“Madam President, I regret to inform you that we have word from Fort Stewart and Hunter Army Airfield in Georgia. They each suffered coordinated attacks by a large number of Converted, and” — he paused, swallowed — “and significant numbers of soldiers stationed at those facilities assisted in the assault.”
Blackmon’s gold cross dangled.
“Reinforcements,” she said. “Let’s get them help. What do we have in the area?”
Porter shook his head. “Fort Stewart has fallen, Madam President. So has Hunter. Both facilities are now in enemy hands. The Third Infantry Division was stationed at Fort Stewart — that division has been destroyed. And we’ve also got word that Andrews AFB is under organized attack.”
Murray’s body sagged. Third Infantry, the Rock of the Marne, a unit that had fought in both World Wars, in Korea and Iraq, over fifteen thousand soldiers… completely wiped out. And Andrews AFB, where Air Force One resided, under attack. The base also housed the 121st Fighter Squadron, an irreplaceable asset.
But far more important than the base’s aircraft was its geographical location.
Andrews AFB was just twelve short miles from Washington, D.C.
THE RESPONSIBLE PARTY
“COOOOPERRRR. SICK?”
Cooper wasn’t sick. At least not physically; he’d eaten human flesh — what could be sicker than that?
Do what you have to so you can stay alive. Whatever it takes.
He sat cross-legged on a pile of clothes, probably gathered from one of the hotel rooms on the floors above. The fire warmed his face and chest. He held his gun in both hands. The barrel rested on his calves.
The Monster Formerly Known as Jeff sat next to him. It could almost have been a campfire scene, maybe a hunting trip to the Upper Peninsula, the two of them drinking Labatt, staring at the stars and talking about women.
Cooper wished the transformation had been more severe, that Jeff’s face didn’t look like Jeff, but the eyes, the nose… no mistaking his lifelong friend.
Jeff wanted to know if Cooper was ill. Cooper was trying to decide if he could put the barrel of his pistol to Jeff’s ear and pull the trigger.
Shoot him shoot him but if you miss or don’t kill him he’ll kill you he’ll eat you…
“COOOOPERRRR?”
“Yeah, Jeff,” Cooper said. “I’m sick.”
Other than Jeff, the cannibals were out of commission. They were sick, obviously hurting pretty bad. Even the Tall Man was down for the count.
Jeff reached a hand behind Cooper. Cooper froze… he tried to lift the gun, but he couldn’t move a muscle.
Please God make this stop make him go away make him go away I want to live I want to live I—
Something touched his head. Something hard. Something pointy. The bone-blade. Jeff was going to carve him up, rip him to shreds.
Get up and run and fight shoot him shoot him no-no-no you’ll miss you can’t win play dead please God please don’t let him kill me please.
Cooper started to tremble.
The thing touched his head again, only it wasn’t the bone-blade at all… it was Jeff’s fingers, brushing from Cooper’s temple to the top of his head. He felt the same thing a third time, and a fourth.
He’s petting me. He thinks I’m sick and he’s petting my head.
“EVERRRRYONE… HURTS. WILLLL GO FIND… HELP.”
The fingers stroked Cooper’s hair one last time, then Jeff stood. He lumbered to the front of the hotel lobby. He walked out the ruined rotating door and vanished into the night.
Cooper slowly stood. He scanned the ravaged, smoky lobby to see if any of the killers were looking at him.
They weren’t. They were too busy dying.
The Tall Man’s eyes leaked yellow fluid, not all that different in color and consistency from the phlegm coating his nose and mouth. He was still coughing, still sneezing, but was too weak to wipe the goo away.
Cooper walked closer. The man’s rheumy eyes opened and closed, the stringers of yellow mucus that ran between his eyelids bouncing in time. His throat made a wet sound.
This was the man who ate Sofia.
You ate her too, you ate her too…
“I only had one serving, you fuck!”
Cooper took a step back: he’d just yelled at himself.
You are so fucking crazy you’re going off the deep end man get control…
“Shut up, shut up!”
He scrunched his eyes tight. He rubbed the pistol barrel against his right temple.
You’ve got the gun use it use it…
Use it on the Tall Man? No need. The Tall Man didn’t have much time left. None of these assholes did.
Or… maybe it was better if Cooper used it on himself.
He shook his head, shook it hard. No, he couldn’t think like that. He could make it out alive. He could. But if he couldn’t, if people like the Tall Man got him, if they were going to shove a stop sign up his ass and out his mouth, roast him over a fire…
Was eating a bullet better than just being eaten?
The Tall Man coughed again. Phlegm came up, but this time so did blood. A thick, dark-red glob clung to his chin.
He’s coughing blood. Chavo was coughing blood…
Cooper heard yelling from the street. He held the gun against his thigh as he slowly walked to a broken window. He crouched, peeking just over the sill’s jagged glass.
Outside, he saw two women sprinting for their lives. Behind them, seven or eight screaming people carrying knives, hatchets, one carrying a shotgun by the barrel as if it were a club. Running alongside the hunters were two hulking, pale-yellow creatures with tiny faces and rippling muscles. Were either of them Jeff? No, they weren’t — Cooper would have recognized his friend, monstrous or not.
He couldn’t help those two women. He hadn’t saved Sofia, so he sure as fuck wasn’t going to get himself killed over a pair of strangers.
He watched the pursuers, the ones who still looked like normal people. Why weren’t they sick like the Tall Man and his crew? Why weren’t they sick like Chavo?
Wind blew through the ruined window, scattering snow in Cooper’s face. He walked back to the fire. No one had tended it for a while, nor tended to Sofia. Curls of orange heat wavered through the bed of coals, the flickering light playing off her blackened, burned, half-eaten corpse.
Cooper looked away. He had to get out of there, but he wasn’t setting foot on those streets. No fucking way. Someone had to rescue him, someone with lots of guns, but who? Were news stations telling people how to get help? He hadn’t seen a working TV since he and Sofia fled the Trump Tower. If he still had his cell phone, he could have tried reaching cops in other cities, maybe the army or the National Guard.
Then it hit him — he didn’t have a phone, but his “group leader” did.
He walked back to the Tall Man.
“Your phone,” Cooper said. “Give it to me.”
The Tall Man stared up. His eyes narrowed in confusion — he was trying to focus, trying to see.
Cooper held out his hand. “Your phone.”
The Tall Man blinked a few times. His eyes seemed to clear. He nodded. With great effort, he reached his right hand into his pants pocket and pulled out a flip-phone. He flipped it open with his right thumb. His left hand reached up to wrap around the top.