The Pandemic Sequence (Book 3): The Tilian Cure (17 page)

“What do you think?” he asked them.

“It won’t kill ‘em outright, but it can still deliver a powerful punch,” Dan Seldis, a de facto leader of the recent refugee influx.

“I agree,” Wes Hardin added. “It’ll deplete much of our gas reserves, but we could use a widespread attack once we’re out of ammo for the tanks and Strkyers.”

“All right, Robin Hood,” Paul said as he looked to Tim. “Get your group working on it. We’ll clear a position once you’re ready.”

“Make sure he gets whatever he needs,” he directed the generals. The group filed out of the tent, following the newly adopted protocol of “Yes, sir!” of course. He thought he even saw one of the men raise his hand in an aborted salute. Shaking his head in humorous disbelief, he adjusted the figures on the map to add in the archer squad. I’ve got knights on Harleys and kids with flaming arrows, he smiled as he thought the words. Where’s my Gandalf?

Night descended slowly and still there had been no sign of the Tils. The day had seen the completion of the camp’s defensive preparations, including the placement of the trucks Tim had requested. Though the rigging had been hastily constructed, Paul had been assured they would accomplish the desired effect.

He’d met with the other members of Tim’s group. Only a handful of the two dozen were older than the boy himself. Paul struggled with the idea of putting such young men and women—children really—so far beyond the front line. However, he had been impressed with the marksmanship of the party. Tim Frazier, introduced to the sport as a child growing up in Pennsylvania, had only improved his skill during the years of the virus. With little bravado, the teen hit target after target with deadly accuracy. For the first time in the day, Paul had found himself smiling as he watched the display.

With lookouts scanning the horizons, Paul doubted few in the camp would sleep as word of the attack was anxiously awaited. Reason urged him toward rest, but despite the day of pacing through the camp, his mind refused to quiet. He thought of the old cliché he had so often used as an energetic youth, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” This night, the saying was too close to foreshadowing for him to be amused.

Relenting finally to at least sit and ease his legs, the Horde leader crossed the camp and made his way toward the command tent. As always, the shadows of his guards trailed a few steps behind. He’d hoped with Derrick and Hicks no longer pressing the issue, the men would be willing to direct their focus to other tasks. Hearing their steps behind him throughout the day, his mind recalled another cliché, one about making assumptions. Only when he closed the tent flap, the guards stationing themselves directly outside, did Paul find privacy for the first time since waking that morning.

Wearier than his age, he lowered himself slowly into the large chair behind the desk. As if his body knew it was truly allowed to rest, legs and arms buckled simultaneously forcing him into the seat with a whoosh of air from the cushion. Rubbing his temple to ease the ever-present tension, he once again ran through the logistics he and the generals had finalized, searching for a miracle answer to their plight that he had yet to identify. As his mind numbed from the futile task, sleep eventually crept over him.

The screams woke him. Not cries of warning, he realized, his ears focused on the sounds. Dashing into the night, firearm in hand, he was stunned by the sudden carnage. Tils were sweeping through the camp in terrifying numbers, leaving a bloody trail of limbs and corpses. Firing at the nearest infected, Paul brought it down as it fed on a small figure. With horror, he saw the face of Tim Frazier, or what remained of it. Still clutching his bow with the grip of death, the left side of the boy’s face was a skinless ruin. As the youth began to twitch and convulse, Paul was forced to aim his gun at the boy’s revealed skull. Screaming a wordless sound of anguish, he fired, yet the transformation was not halted. Stepping back in shock, he watched as the boy got to his feet. The half-face, snarling in anger and rage, stared directly at him. Emptying several rounds into the creature’s chest, alarm gripped him as infected Tim continued to advance.

Turning in desperation, Paul found himself surrounded by a legion of human animals. Shooting wildly, each shot hitting its mark, he cried for help as the monstrosities ambled forward. He knew escape was his only option. Quickly he retreated, running hard across the soft earth of the camp. Arms and teeth lashed out at him, working desperately to reach him. His ammunition expended, he fought the attackers off as he ran. Minutes passed, hours passed, and still he ran through the night.

An endless stream of Tils lined the path until finally, he reached their end. A thick wall of infected blocked the way. The circle of death closed in around him as he spun about, seeking an opening of escape. One figure stepped from the endless pack, its dark hair flowing freely in the crying wind. Light from an unseen source—Could it be day already? his mind questioned—lit the beast’s face.

“No!” he shouted, a cry of sorrow and guilt.

The slender figure advanced, each step purposeful and exact. The will to defend himself dissipated as he stared into brown eyes in which he had once seen a living future. A breath apart, she placed her twisted hands on his neck. Paul felt the warm stream of tears rolling down his cheek followed by the burning pain as Lisa’s teeth sank into him.

Thrashing wildly, Paul woke from the torment, the cool air of the night chilling his sweat soaked body. Bestial howling tore through his hearing. As his eyes adjusted to the small fire that lit the tent, he saw a shadowed form standing a few feet from him. Jumping to action, he ripped the gun from his waist as the shadow shouted.

“Sir! It’s Wes!”

Clarity flooded him as he recognized the man. Hardin’s face was a mask of shock, a realization of how close he had been to death.

“Wes… I’m…” Paul began in apology, but another howl sounded in the distance. “What’s going on?” he asked, stepping towards the exit.

Still shaken from the moment, Wes stumbled an explanation. “It started a few minutes ago. Our lookouts haven’t seen any movement, though.”

Paul tossed aside the tent flap, his two guards more tensed than usual, and broke into a jog towards the camp’s northern perimeter. Recognizing that his pace only furthered the concern of those he passed, he slowed himself to a brisk walk, though his skin crawled with eagerness to reach the border.

A crowd of men had taken their assigned position by the time he joined the northern line. “What do we have?” he asked as he stared out into the torchlit landscape.

“No movement, sir,” confirmed a man Paul did not know. “They’re probably still a mile or two out, but they’re avoiding our lights and lookouts.”

Courage-sapping screams continued to breach the darkness, mostly from the north, but other cries answered from the east and west. Answered? he questioned silently. As unreal as it seemed, he could find no other explanation for the guttural voices. The Tils were communicating with each other. Having successfully avoided detection when one had breached the camp, Paul doubted the Tils would reveal themselves without some purpose. As adept at stealth as the infected had become, they could have easily reached the camp’s sightlines before the Horde realized. Either they’re gathering their forces, or simply trying to unnerve us. Neither option was a comfort. My God, how advanced are they now?

Forcing his voice to measured calm, Paul issued an order. “Notify the camp to be on high-alert. We sleep in shifts with at least half the camp armed and in position. It’s near dawn,” he continued as he became aware of the lighter sky to the east. “And I don’t think they will make a move in daylight.” Or would they come when we least expect it? There was too much unknown about this enemy’s capabilities, and he began to fear that no extent of planning would prove sufficient. Before he could finish his commands, one of the camp’s vehicles came speeding towards them.

“Sir, there are lights coming up from the southern road,” a silhouetted man shouted from the automobile. With a curse, Paul jumped into the passenger seat, while his guards stood in the Jeep’s back holding the roll bar.

Reaching the opposite end of the camp, Paul was handed a pair of binoculars. Even without them he spied nearly a dozen sets of headlights moving at a steady pace towards the camp. Raising the glasses to his eyes, he saw that several of the vehicles bore the spray-painted white “H” of the Horde. Gritting his teeth in anger, the tired leader ordered the Jeep’s driver to meet the caravan. There was no way Derrick could have reached the rendezvous and made his return in so short a span of time. If he brought those people back to be slaughtered because he wanted to be in the fight, I’ll kill him myself, his thoughts seethed as the Jeep crossed the distance.

Brief stories were exchanged, the sharing of a year’s worth of events for Derrick and Mike, Erik, and Lisa. Mike could feel Lisa’s sorrow over learning that for weeks Paul had assumed her dead, the guilt compounded from the agony she had caused her love by leaving, weighted heavy on her. For his part, Derrick took the news of her prior involvement with the virus’ development in casual stride. In fact it was his unwavering acceptance of Lisa, and his clear lack of animosity towards Mike, that served to erase any anger the former teacher still held toward the woman. For the first time since leaving Miami all those months ago, he felt a reminder of what it was like to be whole. At least for a time, the darkness that had shadowed his heart fled under the light of the reunion of old friends.

Not all was joyous, though. Derrick struggled to fight back tears when Erik told him of Andrew’s passing. In the chaos that immediately followed the outbreak, he had taken the young boy under his protective wing. Mike had been forced to step away from the group then, the emotional memories of Andrew’s final moments were too freshly scarred. Eventually, the conversation turned to the present and the series of dangers it held.

“So there’s no rendezvous with the Mohawk?” Derrick asked.

Shaking her head, Lisa explained. “The men on the ship worked for Duncan. The only passenger they were to deliver back to New Cuba was me.”

“And this… ARC? You say it can stop the Tils?”

“Yes,” Mike answered. “But it didn’t work last night, and we’re not sure if it can be fixed. Truthfully, we don’t know what’s wrong with it, and none of us have the skills to tinker with it.”

Taking the ARC from Mike’s outstretched hand, Derrick turned the device over. “There are some tech guys with the Horde. They might be able to get it working again.”

“Speaking of,” Erik joined the discussion. “Paul is really the leader of the Horde?”

“Not the best name, I know. It’s different now though, the Horde that is. Before we took down the old leader, the group was mostly forced into being marauders. I followed them for a while after they ambushed you guys in Miami. Eventually, I joined them to try and bring Drennan, the old leader, down. When Paul and Hicks showed up, we put a plan in place. Things happened pretty quickly, and after Drennan was killed the group needed a new leader, and they wanted Paul.”

“So, Hicks stayed back with Paul and the Horde?” Mike asked. From what little he knew of the man, or what little the man had allowed of himself to be known, he was surprised to hear the loner had voluntarily aided the coup.

As soon as he asked the question, he wished he could pull back the words. Derrick’s features darkened noticeably as he shook his head and spoke with gruff tones. “No, he and I were on a scouting mission and… and he died a couple days ago.”

Segueing away from the other man’s evident grief, Mike quickly asked for details regarding the Til force approaching the Horde’s encampment. The sheer numbers of the infected were startling, but he found himself agreeing with Paul’s assessment.

“From what we’ve seen,” he said. “Paul’s probably right. The Tils have advanced enough to know there is safety in numbers. With so many years since the outbreak, a force that size could very well be all that remains of the infected.”

“He’s gearing up for a last stand,” Derrick told them with concern in his voice. “But if there are really hundreds of thousands of them, I don’t know how long the Horde will be able to hold them off.”

“Unless we can get there and get the ARC working again,” Erik added.

“We’d still need to be able to broadcast the frequency. And probably even further than we did at Fort Polk to cover an army that size,” Lisa commented.

“First things first,” Mike cut in. “How far back to the Horde?”

“’Bout half a day’s ride. What about them?” Derrick tilted his head back towards the refugees that were milling about and tending to sore feet and cramped legs. “We don’t have cars for everyone, so we had to keep a slow pace and alternate walkers and riders.”

“We can’t leave them,” Mike said. “The band of Tils that attacked us last night might still be out there. Give them another hour to eat and rest, then we head back to the Horde.”

Derrick nodded in agreement and moved off to pass the command. As word spread through the caravan, Mike saw the previously smiling faces turn to worried stares. They thought they were headed to safety, and now they are forced back to the nightmare.