"No, sir." Franco's lip grew stiff and he shook his head vigorously. "I'm not missing any of this."
11
Major Gant and Annabelle Stacy rode in the backseat of an open-air Jeep that bore "Island Security" emblems. Two days ago the vehicle most likely had been used by Tioga's constables to break up brawls born of beer muscles or to calm down domestic disputes between wives, husbands, and mistresses.
From what Gant saw as dawn came to the island, it appeared that Dr. Waters's people — he counted at least thirty hazmat-suit-wearing accomplices at various spots around Tioga — had appropriated local vehicles for their own use. The same could be said for the pay loaders and dump trucks hard at work around the island, although those earthmovers were not being used to move earth.
Instead of digging, the construction equipment collected bodies; primarily the now-immobilized—killed? — walking corpses that had overrun the retreat. Along the roads, outside bungalows, near the burning clinic, Thom witnessed work parties of armed personnel dressed in level-A biosafety gear collecting what remained of the zombie hordes and dropping them into dump trucks either by hand or by scoop, or some combination thereof.
Waters sat in the front seat with his hood back in place. One of his number drove, while two more crouched in the cargo hold with their AKMs directed at their guests.
Everything he saw as they crossed the island on the bumpy roads confirmed his initial hypothesis: the resort's most recent guests were not on Tioga by accident or in response to a cry for help. No, Waters and his band were the architects of the incident and had clearly spent time preparing for this day. That preparation revolved around cleanup, or so it seemed. He saw them collecting the bodies, but not destroying them. No funeral pyres, no burial details. It seemed as if they were being packed and stowed for some sort of trip.
A radio call to Waters from a subordinate supported Gant's conclusions.
"Team twelve to command."
The voice on the other end of the radio spoke poor English, with an accent that sounded Asian to Thom's ears.
"Team twelve, command actual. Go ahead."
"Southwest sector clear. Thirty-seven units recovered. Fifteen appear disabled prior to PX introduction."
Waters produced a small tablet from a pocket on his bio suit and, despite the bulky gloves, jotted notes. After a moment he radioed back.
"Team twelve, move to the northwest sector and rendezvous with teams ten and nine. Recovery is running behind both in time and quantities. We have not reached our estimated quotas and are nearing termination hour."
"Understood."
Waters paused as if considering something, turned around and looked at Major Gant through watery eyes, and then radioed, "Team twelve, how were the units disabled?"
"Stand by, command."
The Jeep rounded a sharp corner while they waited. After a moment the brush to either side of the road gave way and opened up to a stretch of land featuring a paved runway and an airport terminal slightly larger than a double-wide mobile home.
"Command, team 12, bullet wounds."
Waters responded with a question, "Let me guess—5.56 NATO rounds?"
A pause and then, "Lots of shells here, lots of different rounds. Looks like some 5.56, yes."
"Okay, team 12, get to the northwest sector and expedite recovery efforts." Then to Gant, "So you have been busy, haven't you? Tell me something, how difficult did you find it to disable the units?"
Stacy broke in, "The units? You mean the people of this island? That's what you mean, right?"
"Yes, young lady. Although they were not exactly people when your friend here shot them. What was it like? How many bullets did you fire per target?"
Gant answered, "I have no idea what you are talking about. My wife here and I stopped by to work on our tans. We went to the health club for a game of tennis when we bumped into you."
He then smiled his usual smile, the kind that held absolutely no humor. The kind of smile that masked a fit of anger building at the very pit of his stomach and working its way through his veins.
Waters appeared to ignore him and spoke to himself as he said, "One hundred and thirty-seven souls counted on this island prior to H-hour. You two were unaccounted for, as was that — wait a moment, that's it, isn't it?"
Gant held his smile.
"Yes, that's it. The plane we found here, the one that belonged to that senator. He was the first variable of the experiment. You're here because of him, aren't you? Yes, that's it. You are clearly American, and he is — was — an American politician. I see, and it all fits. Tell me, were you a part of his security detail, was he overdue, or did the faulty jammer provide a window of communication?"
Of course Thom did not reply, ignoring Waters's questioning gaze and instead looking ahead to the airstrip. There he saw three planes, two of which were props he recognized as big CN-235 transports, each painted gray but lacking any markings, including tail numbers. The third was a business jet, probably a Hawker 800 but, again, he saw no markings.
More of Waters's white-clad team worked here, looking over rows of "dead" bodies, some of which appeared destined for a line of shiny silver coffin-like containers piled in stacks near the planes.
Still, the number of bodies at the airport did not appear to match the number of bodies being collected by the loaders and dump trucks scouring the island. Perhaps only a select number of "units" were destined for the airport.
If so, where did the rest go?
The Jeep halted near the jet, and the guards motioned for the two prisoners to disembark. Gant appreciated the opportunity to stretch his legs — his knee tended to ache when immobilized for longer than a few minutes. He found himself flexing it to work out the pain, much like he did when getting out of bed in the morning.
This particular morning promised more challenges than a sore joint. Still, the sky spoke only of a beautiful day to come, one that should have seen Tioga's beach inundated with celebrity and high-roller vacationers soaking in the sun. Certainly Waters's team of bundled workers would find the heat inside their heavy suits rather unbearable.
A poke in the back with a rifle barrel directed him toward the side of the flimsy building that served as the airport terminal. For a moment Gant worried they were being lined up against the wall for a firing squad.
Waters unzipped his hood again to apparently much relief; lines of sweat streamed along his pitch-dark skin.
"Tell me something. How many of the units did you encounter at any one time? How much ammunition did you bring with you to the island? What type of tactics did you use to engage the units?"
Gant stood silent, considering not so much answers to Waters's questions but why he asked.
Waters added one more inquiry: "Tell me something: How afraid were you when you first encountered these animated corpses?"
When he received no reply, Waters turned to Dr. Stacy.
"Young lady, what is your impression of what you found here?"
Stacy shifted uneasily, glanced to the major and then back to Waters, and then finally spoke in a shaky voice: "I, um, really like the tennis courts."
Gant smiled inwardly in appreciation of Stacy's false bravado. She did not pull it off well, but he applauded the effort. Yes, perhaps there was more to this young girl than he had initially thought.
Waters sighed, but there was a healthy dose of amusement in his eyes. It occurred to Gant that the man had not expected the presence of trained soldiers in the midst of his experiment, but that their host also found it exciting — delightful, even — that such a twist had been added to whatever mix he had concocted.