The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

  “And what do you intend to do when you find them?”

  “We’re here to protect the civilian populace from the threat of the pseudos.”

  Truman said, “In other words, you plan to hunt them down and kill them like you did those fugitives in the forest.” When Major Payne did not respond, Truman spoke in his command voice, “There will be no killing here, Major. I want the pseudos taken alive.”

  Major Payne spoke with contempt: “I don’t take orders from you, sir.”

  Weiss held up a hand. “Oh, Major.”

  Payne swiveled his head toward the Attorney General. “Yes, sir?”

  “I want Colonel Truman to accompany you.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. But that won’t be possible. I don’t take orders from you, either.”

  Weiss looked at Truman for a second, his brow wrinkled in concern. He said, “Who do you take orders from?”

  Major Payne looked at Carlton, who said, “I can take that one, Gray. The Elite Ops get their mission orders from the President, through General Horowitz. But while in the field, they act as a team, with coordination from the commanding officer—in this case, Major Payne.”

  “And where do you come into it, Richard?”

  “As I said, Gray, I’m merely an observer. Just protecting my investment, not to mention doing my part for America.” Turning to Major Payne, Carlton said, “Are the surveillance drones over the area?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. I’d like to do a final systems check before you go into the field. Okay?”

  Major Payne disengaged his shield, then reached down and turned off the power module. Finally, he unclipped four connectors on his neck and took the helmet in both hands. As he lifted it, Truman found himself leaning forward, straining to get a glimpse of the man. He hadn’t known what to expect but he was surprised when the helmet came free. The man stared straight ahead, his jaw square, his cheekbones high, his nose Roman, his eyes a clear gray. Close-cropped dark hair covered his flawless, tanned skin. By all appearances, he was normal, if a bit too perfect. Arrogant. Artificially handsome. One of the rewards, no doubt, for agreeing to become a member of the Elite Ops.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sister Ezekiel spent the night in the chapel, the soft buttery candlelight and the scent of melting wax, as always, soothing her. Good old Flyer: the inveterate alcoholic took great pains to prepare the chapel for her prayers each evening. He also played the organ during services. Sitting in her usual chair in the front of the small room, Sister Ezekiel grasped her rosary and prayed. But her mind drifted to Dr. Mary. Even though Sister Ezekiel knew very little about the doctor—not even her real name—she knew a good person when she met one. Whoever Dr. Mary was, whatever secrets she harbored, Sister Ezekiel trusted her. Her work the past two months had been exemplary. She liked the men and they liked her. Dr. Mary was a gift from God.

  So she was a Devereauxnian. That lumped her in with many Minnesotans these days. More importantly, she was a first-rate doctor with a generous heart. Sister Ezekiel could never doubt that. Despite their religious differences, they had become friends. Or at least as friendly as two people could become when one lived a lie. Why did everything have to be so complicated?

  In the flickering light, Sister Ezekiel prayed for the soul of Raddock Boyd, the safety of Dr. Mary and the wisdom to do the right thing with respect to Walt Devereaux. If Dr. Mary were here, she would offer wise counsel—that stranger, that liar, who hid her past just as Sister Ezekiel hid hers behind service toward men who could no longer care for themselves.

  She felt a twinge in her back and shifted position on the folding chair. Was that a shuffling sound?

  “Flyer?” she said. “Is that you?”

  She looked around and saw nothing, heard no other sound, so she returned to her rosary. Fingering the beads, wrestling with her conscience, she wondered if she was doing the right thing. If the betrayal of Devereaux would save the shelter, didn’t she have an obligation to hand him over? Wasn’t he, for all his gentle speech, still the enemy of Catholicism?

  And perhaps Devereaux wanted her to be his Judas, putting himself in her hands so she would betray him. Uncertainty, that bitter poison, seeped into her soul.

  Always before, she had treated Devereaux’s existence as an abstract challenge to her faith—a person who didn’t directly affect her. But now she knew him. And he wasn’t distant or abstract anymore; he was immediate and concrete.

  How she longed for Dr. Mary’s counsel.

  “Where are you, Mary, when I need you most? I still trust you.”

  Moving through Our Fathers and Hail Marys, Sister Ezekiel occasionally drifted off, her head jerking up as she tried to remember her place on the rosary. The sensible thing to do was go to bed. But she wanted to finish her prayers.

  Unbidden, a nightmare memory returned—her body slammed to the ground, the men on top of her, violating her—the unbearable agony to both body and spirit. Some nights, the memories nearly dragged her into despair. Prayer and, more recently, her conversations with Dr. Mary kept her sane. But her exhaustion tonight was beyond anything she’d endured in a long, long time. It was not so much physical as mental. It sucked her into fitful dreams and wild imaginings.

  Although she knew the chapel was empty, she felt eyes upon her. A presence hovered, something more than human. It stalked her silently, staying its attack, delighting in her discomfort. Every few minutes, her eyes drifted into darkened corners.

  As she tried to relax, the previous day’s occurrences ran through her head. Dead bodies paraded across her dreams, led by Raddock Boyd. In one, God laughed at her. When she turned to face him, Rock Man stared back at her, his hands holding a stone shaped like Dr. Mary.

  For a moment she snapped awake. Another image overwhelmed her—the rapists atop her, grunting and sweating, pinning her arms to the ground and stealing her virginity, then turning her over and taking her from behind. She cried out to God for help. None came. She closed her eyes, damming the tears, as she struggled to imagine herself in some other place. After a time her fatigue crept past the adrenaline barrier that kept her alert.

  She awoke to the sound of falling pebbles, realized that her straining muscles had broken the rosary. Beads exploded outward, skittering across the floor, disappearing into the shadows like cockroaches.

  Shortly after the assault Sister Ezekiel had been offered therapeutic forgetting treatment, but she had rejected it because she wanted to preserve the horror intact. It made up a part of who she was. Blunting that memory seemed wrong. But at times like this, when she recalled the assault so vividly, she often tasted bitter regret at her decision. Forcing the memory back into her subconscious with a litany of Our Fathers and Hail Marys, she vanquished the demons of old and turned again to the same unanswered questions. Why God? Why must so many suffer?

  She really ought to drag herself to bed. Her back ached, and shifting position on the folding chair offered little relief. Just a few more minutes, she told herself, and then she’d go. She closed her eyes, fighting the utter exhaustion.

  When she opened her eyes, she found herself standing in a cathedral, looking up not at God but at Devereaux. Intuitively, she knew it to be the presence that had been watching her.

  You cannot turn me away from God, she protested.

  That is not the intent.

  I want to talk to God.

  Then talk. I’m listening.

  You are not God.

  God is in me, Sister. Surely you do not contest that. Is not God in all of us?

  You said there is no God.

  God is always with us, Sister. He lives in each of us.

  But that’s not the God. The one and only true God. That’s just your idea of man as God. What you say is contradictory.

  That’s what it is to be alive, to be human.

  If you’re reall
y God, then why are you telling us not to believe in you?

  Because I need you to believe in yourselves.

  You’ve seen the mess we’ve made of the world.

  The world will survive, Sister. It’s only humanity at risk.

  How do we save ourselves?

  You must stop relying on me. Not everything that happens in this world is my will. And I refuse to protect you from each other.

  So you’re a cruel God.

  Yes. A cruel and loving God.

  A twinge of pain grabbed Sister Ezekiel’s left ankle and she knew she was now awake. Had that been a dream, or a vision? She thought she heard footsteps retreating. When she looked toward the door, she detected what might have been a slight movement, as if it had just closed. No, she decided. That wasn’t real.

  She got to her feet, knees cracking, mind confused—but her heart burned with the pure flame of God’s love—or Devereaux’s. She knew from her stiffness that she’d spent the entire night in the chapel. Outside, somewhere off in the distance, she heard the sound of gunfire. Oh, no, here we go again.

  * * *

  When she reached the lobby, she saw Weiss and Colonel Truman huddled with a third man. Lendra hurried from the hallway.

  “Good morning, Sister,” Weiss said. “You look tired. I hope you got some sleep. This is Richard Carlton. He’s here with the Elite Ops. They’ll be maintaining order and assisting us in the search for Devereaux.”

  Sister Ezekiel sensed that Weiss was trying to keep her calm. She said, “I don’t need soothing. What’s going on out there?”

  “Nothing for you to be concerned about, Sister,” Weiss said. “Just a small disturbance.”

  “Minnesota separatists are attacking the Army, Sister,” Lendra said. She pointed to her interface. “I’ve been monitoring communications traffic. They’re not after Devereaux. They’re hoping to drive the Army out of the area. Unfortunately for them, the Elite Ops are here.”

  Sister Ezekiel walked to the opening and glanced out. Two huge men, as large as Cookie Monster, dressed all in gray, patrolled the area in front of the shelter. They looked robotic in their armor, dark against the pink and yellow sky. Obviously, they were Elite Ops troopers. At the sides of the building, many of Colonel Truman’s soldiers stood, alternating between watching them and eyeing the road or the woods, their weapons moving in a jittery fashion. The reporters had gathered together behind the smoldering hulks that had once been the Army’s transport vehicles. Standing alone, acting as if he wasn’t one of them, a young man with an orange Afro and scruffy beard looked around innocently. Sister Ezekiel knew he must be a reporter, for he didn’t have the bearing of a homeless man. He was too confident.

  To the north, in the direction of the famous statue, Sister Ezekiel heard yelling, followed by an explosion. The two Elite Ops troopers out front seemed oblivious to it. Walking past each other, they swept their great pumpkin heads from side to side. Colonel Truman’s soldiers at the side of the building weren’t as casual. A few trained their weapons on the woods. Others swung their Las-rifles toward the street, their faces looking pinched. Lendra joined Sister Ezekiel at the door.

  “More trouble,” Sister Ezekiel said. “More soldiers, more fighting and more dead. It looks like something’s happening by the statue—some sort of attack. When will this madness end?”

  Lendra stared at the large troopers out front. She shook her head. “When Devereaux is away from here, Sister.”

  Sister Ezekiel nodded wearily. All she had to do was say, “Devereaux is Rock Man,” and these soldiers would take him and leave. The shelter would once again become a quiet haven for the lost and troubled. Still, wasn’t Devereaux lost and troubled too? How she longed to have the decision made for her. She’d never asked for this kind of responsibility.

  She heard a noise off to the left, turned to see a familiar old pickup drive slowly into the parking lot. It stopped as it cleared the road, its engine running roughly, then two men in the back jumped up, raising guns to their shoulders. Almost instantaneously, the Elite Ops troopers fired at them. A loud explosion made the ground tremble. An immense black cloud mushroomed out. As it rose, the chassis of the pickup became visible: just a twisted mass of metal. Three bodies lay scattered around it.

  Sister Ezekiel suddenly found it difficult to swallow. As she started toward the fallen men, Carlton grabbed her sleeve. “You can’t go out there,” he said. “We need to make sure the area is clear.”

  Sister Ezekiel glared at him until he pulled his hand away. Then she marched out toward the burning truck.

  “They’re dead, Sister,” Weiss called after her. “You can’t help them.”

  Nearing the men, Sister Ezekiel saw that Weiss was right. The bodies had that curious rag-doll look of the dead. She recognized two of them: Ruberg and Hanson: Minnesota Guardsmen who had recently lost their civilian jobs. The third man she didn’t know.

  Feeling a hand on her shoulder, she turned and saw that Lendra had followed her outside. “It could be dangerous, Sister,” Lendra said. “We should go back until we’re sure it’s safe.”

  Sister Ezekiel inhaled sharply. Ruberg and Hanson and the stranger: poor souls. Why had they done it? She knew the community had begun to rip itself apart. There simply were no good jobs anymore. Everyone was angry. These men must have reached a point where all they could do was lash out. A hollowness hit Sister Ezekiel’s chest, an emptiness very like nausea. Such a waste.

  She glanced north along the road and saw more vehicles approaching. Just then one of Colonel Truman’s soldiers grabbed her from behind, lifted her off her feet and ran with her back to the shelter. Lendra followed them. Ignoring Sister Ezekiel’s protests, the soldier set her on her feet inside the ruined door. Weiss had his eyes on the monitors along the wall, while Carlton, his sunglasses on, seemed to be staring at nothing.

  Gunfire erupted now from the north.

  “Come on, Sister,” Lendra said as she grabbed Sister Ezekiel’s arm and led her deeper inside the building. Henry, Ahmad and a dozen homeless men stood at the edge of the lobby looking at them. Devereaux—she had to think of him as Rock Man—was not among them.

  Sister Ezekiel spoke above the noise: “It’s all right, everyone. Stay calm. It will be over soon. Henry, get everybody into the basement.”

  Henry nodded and began directing men through the dining area to the kitchen, where the basement entrance lay.

  Lendra said, “I’ve got expensive equipment in my room. Can’t leave it behind.” She fought her way against the tide, moving toward her room. Sister Ezekiel followed, determined to make sure no one was left in the dormitory area, particularly not Rock Man. “Don’t panic,” she said to the men as she passed them. “Stay calm.”

  The building shuddered with a large explosion. Dust drifted down from the ceiling.

  “Are you all right, Sister?” Lendra asked. “You look pale.”

  “I’m fine,” Sister Ezekiel answered. She touched a hand to her face, as if her fingers might be able to detect any change. “I guess I’m just not very good under fire.”

  “You’re doing fine, Sister.”

  When Lendra reached her room and slipped inside, Sister Ezekiel walked toward Doug’s room, where she had left Rock Man. She found the door ajar, Rock Man gone. Had he left during the night? Had he been in the chapel with her? Sister Ezekiel plopped onto the bed, listening to the battle outside.

  She picked up the pillow he’d slept on, held it to her nose, breathed in the earthy but subtle aroma of Devereaux’s scent. A warmth seeped through her chest. Then she thought of the dead men outside and a guilty chill went through her.

  Ahmad poked his head into the room. “Sister, you all right?”

  “Ahmad, what are you doing here?”

  “I followed you. You looked kinda funny. I wanted to make sure you were safe. Can’t have you blowin’ up,
Sister. Where would I do all my charity work?”

  Sister Ezekiel put down the pillow, got to her feet, then turned and straightened the bed sheets. “Well, as long as you’re here, you might as well help me. I want to check every room, make sure nobody’s left in the dormitory. I want everyone together in the basement. I’ll check this side of the hall. You take that side.”

  Another explosion, louder, jolted her. More dust settled over her. Sister Ezekiel knew the shelter must have been hit. She steadied herself against the wall, ran her hand along it as she worked her way down the hall, opening doors to bedrooms, glancing briefly into each. Behind the second-to-last door stood Rock Man, supporting an old man who had been forgotten in the chaos—Flyer—her organist and cleaner of the chapel. Fear, relief, annoyance and gratitude swept over her. She blushed as she made eye contact with Rock Man, who looked back at her with an inquisitive stare.

  “No,” she said as she looked around to make sure Ahmad wasn’t in view. “You can’t surrender to these men.”

  Rock Man closed his eyes briefly, then nodded and shuffled off with Flyer while Sister Ezekiel checked the last room. Empty. Across the hall, Ahmad backed out of Lendra’s room.

  “Hurry,” Ahmad spoke through the doorway. “Sister Ezekiel wants everyone in the basement.”

  Another loud blast hammered the building. The window at the end of the hall shattered. Sister Ezekiel balanced herself against a doorjamb while Ahmad checked the last room on his side of the hallway. A few seconds later, Lendra appeared at her door with her pack. She caught sight of Sister Ezekiel and said, “Okay, let’s go.”

  Ahmad emerged from the last room, shook his head at Sister Ezekiel, and together the three of them headed for the basement.