Within five minutes Larry had been loaded into the van and laid flat on his back. Bauersfeld climbed in after him and sat on one of the utilitarian benches.
He might have made a crude comment about being able to look up her dress – this strange, creepy woman never wore trousers – but he’d been gagged since the start of the trip. Evidently they were afraid of him spitting on anyone to spread the virus.
She looked down at him and stared, unfailingly meeting his angry glare. “You have no idea how important you are. However, that merely means you’ll suffer more.”
Larry tried to tell her to kiss his ass, but all that came out was, “Ihff ma ahff.”
“Shh,” she said waving her gloved hand in front of his face. “There will be plenty of time for you to talk later. You may even find it hard to stop. You’ll beg us to let you tell whatever it is we want to know.”
Larry wondered why they thought he’d tell them more than he already had, which was little enough. They’d already tortured him in ways he’d never even imagined, in ways impossible before the Eden Plague made him able to survive the abuses. Actually, the inability to respond, to taunt his oppressor, was the most annoying thing about the situation. The helplessness, not the agony. The pain had become…routine.
“We’ve never managed to capture someone from the FC inner circle. This is quite a coup for me personally. The information we gain from you could help us bring down your whole rotten structure, your ridiculous made-up alien pseudo-government.”
Larry closed his eyes and sought to ignore the woman for the rest of the ride. It would do no good to explain that, though he’d happened to be on the team that rescued Elise Markis and liberated the Eden Plague from the Watts island facility, he really wasn’t close to Markis himself. His wife helped administer the efforts of FC biological researchers, and he’d been educating himself on all manner of heavy weaponry and engineering, but he had nothing to do with FC politics or spy stuff.
Until, that is, Markis had recruited him for this fiasco.
Bauersfeld nattered on with her paranoid ramblings, things that reminded him of pre-Plague conspiracy theories of secret Illuminati or Templars or the Elders of Zion, or alien abductions complete with anal probes. The main difference was, now the nut jobs had wormed their way into power.
Hours later they arrived and the rear doors opened. Bauersfeld climbed out, and then the two guards pulled Larry’s dolly out and set him carefully upright, as if they would damage their package. This merely demonstrated their hypocrisy, like a man condemned to death being given medical treatment to ensure he was healthy when executed.
His eyes, mostly healed now, ached in the sudden glare. He soon saw he was in a prison yard, surrounded by high, triple fences.
“Go ahead and take him in for processing,” Bauersfeld told the senior of the two guards. “Afterward, make sure he’s placed in his own cell. No experiments, starvation, or head games. No one talks to him without my consent. Anyone violates my instructions, I’ll have them injected with the virus and thrown in with the sickos. Understand?”
The man nodded and Bauersfeld walked off toward what appeared to be some sort of central building.
“Why are the hot ones always crazy?” the junior guard said, eyeing Bauersfeld’s sleek, skirted backside.
The senior guard punched him on the shoulder and hooked a thumb toward Larry.
“Ah, don’t worry. Who’s gonna believe him? Besides, you’re not going to say anything are you? Man code, right?”
Larry told him where he could stick his man code, but all that came out were a series of vowels. Very frustrating.
The guard nodded and clapped Larry appreciatively on the shoulder. “See. I knew he was a stand-up guy.”
The other guard shook his head.
“Did you see what I did there?” the younger guard asked, grinning. “Said he was a stand-up guy, and here he is standing up because he’s strapped to a dolly.”
“Yeah, you’re a real comedian. Ought to be in stand-up.”
“Ka-zanga! That was pretty good, Joe.”
“Oh, shut up. Come on, let’s get him inside.”
They turned him toward the central building and Larry got a view of the camp. He saw large holding pens and smaller cages, all made of cyclone fence riddled with tangles of razor wire, concertina wire and old-fashioned barbed wire. Some had insulators holding it away from the rest, electrified, he figured.
Inside these enclosures were things that had once appeared human, living zombies. Emaciated walking corpses, alive only because the virus would not let them die. Men with vacant eyes, no flesh on their bones. Naked bald women covered in seeping scar tissue from horrendous burns. Children with both arms amputated, trying pitifully to regenerate without adequate calories.
And these are just the ones in the general population, held for the possibility of later use, thought Larry. These are the castoffs, the ones they’ve learned from. Now they will let them starve to death. Won’t even bother to waste the price of a bullet. Or maybe they’re actually collecting data on how long it takes to waste away.
And they call us sickos.
Thankfully, he saw no more after they wheeled him into the central facility. Laid flat on the ground again, the two men passed behind a metal screen and spoke with other guards.
After a few minutes, an elderly man in a lab coat, with surgical mask and eye guards, came to kneel beside him. He used one hand, sheathed in a nitrile medical glove, to lift an eyelid. Satisfied, he made a note on a clipboarded form. Then he looked into Larry’s ears with a small instrument.
I already had my physical, Larry tried to quip, but what came out was unrecognizable.
“I suppose you’re asking if I am a doctor,” the man said without pausing in his exam. “They always ask that. I am. I’m the Chief Edenologist here.”
Larry gave him a deliberately confused look, trying to communicate with his facial expressions alone.
“Edenology,” he said. “The study of the Eden Plague, hopefully leading to a cure. Like most who come in here, you believe yourself to be well, but you are extremely sick. Unfortunately, like many caught an epidemic before effective treatments are developed, you will probably not live, but you should be happy. Your suffering will be appreciated by all who live plague-free because of your contributions.”
“How’s he look?” the senior guard, the one Bauersfeld had given special instructions, asked from behind him.
“For all the world like a normal human being...well, except for the fact that it is a giant who would like to crush all our skulls. Though the mind-altering disease will likely prevent that.” The man put his tools away and stood.
“He gives me the creeps,” said the second guard.
The Edenologist looked at the man and nodded appreciatively. “It, sir. It. It should, young man. A healthy respect for the danger this organism poses is the beginning of wisdom.”
“Put him – it – in 12D,” said a man behind the cage. “Down the hall to your right.”
The two guards grunted with effort as they lifted the dolly back to an upright position. After being buzzed through a steel gate, they wheeled Larry down a wide hallway, unlit from above. A glow spilled into it from somewhere.
As his eyes adjusted, he realized the light came from cells on either side of him. Rather than being walled with steel or concrete, these were more like zoo displays, fronted by thick glass embedded with wire mesh. They were brightly lit, making it easy to see in but not out.
People occupied most of the cages. Some stood near the front, faces pressed to the glass, staring out into the dimness, but most lay on thin pallets on the floor. None seemed well fed, but they looked somewhat healthier than those in the yard. Yet, despair marked them all.
When they arrived at 12D, the door buzzed and opened, apparently remotely controlled. The two guards stepped in front of Larry.
The senior gave Larry a nasty grin. “I know what you’re thinking. I’ll wait until t
hey start taking these straps off. I’ll be as gentle as a lamb until I’m unrestrained, and then I’ll make my move. Am I right?”
Larry merely stared at the man, refusing to give him the satisfaction of admitting he was right.
“Well, that just ain’t going to happen,” the guard said. “You should know this ain’t our first rodeo, cowboy.” He pulled out a syringe and shoved the needle into Larry’s arm. “Do you see what I did there?” he asked the other guard. “First rodeo. Cowboy. Good, huh?”
“Pretty good on the spur of the moment,” his partner answered, deadpan. “Now let’s saddle up and ride on outta here.”
Larry felt a burning spread outward from his arm, and then suddenly all his muscles turned to rubber. He fought to keep his eyes open, but they began to close and reality drifted out of focus.
Just before losing consciousness, one crystal clear thought occurred to him.
I’m never leaving this place alive.
Chapter 19
Advertisements to the contrary, Reaper realized ATVs were not the best way to get around in the densely forested and steep hills of Appalachia. The four-wheeled vehicles they drove were loaded down with heavy gear. Despite their speed and carrying capacity, they were forced to stick to wider trails, almost roads. Those on foot had much greater freedom.
“Is this really supposed to work?” asked Bunny, pulling up beside Reaper and Hawkeye as they waited for scouts ahead to give them the all-clear. “Won’t those drones just listen for the ATVs, or follow their heat signatures?”
“Not necessarily,” answered Hulk. “Those are small drones. They probably have only a few sensors each.”
Reaper, Hawkeye, and Bunny stared at the large man in amazement.
“Did you hear that?” asked Bunny. “The damn thing can talk. Do you think he’s becoming self-aware?”
“It’s true,” said Hulk. “If you want to carry a bunch of shit you have to be big.”
“Truer words were never spoken,” said Bunny, squeezing one of Hulk’s massive arms appreciatively. He responded by reaching around and groping one of her healthy breasts.
“You know this is still kinda one of those ‘life or death’ situations?” said Hawkeye.
“I’ve learned to take whatever happiness gets sent my way,” Bunny said. She turned her face to Hulk’s. “Want to go fool around in the bushes?”
“No,” said Reaper and Hawkeye at the same time.
“Sure,” answered Hulk. “If I’m on top.”
“No deal,” said Bunny.
“Shh,” said Reaper. “Hear that?”
There came a faint, high-pitched whine from the west.
“More drones,” said Hawkeye.
“These sound different,” said Hulk, releasing Bunny. “Bigger.”
“Well, size does matter, after all,” said Bunny.
Hawkeye quickly pulled binoculars out of his sniper bag and pointed them toward a speck on the horizon. “Oh shit,” he eventually said.
“What?” asked Reaper.
“Hulk’s right. We got a fixed wing drone coming in, like a Predator. Worse yet, I see missiles.”
“My namesake,” said Reaper. “MQ-9 Reaper.”
“Which way is it headed?” asked Bunny.
“Right for us,” answered Hawkeye. They looked below them at the line of ATV’s trying to make their way up the mountain path. Overhead tree cover was patchy on the steep slope. “They’re sitting ducks.”
Reaper keyed her radio. “Drones inbound! Spread out and take cover. Hide the ATVs, then grab your rucks and get away from them! Hulk, go downhill and tell anyone who didn’t copy!”
Without a word Hulk began running down the hill, crashing through brush and saplings as if they didn’t exist. When he got to the line of ATVs, he gestured wildly in the direction of the incoming drone and began helping push the ATVs under the cover of bushes. When one got wedged between a tree and a large rock, Reaper actually saw the man lift the thing, cargo and all, and move it from the tight spot.
“Uh-oh,” said Hawkeye.
Reaper turned to find him looking to the west again with his binoculars.
“What now?” asked Bunny.
“You know that Reaper headed our way?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, there’s more of them.”
Reaper turned to look and was alarmed at how close the first drone was. She could see it with her naked eye. As she watched, a pinprick separated itself and angled toward them, a thin line of smoke trailing it.
“Incoming!” Reaper screamed and ran to leap behind a pile of rocks.
An explosion shook the hillside. Debris and dirt leapt high into the air. The drone circled, no doubt examining its handiwork.
“Good thing they’re flying low, trying to pinpoint and shoot us, or we’d never see them,” said Hawkeye climbing out from under a fallen tree.
“How is this a good thing?” asked Reaper.
“They could simply track our movements, and then send in an airstrike or kill teams once we camped. Someone must be impatient.”
“Or worried.” Another explosion struck the hillside nearby and Reaper felt a burning on her face. She reached up to find blood.
“Yes, this is much better,” said Bunny, slapping at flames licking at her tightly pinned hair.
A lithe figure leaped in beside them from above.
“Jeez, Spooky,” Reaper snapped. “Give us some warning next time.” She put away the blade she’d drawn in reflex.
“How many drones are there?” he asked calmly.
“Three that I see,” said Hawkeye. “It’s a hunter-killer team.”
A missile struck the hill far above them.
“We have to get out of here,” said Reaper.
Spooky shook his head. “It will do no good. They might run out of missiles, but they’ll still know we’re here. We have to take them out so we can melt into these hills.”
“Take them out?” asked Hawkeye. “With what?”
Spooky smiled without a word, and then bounded down the hillside toward the scattered ATVs. He raced from vehicle to vehicle before finding the one he was looking for. He popped open a case strapped on the back and pulled out a cylindrical object and two small canisters, which he dropped into his cargo pockets.
“Is that a missile launcher?” said Bunny.
“Not like any I’ve ever seen,” said Reaper.
Spooky climbed up onto a large rock with an open field of view, placed the weapon against his shoulder, and looked toward the horizon.
“They’re coming back around,” Hawkeye yelled looking through his binoculars. “Eleven o’clock.”
Spooky aimed the weapon, his eye to a scope on the side.
Reaper watched as he slowly pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
“Crap,” said Bunny.
“Look,” said Hawkeye pointing toward the horizon. One drone descended toward the ground with deceptive grace until it crashed in a fiery heap.
Reaper looked back at Spooky and saw him unscrewing a canister from the bottom of the weapon, replacing it with one from his cargo pocket. “Maybe it’s a laser.”
“Maybe.”
Hawkeye helped spot the drones and Spooky took out the remaining two. They both crashed, one farther down the hill and another high above them.
The danger past, the teams began recovering their ATVs and scattered gear. Walking down the path toward Spooky, Reaper saw him smiling.
“What is that thing?” she asked.
“An experimental weapon,” Spooky answered with a touch of pride. “I didn’t make it, but I requested its development. Something from Herschel.”
“The guy who made the EMP bomb that took out New York City?” asked Reaper.
“The same.”
Hawkeye stepped forward and looked closely at the object. “A directional EMP weapon small enough to be carried.”
“Indeed,” answered Spooky. “The range is rather limited, but we’
re working on that.”
“Derrick said to keep moving,” called Owen from below. “More could be on the way. The caves aren’t far.”
“He’s right,” said Hawkeye. “We need to hurry.”
“Casualties?” Reaper asked. Her team and Derrick’s conducted a quick roll call and found only superficial injuries and everyone accounted for...except Shortfuse.
“Anyone see him?” Reaper asked.
“He was at the end of the ATVs,” said Stitch. “Said he was going to keep a personal eye on his explosives.”
“Only he would cuddle up to what kills him,” Hawkeye said.
Reaper gave him a warning look, but began running down the hill toward the ATVs. She keyed her radio. “Shortfuse! Hey! Answer me! Sound off!”
No answer.
“Dammit. Where’s the ATV with the demo?” Reaper soon found it, undamaged. “Everyone spread out from here, quarter and search.” She began pointing out directions, images in her mind of her teammate crawling through the dirt, injured.
“I’m here,” came a distant voice.
Reaper looked down and saw the man struggling up the steep trail, a thick round metal object covered in wires on his shoulder. Stitch grabbed the thing, and then passed it to Hulk.
“What the hell happened to you?” asked Reaper when they arrived. “And what is that?”
Shortfuse smiled as Hulk lifted the heavy object off his shoulders and held it in his huge hands. “That’s a drone brain, a control module, whatever you want to call it.”
“Did it fall out of the sky on you?” asked Hawkeye.
Shortfuse looked confused. “No. I took it out of the one that crashed.”
“Why?” asked Reaper.
“Because it’s cool, duh,” he answered. “And it might be useful.”
“Since when do you go running off in the middle of a firefight and not tell anyone?”
“I told somebody. That guy.” He pointed vaguely toward one of Derrick’s people, then shrugged.
“We have to didi mao, now,” said Derrick, striding toward them. “More drones could be here any minute.”
“You heard him,” said Reaper. “Vamonos. Salvage what you can from the damaged ATVs and double up if you have to. Follow Derrick’s people. Hulk, give that thing to Shortfuse.”
Nearest Night Page 13
