by Scott Sigler
“Enemy lines?” Clarence said. “They’re just a mob.”
“You’ll see soon enough,” Klimas said. “Everyone, into the hall.”
Bosh and Ramierez were still at their posts, guarding the hallway in both directions. Smoke curled thickly at the ceiling; the place was going up fast.
Roth pulled the door shut. He held a small detonator in his hand.
“Fire in the hole,” he said, then pushed the button.
It didn’t sound like much of an explosion, more of a whump than a bang. Roth opened the door. A cloud of dust billowed out. Clarence looked in: the blast had punched clean through — he felt cold air pouring in, saw a brick wall beyond.
“First wall down,” Roth said. “Now to blast our way into the other building. Sixty seconds.”
He started placing small charges of C-4.
On his shoulder, Clarence felt Margaret start to shake. He turned, saw that Cooper Mitchell was standing right next to them.
He was holding his exposed wrist near Margaret’s bloody hand. On that wrist, a red spot, a small patch of sagging skin: it looked like he’d just popped a huge blister, but Clarence saw no fluid. Tiny motes of floating white hung in the air for a moment, then dissipated into nothingness.
Cooper smiled wide. “Enjoy that, lady. You enjoy the fuck out of it.”
He stepped away.
Clarence set Margaret down on her own feet. With her hands still zip-stripped behind her back, she leaned against the wall. She shook violently.
She stared at Cooper Mitchell, her eyes wide with terror.
HIT THE LIGHTS
Paulius lay on a tile floor, mostly hidden behind the low, brick wall of the dark tea shop’s broken window.
Outside in the cold, windy night, the few remaining lights lit up hundreds of Converted running through the streets: yelling in victory, screaming in psychotic rage, sometimes shooting guns into the air. Most of the time they moved south, toward the Park Tower.
But sometimes, they seemed to get confused — they ran north on Rush, or west on Pearson, and when they did, their own kind shot them down.
Thirty meters along either of those roads, a line of cars, trucks and other debris ran from sidewalk to sidewalk, completely blocking any way through. Barrel fires burned in front of these bulwarks, blurring any sight of the forces that hid behind them.
Paulius had to figure out how to cross those lines.
The gothic Archdiocese of Chicago was directly to the north, across Pearson. Paulius saw troops and guns lurking in the church’s broken stained-glass windows. He could lead his people into that building, search for an exit that would come out behind the Converted’s street-blocking wall, but he had no idea how many enemy troops waited inside.
Kitty-corner to the tea shop — across the intersection of Pearson and Rush — was a ten-story brick building, but going for that would expose him to fire from the troops behind the bulwarks of both streets. Plus, there was no guarantee the place wasn’t full of snipers just waiting for him to show his hand.
And due west, across Rush, a round skyscraper some forty stories tall. Same problems as the other buildings.
Every route seemed blocked, heavily defended.
There had to be a way.
He couldn’t count on help from anyone else, because no one answered his calls. As far as he knew, all the Rangers were dead. He’d lost most of his own men: just six out of twenty left, including himself. But if he could get Cooper Mitchell to safety, his SEALs would not have died in vain.
The move from the Park Tower to the tea shop had bought a few minutes’ reprieve, at best. The hotel was on fire, but if enemy troops were still in there, still searching, they’d soon find the hole Roth had blown through the wall. After that, Paulius had only minutes before the Converted swarmed in.
There was only one option: he had to punch an opening in one of the enemy lines. That opening wouldn’t come cheap, and they had very little ammo left with which to make it.
He turned and crawled across the cold floor, his fatigues scraping against broken glass. He moved behind the shop’s main counter to join the others: Feely, Cooper Mitchell, Bosh, Harrison, Katanski and Ramierez. Clarence and Margaret were tucked into an alcove near the bathrooms, out of sight of the windows. Margaret had a gag in her mouth, which Clarence had put there on Paulius’s insistence.
If she made any noise, she died; Clarence and Margaret both knew that.
Feelygood was the only reason Paulius had let Margaret live. If they could turn that murdering bitch into a weapon against her own kind, that held a certain poetic justice.
Paulius waved his men close. Such brave soldiers, all that remained of SEAL Team Two. Clarence joined them, as did Tim and Cooper.
“We need to figure out a way past their lines,” Paulius said. “We’re outgunned. They’ve got excellent coverage on our positions. As soon as we show our heads, they’ll start firing and it won’t last long.”
Ramierez tugged at his fatigues, drawing attention to them. “How about we lose these? Try to look like the enemy, get close enough to make something happen?”
“They’re killing anything that comes close, including their own,” Paulius said. He looked at the surrounding faces. “I need other ideas.”
Bosh shrugged. “It sucks, but we’re going to have to make a distraction. Shoot out the streetlights. We hit them up with grenades from here, then me and another guy head west on Pearson, try to draw their fire. Few minutes later, Commander, you and the others take the package north on Rush.”
A suicide mission, but D-Day was perfectly willing to do it.
“Too many of them for that,” Paulius said. He looked at Roth. “Any luck raising the Coronado, see if they have any ideas?”
Roth shook his head. “Negative, Commander. Short-range communication still works — not that there’s anyone answering — but we lost all long-range communication in the assault. I’m trying to get through on the MBITR, but I need to find a line of sight to a satellite. That’s hard to do from in here. I might be able to reach the Coronado from the roof of this building. If I can, we could request air support.”
Tim raised a hand. “MBITR?”
“Satellite radio,” Paulius said. “And our air support is gone — we saw both of the Apaches destroyed. We can’t risk bringing in the Coronado’s Seahawks, not when the Converted might have more Stingers. That means the only way out of here is on foot, so we can get Mitchell to a place the Seahawks can land safely. We need something to blow a hole in those lines.”
Ramierez shook his head. “Too bad we can’t just drop some big-ass bombs on them. Not just on the blockade, but on all those fuckers packed in nice and tight around here. We’d kill a shitload of them.”
A big-ass bomb… Paulius had forgotten about the mission’s last element of air support.
“The B2 might still be up there,” he said. “If we can contact it, maybe it can drop a JDAM on the north line, let us escape, then hammer all around the hotel.”
Bosh laughed, a sound of frustration. He shook his head. “A JDAM to break us out? I’ve seen one of those take the top off a fucking mountain. The B2 crew would need pinpoint accuracy, Commander. If they’re off-target to the south by even a few hundred feet, it’ll kill us.”
Bosh was right. A B2 strike was risky, damn near suicidal, but they were out of options and almost out of time.
“Roth, you’re on,” Paulius said. “You and Ram head up to the roof. Try to reach the Coronado, have them task the B2 to strike a hundred meters north of our location.”
Roth let out a low whistle. “In bomb-speak, Commander, that’s right on top of us.”
“It is, and it’s going to work. There might be enemy units on the roof of this building, so kill anything you see. Stay alive long enough to contact the Coronado.”
“Wait,” Clarence said.
Paulius glared at the man. He was the last person he wanted to hear from right now.
Clarence dug int
o his pocket. He pulled out a cell phone, held it up like a kid at show and tell.
“This gives me a direct line to DST director Murray Longworth. I’m pretty sure he’s at the White House, sitting in the Situation Room with the Joint Chiefs.”
Paulius stared at the bulky phone, then started laughing. The guy who refused to see reality had a direct line to the Joint Chiefs? Like this night needed to get any stranger.
“Well then, Agent Otto,” Paulius said, “why don’t you just go ahead and give the White House a call?”
REACH OUT AND TOUCH SOMEONE
Murray Longworth watched the world burn.
The Park Tower mission had ended in disaster. SEAL Team Two and the Ranger company, wiped out. Clarence, Margaret and Feely, undoubtedly dead.
And if all of those people were gone, then Cooper Mitchell was gone as well.
Vogel hadn’t found any other survivors of the HAC trial. Mitchell had been the last hope of cultivating hydras.
The Situation Room’s main monitor showed the next step in mankind’s downward spiral: nuclear first-strike options against China. Porter wanted to launch. Albertson wasn’t putting up much resistance. No hydras, nuclear war about to erupt — Murray realized it was all over.
The Converted had won.
He jumped a little when his cell phone buzzed. That was the one on his inside left pocket… the direct line to Clarence Otto.
He answered. “Otto?”
“Yes sir, Director,” Otto said. “We’ve got Cooper Mitchell. He’s alive.”
Murray felt a slight pain in his chest.
“How the fuck did you get out of there? I saw Predator footage, they were all over you.”
“Never mind that,” Otto said. “We have Cooper and we can still get him out of the city. To do that, we need to call in an air strike from the B2. We need it right now. Can you make that happen?”
“You bet your ass I can. Hold on.”
He lowered the phone.
“Porter! Put those nukes back in your pants for a minute, we’ve still got a chance.”
ANTICIPATION
Cooper Mitchell knew he was going to die.
No way this would work. But it wasn’t like he had a choice, and maybe he’d get to see some of those bastards die before he found out if there was an afterlife.
The SEALs all crouched down low behind the tea shop’s counter, waiting for the boom.
“It’s going to be a powerful explosion,” Klimas said. “It’ll probably knock us silly for a bit, but you have to get up fast and be ready to go.”
Klimas was pretty badass. Cooper knew that all SEALs were badass, but this guy didn’t seem fazed that his unit had been hacked to pieces and — probably — eaten.
“We go straight through their lines, and we stay together,” Klimas said. “If you get separated, the rally point is First St. Paul’s Lutheran Church, at LaSalle Boulevard and Goethe, seven blocks north. Everyone clear?”
Cooper saw the SEALs take cover behind anything solid that stood between them and the impending bomb.
Feely was trembling. Dude looked scared as hell. Cooper was scared, too, had been for days, but better a bomb or a bullet than a barbecue.
They ain’t gonna eat me, Sofia.
Klimas looked at Cooper, and at Feely.
“You two boys stay with me,” the SEAL said. “Visibility is going to be shit. Whatever it takes, do not fall behind. This is our one chance. Don’t fuck it up.”
Nine faces looked upward simultaneously, ears all responding to the same thing: a faint whistling sound, rapidly growing in intensity.
“Incoming,” Klimas said. He tucked into a fetal position, laced his fingers behind his head and pressed his arms tightly against his ears.
Cooper did the same.
INTO THE BREACH
Tim Feely’s world shook; it roared.
Glass and brick flew into the tea shop, smashing into shelves and tearing the walls to pieces. Big chunks of masonry pounded into the counter, cracking wood and splintering tile. Dust and smoke drove into his lungs. He coughed, screamed for help only to realize his voice sounded impossibly small and faraway.
He blinked, tried to see through the swirling haze.
A hand grabbed his collar.
“Get your ass up, Feely! Move!”
Klimas. His voice sounded distant, but it was a beacon.
Tim heard Klimas screaming at Cooper. Something collapsed from the ceiling and crashed into the floor. Tim stumbled toward the shattered window… they had to go north, they didn’t have long.
“Move-move-move! Out the window!”
Tim stepped over the low sill and onto the sidewalk, out of the tea shop and into an apocalypse. The winter wind swirled up clouds of thick dust, cutting visibility to just a few feet. He heard things crashing, things falling, pieces of building crumbling and dropping to the street below.
Gunfire.
He stooped, tried to get low. His hands found a car. No, part of a car. He started to kneel down behind it when that iron-grip hand grabbed him again.
“Up,” Klimas said. “Stay behind me.”
Another SEAL fell in next to Klimas — Tim didn’t know which one. They moved, he followed. They ran half crouched, rifles at their shoulders, turning left and right to fire while never breaking stride.
Tim saw a man on his right: Cooper Mitchell.
Something exploded off to the left, kicking up a fresh wave of dust and dirt. Tim shielded his face and kept moving.
People screaming.
Guns firing.
The snap of small explosions.
He looked forward, saw Klimas’s back — but the other SEAL wasn’t there anymore.
Klimas stopped at a red Prius that seemed to be embedded in some kind of cracked, fluid-looking masonry. He waved Tim forward.
“We’re going over the top, let’s move!”
Tim realized the car was part of a wall, a good six feet high, that stretched out both left and right. He threw himself at it, hands grabbing at anything he could grip. Broken glass and metal shards sliced into his skin but he didn’t stop. Up and up he went until he reached the top.
He heard an automatic weapon firing, then the blast of a shotgun. He slipped and fell, tumbled down the hard wall’s far side. Something whacked his left calf, knocking it cold and numb.
Clarence ran by, Margaret bouncing on his shoulder like a gagged rag doll.
“Keep going, Feely! Move!”
Clarence vanished into the swirling dust.
Tim’s chest drew in panicked breaths of dirty, icy air. He felt a knife in his lungs, cutting and tearing. He was going to throw up.
Whatever it takes, do not fall behind.
Klimas. He’d promised to get Tim out of there. Tim righted himself, got his feet beneath him and started running, then slowed.
Cooper… none of it mattered without Cooper.
Tim turned back, saw Cooper land face-first on the rubble-strewn pavement.
And behind him, a stumbling man with half his face torn away, dust-caked blood sloughing down the white of his exposed temple and cheekbone, a big-toothed forever smile where his lips no longer were.
He held a red axe.
Cooper… none of it mattered without Cooper.
Tim ran toward them, or tried to, but his leg wouldn’t respond, so he hopped instead.
On the ground, he spotted a head-size shard of concrete.
Tim bent, grabbed, lifted, hopped.
The man limped toward Cooper, one shredded foot dragging along for the ride. He raised the axe into the air, gurgled a wet battle cry, and arched his back to bring the blade down hard.
Tim got there first.
He didn’t recognize the sound that came out of his own mouth. He’d never made a noise like that, not once in his entire existence.
With both arms, he shoved the jagged concrete forward, drove a rough point into the good side of the man’s ruined face. The hard concrete crunched through tooth an
d bone, rocked the man’s head back, dropped him like he’d been hit by a heavyweight hook.
The axe clattered to the slush-streaked pavement.
“Cooper! Get the fuck up!”
Cooper crawled forward on raw hands and torn knees, the jeans on his right thigh wet with dust-coated blood.
The half-faced man sat up. He reached for the axe.
Cooper… none of it mattered without Cooper.
Tim Feely stepped forward, the pain in his leg forgotten. He put one foot on the axe, raised the chunk of concrete into the air.
The man looked up — maybe he smiled, but now both sides of his mouth were destroyed, so who could tell?
Tim brought the concrete down like a misshaped hammer: the man’s skull collapsed, folding in on itself in a sickening, liquid crunch.
The man didn’t move.
Tim leaned down, drew a deep breath and screamed a long, unintelligible roar at his dead enemy. The intelligent part of his mind, the educated part, the civilized part, that part had checked out. Something primitive had taken its place.
A hand on his neck, pulling him.
“Feely, come on!”
Klimas. Klimas had come back for him.
The SEAL pulled Tim through the smoke, pushed him, did the same with Cooper, stopped and turned and fired, pushed and pulled them some more.
Tim stumbled forward. He didn’t know how long, he just kept moving. His ears rang. He had no strength left. He couldn’t breathe. He felt dizzy. He kept moving until someone grabbed him, shoved him to the left.
“In there,” that someone said.
Tim shuffled through a door. So dark. The world spun, made it hard to walk. He was much closer to vomiting now. A strong hand on his arm. Someone dragging him along up a long flight of hard stairs.
Dizziness, nausea, weakness… right at the end, he realized those were the symptoms of blood loss.