Pandemic Page 131

“What else can be done,” she said, mimicking Blackmon’s words. “I gave you a solution, you didn’t use it. Now it’s too late. There are no other options. It’s over.”

Blackmon’s demeanor darkened. “So you’ve given up? You, the undefeatable Doctor Margaret Montoya, you want us to just roll over and die?”

Margaret shrugged. “Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of all the species that ever lived on this planet were extinct before our ancestors even discovered fire. Extinction is the rule of life, not the exception. Humankind doesn’t get a special exemption, Madam President.”

Blackmon’s lips tightened into a thin line.

“Doctor Montoya, I find it hard to believe G.o.d would let his greatest creation be snuffed out.”

“You religious types have a saying, I believe,” Margaret said. “The Lord works in mysterious ways. Extinction occurs because a species gets outcompeted for territory and resources — or just gets eaten. From observations and the reports we have so far, the Converted are faster, stronger and more ruthless than normal humans.”

Murray noticed that Margaret had avoided the phrases evolution and survival of the fittest. Maybe she didn’t want her message to get lost in the details.

The rest of the Situation Room seemed to fade into the shadows. Somehow this had become a battle of wills between Montoya and Blackmon.

“The Converted can’t win,” the president said. “We’ve got the weapons and the technology.”

Margaret held up her hands, wiggled her fingers. “The Converted have these, just like we do. They can use the same weapons we use. And our high-tech tanks and planes give us an advantage only as long as there is gas to run them, places to repair them. Once the fuel and bullets run out, Madam President, this fight will come down to knives and spears and rocks. If that happens, humanity will lose.”

The president’s hands curled into fists, fists that pressed down on the table. The predator’s gaze tightened — at that moment, she hated Margaret Montoya.

“You are wrong,” Blackmon said. “I have faith that we will find a way.”

“The wonderful thing about science, Madam President, is that it doesn’t ask for your faith, it just asks for your eyes. In a week, you’ll be looking at three-quarters of a billion psychopaths spread out across the world. Even the most powerful army on the planet can’t handle …”

Margaret’s words trailed off. She blinked, raised her eyebrows, shook her head a little. Murray had seen her do that before, too — Margaret did that when she’d been lost in a train of thought and wanted to come back to the present.

“Sorry,” she said. “Listen to me, Madam President. Please. You need me there with you. I know we can find a way to beat this thing. I’m clean. I’m immunized. Fly me to D.C., today, and I’ll be by your side.”

That was the best idea Murray had heard all day. Cheng’s fat a.s.s could stay on Black Manitou. Margaret was right — the real brains of the operation belonged here, in the Situation Room.

André Vogel suddenly stood up, fingers pressed to his earpiece.

“Madam President, we just received actual footage of one of the larger forms.”

Blackmon nodded quickly. “Doctor Montoya, we’ll get back to you shortly.”

Margaret started to say something, but Vogel cut her off. The monitor flashed with low-resolution video, black and oversaturated white — typical output from the cameras on combat aircraft.

“This is from Manhattan,” Vogel said. “Seventy-Second and Columbus.”

“Manhattan is cut off,” Blackmon said. “Didn’t we blow all the bridges?”

Vogel nodded. “Yes, Madam President, we did. A Pave Hawk helicopter was collecting reconnaissance footage and captured this.”

The image on the screen looked slightly fuzzy, the signature of a camera pushed beyond its range. Still, Murray could easily make out a mixture of five- to ten-story buildings, the redbrick and tan concrete so common in New York.

Two people ran down the middle of the street, cutting in and out of the burned-out vehicles that littered the pavement. Farther back, a dozen others gave chase.

It was recorded, Murray knew that, but he silently willed the two front-runners to move faster.

More people poured out of doorways, alleys, some even from the interior of vehicles. They all joined the pursuers. The pack swelled to two dozen, then three, then four.

The distance between the hunted and the hunters shrank.

Vogel paused the playback. “The next voice you hear is the Pave Hawk pilot.” He let the video continue.

The pilot keyed his mic, filling the Situation Room with the scratchy sound of the helicopter’s engines and rotor.

“Command, Bat Twelve, I have two civilians being pursued by hostiles, request immediate permission to engage.”

“Negative, Bat Twelve,” came back an even scratchier voice. “You don’t know who is healthy.”

“I can f.u.c.king see it,” said the pilot. “There are these … things … in the pack, chasing them, things that aren’t human.”

The image zoomed in on the pursuers. In the cl.u.s.ter of blurry, sprinting people, Murray saw something that was bigger than the rest. Much bigger.

Vogel paused the playback. On the screen, a hideous, out-of-focus creature was hurdling a Toyota. Shredded clothes, sickly yellow skin, a head and neck so big they made its face look disproportionately tiny. It carried some kind of long blade in each hand.