Pandemic Page 182

A powerful blast of water caught the monster full in the chest and face, sent it tumbling over the equipment box. It smashed through the rear window of an Audi.

Fire Engine 98 pulled away.

Paulius reached up with his left hand, pressed it against the right side of his neck.

He felt blood pouring down.

Fifteen meters back, Roth managed to get to his knees before the horde descended upon him. A muscle-monster drove a bone-blade straight into his back. Paulius heard Roth’s final scream, then the man vanished beneath a swinging flurry of knives, axes and lead pipes.

The water cannon’s powerful stream slowed — what had been a steady, straight blast now curved down, the landing spot quickly growing closer as the pressure faded.

“s.h.i.+t,” Clarence said. “We’re empty.”

The truck suddenly started to wobble left and right, wobble hard.

Paulius heard another new noise. Over the grinding engine, over the sound of metal sc.r.a.ping pavement, and over the ravaged vehicle’s broken rattle each time it hit a b.u.mp, he could just make out the thumpa-thumpa of rotor blades.

And also, something else …

The roar of motorcycles.

CHICAGO BULLS

Steve Stanton’s biker gang rolled to a stop at the T-intersection of North Avenue and North State Parkway. The park — flat and green, dotted with snow-covered, leafless trees — lay behind them. The wind had finally died down. It was turning into a beautiful day.

There were five motorcycles now: the four he’d started with, plus one man who’d brought a Stinger missile from downtown.

One block south on North Parkway, a shattered fire engine s.h.i.+vered its way toward them. How was that thing even moving? The winds.h.i.+eld had so many splintered holes it looked white rather than clear. Torn metal lined the bottom where a b.u.mper had once been. No grille, just a squarish, black hole with an oddly bent dead man jammed into it.

The thing wobbled, left-right, left-right. Shredded tires flapped visibly.

Steve pointed at one of his bulls.

“You, go kill the driver.”

The yellow-skinned beauty didn’t ask questions, it just sprinted down the street on impossibly thick legs.

Steve looked at the others. He made a cutting motion at his throat.

“Kill the bikes,” he said. “Get that Stinger ready. Let’s finish this thing.”

The bulls did as they were told.

When the last motorcycle’s gurgle died away, Steve heard something else.

He turned to look back.

Since his conversion, he hadn’t felt fear. Not once. That emotion swept over him now — not even fifty meters away he saw a helicopter coming in just over the park’s spa.r.s.e trees. He thought back to that girl in his office, the one who said the helicopters she saw “looked mean.” Now Steve understood what she meant.

“Well, s.h.i.+t,” he said, then he felt strong hands wrap around his waist and roughly pull him to the right.

THE EQUALIZER

The Apache pilot made a judgment call. Those were monsters standing at the park’s edge … genuine, straight-from-a-nightmare monsters. They were the bad guys. Ergo, anyone standing side by side with monsters was a bad guy as well.

Five men, five motorcycles, four monsters.

“Light ’em up,” he told his gunner.

From inside the helicopter, the Apache’s M230 chain gun sounded like a staccato, three-second roll on a toy snare drum.

Thirty-millimeter rounds tore into flesh, metal, gra.s.s and concrete, kicking up chunks of dirt, puffs of blood and flas.h.i.+ng clouds of smoke. All targets dropped. The pilot saw a monster running right, carrying a small man in his arms. The pilot started to call out the target, but one of the fallen men rose to his knees, struggled to bring a long tube up on his shoulder.

“SAM,” the pilot said.

Another three-second drum roll answered.

The man didn’t drop so much as he disintegrated.

“SAM neutralized,” the pilot said. “New target running right, get him.”

“Tracking,” the gunner said, but it was too late — the monster dove through the window of a gothic, white-stone apartment building.

The pilot looked down the road, to the approaching fire engine. Another monster there, rus.h.i.+ng headlong toward the battered vehicle. The creature was too close to it: chain gun fire would also hit the truck.

The Apache pilot slowed to a stop and hovered, just thirty feet above the park.

“Wait for targets of opportunity,” he said. “Be careful, we can’t hit our people.”

“Affirmative,” the gunner said. “Should we elevate and hit that mob chasing them?”

“Negative,” the pilot said. “Those a.s.sholes are already taken care of.”

END OF THE LINE

Fire Engine 98 vibrated as if it was driving on an endless road of deep potholes. The motor finally died. The truck rumbled along on momentum alone.

Clarence heard the newly energized roar of the trailing mob — they saw their opportunity to finish the task.

He turned to look forward. Ahead, clouds of smoke floated up from shredded bodies and mangled motorcycles. A yellow-skinned behemoth rushed straight for them.

“Klimas, your knife!”

The SEAL offered it up handle-first. Clarence took it, saw that Klimas had a blood-covered hand pressed hard against the side of his neck.

“Tim! Help Klimas!”

Clarence felt the cabin shudder from impact, heard the crunch of breaking gla.s.s, the deep-throated growl of a monster and the scream of a man.