City Under the Moon

  Tildascow was among the last to leave, via an MH-6 “Little Bird” helicopter piloted by an agent of the FBI’s elite counter-terrorism Hostage Rescue Team. It didn’t feel much sturdier than a soap bubble.

  They cleared the restricted airspace over Manhattan at the Little Bird’s maximum speed of 175 mph and followed the southwestern trajectory of I-95 through Trenton and Philadelphia before cutting across the Chesapeake Bay en route to Prince George’s Country, Maryland, just a few miles from the White House. A bit more than an hour after takeoff, they arrived at Joint Base Andrews Naval Air Facility Washington, the home of Air Force One.

  Back in New York, the last kernels of sirens, gunshots, and screams were still popping in midtown while NYPD SWAT snipers were in pursuit of at least two werewolves via helicopter.

  The Stuyvesant Square werewolf had already taken three .300 caliber kill shots, but it kept on skipping across the trees of Central Park with astonishing speed and dexterity, crashing down on any hapless stragglers in its path. SWAT informed dispatch that their weapons were proving ineffective, and police coordinators tried to direct silver-bullet-armed officers into the werewolf’s chaotic path; but the park was too dangerous to enter on foot.

  Internet servers buckled as surfers worldwide sought constant updates. Government officials asked the YouTube maintenance team to suppress the most graphic footage, but soon the video-hosting site crashed with all the rest.

  Instead of the glowing ball, all eyes were on Press Secretary Jim Bunim in the last moments before midnight. He arrived in the White House Briefing Room to announce that the president would be making a statement, but not taking questions simply because they didn’t have answers.

  The president arrived at the podium just as the clock struck midnight.

  “Good evening. As you know, there has been an unprecedented and horrific event in Manhattan over the past two nights: A disease has struck that transforms men and women into wild creatures upon exposure to moonlight.”

  Car horns went silent in the congested Lincoln Tunnel as drivers turned up their radios.

  “As fantastic as this sounds, we’ve all seen the evidence for ourselves. The military, along with the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and state and local law enforcement, are acting aggressively to contain the infection.”

  At the East River docks, the Coast Guard’s quick-scramble Deployable Operations Group were still assembling their blockade when they saw a fishing boat attempting to flee the island. The driver didn’t respond to their warnings, so their Helicopter Interdiction Tactical Squadron was sent to intercept. Snipers on the muscular MH-64C Dolphin helicopter shot out the boat’s engine. The driver attempted to jump overboard, leaving the officers no choice but to shoot him.

  “The scientists at the CDC, with the help of the World Health Organization, are well into an understanding of the disease, which seems to be caused by a blood-borne virus transmitted through open wounds. We’ll all be looking forward to a statement from the CDC as their discoveries progress, but for now our prayers are with them as they work.”

  At CDC Headquarters, security was reinforced by the Atlanta Police Department as reporters, onlookers, and protesters massed outside.

  Inside, all eyes were on Melissa Kenzie the werewolf. Molecular biologists, virologists, physicians, veterinarians, medical techs, toxicologists, biochemists, and statisticians pored over her test results.

  “If this disease were to spread unchecked, it could become an epidemic of catastrophic proportions. The CDC has requested that we quarantine Manhattan Island, the only known location of the infection at the moment. All of our resources, federal, local, and volunteer, have been deployed to halt traffic to and from the island, and airspace has been cleared except for military purposes.

  “If you live in Manhattan, we ask that you stay in your homes. Keep your doors locked. Stay off the streets. Police are doing their best to accommodate stranded visitors in shelters. At this trying time, cooperation is key.”

  Triage and temporary placement centers were opened up in Madison Square Garden and Pennsylvania Plaza above Penn Station, in the upper floors of One Times Square, and in the concourses of Grand Central Station. With citizens frightened into cooperation, operations went smoothly. A brotherhood formed among the stranded as they listened to the president’s address.

  “Manhattan is the beating heart of our nation. We will not sleep until she is safe and sound. Put your faith in your scientists, your authorities, your government, and God, and together we will prevail through this, as individuals, as families, and as a nation. Good night. And God bless America.”

  The press corps anticipated the end of the president’s speech with a flurry of raised hands and fired questions: “Where did they come from?” “Will the injured people become werewolves?” “What happens tomorrow night?” “Silver bullets?” “When will people be able to leave New York?”

  The president waved them silent. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ll ask you and all of the media to cooperate with us during this trying time. Spreading panic and disorder will only make the authorities’ jobs more difficult. We’re all in this together. We need everyone to step up and do their part to help the good people of New York.”

  “What are we doing to stop it?” yelled a voice from the back of the theater. The crowd rumbled in support.

  “Everything we can,” replied Weston.

  In Times Square, body bags littered the streets.

  NYPD had begun directing the injured to triage centers. One officer barked orders over a megaphone: “If you’ve been injured in any way, you must register with us and be seen by an attendant. Even if it was just a scratch. We won’t hurt you. You will not be—“

  And a werewolf tackled him into a roll. When they stopped, the creature clamped down and ripped his spine from his throat.

  The crowd erupted anew.

  A quick-draw officer fired three silver slugs into the werewolf.

  “Enough already,” he yelled. “Fuck!”

  Five

  Joint Base Andrews

  Prince George’s Country, Maryland

  7:55 a.m.

  Lon sat on the corner of a cot, wide awake. How could he possibly sleep? He didn’t know how long he’d been here, or what time it was, or even where he was, or what was going to happen. These people had completely subjugated him in the name of patriotism.

  Some kind of barracks or something. More like out of a Ridley Scott movie than a Michael Bay movie. It smelled like old canvas and aftershave.

  How do these people find the courage to do this shit? These snipers and fighter pilots and soldiers? Freaking Japanese Kamikaze pilots getting in planes when they know they’re gonna die? If you die, you don’t see the new Hobbit movies or the next release of Magic: The Gathering or the expansions to World of WarCraft. There was supposed to be a live-action Star Wars TV series some day! Life wasn’t important to these people?

  They had to realize he couldn’t do this.

  Gah! He had to tell them he couldn’t do this!

  And that should be okay, right? They have satellite phones and secret communicators, and he could see what the agents were seeing through special cameras in their glasses. He didn’t want to go to fucking Transylvania with an assassin and watch her fight werewolves. No way, Fay Wray!

  Wait—no. He did want to go to Transylvania! It’d been his wildest dream since he could remember. He wanted to go there more than anywhere else in the world. (Since Middle Earth and Azeroth were necessarily excluded.)

  He just didn’t want to do it this way.

  And that should be okay. Right?

  He rocked back and forth as his heart raced and his arms grew weak. And the unnerving sounds from the airfield weren’t helping any. Pistons firing, “Pshhh!”; wrenches wrenching, “Vreet! Vreet!”; engines revving right through his chest.

  And didn’t it break one of the Bills of Rights to take away his cell phone?

  But then there were all of th
ose people in New York. And Elizabeth was one of them. He couldn’t just sit by if those people needed him. Or could he?

  He really missed the comfort of his basement.

  And then there was this feeling that he really hated. He wanted…

  Well, he wanted credit.

  Yeah, it was an ugly want. Self-aggrandizing, to say the least. Brave soldiers die for their country every day. But he wished people could know about the sacrifice he might be about to make. George Washington had the entire country supporting him. Nobody was behind Lon.

  If he died in Transylvania, who would even—

  The door opened with a loud clack that bounced all over the walls. It was that blonde FBI agent.

  “Lon Toller?”

  He nodded, too worked up to talk. He didn’t want to risk crying.

  She dragged over a cot and sat two feet away, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. She had an aura of confidence. And she looked like a ninja in sleek black clothes that were probably full of crazy weapons.

  “My name is Brianna Tildascow. I’m a Special Agent with the FBI, a counterterrorism expert.”

  Lon couldn’t look at her. He could feel her studying his face.

  “I won’t bore you with my résumé, but I’ll promise you that I am the right person for this job.”

  Lon nodded and accidentally sniffled. Ugh. Humiliating.

  “I guess you’re wondering if you’re the right person.”

  She slid back on the cot and crossed her legs, putting more distance between them. He was glad for the breathing room.

  “They tell me you know more about them than anyone. They said you’re our country’s foremost expert. I read your website, and I think they’re probably right. What do you think?”

  “I am.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Someone said there’s another guy, a Donnie Tuttle?”

  “Fuck Donnie Tuttle.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “He copies all of my stuff for his piece-of-shit blog. And he only beats my traffic because his mom pays for Facebook ads.”

  “So then I shouldn’t ask him.”

  “No! Fuck him. He doesn’t know a therianthrope from a jackalope.”

  “Then it has to be you. You’re the only one.”

  “Well…it shouldn’t be Donnie Tuttle.”

  “Then I need you.”

  No doubt. But still! “Couldn’t I just do it by phone or something?”

  “I need your eyes on,” she said. “Don’t forget, we’re going into a civilized country, talking to regular people, moving as quickly and safely as possible. If we hit something dangerous, you’ll be out of the way. I promise.”

  Duty to his country on the one hand... Shitting his pants on the other.

  “Listen, Lon, you’d be crazy if you weren’t scared. That’s the right way to feel, believe me. They’re fucking werewolves, right? That’s scary.”

  “Aren’t you scared?”

  She smiled…but was there some sadness in her eyes? Gah. Hot girls always made Lon feel soggy.

  “I need you, Lon. It has to be you.”

  Lon sighed. And nodded. And sighed.

  “Here,” she said, proffering two white-and-black capsules. “They’ll help you stay sharp. The fear just won’t feel so important.”

  “I don’t take drugs.”

  “You don’t have to,” she said, putting the pills into his soggy hands. “It’s up to you.” Her grip felt like steel wool.

  “Two minutes!” a voice called from the doorway.

  Tildascow lowered her head, forcing a connection with his eyes. “These military guys—they remind you of the kids who give you shit in school?”

  Lon nodded.

  “Now they need your help. Kinda nice, right?”

  “Yeah.” Yeah. It certainly fucking was. He could inhale that perspective quite deeply.

  She patted him on the shoulder and started for the door. When he didn’t follow, she turned back with a “come hither” smile. He wanted to stand, but suddenly the cot felt magnetic.

  “I’m… I’m not really a man of action.”

  “I’m not a man of action either.”

  And then he found himself alongside her, the two of them striding in slow motion, like the crew in Armageddon… or maybe like something might explode behind them like in… well, like in every action movie ever.

  A military guy entered, barking in their pissed-at-everything tone.

  Tildascow whispered one last encouragement: “They need you.” Then she went rigid and hollered, “Buck Sergeant Brianna Tildascow, 77th RRC, United States Army, reporting for duty, sir!”

  “Lon Toller, reporting for duty, sir!”

  The general recoiled as if Lon had spit at him. He spoke only to Tildascow. “At ease. You’re FBI?”

  “Special Agent Brianna Tildascow, FBI Counterterrorism Division, Operations I, ITOS I and II. Sir.”

  “Special Ops training come in handy pushing papers?”

  “Hunting terrorists, sir. Wetworks.”

  The general nodded. “Lieutenant General James Fasolo, 316th Logistics Readiness Squadron, United States Air Force.”

  “Sir.”

  “I’m told you’re quite a badass, Tildascow. Might tickle my balls to meet you if it weren’t under such perverse conditions.”

  “The feeling is mutual, sir.”

  “A spec ops RDF is scrambling to support you if necessary. You’ve been briefed on that?”

  “Fully, sir.”

  “All right, then. Let’s get moving. There’s a lot to do.” He tossed a sideways glance at Lon. “A lot to do.”

  Fasolo led them out of the barracks and across a landing strip. Lots of helicopter and fighter jet activity. It reminded Lon of Top Gun, and Maverick yelling, “I got the need, the need for speed!”

  His head was filled with the winsome electric guitar theme. Tildascow met his grin—seemed like she heard it too.

  Fasolo stopped short, and Tildascow nearly plowed into his back. She shot Lon a whew with her flashlight eyes. He bit his tongue to keep from laughing.

  “What you are about to see are Top Secret weapons of the United States Air Force,” Fasolo yelled over the din. “They’re not to be discussed frivolously.”

  “Yes, sir!” Tildascow snapped.

  “Yes, sir!” Lon concurred. Screw it, he figured. They need me.

  They reached an open hangar where the last of three planes was being elevated from an underground garage.

  Spy planes. Cool.

  The Auroras weren’t like any aircraft Lon had ever seen, even in cartoons or movies. Not Batman showy or James Bond phallic; in fact they were simply flat and narrow triangular darts, with the subtlest of curves delineating the cockpit from the wings—like the progeny of a fighter jet and a surfboard. Tiny shark fins protruded from each of the back corners.

  Three pilots came from the hangar, wearing dark flight suits. They sprung to attention in front of Fasolo.

  “At ease,” Fasolo said. “These are your people, Tildascow.”

  “Army men?” Tildascow asked.

  “Yes ma’am,” said the tallest one.

  “Brianna Tildascow, FBI Counterterrorism Division, formerly 77th RRC.”

  “Earle Beatty, 199th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, United States Army. Trained in conjunction with 35th Strategic Tactical Wing, USAF, and operating with CIA Special Activities Division. Call Sign Beethoven.”

  “That’s a mouthful,” said Tildascow.

  A mouthful of nothing Lon could understand.

  “That’s why they don’t talk about what they do,” Fasolo said. “They’re Shadow Stalkers. Flying commandos.”

  “You are?” Tildascow asked the second one.

  “Jaguar, ma’am.” He was a sturdy black man in his late twenties. Dead serious.

  “Mantle,” said the third pilot. His big ginger head looked like a lollipop on his thin frame.

  �
�These men are fully briefed and under your command,” said Fasolo. “There will be a UN and Romanian attaché awaiting your arrival.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Tildascow and the pilots saluted, and the general left. Lon felt better immediately; he was his own worst enemy and didn’t need any goddamn help.

  Mantle whistled, looking Lon up and down. “Wowee,” he said with a thick drawl, “the Aurora is gonna take a bite outta you.” He was probably 25, the youngest of the three, and wore a perma-grin like he was always thinking of a joke at your expense.

  “Shut up, Mantle,” said Beethoven, the team leader. The dusting of grey in his auburn hair made him look wise.

  “’S’what we call counterproductive,” added Jaguar as he smacked Mantle on the back of the head.

  Lon looked up at the aircraft and his stomach tumbled.

  ***

  The pilots helped them into “multilayer anti-G flight gear,” costumes that reminded Lon of spacesuits, which would send magnetic pulses over key arteries to keep their circulation going. This was on top of painfully tight undergarments designed to keep their blood from pooling in the lower half of their bodies.

  Fantastic. Lon didn’t want his blood to pool.

  Once he was suited up, a tech directed Lon onto a portable ramp, which shook with each step he took. It terminated above the tight, two-man cockpit of the Aurora, and Lon was suddenly struck with claustrophobia on top of everything else. He turned to flee, but the tech was blocking his escape route.

  Mantle flashed his crooked smile from the front seat of the cockpit. “Come on, buddy. Seat’s all warm.”

  And there was Tildascow, in her own spacesuit, on her own ramp, nodding at him again. Like a reassuring cult leader about to rape him.

  “Whatcha got here is the SR-105 Aurora, top-secret smartplane that cost y’all about fifteen billion dollars in taxes. Polyorganic exterior is retro-engineered from spider’s web to make it, oh, ‘bout a thousand times stronger than steel. Ain’t that cool?”

  Lon jerked when the tech put his hand on his shoulder and directed him where to step. Deep breath.

  “AI steers the craft using GPS,” Mantle said in the nonchalant tone of a flight attendant. “So I don’t have to do much, which is good because it’s awfully tough not to black out at this speed. We’ll be travellin’ just under Mach 8 today, almost double the non-classified airspeed record. Although we’ll be above the atmosphere, so technically this here is a spacecraft and you will be an astronaut.”