Horne started barking orders into his radio. He might be a philosopher at heart but he could shout like a drill sergeant when he needed to. He sent the older soldiers away, toward the hangars and the Learjet sitting out on the tarmac, then turned to bellow at Buzzard and Tim, ordering them to stay close to him until he knew what was going on. The boys with the spraying gear took up a position behind the Colonel, standing at ease. The civilians—Tim and Buzzard—weren’t so easily herded.

“Any clues?” Buzzard asked, pulling a pen and notebook out of his pocket.

“An alarm went off, that’s all. A simple motion detector out on the western fence. We’d already established there were no infected over there. I strung that one up just on principle. I don’t have video or radar, so it could be anything. It could be a flight of geese taking off. Stay quiet and stay put, alright?”

It wasn’t a flight of geese. Tim was the first one to see the van come tearing toward them, crossing over runway lanes, jumping over median strips and knocking down rows of lights. It was a big black Ford van with round black portholes in back and a tinted windshield. A thin red racing stripe ran all the way across its side. The back doors were open and swinging and it had be doing seventy miles an hour.

As it got closer Tim saw that much of the paint had been scratched off the hood and one of the headlights was dangling like a popped eyeball. “They must have come right through the fence,” he said, smiling, thinking this was too absurd to be a real threat. “I’m surprised they didn’t blow out their tires.”

“You know something about this?” Horne asked.

Tim shook his head as the van braked hard, leaving long streaks of rubber across the runway surface. It slewed around to a rocking stop not thirty feet from where they stood and for a moment nothing happened. The five of them just stood there staring at the van, which pinged heatedly in the sunlight.

Then men and one woman boiled out of its doors and its back hatch, draped in furs and immaculate leather jackets, carrying heavy assault rifles with laser scopes and shotgun attachments. They moved quickly, though without much coordination, and circled Horne and his group in short order.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Horne demanded.

Buzzard put his hands up, even though he must have recognized them. Tim certainly did. There was Mikey, the quiet tough guy carrying an AK-47. Sasha, a nickel-plated revolver in either hand, stood next to Pat in his Harley Davidson leathers, who stood next to Tony, the leader of the looters, still wearing his Sonics jersey with the hologram on the shoulder.

Tony ran up and smashed Horne right in the jaw with the butt of his shotgun. The Colonel’s head rolled back but he didn’t go down, just reached up and rubbed at the already-discolored skin of his jaw.

“Shut up,” Tony added. Unnecessarily, Tim thought.

Tim thought the scene was almost funny. At least he did until Pat worked the action of his big M-16. Then one of the boy soldiers made his big move. Bringing up his spray gun he twisted a knob on the tank at his belt and a billowing spray of TZ hit Pat right in the face. The biker dropped to the pavement instantly, grasping and clawing at his face.

Mikey didn’t wait to see what would happen next—he just opened fire. Both boys were torn to scraps as his rifle fired on full automatic at point blank range. Tim screamed something—it wasn’t a word so much as a plea—but it was already too late.

Horne grabbed at the pistol on his belt but Tony just hit him again, this time in the stomach. The Colonel went down on the tarmac with a thud. Before Tim could stop him Tony lined up a shot and blew Horne’s brains all over the runway.

“What about you?” Sasha asked Buzzard, a pistol tapping him on either temple.

“I’m good,” Buzzard said.

“What the fuck? What are you doing?” Tim screamed.

“What does it look like?” Tony asked. “We’re saving your sorry ass. Come here and give me a hand.” He was down on his knees, wadding up Pat’s leather vest and putting it under his head like a pillow. The biker was slowly turning blue, his face calm but his arms twisted up across his chest as if he were holding on to something for dear life. “Kempfer, tell me what to do! How do I save him?”

“He’s been poisoned,” Tim said, sounding like an idiot to his own ears.

“So what’s the antidote? What do I fucking do?”

Tim shook his head. “I’m… I’m sorry, Tony. There’s a treatment, but we don’t have the drugs or the supplies. I can’t help him.”

Tony screamed, then buried his face in Pat’s chest. They all stood there watching him grieve until he was done. Then he jumped up and started walking toward the van. “Come on,” he shouted back over his shoulder. “They’ll be all over us in a second.”

Tim had no idea what else to do next. It had all happened so quickly, with no warning at all. He found himself running after Tony just so he didn’t have to stand there feeling lost and confused. Halfway there he turned to look at Buzzard. “You told them that Horne caught me?” he asked.

It was Sasha who answered. “He’s a reporter,” she said. “Telling other people’s secrets is what he does best. Now come on! I for one want to live through this.”