Scott Sigler - Contagious

“Concentrate all remaining Stinger fire on the Ospreys,” Ogden said. “Tell any unit that can see the Ospreys to move toward them, set up sniper positions. If any of the birds land, concentrate all fire on whatever comes out.”

Perry Dawsey wanted to puke.

Downtown Detroit spread out before them. Urban sprawl stretched out to the right, while Lake St. Claire filled the left-side view. Plumes of smoke rose from the city, some from skyscrapers, some from the ground, wind carrying the black smoke from left to right, due west across the heart of the city toward Ann Arbor. He wondered if the smoke would reach that far, spread soot on the University of Michigan Stadium where he’d once been a star. The three skyscrapers looked like smokestacks, as if the whole city of Detroit was a giant ship steaming eastward.

He was in the last of three Ospreys. Dew had told him why—any missile fire would probably hit the lead helicopter. That strategy, of course, was only as good as the guesswork of the guy firing the Stingers.

The closer Perry got to Detroit, the more he sensed the infected. This was so different from before. Mather had been one guy, really hard to locate. It had been easier to track down three hosts each for the South Bloomingville and Marinesco gates. The Detroit signal felt huge, undoubtedly more hosts there than he’d ever encountered.

It was also stronger for another reason.

Chelsea Jewell.

He could experience her, taste her blank soul. He would find her, he would help her, because she had tried to fuck with his head—and nobody fucks with a Dawsey.

An alarm blared through the cabin.

“Incoming!” the pilot shouted. “Missiles inbound!”

Perry gripped hard on the bottom of the seat. The Osprey’s nose tipped down, allowing him a view of the ground far below and the other two Ospreys out in front. The smoke trail started low, from a house way off on the right. It curved, course-correcting to match the Osprey’s velocity.

“Hold on, kid,” Dew said. “It’s out of our hands now.”

The missile seemed to pick up speed as it closed in, covering the final bit of distance in the blink of an eye. Up ahead the lead Osprey ejected a spray of flashes with white contrails. Countermeasures of some kind.

They didn’t work.

The Osprey rocked to the left, a fireball spewing out of its right side. Amazingly, it didn’t disintegrate. Perry felt a flash of hope that the pilot had lived, that he might be able to set her down. Then the Osprey’s right engine fell away. The half-plane/half-helicopter simultaneously rolled to the left and tumbled forward as it plummeted. It disappeared beneath Perry’s line of sight. He didn’t get to see it crash, but those guys were gone. Twenty members of Whiskey Company, plus the Osprey crew.

Dead. Just like that.

“Let’s hope they’re out of Stingers,” Dew said. “Our chances of survival just dropped from sixty-six percent to fifty-fifty.”

The alarm beeped again.

“I guess they’re not out,” Dew said. He looked semi-relaxed, not in the least concerned that he had a 50 percent chance of dying in the next ten seconds.

The alarm changed from a beep to a steady blare.

“That’s not good,” Dew said.

Perry heard whooshing sounds, something shooting off of his Osprey. Two seconds later he heard an explosion. The Osprey tilted to the left a little, then came back to normal and kept descending.

Dew looked a little bored.

“How can you be so calm?” Perry said. “The next one could be us.”

Dew shrugged. “When your number is up, your number is up. Besides, you’re here, and you’re like a cockroach—you survive anything. I’m sticking close to you. You’re like a big death umbrella.”

Perry nodded and tried to control his breathing. Dew was going to stick close to him ? Screw that. More like the other way around. This was Dew’s world, and Perry wasn’t going to leave his side.

Dew nudged him. “Take a look out front. We’re coming in for a landing. Right up your alley.”

Perry looked, then shook his head.

Dew started laughing.

Clarence turned, aimed and fired, squeezing off four rounds as Margaret sprinted toward the long, two-story, tan brick building. She glanced at the street signs—Franklin and St. Aubin. Cinder-block walls filled the building’s windows. The place looked like a miniature fortress.

She ran for the door. Clarence passed her; he was so much faster. He reached it, stood at an angle, shot the deadbolt lock and then kicked the door open. They were only a block from the loading dock in which they’d first hidden. Ogden’s men had followed them in. Clarence hadn’t found any hiding places he thought were defensible, so they’d run again, bullets hitting all around them. If this building didn’t give them some protection, it was over.

She ran inside. He shut the door just as more bullets reached out to them, tearing into the door’s heavy wood, ricocheting off bricks on the outside wall. One step slower and they would both have been cut down.

Margaret was so scared she wanted to pee, but she kept moving, one thought in her head keeping her feet keep pumping—this wasn’t as scary as a one-cheeked Betty Jewell.

Clarence turned and ran farther into the abandoned building. Rusted metal machinery dotted the cracked floors amid stagnant puddles of standing water. Margaret saw trash and discarded crack vials everywhere, as well as a rusted shopping cart and half a blue toilet seat. It was a big building, a lot of halls and rooms. If they could find the right spot, it might take their pursuers a long time to track them down.

Clarence saw some stairs and dashed toward them. Margaret followed him up, both of them looking for a place to hide.

The Osprey slowed quickly as they came in for a landing. Perry heard a plinking sound, bullets hitting the craft’s armored sides. His body screwed tight with raw anxiety as he waited for a Stinger to hit.

But none did.

Nails spoke loud and calm, his words picked up by the little microphone curling around from the side of his helmet.

“We’re taking fire, possibly from a ten-or fifteen-story building south-southeast of the landing area,” Nails said. “I need air cover right now!”

Nails turned to face his men. Apparently he didn’t trust the microphone to pick up everything, because he started screaming at the top of his lungs. “All right! We’re coming in under fire. The Osprey will land with its nose facing the fire to give you a little cover as you go down the ramp. Hit the ground, go left. There are some bleachers there. Get under them. Find cover, return fire. Once our air support kills the snipers, we will move out. We have twenty-five minutes to destroy the target. We’re maybe a mile away, but we’re not sure where we’re going. I’m guessing we’ll be under fire as we run. We must press forward, no matter what, understand?”

“Yes sir!” the men barked in unison.

Dew leaned in to talk in Perry’s ear. “All these guys are expendable. You are not. They will draw fire and give you enough cover to move out. Hopefully, they’ll pin down the shooters.”

“Hopefully?”

Dew smiled and slapped Perry on the shoulder. “Like I said, kid, it’s all just odds. I put us at about eighty percent to make it.”

“Which means there’s a twenty percent chance we won’t make it.”

Dew winked and pointed a finger at Perry’s face. He flicked his thumb down twice— bang-bang. The face under his helmet showed electricity, excitement. As if someone had just sliced twenty years off his soul.