The car rolled forward and Skull tried to wedge himself in so that his body wouldn’t shift and attract attention. There was a great deal of starting and stopping. The air inside the tight carrier turned hot and stifling, but he forced himself to relax and even doze at times.
The vehicle stopped again. “Good morning, sir,” said a voice near Skull’s head. “Are you aware that you are about to leave the compliant United States and enter the noncompliant state of Texas?”
“I am,” said a man’s voice below Skull.
“Are you also aware that Texas is violating federal law by refusing to carry out the executive order regarding mandatory testing for bioterrorist pathogens?”
“I am,” answered the driver.
“Then please sign this release,” the soldier said. “It absolves the U.S. Government of any liability. I will also need to digitally photograph identification cards for every member in the vehicle, and get an index fingerprint on this scanner.”
“Why?” asked the driver.
“Presidential orders,” said the soldier. “You are entering territory without bioterrorist pathogen controls and may have to undergo additional testing before exiting the state of Texas.”
“If we ever exit,” said a woman’s voice.
“Barbara,” said the driver sharply, and then turned to the soldier. “She’s from Amarillo. We’re just going to visit family.”
“I understand, sir. If you refuse processing, you’ll have to turn around and go back. If you proceed, you are required to verbally acknowledge that you are taking your life and that of your family into your own hands. Do you understand the risks?”
“We understand them,” said the woman, “now can we please go? It’s damn hot out here and the kids are tired.”
“Sir?”
“I understand.”
“Please proceed to the next station. Thank you for your cooperation.”
Skull could really do nothing except pull his ghillie hood close around him and make sure his hands and feet were drawn back. A soldier taking a quick look inside the cartop carrier might miss him.
Well, he was committed now.
The car moved forward again, and then stopped. Skull heard a bored male voice ask a series of questions about what the family was transporting – no contraband, no drugs, no prohibited items, and so on.
Then Skull’s blood ran cold as the cartop lock rattled. “You know this is open?” said a voice.
“Oh, really? No, sir, I didn’t.”
Skull buried his face and waited. Light leaked through his eyelids and he felt fresh air, a sure sign the carrier’s clamshell top had been lifted. Then, the lid slammed and he heard the lock click shut. “There you go.”
Deliberately, Skull relaxed his hand and removed his finger from the trigger of the pistol.
The car started and moved forward at a quick pace, and then slowed before starting and stopping several more times. Finally, another voice spoke near Skull’s head. “What is your purpose for entering the state of Texas?”
“Do we really have to have a reason?” the woman asked.
“You do if you want to get in,” answered the man.
“She’s from Amarillo,” said the driver. “We’re just here to visit family.”
“You got any proof of that?” the man asked.
“Here’s my Texas driver’s license. Will that work?”
Silence for several moments. “Okay, please pull forward to the screening station and take directions from the officers there.”
The station wagon moved forward slowly before stopping again.
“Welcome to Texas. Are any of y’all currently infected with the Eden virus?” a gruff voice asked.
“I should think not,” answered the driver, clearly offended.
“Have you been in contact with anyone who might be infected?”
“No.”
“Have you been to a hospital or medical clinic in the last thirty days?”
“I had a pap smear about three weeks ago,” the woman said sarcastically. “I can give you the intimate details if you’d like.”
“That won’t be necessary,” the man answered. “Are you carrying any narcotics, weapons, or explosives?”
Skull heard a dog nearby, barking insistently.
“A pistol in the glove box,” answered the driver. “I have a New Mexico permit.”
“You’ll need to register that at the welcome center,” said the man. “Give them this form after you fill it out.”
The first dog’s barking was joined by that of one from the other side.
“Look at the doggies,” said a young female voice from the rear of the vehicle.
“Keep the window up, dear,” said the woman. “What is up with all the dogs anyway? They seem to be a little on the aggressive side.”
There was a pause. “They’re here to help with searches. Normally they only get agitated when there is a reason. What exactly is in your carrier?”
“Luggage,” the driver answered. “Clothes and stuff.”
“Can you please be a little more specific?”
“I got five thongs,” said the woman, “and three bras. I forget the exact number of tampons I have, but we can get them out and count them if you want. I might even have a douche kit up there too. You think the dogs are going crazy over those?”
“No, I do not,” said the man, sighing.
The dogs sounded as if they were having some sort of canine fit.
“Sir, I’m going to need you to – ” He was interrupted by yelling and a single gunshot to the rear of the carrier.
“Move forward,” the guard said hurriedly. “Proceed to the welcome center, now!” Then much fainter as they rolled forward, “Shut down lane three!”
The station wagon surged forward again, turned to the right, and then stopped. Skull heard doors open and close as the occupants departed the station wagon. Then came a long, hot wait. Skull pressed his face to the seam and used his fingers to pry open the fiberglass, giving himself some air.
After what seemed like hours, but in reality his Patek chronometer declared was only forty-one minutes, the family returned and got in the vehicle. This time they accelerated to cruising speed fairly quickly and remained there. Wind resistance forced enough air into the cracks of the carrier to give Skull welcome relief.
After several hours of highway driving, the vehicle decelerated before making several turns, and then stopping. Doors opened and closed.
“I’m going to take her inside,” the woman said. “She’s already crashed out.”
“No problem,” said the driver. “I’ll bring in the luggage.”
Skull stiffened, getting ready.
The driver jingled some keys before unlocking the lock.
Now or never.
Pushing the lid on the carrier up, Skull put the barrel of the silenced pistol on the tip of the surprised man’s nose. “You yell or run, you’re dead. Step back slowly and be cool, and you’ll stay alive. No trouble. I just needed a ride.”
The man retreated a few paces and looked around in the dimly lit suburban street as if searching for help.
“Don’t worry,” said Skull climbing down. “And don’t try to be a hero. Do as I say and you’ll be safe in bed with your family in five minutes.”
The man nodded.
Skull donned his rucksack and clipped on the smaller go-bag, looking at the rear of the station wagon. “Unlock that and give me one of the bikes.”
Shaking, the man started to search for his keys in his pockets.
“They’re already in your hand,” Skull said.
The man smiled, embarrassed, and then regained the look of fear as he unlocked the bikes and lifted one down.
Skull examined the man carefully. He still shook as if caught naked in a blizzard, and had his hands out in front of him to protect himself.
He’ll likely call the authorities before I can get to the end of the block, Skull thought.
“If you call
the cops or report me,” Skull said slowly and distinctly, “I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles that I paid you money to smuggle me across the border in your carrier. Doesn’t matter if they believe me or not. They’ll either kick your family out of Texas or arrest you. Maybe both.”
“But I didn’t smuggle anything,” the man said looking near tears now.
Skull slapped him with his free hand, fast and hard across the face. The man stepped back a few paces, his hand to a red cheek beside his open mouth.
“Listen up,” said Skull with a soft voice. “Right now it’s easiest for me to ride off and leave you alone, but you’re making that real hard. Keep your mouth shut. I need to believe you can do that. If not, I’ll have to put a bullet in your head. I’m good either way, but don’t take all night deciding.”
The shaking citizen squeezed his eyes together as if trying to shut out the sight of the thin, bald man. “I won’t say a word.”
“Good choice,” said Skull, putting the pistol back in his belt and climbing up on the bike. “God bless Texas.”
Chapter 8
Skull made much better time on the mountain bike. He bought a detailed topographic map and traveled off the paved roads as much as possible, sleeping in culverts or ditches at night. A soldier told him that Oklahoma was giving people a very hard time about crossing the border from Texas, so he pushed to the south to exit Texas into Arkansas. Skull knew he needed to find a crossing unlikely to be guarded. Once in the Land of Opportunity he should be able to cross quickly toward his goal of the Maryland laboratory.
He eventually found a small game trail on private property that straddled the border. Crossing in the middle of a dark night, he heard dogs barking from the farmhouse in the distance. Soon he found a small road leading east and hopped on the mountain bike. By morning he made it across the border and the day after that reached the town of Prescott, Arkansas.
The place turned out to resemble one of those iconic Norman Rockwell scenes. There was a main street with barbershops, a drugstore with an ice cream parlor, and even a one-screen movie theater, although it was boarded up and the marquee declared the space was for rent. Skull didn’t see any army or additional security in town, and he was glad to spot a small diner. The smell of eggs and bacon convinced him he could use a hot meal.
Parking his bike out front, he tried to look as casual as possible as he walked into the diner. A dozen faces all turned to study him before going back to their breakfasts. Skull slid into an empty booth, pushing his rucksack and small bag into the seat across from him.
“What can I get for you, hon?” asked a middle-aged woman, chewing gum loudly and sporting about a dozen pens and pencils sticking out of her wild bird’s nest of auburn hair.
“I’ll take coffee and an orange juice for starters,” answered Skull with a smile, looking over the posted menu hanging high. “I’ll also take an omelet with everything, a side of bacon and some toast.”
“Hungry,” she said. “That’s how we like ’em. I’ll be right back with the coffee and juice.”
She walked away and Skull turned to watch the television in the corner. The sound was set down low, but by concentrating he could just make out what the reporter was saying. A shot of the Kremlin opened a segment showing a thick man with bushy eyebrows speaking. The reporter said that the Russian President had vowed to reconstitute the Soviet Union as a self-preservation measure and had already moved troops to the Kazakhstan and Azerbaijan borders. Meanwhile, it had already seized the Ukraine, Belarus, and Moldova in bloodless coups. The European Union and NATO had condemned these acts, but with the U.S. focus almost entirely within its own borders, both organizations’ protests lacked credibility.
“Here you go,” said the waitress, sliding a cup of black coffee in front of him along with a glass of juice. “Cream and sugar are right there on the table,” she said helpfully. “Food should be out in just a bit.”
“Thanks,” answered Skull, pouring a couple of packets of creamer into his coffee. He saw two older men at the counter. Both had coffee cups in front of them, but were leaning in and talking in hushed tones. Skull shifted slightly forward as if in thought until he was able to make out their conversation.
“...came last night,” said a man with a green John Deere hat. “Took the whole family.”
“Were they sickos?” asked the man beside him sporting an Arkansas Razorbacks cap.
Skull looked around and realized he was the only male in the establishment not wearing a hat.
“Course they were sickos,” answered John Deere. “Why else would they come get them?”
“Where you think they took ’em?” asked Razorback.
“That camp due east off Route 24 near the county line. I hear they’ve been rounding up lots of ’em lately.”
“Lots?” asked Razorback nervously.
“Yes. The government needs to do something soon before we get overrun.”
“That’s why I’m voting for the Unionists,” said Razorback. “They’re the only ones what knows how to get serious with these sickos. Everyone else is worried about their rights. Well, what about my rights not to get infected?”
“Can you believe there were sickos right there next door to me?” John Deere asked, shaking his head. “Hell, they might have infected me if they hadn’t been taken away.”
Razorback moved over a seat. “Maybe you should go get checked out.”
“Here you go,” said the waitress, returning with several plates. “Can I get you anything else for now?”
“No, this looks great,” answered Skull, not lying at all. He hadn’t eaten well in some time.
She smiled and walked away with a bit of a sashay.
Skull plied his plates, shoveling good old-fashioned American breakfast food into his face until he was sated. When he looked up he saw that both men were gone. Over the rest of the breakfast, he continued to think.
***
The eastern part of the county appeared to be a giant kudzu forest dotted by occasional trailer homes or small farms cut through by narrow two-lane roads.
It wasn’t hard to find the camp the two men had been discussing. It was the only structure anywhere around with multiple large buildings and surrounded by several layers of chain link fence topped with no-kidding razor wire, the kind that used to be illegal for civilian use. Getting close enough to observe what was going on inside without being seen from one of the eight tall guard towers was going to be difficult.
Approximately a quarter of a mile to the east, Skull found a drainage pipe that fed into a small stream, large enough to walk in. The construction appeared fairly new and stretched back toward the camp. Skull hid his bike and rucksack in the thick kudzu, pulled out a flashlight and pistol, and began heading west down the drain.
Every one hundred yards Skull saw a ladder leading up to a covered mesh on the surface. Climbing up and looking around, he saw only trees and thick vegetation. He finally made it to a place where there was an iron grating in front of him on new hinges. The opposite side was secured by a thick padlock.
Skull had his lockpicking tools on him, but decided to climb the nearby ladder and see if he was close. At the top he was surprised to discover he was less than fifty yards from the edge of the fence line. He leaned back in the shadows, afraid someone might spot him. Then he drew himself forward again to study what lay before him.
Three large areas were separated by internal fence lines. The section on the left contained men, the one on the right women, with children in the middle. All appeared downcast and wore dirty grey uniforms with no shoes. Hundreds of gaunt figures shuffled around, trying to get out of each other’s way.
They’re starving them, Skull thought. Wouldn’t take much with an Eden; their metabolism burns so fast, especially if they are healing.
Skull saw guards in biohazard suits near one location by the central complex. Behind a window, he could see a room with a man in lab coat, a clipboard in his hand. The man gave the hazard-suited people
a nod.
“Clear the food distribution areas,” blasted a voice over the loudspeaker. “There will be plenty of food for everyone soon. Clear the food distribution areas.”
The announcement had the opposite effect as the tightly packed wraiths crowded into one location. Skull believed he could hear their collective stomachs growling like the sound of distant thunder.
Three crane booms swung over each of the three areas simultaneously. Attached to the end of each was a grey, flaccid blob that was slowly lowered into each area.
Skull realized the blobs were naked corpses.
The Edens realized it at the same time and moved away, crying and yelling in frustration and horror. The children were not as quick to back up. The adults had to urge them not to touch the dead bodies no matter how hungry they were. Many of the Edens had fallen to the ground in despair and others simply stared skyward with vacant expressions.
The man with the clipboard was busily making notes on his clipboard.
And they call the Edens sickos, Skull thought, disgusted.
Skull’s hands hurt, and he realized he’d been gripping the rungs of the metal ladder tightly. Someone who didn’t know him would think it was a reaction to a desire for revenge. Actually, there was little of vengeance in his emotional state. In reality, his entire being cried out for annihilation, wiping those responsible from existence.
Simply put, his psyche begged permission to unleash the joy of the kill within him.
Not for revenge. Does a man take revenge upon rats?
No, this desire was for justice.
For balance.
For cleansing.
But the time was not yet. Too many security forces swarmed within the camp, armed guards with radios driving Humvees mounting heavy machineguns. As much as Skull’s body cried out for the orgasmic release of his bullets splitting heads like melons, he mastered it and moved on.
In a fugue, Skull made his way back to his hidden bike and pack. He splashed water from the stream on his face as if he could wash the filth off of him, but the images remained. Making his way back to the road, he headed east again, determined to kill the first deserving man he ran into.
Skull's Shadows (Plague Wars Series) Page 6
