by Z. A. Recht
“Decker!” Brewster said triumphantly. “She shot Decker!”
“What, that sergeant who turned out to be infected?”
“Yeah. If you ask me, there was little something between those two. Don’t know if it went anywhere, though. Still, damn good reflexes on her part. You shou=ld’ve seen it. She yanked Sherman’s pistol and blasted that fucker right before he bit me. I guess I sort of owe her. Hope she’s coming along so I can repay the favor someday.”
“Next landing party! Time to move out!” called the sailor near the dinghy.
“Well . . . that’s us,” Denton said, shouldering his backpack. “Ready?”
“More than ready,” Brewster said, grinning. “Let’s do this.”
Washington, D.C.
2213 hrs_
Julie was definitely feeling better. As she worked, hunched over the keyboard, eyes locked on the glowing screen, she murmured to herself, taking mental notes of her progress. Anna tuned out the chatter easily; working in a busy lab most of her adult life had taught her to ignore the conversations around her and focus on whatever work demanded her attention. Mason, on the other hand, had been trained and conditioned to pay attention to every little change in his environment, and Julie was beginning to drive him mad.
He did a wonderful job of hiding his annoyance, if only to maintain civility in the little group.
Julie had been at work for hours, and still hadn’t managed to access Dr. Demilio’s backed-up research. Finally, Mason could stand sitting in the basement no longer. He stood, throwing his coat over his shoulders and holstering a sidearm.
“I’m going up,” he said. “Maybe have a look outside, see what’s cooking.”
“Is that a good idea? What if you’re spotted?”
“I’m not going out the door,” Mason said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll stay inside. That’s what windows are for. No one will ever know.”
Mason trotted up the stairs and entered the darkened hallway on the first floor of the safe house. He glanced back and forth, making sure the front and rear doors were still secure, and walked leisurely into the dining room. He ran a finger along the tabletop. It came away covered in dust. Whoever had been taking care of this safe house wasn’t big on housekeeping. Mason let his eyes play over the fake pictures on the wall as he entered the kitchen.
He opened the refrigerator a crack, peering inside. He allowed himself a small grin as he pulled out a can of beer, then popped the top and took a long, satisfied drink.
“Ahh,” he breathed. He’d needed that.
Mason froze as he lowered the can. Something wasn’t right. He switched his focus to scan the countertop.
“What the hell?” he murmured, walking over and peering down at the surface. There were clear shoeprints on the window sill and countertop, and one equally dusty print on the linoleum flooring. Mason narrowed his eyes as his sidearm appeared in his right hand. His left hand set down the beer can and reached out to the window, checking it. It was unlocked.
“Shit.”
Mason wheeled away from the counter and planted his back against the wall of the kitchen, listening intently for any noise in the house. All he could hear were the distant, muffled keystrokes and murmured commentary by Julie in the basement.
Someone had come in through the window, that much was obvious. Whether they were still in the house—that was another matter. Best to do a sweep.
Mason considered fetching Anna to help, but decided against it. No need to worry either of them. This was one of his specialties.
He sank to a squat and peered out into the hallway, eyes darting left, then right. Clear. Mason rose to a hunched stance and—walking on his toes—moved silently down the hall towards the stairs. When he reached the foyer, he swept the dining room and living room once more with steady eyes. Both rooms were empty. He mounted the stairway, going slowly. The fourth step creaked heavily under his foot and he winced, not wanting to give anyone in the house even a moment’s notice he was approaching. After waiting a few seconds to see if the noise would kick up any proverbial quail, he continued.
The first upstairs room was made up to look like a child’s bedroom, though no child had ever lived there. Mason looked around the room, opened the closet, checked under the bed, and, satisfied it was empty, returned to the hall, closing the door behind him. He swept the other three rooms in a similar manner. By the time he reached the master bedroom he was starting to relax. If someone had come into the house while they were in the basement, it seemed they had already left.
The master bedroom was empty as well. Mason sighed, holstering his pistol. The footprints were worrisome to an extent—but chances were they belonged to a looter who’d bolted the moment he realized the house wasn’t empty.
Still, why would a looter go to all the trouble of trying to enter so silently? Why wouldn’t he have just smashed a window and come charging in?
Something about it set Mason’s nerves on edge.
He decided there was nothing more to be done about it except to be on guard. He retreated to the basement as quickly as he could, shutting the doors behind him and slamming the deadbolts closed. Anna and Julie looked over at him with curious gazes.
“You’re acting like you’ve seen a ghost,” Anna said.
“A spook, maybe,” Mason replied. Under any other circumstances, he might’ve chuckled at his play on words, but he wasn’t in the mood for lightheartedness. “Get your things together. We should leave very soon.”
“What? I’m almost through, just wait a little longer,” Julie said distractedly, pointing at the computer screen.
“Maybe we’ve got lots of time. Maybe we don’t. I don’t know. All I know for sure is that someone has been in the house. I found footprints in the kitchen and a window was unsecured.”
“One of your old friends?” Anna asked.
“Like I said, I don’t know. Maybe it was just some civilian looking for a place to hole up, but I’m not taking any chances,” Mason told her, walking over to the folding table in the center of the room. He had already spent time preparing packs for each of them filled with food rations, water pouches, changes of clothing, ammunition, and assorted sundry items they might need on the move. Mason exchanged his sport coat for a plain black windbreaker and slipped his pack on.
Anna watched with interest. “You really are spooked, aren’t you?”
“Quiet! I’m concentrating!” Julie admonished.
“Hey, I’m just looking out for our best interests,” Mason said. “If you let your guard down, you’ll probably—wait. Did you hear that?”
Mason looked at the ceiling above them, head cocked to one side.
“Hear what?”
“Shut up and listen!” Mason said, holding up his hand. The sound of squealing brakes drifted to their ears. “Oh, shit.”
Mason ran over to the security terminal that sat next to Julie’s computer and turned on the screens. There were three cameras that watched over the house. One was pointed at the back door, one at the front, and one in the hallway watching the entrance to the basement safe room. Mason tapped a finger on the screen of the camera that was aimed out front.
“Look,” he said. “Headlights. They’re here.”
Anna cursed, snapping up one of the MP-5s that lay on the folding table.
“I can’t believe these bastards are coming after us when they’ve got an infected city to deal with,” she said, resting the sub-machine gun on her shoulder.
Mason drew his sidearm and laid a hand on Julie’s shoulder.
“We’ve got to go—right now!”
“But I’m not in yet!” Julie protested.
“Would you rather have the research and be dead or go without it and live?” Mason challenged.
“Buy me five minutes! I’m almost there, really!”
“That’s what you said a half an hour ago!”
“I mean it this time!”
There was a furious pounding upstairs—a heavy, solid boom that repea
ted itself every couple of seconds.
“They’re battering down the front door,” Mason said, watching the security terminal screen.
“Five minutes!” Julie pleaded.
“Damn it,” Mason cursed, casting a glance at the stairway that led to the first level of the house. “I’ll put a few rounds in their direction, make ‘em duck their heads—but when I come back down here, we are leaving! Doctor, get the gear picked up. We’ll try to head out through the catacombs, maybe that’ll throw ‘em again.”
“Right.”
Mason opened the locked doors and ran to the top of the stairway, peering around the corner. Flashlights were being shone in the darkened windows. Mason guessed Sawyer had brought six or seven men with him—More than enough to deal with one rogue agent, a virologist and a half-sick journalist.
One of the flashlight beams spotlighted Mason’s face and he quickly tried to withdraw. However, a shout from outside told him he’d been spotted.
“Mason!” Anna called up from the base of the stairs. “Be loud! There are infected all over this neighborhood—we saw them earlier on the monitors, remember?! Make some noise! They’ll come running!”
“Nice thinking, but I’m way ahead of you!” Mason called back, yanking a flash-bang from the pocket of his jacket and pulling the pin.
He tossed the grenade out into the hallway and let it roll down the hardwood floor toward the front door. His timing had been off—he had hoped they would manage to bash through the door at roughly the same time the grenade exploded, but heavy oak and quality hinges both stood up to a battering ram rather well. Still, the grenade had the intended effect. The flash and deafening blast rattled the cabinets and frame of the safe house, making the pictures on the walls do the jitterbug before hanging off-kilter on their nails. Mason heard muffled curses from outside. Apparently, some of the men had been looking in the windows when the grenade had blown, half-blinding them.
More importantly, anything infected—or undead—within three city blocks would have heard the explosion. Judging from the actions of the infected in the past, it wouldn’t be long before there would be dozens swarming the house.
Mason didn’t wait for the men outside to recover. He leaned out and fired off five, six, seven rounds in rapid succession, peppering the door and letting in stray beams of light from the cars parked outside. He didn’t hear any cries from wounded men and figured all the rounds had missed, but for the moment the battering ceased. Return fire shattered the front windows and bullets ripped into the hallway floor and walls. Mason ducked back into the stairwell as his enemies fired. When the barrage ceased, he leaned back out and emptied the rest of his ammunition into the door.
A flashlight beam danced across Mason’s back, casting a shadow in front of him, and he darted back just in time to avoid being shot by a man who’d circled around to the rear of the house. Mason slapped in a second clip and sent a pair of bullets out the back door, shattering glass. The front door shuddered under another heavy blow from the battering ram and the frame cracked noticeably. A couple more hits and they’d be in.
The picture window in the living room—already broken by gunfire—was further smashed out by the barrel of a rifle. A gloved hand reached in and cleared away the sharp debris. Mason fired at the figure, but the rounds went wide. A pair of men jumped in through the broken window, rolling into crouches with weapons at the ready. Mason had seen them begin their leap, however, and was ready.
His first round caught the lead man in the throat, dropping him to the carpet where he rolled around, clutching at the wound and gurgling helplessly. The second shot, meant for the man’s partner, missed completely as the enemy jumped to the side and returned fire.
The front door took another heavy pounding and began to separate from the frame. One more blow and it would fly free.
Time to get the hell out of Dodge, Mason thought, firing a few more rounds for good measure before retreating into the stairwell, slamming shut and bolting the heavy doors once he was through. Anna was waiting for him at the base of the stairs.
“What’s going on up there?”
“They’re in the house,” Mason said, breathing heavy. “I got one of them. I don’t know how many more there are—Six, seven maybe.”
“Julie? Ready?”
“Just about!” she said, slapping a CD into the empty tray and pushing it shut as quick as she could. “I’m in—just copying data!”
“Copy faster!” Mason growled. Above them, the basement door took a heavy hit from the battering ram.
“Look!” Anna said, tapping on Mason’s shoulder. “The monitors!”
Mason glanced over. The front door had been knocked clean off its hinges and they had an unobstructed view of the front yard through the security camera’s eye. Activity at the bottom of the shot showed the intruders in the hallway, but beyond them, out on the grass, new figures were taking shape. Some shambled along, jaws hanging slack, eyes devoid of humanity. Others ran past them, a feral look on their faces, sweat and blood streaming down their skin.
“Here they come,” Anna whispered. “Carriers.”
“Dinner time for the sick fucks,” Mason said.
The first of the infected reached the front door, fixing the startled intruders with a frenzied glare before being cut down in a hail of gunfire. Though the monitors didn’t capture sound, they heard the blasts all too well through the ceiling above them. Before the first infected had even hit the ground, another had appeared to take its place. This one, too, was gunned down—but there were plenty more still coming. The intruders fanned out, one stationing himself in front of the broken window, another pair guarding the door. The heavy blows of the battering ram continued all the while.
“It’s working. They’re splitting their attention,” Anna said.
“Glad these bastards are good for something,” Mason agreed. “Let’s get into the catacombs before they bust through these doors.”
“I’m right behind you!” Julie shouted, fumbling for a jewel case and stabbing a finger at the CD tray’s eject button.
Mason heaved open the heavy door that led down to the tunnels below the house. Behind him, Anna shouldered her pack and tossed a third to Julie, who quickly stuffed the discs in the half-open top before shoving herself away from the terminal and rushing to catch up.
Mason ran in a full-out sprint down the gently sloping ramp. Ahead of him was a narrow entryway that widened into the tunnel proper beyond. Their electric cart was still parked, waiting for them to make their getaway. In his hurry, Mason made a mistake.
He didn’t notice the second cart.
As he ran through the entryway an arm shot out of nowhere, clothes-lining the rogue agent. Mason slammed into the concrete floor with a grunt of pain. He looked up in time to see a polished shoe descending towards his head. He rolled to the side just as the foot hit the ground where his temple had been a moment before. Mason sprang up, holding a hand to his chest and struggling to pull in breaths.
“I knew you’d come back this way if I sent men in the front door,” said his attacker, falling back into a ready stance. “Like rats fleeing a sinking ship. You’re too predictable, Mason.”
“Sawyer,” Mason uttered, spitting on the floor in front of his adversary. He risked a glance down the tunnel, looking for other agents—but there was no one else. “Where’s your backup?”
“I came this way alone,” Sawyer said. “I wanted to finish you off myself. I’m not even armed.”
He stepped back and showed a wide grin. He then spread his coat open, proving that he indeed carried no weapons.
“Mistake,” came a voice from the entryway. Sawyer flicked his eyes over in the direction of the sound and saw himself staring down the barrel of a sub-machine gun wielded by Anna Demilio.
“Doctor. It seems we were in this situation once before, only then it was I who held the weapon.”
“Don’t,” Mason told her, holding up a hand. “Let me.”
Sawyer
nodded almost imperceptibly. He’d expected nothing less from Mason.
“Oh, bullshit,” Anna said, clicking off the safety on the weapon. “Let me kill him now, before they get through the doors.”
“No, hold your fire. Sawyer here might be a worthless pus-fuck, but I did run out on him. Call it a . . .”
“ . . . Debt of honor, perhaps?” Sawyer said, finishing Mason’s sentence for him. “I figured. Like I said, you’re too predictable.”
“And you’re too overconfident,” Mason retorted, shedding his jacket and tossing his weapons to the floor.
The two agents squared off, circling slowly and watching one another for the telltale signs of an attack.
“This is ridiculous!” Anna called out. “We don’t have time for this!”
Neither man responded. Their eyes were locked on each other. The agency had made hand-to-hand combat a major part of their training regimen. Like the armed forces, both men worked on a solid base of boxing and jiu-jitsu. It might lack the poetry of karate, but it was more than effective.
It was Sawyer that threw the first punch, a quick jab that flashed out so fast Mason didn’t have time for a block. The blow landed on his chin, staggering him back a half step. Sawyer wasted no time in pressing the attack. A flurry of punches came at Mason—a second jab, which he slapped aside handily. A roundhouse came next, but Mason ducked his head, and Sawyer hit only air. The next attack was a brutal uppercut, and might have ended the fight right then if Mason hadn’t leaned back just enough. Even so, Sawyer’s fist clipped his chin, jarring his head for a moment.
As Sawyer followed through with the uppercut, Mason saw an opportunity. He stepped in, throwing a quick one-two combination into Sawyer’s unguarded stomach. The agent expelled breath in a pained gasp and fell back a half step. Mason took a chance, throwing a roundhouse of his own aimed directly at Sawyer’s right temple. Sawyer raised an arm, stopping the punch before it reached him, and stepped forward, slinking one leg behind Mason’s and planting a hand on his chest. He shoved hard, sending Mason sprawling to the ground. The takedown was considered one of the most basic combat moves. Mason would have berated himself for opening himself up to it if he’d had time, but Sawyer was already hovering over him, raising a leg to stomp the agent as he lay on the ground.