The Third World War: A Terrifying Novel of Global Conflict

70

The helicopter turned into the wind and came gently down on a tarmac quadrangle behind the Elizabethtown fire station. Caroline Brock brought the mask over her head and sealed it. She had begun to feel feverish just after taking off from Washington. But she hadn't slept, it seemed, for weeks. She was running on adrenalin. She needed sleep, but she didn't want to go home. It was too lonely.

As she jumped down, her tongue found a lesion on the side of her mouth. Her legs didn't support her weight as they should. A muscle spasm shot through her thigh. She walked quickly out from under the rotor blades, just making out the voice in her headset. 'It's Oakland… a single 10-kiloton warhead… ground zero six kilometres east of Oakland Airport.'

A wave of nausea swept through her. She couldn't see through the mask. Maybe it was clouded up. She fumbled. She had to sleep. Another lesion. Her knees buckled. Where was her strength? She righted herself. Someone was holding her up. Ahead was the red of a fire engine. She could make out the colour, but not the markings.

'Caroline, it's Tom here. Are you in Elizabethtown?' A voice, distorted and ringing. Too much information. She had to get away.

'Tom—' she managed. Her throat was on fire. She coughed. A wave of heat began rising up inside her body, striking out her energy. 'Tom, I'm no good,' she whispered. 'I'm sick. I'm infected—'

She fell with the sentence unfinished. Caroline Brock remembered nothing else until she woke up in a hospital bed and saw the pustules on her hand.