Blood Oath (37 page)

Authors: Christopher Farnsworth

BOOK: Blood Oath

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There was almost no sound—just a persistent humming that Zach felt in his bones. It took him a minute to realize they were moving.

They were moving very fast.

The pilots didn’t have any of the usual preflight chatter or speak into their radios.

Zach, positioned directly behind them, could only see the edges of what was going on out through the cockpit windows.

The wing-shaped craft was at the edge of the runway in a fraction of a second, and then Zach’s stomach lurched as they reared back at a ninety-degree angle.

“Approaching delta,” one of the pilots said. Zach heard it through his helmet. He retched a little as his insides kept flipping.

One of the pilots must have heard him. “Don’t worry,” he said. “This is the worst of it.”

“Well, unless we explode,” the other said.

“Explode?”

Both pilots laughed.

Zach didn’t have time to worry. In front of them, the sky went from black to purple to another, deeper black—but one lit up as if by halogen bulbs.

The craft stopped in midair, and Zach got one uninterrupted look out the windows as they spun upside down.

Zach saw blue again, a wide curve in the corner of the windscreen, and realized what he was looking at.

They were above the Earth—in orbit.

“We are at apogee,” the copilot said. “Thirty seconds and counting.”

The craft hung there at the edge of space, while the Earth spun below them. Just over the blue curve, a bright, glaring light appeared.

Sunrise, on the far side of the world.

“My God, what is this thing?” Zach asked. He realized he was floating against his harness. Even inside the plane, he could feel the cold of space clinging to it, sucking the warmth away.

“Near-Earth orbital reconnaissance plane,” the pilot said, a little pride in his voice. “TR-3B Black Manta. Modified for passengers, of course.”

“Unbelievable. I didn’t know we had anything this fast....”

“Not fast enough,” Cade said. Zach couldn’t see him behind the helmet, but he could hear the pain in his voice.

The pure, unfiltered sunlight stabbed at Zach’s eyes, and he realized what this must have been doing to Cade.

“Hang on, sir,” the copilot said. “Almost ready for reentry.”

Cade didn’t reply, his fingers in a death grip on his armrest.

“Cade, we’re almost out of this....”

“Not what I meant,” Cade said. “I wasn’t fast enough. I should have put it together. Now we’re three hours from sunrise when we land. And they’re already down there. We’re out of time. Because I was too slow.”

Silence.

“Three forty-four a.m. local time, sir,” the copilot said. “Starting descent.”

“We’re going to make it, Cade,” Zach said, without thinking. He was reassuring a vampire.

Again, Cade didn’t respond.

The plane dipped, and all of Zach’s weight returned. Velocity and gravity caught up with them again, and every muscle in Zach’s body strained against the harness as the plane hit the atmosphere.

They fell below the burning sunlight and then went screaming back into the dark.

SIXTY

The fanatic is incorruptible: if he kills for an idea, he can just as well get himself killed for one; in either case, tyrant or martyr, he is a monster.

—
E. M. Cioran

K
haled watched Dylan run into the night from the back of the truck. He thought about giving chase. He’d intended for the American’s body to provide the raw fuel for the fourth corpse. But the idiot had some instincts for self-preservation after all.

He rolled down the truck’s door before anyone noticed what was inside.

Perhaps the fourth corpse would not rise up. Perhaps none of them would. He would still go forward as planned. As with all things, Khaled knew it was in the hands of God.

Khaled’s God was not merciful. He was cruel, and he was vicious, and he was powerful. He delivered pain and rage and destruction. The world was full of those things, which meant God was winning.

That’s why Khaled worshipped him. That was the God he wanted on his side.

At the center of the truck, in the middle of the console of Konrad’s equipment, was a large knife switch. It was within reach of the chair Khaled had chosen. Once they were all seated, he only had to pull that and their lives would be drained into the creatures.

Life requires death, Konrad had said to Khaled a long time ago when they first met. And death will consume life.

He strapped himself into his own chair, leaving only one hand free.

He gave one last look to Gamal and Tariq. Gamal nodded. Tariq’s eyes were closed, his lips moving in prayer.

Khaled pulled the switch. His whole life distilled itself into this one moment. He was at peace.

The pain began a second later, but his smile never faded.

THE MOVIES GET IT WRONG, every time. There is no lightning, no boom of thunder. The flash is between neurons, life returning to bodies that should have been under the ground.

Slowly, three Unmenschsoldaten began to move. The restraints holding them snapped like tissue paper as they rose.

The fourth corpse got up last. It moved slowly, but it moved.

The Unmenschsoldaten lined up and began walking. As soon as they left their platforms, a pressure-sensitive switch activated the rear door, pulling it open again. Konrad had thought of everything.

The rear of the truck pointed the Unmenschsoldaten directly at their target.

Framed in the doorway, gleaming white in the darkness, it was the only thing their limited senses could detect.

The White House. Shining like a beacon across the flat green plain of the South Lawn, as if summoning them.

The dead began to walk.

SIXTY-ONE

They are neither man nor woman—They are neither brute nor human- They are Ghouls:—

—Edgar
Allan Poe, “The Bells”

T
he president wore a shirt open at the collar and khakis that still had a knife crease in the legs. It was the most disheveled Griff had ever seen him.

Still, he didn’t look pleased to be up at this hour.

Wyman was there, too, a pajama top stuffed in his blue jeans under a blazer. On his feet, those damn moccasins again. He’d come running from his residence at the Naval Observatory when he got the summons from the president. He actually looked happy because Griff was in trouble.

Griff’s ID and reputation were enough to get him inside the White House, despite the cloud over him. They were not, however, enough to get anyone to hurry. Close to an hour was wasted while Griff told his story to the Secret Service, who roused the president, then again to the man himself.

Even now, however, the agents in the room—two from Wyman’s detail and three from the president’s—looked at him with suspicion.

“Sir,” Griff said to the president, “you have to get out. Now. We’re wasting time—”

“Agent Griffin,” the president said, his tone clipped, “you have to do better than that. I need facts, I need information. If there’s a threat, I can’t just run—”

“Yes, you can, damn it, if you want to live,” Griff shouted, knocking over his chair as he stood up.

Two of the Secret Service men, Patterson and Haney, were veterans. They knew Griff from three administrations. But they still moved between him and the president, hands on their guns.

Griff drew in a deep breath, struggling for control. Then he blew it out.

Patterson’s nose wrinkled. “Griff,” he said, “have you been drinking?”

Terrific, Griff thought.

Wyman smiled as if the only thing he was missing was a big tub of popcorn.

“Sir,” Griff said again.

The president held up a hand, and Patterson and Haney backed off. He seemed to call up his last reserve of patience.

“Griff,” he said, “I have trusted you and Cade on a lot of things. Things I never would have believed. But this threat—whatever it is—is not just aimed at me. If something is coming toward D.C., I can’t leave unless I know I’ve done everything possible to—”

“Never mind,” Griff interrupted.

Everyone in the room looked taken aback. They thought Griff was committing career suicide right in front of them.

“It’s too late now,” Griff said. He pointed.

Everyone turned and looked out the windows toward the Rose Garden.

In retrospect, Griff couldn’t blame them for freezing.

No one is prepared for their first contact with the Other Side when it breaks through. No matter how many zombie movies you’ve seen, somewhere deep inside you know that it’s just actors and makeup. But out in the real world, your mind rebels. It says, this cannot possibly exist. And yet, there it is. Walking toward you.

Dead men, some still wearing the wounds that killed them. Absolutely, irrevocably dead.

And yet, still moving. Still walking toward the Oval Office, through the Rose Garden, one easy step at a time.

Four of them. Cloudy eyes staring, fixed right through the windows at the men in the office. One of them put a decaying foot down on a rosebush and left a scrap of flesh behind.

Even the president was awestruck. Horrified.

That’s the thing about horror. It freezes you up. Makes you stupid. Makes you prey.

Fortunately, Griff had a lot more experience with it.

He shoved past the agents and found the button on the console on the president’s desk. The one hooked up after 9/11. He pressed it.

Hardened security screens composed of rolled homogeneous armor slammed into place over the windows. They would take anything up to a direct hit by a Hellfire missile.

Griff hoped they’d be enough.

THE AGENTS IN THE ROOM looked to Haney, the most senior man on shift. They were anxious, confused—and scared. They were trained to deal with every possible threat to the president and they were scared.

Outside the Oval Office, an alarm began to wail. The White House was never left undefended. A Counter-Assault Team was on duty at all times. They carried enough weaponry to repel a full-scale terrorist assault.

Griff knew they didn’t stand a chance. The dead men would keep coming. It was built into them. They would find an entrance and seek out the life inside the building and snuff it out. It was all they knew.

Gunfire echoed through the building. The Oval Office’s walls shook as someone fired what sounded like a grenade launcher.

On the other side of the room, Haney was speaking into the mike at his cuff. He was trying to be quiet, but Griff could hear him well enough. Sheer panic.

Then something came over Haney’s earpiece, loud enough that the agent had to tear it out of his head. The other agents, all tuned to the same channel, did the same.

A very tiny scream wailed from the earpiece as it hung from Haney’s collar. Then it died away completely.

Haney picked up the phone, trying to reach someone outside to get a report.

He shook his head. No answer.

The sound of splintering wood and tortured metal reached them from downstairs.

They were inside.

Both Haney and Griff looked at the Oval Office door. It did not have the steel shutters. The thinking was, if someone got that far, the president would already be long gone. It had heavy bolts to keep it shut. But they wouldn’t last against the creatures.

Haney turned to Griff. “What’s the plan?”

Griff noticed he’d gone from a lunatic to a prophet in less than five minutes. And Wyman didn’t look at all happy anymore.

“Stay here. Wait for Cade,” Griff said.

Agent Haney looked to the president. “Sir?”

Curtis took a long moment. Griff could see the struggle in his face.

He knew, as well as anyone in the room, that going out to face those things was as good as suicide.

But his family was on the other side of the screens.

He addressed Griff. “There has to be a way to stop them.”

“Not by us, sir. This is way above our pay grade.”

Curtis thought for a moment. He looked at Haney.

“Bob,” he said. “I’m going to ask you something. It’s not an order. It’s a request.”

“You’re not leaving this room, sir,” Haney said.

“I need to make sure my family is all right.”

“No, sir. You’re not going.”

“God damn it, Bob—”

“But I am.”

They heard more glass and wood breaking. Above them, the ceiling shook as if the building was hit by a quake.

Haney pointed at the other agents. “Patterson, Roy, Spencer, you’re with me. We’ll run for the weapons cache, then into the Residence,” Haney said. He looked at Griff. “You’re not fast enough. No offense.”

The ceiling shook again, and plaster dust rained down on them. “None taken,” Griff said.

“You stay here with Terrill.” Haney turned to Terrill, the youngest man in the room, a rookie agent. “Terrill, the president’s life is in your hands.”

Haney took his backup piece from an ankle holster, as well as his spare clips, and gave them all to Griff.

Patterson and the other agents formed up on Haney and prepared to head out the door.

Wyman noticed. “What are you doing? You’re not leaving us?”

“Mr. Vice President, you’re safer here,” Haney said.

“You can’t leave us,” Wyman said. “You have to stay and protect us!”

“You’ve got Agent Griffin and you’ve got Agent Terrill,” Haney told him.

Wyman wasn’t listening. He clutched at Haney’s arm as the agent turned to go. Haney looked down at his hand.