The Redivivus Trilogy (Book 3): Miasma Page 9

  Given that the infected were little more than mindless beasts as far as Connor could tell, it wasn’t difficult to devise ways to trap and contain them. Soon, he and his band of followers had amassed several large hordes that would serve as the infantry in their army of death. He could unleash them as he saw fit, sending them out like slow-moving tidal waves of death to swallow whatever lay in their path. That was precisely what he had planned for the survivors at the CDC.

  Connor had thought of nothing else once he’d learned of Sgt. Hector Garza’s whereabouts. He’d been waiting to settle a score with Garza since the first and last time they’d met in a field outside an abandoned gas station. His aching shoulder was a constant reminder of the fight that’d ensued during which he’d taken a bullet fired from Garza’s gun. Since that time, he’d dreamt of all the things he would do to Garza when he finally found him, and now that those fantasies were on the verge of becoming reality, he could hardly contain himself.

  When the curtain of red that had descended over Connor’s brain finally lifted enough to allow him to think about anything other than his revenge on Garza, several curious things crept to the forefront of his mind. First was the fact that Garza was at the CDC with a group of survivors, including at least one female. This interested him primarily because he’d been tracking two foreign soldiers escorting an Asian woman when Garza had ambushed him. The meddling group had disrupted a trap he and his men had set for the infected; the trio clearly had no respect for the amount of time and effort such an endeavor required. Given that the female looked to be of a different nationality than the soldiers and didn’t appear to have the least bit of military training, Connor believed her to be someone of importance. Now that Garza had been spotted at the CDC with several other survivors including at least one female, Connor assumed it was the Asian woman; perhaps she was a doctor. He knew the CDC was in the business of diseases, and more specifically, cures. The possibility of a cure for the virus hit Connor like a ton of bricks, not because he really cared if the plague ever ended—he didn’t. His interest was far more self-serving. If there was a cure, he wanted to be its sole proprietor. Imagine the power that would bring…

  Connor had far less intel than he preferred, but he didn’t want to take a chance on Garza slipping away. He wasted no time mobilizing his army of death, going over everything he knew while he worked:

  Garza had been the driver of an armored truck carrying a group that had stolen weapons from him. Although Connor didn’t know exactly what they had taken, the stash contained some serious firepower, and he assumed they’d taken everything. That was of little concern to him, as he planned to be well out of range of such weaponry, and his army was completely expendable. After stealing the weapons, the truck had returned to a well-fortified compound located on the CDC’s grounds. The following morning, the truck departed with a similarly sized group, but Bayani didn’t think Garza was with them. By Connor’s estimation, that left a minimum of Garza and the Asian woman inside the compound, but he assumed there had to be others.

  Connor didn’t actually care who else was inside the compound or what they were doing. Getting Garza was his primary concern. If he was marching his army into certain death, so be it. Besides, if his army was even alive to begin with, it was just barely. Those that were uninfected were nothing more than pawns with which he could play to his advantage.

  * * *

  Since start of the outbreak, Connor had felt like Jack in The Lord of the Flies as he watched his followers cast off the tenets of civilization and slowly devolve into a group of savages willing to go along with whatever plan he devised. He and his men had amassed a respectable stockpile of weapons and supplies, as well as an army of infected numbering in the thousands. Up to this point, Connor’s plan had been fairly open-ended, with his goal always being the acquisition of power and control. That changed when he learned that Bayani had seen Sgt. Hector Garza at the nearby CDC facilities.

  The moment Connor got off the radio with Bayani, he gathered his group in the courtyard of the estate he’d chosen as his residence. His mind buzzed with thoughts of revenge, making it difficult to concentrate on anything else. Even so, he climbed onto a car roof to ensure that all of his men had a clear view of him as he delivered a rousing speech that left him feeling like William Wallace on the battlefields of Scotland.

  “Gentlemen, the time has come to bear the fruits of your hard work. It’s time for each of you to get what you deserve—what you’ve always deserved. None of us ever dreamt of the hell that’s all around us, but when it came, we refused to drop to our knees and accept defeat,” he said as he gestured around them in grandiose fashion. “What we’ve done—what each of you has done—is nothing short of remarkable. When the Grim Reaper came knocking at the door, you let him know in no uncertain terms that he had the wrong address. But make no mistake, gentlemen; he didn’t go far. He’s still out there like a thief in the night, waiting for the right time to collect his due. Well I say to hell with him!”

  The crowd let out a fervent cheer. Like a travelling snake oil salesman, Connor had their rapt attention. Heads nodded in agreement, and each shout of affirmation precipitated three more. The small group’s energy surged as they hung on his every word.

  “The time has come for us to act. They tried to kill us with the plague, but we survived. We harnessed its power and transformed it into a nightmare of walking hell ready to do our bidding. Now it’s time for us to take the fight to those responsible for this monstrous plague.”

  His face beamed like a televangelist after a night of record collections as he made eye contact with each of his men. Their snarling faces reflected such intense anger that he had little doubt as to their willingness to follow him to the ends of the earth. In his eyes, they were little different than the infected monsters they’d herded together. He was the Puppet Master, and they were all characters for him to use in whatever play he chose to write.

  Having allowed their fury to build steam to the point that it could scarcely be contained, Connor sensed it was time to deliver his coup de grâce. He spoke in absolutes and delivered his message as though it were the gospel according to Connor, despite having nothing with which to support his ideas.

  “I’ve just received word from our brother, Bayani, who is currently running recon on a group holed up at the Centers for Disease Control. It seems that the scientists there have developed a vaccine for the virus, yet they have no intentions of making this treatment available to people like you and me. According to them—the very same scientific community responsible for this mess in the first place—we are not worth saving. Well, I say that’s bullshit.”

  The anger in the crowd was palpable as the chorus of booing resonated through the courtyard. Connor let it build to a crescendo, reveling in the feel of it, before finally gesturing for them to quiet down. He didn’t know if any of what he’d just said was true, but he knew people, and he knew those words would solidify his control over his men. He got the response he was hoping for, as the air around the men seemed to churn like the water around sharks amidst a feeding frenzy. His words were like chum cast into the ocean.

  “I want all of you to know that I feel the tremendous pain this unseen enemy has caused each of you. Like you, I must stare into the gaping hole punched into my soul by this heartless disease every day. But there is hope, brothers.”

  While Connor truly believed the vast majority of his own rhetoric, that was not the case for this last statement. He no more believed that the plague had tarnished his soul than he believed the sun had warmed his heart. He wasn’t even sure he possessed either of those things any longer. As for hope, Connor thought that sentiment was best left for pansies and politicians. Connor Roan was neither.

  His rousing oration had the anticipated effect, as his followers proved more eager than ever to comply with his every order. He never once mentioned Sgt. Hector Garza.

  * * *

  Within hours, Connor was watching the horde slowly adva
ncing toward the CDC like a hoplite phalanx resurrected from the depths of Hell. Several men moved ahead of the monsters, providing those at the group’s front with the impetus to keep moving. This caused something like a chain reaction, as the infected behind the front lines simply followed the lead of those ahead of them. If the infected began to slow, the addition of noise in the form of shouted derogations and clanging trashcan lids usually did the trick.

  Connor’s men employed several tactics to keep the horde together. Whenever possible, they led the infected through narrow corridors. In less-constrained areas, other members of Connor’s militia deployed heavy ropes and other obstacles to keep the infected corralled. These “scout wranglers” also provided security by clearing out any stragglers ahead of those leading the horde. In this manner, the deathly procession crept along, moving slow enough for an eighty-year old with a walker to keep pace.

  From a distance, the sound of the advancing horde was like the low rumble of an approaching storm. Up close, the combination of a thousand esurient moans was deafening. The only thing that rivaled the foreboding sound was the overpowering smell of rot coming from so many ghouls packed tightly together. All in all, the whole production looked like a finely orchestrated rendition of New York’s Village Halloween Parade hosted by the devil himself.

  Were it not for the physical constraints imposed by his face, his broad smile would have grown even wider. At that moment, Connor Roan was nowhere to be found; he was unequivocally the Puppet Master.

  Although they began to mobilize the infected army right away, it still took Connor and his men nearly two days to move the horde the roughly fifteen miles between the fenced-in enclosure located on the outskirts of Atlanta to the CDC. During that time, Connor remained far enough behind the formation so as not to draw the attention of any of the infected. If any fell far enough behind the main group, one of Connor’s men took it down like an animal separated from its pack. More than once, Connor thought he might succumb to the mental rigors of the laborious task. He found it unimaginably taxing to engage in something so mind-numbingly boring while simultaneously remaining completely vigilant to his surroundings. Needless to say, they were all exhilarated when they crested the hill and saw the outlines of the CDC buildings looming in the distance. From his position, he thought it looked like the start of a medieval siege as the slow-moving horde emerged from the fog that had settled over the buildings.

  11

  “Holy shit,” Judge said.

  When he first heard the low droning sound in the distance, he hadn’t been able to see what was causing it on account of the thick fog bank. Now that the fog was lifting, what he saw through his rifle’s scope was unfathomable. A horrific wall of death emerged from the haze and stretched as far as he could see. He pulled back and rubbed his eyes before examining his scope, which he assumed must be damaged. The multiplicity of the image reminded him of an insect’s compound eye, and he wondered if he might have cracked the glass. That was the only logical explanation; anything else simply wasn’t possible. The horde he’d seen was just too big.

  “Mother, come in,” Judge said, sounding far more like a child calling for his literal maternal figure than a hardened soldier calling for his commanding officer.

  “Mother, here. Everything all right, Judge?”

  Judge didn’t respond immediately. He struggled to find words to describe what he saw. The horde continued its slow, relentless advance as Judge observed with fascination. It was horrible on a scale he hadn’t known existed. He’d never worried much about the infected that were always gathered outside the wall; they were a constant presence and never numbered much over one hundred. This was something else all together. These monsters were coming for them. They were a force rather than a presence. Could a group that size breech the wall? He didn’t think so, but he’d never seen a horde that large before either.

  The question that most troubled Judge was why the legion was on a collision course with the CDC compound in the first place. No sooner had the question crossed his mind than he saw the answer through his scope, and it sent a shiver up his spine. Two men moved ahead of the horde, seemingly luring them. He’d heard John recount the story of the “half-rev hybrid” he’d seen leading a group of revs, but these men didn’t look like that. Armed with AK-47s and outfitted like soldiers, their movements were furtive yet deliberate. They knew what they were doing, and they looked nervous about it.

  Judge’s position atop the building made him feel like a sentry in a medieval castle’s keep watching the mass of infected bearing down upon them like a besieging army. He sighted in on one of the men in front of the horde. At less than a thousand yards away, he was easily in range of Judge’s powerful rifle.

  As he always did, Judge considered the person who was completely unaware of the mortal danger he was in. What the man was doing was as unthinkable as it was inexcusable. His grave offense was, at the very least, an act of war, though Judge considered it more of a crime against humanity. He knew men who dealt with killing by thinking of those on the other end of the scope as targets rather than actual people. Having never been able to do that, Judge needed to ensure that he could live with the weight of each and every life he took. If he were able to think of a single reason why someone should go on living, he would typically have a difficult time pulling the trigger.

  As he considered this man’s life, Judge adjusted his point of aim to compensate for the bullet’s drop. There was virtually no wind to account for. He made accommodations to address the fact that his target was at a lower elevation than he was. By the time he’d done all of these things, he’d reached his verdict.

  “You’ve been judged.”

  He took a deep breath, pausing momentarily on the exhalation. Clearing his mind, he relaxed his shoulders and applied steady pressure to the trigger. The powerful rifle bucked in his arms when the shot broke, but Judge was back on target in a flash. A fine red arc exploded from the base of the man’s neck just above his right collarbone. Both of his arms shot out reflexively, like a baby who’d been startled. A moment later, he slumped to the ground. The red spray grew steadily weaker with each heartbeat until it was little more than a trickle. It was all over before the reverberations of the deafening blast had faded. With his ears still ringing, Judge barely registered Mother’s voice calling over the radio.

  “Judge? What’s going on up there? What was that shot all about? Rooster, do you have eyes on the situation? Shit! Where are you guys?”

  12

  “My God,” Mother said, as he lowered his binoculars. His face was ashen, and he looked as though he’d just been told he had terminal cancer.

  Mother had started toward Judge’s position as soon as he’d heard the tone in the sniper’s voice. Judge was virtually unshakable, and his alarm had caused a seldom-reached level of concern to rise up within him even though he had a hard time believing some of the details of the sniper’s report.

  The smell of gunpowder was still fresh in the air when Mother emerged onto the roof. Standing next to the sharpshooter, he saw what had Judge so rattled. Mother’s eyes drifted to the wall and he, too, wondered whether it was capable of withstanding the amount of pressure a horde that size could generate. It was made of reinforced concrete, so he believed it would. Even so, he didn’t want to take any chances, particularly with so many of his men away. If the horde breached the wall, he wasn’t sure they could survive even if all of his men were there, but he knew the chances would be dismal with over half of his fighters out on mission. It occurred to him that if the wall held, the others might be unable to get back inside with so many infected packed around the facility. He didn’t have time to worry about scenarios that may or may not come to pass. For now, he had to make sure Dr. San and the other civilians were safe.

  Perhaps most disturbing of all was Judge’s account of taking out one of the uninfected men who appeared to have been leading the horde. The tremendous arc of bright red blood that had erupted from the man’s nec
k, as well as the fact that the infected had descended upon him in droves, provided confirmation that he hadn’t been infected.

  Though Mother would’ve liked nothing more than to point out the obvious holes in Judge’s report, he could find no fault in it. The deeply disturbing prospect made no sense to him. If someone was leading a group of infected toward them, it could only mean one thing…

  Staring out over the slowly undulating landscape, Mother spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. “God, help us. We’re under attack.”

  “Sir?” Judge asked in confusion.

  Without answering, Mother said, “Judge, stay up here and keep an eye on that horde. Give me a shout on the radio if anything changes. I’m going to make sure everyone is safe just in case the wall doesn’t hold.”

  When Judge replied, there was no trace of the alarm his voice had previously held.

  “Copy that.”

  Mother was already starting down the stairs when he called into his radio, “Rooster, this is Mother. Come in. Meet me at the bottom of the south stairwell.”

  In order to preserve their radios’ battery life, they’d decided that only Mother, Judge, and the person on patrol needed to keep a radio on them during daylight hours. Today, Rooster was on patrol. The remaining radios sat in charging cradles in the research area where they would be charged by the generators that ran during the daytime. As he raced down the stairs, Mother really wished they hadn’t enacted that policy.

  * * *

  Judge settled back into a prone position and panned his riflescope over the approaching horde. There was no sign of the other man he’d seen ahead of the group. Even though a knot of infected stopped to devour the man he’d shot, countless others filled in the vacated space. It was difficult to see where the man had even fallen. He’d hoped that taking out whoever was leading the group—or at least giving the infected something to snack on—might halt or divert the horde. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case, and the infected kept barreling toward them like a runaway train. Nothing short of a couple dozen people running and screaming in the opposite direction was likely to shift the group’s momentum at this point.