The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

  Carlton looked at Major Payne, smiled and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Sister. But we need a temporary office. We’ll have this man out of your hair in less than two hours.”

  “So this is the famous Walt Devereaux,” she said.

  Carlton nodded. “He hasn’t spoken to us yet, but he will.”

  Ignoring Carlton, Devereaux looked at Sister Ezekiel, no sign of fear or panic in his eyes, and said calmly: “I’m afraid your shelter is going to have to be rebuilt, Sister.”

  “It speaks,” Carlton said.

  “Are you okay?” Sister Ezekiel asked Devereaux.

  “I sense that you’re troubled, Sister. Let me assure you that what you’re doing is right. It’s good. It serves an important purpose. You give these lost men—” Devereaux paused, smiled— “you give us dignity, respect, a reason not to give up on the world, even though it may have given up on us.”

  “All right, Devereaux,” Carlton interrupted. “Now that you’re in the mood to talk, I’ve got some questions for you.”

  Devereaux glanced at Carlton, said nothing, then turned back to Sister Ezekiel. “I will see to it, Sister, that you get whatever funds you need to rebuild. You must keep this place going.”

  Carlton said, “I don’t think you’re in a position to promise anything, Walt.”

  Sister Ezekiel addressed Carlton. “Why is everyone being kept under guard? Several people have told me that your soldiers won’t let them out.”

  “It’s dangerous out there, Sister,” Carlton said. “We know there are still some pseudos running around. We’re close to finding them. They may be like Jones, not registering as pseudos on our scanners. Not to mention the separatists who attacked earlier. Some of them might still be on the loose. I’ve already lost two men today. I don’t want to lose any more.”

  “There have been a great many lives lost lately. But that’s no reason to keep us locked up. We ought to be able to decide for ourselves whether we want to risk leaving.”

  “Do you wish to leave, Sister?”

  “We’re running short of supplies,” Sister Ezekiel said. “We need to make a trip to the market. We weren’t expecting to have to feed so many people.”

  “My men can take care of that for you.”

  “That’s all right,” Sister Ezekiel said. “We’ll go. I just need to get my purse.”

  Carlton nodded. “Very well, Sister. But I can’t guarantee your safety.”

  “And I would like Ahmad here to talk with Mr. Devereaux for a few minutes. Do you have any objection to that?”

  Carlton turned to Ahmad, said, “You think he’ll talk to you?”

  “I’ll talk with him,” Devereaux said to Carlton. “He’s worth talking to.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because Ahmad is a believer in the great god, Allah, whereas all you believe in is power and killing.”

  Ahmad shook his head. “I don’t understand you, Mr. Devereaux. But I would certainly like to speak with you.” He looked at Carlton with a raised eyebrow.

  “We stay in the room,” Carlton said.

  “Excellent,” Sister Ezekiel said. “Ahmad, please see if there is anything we can do for Mr. Devereaux.”

  “I’m surprised at you, Sister,” Carlton said. “I would have thought you would hate a man like Devereaux.”

  “You should talk to Mr. Weiss,” Sister Ezekiel said. “He and I have already had this conversation.”

  Ahmad said, “Mr. Devereaux, if you wish, I will serve as your attorney while you are here in custody of the Elite Ops.”

  “He has no right to an attorney,” Carlton said.

  Sister Ezekiel said, “Mr. Weiss told me he did.”

  “Mr. Weiss is no longer in charge here.”

  She grabbed her purse. “We’ll be back in about twenty minutes. I’d like to speak to Mr. Jones when I return, if that’s all right?”

  “Why do you want to speak to him?”

  “I merely wish to assure myself that he is not being mistreated on shelter property. I have a Christian duty to ensure his well-being. Surely you can appreciate that?”

  Carlton stared at her. “Very well, Sister. Come see me and I’ll take you to him.”

  * * *

  Sister Ezekiel left for the market with Lendra, Henry, Jackson and Tremaine, and five of her guests who were looking for something to do. Sister Ezekiel knew two of them—Santos and Melville—rather well. The other three she recognized even though she couldn’t recall their nicknames. Since the road was impassable, they had to walk. Two Elite Ops troopers guarded the parking lot in front of the shelter, where the reporters and Colonel Truman’s soldiers were confined. Another two were stationed at the entryway. The one with the gold cross on his chest nodded to her as she passed. The reporters shouted a jumble of questions, out of which the only word she could understand was “Devereaux.” She ignored them. Through the lingering smoke of the morning battles, the sun bathed the wrecked vehicles and twisted armor that littered the ruined street in a golden glow, making them look like part of a sculpture—as if Armageddon had occurred along this one block. The surreptitious reporter with the orange hair was talking to one of the homeless men—it looked like Flyer—and his hair shone in the light.

  Her heart lifted slightly as she moved away from the shelter, as if the increasing distance diminished the effect the Elite Ops had on her. She still felt exhausted; she still worried about Devereaux. But all she could do now was act, and hope her actions didn’t get anyone else killed, even as the facts told her more people would die. Yet more were going to die whether she helped or not. So she chose to help.

  The walk to the market seemed like a walk through a ghost town, all its residents hidden behind locked doors. The market was closed.

  Sister Ezekiel pulled out her PlusPhone and called Ernie Olsen, the store’s manager, who lived across the street. When he finally answered, she asked if he could open for a few minutes so she could restock some supplies. She spotted him peeking out through his curtains, his thin, nervous face looking both ways before settling on her and her entourage. He told her he’d be right over.

  After he unlocked the door and let them in, Sister Ezekiel gave the grocery list to Henry and said, “I should be back in five minutes. Remember, only what’s on the list.”

  “Where are you going?” Henry asked.

  “I’m walking Lendra to her vehicle,” Sister Ezekiel said. “Now do as I say.”

  Lendra headed out the door, Sister Ezekiel following. “I still think we can trust Henry,” she said to Lendra as they walked down the street. “He would do whatever I asked of him.”

  “No doubt, Sister,” Lendra replied, “but the fewer people who know what we’re up to, the better. Not to mention, safer for them.”

  Up ahead, Sister Ezekiel saw the shattered base of the statue and experienced anew the disgust and fear from the night before. A part of her felt worse about the statue’s destruction than about the loss of life. Had she loved the statue that much? How could she place the value of a piece of rock above the lives of human beings? She chided herself for her unholy thoughts, promising to do penance when she got an opportunity, and asked, “Did the Elite Ops really murder thirty-two fugitives last night?”

  “I assume the fugitives fired first,” Lendra replied. “But there were women and children in the group as well. Everyone was killed.”

  “And you think they might kill us?”

  “People who could blow up something as beautiful as that,” Lendra pointed to the jagged granite sticking out of the ground and shivered, “well, I wouldn’t put anything past them.”

  Sister Ezekiel said, “What about this invisible cloak idea? Will it work against those creatures?”

  “Normally, I would say no. The way scanner technology is today, camo-fatigues don’t have the same effectiveness they used
to. But we’re counting on the Elite Ops not being able to use their scanners effectively with all the people around. Too much interference.”

  Lendra reached Jeremiah’s van and punched in a code next to the door handle. When the light went from red to yellow, she opened the door and climbed inside. Rummaging through Jeremiah’s bag, she found the converter Jeremiah had placed there and handed it to Sister Ezekiel.

  “Hold this for a minute,” she said as she pulled out the camo-fatigue coveralls. She stepped into the coveralls, pulling them up over her shoulders and slipping her hands into the coverall’s gloves. Then she tucked her hair into the hood. Before zipping it up, she showed Sister Ezekiel the control pad inside the left breast. “It’s activated here. Millions of tiny sensors read the background in every direction, adjusting how light is reflected and absorbed, making the wearer invisible to the human eye. Plus, Jeremiah modified this unit with a scatterer, which diffuses the wearer’s bio-readings. That should make it almost impossible for a scanner to lock onto my bio-signature.”

  “But didn’t the colonel say these Elite Ops have enhanced vision? Infrared, radiation—I don’t remember what else.”

  “We have to take a chance, Sister. The scatterer should take care of that. Besides, we have no other choice.”

  “You’re putting yourself in awful danger. I don’t like to think what those soldiers will do if they spot you.”

  “Colonel Truman said he would try to create a distraction as we enter the building. Hopefully, that will be enough to get me inside. Hand me the converter.”

  Sister Ezekiel handed the device to Lendra, who placed it in an inside pocket. She then reached inside the van and grabbed a knife, which she slid into a sheath. Moving her fingers over the control pad, she activated the scatterer and sensors. Finally she finished zipping up the coveralls. Within seconds all but her face vanished. Even though Sister Ezekiel had known it was coming, it startled her. Suddenly encountering a disembodied face left her with a feeling of unreality.

  “Impressive,” Lendra said, “isn’t it?”

  “Amazing. Like you’re no longer there. But what about your face? I can still see that.”

  “There’s a separate piece that pulls down from the hood. Let me just find it.”

  Lendra’s face cocked at an angle, her face scrunching up with effort. Then it too vanished.

  “All right, Sister,” Lendra said. “How does it look? Can you see me at all?”

  “No,” Sister Ezekiel said. “I can’t see anything.”

  “Good.”

  As Sister Ezekiel continued to stare, she imagined that she could see something where Lendra stood. At first, it appeared to be a slightly greater brightness to the space Lendra occupied. But it slowly grew into a distinct emanation of light.

  “Wait,” Sister Ezekiel said. “There’s something wrong. I can see a glow of energy or something. It’s green.”

  “I see it,” Lendra said. “It must be the converter reacting with the sensors. You’re going to have to carry it, Sister.”

  Sister Ezekiel heard the sound of a zipper being undone, saw a flash of Lendra’s shirt, then the converter appeared before her. It had no glow about it now. She grabbed it out of the air and placed it in her right pocket. Lendra zipped the coveralls up.

  “How about now?” she asked.

  Sister Ezekiel looked again. The glow had vanished. “You’re completely invisible,” she said.

  “Good. Let’s get back to the market. Just forget about me as best you can. I’ll follow you to the shelter. Now that you’ve got the converter, everything depends on you getting in to see Jeremiah.”

  “How will I know if you made it inside the shelter?”

  “If I don’t, there’ll be a ruckus.”

  * * *

  Ernie Olsen hurried through the transaction, helping them bag their groceries for the first time ever. While they packed the bags, Sister Ezekiel looked up and saw one of the Elite Ops at the window. He stared at her or at least seemed to—his visored head motionless. Was this it? Did he know Lendra was missing? Could he see her despite her camo-fatigues? Sister Ezekiel watched him until he turned away. Then she realized that she’d been holding her breath and inhaled.

  In less than a minute they were out the door, Ernie Olsen locking it behind them and hurrying back across the street to his house. The Elite Ops trooper was nowhere to be seen. As Sister Ezekiel led the group to the shelter, she tried to be nonchalant, but each noise portended betrayal for Lendra: the scuffing of shoes on pavement, the rustle of one pant leg against the other, the crinkle of the grocery bags.

  Agitation swept through her, despite the silent prayers she uttered, until a picture formed inside her mind: a gentle soul who wished harm upon no one; a man who preached peace and spirituality even in the absence of the Eternal. As she felt his warmth, she relaxed slightly. Everything was going to be all right. Then her foot caught on a crack in the sidewalk and she tripped. One of her bags spilled its contents to the sidewalk: oranges and apples. She managed to break her fall but her glasses flew off, and she scraped her knee and the palm of her hand.

  Henry grabbed her arm and said, “Are you all right, Sister?”

  “Stupid,” she answered. “I should have watched where I was going.” She looked toward the shelter, noticed the fuzzy images of the Elite Ops. A point on one of the troopers reflected the sun—a glittering diamond that dazzled with its brightness—and she knew it had to be the one with the gold cross on his chest. Henry helped her to her feet as the men rushed to repack her bag.

  “Your glasses, Sister.” Henry handed them to her. One of the lenses had cracked and the frame was twisted. Sighing, Sister Ezekiel put the glasses in her left pocket.

  “Let me carry your bags, Sister,” Henry said.

  “No,” she replied. “Your arms are full. I can make it.” Something touched her elbow—Lendra. She shrugged it off as she trudged forward. Up ahead, the Elite Ops searched one of the homeless men before allowing him to re-enter the shelter. She was going to be searched! Colonel Truman had said he’d create a diversion, have one of his men challenge an Elite Ops trooper to a fight, but she didn’t see how that would get her inside. She had to do this on her own. She could think of only one thing to do—something completely unexpected—but she was afraid. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, goose flesh pimpling her forearms. There was no other way.

  It’s only pain.

  For an instant she thought she heard a scream; she realized almost too late that one had been forming in her brain, working its way to her throat. She noticed Henry watching her. Had she made a sound after all? She smiled to show him she was fine.

  The two Elite Ops troopers patrolling the parking lot followed their progress. Sister Ezekiel imagined that they could see right through her—human x-ray machines. Her palms and face were sweating, her heart pounding. A single rivulet worked down from her forehead, over the bridge of her nose to her lips. She licked the salty droplet.

  Henry said, “Are you sure you’re okay, Sister?”

  “Of course,” she answered. “Why?”

  “You look whiter than me. If you like, we can leave your shopping bags here and come back for them. You really don’t have to go along on these trips, you know. I’m sure you have more important things to do.”

  “I enjoy the walk,” Sister Ezekiel croaked, her knees shaking, her sweaty back clinging to her habit, her mouth dry, the overwhelming fear she remembered so well returning once again. How she hated that fear. It shut her mind down, flooded her with painful memories. She forced herself to breathe deeply and walk at a normal pace. Up ahead, she heard a commotion. Now, she thought. Don’t be afraid. God will protect you.

  * * *

  Truman walked past the monitors by the side of the jagged doorway and saw that Sister Ezekiel must have fallen, for she was picking herself up and retri
eving her bags before starting once again for the shelter. He hoped she was okay. Where was Lendra? Did the nun have the converter, or was Lendra still looking for it? He glanced over at Lieutenant Adams, who sat outside the infirmary with Jones’ particle beam cannon under a blanket. Truman had grabbed it from Sergeant Mecklenberg and given it to her to hold temporarily. He’d get it back from her once he knew Jones had the converter. Stepping outside, he tried to make eye contact with the nun. Although she wasn’t wearing her glasses, she seemed to be eyeing the Elite Ops trooper guarding the door—the one with the gold cross on his body armor. Truman took a deep breath. He’d always hated the waiting, the dread and anticipation leading up to battle. The nun and her party made slow progress, but eventually neared Weiss’ ruined command center—Sister Ezekiel looking frail and uncertain. Should he go through with the plan? He decided he had no choice. He had to assume that Sister Ezekiel and Lendra had been successful.

  Truman nodded to Sergeant Mecklenberg, who stepped toward the Elite Ops. “Hey,” Mecklenberg said as he pushed a trooper. “I heard you guys are tough. Why don’t you take off that armor and we’ll see?”

  The Elite Ops trooper took a step backward, but his partner hit Mecklenberg from behind, knocking the big man to the ground. Mecklenberg skidded along the asphalt. Some diversion! These Elite Ops troopers were just too strong. Mecklenberg roared in pain as he got to his feet. He drew back his fist but, before he could deliver the blow, was knocked to his knees by one swing from the trooper. Truman glanced at Sister Ezekiel, who suddenly fell, her knees buckling and her face crashing into the ground.

  Truman’s stomach dropped. He rushed forward, but the Elite Ops trooper with the gold cross beat him to the spot, turning Sister Ezekiel over. Blood gushed from the nun’s nose, splashing onto her habit. Her eyes focused on nothing; obviously she was unconscious.

  Effortlessly, the Elite Ops trooper picked up Sister Ezekiel. Off to the side of the building, several soldiers snickered. Truman would punish them later. He glanced over at Mecklenberg. Somehow the big sergeant had gotten his arms wrapped around the waist of the Elite Ops trooper he’d targeted. But the trooper’s arms were free. He brought his Las-rifle around and fired a purple pulse. Mecklenberg dropped.