Instinct: A Chess Team Adventure - By Jeremy Robinson Page 0,52

enough for them to see the far wall. Three bodies, bound at the feet, hung upside down from the wall. Ropes tied to their ankles rose up and over the edge of the rise and disappeared into a tunnel above.

Rook’s memory recalled the sound of breaking bones when he’d fallen into the cavern. He shined his light down.

Human bones lay scattered around the room like discarded trash. They weren’t complete skeletons, just a mix of body parts casually dumped into the space.

Rook shuffled through the bones and stood next to Bishop, who was inspecting the bodies. Two were men, one a woman. All Vietnamese. All naked. Strips of flesh had been peeled off the meaty portions of their bodies—thighs, calves, shoulders—like they were giant sticks of string cheese. “Bishop, what the hell?”

“Villagers from Anh Dung.” Bishop looked Rook in the eye, his face deep in shadow. “You were right about the beer, Rook. This is someone’s refrigerator.”

Distant noise echoed from the tunnel above, like a foghorn, only more organic. Rook and Bishop quickly stepped through the field of bones, knelt next to Somi, and turned off their flashlights. But the darkness didn’t fade completely. Flickering light poured out of the tunnel.

Bishop raised the shotgun up. Rook snapped his wrist guards into a locked position, allowing him to fire his two Desert Eagle handguns with one hand each. He raised them up, ready to unload a volley of .50-caliber rounds.

“What’s going on?”

Both men jumped as Somi’s voice cut the silence.

Rook looked down and put the barrel of his handgun in front of his lips. He shushed her quietly, shaking his head. Of all the times to regain consciousness. He refocused on the tunnel as a figure stepped into view. His eyes went wide. He had no clue what the thing holding the torch was, but he recognized the limp body over its shoulder.

Knight.

TWENTY-THREE

Washington, D.C.

THE PRESIDENT STOOD in front of a massive rectangular screen comprised of eight smaller screens that merged to form one. A single large image could be shown on all eight or an individual image could be viewed on each independently. This was the back wall of the White House Situation Room, which featured multiple flat-screen TVs mounted on every wall of the room. In this room the powers that be could keep watch on the entire world, receiving data from eyes on the ground, satellites, and the media. It was the media that held Tom Duncan’s attention now.

All eight screens were dedicated to the image, blowing it up to life-size proportions. It was the White House. Just outside. A line of reporters speaking into microphones dominated the view. They were polluting the airwaves with theories about what was going on inside the White House. Why weren’t they being given a press conference? Did the president have a heart attack? Was he dead?

What was most frustrating was that they couldn’t tell the truth. Not yet. Not until there was a cure. But if they lied, and Brugada got out . . . well, then they would be lynched. Silence, for now, was Duncan’s only option.

“Shut it off,” Duncan said.

The Situation Room hiding beneath the West Wing of the White House was full of infected advisors, a few generals, and a number of officers from various intelligence agencies—all confined within the walls of the White House. Those who were not infected, but integral to the conversation, joined them via Webcam.

Duncan looked away from the TV screen and focused on the American flag standing next to it. He wasn’t sure whether he should lower it to half staff or turn it upside down. While most people thought the upside-down flag to be an act of disrespect, those in the military knew it signified extreme distress—to be wary of a lurking enemy. Extreme distress didn’t begin to describe the state of the White House.

He turned and faced the group sitting around the long conference table. His seat at the head of the table, opposite the massive screen, was empty, but he didn’t feel like sitting. Hell, he didn’t feel like talking. He wanted action and he wanted it now. “Give it to me straight. What are we dealing with?”

Stephen Harrison, head of the FBI, filled the screen of a laptop on the desk. He was communicating with them from the safety of FBI headquarters. “We were able to trace everyone who came in contact with you and with Brentwood, from family members to security guards at the airport. They’ve all been quietly