Emergence (Book 2): Infestation

by JT Sawyer

  Pacelle returned to typing, this time with greater fury as he tried to track down the remote thread, putting the worm under his cyber-microscope to understand its source code. The first thing he learned was the exact time it was launched, at 2106 on Monday, November 2, nearly four days ago. The second thing he found was that the point of origin was in Nanjing, China.

  His eyes went wide and he stopped typing. “Uhm, this could be a problem.” He thrust his finger at the screen full of numbers on the left, then gave the others a puzzling look.

  “I’m supposed to figure out what the hell that all means?” said Reisner. He didn’t know which was worse—trying to understand the parasitic virus that had decimated mankind or deciphering the computer worm that was threatening to reduce the United States even further.

  “There are three more attacks already in their pipeline, slated to be delivered on November 9 across the remaining grids in the U.S., assuming they breach our firewalls.” He swiped his hand across his tense cheek. “God—that’s only three days from now.”

  “What do you mean?” said Jackson, who moved over from the security monitor by Nash. “Why wouldn’t they have already delivered it?”

  “Because they’re at the gate, pounding on the door, but don’t have the means of penetrating our security on the operating systems yet. The other power grids in the U.S. have far superior cyber-defense systems and automated security measures in place. Crippling the East Coast grid by comparison was easy. That’s something our government should have remedied long ago.”

  “So, can you stop it?” said Reisner.

  Pacelle shook his head. “With the limited computer capabilities I have here, I can only keep defenses on our end updated and try to slow down the worm, but without a full-time staff of technicians working in an actual cyber-defense facility around the clock, there will eventually be a breach, and then it’s lights out for good for the US of A.”

  “What about taking out the sender—retaliating against China’s cyber-defenses before they can complete their operation,” shouted Nash from his chair.

  “Possible, but—” Pacelle waved his hands in the air. “Not from here. I would need access to a place like the NSA, Langley, or Defense Intelligence.”

  “And those are all back East,” muttered Reisner as he ran a hand through his hair.

  “Los Angeles,” whispered Pacelle. “The NSA’s western headquarters is in L.A. That would work—their energy grid is still in place and they have the requisite servers to make this happen. I could patch in my hardware from that location and use a satellite link to stop the worm.”

  A missing, possibly rogue Chinese sub and now an imminent cyber-attack on the rest of the country—this almost makes the pandemic take the back-burner for me. Reisner squatted down and removed a SAT phone from his backpack then headed towards the front door. “So much for getting in and out of here quickly with Andre. It looks like McKenzie is going to be getting an earful.”

  ***

  Twenty minutes later, Reisner stepped back inside the cabin. With the mounting tension from what he knew his team was facing, he felt like his facial muscles had just turned into taut rawhide. McKenzie concurred that their next course of action had to be getting Andre to the NSA office in Los Angeles, but first they had to figure out how to exfil to the plane. As he placed the SAT phone back in its protective sleeve, he heard the back door open as Porter and Connelly returned.

  “That route up the rock spire is tricky but do-able,” said Porter, who looked like he was catching his breath. “There are plenty of natural handholds and the rock will provide enough friction so we don’t need to burn up time using ropes.”

  “I’ll stay here and provide a distraction while the rest of you climb out then buttonhook back to the road by the truck.” Reisner looked at Pacelle, a scowl forming on his face. “Andre is the priority now.”

  Andre was busy packing up his pertinent hardware and devices, looking up in reflection at the walls of his cabin.

  Jackson and Higgins moved closer to the group. “We still need to finish refueling the plane before we can take off or we’re going to end up in the drink halfway back to Hawaii.”

  “No need; there’s a small Air Force Base in Oregon where we are going to meet up with Ivins. His team is accompanying Selene, who is joining us on the next leg of our trip.”

  “Why’s she coming?” said Connelly.

  “Once we link up with Ivins, we’ll all depart in a Blackhawk for L.A. to get Andre inside the NSA.” He gave Pacelle a sideways glance. “Once Yoda here shuts down the computer worm, we’ll retrace our steps north towards San Francisco to assist Selene with her mission—something about procuring the original 1918 flu virus from a military gravesite. Then we’re to rendezvous with the Navy hospital ship, GoodWill, down near the coast of Baja.”

  “Sounds like a heck of a vacation,” said Porter. “We get overtime on this one or just the usual daily rate?”

  “Boss, we’re gonna want to get going on that exfil back to the plane, ASAP,” said Nash, who was standing wide-eyed before the security monitors.

  “Are those things getting through?” said Reisner, rushing over.

  “Not through—up and over, beyond the reach of the sonic defenses. They just fucking started climbing, leaping from tree to tree towards our location.”

  Chapter 16

  Reisner grabbed his backpack, laying out a stack of magazines and several grenades on the table. “Get moving.”

  “What about you?” said Nash. “This isn’t the Alamo.”

  “I have no intention of dying here. Once I see you’re up top on that plateau, I’ll blow this place and be right on your heels while you guys provide cover.”

  “No need to go down with the ship, William,” muttered Andre, grunting as he moved the couch near the fireplace. He yanked open a wooden panel in the floor and lowered his two backpacks down. “History has repeatedly demonstrated that the castle mentality of holding out against superior forces does not work. There are times when it is better to simply run.”

  He shimmied down into the narrow passage, his head sticking up. Reisner strode over and knelt down beside him. “You didn’t think to mention this earlier.”

  “It was my back-up plan for getting away from you if things went south between us.”

  “I wouldn’t rule that out yet.” Reisner peered down into the inky tunnel, which reeked of mold and rotting leaves. “Where does this go exactly?”

  “South—literally, back down the hill for sixty feet, not far off from your truck.”

  Reisner snapped his fingers. “Alright—Porter and Nash, follow him out. Jackson and Higgins, you go next. Connelly and I will take up a position in the corner windows and start sniping the Claymores as the drones get closer.”

  As the others climbed into the passage, Reisner ran out to the porch and fixed his sights on the canopy of spruce trees above while Connelly moved to his right and centered her rifle sights on the Claymore mine tripwires they had come across earlier.

  Reisner saw the branches above beginning to rustle as several drones leapt like monkeys from tree to tree. He took aim and sniped the first ones near the edge of the field, but they were soon replaced by several more. He knew there was an unending stream of more drones to take their place, but they only had to hold them off long enough for the others to get out of the tunnels.

  “Start on the Claymores,” he yelled to Connelly above the constant barrage of gunfire. He dropped out a magazine and slid another into his AR, continuing to blast the frenzied creatures that were now bounding through the treetops. He saw several drop down to his right and sprint across the field and out of sight.

  “Shit, contacts at my three o’clock.” He ran to the side of the porch and shot two creatures in the head within thirty feet, then saw another spring in the air from behind a woodpile. He caught it in the shoulder but it dropped and thrashed for a second before coming up in a full run. Reisner fired off two rounds into the chest as it
zig-zagged towards him, then finished it with a shot to the forehead as it slid on the grass a few feet from the porch.

  He heard the treeline erupting as the Claymores exploded, and several spruce trees crashed to the ground. In the time he had spent killing the other creatures to the side, a deluge of drones began entering the field after dropping down from the canopy, outside of the range of the sonic alarms, whose speakers were only angled at ground level.

  Reisner shot a half-dozen more rushing at the cabin, their splintered heads backlit by the fiery explosion of more Claymores. Reisner thought he was involved in a vicious fight with the Taliban in some hellish part of Afghanistan, and he had to remind himself that this was California and the enemy was only interested in tearing through his flesh with its teeth.

  “Claymores are done for,” yelled Connelly as she shot two drones rushing in from her left. Reisner looked inside the cabin and saw the rest of his party was gone. He fired off successive rounds into the smooth heads of two small drones bounding like cheetahs at the front porch, then grabbed Connelly’s sleeve and yanked her up. “Get in the tunnel. I’ll be right behind you.”

  She bolted inside and slung her rifle, then lowered herself down into the passage. Reisner removed two grenades from his vest and tore out the pins, flinging them into the meadow twenty feet beyond the front porch. He rushed inside and slammed the front door, then ran for the tunnel as he heard the explosion outside. Slinging his rifle off his chest and lowering his legs into the tunnel, he saw the kitchen window at the rear shatter as a creature dove through. It lunged at him, grabbing his arm and jerking his body up. He reached for his Glock 19 and almost fired into its head but realized the danger of worms landing on him. Reisner was yanked forward again as its mouth raced at his face. He whipped the beast in the head with the muzzle, causing it to let go, then fired off two rounds into its head as it fell back onto the desk. He felt the strain on his right shoulder and was grateful it wasn’t dislocated. Reisner slid down into the tunnel and scurried along the dark passage towards the light ahead. Nearing the end, he saw Connelly’s face backlit through the opening and was glad she was safe. She helped him crawl out of the tight space, and he collapsed beside a mossy tree stump next to the others. He craned his head up at the cabin in the distance. The handhewn timbers were barely visible as hundreds of creatures poured over the roof and porch, searching for prey. He looked over at Pacelle, who had a detonator in his right hand, as the older man shot a sorrowful gaze at his home. A second later, he depressed a red button and the cabin erupted in a fiery blast, sending wood splinters into the forest as the army of drones was obliterated.

  Reisner shot a surprised look at Andre, grateful the man had waited until they were out of the house. This was the second time his life had rested in Andre’s hands in the past few hours, and he wondered why the hardened former agent had spared him again.

  Andre tossed the detonator towards Reisner. He caught it then looked up at the man, who only nodded then looked away. Pacelle’s actions didn’t relieve the hatred in Reisner’s soul, but it did make him wonder what the man’s end game was.

  Reisner got up and adjusted his backpack, then trotted down the hill alongside the others as they made their way to the truck in the distance. Once they were inside, Nash started the engine and they sped off down the road.

  After they had covered a few miles, Andre removed a folded piece of paper from his jacket. “Who’s the brains of the outfit besides Will—anyone with an extensive background in comms or electronics?”

  Porter turned up his chin, giving him a curious look. Andre handed him the drawing. “This is a schematic of the audio device I had in place around the perimeter of my property. Something to get to your admiral—perhaps he can rig up a long-range acoustic device and make some kind of sonic weapon on a greater scale than what I had.”

  “Excellent—thank you,” said Porter.

  Nash smirked. “Or we could just make a recording of Porter singing and broadcast it around the nation. That would surely cause the heads of those freaks to implode.”

  “At least when I open my mouth, I don’t sound like a rusty muffler on a ’68 Camaro.”

  “How’d you know I drove a Camaro—your girlfriend tell you after I dropped her back at your place?”

  Porter started to chuckle, then frowned instead, his eyes lowering. He tucked the folded paper in his pocket then looked up at the night sky. Nash patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry, brother—my bad. For a minute there, it just seemed like old times, joking around.”

  Porter nodded, then let out a long sigh. “Last week at this time, I was enjoying pizza and brews with my woman at a sports bar, watching the Laker’s game.” He held his hands up in the air. “Now, I’m running and gunning again with your sorry ass. It never lets up, this work we do, even before this outbreak. We get so used to saying, ‘just one more mission—one more paycheck then I’m out.’ Yet, here I am, still back it at, only now everyone I knew back home is gone.”

  “Hell, who knows—maybe she made it. We’ll get back to Virginia again, some day,” said Nash.

  Porter stroked his thin goatee, then waved his index finger at his face. “Don’t matter anyway, she was only interested in my money-maker. Some women don’t ever look beyond my rugged exterior.”

  Nash looked over at Reisner and Connelly, both of them starting to grin. He and Porter did the same before breaking out in nervous laughter. As the truck made its way back to the airfield, they each tried to replace their sorrows with hope that they would see their loved ones again as the forest of silent pine trees enveloped the sinewy road around them.

  Chapter 17

  East Los Angeles

  In a long-abandoned tunnel a half-mile off the main artery of the Sixth Street Viaduct, eleven people squatted in the dark, shivering from the damp breeze wafting in at midday. Their disheveled appearance was matched by the forlorn look in their eyes. When they spoke, it was in muffled whispers to avoid agitating the drones who were huddled a few hundred yards away, awaiting their next feeding. Soon the merciless creatures would drag off another pair of captives and tear them apart in a maniacal frenzy while the cement corridors filled with their agonizing shrieks. At least that’s what Blake Hollinger surmised as he rubbed his scarred chin while staring at the precious shaft of sunlight stabbing through the tunnel—the only reminder that there was a world outside of the misery and horror he had witnessed since being rounded up with the other captives two days earlier.

  Blake thought his soul had been stretched to its limit when he watched his own daughter die from the virus a week ago, followed by the madness in the streets as humanity was nearly snuffed out by the scourge of monsters overtaking the city. The National Guard, the police, and even heavily armed members of his Raptor motorcycle street gang were quickly overtaken as the legions of infected swept through East Los Angeles.

  “I’m hungry,” said the voice of a small boy huddled against his sister in the corner.

  “Shut up,” said a college kid in his twenties, his face sooty. “We’re all hungry, so quit whining.”

  “Leave the kid alone,” Blake said, his glare causing the downtrodden young man to look away. Blake stood up from his crouched position, stretching his cramped legs, then walked over to the cusp of the tunnel entrance. He heard the creatures before he saw the cluster huddled near the mouth of the tunnel, standing guard over their precious prey. That’s what we are now. Prey. Food. The chilling sound of their shrill voices echoed off the cement walls, like a mistuned radio dial.

  “How many are out there this time?” said an older man’s voice behind him. Blake recalled him saying his name was Vic, from Riverside.

  Blake raised both his hands, fingers outstretched. “Maybe a few more.”

  “Why haven’t they come for any of us yet?” said Vic.

  “Maybe they got enough yesterday,” said Blake, looking down at the pavement ahead, which was stained red from the escape attempt that three people tried the pr
evious morning. The sound of their screams as their limbs were ripped off was something Blake would never forget.

  “They must have to feed regularly in order to maintain homeostasis.”

  Blake scrunched his eyebrows together, staring at the balding man. “Who talks like that? What are you, a fuckin’ scientist?”

  “Retired veterinarian; mostly horses. I used to work at the Santa Anita Race Track.”

  Blake knew the place. He’d had to shake down clients there when he worked as an enforcer during his early days in the Raptors. “Those guys yesterday should’ve listened. I told ’em to wait until we had the upper hand before trying anything.” He looked around the dank room at the other occupants. “Now, we’re down to just a handful of us.”

  “And what is your plan, Mr. Hollinger?”

  He frowned at the old man. “It’s Blake, and I ain’t got a plan—not yet, Doc.” Blake looked out into the tunnel at the creatures ahead, their nearly translucent heads alight in the sunlight trickling in from an open manhole. “But those fuckin’ potato heads take their orders from something else—a smart creature. I seen it a few days ago, pretty sure. It was standing on top of a building, directing the others. A thin woman in a torn red shirt and shorts.”

  “Or what used to be a woman—not sure there’s much left of their former selves.”

  “This thing moved with purpose, and wasn’t as clumsy as these other maggot-lovers.”

  “Question is, why didn’t they kill us on sight? I remember when they marched into my apartment complex, breaking through the police barricade. They tore apart and consumed a bunch of people but then didn’t have any interest in me and a few others.” He made a jerking motion with his hand. “They just yanked us up and brought us here.”

  “It must be something about us as individuals,” said a dark-haired woman named Allison with bruised arms as she moved up by the two men. Her face was streaked with dried blood from a cut on her forehead and she was shaking. Blake didn’t know if it was from the cold air or from their circumstances or both. She pointed to an open wound on her right bicep. “When they broke in through my front window, I shot three of them, but then there were just too many.” Her lips trembled as her eyes darted between Blake and Vic. “My husband—they…they attacked him on sight, but me, they were about to bite me and stopped when they saw my arm bleeding. Then they just carried me back here.”