Scott Sigler - Contagious

A trap. This was a kill point. The Apaches had been waiting, probably just out of sight behind a hill.

He had no chance.

He ran anyway.

Thirty yards to his right, another soldier running. A wavering line of glowing red reached out toward the man, like some science-fiction death ray—tracer rounds from an Apache’s thirty-millimeter chain gun. The rounds erupted when they hit the ground, harsh explosions launching man-size clods of frozen dirt and smoke. The initial shots went wide, but in a fraction of a second the red death ray closed the gap—the soldier exploded in a literal cloud of blood.

Corporal Jeff Cope kept sprinting.

He’d made it almost fifteen yards when he heard a roar on his left. He turned and saw the tracer-round death ray plowing a path toward him.

He didn’t even have time to look away.

She could feel them dying. Her soldiers, her protectors. The enemy was too powerful, too many devils out to stop her.

Chelsea Jewell began to realize that maybe, just maybe, she should have listened to Chauncey. Should have listened to General Ogden.

But that didn’t matter.

She still had Mommy.

Together they could build a new network, a bigger network—one that would eventually spread all over the whole planet.

The gate to heaven?

Fuck the gate to heaven. Fuck the angels.

Bad words, she knew, but not really, because God decides what is bad and good. God can’t do anything bad.

Chelsea didn’t need the angels. If she escaped, she could use the Legos to make her own angels.

If she escaped. And that was a big if , because the boogeyman was coming.

If he found her, nothing mattered. She had to block him.

Block him… or maybe control him.

She could do that, she knew she could. She could make him do things. And who could be a better protector than the boogeyman?

Still, she didn’t want it to come to that. She didn’t want to face him. Killing him had sounded like fun when he was a long ways away. Now that he was so close, none of this was fun anymore.

Dew held the satphone to his right ear. He covered his left ear with his left hand and leaned his head forward, his belly pressing into the camouflage helmet sitting on his lap.

“Yeah,” he said. “Look, Murray, we can secure whatever area you want when we land, but first you have to find us a spot to put down.”

Perry couldn’t get comfortable. They’d found him a flak jacket and a helmet. He was used to not having anything in his size, so he found it odd when both fit. The helmet in particular would take some getting accustomed to. It had a microphone mounted on the side, connected to a little push-to-talk switch clipped to his vest. Small speakers mounted inside let him hear the tinny voices of soldiers preparing for the coming fight. Some were joking, some were serious, but up and down the facing rows of seats they all looked very pissed off. They’d lost friends during X-Ray Company’s sneak attack. Most of the conversation revolved around finding Ogden and what they would do to him when they did. The men had also offered Perry an M4, but Dew said Perry would stick with the .45, and that was that.

Dew looked up, eyebrows raised, sweat beading on his bald head despite the cool temperature inside the Osprey. He turned and regarded Perry.

“You saw the Renaissance Center in your vision, right?”

Perry nodded.

“Where was the river?”

Perry tried to think. So much shit had gone down so fast. That image had flashed from multiple minds, like a strobe-light dance from different cameras all hitting at once. But in each of the images, the angle had been pretty consistent.

“On the left,” Perry said.

“How far away would you say it was?”

Perry shrugged. “I’m not great with distances, Dew.”

“Take a guess, college boy.”

“Maybe a mile? Maybe a bit less.”

Dew relayed the information, waited, then laughed. “You’ve got to be shitting me, L.T.”

He listened, then nodded. Apparently Murray wasn’t shitting him.

Dew tucked the satphone back in his flak jacket. “We’re going to put down and secure the LZ. Then Murray is going to fly in another Margo-Mobile set behind us. They’ve lost contact with Margaret and Otto, so he thinks their trailers were destroyed.”

“Is Margo dead?”

“I doubt it,” Dew said. “They had plenty of warning. Otto is a sharp guy, so let’s hope for the best.”

“Well, where are we landing, then?”

Dew smiled a shit-eating grin. “Perry, my boy, you’re going to love this landing field. The irony is so thick you could spread it on toast.”

“What? Where are we landing?”

Dew kept smiling and shook his head. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

He thought this was funny. Funny . They were heading into a firefight, Detroit was burning, Margaret might be dead, and Dew was laughing.

“Just sit back and enjoy the ride,” Dew said. “This might be the last time you ever fly in one of these things.”

Perry sat back and hoped that was true. But he hoped it would be because they walked away and just never got on one again—not because they crashed and died.

General Charlie Ogden made another mark on his paper map of Detroit. He’d lost contact with the men at the 94/75 intersection. They’d done their job, but the fact that he’d lost contact meant two more men gone. Fifty minutes into the attack and losses were higher than he’d expected.

Those low-flying A-10s were a real pain in the ass. Small-arms fire just wouldn’t take them out. He’d had only ten Stingers to begin with—five for the various airports and five in the city. Three of the latter set had already fired—two misses and a hit, bringing down an Apache right on Woodward Avenue. He’d ordered the last two Stingers held in reserve. It was possible, however improbable, that Ogden had missed something. Giving up air superiority wasn’t an issue. What he couldn’t handle was troops on the ground. His men were too spread out, too dispersed to repel infantry.

Ogden could sense it now. He could sense how close they were. Thirty-two minutes, give or take, and the hatchlings would activate the gate.

The angels would descend upon Detroit.

He was in the Globe building with Corporal Kinney Johnson, a sorry excuse for a communications man. Just the two of them, the hatchlings busting ass to finish the gate and Chelsea still sitting inside the Winnebago. Mr. Burkle continued to run in and out, finding whatever material he could for the hatchlings.

“Sir,” Johnson said, “we’re getting reports of massive air traffic off Belle Isle, less than a mile up the river. A-10s, Apaches, even F-15s, flying low.”

“Flying low… are they attacking anything?”

“It looks like just targets of opportunity, sir,” Johnson said. “Some of our men tried volley fire with AT4s, even brought down an A-10, but as soon as our men fire, one of the gunships takes them out.”

He’s coming .

Chelsea’s voice, tinged with fear. That instantly made Ogden sweat, made his stomach churn—how could God be afraid?

The boogeyman, he’s coming. Stop him.

His men had failed to kill Perry and Dew. What if they had also failed to do enough damage to Whiskey Company?

“Johnson, call out to everyone who’s left. Look for Ospreys. Repeat, Ospreys.”

Johnson bent to the task, and Ogden waited. Perry and Dew were on the way. The only question was, who was coming with them?

“Sir, visual confirmation of three Ospreys—I repeat, three Ospreys—coming in fast from the north.”