Pandemic Page 166

Whatever it takes, do not fall behind.

Klimas. He’d promised to get Tim out of there. Tim righted himself, got his feet beneath him and started running, then slowed.

Cooper … none of it mattered without Cooper.

Tim turned back, saw Cooper land face-first on the rubble-strewn pavement.

And behind him, a stumbling man with half his face torn away, dust-caked blood sloughing down the white of his exposed temple and cheekbone, a big-toothed forever smile where his lips no longer were.

He held a red axe.

Cooper … none of it mattered without Cooper.

Tim ran toward them, or tried to, but his leg wouldn’t respond, so he hopped instead.

On the ground, he spotted a head-size shard of concrete.

Tim bent, grabbed, lifted, hopped.

The man limped toward Cooper, one shredded foot dragging along for the ride. He raised the axe into the air, gurgled a wet battle cry, and arched his back to bring the blade down hard.

Tim got there first.

He didn’t recognize the sound that came out of his own mouth. He’d never made a noise like that, not once in his entire existence.

With both arms, he shoved the jagged concrete forward, drove a rough point into the good side of the man’s ruined face. The hard concrete crunched through tooth and bone, rocked the man’s head back, dropped him like he’d been hit by a heavyweight hook.

The axe clattered to the slush-streaked pavement.

“Cooper! Get the fuck up!”

Cooper crawled forward on raw hands and torn knees, the jeans on his right thigh wet with dust-coated blood.

The half-faced man sat up. He reached for the axe.

Cooper … none of it mattered without Cooper.

Tim Feely stepped forward, the pain in his leg forgotten. He put one foot on the axe, raised the chunk of concrete into the air.

The man looked up — maybe he smiled, but now both sides of his mouth were destroyed, so who could tell?

Tim brought the concrete down like a misshaped hammer: the man’s skull collapsed, folding in on itself in a sickening, liquid crunch.

The man didn’t move.

Tim leaned down, drew a deep breath and screamed a long, unintelligible roar at his dead enemy. The intelligent part of his mind, the educated part, the civilized part, that part had checked out. Something primitive had taken its place.

A hand on his neck, pulling him.

“Feely, come on!”

Klimas. Klimas had come back for him.

The SEAL pulled Tim through the smoke, pushed him, did the same with Cooper, stopped and turned and fired, pushed and pulled them some more.

Tim stumbled forward. He didn’t know how long, he just kept moving. His ears rang. He had no strength left. He couldn’t breathe. He felt dizzy. He kept moving until someone grabbed him, shoved him to the left.

“In there,” that someone said.

Tim shuffled through a door. So dark. The world spun, made it hard to walk. He was much closer to vomiting now. A strong hand on his arm. Someone dragging him along up a long flight of hard stairs.

Dizziness, nausea, weakness … right at the end, he realized those were the symptoms of blood loss.

Tim Feely fell to the floor, and blackness overtook him.

DAY THIRTEEN

STYLISH OUTERWEAR

Dawn’s light burned through the store’s tall, second-story windows.

Paulius shivered from the cold. He sat still, waiting for a response from his missing men. There was none. He’d been trying for three hours.

He thumbed his “talk” button.

“Roth, Harrison, come in.”

Paulius released the button and waited.

No answer.

“Roth, Harrison, come in.”

Still nothing.

His hands felt numb, as did his toes. He pulled the long, fur coat he’d found tighter on his shoulders. They’d taken refuge in a clothing store — and, of course, it was a women’s clothing store. He wore the coat like a cloak.

He was back far enough from the window that he couldn’t be seen from the road, but close enough that he could look out. Four lanes of Oak Street running east and west, intersecting the three lanes of Rush that ran north-northwest to south-southeast. He had a wide, commanding view of the surrounding area.

Right after they’d cleared the barrier, Katanski had taken a shotgun blast to the throat. He was probably dead before his body hit the ground. Roth and Harrison were missing. Ramierez had made it, but he was badly wounded.

Only Bosh and Klimas were still in proper fighting shape. He’d sent Bosh out to the rendezvous point at LaSalle and Goethe. It was dangerous to send him out alone, but Paulius didn’t have a choice — he had to stay with Cooper Mitchell.

Ramierez sat close by, his back against the wall. Cooper was asleep in front of a rack of shoes. Dr. Feelygood was also out, lying on a big pile of dresses. Paulius had cut away Feely’s shredded, now-useless CBRN suit, then covered the man in a couple of fur coats.

Clarence and Margaret were on the far side of the store. Paulius didn’t want either of them anywhere near the others.

“Roth, Harrison, come in,” Paulius said. “Bosh, come in.”

Nothing.

Ramierez lifted his head, a bloody bunch of gauze taped against the socket of his ruined left eye. He had a long velvet coat hung over his shoulders, another across his lap.

“Don’t sweat it, Commander,” he said. “Must be too much building interference to reach Bosh. I’m pretty sure Roth is an immortal, and we both know Harrison is made of iron.”

Paulius forced a smile. Ramierez had lost an eye and taken a bullet in the belly, yet he was still trying to build up those around him. That was a SEAL for you. And just like a SEAL, Ramierez had his weapon in his hands — if the Converted came barging in, he was still ready to fight.

Chapter end