He turned around and started running again, his entire body burning from the effort. The snow dropped away as he reached the rocky area. But he didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel anything but hate. He wasn’t afraid anymore. Three teenage Howlers, standing near the chopper, were screaming so loud it hurt his ears. He killed all three and climbed into the chopper. He heard himself yell with excitement at having cheated death; he started the engines and lifted off the ground and saw, he guessed, a hundred of the things coming through the snow in single file past the sergeant’s dead body splayed out in the snow.

*   *   *

“We have to take you to the Nevada City jail,” the MP said. “Something’s going on down the freeway. We just got a call. The freeway into Sacramento is closed.”

“What do you mean it’s closed?” the lieutenant said.

“I don’t know, sir. Just got a call on my cell. Weren’t you listening?”

Bell shook his head. He’d been back there starting the helicopter and seeing a hundred or more of the things coming toward him in a long line. He opened up with the Apache’s cannon and cut down half of them, hovering at just 50 feet, turning the ship’s nose, the sound of the cannon overwhelming the terrible howling sound. He finally took his finger off the trigger and flew over the destroyed column of things, many of them still trying to crawl. A few, untouched by the cannon, were howling at the Apache as it flew over their heads.

   The magnitude of what had happened to them hit him. He’d been forced to stop Whitney’s horrible suffering—what other choice was there? They’d both known it. He couldn’t have just run off and left Whitney alive. He’d never forget the sergeant’s look as they’d locked eyes: grateful. He was grateful.

“No.”

“We’ve been ordered to take you to Timberline and leave you there. The MPs from Sacramento will come and get you later, when the highway opens again.”

“Why is the highway closed?” the lieutenant asked. “It’s Howlers, isn’t it? They’re all over, aren’t they?”

The MP looked at him. “Sorry, sir. What’s a Howler?”

“You’ll see,” Bell said.

The kid looked at him, then turned around. He winked at the corporal who was driving.

*   *   *

“Why didn’t you say you knew people in this town, boy?” Mr. Worden, the pet shop owner, wasn’t mad that Summers was late. “I’ve known Rebecca Stewart since she was a little girl.” Worden, in his seventies, put his arm around Rebecca and hugged her.

“I have to go back to the store,” Rebecca said. “He was afraid you’d be mad at him for being late, Mr. Worden. But I told him you wouldn’t be if you knew he was with me.” Rebecca turned and looked at Gary. “You see, Mr. Worden and my pop are very tight. And besides, Mr. Worden is my godfather. I told you not to worry.”

“He still thinks he’s in the big city where nobody knows anybody,” Worden said, smiling. “Who you know in Timberline matters, son. Now if you’re a friend of Rebecca Stewart’s, then you’re a friend of mine.”

“I’ll come by the video store later,” Gary said.

Rebecca reached over and kissed him on the cheek. “Why don’t you come by the gun shop instead? I’ll be there after two,” Rebecca said.

Gary nodded. Today, he thought, watching her leave, was the best day of my life. He was in love! Without question. He knew he was in love for the first time in his life. It was as if he had gotten a new pair of eyes. The shop’s brass bell, attached to the door, rang as she closed the door and left him alone with Worden.

CHAPTER 12

I could break the story here, Price thought, putting his cell phone down. Why not?

Howard looked out the bank of windows from his spacious corner office. His stand-up desk held several computer monitors, and a flat panel TV hung on the wall above it. The TV was tuned to CNN, but the sound was muted. CNN had reported nothing that morning to contradict what his brother, a fire captain in Santa Monica, had just called to tell him: major riots were underway in several southern California cities, including downtown L.A., all under a news blackout ordered by Homeland Security.

Price turned from the TV, which was showing clips from the previous evening’s “Dancing With The Stars,” where there had been a major upset. He didn’t recognize any of the “celebrities.” The tarted-up wunderkinder being interviewed were dressed up in garish costumes, their faces overly made up.

Price laughed. He’d been in the office for more than five hours and it wasn’t even lunchtime yet. He searched his messy desk for his coffee cup.

He usually got to work around by 5:00 a.m., which allowed him to work on his own book about Building Seven’s collapse on September 11. He was keeping the book a secret from everyone at work because of what had happened to him at the LA Times. He was also tracking several international news stories that he felt weren’t getting the attention they deserved in the US press: the nuclear accident in Japan at Fukushima, NSA’s project PRISM, and the federal government’s use of drones inside the US.

Tracking these stories took time and effort. He’d been especially engrossed in the Fukushima story because it seemed so important to the future of mankind. He couldn’t help himself. Of late he had begun tracking currents in the Pacific Ocean, and the strange reports of sea otters and other mammals dying off the coast of Orange and San Diego counties. He was convinced of a link to Fukushima’s ongoing meltdown and massive release of nuclear waste directly into the Pacific Ocean.

His research into Building Seven had convinced him that the U.S. media were no longer doing its job. Big Media had turned into a hopeless wasteland filled with mind-numbing PR about iPhone apps, or lurid tabloid stories, or we’re-on-it-now disasters. The best TV news coverage was the rampaging lunatic-gunmen stories—very common—which made for high drama and high ratings. The TV news business had become an empty-headed array of video snippets with blow-dry commentary—even for mass shootings. The question of why there were so many murderous lunatics in America remained unaddressed. Major newspapers, too, were doing their best to keep up in this race to the bottom of America’s IQ.

   Howard considered what his brother had just told him, which was unbelievable, even to him. Across the street was an exact duplicate of the building he was standing in; its mirrored windows reflected a pewter-colored and dangerous looking sky. He saw Miles Hunt park his ridiculous old Mustang in the parking lot and trot toward their building. Miles, he guessed, was back from Genesoft’s news conference.

Staring out the window, he tried to put the conversation with his brother into some kind of order. If it had been anyone else, anyone, he would have assumed the person was a lunatic. My brother isn’t crazy. He’s an asshole maybe, but he is not crazy.

Howard waited for Miles to walk into the city room, or what passed for a city room. Compared to the L.A. Times, it was more like a mailroom. As soon as he saw Hunt, he signaled for the young reporter to come into his office. Uncharacteristically grim faced, he motioned for Miles to close the door behind him and sit down.

“There’s something wrong at Genesoft,” Miles said. He sat in the chair across from Price. “Employees are sick.  I have a whistle blower who—”