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Pandemic Scott Sigler 22850K 2022-07-22

In front and behind, towering s.h.i.+p hulls rose up like smooth, impenetrable castle walls. Swells lifted her and dropped her.

She felt that numbing cold, that clutching snake wrapping around her feet — water pouring in through the tear in her suit, filling up her boots.

Margaret turned sharply, trying to lift her left shoulder out of the water. She dipped into a deep trough. From her right came a new roar as a black monster tore free from the top of the wave, kicking out a spray of water that sparkled orange from the reflected fire above. The black shape crested, almost flew, then came down hard in another splash of molten orange.

Not a monster: a black boat, a raft, packed with men who looked like robots, dark bulky shapes and smooth helmets and huge guns mounted to the raft itself.

A line of splashes burst up in front of her face. Bullets, someone shooting at her from up on the Brashear or the Pinckney. As one, the boat’s gunners aimed up: the black monster breathed fire.

The boat rapidly slowed to a stop near her, its bow wave pus.h.i.+ng her back. A black man — no, a man wearing blackface — pointed a black rifle at her, screaming to be heard over the gunfire. “Identify yourself!”

“Muh … muh …” Her jaw chattered so hard it hurt her teeth.

“Identify yourself!”

“Muh … Margaret … Montoya!”

The point of the rifle lifted. The man leaned forward and reached, grabbed her life jacket and pulled her toward the boat.

“I’m Commander Klimas,” he said as he yanked her up. “Stay down and don’t move.”

She felt a strong hand push her, not to harm her but rather to hold her still. Margaret found herself in the bottom of the raft, lying against a soaked and s.h.i.+vering Tim Feely. Most of his suit had been cut away. A black blanket covered his shoulders. His b.l.o.o.d.y scrubs clung to his body. He clutched the container of yeast tight to his chest.

The deafening guns continued to roar, to spit tongues of flame up at the sky. Sh.e.l.l casings rained down, bouncing off her visor, landing in the boat or hitting the surrounding water where they vanished with an audible tsst.

She saw a knife move near her face, then a rapid tugging on her suit as someone cut it away in long shreds. A long, heavy blanket was thrown on top of her, tucked around her shoulders.

The boat shot forward, smas.h.i.+ng against the tall waves, rolling her against black-booted feet. She sat up, knees to her chest, pulling the blanket close to try to fight off the cold that rattled her body.

“Where is Clarence?” She screamed to no one, to everyone. One of these men had to know. “Agent Otto, where is he?”

The unmistakable plunk-plunk-plunk of bullets smacking into the boat.

Something hammered into her right thigh, made the muscles numb — she was trying to get her bearings when the numbness quickly faded, replaced by a branding-iron pain that seemed to singe her femur.

Wincing, fearing the worst, she opened the blanket to look at her leg. Blood poured from the wound, hot against her ice-cold skin, matting her scrubs to her thigh. She grabbed the thin fabric of her pants and ripped — a long gash ran from a few inches below her hip down to midthigh. The bullet hadn’t penetrated, only grazed her.