by Tom Calen
“You can of course, spare yourself a forced evolution. Tell me what I want to know and I might take pity on you. Where are your friends? Mike Allard, Erik Lasdale, and your fiancée Andrew Weyland?”
“I don’t know.”
Duncan’s sneer slipped slightly. For a moment he simply sat and stared across the dark mahogany desk. Rising again to his feet, he slowly made his way to her, a circling shark biding its time. “Where are your friends?” he asked again in a midnight whisper.
“I told you I don’t know!”
The blow came as a shock. Michelle had not seen his hand rise until the back of it collided painfully with her jaw. Specks of white flashed across her vision as her head was driven to her left shoulder. The metallic tang of blood from a cut to her lip pooled at the back of her throat. Pain flared again as Duncan grasped her jaw, his fingers pushing cheeks against teeth. She grunted as she felt new wounds slowly shredding open in her mouth. Duncan pressed his face close to her, his breath citrus sweet.
“You think you know pain?” he rasped threateningly. “Seen people you love die? Watched as their throats were ripped out? Tell me what I need to know or I’ll make those the happiest memories of your life.”
The second blow struck as surprisingly as the first, though this time the hand was curled into a tight fist. A tooth that had loosened moments before, now flew freely from her mouth.
* * *
The interrogation continued for nearly an hour. Duncan loomed over her asking the same question repeatedly. Each of her refusals to answer earned another strike from the man. Through swollen eyes, Michelle could see the blood dripping from the councilor’s fist. There was some satisfaction that the dark liquid was not solely her own blood. He had lacerated his hand on her teeth, which stoked his anger and resulted in further punishment. For survival, she clung to the minor victory that she had yet to divulge information and betray her friends.
“Why do you continue to resist?” Duncan asked her during a momentary reprieve from the pummeling. “Do you expect me to believe that three of your friends simply disappeared the same day you did?”
“What does it matter?” she retorted through spilt, aching lips. Michelle tried to infuse the words with resilience, but she could feel her strength waning. “Your Tils are running loose all over the island. You’ve lost. We’ve lost.”
“The Tils run loose because I allow it.”
“Why?”
“Because the world is being remade, Michelle.” His tone was filled with explanatory condescension. “The Ira Project is now the only insurance we have that American interests will prevail. Even now survivors across the globe are rebuilding, restarting civilizations. This country has been a superpower for a century. The Tils ensure our dominance in world affairs will continue.”
“You’re making an army with them?” It was less question and more sudden realization that marked her words.
“Certainly it was not the original goal of the Ira Project. The virus was developed to incapacitate our enemies, then it spread beyond our control. But as I’ve said, I never waste a resource. The past years on this island have been spent studying and understanding the virus. Learning how to control the infected, direct them at a specified target. Did you not wonder how the top floors of this building are secure when so many of the Tils walk freely below us? They can be controlled now.”
Michelle knew he referred to the ARC, but she made a conscious effort to conceal any knowledge she had of the device’s existence. The trick was simple as her thoughts were consumed by Duncan’s mention of survivors across the world. If the man knew of such groups, Michelle was determined to coax further details from him. “We are probably the only ones left. You’ve killed any chance of a future.”
“Ah, you caught that part?” he sneered once again. “Of course there are others out there. Hundreds of thousands, likely more, across the world. Before the pandemic, we were the masters of more satellites than most countries combined. Did you really think all that technological power was lost to us?”
“You’ve seen them.” She had heard the guard with whom Duncan had spoken mention satellites. Whatever capabilities of the modern world had been lost to average citizens, he still had access to orbiting machines, and the eagle eye views they provided.
“You understand now. We’ve avoided most direct contact until I could be sure of our own strength. The first test proved successful. And by day’s end a second operation will be completed. Then, we can reemerge from our long solitude and reclaim our global position. The technology to control the infected provides us incalculable leverage over the nations of the world.”
“Test?”
Duncan seemed to hesitate before he answered, as if weighing how much information was wise to share with his captive. Ego and self-assurance that her fate was inescapable won out in his calculations, and the councilor all but crowed with conceit. “A band of survivors in Texas has unknowingly volunteered to test our control of the infected. They’ve spent the past few days constructing useless defenses. Nearly three quarters of a million Tils are about to sweep over them.”
Coincidence had long since left her philosophy, and Michelle knew that her friends, people with whom she had faced the impossible, were among that band of survivors. All sense of defeat, bowing before the executioner’s blade, evaporated. It would be impossible to retrieve the ARCs and deliver them to Mike in time, but another piece of Duncan’s words, a last glimmer of hope, fused the steel to her spine.
But, how to escape? If left alone, she might be able to find a way to free herself. Telling Duncan what he wanted to know, which surely could not put her friends in any greater peril than what they already faced, might cause him to leave the room. It also might mean I am no longer useful and he’ll kill me.
The decision was taken from her when a guard entered the room. “Sir, we have an update,” he announced from the doorway. Duncan stepped to his desk, opened a drawer and removed a neatly folded handkerchief. After wiping the blood from his hand, the councilor tossed the cloth into a waste basket and followed the guard out of the office. Like the blood stained handkerchief, he seemed to dismiss Michelle from his thoughts.
Waiting to hear the door close behind the pair of men, she began to inch the chair towards the desk. Duncan, in tending to his wounded knuckles, had brought Michelle’s eyes to an overlooked item on his desk. Raising her free legs from the ground, she pulled the old-fashioned tape dispenser to the edge of the furniture. Knowing she had but minutes to complete what was potentially her only possibility of escape, she began to pivot the chair so she eventually had her back to the desk. Straining against the binds on her wrists, she lifted her arms along the seat back until she could feel the dispenser. If I drop it, it’s game over, her mind warned as she slid the object into her hands.
Not expecting the tape dispenser to be as heavy as it was, she fumbled for a frightening second before securing her hands around it. Working blindly, she quickly slid the small metal cutting teeth along the restraints. Several times she slipped and winced as the flesh of wrist and fingers were scored. The fresh trickle of blood made her manipulations more difficult. A near-silent snap preceded the spasm of freedom as her hands flew apart. Standing immediately, Michelle gripped the weighty dispenser-turned-cudgel as she desperately scanned the room. Now what? Undoubtedly the outer office held guards and she was not likely to last more than a few seconds armed only with the dispenser. Her only option, she decided, was the window, the fourth-story window.
Loud voices from the outer office froze her before she reached the paned glass.
“Let me go! Where is she? Where is she?” a hoarse voiced screamed in panic. The unmistakable thud of forceful contact reached her ears just as she recognized the shouting voice. Matt!
* * *
As the door opened, Michelle raised her head with feigned wooziness and watched as Matt Locke was dragged forward and thrown roughly to the floor, hands secured behind his back. Blood trickled from a d
eep gash above his right eye and red welts along his jaw were already turning to a sickening yellow. Relief that he still lived warred with sympathy as she saw his present condition.
Duncan entered the room next, ordering the guard to close the door on his exit. The councilor looked from Matt to Michelle, a look of insincere pity splashed across his face. “You didn’t tell me you had friends in the building?” he said with brow furrowed in consternation. “The surprise, however, is quite opportune. As I said, I never waste a resource.” Duncan pulled a gun from inside his black jacket. Chambering a round, he then pointed the gun at Matt’s head.
“No!” Michelle shouted from the chair.
Unwilling to abandon Matt, she had rushed to return the office to its previous state. She clasped her hands behind the seatback and hoped Duncan did not notice the missing binds.
“This will be the last time I ask you,” he told her with a voice of pure ice. “Where are you friends?”
Matt, kneeling now, looked into Michelle’s eyes. He shook his head slightly, urging her to remain silent. Only recently joining with her and the other mountain survivors, Michelle fought back tears as she watched him willingly offer his life for their safety.
“Fine. I’ll tell you what you want to know. Just leave him alone!”
“Where are they?”
“You were right. We took a boat and left the island that night. We landed in Florida. From there we moved west to Louisiana. Fort Polk.”
At the mention of the first Ira Project facility, Duncan’s face betrayed surprise. His body tensed almost imperceptibly as he walked over to Michelle. “Fort Polk.”
“Yes,” she continued. “We found your old lab. They have all your secrets, Duncan. They’ll beat your Til army and expose you to the world. They have an ARC.”
His unexpected laughter, more maniacal than she had ever heard him, startled her. He stepped closer to Michelle and gripped her jaw once again, leaning close. “I know when one of my own betrays me. I remotely deactivated Velazquez’s ARC days ago. Your friends are just as defenseless as you are, girl.”
Michelle raised her eyes to meet his stare. “That’s not entirely correct,” she told him.
“How so?”
“I’m not defenseless,” she hissed through gritted teeth. Lunging from the chair, Michelle brought her hands up and wrapped the thick cord from her boot’s lacing around the councilor’s neck. Stunned, Duncan dropped the gun as he clawed at the cord digging into his flesh. Angling herself behind him, Michelle tightened her grip and saw the veins along his throat bulge while the skin darkened. She was not sure how long she continued to strangle after his body stopped twitching.
Chapter Twenty
During the brief drive to the pike-line defense, Paul continually reminded himself to maintain an appearance of confidence. Though most in the camp were scurrying to their assigned positions, some spared sidelong, fleeting glances at their leader, riding in the passenger seat of the Jeep. If the image of resolution even fractionally inspired the Horde, Paul willingly disguised his inner turmoil.
The truest test of his leadership was now at hand. No amount of allocating goods or developing plans for plantation would outweigh the efficacy of his ability to protect his people. Unsure when the realization first settled upon him, Paul understood that the members of the Horde were his people. Once rid of Drennan and his totalitarianism, the Horde had free choice to select their next commander, and they had chosen him. As the vehicle coursed through the rutted tracks of dirt, he could not help but wonder if their selection had been wise. The defensive measures would be his judge. Dead Tils would be his jury.
The unmanning chorus of screeching had reached a concerted crescendo by the time the Jeep pulled to a stop. Paul helped Lisa down from the tumbler seat while the second vehicle, carrying Mike, Erik, and Derrick reached the line. Studying the open swath of land to the north, lit by torches and vehicular high beams, his naked eye failed to spy any Til movement. Turning to the nearest man, Paul asked, “How far out are they?”
“Not yet in range of the trucks, but closing fast, sir,” the man replied.
A voice at Paul’s back turned his attention.
“Sir,” Wes Hardin began. “The archers are in position. What are your orders?”
Still anxious over his decision to allow such youths to be placed beyond the camp’s defenses, Paul nodded. “When the Tils are in range, they can fire at will. We could use the extra light. Have the bikers ready to swing out on my order.”
Hardin snapped a turn and spoke briefly to two smaller men, runners Paul judged by their wiry frames, before the pair sprinted in opposite directions to deliver orders.
“Everyone else in position?” he asked.
“Most, yes. Few stragglers in the camp, but there’re no holes in the line,” Hardin assured him. Paul continued to confer with the man until Erik joined the conversation.
“We never really talked about what we’ll be doing,” the dark-haired man said with expectation. “I’m good on a bike. If there are any extras, I’d like to be on one when they move.”
As much as Erik showcased his abilities as the group comedian, Paul admired his equal commitment to grave matters. The Horde leader ordered one of the men to drive Erik across the camp to the motorcycle cavalry. Hasty words of encouragement preceded Erik’s departure which led Paul to address the remaining gathering of his friends.
“Mike, you good with heading up to the archers? I’d feel better about having those kids out there if you’re leading ‘em,” he told his former commander.
“On it,” Mike said as he, and Gazelle, moved past the pikes and ran further up-field.
“I’m heading to the Bradleys,” Lisa informed him with a tone that dared Paul to voice disagreement. Recognizing an argument he’d lose, he pulled her close to him.
“Be careful. I just got you back,” he said, after a soft kiss.
“We are going to live past tonight,” she promised, and kissed him again before heading towards the eastern edge of the pike-line. He let his eyes follow her trail until light and shadow overtook her.
“Derrick…”
“I’m not going anywhere,” the katana-bearing warrior said. “I reassigned your guards to other posts. I’m your second, and I’m making damn sure you stay alive.”
Shaking his head, Paul questioned the point of leadership if those closest to him issued orders to him! When Mike led the mountain camp, Paul doubted the former history teacher ever had to contend with such amiable insubordination.
Seeming to read his thoughts, Derrick spoke again. “And you would have done the same for Mike back in the mountains.”
* * *
Climbing atop the impromptu archer battlements, a well-worn van alongside a pick-up truck carrying a large vat of gasoline, Mike froze as his eyes fell upon the shadows in the distance. The shadows, a Birnam Wood of infected, were moving. The reports of the Tils numbers had been conservative at best. The convulsing dark wave rolling towards the battlement appeared as endless as the seas. Bending to help Gazelle up the final few rungs of the ladder, he directed his attention to the others manning the vehicle.
Looking at them, he understood Paul’s reluctant agreement to the service of the archers. They’re children, he reflected. The youthful faces stirred memories of his students during the first days of the virus’ spread, the difference resting only with the dread knowledge and experience moored tightly in the eyes of the archers. Mike accepted the forfeiture of childhood innocence which the pandemic had wrought. The young adults near him would be the first line in perhaps the final showdown with the Tils. And likely the first casualties, his mind calculated.
In all, four such stations had been evenly spaced along the plain, one to the west of his position, and two others eastward. Young archers stood atop them all. The courier had already relayed Paul’s orders by the time Mike arrived. Eyes trained north, he could feel the thickening tension as the soldiers waited for the Tils to enter the rang
e of their medieval weaponry. He recognized Tim Frazier, the band’s leader. He had been impressed with the boy’s resolve when Paul had performed introductions earlier.
“Draw,” Tim commanded, youth still present in his voice. Mike heard the uniform stretching of bows as each archer prepared a bolt, tips wrapped in gasoline-soaked thin gauze. “Get ready to spray,” Tim said to one of his companions who stood ready with a hose.
Simple as it was, Mike still admired the plan’s orchestration. The Horde had a wealth of ingenious engineers, who had rigged lengths of hose to the camp’s fuel resources and with the application of air pressure, the front line of Tils would be doused with gasoline before the archers loosed enflamed arrows.
Finally in range, Tim shouted a command for the spraying to begin. The Tils, only a hundred yards away, showed no reaction as the odorous moisture rained down in their midst. “Ignite,” the boy-leader ordered and each archer dipped his quarrel towards the wind-shielded torches at the edge of the van. Arrows blazing from each of the other stations, Tim finally gave the command. “Light ‘em up!”
As the fiery spears arced across the night sky, Mike could not ignore the majesty of their passage. Brilliant streaks of red-yellow flames, the false comets sped silently through the air until gravity regained control and brought the deadly darts to earth. Tils screamed in frustration and rage as hair and clothing sparked and bonfired. Flames engulfed a quarter mile width of infected as the human torches pressed forward.
A second stream of gasoline was followed by another volley of arrows. The action was repeated a third time before Mike saw the measure take effect. Deprived of oxygen, lungs burning from the heat, Tils began to collapse mid-stride. There was some satisfaction, he noted, that the hideous screams of the Tils only served to hasten their deaths. Infected skirted and leapt over their fallen brethren only to find themselves burning faster. The stench of thousands—countless pounds of flesh and muscle—succumbing to the open air cremation wafted sickeningly back to Mike. Even he, who had so recently suffered the same scent at Fort Polk, could feel his stomach tightening in revulsion. He doubted those nearest him would be able to fight their own rebelling senses much longer.