Nightmare Army

by Don Pendleton

  He pushed Sevan down into a chair. “Take a load off.”

  Scott took off up the stairs while Bolan activated his earpiece. “Base, this is Striker.”

  “This is Base,” Kurtzman’s voice said into his ear. “Akira filled me in on what’s happening over there—sort of. Striker, what have you gotten yourself into?”

  “Sure wish I knew, Bear,” Bolan replied. “I’ve seen something like this before. The entire village has been affected by an unknown pathogen that causes decreased mental capacity and homicidal dementia. It’s recognizable by increased sweating, red-rimmed eyes—and a strong urge to attack anyone who is not already a carrier.”

  “You’re serious about this?”

  “Yeah, Bear, I am. Whatever this is, it’s the real deal. The transmission vector is unknown at this time, although I suspect it’s mainly by bodily fluids. I don’t think it’s airborne, otherwise we’d all be snarling idiots by now.”

  “Right. Look, we need to bring in the European Centre for Disease Prevention and Control on this.”

  “Agreed. You might as well contact them now, since we’re leaving soon and heading up there for a consult. Have the jet ready to go the second I arrive, heading for wherever their headquarters is.”

  “Stockholm, Sweden,” Kurtzman replied.

  “Inform them that we’ll need quarantine facilities for observation for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. I’m bringing the package, plus three. They’re civilians and I can’t leave them here.”

  “Got it.” Bolan heard Kurtzman’s fingers fly over his keyboard. “You know I have to notify Hal about this, too.”

  “Of course, and have him kick it up the chain to the White House, as well as the CDC. I want everyone with any intel on this in the loop. There’s a strong chance this is a man-made pathogen, and I want to know anything and everything they might know about it. I’m about to head out with the survivors, so I’ll be signing off.”

  “Right. One more thing, although this kind of pales in relation—you said you reacquired the package?”

  Bolan dropped a heavy hand on Sevan’s shoulder. “Absolutely.”

  “Thank God for small favors,” Kurtzman replied. “Jack replied to say he’s going through preflight and will have the engines hot by the time you arrive.”

  “Good, Striker out.” Bolan grabbed Sevan and hoisted him to his feet as Scott trotted down the stairs with another young man in tow, carrying a clinking backpack and a large chair leg similar to Scott’s.

  “Gary, this is Matt and Alexsandr. Matt and Alexsandr, this is Gary Alcaster,” Scott said. “We all set?”

  “What’s in the bag?” Bolan asked.

  “The rest of my bottles,” Alcaster replied. “It worked pretty well so far.”

  “No argument from me,” Bolan replied. “And thanks for the diversion outside. That was quick thinking. Does anyone know if there are any better weapons around here?”

  “Narek kept a small revolver in the cash register in the bar,” Siranush said.

  “Show me,” Bolan said to her. He nodded at the two young men, then at Sevan. “Keep an eye on him.”

  “Why?” he heard Alcaster ask as he followed the young woman into the bar. Bolan went behind it and sprung the cash drawer, finding a small revolver, just as she had said. He dropped out the cylinder and spun it. “Thirty-two caliber, loaded.” Snapping the cylinder up into the gun, he checked the rest of the small compartment in the drawer. “No more bullets. Well, it’ll have to do. Come on.”

  On the way back, Bolan grabbed an empty cardboard liquor box.

  The two walked into the lobby to find Alcaster and Scott both staring at Sevan, who had leaned back in his chair as comfortably as he could. “Is this guy really a wanted criminal?” Alcaster asked.

  Bolan nodded.

  “And he’s coming with us?”

  The soldier nodded again as he handed the box to Alcaster. “Put the bottles in there—better access and less chance of breaking them.”

  He crossed to Sevan, grabbed his shirt collar and pulled him upright. “Soon as Alcaster’s ready, we’re leaving.”

  “We’re going out the back way to the parking lot,” Scott said, pointing behind the staircase.

  “Siranush, was it?” Bolan asked. “Please carry the box, if you don’t mind.” The young woman took it in her arms without a word.

  With the two men and their chair legs in the lead, the group walked around the staircase to the double doors leading to the kitchen. Another body was sprawled in the doorway between the two rooms, a worker in kitchen whites. His mouth and forehead were both bloody and a heavy, cast-iron frying pan lay on the floor next to him.

  “This must have been the one who bit Lusine,” Alcaster said. “At least she took him out.”

  Bolan leaned down to check his pulse. “Yeah, dead. Let’s clear the kitchen, then stay in there for a moment. I’ve got some packing to do before we leave.”

  Pistol steady in both hands, he nodded at Alcaster. “Push the door open, but stay to one side.”

  The young man did so and Bolan entered, checking everywhere for movement. The kitchen was still, with various spices and ingredients out next to stainless-steel bowls that were going to be used to begin that day’s menu. A trail of blood led to the open freezer, but there was no body inside.

  “Clear. Everyone inside,” Bolan said as he dragged the body into the kitchen. Shoving the pistol into his belt, he grabbed a meat cleaver and several plastic bags from the counter, then went back to the body. “Everyone look for a small cooler or insulated bag, like something that keeps a pizza hot.”

  “Why—” Scott began to ask as Bolan raised the cleaver. The resounding thunk as he cut off the body’s hand answered the question.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Scott asked.

  “I’m sorry for having to do this, but I need samples from an infected person for analysis,” Bolan replied as he double-bagged the hand, making sure each seal was tight. “Unless, that is, one of you wants to volunteer to be infected.”

  “No!” the three survivors said as one.

  “That’s what I thought.” Bolan moved to the head of the body and tipped it up, pushing against the rigor mortis that was setting in. “You may want to stand back for this.”

  Scott paled as he realized what was about to happen. “Uh, yeah...”

  “Is there no limit to your depravity?” Sevan muttered.

  “Tell that to whoever unleashed this on your people,” Bolan replied. “They’re the real villains here. I’m just trying to stop it before it goes any further.”

  “Here.” Siranush held out a large insulated bag. “Will this work?”

  “Perfect. Turn away from this, young lady.”

  Bolan raised the cleaver again and brought it down with all the strength he had “As grim as this is, it’s much easier than trying to capture a live one.”

  “Good thing I already threw up earlier,” Scott said, looking slightly green.

  Double-bagging the head, as well, Bolan nodded at an industrial freezer. “See how much ice is in there.”

  Alcaster opened it and hauled out a ten-pound bag. Bolan nodded as he put the hand and the head into the insulated bag. “Fill the rest with ice, Gary.” Once that was done, he sealed it and regarded his handiwork critically. “Maybe not lab-approved, but it should do the job. Thanks for the help, everyone. Now let’s move out.”

  At the back door he checked to make sure the parking lot was empty. It appeared to be. “Which one is yours?”

  “The brown Peugeot, at the end.” Alcaster pointed to the small, four-door car the farthest from the door.

  “Figures,” Bolan replied. “All right, here’s how it works. Gary, you and I are going out there to get the car. Everyone else watch for any ki
nd of movement from the road. We come back, everyone piles in and we’re out of here. Got it?”

  After everyone nodded, he tapped the young man’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  The two eased out into the small parking lot and headed for the car, reaching it without incident. The paved yard was eerily silent compared to the rest of the village, but Bolan attributed that to there simply not being any viable prey here.

  At the car Alcaster unlocked all the doors and looked at the bigger man. “You want to drive?”

  “Go ahead,” Bolan said as he got into the passenger seat. “I’ll handle crowd control.”

  “Right.” The med student got in and buckled up, then started the car. Pulling out, he drove to the door and stopped. The second he did, the other three came out and piled into the backseat.

  “All right, let’s go,” Bolan said. “Turn right at the road. We don’t want to try to drive past the crowd out front.”

  Knuckles white on the steering wheel, Alcaster nodded as he turned onto the street and accelerated away from the hotel and toward an intersection.

  “Well, the good news is there shouldn’t be any other cars—”

  Scott’s words were cut off by a dingy red blur that rocketed out of nowhere from their left and smashed into the car.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Dr. Richter was finishing a conference with his top researchers on yet another instance of bad news with the virus.

  “So, the instances of homicidal mania can be held to the two to three percent, we believe?” he asked.

  Nods all around confirmed that. “Also, the tighter we can tailor the virus to certain genetic codes, the less chance it will have of occurring in the field,” Dr. Estvaan said.

  “Great. We can limit the chances of a target going into a berserk rage, but not eliminate it.” Even as Richter said that, a part of him got the impression that Stengrave might not care all that much. After all, given their discussion at the board meeting, apparently he didn’t really care how the targets eliminated themselves, as long as they did so.

  “We’ve known from the start that working with such a combination of factors from the two viruses would lead to trade-offs in certain aspects of how it operated in a real world environment,” Ronald Ricards, his chief oncologist, said. “Given the communication vectors we were given, that percentage is, quite frankly, incredible.”

  Richter nodded. “Right, right. I’m not spreading blame or saying it’s an issue. You’ve all done superlative work in a—” he spread his hands to encompass the room, and moreover, the laboratory they had all been working in for the past year “—less than optimum conditions.”

  His phone vibrated in his pocket and he rose from the table. “All right, good work everyone, that’s all for now. Just keep synthesizing more batches of the virus using the latest genetic code we’ve received as quickly as possible. Our employer could want an up-to-the-minute report of our progress at any time, and I would like to be able to assure him that we are still ahead of our estimated schedule.”

  Walking into the hallway, he pulled out the phone and saw that Clay had sent him a video file with a brief note.

  Subjects in test zone trying to leave. Thought you’d like to know.

  Richter brought up the file and watched the two men escape the SUV, aided by the incendiary devices thrown by an unseen person from the adjacent building. “Clever, indeed.” Then the picture cut to a shot down a side street showing a car pulling out of what had to have been a parking lot behind the building. “That cannot be allowed.” He speed-dialed a number, waiting for the man on the other end to pick up.

  “Yes?” Reginald Firke said.

  “You are still in position?”

  “Of course. I assume that you’re not calling because you don’t have anything better to do. What’s up?”

  “There is a small group, at least two to four people, trying to leave the village. That must not be allowed to happen.”

  There was a brief pause as the news sank in. “Are you authorizing full contingency?”

  “Yes, I think that would be best. Also, procure me a complete full-body sample for research. Alive would be ideal, but dead would work just as well.”

  “Judging by what we’ve been hearing from inside recently, you’re gonna get a body.”

  “I am sure that Mr. Stengrave would compensate you for the trouble of acquiring a live specimen.”

  Firke paused and Richter figured he was probably doing cost versus potential profit calculations. “He probably would at that. I’ll see what I can do.”

  That wasn’t the answer Richter was prepared for and he found himself surprisingly gratified. “Thank you. Be sure to notify me when it’s done.”

  “Don’t worry about that. By the time we’re finished, there’ll be nothing but ashes.”

  “Excellent.” Richter hung up, then texted his boss.

  Contingency plan activated. Test site will be cleansed in the next 2 hours.

  * * *

  FIRKE LOOKED AT his men, who had been busy preparing for his next words over the past twenty-four hours. “All right gentlemen, time to clean up the mess we made. You all have your assignments, so let’s get to it.”

  With that, the six men split into three two-man groups. Two teams got into the cab of a panel truck and began driving toward the walled village, while Firke and his sniper got into the SUV and headed toward the gate to set up a position to take out anyone trying to leave.

  Over the next half hour Firke received regular radio contact from his men in the truck, who had parked outside the walls and climbed into the guard posts. From there they used the wall perimeter to set improvised incendiary napalm devices near as many flammable buildings as they could. Once they were done, they would take up positions on each side and the back of the wall, and watch for anyone trying to leave the village, taking whatever steps necessary to ensure that they did not do so. As they worked, they reported smelling something already burning from somewhere inside, but couldn’t see any smoke. Firke frowned at this news—it would have been convenient if the town had burned itself down without any help from them, but needs must and all that, he knew.

  Meanwhile, Firke and his sniper were set up on a small hill three hundred meters from the gate that gave them a perfect view of the half kilometer of road leading up to it. They were guaranteed to be able to take out anyone trying to leave. It was the perfect setup—either the uninfected survivors would be burned to death in the coming inferno, suffocated by the smoke, or they would die the moment they tried to leave through the gate.

  Firke’s thin lips curled up in a mirthless smile as he settled in behind the scope of his custom 7.62 mm Les Baer Monolith sniper rifle. Everything was in place. It was only a matter of which version death would claim any unlucky bastards still alive inside....

  * * *

  THE IMPACT SPUN the Peugeot and sent it spinning toward another building. Alcaster fought for control, twisting the wheel as he tried to avoid hitting anything else. In the back Scott and Siranush both screamed, while Sevan braced himself for another impact.

  As quickly as it had started, the car came to a halt with a bang, smacking into a telephone pole hard enough to activate the air bags, which quickly deflated while the engine sputtered and died.

  Jolted hard against his seat belt, Bolan got his bearings first and made sure he was still holding the revolver. Gripping it a bit more tightly, he glanced around. “Is everyone okay?”

  Nods came from everyone. “How’re the bottles, Siranush?”

  She opened the flap of the box on her lap and nodded again. “None broken.”

  “Can you start it?” he asked Alcaster.

  He turned the key, but didn’t even get a click from the engine. He tried twice more, but with the same result. “Nope. We made it—wha
t?—a whole block.”

  “Yeah.” Bolan had spotted the other car, which had come to a stop behind them, its grille and fender crumpled, but looking like it might still be drivable. “I’m going to check on the other car. Gary, William, you guys get out and watch for villagers. At best, we probably only have a couple minutes before they come investigate. Keep those bottles handy.”

  “Right.” Scott grabbed two from Siranush and handed one to his friend, who had opened his door with a screech of metal and stood on the car seat so he could look farther down the street.

  Bolan got out and cautiously approached the small red hatchback, watchful for any crazed villagers who might have been attracted to the crash. Steam hissed from its crumpled hood, making him reevaluate his previous idea about using it to escape. A woman was slumped over the steering wheel, long, black hair covering her face. A young boy sat in the passenger seat next to her, staring at Bolan with wide eyes and his mouth hanging open. Putting a finger to his lips, Bolan then opened the driver’s door and felt for a pulse on the woman’s neck.

  “No!” With a start, she jerked back in her head, arms flailing to bat his hand away. “Get off me!”

  Bolan reached in to restrain her, pushing her back into the seat with his forearm and clamping a hand over her mouth. “Quiet! I’m not going to hurt you! Shut up!”

  His words finally pierced her fog of terror and she looked up at him with familiar blue eyes. Bolan stared back in disbelief. “You’re the woman in Sevan’s bedroom!” He put the gun up to her head. “Where are you going?”

  She didn’t answer, but her gaze flicked down at his hand still over her mouth. “When I release you, talk quietly, okay?”

  She nodded and he did so. “Something’s gone wrong in the town and I’m taking this boy out of here—or I was, until I hit you people. Who are you, and why is an American trying to kill Sevan?”