by Brian Nelson
Eric’s elation at the prospect of being rescued was suddenly replaced by trepidation. For now … He remembered the night of the fire, when Curtiss had let them walk into Anderson Hall, ready to sacrifice their lives for a “greater good.”
Curtiss still hoped to rescue them. But at any moment, he might change his mind and decide that if he couldn’t recover his scientists, he would at least deprive his enemy of the prize. Then he would tell Corporal Davis to fill the cabin with gunfire. And while Eric’s armor might protect him from a bullet, it would not protect him if O’Lane got shot in the back of the head and the car crashed.
The Caddy rushed up another ramp, tires screeching, and they burst onto Interstate 495, a six-lane superhighway. O’Lane swerved madly through the heavier, slow-moving traffic, trying to shake Curtiss off his tail. He whipped around a tractor trailer, then a minivan, nearly sideswiping a little sedan. O’Lane slid back and forth between the other cars, trying to keep any vehicle between the Caddy and Curtiss, to deny the marine a clear shot.
As they neared the river, the fog thickened to whiteout conditions. Suddenly, red taillights leaped out at them once more. Toyota Prius 11. Eric gasped and threw his hand out as if he might push the little car away. O’Lane jerked the wheel left, but this time he wasn’t quick enough. The Caddy jolted as they hit the corner of the Prius, spinning it violently to Eric’s side of the highway. In that split millisecond, Eric caught a flashbulb image of the driver—suspended in precatastrophe, oblivious and still on his cell phone—as his car spun around once, twice. Then it struck the concrete wall of the bridge, erupting from the inside in a plume of white powdery airbags.
O’Lane rushed on, undaunted, his right headlight gone. Eric turned again in his seat. Ryan, too, was craning his neck to see. In their wake, all traffic had stopped around the wrecked Prius. He strained to pick out Curtiss’s truck, but couldn’t see it. His heart sank. It was over.
O’Lane nodded to himself, ever so slightly. “The old Indian wasn’t so difficult to handle after all,” he whispered.
Then Eric looked once more and saw the unmistakable lights of the old Chevy pickup dip onto the shoulder and surge back onto the road.
O’Lane squinted into the rearview mirror, mumbled a curse, then slid open the compartment that separated the two front seats. Inside were about twenty silver cylinders with red and yellow checkered tops. For some reason, they reminded Eric of “travel-size” cans of shaving cream. But the red and yellow tops denoted danger, and when O’Lane pulled one out, Eric saw the distinct pineapple grooves of an old-fashioned hand grenade.
With his elbow, Brock cleared the pellets of safety glass from his shattered window. Using his thumb, he popped the top off the grenade, pulled out the pin with his teeth. He paused a moment, crossed in front of a Honda CRV, and dropped the grenade out the window. It bounced on the pavement with a metallic slap, disappeared under the Honda, and exploded harmlessly behind it in a brief flash of light, leaving a perfect thirty-foot-wide hole in the fog. A second later, Curtiss’s pickup raced through the hole, roiling the fog and pulling a miniature tornado in his wake.
One thing was for sure, these were no ordinary grenades—the huge hole it made in the fog proved that.
O’Lane seemed to consider the event like a computer processing data. Then he pulled out a second grenade.
What is he doing? thought Eric. The grenade had exploded nowhere near Curtiss.
They careened around a slow-moving convoy of six or seven cars, O’Lane swerving in and out. Up ahead was a silver Lexus, pimped out in pink and purple, riding low in the center lane. O’Lane blew past it, pulled the pin from the second grenade. His eyes focused on the rearview mirror, judging the distance. Eric and Ryan were transfixed, staring at his closed fist.
BANG!
The Caddy lurched, and the grenade popped out of O’Lane’s hand, bounced on the center console, and fell to the floor between Eric’s feet. There was a flatulent flap-flap-flap-flap sound from the back of the Caddy, and they began losing speed. Davis had managed to shoot out one of the tires.
All was panic inside the car.
“Find the grenade or we all die,” O’Lane said calmly as he flicked on the interior light.
“Find it!” Ryan screamed.
Eric was already fumbling for it with both hands, but it rolled backward under the seat. “I can’t … Ryan!”
The grenade rolled up against Ryan’s shoe, and he opened the door and kicked it out. It bounced once and exploded, rocking the SUV and sending shrapnel through the back quarter panel.
There was a wicked hiss of escaping air; then—pop!—the other back tire burst.
“You’re going to kill us all!” Ryan shouted.
O’Lane ignored him. Seeing Curtiss only 150 yards behind them, Eric felt a ray of hope. With two flat tires, the Caddy would never outrun its pursuer. But between them was a buffer of a dozen cars and trucks.
“It’s all or nothing, lads,” O’Lane said.
He began pulling grenades out as fast as he could, yanking the pins, and dropping them out the window. He swerved sluggishly, dispersing grenades across every lane.
Now Eric realized what O’Lane was doing. He wasn’t after Curtiss at all. He was trying blow up any random car, likely killing the passengers, just so he could block the road and make his escape. It gave Eric a sick feeling in his stomach. Perhaps it had been O’Lane’s long talk at the lab, his professional demeanor, his smile, or the damned English accent, but Eric had almost respected the man. Until now.
Eric and Ryan watched as grenades flashed and blew holes in the fog. Boom … boom … boom. Beautiful spheres of clarity. Then the bubbles began to catch the cars, the high-power grenades vaulting them into the air. Two cars jumped more or less simultaneously, one shot straight up and flipped onto its roof. The other car exploded where it was, sending out fiery tentacles of debris in every direction. Then a minivan caught part of an explosion under its nose and sat up like a dog, exposing its gray underside before the car behind slammed into it, spinning it like a top. Eric saw the nose of a station wagon emerge from the collision, accordioned and spewing white radiator steam. Against the median, a delivery truck dipped forward as if an invisible hammer had struck the hood, then tipped on its side, sliding across the blacktop toward them.
A big semi tried to squeeze through the only space that was no longer blocked—a narrowing gap between the shoulder and the guardrail. But it was a vain attempt. The Peterbilt bounced off the guardrail then clipped the half-demolished station wagon, spinning it around and almost ejecting the driver out the side window. Almost. Her torso was slung out and whipped about like a rag doll before being sucked back inside by the seat belt.
The semi seemed about to make it through, spewing amber sparks on both sides, when one grenade and then another exploded underneath it. The first caught the cab and made it jump, sending it harder into the guardrail. Eric noticed one of its stainless steel fuel tanks had been pierced with molten shrapnel. Perhaps due to being full, the tanks didn’t explode. Not enough oxygen inside. Rather, they began disgorging a fountain of liquid fire across the wet blacktop.
The second grenade caught the trailer, which must have been empty, because it jackknifed and tipped onto its side, on top of the growing mound of crumpled cars, before sliding back and pinning the burning cab and driver against the guardrail.
Now every lane was blocked by a huge twisted mass of metal, plastic, rubber, and flesh. But it wasn’t over. Drivers in the rear found themselves hurtling toward an impenetrable wall. The mass began to bulge and shift and grow as more cars piled in.
Even a hundred yards ahead, Eric heard the cacophony of screeching tires, grinding concussions, shrieking metal, sharp pops, and wailing car horns.
Then, just as the fog began to cloud his view, he saw a lone figure in uniform atop the mass of wreckage. Then the Caddy blew through
a fog bank, and the scene dissolved into nothingness.
* * *
“Sweet Mother of Jesus,” Curtiss said. The wreckage had to be ten feet high—at least fifteen mangled cars and trucks filled with dead and injured. But he couldn’t deal with them now. Pistol in hand, he leaped onto the hood of a Chevy, across a stretch of the median guardrail, and onto the side of the overturned panel truck. The logo—rock hall fresh seafood since 1927—was huge under his feet. And in the distance, limping along on two flat tires, was the gold Cadillac SUV. Wounded but alive. He raised the Five-seveN and took aim, but before he could fire, fog enveloped the Caddy once again.
He swore bitterly and put the pistol in its holster. The magnitude of the loss could hardly be overstated. Meng had chosen his targets astutely: Lee for his AI expertise, and Hill for his understanding of forced evolution. If the Chinese were able to break them, they could reach replication in two months.
It was at that moment that something caught his eye. It was about ten yards ahead of him, spotlighted in a headlamp beam. It was a human forearm. It had been severed cleanly just above the elbow. Very little blood. It had somehow been thrown from the accident. He could tell it belonged to a woman: it was slender with long red fingernails and a silver link bracelet.
The sight broke him out of his trance. All at once, the sounds of his surroundings came pouring in as if someone had turned off the mute button. He heard at least a dozen frantic voices. A man screaming with all his might. Hysterical, mortal screaming, like a man on fire. A woman calling desperately for help. “Please, please, someone … anyone!” Children crying in fear and confusion. The crackle of flames. The blaring of a car alarm.
He called out to Davis, who was standing by the truck, too stunned to act. “Call nine-one-one.” He pointed at the mile marker. “Tell them 695, mile one-seventy-four, inner loop. Then get Bolling to scramble the CSAR birds. After that, get the flares from under my seat. Set them a hundred yards back. And don’t get your ass hit! The last thing we need is more accidents.”
Curtiss ran to his truck and unclipped a fire extinguisher from the bed. The man had stopped screaming. He went looking for the children.
* * *
“Are you fucking happy?” Eric shouted. “Are you? All those people …” He was almost too furious for words. He shook his head in disgusted rage. “All that bullshit about the Afghan girls and caring. How many kids do you think you just killed? Huh? Maybe a few infants in their car seats, getting cooked alive right now.” His face was purple with anger. “The tides of history. What bullshit!”
Brock O’Lane felt the young man beside him getting more and more worked up, building up his courage. He felt Hill’s eyes lock on to his face, testing, feeling, like a boy getting up the nerve to jump into a cold pool.
Now.
Just as Eric was about to lunge, he found a pistol in his nose. He froze.
Eric’s courage evaporated. He was suddenly willing to do anything to get the gun out of his face. It was one thing to know empirically that the shirt worked on a pig; it was quite another to let someone shoot him in the face to prove it. Coward, the other voice in his head said. Are you gonna piss your pants again?
“Settle back, Dr. Hill,” Brock said. “Now is not the time.”
He didn’t have time for Hill’s words. Not now. They were free of Curtiss, but he had to act fast. He had to ditch the crippled Cadillac, find another vehicle, and get to the airstrip.
But in the back of his mind, he, too, was shocked by what had happened. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Not with so much collateral damage. In the moment, he had been so focused on his own survival, he hadn’t thought it through. It was only when he saw the fiery wreckage in the rearview mirror that he realized what he had done. And it had brought a heat to his face, a shame. He tried to push the feeling aside, reminded himself that he was no longer a man who felt shame.
That man had died in Afghanistan a long time ago.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Infection
March 28, 2026
Naval Research Laboratory, Washington, DC
Jane approached the door cautiously, a nervous excitement surging inside her. Was there a light on inside? Was he finally back?
She gripped the door handle and pushed, hoping it would swing open, but it was locked once again. She closed her eyes for a moment and dropped her head.
She had been coming here three and four times a day lately. She would leave her desk, telling herself she was just going for a cup of coffee, and the next thing she knew, she was here, halfway across campus, approaching Eric’s office with nervous anticipation, hoping to find him bent over his computer, just as she had found him so often before.
But once again the door was closed and locked.
It had been almost five weeks since they disappeared, and no one would tell her anything. Curtiss admitted that Ryan and Eric were together, but said it was “official navy business.” At first, she hadn’t been worried. A lot of scientists were visiting different naval bases—Norfolk, Quantico, and China Lake—to help design and test new weapons. So it was reasonable that Curtiss had sent them somewhere. Besides, at the beginning she’d been happy they were gone. She had needed a break, especially from Eric.
But after two weeks, she began to get suspicious. No phone calls, no texts, no emails? She called Ryan. “The cellular customer you are trying to reach is not available.”
She went to Curtiss’s office. “What’s going on?”
He smiled. “You need to stop asking so many questions, Ms. Hunter. I told you, they’re on official business.”
Jane didn’t like his patronizing tone. “It’s Doctor Hunter, Jim.”
Curtiss stiffened. “Okay, Dr. Hunter. Now, if you’re done wasting my time, I’d appreciate it if you would go back to doing your job.” He motioned to the door.
She let out a breath of annoyance. She wasn’t going to get anywhere, was she? “Fine,” she said, and left.
She told herself she’d just have to wait. She tried to forget about it. They would show up eventually. She put in her hours, worked out. But she couldn’t stop thinking about Eric.
At first, she had wanted to hurt him the way he had hurt her. She had dreamed about the things she would love to say. But each day that fantasy grew softer, until she deeply regretted what she had done. She had pushed him away. That was why he had lashed out at her. She was such an idiot. Only now that he was gone did she realize how stupid she’d been. And she realized something else: It was time for her to grow up. To cut the cord and stop living her life the way her father wanted. She swore that if Eric ever came back, she wouldn’t make the same mistake. She would take risks, and that meant exposing herself. Opening up. She would have to be brave in a way she had never been before.
Another week passed. Still nothing. It didn’t make any sense. Even if they were on a warship, they would still be able to send a message. Something had to be wrong.
She called Curtiss, but his assistant told her she would need an appointment. It was bullshit, but she played along. Of course, at the moment, the admiral had no openings. She would have to call back in a week. She waited another week, called back, and still got the runaround. “I’m sorry, the admiral is still booked solid until the end of the month.”
She stormed over to his office. He was just leaving with his assistant, a commander named Wilson, who was built like a power lifter and wore sunglasses as if they were permanently attached to his face. Curtiss pretended not to see her—just kept walking down the hall. Wilson put up his hand to block her and said, “I’m sorry, but the admiral can’t talk to you right now.”
She called out to him, a sudden weakness in her own voice that she didn’t like. “Curtiss … Jim. Please, just tell me where they are. Tell me they’re okay. I just need to know.” She thought her plea would elicit a human response from him, but instead he wh
eeled on her, his eyes narrow and cruel.
“I’ve told you already, Hunter, their whereabouts are confidential. That means it’s none of your goddamn business. It also means that trying to find out where they are is a violation of the law. You, of all the civilians working in this lab, should know that. Now, if I find out you’ve been snooping around trying to find them, I’m going to throw you in the fucking brig. Am I making myself clear?”
Something in her snapped. Curtiss had just told her something he hadn’t intended to: he wasn’t taking care of them. And he didn’t know whether they were safe.
All the frustration of the past five weeks. All the loneliness. All the regret for the way she had treated Eric. It suddenly came out.
“What have you done!” she shouted. “We aren’t your fucking playthings, you coldhearted bastard! We’re people, and if I find out you’ve put them in danger, I’ll gouge your fucking eyes out. You hear me? You’ll wish you’d died in Damascus with all the recon marines you let get slaughtered.”
Admiral Curtiss suddenly became very still. He stood up straight and ground his jaw as if he were chewing on something hard. Then he exhaled. “This conversation is over,” he said, and walked away.
“It’s not over, damn it!” she screamed. “I want them back!”
She tried to follow him, but Wilson blocked her. “Give it a break,” he said.
She pushed against him, grunting in frustration, but she couldn’t get by. Curtiss got in the elevator, not even bothering to look back. Then he was gone.
Jane stopped fighting and pulled back from Wilson as if she meant to leave. As soon as he relaxed, she shoved him full force with both arms. He fell right over.
“Pussy,” she muttered, and marched off.
* * *
Ten minutes later, she was outside Eric’s office again. She put her back to the door and sank to the floor, burying her head in her hands.
She felt as though she were losing her mind. The problem was, she didn’t have enough information to make a good guess. Curtiss knew it, which was why he wouldn’t tell her anything. God, it was so frustrating. The only thing she was certain about was that with each day they didn’t return, the likelihood of their ever coming back grew smaller and smaller. She knew that, somehow. She felt it in her heart.