“No… that’s Dr. Jones. Merry, I think her name was.”
Merry, thought Benny. What a sad name for a creature that would spend eternity down there, perpetually hungry, lingering in dried flesh long past the point where life had any meaning.
Joe handed the glasses to Nix and nodded toward where the Teambook was tucked under the dashboard. At his direction she found the page for Dr. Merry Jones and confirmed the identity of the zom in the lab coat. Then she flipped through the other pages and identified three of the soldiers — Engebreth, Hollingsworth, and Carr. The others were reapers. She began to close the book when Lilah stopped her.
“Go back,” she said urgently, and as Nix fanned back through the pages, Lilah thrust a hand out and stabbed one photo with her finger. “There.”
It was the page for Sergeant Louisa Crisp.
“What about her?” asked Joe.
“There, she’s down by that tall rock,” said Lilah. “See her?”
“That girl’s a reaper,” began Nix, but Benny cut her off.
“No… look at her.”
They did, their eyes flicking back and forth between the reaper who stood at the edge of the pack and the face of the staff sergeant in the Teambook. The thick black hair was gone, but the woman had a very distinct Native American face. She looked a lot like Deputy Gorman from the town watch, who was full-blooded Navajo.
“That’s her,” Lilah said with certainty.
“Damn,” breathed Joe. “Louisa Crisp was the squad leader for Field Team Five. It was her job to protect the science team.”
Nix shook her head. “But she became a reaper. Why?”
Joe didn’t answer that. His finger rested lightly on a plastic trigger mounted on the control joystick. “Listen to me,” he said. “We have to set down and try to get through that air lock. That’s going to take time, and it’s going to leave us exposed. We have two choices. We trust to cadaverine and hope that it works on them. Smells don’t travel as well in air this dry.”
“Or…?” asked Benny with a sinking heart. He knew where this was going.
“Or we eliminate the threat here and now.”
“God,” breathed Nix. “We can’t just kill them. They’re victims….”
“We all know what they are, Nix,” said Lilah. “But I don’t see any real choice.”
But something else was bothering Benny, something beyond the ethical dilemma. “Wait a sec,” he said. “Joe, can this thing get closer to the ground? I mean, can you like… skim just above the ground from one side of the clearing to the other? Maybe get almost to the ground near them and then sort of — I don’t know what to call it—drift away from them. Not up, but across the ground. Can you do that?”
The ranger started to ask why, then smiled and nodded, getting Benny’s meaning. “Let’s give that a try.”
Joe lowered the helicopter so that the wheels bumped against the rocky ground ten yards from the cluster of zoms. The zoms instantly broke into a flat-out run, screaming like demons, hands tearing the air as they swarmed forward. Joe didn’t bother to drift backward and instead rose to fifty feet and hovered.
The truth was obvious.
They were all R3’s. Every last one.
Joe slowly turned the Black Hawk to face the zoms, who had now stopped below the machine. Some of them tried jumping up to catch the helicopter, even though it was too far above them. The ranger curled his finger around the trigger.
“You kids go back,” he suggested. “You don’t want to see this.”
“No,” said Benny, “we don’t.”
“Who would?” asked Lilah.
Nix spoke some words very softly. It was a prayer they’d heard twice the day before they’d left town. First in one cemetery as the Houser family was buried, then in another cemetery as Zak Matthias, Charlie Pink-eye’s nephew, was put into the cold ground.
A prayer for the dead.
In the cabin behind them, Grimm tilted his big head and bayed like a hound from some old-time horror novel.
As Joe opened fire with the thirty-millimeter chain guns, Benny thought he heard the big ranger murmur a single word.
“Amen.”
CHAPTER 62
The big Black Hawk hovered above the scene of carnage. Where a minute ago there had been a cluster of R3 zoms, the fastest and most dangerous kind, now there was torn meat and broken bones. The chain guns had literally torn the dead apart.
“God almighty,” breathed Nix.
Joe’s face was set and grim as he put the machine down on the center of the helipad. The whirling blades threshed the gun smoke and scattered it to the dry desert wind, and blew most of the body parts over the edge. He cut the engine.
“Okay,” Joe said, “gear up.”
Lockers in the back of the helicopter were filled with protective clothing. Thin leather jackets covered with wire mesh and metal washers, arm and leg pads, and gauntlets for their hands. Helmets, too, with wire grilles. All the joints were flexible and the stuff was surprisingly lightweight. Joe showed them a special feature.
“Will this take long?” Benny asked. “Brother Peter said we had until tomorrow night to—”
“Let’s worry about Brother Peter tomorrow,” said the ranger. “We’ve enough to do today.”
But Nix said, “Will he really attack Sanctuary?”
“He can try,” said Joe. He tapped the minigun that was mounted on tracks inside the door. “Knives and axes don’t stack up well against a rate of fire of six thousand rounds per minute.”
“Rockets, too,” said Lilah enthusiastically.
“Rockets, too.” Joe shook his head. “If Brother Peter shows up tomorrow, we’ll explain the facts of life to him.”
The ranger knelt down and buckled on the rest of Grimm’s armor. The dog’s helmet was set with daggerlike blades, and spikes sprouted all up and down the mastiff’s powerful body.
“Note to self,” murmured Benny, “don’t hug the puppy.”
Grimm agreed with a big wet glupp.
Lilah dropped the magazine of her Sig Sauer, checked the rounds, and slapped it in place. Joe did the same. Nix, too.
“Benny,” called Joe, “you want a handgun?”
“No thanks. I’m not a very good shot.”
In truth Benny didn’t like guns. Tom had been shot to death. Benny had no moral objection to Nix and the others having them; no, his decision was entirely personal. He was afraid that if he carried one, then he would be tempted to use it too often, to use it to solve problems rather than finding other solutions. That view was entirely his own, and he never shared it with Nix or tried to convince anyone that it was the only viewpoint or even the best. It was his decision.
His sword? That was different. Perhaps it was the old belief that a samurai’s soul lives inside the steel of the sword that cast that weapon into a different aspect in his mind. This sword had once been Tom’s; now it was his. The sword was a close-range weapon; it required great skill. And despite the grim purpose for which it was created, there was an elegance and beauty about it.
They clustered by the door.
“This is how we’re going to do it,” said Joe. “I lead, you follow. Everybody keeps their eyes open. Keep chatter to a minimum. If anything happens or if we get separated, head back here to the chopper. There are enough supplies and weapons here for a couple of weeks. But let’s not need those supplies, okay? We stick together. We all go in, we all come out, no surprises, no drama. Got it?”
“Warrior smart,” said Lilah.