by Addison Gunn
Miller shifted his weight. A low throb pulsed under his left kneecap. When he lifted his arm to rub his face, his elbow popped. The injection site beat with every thump of his heart, and it felt like his brain was pushing out through his eyes.
He found it hard to stand all of the sudden. He was in no condition for this. How was he going to operate point on a search and rescue into the heart of a literal Infected army? Or ask his team to, after everything they’d been through?
They’d done it before. In New York, Cobalt and the security squads of Schaffer-Yeager Corporation had fought and defeated a rogue battalion of Infected recruits. But that had been at the beginning of the war, when Miller and his team were fresh.
Now, Doyle could barely walk. Morland had easily lost fifty pounds of muscle. Du Trieux and Hsiung seemed okay on the surface, but he wasn’t blind to their fraying tempers, their snide comments and sarcasm. Cobalt was crumbling.
Miller ran his hands over his scalp and sighed. “When do we launch?”
Lewis gave up scratching his thigh and placed his palm on the arm of his command chair. “Four days.”
29
THEY DROVE FOR hours, bypassing Syracuse and driving south through Utica. They took Interstate 8 to the 88 through Binghamton, and then merged onto the 81. The roads were desolate.
Sometime after they passed the Pennsylvania border, the radiator on the third van started spewing thick black smoke and choked to a halt. It was dark, with a sky full of dust clouds and no visible moon. There was no sign of terror-jaws, but rather than risk camping out in the open, they pushed the dead transport off to the side and piled into the two remaining vehicles. Just north of the 84/81 interchange they exited the highway and stopped in the parking lot of an old school.
After a quick sweep of the school’s interior, they found evidence of an old commune. Samantha’s first clue was the waste area: with no running water, the inhabitants had resorted to using an out-of-the-way classroom. It reeked to high hell, but given the circumstances, Sam couldn’t really blame them. And it was common Infected practice.
Mountains of stinking blankets, bed sheets, and filthy pillows were scattered down the hallways, and there was evidence of cooking fires—but no bodies. None. Whoever they’d been, they hadn’t died of starvation or sickness; they had simply left. It was a modern-day Machu Picchu.
Seeing as how it was night, dark, and more than a little suspicious, Jan and Sam helped the others barricade themselves into an auditorium, with plans to either fix the broken radiator, find an alternative vehicle to commandeer, or cram into the two remaining transports and make for Baltimore at first light.
The group had scavenged the cleanest of the blankets and sheets and were cuddling together in small clusters for warmth. The lot of them were content, even comforted, by being indoors, locked in, and most importantly, together.
Samantha wasn’t sure how they could stand it. She curled her body into itself and huddled at the back of the auditorium, alone. Despite her exhaustion, her mind raced.
Somewhere in Baltimore, only a few hours away, was the cure for the Archaean parasite. The mere idea of being free from the weight of everyone else’s emotions made Sam want to get to her feet and start walking.
How could they bear it? These people. Every moment of sadness was shared. Every hint of shame, intolerance, and yearning swirled around the heads of every member of their group. Sure, the happiness and joy were also collective, but in this world, on this planet and among these terrors, how much of those was there? She could count the happy moments on one hand.
Even now, the cautious optimism and contentedness were fleeting. She knew by the morning the crowd would be full of wanting, of trepidation and anxiety. An unease would rise in every soul in the auditorium, smothering Samantha like a blanket.
She would be glad to be free of it, truly. If she could have cut the others’ emotions out of her head by hand, she’d have a knife through her ear in a heartbeat.
Soon, and near, an opportunity approached. Baltimore was her last hope. If all failed there, she had no other reason to continue this pitiful existence.
Sam blinked away her anger. She felt someone watching and spotted Jan, across the room. She had just finished walking the perimeter of the auditorium.
Jan came up and sat in the next seat over. She set her rifle on the floor, pulled the edges of her jacket tighter across her chest and buried her hands in her armpits. After staring at the ceiling for a few moments, the older woman turned her head toward Sam. “They’re so happy. It’s tempting to stay here, isn’t it? But what’s happening in Baltimore is too important. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Sam pursed her lips and pulled her legs against her chest. “I agree,” she said.
Jan nodded.
Disgusted, and with an uneasy churn in the depths of her belly, Sam turned her back on her and closed her eyes.
AT FIRST LIGHT, Samantha and a few others set out to explore the school campus in search of supplies, while the rest of the group went back for the third vehicle. After wandering the halls for a few minutes, Sam found a cafeteria, and beyond it, an industrial kitchen.
Stainless steel cabinets and countertops lined the long room. There was a double oven—broken, covered in fungus—a six-burner stove and grill, also broken, a whole line of cabinets—all empty—and a pantry with a broken light switch, which at first glance appeared to be bare.
Unwilling to admit defeat, Samantha stepped into the dark pantry and fumbled blindly around the barren shelves. The bottom shelf was empty, as was the one above. At chest level she found a large can of something—she couldn’t be sure what. She set it beside her feet on the floor and moved into the darkness. In the back of the pantry she found a pair of nylon trash bags, a large roll of industrial cellophane wrap, and another can. She checked the shelves on the right, but found they were bare.
Satisfied, she snatched up the two cans, draped the trash bags over her shoulder, and cradled the cellophane in the crock of her arm and turned to leave. She found Jan standing at the pantry entry, one hand resting on the door.
“Oh,” Sam said, “are you back with the third transport?”
“You’re not the only Bishop,” Jan said.
“Huh?” It was hard to see Jan’s expression in the shadows, but Sam heard the anger in her voice. “Did something happen to the group who went back for the third van? Is everything alright?”
“No.” Jan shook her head. “But it will be.”
“Okay... Found some stuff here,” Sam said, making an effort to keep her tone sunny. “Not sure what it is, but it’s better than nothing.”
“You forget who you’re talking to,” Jan said.
Sam paused, still gripping the loot in her arms. “Jan, what’s going on?”
“I can sense your feelings,” she said. She drummed her fingers on the door, raising a hollow, metallic thumping noise. “I know what you really want.”
“What I want is to get out of this pantry and back on the road to Baltimore as soon as possible,” Samantha said.
“But not for the right reasons.”
Sam felt her skin prickle. “What do you know about my reasons?”
“Enough to say that you shouldn’t come with us.”
Sam swallowed the lump in her throat. “Of course I’m coming with you. We don’t have time to debate this. It’s time to go.” She stepped forward.
With a fluid motion, Jan moved to Sam’s left, closing the door slightly and blocking it with her body.
“If you pace yourself with rationing,” Jan said, “you can live here until winter passes. It’ll be easier once the snow melts. You can head west like you originally wanted. You’re resourceful, you’ll be fine. This is for the best.”
“Get out of the way,” Sam said, temper rising. “We need to pack these cans of”—she checked the labels and frowned—“ketchup for the trip.”
“Sorry,” Jan said, darting out and closing the door, “but you leave me no choice.
”
Sam barely had time to react. Darting forward, she thrust her foot into the gap.
Jan tried to slam the door closed again, only to have Sam shove her back, the cans giving her fists weight.
Stumbling backwards, Jan fell into the kitchen, grabbing the edge of a counter to steady herself.
Still clutching the supplies, Sam rushed her, crashing into the woman and sending both of them to the cracked tiles below, with Sam on top.
Jan’s head hit the floor with a wet thunk, but it did little to slow her. Eyes wide, she grabbed Sam by the shoulders and rolled her over, climbing on top of her and clutching her by the shoulders. As Jan struggled to stand, Sam realized she intended to drag her into the pantry.
Swinging her hand upward, Sam cracked Jan over the head with one of the cans, splitting the lid and splattering ketchup all over the both of them.
Under the blow, Jan lost her grip on Sam and toppled to the floor, smacking her head against a cabinet. Momentarily stunned, Jan blinked and shook her head.
Seizing the moment, Sam dropped the other items in her arms and grabbed up the roll of cellophane. Pulling a long strip across her chest, Sam flattened the plastic wrap over Jan’s nose and mouth and pressed the woman to the floor, her chest over the woman’s face.
Jan was not a slight woman. She was easily an inch taller than Sam, and in her prime, could have snapped Sam in half like a twig—but she’d also been at the labor camp twice as long as Samantha, and in her weakened state, was no match for her. She kicked and flailed, but Samantha pressed down with all her might, anger and frustration lending strength to her arms.
Jan screamed and bucked. She pushed off her feet, raised her hips and tried to twist away, but Sam held fast. She clawed at Sam’s face and attempted to jam her thumbs into her eye sockets, but her strength was fleeting, weak from months of eating nothing but fungus. Within minutes, Jan’s body went slack, and then she stopped moving.
Sam could hardly breathe. She waited a few seconds, paralyzed. Eventually, she crawled off the body and slid backwards, her shoulder blades banging against the cabinets as she choked on air. The back of her hand, smothered in ketchup, went to her mouth and all at once her adrenaline failed her.
Holy Christ. What had she done?
She’d murdered Jan.
How the hell had she done that?
She hadn’t even felt Jan’s fear. What was happening to her?
What the hell was she going to do? Show up covered in scratches and ketchup, with no Jan, and drive to Baltimore like nothing happened?
The others would ask questions. What was she going to do? Kill them all, to cover her tracks?
There was almost one meter of snow outside. She couldn’t take off on her own. She wouldn’t get a kilometer without freezing to death or being chomped by a pack of terror-jaws or husk-mutts. Any moment, someone could show up in the kitchen, searching for them both, and then she would be toast.
She had to do something. Fast. The others would appear before long.
Shaking from head to toe, Sam grabbed a counter and pulled herself upright. Then, stumbling forward, she grabbed Jan’s body by the arms and dragged her into the pantry, closing and locking it behind her.
Using the rest of the cellophane and the trash bags, Sam attempted to wipe herself clean of ketchup, but her hands shook and she just seemed to smear it around. Finally giving up, she made her way back to the auditorium, where Binh and the others were gathering up whatever loot they had managed to find and collecting it on some of the blankets and bed sheets, to lug back to the trucks.
“Jesus,” Binh breathed. “What happened?”
“Terror-jaws,” Sam said, not really knowing where the lie came from. “In the kitchen. We’ve got to hurry!”
Binh’s eyes widened in terror.
“We’ve got to evacuate,” Sam said. “Now!”
Binh nodded, his face having gone pale. “What about Jan? She went to find you.”
Sam shook her head. Her eyes filled with tears. “The terror-jaws...”
Binh looked stricken, but resolved. He adjusted the strap of his hunting rifle on his shoulder, and handed another to Sam. She took it with a steady hand.
“Let’s go,” he said, raising his voice to address the crowd. “This location’s been compromised. We’re moving out!”
Sam blinked slowly and grabbed a corner of a bed sheet. They exited the auditorium with calm precision and loaded up the three transport trucks. All the third truck had needed was to cool off and have the radiator refilled. Sam wasn’t sure how long it would last before overheating again, but it was only a few more hours to Baltimore.
With a heave, the group loaded up the supplies. Binh patted Sam on the shoulder, then ran ahead to drive Jan’s truck.
How was he to know her tears were from guilt, and not fear? She watched them rally and move, suddenly impressed with how efficient Infected could be when properly motivated and directed. She was the only Bishop among them, now. There would be no way they could resist her, she realized, if she pushed them.
Sam closed the truck door, compressed the clutch and popped the ignition. A thought crossed her mind and she bit her lip to keep from smiling.
There was no one to stop her now.
30
AS MUCH AS they would have liked to sail up to the Cruise Maryland Terminal in Baltimore and drive straight toward the Johns Hopkins Research Facility, Captain Corthwell and Commander Lewis figured there’d be too many US military troops. Looking at the map, Miller didn’t disagree.
“If we had a hundred thousand troops or so, then maybe we could storm the port and take it by force,” Lewis said, “but we don’t.”
“It would be a fool’s errand,” agreed the captain. He stood in the dingy room with a dignified air.
“Besides,” Lewis added, “what with the rising sea levels, we’re not one hundred percent certain it’s still there, much less operational.”
Miller eyed the charts and maps laid out across Gray’s ping pong table desk and nodded. “What about this river?”
Lewis grimaced. “The Back River is industrial waste and city run off; it’d be like swimming in sewage. Besides which, it’s only about ten meters deep.”
“We thought it best,” the captain said, pointing to the northeast on the map, “to enter here, at one of the Gunpowder River’s outlets. There’s a national park, or what’s left of it—most of it’s under water now. We think you’re unlikely to find too many troops stationed that far from the target.”
“You will, however,” Lewis added, “find more wildlife to contend with. So keep a sharp eye.”
“You’ll move north here, up this peninsula,” said the captain. “Dundee National Environment Area. Then you’ll pass north of this airport. Once you’re by, you can get on a highway—things will move much quicker from there.”
“It’s awfully far,” Miller observed.
Lewis frowned. “It’s about a four-hour walk, if you go slow. But if we bring you in south of the target, we run a bigger risk of your being seen. We have to swing wide and drop you north. I know it’s not ideal, but it’s the best we’ve got.”
“Separate from the troops once you pass Interstate 95,” the captain said. “They’ll proceed directly to engage as you slip in from the northwest.”
“Black-ops shit,” Miller said, grimacing.
Only Lewis caught the reference. “Some things never change.”
Miller smirked. “Nope.”
DOYLE SNAPPED A mag into his combat vest and sheathed his knife. His knee, currently held together with pins and an exo-skeletal brace, sat propped on an ammunition crate in front of him.
Hsiung, watching from her nook across the room, slid out of her parachute hammock and cleared her throat. “What have you taken for the pain?” she asked him.
Behind the bar, sitting on his favorite stool, Morland scoffed.
Du Trieux, sharpening her knife on a whetstone in a chair by the door, continued strok
ing her hunting blade with rhythmic motions.
“Nothing,” Doyle said. “I refused it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Hsiung pressed her lips together.
“You sure that’s wise?” du Trieux said, not missing a stroke.
Doyle shrugged and snapped another mag into his vest.
“Won’t the pain slow you down?” Hsiung asked.
Doyle raised an eyebrow.
Du Trieux stopped sharpening. “Mon dieu.”
Hsiung’s face reddened. “You’re a liability. You should sit this operation out.”
“And do what?” Doyle retorted. “I’m no good to anybody here.”
“It’s not your call,” du Trieux said to Hsiung, her words sharp.
“Miller wants us all. The choice is made,” Morland said. He hopped down from his stool to where his rifle lay spread in pieces across the bar and began reassembling it.
“Maybe Miller isn’t thinking clearly,” Hsiung said. “Have you seen him lately?”
“I’m just fine, thanks for your concern,” Miller said. He stood in the Crow’s Nest door. He fought to keep his voice level. He knew he looked like shit—hell, they all did—but if this wasn’t a case of the pot calling the kettle black, he didn’t know what was. “And so is Doyle. Am I right?”
Doyle pushed off the arms of his chair and stood. If he was in any sort of pain, which Miller was fairly certain he was, he hid it well. “You bet, boss.”
“That’s settled, then.” Miller frowned and eyed each member of his team. He wished he could have given them more time to rest—or at the very least, a pep talk—but there wasn’t any time left; and besides, Miller wasn’t sure he had any pep to give. After four days at sea they’d reached their drop location. It was go time. Any misgivings had to be put aside. “Our transport is ready. Move out.”
Doyle was the first out the door, hardly a limp in his step. “Yes, sir.”
