“Madame President,” Nelson said firmly. He touched her elbow and said, “We need to keep moving.”
Soprano echoed Nelson’s comments. “We’ve got to get you below ground, Madame President. According to Commander Davis, those missiles are likely armed with Hemorrhage.”
“Jesus,” Ringgold whispered. “We have to do something.”
“President Ringgold, please,” Barnes, the head of her security team, urged. “We have approximately twenty-five minutes until impact, ma’am.”
She looked at the first of the vault doors at the end of the hall. Seven months ago, back when she was just Secretary of State, she had been evacuated to a similar facility that was eventually overrun with the Variants. She had barely escaped Raven Rock, and the idea of sealing herself underground once more made her breath come in quick, sharp gasps.
Ahead, a Secret Service agent was ushering staff through the steel doors. Another agent inside punched in the biometric access codes for the control systems. He swiped his card, and the final vault door opened to reveal a red elevator.
The agents waited at the elevator doors, every eye on her, but she couldn’t move. She felt paralyzed, overwhelmed by the horror of what Wood had done.
Instead of coming to kill her himself—and risking his men in the process—he was letting the Hemorrhage Virus do the job for him. Even if she somehow avoided being turned, the infected would tear the Greenbrier apart in their mindless drive to feed.
And while she was hiding, the country could fall into civil war. Wood was proving himself to be ruthless, intelligent, and completely insane. The most dangerous type of enemy leader.
She could not let a man like that take the presidency.
That thought propelled her forward. She jogged down the hallway and entered the cramped elevator. Soprano sucked in his gut the best he could and got in next to Nelson, who was fiddling with his purple patterned tie.
The doors sealed and a slight jolt rocked the elevator as it descended. The old west wing had been six stories beneath the White House, but this time they had built the PEOC nearly twice that depth. It had taken a month and half, but it would protect them against the missile attack.
They would also be stuck down here. At least she could still lead from the bunker. Rally her commanders, coordinate with the SZTs. There would be innocent casualties, and she would bear the guilt for every single death. Safe zones would fall, but the United States of America would survive.
The elevator jolted again and the doors whispered open. Ringgold stepped out and was immediately surrounded by agents. Their footfalls echoed down the tiled floor, speeding up when they rounded a corner and the red blast doors came into view. Inside, her staff was already busy working at the big screen monitors. The inbound missile was a red blot on one of the screen, its trajectory traced by a dotted line. On a screen to the right, there was video footage of SZT 61 in New Orleans. The streets were mostly empty, but she saw several civilians running down the sidewalks.
Get inside, just get somewhere safe.
“We were able to get a message to the mayor,” Nelson said. “Because of the water table, SZT 61 doesn’t have any underground bunkers. As soon as that missile hits, it’s going to cause chaos. We can expect a fifty percent infection rate within two hours, and ninety-five percent in eight.”
“How long do they have?” Ringgold asked.
“Five minutes, Madame President.”
She forced herself to look away from the screen and walked to the long war table. Several of her cabinet members were already seated there, fingers laced together, looking at her for orders. She walked past them to Vice President Johnson and General Jay Allen, who were huddled around another monitor with radar data.
“We have twenty more minutes before impact,” Johnson said. “Plenty of time to get almost everyone down here.”
“Almost?” Ringgold asked.
“There are snipers and a Marine patrol in the blast zone who may not make it in time.”
Voices came from every direction. Ringgold slowly turned, taking it all in.
“Wood is on the Freedom Air Waves saying it was us,” Allen said.
“What do you mean, us?” The idea chilled Ringgold to her core.
“Those missiles came from the GW, Madame President,” Allen said. His voice was measured but firm. “Not all of the SZTs believe we lost the ship. They think we fired on SZT 61.”
Ringgold closed her eyes briefly. She couldn’t believe the fiendish audacity of Wood’s plan. Not only would this attack completely destabilize the country, but he’d even managed to make it look like she had ordered the strike on New Orleans. As the first territory to declare sovereignty, it would be the obvious target if she wanted to send a message to the other SZTs.
“We’re getting a message from ROT,” Allen said.
“Bring it online,” Johnson said. He and Ringgold stood side by side as equals to face Lieutenant Wood.
The main monitor showed the face of the man Ringgold hated more than any other. Andrew Wood had his left leg crossed casually over his right. Behind him were stacks of boxes and weapons.
He grinned at the camera. “Guess you didn’t believe me, Jan. I’m kind of shocked, actually. Sending in just three Marines? I figured you would risk more lives. That is your MO, isn’t it?”
Ringgold’s heart skipped a beat. Had he caught Commander Davis?
“Sergeant Marks and his men put up a bit of a fight, but in the end we got under their skin, too. I’ll spare you the details because I have more important things to discuss.”
“Trace that transmission,” someone whispered behind Ringgold.
“I figured since you aren’t going to hand over the presidency, I’ll just take it from you. Most of the SZTs are coming around.”
“You really think you’re going to get away with this?” Ringgold snapped. “People will learn the truth about what you did.”
“From who?” Wood tilted his head and waited for an answer. He grinned when none came. “You’re about to go dark. Goodbye, Jan.”
The lights flickered, and then the screens blinked and went off. Static broke from the speakers.
“Someone tell me what the hell is going on,” Ringgold said, her voice rising just shy of a shout.
Allen conferred with a young communications officer named Sarah Jean. He nodded at her to report.
“They’re blocking our outgoing transmissions,” Jean said. “But we can still listen. The comms are full of chatter between SZTs trying to figure out what’s going on. They’re scared. They’re saying…”
Ringgold studied the woman. She was putting on a brave face, but she could tell that Jean was too frightened to finish her report.
“It’s all right. Just tell me what you heard.”
“They want blood, Madame President. They think the government launched an attack against our own people.”
“SZTs 18, 33, 41, and 49 have seceded,” called a voice from another comms station.
“That missile might be a blessing in disguise,” Allen said. “Wood knows it will keep us down here long enough to turn every SZT against you, but it will also prevent anyone from storming the bunker for your head if they think there are infected here.”
Everyone was looking to her for answers. Ringgold tried to pull herself together, but how could she combat a man like Wood? He wasn’t just a terrorist; he was a sociopath. He had been setting her up for this all along. Steal the GW, hit Chicago first, then New Orleans, and put the blame on her. Even if she could get a message out, the other SZTs would be panicking. Mob mentality and bloodlust would take over.
Allen was right—threat of infection was the only thing preventing her own generals coming for her head. Ringgold paused to consider every possible strategy, knowing the clock was ticking. The only way to win against Wood was to make moves he couldn’t predict.
A thought occurred to her. “Won’t the other SZTs know it wasn’t us if we get hit with a missile, too?” Ringgold as
ked.
Nelson looked toward the ground, and Soprano avoided her gaze.
“What? Someone answer me,” she said, her voice rising with anger.
“Madame President, if we can’t communicate with anyone out there, then it won’t matter. They won’t know anything other than the lies Wood tells them. At this point the other SZTs are already rallying around him.”
Ringgold closed her eyes to think. The definition of crazy was doing the same thing over and over again. She had to do something to break that cycle. She snapped her eyes open and said, “How much time do we have before that missile hits?”
Allen looked back at the radar. “Fifteen minutes and thirty-two seconds.”
“We’re moving,” Ringgold said.
“What? Where are you going?” Allen said, his face going red.
“I’m going to do exactly what Wood won’t expect me to do.” She paused and scanned the room. “Nelson and Soprano, you’re with me. Barnes, grab your two best agents and follow us. Vice President Johnson will stay here and assume control of the PEOC. In the meantime, I’ll get the truth out to the other SZTs and a message to General Nixon. I will make this right.”
She approached her right-hand man and lowered her voice so that no one else could hear them. “George, I trust you to keep these people safe. If I don’t make it, I know that you’ll take Wood down before he destroys everything we’ve built.”
Johnson held her gaze. For a moment it seemed like it was just the two of them in the chaotic command center. She had known him for only a couple of months, but together they had been through so much. He wasn’t just her second-in-command. Johnson was her friend, and she knew that after she left the bunker they might never see each other again.
“Good luck, Madame President,” he said. “It’s been an honor serving with you.”
He held out his hand and she took it, clasping it between her own.
“This isn’t really goodbye,” she said. “I’m just going to go visit some old friends.”
Piero stumbled down the long corridor, rifle clutched in one hand and a lit candle in the other. If he didn’t find food soon, he would crash. There would be no more adventures for Piero Angaran, the last man on Earth.
Antonio was dead. His entire squad was dead.
His sister, his parents. His friends. The pretty girl at the gelato shop who always gave him an extra scoop for free.
All dead.
If he was truly the last man in the world, then why go on living?
You should end this now. End it all.
The candlelight flickered as he rounded a corner into a new tunnel. A cockroach darted up the wall. Piero licked his lips.
He halted and held up the candle. His hand shook as he searched for the bug. It must have vanished into a crevice he couldn’t see.
End it. End it all, he thought again.
It wouldn’t be difficult to make the nightmare stop. He could stick the muzzle in his mouth and blow off the top of his skull in less than five seconds. What was there left to live for? He was like a cockroach himself, scurrying through the shadows underground. That was no way for a man to live, even the last man on earth.
The mouse ran up his shoulder and chirped in his ear.
“Shhhhh, piccolo amico,” Piero whispered. He still needed to come up with a name other than “little friend.” The mouse moved again, claws scratching his vest.
“You just want me to find you food. You don’t care if I kill myself.”
The mouse chattered back as if it understood. Piero set his rifle against the wall. He opened his pocket, picked up the mouse, and dropped him inside. The tiny creature looked up at him, his little black eyes pleading.
“Fine,” Piero said. “I’ll find you something to eat, but you have to be quiet.”
He picked his rifle up and continued down the tunnel. The warm glow of the candle spread over damp walls, revealing more ancient art of religious figures.
Piero recognized one of the images as Judas Iscariot. The farther he walked, the darker the scenes became. He saw a demon with horns and flames around its eyes. Feathered wings hung from the monster’s back. He roved his candle back and forth to illuminate the entire battle between demons and angels.
He shivered and turned away from the fresco to check his map. The tattered paper he had picked up in the church overhead months ago was almost unreadable. He held up the flame and studied the wavy lines and blurred markings, but it was no use—he was lost. He only knew he was in a passage under the western part of the Vatican.
Raising his rifle, he pushed on. He took a right at the next bend and entered a familiar looking tunnel, pausing for a second to study a cross on the wall that he swore he had seen before.
Have I been here already?
Piero shook his head and kept moving. He hadn’t ever been this far west.
A drop of water hit him in the face a few paces later. He backpedaled and opened his mouth. He waited for several seconds, and was rewarded with a drip that stung his tongue. The water tasted like metal. But he was too thirsty to care. His tongue arced, anxious for more.
The mouse moved again inside the pocket of his vest.
Another drop hit Piero’s tongue. He stood there for what could have been a minute or an hour. He lost track of time as he waited for drip after drip. His arms shook from holding the candle and the rifle, but he didn’t dare put either of them down.
It wasn’t until the mouse started squeaking that Piero finally set the candle down and wiped his mouth off with a filthy sleeve. He licked his cracked lips and opened his vest pocket. Then, very carefully, he positioned it under the dripping water.
The mouse sniffed the air and poked its head out of the pocket. A drop landed on the small creature, slicking its whiskers to its cheeks. It reached up with tiny paws and scooped some of the water into its mouth.
Light from the flame fell on a puddle at Piero’s feet. He bent down and set his little friend next to the puddle. It scampered over and began drinking greedily.
“Stay,” Piero whispered. He raised his rifle and turned on the night vision optics to scope the tunnel. They flickered at first; the battery was dangerously low. Nothing moved in the green hue. He clicked off the optics to listen for the monsters. There was only the sound of dripping water and the mouse lapping up the puddle at Piero’s feet.
The silence had grown on him over the months. He wasn’t just used to it—he enjoyed it. And anything that broke the quiet sent Piero diving for the shadows.
Once, he had been a brave man. He had been a Special Operations soldier with the 4th Alpini Parachutist Regiment. But the months of solitude had taken their toll on his mind. He knew he was going mad—but then, if he knew it, then was he really mad?
“What do you think? Am I crazy or not?”
The mouse continued drinking.
The slurp-slurp reminded Piero of his childhood dog, Ringo. The dog had been a hundred times bigger than the mouse, but they drank the same way, lapping water up like it was the last bowl on earth.
Piero bent down and held out his hands. “Time to move, Ringo.”
The mouse looked up but then went back to drinking. It might take Ringo some time to get use to the new name, but Piero already felt pleased by it. He felt the tickle of a smile on his face.
“Let’s go, Ringo.”
The mouse’s white ears suddenly perked, and his black beady eyes went wild. Before Piero could pick the creature up, the mouse scampered into the darkness, squeaking in terror.
“Ringo!” Piero cried. He spun at another sound, one that sent a chill up his spine—a sound the mouse had already detected. The scratch of talons on stone.
Piero scooped the candle up and blew it out. Darkness washed through the tunnel like a tidal wave. He raised his rifle toward the noise and clicked on the NVG optics.
Motion flickered in his crosshairs. A meaty creature with a bulbous torso clung to the ceiling like a vast, hairy spider. It dropped to the floor and b
olted forward on all fours before he could see more of it.
The soldier Piero had once been would have stood his ground and fought. But now he turned and ran. The piercing wail of the monster followed him down the passage.
The shrieks continued as another joined the fray. The terrifying noises struck his ears like poorly-tuned instruments. They were so loud he couldn’t think straight.
He nearly tripped, his boots sliding across the ground. Piero regained his balance and then raised the scope to darkness. Fumbling with the optics, he clicked it on, over and over.
His heart caught in his chest.
The battery had finally died.
He was blind, but those creatures could see in the dark.
The sounds of the monsters closed in from both directions.
“No, no, no!” he said, slamming the side of the gun. He fired off a shot to the west, and then another to the east. The muzzle flashes lit up the passage for only about ten feet, and the afterimages lingered like sunbursts in his eyes.
“Ringo,” Piero called. “Ringo where are you?”
Clicking joints echoed all around, and Piero released another burst. Rounds chipped away at the stone ceiling and punched through flesh.
The creature shrieked in pain. A hissing noise, like air being let out of a tire followed. Piero ducked down, waiting for the sting and burn of acid to spray his flesh. But it didn’t come. He stayed crouched and pivoted on his heels, jerking his rifle first in one direction and then the other. He had to choose: left or right?
There’s another option.
Piero had nine bullets left. Not nearly enough to kill the monsters if they were armored juveniles, but plenty to end his life.
But he had to make a decision now.
In his mind he saw the faces of all his friends and family. They sat on the steps overlooking the Trevi Fountain, eating gelato in the late summer sunshine. The pretty girl from the shop waved at him, beckoning Piero over.
He angled the smoking muzzle toward his mouth, but before he could pull the trigger, he heard a chirp and a curious squeak. Ringo jumped onto his arm, climbed up his shoulder, and then dove into his vest pocket.
The Extinction Cycle (Book 6): Extinction Aftermath Page 24
