Operation Atlas Lion Read online

  “From what I can tell, most of the survivors from the wasp attacks are still inside, but have been moved indoors. Rumor has it Harris is registering the women and assigning breeding couples to maintain the population of uninfected—at least that’s what the escaped refugees are telling us. Those unable to reproduce, or unwell, are sent out on a transport or into the shanties to keep the wasps fed—but they don’t last long, and it just means they’re breeding faster.”

  Lewis shook his head slowly. “The ones the wasps get to? They walk, but they don’t talk. They’re like mindless bodies, until they get eaten or fall over and croak. It’s grotesque. We found the best solution was to burn the bodies once they give out—it kills whatever’s hatching in their brainpans.”

  Miller’s stomach roiled. “We’ve seen them. What about my man, Doyle? He was supposed to be with Cyclops or Dagger. Do you know if he got out of the compound?”

  “Couldn’t say,” Lewis said, sympathy in his eyes. “He’s not with us. Maybe he got out on his own.”

  Miller frowned. “Yeah. Maybe.” He lowered his rifle.

  “You going to answer my question now?” Lewis asked.

  Miller forced his eyes away from Lewis’s intense glare. “Yes, I have the cargo. Lost the chopper and the pilot.”

  When Miller looked back, the older man’s face had fallen slack. “Sorry to hear that. What condition is the cargo in? Is it operable?”

  “No idea, sir. We’ve not opened the crate. The damned thing could be leaking radiation for all we know. We don’t have a Geiger.”

  “I think Moore has one.” He turned around and shouted at a guard a few rows back with salt-and-pepper hair and a black beard. “Hey, Moore? You still got that Geiger?”

  “Yes, sir,” Moore responded.

  “Bring it here,” Lewis said.

  “The question remains, though,” Miller said, “what am I supposed to do with the cargo? I can’t leave it here. I can’t take it into the compound or Harris will get it. I’m not sure what to do, sir. The responsibility. It’s—overwhelming.”

  “How many people know what it is?” Lewis asked, taking the Geiger from Moore and handing it to Miller.

  “You, me, and my team.” Miller clipped the meter to his belt with a snap.

  “Have any of Harris’s squads come into contact with you since you left the ship?” Lewis asked.

  “No. There have been a few scattered patrols, but we’ve avoided them.”

  “So, for all Harris knows, you and the cargo went down with the chopper.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Good. We can use that.”

  Miller thought of asking Lewis to clarify, but let it drop. For now, he wanted to enjoy the feeling of not being the lone leader. His doubt, as thick and all-consuming as it was, dissipated slightly.

  “What’s with your fingers?” Lewis asked, nodding toward the spray paint stains on Miller’s hand.

  “Trying to find allies, sir.”

  “By finger painting?”

  Suddenly, in the face of his commanding officer, Miller’s plan felt childish and foolish. “I’ve been leaving tags, sir, all over town in an attempt to contact assistance.”

  “Tags?”

  “A straight-edged razor. It’s an inside joke,” Miller said, his face hot. “Come to our base camp. I’ll show you the cargo and we can check for leaks. I’ll explain the graffiti on the way.”

  Lewis slapped his shoulder again as they pulled their masks back on. “It’s good to see you,” he said, voice muffled behind the mask. “Best news I’ve had in days.”

  Miller nodded and walked beside Lewis. He wanted to stay reassured, but the feeling evaporated with each passing step. The news was nothing but bad and Miller couldn’t shake the feeling they were facing a fight they had lost long ago.

  2

  THE ALLEY SMELLED of piss and something else that Miller couldn’t quite identify. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it reeked of blue cheese.

  Two brick buildings lined the alley on either side, while the rising sun scorched his back. The asphalt, cracked but still mostly intact, had a river of something red and vile running down the center that pooled over a blocked drain.

  After talking through most of the night, Lewis had reluctantly agreed to give Miller’s strategy another few days. If no progress had been made reaching the Archaeans by then, alternate plans were to be made on how to infiltrate the compound.

  Miller and Cobalt had set out as usual the next morning to check the tags for replies—but he hadn’t expected this: the image of a woman’s leg. It had been spray-painted underneath the tag he’d made of the straight-edge razor.

  Samantha, even as an Infected, was still a smart ass.

  Miller caught himself grinning.

  What came after the leg, however, was the confusing part. Beside it, she’d added two additional images.

  “Are those dogs?” Morland asked, coughing and spitting a wad of phlegm onto the pavement.

  Du Trieux peered at the wall and frowned. “I think they’re lions. They have manes.”

  “You’re both nuts, it’s a two-headed dragon,” Hsiung said. “See the tail?”

  “What the hell is it supposed to mean?” Morland asked.

  Miller shrugged. The image on the wall had to mean something—but just what, he couldn’t say.

  “They’re lions. Look at the claws,” du Trieux said.

  “Dragons have claws,” Hsiung offered.

  “Why would she paint two lions on the wall?” Miller asked.

  Du Trieux just looked at him, the hint of amused appreciation playing at the corners of her mouth. “It’s a location.”

  His face went slack as the realization came to him. “Well,” he said, nodding, “isn’t she crafty…?”

  A FEW HOURS later, after checking in with Lewis and walking down Fifth Avenue, they came to the Beaux-Arts grandeur of what had once been the New York City Public Library. Miller sat under the marble entry overhang and leaned his back against the right-side alcove. Eyeing the two—now broken but still recognizable—marble statues of lions on either side of the courtyard entrance, Miller grinned to himself.

  Clever girl.

  His amusement was short-lived. A flock of titan-birds were on the hunt above. The half-eaten carcass of an over-sized terror-jaw lay rotting at the curb, clogging the gutters and creating a stagnant pool of rancid meat. On occasion, a titan would swoop down, rip a chunk off the corpse, and then take flight again, in search of a fresher meal.

  Miller pressed his back harder against the alcove. Best not to give them a target.

  Hopefully, Lewis wouldn’t get impatient and barge into the area, blowing the whole operation. When Miller had told him about the response and the planned meeting, the old lieutenant had been hesitant.

  “I still don’t like it. It’s sleeping with the enemy,” he’d said, rubbing his palm against the receding stubble on his scalp. “We’re just asking to get fucked.”

  Miller raised an eyebrow. He didn’t disagree—the whole plan left a bitter taste in his mouth—but there was no other alternative that he’d been able to find, and there was no going back at this point. He had to see the meeting through at the very least, even if nothing came of it. The way he saw it, they had nothing to lose.

  To the left of his position, behind a patch of dead trees, movement caught his eye.

  A pack of thug behemoths moved up West 40th Street—four, maybe five. To his utter astonishment there were riders perched on the mammoth creatures, like some sort of prehistoric cowboys.

  Samantha rode in the front of the herd, her long side-braid looking just as ragged and unkempt as in their prior meeting. She wore safety goggles, like the kind used in construction work, and a bandana over her nose and mouth.

  Stopping at the base of the courtyard, Samantha scanned the stairs up toward the library entrance and rested her eyes on Miller.

  He stood and walked toward them, not looking at du Trieux, cove
ring him from across the street, or Morland and Hsiung on either side.

  Samantha casually raised her arm and the behemoths followed her stopped. While they waited in the middle of Fifth Avenue for him to reach them, Samantha jumped off her mount, pulled down her bandana and propped her safety goggles up on her head, then walked to meet him.

  “Alex,” she said. She looked thinner than last he’d seen her. Her sleeves had been torn away, her dress slit up the side and knotted on her hip. He assumed the adjustments had been made to allow her to straddle the behemoth, but he couldn’t say for sure. Her yoga pants had holes worn in the knees.

  “Samantha,” he said, trying not to stare. She looked like a wild woman—tanned, with sinewy muscles on visible bones. A hunting knife was strapped to her thigh with two thin strips of leather, and a rifle hung casually over her shoulder.

  “What do you want?” she asked, looking impatient. “You went to enough trouble to find us.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  Her eyes barely moved, but she nodded quickly as if expecting as much. “I’m not coming with you.”

  He blinked a few times. “What?”

  “You’re about to evacuate the island, and you want me to come—don’t you? I’m not leaving my people, Alex. I thought I made it clear the last time we spoke that we aren’t on the same side. Although we’re not on opposite sides either.”

  “What makes you think we’re evacuating New York?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “There are convoys full of people coming out of the compound almost every day, and hardly anything going in.”

  “That’s not why I need to speak to you.”

  She ran a palm across the bristles of her braid and pursed her lips, waiting.

  When she didn’t speak, Miller continued. “I need to get into the compound—me and my men. I’m willing to bet you know how to get us inside.”

  Her nostrils flared. Behind her, the Infected—two men and two women, still astride their behemoths—bristled as one of the mounts grunted and moaned. “And why would we help you do that?” she demanded.

  “This can be a mutually beneficial arrangement. I’m willing to offer our assistance in any way that you might need, in exchange for passage inside the compound.”

  “What makes you think we can get you in there?”

  “I’m willing to bet you already have people inside—am I wrong?”

  She didn’t answer straight away. “I don’t think getting inside is possible anymore. Certainly unwise.”

  “You let me worry about that. Can you do it or not? Don’t tell me you haven’t gotten inside before, because I’d know you’d be lying.”

  “For the record,” she said, her face—and the faces of those behind her—reddening, “we’ve taken no part in any of the attacks on the compound. Swift’s Bishops and his Pawns—they’re the ones who attacked you, not us. We Archaeans believe in adapting to our new world and building an existence of peace and planetary harmony.”

  “Are you telling me you’re pacifists? Because you said yourself you helped dispatch some of Swift’s lot.”

  “Self-defense is one thing, an assault on the compound is something else. We aren’t looking for a fight. We keep to the periphery and don’t want any part of what you’re planning. We keep to ourselves—but we do what we must to survive.”

  “That’s all I’m trying to do, too.”

  “How does breaking into your own compound help you survive? If you’ve been banished, then you’ll no doubt be greeted with gunfire upon your return. How will that benefit your survival?”

  “Like I said, that’s my concern.”

  Samantha jutted her chin. “Why go back at all?”

  “Because there are people inside I care about.”

  She nodded, and for a moment the veil across her eyes lifted—she looked alert, but sad. “You have an over-developed hero complex—you know that, right?”

  For a brief moment, she sounded like herself—argumentative and wickedly sarcastic—but with the suddenly saddened faces of the Archaeans behind her, the illusion of individuality disappeared.

  “And what do you offer in exchange?” Samantha asked.

  “As I said, assistance with anything you may need. You said yourself my crew was handy in clearing the area of Swift’s goons—surely, there’s a commune someplace causing you trouble?”

  She stopped and thought a moment, then turned and looked to her group. They said nothing to each other, but seemed to be having a debate using only their facial expressions. After a few awkward moments, she turned back around, her eyes shining with emotion. “I don’t think it would be possible to smuggle anyone into the compound on foot,” she said. “The refugee processing gates are sealed fairly tightly. But, if you’re determined to get inside, I may be able to help you obtain a vehicle. You’ll have to take it, though.”

  “You want to run that by me again?”

  “The compound moves cargo in and out on supply trucks,” she explained. “Not as often as they used to, but about once a week trucks come in, while the transports go out. A few months back, we obtained a supply truck. You could drive in, pretending to bring supplies.”

  Miller didn’t think that would work at all, but kept his thoughts to himself. “How’d you get a truck? I thought you said you weren’t looking for a fight.”

  She gave a light shrug. “Who are we to stop a pack of terror-jaws from ripping open a supply truck and eating the crew? We don’t control nature, we’re a part of it.”

  Miller pursed his lips. If the Archaeans were communing with wildlife—as was apparent, given their thug behemoth mounts—and sharing common emotions and thoughts with the animals, it was probable they could convince a weak-minded terror-jaw to do their bidding. All they’d have to do is tell the jaw to take out the driver, while others handled the guards, and the supply truck would be ripe for their taking.

  If this was true, the Archaeans were more dangerous that he’d thought. Perhaps a deal with them was a bad idea.

  “What was on the truck?” Miller asked, trying to keep the suspicion from his face.

  “It was labelled ‘Agricultural Gear’—but we didn’t get a chance to verify that. The camp where the truck was stored was soon thereafter attacked by wasps. We couldn’t risk entering the camp for fear of communing with them and becoming Exiled ourselves.”

  “Exiled? You mean catatonic? Like the Infected you see wandering around?”

  “Yes. The dead ones who still move. If we commune with them, we’re a wasp hive waiting to happen.”

  He nodded.

  “If you want a vehicle,” she continued, “it’s the only one I can offer. That is—if you’re able to enter the camp and get by the Exiled, and the nesting wasps.”

  Miller chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Let me get back to you.”

  Samantha blinked at him, her eyes wide. She waved a hand in front of her face to shoo a wasp away. “Meet me at on the corner of Third Avenue and 33rd Street tomorrow at sunset if you want the truck.”

  “Understood.”

  Miller watched as Samantha put her goggles back on and covered her face with the bandana. With a smooth gait, she strode back to her thug behemoth and climbed aboard, swinging her leg up using a rope stirrup lashed to the beast.

  As they rode away, the lining of Miller’s stomach twisted with unease.

  Her proposal had the potential to go badly, very badly—but it also had the potential to be exactly what he’d hoped for. Either way, it was a lot to digest and he had a great deal to consider, not to mention Lewis to convince.

  When the Archaeans had gone from view, du Trieux and the others came up from their positions and met Miller in the middle of Fifth Avenue.

  “Did I hear correctly?” du Trieux asked, gazing north in the direction of the pack. “Agricultural gear?”

  Miller nodded. “How much you want to bet the ‘agricultural gear’ is labelled as accurately as the ‘food supply gear’ we escor
ted with the good doctors?”

  Morland twisted his face in confusion, then coughed lightly, but Hsiung’s expression brightened.

  Miller heard du Trieux chuckle as they marched back to base.

  “Oui,” she said. “Let’s hope so.”

  3

  THAT DAY, BASE camp was set at the old Wyndham, just north of Madison Square Garden. The abandoned hotel had running water, although the color left much to be desired. Even after boiling it for an hour, they were still unsure what parasites and bacteria they were ingesting. Truthfully, they didn’t have a choice. There were only twenty-five of them, but finding enough food to feed even a squad of that size was proving difficult.

  Hunting parties were sent out to capture game and scrounge for supplies, but each soldier was barely eating enough to function. Whatever they were going to do, they had to do it fast. Time was running out.

  Inside the lobby they’d built campfires. Miller found Lewis sitting before one. The older man lifted a dented pot of water from the flames, and set it on the floor to cool as Miller sat across from him. “Give it to me straight, son. Will they help us or screw us?” Lewis asked.

  Miller pressed his lips together and shook his head. “They’ve got a line on a truck, but we have to clear out a commune of those zombies—Exiles, they call them—to get to it. So, to answer your question—both?”

  Lewis leaned his back against what was left of the concierge desk and adjusted his prosthetic limbs with a grunt. “All the makings of a trap.”

  Miller didn’t disagree with him.

  “You’re sure about these Archaeans?”

  Miller picked up a slab of wood from the pile beside him and tossed it on the fire. “As far as I can tell, they’re more like Labradors than Dobermans. It doesn’t seem like they’re the type to turn on us—they’re almost... reasonable.”

  “Hmph,” Lewis grunted, pouring a cup of hot water from the pot into a cracked hotel mug and slurping it while it steamed.

  “Labs can be useful on a hunt,” Miller added.

  Lewis gulped loudly and hissed through his teeth. “I feel better already.”