Pandemic
Chapter 118 : No, not torn … half-eaten.Sofia’s hands clutched at Cooper’s arm. She stood half behin

No, not torn … half-eaten.

Sofia’s hands clutched at Cooper’s arm. She stood half behind him, using him as both protection and support.

“f.u.c.k me,” she said. “I never believed they were real. I thought that news footage was special effects bulls.h.i.+t.”

Cooper nodded, neither knowing nor caring if he’d ever believed or not. The past didn’t matter, because he could see just how real they were.

Sofia tugged at his coat. “What are they doing?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they’re making a bulwark or something.”

“A bulwark? What the f.u.c.k is a bulwark?”

“Like a wall,” Cooper said. “Something to stay behind during a gunfight.”

“You a soldier or something?”

“History Channel. Watch enough World War Two doc.u.mentaries and things sink in.”

The sound of roars suddenly echoed through the lobby, filtering in from somewhere deeper in the hotel. Cooper couldn’t be sure where the roars were coming from — if he and Sofia were going to get out of the hotel alive, they had to go right through the little p.o.o.p-making monsters.

His hands felt sweaty. He raised the pistol, started to aim at the closest creature.

Sofia’s hand rested on his forearm.

“Don’t,” she said. “Five bullets. We have to conserve” — she ran out of breath in midsentence; she was farther gone than Cooper had hoped — “our ammo.”

If he fired off a round, would the hatchlings scatter? Maybe … or maybe they’d attack, like they had in the video, swarm in, chew him up alive and then s.h.i.+t him out to make more of their little fortress.

He looked at Sofia. “I can shoot one, see if they run. What else can we do?”

“We could … just walk out,” she said. She closed her eyes, tried to deal with the heat was.h.i.+ng through her body. “We don’t f.u.c.k with them, maybe they don’t f.u.c.k with us. Chavo didn’t attack you … maybe these things won’t, either.”

Cooper’s throat felt tight. A pinching feeling churned in his guts.

Sofia raised a weak hand, pointed to the gla.s.s wall.

“The street is right there,” she said. “If we stay any longer, we’ll … we’ll run into something worse than those little monsters.”

Another roar — the closest yet — seemed to punctuate her words.

She was right. They didn’t have time to find another way out.

Gun in his right hand, his left arm around Sofia’s waist, Cooper stepped out from behind the corner and walked toward the front door some forty feet ahead.

The twenty hatchlings stopped moving. Cooper paused. They all turned their bodies so two of their eyes looked his way, focused on him.

Sofia slipped, just a little. He caught her, held her up.

Now or never …

He started walking again. Sofia did her best to carry her own weight and keep pace.

The pyramid creatures watched.

The long, gla.s.s wall pa.s.sed by on Cooper’s right. At the end of it, past the reception desk on the left, was the revolving door that opened onto the street.

He was halfway to it when, as a unit, the hatchlings suddenly went back to their work of humping, grinding and s.h.i.+tting.

Cooper and Sofia reached the revolving door. They stepped inside, pushed, walked with it until it opened onto the sidewalk of the Trump Tower’s curved entry drive.

A strong, icy wind clawed him, ripped at his coat. Sofia’s hand came up to s.h.i.+eld her eyes and face. He and Sofia stepped forward.

The two of them stared out at a war zone.

Burned-out cars lined Wabash Avenue, including the cop car he’d seen on fire just a few days ago. Or was it hours? He wasn’t sure. Powdery snow swirled along the pavement, in places stopping and sticking, turning into long, thin, white fingers that stretched over the blacktop.

Across the street to the left, a black-gla.s.s skysc.r.a.per towered high above. Cooper didn’t know the name of it. It had caught fire at some point. The building look like a tall, sparkling cinder.

And everywhere … bodies.

Some were bloated, their swollen bellies stretching s.h.i.+rts and popping b.u.t.tons. Some were missing arms or legs. Some had their stomachs ripped open or their heads smashed in. The clothing of the corpses rippled and snapped in time with the unforgiving wind. Pools of blood had frozen into snow-speckled red gla.s.s.

Pillars of smoke rose across the city skyline, abstract streaks of wavering grayish-black brushstrokes on a canvas of glowing yellow and orange.

Five days ago, Chicago had been … well … Chicago. Now it was a slaughterhouse.

Beneath the wind’s undulating howl, he heard no car engines, no honks, no tires squis.h.i.+ng across slushy concrete. No talking, no yelling … no people. The lack of city sounds jarred him almost as much as the hatchlings had.

“f.u.c.k,” Sofia said.

“I know,” Cooper said. “Oh man oh man, this is so messed up.”

“Not that. I mean it’s cold.”

Cooper nodded. The wind stung his face. Wind like this could burn you, make your skin crack and peel worse than eight hours in the sun. He started s.h.i.+vering. Had to be five or ten below out here, way worse with the windchill. He was lucky he’d brought Jeff’s jacket, or there was no way Sofia would have lasted more than fifteen minutes out here.

The coat meant that her wound and infection might kill her before the cold did. He had to help her.

“You know of any drugstores in the area?”