by Adrian Smith
The two she had shot gurgled and hissed at her, clawing along the road, madness etched on their faces. Still they lunged forward, gnashing their teeth. One of the runners Cordwell had shot sat up, the wound in its chest still bleeding. It looked around, searching. It had been a woman before the pain. Before the chaos. She still had activewear pants and a top on. Some clumps of brown hair hung loosely from the edges of her head. As she sat up, more strands fell away.
“Really?” Cordwell said, putting a round through her head.
Lisa said a silent prayer and carefully made her way to the nearest runner. He was a young male in his early twenties, she guessed, black gauges in his ears with holes the size of half dollars. Like the female, most of his hair had fallen out. His man-bun was sitting on his shirt, trapped by the collar.
“Let’s move before more of these things find us,” Cordwell said.
“Help me with this one. Johnson will want a test subject,” Lisa said, pulling on Man-bun.
“Leave them where they lie. It’s bad enough we can’t give them a decent burial.”
“I know it goes against your beliefs, but if we want to fight this, we need this subject.”
Cordwell clenched his jaw and flicked his eyes around. Like Lisa, he was on edge. “Fine. But for the record, I object,” he said.
Lisa brought the faded blue Chevy closer and they heaved the body into the back, covering him with a green tarp.
They drove in silence for the next forty minutes, past the Bridge of the Gods. Lisa’s mind played images of a happier time. She and her husband had hiked the Pacific Crest Trail once, ending their eight-week epic journey at the bridge on a warm, late-summer’s day, eating ice cream, watching the white-water churn below. They had been content after the grueling hike, happy and enjoying nature.
Fighter jets screamed overhead, breaking Lisa from her memories. She scanned the sky. Three F-16s banked hard, flying low, and followed the river.
“American?” Lisa asked.
“Hard to say. I couldn’t see any markings.”
The sky rumbled and screeched. More fighter jets broke from the clouds, twisting and turning, dancing and diving in a deadly fight as they engaged the F-16s. Missiles flew, pursuing their targets. Four F-15 Strike Eagles shot overhead and joined the fray as more missiles and bullets tore through the sky.
“Those are ours!” shouted Cordwell.
An F-16 exploded and tumbled, end over end, to splash into the Columbia River. Another screeched as black smoke poured from its fuselage. The pilot ejected as it hit the highway, spinning and flinging debris into the air. Why were these jets fighting?
Lisa used all her concentration to avoid the flying debris. They took another bend and spotted the small city of Hood River.
Two F-16s broke away from the dogfight and streaked toward the river. Missiles shot out from under their wings, exploding into the city in a raging white fireball.
Lisa’s phone rang. She gripped the steering wheel in one hand, narrowly avoiding an F150 on its side. “Yeah.”
“It’s Avondale. I’ve got General Munroe on the line, patching you through now.”
Her mind whirled. Out of all the people to have survived this pandemic, she should have guessed he had. Munroe had been her commanding officer when she had joined up, and she had served under him for two tours of Iraq during the first Gulf War. He was gruff and demanded perfection, but he was fair.
“Omstead!” Munroe shouted. Lisa could picture the grizzled African American’s face, his nose broken so many times during his boxing days that it was permanently crooked.
“Munroe.”
“What the hell is going on? I’ve got dead everywhere. It’s like goddamn Mt. St. Helens around here…” Gunshots rang out, four in quick succession. “People are muddy ash. And these pricks look like something out of a Barker horror novel. They’ve already killed several of my men, sucking on their goddamn spines like an ice lolly on a hot day.”
“We’re as clueless as you, Sir. Are you on base?”
“Of course I’m on the goddamn base. We’re holed up in operations. These…” More gunshots. “These suckers are trying to get in but we’re launching a counterattack. No one is answering their phones. Radio is patchy. I can’t even get a hold of the president.”
“We’re on our way to Hood River, Sir. Extracting a virologist. Johnson.”
“Bring her to Fort Lewis, Omstead. You can use our facilities. I want some goddamn answers.”
“Wilco. We’re seeing a lot of fighter jet activity. Any of them yours?”
“You bet your sweet ass. Some pricks tried to bomb our runway. We’re chasing them back to the Pacific and over the mountains.”
“Any clue as to the nation?”
“Negative. Get your asses here with your science geek.” The line went silent.
Lisa slipped the phone back into her pocket. Cordwell watched her as he pointed right, into the city. He had Google Maps open, directing her.
“I thought you liked old stuff?”
He grinned but remained silent. Her phone rang again.
“Director, Secretary Ward is alive. He’s broadcasting on the radio as we speak.” Avondale said.
“Which station?”
“All of them.”
Lisa hung up and switched on the car radio.
“…ow Americans. It is with great pain and sorrow in my heart that I inform you that the president is dead. He has succumbed to this terrible virus. You have always known me as a straight talker, and I’m going to be straight with you now. There aren't many of us left here in the Capitol. I’m the most senior alive as far as we know. We will carry on and serve as we swore to do. We are all Americans and we will all survive. Therefore, I have federalized the National Guard and authorized the deployment of FEMA. I have recalled all our military from every overseas post. They will be assisting where needed.
“As Americans, I expect you to help one another and to look out for those in need. Stay indoors and wait for further instructions.” There was a slight pause and the message played again. “This is Secretary of State Thomas Ward…”
The broadcast repeated itself several times before Cordwell switched it off.
“What shall we do?” he said.
“We carry on as planned.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. After 9/11, protocols were put in place. Options explored. LK3 has not been notified of anything. Avondale would know.”
“You don’t trust Ward?”
“Look. All I’m saying is, until I’m ordered otherwise, I’m carrying on as planned.”
“Sounds fair to me,” Cordwell said.
They pulled into a suburban cul de sac with brick homes nestled amongst the trees. It looked like your typical quiet town street. Lawns and shrubs. Bikes and skateboards. Lisa didn’t have to wonder which was Monica’s house. It was surrounded by twenty rabid humans. Just like back on the highway, they were shrieking and gnashing their teeth as they tried to claw their way inside. Some were trying to climb onto the covered veranda and enter the second-floor windows.
She pulled up forty meters away. A few of the mutated people turned at the sound of the truck before looking back at the house. Lisa and Cordwell sat in silence for a few minutes, observing, noting the mutants’ behavior. It was odd. They appeared transfixed on the doctor's house. Surely there were other survivors on this street, in this neighborhood? Why weren’t they there too?
Keeping her eyes on the sightless surrounding the house, Lisa called Monica. “We’re here. What happened?”
“I heard my neighbor screaming and went to check on her. These … things … chased me back inside.”
“All right. Stay put. We’ll secure the perimeter. Be ready to run.”
“Got it,” Monica said, and hung up.
Lisa returned her gaze to the sightless mutants. Most were crowded around the front door, banging their fists against it. A few stared in windows, letting out occasional shrieks—shri
eks that came out as wet, pained gurgles.
Cordwell blew out a breath. “Was that Munroe on the phone before?”
“How’d you guess.”
“I could hear that grumpy old general. He would be too stubborn to die.” He reached down into the footwell and opened their ammo bag. He handed Lisa several magazines, a Glock, and a K-Bar.
“Don’t hesitate, like on the highway. We’re giving them mercy. Releasing them from their hell.” He put his hand on her arm and met her gaze. “Remember Serbia?”
“Like it was yesterday. You don’t forget men screaming in agony from chemical burns.”
Cordwell’s eyes were filled with sadness. Lisa understood what he was thinking. It fell to the few to save the many. It was their motto, and now, more than ever, it was appropriate.
“For the many,” she said.
“For the many,” Cordwell repeated as they burst from the Chevy truck.
Lisa darted right, M4 to her shoulder, sighting targets. She tracked across the front lawns, carefully avoiding children’s toys, bikes, and small piles of ash. Cordwell veered right, so that he ran perpendicular to their target. The sightless were so focused on the house that they didn’t see the retired soldiers approaching.
An oak tree, thick with acorns, provided Lisa with cover. She took a moment to steady her pounding heart, preparing mentally for the bloodbath to come. Never would she have imagined shooting unarmed Americans on home soil. Americans who had turned into bloodthirsty creatures.
One of the rabid turned, his eyes latching on to her. She squeezed the trigger. His head snapped back, and he crumpled to the ground. Without hesitation this time, she shot three more, her old training kicking in. She entered a serene state of mind and time seemed to slow down. She could hear Cordwell expertly taking down targets as she took out four more. Lisa switched her aim and went for their legs. She knew it wouldn’t kill them, but with this many hostiles, she didn’t want to risk missing head shots. Half a dozen rabid split from the mass at the front door and screamed as they bolted toward her. She dropped to one knee and swiveled her M4 from side to side, methodically cutting mutant after mutant down. They fell in a shrieking heap, arms outstretched.
Lisa ignored them as they dragged themselves over the intervening ground toward her. She took out the rabid at the door with clean shots. Most of the infected had given up on what was inside the house and pivoted toward the easier prey. Them.
With the door clear, Lisa shouted, “Monica! C’mon.”
Dr. Johnson banged open the door and dashed over the lawn, now littered with bodies. She reached Lisa, panting, a rucksack over her shoulder.
“Thank you.”
“Blue Chevy pickup,” Lisa said, shooting another rabid. “Cordwell!” He shot the last of the strange creatures and slung his rifle, saluting.
“Ma’am,” he said.
Both Monica and Cordwell snapped their heads around as a black Humvee drove around the corner, followed by three black SUVs. FEMA was printed in large letters on the doors. Finally, the government agency was making an appearance. The vehicles slowed, coming to a halt a few meters away from Cordwell.
As one, several doors opened, and armed men exited the vehicles. The hairs went up on the back of Lisa’s neck. They were dressed exactly like the commandos she and Zanzi had tangled with. Instead of the skull insignia, though, these men had FEMA printed on their combat vests, and were all armed with HK416 rifles.
One of the commandos stepped forward and took off his mirrored aviator sunglasses. “Who are you?” he said, looking at Cordwell. “Didn’t you hear the secretary’s message? All citizens are to report to their local camp to be registered.”
“We could ask you the same thing.”
“We’re FEMA. The National Guard and us have been tasked to provide law and order. Stop looters. Make sure everything runs smooth.”
Cordwell chuckled and, with his hand behind his back, signaled Lisa and Monica to move away. “You know something. I was in the army for a long time. First Recon Battalion. Green ops. Met a lot of people, saw a lot of different countries, trained a lot of soldiers. I’ll tell you something else. If you guys are FEMA, then the pope has just declared himself a Protestant.”
The commando grinned. “You’re a smart guy. We’re not officially FEMA, but we are acting on their behalf.”
“Since when do FEMA employ men carrying arms?”
“Since those freaks showed up.” He waved his hand at the rabid mutants Cordwell and Lisa had shot. Some were still trying to reach them, crawling across the lawns as they bled from their wounds. “Now, are you two going to put down your weapons and follow us to the middle school?”
“If it’s all the same to you, we have our own business to attend. Under orders.”
“Under whose orders?”
“General Munroe out of Fort Lewis.”
The commando frowned. He made no attempt at all to hide his displeasure at the mention of the general’s name.
Three things happened next that would forever be etched into Lisa’s mind. First, Aviator Glasses dropped his hand and snapped up his rifle. The other commandos reacted as one, lifting theirs and released a barrage of rounds. Second, Cordwell, reacting faster, shot Aviator Glasses as bullets slammed into his torso. Third, somehow, Cordwell managed to throw a dark object as he fell to the ground. It tumbled through the air as his body contorted and spun around. The object landed inside the open door of the Humvee and exploded with a muted thump. Screams rang out. Shouts. Thick blood coated the windows.
Glass broke and someone cursed, letting loose with a monologue of expletives.
The FEMA commandos reacted, and bullets peppered the oak tree. Instinct saved Lisa as she tackled Monica to the ground, dragging her behind a minivan parked in the neighbor’s driveway.
“Why are they firing?” Monica said.
“Just run.” Lisa pushed her, guiding her down the side of the house. The linea board shattered as rounds smacked into the cladding mere inches above their heads.
Lisa contemplated firing back, but quickly realized she was outgunned. If she and the doctor didn’t move soon, they’d join Cordwell. Dead.
Boots thumped on the road, approaching fast. Lisa made up her mind. She shoved Monica again and took off after her. They bolted around the back of the house and sprinted across the lawn, dodging garden furniture and statues.
Lisa struggled over the first fence before the adrenaline kicked in, flooding her tired muscles, urging the last bit of strength out of them. Fear was a great motivator, and it helped her once again. She easily clambered over the next fence, dragging the doctor after her. The sounds of the SUVs gunning their engines reached her as she leapt over a paddling pool and landed on a squeaky toy.
On they ran. Backyard after backyard. Past barbeques with food burnt to a cinder, like the piles of ash next to them. Past half-pulled weeds and hoses still running, flooding lawns.
Monica gasped and pulled Lisa behind an old shed. Its green paint was cracked and dry, peeling off in flakes. “This is the last house,” she puffed.
Lisa glanced around, listening to the pursuing commandos. As far as she could tell, they were some distance away. “What’s behind here?”
“A park, then the fire station.”
“Go! Don’t look back,” Lisa said. “Fire station.”
She risked a glance over her shoulder as they ran across the road and ducked into the trees lining the park. Cordwell’s body was clearly visible.
She prayed for her old friend. They had climbed through the ranks together. Bled together. Shared stories, hopes, and dreams; stayed awake late into the nights, laughing, and giving each other a hard time. He was her teammate. A soldier one could rely on. He had proven it again today, sacrificing himself so that she and Monica could go on. Fight another day.
“Thank you. Be at peace,” she whispered, gripping her carbine tighter. “For the many.”
Forty-One
Tokyo, Japan
> Touma Yamada’s private train, painted white and blue, gleamed alongside the platform. Armed guards stood to attention, bowing as Touma walked closer. Hundreds of Tokyo residents had crowded into the station. The Nameless and the Yamadas were met with shouts and cries for help. Parents holding children pleading, begging. All the other platforms were packed. Trains full but going nowhere.
“Can’t you do something? It’s not right to leave them like this,” Ryan said, looking at Touma.
“Do what, exactly? You can see the desperation. If I helped one, the rest would surge and cause even more panic.”
“At least tell them help is on the way.”
Touma shook his head. “No, I’m not going to do that, Mr. Connors. We have plans in place. A high-ranking government official will make an announcement soon. Trucks from my warehouses will arrive at predetermined shelters to disperse food, water, and medicines. Disaster protocols will be activated, helping people find missing loved ones. Japanese Defense Forces loyal to me will neutralize the infected, clear the streets.”
“What? So you can dose more people with nanites and cull the herd further?”
“Yes. It’s not a pleasant task, but it has to be done.” Yamada turned and strode away without another word.
Ryan glared at his back. It troubled him that he had enabled Touma, helped him reset his supercomputer.
Had he assisted the devil?
Keiko, Hogai, and Allie were waiting for them inside the carriage. Sofia and Keiko embraced warmly with Sofia kissing her daughter’s head several times.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, they were friendly. Even let us play video games.”
“Hogai, are you okay?” Sofia asked.
The teenager shrugged and looked away.
Instead of the usual train seats, the carriage had leather chairs and couches, and tables and flat screen TVs. It was decorated like a luxury hotel suite, with thick carpet and even a concierge.
Touma clicked his heels together and bowed in the doorway. “Thank you. To you and your team. We’ll leave shortly for Narita Airport. I have my own hangar with jets. You may take your pick. Will you be needing a pilot?”
