The Dying of the Light (Book 3): Beginning (16 page)

“I think they stowed away, Mr. Musgrove. Take a look at this.” He squatted down and grabbed the left arm of one of the bodies, turning it palm-up. A small brand was visible on the inside wrist: a cross with what appeared to be a rising sun behind it.

“I don’t understand,” Musgrove said.

“Did you ever hear of the First Church of the Divine Judgment, Musgrove?”

“You mean those whackadoodles who blew up the CDC before Z-Day?”

The other men looked at each other, then back at Musgrove. “Whackadoodle?”

Musgrove chuckled. “Sorry, just something I picked up from my grandma. She used to say it all the time.”

The colonel smiled. “I had a granny like that. Anyway, these are those same nutjobs. We believe they’re still active, and this is their mark. We’ve been keeping quiet about this so far. No one wants a panic, after all. But Bunker Seven sent guards with all the ground shipments to prevent sabotage.” He sighed and dropped the arm, standing straight once more. “We never expected any trouble on the flights, though. Do you know how they got aboard?”

Musgrove shook his head. “I can’t say. I was running pre-flight checks while they were loading… Of course, that’s how. We had volunteers helping to load the plane. One or more of them must’ve been from this group and smuggled these two on board. But if they weren’t zombies, why? Surely they wouldn’t have tried to take the plane from us unarmed. Did you find any weapons?”

“None whatsoever. But that doesn’t matter. We think they were the weapons.”

“How so?”

It was Doc’s turn to squat, pulling up the sleeve on the arm of the other dead man to expose a festering, untreated wound. “It’s a bite. The other one has the same thing. We also found used syringes with what look like blood in them. Probably infected, but we’re testing it just to be sure.” He stood and shook his head. “I think they were deliberately infected and then put on board to do exactly what they did.”

Musgrove felt sick. “But that’s—”

“Horrible?” the colonel asked. “Monstrous? Evil? All those things apply to this church and its followers. I wouldn’t be surprised if we found out these two were volunteers.” He spat to one side. “Zombie suicide bombers. What the fuck next?”

There was a loud beeping as one of the deuce-and-a-half trucks backed up near the end of the ramp. The colonel nodded to his men, who began loading the crates containing the precious prion treatments into the truck. The colonel pulled the still-stunned pilot off to the side.

“Buck up, son,” he said to Musgrove, who just watched the loading. “You’ll love South Carolina.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

AEGIS Flight Seven Two
Airbus 300 Cargo Transport
Over Northeast Utah

“Roger that, AEGIS Three. Flight Seven Two out.” Sam looked over at his copilot as he pulled his pistol and set the autopilot. The copilot had his pistol ready as well and looked back at him. “You ready for this, Christian?”

“As I’ll ever be. I wish we could get Driscoll to answer.”

“Me too.” Both men stood, and Christian covered the entrance as Sam prepared to open the door.

“I don’t hear anything,” Sam said as he pressed his ear to the door.

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Christian replied in a whisper.

“One… two… three!” Sam threw open the door and stepped back as the door clanged backward.

The Airbus 300 cargo variant had a simple interior. Having belonged to FedEx before Z-Day, most of the interior room was for cargo, with straps and netting hanging down. There was also a double row of seats on the right side of the plane opposite the two loading doors. One big door was for cargo, the other for personnel. Both were just behind the cockpit on the left side of the plane.

Nothing greeted the pilots as they opened the door, just a view of the lit cargo bay and the double row of seats that took up the first ten feet or so of the cargo space. Sam wasn’t surprised to see their loadmaster, Driscoll, snoring and stretched out across the first row. The medical technician sent along with the shipment looked up from the second row, surprised.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“We may have a situation on board. Get in the cockpit and close the door after you. Don’t open it again unless one of us gives you the all clear.”

The man trembled but obeyed. Sam heard the door close as he moved over to Driscoll, who was still asleep.

“Motherfucker,” he said, kicking the bottom of the seats hard enough to rattle the entire row.

Driscoll jerked awake and rolled off the seats in surprise. He smacked his head on the steel floor and grunted in pain. “Sonofabitch, what the hell—”

“Shut up, you lazy fuck,” Sam said in a whisper. “Get out your sidearm. We might have walkers on the plane.”

Driscoll rubbed his forehead where he’d hit it and struggled to his feet. “Walkers? What the he—”

Sam put his free hand over the man’s mouth and brought his nose inches from Driscoll’s. His voice so low it was almost inaudible, he growled at the other man.”Get. Your. Sidearm. You. Asshole.”

Driscoll nodded, now wide awake, and pulled his own pistol from his pack on the floor next to the seats. The three men snuck toward the rear of the plane, alert for even the slightest moan or sign of movement. They reached the tail of the plane without seeing anything and gathered, confused.

“But the bunker said—” Christian started to say.

“I know,” Sam interrupted. “And I believe them. Maybe they just haven’t turned yet?”

“Will someone please tell me what in the bloody blue
fuck
is happe—?” Driscoll asked. A noise from midway up the plane interrupted him. “Did you hear that?” he asked, quieter.

The other two men nodded, and all three moved back toward the cockpit. The sounds grew louder, and it was clear that someone was speaking, or trying to. The words were muffled. Suddenly, there was a high-pitched scream, and one of the crates to the side of the main aisle began rocking.

The soldiers ran forward. Driscoll and Christian took covering positions as Sam approached the crate. There was another scream, and the top of the crate flew off with a crash. A middle-aged woman came vaulting out of the crate as though she were a gymnast, as though her life depended on it. And maybe it did, because another woman—but this one a walker—stood up from the crate and looked at them.

This walker was different from any that Sam had seen before. It looked more, well,
fresh
, and it gazed at him with seeming intelligence. He could see the feminine clothes that it still wore, and he could see that it had been beautiful once, though there was a great deal of scarring and tears in the flesh, and… were those fingernail marks? That might have explained his hesitation in firing—or maybe it was the fact that it spoke.

“Infidels,” it said, and the voice of the beauty-turned-Driebach was as scarred as its owner. “I am Seraphim, and I will—”

Sam joined the others as their three guns fired, and the Driebach’s brain matter splattered the bulkhead behind the crate. Before she could take a step, the living woman from the crate found those same three guns pointed at her.

“Don’t fuckin’ move,” Sam growled. “Not one fuckin’ step.” He glanced at the other two. “What the fuck was that? What the fuck is a Seraphim?”

The woman was trembling as she stared at the walker’s corpse beside her. Sam couldn’t tell whether it was the cold air in the cargo bay or the closeness of the walker. Nor did he care. “Walk toward the front of the aircraft. Get away from the crates.” He waggled the gun at her. “Move!”

His shout got her to focus on him, and she smiled the creepiest smile he’d ever seen. “You might have destroyed the divine Seraphim, but the Lord will see you burn in Hell for what you’re doing,” she said as she walked forward and gestured to the crates containing the prion treatment. “The plague was sent as a test, and you have failed. Who are you to deny God’s will? Who are you to say who should live when that choice can and should be left only to Him? We will not—”

“Shut up!” Sam yelled, tired already of listening to her. He was just old enough to remember the speeches, the bombings, and the destruction the members of the Church had caused on and before Z-Day. “Christian, Driscoll, secure the prisoner.”

“Seriously?” Driscoll asked. “Why aren’t we shooting her?”

“We do not execute unarmed personnel, Mr. Driscoll,” Sam said. “Besides, she could have important information. Now move!”

The two other men stepped forward and reached for the woman, who jerked away as she pulled a syringe from her pocket. Sam could see some sort of red, viscous fluid in the syringe, and he shuddered. It could only be one thing.

“I shall not be denied my vengeance upon you, and I shall never betray the Brethren!” the woman shouted. She plunged the syringe into the side of her neck and laughed as she dropped it to the deck. “Oh glorious day! I can feel His wrath flowing through my veins! I will be the instrument of His divine judgment on this Earth! I will send the demons and their monstrous creation straight to Hell in His name!”

Christian and Driscoll had paused, not wanting to get too close to an infected person. Sam couldn’t blame them for that, but it did make figuring out what to do with her harder. Depending on the type of zombie blood that she’d injected, things could get a hell of a lot worse. They’d already lucked out in discovering the Driebach early enough to shoot it in the head while it was still sort of contained. If she turned, loose as she was…

As he mulled it over, Sam noticed the woman look to her right toward the back of the plane as she continued preaching. He took a few steps forward to get a better look at whatever she’d seen and realized what her plan had to be. The only thing in that direction was the airplane’s crew door.

“Stand fast,” Sam said to the others and waited.

The woman wound down, realizing her words weren’t reaching her audience and they weren’t going to grab her. She smiled that creepy smile again and began edging toward to the side. “His wrath shall be swift and will smite down this airplane and you demons who fly it. Man was not meant to leave the Earth, and you shall return to the ground in fiery condemnation!” She bolted for the door, yanking on the large red handle to open the door.

When nothing happened, the look of surprise that came over her face was so funny, Sam couldn’t help but bark a short, sharp laugh. He shook his head and began walking toward her. “You’ll never get that open, you know. It’s impossible to open that door in flight.” Still covering her with the pistol, he stopped about several strides away, watching as she continued to yank at the handle.

“Really? Flying is an abomination unto Nuggan, is it?” Driscoll said as he laughed. “Fucking Luddites.”

Sam realized something as she pulled at the door, and smiled. “You’re well and truly fucked now, aren’t you? You went and injected yourself with walker blood just so you could strike down the nonbelievers. Just one thing, though. Shouldn’t you be turning by now? Shouldn’t you be a, what do you call ‘em, a Cleansed? Or what that bitch was, a Seraphim, I think she said?”

She said nothing this time, but her face crumpled as she realized what he was getting at.

Driscoll laughed as he covered her from one side. “This bitch is immune! That’s awesome.”

Sam nodded. “Yep, one in something like ten million of us are naturally immune to the prion. And you’re one of them. Where’s your divine retribution? Where’s your saving grace?
Where is your God now?”

“He shall be triumphant…” she said, but her voice trailed off as she realized nothing was going to happen.

“Give up, lady,” Christian said. “There’s nothing you can do to us.”

She shook her head and turned toward Sam, the confused look replaced by one of clarity, at least for the moment. “You’re wrong,” she said, flashed that smile one more time, and pulled a knife from her other pocket. “I can send you to He—”

The bullet caught her in the left eye, throwing her head back. The round ricocheted through the upper fuselage of the Airbus. Her now-still corpse landed at his feet, and Sam could hear the decompression warning alarms from the cockpit.

“Guess she wasn’t unarmed anymore, eh, boss?” said Driscoll. “What do we do now?”

“I am tired of all these motherfucking walkers on my motherfucking plane,” Sam replied. “So, we’re gonna check for more of them. Every last crate. Christian, get on the horn to Bunker Three and tell them we’re going to need a hazmat crew on landing.”

“Got it,” the copilot said and entered the cockpit to make the call.

“Let’s go,” Sam said. It didn’t take long for them to double-check all the crates. They confirmed that the first Driebach was definitely dead and that there were no more in the crate. Another bloody syringe lay at the bottom of the crate.

“What is wrong with these people?” Driscoll asked. “At least we’re done with them.”

Sam stared at the brand on the walker’s arm. “No, no, I don’t think we are. Just look at how they were able to stow away on who knows how many of our planes. And what about the ground shipments?” He kicked the box. Then he holstered his pistol and moved back to the cockpit to take command of the plane once more. “No, this isn’t the last of them. They’ll be back.”

Governor’s Office
Bunker Seven

There was a knock at the office door, and a young man entered, a private that Colonel Shaw wasn’t familiar with. “Governor, Colonel,” the private said. “They’re patching the call through now.”

“Thank you,” replied Tom Ridgely, the aging governor of Bunker Seven. Though there was more grey than black in his hair now, Ridgely was still quite capable of administering the affairs of the massive underground city.

Shaw knew this well, having been the man’s copilot, in a manner of speaking, for more than ten years. Fair, firm, and with his people’s future in mind at all times, Ridgely was a force to be reckoned with and would be until the day he died. Shaw was grateful he left the military side of things to his commander, as a good leader should.

The phone on the governor’s desk rang, and he punched the speaker button. “This is Ridgely. Go ahead.”