City Under the Moon (15 page)

When she left for basic training, she kissed Aaron goodbye and thanked him for whatever might come. She wrote him a month later. As expected, she never heard back.

Army life came too easy. And the right people noticed.

Her drill sergeant said he’d never seen anyone—man or woman—take so readily to the physical demands of basic training. She mastered their combat methods, and taught them a thing or two of her own. Three weeks, and she beat their best in knife work. Five for advanced hand-to-hand.

The momentum fueled her studies. Her bachelor’s in communications came in three years; could’ve been two if they’d let her take a bigger workload. She rarely finished a curriculum before she was bounced upward.

She would not be distracted.

Every step came with barrages of counseling. At the beginning, they were concerned about her past. Soon enough, her aptitude tests made them interested in her future. The CIA tried to recruit her, but she didn’t want to go abroad.

She wanted to stop the enemy from coming into her home.

She thought the background checks might put the kibosh on her application to the FBI. A traumatic past made for a dicey profile. Oh, and had they noticed that she was a sociopath?

Nevertheless, because of her performance in the army and confidence from various sources—including Aaron, and maybe an angel named Rebekkah Luft—she was accepted into Quantico.

And then the Prime Program came along.

When the Department of Defense recruiter described the parameters of the job, she responded with a question.

In other words, you want me to be a killer?

No,
he said.
Those are the exact words.

There were golf pros and computer whizzes and people who could spit watermelon seeds. Tildascow was a killer. The government needed people like her, people who knew but did not feel. And she needed them, to point her in the right direction.

Two

FBI New York Headquarters

26 Federal Plaza

Watch Room

10:58 p.m.

Tildascow couldn’t afford to sit still this long.

It took twenty fucking minutes to get the Situation Room on the phone, even with the FBI’s pre-approved hard-wired encryption line and expedition by the Director through the Attorney General himself.

Hell, the president had personally commended her twice and passed a note through the Director a third time. The next time they met, she was going to ball up and ask for his cell number. What’s the worst that could happen?

The wait was even more interminable because every bone in her body wanted to get to Times Square. She knew she wouldn’t be able to get anywhere near the melee, and she didn’t have any silver bullets anyway. But the helplessness burned in her chest. Maybe that was the one thing she
could
feel.

Finally, the automatic lock on the door sealed, the sound dampeners whined and the flat-panel monitor came alive with the presidential seal.

A few seconds later, the president and the harried members of the National Security Council appeared. Tildascow spoke with no introduction.

“I’ve found our man.”

Three

Situation Room

December 31

10:48 p.m.

Lon Toller was sitting behind the President of the United States and his National Security Council as the catastrophe unfolded before their eyes.

The staff was at Warp 10: writing, whispering, strategizing. Only Lon and the president were silently glued to the surreal horror unfolding on television.

Headlines appeared on a panel screen positioned to face the National Security Advisor.
ABC has transformation on tape, broadcasting, it read. Rush on Penn Station, authorities struggling. All transportation frozen as per quarantine. State of Emergency declared in Manhattan.

CBS News had grainy footage of a werewolf leaping from tree to tree, divebombing its victims like a massive falcon. Lon never imagined they’d move so fast. They sure didn’t act like the classic Wolf Man.

Dead and injured lay everywhere—how many could be infected?

Manhattan must be hell on Earth on right now.

Manhattan…

“My girlfriend is in Manhattan,” Lon sputtered at the same moment the thought occurred. “Elizabeth…”

“There are
two million
people in Manhattan,” said Luft. She turned to a duty officer, but spoke to Lon. “We’re going to ask you to leave this room right now.”

“Okay, but I need my cell phone.” Nobody cared. He turned to the president: “Please. I have to call to her.”

“They’ll take care of you, Lon.”

The national something or other shouted from one of the phone booths: “The FBI has something. They say we have to see it immediately.”

Lon wanted to hear what that might be, but a duty officer took him by the shoulder. Guy smelled like corn chowder.

The last thing Lon saw was a dour blond woman appearing on one of the flat-screen panels and introducing herself as FBI Special Agent Til-something. As the door swung shut, he heard her say a name.

“Demetrius Valenkov.”

Waitaminutewaitaminutewaita—

“Wait!“

“Please don’t fight,” the duty officer said, lifting him into the elevator.

Lon threw out his leg to stop the doors.

“Mister President! I have information on Demetrius Valenkov!”

The officer threw him against the back of the elevator car, making the whole thing shake. “Stop fighting!”

“Ow, please, I’m just trying to help—“

“Bring him back!” the president shouted.

The duty officer let him go, and Lon fell forward out of the car. He righted his black overcoat as he hurried back toward the Situation Room, where he met severe expressions.

“This better be good, Lon.”

“It is, I promise,” Lon said, completely aware of how badass he looked right now. He picked up the National Archives’ lycanthropy file and flipped through the documents and—
fuck, where was it?
His hands were starting to shake. “Please continue,” he muttered to Tildascow. Ugh, cottonmouth.

Tildascow kept going: “We have security footage of Valenkov at the UN just before the first victim was attacked, and again at the hospital when she arrived. He wants to be seen.”

She plugged an image onto the screen: airport security footage of passengers emerging from a skyway. Tired businessmen and grinning tourists looking for their next destination. All different and yet all the same.

And then one distinctive man emerged—a wolf among the deer. He was a roguish devil with dark, shoulder-length hair and dense facial scruff. Dark pants. He had a tee shirt stretched over his button-down shirt, with a handwritten message scrawled on the front.

“Find a cure?” observed the president. “For the werewolf disease?”

“Found a good way to get what he wants,” said Truesdale.

“Get Jessica Tanner from the CDC,” Luft said to another duty officer.

“Here it is!” exclaimed Lon. He waved a handwritten letter, etched on thick parchment and sealed in an evidence bag. “It’s from Demetrius Valenkov, dated April 2007, addressed to President Bush at the White House. Check it out, it’s on real vellum; I think it’s calfskin. This is a tradition that went back to ancient Rome—”

“What does it say?” urged Truesdale.

“It’s in Romanian, uhm—“

“Can we get a translator?” asked the president.

“I can read it,” Lon chirped. “I learned Romanian as a hobby.“

“We have Doctor Tanner from the CDC on the line,” said Luft. Jessica’s face appeared on one of the flat-panel screens.

“Read it, Lon.”

“Uhm… ‘Mister President, I am writing to….’” Lon read ahead to summarize. “He wants help. He says, ‘My father, The Right Honourable Zaharius Baron Valenkov III, has fallen under a curse which transforms him into a wolf under the light of the moon.’” Lon’s voice rose with excitement.

“Keep going!”

“’Your western medicine has cured many….’“ Lon struggled with his translation. “Weaknesses. He means diseases. ‘I beg for your assistance.’”

Jessica spoke up: “So his father is Patient Zero. We have to find him; he’ll have the purest version of the virus. From there we can deconstruct its genetic origin and hopefully develop a vaccine.“

“But he’s the originator of the bloodline,” said Truesdale, turning to Lon. “If we kill him, everyone is cured?”

“According to the mythology,“ Lon said.

“That doesn’t make any sense, not scientific or practical,” Jessica argued. “How could a virus inside a body react to the death of another separate organism? If you kill Patient Zero, the virus will die in his system, the purest strain will be lost and so will our best chance to cure the disease. We have to separate science from fantasy.”

“Fantasy just tore up Times Square!” Lon exclaimed.

“All right, young man,” Truesdale said.

“Is there anything else in that letter, Lon?” the president asked.

Lon read ahead and summarized: “He greatly anticipates a response. And he says he can be reached at the Valenkov estate. And then it ends with ‘God Bless America. Yours Sincerely, The Honourable Demetrius Valenkov.’”

“The Valenkov estate, that’s all?” asked the FBI agent.

“It’s not a modern country,” Lon reminded them. “You could probably send a letter and it’d—“

“We’re going to send a lot more than a letter,” interjected Truesdale. “Do we have anything on these people? He’s a baron?”

The Director of National Intelligence scanned notes on his aide’s laptop. “Nothing, sir. We’ll get the Romanian government on open-source immediately and divert our closest operatives to that region.”

“We need him alive, Mister President,” Jessica urged.

“We’re going to get him.”

“Is he the right target? Should we be trying to find the son in New York?” asked Luft.

“The son isn’t a werewolf,” said Tildascow. “He was in Times Square. I saw him in news footage after the others had transformed.”

“We can have an Aurora team ready in an hour,” said Truesdale. “There will be seats for two, and one for the father.”

“I know it’s not my jurisdiction, sir,” said Tildascow. “But I’m the best—“

“You’re on it. And good work, again, Agent Tildascow.”

“She’s a domestic agent,” said Shinick, the Attorney General, “She’s going to need an escort, someone who understands the region.”

“We have operatives mobilizing,” the president agreed.

“Send them, but I’ll move faster on my own. I just need one person who knows about werewolves.”

Eyes reluctantly fell on Lon.

Four

The Clock Strikes Twelve

The horrified eyes of the nation weren’t on the clock at the turn of the new year. In fact, the glowing ball at One Times Square never even dropped.

As soon as the outbreak began, the New York Port Authority, NYC Department of Transportation, NYPD, CDC Field Ops, Army Special Forces, and ragtag Rapid Deployment Forces moved to cut off every artery from Manhattan. The operation had been initiated hours earlier as minor roadblocks in the form of DUI filters. Even the authorities grew surprised and confused as the seal intensified with the arrival of hardened military.

The quarantine of Manhattan became a reality.

The largest thoroughfares were the easiest to close. Major bridges, including the Triborough, Manhattan, and George Washington, were susceptible to bottleneck checkpoints, as well as the four subterranean vehicular traffic tunnels. The Metropolitan Transportation Authority shut down the complex web of subway tunnels connecting to the mainland, and NYPD K-9 units patrolled the tracks. Once traffic was clogged, it was a matter of keeping people calm as the CDC EIS worked their screenings.

Penn Station and other hubs halted their fleets, and incoming trains were cancelled. Authorities and volunteers tried to keep travelers calm, but everyone wanted to put distance between themselves and Manhattan.

Dead bodies were scattered throughout Times Square, and the carnage spread to the surrounding areas. Dozens killed in the initial skirmish, hundreds of car accidents in the aftermath, thousands injured, and millions at risk.

The hospitals became disastrous.

Having no way to determine infections, caregivers were forced to treat the wounded as pariahs. Some off-duty doctors chose to stay home, and many others couldn’t find transportation. Morbid terrorism protocols were routinely drilled at all of Manhattan’s major hospitals, but they couldn’t be prepared for
this
.

By half-past eleven, the island was effectively sealed.

Tildascow was among the last to leave, via an MH-6 “Little Bird” helicopter piloted by an agent of the FBI’s elite counter-terrorism Hostage Rescue Team. It didn’t feel much sturdier than a soap bubble.

They cleared the restricted airspace over Manhattan at the Little Bird’s maximum speed of 175 mph and followed the southwestern trajectory of I-95 through Trenton and Philadelphia before cutting across the Chesapeake Bay en route to Prince George’s Country, Maryland, just a few miles from the White House. A bit more than an hour after takeoff, they arrived at Joint Base Andrews Naval Air Facility Washington, the home of Air Force One.

Back in New York, the last kernels of sirens, gunshots, and screams were still popping in midtown while NYPD SWAT snipers were in pursuit of at least two werewolves via helicopter.

The Stuyvesant Square werewolf had already taken three .300 caliber kill shots, but it kept on skipping across the trees of Central Park with astonishing speed and dexterity, crashing down on any hapless stragglers in its path. SWAT informed dispatch that their weapons were proving ineffective, and police coordinators tried to direct silver-bullet-armed officers into the werewolf’s chaotic path; but the park was too dangerous to enter on foot.

Internet servers buckled as surfers worldwide sought constant updates. Government officials asked the YouTube maintenance team to suppress the most graphic footage, but soon the video-hosting site crashed with all the rest.

Instead of the glowing ball, all eyes were on Press Secretary Jim Bunim in the last moments before midnight. He arrived in the White House Briefing Room to announce that the president would be making a statement, but not taking questions simply because they didn’t have answers.