Roman walked back to the refrigerator and withdrew three beers. Walking back, he opened two and handed one each to the colonel and to Corporal Scotts.
“You said you are a colonel, yes?”
“That is correct.”
“And you’re not from this planet?”
“No.”
Roman opened the remaining beer and took a small sip before sitting down on the hearth of fireplace. Corporal Scotts eyed his beer with curiosity and smelled the open can. He took a small sip. A slight smile broke across his face. He took a longer pull and gave an approving nod in Roman’s direction. The colonel drained his entire can in three successive gulps. He set the empty can down on the coffee table.
“You have anything harder?” he asked.
“Yeah, hold on.” Roman walked back into the kitchen and retrieved a half-full bottle of Jim Beam. He grabbed a glass from a cabinet and walked back to the couch. Setting the glass down in front of the colonel, he poured several fingers of the amber liquid into it. The colonel grabbed the glass and took a hearty swig.
“Not bad. It’s hard for me to find good rotgut these days.”
“I know it’s not top shelf, but I wouldn’t call Beam rotgut.” Roman paused as he watched the colonel finish the glass and pour another. “OK, maybe for you it is. I’m not familiar with what aliens drink.” His lip curled up sardonically at one corner.
Roman eyed both men again, noticing their clothing. “I wouldn’t mind seeing some proof you guys are from outer space, like maybe a ray gun, your ship, something like that. You could just be some psychos off the street, for all I know—or Feds, like Fontenot thought.” Although he asked for the proof, Roman somehow didn’t really care if they were aliens or not. He knew, however, that there was something just not normal about these two.
“Of course.” Scotts pulled a familiar looking, larger caliber pistol from the back of his pants. He removed the ammunition magazine, exposing the rounds. “These are tipped with high explosives. This weapon also can fire smoke, incendiary, and acid rounds.”
“I saw that before, except the ammo was blue,” said Roman, remembering the two guys who had saved his ass at the junkyard.
“Actually, our main battle rifles are much better than these pistols. We have a few on the shuttle, but we’re trying to avoid using them, as we are trying to minimize our technological footprint on your planet.”
“You’re what?” Roman asked.
“Our technological footprint. If we all were to die here on your planet, our technology would give an unfair advantage to whoever found it and would upset the balance.”
“I see. So it’s probably not a good idea to have a crack head running around eating people either. Anyway, I’m not sure I can be of much help to you. I got suspended an hour ago. I’m off the case and off the street. Plus, I haven’t slept in something like thirty hours.”
The colonel rose from the couch, setting his empty glass on the table as he stood. He walked over to bookcase against one wall, overflowing with books. He withdrew a well-worn copy of the paperback Doctor Who and the Genesis of the Daleks off the top of a stack. The cover intrigued him, and he studied it for a moment before replacing the book on the shelf. He turned and faced Roman and withdrew a small black box from his pants pocket. He activated the box and a holographic map appeared, complete with people walking and cars driving.
“Is that in real time?” Roman asked, stepping closer to the image.
“Yes, this is a map of our base of operations. As you can see, there is a lot of traffic around us.”
Roman noticed that the neighborhood was run down, and there was indeed a lot of foot and vehicle activity. “You guys could have picked a better part of town.”
The colonel shut off the hologram and smiled. “That’s why we would like you to help us, Mr. Roman.” The colonel put the box back into his pocket. “We need a new base of operations. Plus, you have seen the alien and engaged it. Your knowledge of local customs could help us.”
Roman looked around at his place for a moment. He replied, “Well, this place is a little small. What are you offering?”
“Help us catch this alien, and we will be forever in your debt.”
Roman considered the open-ended offer for a moment. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “You let me borrow that hand cannon, and one of those rifles and some ammo, and you’ve got a deal. My pistol isn’t very effective against your alien. I just want to get that asshole.”
“Done, but we will need those back when the time comes.”
Scotts handed over his weapon and a couple of extra ammunition magazines. Roman eyed the weapon with satisfaction.
“There is one other thing, Mr. Roman,” the colonel said.
“What’s that?”
“We have two others in our group. I hope that is not a problem.”
Roman was engaged in removing the ammunition magazine and re- inserting it. He enjoyed hearing the whine of the weapon as it powered up.
“No problem.”
“Good. Scotts, go fetch Matthias and the captain, and bring our gear in.”
Scotts got up, opened the front door, and went outside. Roman went to the door to watch. A few moments later, the corporal returned with Cruwell and Matthias behind him. Both men carried black cases and duffle bags. Matthias handed his equipment to Scotts. Roman put the hand cannon in his waistband at the back his pants. He was amazed at its light weight; he couldn’t even feel it in the back of his pants. He looked at Matthias.
“I know you,” Roman said.
Matthias nodded.
“I guess I owe you one for saving my ass at the junkyard.”
“I expect you would do the same for me,” replied Matthias.
Roman turned to Captain Cruwell, who was still standing in the doorway.
“You can put your gear in the bedroom,” he said. Scotts and Cruwell both nodded. “Not much space here, sorry,” Roman added.
Roman turned toward the colonel and said, “You guys have anything else to drive besides that shitbox parked outside?”
“It is the only vehicle we’ve appropriated.”
“Ditch that heap when you get a chance. I’ll drive.”
CHAPTER 22
“Glad you make it,” the gray-haired man said to the biker standing at the front door of his modest, one-story house. “Please come in and sit down.” He moved his wheelchair to the side of the door and pointed to a black leather couch against one wall of the living room immediately inside. He wore a red flannel shirt and sported a gray, unkempt beard that reached the middle of his chest. An oxygen mask hung over his shoulder, within easy reach.
“All right,” the visitor said. “This had better be good, Dean.” The biker, dressed in biking leathers, entered the house, smoking a cigarette. He saw two televisions on in the living room, one tuned in to CNN and the other on FOX News. The biker closed the door behind him and followed Dean into the living room, which was cluttered with grouped arrangements of newspapers, boxes of dialysis bags, and oxygen canisters. He took a seat on the couch.
“I think it will be worth your while. Hold on, let me get the specs.” The host opened his laptop and powered it on. He adjusted his thick-lensed glasses as he waited for the computer to load.
“You got any beer around here?”
“Come on, Cyrus, you know better than that.” He looked up from his laptop and lifted his shirt, exposing a tube protruding from his side. “Get yourself a Sprite.”
Cyrus retreated into the kitchen, sending several cats scurrying across the counter. He opened the fridge and pulled out a half-full two-liter bottle. “OK, I’ve got it,” Dean announced.
When Cyrus returned from the kitchen with a glass full of the soda, he leaned over and looked at Dean’s laptop.
“Here it is,” Dean said. “My boy Stevie sent me this as a favor for some equipment I built him. He’s a damn good hacker. I’ve been watching it, and it’s good. The pickup is for next Wednesday.”
&
nbsp; “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Oh, sorry, I still get excited sometimes.” Dean pushed his glasses farther up his nose. “This particular bank normally does cash transfers via armored car on Wednesdays, just prior to opening.”
“OK. So what? I’m not hitting an armored car, too much risk. I did four years for armed robbery, you know that.”
“No, listen, this job is different. This particular branch has missed the last three transfers to the cash depot. That’s almost three weeks.” Dean shifted his weight in his wheelchair. “They changed armored companies, which created a delay at a few branches. But this one—” Dean tapped the laptop screen for emphasis. “This is one that can set you up for a while.”
Cyrus drank the rest of his Sprite and said, “Cut the shit, Dean. How much are we talking about?”
Dean took his glasses off and retrieved a red bandanna from his shirt pocket. He wiped a few beads of sweat off his forehead and hit a few more keys on the laptop.
“Here, look at these last few cash drops. You’re looking at an easy 400 to 600 thousand.”
Cyrus stood up and started to pace the room. “That’s a good score, but that’s a lot of risk. I don’t know. What about going in at night?”
“I can’t help you at night. Look, it’s a regional branch. That’s the only way to get that kind of score, and even then it’s only because the cash is piling up awaiting pickup. I mean it’s a helluva lot better than the normal one or two thousand score you usually get in a smash and grab.
“Yeah, well … OK, I see your point. What do you need upfront? I’m not saying I’ll do it, but what do you need?” Dean asked, his interest piqued.
Dean closed his laptop and turned his wheelchair around so that he was looking toward Cyrus. “I need twenty-five grand up front and another twenty-five after you complete the job.”
Cyrus stopped pacing and faced Dean directly. “Wait a minute, check me on this. You want us to do this in daylight, with witnesses, and maybe have to shoot it out with the cops? Why can’t we get in the night before, disabling the alarms, cracking the vault overnight?”
“I can’t help you there. I’m getting old and haven’t been in the game much lately. All I can guarantee is that the money is there. You hit it fast and hard, and you should be good. There’s a teller on the inside that just started working. She’ll make sure the manager is identified and can help with opening the vault. Also, Stevie told her how to disable the silent alarm.”
“A teller on the inside? Sounds like you assumed I would say yes.”
“No more than two guards, probably old farts that aren’t even carrying ammo. Twenty-five grand also gets your crew some serious firepower, police scanners, cell phone jammers, and whatever else you need. I’m talking machine guns like they have in Afghanistan, the big ones. You’re in and you are out fast if you don’t screw up.”
“OK. You got a deal.”
“Good. I’ll get you the rest of the specs and a phone number for the weapons. You know the way out.”
Cyrus set down his glass, walked to the door, opened it, and paused. He turned around and asked, “Why do you do all this? I mean, you’re about to croak. No offense.”
“None taken,” Dean said as he started to cough. He grabbed his oxygen mask and inhaled deeply from it, and replaced it over his shoulder. “I do it because I have nothing else to do. It excites me, and it keeps me busy.”
“Yeah, whatever, man. See you around.”
CHAPTER 23
After the black Mercedes E350 sedan passed through the gate of the underground parking garage, Dr. Keitel hit the button on the small transmitter again, closing the gates behind him. He replaced the transmitter in the glove box, closing the little door. He had been through here three times already. The first time was with his unwilling hostage, whom he had abducted earlier from the county coroner’s office. After a brief moment of intense persuasion, the hostage had led him to his loft apartment, in the small downtown building above this garage. The underground parking garage was excellent for concealment.
On a second trip, Dr. Keitel removed his salvaged equipment from the shipping container and transported it here. The crash site was becoming too dangerous, and it was too risky with the attention his patient was bringing. The solution was having a side effect he had not counted on: Its properties could transfer from the host to another body, and the effects were similar.
His third trip, just ending, was the most rewarding, as he finally recovered his patient, and just in time. While he was driving to the apartment, he kept looking into the back seat. What he saw was not very promising. The solution’s effects were indeed short term, and he needed to find out why.
The doctor quickly pulled into the parking space assigned to his hostage and the Mercedes. He parked without a problem; there was nothing complex about operating the vehicle, and he had mastered it within minutes. He exited the vehicle and scanned the garage. It contained only three other vehicles. He quickly opened the driver’s side rear door, grabbed his patient by the arm, and pulled. He arose slowly, with difficulty, and did not protest or struggle. The unlikely duo slowly made their way into the elevator. Dr. Keitel used his hostage’s key card and activated the lift by swiping it in a card reader. He pressed the number for the third floor and within a few seconds, the doors opened. He put his shoulder under his patient’s arm and guided him down the hall to the apartment. Using the key card once again, he opened the door and entered.
“I must work quickly,” Dr. Keitel told his semiconscious patient. “Yes, you have sustained much damage. There is so much for you to learn, especially about protecting yourself. If only you wouldn’t have taken off on your own.” Dr. Keitel helped his patient onto the island in the spacious kitchen and had him lie on his back. He opened his patient’s perforated leather jacket and began making an assessment.
“The rate of healing has slowed; there are multiple wounds consistent with a small-caliber projectile weapon. Yes, yes. Oh my.” Dr. Keitel stopped as he examined the metallic port in the lower abdominal area. “The waste port is damaged; most likely one of these projectiles hit it at an angle. It is folded shut. No wonder you’re beginning to overheat. You can’t dissipate heat fast enough.”
Dr. Keitel put on a pair of surgical latex gloves he had found in a box in the apartment. He wiped away some of the black blood that had begun to seep from the damaged port in the abdominal area. He retrieved a large clamp from one of his cases, along with a simple pair of pliers. Holding one tool in each hand, and with each attached to a different part of the waste port, he pulled and grunted until the port opened. Satisfied, he replaced the tools and removed a surgical kit from one of his cases. Some of the lacerations were deep, and he stitched up those. Once that was complete, he loaded a syringe from a bottle of the pink solution. He was about to inject it into his patient’s arm when he noticed bruising and a distinctive puncture mark at the bend of the elbow.
“Curious. He must have tried to self-administer something.” He shrugged and inserted the needle into the black vein. Depressing the plunger, he watched all of the pink liquid disappear into his patient’s arm. He placed the syringe on the counter behind him and began to check for any other physical signs of damage. Seeing none, he sighed and pulled off the surgical gloves. He opened another case which had a small computer terminal and a coiled hose apparatus. He switched on the computer and connected the hose to the newly repaired exhaust port. The computer terminal initiated a diagnostic check of the implanted organs and tissue. Seeing that the check would take some time, he poured himself a cup coffee and walked into an adjacent room, most likely a study, as it was lined with numerous books on various subjects. His hostage was sitting in a black leather office chair, his hands and feet duct taped. He still wore his surgical scrubs, which were now soaked in blood. His throat had been cut from left to right, with the blood pooling on the floor underneath the chair. His head was slumped forward, his chin resting against his chest. Dr.
Keitel briefly thought he may have been overzealous in killing his captive so soon, but he quickly reassured himself. He had acquired what he needed from the man, and he did not need any more witnesses. He reached for a stereo receiver and hit the play button. Turning up the volume, he smiled as he sipped his coffee with Beethoven’s Symphony Number 5 in C Minor reverberating throughout the apartment.
“Feeling better?”
It took a moment for the patient to process the question. After a moment, he understood. Yes, he was feeling better, much better. He wearily opened his eyes. He felt cool, actually very comfortable. He sat up and looked around, immediately realizing he was in a tub filled with water. His jacket and pants had been removed, leaving him feeling vulnerable. He stood up with ease, chilled water running off his body and down into the tub.
“Take this and dry yourself off. When you’re finished, I have much to tell you. Your clothes have been cleaned and are here for you. I couldn’t find anything here for you to wear. The previous owner wasn’t very large in stature.”
The patient watched the man, whom he remembered from earlier, depart the bathroom. The man had saved him, that much he remembered. His body was nearly healed; most of the lacerations had healed themselves or were covered with adhesive bandages. He looked in the mirror and noticed the patchwork of black veins snaking across his chest and down his arms. Grabbing the towel, he dried off and quickly put the jeans and leather jacket back on. Most of the blood and other stains had been cleaned off. He walked through the main living area of the apartment and into the kitchen, where he sat down in a chair that was pulled out from the table.
“I hope you recognize me now. I am Dr. Keitel. I have been working on you for quite some time. Do you remember me?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I am preparing a field kit for you. Show me your arm.”
He obeyed, retracting the sleeve of his jacket, exposing his pale forearm. Dr. Keitel secured the end of a strip of duct tape to his patient’s arm and pressed a syringe filled with pink solution against the forearm, parallel to it. He pulled the tape across the syringe and pressed it down on the skin on the other side. He placed two more syringes against the forearm and secured them similarly with the same length of tape. He wrapped that section of arm, holding the three syringes, running the tape twice around the arm. Satisfied, he pulled the jacket sleeve down.
Dawn of the Mad Page 17
