The Pandemic Sequence (Book 2): The Tilian Effect

by Tom Calen

  Halfway down the line of motorcycles and ATVs, Hicks removed the pack from his back and began placing the first brick of C-4. With practiced ease, he methodically set the second charge further along the row as Paul kept a watchful eye on the camp. As the man worked, a chorus of shouts sprang up from the camp’s center. Though he could hear what could only be celebratory yelling, his line of sight was blocked. Risking detection, he straightened his legs from a crouch and peered over the vehicles. A steady procession of headlights were weaving a path down into the valley. His eyes followed the line of lights until it stretched beyond the hillside. Even as the rain muffled most sound, the motorcade’s engines reached a ground shaking cacophony. Whatever motorcycles and ATVs he and Hicks were now rigging with explosives, at least three times that number were barreling into the camp.

  “Hicks,” Paul called to the man at his side with enough volume to be heard over the din, “This wasn’t the whole camp.”

  His task finished, Hicks joined Paul in his slack-mouthed stare at the swelling numbers of the Horde. The seemingly endless cascade of lights continued to pour into the camp, the new arrivals being greeted with shouts of praise and salutatory gunfire. The pair realized simultaneously that much of the motorcade was angling in the direction of the stationary vehicles.

  “We need to move!” Hicks growled before slinging the pack across his shoulder and retreating into the shadows beyond the camp. Paul wasted little time in following the other man’s lead. As the adrenaline flowed in his veins, he barely noticed how many times his body crashed to the ground during the scramble back up the mud-caked hillside. In the darkness, he lost sight of Hicks more than once, but managed to follow the tracks in the softened earth. Finally reaching the promontory from which they had originally observed the camp, he caught up to Hicks as the man knelt catching his breath. As Paul slumped beside him, Hicks handed him the remote detonator. Twisting himself to regain a view of the camp, he could see the rapidly increasing line of vehicles below.

  Looking to Hicks, he asked, “You ready to run?”

  “Let’s do it,” was the man’s only reply.

  As his finger depressed the switch, Paul thought he saw a gathering crowd forming where Hicks’ victim lay hidden behind the row. That brief image was immediately replaced as a significant flash of light tore through the darkness. The subsequent sounds of explosion drowned out any screams the members of the Horde might have made. The initial flashes and booms were quickly followed as gas tanks of neighboring vehicles succumbed to the force of the explosion. Like dominoes, the entire line expanded outwards as metal and earth were torn apart. Lit by the inferno beneath it, a towering mushroom cloud formed and wavered in the air.

  Explosions still shook the air, as Hicks pulled Paul from his mesmerized paralysis. Shaking himself back to awareness, he jammed the remote into a pocket and followed Hicks in his loping run to the waiting Stryker.

  Paul had worried about pursuit when he first planned the guerilla assault. He had misjudged, however, the amount of destruction and chaos the attack would generate. Even the most disciplined of troops would be held in confusion for several minutes after such a display. And he reminded himself of Hicks’ criticism of the camp’s inherent disorder. Those minutes had purchased them enough time to reach the Stryker well before the deadline.

  Dropping into the open hatch, he quickly followed Hicks inside the vehicle and slammed the metal hatch closed, shouting the order to move out. The diesel engine churned to life and the eight-wheeled behemoth rolled out of the trees, beginning the journey to the hotel. Along the way, Paul and Hicks recounted the brief adventure, and the unexpected arrival of the massive motorcade. Nieves and the others had of course heard the explosion, seen the red glow of the sky, yet they still listened and shouted out congratulatory praise. Paul was even surprised to see the barest hint of a smile on Hicks’ face as he retold his version.

  Though he could acknowledge they’d delivered a devastating blow to the renegades’ transportation ability, he likewise knew the chance of retribution was high. His team had thankfully operated without detection, and it would take some time for the Horde to locate the team’s base at the hotel. By then, Paul hoped to be well on his way to the next destination. As much as he wanted to help free the prisoners, he accepted the need for reinforcements, which could only be obtained at the first rendezvous with the Mohawk.

  The return trip was significantly shorter than their departure earlier in the day. They had relied on back roads and byways to avoid detection when they had set out on the search. Paul and his team had, in fact, inspected two other potential sites for the Horde’s camp before discovering it in actuality. Only minutes after an hour of travel, the Stryker was rolling down the roads of San Antonio. As Nieves navigated through the abandoned debris typically found in the streets since the outbreak, he called to Paul.

  Ducking beneath the array of electronics, Paul made his way forward and leaned over the driver’s seat. Nieves pointed through the upraised hatch, and Paul followed the trajectory the man indicated. The rain, though slightly less, still limited visibility beyond close proximity, but the red glow against the black sky was impossible to miss. Paul could feel his chest tightening as the images of the returning Horde passed through his mind—the shouting, the celebratory gunfire. Before it had only indicated danger to Paul, but now those actions took on meaning. A battle had been fought, and the Horde had been returning from it; returning victorious.

  “Faster…” he ordered through a fog of disbelief and anger. Nieves no longer tried to maneuver around obstacles, instead he gave the Stryker its lead and the steel beast rammed its way through the debris. Hicks joined Paul in the front after the sudden change of speed and precaution. Still perhaps a half-mile from the hotel, the raging fires lit the surrounding area with a hellish glow.

  When the hotel finally came into view, Paul’s eyes searched for any recognizable feature. The front entrance to the building was now a gaping hole, the lobby and the floor above crumbled together in a chaotic mountain of fire and stone. One of the Stryker vehicles was burning, while another rested overturned in the river. He could not see the other vehicles; whether stolen or hidden by debris, Paul did not know.

  As Nieves slowed their own Stryker unit to a stop, Paul leapt from the hatch and let his eyes sweep over the entire height of the hotel. The windows on each floor of the nine-story building held back dancing flames as if the entrance to Hell. Returning his eyes once again to the horror before him, his mind began to register the bodies. Several were stacked in a burning pile; others slumped against a wall with hands bound behind backs. Executed, Paul’s conscious mind explained to him. That mind tried to break through his shock, tried to tell him what clearly he could see. They wouldn’t leave survivors, the voice said. No survivors.

  Finding his own voice again, Paul simply spoke one word into the burning night. “Lisa.”

  Chapter Twelve

  When Erik finally brought the bike to a halt, Michelle could still feel the engine’s vibrations in her thighs. He helped her from her perched position and eased her to the ground. While he replenished the gas tank, she examined her injured ankle. The skin was tender to her touch, swollen, and a sickly coloring of purple and yellow. Though the paved road had offered a relatively smooth ride, she had winced in pain at even the slightest jolt. Believing, or rather hoping, it was simply a sprain and not a break, she gingerly wrapped the ankle in a long strip of cloth Erik had torn for her.

  “So, why did you follow me?” she asked as she wound the cloth around. With no signs of pursuit, though Erik still refused to engage the bike’s headlight, it was the first opportunity Michelle had to ask the questions that had formed in her head during the last two hours of their escape.

  Keeping eyes and hands focused on his task, he replied. “When Andrew mentioned the Ira Project, I asked around. Most of the people I asked never heard of it. One guy from the garage, his brother works with the Council, he said it was something to d
o with the East Side, something military.” As he finished speaking, he replaced the large red container, now half empty, and tightened the gas tank’s cover.

  “That still doesn’t explain why you followed me,” Michelle prodded. Erik once again wrapped her arm around his shoulder and helped her resume her seat on the bike.

  “When I went home yesterday,” he continued, “they were waiting for me. Bunch of guys in my house, packing some serious firepower. I slipped down an alley before they saw me. I figured whatever this Ira thing was, some people didn’t want me asking questions. I headed to your place to warn you, but when I got there it was pretty obvious that you were packing the car for a road trip. So, I got my bike and followed you.”

  Michelle felt a small pang of guilt as Erik settled himself into the bike’s seat. There had been a brief time, when he had first appeared in the office, that she had suspected him. Once she wrapped her arms around his waist, she wondered how she could have ever thought Erik was tied up in anything involving the Ira Project. It had been her confusion and shock, his unexpected arrival and their mad dash through the woods, which had allowed her to suspect him. Now that she knew his intention had been solely to protect her, she murmured, “I’m sorry,” but the words were lost in the wind and engine.

  The sky behind them was steadily brightening when he once again brought the motorcycle to a stop to refill the gas. Though the vehicle was fast, Erik had pushed the needle well above one-hundred fifty miles per hour, its small tank required more frequent attention. Michelle had at first understood and appreciated the speed. Now that her adrenaline was quickly being replaced by fatigue, however, she asked Erik to slow down when they resumed the journey.

  “Slow down?” he asked with a look and tone of incredulity. “Michelle, they have your car, they have your face on camera, how long do you think it will be before someone IDs you?”

  She stared blankly at him, though she was unable to find the words to reply. He was right of course, she realized. It would not be long before her name was known throughout the island by those searching for her. And the first place they will look is the house! she thought with fear.

  “We have to get to Andrew,” she said as she brought herself to her feet. The pain from her ankle lanced through her, but she clenched her jaw and fought through the agony. She was determined to keep Andrew from harm, harm that she had brought to their home. As the two continued the trek, she grew tense as the minutes and miles seemed to creep past at a snail’s pace. Her intensity had spurred Erik into pushing the bike to its limits. Now that the sky was fairly well lit, he increased the speed of their travel.

  Even with the early dawn hour, the streets of Havana were already dotted with pedestrians, forcing Michelle and Erik to reduce their haste. The motorcycle had barely stopped before Michelle leapt from the vehicle and hobbled her way up the steps to her home. Fumbling as she took the keys from her pocket, she could hear footsteps approaching the door from the inside. As the door opened, she saw Andrew’s shocked expression and she threw her arms around him.

  “Where have you been?” he asked, his earlier panic now subsiding to relief. It took him a moment to register Erik climbing the steps behind her. “What’s going on? What’s happened?”

  “We have to leave,” Michelle said as she untangled her arms from his neck. Limping past him, she braced herself on the back of the couch as she struggled towards the kitchen.

  “We have to… what happened to your leg?” He turned his attention to Erik next, accusation in his tone. “What the hell is going on? What did you do to her?”

  Before Erik could reply, Michelle called out from the kitchen where she was stuffing food into a trash bag. “He didn’t do anything. But, we need to leave. Now. I can’t explain it now, but there will be people coming for us. Andrew, you have to go upstairs and pack clothes for us.”

  Her words did nothing to assuage his confusion and steadily increasing anger. Erik closed the door behind him as he entered the house. “We got into something bad, man. There are Tils on the island.”

  “Tils? Where? We need to tell the Council! The military…”

  “They know, Andrew,” Erik said with as much calm as he could muster, hoping to diffuse the growing tension in the room. “They know.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Andrew exclaimed, bewilderment clinging to each word. “Michelle, this is crazy. Slow down and tell me what’s going on!”

  Returning from the kitchen, she took Andrew’s face in her hands and stared into his eyes, “Baby, listen to me. I know this doesn’t make any sense. But you have to trust me. Please. Trust me. It’s the Ira Project. I will explain it all when we’re safe. I need you to go upstairs and pack us some clothes.”

  “No time for that,” Erik said with authority. “They’re here.”

  Through the thin white curtains of the large living room window, Michelle could see at least three vehicles coming to a hasty stop in front of the house. The cars’ door flew open and several figures stepped from each vehicle. Even through the drawn curtain, the weapons each figure carried indicated their intentions.

  “Out the back,” Michelle directed, and the two men helped her through the length of the house. With his free hand, Erik clenched the semi-automatic handgun tightly. Passing the bag of canned goods, Michelle grabbed the bag and shoved it inside one of the cabinets. She regretted not being able to bring it with her, but she knew the weight would be cumbersome in their flight. She hoped that in hiding the bag she might mask their precipitous departure and win a few extra minutes.

  Once outside the rear door, Andrew gently pulled it closed behind them just as a loud knock pounded at the front door. Behind the row of attached houses stretched a narrow alleyway just wide enough for two to walk abreast, save for when trash bins forced them to move in single file. They reached the end of the alley without incident, but Michelle doubted it would be long before a wider search would be ordered.

  The three were very grateful for the curved streets of the neighborhood which allowed them to duck from alley to street without being seen by the armed men at the house. They kept themselves to a steady trot, the fastest that could be managed with Michelle’s injury, before finally allowing themselves to pause and formulate a plan of action.

  “We have maybe ten minutes on them,” Erik assessed. “We’re on foot, and injured, and they can cover a lot more ground than we can.”

  “I don’t understand any of this,” the younger man said. “But we need a place to hide. I’m guessing your place is out,” this directed at Erik who nodded his head in response, “Then where?”

  Michelle hesitated at first with the suggestion, but to her it was the only place that made sense. Once her two companions agreed, with expressed reservation, they set out again with hedged hope. Exhaustion and the pain in her ankle were beginning to drain her of her last reserves of strength. Her mind demanded her body keep moving, but after twenty minutes she sagged noticeably against her two human crutches. A year of office work had taken its toll and sapped her once limitless energy. Andrew and Erik, having maintained fitness far more than she had, silently bore the burden of her weakness. By the time they reached their destination, she realized that her feet barely touched the ground as the carried her along.

  At the top of the crumbling steps leading to the home, Erik shared a withering look with Andrew that Michelle glanced accidently.

  “It’s our only choice,” she told them, attempting to assure them as much as herself, then she lifted her hand and knocked on the door.

  Part Two

  Chapter Thirteen

  He woke with a jolt, eyes springing open, a gasp in his lungs. The illusions of troubled dreams still tumbled in his mind, creating confusion between reality and the subconscious. It was not until his ears focused on the excited barking of the dog that Mike Allard was able to pinpoint what had pulled him so violently from his slumber. He recalled a banging in his last dream, the sounded echoed again by a knock at the front d
oor.

  The hands of the clock by his bed told him it was quite early for visitors, even earlier than he would have woken to ready himself for work. Tossing the thin sheets aside, Mike pressed his feet into the thick rug that stretched out from under the bed. Rug became wooden floor and the jolt of cold at his feet caused him to hop more than walk out of the bedroom and into the living room. Gazelle danced erratically, barking non-stop, in a small circle by the front door. Another knock sounded, this one more insistent than the previous. He had several choice words readied on his tongue, but he swallowed them in surprise when he opened the door.

  Standing on the small porch outside his home was three faces he had not expected to find. Whatever shock Mike felt initially quickly faded as he saw the strain and panic in the eyes of Erik, Michelle, and Andrew. Before he could find any words of greeting, Michelle spoke pleadingly.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Allard, but we didn’t know where else to go.” Mike stood aside and ushered the trio in, thinking to himself that something was clearly wrong if Michelle had slipped back to addressing him formally. After closing the door, his eyes were drawn to Michelle’s noticeable limp, then lower to her very swollen foot and ankle. Fetching chairs from the kitchen, he sat in silence as his two former students, and Andrew, talked over each other in detailing their story.

  Michelle told him of the conversation where she first heard of the Ira Project, her meeting with Councilor Adam Duncan, and her previous night’s excursion to the East Side. Erik filled in his parts, the men waiting at his home, the mad flight from the Bay. Andrew appeared to be hearing much of the information for the first time, and Mike wondered if his own expression matched the shock outlined on the young man’s face.