The Pandemic Sequence (Book 3): The Tilian Cure (15 page)

It seemed for whatever reason, the Tils opted not to attack the three humans and small dog during the night. Taking the last watch as usual, Mike almost held his breath as minutes ticked closer to dawn without a sign of the infected. The entirety of the subsequent day of walking had likewise been free of Tils. A short time after noon, the road began to stretch before them in relative uniformity. Save for a few slight rises, the land they crossed was quiet flat. The lack of contour was what allowed him to see a slow moving mass several miles ahead.

Recalling Lisa’s tales of a band called the Horde, Mike immediately directed a move for cover until they could ascertain who or what approached. As the large cloud of displaced dust drew nearer he could see several automobiles weaving a slow path through the abandoned vehicles along the highway.

“I don’t see any Strykers or Bradleys,” Lisa whispered to him as they stared at the caravan from behind a congestion of several cars. Paul had returned to America outfitted with a fleet of high-end armored vehicles as well as two tanks. The group that approached, though large, lacked such motorized armament. Which means these are Horde people most likely, Mike’s inner voice growled. He had grown fiercely angry when Lisa told the tale of the first survivors Paul and his team had located in San Antonio. More scared of the Horde than of the Tils, one of them detailed the gut-churning predilections of the marauding band.

In their escape to New Cuba, Mike and his fellow refugees had encountered a similar force. The renegades’ attack had cost his people dearly as they were cut down by bullets at one front, while Tils advanced on another. It had been one such renegade that had sent the piercing steel into Mike’s abdomen. Whether the Horde and the Miami group were the same, he did not know, but as he placed the .50 into position, he did know that he did not care.

Laying her hand on his forearm, Lisa looked at him and shook her head as she pointed towards the advancing troop. Closer than they had been before, Mike could now see over a dozen men, well-armed with machine guns, grenades, and myriad handguns, riding in trucks along the perimeter of the vast procession. With little more than the .50 caliber to rely on, and a limited supply of ammunition for it, engaging the Horde would be a clear mistake.

At the center of the mass several other vehicles were heavily loaded with women and children, and a handful of the elderly. Numbering close to two hundred, Mike initially took them as prisoners, but upon closer inspection the faces of the ‘captives’ seemed relaxed, even hopeful. Several interacted with the guards in a fashion far more amiable than it was adversarial.

Maintaining their hidden position, Mike tried to make sense of his confusion. Almost all of the vehicles, the lead car only some thirty yards away, were marked with a spray-painted “H” emblazed on engine hood and side panels. It’s gotta be the Horde, he told himself again. His understanding of that name wavered as he began to hear singing over the sound of the car engines.

“Is that… is that Poison?” Erik asked with shock. Once the tune took on more clarity, Mike realized the Horde was indeed signing Every Rose Has Its Thorn by the 80s hair-metal band Poison.

“Yeah,” Mike answered dumbstruck.

“Hmm,” Erik assessed. “That is one pitchy group of murderers.”

As Mike was forming a response, Gazelle, who had been sitting statuesque beside him, jumped from their cover and began running toward the Horde as it steadily moved forward. Hissing her name, he could only watch as the streak of fur sped across the highway.

The convoy’s lead car slowed to a stop as she barked and danced with abandon at the passenger door. Mike could not see the figure’s face, but he watched as the door opened and someone stepped out. Angling for a better view, he could see a pair of hands reach down and pick-up the canine.

With his sight less obstructed, Erik gaped. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed, before standing and breaking for the lead car.

“Erik, wait!” Mike growled as he made a failed grab at the man’s sleeve. Turning to Lisa, he said, “Okay, guess we’re going to meet the Horde.” Pulling the twin firearms into his hands, even though they only had a few rounds between them, he slowly straightened his legs, with Lisa following his lead. Standing clear of obstacles, he saw why dog and man had abandoned safety.

“It’s Derrick!” Lisa gasped next to him.

Mike’s emotions spun wildly. The last interaction with Derrick he could recall had ended violently with Jenni dead, Mike nursing several broken bones, and the younger man disappearing from the camp. He had been told, rather than remembered, that it had been Derrick who saved him from a Til as he had held closed an abdominal wound, lifeblood spilling between his fingers. It had been Derrick that brought them—he and Gazelle— safely to the ship departing for New Cuba. Over a year had passed since that day. To deal with the loss, Mike had forced himself to assume his former student had died. How could he survive alone? he would often think.

As he watched Erik and Derrick, friends near to brothers, greet each other with hugs and a few tears, Mike could see how much the young man had changed. No, not changed, he corrected. Returned. The hunched, haggard appearance, eyes shadowed and face gaunt and hollow—which had been Derrick’s visage during Jenni’s infection—had disappeared. The friendly confidence and resolute determination once again infused the man the mountain camp had once dubbed “Mayor of the Mountain.”

Mike smiled with pride and contentment, as he and Derrick met across the distance. Grasping each other’s outstretched hand, he felt himself flounder for words to express himself.

“You look a lot better than the last time I saw you,” Derrick smiled, breaking the ice.

Pulling him closer, Mike put an arm around his shoulder and said, “Thanks.” He hoped the tonnage of emotions he felt were conveyed in the only word his mouth would form. He knew his unspoken message had been delivered when Derrick joined the embrace with a whispered, “Thank you.”

Both knew how much had truly been said.

“Once the barricade around the National Council building sealed, we were left on our own. Those that have tried to get in were shot by snipers,” Tumelo concluded. For the better part of two hours, Matt and Michelle had listened with rapture as the old man, wearier than she remembered him, recounted the events of the last few weeks.

Initially there had been a noticeable increase in activity headed towards Guantanamo Bay. Talk of the past two years had held passing mentions of the eastern end of the island. Under the guise of “colonial expansion” however, the true work had been kept secret. Tumelo, who knew the truth of what rested beneath the bay’s water, assumed the increasing number of soldiers heading east was a result of Michelle’s breach of the facility. It was not until Tils poured into the market place that the real nightmare was revealed.

Troops had soon taken to the streets to battle with the infected. For a day, it seemed containment was possible, but the Tils had stopped killing. Instead, their attacks ceased with maiming and wounding. “Spreading the infection and increasing their numbers.” Michelle was astonished over how strategic the enemy had become.

Once the tide turned against them, the soldiers withdrew from the streets, setting first buildings, then entire neighborhoods, ablaze as they retreated. The “scorched earth” tactic had bought enough time for the former Cuban Academy of Sciences to be sealed. Michelle had no doubt that Adam Duncan, member of the Council and head of the Ira Project, was safely ensconced within the massive building.

“But if Duncan has more ARCs, why wouldn’t he have used them once the outbreak began?” Matt proposed the same question Michelle silently dissected.

“It could be,” she continued thinking aloud. “That the Gitmo lab is either overrun with Tils, or the Tils destroyed the ARCs.”

“Could the demons be so smart now?” Tumelo asked. “To destroy the ARCs on purpose?”

Michelle thought for a moment before replying, “It’s Pavlov’s dog. Dr. Marena was working on ‘training’ them, which would have included using the ARCs. The more the ARCs were used against them, the more the Tils learned to see them as a weapon.”

“And once they were free, they knew to take out that weapon,” Matt finished for her.

“Exactly. But I’m willing to bet Duncan has an ARC on him at all times,” she added. Michelle had intended on moving against the Councilor after the ARCs had been secured. The events on the island now forced her hand. “I say we find Duncan and find out what he knows.” She hoped her selfish desire to confront the creator of her horror was not overly evident in her tone.

“I agree,” Matt announced.

“But it is too dangerous!” Tumelo began to plead. “Anyone who gets too close is shot, demon or human.”

For the first time since Tumi had started his tale of the previous weeks, Senora Sardina spoke as she placed a hand atop her husband’s calloused hands. “Ese hombre es malo. Dos veces ha fijado los monstruous sobre nosotros. El debe responder por sus crimenes.”

Itza’s pronouncement was spoken with a quiet yet unmistakable force. Each word was measured and spoken so that Michelle could translate and understand the woman’s steely words. That man is evil. Twice he has set the monsters upon us. He must answer for his crimes.

“Well, I guess that’s the plan,” Matt tried to hide the skepticism in his tone. The four stood on each side of the small kitchen table, looking down at the hand-drawn sketches and maps. Though Michelle had spent a year walking from home to the National Council building, Tumelo had spent a lifetime on the island, and added muscle and skin to her skeletal memory of the area.

Prior to its current use, and even before it housed the Science Academy, the old building of their target was once known as El Capitolio. The massive structure, architecturally inspired by the American Capitol Building, sat proudly on a wide pavilion. Its weakness, however, was its proximity to surrounding buildings. A large street cut a perpendicular line before depositing traffic only a few yards from the first of the proud steps leading to its front entrance. Though the entry itself was blocked and well-guarded, it would serve well as a diversion point.

Michelle took one last look at the drawings, coursed through the plan in her mind, and finally believed it was one of which Mike Allard would be proud.

Waiting until the cloak of night, the conspirators busied themselves with the necessary preparations. She and Matt selected a manageable amount of firearms and ammunition. The heavy duffle they had filled at Paul’s home would be too cumbersome for the planned raid. Instead, Tumelo supplied them each with a small backpack to hold extra rounds. The satchels had been retrieved during the grocer’s excursion to obtain the additional supplies.

Having lived through the pandemic already, many of the island’s natives had immediately resumed the secure network that had kept them alive previously. Tumi’s near perfect memory held the locations of all the survivors who sat huddled in their own neighborhood homes. He told Michelle that when the others heard of her plans, they were overly generous in offering whatever supplies they could. Some, it seemed, had even volunteered to join the pair, but she knew if she failed those men and their weapons would be needed to protect families. Besides, she told herself. It’s going to be tough enough to sneak two people into the building.

In addition to providing the unyielding backbone of the scheme, Itza Sardina ensured that both Matt and Michelle were well fed. Michelle had been fully sated by the time she accepted the use of the couple’s shower. The steam and hot water, mixed with the contentment of a full stomach, eased the exhaustion from her mind and body. After sliding into a pair of black jeans and matching long sleeved shirt, both donated by Tumi’s neighbors and fitting remarkably well, she studied the reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Outfitted as she was, and knowing the task ahead, Michelle was surprised with the warrior image which stared back. It had started so many years ago. Her brother complaining of fever. Images on the school television that seemed impossible. A guidance counselor explaining to her that her entire family was dead. From there it had been a house in a cliff, then on a farm, then high atop a mountain. A daring escape across the sea. The death of the man she loved. And now, she stood in a bathroom in Havana, waiting for the sun to set so she could assassinate a government leader. No wonder the little girl is gone, her mind mourned as she turned off the light and left the small room.

Eventually the sun did set, and Michelle once again found herself thanking Itza for her kindness and generosity. A month earlier she would have laughed to even associate those words with Tumelo’s wife.

“Be careful, Niña,” the woman spoke gently as she hugged Michelle tightly.

“I will, Itza, and thank you… for everything.” Kind farewells and wishes of success finished, she stepped out into the night. For a time, she and Matt walked with Tumelo, but soon he made his break from the pair and headed towards his role in the adventure.

Some two or three blocks from their own destination, Michelle’s pulse raced as she searched the darkness for signs of the Tils. The plan necessitated stealth and a firefight with infected would force them to abort.

“I know what you’re planning on doing. With Duncan,” Matt said quietly as they walked. “And I’m not going to try and talk you out of it, but before you pull that trigger, just be sure you can live with what comes after.”