The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

  Chief McKinney looked at Sister Ezekiel. His eyes narrowed; his jaw clenched. He turned back to Ernie Olsen, his voice trembling only a little: “I don’t know. But it’s not good.”

  Colonel Truman separated himself from his men and, followed by Lieutenant Adams, moved up beside Sister Ezekiel. He said, “My soldiers are prepared to fight the Elite Ops. But I already lost forty-three people. If it comes down to a battle—their weapons against ours—they’ll kill us all.”

  Lieutenant Adams said, “We contained them last time. I say we take ‘em on again.”

  “I’ll fight,” Chief McKinney said. He bent down stiffly and pulled a small Las-pistol from a holster strapped to his ankle. When he straightened up, his back cracked and he grimaced, but he looked Colonel Truman in the eye. “I like to hold a little something back, keep the natives thinking I’m harmless.”

  Colonel Truman shook his head. “Against their shields, Chief? I don’t think so.”

  “If they’re going to kill us anyway,” Chief McKinney said, “I’d rather go down fighting.”

  Colonel Truman rubbed his forehead. “Disarming might be our best chance of survival. If we’re unarmed and we don’t provoke them, we just might make it through this. I think the Elite Ops need some justification to start firing. On the other hand, they’re different now—angry. They may be looking for an excuse to wipe us out. What do you think, Sister?”

  Sister Ezekiel struggled to keep her focus. After a moment she said, “What can we do but pray?”

  “That certainly wouldn’t hurt,” Truman agreed.

  Townspeople trickled down the street in twos and threes, moving hesitantly, looking up at the flying Elite Ops every few steps. For the most part, they huddled together along the north side of the corral, avoiding Truman’s soldiers, the police and especially Sister Ezekiel and the homeless men. The reporters moved freely among them, filming everything.

  Sister Ezekiel looked for the young man with the orange Afro. He stood next to several homeless men, hands in his pockets, his head following the movement of the flying Elite Ops.

  “I can’t just stand here doing nothing,” Sister Ezekiel said. She began moving from group to group, providing encouragement—and prayer where it was wanted—but accepting that some people just wanted to air their frustrations and worries. As she talked with each of them, calming their fears, taking their burdens upon herself—not willingly but of necessity—she found herself gaining strength. They would live or die by God’s grace. Nothing she said or did would alter that fact. She let people vent, barely concentrating on the words they spoke, nodding her head and absorbing their panic until they thanked her, letting her know they could go on for a little while longer. She felt her soul shining brightly, repelling all the blackness in the world. And she knew that no matter what Devereaux said, religion was necessary for times like these.

  “Sister,” Ahmad said.

  She looked into his eyes, realized that she’d come back to where he stood. “Yes?”

  “How can you be so calm? You realize they’re gonna kill us, don’t you? They’re gonna wipe us out, and it’s all Devereaux’s fault. Why did you save him?”

  “I was acting for the greater good, Ahmad. Devereaux, whatever he did, deserves to live. He’s a good man. And we need him. If for no other reason than to strengthen our faith.”

  One of the Elite Ops stepped forward and spoke in a loud voice amplified by something in his helmet: “Close up ranks. Move together.” The Elite Ops stepped inside the corral and began shoving townspeople toward the center of the enclosure. “Hurry,” the Elite Ops blared. “One big group. All weapons in a pile over there.” The Elite Ops pointed toward the driveway, which formed the entryway to the enclosure.

  Looking that way, Sister Ezekiel saw Doug approaching along the sidewalk, followed by an Elite Ops trooper. Doug walked with his head up, no longer slouching, eyes ahead, as if unaware of the huge menace following him. When he saw Sister Ezekiel look his way, he waved. Sister Ezekiel couldn’t help but smile, buoyed by Doug’s unquenchable spirit. He seemed different somehow—stronger, more confident—as if his time away had enabled him to realize he possessed value after all. Sister Ezekiel had been trying to instill that sense of self-worth in him for months. Now he seemed to have finally achieved it. She felt a tremendous sense of pride in his accomplishment.

  As Doug came closer, his smile vanished, his face betraying his concern, and when he entered the enclosure and stopped in front of her, he said, “What happened to you, Sister?”

  Sister Ezekiel reached out and hugged him with her trembling body, the embrace calming her. She told him it was nothing, explained that she’d fainted. Colonel Truman’s soldiers moved toward the spot designated by the Elite Ops and began dropping their weapons in a pile. “You too, Sheriff,” the Elite Ops organizer said.

  “Why?” Chief McKinney said. “So you can kill us more easily?”

  “Drop the weapon now,” the Elite Ops ordered.

  “I’m the law in these parts,” Chief McKinney said. “And I don’t answer to you.”

  Two red laser pulses struck Chief McKinney from the two flying Elite Ops. A few of Colonel Truman’s soldiers began firing at the Elite Ops. People screamed. Lasers sizzled. Doug pulled Sister Ezekiel to the ground. Others dropped too. The smell of burnt chemicals mingled with the smell of rotting flesh the Elite Ops gave off.

  “Stand down,” Colonel Truman yelled over the noise. He stood with his arms in the air. “Stand down your weapons now.”

  The firing stopped but the screaming continued.

  “Quiet!” the Elite Ops organizer commanded. “If you do as you’re told, you will not be harmed.”

  Colonel Truman unclipped his Las-pistol and tossed it on the pile. “Weapons over here now,” he said to his soldiers. “That’s an order, people.”

  As his soldiers moved to comply, Lieutenant Adams walked over to those half-dozen soldiers who had fired at the Elite Ops and paid with their lives. She collected their weapons and brought them to the pile. Colonel Truman, bending over the old police chief’s body, picked up the chief’s weapon and tossed it on the pile, shaking his head. As Doug helped Sister Ezekiel to her feet, she said a silent prayer for Chief McKinney’s soul.

  When the last of the weapons had been placed on the pile, the Elite Ops organizer herded people away from it and toward the shelter. Colonel Truman found Sister Ezekiel’s hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze. She took comfort from that and did the same for Doug. Four steps away, the young man with the orange Afro stood sideways to the Elite Ops, facing her. She knew he was filming her.

  As the Elite Ops got the last few people gathered up, Sister Ezekiel began to pray out loud, “Our Father, who art in Heaven…”

  Was she praying because that’s what people would expect of her in this moment? No, she was reaching out to God. She could feel a channel open, a direct link between her and the Sweet Lord.

  Other voices joined in, even Ahmad’s. They echoed behind her and she felt a smile coming as they spoke the words Christ gave them. Was she about to die? Would she find out now if there was a God? And what if Devereaux was right? Then she’d never know it. But she was happy she had God in her life. She wouldn’t have it any other way. She was part of a community, leading her people into the dark land, and her voice grew in power as she prayed to the one true God.

  While she prayed, a breeze sprang up, carrying away the smoky stench of the ruined vehicles, the burnt chemicals, the poisonous rot of the Elite Ops, and replaced it with an indefinable odor of autumnal vegetation—grass, mixed with the woody aroma of oak trees. She looked up at the tree line, where it joined the rich blue sky, just now beginning to change color with the lowering sun.

  Sister Ezekiel projected her voice even louder despite the soreness in her jaw: “…But deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom…” The breeze dropped as the crow
d behind her finished the prayer. She could smell her own sweat now, mingling with the sour stench of her fellow victims. A droplet trickled down her side and another weaved its way along the underside of her arm.

  The Elite Ops flying around the enclosure were joined by two others. All four aimed their weapons at the people below. The Elite Ops organizer moved to the pile of weapons. Two other troopers stood at the entrance to the enclosure. Their weapons—aimed belly-high—emitted a red glow and a sizzling, crackling sound. Many voices faltered but Sister Ezekiel launched into her favorite prayer, slowing down the words to savor every one of them: “Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Lord is with thee…”

  Now the Elite Ops organizer joined the other two Elite Ops at the exit and leveled his Las-rifle at the group. The reporters, bunched in with everyone else, struggled to film the scene, while the young man with the orange Afro continued to stare at Sister Ezekiel. She closed her eyes, hoping that if they were all killed, others would view and remember this terrible moment. Immediately she felt shame that such a thought should occur to her. That wasn’t why she continued praying. The rotting odor of the Elite Ops intensified, overpowering all other smells. The high-pitched whine of their power packs grew in volume. Sister Ezekiel’s mind faltered, as if suddenly drained of the ability to think. She stumbled over the words, fought the chalky dryness of her mouth, managed to keep praying. She would die on her terms. She would fight back in the only way she knew, with a prayer to the Lord—for these killers as well as their victims.

  Unbidden, an image of the men who assaulted and raped her flashed into her head—two men laughing as they left her sobbing in the dirt. Another image, in court, the young men no longer looking malevolent, facing her as she asked the judge for lenience—one of them crying softly, the other looking blankly past her, as if indifferent to the sentence he would soon receive. Or perhaps his forced withdrawal from the drugs left him emotionless. If she could forgive those misguided wretches, she could forgive these troopers too.

  There was peace in the Blessed Lord and if she prayed well enough, He would help her overcome her fear. She opened her eyes, her voice clear and strong, looked past the weapons to the visors of the young men before her and prayed: “…Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Jeremiah spent the flight in his dungeon, trying to keep the fear at bay. It took all his effort to focus on the stones surrounding him, the torchlight flickering on the unsteady walls. He was grateful for his wounds; the pain helped take his mind off the nauseating smell of jet fuel and the vibration of the jet-copter. Quark sat grim-faced, one massive hand encircling Carlton’s arm just above the broken wrist, while the other gripped the particle beam cannon. Devereaux and Lendra slept. When they finally landed, Jeremiah shivered with relief. He noticed that his body itched where he’d been wounded, while his stomach felt like it was home to a swarming nest of ants.

  Devereaux awoke and smiled hesitantly.

  Soldiers—Army soldiers—opened the doors and two medics reached for Lendra. They pulled her stretcher from the helicopter and carried her inside.

  Two more medics reached for Devereaux. He allowed them to assist him in stepping down from the copter, then said, “I have to see the President right away.”

  “You need medical help,” one of the medics said.

  “That can wait.”

  The medic then turned his head to look Jeremiah over. He pointed to the blood on Jeremiah’s shirt and said, “You need help?”

  Jeremiah shook his head and got to his feet. As he jumped out of the copter, the soldiers directed him to a stairway. Several surrounded Devereaux, supporting him as he made his way down the stairs. Another took the particle beam cannon from Quark. Jeremiah looked out over the familiar buildings of Washington, DC, and realized that they’d landed on the roof of the CINTEP building. Eli would be waiting inside. The other jet-copter carrying the dead and wounded Elite Ops hovered over the landing pad for a moment, its pilot saluting before it flew off.

  Quark kept a firm grip on Carlton as they stepped through a doorway. Descending the ramp, Jeremiah remembered that Eli had a miniature hospital in the building—two operating rooms and half a dozen beds—for sensitive medical procedures. Jeremiah’s genetic modification had occurred here. He stopped at the end of the ramp, where an older woman with gray hair stood next to a female Army captain. Less than a minute later, a body was wheeled inside. Jeremiah recognized it as Weiss. The captain halted the gurney and opened the body pouch, turning to the gray-haired woman with a small nod. The gray-haired woman stepped forward, tears running down her cheeks, and touched Gray Weiss’ face. After a moment she withdrew her hand and the captain gestured to the soldiers, who wheeled the gurney down the hall, the gray-haired woman following at a slower pace, clutching the captain’s arm. Jeremiah nodded at her as she passed.

  Julianna’s body came next. Stopping the gurney, Jeremiah opened the body pouch and stared at her face. Julianna—energetic, irresistable—gone forever. Her bright teeth shone through her partially open mouth. Jeremiah touched her cold forehead. He refused to feel sorrow over her loss. Blinking three times, he centered himself in his dungeon and caressed her cheek softly. She’d talked once about retiring to the Virgin Islands, where she’d spent a few years in her childhood. Jeremiah would have to see that her remains were sent there.

  “We’ll take care of her, sir,” one of the soldiers behind the gurney said.

  Jeremiah stepped back, his breath catching in his throat as he watched her gliding away. Could his blood have kept her alive? Why hadn’t he thought of that before, when it still might have been possible to save her? He felt rage building up inside, tamped it down, then made his way to the conference room.

  Eli sat at the head of a large table, his PlusPhone next to his right hand. Across the room at the other end of the table, President Angelica Hope waited. Halfway through the long table, a wall of light shimmered—a shield. Jeremiah smelled a hint of the President’s perfume drifting through the barrier. At the President’s side sat General Horowitz, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and standing in a semi-circle around them were half a dozen Secret Service agents dressed in black, their weapons held discreetly by their sides. They kept their eyes on Carlton, Jeremiah and Quark.

  In one of the corners, a projection played. Eli’s technology expert, Jay-Edgar, manipulated the footage, shifting from scene to scene, images of EOs surrounding national monuments and government buildings, their weapons aimed outward in rock-steady hands.

  Quark sat beside Carlton at the table, a firm grip on Carlton’s forearm, just above the broken wrist. A major and two sergeants had taken up position behind them. On the other side of the table, two captains flanked Devereaux while a team of doctors wearing surgical scrubs ran diagnostic scans on him. Jay-Edgar sat at Eli’s right hand. He slid a computer over to Devereaux.

  Eli got to his feet and walked over to Jeremiah. “Lendra?” he asked.

  Jeremiah shrugged. “She took a laser pulse to the stomach. They just brought her inside.”

  Eli glared at Carlton. “You’d better hope she pulls through,” he said before turning back to Jeremiah. “How are you?”

  “You know I’ll be fine. And you know why.”

  Eli reached up and patted Jeremiah on the shoulder. “We’ll talk about that later. Elite Ops troopers surround dozens of government buildings. Panic is spreading across the country. We couldn’t keep this situation a secret. There’s rioting in Philadelphia, New York, Los Angeles—dozens of cities.” He returned to his chair opposite President Hope and gestured for Jeremiah to sit at his left hand.

  President Hope cleared her throat and said, “Gentlemen, we’re at a standoff. The Elite Ops are not responding to General Horowitz’s orders. And Mr. Carlton’s demands are unacceptable. We need another way out of this mess.”

  Devere
aux sat hunched over the computer Jay-Edgar had passed him, occasionally glancing at Jay-Edgar, who nodded back, smiling broadly as his fingers raced over his keyboard. Carlton smirked at Devereaux from across the table and said, “You’ll never breach my system. I use a quantum key distribution security code. Unbreakable.” When Devereaux ignored him, Carlton added, “You think we didn’t find your backdoor passwords? We took the system apart after what happened in Rochester two years ago. Rebuilt it from the ground up. There’s no way you can access it.”

  Devereaux continued working on the keyboard, while a doctor crouched down beside him and adjusted the setting on his QuikHeal bandage.

  “Perhaps,” Carlton said, “you require a demonstration of my total control over the Elite Ops.”

  President Hope said, “I hardly think that will be necessary, Mr. Carlton.”

  Carlton said, “Bring up the footage of the Tessamae Shelter.”

  Eli nodded to Jay-Edgar, who held up a hand and said, “Coming up now.”

  On the projection, four EOs flew in jet packs around Colonel Truman’s soldiers, Sister Ezekiel and the homeless men. The other three EOs stood at the entrance to an enclosure formed by the twisted debris of ruined vehicles, their weapons leveled at the crowd.

  “I can have all those people killed,” Carlton said, “without blinking an eye. I can destroy all your monuments.” He caught Jeremiah’s eye, as if flaunting his promise not to hurt anyone. Jeremiah got a sick hollowness in his gut as he realized just how badly he’d misjudged Carlton. Yet there was still hope that Carlton wouldn’t do anything drastic.

  “Do you want a civil war?” President Hope asked.

  Carlton looked at Quark, then back to the President and said, “Given my choices, I think I might.”

  * * *