Pandemic Page 114

Those who remained in the city were either dead or about to die. Black, white, Arab. Native sons and daughters. Immigrants. Today there was no confusion about French identity — burned bodies all look the same.

“This can’t be happening,” André Vogel said. When China shut off communications, Vogel’s veneer of confidence had shattered and hadn’t returned. “The fire crews … where are the fire crews?”

“They’re dead.”

All eyes turned to Pierce Fallon, the director of national intelligence. Fallon always had a seat at the table — he just didn’t say much unless he was asked, or unless he knew exactly what was happening. He was as unassuming as he was quiet, the kind of man who could effortlessly fade into the background.

“Those flames will rage until there’s nothing left to burn,” Fallon said. “We have multiple reports of firehouses being attacked at noon, Paris time. Assault and murder of fire department personnel, destruction of vehicles and equipment, fires set to the stations themselves. This drew an immediate police response, but armed gangs were waiting to ambush the police.”

He paused as something exploded on-screen. Another building collapsed.

“At twelve-thirty P.M., Paris time, there were reports of attacks on petrol stations, stores, anything that would burn fast and spread the fire to neighboring buildings,” Fallon said. “With the city’s fire response crippled, the results” — he gestured to the screen, where the Eiffel Tower looked like a black spike jutting up from the flames of hell — “were quite predictable.”

Blackmon looked shocked, a rare crack in her emotional armor. “You’re telling me this was a coordinated attack?”

Fallon nodded. “No question, Madam President. We estimate about a thousand insurgents were involved.”

A single word instantly changed the tone of the room: not infected, or converted, but insurgents — an organized force.

“One thousand,” Blackmon said. Her shoulders drooped. “The city stood for centuries. Just one thousand people destroyed it.”

Murray’s soul sagged with the hopelessness of it all. No invading force. No trained army. Paris had been destroyed by people who knew the city’s streets, the routes, knew how the police acted, knew where all the fire stations were — Paris had been destroyed by Parisians.

Blackmon turned to Murray. “A coordinated strategy,” she said. “Can that happen here?”

Once again, he was out on a limb, giving his best guess at something not even the smartest people he’d ever met could understand.

He gestured to the monitor. “Right now, we’re looking at a feed from CNN. The entire world is watching the same images we are. These Converted are obviously more organized than we’ve seen in the past. We have to assume some of them are watching this, and are seeing a strategy that works. If their goal is to destroy, now they know how.”

Blackmon put her hands on her face, rubbed vigorously. She lowered them, blinked and raised her eyebrows.

“Get the word out to law enforcement in the major cities — and especially Chicago, New York, the places most heavily infected — that they need to protect fire stations.”

People started to talk, to protest, but the president held up her hands for silence.

“I know every police force is already spread thin,” she said. “But if a city can’t fight fire, then we lose that city. Even if it’s a couple of cops in each firehouse, at least that gives us a chance.”

She put her hands on the table, leaned heavily. She looked at the image of a burning Paris.

“Not here,” she said. “Not on my watch.”

THE COOK

Cooper Mitchell awoke to darkness. Darkness, and the sound of a cough.

A cough that wasn’t his — and wasn’t Sofia’s, either.

He was on his back. He’d bunched up his coat as a pillow. Sofia lay next to him, her head on Jeff’s folded coat. Cooper could feel her breathing.

The cough again … a man’s cough, coming from inside the dark room.

Cooper had a moment of panic — where was the gun? His right hand slid out snake-strike fast, feeling for the weapon, found it almost immediately. He flexed his fingers on the pistol grip, then sat up.

Another sound: a light snore. Like the cough, it came from the other side of the overturned table.

Was it a man? Was it one of the yellow things?

The conference room’s door remained closed; no light from the hall, just the red glow of the Exit sign.

Cooper swallowed. He drummed up what courage remained in his quivering chest.

He stood.

The room lights flickered on, illuminated the familiar white-tableclothed tables, chairs, the dead man in the suit — and a new body. A man, facedown, wearing a cook’s uniform.

The cook’s chest rose with a breath, then spasmed with another cough. Sleeping. Maybe he and Sofia could slip out of the room without waking him up.

Cooper knelt back down. He slid the pistol’s barrel into the waist of his pants. He reached down slowly, then simultaneously slid his left hand behind Sofia’s head and cupped his right over her mouth.

She feels so hot …

Her eyes opened wide. Her hands shot to his, grabbed and scratched. Her legs kicked and she let out a muffled scream. Cooper fell to the floor next to her, put his mouth to her ear, spoke so quietly his words were nothing but breaths.

“It’s me, Cooper! Be quiet — one of them is in the room.”

Chapter end