Mutation

by Michael McBride

  Barnett didn’t need to have the significance explained to him. At the University of New Hampshire, he’d studied the Hill Collection, which included extensive notes and tapes created by Barney and Betty Hill, who claimed to have been abducted by aliens in September 1961. Among them was an audio recording from 1964 of the psychological examination of Mrs. Hill, who, under hypnosis, described her traumatic ordeal, otherworldly technology, and the alien species that would come to be known as Grays. She also drew a star chart, which an amateur astronomer named Marjorie Fish later recognized as the Zeta Reticuli system.

  “We need to know what kind of snafu we’re walking into,” he said.

  “I’m in the process of sending you a map of the archeological site. The majority of the structures fall within a trapezoidal shape. The points representing Zeta Reticuli, however, are off in the jungle to the southeast, but aerial images don’t reveal anything beneath the canopy.”

  “What can you see?”

  “Very little. A clearing with a buried pyramid and maybe the entrance to a tomb. Like I said, everything else is hidden beneath the trees.”

  “Work your magic with the satellite GPR and magnetometer. Get me every last bit of information you possibly can.”

  “I have the satellite scanning as we speak. Once I’ve collected the raw data, I’ll run it through my program, filter the resulting imagery, and send it to you.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Best-case scenario? A couple hours.”

  “We don’t have that kind of time.”

  “It’s outside of my control. You have to take into account the physical distance between the satellite and the surface of the earth. The time it takes the signal to cover that distance, there and back. How badly it’s degraded by the time it passes through the upper strata, rebounds from buried structures, and returns to the satellite. We’re talking a fraction of a percent of the original signal reaching the receptor array. Imagine how many times the process needs to be repeated to gather enough data for the reconstruction program, especially through all those trees. It’s like making a sandcastle one grain at a time.”

  “Can you set the reconstruction to download at intervals and send the imagery directly to me so I can at least get a general idea of what we’re up against?”

  “I’ve never tried, but I suppose it could work. In theory, anyway. The complete reconstruction will probably take twice as long, though. Maybe even longer with having to compress the data to send it to you.”

  “If anyone can do this, Dr. Clarke, it’s you. I have complete confidence in your abilities.”

  Barnett terminated the call before she could raise any further objections. He needed to focus on the task at hand. Something wasn’t right here. He could feel it. The air was too still, the area too quiet. Whatever animals were out there in the fields were not only hiding, they were completely silent. No crickets chirped or birds called. The only sound was the crackle of the detritus underfoot and the shushing of the tall blades of grass against their fatigues.

  He crouched at the edge of the weeds and tried to get a look at the homestead through the surrounding trees. The white house had been sandblasted to the bare wood by the wind, which had scattered the thatch from the bare boards of the roof. The barn on the far side of it had been assembled from warped gray planks. A fenced pasture surrounded the buildings, inside of which were rows of crops, fruit trees, and several large brown and white mounds.

  “Keep your eyes open,” he whispered into his com. He seated his rifle against his shoulder and surveyed the pasture through the scope. Just as he thought. The mounds were the bodies of horses, their throats opened and their blood pooled around them. If he held his breath, he could hear the drone of flies. “They definitely passed through here.”

  “I picked up their trail,” Sheppard whispered. “Heading in your direction from the west.”

  “Morgan: check out the house,” Barnett whispered. “Brinkley: you take the barn.”

  There was another homestead farther down the road and on the opposite side of the road from the first. The house appeared nearly identical, only rather than a barn, there was a haphazard plywood structure built up against the back of the main dwelling.

  “Sheppard,” he whispered. “There’s another house up ahead. Take a western approach and come in from the back. I’ll take the road and enter through the front.”

  “Do we have a visual on any of the occupants?” Sheppard whispered.

  “Negative,” Morgan replied.

  Barnett figured if any of them were still here, they were long past the point of caring about trespassers on their property.

  He walked straight down the road, sighting his rifle from one side to the other, taking in everything around him as quickly as he could. A clothesline had been strung from the side of the house to the nearest palm tree. The shirts and pants hanging from it were large, colorful, and in the local ethnic style. Rubber trees surrounded the entrance from the road, simultaneously concealing his approach and hiding his destination.

  “No movement around back,” Sheppard whispered.

  “Hold your position,” Barnett whispered as he stepped over the barbed wire fence. He cut across the windswept yard toward the front porch. Pressed his back against the wall. Tried to peek through the window, but couldn’t see a thing through the drawn curtains. Listened for even the slightest sound to betray the presence of anyone inside. “Wait for my mark.”

  “The door to the barn’s standing wide open,” Brinkley whispered. “There’s a lot of blood inside. Something was recently slaughtered in here. Several somethings by the look of it, but outside of some baled hay, the place is empty.”

  “No bodies?” Barnett whispered.

  Brinkley’s hesitation was all the answer he needed.

  “No, sir.”

  “There’s a truck between the house and the barn,” Morgan whispered. “The keys are still in the ignition. Whoever drove it here either must not have been planning to stay for very long or didn’t have to worry about it being stolen.”

  “Brinkley and Morgan: take opposite sides of the house,” Barnett said. “We hit them both at the exact same time. Hard and fast. Watch your crossfire.”

  He stepped away from the wall. Planted his feet. Shouldered his rifle.

  “Everyone in position?” he whispered and waited for a chorus of assent before giving the order. “Go!”

  Barnett kicked in the front door and was already across the threshold when he felt the rebound against his shoulder. To his left, a broken rocking chair. To his right, an overturned couch. Arcs of blood decorated walls overburdened with framed images of Jesus Christ and shelves of candles. The smell was of fresh meat, of the counter in a butcher’s shop. The people who lived here hadn’t been killed very long ago. Assuming killing them had been the creature’s objective.

  “This place is empty,” Morgan whispered from inside the house across the road. “Definite signs of a struggle, though. The table’s broken and there’s blood all over the floor.”

  “Damn it,” Barnett whispered.

  “There’s blood in the pen back here,” Sheppard said. “It looks like someone was dragged through the dirt and gutted—”

  His voice cut out.

  “Sheppard?” Barnett whispered.

  No answer.

  Barnett passed through the main room and entered the kitchen. The lone window offered a glimpse into the structure built onto the back of the house, where Sheppard should have entered. The wooden door stood open, admitting just enough moonlight to separate mounds of hay from the darkness. He detected movement in the deep shadows, felt unseen eyes upon him.

  There was no sign of Sheppard.

  He heard the crunch of dry straw beneath stealthily transferred weight. Something was definitely back there.

  “All this blood and no bodies . . .” Morgan whispered.

  Barnett kept his sightline affixed to the kitchen window as he backed into the main room. A
shadow passed across the glass. He heard a thump from the other side of the wall to his right. There were at least two sources of movement. He suddenly understood what had happened to the inhabitants of these houses.

  “Zeta’s building an army.” A crashing sound from the kitchen. Glass spread across the floor. Footsteps clamored from the adjacent room. “Get the hell out of there!”

  A portly man slid through the broken glass on his side. Rolled over onto his hands and knees. Looked up at Barnett through eyes positively filled with blood. A mask of crimson covered his face from the torn skin along his hairline, through which his elongated frontal bone showed.

  “Director . . .” the man said in a voice and cadence Barnett recognized immediately.

  He shouted and pulled the trigger. Hit the man in the upper chest. Sent him sliding backward through a wash of his own blood. He was already trying to get up when Barnett spun and fired at the woman emerging from the adjacent room to his right. She ducked back inside before he could get a clear shot.

  Barnett whirled and shot straight through the open front door to clear his path. Sprinted out into the yard. Footsteps drummed the wooden floor behind him. Silhouettes raced through the jungle in his peripheral vision. He heard the rattle of gunfire from across the road, saw the strobe of discharge through the trees.

  “They’re all around me!” Brinkley shouted. “I can’t get—!”

  His words degenerated into cries of agony.

  Subject Z had lured them into another trap. It had waited until it was nearly to its final destination before infecting the people who lived here in an effort to prevent Barnett’s team from stopping it. Lord only knew how many people were now at the mercy of the alien organisms spreading through their bodies, in the process of physically transforming into drones at the creature’s command.

  “Get to the road!” Morgan shouted.

  Barnett veered to his left and sprinted toward the fence line.

  A blinding light burst from behind the other house. An engine roared.

  He hurdled the fence, stumbled through the drainage ditch, and propelled himself to his feet.

  A silhouette emerged from the trees ahead of him. He shot it at center mass, sending it tumbling into the weeds. He saw its face in the flash of discharge. The deformed architecture of its features. The sentience behind its eyes.

  Barnett ran past it before it could regain its feet.

  A pickup truck streaked across the field to his right, its headlights flickering through the maze of tree trunks. It angled toward the road. Tore through a wall of shrubbery. Destroyed the fence. Bounded over the drainage ditch. Launched up onto the road.

  “Get in!” Morgan shouted.

  He slammed the brakes and the rear end skidded sideways.

  Barnett lunged. Planted one foot squarely on the fender. Dove over the tailgate. Hit the bed on his shoulder and pushed himself right back up. Fired at the shadows materializing from the jungle.

  The tires spun in the dirt before finally catching and sending the truck rocketing away from the silhouettes converging on the road through the cloud of dust behind it.

  29

  JADE

  Göbekli Tepe

  Jade had lost all sense of time and direction. Worse, she’d lost the feeling in her hands and feet. It was all she could do to keep her head above the water, a terrifying sensation that was still fresh in her mind after nearly drowning in Mexico not so long ago. Finding herself in the same situation again, especially so soon, caused her to experience panic beyond anything she’d ever dealt with before. She wanted to cry out for help, to swim as fast as she could in any direction that offered the elusive promise of salvation, and yet she knew that once she embraced her fear, all hope would be lost.

  The water rose over her mouth, entered her nose. She sputtered and rolled over, tried to float on her back, let the current carry her. She wanted to call out to the others, to make sure they were still with her, but she feared even that slight exertion might send her under. Only the subtle splashing sounds echoing from the darkness assured her that she wasn’t alone.

  The logical part of her, the part that understood the physiological stages of hypothermia and the mechanisms of drowning, urged her to accept the inevitability of her demise. And still the irrational part of her raged against her fate. She wasn’t ready to die. Not here, not like this, although perhaps it would be a more merciful end than the one the virus offered the outside world. Better to drift off into a dreamless sleep than suffer through the contractures and crippling pain—

  She again tasted the water and thrashed in a vain attempt to raise her head. She opened her mouth to cough, but only succeeded in inhaling another mouthful.

  Evans wrapped his arm around her from behind and pulled her onto his chest in an effort to use his body as a floatation device for both of them. His breathing in her ear was ragged and labored, his skin so cold against her she felt it radiating into her chest.

  “Stay w-with m-me,” he whispered through chattering teeth.

  He needed to let her go or she’d only take him down with her. One of them needed to survive. If they were right about what the missing canister contained, the consequences of all of them dying down here would be catastrophic.

  The temperature seemed to drop by the second, the air on her face growing so cold she had to close her eyes against it and pray no ice formed in her lashes. It took her far too long to understand that the rapid cooling was because of the increased flow of air across her wet face. The current was growing stronger, propelling them faster and faster through the darkness. She sensed the walls closing in to either side, the ceiling lowering to within inches of her face. The sound of the water changed, too. What was once the gentle shushing of fluid against stone had become a growl.

  She’d learned in medical school that the flow rate of blood increased as the lumen of a vessel constricted and feared they were hurtling into a choke point in the aquifer. Considering she hadn’t seen a single body of water during their drive into the barren desert, she had to believe that wherever the water went from here, it remained entirely underground. All thoughts of crawling onto dry land died with the scream trapped in her chest.

  “L-let me g-go,” she whispered in a voice so soft she couldn’t be sure she’d spoken out loud.

  Her knees bumped against the low ceiling. She barely turned in time to spare her face. Evans went under. It took so long for his head to break the surface again that she worried it might never do so again. He coughed aspirated fluid onto her cheek.

  They were both going to die.

  Anya was their only hope now. She was the best swimmer among them; hopefully, she’d be able to survive—

  Something grazed Jade’s shoulder. She felt the cold flesh of the younger woman’s shoulder, the tickle of her hair trailing her beneath the surface. By the time she reached for her, Anya was already gone.

  The roar grew louder. The ceiling flew past, so close it grazed her cheek. The flow of the current changed, sucked her under. She raised her head, only to smack her forehead against the limestone.

  “T-take a b-breath,” Evans whispered. “H-hold it as l-long as you c-can.”

  Jade gasped—

  That was all the air she got. The water pulled her under and impelled her even faster.

  Her skull ricocheted from rocks. As did her hips. Her knees.

  Evans’s arm slipped from her chest.

  She tried to grab it. Missed. Accelerated away from him.

  The back of her head passed his feet and struck the ground. Stars exploded from the darkness. She resisted the urge to cry out.

  Pressure built in her chest, her mouth, behind her lips.

  The walls tightened against her shoulders. She was going to get stuck. This was where she was going to die, where her body would remain until the flesh sloughed from her bones—

  She lurched forward. The walls fell away. Her legs swung up over her head as she tumbled into a larger body of water. Unable to te
ll up from down.

  Air leaked from her nostrils. She struck something hard, felt consciousness beginning to slip away. She bounded along the bottom, hammering one rock after another, until her head emerged from the water. A split second later it was submerged once more.

  She’d felt it, though. The air on her face. If only she could find her way back to it, she could—

  Impact to her chest. Her stale breath burst from her lips.

  She was momentarily pinned against a stone outcropping before the current dragged her downstream. Her diaphragm spasmed, but she fought the reflex to inhale. Drove her legs straight down. Pushed off with everything she had left.

  Her head breached the surface. She gasped. Desperately attempted to grab anything she could hold on to. Her forearm struck something hard. She secured just enough of a grip on it to halt her progression. She used the momentum to raise her legs. Shift her hips. Get her left knee onto the rocky crest. Prayed to God it stayed there. Felt movement against her flank.

  “H-hold on,” Anya whispered and wrapped her arm around Jade’s waist.

  Something struck Jade’s right leg. Underneath the water. Snagged the pocket of her jeans. Nearly pulled her back under.

  Violent coughing. A gasp.

  “Cade?” she whispered.

  He let go of her pants and she thought for a fleeting second that the current had whisked him away, at least until he rolled over her and vomited onto the limestone.

  “G-gross,” Anya whispered.

  Jade dragged her other leg from the water and hugged the younger woman as tightly as she could. Rolled over onto her back and felt Evans beside her. Found his hand and squeezed it. She lay on her back, shivering, while she tried to catch her breath and let her eyes adjust to the darkness.

  She could almost make out the shape of the cavern surrounding her. The rocky ceiling was at least fifty feet up and jagged, as though chiseled by primitive stone tools. The aquifer flowing beside her traced a course toward the wall to her left, where it once more disappeared into the earth. It suddenly struck her that for her to see even such faint, vague details, there had to be some small amount of light entering the cavern.