Alice in Deadland Trilogy (42 page)

‘Come on!’

He grabbed the rod and the two of
them ran out of the apartment building, leaving the two Biters behind. Neha got
on the bike behind Neil and they sped away.

‘Where do we go now?’

Neil knew the answer to that. The
problem was getting there in the fading light with millions of Biters rampaging
through the streets of Delhi.

***

They had stopped at an abandoned
gas station to top up Neil’s bike for the remainder of the ride to the airport.
In the twenty minutes since they had left Neha’s home, they had seen plenty of
Biters roaming in the streets, but moving at speed, they had managed to get
this far without incident. The remainder of the trip to the airport would
require them to get on the highway, where Neil hoped they could pass
unmolested, but they would not have many opportunities to top up his fuel tank,
which was nearing empty. So he had taken the risk of stopping to pump gas into
the bike, the rod that had served him so well in his other hand. Neil caught a
glimpse in the mirror ahead of him, and he scowled.

‘I forgot I’m still wearing these
silly bunny ears.’

He was about to take them off when
Neha’s hand gently tousled his hair. Her touch sent a jolt through him.

‘I think you look cute in these.’

Neha laughed but then Neil noticed
a change in her tone as she touched his shoulder.

‘Neil, you’re bleeding!’

Neil looked at his hand, still
bloody from the scratch he had suffered at Neha’s apartment. ‘Relax, it’s just
a scratch.’

‘No, I mean up here.’

Neil caught the tension in her
voice and took a look in the mirror near him. There was a red patch on his left
shoulder. He dropped the rod and peeled back his shirt. His shoulder was
covered in a thin film of blood. He wiped some of it away to reveal puncture
wounds.

‘Neil, did they get close enough
to…’

Neha did not dare complete the
sentence, but the moment Neil saw the wound, the same thought had burned itself
into his mind. Had he been bitten? He could not remember it, but then the
struggle below Neha’s apartment had been so savage that he had not really been
conscious of much other than swinging his rod at the nearest Biter he could
see. He had assumed the pain in his shoulder was from the exertion of the
fight. But now, looking at the wound, he was beginning to have doubts. He
looked at Neha, his eyes filling with tears.

‘How long do I have? Have you read
anything on the Internet?’

He could see that Neha was
starting to cry as well and sobs racked her body as she tried to turn away.
‘Maybe it’s just a cut.’

Neil got up, holding her shoulders
so that she was forced to look straight into his eyes. ‘How long do I have?’

Neha spoke in little more than a
whisper, seemingly forcing each word out. ‘They say that the speed at which the
infection takes hold depends on how deep the bite is and the number of bites.
Some people with minor bites thought they had got away but became Biters after
three or four hours. People who are bitten repeatedly turn pretty much
immediately.’

Neil looked at his watch. He had
been bitten perhaps thirty minutes ago. Even assuming he had a couple of hours,
the best he could hope was to get Neha to the safety of the airport, and then
what? He had met many brave boys and girls during his work with Make-A-Wish,
and he had marveled at their strength in the face of terminal illnesses. He
found his knees buckling and realized that he did not have that same strength.
Of course, they had months or perhaps years to go – he did not even have one
day.

He just sat there for a few
seconds, Neha squatting in front of him, her hands on his shoulders. His mind was
numb, with fear, with self-pity, with regret for all the things he would never
be able to do. He looked up into Neha’s tear-filled eyes, and felt a renewed
resolve. Neha must have seen the change in his expression.

‘What’s wrong?’

He stood up, and finished filling
his bike’s tank, and then looked at Neha.

‘If I drive really fast, I can
probably get you to the airport in thirty minutes. So we should still have time
before anything happens to me. But before that, will you grant me one last
wish?’

Neha burst into tears. ‘Neil,
maybe it’s just a cut…’

Neil held her shoulders and she
hugged him.

‘You know better than that. Now,
we don’t have a lot of time. Will you fulfill my wish?’

Neha fought back her tears and
nodded.

‘I was thinking of asking you out
for a coffee after the party today. Will you go out with me on a date? I don’t
have much money, I don’t look like much, but I do have these funky bunny ears
and I am currently the world champion in the game of Biter Swatting with my rod
here.’

Neha laughed and hugged him tight.

‘Lead the way, my bunny-eared
hero. Where shall we have our date?’

And so they sat in an abandoned
Pizza Hut. They didn’t eat or drink anything, but just sitting there, holding
hands, made Neil forget, if only for a moment, what he was faced with. For that
fleeting moment, he was living his dream.

They talked about their families,
their dreams. Neil told her about how he was saving up to go to a good college,
maybe get an MBA. Neha told him about how she hated being always told what to
do, and being expected to join the family business after an MBA, and how she
would much rather become a journalist. They talked about their likes and
dislikes, about movies, and music, and friends at college, and then Neil took a
look at his watch. It had been just fifteen minutes. The most magical fifteen
minutes of his life. But now he had to get Neha to safety. He got up, but she
stopped him.

‘Your wish isn’t yet over. There’s
something left.’

Then she leaned close and kissed
Neil.

***

The highway looked like a giant
junkyard, with abandoned vehicles littering it. There were bodies strewn among
them, but Neil tried to focus on the path ahead as he maneuvered his bike
between the vehicles. They had seen groups of Biters when they had left the city
center and taken the road to the highway, but they have been traveling too fast
for the Biters to catch them. Now, hemmed in by abandoned cars on all sides,
and in the fading light, he was forced to trade speed for safety, and there was
no telling what lurked behind the next car. Neha was acting as the lookout, and
once or twice she yelled out warnings of approaching Biters, but in both cases,
it turned out to be a case of nerves, made worse by shadows being thrown around
them.

Then she screamed, but even before
the words left her mouth, Neil saw the danger. Two Biters had come out from
behind a car to their right. With three abandoned cars blocking the way to
their left, they did not have enough room to avoid them. One of the Biters was
a frail old man with his face largely ripped off below the nose. The other was
a younger man, wearing a bloodied Mickey Mouse t-shirt. Neil told Neha to be
ready to grab the handlebars when he told her to, and then accelerated his
bike, speeding towards the Biters. He turned the bike sideways at the last
moment and kicked out at the older Biter. The momentum of the bike , more than
Neil’s strength or aim, sent the Biter sprawling. The other Biter was coming
towards Neil, bloodied mouth open, ready to bite, when Neil screamed at Neha to
steer the bike.

‘Mickey Mouse, meet Bunny Ears.’

With that, he swung the metal rod
over his head and crushed the Biter’s skull in one blow. The older Biter was
scrambling to get back up, but by then Neil had sped away down the highway.

For the next ten minutes or so,
they rode in relative peace, and with fewer cars visible on the road. Then up
ahead Neil saw some vehicles moving at high speed. There were a couple of SUVs
and what looked like five large Army trucks. The windows of the lead SUV were
rolled down and rifles stuck out at least one window.

‘They look like Army vehicles.
Maybe they’re also heading for the airport.’

Just then, Neil was racked by a
violent coughing fit, and he barely managed to bring the bike to a stop before
he fell off. Neha had fallen and scraped her knees, but she hardly noticed the
pain as she ran towards Neil.

Neil was now on his knees and
continuing to cough. The front of his shirt was now coated with blood and his
hands were beginning to shake.

Neha started to cry, but Neil got
up and pushed her towards the bike.

‘Not yet, not yet. I have to get
you to safety. I may not last till the airport but I can get you to those Army
trucks.’

Neil drove faster than he had ever
driven before, with Neha clutching him tightly as he bore down on the vehicles
he had seen. He saw someone lift the flap on the rear truck’s cab, and a rifle
peeked out. Neil wanted to shout at them to not shoot, but when he opened his
mouth, more blood came out. He would just have to take his chances. He
increased his speed and came alongside the lead SUV, motioning frantically for
it to stop. A man in military uniform pointed a rifle at Neil.

‘Sir, I will shoot if you do not
move away from this convoy.’

Neha shouted back, ‘We need help.
I’m trying to get to that safe zone at the airport, and my boyfriend needs
medical help.’

The man with the rifle turned to
talk to someone inside and then another face peered out, a familiar face. Then
the convoy came to a halt and a man in an Indian Army uniform ran out from the
SUV. He addressed Neha.

‘Ma’am, were you with the
Make-A-Wish Foundation?’

When Neha nodded, he pointed back
to the SUV.

‘We really don’t have space in
there for anyone, but Dr. Gladwell recognized you from the foundation and is
asking that we take you along. Anyway, the airport is gone, so we’re going to
another army shelter nearby, and you had best come along.’

He took Neha’s hand and was
pulling her when she looked at Neil. ‘Can you help him?’

The soldier looked at Neil, pity
in his eyes as he took in Neil’s bloodied clothes and his yellowing eyes.
‘Ma’am, I’m really sorry. We can’t do anything for him any more. We need to get
going.’

When Neha hesitated, Neil took her
hand. ‘Please go, Neha, and take care of yourself.’

He was saying the words in his
mind, but he realized they were coming out all garbled as more blood came out
of his mouth. He felt another sharp stab of pain in his chest and he pushed
Neha away. The soldier half dragged her to the SUV and then the convoy drove
away.

Neil sat down by the side of the
road, watching the vehicles disappear into the distance. He coughed out more
blood and then lay down, unable to sit any more. His body felt like it was on
fire, but he smiled one last time. He had managed to get Neha to safety, and
she had called him her boyfriend, had she not?

With that last thought, Neil
George relaxed, closed his eyes and awaited what was to come.

***

WE’LL NAME HER ALICE

‘Bob, I need some American
Chopsuey NOW!’

Robert Gladwell put the phone down
with a sigh. He might be the second-in-command at the American Embassy in New
Delhi, but when it came to his wife, Joanne, there was no question who was in
charge. Especially when she was cranky, sleepless and in the middle of a very
tough pregnancy.

They had been in New Delhi for
close to two years, and Gladwell had been through enough Third World postings
in places like Bangkok, Jakarta and Riyadh to appreciate the real richness of
cultures and relationships that lay beneath the surface.

He told his secretary that he was
going to take a slightly longer than normal lunch break and as he told his
driver to head to their apartment in the city’s Diplomatic Enclave, he called
ahead to order some Chinese food. He had long realized that the Chinese food
available in India was nothing like what he had tasted in the US, or indeed
during his trips to China when he had been on a trade delegation. It was
spiced, fried and tossed in ways that were possible only in India, and the crispy
noodles with oversweet sauce ambitiously named ‘American Chopsuey’ most
Americans would have found neither American nor Chopsuey. But who was Gladwell
to argue with a pregnant woman’s cravings?

‘Dan, after lunch, I think I’ll stop
by for the briefing at South Block.’

Gladwell put down his phone after
telling his Personal Security Officer in the car following him about his plans
and thought about just how much things had changed. A year ago, security would
no doubt have been tight, but he would not be tailed by a contingent of
officers from both the US Diplomatic Security Service and India’s Special
Protection Group, even when he headed out for a quiet family dinner.

The world was imploding fast –
tensions in the Middle East had reached a fever pitch, and the attacks on
Israeli diplomats in New Delhi in early 2012 had proven to be just a small
preview of what was to follow. Attacks on US and Israeli diplomats had occurred
through the rest of the year around the world, and the finger of suspicion had
always pointed back to Iran. Israel was itching to bomb Iran, and the US
efforts at holding it back were fast slipping. Being in India put Gladwell and
his team in an especially uncomfortable place. India, while allied to the US,
had important commercial interests in Iran, and was also reeling from constant
attacks from terrorists based in Pakistan, a nation the US was relying on to
allow some sort of orderly withdrawal from the festering mess that was
Afghanistan.

Just thinking of it all gave
Gladwell a headache, and he was not looking forward to the afternoon’s briefing
by India’s External Affairs Ministry, where they would share intelligence about
how rogue Jihadi elements were dangerously close to getting control of
Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal. Gladwell had seen it all before, in files sent his
way by the CIA, but the leadership back in the United States was choosing to
stay strangely mum about it all. If all of that was not bad enough, then there
was the recent virus in China that had led relations between China and the US
to hit rock bottom, and the occasional skirmishes between Chinese and Taiwanese
forces did not help. Between Jo’s mood swings and the chaos at work, Robert
Gladwell looked forward to the pint of beer he had been promised by an old Army
buddy who was in town later that evening.

‘Hey, Dad, don’t tell me Mom
wanted that Chopsuey crap again!’

‘Young lady, you watch your
language.’

Gladwell waited to see the expression
on his ten-year old daughter’s face gradually change from one of amusement to
one of concern. Gladwell rarely lost his temper, but she knew that it wasn’t a
great idea to make him do so. Finally, he smiled and ruffled her hair.

‘Put your school bag in your room
and help me set the table, and to make up for the Chopsuey, we’ll have some ice
cream after lunch.’

Jane whooped and ran more than
walked to her room, as Gladwell went to meet his wife, Joanne.

Dr. Joanne Gladwell was six months
pregnant and now very much showing it, but she still insisted on participating
in the one thing beyond her family that she was passionate about – the
Make-A-Wish foundation. She had a Doctorate in Literature and had taught for
some years, but gradually found it hard to sustain a teaching career with the
constant moves that came with being the wife of a Foreign Service Officer. So
she channeled her energy and passion into volunteer work. As Gladwell walked
into their bedroom, she was reading up on some of the fundraising plans for the
foundation.

‘Sweetheart, how’re you feeling
today?’ Gladwell leaned over and kissed her on her forehead, lovingly playing
with her blonde hair. Jo held his hand and made him sit down next to her. ‘What
are you looking at?’

Jo smiled as she answered. ‘At my
knight in shining armor, my bearer of American Chopsuey.’

Gladwell laughed and got up to set
the table.

‘Sweetheart, I’ll rush through
lunch a bit as I have a meeting to get to. By the way, how’s the little one?’

Jo grimaced a bit.

‘She’s kicking, as always. This
one will be a real firecracker.’

Jane had been a dream pregnancy
and a real angel to bring up. Their second child, a girl, as they had learned
in an ultrasound back in the US, was quite the opposite. Jo had terrible
morning sickness in the early months, and now, the little one never seemed to
stay still.

A rushed lunch later, Gladwell was
at the meeting, but it was the press conference in the evening that he dreaded
more.

***

‘Mr. Gladwell, what can you tell
us about what is happening in China and what is your reaction to the Chinese
government’s accusation that this virus is the result of biological warfare by
the United States?’

Gladwell had been wondering when
the question would be asked. The first thirty minutes of the press briefing had
been routine questions about the Middle East and the situation in Pakistan, for
which Gladwell had stock platitudes ready. But the China situation was one
where Gladwell had received no instructions or briefing from his bosses back in
Washington. All he knew from intelligence reports was that an unknown virus was
raging in China, with the epicenter being a remote military installation in
Mongolia. The Chinese had tried to hush it up, a tactic that backfired when the
virus exploded after three days. Reports were sketchy, and Gladwell personally
thought stories of frenzied victims attacking others were over the top. He
wished the Ambassador had been around, but he was on a vacation back in the US,
and Gladwell had been left holding the fort.

He took the mike. ‘I’m sorry, but
I have no information to share on that beyond what Washington has already
shared.’

An hour later, Gladwell was seated
at a pub with Joshua Abernathy, a face from his past life. As often happened
with close friends, there was no need for small talk, even though they were
meeting after a dozen years. After hugging each other and ordering drinks, they
sipped their beer in silence and only when Gladwell started his second pint did
Joshua speak what was on his mind.

‘Things are going to get real
ugly. You thought of getting your family somewhere safe, with Jo being pregnant
and all?’

‘Aren’t you overreacting? India
and Pakistan have been playing these games for years, and even if the shit does
hit the fan in the Middle East, we should be safe here.’

Joshua put his mug down and his
eyes were creased with worry. ‘That’s not what I’m talking about. You do
remember what I did when I left the Army, don’t you?’

Gladwell still didn’t know where
Joshua was going with this, and motioned to Joshua to wait as he ordered
another round of drinks.

‘Bob, you need to pay attention,
please.’

That got his attention, and
Gladwell looked at Joshua, curious as to what had spooked his normally
unflappable friend.

‘I joined Zeus, a PMC. Private
Military Contractor. After Bosnia, when we left the Army, my skills were
useless in the civilian world and I wasn’t as smart as you were to be able to
study and become a diplomat. Zeus contacted me, and for a while it was fun. I
ran protection duties for VIPs, hooked up security for international summits
and so on, and it paid well. But then it got ugly.’

Gladwell waited as Joshua paused
to take a sip, and then continued, an edge to his voice.

‘My bosses seemed too well-connected.
As I got deeper into the organization, they would regularly meet folks at the
State Department and even the White House. Then I was transferred to their
Special Division, which, as I quickly learnt, did a bunch of black ops that
could be denied by the people ordering them as no US forces would be involved.
Stuff like illegal renditions, and hits on targets in countries we’d normally
consider friendly.’

Bob could see his friend was
worried, but none of this was news. PMCs had mushroomed in the 90s and the War
on Terror had provided them a lot of scope to peddle their wares to the highest
bidder. Some had grown to have resources to train and equip whole armies for
tinpot dictators. But then Joshua continued.

‘There are Zeus operatives
crawling all over this city. I left Zeus a year ago when I couldn’t handle
their dirty business any longer, but I still have contacts there. They’re all
over the Middle East, China and Asia, and it can’t be a coincidence that
trouble is being stirred up there.’

‘Zeus may be powerful but they
can’t be doing all this on their own. That sounds too far-fetched.’

Joshua leaned over. ‘That’s what
I’m trying to tell you. There are folks in our own system making this happen.’

Joshua’s words stayed with
Gladwell, but he found it hard to believe that elements in the government could
have been engineering this level of chaos. Sure, he was no babe in the woods,
and he knew that politicians and business interests were not above dirty tricks
to suit their agendas, but something on this scale, with such global
ramifications – that did not make any sense.

He spent the evening at home,
playing on their PS3 with Jane and then helping Jo decorate the room they had
already assigned to their new baby. At night, as had happened for a few weeks,
they sat together and debated baby names

‘Alexis?’

‘No, sounds too strong. I want a
nice, feminine name.’

‘Lucy?’

‘Too common.’

And on it went till they had added
a couple of additional names to their already long shortlist.

***

‘Bob, this guy’s refusing to go
away. Sorry to bug you on this but could you help out?’

Gladwell groaned and got up from
his desk. He couldn’t blame his secretary for asking him to help. This Major
Appleseed had been coming to the Embassy for two days, flashing all sorts of
credentials, and asking for information that he had no right to ask for. So now
Gladwell would have to take on the unpleasant task of turning him away.

For all the pain he was causing, Appleseed
was a serving officer in the US Army so Gladwell did him the courtesy of
calling him to his office and asking for some coffee to be served. As Appleseed
walked in, Gladwell saw that the bull analogy was quite appropriate given
Appleseed’s bulk. As he began speaking, Gladwell found himself taking an
instinctive dislike to him. He was eager and friendly in the manner of a pushy
car salesman.

‘Morning, Gladwell. Am I glad I
got to meet you instead of trying to convince those bureaucrats down there to
help me out. This person of interest I’m looking for has registered at the
Embassy and I’m hoping you can make my life simple and tell me where she is.’

Gladwell kept his tone pleasant,
but his voice had an edge to it. ‘Major Appleseed, as others have explained to
you already, we cannot share details of where a particular US citizen is
staying in Delhi because you have no apparent need to know.’

When Appleseed fished inside his
coat pocket for some papers, Gladwell waved them aside. ‘You have personal letters
from some senators and a supposedly verbal instruction from the Vice President.
Unless I have something more formal than that, I am not going to compromise the
privacy of a US citizen.’

Appleseed’s smile disappeared, to
be replaced by a look of disdain. ‘Look, Gladwell, I was just trying to save
myself time. I can get what I need in a couple of days.’ As he began to walk
out the door, he turned to look at Gladwell. ‘I see your desire to play Boy
Scout has not gone away. I’ve seen your Army files, and if I were you, I would
get with the program. The people I work for will need people they can trust,
and will have no patience for those who stand in their way.’

Gladwell stood up, barely
controlling his anger. ‘Major, I have seen
your
files and I can see why
you picked up the moniker of the ‘Beast of Kandahar’. With the human rights
violations you are accused of, you should be in jail. I suppose your political
connections are bailing you out, but I have no room for them here. Goodbye.’