Pale Horse (A Project Eden Thriller) (8 page)

Go? Stay?

Stay, he decided.

The treetops began swaying from the wind generated by the helicopter’s approach. Another few seconds and it would be right above him. He squeezed his eyes shut as if doing so would make him invisible, and pressed as tightly as he could against the tree.

Fifty feet away now, the rotors so loud he could no longer hear anything else.

He angled his feet so that he could shimmy around the trunk as the helicopter passed above, and hoped that would be enough to keep him from being discovered.

Twenty feet. His mind screamed at him to move around the tree now.

Wait. Wait.

He held his position.

Suddenly the sound of the engine changed as the helicopter stopped in midair.

He shoved his eyelids even tighter together, sure that he’d been seen, and those soldiers he’d been worried about earlier were descending to the ground.

The helicopter hung in the air above him. Why? What were they doing?

Reluctantly, he opened his right eye, then his left. Very slowly, he tilted his head up. Through a small gap in the tree cover, he could see a portion of the helicopter’s tail section. Knowing he was taking a big chance, he leaned a few inches further around until he could see the main cabin.

No ropes. No men hanging below. The door was shut.

Run!

He didn’t move, not because he thought the urge was wrong, but because his feet suddenly felt as if they were a thousand pounds each.

Without warning, the engine noise increased again, this time even louder than before. He looked up just in time to see the helicopter turn. It wasn’t moving toward him now; it was moving away.

Run!

This time his feet obeyed.

Dodging trees and jumping over dead branches, he raced as fast as he could through the woods in the opposite direction of the helicopter. Every few minutes he’d look over his shoulder, expecting to catch a glimpse of the aircraft following him from above, but not once did he see it.

Run!

Since the helicopter had returned, he’d never been able to go for more than fifteen minutes without it flying somewhere close by, but now he’d been racing through the woods for twenty minutes and there was still no sign of the aircraft’s return.

Run!

The gentle downward slope of the ground was a good indication he was heading in the same eastward direction as earlier, but he would feel better if he could get a glimpse of the mountains to be sure.

He glanced over his shoulder again, but could only see the trees. As he turned back around, he caught a split-second glimpse of the dead branch sticking up from the ground just before his shin slammed into it.

Down he went, his backpack crashing into him as he hit the ground, and spilling out several items from inside.

He lay there for a moment, not moving. Once his breath slowed, he pulled the backpack off, and sat up. Head throbbing, he touched the spot where his skull met his neck. His hair felt moist and sticky. He pulled his hand back and saw that his fingers were covered with blood.

He stayed where he was and gritted his teeth through the pain until it dulled enough so that he could check the rest of his body. Cuts and a few bruises, but he was pretty sure he hadn’t broken anything.

He slowly repacked the backpack and pulled it on, then rubbed his hand over the back of his head again. There didn’t seem to be any new blood, so hopefully the wound wasn’t that bad.

He took a moment to figure out the direction the slope was going, and set off again, walking this time. The pain he felt, particularly in the shin that had smacked the branch, lessened somewhat as he walked, but didn’t completely go away.

Twenty minutes later he reached a wide spot amongst the trees, not meadow really, barely even a clearing, but it was enough for him to get a look at most of the sky.

There was not a helicopter in sight. Maybe he
was
free.

With a sigh of relief, he checked his straps and continued on.

12

THE OUTER BANKS, NORTH CAROLINA

5:07 PM EASTERN STANDARD TIME

A
COLD WIND
blew across the waves, occasionally spraying salt water on the decks and windows of the vacation homes that lined the beach. Most of the places were closed up for the winter, while a few were occupied by people who called the area their permanent home.

One, however, was being used by a man and a woman, recent arrivals who had yet to venture into town. Those few locals who knew they were there assumed that they’d come to spend the Christmas holiday along the shore.

But while Tamara Costello and Bobby Lion had basically lived together since the previous spring, they were not a couple. They were friends and colleagues.

And survivors.

When the Sage Flu outbreak had occurred in California, Tamara was a promising reporter for the Prime Cable News network, and Bobby was her equally talented cameraman. They’d been assigned to cover the outbreak, and in the process had started to unearth the truth about what was really going on. If it hadn’t been for Matt Hamilton and his people in the Resistance—an organization she had no idea even existed at the time—she and Bobby would have been long dead.

Instead, while everyone who’d known them thought they
were
dead, they’d actually gone into hiding and changed their identities. After the full realization of what they were up against finally sunk in, they had agreed to do whatever they could to help the Resistance stop Project Eden. This meant using their professional talents to make a series of anonymous videos warning everyone about what was happening.

But though they tried to get various news organizations interested, no one took their reports seriously. The only way they were able to get them seen was to post them on the Internet. That had only been incrementally more successful, as hackers from Project Eden would diligently remove them before more than a handful of people saw them.

Still, Tamara and Bobby kept plugging away, hoping that at some point, their videos would become more than just white noise that disappeared without anyone noticing.

Then, less than four days before, Matt had called and told them to prepare the Worst Case video, as it might be needed very soon. This was not a video meant to expose Project Eden like the others were. It was a guide to survival and an explanation of events, and was to only be distributed if the Project’s plan went live.

Scared out of their minds, Tamara and Bobby had put the finishing touches on the video, and relocated to their backup safe house on the outer banks.

“If it looks like things are going to shit and you can’t reach me,” Matt had told them, “upload it. Don’t wait for me to give you the go-ahead.”

They had spent every moment since arriving in North Carolina watching for that moment. There were three TVs in the house, each tuned to a different news channel, and left on twenty-four hours a day. Plus Tamara and Bobby each had a laptop so they could check the web while keeping an eye on the news. Missing something because they were sleeping wasn’t an issue. Neither of them was sleeping much these days, and for the most part, one or the other was always awake.

So far, though, there had been nothing on the news, except a few follow-up reports on a minor Sage Flu outbreak at a St. Louis-area hospital. That event had actually taken place before Matt called them, and very possibly was the reason he’d put them on alert. Though there had been several deaths, the outbreak seemed to have been contained and was dying out.

“Beer?” Bobby asked as he pushed up from the couch.

“Sure,” she said, not taking her eyes off the screen.

They were watching PCN, their former network, though that seemed like a lifetime ago. With only a couple days left before Christmas, and all the politicians having gone home, most of PCN’s stories were feel-good fluffy pieces—the best gifts for a busy dad, a gingerbread-house competition, and reports from retailers encouraged by the increased spending habits this season.

“Here,” Bobby said, handing her a bottle.

“Thanks.”

That was the way their conversations went these days. One or two words between hours of silence as they stared at the TV in a constant state of anticipation.

On the screen, one of the PCN talking heads was describing the president’s plans for the holidays. Camp David this year with family and a few friends. A turkey and a ham, and candied yams from a recipe passed down through the first lady’s family. As he started to list the desserts, the cell phone sitting on the coffee table rang for the first time since Tamara and Bobby had arrived in North Carolina.

They both jumped, and stared at the phone for a moment before Tamara snatched it up.

She pressed
ACCEPT
. “Yes?”

“This is one call I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to make,” Matt said.

She let out a groan, and unconsciously moved her free hand over her mouth.

“Go with WC,” he told her.

“Are you sure?” she whispered.

“I wish I wasn’t.”

“When will it happen?”

“It’s already begun. Put it up. Keep it up. Get the word out. Let’s try to save as many people as we can.”

The line went dead.

CHANNEL SIX NEWS

5:12 PM EASTERN STANDARD TIME

“…T
HE ACCIDENT WAS
reportedly caused by a roll of carpet. Where that carpet came from, police are unsure. The good news is, there were only minor injuries.”

The image of the polished-looking, fortysomething male anchor was replaced by his polished-looking, twentysomething female counterpart.

“Fire department and police officials have received reports of several metal containers spread around the tri-city area that are emitting what some people are calling a hum. A police spokesman says that officers have been dispatched to investigate these reports, but at this point there’s been no further information. Victoria Lawrence is on the scene with one of these boxes right now. Victoria?”

The studio shot cut to Victoria Lawrence standing in the parking lot of the Whittington Mall. About fifty feet behind her was a dark red shipping container, the top of which was open. This was the first such report to make it on the air.

“Cheryl, you can see one of the containers in question behind me.” As she said this, she turned for a quick look at the box, then faced the camera again. “This is only one of a half dozen sightings that have been called in to our station. The police have yet to arrive at this location.”

“Any indication of what might be inside?” the male anchor said.

“No, Paul. We haven’t been able to get a look yet. Mall security has asked everyone to stay away, but you might be able to hear the noise it’s making. It sounds a bit like the propeller of a small plane. As you can also see, several curious onlookers have gathered to see it for themselves.” She turned to a crowd of about a dozen people standing near her, and held a microphone up to the nearest women. “Hi, Victoria Lawrence, Channel Six News. What’s your name?”

“Michelle.”

“Any thoughts on what might be going on here, Michelle?”

“No idea.”

“I know!” a man yelled behind her.

Victoria moved the microphone toward him. “Can I have your name?”

“Charlie Simmons. And if you ask me, I think it’s some sort of PR stunt. Probably some kind of movie promotion. You know, that kind of thing.”

Victoria interviewed a few more people, each offering their take on what might be happening. Finally, she turned back to the camera, her smile clearly indicating this was the kind of story you just had fun with because it would end up being nothing. “Paul? Cheryl? What do you think?”

“I’m with the guy who called it a marketing trick,” Paul said.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Cheryl agreed.

“Well, whatever the case, when we find out, we’ll bring the answer to you,” Paul said to the camera, sure that the story would probably be forgotten by morning. “Coming up after the break, a bear makes a surprise visit to a Walmart parking lot.”

IM CONVERSATION TRANSCRIPT

BETWEEN DOUG MINOR, FREELANCE WRITER, AND

JOSE RAMOS, EDITOR FOR THE BEYOND BLOG NETWORK

2:21 PM PACIFIC STANDARD TIME

DOUG MINOR: Jose, you there?

JOSE RAMOS: What’s up?

DM: Want to show you something. This aired just a few minutes ago on a station back east:

JR: Hold on.

JR: They’re probably right. Some kind of publicity stunt.

DM: I’m not so sure about that. Did a quick check around. There’s some noise online from other places about similar boxes.

JR: A big campaign, then. So what?

DM: Look at this:

DM: And this:

DM: Two other shipping containers. Found in last couple days. First in Australia, and the second in Cleveland. Both exploded.

JR: Okay, a bit creepy. But has anyone proved that they’re connected?