A wide-eyed Blackmon slid a hand into a pocket. It came out holding a gold chain, swinging slightly from the weight of a dangling gold cross.
“Jesus Christ,” she said. “Satan walks among us. Let it play.”
Vogel did.
The picture whipped back to the hunted. Murray saw that the woman had something clutched to her chest.
A baby.
The pilot spoke again. “Command, the woman appears to be carrying a child. Moving to engage.”
“Negative, Bat Twelve,” said the second voice. “Do not engage!”
Bat Twelve, apparently, wasn’t interested in listening to orders.
“Right and left guns, engage the targets chasing the woman and child. You’re cleared hot!”
The image vibrated slightly as the Pave Hawk’s guns opened up. Long streaks of white shot out, slammed into pursuers, cars and pavement alike. Some of the pursuers stopped moving, some scattered sideways, but most continued the chase. Among the crowd, Murray saw tiny flashes of light.
“Hostiles are returning fire,” the pilot said calmly. “Where they h.e.l.l did they get all those guns?”
The helicopter kept firing, but there were too many pursuers. Others came pouring out of doorways, cutting off any escape for the two — no, the three — hunted people. There was nowhere left to run.
The mob closed in from all sides. The man, woman and child vanished beneath a quickly growing pile of killers.
Vogel switched it off. The ever-increasing numbers of infected, Converted and dead took their normal place on the screen.
Blackmon stared. She scratched her right eyebrow. The Situation Room filled with another, familiar long silence.
“All those guns,” she said. “Where did the Converted get all those guns?”
Murray laughed. He choked it down instantly, but he was so tired he couldn’t help the reaction.
“Sorry,” he said. “Madam President, we are the most well-armed nation in the world. There are a quarter-billion guns in the United States — the Converted didn’t have to look far.”
Millions of guns. Millions of Converted. Millions of armed insurgents. Could it get any worse?
As if on cue, Admiral Porter leaned forward again, a phone still pressed to his ear.
“Madam President, I regret to inform you that we have word from Fort Stewart and Hunter Army Airfield in Georgia. They each suffered coordinated attacks by a large number of Converted, and” — he paused, swallowed — “and significant numbers of soldiers stationed at those facilities a.s.sisted in the a.s.sault.”
Blackmon’s gold cross dangled.
“Reinforcements,” she said. “Let’s get them help. What do we have in the area?”
Porter shook his head. “Fort Stewart has fallen, Madam President. So has Hunter. Both facilities are now in enemy hands. The Third Infantry Division was stationed at Fort Stewart — that division has been destroyed. And we’ve also got word that Andrews AFB is under organized attack.”
Murray’s body sagged. Third Infantry, the Rock of the Marne, a unit that had fought in both World Wars, in Korea and Iraq, over fifteen thousand soldiers … completely wiped out. And Andrews AFB, where Air Force One resided, under attack. The base also housed the 121st Fighter Squadron, an irreplaceable a.s.set.
But far more important than the base’s aircraft was its geographical location.
Andrews AFB was just twelve short miles from Washington, D.C.
THE RESPONSIBLE PARTY
“COOOOPERRRR. SICK?”
Cooper wasn’t sick. At least not physically; he’d eaten human flesh — what could be sicker than that?
Do what you have to so you can stay alive. Whatever it takes.
He sat cross-legged on a pile of clothes, probably gathered from one of the hotel rooms on the floors above. The fire warmed his face and chest. He held his gun in both hands. The barrel rested on his calves.
The Monster Formerly Known as Jeff sat next to him. It could almost have been a campfire scene, maybe a hunting trip to the Upper Peninsula, the two of them drinking Labatt, staring at the stars and talking about women.
Cooper wished the transformation had been more severe, that Jeff’s face didn’t look like Jeff, but the eyes, the nose … no mistaking his lifelong friend.
Jeff wanted to know if Cooper was ill. Cooper was trying to decide if he could put the barrel of his pistol to Jeff’s ear and pull the trigger.
Shoot him shoot him but if you miss or don’t kill him he’ll kill you he’ll eat you …
“COOOOPERRRR?”
“Yeah, Jeff,” Cooper said. “I’m sick.”
Other than Jeff, the cannibals were out of commission. They were sick, obviously hurting pretty bad. Even the Tall Man was down for the count.
Jeff reached a hand behind Cooper. Cooper froze … he tried to lift the gun, but he couldn’t move a muscle.
Please G.o.d make this stop make him go away make him go away I want to live I want to live I—
Something touched his head. Something hard. Something pointy. The bone-blade. Jeff was going to carve him up, rip him to shreds.
Get up and run and fight shoot him shoot him no-no-no you’ll miss you can’t win play dead please G.o.d please don’t let him kill me please.
Cooper started to tremble.
The thing touched his head again, only it wasn’t the bone-blade at all … it was Jeff’s fingers, brushing from Cooper’s temple to the top of his head. He felt the same thing a third time, and a fourth.