"This isn't the only squad," Dr. Cavalle explained, momentarily searching Hyde's hood for an eye to contact. "We've got another squad searching the Metro neighborhood."
"Well that will raise a panic!" Hyde tipped his chin up and made a sucking noise as he swallowed spit. "There must be more to this."
"Why aren't we searching the neighborhood?" Borland asked, his vision swimming in a momentary blood pressure spike. "We found the biters."
"Please." Brass raised his hands. "We're moving things along this quickly to avoid panic. If there is more Variant Effect, we have to shut it down before it spreads. We must have zero tolerance in this case." He turned to Borland. "We are using a military team from a different jurisdiction in Metro because they're-not connected."
"Ah! Search and destroy," Hyde hissed, head dipping. "They're going to kill everything they see."
"It is vital that this outbreak be stopped at the source." Brass frowned and nodded. "Your mission will be no less critical. Remember in the reconfigured protocol for quarantine of large population centers the second stage is 'detect.'"
Borland let out a great guffaw.
"What?" Hyde looked across the table, and then at Brass when Borland continued to laugh. "Why is he laughing?"
"Remember, Rawhide: History," Borland hissed, unable to resist mimicking Hyde. "You and me, and the rest of these monkeysÖ Brass wants sneakers!" He swung his fist at the door. "We're a Sneak Squad."
Hyde's head slowly turned back to Borland. The shadow from his hood shifted enough to show his scarred jaws. The yellow teeth opened like he was going to bite someone.
CHAPTER 29
Borland liked Sneak Squads back in the day. They always paid extra and you had a lot of leeway carting around all that authority without any direct control from Brass or his bosses. Sneak Squads were sent in whenever they found a high concentration of Variant Effect in a populated geographic area or town. The Sneak Squads were supposed to get in as quietly as they could, take notes, get samples and then make the decision on whether to go to the next stage in the protocol. The idea was that just seeing a Variant Squad transport could send people into a tizzy indistinguishable from actual Variant presentation, so going in quietly let the squad look around and make the call from the site before word got out and panic started killing.
And if a high concentration was confirmed, the call often involved high-casualty rates among the affected population. Brass and his higher-ups preferred dealing with the quick fix when the bodies were in bags. As he used to put it, "A day's delay can cost you a neighborhood. How long until you lose the world?" The media and government made their living with red tape. Sneak Squads got around it.
Of course, autonomy and anonymity often caused greater bloodshed. That was known to happen. They'd find one or two Biters or Pyros, sometimes only suspected, and they'd deal with them harshly before the greater public knew about it-before the outbreak broke out.
Borland was thinking about this as he made his way across the stationhouse toward the assembled volunteers. A sudden thought sent a chill over him. By their nature, Sneak Squads were off the grid, and it wasn't unheard of for them to disappear during the course of a 'sneak.' Sometimes the outbreak was too big to handle. That kind of collateral damaged happened, but not often enough to make sneak interchangeable with expendable. And the money was always good.
Borland walked over to Aggie admiring the flex of her powerful backside while she bent over some papers on a desk. He'd always been a fan of that part of her anatomy-especially back when she was barely an adult: the princess of booty. Aggie turned when she heard him coming, then posed muscular and rigid in front of the desk making the pseudo-combat gear work for her. Someone had put the folding chairs away. The volunteers were standing in four rows. They'd all gone to parade rest.
"Hard to believe we're here." Aggie turned square-shouldered toward him. She rarely cranked back in the day, so had learned to deal with her fears. That's your problem honey.
"Yeah," Borland growled. Once Brass broke the meeting, Borland wasted no time stoking up his own bravado in the can. "I remember lots of cases where Joe Public drove to the next town cooking a Biter the whole way-then ate his in-laws at the front door..." He laughed. "Remember that?"
"I don't see anything funny about it," Aggie scolded.
"Me either," Borland said, shrugging. Street noise drew his attention back to the stationhouse's half-open bay doors. Variant Squad transports were due any minute. Brass said they were refitting a pair of the vehicles mothballed after the day. There'd be uniforms, equipment and bag-suits-maybe they even found his old kit if he was lucky.
He noticed Brass and Hyde were still at the edge of the concrete pad, talking or arguing. Hyde's dark presence continued to personify doom and gloom.
Jesus, give it a break would you?
Borland's mind drifted to the thought of the transport sleeping berths. He was exhausted past the point of whiskey helping-he was finished-and unless one of these recruits was streetwise for amyls or amphetaminesÖ
Then Hyde's voice cut through his thoughts. Nothing intelligible. Just emotion. Anger. Voices were rising. Up and down they rang in the stationhouse.
"Goddamn bellyacher," Borland grumbled and turned back to Aggie's hard stare.
"You got no soul, Joe." She shook her head and handed him an e-board.
Borland squinted at the small text on the device's flat gray screen.
Aggie snickered at his inconvenience before reaching over to increase the font size.
He pulled away from her with a glare that then swept over the volunteers. He read the names on the e-board display to himself, grinned with satisfaction when he realized they'd been listed by shield-names. A shield-name was etched on your bag-suit visor and embroidered on your uniform. It had to be easy to remember, and easy to forget. It was a tradition back in the day to pick one.
They only used your real name on your headstone or if you were promoted to captain. Captains had their full names on their visors and uniforms. It was stitched and stamped everywhere. That made it easier to blame you when things went south.
He glared at the volunteers. If Brass was building a squad there should be 20 baggies. He knew that without counting. A part of him chuckled when he realized he'd instinctively straightened his back and shoulders-aped something that resembled a very exhausted attention.
"I'm Variant Squad Captain Joe Borland," he started; a thrilling flicker of remembered excitement went through him. Did I miss this crap? "This is Captain Agnes Dambe." He looked at the e-board, and up at the gathered faces. About one quarter of them were women. "I'm not going to say a lot of pretty words about duty or bravery. You must all know why you're here." He allowed himself a devilish smile. "Anyone want to explain it to me?"
A chuckle ran through the volunteers. Aggie scowled at him.
"Brass will tell us the whole story when he's good and ready." He cast a look across the stationhouse. Brass and Hyde were still at the door. Hyde was hissing and his skinless hands were stabbing the space between them. "I'm sure it won't be good news."
No one laughed and Borland frowned. Nervous apprehension stiffened the volunteers so he started reading the names.
CHAPTER 30
"Beachboy?" Borland glowered.
A tall man in his early twenties snapped to attention. He had dirty blonde hair and the kind of all American looks that Borland hated.
"Why'd you pick that shield-name?" He frowned. "You a surfer?"
"No, sir. It's the name of a character from the Team Omega comic books," Beachboy said, his blue eyes gleaming. "Dr. Beachboy got his super powers surfing at Bikini Island after the atom bomb was tested."
"I'm sorry I asked." Borland looked to Agnes. She shrugged. "Bikini Island?" He stared at the young man. "And what's his super powers then?"
"X-ray vision for starters, sir." Beachboy stayed at attention, but Borland could hear the tension dropping out of his voice.
"To see through bik
inis?" Borland smiled, looking along the line of bagged-boys, to see if any of the girls were blushing.
"Enough of that!" Agnes barked. "Captain Borland might care where you get your shield-names. I don't." She paused for a second glaring at Borland. "Unless it bears in some way on your performance in this Variant Squad keep the back-story to yourself. To me, it will simply be the name on your visor."
"Yeah," said Borland, knowing there'd be time to talk shield-names when the Squad started cranking before a mission. "We'll keep it short for now."
Then something caught his eye, he looked past Beachboy at a tall, well built man with short black hair. A tag on his jumpsuit said: "Mofo."
"Mofo?" Borland couldn't resist a twisted grin. He looked the big man up and down. "I'd have called you 'Ratpack.' You need a tuxedo and manicure not a bag-suit. You got a Vegas look to you, sunshine."
"My dad worked with you back in the day, sir." Mofo's voice was low. "Fireman Ely Cook, shield-name: Sticky. He used to say you liked his sticky buns."
There was general snickering until Agnes glared the recruits into silence.
Borland thought back, barely conjured Sticky's face. He was tall too if he remembered correctly, and always stooped over the oven in the stationhouse kitchen. His death was bad. Borland couldn't recall specifics, but something felt heavy in his gut about it. LaterÖ
Borland squinted and frowned giving Mofo the twice over. He was in his early thirties. That made him aÖ
"I'm a kinderkid, sir," Mofo said, reading his look. "Presented in pre-adolescence."
"Right," Borland grumbled, rolling his eyes away. It was rare for someone to just up and say it. There were lots of reasons to keep that crap quiet. "So, can we trust you?"
"Sex addict sir," Mofo smiled as he said it. "Don't trust me with your wife."
"I'm not married," Borland grumbled.
"Or your mother," Beachboy chimed in, and the recruits exploded with laughter.
"You named him?" Borland leaned in to Beachboy's airspace as the others quieted.
"It seemed appropriate at the time!" Beachboy tightened up his stance.
"Did she like it?" Borland snarled, suddenly itching for a bottle to share around.
"Mom didn't complain, sir!" Beachboy's lips split in a grin, and the recruits laughed again.
Borland turned a dismal eye to Aggie. She frowned, but was caught up in the general good humor. She knew how big a risk these idiots were taking. If it got as bad as it could get many of them would be dead soon.
"Lilith?" Borland read the name, puzzled and then looked up as an ivory skinned woman with red hair and dazzling eyes nodded. She had to be 20. "What kind of name is Lilith?"
"It's a Mesopotamian storm demon, Captain Borland," Lilith said as she straightened her shoulders and flashed her eyes.
"Lilith the storm demon," Borland repeated, and then shrugged. He didn't think that name would last past the first cranking.
"Travis?" He cherry-picked the name off the list. A wiry man of average height sprang to attention and caught Borland's eyes with his. He had sharp, elf-like features. "Seems a little plain after Lilith."
"It's my name sir," the twenty-something man said.
A quiet snicker made its way through the volunteers. Aggie silenced it with a scowl.
"Did they explain shield-names to you?" Borland shook his head.
Travis nodded. "I was going to use 'Zombie,' a character from the same comic Beachboy mentioned." He lowered his gaze. "But I figured it might be in bad taste."
"Everybody!" Borland waved his e-board. "This is Zombie."
A wave of chuckles rippled through the group. Borland was too burned out to read the looks correctly, but it felt more like humor than tension.
"Dancer?" Borland asked and heaved his eyes wearily over the group. A woman with straight ash-blonde hair nodded and snapped crisply to attention. "That from a comic book?"
"From my past, sir," she said and straightened her shoulders. Her body was lean and well muscled and while she was as tall as Borland, the lack of excess gave her a fragile appearance. He guessed she was in her early-thirties-old enough to be a kinderkid, too. LaterÖ
"Lazlo?" Borland continued, pausing as the name rang a bell. He knew a Lazlo back in the day.
The mystery evaporated when he looked up and recognized Jenkins, the black cop from the Demarco furrier building. That was it. Jenkins drank himself into trouble before the day and got pinchedÖ He joined the squads on a prison release program, became a cop after.
"Back from the dead, sir," Jenkins said, his dark eyes steady.
"Right, like the bible guy." Borland struggled in the unfamiliar water.
"Yes sir," Jenkins agreed. "Like Lazarus, I was given another chance."
Borland frowned as he clamped down on that one. He didn't want any Christian voodoo on the squadÖ But he remembered Lazlo wasn't a preacher. There was a PreacherÖ
That name started a parade of dead faces in his mind. That was then. His heart thudded.
He looked down at the e-board; his skinned and bandaged hand looked fatal against the smooth plastic. Borland handed the device to Aggie.
"Let's do this laterÖ" His vision swam. "I gotta sit down."
Hyde's hissing voice chased him back to the lunchroom.
****
PART FOUR: PARKERVILLE
****
CHAPTER 31
Brass rolled the stationhouse's main bay doors up out of the way with a loud rattle and bang before catching Borland's somewhat sinister stagger toward the lunchroom. Brass muttered something derogatory, excused himself to Hyde and followed. Hyde watched him cross the stationhouse, his footsteps echoing heavily but ringing hollow in the open space.
Then to Hyde's naked senses it seemed like the big man's movements started to slow, become labored, as though the air was thickening around him-solidifying-as the past crowded in.
Familiar sounds. Scents. Shapes. A tremor of panic constricted Hyde's scarred chest and caught at his breath.
His pulse thumped under his skinless hands and throbbed in his ears. The seconds grew sluggish. He pulled his hood over his lidless eyes to shut the memories out.
Beep.
Time was slowing down.
Beep. A heart monitor.
Hyde drew a long breath.
Beep. The machine measured his lifetime.
Beep. One moment at a time.
Beep. A tremor wracked him. And then.
Beep.
Hyde watched Monica's approach through the clear vinyl oxygen tent. She was a rough drawing, a smeared charcoal sketch, distorted by his body shield. Brass was always there somewhere in the background, a tall wide shadow hovering just out of sight. Sometimes he spoke, just reassuring words about Hyde's surviving squad members, about how his service and sacrifice would be rewarded come what may.
His family would be looked after.
Come what may.
It was always so cold there in the oxygen tent.
Beep.
Monica's features were blurred by the wrinkled vinyl drape that kept him alive. Her face obscured by a surgical mask.
They kept the light low in Hyde's hospital room as he adjusted to a life with lidless eyes.
"Hi," Monica said, the first time she worked up the nerve. His wife's green eyes were dark in the gloom. Hyde lifted a bandaged arm before gingerly setting it back in a nest of brown-stained bandages. It was bound and constricted by IV tubes carrying morphine and saline drips. Another artificial vein connected him to the dialysis machine nearby
"Are you?" she asked, and took a step. "Can you?" she continued another step, her fingers stroking the air impotently. "Do you need a doctor?"
Hyde gasped as he pushed the thought away with a painful wave of his hand.
"Does it hurt very much?" she asked.
Monica had a direct way of asking questions that sometimes made her sound naïve or ridiculous. The absurdity was too much for Hyde this time, considering, and he broke
into a painful chuckle. His laughter spiraled upward, soon took on an insane ring. The pain of the action kept him from bedlam but tortured him. Even the pain was funny, consideringÖ
The heart monitor beeped alarmingly.
"You could say that," he lisped, finally.
Monica took a hesitant step forward and stopped again. She searched his blurred shadow for clues. "I'm sorry, Eric. I just don't know what to do."
Hyde watched her silently through the vinyl.
She regarded his shrouded shape.
"Please, Eric," she said, shoulders and spine locked. "You have to help me."
Something, the morphine perhaps, got Hyde laughing again. It was a humorless chuckle but the mocking tone was there.
Monica read this as criticism, like he did it to hurt her. She took a step forward and then shuffled two steps back. Her discomfort left her two yards from him, half-turned from the bed.
"Wait," Hyde said, unable to soften his tone without lips. His voice came out sharp, almost angry.
Monica spoke over her shoulder. "Dr. Barnes said skin grafts."
"I know what Dr. Barnes said." Hyde watched her turn toward the oxygen tent. Her need was evident, but he couldn't contain himself and giggled hysterically. His words were like a baby's: no 'b's, 'v's, m'sÖGod! Language was impossible. He tried to wrestle his laughter under control before Monica could take it personally again. Hyde lifted a hand and swatted the vinyl. The action left a streak of blood or infection. He started chuckling again.
"Stop it! Stop it!" Monica's voice rose as she leaned in rigid, too repulsed for fury. "I can't take it if youÖ"
"You can't take it!" Hyde cut her off. "Trust me, you can't."
Monica shook her head weakly. She understood what Hyde was doing. She could hear the release in what he said.
"You left me before this happened." Hyde suddenly struggled with rage, his voice, the lipless lisp made him snarl. "And only returned when you found you were pregnant."
"We were working it out," Monica's voice fell flat.
"Go!" Hyde barked and looked away. He caught his raw blurred reflection in the vinyl curtain. White bandages stained, scarlet scar tissue bleeding out around its edges.
The Variant Effect Page 9
