Sleep Tight (37 page)

Tommy said, “Thanks,” then limped past them, heading north.

Ed called, “Kid, you okay?”

Tommy stopped and turned. “I have to get my daughter.”

 

 

Dr. Reischtal watched the figures of white light start walking up Dearborn. Toward Washington and Daley Plaza. He pinned the microphone, a black bug with the foam head, a battery pack for the thorax, and a transponder antenna as the abdomen, to his new paper robe. He wore nothing underneath. After stripping out of the hazmat suit and his uniform and submitting himself not once, but twice, to the decontamination process, he had ordered his old clothing burned.

“Do not engage,” he told the pilots. “Pull back and continue to monitor.”

The sound of his voice was heard by a dozen satellites, who passed it back down, like electronic rain. A pair of headphones hung on the back wall of his unit, but he ignored those. Apart from the Apache pilots, he would only speak to a living human on the other side of the glass, through the exterior microphone, of course.

Dr. Reischtal was sealed in.
Tighter than a bug in a rug
, as his mother’s maid was fond of saying.

He called it his unit. A sealed fortress, his own private citadel, secure inside a warship, no less. Austere, composed entirely of gleaming white plastic. Completely sterile, of course. It utilized its own air filtration unit, its own power, its own waste disposal, its own recyclable water supply. Next to the door that locked from the inside, a giant bubble of thick plastic faced a simple table and chair. A scanner sat on the table, so any hard copies could be digitally scanned and downloaded by the isolated computer inside. A wall of monitors covered one wall. Two monitors displayed the feed from the Apaches. The video from the cameras attached to several soldiers’ helmets filled other screens. Several of these had gone dark.

The rest of the monitors were tuned to various television stations. Most had cut to aerial shots of the burning wreckage of Soldier Field. Although Dr. Reischtal was quite pleased with the level of destruction in the death of the stadium, he watched the last station that was still broadcasting the disintegrating press conference with interest. Lee, the fool, was dithering about, still trying to convince people he was in charge. No sign of Krazinsky, but Dr. Reischtal hadn’t expected him to show his face yet. The station finally cut away to its own footage of the skeletal wreckage of Soldier Field, the sagging walls and twisted metal silhouetted by the raging fire inside.

He turned back to the Apache feeds. The four glowing figures crept north on Dearborn, keeping to the shadows near the buildings. They stopped, huddled together. He couldn’t tell, but it looked as if they were trying to see something behind them. All four broke into a run.

Dr. Reischtal almost smiled. They had undoubtedly just become aware of the growing mob of infected five blocks to the south.

He pulled out his phone and dialed a recent number. “Shut your mouth and listen carefully.”

 

Ed pulled at Tommy’s arm. “Slow down, slow down. You go running in there, you’re gonna get shot.” Behind Ed, Qween slowed to a walk, sucking in air through her nose and letting it out in shallow hisses between clenched teeth. Sam brought up the rear, grunting softly every time his left foot hit the ground. He kept his right hand across his chest, holding the left side of his ribs. Every once in a while, he would turn his head and spit. The blood gleamed darkly under the streetlights.

They stood at the intersection of Dearborn and Washington. Daley Plaza was before them. A circle of lights had been arranged in the middle of the plaza. Semi trailers, Strykers, and M939 military trucks lined the streets. A block to the west, the lights of the press conference sent inky slashes of shadow up the sides of City Hall. No soldiers could be seen.

Ed said, “Easy, easy. Catch your breath, first. Let’s think this through.”

“We don’t have time. Those people”—Tommy nodded back down Dearborn—“are gonna be here any minute.”

Ed shook his head. “We got a couple of minutes. Maybe ten. From what we’ve seen, they’re not the most organized.”

Tommy wasn’t convinced. “They go after noise. And light. But mostly noise. And those damn things”—he pointed to the two Apaches that kept circling overhead like a couple of hungry vultures riding the wind—“they’re gonna piss ’em off and bring ’em right into our laps.” He turned to assess City Hall. “Besides, I think the press conference is over. You hear anything from over there? They’re gonna be moving out.”

Ed watched the helicopters for a moment. “Yeah, you got a point. But let’s not go running in there like a bunch of chickens with our heads cut off.” He glanced at Sam. “How you doin’, brother?”

“Right as fucking rain,” Sam said, and discreetly wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. “Kid’s right. We gotta move.”

Ed started to say something else, but Sam narrowed his eyes and gave his head an imperceptible shake. Ed gave it a moment more, meeting Sam’s eyes, letting his partner know he didn’t believe him, and finally said, “Let’s move then. Slow and easy-peasy.”

They stole along the southern sidewalk of Washington, using the various military vehicles and occasional CTA bus as cover. Darting from shadow to shadow, Tommy would drop to the sidewalk once in a while, scouting, trying to get a look at the press conference.

The last time, at least five rats stuck their heads over the curb and hissed at him.

He flinched and rolled away. He found his feet, kept moving. “They’re still up there on the stage. Standing around. Like they’re waiting for something.”

Ed said, “Maybe they’re going back on the air or something.”

Halfway down the block, they slipped into the alcove, squeezed between the Cook County Administration Building and the Chicago Temple Building and huddled behind the Miro sculpture of Miss Chicago.

Ed whispered, “Here’s the plan. I’ll be the distraction.”

“You mean bait,” Qween said.

“Call it whatever you want,” Ed said.

“I’m gonna be the bait,” Sam said.

Ed started to say, “I need you—”

Sam cut him off. “No. I can’t run. I can shoot, but I can’t run. Let me walk up there and stand still. I’ll get their attention. Trust me. You go around the other side. I’m done hiding.” He used his thumb and forefinger to swipe at the corners of his mouth and met Ed’s eyes.

Ed nodded. Slow. “Okay. Okay, if that’s the way you want it, then okay.” He pointed to the other side of the Stryker, “Sam goes out first, then. Me and Qween will sneak around to the west, hugging City Hall.” He pointed at Tommy. “You wait a full minute, then cut across Washington here and circle around through the plaza. They’ll see Sam right off, and he’ll keep their attention. Me and Qween will get as close as we can. Soon as you hear us yelling, you slip in through the back and snatch your little girl. No matter what happens, you get her out.”

Ed looked at each of them. “Any questions?”

Nobody had any.

Ed said, “Let’s go,” and nodded at Sam.

Sam strode off, still holding his ribs, but moving purposefully, back straight, eyes on the horizon. Ed and Qween flattened themselves against the glass walls of the Harris Bank, the first floor of the Chicago Temple building. Tommy peeled around to the east and ducked across Washington. He slid between a bus and a cab, both vehicles long since abandoned once they had been boxed in by a parked convoy of M939s. He froze.

The plaza was a full half of a city block in size, a vast speckled cement open prairie in a massive, dense forest of concrete and steel and glass. The absence of the Picasso sculpture made the emptiness worse. He felt like a mouse, about to dart across a moonlit field while hawks prowled the misty skies above. To his left, the lights still shone on a stage erected in the middle of Clark Street.

He could see figures grouped around a podium. One of them had to be Lee, with the dark head of hair and blue suit. Red tie. Yes, that was definitely Lee.

There was a woman next to him. Long hair. Tight black dress. Kimmy.

He didn’t recognize the short, sour-faced man next to her, or the few behind Lee. He waited. Lee hoisted someone small to his hip. Tommy saw the white blouse and the way she held her head and how it canted her hair just so. He couldn’t breathe.

It was Grace.

He had waited long enough. He scurried across the plaza, curving to the west, heading for the back of the stage. Twenty yards to go. He skirted around the fountain and stayed low by a broad cement planter for a couple of stunted trees. From there, he could be on them before they saw anything, and so when their attention was taken by Sam, then Ed and Qween, he would slip in behind and take Grace. He waited for Sam’s signal.

It never came.

Instead, a solid slab of light thumped out of the sky and slammed him into stark relief against the flatness of the plaza.

Ahead, more lights speared him from a couple of Strykers along the western edge of the plaza. They’d been waiting there the entire time. Soldiers burst out of the light and rushed him, a vicious rugby scrum of guns, boots, and elbows. They surged over Tommy and he went down swinging. He caught a quick glimpse of more searchlights stabbing out of the sky, and then it was all over.

 

Phil couldn’t keep the grin off his face. It had worked just like Dr. Reischtal had said it would. Who knew that crazy CDC fucker could have been still useful? Not just useful, but necessary. If what he said was true, then they had to get out of the city as fast as possible. And they most certainly would need Dr. Reischtal’s help.

Phil prided himself on always, one way or another, being ahead of the curve, on knowing more than the general public, and therefore, being in a position to take advantage. In the past, he had used this talent to gain traction in elections, to blackmail his enemies, and spot opportunities that would benefit him, often financially, later down the line. Now it would get him out of the city alive.

And not just that—his useless handsome nephew had found a scapegoat.

Tommy didn’t look so scary. He looked crushed. He sagged in the soldiers’ grip, blood trickling from his scalp down into his right eye. He’d puked earlier, when one of the soldiers had kicked him in the stomach. He looked like a man who was finished, someone who could barely walk. He’d been carrying a handgun and two unwrapped hazmat suits. The soldiers had tossed them onto the stage.

Phil wanted anybody and everybody to post pictures on the Internet. He had no idea how to do it himself, but he was nothing if he couldn’t recognize the most effective way to communicate since the first written word. He wanted the world to know that this was the bombing suspect, and that later, the suspect would attempt to escape and be killed in the process.

“Daddy!” Grace screamed, and ripped out of her mother’s clutch. That dumb whore. He’d told her to keep a tight hold on her daughter, and she’d listened about as well as his idiot nephew when he’d told Lee that Kimmy was nothing but trouble, and wouldn’t help advance his career. “A single mother? Are you fucking kidding me?”

Phil was not a man burdened by sentimentality. Or gentleness. As Grace ran past, charging toward her father, Phil simply reached out and caught a fistful of her hair. He yanked her back, and her feet flew out from under her. She fell backwards, hanging in midair, hair snared in his fist. Her surprised, sharp scream echoed around the plaza.

Tommy drove an elbow into the nearest soldier’s chest, and Phil heard the crack even fifteen feet away. The rest of the soldiers surrounding him responded with a flurry of blows. Some of them even used their rifle butts. Tommy’s knees buckled and he went back down.

Kimmy rushed forward, but Phil stopped her with a single index finger, jammed up into her face. “Get the fuck back, you stupid bitch. You might be along for the ride, but you’re nothing but scenery. And that’s easy to replace. Remember that.”

Lee, the dumbshit, couldn’t resist taunting Tommy. Lee ambled over to the group of soldiers and squatted on his haunches in front of a barely conscious Tommy and said, “Told ya, asshole. Told you I’d make you wish you’d never been born. Told you I’m the man here. All this over some dumb cooze that hates your guts.”

Phil said, “Lee. Let’s go.” Fucking idiot didn’t know to quit when he was ahead. Phil kept hold of Grace, because he knew damn well that this girl was the only thing that could control Tommy, and pulled out his phone with his other hand. Grace whimpered but stood carefully so he wouldn’t tear any more hair out. He dialed Dr. Reischtal.

“We got him. Send in the chopper.”

“He is alive, yes?”

“He’s alive. A little banged up, and probably isn’t in the mood to talk right now, but yeah, he’s alive.”

“And the others?”

Phil glanced back over his shoulder to where a group of four soldiers had the two detectives and the crazy homeless woman in the middle of Clark, hands on their heads. “We got ’em.”

Dr. Reischtal was silent a touch too long and Phil thought that he had hung up. Dr. Reischtal said, “Ah yes. I can see. I can also see that hell is marching up the street, straight at you. You have less than ten minutes before every infected individual left in the city is pouring into that plaza. I want the two detectives and the woman dead. When it is done, I will let the helicopter know you are ready.” He hung up.

Phil called one of the soldiers over. He knew his authority as an alderman with the soldiers carried about as much weight as a flustered nanny, so he started by saying, “Just talked to your boss, Dr. Reischtal. You know who I’m talking about, right?” The soldier nodded. “Good.” Phil pointed at Tommy. “This fuck here, he’s the one responsible for Soldier Field. Dr. Reischtal does not want him harmed. But those fuckers over there, they helped him. Execute them. Dr. Reischtal’s orders.”

The soldier cocked his head and gave Phil a look like he’d just stepped in dog shit and was trying to be polite about it. He walked over to inform the soldiers guarding the three. They pushed the two detectives and the homeless woman around one of the military trucks and disappeared.

Phil still couldn’t wipe his grin away. Everything was falling into place. First off, they now had a guaranteed safe passage out of the city, but they also had someone to blame everything on, and on top of everything else, he might get to watch soldiers blast the living shit out of a couple of detectives who had always been a pain in the ass.

A deep throbbing sound reached him and he looked up. A gigantic Sikorsky CH-53K Super Stallion appeared over the buildings to the east, the rotors slapping the air with a relentless, inhuman beat. The two Apaches slowed and hovered at a higher altitude, giving the larger helicopter all the room it needed as it settled into the plaza.

“Go, go!” Phil yelled into the storm of dust and vibration. The soldiers dragged Tommy across Clark, Lee took Kimmy under his arm, hustling her off the stage past the subway stairs, and Phil pulled Grace along by a fistful of hair. Once they passed the tree planters, they crouched along the sandbag wall and waited for a signal.

As the chopper landed, none of them heard the almost liquid pops under the street. White wisps began to curl out of the holes in the manhole covers and the grates of the storm drains along Washington across Clark. Thick gray smoke wafted out of the subway steps at the northeastern corner of Clark and Washington. More rats fled up the subway steps and cringed in the sudden light, then bolted into the shadows of Clark or Washington.

 

 

Sam didn’t get on his knees like they wanted.

So they knocked his feet out from under him. He landed heavily on his side, tried to take a breath and something gave, so deep inside he felt it in his back. He doubled over, hacking red globules across the sidewalk.

Ed spoke slowly and relentlessly, taking his time getting on his knees. “Chicago PD, Detective Jones and Johnson, we’re here under orders, you have our badges, we’re just like you guys, radio it in, check it out, we’re supposed to be here.”

The lead soldier, an older merc with tired eyes, ignored Ed and repeated, “On your fucking knees. Head against the wall. Now.”

Qween helped Sam onto his knees. The three pressed their foreheads against the rough-hewn rock of City Hall.

“Hands behind your head.”

Ed wouldn’t stop talking. “Just check with your superiors, we’re on your side, you don’t have to do this right away, give it a minute, just give it a minute.”

The leader gave a call, a grunted “Hup,” and the three soldiers stared at him for a moment. He glared back. They glanced at their weapons and readied them as quietly as possible. If they didn’t like executing three civilians, too damn bad. The folks that signed the paychecks didn’t give a shit if the soldiers liked their jobs or not. The three soldiers didn’t dwell on it too much. This was the job.

Sam knew they were dead once they had been lined up and had prepared himself. He also knew that he was leaking blood, as if someone had popped open an old oil can, and now it was now taking its sweet time dribbling out of him. He’d been wearing his seat belt, but hitting that fucking Stryker had been like hitting one of the concrete slabs they’d erected around the Chicago Board of Trade after 9/11. He knew that unless he got to a hospital in the next five minutes, nobody was going to be able to plug the hole before he was empty.

A bullet in the head from the soldiers didn’t concern him much. But the thought of bullets in his friends’ heads did. So before the leader could get the second command out, Sam rose and spun, using the inertia of his twisting body for leverage as he unfurled his arm, reaching out with Qween’s straight razor. The blade slashed up through the leader’s face, catching him on the chin and slicing both lips in half, severing the entire right side of the nose, splitting the cheek and carving through the right eye.

At the same instant, Ed fought to get off his knees, twisting and trying desperately to pull his feet under him so he could lunge at the last soldier in the line. The two soldiers in the middle sensed this and turned to cut him down when the street rumbled. Sam thought the sudden vibration was coming from inside his own head, and ignored it. He got control of the leader’s assault rifle, and fired. His aim was off and instead of killing both of the middle soldiers outright, the bullets tore through their legs, shattering bones and knees.

They went down, writhing and howling, where they met Qween. She couldn’t quite rise to her feet yet, and went after them on her hands and knees. She got her hip on one of their shattered knees, and starting kicking out with her other leg, driving her heel into the shredded muscles and blood and jabbing the closest one in the chest with her elbow.

Sam ripped the rifle away from the leader, who couldn’t resist and raised his hands to his face. He had to touch himself, see the damage. Blood ran down the fresh canyon like an ancient river. Sam did him a favor and shot him in the head.

Ed fought to rise, reaching out, clutching at empty space.

The last soldier had just enough time to pivot, raise his rifle, and fire. Three bullets stitched through Sam’s chest. The third spiraled through the left ventricle, killing him instantly.

Then Ed was on the soldier, catching hold of the assault rifle, twisting it against the soldier’s arms, jamming the barrel up into the soft flesh between the V of the jawbone, and pushed on the trigger finger. He emptied the clip. Nearly thirty rounds exploded up through the soldier’s skull, obliterating the brain, transforming it into a fine red mist that hung in the air like steam over a hot dog stand.

Ed brought his foot down on the next soldier’s head, driving his heel through the man’s temple. He ripped that assault rifle away and unloaded it into the man in a blind tsunami of rage.

Qween rolled onto the last living soldier and drove her thumb and forefinger into his eyes, brought them together in the soft meat behind the bridge of his nose, and pulled. The man’s mouth flopped open, and he moaned. It was an alien, uncomprehending sound of pain and confusion. She shook his skull back and forth, the way a small dog will shake its master’s sock. Eventually, the man stopped twitching and lay quiet.

Ed dropped the assault rifle. He stumbled past Qween, and knelt next to his partner. Sam was dead. Ed knew this immediately. He did not try to shake his friend. He did not try to speak, to try and reach the man. He laid his hand over Sam’s chest, then patted it once.

He found another clip, reloaded, and stalked off, heading for the helicopter. Qween retrieved her razor and followed.