"Get it off me!" she shouted, and he admired that her shout was, in fact, a shout and not a scream.
Gant came at it again, attempting to smash it loose with repeated jabs from the stock of his carbine. However the creature switched targets, grabbing the rifle with two bloody paws and wrestling with the major for control of the weapon.
Stacy returned the favor, coming to Thom's rescue by grabbing at the tennis player's collar and attempting to throw it off balance. This only partially worked, as the thing maintained its grip on Gant's gun and refused to let go.
Thom used this against his attacker, however, surrendering his weapon in exchange for fighting space. He pushed off and then kicked it in the chest, intent on grappling away his gun after regaining his balance. Based on what he had seen thus far, he did not believe these reanimated corpses could or would use a weapon.
The tennis player fell into a magazine rack. Six-month-old issues of Sports Illustrated and The Dupont Registry flew off along with an ancient copy of The Sharper Image catalog.
Thom stepped forward, ready to continue the fight, but hesitated as he realized they were not alone.
A trio of the hazmat-wearing newcomers approached. Two held their AKMs in a threatening manner, while the last carried a silver contraption that might have been a fire extinguisher.
The zombie paid them no notice and lunged at Gant. Before it could engage, however, the new arrival activated his silver contraption and hit the creature with a cloud of what appeared to be white dust. It carried a very pungent odor that made Thom think of talcum powder or maybe even baking soda.
The tennis player stopped, shimmied, and fell over.
Gant did not hesitate. He moved for his rifle, but a single gunshot — one that hit the floor between the toppled magazine rack and the M4 carbine — stopped him even faster than the spray had halted the walking corpse.
He turned to Dr. Stacy, who looked frightened again, and he nodded, encouraging her to do exactly as he did: raise his hands and surrender.
Past their captors and beyond the lobby out into the gravel parking lot, Gant saw powerful lights and the movement of machinery. He had no doubt that the same equipment that had arrived at the clinic had now arrived at the health club as well.
The four white-clad men with guns parted, allowing another of their number to approach. This one used a metal cane for support as he walked with a heavy limp. Unlike the others, he unzipped the big hood of his suit, allowing the upper part, including the face plate, to fall away, revealing a man beyond middle age with very black skin and big, watery eyes.
"Hello there," he said. "And who have we here?"
Gant spoke before Stacy could. "We are guests of the island. Thank god you found us before those things did."
One of the man's underlings held up the major's discarded carbine.
"A guest? I see, I suppose you came down to the health club for a little target practice," he said and smiled, but not in a particularly friendly way. "Very well. I assume you will refuse to tell me your real names, so I won't bother asking."
Stacy could not hold her tongue.
"And who are you?"
"Me? My name is Dr. Waters and let me welcome you to the experiment."
10
Captain Campion glanced out the window, where a new day's sun rose over the eastern horizon. The coming of that new day filled him with unease. There had been no contact from Major Gant since they had jumped from Franco's plane. Something was wrong.
The sight of a CH-53 Sea Stallion waiting on the tarmac was about the only thing positive he saw out there. That helicopter would ferry Campion and the balance of the Archangel team from Wake to an ad-hoc task force pulled together by PACOM over the past few hours.
Just when he thought his morning was bad enough, in came Sergeant Franco like a bull forcing his way into the proverbial china shop.
"What's the story? We going in or what?"
"Friez says no."
"He says no? What do you mean he says no? We could refuel that C-17 and drop the rest of the team in right now. Hell, we could be on the ground by this afternoon."
"I'm aware of that, Sergeant. General Friez doesn't want anyone else parachuting in there. There will be recon planes in range of Tioga soon. He ordered us to stand by until we have some treetop flybys. He wants a real good eyeball on the situation before we make our next move."
Franco paced and to Campion's amazement, the man seemed infuriated at the idea of sitting around and waiting.
"This is bullshit," Biggy muttered. "We're going to sit on our hands and do nothing."
The captain found Franco's concern astonishing. The sergeant's track record in such situations was less than stellar, particularly when it came to Major Gant. Franco's disdain for their commanding officer was rather apparent, and the fact that that disdain was rooted in racism had also been apparent for a long time.
Franco's odd behavior was just another reason for Campion to grow agitated with the entire situation. That agitation came across clearly as he said, "We move in when Friez gives us the okay. You know that, Biggy."
"Hey, Wells and the Major are out there."
Campion shot, "Since when does that matter to you?"
Franco lunged at the captain with such intensity that Campion uncharacteristically retreated a step, bumping into the desk and knocking over an empty coffee cup that belonged to the base's commanding officer.
"What the fuck does that mean? What do you mean by that?"
Campion said nothing.
"It matters to me, man. Of course it does. Why wouldn't it?"
Again, the captain remained stoic in the face of Franco's defensiveness.
"Those guys are part of the team. We need to roll in there and, you know, go in and get them. That's what we need to do."
Campion remembered now why Franco might be acting this way. The sergeant had, after all, shot dead two members of his own unit during the Red Rock mission. The circumstances were such that Benjamin Franco could not be held responsible for that action. Like so many of them — like Campion himself — he had been tricked by the mind-bending powers of the entity that had dwelled in that dungeon. Indeed, it had been Campion who had stopped Franco's rampage, putting a bullet in the sergeant and leaving him for dead.
But Richard Campion understood that his actions had not been entirely his own. The entity had managed to get inside his head and direct him to do its bidding. As he was apt to do, Campion eliminated the emotional end of it. A professional soldier could not afford regrets or sentiment, or even second thoughts. He had accepted what had happened and moved on. Perhaps Franco had not.
"We got to go in, man."
Campion did not like Sergeant Franco, and the fact that the man had allowed an issue from the last mission to affect his judgment now made him like him even less.
He stood straight and told Franco, "We do as we are ordered to do, Sergeant. A couple of fast movers are going to buzz the target zone later. What they see will tell us what the next move is going to be. Understood?"
Franco did not respond, so Campion took his understanding on faith.
"In the meantime we have to chopper out to the Peleliu so that if Friez gives us the go ahead, we can get to Tioga as fast as possible and in strength. If that's not good enough for you, then you're welcome to stay here on Wake and work on your tan."
"No, sir." Franco's lip grew stiff and he shook his head vigorously. "I'm not missing any of this."
11
Major Gant and Annabelle Stacy rode in the backseat of an open-air Jeep that bore "Island Security" emblems. Two days ago the vehicle most likely had been used by Tioga's constables to break up brawls born of beer muscles or to calm down domestic disputes between wives, husbands, and mistresses.
From what Gant saw as dawn came to the island, it appeared that Dr. Waters's people — he counted at least thirty hazmat-suit-wearing accomplices at various spots around Tioga — had appropriated local vehicles for their own use. T
he same could be said for the pay loaders and dump trucks hard at work around the island, although those earthmovers were not being used to move earth.
Instead of digging, the construction equipment collected bodies; primarily the now-immobilized—killed? — walking corpses that had overrun the retreat. Along the roads, outside bungalows, near the burning clinic, Thom witnessed work parties of armed personnel dressed in level-A biosafety gear collecting what remained of the zombie hordes and dropping them into dump trucks either by hand or by scoop, or some combination thereof.
Waters sat in the front seat with his hood back in place. One of his number drove, while two more crouched in the cargo hold with their AKMs directed at their guests.
Everything he saw as they crossed the island on the bumpy roads confirmed his initial hypothesis: the resort's most recent guests were not on Tioga by accident or in response to a cry for help. No, Waters and his band were the architects of the incident and had clearly spent time preparing for this day. That preparation revolved around cleanup, or so it seemed. He saw them collecting the bodies, but not destroying them. No funeral pyres, no burial details. It seemed as if they were being packed and stowed for some sort of trip.
A radio call to Waters from a subordinate supported Gant's conclusions.
"Team twelve to command."
The voice on the other end of the radio spoke poor English, with an accent that sounded Asian to Thom's ears.
"Team twelve, command actual. Go ahead."
"Southwest sector clear. Thirty-seven units recovered. Fifteen appear disabled prior to PX introduction."
Waters produced a small tablet from a pocket on his bio suit and, despite the bulky gloves, jotted notes. After a moment he radioed back.
"Team twelve, move to the northwest sector and rendezvous with teams ten and nine. Recovery is running behind both in time and quantities. We have not reached our estimated quotas and are nearing termination hour."
"Understood."
Waters paused as if considering something, turned around and looked at Major Gant through watery eyes, and then radioed, "Team twelve, how were the units disabled?"
"Stand by, command."
The Jeep rounded a sharp corner while they waited. After a moment the brush to either side of the road gave way and opened up to a stretch of land featuring a paved runway and an airport terminal slightly larger than a double-wide mobile home.
"Command, team 12, bullet wounds."
Waters responded with a question, "Let me guess—5.56 NATO rounds?"
A pause and then, "Lots of shells here, lots of different rounds. Looks like some 5.56, yes."
"Okay, team 12, get to the northwest sector and expedite recovery efforts." Then to Gant, "So you have been busy, haven't you? Tell me something, how difficult did you find it to disable the units?"
Stacy broke in, "The units? You mean the people of this island? That's what you mean, right?"
"Yes, young lady. Although they were not exactly people when your friend here shot them. What was it like? How many bullets did you fire per target?"
Gant answered, "I have no idea what you are talking about. My wife here and I stopped by to work on our tans. We went to the health club for a game of tennis when we bumped into you."
He then smiled his usual smile, the kind that held absolutely no humor. The kind of smile that masked a fit of anger building at the very pit of his stomach and working its way through his veins.
Waters appeared to ignore him and spoke to himself as he said, "One hundred and thirty-seven souls counted on this island prior to H-hour. You two were unaccounted for, as was that — wait a moment, that's it, isn't it?"
Gant held his smile.
"Yes, that's it. The plane we found here, the one that belonged to that senator. He was the first variable of the experiment. You're here because of him, aren't you? Yes, that's it. You are clearly American, and he is — was — an American politician. I see, and it all fits. Tell me, were you a part of his security detail, was he overdue, or did the faulty jammer provide a window of communication?"
Of course Thom did not reply, ignoring Waters's questioning gaze and instead looking ahead to the airstrip. There he saw three planes, two of which were props he recognized as big CN-235 transports, each painted gray but lacking any markings, including tail numbers. The third was a business jet, probably a Hawker 800 but, again, he saw no markings.
More of Waters's white-clad team worked here, looking over rows of "dead" bodies, some of which appeared destined for a line of shiny silver coffin-like containers piled in stacks near the planes.
Still, the number of bodies at the airport did not appear to match the number of bodies being collected by the loaders and dump trucks scouring the island. Perhaps only a select number of "units" were destined for the airport.
If so, where did the rest go?
The Jeep halted near the jet, and the guards motioned for the two prisoners to disembark. Gant appreciated the opportunity to stretch his legs — his knee tended to ache when immobilized for longer than a few minutes. He found himself flexing it to work out the pain, much like he did when getting out of bed in the morning.
This particular morning promised more challenges than a sore joint. Still, the sky spoke only of a beautiful day to come, one that should have seen Tioga's beach inundated with celebrity and high-roller vacationers soaking in the sun. Certainly Waters's team of bundled workers would find the heat inside their heavy suits rather unbearable.
A poke in the back with a rifle barrel directed him toward the side of the flimsy building that served as the airport terminal. For a moment Gant worried they were being lined up against the wall for a firing squad.
Waters unzipped his hood again to apparently much relief; lines of sweat streamed along his pitch-dark skin.
"Tell me something. How many of the units did you encounter at any one time? How much ammunition did you bring with you to the island? What type of tactics did you use to engage the units?"
Gant stood silent, considering not so much answers to Waters's questions but why he asked.
Waters added one more inquiry: "Tell me something: How afraid were you when you first encountered these animated corpses?"
When he received no reply, Waters turned to Dr. Stacy.
"Young lady, what is your impression of what you found here?"
Stacy shifted uneasily, glanced to the major and then back to Waters, and then finally spoke in a shaky voice: "I, um, really like the tennis courts."
Gant smiled inwardly in appreciation of Stacy's false bravado. She did not pull it off well, but he applauded the effort. Yes, perhaps there was more to this young girl than he had initially thought.
Waters sighed, but there was a healthy dose of amusement in his eyes. It occurred to Gant that the man had not expected the presence of trained soldiers in the midst of his experiment, but that their host also found it exciting — delightful, even — that such a twist had been added to whatever mix he had concocted.
Their host replaced the heavy hood of his level-A gear. As he worked to affix the seals he told them, "You'll have to excuse me, but I have a lot more data to gather and we are on a tight time frame. Why don't you wait right here for a spell? We'll speak again soon."
* * *
Jupiter Wells kept his SCAR-H at the ready but he knew using his battle rifle would be a last, desperate resort. Given the numbers and armament of the newcomers to Tioga, he preferred to remain hidden, moving parallel to the southern coast in a westerly direction and using rocks and brush along the shoreline for cover.
He ignored the bullhorn announcements encouraging survivors with phrases such as, "we're here to help," and "the island is secure of danger … come out of hiding … we have medicine!"
To anyone who had survived the carnage on Tioga Island, the sight of men in hazmat suits wielding rifles might be a relief. Wells knew better. He knew that any force that had managed to arrive on the island so fast in such numbers and had immediat
ely implemented a well-planned, systematic canvassing of the island had to have been well prepared to do so. That meant advanced knowledge, and that meant culpability.
The average civilian might be fooled into thinking the United Nations, the World Health Organization, or even the United States military could respond, launch, and execute a relief mission to a remote island in the middle of the Pacific twenty-four hours after a disaster of this kind. Those were the same civilians who probably envisioned those organizations as efficient, well-financed machines that could spring to life on a moment's notice.
Experience had taught Jupiter Wells a different lesson. It had been difficult enough to parachute three persons onto the island within sixteen hours of the call for help. As far as he knew, Campion was still struggling to muster a task force from Pacific Command. If and when they arrived, they would be equipped best to destroy, not save, the island.
So no, anyone who landed here in force so fast was suspect at best, most likely part of the problem and most certainly not the solution.
Wells decided that his best course of action was to consider the newcomers hostile, recon their positions and actions, and stay hidden. He had already decided to kill if it meant remaining undiscovered, or, possibly, if he could get one of them in an isolated position, he might be able to capture and interrogate. Given that the men worked in tandem and took a systematic approach to their search, Wells figured that the last option was not very likely.
In any case, he followed the coast, which bent north, led through a quarter-mile stretch of tall, jagged rocks, and then opened up to the island's only harbor, if it could be called that. He saw two long steel piers stretching out into the Pacific, still partially covered by shadows as the morning sun remained low in the sky.
A small marina-type area played host to personal watercraft and a boat that appeared rigged for parasailing, although there would be no customers today.
Nevertheless, the piers were the center of much activity, just not of the recreational variety. All roads, it seemed, led here, at least as far as the dump trucks in use around the island were concerned.
The Cannibal Virus Page 10
