Survivors (20 page)

“Each incursion team point man will carry a set of bolt cutters. The entry points are here, here, and here,” Agent Sawyer said, pointing to three spots on the map: the edge of town closest to the forest, the clearing where the people of Abraham burned the dead, and the opposite end of town from the formidable gates.

“Fat chance,” Lutz said loud at this last. “We tried getting in that way, and they cut us to pieces. There’s no way in hell—”

Sawyer turned and put up his hand. “Herman, shut the fuck up and try to use the three pounds of gray matter you’ve got holding your ears apart. This is where you attacked.”

“Yes.”

“And this is where they ran you to ground. And your man carrying the explosives, which I will assume is now in the capable hands of the Sheriff.”

“Yes.” A growl this time.

“Right. Try to follow me. If this is where they defeated you so soundly, Lutz, if this is where the tide was turned, so to speak, then this is the last place they think someone would try again. They’ve defended this port of entry, and defended it well. They will be overconfident in their ability to do it again, and on short notice.

“Now, back to business. Each team will surge in and plant their explosives in the sequence they are labeled. God help you if you fuck this part up. Point men and demolitions will then exit the area, leaving fire teams to start the loud portion of the assault. Strategic targets are here and here,” he said, smacking the jailhouse and hospital, “and are not to be blown. Everything else gets razed. Fire teams will then start their retreat, drawing the townspeople after you. Make it look good, we want them to follow. Radio when you reach these positions, and we will take care of the rest.”

Sawyer grinned at the mass of black-clad men in front of him.

“Any questions? Platoon leader, break your squads up and go over separate assignments. Fire Team Alpha, report to me in five minutes for your briefing. We head out at midnight.”

Lutz saw Sawyer walking back to him.

“Look, I didn’t mean—”

A fast and straight jab to Herman’s solar plexus cut off his air and his words. He dropped to his knees, trying to gasp for breath and failing, badly. Agent Sawyer bent down to speak in the man’s ear.

“Herman, you want to really consider what you’re doing here. What I’m doing here. How these two things interconnect. Has it crossed your mind, Herman, that with all this intel I have on the town and outlying areas, I don’t fucking need you anymore? For anything?”

Herman coughed.

“I didn’t think so. I’m keeping you and your boys around, Herman, because there is going to be some really dirty work coming up, and I don’t want to soil these fine soldiers’ hands with it. But keep pushing my buttons. Three can do the job as well as four.”

Sawyer straightened up and walked away, adjusting his light body armor. Herman coughed again on the ground, finally getting his wind back.

“When the time comes, boys,” he said, “I’m the one that knifes him in the back.”

Across the clearing, Sawyer was as gleeful as he’d ever been. Not as happy as the day he would bring in Dr. Demilio and take Mason’s head, no, but chipper anyway. It had been a long time since the former NSA agent had been on a field op with so many men. (He’d worn body armor in his own camp then, too.) A full platoon of RSA soldiers scurried around the small camp, ready and willing to do the agent’s bidding, and all that did was fan the fires that burned in him for bigger and better things.

The NCO in charge of Fire Team Alpha, Sergeant Helltree, reported to Agent Sawyer, his men arranged behind him at attention. “Sir, Fire Team Alpha is present and accounted for, awaiting orders.”

The agent held up one finger. “Be a minute,” he said, and walked behind his tent. He came right back with a pair of cases, each about four feet long. He put them down and opened one, looking up at the young Army man.

“This, Sergeant, is SIMON. Say hello.”

Omaha, NE
30 June 2007
0712 hrs_

D
AWN BROKE RELUCTANTLY OVER
the silent city, revealing empty avenues and abandoned highways. Weeds, growing freely out of cracks in the pavement and peeking out from behind the flattened tires of swiftly rusting cars, glistened with midsummer dew. The buildings and storefronts were stark and empty, their windows broken out, or boarded up. A large flatbed truck sat blocking one street, its front end crumpled against the corner of a redbrick building. The interior was charred and burned out beyond recognition.

A black-capped chickadee, newly awakened, settled on the hood of the truck. It sang a few notes, then stopped, glanced about, and began to preen its feathers.

Behind the chickadee sat a narrow alleyway, as yet untouched by the breaking sun. Its entrance was clogged with collapsed cardboard boxes and empty bottles, and beyond lay nothing but brick and shadow. Something moved within the darkness, drawn forth by the little speck of life perched on the hood of the burned-out truck.

With a shuddering moan, a bloated face loomed out of the alleyway, and a pair of sore-covered arms grabbed at the bird.

The chickadee was gone in a flash, flying around the corner with a surprised chirp.

Behind it, the infected stood in place, shoulders slumped forward. Once, it had been a human being. It was no longer. It stared in the direction the bird had gone, a bit of putrid, virus-laden drool slipping from the corner of its mouth. Frustrated at the escape of its prey, the infected flailed its arm once, batting at a nearby weed, and shuffled forward a few steps, scattering cardboard and trash underfoot.

A fine silk tie, now wrinkled and crusted with bits of dried flesh, hung loosely around its neck. A once-white button-up shirt was marred by a tear near the shoulder and a dark brown bloodstain. A similar stain coated both sleeves nearly to the elbows, hinting at a feast long since past. His dress pants had kept remarkably well, save for two holes worn at the knees, where the infected had knelt during the daytime hours in the shade. His leather shoes were in desperate need of a shine.

He might have had ambitions, once. He might have had dreams.

Now, he had only instinct.

The infected looked up, in the direction of the morning sun, groaned, and flailed its arm again before turning its back on the brightness. It spotted another patch of shadow in the distance, felt drawn toward it, and began to march slowly in its direction. It stumbled when it hit the curb, but caught itself on the corner of the truck, and continued onward.

The infected plodded along the middle of the street like a macabre marionette. Its legs jerked, its shoulders swayed, its head seemed barely connected to the body, so freely it rolled, but it never once deviated from its path. It thought only of its destination. There wasn’t enough mind left for anything else.

Lack of attentiveness was certainly why the dead thing didn’t bother to look around as it plodded along. If it had, it might have seen the two men with rifles, crouched low on a nearby rooftop.

One of them settled the barrel of his rifle on the lip of the roof, and took careful aim.

The crack of a gunshot echoed off the buildings, shattering the still morning air.

A block away, the black-capped chickadee was again startled, and took off from its new perch, silently resolving to find quieter territory.

The infected’s head smacked off the pavement, a neat hole drilled through its temple. The skull, six months rotten, split open. Brackish blood and brain matter leaked out, forming a small pool around the figure. It lay still, spilling infected vitae on the ground.

On the rooftop, the shooter stood, worked the rifle bolt, and ejected the spent round over the edge. It pinwheeled through the air and tinkled off the sidewalk, joining an ever-growing scattering of empty brass casings. The shooter worked a fresh round into the chamber, his eyes on the freshly dispatched shambler.

“Nice shot, Krueger!” said the second man, peering at the infected through a pair of pocket-sized binoculars. “That does it for him.”

“Thank you,” said the sharpshooter, squatting low and resting the barrel of his weapon on the raised edge of the roof. “Poor schmuck walked right past us. That’s getting pretty rare. First one in a week to come within fifty yards.”

“Well, we’ve cleared out most of the buildings in these blocks, so I guess there aren’t many left in the neighborhood. It might be a different story downtown,” said the spotter, reaching down to rummage through a faded olive drab knapsack at his feet. He pulled out a battered Nikon camera, checked it over, and snapped a shot of the fresh kill with the sunrise in the background. “That’ll make a good one, if I ever get it developed.”

Krueger watched him as he worked. “Ever thought about building a dark room, Denton?” asked the soldier, holding back a yawn. The pair had been on guard duty all night, and their shift was nearly over. “It’s not like we have a lack of materials. Or room.”

“True.” Denton nodded, putting the camera back in the knapsack. “Maybe I’ll get around to it, after we’re done with the perimeter.”

The roof the two men were sitting on was spacious and flat, providing them with a 360-degree view of the surrounding neighborhood. Other than the stairwell door, the only other occupants of the roof were four long banks of angled solar panels. Their original purpose was to serve as a backup for the Fac, but they were now pulling duty as the primary generators. With the return of the sun, a security lamp over the stairwell door had begun to glow faintly, signaling that a charge was once again flowing. There were banks of batteries below, recharging a bit every day, but they were reserved solely for the biosafety level four laboratory.

The perimeter Denton referred to surrounded the entire building, which the group had taken to calling “the Fac” more than anything else. The fence also circled the Fac’s narrow yard, and part of a nearby industrial complex. Chain-link fence had been the original deterrent, enclosing an area of a little over two acres, but over weeks the resident survivors had improved their defenses, not wanting to be caught off guard by a wave of infected with little more than metal mesh between them and certain death. They had dug a deep, narrow trench outside the fence, using the earth they moved to fill sacks liberated from the neighboring factory. The makeshift sandbags were stacked ten high and three deep on the inside of the fence, forming a heavy buttress that supported the fence and, hopefully, would keep it from being pushed over by dozens of angry infected.

The group hoped to create a safe outdoor environment where they could relax or grow their own food. No one was comfortable outdoors anymore. Not without a good, sturdy wall between them and the Morningstar strain, at least.

“You could put it in the basement,” said Krueger, still on about the dark room. “In one of the labs Anna and Becky aren’t using. There are four of ’em down there and they’re only using one. Well, two, if you count Mason’s room. There are no windows. It’s perfect. You could get all those developed in your downtime. Hell, I’d like to see some of them. You’ve been taking them since Suez, right?”

“Before,” corrected Denton. “I was attached to Alpha, covering Iraq, before they were redeployed to the canal. I have some shots of them there, too.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that. I’m an Echo. Or I was. How many rolls you got in there?” Krueger asked, leaning forward to peer in the top of Denton’s loose, faded knapsack.

Denton flipped the cover shut. “Thirty or so.”

Krueger whistled in appreciation and rested his head against the edge of the roof. He closed his eyes and let the sun warm his face for a moment. He sat up as a new thought struck him.

“Hey, you know, you might just be the only photographer left who saw all this go down, and took pictures to prove it,” Krueger said, raising his eyebrows and grinning. “You could end up famous.”

“Yeah,” laughed Denton, “I can see the awards hanging on my living room wall right now. If anybody ever gives ’em out again.”

That thought quieted the pair, and they sat in silence.

The sun rose higher in the sky.