Patient Zero

by Maberry, Jonathan

  Ollie Brown and Special Agent Michael O’Brien.

  Chapter One Hundred Seventeen

  Grace / The Bell Chamber / Saturday, July 4; 12:13 P.M.

  “MAJOR . . . WATCH!” BUNNY yelled, and Grace whirled just as the anchorwoman for Channels 6 News leaped at her from the podium. The anchor’s skin was wax-white and her eyes as round and empty as silver dollars, but she growled with hunger as she lunged for Grace’s throat.

  “Bloody hell!” Grace shot the woman twice in the face. Blood splattered the faces of the three snarling figures that were mounting the steps behind her.

  “What the hell are you doing?” screamed Mrs. Collins, and she made a grab for Grace’s gun arm and succeeded in pulling it down so that the next round chopped a divot out of the marble floor and ricocheted up to punch a red hole through the thigh of the Canadian ambassador. The ambassador dropped with a shriek of pain and instantly two of the walkers leaped from the podium and pounced on him. Grace wrestled with the Vice President’s wife, who had a surprising amount of wiry strength and in the end she had to let go with her left hand and chop Mrs. Collins on the side of the neck. It dropped the woman to her knees and Grace tore her gun arm free just as the third walker dove at her. Grace put two rounds in him and the corpse skidded to a stop inches from Mrs. Collins.

  IT WAS COMPLETE pandemonium in the Bell Chamber as the infected who had lapsed into comas instantly snapped awake as walkers and attacked the crowd. Even with the warnings Grace, Brierly, and Rudy had given them about the nature of the infection the fifteen remaining Secret Service agents faltered, hesitating, unable to open fire on citizens, congressmen, and dignitaries.

  Bunny muscled one dazed agent out of the way just as a journalist from the Daily News was about to grab him. The hulking sergeant snaked out a hand and caught the walker by the throat, buried his borrowed polymer pistol against the creature’s head and fired. He flung the corpse into the path of a second walker and killed that one, but then six of them came at him in a bunch and he fell back, dragging the startled agent with him.

  “Fire, goddamn it!” Bunny yelled, and the agent seemed to snap out of his stupor. They found a clear patch of floor and the pair of them made their stand, opening up with both guns. Bunny had four shots left and used them all; the agent wasted an entire clip to bring down just one walker.

  That left two from the pack still on their feet. Bunny stepped in and kicked the lead one in the stomach and when it doubled over he arched up and then brought his balled fist down as hard as he could on the back of the exposed skull. The walker immediately went into a boneless sprawl; but his companion just kept coming. He was three steps out when a shot snapped his head back. Bunny turned to see the agent, reloaded now, holding his smoking pistol in a two-hand grip.

  BEHIND THEM RUDY, holding a flagpole, stood his ground between a huddled group of Girl Scouts and a walker in a Hawaiian shirt with toucans on it. The walker took a step forward but then ducked back away from the swing of the pole. Rudy frowned. He’d seen all of the tapes of the DMS encounters with the walkers, and he’d noted that they never flinched, never dodged. They lacked the cognitive powers to do it, and even their unnatural reflexes did not include any defensive reactions. And yet this one dodged once, twice.

  And he smiled.

  He pointed a crooked finger at the little girls behind Rudy and then he did something else walkers can’t do. He spoke.

  “Mine!”

  “Dios mio!” breathed Rudy, and the idea of a walker still capable of thought and deliberate action nearly took the heart out of him. But the whimpers of the girls behind him put strength in his hands. He held his ground.

  AHMED, BROTHER OF Amirah, lover of Andrea Lester and El Mujahid’s chief agent in the United States, leered at Rudy and the girls. He felt amazing, immensely powerful and more completely alive than ever. The Generation Twelve pathogen burned like wildfire in his veins and when he had come awake moments ago he was overwhelmed by the clarity of focus it bestowed. Even after a life lived in dedication to the teachings of the Prophet he had never before understood so completely. The will of Allah was a white-hot light in his brain.

  Consumed by his purpose and bursting with immortal power, he rushed forward to do the will of God. As the flagpole swung at him he caught it with one palm and with the other he grabbed Rudy Sanchez by the throat.

  Chapter One Hundred Eighteen

  The Liberty Bell Center / Saturday, July 4; 12:14 P.M.

  I RAISED MY pistol and put the laser sight on Ollie Brown who had a Glock in his hand though the barrel was pointed down at the floor.

  “You fucking bastard,” I said, and slipped my finger inside the trigger guard, but before I could fire a gunshot shattered the air. Ollie gave me a crooked smile and when he opened his mouth blood gushed over his chin. Ollie dropped his pistol and staggered forward and I realized that O’Brien had shot him. The CIA assassin stumbled, dropped to hands and knees, fighting to keep his head raised. He looked up at me, his eyes glazing.

  “S . . . sorry . . .” he said, though his voice was a gurgle. “I . . . I . . .”

  And then he collapsed onto the floor.

  O’Brien began to raise his gun toward me.

  “Drop the weapon!” I snarled. “Do it now!”

  “Or what?” he asked, and suddenly his voice was different, no longer the bland American accent he had used before. Now he sounded British. “What will you do? Shoot me?” He laughed. “What do I care?”

  “Say the word,” Top murmured from behind me, “and we’ll waste this shitbag.”

  “Drop it,” I warned. “Last chance.”

  O’Brien closed his eyes for a moment. He was bathed in sweat and his color was bad. He lowered his pistol and then took a sagging sideways step; but his hand snaked out fast as a cobra and caught the doorframe to keep him from falling.

  I took a cautious forward step, my pistol rock-steady, the laser sight tattooed on the front of his muscular chest. The agent shook his head as if trying to clear his thoughts, the pistol hung from his hand but he had not dropped it. On the floor I could see Ollie’s fingers open and close slowly. There was a bullet hole in the back of his sports coat from which blood still bubbled sluggishly. I couldn’t have cared less, though. If he was dying, then let him die. Saying that he was sorry didn’t hold much weight for me.

  “Drop the gun,” I commanded.

  Behind me I could hear Top and Skip moving closer. O’Brien was outnumbered and outgunned.

  And still the son of a bitch made a try for it. He raised his head and smiled at me, and I could see that there was something odd about his face. The heavy sweat that soaked his face seemed to be washing the color out of him. His freckles looked like they were melting, and I could see a faint jagged line beneath his skin as if he had a thick scar running diagonally across his face. Was he wearing . . . makeup?

  O’Brien looked at me, his eyes going in and out of focus. Then I saw the muscles around his eyes tighten as he suddenly whipped his gun up and screamed: “Allah akbar!”

  I shot him twice in the chest.

  The impact slammed him back through the doorway and he collapsed into the darkness of the office beyond. He went down hard and I could hear the crunch of elbows, skull, and heels as he struck the linoleum floor.

  The moment stretched as a haze of gun smoke washed the air with a faint gray.

  All I could see was the soles of his shoes, but after a single twitch he stopped moving. I didn’t trust it, though, and I kept my pistol on him as I moved into the room, crouched and pressed fingers to his throat.

  Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  I felt some of the tension leave me and I rose and went back into the main room, but I was frowning. The tips of the fingers I’d used to check his pulse were smeared with color and I sniffed it. I was right: stage makeup.

  “Nice shot, boss,” Top said. He lowered his piece but didn’t put it away. He knelt down to check on Ollie, but his face showed his distas
te for the effort wasted. “He’s alive. Maybe he’ll live long enough to hang. Traitorous prick.”

  Skip was standing behind him, staring past me. He bent and picked up Ollie’s pistol and then retreated to stand beside the First Lady, who was staring in renewed horror.

  “Jesus,” Skip breathed, his eyes fixed on O’Brien. “You actually killed him.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “that sometimes happens when you shoot someone.”

  “Shame you can’t collect the reward,” Skip said.

  “What reward?”

  He gave me a quirky grin. “For bagging El Mujahid, boss. Last I heard there was a million-dollar reward for him.”

  I frowned, puzzled. “The hell are you talking about?”

  Skip nodded past me. “O’Brien. He’s El Mujahid. You didn’t figure that out?”

  I turned and glanced down at the big corpse, then looked back at Skip. “How the hell do you know that?”

  Skip raised both guns. He put the barrel of one against the First Lady’s temple and pointed the other at my face.

  “A little bird told me,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

  Son of a bitch.

  Chapter One Hundred Nineteen

  Gault and Amirah / The Bunker

  GAULT TURNED BACK to face Amirah. Her hunger and hate were so strong that the metal wall between them felt paper-thin. He glanced down at his watch and felt his heart skip a beat. The team from Global Security should have been here by now.

  “Are you expecting someone, Sebastian?” Amirah purred.

  “You can’t win this,” he retorted. “I won’t let you destroy everything.”

  Her face darkened. “Won’t let me? What does it matter what you want? It is the will of Allah that matters. That is the only thing that matters.”

  Fury was beginning to burn away his grief. “You know, I’m getting so bloody tired of religious tirades, my dear. Why don’t I shoot you and then you can go and see your god.”

  She ignored the threat. “There’s someone out here who wants to talk to you, Sebastian.”

  He took a cautious half step forward as she moved back to allow him a better view. Down below the moans and screams had intensified. There was blood splashed on the walls as the infected who had transitioned first had now turned on those who had not yet succumbed. What he saw was a picture out of a nightmare, a Hieronymus Bosch painting come to terrible life; but that wasn’t what Amirah wanted to show him. Instead a second figure stepped into view.

  It was Anah, a young woman Gault knew to be a cousin of El Mujahid. She had the same dreamy half-mad look as Amirah, and the same gray skin, but the young woman’s mouth was smeared with red and in her hands she held something so grotesque that Gault had to clamp a hand to his mouth to keep from vomiting.

  Anah carried the head of Captain Zeller. The leader of the Global Security rescue team.

  Gagging, Gault thrust the barrel of the pistol through the observation slot and fired shot after shot into Anah, punching holes through her chest and face, staggering her back to the metal rail and then blasting her over. Anah fell without a scream and crashed down into the mass of creatures fighting below.

  “You mad bitch!” he screamed at Amirah and shot her. His first bullet hit her in the stomach. Amirah staggered back and her face twisted into a grimace of agony.

  No . . .

  Not pain. Amirah was laughing. She whirled and ran along the corridor as Gault fired after her, trying to hit her, needing to kill her, wanting her death. He hit her at least three more times until she was so far down the corridor that he could no longer get an angle for a useful shot. He knew that he’d hit her, he’d seen her robes fluff out with the impacts, had seen blood splash the walls. But Amirah hadn’t even slowed down . . . and as she ran she called his name in a mocking laugh.

  The slide on Gault’s pistol locked back and he reeled away from the slot, gasping, blood roaring in his ears. With trembling fingers he fumbled for a new magazine and slapped it into place. Sweat coursed down his face and chest.

  He had a flash of panic and pulled out his sat phone, but Toys did not answer. No help was coming. He was alone. Panic howled in his head.

  Amirah knew about the secret passages he’d built into the place. If she and El Mujahid had been playing him then there was a good chance she’d somehow hacked into his computer. The network of hidden passages was on there. And, dammit, so were the detonation codes he had created to blow this place to atoms. Okay, that option was gone. Just as the rescue was gone.

  He had two full magazines plus the one in the gun, which gave him about a third as many bullets as he would need even if every shot was a kill, and that was unlikely.

  “Head shots, you bloody fool.” He cursed himself for wasting a chance to kill that witch.

  Witch. He’d called her that so many times that now it came back to haunt him. It was more accurate a label than he had ever known. What she had done was the blackest kind of sorcery. A true deal with the devil, and it occurred to Gault that it hadn’t been cuckold’s horns that El Mujahid had worn. They were the king and queen of Hell. Damn them both.

  He paused at a T-juncture in the corridor. To his left he could hear the hiss of hydraulics as someone—Amirah or one of her monsters—opened a doorway to his right. Okay, he thought, that simplifies things; and he took the other fork of the juncture.

  There was only one more thing that he could do. One final chance left to stop Amirah’s doomsday scheme. At least the part of it that she wanted to launch here in the Middle East. He only hoped the American had been able to somehow warn the authorities before things got out of control over there. He rushed down the hallway, knowing that his one chance was slim, and even then he had almost no hope of surviving. Somehow it amused him to think that he might actually sacrifice himself to save the world.

  “God . . . they really will think I’m a saint now,” he mused. He almost laughed as he raced along through the shadows.

  Chapter One Hundred Twenty

  The Liberty Bell Center / Saturday, July 4; 12:16 P.M.

  I STARED AT Skip. “You?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “What . . . you thought it was Dudley Do-Right over there?” He jerked his head at Ollie.

  “You piece of shit,” growled Top, but Skip jabbed the First Lady with the pistol. She sat rigid and terrified, her eyes locked on mine, pleading silently for me to do something. But Skip held all the best cards.

  “Put your piece down, boss,” Skip ordered. “Two fingers, nice and slow. Now kick it away. Good. The knife, too. You, too, Top. You even think about doing anything funny and I pop the lady first.”

  “Why?” I demanded. “What’s your stake in all this?”

  “Well,” he said with a grin, “if you’re wondering if I’ve embraced the teachings of the prophet Mohammad, then no. I’ve pretty much embraced ten million dollars in an offshore account.”

  “You’re doing this for money?”

  “Of course I’m doing it for money.”

  “That doesn’t make sense . . . you fought side by side with us against these things.”

  “Yeah, and it’s the best cover story in the world. And that whole ‘Taser’ thing was a setup. Cute, huh? Once you and the others went to explore the crab plant I slipped into the hidden passage. Oh, don’t look surprised. They downloaded the whole floor plan to me before we ever set out. We planned the whole thing via text messages—it went off like clockwork. I told them to take out one of the other guys with a liquid Taser and then I faked my own abduction. I had to fake my own burn with a lighter, but we all make sacrifices. The rest was window dressing to confuse things. I pop caps in a bunch of walkers, rub dust in my eyes to get the tears flowing, and then wait to be rescued. I should get a frickin’ Academy Award. That Courtland bitch bought it hook, line, and sinker. And if you’re wondering about the fight in the laboratory, I’d have made it out of there, too. There was an exit door behind the last meds chest, right near where I was standing. I’m su
re Jerry Spencer will probably find it eventually, not that it’ll matter now. If that asswipe Dietrich had been another ten seconds slower I’d have ducked out as soon as you guys started getting chomped.”

  “You’re a real piece of work.”

  “Just doing my job. Funny thing is, I wasn’t even supposed to be the point man for this gig. Lieutenant Colonel Hanley was supposed to step up and lead Echo Team, with me as his backup, but then you come along and go all Jackie Chan on him. Ah well. More cash for me.”

  “And Room Twelve . . . ?”

  He shrugged. “Couldn’t let you interrogate the tech from the Delaware lab. That hit hadn’t been part of the plan and they weren’t ready for you. I never even got a chance to send a warning ’cause we were wheels up so fast. So I opened Room Twelve, popped a cap in the prisoner, and let the walkers out to play. If you guys hadn’t cleaned it up so fast I would have gotten there and played hero . . . but it worked out okay.”

  “Don’t you realize the people you’re working with are trying to start a plague that will wipe out—”

  He cut me off with a laugh. “Oh come on, Captain . . . you don’t buy any of that shit, do you. We fed you the clues. This was even timed to happen right before the Fourth so that there would be some concerns about this event. I was tickled pink when I heard that we were coming down here ’cause it meant that absolutely everything was falling into place. We gave you everything you need to stop the plague before it goes anywhere. All you have to do is spend a shitload of money on research and inoculation. That Chink doctor from the DMS is already working on a treatment. There are enough agents and cops here in Philly to keep the infection contained. None of this was ever going to get out of the center. You’ll be happy to know that was the last planned release of the plague. Nah . . . this isn’t about the end of the world, it’s just about the moolah. Always has been, always will be.”