Pandemic i-3

by Scott Sigler

  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 message 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.

  “EVERRRRYONE… HURTS. WILLLL GO FIND… HELP.”

  The fingers stroked Cooper’s hair one last time, then Jeff stood. He lumbered to the front of the hotel lobby. He walked out the ruined rotating door and vanished into the night.

  Cooper slowly stood. He scanned the ravaged, smoky lobby to see if any of the killers were looking at him.

  They weren’t. They were too busy dying.

  The Tall Man’s eyes leaked yellow fluid, not all that different in color and consistency from the phlegm coating his nose and mouth. He was still coughing, still sneezing, but was too weak to wipe the goo away.

  Cooper walked closer. The man’s rheumy eyes opened and closed, the stringers of yellow mucus that ran between his eyelids bouncing in time. His throat made a wet sound.

  This was the man who ate Sofia.

  You ate her too, you ate her too…

  “I only had one serving, you fuck!”

  Cooper took a step back: he’d just yelled at himself.

  You are so fucking crazy you’re going off the deep end man get control…

  “Shut up, shut up!”

  He scrunched his eyes tight. He rubbed the pistol barrel against his right temple.

  You’ve got the gun use it use it…

  Use it on the Tall Man? No need. The Tall Man didn’t have much time left. None of these assholes did.

  Or… maybe it was better if Cooper used it on himself.

  He shook his head, shook it hard. No, he couldn’t think like that. He could make it out alive. He could. But if he couldn’t, if people like the Tall Man got him, if they were going to shove a stop sign up his ass and out his mouth, roast him over a fire…

  Was eating a bullet better than just being eaten?

  The Tall Man coughed again. Phlegm came up, but this time so did blood. A thick, dark-red glob clung to his chin.

  He’s coughing blood. Chavo was coughing blood…

  Cooper heard yelling from the street. He held the gun against his thigh as he slowly walked to a broken window. He crouched, peeking just over the sill’s jagged glass.

  Outside, he saw two women sprinting for their lives. Behind them, seven or eight screaming people carrying knives, hatchets, one carrying a shotgun by the barrel as if it were a club. Running alongside the hunters were two hulking, pale-yellow creatures with tiny faces and rippling muscles. Were either of them Jeff? No, they weren’t — Cooper would have recognized his friend, monstrous or not.

  He couldn’t help those two women. He hadn’t saved Sofia, so he sure as fuck wasn’t going to get himself killed over a pair of strangers.

  He watched the pursuers, the ones who still looked like normal people. Why weren’t they sick like the Tall Man and his crew? Why weren’t they sick like Chavo?

  Wind blew through the ruined window, scattering snow in Cooper’s face. He walked back to the fire. No one had tended it for a while, nor tended to Sofia. Curls of orange heat wavered through the bed of coals, the flickering light playing off her blackened, burned, half-eaten corpse.

  Cooper looked away. He had to get out of there, but he wasn’t setting foot on those streets. No fucking way. Someone had to rescue him, someone with lots of guns, but who? Were news stations telling people how to get help? He hadn’t seen a working TV since he and Sofia fled the Trump Tower. If he still had his cell phone, he could have tried reaching cops in other cities, maybe the army or the National Guard.

  Then it hit him — he didn’t have a phone, but his “group leader” did.

  He walked back to the Tall Man.

  “Your phone,” Cooper said. “Give it to me.”

  The Tall Man stared up. His eyes narrowed in confusion — he was trying to focus, trying to see.

  Cooper held out his hand. “Your phone.”

  The Tall Man blinked a few times. His eyes seemed to clear. He nodded. With great effort, he reached his right hand into his pants pocket and pulled out a flip-phone. He flipped it open with his right thumb. His left hand reached up to wrap around the top.

  He twisted his hands and the phone cracked sickeningly, breaking into two pieces.

  The Tall Man coughed, then laughed weakly. “I know now,” he said. “I know you’re not a friend.”

  Cooper wanted to stomp his face in. He wouldn’t, though, at least not yet — the Tall Man was in great pai
n, and Cooper wanted him to suffer.

  Cooper looked up at the ceiling. Most of the lights were out, broken by random psychos throwing random things for random reasons, but two of them shone bright.

  The electricity… it was still on. Maybe he could find a hotel phone. If the power was on, maybe land lines still worked.

  He looked at the registration desk, or what was left of it. The remains of three computers lay scattered on the broken wood. Computers… if he could get on the Internet, he could probably find out what was happening. He could find help. There had to be more computers around somewhere.

  On the wall behind the registration desk, he saw a door.

  A manager’s office?

  He walked to the door. He tried the handle: locked. Maybe the psychos hadn’t been in there.

  Cooper took another look around the lobby to make sure no one had gotten up, that no one was watching him.

  No one was.

  He set off to find something heavy.

  WAITING…

  Margaret Montoya sat on the bunk of her mission module. She had the lights off. The others thought she was sleeping, so they left her alone.

  She’d handled that videoconference all wrong. She’d confronted the president with the harsh realities of life, had been unable to ignore Blackmon’s superstitious, primitive tripe. Margaret should have pandered from the get-go, told Blackmon what the woman wanted to hear — anything to get an invitation to the White House. Margaret’s rage had got the better of her, made her lose focus.

  She could have gotten close enough to murder the president of the United States. Yes, Margaret would be killed in the process, but the act would further cripple America’s ability to respond. A missed opportunity. Hopefully another of her kind, another leader, would figure out a way to get next to the president.

  America would fall.

  Then, the world.

  If the opportunity came again, Margaret would seize it. For now, she worked on understanding God’s plan, understanding the role of each caste.

  The large, yellowish bipeds: that’s what came out of the cocoons. The complete restructuring of an adult human body, creating a caste made to terrify, to destroy, to kill — a soldier joining the ranks of the hatchlings, puff-balls, kissyfaces and leaders.