The Flood (16 page)

Jenson, whose life Melvin had died saving, shouted, “Can the helo stay here? In case he comes back up?”

Wesley looked at the young man’s pained and sea-splashed face. They’d already been told that this helicopter and crew, the
JFK
’s last, had a million other things to do. And some part of Wesley also knew that if Melvin wasn’t up by now, he was never coming up. But he just nodded and said, “Yeah, I’m sure it will.”

And he started the outboard motor and pointed them toward shore.

* * *

Less than ten minutes later, Wesley’s forearm-mounted GPS announced they were a mile out, so he killed the engine. Wordlessly, they unclipped and folded out the four paddles from the inside of the boat. Wesley started to paddle, but Burns took it from him, motioning toward land.

He was right – it was Wesley’s job to keep his eye on where they were going.

But now, when he most needed to focus on what he had to do, all he could seem to think about was the fact that his team had already suffered one-sixth casualties – and they hadn’t even gotten on the objective yet.

What was going to happen once they were among the dead?

Worst of all, Melvin’s life had been Wesley’s responsibility – specifically. And only now did he feel the full weight of that. He didn’t know much, but he knew in his bones from the first time he put on that officer’s uniform that his duty was to these men. To keep them alive. To not let them down.

But somehow he already had.

And now he somehow had to get the rest of them back alive. But, complicating this – and making it much scarier – was that he knew he had an even higher duty: to the 50 million survivors in Britain, and the handfuls of others scattered around the globe. The last of humanity. And to fulfill that duty, he had to get back to the
JFK
with that DNA sequencer. At whatever cost.

Including if it cost the lives of the men he led.

But now he was out of time for working over his guilt, because they were nearly at the little pebble beach off to the side of the elaborate complex of the Jizan docks. They were landing down at the beach both to keep a (literally) lower profile, and to stay farther from the housing complex that butted up against the landward side of the marina.

His mind a million places, but heartened somewhat by at least knowing what his priorities had to be, Wesley prepared to leap out of the boat, first and most fearless – but Judy beat him to it, jumping over the prow into water still over her head, paddling until she could stand, then trotting up the beach and standing straight – looking out ahead of them, like their sentry or point man. Wesley smiled and nodded, and contented himself with being the first human out.

He followed the stalwart military dog into the surf, which was only mid-thigh-height for him, and scanned ahead and across the shore for threats, while holding his rifle with one hand and the bow line with the other, intending to lead the way and start pulling the boat and the team onto the hostile bea—

And he instantly did a massive face plant straight into the shallow water. First his feet somehow got tangled up – but the instant he started to recover, he found the unyielding sword between his legs, like a long lever with him as the fulcrum, and he went down hard and fast.

Thank you, United States Marine Corps…

And as soon as he hit the water, the world went dark and he realized the boat was sliding over the top of him. He began to panic, fighting for breath and flailing his arms, when an elbow hooked into his own and dragged him clear – out from under the boat, up out of the surf, and back into the air.

It was Sarah who pulled him out.

Looking back, Wesley realized what had happened: the others had hopped out and were pushing the boat faster than he was pulling. Essentially, he’d been run over. His mind and then his face flashed with anger and he even got as far as opening his mouth to give the others a bollocking for this. But just in time he caught himself, realizing he’d better not say a damned thing, or even let it appear on his face. The very worst thing he could do would be to recriminate or blame someone under his command.

As awful as it was to look stupid, careless, incompetent – and now dripping wet – that was preferable to passing the buck.

It had to stop with him.

So now he just had to do something smart – smart enough to overshadow looking like a blithering idiot in front of his whole team.

Together, the five of them hauled the boat out of the surf and got it stashed under a dock. Wesley paused to tie the bow line firmly around a piling, in case maybe the tide came in or something. They’d be in big trouble without that boat.

And then he strode off inland, remembering not to look back… but feeling rather less confident that anyone would be following him now.

Yesterday’s Tomorrow

Jizan Economic City, Saudi Arabia

Jizan Economic City was like Disneyland in ruins.

No, scratch that
, thought Wesley, wishing that his wet riot armor would stop squeaking, that he’d stop leaving wet footprints everywhere he went, and that he might stop feeling so ridiculous.

It’s like Tomorrowland – but yesterday’s Tomorrowland
.

Everything in the city had been constructed in a very short period of time, and to very modern standards – they evidently hadn’t lacked for funds. Someone told Wesley much of it had been built by the Saudi Binladin Group. Wesley had no idea how to feel about that. But in any case, everything was pristine – except for what two years of post-Apocalypse had wrought. It was weird. Wesley couldn’t quite figure out whether he was looking at the distant future – or the distant past’s
idea
of the distant future.

He was now leading the team over a stretch of man-made waterway, across a narrow pedestrian bridge that connected the docks to the outer rings of the city, much of which was built in concentric circles.

He’d been concerned that he’d have to keep an eye on Judy, and worried that he hadn’t brought a leash for her – but she stayed with the group, kept her mouth shut, and moved when they did. Once again, it seemed an awful lot like she’d done this before – unlike most of the humans on this team.

At the end of the bridge, Wesley crouched down to let the others finish crossing before taking the lead again. He spared a glance at the sun, which was now nearly on the horizon. There was still daylight – but they didn’t have any to burn. They had to keep moving.

After crossing the bridge, they had a big open stretch of what felt like harbor-front to cross, before finally passing between two sleek crescent-shaped buildings and getting into an area of parkland in the interior. The park had obviously been extremely well-manicured at one time – equally obviously, it was now badly neglected and overgrown, which suited Wesley just fine.

“Everyone okay?” he whispered.

Sarah, Browning, Burns, and Jenson all crouched down around him in the thick foliage, clutching their weapons, and looking around wide-eyed. But everyone nodded, so Wesley guessed that was all right then.

But they all needed to catch their breath already. The ground seemed to slope slightly uphill away from the water. Moreover, none of them were used to moving with that much gear on – never mind with their adrenal systems going crazy underneath. The only ones who seemed to be breathing normally were the dog, who had no weapons or kit, and the one human who had passed on the riot gear – Sarah Cameron.

Smart woman
, Wesley thought, as he took a knee under a palm tree that had obviously been transplanted here, probably at great expense, and among some huge palm-frond-like plants on the ground. Unprompted, Judy pushed out ten meters ahead of them and stood facing away, forward, once again looking like a sentry.
Quality
, Wesley thought. Raising his rifle to his shoulder and peering over the sight, he realized he didn’t even know for sure whether it would fire after being dunked in salt water, when he did that face plant in the shallows.

And he was too embarrassed to ask.

Luckily, Sarah seemed to read the consternation on his face. “Let me see that.” She unclipped his rifle, pulled open the bolt, popped the receiver up, and did a quick drain of the barrel and the gas tube, then clipped it back on for him. “Your M9 should be fine,” she said, nodding at his side arm. “Just make sure and clean it properly when we get back.”

Wesley nodded, but didn’t speak. He didn’t care to admit that he had no idea how to clean a pistol – nor that he was having a hard time even picturing them making it back to the carrier. But he quickly banished that thought from his mind.

He wondered if he should check in with CIC on the radio in some way. But then he saw the camera on Sarah’s shoulder – and remembered CIC, and both Sergeant Lovell and Dr. Park, were seeing everything they saw. Which was slightly reassuring.

He took a look down at the clever digital map and GPS device strapped to his forearm. He’d carefully studied their route through this sprawling artificial city – but he realized now he needn’t have bothered. His arm told him everything he needed to know. He hadn’t been doing this long enough to know that electronic devices ran out of power, took bullets, got smashed in roll-around fights… or that the GPS satellites themselves often crapped out.

So, falsely reassured, he rose and led the team out again.

* * *

Less than twenty minutes later, following that gentle uphill grade from the waterside, they stood at the outside of the gigantic warehouse-like building that was the electrical and desalination plant for the whole city.

So far the only dead they had seen were catatonic – standing in the open alone or in groups of two or three, mostly in the middle distance, and easily detoured around. This place was big and elaborate enough that Wesley could always pick a slight detour, a route that would keep them under cover from any dead they spotted.

He kept waiting to round a corner and surprise one or more of them – and then have to deal with them. But it kept not happening. Their luck was holding.

But now they were standing on a waist-high platform, a half-flight of stairs above ground, totally stopped by a heavy locked door in the side of the plant. Wesley suddenly had no idea how they were going to defeat this obstacle. And he felt very disinclined to start circling the giant structure looking for an unlocked door or window left ajar.

Because he knew their luck wouldn’t hold forever.

But then he felt a hand on his shoulder, gently but firmly pushing him out of the way. Burns took his place at the door, already opening up a little leather case. Inside were twenty or so thin metal tools with thick handles and thin ends – which were bent, curved, twisted, or serrated in slightly different ways.

It was a lock-pick set, and Burns withdrew two of the tools and inserted them into the lock on the door handle. Wesley made a mental note to ask Burns why he happened to be in possession of that particular item – but he’d barely finished the thought when the handle turned and the door swung open. Tucking the leather pouch back into a pocket, Burns gestured for Wesley to lead the way inside.

Wesley shook his head. The security guard in him was aghast at how quickly and easily Burns had been able to get into what should have been a secure building. But the nascent military small-unit leader in him was happy that he had such skills on his team – and, moreover, that they’d all be getting off the street.

And getting LT Campbell’s reconnaissance job over with, hopefully fast.

Wesley brought his rifle to his shoulder and tried to move inside as smoothly as the Hollywood commandos did it on screen. Sarah, last in, pulled the door quietly closed behind them. As she did, the light level dropped, but not to nothing. Glancing up, Wesley could see there were dirty, mostly opaque windows high in the building walls, admitting enough light to make operating in there possible.

Possible – if dangerous and spooky.

He moved forward down the corridor but soon came to a T-intersection at its end, and realized he had no idea where he was leading them. He felt another hand on his shoulder and turned to see Jenson motioning to him. Going back five feet, Wesley saw he had found a wall-mounted map of the whole complex – miraculously, in both Arabic and English.

Wesley smiled at the young man. This was turning out to be a hell of a team – weapons maintenance, breaking and entering, navigation. They had all kinds of skills. Wesley wondered what his contribution would be. But at least he now knew where they were going. Committing the route to memory from the map, he went to the front and led them forward again.

Ten minutes after that, they entered a cavernous open area filled with the biggest cylindrical vats Wesley had ever even heard about – dozens of them. Whispering and pointing, he positioned the others at points he imagined might be tactical, then mounted the steel ladder up the first vat. Soon he was twenty feet above the floor – and it was not the ocean below him this time, but bare concrete.

And he still weighed too much, and moved too awkwardly.

But at the top of the vat he was relieved to find a kind of hatch or cover, which he unlatched and lifted up. He was immediately hit with the rich smell of fuel oil. Feeling around on his belt, which seemed to have about a hundred things clipped to it, he finally found his flashlight, got it free and turned on, and pointed it down inside. The nearly water-tower-sized vat was probably two-thirds full of oil.

He put the light away and climbed down carefully, trying to keep both his rifle and his sword from banging around. He was starting to think the sword had been a pretty crap gift. But he couldn’t talk himself into ditching it. He didn’t relish having to explain that to Fick later.

He spot-checked a half-dozen more of the vats, climbing up and down more carefully each time as he felt his luck wearing thin. Halfway across the room, he passed what looked like a big water-pumping station. He followed the pipes that came out of it, up the inside walls, and all the way up to the ceiling.