by Michael Todd
The scientist was still puzzled, and he assumed it showed on his face.
“You have a unique set of qualifications that are damn near perfect for studying the Zoo. You specialized in the study of all kinds of invasive species.”
Off to the left, guns exploded to life. Chris jumped in place and Kemp turned to look back. Two flyers had broken past the flame unit and headed for the Wall. Fortunately, a machine gun took one down and an AA rocket blasted the other from the sky. The exploding carcasses dropped to the sand spurting white sparks and green blood.
Kemp looked back at him and resumed her spiel as though nothing had happened. “And you’ve also published on radiation-induced mutations. Colonel Martinez, my superior, read your Chernobyl dissertation. As I understand it, the meat of it was that you studied the plants and animals that survived the initial disaster in 1986 and their progeny and found that some were able to adapt to the irradiated environment with minimal problems. They even moved on to thrive in other areas without causing significant contamination.”
“Yes,” he said. He wanted to flesh out the details but suspected that she would simply cut him off again.
She didn’t disappoint. “The Colonel does not feel that I and my team will be able to successfully retrieve Dr. Marie’s files.” Her jaw strained as she clenched her teeth. “As such, he wants you to write up a report with your expert predictions as to what the Zoo will do next. This will then be passed up the hierarchy until someone briefs the President. Then he’ll have to make the final executive decision: Do we try to preserve the Zoo for study or do we neutralize the danger now and simply napalm the whole damn place?” She paused and let silence hang in the air.
Chris reflected a moment. “I can do that,” he said. “I’d be happy to look over your data, speak with your researchers, and produce an in-depth report.” A weak smile pulled at his lips. At last, she’d given him some clarity of purpose. “Writing reports is my specialty.”
Kemp stared at him with no particular emotion. “Mm, no,” she said. “That’s not what I meant. Colonel Martinez wants you to be his eyes and ears inside the Zoo.”
“Excuse me?”
“That means,” the lieutenant went on, “that if you decide to accept this assignment, you’ll go in there with us.”
Chapter Five
Chris examined an interesting stain on the ceiling for the seventh or eighth time that night. It was a deep shade, very noticeable against the white ceiling and walls that surrounded him. The rest of the base was relatively quiet.
He took a deep breath. If he continued to stare at the stain—how the hell did it even get there?—he might fall asleep. Then, in the morning, everything would seem clear and easy and he would be able to make his decision. All he had to do was fall asleep. He was tired so it would be easy. Deep breaths, in and out. He simply had to—
“Fuck this,” Chris growled and pushed from his cot. He paced across his room, then diagonally, then around its perimeter. All five or six paces’ worth of it.
Kemp had given him the night to think it over. The team would leave in the morning, however, at 0700 hours. Which essentially meant that she’d given him perhaps two hours that evening if he planned to actually sleep.
Ever since he’d seen Jackie Chan in Armor of God way back as a kid, Chris had dreamed of being the hero. He wanted to do incredible things, dangerous things. Those that required a man to go to exotic locales and get caught up with people far different from any he was used to.
He kept pacing back and forth across the tiny room. Someone walked past in the hall outside, probably a sentry. Many of these soldiers were at least a decade younger than he was, and he was barely old enough to be conscious of that fact. It weighed heavily on his mind.
His younger self would be disappointed with him. It was true, he made a decent living and had his share of interesting experiences, but all he did lately was work behind a desk. Dr. Christopher Lin, paper-pusher, viewer of data, typist of reports. He hadn’t even done much hands-on research.
Speaking of research, it wasn’t only about him. There was the bigger picture to consider. The world itself was in danger. Climate change was slowly destroying the ability for Homo sapiens to survive on the planet, at least at their current numbers. The locust swarm threatened vast tracts of cropland, Kemp had said. And if this…thing, this Alien Goop and the mutations it spawned, were to spread, that might be even worse. Yet it also seemed to hold the potential for astonishing and productive breakthroughs in multiple fields if it could be contained and studied properly.
And if it couldn’t be contained, the military would have to firebomb it into oblivion. An alien craft had entered Earth’s atmosphere, a world-historical event. And if they simply napalmed the results, all this effort and study would have amounted to nothing but another bare patch of sand and a couple of dozen dead Americans.
But those Locusts…
“Dammit,” Chris breathed. “Jesus Christ.”
And then there was Kemp. He kinda liked something about her and didn’t doubt that she could protect him. She already had, once. But she was one hell of a hard-nosed bitch, and she’d clearly held something back from him. Could he actually trust her?
He laid back down on his cot and examined the stain for the ninth time and breathed slowly. Finally, he got up and turned on the light.
Muttering and cursing under his breath, he gathered his few possessions and loaded them into his backpack. There weren’t very many, of course. Some basic bathroom and hygiene supplies, a couple of science fiction books he’d been reading, a bag of trail mix, a half-full bottle of water, a tube of sunscreen, and his phone/tablet. He hadn’t had time to pack much else, and they’d told him to travel light, anyway. He also “borrowed” a small towel—more like a washcloth, really—that he’d gotten from one of the bathrooms to be safe.
He zipped the pack, slung it over his shoulder, stood, and sighed. His face flushed with a vague feeling of shame and idiocy before he opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The fluorescent lights gave the corridor an icy look that was totally at odds with the climate. One or two distant sets of footsteps and the gentle hum of an electric generator were the only noises he could perceive. He hitched his pack up and turned left. The mess hall was in that direction, along with an exit.
The scientist passed a single sentry just before he reached the mess hall. The soldier was a bored-looking young man who merely nodded at him as they crossed paths. He returned the nod. The mess hall itself was empty, silent, and dark save the faint glow of a single overhead light.
He ducked into an adjoining bathroom branching off it. The lights came on automatically. Chris took a piss, washed his hands, and splashed water on his face.
“What are you doing?” he asked his reflection softly. “What the hell are you doing, Chris?”
No answer came.
He took the mess hall exit into the desert. Outside, it felt surprisingly cool—still not exactly winter in the Appalachians but much less sweltering than it had been during the day. Deserts had a wide diurnal temperature range, he remembered, due to the lack of moisture. Another sentry stood near the exit, vaping on an e-cig.
“Hey there,” Chris said.
The man turned suddenly with a startled expression on his face, then relaxed when he saw it was only a scientist type. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Eh, I just, uh, can’t sleep,” he replied. He sniffed. “Since all this started, have you…have you had any deserters?”
The sentry looked at him with a sour expression. “No,” he said. ‘That would be pointless anyway. Too much desert to cross on foot. Anyone who tried it would be dead in a day or two. You can’t carry that much water. And if the deserter tried to steal a vehicle, we’d be able to spot them from the air easily.” His expression hardened. “Does that answer your question?”
“Yes, sir,” Chris said. “Look at those stars…” he mused. Then he sighed. “Well, I needed a little fresh air. I’ll go
back in now.” He returned the way he had come. This time, however, he took a different route to another part of the base where the crew quarters were. He sighed in resignation and paused at a particular door.
His knock was gentle, but it didn’t take long for the occupant to stir. The door cracked opened and an irritated voice growled out at him.
“What?” Lt. Dr. Kemp asked.
“I’m in,” Chris said. He winced. “I thought you might want to know.”
She blinked once. “Good,” she said. “Now go back to your room and get some goddamn sleep. Be at the south gate at 0630.” She slammed the door in his face.
Chris nodded. That hadn’t gone…too badly. So far, anyway. Dread and excitement warred within him as he trudged back to his quarters and the sturdy cot that waited there.
This might end up being the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.
Chapter Six
Chris groaned as he rubbed his eyes. The mental echo of the alarm still rang in his ears. It was 0545. He might have slept four hours at most and six was his usual cutoff point for normal human functionality.
“Okay,” he gasped and pushed to a sitting position, “uh, 0630, she said. Forty-five minutes…” He rocked back and forth for a moment to force himself awake. That would be enough time for a quick breakfast and a shower. He assumed Kemp and her staff would provide him with whatever else he might need.
He struggled to his feet as an old military saying popped warningly into his mind. “Assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups,” he muttered. Yeah. There was only one way to find out.
Out in the hall, it looked like he was hardly the first one up. A lot of these Army and USG people were the 4:00 AM types, after all, or they might have had no say in the matter anyway. Orders were orders.
Chris followed his route from the previous night with his pack slung over his shoulder again. The walk banished the last of his grogginess and now, the hesitant energy of anticipation welled up inside.
“Off we go to retrieve the Armor of God,” he said under his breath and hit the showers.
Unfortunately, but predictably, the showers were communal. On the plus side, there were only three other men present, and one seemed to ignore the others. The remaining two were busily engaged in discussing automatic shotgun models and things they’d blown up at the ranch back home.
Chris stripped and got it over with as quickly as possible. He nodded vaguely toward the men but otherwise behaved as though they weren’t there and they didn’t bother him. It was impossible not to be conscious of how muscular they were. His Hapkido lessons had helped him maintain a lean, wiry strength, but these guys all looked like they pumped iron daily. Or maybe it was lugging around all that gear and heavy weapons.
Now that he was clean, he quickly toweled himself off and re-dressed. Then he used the toilet and returned to the hallway. The hour was now 0603. He had approximately twenty-five minutes to grab a quick bite to eat and a cup of coffee.
The mess hall was sufficiently crowded, however, that he despaired of a proper, leisurely meal. He didn’t eat much, anyway, but suspected he’d need the energy for whatever the hell it was Kemp and the Zoo had in store for him. The line leading to all the hot stuff—eggs, bacon, biscuits and gravy, and so forth—was far too long. Instead, he squeezed between a couple of grumbling sergeants and plucked a blueberry muffin from the tray. He added a banana to keep it company on his plate and filled a white Styrofoam cup—he couldn’t believe the Army still used the material—with strong black coffee. It was 0618 by the time he sat down near the end of a half-full table in the far corner.
“Eat first,” he told himself. The coffee was scalding hot, anyway, and he could probably finish drinking it en route to the south gate. He forced the banana and the muffin into his mouth bit by bit.
He’d finished eating by 0626 and had even taken a few tentative sips of his coffee. It hadn’t quite burned his tongue, merely…overstimulated it. He drank a little at a time as he dodged his way through the crowds and navigated toward the south gate.
Outside, the light was still dim. Dawn had only just broken but it already felt warm, and the day would likely be blazing hot. At least they would go somewhere shady. And then he remembered how deadly that shade was. Those mutants would be hiding in there, lying in wait.
Kemp’s team had assembled to the right of the south gate in an area half-hidden by crates and an unused bulldozer. Chris immediately guessed that he was the last one to show up. His phone read 6:30 exactly, so at least he wasn’t late.
She looked crisp, although there was the suggestion of dark circles under her eyes. “...be leaving you with Sergeant Wallace to gear up while I secure our vehicles,” she was saying. Her eyes flicked to the side to acknowledge Chris’s arrival. “We will be outside the Wall by 0715 at the latest. Get to it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the troops responded in unison and saluted. Chris ran a quick headcount. Ten at most. A squad? He had somehow assumed—there it was again, mother of fuck-ups—that they’d take something along the lines of fifty guys in there. This did not improve his confidence in the mission.
Kemp spun on a heel and left the group. She stopped next to Chris. “Dr. Lin, talk to Sgt. Wallace. I’ll be back.” With that, she was gone.
The scientist nodded to no one in particular and took a few steps toward the group of soldiers, who were already bustling and chatting to each other. He hoped the sergeant would notice him without his having to actually interrupt anyone.
Chris paused at the edge of the group and looked them over. There were only eight. With himself and Kemp included, that made a grand total of ten. Less than a dozen humans versus an alliance between the locust swarm of the millennium and an apocalyptic alien terraforming venture.
“We need as much water for the jungle as we do the desert,” Wallace said to two younger men who filled canteens from a massive olive-green jug. He had a deep, melodious voice, although it sounded harsher due to how fast he was talking. “It’s goddamn July and as soon as we’re out of the sun, we’ll be into the humidity. Triple-digit temps either way. Drink at least a cup of water every half hour.”
He held up an index finger and rushed off toward two other men who were loading rifles.
His departure revealed another extremely buff man who’d stood behind him and who now gazed directly at Chris. He looked familiar.
“Hi, I’m Chad,” the individual said and folded his bulging arms across his also-bulging chest. “You must be the…professor.” Chad, AKA the prick with the chin. Of course.
Chris adopted a neutral expression and extended his hand. “Hi, Dr. Christopher Lin,” he said. “I’m coming along to observe the Zoo. Nothing too serious.”
The man ignored the gesture. Had anyone actually shaken Chris’s hand since he’d arrived there? He might as well stop offering.
Chad’s eyebrows lifted themselves way up, his eyes widened, and his lips pouted outwards in a duck-face expression, all adding up to fake shock or mock concern. “You, ah, think this isn’t serious?”
Now, the scientist allowed himself to frown slightly. “You know what I—”
“Dr. Lin,” said Sgt. Wallace, insinuating himself between the two, “let’s get you suited up.”
Thank God.
Chris followed the sergeant to a low table they’d set up with clothes and gear. Chad fixed them with one last glare and wandered off toward the crates of weapons.
“Put this on over your clothes,” the soldier instructed. The outfit was a deep jungle-green. “We have some desert to cross before we hit the Zoo. Having a second layer underneath will act as a sweat absorber and help cool you down whenever a breeze hits. Otherwise, your sweat will evaporate too quickly in that sun. Did you hear what I said about drinking water every half hour?”
“Yes,” Chris replied. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. We also have a couple pairs of boots that should fit you. We won’t give you a gun since you’re not trained in small-unit tactics, but in a mi
nute, I’ll show you the basics of how to fire one anyway on the off-chance you need to pick one up and use it.”
Chris didn’t like the sound of that, but he nodded. The sergeant clearly had no time for small talk and didn’t seem to have a sense of humor, but he did at least seem legitimately concerned for the team’s welfare. That was encouraging.
Wallace left to supervise the other men as Chris pulled on the green pants and jacket and traded his shoes for black combat boots. There was also a safari hat in the same green-camo color scheme and he put it on immediately to avoid forgetting it later. A cousin of his in Arizona had once said something about how a hat could be the difference between life and death.
The other men in this unit were all military. There were no other civilian tagalongs. Furthermore, although the scientist didn’t know how to read rank insignias, none of them gave off obvious rookie vibes. Kemp must have hand-picked her people based on experience and general badassery. That was both good and bad. The good part was that he would not put his life in the hands of morons—with the possible exception of Chad. The bad part was that men like this wouldn’t have much patience for dumb questions or screw-ups. They were pros. He’d have to be careful.
Wallace reappeared moments after Chris finished suiting up. He held a black assault rifle. “All right. This is the M-ninety-two-A. We debuted it only two years ago and it’s…surprisingly good. Uncle Sam pulled a miracle out of his ass for once. It’s pretty much a mutation between our older M-four carbines and the AK-fifteen and its derivatives that the Russians still use. It fires a seven-point-six-two by thirty-nine round, bigger than the M-four, which is good since these locusts are harder to kill than a human being is. There was a period a few years ago when we thought we might end up fighting the Russians, so the idea was to be able to assimilate their ammunition for our own use, once we captured it.”
