Either way, he was still alive. That meant the war wasn’t lost, only postponed.
2
“We have to assess the damage. This is the worst time for you to be out there.”
Hatcher continued to shove his gear into the shoulder pack. “I won’t be long.” He turned to Will Stanton and placed a hand firmly on his shoulder. “I’m leaving you in charge.”
“Me?” Stanton nearly stammered. “Why?”
“You’re the most levelheaded person I have available. Every time you said we needed to do something, it took very little convincing to authorize it. You tend to weigh every option and I’d have to say, you’re the primary reason we’ve made it as far as we have.” He slung the pack onto his shoulder and picked up the carbine. “If I’m not back before dark, the job is yours permanently.”
“Wait!” Stanton followed him out of the office. “What are you saying?”
“If I’m not back by dark, I’m probably dead.” He paused and gave the man a serious look. “They need somebody who can detach emotion from their thinking when it comes to the common good. That man is you.”
“Mr. Hatcher, I’m afraid I must protest.”
“Tough.” Hatcher patted the man’s shoulder. “If it makes you feel any better, I fully intend to return.” He glanced toward the stand of trees and squinted in the early morning sunlight. “If Roger recovers, okay, hand the job to him. Or hell, even Coop…wait.” He shook his head. “Not Coop.”
“I have no desire to lead these people.”
“Then pray that either I come back or Roger recovers.” Hatcher took a deep breath and pushed past the wrought iron gates. He shook his head at the twisted chain link gates laying ruined on the ground. “First priority is the people, then the repairs.”
Stanton called to him as he marched out into the open field. “Your sister is tending to the wounded. The only thing left is to rebuild.”
“Sounds like you have your day planned, Will.” He turned and faced him, still walking backward. “Good luck.”
Hatcher did an about face and increased his speed to a trot. He slowed once he approached the dead truck and winced when his eyes fell on Big Mike’s remains. He pulled his radio and called back to Stanton. “Get a couple of hands out here to lay Mike to rest.” He glanced at the dead Zulus. “Burn the infected.” He clicked his radio off and bent low, his eyes scanning the blood on the ground. He walked slowly around the stand of trees, noting the blood splatters and droplets on the grass.
“Two trails?” He bent low again and wiped the drying blood from a wide blade of grass. “Two survivors?” He stood slowly and followed the trail across the empty field and to the edge of a street.
Hatcher moved methodically, his eyes searching for the blood trail. “Getting more and more sparse.” He looked up, his concentration following the direct-line path. He half expected to find a body sprawled on the pavement.
He continued following the paths until he came to a small pool, then one trail continuing on. He bent low and read the clues. “Why did you double back?”
Hatcher remained hunkered low, his eyes following the path back to the scene of the carnage. “You left something.” He narrowed his gaze as he slowly came to his feet. “Or someone.”
He turned back to the street and fell into step, letting the blood trail lead him to Simon—or at least to the Zulus’ lair.
Andre stared through the small porthole window at Dr. McAlester, beating against the walls, snarling and spitting as if he were infected. His manacled hands were covered in his own blood from straining against the metal edges. The lightweight metal chair was now twisted and lying in a corner. He had already beaten it against every surface in an attempt to escape.
“Has he had any moments of clarity since he’s been locked up?”
The guard shook his head. “If anything, he’s just getting more and more aggressive.” He glanced at his watch and sighed. “He’s been going full steam for over twenty hours. You’d think he’d run out of gas.”
Andre sighed and turned to the technician standing beside him. “Do it.”
The man cranked a knob and the sound generator caused the walls to vibrate slightly, its frequency rising as the knob was adjusted. Regardless of the frequencies tested, Dr. McAlester showed no signs of reaction.
“Try the next range.” Broussard commented, his voice already defeated.
The tech flipped a switch and adjusted the knob again. The creature inside the steel room didn’t hesitate or slow down. He continued to throw himself against the walls, occasionally picking up the remains of the chair and slamming it repeatedly against the steel walls.
Broussard sighed and stepped away from the window. “I really need a blood sample.”
The guard raised a brow. “Swipe the walls. There’s plenty.”
Broussard gave him a knowing look. “And it’s probably contaminated with the blood of the man he killed.”
“And ate,” the tech added absently. He looked to the researcher and blanched. “Sorry, sir.”
Broussard cleared his throat and stepped away from the door. “Prepare the gas.”
A man in a khaki uniform stepped closer and flipped open the glass on the porthole window. He slipped a funnel shaped device to the opening and quickly applied tape to the edges. “Just cursory, sir.” He turned to his associate and nodded. The other man twisted the knob on a cylinder and the unmistakable hiss of gas escaping seemed to attract Dr. McAlester’s attention. He threw himself against the door repeatedly, his growling and howling increasing in both pitch and volume.
“How long does this stuff normally take?” the tech asked.
Broussard raised a brow. “It should be quick.” He looked at the cylinder. “This is an oneirogenic general anesthetic?”
The khaki uniformed man shrugged. “The doc
