“Yes,” Dr. Price says, clearing his throat. “That’s right.”
Rod nods, considering what he’s heard. About two hundred miles, Rhodes said. As far as we know, the man is unique. The Infected appear to be aware of and submissive to him. How and to what extent, we don’t know. Dr. Price feels they may be able to isolate a pure sample of the Wildfire Agent. If they can do that, they might be able to make a vaccine.
With so many qualifiers, he thinks, my situational awareness has not gained a single inch.
“The mission,” Rhodes adds, “is to locate, contact and recover this individual for the purpose of obtaining a biological sample. Preferably alive.”
And then we save the world and everyone gets a pony. Shit, even the Big Green Machine doesn’t believe in this saving Private Ryan bullshit. Otherwise, they’d put Special Forces on it. They’d throw everything they had at it. Not yank a single tired-out squad off the line and dump them in the middle of no man’s land to find some guy who infects anyone who comes near him, and is now surrounded by, and appears to control, an untold number of Jodies.
After dealing with all that, we just have to convince the unidentified male to surrender to a bunch of soldiers so that scientists can experiment on him in a government lab.
I’m sure this guy, alone and scared shitless, will be just fine with that!
The idea is so crazy he has to resist the urge to laugh openly at it. The Army seems to have found a very creative way to get him killed.
Dr. Price glances at him, his eyes filled with anxiety.
Rod chides himself. What did you expect—that it would be black and white? It’s a chance, and nothing more. In this war of extermination, a chance is everything.
Major Duncan appears to sense his hesitation. He clears his throat and says, “Sergeant, I know you and your men have been through a lot in this war, and that this mission offers a great deal of risk for uncertain gain. I want you to consider something. Do you know the biggest threat to our forces right now? The leading source of casualties among our fighting men?”
Rod realizes the question is not rhetorical, and scrambles to think up an honest answer. “The monsters,” he says. “The hoppers in particular, sir.”
“The correct answer is suicide, Sergeant. Our people are killing themselves in record numbers.” The Major takes off his glasses and cleans them with a handkerchief. “Let me ask you another question. Do you know why we still pay our personnel in dollars, and accept those dollars at the PX for goods available at normalized prices?”
“The dollar’s the national currency, sir.”
The man puts his glasses back on and regards Rod with a grim smile. “Gold is the closest thing this country has to a national currency right now, Sergeant. Gold and things you can touch—food, water, toilet paper. Hell, bullets are so valuable these days they should be the currency. So why bother with paper money, when so many people in the country have given up on it? I’ll tell you the answer this time, Sergeant. One word: Morale. The illusion everything is normal. We pay dollars to soldiers to clear ground and scavenge goods, which we then sell to these soldiers in return for their dollars. We do a lot of things like that to maintain the idea that things are still normal, right down to busting balls about dress and appearance. But we all know they’re not normal. This war is taking a massive toll and it’s only just started. The fact is, Sergeant Rodriguez, we are falling apart a little bit every day. Even as we continue to gain ground, we are losing the war for the hearts and minds of our own people.”
Rod nods in understanding. He underestimated this officer. For a rear echelon type, Major Duncan appears to know what he is doing.
“Do you catch my meaning, Sergeant?” says the Major.
“I understand if there’s any chance to win this fight, we have to take it, and my boys are up to whatever it takes to get the job done,” Rod tells him. “You can count on it, sir.”
“Aieeyah, Sergeant,” Duncan says, while Rhodes and Sims nod.
Rod meant every word he said. It’s a long shot, but any shot at all is enough to make me a believer at this point. After all, there are no atheists in foxholes.
Anne
The bus trembles and bangs over potholes marring the sun-dappled road. Anne studies the forest and open fields through the windows with her detached telescopic sight. A white-tailed deer bounds through the distant growth, fleeing the metal monster with its grinding hum.
“They could be anywhere,” Todd says, studying the same ground with the binoculars.
Anne wants to tell him to stay focused on the mission, which is to find and kill Ray Young before he can infect more innocent people. But she knows what Todd is going through.
“They can’t be far from here,” she says. “We’ve got to keep searching.”
“Of course. It just feels a little hopeless with so much ground to cover.”
“Stop the bus,” she says. “I think I’ve got them.”
“You’re kidding,” Todd says, leaning forward, trying to see what she sees. The forest on the right drops off in a steep slope, revealing a valley divided into farms covering the land like faded patches on an old quilt. “I don’t see anything.”
“There,” she points as Marcus pulls onto the shoulder of the road.
“That smoke? That could be anything.”
“Not smoke. Dust. You were saying?”
“Wow,” Todd says with a grin.
She resists the urge to tousle his hair.
A dust cloud could mean a lot of things. It could mean cattle, but she knows the cattle herds are gone from the area, eaten by survivors and the Infected. It could mean a refugee camp, but if there were one there, she would have heard about it. It could mean a convoy of vehicles, but the dust is too concentrated and localized.
By process of elimination, it is most likely a massive crowd of people.
These are the Infected of Camp Defiance, migrating east. Assuming they are following Ray, then he should be there as well, like Moses leading his people to the Promised Land.
“If I see Erin, I’ll let you know.”
“Promise me you’ll look,” Todd says.
“Promise.”
Marcus cranks the handle, opening the door. Anne touches his shoulder and hops down onto the road, rifle slung over her shoulder and her boots crunching stones.
“You need me to watch your back?” he asks her.
“No thanks, I’m good,” she says. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“You be careful,” he says, and she feels his desire.
“I will,” she says, holding his gaze.
“We’ll be here,” Jean calls from back of the bus. “Like sitting ducks.”
Marcus grins, shaking his head. Anne rolls her eyes at him before turning and marching into the woods. The sooner I dump you in someone else’s lap, Jean Byrd, the better. Maybe they’ll understand how bad you had it during the epidemic.
For now, I’ve got bigger fish to fry.
She disappears into the trees, still tingling from the way Marcus looked at her, excited and afraid at the idea of his feelings coming out into the open. Stay focused. The gloomy forest envelops her, thrusting her into a darker, far more dangerous world.