Riposte (The Redivivus Trilogy Book 2) (13 page)

Realizing what this turn of events truly meant, he closed his eyes and let his head come to rest against the wall. How could he have possibly known that all of his careful planning and patient waiting would be a complete waste—stolen right out from under him by the end of humanity? No matter the angle with which he viewed the current situation, he always reached the same conclusion. Too much had changed; humanity had already lost too much for him to cause even a ripple in the bucket. In that instant, rather than wallow in the inequity that had found him once again, Connor Roan accepted that everything he had worked toward for the last several years was gone. In that same horrible instant, a new plan, one more in line with the current turn of events, hatched deep inside the deplorable depths of his corrupt mind.
If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.

Fueled by his renewed sense of purpose, Connor Roan climbed back to his feet. While he knew there was still a great deal he did not know about the plague wreaking havoc across the land, he felt he already had a fair working knowledge of the phenomenon. In many ways, this understanding alleviated a substantial amount of the fear he experienced immediately after the crash.
Knowledge is power, and power is control.
Had the hallway been illuminated and anyone been around to witness the transformation, he or she would have seen a definite confidence in Connor’s demeanor that had not been present moments ago. Each resounding footfall now carried an insouciant badassery that reverberated off the walls of the vacant hallway, daring anyone or anything to question its verity.

Upon reaching the end of the long hallway, Connor froze when he heard the muffled screams of someone in mortal danger somewhere outside the office. Judging from the hysterical quality of the shrill cries, he assumed it was a female. Cautiously, he gazed out the building’s rear windows but saw nothing of concern. Once again, the screams began, this time with increased intensity. Now attuned to the sound, he ascertained that it was coming from behind the building to the right of his location. Peering through the window as far as possible in that direction, he could just make out the edge of a writhing mass packed tightly against something he could not see.

Heedful not to attract any undue attention, Connor opened the back door without a sound. Slipping out of the building, he felt the cool late-morning air against his skin. The refreshing breeze was a welcomed change from the stale air inside the stuffy office until the ominous undercurrent reached his senses. Carried by the wind like remora on the back of a shark, the blighted chorus of unearthly moans and wails sang a grim song of pain and suffering that defied imagination. The plaintive cries for help wove in and out of the din of the infected, seemingly fused despite trying desperately to remain distinct.
Two completely contrasting sounds, so inseparable they are heard as one.

In Connor’s twisted mind, there was no hope for the trapped woman. Although she had yet to accept it, he already saw her as part of infected mass at her feet, and he saw no reason for it to be any other way. Even if he thought he could have helped her, Connor Roan would not have done so.

As he stared at the macabre scene, he realized there were actually two people standing atop the dumpster—the woman he had heard as well as an older man. At least thirty infected were pressing against the metal receptacle, nearly obscuring it from view entirely. It looked as though the two were crowd surfing atop the monsters’ reaching hands. Connor watched as several of the infected almost made it on top of the dumpster, forced up the backs of those in front of them by the mass of infected pushing them from behind.
It’s just a matter of time. Soon it
will
be just one sound.

Connor knew that if he were stuck on the dumpster with the old man, he would have thrown him to the infected in order to open a window of opportunity for his own escape. He also knew most people were far too weak to act in such a logical and pragmatic manner, so he saw no reason to put his own neck on the line.
Why help those that won’t even help themselves?

Taking a knee, Connor watched with morbid fascination. He was assailed by a sensation far worse than the sound that first drew his attention, forcing him to look away as though that might allow him to escape. The vile stench wafting through the air was so nauseating that it left him at a loss for words. Although impossible to describe accurately, the repugnant odor was something akin to a gamy blend of rotten potatoes, a necrotic leg long overdue for amputation, and the slightest hint of Limburger cheese. Connor puked into his mouth before he was able to exert control over his mutinous stomach; the caustic bile searing the back of his throat. Infuriated, he spat the foul liquid onto the ground in disgust. Recovering from the smell that caught him completely off-guard, he raised his head to reveal eyes brimming with malice and derision. Doggedly, he climbed to his feet having clearly had enough of this new world.

Aside from the group currently tormenting the two pathetic souls, Connor saw only three other infected on this side of the building. They appeared to have been heading to join the growing horde around the dumpster until he stepped into their path. Each one seemed more handicapped than the next, which Connor presumed was why they lagged so far behind their brethren. The closest one was less than fifteen feet away but moved so slowly he imagined it would still take the thing five minutes to close the distance. Its awkward gait had a robotic quality to it. A brief pause between each strained movement gave the clear impression of a series of distinct actions rather than a smooth, continuous motion. An artificial limb was loosely strapped to the stump just below the thing’s left knee, wobbling precariously with each step. Five feet behind was a hunched figure that had to be at least one hundred years old. Weighing eighty pounds with its pockets full of rocks, the cachectic thing was the epitome of skin and bones. Bringing up the rear was perhaps the most ghastly of them all. The polar opposite of the decrepit old man, the former toddler staggered along like a drunken midget with vertigo. Connor imagined the little monster might well have taken its first step a moment before becoming infected.
What a wretched bunch!

Disgusted, he strode forward, kicking the first monster’s fake limb as if trying for the game-winning field goal. The prosthesis tore free and hurtled through the air, spinning as it went, before the attached shoe hit the elderly man square in the face. The amputee pitched forward, slamming hard into the ground. Connor heard the sharp cracking sound of at least one bone breaking as it smashed into the ground. Thrown off balance by the blow to the head, the centenarian toppled backward like a felled tree, pinning the last of the three in the process. The toddler let out a shrill, mewing sound that Connor found more disturbing than any other he had heard them make previously. Even so, the ridiculous slapstick quality of the situation brought a wicked sneer to his face.

With a single kick, he had taken all three of the infected in his path out of the equation. So innocuous were the crippled things to begin with, he did not even bother to put them down definitively. Connor walked slowly past the crumpled heap, stepping over the old man’s outstretched arm as if trying to avoid stepping on a crack in the sidewalk. He didn’t even look down at the grasping hand as he passed. Behind him, the shouts of the woman changed once again. She had finally noticed him as he stalked away in the opposite direction.

“Hey! Over here! Help us! Mister? Please, help us!” she bellowed with renewed fervor. Her increased excitement was contagious, having the unintended effect of escalating the veritable feeding frenzy at her feet.

Despite her intensified pleas for help, Connor did not break stride or even turn to regard the doomed individuals. Instead, he continued walking as nonchalantly as if out on a leisurely Sunday stroll. Physically, he was was feeling much better. He had his combat knife and sidearm with two spare magazines. He felt confident he could dispatch the beleaguering monsters and save the helpless pair. That, however, is not what he did. 

Connor Roan was not a good person.

9

October 3, 2015

Cobb County, GA

As the truck slowed to a stop, General Montes switched on the LSSV’s windshield wipers, smearing a grotesque, curving swath of carnage across the cracked glass. A thick band of sanguineous gore coursed through the center of the semi-translucent arc where a fingernail was lodged under the wiper blade. Through the smudged windshield, the entire world was painted in a sickly, reddish-brown hue. Triggering the washer fluid, General Montes watched as thin, clear lines cut through the filth like tears from a guardian angel too late to the battle. The wipers whipped across, once again mixing everything into a briny mess as they struggled with the impossible task of erasing the horror they just endured. Dr. San’s quiet sobs proved to be almost too much for the tired General. With a sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger as he dropped his head in a futile attempt to shield himself against the defeat he felt welling up in his eyes.

After a few quiet moments, punctuated only by the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers, Corporal Rocha spoke up, “General, we should probably keep moving. That horde won’t be too far behind.”

Although she knew he was right, Lin still felt anger and resentment toward Corporal Rocha for being the one willing to say what they all knew. Although she had only just met Sergeant Garza, she felt they owed him an unpayable debt for saving their lives at the air reserve base. Simply leaving him behind did not seem right despite the fact that he had told them to do so. As a civilian, she could not wrap her mind around the mission-above-all-else mentality she had witnessed time and again among the soldiers; that degree of self-sacrifice was simply too hard to fathom.

When General Montes raised his head, the downcast look reflecting in the rearview mirror nearly made Lin’s heart shatter. She opened her mouth to speak but was cut short by the loud bang of a hand smacking against the driver’s side window.

Startled, Montes turned his head toward the sound in time to see the skinless face of a monster behind an equally mutilated hand poised for another blow. Blurred by the filthy handprint left on the glass, he saw the hand just as it slammed into the glass with a sharp
crack
. As the glass exploded into a thousand tiny pieces, Montes wondered if a ring on the thing’s hand had caused the glass to shatter.

In an instant, the loathsome thing had General Montes by the collar and was trying to haul him out of the truck. Another sharp crack erupted in the distance, and a fine mist of red and black fluid exploded from the thing’s head. Its sullied hand went slack as it sagged to the ground in a lifeless heap.

From the back seat, Corporal Rocha yelled, “SNIPER! GO!” Wasting no time, General Montes shifted the truck into drive and peeled off in a hurry.

Confused by the rapid sequence of events, Lin asked, “Why are we driving away? They saved you. Maybe they can help us.”

Without hesitation, Rocha replied, “We have no idea if that bullet was intended for the General or for the monster. We must assume everyone is hostile until we know otherwise, without a doubt. We cannot afford to take any chances.”

Although Lin did not entirely understand Corporal Rocha’s logic, or the world they were operating in, he and the other soldiers had not let her down thus far. Seeing no reason to doubt his judgment, she decided to place her trust in him.

The truck skidded sideways through the damp grass as they narrowly missed a small tree growing near the edge of the interstate. When the truck’s tires found purchase once again, Montes gunned the engine and the truck lurched forward, heading away from the collapsed overpass. Owing to a level shoulder devoid of any further obstructions, the truck zipped along at a modest clip, putting distance between itself and the shooter—whether savior or assassin.

The truck’s powerful engine roared as its tires clawed up the embankment and back onto the road. As they drove, the ruined overpass slowly faded into the distance behind them. Staring out the rear window of the cab, Lin knew the images of Garza standing alone like a one-man rampart against the throngs of infected would not fade so easily. A lone tear broke free and rolled down her cheek. Somewhere in the trees back by the intersection, Lin saw a brief glint of light flash as though the sun were reflecting off of a passing window.

From his concealed position in the wooded area, the shooter followed the fleeing truck with his scope until he could no longer see it. With a huff of frustration, he lowered his rifle and let out the rest of the breath he had been holding. He worked the rifle’s bolt to chamber a new round before engaging the weapon’s safety. Dumbfounded, he could not fathom how he had missed his mark. He never missed, certainly not at such close range.
Who the hell were those people and why were they here? What the hell did they think they were doing springing my trap and ruining all my hard work?
The enraged man clinched his balled fists so tightly that his arms shook. With a steadying breath, he packed up his belongings and picked up his radio. As he depressed the talk button, he decided that regardless of who they were, they needed to atone for the transgression.

* * *

The three bone-tired survivors drove in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. While the current road was certainly more navigable than the interstate that ran under the collapsed overpass, countless obstructions still kept their pace to a slow crawl. After driving for a couple of miles, General Montes decided they should pull over and study the map. Although he and Garza had done so previously, Montes had not committed everything the other man had said regarding their route to memory as Garza had been travelling with them at the time. Now that the group consisted of only the three Brazilians, he knew it would be best to take a closer look.

“We are here, maybe five miles from the airbase. The CDC facility is a little over twenty miles from the base by interstate. We will be better off taking some of the smaller roads and highways to try to avoid the bulk of the stalled traffic. It will increase our mileage, but probably decrease our travel time, as we should be able to keep a faster pace,” General Montes said as he scrutinized the map spread out on the truck’s hood.

Sitting on the bumper of a nearby abandoned Volvo, Lin could just make out the General’s words. She watched as Corporal Rocha looked down, nodding his head in agreement. The younger man then pointed at the map and traced a path with his outstretched index finger as General Montes surveyed the map with an appraising look. She marveled at the loyalty and dedication the two men showed to one another, and to their mission. To Lin, they seemed more like father and son than two unrelated military officers.

Having agreed on the best route to take, General Montes folded the map in preparation for their departure. Somewhere beyond the two soldiers, Lin caught a fleeting glimpse of movement in her peripheral vision. She shifted slightly to focus on the location but saw nothing aside from the trees rustling in the wind, leading her to question whether she had actually seen anything at all. Just when she decided it had been nothing more than an optical illusion caused by the shimmering heat rising up from the ground, she saw a distinct, albeit brief, glint of light followed closely by the clear outline of a person in the distance. Jumping to her feet, she rushed to where General Montes and Corporal Rocha stood next to the LSSV.

Rocha sensed her movement and spun to face her. A startled look of concern spread across his face when he saw Lin’s frantic pace.

Skidding to a stop, she spoke breathlessly as she pointed toward the horizon. “Over there, I saw movement by the tree line. I wasn’t certain at first but then I saw it a second time, and it was definitely a person.”

Before her words were completely out of her mouth, both Rocha and Montes were dropping into a crouched position behind the hood of the truck, pulling Lin down with them as they went. Peering cautiously over the truck’s hood, Rocha scanned the horizon but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He certainly saw no people or movement. Without taking his eyes off the spot Lin had indicated, he said, “Could you tell how many there were? Could you tell if they were infected or not?”

Although he could not see it, she shot him an incredulous look before replying. “How am I supposed to know? I saw movement twice, so maybe two people—but that’s just a guess.”

“I wish I had a good pair of binoculars right about now,” Rocha said, still scouring the landscape for any sign of people.

“How sure are you about what you saw?” General Montes asked.

“Like I said, I can’t say for sure about the first thing but there was a definite flicker of light followed by the shape of a person the second time,” Lin confirmed.

Speaking to Montes, Rocha asked, “What do you think? A scope or some other optics?”

“Hard to say, but after the close shot back by the interstate, we can’t be too careful,” General Montes said in a hushed voice.

“How should we play this then? Continue forward or double back? Seems kind of risky either way,” Rocha asked.

“When neither choice seems good, sometimes the best decision is not to make one at all. Don’t you agree? Perhaps we should sit tight for a moment and see how things unfold,” Montes said.

Both Lin and Rocha considered his sagely words before nodding in agreement.

Eyes trained on the distant horizon, Corporal Rocha continued scrutinizing every inch of the landscape. After nearly an hour, his eyes ached from the strain of keeping constant watch. “I haven’t seen a thing. Perhaps whomever Lin saw was just passing through. That location is only five hundred meters or so from here. I can scout up ahead and make sure it’s all clear. If it is, I can signal and you two can bring the truck up. What do you think?”

General Montes considered his plan before speaking. “Sounds like a reasonable option. Otherwise, I’m not sure how long we should wait before moving forward.” 

Corporal Rocha checked his gear, ensuring everything was in its proper place and ready for use at a moment’s notice. He and Montes were so intent on the road ahead that neither of them noticed the lone figure slowly advancing toward the rear of their position.

Creeping stealthily between the shadows, the shooter moved with the wind and made almost as little sound. When he came to within two hundred yards of the three survivors huddled behind the truck, he raised his binoculars and saw the younger man looking over his rifle as well as the rest of the equipment stowed in his tactical vest.

For the first time, the shooter saw the details of the people who had interfered with his plan back at the overpass. The two men were obviously military, though judging from their uniforms and the gear they carried, they were not American.
Strange. What would foreign troops be doing on American soil? They look like they are from Central or South America. Mexico perhaps?
The third person, a female, was huddled behind them and did not appear to have a military background judging from her dress and demeanor. She also looked more Asian than the two men she was with.
Are they escorting her? Protecting her? Why? Who is she?
Flummoxed and intrigued, he kept coming up with questions, and he was ready for answers.

Watching the younger soldier slide around to the front of the truck, the shooter realized the man was preparing to move. Cueing his radio, he called to the men lying in wait farther down the road. “I’m nearly in position but we’ve got one on the move. Show yourself for a second. Give them a reflection off your glass or something. That should freeze him in his tracks and give me enough time to get into range. Don’t fire unless you have to, and even then warning shots first. Clear?”

Just as expected the movement and reflection brought the soldier’s advance to an immediate halt.
Whoever they are, they have at least some idea of what they are doing.
With a malicious smile plastered on his camouflaged face, he ducked down and continued stalking forward. Coming within seventy-five yards of the crouching survivors, the shooter quietly placed his rifle on the ground and switched to his current weapon of choice: the Teledart RD706. The long range, CO
2
–powered injection rifle was effective at twice that distance, and highly accurate at his current range. Silent and elegant, the gun could be configured to achieve a specific outcome simply by altering the load of the darts. While such tranquilizer guns were generally considered non-lethal, he knew that depended on the particular load of the dart. An anesthetic drug could have a sedating effect at one dosage and a lethal effect at another. On the other hand, some concoctions were lethal at any dose.

While keeping an eye on the survivors, he prepared three darts with which to take them down. Exercising extreme caution, he brought out a small vial of dark, rancid liquid that made him gag involuntarily as he drew a small amount into two of the syringes. He knew even the smallest aliquot of the deadly fluid would get the job done. The rest of the space was filled with an anesthetic agent capable of incapacitating the target long enough for the other component to take effect. He filled the third and smallest dart with the anesthetic drug only. He very much wanted to find out who the woman was, but first he needed to remove the two soldiers from the equation.

Much like the fletching on an arrow, each syringe had a tailpiece comprised of tufts of synthetic fibers affixed to the rear, providing exceptional stability during flight. He attached a wicked, barbed needle to each syringe, admiring the solid-tipped, hollow bore design that allowed excellent penetration as well as consistent delivery of the contents. A small silicone sleeve was placed over the tip of the needle, effectively sealing the lateral injection ports located on the needle’s shaft. Lastly, he pressurized each syringe with a small amount of air that would force the contents out through the lateral ports once the silicone sleeve was displaced upon impact. The needle’s barbs greatly increased dart retention, ensuring it stayed in place long enough to allow complete, precise delivery. Every time he used the weapon, he reveled in the feeling of engineering the demise of his enemies. He felt like a god, as if he alone possessed the power to control fate—to transform it into a well-orchestrated symphony of death of his own design.