Pandemic(8)

CNN was broadcasting video of an office high-rise. A massive fireball bloomed from the side of the tower. Then another. Glass and debris rained onto the streets.

Prince recognized the landscape and its scars: Boston’s Financial District.





TEN.



GUNFIRE RATTLED. Wade felt the muffled thuds in his feet. First Squad was in action downstairs. Outside in the hall, the screaming stopped. Then it started again.

“Fix bayonets,” Ramos said quietly.

In Afghanistan, Wade hadn’t used his bayonet once. But they weren’t in Afghanistan. This was a different enemy. This enemy didn’t stop until their hands were on you or they were dead.

He gripped his carbine, weapon shouldered and pointed at the floor. The fireteam glared fiercely at Ramos, waiting for the order to step off. They wanted to move, shoot something. Get it over with. Thousands of people slept inside the hospital. If they all woke up, the squad’s only hope of survival was to rush and shoot their way to the Humvees.

Then call in an airstrike.

Ramos keyed his headset microphone to contact Lieutenant Harris, who led the team on the floor above. “Antidote Six, this is Antidote Two-Two. How copy, over?”

“Antidote Two-Two, this is Antidote Six. We have heavy contact. The hospital is compromised. Repeat. The hospital is—”

A long, sustained explosion of gunfire drowned out the rest. The soldiers glanced upward. The Klowns were on every floor, it seemed.

“Bad copy, Antidote Six. ‘Hospital compromised’ is received. Request orders. Over.”

Ramos waited for Harris’s response and got more thunder instead.

“Antidote Six, Antidote Six, this is Antidote Two-One. Over.” The sergeant leading First Squad was trying to cut in, his voice professional but edged with panic. “Antidote Six, how copy?”

“Let’s go, let’s go,” Williams said.

This is getting seriously bad, Wade thought. “We’ve got to move, Sergeant.”

“And I have to find out if we’re bugging out or sticking with the original OPORD. So shut it.” Ramos repeated his request for orders into his headset.

Wade exchanged a glance with Ford. Does the LT think we’re still good to go for this shit mission? An understrength platoon against thousands of homicidal maniacs? They had to get out. Every second they delayed sealed their fate. Where the hell’s the rest of Bravo Company?

“We’ll be out of this in no time,” Ford said. “Back at the FOB for a hot and a cot.”

Wade nodded, though he didn’t believe a word of it.

A massive boom shook the building. Acoustic tiles fell from the ceiling and crashed to the floor. Somebody upstairs had thrown a grenade. The screaming in the hall died, replaced by waves of howling laughter.

Wade took a deep breath and felt sudden calm wash over him. His pulse slowed, and he became intensely aware of his surroundings.

Ramos was a seasoned non-com, one of the Army’s centurions. He knew what he was doing. Wade trusted him to get them out. Otherwise, it was out of Wade’s hands. He would fight for himself and his comrades. Either he would die, or he wouldn’t.

Ramos shook his head. “All right, we’re going to—”

“All Antidote Ops, retrograde to the Humvees. Abort operation. Antidote Six, out.”

“Antidote Six, Antidote Two-Two. That’s a solid copy. Out.” The sergeant loaded a round into his shotgun’s firing chamber. “Listen up. We’re getting out of here. Hard and fast.”

“I was scheduled to go on leave two days ago,” Eraserhead muttered.

“We know, we know,” Williams said.

“I should be in a bar somewhere, getting so drunk I piss myself.”

“We know,” Williams repeated.

Another grenade went off upstairs. The lights blinked several times.

“At least you’ll still get the chance to piss yourself,” Williams added.

Downstairs, the gunfire stopped. The lack of sound was even more alarming than the grenades.

“Step off in three, two, one,” Ramos said.

“See you on the other side,” Eraserhead told them.

Wade tensed, ready to kill.

It wasn’t murder anymore. It was survival.

Ford opened the door.





ELEVEN.



LT. COLONEL PRINCE watched the landmark office tower get bombed on live television. It was mesmerizing in its way. Not the violence, but the fact nobody was doing a damned thing about it.

That alone told him everything he needed to know about the current situation.

Another section of the building vomited fire, smoke and glass. The camera shook. Prince recognized the building. The Federal Reserve Bank. At the bottom of the screen, triple captions scrolled public service announcements and propaganda. In the upper right: LIVE.