The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

  A blue laser pulse flashed past Truman’s ear, sizzling loudly and searing him as it passed. For a few seconds he heard nothing but a roar. Then Captain Lopez’s voice came through his earpiece: “They’ve got us pinned down. We’ll have to go farther north to cross the road. It’s gonna be a few minutes before we can get into position. Also, my squad is running low on energy charges. Cutting back to half-power.”

  Truman had to get that damn bus away from the fighting. The front of the shelter already looked scorched. Its recently repaired front door had been blown off and the DS-9000 stood fully exposed. The pseudos atop the flatbed now fired red pulses at it. Full power. For the moment the shield around the scanner held, though it glowed an ominous red.

  A purple pulse hit Truman’s helmet a glancing blow. He fell to the ground, his head burning. Ripping the superheated helmet off, he caught the bitter stench of burnt plastic and metal. He noted the crease through the side of his helmet and realized he’d just cheated death. Had that pulse come from the bus?

  “You okay, sir?” Adams asked.

  He nodded. “Follow me, Lieutenant.”

  Moving forward in a crouching run, Truman reached the side of the shelter, where Gray Weiss hunkered down with half a dozen soldiers a few feet behind his mobile command center. Across the street the pseudos in the office buildings now put purple suppression fire into the command center until the vehicle was little more than molten metal. Weiss and the soldiers with him backed away as the heat from the command center intensified. Incredibly Weiss carried an old fashioned handgun.

  “Sonic grenades,” Truman yelled, the sound of his voice carrying clearly over the sizzle of the lasers. Truman ducked down, his hands over his ears, as several troops lobbed grenades toward the flatbed truck. The resulting explosion caused every soldier to hesitate for a moment. It should have stunned the pseudos behind the shield for at least a few seconds but they seemed oblivious to it, something Truman would have insisted was impossible had he not seen it for himself.

  The sizzle of the enemy’s laser fire grew louder as the pulses intensified. It seemed like a hundred pseudos were firing on his troops, though it was only five or six. My God, Truman thought, what an enormous amount of firepower they have.

  The pseudos on the truck continued to pour red laser fire into the shelter, targeting the DS-9000. Major Sims and her soldiers returned fire steadily, poking their heads around the ruined doorway every few seconds and firing quick bursts at the truck.

  “The shield is overloading,” Major Sims said over the comm.

  “Prepare to disengage,” Truman said.

  He hurried over to Weiss’ side. The heat here was intense. He could barely breathe through the thick, acrid smoke. Coughing, he asked, “You okay?”

  “We’ve got to get that bus out of here,” Weiss spoke hoarsely. “We can’t do anything until those kids are safe. And those pseudos on the truck know it.”

  “The DS-9000’s shield is about to go. We have to disengage it.”

  Weiss shook his head. “We need that scanner. Keep the shield up as long as you can. And keep that perimeter in place. I don’t want Devereaux sneaking out during the attack. I’m going to make a run for the bus.”

  “It would be suicide, sir.”

  “If you can put enough lasers on their shield, I might have time to get to the bus and drive it out of here.”

  The sound of a siren grew louder as a police vehicle neared. Colonel Truman hoped they’d have the good sense to keep back. They’d be no match for the pseudos.

  “It’s too dangerous,” Truman argued. “To keep their shield on, we’d need at least half a dozen troops to concentrate full power on the shield from a distance of…” he calculated quickly, “no more than twenty feet.”

  “God will protect me. Besides, we’ve got no other options.”

  Truman turned to his squad. “I need eight volunteers to make a run for the truck.” Lieutenant Adams raised her hand. So did Sergeant Mecklenberg—a big kid from Montana who’d been offered a chance to train for the Elite Ops but had turned it down. No one else moved. Truman nodded, then pointed to his troops. “Adams, you and Mecklenberg take Nguyen, Faruzah, Honsi, Esparza, Yu and Orgento. You need to get to within twenty feet. Power settings to maximum. Hit that shield with everything you’ve got for as long as you can. Mr. Weiss and I will try to reach the bus.”

  Before they could move, the DS-9000’s shield exploded and bricks flew out from the shelter’s front wall into the parking lot.

  Adams, face pale and teeth clenched, checked her Las-rifle. Then she nodded to Truman and sprinted toward the truck, her troops forming a line behind her, firing as they ran. Weiss jumped up and sprinted in a serpentine weave toward the bus, Truman following. His squad put everything they had into the shield and the buildings opposite but Truman doubted it was enough to protect them; there was no cover in the parking lot at all.

  Seventy yards from the bus, Weiss stopped behind a burning troop transport. Truman ran up next to him, breathing shallowly in the intense heat, and fired a long burst at the pseudos in the buildings opposite, who withdrew momentarily. As Weiss took off again, Truman glanced at the flatbed. The pseudos atop the truck fired quick laser pulses—blue—as their shield phased off, hitting Private Honsi and Specialist Faruzah. Honsi fell, clutching his stomach, but Sergeant Mecklenberg grabbed Faruzah and dragged him forward with one arm while firing with the other. Good boy. Truman took off after Weiss.

  Forty yards from the bus, Weiss dove into some low shrubs on the boulevard, breathing heavily. Truman threw himself down beside the Attorney General, took a deep breath and looked toward the bus. A window behind the driver’s door shattered. Children screamed. A laser pulse must have ricocheted off the shield.

  Now Weiss got to his feet and sprinted for the bus. Truman bolted after him, firing his Las-rifle at the flatbed as he ran, but he stopped almost immediately when he realized he couldn’t keep his aim steady. Better not to fire than to hit one of his own people.

  Dashing across the pavement, Truman and Weiss drew to within meters of the bus when the female pseudo on the flatbed suddenly turned and fired a blue laser pulse that hit Weiss in the right shoulder. Weiss fell heavily, crying out as he hit the ground. His pistol slipped from his hand and skittered toward the bus, striking the front driver’s-side wheel.

  Truman grabbed Weiss by his armpits and dragged him toward the bus, bracing himself for the shock of a laser pulse. Weiss moaned, half-conscious. Mingled with the stench of flaming fuel and molten metal pouring from the destroyed transport vehicles and the mobile command center, Truman caught a whiff of burnt flesh. Finally he reached the bus, set Weiss against the front wheel and began pounding on the driver’s door. His back itched even though he knew the fighters from both sides were trying not to hit the bus.

  He glanced over to where Lieutenant Adams fired at the shield. Her Las-rifle’s charge went dead at the same moment as Mecklenberg’s. As they tried to reload, the shield on the flatbed phased off, just for an instant, and the pseudos fired again. Lieutenant Adams cried out and fell. She hit the ground heavily. Mecklenberg grabbed her and dragged her behind Private Honsi, then set her down carefully. Truman would have to remember to recommend him for a medal.

  “Open the door,” Truman ordered as he hammered on the bus.

  Finally the door swung open. The driver, a heavyset red-haired woman, still slumped over the wheel, alternately grunting and whimpering as she clutched her stomach. Blood oozed from between her fingers. A pretty teacher bent over her with a damp cloth. She stared at Truman, her eyes wide and her face pale. A man and a woman stood in the aisle beyond her, talking to the children in firm but gentle voices, telling them to keep their heads down and to stay calm. “We’ve got to get this bus out of here,” Truman said.

  “We can’t move her,” the pretty teacher said. “She’s been shot. The steering wheel’s
fused into her stomach.”

  “We’ll take care of her,” Weiss said to the teacher. He’d somehow recovered enough to get to his feet behind Truman, his gun back in his hand. “We’ve got medics outside.” Weiss then pointed to his injured shoulder with his gun and said to Truman, “I’m afraid I can’t help you much.”

  Truman stood on the step-plate, then reached up and grabbed the bus driver under the shoulders. As he pulled her clear of the seat, he heard a ripping sound. The bus driver screamed and thrashed about, hitting Truman’s head with her fist. Some of the children screamed along with her. Others cried.

  “Medic,” Weiss shouted over the noise.

  Truman lowered the bus driver to the street. She clung to his arms fiercely, writhing in agony, sobbing. Truman held onto her as Weiss shut the door and slowly backed up the bus, the loud beeping from the vehicle adding another layer to the assault on Truman’s ears.

  “I’ve got you,” Truman yelled above the noise.

  He felt vulnerable in the road, no longer protected by the bulk of the bus. But logic told him that the pseudos weren’t out to kill anyone. They’d had multiple opportunities to take him out and had already demonstrated that their aim was phenomenal. So the only rational conclusion was that they didn’t want to kill him.

  He tried to call for a medic on his comm unit, only then discovering that the bus driver had knocked his headset off when she’d hit him. Just then he caught a flash of movement in the center of the street. A man ran past him toward the shelter and the flatbed truck. The man glowed with the sparkling incandescence of an energy shield and carried something that looked like a narrow bucket—a black cylindrical tube two feet long and nine inches in diameter.

  A particle beam cannon?

  Truman shivered. If the man directed that weapon at the shelter on a wide beam, he might bring down the whole building.

  The man slowed to a jog, drawing fire now from the men in the building and the flatbed, as well as from a dozen soldiers. Every time a laser shot hit him, his shield glowed brighter. He stopped in front of the shelter, knelt down and aimed the particle beam cannon at the truck. He waited for what seemed a long time, absorbing scores of shots. Then the glow around him flickered for a fraction of a second and he fired his weapon. A roar of immense power filled the air and the energy field surrounding the fighters on the flatbed died.

  Truman pulled himself free of the bus driver and sprinted toward the truck as a sonic grenade exploded. He fell to the ground, his body frozen by the shock of the detonation. The three fighters atop the flatbed, somehow unaffected, sprang to their feet, leapt to the ground and ran across the street.

  More sonic grenades exploded as two fighters in the buildings across the street slipped through the windows and jumped to the ground. Together the five sprinted away, moving with a superhuman speed and grace.

  Truman managed to lift his Las-rifle and fire at the retreating figures.

  A pseudo stumbled as a purple laser strike hit him. Another purple pulse came from the shelter, hitting another pseudo, who nearly fell over. But the blond female propped him up and pulled him along. In seconds they were gone—down the street and into the woods.

  Truman knew he couldn’t go after them. His troops stood no chance against their firepower, especially not on their home territory. Any pursuit was liable to run into an ambush.

  “Stand down,” he yelled as he got to his feet. “I need a medic over here.” He pointed to the bus driver, who now lay curled up in the fetal position.

  Then Truman turned his attention to the man with the particle beam cannon. And as a precaution, he aimed his Las-rifle at the man’s chest. Not that it would do any good against the man’s shield. Dozens of his troops converged on the man, who seemed unconcerned with their presence. Truman grabbed the nearest soldier’s comm unit and spoke into it: “Stay calm. Stay alert. I want reports, people—status, casualties, readiness. Captain Lopez, Captain Baynes, return to base.”

  The bus glided quietly down the street, returning from where Weiss had driven it to safety. Weiss parked it at the side of the road, opened the door and yelled, “Medic! Two kids have been hit.”

  Truman reached the man with the particle beam cannon, noted the hazel eyes glittering behind the shield, the older but still recognizable face from the photo Weiss had given him only a short time ago. This was Jeremiah Jones. The killer. And for some reason he’d saved them.

  Chapter Twelve

  Soldiers emerged from cover and approached Jeremiah through the drifting smoke. A black Army colonel with the nametag Truman reached him first, Las-rifle pointed at Jeremiah’s chest. But he lowered his weapon almost immediately.

  “Thanks,” Jeremiah said.

  “Thank you,” Truman replied.

  Jeremiah nodded. As he deactivated his shield, several of the soldiers who had gathered around him reached over and patted him on the shoulders and back, murmuring their thanks.

  Then Jeremiah remembered Gray Weiss’ distinctive voice yelling for a medic.

  He turned and jogged toward the bus, Colonel Truman keeping pace, continually talking into his comm unit. Jeremiah hoped he wasn’t going to see dead children, though it would have to be a pretty unlucky shot to kill one of those kids. The attackers had only used full power when firing into the shelter.

  Before Jeremiah reached the bus he saw Lendra descending the stairs. She must have gotten inside after the bus backed up the street. A sergeant wearing a medic’s insignia ran past her into the bus. People yelled and screamed, hurling questions through the smoke and chaos.

  “What’s the damage in there?” Colonel Truman shouted.

  Two security guards now emerged, carrying a little boy with a bloody shoulder. Behind them, the sergeant carried another boy out the door, a gash above his left eye. It was the boy Jeremiah had seen drop his cotton candy earlier—the one who looked a little like Joshua. Jeremiah fought a sudden bout of nausea. The sergeant yelled, “These kids got lucky. Minor wounds.”

  Relief washed over Jeremiah.

  As the crowd parted to let the men carry the children through, Jeremiah made his way toward Lendra, Colonel Truman continuing to shadow him. When he reached Lendra, she told him she was all right, but her face looked pinched and gray.

  Then Weiss emerged from the bus, carrying an old fashioned automatic pistol in his left hand; his right dangled limp. He had a burn mark on his right shoulder, the laser strike marring the cut of his suit, but only a small amount of blood advertised the wound. Weiss wore a tight smile.

  Stopping in front of Jeremiah, Weiss said, “Jeremiah Jones.”

  “Gray Weiss,” Jeremiah answered.

  “That’s a particle beam cannon,” Colonel Truman said, pointing to the weapon in Jeremiah’s hands.

  Jeremiah ignored him, keeping his eyes on Weiss.

  An old police officer pushed forward through the crowd, asking, “What’s going on here?” He also carried an ancient gun—one that looked even older than he was—and it shook in his hand so badly that Jeremiah hoped he could holster it before it accidentally discharged. He was probably the only law in town. Only the big and wealthy cities could afford true police protection. Everyone else relied on the National Guard or private security forces.

  “Nice gun,” Jeremiah said to Weiss. “Looks heavy. You the one who got the bus out of the way?”

  Weiss nodded.

  “Good job,” Jeremiah said. “But I’d expect no less from you.”

  Weiss looked at Jeremiah as if unsure whether the comment was sarcastic. “I’m serious,” Jeremiah added. “That was a brave thing to do, especially with only a pistol.”

  “We got lucky,” Weiss said bitterly. “We were completely overmatched. Fortunately, God sent you just in time.” Turning toward the old police officer, Weiss asked, “Who are you?”

  “I’m Chief McKinney.”

&nb
sp; “Gray Weiss.”

  “I heard you were in town,” Chief McKinney said. He tried to holster his clunky gun and dropped it to the pavement. When he bent to pick it up, his pant legs rode up and Jeremiah noticed a small Las-pistol strapped to his ankle.

  “I’m looking for Walt Devereaux,” Weiss said. After a glance at Jeremiah, Weiss gingerly put his gun into an inside pocket on the right side of his suit. Then he turned to Colonel Truman and said, “We need to medevac that bus driver and probably those kids. Anyone else hurt?”

  Colonel Truman nodded. “Major Sims is in pretty bad shape. Dr. Mary’s working on her right now. And we got ten others with Las-rifle burns, including you.”

  Weiss looked down at his shoulder. “I’ve had worse. Get a couple jet-copters in here right away.”

  Colonel Truman turned away and began speaking into his comm unit.

  “Chief,” Weiss said to McKinney. “I want you and your men to help get that schoolbus on its way. We’re going to close this whole block. Nobody gets in unless they’ve got a legitimate reason for being here—at least for the next few hours. And nobody says anything to any media outlets.”

  Jeremiah couldn’t help but admire Weiss’ savvy order. Lendra, still looking a bit dazed, smiled briefly too, obviously aware, just as the Attorney General was, that the press would arrive soon. Word of events here would travel quickly but, by asking for restraint, Weiss could claim he did not intend to use the situation for personal gain.