Aim, fire… aim, fire…
Converted gave chase. Three men, a woman, a boy, two girls, three hatchlings and, coming in fast, one of the muscle-bound monsters. More hostiles were pouring out of buildings, either rushing toward the truck or stopping to fire. A few bullets punched into the truck’s metal sides, but most of the rounds whizzed by. A trained army would have taken the truck apart. Fortunately, these assholes were anything but trained.
More Converted fired down from above, aiming from skyscraper windows. Their aim was just as bad; bullets smacked into the tops of the equipment boxes or punched into the coiled fire hose. Paulius hadn’t been hit, but sooner or later one of them was bound to get lucky.
Aim, fire… aim, fire…
He stood and looked forward over the cab’s roof. Up ahead, a bus lay on its side, blocking most of Walton Street — too much vehicle to drive through. Bosh angled the engine to the left. He had to slow down to go around the bus, and when he did the Converted closed in.
One of the men tried to climb up the rear. Bosh ran something over; when the rear wheels hit whatever it was, the back end bounced, flipping the man back out into the street where he hit face-first and skidded.
Two of the hatchlings leaped, scrambling up the truck’s right side. Shoot them, or save the rounds?
Paulius jammed his pistol into its holster, then yanked the fire axe from its bracket. The first hatchling scurried over the stacked hoses. Paulius swung the axe like a baseball bat — the red blade sliced through the pyramid-shaped body, sending the top part flying over the truck’s side. The thing collapsed, spilling purple goo across the hose.
The other hatchling leaped. Paulius didn’t have time for a second swing. He brought the axe in front of him, rear point facing out. The hatchling couldn’t change direction in mid-air: it impaled itself on the spike.
He shook the twitching thing from the axe, heard a gunshot from inside the cabin: Bosh shooting at someone who’d closed in and tried to yank open the driver’s door.
Paulius felt something heavy land on the truck, dropping the bed down a few inches before the shocks lifted it back up. There, on the rear bumper, only his big head and gnarled hands visible, stood a yellow monster. Its hands reached into the bed, the long bone-knives jutting from the back of its arms. Muscles flexed as it started to crawl forward.
Paulius dropped the axe and once again drew his P226.
The creature looked up at him. Thick lips curled back from too-long, too-wide teeth. Yellow lids narrowed — even over the truck’s engine, Paulius heard a deep growl.
He squeezed the trigger. The 9-millimeter round hit dead-center in the creature’s forehead. A cloud of blood and brains puffed out the back of its skull. The muscle-monster fell back, crashed onto the pavement and tumbled forward.
Paulius realized the Converted had stopped firing while the monster tried to get in, because as soon as it fell away bullets started hitting all around him, punching into the equipment boxes, kicking up flakes of red paint. He dropped and crawled across the hoses toward the cabin, desperate for whatever cover he could find.
Bosh’s voice in his ear: “Hold on, Commander! Turning right on Rush, and there’s a lot more cars here!”
Paulius pressed his back against the cabin wall, and held on tight as the twenty-one-ton vehicle smashed past yet another obstacle.
THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM
Cooper Mitchell wasn’t sure if he should hope. If he believed he might escape, would that jinx it? What if he wound up with a signpost rammed through his ass and out his mouth?
He hid behind a rack of pantsuits on the first floor of Barneys, not even fifteen feet from the front door. The SEALs had to get him out. They just had to; all this couldn’t be for nothing.
The weird thing about a city with no traffic was the sense of stillness, the quiet. If he closed his eyes, he could have been in the woods of Michigan, save for the occasional roar of a bloodthirsty monster. That lack of sound let things carry through the streets — he heard distant gunshots, powerful crashes of metal hitting metal, and the growing-closer sound of a gurgling diesel engine.
Was that Klimas? Had he really pulled it off?
Tim came down the stairs, cell phone pressed to his ear.
“No, this isn’t Otto,” he said. “It’s Tim Feely.”
The little doctor came up next to Cooper. He leaned around the pantsuits to peek out the store’s glass door. He leaned back suddenly, his face wrinkled in annoyance.
“I don’t give a shit about your problems, Murray. This plan is ridiculous. Send someone to get us!” A pause. “No, Klimas isn’t here.” Tim looked around, saw Roth crouching just to the left of the front door, Ramierez lying on the floor beside him. “Hold on, Murray.”
Tim duckwalked to Roth. The big man looked ridiculous in his letterman’s jacket. Cooper hated the Bears.
Roth took the phone. “This is Petty Officer First Class Calvin Roth.”
He listened for a second. “No sir, Director Longworth, Commander Klimas isn’t available. Yes, we still need extraction at Lincoln Park, the south end.” Roth looked out the window. Cooper followed his gaze, saw a dozen men and women rushing away down the street, toward the sound of that diesel engine.
Roth ducked back behind full cover. “Yes sir, we still need that air support. We’re going to be under enemy fire the entire way, sir.” He paused, then nodded again. “Yes sir.” He hung up, handed the phone to Tim.
“Well?” Tim said, taking the phone and pocketing it. “Is Murray sending the entire air force? I don’t want to go out there. I can’t.”
Roth shrugged. “What air force? Washington is under attack. So is everything else. An AC-130 and an Apache are both en route. Those will have to be enough.”
Feely shook his head. The man was about to freak out; Cooper didn’t know what they’d do if Feely didn’t get his shit together.
“Two lousy planes,” Tim said. “No fucking way, Roth. Call him back! Tell him we need—”
Roth’s hand shot out and grabbed Feely’s shoulder. The sudden move silenced him.
“Doc,” Roth said, “I need you to shut up now.”
Roth turned slightly, made eye contact with Cooper. When he spoke, Cooper knew it was to him and Feely both.
“It’s game-time,” Roth said. “Stop worrying about shit you can’t change. If you want to survive, focus on the job at hand. When the fire truck comes, we go out firing. We’ll have a few seconds of surprise. The truck has to stop so we can get Ramierez inside. Cooper, how many rounds you have?”
Cooper lifted the Sig Sauer pistol in his hand. “Fifteen.”
“Good man,” Roth said. “Make them count. Doc, you remember what Ram told you?”
Feely nodded. “Single shots. Keep the stock tight to my shoulder, move the barrel where I move my eyes. Aim, then fire.”
Roth nodded. “Excellent. And how many rounds do you have?”
“Ten,” Feely said. “But I can’t… I’m no good in a fight. Ramierez showed me how to shoot, but I can’t.”
Roth shook his head. “Too late for that bullshit, Doc. Commander Klimas told me what you did to save Cooper. You’re a born warrior. That’s what I need you to be for the next ten minutes, got it?”
A wide-eyed Feely nodded.
“Say it,” Roth said. “Say, I’m a warrior.”
“I’m…” Tim licked dry lips. “I’m a warrior.”
“Good. Just keep saying that, Doc.”