Sycamore Bluff

by Jude Hardin

  But he didn’t have to wonder long.

  Enormous.

  It was the only word that even came close to adequately describing the clanging, cracking, splintering din of that gasoline-powered forklift crashing through the conference room’s emergency exit. Dust and rubble and freezing cold sunshine filled the room as the jagged gash widened before Colt’s eyes. Sparks flew from severed electrical connections. Two-by-four studs creaked and moaned and clattered to the floor. The door itself lay off to the side, buckled and twisted and ready for the scrap heap.

  Diana Dawkins revved the forklift’s engine and eased the vehicle further into the room. She climbed down from the driver’s seat, walked over to Colt and said, “I looked for a wheelchair, but this was all I could find.”

  Colt shook his head in disbelief. “I guess it’ll have to do,” he said. “What happened with the explosives?”

  “They blew up.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I got lucky,” Diana said. “I threw the backpack into the production area, closed the door and took off running. I made it out the front door, but not by much. Fortunately, the production area was well contained, and the walls were strong enough to absorb the blast. Unfortunately, everything in there was destroyed.”

  “You looked?” Colt said.

  “I didn’t have to. There’s black smoke pouring out of the exhaust vents. I’m sure all the evidence was lost.”

  “Honestly, I don’t even care anymore,” Colt said. “To tell you the truth, I’m just amazed that we’re still alive. Do you think you could get me out of here now?”

  “Absolutely,” Diana said.

  She reached into her backpack, pulled out a syringe and a hypodermic needle and a vial filled with clear liquid. She screwed the needle onto the syringe, snapped the top off the vial with her thumb, pierced the port with the needle and drew out the medication.

  “What’s that?” Colt said.

  “Don’t worry about what it is. It’s going to make you feel better. It might be fifteen minutes or so before you feel the full effect, but then you’ll notice a difference in your pain level and your energy level. I promise.”

  “All right.”

  She tapped the bend in Colt’s left arm, found a vein and administered the injection. It made his stomach lurch, and his entire body felt hot and tingly, as though he’d gulped down half a pint of cheap tequila. He thought he was going to be sick, but the feeling passed after a few seconds.

  “You okay?” Diana said.

  “I think so.”

  “I’m going to help you slide onto that pallet, and then I’m going to back the forklift out of the spiffy new doorway I created. Next stop, Town Hall. The helicopter finally landed on the roof.”

  “But it’s not a friendly helicopter,” Colt said.

  “That’s okay. I’m not feeling particularly friendly myself at the moment.”

  Transferring from the floor onto the oak pallet reignited the pain in Colt’s leg, and the left side of his face felt as though someone had pressed the wrinkles out of it with a steam iron. But his hands worked fine, and he managed to maintain a grip on the Ruger 9mm when Diana placed it in his hand.

  “You cut it too close,” he said. “You should have just left me.”

  “Whatever. I still need your help. We’re not out of the woods yet, not by a long shot. I have a feeling the three guys we saw starting house fires are going to be waiting in the helicopter.”

  “What are you going to do about them?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. But I can pretty much guarantee they’re not going to be real happy when—”

  “I heard your conversation with the man who did this to me,” Colt said. “That was the operative you told me about? Henry Parker?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re positive this time?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must be very upset,” Colt said. “You know, if what you said was true. That you were in love with him and all.”

  “That was before I knew that he was a double agent. That changed everything. Anyway, this was the second time I killed him. After a while, it’s kind of like riding a bicycle. You just do it.”

  Diana was trying to play it off, but Colt could tell she felt it somewhere deep.

  “How did he get rid of the blood tattoo?” he said. “And the microchip?”

  “Surgery,” Diana said. “About a third of his left foot is gone.”

  “That would explain the limp.”

  “Yes.”

  “The first time you shot him, it was because he’d betrayed The Circle. He’d broken under pressure, and he’d divulged a boatload of secret information to the enemy.”

  “The whole thing was an act,” Diana said.

  “Still, you thought that was what happened, and you carried out your duty according to protocol.”

  “Yes. That’s correct.” She paused. “I think I know where you’re going with this, Nicholas, but you really don’t need to confess your crime to me. I was standing at the door listening when you talked to Henry. I already know what you said. You betrayed the organization, the same way I thought he had.”

  Colt’s heart skipped a beat. He knew that the punishment for such a transgression was non-negotiable.

  “I wasn’t going to confess anything,” he said. “But since you already know, I do have one question: why am I not dead yet?”

  “Rules were meant to be broken sometimes,” Diana said. “And that’s all I’m going to say about that.”

  Colt smiled. “Don’t forget my Old Fitz over there,” he said. “It would be a shame for good liquor to go to waste.”

  Diana rolled her eyes, but she grabbed the bottle from the counter and shoved it into her backpack. She climbed onto the forklift, put it in reverse, and backed out through the hole in the wall.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Diana couldn’t drive the forklift up the steps to the town hall building’s front door, and she couldn’t carry Colt up there in her arms, so she drove around to the alley and parked by the emergency exit.

  She saw the pieces of Barry Westinghouse Colt had told her about earlier. There was a partially-eaten leg lying in the gutter beside a trashcan, the flesh frozen so hard that it was nearly black. The sight of it sickened her, and it reminded her that the sloffs might show up again at any time.

  “I’m going to run around to the front,” she said. “Then I’ll open this door from inside.”

  “I’m feeling a little better,” Colt said. “I guess the medicine worked. I think I might be able to stand now, with some help. I could probably even manage the steps if I had to.”

  “That’s good to know, but it’s better to park the lift back here anyway. Less likely to draw attention.”

  “Okay.”

  “See you in a minute,” Diana said.

  She cut the engine and ran up the alley toward Jasmine Street. She took Jasmine to Main, trotted up the steps to the front entrance of the town hall building, opened the door and walked inside.

  She scanned the room for sloffs, but apparently none had wandered in. At least there weren’t any on the first floor. She scooted the piano back in front of the doorway.

  She could hear the helicopter’s engine idling overhead. The pilot and the three fire starters were probably in panic mode about now, she thought. From the roof, they could surely see the thick plumes of black smoke pouring out of The Factory. The explosives had been detonated already, and it was way past the time Henry Parker had designated for their rendezvous and subsequent departure. So they were getting worried. No doubt about it.

  She wondered how long the pilot would wait before giving up on Henry. Probably not much longer, which meant she needed to hurry. She didn’t want to wait another seventeen hours for the supply helicopter. She wanted to leave Sycamore Bluff now. There was nothing left for her and Colt to do—other than die at the hands of the sloffs, perhaps—and she needed get word to The Director before the whole town went up in f
lames.

  She descended the stairs to the basement and opened the emergency exit door. Colt was on his feet, leaning against the forklift, supporting himself with his good leg.

  “Good to see you up,” Diana said. “Come on. I’ll help you.”

  Colt put his arm around her shoulder and they squeezed through the doorway together. Diana pulled the door shut. It was warmer in the basement than it was outside, but not much. The bodies in the makeshift morgue were being well preserved.

  “Are you planning to commandeer that helicopter and fly us out of here?” Colt said.

  “Yes.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “You got a problem with it?” Diana said.

  “I’m just wondering if it might be better to wait here for the supply helicopter.”

  “Not a good idea.”

  “Why not?” Colt said. “I’m sure the pilot waiting up there on the roof is eventually going to realize that Henry’s not coming. He’ll take off, and voila. No more bad guys.”

  “You’re forgetting about the sloffs. How many of them are we going to have to fend off? It’s only a matter of time until they find their way in through one of the windows. They seem to be cognitively challenged, but they’ll figure it out eventually. They’ll just break the glass and climb on in. I’m hoping there aren’t many left, but you never know. Lenny said it should be only one percent of the population, but—”

  “Who?” Colt said.

  “I talked to the chemist who created the stuff that’s been turning some of these townspeople into brain-dead, bloodthirsty fiends, the substance that was added to the NASA vitamins. U-Three, he called it. I talked to him right before I was forced to kill him. He said that in previous trials only one percent of the test subjects were adversely affected, and he figured the numbers would be about the same this time around.”

  “He gave that stuff to people knowing what it might do to them?”

  “No,” Diana said. “He’d reworked the formula. He thought he had all the kinks worked out, but obviously not. Which is a shame, because it sounded like U-Three could have been one of the most important medical treatments ever discovered. Lenny told me that at one time he was even being considered for a Nobel Prize.”

  “You think that’s true?”

  “I don’t know. He sounded convincing. And he told me some other things.”

  “What things?”

  “Never mind,” Diana said. “I never should have brought it up.”

  “But you did.”

  “Yeah. I’m just not sure I should tell you.”

  “What are you talking about?” Colt said.

  There was a tinge of impatience in his voice. Understandable, Diana thought. Still, she was hesitant to tell him everything Lenny had told her.

  “Let’s sit down for a minute,” she said.

  “Just tell me what you’re talking about, Diana. Why are you being so—”

  “Please.”

  Diana gestured toward a series of benches against the wall opposite the basement offices. She steered Colt to the closest one and helped him ease down into it. She sat beside him.

  “My leg actually feels better when I’m standing,” Colt said. “Weird, huh?”

  “I’ll give you another shot in a little while if you need it.”

  “Great. So what did this Lenny guy tell you that was such a big deal?”

  “It is a big deal,” Diana said. “You’re not going to believe what a big deal it is.”

  Diana had made her decision. She intended to tell Colt about Lenny’s most stunning results, about the monkeys—two of them, on two separate occasions—that had been fully awakened from comatose states following a single dose of U-3.

  “Well?” Colt said.

  “All right. According to Lenny—”

  But before Diana had a chance to finish her sentence, a burst of automatic weapon fire erupted from the direction of the staircase.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Diana rolled to the floor and fired three shots toward the muzzle flash. The person who’d been shooting at her and Colt made some anguished grunting sounds and tumbled headfirst to the bottom of the stairs.

  Diana looked over at Colt. “Are you okay?” she said.

  “I don’t think I have any fresh holes in me, if that’s what you mean. But I might have soiled my britches a little.”

  “Cover me,” Diana said.

  She kept her pistol trained on the assailant as she walked a straight line toward the staircase. She figured the man lying on the floor was going to be a member of Henry’s arson team, but he was not. The guys she and Colt had seen on the television monitors were wearing black outfits and black ski masks. The man on the floor was dressed in blue and red plaid pajama bottoms and a clashing red sweatshirt.

  And his chin was crusted with dried spittle.

  “It’s one of them,” Diana shouted. “One of the sloffs.”

  “Great,” Colt said. “Now they have machine guns.”

  “At least he didn’t aim very well. I’m going to walk up to the second floor and look around. We don’t need any more surprises.”

  “I’m right behind you.”

  “Are you sure you can make it?” Diana said.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Maybe you better wait here.”

  Colt didn’t say anything. Diana holstered her pistol and picked the dead man’s Uzi up off the floor. While she was checking to see how much ammunition was left in the magazine, Colt hobbled up behind her.

  “Sorry,” he said. “But I can’t let you have all the fun.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re the most stubborn man on the planet?”

  “More than once.”

  “I need to move fast,” Diana said. “And I can’t slow down and wait for you to catch up every five seconds.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t expect you to have any pity on the poor crippled guy. You move at your pace, and I’ll move at mine.”

  Diana grunted in exasperation. She stepped over the fallen sloff and darted up the stairway, taking the steps two at a time.

  She made a quick survey of the first floor. As before, it appeared to be unoccupied, so she continued upward. She climbed swiftly, paying no attention to how far she was leaving Colt behind.

  At the second floor landing, she got her first close-up glimpse of one of the men in black. He was lying there staring at the ceiling. His ski mask had been peeled back like a banana, and the flesh on his chin, lips, and nose had been gnawed down to the bone.

  This time, it seemed, the sloffs had done Diana a favor.

  The man was still twitching. He wasn’t dead yet.

  “Kill me,” he said.

  His voice was hoarse and wet, as if he might have swallowed some of his own face. As if part of it was still stuck in his throat.

  “Where are the others?” Diana said.

  The man tried to say something, but this time his speech was completely incomprehensible. Diana fired a single bullet from the Uzi into his forehead, and the twitching stopped immediately.

  Colt shouted from somewhere below. “Diana?”

  “I’m all right. I just figured out where that sloff in the basement got the machine gun.”

  She pressed her back to the wall and edged down the hallway, checking the offices one at a time as she went. They were all vacant, as was the radio room. No sloffs, no more men in black.

  She paused for a moment to look at the television monitors, the few that hadn’t been smashed. The townspeople were scurrying around with buckets and garden hoses, frantically trying to extinguish the fires, but they weren’t having much luck. It did appear that they were keeping the flames from spreading to the vacant houses for the most part, so that was something. Their efforts weren’t entirely in vain.

  Diana sneezed. The dried blood and human waste from last night still lingered in the air, and now there was a fresh corpse on the floor adding to the general stench. Feeling the bile risi
ng in her throat, thinking she might start retching any second, Diana opened one of the office windows to let some fresh air in.

  Unfortunately, the fresh air wasn’t so fresh anymore. It was tainted with the toxic fumes rising from The Factory. Frustrated, Diana slammed the window shut and walked back out to the hallway. Colt had just made it to the top of the stairs. He was standing there breathing heavily.

  “See?” he said. “I told you I could make it.”

  “Congratulations. Think you can handle one more flight of stairs?”

  “Sure. Just give me a minute.”

  Diana figured Henry’s arsonists, the remaining two, had made it up to the roof. She and Colt would have them to contend with, plus the pilot.

  Diana Dawkins and Nicholas Colt were outnumbered, and Colt was disabled, but they had the element of surprise on their side. The Uzi would come in handy for extra firepower, although Diana figured the rest of Henry’s men were armed with automatic weapons as well.

  She pulled her flashlight out of her backpack, switched it on and aimed it up the narrow staircase that led to the helicopter pad. We can do this, she thought. Piece of cake.

  And that’s when the sloffs came stampeding down.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Colt was still standing at the top of the second floor landing when the horde of screaming, slobbering, bloodthirsty lunatics descended from the concrete stairway that led to the roof. He counted six in the first wave, and then four more after that. Apparently they had banded together and started to organize, like some kind of primitive tribe. None of them was toting a machine gun this time, but they hadn’t come empty-handed. They carried with them a variety of body parts—severed arms and legs and heads and whatnot—and they each wore bizarre smiles on their faces, as if they were expecting their pictures to be taken. One of them had a string of glistening intestines looped around her neck. Another was munching on what appeared to be a human heart, holding it and biting into it like an apple. Trophies from the helicopter pilot and the remaining two arsonists, Colt figured.