Devon looked up at his opponent, a pale, narrow Asian boy with an intense expression. He’d been introduced at the start of the match – he’d seen the kid at other events but had never played him – but already he’d forgotten his name. The boy was sweating and squinting at the board, looked as if he hadn’t slept. He was trembling, too.
Got you scared, don’t I? You should have gotten more rest last night. In contrast, Devon was fresh and feeling good. This win would move him to the semi-finals.
The Asian kid’s hand hovered for a moment, then he moved his bishop into a position where he would, without fail, capture Devon’s queen on the next move.
Devon concealed a grin, and immediately moved one of his knights. “Check.” It was over at this point. The kid would be forced to move his king – knights couldn’t be blocked by an interposing piece – and then Devon would bring in his second knight in the final move for checkmate.
The kid really began to tremble now, his entire body shuddering like a disaster survivor pulled from icy water, and he closed his eyes as sweat ran down his temples and along the bridge of his nose to bead at the tip. A shaky hand reached out, poised over his king.
Tip it over, Devon thought. It’s all you can do.
Then the hand jerked, sweeping half the pieces off the board to clatter across the floor. Devon looked up sharply. Jesus, a temper tantrum won’t-
The Asian kid’s eyes were locked on him, glossy and dark. His lips peeled back to reveal small, white teeth, and the rumble of a growl came from somewhere deep in his chest.
What the…?
The kid launched across the chessboard, reaching as he let out an unhuman cry. Devon shoved away from the table so violently that his chair tipped and suddenly he was on his back, hitting so hard that his head bounced off the floor with a numbing thud. Snarling, the kid scrambled over the table and was on him at once. Devon kicked at the boy’s chest, trying to keep him away as he crab-crawled backward, his vision blurring from the impact, feeling like he was moving in slow motion. Somewhere in the hall a woman screamed, then a man.
The Asian kid got a grip on Devon’s school tie and pulled himself forward, tangled for an instant in the legs of the overturned chair. The other hand swiped at Devon’s face, trying to claw with fingernails. A thin, gray drool spilled from the boy’s lips. Devon tried to kick at the boy’s face, actually landed a blow with the heel of his dress shoe, right in the nose, but his attacker didn’t seem to feel it. Now lots of people were screaming, and within it was growling that wasn’t coming from the Asian boy.
There was a sharp, metallic SNAP.
Agent Handelman was there standing over them, his collapsible steel ASP baton now fully extended and raised. With a brutal, downward swing he cracked Devon’s opponent across the base of the skull, rocking the head forward.
The kid kept coming, eyes locked on his prey, teeth snapping.
CRACK! CRACK! Two more blows, the second one accompanied by the sickening sound of bone fracturing. Then blood was flowing down the Asian boy’s neck and he was sagging, eyelids fluttering and still feebly pawing at Devon. The Secret Service agent kicked the kid hard, knocking him off Devon and onto the floor, and then a strong hand was gripping the collar of Devon’s jacket and hauling him to his feet, pulling him close.
Handelman dropped the ASP and shouted into his wrist mic. “AOP Dark Horse!” Then to Devon, “Stay close to me!” He pulled his sidearm and with one hand still clamped on Devon’s collar, started running through a room full of brawling people, the air pierced by snarls and death screams.
The fifteen-year-old stayed close as ordered. He didn’t have a choice. His bodyguard had shifted his grip from the jacket collar to Devon’s neck – an almost painful hold – in order to control and steer the boy. All around them, everyone seemed to be moving, and Handelman used his own body as both a shield and a ram to charge through the chaos. Devon caught glimpses of horror; a girl in a plaid skirt and knee-high socks was savaging a teacher against a wall; two kids from his school were biting and tearing at a knot of parents trying to get out a fire exit; kids and adults alike were crying, wailing, even standing still and covering their eyes as teeth ripped into flesh and bodies fell.
Handelman dodged around an overturned table, shouldered a stumbling teacher aside and headed for a pair of large walnut doors that stood open and led into the rest of the event building. They were almost there when a shape appeared in the doorway, a slender figure in a Harrison School uniform, a boy with his mouth and hands wet with fresh blood. He sprinted toward them with glassy eyes, letting out a long wail through bared teeth, his hands coming up.
Devon recognized him. It was the thirteen-year-old from the dining hall, the gullible one who thought the Secret Service agent was Devon’s personal killer.
Handelman confirmed it when he shot the boy twice in the chest, knocking him down and racing through the doors with Devon before the body even hit the floor.
The agent released his grip on his protectee in order to shift gun hands and use his wrist mic, the two of them running down a hallway now. “Shade One to Shade Mobile, AOP. Repeat, AOP. Extracting to location two.” Doors flashed by on both sides, some of them open with screaming, fighting people beyond; professors and children suddenly thrust into life or death, hand-to-hand combat. Ahead was a pair of glass doors with sunlight streaming through them. They would lead to a parking lot, and emergency extraction point two for this building. The black Suburban carrying the Detail’s two backup agents would be racing for that point after Handelman’s broadcast, and would then whisk their principle to safety. The call of an AOP – Attack On Principle – would trigger the immediate notification of local police, the nearest Secret Service field office as well as HQ in Washington, and within minutes there would be both military and federal law enforcement helicopters in the air.
The glass doors were streaked by a sliding, bloody hand print, and the motionless body of a boy lay crumpled at their base. Handelman covered the body with his pistol and steered Devon around it and out the doors into the sunlight. Then he swept the parking lot, eyes and pistol muzzle moving together.
It was quiet. Nothing moved.
“They’re not here,” Devon said, looking through the lot for a black Suburban and seeing only parked cars. His heart was pounding, and he felt the urge to just start running.
“They’re coming,” said Handelman. He moved them to the right, behind the shelter of an ancient walnut tree growing close to the building. A teenager’s long scream drifted across the parking lot from somewhere to the distant left, followed by what might have been the sound of breaking glass. “Shade Mobile, Shade One is at the extraction point. Where are you?” He began frowning.
Devon looked at him. “What’s going on? Why aren’t they here?”
“Shade Mobile, respond.” The frown deepened.
“They’re not coming, are they?” Devon said, his pulse quickening further.
“Nope,” Handelman said, looking around. “Come on, and pick your feet up.” On the run, he led them to the right down the sidewalk in front of the event hall, passing in and out of the shade thrown by more, sprawling walnut trees. Devon didn’t need the agent’s grip on his jacket collar; he had no trouble keeping up, and no desire to do otherwise. There was no time to think about what was happening, other than the fact that people were suddenly attacking and killing each other without warning. The only certainty was that he had to do exactly what Handelman said, and not trip and fall as they ran.
They reached the corner of the event hall, a point where two tree-lined streets intersected in front of stately brick buildings with many windows. Somewhere to their rear a girl began shrieking – one of the girls come to watch a brother or classmate at the tournament? – her voice high and wavering and then abruptly cut off. Down to the right, about two hundred feet away, they saw a pair of boys in school uniforms running across the street, a pair of teachers and another student in pursuit.
Handelma
n tugged on his collar and they ran at an angle across the intersection, away from the hunters. The agent kept an eye on them over his shoulder until they were out of sight. He nodded at the building in front of them. “That’s Darby Hall, right?”
“Yes,” Devon said as they reached the sidewalk. “It’s the science building.” He pulled against Handelman as the agent headed for the entrance. “Wait, it’s Saturday, it’s going to be locked.”
“Then we won’t use the front doors.” He turned them left, and as they sped down the sidewalk they heard distant, frightened cries of boys from somewhere behind them. The hunters had caught up to their prey.
They ducked around the corner of Darby Hall and stopped in the shadows at the side of the building, pressing themselves against the brick. Handelman swept his pistol in every direction, looking for movement. When he saw none, he looked at the boy and squeezed his shoulder. “You okay?”
Devon nodded. “I’m good. Are you okay?”
Handelman grinned at his protectee’s question. “Thanks for asking. I’m good, too.” The man tried another transmission to Shade Mobile, but once again his backup didn’t respond. “We need a phone,” he said.
“Don’t you have a cell?”
“Against regulations when we’re on post. Potential distraction.”
“They don’t want you playing video games while you’re working, huh?”
Handelman shook his head. “I’m more of a Netflix guy. Do you have your cell?”
“It’s in my room.” The Harrison School had very strict policies about when and where students could use or even carry their cell phones.
“Shame on us both for following the rules,” Handelman said. He looked up at the building. “We’re going to break in, find a land-line.”
Despite what was happening and the horrors he’d seen, Devon couldn’t hold back his grin. They were going to break into a school building, and the Secret Service said it was okay. He couldn’t possibly get in trouble for it.
Handelman took them down the side of the building, eyes roaming over the nearby parking lot and glancing regularly behind them. The place was dead, no sign of movement. Even though it was Saturday and many of the students as well as most of the faculty would be off-campus, it shouldn’t be this empty. There should have been some activity.
Devon wasn’t sure if the silence and absence of life was a good sign for them or not. His protector was thinking the same thing.
“Hey,” Devon said, putting a hand on Handelman’s arm, “instead of breaking in, couldn’t we just jump someone and take their phone? Everyone has one.”
Handelman raised an eyebrow. “Jump someone? When did you start living the thug life, Dev?”
Devon blushed, but the agent gave his shoulder another squeeze. “I thought about doing that too. But cell phones all lock up automatically and we wouldn’t have the code if we just took it from someone.”
The boy felt a little better. “Borrow one, maybe?”
Handelman looked around again, lowering his voice. “I want to stay away from people right now. People who aren’t like us.”
“Secret Service and cops?”
“Kind of.”
“You mean people who aren’t crazy, goddamn freaks,” Devon said. “I saw what they were doing.”
“That’s absolutely right, Dev. And we have no way of knowing when a person who looks normal is going to turn into one of those things.” His eyes were still roaming. He tried to call the mobile back-up again but there was only dead air.
“It’s the virus, isn’t it?” Devon asked, his voice almost a whisper.
“That’s a good bet. We can talk later once we’re inside. Stay quiet and keep close, okay?”
Devon nodded that he would.
After checking the park-like area behind Darby Hall, a place of tall trees, sidewalks and benches, as well as a small parking area where a campus maintenance pickup truck was parked near some Dumpsters, they headed out. Both ran in a crouch the way people did in combat, Handelman out of training and experience, Devon Fox out of instinct. They hurried like a pair of rats keeping close to a wall, their senses bristling as they searched for hostile movement and sound. But to them, at this point hostile seemed the new normal.
There were plenty of windows in the building, but even at the ground floor they were too high even for Handelman, as tall as he was. He kept them moving, and soon came to a fire exit. On this side it was a smooth slab of painted steel, without a handle or a window to break, and thus of no use to them.
A distant scream floated through the air, a man or a woman, and as if a warning of things to come, it made Handelman move faster.
Just beyond the fire door, however, they found what they needed; a dark green metal, industrial air conditioner unit with a fan set in the top protected by a grille. It was partially concealed within a row of hedges growing against the side of the building. A ground floor window was set in the bricks directly above it. The Secret Service agent took another look around the area, then scrambled up onto the unit, cupping his hands against the glass and peering inside.
“Stay back,” he ordered Devon, then cocked back an elbow and smashed the window. Handelman used the barrel of his pistol to clear away blades of glass still hanging in the frame, then shrugged out of his suit jacket and draped it over the sill. “Come on up,” he told the boy. “Be careful not to cut yourself climbing through. I’m right behind you.”
Devon did as he was told. He avoided the broken glass and a moment later the agent was inside with him. Handelman tried unsuccessfully to shake his jacket free of glass fragments, gave up and tossed it over a nearby chair. Devon saw that the shoulder holster stretched across the man’s back had a pair of handcuffs clipped beneath one arm, and on the other side hung twin leather cases holding spare pistol magazines. The armpits of Handelman’s white dress shirt were ringed with sweat.
They were inside a classroom with two dozen chairs pulled up in pairs to twelve, black-surfaced tables, all facing a lectern with a large dry-erase board mounted to the wall behind it. Colorful posters around the room depicted human anatomy in various forms, and in the corner stood a complete human skeleton with every bone numbered in white digits. Some joker had knotted the striped blue and gray tie of the school uniform around the skeleton’s neck. It might even have been the teacher who did it, Devon thought. Some of them were pretty cool.
“This isn’t one of your classrooms,” Handelman said in a soft voice.
Devon wasn’t sure why he was whispering. The noise from the breaking window probably could have been heard throughout the building. Still, he matched the man’s tone. “No, I don’t take anatomy until next year.”
“There’s no phone in here. Where do the science professors keep their offices?”
“Second floor,” said the boy, “like in the other buildings. Hey, I thought you had all these floorplans memorized.”
Handelman snorted. “It’s a big campus. Give me a break, will you?”
They slipped out of the classroom, pausing to listen in the hallway, then moved toward a flight of stairs. The building was silent except for their footsteps. Upstairs they found a door with a brass plate set in its face reading, Prof. A. Martin.
It was locked.
Handelman threw his shoulder and his weight into it, splintering the frame near the knob. The crash echoed throughout the halls. Inside, the agent closed the door as best he could and moved to a desk that sat amid towering clutter; books, charts, wooden file cabinets piled with files and more books.
“Stay behind me,” Handelman said, “and stay away from the window.” Then he punched an unlit line on the desk phone and dialed the number for the tiny field office in Burlington.
No answer. Only a recorded message.
He dialed 9-1-1. Again an automated voice, this one asking him to please hold the line.
Handelman punched in the number for USSS Headquarters in Washington, and made the connection on the first ring. A communications du
ty officer asked him for his name, federal law enforcement ID number, social security number and assignment code word. The agent provided the information, then finished with, “I’m the primary for Dark Horse. I have an attack on principle.”
The duty officer peppered him with questions, which he answered. “My back-up team is not responding. Neither is local law enforcement, and I can’t reach the field office. I have engaged hostiles. The principle is currently secure, but I can’t say for how long.” He gave his location and a summary of the situation.
The duty officer read back the information, then there was a long pause. “There’s been an AOP on Devil Dog,” he said. “And we’ve lost contact with Design and Dancer. We are at condition Black, agent.”
“Copy,” said Handelman, his voice tight.
“I’m dispatching assets to your location,” the duty officer said. “Stay close to your phone if you can. We’ll contact you with more info.”
“I can’t be sure we’ll be here,” Handelman said. “I may have to go mobile.”
“Understood, agent. We’re on our way.”
“What now?” Devon asked once his bodyguard hung up the phone.
Handelman looked out the window for a moment, then took up a position near the door. “Now we wait for the good guys.”
16-
DEVIL DOG
Cleveland, Ohio - October 28
The heavy, supercharged Cadillac limousine tore through the streets of Cleveland, streets that had previously been cleared and closed off to all traffic but the presidential motorcade, but were now avenues of chaos, destruction and slaughter. The driver, trained in tactical driving by the CIA and in protective measures by the Secret Service (though if it ever came to the point where he would have to engage targets, then things would have gone very wrong – as they seemed to be now) slewed the big car left and right, accelerating and braking, rubbing fenders and door panels against vehicles stopped at angles in the street, even clipping a fire hydrant that left a four-foot gash in the limo’s armored side.
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