Red (54 page)

Thomas nodded.

His lieutenant raced ahead and spoke briefly to Johan, who looked back in alarm. He veered to the right and vanished into the trees with William. They would circle back, engage the Horde, and then draw them south according to classic Guard methods.

Thomas rode hard for as long as he dared. Surely William and Johan had engaged the Horde by now. He felt his wife's pulse for the hundredth time. With the horse bouncing under them, the task was now nearly impossible. Maybe her pulse had grown too weak for him to feel without stopping.

“Mikil!”

Thomas pulled his horse up before his second could respond. She saw him stop and called to the others, who had just entered a small clearing.

Thomas untied his wife's wrists, slipped off the horse, and eased her down to the grass. She lay on her side, still. He felt her neck with a trembling hand, desperate to feel the familiar pulse he'd pressed his face against so many times.

It wasn't there.

The others had come behind him, and he heard their startled cries, but his mind didn't care about them right now. He only wanted one thing. He wanted his wife back. But she was lying on the ground and he couldn't find her pulse.

She's dead, Thomas.

No, she couldn't be dead. She was Rachelle, the one who'd been healed by Justin. The one who had led them into the lake. The one who had shown him how to love and fight and lead and live.

“Mama?”

Marie. Tears spilled from his eyes at the sound of his daughter's voice.

“Mama!”

Both of his children fell to their knees over their mother. He tried one more time to feel her pulse, and this time he knew she was dead.

He sank to his haunches and let a terrible anguish wash over him. He drew a deep breath, lifted his chin, and began to sob at the sky.

Mikil was working over the body; a woman was hugging the children, who were also crying; Thomas could do nothing but cry. He'd seen so many die in battle, but today, in the wake of breathing Elyon's water, this death felt somehow different. Raw and terrible and more painful than he ever could have imagined.

Thomas slumped down beside his wife, curled into a ball, and wept.

Mikil took charge. “Mount. Lead them to the apple grove. Wait for us there.”

They left him alone. He knew he had to continue. Not all of the Horde would have followed Johan. They would be coming.

He invited them now. Come and kill me as well.

I have a lot riding on you, Thomas of Hunter.

The voice spoke crystal clear in his mind. He opened his eyes. Rachelle's back was a foot from his face. Still.

He closed his eyes, mind numb.

My daughter is with me now. I need her.

“Give her back,” Thomas whispered.

“What?” Mikil's voice said.

“Give her back!” he moaned.

For a long time there was only silence. They should have left long ago, but Mikil kept watch and let him lie in grief.

Then the voice spoke again.

Ride, Thomas. Ride with me.

Something was happening in his chest. He opened his eyes and focused on a strange warmth that spread through his lungs and up his neck.

He sat up.

Meet me at the desert, Thomas. Ride.

“Thomas?” Mikil knelt beside him. “I'm sorry, it's . . . it's a terrible tragedy. We should leave.”

Thomas stood. The ache in his heart throbbed, but there was this other voice, and he knew that voice. It had spoken to him in the emerald lake long ago. It had spoken in the red lake today. Justin had died. They'd all died. Now Rachelle had died again. But she was alive, because the voice said she was alive. If not here, then somewhere else.

“Help me with her, Mikil.”

They put Rachelle's body on the horse in front of Thomas, facing him with her face buried in his shoulder and her arms by his side. He held his wife and he rode and he cried tears that soaked her hair.

But his mourning was for his children and for himself, not for Rachelle. Not for Elyon's daughter. She was with Justin.

When they arrived at the apple orchard, Johan and William were waiting with the others. Johan wept for his sister. He kissed her and smoothed her hair and told them all that he had betrayed her.

“Where are we going?” Mikil asked.

“To the desert,” Thomas said, nudging his horse. “We ride to the desert.”

31

TO SAY that the world was descending into mad chaos would not be an overstatement, not in anyone's book. Four days had passed since Mike Orear had spilled his guts on CNN, since France had declared martial law, since Monique had returned with the magic elixir firmly in mind, since Thomas Hunter had been killed by a bullet to the forehead. Whether the headlines were in English or German or Spanish or Russian or any other language, they all boiled down to one of a dozen bold statements.

RAISON STRAIN THREAT CONFIRMED
WORLD ON BRINK OF WAR
OVER 5 BILLION ESTIMATED INFECTED
GLOBAL ECONOMIC SHUTDOWN
T MINUS 10 DAYS
GOD HELP US ALL
HOPE FOR ANTIVIRUS

Seeing any such headline was a surreal experience. Neither the writer nor the readers had any clue as to what any of it really meant. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Nothing like this could possibly be happening now. The Raison Strain had been thrust upon the world, and all but a few natives hidden deep in tropical jungles had surely heard the news. But how many believed? Really believed?

Denial.

Naturally, the world was either in full-fledged denial or too stunned to react. This was why there were no riots. This was why there were no protests. This was why the typical ranting and raving on the airwaves hadn't started yet.

Instead, there was an almost disconnected analysis of the situation. The world was collectively glued to the news, praying to God for the word they all knew would soon come—the announcement that Monique de Raison's antivirus had been tested and effectively killed the virus like they all knew it would.

The president spoke to the people twice each day from the White House, calming, reassuring. Tests for the infection were assigned randomly by lottery based on Social Security number. One person in every thousand was permitted to check into the local hospital for a test. The hope that first day that certain sections of the United States had been spared the virus quickly changed to astonishment as one by one each test, each family, each neighborhood, each town and city and state came back positive. CNN used a modified electoral map to show the virus's saturation. When infection was confirmed, the town was painted red. By the beginning of the second day, half the map was red. Twelve hours later, there was nothing to see but red.

Schools canceled classes. Despite the president's pleading for life as usual, half of the country's businesses closed their doors on the second day, and more were sure to follow. Transportation had all but come to a standstill. Thankfully, the public utilities continued their service with minimal staffs under direct orders from the president of the United States.

The first sign that chaos would soon threaten daily life was a run on grocery stores at 8:00 am. on the second day. Naturally. Panic would soon set in. It would be impossible to get to a store, much less find one open for business.

The second sign was the tone of the United Nations meeting that the president waited to address at this very minute. Those in attendance were a motley crew if the bags under their eyes and their wrinkled shirts were any indicator. The room was stuffed, every chair filled, every aisle crawling with aides. If there was ever a time for the global community to pull together, it was now. But the responses to the impassioned speeches thus far, from Russia, England, and now France, revealed just how far apart leaders could be when the chips were down.

Organized mayhem.

The French ambassador was spitting out his plea with remarkable conviction. “We are truly the victims of these barbarous terrorists—we, the innocent people of France! Our government has acted only in the best interest of our own citizens and the world community. No matter how impossible it might seem—no matter how suicidal, even—to not yield to their demands would be our true death. Better to live to fight another day than die over a cache of arms!”

A dozen voices shouted in defiance as soon as the translation in their earpieces was complete. Some in agreement, it seemed to Robert; some in vehement opposition. The word “traitor” was in there somewhere—clear enough.

He removed his earpiece. Majority leader Dwight Olsen had been on hold for the past minute. He picked up the black phone in front of him. “Okay, patch me through.”

“The president will take your call now.”

“Thank you,” Olsen's voice crackled. “Good morning, Mr. President.”

“I'm up in five minutes. What do you have, Dwight?”

“I understand you're considering declaring martial law.”

“I'll do what I think is necessary to keep Americans alive.”

“I urge you to remember that people still have their rights. Martial law is pushing too far.”

“Call it what you want. I'm calling out the National Guard today. Defense has drawn up a simple plan to deal with various contingencies. Curfew goes into effect tonight. I'm not going to get caught putting down a revolt at home while France is breathing down our necks.”

“Sir, I strongly recommend—”

“Not today. I took this call as a courtesy, but my course is set. We'll all be dead in ten days if we can't secure the antivirus. Our best hope for finding it died three days ago with Thomas Hunter—a man you dismissed out of hand, if you remember. Let's hope his death bought us what we need. If not, I don't know what we're going to do. Our ships are halfway across the Atlantic. I've got five days to make the call, you understand. Five days! In that time we keep our citizens alive and we keep them from tearing up the country. Everything else takes a backseat.”

“Still—”

“In a few minutes I'm addressing the United Nations,” Blair continued. “A copy of my speech will be faxed to you then, but let me give you the gist of it. I'm going to tell them that the United States will do whatever we deem necessary to protect the lives of our citizens and the lives of all who stand with us in the respect of human life. Then I'm going to call upon France to make known to the world the exact methods and means by which it will administer an antivirus in exchange for the weapons that are now streaming to its northern shores. A guarantee. Without any such guarantee, the United States will be forced to assume that the New Allegiance intends to let us die a terrible death after we have been stripped of our weapons.”

Dwight wasn't reacting. They both knew where this was heading.

“Under no circumstances will I lead my people to a needless death. If we are to be killed like sheep at the slaughter, then I will deal in kind to those who would threaten my people. With this in mind I'm authorizing the targeting of Paris and twenty-seven other undisclosed locations with nuclear weapons. In five days, short of receiving a guarantee that the United States will indeed be given an antivirus for the Raison Strain, much of France will cease to exist. The innocent citizens will have been fairly warned—make for the south. In a nutshell, you now have my speech. In light of our situation, martial is the least of your concerns.”

An aide whispered softly in his ear. “Sir, I have Theresa Sumner from the CDC.”

He nodded. The senate majority leader was still silent, reeling.

“If you have a problem with this, take it up with me in the morning briefing. Thank you, Dwight. I have to go.”

He set the phone down and took a cell phone from the aide. The deputy secretary of state, Merton Gains, was walking toward him carrying a red folder. Judging by the man's face, the folder undoubtedly contained more bad news. The secretary of state was on his way to the Middle East for a summit with several Arab nations, but it was too soon for news from his meetings. What else could have prompted Gains's entry? Too many possibilities to consider.

The president lifted the cell phone to his ear. “Hello, Theresa.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. President.” Her voice sounded thin.

“Any word on the tests?”

“Yes.” She paused.

Blair took a deep breath. “This isn't sounding good.”

“It's not. Monique's encoding survived the vaccine's mutation, but I'm afraid it's no longer effective in neutralizing the virus.”

“Meaning it doesn't work.”

“Basically, yes.”

“Well, does it or doesn't it? Don't give me ‘basically.'”

“It doesn't work. And to make matters worse, she's gone missing.”

“How could she go missing?”

“We're working on it. She didn't show up this morning. Kara Hunter is frantic. Something about Monique being able to find Thomas.”

It was the worst possible news he could have received two minutes before his address. Blair lowered his head and closed his eyes.

“Um, sir?”

“I'm here.”

“I just wanted to apologize. I let some details about the Strain slip to—”

“Yes, we know, Theresa. It's okay; it had to come out sooner or later anyway. It worked out. Find Monique. As soon as you do, I want to see her in Washington.”

He paused. This was a bad day for news. “And if you don't mind, tell Kara that our forces found the farm Monique described to us outside of Paris. It's deserted. There's no sign of her brother. They also found the lean-to in the quarry, but no body. We had to pull our people. My condolences.”

“Okay, I will. There's still hope, sir. We have over ten thousand scientists working on a—”

“Please. You've already done a good job persuading me that finding a solution in time is highly unlikely. We're going to have to find the antivirus that already exists. Assuming they have it.”

“Monique thinks they do,” Theresa said. “She seems quite confident it's a combination of her code and the information Thomas Hunter gave them.”