"I'm not woman, either," Remo interjected, his tone deeply sarcastic.
"What is that supposed to mean? Of course you are not," Chiun spit. "And since you insist on being pigheaded, when we find this villain, l will deal with him."
"What?" Remo asked. "No way. Roote is mine."
"You are not well enough to face him again."
"I told you, I'm fine."
They were at a red light. He slowed to a stop behind a line of cars.
"In another day you may be fine. In another week perhaps you will have healed completely. But at present your body is still not right."
"Absolutely not, Chiun. When we find Roote, I'm the one who gets to punch his ticket."
Chiun's voice took on a cold edge. "Are you forgetting who is Reigning Master of Sinanju?" Remo closed his eyes. A honking horn behind him told him that the light had turned green. Opening his eyes, he started forward once more.
"No," Remo muttered morosely.
"Who is?"
Remo snapped one hand against the steering wheel. "You, okay? Geez, Chiun. Fine. If you want Roote, you've got him. He's yours. Take him with my blessing. Sheesh!"
In the passenger's seat of the rental car, Chiun's wrinkled face split into a broad smile.
"I now see why so many people join the militia in this nation, even though they are not required to do so," the Master of Sinanju said.
"Why?" Remo asked sullenly.
There was a twinkle in the old man's eye. "It is fun to pull rank."
TEN MINUTES LATER, they were in the parking lot of the House Warehouse superstore.
Remo steered the rented car up and down the lanes, looking for a parking space. He found one near a battered red truck that looked as if it were being held together by rust and a thick film of desert dust.
As he got out of the car, Remo noticed an emblem on the side of the truck door. The grime was so thick that the logo was difficult to read.
He dragged one hand across the door. The cleared logo depicted a bluish planet Earth. Above it hovered something that looked like a dinner plate with running lights. Below the planet a semicircle of letters spelled out Camp Earth.
"I think we've hit pay dirt," Remo called to Chiun. He dusted the grime off his hands as the old Korean came around to the truck.
Frowning, the Master of Sinanju inspected the Camp Earth logo. "And I think Americans have far too much idle time," he pronounced contemptuously.
Remo leaned against the side of his car. "We can discuss the stagnation of American culture while we wait for them to beam out," he said with a tight smile.
BETA RAM HOPED that Salvion's ark would land before his credit-card bill came due.
The head of Camp Earth emerged from the big exit doors of House Warehouse dragging a metal dolly filled with boxes of batteries. A store clerk followed, pushing another cart that was equally full.
Sweating in the late-afternoon heat, they hauled both wobbly carts over to the rear of Beta RAM's truck.
After Beta had dropped the tailgate, the clerk helped him load the batteries into the back.
"Are you a survivalist or something?" the young clerk puffed as they worked.
"If the Association of Evil has its way, none of us will survive," Beta replied. He was standing in the rear of the truck, pushing the batteries up against the cab.
While he was working, Beta noticed two men sitting in a car next to his. Neither of them were looking his way, nor did they appear to be looking anywhere else in particular. He felt a sudden knot tighten in the pit of his stomach.
"Association of Evil. What, is that like the Mob or something?" the clerk asked as he wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead with the tails of his untucked shirt.
Ordinarily Beta didn't shy away from a potential convert to the wisdom of Salvion. However, the people in the next car had made him very nervous. One of them was Asian, possibly Japanese. And everyone knew the Squiltas had replicated android duplicates of that entire country's population during the 1980s.
"Something like that," Beta said quickly.
He scurried down from the rear of the truck, mumbling thanks to the young clerk. As the kid began dragging the carts back to the store, Beta closed the tailgate.
He shot another glance at the car in the next space. The two men still hadn't looked his way. The sweat under his arms turned cold. Fumbling in his jeans for his keys, Beta headed around the bed for the cab.
"HE HAS SEEN us," Chiun announced.
Even though they hadn't glanced in Beta RAM's direction, they had both sensed his gaze upon them.
"He looked at us," Remo replied. "It doesn't mean anything. We weren't even looking at him." Beside them, Beta climbed in behind the truck's wheel, slamming the cab door shut.
"Start the engine," Chiun commanded.
"I don't want to make him suspicious," Remo said. "I'll give him a little head start first."
All at once Beta's truck lurched out of its space. For something that looked to have been pieced together in a junkyard, the truck moved with surprising speed.
Weaving in and out of parking-lot traffic, the truck flew toward the exit. In seconds, it had bounced back out onto the main street.
"Is that enough of a head start for you?" the Master of Sinanju asked aridly.
Remo wasn't listening. He had already twisted the key in the ignition. Throwing the car in gear, he slammed his foot on the gas, flying out of their space after the fleeing truck.
Drivers were forced to squeal their brakes as the big sedan flew across the lot. Horns honked angry protests as Remo twisted in and out of traffic.
Flying off the speed bump at the exit, the rented car landed in the street, a hail of sparks spitting from the vehicle's undercarriage.
Beta RAM was already far down the road. Swerving to avoid striking cars and pedestrians, Remo raced after the fleeing prophet of Salvion.
Chapter 22
Arthur Ford had drained fifty batteries already, and Elizu Roote's condition hadn't changed one volt. The Army private was breathing shallowly. He didn't seem in any immediate danger, but he remained pale and his skin was still clammy to the touch.
The cables connected to his neck continued to transfer power from the batteries to his body.
At first Ford used the tester on every battery just to make certain they had been drained. Eventually he had only checked sporadically, then gave up testing them altogether. The batteries were fine, it was Roote who no longer worked properly.
The time it took to suck the batteries dry had become progressively longer. Although the first few had been drained in an instant, the past thirty or so had taken increasingly longer amounts of time to deplete.
Still, Roate slept.
Forte was beginning to think that it might be necessary to turn his alien over to the military after all. Maybe they had deliberately done something to his physiology to make him dependent on them. It was also possible that if the ship that had crashed at Roswell was Roote's, something might be aboard that could yet save his life.
Even as he considered his options, Ford continued to drag batteries into place. He hooked them up almost out of habit now. When each was done, he'd drag it dutifully away, pulling another one through the dirt to his alien patient.
Arthur Ford had completely lost count of what battery he was on when Elizu Roote finally opened his eyes.
Ford didn't know how long he had lain there like that. He only noticed the washed-out pink eyes of the private when he glanced over, bored.
Roote didn't blink. He stared up blankly at the tin roof of the shack.
His breathing was more determined now. Like someone who had just returned from a long trek through rough terrain.
Crawling on his knees, Ford moved swiftly over to Roote's side.
"Are you feeling better?" Ford asked hopefully. The eyes twitched, moving spastically. A single blink followed. All at once, the eyes rolled in their sockets, turning slowly over to Arthur Ford. Trailing in their wake, Ro
ote's head lolled in the same direction.
"I saved your life," Ford whispered proudly. "They were trying to kill you. But I revived you."
Roote didn't hear.
As Ford watched, the private's eyes rolled back dramatically, irises eckpsed by fluttering lids. Consciousness fled once more.
To Arthur Ford, it didn't matter. He had just gotten all the encouragement he needed. Gone were any thoughts of turning Roote over to the Army. The treatment Ford had prescribed was obviously the proper one.
Scurrying back through the dirt, Ford collected the next battery. Working feverishly, he redoubled his efforts to revive his precious alien.
Chapter 23
Harold Smith was sitting anxiously before his computer when he heard the familiar muted chirping sound emanate from his tattered leather briefcase.
His cellular phone automatically rerouted phone calls from both CURE's dedicated White House line and the special line used by Remo and Chiun. Smith hoped that it was not the president who was calling as he dug out the phone and unclipped the collapsible mouthpiece.
"Smitty, we need help, fast," Remo's familiar voice announced.
"What is the situation?"
"The situation is that car you rented is a piece of flaming horse dung. We were tailing one of the Camp Earth nuts and it overheated. We lost him somewhere off of I-25."
Smith was already typing at his laptop. "Are you able to acquire alternate transportation?"
"I already boosted a car, if that's what you mean," Remo replied. "But the guy we were chasing is long gone."
"That is unfortunate. But at least you have narrowed our search parameters. Where did you last see him?"
Remo told Smith they were a few miles away from an abandoned diner near the Caballo Mountains.
"Stay near this number," Smith said. "I will get back to you."
Terminating the call, Smith placed the phone on the desk near his laptop. Using the CURE computers, he began issuing orders to the Fort Joy command.
ROOTE WAS AWAKE AGAIN. The private's eyes appeared to be more focused now as he took in his squalid surroundings. After scanning the entire one-room structure, his gaze finally settled on the eager face of Arthur Ford.
"You're looking a lot better," Ford enthused. Roote closed his eyes wearily.
The Army private had seen the many batteries lying in the dirt of the shack. Apparently too weak to speak, he beckoned Ford to bring one of the batteries over to him.
Ford was eager to oblige. He shoved the heavy object through the dirt to Elizu Roote's makeshift sickbed.
Once the battery was in place, Roote opened his tired eyes. Struggling at the effort, he lifted one hand from the sand at his side and dropped it atop the battery.
The hum was loud and abrupt. As it had been the first time Ford patched into Roote's system. There was a brief blue sparking around the private's metal fingertips. As soon as it started, it was over. The battery was dead.
The change was instantaneous. A glow suffused Roote's pale cheeks. He closed his eyes once more, a smile playing at the corners of his thin lips.
Panting, Elizu Roote said but one soft, nearly inaudible word: "More."
FROM THE PARKING LOT of a lonely desert gas station, Remo and Chiun watched the helicopters soar out of the thin red twilight clouds in the east.
It seemed that everything from Fort Joy still capable of flight had been thrown at the Caballo Mountains. Almost thirty aircraft of several different types flew in formation. The collective sound was deafening.
"Smitty isn't taking any chances," Remo commented as the choppers raced overhead.
The aircraft soared off toward the mountains, black in contrast to the brilliant setting sun. "Learn from your Emperor's lesson," Chiun said. He was looking up at the passing aircraft, face impassive.
Remo sighed. "I promised to give you first crack at Roote," he said.
"Do not forget," Chiun replied.
"If I did, would you let me live it down." Remo asked.
"No," the Master of Sinanju replied simply.
"So there we go," Remo surrendered.
"Assuming you were alive afterward," Chiun added somberly.
His hazel eyes were unreadable slits as he watched the helicopters rattle off into the nearby hills.
HE WAS ADDICTED. There was no doubt in his mind.
Roote hadn't been certain of it until now. But he felt the change come over him with each successive battery.
He had tried a few different drugs in the past, but never really liked them. Alcohol had been his mind-altering substance of choice. And the buzz he was getting right now was not unlike the feeling he got when drunk.
The squalid room seemed to rise up from the shadows around him. It was as if with each successive battery someone were gradually turning a dimmer switch higher.
But there was no switch. He was the only source of true power in the tiny metal shed.
An addict. A freak. A monster.
They had made him like this. When his power was drained, he had collapsed. A marionette without strings.
A fail-safe? Probably not. They had never expected him to be careless enough to allow himself to be grounded.
Lying in the dirt, Roote dropped a hand onto yet another battery. The jolt was immediate. Even pleasurable. It was taking time, but his capacitors were slowly filling up once more. His implanted systems were coming back on line.
The dizziness and nausea he had been experiencing since regaining consciousness were gradually receding. And as the sickness fled in the growing light around him, the voices scurried up out of the darkness of his mind.
There was panting somewhere near the door of the shed.
Roote rolled his head to one side, seeking the source of the sound.
Arthur Ford was breathless from his exertions. He was scurrying around the interior of the shed, hauling the remaining batteries over to where Roote lay.
Roote had enough power stored already. He could satisfy the killing urge within him.
But Ford was a male. There wouldn't be much pleasure there. When the chorus of voices began their song of death, Roote found that women were always preferable to men. The difference was that between simple fun and pure rapture.
Besides, he needed Ford. For now. "Give me another," Roote commanded.
With his returning strength, his voice had gotten stronger.
"There aren't many more," Ford puffed. When the inhabitants of Camp Earth had brought their initial supply of car batteries to the shed, those that wouldn't fit inside were left out front. Over the course of the past hour, the ufologist had brought all of the remaining batteries inside.
The private had an unquenchable thirst for electricity. Ford could see that they weren't going to have enough to bring him back to full power. He had dragged the last of the drained batteries outside and deposited the final fully charged batteries just inside the door.
Roote pushed himself up to a sitting position. Ford had removed the jumper cables from his neck as soon as the private had been able to use his gold finger pads.
"Help me up," Roote insisted.
Ford hesitated. "Are you sure you're okay?" Roote didn't respond. Verbally.
He aimed a single index finger in Ford's direction. Eyes locking on target, he sent a small bolt of energy toward the door beyond Ford. The brilliant streak of lightning struck the metal frame and instantly coursed all around the interior of the metal shed.
Ford cowered beneath the blue glowing tin. He felt like a turkey on Thanksgiving day, trapped inside a massive oven.
The electricity abruptly sought its way to the floor, pounding harmlessly into the dirt at their feet.
Ford didn't need to be asked a second time. The UFO aficionado immediately hurried over to Roote. Grabbing him around the back and up under the armpits, he hauled the Army private to his feet.
"Over there," Roote said, nodding to the door. Ford helped him across the room. He thought they were leaving, but Roote had him pau
se just inside the doorway.
The private lowered his hands, palms flat, over the remaining fresh batteries. There were only about ten left.
Ford felt the hair rise on his forearms as a powerful burst of bluish electricity leapt from the tops of all the fresh batteries at once, surging up into Roote's finger pads.
Ford watched in wonder as the batteries rose slowly off the ground. Roote was like a magician doing some remarkable levitation trick. But the sleight of hand was real.
The perfectly pressed rectangles of dirt where the batteries had sat became visible as the heavy objects hovered for a moment several inches off the ground.
There was another loud hum-that of all the batteries losing power at once. Abruptly the electrical flow cut off. As one, the batteries thudded back to the earthen floor.
Leaning against the door frame, Roote took a deep, cleansing breath. He seemed stronger now. More in control.
Hooded eyes settled on Arthur Ford.
"That's better," Roote drawled with a smile. "You got more of them things?"
"Those were the last ones," Ford admitted nervously.
Roote closed his eyes for a moment. His head was clearing. Even so, he still needed more power. "They got generators around here?" he asked.
"Not that I've seen," Ford said.
The private opened his eyes. They settled on Ford's jeep, which the ufologist had parked just outside the open door of the hut.
"Over there," Roote ordered, pointing with his chin.
Ford knew enough not to refuse.
Grabbing Roote by one arm, he helped the hobbling killer out into the dying sunlight. He leaned Roote against the fender of the jeep.
"Open her up," Roote commanded.
Roote's intention was clear. And it was just as clear to Ford that he was helpless to stop him. Reluctantly he lifted the hood of the jeep high into the warm evening air.
Like some sort of perverse faith healer, Roote laid hands on the battery while it was still hooked into the engine. He drained it in a sparking instant.
Although he said nothing, Ford looked dispirited as he dropped the hood back into place. "You-all had best call Triple-A," Roote slurred through his Cheshire cat grin. "Any more cars?" Ford nodded.
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