Pandemic (62 page)

Tim knew.

Margaret could tell from the sound of his voice. She didn’t know how he’d figured it out, but there was no question —
he knew
.

She had to act now.

“Sorry about this, Bogdana, but I really need a skin sample from the genitalia.”

The man’s shoulders dropped. “Please tell me you’re kidding.” Margaret shook her head. Her suit’s gas mask wobbled just a little, despite the fact that she had it on so tight it partially cut off the circulation in her face.

“Sorry, but it has to be done.”

She forced herself closer to the bloated corpse. A puddle of fluid stained the carpet beneath it — liquid from decomposition rather than blood. The man’s penis and testicles looked black and shriveled, like a rotten avocado spotted with moisture.

“I need a sample” — she pointed to the decomposing member — “from right below his scrotum.”

Bogdana shook his head, sighed. “My mother will be so proud that her only son is the military’s highest-paid collector of fromunda cheese.”

He knelt on both knees, then reached a gloved hand under the corpse’s genitalia. He lifted gently, bent his head for a closer look.

Margaret quietly drew the Sig Sauer P226 from her thigh holster. She pointed it at the back of Bogdana’s head and pulled the trigger.

Clarence exited the elevator and strode toward Tim’s lab area. The little scientist jogged to meet him halfway, feet crunching on the broken glass and bits of charred wood scattered about the lobby.

“It’s Margaret,” Tim said. “I think she’s infected.”

Clarence stopped. What kind of bullshit was Tim trying to pull? Was the little coward looking for a way out?

Tim grabbed Clarence’s arm, pulled him toward Cooper Mitchell. The man was moving again, head lolling as he struggled to wake up.

Tim looked back to the elevator, then around the lobby. He leaned in close.

“You heard me,” he said. “Margaret is
infected
.”

Clarence yanked his arm free of Tim’s anxious grip.

“She’s not. She’s been with us the whole time. She drank the inoculant. So did I. So did you.”

Tim nodded rapidly, continued to glance at the elevator. Clarence understood why — he was afraid Margaret might come down. He was afraid of
Margaret
.

“I know she did,” Tim said. “The only thing that makes sense is she was exposed
before
we left the
Brashear
. By the time she drank the yeast, she’d already been infected for more than twenty-four hours, so it was too late to save her. Come on, man, she wouldn’t come anywhere near Cooper. Does that sound like Margaret to you?”

All the pressure, the danger … Tim had lost it. He’d cracked.

“You’re wrong,” Clarence said, struggling to keep his voice level. “She’s
pregnant
, you paranoid little shit. She doesn’t want to take any chances.”

“Are you kidding me?” Tim spread his arms, a gesture that took in the hotel, the city, everything. “Does this look like a sixth-grade field trip to the museum?” He pointed at Cooper. “She comes into this slaughterhouse no problem, then won’t get near him? She’s afraid of catching the hydras, Otto — she’s afraid of catching a disease that
only
kills the infected.”

No … Tim was wrong. He had to be.

“She tested over and over again,” Clarence said. “She blew negative every time.”

“So did Cantrell.” Tim picked up a testing kit off the portable table and held it up. The light showed a steady green “So did the guy in the red coat, the one that Cooper said was the leader of his group of Converted. The guy who died from the hydras, just like the other infected. There’s a strain the test doesn’t detect, Otto, and Margaret has it.”

Clarence stared at the testing kit. Green light. Margaret’s tests showed green lights. She wouldn’t go near Cooper. No, there had to be an explanation.

“The baby,” he said. “She doesn’t know how hydras might affect the baby.”

“Stop it,”
Tim snapped. “We don’t have
time
for denial. We have to—”

Klimas’s voice came over their headsets.

“All personnel, Predator drones show heavy foot traffic headed our way,” he said. “Movement on East Chicago, coming from both directions on Michigan, and
all
of it converging on our position. They aren’t coming to swap spit and rub tummies, people. Man the perimeter, fire at anything that moves. It’s game time.”

How could they attack
now
? Tim said Margaret was infected … maybe she was just sick … the baby, making her act strange …

Clarence’s headset let out a short burst of static as someone switched frequencies.

“Otto, this is Klimas, over?”

Clarence reacted automatically. “Otto here, go ahead.”

“The shit is about to hit the fan. SITREP on the civvies?”

“Montoya is up in 1812 with Bogdana,” Clarence said. “I’m in the lobby with Feely and Mitchell.”

“Good,” Klimas said. “Stay right there unless I tell you otherwise, or unless someone is shooting at you.”

His wife was upstairs, and an attack was coming.

“I have to go get Margaret. I’ll grab her and—”

“Negative, Agent Otto,” Klimas said. “Stay
right where you are
. You are responsible for protecting Feely and the package. I’ll have Bogdana bring Montoya down. Klimas, out.”

Clarence closed his eyes, tried to think things through. The future of
the human race was right next to him, sitting in a swivel chair, still partially sedated. But his family was seventeen floors above. Was Tim crazy?

Or, if Tim was right …

Clarence’s headset came alive with Rangers and SEALs calling out targets, with the sound of weapons fire.

Then several voices at once, from both inside the lobby and over the comm link, calling the same word:
incoming!

Clarence heard a muffled crash of glass followed by the
whoof
of billowing fire that filled the lobby with a sudden and angry orange light.

Paulius Klimas rolled across the snowy pavement, putting out the flames that danced up his thighs. Molotov cocktails rained down around him. The smell of burning gasoline filled the air. Mortars from inside the perimeter
thoooped
, weapons fired, men shouted out targets or screamed in agony.

Paulius slid up against the door of a burned-out Lincoln Navigator. He peeked around the front bumper, east down Chicago Avenue. Dozens of small flames arced through the air toward his position, spinning orange stars that would land and burst, spreading long ovals of flame. Off in the distance, he saw muzzle flashes coming from behind overturned cars on Chicago Avenue and on Rush Street, as well as from skyscraper windows in all directions.

Bullets plinked off the Navigator, punched through what glass still remained in the ruined vehicle. Molotovs hit every few seconds. Most of the improvised missiles fell short, but more than a few sailed over the perimeter to set the pavement afire.

He thumbed to his SEAL-only frequency and pressed the “talk” button.

“This is Klimas. Overwatch, locate and return fire, concentrate on enemy positions in the buildings on the corners of Chicago and Rush, Chicago and Michigan. Prioritize all high-elevation enemy snipers, repeat, all high-elevation enemy snipers. SITREP by squads, go.”

The squads reported back: heavy concentrations of small-arms fire and Molotovs coming in from all directions. Most of the enemy troops had to be armed civilians. His marksmen would thin them out quickly, but just how big a force did they face?

Paulius switched to the Rangers’ channel and listened in. Captain Dundee was already calling in air support. The Apaches would be here in minutes.

The hotel was so large, Paulius still had men going from floor to floor,
securing the place one room at a time. He switched back to the SEAL channel.

“Interior personnel, sound off.”

His men reported in. All but one — Bogdana. Were there still bad guys in the hotel? Had they taken out Bogs and Margo?

He switched channels again. “Civilians, sound off!”

Tim coughed, trying to clear the thick, greasy smoke from his lungs and throat. He’d lost his gas mask.

He pushed himself to his knees, but stayed behind the reception counter. The Rangers were putting out fires even as bullets whizzed into the lobby, splintering into the wood walls or taking chunks out of the black marble columns.

He saw Cooper Mitchell lying prone, struggling to rise. Tim threw an arm over the man, protecting him as well as he could.

Then the big form of Clarence Otto scrambled behind the ruined counter, aimed his pistol over it toward the hotel’s front entrance.

Tim heard the short burst of static caused by someone coming onto the civilian frequency.

“Civilians, sound off!”

Klimas. In the background Tim heard the constant roar of gunfire and a wounded soldier screaming for help.

“Otto here,” Clarence said. “Feely is with me, as is the package.”

“Acknowledged,” Klimas said. “Margaret, sound off.”

There was no response.

“Margaret,
sound off
,” Klimas said again.

Still nothing.

Otto crouched low. “Have Bogdana bring her down, Klimas, right now.”

“No response from Bogdana,” Klimas said.

Had Margaret killed the man? Tim didn’t know if she could get the drop on a SEAL, but she was infected, he
knew
she was, and that meant she was capable of anything.

Clarence stayed low but took a step toward the elevator. “Klimas, I’m going to get Margaret.”

“Negative, Otto, that’s a—” Klimas stopped in midsentence. Gunfire filled Tim’s headphones, so loud it made him wince. “I repeat, that’s a negative. I’m sending Bosh and Ramierez to get her. Otto,
do not leave your post
.”

Clarence paused. Tim could see the man’s eyes through the gas mask lenses, see the turmoil, the indecision.

“Affirmative,” Clarence said.

Tim heard the click of Klimas switching off the channel.

Outside, the gunfire sounded constant, an orchestra of unending death. A bullet hit the centrifuge on top of the portable table, sending it spinning violently down to the marble floor.

Clarence shook his head. “I have to get her.”

He again turned toward the elevator.

Tim reached up, grabbed Clarence’s arm.

“Otto, stay
here
, goddamit! Don’t you fucking leave us alone!”

Cooper Mitchell tried to roll to his hands and knees but lost his balance, fell back down to his side. He looked around, eyes blinking and unfocused.

Clarence grabbed Tim’s wrist, pulled the hand free.

“I’m going to get my wife,” he said. “Stay here with Cooper. The Rangers will protect you.”

He sprinted for the elevator.

Tim felt lost. He looked at Cooper Mitchell, who was again trying to get to his hands and knees. Cooper … it was all about Cooper, about the microorganism he had in his body, in his blood.

Tim pressed his “talk” button. “Klimas, this is Feely, come in! Come in, Klimas!”

Klimas came back instantly, both his voice and the sound of gunfire painfully loud.

“Goddamit, Feely, stay off this channel!”

“Margaret’s infected. Otto went to get her. I’m alone with Mitchell. Get us out of here!”

A bullet ripped through the portable table’s metal leg — the table leaned to the right and fell on its edge.

“Feely,” Klimas said, “do you have a weapon?”

“No.”

“Then find one. Right now Mitchell is your responsibility. Protect him. The lobby is the safest place we have. That reception counter is decent cover, so stay behind it. I’ll get someone to you as soon as I can. Klimas, out.”

The frequency clicked off.

I am so screwed, so screwed …

A crash of glass, a
whuff
of billowing fire so close Tim felt the heat through his suit. He threw himself on top of Cooper to protect him from the flames.

So screwed, so screwed …

Margaret paused on the stairwell landing of the fifteenth floor. She carefully checked her suit for tears and cuts: she couldn’t take any chances now.

She had killed Bogdana, blown his brains all over that rotted corpse. To pull the trigger, to know
she
was the one to end that subcreature’s miserable existence … it felt
glorious
.

Humans had pissed away their chance to live on this world. War, hatred, pollution, genocide … the true legacy of humankind. She hadn’t taken a life; she had simply exterminated a pest.

After she’d killed Bogdana, she’d heard the battle erupt in the streets. A look out the window gave her all the motivation she needed to keep fighting — as far down Chicago Avenue as she could see, waves and waves of people hiding behind barriers, waiting to advance. The Converted, coming to save her.

But Cooper Mitchell was downstairs.
The Antichrist
. If her kind poured in like a tidal wave of blessed bodies, overwhelming the Rangers and SEALS, they might come into contact with that diseased piece of garbage; they might be exposed. If as few as four or five of them contracted his hydras and then faded into the night, mingled with others, that was enough to start an unstoppable plague. Margaret’s people might be wiped out forever, leaving God’s will unfulfilled. The humans could keep developing, keep building, until someday they reached the stars.

She had to stop that from happening. She had to kill Cooper Mitchell before her people could reach him. She had the gun. D’Shawn Bosh had shown her how to use it, how to take a shooter’s stance, how to breathe out slowly, how to
squeeze
the trigger, never
pull
it.

Margaret didn’t have to get close to Cooper to kill him: she just needed a clean shot.

A clean shot, and a distraction.

That fucker Feely had probably already told Clarence and the others that she was infected — they wouldn’t trust her now, might even kill her on sight. She had to be careful, but she also had to move fast. The Converted onslaught
would provide her the needed distraction. Everyone would be busy trying to repel the attack.