The Pandemic Sequence (Book 3): The Tilian Cure (22 page)

His unexpected laughter, more maniacal than she had ever heard him, startled her. He stepped closer to Michelle and gripped her jaw once again, leaning close. “I know when one of my own betrays me. I remotely deactivated Velazquez’s ARC days ago. Your friends are just as defenseless as you are, girl.”

Michelle raised her eyes to meet his stare. “That’s not entirely correct,” she told him.

“How so?”

“I’m not defenseless,” she hissed through gritted teeth. Lunging from the chair, Michelle brought her hands up and wrapped the thick cord from her boot’s lacing around the councilor’s neck. Stunned, Duncan dropped the gun as he clawed at the cord digging into his flesh. Angling herself behind him, Michelle tightened her grip and saw the veins along his throat bulge while the skin darkened. She was not sure how long she continued to strangle after his body stopped twitching.

During the brief drive to the pike-line defense, Paul continually reminded himself to maintain an appearance of confidence. Though most in the camp were scurrying to their assigned positions, some spared sidelong, fleeting glances at their leader, riding in the passenger seat of the Jeep. If the image of resolution even fractionally inspired the Horde, Paul willingly disguised his inner turmoil.

The truest test of his leadership was now at hand. No amount of allocating goods or developing plans for plantation would outweigh the efficacy of his ability to protect his people. Unsure when the realization first settled upon him, Paul understood that the members of the Horde were his people. Once rid of Drennan and his totalitarianism, the Horde had free choice to select their next commander, and they had chosen him. As the vehicle coursed through the rutted tracks of dirt, he could not help but wonder if their selection had been wise. The defensive measures would be his judge. Dead Tils would be his jury.

The unmanning chorus of screeching had reached a concerted crescendo by the time the Jeep pulled to a stop. Paul helped Lisa down from the tumbler seat while the second vehicle, carrying Mike, Erik, and Derrick reached the line. Studying the open swath of land to the north, lit by torches and vehicular high beams, his naked eye failed to spy any Til movement. Turning to the nearest man, Paul asked, “How far out are they?”

“Not yet in range of the trucks, but closing fast, sir,” the man replied.

A voice at Paul’s back turned his attention.

“Sir,” Wes Hardin began. “The archers are in position. What are your orders?”

Still anxious over his decision to allow such youths to be placed beyond the camp’s defenses, Paul nodded. “When the Tils are in range, they can fire at will. We could use the extra light. Have the bikers ready to swing out on my order.”

Hardin snapped a turn and spoke briefly to two smaller men, runners Paul judged by their wiry frames, before the pair sprinted in opposite directions to deliver orders.

“Everyone else in position?” he asked.

“Most, yes. Few stragglers in the camp, but there’re no holes in the line,” Hardin assured him. Paul continued to confer with the man until Erik joined the conversation.

“We never really talked about what we’ll be doing,” the dark-haired man said with expectation. “I’m good on a bike. If there are any extras, I’d like to be on one when they move.”

As much as Erik showcased his abilities as the group comedian, Paul admired his equal commitment to grave matters. The Horde leader ordered one of the men to drive Erik across the camp to the motorcycle cavalry. Hasty words of encouragement preceded Erik’s departure which led Paul to address the remaining gathering of his friends.

“Mike, you good with heading up to the archers? I’d feel better about having those kids out there if you’re leading ‘em,” he told his former commander.

“On it,” Mike said as he, and Gazelle, moved past the pikes and ran further up-field.

“I’m heading to the Bradleys,” Lisa informed him with a tone that dared Paul to voice disagreement. Recognizing an argument he’d lose, he pulled her close to him.

“Be careful. I just got you back,” he said, after a soft kiss.

“We are going to live past tonight,” she promised, and kissed him again before heading towards the eastern edge of the pike-line. He let his eyes follow her trail until light and shadow overtook her.

“Derrick…”

“I’m not going anywhere,” the katana-bearing warrior said. “I reassigned your guards to other posts. I’m your second, and I’m making damn sure you stay alive.”

Shaking his head, Paul questioned the point of leadership if those closest to him issued orders to him! When Mike led the mountain camp, Paul doubted the former history teacher ever had to contend with such amiable insubordination.

Seeming to read his thoughts, Derrick spoke again. “And you would have done the same for Mike back in the mountains.”

Climbing atop the impromptu archer battlements, a well-worn van alongside a pick-up truck carrying a large vat of gasoline, Mike froze as his eyes fell upon the shadows in the distance. The shadows, a Birnam Wood of infected, were moving. The reports of the Tils numbers had been conservative at best. The convulsing dark wave rolling towards the battlement appeared as endless as the seas. Bending to help Gazelle up the final few rungs of the ladder, he directed his attention to the others manning the vehicle.

Looking at them, he understood Paul’s reluctant agreement to the service of the archers. They’re children, he reflected. The youthful faces stirred memories of his students during the first days of the virus’ spread, the difference resting only with the dread knowledge and experience moored tightly in the eyes of the archers. Mike accepted the forfeiture of childhood innocence which the pandemic had wrought. The young adults near him would be the first line in perhaps the final showdown with the Tils. And likely the first casualties, his mind calculated.

In all, four such stations had been evenly spaced along the plain, one to the west of his position, and two others eastward. Young archers stood atop them all. The courier had already relayed Paul’s orders by the time Mike arrived. Eyes trained north, he could feel the thickening tension as the soldiers waited for the Tils to enter the range of their medieval weaponry. He recognized Tim Frazier, the band’s leader. He had been impressed with the boy’s resolve when Paul had performed introductions earlier.

“Draw,” Tim commanded, youth still present in his voice. Mike heard the uniform stretching of bows as each archer prepared a bolt, tips wrapped in gasoline-soaked thin gauze. “Get ready to spray,” Tim said to one of his companions who stood ready with a hose.

Simple as it was, Mike still admired the plan’s orchestration. The Horde had a wealth of ingenious engineers, who had rigged lengths of hose to the camp’s fuel resources and with the application of air pressure, the front line of Tils would be doused with gasoline before the archers loosed enflamed arrows.

Finally in range, Tim shouted a command for the spraying to begin. The Tils, only a hundred yards away, showed no reaction as the odorous moisture rained down in their midst. “Ignite,” the boy-leader ordered and each archer dipped his quarrel towards the wind-shielded torches at the edge of the van. Arrows blazing from each of the other stations, Tim finally gave the command. “Light ‘em up!”

As the fiery spears arced across the night sky, Mike could not ignore the majesty of their passage. Brilliant streaks of red-yellow flames, the false comets sped silently through the air until gravity regained control and brought the deadly darts to earth. Tils screamed in frustration and rage as hair and clothing sparked and bonfired. Flames engulfed a quarter mile width of infected as the human torches pressed forward.

A second stream of gasoline was followed by another volley of arrows. The action was repeated a third time before Mike saw the measure take effect. Deprived of oxygen, lungs burning from the heat, Tils began to collapse mid-stride. There was some satisfaction, he noted, that the hideous screams of the Tils only served to hasten their deaths. Infected skirted and leapt over their fallen brethren only to find themselves burning faster. The stench of thousands—countless pounds of flesh and muscle—succumbing to the open air cremation wafted sickeningly back to Mike. Even he, who had so recently suffered the same scent at Fort Polk, could feel his stomach tightening in revulsion. He doubted those nearest him would be able to fight their own rebelling senses much longer.

Looking back, he eyed the two hundred yard distance to the Horde camp. Their retreat necessitated precise timing. He wanted to exact as much damage before falling back, but he likewise abhorred the idea of risking the lives of these young men and women. After the fifth flight of arrows, with the Tils now little more than twenty yards away, Mike ordered the firing of the flare to signal retreat. Before the flash of red had even begun to fade, vans and trucks roared to life and sped toward safety. Sparse seconds passed when he heard the resonating explosions of the two Bradley tanks opening fire.

“How are we armed?” Lisa inquired as she approached the men operating the Bradley tank. A twin of the infantry fighting vehicle was located at the eastern edge of the pike line.

One of the soldiers turned and was visibly startled by her sudden appearance. Word had quickly spread through the camp of the Horde leader’s supposedly deceased partner’s return to the living. Judging by the deference the men currently displayed, Lisa assumed her relationship with Paul elevated her status in some way. “Chain and machine guns, ma’am,” he answered. “With over six thousand rounds between ‘em. And seven anti-tank missiles.”

“Bad day to be a Til,” she smiled. In truth, Lisa would have preferred a dozen additional Bradleys to stand against the infected army. She hoped her boast eased some of the men’s misgivings and worries regarding the result of the pending battle.

“They might not be able to feel pain, but we’ll make ‘em hurt tonight,” the man replied.

Lisa had reviewed the camp’s defensive positions. Her keenly attuned mind, sought by the Ira Project for her extensive knowledge of battle tactics, had poured over the plans. She had offered a few suggestions, minor alterations to attack vehicle placement, which Paul and his generals had readily accepted. Given the Horde’s limited resources, the command team had devised a sound strategy. The tanks would serve as the second wave of defense, after the archers returned to the camp’s protection.

“They’ve begun hosing the Tils,” another fellow, employing binoculars, shouted down from the Bradley’s turret. Silence ensued during the wait for the archers’ attack. In the distance, some two hundred yards ahead, Lisa began to see the scattered dots of fire as arrows were ignited. Brilliant spears of light quickly took flight and fell among the enemy. The Tils’ bestial bellowing devolved into wild cries of panic and ire as at first dozens, then hundreds, of the infected erupted into flames.

Lisa watched with dismay as the Tils’ forerunners, flesh shearing from their bodies, continued to advance across the plain. Awe struck when the line continued to expand, exposing only a fraction of the coming force. Two more launches of the fiery brands streaked across the night. It was then that the sprinting onslaught began to stagger and fall. Cheers went up along the pike line as the Horde lauded the first sign of success.

“Come on, Mike,” Lisa whispered. “Get them out of there.” Though slowed, the press of infected still continued. As the fires spread among the Tilian army, she could see how dangerously close the enemy was to the archer battlements. Once the fifth wave of arrows fell, a red flare exploded in the night sky. Eerily lit by the flames in the distance, Lisa saw silhouettes scrambling from the tops of the vans.

“All right guys,” she directed once the retreating vehicles were clear of the Bradley’s weapon system’s trajectory. “Let’s give our people some cover.” Immediately, the 25mm chain gun released a stream of rounds into the Tils’ mass. Burning limbs were ripped from bodies, torsos exploded in a flurry of diverging sparks.

Relaying commands to the systems operator, Lisa ordered a missile strike. A concussive blast reverberated off the western hill before a geyser of dirt and infected rose from the ground.

“Cease fire!” Though the strike was effective, the casualties were those already doomed to death from the consuming flames. We need to push further out, she decided. “Mount up!” she ordered with authority. Unquestioningly, the men quickly moved inside the Bradley. Once sealed, she explained. “We’re wasting our ammo on corpses back here. We need to push through to the middle and split their force.” Nodding understanding, the man at the machine’s controls stirred the armored behemoth forward.

Through the heavy metal shell, the bodies of Tils crashing into the tank, and subsequently falling beneath its treads, sounded endlessly, as rain on a tin roof. Further into the enemies’ number, the 25mm once again engaged, as did the tank’s machine gun. The missiles, requiring a stationary position, would wait until Lisa ordered a halt.

Peering through one of the vision blocks, she could see the other Bradley had joined them in the advance. She had hoped the second tank would remain at the pike line to offer defense. Paul’s going to be pissed, she mused. In the years she had known him, one thing had become quite clear. Paul Jenson was not a proponent of sudden changes to a plan of action.