by A. G. Riddle
He was alone now, with his brother, in much the same way their lives had started: in the face of an unstoppable fire. Thirty-three years ago, it had been Conner who had lain helplessly as the fire advanced. Desmond hadn’t saved him. There was something fitting about leaving him, completing the cycle. But Conner was ashamed of the thought. Those dark impulses were exactly the thing Desmond had tried to help him control. Tried and failed. He was what he was.
The fire was closer now. Conner felt himself start to shiver, as if he were naked in the Arctic. The force rattling his body, however, was not cold, but fear—an overwhelming, petrifying force.
He heard footsteps behind him, but Conner barely turned his head. Yuri squatted down in front of him. His face was bloody, one eye swollen shut.
He examined Conner, searching for a wound, confusion clouding his face when he found none.
His voice was hoarse, perhaps from the smoke inhalation. “What’s happened?”
“I can’t,” Conner whispered.
Yuri glanced at the flames closing on them, seemed to understand.
“You must, Conner. Every man faces his demons. Yours is here. Will you cower and let it best you? Now is your chance. Show me what you really are.”
Chapter 128
On the landing of the smoke-filled stairwell, in the glow of the emergency lights, Peyton ripped her clothes off. First the body armor, then the breathable mesh Kevlar undershirt.
She knelt over the garments, clad only in her bra and khaki pants, and drew the knife from a sheath on her belt. She cut two long strips of mesh from the short-sleeved shirt, wrapped one around her mouth, and handed the other to her mother. The older woman followed Peyton’s lead.
Peyton pulled the shirt back on, and wrapped the body armor around her left arm, prepping it to use as an insulated shield against the fire. She made sure her comm unit was still affixed.
She crouched down and turned her back to her mother. “Climb on.”
“Honey.”
“Mom, do it. We don’t have time to argue.”
Lin Shaw exhaled as she stepped closer to her youngest daughter. Her voice seemed to slip deeper into her British accent as she muttered, “Well, there’s no need to be rude.”
With her mother’s arms around her neck, Peyton rose, hit the door handle with her armor-wrapped hand, and rushed into the hall.
The smoke was thick, but the flames were mostly confined to studs in the walls and the furniture burning in the offices. She turned a corner and saw the lobby. The wooden reception desk blazed like a bonfire. The wind rushed in, feeding the fire endless amounts of the oxygen it needed to burn. Waves of heat pushed deeper into the structure, past Peyton, like the tide lapping at a beach. But beyond the desk, beyond the shattered glass windows, the darkness of night loomed. Freedom. She could make it.
Peyton pressed on, putting one foot in front of the other. Her lungs burned. Her head swam. She felt a new admiration for Desmond: days ago, he had carried her father out of a burning building at Aralsk-7. Now it was Peyton’s turn, and she pushed with every ounce of energy in her body.
Her legs didn’t give out until she crossed the threshold of the front doors. She felt herself collapse then, but she didn’t hit the ground. Her mother wrapped her arms around her and dragged her from the blaze.
Through watering eyes, she saw dark hair streaked with gray hanging down in front of her, a curtain across her face. It was drawn back, and Peyton saw her mother staring down, tears in her eyes. She ripped the mesh Kevlar from Peyton’s mouth, turned her head, and held her ear to Peyton’s mouth. Lin let out a cry of joy when she realized her daughter was breathing. She pulled her closer into her lap. “It’s going to be okay, honey.”
Slowly, Peyton’s senses focused. Automatic gunfire rang out in the distance. They’re fighting for the harbor. The Marines must have landed.
Engines roared. High-caliber artillery guns pounded. Overhead, she saw more missile strikes. A few exploded in the air, but many found their targets, churning earth and trees and bodies in massive eruptions of fire and smoke. The entire island seemed to be erupting.
She brought a shaking hand to her collarbone, activated her comm, and spoke with a scratchy, strained voice. “Overwatch, Artemis. Cease fire at my location. We have friendlies in the adjacent building. Confirm.”
“Artemis, Overwatch, confirmed, ceasing air strikes at your location.”
A second later, the CIC operator opened the comm line again. “Artemis, Overwatch. Be advised, there are hostiles inbound to your twenty. Estimate a force of twelve, heavily armed. Reinforcements are two clicks out. Advise you take cover or retreat.”
Chapter 129
In her peripheral vision, Peyton saw the soldiers closing on them.
Carefully, Lin Shaw placed Peyton’s head on the ground and stood tall, her posture rigid, facing the oncoming troops like a proud mother ready to defend her child with her own life. Peyton desperately wanted to stand with her, but she couldn’t. She didn’t have the strength. Every breath burned.
The soldiers halted their sprint when they saw Lin.
The nearly eighty-year-old woman’s voice was strong as it called into the smoke-filled night. “Major, we have friendlies in this building. They are mission-critical to our cause. Rescue them. Do it now.”
The man hesitated, then touched his collarbone. “Dr. Pachenko, Major Reeves.”
The man paused, listening.
Peyton was shocked. Yuri Pachenko is here. The man had taken so much from her. Her hatred boiled as the mercenary activated his comm again.
“Dr. Pachenko?”
Lin took a step toward him. “Send your men in, Major. Do it now or there will be consequences.”
Reeves motioned for four of his men to enter the building.
To the soldiers entering, Lin said, “Basement level four. A man and a woman. They’ll be together.”
Major Reeves scowled at Lin. “My last orders were to secure the Rapture Control program.”
“The situation has changed, Major. And so have your orders.”
“Dr. Pachenko—”
“Is no longer in charge here. I am. Tell your men at the harbor and elsewhere to stand down.”
Reeves was shocked. “Ma’am?”
“Those are your orders. We face an overwhelming force. The battle here can’t be won. We must surrender for the greater good. We are prepared for this contingency, I assure you, Major.”
The soldier nodded slowly, activated his comm, and ordered a full surrender.
Peyton sat up, seeing her mother with a whole new appreciation. She did it. This was an entirely new side of the mild-mannered woman who had raised her.
Peyton activated her own comm. “Overwatch, Artemis, be advised, hostiles have been ordered to stand down.”
The gunfire in the distance stopped. Seconds later, so did the missile fire coming in from the sea.
For a moment, the dense island jungle was quiet. The towering palm trees swayed in the wind, bristling with each gust. The fire blazing behind her crackled. Here and there, pieces of the building collapsed.
With each passing second, Peyton was able to catch her breath.
“Artemis, Overwatch, cease-fire confirmed. Commencing search and rescue operations. First wave of helos inbound. ETA thirty minutes.”
“Copy, Overwatch.”
“Ground teams are en route to your location.”
“Copy that. Thank you.”
Peyton sat up and stared at the building. Andrew was in there, trapped beyond the fire. In the years after she was told he’d died in a fire, she’d dreamt about it a thousand times. Nightmares, with Andrew trapped, and her unable to help. But this time it was real. The building was collapsing in on itself.
She lay on her back again. She couldn’t bear to watch. She wanted to go back in the building, but she was too weak.
She activated her comm again. “Dad. Desmond. Avery.” She had forgotten their call signs, but it didn’t matt
er now. She just wanted to hear their voices. But no one responded. She called again. And a third time. Nothing.
She closed her eyes, willing it not to be true. Desmond. Her father. Andrew. In the past four days, all three had been returned to her. Now they might be taken away again. And somewhere deep inside her, she knew she would never recover this time.
Chapter 130
It had been ten minutes since the soldiers entered the burning lab complex. Peyton was on her feet now, able to breathe better, but not one hundred percent. She peered into the flames, looking for any signs of figures emerging. The pulsing heat warmed her face and body. A breeze pushed the blaze back every few seconds.
A gruff voice came over Peyton’s comm. “Artemis, Zulu leader, we’ve got a live one. Request medical assistance. We’re at the admin building.”
Major Reeves had been coordinating his troops’ surrender, which was finally complete.
Peyton interrupted a string of orders he was calling out. “Can one of your men take me to the admin building?”
Reeves glanced at Lin, who nodded. He instructed one of his soldiers to accompany Peyton, and they set off down a stone path, walking as quickly as she could manage. Her lungs still ached, but hope drove her on.
The administrative building was a charred ruin. The entire top two floors had burned down. Trails of smoke rose from orange embers crackling in the night. A half dozen of the camo-clad special forces—members of Zulu and Bravo teams—waded through the wreckage, turning the blackened pieces with the barrels of their rifles, searching.
Ahead, a Navy SEAL motioned for Peyton to come quickly. She swallowed, dreading what she would see. She repeated the words over the comm in her mind: We’ve got a live one. Alive, but in what condition? And who?
She knew who she wanted it to be. In the moment, she was completely honest with herself. She wanted to see Desmond’s face. She wanted to leave the island with him more than anything in the world. In the Boxer’s mess, he had said the things he needed to say, but she hadn’t. She knew that had been a mistake—one she might live to regret.
Twenty feet away, beyond the Navy SEAL, lay a burned-out crater, nearly smooth in the center. A ring of bodies circled it. In hot zones around the world, Peyton had seen pathogens rip through a population, leaving death behind. This was an altogether different form of carnage. Men lay in pieces. Dead eyes stared up at her, or out into the forest. Severed limbs lay alone, remnants of the slaughter strewn about without care or mercy. Rivulets of blood flowed into the crater like the veins on the back of a dark earthen monster. As Peyton descended into the hole, steam rose from it, as if the spirits of the lives lost were drifting toward the yellow moon above.
The Navy SEAL told her that he was a corpsman. He had stopped the bleeding, but the patient needed an infusion quickly. A medevac was inbound with blood, but it would be close. The Boxer had a capable operating room; unfortunately, it would be almost an hour before the patient reached the table.
As the SEAL shifted to the side, Peyton held her breath.
Avery lay on the ground, dirt plastered across her pale face and in her blond hair. Her breathing was shallow. Peyton knelt at her side. A six-inch gash ran across her abdomen. The corpsman had done a good job; the wound was packed tight. Splinters from shattered trees dotted her body. Avery murmured a phrase Peyton couldn’t make out. The corpsman had loaded her up with a painkiller. That was good. There wasn’t much else Peyton could do. In truth, the Navy medical officer was better trained to treat battlefield injuries than Peyton was. There was only one thing she could give the young woman, and for that reason, she sat silently, waiting.
Avery cracked her eyes, mumbled again. Peyton gripped her hand. “You’re going to be okay, Avery. Medevac is on the way. Surgeons are already prepped and waiting on you.”
An amused grin formed on Avery’s lips. “You taking care of me now?”
Peyton smiled back at her. “Yeah. I am. You know how I am about that. About my people.”
“Then I know I’m going to make it. You’re a real pain in the ass.”
Peyton laughed—a nervous, cathartic laugh, like a pressure valve releasing the tension from her body. “Look who’s talking,” she shot back.
More seriously, Peyton asked, “Did you get it?”
Avery nodded. “Yeah, we got it.”
We. The word filled Peyton with hope.
Avery’s smile faded. “What did you find in the labs?”
Peyton considered what to say. “Nothing that’ll be a problem.”
A soldier searching the building called out, “Got another one.”
Instinctively Peyton’s head snapped around, seeking out the caller. She desperately wanted to rush over, but she returned her focus to Avery. The blond woman released Peyton’s hand. “Go. That’s one of our people. They need you too.”
“I’ll see you on the Boxer, Avery.”
Peyton stumbled over the bombed-out ground, weaving around bodies and into the ruined building. Up a stairwell littered with debris, she found soldiers pulling wreckage away, revealing more of a body. It was limp. The torso came into view. The chest was caved in. Not breathing.
The moment Peyton saw her father’s face, she closed her eyes. Tears flowed. Her legs gave way. She sank to her knees, letting them dig into the ash-covered floor. Her eyes settled on a half-burned picture frame. The picture was of a short, white-haired man with a cold, blank expression. He matched Desmond and her father’s description of Yuri Pachenko—and Peyton had no doubt that was exactly who it was. This was Yuri’s office. He killed my father.
Her entire life, she had blamed fate and bad luck for the loss of her father. Now she had a name to put with the rage that consumed her: Yuri Pachenko. He had taken her father from her. She would make him pay. Yuri had wanted to change the world—and he had certainly succeeded in changing her.
She would be the end of him. In the burned remains of the building, with her father lying dead ten feet away, she swore it.
Another soldier’s voice called into the night. “Got another one.”
Chapter 131
Elliott held his wife’s head in his lap. The RV sitting in an alley off Marietta Street was warm from the small heaters and the people crammed inside. Ryan was with them, as well as Sam and Adam, and a dozen of Elliott’s neighbors and their loved ones. At the table, a mother was reading Charlotte’s Web to four children packed in around her. The kids were leaning in, gazing at the pictures. Two teenagers were stretched out on opposite ends of a couch, playing games on tablets, headphones in their ears. Three adult couples snacked on protein bars and sipped bottled water while they tuned a handheld radio, searching for any signal on the AM band.
The chorus of coughing never ceased. The X1-Mandera virus was ravaging all of them, some to a greater degree than others. It was only a matter of time before their bodies began surrendering to the pathogen. Elliott feared Rose would be the first casualty.
A series of beeps sounded from the radio—the prelude to an emergency message. One of Elliott’s neighbors tuned the dial. The static cleared, and the beeps came into focus, then stopped. Every eye turned to the radio. Even the teenagers jerked their earbuds out and sat up.
A man’s voice spoke slowly, in the solemn, deliberate tone of someone reading a statement.
“My fellow Americans, wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, please stop and hear this message. It may save your life, or the lives of your loved ones. My name is James Marshall. Many of you know me as the Speaker of the House. Two days ago, I was sworn in as President of the United States. I’m speaking to you now because we face a threat unlike any in the history of our great nation. First, know that I bring you good news: the X1-Mandera pandemic that has ravaged our great nation and others around the world will soon come to an end. The United States, working with scientists in the international community, has developed a viable cure for the virus. The treatment also functions as a vaccine for anyone not infected.”
&nb
sp; Inside the RV, cheers went up. Some stared in disbelief. Elliott was instantly suspicious.
“However, the best news I bring you today is that the cure we’ve developed is available right now, in your city. As we speak, the combined BioShield forces have established treatment checkpoints throughout your cordon zone. It’s important that you receive the X1-Mandera cure as soon as possible, but I also urge you to remain calm and proceed in an orderly fashion. Those committing acts of violence and disorder will be sent to the back of the line. There will be a zero tolerance policy for rioters and anyone cutting in line or preventing others from getting the cure.
“This broadcast will now switch to a local announcement that will list the X1-Mandera treatment centers in your area. That announcement will repeat.
“I wish you good luck, wherever you are. May God bless you and your family, and may God bless the United States of America.”
The RV erupted in shouting and questions. One of the neighbors pounded an empty can of beans on the counter, like a gavel in a courtroom, demanding silence. The voice on the radio was already reading the locations in the Atlanta cordon. At the words “Centennial Olympic Park,” everyone began pulling on their overcoats and moving toward the RV’s door.
Ryan was at Elliott’s side within seconds. “What do you think?”
Elliott didn’t say what he thought: that something was very wrong. Treatments for novel pathogens weren’t created overnight, or in a week. They certainly weren’t mass-produced that fast, with doses in the hundreds of millions, and distributed all over the country.
On the other hand, his wife was dying. The love of his life would be gone in hours. What do I have to lose?
“I think we need to hurry,” he said.
He lifted Rose up and staggered out of the RV, into the cold late afternoon. Ryan carried the wheelchair out, unfolded it, and held it while Elliott set Rose down. Sam was at Elliott’s side, holding Adam, whose fever had been running high. Ryan took the boy into his arms and followed closely behind Elliott.
