by Scott Sigler
Tim Feely fell to the floor, and blackness overtook him.
DAY THIRTEEN
STYLISH OUTERWEAR
Dawn’s light burned through the store’s tall, second-story windows.
Paulius shivered from the cold. He sat still, waiting for a response from his missing men. There was none. He’d been trying for three hours.
He thumbed his “talk” button.
“Roth, Harrison, come in.”
Paulius released the button and waited.
No answer.
“Roth, Harrison, come in.”
Still nothing.
His hands felt numb, as did his toes. He pulled the long, fur coat he’d found tighter on his shoulders. They’d taken refuge in a clothing store — and, of course, it was a women’s clothing store. He wore the coat like a cloak.
He was back far enough from the window that he couldn’t be seen from the road, but close enough that he could look out. Four lanes of Oak Street running east and west, intersecting the three lanes of Rush that ran north-northwest to south-southeast. He had a wide, commanding view of the surrounding area.
Right after they’d cleared the barrier, Katanski had taken a shotgun blast to the throat. He was probably dead before his body hit the ground. Roth and Harrison were missing. Ramierez had made it, but he was badly wounded.
Only Bosh and Klimas were still in proper fighting shape. He’d sent Bosh out to the rendezvous point at LaSalle and Goethe. It was dangerous to send him out alone, but Paulius didn’t have a choice — he had to stay with Cooper Mitchell.
Ramierez sat close by, his back against the wall. Cooper was asleep in front of a rack of shoes. Dr. Feelygood was also out, lying on a big pile of dresses. Paulius had cut away Feely’s shredded, now-useless CBRN suit, then covered the man in a couple of fur coats.
Clarence and Margaret were on the far side of the store. Paulius didn’t want either of them anywhere near the others.
“Roth, Harrison, come in,” Paulius said. “Bosh, come in.”
Nothing.
Ramierez lifted his head, a bloody bunch of gauze taped against the socket of his ruined left eye. He had a long velvet coat hung over his shoulders, another across his lap.
“Don’t sweat it, Commander,” he said. “Must be too much building interference to reach Bosh. I’m pretty sure Roth is an immortal, and we both know Harrison is made of iron.”
Paulius forced a smile. Ramierez had lost an eye and taken a bullet in the belly, yet he was still trying to build up those around him. That was a SEAL for you. And just like a SEAL, Ramierez had his weapon in his hands — if the Converted came barging in, he was still ready to fight.
“We’ll find them,” Paulius said. If there was a time to lie, it was now. “How you holding up?”
“I’m just…” Ramierez leaned his head forward as a wave of pain washed over him. He stayed that way for a few seconds, then looked up. “I’m solid, Commander. But maybe I’ll just take a little nap.”
“Negative,” Paulius said. “You stay awake, that’s an order. Keep trying Roth and Harrison, got it?”
Ramierez managed a slow nod.
Paulius had done all he could for the wounded: stitches for Cooper and Feely, bandages for Otto, sure, but abdominal surgery for Ramierez? Out of Paulius’ league.
He pulled off his headset and stuffed it into a pocket of his fatigues. He pulled the fur coat tighter, then walked toward Feely.
Paulius passed by Otto and Margaret. She was sitting on a chair, still bound, still gagged. Otto had covered her in coats, leaving only her head exposed. He had ditched his CBRN suit — the thing had been just as shredded as Feely’s — but hadn’t put on any extra clothing. The man preferred to shiver, apparently. Maybe it added to his self-indulgent misery.
Otto tilted his head toward Ramierez. “How is he?”
“Dying,” Paulius said quietly. “Did you call Longworth?”
“Yeah,” Otto said. “He knows we made it out.”
“You ask him how many Stingers were in the reserve bases around here?”
Otto nodded. “The brass thinks the Converted could have over fifty of them in Chicago.”
Fifty. Dammit. Sending in any helicopters for pickup would be suicide. Paulius would have to find a way to take everyone to a safer area and hope the Converted had concentrated their Stingers downtown. He’d look for a spot to the north, on the shore, make it easier for the Seahawks to approach. That was the best hope, and it still meant a hike of several miles for Feely and Cooper, both of whom had significant leg wounds, and for Ramierez, who couldn’t move at all.
“That’s just fantastic,” Paulius said. “I don’t suppose Murray can convince Admiral Porter to send a nice little armor division or two our way?”
Otto shook his head. “There aren’t any armor divisions. At least not in the Midwest. What’s left of our military is engaged in active combat, including all of our reserves. Testing kits are running low. The Converted are popping up in almost every unit, special forces included. Murray is even afraid to drop in reinforcements for us, because he can’t be sure members of those units won’t be compromised and try to kill Cooper themselves. It’s real bad out there.”
Paulius tried to control his temper. They had the package, they’d done it.
“It’s real bad here, too,” he said. “Doesn’t he have anything for us?”
“He does. He’s sent one of the last available Apaches to the Coronado. And he’s stationed an AC-130U at Scott AFB down near Champaign, has it assigned just for us. The crew is sequestered to make sure no infected slip in. We’ve got those, plus one of the Coronado’s Seahawks for evac — the other Seahawk got reassigned to make room for the Apache. We give Murray one hour’s notice, he can put those assets where we tell him.”
Paulius worked through the options. The AC-130U was a ground-attack aircraft, armed with a 25-millimeter Gatling gun and a 105-millimeter howitzer cannon. It was an ideal weapon to use against ground forces, especially ones that packed in tight like the Converted tended to do. The plane could strike from high up — it still had to worry about Stinger fire, but not as much as the low-flying Apaches.
“At least that’s something,” Paulius said. “Just have to figure out where to go for pickup, and how to get there.”
“Right,” Otto said. “Nothing to it. Not like we’re in the middle of enemy territory or anything.”
Paulius nodded toward Margaret. “What about her? She magically cured yet?”
Otto hung his head.
Paulius looked at her. She met his stare, mumbled two syllables. The gag made her words unrecognizable, but the cadence reminded him of mush-mouthed Kenny from South Park. Her meaning was all too understandable: fuck you.
“Ma’am,” Paulius said.
He walked to Feely. The little guy had taken a small-caliber round through the calf, probably a .38. The wound wasn’t life-threatening, and Ramierez needed real help, which meant Tim’s nap time was over.
Battle brought out a person’s true nature. Paulius had gotten too far ahead, lost sight of the men he was supposed to protect. When he doubled back, he saw Tim fighting to protect the much-larger Cooper Mitchell. Tim Feely thought himself a coward, yet he’d killed a man in hand-to-hand combat, crushed the enemy’s skull with a hunk of concrete.
That moment encapsulated the essence of bravery: cower and run from danger, or step up and face it, kill to protect your own. Maybe Tim Feely wasn’t SEAL material, but he sure as hell had a warrior’s soul.
Paulius gently shook the man’s shoulder. “Doctor Feelygood. Wake up, brother.”
Tim’s eyes fluttered open. Like everyone else, his skin was caked with dust; it made him a dozen shades darker than his former, extrapale self. He stared out in confusion for a moment, then his eyes focused on Paulius. Tim sat up quickly.
“Easy,” Paulius said. “We’re safe for now.”
Tim looked around, saw Otto sitting with Margaret, saw Ramierez against the wall.<
br />
“Where are we?”
“Barneys New York.”
Tim paused, then nodded, as if that was the most normal thing he could have heard.
“Good, good,” Tim said. “I was looking for a sale on Manolos. Size eight, if you please.” He looked at the fur coats covering him, then at the one around Paulius’s shoulders.
“Nice,” Tim said. “Did you bring your pimp cane and my chalice?”
He was joking. That was a good sign. “How do you feel?”
Tim didn’t answer. He lifted his leg, looked at the blood-spotted bandage on his calf. “Stitches?”
Paulius nodded. “Yep. Seven, I think.”
“Blue Cross should cover that. Can I assume that your stitches are all nice and neat?”
“Probably not,” Paulius said. “But they tell me scars are a mark of character.”
“Gosh, lucky me. I’ll have so much to talk about at my next book club meeting.”
Paulius subtly pointed at Ramierez. “He’s gut-shot, fading fast. Need you to fix him up.”
Tim stood. He pulled on one of the fur coats and limped over to Ramierez.
Paulius watched. Tim pressed his fingers to the man’s neck, then gently looked inside Ramierez’s fatigues, which Paulius had left open.
Tim hobbled back, spoke quietly enough that Ramierez couldn’t hear.
“I don’t have anything to work with,” Tim said. “Even if I did, I doubt I could save him. He’s lost too much blood. As he is now, he’s got maybe a few hours. Can we get a helicopter in here, get him back to the Coronado?”
“No, we can’t take that chance. We’re still too close to where the Converted have probably deployed their Stingers. We have to get farther north. Can we carry him?”
Tim pursed his lips, let out a long breath. “He wouldn’t last a half mile. He’s not the only one. I can barely move, hoss. Could we drive out?”
“Not without a tank. You saw the roads — too many cars blocking the way. We need something big, and I didn’t see any semis out there.”
Tim pulled at his lower lip as he thought.
Ramierez gave a halfhearted wave. “Commander, it’s Bosh. He’s got Roth. Coming in now.”
Paulius’s chest swelled with relief, but he tempered the emotion, pushed it down. Bosh could have made that call under duress.
“Otto, get up,” he said. “Come with me.” Paulius gripped Tim’s shoulder, turned him toward Ramierez.
“Ram, you need something to do. Show this man how to use your M4.”
Tim’s eyes went wide? “Me? I’m no good with guns.”
“Yes, you,” Paulius said. “And you’ll learn, right now. Go.”
Tim moved to Ramierez just as Otto walked up, Glock in hand.
“With me,” Paulius said, then walked to the top of the wide stairs.
One flight down, he saw Bosh quietly enter the store along with a big man wearing sweatpants, a red Chicago Bulls knit hat and a white-sleeved Chicago Bears letterman’s jacket. The man might have passed for a civilian were it not for the SCAR-FN rifle in his trembling hands. Roth. The clothes looked cleaner than he did.
Bosh threw a quick salute, then turned back to guard the front doors.
Roth trudged up the stairs, each step an effort.
“Jesus H,” Paulius said. “You look like a pile of spilt fuck.”
Roth nodded. “At least I’m still ticking.”
“And Harrison?”
Roth shook his head. “We tried to hide in an office building. We stumbled onto a bunch of them camping out. It got crazy, sir. One of those giant fucking things threw a file cabinet at him. He went down, they swarmed on him, I… I couldn’t… I should have—”
“Forget it,” Paulius said, perhaps a little too sharply. “Just forget it. He died doing his job.”
Roth looked cashed out, mentally, physically and emotionally.
Paulius tugged the letterman jacket’s faux leather sleeve.
“Thought you were a Bengals fan.”
Roth patted the embroidered orange “C” on his left breast. “This thing kept me alive, sir. From now on, go Bears. Ramierez had the right idea — the bad guys were hunting us based on our uniforms. First store I found after I got away from that office was a fan shop. These clothes made it easier to blend in a little. From a distance, none of them gave me a second glance.”
Paulius slapped the bigger man on the shoulder. “Grab some sack time. We might have to move quick.”
Roth didn’t need to be told twice. He nodded and walked to a rack of sweaters. He didn’t even bother taking the sweaters down for padding, just crawled beneath them, lay on his back, and was out in seconds.
Margaret Montoya coughed, a lung-rattling sound that echoed through the cold store.
Clarence turned and walked toward her.
Paulius wondered what it was like to love a woman so much that you’d abandon reason and logic, let your heart blind you to what your eyes could plainly see. For the first time, he found himself feeling sorry for Clarence Otto.
Tim came at a fast hobble, his face lit up with excitement.
“Klimas, holy shit,” he said. “Remember that firehouse we saw on the way in?”
Where I shot two brave men in cold blood?
“Yeah, I remember.”
“I saw those cops,” Tim said. “I’m not passing judgment, okay? Whatever had to be done had to be done, but I gathered they were guarding the firehouse. Were they?”
Feely seemed far too amped up. And in the fur coat, he did look a little like a pimp.
“Doc, what’s your point?”
Tim tilted his head toward Margaret, did a bad job of trying not to make the motion obvious.
“Argaret-May is inected-fay with eydra-hays,” he said. “She’s oughing-kay. You get me?”
Paulius sighed. “I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”
“She’s infected. If Cooper’s story is accurate, she’ll be dead in… wait, how long have we been here?”
“About five hours.”
“Then she’ll be dead in nineteen hours,” Tim said. “But that’s not what matters. What matters is the hydras are replicating inside of her right now.”
He looked off. His lips moved like he was counting something, or speaking to himself in a language only he knew.
“I think I have a way to save Ramierez,” he said. “A way that not only gets us north in a hurry, but lets us infect hundreds of those motherfuckers along the way. If any of them radiate out to other areas, it’s very possible that the hydras will spread all over the Midwest. Klimas, if you can pull this off, we might even start a chain reaction that could kill them all.”
Paulius stared down at the man. “If I can pull what off?”
Tim’s eyes shone with a combination of intensity, hope and the dread of a nasty job that had to be done.
“The firehouse,” he said. “And what’s inside… the fire truck.” He nodded toward Margaret. “We’re going to put her in it, so to speak. Margaret Montoya gets to save the world one more time.”
THE DEMOCRATIC PROCESS
A hand on his shoulder, shaking him lightly.
“Mister Mitchell, wake up.”
Cooper opened his eyes. Tim Feely, standing over him.
Tim smiled. “How are you doing?”
Was he wearing a fur coat?
“Leg hurts,” Cooper said. The understatement of the year. His right thigh throbbed, stung. “I cut it on something climbing over that poopwall.”
“Poop-wall? You mean that street barricade?”
Cooper nodded. “Yeah. That.”
“Well, whatever caused it, the cut required fifteen stitches. You might have ligament damage as well, so walk carefully. Unfortunately, it was Klimas who did the sewing, as my deft digits are a bit dinged up.”
Tim held up his hands. They were bandaged in a dozen places. Some of the white strips had spots of red.
Cooper remembered the half-face man with
the axe. Tim could have kept running, but he’d come back.
He’s not like you, Coop ol’ dawg… Doc Feely doesn’t leave anyone behind…
“Uh, what you did back there… thanks.”
Tim’s smile faded. “I don’t want to think about that. Not ever again.”
He pointed across the store to where Otto and Klimas stood along with two other men. Cooper recognized Bosh, and also that big SEAL — Roth, was it? — who for some reason was decked out in Bears gear. Ramierez sat by himself against a wall. Sleeping, maybe. And that infected lady, watching everything. She had a gag in her mouth and was practically buried in a pile of women’s coats.
“Come join us,” Tim said. “Time to talk about how we’re getting you out of here.”
• • •
Cooper listened to Klimas lay out the idea. Tim’s idea, maybe, but Klimas was in charge so it was his no-bullshit voice that outlined what would happen next.
Whoever came up with it, the idea sounded insane.
Everyone looked at Clarence Otto, waited for his response.
The man stayed silent for a moment. His jaw muscles twitched. There was murder in his eyes.
Otto raised a hand, pointed a finger — right at Cooper.
“He’s got the hydras, too,” Otto said. “Why don’t we use him?”
Oh, fuck that. This lovesick idiot wanted to save that diseased whore?
“Because I’m not one of them,” Cooper said. “Your wife is. Deal with it.”
He stared at Otto until the bigger man looked away.
Tim sniffed. “Margaret’s already lost. We can’t save her.”
Otto stared at the floor. “She’ll get those blisters, right? Isn’t that enough? Between her and Cooper, isn’t that enough?”
“It’s not,” Tim said. “Based on what we learned from Candice Walker, it will be another day, maybe two, before the pustules form on Margaret’s skin — if they form at all, because she’ll be dead by then. We just don’t know. What we do know is she already has the hydras in her blood. I know this is hard, but you… we don’t…”
Tim ran out of words. He looked at Klimas, maybe trying to get help. Cooper noticed that the SEAL had his pistol in his hand, down low against his thigh — subtle, but ready to go if Clarence got crazy.