Pandemic

by Scott Sigler

  Nine faces looked upward simultaneously, ears all responding to the same thing: a faint whistling sound, rapidly growing in intensity.

  “Incoming,” Klimas said. He tucked into a fetal position, laced his fingers behind his head and pressed his arms tightly against his ears.

  Cooper did the same.

  INTO THE BREACH

  Tim Feely’s world shook; it roared.

  Glass and brick flew into the tea shop, smashing into shelves and tearing the walls to pieces. Big chunks of masonry pounded into the counter, cracking wood and splintering tile. Dust and smoke drove into his lungs. He coughed, screamed for help only to realize his voice sounded impossibly small and faraway.

  He blinked, tried to see through the swirling haze.

  A hand grabbed his collar.

  “Get your ass up, Feely! Move!”

  Klimas. His voice sounded distant, but it was a beacon.

  Tim heard Klimas screaming at Cooper. Something collapsed from the ceiling and crashed into the floor. Tim stumbled toward the shattered window … they had to go north, they didn’t have long.

  “Move-move-move! Out the window!”

  Tim stepped over the low sill and onto the sidewalk, out of the tea shop and into an apocalypse. The winter wind swirled up clouds of thick dust, cutting visibility to just a few feet. He heard things crashing, things falling, pieces of building crumbling and dropping to the street below.

  Gunfire.

  He stooped, tried to get low. His hands found a car. No, part of a car. He started to kneel down behind it when that iron-grip hand grabbed him again.

  “Up,” Klimas said. “Stay behind me.”

  Another SEAL fell in next to Klimas — Tim didn’t know which one. They moved, he followed. They ran half crouched, rifles at their shoulders, turning left and right to fire while never breaking stride.

  Tim saw a man on his right: Cooper Mitchell.

  Something exploded off to the left, kicking up a fresh wave of dust and dirt. Tim shielded his face and kept moving.

  People screaming.

  Guns firing.

  The snap of small explosions.

  He looked forward, saw Klimas’s back — but the other SEAL wasn’t there anymore.

  Klimas stopped at a red Prius that seemed to be embedded in some kind of cracked, fluid-looking masonry. He waved Tim forward.

  “We’re going over the top, let’s move!”

  Tim realized the car was part of a wall, a good six feet high, that stretched out both left and right. He threw himself at it, hands grabbing at anything he could grip. Broken glass and metal shards sliced into his skin but he didn’t stop. Up and up he went until he reached the top.

  He heard an automatic weapon firing, then the blast of a shotgun. He slipped and fell, tumbled down the hard wall’s far side. Something whacked his left calf, knocking it cold and numb.

  Clarence ran by, Margaret bouncing on his shoulder like a gagged rag doll.

  “Keep going, Feely! Move!”

  Clarence vanished into the swirling dust.

  Tim’s chest drew in panicked breaths of dirty, icy air. He felt a knife in his lungs, cutting and tearing. He was going to throw up.

  Whatever it takes, do not fall behind.

  Klimas. He’d promised to get Tim out of there. Tim righted himself, got his feet beneath him and started running, then slowed.

  Cooper … none of it mattered without Cooper.

  Tim turned back, saw Cooper land face-first on the rubble-strewn pavement.

  And behind him, a stumbling man with half his face torn away, dust-caked blood sloughing down the white of his exposed temple and cheekbone, a big-toothed forever smile where his lips no longer were.

  He held a red axe.

  Cooper … none of it mattered without Cooper.

  Tim ran toward them, or tried to, but his leg wouldn’t respond, so he hopped instead.

  On the ground, he spotted a head-size shard of concrete.

  Tim bent, grabbed, lifted, hopped.

  The man limped toward Cooper, one shredded foot dragging along for the ride. He raised the axe into the air, gurgled a wet battle cry, and arched his back to bring the blade down hard.

  Tim got there first.

  He didn’t recognize the sound that came out of his own mouth. He’d never made a noise like that, not once in his entire existence.

  With both arms, he shoved the jagged concrete forward, drove a rough point into the good side of the man’s ruined face. The hard concrete crunched through tooth and bone, rocked the man’s head back, dropped him like he’d been hit by a heavyweight hook.

  The axe clattered to the slush-streaked pavement.

  “Cooper! Get the fuck up!”

  Cooper crawled forward on raw hands and torn knees, the jeans on his right thigh wet with dust-coated blood.

  The half-faced man sat up. He reached for the axe.

  Cooper … none of it mattered without Cooper.

  Tim Feely stepped forward, the pain in his leg forgotten. He put one foot on the axe, raised the chunk of concrete into the air.

  The man looked up — maybe he smiled, but now both sides of his mouth were destroyed, so who could tell?

  Tim brought the concrete down like a misshaped hammer: the man’s skull collapsed, folding in on itself in a sickening, liquid crunch.

  The man didn’t move.

  Tim leaned down, drew a deep breath and screamed a long, unintelligible roar at his dead enemy. The intelligent part of his mind, the educated part, the civilized part, that part had checked out. Something primitive had taken its place.

  A hand on his neck, pulling him.

  “Feely, come on!”

  Klimas. Klimas had come back for him.

  The SEAL pulled Tim through the smoke, pushed him, did the same with Cooper, stopped and turned and fired, pushed and pulled them some more.

  Tim stumbled forward. He didn’t know how long, he just kept moving. His ears rang. He had no strength left. He couldn’t breathe. He felt dizzy. He kept moving until someone grabbed him, shoved him to the left.

  “In there,” that someone said.

  Tim shuffled through a door. So dark. The world spun, made it hard to walk. He was much closer to vomiting now. A strong hand on his arm. Someone dragging him along up a long flight of hard stairs.

  Dizziness, nausea, weakness … right at the end, he realized those were the symptoms of blood loss.

  Tim Feely fell to the floor, and blackness overtook him.

  DAY THIRTEEN

  STYLISH OUTERWEAR

  Dawn’s light burned through the store’s tall, second-story windows.

  Paulius shivered from the cold. He sat still, waiting for a response from his missing men. There was none. He’d been trying for three hours.

  He thumbed his “talk” button.

  “Roth, Harrison, come in.”

  Paulius released the button and waited.

  No answer.

  “Roth, Harrison, come in.”

  Still nothing.

  His hands felt numb, as did his toes. He pulled the long, fur coat he’d found tighter on his shoulders. They’d taken refuge in a clothing store — and, of course, it was a women’s clothing store. He wore the coat like a cloak.

  He was back far enough from the window that he couldn’t be seen from the road, but close enough that he could look out. Four lanes of Oak Street running east and west, intersecting the three lanes of Rush that ran north-northwest to south-southeast. He had a wide, commanding view of the surrounding area.

  Right after they’d cleared the barrier, Katanski had taken a shotgun blast to the throat. He was probably dead before his body hit the ground. Roth and Harrison were missing. Ramierez had made it, but he was badly wounded.

  Only Bosh and Klimas were still in proper fighting shape. He’d sent Bosh out to the rendezvous point at LaSalle and Goethe. It was dangerous to send him out alone, but Paulius didn’t have a choice — he had to stay with Cooper Mitchell
.

  Ramierez sat close by, his back against the wall. Cooper was asleep in front of a rack of shoes. Dr. Feelygood was also out, lying on a big pile of dresses. Paulius had cut away Feely’s shredded, now-useless CBRN suit, then covered the man in a couple of fur coats.

  Clarence and Margaret were on the far side of the store. Paulius didn’t want either of them anywhere near the others.

  “Roth, Harrison, come in,” Paulius said. “Bosh, come in.”

  Nothing.

  Ramierez lifted his head, a bloody bunch of gauze taped against the socket of his ruined left eye. He had a long velvet coat hung over his shoulders, another across his lap.

  “Don’t sweat it, Commander,” he said. “Must be too much building interference to reach Bosh. I’m pretty sure Roth is an immortal, and we both know Harrison is made of iron.”

  Paulius forced a smile. Ramierez had lost an eye and taken a bullet in the belly, yet he was still trying to build up those around him. That was a SEAL for you. And just like a SEAL, Ramierez had his weapon in his hands — if the Converted came barging in, he was still ready to fight.

  “We’ll find them,” Paulius said. If there was a time to lie, it was now. “How you holding up?”

  “I’m just …” Ramierez leaned his head forward as a wave of pain washed over him. He stayed that way for a few seconds, then looked up. “I’m solid, Commander. But maybe I’ll just take a little nap.”

  “Negative,” Paulius said. “You stay awake, that’s an order. Keep trying Roth and Harrison, got it?”

  Ramierez managed a slow nod.

  Paulius had done all he could for the wounded: stitches for Cooper and Feely, bandages for Otto, sure, but abdominal surgery for Ramierez? Out of Paulius’ league.

  He pulled off his headset and stuffed it into a pocket of his fatigues. He pulled the fur coat tighter, then walked toward Feely.

  Paulius passed by Otto and Margaret. She was sitting on a chair, still bound, still gagged. Otto had covered her in coats, leaving only her head exposed. He had ditched his CBRN suit — the thing had been just as shredded as Feely’s — but hadn’t put on any extra clothing. The man preferred to shiver, apparently. Maybe it added to his self-indulgent misery.

  Otto tilted his head toward Ramierez. “How is he?”

  “Dying,” Paulius said quietly. “Did you call Longworth?”

  “Yeah,” Otto said. “He knows we made it out.”

  “You ask him how many Stingers were in the reserve bases around here?”

  Otto nodded. “The brass thinks the Converted could have over fifty of them in Chicago.”

  Fifty. Dammit. Sending in any helicopters for pickup would be suicide. Paulius would have to find a way to take everyone to a safer area and hope the Converted had concentrated their Stingers downtown. He’d look for a spot to the north, on the shore, make it easier for the Seahawks to approach. That was the best hope, and it still meant a hike of several miles for Feely and Cooper, both of whom had significant leg wounds, and for Ramierez, who couldn’t move at all.

  “That’s just fantastic,” Paulius said. “I don’t suppose Murray can convince Admiral Porter to send a nice little armor division or two our way?”

  Otto shook his head. “There aren’t any armor divisions. At least not in the Midwest. What’s left of our military is engaged in active combat, including all of our reserves. Testing kits are running low. The Converted are popping up in almost every unit, special forces included. Murray is even afraid to drop in reinforcements for us, because he can’t be sure members of those units won’t be compromised and try to kill Cooper themselves. It’s real bad out there.”

  Paulius tried to control his temper. They had the package, they’d done it.

  “It’s real bad here, too,” he said. “Doesn’t he have anything for us?”

  “He does. He’s sent one of the last available Apaches to the Coronado. And he’s stationed an AC-130U at Scott AFB down near Champaign, has it assigned just for us. The crew is sequestered to make sure no infected slip in. We’ve got those, plus one of the Coronado’s Seahawks for evac — the other Seahawk got reassigned to make room for the Apache. We give Murray one hour’s notice, he can put those assets where we tell him.”

  Paulius worked through the options. The AC-130U was a ground-attack aircraft, armed with a 25-millimeter Gatling gun and a 105-millimeter howitzer cannon. It was an ideal weapon to use against ground forces, especially ones that packed in tight like the Converted tended to do. The plane could strike from high up — it still had to worry about Stinger fire, but not as much as the low-flying Apaches.

  “At least that’s something,” Paulius said. “Just have to figure out where to go for pickup, and how to get there.”

  “Right,” Otto said. “Nothing to it. Not like we’re in the middle of enemy territory or anything.”

  Paulius nodded toward Margaret. “What about her? She magically cured yet?”

  Otto hung his head.

  Paulius looked at her. She met his stare, mumbled two syllables. The gag made her words unrecognizable, but the cadence reminded him of mush-mouthed Kenny from South Park. Her meaning was all too understandable: fuck you.

  “Ma’am,” Paulius said.

  He walked to Feely. The little guy had taken a small-caliber round through the calf, probably a .38. The wound wasn’t life-threatening, and Ramierez needed real help, which meant Tim’s nap time was over.

  Battle brought out a person’s true nature. Paulius had gotten too far ahead, lost sight of the men he was supposed to protect. When he doubled back, he saw Tim fighting to protect the much-larger Cooper Mitchell. Tim Feely thought himself a coward, yet he’d killed a man in hand-to-hand combat, crushed the enemy’s skull with a hunk of concrete.

  That moment encapsulated the essence of bravery: cower and run from danger, or step up and face it, kill to protect your own. Maybe Tim Feely wasn’t SEAL material, but he sure as hell had a warrior’s soul.

  Paulius gently shook the man’s shoulder. “Doctor Feelygood. Wake up, brother.”

  Tim’s eyes fluttered open. Like everyone else, his skin was caked with dust; it made him a dozen shades darker than his former, extrapale self. He stared out in confusion for a moment, then his eyes focused on Paulius. Tim sat up quickly.

  “Easy,” Paulius said. “We’re safe for now.”

  Tim looked around, saw Otto sitting with Margaret, saw Ramierez against the wall.

  “Where are we?”

  “Barneys New York.”

  Tim paused, then nodded, as if that was the most normal thing he could have heard.

  “Good, good,” Tim said. “I was looking for a sale on Manolos. Size eight, if you please.” He looked at the fur coats covering him, then at the one around Paulius’s shoulders.

  “Nice,” Tim said. “Did you bring your pimp cane and my chalice?”

  He was joking. That was a good sign. “How do you feel?”

  Tim didn’t answer. He lifted his leg, looked at the blood-spotted bandage on his calf. “Stitches?”

  Paulius nodded. “Yep. Seven, I think.”

  “Blue Cross should cover that. Can I assume that your stitches are all nice and neat?”

  “Probably not,” Paulius said. “But they tell me scars are a mark of character.”

  “Gosh, lucky me. I’ll have so much to talk about at my next book club meeting.”

  Paulius subtly pointed at Ramierez. “He’s gut-shot, fading fast. Need you to fix him up.”

  Tim stood. He pulled on one of the fur coats and limped over to Ramierez.

  Paulius watched. Tim pressed his fingers to the man’s neck, then gently looked inside Ramierez’s fatigues, which Paulius had left open.

  Tim hobbled back, spoke quietly enough that Ramierez couldn’t hear.

  “I don’t have anything to work with,” Tim said. “Even if I did, I doubt I could save him. He’s lost too much blood. As he is now, he’s got maybe a few hours. Can we get a helicopter in here, get him back
to the Coronado?”

  “No, we can’t take that chance. We’re still too close to where the Converted have probably deployed their Stingers. We have to get farther north. Can we carry him?”

  Tim pursed his lips, let out a long breath. “He wouldn’t last a half mile. He’s not the only one. I can barely move, hoss. Could we drive out?”

  “Not without a tank. You saw the roads — too many cars blocking the way. We need something big, and I didn’t see any semis out there.”

  Tim pulled at his lower lip as he thought.

  Ramierez gave a halfhearted wave. “Commander, it’s Bosh. He’s got Roth. Coming in now.”

  Paulius’s chest swelled with relief, but he tempered the emotion, pushed it down. Bosh could have made that call under duress.

  “Otto, get up,” he said. “Come with me.” Paulius gripped Tim’s shoulder, turned him toward Ramierez.

  “Ram, you need something to do. Show this man how to use your M4.”

  Tim’s eyes went wide? “Me? I’m no good with guns.”

  “Yes, you,” Paulius said. “And you’ll learn, right now. Go.”

  Tim moved to Ramierez just as Otto walked up, Glock in hand.

  “With me,” Paulius said, then walked to the top of the wide stairs.

  One flight down, he saw Bosh quietly enter the store along with a big man wearing sweatpants, a red Chicago Bulls knit hat and a white-sleeved Chicago Bears letterman’s jacket. The man might have passed for a civilian were it not for the SCAR-FN rifle in his trembling hands. Roth. The clothes looked cleaner than he did.

  Bosh threw a quick salute, then turned back to guard the front doors.

  Roth trudged up the stairs, each step an effort.

  “Jesus H,” Paulius said. “You look like a pile of spilt fuck.”

  Roth nodded. “At least I’m still ticking.”

  “And Harrison?”

  Roth shook his head. “We tried to hide in an office building. We stumbled onto a bunch of them camping out. It got crazy, sir. One of those giant fucking things threw a file cabinet at him. He went down, they swarmed on him, I … I couldn’t … I should have—”