48 hours
The sun would be up in less than an hour. Forty-eight hours left on the clock. A little less.
Although the area around the gate appeared clear of Infecteds, heading into the quarantine zone—“the zone,” as they’d started calling it during their abbreviated planning sessions—under cover of darkness seemed like the best idea. Fallon drove the camo-painted passenger van they’d been given, on the theory that it would attract less attention than the tactical vehicles had. Lilith had called shotgun, and nobody challenged her for it. Sansome sat behind Fallon, with Light beside him. Pybus, Warga, and Antonetti rode in the back. They all wore camouflage uniforms, sans rank insignia, provided by the Army. Fallon’s was a little too big, Sansome’s way too small, and Lilith absolutely swam in hers. Antonetti had insisted on wearing his cousin’s dog tags, and Fallon had finally relented, but otherwise none of them carried identification of any kind.
Once Fallon’s presence on the mission had been agreed to, preparations had been so brisk, she’d hardly had time to get nervous. She had managed to squeeze in a twenty-minute catnap, and although she didn’t like the idea of setting off on a task like this with so little sleep, she knew the nuclear clock was ticking.
Now, though, driving through Avondale toward the interstate, reality was sinking in. Her gut churned, and her arms and legs trembled. She gripped the wheel tightly, hoping no one would pick up on her terror. Psychopaths were like wild animals that way; when they sensed fear, it spurred them to attack.
“Pretty empty here,” Light observed.
“People were told to stay inside if they could,” Fallon said, fighting to keep her voice neutral. She sniffed the air, redolent of manure and smoke from distant fires. “This is a rural area anyway, so chances of infection are less than in more congested neighborhoods. These people are probably hunkered down, waiting for some kind of solution.”
“Or they’re already dead,” Lilith added. “Brain-meat for the mob.” She sounded almost gleeful at the idea.
“Wonder when we’ll see some,” Sansome said. His voice was unexpectedly high-pitched for such a big man, and he spoke so softly he was often hard to hear.
“Some what?” Warga asked. “Infecteds? Soon, I hope.”
“With luck, we’ll find our meteor fragments and get out without seeing any,” Fallon said. A Circle K store caught her eye; its front windows had been shattered, and one display fixture jutted halfway outside. Only one car sat in the parking lot, and fire had reduced it to scorched steel and burned rubber. She had to look away, couldn’t bear thinking about what had happened there. “We’re not here to fight the Infecteds, we’re here to collect some rocks and scram.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Antonetti asked in a near whine.
“We’re not here for fun, either,” Fallon countered. “Let’s just do the job and get home.”
“Easy for you to say, Doc,” Warga put in. “Your home’s not a ten-by-ten cell.”
“I told you that you’d be compensated for your trouble, Randy. That ten-by-ten cell is open for negotiation if we pull this off.”
“Yeah, negotiation. Which means I could just as easily be tossed right back in. Or stuck someplace worse.”
“I also told you I couldn’t make any specific promises in advance. I don’t control the criminal justice system. I was told that there would be a variety of options for you, upon successful completion of the mission. Those options include early release, parole, more comfortable living situations, financial rewards, and more. You’ll be heroes, after all—just about anything’s on the table. But it’ll be decided on a case-by-case basis when we get back with the meteor.”
“In other words,” Light said, “we’re all fucked. We’ll get back, some shitbird colonel will shake our hands, then it’s prison for all of us. I don’t know about you guys, but I only agreed to this to stay out of a cell.”
“But you gave your word,” Pybus said. “We all did. Do you mean to back out on it now?”
“Fuck that, old man,” Light replied. “Maybe the rest of you don’t mind being sheep, but this wolf’s gotta howl.”
“Caspar’s right,” Sansome said. “We all promised Dr. O’Meara. And those other people. We need everybody.”
“What are you gonna do about it, Dumbo? Kill me? Then you still won’t have me, but you will have another murder rap.”
“Don’t you call me that!” Sansome’s hurt sounded genuine. Fallon supposed a guy his size had probably been compared to elephants on a fairly regular basis.
“What, ‘Dumbo’? It fits, doesn’t it, Dumbo?”
“Children,” Fallon warned. Her voice was steadier now, anger lending it steel. “Don’t make me stop this car.”
That drew a laugh from Lilith, at least. The others gave no sign of having even heard her.
“See here, Mr. Light,” Pybus said. “We all have to work together. Starting out by insulting one another is not helpful.”
“I’m not insulting poor Dumbo. I just call it like I see it.”
“Why don’t you keep out of it, Pybus?” Antonetti said. “Pie-bus! That’s a hell of a name, isn’t it? Mr. Pie-bus! There’s no pie on this bus, Dumbo!”
In the rearview, Fallon saw Sansome turn toward Antonetti. At first she thought he was going to actually hit the other man. Instead, he drove a massive fist into the back of his seat, right in front of Antonetti. The thump of his fist was loud, even over the din of voices, and everyone went silent for an instant.
“That’s it!” Fallon cried. She yanked the wheel right, pulled onto the shoulder, and killed the engine. They had passed out of the open landscape and into a residential area, with small, single-family homes spaced well apart. “Listen, all of you! I’m not going to—”
The words were barely out of her mouth when Light grabbed the door handle and yanked. The door slid back, and he jumped out. He hit the ground running.
“Hank!” Fallon cried.
“I’ll get him,” Sansome said. With surprising speed, he vaulted from the van. Warga, nearest the door in the back row, slid out and followed suit.
Fallon shoved her own door open, remembering at the last instant to pocket the keys. That didn’t take long to fall apart, she thought. “Stay put!” she told the others. Like that’ll work. She slammed her door and ran into a home’s front yard. In the dim, predawn light, she could barely make out Sansome’s mass, heading around the side of the house. Light was already lost in the gloom.
Racing toward them, she heard another van door open and close. Lilith, then; the two in back would have gone out the open side door. Fallon couldn’t look back to see which direction they were going—not falling on her face in the dark took most of her attention. She’d have to count on Book to locate them if they spread out.
Then from up ahead came the crash of bodies colliding, and with it grunts and moans and an expletive or three.
Lilith charged past her, oversized uniform catching air and sounding like faraway thunder as she ran. By the time Fallon caught up to her in the unfenced backyard, out of breath, Light and Sansome were circling each other warily. Warga and Lilith watched from the side.
“Kill him, Hank!” Lilith shouted. “Murder that big motherfucker!”
“Lilith!” Fallon tried to snap the word, but it got tangled in an exhalation and barely slid out of her mouth.
She took a deep breath and tried to speak again. “Hank, what the hell was that about? You can’t just take off like that.”
“You’re the one who wanted to bring me back into the zone,” Light said. “I never asked to come. But I figure as long as I’m here, there are probably plenty of folks around who could use my special services. I don’t give a damn about chunks of space rock, and none of these other psychos should, either. You don’t think I’m ever going back across that line, do you? Back into military custody? Fuck that noise.”
Theoretically, Fallon was in charge of this mission, but if it came down to physical combat, any of them could probably kill her. Only by establishing herself as an authority figure who commanded respect and obedience was she likely to pull it off. There had been a lot of discussion about letting a bunch of psychopaths have guns, and in the end, Robbins and the others had agreed that because they were being sent into what was clearly dangerous territory, they needed to be able to defend themselves. The guns were locked up in the back of the van, and she had the only key, on the ring with the ignition key.
If Sansome and Light really got into it, she wouldn’t be able to pry them apart. Maybe with a gun, she could fire a couple of shots in the air, get their attention that way. But that might also attract the attention of those she’d rather avoid.
The thought had barely crossed her mind when Light made his move. He lowered his head and rushed Sansome, throwing punches at the big man’s jaw. Sansome seemed to shrug off the blows; he was bringing his hands together, reaching for Light’s head. “I’ll bring him back,” Sansome said.
“In how many pieces?” Warga asked. He craned his neck to look at Fallon, as if trying to gauge her response to his joke, but then he froze, staring past her. “Hey, Doc.”
She turned to see what had caught his eye, half-worried that Antonetti and Pybus were hoofing it the other way.
But it wasn’t Pybus and Antonetti. Past the corner of the house, she saw headlights weaving unsteadily toward them, coming from the direction of the interstate.
“Can the Infected drive?” Fallon asked.
“Not that I’ve seen,” Light said. His battle with Sansome already seemed to be forgotten. They were all watching the car pulling ever closer to the van where the last two psychos still presumably sat, unarmed.
“Come on!” Fallon shouted. She made it sound like an order.
When nobody obeyed, she couldn’t claim to be surprised. She took off at a run, pawing the keys from her pocket. If whoever was in that car had been infected, her people would need weapons. They were immune to the virus, but not to some Infected bashing their skulls in to get to their deliciously uninfected brains.
But her nerves betrayed her. The back door was locked, and she only managed to get a key in and turn it after several fumbled attempts. The strongbox holding the weapons was a different story. Its lock was smaller, and the box sat on the floor of the van’s cargo area. Her body blocked the glow of the streetlamps outside, and the third row of seats shaded it from the van’s interior lights. She finally got the key in, but it wouldn’t budge. By the time she realized she’d shoved it in upside down, the key was stuck. When she finally yanked it out, the car had come to a stuttering halt beside the van.
The box remained locked. She stepped away from it, peering into the car. Two people—kids, it looked like, teenagers. Boy at the wheel, girl beside him with a Culver’s fast-food bag on her lap. They could have been siblings. The boy lowered his window and leaned out, arm on the door, hand hanging down. Fallon didn’t see anything violent in his behavior, or the girl’s. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“I . . . uhh, I don’t think so. We don’t. Me and Chelle. We need help.” After that first pause, the words fell out of him in a rush, as if he wasn’t sure he’d live until the end of his sentence.
Fallon took a step closer, moving to the side so her shadow didn’t fall on him. Then she saw it: His cheeks were flushed, practically glowing, and his eyes looked vaguely bloodshot.
Infecteds. Not over the cliff yet, but standing on the edge, with the dirt crumbling beneath his feet. She risked getting a little closer so she could see Chelle. The girl was in the dark, but Fallon was pretty sure she was just as rosy. The bag in her lap looked like it had been around for quite a while.
“I’m afraid we can’t help you,” she said.
“We can’t find a doctor anywhere,” Chelle said pleadingly.
“We’re really sick,” the boy added.
You don’t know how sick, Fallon thought. Instead of saying it, she backed away, easing toward the van’s cargo area and the box of guns. She realized for the first time that Sansome and Light had stopped fighting and had come back to the van with Lilith and Warga. That brought her some small comfort. Safety in numbers, or something like that.
“I wish we could help,” she said. She could hardly force the words out. “We don’t know anybody around here. No clue where a doctor would be. You should just . . . keep driving. Keep driving.”
She made it to the van’s back door. This time, she knew where the lock was and how the key fit, and she got it in effortlessly. The key turned, the box opened, and Fallon drew a handgun from the shadowed inside. It was a Glock 19, nine-mil, seventeen-round standard magazine. Thurman had briefed her on the weaponry, quizzed her until she remembered. She’d been told that all the guns would be loaded, and there would be extra ammo in the box and more stashed elsewhere in the van. She hoped the part about being loaded was true.
Holding the gun at her side, using her leg to hide it from the kids in the car, she stepped back around the van’s rear door. “Really, there’s nothing we can do for you.”
Bloody tears were filling the boy’s eyes, streaking his flushed cheeks. “You don’t have, like, a first-aid kit or nothing?”
She did, but nothing in it could help them. “You’re beyond that,” she said. “I’m sorry. Truly. You have to move on, now.”
The boy just sat there, arm against the outside of his car door, tears painting their crimson courses down his face.
Fallon turned, just enough to let him see the gun in her hand.
“Okay, fuck it,” the boy said. He jammed the car into gear. “And fuck you. All of you.”
He stomped on the gas pedal, and the car rocketed down the road. Toward PIR, where they would be turned away again—if they reached it at all. Depending on how far gone they were, he might lose control of the vehicle before then.
Fallon felt something sitting in the pit of her stomach like a ten-pound weight and recognized it as despair. This was a hopeless task. Two young teens, not even at the most infected stage, had practically terrified her. And she had been ready to respond with violence, even though she’d never been violent in her life.
“That was intense, Fallon.”
Light stood at her right shoulder. She hadn’t even heard him approach. “Yeah.”
“You did the right thing. Nothing you could do for them.”
“I know.”
“Me, maybe. I might have been able to help.”
“Your kind of help they don’t need.”
He shrugged. “Who’s to say? Better than what’s in store for them.”
“I’m surprised you came back.”
“I might be a psychopath, by some definitions,” Light said. “And you might not believe it, but I got into the profession I did to help people. My . . . extracurricular activities come from the same place.”
“So you have a, what, a well of compassion deep inside you that makes you kill people?”
“People who aren’t going to live anyway. Who are suffering needlessly.”
“According to you.”
“I’m the only one I have to go by,” he said. He looked almost solemn, and for a moment, Fallon could believe that he believed what he was saying.
But he was also a psychopath, a practiced liar who lived to manipulate other people’s emotions, perhaps because he experienced so few of his own.
Maybe she could do a little manipulating, herself. “I’m sorry, Hank,” she said. “I didn’t mean to question your sincerity. Let’s get back on the road, okay?”
He didn’t smile, but she thought there was an instant’s twitching of his eyes that might have been all he allowed himself. “Yeah, okay” he said. “Space rocks, here we come.”