Scott Sigler - Contagious

“No. We’re tucked under a little railroad overpass, trees on either side. Excellent concealment. You can’t see us at all.”

“Okay,” Dew said. “Then maybe you should just stay put.”

“Dew,” Margaret said, “what’s happening?”

“Ogden is working for the triangles.”

Margaret looked at Clarence, her anger at him forgotten for the moment. “ Ogden? How… how do you know?”

“His men tried to kill Perry. Perry’s okay, but they got Baum and Milner. Ogden’s men are shooting the fuck out of the highways in Detroit, murdering people left and right. The gate is somewhere in Detroit, and Ogden wants to protect it.”

She shivered at the implications—just like that, Ogden and his men, converted, working for the enemy. She’d missed something back in Gaylord, clearly. And even if her new drug worked, was it already too late?

“We’re coming in,” Dew said. “Perry is going to find the gate. If we can get to you, we will, but otherwise stay put.”

“Watch out for infected bodies,” Margaret said. “That’s how the contagion spreads. Bodies can have big, puffy pustules, filled with spores. Those pop on you, you have the new strain. And they can spread it through their tongues, so make sure no one licks you.”

“Understood. You have a cure for this shit yet?”

Margaret looked down at Sanchez. “We’re very close.”

“Get your info to Murray, Margo, in case Ogden finds you and takes you out. You guys are in a bad spot. I’m pretty sure you’re inside Ogden’s perimeter.”

“Understood,” Clarence said.

She couldn’t stop now. She had to get Sanchez out, away from the danger.

“Dew,” Margaret said, “I appreciate what’s going on, but we have to evacuate the patient. He could be the key to stopping this.”

“If Ogden finds you, he’ll kill you,” Dew said. “He’s hit all the major roads out of Detroit. Surface streets are jammed with people trying to leave, so there’s no fucking way you can get a semi out of town. You guys either stay where you are, or you leave the trailer, find a hidey-hole and lay low till I know I can get transport to you. You got it?”

“But Dew, this is a critical phase—”

“We’ve got it,” Clarence interrupted. “We’ll evaluate the situation and act accordingly.”

“Good,” Dew said. “No offense, Margo, but let Otto handle this unless you like the taste of bullets. And how about you guys put away the nerd gear once in a while and watch the fucking news.” He hung up.

“Uh, guys?” Gitsh said. “I think you better come to the computer room. We just turned on the local news, and we’re in a lot of trouble.”

Clarence looked at Margaret, then held an arm toward the airlock door— After you .

Margaret took one more look at Sanchez, then headed to the airlock.

Northwest Flight 2961 from Detroit to Bangor never had a chance.

The Airbus A319 jet carrying 193 passengers took off from Detroit Metro Airport. Michelle McMichael, age sixty-three, had the window seat because Bernie, her husband of forty years, basically had to pee every twenty minutes. He got the aisle. That was fine by Michelle. She liked to hold a map and look out the window when they flew. Using the map to identify landmarks was a fun way to pass the time. As the A319 banked to the right, it gave her a nice view of a long stretch of I-94. The map said she was looking south at Taylor, Michigan. She craned her head to look back at the airport.

That was when she saw it.

Michelle was no military expert, but she’d seen enough movies to know a missile’s smoke trail when she saw one. And just like that, she knew that this was the end.

Michelle had time to reach out and grab Bernie’s hand. She looked into his eyes and said, “I love you,” and then the Stinger missile hit the A319 just behind the right wing.

The warhead penetrated and erupted, splitting the plane in two and ripping the right wing free from the fuselage. Michelle died on impact, she and her seat torn into three separate pieces. Bernie actually lived through the initial blast, barely, but was quickly incinerated as a fireball rolled through the broken cabin.

The A319’s tail spun away and started to drop. A secondary blast disintegrated the midsection. From row ten forward, the A319’s nose arced toward the city, trailing fire and smoke as if it were a second, gigantic rocket.

At the northwestcorner of Detroit Metropolitan Airport, also known as DTW, Vining Road passes over a parallel set of railroad tracks. Under this overpass stood Brian Hunt and Jordan Willis, formerly of Domestic Reaction Batallion’s X-Ray Company, now proud members of Chelsea’s Army. The overpass hid them and their Hummer from view yet still gave them a clear field of fire on several of DTW’s runways.

Jordan had watched Flight 2961 take off, waited for it to come around and start curving north. He knew that it would, because he knew that it was heading to Bangor—he’d used his cell phone to look it up on a travel website. Once that curve carried the jet close to Detroit, he had aimed his Stinger missile, acquired the target and fired. Bye-bye, Flight 2961.

“Fuckin’-A, Jordan,” Brian said. “Chelsea will love you so much. That was a great shot.”

Private Jordan Willis nodded. He could only hope his actions pleased Chelsea. And it was a great fucking shot.

“Wait for it,” he said. “I think I double-dipped.”

Fifteen miles away from their position, the A319 trailed a thick, curved column of smoke as its nose dropped toward downtown Detroit. It sailed down into the city. Seconds later, a ball of flame rose into the sky.

“Bonus points,” Brian said. “Nice work.”

“Thanks. Wow, look at all the planes bailing out. I’m betting they aren’t asking the tower for permission to change their flight plans.”

One jet had been approaching and another had been circling, waiting for clearance. Both now turned away from DTW. Those suckers were big beasts, sure, but it looked like they could still haul balls when they kicked in the engines.

Brian shouldered his own Stinger, looking for just the right target.

“You gonna shoot that thing or just pose with it?” Jordan asked.

“I think I better save it,” Brian said. “The general says they could still try to bring in C-5s or some C-17s. They do that, I’ll hit one on the way in.” He set the Stinger down and picked up one of five AT4 antitank weapons.

Jordan shook his head. He liked Brian, but sometimes the guy just didn’t think. “That’s an antitank missile, dumb-ass. Ain’t no tanks here.”

“How about a fuel tank?” Brian pointed to a 747 sitting at a runway’s back edge. “I think that plane was probably going to take off before you shot down the other one. They can move pretty good in the air, but something tells me they can’t exactly turn on a dime when they’re on the ground.”

Jordan looked at the plane, a giant white sitting duck. Huh.

“I should have never doubted you,” Jordan said. “In fact, you’ve inspired me. I think I’ll see if one of these AT4s can hit the tower. I apologize for calling you a dumb-ass, good sir.”

“Don’t mention it,” Brian said as he sighted in on the stationary 747 and pulled the trigger.

Clarence, Gitsh, Marcus, Dan and Margaret sat in the computer room of Trailer A. Each of the three computer screens played a different local channel. The left screen showed a live shot of a fire burning just east of Dearborn. The news anchor said a plane had been shot down by a missile. The middle screen showed jittery shots of panicked people rushing away from the towering Renaissance Center, the broken-glass top of which belched smoke from some large internal fire. Apparently gunmen had rushed into the center tower, killing everyone in sight, then started shooting the place up with shoulder-fired rockets. The screen on the right showed a bulky A-10 fighter sweeping in, strafing a green vehicle up on the Eight Mile Road overpass. Even with the poor camera work, Margaret saw the Humvee shake and shudder as bullets tore through it.