he, too, thought D'Andre was right. They had to do something, but their options were limited. They couldn't leave, couldn't take the infected woman or Dr. Rodinger to the hospital – if there were even any hospitals left. They were surrounded and without options. Arvin had never felt so useless in his entire life, and it was a feeling that did not sit well with him. He wiped his sweaty palms on the knees of his pants, practically shaking. Melissa put her arm around him, pulled him in close.
"How do we do this?" he asked, voice husky.
D'Andre looked around the room, perhaps to see if anybody were listening in on them, and Arvin felt suddenly conspiratorial in their discussion.
"Well, we can't get any of their blood on us. But, we don't got any face shields or gloves, least none that Rodinger hadn't already come into contact with. So, we need something between us and them...a shield, like."
"We don't have any weapons," Melissa whispered. "Knives, guns, nothing like that."
Arvin nodded. "A pillow then? Suffocate them?"
D'Andre scratched at his cheek. "Yeah, maybe. Maybe that would work. What do you think?" He looked past Arvin, holding Melissa's eyes. After a moment, she nodded slowly.
"Yeah. A pillow. I think that could work."
"I do one, you do the other?" D'Andre said, looking expectantly at Arvin.
An acidic pit opened in Arvin's belly, a sour taste rising up into his mouth. He swallowed back the bile, cutting a trace of burning awfulness straight down his torso from gullet to gut. What the hell had he gotten himself into? He couldn't believe he was sitting here talking about murder. Couldn't believe he was even about to agree to murder. He tried to trace the series of events in his life that had led to this point, and found the task was impossible. Where had things gone so horribly wrong?
"Yeah," he choked out, dry-mouthed, his eyes stinging. He could feel the eyes of every single person in this shelter room staring at him, hard and cold, but when he mustered up the courage to face them, nobody was even looking at him. He hadn't even moved off his cot, and already he was feeling sick with guilt.
D'Andre stood, grabbed Arvin's pillow from the head of the cot and shoved it into Arvin's hands.
He gripped the pillow, nothing more than a cheap, thin piece of foam stuffed into a white, scratchy cotton case. His knees knocked together when he stood, the larger man and his dog cutting a path for him through the crowd. The world spun drunkenly and, too fast, Arvin found himself beside Dr. Rodinger.
The doctor's breathing was shallow, too-long pauses in the rise and fall of his chest marking each cycle of his respiration. His skin was thin and pale, the network of veins in his hands and arms grossly vivid and blue.
D'Andre and Melissa stood on either side of Arvin, and he was somewhat grateful that the doctor's cot was against the far wall. His two conspirators were able to screen him from view as he climbed on top of Rodinger. He worried about throwing up all over the man, his limbs thick and knotted as he struggled to move, finally placing the pillow over the man's face. His hands tightened into fists around either end of the pillow, his back aching as he pressed the cushion down hard.
Tension bunched the muscles in Arvin's shoulders, a painful mass forming at the base of his neck as he smothered the sick man. His knees dug into the sides of Rodinger's thin chest and he swore he could feel the ribs compressing. Rodinger wasn't putting up any kind of struggle, which made the ordeal all the worse. Was he really that far gone? He should have been fighting for survival, bucking to push Arvin off of him, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the pillow to pull it away. But he wasn't. He just lay there, utterly still except for the rise and fall of his chest, which grew progressively more strained.
He pushed with all his might, using more force than was necessary. A snap sounded out from beneath the pillow, the sharpness of the noise dulled by the foam and pillowcase, but Arvin knew what it was. He had just broken the man's nose. Rodinger's mouth had opened, and he could feel the pillow being sucked in as he struggled for breath.
This wasn't like in the movies. It wasn't an easy job, even with Arvin putting more muscle into it than was required for a victim so placid and weak. Still, it was taking a long time, and Rodinger's face was beginning to squirm beneath the pillow, seeking an escape. Arvin had the doctor's head trapped, though, secured between two bunched-up fists.
"Hey!" somebody shouted. "What are you doing over there?"
Arvin ignored her, but he sensed D'Andre and Melissa move, tightening around him to shield him from view.
Just die already, Arvin thought. Please!
Sweat poured down his face, his torso soaked. His shirt clung uncomfortably to his back and shoulders, damp and unbearably constricting.
"Hey!"
The voice was closer, louder. Arvin risked taking a glance and saw a familiar face peeking between D'Andre and Melissa's shoulders. The Red Cross nurse, her face red with anger. D'Andre put out a hand to block her, but she smacked him in the face with an open hand, the crack of skin on skin enough to startle him and put him on his heels. She shoved her way past and less than a heartbeat later, Arvin felt a powerful grip on his biceps. He tightened his knees around Rodinger's torso, willing the man to just fucking die, hunching over the pillow, refusing to let go, refusing to give up. And then he was pulled, savagely, away from the doctor. He tumbled to the floor, hitting hard before he knew what was happening. A sharp pain rang out as his knees crashed into the ground and the nurse was kicking her way past him, demanding that he get out of the way.
All eyes were on him now. He looked up as the nurse held her fingers against Rodinger's throat, searching for a pulse.
"Is he dead?" Arvin shouted, his voice shrill and louder than he had expected, but he had no control over that.
The nurse looked down at him, the disgust plain in her eyes. Her hands curled into fists at her side, and there was evil intent in her glare. She shoved past, storming off toward the rear of the room. Arvin thought, somewhat comically, that had this been a cartoon there would have been steam bursting from her ears. Although he laughed quietly, and to himself, he wasn't sure if he should be crying instead.
Rodinger's chest was still. He studied it for a long moment, saw no movement, and was satisfied and disgusted in equal measure. Somehow, he had kept ahold of the pillow. The underside was wet with sweat, blood, and a yellow, jelly-like substance, the stain of it all in the vague suggestion of a human face.
Arvin buried his face in his hands, his shoulders racking with the sobs of a confused and lost noise between laughter and grief. He had never killed before, and he wanted so badly to throw up, to purge himself of the guilt he felt and, worse, the satisfaction it had brought.
God help me, he thought.
As the banging and thudding o
f the steel door grew louder, the grunts and shrieks of the creatures much too close for comfort, he knew there was no help for them. He thought, too, that maybe there was no God.
And then a new noise drew his attention, erupting at the opposite end of the room. Dual shrieks filled the space, and he turned to see the nurse twist around, her face lacerated and sheeted in crimson, and two gaping holes where her eyes had been only moments ago.
CHAPTER NINE
Cold wind tugged at Hedley's CBRN suit, the plastic covering smacking at the rounded hump of the equipment pack heavy on his back. Despite how hot he was inside the suit, he was grateful for the protection it provided from the elements. Outside, it was freezing and, a born and bred southern boy, he hated the cold. He'd spent most of his life in Florida and hadn't even been overseas until his first deployment. Not that Afghanistan had been much in the way of a European vacation so many fantasized about, and the cold nights deep in the mountains had been a spirit-crushing experience. He had spent those nights wrapped in a thermal blanket, longing for Evelyn's warm arms around him.
Evelyn was gone, along with everyone else they knew in Georgia. The state had fallen, and rumor had it Fort Benning was gone, too, overrun with the infected. Those were just rumors, though, he reminded himself. Solid information was difficult to come by, but he knew Evie was dead.
His eyes burned, and he forced himself to shove aside those thoughts. It wasn't easy. He hadn't even been able to say goodbye, and her final moments had been spent in a hospital waiting to bleed out and die. Evie'd had a cousin who was a nurse at the hospital, and he'd been able to FaceTime with his wife, if only briefly. Evie had been unconscious, and the only consolation Hedley had was that the pain had been so excruciating that she had lapsed into a coma. He was unable to push away the mental image of her lying alone in a crowded hospital room filled with other infected people, lost in the dark, alone and afraid.
He'd lost others, as well. Friends, family, soldiers. The sheer scope of the dead was so massive and catastrophic that processing it was impossible. Just trying to comprehend the enormity of it all was a frustrating exercise in desensitization. Except for Evelyn — that one hurt. Losing her had left a gaping wound in his heart and soul, a piece of himself lost forever with her passing. Thinking of better times — their beach wedding and, later, walking hand in hand down the sandy shore barefoot, her emerald eyes radiant in the deep red glow of the setting sun — ached worse than not knowing exactly what her final moments had entailed. Thirty-three, and she was dead.
Or at least he hoped she was. The alternative was an even worse possibility.
The hospital would have been destroyed in Operation Reaper by their own Air Force. He preferred to think that Evie had died before the bombing runs had begun, or, if not, that her death had been a quick and painless obliteration. What the virus had done to her, the ways in which it had eaten her alive from the inside out, was chilling. To know that was merely the first stage was even worse. She could have changed, could have become one of them, and he hated to even consider that possibility. Better to believe she had died.
Thinking about how Evie was better off dead made him feel guilty, a shot of self-loathing burning deep in his belly. Worse, now was not the time to be distracted with such thoughts. He was operating in what could only be defined as enemy territory, and he needed to keep his head in the game.
Get your shit together! he scolded himself.
"Man, I got a funny feeling about this," Hanscomb said.
"That's just your balls dropping," Barlow said, the smile clear in his words.
"Fuck you," Hanscomb said, as he usually did in the wake of his squad mates ribbing. Barlow laughed, and a moment later, Hanscomb joined in. His smooth, clean-shaved baby face, along with being a fairly new addition, meant he caught a lot of crap from the others, Barlow especially.
Before Hanscomb had been assigned to their detail, most of the joking had been between Barlow and Fulton. Neither man had the balls to mess with Clemson, whose calm quietude made it difficult for them to get under her skin. Besides, they had all seen her in action deep in Afghanistan and knew better than to get on her bad side. She had been an anomaly to them at first, but she had quickly earned their respect and trust. Being a woman in the Army meant she had to be ten times as tough and fierce as the men, and she had that aspect nailed down hard.
"Seriously though," Hanscomb insisted, "something's up."
"No shit," Fulton said. "Look around you, son. There's—"
"Possible contact," Clemson said, shutting everyone up, "on our eleven."
The Rangers moved into cover behind the pillars supporting the People Mover track and the dark recessed opening of an underground parking garage. Rubble from a demolished office building blocked their progress down Cass Avenue.
"We'll detour down Michigan Avenue," Hedley said. "Keep your eyes open for contacts. Clemson, if you see anything, speak up."
"You know I will, sir," she said. Rather than sounding irritated at the obvious direction, she seemed only bored. Hedley smiled to himself.
"I don't see anything ahead on Cass," Hanscomb said.
"Move out," Hedley commanded.
Operation Reaper had left so much devastation in its wake that the streets were thick with ash. Every footstep left tell-tale marks of their passage, but their trail was quickly disturbed by the wind whipping across the city's remains. Visibility was low from the dust and ash the wind kicked up, and it was easy to imagine shapes hidden within the shifting grime.
As they reached the corner of Michigan and Washington, the men crouched beside the remains of a gutted building, its exterior scorched. Graffiti was visible at the lower levels, but was meaningless to any of the Rangers. Surveying the vicinity, they saw no threats.
Hedley took the lead, marching them across Michigan, while Hanscomb and Fulton covered their six, and down Washington toward Lafayette, to resume their pre-planned route down Cass. Passing what had once been grassy, tree-lined medians, and the decapitated remains of the Westin Hotel, they used the vehicle-clogged boulevard for cover.
Hedley recalled the wheel-spoke layout of the city's streets from the operational briefing they'd received early that morning as he led his squad across a crowded parking lot and the burnt remains of scores of vehicles clustered at the corner of Lafayette. They double-timed it to a squat green building at the opposite corner, where Lafayette intersected with Cass, putting them back on their original route.
Cutting across the street and using the broken spine of the People Mover rail as best they could to their advantage, they resumed moving toward Cobo Center. Across the street, Hedley noticed the sunken remains of a building whose roof had taken a direct hit and obliterated the upper floors. At ground level, murals of what the city had once been spoke of a recent history that suddenly felt as if it had been lost eons ago. Pictures of children clad in Detroit Tigers' baseball hats and tees, the diamond field a bright green behind them; an image of a large seal from the zoo; a cherry red Model-T, a black and white guitar, and dice being rolled, all sixes. All now lost, nothing more than icons of a bygone era from a society fed to monsters and fire.
Although he couldn't see it through the gray haze, he knew Cobo Center was only a few blocks ahead.
From the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of movement and turned in time to see a black youth with an automatic pistol edge into view at the mouth of an alley across the street. He was about to shout for the man to lay down his weapon, but the gun came up nearly as fast as the shocked expression that suddenly contorted the man's face. Eyes and mouth went wide, and were then hidden by the flash of muzzle fire.
Hanscomb's facemask cracked loudly, blood smattering the wall behind his head as he fell backward.
Hedley returned fire, along with Clemson, Fulton, and Barlow. The boy's body jerked under the controlled bursts punching through him, turning his meat and organs into pulped jelly.
Taking cover beside
a gated security booth outside the Comerica Bank's parking garage, he saw more men rushing forward from the alley. They ran toward the Rangers, their automatic pistols held sideways as they fired.
"Fall back!" Hedley said, providing cover fire for his team.
Concrete shrapnel struck his CBRN, gunfire rattling around him. Too close. Too damn close. Barlow looked toward Hanscomb's prone body.
"Leave him," Hedley said. Saying those words made him physically sick. The idea of leaving behind a brother soldier, dead or alive, was anathema, a sharp knife twisting in his gut. "Go!"
The CBRN helmet prevented him from seeing peripherally, so he had to lay down a line of suppressing fire while he turned his torso to track his team's progress. Clemson was at the rear, firing toward the alley opposite them.
"Come on, Sarge!"
He turned on his heels, running half-crouched down the alleyway on his side of the street. It ran parallel to Lafayette, providing a narrow bridge between Cass and 1st Street. Barlow had taken up position at the rear corner of the Fort/Cass People Mover Station and was providing cover fire for Hedley and Clemson as they fell back into the alley and parking lot. Fulton was positioned behind a stationary vehicle, shooting over the roof of the car.
As Hedley and Clemson reached the lot, a massive SUV tore onto the macadam, tires screeching as the utility vehicle turned sharply off Fort Street and jounced over the curb, nearly clipping the steel skeleton of a burnt-out car. All four of the black Explorer's doors burst open, disgorging the driver, front passenger, and four more from either side of the back. All of the men wore black — black jeans, black shirts, with black jean jackets, and thick-soled, black Timberland boots — with navy blue bandanas tied around their faces. All that was visible was the narrow strip of black flesh and dark eyes beneath their black ball caps. Roughly half of them were armed with automatic pistols, while the other half carried assault rifles with banana clips.
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