“You know, whenever you refer to the Secret Service as ‘SS,’ I cringe, Melissa.” President Neil Wendell laughed. Beside him, Secretary of the Interior, Patricia Carling, chuckled on cue. He brought the glass of scotch to his lips and sipped. “Remind me to give my wife a call soon as we’re finished here.”
He placed a too-friendly hand on the secretary’s knee, Melissa noted, as she dutifully jotted down the reminder and tapped the stylus on the screen. “You’re meeting with the police chief, and this will be in front of media, so keep it short. We don’t want Chief Dryer getting cute…He’s a Democrat.” She winked.
“You hear that?” Carling asked abruptly.
“What?”
“That chattering sound?”
The car lurched to the left and threw its occupants soundly against the thick, unyielding bulletproof glass. In the rear, Air Force Major Darren Woodrow, the man with the ‘Football,’ clutched the black leather satchel to his chest in an effort to protect its contents. An explosion rocked the heavy car.
“What the—” President Wendell managed, before a Secret Service agent smothered him and Carling beneath him.
“Stay down, Mr. President, Ms. Secretary!” Into his mike, Agent Jason Augustson said, “Status, what’s the status?”
At the front of the motorcade, the lead SUV disappeared in a ball of fire as the RPG found its mark. The occupants never had a chance. The next vehicle in the convoy slid to a stop and spilled its tactical team onto the roadway with frightening precision. Agent Derrick Wells was in the second SUV. As he leaped from the vehicle, the scent of burning flesh, rubber, and steel struck him full in the face. He faltered, as images of a war-torn Iraq, a scene similar to this one, replayed in his head. He heard his Marine buddies screaming as their Humvee burned, entwined with the screams of his fellow agents in the SUV in front of him. The past and present bled together in his head.
The vehicle behind the SUV exploded into flames, and the presidential limousine shuddered as it was struck by another projectile, but it stayed intact. A single gunshot rang out, and the shooter reloading the RPG slumped from sight on the adjacent rooftop. The launcher plummeted to the ground. The impact caused the launcher to discharge a wild missile directly at Derrick. He screamed for everyone to take cover and dove for some himself. The massive explosion rocked the street, and as Derrick checked the rooftops for a second attacker, he felt as if he were hearing everything from underwater. He realized either one or both of his eardrums were perforated. Ignoring the pain, he focused on the surrounding rooftops.
Satisfied there were no targets present, he gained his feet to rush back towards the burning limo. He turned to urge his fellow agents on. What he found caused his stomach to clench. Agent Eric Peebles lay slumped up against the door of the SUV, trying to put his guts back into his body. The steaming entrails looked like uncooked sausage links to Derrick. The only thing left of Agent Kara Garner was a bloody, ragged stump. He recognized the body part because one of her shoes was still on the blackened foot.
At the rear of the motorcade, the up-armored chase SUV roared up the road towards the limo. It screeched to a halt beside the door, and Augustson emerged with the president and Secretary Carling.
* * *
“Report!” Lead Agent Allen Melendez shouted, as he scanned the surrounding rooftops for more bogies. The massive automatic rifle in his hands was primed to find a target. He focused on someone stumbling in his direction from the front of the convoy and almost squeezed off a shot. Agent Wells was almost unrecognizable.
“Agent!” Wells announced himself loudly. “They’re all dead. They’re all dead, Allen!”
“Take the Package!” Melendez ordered.
In the space of a few seconds, a perimeter was established around the burning wreckage. Satisfied his people, those still alive at least, were accounted for, Melendez gave the order to move RAVEN to the up-armored SUV. As he finished the order, someone popped up on the roof. Or rather, something popped up.
“What the—-” Melendez muttered.
There was something wrong with the form. Rather than being solid, it appeared to be flowing, undulating in the distance, and it was black as midnight. A perfect rendition of a shadow, the figure did a header off the roof and crashed to the street. No sooner had the form hit the ground, but it shambled to its feet, dragging a man’s body with it. The agents opened fire on the approaching man. Bullets slammed into the attacker and gave him the appearance of a broken marionette. Yet, he still kept coming, even after his left arm was severed at the elbow by a well-placed, high velocity round.
Melendez didn’t take time to wonder how the attacker was still standing, much less alive. He leapt into the SUV and, as they sped off, he watched in horror as more men approached from the north of the motorcade. Wells cursed as he saw one of them looked like Agent Peebles. They were shambling, their shadows leading rather than following.
Something else would trouble him later. He’d seen a bullet ricochet off one of the vehicles, and it nicked the ground where Peebles’s shadow was cast. When it did, the agent collapsed and remained motionless.
Chapter Thirteen
Eight Hours Ago
0907 – Safe Haven
The alternate safe haven was three miles to the east of the hotel, at a private compound the FBI used from time to time to house transient witnesses in their WIT-PRO. As the SUV fled from the decimated convoy, Archer and Agent Cavalari made their way to the safe haven with their respective people.
Archer drove as fast as he dared. Many of the streets in New Orleans were still all but impassable, since the hurricane three years prior. As he navigated the debris, Rios scanned the police band and their own radio net, trying to determine exactly what was going on. There were a lot of confused voices stumbling over each other on the police band.
“Patrol 751, repeat your last message,” a frantic sounding dispatcher ordered. “You’re getting stepped on by another relay.”
“I repeat, something’s going on,” an officer shouted into the mike, the first part of his message distorted. “They’re everywhere. Holy—”
Rios glanced over at Archer. “What do you make of that? What’s going on, man?”
“We’ll find out soon enough,”
Up ahead, the gates of the compound rose into view. As they pulled off to the side of the long driveway, Cavalari stalked about screaming orders. He locked gazes with Archer, seemed to want to say something, then thought better of it. “Thad, I need you.”
Despite the circumstances, Archer had to admit the request for help was vindicating and satisfying. He filed away the feelings for later analysis. He had a job to do, and Cavalari recognized he was the guy to handle the crisis.
“All right, people,” Archer called out. “Details are sketchy, but when they do come roaring in here, they may have bogies on their tail. Our job is to protect the package and its contents. Let’s move, people. They’ll be here any minute.”
An obvious change came over Archer as he took the reins. Thaddeus slid into command like putting on an old, familiar suit. On the far side of the compound, a HH-60G Pave Hawk roared to life.
“Rios, interface with Secret’s COM,” he ordered. “Make sure this is the only attack going down. Make sure our men are secure with the secretary.”
Rios nodded and rushed off to talk with the communications guys.
Archer noticed that Rios broke out into a cold sweat after he gave the younger man his orders. The full impact of Archer’s words had hit him and, despite his training and terrorism classes, the kid was now faced with the real thing. Archer knew that felt a lot different than the classroom.
The kid was probably thinking of his wife and children right now, just as Archer had back when he was a newcomer to the service. He bet Rios wished he could contact them. He knew that feeling well.
Archer watched Rios pull a cell phone from his jacket, dial a number rapidly, then shut the phone, looking more worried. “Damn it,” the kid said through gritted tee
th.
0910
“Topaz One, I have movement, quadrant four,” a voice squawked.
Cavalari tapped Archer on the shoulder to ensure he’d heard the transmission. They both made their way to the perimeter wall and climbed the steps. The wall resembled a maximum security prison’s wall—complete with observation posts at all four corners, inconspicuously masked by blooming bougainvillea vines. If one looked closely, they would see the dull razor wire that slithered through the pretty blooms.
Once on the wall, Cavalari expressed what they were all feeling. A horde of protesters emerged from the perimeter tree line, about seventy-five yards in front of them.
“How many?” Archer asked the sniper to his left.
“Approximately forty, sir.” The sniper faltered in his answer. “Shit! Sir, there’s something not right about these guys.”
Cavalari handed Archer a pair of binoculars. “You’d better take a look.” His voice was barely above a whisper, and his face turned ashen.
Archer took the binoculars and brought them to his face. He didn’t say anything for a long time, then: “Gentlemen, we need to get RAVEN secure and appraise him of the situation.”
Thaddeus tried to raise his detail on their freq, but again to no avail. He hoped Carling and his men had managed to remain safe. The sketchy amount of information transmitted from the convoy painted a dire picture, and Archer hated not knowing the exact status of his men and his boss.
0912 –
The SUV accelerated up the drive. Inside, the president clutched the armrest. To his right, Melissa was on the SAT phone with D.C. briefing them on the situation. Across Washington phones began ringing, beepers chirped, and cell phones vibrated. Power breakfasts, closed-door power plays, and secret trysts were interrupted as news of the NOLA attack spread like wildfire.
The SUV stuttered to a stop.
“What’s going on up there?” Melendez asked.
The window on the right of the passenger’s side turned red, as if a water balloon, ripe with blood, had collided with it. It took a few seconds for the passengers to reconcile what they were seeing. Outside, a man flung himself against the glass once more. Fresh blood splattered the window from his shattered fists. Bits of bones and flesh were all that were left of his hands after the third blow.
“Jesus!” President Wendell said, as another attacker came from the left.
Secretary Carling flew forward and collided against the back window, bumping her head. It made a sound like a wet melon, and she slumped, unconscious.
The president was aghast. “Give me that phone,” he demanded, snatching the phone from his aide. “Who is this?” He listened for a few seconds, then said, “General, this is your President…”
Melendez leaned forward and hit the driver, Park Policeman Albert Jossart, in the shoulder. “Drive the fuck through them.” His tone left no room for argument.
Jossart floored the gas and cringed as the heavy SUV slammed into a woman who refused to move out of their path. There was barely a noticeable bump as the woman disappeared beneath the heavy vehicle. Something dark splashed across the windshield. At first, Jossart thought it was blood, but there was something different about the substance. It was more tar-like, almost syrupy. He shouted in surprise as a visage formed in the black liquid and pressed against the glass with an open-mouthed scream, then the substance drifted off the window like wind-blown ash.
The sharpshooters on the walls fired into the pursuing crowd behind the SUV. Jossart focused his attention forward on his goal: the gate opening slowly ahead. Decorative foliage lined both sides of the drive and, from these shadowy recesses, men and women, even some children, jumped out by the twos and threes. Jossart didn’t slow.
Ahead, agents fired their automatic weapons at the ones that attempted to breach the open gate. Everything went so fast, no one had time to really think about what was happening and how surreal it all became. A chattering that lurked amongst the chaos grew.
Jossart expertly maneuvered through the narrow gate opening. Behind him, one of the protesters managed to snake an arm between the gaps in the fence. The gate ground to a halt as it crushed the woman’s arm, but she didn’t seem to notice. Jossart looked in his mirror, watching Agent Darren Gibbs toss aside his rifle and pull his service pistol. He extended his weapon and rested the barrel against the slobbering monstrosity’s forehead. Jossart was a huge Romero fan and, for a brief moment, before Agent Gibbs pulled the trigger, the woman resembled a zombie. No, that was all fiction. What was out there was real—not a monster from some movie. Still…
The woman opened her mouth, and something dark and fluid erupted from it. This shadow slid between the bars and took a chunk out of Gibbs’ forearm. Jossart’s mouth dropped open. What the hell? He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
Agent Gibbs screamed in agony and stumbled back, firing his pistol wildly in the air. The woman wrenched her arm back, dislocating it at the elbow. She pulled her body back and forth, trying to dislodge her trapped arm. With a sickening rending, her arm came free at the elbow.
She stumbled away a few steps, glanced at the bloody stump, and then charged, clambering up the fence with unnatural speed. Agent Gibbs was almost to his feet when the woman fell on him with such savageness the other agents froze in hesitation and horror.
“Someone shoot that bitch!” Jossart heard a voice ring out from above.
The agents glanced up like deer caught in headlights. Jossart saw Archer come into view, pull his service pistol, and fire rapidly. The woman writhed and screamed as the hollow points ripped into her, but they didn’t cease her attack. If anything, the bullets seemed to energize her actions. Somehow, Gibbs managed to roll free, and as she leapt to attack once more, he brought up his pistol.
The woman screamed in agony and rage as her teeth shattered on the barrel that disappeared deep into her mouth. Her head jerked as the gun’s slide cycled each shot. The woman’s face and head was an unrecognizable red and black mass when he was done. Gibbs scrambled back, disentangling himself from the corpse.
* * *
Archer hurried down the steps to the man’s side. He was almost there when Gibbs glanced around erratically then shoved the gun into his own mouth. The man yelled in frustration as he realized there were no more rounds in the gun.
“No!” Archer sped up.
Gibbs flung the empty gun aside and reached down to his ankle, pulling his backup. With a gleeful smile of triumph, he stuffed the compact gun in his mouth, and the back of his head disappeared in a pink mist. Archer stuttered to a stop as his head passed through the splatter. He grimaced and closed his eyes as he felt blood, bits of brain, and skull spray his chest and face. It smelled like black licorice and spoiled milk.
Disorientated, Thaddeus barely sidestepped the woman as she reached out for him. His attention had been fixed on the shadow that had appeared to guide Gibbs’s hand to his mouth. He fired four rapid shots into what was left of her face, but it seemed to have no effect.
Rearing up directly behind her, the shadow figure was nearly seven feet tall. What he was seeing was impossible, Thaddeus knew, but he was seeing it all the same. It was more than a shadow, he noticed, close up. It was like an absence of light—a black cut out surrounding the woman. He could see something moving in the darkness, like ghost images on a snowy TV set, but darker.
Tentacles of dark matter wove about the vaguely humanoid figure (like coral on a reef). Where the trailing wisps touched his wrist, they engulfed it in an icy coldness that took his breath away. The thing pulled back its hand as if to strike, and the woman followed suit. Without thinking, Archer fired into the black mass. It exploded into black ash and flew off with the breeze.
The roar of the onrushing crowd brought Archer back to the present. They slammed into the iron-gate as one force. The gate groaned in its moorings, and decades-old cement puffed into the air when the hinges broke free of their casements.
Archer reloaded his pistol as he backed
away. He slid the magazine of unused ammo into his coat. He had a feeling he’d need it shortly. Any second the gates would give way, and they’d be overrun.
He had never seen a crowd so fierce in all his time in the service. He’d studied mob theory, and was familiar with how one acted and reacted, but this—this was something he’d never seen or read about. The ones at the front of the throng were being crushed against the gate, but they didn’t seem to notice or care. The expression on their faces chilled his blood. They frothed at the mouth and sputtered obscenities at him.
The wind changed and the stench of vomit, blood, and excrement wafted over him. Archer’s eyes welled at the smell, and it took everything he had not to vomit. With the smell, came the crowd’s guttural moaning. The sound of so many people groaning the same, low note made his insides feel as if they were vibrating.
He squinted as something caught his eye. He looked up behind him at the sky, noted the position of the sun, and then glanced back at the mob. Their shadows weren’t right.
“What the—”
Archer realized the sharpshooters had ceased firing. Confused, he glanced up at the walls. The agents were now facing inward, and their rifles were aimed right at him. He raised the pistol in his left hand in a non-threatening manner (at least, he hoped it was non-threatening), and he said, in as clear and strong a tone as he could manage, “Men, the bad guys are out there.”
One of the agents, Chris Prestin, turned to his fellow agent of seven years, raised his high-powered rifle, and casually blew the man’s head into a red oblivion. Prestin’s features contorted. His movements were stuttered, like those rooms in carnival funhouses with the rapidly flashing lights, where it made the person appear to be moving in spurts. Prestin’s shadow seemed to move before he did. Like stop motion, Archer thought.
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