The soldiers chuckled at their platoon sergeant’s words. Most of them were probably too young to know that the old Marine had been a kick ass ground combat officer. They only knew him from his years as the Secretary of Defense—if they were even aware of that much. “Yeah. That’s exactly what I meant, Sergeant Turner. Thank you. We need to stay on the population’s good side, but you have every right to defend yourself or your brother standing beside you.”
Harper stared hard at him for a moment, then nodded, turning his back on Jake. That seemed to settle the matter as the soldiers went about looking after their gear to see if anything was missing.
“That guy’s gonna be a problem, Lieutenant,” Sergeant Turner muttered softly beside him.
“I know he is,” Jake replied. “I’m just not sure what to do about it. We came here because of him and the potential that whatever shit is running through his veins can end all of this. Without him, what the fuck are we doing here?”
“Agreed, sir. We just need to keep our finger on the pulse of the men so they don’t mutiny on us.”
A few catcalls caught Jake’s attention as his men called out to a pair of women who’d crept up to where they were. Even in the dim light, he could see that they’d pulled open their shirts to reveal the skin beneath.
“Goddammit,” Jake groaned. “What now?”
3
CHIHUAHUA, MEXICO
MARCH 3RD
The road-weary traveler observed the sandy airport from the cover of a group of scrub brush for several long minutes. She’d learned over her long journey that caution and stealth outweighed all other actions when it came to the world she found herself in. The crazies were everywhere she went. Any uncalculated move could mean instant death.
Hannah Dunn crept out of the dusty desert, her feet scraping in the sand scattered across the abandoned road surrounding the airfield. She was already tired and it wasn’t even noon yet. Her energy levels were shit these days. She wasn’t sure whether it was from the lingering effects from that illness she’d contracted a few months ago that derailed her journey home, the lack of proper nutrition, or just the sheer feelings of hopelessness that threatened to overwhelm her sometimes. Regardless, it pissed her off and that anger usually carried her through each day until sundown.
She moved cautiously, each step measured and precise. Out in the open was the worst place to be if she attracted the attention of any of the crazed motherfuckers that roamed all of South and Central America. They’d been a constant threat since that day in Brazil when they came pouring from the Iranian facility that her team was observing. Everywhere she went now, they roamed the streets, searching for their next victim.
Hannah clung to the hope that the disease had been stopped at the border, that her homeland was safe somehow. She told herself that her parents were still alive in Falls Church and that they kept her little doggie, Chi-Chi, alive and well during the outbreak in South and Central America. She forced herself to believe that. Otherwise, what was the point of all of this? Why was she struggling to make it back there if it was more of the same?
The woman still carried the battered, suppressed M-4 rifle that she’d used on that mission. The ammunition was long gone, used up over the course of her journey. She kept it in case she ran across any more ammo, which she did every once in a while, but her primary weapon was a well-worn claw hammer that she’d scavenged from a garage toolbox months ago. It was fine if there were only a couple of the crazies. If there were more than that, and they’d seen her, she just ran since they were much less menacing now than they were at first. Back at the facility, the crazies were well fed and full of energy, most of the ones she came across these days were starving and didn’t have the energy stores for long, sustained runs. The real problem was that they tended to stay together in groups. If she allowed herself to get surrounded, then she was done for.
During her trip northward, there’d been too many close calls. Too many narrow escapes. It was all she could do to wake each day and continue her search for a useable aircraft or helicopter that she could fly toward the US border. The belief that it was better back in the States kept her moving each day. It had to be better there.
Flying had its own risks, but she felt the good outweighed the bad. She’d only found one helicopter that was still usable in her yearlong journey, most others had little or no fuel, or were down for maintenance that would never be finished. The one she’d been able to find somewhere in Columbia had started up and she’d flown ten or fifteen miles before the warning claxons began telling her something was wrong with the bird. At that point, she’d already walked hundreds of miles through the nastiest terrain on Earth, so she decided to push it and risk a malfunction.
The engines seized up and the helicopter fell like a rock from the sky.
The crash had been spectacular. Only the heavy triple canopy jungle saved her life. Otherwise, the helicopter would have burned in to the ground and at the very least broken her back. As it was, though, she was able to walk away from the accident. Climbing from the trees had taken some work,
