Benny asked, “Do you think someone messed with them? Left a deliberately false trail?”
“Beginning to look that way, doesn’t it?”
“Why?”
“To be determined.” To McReady he said, “Is there any way to duplicate Archangel without those notes?”
She considered. “Without the D-series notes? No. With those notes, sure. All you need is some basic chemicals, some minerals, a pig, and a walker. Anyone can make Archangel. The only trick is reducing it to a powdered form, but there was a paper on how to do that, too. I prepared that so Reid could transmit it to every lab in the Nation.” She stopped and sagged a bit as the full weight of it hit her. “God, we lost eighteen months. This thing should have been over by now. All the walkers should have been dead by now.”
70
“LOOK AT ALL THE BALLOONS!” said Eve, and her face was sun-bright with joy.
Riot rose from where she’d been sitting on the sand with the little girl. People were coming out of all the hangars and the dormitory and mess hall to stare at the weird spectacle. Thousands of colored balloons bobbed among the dead, and the crowd of zombies was quickly becoming agitated as they lunged and grabbed and bit at the things.
This was something totally outside of Riot’s experience. It was so absurd, so bizarre, that she found herself smiling.
Had the monks done this?
No, that was ridiculous.
The soldiers at the hangar?
As if in answer to that thought, the sirens abruptly began their banshee wail. The dead paused, and many of them turned toward the sound. A few even lumbered that way, drawn by sound or some rudimentary habit of the limbs and nerves. But the others did not follow.
The sirens were far away. The balloons were right there.
“Stay here,” Riot said to Eve, and she slipped out of the play area and ran to the edge of the trench. Her pulse was already fluttering in her chest.
One by one the dead turned away from the sirens. They grabbed the nearest balloons, growling when they popped. Riot saw a flash of color. Not the bright yellows and blues and greens of the rubber, but a bright red that puffed into the air as each balloon burst. Was it dust?
Or . . . powder?
It clung to the skin of the zoms. It fell on their eyes and into their open mouths, propelled by the explosion of the balloons.
“What in tarnation?” she said aloud.
Some of the dead stopped where they were, their bodies shuddering and trembling as if they stood on ground troubled by an earthquake. However, the cause of their agitation came from no external force that Riot could see. It had to be something inside them. Something that rippled under the surface of their withered skin.
Then the world was rocked by a series of explosions. Not close—they were to the east, beyond the distant fence. Riot squinted through heat haze as fireballs leaped up from the fields.
There was a rumor among the monks and nuns that the army had laid mines out in those fields. Until now Riot hadn’t believed it.
There was movement out there, and Riot, long practiced at telling the difference between the living and the dead, saw masses of zoms running across the minefield. Running and then flying apart as the mines exploded. More came behind. And more. The mines detonated, and the zoms kept coming, running as if they had a purpose.
Running as if driven.
Behind them, Riot saw a wave of reapers on quads.
As they drew closer, she could see that they wore scarves wrapped around their heads and old-fashioned swimmers’ goggles over their eyes. Each of them had a silver dog whistle clamped between his teeth. They drove a flock of zoms across the minefield, clearing it by exploding it. Opening the way for the mass of reapers who followed.
And here, closer, the balloons bounced along. The dead caught them, bit them, exploded them, and were doused by red powder.
Riot had been trained as a warrior and a leader of warriors. She understood what was happening. She turned and looked at the blank and unresponsive wall of the blockhouse, at the closed doors of the hangar. At the helpless masses of monks and the dying people they tended.
She turned slowly back to watch the oncoming tide of death.
“God,” she breathed.