The Noise

by James Patterson

  The rush of people hadn’t tapered in the slightest when the first of the runners appeared at the top level of the garage. From this distance, Martha couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. More poured out behind them, and she imagined the interior ramps crammed with this unrelenting group as the top level began to fill, too. They didn’t stop as they raced out into the sunlight. Instead, they tore out across toward the edge.

  “Don’t tell me they’re going to—” the cardinal’s words cut off as the first body tumbled over the side, then a dozen more, two dozen after that. A hundred. No hesitation. Not the slightest pause. Martha thought of the crevasse, and she could tell from the expression on Harbin’s face he was thinking the same.

  The first few hit the blacktop below, bounced, and went still. Necks bent at ungodly angles and snapped. Arms and legs twisted and popped. The pavement quickly grew dark and red.

  More fell. They just kept coming. This continual flood of bodies rolling over the side and tumbling down into the growing heap below. Five hundred or more now. The bodies were at least three thick when Deputy Press Secretary Jeanna Brazzell let out an audible gasp. “One just moved. Oh, no, that one, too!”

  Martha watched as those falling now, cushioned by the previous bodies, began to crawl away from the pile. Others rolled off on broken limbs, dislocated arms dangling loosely at their sides. Some tried to stand on destroyed legs and toppled back over. Others still managed to get to their feet and begin running again. As the bodies continued to fall, as the mountain of these people grew, more got up and continued on, oblivious to any injuries they may have sustained.

  Thousands.

  “How many stories is that?” the president asked in a low voice.

  “Not enough,” the general said before switching off the video.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Martha

  General Westin stared at the blank screen for a moment before speaking again. “From what we’ve gathered, the horde doesn’t stop for anything. They just keep moving forward, up, over, and around, anything caught in their path—just like you saw here. They don’t eat. They don’t speak. They don’t scream. They only run. Even injuries don’t slow them down. We don’t know if they feel pain, but if they do, they demonstrate no outward signs of it. Their only desire is to keep moving.”

  “Toward what?” the president asked.

  “Anna Shim,” Harbin said softly.

  “Excuse me?”

  Harbin gave Martha an uneasy glance, then continued. “The little girl we have in our care, Sophie, the one who appears to be…infected…by whatever this is, has continually said Anna Shim. At first, it was believed this was a name, and maybe it is, but in ancient Aramaic it means—”

  “People,” the cardinal said, cutting him off. He looked up at Harbin. “You’re speaking of anahshim?”

  Harbin nodded. “I think this group, this horde, is drawn toward other large groups of people, population centers, anahshim. When they encounter others, they’re adding to their numbers.”

  The president looked him dead in the eye. “You used the word infected, yet I’ve been repeatedly reassured this is not a communicable contagion.”

  Samantha Troy, acting director of the NSA, cleared her throat. “It’s not, at least not in the traditional sense. I believe those in attendance with a medical background will concur.” Although she said this to the president, her eyes were on Martha.

  Martha nodded. “We’ve found nothing to indicate this can be transmitted from person to person like a virus—it’s not airborne, there is no abnormality in blood or bodily fluid, nothing like that.”

  “Yet, they are infected.” The president mulled over this for a moment, then said softly, “This can’t be a goddamn sound. Especially something generating from below the surface. This must be some new Chinese weapon, or Russian. We’re missing something.”

  At the curse, several eyes fell on the cardinal. Martha wasn’t accustomed to the president speaking so frankly, different from television. Apparently, the others weren’t, either.

  Harbin looked over at the general. “Can you play the beginning of the first video again? When the minivan begins to back out of the parking space?”

  The general raised the remote and brought up the file, then hit Play.

  As the woman loaded her children into the vehicle, Harbin said, “Watch the top right of the screen as the people start to run across the frame. Maybe slow the image down a little bit, if you can. This happens quickly.”

  When the first of the runners darted by the back of the minivan, the general slowed the video to half-speed.

  “Keep your eye on that man in the dark leather jacket leaving the mall.”

  Martha didn’t see him at first. He was far off in the distance, nearly hidden behind other cars and a light pole. As more runners entered the frame below, the man dropped the bag he was carrying and doubled over, pressing his hands to his ears. A moment later, he rose again and started running back toward the mall.

  “Is he going for cover?” Brazzell asked, puzzled.

  Harbin shook his head. “He’s joining the others. He’s running.” He looked back to the general. “Rewind it again. This time, watch the cars around him.”

  The video sped backward, then restarted. As the man doubled over, the windows in the car next to him blew out, spraying the ground in glass.

  “Okay, pause,” Harbin instructed.

  The image froze.

  He stood and walked over to the monitor and drew an imaginary circle. “We noticed in Barton the sound increased in volume until glass shattered, including the security camera lenses. I was curious why this particular video didn’t cut out as that one did. You can see it here. I think it’s because the camera that shot this footage is too far away. If you look really close, you’ll see all the vehicles around this man blew out and the damage extends in a radius of about four or five cars deep around him, then it stops—other cars in the lot remain untouched.”

  “Are you saying he was targeted?” The president frowned.

  Harbin shrugged. “Either that, or he was caught up in some smaller random event than the one that affected the horde.”

  “Like an aftershock with an earthquake?”

  Harbin nodded.

  “A weapon from Russia or China still makes the most sense to me.”

  Samantha Troy said, “Sir, we’ve got every available satellite listening in on that part of the world, and there’s been zero chatter regarding any type of weapons test. Our assets are squeezing their contacts. All due respect, if a capable weapon existed, we would have heard about it. The development process alone would have spanned years, there would have been some type of testing phase, something would have slipped out. This is unlike anything in development here or abroad.”

  “Well, here we are,” the president said flatly. “Somebody created it.”

  The cardinal leaned forward and looked down at his hands.

  The president blew out a breath and turned to him. “Do you have something you’d like to add?”

  “You know what I think.” The cardinal’s voice was soft, yet gruff. He spoke in deep, measured tones.

  The president shook his head, more annoyed than in any type of agreement. “I’m not willing to go there. I may be a man of faith, but I’m not ready to point an accusatory finger up at God.”

  “This is not the work of our Lord,” the cardinal replied. “But I do believe we are experiencing the start of some sort of cleansing. A new flood to wash the planet clean of our filth.”

  “Forgive me if I’m not ready to climb aboard an ark.”

  The cardinal gestured at the walls of Air Force One. “I believe you already have.”

  The president closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “If they’re not eating, not drinking, how long can they keep this up? Won’t they burn out?”

  “Even if the weaker ones start to drop off, it won’t matter if they keep adding to their numbers. The horde is growing far faste
r than it’s dying,” the general replied. “They’re moving at a good clip, too. An average of ten miles per hour. That puts them in Gresham in a little over six hours, Portland after that.” He paused for a second, choosing his words carefully. “Sir, without a complete understanding of how this infection is spreading, we can’t risk them reaching a large, populated area. Best case, they leave sizable destruction in their wake. Certainly more deaths. Worst case, they infect others, further increase in size, and continue on.”

  “What’s the population of Gresham?”

  “111,053 souls in Gresham at last census. 647,805 in Portland.”

  “What’s the size of the horde now?”

  The general hesitated before answering. “We’re estimating their size to be approaching one hundred thousand. There’s no way to get an exact figure.”

  “Jesus. A hundred thousand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You understand what you’re implying, right?”

  This time, the general didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir. I’m telling you we need to consider options to either reroute or eliminate this group before it’s given the opportunity to expand. I see no other solution.”

  “A cure,” the president shot back. “That’s our other option. We cure those who are infected and inoculate those who are not.”

  “In six hours?”

  He was right, Martha thought. Even if this were a virus and she had the cure on hand, six hours wasn’t enough time to produce the quantities they would need to inoculate that many people.

  The room fell silent for a long moment.

  “Sir, if we’re going to mobilize in time, you need to issue the order within the next hour,” the general pushed.

  The president brushed this off, stood, and went to one of the windows. “I need a minute.”

  Several others got up and stretched, talked in small groups.

  The cardinal rose and came over to Harbin and Martha. His voice low, he said, “Anahshim is mentioned in the Old Testament as well, but you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  Harbin gave a grave nod.

  Harbin had told Martha earlier, but he hadn’t been serious. At least, she didn’t think he was. He had told her in the Old Testament, Anahshim was a demon.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Tennant

  Tennant sat in a cold metal chair in the far corner of the room and watched the strange man hovering over her sister. He wore thick, rimless glasses, and his beady dark eyes seemed a little too close together for the size of his face. His hair was gray, and it must have been awhile since he cut it. She’d been told his name was Dr. Fitch, which didn’t seem right—it was too close to finch, the small bird, and he reminded her more of an opossum than a bird.

  Sophie was still unconscious, wearing a straitjacket, and bound to the gurney the soldiers had used to transport her from home.

  Dr. Fitch hovered over her for a moment, then took out a small recorder, pressed a button, and spoke into it. “Subject is female and appears to be six to eight years old—”

  “She’s eight,” Tennant informed him.

  He gave her an irritated glance, then turned back to Sophie. “Eight years old, restrained and unconscious due to a mixture of…” He reached for the clear plastic bag hanging from a pole over Sophie and read off some long words Tennant didn’t recognize. “Per Lieutenant Colonel Fraser, she’s been unconscious for approximately three hours. Blood pressure is extremely elevated at 183 over 122, heart rate is highly erratic. I’ve checked three times now and the lowest reading was 133 beats per minute, the highest was 174—far above expected for a child of this age, particularly in a near comatose state.”

  He reached to the table behind him, picked something up, and ran it over Sophie’s forehead. “She currently has a temperature of 102. Again, this presentation is uncharacteristic considering the medications being administered. That said, the medications appear to be slowing the progress of this affliction, potentially preventing it from running its course. It’s too early to know if her condition has in any way reversed.”

  Dr. Fitch set the recorder down on the table, examined the end of the IV tube, the needle the other doctor had inserted in Sophie’s neck. He began peeling back the tape holding it in place. “I’m removing the cannula now.” He glanced up at the clock. “Discontinuing all medications at 1642.” He yanked out the tube and let it fall to the floor. Several drops of liquid came out and shimmered on the white tile.

  Tennant jumped up in her chair. “What are you doing? She needs that to get better!”

  The doctor reached behind him and clicked off the recorder. “Your sister is lost, young lady. Dr. Chan made a valiant effort to save her, but it’s not working. All she’s doing is holding back the inevitable, prolonging your sister’s suffering. At this point, the best use of your sister will be in allowing her condition to run its course, document the progression, and utilize the resulting information to prevent this infection from spreading to others.”

  “Best use of my sister…” Tennant repeated the words, let them fall off her tongue as she contemplated their meaning.

  “Yes. Best use.” Dr. Fitch repeated.

  He clicked the recorder back on and began speaking again, but Tennant didn’t hear what he said. She couldn’t hear much of anything behind the blood rushing in her ears.

  Tennant lunged at him.

  She was across the room and on his back in less than a second, a feral thing. She went for his neck, as Poppa had taught her when defending herself, but before she could strike, she felt strong arms snake around her waist and pull her back.

  Tennant had no idea how the two soldiers got in there so fast, but they had. They yanked her away from the doctor and slammed her down to the ground. Both her arms were pinned, and she couldn’t move. All of this seemed to happen in less than a few seconds.

  Dr. Fitch brushed off his sleeves and looked down at her. “We’re also concerned about the lasting effects of the exposure you endured.” He looked up at a camera mounted in the opposite corner of the room. “Note, our second subject is demonstrating increased hostility. However, she doesn’t appear to have the increased strength documented in our first subject. This may present later as the infection spreads through her.”

  “I’m not infected!” Tennant spat out, jerking her head away from the soldier’s hand.

  “Put her back in that seat, please.”

  They lifted her off the ground, carried her back to the chair, and set her down. Both continued to hold her at the arms and shoulders so she couldn’t get back up.

  “If necessary, I’ll have you restrained as well, at least while I’m in the room, but I’d prefer not to do that,” Dr. Fitch told her.

  Tennant jerked sideways, tried to break free, but they were too strong.

  “Hold her still so I can draw some blood.”

  Their grip tightened as he jabbed a needle into her arm and filled four small vials. When Dr. Chan had done this, she wiped her arm with alcohol first. Dr. Fitch didn’t. When he pulled the needle out, he wiped away a lingering drop of blood and quickly covered the spot with a Band-Aid.

  He knelt down in front of Tennant, his face close to hers. “Do you still have a headache?”

  Tennant did, she still had an awful headache, but she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of an answer. Her broken nose still hurt, too, though it had stopped throbbing.

  “I believe you received a slightly diminished exposure from your sister, but you were exposed. I’m curious to see if the illness progresses.” He got to his feet. “I suppose we’ll know soon enough.”

  With one last glance back at Sophie, he gathered his recorder and the blood samples and left the room.

  The soldiers went out the door behind him.

  She heard a heavy lock twist into place as she got up and ran to her sister’s side.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Tennant

  It started about ten minutes ago, the murmuring. Sophie was s
till unconscious, but her body had begun to twitch and shudder on the gurney. Her fingers jumped up and extended as if a jolt of electricity found her. Then they slowly settled back down. Her tiny toes curled tight, then relaxed again a moment or two later.

  The straitjacket was on the floor in a heap, as were the leather straps. Sophie’s favorite flowered dress, the one with purple lilacs on it, was soaked in sweat, torn in some spots, and shredded in others. Tennant slipped it off and dropped it on the floor with the rest. From the sink in the room, she wet several paper towels and went to work gently wiping away the horrors of the past days. Her poor little sister’s skin was scratched in so many places, it was a wonder none of the wounds had grown infected. Most likely, their medicines had something to do with that, but those were gone now. Dr. Fitch had someone clear them away moments after he left. If Momma were here, she’d use garlic, honey, ginger, echinacea, goldenseal, clove, or maybe oregano to help with infection, but Tennant had none of those now. She had water and the box of crackers one of the soldiers had given her, nothing else.

  In one of the cabinets under the sink, she found T-shirts and sweatpants, all new, still wrapped in plastic packaging. Tennant had never owned new clothes; neither had Sophie. Everything they wore came from others in the village. The community clothing yurt had been a round tent on the far end of their settlement. Tennant and Sophie had loved picking together through the boxes and crates of outgrown or discarded clothing. They’d never do that again. The yurt was gone now, along with everything else.

  The sweatpants were far too large for Sophie, meant for an adult. The T-shirt would reach her knees, nearly as long as her dress, and it would have to do on its own. She redressed Sophie, then looked at the items on the floor. She couldn’t bring herself to put the straitjacket back on but she replaced the leather straps, although a little looser than they had been. She didn’t want to, but she had no idea what her sister would be like when she woke, and she couldn’t risk her hurting her or herself again.