Primeval (Werewolf Apocalypse Book 2) (15 page)

The roaring sound emerged from the darkness again, and the little group stood, staring into the gloom of the shadows. Sandy spread her legs, attempted to look tough, wondered how far Nicole was to reaching her. Howard and Craig took point, one on each side of the cluster of people in the dark subway car. Even Sylvia had her blade in one hand and her makeshift weapon from the railing in the other. Her wrinkled face was grim and determined, even if her back was bent with osteoporosis.

They knew something was out there, and they were ready for whatever it was.

Then, the lumbering creature stepped slowly into the halo of red light from one of the emergency bulbs, and they all realized just how wrong they’d been.

1:55 p.m.

Nicole opened the helicopter door, allowing General Burns to step in before her. He grunted as he hiked his bag into the cab of the whirlybird, then grunted again as he hefted himself up. She believed he could stand to lose a few pounds, but she would never say such a thing to his face. Beyond insulting a superior officer, it just wasn’t very nice.

The machine was a Sikorsky S76A medical helicopter, a beautiful bird. Painted navy blue on the bottom and white on the top half, it sported a red cross near the tail. The blades twirled around the top of it, looking almost lazy in their rotations, but they stirred up the wind and dust, and Nicole had to squint to keep it out of her eyes.

Reaching for Burns’ proffered hand, she stepped up into the cabin, getting her first good look at the pilot. He was a wrinkled, extremely thin man in his early fifties, his skin tanned to a chestnut color. His hair was clipped into a crew cut, and his long face was craggy with a long, sharp nose and a pointed chin. His toothy grin was infectious.

“Tom Hemmer,” he said, giving Nicole’s hand a firm shake. His long thin fingers encased hers like the legs of a huge spider. “I’ll be your pilot today. Please fasten your safety belts when the light goes on.”

“Drop the stewardess shit, Tommy,” Taylor Burns said, unable to stifle his own grin. Nicole wondered if it was because he was seeing his old friend again or if it was because he was heading into an unfamiliar battle scenario. This wasn’t like sitting on the sidelines taking out Lycanthropes with snipers. This time he was heading right into the eye of the storm.

“Never minces words, this one,” Tom Hemmer said, pointing at Burns.

Nicole took a seat behind the pilot, feeling awkward with her Kevlar brushing up against the jacket full of ammunition and grenades. She had adjusted everything to the best of her ability in the elevator to make the heavy load as comfortable as possible, but when she assumed a sitting position, the weight of it all felt off balance.

She was surprised to find the helicopter so roomy. There was plenty of space for her feet to stretch out a bit. Behind her, there were seats for two more passengers and a wide open area, where she assumed EMTs could wheel a patient in on a stretcher or gurney. That area was surrounded with lifesaving equipment and shelving units stocked with all sorts of drugs. She wished she could get up and inspect the bottles, see if there were any antibiotics or Lycan vaccines. They may end up needing something. She prayed they didn’t.

“What exactly are we doing, Hoss?” Hemmer asked. “I barely managed to fly out of Manhattan, and now it’s all sealed off, and there are freaking jets circling the place.”

“We need you to fly us back in, drop us near 42nd and Broadway, get out safely, and pick us up tonight at a designated area when we call.”

“Oh, is that all?” the pilot asked, unable to prevent the sarcasm from entering his voice. “I thought it’d be something hard.”

Burns laughed, and Nicole found herself concerned. When spoken aloud, the plan seemed ludicrous, impossible. They’d never get
into
the city, let alone back out of it.

But I have to try,
she thought.
Sandy needs me, and that woman means everything to me. If I don’t at least try, what kind of love do we have? What kind of person would that make me?

Burns was talking again, leaning in close to Hemmer. He said, “I’ve been timing the jets. They’re F-15s, and they’re taking about ten minutes to circle the island. I think there are two separate formations, and I’ve seen a couple of Scorpions, too. We need to time it just right, so you can get us across the river and drop us into the combat zone and get back before you’re noticed. You can stay here on the hotel rooftop. I don’t think anyone will be bothering you as long as they don’t see you in the air.”

There was a rumble, then a vibration in the cabin, and Nicole turned in time to see three F-15 Eagles zip across the smoking horizon. They were gone within seconds, following the path of the river. She saw Burns click the stopwatch on his wrist so it began ticking.

“We’ll do another timing, wait for the next group to fly by,” he said calmly.

Hemmer nodded, said, “No problem. If I have ten minutes, it won’t be anything to get you guys in there and back. You wanna just drop in?”

“You have parachutes, don’t you?” Burns asked.

“Yep. But you might fare better if I just land on a rooftop and set you loose. There’s an awful lot of fire and explosions going on now over there. Once you’re on the rooftop, you should be able to get to the street. Better than taking a chance of the wind crashing you into a building or your chute catching fire on the way down.”

“Makes sense to me,” Burns said.

As they turned their attention to the horizon, waiting for the next jet to pass, Sandy thought back to the early days when she had met Sandy. She admitted she was more than a little rough around the edges. Being in the military always sanded down the feminine edges of the women who do any actual fighting. Her language had gotten rougher, her drinking had grown harder, and she always had her eyes open to an attack – even when there was none forthcoming. When she’d first spotted Sandy, an adorable blond West Coast beach bunny type, in Shirley’s Saloon, she’d had to slug down three more Budweisers before she summoned up the balls to talk to her. Even then, her speech had been of the “Aw shucks, ma’am” variety. She had embarrassed herself, turned red in the face and stammered her words. She never knew why Sandy had followed her to the end of the bar, what the beautiful California girl could have seen in a tough-assed soldier, but Sandy had, indeed, joined her for a few drinks at the end of the bar.

By this time, Nicole had been a couple of sheets to the wind, but thankfully not completely falling down drunk, as she was known to get on Saturday nights off-base. They had ended up kissing for hours in the parking lot, saying good night before either of them could go any farther. It had been sweet and even a bit romantic, making out under the stars, the radio playing soft country music while the other patrons deserted the bar parking lot, finally leaving them all alone, looking up at the night sky. Just the two of them alone in the universe.

The next morning, Nicole had received a phone call from the hot blonde she’d met so late the previous night. She didn’t even remember giving out her phone number. They’d gone to dinner that evening. Over Italian food and wine, they’d discovered how much they had in common. They shared a love for action movies, whiskey sours, rainy days, crossword puzzles, and a secret fondness for trashy historical romance novels. The conversation flowed easily, and Sandy had been intrigued by Nicole’s position in the Lycan Snipers. Most women she’d told about her job were repelled by the fact that she was so good with a rifle, but this one was different. They had been together ever since.

There was an old joke that went “What does a lesbian bring to a second date? A U-Haul.” In this case, the old standard wasn’t far from the mark. They had moved in together after seeing each other almost every night for a week. It was sudden, moving faster than Nicole was comfortable with, but it also felt very right. She had another self, one that didn’t usually present itself to people, but it was different with Sandy. Her love had shown Nicole what it was like to be human, to be feminine, to be the softer side of the rough-and-tumble soldier. When she went on a mission, that aspect of her disappeared, iced over with a layer of hardness she needed to do her job and get on with the men in her unit. Without Sandy, she knew she would lose that aspect of herself completely, and now that she’d discovered it was there, hidden under her surface, she didn’t want to part with it. It was a wonderful discovery. It was all because of Sandy, and she couldn’t lose this woman, couldn’t drop that other part of her inner self. Not when she’d come so far.

Three F-15s zoomed by in a V-shaped formation, their guns silent this time. Burns clicked his stopwatch.

“Nine minutes and forty-five seconds,” he announced. “That enough time?”

“Plenty,” answered Tom Hemmer. “Soon as they go by again, I’ll fly you guys over, land on the nearest building in midtown that’s still standing.”

Nicole glanced over at the Manhattan skyline again and shivered. Now, fires were burning through the streets and explosions rang out every minute or two. She thought she saw the Empire State Building wavering, as if its foundation was destroyed and it was going to topple over at any moment. Thick plumes of smoke billowed into the sky, obscuring her view farther into the island.

She looked back down at her cell phone and brought up the last text Sandy had sent to her. HURRY.

“I’m coming, baby,” she whispered. “Hang on. I’m coming for you.”

2:00 p.m.

During the trek through the subway tunnels, John Creed kept hearing muffled explosions coming from above his and Michael Keene’s heads. They had decided to make for the surface so that they were no longer trapped with the Lycanthropic mutants underground in the dark, but the more sounds he heard – and
felt
in the case of some of the explosions, which rattled his guts – the less sure he was about their destination. What if it was even worse on the streets of New York? What if this disaster had spread throughout the almost two million people living in Manhattan alone?

Shaking off the thoughts, he knew he would have to see for himself. It was the reporter part of his brain, usually soaked in bourbon and suffused in cigarette smoke, which required confirmation of the facts. Those noises could be something else entirely, sonic booms, construction, unusually heavy traffic patterns.

He knew he was kidding himself. When they finally made it to the surface, he knew it was going to be bad. Still, he had to know for sure. If he didn’t at least check the situation out, he’d have to live with the doubt when they retreated back to the tunnels.

Aboveground with those things, or below the streets with those things. He honestly didn’t know which position was preferable.

“How much farther?” he asked, keeping his voice low. They hadn’t heard any of the animalistic noises in the corridors for a while, but it wouldn’t do to chance drawing something’s subterranean attention.

“Just ahead,” answered Michael. “See those rungs? That should lead to a manhole on Broadway.”

They stopped at the ladder and peered up at the circle above. There were holes in the manhole, and sunlight streamed from them, exposing Van Gogh swirls of dust motes.

John glanced at Michael; saw how dirty the man was. His hair was matted from stepping through so much water, and his skin was splotched with grime and filth. The reporter sighed, certain he looked equally nasty. Usually, he would care about seeming so disgusting. He was fastidious about his appearance, always had been. He had subscribed to
GQ
and
Details
magazines when he was thirteen to know all the trends. However, with what he had been through so far this afternoon, he figured it didn’t matter what he looked like. There would always be an operating shower at the end of the journey.

“You wanna go first?” Michael asked, watching the twirling dust in the slashing rays of sunlight.

“Yeah,” John said, although he really wasn’t certain he wanted to see what was up there. “Sure.”

He climbed the rungs until he reached the manhole cover. It was heavy, but he managed to push it up enough with his shoulder so he could peek out of the opening.

At first, he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. Chiaroscuro designs of pipes and metal, rust covering parts of it. As he pushed a bit more and took another step up toward the surface, he realized it was the bottom of a yellow cab that had been turned onto its side. One wheel was still spinning lazily, while the pungent aroma of spilled gasoline wafted over the area, aided by a slight breeze.

“Oh God,” John said, his voice a whisper.

“What do you see? What’s going on?” Michael asked from below.

“It’s the end of the world,” John answered.

John twisted his body around, spinning the manhole cover so he could get a view down the street, away from the bottom of the car. This was actually quite a bit worse, and he shook his head at the sight.

The road was filled with abandoned cars. Some of them were on fire, the heat blackening the husks of some, while others were crashed into each other, into light poles, into the sides of buildings. One had skidded sideways into the plate-glass window of a store, scattering electronics equipment across the street. A double-decker bus had crashed into the front of another building, and into the huge electronic sign that had adorned the front of the place. A few sparks still flashed, blue and white. Several of the lights and phone poles had toppled, crashing into the street. A heavy street lamp had fallen directly on top of one Volkswagen, crushing it in the middle as effectively as a meteor. Flames licked up and down the street, lapping at the spilled gasoline from the various wrecks. In the distance, a few streets farther, an explosion rocked the road. Cracks split up the middle, and a few pieces dropped down into the tunnel below.