Instinct

by Jeremy Robinson

  Definitely not human, Knight thought.

  Then he noticed a change in the movement of the brush. The swath of moving foliage grew wider, spreading out into a V. A loud hooting and breaking of branches rose up from the mountainside below.

  The beast was coming back.

  With friends.

  EIGHTEEN

  THE MOUNTAIN WAS alive.

  Or at least it appeared that way. Brush, ferns, and tree limbs all converged on the wall defended by Rook, Bishop, and the still unconscious Somi. It was as though the mountain had come to life and decided to attack. Rook aimed down the incline, but had no idea where to shoot. With limited ammo he had to make sure his shots were true. Firing at a bush swaying in the wind would be a waste.

  But what was bush and what was camouflage?

  Rook guessed and fired a three-round burst. Foliage exploded from the assailed brush, but nothing else. He grunted with disappointment.

  He tried again. This time he was rewarded by a yelp of pain. But the hillside continued its advance, slow and inexorable. At least the attackers didn’t know it was just the two of them. If they had, Rook felt certain they would have already charged en masse.

  Rook ducked behind the wall and looked at Bishop, who was lining up targets, but not firing. “How much ammo you have left?”

  Bishop squatted behind the wall and shook his head slowly, clearly annoyed. “Not enough.”

  “You know we’re screwed, right?”

  Bishop nodded slowly.

  “Any ideas?”

  Bishop smiled. “Shoot ‘em up and run like hell?”

  Rook grinned fiendishly. “You should talk more often, Bishop. I like your style.”

  Bishop chuckled.

  “One shot per target,” Rook said as he switched his assault rifle to single-round firing. “Hit as many as possible. Kills or not, it will take them out of the fight.”

  Rook took several deep breaths like a swimmer preparing to dive. “I’ll go first.”

  Bishop nodded.

  Rook rose up over the wall, found a target, and squeezed off a single shot. He moved on, sighting new targets, and fired again. And again. And again. Still, the hillside rose up toward them. Some shots were rewarded by grunts of pain, or a body toppling over, but just as many struck nothing but earth, wood, or the already dead.

  Click. Rook pulled the trigger and nothing happened. He was out of ammo. He tossed the assault rifle aside. He’d had it for five years. One of his favorites. But now it was a dead weight.

  “Your turn, big guy.”

  Bishop stood, lowering his machine gun onto the wall and taking aim. But before he pulled the trigger a shot rang out from below.

  Rook flinched back as the meat on Bishop’s shoulder exploded. Bishop shouted in pain and fell to his knees, breathing hard. He gritted his teeth, eyes burning with rage.

  After wiping the blood from his eyes, Rook watched as something he’d heard about, but never seen, took place. The baseball-size wound on Bishop’s shoulder began to heal, slowly at first, then the flaps of skin on either side stretched out, as though reaching for each other, and sealed the wound perfectly, like it never existed. QuikClot had nothing on Bishop’s regenerative ability. But it took its toll on his mind.

  Rook reached to his hips and felt his dual Desert Eagles still resting in their holsters. They all knew what would have to be done if Bishop lost control—a .50-caliber round to the head was the only cure.

  Bishop looked at him. “Not yet.” He stood, taking hold of his machine gun again, then pulled the trigger and held it tight. Rounds and tracers streaked down the incline for ten full seconds, tearing the hillside to pieces.

  Click.

  “So much for one shot at a time, eh?”

  Three pops sounded out in the distance. The two men held their breath and locked eyes. Both recognized the noise. They looked up and saw three small projectiles arcing towards them. No . . . over them.

  “They’re bringing the mountain down on top of us!”

  Bishop abandoned his machine gun and lunged for the tunnel hatch. There was nowhere else to go. An army waited below and the mountain would soon crumble down above them. Bishop yanked the hatch open as Rook hoisted Somi into his arms, and placed her by the open hole.

  Rook jumped into the tunnel, took Somi under the shoulders, and dragged her into the hole. Somi’s feet disappeared from view as Rook dragged her away. Bishop jumped in a moment later and closed the tunnel entrance over him.

  Darkness consumed the tunnel.

  There was no time to turn on a flashlight. They simply charged into the darkness, waiting for the mortars to strike. Unlike shells fired by howitzers or field guns, mortars sailed through the air without a hiss or whistle. They were deadly silent until the first boom rang out.

  Boom.

  The ceiling of the tunnel shook. A cascade of dust poured from freshly formed cracks.

  Boom.

  Bishop and Rook, both large men, bruised and battered their bodies as they surged through the tunnel, smashing their heads, knees, and elbows into the surrounding stone surfaces.

  Boom.

  The third mortar struck. Rumbling echoed through the tunnel as the mountainside above gave way and rolled down the slope, covering the wall they’d so futilely defended. Then the hatch gave in to the sudden weight. It split and allowed the mountain to reclaim the space as its own.

  A plume of dust rocketed down the tunnel, enveloping Rook, Bishop, and Somi. They stopped moving and covered their mouths, coughing and wheezing as the air fouled. Rook, who had been shuffling backward and dragging Somi with one arm, pulled her lithe frame up close to his body. He wrapped his sleeve around her nose and mouth, though he wasn’t sure how much good it would do.

  In fact, until the dust settled, they were as good as trapped. They couldn’t breathe and Rook was sure they couldn’t see a lick, even if he’d turned on his flashlight. He did the only thing he could think of: call the others. After activating his throat microphone, he spoke through wheezes. “King . . . Queen. This is—Rook. Do you copy?”

  Nothing. No response. He didn’t bother trying again. If they didn’t respond it meant they were indisposed, the signal was being blocked, or they were dead. “Knight. Tell me . . . you’re there, little man.”

  The signal came through fuzzy, but it was there. “Sorry, big guy,” came Knight’s voice. Rook could tell he was out of breath. A loud hooting sound filled Rook’s ears, making Knight’s voice hard to make out. But he was there. “Can’t talk right now. Running for my life.”

  “You and me both,” Rook said. He knew not to try talking further. If Knight said he was running for his life, then he was. “Good luck.”

  “You too.”

  The signal cut out. Knight was gone. Rook hacked as he breathed in a mouthful of dust. His head spun. Bright spots of color danced in the dark tunnel, lulling him to sleep. He fought the urge, knowing that he was close to passing out. Then he stopped fighting and gave in as his lungs filled with more dust than oxygen.

  NINETEEN

  Washington, D.C.

  TOM DUNCAN SAT in silence, looking at the Rose Garden on the other side of the window. He leaned his head back against his leather executive chair and immediately felt annoyed at how well the headrest’s contour fit his head. He’d been sitting too much over the past three years. It was the hardest thing about being president. Sit-down meetings, dinners, and debates. Life on the campaign trail had been all action, moving from one place to the next, exciting, energetic. And while being the president of the United States was hardly boring, Duncan craved mobility.

  Instead, he sat in the Oval Office, waiting for Domenick Boucher, the CIA director, to bring news on the Chess Team’s mission. He regretted that Deep Blue was not able to be part of the mission, but the team’s handler wouldn’t have been much help on this mission. With the thick jungle canopy blocking visual and infrared satellite images, the team was as good as invisible. And since Deep Blue had be
en otherwise occupied, he’d put the team in Boucher’s hands.

  A knock on the door pulled his attention away from the roses and the Chess Team. He turned as the door opened. Boucher entered, a grimace pulled down below his white mustache. Something had gone wrong.

  Boucher sat on one of the couches positioned in the center of the Oval Office. It faced another couch on the other side of the presidential seal that had been hand sewn into a deep olive green carpet of Duncan’s choosing. He wasn’t big on decorating, but it was something he had to do when he took office. Not every president did so, but the previous president had an eye for Texas tan and cowboys that made his skin crawl. The decorator he brought in had been told one thing: make it strong. When Duncan had seen the green rug, he nodded and smiled. The decorator had done his homework and chosen the same green that graced the uniform of the U.S. Army Rangers. It helped Duncan feel more comfortable in the office, but did nothing to reduce his craving for the good old days.

  Duncan sat on the opposite couch from Boucher and leaned forward. “You don’t look happy, old man.”

  “Nor will you be,” Boucher said as he opened a small, ultrathin laptop. The screen blinked to life and requested a password. He typed as he spoke. “You know, your doctors would pitch a fit if they knew I was showing you this stuff. You’re not supposed to get worked up.”

  “My doctors can go to hell,” Duncan said. “I didn’t have a heart attack. I’m still in perfect shape.”

  “Except that you could fall over dead any second.”

  Duncan smirked. “As could you.”

  Boucher had been one of the first men to visit the president after his near-death experience. Thanks to a moist handshake he’d also been one of the first to be passed the disease. As a result, he was now under quarantine in the White House with about two hundred others, who had remained on duty despite sleeping at their desks or taking turns in Lincoln’s bedroom. To the outside world, the White House and government were still fully functional. Employing a cadre of phony commuters coming to work in the morning and leaving in the evening, but never entering the White House proper, they hoped to keep the current situation under wraps for as long as possible.

  Boucher scratched the still-healing wound where his own cardioverter defibrillator had been installed. “Don’t remind me.” He turned the laptop around and handed it to Duncan.

  A satellite image showing endless amounts of green canopy came into view. Several light spots represented clearings in the trees. “What am I looking at, Dom?”

  “Vietnam. Annamite Mountains. We knew there wouldn’t be much to see, but we took a gamble, recorded the region surrounding the coordinates. This is a compilation of several images taken over a half hour. The small clearing at the center of the image is Anh Dung, the village we believe contained the source of Brugada’s new strain. You’ll have to zoom in quite a bit to make out the details.”

  The president used the laptop’s touch screen to zoom in on what was a small brown speck in a sea of dark green. Pixels cleared and an image resolved. The village of Anh Dung, as seen from Earth orbit. The president held his breath when he saw the bodies. He zoomed in closer and sighed with relief. The bodies didn’t belong to his team. They were villagers . . . a lot of villagers. Something had gone terribly wrong. He could tell by the color of the bloodstains and the hollowed-out faces of the villagers that the carnage had taken place a few days previous. “What happened?”

  Boucher scratched his stubble-coated cheek. “Our forensics people say that it was an animal attack. They pointed out several claw and puncture wounds as evidence. Seems damn suspicious to me, though.”

  Duncan nodded. Animals didn’t exterminate entire villages. People did.

  “We don’t know if the team came through here, but—”

  “They did.”

  Boucher’s large nose twitched. “How do you know?”

  “The mud.” Duncan zoomed in farther. The image was crystal clear. A benefit of having the most expensive and expansive satellite network in the world. A boot print had been captured by the mud. “That’s a U.S. military–issue boot print.”

  Boucher put on a pair of thin spectacles. He looked at the image with raised eyebrows. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He sat back. “When you’re done running the country, maybe you could come work for me?”

  Duncan smiled. “It’s bad enough sitting in here, let alone some windowless room with fluorescent lighting.”

  “You could increase our budget before you leave office.”

  Duncan chuckled, though he knew they were both cutting the tension with humor. Boucher had more to show him. “What’s next?”

  Boucher cleared his throat. “Zoom out and scroll northeast. You’ll find a clearing that wasn’t there a year ago. Hell, it wasn’t there yesterday.”

  Duncan found the clearing. From a height it appeared to be a clear-cut swath of jungle. He zoomed in. At first the scene was impossible to discern, then it came together as his eyes picked out individual details. Trees had fallen, some in pieces. Among the trees lay bodies. A lot of bodies. The wounds of the dead, unlike those of the villagers, were vibrant red—fresh. Then he noted several prone bodies, but they didn’t appear injured. In fact, they looked to be crawling through the clearing, up the mountainside. Their heads were covered with brush and leaves. Camouflage. He counted quickly now that he knew what to look for.

  Boucher saw him counting. “There are at least fifty advancing. We think there are more in the trees below.”

  “Who are they?”

  “No idea. The brush they’re covered with conceals anything that might tell us who they are.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “Note the fellow in the upper left. The one holding a tree branch. He was our first clue.”

  Duncan found the man. He looked like the others, but a splash of red made him stand out. After zooming in farther, Duncan could see it was the man’s brains exploding from the back of his skull. He’d been shot. A bullet had poked through the front of his head and punched out the back. A bullet fired from above.

  He didn’t wait for Boucher’s instructions. He followed an imaginary line, tracing the bullet back to its origin. He stopped when he reached the trees. “Damn.”

  “There’s a gap in the tree cover,” Boucher said.

  Duncan found it and zoomed in closer. The gap filled the screen. He’d never been good at guessing objects based on macro photographs. “What is it?”

  “Muzzle flash.”

  The image came clear to him. He could make out the front end of the weapon—a long slender barrel hosting a tall sight. An explosion of light flared from the front of the weapon. He recognized its custom shape. He’d never held the weapon, but had seen pictures. The XM312-B.

  Bishop.

  The president sighed. They were alive. And fighting. He looked up at Boucher feeling hopeful and then realized there was more.

  Boucher stood up, stepped over the presidential seal, and sat down next to Duncan. He pushed a button on the laptop’s keyboard. The image changed. A mound of fresh dirt and debris filled the image. Dust still clung to the air. The tops of trees poked out.

  Duncan looked into Boucher’s pale blue eyes. “Is this . . . ?”

  Boucher nodded. “Taken five minutes after the previous image. Looks like they brought the mountain down on top of them. We don’t know exactly what happened, but it doesn’t look good.”

  “When were these taken?” Duncan asked, his voice nearly a whisper.

  “An hour ago.”

  “Keep watching the area. Get me images of anything and everything that changes, even if it’s a tree falling over.”

  Boucher stood and collected the laptop. “Yes, sir.”

  “Expand the search area, too. Use as many resources as you need. I don’t need to tell you what’s at stake if the mission has failed.”

  Boucher pursed his lips and shook his head. “No, sir. You don’t.”

  “Thanks, Dom.”r />
  Boucher turned to leave, but paused. He’d been the CIA director when Duncan took office. He’d overseen the Chess Team’s creation at Duncan’s request and arranged for Deep Blue’s insertion into the team. He knew what those five lives in Vietnam meant to him. He put his hand on Duncan’s shoulder. “We’ll get them back, Tom.”

  Duncan just nodded as Boucher left through the northwest door that led to the main hallway of the West Wing. A plan began to take shape in his mind. He wouldn’t just sit back and let the Chess Team die.

  Before his thoughts could get any farther a knock came from the northeast door. “What is it, Judy?” He realized he sounded angry. But Judy, his secretary, who was used to his moods, took no offense. She strode across the room, picked up the remote, and turned on the wall-mounted flat screen. She switched the channel to CNN. “Trouble’s brewing.”

  An image of a bombshell reporter filled the screen. The volume was turned down. As Judy turned it up, Duncan read the woman’s lips. It was easy to recognize his name. With the volume up, he only needed to hear the next two words. “Heart attack.”

  The cat was clawing its way out of the bag.

  He turned to Judy. “Better turn on the coffeepots downstairs.”

  Judy nodded and rushed out, closing the door behind her. Duncan always referred to the White House Situation Room as “downstairs.” He’d probably be spending the rest of the day there as the press descended on the White House, expecting to be given access to the press room only to be turned away at the door. Then would come the phone calls. But they couldn’t be told the truth. That the entire White House was under quarantine. That the disease contained within could wipe out the human race. Chaos would ensue.

  Tom slid back into the couch and rubbed his temples. His plans to help the Chess Team would have to wait. They might be fending off attacks from unknown assailants, but he would soon find himself up against a more cunning adversary—reporters. Until they were dealt with, the Chess Team was on its own.