Scott Sigler - Contagious

Ogden pushed the thought away. Chelsea knew best—he seized that belief and held it, because it was far better than imagining himself suffering the same fate as her mother.

“Chelsea, what now?”

There is nothing we can do to stop the boogeyman from coming. We need more time. Start the contingency plan.

Ogden nodded. “Yes, Chelsea. I’ll begin immediately.”

Dew scanned theJewells’ yard for a place to hide. The vehicles out on the road sounded like approaching Humvees. More of Ogden’s troops. He holstered his .45 and ran to the man he’d killed outside the computer room. He slung the man’s M4 and pulled at his ammo belt.

The goddamn biohazard suit was getting in the way. He couldn’t possibly run through the woods in that. They’d catch him in minutes. He unzipped and started taking it off when Perry called out.

“They’re coming!”

Dew turned and looked. His balls shriveled up—five Humvees roaring down the long driveway.

He was out of time.

Dew looked for cover. A sagging, charred wreck of a refrigerator. He ran behind it, then aimed his M4 at the lead vehicle.

“Dew, don’t shoot,” Perry said. “I’m not hearing any chatter.”

Dew looked at him, then back to the Humvees that were almost on top of them.

“Well, too late anyway,” Dew said.

The front Hummer slid to a halt behind the two that had brought their attackers. Soldiers pointing M4s poured out, led by the blocky figure of a man almost as big as Perry. A bandage circled his head, bright white against his black skin, a red spot on the left temple. He wore a sergeant major’s chevrons and star. Dew saw that some of the other men also had fresh bandages. The man looked at Perry, then strode toward Dew.

Dew scrambled around the melted fridge. He felt silly standing there in his scrubs, the biohazard suit dangling off at the waist.

The sergeant major snapped a salute so rigid and perfect that it was damn near comical. Dew returned the salute, only because he’d seen men like this many times—this guy would hold that ridiculous salute all damn day if he had to.

The man lowered the salute and slid into an at-ease stance. “Are you Agent Dew Phillips?”

“I am,” Dew said, wincing at the man’s bellowing voice.

“Sergeant Major Devon Nealson, sir. Domestic Reaction Battalion, Whiskey Company.”

Dew would have described Devon as huge if he hadn’t been hanging around Perry Dawsey as of late. Devon’s big neck supported a pitch-black head. A graying high-and-tight peeked out from the bloody white bandage around his head. His eyes seemed extremely wide—Dew could see all of the man’s irises. The look bespoke rage, or shock, but seemed to be Devon’s normal expression. His lower lip was too big for his mouth and stuck out in a perpetual pout.

“Whiskey Company?” Dew said. “Can you get me Captain Lodge? He’s the commander, right?”

“Was the commander, sir. Captain Lodge is dead.”

“What happened?”

“ Sir, an X-Ray Company squad came into our area of the airport, then just started shooting, throwing grenades and launching AT4 shoulder-fired rockets. After we dealt with them, we attempted to locate Colonel Ogden, but his portion of camp was empty and his men will not answer our calls. We called Deputy Director Longworth. He told us to find to you immediately.”

“This is bad news, Nealson,” Dew said. “How many casualties?”

“Thirty-two dead, sir, ” Nealson said. “The X-Ray squad had complete surprise, and they were very efficient. Another twenty-five wounded that need to stay put. We’ve got sixty-three men fit for duty. Just tell us what to do, sir .”

“Stop calling me sir,” Dew said. “I work for a living. Sergeant Major, have you seen any real combat action?”

“Action in Somalia, Yugoslavia, Afghanistan and Iraq,” Nealson said. “I have busted heads and killed on three continents, and if there are any more members of X-Ray Company that need to be dealt with, I’ll add North America as my fourth.”

If it had been possible to relax in the current fucked-up situation, Dew would have done so. Devon Nealson was a gift from above. His men would follow him anywhere.

“Sergeant Major, something tells me you have a nickname?”

“At times, people call me ‘Nails.’”

“Nails, you’re now officially in command of Whiskey Company. I’m going to venture a guess that you already established our transport options?”

“We have three Ospreys including the one assigned to you,” Nails said. “Sixty-five men, including the two of you. It’ll be a little snug but the Ospreys will take us all.”

“Load them up,” Dew said. “We’re all heading to Detroit.”

Alan Roark stopped the Humvee right in the middle of the I-75 overpass. Horns immediately started honking from behind. He ignored them and finished cramming the rest of his Big Mac into his mouth. The things were so fucking good. He tried to drink from his Coke, but all he got was the bottom-of-the-cup straw sound.

Peter passed over his Coke, which looked half full. Alan smiled a thanks, then drank. It soaked the giant bite of Big Mac sitting in his mouth.

The horns kept honking.

Alan swallowed and let out a big ahhh.

“Dude,” Peter said, “you need to take smaller bites. Seriously.”

“True,” Alan said. “Just got carried away. You ready?”

Peter nodded. “That guy’s horn is bugging me. Maybe we should show him what it means to love instead of hate?”

“Chelsea would like that,” Alan said. “But we don’t have time. I’ll talk to him.”

He opened the door carefully and stepped out into the hazy gray light of a frigid winter afternoon. Cars whizzed by on the second lane, missing him by inches, kicking up fine sprays of dirty slush.

The guy kept honking.

Alan reached back in and grabbed his M4. He saw a French fry on the seat and popped it into his mouth. It was still warm—five-second rule and all. As he chewed, he walked to the Hummer’s back bumper.

The car behind him was an SUV. Who still drove those things? Pretty fucking tough on the environment.

The driver saw Alan, saw Alan’s gun.

He stopped honking.

Alan pointed the M4 and squeezed off a burst. The SUV’s windshield spiderwebbed, splattering with red from the inside.

Tires screeched. People saw him and swerved, not thinking about the fact that they were on an overpass and there was nowhere to swerve. Cars smashed. Metal ground. Plastic cracked. Glass scattered.

Alan turned and saw Peter leaning over the overpass rail, an AT4 rocket on his shoulder. A cone of flame belched out the back as a rocket streaked down, trailing smoke for two seconds before it hit a gray Chrysler. The car turned into a fireball rolling along at sixty-five miles an hour, spewing parts and burning tires as it went. Peter dropped the empty rocket tube, aimed his M4 and started firing on the panicked traffic below.

Alan would join him in a second, but first he had to take care of all the people suddenly stuck in their cars. In only ten seconds, the Eight Mile Road overpass was already shut down.

Alan pointed, squeezed off a burst, turned to the next target and repeated.

Murray Longworth hated the goddamn Situation Room. He’d had it, just had it. Maybe Vanessa Colburn was right. Maybe it was time for a new generation. Let the kids have the country—it was time for Murray Longworth to go golfing.

They’d killed the satellite, goddamit. They’d won. It should have been over, and now a wave of bad news so high he could drown in it. A sense of hopelessness, a feeling that no matter what you did, the enemy was going to keep coming, keep trying to kill you—it didn’t just depress him, it exhausted him.