Page 21 of Shadow Blind

Was Winchester infected? He remembered the SEAL touching at least two of the bodies. That alone should have been enough to infect him.

He rewound Winchester’s camera footage until just before the SEALs entered Karaveht and pressed play. He stopped the feed when they reached the first set of bodies. Only two of the men were wearing tan boots: Winchester and Acker. And he’d watched Thomas Acker take a bullet to the face. The SEAL turning off the cameras had to be Winchester.

Slowly, he pressed play, and the video inched forward. He paused it again as Winchester turned the first woman over. Clearly, he’d touched her, at least long enough to roll her over. Sure, he’d been wearing gloves, but his gloves weren’t made from a metal alloy that prevented bot penetration. He allowed the feed to advance forward again until the SEALs reached the second set of bodies. This time an entire family—kids and all. He paused the video again as Winchester reached for one of the children. His hands made contact again. It was right there on film.

Frowning, Clark’s gaze dropped to the volume of blood surrounding the bodies. Winchester’s boots were standing in the middle of all that red. Of course, everything was frozen, but that wouldn’t make a difference. The NNB26 bots would have been in the blood when the family bled out. When Winchester made contact with that lake of red, the bots should have penetrated his boots, and then his skin and muscles, before entering his circulatory system.

Winchester should have received an infectious load through his gloves and boots—like his teammates had. Clark slowly leaned back, staring at the computer screen, then jerked forward again and fast forwarded the video.

He didn’t remember seeing any signs of infection from the team leader. But he hadn’t focused much on the man, not when there was so much drama through the other camera feeds. Maybe he’d missed the symptoms. He slowed the video again, watching as the SEALs went crazy, and methodically searched the various camera feeds for footage of Winchester. He found plenty of instances of Winchester on the various video footage—different angles, different cameras. Like the others, the squad leader was wearing one of those damn face covers. But the cloth left his eyes free, which were not bloodshot. In none of the video feeds were the corners of his eyes twitching, nor were his hands. And there was no sign of erratic behavior.

Winchester didn’t look compromised at all.

Had he been infected? It seemed unlikely. He would have been infected at the same time as his teammates, so he’d have gone crazy at the same time they had. At the very least, he’d be showing symptoms by now. This new weapon was incredibly predictable. There was little variation in how it affected its victims. If Winchester had been infected, he would have had symptoms. He would have succumbed to the insanity by now.

Clark’s stomach tightened. A sudden, vicious throb pounded behind his eyes. A tension headache. He recognized the pinch and pull, although he hadn’t suffered one in years.

It was inconceivable, but Winchester was apparently immune to his NNB26 prototype. But how? There was only one way to find out.

He needed to get Winchester in his lab.

Immediately.

Chapter nine

Day 2

Karaveht, Tajikistan

Aiden buried his weapons at the eastern edge of the exfil site and the ammo at the western edge. If he went crazy and attacked the evac crew, the distance between the weapons and ammo, along with his bound wrists and ankles, would neuter his lethality. He’d just have to hope no shitkickers stumbled across him while he waited.

He collected the medical supplies from Benny’s assault kit and rummaged through his slain brothers’ ditch kits, gathering all the water, propane canisters, MREs, thermal blankets, puff jackets and puff sleeping bags. God only knew how long before the exfil crew arrived. He’d need to hydrate, eat, and stay warm until they collected him.

He thought about scrounging for firewood, but the mountain tundra provided little fuel, and his leg was bleeding enough to cause concern. Just burying his weapons and collecting the extra supplies had increased the bleeding twofold. Besides, every step hurt like hell.

After unfolding and stacking two of the thermal blankets on top of each other, he sat down and unlaced and pulled off his boots. His tactical pants were designed with easy access zippers that ran from calf to pelvis. If he unzipped both sides and took a knife to the thermal underwear below, he’d be able to treat the wound without removing his boots. But he’d also be stuck wearing his blood-soaked thermals and pants until the evac crew arrived, which would make it difficult to tell if the bleeding started up again after he treated the wound. Besides, the zippers might not even work considering they were slick with blood.

Moving quickly, he stripped out of his blood-soaked tactical pants and bottom thermals. The cold hit instantly. Shivering, he packed the entry and exit wounds with hemostatic granules, working the granules into the bloody holes until the wounds stopped bleeding. He bandaged the injury and eased a fresh pair of thermals and tactical pants over the bulky bandages. The bullet had gone through the meaty part of his thigh, missing both bone and arteries. It wasn’t a life-threatening injury. If he controlled the blood loss and shock, he wouldn’t even need a saline IV or tourniquet.

Most of the water bottles were frozen. He pulled a small camp stove, propane canister and pan from his cold-weather kit, thawed the bottles and tucked the warm water against his side, beneath the layers of warmies. His body heat would keep the water from freezing again. If he ran out of thawed water, he had plenty of frozen bottles piled next to him, along with extra propane canisters for the stove.

Before draping his legs over his cold weather kit to combat possible shock, he sliced off several lengths of 550 cord, wove them together, and bound his ankles. Binding his wrists was more difficult, but a slip knot and a couple of hard tugs on the cord with his teeth did the job.

Three hours after burrowing into the mound of warmies, he awoke to the sensation of warm liquid sliding down his thigh.

“Son of a bitch.” Scowling, Aiden sat up. He nudged aside the thermal blankets and pile of warmies covering his left thigh. Fresh blood gleamed wetly against the white and gray camo of his pants.

Hell. He grimaced. He’d have to unzip his pants and cut through the thermals to treat his leg again. Only this time, because of his bound ankles, he wouldn’t be able to change into dry clothes afterwards. Plus, it was going to be a bitch treating the wound with his hands tied together.

He’d buried his FFK, along with his other weapons hours ago, so he couldn’t use the knife to cut through the thermals. But there was a pair of scissors in Benny’s med kit, as well as an assortment of scalpels. He’d find something to cut through the fabric. Before getting started, he clasped a bottle of water between his bound hands, worked the cap loose and carefully lifted the plastic to his lips—staring at his fingers the entire time. Still no twitching.

Thank Christ.

His rationality seemed intact, too. No paranoia or murderous rage. Not yet, anyway.

The snow had stopped an hour earlier, and the sky had cleared from fluffy clouds to slate gray, not a cloud in sight. When he tipped his head back to take a gulp of water, he noticed a slightly darker pinprick against the wintry sky. He lowered the bottle and took a harder, longer look. The speck, which was barely visible, only stood out because it seemed to move. Hell, it could be a trick of the eye. Except…

He frowned and leaned forward. Was it bigger than it had been even seconds ago?

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