With a sickening grind, the man’s head slammed back into the wall but held on to Steele’s arm, pulling him closer to his face. A low growl gargled from its gore-covered mouth, its pale white eyes staring through Steele.
His feet sliding backward, Steele strained with all his might to keep the man wedged in the corner. A dark shadow blurred past Steele’s head, a black hand ramming a knife up into the fiend’s neck dangerously close to Steele. Taking a step back, the fiend dropped to the ground. Steele eyed the tall Congolese soldier warily. He bent down wiping the blade on the fallen foe.
“Thank you. Where did you get that?” Steele wiped blood from his face.
The man looked up baring white teeth in the dark at Steele. “I am a soldier. We must hurry. More come.”
Steele’s heart rate skyrocketed after his close encounter. The people crowded in the mid galley and Mauser shoved his way forward.
“You okay?” Mauser shouted eying the soldier for a moment.
Steele nodded, breathing heavy. Adrenaline pumped through his system. Stress caused some people to break down and quit, while others lost focus and freaked out, but for Steele, it made decision making clear. He performed best under pressure.
“Let’s keep moving,” Steele called out.
The small group made its way through the rest of economy plus to business class. As they cautiously walked forward, Steele peered left and right, scanning the cabin for Agent Carling. She has to be here somewhere. Several bodies were slumped over in their seats, while others were in their death throes. Where the hell is she?
Heel to toe. Heel to toe. He ‘Groucho walked’ toward the front of the aircraft to keep his shooting platform steady. They called it the Groucho walk because it closely resembled Groucho Marx’s comedic walk from fifties films.
Two human forms reached out for him up ahead. “Police! Stay back,” he instructed.
The people did not stop. He lined up his three-dot tritium night sights. They created a flat sight picture across the front of his gun and the shambling forms blurred out of focus.
Pop-pop. Pop. Two to the body, one to the head. He could hear his firearms instructor repeating the phrase over and over. It was also called the three-shot technique or the Mozambique Drill after a mercenary discovered its effectiveness in the Mozambican War of Independence.
The two forms fell to the ground and ceased all movement. In many situations, it was the only way to be sure an enemy combatant was eliminated from the fight. Even then you couldn’t be totally sure. The two to the body was to slow the target and to ensure that high-percentage shots and pain were going down range. The one to the head was supposed to put a stop to any nerve sending from the ‘computer’ – the brain – to the rest of the body. Even a person with two gaping holes in their chest could fire a few rounds back or, worse, detonate a bomb.
When aiming for a headshot, Steele aimed for the Fatal T Zone or an instant kill shot. The Fatal T Zone covers an area from the eyes down through the nose and wraps all the way around the skull. It is called the ‘Fatal T’ to reflect the shape the nose makes with the brow line. If punctured or shot, this area will in most cases terminate the enemy’s ability to continue any operations.
“Argh,” a man crawled over the middle aisle of seats reaching for them. Mauser silenced him with a few rounds to his left, laying the man low.
Steele fumbled upon Agent Carling in her business class seat. Her eyes were glazed over and her head reclined back against her headrest. She looked as if she were taking a nap except for a gaping bite wound exposed her esophagus and the main arteries in her neck. Her face was pale and her clothes were soaked with her own blood.
Fuck. Steele checked her pulse, but there was nothing. Can’t help her now. Steele searched Andrea’s body for her firearm. He found it and ripped it from her shoulder holster before shoving it into his belt.
Steele continued his steady platform movement to the first class cabin. When he ripped the curtain back, he almost took a round to the face from Jarl, who loomed in the aisle like a giant shadow of death.
“Freya’s cunt, Steele. Say something. I almost shot you,” Jarl said, waving them forward with a meaty paw.
Steele hesitated. “We’ve got some passengers with us.”
“Move to us,” Wheeler said from the front row seats. They had taken up a defensive position around the primary asset. A nerdy looking long haired man crouched near the skin of the aircraft next to Wheeler’s leg, making him look like an odd damsel in distress.
Bounding his way passed Jarl to the front galley, Steele led the passengers with Mauser to safety. Two flight attendants and a couple of passengers poked their heads out from behind the galley, terrified.
“Andrea’s dead. Somebody ripped her throat out,” Steele snarled in disgust as he passed Jarl. He would kill the rat bastard when he found him.
“Damn it,” Wheeler spat; as he pushed the asset ahead of him into the galley, Jarl closed the gap, sealing them off from the rest of the plane with his body.
Steele exhaled. They had made it to the aircraft front. It was safe for now, but it was only a matter of time before the infected people from the back made their way forward in a search for new victims. Nowhere to run to on a plane.
“Everyone’s freaking out back there. We had to shoot multiple hostiles,” Steele said, airing his frustration.
“Terrorists?” Wheeler asked almost as if he were excited.
“No, I don’t think so. They seemed to be just regular people from the embassy gone mad.”
The scrawny man with glasses stepped close. Steele gave him a hard look. Who’s this guy?
“This sounds like the same outbreak we were dealing with in the DRC. It’s as I feared; someone must have been infected in the embassy group. We should have screened them for infection before they boarded. We must self-quarantine when we land. Not one sick passenger must get off this plane.”
The conversation blew Steele’s mind. “Yeah, I keep hearing about this infection. What the hell is wrong with these people? And who the fuck are you?” Steele shouted, pointing a finger at the man, his anger rising. Steele wanted to punch this smart guy in the face.
“This is our protectee, Dr. Jackowski,” Wheeler said, trying to calm Steele with a hand on his shoulder.
The doctor looked a bit squeamish under Steele’s hard gaze. “I think it’s a viral strain mutated from Monkeypox. People that contract it display similar symptoms, with a few exceptions. One is that conventional medicine has little or no effect on the patients. Two, the other more alarming problem is, after the patients die, they ‘reanimate’ and proceed to devour the living with little regard for anything except to spread the virus.”
The what and the what? Steele brushed over what the doctor had said. “What’s he trying to say?” Steele asked Wheeler.
Wheeler frowned. “Doctor, will a bite from these things kill us?”
“Precisely, Agent Wheeler. And as crazy as it sounds, after they die, they come back to life as a mindless cannibal.”
This guy is a quack. Steele could only shake his head in disbelief that this guy might actually be right.
Wheeler called over to the other agents. “Shoot anyone who comes through those curtains.”
“Copy that, boss,” Jarl said.
“Got it,” Mauser called back from the other aisle.
Dr. Jackowski looked back at Steele and Wheeler. “It should be noted that massive brain trauma seems to give them what I am terming secunda mortem, or second death.” Dr. Jackowski eyed Steele with intelligent gray eyes almost as if he dared Steele to disagree.
“So you mean to tell me these people are dead? And we have to put a bullet through their heads to keep them from ripping out our guts? Like zombies?” He was beginning to feel like maybe he was the crazy one.
The doctor blinked. “In most rudimentary of terms, yes.”
“Jesus tap dancing Christ. Can we get some lights on in here? I can’t see shit,” Steele swore.
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Wheeler picked up the air phone and spoke to the Captain. The lights flickered on.
“Thank you,” Steele said aloud to everyone.
“All right, guys, we’ve got priority into McCone. I’ve requested everybody and their mothers to meet us when we land, including the Center for Disease Control. We’ve got to hold tight and not let anyone near the subject until we land,” Wheeler called out.
Jarl fired a few rounds from his position. The gunshots reverberated through the cabin.
“He’s not going down,” Jarl screamed over his shoulder.
“Aim for their heads,” Wheeler called back. More gunshots went off from Mauser’s side. Stopping when Steele was sufficiently deaf.
“Steele, bump up to the edge of first class, I want some space,” Wheeler commanded. Steele nodded, surging forward with his weapon pointed downrange.
Steele couldn’t have imagined a situation any worse than their current one. Maybe we should have left the lights off, he thought as he eyed the bodies and blood. This is going to be a long couple of hours.
KOSOKO
Somewhere over the Atlantic
Sweat flowed down Kosoko’s face making him feel like he had been caught outside during the rainy season. His breath came out in haggard wheezes. It felt as though his chest was literally closing up from the inside out. He hugged himself, his muscles shaking uncontrollably. His heart pounded, heavy and rapid like a cannon struggling to keep going. Concentration evaded him, skirting him on the edges, but nothing would stop him now.
Kosoko’s calf throbbed where Ajani had betrayed him. Even now he could feel the pain making its way up his leg and into his torso. It was like a black mamba forcing its way through his veins. Time was not on his side, he knew that much. Revenge was all that remained for him. Nothing matters except that I rain pain down upon them. Not long now and I will be one of the cursed.
He felt the long dagger wedged up the sleeve of his coat with a sweaty palm. Quietly, he leaned on the wall, watching the doctor and the American officers. Helping the bearded one had earned some of their trust. It will allow for an opportunity. The front galley held a few passengers, not enough to get in his way. They sat covering their heads with their arms, terrified of their own colleagues and friends, whimpering.
Cowards. What did they know of suffering? Had they ever been without food for weeks on end? Had they ever seen men blown to pieces? Had they ever heard the cries of dying children? This suffering was momentary; a flash of suffering compared to an entire lifetime of it. Soon this suffering would be over.
The moans of the monsters called forward from the next cabin. Kosoko would join their ranks soon. Dongola Miso. The boogeyman. That gave him some peace of mind. He hoped he would continue to haunt these people after he passed. It was as if he were given two chances to plague them, and that gave him great joy. Turbulence vibrated the cabin. People braced themselves on the walls and countertops of the galley. Carts, cabinets and coffee pots rattled in response.
The only man between him and the doctor was this puny, gray-haired man. The others called him Wheeler. Apparently, he was their leader. He carried himself in a cocky manner, a man who had the natural respect of others, but that didn’t matter as Kosoko had dealt with his kind before. In his country, these men - the righteous - were the first to go so that the corrupt government officials and military members could keep lining their pockets.
He thinks he stands for something. He will fall for those beliefs. When this Wheeler turns away, I will cut his throat and finish the doctor off. Then I will take his gun and execute the other American scum. After that, little else mattered. I must be fast and quiet.
The cabin swayed in the rough air, and the gray-haired Wheeler reached forward to steady himself in the bulkhead doorway. Perfect. Now.
Without hesitation Kosoko leapt forward like a cheetah, sliding the dagger from his sleeve. Wheeler spun into Kosoko’s arching knife thrust as if he were driven by some sixth sense, throwing both forearms into Kosoko’s blocking his strike, losing his handgun in the process. Pain shot through his arm on impact.
A second later, an elbow struck Kosoko in the nose, rocking his head backwards. Pain fired through the nerve endings into his skull, adding further to the throbbing in his head. Only pure anger drove him forward.
This man is quick, and its so hard to concentrate. Wheeler grasped his knife hand like an iron vice. The warrior drove the knife to his side, keeping both Kosoko and the knife near the flank of his body. I cannot let him control me.
“Rarrr,” Kosoko growled throwing his knife hand across his body, bringing the smaller man with it. They switched positions and Kosoko slammed him into the wall, pinning him. He placed his other hand on the knife and brought it upward toward Wheeler’s face.
Technique and skill could only get a significantly smaller opponent so far. Kosoko’s superior size and strength over the smaller officer would soon prevail. The blade inched closer to the policeman, who knew the tip of the pain was coming. Kosoko could see it in his eyes: he knew and accepted it. You are out of options little man.
“Embrace your death,” Kosoko uttered.
The knife sunk gratingly into his chest, piercing him through. Blood spurted free as Kosoko withdrew the blade with a wicked twist. The man grunted as Kosoko flung him to the side.
Kosoko faced the doctor, a vile grin spreading across his face. All he saw now was red.
“Please, someone help,” shouted Joseph as he applied pressure to Wheeler’s chest.
Kosoko laughed at Joseph’s feeble attempts to save the fatally wounded man as he closed in for the kill.
“He’s dead. No one can help him, but you could have helped Ajani. I told you if you didn’t help my son, I would kill you.”
He snatched Joseph up by his shaggy mop like a sacrificial lamb.
“Arrgghhh,” Joseph cried, clawing at Kosoko’s hand. Kosoko felt nothing. Joseph’s fingernails were mere pinpricks compared to his immense internal struggle to stay whole.
“I will see you in Hell,” Kosoko said, drawing back his dagger to strike.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
Shooting between his legs while his lifeblood leaked out, Wheeler unleashed three rounds, each of which exploded into Kosoko’s chest. Each blast felt like a hundred-pound weight hitting him and sticking. He staggered backwards reaching out for something to break his fall and collapsed near the cockpit door.
The pain erupted everywhere and it was too hard to breathe. He hacked, trying to get air into his lungs. Pulling his hand away from his chest, sticky bittersweet liquid covered his fingers. Every time he wheezed air, more blood flowed. Soon the coppery taste of blood filled his throat, spilling onto his face. He was drowning in his own blood. He sucked in air as hard as he could, but he couldn’t draw enough in. That stupid little man. He should have been dead.
As his eyes dimmed, a younger, bearded man, looked down at him. Is it my precious Ajani? Has he come to see his father to the next world like all good sons should do? After a painful moment staring up in hope, any thought of redemption dissipated. The man I saved earlier. I couldn’t save Ajani, but I saved him.
“I guess I shouldn’t expect you to return the favor,” he spat, spraying the man with blood. “I’ll come back for you.” He was sure of it. I will rise again. Dig no grave for Kosoko.
“No. No, you won’t. You’ll burn in Hell,” the young man said.
“Finish it,” Kosoko growled grasping for his blade. The last thing he saw was the muzzle flash of a gun.
GWEN
Red Cross Headquarters, Washington, D.C.
Gwen sat inside the Disaster Operations Center at the Red Cross headquarters in the heart of D.C. when the first news reports of the U.S. Embassy’s capture in Kinshasa broke.
“We have confirmation from State Department officials that all United States Embassy personnel have been evacuated, and the Ambassador is accounted for,” the newswoman reported with a nod. Gwen was thankful that everyone w
as safe. We live in turbulent times.
A blinking icon drew her to her inbox, indicating an incoming message. She clicked it. Riots across London. Prime Minister recalls Portsmouth Flotilla up the Thames. The Tyne, Severn, and Mersey: River class patrol vessels provide support. It felt like the world was imploding. All of the incoming news from Africa made her anxious about Mark. He is resilient. He will be fine. He is probably lounging on some beach somewhere, concocting some ridiculous story about chasing bad guys and saving the world, she reassured herself.
Her job at the Disaster Operations Center was to match victims’ needs with the relevant resources as quickly as was feasible. The Center’s primary purpose was to monitor the latest humanitarian crisis so the Red Cross could deploy resources accordingly. She would much rather have been out in the field, but everyone had to pay their dues before they were allowed to run a disaster relief operation.
From her desk, she watched four large monitors as the main news stations flashed the headlines. It was as if they were out to prove her wrong about the ease of Mark’s mission. Shaky homemade footage showed people running in the streets.
Gwen tried not to think about the perilous situation. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to stare back at her computer screen. The sky blue desktop with little yellow folders could only hold her attention for about three seconds. Staying busy was paramount to stifling her worry, so she wouldn’t dwell on the danger her loved ones were in. She reminded herself that people needed her help. Sitting and stewing about the danger my boyfriend is in isn’t helping anyone.
Averting her eyes, she avoided eye contact as Cory from accounting walked past her desk. Per usual, he dressed in a preppy uniform of designer clothes unnecessary for their work environment. Gwen was always surprised that he didn’t carry around a compact so he could admire himself wherever he went. He tarried in front of her computer, slowing down as if he were internally debating something. Time to look busy. She typed nonsense on her keyboard hoping her ploy would work.
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