The Pandemic Sequence (Book 3): The Tilian Cure (16 page)

Since leaving Fort Polk, she had run the scenario over in her head countless times. In the final analysis, she believed she would be able to kill Duncan when the time came. It would be different than a Til, or even one of the renegades that roamed lawless in the States. The Councilor may even been unarmed when she found him. It won’t matter, she had decided. I will kill him, and there probably won’t be an after to worry about.

“No one knows what comes after,” she replied cryptically.

Stopping abruptly, Matt turned to her and gripped her forearms gently. “If we succeed here tonight, then we’re getting one step closer to a future. I just wish you could see one for yourself.”

“Matt…” she answered weakly.

“I know you’re hurting, and I know I’m a jerk for even thinking this… Don’t move.” Michelle had feared he would put voice to the feelings she knew he had for her, feelings she thought she might share, but his eyes focused past her as his words cut off. “About a block down I’m pretty sure a Til was watching us before it ducked back into the shadows.”

Pulled back to the dire environment, Michelle responded. “Stalking. We need to get to our position before Tumi does his thing.” The pair resumed the walk, though their gait held a quickened pace and their eyes darted about with increased anxiety. Matt was the first to locate their target at the center of the road that ran alongside the National Council. Keeping themselves in the shadows, and fearing what lurked within them, the two waited for Tumelo’s diversion.

Moments later, Michelle saw the moon-lit metal of a car rolling slowly towards the building’s barricaded steps. Before hitting the cement obstructions, the vehicle burst into flames. Immediately, she could hear guards calling out warnings as the burning auto slammed harmlessly into the blockade.

“Let’s move,” Matt urged in a hush. She followed him as they kept low and crossed the street, keeping the National Council to their backs. Reaching the middle of the street, he moved to the manhole cover, crowbar in hand. Michelle held her breath as he crouched exposed, waiting for Tumi’s continued diversion. Though she was desperately expecting it, the loud popping explosions startled her. With the noise now masked, Matt put his strength into removing the heavy iron cover. Painful grunts from both man and metal were thankfully muted by the explosions. Once the cover was slid aside, she joined him and made her way down the ladder below the street’s surface. Matt followed, breathing heavily from the recent exertion as he descended.

It had been Michelle’s suggestion to enter the building through the sewers. Tumelo may have known Havana blindfolded, but Michelle had spent endless nights in the vast library studying maps and histories, including several on the old El Capitolio itself. Tumi had suggested the burning car, filled with several piles of firecrackers commonly used in the Cuban neighborhoods to celebrate holidays. The blaze and the gunfire-like popping had worked well to hide their actions.

The sewer, illuminated by the flashlight she held, was as dank and unwelcoming as Michelle had expected. She had travelled in underground tunnels before, though those occasions had been in long deserted cities and towns. Until recently, Havana had been a small, but operating city. A city with people who had made frequent use of plumbing systems, she thought as she fought to keep her stomach steady. Moving through the shallow water, and thankful for her boots, she took the first left turn which should lead them directly under the National Council. Matt followed closely, each of his hands gripping a semi-automatic sidearm.

There was a risk Duncan had detailed troops to guard the sewers around the building. Based on Tumelo’s tale though, much of the military had been dispatched to the island’s eastern coast, and had not returned. If Duncan was left with few soldiers, Michelle was sure the man would have them stationed as near to him as possible.

A short distance forward, she and Matt found a stairwell and cement landing that led to solid metal door. Climbing the steps, Michelle held the flashlight trained on the door as Matt retrieved the tools from his pack.

Having long lived under an American-sanctioned communist regime, and forced to maintain a population of classic cars, many of the island’s natives—and more than a few of Tumelo’s contacts—were well versed in automotive repair. Obtaining an acetylene torch had been a fairly easy endeavor.

Estimating the location of the locking mechanism on the iron door, Matt sparked the torch and began to cut into the metal. The process was painfully slow, but progress was soon visible. Adjusting his target only slightly, Matt began to burn through the metal locking bolt. He was nearing a finish when the sound of a shallow splashing caught Michelle’s attention. A second and third splash echoed through the tunnels.

“Done,” Matt announced before extinguishing the flame.

“Good, cause I think some Tils just dropped into the sewer.”

Careful to avoid the area of molten metal, Matt pressed against the door with increasing strength, yet it remained closed. Michelle feared that perhaps a second bolt barred the way, but Matt retrieved the crowbar from the cement floor and began prying as much as he was able along the door’s seam. When still the door refused to yield, he looked at Michelle with a question in his eyes. Hearing the sounds of Tils approaching, and more entering the tunnels, she looked at him, stepped back, and nodded.

With minor league form at best, he swung the metal rod back before bringing it forward as he twisted his body. The resulting boom reverberated so loudly Michelle felt certain the ceiling would cave in. A small showering of dust fell from the strike, but she could already see that the door had shifted inward several inches. Quickly gathering his pack, Matt smiled and said, “You were looking a bit nervous for sec. It was just a stubborn door!”

“Calm as can be,” she replied as she grinningly shook her head.

While the struggle with the door had most certainly directed the Tils toward their location, the hall beyond the door stood dark and silent. Matt pushed the door shut behind them as Michelle search for something with which to block the door from the inside. Finding nothing, she helped him wedge the crowbar as securely as possible between door and floor.

“That’s not going to hold for long,” Matt said. Nodding her agreement, Michelle led them into a light jog down the hall. In truth, the hall was more akin to an endless series of pipes that took several turns before culminating in a large room with a wall of valves, dials, and controls. The banging behind them had ceased which could only mean the Tils were not far behind.

The room had several doors, some opening into other control rooms, and one with the red-lettered exit sign above that cast a faint glow on the smooth metal. Relieved to find the door was secured with a simple lock, Michelle slipped her pick set from her back pocket. Seconds later she heard the familiar click of success. Pulling open the door, Matt looked unexpectedly surprised.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing. Just didn’t take you for a lock picking girl,” he answered in a chuckle.

Returning the set to her jeans, she explained. “I taught Erik to cook, he taught me to pick locks.”

Wasting no further time, they slipped through the door, locked it behind them, and made their way into the National Council. Able to navigate by the dim lights overhead, Michelle dropped the flashlight into the loop on her belt. Turning into a large stone-floored room, she noticed exactly how dim the lights were. Not the standard brightness of a well-let area, but rather the minimal comfort of emergency lights.

“Michelle,” Matt whispered as he raised the guns in his hands. Following his line of sight, she saw the bloody handprint on the wall which then became a smear several feet long. With guards outside the building, Michelle had never suspected to face Tils inside the complex. When her eyes fell upon a body-less leg in the room’s far corner, much of the skin and muscle torn away, she feared with cold disappointment that Duncan may have already been killed by a Til. She also feared that it was very likely, before the night was over, she would meet the same fate.

“Once the pikes are in place,” Paul ordered, staring out at the field. “I want the Bradleys on each end.” In the hours since Derrick and those unable to participate in the coming battle headed south, the Horde had begun defensive preparations. Deciding against moving the encampment to higher ground, he believed time was better spent securing their current position, and spent the short time overseeing the work.

Protected by the hill on the western side, the focus was directed mainly at building a front line defense along the northern border. Tent poles and hastily cut logs had been arranged in a double line stretching the length of the camp. Paul had no delusions the crude measure would inflict much damage, but it would force the Tils to slow their attack while falling under heavy fire. The two Bradley tanks were the group’s most powerful asset, yet their supply of ammunition was minimal. The other weaponized vehicles, a small fleet of Strykers, were spaced deeper in the camp, many hidden beneath tent shrouds.

Without knowing how advanced the infected now were, Paul thought it best to disguise some of the weaponry. Regular cars and trucks were clustered together to serve as bunkers for his “troops.” The final element of defense was the motorcycle cavalry. Once the action was engaged, the bikers would sweep out east and west before cutting through the bulk of the enemy force.

The tactics were simplistic, but without military training of his own he was forced to rely on the veterans in the camp. In all, he believed the strategy for the Horde’s last stand would work well to reduce the Tils’ numbers. Though none voiced the opinion, it was clear that both he and his “generals,” as he had taken to thinking of them, believed the battle would be lost. But we’ll take as many of the bastards down with us as we can, his eyes promised.

As he walked through the camp, Paul began to realize that perhaps the sentiment of inevitable defeat was more widespread. Men and women went about their assigned tasks with dark diligence. He caught murmurs of conversation in the air; many talked of the coming battle, but few talked of time beyond it. The faces which turned from their work to greet him bore grim smiles. He made a point of stopping to speak with several parties as he continued. Mike had once called it a gift, Paul’s ability to soothe the anxiety and tension of those around him. It may have been, however the eyes of his companions betrayed their hopeful words. They know we’re going to die, but they are willing to buy the others time to escape.

The parting of loved ones that morning had been a difficult scene. Fathers, and several mothers, clung to their confused children before placing them in the care of elderly strangers. Husbands and wives shared final kisses and empty words of “I’ll see you soon.” Those that remained were nourished on the hope of safety for the ones escaping south. His own goodbyes with Derrick had been less emotional. Paul found a small peace in seeing the younger man leave, spared from the bloodshed that would soon come.

“Tell Mike he was right not to come back,” he had asked of Derrick, who had simply nodded in response, still aggrieved by being sent away. He had lost Lisa by returning, and brought on Hicks’ own death. As the last of the mountain camp survivors in his care, Paul felt a fractional easing of his conscience as he watched Derrick leave.

“Sir?” asked a voice to his left, pulling Paul from his thoughts.

Turning, he recognized Wesley Hardin, one of his generals. Some ten years older than Paul, the man was a solid wall of towering muscle and determination. Head neatly and completely shaven, Hardin cut an imposing figure which belied his past as a pediatrician. With him stood a small man—though most appeared so when standing beside Hardin—whose name Paul either did not know or could not recall.

“What’s up, Wes?”

“This is Tim Frazier. He wanted to speak with you,” the personified mountain explained. Paul wondered when others began using intermediaries to request speaking with him. Pushing the thought aside, he took in the other man. Dark of both hair and eye with skin of coffee, what he first took as a man was clearly a youth only a few summers past his teens.

“What can I do for you, Tim?”

“Well, sir,” the timid voice began. “I know you have all this planned, but… Well, me and a few others are really good with bows.”

“Bows?” Paul asked quizzically.

“Yes, sir.”

“How old are you, Tim?”

“Nineteen, sir.”

Even younger than Paul had assumed, the boy told him he had arrived with the massive influx of survivors.

“I appreciate the offer,” he explained gently, though he wondered at the boy’s naiveté. “But you and your friends are better off getting some guns from the arsenal. I don’t think bows and arrows are going to do much good.”

As Paul turned to walk away, eager to resume his study of progress, he heard the timid voice say, “They can if they’re on fire, sir.”

“And there’s how many of you?”

“Twenty-four,” Tim told him again, more steel in his voice than earlier.

Several times in the past hour, Paul had to remind himself that he was truly in the command tent, with the boy and the generals, discussing medieval warfare. Sparing another look down at the charcoal sketch of the camp, he raised his head to the half-dozen men standing nearby.