Pandemic i-3

by Scott Sigler

  Paulius rose, looked for targets — there was no shortage, as Converted popped up on either side of the road, in building windows, just about everywhere he looked.

  Aim, fire. Aim, fire.

  The fire engine clipped the front of a UPS truck, spinning the delivery vehicle in a full three-sixty.

  Aim, fire. Aim, fire.

  The engine whined as Bosh shifted gears. He tried to weave through the obstacles as well as he could, but there were just too many cars. Engine 98 smashed into an old Buick, tearing the rear end clean off.

  Aim, fire.

  It was working. They were just a few blocks away from the clothing store.

  Paulius thumbed his “talk” button, hoping the short-range comms would work this far out.

  “Klimas to Roth. Klimas to Roth, over?”

  Roth’s voice came back almost immediately: “I read you, Commander.”

  “Pack ’em up, Roth. Extraction in three minutes!”

  BIG AND DANGEROUS

  Steve Stanton’s fingers squeezed tighter on the cell phone.

  “A fire truck? McMasters, what the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Spotters reported it just now,” McMasters said. He was at a garage closer to downtown, preparing another group to flee the city. His voice sounded like he was about to hyperventilate. “The spotters said a guy in a Cubs hat was driving, but I think it’s a soldier who survived the attack.”

  Robert McMasters was normally a smart man. He’d kept the city’s power running, kept the water pumps working, made sure that Chicago didn’t flood. He’d kept the city functioning mostly as it had before the awakening. But while he could handle problems that involved inanimate objects and mechanical systems, he clearly didn’t do so well when the situation involved men with guns.

  “Emperor, did you hear me? A fire truck! They’re trying to get away!”

  “Be quiet,” Steve said. “I’m thinking.”

  He set the phone against his shoulder. He glanced around the municipal garage where Brownstone, God rest her soul, had gathered sixty vehicles. Doctor-General Jeremy Ellis stood there, looking afraid for his life as he always did. Jeremy was organizing thirty-one cars, eighteen trucks, three city buses, four motorcycles, and even three snowplows for the exodus. The snow-plows’ big, heavy scoops would let them rip right through the endless abandoned cars, allowing Steve’s people to spread south, east and west.

  A fire truck was also big, also heavy… heavy enough to smash through the thinner roadblocks. But if it was just a couple of soldiers, and they were clever enough to have lived this long, why wouldn’t they just walk out instead of letting a city know where they were?

  …because a fire engine was also big enough to carry passengers.

  …and because Cooper Mitchell’s body still hadn’t been found.

  Steve put the phone back to his ear. “Where is this fire engine?”

  “Heading west on Walton,” McMasters said.

  Steve looked at Ellis. “Get me Jeff Brockman, and three more bulls. And guns, get me some guns.”

  Jeremy nodded and ran off to comply.

  “McMasters,” Steve said into the phone, “I want that truck stopped. Send everyone. I want it destroyed!”

  THE MOTIVATIONAL SPEECH

  Tim Feely had never fired a weapon in his life. Now his life might very well depend on the M4 rifle he held in his hands.

  At least it was more efficient than a chunk of concrete.

  He stood at the top of the wide stairs, watching Roth carry Ramierez down to the ground floor. Ramierez cradled a sleek, black shotgun, his weak fingers barely gripping the stock and the pump handle.

  “Move him easy,” Tim called. “Be as gentle as you can.”

  “Just hurry up,” Roth said over his shoulder. “If you’re still there when evac arrives, Doc, no one is coming up to get you.”

  Roth descended, but did so as gently as he could.

  Cooper Mitchell limped over, Ramierez’s Sig Sauer pistol in his hand.

  “Your boy Clarence ain’t coming,” Cooper said. “He’s moping about that infected woman of his.” Cooper jerked suddenly, as if something had flown in front of his face, but there was nothing there.

  He shook his head. “I don’t want him to get eaten, but if he does, I do hope he’s die-die-dielicious.”

  Cooper slowly hobbled down the stairs, leaning heavily on the rail.

  Tim watched him go. That was one crazy motherfucker, right there. Hopefully he was sane enough to only shoot at the bad guys.

  Tim jogged to Clarence. It was worth one more try.

  The man sat on his butt, in the same spot where Margaret had been before they tied her to that ladder. His back rested against the wall, chin hung to his chest. His pistol was in its thigh holster. In his hands, he held the big knife he’d used to slice his wife’s throat.

  Did he want to die here? He acted like this was all his fault, when not a shred of it was.

  “Otto, get your ass up. Come on, man, rescue is on the way!”

  The big man didn’t move.

  He hadn’t even cleaned the dust off his face. It made his skin almost the same color as his tight gray shirt.

  Clarence had to come. Tim needed him there, needed his strength. Tim’s plan had sounded great in theory, but now it was turning into reality, which meant he’d have to go outside, he’d have to face those killers. He had to find a way to get through to Clarence. Maybe a slap in the face? That always worked on TV.

  Tim reached back and brought his hand forward as hard as he could.

  Clarence reached up and caught Tim’s wrist, stopping the palm an inch from his cheek. Strong fingers squeezed down. Tim hissed in pain.

  “Ow,” he said. “Okay, maybe that wasn’t such a great idea.”

  Otto’s cold eyes bore into him.

  “You made me kill her,” he said. His voice was little more than a growl, a hollow husk that befit the hollow man. “You got what you wanted, Feely. So get the fuck out of here and leave me be.”

  Clarence let go.

  Tim stood, rubbed at his wrist.

  “She’s gone, Clarence. If you want to end it all, do that after we’re finished, because your gun might make the difference. If we don’t get Cooper out alive, then Margaret died for nothing.”

  Otto just stared, his face inscrutable. He made no motion to get up.

  Tim remembered Margaret and Otto talking back on the Carl Brashear, remembered that word Margaret had used as a weapon.

  “She wouldn’t have quit,” Tim said. “She was a real soldier.”

  Otto looked away, unable to meet Tim’s gaze. That one had cut deep.

  But he still didn’t get up.

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out a bulky cell phone and tossed it to Tim.

  Tim caught it. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “I called Murray a half hour ago,” Clarence said. “Air support is on the way. If you have to abort the pickup location, hit ‘redial,’ let him know where you’re going.”

  His shoulders slumped. His chin once again drooped to his chest.

  Clarence wasn’t coming. Tim had done all he could. He turned to head down the stairs, then paused and looked at the phone in his hand.

  Just hit “redial”…

  MAKE EVERY BULLET COUNT

  A woman rushed toward Engine 98, a lit Molotov cocktail in her hand. Paulius dropped her with his M4’s final round.

  He drew his P226: fifteen rounds in this magazine, fifteen more in a second mag. After that, he’d have nothing left except harsh language.

  Aim, fire… aim, fire…

  He wanted to use the water cannon, splash these fuckers down with a face-full of Margaret Water, but Feely had told him to save it — it was critical to wait until the Converted were packed in as tight as possible.

  Engine 98 was beginning to vibrate, just a little bit, a rhythmic pattern that increased or decreased in time with the vehicle’s speed. Something wrong wi
th a tire, maybe. The thing had smashed past dozens of vehicles so far. The fire truck had mass and that meant physics was on its side, but every hit took a toll.

  Aim, fire… aim, fire…

  Converted gave chase. Three men, a woman, a boy, two girls, three hatchlings and, coming in fast, one of the muscle-bound monsters. More hostiles were pouring out of buildings, either rushing toward the truck or stopping to fire. A few bullets punched into the truck’s metal sides, but most of the rounds whizzed by. A trained army would have taken the truck apart. Fortunately, these assholes were anything but trained.

  More Converted fired down from above, aiming from skyscraper windows. Their aim was just as bad; bullets smacked into the tops of the equipment boxes or punched into the coiled fire hose. Paulius hadn’t been hit, but sooner or later one of them was bound to get lucky.

  Aim, fire… aim, fire…

  He stood and looked forward over the cab’s roof. Up ahead, a bus lay on its side, blocking most of Walton Street — too much vehicle to drive through. Bosh angled the engine to the left. He had to slow down to go around the bus, and when he did the Converted closed in.

  One of the men tried to climb up the rear. Bosh ran something over; when the rear wheels hit whatever it was, the back end bounced, flipping the man back out into the street where he hit face-first and skidded.

  Two of the hatchlings leaped, scrambling up the truck’s right side. Shoot them, or save the rounds?

  Paulius jammed his pistol into its holster, then yanked the fire axe from its bracket. The first hatchling scurried over the stacked hoses. Paulius swung the axe like a baseball bat — the red blade sliced through the pyramid-shaped body, sending the top part flying over the truck’s side. The thing collapsed, spilling purple goo across the hose.

  The other hatchling leaped. Paulius didn’t have time for a second swing. He brought the axe in front of him, rear point facing out. The hatchling couldn’t change direction in mid-air: it impaled itself on the spike.

  He shook the twitching thing from the axe, heard a gunshot from inside the cabin: Bosh shooting at someone who’d closed in and tried to yank open the driver’s door.

  Paulius felt something heavy land on the truck, dropping the bed down a few inches before the shocks lifted it back up. There, on the rear bumper, only his big head and gnarled hands visible, stood a yellow monster. Its hands reached into the bed, the long bone-knives jutting from the back of its arms. Muscles flexed as it started to crawl forward.

  Paulius dropped the axe and once again drew his P226.

  The creature looked up at him. Thick lips curled back from too-long, too-wide teeth. Yellow lids narrowed — even over the truck’s engine, Paulius heard a deep growl.

  He squeezed the trigger. The 9-millimeter round hit dead-center in the creature’s forehead. A cloud of blood and brains puffed out the back of its skull. The muscle-monster fell back, crashed onto the pavement and tumbled forward.

  Paulius realized the Converted had stopped firing while the monster tried to get in, because as soon as it fell away bullets started hitting all around him, punching into the equipment boxes, kicking up flakes of red paint. He dropped and crawled across the hoses toward the cabin, desperate for whatever cover he could find.

  Bosh’s voice in his ear: “Hold on, Commander! Turning right on Rush, and there’s a lot more cars here!”

  Paulius pressed his back against the cabin wall, and held on tight as the twenty-one-ton vehicle smashed past yet another obstacle.

  THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM

  Cooper Mitchell wasn’t sure if he should hope. If he believed he might escape, would that jinx it? What if he wound up with a signpost rammed through his ass and out his mouth?

  He hid behind a rack of pantsuits on the first floor of Barneys, not even fifteen feet from the front door. The SEALs had to get him out. They just had to; all this couldn’t be for nothing.

  The weird thing about a city with no traffic was the sense of stillness, the quiet. If he closed his eyes, he could have been in the woods of Michigan, save for the occasional roar of a bloodthirsty monster. That lack of sound let things carry through the streets — he heard distant gunshots, powerful crashes of metal hitting metal, and the growing-closer sound of a gurgling diesel engine.

  Was that Klimas? Had he really pulled it off?

  Tim came down the stairs, cell phone pressed to his ear.

  “No, this isn’t Otto,” he said. “It’s Tim Feely.”

  The little doctor came up next to Cooper. He leaned around the pantsuits to peek out the store’s glass door. He leaned back suddenly, his face wrinkled in annoyance.

  “I don’t give a shit about your problems, Murray. This plan is ridiculous. Send someone to get us!” A pause. “No, Klimas isn’t here.” Tim looked around, saw Roth crouching just to the left of the front door, Ramierez lying on the floor beside him. “Hold on, Murray.”

  Tim duckwalked to Roth. The big man looked ridiculous in his letterman’s jacket. Cooper hated the Bears.

  Roth took the phone. “This is Petty Officer First Class Calvin Roth.”

  He listened for a second. “No sir, Director Longworth, Commander Klimas isn’t available. Yes, we still need extraction at Lincoln Park, the south end.” Roth looked out the window. Cooper followed his gaze, saw a dozen men and women rushing away down the street, toward the sound of that diesel engine.

  Roth ducked back behind full cover. “Yes sir, we still need that air support. We’re going to be under enemy fire the entire way, sir.” He paused, then nodded again. “Yes sir.” He hung up, handed the phone to Tim.

  “Well?” Tim said, taking the phone and pocketing it. “Is Murray sending the entire air force? I don’t want to go out there. I can’t.”

  Roth shrugged. “What air force? Washington is under attack. So is everything else. An AC-130 and an Apache are both en route. Those will have to be enough.”

  Feely shook his head. The man was about to freak out; Cooper didn’t know what they’d do if Feely didn’t get his shit together.

  “Two lousy planes,” Tim said. “No fucking way, Roth. Call him back! Tell him we need—”

  Roth’s hand shot out and grabbed Feely’s shoulder. The sudden move silenced him.

  “Doc,” Roth said, “I need you to shut up now.”

  Roth turned slightly, made eye contact with Cooper. When he spoke, Cooper knew it was to him and Feely both.

  “It’s game-time,” Roth said. “Stop worrying about shit you can’t change. If you want to survive, focus on the job at hand. When the fire truck comes, we go out firing. We’ll have a few seconds of surprise. The truck has to stop so we can get Ramierez inside. Cooper, how many rounds you have?”

  Cooper lifted the Sig Sauer pistol in his hand. “Fifteen.”

  “Good man,” Roth said. “Make them count. Doc, you remember what Ram told you?”

  Feely nodded. “Single shots. Keep the stock tight to my shoulder, move the barrel where I move my eyes. Aim, then fire.”

  Roth nodded. “Excellent. And how many rounds do you have?”

  “Ten,” Feely said. “But I can’t… I’m no good in a fight. Ramierez showed me how to shoot, but I can’t.”

  Roth shook his head. “Too late for that bullshit, Doc. Commander Klimas told me what you did to save Cooper. You’re a born warrior. That’s what I need you to be for the next ten minutes, got it?”

  A wide-eyed Feely nodded.

  “Say it,” Roth said. “Say, I’m a warrior.”

  “I’m…” Tim licked dry lips. “I’m a warrior.”

  “Good. Just keep saying that, Doc.”

  Cooper saw Feely mouthing the words, over and over.

  The diesel’s roar kicked up in volume, bounced off building walls — the thing had just turned a corner. Cooper saw it, saw the sun glinting off moving chrome, off red and white paint.

  Roth nodded. “Here we go.”

  Cooper felt his heart hammering not just in his chest but in his head, his
eyes, his entire body.

  The diesel’s roar grew louder.

  Just seconds now…

  WELCOMING COMMITTEE

  Through the store’s windows, Tim Feely watched the fire engine bear down on a charred, green Prius. A Converted stood behind the car, shooting a shotgun as fast as he could pump and pull the trigger. Tim didn’t know dick about guns, but that wasn’t going to do a damn thing. The man seemed to figure that out at the last second. He turned to run, but he’d waited too long — the truck smashed into the Prius, launching it three feet off the ground and spinning it like a cardboard coaster. The rear end hit the man and sent him flying, a rag doll that sailed through the air and hit the sidewalk in front of Barneys New York, splashing a spray of blood against the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  The truck was so close that Tim could see Bosh’s smiling face inside the cracked, blood-flecked, bullet-ridden windshield. The truck’s grille had once been polished chrome: now it was twisted and bent, with a severed right arm dangling from the left side. The obnoxiously huge front bumper was scratched and dented, wet with blood, streaked with a dozen colors from its vehicular victims.

  Bosh locked up the brakes. The wheels skidded through snow, kicking up sprays of dirty white. He swerved left as he entered the intersection, then curved sharply right. The truck slid to a stop, its left side just ten feet from store’s revolving front door.

  Roth handed his rifle to Ramierez, who held it along with his shotgun. Roth scooped Ramierez up.

  “Feely, Cooper, let’s move!”

  Roth pushed through the rotating door. Cooper hobbled forward so fast he was in the next divider behind Roth.

  Tim heard gunfire. His legs wouldn’t move. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t —

  I am a warrior, I am a warrior.

  The thought seemed to lift him and throw him at the still-spinning door. He hit it on the run, shoulder smacking against the glass. He stumbled out into the windblown chaos.