Operation Sea Mink (8 page)

As fortune had it, there was a stack of firewood by the back door, which Morland used to make a tiny fire in the main room’s fireplace. After eating, wearing dry clothes and wrapped in stiff woollen non-functioning electric blankets, they warmed themselves by the fire, drank lukewarm water, and took turns sleeping until the sun rose.

In the grey of morning—dry, somewhat rested, and with enough food in them to keep moving—they checked the cottage’s detached garage for supplies and found an old gas-guzzling four-door sedan.

The old, late-model Ford was locked. After popping the window out and attempting to hot-wire the monstrosity, they found the battery was long dead, and the gas tank empty.

A check of the adjacent houses failed to find any viable cars. It would seem that the resistance had cleared out—having taken the best-functioning vehicles with them, after draining the others—and gone off to find an Infected-free area, if such a thing existed.

This didn’t bode well for the surrounding houses being commune-free, Miller figured, so the four of them walked back to the highway, lugging the crate by hand, and continued their sojourn north—dejected, discouraged, and saying little.

After a good hour, Hsiung stopped walking, jarring the four to a quick stop. “There’s smoke coming out of that chimney,” she said, pointing to a large, mansion-like house with a shingle roof. Further up the beach highway, the house was at least a mile or more away, but any sign of life, Infected or not, was a chance at a vehicle.

They approached with caution. Miller directed the group off the main highway and back into the residential area, which allowed for some coverage as they advanced toward the target. This proved a smart move, as the closer they got, became evident that the house was an Infected commune.

One block from the smoking chimney they found the commune’s ‘septic area.’ A greenway with a running gutter was stacked high with faeces and waste. In the distance, they heard voices, along with the low roar of a working truck, or van.

Sneaking closer to the mansion, they spotted it. A white, fourteen-passenger van, rusted in some places, but operational and ambling down the residential street at a decent clip.

Quickly taking cover behind some shrubs, they watched from a distance as a dozen Infected scrambled out of the van, eyed the mansion in trepidation, then hugged, kissed, and greeted those standing out front of the house as if they had long anticipated their reunion.

The greeters, looking slightly less threadbare than the new arrivals, encircled the recruits and ushered them inside, leaving only two left at the van—the driver and an armed guard.

The guard, a tall lanky man in a dirty overcoat, had a sawed-off shotgun in one hand, and was glancing around the area as if sensing Miller and the other’s presence. Then, feeling the coast was clear, the driver and the guard hopped into the van, slamming the doors behind them.

“Miller?” du Trieux whispered.

“Morland and Hsiung, stay with the crate. Du Trieux, you’re with me.”

“
Oui
.”

Crouching as he ran, Miller booked it toward the idling van—du Trieux just behind him. Coming up to the driver-side window, he yanked open the door and thrust his hunting knife deep into the driver’s ribcage, angling upward toward his heart.

On the passenger side, the guard barely had time to raise his shotgun before du Trieux stabbed him in the ear and twisted her bowie knife free for another jab at his carotid artery.

Spilling the corpses out into the street, they hopped inside, closing the doors quietly, and Miller shifted the vehicle into drive.

After swinging around to pick up Morland, Hsiung, and the crate, Miller pulled the van out onto the beach highway, and shoved the gas pedal all the way to the floorboard.

It wasn’t until they were many miles away that he felt his hands relax.

Bloodstained, and gripping the steering wheel so tightly they ached, Miller wiped his bloody palms on the pants of his uniform and let out a slow, hot breath.

Morland laughed from the back seat and Hsiung yipped with excitement.

They were on their way home, Miller thought, his grin quickly fading—whatever was left of it.

7

T
HEY TOOK SHIFTS
driving through the day and got as far as Secaucus, New Jersey. There, on the I-95 north, just west of the Lincoln Tunnel, the van sputtered to a stop and died—right smack in the middle of the highway. Fungus had clogged the fuel lines, or they’d run out of gas. Either way, they were fucked.

“Bollocks,” Morland sighed, tossing his weapon onto his shoulder and moving to the back of the van to open the tailgate.

Assuming their prior positions lugging the crate, the four of them took to the road, opting to head east through the Lincoln Tunnel, into the city. If all went well, they’d be able to walk through Hell’s Kitchen, cross the Queensboro Bridge and arrive at the Astoria Peninsula in about three and a half hours, but Miller was too realistic to hope for that.

For one thing, they had no food. They’d filled their canteens with water at the cottage, but that wouldn’t last long and it was already dark. For another, if NYC Infected communes were living underground, they stood a real chance of running into one inside the tunnel. But with no other viable option, and being unable to radio for help—the batteries of their short-range radios were long dead, and besides, there was no help to be had—and having slim chances of finding another vehicle to boost, they trudged on: alert, exhausted, but steadily moving.

The tunnel, at first glance, appeared empty. Fearing to hope for a bit of luck, the team pressed forward, passing the empty toll booths and entering the tunnel on the far right. The lights were out and the tunnel was pitch black. Disregarding the walkway on the left, Morland snapped on the light mounted on his rifle and they walked in the center of the road, using the single beam of light as their only source of illumination.

That there’d been a past commune was obvious from the smell. Mixed in with road tar and the years of exhaust that permeated the walls, the stench of body odor, waste, and burning rubber filled the two-lane channel to the point of choking. Piles of blankets and the ashes of extinguished campfires lay scattered throughout the underpass.

The only sound was their boots echoing off the concrete walls. The temperature, a good ten degrees cooler than it had been at the opening, made the tunnel seem almost tomb-like—desolate, dangerous.

At the midway point, as expected, they encountered a small band of Infected—three of them, huddled around a campfire and starving to the point of collapse.

Miller and the others armed themselves, ready to dispatch them if they got aggressive, but the Infected merely lay on the ground and watched them amble by, bug-eyed, covered head-to-toe in fungal growths, mouths gaping as if they didn’t even have the energy to ask to be put out of their misery.

One of them, a woman of indeterminate age, raised a skeletal hand a few inches into the air as Miller and the others walked by—but she said nothing.

There was no helping them, and no one wanted to risk going nearer.

A bullet to the head would have been the kind thing to do—unfortunately, none of them had a bullet to spare. Instead, they skirted to the far side of the tunnel and walked right past them, hands on their sidearms.

As they neared the far end of the tunnel, the customary light at the end of the path proved non-existent. Instead, more darkness loomed. They exited the underpass with sighs of relief, and made their way to the left, toward the darkness of Hell’s Kitchen.

It wouldn’t be long, Miller hoped. The worst was surely behind them.

W
HAT SHOULD HAVE
been a three-hour walk turned into three days.

They searched for food and water the first night, dodged communes the following day, only to come across a pack of terror-jaws the morning after that, and swooping titan-birds that same afternoon. Before long, Miller and the others found themselves out of ammunition, still miles from the compound, with swollen feet and sunken bellies, disheartened and beyond exhausted.

The closer they came to the compound, the more swarms of large, aggressive wasps attacked around every bend. Gas masks seemed to keep the wasps at bay, although the obscured visibility made navigating the treacherous streets all the more perilous and didn’t stop them from being continually stung.

Whatever plans Harris had had for the super-wasps seemed to have gone awry, Miller surmised. He highly doubted they’d included flocks of venomous wasps attacking people’s faces at random. Hell, maybe they had. Miller couldn’t imagine that the NAPA-33-infused bugs had done what they were supposed to have done. It was like walking into a huge hive.

Closer still, and Infected communes seemed to multiply. Skating around them, hiding in buildings as gangly-looking squads of Infected passed, slowed Cobalt’s sluggish trek even further.

Finally, their fingers blistered and raw from carrying the crate across the city, they arrived at the compound’s southern refugee processing gate—only to discover that it was shut. Chains with padlocks secured the gate and with no guards to protect them, it looked outright abandoned.

Miller peered through the chain-link, but soon the wasps were at him and he had no choice but to put his mask back on. Even with the naked eye, he couldn’t make out anything inside the walls, other than deserted shanties and cold, fireless barrels where people had once stood to stay warm.

They had better luck at the central gate, several blocks to the north. Two guards stood at the entrance, which had once been the station for a half-dozen soldiers.

“Oh, thank God,” Morland breathed.

Miller, sensing there were probably more than the two guards, left Morland and Hsiung in a nearby alley with the crate and took du Trieux with him.

As they approached, both guards, wearing gas masks as well, eyed the advancing pair and raised their weapons. “Halt!” they shouted.

Miller stopped cold.

“Identify yourselves!” the guard on the right bellowed.

“Hands in the air!” the other barked.

Carefully, Miller and du Trieux held their hands in front of them. Miller wasn’t surprised they couldn’t identify who they were: their uniforms were practically falling off them. It was probably the only reason they hadn’t been shot on sight.

“Identify yourselves!” the first guard ordered again.

“Who’s in command here?” Miller demanded. “Who is your commanding officer?”

“We asked you a question,” the guard snapped.

Miller’s eyes scanned the guards. There were no insignias on their lapels, no security squad identifiers. “What squad are you from?”

The guards, with the lightest of motions, lowered their rifles. “Who are you?”

“We’ve been out in the field a while,” Miller explained. “Who’s your commanding officer?”

The second guard lowered his rifle. “How long you guys been gone, man? Didn’t you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“There aren’t any squads anymore.”

Miller felt his face go numb. “Since when?”

“Since Harris is running the show. Where the hell have you been, dude? Under a rock?”

Beside him, du Trieux shifted on her feet.

“Hey!” the first guard interjected. His rifle now shaking slightly, jerked in his arms as he swung it around. “Don’t move!”

“Easy, now, easy,” Miller said, his hands still raised. “Nobody has to get hurt here.”

“Hey, is that a woman? Has she been registered?”

“Registered? Why would...?” Miller didn’t finish his sentence. In a rush of understanding, his hands bunched into fists and he backed up, ever so slightly.

Women were being registered. Wasps were running rampant. Harris was in command, just as they’d feared. The compound looked empty. And the guards, faced with two armed soldiers, hadn’t asked once if they were Infected.

Miller’s worst fears were realized—the compound was a lost cause.

Gray and Lewis were probably dead, or in the brig, if they were lucky.

The wasps, he suspected, had wiped out not only the Infected, but the uninfected, too. Women were being registered, presumably for breeding. The survivors, no doubt, were under lock and key, someplace ‘safe’ inside the compound, hidden from the outside world, trapped like laboratory rats.

Walking into the compound, at this point, was suicide. Especially considering the cargo they’d lugged all the way from the Atlantic Ocean.

Miller continued backing up. His M27 was out of bullets, but he had about ten rounds left in his sidearm. He’d been saving them for an emergency.

Carefully, he lowered his hand to the holster on his hip. The first guard, sensing the movement, jerked his rifle back toward him, and aimed right at Miller’s head.

“Both of you,” the guard spat, “stop where you are! Who are you? What’re your names?”

“Can’t help you, kid,” Miller said. “I’m under orders to report to my commanding officer.”

“Oh, yeah?” the second guard said, raising his rifle again. “And what would Harris want with you?”

Miller slid his thumb over the Gallican’s safety. “I’m really sorry. I’m really, really sorry.” Then whispering to du Trieux he said, “I’ve got the left.”

The second guard frowned at Miller. “What?”

Miller raised his sidearm just as du Trieux dropped to one knee and drew her pistol. In an instant, shots rang out and both guards slumped to the ground, a single bullet in each of their foreheads.

Miller sighed. He wished he could feel something about what they’d just done, but he was numb to guilt now. “Let’s go,” he said.

As the alarm was raised behind them, Miller and du Trieux sprinted down 27th Avenue, jumping over blast holes, skirting around piles of crumbled concrete, and cutting down an alley off 18th. They picked up Morland and Hsiung and kept going. The crate jostled and clanked in their hands.

Cutting across one building and leading the team into another, Miller hooked a sharp left, catching the others by surprise.

“Where are you taking us?” Hsiung breathed, gasping for air.