Free Elements of the Undead: Fire (Book One) by William Esmont Page A

she had never done it.
    “Maybe,” Pollard replied thoughtfully.
    “Do it.”
    “We should be close enough to Russia to pick up terrestrial digital broadcasts. And we should be able to tap into some commercial satellites as well, pick up international traffic,” he said, chewing his lip. “But you can kiss any hope of keeping our position disguised goodbye.”
    She ran her hands through her close-cropped hair. “I don’t care.”
    Pollard fiddled with the controls, and a moment later the screen changed to a pixilated broadcast of an empty street. “I think this is Moscow,” Pollard whispered.
    Cyrillic lettering scrolled across the bottom of the screen. “Do you speak any Russian?” Hollister asked.
    “Nyet,” Pollard said, shaking his head. “I took a semester at the academy, but that was a long time ago.”
    “I was afraid of that…” She leaned forward. “Can you turn up the volume?”
    Pollard double-checked. “It’s all the way up.”
    “Try another channel.”
    As he reached for the switch, Hollister grabbed his forearm. “Wait!” Pollard withdrew his hand. “What’s that?” She pointed at the side of the screen where a figure had entered the frame.
    They leaned in closer to get a better view. The figure resolved itself to a man after a moment. He was staggering directly toward the camera. There was no intelligence in his eyes, no awareness he was being watched.
    “Something’s wrong with him,” Pollard murmured.
    Hollister squinted. “I think you’re right...”
    As the man drew closer, Hollister gasped. The man, or what was left of him, was a patchwork of flesh and bone, a gnawed travesty of something that should by all accounts be dead. A gaping hole in his midsection glistened in the murky twilight, a slick, hollow cavity devoid of life-sustaining organs. Yet he was walking, moving about as if out for a pleasant stroll.
    Hollister and Pollard watched in silence as the man reached the camera and then passed it, going out of view. In the distance, more figures appeared. A healthy-looking young woman sprinted into the frame from somewhere behind the camera. She stopped in the middle of the street and looked around as if searching for a place to hide. Then, she darted from one locked door to another. She turned her head as if she had heard something, and then raced off in the opposite direction.
    A moment later, a group of fifty or sixty of the walking wounded entered the camera’s view, moving in the same direction as the woman. They seemed to focus as one, moving in lockstep. A minute later, they disappeared around a corner and were gone.
    Hollister cracked her knuckles. “Can you get CNN International?”
    “Sure. Hold on a second.” Pollard adjusted the frequency. The screen snapped to life, all traces of pixilation gone. The familiar CNN banner filled the screen. A line of blinking text underneath said ‘Feed Unavailable.’ That was enough for Hollister. Something had happened on the surface, something terrible.
    She fixed Pollard with a stare. “Take us to launch depth. Proceed with launch on my authority, Commander Code 83889348HHY-44BN.” Andrew gulped and began relaying her orders.
    From her seat, Hollister felt the ship pitch forward, nosing back into the welcome embrace of the ocean.

Not yet an epitaph
     
     
    I am homesick after mine own kind,
    Oh I know that there are folk about me, friendly faces,
    But I am homesick after mine own kind.
     
    Ezra Pound, In Durance

Fourteen
     
     
    Three Months Later
     
    Megan stretched and stifled a yawn. She scrubbed a stray bead of sweat from her forehead and wiped it on her pillow. Through the window, she could see the sun starting to sink behind the Tucson Mountains, far across the valley. The last rays of the day flooded her room with a toasty orange glow that reminded her of a dying campfire. Despite the hour, it was still hot. The heat was a dense blanket of misery crushing her spirit, draining every last bit of motivation