Survivors (49 page)

Underneath, the survivors had regained the small lead on the carriers and did not stop for this fourth explosion. They ran for the Fac, intent on jumping onto the fence and taking their chances with the razor wire there, if only to get away from the screaming, shambling horde behind them, which was growing by the second.

A backward glance by Allen showed him that the sprinters were being held back and frustrated by the sheer numbers of shamblers, but he knew that wouldn’t last forever.

The throaty roar of a large engine caught their attention, and from a main road directly ahead of them rolled an M2 Bradley Fighting Vehicle. Its hatches were closed and, as it hit the straightaway on the way to the Fac, it accelerated to top speed, leaving the survivors coughing on diesel fumes.

They raced after it as the APC rolled through the fence around the compound and continued on toward the front doors.

Stiles popped his head around the side of the building and saw the M2 coming on. He turned back to the overturned truck. Thomas had left his AK-74 in there, he knew . . . getting to his feet, he lurched toward the truck, stumbling badly as his aching body rebelled against the movements he was forcing it through.

Ducking down, he crawled into the wreck, looking for the rifle. A cough caught his attention, and he looked up to see the bloodied face of Frank Sherman staring at him.

“Finally come for me, have you?”

Stiles opened his mouth, but nothing came out, confused as he was.

“That’s all right, you don’t have to say anything,” Sherman said, coughing again. “Been expecting you. I know you’ve had a lot on your hands, with Morningstar and all. I understand. I wondered how some of us made it so long. After all, the death rate is the same for us as for anybody . . . one person, one death, sooner or later. Guess you came later.”

Shaking his head, finally understanding, Stiles put out a hand. “I’m not death, sir. I’m Stiles.”

“If you say so, son. If you say so.”

Sherman closed his eyes.

Knowing the men in the Bradley were only moments away from storming the Fac, Stiles dug for and found the AK-74. As he dragged himself out of the wreck, he saw Brewster, Mbutu, Allen, and Mitsui running up.

And he heard another truck.

The survivors stopped and stared as the camouflaged five-ton wrecker sped down the street toward the Fac, red canisters duct-taped all over the front and hood of the vehicle. Making a last course correction, the driver popped open the door and dove away, rolling on the asphalt to a stop against the still-standing portion of the fence. The wrecker was a juggernaut, tearing through a different stand of fencing as it barreled on to the rear of the Bradley.

The helicopter pilot, coming around for a pass, saw the truck and his gunner opened fire. The HEDP rounds chewed through the chassis of the truck, but it was already too late . . . physics had taken over, and the wrecker slammed full force into the back of the M2. A brilliant fireball erupted from the front of the wrecker, engulfing it and the back of the APC in flames.

Standing from his stopping place along the fence, Sheriff Keaton picked up his own AK-47 and commenced firing at the helicopter.

Laughing, Brewster did the same with his shotgun, as did Mbutu Ngasy and Mitsui, all unloading at the chopper. Allen started to do the same with his MP-5, but noted the closeness of the oncoming carriers.

He turned and fired one round at a time, trying to take out the front line of infected.

Stiles added his firepower to Allen’s efforts, seeing the carriers as as big a threat as the helicopter.

And in a moment, that worry was over.

From the sky streaked a white-hot finger, touching the side of the Apache and turning it into a blossom of fire and shrapnel, and a different Apache helicopter sped past, spitting rounds into the approaching crowd of shamblers and sprinters.

“Holy shit, we have a cavalry,” Brewster said.

Two blocks away, Finn put down his binoculars. “Pack your shit,” he said. “We’re pulling out.”

At the BL4 entry foyer, Stephens had his rifle tilted more toward Sawyer than Dr. Demilio.

“I can’t believe you, soldier,” Agent Sawyer said. “We’re probably ten feet from bringing the cure to the Reunited States, and you’re buying her line of shit.”

Stephens’s lip twitched. “Been fed a lot of shit in my time in the Army, sir. Hers doesn’t taste as bad as the rest.”

“There is a soldier, his name is Stiles,” Anna said, talking quickly. “He was bitten in Hyattsburg, way back in January. He was bitten again two, three days ago and didn’t turn. He—”

Sawyer cut her off. “Enough with the fairy tale, Doctor! Just tell my man where the stuff is, and we’ll all be on our way.”

“It’s true,” said a voice from the doors.

Everyone turned and saw Rebecca standing in the BL4 entranceway.

“I saw it. He was bitten in the leg, and I gave him a shot of morphine so he could run. He drew off—” She broke into a sob. “He ran and got the carriers to follow him so we could escape. I thought I’d killed another one.”

Sawyer’s lip lifted in a sneer. “This is all very touching, but—”

“There’s more,” said a voice from behind them. The soldier, Sawyer, and the Doc all turned to find Stone behind them, an automatic pistol in each hand.

Stephens brought up his rifle to cover Stone, who ignored it.

“I was with Stiles’s group when we were attacked by infected just outside Omaha. I wasn’t with him when it happened, but I know he received another bite that day. I’ve
seen
it. The man is immune.”

Little by little, the end of the rifle dropped.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Sawyer said, and snaked out his hand to retrieve the Beretta 92 off Stephens’s belt. He jammed it up under Dr. Demilio’s jaw. “You, girl. Get the serum or cure or whatever the fuck it is, bring it to me. Anyone moves to stop me, and I spread the good doctor’s gray matter all over this room.”

Rebecca didn’t move.

“Better go,” Stone said.

“It’ll take a couple of minutes. I have to get into the suit, and—”

“Just fucking
do it
!” Sawyer yelled. His breath came in fast gulps and a sheen of sweat had erupted on his forehead.

“You don’t look so hot, mister,” Stone said. “Mister, ah . . .”

“Sawyer,” he said. “Agent Sawyer. Don’t say they didn’t tell you about me.”

Stone shrugged. “I keep to myself.”

Tense minutes passed while Rebecca was gone. Sawyer’s face became more and more haggard as the strain of standing with a weapon on the Doctor got to him. A touch of a tremor started in his gun hand, and he clamped his jaw down and fought it.

Rebecca came out of the lab, a sealed vial case in her hand. “This is what we have,” she said. “It’s all we have.”

Sawyer cocked his head. “Grab it, Doctor,” he said. Once she had it in her hand, he turned her. “All right. I’m out of here. Stephens, you can come or stay, I don’t give a shit anymore. If you come, I’ll probably have you court-martialed. Anyone tries to stop me”—he jammed the gun under Anna’s jawline even harder—“you know what happens.”

Stone moved out of the man’s way, keeping him covered with both guns. Sawyer laughed as he backed down the hallway. “This is what it’s like to be a winner,” he said as they moved. “No one can stop you. No one can even slow you down. The only person that came close was Mason, and all he did before he died was hurt me some.”

Stone, Stephens, and Rebecca followed up the hallway.

“And it’s all worth it. I get back to Mount Weather, the Chairman can kiss my ass. I have the cure, and I have the doctor that made it happen. And who else is there to stop me? Who?”

Stone stopped walking, and put a hand out to stop Rebecca, too.

“No one can stop me.”

Stone smiled. “Mason can still stop you.”

“What?”

From the doorway to his room, the creature that was NSA Agent Gregory Mason lurched out and grabbed ahold of Sawyer. With a yell, Dr. Demilio dove away, hot blood following her as Mason tore into Sawyer’s neck with his teeth. Screaming, Sawyer turned, firing his weapon and trying to get free. It wasn’t until they were on the floor and Mason was gnawing on Sawyer’s neck that he was able to put one in the carrier’s head.

Sawyer lay there, gurgling and dying. Stone approached, no emotion showing on his face.

“Not a winner,” he said, and shot Sawyer in the head.

Omaha, NE
1 July 2007
2334 hrs_

T
HE INITIAL CELEBRATIONS OUTSIDE
the Fac were held off while Mbutu Ngasy, Allen, Mitsui, and Brewster struggled to stand the fence back up and Keaton and Stiles worked to extract Sherman from the wreckage of the truck.

“Gonna need something to hold it up,” Allen said. Mbutu looked thoughtful.

“I believe there is a van,” he said.

“There is a van, but there’s no gas,” Brewster said. “You gonna wish it over here, big guy?”

A bright smile slashed across Mbutu’s face. “If you can hold back the cursed, I can bring it. But I will need the help of the Sheriff.”

Grunting, Brewster turned his back on the fence, holding it that way. “Well, there he is. Go ask him.”