by Scott Sigler
All the pressure, the danger… Tim had lost it. He’d cracked.
“You’re wrong,” Clarence said, struggling to keep his voice level. “She’s pregnant, you paranoid little shit. She doesn’t want to take any chances.”
“Are you kidding me?” Tim spread his arms, a gesture that took in the hotel, the city, everything. “Does this look like a sixth-grade field trip to the museum?” He pointed at Cooper. “She comes into this slaughterhouse no problem, then won’t get near him? She’s afraid of catching the hydras, Otto — she’s afraid of catching a disease that only kills the infected.”
No… Tim was wrong. He had to be.
“She tested over and over again,” Clarence said. “She blew negative every time.”
“So did Cantrell.” Tim picked up a testing kit off the portable table and held it up. The light showed a steady green “So did the guy in the red coat, the one that Cooper said was the leader of his group of Converted. The guy who died from the hydras, just like the other infected. There’s a strain the test doesn’t detect, Otto, and Margaret has it.”
Clarence stared at the testing kit. Green light. Margaret’s tests showed green lights. She wouldn’t go near Cooper. No, there had to be an explanation.
“The baby,” he said. “She doesn’t know how hydras might affect the baby.”
“Stop it,” Tim snapped. “We don’t have time for denial. We have to—”
Klimas’s voice came over their headsets.
“All personnel, Predator drones show heavy foot traffic headed our way,” he said. “Movement on East Chicago, coming from both directions on Michigan, and all of it converging on our position. They aren’t coming to swap spit and rub tummies, people. Man the perimeter, fire at anything that moves. It’s game time.”
How could they attack now? Tim said Margaret was infected… maybe she was just sick… the baby, making her act strange…
Clarence’s headset let out a short burst of static as someone switched frequencies.
“Otto, this is Klimas, over?”
Clarence reacted automatically. “Otto here, go ahead.”
“The shit is about to hit the fan. SITREP on the civvies?”
“Montoya is up in 1812 with Bogdana,” Clarence said. “I’m in the lobby with Feely and Mitchell.”
“Good,” Klimas said. “Stay right there unless I tell you otherwise, or unless someone is shooting at you.”
His wife was upstairs, and an attack was coming.
“I have to go get Margaret. I’ll grab her and—”
“Negative, Agent Otto,” Klimas said. “Stay right where you are. You are responsible for protecting Feely and the package. I’ll have Bogdana bring Montoya down. Klimas, out.”
Clarence closed his eyes, tried to think things through. The future of the human race was right next to him, sitting in a swivel chair, still partially sedated. But his family was seventeen floors above. Was Tim crazy?
Or, if Tim was right…
Clarence’s headset came alive with Rangers and SEALs calling out targets, with the sound of weapons fire.
Then several voices at once, from both inside the lobby and over the comm link, calling the same word: incoming!
Clarence heard a muffled crash of glass followed by the whoof of billowing fire that filled the lobby with a sudden and angry orange light.
GAME ON
Paulius Klimas rolled across the snowy pavement, putting out the flames that danced up his thighs. Molotov cocktails rained down around him. The smell of burning gasoline filled the air. Mortars from inside the perimeter thoooped, weapons fired, men shouted out targets or screamed in agony.
Paulius slid up against the door of a burned-out Lincoln Navigator. He peeked around the front bumper, east down Chicago Avenue. Dozens of small flames arced through the air toward his position, spinning orange stars that would land and burst, spreading long ovals of flame. Off in the distance, he saw muzzle flashes coming from behind overturned cars on Chicago Avenue and on Rush Street, as well as from skyscraper windows in all directions.
Bullets plinked off the Navigator, punched through what glass still remained in the ruined vehicle. Molotovs hit every few seconds. Most of the improvised missiles fell short, but more than a few sailed over the perimeter to set the pavement afire.
He thumbed to his SEAL-only frequency and pressed the “talk” button.
“This is Klimas. Overwatch, locate and return fire, concentrate on enemy positions in the buildings on the corners of Chicago and Rush, Chicago and Michigan. Prioritize all high-elevation enemy snipers, repeat, all high-elevation enemy snipers. SITREP by squads, go.”
The squads reported back: heavy concentrations of small-arms fire and Molotovs coming in from all directions. Most of the enemy troops had to be armed civilians. His marksmen would thin them out quickly, but just how big a force did they face?
Paulius switched to the Rangers’ channel and listened in. Captain Dundee was already calling in air support. The Apaches would be here in minutes.
The hotel was so large, Paulius still had men going from floor to floor, securing the place one room at a time. He switched back to the SEAL channel.
“Interior personnel, sound off.”
His men reported in. All but one — Bogdana. Were there still bad guys in the hotel? Had they taken out Bogs and Margo?
He switched channels again. “Civilians, sound off!”
FEEL THE HEAT
Tim coughed, trying to clear the thick, greasy smoke from his lungs and throat. He’d lost his gas mask.
He pushed himself to his knees, but stayed behind the reception counter. The Rangers were putting out fires even as bullets whizzed into the lobby, splintering into the wood walls or taking chunks out of the black marble columns.
He saw Cooper Mitchell lying prone, struggling to rise. Tim threw an arm over the man, protecting him as well as he could.
Then the big form of Clarence Otto scrambled behind the ruined counter, aimed his pistol over it toward the hotel’s front entrance.
Tim heard the short burst of static caused by someone coming onto the civilian frequency.
“Civilians, sound off!”
Klimas. In the background Tim heard the constant roar of gunfire and a wounded soldier screaming for help.
“Otto here,” Clarence said. “Feely is with me, as is the package.”
“Acknowledged,” Klimas said. “Margaret, sound off.”
There was no response.
“Margaret, sound off,” Klimas said again.
Still nothing.
Otto crouched low. “Have Bogdana bring her down, Klimas, right now.”
“No response from Bogdana,” Klimas said.
Had Margaret killed the man? Tim didn’t know if she could get the drop on a SEAL, but she was infected, he knew she was, and that meant she was capable of anything.
Clarence stayed low but took a step toward the elevator. “Klimas, I’m going to get Margaret.”
“Negative, Otto, that’s a—” Klimas stopped in midsentence. Gunfire filled Tim’s headphones, so loud it made him wince. “I repeat, that’s a negative. I’m sending Bosh and Ramierez to get her. Otto, do not leave your post.”
Clarence paused. Tim could see the man’s eyes through the gas mask lenses, see the turmoil, the indecision.
“Affirmative,” Clarence said.
Tim heard the click of Klimas switching off the channel.
Outside, the gunfire sounded constant, an orchestra of unending death. A bullet hit the centrifuge on top of the portable table, sending it spinning violently down to the marble floor.
Clarence shook his head. “I have to get her.”
He again turned toward the elevator.
Tim reached up, grabbed Clarence’s arm.
“Otto, stay here, goddamit! Don’t you fucking leave us alone!”
Cooper Mitchell tried to roll to his hands and knees but lost his balance, fell back down to his side. He looked around, eyes blinking
and unfocused.
Clarence grabbed Tim’s wrist, pulled the hand free.
“I’m going to get my wife,” he said. “Stay here with Cooper. The Rangers will protect you.”
He sprinted for the elevator.
Tim felt lost. He looked at Cooper Mitchell, who was again trying to get to his hands and knees. Cooper… it was all about Cooper, about the microorganism he had in his body, in his blood.
Tim pressed his “talk” button. “Klimas, this is Feely, come in! Come in, Klimas!”
Klimas came back instantly, both his voice and the sound of gunfire painfully loud.
“Goddamit, Feely, stay off this channel!”
“Margaret’s infected. Otto went to get her. I’m alone with Mitchell. Get us out of here!”
A bullet ripped through the portable table’s metal leg — the table leaned to the right and fell on its edge.
“Feely,” Klimas said, “do you have a weapon?”
“No.”
“Then find one. Right now Mitchell is your responsibility. Protect him. The lobby is the safest place we have. That reception counter is decent cover, so stay behind it. I’ll get someone to you as soon as I can. Klimas, out.”
The frequency clicked off.
I am so screwed, so screwed…
A crash of glass, a whuff of billowing fire so close Tim felt the heat through his suit. He threw himself on top of Cooper to protect him from the flames.
So screwed, so screwed…
FREEDOM
Margaret paused on the stairwell landing of the fifteenth floor. She carefully checked her suit for tears and cuts: she couldn’t take any chances now.
She had killed Bogdana, blown his brains all over that rotted corpse. To pull the trigger, to know she was the one to end that subcreature’s miserable existence… it felt glorious.
Humans had pissed away their chance to live on this world. War, hatred, pollution, genocide… the true legacy of humankind. She hadn’t taken a life; she had simply exterminated a pest.
After she’d killed Bogdana, she’d heard the battle erupt in the streets. A look out the window gave her all the motivation she needed to keep fighting — as far down Chicago Avenue as she could see, waves and waves of people hiding behind barriers, waiting to advance. The Converted, coming to save her.
But Cooper Mitchell was downstairs. The Antichrist. If her kind poured in like a tidal wave of blessed bodies, overwhelming the Rangers and SEALS, they might come into contact with that diseased piece of garbage; they might be exposed. If as few as four or five of them contracted his hydras and then faded into the night, mingled with others, that was enough to start an unstoppable plague. Margaret’s people might be wiped out forever, leaving God’s will unfulfilled. The humans could keep developing, keep building, until someday they reached the stars.
She had to stop that from happening. She had to kill Cooper Mitchell before her people could reach him. She had the gun. D’Shawn Bosh had shown her how to use it, how to take a shooter’s stance, how to breathe out slowly, how to squeeze the trigger, never pull it.
Margaret didn’t have to get close to Cooper to kill him: she just needed a clean shot.
A clean shot, and a distraction.
That fucker Feely had probably already told Clarence and the others that she was infected — they wouldn’t trust her now, might even kill her on sight. She had to be careful, but she also had to move fast. The Converted onslaught would provide her the needed distraction. Everyone would be busy trying to repel the attack.
Kill Cooper Mitchell, then get to her people: that was all that mattered.
Afterward, she could figure out how to defuse humanity’s last weapon. She had discovered the hydras; she could also find a way to destroy them. Chicago had universities, hospitals — she could cobble together a working lab. She’d saved humanity three times over, so why couldn’t she do the same for her new tribe?
But first, Cooper had to die.
Margaret started down the steps.
THE EVIDENCE
Clarence sprinted down the hallway of the eighteenth floor, Glock 19 in hand, heading for the room where they’d found Cooper Mitchell. He leaned left to turn the corner without slowing, booted feet digging into the hallway carpet. He came around to the sight of a pair of M4s pointed his way. He tried to stop suddenly, knew in that moment bullets would rip him to shreds, but he was moving too fast — his forward momentum slammed him into the far wall.
He fell to the floor.
“Drop the weapon!” Ramierez screamed.
Clarence let the Glock fall from his hand to thump on the hallway’s carpet.
Ramierez stayed in place, black M4 tight to his shoulder and aimed at Clarence’s chest.
D’Shawn Bosh ran up, grabbed Clarence’s sidearm, took two steps back.
“Montoya,” Bosh said. “Where is she? She killed Bogdana.”
That couldn’t be true, couldn’t be; there had to be hostiles in the building.
“You guys got it all wrong,” Clarence said. “Margaret didn’t kill anyone.”
“Get your ass up,” Bosh said.
Clarence stood.
Ramierez’s aim didn’t waver. He seethed with visible fury — if Clarence gave him a reason, he knew Ramierez would put him down.
Bosh pushed Clarence down the hall.
“Move,” Bosh said. “See for yourself.”
Clarence felt so lost, so disoriented. He didn’t resist.
Another push on his back as he stumbled into Room 1812.
Clarence saw two bodies: the bloated thing that Cooper had hid beneath and, sprawled on top of it, Bogdana. A small hole in his CBRN suit, right at the back of his head, told the story.
“Point blank,” Bosh said. “Bogdana’s a SEAL, asshole — you think one of those gibbering idiots could have gotten that close to him?”
Clarence shook his head. No… not Margaret… she was immune, Clarence had seen her take the tests.
“We have to find her,” he said. “She… she’s in danger.”
The words rang hollow, even to him.
Bosh tossed Clarence’s pistol onto the bed.
“Ram and I are going to the fifth floor,” he said. “Setting up a sniper position. Look for her if you want. But when you see her, if you don’t shoot first, it was real nice knowing you.”
The two SEALs ran off down the hall.
Clarence thumbed his “talk” button.
“Margaret, answer me.”
He waited. No response.
“Margaret, please, please answer me!”
Nothing.
Clarence stared at Bogdana.
Bosh was right. Tim was right.
Margaret had done this.
She was infected.
The brutal reality hit home. He leaned against the wall. His wife, his love, the mother of his child… she was one of them.
The noise of the battle seemed to hit him all at once, the sounds of gunfire filtering up from the street. And not that far off, the pounding of helicopter rotors.
Why had she revealed herself now? Had she known this attack was coming, somehow? More of that infected telepathy, their hive-mind making them all move as one? Or was it simply because she realized that Tim had discovered her secret, that he was about to out her? But if that was the case, Margaret could have denied it — she tested negative, Tim would have had no proof.
Clarence looked at Bogdana. Had Margaret killed the man so she could slip away and join her kind?
The mission… the package… he had to focus on that. If he didn’t concentrate on saving Cooper Mitchell, on making all of this worthwhile, he knew he’d go insane.
Clarence grabbed his weapon, turned, and ran for the elevator.
COCKTAIL PARTY
Flames soared from cars, trucks, delivery vans and buses, destroying any night-vision capability. Heat from a dozen fires chased away the winter night’s chill. This wasn’t a couple of indigs hucking a bottle to pretend they could fight
back against the oppressors: this was a concentrated, planned, sustained attack.
From the north, south, east and west, men called for backup.
Paulius had no backup to send.
The Converted stayed behind their cover of burned-out cars and trucks, providing few targets to hit. When heads did pop up, the SEALs and the Rangers took them out. His overwatch had mowed down most of the enemy’s high positions and were now picking off anything that moved.
The Molotov barrage had slowed since the attack began five minutes earlier, but still the bombs poured in, a constant symphony of breaking glass and billowing flame. The Converted had to be using a sling of some kind, something to hurl the gas-filled bottles farther than any man could possibly throw.
He clicked his “talk” button.
“This is Klimas, can anyone up top see what they’re using to launch those Molotovs?”
“Negative, Commander,” came back Roth’s voice. “The bad guys put burning tires in front of their perimeter wall, too much smoke to see what’s going on.”
Through the flames and the constant gunfire, Paulius heard the roar of approaching helicopters. Apaches, lining up an attack run — these local yokels were about to get a rude awakening courtesy of chain-gun music.
He peeked out under the bumper of a delivery truck, looked east along Chicago Avenue. Many Molotovs had fallen short and crashed into the pavement. The flickering flames made the air waver and warp. Through that, Paulius saw bits of movement about thirty meters out, heads peeking above cars, shadows sliding from vehicle to vehicle.
Heads… and something else, something smaller, lower to the ground.
Roth’s deep voice again: “This is East Overlook, we have large numbers of enemy infantry advancing on us from the east, on Chicago Avenue. Holy shit, boys, looks like thousands of them. Mixed units, people and those hatchling things.”
Klimas switched to the Ranger channel. “SEAL commander to Captain Dundee. SEAL commander to Captain Dundee.”
The Ranger commander answered instantly. “Dundee here, go.”
