I leaned close and said in Farsi, “Do you speak English?”
He shook his head—as much as Bunny’s pistol barrel would allow—and then rattled off something in what I think was Myanmar, what they used to call “Burmese.” Not one of my languages. “Do you speak English?” I said in my own language.
“Yes . . . yes, English. I speak very good.”
“Lucky for you. I’m going to ask you a few questions and if you answer me truthfully and completely my friend here will not shoot you. You understand?”
“Yes, yes, I understand!”
“What’s your name?”
“Nujoma.”
“Indian? Burmese?”
“Yes, yes, I come from Rangoon. In Burma.”
“How many people are in this building?”
“I am only a—” His voice cracked and he tried it again. “I am only a technician.”
“That’s not what I asked. How many—?”
“I . . . I cannot. They will kill me . . .”
I grabbed him by the throat. “What do you think I’ll do if you don’t answer me?”
“They have my wife. My children. My sister. I cannot.”
“Who has them? Where? Are they here in this building?”
“No. They took them from my home. They have them.”
“Who took them?” I demanded again. He shook his head.
Bunny tapped him on the forehead with the barrel. “Answer the man’s questions or the day’s going to end in a way you won’t like.” But Bunny’s threat was of no use. The man’s eyes filled with tears and he clamped his mouth shut, giving tiny shakes of his head. I looked into his eyes and felt like I could see all the way down into the man’s soul. He wasn’t a terrorist; this guy was just another victim.
I shifted back a few inches to try and decrease the sense of threat, and when I spoke I softened my voice. “If you talk to us I promise that we’ll see what we can do to help your family.” But he shook his head, resolute in his terror.
“Tick-tock,” Top muttered.
“Okay,” I said. “Juice me.” Top fished a hypodermic from his chest pocket, removed the plastic cap and passed it to me. The technician’s eyes flared wider and tears spilled down his face. As I positioned the needle over his throat he began murmuring something in his native language; I bent forward, hoping to catch a word or phrase but then realized from the rhythm of his words that he was mumbling prayers. I plunged the needle. The tranquilizer knocked him cold in three seconds and he slumped to the floor.
“Bunny, take him back to the door. Tell Skip to alert Church that we have his prisoner. If he’s been infected with the same control disease as the others then we’ll need to question him before he kicks. Drop him and get back here asap.”
“You got it, Boss . . . but man, I’d hate to be in this guy’s shoes. I wouldn’t want Church questioning me.” He hoisted Nujoma over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry and ran down the hall, his pace showing no indication that he was carrying at least a hundred and fifty extra pounds.
Now that we were alone I touched his arm. “Top . . . you seem to have a bug about Ollie. Why him?”
He kept looking down the hall. “Bunny was with us in Room Twelve. Says a lot. Ollie came in with everyone else. I don’t like it that he was slow to respond.”
“So was Skip.”
“Skip’s a kid. Whoever this mole is he’s got field experience. He’s slick enough to have pulled a fast one on Church and the whole DMS. Besides, Ollie’s done a lot of work for the Company.”
“The CIA? How do you know that?”
“He told us when we were trying to sort out who should be team leader. He said that he’d done extensive covert ops work. He’s a spook and I don’t trust spooks.”
“It could be anyone,” I said. “The DMS is ass deep in spooks and spies.”
“Yeah,” Top agreed slowly, “it sure could be anyone. For all you know it could be me. If I’d opened that door, then going back to Room Twelve with you and Bunny would have been perfect cover. Go in and pop a few caps. Who’d suspect me?”
“Yet you cleared Bunny because he was there. Double standard, Top?”
“Maybe I’m trying to confuse you, Cap’n.”
“You’re not. So, where’s that leave us?”
A smile blossomed on his dark face. It changed him, knocking years off, but even so it never reached his eyes. “I guess it leaves us both up shit creek, Cap’n. Personally, I don’t plan to trust nobody.”
“Trust is a hard thing to come by in this world.”
“It surely is.”
We let it drop and turned our attention to the room the Burmese lab tech had come out of. I snapped on the lights and we looked around at banks of computers. Big ones that whirred constantly. The temperature of the room was even lower than the rest of the building; a wall-mounted thermometer read thirty-five degrees. I examined the nearest computer, which was about the size of a Coca-Cola machine. The make and model were on brass plates screwed to the casing. I tapped the mike.
“Cowboy to Deacon, over.”
“Deacon.”
“Does the name IBM Blue Gene/L mean anything to you?”
“It does. Why?”
“I’m standing in a room full of them. Advise.”
“Cowboy, be advised you are holding winning lottery ticket.”
“Nice to know. Infil starting to get noisy. One guest catching Z’s. Green Giant taking him to back door; Joker is minding that location. Advise.”
There was a slight pause and I could imagine Church nibbling the edge of a vanilla wafer as he considered his answer. “Team status?”
“Scarface is MIA. Conducting search. My call is this: radio silence ten minutes plus one second then kick the doors. Cowboy out.”
The second I switched back to the team channel Bunny’s voice filled my ear. “Cowboy, Cowboy, this is Green Giant. Be advised Joker is MIA.”
I looked at Top who was frowning. “Repeat and verify, Green Giant.”
“Verified, Joker is MIA. No time for code, boss. Our long guns are gone and the back door is sealed. Some kind of security shutter rolled down over it. We’re in a box.”
“Drop your cargo and get back here on the double!” I snapped. Top and I rushed out into the hall, guns ready.
“That’s two down,” Top said.
We turned to see Bunny running up the hall like an offensive tackle after a slow quarterback. He skidded to a stop. “I left the prisoner at the door and called it in. No sign of Skip.”
I hit the button for the DMS channel. “Cowboy to Deacon, Cowboy to Deacon, request immediate hard infil. Kick the doors, repeat, kick the doors.”
But all I heard over my headset was the hiss of static. The signal was gone.
A sudden noise made us all jump and we formed a fast circle, guns pointing out. Somewhere deep inside the building there was a sound like the dying sigh of a giant as big turbine engines shut down, slowing their whine as they decelerated.
“What the hell was that?” Top growled.
“I think the refrigeration units just shut off,” Bunny whispered.
Then there was a loud blast as wall-mounted vents snapped from open and hot air shot into the corridor.
“Uh-oh,” Top said softly. The air coming out of the vents was intensely hot and within seconds the temperature in the hall had gone up ten degrees, then fifteen. It continued to climb.
“Something tells me this is not good news,” Bunny said, looking over his shoulder at me.
I tried calling Church again but still got only silence. It was the same on all channels. “Signal’s being jammed.”
“Yeah,” Bunny confirmed, “not good news.”
“Told you this was a goddamn trap,” Top said.
And at that moment the locks on all of the doors along the hallway clicked open. That’s when we heard the first moans as dozens of pale-faced people staggered out into the hall in front of us and behind.
This wasn�
�t a trap . . . it was a slaughterhouse.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Crisfield, Maryland / Wednesday, July 1; 3:31 A.M.
WE WERE TRAPPED, front and back.
The closest of the people was twenty feet down the hall. It was a middle-aged woman with lank blond hair and a stained housedress. Her eyes were wide and she staggered and nearly fell as the crowd of them jostled her. I brought my pistol up and put the laser sight on her forehead. Bunny and Top were aiming at opposite ends of the hall, but none of us fired yet. My finger was still outside the trigger guard and I could feel cold slush churning in my stomach. These were civilians. Behind the woman was a young boy of no more than ten; and next to him a pretty teenage girl in a short denim skirt. There were people in business suits and bathing suits, and I caught the flash of a uniform and saw a mailman.
“Orders, sir?” hissed Top.
My finger stayed outside of the trigger guard. “We have to make sure.”
“Boss . . . this is getting tight,” Bunny whispered.
I wondered if this was what Baker and Charlie teams had felt at St. Michael’s. Was it the absolute inhumanity of the necessary response that kept them from shooting? The meatpacking plant had been different; that had been a straight good guys/bad guys shootout, but these people were not enemy combatants. At least, not yet. The crowd choked the hallway in both directions but they milled there, not moving forward, staring at us as we stared back. It was completely surreal.
“Hold your positions,” I said, staring at the crowd. The moment felt like it was stretching but in reality I knew that only a second or two had ticked off the clock.
“Maybe they ain’t walkers,” Bunny said.
“Say, farmboy,” Top said, “why don’t you go check ’em for a pulse.”
“Screw that.”
The middle-aged woman took an uncertain step toward us.
I slipped my finger inside the trigger guard.
She opened her mouth and for a moment I thought I saw her smile as if she was showing relief that someone had come to rescue her. But that smile stretched and stretched and stretched until it became a rapacious leer. With a scream like some jungle animal she ran straight at me.
Once she had probably been somebody’s mother, somebody’s wife. Maybe a grandmother with grandkids in diapers that she spoiled. I didn’t know who she was or how she came to be here in this terrible place; all I knew is that she was here and whatever loving personality she might once have had, and whatever memories and secrets she once knew, were gone now, torn away by a prion-driven parasite in her blood that left behind only a shell. A predatory thing in human disguise. This surely was what Baker and Charlie teams had felt: the dreadful certainty that no action could be right in a situation so thoroughly wrong. They must have felt the horror that I now felt as this woman lunged at me, running on pale legs marked with varicose veins, closing the distance in bedroom slippers that had a lilac print; her stomach bouncing, her breasts swaying, her mouth open in a feral grin of unnatural appetite. It was enough to take the heart and soul out of anyone. It had taken the soul out of all those men and women in those other two DMS teams.
But I shot her through the face without hesitation.
Dear God, what does that say about who and what I am?
Behind me Bunny and Top opened up. We all still had the sound suppressors on our guns so the fight became a ballet of muted carnage. The walkers in the back of the crowd moaned—and that sounded low and distant; the ones in the front screeched like cats, and our handguns made high, soft sounds like someone saying, “Psst!” to get everyone’s attention. Even as we fired the moment continued to be unreal.
There were at least twenty of them on my side of the corridor, and probably that many charging at my men. The narrow width of the hallway gave us no way out, but it also pushed them together into a line two abreast. They couldn’t surround us, couldn’t overwhelm us with their numbers. The magazine in my Beretta nine-millimeter carried fifteen rounds and I used them to kill eight of the walkers. I used one round to the chest to slow them and then a second to the brain. I shot the mailman next, and then I killed the teenage girl. I shot two men in business suits and a homeless man in rags. My fifteenth round dropped the little boy.
I dropped the magazine and slapped in another one as fast as I could, the action smooth from years of practice, but even with all my speed they nearly had me. A twenty-something who looked like she could have been a grad student had climbed over the bodies and was crouching to leap when I brought the gun back up. My shot caught her in the throat and flung her back against the others who were crowding forward. It bought me enough time to aim the next shot. And the next.
Behind me Bunny was saying: “Fuck me fuck me fuck me . . .” over and over again as he fired his gun dry and fished for a new magazine. Top fought in silence, but I believed I could feel waves of heartsick terror rolling off him as he fired.
I dropped two more and then my end of the corridor was choked with the dead. The walkers on the other side of the mountain of corpses clawed and tore at the bodies in their way, which was nearly blocked. I dropped my second magazine and fished for a third but now my hands were shaking and I almost dropped the clip. I caught it and fumbled it into place, released the slide, brought the weapon up, ready, ready . . .
“Clear!” Top yelled, and I turned to see that their combined gunfire had brought down all of the walkers on their side.
I didn’t hesitate.
“Go, go, go!” I pushed them both ahead of me and we began climbing over the heaped corpses. Top watched forward, I checked behind, as we scrambled awkwardly through the gun smoke and over the tangled limbs. A hand darted out of the tangle of limbs and closed around Top’s ankle; I kicked it loose and Top fired down into the mound of bodies. Maybe he hit the target, or maybe not—we didn’t linger long enough to find out.
“This is fucked up,” Bunny muttered as he pushed aside a fat man in a bowling shirt. Our Hammer suits were streaked with blood and I could feel droplets of it burning on my face. I heard a sound behind me and whirled, a snake of terror coiling in the pit of my stomach.
“They’re coming,” I snapped as the first of the walkers clambered over the piled dead at the far end. I dropped to one knee and fired two shots. His collapsing body plugged the hole, buying us seconds.
We ran. Ahead of us a door opened and a man stepped out and leveled an AK-47 at us. It was the same man who had argued with the cop. Top put two into him before he could get off a shot.
The hallway ended at another T-junction. The left-hand corridor ended in a brick wall; to our right a set of heavy steel doors stood ajar. A man was trying to pull it shut when Bunny leaped forward and grabbed him by the hair and shoulder and slammed him face forward into the wall. Bunny pounded three vicious uppercuts into his kidneys. The man groaned and sagged to his knees. If he lived through all this he’d be pissing blood for a month.
“Drag him inside,” I ordered. Top guarded the hallway while Bunny then threw the dazed man like a sack of cornmeal into the next room. We flanked the doorway to provide cross-fire protection. There were four people in the room, which was a large laboratory cluttered with dozens of worktables and metal shelves of chemicals and materials. Set against one wall were two familiar-looking big blue cases. Both doors were still shut. Three of the men were Middle Eastern, two in lab coats and one dressed in jeans and a tank top. The guy with the tank top had a .45 and was swinging the barrel up when I gave him a triple-tap: two in the chest, one in the head. The men in lab coats were unarmed, but the one closest to me held a small black plastic device in one hand. The other one was already raising his hands in surrender.
The fourth man was Ollie Brown. He was strapped to a chair and his face was covered with blood.
I pointed my gun at the man with the plastic device. “Don’t do it!” I yelled in Farsi and then in several other languages.
He cried, “Seif al Din!” in a high, hysterical voice and made his mov
e. I shot him in the shoulder to try and stop him from pressing the button on what had to be a detonator, but it was no good: it was rigged with a dead-man’s switch. Even as my bullets tore his shoulder to rags his hand flexed open. The signal was sent.
Suddenly there was a rumbling explosion on the far side of the building, the whole place shook all the way down to its foundations. The floor tiles rippled beneath our feet. Lab equipment vibrated to the edge of the tables and fell with a crash to the ground.
The man I’d shot writhed in pain, but he was laughing in triumph, still chanting, “Seif al Din!”
The Sword of the Faithful. The holy weapon of God.
The deep-throated roar of the explosions slowly subsided.
“Mother of God!” gasped Bunny.
“That oughta tell the cavalry to come running,” said Top. There was a sound in the hall and he leaned out. “Shit. We got company.”
“Walkers?” I demanded.
A barrage of bullets pinged and whined as Top ducked out of the doorway and back-kicked the door closed. Bullets pelted the heavy steel. “Not as such,” Top said dryly.
“Those are AKs,” Bunny said, listening to the gunfire. “Not our boys.”
“Cavalry’s always late,” Top muttered as he threw the locks.
Bunny grabbed the remaining scientist and punched him in the stomach then snapped plastic cuffs on him. “Deal with you later, shitbag.” He crossed to Ollie and slashed at his bonds with a folding knife. “How you doing, hoss?”
Ollie spat blood onto the floor. “I’ve had better days.”
Chapter Sixty-Four
Crisfield, Maryland / Wednesday, July 1; 3:32 A.M.
“MA’AM, I’VE LOST the signal,” reported the tech who was hunched over the communications board inside one of the ambulances. He tried another line, then another. “Cell lines are out, too. We haven’t yet set up the landline to ops. We’re blind and deaf. Everything’s being jammed by a very powerful transmitter. Has to be military grade, nothing else could cut us off this bad.”
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