7 Sykos

by Marsheila Rockwell

  He made it to McLellan, turned right, and drove slowly down the street, so as not to attract the attention of the remaining Infecteds burning down Deano’s Custom Painting and the other businesses in the industrial park. He watched the rearview, but no swarm appeared. It looked like they had gotten away clean.

  “Well, looks like we were wrong about the monkeys,” he said then.

  Fallon looked at him, her brow creasing in confusion.

  “Wrong, how?”

  “I think they skipped Shakespeare and went right to Stephen King.”

  CHAPTER 41

  14 hours

  “What’s the best way in, Book?” Fallon asked, glad she no longer had to hide her conversations with him from the others—­or the Raiders. The Sykos hadn’t been happy to learn she’d kept the information from them, of course, but psychopaths were inveterate secret-­keepers, and none of them could honestly say they wouldn’t have done the same thing in her position. She had known she’d have to tell them soon, anyway, even letting Book listen in while she did. If she hoped to get inside a cartel-­infested country club, she would need their help, and another bullshit story about first-­aid kits wouldn’t fly.

  Although every time she caught a glimpse of Sansome’s face in the mirror, she wished they had one. And maybe a plastic surgeon.

  “Looks like the Tempe Canal runs along the southern border of the golf course. There’s an access road that follows the canal, though it’s on the south side and ends at the tennis courts. But, wait, let me zoom in . . . yes, it looks like there’s a bridge for golf carts to cross over the canal not far from there. There’s a pool house you can use for cover if you approach from that direction, and a ton of cars still in the southern parking lot. The loading dock is there, close to the massed heat signatures in the clubhouse—­which I’m assuming are near the kitchens, since humans like to be around their food source.”

  “Infecteds, too,” Fallon muttered.

  “Them, too. But they’re like locusts—­they devour all the resources a place has to offer, then move on. Since these signatures have pretty much stayed in this area for at least a few hours, I’m going to say they’re human, and the ­people you’re looking for are probably there.”

  Book’s words prompted a question she hadn’t even considered.

  “Do Infecteds sleep? Maybe they have nests?”

  Book didn’t answer immediately, and she realized the question had probably never occurred to him, either.

  “What the hell are you talking to that bookworm about, Fallon? Nests of Infecteds?”

  She looked at Light, who had one eye on her and one on the road as he drove. Luckily, there were no other cars moving and no pedestrians they didn’t want to run over, so his divided attention didn’t pose as much of a danger as it might have otherwise.

  “Book says there’s a heat signature in the back of the clubhouse that hasn’t moved much. He thinks that means they’re human. I’m . . . not quite as sure, I guess.”

  “Well, we’ve seen them at all hours, so we don’t have evidence that they need to sleep,” Pybus interjected thoughtfully. “But we do know they started out as human, and are still alive in bodies that have basic human limitations, even with their rage-­induced strength. I’d say that alone would require them to sleep. If not, they couldn’t survive very long—­weeks, at most.”

  “Too bad we don’t have weeks to just let them burn out and extinguish themselves,” Fallon said, thinking Pybus probably had the right of it—­the virus kept them from sleeping and would eventually kill them because of it. Maybe they needed to eat other ­people’s brains in order to keep their own synapses firing, so they could survive that much longer.

  She wondered, suddenly, if Robbins or Thurman had acquired a few to study back at PIR, in order to answer questions just like this. But if they had, Book would know, wouldn’t he?

  “Book?”

  “I don’t think they sleep.”

  Something in his voice made her certain her hunch was right.

  “Because the ones you’re studying haven’t yet?”

  Book’s silence was confirmation enough.

  Fallon had used the basic human rights argument when they’d experimented on Warga, and it hadn’t worked. She was pretty sure Robbins wouldn’t buy basic used-­to-­be-­human rights, either.

  “Okay, we’ll assume they’re human and head in through the loading dock. Thanks for the help, Book.”

  “No problem,” he said. “But, Fallon—­do me a favor?”

  His tone was anxious, and Fallon frowned.

  “Of course, Book. Anything.”

  “Just hurry. The brass are breathing down my neck; I don’t have to tell you how much is riding on a speedy end to this mission. And I’ve gone so far off the reservation now with this Jameson thing, there might be no getting back on. At some point, even if you succeed—­and I still believe you can—­there’ll be an after-­action review, and all the ways I broke the rules will come out. So . . . save the world, save my ass.”

  Fallon knew that was a pop culture reference of some sort—­from a TV show, maybe, or a movie—­but she didn’t get it. What she did get was that helping her retrieve the prototype was probably going to cost Book his job.

  She felt bad about it, but not bad enough to abandon the prototype, especially when she was so close to it. And it had to be there—­Carmen’s men couldn’t take Elliott out of the city, so they’d hole up like rats someplace they thought was safe until the storm blew over. Except this storm wasn’t going to blow over—­it was going to blow down their back door.

  “I’ll do what I can, Book.”

  “I know,” he said quietly, his confidence twisting her gut with guilt. “You always do.”

  She let the conversation lag after that. What more was there to say, really? He expected her to pull a miracle out of her ass. They all did. If she wasn’t a psychopath, the stress of so much regard would drive her crazy. Instead, it was kind of pissing her off.

  “We’re at the canal,” Light said. “Unless there’s more than one around here.”

  “No, this is it,” Fallon replied. “That’s the golf course, there. Take a left on the ser­vice road. And find someplace to hide the truck.”

  “How about in plain sight?”

  They were passing what looked like the back side of a hotel, complete with a parking lot half-­filled with cars.

  “Perfect.”

  Light drove over the xeriscaping separating the building from the access road, pulled into a parking spot, and they all piled out, weapons in hand. As they walked west along the ser­vice road, keeping to the trees as much as possible, Fallon noticed a residential area to the southwest of them, adjacent to the hotel. A cinder-­block wall separated the two, but it ended where the property line intersected the road right-­of-­way, and was purely ornamental in nature since it didn’t actually close either property off. The hotel property, residential neighborhood, and a larger, private residential lot all met in that corner, so there was a second cinder-­block wall—­this one actually functional, surrounding the private lot—­six feet from the first one, forming a sort of corridor that led right from the neighborhood to the canal, a virtual river of death for any child who stumbled that far out of their parents’ sight.

  Fallon peered in that direction as they went, looking for signs of smoke. She was so focused on the sky and rooftops that it took her a moment to realize there was movement on the streets below—­a lot of it.

  “Infecteds!” Lilith hissed at the same time.

  A mob of Infecteds moved along the part of the residential street they could see, with groups peeling off to do the by-­now-­familiar house-­to-­house search.

  “Hurry! Behind the wall before they see us!”

  Fallon didn’t have to tell them which wall she meant; they all sprinted for the one that
enclosed the private lot, then kept going.

  And almost ran right into a lone Infected crossing the golf cart bridge.

  Instead of stopping, Fallon ran right at him. The others trailed, not daring to shoot for fear of hitting her or alerting the horde just one street over.

  She knew she was taking a risk. If there were more Infecteds on the golf course, this one would lead them right to the Sykos. But he’d already seen them, and they couldn’t risk shooting him. So she did the next best thing.

  She slammed into him with her shoulder, toppling him into the canal.

  “Come on!” she said to the others, barely slowing as she made for the tennis courts, which were screened off on the south and west and offered plenty of cover.

  Once there, she stopped, grabbing the chain-­link fence with one hand as she bent over and tried to catch her breath.

  “Might want to vomit while you’re down there,” Light, who was barely panting, said.

  Fallon straightened.

  “Why?’

  “Take a gander at the roof of the clubhouse.”

  She looked where he was pointing. There were sentries perched on the apexes of the dual-­framed construction like gargoyles on Notre Dame, looking in all directions for approaching threats.

  “Shit,” she said, then her gaze fell on the pool near the courts, and she had an idea.

  The patio of the pool house-­slash-­bar hid them from the sentries’ view without hindering the Sykos’, and the open counter provided easy access to its interior.

  “Quick, you guys hide out in the pool house. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “What? Why?” Light demanded to know. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Just following the Raiders’ example.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  Fallon flashed him a smile before taking off at a dead run back in the direction they’d come. She hoped they’d follow her instructions; if not, they were probably going to regret it pretty quickly.

  It only took a minute or two to get back to the bridge. The Infected was still splashing in the canal, unable to get out.

  “Hey, Red-­eye!” she called, waving to get his attention. When he looked at her, his irises were brown disks in a sea of blood. It looked like the worst case of subjunctival hemorrhage she’d ever seen. She doubted the dirty canal water made it any better. “Tell your friends to catch me if they can!” Then she turned and jogged slowly away, so the Infected could clearly see she was headed toward the clubhouse by way of the pool and tennis courts.

  Once she got to the pool house, she was hidden from the Infected’s view, as well as from that of the sentries. There was no sign of the other Sykos. And the door was too far down the eastern wall; if she tried for it, she’d risk being seen from the clubhouse. Instead, she climbed over the open counter, only to step on Pybus, who was crouched behind it on the other side, along with the rest of them.

  “Ow!” he said, and she immediately shushed him as she stepped unsteadily off his shoulder, onto the sticky bar floor, and into a yeasty miasma.

  “Shh! They’re coming!” She hoped, anyway.

  The Sykos fell silent as they all listened for the shuffle of a multitude of footsteps. When Fallon figured they’d waited ten minutes without the larger group of Infecteds showing up, she decided her theory was wrong. However they were communicating, it wasn’t telepathically, since the Infected in the canal knew right where she’d gone. She was about to stand up when Pybus grabbed her arm, shaking his head and pointing to his ear with his other hand.

  She stopped and listened, straining to hear over the water lapping gently against the sides of the pool and the breeze rustling the leaves of the trees and the tennis-­court screens.

  There it was. They were coming.

  Now she just had to hope they didn’t decide to do a search of this place before heading up to the clubhouse. She cast about the small bar for another exit just in case, saw a door on the north wall that must lead outside, judging by the light coming through the small inset square of opaque glass that served as a window. She was just thinking they could go out that way when a shadow fell across it. And then another and another and another as the Infecteds split around the pool house, a beer-­scented island in their sweat-­scented stream.

  They waited until the shadows and the sound of footsteps had passed before daring to peer over the counter at the pool deck and tennis courts.

  Empty.

  Then the gunfire started, and Fallon smiled. Not only had she confirmed her theory that the Infecteds could in fact communicate via some other means than technology, she’d also led them right into a trap. A trap that would keep the cartel sentries too busy to notice when the Sykos snuck in the back door.

  CHAPTER 42

  13 hours

  The receiving area inside the loading dock was empty, probably because everyone who’d been guarding it had gone outside to fight the Infecteds. With the big loading door closed, it was dimly lit, but Fallon could see receiving tables, stacks of empty, flattened boxes, and another area set up with shipping materials. Beyond those were tall shelving units holding supplies that appeared to be separated into kitchen and bar, pro shop, and miscellaneous categories. The floor was smooth concrete, zigzagged by tire marks from the forklift sitting in a corner. The combined aromas of stale coffee sitting in a pot, exhaust, spoiling food, sweat, and the vanishing dreams of minimum-­wage shipping and receiving workers made the whole place smell musty and grim.

  Holding her M4 at the ready, Fallon led the others through the maze of shelves. An open doorway on the far side of the warehouse area hinted at a brightly lit hallway. Its pale yellow walls made her think of afternoon sunlight on sails in Tempe Town Lake, not far from where they’d escaped Reedley’s Raiders.

  Heading for that opening, she caught herself expecting to face Infecteds on the other side, then remembered they were all outdoors. She could still hear the crack of gunshots as the cartel thugs defended their hideout. It disturbed her that her theory had proved out—­what one Infected saw could somehow be communicated to the rest. That explained how they could plan ambushes, which were growing ever more sophisticated. Some Infecteds had seen the patrol at various points along their route, so had probably communicated to others the general path the patrol was following. Once the patrol turned toward Tempe, it was probably clear that they would check out the neighborhood with the most reported Infected action.

  Maybe that had all been part of the trap.

  Fallon had a psychopathic brain structure, but she wasn’t entirely fearless. The idea of intelligent Infecteds sent a chill from her neck to the bottom of her spine.

  When the Sykos neared the doorway, Light and Warga moved ahead of her. Light flattened himself against the wall, then took a quick peek through the opening. He nodded, and Warga went to the other side, repeating Light’s action. When both were satisfied that the coast was clear, they entered it simultaneously, guns ready, Warga looking high and Light low. Fallon went in behind them, then Litlith and Pybus. Sansome brought up the rear. They were in a long, well-­lit corridor. Framed photographs of golfers who Fallon assumed were famous hung on the wall, but there was only one other opening, at the far end. The hallway seemed to exist only to provide a buffer between the sounds and smells of the receiving dock and the parts of the building enjoyed by members.

  Warga and Light repeated their performance at the corridor’s end. It connected with another hall, this one containing club offices and public restrooms. Fallon had just passed the men’s room door when it opened with a squeak. A man emerged, looking down, right hand checking his zipper. Sensing the Sykos, he looked up, said, “Hey!” and reached for a gun in a hip holster. Fallon and Lilith both reacted at the same time, firing. The man jerked backward, slammed into the men’s room door, and fell, half-­in and half-­out,

  “Dammit!” Fallon sa
id. “I guess they know we’re here.”

  A momentary pang struck her. These were human beings they were killing—­or about to kill, since she knew this man was probably only the first. Uninfected. It was different . . . or it should have been.

  She looked at the corpse again, didn’t feel much at all, and decided she was okay with that.

  “Which way?” Light asked.

  Fallon did a quick mental calculation, then pointed to her right. “Down there,” she said. The left seemed to head toward the public areas, whereas to the right, past the offices at the hallway’s end, stood double doors that looked like they might open into a kitchen. It made sense that food deliveries wouldn’t go past the areas frequented by guests.

  They were halfway there when those double doors swung open and two guys carrying automatic weapons burst into the corridor. They were young and Hispanic, both lean, wearing designer jeans and fancy shirts that were immediately torn to shreds by rounds from the Sykos’ guns. As they fell, the Sykos—­Warga in the lead now—­raced to the double doors. There were windows inset from about chest high on Fallon, and he peered through those for a few seconds before kicking the left-­hand door open. The others went through right behind him.

  They found themselves in a good-­sized restaurant kitchen. There was a lot of stainless steel: worktables, sinks, drainboards, and more, some of it stained despite the name. The gigantic stove and the door to a walk-­in freezer were also stainless steel. The Infected corpse and the guy in kitchen whites with his head smashed open—­whom the Infected had been feeding on when she was found and shot to death—­weren’t stainless steel, though, and neither were the flies buzzing around them and the bloody tile floor on which they lay.

  They checked the kitchen for living ­people and found none. Fallon was watching Lilith—­who as far as Fallon knew had just shot someone for the first time in her life—­to determine whether the girl was in a state of shock. Nobody had spoken much since the guy from the restroom had been killed, but Fallon had noticed that Lilith seemed almost untethered from what was going on around her. She hadn’t looked at the body of the man she’d shot, or those of the two guys who’d come out of the kitchen, or even at the kitchen worker and the Infected who’d made a Happy Meal of him. She hadn’t looked at much at all, just kind of stared straight ahead and followed the other Sykos. When the group had split up in the kitchen, some to check the walk-­in, others to look underneath the worktables to make sure no one was hiding there, Lilith had simply stalled out, as if pulled in so many directions, she didn’t know where to go.