by Bill Schutt
Kimura shrugged. “Apparently it gets used up or is quickly denatured by the body.”
“Which is why their blood was useless as an infective agent?”
“Quite correct.”
Wolff nodded thoughtfully. “But how can this microbe survive if it dies along with its host and what is its biological purpose?”
Kimura smiled. “Your men, and these two savages,” he said, gesturing toward the corpses of the old woman and the child, “they were never hosts.” Then the disease-warrior paused, seeming to savor his secret for one final moment. “They were prey.”
Kimura crossed over to an acrylic glass window—a portal looking out at what appeared to be an endless wall of fog and trees. “The host is out there somewhere,” he said. “Although ‘carrier’ would be a far more accurate description.”
“Carrier?”
“Yes, a snake or scorpion. Something that bites, something we haven’t seen yet. A carrier that allows the bacterium to live in its mouth.”
“You are describing an endosymbiont, correct?”
“Precisely,” Kimura replied. “Just like our intestinal flora. These hemorrhagic microbes thrive and multiply within their carrier-animal, essentially getting a warm, safe place to live until—”
Wolff’s eyes widened. “—until the host bites its prey, transmitting some of the bacteria to the wound.”
Kimura smiled again. “Then the pathogen upholds its side of the bargain, causing the prey to bleed out, thus providing food for the carrier, which apparently feeds on the blood.”
Both men took pause, simultaneously contemplating the same unspoken question.
It was Kimura who spoke first. “It seems, Colonel, as though our choice for a rocket launch site might be fortuitous for a completely unexpected reason. If we can culture fresh microbial spores, we may have a payload far more terrifying, far more efficient, and far more demoralizing in its effects than the anthrax and the bubonic plague we have been planning to employ.”
“A big ‘if,’ Doctor, especially given our time constraints,” Wolff added, but his mind was racing. “Can you recover anything from the blood of these two?”
Kimura shook his head. “Nothing but dead, ruptured bacteria. What we need is a fresh source of the active microbes. What we need is—”
“—one of the carriers.”
“Yes, and we’ll need it alive, whatever it is.”
Wolff made no reply. His mind had already reviewed the previous morning’s incident on the deck of the Nostromo, as well as his most recent conversation with the very same Corporal Kessler.
The colonel peeled off his surgical gloves, threw down his rubber apron and mask, then headed for the door at a brisk pace. “Come with me, Doctor,” he called over his shoulder as he exited the lab. “You may find this interesting.”
“Perhaps you have figured out a way to untangle our sister boat,” Kimura responded in his native language, and under his breath. The doctor thought he heard one of his assistants give a short chuckle at the Nazi-directed sarcasm, but by the time he glanced over, they had all resumed their grisly work.
“Ten minutes ago I solved our most vexing problem!” Kimura shouted at them. “The Nazi had been as clueless as a newborn. I solved it!”
None of his men looked up.
“But now, here he is, issuing orders as though it had been his idea all along.”
For a fleeting moment, the Japanese biologist pictured the pristine conditions of his laboratory in Manchuria—the gleaming surgical instruments, the limitless supply of test subjects. A place where no one gave me orders.
He allowed himself a brief sigh, and then struggled to catch up with the German officer, his wooden clogs tapping out a rhythm that increased in tempo as he sped up. The ungrateful Nazi was apparently heading toward the “woodshed,” where they stored the maruta.
There had been no beating. Not even another threat of becoming part of the rocket’s red glare. And when the colonel arrived, it wasn’t the enormous SS sergeant who accompanied him, but a strangely clad Japanese civilian. This is promising, MacCready thought.
“Corporal Kessler tells me you know what has been killing my men,” the officer said.
MacCready wondered just how many of Wolff’s men had been killed. And with this kind of high-level personal interest, evidently it was a bunch.
“That’s right,” MacCready said. “I was studying them when one of your local thugs decided to plug me with a dart.”
“Save your zoology story, Captain MacCready,” Wolff said with a smirk. “We know why you were sent here.”
MacCready managed a smirk of his own.
The German continued. “In any event, we are men of science and this is a situation that calls for . . . adaptation. As such, I am making you a new offer. Help us hunt down the creatures that killed my men. Help us find and destroy these blut kinder.”
“Or?”
“Or this morning, instead of accompanying us, Sergeant Schrödinger will turn you over to the very same locals who have already found you to be such an exceptional dart target.”
This time MacCready feigned uneasiness (which was pretty damn easy to do). But in reality they both knew that Wolff’s offer was a no-brainer. And in fact it was exactly what he had been hoping for. It was his only chance. Even if I can’t make a clean escape after leading them to the draculae, maybe I can somehow get the word out to Hendry before I die.
Wolff let out a short laugh that MacCready found unnerving, considering its source. “I know exactly what you are thinking,” the colonel said. “So, yes, help us to track down and eliminate these pests and, who knows . . . perhaps you will escape.”
Perhaps I will, asshole, MacCready thought, but he allowed Wolff the last word.
“Then we will hunt you.”
Even though the temperature inside the dead tree was a perfect 104 degrees Fahrenheit (with a humidity of nearly 100 percent), the mother found it impossible to sleep. Her movements eventually woke the child, who scrambled over to hang by her side. She responded by regurgitating a small measure of biped blood from the pouchlike portion of her stomach, where it had remained undigested—an emergency reserve system that characterized all vampire bat species. The child instinctively leaned in. Vibrating with anticipation, he drew nearer, face-to-face, and fed from the pool in her mouth. When the child had finished, he pulled away and hung silently, drifting back toward sleep. Not a single drop had fallen into the dark cavity that stretched below them.
The mother knew that the bipeds had become more difficult to hunt and their strange behavior was a clear indicator that they were now aware of her family’s presence. The bipeds no longer walked the forest at night. But more alarming than this was the scent of fear that spread from their strange nests into the surrounding trees.
There was another problem that kept the mother awake long into the pre-dawn hours. She was losing control of the twins. While this was a normal part of their maturation process, the unexpected presence of the intruders in such alarming numbers was making the twins’ newly acquired independence even more difficult to direct. Their latest encounter with the bipeds on the hillside above the river had been the turning point, and now her maternal instincts had led her to a decision.
She emitted a series of clicks that instantly aroused the twins as well as the blood-groggy child.
NO FOOD DANGEROUS BIPEDS
The child shivered and moved in closer, while the female twin remained motionless. The male twin, however, responded by unfurling and stretching his wings in succession. As his sibling watched, the bat took a sudden interest in a kink of wing membrane and deftly smoothed it out with his teeth.
Undeterred by this show of defiance, the mother released a directional pheromone from a pair of glands near the base of her wings, signaling a return to the Stone Cave, their ancestral roost.
This time however, the male abandoned his feigned lack of interest, hissing an angry response.
There was a flash
of movement and the mother shifted position, sensing the male’s rapid approach from below. Instinctively, she spun toward him, mouth open, teeth glistening.
But instead of attacking, the male brushed past her, using his elongated thumbs to hoist himself toward the rim of the tree cavity. He was nearly full-size now, and she did a quick sidestep to avoid contact with his muscular body.
She felt a brief downdraft of air . . . then listened to a stream of navigation calls, moving away rapidly . . . fading . . . gone.
A moment later, the female twin scrabbled up the steep cork wall on the opposite side of the cavity. Just before reaching the opening, she turned and let out a single hiss. There was a flutter of movement from above and a brief rain of dislodged bark. The other twin had decided to join its sibling.
The child sidled in closer, seeking the comfort of the mother’s body. But without thinking, she bit him on the ear, harder than she had ever bitten him before. He responded with a cry of pain, and the release of fear pheromone.
The mother scrambled up through the top of the trunk, intent to begin a search for the twins, but the search was thwarted even before it began. The air directly overhead had become a confused and crowded maelstrom of insects in flight. Moths of all sizes were descending from the treetops, whirling past each other and warping the mother’s echolocation calls with close-up reflections from every direction. Adding to the confusion was the sudden arousal of miniature, insect-eating bats, scores of them; their echolocation calls were making it harder to interpret the information returning from her own sonar pings. The mother had experienced such swarms many times before and knew that communication would be difficult. This time, though, she decided that she could not wait.
FOLLOW, the mother signaled to her child, then scrambled upward.
The child emerged through the top of the dead tree and launched himself into the disorienting cloud of insects and their noisy hunters. His ear still stung from her bite; and now anger and pain were spilling over into a new emotion—defiance. Probing ahead with calls of his own, he could sense his mother’s panic as she stiffened her wings and glided below the maelstrom, searching in vain for the twins. There was nothing to be seen below the reflective moth layer.
The child had also come down below the swarm, but suddenly his signals, radiating from behind her, ceased abruptly. The mother executed a tight roll and flew back into her own slipstream but the child was no longer following her. Without any warning or cry, without any signal at all, he simply disappeared.
CHAPTER 20
The Hungry Earth
Whence do you come, slayer of men; or where are you going, conqueror of space?
—GOSPEL OF MARY (APPROXIMATELY FIRST CENTURY A.D.)
Nostromo Base
January 28, 1944
8 A.M.
The seven soldiers, standing in a rough cluster, snapped to attention as Colonel Wolff approached. He acknowledged them with a nod, then ordered them to stand at ease.
Beside each man sat a heavy field pack and Wolff knew that in addition to their normal supplies, his team would have tucked away some rather specialized equipment—lamps designed by the local Indians and enough Nazi firepower to slaughter every living creature larger than a squirrel within a two-hundred-meter radius.
“According to our indigenous friends,” Wolff announced, “our men were attacked by demons that townspeople refer to as chupacabra. These ‘monsters’ are said to inhabit a cave deep within the plateau. It seems that they have taken exception to our presence here.”
The colonel paused, scanning the group, looking into each man’s eyes. He took satisfaction from the fact that, as absurd as his statement might have sounded, none of them had so much as flinched, nor did they raise a single question. Schrödinger . . . Vogt . . . these are not men who would question anything I have deemed important enough to tell them.
Wolff gave another nod, barely perceptible this time, before continuing. “According to our terminally obnoxious American guest, the locals are mistaken. The creatures that killed our countrymen are not demons; they are blood-feeding animals the size of large cats. Animals possessing no more supernatural abilities than those of a leech or a tick.”
Wolff continued. “As much as it pains me, I find that I must agree with the American, a zoologist as it turns out. In truth, he seems to know something about these creatures.” Then he turned toward the increasingly haunted Kessler. “And like you, Corporal, he has apparently seen them.”
Haunted or not, the colonel never considered leaving Kessler behind. In addition to the man’s firsthand “experience” with the creatures, he also spoke fluent English. This would come in handy, since the American would be accompanying them and, together, Wolff and Kessler could play the old American trick, called “good cop, bad cop,” all the way to the chupacabra lair. On a one-way trip, Wolff thought, having already spoken to Sergeant Schrödinger about that particular arrangement, once MacCready successfully led them to the creatures.
“Our mission is a simple one,” the colonel went on. “With the aid of two local guides, we will find this cave, collect one of these animals, several if possible, and return them here, alive.”
Wolff watched Kessler shift his weight uncomfortably, and once again he addressed the man directly. “Since the success of the entire mission may depend on our ability to procure these specimens, we cannot fail.”
They exchanged “Heil Hitlers,” but Wolff did not dismiss his men. “There is one more thing,” he continued. “Something of equal importance. As far as our prisoner knows, this is a mission of extermination, not capture. And it must remain as such, in his mind.”
Then the colonel locked eyes with his longtime underling. “Sergeant Schrödinger.”
The giant came to attention.
“Retrieve the prisoner. We leave for the plateau in fifteen minutes.”
As the sun climbed within an hour of high noon, R. J. MacCready emerged from the dense forest into a clearing. He took the opportunity to sneak another backward glance, but as before, the SS sergeant was still there, machine gun trained at the center of his back. Since their departure, Mac had been trying hard not to think about the consequences of the Big Guy tripping over a root or getting bitten by a wasp. Instead, he concentrated on the visual inventory he had made before leaving the German camp: heavy equipment, piles of supplies, and a shitload of construction going on, all of it well hidden by the forest and the damnable fog that shrouded the valley. Then there was the fuel, stored in huge pressurized tanks. His overall impression was that the site’s high secrecy quotient had something to do with the strange missile they’d fired at the recon plane. But why set up a base here? he wondered. Whatever they’re up to, they’re building something big.
MacCready now feared that weapons similar to the guided interceptor that had taken down the recon plane were being prepared to reach out from Brazil. And whatever the specifics of their plan might be, he knew that he had to escape, or at least get this information back to Hendry. Especially now that Bob and Yanni are gone, he thought.
Although it could never make up for the murder of his friends, he took some satisfaction in the knowledge that the Germans had suffered their own casualties at the hands of the draculae. Just as important, he knew that these deaths had made Wolff and his pals extremely eager to learn the real identity of the creatures, a fact that was currently keeping him alive.
At this point, what harm would come of identifying the phantoms to his enemies? It was the sort of information that he could barter safely in the hope of completing his mission, in time to prevent them from completing theirs—whatever that is. In a horrible run of misfortune and tragedy, this had indeed become a bit of good fortune.
Up ahead, the front half of Wolff’s group had stopped beside a river. It was about forty feet wide and although the water appeared to be no more than waist-deep, the current was moving at a fairly dangerous clip.
He could see that the two local guides, who had gone ahe
ad of the group several minutes earlier, were already standing on the far bank. One of them was using his bow to point out a presumably safe path for Wolff and the others to follow across the boulder-strewn waterway.
One by one, the members of Wolff’s hunting party hoisted their packs higher and waded in at the indicated spot, soon leaving only MacCready and his hulking escort to bring up the rear.
MacCready scanned the far bank. He found it odd that the second guide had moved to a position slightly upstream from his friend and the continuation of the trail.
What’s this guy up to?
The Indian stood on the rocks and waited until the Germans were distracted by the precarious crossing, then he let loose a stream of his own.
Nice move, MacCready thought, his gaze tracking from the arc of urine to the place where Wolff’s men were making their way across the stream. He slowed down just enough to avoid a shove into the current from the hulk, allowing time enough for the end results of the guide’s “private salute” to pass downstream.
MacCready had waded about halfway across when unexpectedly one of the soldiers approaching the far bank began screaming and thrashing about violently. Everyone else froze for a moment, but just as quickly weapons were drawn and each man scanned a section of tree line for signs of an ambush.
Meanwhile, the weight of the stricken soldier’s pack had flipped him onto his back like a turtle, allowing MacCready and the others to see that he was clutching at the front of his pants. The man began to float downriver.
Before the soldier could drift very far, though, Colonel Wolff shouted something and two men splashed over and intercepted their frantic comrade. Grabbing him under the arms, the pair staggered the last ten feet to the shore. There the screaming man immediately fell to the ground and began tearing at the buttons of his field pants.
Instinctively, MacCready checked to see if the sudden commotion might have sidetracked the SS sergeant. As expected, the giant had maintained not only his distance but also his concentration.
