Contagious (46 page)

Dew looked up, eyebrows raised, sweat beading on his bald head despite the cool temperature inside the Osprey. He turned and regarded Perry.
“You saw the Renaissance Center in your vision, right?”
Perry nodded.
“Where was the river?”
Perry tried to think. So much shit had gone down so fast. That image had flashed from multiple minds, like a strobe-light dance from different cameras all hitting at once. But in each of the images, the angle had been pretty consistent.
“On the left,” Perry said.
“How far away would you say it was?”
Perry shrugged. “I’m not great with distances, Dew.”
“Take a guess, college boy.”
“Maybe a mile? Maybe a bit less.”
Dew relayed the information, waited, then laughed. “You’ve got to be shitting me, L.T.”
He listened, then nodded. Apparently Murray wasn’t shitting him.
Dew tucked the satphone back in his flak jacket. “We’re going to put down and secure the LZ. Then Murray is going to fly in another Margo-Mobile set behind us. They’ve lost contact with Margaret and Otto, so he thinks their trailers were destroyed.”
“Is Margo dead?”
“I doubt it,” Dew said. “They had plenty of warning. Otto is a sharp guy, so let’s hope for the best.”
“Well, where are we landing, then?”
Dew smiled a shit-eating grin. “Perry, my boy, you’re going to love this landing field. The irony is so thick you could spread it on toast.”
“What? Where are we landing?”
Dew kept smiling and shook his head. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”
He thought this was funny.
Funny
. They were heading into a firefight, Detroit was burning, Margaret might be dead, and Dew was laughing.
“Just sit back and enjoy the ride,” Dew said. “This might be the last time you ever fly in one of these things.”
Perry sat back and hoped that was true. But he hoped it would be because they walked away and just never got on one again—not because they crashed and died.
12:42 P.M.: Ogden’s Plans
General Charlie Ogden made another mark on his paper map of Detroit. He’d lost contact with the men at the 94/75 intersection. They’d done their job, but the fact that he’d lost contact meant two more men gone. Fifty minutes into the attack and losses were higher than he’d expected.
Those low-flying A-10s were a real pain in the ass. Small-arms fire just wouldn’t take them out. He’d had only ten Stingers to begin with—five for the various airports and five in the city. Three of the latter set had already fired—two misses and a hit, bringing down an Apache right on Woodward Avenue. He’d ordered the last two Stingers held in reserve. It was possible, however improbable, that Ogden had missed something. Giving up air superiority wasn’t an issue. What he couldn’t handle was troops on the ground. His men were too spread out, too dispersed to repel infantry.
Ogden could sense it now. He could sense how close they were. Thirty-two minutes, give or take, and the hatchlings would activate the gate.
The angels would descend upon Detroit.
He was in the Globe building with Corporal Kinney Johnson, a sorry excuse for a communications man. Just the two of them, the hatchlings busting ass to finish the gate and Chelsea still sitting inside the Winnebago. Mr. Burkle continued to run in and out, finding whatever material he could for the hatchlings.
“Sir,” Johnson said, “we’re getting reports of massive air traffic off Belle Isle, less than a mile up the river. A-10s, Apaches, even F-15s, flying low.”
“Flying low . . . are they attacking anything?”
“It looks like just targets of opportunity, sir,” Johnson said. “Some of our men tried volley fire with AT4s, even brought down an A-10, but as soon as our men fire, one of the gunships takes them out.”
He’s coming
.
Chelsea’s voice, tinged with fear. That instantly made Ogden sweat, made his stomach churn—how could God be afraid?
The boogeyman, he’s coming. Stop him.
His men had failed to kill Perry and Dew. What if they had also failed to do enough damage to Whiskey Company?
“Johnson, call out to everyone who’s left. Look for Ospreys. Repeat, Ospreys.”
Johnson bent to the task, and Ogden waited. Perry and Dew were on the way. The only question was, who was coming with them?
“Sir, visual confirmation of three Ospreys—I repeat,
three
Ospreys—coming in fast from the north.”
“Concentrate all remaining Stinger fire on the Ospreys,” Ogden said. “Tell any unit that can see the Ospreys to move toward them, set up sniper positions. If any of the birds land, concentrate all fire on whatever comes out.”
12:44 P.M.: Incoming
Perry Dawsey wanted to puke.
Downtown Detroit spread out before them. Urban sprawl stretched out to the right, while Lake St. Claire filled the left-side view. Plumes of smoke rose from the city, some from skyscrapers, some from the ground, wind carrying the black smoke from left to right, due west across the heart of the city toward Ann Arbor. He wondered if the smoke would reach that far, spread soot on the University of Michigan Stadium where he’d once been a star. The three skyscrapers looked like smokestacks, as if the whole city of Detroit was a giant ship steaming eastward.
He was in the last of three Ospreys. Dew had told him why—any missile fire would probably hit the lead helicopter. That strategy, of course, was only as good as the guesswork of the guy firing the Stingers.
The closer Perry got to Detroit, the more he sensed the infected. This was so different from before. Mather had been one guy, really hard to locate. It had been easier to track down three hosts each for the South Bloomingville and Marinesco gates. The Detroit signal felt huge, undoubtedly more hosts there than he’d ever encountered.
It was also stronger for another reason.
Chelsea Jewell.
He could
experience
her,
taste
her blank soul. He would find her, he would help her, because she had tried to fuck with his head—and nobody fucks with a Dawsey.
An alarm blared through the cabin.
“Incoming!” the pilot shouted. “Missiles inbound!”
Perry gripped hard on the bottom of the seat. The Osprey’s nose tipped down, allowing him a view of the ground far below and the other two Ospreys out in front. The smoke trail started low, from a house way off on the right. It curved, course-correcting to match the Osprey’s velocity.
“Hold on, kid,” Dew said. “It’s out of our hands now.”
The missile seemed to pick up speed as it closed in, covering the final bit of distance in the blink of an eye. Up ahead the lead Osprey ejected a spray of flashes with white contrails. Countermeasures of some kind.
They didn’t work.
The Osprey rocked to the left, a fireball spewing out of its right side. Amazingly, it didn’t disintegrate. Perry felt a flash of hope that the pilot had lived, that he might be able to set her down. Then the Osprey’s right engine fell away. The half-plane/half-helicopter simultaneously rolled to the left and tumbled forward as it plummeted. It disappeared beneath Perry’s line of sight. He didn’t get to see it crash, but those guys were gone. Twenty members of Whiskey Company, plus the Osprey crew.
Dead. Just like that.
“Let’s hope they’re out of Stingers,” Dew said. “Our chances of survival just dropped from sixty-six percent to fifty-fifty.”
The alarm beeped again.
“I guess they’re not out,” Dew said. He looked semi-relaxed, not in the least concerned that he had a 50 percent chance of dying in the next ten seconds.
The alarm changed from a beep to a steady blare.
“That’s not good,” Dew said.
Perry heard whooshing sounds, something shooting off of his Osprey. Two seconds later he heard an explosion. The Osprey tilted to the left a little, then came back to normal and kept descending.
Dew looked a little bored.
“How can you be so calm?” Perry said. “The next one could be us.”
Dew shrugged. “When your number is up, your number is up. Besides, you’re here, and you’re like a cockroach—you survive anything. I’m sticking close to you. You’re like a big death umbrella.”
Perry nodded and tried to control his breathing. Dew was going to stick close to
him
? Screw that. More like the other way around. This was Dew’s world, and Perry wasn’t going to leave his side.
Dew nudged him. “Take a look out front. We’re coming in for a landing. Right up your alley.”
Perry looked, then shook his head.
Dew started laughing.
12:46 P.M.: Otto on the Run
Clarence turned, aimed and fired, squeezing off four rounds as Margaret sprinted toward the long, two-story, tan brick building. She glanced at the street signs—Franklin and St. Aubin. Cinder-block walls filled the building’s windows. The place looked like a miniature fortress.
She ran for the door. Clarence passed her; he was so much faster. He reached it, stood at an angle, shot the deadbolt lock and then kicked the door open. They were only a block from the loading dock in which they’d first hidden. Ogden’s men had followed them in. Clarence hadn’t found any hiding places he thought were defensible, so they’d run again, bullets hitting all around them. If this building didn’t give them some protection, it was over.
She ran inside. He shut the door just as more bullets reached out to them, tearing into the door’s heavy wood, ricocheting off bricks on the outside wall. One step slower and they would both have been cut down.
Margaret was so scared she wanted to pee, but she kept moving, one thought in her head keeping her feet keep pumping—this wasn’t as scary as a one-cheeked Betty Jewell.
Clarence turned and ran farther into the abandoned building. Rusted metal machinery dotted the cracked floors amid stagnant puddles of standing water. Margaret saw trash and discarded crack vials everywhere, as well as a rusted shopping cart and half a blue toilet seat. It was a big building, a lot of halls and rooms. If they could find the right spot, it might take their pursuers a long time to track them down.
Clarence saw some stairs and dashed toward them. Margaret followed him up, both of them looking for a place to hide.
12:48 P.M.: The Landing
The Osprey slowed quickly as they came in for a landing. Perry heard a plinking sound, bullets hitting the craft’s armored sides. His body screwed tight with raw anxiety as he waited for a Stinger to hit.
But none did.
Nails spoke loud and calm, his words picked up by the little microphone curling around from the side of his helmet.
“We’re taking fire, possibly from a ten-or fifteen-story building south-southeast of the landing area,” Nails said. “I need air cover right now!”
Nails turned to face his men. Apparently he didn’t trust the microphone to pick up everything, because he started screaming at the top of his lungs. “All right! We’re coming in under fire. The Osprey will land with its nose facing the fire to give you a little cover as you go down the ramp. Hit the ground, go left. There are some bleachers there. Get under them. Find cover, return fire. Once our air support kills the snipers, we will move out. We have twenty-five minutes to destroy the target. We’re maybe a mile away, but we’re not sure where we’re going. I’m guessing we’ll be under fire as we run. We
must
press forward, no matter what, understand?”
“Yes sir!” the men barked in unison.
Dew leaned in to talk in Perry’s ear. “All these guys are expendable. You are not. They will draw fire and give you enough cover to move out. Hopefully, they’ll pin down the shooters.”
“Hopefully?”
Dew smiled and slapped Perry on the shoulder. “Like I said, kid, it’s all just odds. I put us at about eighty percent to make it.”
“Which means there’s a twenty percent chance we
won’t
make it.”
Dew winked and pointed a finger at Perry’s face. He flicked his thumb down twice—
bang-bang.
The face under his helmet showed electricity, excitement. As if someone had just sliced twenty years off his soul.
He likes this shit,
Perry thought.
He likes it, and this is the man I’m counting on to keep me alive?
Perry felt something. The sensation of the hosts flickered. Faded just a little. Another sensation flared up, very weak, but unmistakable.
The grayness.
“Dew,” Perry said. “I think they’re trying to jam me again.”
Before Dew could respond, the Osprey landed hard, throwing men against their seat restraints.
“Get up and
move
!” Nails screamed. The rear ramp dropped open, and men rushed out. Perry started down the ramp, looking out at what had to be the most surreal thing he’d seen yet.
The open, green expanse of a high-school football field.
“You should feel right at home, Dawsey!” Dew shouted.
Perry hit the green artificial turf and cut left along with the other men. They’d landed almost on the fifty-yard line. He ran across a black circle decorated with the yellow letters MLK, and then he was on the green again.
Somewhere in the back of his head, the ghosts of his past cheered for Scary Perry Dawsey one more time. He was even wearing a helmet.
In front of him, a man’s head snapped to the left. The man stumbled and started to fall. Perry reached out and grabbed his jacket, then flipped the limp body up onto his right shoulder. He never even broke stride.
From far off to his left, a deep stuttering sound, then an explosion. He only semi-heard these things—all he could think of was reaching the empty aluminum stands that stretched out in front of him. Suddenly he was on the red track, heading for the corner of the stands, then curving around them—their bulk shielded him from more bullets. Men surrounded Perry, helping him lower the wounded man. As soon as Perry set him down, it was clear the man wasn’t wounded.
He was dead.
A bullet had hit him on the right cheekbone and gone out the other side, the exit wound much larger than where the bullet had entered.
“Nice try, Perry,” Dew said. “An A-10 went after the snipers on that building. We’re probably okay for now, but we have to move.” Dew checked his watch. “According to you, we’ve got twenty-three minutes—so which way do we go?”
Perry looked away from the dead man. Forty-odd soldiers stared at him. Some were breathing hard. All were waiting.
“Perry,” Dew said. “Now or never.”
Perry closed his eyes and just
felt
. Without looking, he raised his right hand and pointed. When he opened his eyes, he saw that he was pointing toward the smoking Renaissance Center.
Nails drew in a big breath. “Let’s
moooove
! Time to get some payback, men. Fall out by squads, and let’s make time!”