“Do you have the comparison photographs?”
“Yes.”
The truck bounced and the kid swayed in his seat. He craned his head to the other side and saw an extremely pale man in the next chair, with wispy blonde hair and pink eyes, as close to being an albino as a person could get without actually having the condition. He was speaking into a head-set.
“…no, no, Doctor Banzai, their circulatory systems are made up of a series of microscopic capillaries in an amazingly dense cartilaginous muscle mass which comprises the body, somewhat like a sponge. This has proven remarkably effective defense against small arms fire. The bullets pass right through the spongy tissue. They have no major internal organs.”
The kid tried to puzzle out the situation. These guys had been chasing and studying these things for a while. That was obvious. And they had some coin. He looked at the high-tech gear surrounding him. This shit cost some money. Top of the line electronic doo-dads didn’t come cheap. He shifted in his chair so he could hear more of the pale guy’s discussion.
“They are still extremely photophobic, but that is something they’re evolving to overcome as well…”
The truck hit a pothole, the suspension groaned, and the kid lost the thread of conversation. It grew quiet after that. Only the sound of the police sirens wailing like angry babies could be heard for several long minutes. Then the kid just about wet himself when he heard Rogers say casually, “When we get to this place I want to try the nerve gas.”
The pallid man in the lab coat shook his head primly. “By this point they’ve adapted to all the toxins we have at our disposal. They are now quite invulnerable to nerve agents. They are just as likely to lounge around and get high off the stuff.”
“Well,” sighed Rogers. “Then I guess we do it the old-fashioned way.”
The kid wondered about the old fashioned way, and then Rogers added, “We better have Bill write up a good press release for the morning. Another refinery accident, I guess, eh?”
“Don’t forget it’s the Fourth of July,” the skinny man reminded him.
“Oh, that’s right!” Rogers smacked his forehead. “Well, then we’re golden, pony boy. Just another fire on the Fourth.” He exaggerated a Southern accent, laying it on thick. “Gosh darn those pesky kids and their illegal fireworks.” He tapped the keyboard in front of him and said over his shoulder, “Have the boys break out the flame throwers.”
The skinny man looked to Rogers and raised one eyebrow quizzically. “May I suggest we try the pheromone lure?”
“Certainly, Doctor Minaberry,” Rogers nodded. “I think we can even provide you with some test subjects.”
That is when the kid knew he was in big trouble. When dudes like this talked openly in front of you about stuff like that, it was not a good thing. It didn’t mean they had decided to let you be a part of their elite club and share in their little secret—probably one of the most highly classified secrets in the country. No sir, if they talked about that Secret Squirrel stuff when you were in the room it meant they were planning on making you disappear to make double-damn sure it stayed a secret.
That’s why they talk like you ain’t even here, his mind whispered to him, sending his guts to his ankles and his balls up around his ears. To them, you ain’t here! You already dead, nigga!
Station Nineteen
1:00 A.M
“Do you hear that?” asked Juanita.
“Hear what?” answered Love.
Juanita popped her head over the front counter like a meerkat. “Someone is coming!”
Tiffany joined her at the counter and gushed excitedly, “It’s help! Help is here! We are saved!”
The voice of Torres floated down the hall, “It could be that hit squad, Lieutenant.”
Love was at the front door peeking out the broken window when floodlights suddenly snapped on, blinding him, and forcing him to turn away. Brilliant white light poured through the windows like noonday sunbeams, illuminating swirling dust motes dancing in the air.
“Everyone get back,” Love ordered, rubbing his eyes.
Tiffany and Juanita didn’t move. They were glued to the window with Mootz at their side. Love turned his head and barked, “Get back, I said! Get your heads down behind that counter!”
They scrambled to obey, passing Torres, holding Vega by the scruff of his neck like a kitten. The killer pressed the little Mexican’s face against the unbroken door window.
Vega blinked and brought a hand up to shield his eyes. After a brief moment he turned to Torres and shook his head. The assassin’s face was unreadable.
Letting go of Vega, he said, “He says it isn’t them. It might be your knights in shining armor, after all.”
“Oh my god, please, yes!” came Tiffany’s voice from behind the counter.
Love squinted out. “I see a big truck and some Sheriff’s Department patrol cars.”
Torres wasn’t sure how happy he was about that. He’d had a notion of making it back to Mexico and then disappearing. El Jefe was a reasonable man. Torres didn’t begrudge the bounty the crime lord had placed on his head, or the hit squad. He was simply being practical. But if Torres was not in custody, then Torres was not a threat to El Jefe in a legal sense and he was threat to him in a different—and worse way. Yes, El Jefe would listen to reason. He would understand. And if not, well, Torres knew how to deal with him.
“Mootz,” he suddenly snapped. “How much time you got to do?”
“Eighteen months,” came the reply. “Why?”
Torres grunted, figuring it was obvious.
Love turned his head and asked, “You getting ideas, Torres?”—and suddenly Torres was there, blade seemingly conjured from thin air, sharp edge pressed to Love’s throat. He had moved so fast, Love had no time to react before the man was on top of him.
Torres smiled, staring up into his eyes. “I like you Lieutenant. And here’s how I will prove it. They call me rattlesnake for a number of reasons. First, as I am sure you’ll agree, I am very fast.”
He waited until Love nodded, ever so gently. That sharp edge was pressed hard against his throat. Torres could feel Love’s pulse pounding against the blade.
“Second, like a rattlesnake, I only strike when I feel threatened.” He eased the pressure in his killing hand, but not too much, just enough to show that he was capable of going either way; live or let die; he still had control of the much larger man.
“You cease to be a threat to me and I won’t bite you. I’ll simply slither on out of here. You sit tight until the cavalry come riding in. How’s that sound?”
Under the circumstances, Love had only one question, and it was a practical one. “How do you plan on getting out of here?”
“Gotta be a sewer pipe entrance in the shitter,” Torres said. “Sewer pipe in an old building like this ain’t nothin’ but a smaller version of a tunnel.” He smiled. He knew all about tunnels. “Do we have a deal?”
“We have a deal,” Love answered.
The rattlesnake stepped away. “Are you coming?” he asked Mootz.
“Nah,” Mootz shrugged. “I only got a year and some change left. I’ll be okay. Thanks though.”
Torres was in the bathroom, kicking a toilet loose from the floor, when he felt the presence of someone in the room with him. He turned and found Juanita hesitating in the doorway with the Glock clutched absently in her hands.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing,” she trailed off. “I just…” Her eyes went to the red stain on his side. “You’re bleeding.”
Torres shrugged. “Yeah. I was stabbed.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
She admired his detachment. “You are muy macho Torres.”
“And out of time, as usual.” He went to her and held out his hand and she gave him the pistol. He handed her the shotgun. “Take care of yourself,” he said to her and then turned away. She wanted to say something to him, something more, but the words stayed in
her throat.
He kicked the toilet a final time and the porcelain cracked into pieces. He shoved the broken shards out of the way and looked down into the opening he’d made. A most unpleasant smell drifted to him from it. Without hesitation, he lowered himself into the dank hole.
Creature Corps Operations Center
1:05 A.M.
The kid was running heroic save-the-day scenarios in his head but he kept coming up blank. Every move he could think to make would only get him killed that much faster. He settled for trying to be invisible when the truck pulled into the lot and the technicians went into automatic-pilot mode. The air was filled with techno-babble: printed read-outs clattered, alarms buzzed, unidentifiable machines bleeped and chirped as switches were flipped and technicians murmured to one another dispassionately like air traffic controllers.
A whirring, grinding noise filled the laboratory as huge floodlights extended from the sides and roof of the trailer, unfolding on long arms like metal flowers spreading their petals.
At the rear of the truck, two stone-faced soldiers with crew-cuts, one black as the ace of spades, and the other red-haired and Irish as the Lucky Charms leprechaun, hefted flamethrowers, strapping the heavy tanks to their broad shoulders, adjusting the straps, checking each other’s gear like sky divers.
The kid nearly jumped out of his seat when Rogers barked, “Up and at ‘em, Prison Break!”
The kid scrambled to his feet, mind numb with fear. He tried to control his shaking legs. Why couldn’t he stay here in the truck, nice and safe? The answer to that one was: Because they gonna take your ass inside the station and kill you with the rest of them dumb bastards.
Station Nineteen
1:08 A.M.
Love watched the group march across the parking lot. It was quite an odd-looking bunch. He saw two Sherriff’s deputies with suspicious eyes searching the parking lot, a skeletal blonde man dressed in a white lab coat, a dark-haired man in a suit and tie, and the kid. Two hulking brutes in army fatigues with flamethrowers brought up the rear, nozzles at the ready, eyes alert, scanning the sky. The klieg lights from the truck lit the station like a movie set. Love kept his eyes peeled but nothing came flying out of the darkness at them. Must be the light, he figured. They don’t like the light.
When the assemblage reached the door, Love held it open until they were all inside, then shut it and slid the crate against it. Tiffany rushed from the counter and threw her arms around the kid, who pulled back, surprised. “Oh my God, thank you!” she gushed, holding on to his hand. “Thank you so much for coming back for us!”
The deputies posted up on both sides of the door. The men with the flamethrowers fanned out to reconnoiter.
The man in the suit extended his hand to Love. “Special Agent Rogers.”
He scanned the group: Tiffany and the kid, Juanita, Mootz, Vega, and Love. Rogers noted that all of them except the small blonde woman, the kid, and the little Mexican at the desk were armed. “Is this everyone, Lieutenant?”
“Yes.”
Rogers glanced at the broken window and the crate pushed against the door. “Don’t worry, we are with the government and we are here to help you.”
“We need to get out of here,” Tiffany blurted. “Those things—”
Rogers held up a hand to silence her. “Don’t worry. We have the situation under control.” He indicated their weapons. “You can put your weapons down.” He pointed to the front counter.
Mootz looked questioningly at Love. The lieutenant nodded at him, holstering his own pistol. Mootz and Juanita placed their shotguns on the counter and grouped together near the lieutenant. Tiffany would not let go of the kid’s hand. If the truth were to be known, the kid didn’t mind. He was scared shitless.
The pasty-faced man in the lab coat stepped forward, hands pressed together in an attitude of inquiry. Love regarded him quizzically.
The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a small hand-held tape recorder and began speaking in a low voice. “Subjects appear to be in good health. Time is 1:12 A.M. July 4th 1987.” He cleared his throat and said, “I would like to ask you all some questions.”
“Can’t it wait?” asked Love, slightly incredulous. “We’d like to get out of here.”
An artificial look of regret passed over the pale porcelain face. “I understand your sense of urgency, Lieutenant, but you understand that we have protocols which must be followed. You need to be quarantined and debriefed.”
“Quarantined?”
“We will try to make this as quick and painless as possible.” He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Did you observe the creatures doing any of the following: did they vocalize?”
Love and the others just stared at him. After the desperation, the fear, and the outright terror of the earlier part of the evening, this sudden shift to bureaucratic droning was disorienting.
Finally Love said, “I recognize your voice. You were on the radio with Coyote Bob, weren’t you?”
Dr. Minaberry favored him with an indulgent nod. “Yes. Now, the sooner you answer my questions, the sooner we can wrap this up.” He shared a small glance with Rogers. Only the kid caught it. He dug his fingernails into Tiffany’s hand, but she was so ecstatic over the prospect of rescue she didn’t notice.
“Did the creatures make any unusual sounds?”
“You’re kidding me, right?” Love spat. “Everything about them is unusual.”
Minaberry went on blithely, “Did they utilize any tools in their attempt to breach the security of the building?”
Love lost his patience. “I didn’t see them do anything like that, okay? They didn’t use the coke machine, listen to the radio, or dance the Cha Cha! They flew around snatching people and eating them! Now, what kind of bullshit is this?” He looked past the blonde egghead to Agent Rogers. The agent’s face was neutral.
“Do you know what a chimera is?” asked Minaberry.
“Is it a little doot-doot tube like a kazoo?” Mootz cracked.
“No,” Minaberry replied, immune to the attempt at humor. “It is a mythological beast made up of a lion, a goat, and a serpent.”
Love felt like strangling the pompous ass. “What’s that got to do with—”
The doctor held up a bony hand. “Imagine an organism that combines the hardiest attributes of a reptile, an insect, and a shark. Something that only requires blood to survive, and can sense the electrical impulse of a heartbeat, or the faintest chemical traces such as the iron in blood; something that can survive indefinitely underwater and can fly as high as 15,000 feet in the air. Now combine it with an unprecedented level of intelligence. We call it a chimera.”
“Chimera?” Love repeated dully.
“Yes, well,” the doctor huffed. “Homunculus doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, now does it?”
Love knew what a homunculus was: it was an artificially created being. “Where do they come from?” he asked.
“That’s classified,” said Rogers, for the first time showing an interest in the conversation. They were interrupted by the black soldier leaning in to whisper something to Rogers, who cocked his head to listen, and then straightened up after the soldier moved away.
“The hole in the restroom floor,” he snapped. “Explain that to me, please.”
“I had to take a really wicked dump—” Mootz began, but a chilly look from the government man stopped him cold.
Love picked up the ball and kept it in play. “We were going to try to get out through the sewer if the creatures attacked in force.”
Rogers mulled it over. “Not a bad idea, really,” he finally admitted. He looked to Minaberry. “Have you asked all your questions?”
“Considering the lack of cooperation I have received, there’s no point in continuing,” the scientist sniffed.
“So, we can move on?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.” Rogers moved to the front door, between the two deputies. “Okay.” He rubbed his hands together
like a game show host. “That brings me to our next order of business.”
He pulled his pistol from the holster under his shoulder. In one smooth motion, he brought it up to the temple of the sheriff’s deputy to his right and pulled the trigger. The deputy’s brains punched out the side of his head and he toppled to the floor. Tiffany screamed. Before the other deputy could react, Rogers shot him between his eyes and the man dropped to the tiles with a sickening thud.
Love started forward but stopped when Rogers whirled around and covered him with his automatic. “Don’t move, Lieutenant.”
Mootz stood frozen, the kid too, rooted to the floor as if someone had nailed their feet to it, mouths hanging open.
The two women were a little more proactive. Juanita lashed out with her foot and caught Minaberry in the crotch with a savage kick. He doubled over, gasping, and grew even paler, if that was possible, and fell to his knees, retching.
Tiffany dashed away down the hallway, consumed with blind panic, her only thought to get away, to put distance between herself and this new threat. The red-haired soldier caught her by the shoulder, spun her around, raised a brawny fist, and with one punch knocked her cold. She hit the linoleum and didn’t move.
Then the other soldier was there with his flamethrower out and threatening to torch them and everyone froze in apprehensive silence. No one wanted to burn.
“Get over there,” snarled Rogers, motioning Mootz, Juanita, and Vega to stand with Love by the door. “Where are the holding cells?”
He had to ask again, in a more forceful tone, before Love told him. Then he demanded the keys and marched them to the back. It took a brief minute to have the soldiers move the crates that were blocking the busted door in the back, and then Rogers locked all of them together in one cell. He ignored their entreaties not to keep them there, and brushed off the danger from the broken window.
When he returned to the vestibule he found Minaberry standing over the unconscious blonde woman, rubbing his balls tenderly and wincing.
Siege of Station 19 Page 8
