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Scott Sigler




  For the Junkies—this one is all for you, and all because of you.

  “The Valkyrie at my side is shouting and laughing with the pure, hateful, bloodthirsty joy of the slaughter … and so am I.”



  Other Books by this Author

  Title Page


  Book One - Greenland

  November 7: Greenland

  Book Two - Baffin Island

  November 7: Dream a Little Dream of Me

  November 7: Even Fucking Colder

  November 7: Tasmanian Wolves

  November 7: She’s Got Balls

  November 8: Game … Over?

  November 8: Running Sucks

  November 8: Not Wired That Way

  November 8: Every Picture Tells a Story

  November 8: The Games People Play

  November 8: Opportunity of a Lifetime

  November 8: Dot-Dot-Dot …

  November 8: A Shot & A Chaser

  November 8: Mrs. Sansome

  November 8: A Hot Time in the Old Town

  November 8: Hitchin’ a Ride

  November 8: War Zone

  November 8: Take It

  November 8: Peej

  November 8: The Gang’s All Here

  November 8: God Machines

  November 8: Rhumkorrf Saves the Day

  Book Three - Black Manitou Island

  November 9: Fly By

  November 9: How’s It Goin’, Eh?

  November 9: Brotherly Love

  November 9: The Fairy

  November 9: Drink Till Ya Yuke

  November 9: The Supersecret Password

  November 9: Orange Spiders

  November 9: This is My Weapon, This is My Gun

  November 9: Blue-Light Special

  November 10: Rotted Squirrel

  November 11: Two for the Price of One

  November 11: It’s All About the Benjamins

  November 11: Gallery and/or Juggs

  November 12: The Thing in the Car

  November 13: I Hate it When You Call Me Big Poppa

  November 14: Hot Midnight

  November 14: Taste

  November 15: Cow Sixteen, Minus One

  November 15: That’s Not Normal

  November 16: Autopsy

  November 16: The Russian Report

  November 17: A Walk on the Beach

  November 18: Running Out of Time

  November 19: Molly McButter

  November 20: Blowtorch

  November 22: Hot Evening

  November 24: Nice Fuck-Face

  November 24: You Understand

  November 25: Stupid Cow

  November 25: A Valid Concern

  November 26: Checkmate

  November 27: Kill ’Em All

  November 27: Nice Endo

  November 28: Death Finds a Way

  November 28: Fischer Waits …

  November 29: Freakin’ Orcs and Elves

  November 29: 210 Pounds, 6 Ounces

  November 30: The Pimp Slap

  November 30: The Call

  November 30: Failure

  November 30: Endgame

  November 30: Colding Says Good-Bye

  November 30: A Hotshot Like You

  Book Four - Flight of the C-5

  November 30: 7:34 P.M.

  November 30: 8:46 P.M.

  November 30: 8:52 P.M.

  November 30, 8:55 P.M.

  November 30, 8:59 P.M.

  November 30, 9:03 P.M.

  November 30: 9:27 P.M.

  November 30: 9:38 P.M.

  Book Five - The Newborns

  December 1: 7:15 A.M.

  December 1: 7:15 A.M.

  December 1: 7:31 A.M.

  December 1: 7:34 A.M.

  December 1: 8:14 A.M.

  December 1: 8:46 A.M.

  December 1: 10:05 A.M.

  December 1, 12:25 P.M.

  December 1, 12:45 P.M.

  December 2, 2:02 A.M.

  December 2, 6:02 A.M.

  December 2, 8:23 A.M.

  December 2, 3:45 P.M.

  December 2, 7:10 P.M.

  December 3, 6:05 A.M.

  December 3, 6:34 A.M.

  December 3, 8:15 A.M.

  December 3, 9:30 P.M.

  December 3, 9:41 P.M.

  December 3, 9:45 P.M.

  December 3, 9:50 P.M.

  December 3, 9:53 P.M.

  December 3, 10:00 P.M.

  December 3, 10:45 P.M.

  December 3, 11:07 P.M.

  December 3, 11:20 P.M.

  Book Six - December 4

  6:18 A.M.

  6:20 A.M.

  6:22 A.M.

  6:24 A.M.

  6:28 A.M.

  6:34 A.M.

  6:41 A.M.

  6:49 A.M.

  6:52 A.M.

  6:55 A.M.

  6:58 A.M.

  7:01 A.M.

  7:03 A.M.

  7:04 A.M.

  7:05 A.M.

  7:06 A.M.





  PAUL FISCHER HAD always pictured the end of the world being a bit more … industrial. Loud machines, cars crashing, people screaming, guns a-blazing. Perhaps a world-breaking bomb shattering the earth into bits. But here in Greenland? Nothing but packed snow, endless rocks, and the towering white vistas of glaciers sitting high on the horizon. No cities burning, no abandoned cars, none of that nonsense. Just a tiny virus, and some pigs.

  Paul hopped out of the UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter and onto a snow-covered field lit up by the breaking dawn. A woman in an air force jacket waited for him, fur-lined hood tight around her head to ward off the cold and the stinging wind.

  She snapped a salute. “Colonel Fischer?”

  Paul nodded and casually returned the salute.

  “Second Lieutenant Laura Burns, Colonel. General Curry is waiting for you. This way, sir.”

  She turned and walked toward three white Quonset huts, their curved roofs blending into the landscape. Two tunnels connected the huts, completing the little human hamster town that had gone up less than twenty-four hours earlier. He heard the hum of a diesel generator, saw the curve of two satellite dishes mounted on top of the huts.

  Paul followed the girl, their shadows blending together as a long, broken gray shape moving across churned-up white snow. He wanted to get inside, hoped it was heated—these cold temps raised hell with his left knee. Paul absently wondered if the young lieutenant was married, if she was the kind of girl his son would find interesting. He was starting to wonder if the boy would ever settle down and get to the business of making some grandchildren that Paul could spoil rotten.

  Overhead, a pair of F-16s shot by, their jet roar echoing off the valley floor. Probably a squadron out of Reykjavík, in to enforce a no-bullshit no-fly zone that had gone up shortly after Novozyme sounded the biohazard alarm.

  As he walked, Paul looked out into the shallow valley. Two miles away, he could make out the Novozyme facility: a main building that contained research labs and housing for the staff, a landing strip, light poles, metal guard tower, two small, unblemished sheet-metal barns for the pigs and a head-high electric fence that surrounded the entire compound.

  The girl—Second Lieutenant Burns, Paul mentally corrected himself—led him to the middle hut. No airlock. There hadn’t been time to set up a full temporary biohazard center, so the guys at Thule Air Force Base had shipped out the communications and command part of a portable Harvest Falcon setup. Not that it mattered much. Intel was almost p
ositive that the viruses hadn’t escaped the Novozyme facility.

  The key word being almost.

  Paul opened the door and stepped into the heated interior. General Evan Curry looked up, waved Fischer over to the bank of monitors that covered the rear wall. Several American soldiers sat at consoles in the cramped space. A few ranking Danes stood and watched.

  Curry had the permanent scowl and gray-peppered buzz cut of the typical Hollywood general, but he strayed from the script with his five-foot-five stature and deep-black skin. The only image that mattered, however, was the shine from his four stars.

  “Hello, Paul.” Curry extended his hand for a firm shake. “I’d love to say it’s good to see you again, but this is just as bad as last time. That was … what, three years ago?”

  “Three years to the day,” Paul said.

  “Really? You’ve got a good memory.”

  “Kind of a hard thing to forget, sir.”

  Curry nodded gravely. People had died under his commands as well. He understood.

  The general turned to the Danish brass. “Gentlemen, this is Colonel Paul Fischer of the United States Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases, or USAMRIID.” Curry pronounced the acronym you-sam-rid. “He’s from the special threats division, and where we go from here is his decision. Any questions?”

  The way Curry said the words special threats and any questions made it clear he really didn’t want to hear any questions at all. The Danes just nodded.

  Curry turned back to Paul. “I got a call from Murray Longworth. He said you’ve got the ball. I’m here to implement your orders, whatever they may be.”

  “Thank you, General,” Paul said, although he wasn’t very thankful at all. If someone else could have been trusted to make these choices, he would have gladly passed the buck. “What are we dealing with?”

  Curry simply pointed to the Quonset’s large main monitor.

  Paul had somehow expected the images to be fuzzy. In those apocalypse movies, scenes of carnage came with ample amounts of static, flickering lights and sliding doors that randomly open and shut. For some reason, every doomsday vision seemed to be marked by substandard electrical work.

  But this wasn’t Hollywood. The lighting was fine, the pictures perfectly clear.

  The screen showed the high-angle view from a security camera. A lone man slowly crawled across a laboratory floor. He coughed over and over again, deep and wet, the kind that ties up your diaphragm for far too long, makes you wonder if you might not actually draw in another breath. Each ripping cough kicked out chunks of yellow-pink froth to join the wet bits that coated his chin and stained his white lab coat.

  With each crawl, one arm weakly over the next, he let out a little noise, eeaungh. The bottom of the screen read DR. PONS MATAL.

  “Oh, Pons,” Paul said. “Goddamit.”

  “You knew the guy?”

  “A little. I’ve read his research, was on panels with him at a few virology conferences. We had beers once. Brilliant man.”

  “He’s going out hard,” Curry said, his jaw rigid and grinding a little as he watched the man. “What’s happening to him?”

  Paul knew that answer all too well. He’d seen people die just this way, exactly three years ago. “Doctor Matal’s lungs are filling with mucus and pus, making them stiff. It’s hard for him to draw air. He’s drowning in his own fluids.”

  “That’s how he’ll die? Drowning?”

  “Could be. If the tissue erosion is bad enough, it can cut into the pulmonary artery. He’ll bleed out.”

  “How do we know if that happens?”

  “Believe me, you’ll know,” Paul said. “How many survivors?”

  “There are none. Doctor Matal there is the last to go. Twenty-seven other staff members at the Novozyme facility. All bodies accounted for.”

  Curry nodded to one of the soldiers manning the small consoles. The main monitor stayed on Matal’s futile crawl, while smaller screens flashed a series of still images. It took Paul a second to realize the images weren’t pictures—they were live video, but no one was moving.

  Each image showed a prone body. Some had pinkish-yellow stains on their shirts, just like Matal. Others had blood on their mouths and clothes. A few showed a more apparent cause of death—bullet wounds. Someone, probably Matal, had decided the flu strain was too deadly. That someone had stopped people from leaving the facility whether they showed symptoms or not.

  The images made Paul’s stomach pinch—especially images of women. Pink froth covering their mouths, dead eyes staring out. They reminded him of the incident three years ago. Like Pons, Paul had been forced to make a call … and Clarissa Colding had died.

  Paul took a breath and tried to force the thoughts away. He had a job to do. “General, when was the first confirmed infection?”

  “Less than thirty-six hours ago,” Curry said, then checked his watch. “Based on Matal’s notes, he shot seven. Twenty died due to infection. Whatever this bug is, it moves fast.”

  An understatement. Paul had never seen an infection move that quickly, kill that quickly. No one had.

  “The facility’s contamination control readings are in the green,” Curry said. “Only two ways in, negatively pressurized airlocks and both fully functional. Air purification systems online and A-OK.”

  Paul nodded. Negative pressure was key. If there were any breaks in the facility’s walls, doors or windows, fresh air would push in as opposed to contaminated air escaping out. “And you’re sure the entire staff is accounted for?”

  Curry nodded. “Novozyme ran a tight ship. The administration helped us locate anyone who wasn’t in the building at the time of lockdown. They’ve all been quarantined, and none show symptoms thus far. It’s contained.”

  On the screen, Matal’s crawling slowed. His breaths came more rapidly, each accompanied by the ragged sound of flapping phlegm. Paul swallowed hard. “Did Doctor Matal make any disease-specific notes for us?”

  Curry picked up a clipboard and passed it over. “Matal said it was a new Flu-A variant. Something from the pigs. Zeno zoo nose, I think it was.”

  “Xenozoonosis,” Paul said, pronouncing the word slowly as zee-no-zoo-no-sis.

  “That’s it,” Curry said. “Matal said it was worse than the Spanish flu of 1918.”

  Paul quickly flipped through the notes. Matal hadn’t had time to properly type the virus, but he’d theorized it was an H5N1 variant or a mutation of H3N1. Paul scanned the lines, dreading what he’d see and wincing when he finally did—Matal’s staff had tried oseltamivir and zananivir, the two antivirals known to weaken swine flu. Neither had done a thing.

  “I’m not a scientist, Fischer,” General Curry said. “But I know enough to realize a virus isn’t going to kill everyone. I’m surprised a civilian like Matal would shoot his own people.”

  “He saw how fast it spread, had no way to stop it. Matal decided the death of him and his staff was preferable to the potential death of millions.”

  “Oh, come on,” Curry said. “I’m not about to go licking that pinkish goo off Matal’s chin or anything, but how bad can it be?”

  “The 1918 epidemic killed fifty million people. World population was just two billion people back then. Now it’s almost seven billion. Same kill-rate today, you’re looking at seventy million dead. No planes back then, General. There weren’t even highways yet. Now you can fly anywhere in the world in less than a day, and people do, all the time.”

  “But we just had a swine flu,” Curry said. “That H1N1 thing. That killed, what, a few thousand people? Regular old, standard-issue flu kills a quarter million people a year. So pardon my layman’s approach, Fischer, but I’m not buying into the H1N1 pandemic crap.”

  Paul nodded. “H1N1 wouldn’t have killed anyone in the Novozyme facility. They have medical facilities, doctors, antivirals … they knew what they were doing. This isn’t a third-world shit hole, this is a world-class biotech facility. And pandemic is just a term to
describe infection over a wide area. The first H1N1 case was reported in Mexico. Just six weeks after that report, it was confirmed in twenty-three countries. It was global. Had that been Matal’s virus, you’d be looking at a seventy-five percent lethality rate across the whole damn world. You know how many people that would kill?”

  “Five billion,” Curry said. “Yeah, I can count. Can you believe they actually make you pass math to be a general?”

  “Sorry, sir,” Paul said.

  Curry watched Matal. The general seemed to chew on imaginary gum for a few seconds before he spoke. “Fischer, you paint a fucking scary picture.”

  “Yes sir. That I do.”

  Two more chews of imaginary gum, then a pause. “I know what I’d do if I was in your shoes. I’d go all-in. Balls-deep.”

  “And if I want to go all-in, General,” Paul said, opting out of the phrase balls-deep. “What are the choices?”

  “We’ve got the full cooperation of the Danish government and Greenland’s prime minister. They want this thing wiped out, so they’ll back up whatever story we provide. Thule’s got a Bone online with eight BLU-96s.”

  Paul nodded. A Bone, meaning a B1 bomber. BLU-96s were two-thousand-pound fuel-air explosive bombs. At a predetermined height, the bombs opened and spread atomized fuel that mixed with surrounding air, creating a cloud of highly volatile fuel-air mixture. Once ignited, the temperatures reached around two thousand degrees Fahrenheit, incinerating everything in a one-mile radius—including the viruses and anything they were in, or on.

  “General, do we have any other options?”

  “Sure,” Curry said. “Two more. We can deploy teams in biohazard gear to examine the place, take the risk of some minor, careless act letting the virus get out, or we can cut our losses and go Detroit on it.”

  Paul looked at the general. “A nuke? You’ve got a nuke?”

  “Less than a megaton,” Curry said. “But you can kiss everything within a three-mile radius adios. I’ve got evac choppers standing by. We get our people to a safe distance, leave everything here, then light the Christmas tree.”

  Curry was serious. A damn nuke. Fischer looked at a monitor that displayed a view just outside the Novozyme facility. It showed the pigs mucking about outside one of the barns. Matal and Novozyme had hoped to turn these pigs into a herd of human organ donors. They had been studying xenotransplantation, the science of taking parts of one animal and putting them into another. Hundreds of biotech companies were pursuing similar lines of research, and each line carried a remote danger. Remote, but real, as the scene before them so aptly demonstrated.