The agent continued shouting, although, I couldn’t make out anything he was saying, I could imagine he was telling the once-man-thing to stay the hell down. Dumbass, I thought.
All at once, the mechanic seemed to spring into a standing position and lunge at the officer. The Homeland agent recoiled back and raised his weapon. He let out a savage three-round burst that struck the mechanic square in the chest. A red mist exploded from the attacking man’s back and shower the ground behind in gore. I watched in horror as the mechanic continued his assault, not having been slowed by the barrage of lead. He reached his victim and grabbed the offending weapon in one hand and latched onto the agent’s shoulder with the other.
Other agents who were standing in close proximity finally seemed to react. Stunned at first, I imagine having never seen any real violence since the initial terrorist attacks in 2011 that had formed their agency. They ran to aid their fellow officer, but they were too late. I watched helplessly from the confines of my truck, powerless as the mechanic bit deep into the agent’s neck region, tearing through the soft material of his balaclava, sending jets of blood spurting high into the air. The agent, seemingly in a last ditch effort, squeezed the trigger of his weapon, sending a barrage of 9 mm rounds harmlessly into the air.
“Kyle!” Marvin shouted and brought my attention away from the window.
Turning toward him, I noticed he was staring at something out of the side window. I followed his gaze. The horde of people that had been relentlessly pounding on our truck had suddenly galvanized and began to move away. Moving toward new and easier prey, like sharks drawn to a drop of blood scattered in the sea, they headed in the direction of the fallen agent and his fellow officers to our rear. Gunshots erupted from all over the area. I dove for cover instinctively, inwardly slapping myself as I came to the realization that I was standing in an armored truck. Poorly aimed shots bounced off the hull of our vehicle, sending shots skittering across the glossy black paint job on the Specter Armored car. I made my way once again to the rear of the truck and took position at the window to watch the carnage.
Through the dirty, greasy window, I watched the horde descend on the unsuspecting fools who had positioned themselves around the area.
“Shit, shit, shit!” I exclaimed as I watched the horror unfold, feeling completely helpless. I wanted to jump out and do something. I saw the crowd plow into the group of unsuspecting officers, but what the hell could I do? All I had was this stupid six-shooter and a shotgun . . . Wait.
“The shotgun!” I shouted and scanned the interior of the truck, trying to locate the newly acquired tactical shotgun. “Marvin, where the hell is the shotty?” I said, looking at a confused driver.
He looked at me, and then behind his seat. Quickly and without question, he reached behind the seat and withdrew the black steel weapon and handed it to me.
Its large black frame felt heavy in my hands; I motioned to him to hand me the carton of buckshot that he had hidden in his bag. The cop that was with us regarded me and nodded, sensing what I was about to do and made himself ready. The sounds of gunfire and screams of pain intensified, and from what I had seen previously, it wouldn’t take long for those men who had been bitten to turn and join the assault against their own comrades. I frantically loaded the Mossberg and watched the cop eject and check his magazine.
Marvin’s mouth hung open, looking to me, and then to the officer. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said with a twinge of fear entering his voice.
“We need to help these guys, Marvin,” I stated flatly, my mind already made up.
Marvin furrowed his brow. “The hell you do! I say we aim this truck and that line of SUVs and bash our way through, and then get the hell out of here,” Marvin said, shooting me an angered look.
“Marvin, think it through. How many cars do you think we can knock out of the way before the engine either burns out or is simply crushed?” I said.
Marvin shook his head, and then realization hit him like a ton of bricks. He knew as well as I did the hull of our truck was armored; however, the engine compartment was not. There may be three-fourth-inch steel wrapped around the entirety of the cabin cargo area as well as three-inch ballistic glass; however, only a thin layer of fiberglass covered the entirety of the engine compartment. The sturdy bumper would probably knock a few vehicles out of the way; however, as soon as one smacked into the hood, it was game over, and we would be trapped like rats in a barrel at sea.
When Marvin had come to my aid earlier, he had managed to ram several vehicles out of the way, but part of me figured that had a lot to do with a bit of luck being on our side. I wasn’t quite sure at how much further our luck would hold out. No, we stood a better chance of getting out of here if we thinned out the herd a bit; perhaps the favor wouldn’t go unnoticed with Homeland. As the old saying goes, “You scratch our backs, and we’ll scratch yours.”
“Well, fuck it then! If that’s the way you’re gonna be, I’m coming with you,” Marvin spat, reaching for his sidearm. He carried a silver Glock .45 caliber pistol with a faux wooden grip. I looked at my friend and partner of ten years, and shook my head no.
“Marvin . . .” I paused considering my words. “I need you, hell, we need you here.” I smacked the hard steel door of the truck with the palm of my hand for emphasis. “We’re gonna need someone to let us back in here if things get too hairy. Besides, even if you left the doors open and came with us, what’s to stop these bastards from climbing right inside and cutting us off from our only means of escape?” I said in all seriousness.
Marvin scowled but acquiesced to my orders, which was a good thing. Fact of the matter was, if Marvin had put his foot down, I didn’t know what I was going to do; there was no real way I could have stopped him from coming with us if he was dead set on it. Thankfully, he let common sense reign.
“Fine, but don’t go getting your asses killed.” He pointed a stubby finger in my direction. “If I have to explain to your wife that I let you die out here, she’ll cut my balls off, and hang them from her rearview mirror.” Marvin seemed to squirm uncomfortably in his seat. I nodded in compliance, knowing for a fact that my little fiery Italian woman was perfectly capable of raining fury down on those she deemed deserving.
“Yes, Mom,” I said, cutting a crooked smile. I sat there for a moment transfixed on the gray metal of the truck interior. I took in a deep breath, trying to clear my mind. I cocked the Mossberg to chamber a round, then I reached down to my holster and unsnapped my .357. It was always a good idea to be ready to rock ‘n’ roll rather than get your ass chewed off fucking around with a stupid snap.
I glanced over at the police officer who was riding with us; it was at that moment I realized I still had no idea what the hell his name was. I couldn’t very well go around calling him Officer Dick-head, although the name fit quite well, I thought. I looked over at the man sitting across from me. His gray police uniform was covered in dirt and grime, and torn in several places; he had close-cropped blond hair and a scar on his right cheek. His hardened brown eyes spoke volumes of a tough life. I noticed he only had one stripe on his arm, indicating that he was a patrolman. He looked to be in his mid-forties, more than likely a career cop still stuck at the low level of patrolman. I regarded him for a moment, wondering why that was, but quickly dismissed the thought.
“I’m Kyle by the way.” I reached out my hand in a vain attempt at a long overdue introduction.
“Richard,” he stated simply and looked at my hand.
I had to forcefully bite back the urge to laugh my ass off. Richard, Dick, was his actual name. If he told me his last name was head, I was going to lose it.
“So are you cocksuckers going to get off my rig, or are you going to start reading each other poetry,” Marvin snapped gruffly, calling me back from my internal ministrations. I shook my head, stepped over to the door, peered out of the window, and scanned the immediate area. The expanse around the truck seemed to be clear, the strang
e people having taken more of an interest in the influx of free-roaming Homeland Security agents that now strolled around the road. I looked over my shoulder.
“You ready, Dick?” I said, holding the Mossberg across my chest.
“It’s Richard,” the officer chided through gritted teeth.
The heavy rain outside pelted the windows, making visibility difficult beyond the rear of the truck. I glanced over at Marvin, and he nodded uncertainly. I gripped the shotgun, with white knuckles, and Marvin pushed the bus bar, opening the door with an audible pop. Rain assaulted my face and salty sweat on my forehead ran down my skin and stung my eyes. Rubbing the liquid away, I allowed my eyes to adjust to the din.
I stepped onto the small stairs and descended to the ground. My eyes darted back and forth, frantically scanning the area for threats. I took a second to process all that I had seen in that short moment; our area, at least for a hundred yards or so that could be seen, appeared to be clear. Beyond that, Homeland agents were locked in what sounded like a full-fledged battle. Officer Richard stepped out behind me. I cast a quick glance over the guardrail of the highway, down a grassy embankment, looking for any other potential avenues for escape should we not be able to make it back to our armored sanctuary. A very steep incline down to the street below took that option off the table, lest we end up as roadkill. I shuddered slightly at that thought.
We walked swiftly and quietly to the rear of my truck, our footsteps splashing on the wet asphalt. We pressed up to the side and cautiously peered out into the falling rain. Cars set scattered all over the roadway beyond, rain pouring in sheets off their painted surfaces. Steam arose from overheated hoods as engines on some of the derelict vehicles still ran, emptied of their previous inhabitance. Acrid smoke filled the air and stung my nostrils; I’ve heard guys on the gun range often refer to this particular scent as the smell of cordite, in actuality it was most likely the scent of nitrocellulose, one of the common components in modern day gunpowder, in any case the amount that hung in the air added with the biting aroma of burning metal made my nose want to retreat to the inside of my face.
To my left, I heard sounds of a struggle. Fifty yards from my position, I could just barely make out the shape of two men. A Homeland agent, I realized, was pinned to the ground by what looked like a giant. A large gelatinous man sat atop him struggling to bite the man in the face.
The agent held the monsters girth at bay, but just barely. The fat man, I noticed as we approached, wore a tattered gray buttoned-up shirt, and a red ball cap. A truck driver, I realized. The fat man easily topped four hundred pounds.
The Homeland Security agent’s arms twitched like dried kindling ready to snap. His arms shook violently trying to hold the man-beast’s gnashing teeth away from him. He didn’t have much time.
Quickly, I ran toward them, not wanting to use my shotgun for fear of hitting the officer. I sprinted, reared my leg back, and landed a savage kick to the truck driver’s kidney. Any normal man would have crumpled into a ball clutching his side and more than likely would have been pissing blood for weeks. The fat beast, however, didn’t even register the pain that should have followed. I drew my boot back and struck again and again, each blow just barely jiggling the man’s fat girth.
A hot wisp of air whizzed past my ear, and the top of the man’s head cracked open like a walnut. Blood shot from the newly formed wound as the report of the cop’s .44 Mag reached my eardrums.
The fat trucker ceased moving and landed squarely on top of the Homeland agent, its dead weight pinning the man to the damp ground. The man pushed with all his might, trying desperately to dislodge himself from under the dead trucker’s bulk. Richard and I ran swiftly over to assist the Homeland agent, feet slapping against the wet pavement. I grabbed the fat man by the collar of his soaked gray shirt and pulled. I felt the muscles in my back strain, and my spine start to pop. The fabric of the man’s shirt started to slip from my grasp. A little known fact, rain-slick fabric and blood do not make good gripping material. Richard quickly grabbed the fat man’s belt, and with our combined effort, we managed to move the beastly figure off to one side, rolling him onto his back. Blood oozed out of the trucker’s head wound and mixed with the falling water. It spread out in a pool surrounding the body, seeping into the gravel and dirt. The blood was strange and didn’t look normal, almost too red I thought, more of a burnt orange.
The Homeland agent rolled to his side, gasping for air and coughing all the while. I stepped over to try and help him to his feet, but he waved me off.
“Thanks,” he said, his voice sounding raw and strained. He propped himself up and took some deep shuddering breaths, and after a moment, he got to his feet and composed himself. He cast us a glance and nodded. He swung the MP5 that still hung from a strap wrapped around his shoulder into his arms. He checked the magazine and looked squarely at us. “I didn’t even have time to get a shot off,” he said visibly shaken. He popped the magazine back into the weapon.
We heard more screams in the distance.
“Come on. We need to see if we can help the others,” the agent said and sprinted off in the direction of the screams, swiftly disappearing into the rain and gunpowder-laden haze. I looked at Richard and shrugged. Hoisting my shotgun into the ready position, we began to jog in the direction the Homeland agent had taken off in.
I glanced back once more at the dead man lying on the ground, blood continuing to stream out in bright red-orange tendrils as if it had a mind of its own, like it possessed some kind of sinister purpose. His red ball cap still clung to his head, a ragged hole blown in the top. His bloodshot eyes remained open, collecting droplets of rain water that pooled into his sunken orbital sockets. Shuddering, I turned my attention forward and continued moving in the direction of screams and gunfire.
Richard ran beside me silently. A blank look etched across his face. I wondered if the man was in shock. I would have to keep a close eye on the officer, not wanting him to do something stupid that might get us both killed. We continued forward, expecting the worst.
Interlude 2
Director Hammond paced the length of his office, frequently glancing at the clock hanging above the door, then at the black and gold old-fashioned telephone that set atop his desk.
“Damn it,” he cursed to himself. Almost an hour had passed by since he had dispatched a team led by Agent Bishop to retrieve vital records being transported via armored car to their medical research facility in Bethesda Maryland. The records by themselves were not damning in the least; however, if combined with the other five reports, they could definitely do some damage. Several months ago, they had received intel of a biological weapon that had been obtained by a known terrorist organization operating within the U.S. borders. True, they received such threats almost on a daily basis, whether it be dirty bombs, suitcase nukes, cyber-terrorism, you name it, they saw it. This particular tip was not so much any more threatening than any of the others, except that their teams had managed to procure a sample of this particular bug. They had intersected a cell just outside of Washington, D.C. The assailants apparently meant to release the pathogen during one of the President’s press conferences.
They had disguised themselves as reporters for the Washington Herald. Acting on a tip from an informant, they managed to catch the would-be assassins, more or less, out of luck. With the blanket of national security, they had been able to setup checkpoints along the back roads and interstates that led into the Washington, D.C. area. Armed with the knowledge their informant had provided, they managed to stumble upon three individuals matching the assailant’s descriptions.
The first search of the vehicle and its inhabitants turned out to be a bust; however, under orders, the men were detained. After they were taken into custody, their clothing was removed, and more thoroughly searched using the latest scanning technology. The scan revealed a series of small syringes no bigger than a strand of human hair located in normal pat-down areas that most police and security forces were
trained to utilize. Their plan, apparently, had been simple but brilliant. Knowing security would have found any kind of explosive devices, aerosols or large syringes, weapons or even small vials, they had implanted hair-like needles within the groin and armpit areas of their suits, designed to be brushed over on the way up and catch the tender flesh of the hand on the way down. The infected needles would then break off in the hand of the security personnel, like an invisible splinter. The thin nitrile gloves that the security officers would have worn would not have protected them in the least. The security forces would have then proceeded into the building and somehow manage to infect everyone they had come into contact with. Not much at this time was known about the pathogen, other than it was designed to take out everyone at the press conference, including the President.
In the weeks following, their scientists had discovered it was some kind of prion disease, something similar to—Hammond searched his memory for the name—kuru, yes that was it. The disease also exhibited similarities of hemorrhagic fever, a horrible disease in which the carrier would crash and bleed, infecting anyone who came into contact with contaminated blood. However, this viral component was merely speculation at this point. Hammond had absolutely no idea what the two diseases had in common with each other or even what they did. According to Homeland’s medical science division, the prion disease would have taken years to do any real damage, although hemorrhagic infection pretty much guaranteed a quick and gruesome death. But then what was the purpose of the prion? What would be the point of releasing a disease that would take years to kill you? Hammond thought to himself. It was above his scope of knowledge; however, politics were more his area of expertise. So the preliminary findings and the pathogen itself were being shipped to one of their bioweapons research labs.
Their field office in Arbutus was not equipped with the materials or the equipment needed to detect any other anomalies in the disease cocktail. So they had shipped it to their biolab, in the most discreet way possible. The biolab, otherwise known as the ARC (American Research Centers), housed some of the world’s most notorious diseases: Ebola, Anthrax, weaponized small pox, plague. To the public’s knowledge, there were only two-level five biolabs in the entire country: the CDC in Atlanta, and the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Disease, otherwise known as USAMRIID. In truth, there were somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty-five of these labs spread nationwide. Most of which were privately owned by powerful pharmaceutical companies who had enough clout to buy the cooperation of the U.S. Government.
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