Still of Night (Dead of Night 3)

“I want us to be clear here,” he said stiffly, “I need to get to Air Force One. This plague is spreading exponentially. We have a window of opportunity, but it is closing very quickly. I had a certain resource with me when we were swarmed and it’s lost. Backups for that resource are aboard my jet.”

“What kind of resource?” I asked.

He shook his head. “That’s above your pay grade, Captain.”

“I—”

He cut me off. “If I can’t get to my plane within six hours then all of our computer models tell us that we will lose.”

“Lose what, exactly?”

He half-smiled in surprise. “I thought you knew,” he said. “I thought they told you.”

“Maybe you should tell me.”

“Captain Ledger, if we can’t initiate the response protocol within six hours, this entire country is going to be a graveyard. And if we fall, the whole world is going to follow.”

And now I saw it in his eyes. Behind the control was a total, insane panic.

I removed his hand from my elbow and very quietly said, “Then let’s get you to your plane.”

— 11 —

“How we going to get to El Cajon, Cap’n?” asked Top. “Our ride’s for shit and I don’t think we can Uber it.”

“Plan B,” I said.

“Which is?”

I pointed out the window. Down there, surrounded by a full-blown battle between the living and the dead, were a dozen monster trucks.

Bunny gave a sour little laugh. “Seems somehow appropriate.”

— 12 —

So, yeah. Monster trucks.

There was one I had my eye on. The chassis was from a Ford F350, but the mechanic had gone a little ape shit on it and created some kind of mutant psychedelic retro hippie thing. The words “Mystery Bus” were painted in swirling colors along its side.

Understand something, I’m not into truck porn. I’m not into these kinds of things. I’m very comfortable with the size of my own dick and don’t need to make statements with machinery. That said, my Uncle Jack was into them when I was a kid. One summer Sean and I helped him trick one out. Stunt monster trucks usually run on methanol alcohol and corn-based fuel, but the ones on the street here were likely diesel. The axles are salvaged from school buses or decommissioned military trucks and have a planetary gear reduction at the hub to help turn the massive tires that probably came from a dump truck.

There were a lot of trucks down there to choose from, but the Mystery Bus could take more people than the rest. And it was set high up.

“What if it doesn’t have the keys in it?” asked Murphy.

“I grew up in Baltimore,” I said, and left it at that.

“Lot of those things down there,” said the president. “Feel free to run them over with that truck. Might as well have some fun.”

Maybe it was meant as gallows humor, but it landed flat and nobody cracked even a little smile. The president gave a disgusted shake of his head. I saw him mouth the word “pussies.”

Top unzipped the equipment bag he’d brought from the SUV. It was full of guns, grenades, and ammunition. The president walked over and looked at them, and he gave an appreciative nod. He even chuckled.

“Isn’t this the point where you SpecOps jocks make some hard-ass quip about kicking ass and taking names?” he asked.

Top straightened and gave him a warm, genial, almost fatherly smile. “I’m probably going to die out there, Mr. President, and I’m definitely going to get my ass in trouble for anything I say,” he said quietly, “so I guess I better make it good. Fuck you. Fuck you all to hell and back. Fuck you to death. Fuck you and everyone you ever knew.” His smile brightened. “How’s that for a quip?”

The Secret Service agents all started to take a threatening step forward. Bunny was standing right behind Top, and I was behind him. They looked at us, at their president, and then into the middle of nowhere. POTUS stood there with a face that had gone as red as the blood on the streets.