The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

  The technicians rapidly pressed buttons and moved joysticks, manipulating cameras until the projections showed the same scene from a greater distance. Through black smoke, a large crater appeared in the ground, two Elite Ops bodies sprawled out in the base of it. Two others lay at the periphery, moving feebly.

  “Garrad,” said the technician who called out the names of the dead, followed by, “Felko” and “Jode.”

  “What the hell was that?” Doug asked.

  “Old fashioned,” Quekri replied. “An RDX-HMX derivative that requires superheating to explode. We didn’t have time to make anything more advanced. Zod threw the charge and Quark set it off with a laser pulse.” She turned to the technician who had spoken. “Zod? Alive?”

  “Yes,” the technician replied. “His readings are weak, though.”

  “Will he make it to the hideout?” Quekri asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is Quark alive?” Doug asked.

  “We have no readings on him,” Quekri said. “He’s operating on his own. I’m sure he’s fine.” But her face was lined with worry and she kept her eyes on the projection, searching for any sign of him.

  The technicians switched between two cameras monitoring the crater. One image slowly drew closer, focusing on the bodies of the two Elite Ops in the center. As they grew larger on the projection, an arm moved.

  “Oh my God!” Doug said. “Did you see that? He survived!”

  The Escala in the room exchanged looks with each other, betraying their astonishment. Now the other Elite Ops trooper moved an arm and a leg.

  “They’re tough,” Quekri said, “We thought an explosion of that magnitude would penetrate their shields. Still, they’ll be stunned. Take their time regrouping. Then they’ll come after Zod.”

  The technicians began directing cameras in an effort to locate Zod.

  Quekri turned to the observers and asked, “Is he moving?”

  “Not yet.”

  “We may have to call Quark.” Quekri rubbed her cheek for a few seconds before re-focusing her attention on Doug. “We built an underground hideout, much smaller than this place. A few beds, not much else. We need to direct the Elite Ops there. If they find it, they may conclude only a few of us remain in the area. If they don’t find it, they might assume we’re all here. And if Zod can’t get them to the hideout, we’ll have to call Quark, risk exposing ourselves, to get him to lead the Elite Ops to the area. I’d rather—”

  “He’s moving,” the technician said.

  Doug stared at the projection, saw nothing but black swirling smoke. Then he caught an image of two men—one holding up the other—moving slowly through the woods. Quark and Zod.

  Zod clearly couldn’t walk without help. He leaned on Quark, who held him up as the two men half-walked, half-trotted along an overgrown road. On another projection, Elite Ops raced and bounded toward the explosion. Eventually, half a dozen reached the spot. The two who had been at the periphery of the blast had already managed to regain their feet. The other two lay stunned, no longer moving. As quickly as they arrived, the Elite Ops took off again, trailing Zod and Quark. The two Elite Ops who had been at the periphery remained behind to assist their unconscious companions.

  Doug found himself staring from projection to projection, trying to gauge how soon the Elite Ops would catch up to the fleeing duo. Eventually he realized that he could use the different houses as a guide. When Quark and Zod passed a large home with a brick façade and four pillars, one of which had toppled sideways, Doug turned to the projection following the Elite Ops. He began counting seconds, looking for the fallen pillar. After nine seconds, the Elite Ops bounded past. And they were moving much faster than their prey.

  Doug switched back to the projection following Quark and Zod. They now turned off the road and headed toward a collapsed house. As they reached it, Zod seemed to regain energy. He got his feet under himself and pushed Quark, waving his arm, shooing Quark away. Then he lifted a branch and dropped through a hole in the ground next to what was left of the building’s foundation. Quark vanished into the shrubbery.

  The Elite Ops pounded into view seconds later. Spotting the hole in the ground, they surrounded it. One of them dropped into the hole behind Zod. Another explosion rocked the ground—this one farther away, less intense. Doug barely heard it, possibly only imagining the resulting tremor at his feet. The Elite Ops outside the hole fell to the ground. Then two sprang to their feet and lowered themselves into the hole.

  Almost immediately, Doug heard the technician speak again: the single word, “Zod.”

  So Zod was dead. Doug looked around the room, wondering if there would be greater reaction to the news that their leader was gone. Nothing. A few murmurs, the same as before.

  Doug threw his arms up. “How can you watch this without any emotion? Those people are dead. They ain’t never comin’ back. Don’t that mean nothin’ to you? I barely knew them, yet even I’m sad at their loss.”

  “We grieve,” Quekri said. “We just don’t show it like you do.”

  “And that makes you evolved?”

  “Emotion clouds judgment,” Quekri said. “And if we don’t control our emotions, we don’t survive. Besides, you’re having a conversation in the middle of a battle.”

  Doug clenched his fists together. “Gimme a weapon and let me go after ‘em.”

  Quekri shook her head.

  “What are you gonna do?” Doug asked.

  “The Elite Ops will either believe only a few of us lived here or not,” she said.

  “Why didn’t they go after Quark?”

  “He’s wearing a scatterer—newly modified. He hoped it would prevent their scanners from detecting him. It must be working.”

  Doug said, “Can we modify enough scatterers to get you away?”

  Quekri shook her head. “No time,” she said. “If the Elite Ops aren’t fooled, they’ll come for us quickly. Quark will try to protect us. He’s the one they want most. He’s the one who organized and led the resistance against them. He caused most of the casualties they took in Rochester. In their minds, he’s the most dangerous Escala of all.”

  Doug turned to look at the projections, wondering if he might spot Quark there, but all he saw were Elite Ops. They removed two bodies from the hole in the ground and began heading toward a camera. One body was Zod; the other, the Elite Ops trooper. On another projection, the two Elite Ops troopers who had been unconscious earlier slowly walked away from the camera, supported by their comrades.

  The battle appeared to be over, the Elite Ops no longer rushing around searching for prey. Doug felt a wave of relief. The Escala were safe. Zod and Quark, along with their heroic volunteers, had fooled the Elite Ops.

  Yet no one dared leave. They stood quietly, watching the projections, their faces tense with anticipation. Didn’t they know their plan had succeeded?

  “We won,” Doug said. “They’re leavin’.” Even as he spoke, he knew he was expressing a wish more than a reality, but he nevertheless believed he was right.

  However, as the Elite Ops neared the camera, they began to spread out—one here, two there—moving through 360 degrees. Only two carried on with the recovered bodies. The others all resumed their search pattern, more methodically now. Something inside Doug sank as he realized their efforts had been in vain.

  * * *

  When the battle on the monitors ended, Sister Ezekiel removed her glasses and wiped her eyes. A hollow feeling worked its way to the core of her being, an emptiness that stained her soul. Replacing her glasses, she whispered a prayer for the dead, and for the lost souls of these Elite Ops troopers. Glancing around the quiet room at the shocked faces, the sickened expressions, she noticed the deathly pallor of Devereaux’s face. He’d been right to be concerned about the Escala. Had he also been right to be concerned about the future of humanity? She h
ad no trouble believing the government would invade his brain to learn the secrets of his bioweapons. But when they forcibly extracted those designs from his brain, would they use them? Someone would, she knew—someone who cared more about power than his fellow man.

  “We need to call the President,” Weiss said. “Colonel, bring Mr. Devereaux along.” He started for Sister Ezekiel’s office. Colonel Truman, holding Devereaux by the arm, followed.

  “I think not,” Carlton said. In his right hand he held a small weapon, which he aimed at Weiss. “Sorry, Gray. You’re no longer in charge here.”

  Through the open doorway, Major Payne and two Elite Ops troopers appeared. The troopers grabbed Jeremiah by the arms, while Major Payne took Devereaux from Colonel Truman’s grasp.

  Seconds later, two more Elite Ops troopers filled the doorway. The two who had Jeremiah in their hands hustled him out of the room, down the hall toward Dr. Mary’s bedroom.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The plastic handcuffs bit into Jeremiah’s wrists, painfully restricting the blood flow to his hands, causing his fingers to tingle and itch. They were attached to a bracket on the wall by a five-foot plastic leash he tested only once—a quick tug that tightened the cuffs and left him with a growing numbness in his hands. He sat on the bed where Julianna had tended his wound yesterday, his back throbbing, an agony that radiated outward, making his head ache and his gut roil. He deserved the pain.

  Why had he let the EOs dictate his course? They’d played him like virtuosos. He was too old, too tired to survive in the field any longer. He should have diverted the Elite Ops away from Julianna, away from the other Escala, away from Devereaux. But he’d stayed close by and now Julianna was dead.

  And it wasn’t just Julianna. The Escala were in trouble too. He felt like he owed them something. He and they were alike—all mutants. Some small fraction of him was what: lion or tiger or panther? He felt catlike. As if whatever changes had been made were feline. Leopard, maybe. No doubt some combination of animal genomes.

  Also, Carlton now had Devereaux and would certainly figure out a way to extract the bioweapon designs from Devereaux’s head.

  Jeremiah longed to put Carlton in a cold, damp basement where he could discover what Carlton knew about his son’s disappearance. He wondered if he would ever learn the truth about Joshua, or if he’d have his mind taken apart like Devereaux’s—Jack Marschenko’s location extracted from it before he was killed or locked away in some dark cell to stew in the failure that was his legacy. And he’d never see his son again.

  What Jeremiah needed was action, any sort of physical movement that would allow him not to think about what Eli had done to him, or the fact that Lendra must have known he was a mutant. Or the fact that now, too late, he saw that Julianna had truly managed to turn her life around. She’d found her way back from the depths of the horror to which Eli had consigned her.

  He glanced around the room, hoping to find something that might help him escape. It looked different now, more like a doctor’s room, with a sterile quality about it, a clinical coldness that sprang from emptiness, or perhaps from the fact that Julianna was never coming back. It seemed tiny now. He’d never before been claustrophobic, but he now experienced a sudden, almost overwhelming urge to break free.

  An EO trooper opened the door, looked the room over, then let Carlton and Lendra enter. Carlton said, “Where is Jack Marschenko?”

  “Is he missing?” Jeremiah said.

  Carlton’s head went still, and though Jeremiah couldn’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses, he figured the man was staring at him, trying to intimidate him. After a few seconds, Carlton said, “You have twenty minutes, Miss Riley.” Nodding to the EO guard, Carlton departed. The EO shut the door, remaining outside.

  Lendra sat next to Jeremiah on the bed, the faint flowery aroma of her perfume surprising him for some reason. It was such a civilized smell, so out of place here.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you—”

  Jeremiah held up his hands to stop her. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Push that button next to the door three times in rapid succession.”

  “What?” Lendra said aloud.

  Jeremiah shook his head and pointed to the button.

  Lendra stood, walked to the door and pressed the button three times. The light went on and off and on, then the room hummed almost imperceptibly.

  “Privacy field,” Jeremiah said. “We can only leave it on for a few seconds before they get suspicious at the lack of sound.”

  Lendra nodded. She clasped her hands together and said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you you’re like the Escala. Eli felt your best protection was not to know.”

  “Why do they have doubts about whether I am one?”

  “Because you’re the next generation. Your DNA was a perfect match.”

  “Turn it off,” Jeremiah said, indicating the button. “And remember, they’re monitoring what we say.”

  Lendra pushed the button again and the humming stopped. When she returned to the bed, she lowered herself slowly.

  Jeremiah sat quietly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lendra reach out tentatively toward his hands, which rested on his thigh. He shifted slightly, moving his hands a couple inches away, and she retreated.

  “I’m sure Eli’s talking with the President right now,” Lendra said. “They’ll be figuring out their next move. Before we left, the President granted you amnesty, making your…modifications…legal. So you don’t have to worry about that.”

  Jeremiah snorted. “So I won’t have to worry about being prosecuted for Eli’s decision to alter my DNA without my knowledge or consent? What about the Elite Ops?”

  “The President will contact Mr. Carlton soon. She’ll order your release. Now that Devereaux’s in custody, the President will take care of this mess. I don’t think Devereaux actually produced his bioweapons or the Escala would have used them on us already.”

  Jeremiah shook his head. “He never intended to use them. The President wants them. Eli and Carlton want them. Maybe even Weiss. But Devereaux never intended to destroy humanity. This was all for nothing—worse than nothing. Now dozens are dead, including Julianna.”

  Lendra reached out hesitantly and, when he did not pull his head away, touched his face, her fingers cool and delicate. She turned his head until he was looking at her. “I’m so sorry, Jeremiah. I know you cared for her.”

  “She saved my life. She had a chance for freedom but she chose to come back for me…for me.”

  Her eyes began to water. Dabbing at the tears, she said, “You’re worth saving.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You don’t see it, do you? You’re so much better than you think you are.”

  Jeremiah shook his head. He stared at her dully, not wanting to hear compliments when he’d failed so miserably. Why couldn’t she just leave him alone?

  She grabbed him again, pinching his jaw between her fingers and shaking his head. “Don’t you quit! Not on me and not on yourself, either. Understand? Otherwise, Julianna’s death will have been for nothing. You hear me?”

  “What do you care about her?”

  She dropped her hands to his, began massaging his fingers as a frown ridged her forehead. “I don’t care about her. I care about you. Maybe you don’t want to hear that. Maybe you’re still too wrapped up in the pain. But I understand you. You blame yourself for her death. You feel this stupid need to accept responsibility for every bad thing that happens. You’re so gifted, so intelligent, so caring, you think you ought to be able to save everyone. And when you can’t—because after all you’re just one man—you figure it’s your fault. Well, I’m sorry but that’s wrong.”

  He shook his head, wanting to deny what she said. But he did blame himself and for good reason. He should have done more.

  “You’re not perfect,” Lendra add
ed, as if reading his mind. “Everyone makes mistakes. But by dwelling on them, you compound your errors.”

  She sounded like Julianna and even a little like Catherine: all of them strong women in their own ways. But Catherine had broken and Julianna had died and it was his job to go on even though he wasn’t sure he wanted to any longer. If it weren’t for Joshua, he could surrender to the pain. But he refused to give up.

  Before he could reply, Carlton opened the door. “That’s enough for now, Miss Riley.”

  Lendra pulled her hands away from Jeremiah’s and said, “Has the President called yet?”

  “Yes, she has.”

  “Then Jeremiah is free to go.”

  “I’m afraid there are still some things to clear up. Until that’s done, he will have to remain in custody.”

  “You can’t treat him like a prisoner.”

  “I can do as I please, Miss Riley. And right now it pleases me to keep Mr. Jones under guard.”

  “This will not go unreported, Mr. Carlton.”

  Carlton smiled—the smile of a predator.

  Lendra turned to face Jeremiah and said, “I’m sorry.”

  As Jeremiah nodded, he kept his attention on Carlton.

  “Now,” Carlton said, “where is Jack Marschenko?”

  Jeremiah shook his head. “Where is my son?”

  “Dead, most likely,” Carlton said. “You’ll be joining him soon enough—as soon as we get Jack’s location from you.”

  “Mr. Carlton,” Lendra said. “The President has granted Jeremiah amnesty. She’s also sent us here as her representatives. And she expects us to be returned to Washington safely. Need I remind you—”

  “A lot of things can happen between now and Washington,” Carlton said. “For example, Mr. Jones could try to escape. He could be seriously injured in the attempt—even killed.”

  Carlton stepped forward and punched Jeremiah in the face. Lendra screamed. Anticipating the attack, Jeremiah managed to avoid the bulk of the blow, snapping his head backward at the moment of impact and falling to the bed. Carlton advanced on him, his fists in position to strike again.