THE FLENSE: China: (Part 2 of THE FLENSE serial) Read online

  CONTENTS

  THE FLENSE: CHINA

  Part 2 Book 1

  Excerpt

  RECODE: T.G.C.A.

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  Copyright Notice

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

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  THE FLENSE: CHINA

  Part 2 Book 1

  Contracted by a prepper group to investigate a series of seemingly disconnected global tragedies, a young freelance reporter, Angelique de l'Enfantine, uncovers a disturbing pattern: each event is preceded by the sudden spread of a mysterious ailment and is followed by the appearance of a man dressed in black and silver who witnesses claim is the devil himself. THE FLENSE is a 4-book serialized international thriller and companion to the post-apocalyptic series BUNKER 12. Parts 1-3 are set in China.

  by Saul Tanpepper

  © 2015

  All rights reserved (full notice)

  [email protected]

  (rv.150819)

  Chapter Sixteen

  "Hey! Stop!"

  The man with the flamethrower making his way toward Angel's hiding place turned stiffly around to face the shouter. The tank on his back tugged heavily on his shoulders, and despite the chill in the air, Angel knew that he must be sweating inside the thick plastic of his chemical hazard suit. He lifted his hands in the air, as if to say, "What now?"

  "Norstrom says we got less than four hours to wrap this up and get over to the other site, so pick it up!"

  "Four hours? What the hell happened?"

  "Aston's got a bug up his ass as usual," came the reply. "He wants it to look pretty."

  "Screw that rat bastard!"

  The first man waved a gloved hand in Angel's general direction. "Just get what you need and finish up over there ASAP!"

  He turned around and started heading for the other end of the field, Angel's parka in his hand. What he intended to do with it was pretty clear to her: He meant to find out who had left it stuffed behind the command center tent and probably chew him out. It wouldn't take him long to figure out it didn't belong to any member of the work crew. And when he did, he'd realize the site had been compromised and everyone here would drop everything to come looking for its owner.

  The man with the tank jogged a few experimental steps before resuming his slow plod across the field.

  Angel threw herself forward onto the floor of the supply truck and reached out with one of her gloved hands. She could feel the blunt pressure of the hasp of the closest container press against her wrist, and she jerked it quickly back. The tough plastic of her own chemical suit caught, just as she'd hoped it would, but it didn't tear.

  She tried again, leaning closer and hugging the box against her chest so that her arm pressed painfully against the metal. But the result was the same. The material was too thick and smooth. It resisted tearing just as it was supposed to do.

  Precious seconds ticked away. The man coming toward her would reach the truck in another minute or so. She edged forward another half meter, risking exposure through the open gate, and tried again. If it didn't work this time, she'd have to unzip the suit and peel it off. The sound of the adhesive separating would probably be loud enough to catch someone's attention.

  The man had crossed another seven or eight meters. If he happened to raise his head, there was no way he'd miss her.

  Angel focused on the container. Once more, the sharp corner of the hasp dug into the meaty part of her forearm. This time she felt the unyielding edge bite into the muscle. She pressed as hard as she could, putting all of her weight into it and squeezing with her other arm. The plastic caught, snagging on a fold. She yanked, uttering a soft, desperate cry as pain tore into her arm.

  The plastic scored but still didn't tear.

  No no no! she whispered, and tried again. Then again. She was near tears.

  On the fourth attempt, the metal finally pierced the rubbery plastic and the material began to split.

  Her breath was a hurricane inside the helmet, a harsh, humid, terrible roar that deafened her and fogged the plastic window. With shaking hands, she repositioned the new edge of the plastic on the metal and tugged, now bracing the container with her feet. Sweat dripped into her eyes, further blinding her, and the tears she'd been holding back now gushed out.

  It was too late. She had been too slow and was going to get caught. Why the hell hadn't she just waited at Jian's house back in the village?

  The material split suddenly, nearly pulling the sleeve in half. Scurrying back into the shadows, she jammed a thumb into the opening and pushed on the lower part with all her strength. The rip expanded around her arm. But the sewn seam refused to separate, preventing her from freeing her hand from the glove.

  Hurry!

  She kept expecting to feel the truck rock beneath her as the man mounted the ramp . . . the loud rattle of the chain as the gate pulled all the way up . . . the flood of sunlight. She could imagine the look on his face when he saw her sitting there. The confusion. Then alarm. Then the realization.

  Hurry up, damn it!

  She might be able to jump up and knock him out of the truck. She might be able to run.

  And then they'll shoot you in the back before you even reach the edge of the crash site.

  Or mow her down in one of the vehicles.

  There was nowhere inside the back of the truck to hide. The cab had been her only hope, but without her fingers free of the glove, the door's tiny safety clasp may as well be a kryptonite lock; she just couldn't manipulate it out of the way to open the sliding panel.

  Slithering further back, she tugged one last time at the compromised sleeve, putting all of her might into it. With a reluctant snap! the rubber-coated stitching finally gave. She yanked the glove off and spun around toward the door.

  The clasp lifted easily out of its notch. She pried it up and out of the way, simultaneously pulling on the door handle and releasing the metal to prevent her fingers from getting pinched. But the tiny flange slipped and fell back into place too soon. The handle jammed against it with a thud. She forced the panel back closed with her shoulder and tried again.

  Please. Please please please!

  Her whole body was trembling. She couldn't seem to make her hands do what she wanted them to do, couldn't seem to control them. One pried, the other pulled. Everything seemed to catch and nothing worked and—

  The door slid an inch. Pain exploded in her hand and shot up her arm. She jerked her smashed fingers out from between the metal teeth and stifled her cry. But the door was open! She threw her body into the cab, spun around and rolled it shut again, pressing her back up against the panel and sobbing with relief.

  A flash of blue in the side mirror caught her eye, and for a split second as the man appeared beside the truck her heart nearly stopped. What if his destination was actually the cab?

  But then he disappeared around the back, and a moment later there came a series of thumps as he stepped up onto the ramp. This was followed by a rattle and a very loud bang when the gate slammed fully open.

  Ouf, she whispered, slowly letting out her pent-up breath. Already, her trembling was starting to subside as her sense of self-preservation once more took control.

  In her four years of freelancing, she had done some terribly risky things, some even downright stupid. She had gotten herself nearly imprisoned on a half dozen occasions and actually tossed into a cell once. She'd gotten caught between stone-throwers and shooters firing rubber bullets. She'd
been tear gassed, wrestled to the ground by a city gang member in Atlanta. The boy had probably not even been old enough for middle school, much less know any better what he was doing. She'd been accused of libel. But none of those situations had ever had the potential for harm as this one did. Never had she been as scared for her life as she was at this very moment.

  The idea that she should consider giving up the assignment should she manage to escape crossed her mind. But she immediately dismissed the thought. It made no sense to plan for a contingency when the chances of even having the option seemed so remote.

  Une chose à la fois. One thing at a time, Angel. First, get the hell away from here.

  She pushed herself away from the door, her senses once more on high alert. She tried to calm her breathing, tried to slow her racing heart.

  To the right, the crane was just visible through the passenger window, the crook of its long metal arm sweeping back and forth as it lifted a load and dumped it and returned to scrape at the scorched piles of rubble and earth for more. From his elevated position, the crane operator had a direct line of sight to her inside the cab. If he were to turn and look over his right shoulder, he'd see her.

  Angel whispered a silent prayer that he didn't. The crane released another clawful of the sterilized material into the bed of the dump truck. The burnt metal and rock rained down with a clatter.

  Are they going to bury it? Where are they dumping it? Why?

  What were they trying to hide, that was the question. What clues were these people so meticulously trying to erase?

  For a moment, she wondered again about Cheong's claim of a disease, but almost immediately dismissed the idea. The hazard suits these men were using were the wrong type. They were meant to protect against physical contact with solids— possibly even, if at least transiently, against splashing fluids, such as corrosives. But they were totally inadequate against inhalation threats. The helmet wasn't airtight and lacked any sort of self-contained rebreather or filtration system. And all the activity here would undoubtedly raise enough dust to suspend an infectious agent into the air.

  Unless it's unstable when aerosolized. Or inactive when inhaled. Or . . . .

  She shook her head at the various possibilities. If there was one thing she'd learned from all the assignments she'd covered, it was that cleanup crews tended to err well on the side of caution when it came to disease agents and aerosolized hazards. The suits told her these men expected neither.

  So what were they afraid of? What were they incinerating?

  Her crushed fingers throbbed. She raised her hand to the faceplate of her helmet, flexing them distractedly as she tried to make further sense of her predicament. The tips of the first and second fingers were an angry purple, and her whole hand pulsed angrily. She was surprised to see blood on her palm, but the skin on her fingers was unbroken. She traced the blood up a long scrape to a triangular-shaped and discolored puncture wound. She'd cut herself trying to tear the suit.

  A drop fell to the floor, splattering into a fat red asterisk.

  Could've been much worse. If I hadn't been able to get the damn glove—

  She jolted upright, the blood freezing in her veins as she remembered the glove on the floor on the other side of the door. It was right there for the man to find. How could she have been so stupid!

  Her heart was beating so loudly that it drowned out everything else in her mind. Another truck rattled past, not three meters in front of her, but she didn’t hear it, didn't notice it until it eclipsed the windshield and its shadow darkened the cab. Angel shrunk down as far as she could go while it passed, her gaze skimming wildly over the interior surfaces of the cab for a solution to her dilemma.

  It came to rest on the keys in the truck’s ignition.

  Drive away! Just go!

  But no, she couldn’t. Not while that man was still inside the truck. Not with the ramp hanging off the back; driving off with it down would draw the others' attention faster than anything else. And even if on the off chance the man were somehow to leave without seeing the glove and stowed the ramp and pulled the door shut as he left, the moving truck would almost certainly raise someone's alarm. Who was driving it? Where was it going?

  By then, they'd probably already know the parka didn't belong to any of them. They'd spare no effort to come after her. She had spied several other vehicles on the site that were considerably faster and more capable of moving over the rough terrain. It wouldn't take them long to catch up with her, even with a head start.

  Besides, where would she go? There were too few roads in this remote part of the country. They’d find her sooner rather than later, since the only place around for fifty kilometers was the village.

  She hated the idea of bringing attention to those innocent people. They’d already suffered so much.

  It's too late for such regrets.

  She didn't want to admit it, but once the men figured out the site had been compromised, they would come looking for her in Baoyang Village straight away.

  Well, she'd just have to make sure they didn't. It was as simple as that. But how?

  She pressed her ear against the sliding door and listened. She could hear the man shuffling around back there, could feel the vibrations created by his movements. What was he doing? There was a sudden loud crash, and she froze as he cursed out loud. Then another crash, this one more deliberate sounding.

  Slowly, Angel unfolded herself from her spot on the floor and inched her way forward between the seats. Her eyes gravitated to the key ring once more, but she suppressed the impulse to jump behind the wheel and start the truck up.

  Through the passenger side window, the crane operator had turned his cab around and was facing the other direction as he worked the opposite side of the heap. It was the perfect opportunity for her to leave.

  And there, between her and the crane, was how she meant to do it.

  Without stopping to second guess herself, Angel reached over to the keys and slipped them out of the ignition, upsetting a pile of papers stacked in the center console. One sheet caught her eye, a familiar logo in the top corner. She grabbed the paper and quickly folded it up. Then she slid over to the passenger seat and pried the door open as quietly as she could.

  No one was in view on the ground, just the crane and dump truck drivers, but neither of them was looking her way. She stepped out.

  The next thing she knew, she was dangling half out of the cab, the back of the suit caught on the seat adjustment lever. The truck rocked. She scrambled to regain her footing.

  Without waiting to see if the man in the back had noticed the movement or noise, she unhooked herself, then let herself down and quickly and silently guided the door shut behind her. She stepped briskly across the open field, hiding her ungloved hand, the keys, and the folded sheet of paper beneath her other arm. The hazmat suit shushed loudly in her ears, as if announcing to everyone, “She's here! She's here! She's here!” But no one stopped her. No one called out in alarm.

  She climbed up inside the empty cage of the forklift and prayed the key was on the ring she'd brought from the truck, but found she didn't need it as a second set was already in the ignition. She could feel her body betraying her again as a wave of shakes threatened to fold her into a heap. Her heart battered against her ribs. Just keep going. You can do it. Almost there.

  A twist of the key and a thumb jammed against the red button in the console fired the engine up. The exhaust stack belched several puffs of black smoke before the engine's rhythm smoothed. She aimed for the gap between the two train cars. The forklift jerked over the rough terrain, forcing her to grab the controls with both hands.

  Behind her in the dusty mirror, the crane operator continued filling the bed of the dump truck. Its driver sat slumped over in the cab and didn’t look up.

  So much for picking up the pace, she thought.

  Angel pressed harder on the accelerator, gradually increasing her speed. Fifteen long seconds later she angled the forklift tow
ard the still-upright train car. Only then did she glance back.

  The field burner was stepping down the ramp of the supply truck. He was limping noticeably and holding his leg. The tank was gone from his back. She couldn't tell if he'd found what he had gone in there for, but he didn't come out empty-handed.

  As soon as his feet hit the dirt, he started to hobble quickly off across the field, a glove-shaped scrap of blue plastic in his hand.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jian's angry scowl kept flashing through Angel's mind as she sped in his car over the unpatched road. She was heading for the city of Bairin Zouqi. After all he'd done for her, picking her up in Chifeng and driving her the two hundred kilometers to Baoyang Village, putting her up in his family's tiny home, she felt bad for forcing him to act against his wishes and the wishes of his parents. Against centuries of his people's customs and dogma. But she had no choice, not now. Not after the things she'd seen and heard just a few hours ago.

  Hours? Has it only been that long?

  It hardly seemed like it was even the same day.

  Time was of the essence. She glanced up at the sky over the hood of the car, but the afternoon blue was completely unmarred — maybe a touch deeper in hue was all — and the sun was still too high overhead to judge the passage of time by any change in its location. Her cell phone was no help; she'd turned it off to save what little power remained in her battery. The charger in Jian's car was just another thing that didn't work.

  But when she happened to glance out her window, she was alarmed to see how much fatter the car's shadow had grown beside her. Time was slipping away much faster than she hoped.

  Hurry, Angel. Vite!

  The puddle of darkness sailing silently over the ground beside her seem to draw her eye. It felt almost predatory, like some rapacious thing ready to strike and inject its toxic venom. She shuddered and tried to shake the image from her mind and focused on a moving spot roughly a hundred meters down the road.