by Justin Bell
“We’re not sick,” Clark said. “It’s just us and the kid. She’s only ten.”
“Don’t matter if she’s ten or twenty. Sick is sick and we ain’t taking any chances.” Slowly the group spread out, all weapons elevated. Broderick picked himself up, stumbling forward slightly, his eyes fixated on the men and their guns. Everywhere he looked another one was there, he counted eight total. They were outnumbered, outgunned, and surrounded. Fought all this way and things were going to end right here and right now.
***
“Where were you during the conference call?” Agent Wakefield hissed as he stormed down the hallway, making a straight line toward Agent Kuster, who stood still in the darkened corner of the side hallway branching off from the main passage. His shirt was unbuttoned and he no longer even bothered with a tie. “We need to all be on the same page with what’s happening here.”
“Calm down, Wake,” Agent Kuster replied. “I was called out by the director. While you were on the call, I was speaking directly with a representative from the director who flew down to Detrick specifically to relay some critical information.”
“What are you talking about?”
Kuster glanced left and right to make sure they were alone in the hallway. “Our asset in Boston is on his way back to us. He’s got some intel, but the director has instructed us to only relay this intel face-to-face and not over electronic communications. He’s not taking any chances with the NSA.”
“That’s what this is all about?” Wakefield asked. “Some kind of intra-agency pissing match?”
“No, the nature of the intel is significant. He doesn’t want to risk any leaks, and his feeling is the less electronic communication in regards to this part of the operation the better.”
“What is this part of the operation?”
Kuster looked around again, then slipped a device from his pocket and thumbed a button.
“Is that a frequency jammer?” Wakefield asked.
Kuster nodded. “We’re not taking any chances here.” Looking over his shoulder, he noticed a small wiring closet and gestured toward it, Wakefield following along as they crossed the hall and went into the small room.
“I think you’re being a little over-dramatic here,” Wakefield said.
“Okay, listen to me, Wakefield,” Kuster said. “What the director said over the phone is a fraction of what’s going on out there. A small fraction.”
“Explain.”
“From the reports we’re getting on the ground, the helicopter rescue team sent into Boston has been ambushed. Two have been lost, the Blackhawk barely made it out, and is heading back to Chicopee now. We’ve already sent representatives there to meet them and retrieve the data from Team Ten.”
“Did they find any of them?”
“They found what was left of them,” Kuster said. “Team Ten was dead. There was evidence of a firefight between them and some locals, no idea what caused it, but the entire section of downtown was chewed up and there were bodies everywhere.”
“Son of a—”
“Violent outbursts are exploding all over the city. All rescue attempts are being halted as ambushes and attacks are occurring at every scene. The population within the city limits is so desperate they’re stealing emergency vehicles and trying to escape the city.”
“Is that a danger?” Wakefield asked. “Do we even know what’s caused this yet? I mean, know for sure? We’ve all heard the reports.”
“Word on the street is that the Team Ten data will provide some confirmation. But first things first. Operations is putting together a last-ditch effort to stop the bleeding in Boston. Drastic measures need to be taken, measures the director is not comfortable talking about on an open channel.”
“You’re not serious.”
“He sounded very serious.”
“So what’s our next step?” Wakefield asked.
“We’ve got about two hours before our asset in Boston lands here in Detrick. Our next step is to meet him and gather whatever intel he has for us. He risked his life getting out of the city, we need to make sure the information he brings with him gets into the right hands.”
Wakefield nodded. “All right. Let’s do it.”
The two men pushed their way out of the wiring closet and turned right down the dark hallway, walking toward the back exit.
***
Broderick clamped his teeth together as the pain dug into his knees, then rocketed up his spine and into the back of his neck where the night stick had struck him not long ago. He knelt there next to both Clark and Javier, arms twisted behind his back, thick rope bound across his wrists, pulling his shoulders into a painful backwards torque.
“Tighter,” a man with a shotgun barked. “Especially the one in the fatigues. If he’s not military, he’s ex-military, we take no chances.”
On command the man pulled the rope into a tight bind, chafing his wrists and pulling his shoulders even tighter.
“This is a mistake,” Broderick growled. “We’re all on the same side here. We just want to survive.”
“We’ve heard that before,” the man replied. “Right before they tried to execute us!”
“Who tried to execute you?” Clark asked.
“Military guys. Like your friend here. Rolled up in their Humvee and just opened fire. We barely got away, and we ain’t about to let you guys finish what they started.”
“Whoever they were,” Broderick said, “we’re not with them, okay? We just barely escaped a military firing squad ourselves, the next town over.”
“Just shut up,” the man said. “I don’t want to hear any more lies.”
“What about the girl?” asked Javier. “What are you going to do about the girl?”
“The girl stays with us,” the man replied. “No reason for her to pay for your sins. We’ll make sure she gets brought up right.”
Javier twisted around and saw Mel, held tight in a man’s arms, squirming to break away, her face twisted in fear and rage, tears streaming down her smooth cheeks.
“Let her go!” Javier screamed. “You’re scaring her! Why are you doing this?”
A man charged forward, slamming his rifle down, crashing the wooden stock against Javier’s cheek, his head snapping back and spittle flying. A small sizzle of spit hit the flames and spattered away into nothing.
Clark looked around, seeing Javier lying on his right shoulder, Broderick wincing against the force of his arms bound behind him, and himself, his full bulk resting on two old knees. Around them were the same eight men that he’d seen before, armed the same, their figures shifting in and out of shadow in the snapping light of the fire. One of the men had his hands full with Melinda, three others had longer weapons, though he couldn’t tell what types or calibers. He knew others had held pistols before, but he couldn’t track everyone with every weapon. No matter what the specifics were, they were dangerously outgunned, and at their mercy.
“So, what now?” he asked, not really wanting the answer. “You guys tie us up like stuck pigs and shoot us dead? Leave us in the woods? And then live with yourselves afterwards?”
“We can live with a lot these days,” a man replied.
Clark hated to admit that the guy was right. He himself had lived with a lot already in the past two days. Being in the Marine Corps had nothing on downtown Boston in the midst of Armageddon.
“If you’re gonna do it, just get it over with,” Clark hissed. “If I’m gonna die out in these cold ass woods, might as well do it before my knees give out. I’m old, fat and one cranky S.O.B.”
“In a rush to bite it, huh?” the man next to him asked. Clark turned and saw him with his knee pressed hard into Broderick’s spine, the rope coiled around his wrists, struggling to get him bound. The fire crackled, sounding like rocks scattering across the gravel. Clark narrowed his eyes for a moment, then turned back to the man.
“Well, considering you can barely tie a knot over there, I’m not real worried about how good a pistol shot
you are.”
“Shut your mouth, fattie,” one of the other men barked, and Clark could see it was the one who was holding onto Melinda. He had one firm arm wrapped around her small shoulders, the other hand producing a long, slender-barreled revolver. “He’s got his hands full, but I can hold this kid and punch your ticket at the same time.”
A swift, blue flash burst within the fire, followed by a loud, sudden popping sound. Several more followed it, the sound of a heavy semi-automatic firing one shot after another in swift succession. Pop! Pop pop pop pop pop!
“What the hell?” the man with his knee on Broderick’s spine screamed, and two other men whirled around, weapons lifting, searching for invaders.
“They’re firin’ on us!” another man screamed.
“Who?” shouted a third. Feet scuffled on dirt, weapons swiveling, nobody seeming to know where to aim. Clark glared at the man with Melinda, knowing what was coming next. He could see the shifting shape behind him, moving in a straight line, moving fast, and as he watched, Jackson burst from the trees. His leg shot out and struck the man behind the knee and it buckled, sending him stumbling. Clark could see then that Jackson was holding the shotgun by the barrel two-handed like a baseball bat and as the man stumbled right Jackson torqued and swung the weapon at a tight upward arc, smashing the curved end into the man’s right temple. Made with an aluminum alloy, the shotgun was stronger than it looked, and the man’s head snapped to the side, his eyes rolling back and his arm released the young girl immediately as he toppled forward. Moving swiftly, Jackson snagged the revolver from the man’s hand, casting the shotgun aside and moving toward Mel all in one series of calculated movements. Ducking low, he half-tackled the girl, swinging her up onto his shoulder, moving his arm to the right, pistol in hand.
“Broderick!” shouted Clark. “Time to go!”
Without hesitation, Broderick uncoiled his legs, thrusting backwards, and shoving the man on top of him into a clumsy backwards sprawl. He tumbled into the open flame, screaming as fire scattered in a splash around him, ash and sparks escaping up into the air like freed spirits.
“Don’t move!” shouted one of the men, lifting his weapon, but Jackson saw him first, swiveling as he moved with Mel, firing the revolver. It was a wild shot, but sent the man scattering nervously backwards as Broderick made his move toward the canvas bag. The loosened rope slipped from his wrists, giving him full range of motion with his arms and hands.
“Get up!” Jackson shouted to Javier who was still kneeling by the spreading fire, stunned and confused. He saw Mel on his shoulder and pushed himself upright, running, his hands firmly tied behind his back. Gunfire exploded from one of the men, bullets soaring high and wide, scattering off into the trees just as Broderick plunged his hand into the canvas bag and hauled out the Scorpion EVO Carbine. He scowled at the semi-automatic, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and he shouldered it and fired three swift times, purposefully slamming bullets into the ground at the feet of the shooter. Grass and dirt blasted up into the air and the man lurched backwards, out of the way. By the fire, the man Broderick had tossed in was rolling frantically away, his jacket set aflame and smoking.
“Ow, ow, ow!” he shouted. “Help me, help me!”
Confusion raged through the group as men ran to help him, moved aside to try to get a clear shot, while Broderick snagged the bag and tossed it over his other shoulder. Clark and Javier were already in a dead run, bolting down the dirt path deep into the trees. Jackson turned as he moved with Melinda over his shoulder, aiming with his pistol and firing twice, punching rounds into narrow trees with echoing cracks, sending more men lunging for cover that wasn’t there.
“Go!” shouted Broderick and Jackson listened, charging past him onto the dirt path and running as fast as his legs could take him. The army scientist took a few steady steps backwards, the EVO in ready position, and he fired a few more quick times, then turned and ran himself, following the rest of them down into the trees.
“Good save, Crossfit!” shouted Clark. “What did you throw in that fire?”
“Shotgun shells!” Jackson shouted back. “I’d hoped the buckshot wouldn’t hurt anyone, but I really didn’t have any other ideas.”
“Worked like a charm!”
Broderick came up on their left, running fast, arms and legs pumping in unison. “Where now?”
“Town!” Jackson shouted. “Mostly empty, about three miles ahead. I scouted it out, then ran back to tell you guys and saw what was going on.”
“Glad you did!”
They slowed their run to a cautious jog, and continued moving forward, hoping this town would give them something that the last one did not.
***
Lisa glanced back over her shoulder, her fingers clutching the category five cable. She was deep inside the wiring closet, a long string of formerly coiled cable peeled away from the ceiling mounted rail system. When she’d worked with the telecommunications vendor, she’d instructed them to leave significant slack in the cable in case of expansion, but she’d never envisioned needing to use this cable to reach other buildings entirely. Her head whipped from one direction to another, searching the shelves near her for a pair of wire cutters, but she couldn’t see them.
A whiff of stale liquor coasted under her nose, and she realized that she wasn’t alone.
“Watcha looking for?” Lance asked, appearing in the doorway with the skinny man in his shadow, as he seemed to be constantly.
“I need some wire cutters,” Lisa replied. “Do you see them out there?”
“Why don’t you take a little break?” Lance asked, stepping further into the closet. It wasn’t a huge room, though larger than your standard clothes closet, and Lisa realized that his large frame was blocking nearly the entire doorway out. Goosebumps prickled at the base of her neck as the skinnier man emerged on his left, the three of them taking up a large chunk of space in the small room.
“What are you guys doing?” Lisa asked. “We’ve got work to do, come on.”
Lance didn’t make any move toward leaving. He stood there, less than three feet away, his eyes boring into her.
“You know, there was this girl I was seeing,” he said simply. “Waitress at Sonny and Dave’s. You know that place?”
“Yeah,” Lisa replied, her eyes darting left and right, looking for any avenue of escape. It suddenly felt very hot inside the wiring closet, and all she could smell was the stale stink of old booze and Lance’s sour breath, like cough drops filtered through minced onion. “I mean, I live out of town, but I’ve been here my whole life. I know Sonny and Dave’s.”
Lance chuckled. “Right? I mean it’s not like we’ve got a lot of chain restaurants here. We used to hit that place after football practice every day. They’d hold that big table in the back for us. When we won that regional championship? Man, they let us have the whole back room.”
“That must have been great,” Lisa said, taking a step back, realizing she was already pressed tight to the wiring rack in the closet. She could feel the brackets pressing against her flesh, the soft curl of coiled wire touching her sweater. Lance was close. Too close, and she could almost feel the heat of him.
“Her name was Mona,” Lance said.
“Mona?”
“Yeah. The waitress. Her name was Mona. I really liked her.”
“Lance, I don’t know what you’re doing here, but…”
“She died.” His eyes widened slightly and Lisa could see the madness in them, almost a physical presence swimming in the whites, his pupils dilating as he stared at her. “Whatever this thing is,” he mumbled. “It killed her. It’ll kill all of us soon.”
“Lance,” Lisa replied. “Don’t—”
He leaned in toward her, putting a palm on the rack over her left shoulder, coming in close. “All we’ve got is the present, Lisa. Month from now, the whole world will be over. Planet of corpses.”
“Lance. I said stop.”
“What are we gonna do? We
gonna spend our last weeks wiring cables? Getting the mayor his internet? Or are we gonna have some fun?”
“I’m not going to ask again,” Lisa said.
Lance smirked and leaned in even closer, his breathing a hot bake on her smooth cheek, the feel of it twisted her guts into a knot. She clenched her throat to keep down her sparse breakfast.
“Last chance,” she said.
“Pucker up, girlie,” he said. Just beyond him Lisa could see the skinny guy standing by the opened door, his fingers clamped together, an eager look on his face.
Lisa twisted and thrust her fist up, slamming it hard into the elbow of the arm he was leaning on the wire rack. There was a muffled wet pop and his arm bent the wrong way, his weight crashing forward as the limb buckled. Lisa slid right as he plunged forward, his face ramming into the hard-edged steel of the cable rack, his nose blistering and forehead splitting against the narrow rim. Without hesitating, she twisted again, slamming her heel into his knee and twisting it sideways. Lance screamed and stumbled, but she moved into his motion, tangling her fingers in his greasy mop of dark hair. Yanking back, she peeled his crimson forehead from the rack, held it aloft for a second, then plunged it forward again, slamming his face back into the metal once more, an echoing clatter resonating throughout the small room. He grunted, then toppled over sideways and she released him, letting him slump to the floor, unconscious.
“You crazy chick!” screamed the skinny guy. “Crazy crazy chick!” He charged at her, but she stepped left, then drove her fist into his solar plexus, right at the junction of his rib cages, and the breath spewed from his lips, dropping him like a sack of wet dirt.
Lisa stood there above the two fallen bodies, her fists clenched and mouth twisted into an angry snarl. She could feel her heart slamming, a rapid whumping of beats, pulsing the blood in her ears. Sweat glistened over her forehead, her dark hair matted to her head, though she suspected that was more due to the work she’d been doing in the closet and not due to any exertion in knocking out the two men. She stepped over the prone form of the skinny guy, out into the open concrete basement, relishing the relatively fresh air. The basement was dank and dark, but compared to the pungent stench of old booze and sweat, she felt as if she was walking through the woods in the spring. She made her way toward the stairs leading up to the next floor and wondered just what can of worms she might have opened.