Like the ones on the plane, Kylie’s brain flashed. She snatched the Sig-Saur from her waistband, thumb snapping off the safety without thought, working on muscle memory from so much time at the range with her father. She fired twice at the horror rushing toward her.
Both bullets struck center mass, rocking the troopers sideways and making her stagger. The infected cop recovered quickly and raced in, arms reaching.
Vest. Kylie shot the trooper in the face instead, and that put her down.
And then there was an explosion of pain in the back of her head, a burst of white behind her eyes brighter than the truck’s spotlights, and suddenly she was face-down on the pavement, the fall splitting open her chin. Blood thundered in her ears, and then the white was replaced with grayish-red, a spinning scene of a car accident and a dead state trooper lying not far away. She fought the urge to vomit and failed. Retching on the pavement, the world swimming in and out of focus, Kylie heard her mother screaming as if from a great distance. She felt the Sig-Saur plucked from a hand that no longer had any strength, then had the impression of a titanic man in brown camouflage stooping over the fallen trooper to retrieve her service weapon from its holster.
Kylie tried to rise but couldn’t. Her mother wouldn’t stop screaming – it’s hurting my ears, please stop, Kylie thought – and then the growl of the pick-up’s engine, the stink of diesel exhaust and the squeal of its tires as it rumbled back the way she and her mother had come.
“Mom?” she said thickly, then slipped into darkness.
Kylie swam up out of deep, black waters and into the light of a cold, windy morning on a stretch of rural New York road. She was bloody, her face feeling tight with it and her hair stiff with dried vomit. Her chin hurt, and she rubbed bits of asphalt from the wound, wincing at the simple movement. When she rose to her hands and knees she almost passed out.
Where was she? There was a car accident around her…no, not her accident. Something else had happened.
The stiff corpse of a female state trooper lying almost close enough to touch brought it back in an instant; the pick-up and its driver, the bark of the handgun, being hit by something. Her mother screaming.
Kylie bared her teeth and forced herself to stand. The pick-up was gone and so was her mother. “You fucker,” she gasped, then stumbled to the side of the police car and used it for support. Her head felt like it was about to explode, and she was afraid to reach back and touch the knot that must be at the base of her skull. She side-stepped a bit and collapsed into the front seat, feeling for the key. It was in the ignition, and the engine was still running, as it must have been since the crash. So far, so good. But could the car still be driven?
Dropping the transmission into reverse, she backed away from the Honda with a creak and squeal of metal, cutting the wheel. The working headlight briefly illuminated a man in his thirties and a seven-year-old boy coming out of the woods on the other side of the crippled SUV. They were running, teeth bared.
Kylie ignored them, cranking the wheel to the left as her vision swam in and out of focus. She stomped the gas and the big police interceptor under the hood responded with a high-performance growl. The Charger roared away in the direction the pick-up had taken, into the morning and into a countryside much different from the one only twenty-four hours ago.
-28-
DARK HORSE
Upstate New York – October 29
For the first hundred miles or so there wasn’t much conversation. At first Devon was lost in the horrors they’d escaped at the boarding school, while Marcus Handelman was quiet with worry, running through contingency plans, none of which seemed to have fallen into place or appeared viable anymore. They were alone on the road, and the agent had said he intended to keep it that way until they either reached Feather Mountain or came in contact with a military or law enforcement unit Marcus could trust. Whatever that might look like.
When they’d started out, the valleys and forested hillsides of Upstate New York had rolled by, dressed in red and gold fall colors and dotted with farms. Now they were traveling through the State Wilderness areas along Route 8, continuing to angle southwest whenever they could. Walls of tall pines would suddenly give way to tiny clusters of homes or side roads that led toward hunting and fishing camps, then quickly return as green walls flanking the road. It was all so peaceful, and the absence of other vehicles traveling the two-lane (Marcus was avoiding major highways, where there would be more people – more infected people) gave the impression that this was nothing more than a quiet Sunday morning.
But the monsters ruined the illusion.
They ran at the campus work truck from houses and yards close to the road, chasing after it down the asphalt even as the truck drove out of view. They crouched over dead people (never animals) as they ripped and fed on human flesh. They prowled around traffic accidents or loped out of the smoke of a burning building, drawn by the sound of the passing truck, an indicator of prey. They were human in appearance, but human no longer. Most had smooth, silver eyes – completely without pupils – that seemed to shimmer even in daylight.
Agent Handelman avoided them when he could, knocked them out of the way with the front of the truck when he couldn’t, and ran them over when he had to. Streaks of gore painted the hood and spattered the windshield, and they soon ran out of washer fluid trying to keep the glass clear. Devon cringed at every thump and crunch.
“I’m sorry, Dev,” the agent said at last, worried about the boy’s silence and pale complexion. “About the school…everything that happened. They’re a threat, and when they get between us and safety I have to deal with it.”
“They’re sick,” Devon said.
“That doesn’t make them any less deadly. You can’t think of them as people at this point.”
The boy was quiet for a bit, then, “I’m trying.”
“I know you are, man.” He gave Devon’s arm a squeeze. Handelman knew that as a Secret Service agent he was way over the line in terms of how familiar he was with the President’s son, the casual nature of their conversations, the way he scolded and lectured. But Devon was more than just a body he had to protect. The concept of dying to save the boy was so imprinted within him that he never even thought about it, but dying didn’t protect your principal from the next threat, and that he did think about.
They saw tractor-trailers that had pulled to the shoulder, maneuvered around cars abandoned in the center of the two-lane and drove past side roads that had been blocked off with yellow police sawhorses, although there was no sign of police. At one point they came upon a sign for the town of Hoffmeister. Across it in black spray-paint someone had written the word DEAD.
Marcus kept them moving. He explained that he didn’t exactly know their final destination – knew of it but had never been there – and although he understood the general location they would have to find a map.
“What is this place exactly?” Devon wanted to know.
“It’s a continuity bunker,” Marcus told him, “a place for government officials to find safety and still be able to run the country. There’s a few of them, but if your dad was in the Midwest or on the east coast then Feather Mountain would be the closest. That’s where his Detail will take him. Your mom and sister, same place.
“And it’s safe?”
Handelman laughed. “Makes Camp David look like a public park.” Then he glanced at the fuel gauge and stopped smiling. The needle was hovering just above the red E. “We need to gas up or switch vehicles.”
Devon decided that from what he’d seen it wouldn’t be hard to find a car no one was using anymore.
Instead, fifteen minutes later they spotted a gas station ahead on the right. It wasn’t one of those clean, bright national chain stations Devon was used to, with an endless selection of drinks and snacks (crap, his mother called it). It was a little independent place nestled in a notch in the pines on the right, sort of shabby, with a pair of garage bays where a mechanic in greasy coveralls would c
harge you too much to work on your car. But as run-down as it was, the pumps looked new. A dented Ford Fusion and a tow truck were parked beside a Dumpster next to the building, but there were no other cars.
The Secret Service agent pulled in slowly and stopped, looking it over. A red neon OPEN sign glowed in a window. “Power’s still on,” he said, then eased the work truck up to the pumps.
“Hope they have a restroom,” Devon said.
“Not happening,” said Marcus. “We’ll piss beside the truck, then you’ll get back inside and lock the doors.
They did, Devon feeling weird about urinating in public, but he did as he was told. Handelman did the same, ever watching. Devon thought about pissing in the Rose Garden, right in front of the media, and suppressed a laugh. When he was locked inside once more, Devon watched his bodyguard use a personal credit card to activate the pump, and they gave each other a big grin when it worked and Marcus could start fueling.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” the agent said after he was done, replacing the nozzle. “Stay in the truck.” Then he headed for the door to the service station, pistol raised and pointed ahead of him. He disappeared inside.
For what felt like a very long time, Devon sat and watched the front of the building. He wondered if-
Something slammed into the driver’s door and Devon jumped, his head whipping in that direction. A kid about his age wearing a high school letterman’s jacket was pressed against the glass, smearing the window with grayish drool. He gnashed his teeth and tugged on the door handle, and when it didn’t open he started beating the glass with his fists.
“Marcus!” Devon yelled, pressing back against his own door and away from the thing outside the other.
The infected kid snarled and bashed his head into the window, creating a spider-web of cracks. Devon let out a cry, reached for his own door handle, then stopped. He clenched his teeth, leaned toward the monster and leaned on the truck’s horn.
The kid in the letterman’s jacket struck the glass again with his head, expanding the fracture and making the whole driver’s window sag inward. This time he left blood on the glass from his lacerated forehead, a wound which he didn’t seem to notice. Devon stayed on the horn, watching the kid rear back for another strike, knowing that the next one would surely-
A shape blurred past the front of the truck, and was followed by the double bark of a pistol. Letterman jacket dropped instantly from view. Marcus put a third round into his head as he lay on the ground, then banged a fist against the door until Devon unlocked it.
“You okay?” the agent demanded, breathing hard.
“Yeah.” Devon let out a nervous laugh. “He didn’t get in.”
The agent climbed into the front seat, knocking the sagging glass out with an elbow, clearing the frame of it. “That was smart with the horn,” he said, starting the engine and pulling back out onto the road. “This will help us.” He tossed Devon a folded, paper road map of New York State.
The young man held it, waiting for words of apology for leaving him alone, for further queries about whether he was alright. Nothing more came from the agent, and after a moment, Devon decided that was okay. The way it should be. Even though he had a bodyguard, the fifteen-year-old knew that he was on the edge of manhood and needed to start thinking about taking care of himself. He couldn’t go to pieces at the first sign of trouble. Marcus worried about him, of course, protected him savagely, but the man didn’t treat him like some delicate flower. Yeah, that was cool.
As he unfolded the cumbersome and utterly alien thing, he realized he had never actually held or even seen a real paper road map. The look of bewilderment must have shown up on his face, because Marcus laughed. “Millennial kid, lost without his iPhone. Okay, we’re looking for the town of Custer. It should be at the western edge of New York, just over the border in Pennsylvania, close enough to be on this map. You think you can handle navigation?”
Devon’s eyes crawled over the colored lines, numbers and names. He was already figuring it out. “No problem.”
“Good. Then if we get lost and killed, it’s your fault.”
The President’s son grinned and looked over at his bodyguard. Then he froze. Marcus Handelman was pale, sweating, and his hands trembled ever so slightly on the steering wheel.
-29-
DEVIL DOG
Eastern Ohio – October 29
President Fox relieved himself in a dark, oily corner of the open-air garage where they’d parked the CAT vehicle. It wasn’t very dignified for a head of state, but the former Marine had pissed under more primitive conditions, and was long past such embarrassment. Besides, there was no one around other than his bodyguard. Garrison joined Agent King a moment later, the two of them standing in the lot behind the mom & pop gas station in rural Ohio. The sun was coming up, but the air was still chilly.
Garrison shoved his hands in the pockets of his fleece. “So what do you think our chances are, David?”
The agent didn’t look at him, his eyes constantly sweeping the area. He’d retaken possession of the P90 submachinegun from his boss. “We’ll get you to your destination, Mr. President.”
“I like your optimism. Shall we?”
Agent King checked the rear door of the gas station, found it locked and kicked it open. The place was what they’d expected; a business barely hanging on, with no money to update from its seventies-era interior, and apparently a failing ambition to even keep it clean. It smelled like stale cigarettes, and the windows were so grimy that they muted the morning light. The place was empty, with a CLOSED sign hanging in the front door. They tried the light switches. Nothing. The master switch for the pumps was off, and when they tried it, got the same result.
“Power’s probably out for the whole county,” David said.
Then they saw movement out front, heard a woman calling a man’s name. King unlocked the door, placed a hand on the President’s chest and went outside, weapon raised. Garrison ignored the subtle order to stay put and followed.
“Tom? Tom, I need you. Tom!” The woman came into view from behind one of the pumps, a credit card in one hand. She appeared to be in her thirties, with a bob haircut and wearing jeans and boots, a short-sleeve top and a down vest. Small, vicious bite wounds ran up both slender arms, her skin stained red from the elbows down. In the hand not holding the credit card she clutched a carpenter’s hammer that dripped with fresh blood.
The woman saw the two men and stopped. “I’m out of gas. The pump isn’t working and I need gas. Have you seen Tom?”
The muzzle of Agent King’s weapon tracked up slowly to center of her chest.
“I need Tom to help.” She puffed at a lock of hair hanging in her face and frowned. “I mean, I know where he is but he’s not helping.” She gestured toward a patch of weeds that separated the gas station lot from Route 6 running in front of it. The body of a man was face-down in the weeds.
“He tried to help,” she said, puffing and frowning at the persistent lock of hair. “He tried to help Tommy Jr. But he was hurting him, hurting my boy.” Blood from the head of the hammer dripped onto the toe of her left boot, and she cocked her head. “Can you make the pumps work?”
President Fox and Agent King saw a very old Taurus wagon sitting at the pumps behind her, its bumpers covered in PETA and dog rescue stickers. Inside, a metal grid separated the rear cargo area from the back seat, a set-up common among people who traveled with large dogs. Except it wasn’t a dog that was bloody and raging back there, throwing itself against the windows and metal partition. It was a silver-eyed, three-year-old boy. His screeching was barely muffled by the glass.
The woman turned. “Honey, mommy’s talking. We’ll get going in a minute. Mommy will get you some candy.” She looked back at the two men. “Have you seen Tom?”
There was traffic on the road behind the woman, a scattering of cars among groups of people walking, many wearing backpacks or pulling luggage, a few on bicycles and many pushing strollers. All head
ing east. They looked at the scene playing out at the gas station, but no one approached. They all passed quietly.
The Secret Service agent had seen the foot and vehicle traffic as soon as they came outside, but his immediate focus was on the woman with the hammer. Garrison, however, noticed them for the first time and could only stare. An exodus from Cleveland. Refugees in America.
Because I failed to act.
Someone on the road must have seen the bright yellow lettering on David’s gear, taken a look at the man in the fleece and the ball cap, and made the connection. How could anyone who looked like Garrison Fox, who was in the company of Secret Service, not be Garrison Fox?
“Hey that’s the President!” An arm came up, a finger pointing. Heads turned. “That is the President!” another voice shouted. A curse then, more fingers pointing, and suddenly the crowd on the county road was no longer moving east, but edging toward the gas station pavement. “You fucked us good, buddy!” came a shout. “Why aren’t you helping us?” a woman demanded.
David King moved close to Garrison, positioning himself between the man and the crowd, trying to watch the woman with the hammer while he scanned the refugees for weapons. This was Ohio. There were sure to be firearms. “Mr. President…” he said in a low growl.
The deep sound of a truck horn cut over the shouts as a sand-colored Humvee bullied through the crowd. People scrambled out of the way as it turned into the gas station, bypassed the pumps and drove straight into a metal air dispenser at the edge of the lot, knocking it loose with an explosion of hissing and coming to a stop.
“We’re backing inside, sir,” David ordered, his weapon sweeping the crowd now as his other hand reached back and caught a fistful of the President’s fleece, pushing him backward.
CANNIBAL KINGDOM Page 24