by Scott Sigler
Steve’s screech tore at the air. “Kill him! Kill that diseased motherfucker!”
The monster’s eyes flicked down to Cooper’s feet, focused on something there. Cooper looked down as well — the red axe blade, resting against the ground.
Jeff looked up again. His eyes filled with the anguish of a heart torn in two directions. He didn’t want to hurt Cooper, but he couldn’t hold himself back much longer.
For just a moment, the monster wasn’t a monster anymore. It was the boy Cooper had grown up with, the man he’d gone into business with. It was his lifelong friend, the person he loved more than anyone else in the world.
Jeff Brockman closed his eyes.
He let out a long, slow breath.
Cooper knew, instantly, that when Jeff opened those eyes again, he would give in to his nature; he would become the creature that Steve Stanton wanted him to be.
Cooper lifted the axe and stepped forward in the same motion. He swung it high and hard, brought it down with everything he had.
The red blade dug deep into Jeff’s head with a dull chonk.
The Monster Formerly Known as Jeff opened its eyes. He met Cooper’s gaze for two long seconds, then the eyelids sagged.
The massive body dropped straight down, like a yellow sack of boneless meat.
Jeff didn’t move. The axe handle stuck up at a shallow angle.
Steve Stanton stared. The expression on his face said it all: the dude knew he was fucked.
He turned to run, but Cooper dove at his legs. Steve hit the frozen ground face-first. He screamed for help, but there was no one left to help.
Cooper rolled him to his back and straddled his stomach. He slid his knees over Steve’s biceps, pinning the smaller man to the ground, a schoolyard bully about to inflict punishment on the class loser.
“This is all your fault,” Cooper said. “I don’t know how, or why, but I know it’s your fault.”
Steve stared up in pure terror, as if Cooper was ten times the monster Jeff had been.
And then Cooper remembered why.
“Oh, that’s right,” he said. “I make you assholes sick.”
Cooper reached to the back of his head, rubbed both hands hard against his torn scalp. It hurt, but he didn’t care. He brought his hands forward, held them palms out so Steve could see the blood.
“Your turn,” Cooper said.
Steve bucked and thrashed, but he couldn’t budge Cooper’s weight.
Cooper Mitchell pressed his bloody hands down on Steve Stanton’s screaming face. Cooper rubbed it around, rubbed it hard.
“That was for Sofia.”
He drove his thumb into Steve’s right cheek, three fingers into his left, and squeezed, forcing the man to open his mouth. Cooper shoved his bloody fingers inside, slid them across Steve’s tongue, jammed the fingertips inside Steve’s gums and slid them around real good.
“That was for Jeff.”
To finish it off, Cooper hawked the biggest loogie of his life, then spit it into Steve’s open mouth.
Steve froze. He stared up with the blank, disbelieving gaze of a man who has just received a death sentence. He moved his tongue around, trying to keep the loogie away from the back of his throat.
Cooper leaned close. “That was for me.”
Cooper reared back and punched Steve Stanton in the stomach.
Steve let out a slight wheeze. He gasped like a beached fish, trying and failing to draw a breath.
He swallowed.
Cooper stood, reached down and patted Steve’s cheek.
“And that? That one was for you, dickweed. Enjoy.”
Cooper looked around — there was no one left. All the Converted had faded away into the city.
He was alone.
He had won.
He turned toward the helicopter. Clarence was already in it, beckoning madly.
Time to go.
Epilogue
HEROES
It was finally over. All of it. Over forever.
Clarence, Tim Feely and Commander Paulius Klimas stood in the Oval Office, waiting for the president to arrive. Klimas was on crutches. He wore a neat, fresh bandage around his neck.
Tim was using a cane. The cane’s handle was a twisted coil of DNA — the same as Murray Longworth’s. Clarence wondered if that meant something.
Clarence had asked both Tim and Paulius to be there for this. Ramierez was still in the hospital, but at least he was out of the ICU. He was going to live.
Clarence hadn’t asked Cooper Mitchell to come, because Cooper hadn’t known Margaret. Cooper had apparently moved to the Upper Peninsula, as far away from everyone and everything as he could get. That didn’t stop him from fielding offers to turn his story into a movie, however. LA had been hit hard, but the film industry didn’t miss a beat.
The Mitchell-Montoya plague, as the hydras were now known, had spread through the Midwest faster than anyone expected. Only two days after the Seahawk had carried the five survivors out of Lincoln Park, new batches made from Cooper’s blood had been crop-dusted across Manhattan, Minneapolis, Philadelphia and Boston. Four days after, every major city had received multiple coatings.
Just one week after Margaret’s death, most of the Converted lay dead, their bodies waiting to be collected, carted away and burned.
The hydras didn’t seem to affect the yellow monsters, but that wasn’t as big of a problem as Clarence had feared. The monsters couldn’t blend in. When they were spotted it became an instant witch hunt. Special Forces handled the task if they were available, then cops, and if neither could get on the job, bands of armed citizens chased the creatures down.
Albertson had sent thousands of hydra doses to China, along with scientific advisors to help manage the massive effort of reaching the entire population. One Doctor Cheng, apparently, was part of that mission. Clarence hoped he enjoyed it.
America now focused her efforts on wiping out the Converted in Canada, Mexico and South America. Europe and Russia had already implemented their own hydra exposure campaigns, and were sending starter doses to Africa, Australia, India and all the corners of the earth.
For once, the human race unified in cause and spirit.
But it wasn’t all smiles and roses. The final death toll staggered the imagination. Some estimates were as high as one billion dead, although more conservative guesses placed it at “only” eight hundred million. It was the worst disaster in mankind’s history.
China had been hit the hardest, as far as body count went, but experts were saying the world might never know the full death toll in Africa. That continent had seen seven governments collapse, replaced by dictators who had swooped in to fill the power vacuum. The UN was at least a month away from having the ability to do anything about that.
As for America, the final death tally was estimated at over thirty million. No disaster in the nation’s history even came close. By comparison, the influenza epidemic of the 1918 pandemic had killed some 675,000 Americans, and the Civil War around 700,000.
Nothing could have prepared the United States for that level of death, and yet the 284,000,000 survivors were working together to rebuild. Partisan politics didn’t exist. Racism seemed to be something from the past. All that mattered was helping one another out, putting the pieces back together. Would this new Land of Brotherly Love last? Probably not. For now, however, it made the recovery process an amazing thing to behold.
The Oval Office door opened. President Albertson walked in. At his side was Murray Longworth, carrying two small, black lacquer boxes.
The president shook each man’s hand.
“Gentlemen, the world owes you a debt of thanks,” he said. “I can only imagine what you went through. And I can only empathize with the grief you must feel.”
He looked at Clarence. “Agent Otto, I do wish you’d reconsider and let us share this moment with the nation. I think the people need to know who their heroes are.”
Clarence shook his head. “I prefer my priv
acy, Mister President. Margaret would have wanted the same thing.”
Albertson nodded. “Very well.” He smiled at Klimas.
“Commander, fortunately you don’t have the option of telling me no thanks when it comes to public recognition. I look forward to the Navy Cross and Medal of Honor presentation ceremony for you, Chief Ramierez and Lieutenant Walker. Thank you for what you have done. The world owes you a debt that can never be repaid.”
He shook Klimas’s hand.
Albertson turned to Feely.
“And as for you, Director Feely, I’m glad you will let us have a little pomp and circumstance for tomorrow’s presentation of the Presidential Medal of Freedom.”
“Love me some pomp,” Tim said. “And I’ve earned all kinds of circumstance.”
Clarence turned to him, surprised. “Director Feely?”
Tim nodded. He held up the cane. “As in, the Director of Special Threats.”
Clarence turned to Murray.
Murray shrugged. “I retired. I’m getting too old for this shit.”
Albertson frowned. “Mister Longworth, please.”
“Sorry,” Murray said.
Tim nudged Clarence.
“Can’t wait for you to come back to work, Agent Otto, seeing as I’m your new boss and all. You can call me Daddy.”
Albertson sighed. “Director Feely, please.”
“Sorry,” Tim said. “I’ll be a good director from now on. Scout’s honor.”
The president turned, held out a hand to Murray. Murray gave him one of the black boxes.
Albertson faced Clarence.
“Agent Clarence Otto, for your service to the country, and to the world, I present you with the Presidential Medal of Freedom.”
The president opened the box. Inside was a golden medal on a blue-and-white ribbon. Just a piece of metal and some cloth: meaningless. Maybe someday Clarence could appreciate it, but not now.
The president smiled. “Shall I put it on you?”
“No, thank you, Mister President. If Margaret can’t wear hers, I won’t wear mine.”
“Very well,” Albertson said. He closed the box and handed it to Clarence.
Murray handed the president the second box. Albertson opened it.
“Clarence Otto, it is my greatest honor to bestow this award,” Albertson said. “For immeasurable service to the nation, and to the world, and for quite literally saving civilization if not the entire human race, I present you with a posthumous Presidential Medal of Freedom for Doctor Margaret Montoya.”
Clarence stared at it. It was the same as his, exactly the same, so why did this one seem so much more important?
He reached out a shaking hand and took the box. He closed it, held both boxes together. Lights gleamed on the black lacquer.
The president offered his hand. Clarence shook it.
“Your wife saved us all,” Albertson said. “I will personally see to it that everyone, everywhere, understands what she did. The hatred she suffered from Detroit? That’s gone, Agent Otto. Margaret Montoya will be remembered as the savior of the world. Her life — and her death — will be celebrated, forever.”
Margaret Montoya. His wife. His best friend. The bravest person he had ever known.
She would never be forgotten.
She would be remembered as what she truly was.
A hero.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A novel like this doesn’t happen without tapping the expertise of people who know far more than I do about many things. The people listed below helped make this book as realistic as possible.
Also, I am terrible at taking notes about those who help me do what I do. If I left you off the list, my sincere apologies.
Military and Governmental Consultants
The public servants, active-duty personnel and veterans listed below provided governmental and military facts, and also guided me on how to best personify those who serve in the United States military. I thank them for their help, and also for their service: Ted Arthur (Navy SPECWAR), Chris Grall (Army), J.P. Harvey (Air Force), Joel Palmer (FEMA), Scott Pond (Navy), Joseph Root (Navy), Josef W. Wimmer (TSA).
The Scientific Secret Agents
I try to make the science of my novels as accurate as possible while still telling a fantastical story. These three gentlemen beat this tale up one side and down the other. I thank them for their efforts, and hope they continue to help me make my stories better: Joseph A. Albietz III, M.D., Jeremy Ellis, Ph.D., and Tom Merritt, Ph.D.
UUV Robotics and Underwater Salvage
In my research, I stumbled across Jin Tong’s “Combined-bionic UUV” video on YouTube. The Platypus came to life in these pages thanks to his help. Chris “Cheffie” Otto spent many years working in the field of underwater construction and salvage. His experiences helped me bring Cooper and Jeff to life.
Siglerverse Continuity
My novels are interlinked and, as such, they require a great deal of internal fact-checking to make sure the stories fit the 800-year-long timeline. I thank John Vizcarra for his careful attention to Siglerverse detail.
That Toddlin’ Town
Thanks to Shannon Fairlamb and author P.C. Haring, residents of Chicago, for checking on all the details of the Windy City.
My Partner
Since my novel Contagious, I have worked closely with my business partner, A Kovacs. Her guidance and organizational abilities were critical in getting this book made. She rocks. I couldn’t do this without her, nor would I want to.
My Editor
This is the fifth book I have made with Julian Pavia as my editor. To have that kind of consistent editorial support is a rare blessing in the world of publishing. Shiv, thanks for a great run.
Fire Engines!
Thanks to Engine Co. 98 / Ambulance 11 for help with the details that made the final scenes truly rock.
Feel the Need for Feely?
Tim Feely is a character in the novel Ancestor. If you want to see what he went through on Black Manitou Island, pick up that book.