7 Sykos

by Marsheila Rockwell

  He sped up the video until it showed the Infecteds coming back out through the same door they’d entered. Their faces and mouths were covered in blood. Clearly, there had been somebody inside, and the Infecteds had known it.

  “That’s . . . not good,” he said.

  “What does it mean?” Ramirez asked.

  “I don’t know,” Book answered worriedly. “They’re getting smarter? Less raging hunger, more patience and planning?”

  “That’s not good,” Thurman repeated—­unironically, as far as Book could tell. Perhaps he hadn’t heard Book say it the first time. More likely, he just hadn’t been listening. “I need to let Robbins and the others know about this.”

  “And I need to tell Fallon,” Book said, switching the feeds out again as Thurman started for the door, Ramirez on his heels. “Fallon—­” he began, trying to raise her on the two-­way, only to be interrupted by a blaring Klaxon.

  “What now?” Thurman exclaimed as he hurried out, followed by Ramirez.

  Book switched feeds again, this time cycling through cameras placed around the perimeter of the raceway, looking for a breach. Expecting to find one, with a mob of Infecteds streaming through it. But there was nothing.

  Still, the siren screamed. Book began cycling through camera feeds inside the base. It didn’t take him long to find the reason for the alarm.

  Briggs and the soldiers with him were still in quarantine, and it was a good thing, since the other soldiers had all apparently succumbed to the virus and were now attacking the poor specialist with tooth, nail, fist, and foot.

  Book had never really thought of Timothy as a warrior—­he was a nerd, like Book, wearing an Army uniform to pay for the education he’d received, and when that debt was cleared, he’d be swinging through the concrete jungle, wearing a white collar and a spotted loincloth. But Briggs was every inch the soldier now, using martial arts moves Book had only ever seen in movies, driving the heel of his palm into one of the Infecteds’ noses, smashing his foot into another’s temple, the culmination of a truly impressive roundhouse kick.

  With the first two Infecteds down, Briggs turned to face the third, a big guy everyone called “Andre,” for reasons that escaped Book.

  Briggs started off throwing punches at Andre’s midsection, with no obvious effect.

  “Come on, man,” Book muttered. “You know that won’t work!”

  Briggs apparently came to the same conclusion, just as Andre backhanded him, sending him sprawling. Briggs scrambled to get up, but Andre was on top of him before he could gain his feet. The second Infected was up again now, too, and heading for the fray. The first was still down, not moving. Book figured Briggs’s palm strike must have driven bone or cartilage or something up into that one’s brain, killing it. Still, it was two-­and-­a-­half on one, and the odds were definitely not in Timothy’s favor.

  Until a small door in the back of the room opened and two soldiers in biohazard gear stepped in. Book didn’t know what kind of ammo they were using, but one shot to Andre and the other Infected’s heads, and Briggs was covered in a pink and grey spray. Bruised, bloodied, covered in brain matter, but still alive.

  So then why was he looking up at the camera—­looking straight at Book—­with such an expression of anguish?

  And then Book realized. The others had become Infected. Briggs hadn’t. Whether by virtue of genetics, upbringing, and/or the traumas of a constant war footing, he was immune.

  Timothy Briggs was a psychopath.

  CHAPTER 22

  43 hours

  “How about the truck that coyote was driving?” Fallon asked after a few moments of contemplating their complete lack of other options. The driver still lay where he had fallen. His throat had been crushed and his spine snapped just below the neck, but his brain hadn’t been destroyed, and he was still twitching, fingers tapping on the pavement.

  “It’s full of corpses,” Antonetti said.

  “Oh, that’s right,” she said. Then she stopped herself, remembering who—­and what—­her traveling companions were. “Is that a problem?”

  “Not for me.”

  “Anybody?” she asked.

  “Can I ride in the front?” Lilith asked. “It’s pretty gross.”

  “And you call yourself a psycho?” Warga scoffed.

  Lilith flipped him off, and he just laughed.

  “I’ll check it out,” Light offered.

  Fallon didn’t trust him for a minute, but she nodded her approval, and he crossed to the truck. He climbed into the cab, then popped the hood and poked around in there, and finally crawled underneath. He came out after a ­couple of minutes, dusting off his back and shoulders as best he could.

  “Nobody’s going anywhere in that,” he said when he had rejoined the others. “Gas tank’s ruptured. He must’ve gotten here on fumes.”

  “Just perfect,” she said, frustration getting the better of her. Not only couldn’t they drive the truck, but now it blocked the pathway they had driven through. They weren’t getting back out on this freeway unless somebody came along with a bulldozer or a tow truck.

  “Everybody gather as much gear as you can carry,” Fallon ordered. “Weapons, ammo, food, water—­especially water. We’re going to take a little hike.”

  “Ughh, I hate walking,” Lilith complained.

  “It’s good for you,” Warga told her. “Makes your legs strong and firms your ass.”

  “That how you like ’em?” Lilith asked.

  Fallon cut in before he could answer. “Randy! Don’t even answer that. Keep your mind on the mission, not on her.”

  “No problem, Doc,” he said, grinning. “I like my trim a little older, anyway.”

  “Trim. Classy guy.” It was Book’s voice, coming in her right ear—­but not. Near her ear, anyway, as if he were standing behind her, with his head over her shoulder.

  “You might need to send over the Army’s sexual-­harassment guidelines,” Fallon replied softly. A snort of laughter let her know that Book had heard.

  “Talking to yourself?” Light asked. “Voices in your head? Early warning sign of a psychotic break, Fallon.”

  “My psychotic break was when I volunteered to come in here with you ­people. Come on, load up and let’s go.”

  Fallon clipped three canteens of water onto her belt, two on her left side and one on her right. She stuffed some meals, ready-­to-­eat—­what Book had called MREs—­into the cargo pockets of her fatigue pants and hoped they could find more appetizing food en route. Ammunition for the Glock and an M4 went into other pockets. The rifle had a strap, so she slung it over her shoulder and tucked the Glock into her waistband. All around her, the others were performing similar tasks.

  Sansome and Pybus stood off to one side, watching the rest. “What are you taking, Joe? Fallon asked. “Caspar?”

  “I don’t like guns,” Sansome said.

  “I’ve never even held one,” Pybus put in.

  “Why the hell’s he here, Doc?” Warga asked. “He’s old, and he’s never killed anybody.”

  “I didn’t say I hadn’t killed,” Pybus corrected. “Just not with guns.”

  “It’s not that hard,” Antonetti said. “You point the end that shoots at somebody, and you pull the trigger.”

  “Do me a favor,” Fallon said. “Both of you, at least take a rifle, and one of these pistols. The Glocks, like I’m carrying, don’t weigh that much, but they pack a good punch. You might be glad you did.”

  Sansome stepped forward, took an M4 from the box, and a Glock 19. Then he stood back and watched Pybus do the same. “I’ll carry them,” Pybus said. “But I don’t have to like them.”

  “No, you don’t,” Fallon agreed. “I don’t like them either. But the life you save might be mine.”

  Before they left the van, Fallon checked her team. Lilith was the on
ly one not carrying water. When Fallon pointed this out, the girl said, “I hate water. There’ll be Coke machines, right?”

  “You need water, Lilith.” Fallon felt like she had moved a dozen years or so into the future, like Lilith was Jason and she was being Stern Mom, telling him what to do.

  Lilith gave her a rebellious look—­Fallon half expected to hear the line her petulant four-­year-­old nephew lived by: “You’re not the boss of me!”—­but then the girl went back into the van, emerging moments later with two canteens, which she attached to her belt. Fallon hoped they were full, but there was a limit to how hard she could ride any of them. Like her, they were more or less volunteers. Any of them could have refused to come. Granted, what awaited them if they had wouldn’t have been much of a life. But they were here now, risking their necks for the common good, and that bought them a little slack.

  When they were all similarly burdened, Fallon led them toward the long ramp to 91st Avenue. Sansome walked beside her, unbuttoning his camouflage shirt as he did. Beneath it was the same light brown T-­shirt they all wore. His broad, clean-­shaven face was filmed with sweat. “I’m hot,” he announced.

  “It’s early yet. It’ll get hotter.”

  “Where we going?”

  “To look for a ride.”

  “Like hitchhiking?”

  “Like something we can commandeer.”

  “Is that another word for stealing?”

  “More or less,” Fallon admitted. She shrugged. “We have a job to do. Getting it done is more important than following laws that don’t apply anymore.”

  “How far away is Glendale, Doctor?” Pybus asked, drawing even with her and Sansome.

  “I don’t know, exactly.” She waved her hand in what she thought was a northwesterly direction. “That way, a few miles.”

  “Will we pass it?”

  “We’re going the opposite way, Caspar. Mesa is due east. Why?”

  “Marty Robbins was born there.”

  “Who?

  “Marty Robbins. One of the most successful country musicians in history, with several crossover hits on the pop charts. ‘El Paso’ was his signature song, but he had hits with ‘Big Iron,’ ‘A White Sport Coat and a Pink Carnation,’ and—­”

  “Sorry, Caspar. I’m not getting the connection.”

  “When I visit a place where one of the legends was born, I like to pay my respects, that’s all.”

  “Maybe after this is all over, but not now.”

  “He drove in NASCAR races, too. That’s what made me remember because we were at the track. He was partial to Dodge Chargers, and—­”

  “Dude!” Lilith cried. “She just legit told you to shut up, and you’re still all fuckin’ blah blah blahdi blah.”

  “I did not,” Fallon objected. “But Caspar?”

  “Yes?”

  “Please shut up.”

  By the time they reached 91st Avenue, Fallon was sweating, too, though not as profusely as Sansome. She’d been right; the day was warming quickly. Heat shimmered off the blacktop, offering no respite. Once the summer monsoon started, the days would start out muggier but would cool as storms blew through. During a monsoon storm, the temperature could drop twenty or thirty degrees in a matter of minutes, and hail could fall even in hundred-­degree weather. ­People had died of hypothermia during summer thunderstorms, despite Arizona’s baking desert heat.

  One more thing to worry about, Fallon thought. Was there anything inside the zone—­including her companions—­that didn’t want to kill her?

  “What now, Doc?” Warga asked.

  Fallon halted, looked around, getting her bearings. At the bottom of the ramp stood a Legacy Suites Extended Stay hotel. All of the windows on the ground floor were smashed in, as were some of those above. A few vehicles were scattered in the parking lot, but Antonetti had checked them and found no keys. Staying near the building for too long made Fallon nervous. No telling who was in there. Or what.

  She pointed southeast, across 91st from the hotel. “There’s a residential neighborhood,” she said. “We’ll have better luck finding wheels there.”

  “Sure,” Light agreed. “Pick a house with a good-­sized truck parked in the drive, go inside, kill everybody, and take the keys. Easy-­peasy.”

  “I think we can do it with a little less drama.”

  “You say ‘drama,’ I say ‘excitement.’ This is starting to be fun, Fallon. You don’t want to take that away from us, do you?”

  “Fun? Killing ­people?”

  “They’re Infecteds, not ­people.”

  “They’re still ­people. They’re sick, that’s all. Maybe they can get better.”

  “I have a feeling that once you’ve started subsisting on human brains, you’re pretty much beyond redemption. You think ­people are going back to Applebee’s and Chipotle after that?”

  “That’s not our call to make, Hank. We get the meteor back to the scientists. They take it from there.”

  “You have an awful lot of confidence in science.”

  “I am a scientist . . .”

  “Yeah, but ever think maybe that’s how we got here? Not you, maybe, but someone else. Maybe it wasn’t the meteor at all. Maybe it was some kind of scientific experiment gone haywire. Or maybe the virus trapped inside the meteor was intentionally put there by alien scientists. Science has its uses, but blind faith in it is dangerous.”

  The whole world is dangerous, Fallon thought. She didn’t say it, though. Instead, she just started across the street, and the others followed.

  Getting involved in philosophical discussion with psychopaths, she was learning, was not her idea of a good time.

  The flip side was that she wasn’t sure what her idea of a good time was. She went to work, she went home. Mark had usually started dinner before she got there—­sometimes hours before. She ate with Mark and Jason, unless the boy was already in bed, but most nights, whatever had been happening during the workday still occupied at least half of her mind. She often stayed up working after Mark went to sleep; unhurried lovemaking was a distant memory that sometimes felt more like a half-­remembered dream. Even on weekends and their rare vacations, she was glued to a phone, tablet, or laptop much of the time. You couldn’t start a business, a lab, without being devoted to it, she had argued. Once it was on a sound financial footing, she would be able to take time away from it. It wouldn’t be long, she’d told Mark. Certainly while Jason was still young. She didn’t want to miss that.

  But she had been missing it, day in and day out. Jason was growing up, and milestones were happening without her all the time.

  If she got back—­when she got back—­things would change. She would make sure of that.

  And finding the MEIADD would help a lot.

  “You doing okay, Fallon?”

  She still wasn’t used to Book’s voice suddenly sounding in her head like that. Normally, when someone talked to you, they were near you, or you were on a device like a telephone or Skyping or something. This disembodied-­voice thing was just odd.

  “I guess. I’d be better if we had wheels.”

  “I think you’re right about the chances being better there in the neighborhood.”

  “You heard that?”

  “Like I said before, assume I’m always watching and listening. It’s not really always me—­sometimes even my Herculean bladder control is bested, after all. But it’s mostly me, and we’re monitoring you most of the time.”

  “You must be bored to death.”

  “Far from it. It’s almost like I’m there. Only without the part where I can turn into an Infected or be eaten by one.”

  “When you put it that way,” she said, “you want to trade places?”

  “Not in a million years. I’ll check in again later. Be safe, Fallon.”

  “That’
s the idea, Book, thanks.”

  The residential streets were still, empty. Spooky. Lights burned inside some houses, but not many. Through one window Fallon saw the distinctive flickering glow of a TV screen, but when Lilith peeked inside, she said there was nobody around. At other houses, windows were broken, doors wide open, and sometimes bloody streaks on the sidewalks or spatter staining the walls. In one front yard, a ceramic donkey pulling a flower-­laden cart was surrounded by nine corpses with shattered skulls. Animals—­dogs, maybe coyotes—­had been at them, too.

  “Stinks around here,” Lilith said.

  “Doesn’t bother me,” Warga replied.

  “Yeah, but you’re a sick fuck.”

  “Just your type, baby,” he said. She flipped him off, and the conversation died again.

  The odor was sickly sweet, but also reminiscent of turned earth with something sour buried beneath it. Fallon realized that although it was more potent here, more immediate, she had been smelling it ever since they had crossed 91st Avenue.

  Perhaps there were ­people in some of these houses, huddled together for safety, barricaded in, bristling with weapons, petrified with fear. But in others—­probably most—­there was only death.

  Light, Warga, and Antonetti took turns going into houses with appropriately sized vehicles parked outside, searching for keys. Sometimes, Lilith accompanied them, sometimes not. Pybus and Sansome stayed close to Fallon. On two occasions, they found keys, but in the first case the truck’s engine wouldn’t turn over, and in the other, the key belonged to a vehicle that was nowhere in sight.

  Sansome still insisted that he could hotwire one. Fallon was hesitant. She wanted something they could rely on in an emergency, not something that might slow them down if they needed to move out in a hurry. “We’ll keep looking for a while,” she said. She was leading them ever eastward, so although progress was slow, it was at least in the right direction.