Collateral Damage - Marc Cerasini [52]
"Oh god," he moaned, dropping into a chair. "She's pregnant?"
* * *
6:22:06 P.M. EDT
Kurmastan, New Jersey
As Jack descended into the valley, he entered a pall of smoke. Passing the ruins of the mobile homes, he saw everyday signs of human habitation among the ruins — refrigerators turned on their sides, doors wide, spilling their contents, burst mattress smoldering in the sun, a shattered baby crib, torn cereal boxes, broken dishes.
There were no signs of life, but plenty of signs of death. The grisly remains of the citizens of Kurmastan were all around him.
Jack circled one of the intact mobile homes. Sheets of opaque plastic had been hung in place of windows. The door was unlocked, and Jack opened it. Inside he saw three filthy bunks, an aluminum sink filled with dirty Styrofoam plates, plastic utensils, and swarming ants. The tiny bathroom was crammed with empty ammunition boxes, all brand-name sportsman shells purchased legally, over the counter.
When Jack exited the cramped frailer, a braying goat stumbled into his path. Startled, he watched the frightened creature bolt for the forest, spindly legs kicking up dirt.
Crouching low, leading with the weapon he clutched with both hands, Jack moved along Kurmastan's main street. He saw a small market, blown apart now, fruits and vegetables scattered on the scorched and blackened street. Here the smoke was choking, and Jack had to cover his nose and mouth with a tattered prayer shawl soaked in the streaming flow from a shattered water pipe.
There were many bodies around the blasted Community Center, some of them intact. Jack examined two of the corpses and discovered they'd been shot — probably by Brice Holman in the escape Dani had described.
Jack wondered where Holman was now, if he was dead or alive.
He holstered his Glock, wiped smoky tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his CTU tactical assault uniform. It was clear that the people of Kurmastan had committed mass suicide, after savagely attacking the church group and slaughtering almost everyone. But Jack had more questions than answers.
Why were Dani's captors, and the ones who chased her up the hill, all women, children, and the elderly? Where are all the men?
Cautiously, Jack peered through the door of the smoking Community Center. The stench of death permeated the place, but, mercifully, the roof had collapsed, so he couldn't see much.
He circled the ruined building. In the back, he found two large Dumpsters that had been tipped over in the explosions. The smell of rotting food mingled with charred flesh, adding to the unbearable conditions.
Jack stopped in his tracks when he suddenly heard a human sound — a mad, tittering laugh.
"Hello?" Jack called.
More laughter followed, and Jack trailed the echo until he spied a six-foot pit reinforced with logs — the entrance to an underground bunker. Jack heard the laughter again, and knew it emanated from that earthen pit.
Reluctantly, he descended into the trench and entered the bunker. Inside, he found a long tunnel lined with wooden support beams. He found a light switch and tested it, but the generator was either destroyed or inactive and the naked bulbs remained dark. Jack paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The underground bunker was ten degrees cooler than the temperature outside, and smelled of raw wood and freshly turned earth. There was another odor, too, a kind of chemical smell Jack couldn't identify.
He heard the mad chortling again. In this eerie place, the deranged voice set Jack's flesh crawling. He slipped the emergency light from his utility belt and pinned it to his shoulder holster. Crouching, he proceeded along the dark, low-ceilinged tunnel.
After fifty paces, the tunnel ended with a spacious underground chamber. Large chemical barrels lined the walls. Jack played the flashlight beam over the plastic drums. All of them came from Rogan Pharmaceuticals, LLC. According to the labels,