The Pandemic Sequence (Book 3): The Tilian Cure (26 page)

Men trained in combat, warriors who had faced death but did not cringe from it, looked at her now with confused intensity. She had gambled high with this measure, risked everything. They could cut her down, likely escape before the grenade detonated, and know that they had followed orders. Back at the shore, when she saw the ruined face of the guard, she had known that Duncan’s life would be the last uninfected life she could end. Too much death had eclipsed the past seven years of humanity. If she died now, she would do so in an attempt at restoring what had been lost.

First one, then another, and soon all the guards lowered their weapons. No orders were exchanged, no recriminations, just simple acceptance that this young woman wandering into their midst had spoken true. Matt eventually left the security of the darkness and joined Michelle as a pair of guards escorted them into the facility. The others remained behind, their Til-ending gunshots echoing into the night.

“So, it is possible?” Matt asked the guard who had confirmed Michelle’s suspicions. When he held her captive, Duncan had said that his team had discovered how to not only control the Tils, but also how to direct them. If he tasked satellites to observe the infected army, he had likely used the same technology to gather them in the first place. Which means we can send the signal to incapacitate the Tils, she thought as the guards led them through the building.

In a large room decorated by endless monitors and screens, two men sat and studied the language of blinking lights that Michelle found indecipherable. The men had at first protested, but when she placed her sidearm against one of their temples, they were both eager to cooperate. I may have sworn off killing, but there is no need for them to know it.

With a flurry of hands, the pair typed several commands into keyboards. Michelle watched the screens as a series of prompts and actions flashed. Finally, one of the operators turned in his chair, facing her. “It’s done.”

In the distance, Derrick could see the procession of tanks and bikes cutting swathes through the Tilian force. The pike line had long since been abandoned and the fighting now raged through the tents of the camp. Though others still relied on firearms, Derrick had exhausted his supply of ammunition and now fought with the katana.

It was difficult to make much sense of his surroundings. Men and women of the Horde were fighting Tils at his side one minute, only to fall to his weapon as they became newly infected. He managed to keep Paul within his sights, though the press of the battle was making that more and more challenging. So, too, were the leaden sensations slowing down his arms with each stroke. He could feel the blade’s edge grow duller as he pierced chests and sliced through spines.

Screams sounded all around, though he could no longer distinguish between human and Til, so alike had their desperation become. Earlier he had passed the command tent and had been surprised to be so deep into the camp. Now he found himself nearing the pike line once again. Only when he spied Mike a few paces to his left, standing atop a Stryker, did he realize he had fought his way back to the where the night had started.

Back to the beginning, his mind repeated as his body operated through instinct and adrenaline. Fighting again alongside my history teacher from John Moore High School. He was mystified at the symmetry fate had established. There was dispassionate grief in surviving for so long, only to be brought down by the very enemy he had eluded for seven years.

A sudden change in the field of action brought Derrick from his reflections. A small gap had emptied between him and Paul and he saw his commander spreading his arms as each hand aimed a handgun. Outside of Paul’s vision, a Til crept forward and closed on the Horde leader.

Derrick sliced through his nearest foe and shouted Paul’s name as he ran toward him. Belatedly, Paul swung to the call but the Til was too close for him to divert the attack. Derrick angled the katana and aimed a deadly slash at the infected’s neck. Before the blow could be delivered, Paul screamed in shocked pain as the Til clenched its mouth around his forearm. Derrick adjusted the angle mid-stroke and bypassed the Tils neck. Instead, his sword burrowed through flesh and bone, severing Paul’s arm at the elbow.

The Til stumbled as the forearm separated from its host. Derrick pushed Paul out of the Til’s reach and turned back to the attacker. Incensed from being deprived a victim, the infected barreled into Derrick before he could plant his feet firmly. He hit the ground hard, the creature’s weight adding to his own. His arms froze as the Til reared back its head and howled. And so it ends, he thought with acceptance.

He had held the Tils off for far longer than he had expected. Several times Mike had to shout commands at Gazelle to stand down; she seemed eager to join the fray. His body was considerably lighter now and he knew his ammunition was all but spent. Two shots, he reminded himself. That’s all I need to save, two shots. A quick calculation, three rounds later, and Mike knew the two shots were all that remained. He dropped to his knee and ran a coarse hand through Gazelle’s fur. Bringing the handgun under her chin, Mike fought back a tear as his finger flexed on the trigger.

“Paul!”

The shout brought Mike’s head whipping up. His eyes landed on Derrick, katana raised, and watched as his old student stepped towards Paul Jenson. Mike shuddered with horror as Paul cried out. He’s bitten! Before the next thought could be formed, Derrick’s sword sliced downward and Paul was shoved aside, blood pulsing in sickening streams from the stump of his arm. Derrick crashed to the ground, a Til straddled over him. Mike raised his Glock, steadied his hand and fired. The years since battling his way through high school hallways had seen a marked improvement in his aim. The bullet tore through the Til’s skull just as the creature howled, going in for the kill.

An unexpected chorus of jubilant shouting echoed through the valley. Well, it was a pretty damn good shot, Mike’s thought flashed as he looked around. It took several seconds for him to process the change in the battlefield. No bestial howls competed with the cries of celebration. Then his eyes truly saw.

The Tils, every one of them, had dropped to the ground. They did not stir, did not quiver or growl. They simply stopped every action but breathing. Immediately, he scanned for someone holding the ARC. A single ARC couldn’t cover a field this vast!

Leaving the investigation to others, he jumped from the Stryker and rushed over to Paul. Though pale, the man showed no signs of infection. Mike quickly pulled the belt from his waist and fastened it around Paul’s upper arm.

“Guess, I’m a lefty now,” Paul grinned in considerable pain.

“Making jokes?” Mike laughed. “Now who’s the crazy son of a bitch? You’re lucky Derrick was there.” Calling over two men, he ordered them to transport Paul to a more secure location and get a medic to him immediately.

Expecting Derrick to join them, Mike stood and looked for the younger man. He was unable to see him among the milling mass of survivors who walked with evident disbelief. Lowering his eyes to where he had last seen him, he shivered as all warmth fled his soul.

Derrick lay where he had fallen, a tip of jagged metal poking through his chest.

“Medic! Medic!” Mike cried out as he ran to the body. Shallow breathing and an unfocused stare interrupted by rapid blinks were the only indication that Derrick still clung to life.

“Mike…”

“I’m here, buddy. It’s going to be okay. Help’s coming. Just stay with me,” he told him while pressing his hand against the wound trying to stem the flow of blood.

“It’s so beautiful, Mike. So beautiful.”

Knowing help would not come in time, and that another of those entrusted to his care would die in his arms, Mike fought tears as he entwined his hand with Derrick’s near lifeless hand. “Tell me about it, Derrick. What do you see?”

“It’s… it’s like a sunrise. Jenni. Mike, I see Jenni.”

“Listen to me. You go to her. Be with Jenni, Derrick.”

Turning his head with the last of his strength, the boy who once dreamed of playing college ball looked at Mike. “Is it over?”

The only words he could find were ones that had once been told to him. Hearing them then had brought him peace. Mike knew that that memory would be the last one he would know of peace. “Yes. It’s over, Derrick. We’re safe.”

The first days after the victory were marked with a continuing stream of celebrations. Comparisons were naturally made to previous epic battles waged throughout the course of human history. Marathon. Hastings. Waterloo. Gettysburg. D-Day. Even the mythical battle of Troy failed to shine brighter in the hearts and minds of the survivors than what they dubbed “The Horde’s Stand.”

Their losses had been great and painful. It had taken days to gather the fallen members of the camp and perform the basic rituals of burial. Both Erik and Mike shared stories and thoughts as they laid Derrick Chancer to rest in a freshly dug grave. Weakened from the amputation, Paul had argued vehemently to leave his bed and attend that ceremony. He studied the shadows in Mike’s eyes as the one-time teacher spoke. He knew his friend fought feelings of failure, another in his charge whose life was cut too short.

The Horde remained at the battle site for more than a week performing the rites. Ever-watchful eyes glanced furtively towards the field of catatonic Tils. Once starvation and dehydration assured the enemy would never rise again, Paul ordered a departure to Fort Polk. The survivors made the long march with little complaint, eager to slumber in the barracks of the military base.

On their arrival, the now-operational ARC was restored to the broadcast tower—Weyland’s Tower as Mike had named it. It was there that Michelle and Matt had joined them, explaining the seeming miracle of the sudden downfall of the Tils. Paul marveled at the pair’s tale of infiltrating the National Council building, aided by Tumelo and Maritza Sardina. Mike and Erik were pleased to hear the elderly couple had survived.

Control of the satellite, as well as several others Duncan had possessed, was now held at Fort Polk, the facility that had given birth to the virus. Communication with bands of survivors spanning the globe that the councilor had ignored, were restored. The secret of the ARC and the power of its frequency had been freely shared with every voice that came through the control room’s system.

Another goal of Duncan’s sinister vision shattered.

Paul’s arm was healing well, or so the doctors claimed. He still struggled with the habit of reaching for items with the non-existent right hand. The sensation of phantom fingers cramping and flexing were jarring and if he did not look, he would have sworn the limb was still there.

Their wedding was held three weeks after the battle. He had found a minister among the survivors to perform the ceremony. He doubted the event fully realized the girlhood dreams of Lisa’s perfect wedding, but she swore to him it was all that she had desired. In a simple dress borrowed from a stranger, Paul thought she had never looked more beautiful than when she walked towards him. Mike stood at his side, while Michelle attended Lisa. The maid of honor hid well the pain of reversing roles with his bride.

A proper honeymoon must wait, of course, in large part due to Mike’s momentary intervening in political affairs. When radio contact with foreign governments had been established, his friend had been present.

“Who leads the American survivors?” a distinctly British voice had asked. Mike had been the one to reply. “Our leader is Paul Jenson.”

If he thought leading the Horde had been a trial, Paul quickly found himself barely treading water once foreign countries began clamoring to speak with the “American leader.” Atoning slightly for thrusting him into the role, Mike provided vital information stored away in his memories of history. Lisa’s steel-trap grasp of all things military complemented Mike’s wealth of historical teachings. In the weeks that followed, he relied heavily on their counsel.

His first concern, however, had been the Mohawk. An armed battleship manned by Duncan loyalists could not continue to freely roam the waters. Radio-borne negotiations—Paul still marveled at the return of the much missed technology—ensued before resulting in the sailors agreeing to stand down and return to New Cuba. In return, the men on the ship would face no consequence for their role in supporting the deceased councilor. Michelle and Matt, having fallen under a bombardment from the ship, rankled at the deal, but eventually expressed their understanding.

For Paul, it seemed that once again the world was spinning faster than his thoughts could maintain. He had not expected to outlive the night-shrouded battle with the Tils, and now, little more than a month later, he was speaking with foreign heads of state as the American representative. His only solace lay in the hope that the men and women from abroad were also struggling with the demands of an unexpected title.

By the second month, the population swelled. Satellite imagery located various bands of survivors across the states, teams had been dispatched to make contact, and most returned with droves of new refugees. Over three thousand men, women, and children were sheltered at the base. As the threat of any lingering Tils subsided, many began to establish residences in the neighboring township.

At the half-year anniversary, over ten thousand called the area home, and Fort Polk served as the epicenter of national recovery. Engineers had worked tirelessly to return the nearest power plant to operational status. Children, born after the outbreak, stared in wonder at the glowing street lamps of their quickly populating neighborhoods. With the threat of Tils removed, plans of permanency were finally possible after seven arduous years.