SIXTY-SEVEN
The roach-Soldat turned out to be
much faster on three legs than it was on two, Cade observed.
It was hop-stepping its way up the far stairwell to
the family residence, leaping the stairs two and three at a
time.
It passed the first floor and kept going, with Cade
right behind.
Cade headed it off. He jumped, clearing the upper
railing, and met it at the second-floor landing.
It stopped, suddenly cautious. Cade had no idea how
it was still navigating without eyes. But it must have known he was
blocking its path.
They stood there, facing each other. Waiting for
the other to move.
Zach made the second-floor landing a moment later,
gasping.
The roach-Soldat angled itself toward Zach,
as if looking for an easier opponent.
Cade turned to him. “Get out of here.”
The creature tensed, prepared to spring.
Zach scrambled into the entrance hall of the second
floor, away from both of them.
The creature hopped like a spider, rising into the
air, trying to go over Cade and get Zach.
Cade jumped and tackled it in mid-flight. They hit
the floor hard enough to crack the boards under the carpet, Cade on
the bottom. He was stunned for a moment.
The misplaced hand caught at his throat. The other
limbs flailed and kicked at him.
From behind, one of the arms grasped his neck. He
was caught. It wasn’t as strong as it had been when it was whole.
But it was strong enough.
The roach-Soldat had his head firmly in its
grip and it began to twist.
ZACH DOVE as far as he could into the entrance
hall. Some instinct told him to stay down.
Nothing happened.
He peered up from the floor.
No one around.
Behind him, still on the stairwell, he could hear
the sounds of Cade thrashing with the spare parts.
Just as Zach was beginning to haul himself to his
feet, footsteps pounded behind him. A sharp kick took out his leg
at the knee, and he went down again, face-first.
He was about to protest, but someone had a gun at
his ear.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t pull this trigger,” a
quiet voice asked.
Four days ago, Zach would have been scared
shitless. Now he was merely annoyed; this didn’t even rate in the
top five recent threats to his life. “Is there any good answer to
that question?” he asked.
Another voice, above and behind the one with the
gun.
“Let him up, you assholes, I know him.”
Candace.
“Miss Curtis, you really have to get back, we’re
handling this—”
“Fuck you,” Candace said, and pushed past the
Secret Service men who had Zach on the floor.
They seemed at a loss as she helped him up.
“Zach,” she said. “What the hell is going
on?”
Another loud crash from the landing. Cade hadn’t
won yet, apparently.
“It’s a long story,” he said. “Your mom, your
brother, they’re okay?”
“They’re fine,” the first Secret Service man said
coldly. “They’re in the panic room, where Miss Curtis should
be.”
“And you would have shot one of my dad’s staff
people if I wasn’t here.”
“He could be involved,” the other Secret Service
man said.
“Candace, he’s right,” Zach said. They all looked
at him like he rode the short bus to school. “Not about me being
involved,” he corrected quickly, “but about you getting out of
here. There’s some truly weird shit going down—”
“What about my dad?” she said, and in that moment
her toughness, the veneer of the party girl manufactured for the
press, dropped away. She looked scared and lost.
“We’re trying to help him. But you really have to
get out of here—”
As if to emphasize Zach’s point, a scream of
inhuman pain came from the landing, as if torn from the throat of
some long-extinct animal.
Only Zach recognized the voice.
Cade.
He grabbed the gun from the hand of the nearest
Secret Service agent—the man was still in shock from the sound—and
ran for the landing.
“Stay here!” he told them. They didn’t show any
inclination to follow.
He couldn’t blame them.
THE ROACH-SOLDAT was going to twist his
head off. It was gradually ratcheting up the pressure, increasing
the tension on Cade’s neck. He struggled, but every movement only
gave the creature a little more leverage.
He tried to heave himself up off the floor, but all
that did was give the roach a chance to dig clawlike fingers into
the skin of his face.
He turned, but it was too late. The
roach-Soldat pulled hard, and half of Cade’s cheek peeled
off his skull.
He screamed. He had not been hurt like that in
years.
The two limbs on his neck tightened even more. This
was it. Decapitation.
He thrashed and kicked, the words of the oath
burning in his brain, the need to protect the president hitting him
like a cattle prod. He even bit, using his fangs to tear chunks out
of the decayed flesh wherever he could.
None of it did any good. The only blood spilled was
his own.
Cade was going to die. Forever, this time.
ZACH SAW CADE TANGLED in the mass of limbs, like a
wrestling match with a Dalí painting. He didn’t look like he was
winning.
Zach took the agent’s pistol and jacked a round
into the chamber.
Which immediately caused the gun to eject the round
that was already in the chamber.
Real smooth, Zach.
He tried to remember everything he’d learned with
the boys from the NRA. None of it was coming back to him.
He didn’t know if bullets would do any good on this
thing. It took a rocket to the face and crawled away.
Then Zach saw an open wound on the thing’s back,
revealing sinew and gore underneath. Damage from before.
He’d have to get close. Really close.
Ah, hell. He’d fired the rocket launcher. This
couldn’t be that much tougher.
Zach walked over to the creature and put the barrel
of the gun to the wound. He didn’t take time to think about
it.
He just pulled the trigger, over and over, fast as
he could.
THE ROACH-SOLDAT reared up off Cade. The
pressure slackened around his neck.
Dimly Cade connected it with the sound of a gun
firing, but he didn’t dwell on the cause.
He had a chance now.
Cade pistoned one of his legs up, got his hands
between the creature’s limbs and his neck and kicked as hard as he
could.
The roach-Soldat flew into the air, smashed
off a wall and bounced into the Treaty Room.
Cade regained his feet, stretched his neck side to
side, heard the vertebrae crunch back into place. He pushed the
loose flap of his cheek onto his face again.
Zach stood there, looking stunned as usual, a
smoking gun in his hand.
Cade was a little surprised himself.
“Thank you, Zach,” he said.
He took the stairs in one leap and went into the
Treaty Room after the roach-Soldat.
ZACH STOOD THERE STUPIDLY, watching Cade go after
the thing, which was not dead despite the dozen or so bullets he’d
pumped into it.
But that wasn’t what surprised him.
Cade had said “Thank you.” Even more amazing: he’d
called him “Zach.”
DIRECTLY UNDERNEATH Cade and Zach, the
Unmenschsoldat carrying the head of Corporal Garcia walked
steadily past the White House theater, past the empty visitors’
foyer.
With the Secret Service and CAT teams dead, there
was nothing to attract the Unmenschsoldat’s rudimentary
senses. The offices were closed for the night. It was late enough
that even the most die-hard staffers had gone home.
Garcia could feel, rather than see or hear, the
commotion above him. But it didn’t call him the way the glowing
light on the other end of the building did.
The light was life. He could remember that
much.
He didn’t make any conscious decision to go toward
it, but the Unmenschsoldat’s body went in that direction
anyway. As if called.
Garcia was more or less just along for the
ride.
THE ROACH-SOLDAT WAS WOUNDED. It cringed in
a corner of the Treaty Room, scrabbling madly at the wall.
Cade wasn’t taking any chances.
He scanned the room and found what he needed.
The Resolute Desk. An authentic piece of history.
Made from the timbers of the HMS Resolute, a gift from Queen
Victoria to the United States. It had been in the Oval Office of a
dozen presidents. Roosevelt had ordered it modified to hide his
wheelchair. Kennedy’s children played under it. Reagan had it
raised to accommodate his favorite chair. But Curtis had chosen a
different desk, so it went back to the Treaty Room.
Of all the trivia about the Resolute Desk, however,
Cade cared only about one fact: it weighed over a thousand
pounds.
Cade hoisted it up, as high as he could balance it.
He kicked a couch out of the way.
The roach-Soldat turned, limbs churning,
trying for escape or counterattack, Cade didn’t know.
He slammed the desk down as hard as he could.
The creature went flat, with a hollow crunching
noise as its bones shattered.
The Resolute Desk broke into pieces. There was
still enough left of the surface that Cade could smash the
roach-Soldat again.
This time the desktop shattered completely. The
creature twitched one leg, then stopped moving forever.
CADE EMERGED from the Treaty Room, panting. He
realized, in a distant way, that he was exhausted. He shouldn’t be
this tired. Not even after all the punishment of the last few days.
All he wanted to do was sleep.
He looked up.
He saw the answer in the skylight above. The night
above was fading to a bright gray.
The sun was coming out.
Zach was still standing in the hallway, gun in his
hand.
“Please tell me we’re done.”
Cade shook his head. “That’s three,” he said.
“There’s still one left.”
Cade remembered he was still holding a chunk of the
Resolute Desk. He dropped it, put his hands on his knees and fought
the urge to sleep for a week.
“Cade, you don’t look so good.”
Cade had no response. He was running out of time,
running out of strength. He’d used every trick he knew, and there
was still one more Unmenschsoldat out there.
It was getting hard to think. He forced himself to
focus.
“Cade?”
Like that, he had the answer.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
He was halfway down the hall when Zach yelled at
him.
“What? Where are you going?”
“Go to the Oval Office,” Cade shouted back, over
his shoulder. “I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Improvise,” Cade shouted, and then he was gone,
down the stairwell.
ZACH STOOD THERE for another moment, watching the
space where Cade had been.
“Oh, come on!” he shouted, when he
realized Cade wasn’t coming back.
He heard something. Above him, at the entrance
hall, the two agents stared at him. Candace was behind them.
“Zach?” she said. “Are you all right?”
Zach nodded. “Super.” He looked at the agents. “I
need more bullets.”
They looked at each other, then one shrugged and
tossed him a spare clip.
He caught it, ejected the empty clip and reloaded.
Almost like he knew what he was doing. The boys from the NRA would
be proud.
“Get her back in the panic room.”
The agents didn’t tell him to go screw himself Zach
guessed that fighting a multilimbed horror bought him a little
respect.
They took Candace’s arms, gently, and started
pulling her back.
“Zach,” she said, “what are you going to do?”
“It’s okay, Candace,” he said. “I’m going to check
on the president.”
She still looked unsure. But she let the two agents
guide her away.
Zach was glad she was gone before the adrenaline
shakes started. He ran like a spastic toward the West Wing, with 99
percent of his brain totally convinced he was going to die.
Still, that remaining one percent—the idiot part of
him, probably—knew that if he wanted to, he could have Candace back
in the Lincoln Bedroom anytime he wanted.
He’d just have to survive this first.