Pestilence: An Apocalypse Novel

Prologue: Angel

Angel materialized in the communications hub of a vast, underground bunker and began her search for survivors.

Though she had never been there before, she saw immediately that the layout of the room was identical to that of the comm station in her own bunker.

It was a large, octagonal room with steel-plated walls and a high-velocity pneumatic elevator shaft at its center. The elevator was normally pressure-sealed and secured by a biometric scanner to prevent unauthorized entry. The shaft served the dormitories one level and twenty feet of steel and concrete above her, and terminated on the new surface, roughly another two miles above that.

Agricultural and commerce sectors branched off from the dorms to the northwest and northeast, respectively. Most of the bunkers' residents never set foot on the research levels.

From an overhead speaker, a failing alarm honked its weak and warped message of urgency.

"Guardian to Base," she said into her earpiece. "I'm in."

"Roger that, Guardian." The voice of David, her handler, came through so clearly that Angel could hear the concern and lingering awe in his tone, along with something deep-seated and unshakable that worried her. "We have visual."

In addition to sending and receiving audio, her earpiece was also fitted with a wireless video camera.

"Still hearing you loud and clear, Base," Angel said, confirming audio on her end. When David didn't immediately copy her transmission, that worry returned. Unable to compose herself quickly under the circumstances, Angel resorted to sarcasm: "Any time you're finished nerding out over there?"

"Umm...," he said at length, obviously trying to regain his own composure. "Yes. Copy that, Guardian. Carry on."

Relieved, Angel began strafing around the room, keeping the elevator at her back. Hinged into each of the hub's eight walls was a steel, vault-like door that, like the elevator shaft, was hermetically sealed and biometrically locked against all conceivable means of insurrection.

Each numbered door opened on a network of hallways, laboratories, and containment chambers, laid out in a web-like formation. The remaining wall space in this room was occupied by banks of security monitors and computer hardware, all of which looked monolithic, like they had been designed in an obsolete era, built to withstand untold ages of hardships yet to be endured or conceived.

Her own bunker had received a distress beacon from this location, but it seemed that in the face of the inconceivable, those who sent the signal had fled to supposed safety, leaving behind this roomful of neutered, mechanical hulks. Here was a stuttering red error light, there a smashed monitor. Here a constant flurry of black-and-white snow, there a screen showing an array of technicolor rectangles. Everywhere, sparks sputtered from cut or torn wiring.

No doubt existed in Angel's mind that the distress signal was genuine. The only question now was whether or not something worse lay in wait for her.

Angel halted at a door that had been stenciled in faded, white paint with the number 5, and uttered a curse under her breath.

"Report, Guardian," David said through her earpiece, the awe in his voice replaced with alarm.

Angel waved away his concern, knowing that if she got back from this mission in one piece, David would have a serious sit-down about her tactical incompetence later.

Thanks to the built-in camera, he could see everything she was seeing, and because of his greater level of experience-this was her first time in the field, after all-he was aware of everything she wasn't seeing. No doubt he was having the communications team review the last minute and a half of her feed anyway, but it would probably amount to nothing. She hoped.