The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

  Doug looked over at the technician working with Probst, whispering together under the stairs. He’d been the one who had called out the names of the dead. Doug realized he didn’t know the man’s name. That suddenly became very important to him.

  “Hey,” he called out softly, “what’s your name?”

  Probst looked at him and said, “Probst.”

  “Not you, Probst,” Doug said. “I know you. I mean the guy next to you.”

  The technician looked over at him, bowed solemnly and said, “Paddon.”

  “Paddon,” Doug repeated. “I’ll remember you.” He felt happy knowing Paddon’s name. He was finally contributing to something bigger than himself. Transferring the gun to his left hand, he wiped his palm on his pants, then slipped the gun back into his right, his finger on the trigger. He heard a scratching noise, then a loud metallic groan.

  Doug cocked the hammer of the pistol as the Elite Ops broke through the hidden door above. He looked up as a giant robot jumped down to the cave floor, bypassing the stairs completely. Because of the strobe lighting, the robot towered over him faster than seemed possible. The foul stench of death overpowered Doug. He fell to the ground, his body curling into the fetal position. Come on, you can do this. Remember what Quekri said. Anger can help you get past the fear. Get mad!

  Another Elite Ops trooper jumped down next to the first, then a third. They began to fire laser pulses, purple and red colors that flew past too quickly to identify—just tinting the air. Shull, Dunadan and Warrow ran across the cave, ducking and weaving, their shields faintly glowing as the Elite Ops lined them up. When they neared the Elite Ops, they threw their small-charge detonators.

  Doug couldn’t breathe. He reached for his throat and began to massage it as the room closed in on him. He cringed, waiting for the cave to collapse, all the while clawing at his mouth and throat. Finally he managed to take in great gulps of air.

  Get up and fight, you coward!

  The small-charge detonators exploded, echoing off the rock walls. Doug’s ears hurt. He wet himself. Escala emerged from the hallways, raising shovels and other clubs. An Elite Ops aimed a weapon at Doug, and Temala ran out of a hallway, leaping high in the air, her shovel swinging down at the big trooper. He turned, fired a long red pulse at her. She screamed—a horrific, spine-tingling shriek of agony and fear—as her arm fell off, its hand still clutching the shovel. Doug winced as the shovel hit the ground. Another red pulse hit her face, turning it even blacker, silencing her.

  She died for you, coward. Stand up! Don’t just lie there.

  He realized suddenly that these people had known all along they were going to die. And they let him browbeat them into fighting because they sensed how afraid he was. They knew he needed the distraction. That’s why they’re fighting—to help me.

  Shull screamed and fell, his torso nearly separated from his legs. And Dunadan flew against the wall with a sickening thud. A severed arm hit Doug in the face.

  Well, they’re not going to fight alone.

  Doug raised the gun, aimed at the center of the nearest Elite Ops trooper. The man was huge. Doug screamed as he pulled the trigger; the shield deflected his shots. As he fired, he saw two small purple flames behind his target. Probst and Paddon, trying to blow the RDX-HMX explosives. Warrow ran toward the Elite Ops from the far side of the cave and went down in a hail of red laser fire. Doug kept his eyes on the purple flames and counted seconds—two, three, four. An Elite Ops turned and fired in that direction. Probst and Paddon fell. Doug pulled the trigger again. The hammer clicked as it dropped on a spent shell: the revolver empty.

  Dropping the gun, Doug stood, his hands out to the side as he stepped from behind the sofa. There’s still a chance. You can claim you were brainwashed, forced to fight against your will.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Breathing heavily, fighting against gas-induced panic, Colonel Truman pushed himself to his feet. His knee nearly gave way. Looking down, he noticed blood trickling from it. He didn’t remember getting hit. The two Elite Ops troopers who had been guarding the door were either unconscious or dead. So was the one who’d been guarding Jones. But more would be coming soon. Half a dozen of his soldiers lay on the ground moving their limbs weakly; one of them, he was happy to see, was Captain Lopez. All the other troops inside the shelter were either dead or unconscious. He hoped the soldiers outside had fared better, but with the field dampener the Elite Ops had activated to impose their communications blackout, he had no way to find out. We’re going to die today, Emily, Truman thought. He wondered if he still loved her or if he just wished he did.

  Across the room, Weiss struggled with Carlton. As Truman took a step toward them, reaching for his Las-pistol, he discovered that it was no longer in its holster. It must have been jarred loose during the battle. Spotting a Las-rifle on the floor near where Cookie Monster continued to wrestle with Major Payne, Truman maneuvered around them and picked up the weapon. The ringing in his ears began to diminish, and he heard moans and cries coming from the wounded.

  Carlton had Weiss pressed up against the wall, his hands around Weiss’ throat. Weiss’ hands struck at Carlton feebly. Cookie Monster, meanwhile, lay atop Payne, his muscular arms pinning the major’s arms to his torso, his massive legs squeezing Payne’s legs together. Payne struggled against the big pseudo ineffectually. Truman aimed the Las-rifle at Carlton.

  “Let him go!” he yelled.

  Carlton stared at him.

  “I mean it,” Truman said. “Let him go or I’ll fire.”

  Carlton kept his hands on Weiss’ throat for another few seconds, then released Weiss with his right hand. But as he started to back away, a small Las-pistol jumped out from under the sleeve of his suit and Carlton jammed the weapon under Weiss’ chin. He pulled Weiss away from the wall and wrapped his left arm around Weiss’ shoulders. “I don’t think so.”

  Weiss’ eyes bulged. He stood on his toes, lifting his head in an attempt to free himself, but Carlton held on tightly.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Weiss hissed through clenched teeth.

  Carlton grinned. “I’m tired of your rules, Gray Velvet.” He looked at Truman and barked, “I want all the weapons on the floor. Now.”

  As Truman began to lower his weapon, Weiss shouted, “Disregard that order!” Truman re-centered the Las-rifle on Carlton’s face.

  “He dies if you don’t,” Carlton said, his Las-pistol digging into Weiss’ throat.

  “And then you die,” Weiss answered, his voice a fierce whisper.

  “I think not—unless you want all these people to die too.”

  Truman hesitated. Could he get off a shot, take Carlton out before Carlton pulled the trigger? Or would Carlton’s hand tighten, firing his Las-pistol into Weiss’ head? As he aimed at the brachial nerve near Carlton’s collarbone, which would paralyze Carlton’s arm, he spotted a red figure in his peripheral vision. He realized that the bloody creature moving toward him was Jeremiah Jones.

  “Hold your fire,” Jones said to him, his particle beam cannon aimed at both Carlton and Weiss. “We need Carlton alive. I think he’s implanted a deadman switch in his brain, something that will trigger a ‘kill’ response in the EOs upon his death.”

  “Very astute,” Carlton said. “But it’s not just a deadman switch. I can also give a ‘kill’ order at any time.”

  Devereaux now emerged from Sister Ezekiel’s office, followed by Sister Ezekiel and Ahmad Rashidi. The lawyer’s eyes practically bugged out of his face. His hands shook as he wobbled across the floor. He bent over a fallen body and retched. Behind him, Captain Lopez staggered to his feet, his Las-pistol in his hand. He pointed it in the general direction of Carlton.

  “You have to call off the Elite Ops,” Devereaux begged Payne. “They’ll slaughter the Escala.”

  “No,” Payne grunted.

  “We’re going to have EO
s here any minute,” Jones said.

  “You can’t win,” Weiss said to Carlton.

  “Oh, but I can,” Carlton said. “I’ve still got all communications blacked out. No one knows what’s happening here. And Jones is right. My men will be back very soon.” He tilted his head toward the monitors. Truman glanced that way, caught glimpses of Elite Ops troopers and Escala fighting in an underground cavern. It was difficult to be certain how things were progressing given the strobe lighting and the moving cameras mounted on the Elite Ops’ helmets. “A few are on their way. The rest will be here as soon as they eradicate the pseudos,” Carlton added.

  “Please,” Devereaux said. “The Escala are peaceful.”

  Sister Ezekiel took a step forward, holding up her hands. “This killing is completely unnecessary.”

  “You!” Ahmad Rashidi yelled, his face purple with rage. “This is your fault!” Rashidi screamed as he launched himself at Devereaux, a knife blade flashing in his hand. He must have picked it up from among the discarded weapons on the floor.

  “No!” Sister Ezekiel, Weiss and Carlton all shouted at the same moment.

  Devereaux’s arms came up as Rashidi plunged the knife deep into Devereaux’s stomach, yelling: “There is no God but Allah! No God but Allah!”

  Jones, moving faster than humanly possible, covered the space between he and Devereaux in an instant, and threw Rashidi off Devereaux so violently that Rashidi flew a dozen feet. But the damage was done, the knife blade now pulled out of Devereaux’s stomach, blood seeping between his fingers as he held his stomach.

  “Medic!” Truman yelled as Captain Lopez fired a blue stun pulse at Rashidi.

  Cookie Monster let out an animalistic roar, squeezing Payne in a fierce grip until the major cried out. Jones lowered Devereaux to the floor as Payne howled. Carlton pulled Weiss in tightly, while Sister Ezekiel rushed to Devereaux’s side, followed closely by Corporal Snow. Payne’s cries trailed off until he went silent, at which point Cookie Monster released him and hurried to Devereaux’s side, his jaw quivering, his eyes glistening with moisture. Devereaux lay on his back, still conscious. Yet even though he had to know how much blood he was losing, he showed no fear, just calm acceptance.

  At that moment Carlton whispered something inaudible and Weiss stiffened.

  “You can’t do that,” Weiss said.

  “Let’s find out,” Carlton said.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Truman said, his Las-rifle aimed at Carlton’s collarbone.

  Carlton looked at Truman and smiled. Then he winked and pulled the trigger.

  Weiss dropped. No pain, no suffering: he was dead before he hit the floor. Again Jones moved so quickly Truman’s eye could barely follow him. Jones jammed the particle beam cannon into Carlton’s stomach with one hand, grabbing Carlton’s wrist with the other. The crack of breaking bone sounded above Carlton’s cry as the Las-pistol clattered to the floor.

  “You have no idea how much pain I can inflict,” Jones said, his knuckles white as he squeezed Carlton’s broken wrist. “Rescind that order now!”

  Carlton howled in agony until Jones eased up the pressure. “Okay, okay,” Carlton managed to say. Then he mumbled softly, using a sub-vocal command.

  “Get those EOs out of there,” Jones said, nodding toward the monitors. Carlton squealed as Jones applied more pressure to the broken wrist, but again he mumbled softly, issuing another sub-vocal command.

  On the screens, the Elite Ops surrounded Doug as the lights flicked on and off, their weapons pointed at him. But they held their fire. Around them, Escala lay on the ground. Some of them looked like they were in pieces, though the smoky air made it difficult to be sure—Truman didn’t think he wanted to know. A few bodies seemed to be giving off smoke as well. Truman’s gaze went from the monitors to the carnage around him in the lobby. The two scenes were eerily similar.

  “Bring them back,” Jones said. “All of them.” Turning to Truman, he asked, “How many are there?”

  “Sixteen,” Truman said.

  “Okay,” Jones said. “I want sixteen EOs out front in ten minutes.” He indicated the fallen Elite Ops troopers. “Dead or alive.”

  “This one’s alive,” Captain Lopez said, bending over Major Payne.

  Jones turned to Carlton. “And bring those copters in on schedule. We’ll let you bring out your dead and wounded, and we leave just like you planned.” Finally he turned to Truman and added, “Lendra’s in the doctor’s room back there. She’s been hit. Bad. Have a couple of your men bring her out here. She’s coming with me.”

  Truman said, “Have you seen yourself lately?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Jones said. He turned to Corporal Snow. “What about Devereaux? Is he going to make it?”

  Corporal Snow, who had ripped Devereaux’s shirt open and put a QuikHeal bandage on his stomach, shrugged.

  Cookie Monster and Sister Ezekiel knelt beside Devereaux, Cookie Monster gently cradling Devereaux’s head, Sister Ezekiel clinging to Devereaux’s bloody hands. Devereaux looked up at Jones and tried to sit up, then lay back down with a grimace.

  Jones nodded to Devereaux and Cookie Monster, then said, “I want you two to come with me. We’re going to see Elias Leach and we’ll be bringing Carlton along. Right now we’ve got a stalemate situation. We need to figure out what to do next.”

  Devereaux looked at Cookie Monster and nodded.

  “Okay,” Cookie Monster said as he got to his feet. “We’ll go with you provided we can be assured of my people’s safety.”

  Jones pushed Carlton toward Cookie Monster. “All we have to do is keep him under our absolute control.”

  Grabbing Carlton by the front of his suit, Cookie Monster lifted the smaller man off the ground. He spoke in a deep, gravelly voice as he glared at Carlton, “If the Elite Ops kill the Escala, you die. Painfully. Understood?”

  Carlton, his face pale, nodded.

  Jones asked for a knife. When Truman handed his over, Jeremiah sat on his particle beam cannon, cut the back of his own hand, then lifted the corner of the QuikHeal bandage and stuck his fist against the wound, letting his blood drip inside. Devereaux squirmed, gritting his teeth against the pain, but the whole time he stared at Jones and said nothing. Sister Ezekiel, however, touched Jones on the shoulder and said, “What are you doing?”

  After a moment, Jones removed his hand and replaced the bandage. “It’s all I can think to do,” he said. Then he picked up the particle beam cannon, planted it in Carlton’s gut and clamped down again on Carlton’s wrist. Jones nodded to Cookie Monster, who released Carlton. Then Jones turned to Truman and said, “When the EOs get here, they’re going to want to kill us all. Carlton’s got them so pumped full of hormones and drugs that they don’t always act rationally. They could do anything.”

  “They’re going to kill you all,” Carlton said.

  “You’ll be the first to die,” Jones replied, squeezing Carlton’s wrist until Carlton cried out.

  The sound of jet-copters reached Truman’s ears as the first of the Elite Ops troopers crashed into the lobby. The trooper aimed his weapons at Jeremiah and Truman. Behind him, three more troopers came to a halt, their weapons angled out to encompass the rest of the lobby. They stood fiercely rigid, their faces hidden behind their visors. Like everyone else in the room, Truman froze, waiting for the Elite Ops to fire.

  After a few seconds, he realized that wasn’t going to happen. When the first trooper stepped forward, Truman’s soldiers—eight of them on their feet now—held their ground. Ignoring them, the trooper stood over the still-unconscious Payne. He looked down, holstered his weapons, then knelt and gently, effortlessly, lifted the major. As he turned to the doorway, another trooper holstered his weapons, made his way down the hall and returned with the one who had been guarding Jones. He was also unconscious. The trooper with the gold cross and the other troop
er who had been stationed at the ruined front door groggily got to their feet and stumbled outside under their own power. After they departed, the two troopers still inside the shelter slowly backed out, their weapons leveled at Truman’s soldiers.

  Truman waited only a few seconds before following them. Behind him, Jones led Carlton outside, the particle beam cannon pressed firmly into Carlton’s stomach. They halted next to him as two jet-copters landed, both piloted by Air Force officers. Half a dozen Elite Ops troopers formed a perimeter around the jet-copters.

  Jones said, “I’ll be taking Devereaux, Cookie Monster, Carlton, Lendra, and the bodies of Weiss and Julianna in one copter. The EOs go out on the other.”

  “Just the dead and wounded,” Carlton said. “The others stay behind. Anything happens to me and they take out the shelter, the pseudos, the Army. And it’s not just this unit, either. It’s all of them—one hundred ninety-two troopers.” He slowly reached into his pocket with his free hand and retrieved his PlusPhone. “Take a look for yourselves.”

  Although the communications blackout remained in place, Carlton’s PlusPhone was able to receive transmissions. On the 24-Hour Real News Network Truman saw images of Elite Ops troopers surrounding National monuments, the White House, the Capitol and the Supreme Court. A newswoman explained that the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs had ordered all branches of the Armed Services to a state of readiness. Jet-copters had taken to the air; submarines were moving to defensive positions on both coasts. Carlton turned off the PlusPhone and put it back in his pocket. He said, “You’d better make damn sure I stay in perfect health. And ease up on that wrist.”