7 Sykos

by Marsheila Rockwell

  “Oh my God, Fallon! Shit! I don’t know what to do!” Book’s voice in her ear was horrified and frantic, but there was nothing the analyst could do—­she had the only two-­way, so he couldn’t alert the rest of the Sykos. She was on her own, and all that was left was for him to bear testament to her shame.

  Warga grabbed her Glocks and tossed them into the showers, then did the same with the rest of her weapons, patting her down slowly and with great relish. When he was sure she was defenseless, he pushed against her from behind, rubbing his warm crotch against her as he reached around to undo her pants. All the while, the knife remained steady at her throat. Warga hadn’t forgotten his moves while in prison, and he’d perfected them long before that. His wound didn’t seem to affect his upper-­body strength.

  He jerked her pants down and grabbed a handful of bare ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise, then started on his own pants.

  “You should have let me do one of those Army bitches before we left, or even Goth Girl. But, no, you had to spoil my fun and just let me get more and more worked up by all the shootin’ and dyin’. So since I can’t have them, I’m just going to use you, Doc. And I’m going to enjoy every quick minute of it.”

  Maybe it won’t be that bad, she thought, her heart hammering beneath his blade. Maybe her psychopathy would kick in full force and she’d go numb, not feel it beyond the physical aspects. Maybe it wouldn’t affect her as much later. For now, though, she was terrified, and more pissed off than she’d ever been in her life.

  He’d just gotten himself free and was rubbing up against the crack of her ass when there was a sound like a bear roaring and feet slapping across turquoise tiles. Then Warga was being pulled off her, his knife scoring her throat as his arm was jerked away.

  When she turned, Sansome was punching Warga in the face, then in the gut. Warga’s knife went flying, and after jerking her pants back up, Fallon scrambled for it as the blade got kicked away from her by someone’s foot.

  She snatched it off the cool tiles, then straightened to see Warga returning Sansome’s assault blow for blow. He focused his attack on Sansome’s battered face, and it was working. Sansome was losing ground.

  She was behind Warga and to his left. Without thinking, she rushed forward and drove his knife into his back, just below the rib cage and angled upward.

  Warga cried out in pain, and Sansome punched him again as warm blood rushed out over Fallon’s hand. As it coated her skin, she twisted the blade in deep, imagining it piercing his ascending colon and tearing into his liver. She didn’t think it was long enough to reach his lung, but she drove it in again, hoping. His accompanying scream was gratifying.

  Fuck with me, you bastard, and this is what you get. Fallon had no idea where the thought had come from, but she welcomed it.

  Finally noticing what she was doing, Sansome punched Warga again, this time in the gut, which pushed his organs back against the knife, causing even more damage. Then Fallon pulled the knife out, stepped back, and together they watched Warga fall.

  “Thanks,” she said to Sansome.

  He shook his head. “Not done yet.”

  Sansome held his hand out for the knife, and Fallon didn’t hesitate. Then the Syko knelt beside Warga and began hacking through his neck while he was still alive to enjoy every not-­quick minute of it.

  “Jesus, Fallon,” Book breathed in her ear, and she realized that it would probably be better for all of them if the brass back at PIR didn’t see this part. She blinked the Morse code.

  “What was that, Fallon? That wasn’t the ‘Off’ command.”

  “Stop the feed! I’m a little distracted here.”

  “What? I can’t—­”

  “Just do it. You don’t want to see this, anyway.”

  He was silent after that though she had no way of knowing whether he’d complied with her request or not. For his sake, more than her own, she hoped he had. For her part—­assuming they had no video to contradict her story—­she’d just claim Warga had died of the wounds she’d inflicted in self-­defense, and they’d never be able to prove otherwise.

  It was a slow, bloody business, and Fallon had time to adjust her clothing, wash her hands, and gather her weapons back up. While in the stall collecting her Glocks, Fallon wished she had time to shower, to try and scrub the feel of Warga’s skin off of hers, but she had a feeling even steel wool wouldn’t work for that. Acid, maybe.

  When she turned back to Sansome, he was holding up Warga’s severed head by the hair, like some sort of barbarian out of a fantasy novel.

  “What are you going to do with it?” she asked curiously. He offered it to her. “No, thank you. I don’t need any more reminders of that piece of shit.”

  Sansome’s expression brightened.

  “That’s perfect.”

  He walked over to the nearest stall and dropped Warga’s head in the toilet, where it landed with a pink splash. He turned back to her, smiling.

  “That’s where shit belongs, right?”

  “Yes, Joe. Yes, it definitely is.”

  CHAPTER 44

  10 hours

  The sun stroked the western horizon in a sky painted in rose and tangerine and watermelon pink and blood red by the smoke filling the Valley. The shadows lengthened lazily, and the strident buzz of crickets filled the air, just like when the world had been sane. Light saw it when he woke from a doze, deep enough that he had been dreaming that he had been back on a tree-­lined street in northern Virginia, in a neighborhood that transitioned from urban to semi-­suburban but where the only constant was poverty. He still thought of that street as home despite having been away from it three times as many years as he had lived there.

  The street looked pleasant enough if you were just passing through, but to Henry Todd Light, it had been a pathway to pain and fear and humiliation because it led toward home, and home was the worst place. In the dream, he had been walking away from home, but with each step another bug landed on him—­moths and spiders and flies and grasshoppers and deer ticks and more—­and each one seemed to weigh ten pounds, so whenever another one lit on him, he was weighed down that much more. He was beginning to think he would never make it to the end of the first block, much less farther than that, because he just could not bear up under the burden.

  Then his hand slipped off the stock of his M249, and he woke with a start. He blinked and looked around to see who had noticed and who might if he just quietly slipped away. Lilith was sound asleep, Fallon was staring off into some big nowhere. Sansome sat there looking like his brain had taken a vacation far away. Only Pybus might have seen him. He was sitting across from Light, his head and shoulders moving to music only he could hear, his fingers rubbing across each other in silent snaps, keeping the bass line, Light thought. There was a smile on his face. When Light caught his gaze, Pybus tossed him a smile and a nod before he went back to grooving to unheard tunes.

  “How long has it been?” Light asked, speaking to no one in particular.

  Fallon’s head jerked a little. “How long for what?”

  “Since we’ve heard gunfire or seen an Infected.”

  “Must be close to an hour,” Fallon said.

  “Ask your boyfriend. He’ll know.”

  “My what?” she asked. Then she went quiet for a moment. “Book says it’s been fifty-­two minutes.”

  “Almost twilight, Fallon. I think the coast is plenty clear. Let’s get back to the truck.”

  “I’ll take a look.” She started to stand, winced.

  “Stiff muscles,” Light said. “Stretch a little. I’ll check.”

  He got up easily, went up on tiptoe, hands elevated, and popped his back. Then he walked out into the gloaming and listened to the crickets, who were neither Infecteds nor gunfire. He saw nothing moving except soft magenta clouds, drifting as if they had no cares, as if no one in the world had a car
e.

  The only way that could happen, he knew, was if there were no one in the world.

  He turned back to the bar. “It’s clear,” he said. “Let’s motor.”

  Once everybody was conscious again, they made their way back over the bridge, past the walls, and to the hotel or whatever it was, where they had left the truck. Two new corpses decorated the parking lot; both had undergone the crude craniotomies that had become so familiar. Whoever had first called the skull a brainpan probably had no idea how right they would become.

  They looked like a thirtysomething ­couple. They had probably been holed up inside, thought they’d seen an opportunity, and made a run for their car. They didn’t make it. Which put Light a little more on his guard because he and his fellow Sykos were doing the exact same thing. Only difference was they had big guns and no compunctions about using them.

  But it was genuinely clear. Nothing attacked; the only living thing Light saw was a raven that landed on a wall, cawed once, then hopped to a different spot on the same wall before taking flight. The truck was where they’d left it. Light climbed into his usual spot behind the wheel, waited for the others to settle, and cranked the big V8 diesel. He reversed quickly out of the parking space, shifted into DRIVE, and headed for the ser­vice road.

  En route to the meteor site, they saw a few more Infecteds across the canal, on the golf course. Some wandered aimlessly among the holes. Some looked up from snacks—­cartel sentries, most likely. Others just stood and watched the Sykos go by. None of them made a move toward the truck, but every one of them stared at it.

  “It’s like they’re expecting us,” Fallon said. “Like they know where we are, when we’re coming. Like they’re keeping track.”

  “It’s fucking creepy,” Lilith opined.

  Pybus cleared his throat. “I believe . . .” the old man started. “I believe that they do know where we are. If one can see us, they all can see us.”

  “I’ve been thinking that, too,” Fallon said. “But how?”

  “This is my theory, Doctor. I recognize how it sounds, but bear with me for a few moments.”

  “Just get to it!” Lilith snapped.

  “Patience, young lady, is a virtue you will learn by the time you reach my age.”

  “If,” Sansome said.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “If she reaches your age. Or mine. We’ll all be lucky to make it another day.”

  “Pessimism, Mr. Sansome, does not become you.”

  Light glanced in the rearview. “I think all our tempers are a little short,” he said. “What’s your theory?”

  “A hive mind,” Pybus said.

  “A what?” Lilith asked.

  “I believe they’re part of a hive mind. It’s sometimes called a group mind. A shared consciousness, a swarm intelligence. Think of it in whatever fashion makes sense to you, if any do. Basically, all their minds are linked. What one thinks, they all think. What one sees or hears, they all see or hear.”

  “That would be confusing as hell,” Light said.

  “Not if you were used to it. Not if it was all you’d ever known. It would be as natural as your solitary mind is to you. Perhaps more so. In a hive mind, the individual barely exists. Think of an ant colony, or a beehive. You don’t imagine that an ant has much sense of itself, do you? No, it functions as part of the colony, performing whatever task is necessary for the good of the whole.”

  “But the Infecteds were ­people,” Fallon said. “Just days ago. Less.”

  “They were, until Crazy 8s took control of their brains. It shut down consciousness of the self and linked each Infected to all the others.”

  “And that’s why they’re getting smarter?” Fallon asked. “Because there are getting to be more of them, so they can amass experience and intelligence?”

  “Perhaps. Remember, I’m only speculating about all this.”

  “It makes sense,” Fallon said. “The virus attacks the brain, and once it’s there, it begins to consume it. But no organism wants to destroy its host. So the Infecteds are driven to eat more brains, healthy ones. That’s not going to sustain the virus indefinitely, but the Infected doesn’t know that. It’s almost like a reflex at that point. The virus wants brain matter, the virus controls the Infected, so the Infected wants brain matter. There’s a parasitic fungus that does the same thing with ants—­they call them zombie ants because the fungus takes over their brains, then their bodies.”

  “So then why are we immune?” Light asked. “We have brains.”

  “Maybe it’s even more narrowly focused. Maybe the virus attacks the paralimbic system. Psychopaths’ are so underdeveloped that the virus can’t get a foothold.”

  “Where does the hive mind come in, then?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the virus communicates with itself, the same way ants or bees do.”

  “That reasoning seems sound,” Pybus said. “As sound as anything does in a world gone mad.”

  “Wait a second. An ant colony or a bee colony or whatever—­” Lilith began.

  “Hive,” Pybus said.

  “—­okay, hive. Anyway, they both have queens, right?”

  “Yes,” Pybus said. “I was only using those as examples, though. This isn’t nece—­”

  The collision was loud and hard and for that instant, filled the world.

  CHAPTER 45

  9 hours

  Light had been paying attention to Pybus’s insane theory, but in the moment after impact, he was snapped back into a very powerful reality.

  The access road took them from the parking lot to AZ-­87, or Country Club Drive. As he started across it, he vaguely noticed a car rolling toward them. Tired and distracted, it hadn’t occurred to him in that moment that moving cars were exceedingly rare and that this one was coming fast but silently. Searching his memory, he saw what must have been a group of Infecteds teamed up to push it. Instinct had made him start to turn away from it and hit the gas, but too late.

  Now the truck bolted toward an abandoned car-­carrier trailer loaded with Volvos. Light yanked at the wheel, trying to correct course.

  He was too late. The Ford’s bed glanced off the side of the trailer. The steering wheel spun out of his hand, and by the time he caught it, the pickup had gone up on two tires. For a second he thought it was falling back down onto four wheels, but then the tilt was more pronounced, and he knew they were going over.

  The truck landed on the passenger side and skidded, spraying sparks. The din was hellish, the stink of superheated steel and the burned-­powder smell of the air bags seared his nostrils.

  Then it was still. There were sounds: the whirr of two wheels spinning, the creaking of the settling vehicle, the moans of those inside. The windshield was shattered.

  Light hadn’t been wearing a seat belt; he was crushing Fallon against her door. Sansome had been last into the backseat, so Lilith and Pybus had landed on him instead of the other way around. Probably saved both their lives, he thought with a grim smile.

  The idea of going back to sleep was tempting. He shook that off. Infecteds had pushed the car. “Anybody hurt?” he called. At the same time, he tried to get off Fallon, but his leg was pinned behind her. His ribs hurt where the bullet had grazed him, and there was blood on his forehead.

  “I’m okay,” Lilith said.

  “Aches and pains,” Pybus said. “I don’t think anything’s broken.”

  “Fallon?”

  Sansome spoke up first. “I’ll be better when these guys get offa me.”

  “I’m—­something’s crushing my kidneys,” Fallon said.

  “That’s me. Lean forward a little.”

  “Oka—­ahhh!” she said. She gave a pained hiss, but shifted her weight, and Light jerked his leg free.

  “We have to get out of here,” he urged. “If you can reach your
guns, grab ’em. We’re about to have guests for dinner.” He braced himself against the seat and kicked the rest of the glass from the edges of the windshield. Easier to go out that way than up through his door. “Come on, Fallon.”

  “Just . . . okay, I’m coming. God, it hurts.”

  Light squeezed through where the windshield had been. The passenger side had been crunched out of shape, making it narrower on that end. He reached in and took Fallon’s hand, helped her slide out, and wondered how Sansome would ever make it through that space.

  If they had to leave the big man here, maybe he’d distract the Infecteds long enough for them to get away.

  Fallon stopped halfway out. With a whimper, she tugged away from Light and leaned back into the cab, feeling around for something. When she had it, she pulled herself out. Her precious prototype. Lot of good it’s going to do if some Infected chomps on your psychopathic paralimbic system. Lilith scrambled out next, bleeding from the nose. She looked like she would have a black eye but would otherwise be fine. Pybus moved more slowly; he said that every muscle he had ached, including some he’d never known were there. Once they were out of the way, Sansome stood up, shoved open the driver’s side back door, and hauled himself up and out. His already-­brutalized face was cut in several new places; blood was everywhere, discoloring the top of his uniform.

  Light pointed up the road at the oncoming Infecteds. “We need to move,” he said. His M249 was somewhere in the wreckage. Fallon, Lilith, and Pybus had their M4s, and probably their handguns. All Light had was a knife, a Glock, and a pocketful of ammunition.

  “There were boxes of ammo in the bed,” he said. “Grab what you can and let’s go.”

  Fallon still looked dazed, so Light had taken control. He didn’t know how she would feel about that, but at the moment there wasn’t time to discuss it. Light snatched up a ­couple of boxes of 5.56-­mm rounds for the M4s and waited while Pybus and Lilith did the same. Sansome shoved box after box into his pockets. “Come on, come on!” Light said. “We gotta go!”