The Demon Plagues

by David VanDyke

  Back out the way she came, this time running fast, bullets licking her heels she sprinted, first hurdling the low wall then reaching up to grasp the points of the wrought-iron fence, flipping herself up and over in a gymnast’s dismount, ignoring the shredded palms of her gloves and hands alike. She landed on her feet and somersaulted back up into a run, this time flat out, her hands reaching for the sky in front of her as her stride lengthened to an Olympic dash, ten seconds of life instead of glory, unto welcoming darkness.

  -50-

  JT Tyler stood on his father’s darkened front porch, sipping fine Scotch with his left hand, watching the stars. They twinkled, mocking him, jeering him, like the rest. He was tired of it, tired of it all, the duplicity of those who would not follow him and the stupidity of those who could not see his vision and the lack of discipline of those who surrounded him.

  His right hand toyed with the hammer of his .45, click, release, again, again. He waved the pistol around, wishing there was something more interesting than an oak tree to shoot. That’s all right, he will show up soon enough to be my target. They’re all so stupid, they will come forward like lambs, my father in the lead.

  Madness often masks its own recognition.

  General Tyler drove his personal jeep into his driveway, Commander Forman by his side. Its headlights washed over the figure of his son before he turned them off. He pushed the flap of his service holster to fold outside and under his web belt, out of the way of the fast-draw. How did it come down to this? He stepped out into the open, making no effort to take cover.

  JT lined his .45 up on his father from thirty yards, a difficult but far from impossible shot. “Hey, Dad. Nice to see you.” He laughed, the edge of insanity leaking through. “And the Ice Queen with you. I hear you two had a little close encounter this afternoon.”

  General Tyler’s voice was gravel. “I always said you needed more time on the range, son. Two inches to the left and I’d be dead instead of recovered. A little early to be an Eden, but better than the alternative.”

  “Alternatives, incidents and allegations and things left unsaid, dad-o-mine. Why are you here, anyway? It’s not like you can kill me, and I’m not going to let you take me alive.” JT’s face was twisted, his eyes bright hot, seeing things of his own imagining as he pointed the gun first at his own head, then at his father, then at the crystal sky. “Is this a bullet I see before me?” His giggle tapered off.

  “I was hoping you could be saved from whatever it is that you put in your veins. Listen to yourself. You're not making any sense. It’s destroying you, son.” The General walked slowly forward, his hand resting on the butt of his weapon.

  “It’s only accelerating my destruction, Dad. I gambled with some nano and I lost, but I’d do it all again. It wasn’t the tech that made me this way, you know.” JT drank off the Scotch in his glass with a gulp, tossing the highball sidewards into the desert dark.

  “I know, son. It was the Eden Plague. It was the price for salvation that some must be sacrificed. It’s not your fault you’re a...” Travis trailed off, unwilling to say the word. Three more steps, halfway from the cooling jeep to the front porch shadows. Eden eyes and starlight showed enough.

  JT giggled again. “A Psycho? But Dad, you’re helpless now. You’re an Eden, and you can’t for a minute convince me you’re a Psycho too. Maybe you got Needleshock in that hand cannon you’re playing with, but can you be sure you won’t kill me even if your aim is good? While all I have to do is plug you a few times with these hollowpoints and then – pow, coup de grace.”

  “Your plan failed, you know. They defected to Australia, your group of misfits.-Skull

  “Yes, my group that I assembled under your nose. You always did delegate too much, Dad. But who cares. Come a little closer.” JT pointed the heavy automatic at his father.

  General Tyler sighed, a sound of acceptance and grief. “All right. You’ve convinced me. Captain, disarm him.”

  Darkness flickered within darkness, fractions of a second split by black-clothed figures that seized JT from behind and the side, from over the rail and beneath it, surprising him utterly. Shadow-clad men and women held General Tyler’s wayward son immobile, mewling and spitting until his infantile rage died a whimper in his throat.

  Father stared at son for a moment in bleak sorrow, wondering what would happen if he took the easy way out, threw his wayward seed into a prison cell hole, rejecting that choice even as his decision layered another callus onto his already leathery soul. He drew the .45 and pointed it at his only child’s head.

  “You can’t, Dad, you’re an Eden! You can’t kill me!” Foam and spittle from JT’s disbelieving lips floated down upon Travis Tyler’s boots.

  Travis laid his hand on JT’s cheek, looked into his tortured eyes. “Son, I shore am sorry. It makes me sad, but it don't violate my conscience to put down a mad dog.”

  The automatic barked in his hand.

  Epilogue

  The man surrounded by Secret Service agents looked far too young to be President. The man in the general's uniform shaking his hand in the light of popping flashes looked equally and suddenly young, if one ignored his old eyes. Travis Tyler performed a parade-perfect about-face, his new medal swinging in the spin, and took his place off to the side.

  The Navy commander was next to step forward and run through the ritual of the award. Christine Forman put on the smile and stood for the photos, but her mind was far away, with a man on a spaceship now millions of miles from Earth. I don't exactly have feelings for him, but...it's probably just my inclination to rescue every wounded bird I see. She went to stand next to General Travis with relief, a smile breaking out as the next awardee was called.

  “To All Who See These Presents Greeting: This is to certify that the President of the United States takes pleasure in presenting the Navy Cross to Marine Gunnery Sergeant Merijill Stephanie Repeth...” The narrator droned on, reading of her heroic actions in strangely nonspecific terms. It would hardly do to give her a citation for shooting up the Secret Service, so it was couched in generalities until the part about “singlehandedly saving the life of the President of the United States.” I suppose you could look at it that way, Jill thought.

  When President McKenna shook her hand, he leaned in close. “Thanks, Jill. Your country owes you a lot. I owe you a lot."

  “Thank you, sir, and for the blanket pardon. Save some kind words for the General. He lost a son.”

  McKenna nodded as he drew back and let go of her hand.

  She stepped off smartly and joined her comrades in the line, exchanging smiles with Christine while the President decorated a few other heroes. No matter what else happened, she was a US Marine again. For now, that was enough.

  End of The Demon Plagues.

  If you enjoyed this book, feel free to write a review at your favorite site.

  The Reaper Plague Excerpt

  Book 3 of the Plague Wars Series

  The long-range transport landed at the Free Communities Australian Air Force Based Richmond near Sydney after nearly fifteen hours. The parachutes Huff and his remnant of Fortress Team had requested sat unused, still strapped to their pallet.

  A military truck with flashing lights led the enormous airplane to its stopping place within a hangar sized to fit. Ground crew placed chock blocks, and as soon as the engines shut down the giant doors slammed shut. A couple of dozen troops, lightly armed, secured the inside perimeter of the hangar, but only one man approached the personnel door near the rear, a short Southeast Asian in a Major General’s dun-colored uniform.

  Spooky Nguyen.

  He stood a few steps from the door with his hands clasped behind his back, apparently unarmed. Watching as the door opened, he showed a hand signal to the crew behind him. Other than that slight motion, he was still.

  A rifle-wielding and helmeted male figure clad in midnight stepped into the plane’s doorway, looking around. It jumped down, then sauntered over to Nguyen, to stop facing him fr
om arms length. The two men were of a height, each about five foot five, one squat and muscular, one slim and erect.

  The faceless man gained a visage by tipping up his HUD plate, revealing exquisitely white teeth that contrasted with his blue-black skin. He laughed, a clownish thing, all teeth and tongue. He saluted casually.

  “I’m Chief Master Sergeant Huff. You must be Spooky Nguyen.”

  The General’s left hand froze in the hand signal while his right flashed out to seize Huff’s rifle, deftly twisting it out of his hand. The weapon came to rest pointing at Huff’s groin, Nguyen’s finger on the trigger. Somehow it now showed full auto.

  Huff’s return blow, cat-quick, nevertheless found only air as Spooky moved slightly, leaning away from the hand just enough that it missed.

  “Stop!” barked Nguyen with a voice that struck Huff like its own blow, that caused his muscles to stutter and his mind to reel.

  He did, then relaxed. “That won’t even penetrate my armor,” Huff sneered.

  “But,” Spooky said calmly, “your groin armor is soft, and it’s going to hurt like a son of a bitch. When we spoke last by radio, you gave your word that you would join my command.”

  Huff twitched, itching to strike out again. “So?” he sneered.

  “Do you always speak to your commanding officer in the familiar? I do not recall giving you leave to address me so. Here in Direct Action, you will earn your privileges, no matter what advantages you acquired by injection.”

  “What if I decide to kill you right now?”

  Spooky smiled. “I took your weapon from you without difficulty. There is more to personal combat than speed and strength. If you tried, at best you would die with me, for I have given orders to that effect.”

  “But I have the children.” Huff did not seem quite as confident as before.

  “The only reason,” Nguyen replied, “that I care about those children is to maintain good relations with Daniel Markis, not out of some kind of human sympathy. You know I’m a Psycho, so you know this is true. So at most we have a standoff, but that will slowly change. No matter what you do, no matter who you threaten or kill, this airplane will not leave the hangar and you will have no kind of life or status in this nation unless I will it. You are only as free as you are useful to me.”

  “Shit.”

  Spooky wasn’t sure whether Huff’s exclamation was disappointed or derisive. “Yes. Deep shit. You know my reputation. I’ll forget about this childish boundary-testing if you will uphold your part of the bargain and play straight from now on. I’m a man of my word.” He reversed the rifle, handing it back to Huff. “Are you?”

  Huff looked around the hangar as if searching for the catch, or a way out, but Spooky knew he would see nothing unless he was very, very observant. Eventually he relaxed and took the weapon back, pointing it at the ground.

  Nguyen nodded. “Come now, let’s get those children off the plane. I supposed they’re cranky and eager to get home.”

  Huff chuckled. “Actually, they have been having a blast. It’s all a big adventure to them, even eating combat rations.”

  Spooky made a slight face. “Disgusting. Come on, Chief, talk to your men. Everything’s set.” He stayed in place, left hand still behind his back, hand signal still showing.

  Huff nodded, appearing to accept his new subordination with equanimity. He turned and leaped lightly into the personnel door of the airplane, then flipped the hinged stairs out to touch the ground. A few moments later all five Fortress Team commandos and five children stood on the polished hangar floor in front of Nguyen.

  Spooky nodded affably, raised a casual right hand, and gave another hand signal with his hidden left.

  End of The Reaper Plague excerpt.

  About David VanDyke

  David is a former US Army Airborne enlisted Soldier and US Air Force intelligence officer. He served in and out of combat zones all over the world in the 1980s through the mid-2000s.

  He now lives on the East Coast with his wife, Beth, and 3 dogs spending most of his spare time writing and editing.

  Connect with David VanDyke

  Facebook

  Twitter

  David’s Blog

  Pinterest

  Visit David’s website:

  www.davidvandykeauthor.com