Yorgey eyed Moon with a deadpanned stare.

  “What?” Moon asked. “I wasn’t trying to⁠—”

  “You didn’t mean to get me all riled up before the jump?”

  Moon laughed. “I promise you’ll be fine as you slip to the ground and roll with your knees tucked in. Once you land, just take a breath and enjoy the fact that you’re alive.” He laughed again.

  “I really hate you now,” Yorgey replied. Shaking his head, he regretted even speaking to his friend. He should have known better. His eyes drifted out to the parachutes that were stacked in the aisle. Each one was a dark green and robustly square, just waiting for the men to don them and leap out of a perfectly good airplane.

  Moon’s eyes rolled back and forth in his head as he slept. His mind traveled down the darkness of dreams that he was prone to have. Even during short naps he snuck while en route to target locations, Moon’s mind couldn’t help but dream:

  Moon rolled his tongue along his teeth, and he could feel something thin and long stuck between his two front teeth. He used his right thumb and forefinger to pull it free and then continue to pull as Moon suddenly realized it was a long dark hair that seemingly was arising from deep within his throat. He was terrified as he pulled and pulled, the hair never ending.

  The load master walked over to Moon and shook his shoulder until Moon’s eyes popped open. “Sir, I’m sorry to wake you, but it’s time to gear up. We are about thirty minutes out.”

  Moon looked around the plane, wide eyed, as if he were trying to recall what was happening.

  “Sir,” the load master said again, but this time, he transmitted through his comms, and Moon nodded his head as the load master’s voice filled his ears.

  “I copy you, sir,” Moon replied, adjusting his own small boom mic attached to his headset. “Thirty minutes out. I’ll get the boys up.” He took his headset off and hung it on the back of his seat, then stood. Moon stepped around the chutes and leaned down to Allman and Tag. “It’s time to rig up.” He stepped back and craned his neck to Yorgey, who was already giving him a thumbs-up. “Rig up, Will.” Then he motioned toward the parachutes.

  In a former life, Mark Moon had been a senior jump master and would ensure his men’s safety on this jump. With his chest rig on, Allman stepped to the center of the aisle as Moon picked up the first chute and helped heft it up onto Allman’s back.

  Allman turned to face Moon as Allman secured his own leg straps and chest strap while Moon moved to pick up the second parachute and repeated the process by tossing it onto Tag’s back. Then the third he helped place on Yorgey’s back before donning his own parachute.

  Moon wiggled his muscles around, allowing the weight to settle in over top of his chest rig. It was far from comfortable but had to be done. His leg straps were cinched down before he addressed anything else. Then his chest strap snapped together, followed by the long waist strap that he wound through his rifle and its sling, securing it to the left side of his body, balancing him. Then he picked up the emergency reserve chute and clipped it across his midsection, with the pull cord toward the right side of his body. He double-checked his straps as Allman was kind enough to hand Moon’s static line to him over Moon’s left shoulder.

  He nodded and then turned to check Allman’s rig. Moon’s fingers traced the straps to ensure they weren’t twisted and that they were all secured in place. He then attached the reserve chute to Allman’s harness and let it hang.

  After checking Tag and then Yorgey, he stepped over to the load master and gave him a thumbs-up. “We are good to go, sir,” Moon said and then began to mentally go over his checklist in order to safely put his team out the door.

  “I’m about to lower the ramp. I’ll start spotting for you, and when we are about three minutes out, I’ll turn it over to you.”

  Moon gave him a thumbs-up and then turned to his men, gesturing for them to take their seats. They all complied, checking to ensure their helmets were tightly secured.

  Moon remained standing as he slid his gloves on and eyed the static line he had snapped to his reserve’s carrying handle. Internally, he went over procedures for any mishaps and emergencies. He thought about actions on contact, about looking for their route of travel as he floated to the ground. It was to be a daylight jump on a nearly cloudless day, so visibility shouldn’t be an issue.

  The rear of the plane’s ramp door articulated inward, opening the way to lower the rear cargo ramp. The load master used his wall-mounted controls to lower the ramp level with the cargo area, opening the rear of the plane to the blue sky behind it. While tethered from his back to an anchor point inside, the man walked out onto the ramp and held onto grab points as he took a knee on the starboard side and then leaned out, forcing his helmet out into the fast-moving air, just enough he could see the ground and pick up on his visual points along the ground that would tell him how long before it was time to jump.

  The load master pulled himself back and glanced toward Moon, giving him the thumbs-up to get the men ready.

  Moon unhooked his static line and clipped it to the outboard jump cable running the length of the aircraft, closest to the skin. Smiling, he looked to Yorgey, whose eyes were already wider than a saucer. He yelled out as best he could. “Stand up!”

  Typically, the jump master would ask outboard jumpers to stand first, then inboard jumpers, but there were only three other jumpers standing before Moon. He found that it made the most sense to simply tell them all to stand. So he did.

  With the ramp already down, his next command was simple. “Hook up!” he yelled out and then watched as Yorgey, Allman, and Tag all hooked their static line to the cable, then for added safety, they ran a pliable metal pin through the static line safety hole, just to ensure the static-line hook itself would not open upon jumping.

  With the men all standing, he waved them closer to the edge of the ramp as he, too, moved. The plane seemed to barely move, and Moon found himself thinking how smooth of a ride it had been. Then the load master stood and walked back to Moon, taking Moon’s slack static line in hand as Moon stepped his way out onto the ramp. Using his hands to hold his weight, Moon leaned out on a knee just as the load master had, in order to visually spot their drop zone.

  With wind in his face, Moon looked for his one-minute point of reference; it would be a road just before the commercial buildings. And that was what his eyes saw. The red jump light had been lit, and the plane seemed to slow even more. Moon reached back to the load master and his men and gave the one-minute signal and then yelled out, “One minute!” He leaned back out into the wind as his men all verbally passed on the words.

  Moon finally saw their drop zone, and he knew they were ready to jump. He stood and turned toward his men and yelled out, “Thirty seconds!” while motioning them to creep closer to him.

  Turning, he glanced between his three men, with Yorgey being the trail man, and stared at the red jump light. It wouldn’t be long now. The red light would change to green, and it would be time to go. In his mind, he told himself, Let your men jump as you count them off, and then you jump.

  The jump light turned a brilliant green, and it was time. Mark Moon looked to Allman, who was the first jumper, and yelled, “Go!”

  Allman handed him his static line and then leaped off the end of the ramp like it was nothing. Tag was quick behind him, handing his line off to Moon, and then off the ramp he disappeared into the sky, his chute noticeably opening as Yorgey stutter stepped to the edge of the ramp and then walked off as he was taught in airborne school.

  Moon nodded to the load master, and then just as he stepped out of the aircraft, his eye caught sight of Director Yorgey’s body being dragged by the plane after his static line had malfunctioned and his chute did not deploy.

  Oh my God, Will is a towed jumper! Moon thought as he fell through the sky until his own parachute opened with a sharp pop and whoosh, slowing him to a very comfortable rate of descent.

  Chapter 7

  Bad Luck

  Will Yorgey

  Over CDC building

  Chevy Chase, Maryland

  Early afternoon, 02 June 2025

  Director Yorgey craned his neck to look back up toward the load master standing on the edge of the plane’s ramp. Their eyes locked as the plane continued to fly away from the drop zone and the air tossed Yorgey around like a ragdoll.

  Looking out, Yorgey noticed parachutes on the horizon, and he knew he had to act fast. The load master’s protocol for a towed jumper was to pull him back into the plane using a winch, but that would end his mission, not to mention hurt like hell. He felt like the violent air flow was already tearing him apart.

  His ears screamed with radio traffic as the air pounded his body. The longer he waited, the further from the target location he became. Then it dawned on him: his reserve. If it opened now, it would cut him in half, but if he cut the static line, he would fall away, where he could then pull his reserve and float to the ground.

  Then the load master seemed to signal something to Yorgey, but it was too late. Yorgey had made up his mind and withdrew the three-inch Dalton fixed-blade knife he carried, sheathed, just behind his pistol holster.

  Like a bull rider, Yorgey bucked back and forth as he threw his hand toward the static line, his knife missing its mark each time. Then as if nothing had happened, he began to fall toward Earth again. With his knife still firmly gripped, he used his first two fingers of the same hand he held the knife with to grab and pull his reserve shoot.

  Will held his breath and closed his eyes as the reserve parachute caught air, snapping his body like a yoyo, slowing his rate of fall to a more controlled descent. His body rocked back and forth as his speed rapidly decreased until the ground was within a hundred feet, causing him to half smile as he smacked the soil like a wet sock.

  When Yorgey came to, the sun was up and shining bright, yet he was clueless on how long he had been knocked out. His reserve chute fluttered in the wind, creating a snapping sound that, as a child, would have lulled him to sleep.

  A crow in the distance cawed as it drew his attention to the woods he found himself in. The path he was lying on, oddly enough, allowed him to avoid catching tree limbs, but the drag marks he noticed behind him as he pushed himself up to a knee told him he had indeed been knocked out cold for a period of time.

  Rolling to his knees now, Yorgey hurled. He blew chunks of pre-mission food across the trail while trying to steady himself. In the back of his mind, he knew he had sustained a concussion, but all he cared about was how far he was from his teammates.

  Yorgey activated his canopy release on his left shoulder but then recalled that his main chute had never opened. His eyes filtered down to his waist, where the expressed reserve parachute cords were leading back to. With ease, he unclipped the reserve chute and moved it to the side. He took a breath and looked around his surroundings. The world was beginning to slow, and the spinning had subsided.

  He wanted to puke again but then heard a rustling in the brush pile near him. Out popped a gray squirrel. Smiling, he watched the little creature run off, and then it dawned on him that the world was on the precipice of ending, that Carriers walked among them all, and he had to be ready to fight or they would kill him where he now stood.

  Moving quicker now, Yorgey shimmied his way out of the parachute harness and readied his rifle by slapping in a fresh mag and sending the bolt home.

  He reached up to the top of his helmet and found his night-vision goggles were still attached. Shaking his head, he lowered his mapping system to see where he was and where his men were. Then his heart sank. While his team were all still on the same map together, he was nowhere near them.

  Yorgey wholeheartedly understood that the mission would come before him and that there was no way Mark Moon would deviate from the plan just to go find him. He was on his own and had to move quickly, yet silently, in order to survive until he found Mark Moon and the others.

  Referring back to his mapping system, he checked the pre-plotted target location and then his current location. A weight settled in Yorgey’s chest as he realized he had been dropped miles from his original drop zone. His canopy had lowered him into a thick wood line behind a Giant Food Store, along a path that, before the collapse, had most likely been widely used by the locals cutting through from the local neighborhood all the way to the store.

  Yorgey glanced around and moved, orientating himself east. The plane had towed him across Highway 19c and Little Falls Parkway. He surveyed his map and thought if he cut across the commercial areas until he hit Falstone Avenue, that would be the most direct and fastest route. But he also knew, if he used that route, he risked exposing himself to being located that much quicker by Carriers.

  Yorgey bounced ideas around in his mind, wondering if he should find a car, or even a bicycle, to get himself there faster. But even he knew the most direct route was never the best choice. His time in special ops and especially his time as a Ranger had taught him to use the worst of the terrain to his advantage. If there were swamps, take them. Utilize the low-lying areas that were less traveled. Use the areas that people avoided because they were too hard to traverse or would make people uncomfortable to use. Those areas would most likely keep him safe, so that was exactly what he was going to do.

  Yorgey checked his map again, eyes shifting left and right over the terrain as his back was beginning to ache. Apparently being dragged by an airplane through the sky like a water skier tended to become painful after the adrenaline wore off. The map showed a line of thick trees along Little Falls Park, but would they be enough to keep him hidden? He pondered the question as he continued to scour the map. Then his eyes were drawn to a large area of trees labeled as Williard Avenue Neighborhood Park. He zoomed in and noticed a low area of water that ran under the trees all the way to the back of the commercial building near his target address on Falstone.

  “Bingo,” Yorgey whispered. He realized he could push southwest through a large area of woods, then cross a couple of roads, making sure to utilize backyards and alleyways along his path, until he found himself in the final patch of woods to lead him under Highway 19c and straight into the Williard Neighborhood Park. It would be a harder route but afford him the least amount of opportunity to encounter anyone who may be infected. The only issue would be if he had enough time to get there.

  Yorgey took a knee and reached for his radio. His eyes widened in shock when he realized his radio was gone, busted loose as he had been a towed jumper. That gear must have tumbled to the ground during the violent chaos. Quickly he checked his utility pouch. As soon as his hand slid inside of it, he felt a sense of relief as his fingers touched the phone. He withdrew his sat phone and quickly powered it on. Before the mission each man had programmed their number into the phones, so he had those to pick from, as well as Command’s number. Understanding that his teammates were hopefully on the ground and moving to the target, he opted to call Command and leave his men to focus on the mission at hand.

  He dialed Command and then put the phone to his ear.

  Chapter 8

  One Way Out

  Mark Moon

  CDC Building Parking Lot

  Chevy Chase, Maryland

  Moon opened his canopy release on his left shoulder, collapsing his parachute immediately. The asphalt road had been a rough landing, but nothing he couldn’t handle. His experience had helped him direct the chute, slipping into the wind, resulting in decreased speed just before he hit the ground. The controlled landing was more of a tumble, rolling on the side of his body as he had been taught.

  Now on a knee, he quickly stripped the rigging from his body, stepped from within the straps, while also unclipping his go bag that held the valuable sample. A few moments later, he let the chute flail in the wind as he made his rifle hot and scanned the area for threats. While in the air, he had seen where his two snipers, Allman and Tag, had landed behind him, but their rally point was closest to him, so he would head there just as soon as he tossed his go bag on his back. From that point forward, his mission was to get that sample directly into the hands of Doctor Peter Halbrook or die trying.

  Gunfire rang out in the far distance, capturing his attention. In the moment, he could tell it was small-caliber rounds and most likely fired from revolvers. More shots echoed off the faraway buildings, but it didn’t affect Moon. He knew they were of no immediate threat and just hoped it was a good guy killing a Carrier and not a bad guy hunting survivors.

  Behind him, he could see Allman running toward the rally point. Then he saw more movement, further away and behind Allman, but couldn’t make it out. However, he assumed it was Tag moving toward the rally point in front Shoemaker Farm Lane.

  Mark Moon moved fast, rifle up and at the ready as he hastily made his way from the open area, where abandoned cars littered the road like a junkyard, up next to a small white building that was unlabeled on his mapping system.

  He took a breath. He could hear Allman gaining ground. Nearing the corner of the road, it was so obvious there was no need to communicate. He would simply keep his eyes and rifle trained on the avenues of approach while his men made their way to him at their pre-determined rally point.

  Allman took a knee next to Mark Moon, rifle ready and breathing more rapidly than he felt he should have been.

  “You good?” Moon asked as he continued to keep an eye out for threats. The last remnants of a car fire flickered within the burned-out husk of a vehicle no more than thirty yards from them.