The Pandemic Sequence (Book 3): The Tilian Cure (23 page)

“What the hell is she doing?” Paul shouted in meaningless anger.

Whatever Lisa’s reasons, Derrick knew the Horde leader was wasting rage on an unchangeable situation. The two had at first puzzled over the sudden ceasefire from the Bradley positioned on the western edge of the camp. Only greater consternation followed as they watched the tank roll forward before eventually disappearing into the endless multitude of Tils.

“Sir, the other tank is following her,” one of Paul’s general informed them.

“We can see that,” Derrick scolded the man for stating the obvious and refueling Paul’s umbrage. Turning to his commander, he interjected. “I’m sure she saw a need. Don’t forget, she’s got better training in tactics than most of us combined, and we need to focus on our line now.”

Derrick wondered how often he had witnessed Paul provide the same sort of redirection when the man acted as Mike’s second. Thankfully he now responded with renewed determination to Derrick’s slight reprimand.

“Have Erik and the bikers move out. We’ll assume Lisa’s heading towards the center, so have the bikers aim for the Tils’s rear. And remind them that they are to cut and run, and repeat. No extended engagement!”

With a stiff nod of consent, Derrick moved along the line and relayed the directions to one of the couriers. The young boy took off at breakneck pace, either out of fear of the front, or excitement of serving a role in the battle.

War, Derrick thought, as he watched until the youth disappeared into the camp. All the battles that have been fought have led up to this. We’ve spent years hoping for a cure only to find it in the barrel of a gun.

Of course there was the device with which Lisa had returned. The ARC had apparently functioned properly and spared the lives of several of his friends when engaged in Louisiana. Unfortunately, the technologists in the Horde camp had yet to return the ARC to operational status. Derrick acknowledged the dark irony of finally having a powerful weapon against which the Tils were helpless, only to find the device broken. Is that irony? he thought, returning to Paul’s side. Never understood that back in school. Either way, it sucks!

“Michelle. Michelle, let go. He’s gone. He’s dead, Michelle.” Matt’s voice broke through the muddiness of her thoughts. He stood beside her, hands still bound across his back. In his eyes, she saw concern clashing with fearful disbelief. Feeling—emotional and physical—returned and she was startled to find Duncan’s limp body pressed against her. His arms dangled lifelessly, while hers strained to clench the lacing of her boot that was wrapped around his neck. Slowly, she loosened her grip and eased the corpse to the floor.

“Are you okay?” Matt asked.

“I… yeah. I’m okay,” she replied.

He seemed unconvinced, but without self-certainty all she could offer him was hopeful wishing. Retrieving the tape dispenser that had freed her, Michelle took the metal teeth to Matt’s bonds and removed the restraints. Rubbing his wrists where the thick plastic had cut into his skin, he then bent and collected Duncan’s firearm.

“We need to get out of here.”

“How many guards were out there when they brought you in?” she asked. He estimated seven or eight, but admitted he had been rushed into the office while receiving a series of blows.

“Wait a minute,” Michelle stopped in the middle of her mind’s deliberation of escape options. “How are you even alive? The Tils… you were surrounded.”

“Well, that’s kind of a good news bad news thing,” he explained. “I was able to get away because they all just left.”

“Bad news?”

“They seemed to be after you.”

“The leader,” Michelle announced with assurance, though Matt squinted his eyes in perplexity. “The pack leader, I saw him the night we escaped. When he looked at me tonight… I don’t know. It was like he recognized me. I think he sent the pack after me.”

“Sent them after you?” Matt asked.

She knew full explanations risked being discovered by the guards outside the office door. Though Duncan had spent an uninterrupted hour with her alone, the guards could return at any moment with an update for the councilor. “Yes, sent. Which is why we need to get to Gitmo right now. Mike and the others are in trouble, but I think I know how to help them.”

Armed with only one gun, and both suffering the effects of pounding fists, Michelle discounted facing the guards directly. She resorted then to her earlier instinct of escaping through the windows. Four stories above ground, the sensation of vertigo nearly overwhelmed her when she leaned out through the window frame. Breathing deeply, she shook aside the effects and studied the building’s façade. Save jumping, she could find no clear path downward. The building, however, did have a minimal ledge which could allow them to move to another room on the floor. Explaining the possibility to Matt while he guarded the door, Michelle understood his obvious objections.

“Never mind the high wire act in the dark,” he underscored. “We’ll still be on the same floor as those guards.”

“We have to get our weapons back if we have any hope of getting to Gitmo and into the facility. But, maybe we can pick off some of the guards one by one, or at least take them by surprise, from a different angle.”

Muttering his misgivings as he relented, Matt double-checked the lock on the office door before following Michelle through the window. Only seconds passed on the ledge before she silently acknowledged her own doubts. Even at this relatively low height, the wind battered against her body as she slid slowly along the building’s exterior. Pressing her palms flat, Michelle continued to remind herself to avoid looking down.

“I’m going to be pretty pissed if I survived being eaten by Tils only to fall off a building,” Matt attempted to joke, though he could not disguise the worried edge to his voice.

“I’m doing this with a very bruised face, so I’m not really feeling a lot of pity right now,” she retorted. The sentence had barely passed her lips before her right heel met a small section of crumbling stone. Gasping, Michelle struggled to regain balance as her center of gravity shifted. Matt threw out his arm and held her back against the wall.

“Watch your step there,” she managed to say, before resuming her sliding steps.

“You think?”

Another few minutes crept along before Michelle located an unlocked window. Grateful for oiled hinges, she slid the window open and contorted oddly to drop into the room. Matt joined her and closed the window. The two sat breathing for what felt like the first time since leaving Duncan’s office. Eventually rising from the carpeted floor, she stepped lightly to the closed door, cracked it open slightly and peered out. They had not travelled far, likely two or three offices over, but the labyrinthine layout of the structure’s upper floors placed them beyond the visibility of the guards.

“Any ideas how to take out the guards?” she asked, turning back to Matt. Under normal conditions, she could have led their way out of the building without difficulty. However, the Tils that lurked below and whatever awaited them at the Guantanamo facility, demanded the prerequisite of retrieving their weapons.

“One, but you’re not going to like it,” he shared with a grin that fluttered her stomach. “Is there a mess or kitchen area on this floor?”

They moved slowly through the twisting halls of the fourth floor. Michelle’s memory slipped slightly and they were forced to retrace their steps before finally arriving at a room which served as a break area for the people who had once worked in the neighboring offices. Matt had elaborated on his intentions during the journey, and he was right. She disliked the idea, though she believed it would achieve their goal.

Matt made his way to the double sink and improvised drain stoppers with plastic container lids. Before running the water, he placed a coffee maker into one sink, stretching the machine’s cord to its limit while still remaining plugged into the nearby outlet. Extinguishing the pilot light in the gas stove, he then rotated the oven and range-top dials to their highest possible settings. Almost immediately, Michelle could smell the fumes. With a look of “here goes nothing,” Matt turned the empty sink’s faucet on. The duo then retreated back to the office.

For long minutes, they simply sat and stared anxiously at one another. They had expected the first sink to fill in minutes before the water overflowed into the second. The ensuing electrical spark would ignite the gas and they would have the cover needed to collect their arsenal. At least, that was the theorized plan.

As more minutes passed, Michelle worried that they had miscalculated. Turning to Matt, preparing to suggest a substitute strategy, she flinched back as an explosion shuddered through the building. The initial roar was near deafening, but she soon heard the shouts of muffled panic through the halls. Additional eruptions rocked down to the very foundation as the gas lines throughout the National Council ignited.

Once the shouts of Duncan’s guards faded, Michelle eased open the office door. The hallway beyond was already filling with thick black smoke. The familiar crackle of burning wood echoed in all directions. Racing through the halls, dark tendrils of ashy mist curled around corners and broke as their bodies pushed forward.

Reaching the outer room to Duncan’s office, Michelle was relieved to find it empty of guards, just a pile of weapons which had been stripped from them upon their capture. They hastily shrugged into holsters and replaced the elements of their protection. Her eyes began to burn and Matt was coughing fitfully before the task was complete. Beads of sweat multiplied exponentially with the ever increasing heat.

“Get us out of here,” Matt pleaded as Michelle navigated their exit from the fourth floor inferno. Bypassing the grand stairwell for the fire-resistance of the emergency exits, their feet rapidly descended the steps. Hopes of reaching the first floor were soon dashed when a convergence of Tils were heard at the lowest level. Retreating back one flight, Matt brushed alongside her and pulled open the metal door to the second floor.

The effects of their diversion had already spread along the ceiling and walls of the second story. Charred, still-smoking ceiling tiles fell dangerously around them and the oppressive heat was fast nearing unbearable levels. If we don’t get out of here soon, it’s all over, Michelle’s mind screamed in panic.

At the far end of the hall, several burning shapes, distinct from the enflamed walls, screamed out in fury. Angry screams, not cries of pain, she noted even before the harsh angles of the beings’ necks were visible. Michelle raised her handgun and fired indiscriminately. Several shots delivered death, but two more Tils began to run toward her. Reloading in mid-stride, she had yet to slap the magazine into place, when Matt expelled three well-aimed rounds. Enemies fallen, she followed his agile leaps over the burning bodies.

Disoriented from smoke and flame, crossing the long expanse of the second floor took far longer than Michelle had expected. Matt displayed a noticeable drop in energy, and his coughing sounded incapacitating. She doubted she was faring any better. Her lungs burned from the heat and acrid smoke she was inhaling in fitful gasps. She threw her body against the wide bar on the door to another stairwell, the heat of the metal brought a wisp of smoke from where her clothes were singed on contact.

The air in the concrete passage was markedly clearer and once the door was closed behind them, Matt and Michelle doubled over with hands on knees, trying to fill their lungs with smokeless oxygen.

“We have to keep going,” Matt encouraged through rasps and hacks. Unable to reply, Michelle simply nodded agreement. “Keep your head,” he said while opening the door at the bottom step. Conditions had been far better, both in building structure and personal physicality, when last she had battled her way through the main floor of the National Council. Her body abandoned all claim to the ability to fight as she had hours earlier.

The first floor, as all those above it, was surrendering to the force of the blaze. “First window,” Michelle shouted to Matt above the sound consuming inferno. They needed to be free from the building immediately, and if it meant smashing through a window, she held no objection. Turning right into another hall, she spun as she heard Matt grunt in surprise behind her.

Through the layer of smoke, she saw Matt slump unconscious to the floor. A thin trickle of blood slipped smoothly from the gash created when his head struck the wall. Screaming his name, Michelle stepped towards him, then halted. An unseen gust of air parted the black haze to reveal a Til standing feet from her. Belatedly, Michelle swung her gun up. A squeeze of the trigger elicited a shrinking “click,” not the boom of a bullet rocketing forward. Memory flashed with cruel omniscience. I never finished reloading it!

The realization barely formed in her thoughts when the Til lashed out. His hand struck her neck with crushing force and sent her sprawling backward several feet before collapsing. Air struggled to reach her lungs, but she could only gasp thinly. The Til stepped forward, and in her daze she thought she saw a smile on its face.

Stepping forward grandly, no trace of inhibition over his nudity, the Til stared down at his prey with devilish triumph. As if convulsed, every muscle roped along the infected’s frame tensed and contracted. His face contorted, emotions of exhilaration and violence dominating his features. Michelle’s eyes widened as she heard the sickening crunching of bones. Slowly, as if carefully stacking layers of glass, the Til’s neck began to straighten, his head steadily resuming a human position upon his shoulders.