The Pandemic Sequence (Book 3): The Tilian Cure (10 page)

His legs turned in painful locomotion as he felt the beginnings of fatigue steal into his calves. Screaming thoughts of perseverance to his limbs, Derrick could feel hope slipping. Thumbing the flashlight on again, he had little time to dodge the creature hurtling towards him. The impact sent both gun and flashlight careening from his hands, the latter smashing into a tree with a loud pop of light before extinguishing.

Rolling across the wet earth, he pulled his knees up to kick the Til off of him. Once free of the infected, his right hand shot to his upper back and pulled the katana from its sheath. Relying on what little night vision remained to him, Derrick swung the sword in several cascading arcs until blade met bone. The angry squeal of the Til as its arm parted from its body allowed him more accuracy. The infected’s incensed cry ended when Derrick slashed in a downward diagonal, beheading it.

Disoriented, the twenty-five year old immediately set off in the direction of the thunder which was his only method of establishing a compass to follow. Only a few yards ahead, five gunshots blared in rapid succession. From the angle of the muzzle flashes, Derrick could see that Hicks was down. Breaking his silence, he called out to the other man as he sprinted in approach.

Reaching his fallen comrade, Derrick shouted over Hicks’ continuing firing. “What happened?”

“Busted leg,” Hicks replied. The pain was evident in the man’s voice. Grabbing the riot shotgun from Hicks’ side, Derrick unloaded two shells blindly into the night. Before he could fire again, lightning, further east now, lit the area with a pale blue glow. Among the few trees were scores, if not hundreds of Tils, mouths agape in howls, eyes burning with hunger and hatred. They were steadily, but cautiously closing in.

“Son of a bitch!” Hicks exclaimed, clearly catching the same glimpse of the true horde that approached.

“Come on,” Derrick ordered as he swung down to bring Hicks to his feet. Taking the older man’s arm across his shoulder, he grunted as his stance adjusted to the extra weight.

“Flashlight’s to your right,” Hicks informed him. Wishing the injured man had told him sooner, he bent his knees as his hand reached out, feeling for the cool metal cylinder. Within seconds, he found the object and passed it to Hicks as the two set off in a wobbling, three-legged trot. No longer worrying about risking lights, Hicks directed the beam ahead. Wounded as Hicks was, Derrick concluded that the option of running was no longer available to them. Searching his mind as he ran, he tried to recall any structure, natural or man-made, they had passed that day from which they could make a stand, or at least hole up until a search team was deployed.

“Kid, over there,” Hicks’ voice exploded. Derrick could see a small drop in the landscape left of their current position. Quickly stumbling over to it, he lowered Hicks to the ground, then spun the flashlight behind them. The Tils were still following, though they had gained little ground. Which means they know they don’t need to catch us… we’re gonna drop soon, he thought with dejection.

Passing the beam to Hicks’ leg, he felt all hope escape as his eyes fell on the bones that had ripped through flesh and fabric. How the man was even still conscious Derrick could not fathom. Even in the unaccented glow of the flashlight, he could see the injury was significant and that Hicks had already lost much blood.

“Give me your spare guns.”

“What?” Derrick asked.

“Sorry, kid, but you’re on your own now. Give me your spare guns and I can hold them off to buy you time,” Hicks explained, with as much emotion as one asking of the weather.

“I’m not leaving y—” Derrick began, but was cut off as Hicks grabbed at his belt and pulled him close.

“It’s not about you and me,” the former gun-for-hire growled with a power in body and voice Derrick was shocked to see, given the injury. “You have to warn the camp. Now give me some guns, dammit, and get the hell out of here!”

Shocked to find himself complying with the request, Derrick pulled two sidearms from his pack as well as a handful of loaded magazines. Though his mouth moved as his mind searched for the words to argue, or thank, or impart, he found none, and simply placed the items beside Hicks.

“Stay low. The flashlight should blind ‘em enough until you’re out of sight,” Hicks said as he released his hold. For a heartbeat, Derrick met the other man’s eyes. “You did good, kid. In the mountains, and now. Now go warn Paul.”

Crouching low, Derrick, struck mute by the pace of the chaos around him, turned back once as he watched Hicks pull himself into position then slashing the flashlight left and right. Running towards the storm, he heard the first of the gunshots only a minute after he left.

Either the battle had ended, or he had outrun it, but sometime later he realized that the only sounds in the darkness were his own, and that of the sky above.

He gave the kid credit. Many would have argued against the inevitable, but then Derrick had already lived through one refusal to see the obvious. He watched the boy disappear into the darkness, then grunted in pain as he pulled himself closer to the ridge. Long years of survival, both in war and in solitude, had taught him to compartmentalize physical weakness in order to focus on the task at hand. That training was being pushed to the limit as he tried to close off the pain of his shattered leg. Swinging the flashlight from one end of the Tils’ advancing column to the other, he felt no anger watching their hesitant faces. Anger makes you sloppy. It was that very motto that had brought him through every hell he had faced. Anger, fear, sadness—and especially love—were distractions that his type of solider could not afford.

There was only one emotion that led to survival. Respect. Respect for your superiors. Respect for your comrades-in-arms. And respect for your enemies. On several missions before the outbreak, he had partnered, by necessity of mission, with fellow private contractors. All were cut from the same dry, stiff cloth that had made him. But it was in the mountain camp, under the leadership of Mike Allard, Paul Jenson, and their group that he was surprised how much he had come to respect them, civilians as they were. Driven equally by emotion as much as calculation, Hicks had doubted the group’s survival.

“Damn lucky fools,” he said through an almost smile. As the Tils neared, he retrieved one of the four weapons at his side. Sliding his hand around the Berretta, he hefted it so that it rested atop the elevated ground. Knowing full well he lacked the rounds required to eliminate the threat, he hoped that these more cautious Tils would shy away from his bullets long enough for Derrick to get away.

There was clear irony that he, a trained and battle-hardened warrior, would be outlived by a group of ill-prepared civilians. That he was about to sacrifice his life for one of them only added to the many bizarre twists of his fate. As thoughts turned memories in his mind, his body systematically unloaded and reloaded each weapon. It had been a good life, he believed. Too short, yet longer than should have been allowed, given the risks of his past employment. His life had been one of solitude; no marriage, no kids, no family. The ideal recruit for black-ops wet work, one of the men he had trained with had said. No phone calls for the brass to make when you get your head blown off.

His time in the mountains had been the longest stretch of his life remaining with a set group of people. Hicks never understood how friendship was defined, how high a level of trust was needed to call one a friend. And while Paul and the rest probably did not see it the same, they had become the first people in his life he thought had reached that point. As he reached for another weapon, the last available to him, he said a silent curse for breaking his rule of detachment. Letting people in came with a cost, and Hicks understood he was now to pay the price.

Round after round exploded from the handgun, fewer finding a killing shot as his body lagged with the loss of blood. With one bullet remaining, Hicks let himself slide down from the raised lip of earth. The Tils would be upon him shortly, once they realized he no longer posed a threat. Raising the gun to his temple, his mind went to Derrick and hoped the sacrifice had bought the boy an escape.

“Damn lucky fools,” he spoke again as the sounds of the Tils inched over him. A final gun shot rang through the night. If the infected had left any remains, and if his body had been found by any who knew him, they would have been surprised to see that Austin James Hicks had died with a smile on his face.

“How many?” Paul asked again, with more than a little trepidation. He could see the exhaustion deepen each time he had Derrick retell the previous night’s events. Shortly after sunrise, when the storm had passed and left behind a ground-soaked reminder, word reached him that the scouting team had returned with Derrick. The man’s physical injuries were minor, mostly scratches and bruises from his headlong sprint through the night. His expression, however, was far more troubling. A visage of horror and sadness, he had detailed the discovery of the Tilian hunting party, his eventual escape, and Hicks’ sacrifice.

“More than we have seen in one place before,” Derrick answered wearily. “With the storm, we couldn’t see very much, but it looked like the whole area was filled with them.”

Paul knew the traumatic ordeal might have clouded Derrick’s mind, multiplied a threat not truly there. If it was any other testifying he might have doubted, but he had known the younger man for years. Though he may have retreated to a dark place in dealing with Jenni, he had tended to keep his head about him. Coupled with Hicks’ decision and parting words, Paul chose to accept the tale as accurate truth.

“All right, go get some food and rest,” he ordered with compassion. Once the command tent emptied, Paul acknowledged his racing heart. Hicks, his mind tried to make sense. We’ve lost Hicks. While the man had not been the most cordial, he had developed a rapport with the former mercenary. Not only was his death a personal blow, the loss had stark consequences for the coming events. More than any other in the encampment, Hicks had the experience and insight needed for the evacuation of the Horde and eventual confrontation with the approaching Tils.

Too many anecdotes had pointed to what Paul now accepted as fact. Somehow the Tils had managed to evolve, or at the very least enhance, their predatory skills. He had seen firsthand a coordinated assault by the infected during a search and rescue mission. The dozen or so that had ambushed his team had managed to exact more causalities than he preferred to recall. If a force numbering into the thousands fell upon the Horde, even with the substantial arsenal the camp possessed, Paul doubted victory would be easy or even possible. He was beginning to feel woefully ill-equipped to command when one of his guards ducked into the tent.

“Sir,” the man, a callous-handed former oil rig engineer named Greg Stern, pulled Paul from his dark thoughts. “There’s something you need to see.”

Hearing the words so ominously spoken, Paul feared the man was about to announce the arrival of the Tilian army. “Is it the Tils?” he asked as he rose from his seat.

“No, sir, it’s… well, you really should just come see.”

Paul followed the guard out into the morning, the wet earth grabbing his heels at every step. Stern, walking quickly, led him towards a large gathering of Horde members which were abuzz with conversation as they pointed and stared beyond the northeast corner of the camp. Annoyed with the man’s reticence in explaining the situation, Paul was about to voice a rebuke when his eyes fell upon the cause of the excitement.

A quarter mile down the dirt road—a road in name only as it had been formed by the constant travel of scouting teams—marched a long line of figures intermingled with a handful of automobiles. Accepting the binoculars Stern handed him, Paul brought the lens to his eyes. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw straight necks. The cars should have been enough to discount the group as Tils, but his mind had already begun to doubt any assumptions on the capabilities of the infected. If they learn to drive, he thought wryly, I’m going to throw myself off the nearest cliff.

While not Tils, the mass of people slowly winding their way towards the camp looked only slightly healthier. Tattered clothing, mismatched articles oft-mended with rags and other scraps of fabric, hung loosely from weak, frail bodies. Scanning across them, Paul saw that many were armed with crude weapons; spears, axes, pitchforks, and bats, with a few at the group’s head clinging tightly to rifles and shot guns. At the center of the procession, protected on all sides by wary men, walked a throng of women and children. The little ones gripped the hands of their mothers, while others either too young or sick to walk on their own were held aloft, cradled in arms and on shoulders. So many, his mind shouted as he tried to gauge their numbers.

Mouth agape, Paul’s mind flashed to images of famine stricken lands in Africa where similar desperates walked for days in search of food and hope. Passing the binoculars back to Stern, he began to walk towards the multitude. Without realizing, the walk had turned into a jog and he could hear others of the Horde trailing behind him. As he crossed the distance, he shouted commands over his shoulder for medics and cots to be ready, as well as food and water. Raising his arms to show he meant no harm, Paul reached the first line of men. Initially—and rightfully—tensing, those at the caravan’s head soon relaxed their stances and allowed themselves to be ushered into the camp.

The next hours were a blurring series of reports and updates regarding the new refugees. An informal triage process had been enacted so that those with the most urgent need received priority care. The Horde had several former doctors and nurses, some forced from a life of dentistry and veterinary medicine into general practice, and they busily worked through the day tending to the influx of patients. Most suffered from expected bouts of dehydration and malnutrition, while others were diagnosed with more common illness. Some, those with low-risk but contagious afflictions such as tuberculosis, were immediately quarantined and treated.