by Justin Bell
“That’s an understatement,” Reeves said, but followed the men into the conference room. The group narrowed to squeeze through the door, then spread apart inside the room, slowly drifting along the walls. The table was too small for all of them and there were only four chairs, so they all stood and Kuster pulled the door closed behind them. Already the room felt too small and stifling and Davis tugged on the collar of his uniform slightly. He wore his traditional dress greens after being fully decontaminated and cleaned upon his return to the military base.
“So, what do you have on the results of the samples so far?” Wakefield asked, looking at Reeves.
“We’ve got our most powerful workstation compiling the results as we speak. It still may take an hour or so to get any usable data. Several of the samples were unusable, but to Sergeant Davis’s credit, he brought us a veritable gold mine of intel compared to what we had.”
“Good. Please keep us posted as soon as you have some credible data.”
Reeves looked at him. “Did I miss a memo where suddenly you’re in charge of this team?”
“Colonel, you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got a direct line to Homeland Security, who is running conference calls to the White House every thirty minutes. The quickest way to get the right information to the right people is to funnel it through me.”
“Understood.”
“Tell us about Boston,” Wakefield said, turning toward Davis.
The sergeant shook his head slowly. “It’s a disaster. A mess. Completely out of control.”
Wakefield closed his eyes and dipped his head.
“Within hours of landing we were attacked on two separate occasions by militant forces on the ground. Civilians that have taken up arms and are opening fire on anyone they perceive to be a threat. These militants managed to execute every other member of Team Ten with the exception of myself and Broderick Schmidt. I ran into Schmidt on my way out and our discussions… did not go well.”
“Elaborate please.” Wakefield said.
“I believe he facilitated the deaths of our team by a lack of appropriate response to the situation at hand. I told him so, and he reacted… poorly.” Davis cleared his throat and gestured toward the bruise under his left eye. “We separated and I’m not sure if he successfully made it out of the city or not. The way things were falling apart, I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“I’m going to need some more information on that,” Reeves said, crossing his arms.
“Can you be more specific about how things were falling apart?” Wakefield asked.
“As I mentioned,” Davis continued, “we had two active armed engagements upon landing within city limits, all indications were that these were citizens who had taken up arms against us due to the catastrophic nature of those first few hours.”
“How widespread was the impact of the biological weapon?” Wakefield asked.
“Tough to tell. We spent most of our time dodging bullets, but I can report that we saw significant casualties even in those few moments. Everywhere we went within city limits there were dead bodies. Even more frightening, however, was the dramatic lack of other activity.”
“Explain.”
“I would put the people we ran into in two separate categories—armed militants and dead victims. We saw no pedestrians, no bystanders, no innocent onlookers. Zero foot or vehicle traffic beyond the people who tried to kill us. I’m afraid to say it, but I believe the entire city of Boston is lost.”
The last comment hung in the conference room like an echoing explosion, resonating off of the empty walls, the words lingering like stale smoke.
“We’ve heard similar reports from elsewhere,” Bryce replied finally, breaking the silence.
As they stood there, considering their next response, a crackling voice echoed from out in the hallway.
Colonel Reeves, please report to Research and Development. Colonel Reeves, please report to Research and Development.
“That’s gotta be some results from the samples,” Reeves said, uncrossing his arms and straightening up.
“Go ahead,” Wakefield replied. “We’ll catch up.”
Reeves nodded and pushed his way through the door out into the hallway, letting it thud gently shut behind him.
Wakefield and Bryce immediately looked at each other. “I think our worst fears have been realized,” said Wakefield quietly.
Bryce nodded. “We need to consider the city of Boston as an active infection. A contagion zone that we must be prepared to deal with. An open wound that won't clot.”
“Deal with how?” Sergeant Davis asked, turning toward Bryce.
“We need to stop the bleeding,” Wakefield said softly. “By any means necessary.”
Chapter 10
He stood there, near the rear of the parking lot, arms crossed over his broad chest, the stolen military camouflage uniform pulled tight over his muscular frame. He’d given them their space. They needed space, and he didn’t need to get underfoot. The moment he’d run into them, he knew they were his kind of men. The kind of men that absorbed the skills they needed and somehow, almost intuitively, knew how to leverage those skills into creating destruction.
As a Spetsnaz Russian Special Forces operator, the man now known as Scarface had been a master of improvisation. He recalled one such mission when, caught in the remote mountains of Afghanistan, running low on ammunition and being pursued by one of the local clans, he’d led his team into a dark cave, just hoping it might provide some shelter until day break. This particular crew of nasty Afghanis liked to patrol at night, but when the sun rose, they typically withdrew to their homes and waited for the next nightfall to continue their terrorist operations. Scarface had led his team deep into their territory on a regular recon mission, planning to use a laser spotter to identify targets for bombing runs. Only they’d been discovered and in their haste to slip away, their equipment had been left behind.
Lost, deep in the caves, with a small team of terrorist commandos hot on their heels, many of his team members had accepted their own fates.
But not him. Using the darkness of the caves and his trademark Spetsnaz survival machete, Scarface had drawn the terrorists in and killed them, one by one. Six had entered, and one had narrowly escaped, running for his life back to the small farm he had inhabited.
Once the sun had risen, Scarface had led his team from the caves, but he had made a detour. He’d sent his team along without him while he went to the man’s farm and finished what he’d started. Using the machete, he’d ended the man’s life, but not before killing his wife, his brother, and his two oldest sons in front of him.
He’d rejoined the rest of his men just as the Mi-17 transport copter was sweeping in to pick them up. He’d never told the other men what he’d done, but he suspected that they knew, and he believed they’d respected him for it.
These men reminded him of that younger version of himself. He watched them as they went, using found tools to hack away sheet metal from the cars in the parking lot, cutting it away, bending it, shaping it, welding it. Quickly, but methodically, these men tore down vehicles, salvaging the largest sheets of steel they could find, moving the steel to their motorcycles and then welding pieces in place. As Scarface watched, the former steelworkers went to town, adding armor, reinforcement, weapon mounts and any number of non-street legal additions to their already rugged two-wheel vehicles. It was a wonder to behold, and although he’d only known them for less than twenty-four hours, the former Russian operative felt a kinship with them. A unique perspective on violence that he rarely shared with anyone else. These men were anarchists to the core and relished causing havoc simply for the sake of it, an innate desire he’d had many times, but had been forced to curb while within Spetsnaz.
It was that desire that had gotten him into trouble in his freelancing days. Lucrative kill-for-hire contracts that helped him deal with his desire for violence while making some good money on the side. Unfortunately the United Nations hadn’t shared his
perspective, and he’d quickly risen up the list of most wanted international criminals until finally the United States had cornered him and taken him down.
Or so they’d thought. But here he was, standing proud, his face a ruined wreck, but breath still moving in his lungs. Meanwhile the pigs who had brought him down had all been burned alive in the plane crash. He’d lived while so many had died.
He had a mission. There could be no other reason for it. An objective that he was destined for, something that only he could achieve, and until he accomplished that objective, he would not die. He could not die. He was a god here on Earth, sent to smite those who might stand up against him. The lone survivor of the plane crash, a man who quickly met and recruited operatives as vicious and eager to destroy as he was.
The tip of the spear.
Life was changing before his eyes. Welding torches screamed to life, bright, white-hot flames burning metal into armor, transforming normal motorcycles into speeding instruments of death.
His horsemen. Only he had far more than four, and by the time he was done, his would be a legion.
***
In the brightening sunlight, the truck sat at the shoulder, engine quiet, while figures milled around stretching their legs.
“Stretch your arms above your head,” Priscilla said, nodding toward Javier, and slowly he raised his arms, wincing slightly as he did.
“I think the bandages are staying on,” he groaned. Muscles hurt, but could be worse.”
“Could be much worse,” Priscilla replied. “You were far enough away, the buckshot was pretty shallow. I was able to dig it all out pretty easily and you weren’t even bleeding a whole lot.”
“Sounds like I owe you one,” Javier said with a smile.
Priscilla smiled back. “Well you guys did pull me out of that disaster area. We can call things even.”
Javier nodded, looking down at Melinda who was hugging tight to his leg. “I’m okay, chica,” he whispered, bending down into a crouch. “I’m all right. I’ll be here.”
Mel nodded, her eyes wet, then leaned in and wrapped her arms tight around his neck. She held onto him for a moment, then pulled away and looked up at Priscilla.
“Thanks for helping us,” she said quietly.
“Of course, honey,” Priscilla replied. “We’re all here to help each other, right?”
Mel nodded. She still wore her small backpack with the purple hippo bursting through the top zipper. “What are we doing here?” she asked.
“We stopped to fix the car and rest,” Javier replied. “We’re going to drop Jackson off in Aldrich when we get there, then continue south to Maryland.”
“Without Jackson?” Melinda asked, twisting her face into an expression of confusion.
Javier nodded. “Looks that way, yeah.”
“Why can’t we all stay together?” she asked, not directing the question at anyone in particular.
“Hey, who’s calling my name?” Jackson walked around from the front of the truck, stretching his own muscles and looking toward Melinda. “What’s the problem, kiddo?”
Mel looked up at him accusatory. “Why won’t you come with us?”
He smirked and bent low so he could talk to her eye-to-eye. “It’s complicated, Mel. But I have family in Aldrich. People I need to see. Check up on.”
“We can wait for you,” Melinda replied.
Jackson shook his head. “You guys have important work to do. Very important. I don’t want to slow you down.”
“You saved me, though,” Melinda said. “All of you guys did. I want us all to stay together, there’s been enough stuff changing.”
“I know,” Jackson said, touching her shoulder. “I hate it, too. I have a feeling we’ll see each other again, though.”
Melinda looked at him sideways through narrow eyes, obviously not quite buying what he was selling.
Behind Jackson, Broderick walked aimlessly along the side of the road, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking up into the lightening sky. Stars had given way to the vague pink hue of dawn, slate beyond encroaching purple clouds, and things felt, at least for the moment, at peace. This far west of Boston they couldn’t see or smell the fires, and though the streets were clogged with abandoned, or even worse, occupied vehicles, it felt more natural out among the trees than it did surrounded by buildings. The only thing that struck Broderick as strange was the dramatic lack of background noise. Even out in the woods he thought he should be hearing the distant hum of cars on the highway. The stray voices of a television show from two streets over. Murmurs of voices from people walking their dogs and generally milling about. Instead, there was pure, black, silence. A complete and whole lack of sound as if they were on a soundproofed film set.
Clark strode up next to Broderick, stretching his arm across his chest and groaning softly. “You doing all right?” he asked.
Broderick nodded, the stone carved back onto his face, frozen in his unique distinct lack of emotion.
“Fine,” he replied. “Just ready to get this over with.”
They walked toward the rest of the group, milling around outside the van, but Broderick stopped, tilting his head toward the starry sky. Somewhere in the sky, he heard a noise, a familiar noise, but not one he could immediately place.
“Hold up,” he said quietly. Clark halted and turned back toward him. A few yards away, Jackson looked over as well, watching the two men glance upward.
“What is it?” he asked stepping toward them.
Broderick held up a finger as he listened, the dull roar growing louder by the second.
“I hear it,” Clark acknowledged.
“Hear what?” Jackson asked, but then he heard it, too. It was almost like thunder, only louder and crisper, not muffled behind encroaching storm clouds. It was like thunder unfiltered, as if you were sitting right inside of the storm instead of way down on the ground, what Jackson imagined it might sound like inside of a helicopter in the middle of a raging lightning storm. Louder and louder it grew, high in pitch.
“You recognize them, don’t you?” Broderick asked, turning toward Clark, whose face had drained of color even in the dim light of evening.
Clark nodded. “B-2 Spirits,” he said quietly. “American stealth bombers.”
The B-2 Spirit was infamous in military circles, the second aircraft within the American air fleet to be developed with stealth technology. Designed by Northrup Grumman, the Spirit was initially developed as a nuclear bomber, but was shortly overhauled into more conventional weaponry, such as Mark 82 and Mark 84 bombs as well as the behemoth “Bunker Busters” like the GBU-57 Massive Ordinance Penetrator.
And they were flying overhead. Rural Connecticut had what sounded like a full squadron of B-2 stealth bombers streaking overhead. In the pale light of dawn, they could see them, triangular-shaped aircraft, pointed nose and swept, angular wings, moving slow against the clouds. Clark and Broderick couldn’t speak, their eyes pried open, and they watched the darkened shapes move across the sky, soaring northeast toward the largest city in New England, and they could only imagine for what purpose they were being deployed. After a few moments, the shapes faded from view, coasting low against the horizon, and the clouds above resumed their aimless float, no longer blocked by the darkened shadows.
Jackson pulled his eyes away from the sky and looked toward Broderick and Clark, an expression of vague wonder on his face.
“What was that?” he asked.
“Nothing good,” replied Broderick. “Come on. It’s time to go.”
Clark nodded, but remained silent, choosing instead to climb back into the driver’s seat and prepare to go the last stretch toward Aldrich.
***
The hallway stretched on forever, or so it seemed, a long, narrow corridor of white walls and pale tile, their shoes clapping against the smooth floor as they walked. The two men in shirts and ties flanked the third man, dressed in army greens, his shoulders straight and his stride firm, a man with a purpose.
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br /> “I thought the Command Center was in the East Wing,” the man in army greens said, turning his head to speak with one of the well-dressed men accompanying him.
“Sergeant Davis, Fort Detrick is a big place,” replied Agent Wakefield, patting the man on the shoulder gently. “We have all sorts of dark corners.”
Agent Bryce smirked and nodded, keeping pace with the other two as they turned a sharp left corner and continued forward toward what appeared to be a short, dead end hallway. A single door was perched along the far wall, and as they approached, Wakefield unhooked his identification badge and held it to the reader. There was a swift buzz, a click, and the door unlatched, allowing them to go inside. The room was a large size, wider than it was deep, a sprawling room of metal-paneled walls and brushed-metal floors. It looked like some kind of futuristic communications center buried in the middle of late twentieth century architecture, an image so out of place that Davis stopped walking for a moment and glanced around the room.
Bolted along the metal-plated wall was a series of twelve different monitors, all of which stood black above an ornate console of various buttons and switches, with four separate chairs pressed tight to the underside of the panels. Every chair was empty.
“What is this place?” Davis asked as he entered, fluorescent lights flickering to life above them.
“One of our briefing rooms,” Wakefield replied. “Not even Team Ten knew about this one. We have a few in various strategic locations around the country.”
Davis turned and glared at him as if trying to see through some complex disguise. “Who exactly do you work for?” he asked.
“What do you say when people without clearance ask you that?” Wakefield replied.
“I tell them I work for the United States Army.”
“I work for the United States Army.”
“Bull.”
Wakefield shrugged. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry at the moment, Sergeant.”