“Bees?”
“Well, not insects, exactly. They’re microscopic bio-machines, which everyone calls ‘M-Bs’ for short. But what most people don’t know is that they can be controlled remotely. Cyrus uses them to induce pain as well as pleasure, which we think is how he punishes his men to keep them in line. It’s like programmable crack.”
Zack shrugged.
“Crack cocaine. It’s a nasty drug we have on my Earth. But trust me, M-B is a million times worse. And to think, M-B started out as a miracle drug to seek out and destroy cancer cells. But then the drug lords stole the technology and, well, you know the rest.”
Zack didn’t say anything.
“What happened to Freakshow’s face? Did you do that to him after he left his post?”
“Never got a chance. He went AWOL that same night. Eventually joined up with Cyrus. The boils showed up on his face about a year later—right before he started butchering whole families. At first, I didn’t know it was him until I heard him speak. That weak-minded coward can hide his face from me, but not his voice.”
Lucas wondered if Freakshow had been exposed to some of Kleezebee’s confiscated E-121 material. Long-term exposure would explain the man’s disfigurement and his unstable mental state. “The tissue damage looks like he might be suffering from exposure to an unshielded power source. He’s probably being cooked from the inside out, slowly turning his brain into oatmeal.”
“Serves the asshole right.”
“He’ll probably get even meaner and more unpredictable as the condition worsens.”
“Then he needs to meet the end of my blade, and soon,” Zack said, motioning his head straight ahead. The front doors to the café were maybe a hundred feet away.
EIGHT
Zack cut in front of Lucas as they made their way across the diner’s dirt parking lot, squeezing between several rows of empty skimmers. Lucas saw a vision of Drew’s face in every vehicle window he passed, which of course was followed by the usual jolt of pain shooting into his temples. He winced as the traveler broke his recent streak of silence and whispered inside Lucas’ mind—Correctly erasing most annoying riddles means the highest possible outcome in navy underwater testing involving enzymes.
“You okay?” Zack asked.
“Just a bit of a migraine. I’ll live.”
They approached the front door to the café. He wondered if patrons inside could see him walking behind the goliath, assuming anyone was paying attention. The place didn’t appear to be guarded. In fact, it wasn’t remarkable in any way. Hardly the type of place you’d expect to be a Cyrus stronghold.
He started to worry that Jenkins might have given him bad information. If he had, it might be a trap and Rico and T-Rex would blame him if the op went sideways. The last thing he needed was a pair of stone-cold killers pissed at him; he had enough of his own demons on board already.
Lucas studied the red-and-white-colored awning protecting the entrance to the building. There was no sign of any surveillance equipment, and nothing was visible along the metal overhang spanning the front of the building, either. Perhaps nobody was watching. He looked back over his shoulder to see if he could spot any of Rico’s assault team hiding in the shadows. He couldn’t, but he could feel the weight of their eyes studying his every move.
Zack held the glass door open, allowing Lucas to enter first. All but two of the patrons stopped talking, then turned in unison to look at them.
“That’s a bit creepy,” Lucas whispered to his teammate.
Zack’s nostrils flared, but he said nothing.
It was your typical ‘fifties-style diner with a dozen fake red leather, padded bar stools in front of a thirty-foot stainless-steel counter. Four middle-aged women dressed in yellow uniforms and white aprons were scurrying about at high speed, carrying food and taking orders. Out front, the seating area was filled with cream-colored booths, most of which were stuffed with patrons. The black-and-white tile floor alternated in color like a chessboard and the walls were covered with pulsating neon signs touting the local raspum distilleries.
Lucas assumed the two men at the counter who didn’t turn around were Rico’s undercover operatives. They were sitting side-by-side, but Lucas couldn’t see their faces. They were wearing pale-green baseball caps, blue pants, and long overcoats. Both appeared to be stuffing some type of gooey meat sandwich into their mouths.
“This place is packed. Food must be good.”
“Not necessarily,” Zack said, handing Lucas an open menu.
Lucas scanned the menu. Each item’s price had been covered up with a black-and-white sticker that said FREE!
“Seriously? Free food? Cyrus must be trying to ingratiate himself with the locals.” Lucas put the menu down. “I gotta believe Cyrus worked out some kind of deal with the bugs. Otherwise, they would’ve leveled this place, too.”
Zack nodded. “People gotta eat.”
Lucas made a cursory count of heads—at least fifty—and everyone seemed to be at least thirty pounds overweight. “Looks like a bunch of extras for a Richard Simmons’ before-and-after commercial.” Lucas smiled at Zack. “Mostly before.”
Zack’s face remained stiff. He didn’t respond.
Lucas wondered why he tried to be funny around a leather-hard mercenary; it was pointless. “I wonder how the hell he pays for all of this? Free food isn’t exactly a profitable business model.”
“Looks like the rumors are true,” Zack said, raising his left eyebrow. “He’s taken control of all the commercial farms in the eastern province. Now we know why.”
“Yeah. Carbs-R-Us.”
Zack laughed.
Finally! The goliath does have a pulse.
Lucas leaned over the hostess station and looked behind the counter. Four stacks of white cardboard strips were organized into equal piles on the top shelf. Each one had a time of day and a family surname handwritten on them in thick, black ink. He assumed they were invitations to eat at the SC’s free restaurant. It would explain why there wasn’t a waiting line stretching around the block. Cyrus had made his intentions clear: Once he took office, he wouldn’t tolerate chaos. He expected calm from the locals at all times, or they would face the wrath of his Royal Guards.
Lucas stood next to Zack as they waited by the front register until a redheaded woman walked to the hostess station. She was bowling-ball round with rosy cheeks that pushed out beyond her ears. Her hair looked like it had been teased for hours with a comb until it was the size of a twenty-pound Christmas turkey. If Lucas had to guess, her name was probably Flo or Hazel.
“Wel’km to the Dunn-Rite Caffay. What can I do yer fer?” she asked.
“Ramsay, party of two,” Lucas replied.
She checked the reservation list. “Would y’all like the count’r or booth?”
“Doesn’t matter as long as you’re serving some of your double apple fritters. We hear they’re the best in town.”
“You should try ‘em with anchovies, they be delicious.”
“Maybe you could top them off with some cream sauce.”
She hesitated for a moment, tilted her head, then said, “I’m sure we can oblige. Right ‘dis way, gen’men.”
She led them to one of the last empty booths. It was along the back wall, to the right of the counter, on the opposite side of the restaurant from the restrooms. The booth sitting immediately in front of it was empty as well, providing a little privacy. There was an unmarked, single panel door next to the booth, which Lucas assumed led to the kitchen.
The hostess put two menus on the table and invited them to sit down. Zack squeezed himself into the left side of the booth, facing out. No doubt to keep an eye on everything. Lucas sat across from him, with his back to the front entrance and the rest of the restaurant. He listened for sounds behind the kitchen door, but didn’t hear the expected chorus of plates clinking and pans banging as frantic chefs shouted instructions to each other.
“My name’s Leigh Ann, if you boys need anythin
g else.”
So much for Flo or Hazel, Lucas thought. He opened the menu and pointed at the first item’s picture—a chili-cheese dog stuffed with toppings. “Is everything really free?”
Leigh Ann nodded. “Compliments of the Supreme Commander.”
“Unreal.”
Leigh Ann smiled, then disappeared through the door to Zack’s right.
Lucas turned to page three of the menu and read the list of items. After seeing the seemingly endless pizza selections, his stomach gurgled again, this time loud enough for half the restaurant to hear. He licked his lips and swallowed. “We should probably order something. No reason to pass up all this free grub.” He closed the menu and looked around, wondering which waitress was assigned to their table. He turned to face Zack. “You wanna split a pizza?”
Zack pushed his menu away from him. He’d never opened it.
Seconds later, two soldiers bolted through the door next to Zack with black shredder rifles held chest-high in the firing position. Each rifle had a laser scope and torpedo light mounted to its barrel in and over/under configuration. One of the soldiers was breathing heavy with a river of sweat dripping from his brow. The other had steely eyes, which were focused squarely on Lucas. So was his shredder rifle and its laser targeting system.
“Don’t shoot!” Lucas said, raising his hands over his head.
Zack never moved—his finger nowhere near the activator switch on his watch.
Leigh Ann walked through the doorway, escorting a heavy-lidded elderly man by the arm. The old fart had to be at least eighty and was leprechaun-short with some kind of bird tattoo inked across the top of his bald head. He was wearing baggy green pants and a pale-brown shirt that hung on his narrow shoulders like an old floor mop. Obviously, tailors weren’t a popular profession in this colony.
Lucas’ mind shifted into replay mode, reliving the moments leading up to the ambush. Almost instantly, he realized what went wrong. “Ah, fuck. I said cream sauce instead of yellow cream sauce, didn’t I?”
Leigh Ann raised her eyebrows and nodded hard enough to shake her flabby cheeks.
“An honest mistake,” Lucas said. “Obviously, I knew the correct answer.”
Leigh Ann folded her arms, then pinched her lips together. She turned her attention to the wrinkled munchkin standing next to her.
“My name’s Bernard,” the old man said. “Who are you?”
“Cyrus sent us,” Zack said, casually bringing his hands together. A slick move that nobody else seemed to notice. His index finger was almost touching the activator switch on his watch. Both of his hands were steady and his face remained stiff.
“We’re here to inspect your operation,” Lucas added, hoping his lie rang true. He lowered his hands slowly, but it was difficult to keep them from shaking. “Cyrus wants me to check the condition of the inventory. I’m a BioTex engineer.”
Bernard hesitated for a long moment, then motioned to his guards to lower their weapons. “Follow me,” he said to Lucas.
The traveler took control of Lucas’ thoughts, again, and said—Time helps everyone who keys on yesterday’s nuances. Enough of the fucking nonsense, Lucas said in silence. I need to concentrate.
Leigh Ann returned to the hostess station while the guards stepped aside to let Zack slide out of the booth. Lucas followed the group as they walked through the door and into a ten-foot-wide hallway.
As soon as the door closed behind him, the guard next to Lucas cocked his rifle and held it inches away from his temple. The other guard did the same thing to Zack, though at a steep upward angle to reach his head. Lucas’ mind filled with thoughts of the explosive charge in his wrist. He realized he was a dead man walking. So was Zack.
Lucas raised his hands. “What the fuck, Barney?”
NINE
Before the tattooed elder could respond, Zack leaped into action. He snatched the rifle from the soldier guarding him, ramming the gunstock into the guard’s nose. Lucas heard it snap. A millisecond later, Zack used his left foot to take out the guard covering Lucas. He kicked the side of the man’s knee, breaking it instantly, sending the guard tumbling to the floor in pain. Zack kicked the man’s face, smashing the back of his head against the wall, knocking him out.
He turned the gun on Bernard and fired one shot, blasting a hole in his head the size of a coconut. Barney’s brain matter splattered across the wall behind him, showering Lucas in the process. Zack finished off both unconscious guards with quick double-taps to the chest.
“Holy shit,” Lucas shouted, not believing the speed of Zack’s reaction. He looked at the bloodstained wall and realized that the Teflon-coated razor wings of the gas pellets didn’t have any blood or tissue on them. They must not have deployed until after they zipped through Barney’s skull and stuck in the wall.
Zack picked up the weapon from the second guard, handing it to Lucas. “Try not to shoot me in the back.”
Lucas nodded, though still a bit dazed by the blood oozing out of what remained of Barney’s skull and the guards’ torsos. He tried to keep himself together, but he feared another puke sighting was imminent, when a small patch of stomach acid rose up and landed in his mouth. He swallowed it quickly and stiffened his resolve.
He cocked the rifle and held it up against his right armpit, focusing its red-dot laser beam on the door at the end of the hall. He looked at his watch. Eleven hours to go before his wrist exploded. “Hey, Zack, what happens if I get shot or smash my wrist on something? Will the charge detonate?”
“Let’s go,” Zack said after pressing the activator switch on his watch. “More tangos will be coming.”
Maybe he’s not ignoring me, maybe he doesn’t know, Lucas thought. Seconds later, he heard the sound of glass breaking and the distinctive zapping sound of stunners being discharged. It was coming from the restaurant’s seating area behind him. “Rico?”
“Yeah. Our six is covered.”
“Kleezebee’s not going to like that at all.”
“No civilians will be hurt. Other than waking up with a headache in a few hours, they’ll be fine.”
Before Lucas could respond, the green door at the far end of the hall flew open. Four enemy guards appeared and spread out in two-by-two formation on either side of the corridor. Zack fired several short bursts of shredder rounds that steamed down the fifty-foot hallway at lightning speed.
Lucas fired one barrage, feeling the recoil of the hydrogen-powered weapon hammering his right shoulder. Both sets of projectiles whined, as their spinning razor edges activated in mid-flight, decapitating three of the enemy in unison, moments before the fourth was killed in the same manner. Their severed heads hit the floor and rolled several feet as their bodies toppled over. None of Cyrus’ men fired a shot.
“Nice work,” Zack said, wearing a look of astonishment.
“Thanks,” Lucas replied, wondering if his rounds hit their mark. He thought they all missed, sticking into the edge of the doorframe to the right of the green door. He scratched his wrist again, this time tearing some of the skin open. Streaks of blood appeared across his wrist.
“First kill?” Zack asked, sprinting toward the far end of the hallway where the headless bodies were twitching.
Lucas ran behind him. “Yeah, as far as human.” He caught up to Zack. “I blasted a few bugs on the hive ship. And there was the time on Earth when my BioTex replica had a chance to take out a soldier who killed my brother’s replica in the desert. But my clone didn’t kill him for some reason. I would have wasted the asshole, that’s for sure. I know that doesn’t exactly count, but—”
“Whoa, Doc; slow down. You’ll need to brief me on the whole BioTex replica thing when we have more time,” Zack whispered as he knelt on one knee in front of the open door. He looked through it, turned, and said, “We’re good for now.”
He retrieved the spent shredder rounds that were stuck in the doorframe and buried in one of the bodies, digging them out with his knife. He used the sleeve of his cotton shirt
to wipe the blood off, then retracted the razor wings, before reloading his rifle.
Zack dug two more rounds out of the first corpse. He fiddled with their wings. They wouldn’t retract. “Not usable,” he said, tossing them to the ground. He knelt down next to the other body, inserting his knife into the blood dripping out from the exposed end of its neck. He let the blood pool across the blade until it was covered, then stood up and ran the flat side of the knife across his forehead, leaving a curved streak of red across his brow.
“A warrior’s pact,” he said with his chest expanded. He held the knife in front of Lucas. “You ready?”
Lucas leaned forward, allowing the dull side of the cool metal blade to touch his skin. Zack smiled as he smeared the dead soldier’s warm blood across Lucas’ forehead.
Some of the blood dripped into Lucas’ eye before he was able to wipe it off with his sleeve. When he saw the blood soaking into the cuff, he realized that for the first time, he wasn’t feeling queasy. Actually, he was feeling damn good—rejuvenated—like an adrenaline-charged warrior after a successful battle. Maybe he was finally getting used to all the blood and guts.
“We fight until there’s no fight left,” Zack said like a drill sergeant.
Lucas wasn’t quite sure what that phrase meant, but didn’t want to ask. He nodded with gusto, as if he knew. Then the expected flood of dizziness arrived, pressurizing his veins and buckling his legs. He fell backward, flat on his ass, just before a rush of vomit erupted from his intestines, sending at least a liter of puke across the floor.
Moments later, Zack helped him back to his feet. “You okay, Doc?”
Lucas wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Yeah. Just give me a minute.” He needed to erase the vile taste in his mouth. He scanned the hallway for a drinking fountain. There wasn’t one.
“Fear is just courage in disguise. You need to stir it—bring it to a boil—then consume it.”
Incursion (The Narrows of Time Series Book 2) Page 7
