Gary could see the fence, and the blinding lights behind it, searing the ground with their brilliance. Kids aimed at the lights; Gary could hear one exploding as it was hit. Then another, and another.
The troops fired back. Gary hid behind an air conditioning duct of the last house on the street, closest to the fence. The gang had spread out, as they'd been told.
Gary wondered where their leader had gone off to. He didn't seem to be anywhere.
The car's engine roared. Looking up, Gary saw that it headed straight toward the fence— it would ram it at full speed.
He realized he'd been watching the whole scene with a dreamy fascination—the car, the kids, the soldiers, everything—playing out all this time, and he had never once fired his gun. He realized he didn't want to.
Sparks flew from the hood and roof of the car as the National Guard bullets sprayed everywhere. The windshield shattered and collapsed in a spray of glass, but the car kept going forward, despite the punishment. It seemed to have the momentum of a tank. They must have put a ton of metal on it, thought Gary.
The crash resounded like nothing Gary had heard before, splitting the air, even drowning out the staccato of gunfire. Instinctively he reached up to his ears, still holding the cold, unused gun. His hands failed to block out the thunderous roar, the pain as the eardrums vibrated with a punch of air as strong as a hurricane.
As the car hit the fence, the front wheels smashed into some concrete blocks reinforcing the bottom. The car bounced almost straight up. The chassis cracked as the front end flew skyward. Momentum pushed driver through the empty space that had once held a windshield. The body looked like a flimsy doll as it bounced off the shattered hood and flew up in the air, a high arc that curled back toward the zone because it had been swatted backward by the hood.
With the front wheels still spinning and pieces of the engine flying off, the car climbed the fence. It cleared the barbed wire at the top and seemed to hang there, in space, as if in orbit. Then it came crashing down, landing on the fence. Poles snapped and braces buckled. A portion of the fence fell. Both fence and hulking, smoldering car sagged to the ground, the car right side up and the fence lying sideways on the ground.
The driver came down behind the wreck, hitting the asphalt inside the zone with a sickening plop.
Gary saw the driver's face—what little remained of it.
Then everything made sense. Everything and nothing. Gary saw the face of his sister, lying there dead in the street. She hadn't gone home. She'd gone straight to Jimmy. And the hot-rod driver, the one who was supposed to drive the car—he had gotten scared and wimped out or had gotten sick with the disease and died. But Alicia would have gone through with it. Had gone through with it.
The fighting raged on, but Gary paid no attention. The house next door exploded in a fireball, flames licking the night sky.
Gary threw down his weapon and starting walking away.
* * *
Reddy inserted another magazine. The barrel almost glowed with heat.
After a response to the initial machine-gun fire coming from concealed positions, Reddy had trained his weapon upon the onrushing car. A suicide mission, obviously—its intention to penetrate the barrier. When the car hit, Reddy expected an explosion and started climbing down the rungs of his platform.
But the explosion never came. There was only a painfully loud crash and the sound of metal being crushed, wrenched, and ripped.
Why was there no explosion?
Reddy, crouching on the ground beneath the platform, looked around. The kamikaze car lay on top of barrier, straddling the broken fence. The riddled hood yawned open; with strips of rubber still clinging to one of the hubs, the front end teetered just over the fallen barricade.
Did the explosives fail to go off? Were they timed for a later detonation?
The car's driver, clearly dead, lay inside the zone. Surely the explosion hadn't been delayed to let the driver get away—it was a suicide mission all the way.
Reddy stared at the car with a growing horror. He would have to investigate it—he must do his duty.
And yet the thing could very well blow up in his face.
Small arms fire from the zone kept kicking up the ground, whining through the air, flicking the needles of the overhead tree branches. Reddy and his squad mates answered. So did the heavy artillery and the helicopters, now hovering overhead. A house exploded, then another. Finally the enemy fire dwindled to nothing.
Cautiously Reddy emerged from behind his armored platform. I've put this off long enough, he thought. He crept forward, staring at the wreck through his face shield as if nothing else in the world existed. Lit up brilliantly with lights coming from all directions, the twisted metal glinted and sparkled.
His buddy at the next booth was thinking the same thing as Reddy, for Reddy heard something in his suit's internal speaker.
"Why doesn't the damn thing go off?"
Studying the smoldering hulk, Reddy noted once again that the car had in fact penetrated the barrier—but if it'd been loaded with explosives, as would be expected, it would have blown a hole in the fence wide enough for people to escape. If they could have survived the gunfire of the soldiers and the helicopter gunships—which was doubtful. They would have had a tiny chance of success, but a tiny chance is better than none, wasn't it?
Reddy whispered, "Maybe we shot out the detonator."
His buddy said, "Maybe we'll win the lottery tomorrow."
Reddy stopped and checked his weapon. Then he continued forward, each step carrying its own nightmare. His buddy moved in from the other side.
"Maybe they didn't have any explosives." Reddy knew the flaw in that reasoning even before he'd said it.
"Then why crash a car into the fence?" asked his buddy.
Just for the hell of it, thought Reddy. Just to age me twenty years in a single night.
"We should wait for the bomb guys," said his buddy, stopping.
That sounded good to Reddy. Except that something told him otherwise. Something was wrong.
"Reddy...."
Inching forward, each muscle contraction registering in his brain, Reddy kept his gaze fixed on the wreck.
"Reddy, you're getting too close...Reddy...."
The plastic shell of the car had been shot away, only shreds remained attached to the steel frame and roll bars. All the glass was gone. The front axle had snapped in two.
"Reddy, get back from that thing!"
He could almost reach out now and touch it. On his haunches, walking like a duck, Reddy waddled along the side.
Then he saw the body. "Got something!" he said frantically.
Someone from command had been listening. "Soldier, report!"
An arm dangled out from the trunk of the car. Except there wasn't any compartment, not like a normal trunk. Metal plates had been welded onto the frame. The rear seats had been yanked out.
Now Reddy understood.
"Soldier, report!"
Reddy dived to the ground and aimed his weapon. He switched on his suit's external speaker.
"Come out now! Come out with your hands up!"
The arm didn't move. Reddy crawled closer. The motionless arm, dangling between metal plates ripped at the weld, defied his order.
Peeking between the cracked plates, Reddy saw the rest of the body. On the head was a football helmet. A bloody face, with wide-open eyes, stared back at him. The chest and back were crushed into a bloody mess.
"One male," said Reddy, switching over to his radio. "Caucasian, between thirty and forty years of age. Deceased."
The car rocked forward. Reddy's buddy yelled, the shout piercing his ears until the suit's automatic damper cut in.
Rolling away from the wreck, Reddy heard gunshots.
"He's coming your way, he's coming your way!"
Reddy looked up to see a huge man leap down from the car. He landed three feet away, losing his balance and throwing out a massive hand to keep from falling.
Before Reddy could blink he raced away.
Redford Zunan jumped to his feet.
He'd never shot a man—a target he could see, as opposed to the faceless, concealed enemy at whom he'd fired so far—and he'd never even considered the possibility of shooting a man in the back. But there wasn't time to worry about niceties and ethics. Somebody in the zone was about to get away and Reddy couldn't let that happen.
This was a civilian and he was retreating, but this time he was headed away of the zone.
On one knee, Reddy braced his firearm and sighted the target as searchlights swung to and fro, trying to follow the man as he sprinted away. Reddy knew all the reasons why he should hesitate, why he shouldn't shoot this man. The man was an American, confined in a containment zone against his will, all of his constitutional rights had been suspended. He was only trying to get away, trying to do the same thing that Reddy would have done in his shoes. It wasn't fair. None of this was fair. All of these things went through Reddy's mind in the second and a half it took him to get into position and pull the trigger. None of these things made Reddy hesitate in the slightest. Squeezing the trigger twice in rapid succession, Reddy felt the gun kick against his shoulder.
More shots rang out. Reddy saw that someone else had also drawn a bead on the escaping man and had fired at roughly the same time. Maybe others had too. In the white light of the stabbing searchlights, Reddy saw the man stumble and collapse. He must have been hit five or six times; Reddy knew he'd been hit at least twice, for both of Reddy's bullets found the mark.
Reddy leapt out of his stance and cautiously stepped forward, wary of any friendly fire still forthcoming. Overhead a menacing chopper hovered.
Unable to believe his eyes, Reddy saw the man jump up. Before Reddy could lift his weapon, the target disappeared down the frontage road and across the interstate highway.
Everyone began yelling at the same time. Reddy raced across the road, trying to follow the man. Searchlights swung wildly, their beams dancing around the ground, along hedges and ditches and into the scattered houses on the other side of the highway.
Over his speaker Reddy heard officers talking about dogs, helicopters, patrols. Reddy continued to be frightened of friendly fire but maintained his search.
Guys were also talking about Kevlar vests. The man must have been wearing some kind of bullet-proof protection.
Joining Reddy, dozens of troops scoured the neighborhood. But there were thousands of hiding places.
"Did you see him?" someone asked Reddy. "Did you get a good look at him?"
The voice was hopeful. Reddy said, "No." He had the impression of a big black man, but that was all. Reddy never got more than a fleeting glance at him.
A bad feeling came over Private Zunan. That dude was fast and knew what he was doing.
* * *
At a little past one o'clock in the morning, Gary arrived home.
Some lights were on in the living room. Gary stepped into the room, unafraid. He saw two people, a woman he recognized and a man he didn't. Both seemed to be asleep.
Then the woman opened her eyes and looked at him.
"I know why you're here," said Gary softly.
The woman gave him an appraising look. "You're hurt."
Gary glanced at his shirt. Spots of blood showed on the front. "It's not mine."
The woman rose. The man stirred, looked around.
"Gary," she said. "We have to talk."
Standing in front of her, Gary summarized the attack. The car, he told them, was totally destroyed and failed to breach the fence. His sister died for nothing.
After he finished, the man—standing now too—said, "We tried to stop it, Cecily. We tried our best."
Cecily kept looking at Gary. "You're alone now, aren't you?"
"Soon as I bury my mother and little brother." Gary glanced upstairs.
"They've already been taken away," said Cecily gently.
"Then, yeah. I'm alone."
Bethesda, Maryland / 7:00 a.m.
Cyan lights flashed and waves crashed against a reef in Kraig's office.
"What do you mean," Micro's assistant director seethed, "there's been a delay?"
"The escape," said the image displayed by Kraig's video communication software. Some general, three stars decorating his shoulders. "All our resources are tied up."
"I'm well aware of the need to capture this man, much more aware than you are. But there are still people in the zone to be saved and we can do that now. And our people must have escorts when they go into the zone and deliver the treatment. Those are your orders."
"The fact is, I don't have the manpower to hunt for the escapee and at the same time provide your escorts. I suggest you call the governor and request more support. I haven't had much luck—maybe he'll listen to you."
"We don't have the time for this crap," said Kraig. "Just spare us anything. Cooks, pot washers, anybody. I don't care."
"I'm sorry. I have nothing to give you. If we don't find this man...you already know what will happen."
"I also know what's going to happen to the people left alive in the zone if we don't move now. I'm giving you fair warning, General. We're going in, with or without your permission."
The general gave Kraig an incredulous look. "That would be a—"
Kraig cut him off.
A moment later the Micro-Investigation Unit's director appeared on Kraig's monitor. The white mustache was frazzled, as if just awoken from a nice dream.
"So," said Chet, after Kraig explained what he wanted to do, "you wish to defy a lawful order."
"What I wish to do is to save some lives. I don't know how many people, if any, are left in the zone and I don't trust the ticker any more, but assuming there's even one or two survivors, don't you think they deserve a chance?"
"Certainly. But we have to be calm and reasonable—"
"Chet." Kraig glared. "We can't wait. Not even an hour."
"They're worried about more escapes. You can't really blame them, can you? If they open the gates and allow our people in and out, some of those on the inside may sneak across in the process."
Kraig shook his head in disbelief. "But we're giving them treatment!"
"The people in the containment zone don't know that. Or at least they won't necessarily believe it. As you said yourself, they no longer trust us. We have to be cautious."
A nasty thought worked its way into Kraig's mind. "It's true. It's really true, isn't it?"
"What's true?"
"That's how they want to end it. They want everybody dead. They don't want any survivors in the containment zone, because that's the only sure way to eliminate protobiont."
The white mustache twitched. "Spreading rumors like that is a dangerous thing, Kraig."
Kraig paused. Then his voice shook slightly as he said, "I'm going to do more than that, Chet. I won't spread rumors—I'll spread fact."
"You'll do no such thing. The only thing you will do is calm down and become rational."
Kraig mumbled something under his breath. He was surprised that the cyan lights and the sounds of the reef had gone. "My computer is now compiling a list of media contacts. It's going to be a long list, a lot of names. Some of them would kill for a story like this."
"What story, Kraig? I'm asking you to get hold of yourself."
"Too late. I'm going to tell everybody."
Chet Vernolt stared at his assistant director. "I can't believe you would behave so unprofessionally."
"Wrong again, Chet." Kraig was pleased that the cyan lights and the reef sounds had not returned. He was calm now that he'd made his decision. It was a victory, of sorts—he had conquered his anger.
"Think about what you're doing," said the director. "You will not only destroy your own career, but damage the reputations of countless others. And all so needlessly!"
"You're running out of time." Kraig glanced at his screen. "The list is finished and I'll have the initial message done in a few minutes. What's it go
ing to be, Chet? Do the treatment people go in, or does my message go out?"
Chet was silent for a moment. "Kraig," he said finally, "think about the sacrifices that have already been made. None of those victims under quarantine asked to be there. It just happened."
"But now we have a treatment."
"An experimental treatment." The director shrugged. "Who says it'll work?"
"You know it'll work. You've seen the test results. Don't quibble with me. At this stage there's one and only one reason to withhold treatment. You want to be 100 percent sure that protobiont is dead."
"Is that so bad? Is that wrong?"
"No. But I want people to know."
"To know what?"
"To know what you did." Kraig paused. "You're right when you said that nobody in the zone asked to be there, it just happened. But now we have a choice. We can save the ones who are left."
"Maybe. Maybe we can save them. And at the same time, maybe we'll let this horrible bug loose on the world."
"It's already got loose. Someone escaped."
"Yes, maybe! But maybe this lunatic has already been caught. Maybe he'll drop dead before he spreads the pathogen. We can't give up hope and just go ahead and let the genie out of the bottle. Keeping this bug as contained as possible is worth the lives we'll lose."
"They're being sacrificed. The people in the zone...you're willing to sacrifice them."
"Yes. The president and I...look, it's a hard decision. A tough call, one that we agonized over for some time. But in the final analysis, we believe that all things considered...we're worried sick. One person is already loose, and then if there's another, and another, they'll be no hope of containment. If there's just a tiny chance that this pathogen could escape, we'll have to sacrifice the containment zone—and everyone in it."
"At least I got you to admit it," said Kraig. "Okay, fine. That's your opinion and you're entitled to hold it. Perhaps you're right, perhaps the sacrifice would be worth it. But all I know is that I'm a physician as well as a physiologist and I took an oath to do everything in my power to save lives. Withholding treatment from patients is the same as killing them. Either that treatment starts moving into the zone, right this very minute, or I'm going to tell everybody who'll listen that those people remaining in the containment zone didn't just die, they were killed. Then the country and the voters will decide if you and the president made the right decision."
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