Contagious

“f.u.c.kin’-A, Jordan,” Brian said. “Chelsea will love you so much. That was a great shot.”

Private Jordan Willis nodded. He could only hope his actions pleased Chelsea. And it was a great f.u.c.king shot.

“Wait for it,” he said. “I think I double-dipped.”

Fifteen miles away from their position, the A319 trailed a thick, curved column of smoke as its nose dropped toward downtown Detroit. It sailed down into the city. Seconds later, a ball of flame rose into the sky.

“Bonus points,” Brian said. “Nice work.”

“Thanks. Wow, look at all the planes bailing out. I’m betting they aren’t asking the tower for permission to change their flight plans.”

One jet had been approaching and another had been circling, waiting for clearance. Both now turned away from DTW. Those suckers were big beasts, sure, but it looked like they could still haul b.a.l.l.s when they kicked in the engines.

Brian shouldered his own Stinger, looking for just the right target.

“You gonna shoot that thing or just pose with it?” Jordan asked.

“I think I better save it,” Brian said. “The general says they could still try to bring in C-5s or some C-17s. They do that, I’ll hit one on the way in.” He set the Stinger down and picked up one of five AT4 ant.i.tank weapons.

Jordan shook his head. He liked Brian, but sometimes the guy just didn’t think. “That’s an ant.i.tank missile, dumb-a.s.s. Ain’t no tanks here.”

“How about a fuel tank?” Brian pointed to a 747 sitting at a runway’s back edge. “I think that plane was probably going to take off before you shot down the other one. They can move pretty good in the air, but something tells me they can’t exactly turn on a dime when they’re on the ground.”

Jordan looked at the plane, a giant white sitting duck. Huh.

“I should have never doubted you,” Jordan said. “In fact, you’ve inspired me. I think I’ll see if one of these AT4s can hit the tower. I apologize for calling you a dumb-a.s.s, good sir.”

“Don’t mention it,” Brian said as he sighted in on the stationary 747 and pulled the trigger.

12:25 P.M.: Home Base

Clarence, Gitsh, Marcus, Dan and Margaret sat in the computer room of Trailer A. Each of the three computer screens played a different local channel. The left screen showed a live shot of a fire burning just east of Dearborn. The news anchor said a plane had been shot down by a missile. The middle screen showed jittery shots of panicked people rushing away from the towering Renaissance Center, the broken-gla.s.s top of which belched smoke from some large internal fire. Apparently gunmen had rushed into the center tower, killing everyone in sight, then started shooting the place up with shoulder-fired rockets. The screen on the right showed a bulky A-10 fighter sweeping in, strafing a green vehicle up on the Eight Mile Road overpa.s.s. Even with the poor camera work, Margaret saw the Humvee shake and shudder as bullets tore through it.

“This is insane,” she said. “It looks like footage from Iran or something.”

“I think we stay here,” Gitsh said. “There’s people all over out there, cars whipping down the streets and smashing into each other. Ogden’s men could spot us anywhere.”

“No, man,” Marcus said. “People all over is why we need to go now. Then we’re just more civvies running around looking for a place to hide our heads.”

“We’re on a railroad track that hasn’t been used in decades,” Gitsh said. “We’re tucked under a f.u.c.king overpa.s.s, man. You can’t even see us from the road. We just stay right here and we ride this out.”

Marcus shook his head. “Look, that John Doe in the autopsy room? He was found not a block from here. That was fine when it was just him, but now there’s infected all over the place. These people pack together, which means their base or whatever has to be close. All it takes is one rocket hitting this trailer and we’re all dead. We get out there on foot, find a building to hide in, maybe we live.”

“You mean maybe some of us live,” Gitsh said. “You just want to get out there because you know this urban-combat bulls.h.i.t and you want to save yourself.”

“Motherf—”

“Enough,” Clarence said. He spoke quietly, but his voice carried command. “It’s my call, and we stay. Those highway interchanges they attacked are ten miles from here. That probably means most of Ogden’s men are nowhere close to us. We’re not equipped to take them on. They see us, we’re screwed, so we stay right here under cover.”

“What about the cop?” Gitsh asked.

“What about him?” Margaret said.

“Come on, Doc,” Gitsh said. “What if he wakes up and starts screaming?”

Dan shook his head. “He’s not going to be screaming anytime soon. He’s in pretty bad shape.”

Gitsh laughed. “Yeah, well, Betty Jewell was in pretty bad shape too, right? Besides, these f.u.c.king things can talk to each other mentally and s.h.i.t.”

“Not him,” Margaret said. “We cured him.”

“You think we cured him,” Dan said. “You don’t really know.”

“We’ve got to kill him,” Gitsh said.

“He’s right,” Marcus said. “We have to kill him.”

“You can’t,” Margaret said. “This isn’t just about the five of us. Officer Sanchez could be the key to a cure for the new strain. I’ll watch him.”

“I agree with Gitsh,” Dan said. “He starts talking, we’re screwed. I vote we kill him.”

Margaret sneered at Dan. “And what happened to being a doctor?”

He shrugged. “He’s going to die anyway from an overdose of latrunculin, so what’s the difference? Kill him now.”

Gitsh nodded. “That’s three votes. Majority rules.”

“This isn’t a democracy,” Clarence said. “It’s a dictatorship, and I’m the dictator. Sanchez is a civilian, a cop. He caught this s.h.i.t in the line of duty. And Margaret is right—he could be the key to a cure. Unless we know he’s a threat, he stays where he is. Margaret will watch him. I’ll stay with her. If he poses a threat, I’ll kill him myself. Cool?”