Scott Sigler: Pandemic

“Spotters reported it just now,” McMasters said. He was at a garage closer to downtown, preparing another group to flee the city. His voice sounded like he was about to hyperventilate. “The spotters said a guy in a Cubs hat was driving, but I think it’s a soldier who survived the attack.”

Robert McMasters was normally a smart man. He’d kept the city’s power running, kept the water pumps working, made sure that Chicago didn’t flood. He’d kept the city functioning mostly as it had before the awakening. But while he could handle problems that involved inanimate objects and mechanical systems, he clearly didn’t do so well when the situation involved men with guns.

“Emperor, did you hear me? A fire truck ! They’re trying to get away!”

“Be quiet,” Steve said. “I’m thinking.”

He set the phone against his shoulder. He glanced around the municipal garage where Brownstone, God rest her soul, had gathered sixty vehicles. Doctor-General Jeremy Ellis stood there, looking afraid for his life as he always did. Jeremy was organizing thirty-one cars, eighteen trucks, three city buses, four motorcycles, and even three snowplows for the exodus. The snow-plows’ big, heavy scoops would let them rip right through the endless abandoned cars, allowing Steve’s people to spread south, east and west.

A fire truck was also big, also heavy… heavy enough to smash through the thinner roadblocks. But if it was just a couple of soldiers, and they were clever enough to have lived this long, why wouldn’t they just walk out instead of letting a city know where they were?

…because a fire engine was also big enough to carry passengers.

…and because Cooper Mitchell’s body still hadn’t been found.

Steve put the phone back to his ear. “Where is this fire engine?”

“Heading west on Walton,” McMasters said.

Steve looked at Ellis. “Get me Jeff Brockman, and three more bulls. And guns, get me some guns.”

Jeremy nodded and ran off to comply.

“McMasters,” Steve said into the phone, “I want that truck stopped. Send everyone. I want it destroyed !”

Tim Feely had never fired a weapon in his life. Now his life might very well depend on the M4 rifle he held in his hands.

At least it was more efficient than a chunk of concrete.

He stood at the top of the wide stairs, watching Roth carry Ramierez down to the ground floor. Ramierez cradled a sleek, black shotgun, his weak fingers barely gripping the stock and the pump handle.

“Move him easy,” Tim called. “Be as gentle as you can.”

“Just hurry up,” Roth said over his shoulder. “If you’re still there when evac arrives, Doc, no one is coming up to get you.”

Roth descended, but did so as gently as he could.

Cooper Mitchell limped over, Ramierez’s Sig Sauer pistol in his hand.

“Your boy Clarence ain’t coming,” Cooper said. “He’s moping about that infected woman of his.” Cooper jerked suddenly, as if something had flown in front of his face, but there was nothing there.

He shook his head. “I don’t want him to get eaten, but if he does, I do hope he’s die-die-dielicious.”

Cooper slowly hobbled down the stairs, leaning heavily on the rail.

Tim watched him go. That was one crazy motherfucker, right there. Hopefully he was sane enough to only shoot at the bad guys.

Tim jogged to Clarence. It was worth one more try.

The man sat on his butt, in the same spot where Margaret had been before they tied her to that ladder. His back rested against the wall, chin hung to his chest. His pistol was in its thigh holster. In his hands, he held the big knife he’d used to slice his wife’s throat.

Did he want to die here? He acted like this was all his fault, when not a shred of it was.

“Otto, get your ass up. Come on, man, rescue is on the way!”

The big man didn’t move.

He hadn’t even cleaned the dust off his face. It made his skin almost the same color as his tight gray shirt.

Clarence had to come. Tim needed him there, needed his strength. Tim’s plan had sounded great in theory, but now it was turning into reality, which meant he’d have to go outside , he’d have to face those killers. He had to find a way to get through to Clarence. Maybe a slap in the face? That always worked on TV.

Tim reached back and brought his hand forward as hard as he could.

Clarence reached up and caught Tim’s wrist, stopping the palm an inch from his cheek. Strong fingers squeezed down. Tim hissed in pain.

“Ow,” he said. “Okay, maybe that wasn’t such a great idea.”

Otto’s cold eyes bore into him.

“You made me kill her,” he said. His voice was little more than a growl, a hollow husk that befit the hollow man. “You got what you wanted, Feely. So get the fuck out of here and leave me be.”

Clarence let go.

Tim stood, rubbed at his wrist.

“She’s gone , Clarence. If you want to end it all, do that after we’re finished, because your gun might make the difference. If we don’t get Cooper out alive, then Margaret died for nothing .”

Otto just stared, his face inscrutable. He made no motion to get up.

Tim remembered Margaret and Otto talking back on the Carl Brashear , remembered that word Margaret had used as a weapon.

“She wouldn’t have quit,” Tim said. “She was a real soldier.”

Otto looked away, unable to meet Tim’s gaze. That one had cut deep.

But he still didn’t get up.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a bulky cell phone and tossed it to Tim.

Tim caught it. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“I called Murray a half hour ago,” Clarence said. “Air support is on the way. If you have to abort the pickup location, hit ‘redial,’ let him know where you’re going.”

His shoulders slumped. His chin once again drooped to his chest.

Clarence wasn’t coming. Tim had done all he could. He turned to head down the stairs, then paused and looked at the phone in his hand.

Just hit “redial” …

A woman rushed toward Engine 98, a lit Molotov cocktail in her hand. Paulius dropped her with his M4’s final round.

He drew his P226: fifteen rounds in this magazine, fifteen more in a second mag. After that, he’d have nothing left except harsh language.

Aim, fire… aim, fire…

He wanted to use the water cannon, splash these fuckers down with a face-full of Margaret Water, but Feely had told him to save it — it was critical to wait until the Converted were packed in as tight as possible.

Engine 98 was beginning to vibrate, just a little bit, a rhythmic pattern that increased or decreased in time with the vehicle’s speed. Something wrong with a tire, maybe. The thing had smashed past dozens of vehicles so far. The fire truck had mass and that meant physics was on its side, but every hit took a toll.

Aim, fire… aim, fire…

Converted gave chase. Three men, a woman, a boy, two girls, three hatchlings and, coming in fast, one of the muscle-bound monsters. More hostiles were pouring out of buildings, either rushing toward the truck or stopping to fire. A few bullets punched into the truck’s metal sides, but most of the rounds whizzed by. A trained army would have taken the truck apart. Fortunately, these assholes were anything but trained.

More Converted fired down from above, aiming from skyscraper windows. Their aim was just as bad; bullets smacked into the tops of the equipment boxes or punched into the coiled fire hose. Paulius hadn’t been hit, but sooner or later one of them was bound to get lucky.