Free Operation Honshu Wolf by Addison Gunn Page B

We’re here to take you and your children to safety.”
    “Oh, thank God—”
    “We are safe,” Linda snapped, drawing her husband’s sling-bound arm toward her again, despite his wincing. She didn’t seem to understand he was hurt, but she understood George’s bubbling nerves perfectly . The two children watched owlishly, their faces twisting to match their mother’s severe tone.
    Gnats danced in the gloom along with the dust, fizzing along just above head level.
    “Afe,” the daughter murmured, words seemingly having lost all meaning for the child, simply mimicking her mother’s sounds.
    “Don’t listen to her,” Alphonse begged, wrapping his good arm around the bad, leaning away from her wife. “Please, take us, we need to get out of here, it’s been days—”
    “Al, please, we need to take it out, we just need to cut it out and then you’ll be alright, don’t you see?” The woman lost all interest in the visitors, and reached for her husband’s bad arm again. His right arm—the arm drug chips were usually implanted in.
    George stumbled forward, falling to his knees nearby... caressing the air as if it were Alphonse’s arm. The employees were in motion, and there wasn’t anything du Trieux could do to keep them from shoving past her at the door. First one got past, then a second, pushing at her like drunks dealing with an unwelcome party-guest, all fumbles and knuckles.
    Cobalt’s mere presence was putting them on edge. George wasn’t just afraid of them because they had guns; they were strangers , and they were uninfected. Revulsion at their presence was the last straw on the camel’s back, and Miller realized it only as he spotted the situation spiralling out of control.
    “We just need to tear it out...”
    “Linda, no!” Alphonse struggled to stand, and she, and George, and the other employees, even the children, all pushed him back down. She leaned forward, gently pulling away the ragged remnants of his sleeve, and dipped as if to kiss his shoulder... He screamed, and she bit him again, tearing at his shoulder with her teeth.
    “Stop!” Miller yelled, hesitating with his rifle. He half-reached for the trigger, then made his choice—left the M27 to hang at his side as he tore George away, throwing the malnourished man to the floor and pushing Linda away from her husband.
    The room exploded in panic. Maybe it had been George, maybe it was Linda’s terror at being pulled away from her husband. Her lips bloody, she fought Miller, punching at him, kicking him—no, those were her children at his legs—screaming, “You’re not one of us! You don’t know, don’t—”
    Voices blotted her out, howls, anguish, anger. The only reason Miller could make her out at all—“You won’t take him away!”—was because she was screaming right in his ear whilst trying to tear it off.
    Morland, praise the oversized lug, caught the back of the door and started pushing it against the flow of the crowd. Doyle backed up towards a side door, du Trieux flanking him as they opened up a gap with their bodies.
    Miller managed to half-throw Alphonse in their direction. Alphonse stumbled, Doyle caught him and they backed through. Du Trieux had her weapon up, ready to shoot.
    God help him, Miller had tried to keep this from turning into an armed conflict, but he’d never figured on a woman spitting her husband’s blood at him while her children tore at his legs. He hadn’t wanted to take things this far, but he didn’t see any other options.
    He threw his elbow against her face, buying himself a moment’s grace, and palmed a compact stun-gun from his belt rig.
    It turned her into a hundred and forty pounds of seizuring muscle, and she fell, puking. Her children screamed, but Miller couldn’t bring himself to use the weapon on them. He simply tottered, clutching at one Infected’s back for support while pushing the stun-gun’s electric probes against another.
    Doyle cocked his shotgun and fired