Instead they stared in total, numb, uncomprehending shock at what was happening.
Then they tried to help.
They slung their rifles and stepped in to try and pull the infected agents away from the newly bitten. It was an act of brotherhood, of fellowship, of compassion.
And they died for it as the infected turned on them. A small bite here, a bigger bite there. Men staggered backward from the melee, bleeding and screaming.
The other agents panicked.
Some retreated, totally unprepared for this, unable to respond, their training lost in the madness of the moment.
Others, either colder or hardier men, opened fire.
Aiming for legs. Shooting to wound. To disable that which could not be disabled.
The injured bled out.
Died.
And came back.
Javad joined the frenzy. Killing, wounding, and then loping down the hallway, gibbering and moaning, seeking fresh prey.
Some of the agents followed. Living and dead.
There was continuous gunfire for as long as ammunition and life remained.
And then, when there was no one left who looked or acted like a DMS soldier, the real slaughter began. There was so much life here. Even sickness was life. One hundred and eighty-six civilians.
Soon, one hundred and eighty-six monsters.
Then Alpha Team showed up.
By now the hospital was lost, overrun.
Mr. Church and Gus Dietrich were there. So was Major Courtland. And Bliss almost screamed as Javad and a knot of infected burst through a doorway and attacked the three senior DMS staff.
Dietrich drew his sidearm and began firing double-taps to the chest. Infected fell from the impact of the bullets, but they did not stay down. He and Courtland stood side by side, firing, reloading, firing.
Javad ran around them. Dietrich twisted and hit him twice with rounds in the side of the chest. It should have exploded the man’s heart and lungs. But Javad drove straight for Mr. Church, hands reaching, red mouth wide to bite.
Church stood his ground, his face grave but without fear. As Javad lunged at him, Church slapped the reaching arms to one side and fired a Taser point-blank into Javad’s mangled face. The flechettes buried themselves in the dead terrorist’s cheeks and the gun sent two joules of electrical power into what remained of the central nervous system of the infected.
Javad Mustapha fell, immediately and with all the grace of a toppled mannequin. Bliss watched Mr. Church evaluate that and then study the gunplay unfolding around him. In her earbud, Bliss could hear him ordering everyone back, recalling the remaining DMS troops in the building. Church stood by the open door until the last stragglers—some of them bleeding from bites—staggered out into the parking lot. By now a sleek DMS Black Hawk helicopter was in the air above the lot.
“Kill all cell phone feeds,” Church ordered. “Cut all phone lines and jam the signals from the press. Do it now.”
Bliss took her hand back from Hu and immediately began hitting keys. Bug said that he was doing the same, both of them using the Blackout software package they’d written to Church’s specs. Maybe there was an Executive Order on file to approve this kind of thing, but probably not. Church needed it done and they did it.
“Done,” said Bug.
“Done,” said Bliss.
Then she heard Church address the pilot and speak two words that sent a thrill through her entire body.
He said, “Burn it.”
A moment later the Black Hawk launched its full complement of Hellfire missiles at the hospital. In seconds the entire place was burning.
A pyre.
Bliss stopped typing and leaned slowly forward to study Mr. Church. The massive fire was reflected in the lenses of his tinted glasses and for a moment Bliss had the irrational feeling that she was seeing inside his mind, that behind his stony face real fires burned.
Something shifted inside her own mind. Gears were stripped as she thought about everything that had just happened.
A designer pathogen so dangerous and sophisticated that it killed everyone who was infected—killed them and then raised them from death to become vectors for the spread of the disease. That was something military scientists had discussed since the Cold War. It was science fiction stuff. Horror story stuff. But now …
Real.
Right here.
Such power.
And Church himself. In the heat of the fight he was cool, efficient, his actions uncomplicated by any acceptance of his own emotions. Whatever he felt about what was happening Church kept chained in his head. It made him seem inhuman. Not less than human.
More than human.
Bliss felt heat flash through her body as if she could feel the fire that was reflected on Church’s glasses, and on his skin. Her own cheeks grew hot and she was glad they were inside a darkened vehicle.
Church was unlike anyone Bliss had ever known.
Completely in control.
So powerful.
With a word he’d called down hellfire and destroyed the entire hospital. At once stopping the immediate spread of the plague and demonstrating a level of personal power that was greater than anything Bliss had encountered. And she’d met generals and presidents.
Burn it.
That’s what he’d said.
“God…” she breathed.
Beside her, Hu said, “I know, right? This is fucking nuts!”
She nodded, but it was in no way a response to his comment or enthusiasm. Hu was already excited, happy in his own way, that there would be new puzzles to solve, new toys to play with. He was a genius sociopath, and as such he was less evolved, less interesting than Church.
No, Church was no sociopath. He did care about people. He cared quite a lot. So much that he was willing to take a scalpel to the skin of the world in order to carve out the cancers. He was willing to burn the sick and dying, the helpless and the desperate in order to save the city, maybe the world.
That was power.
That was real goddamn power.
Bliss felt a wave of erotic need surge through her and she almost moaned.
It was not completely a desire to hold someone that powerful in her arms or between her thighs. No … she imagined what it would be like to touch her own flesh and to know that the person inside that body was this powerful.
To be as powerful as Church.
To be more powerful.
“God,” she said again.
Chapter Thirty
Corner of Fifth Avenue and Garfield Street
Park Slope, Brooklyn
Sunday, August 31, 12:19 p.m.
“There it is,” said Bunny, nodding toward the intersection just ahead. He angled the black Crown Victoria toward the curb and parked near a bistro on the corner of Garfield and Fifth. It was a lovely area, with leafy green trees and moderate car and foot traffic. The Surf Shop was catty-corner.
We were in a nondescript Lincoln Town Car. Well, by nondescript I mean it pretty much shouted “federal agents,” but it wasn’t an armored personnel carrier. No rocket launchers mounted on the hood. I was in the front seat with Bunny, and Top was in the back with Ghost. Despite all regulations to the contrary, Top was slowly scratching Ghost between the ears, and my dog was, from all indications, floating in a lazy orbit around Neptune. His eyelids fluttered and occasional shivers rippled down his back.
There was a bing-bong in my earbud and then Church’s voice. “Deacon to Cowboy.”
“Go for Cowboy,” I said.
“There have been eleven additional acts of random violence in different parts of the country. In four cases crimes were committed by young women wearing the same glasses and wig as Mother Night. It’s likely this is being done to foil facial recognition, and probably to send a message, a reinforcement of the anarchist model.”
“Ah,” said Top, “black bloc?”
“That’s our guess,” agreed Church.
Bunny frowned at Top and mouthe
d the words black bloc, clearly unsure of the reference. Top held up a finger.
“Whatever is happening appears to be heating up. Proceed with caution,” warned Church.
“Copy that,” I said and disconnected.
Bunny turned off the engine. “What’s a black bloc? Or is it a hip-hop thing?”
Top gave him a pitying look. “Don’t you ever read the damn newspapers, Farmboy?”
“I read Yahoo news sometimes.”
“A black bloc is a protest thing,” explained Top. “It’s a tactic some groups use, including anarchists. Bunch of people show up to make a protest and they’re all wearing black hoodies, dark glasses, scarves, ski masks, motorcycle helmets. That sort of shit. Trying to be anonymous, like ants in a swarm. No individuals, just a faceless mob, which forces the target of their protest to react to the mob as a whole. No way to focus countermeasures like discussion or negotiation on a single person, because they’re all the same. Get it?”
“Yeah, okay, maybe I did hear about something like that. Started somewhere in Europe?”
I nodded. “Sure, Germany, places like that. People making protests against squatter evictions, war involvement, nuclear power. All sorts of stuff, and some of it’s legit. Sometimes they have a good point.”
Top’s expression was sour. “But the tactic’s for shit. Building barricades, setting things on fire, throwing rocks at cops.”
“Not to go all Occupy on you, old man,” said Bunny, “but some of those cops deserve it. Tear-gassing unarmed protesters.”
Top leaned on the seat back between Bunny and me. He gave Bunny a hard look. “So you’re saying there are assholes on both sides of a conflict? Really? That’s brand-new news for the whole world? Damn, Farmboy, you’re smart.”
“Okay, okay, you know what I’m saying. Sometimes you have to make a lot of noise to get heard.”
“No doubt. Sometimes you have to pull a trigger, too. But I don’t believe Mr. Church sent us here to debate political ethics.”
“Point is,” I said, leaning into their conversation, “the big man thinks Mother Night’s wig and sunglasses might be a black bloc costume. Emphasis on ‘costume.’ Doesn’t mean she’s an anarchist or a protester. Means she and her people are maybe trying to look like them.”
“Can’t rule it out, though,” said Top.
“Can’t rule anything out,” I said.
“So,” said Bunny, “we’re not sure this is a real anarchy thing? The hacking thing, the bombings.”
“You heard Mother Night’s rant,” said Top. “Pretty much right out of the anarchist textbook.”
“Exactly,” I said. “So textbook it’s generic.”
They nodded and Bunny said, “Wonder if her name has some kind of meaning to it. Some kind of symbolism.”
Top shrugged. “Comes from the title of a novel by Kurt Vonnegut. ’Bout a guy who becomes a Nazi propagandist. Ends up in an Israeli prison.”
Bunny half smiled. “Have you read every damn book in the world? I mean, when the fuck do you have time to read?”
“Maybe you’d have time to read if you weren’t playing video games all the damn time,” murmured Top, “and following Lydia around with your dick dragging on the ground.”
“Hey.”
Top shrugged. “Mother Night. Might be something in the name, in the book reference. What do you call it? A metaphor. Propaganda and that shit. We should keep it in mind, Cap’n. Been too many cases already that have one coat of paint over something else.”
“Yup,” I said, nodding. “Okay, street looks quiet. Let’s go do this.”
“Hooah,” said Bunny dryly. “Hoo-frickin’-ah.”
He opened the glove box and sorted through a stack of official identification wallets, selected two, and handed one each to Top and me.
I opened mine, saw the letters FBI, nodded, and tucked it into the inner pocket of my coat. We checked our weapons, nodded briefly to one another. Ghost wagged his tail like we were going to play.
We got out of the car and walked toward the cyber café.
Interlude Seven
The Liberty Bell Center
Independence Mall
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Four Years Ago
Dr. Artemisia Bliss stood with her back to the wall, keeping out of the way as EMTs and DMS field techs carried in armloads of body bags.
Armloads of them.
Ninety-one people died at the Liberty Bell Center today. A few were part of a terrorist cell run by the legendary El Mujahid. Fourteen of the dead were members of Congress. The rest were civilians. Tourists, press, children.
Dead.
Dead twice, she corrected herself.
Killed by the seif-al-din pathogen delivered either by the explosive device that was hidden at the center or by the vectors.
Vectors.
Such a strange little word for so dreadful a thing.
The truth was much more horrible. Infected people whose bodies had been hijacked by genetically modified parasites, driven by unstoppable urges and specifically triggered brain chemicals to attack. And bite.
And devour.
Many of the bodies were no longer whole.
There was blood everywhere.
Everywhere.
Bliss wore a yellow hazmat suit and held a forensic collection kit in one hand.
“It’s safe,” said Dr. Hu as he came over to join her.
“‘Safe’?” she echoed.
“It’s not airborne,” he said, unfastening his hood and pulling it off. “Just don’t touch anything without gloves.”
She removed her hood and looked around at the devastation. The new DMS shooter, Captain Ledger, sat on a bench next to another recent recruit, the psychiatrist Dr. Rudy Sanchez. They both looked shell-shocked.
Bliss had watched videos of Ledger in action.
She could understand why Church liked him. The man was utterly ruthless, brutal and efficient. A nearly perfect killer, except for a psychological profile that read like it was written by Stephen King. Lots of people inside Ledger’s head, and none of them very nice.
Which did not at all change the fact that Bliss liked him.
No. Wanted him. That was closer to it.
She wanted the power that was in him to be inside her.
Sexually, sure, but that still wasn’t it. It was at times like this that she wished she were a vampire so she could drink his power and take it for her own. If she had that power, she knew she would use it. No question. She’d take Ledger’s power. And Church’s, of course.
Who else?
Samson Riggs—now Colonel Riggs; Aunt Sallie. A very few others.
Maybe even a weasel like Hu. He was as sexless as a broken dildo—and in bed he was all talk and very little else—but he had that brain. That sexy, sexy brain.
At times like this she felt that old familiar shift inside her head. As if something was changing. The first few times it happened, it felt like a loss of control, but an unspecified loss over an unknown area of control. Like something was happening in a closet somewhere in the back of her mind.
Now she understood it a little more.
It wasn’t a loss of control. Not a loss at all.
It was a process of removal.
Cutting away restraints. Removing the chocks from beneath the wheels of potential.
It was all about power.
Wanting it.
Deserving it.
Getting it.
Having it.
And … using it?
That part was still unformed in her mind, and she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to attach an agenda to the process. That felt somehow limiting. It was like the quantum phenomenon of light photons. A photon can behave as a wave or a particle, depending on how you measure it. To measure it restricts its infinite possibilities.
Bliss knew that she was changing, evolving, but she had no idea where that evolution would go or what form it might take. To predict is to attempt to measure,
and that felt wrong.
These thoughts flowed through her brain as she moved into the Liberty Bell Center, knelt by one corpse, opened her kit, and began to collect samples. The protocol was simple enough: take three vials of blood, scrapings of skin from around the mouth and cells from inside the cheek. Bag and tag each set of samples along with a fingerprint card and digital photo of each victim and then place them in a plastic bag marked with a biohazard symbol. Later, at the Hangar, the science team would run a massive battery of tests.
But as she collected samples, Bliss felt as if that evolving part of her gently but firmly took over the controls that drove her hands. She filled three vials with blood. And then a fourth. A fifth. A sixth.
She took two sets of skin samples.
Two cheek swabs.
Two of everything.
Into identical biohazard bags.
One bag went into the evidence pouch. The other …
She glanced around to see if anyone was watching her.
No one was, although the vice president was in the room, and he glanced her way, then glanced away.
When she was sure no one was looking, she unzipped a tool pouch on her hazmat suit and slipped the duplicate bag out of sight.
Then she paused there, letting both aspects of her personality—the upstart science geek girl she’d always been and this more evolved personality—stare at each other across the fact of what she’d done. Like gunslingers.
However, only one real gunslinger had come armed to this confrontation.
She felt the smile that reshaped her mouth as she began taking two sets of samples from a second victim.
Why am I doing this?
Both parts of her mind asked that question.
The geek had no answer. Or was afraid to answer.
The evolved aspect whispered an answer that was couched inside a single word.
Power.
She rose and moved to another body, and another, and another.
When she was finishing with the eleventh body, she rose and yelped in surprise to find a man standing directly behind her.
A tall man. Good looking in a desk-jockey way but with big hands that Bliss knew came from blue-collar work in his youth. A square jaw and intense eyes. And a smile that she’d seen on TV and the cover of Time. A smile everyone in the country knew. A smile everyone in the world knew. The supremely confident smile of a truly powerful man.