A siren wailed outside. Heavy footsteps and shouting in every direction. The regular soldiers had their own evacuation plan, but Culdesac had told the RS a long time ago to ignore it. The Red Sphinx would be the first ones out, he had promised.
“They’re dead,” Mort(e) said.
“Who’s dead?”
“The Red Sphinx. There is no rendezvous. The Colony is going to burn this sector to the ground. No one will live here for a thousand years.”
“Culdesac would never—”
“His loyalty is with the Colony,” Mort(e) said. “And its cause. Why do you think they kept him in charge?”
“I’ve killed people who have spoken ill of the colonel,” Wawa said. “Almost killed you the day we met.”
“I remember.”
“If we’re going to die here anyway, maybe you should put that gun away, and I’ll show you what I had in mind.”
“Haven’t you been used enough?” Mort(e) asked. “Are you going to let someone betray you again just because you want to join his pack?”
He had plucked another moment from her past. The explosions were getting closer. She heard screaming, but perhaps that was in her head, a memory of the dog-fighting pit and its circle of shouting, savage human faces. Maybe he planted that memory in her head somehow.
Wawa would be dead had it not been for Culdesac. And yet the quarantine was beginning. And the colonel was not there — he was merely a voice on a phone. Mort(e) was there, and his eyes begged her to believe him.
She had to make a decision. She chose Mort(e).
“Where do we go?” she asked.
OUTSIDE, OFFICERS OF different species were lining up their soldiers, preparing them to escape in an orderly fashion. Wawa knew their plan but could already see how it would end in failure. She pictured the army moving down a highway and into a horde of marauding Alpha soldiers who would cut them to pieces. They would all die in the jaws of the ants.
To the south, in the heart of the town, thick plumes of smoke arose from the tallest buildings, a cloud hanging overhead. Squinting, Wawa saw the cloud for what it really was: a swarm of winged Alphas, patrolling the air, dropping projectiles onto the town like human bomber planes.
“Don’t look at it,” Mort(e) said.
The first thing to do, he told her, was to get Bonaparte out of his cell. He deserved a chance to escape, even if he had defected to the humans. When they reached the detention center, the two dogs who had been standing guard ran by them at full speed. One of them — some kind of poodle half-breed, judging from his fur — was halfway through tearing off his biohazard suit. He finally loosened it from his leg, leaving it on the ground behind him like a shed reptile skin.
“Hey!” Wawa said.
Ignoring her, they tried to climb the fence, prompting other soldiers to tell them to stop, to fall in with the others. Before Wawa could see what happened next, Mort(e) braced her by the shoulders and forced her into the doorway of the building. Several shots echoed off the barracks as they ran inside.
Wawa led him to the lower level. Once they were through the useless decontamination area, they found Bonaparte sitting on his cot, hooves still on his knees.
“You made it,” he said to Mort(e). “It’s all coming true.”
“Do you know where the key is?”
“The guards flushed it down the toilet,” he said, pointing at the open cell across from his.
“Try to find something that can force the door open,” Mort(e) said to Wawa.
It was a waste of time. Nothing short of a tank could open the cell. Nearby, a fire axe hung beside an extinguisher. Panting, she pulled the axe from its hook and brought it over to Bonaparte’s cell. The pig seemed unimpressed. His eyes seemed to say, Give it a shot, Lieutenant. Wawa took her first swing at the bars. The deafening clang echoed down the hallway. The handle rattled in her hands. She adjusted her grip and swung again. Only the cream-colored paint chipped away. The metal did not budge.
Mort(e) wrapped his arms around the base of the toilet and rocked it violently until the screws broke free from the linoleum. Water spilled out from the base. With one last shove, he snapped the bowl off its moorings, leaving only a gushing pipe. Thankfully, it did not stink. It had probably never been used.
“The key’s gone, Captain.”
“Shut up, Bonaparte,” Mort(e) said as he reached his arm into the pipe, fishing for anything. “It’s my fault you’re in here.”
“I know,” Bonaparte said. “But it’s okay. I know my role in the prophecy.”
Wawa, already panting, stopped in mid-swing. “Prophecy?”
“Oh, that’s right,” Bonaparte said. “The human said that you weren’t ready for that word. Let’s say plan, then.”
Mort(e)’s arm was in the pipe all the way to his shoulder. “You mean Briggs?” he asked.
“Elder Briggs, yes. He opened my eyes.”
“You’ve been talking to humans, too?” Wawa asked Mort(e).
“They’ve been talking to me,” he replied. “Briggs is your Patient Zero, Lieutenant.”
“When are you going to stop treating it like a disease?” Bonaparte asked. “Elder Briggs has spread the truth.”
“Briggs doesn’t know shit,” Mort(e) said.
“He knew just what to tell you, didn’t he?”
Mort(e) did not answer.
“Did you see Sheba?” Bonaparte asked. “When you used the device?”
Mort(e) stopped what he was doing and pondered this for a moment. “I don’t need the translator to do that,” he said.
As Wawa reared up for another swing, Bonaparte held up his hoof to signal her to stop. The water began to stream past her feet and into Bonaparte’s cell.
“You two need to go,” Bonaparte said. “Now.”
Mort(e) slammed his palm on the floor. The key wasn’t there. He stood up.
“Don’t worry about me,” Bonaparte said. “It’s going to be okay.”
“We’re not leaving without you,” Wawa said.
“You wanted me to stop being afraid,” Bonaparte said. “To choose my own path. I’ve done that. I know you don’t understand it right now. I’m not asking you to. But if you’re going with Mort(e), you’ll see. You’ll see that all this happened for a reason.”
A loud explosion rocked the outside of the building. The lights flickered.
“You need to leave,” Bonaparte said.
Wawa kept her eyes on Bonaparte but could feel Mort(e) glaring at her. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Protect Mort(e),” Bonaparte said. “Help him find his friend. Everything depends on it.”
“Time to go, Wawa,” Mort(e) said. He said goodbye to Bonaparte with a mere nod.
She was moving now, passing through the hallway, leaving the gurgling pipe behind. The axe was still in her hand, its blade dented and chipped. At the front door, the shouting and gunfire grew louder.
They exited the building. Mort(e) stuck his arm out to halt her. A large shadow passed over them. They flattened themselves against the wall. The swarm of winged Alphas had now reached the base. Panicked, the soldiers aimed into the air, shooting wildly. There was a smell of gunpowder and burning plastic. A few yards away, a flying Alpha scooped up a cat like a hawk plucking a rodent from the ground. The Alpha clamped the cat’s neck in her jaws, killing him before he had a chance to squeal.
More shouting, this time to Wawa’s left. A dog ran toward her, his coat charred and smoking. He flopped onto the ground in agony, howling, trying to roll in the cool mud. Another Alpha hovered a few feet over him. Mort(e) grabbed Wawa’s arm and forced her to move. She glanced over her shoulder in time to see the Alpha shoot a jet of fluid from the base of her abdomen. The dog screeched, then began choking. An acidic vapor rose from the dog’s melting flesh, engulfing him.