"We're with you, Alex!" It was Riquelme. He laid down a trail of fire, killing dozens of colloids.
Gun shots popped behind Alex and Jo, bullets whizzing past their ears as they reached the fireboat's wharf. Alex and Jo crouched at the same moment to afford the guerrillas better targets.
The infected were keeling over everywhere. The plan had failed, and the guerrillas understood that the only way to win now was to go for broke.
Alex couldn't see the kids anywhere. He could barely see the water on either side of the wharf. But he and Jo were standing on the rotting boards now, fighting their way through the remaining infected. Alex used his foot to shove one off the wharf and into the water.
He could hardly feel his own aching body anymore, and he knew that Jo shared his savage transcendence. They were unstoppable, more than human.
The body of Dan Galouye was at Alex's feet. He stooped to pick up the gasoline can while Jo covered him. Holding the Ingram in front of him he rose triumphantly, and they fought their way to the fireboat.
Ronnie stood on the fireboat's deck, firing at the infected. Jack was climbing into the engine hatch, while the batteries and gasoline cans were brought alongside. Jack was already starting to work on the engine. The kids were all right!
The fireboat listed as the guerrillas boarded it. A quick count told Alex that eight or ten had been lost in the fray. Twenty people were left to storm Liberty Island. But first they had to get the engine going.
The guerrillas ashore were shooting the advancing enemy like sitting ducks, as Jack poured one can of gasoline into the tank. Clement and Stubbs had set the batteries down and were firing at the infected. Elvin took the second can from Alex and lugged it over to Jack at the engine hatch. Alex tended to doubt that the kid could start it, unless he had some pretty good tricks up his sleeve. But it was the only chance they had, so they might just as well go down fighting on the boat.
Alex squeezed the Ingram's trigger and nothing happened. He reached in his kit for another clip. It was the last. From here on in, he had to make every shot count. Fortunately, the infected could only come at them a few at a time along the narrow wharf.
Alex saw Ronnie grappling with the heavy rope attaching the fireboat to a piling. It was as big around as her arm, and the weather of years had stuck it fast to the wood.
Alex signaled her to get out of the way, and shot the rope. At least now they would drift away. Perhaps they would float close enough to the island to get their licks in. There were two punts on the fireboat, so they could paddle to Liberty Island if necessary.
It was only when the boat had progressed backward a few yards and turned around that Alex realized the engine was running. The deafening din of gunfire and the screams of the dying had obscured its mechanical grumbling.
Jack was in the pilothouse, at the wheel. He backed the boat away from the wharf until he could turn the fireboat toward the open sea. Alex and Jo stood in the stern as the old rust bucket swung about. They watched the teeming infected diminish in size, still hearing shots from the guerrillas left on shore. Occasionally a body would fall into the water from one of the wharves as a rocket hit ground and exploded.
The guerrillas cheered wildly and embraced each other on the fireboat's deck. Alex felt exultation that they had gotten this far. He watched a rainbow slick of oil spread out among the whitecaps as they headed into the wind. He only hoped that the ship would make it out to Liberty Island, short distance that it was.
Alex knew that he and Jo were going to Liberty Island, even if they had to swim, and he sensed that the colloids knew it, too. The aliens had tried everything to stop him, but he was still on his feet. He could barely stand still now, anticipating this final battle. The mania had grabbed hold of him, and would not let go until it was played out—or until he was dead.
The water was choppy, so the guerrillas looked for handholds. Jo and Alex grasped the edge of the hose reel at the stern, the peeling paint flaking as they touched it. The firehoses looked as if they would crumble to the touch. The other guerrillas sat down on the deck or gripped the side bits. Elvin looked bilious, but he didn't lean over the side, as Alex expected. They hadn't eaten in nearly twenty-four hours, after all, so there was nothing in his stomach to disgorge.
The fireboat moved slowly to the south, leaving Manhattan behind. Alex was wired, his bipolar disorder wildly on the upswing. He couldn't remember when it had felt so good to be out of his mind.
Jo leaned against him, laying her head on his shoulder. He knew that the mania had passed from her, because he was able to cut her off from it. When the fighting started, he would not be able to stop it even if he wanted to. That was doubtless a good thing, though. Being crazy was all right in only one situation that he knew—war.
They were all kill crazy by now, of course, but the exultation on deck died down in spite of their madness. In a few minutes they would be on Liberty Island. Many of their comrades had died already, and many more would die before it was over.
But at least it would soon be over.
The salt air smelled so much fresher out here. The odor of the infected had mingled with the sea's scent on shore, but now the wind whipped in from the Atlantic and slapped them bracingly in the face. It was exhilarating. Alex felt as though he knew how tribal warriors had felt when they had gone out to fight. It was a good day to die.
In a matter of mere minutes they were within hailing distance of Liberty Island. They could see the gray gouts of the colloids slithering on the granite slabs in the very shadow of the Statue of Liberty.
On the south end of the tiny island, a squadron of the infected labored. Some of them were in rowboats, and others were actually in the water. These were clearly third stage colloid victims, now transformed into willing allies of the aliens.
Ringing the island were scores of the infected, the same kind of mindless creatures the guerrillas had been fighting all morning.
As soon as they got close enough, the guerrillas would start picking them off. There was a pier on the west side of the island, where they could moor the fireboat once the odds were evened up a bit.
"Hold your fire until you've got a clear target," Alex shouted over the rumbling engines. He could feel the colloids' dread inside him. They had never dreamed that the guerrillas would get this far. If they had killed Alex when they had the chance, this could have never happened. At least that was what they believed. But Jo had been infected, too; she could have followed the scent as easily as Alex.
The colloids had miscalculated, and now they were threatened at this crucial and intimate moment. They would do everything in their power to protect the neonate, to succeed in their plan of domination and conquest.
The fireboat drew closer to the island, and Alex raised the Ingram. All of the guerrillas waited, as the infected lined up on shore.
Alex fired a burst, and watched with satisfaction as an infected woman was jerked off her feet and slammed onto the granite. Another spun and sprawled over her. The rest of the guerrillas followed suit, shots popping from bow to stern, and the infected were falling all over the north end of the island.
Jack steered the fireboat around toward the pier, while the guerrillas continued their fusillade. The bloodlust was growing in them, as if Alex's mania was contagious.
More of the infected were shambling toward them from the other side of the island. But gunfire brought down most of the newcomers before they were even close to the pier. The acrid smell of burnt gunpowder combined with the sea air in a heady mix.
Alex mowed down three more of the infected as the pier seemed to grow larger and larger. They were coming in fast, the moorings only a few feet away now. And then Alex saw that they were moving
too
fast.
They were going to collide with the pier.
"Hang on!" he shouted, uncertain if anybody besides Jo could hear him.
The fireboat's prow crunched into the pier with an ear-splitting sound of splintering wood. Screams came from all over the boat as people were thrown overboard or slammed against bulkheads. The davit swung around like a giant's arm, but fortunately it didn't strike anybody.
Alex and Jo managed to hang onto the rotting hoses, which cushioned them from the shock somewhat. The prow crumpled, but the fireboat stayed afloat. Not for long, but perhaps long enough.
The pier had been cleared of the infected, a few of whom were crushed under the immense weight of the thirty-foot vessel. The others were tossed into the ocean to drown while their colloid masters dissolved in the salt water. There were hundreds more advancing, but they hesitated to go out onto the broken pier.
The guerrillas who had managed to stay aboard the fireboat were sprawled all over the deck, many of them dazed and flailing down among the scuppers.
The engine was silent, and Alex couldn't see Jack and Ronnie up in the pilothouse. He hoped that they were all right, but there was no time to find out.
The boat was hung up on the remains of the pier, floundering at an angle. Alex and Jo tried to make their way to the bow, but they slipped on the canted deck, sliding down the port side. They got up and crept along the bulkhead while the other guerrillas began to get on their feet and follow them.
Alex was at the prow, Jo right behind him. He leaped off the fireboat and onto the rotting wood, the Ingram at the ready.
"Let's kick ass!" he bawled.
He did not wait to see if anyone was with him. He was certain that Jo was, and that was all that mattered. The Ingram was part of him; he squeezed off rounds as easily as he might point a finger, without thinking about it at all. The enemy fell as soon he looked at them, the 9mm slugs tearing through their blue-blotched, diseased bodies.
Their screams were like music, the battle cries of the guerrillas a counterpoint to the slaughter. The infected were falling everywhere, but their reinforcements kept coming, slowly closing in as their comrades died.
Still, the guerrillas continued to cut a swath toward the Statue of Liberty. Jo was firing her .32 methodically, falling to one knee to reload from time to time.
Suddenly the Ingram stopped firing. Alex squeezed the trigger again and again, but nothing happened. He was out of ammunition. He turned it around, seizing the hot barrel in his hands, and swung it like a baseball bat even as it singed the skin on the palms.
The stock banged against the head of an oncoming infected with a satisfying, jarring impact. Then he swung it backhand, stopping cold another one who was rushing toward Jo.
The little band of guerrillas moved steadily, if slowly, towards the base of the statue. But a fearful scream made Alex look over his shoulder just in time to see Elvin pulled away from the band of guerrillas by dozens of clutching hands. Several shots were fired at Elvin's captors, but he was swallowed up by the mass of the infected, and there was no going back for him.
The guerrillas were surrounded. The only way out was to fight their way through to the end. But the gunfire was less frequent now, as more of the guerrillas ran out of bullets. Others were plucked from the crowd by the surging infected, including the shrieking Satch.
Huddling together, the remaining guerrillas moved ahead as if they were one. At their center was Riquelme and the flamethrower. They had to get him close enough to stop the colloids, and they could not afford to waste what little fuel was left.
From behind them came the cry of a familiar voice. Alex turned to see Claire in the grip of four infected, then five, then seven, then ten.
"Claire!" he and Jo screamed simultaneously.
But she was beyond their help. Samuel flailed at them with his pipe, but to no avail. She was gone in an instant. Screaming in rage and pain, Samuel leaped into the heaving mass of the infected and vanished along with her.
Alex did not need to catch a glimpse of Jo's anguished face to know how she felt. Her rage and sorrow coursed through his mind and electrified his body.
But they were almost to their goal now, and the infected's ranks were thinning. Many of them slipped in the blood of their fellow creatures as they continued to attack the guerrillas.
Alex and Jo reached the base of the statue. Now the enemy could only attack from the guerrillas' right rear flank. With their backs protected, the guerrillas turned and fought until the last of the infected were lying dead and wounded on the ground.
There was no time to celebrate the obliteration of this last obstacle, however. It appeared to Alex that fewer than ten guerrillas were still alive, perhaps only six or eight. But he couldn't stop to count them now.
He ran to the corner of the statue's pedestal, the other guerrillas right behind him. Turning the corner, he saw for the first time what had lurked in his subconscious since his infection. He hesitated long enough for the others to catch up, and then the little group stood together for a moment, gazing in horror at what the colloids had wrought.
The thing stood about twelve feet high. Its gigantic hands gripped the metal guard rail, naked sinews and pulsing veins clearly visible through its gray, translucent skin. Massive bones showed through the flesh, muscles flexing and stretching grotesquely. Its head was its most offensive feature, a misshapen skull bearing a hideous caricature of a human face, grinning skeletally and dripping with slime. The creature did not seem fully formed, though it appeared to be climbing up from the foaming sea.
But no, it was poised there, half of it in the water and half out. The colloids were crawling over its hands and arms and onto the mutating torso. Below were third-stage infected, some in rowboats and some treading water, as they kneaded the living colloids into the shape of a giant human body, sculptors working with human tissue instead of clay.