False Prey: A Wildfire Novella (Wildfire Saga) (3 page)

“You barge into this sanctuary—this House of the Lord—like a pack of Visigoths at the gates of Rome itself, then blaspheme in my presence and threaten harm to a man under my protection—”

Mosby frowned, his face darkening.
 
“Outta the way, Father,” he said through clenched teeth.
 
He shouldered past the priest and reached for Thomas.
 
The old priest stumbled into a pew on Thomas’ left.
 
The onlookers gasped and Thomas used the distraction to run toward the altar.

“Come on, boys,” Mosby called out.
 
“Let’s finish this.”

Thomas ignored the shouts and commotion behind him and concentrated on finding a way out.
 
He had mere seconds before Mosby would be within striking distance.
 
He vaulted the altar steps and spun, searching for a vestry-way or door or window...anything that would allow him to escape back outside.

“All right, mister, give it up.
 
We don’t want this to get messy,” said Mosby.
 
Thomas stared in horror—in one smooth motion, the man whipped out a wicked-looking knife from under his plaid shirt as he approached.

Thomas spotted a doorway to his right, down a short hallway behind a large statue of the Blessed Virgin.
 
It was hidden from the pews, but up by the altar it was plain as day.
 
His way out.
 
He kicked at the large candelabra near the end of the altar and sent the huge beeswax candle falling towards Mosby.

Thomas sprinted for the door as the candelabra clattered to the ground, the sound echoing profanely in the church.
 
He was sorry he had desecrated the altar, but was glad for the momentary distraction.
 
Mosby swore loudly and Thomas could hear heavy footfalls as the man gave chase.

Thomas reached out mid-stride for the handle to the church’s rear door, only to have it crash open from the outside, spilling sunlight into the gloomy hallway.
 
A local cop, his brutish face set in a sneer that would make Al Capone proud, shot out a meat-hook of a fist that connected with Thomas’ jaw.

He saw sparks and when he opened his watering eyes he found himself on the floor staring up at not one, but two cops
and
Mosby.
 
The knife had disappeared, but there was a wicked grin across the man’s face.
 
The cop that hit him did not wear a flu mask and smiled like Mosby, but the other one’s face was hidden behind a white mask.

“Nice one, Billy!” someone hollered.

“Thought you could slip out the back, huh?” mumbled the barefaced cop.

“
Sacrilege!
” roared the priest.
 
“Assaulting a man in the House of God!”

“Come on Cliff, give us some space, will ya?” mumbled the officer wearing the facemask.

“Just make sure this sonuvabitch doesn’t infect you,” said Mosby.
 
He chuckled and happily stepped back, never taking his eyes off Thomas.

The cop that had hit Thomas stooped and grabbed a fistful of his shirt.
 
“On your feet, spy.”
 
Thomas felt himself lifted into the air like a child’s toy.
 

Once on his unsteady feet, he was marched back down the hallway and shoved roughly into the side of the altar.
 
He cried out as the pain in his hip sent colorful sparks across his vision.
 

“You like that??” asked the cop, his lopsided grin twisted with hate.
 
The man was huge.
 
Thomas guessed he had to be at least six and a half feet tall—and most of it muscle by the way he stretched the fabric of his uniform.

The remaining onlookers clapped and cheered at the spectacle.
 

“I didn’t do anything!”
 
Thomas turned and reached out to the vicious cop’s masked partner for mercy.
 
“Please, officer, you’ve got to help me—these people are—” Thomas’ pleading was cut off by an uppercut so strong, he was lifted off the floor by the force of the punch.
 
He collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath.

“Resisting arrest!” said the boomed the mountain of a cop.
 
The crowd laughed.

“Please…”
whispered Thomas, clawing at the ground in agony.
 
His chest burned with the effort to bring in more oxygen.
 
Rough hands gripped his shoulders painfully and for the second time, Thomas felt himself lifted onto his feet.
 
He was spun around and his arms viciously pulled behind his back.
 
When the cold steel of the handcuffs touched his skin, he knew all hope was lost.
 
He was shoved off the altar dais.
 

“You don’t understand—” he gasped.
 
He tried to keep from stumbling into the small group of jeering onlookers.

“Tell it to the judge.”
 
The cop who wore the face-mask pulled his nightstick from the wide leather belt at his waist.
 
“Move.”

“Hang ‘im!” someone shouted as he was forced into the throng.

Hands punched and slapped him as he was marched towards the still-open church doors.

“I’ll get a rope—” a coarse voice replied.

“Nah, let’s just shoot him—” suggested another.

“Dirty Korean bastard—”

“You will all pay for this sacrilege!” warned the priest in the background.
 
“The Lord God does not suffer those who—”

“Ah, shut up!” someone else bellowed to the laughter of the others.
 
Through the press of people around him, Thomas saw a man roughly shake off the priest’s hands.
 
The movement caused the old clergyman to stumble backwards against a pew.
 
He saw the priest trip on the kneeler and fall to the ground.
 
The old man grunted in pain as he hit the floor.
 

Thomas tried to look back to make sure the priest was all right but he was carried forward in the stream of the crowd.
 
A strong hand shoved him outside and Thomas stumbled into the daylight.
 
He blinked and then gasped at the sight that awaited him.

C
HAPTER
2

Danny Roberts sat behind the wheel of his car and waited for the cell phone’s connection to be re-established.
 

“—
are you there?
”
 

“I’m here,” he replied, glancing out the window as yet another local strolled past wearing a flu mask.
 
“Sorry about that, phone service has been a little spotty around here, lately.”

“
Of course—it’s just one more side effect of this mysterious wave of flu-like illness that’s sweeping the nation
,” replied the slick voice of the CNN anchorman.
 
“
Now, getting back to your statement about the conditions in Brikston, how is the self-imposed quarantine working?”

“Fairly well, honestly,” said Danny.
 
He looked at the notebook propped on the steering wheel.
 
“The Chief of Police has had his department patrolling the main access roads to town for a week now and for the most part has succeeded in keeping out travelers who might be carrying the sickness.”

“
But?
” prompted the anchor.

“But,” replied Danny, “recently, a few people have started getting sick anyway.
 
The worry in town is that they have come down with the mysterious new flu.
 
Some are calling it the ‘superflu’.”
 

Commotion at the intersection ahead caused him to look up.
 
Three people wearing flu masks raced by, followed by a squad car, lights flashing and siren blaring as it roared north.

“I’m sorry, there’s a bit of…something…going on, here,” he said absently.
 
Almost without thought, he started his own car and shifted into gear to follow the squad car.

“What do you mean?
 
Was that a police siren we just heard?”

“Yes,” said Danny, as he turned the corner.
 
“Wait a minute.”

“What is it?
 
What do you see?”

“Looks like there’s a disturbance going on at the Catholic Church here in town.
 
St. Stephen’s.”

“For our viewers at home who’ve just joined us, we’re on the phone with reporter Danny Roberts in Brikston, Kentucky, with a live report on conditions from one of the self-quarantined towns that seem to be popping up all over the country recently.
 
Danny—can you give us some details as to what you’re witnessing?”

“Sure, Axel,” said Danny as he parked his car on the outskirts of the crowd.
 
“I’m parked now in front of St. Stephen’s, where there appears to be a decent sized crowd—I’d estimate about fifty people or so—”

“That’s an unusually large gathering in these dangerous times, wouldn’t you say?””

“Absolutely—especially since the mayor has severely limited all public gatherings to small groups—no more than 10 people.
 
What I’m looking at right now is easily five times the legal limit.
 
There’s a police cruiser that just appeared on the scene.
 
I can see through the people milling about that there’s another squad car on the south side of the church.”

“Has this church been designated an emergency health station?”

“No, not as far as I’m aware.
 
Only a handful of people have gotten sick here in the last 48 hours—so far, the local hospital is more than capable of handling—” he paused, watching the crowd part.
 
“Hang on…”

“What is it?”

“It appears that some police officers are escorting a man out of the church.
 
The crowd is definitely more agitated now.
 
I’m going to try and get closer…”
 
Danny exited his car and immediately realized he was on to something by the sheer volume of yelling and chanting.

“Please be sure you’re protected, Danny—don’t take any unnecessary risks…”

“Hang him!” the crowd shouted.

“He’s a spy!”

“He brought the flu!”

“Hang him!”

“It sounds like people are chanting something—”

“Yes, Axel, they’re yelling ‘Hang him’ over and over,” said Danny, one hand holding the phone, the other over his opposite ear.
 
He approached the first person he could find.
 

“Excuse me, sir, I’m Danny Roberts with
The Tribune
—can you tell me what’s going on?” he asked over the noise and commotion.

The middle-aged man turned, his face obscured by a flu mask.
 
“You got here fast!” he said in a muffled voice.
 
“They got—” he started to say, then shook his head and pulled the mask down from his face.
 
“I
hate
these damn things.
 
Can’t hardly talk with ‘em on.
 
They got that son of a bitch Korean spy that’s been running around town spreading the flu, that’s what!”

“Hang him!” the mob cheered.

“That’s right!
 
Hang ‘im!” screamed Danny’s eyewitness.
 
“Hey, you gonna print everything I say?” he asked, smiling.

“Well maybe, but right now I’m on the phone—live—with Axel Putnam from CNN.
 
America will hear everything you say,” he said, holding the phone out.
 
“Tell us your name, sir.”

“Oh, cool!
 
Ah, the name’s Greg Moore—I own Moore’s Autobody, over on 4th and Starling?
 
Well, a few days back, this Korean guy comes in with a busted-up Chevy Cruz—it’s a rental car—and asks me to fix it.
 
Not a problem, I says, except the part I need ain’t in stock and what with the war—I guess that’s what you call it—and now the super-flu going around, we ain’t had no deliveries in a week.”

“So you’re saying your supply chain has been totally disrupted because of the illness?” asked Danny.

“Oh yeah,” said Moore.
 
He folded his thick arms over a beer gut and grimaced.
 
“Damned flu has stopped all the delivery trucks from making their rounds—we switched over to that low-inventory, just-in-time crap last year and now I’m kickin’ myself for ever getting rid of all my overstock.
 
Oh, it was fine when FedEx and UPS showed up every day, but now…”
 
He spat on the ground.
 
“Now it means I’m up a creek unless I can make my own parts.”

“Can you?” asked Danny.

“Hang him!” shouted the crowd.

“A
few—I’m no blacksmith, and most of the cars nowadays are so damn complex, it’s practically impossible to use anything but OEM parts.”
 
He shrugged.
 
“Lucky for this Korean feller—” Moore paused as a ruckus erupted behind him.
 
“Yeah, that’s it, Billy! Beat his ass!” he shouted to a huge cop dragging a small handcuffed man through the throng.

Danny saw the terror in the man’s bleeding face and was repulsed by the actions of the crowd.
 
For a split second his eyes met the accused.

“Help me!” the man cried.
 
He was kicked for his outburst as the police officer slowed down his march to the nearest squad car.

Moore grabbed Danny’s hand and brought the phone close to his mouth.
 
“That little bastard showed up at my shop and now half the town’s sick!
 
He’s a spy, and he brought the flu with him!”

Danny snatched his phone back and had to practically yell into it: “Did you get that, Axel?”

“Yes, yes we did—Danny that was quite disturbing—”

“I wish I had a camera with me—Hey, hold on a sec, I’m gonna talk to one of the cops,” said Danny.
 
He pushed his way to the squad car, shouting “Press!
 
Press!
 
I’m a reporter!”
 
People gradually calmed down and moved aside as he got closer.
 
Most looked curious.