The Variant Effect

by G. Wells Taylor

  "Did you touch it?" Borland glared at him.

  "No! I saw it, kind of covered in garbage. Then I ran in for the phone." His pale eyes grasped something as he said the next piece. He was old enough. "I think some of the skin was off."

  "Jesus!" said Mofo.

  Borland tugged his gun out. Winced when his hernias pulled back.

  "Okay, pops. Behind the dumpster?" He gave Mofo a serious glance. The big man had drawn an automatic. The whites of his eyes looked frantic against his tan.

  At the end of the alley where the asphalt jogged off to the right, an old red truck was parked by the back door of the old man's store. The dumpster sat across from the building nestled up to a fence that ran parallel to main street and butted up to adjacent buildings to form a courtyard. The fence was made of eight-foot tall planks. Corrugated aluminum sheets canted out at the top to form a roof over the dumpster and recycling bins.

  "Back there." The old man stopped, arms over his chest and back pressed against his building. "You don't think it'sÖ"

  "Shut up and stay quiet." Borland pointed at the old man and glanced at Mofo, nodded his head to the far side of the dumpster.

  Mofo kept his gun high and paced over to approach from the far side.

  "Watch your crossfire," Borland hissed, suddenly wishing he'd had whiskey at the bar. Adrenaline could only do so much.

  "I rememberÖ" the old man said, voice breaking. "It's not happening again."

  "Stay there!" Borland growled. He could see the footprints on the asphalt now, right under the aluminum overhang-dark on the dusty surface.

  "Cause they said it was over!" The old man was almost crying now.

  "Shut up!" Borland snarled, distracted by the man's whimpering. He had the angle now; there was something back there behind the dumpster. Dark brown, it lay across the base of the fence.

  "See that Mofo?" Borland gestured with his gun.

  Mofo nodded.

  "I can't take it again!" the old man shrieked.

  Four more cautious steps, and Borland stood opposite Mofo. There were a couple footprints there. They led to a tangle of dark brown cardboard. It was wet, like the wind had shifted rain around to the side. The cardboard had drooped and melted.

  In the poor light it looked like a body lying there.

  Borland glanced at Mofo. "That's all there is to it."

  Adrenaline steamed away.

  "SSSKIN!" the word hissed from lipless jaws echoed across the courtyard.

  The old man's scream brought them around.

  The Biter must have been hiding behind the truck. A dark red shape leapt on the old man, jaws snapping on his face. There was a ripping noise.

  CHAPTER 41

  The old man's screams were terrible. There were hissing and tearing sounds and the truck shook from strong muscular rending actions.

  Borland's nerves flared with old booze and adrenaline. Mofo was moving. He'd approach from the rear bumper. Borland angled his bulk toward the front.

  The old man's screams echoed in the courtyard. Borland's hair prickled as he rounded on the front of the truck. He knew Mofo was coming around the back.

  But their guns were pointed at the old man's bloody form writhing on the asphalt. His face and neck was torn, a bloody ruin of muscle and tissue.

  He was alone.

  Borland heard footsteps running, voices echoing up the alley.

  Mofo scanned the back of the building. The door was closed. There was a window with heavy shutters.

  Borland raised a finger to his lips, then tapped his ear and pointed low on the truck chassis. There were wet chewing noises coming from underneath: Slurping and sucking, guttural licks and burping.

  And then: "SsskinÖ" whispered, lovingly, longingly. More chewing sounds. "SsskinÖ"

  Mofo's eyebrows arched up to his hairline.

  Borland mouthed the word, "Ready?" and then he drummed on the side of the truck with his gun.

  "SKIN!" The word bounced around the courtyard. There were scrabbling sounds like nails or exposed finger bones were scratching at the asphalt for purchase. Borland and Mofo charged toward the far side of the truck. Nothing, and then:

  "SKIN!"

  From over Mofo's shoulder, the Biter was standing in the open bed of the truck. Long strips of the old man's face hung from its lower jaw. Most of the creature's head and upper torso had been skinned. Tattered denims clung to its legs. The lidless eyes flashed madly over Mofo's tan.

  "SSSKIN!"

  Mofo opened up on it. His gun on 'auto' ripped and rattled a line from the tailgate and up in an arc over the brick wall behind the Biter, but missed completely. He ejected the empty magazine, swearing-started to jam a new one home.

  "SKIN!"

  Borland fired, but the thing moved, charging toward Mofo. Its jaws snapped in the air. Its sharp red finger bones slashed.

  Borland kept pulverizing brick as he tried to shoot with his bandaged hand.

  The Biter leapt but plumes of flesh and bone suddenly exploded from its back. Rapid gunfire chopped it to pieces as Mofo fired and found his mark.

  More bullets tore at the Biter's head, whizzed by Borland.

  And the Biter fell against the back of the truck where it twitched and shuddered in death, as the remaining Variant Effected adrenaline burned along its nerves.

  Beachboy was standing 10 feet behind Mofo. His automatic smoked in the air.

  "Did you see that thing?" Mofo asked, ejecting another clip to reload and cover the Biter.

  "One of you almost shot me!" Borland barked. "Watch your crossfire."

  The younger men stood over the Biter, their expressions disbelieving.

  "So that's aÖ" Beachboy said. "That's aÖ"

  "Did you see..." Mofo continued. "Did youÖ"

  Borland moved around the truck. Saw that the Biter's head was pretty much gone.

  Then the old man moaned.

  "Jesus," Borland dug into his pocket, pulled out a pair of vinyl gloves and pulled them on. "Gloves." He looked into the back of the truck. There was a big orange tarp, folded and some lengths of yellow rope.

  "Come on." He grabbed the tarp and a coil of rope and hurried around the truck to the old man. He frowned at the poor bastard's face. It was ripped open. The skin was gone on the left side down his neck and across his exposed sternum. One of his eyes hung out of the socket.

  "We don't have a lot of time," Borland growled, unfolding the tarp beside the old man.

  "Shouldn't we call an ambulance?" Mofo asked, still keeping an eye on the dead Biter.

  "Sneak, remember?" He gestured for Beachboy to grab the old man's shoulders. "This guy can still turn." He slid his gun away. "Aggie's bringing the cavalry."

  "Keep us covered!" Borland glowered at Mofo as they lifted the whimpering old man onto the tarp.

  "Help me," he wept, his skinned jaws showing upper dentures.

  "If you're lucky," Borland grumbled, as he wrapped the tarp over him and started trussing him up.

  "Tie him tight," he warned Beachboy, throwing an end of the rope. "Watch his teeth."

  ****

  PART FIVE: CRANKENSTEIN

  ****

  CHAPTER 42

  Borland swung his legs out of the sedan and vomited between his feet when they hit the pavement. He wiped at his face with his bandaged hand.

  Damn it. That one got away from himÖ

  The vomit overloaded his sinuses. It was all he could smell and he almost tossed his guts again, but he was distracted by the meaty thump of Beachboy's body hitting the ground. The kid rolled on his back, said something and lay still.

  Borland chuckled, winced around another heave and then laughed maniacally at Mofo's mournful encouragement from the backseat-the big man sounded like an old lady, a ridiculous addition to Beachboy's discomfort.

  Mofo was as drunk as the younger man, just too big to know it yet.

  "Captain Borland!" Aggie's voice yanked Borland's eyes up and away from the blot of afternoon eggs and beer p
ainting the floor.

  Something thrummed in him, a static line snapped and pulled a guise, a persona out of the pack-gave strength to his trembling legs as he heaved his bulk to attention, still wiping at his face. His bandaged right hand was a mess, stank of ketchup, yolk and beer.

  Aggie marched over glaring. "You're drunk," she barked.

  The rest of the volunteers hung back by the transports forming a shocked crescent-glad to be out of her line of fire.

  Borland bit down on a snide remark, patted the front of his jacket free of salt and popcorn dust, and the day staggered through his mind.

  Aggie and eight nervous-looking bagged-boys and girls had turned up at Don's Dollar Deals. They slid a pair of vans down the alley about 20 minutes after the incident; it was still too early for transports. They had to move quickly to maintain the Sneak. Borland, Beachboy and Mofo turned the curious away from the end of the alley while Aggie's crew isolated the old man, stabilized his vital signs and slipped his torn body from its crude bindings and bagged it in something official.

  Aggie oversaw the collection of the Biter's body. Borland glared at the expressions he saw through the new recruits' bag-suit visors as they struggled with a nightmare come true. Kids or babies or unborn back in the day, they'd never been face to face with the Variant Effect, but they'd sure heard about it.

  The old man went with Aggie and a pair of bagged-boys in one van and was followed back to the base by four worried-looking baggies in the other. They had ziplocked the Biter corpse and were tasked with guarding it.

  The bagged-girl, Dancer stayed behind with a baggie called Chopper. He used to ride motorcycles as a highway patrolman. His bright red hair made Borland think of Ireland and whiskey. The recruits slipped out of their bag-suits, and pulled long coats over their squad jumpers.

  They were there to help Borland, Beachboy and Mofo secure the area and wait for the fire trucks. They couldn't wrap the building with the Sneak, so they put up yellow tape, blocked the alley and waited. Don's Dollar Deals had been searched and the protocols applied. The BZ-2 would be administered during the night. The firemen would burn anything outside the building.

  When the fire crew finally arrived-their machine disguised as a heating oil truck-they took up position in front of the building to wait for word from HQ. The higher-ups were hemming and hawing.

  Brass and Midhurst were debating the fate of the store-holding back their destructive trump cards until they had test results-scientific proof, something irrefutable that would justify burning a city block. Lighting it up for protocol's sake would tip their hand when secrecy might better serve the mission-and they had to be sure before they could do it. This wasn't the day.

  Some locals had gathered because of the gunfire, but the scene was kept secure by the single alley access-and lies still worked. The witness was under wraps. Eventually, the gawkers wandered off.

  It wouldn't take much though, just the glimpse of a bagged-boy, and they'd have panic. For the time being, the rumor mill would start turning. It was a military matter-something related to the roadblocks on the highway-maybe an armed robbery or gangland murder. Some kind of trouble from Metro. Borland and the others refused to comment.

  After the fire crew settled in, Borland knew he had to answer his churning guts with a shot of something. Those early beers and action had left his hernias bubbling, and his mind reeling. It was already past noon.

  High time, and Dancer was there. The blonde bagged-girl had the beauty of a fashion model molded over a fiercely cut physique. She could handle it.

  "You and Chopper lock the area down, Dancer," Borland had gasped finally. "Me and the boys are going to pick up supplies, head back to HQ."

  And it went ape from there.

  He had planned to go to the liquor store, buy a box-full of booze and hide it in the sedan. In Borland's mind it was time to crank. The Variant Effect was back, was presenting. Might as well toast the future ghosts. He was also a firm believer that such action bolstered his defenses against the Variant Effect. It had worked before.

  He needed to crank, and so did his squad.

  Maybe he was getting old and protective.

  Maybe that was just a good excuse.

  Maybe he didn't need a reason.

  Mofo and Beachboy were still shell-shocked by what they'd seen. A real Biter: no downloaded CGI, no mega-screen 3D or library virtual walk.

  A Biter: someone with his skin off who wanted to eat yours.

  So Borland didn't need to convince them. They went back to the Apostle and ordered a round of boilermakers.

  And another-then a couple more. Mofo and Gina disappeared again-only 15 minutes, so Borland laughed that it wasn't worth docking his pay.

  He knew the bagged-boys needed to decompress.

  He needed a drink.

  They lost track of time at the tavern. He remembered staggering to the sedan a couple hours later, Mofo ahead of him weaving, carrying a box of bottles, watching and laughing with Beachboy.

  Then Borland grabbed a bottle out of the box and opened it. They sat in the car at the curb talking about the day. But drinking like that andÖ

  Then he realized he had just climbed out of the driver's seat. They were parked by the vans at the base. The crowd of baggies watched by the transports.

  "BORLAND!" Aggie shouted, her heavy fists clenched.

  "Take it easy, AggieÖSquad ProtocolÖ" Borland slurred. "These men have seen the elephantÖ"

  "The heffalump!" Beachboy blurted.

  "Pink elephants!" Mofo laughed.

  "SoÖ" Borland coughed and dragged a sleeve across his face. "So we have to toast it. Squad rules!"

  "Crank it!" Beachboy blurted.

  "Sober up," Aggie said, glowering. "We've got trouble."

  Borland took a breath. His tongue felt thick.

  "It's the old man, the shopkeeperÖ"

  Somewhere far off, Borland heard it.

  "SsskinÖ" The word slithered through the warehouse.

  CHAPTER 43

  Hyde had parked his chair close to the transparent polycarbonate holding cell. He'd been there since the old man was brought in, and he was there when the old man presented. Borland and his team returned three hours later-they were drunk. The younger men were ordered to sleep. Spiko had taken Borland aside to ply with coffee and a cold shower. An hour passed.

  BorlandÖ

  Hyde found that morning's events a welcome mystery. Without War Eagle, with a disinclination to fraternize, he'd found his thoughts consistently returned to hating Borland, so he welcomed the diversion of the old man's misery.

  "Where are the bodies?" Hyde whispered as he watched the old man squirm in his restraints, flinching as the skinned face whipped toward him and hissed through its vinyl shroud.

  "Pardon me?" Cavalle was suiting up to Hyde's right. So was the baggie, Mao. They were sliding into thick and awkward medical shield-suits before entering the cell to collect samples. The polycarb chambers had been assembled under Hyde's direction while Aggie led the recovery team into town. The cells were made of heavy bulletproof sheets bracketed with steel. They were set up along the wall opposite the transports that had been moved and parked bumper to bumper to form a barrier. It had required most of the remaining squad members to lift the cell components into place. A microphone and speaker link gave the unsettling impression that there was no barrier.

  "Where are the bodies, Doctor?" Hyde snapped. "Here we have a fifth Biter."

  "I don't see your point." Cavalle pulled her hood on; her voice became muffled. She gestured to the old man. "There's our fifth body."

  "History, Dr. Cavalle." Hyde shifted in his wheelchair. "History must be studied if you are to learn from it."

  Cavalle paused while zipping up the front of her suit, registering the insult.

  "Such study will warn you of new dangers," Hyde said, watching the old man's face. The remaining animal eye had caught the activity outside the cell. The other orb hung from the naked socket by its op
tic nerve. The Biter's yellow teeth glinted as they snapped. The stress of captivity would have it yearning for Ritual.

  "Please be frank with me then, Captain Hyde." Cavalle turned to him as she hefted a plastic sample kit.

  "Back in the day there were more bodies," Hyde whispered, distracted by the old man's Biter-eye. The creature was studying their movements: yearning to pinch, to tear and bite-to eat skin.

  "I know." Cavalle handed the med-kit to Mao. "We can't let that happen again."

  "Listen! That's not what I meant," Hyde murmured, his chest constricting with anxiety as the Biter watched him, the old teeth glistening with bloody saliva. There was a clicking sound deep in its throat. Calling the pack-that's how they did it back then, how you knew they were near...click, click, clickÖ "The ratio then was three Biter presentations to every 10 attacks. Dermatophagia proved to be the most virulent of 'Variant Effects.'" He paused staring at the Biter. It had focused on his voice, had lifted its head and was studying him, watching with a lidless eye. "If we apply that ratio to what we have, then there must be at least 15 bodies we haven't found."

  "We would have heard if that many people were missing," Cavalle responded. "That would also suggest a much older outbreak than Mr. Morrison's."

  "I am not suggesting that," Hyde said, picking at his scarred palm.

  "Let's not draw any conclusions," Cavalle said as she tapped her vinyl head covering. There were cameras attached there and net uplinks. "We're going to have help. Brass has assembled a group of specialists in Metro-doctors and scientists that have studied the phenomena since the day. They're watching through a link and can give us objective input as we examine the victim."

  "Doctors. Doctors," Hyde repeated suspiciously, tilting his head forward to see past his hood. He glared up at the mini-cams. They were clipped in an arc over Cavalle's head. "They've learned from history. Being in Metro has nothing to do with objectivity."

  Mao was ready, hefted the med-kit and made his way to the polycarb door. He punched a code into a touch-pad on the frame and there was a vibration and squawk as the cell's airlock pressurized.

  "Ssskin!" the old man, now Biter hissed when he heard the noise and started fighting furiously against its restraints. The clear vinyl covering was soon smeared with blood and saliva as the creature tore at its bindings. The vinyl snapped and popped against its powerful exertions. Something ripped, and Cavalle gasped when she realized one of its arms had come free and its fingernails slashed at the vinyl shroud. It had torn one of the restraints.