Pandemic Page 167

“We’ll find them,” Paulius said. If there was a time to lie, it was now. “How you holding up?”

“I’m just …” Ramierez leaned his head forward as a wave of pain washed over him. He stayed that way for a few seconds, then looked up. “I’m solid, Commander. But maybe I’ll just take a little nap.”

“Negative,” Paulius said. “You stay awake, that’s an order. Keep trying Roth and Harrison, got it?”

Ramierez managed a slow nod.

Paulius had done all he could for the wounded: stitches for Cooper and Feely, bandages for Otto, sure, but abdominal surgery for Ramierez? Out of Paulius’ league.

He pulled off his headset and stuffed it into a pocket of his fatigues. He pulled the fur coat tighter, then walked toward Feely.

Paulius passed by Otto and Margaret. She was sitting on a chair, still bound, still gagged. Otto had covered her in coats, leaving only her head exposed. He had ditched his CBRN suit — the thing had been just as shredded as Feely’s — but hadn’t put on any extra clothing. The man preferred to shiver, apparently. Maybe it added to his self-indulgent misery.

Otto tilted his head toward Ramierez. “How is he?”

“Dying,” Paulius said quietly. “Did you call Longworth?”

“Yeah,” Otto said. “He knows we made it out.”

“You ask him how many Stingers were in the reserve bases around here?”

Otto nodded. “The brass thinks the Converted could have over fifty of them in Chicago.”

Fifty. Dammit. Sending in any helicopters for pickup would be suicide. Paulius would have to find a way to take everyone to a safer area and hope the Converted had concentrated their Stingers downtown. He’d look for a spot to the north, on the shore, make it easier for the Seahawks to approach. That was the best hope, and it still meant a hike of several miles for Feely and Cooper, both of whom had significant leg wounds, and for Ramierez, who couldn’t move at all.

“That’s just fantastic,” Paulius said. “I don’t suppose Murray can convince Admiral Porter to send a nice little armor division or two our way?”

Otto shook his head. “There aren’t any armor divisions. At least not in the Midwest. What’s left of our military is engaged in active combat, including all of our reserves. Testing kits are running low. The Converted are popping up in almost every unit, special forces included. Murray is even afraid to drop in reinforcements for us, because he can’t be sure members of those units won’t be compromised and try to kill Cooper themselves. It’s real bad out there.”

Paulius tried to control his temper. They had the package, they’d done it.

“It’s real bad here, too,” he said. “Doesn’t he have anything for us?”

“He does. He’s sent one of the last available Apaches to the Coronado. And he’s stationed an AC-130U at Scott AFB down near Champaign, has it assigned just for us. The crew is sequestered to make sure no infected slip in. We’ve got those, plus one of the Coronado’s Seahawks for evac — the other Seahawk got reassigned to make room for the Apache. We give Murray one hour’s notice, he can put those assets where we tell him.”

Paulius worked through the options. The AC-130U was a ground-attack aircraft, armed with a 25-millimeter Gatling gun and a 105-millimeter howitzer cannon. It was an ideal weapon to use against ground forces, especially ones that packed in tight like the Converted tended to do. The plane could strike from high up — it still had to worry about Stinger fire, but not as much as the low-flying Apaches.

“At least that’s something,” Paulius said. “Just have to figure out where to go for pickup, and how to get there.”

“Right,” Otto said. “Nothing to it. Not like we’re in the middle of enemy territory or anything.”

Paulius nodded toward Margaret. “What about her? She magically cured yet?”

Otto hung his head.

Paulius looked at her. She met his stare, mumbled two syllables. The gag made her words unrecognizable, but the cadence reminded him of mush-mouthed Kenny from South Park. Her meaning was all too understandable: fuck you.

“Ma’am,” Paulius said.

He walked to Feely. The little guy had taken a small-caliber round through the calf, probably a .38. The wound wasn’t life-threatening, and Ramierez needed real help, which meant Tim’s nap time was over.

Battle brought out a person’s true nature. Paulius had gotten too far ahead, lost sight of the men he was supposed to protect. When he doubled back, he saw Tim fighting to protect the much-larger Cooper Mitchell. Tim Feely thought himself a coward, yet he’d killed a man in hand-to-hand combat, crushed the enemy’s skull with a hunk of concrete.

That moment encapsulated the essence of bravery: cower and run from danger, or step up and face it, kill to protect your own. Maybe Tim Feely wasn’t SEAL material, but he sure as hell had a warrior’s soul.

Paulius gently shook the man’s shoulder. “Doctor Feelygood. Wake up, brother.”

Tim’s eyes fluttered open. Like everyone else, his skin was caked with dust; it made him a dozen shades darker than his former, extrapale self. He stared out in confusion for a moment, then his eyes focused on Paulius. Tim sat up quickly.

“Easy,” Paulius said. “We’re safe for now.”

Tim looked around, saw Otto sitting with Margaret, saw Ramierez against the wall.

Chapter end