Doomsday Exam [BUREAU 13 Book Two]

by Nick Pollotta

  "But he may not!"

  Lifting a wrist, I displayed my watch. “Can we take that chance?"

  Raul's face underwent a wide variety of expressions, none of them pleasant, until at last he accepted the awful truth.

  "Come on,” I said standing. “Let's go.” Tossing a few bills onto the table, I started shoving my way through the drunk, leering crowd. The waitress moved in fast to get the cash before a patron did. Before joining me, Raul downed his drink and then mine. For once, I said nothing to stop him. All mages drink. Raul just a bit more than the rest, and for good reasons.

  * * * *

  A short talk and surreptitious money exchange with the reception clerk of the motel, Raul and me got the room with our lucky number on it, which by purest coincidence just happened to be right next door to Vampire Boy and his unwilling date. In the room, we dimmed the lights and Raul produced a peeper pen. Sheathed in teflon coated surgical steel, you could easily shove it into almost any wall and the needle tip made only a minuscule hole in the other side. Inside the pen was a prism and lenses assembly that gave a wide-angle view of what was happening in the next room. There wasn't a PI in the civilized world that didn't have one, or would admit that they did.

  Braced for what I might see, I took the first look. “Goddamn it, we're behind a picture!"

  Moving the peeper a foot to the right, we gauged the location of the picture from the position of the portrait in our room, and managed to get a clear view this time. It wasn't pretty.

  Pert breasts sticking up from a ripped lace bra, the girl was spread-eagle on the bed, hand and legs tied to the four corners with torn sheets, panties dangling off an ankle. He was stark naked, his lean body pumping hard. But suddenly he stopped, and she got an expression of raw terror contorting her face. She started to struggle wildly. The boy laughed and buried his mouth onto her neck. The girl went stiff, her fingers clawing at the air.

  "Is she dead,” Raul said, his hands twisting on the silver staff. “Yes, I can see it in your face."

  An agent's burden, I told myself.

  "Want me to take a turn?” the mage hesitantly offered.

  "No!” I snapped. But after a moment added, “Thank you."

  He accepted that. So I watched, God help me, I watched him kill her. I wanted to shut my eyes, to close my ears to her faint, barely audible screams. Desperately, I wanted to burst in there before it was too late and kill the freaking son of a bitch. Raul was correct, our job was to save lives. Yet 6 billion lives rested upon our inaction. But was the world worth this? Was the life of one useless stripper worth the rest of humanity?

  Morally? No.

  Tactically? Yes.

  So I performed my job and did not glance away. If I was to be responsible for her death, I would watch, to know what she went through, so I could carry the memory to my grave. I would not be a coward. Yet deep down inside my guts, for the very first time, I hated being a Bureau 13 agent.

  * * * *

  Almost an hour passed and eventually he finished to rise from the mutilated corpse. As I removed the pen from the wall and handed it to Raul, the mage took hold of my shoulders and forced me to face him.

  "Maybe he'll make her an undead also,” Raul offered. “Then the Bureau can recruit her and train the girl to handle the difficulties of being a vampire. But she can still have a full life. A really long one!"

  The words were torn from my throat. “He ate her heart."

  Letting go of my jacket, Raul slumped. She was dead for keeps. There would be no graveyard resurrection.

  Silently, we moved to the window, parted the thin curtains and watched as the young butcher departed the room, carefully closing and locking the door. Hands in pockets, the monster headed for the streets. Showtime.

  We followed using a standard two man rotation. We trailed the murderer to the nicer section of town and then over the Covington Bridge into south Cincinnati. Quick as possible, Raul and I modified our disguises as much as possible into something a bit more respectable. Our boy stopped to take a leak on the Tyler David monument at the Fifth Street traffic circle and then moved off into the shadows of a nearby alley.

  Waiting a minute just to be careful, Raul and I tagged along. Traffic was sparse and the footsteps of distant pedestrians echoed strangely in the still night air.

  Sure enough, from the alley came a trickle of smoke that disappeared down a metal grating by the curb and into a storm drain.

  "Follow and don't lose him,” I softly commanded. “I'll call the team."

  "How?” Raul demanded in disbelief.

  "Go!"

  He paused. “Good luck."

  "Thanks, buddy. You too."

  "Breadcrumbs,” he replied, producing a jar of petroleum jelly. Glumly, I nodded. Then swirling an imaginary cape about himself, Raul vanished.

  Anger and hatred fueling my resolve, I headed for a liquor store. Time was of the essence and I needed to get drunk fast, for more reasons then one.

  * * * *

  Returning to Saddle Brook, my task of finding a liquor store doing business this late at night was no problem. Using cash, I purchased six bottles of Everclear and a pint of whiskey. Moving a few blocks away from the store, I prepared for my new role in a garbage strewn alley. Holding my nose, I forced myself to drink half of the whiskey and place the rest aside for later.

  Next I removed every Bureau issue article and piece of identification I had in my possession. Sunglasses, ID booklet, signet ring, lighter, body armor, false tooth filled with Untruth Serum, wallet, commission booklet, keys, unbreakable pocketcomb, my last fountain pen, shoulder holster, extra ammo, knife, derringer, handkerchief, beltbuckle and wristwatch.

  Spreading my flame retardant cloth on the bottom of a metal trashcan, I dumped my possessions on top and then poured in the Everclear. At 99% pure grain alcohol, the liquor was highly flammable. Setting my watch and cigarette lighter for a slow burning self-destruct, I grabbed the whiskey bottle and retreated. I barely made it to the street when the trash can thunderously detonated. The alley was filled with flame and shrapnel, illuminating the whole neighborhood and rattling windows for blocks. Fleetingly, I saw the pocketcomb zoom by, chip a brick wall and zing off into the night. Wow, I guess it really was unbreakable.

  Lights came on in a dozen places and I quickly dumped the rest of the whiskey over my clothing then pocketed the bottle.

  "Ya-hoo!” I cried, triggering a Magnum and shattering two store windows. Alarms began clanging. “Yippee! I'm on Earth again! Hurrah!” Two more booming rounds punctuated my goofy expressions of joy.

  Needless to say, even in Saddle Brook a police car soon rolled by to investigate. I had been rationing my bullets and only three were remaining when they arrived. Parking a half block away, the cops advanced in regulation one-on-one formation with their guns drawn. Good lads. Please, please, consider me dangerous. I shot out another street lamp and pissed in my pants. The things I do for America.

  "Now put down the gun, fella,” the officer said, approaching steadily. His voice was low and soothing, calm and even. He was very good at this. Must handle a lot of drunks.

  "You can't arrest me,” I snarled and gave a hiccup. “I'm from Mars!"

  The officer smiled. “Hey, me too! Buddy! Neighbor!"

  Damn, this guy was really good. I thought fast. “You're no buddy of mine,” I slurred, weaving drunkenly on my feet. That part was not altogether an act. The cheap booze mixed with no food in eight hours was hitting me hard. I didn't dare try anymore marksman shooting or I might kill somebody. “You're a thul sucking biggle-fargul!"

  "Nyah,” he denied, coming ever closer. “That's my partner. He also smokes and fizzle gorps!"

  As much as he was messing up my scheme, I had to admire his total professionalism. “A fizzle gorp!” I drooled, waving the Magnums overhead. “Da Earth loving scum. Let's go shoot him in the spleen!"

  "But those guns won't work on Earth folk,” he said nearly within arms reach. “Here use mine.”
He held out a revolver that I knew must be empty.

  "Look out!” I screamed, firing my last two shots in the air. “He's gonna spur-tune!"

  Tossing my weapons away, I dizzily reached for the offered gun. It was immediately withdrawn and somebody tripped me from behind. Down I went flat on my face and the cops piled on top. My arms were yanked behind my back and I heard metallic clicking.

  "Shut up, ya loony,” somebody snarled. “Don't give us anymore crap!"

  That was my cue to roll over and bellow into their faces, “BUT I'M FROM MARS! MARS! MARS! MARS! You can't arrest me! I gotta get back to my spaceship or die!"

  The cuffs clicked with brutal force and I was roughly hauled erect. I loudly burped in one officer's face while the other attempted to frisk me.

  "Whew, what breath,” one of the police said holding his nose.

  "Don't touch me there,” I screamed again at the top of my lungs. “That'll kill a Martian! And I'm from Mars! Mars! I gotta get back to my ship and go home to Mars!"

  "And where the fuck is your ship, Darth Vader?” the first officer demanded, grabbing a fistful of my collar neatly cutting off my air and greatly restricting movement. “On the moon?"

  About time he asked. “Bangor, Maine,” I said, attempting to vomit or fart.

  Caught by surprise, the second officer smiled in spite of himself, “Bangor, Maine?"

  Screeching insanely, I struggled futilely against the cuffs. “No human can say that word! Only another Martian like me! Bangor, Maine! Bangor, Maine! Argh!"

  Charging head first, I butted one cop in the stomach, then attempted to spin around and the kick the other, but I fell down with a thump. Ouch. Then the patrolmen moved in and I gave them the best fight I could under the conditions. Kicking, biting, spitting, clawing and constantly shouting over and over again that I was a Martian on my way to Bangor, Maine.

  The Saddle Brook police actually accepted my behavior for a lot longer than I ever would have. But finally, bleeding, sore, dirty and half deaf from my raw-throated screams, they pulled out the night sticks and did a little tap dance on my head, using Morse Code to politely inform me that it was nappy time.

  As I was pounded into a red haze of pain, I tried once more to shout out my home world and goal. I had to be the most memorable arrest these two ever made. It was imperative! The fate of the world depended upon it.

  Along with revenge for a skinny blonde girl whose name I didn't even know.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Reeking of disinfectant, I was languishing in my cell nursing a severe headache from both the bad booze and the beating, when I noticed a thick black line form on the exterior cinder block wall.

  About six feet off the concrete floor, the line steadily progressed in both directions until it was three feet in length, then the ends did a sharp angle downward and extended to the floor. With a creak, the rectangle swung aside and Mindy stepped in through the hole.

  "Hi, Ed,” she said softly. Beyond the doorway, I could see a wooded park with our RV from Chicago looming in the shadows underneath a nearby copse of trees.

  Summoning superhuman strength, I raised a trembling finger. “Shush,” I whispered, my temples throbbing. “Stop screaming."

  She nodded and the snoring of the other forty inmates of the drunk tank resumed their normal singsong buzz sawing. Personally, I did not believe that saturation bombing by the U.S. Air Force could wake these guys, but I was playing it safe.

  "What's the story?” Mindy asked in a hushed voice. “Do you want to be rescued?"

  "Believe it,” I said softly, forcing myself to stand. “We've found Mystery Man."

  "Great! Where's Raul?” Her voice had unaccustomed emotion.

  I rested a hand against the wall to keep myself erect. “Heading smack into the lion's den, but leaving a breadcrumb trail for us to follow."

  "Then let's go."

  "Yowsa."

  As we stepped through the magical portal, the wall closed and sealed in our wake. Climbing into the van, I kissed my wife hello and we drove off into the night.

  "Cincinnati, downtown,” I told the front of the van.

  A hooded video monitor in the dashboard changed from displaying a street map of Saddle Brook into a grid of neighboring city.

  "Faith and begorra, will we be wanting city hall or the wee police station?” asked a redheaded bear of a man behind the steering wheel. Wearing a flowing black cassock and track shoes, the Irish goliath had a string of rosary beads dangling from the holstered Bible at his hip and a massive gold crucifix hung about his neck.

  "Donaher!” I cried, then held my head in both hands and pressed hard, trying to force the pieces back together again.

  George and Ken helped me to the couch, while Katrina knelt before me and drew apart the top of a leather medical bag to produce an assortment of items. Pouring an envelope full of blue powder into a jelly jar containing a yellow liquid, the mixture turned green. What a surprise. But then it went purple, brown, red, frothy white and clear. She shoved the jar into my hands. “Drink!” she commanded.

  Hoping it was fast-acting poison, I chugged the brew down and wham I was a new man. Headache, pain, tiredness, gone-gone-gone. I felt fit and ready to do battle.

  "What is that stuff?” I asked, licking the rim before returning the glass container.

  "Old family recipe,” Katrina said, wiping off the jar with a disposal antiseptic towelette.

  "Okay. But what is it made of?"

  "Old families."

  I laughed. Then paused. Nyah.

  Moving to the rear of the RV, I rummaged about in a locker until I found some respectable and less odious clothes. In my personal box, I obtained duplicate personal effects and another FBI ID commission booklet. Going to the weapons locker, I got a watch, more body armor, a new double shoulder holster and my spare set of Magnums. Ultra-light weight ***42 in the left, combat model ***66 in the right. I grabbed a fistful of pens, filled my pockets with speedloaders and added a HE grenade for luck.

  "Perfect!” I exclaimed, straightening my tie in a small mirror.

  Timidly, Jessica handed me a breath mint. “Not quite yet, dearest."

  Properly chastised, I sucked and munched. Cheap whiskey did that to a man, along with a severe lack of food. So I raided the stash of MRE military rations we always keep on board. The US Army vacuum-packed meatloaf was like chewing a shoe and just as tasty. Forcing a lump down my gullet, I briefly wondered if the Mexican Army had field rations more fitting for a soldier about to do battle.

  "Did my message get to you,” I asked after swallowing. “Or did you locate me some other way?"

  Jess smiled, “When the InfoNet computer rattled off a report of a drunk with two Magnums claiming that he was from Mars and on his way to Bangor Maine, we knew it had to be you."

  "Why didn't you try and contact me?” I asked. With the halogen streetlights illuminating her from behind, my bride was even lovelier than ever.

  "I did,” she replied blushing. “But in Huntsville. This place is a thousand miles off target."

  True enough. Moving to the front passenger seat, I checked the map on the monitor and showed Donaher where we wanted to go.

  "By the way, Michael, how did your assassination attempt, I mean, your sabbatical end?” I asked, buckling on the seatbelt.

  Busy paying attention to the traffic, Father Donaher scowled, and then smiled. “I actually made it into the throne room this time, before they discovered it was me and threw me out.” The priest lowered his voice. “Faith, Ed. Satan is a lot larger than I had ever imagined."

  "How big?” I asked curiously.

  "Texas is what comes to mind."

  Wow. Mucho grande.

  "What will police do when they discover that your fingerprints are those of an FBI agent?” Sanders asked, the huge Thompson machine gun he held in both hands appearing to be a child's toy. Ken Sanders was the only human being I had ever met that made Father Michael X
avier Donaher seem small. With these two protean behemoths tagging along, it was going to be difficult remaining inconspicuous.

  "The Bureau will not identify the prints of any agent in jail,” I explained. “How would the folks at HQ know if a field agent is going undercover as a criminal and wants to be in jail? They only ID the fingerprints off a dead Bureau agent. I'm not missing until roll is taken in the morning."

  "Besides, there is a number we can call to get us out of jail on anything but a Murder One charge,” George said, his own M60 resting across his lap.

  "What is?” Katrina asked.

  He smiled. “1-8-0-0-B-U-R-E-A-U-1-3."

  She quickly counted. “But this is too long. American phone numbers only have seven integers. Da?"

  "Not ours,” George smiled, patting a shapely knee.

  As we turned onto Fifth Street, I brought the team up to date on the current situation. Parking the RV by a meter at the curb, Donaher took change to feed the municipal quarter-eater as the rest of us prepped for underground warfare.

  Wadding boots was the first thing we wanted, but there were only two pairs. Katrina fixed that by having Mindy slice the boots into rubbery shreds and then magically repairing the pieces into seven whole sets of boots. Now that was a useful trick. Wonder if she could do it with money?

  We also took gloves, flashlights, bug-repellant, gas masks and magnesium underwater flares. Plus, an ultra-violet lantern.

  After emptying the weapons locker, Jessica was carrying an Uzi machine pistol with a bulbous silencer on the barrel and a pouch of clips over a shoulder. Rare indeed was the fight when my lovely telepath went deliberately armed with lethal weapons. On her back was a canister and pressure tank assembly, with a holstered pistol at the end of a segmented hose. Katrina, George and Ken also had similar tanks. Each was color coded differently.

  "Okay, what did you guys come up with?” I asked, smearing on the bug repellant. Good stuff, it had even worked on Them!

  Patting her weapon, Jessica spoke. “Mine is a possible stun. It squirts a combination of MSG and DMSO, with a stabilizing agent."