You are my seed, the bug hums happily against his ribs, as if they are on the same side.
“I’m your cure, asshole.”
He passes another billboard, this one reading: DEFIANCE GO TO MORGANTOWN.
A feeling of calm washes over him. Every time he drives past a message the military left for him, he feels a little more control slipping away. Soon, it will all be out of his hands. He knows in his gut they are here for him. They know who he is, and they have come for him.
As he drives along happily, he keeps checking his rear view, wondering if Anne Leary really did die. The woman is indestructible. He can feel her back there somewhere, hunting him with that look of fierce glee on her scarred face.
It was just blind luck that prevented her from killing me. Twice.
As terror seeps back into his consciousness, he wonders if the government is going to make an honest deal with him. Maybe the idea is to treat him real good until they don’t need him anymore, and then put him down like a dog. Dissect him and throw him out like garbage. Hell, maybe no lab is out there waiting for him, no salvation, no redemption. Maybe the soldiers are waiting for him up there in Morgantown with flamethrowers.
What an idiot I sure am. I was about to give myself up without making sure I get what I want. I can’t trust anyone. Force is the one thing people respect. The only thing you know for sure is the sucker punch is coming. The only thing you can control is whether you are going to get it or give it.
He scans the forest on his left and sees nothing but trees in the gloom. Then he scans the grassy fields on his right, empty except for giant steel pylons carrying dead transmission lines.
Returning his attention to the road, Ray broadcasts: I can sense you. I know you’re out there. Meet me in Morgantown, but do not show yourselves to the people there. Hide and wait. Hide and wait for me. I will be with you soon.
He hears them murmur across the ether. Not the garbled, agonized voices of the Infected, but the obscene babble of monsters, clicking and chewing and grinding teeth.
He grunts in surprise. He did not know he could control the monsters.
This is a whole new ballgame, folks.
NEXT TOWN STOP WALMART
He barks a harsh laugh. What am I afraid of? I command MONSTERS.
The roadblocks appear at the outskirts of town. Ray taps the brake pad, downshifting, breathing fast and trying to ignore the sensation of falling in his gut. He becomes aware of a large military vehicle on his left and, in the distance, a Bradley like the one Sarge commanded. A big gas mask-wearing soldier with a flamethrower stands next to the Stryker. Ray waves at the man, who hesitates before waving back. Despite all of the anticipation, he is kind of surprised to see them here, just for him.
Straight ahead, another soldier in a gas mask stands with two men in biohazard suits holding plastic suitcases. This, he assumes, is the welcoming committee, rolling out the red carpet.
Cool Rod
Rod watches the truck stop and waits for the man to cut the engine, but he doesn’t; he lets it idle and even revs it once, as if having second thoughts. He studies the distant figure and decides this must be Ray Young. He raises his hands, showing he is unarmed, and waves his arms over his head. Stop, stop. Kill the engine.
The beat-up pickup slowly turns and pulls into the parking lot of the office building across the street from the Walmart. The engine dies and Young steps down from the truck, slamming the creaky door. Rod gets his first good look at the man and feels like he already knows him. Dressed in a wrinkled black T-shirt, dirty jeans and, oddly, a brand new STEELERS ball cap pulled down low over a scowling unshaven face, Ray Young looks like any number of rednecks living around Dallas, where Rod grew up.
Young whistles and three men jump down from the truck bed dressed in bulletproof vests, T-shirts, jeans, cowboy boots. Empty holsters on their hips, guns in their hands. Rod watches them take up positions in a defensive formation around Young, acting like bodyguards.
Friends of his?
No, it looks like Sergeant Wilson was right. The man can control the Infected. Incredible.
Rod checks out the Bradley on his left. Sergeant Wilson watches the scene from the commander’s hatch, wearing a gas mask. His shooters are gone, dispersed into concealed positions. Wilson catches him watching and gestures as if to say: It’s all yours, Sergeant.
“What’s your name, sir?” Rod calls out.
“I’m Ray Young?” the man answers tentatively, as if he’s not sure.
“Bingo,” Rod says to the scientist, who grins behind his faceplate. “You guys ready?”
Dr. Price gives him a thumbs up.
“We’re going to send our scientists over to talk with you,” Rod calls out again. “Is that okay, Mr. Young?”
The man shrugs. “I guess that’d be fine.”
“Do you need anything? Food, water, medical attention?”
Young snorts and spits onto the asphalt. “No, I’m good.”
“You’re on, vatos,” Rod tells Price and Fielding.
The two men approach the distant figures carefully, their spacesuits gleaming yellow in the bright sun. It’s hot as hell in the MOPP suit, but Rod is used to it. So far, so good. All they have to do is get Ray to put on the orange Racal suit and ditch his entourage, and they can pack him up and get him to the USAMRIID facilities at Fort Detrick in Maryland.
USAMRIID: the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases, part of the Medical Research and Materiel Command, where the Army’s top disease experts are working around the clock on ways to fight the bug.
Rod watches the men talk and realizes he should have equipped them with radios and given one to Young. It’s too late now.
Something is wrong. Young is shaking his head, chopping at the air with one of his hands for emphasis. Price waves his arms at Rod, and jogs back. Rod decides to take the risk of meeting him halfway. As they close the distance, he eyes the scientist’s bright yellow suit and wonders how hot it is with live spores.
“What’s the story, Doctor?” Rod asks him.
“He says he won’t come with us unless we can give him a guarantee about his safety.”
“Is he crazy? Does he understand why we’re actually here?”
“He’s concerned about later,” Price explains. “What if he turns out to be unhelpful in the fight against the Wildfire Agent? Or what if he is helpful, and we win the war, and now here’s this one guy who can bring Hell back? Either way, what happens to him?”
“Well shit, Doc, that is far above my pay grade,” Rod says. “I can’t give that type of guarantee. Not one that would mean anything to him, anyway. Didn’t anyone think of this kind of thing when the op was being planned?”
Price clears his throat, sounding like, ahem. “I was rushed into the field, Sergeant. I barely had enough time to collect the right equipment. I couldn’t think of everything.”
“All right, all right. Then I guess we’re going to have to negotiate something.” He makes a call on the radio to Tanner to meet him at the last checkpoint with the spare JTRS radio from the Stryker, and then hands his own radio to Price. “Give this headset to Mr. Young.”
“Will do.”
“But then take it right back the second we’re done with the conversation. We don’t want him hearing squad chatter. It’s bad enough I’m sharing our communications.”
“I understand.”
Shit, this is complicated, Rod realizes, jogging back.
Soon he and Young are communicating on the radio while Price swabs down his and Fielding’s bio suits, hoping to capture spore samples.
“Mr. Young, I’m Sergeant Rodriguez, U.S. Army.”
Nice to meet you, Young says. Now listen. I want you to get on the phone to your people and tell them I ain’t going nowhere until I get some simple assurances.
“We can talk about that.”
Ain’t nothing to talk about. You must think I’m flat out batshit nuts to go anywhere with you with
out some type of guarantee about my safety. In fact, I’m plenty goddamn insulted you took all this effort to come on out here without it. Get on the phone with your people.
“Fine, Mr. Young,” Rod says. “But what type of guarantee would satisfy you?”
Young considers this. Rod watches him light a cigarette.
I want a letter from the President, he says after a long pause.
Rod growls. He knows the man is scared and he can empathize with that, but this is ridiculous. “Do you want him to deliver it personally?”
No need to get smart. But now that you mention it, it should be on White House letterhead and I want a high-ranking officer to give it to me. I want to trust you people, but this is my life we’re talking about. You want it, you got to earn it. Get on the phone. I’ll wait.
“I cannot do what you are asking. The President doesn’t even know we’re here. By the time the message works its way up the chain of command. . . We’re talking a long time, Ray. My orders are to bring you in, or shoot you in the head. I suggest you come in.”
To his surprise, Young laughs. His guards raise their guns, covering Price and Fielding, who respond by raising their hands.
I wouldn’t threaten me, man. You have no idea what you’re dealing with.
“We basically have you surrounded with automatic weapons. If I give the order, it will take all of three seconds to turn you into Swiss cheese. Whether you have hostages doesn’t matter.”
Ray drops his smoke and grinds it into the road with his boot.
Even if you’re the hostage?
Rod frowns, but says nothing.
Look behind you, but don’t panic. Make no sudden moves, and you won’t get hurt.
Sergeant, Davis cuts in. Christ, Sergeant, they’re right behind you.
Rod wheels and stares in shock at the two monsters approaching with arms outstretched, tottering on spindly legs oddly articulated like a grasshopper’s. They’re like deformed albino children, mewing and flashing sharp little teeth.
He doesn’t care about the teeth. Instead, he stares in horror at the massive erect stingers swaying between their legs.
Cascading voices blast the radio channel.
Contact, several men shout at once, calling in hoppers and requesting orders.
Ay, wey, Sosa says quietly.
Oh shit is right, Rod thinks. The hoppers are everywhere. Dozens of them. One has ventured close enough to sniff at his boots, its stinger buzzing. So far, nobody is shooting. He is amazed at his boys’ fire discipline.
“Easy, Hellraisers,” he says, aware Young can hear everything he is saying. “Nobody shoots unless I give the order. Understand?”
Sorry, Sergeant, Arnold says from the roof of the Walmart. I can’t cover the target and run the surveillance equipment, over.
“Get on the recon gear and tell me what you see,” Rod tells him. “We need to know what we’re up against.”
Can I torch them, Sargeant? Sosa asks him.
“If you shoot, then people are going to die,” Rod says, hoping his voice is not as shaky as the rest of him is right now. “Mr. Young is just showing us he has big guns too.”
That’s right. Do I have your attention now?
“Roger that, Ray.”
Then get me my damn letter, says Ray.
I see dozens of them, Three, Arnold says. At least a hundred. And more on the way, over.
“Roger that, Eyes. Out.”
He’s giving me no choice, Rod realizes. He knows I can’t deliver his letter. Even if I could, it would still be symbolic. The President wouldn’t have to honor it. This is all about Ray Young’s stupid redneck pride. So I’ll have to give the order to shoot, and then whoever can’t make it to the Stryker will die. We’re all going to die because this son of a bitch feels insulted.
Arnold: Contact west, over.
Rod presses the push to talk button. “What you got?”
Large vehicle approaching fast, over.
Rod can hear it already.
“Friend of yours, Mr. Young?”
I can’t believe it, Young answers, sounding panicked.
“Mr. Young, if you want any of us to survive this fucked up situation, you’d better tell me right now what’s going on.”
It’s Anne Leary. She’s been hunting me since Defiance. She’s trying to kill me. If you want to make a deal, then I’m going to have to ask you and your guys to kill her, Sergeant.
Rod opens his mouth, closes it. He does not want to kill any American who is not infected.
He also has no choice.
“Hellraisers, I want you to smoke that vehicle and anyone in it. Weapons free.”
Ray
Ray has a sense of events spiraling out of control. A moment ago, he was enjoying flexing his power in front of the soldiers, but now he needs their help. His jumpers are deadly and terrifying, but he does not trust them to kill Anne Leary before she kills him. In his mind, she has become the angel of death. He flinches as the whir of the bus engine grows louder.
Fade, he tells his monsters. Get out of the way. Hide until I need you.
Ray sees the bus approaching, the driver crouched low over the wheel and ignoring the squad’s warning shots. Then the Stryker’s heavy machine gun opens up, the pounding fire loud and urgent, like a hammer striking an anvil next to his ear. The gun chews up the thin metal, punching gaping holes in its walls and blowing out the seats, which fly away in clouds of cheap stuffing.
Another machine gun opens fire from the roof of the Walmart. Hundreds of rounds stream into the vehicle and rip it to shreds. What’s left of the roof flops away like aluminum foil and slams into the road, dragged along with a grating, ear-splitting screech. The bus appears to disintegrate into pieces as it roars across the final distance, trailing smoke and rolling debris.
“Come on,” Ray shouts into the roar. “It’s just a freaking bus! Kill the goddamn thing!”
He watches the vehicle continue its approach and feels rooted to the spot.
I never had a chance. The woman is indestructible. It’s not fair.
BUMP BUMP BUMP BUMP
He flinches again and spins around as the Bradley fires its main gun, flinging cannon rounds downrange into what’s left of the vehicle. Empty shell casings topple down the Bradley’s metal chest, knocking off a withered wreath of wildflowers someone had placed there. Ray watches the wreath fall away and suddenly he is on the bridge again, watching the Infected come howling at him like an army boiling up straight from Hell, standing his ground and firing because there is nowhere safe to go, and to run is to die.
“Sarge?” he says. Can it really be you?
The cannon rounds slam into the front of the bus, which flies apart in a series of fireballs. Ray glimpses the crumpled hood flying end over end through the air. Then, miraculously, the rig emerges from the cloud of smoke trailing fire and pieces of metal, heading toward him as if in a final death lunge, the driver’s seat blown away. Then it flips.
The soldiers stop firing, watching the flimsy wreck roll several times and collapse, the culmination of a long streak of smoking debris stretched back along the asphalt like metal road kill. A horde of metal parts continues to clang and tumble along, and then the wreck is finally still.
“Ha!” Ray whoops, clapping his hands. “Ha, ha, ha! You’re dead now, Anne Leary! You’re fucking dead! I win!”
Price and Fielding, lying on the ground with their hands over their heads, return to their feet.
Mr. Young, Sergeant Rodriguez says over the radio. Are you all right? Anyone injured over there?
“We’re just great,” Ray tells him, lighting another Winston with shaking hands.
“What now, Mr. Young?” Price says, his eyes wide behind his faceplate. “Are we still your hostages?”
“I don’t know,” Ray says, blowing a stream of smoke and chewing on his lip.
“Give it up,” Fielding tells him. “What you’re asking for can’t be gotten. You’re going to just have to t
ake a chance. Either way, isn’t it worth the result?”
“You really think what I’ve got inside of me could save the world?”
Fielding glances at Price, who nods.
“I believe it,” the scientist says. “I know it.”
We need to talk this out, Ray, Rodriguez says. Let’s keep the hoppers out of it for now.
Ray realizes they’re right. It’s time to give up. He’ll never get a guarantee that would mean anything, and he has a real chance to end Infection.
I want to save the world, he decides.
“That’s weird,” he says, staring at Fielding.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You’re one of mine.”
Ray’s chest explodes and his blood sprays across Dr. Price’s suit and faceplate, followed by the sound of a gunshot. Then he’s spinning, spinning, falling to the ground.
Over the ringing in his ears, he hears a woman screaming an inhuman cry of joy.
Protect, protect, protect—
Dr. Price
Travis watches in shock as the hoppers flood from their hiding places, bounding across the empty parking lots like a swarm of locusts. The crackle of small arms fire fills the air. Standing over Ray Young, two of the Infected cops level their guns and open fire at one of the windows of the low-rise office building. The third sits on the ground, holding his throat and gurgling as blood flows between his fingers.
Young sits with his back against one of the truck’s tires, legs spread wide, breathing in rapid, shallow gasps. One of the cops topples to the asphalt next to him, a neat hole drilled through his forehead, the back of his skull a smoking, shattered ruin. Young clutches his chest with a bloody fist and stares at Travis, his eyes communicating his desperate need to live.
“Help,” he croaks.
Travis falls to his knees and opens his plastic suitcase, which contains first aid supplies, and stares at it, his face tingling. He feels like he is about to pass out. The last Infected cop appears to do a jig in the air, blood spraying, and then collapses to the ground grinning.
The Killing Floor Page 30