by Chris Angus
The street where his boss lived was quieter. It was primarily residential and the looters were concentrated, for the time being anyway, on commercial buildings. He made his way up the stoop and banged on the door.
For what seemed like an eternity, nothing happened. Then a man’s voice from behind the door asked, “What do you want?”
Huang almost swooned with relief. It was Zhong. He was still here. “It’s Huang, sir. I—I have some information on the Americans at the dig.”
There was a long moment of silence and then Zhong said, “Are you a madman, Huang? Don’t you know what’s going on? No one cares any more about the Americans. Are you sick?”
“No! No, I’m not sick. Please let me in.”
Zhong swore, but he unlocked the door, glanced at the street nervously, and let Huang in. As soon as he was through the door, Zhong slammed it shut. “Help me with this,” he said, and together they shoved a large chest in front of the entrance.
For the first time since entering the city, Huang felt a scintilla of safety. He looked around. The inside of the house was dark. Lights would have been an obvious attraction to marauders. No one else seemed to be around.
“Where’s your family?” Huang asked.
“Gone,” the round-faced Zhong said. “I sent them to my wife’s brother’s home in the country. They’ll be safe there.”
“But why are you still here . . . ?”
Before Zhong could answer, the reason appeared in the entrance to the living room. Yä Ling stood looking at him pensively. Her face showed the strain of the conditions they’d been living under, but she’d been right about one thing. She had known Zhong. He hadn’t abandoned her.
“You might as well come in and sit,” Zhong said. “Yä Ling, will you bring us some tea, please?” Once they were seated and the tea was served, Yä Ling sat with them at the table.
“Where’s Miss Diana?” she asked, looking at Huang suspiciously.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “We were heading for the dig and decided to camp for the night. She disappeared . . . ran off.”
Yä Ling looked skeptical, but Zhong had his own questions.
“How are things on the road?” he asked, leaning forward.
“From the dig into the city, there was hardly anyone. But the city is full of sick, dangerous people. I don’t understand why you are still here.”
“Where can one go?” Zhong replied. “The entire country is being overrun. It’s as safe here as out in the open. I sent my wife and children away before things began to fall apart completely.”
Huang hesitated. With everything that was happening, his concerns about what the Americans might be up to at the dig seemed inconsequential. Yet he still couldn’t let go of his dreams of promotion. Here in his boss’s apartment with Yä Ling sitting across from him, the fruits of advancement were all too obvious, even as Urumqi was falling apart around them.
“Sir,” he began, “circumstances have led me to believe the Americans are up to something at the Tarim site. They’ve engaged in a series of deceptions specifically designed to mislead me and get me to stay away from the site for the past week. I can think of no reason for their actions other than that they have made some new discovery of great importance.”
Zhong stared at him as though he’d taken leave of his senses. “Are you mad? No one cares! No one cares about twenty-thousand-year-old bodies buried in the ground in the middle of nowhere. Look outside. The streets of Urumqi are filled with dead bodies of our own.”
“I know, I know,” Huang said stubbornly. “But this could be important . . .” he trailed off, then suddenly thought of a way to convince Zhong. “What the Americans are doing may relate somehow to the sickness.”
Zhong raised an eyebrow. “How?”
“I don’t know. But—but even if I’m wrong, we’d be wise to go there. It will be much safer than here in the city.”
Zhong looked at Yä Ling, who gave him the slightest nod of her head.
“I have a car hidden a few blocks away,” Huang said, suddenly confident. “We can be out of the city in an hour.”
Zhong stood up and paced across the room. He pulled back one of the heavy window shades and stared out at the street. “Most of the army units in the west have disappeared,” he said. “Melted into the countryside as soon as conditions became bad. But I know of a few outlying units on patrol in the backcountry that may not have heard what’s going on yet. If we could contact one of them, we might have our own security force for protection.”
He took out a cell phone and punched in some numbers. Surprisingly, someone answered at the other end. He spoke rapidly for several moments, then hung up abruptly.
“We wait,” he said. “Yä Ling, pack us some things for travel.”
“Who did you call?” Huang asked.
“All government functions have ceased in the east. But we have a listening post near the western border that’s still operational. I’ve worked with them before. A man there is checking recent interceptions of cell and satellite phone calls. If the Americans are up to something as you suggest, then they may be in communication with the outside. We’ll see.”
Half an hour passed. Yä Ling gathered two small satchels of possessions and placed them by the door. Huang was on pins and needles. He didn’t want to be in the city a moment longer than necessary. Someone might discover his car and steal or destroy it at any time.
Finally, the cell phone beeped. Zhong answered it at once. He listened a long time, asked two quick questions, then listened some more. At last he thanked the man on the other end and told him they should consider closing their post and fleeing for their lives. He hung up and turned to face Huang and Yä Ling.
“It appears you may have been correct, Huang. There was a call intercepted between Dr. Kessler’s satellite phone, which has been on a watch list, and another pinpointed a few miles from the Tarim site. The strange thing is that Dr. Kessler’s end of the conversation apparently took place at a remote monastery in the Bogda Feng Mountains. Our people have not yet had time to completely translate the call. However, there’s no explanation I can think of that would explain why Dr. Kessler is where she is.”
Huang slammed his fist on the table. “I knew it! They’re up to something, probably espionage. Dr. Kessler’s entire team consists of nothing but spies. I’ll wager the Tarim dig—even the new family group—are simply a ruse to justify their presence in our country.”
Zhong stared at him silently. Finally, he made a decision. “We’ll take your car out of the city and go to the monastery. It’s closer than the Tarim dig. And I know of at least one military patrol in the region we may be able to contact.”
Huang started to protest. This wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to go after Diana, who was almost certainly at the Tarim site. Still, he was elated his suspicions had proved correct. Perhaps he’d go along with Zhong for the time being. Who knew what might happen on the open road? There were no more rules in China. Perhaps Zhong would be stricken with the illness or killed by a marauder. Then he would be alone with Yä Ling, a not unpleasant outcome.
But for all of Yä Ling’s charms, he’d not soon forget Diana. Sooner or later, he’d catch up to her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LITTLEFIELD WAS EXHAUSTED. He couldn’t remember ever being so tired. He found a hill with a few trees on it and decided to use the cover to take a rest, dropping his heavy sack gratefully and slumping to the ground. It was just before dawn, the glow of a soon-to-rise sun beginning to appear on the horizon.
Although walking all night had been tiring, it was the relentless stress and worry that the people on the road might spot him that had truly worn on him. Now that darkness was giving way to dawn, he could see the masses below clearly again. If anything, their numbers seemed to have grown.
It was the first time in his life he’d been in any sort of real danger, the first time he’d been utterly and completely alone. Normally he was surrounded by sycophan
ts and employees anxious to do his bidding. But this sensation of vulnerability was completely new to him.
His only plan was to get back to Hohhot and to his plane. The plane represented everything. Escape. Food. Safety. People who were paid to protect and serve him. But what if they were gone? It would be almost three full days since he’d left by the time he made it back. They might well have written the occupants of the helicopter off, assuming something had gone wrong. For everything was going wrong in China.
He couldn’t think about that. They were his employees, and he paid them well, by God! They’d better wait or he’d have their hides.
Suddenly, he heard something rustling in the bushes behind him. He leaped to his feet and stared in the direction of the sound. His face poured sweat, his heart beating like a sledge hammer.
There! What was that? A wild animal?
Worse.
The bushes parted and a handful of people appeared. They were little more than animals. Most wore only torn and filthy clothes that had probably been stolen along that awful highway of death below. A couple of women were completely naked. They moved toward him, several only able to crawl, the others staggering as though drunk, issuing the most horrific mewling sounds.
He gaped in terror at this sudden, new threat. How had they gotten around behind him? Were the hills full of such monstrosities? He was frozen, unable to move his feet, until the spell was broken when one of the figures picked up a piece of wood, screamed like a banshee and ran at him in a limping, broken gait, swinging the stick over his head.
At the last instant, Littlefield dodged the attack, and the man went forward on his own momentum until he ran into a tree and collapsed. But the others were now upon him as well. He looked around frantically, grabbed his sack of supplies, struck one man in the face and then bolted down the hill.
He was so desperate to get away from those awful creatures that he ran blindly toward the road. Only at the last moment did he realize his mistake. He stopped dead in his tracks. The mass of humanity on the road broke apart like a wave hitting a breakwater, half the flow turning toward him. He’d exchanged that handful of monsters on the hill for a thousand more down here.
He heard a pure animal cry of terror and realized it was his own voice. Fortunately, his pursuers were slow-moving and debilitated. But they appeared to have purpose—a desire to chase down anyone who seemed different. It was almost as though it was a symptom of the disease, a mindless desire to spread itself, to move toward any target that appeared uninfected.
He ran and ran. Away from the masses, into the hills. At last he collapsed from sheer exhaustion. He didn’t know if he was safe and didn’t care anymore. His chest heaved, his breath coming in distorted gasps.
Slowly, he collected himself. He was on top of a ridge that appeared to wind in a westerly direction. Perhaps, he thought, if he stayed up here he would be safe. The ridge ran in the direction of Hohhot. He was sure of it.
Once again, he began the relentless walking. For several hours, he saw no one, for he’d lost sight of the road. But not being able to see the monsters gave him renewed energy. Maybe he’d get out of this yet.
By late afternoon, he finally saw the outskirts of Hohhot. However, he could also see the road again. There seemed to be fewer people on it here, but they still appeared to be infected. He remained on the ridge as long as he could, then reluctantly headed down into the valley.
He had one stroke of luck. The airport was on the eastern side of the city and he spotted it as he hiked up over one last rise. There, thank the Lord, was his plane, his beloved $40 million Airbus Corporate Jetliner, still sitting on the runway.
He broke into a run. No one seemed to be around as he entered the series of runways and mowed flatlands. He bypassed the terminal building and made straight for the aircraft. It was his haven.
He ran around the plane, looking for anyone. The doors were closed and the staircase that had been rolled up to the exit was nowhere to be seen. He whirled around. They’d left him! Abandoned him and the plane. He stared up at the cockpit and let out a cry of frustration.
Instantly, a face appeared. A man slid back the window and leaned out, holding a pistol. “Get the hell out of here,” he shouted, “or I’ll shoot you.”
Littlefield felt such a surge of relief he almost vomited right there on the tarmac. It was his pilot.
“Morgan!” he cried. “It’s me. Paul. Open the door and let me in.”
The man leaned farther out the window. “Mr. Littlefield?” He stared in disbelief at the filthy, haggard man on the ground.
“Yes, damn it! It’s me. Where the hell is everyone?”
“There’s no one left but me,” said the pilot. But he disappeared and a moment later, the cockpit door opened.
“There are no stairs,” the pilot said. He rolled out a rope ladder and Littlefield clambered up into the plane.
Morgan stared at him. “What happened?” he asked, stupidly.
“What the bloody hell do you think happened? The damned helicopter crashed and we were nearly killed by those monsters out there.”
“Where are the others?”
“Everyone was killed, except for the general. He . . . uh . . . decided to stay with some people he knew. I wanted to get back here. There’s work to be done.”
“Work?”
“You must fly me out of here. I need to return to Washington and organize my people. China needs the stability of God’s work now more than ever.” He moved back into the empty plane. “What happened to the rest of the crew? My stewardess? My cook? The copilot?”
“All gone,” the pilot replied, sadly. “A band of those creatures attacked the terminal building a short while ago. I happened to be on the plane. As far as I know, they killed them all.”
Littlefield swore. His employees were replaceable, but it would mean a less comfortable, and perhaps more dangerous, flight home. He sank into his soft leather chair and closed his eyes. He was safe once again, surrounded by the symbols of his power.
“Take me home,” he said, and promptly fell asleep.
This was probably the spookiest place he’d ever been on the face of the Earth, Logan decided—or at least under the earth. If the others hadn’t been with him, he might well have found a reason to turn and walk away, hardly a course of action he was known for. But the prickling sensation between his shoulders wouldn’t go away, and his senses were on full alert.
After Logan woke Duncan, Marcia, and Leeanne and provided them with a brief summary of what had happened, they’d proceeded down the stone steps, following Xuemin and several other monks who carried torches, shovels, and heavy picks. The first of the robed priests was actually whistling softly. Logan felt like one of the Seven Dwarfs heading into the mines for a day of digging. All that was missing was Snow White. The evil queen, he was quite certain, was down here somewhere.
After descending four flights of increasingly rough and crumbling steps, Xuemin halted in front of a heavy door. He stood to one side as two of the monks pushed it open. An unpleasant odor emanated from within—not decay really, but more the stale mustiness of a long-unused charnel house.
“God in heaven!” said Leeanne. “Are we going in there?”
Xuemin paid no attention to her. He took a torch from one of his brothers and entered the dark space. The others filed in behind him, spreading out once they realized there was considerable space within.
In fact, they were in a very large room, if it could be called that, at least a hundred feet long by perhaps fifty wide. Stone columns supported the ceiling, and there was the sound of water dripping somewhere. Along the walls stood rows of wooden coffins, stacked on top of one another, disintegrating badly—perhaps hundreds of them. Through the splintering sides of the caskets, they could see white bones flickering in the torch light.
Duncan cursed. “This is madness! We’re exposing ourselves to the sickness just by being here.”
“I don’t think so,” said Alan. “The monks
have been coming down here for a couple of thousand years. Nothing’s happened to them. Whatever caused the death of these poor souls has long since dissipated.”
“You don’t know that,” Duncan said. “There’ve been cases of people getting sick from contact with corpses that had smallpox or plague.”
Logan went over to one of the coffins and attempted to lift off the top. The entire precarious contraption disintegrated, leaving a cloud of dust to rise over a small pile of white bones. Duncan shrank away, as though breathing the dust might somehow infect him.
“No!” Xuemin cried. “You must not defile the bodies. These are our ancestors, the founders of this monastery. Their suffering has been great. We must treat their remains with respect.”
“I’m sorry,” Logan said. “I just wanted to look at one. You’re right, of course. We’ll try to be more careful. Where is this new chamber you said you’d found?”
“This way,” said Xuemin, only partially mollified by Logan’s apology. The old monk seemed tireless, tramping down innumerable flights of steps, carrying torches, and directing his fellows like some sort of ancient specter. He stepped over piles of debris, loose rocks, and bits of ancient wooden coffins, dodging around the columns, at one point stepping across a small stream that incredibly wound its way through the cavernous space.
Finally, he stopped at one crumbling wall of the chamber. A section had collapsed into ruin, and as he stepped in closer, Logan saw that behind the fallen section was what looked like a bricked-over doorway.
“This,” Xuemin said, lifting one tired, withered arm, “only fell away recently, shortly before you arrived looking for horses. The bricks behind it have clearly been placed to fill in an ancient doorway.”
“You didn’t break into it at once?” asked Alan. “I thought that was what you did whenever you found some new place to search for the object described by the scroll.”
“There is a ritual,” the old man explained patiently. “Prayers must be said, prayer wheels crafted. Then there is a meeting of all the brothers to discuss what steps are to be taken. These things take time and . . . we were interrupted by your arrival.”