Pandemic

by Scott Sigler

  He waited in the darkness. He wiggled his body enough to draw his sidearm. He heard footsteps inside the bus.

  “This forearm looks kinda okay,” the man said. “Kinda.”

  “Great,” the woman said. “This is only temporary, Harry. I can’t wait until we get out of here in a couple of hours. I bet cash money there’s fresh meat down in Champaign.”

  A few more footsteps, then nothing. Paulius sat silent, listened to the Converted’s fading conversation.

  On his hands and knees, he scooted backward through the tight space, across the frozen ground until he felt concrete. He stood: he was inside the firehouse — a long, wide garage, gear hanging from the walls, electric heaters spaced around the floor, their coils glowing orange — and sitting there pretty as you please was the red, white, black and chrome bulk of Fire Engine 98, all thirty feet of her. Polished, clean and gleaming.

  The boxy cab alone looked as big as an SUV; it would hold six people, easy, with plenty of window room to fire weapons out either side. The wide, wraparound windshield took up the top half of the vehicle’s ten-foot-wide flat front.

  A square, chrome grille sat below that windshield, lights and flashers on either side. The front bumper was a massive thing: red-trimmed white metal sticking out some two feet from the grille, perfect for smashing past abandoned cars. Below the right-side windows at the rear of the cab, inch-high gold letters spelled out CHICAGO FIRE DEPT. Up on the front right, gold lettering read ENGINE CO. And below that a big, white 98.

  The boxy rear section of the vehicle was around fourteen feet long and ten feet high, with a bed full of neatly coiled hose. Long equipment boxes ran the length of the bed, a ladder strapped horizontally to each side. Anyone in the bed would be able to take cover behind those equipment boxes, rest weapons on the flat tops and be protected from most small-arms fire.

  Separating the rear bed from the cab, a three-foot-thick section of chrome packed with hose connections and valves. And on top of that control section, the crown jewel, the thing that might let Tim Feely’s plan actually work: a water cannon mounted on a swivel.

  Bosh let out a low whistle.

  “Ho-leee shit, Commander,” he said. “I’d rather have a tank, but since we don’t have one, this is pretty damn close.”

  Bosh opened the driver’s door. He had to step up on a footrest to look inside. He reached in, grabbed something, then leaned back out and dangled that something in front of Paulius.

  A key chain with a single key.

  “Looks like they were considering bugging out,” Bosh said. He pointed to the rear of the building. “There’s a good fifty feet of space behind this baby, so we can build up a head of steam.”

  “How are we going to move that bus?”

  “Don’t think we have to,” Bosh said. “It’s just a shell. They took the engine out. Drive train, too. That’s why we could crawl under it. They even kept it warm in here, maybe to make sure the fire truck would start right up. I think those cops were getting ready to ram their way out and take their chances.”

  Paulius nodded. If he’d left the cops alone, would they have driven to safety? He couldn’t allow himself to worry about that now.

  “I’ll figure out how to get this blood into the water tank,” Paulius said. “Have to make sure the water’s warm enough, but Feely said the hydras should survive no problem.”

  He looked at Bosh. “You’re qualified in heavy vehicles. You want to drive?”

  Bosh smiled. “Hell yes, Commander. Navy SEALs was my second choice. As a kid, I always wanted to be a fireman.”

  BOOK IV

  Road Trip

  MEET THE PUBLIC

  Ten tons of truck smashed into the firehouse door, denting the metal outward and knocking the gutted bus a good five feet back.

  Paulius was standing outside the firehouse, rifle snug against his shoulder, waiting for the inevitable reaction from the locals. The big diesel engine gurgled as Bosh reversed, then revved when he floored it. The rolling door ripped outward as the truck again smashed into the bus, knocking it back at an angle. One more shot would create enough room for Engine 98 to pull out onto the street. Bosh reversed; the dented roll-up door slid off the truck, clattered limply on the concrete drive.

  Paulius spotted two people rushing in from the west, a man and a woman, and another man coming from the east. From all up and down the street, people scurried out of buildings like angry ants defending a hive.

  The people from the west were fifty yards away, shooting hunting rifles as they ran.

  Paulius sighted in, breathed out and squeezed the trigger. The woman’s head snapped back as her body fell forward — dead before she hit the ground. The man saw this, slowed. Paulius squeezed off another shot. The man spun right, left hand clutching at his shoulder.

  The big diesel roared again. Engine 98 drove over the fallen roll-up door and smashed past the bus.

  Paulius spun to the right, aimed and fired. The man coming from the east doubled over, fell face-first onto the snowy sidewalk.

  Paulius sprinted for the fire truck, which was already turning left onto Chicago Avenue. He hopped up on the rear bumper, then scrambled into the hose-lined bed. He stayed low, picking targets as he went.

  So many of them … coming so fast …

  He didn’t need to give Bosh instructions. The man had been given one clear objective: get back to the others as fast as possible, don’t stop for anything.

  Paulius dropped two more bad guys before Engine 98 turned north on Mies van der Rohe Way. He faced forward. The cab’s roof topped out at his sternum, giving him excellent protection from the front while still providing a full range of fire.

  He heard Bosh’s voice in his headset: “Commander, you might want to hold tight. It’s about to get violent.”

  Up ahead, Paulius saw a line of cars set up bumper-to-bumper, blocking the street. He ducked down, wedged himself between the back of the cabin and the water cannon’s metal post. On the inside wall of the passenger-side tool box that ran the length of the bed, he saw a red fire axe held firmly in a bracket. If he ran out of ammo, it might come down to using that.

  Bosh floored the gas. Engine 98 responded, picking up speed. The wide, flat, front metal bumper hit first, bashing a BMW to the left and a Ford truck to the right.

  “Ho-leee shit,” Bosh said. “You see that fucker fly?”

  Paulius rose, looked for targets — there was no shortage, as Converted popped up on either side of the road, in building windows, just about everywhere he looked.

  Aim, fire. Aim, fire.

  The fire engine clipped the front of a UPS truck, spinning the delivery vehicle in a full three-sixty.

  Aim, fire. Aim, fire.

  The engine whined as Bosh shifted gears. He tried to weave through the obstacles as well as he could, but there were just too many cars. Engine 98 smashed into an old Buick, tearing the rear end clean off.

  Aim, fire.

  It was working. They were just a few blocks away from the clothing store.

  Paulius thumbed his “talk” button, hoping the short-range comms would work this far out.

  “Klimas to Roth. Klimas to Roth, over?”

  Roth’s voice came back almost immediately: “I read you, Commander.”

  “Pack ’em up, Roth. Extraction in three minutes!”

  BIG AND DANGEROUS

  Steve Stanton’s fingers squeezed tighter on the cell phone.

  “A fire truck? McMasters, what the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Spotters reported it just now,” McMasters said. He was at a garage closer to downtown, preparing another group to flee the city. His voice sounded like he was about to hyperventilate. “The spotters said a guy in a Cubs hat was driving, but I think it’s a soldier who survived the attack.”

  Robert McMasters was normally a smart man. He’d kept the city’s power running, kept the water pumps working, made sure that Chicago didn’t flood. He’d kept the city functioning mostly as it h
ad before the awakening. But while he could handle problems that involved inanimate objects and mechanical systems, he clearly didn’t do so well when the situation involved men with guns.

  “Emperor, did you hear me? A fire truck! They’re trying to get away!”

  “Be quiet,” Steve said. “I’m thinking.”

  He set the phone against his shoulder. He glanced around the municipal garage where Brownstone, God rest her soul, had gathered sixty vehicles. Doctor-General Jeremy Ellis stood there, looking afraid for his life as he always did. Jeremy was organizing thirty-one cars, eighteen trucks, three city buses, four motorcycles, and even three snowplows for the exodus. The snow-plows’ big, heavy scoops would let them rip right through the endless abandoned cars, allowing Steve’s people to spread south, east and west.

  A fire truck was also big, also heavy … heavy enough to smash through the thinner roadblocks. But if it was just a couple of soldiers, and they were clever enough to have lived this long, why wouldn’t they just walk out instead of letting a city know where they were?

  … because a fire engine was also big enough to carry passengers.

  … and because Cooper Mitchell’s body still hadn’t been found.

  Steve put the phone back to his ear. “Where is this fire engine?”

  “Heading west on Walton,” McMasters said.

  Steve looked at Ellis. “Get me Jeff Brockman, and three more bulls. And guns, get me some guns.”

  Jeremy nodded and ran off to comply.

  “McMasters,” Steve said into the phone, “I want that truck stopped. Send everyone. I want it destroyed!”

  THE MOTIVATIONAL SPEECH

  Tim Feely had never fired a weapon in his life. Now his life might very well depend on the M4 rifle he held in his hands.

  At least it was more efficient than a chunk of concrete.

  He stood at the top of the wide stairs, watching Roth carry Ramierez down to the ground floor. Ramierez cradled a sleek, black shotgun, his weak fingers barely gripping the stock and the pump handle.

  “Move him easy,” Tim called. “Be as gentle as you can.”

  “Just hurry up,” Roth said over his shoulder. “If you’re still there when evac arrives, Doc, no one is coming up to get you.”

  Roth descended, but did so as gently as he could.

  Cooper Mitchell limped over, Ramierez’s Sig Sauer pistol in his hand.

  “Your boy Clarence ain’t coming,” Cooper said. “He’s moping about that infected woman of his.” Cooper jerked suddenly, as if something had flown in front of his face, but there was nothing there.

  He shook his head. “I don’t want him to get eaten, but if he does, I do hope he’s die-die-dielicious.”

  Cooper slowly hobbled down the stairs, leaning heavily on the rail.

  Tim watched him go. That was one crazy motherfucker, right there. Hopefully he was sane enough to only shoot at the bad guys.

  Tim jogged to Clarence. It was worth one more try.

  The man sat on his butt, in the same spot where Margaret had been before they tied her to that ladder. His back rested against the wall, chin hung to his chest. His pistol was in its thigh holster. In his hands, he held the big knife he’d used to slice his wife’s throat.

  Did he want to die here? He acted like this was all his fault, when not a shred of it was.

  “Otto, get your ass up. Come on, man, rescue is on the way!”

  The big man didn’t move.

  He hadn’t even cleaned the dust off his face. It made his skin almost the same color as his tight gray shirt.

  Clarence had to come. Tim needed him there, needed his strength. Tim’s plan had sounded great in theory, but now it was turning into reality, which meant he’d have to go outside, he’d have to face those killers. He had to find a way to get through to Clarence. Maybe a slap in the face? That always worked on TV.

  Tim reached back and brought his hand forward as hard as he could.

  Clarence reached up and caught Tim’s wrist, stopping the palm an inch from his cheek. Strong fingers squeezed down. Tim hissed in pain.

  “Ow,” he said. “Okay, maybe that wasn’t such a great idea.”

  Otto’s cold eyes bore into him.

  “You made me kill her,” he said. His voice was little more than a growl, a hollow husk that befit the hollow man. “You got what you wanted, Feely. So get the fuck out of here and leave me be.”

  Clarence let go.

  Tim stood, rubbed at his wrist.

  “She’s gone, Clarence. If you want to end it all, do that after we’re finished, because your gun might make the difference. If we don’t get Cooper out alive, then Margaret died for nothing.”

  Otto just stared, his face inscrutable. He made no motion to get up.

  Tim remembered Margaret and Otto talking back on the Carl Brashear, remembered that word Margaret had used as a weapon.

  “She wouldn’t have quit,” Tim said. “She was a real soldier.”

  Otto looked away, unable to meet Tim’s gaze. That one had cut deep.

  But he still didn’t get up.

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out a bulky cell phone and tossed it to Tim.

  Tim caught it. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “I called Murray a half hour ago,” Clarence said. “Air support is on the way. If you have to abort the pickup location, hit ‘redial,’ let him know where you’re going.”

  His shoulders slumped. His chin once again drooped to his chest.

  Clarence wasn’t coming. Tim had done all he could. He turned to head down the stairs, then paused and looked at the phone in his hand.

  Just hit “redial” …

  MAKE EVERY BULLET COUNT

  A woman rushed toward Engine 98, a lit Molotov cocktail in her hand. Paulius dropped her with his M4’s final round.

  He drew his P226: fifteen rounds in this magazine, fifteen more in a second mag. After that, he’d have nothing left except harsh language.

  Aim, fire … aim, fire …

  He wanted to use the water cannon, splash these fuckers down with a face-full of Margaret Water, but Feely had told him to save it — it was critical to wait until the Converted were packed in as tight as possible.

  Engine 98 was beginning to vibrate, just a little bit, a rhythmic pattern that increased or decreased in time with the vehicle’s speed. Something wrong with a tire, maybe. The thing had smashed past dozens of vehicles so far. The fire truck had mass and that meant physics was on its side, but every hit took a toll.

  Aim, fire … aim, fire …

  Converted gave chase. Three men, a woman, a boy, two girls, three hatchlings and, coming in fast, one of the muscle-bound monsters. More hostiles were pouring out of buildings, either rushing toward the truck or stopping to fire. A few bullets punched into the truck’s metal sides, but most of the rounds whizzed by. A trained army would have taken the truck apart. Fortunately, these assholes were anything but trained.

  More Converted fired down from above, aiming from skyscraper windows. Their aim was just as bad; bullets smacked into the tops of the equipment boxes or punched into the coiled fire hose. Paulius hadn’t been hit, but sooner or later one of them was bound to get lucky.

  Aim, fire … aim, fire …

  He stood and looked forward over the cab’s roof. Up ahead, a bus lay on its side, blocking most of Walton Street — too much vehicle to drive through. Bosh angled the engine to the left. He had to slow down to go around the bus, and when he did the Converted closed in.

  One of the men tried to climb up the rear. Bosh ran something over; when the rear wheels hit whatever it was, the back end bounced, flipping the man back out into the street where he hit face-first and skidded.

  Two of the hatchlings leaped, scrambling up the truck’s right side. Shoot them, or save the rounds?

  Paulius jammed his pistol into its holster, then yanked the fire axe from its bracket. The first hatchling scurried over the stacked hoses. Paulius swung the axe lik
e a baseball bat — the red blade sliced through the pyramid-shaped body, sending the top part flying over the truck’s side. The thing collapsed, spilling purple goo across the hose.

  The other hatchling leaped. Paulius didn’t have time for a second swing. He brought the axe in front of him, rear point facing out. The hatchling couldn’t change direction in mid-air: it impaled itself on the spike.

  He shook the twitching thing from the axe, heard a gunshot from inside the cabin: Bosh shooting at someone who’d closed in and tried to yank open the driver’s door.

  Paulius felt something heavy land on the truck, dropping the bed down a few inches before the shocks lifted it back up. There, on the rear bumper, only his big head and gnarled hands visible, stood a yellow monster. Its hands reached into the bed, the long bone-knives jutting from the back of its arms. Muscles flexed as it started to crawl forward.

  Paulius dropped the axe and once again drew his P226.

  The creature looked up at him. Thick lips curled back from too-long, too-wide teeth. Yellow lids narrowed — even over the truck’s engine, Paulius heard a deep growl.

  He squeezed the trigger. The 9-millimeter round hit dead-center in the creature’s forehead. A cloud of blood and brains puffed out the back of its skull. The muscle-monster fell back, crashed onto the pavement and tumbled forward.

  Paulius realized the Converted had stopped firing while the monster tried to get in, because as soon as it fell away bullets started hitting all around him, punching into the equipment boxes, kicking up flakes of red paint. He dropped and crawled across the hoses toward the cabin, desperate for whatever cover he could find.

  Bosh’s voice in his ear: “Hold on, Commander! Turning right on Rush, and there’s a lot more cars here!”

  Paulius pressed his back against the cabin wall, and held on tight as the twenty-one-ton vehicle smashed past yet another obstacle.

  THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM