Free Dead Again by George Magnum Page A

of black smoke. Police and Fire sirens flashed, seemingly lighting up the entire borough. Peterson spotted the occasional military unit holding an intersection, but that was the exception. Chaos was the rule. And those things ruled.
    Peterson glanced nervously at the gas tank, praying that they weren’t anywhere close to empty. The last thing he needed was to crash down here.
    But the gauge read half a tank. The news was bad. At this rate, there is no way they’d reach Plum Island. They’d have to find more gas somewhere pretty soon. But at least they wouldn’t go down here.
    Peterson watched as they flew over the city, then over the East River, then over the Brooklyn Bridge, which was in the same disarray as the George Washington Bridge.
    It was really everywhere.
    *
    Peterson closed his eyes, just for what he thought was a minute. But when he opened them, and looked out, he realized the sun was already high in the sky, that they had already cleared Brooklyn and Queens. They were already flying over Long Island.
    The urban landscape had given way to a suburban one, perfectly laid out on the grid below. The concrete gave way to a plethora of trees, lawns, parks, and perfectly manicured, small towns. Yet still, while it was a lot prettier, the streets here were also empty, cars abandoned. It didn’t look like they had fared any better.
    Peterson surveyed the chopper and saw that his teammates were awake, each staring out into space, each lost in their own world. He wondered what was going through their minds, if they were looking down and thinking of their family members, their own home towns. Of all the wars he had been in, this one was by far the most demoralizing, the most psychologically destructive. He couldn’t reliably trust the state of mind of any of his soldiers. How could he? They might each have nothing left to live for.
    They had all settled into a comfortable, tense silence, all bracing themselves privately for whatever might come next. Based on what they had already encountered, they all knew that, whatever it was, it could only get much worse.
    Peterson, just for a moment, thought he heard a soft moaning noise. He assumed he’d just imagined it. He was just replaying in his head the nightmare of the scenes before.
    But then it came again. He was sure of it this time.
    His eyes opened wide, alert.
    He looked all around again, but everything seemed fine.
    As Peterson looked back again, this time towards the cockpit, he noticed that Spooky was leaning over, towards Tag, as if to whisper something in his ear. He wondered what they could be talking about. Was Spooky trying to suggest a change of flight plan? Had they spotted a gas station below?
    Before Peterson could get his answer, he was shocked to see Spooky lean over further, even closer to Tag, as if he were about to kiss him. What the hell was going on?
    It was at that moment, in that split second, that Peterson realized. He suddenly caught a glimpse of Spooky’s profile, saw his face up close, how pale it was, how inhumanly pale. He also suddenly smelled it: the smell of rotting flesh. He looked closer and saw the craziness, the inhuman wildness in Spooky’s eyes. They were the eyes of a roving shark: emotionless, lifeless, and with just one thing on its mind: to feed.
    Before Peterson could react, in that split second, Spooky leaned down, all the way, and sunk his teeth deep into Tag’s arm.
    Tag shrieked in surprise and agony, and Spooky leaned back with a mammoth chunk of his flesh in his mouth.
    Peterson jumped into action, but before he could get very far, the chopper suddenly jerked and swerved wildly. Tag, even being the veteran pilot that he was, wasn’t prepared for this. He was clearly in shock, and in agony, and as he went to push Spooky off of him, he lost control of the bird. It spun hard to the left, throwing Peterson across it. He banged his head hard against the metal casing, and found himself on the far side of chopper.
    Peterson