7 Sykos

by Marsheila Rockwell

  Fallon was not going to let that happen. She knew a little about bees and ants and termites—­kill the queen, make sure there was no replacement, and the hive or colony collapsed. She didn’t think a replacement was going to be an issue, so kill the queen it was.

  She raised her Glock and leveled it at Jane’s head, finger on the trigger.

  And then Jane’s form wavered, became Jason’s.

  “Please, Mommy, don’t shoot me!”

  A part of Fallon’s brain knew it was some sort of illusion, that this close, Jane didn’t need the hive mind to project her will—­she could do it directly. But that part had no power in the face of her son pleading with her not to kill him.

  Fallon lowered her gun.

  “Jason?”

  The other Sykos shifted behind her, and the part of Fallon’s mind that was still rational wondered if they could see Jason, too, or if Jane was showing them other ­people they’d never be able to kill.

  “I’m not a sie-­koe-­paf like you, Mommy,” Jason said, his little toddler mouth struggling with the big word, his blue eyes earnest. “My brain isn’t like yours. Mine is normal. You should protect me, Mommy, not hurt me.”

  He was right. She was the danger here, not him. She was the psychopath. How could she ever hope to be a good mother when every day she’d have to fight all the violent urges awakened by this mission? She might hurt him without even meaning to, in a fit of rage. Or worse, she might do it intentionally, just because.

  No. If anyone needed to die, it was her, not her precious towheaded son.

  Fallon raised the gun again, this time pointing it at herself.

  “That’s right, Mommy. The best thing you can do for me is let Daddy raise me.”

  The gun wavered. Jason’s face dissolved, became her husband Mark’s.

  “It is, Fallon. You know it. The best thing for him is not to have a psychopath like you in his life. You need to do right by our son in death in a way you’ve failed to do in life.”

  Fallon knew she was supposed to feel guilty, but instead, all she felt was fury. She turned the gun toward him.

  “Fuck you, Mark,” she said, and pulled the trigger.

  And then the world collapsed on top of her.

  CHAPTER 51

  4 hours

  “Fallon? Fallon! Talk to me!”

  She heard the voice, but it was so far away. She reached out her left hand, felt only emptiness. She tried to speak, but the air she drew in was thick with dust and smoke, and she choked on it. Coughing hurt, more than she expected, eliciting a sharp, stabbing pain in her midsection.

  “Fallon! Is that you? Are you okay?”

  She coughed again, tried to spit, but couldn’t. “M . . . Mark?” she managed. “Is that—­?”

  “No, Fallon. It’s me! I mean—­dammit! It’s Book! Booker Eisenstadt.” He sounded frantic.

  “Book? Are you here?”

  “No, Fallon. I’m at the—­what the hell do they call it, again? The tactical operations center. The TOC. You’re at the Sutter house. I think the ceiling collapsed on you. The others are close to you, according to their GPS coordinates. Sansome’s closest. Are you okay?”

  “I—­everything hurts, Book. I can’t see. I can’t move.” Panic welled in her chest. “Book, I can’t move!”

  “Breathe, Fallon. Take in a deep breath.”

  “The air’s full of crap. I can’t breathe.”

  “You’re breathing now, Fallon. Shallow breaths, then. In and out. In and out. Don’t panic. You’ve got to keep your cool. I can’t lose y—­can’t lose any more of you. You’re so close!”

  Fallon tried to fix on his voice in her ear. She remembered that now, remembered where he was. Where she was. In the basement of the Sutter house. That horrible, tragic little girl. And something else . . . all those Infecteds upstairs. And the house was on fire. “The ceiling collapsed?” she asked.

  “I think so. I couldn’t tell for sure—­I could only see what the camera showed, and it was obscured pretty fast.”

  “What do you see now?”

  “I see—­move your head a little to the right, Fallon. Can you do that?”

  “I . . . think.” She tried. It hurt, but she was able to tilt her neck that way. “Like that?”

  “Just a little bit more.”

  She did. It hurt like hell. She bit back a yelp.

  “That’s good,” Book said. “That’s really good, Fallon. Hold it there.”

  “I can’t see a thing. God, Book, am I blind? Am I paralyzed and blind?”

  “Easy, Fallon. Breathe. Breathe with me. In, out. In, out. In, out. You okay?”

  “I’m scared to death.”

  “I know, Fallon. It’ll be okay. There’s—­I think there’s a ceiling beam across your chest. And something over your head, or at least part of your head. It’s like I’m looking under a shelf or something. Can you sweep that area with your hand? Move whatever it is? It’s probably carpeting, or a floorboard or something. It’s not so heavy that you can feel it, right?”

  “If I broke my neck, I wouldn’t feel it anyway, would I?”

  “If you broke your neck, you wouldn’t have been able to move your head for me.”

  “I guess.”

  “Just try.”

  Moving her arm hurt even more than moving her head. Panic was millimeters away—­she couldn’t think about that, or she would give in to it, start screaming and never stop. She could hear things now, besides Book’s voice in her ear. She heard ­people moving around, shuffling feet. Moans and bangs and crashes and something else, a crackling noise she couldn’t place.

  Then her own wail of pain as she moved her arm again, toward her face. He was right, there was something on her, but she couldn’t tell what. She tried to do what he’d said, just sweep it away. It was too heavy, though. It wouldn’t go. It was soft, and it gave when she pushed. But it was on top of her head and her head was on something else and it was heavy. She pushed it again.

  It pushed back.

  She heard it murmur something. “Ain . . . ja?”

  God, it was an Infected! There was an Infected lying on top of her. It moved again, and she felt fingers on her scalp, reaching through her hair, and she screamed, and screamed, and screamed.

  “Fallon! Fallon!”

  “Book?” she asked. “Book, it’s on me! It’s on top of me!”

  “No, no, Fallon! It’s me. It’s Joe! Just hold on!”

  “Joe?”

  “It’s Sansome!” Book’s voice said. “He’s right there, Fallon. Let him help you.”

  “I got it, Fallon,” Sansome said.

  As he spoke, a weight was lifted from her, and she could see again. She saw Sansome’s huge bulk, illuminated by some uneven glow. He was holding an Infected off the ground. A teenage boy, it looked like. He was on the chunky side, his belly showing beneath a black T-­shirt, and he was struggling in Sansome’s arms. The big man had the kid’s neck in the crook of his elbow, and he was twisting it, then twisting it more. There was an audible snap, and the boy went limp. Sansome dropped him on the ground.

  He wasn’t dead, though. Fallon could still hear him shifting around on the floor, muttering, trying to stand up even though his limbs wouldn’t obey his commands. “Joe,” she said. She cut her eyes toward the floor.

  “Sorry,” Sansome said. He raised his foot high—­Fallon saw his knee almost reach his stomach, saw the blood streaking his pants from the bullet he’d taken—­and brought it down hard and fast. There was a stomping sound and a squishing sound, and then the kid was quiet.

  Now that she could see, she was even more frightened than she had been. Book was right, there was a beam lying across her chest. She wasn’t on the floor, she had fallen on something bumpy, uneven. Then she remembered the room before the collapse and knew what it had to b
e.

  Jane’s unwanted leftovers.

  She wanted to scream again, but she fought the urge. There were Infecteds all over the room. Many had died in the collapse, crushed by debris or by each other. But some were still alive, and they looked hungry.

  And there were flames climbing the far wall. Some of the Infecteds were on fire, too. They didn’t look particularly concerned about it, yet, but they would be soon.

  “Joe, can you . . . ?””

  “Hold still, Fallon,” he said. The strength had gone from his voice, sapped by his wounds. “It’s wedged under this other one.”

  “Hurry, Joe.”

  “Fallon?” Book again. “Listen to my voice. Let Joe do what he has to do.”

  “Where are the others? Hank and Lilith?”

  “They’re somewhere close by, that’s all I can tell.”

  “Are they . . .”

  “They’re moving. They’re alive.”

  Fallon heard Sansome grunt, then a massive creaking of wood and something else, followed by a crash. Then he swept back into her field of view and lifted the beam off her. It was a strain—­veins popped in his neck and at his temples—­but he got it done. He was reaching for Fallon’s hand, to lift her off her bed of body parts, when she heard a piercing shriek.

  “Get offa me, you mealy-­ass motherfuckers!” The shout was followed by a long burst of automatic-­weapons fire.

  Apparently, Lilith was okay.

  Fallon took Sansome’s hand. He helped her to her feet. She was dizzy, still a little disoriented, but when he released her, she found she could stand on her own. “Thank you, Joe,” she said. Remembering Jane, she turned too quickly to look for her and almost keeled over again. Sansome caught her arms and held her up.

  Jane was nowhere to be seen. A pile of rubble topped by a thick cloud of dust occupied the place where she had been. “What happened to Jane?”

  “I don’t know. You shot at her at the same time the ceiling caved in. I don’t know if you hit her or not—­you might just have hit falling wood or Infecteds. I think she’s dead. Haven’t seen her move, anyhow.”

  Now that Fallon was upright, she took in the scene. Infecteds had come crashing down on other Infecteds. Many had survived and were either finding their footing or already up. Unlike before, though, they seemed to have lost their bearings, wandering around in the wreckage as if looking for the mental connection they had lost with their Queen’s demise. Light was upstairs shooting them in single-­shot mode—­he had been on the staircase the last time Fallon saw him, and most of that had miraculously survived when the overloaded floor fell through. Lilith was across the big basement room, in a corner, swinging her M4 like a club at the Infecteds trying to get to her.

  Several were gathering in the vicinity of Fallon and Sansome. She reflexively patted her hips, looking for her guns. Sansome recognized the motion; he reached into the rubble surrounding his feet, and came up holding an M4. “Here. I don’t know where yours is, so take mine.”

  “Thanks,” she said. Reaching for it, she saw, behind Sansome—­mostly blocked from her view by his bulk—­a muscular Infected swinging a chunk of two-­by-­four in a vicious arc. “Joe!” Fallon managed.

  Before she could get any more out, the club had struck Sansome’s head, tearing a chunk of scalp loose. He went down on his knees, and the Infected hit him twice more. The third one broke through his skull. He pitched forward, and Infecteds swarmed over him, all of them grabbing for brains.

  Fallon whipped the M4 into position and opened fire. When the Infecteds piling on Sansome were dead, she released the trigger briefly, then took aim at the ones Lilith was trying to hold off. She fired until the gun was empty, then dropped to her knees beside Sansome and pawed through his pockets. She would mourn him later; for now there were still Infecteds to deal with. He had two unused magazines—­just like Joe, protecting me even in death—­so she rammed one into her gun and tossed the other to Lilith. “Last ones!” she called. “Conserve ammo!”

  “Got it!” Lilith shouted back.

  With both of them shooting, it didn’t take long to clear the basement of Infecteds. The sounds of Light’s battle against those upstairs were encouraging, too, as the gunshots came farther and farther apart.

  “Do you think we’ve killed them all?” Lilith asked, stepping gingerly among the Infected corpses to join Fallon.

  Fallon did a quick mental calculation, thinking about the millions of ­people living in the Valley. “Maybe all of them in the house,” she said. “But not all, by a long shot.”

  “But without their Queen—­”

  “We don’t know what will happen. Maybe they’ll get a new Queen. Maybe they’ll just be like they were at the start: slow-­thinking and disorganized. No way to tell except to wait and see.”

  “I guess.”

  Lilith had reminded Fallon of Jane. She went to the mound of debris that had fallen on top of the girl. It came up to Fallon’s chest, and much of it looked heavy. She shoved some of it aside, then worked with Lilith to get a few of the bigger pieces out of the way. They didn’t stop until they saw one of Jane’s lifeless hands. Fallon poked it with a long stick a ­couple of times, but it didn’t budge.

  “Looks like she really is dead,” Lilith said.

  “So it seems.”

  “What now?”

  “Now,” Fallon replied, “we find that damn meteor in this mess.”

  CHAPTER 52

  3 hours

  They needed Light’s help to dig out the meteor and its wagon and to carry them up the fragile staircase. As they did that, Fallon filled Book in on their progress. “Just get it back to that basin,” Book said. “I’m dispatching another chopper right now.”

  “Another?”

  “Somebody shot down the first one. It was pretty close to you, which means there’s someone in the neighborhood with an RPG. Watch yourself.”

  “I will, Book, thanks.” She turned to Light, whose limp was becoming ever more pronounced. “How are you doing on ammo?” she asked him.

  “One magazine left, after this one,” Light said. “And it’s mostly gone.”

  “Us, too,” Fallon said. “We’ve each used some of our last one.”

  “I guess we’d better hope we don’t have to do much more shooting.”

  “With the helicopter coming, we shouldn’t have to,” Lilith said.

  “Your lips, God’s ear,” Light said.

  They hauled the wagon through the garage and put it down in the street. She looked toward the Escalade.

  The fire had spread through most of the houses on the block, sending ribbons of black, oily smoke infused with the scent of death into the sky. And the Escalade was engulfed, too.

  “Fuck,” Lilith said. “Our wheels.”

  “I see,” Fallon said. “We’ve got to hurry. The wagon will have to do.”

  “You sure that’s any better than just rolling the damn meteor down the street?”

  The meteor chunk wasn’t round enough to roll well, but Fallon didn’t see the point in arguing. “No,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  One wheel was wobbly, and the handle was short—­it was made for a kid to pull, not an adult. But they traded off as they worked down Wilbur to Glencove and west to the grassy expanse of the basin. The wagon gave them more trouble on the grass, which should have been mowed a week ago, but they got it into a flat stretch, away from any trees.

  “We’re here, Book,” she said. “At the basin.”

  “They had some trouble loading the backup containment pod, but the ’copter’s en route. Sit tight, Fallon. You’re almost out of there.”

  Fallon didn’t respond. She heard something like faraway thunder, and she paused to listen. “I don’t think that’s good,” she said.

  “What?” Light asked.

  She held a hand t
o her ear, indicating that he should listen. He and Lilith both did. “What is that?” Lilith asked.

  “I think it’s just what we don’t need,” Fallon said.

  Within minutes, her hunch was confirmed. Pale moonlight revealed that the sound was really the tread of many feet on pavement. Hundreds of Infecteds came from Glencove, and more from Pasadena, from Sirine, from the canal ser­vice road. A thousand, she guessed, or more, converging on the basin. They weren’t chanting some mixed-­up version of Jane’s name, or vocalizing at all, just walking.

  Toward them.

  “Don’t they know Jane’s dead?” Lilith asked.

  “She is, but whatever’s in the meteor isn’t. Maybe it’s somehow aware and feels like it’s under assault. Or maybe this has been the goal of the Infecteds all along—­to make it to the meteor.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Hope they don’t attack.”

  “What if they do?”

  Fallon shrugged, feeling resigned. They’d come so far. “Go down fighting,” she said.

  What else is there?

  The Infecteds spread out around the perimeter of the basin, surrounding the Sykos, ranked six or eight deep in places. Fallon, Lilith, and Light readied their guns. Their ammunition wouldn’t last long against such a crowd. The best they could hope for was that shooting some of the ones in front would make the rest think twice about approaching.

  That would call for thinking, though; not an Infected’s strong suit, especially now that their precious “ain-­ja” was just a pile of limp limbs like her little sister.

  Fallon’s fear was that when something happened to open the floodgates, they would all charge at once. In that event, there would be nothing the Sykos could do to save themselves.

  Finally, one Infected—­a hipster with long hair in dreadlocks, a knit cap, and pants that looked like they were made of carpet remnants—­broke from the ranks and started toward them.

  “No!” Fallon called, raising her palm toward him. She put every ounce of command she could into her voice. “Stop right there!”

  The Infected hesitated for just an instant, then continued forward. Fallon started to raise her M4, but Light said, “Oh, let me. Please.”