Legion: V Plague Book 19

by Dirk Patton

  On the road below, Viktoriya was watching them intently. When Rachel’s response was to hug Mavis, she made an elaborate production of shrugging her shoulders before bending and touching the lighter to a tumbleweed. The bone-dry scrub the females had gathered caught quickly, the wind fanning the flames. Within seconds, smoke was boiling up outside the jet’s windows.

  47

  Igor stood looking at the four men he’d killed. All were smaller then him, but one was close in size. Working quickly, he stripped the clothing off the corpse and ignoring the blood, squeezed his larger frame into the pants and shirt. The boots were several sizes too small and he had no choice other than to remain barefoot.

  A quick search of the other bodies and he found a steel ring with a single key dangling from it that would release the manacle on his wrist. He inserted it into the hole but paused in thought before turning the lock. The chain was the only weapon he had and was much more devastating than the small clubs the jailers had carried.

  Shoving the key into his pants, he looked in annoyance at his damaged hand when fresh blood began dripping to the floor. The makeshift bandage was saturated from the gaping wound. Knowing he would soon begin weakening, he cast around in search of anything that could stem the flow. His eyes fell on a small butane torch lying next to a sleeve of cigars.

  Pulling the key back out, he released the manacle from his good hand. Coiling the chain onto the table, he positioned the broad side of the iron restraint facing up. Shoving a dead man aside, he lowered himself into a chair and picked up the torch. A sharply tapered blue flame shot out of the tip when he pressed the ignition button.

  Working it over the surface of the manacle, he watched as the thick, black paint began to blister. It heated slowly, the torch running out of fuel in only a few minutes, but the iron was glowing cherry red. Leaning to the side, Igor snatched a belt off the pants of one of the corpses and bit down hard on the thick leather. Taking several fast breaths, he jammed the open wound against the surface of the hot manacle.

  A groan escaped him as he nearly passed out, but he somehow forced himself to keep his flesh pressed tightly against the hot iron. Blood boiled and tissue cooked, foul smoke rising to hang in the air, but Igor didn’t move. Veins popped on his neck and the muscles in his arms bulged as he struggled against the agony surging through his entire arm. Then, he could take it no longer.

  With an exhausted gasp, he tore his hand clear of the manacle and his head dropped to the table. The belt fell from his mouth as he panted, his head swimming as he neared unconsciousness. Slowly, the rushing roar of blood pounding in his ears subsided. Pulling his hand closer without raising his head, he stared in morbid fascination at the wound.

  The flesh had been cooked where it was pressed to the heated iron. Fluid in the tissue had been boiled away, causing it to shrink. The end of the bone where his thumb had once been attached was visible, sticking slightly above the surrounding meat. But the wound had been cauterized and instead of a steady flow of blood, there was now only a slow weep of clear fluid.

  Igor took slow, deep breaths and raised his head. For several seconds he sat unmoving, staring at his hand. He was thankful that he had been unable to smell his own flesh being seared. A broken nose, courtesy of the multiple beatings he’d endured was so swollen that no air could pass.

  With no warning, his stomach finally rebelled. Lurching to the side, he gasped as it convulsed, but there was nothing other than some thin bile to come up. Regardless, it was several minutes before he was able to sit upright and wipe his mouth with the back of his good hand.

  Using a bottle of water one of the guards had been drinking, he doused the manacle to cool the iron. After a careful test with one finger, he was satisfied it was cool enough and locked it back in place on his right wrist. Standing, he moved out into the corridor and began checking cells. In the fifth one he looked into, he found what he needed.

  A sheet was spread across a thin mattress. He had suspected the guards would have a place to take a nap on their long, boring shifts and he’d found the bunk they had used. Snatching it up, he hurried back to Irina’s cell. She was still restrained as he’d been afraid of what she might do to herself without him to watch her.

  When he approached the gurney, her eyes were closed and she didn’t respond when he called her name. Flipping the sheet across her naked form, he reached out and touched her cheek.

  “Why will you not kill me?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Because we are leaving. Because we are going to kill everyone that did this. I have already begun. The four guards are dead.”

  Her eyes fluttered open and focused on his battered face.

  “I am hurt,” she said. “Inside. They... they...”

  Tears formed in the corners of her eyes and began running down her cheeks to pool beneath her head.

  “Then we shall make them suffer worse before we kill them. We are Russian! We destroy those who harm us!”

  Irina stared at him through her tears for a long time before speaking.

  “There is no worse. I am hurt badly. One of them... one of them used a club. Inside me. Do you understand? I am broken, my love. I cannot go with you.”

  Irina looked down her body and Igor slowly lifted the sheet. Her hips and thighs were badly bruised, but the purplish swelling on her lower abdomen and the heavy dark blood between her legs was all Igor could see. He finally lowered the sheet and turned to look at her face. A sob racked his body and more tears streamed down his cheeks.

  “I cannot go with you,” Irina said softly, her eyes drifting closed.

  “NO!” Igor roared through tears of his own.

  With a low wail of pain, he leaned in and cradled her face. Brushed her cheek with his lips. A minute later, her breathing stopped. He cried like he hadn’t since he was a child. Violent, racking sobs shook him as he gently stroked Irina’s hair.

  He wept for a long time as a blinding rage built inside him. Throwing his head back he bellowed in pain until his throat was so raw he could no longer scream. Kissing Irina one final time, he turned and walked out of the cell with the chain clanking as it slithered along the floor behind him.

  48

  “Are you fucking kidding?” Strickland muttered.

  He and Martinez had left the cave, going up the slope and heading inland to angle to the north, hoping to open more distance between themselves and the feasting females on the beach. They had only been walking for an hour when they crested a rise and came face to face with a tall, rusting chain-link fence. A pitted metal sign missing all but one attachment wire swung in the wind and he’d had to hold it still so they could read the faded lettering.

  Vandenberg Space Launch Complex

  “We were that goddamn close?”

  “Every now and then we get lucky,” Martinez said.

  She looked up and down the fence line, which stretched out of sight in both directions. No gates or breaks were visible. Looking up, she noted multiple strands of rusty barbed wire strung on arms that extended outward from the top of the fence at a forty-five-degree angle.

  “Don’t suppose you’ve got a pair of wire cutters squirreled away,” Strickland said.

  He was slightly over six feet and the top rail of the fence was triple his height. The barbed wire added another two feet.

  “You know how to get over?” she asked, ignoring his comment.

  “Yeah. It’s this big, noisy thing called a helicopter.”

  “You’re not being helpful.”

  “Neither’s this,” he said, grasping the fence and pulling on it. “But we’re not climbing that. Not without the right gear to get us through or over the barbed wire. Have to find a gate or a way under.”

  “Okay,” Martinez said, checking in both directions again. “Which way?”

  “North.”

  “Why north?” she asked falling in beside him as he began walking along the fence.

  “Because the infected we saw are south.”

 
Martinez shrugged her shoulders and kept pace, unable to argue with his reasoning. Less than ten minutes later, Strickland slowed to a stop, reaching out and putting his hand on her arm. She understood he was telling her to stay quiet.

  Glancing at his face, she looked in the direction he was watching but failed to see anything of concern. Taking two careful steps to the side, she turned to scan their back-trail, again finding nothing. Motioning for her to follow, he continued forward for forty yards, coming to a stop and looking down.

  The ground they had been walking on was hard packed and studded with rocks, but there was a shallow depression where water ran off to the sea that was softer sand. It had been dug out several feet below the surface to open a path.

  The ground had been smoothed by bodies worming their way through beneath the bottom of the buried fence. In the softer soil that had been disturbed was a jumble of small, human footprints. Strickland exchanged a concerned glance with her, then they both looked through the fence into the air base.

  “Kids?” he asked quietly.

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  He was quiet for a moment, carefully scanning all around them.

  “How dangerous are they?”

  “Don’t know,” Martinez said after thinking about the question. “Like I said before, I’ve only seen a few. Never fought one that wasn’t part of a much larger group, and I was more worried about the adult females. But this is wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I’ve never seen an infected do anything that showed much, if any, reasoning ability. Climb fences, sure, but dig under? Unh-uh.”

  “Dogs dig under fences all the time,” Strickland pointed out.

  “They also learn to open doors and all kinds of things. The infected aren’t that smart. Or haven’t been.”

  He nodded in acceptance of the point, then shrugged and handed her the rifle.

  “Keep watch.”

  Stepping into the depression, he knelt at the narrow gap below the chain-link and began enlarging the hole by scooping sand with his hands. It was soft enough for him to make progress, but by no means as easy as if he were on a beach. Fifteen minutes passed before he straightened and looked at Martinez. She nodded her readiness to his unspoken question.

  Stretching out on his back, he used his legs to push and wormed his way under the fence. Standing, he gestured and she slipped the rifle through the gap. Jumping into the hole, she slithered through and joined him.

  “Vandenberg’s a big place,” he said as he scanned around them. “Any idea which way?”

  “Follow the tracks,” Martinez said, pointing at the ground. “Something drew them here strongly enough that they found a way to get in.”

  “That’s probably not a good thing.”

  “There’s nothing good about this. Just watch your ass.”

  “Thought that’s what you were doing back there while we were walking,” he said, turning away and heading the same direction as the prints the children had left.

  “Don’t flatter yourself, pendejo. I’ve seen better asses.”

  “Doubt it,” he said.

  Martinez rolled her eyes and realized she’d been doing that a lot with him. Instead of bothering her, the thought caused a big smile to spread across her face.

  “Must be over a hundred of ‘em,” Strickland said, pointing at the prints they were following. “Keep your eyes open for females hunting them, like at the beach.”

  “Maybe that’s why they came here. To get away from the females.”

  “You think they’re that smart?” he asked, coming to a stop and turning.

  “Just a thought. Probably not, though. Can you tell how old the tracks are?”

  “Not very. Not the way it was raining. Maybe a couple of hours.”

  He resumed walking, both of them falling silent. They moved for over an hour, dropping to their stomachs and crawling the last few feet up a low ridge that overlooked a flight line. Neither were happy to see a pair of Russian Hind Mi-24s sitting on the tarmac.

  “Well, fuck me,” Strickland mumbled.

  “They haven’t been here long,” Martinez said.

  “How can you tell?”

  “Look at the windscreens. They’re clean.”

  Strickland stared at the closest helo, noting how the glass caught the rays of the sun.

  “Cockpits look empty. Why would the pilots get out?”

  “Any of a dozen reasons, but you’re right. They are empty.”

  “So, where are they?”

  Martinez knew it was a rhetorical question so she didn’t bother responding with what would have only been a guess.

  “Can you fly one of those beasts?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will it get us to Phoenix?”

  Martinez hesitated and he shot her a glance.

  “What? I told you, I’m going to get Igor and Irina.”

  “And I’m with you, but that file is important. They need it in Hawaii. It could change everything.”

  “Don’t care,” Strickland said. “I’m not leaving friends behind.”

  “And neither am I, but tell me how we’re going to do both. They’re my friends, too. But the information you’re carrying about the virus resistant wheat could stop a war that will likely wipe out what’s left of the human race.”

  Strickland turned and looked her in the eyes.

  “I’m not leaving without them,” he said slowly and patiently. “I have no doubt you’re hell on wheels in a fight, but your true value is in the cockpit, not on the ground. I’m the one who’s going to have to go in and get them.”

  Martinez bristled at his words but couldn’t argue. Slowly, she nodded her head in agreement.

  “But you’re right, too,” he said after a long pause. “Getting the information to Hawaii is vital. I just don’t know how to do that, even if I didn’t go to Phoenix.”

  “Should be all kinds of comm gear available,” Martinez said, nodding at half a dozen large buildings beyond the flight line. “We scan the file and send it. Maybe even fax it. Whatever works. But we can’t leave until that’s done.”

  “Agreed,” Strickland said, turning to look at the distant buildings.

  49

  Strickland and Martinez moved quickly, using as much of the terrain to shield themselves from the flight line as possible. If the Russians that had arrived in the pair of helicopters returned and spotted them, they were done. There would be no hiding from an aircraft. Not in this terrain.

  They followed a winding path, sticking to the lower ground that was a natural channel for runoff. Strickland pointed out the sand that had been churned by hundreds of small feet, all pointed in the same direction they were. Martinez had already seen tracks.

  Fifty yards shy of the edge of the tarmac, he suddenly brought them to a stop and sank to a knee. Martinez knelt beside him, not immediately seeing a reason for his caution.

  “See the sand along the runway?” he asked in a mumble. “See how it’s disturbed?”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  “Only one reason I can think of for that. Someone mined it.”

  Martinez blinked in surprise and raised up a few inches for a better look.

  “You mean like a land mine?”

  “Yep. The sand’s freshly turned over. Why do that unless you’re setting up a defensive perimeter. They should have raked it smooth so it wasn’t obvious, but maybe you don’t need to worry about that if all you’re trying to stop are infected.”

  Martinez kept staring at the broad stretch of ground, remembering driving through a mine field in Los Alamos to escape the infected. That was the night she’d met Irina and Igor and seemed like a lifetime ago.

  “Why just this one location?” She pointed at what appeared to be undisturbed ground on either side of the area that concerned them. “It’s directly in line with this wash we’re following. Does that make sense?”

  “Maybe they knew the infected kids were coming a
nd put them out to stop them,” he said with a shrug.

  “Then where are the bodies? If that’s a mine field, and the infected walked into it, there should be some bodies.”

  Strickland thought about her comment for several moments before shrugging.

  “Don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong about why the sand was dug up. I can’t think of any other reason. But whatever it was, we’re going around. Just in case.”

  Standing, he took off at a sharp angle and Martinez fell in behind him. They climbed out of the wash, moving onto higher ground that fully exposed them to view from the parked Russian helos. Giving the suspect area a wide berth, they dashed forward to the tarmac.

  “What’s that?”

  Martinez’s mumbled question pulled Strickland to a hard stop. He looked where she indicated, frowning when he saw a Russian made rifle lying on the pavement. Looking beyond, he saw many more that created a trail from the helicopters to the disturbed sand.

  Gooseflesh crept along his arms as he stared at the signs that told a simple story. A large group of armed men had, for some reason, dropped their weapons and were nowhere to be seen. For an instant, he questioned the wisdom of continuing on, but they were out of options.

  “Stay close,” he said, breaking into a run.

  They raced across the tarmac, both casting frequent glances over their shoulders. Every time he looked, Strickland expected to see a screaming mob of infected children hot on their heels. Angling toward the closest Hind, they drew closer to two of the AKMS rifles that lay on the ground. He slowed their pace to a trot, head swiveling when he got a look at the blood stains on the weapons and surrounding pavement.

  “Look,” Martinez hissed, sending his heart rate through the roof.

  Whipping around in anticipation of an attack, he was surprised to see an American built Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft that had been concealed behind a hangar. Several indistinguishable objects were on the ground around it and he didn’t have to guess too hard what they were.

  “What the fuck happened here?”