Juggernaut Page 9

  McClosky tried a number of times to explain what had led them to this point, but Nico refused to let him. The reasons and rationalizations for what they had wrought didn’t matter. The reports he overheard, therefore, were disjointed and without greater context. The virus, he gathered, was codenamed Bane. It had something to do with troops who had been serving over in Russia, who seemed to be the test subjects of Project Juggernaut. The Rot was some sort of mutation, but it wasn’t the only one.

  The first reports of the plague mutating into a third strain were confused and disorganized, in large part because the sources from whom McClosky received his data feeds seemed to be dropping off one by one. Ill, probably dead, Nico figured. He sat out of sight of the video pickups while McClosky conferred with a virologist named Thanh, the same doctor McClosky had asked him to contact when in the hospital. The general said she was the most knowledgeable person in the world about the pandemic, but she was apparently stuck in a bunker somewhere, so all their information was secondhand, garnered from troops on the ground.

  Almost all the hospitals had gone silent, which Nico interpreted to mean that there was no longer anyone alive within. The first report of a new mutation came from the guards outside one of the last “live” hospitals. A patient had emerged from the building covered in blood. When the troops on the other side of the barricade had instructed him over the loudspeaker to go back inside or face the use of deadly force, he had snarled at them—“like an animal,” or so the report said—and charged. He’d moved so quickly the troops had been caught flat-footed. His speed had been described as “inhuman,” and the first bullets to hit him barely slowed him down. He’d reached one of the guards and tore through the woman’s suit, ripping at her throat with his teeth before a bullet to the head finally stopped him. The guard would have survived her injuries, but the odds of her being infected were one hundred percent, so she’d put a gun to her head before they could quarantine her for observation.

  Since then, other reports had detailed similar events. People who were thought to be infected with the Beta strain were going mad, turning into feral, cannibalistic beings with incredible strength and speed. Some jackass had started calling them “revenants,” making a joke about pandemic victims rising from the dead like zombies. Whoever that dubious wit was, Nico hoped he was now rotting away inside his own body.

  Those reports had come in nearly a month ago. Now, there was nothing.

  Nico hardly spoke to McClosky. Stuck together in the cabin, they were in a world by themselves.

  And it was a cold world. As much as he despised McClosky for what he had done, what he had made Nico a party to, the general was all Nico had.

  Which was why, as a fifth consecutive ice storm pummeled the cabin, Nico found himself in nothing but the underwear he slept in, standing in the doorway to McClosky’s bedroom.

  The general’s eyes glittered in the almost nonexistent light, letting Nico know he wasn’t asleep. He watched silently as Nico padded, barefoot and shivering, across the bedroom. Nico couldn’t be sure why now, after nearly two months of giving McClosky the cold shoulder, he was seeking his bed, except that it felt like the world was dying outside and he desperately needed to touch someone, to remind himself that he was alive. How long that would remain the case, he wasn’t certain. As soon as the weather permitted, he would attempt to get back to his mother’s house, and he had no idea whether he’d survive that, either.

  McClosky had been his first client; it was fitting, in a way, that he would be the last.

  Nico pushed his underwear off his hips, his half-erect cock bobbing free, and crawled onto the bed. “I never knew I could hate anyone as much as I hate you,” he hissed, and grabbed McClosky, crushing his mouth against his.

  For all that McClosky had waited patiently and passively until Nico reached for him, those words brought the general to life. He was older, yes, but he was large where Nico was lithe. He gripped Nico with brutal force and tried to push him back on the bed, all the while launching a determined offensive with lips and teeth and tongue. But Nico wasn’t in the mood to be accommodating. He fought, twisting one wrist free to punch McClosky in the face before diving in for another hate-filled, blood-flavored kiss.

  The general grappled with Nico in return, trying to get him onto his back, using his weight to pin him to the bed. Nico made him pay for every inch of ground he gained. He made McClosky force him down, made him overpower him, and struggled to inflict as much pain as possible along the way.

  And whatever McClosky’s guilt, it didn’t hold him back. He wrestled Nico onto the mattress and fought his way between Nico’s struggling thighs as though he hated Nico every bit as much as Nico hated him. But even as they battered each other, Nico knew that wasn’t true. Nico was just a stand-in for the true object of McClosky’s loathing.

  Himself.

  The blunt tips of McClosky’s fingers drilled bruises into Nico’s biceps. His scalp ached where the general had caught him by the hair and dragged him back when Nico had nearly gained the upper hand. If McClosky had paused long enough to hunt down the lube, Nico would have bucked him to the floor and quite possibly turned this violent fucking into an actual, straightforward brawl.

  Which was why there were only fingers, slick with spit, jabbing into Nico’s ass and then curling forward to find his prostate, punishing him with intense pleasure as much as pain. McClosky didn’t rush to replace those fingers with his cock, but instead he used them, driving into Nico until Nico was yelling, trapped between rapture and discomfort, and the fight began to bleed out of him. Only then did the general smear his dick with spittle and hook his arms under Nico’s knees, bending Nico in half to breach him in one hard thrust.

  It was good, and Nico hated that it was good, even though he’d known it would be. He wanted to find McClosky’s lovemaking vile now that he understood who the man truly was. But his body knew the general, knew it with a familiarity he’d never established with any other client. It wasn’t long until the way McClosky’s cock pegged his prostate made spurts of cum puddle on Nico’s belly. McClosky didn’t stop, though. He swept his hand through it, tore his dick free to lube it with Nico’s spunk, and then began fucking Nico again, harder than ever. It was too much, too soon after he’d come, but he didn’t ask McClosky to stop, and McClosky didn’t offer. He slammed into Nico again and again, until a second, weaker orgasm was pounded out of him. Nico’s hateful snarls became shouts and cries and eventually sobs. Every muscle and bone ached by the time McClosky shuddered to a halt, gripping Nico hard and pulsing deep inside him.

  When the general withdrew his cock, Nico could feel the trickle of semen seeping from his burning ass, and it only made him sob harder. He wasn’t sure who or what he was even sobbing for, whether it was his own disillusionment and guilt, or the enormity of the tragedy he’d unwittingly helped give birth to. To his credit, McClosky made no effort to comfort him; Nico would probably have tried to kill him if he’d dared.

  Nico curled into a fetal ball and let the grief and rage and hopelessness wash through him. He wanted to tell the general once more how much he despised him, but an exhausted slumber claimed him before he could get the words out.

  MID-FEBRUARY

  Nico woke to find the muted daylight of the blizzard outside seeping between the louvered blinds. He was surrounded by the scent of McClosky, of sweat and cum and even blood from another night of violent sex. His split lip stung when he gingerly tested the damage with his tongue, and his ass twinged when he moved.

  They did this every few days now, when everything became too much. Took their despair out on each other in the only way they knew. Nico wished he could say that returning to McClosky’s bed meant that his loathing of the man was easing, but it wasn’t. If the fucking wasn’t full of rage, it was impersonal, an emotionless release with something a little more responsive than his own hand.

  He was alone in the bed now, but McClosky was there, seated in a chair across the room and apparently lost
in his own thoughts until Nico moved. The general had a bruise on his cheekbone, and one corner of his mouth was swollen.

  That was when Nico noticed the ampule on the bedside table. It appeared to be some sort of nasal spray, the sort he used to get for allergies when he was younger. The words on the label were chemical mumbo jumbo, none of it sounding familiar.

  “What is this?” His voice cracked, breaking off on a hoarse croak, and he had to clear his throat and try again.

  “I want you to have it.” McClosky looked grave. “It’s . . . immunity to the pandemic, after a fashion.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “What’s happening out there—” McClosky waved a hand at the window “—what people are calling the Rot, is the mutated Beta strain of the virus contained in that ampule. The Alpha virus is nonfatal and will make you immune to the secondary and tertiary strains.”

  “And you’ve been sitting on this?” Nico shot out of bed in a new rush of fury. Only a tiny voice of self-preservation kept him from flinging the ampule at McClosky’s head or making it shatter against the wall. “Why aren’t people being immunized?”

  McClosky glanced away for a moment. “Because even if we had enough—which we don’t—we have no data on whether or not the mutation is also sexually transmissible or what effect it will have on gestating people and their fetuses. Believe it or not, there’s more hope resting with whoever manages to survive this first outbreak of Beta.”

  “That doesn’t make any fucking sense!”

  “The Alpha virus is a weapon, Nicolás!” McClosky barked. “Anyone who is infected with it can spread Beta. It mutates when someone infected with the Alpha strain is wounded, their blood exposed to the air. If you had even a small cut in the presence of an uninfected person, you would infect them with Beta. We had a vaccine, of course, but it doesn’t work against the mutated form of the virus, and even if it did, it was too late once we discovered the contagion was spreading in the United States.”

  Nico rubbed his gritty eyes and sat back down on the edge of the bed. “Explain this to me. From the beginning.”

  It was a request he hadn’t made of McClosky before. He hadn’t wanted to give the general a chance to justify himself. But if Nico was going to use the ampule, he needed to understand it.

  McClosky scratched his lined, grizzled cheek, as though mulling over how much more to reveal, then nodded and spoke. “The Alpha virus was a means to deliver a genetically engineered payload into the RNA of a battalion of test troops. Once infected, certain portions of their DNA affecting strength, muscle and bone density, cellular regeneration, reflex reaction speed, and so forth would be overwritten. It would make them stronger, faster, more durable, and able to heal more effectively.”

  “You were engineering supersoldiers?” Nico blinked. “That’s what this is about?”

  “That was the first phase, yes. You have to understand, we were facing a recruitment crisis. We needed more effective troops to make up the numbers disparity on the ground in Russia.”

  Nico rolled his eyes. “You mean because it never occurred to you to, say, not invade the country and take over the Deep Siberian mineral mines?”

  “Like they weren’t invading eastern Europe to gain control of the mines there?” McClosky shot back. “Should we have let them get a stranglehold on worldwide fuel cell production?” Nico glared and the general waved his hand dismissively. “I’m not going to debate the politics behind the war with you. It’s irrelevant now.”

  “Fine,” Nico ground out. “What was the second phase?”

  “The second phase was intended to weaken their forces—a massive epidemic that would spread quickly and quietly, no one realizing they were infected until everyone got sick in numbers.” He held up his hands to forestall Nico’s outrage. “It wasn’t meant to be deadly. If the Beta strain had performed as designed, it would have made the population drastically ill for roughly two months. Their troops would be unable to fight. Their productivity would come to a screeching halt. Their economy would collapse. Every other nation—the few that hadn’t already done so once Russia had adopted their aggressive expansion policies, that is—would implement travel embargoes. While they were unable to mount a resistance, we’d seize control of all their military assets using troops immune to the contagion. By the time they recovered, the war would be over. Nicolás . . . we were trying to save lives. To make the war nearly bloodless.”

  “But this other strain—the Beta strain—didn’t work? It turned out to be the Rot instead?”

  “While I was recovering from my bullet wound this summer, the Juggernaut battalion had their first engagement with Russian troops. They performed exactly as they were meant to, and soldiers who were wounded in the engagement got close enough to enemy forces for the Beta strain to infect them.” McClosky drew a deep, shuddering breath. “If I hadn’t been in a coma, perhaps I could have prevented what happened next. Certain members of the various oversight committees, and the cabinet, had assumed the casualty rate for the Juggernaut troops would be virtually zero, and when it wasn’t, they wanted the wounded troops brought back to the States for debriefing to figure out what had gone wrong. They were meant to recuperate in full quarantine, but instead, they were flown into Bethesda, where the proper precautions were not taken. One of the soldiers ripped out some stitches and exposed an orderly to his blood.” He lifted bleak, grief-filled eyes to meet Nico’s. “By the time we knew the Beta strain had mutated into something deadly, it was too late, and the vaccine we had was ineffective against the mutation.”

  The general frowned and looked down at his hands in his lap. “Perhaps if it hadn’t been designed to spread so quickly and silently, we might have had time to research it more, but now most of the people who could find a cure are dead. Our only hope rests with those who’ve managed to remain uninfected.”

  “So why are you offering it to me?”

  “Because I would see you survive by whatever means possible, and I’d rather not leave it up to chance whether you are exposed to Beta or not. If you have the Alpha strain, you’ll be safe to get to your mother as soon as the weather permits. But you must understand: if you’re infected with Alpha, you will be dangerous. Your blood will be deadly.”

  “Jesus.” Nico’s legs went limp, and he staggered back to the bed. “How can I possibly choose? What about my mother?”

  “I have a dose for you to take to her if it’s not too late. If you want to use it, you should do so now. It can take several weeks to manifest, and I imagine within another month or so, you’ll be able to leave.”

  “Have you done it? Infected yourself with the . . . Alpha whatever?”

  McClosky looked away. “I . . . have one for myself. I haven’t used it yet.”

  Nico lifted an eyebrow, but he didn’t ask the obvious question. He found he wasn’t all that concerned with what McClosky did or why. All he could see were the images on the projection displays in McClosky’s office, of people rotting away like moldy fruit and the reports of human beings becoming maddened animals, tearing one another apart with their teeth.

  McClosky had done that. And he’d made Nico a party to it.

  Feeling hollow inside, Nico cracked open the ampule, thrust it into his nose, and inhaled.

  LATE MARCH

  If not for the cabin’s fuel cells keeping the computers running, Nico would have lost all track of time. McClosky was still getting infrequent reports from bunker-bound caches of high-ranking politicians and military personnel. Some of the bunkers had been running low on supplies, and the survivors within had announced their intention to relocate. As many officials as possible were gathering at Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado, in the underground facility that had once housed NORAD. According to McClosky, martial law was still in effect, which actually made him one of the highest-ranking government officials alive. As soon as it was deemed safe, a helicopter would be sent to transport him to Colorado Springs to help with the reconstruction.

&
nbsp; “You can come with me,” he offered, watching Nico gravely.

  “What about my mother?”

  McClosky looked away. “We haven’t been able to contact her in nearly two months, Nicolás. She might be—”

  “Don’t say it.” Nico narrowed his eyes at the general. “The last time we spoke, she said the house’s fuel cells were running low. She probably took the unnecessary systems offline to conserve power for heat.”

  “I understand that. What concerns me is that since then, Silvia has made no attempt to sign onto her comm system, even momentarily. The personnel responsible for the ration drops are dead or unaccounted for. It’s possible she may have had to leave the estate to find supplies—”

  “If she did, she’ll be back. She’ll wait for me there.” Nico shook his head sharply. “I’m not going anywhere without finding her first. I’ll take your lightcar, since you won’t need it. That’ll help me get past the impassible roads, not to mention keep me away from any of the, um—”

  “The Gamma victims.”

  “Yeah.” Nico nodded tightly. The revenants. It was hard to even conceptualize that people were now wandering around cannibalizing what was left of the population like rabid animals. “I’ll leave as soon as I’ve excavated the garage door.”

  Though the garage was buried by ice and wind-driven debris, the task wasn’t as tiring as it should have been. Mostly it felt good to get out of the cabin after so long with only McClosky for company and a toning machine and old-fashioned calisthenics for activity. Clearly the improvised exercise had done some good for him, though, since Nico found the mass easy to move.

  Making certain the repulsion-driven lightcar was in working order was another matter. Mechanics and navigation electronics had never been part of his studies. Low-mass, surface-skimming vehicles with sophisticated gravity-repulsion turbines that allowed them to hover above the ground were available only to the very wealthy or important. A lightcar wasn’t navigable in severe weather that limited visibility, but it could get one past unplowed or weather-damaged stretches of road or massive pileups.