"We need him, G.o.dd.a.m.n it," I barked.

"He's going to kill-" began Noah but then Van Sant shoved Lydia at him and laughed as they crashed into me and we all went down.

That's when Top made his move, sliding in sideways between Van Sant and us to deliver a brutal side-thrust kick to the doctor's knee. The bones broke with gunshot clarity, but as Van Sant fell he took Lydia with him. He snapped at her like a rabid dog and then slammed her head down against the ground. Once, twice.

I pushed myself off the wall, grabbed Van Sant by the collar, and hauled him backward. He snarled and whirled toward me and suddenly I had teeth lunging for my throat.

"f.u.c.k this," growled Top, and he swung the stock of his M14 around and smashed it into Van Sant's face. More bones broke, the doctor's left eye socket lost all shape, his body trembled at the edge of terminal shock.

And yet ...

He did not go down.

He did not slow down.

He leaped at Top, clawing at the visor of his hazmat suit, biting the air because he couldn't yet bite the flesh.

Van Sant and Top hit the wall side-by-side and collapsed to the floor. Top was unable to bring his barrel to bear, so he used the gun as a bar to keep the deranged scientist from trying to bite.

There was a krak!

Van Sant was plucked away from Top and knocked into the wall. His head no longer looked like a head. He collapsed down, his rage and his madness and that awful laughter stopped.

Stopped.

We all lay there for a broken moment.

Dunk stood ten feet away, a smoking rifle in his hands.

He said, "I ... I had to..."

And the access codes were lost to us. And all I could say was "I know."

The moment seemed to freeze around us into a tableau of impotence, horror, and violence. Top and I were covered with blood. Lydia was dazed, hanging at the edge of consciousness. Montana and Noah crouched over her. And Bunny stood apart, the sleeve of his Hammer suit hanging in tatters, a hand clamped over the spot where Van Sant had bitten him.

We all stared at him.

"Bunny...?" Top asked softly.

He looked down at the hand he was using as a patch. "Oh, G.o.d..."

Chapter Ninety-six.

Centers for Disease Control and Prevention Special Pathogens Branch Building 18 Atlanta, Georgia Sunday, September 1, 11:48 a.m.

Jacen Rolla knew that this was going to be his story. He was the first reporter on scene and he'd been sending in regular sound bites to his editor at Regional Satellite News. His cameraman told him that four of those sound bites were already getting serious airplay on the networks. For a second-stringer like Rolla that was G.o.d whispering to him that his time had come.

He'd done two other stories at Building 18-one during an anthrax scare last March and again for a zombie apocalypse bit for Halloween. He knew the best place to stand so that the complex would loom behind him. He had his jacket and tie off, sleeves rolled up, and hair ever so slightly mussed, as if he'd been in the trenches all night. It was the kind of image that sold Anderson Cooper during Katrina. A no-nonsense reporter who cared more about the story than good grooming or personal safety.

All of which was pure bulls.h.i.t, but it played so d.a.m.n well on TV and the Net.

The cameraman gave him the nod and Rolla pitched his voice to convey authority, concern, and a hint of the ominous.

"We can now confirm that a SWAT team from Homeland has entered Building Eighteen, and there are reports of gunshots coming from inside the facility."

That was unconfirmed by any source, but Rolla knew shots when he heard them, even if they were m.u.f.fled by walls and doors. There were also flashes from inside the building, and if they weren't muzzle flashes then he'd eat his microphone.

Because there was nowhere else to go with the immediate story, Rollo began a recap of the Mother Night campaign of terrorism-his verbiage-in which he connected dozens of events. Much of it was conjecture and wild guesswork, but Rollo was absolutely dead-on when he made his a.s.sumptions. Of all the news coverage during those events, in retrospect, Jacen Rollo's was the most accurate, both in chronology and supposition.

It was the kind of gut-instinct journalism that all reporters wish they had. The kind that Rollo was unaware that he possessed. Suits at the various networks were watching his coverage and taking note. So was a huge portion of the American TV-watching population.

It was therefore later estimated that more than sixty million people saw him blown to b.l.o.o.d.y rags when Building 18 exploded.

Chapter Ninety-seven.

The Locker Sigler-Czajkowski Biological and Chemical Weapons Facility Highland County, Virginia Sunday, September 1, 11:50 a.m.

Top scrambled to his feet and pushed past me. "Talk to me, Farmboy. Are you bit?"

Bunny stared at his arm.

"Are you bit?" Top demanded, and as he said it he brought his rifle up.

Pointing it at Bunny.

Ivan gaped at Top. "What the f.u.c.k are you-?"

"Stay out of it," I warned. To Bunny I said, "Top asked you a question."

Bunny gulped in a huge lungful of air and as he exhaled I could hear him shudder at the edge of tears. Panic was a howling thing that screamed in his eyes.

"It ... it d-didn't break the skin," Bunny said, tripping over it. "The arm pads..."

We all wore Kevlar limb pads over the Hammer suits. They'd deflect a bullet but they were for s.h.i.t against knives. I doubted it, because I've seen Ghost rip through similar padding on hostiles more than once.

"Farmboy ... you know we got to see that bite," said Top gently, though he didn't lower the gun.

"I'm telling you, man, it didn't break the skin."

"You know you got to show us."

"Boss," said Ivan, "check your BAMS."

I did.

I wished I hadn't.

The orange glow had deepened. It was almost red.

Bunny's eyes flared with panic. "What's in the air? Christ, what's in the air?"

Ivan held his unit out and turned in a slow circle, letting the little intake motor suck up particles. When he checked the reading again I heard him make a small, sick sound.

"s.h.i.t," he said. And that was all he needed to say.

"But the air ... the contaminants..."

Top and I just looked at him.

"Show me the motherf.u.c.king arm," said Top through gritted teeth.

There were tears in Bunny's eyes. Even through the plastic visor I could see them. It took about a thousand years, but he finally raised his hand to expose the bite.

The sleeve was torn.

The Kevlar was torn.

The skin was bruised.

But there was no blood.

Not a drop.

We all looked at it.

"Oh Jesus, please..." breathed Bunny.

Then Top was in motion, shoving his rifle into Dunk's hands, pushing Bunny back against the wall, tearing open his pack, pulling out the small roll of black electrician's tape we each carried, winding it around Bunny's arm, turn upon turn upon turn, sealing the ragged hole in the protective clothing. And all the time talking in rapid fire under his breath. "... can't f.u.c.king take you anywhere you stupid cracker farmboy, don't know how to wipe your own a.s.s, ought to knock you on your a.s.s and see if I can kick some sense into you..."

Bunny was still praying to Jesus.

On the floor Lydia groaned.

I clapped Ivan hard on the shoulder, knocking him in her direction. "Help her."

He snapped out of his shock and dropped to his knees to help her.

I touched Top on the arm. "That's good," I said. "That's good."

But Top seemed reluctant to step back. He gave the tape two more turns then angrily tore it off and slapped the end firmly down. He stepped back awkwardly, almost a stagger-step, and stared hollow-eyed at Bunny.

"Top-?" I asked.

He gave me a wild look for a moment, then he seized control of himself and slammed his control back into place.

I squatted over Van Sant's corpse. His clothes were torn and it was clear he'd been brutalized. The question was ... in what way. Top and Bunny stood on either side of me looking down at the body.

Noah asked the question. "What was wrong with him? Was he a walker?"

"I think so," I answered.

"But he was using an axe ... I thought they were mindless."

I sighed. "It depends on which generation of the seif-al-din they had. This looks like Ten, maybe. If it was Twelve he'd have his full intelligence."

"Jesus," he said, appalled. "Why would someone create something like that?"

"It was a doomsday plan. A small group of radical extremists wanted to dose their own people with Generation Twelve and everyone else with Generation Six."

"That's insane."

Ivan punched him on the arm. "Dude, what part of 'doomsday plan' sounds sane to you? If you're going that far out and trying to kill everyone, is it really that much crazier to leave some thinking zombies behind? It's all f.u.c.ked up."

Noah almost smiled. "Zombie b.a.l.l.s."

It took a two-count but despite everything everyone cracked up.

The laughter was brittle and short-lived, and as I pulled back the collar of Van Sant's shirt it died completely. There two ragged half circles torn into his flesh. The marks of human teeth.

He'd been bitten.

Then I touched the BAMS unit to his throat. It had a small panel for reading surface temperatures. The meter said ninety degrees.

"Dead," I said.

"I had no choice," began Dunk, but I cut him off.

"No. His body temperature is already down five degrees. He's been dead for a while."

Montana helped Lydia to her feet and she leaned heavily on her as they came to join us.

"Talk to me, Warbride," I said.

There was a glaze in her eyes but it was fading. She looked around to orient herself and then those eyes flared when she saw the damage to Bunny's suit. She pushed past Montana and grabbed Bunny, checking every inch of the tape to look for the smallest flaw.

"Canejo!"