89 hours
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been standing there, watching the Valley of the Sun being systematically cut off from the rest of the word, but when someone politely cleared their throat behind her, Fallon suddenly realized her cheeks were hot, and sweat was running down the back of her neck.
She turned to see Book.
“Yes?”
He blinked, seemingly taken aback at her tone. She realized how curt she must sound and decided she didn’t care. She’d protested their plans for Warga, but the truth was that her constitutional rights were being violated just as surely as his would be. What was this if not unlawful seizure? Virtual imprisonment, since she couldn’t leave, couldn’t talk to anyone she knew. Couldn’t talk to her family.
She had every reason to be short-tempered.
“I thought you might want to know that I can try to get a message to your family, to let them know you’re okay. If you want.”
The sudden anger passed as swiftly as it had come, and Fallon forced a chagrined smile. It came out as more of a grimace and sat uneasily on her lips for a moment before going the way of her earlier ire. She could tell he was smart but hadn’t realized he was a mind reader. Still, what he was offering wasn’t what she wanted.
“I can’t talk to them myself?”
Book was starting to sweat, and she realized he probably spent most of his time in air-conditioned rooms on the East Coast—even this relatively mild ninety-degree weather was probably too much for him. She gestured for him to walk back down to the shaded seats, following on his heels. The analyst spoke as he went.
“No, sorry. The Powers That Be are afraid you’ll try to warn them away, since they’re outside the quarantine zone, and that kind of thing can cause a panic. Besides, they—the PTB—are trying to keep a lid on the whole thing. Well, to the extent that they can, anyway.” He’d reached the shade now, and moved aside for her to sit first.
As she took her seat, he continued.
“Nobody can fly or drive in or out of the city now—it’s completely cut off. The barrier in this area follows the rivers west, then north to the I-10. East of here, it basically follows the same alignment as the proposed South Mountain Freeway—down around the south side of the mountain, tying into Pecos Road, and from there to the southern stretch of the 10. Not sure about it from there, in either direction.
“All communications in and out are also being jammed. For the moment, the press is cooperating—well, that and the fact that we’ve isolated those who’ve shown up here, which is beginning to piss them off royally. There will come a time when somebody breaks the embargo, and then shit’s really going to hit the fan. But the longer we can keep the blades feces-free, the more time we have to come up with a solution. I’m sure you’ll agree that doing that without also dealing with a panicked populace or international condemnation is the best way to go.”
She wanted to argue with him, but she couldn’t.
“Well, then, I guess just tell them I’m okay, but some stuff has come up at work, and I won’t be home for a few days.” She thought of them at the table that morning, how they’d barely noticed her leaving, and wondered if they’d even care. “And . . . tell my son I love him.”
Book nodded.
“Will do.” He was about to say something else when Briggs approached, taking the stairs two at a time.
“Sorry to interrupt, ma’am,” he said diffidently, nodding to Book, “but they’re ready for you now.”
Fallon frowned, confused.
“Who? And ready for what?”
“They’re back from Florence, ma’am. With your test subject.”
By the time she’d made it down from the grandstand to the trailer where Book’s Powers That Be awaited, they were already setting Warga up in a nearby modular building Fallon was certain hadn’t been there when she’d arrived.
She watched with the others as soldiers ushered the convict in through a door to the middle of the building, which was essentially just one big, square room with cameras at every corner. Fallon saw another door on the opposite side of the building, but the soldiers ignored it as one of them undid Warga’s shackles, the others covering him with their rifles. Then they slowly backed out of the room, leaving the man to rub first his wrists, then his eyes.
“We sedated him for the chopper ride back,” Robbins told her. That explained how they’d gotten him here so quickly. But it also meant they’d effectively tied one hand behind his back before sending him to the slaughter. Then she remembered the dozen-plus women he had killed and violated, both pre- and postmortem, and could conjure little sympathy.
Still, even he had rights. But before she could point out how this was yet another abuse of those rights, the other door opened and three people stumbled in.
No.
Three Infecteds.
Two men and a woman, they all bore superficial wounds on face and arms, as well as the hallmark puffy eyes and red cheeks.
Fallon watched in fascinated horror as they paused inside the doorway, then their heads all swiveled toward Warga, like dogs picking up a scent.
Rabid dogs, Fallon thought as they charged. “Really? What if they kill him?”
Robbins gestured toward the rafters. Four soldiers crouched there, aiming rifles down toward the Infecteds. “Sharpshooters,” he said. “They won’t let him get really hurt.”
Warga was a big man—there wasn’t much to do in prison but work out, after all. But he was groggy from whatever they’d given him for the flight and utterly unprepared for what was coming. Still, you didn’t survive long in a place like Florence without being able to adapt quickly, especially when someone was attacking you. As the first Infected reached him, Warga set himself, ducked his shoulders, and let the man’s momentum carry him harmlessly up and over.
The man landed with a grunt of pain, but Warga had no time to follow up because the other two Infecteds were there. The woman growled like a vicious beast as she clawed at his eyes with long, manicured nails; Fallon could see light reflecting off the polish. As Warga brought one beefy arm up to protect his face, the second man launched himself at the convict’s throat, jaws wide, like something out of a horror movie where the vampires were actually scary.
Warga met the man’s mouth with his fist, and blood and teeth flew, but the Infected was undeterred. He latched onto Warga’s hand, sinking what remained of his teeth deep. Warga swore, but instead of trying to pull away, he drove his fist deeper, twisting as he went. The Infected held his ground, reaching vainly for Warga’s head even as his own was slowly being forced into an alignment not meant for anyone who wasn’t spewing Latin and vomiting pea soup.
“Damn,” Fallon heard someone mutter. “It’s like the thing’s on PCP or something.”
“Shouldn’t those sharpshooters do something?” Fallon asked.
“They will if they have to,” Thurman said. “Warga’s not in serious trouble yet.”
“Looks serious as hell to me.”
Then there was an audible snap, and the Infected suddenly went limp, his weight pulling Warga off-balance before the convict could shake himself free. The woman took advantage of his distraction, darting around his blocking arm to dig the nails of one hand into his cheek, right below his left eye.
Warga howled, trying to pull away, just as the Infected behind him, who’d finally regained his feet, leapt on his back, grabbing onto both ears as though they were reins and Warga some bucking bronc.
The convict spun, a chunk of flesh torn from his cheek as he tore free of the woman’s grasp and slammed his would-be rider into her. The three went down in a heap of limbs and blood.
The two Infecteds were on Warga in an instant, ripping at his hair and tearing at his face. It was all he could so to bring his arms up to try to defend himself.
Then the man reclaimed his hold on Warga’s ears and started slamming the convict’s head into the floor, over and over again.
“That’s enough,” Robbins said, as drops of blood flew from Warga’s battered scalp. “Take them out.”
Fallon couldn’t tear her gaze away from the violence in front of her, wondering, as she so often did lately, if it were scientific curiosity or bloodthirstiness that held her so enthralled.
Two shots rang out, and the two Infecteds’ heads exploded in a shower of pink and grey rain.
Soldiers—in full biohazard gear this time—entered the space again. They let Warga be, lying in a bloody, gasping heap in the center of the carnage. After several long moments, he levered himself up into a sitting position, found the nearest camera, and gave them all the bird.
As the soldiers secured him and prepared to transport him for treatment and observation in another insta-building, Fallon turned to the others.
“Well,” Robbins said, “we should know in about twelve hours whether he’s immune or not.”
“And what will that prove?” Fallon asked. “We still won’t know for certain if it’s being a psychopath that grants immunity to the virus.”
“No,” the general agreed. “But it’s a damned good argument, don’t you think?”
“Close enough for government work?” she quipped sarcastically.
Robbins showed her something that might have been a grin but probably wasn’t.
“Basically,” he said. “Under the circumstances, that’s got to be good enough.”