Emergence Boxed Set, page 124
part #1 of Emergence Series
She stared out the window, beyond the squalor and decay of the city towards the ocean, her mind expanding like she was standing on the edge of an immense canyon.
I will find my own way, independent from your control and independent from this war against the Others.
Chapter 12
Liam and the other captives were still unconscious from the ketamine darts, their figures secured with straps to the gurneys as Bill Hogan stared down at them in the elevator. He thought back to his hesitation in shooting at his friends with the tranquilizer rifle, but the scales had tipped in recent months following his own capture and recruitment by the Argentinian thug ruling this hospital.
Davio Siemel had taken Hogan’s two boys aside, assuring him that they would be taken care of in the daycare wing on the second floor—as long as he fulfilled his role as a security enforcer for the hospital. In his previous life, Hogan had worked as the chief of security for another branch of the Thomas Jefferson Hospital, whose buildings were spread throughout the city, and this building was nearly identical in its layout.
With his children’s lives depending on his performance and efficiency, he had been responsible for rounding up most of the friends that he had lived with in the tunnels below prior to Davio’s arrival. Some of them adapted, some died, and others suffered a fate worse than death in the hormone-depletion ward used by the alphas.
Though the living conditions for indentured staff at the hospital were far superior to anything Bill had known in the aftermath of the pandemic, he had sunken eyes and a gaunt frame. His formerly broad shoulders always seemed slumped forward, and he rarely looked any of his work colleagues in the eye except when giving orders. His intake of antacid had tripled in recent weeks, his insides feeling shredded from the unending guilt and nightmares from his hand in keeping the horror show around him running smoothly.
Must hold out a little longer until I can figure out a way to get my boys outta here on a boat. The tunnel that Liam emerged from might work—only me and a few guards know about it.
His attention shot back to the present as the elevator doors opened. A thirty-something woman with red hair in a tight bun stepped forward, followed by a younger male orderly in blue scrubs. They rolled out the first gurney with Tim on it.
“The nurse downstairs in admissions already sampled his blood and the woman’s,” said Hogan. “He’s AB positive and she’s O negative, so once they’re hosed down, see that they are taken down to Isolation Wing 3.” He could barely utter the last words, knowing they were being consigned to the drone nourishment ward, where they would be fattened up on calorie-dense foods over the next week. Afterwards, they would be shackled inside a holding cell, where six drones would take turns slowly consuming them over the course of four days.
Hogan removed a bottle of Pepto-Bismol from his jacket, gulping down a swig as he watched the two gurneys being escorted away by another pair of orderlies, grimly realizing that, given his stature, Tim would outlast Vera by forty-eight hours.
“What about these two?” said, Claire, the red-headed woman, as she moved closer to Chloe, stroking the girl’s head. “God, she can’t be more than nine or ten.” The woman looked up at Hogan, her eyes tearing up. “My own baby was the same age as this girl when…when she was infected the first week of the goddamned pandemic.”
Hogan couldn’t save all four of his friends, and he knew he would have to send Tim and Vera below or he’d arouse suspicion trying to hide their blood types. And while Claire felt as he did, he wasn’t sure of the other orderlies. Some indentured staff had adapted too well to the new system, turning in others who broke the rules in order to gain more time with their own children or to increase their week’s rations. How easily we were subdued. We are little more than dogs on a leash now.
He leaned forward, pressing his hand against Claire’s. “Take these two to the observation room so they can get checked out. They were both coughing when I encountered them. I don’t need them infecting the others in the holding pens below.”
“And their blood types?” said Owen, the thin male orderly behind Claire. He had moved up, staring at the two supine figures like a jeweler examining a set of gems.
“B positive.” Hogan felt his ribs shudder as he said it, knowing their fate would be a slow death through adrenal depletion.
“Then two more for the alpha wing upstairs. Davio will be pleased,” said Owen, who was holding back a faint grin as he gazed lustily at the two groaning captives. “I’ll notify him.”
Hogan gave the man a scornful look. You filthy maggot—hoping to sidle up to Davio in exchange for a handful of food.
“No, you won’t, actually,” Bill said, recalling Liam’s skillset as an electrical engineer, which was hopefully enough to buy him and Chloe some time. “I will inform Davio myself.”
“But the adrenal quotas are low this week,” said Owen with a scowl.
Bill held up his beefy fist. “Get the fuck back to the rathole you crawled out of before I turn your pretty face to Jello.”
The man abruptly stood up, his eyes narrowing. He pivoted slightly, his head glancing over his shoulder at the alpha sentry in the hallway near the nurse’s desk. Then he took a step closer to Hogan. “Go ahead, big man, make a move. I dare you. You getting taken out by that rage-monster over there just means we all get moved up in rank.”
“Stop!” Claire inserted herself between the two men. “We are all going to get disciplined and have our food rations reduced if we stay here bitching at each other.” She slid out Chloe’s gurney, pushing past the orderly as Bill pushed Liam’s into the hallway and followed behind her. Briefly glaring back at the young man, Bill thrust his middle finger out as they strode past the menacing alpha.
***
Lena trotted down the stairs towards the second floor of the hospital, stopping as she heard familiar footfalls coming from below. She paused, seeing the lithe form of an alpha emerging. Lena immediately felt a sense of ease, studying the chiseled face of Curtis, the alpha who had stayed by her side from her earliest memories until two months ago, when her sisters had died and she was assigned another protector. His six-foot stature was accentuated by his sinewy build, and there was a faded blue tattoo of a coiled rattlesnake on his left forearm.
Curtis froze in place on the landing below when he saw her, his eyes showing a brief glimmer of recognition. He grunted then moved up the steps, brushing past her.
Lena grabbed his large hand, pulling him back from the door, timidly searching his mind.
Do you not remember me?
His charcoal-black eyes moved along the tiled floor then up at her. He turned, facing Lena.
She felt like there was a wall of fog between them, his uniqueness obscured and his mind’s eye now a conduit for another. Before Nick had fully insinuated himself into the alpha’s consciousness two months earlier, Curtis had a fierce mind that was more devoted to her than to the welfare of his own drones. Now, he seemed paralyzed, his individuality erased to serve Nick.
Compliant.
Devoid of will.
A sterile mind.
She reached her hand up towards his face, touching his cheek.
You were magnificent—what was best in our kind. Don’t ever forget that.
He tilted his head, his eyes staring at her. Curtis’ lips struggled to part, followed by the barely audible resonance of a shrill sound which stopped as abruptly as it began. He stepped back, pulling his hand away. Curtis opened the door, pausing to look over his shoulder at the girl before walking into the hallway.
She reached out to Nick’s mind, wanting to confront him, then quickly withdrew her thoughts, walking aimlessly down the stairs.
Our alphas are no different than the others in the brood—mindless servants.
What have you done to them?
What have you done?
Chapter 13
Once the Chinook landed on the Reagan, Reisner reluctantly hopped onto the deck, clutching his backpack as he walked towards the XO heading out to meet him and his team.
He shook hands with Commander Edward Riley, noting the man’s broad shoulders, which looked like they could barely fit through the hatch behind him.
“Glad to see you again—it’s been a while,” said Riley.
He looked up at the bridge, certain he could see Admiral Halsey sneering at him, though he couldn’t make out any faces. He and Halsey had never seen eye to eye since the beginning of the pandemic, when he revealed that the CIA’s deputy director was behind the development of the virus that almost wiped out humanity, not to mention the Chinese sub attack near Pearl Harbor that nearly destroyed the Reagan carrier group.
“How’s your boss doing?” said Reisner as they walked up a flight of stairs to the third level.
“He wasn’t thrilled we were pushing this far up north, and even less so when he heard you were coming on board.”
Reisner frowned. “Don’t sugarcoat things, Ed. Tell it to me straight.”
Riley glanced over his shoulder, smirking. “You know the way up top. He’s expecting you.” Riley peeled off to the right. “Hope to catch you guys at breakfast tomorrow after you’re back.”
Reisner waved him on, stopping next to Porter as the rest of their team continued up to the briefing room.
Porter leaned on his shoulder. “Maybe you and the admiral need to just take it outside on the flight deck one night when no one’s around and settle things once and for all. For what it’s worth, my money would be on you, of course.”
“I resigned myself long ago to the fact that I’m going to have enemies in our line of work. That most of them have been back in the States and wearing boots that rarely need cleaning is what always surprised me though.”
***
The short briefing with Halsey had gone better than expected, with the admiral sticking to the insertion point and extraction sites for the rescue op, and barely making eye contact with Reisner. Once the admiral had finished, he turned things over to his XO, as he had another briefing to do with Connelly’s team on the flight deck.
Afterwards, Reisner retired early to his rack, laying down and going through his nightly stretches to keep his back and legs loose. While he was glad to be working with Porter and Martinez’s team, he longed to see Selene. Though they spoke on the SAT phone frequently, he could tell something was weighing on her mind.
He’d find out soon enough after this op was over. Sounds like a quick in-and-out. Then we get the Danes their supply of the bioagent and I’m back to MacDill. I can live with that—an easy op for once.
He hoped it was that simple.
Chapter 14
Hansen pushed open the massive oaken doors at the front of the cathedral, the creaky hinges echoing throughout the cavernous interior. A deep row of wooden pews with a center aisle filled the first floor, which was enveloped by stained-glass windows and a massive altar that was elevated three feet from the main floor.
Stepping inside, he swept his Glock to the right as Lund entered behind him, covering the left. Bech proceeded down the center aisle, his pistol trained on the altar ahead, while Rasmussen stayed near the front door, keeping an eye on the streets.
“You’ll have no need for those in here,” said an old man’s voice from somewhere above. “This part of the city is quite clear of those devils.”
A short figure appeared on the balcony above the altar, waving his hand. “Welcome to my humble home.”
Hansen lowered his pistol, glancing at the figure he’d seen earlier in the window. “You alone or are there others?”
The man waved a hand at the image of saints on the walls. “There are many here, but I am the only one in the flesh still left.”
He walked down the spiral staircase then proceeded to the main aisle, his paces measured, as if he’d walked the path a thousand times before in front of a captive audience. He was dressed in gray wool slacks and a neatly ironed white button-up shirt that was soaked from sweat. What was left of the man’s flossy gray hair was combed to the side of his head, and he had a bulbous nose that looked like it had been broken more than once.
Hansen looked at the rest of his team, not sure what to make of the man’s reply. “You the priest of this place?”
The man stopped, clasping his hands while smiling. “I am Father Thomas. What divine grace has brought you to this place of worship?”
Hansen walked through an aisle, stopping a few feet from the man, whose smile hadn’t faded. “Our plane crashed a few miles from here near the beach—you must have heard it?”
“Ah, yes.” He shrugged his rounded shoulders, his eyes glancing over the physiques of Hansen and the other soldiers. “Thought that was thunder. We get a lot of summer storms along the coast here, as you might imagine.”
“My men and I need a place to stay for the night. We’ve got help on the way.” Hansen waved an arm up at his surroundings. “This city doesn’t seem to have any creatures left in it—is it safe here?”
Thomas pivoted slightly to the left, motioning with his hand towards the large crucifix above the altar. “He will watch over you and deliver you from evil.”
Hansen tried to contain his smirk, not wanting to offend the man but needing more practical information than what he was providing. “So, how many other people—living people—are left in Baltimore?”
“Oh, there are a few, but they are getting harder to find.” The old man turned and walked slowly back down the aisle, tapping his fingers on each row of walnut pews as he passed. “Come—you must be tired. I have food and a place to rest upstairs. You may stay there as long as you need.”
How did this guy survive on his own here? And why stay in this musty old building?
Hansen nodded back at Rasmussen for him to close the doors, then they followed behind Thomas, each of them winding up the wooden staircase onto a walkway that led down a hallway into the adjacent building. They passed a series of open offices. Other than a fine layer of dust on the desks and bookcases, the rooms looked like they had just been abandoned yesterday.
He leaned back towards Lund, whispering, “I want you to stay posted in this hallway when we go inside until we’re sure this place is as secure as it seems.”
“Copy that.”
Thomas veered into an open doorway on the right, standing to the side of the entrance like an usher, waving them in with a smile.
Hansen looked back at his other men, indicating for them to wait as he proceeded in, his eyes sweeping around the twenty-by-twenty room, which looked like the living quarters for the resident priest. Despite the window being open, it smelled like mothballs and fermented hay.
There was a small bedroom off to the right, while the main room served as a kitchen, dining room, and study, complete with a couch, desk, and cherry bookcases. In the corner was a floor-to-ceiling row of birdcages with several dozen pigeons inside.
He peered into the bedroom, which only had a queen-size mattress and a dresser beside the bathroom. Hansen retraced his steps, nodding towards Rasmussen and Bech to enter. He looked at Thomas, who had the same smile etched on his wrinkled face, wondering if the man was inebriated.
The man left the door open, whisking past the soldiers towards the kitchen area. “Can I get you gentlemen anything to eat or drink?”
Strange he hasn’t asked any of our names or where we are bound. Surely he must know from our accents we’re not from this country.
“Some water would be appreciated,” said Rasmussen, who hobbled to the couch, sitting down. He removed his boot and caressed his swollen ankle.
Thomas reached into a dry cooler, removing four water bottles. He handed them to each man then stepped into the hallway to pass one to Lund.
Bech gulped down the tepid water, standing before the cooing birds, who eyed him nervously. “Homing pigeons,” he said, pointing at the small metal bands around the birds’ legs. “But who do you send messages to?”
“The birds are sent out every day in hopes of locating someone along the coast or in one of the outlying towns. They carry a message of hope and an invitation to join me here.”
“But isn’t this the region that is without power?” said Rasmussen.
“Candles suffice for light and a small propane stove for cooking.”
Thomas sliced up some tomatoes and put them on a platter with some crackers. He set it down on a table next to the couch, and Hansen and Rasmussen dug in. The old man sat in a recliner, putting up the foot section and settling back.
“This church was constructed over three centuries ago, when men knew how to build properly. It is very insulated and”—he pointed to a woodstove in the corner—“there is no shortage of wood furniture to burn in this city during the colder months.” He glanced up at the flaking ceiling. “Plus I have a garden on the roof that provides me and my birds with all the food we need.”
Hansen stood up, strolling around the room as he washed down the crackers with a swig of water. He examined the vintage books on the nearest shelf, seeing that half of them were Greek titles: The Aeneid, The Odyssey, The Iliad.
He moved to the window, peering out at the high-rises, whose modern architecture seemed out of place in this outdated building. He set his empty water bottle down and removed the personal location beacon from his vest, flipping up the small antenna then pressing the red activation button to notify Runa that they had arrived at their location for the night. He let out a sigh, knowing that a SAR helo would be inbound sometime tomorrow morning.
He set the device down on a table next to the window, then leaned out, sucking in a deep breath. His temples were throbbing, and he felt nauseous.
Must be the heat.
Hansen’s eyes gazed down one floor to a small dumpster directly below him. Inside were empty cans of food and cardboard boxes amidst dozens of empty backpacks and discarded clothing of different sizes and colors.
He swung around, his vision blurring as his forehead pounded. “How long—how long have you been here?”
