City Under the Moon (11 page)

“Can we put silver in the water? Or something?” asked Leslie.

“I don’t know if we could find enough silver to effectively contaminate a water supply of that size,” Jessica said politely. “The level of exposure from the penetration and fragmentation of a silver bullet is more likely to result in death.”

“Regular bullets won’t kill them?” asked Luft.

“It’s still a biological creature. If you do enough damage to any physiological system it’ll shut down. But the virus pumps up the heart rate and lowers the pain threshold. It’s similar to the effect of methamphetamines, but significantly stronger. It’ll be like trying to stop the worst speed freak ever.”

“Good work, Dr. Tanner,” Weston said. “Keep going and keep us informed.”

“Mister President, you
have
to quarantine—“

“We’re working on it. Have your people ready. We’ll be in touch soon.” Weston signaled to Luft to shut the closed-circuit link.

Everyone started talking at once. Weston raised a calm hand. “I’ll listen to each and every one of you in a moment.”

The president nodded to Greenberg. The Defense Secretary moved toward the door while receiving his instructions.

“We need every warm body armed with silver bullets. RDFs, cadets, reserves, veterans, boy scouts with good aim.”

“Yes sir,” Greenberg said as he exited.

“How much time do we have?”

“The moon rises at 9:58,” said Luft.

Five

The United States military didn’t have enough time.

Under military command, five thousand silver bullion coins were transferred from the United States Mint facility at West Point (once known as the Fort Knox of Silver) to the Radford, Virginia manufacturing facility of Alliant Techsystems, the military’s preeminent supplier of ammunition. There, silver would be added to the molten lead alloy used to produce bullet cores.

Ballistic experts were charged with determining exactly how much silver could be introduced into the lead-based, ball-point 9x19mm Parabellum round, easily-produced ammunition for the ubiquitous 9mm service pistols favored by the NYPD. There wasn’t enough time to develop refined equations, so they took an educated guess.

There wasn’t enough time to determine the precise quantity of silver needed to catalyze the virus’s self-destructive cycle.

Wasn’t enough time to safely refit the machinery of the bullet factory.

Not enough time to properly test the viability of the new ammunition cartridges.

Or to properly explain to the law officers why they were being issued last-minute ammunition reassignments.

The federal government took every possible shortcut, issuing blanket warrants and orders of dubious legality. Because the sun wouldn’t stop dropping.

By quarter after four, the sky over New Jersey burned crimson and purple. NYPD began closing the 45th Street pens, securing revelers under the moving lights of the electric circus. As the mercury plummeted, the party simmered.

The president and his advisors watched the clock. The moon would rise at 9:58. That was a truth they could rely on. Everything else was speculation.

At sunset, Holly Cooke’s cell in the basement of 26 Federal Plaza filled with an anesthetic gas, putting her to sleep so her restraints could be reinforced. Nine other “dog attack” victims slept in adjacent cells.

Just before 5:30, a call was issued to the two hundred NYPD members of the Joint Terrorism Task Force. Soon after, they assembled for a briefing at the Midtown South Precinct on West 35th Street, the triage station closest to Times Square. In a packed conference room, an FBI Special Agent named Elmore Cahill explained that the previous night’s animal attacks were the result of a street gang’s pack of fighting dogs that had broken loose. The dogs had been juiced with adrenaline and a normal shot might not put them down, so five bullets laced with “animal tranquilizers” were issued to each officer. No word on how many dogs were still out there, but Cahill said they might be rabid and should be shot on sight.

As the officers spilled out into the cold and hopped into a paddy wagon for transport to Times Square, most of the chatter was about the all-girl pop band’s skimpy outfits.

A couple of the men were curious about these new bullets. Very shiny.

NYPD Officer and JTTF member Mack Meely warned them that these dogs were no joke. He’d seen them himself. Last night, he and his rookie partner had responded to a breaking & entering at the Gramercy Meat Market. One of those things was cleaning out the inventory. He took a couple shots at it, all hits, but the fucker barely flinched. Barreled right past him and took a swipe at his chest. Left him with four stitches and a helluva nightmare. He was still pissed that he couldn’t get tonight off.

Most of the guys loaded the new ammo right then and there.

But these bullets were really goddamn shiny. One of the guys asked what a lot of them were thinking: “How the hell do you put tranquilizer into lead?”

“I don’t care,” Meely responded. “As long as it works.”

And now his shoulder was aching for no damn reason. What a week.

Just before six, Dick Clark and Ryan Seacrest appeared on the large screen in front of the Disney-owned Times Square Studios, which neighbored One Times Square. They thanked the crowd for coming, but it was drowned out by the cheers.

Opening ceremonies began after six. Two Latino stars of a popular telenovela joined a representative of the Phillips Lighting Company as they flipped a giant ceremonial switch. Fireworks lit the sky and the New Year’s Eve ball began its glittering ascent.

Meanwhile, FBI Special Agent Brianna Tildascow hunted.

Six

CDC Containment Room

Atlanta, GA

December 31

6:58 p.m.

Melissa Kenzie awoke to hammering in her skull. The aches wracking her body were surely the work of the Devil.

She was strapped onto a gurney, tilted upright and facing a mirror. Her fog parted to remind her of a terrible thing she had seen in there: herself, her body, transforming into a monster.

Could it really have happened?

She’d felt pain. Torment. And then fury. And hunger.

It was a terrible descent, a free fall from humanity. Despair and helplessness, as she was forced from her mind and her body, both of them seized by something else…

…and yet so…
liberating
… to embrace the cravings and shed the rest.

The transformation was torturous, every second an eternity. It fueled the beast’s anger, stoking the Devil’s presence and distracting her faith. It was God’s will: The transformation was a test, and she had failed.

No
, God said in her heart.
It is a reckoning. A penance.

For what?

She had no way of knowing. It was someone else’s sacrament.

The
other
.

In the enraged nightmare, a beast had run alongside her. Man, or wolf, or both. They hunted as a pack.
He
was her cherished leader.

The impurity in her soul yearned to protect
him
. Their love was a blasphemy, because God had forsaken
him
.

She prayed God would save her from the beast.

Or was it the other way around?

Seven

President’s Secretary’s Room

The White House

December 31

9:25 pm

Lon had waited in the anteroom to the Oval Office for so long that he’d started to believe what he’d seen on that CDC video.

The door to the Oval Office was angled into a nook in order to fit, well, the oval. That was the only interesting thing in this depressing waiting room. The folksy Americana furniture, grandmotherly beige curtains and yuck-brown carpet were straight out of a 1970s TV family drama.

One of the Secret Service agents had taken his cell phone before they got on the helicopter. He hadn’t seen that guy again, and he was faux-politely rebuked whenever he asked for his phone back. Elizabeth was probably worried sick. He couldn’t wait to tell her that he was part of an important federal investigation!

One of the president’s secretaries offered to contact his parents, but Lon didn’t care about them. Let his stepfucker Frank think they were going to come lock him up any minute now.

Heavy traffic flowed past during those long hours. People went into the Oval Office, but never came out. Some guy in a sweater vest brought him a turkey sandwich for dinner. A Secret Service agent escorted him to take a piss. By the end of the day, he had managed to grow bored… while he was waiting in the White House to talk about a werewolf he’d just seen.

He passed the time re-reading and re-re-reading everything in the National Archives’ files on lycanthropy. His own letter to President Bush was included, scrawled in his fumbled attempt at calligraphy.

And then the door to the Oval Office opened. The freaking President of the United freaking States emerged with a freaking football in his freaking hands.

“Boris Toller?” the freaking president asked.

“Um…” Lon managed to move his chin up and down while he got his feet under him.

The president tossed the football and Lon caught it against his chest. That might’ve been the first time he’d ever held a swineskin (
Right?
) in his life.

“Nice to meet you, Boris, I’m William Weston,” he said with an outstretched hand.

Lon put his boneless, sweaty mitt into the president’s grasp.

“Want a picture?” Weston asked as he pushed Lon toward the office.

“Hi. Hi. Sure.”

One guy popped out of nowhere to take the football and another guy took their picture, and then suddenly they were gone. The ritual was probably standard operating procedure, Lon thought, but it felt intensely disingenuous.

“It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” asked Weston, referring to the office.

Lon couldn’t deny the majesty of the Oval Office. It was time to say something profound. “It’s a cool…”

The president gazed at him for a moment, probably wondering if Lon was capable of making it through this. But there was no judgment in his voice when he spoke again. “How about we go watch some television, Boris?”

With a hand on Lon’s shoulder, Weston led him through a door on the opposite side of the oval, into a curved junction between two hallways. Smart suits rushed to and fro, nodding respectfully to the president. Their quick looks made him feel embarrassed for his unaccomplished life.

“So you run a website?” the president asked.

Lon wasn’t quite ready to speak outside of his own head.

Weston turned him so they were face to face. Something about the stance magnetically yanked Lon’s eyes upward into a lock with the president’s. He fought the urge to run away.

“They tell me you’re the expert we need right now, Boris.”

“Lon.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Lon, sir. I go by the name
Lon
.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

Weston spoke slowly. “Why do they call you Lon?”

“For Lon Chaney Jr., sir. He was an actor, he played the Wolf Man.”

The president raised a ponderous eyebrow. “That’s better than Boris.”

Lon closed his eyes and swallowed. So. Damn.
Stupid
.

And then they were moving again. Weston pushed him into an open doorway across from the Oval Office. “This is the Roosevelt Room.”

Lon peeked in. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to see, or even which Roosevelt it was named after. Long table, lots of chairs, big flags, paintings, and a fireplace. He nodded that yes, this was indeed the Roosevelt Room.

They proceeded to their left and crossed a hallway with more beige and brown. Weston said “goodnight” or “happy new year” to everyone they passed.

The president pushed Lon into a right turn and Secret Service agents greeted them at an open elevator. They all got inside—wood and brass and mirrors—and one of the agents pressed a fancy security button. The combination of the men’s colognes put another twist in Lon’s stomach.

“Great actor, Lon Chaney,” Weston said with a politician’s smile.

Lon nodded, still stuck on the whole
guy is in charge of the free world and you tell him you’ve named yourself after an—

“But I was always partial to Karloff the Uncanny.”

Lon’s heart burst with excitement! “Oh my God! No! Have you ever seen
Son of Dracula
? Chaney made a better Dracula than Lugosi!”

“Have you ever seen
The Black Room
?” asked the president. “Karloff in dual roles? The man had range, beyond the makeup. How about
The Comedy of Terrors?
”

Lon followed Weston off the elevator into a marble-tiled lobby. He was totally turned around, couldn’t have found his way out if he was being chased by a minotaur.

“Okay, alright,” Lon conceded, “but have you seen the 1939
Of Mice and Men?”

“I’ll admit I haven’t,” Weston responded, gesturing Lon through a door to their immediate right, past more bland artwork. “Is it good?”

“You won’t believe Chaney’s performance! That’s where he really stepped out of his father’s shadow.”

“I’ll check it out,” Weston said as they entered a new hallway and a decidedly different environment, one far more modern than the rest of the White House. The Na’vi carpeting, wood panels, and halogen lights were homey, but the dead room tone and cool recycled air felt oddly counterfeit, as if the walls were hiding something far more sophisticated.

They passed a pod bustling with televisions and energetic people in headsets, and the president sensed Lon’s curiosity. “That’s the Watch Center. Those guys monitor all the news in the world, all the time.”

They reached a long conference room, with massive flat-screen televisions built into its wood-paneled walls. A high-sheen redwood table was populated by a lot of the same people he’d met earlier, including Luft, Greenberg, and Truesdale. Others were seated behind them.

Lon had seen this place in the movies! This was the White House Situation Room, where the president decides to drop nuclear bombs!

“Have a seat, Lon.” Weston directed him to sit in a chair behind his place at the head of the table.