"I have issued orders to the forces forming the cordon around Parkerville that no one is to enter or leave without my direct authorization." Brass' look was stern.
Hyde studied his own hands as he picked at the scars. The high overhead light made them look as green as a goblin's.
"We'll need samples tested on-site. Once we've got that proof, we can go into full Variant protocol," Brass continued.
"Mao is collecting samples from the Biter that attacked behind the Dollar store," Cavalle assured him. "Unfortunately there is little gray matter left."
"Euthanize the store owner," Brass said, glancing down at his palm-com. "Recorded as my order. Collect the necessary samples from him."
Cavalle paused, then: "Uh, yes, sir."
That was all the proof Hyde needed. Suspending basic human rights on a good hunch.
"We have to move fast," Brass warned. "Once we've got laboratory confirmation Parkerville gets cleaned." He cleared his throat. "You're isolating the uninfected population?"
"Yes, sir," Aggie said. "We got teams out where people are missing. A ravine that snakes through town looks like the hotlink. We're going to map that top to bottom and make sure nothing can get out overland."
"Good," Brass said. "Dr. Cavalle, I want you to rely on the veterans. They know what has to be done, even if you think you'll go to hell doing it."
"Yes sir," Cavalle answered.
"Brass," Hyde said from under his hood. "We are going to protect the innocent. That is our mandate. Am I correct?"
Brass regarded him quietly for a full minute. "Up until the moment such protection in any way risks the spread of the Variant Effect outside Parkerville."
"What of the Metro squad investigating the neighborhood around the furrier building?" Hyde grasped for something. If the Variant Effect was already outside the cordoned area, then that weakened the argument for ziplocking, gassing and burning Parkerville.
"We found nothing else," Brass said without hesitation. "As you know samples from the Biters that attacked Borland showed the Variant Effect." He went quiet, took a breath before continuing. "I gave the order to do a controlled burn on a city block." He paused. "Parkerville looks like the source."
"Brass, the Variant you found," Hyde said. "It was the same Variant we saw in the day?"
"Yes," Brass said quietly and looked away, then his dark eyes searched the shadows under Hyde's hood. "Why do you ask?"
"Seems like a logical question," Hyde hissed.
Then Wizard appeared in a fly-out window on the flat-screen.
"Captain Dambe," she said, her usually calm voice trembling. "On the vid-com link. We heard gunfire."
CHAPTER 49
"Where's Mofo?" Borland asked, sweeping his .38 out.
"He went that way-east," Beachboy said pointing with his .9 mm in the direction opposite the gunshot. "Thought he saw someone down there where the ravine goes through a culvert under the street."
Borland turned his attention to the ground at his feet. The earth was loose. He was deciding if it was worth tumbling into the gully.
"Probably after a woman. Come on!" Beachboy shouted and leapt down the bank. "The shot came from this way." He disappeared in the underbrush, heading west.
"AH!" Borland grunted, started gingerly down the embankment. There were plenty of tree branches and saplings to hang onto for balance. His boots slipped as earth shifted. There was mud underfoot sucking at his soles. Suddenly the leaves started pattering with raindrops. Panting, he glanced at the sky. The clouds were darker than before. Could be rain, could be the day ending. It had to be pushing five-thirty or six. There was still an hour of daylight left.
Plowing through the undergrowth was simple enough. Stopping, wellÖ
"The carÖ" Borland started to form an excuse. He should cut back and get the sedan.
"Up here!" Beachboy's blond hair appeared out of the leafy undergrowth a good 50 feet ahead. "I see something."
Borland's pulse hammered in his ears. His face was hot and his hernias weighed him down like a lead belt. Anger started boiling behind his eyes.
"Goddamn!" He lost his footing, fell forward into some broad-leaved undergrowth and hit his cheek on an arc of rusted metal-a bicycle wheel-then he tumbled over some rotting boards. Something stabbed his right leg and tore his pants.
"Captain!" Beachboy's voice echoed.
"Hey Captain!" another voice called, it was Zombie. That kid and Lilith made up Spiko's team. The idiots had volunteered.
Borland winced as he got his bandaged hand under him, pushed himself away from the cloying smell of wet earth and clay. Around him were broken flowerpots, clods of concrete, warped and stained plasterboard and mounds of grass clippings. He looked up the hill and saw where the stuff was heaved over from the yard above-right there the wheelbarrow could be tipped up andÖ
"Here he is!" Lilith's strong voice fluted, and the bushes up the hill started to shiver and shake as the baggies came pushing through.
Borland hurried now, clambering in the junk to get onto his feet. His face hurt where he'd whacked it on the bicycle wheel and he noticed one pant leg was stained with blood.
"Goddamn!" he snarled, staggering upright as the baggies made it through the undergrowth and then struggled to keep their footing on the shifting garbage heap.
"Who's shooting?" Borland barked, temples hammering. His face was burning.
"Sorry, Captain," Zombie said sheepishly. He was dressed in T-shirt, rugby pants and leather jacket. "Lazlo dropped us off at the schoolyard where the ravine stops and starts. Lazlo left and Spiko ordered us to pull our weapons. He said he was going to scout to the northwest and he told us to go the other way, follow the ravine back toward you."
"Goddamn Spiko," Borland spat, growling at the baggies.
"We were coming up the ravine, and we hit one of these garbage heaps." Zombie shrugged. "We both fell and my gun went off."
"Then put the GODDAMN thing away!" Borland shouted. He reached out for a sapling, started pulling himself up the hill. The baggies moved to help but he slapped their hands away. He dropped to a knee and struggled on until his pulse pounded and sweat started pouring around his ears.
"You're hurt, Captain," Lilith said. Her civvies were denim pants, shirt and coat. "Your leg."
"The hell with you!" Borland staggered on, dragging himself upright, pulling and heaving until he dropped on his ass at the top of the ravine.
The baggies stood on the slope below him looking frustrated and embarrassed.
"You're lucky you didn't shoot yourself or sweet-pants here," Borland growled at Zombie. "Because then I couldn't kill your sorry ass."
Borland gasped and climbed to his feet. "I don't know what your jobs were before, if you were cops or meter maids or whatÖ" He held up a hand to quiet them. "And I don't care. Just with the Variant Effect, you have to stick together."
He stared down into the gully and then turned away, started limping toward the back of the Lincoln house. "Otherwise a Biter will eat your skin." He clapped his filthy hands and shook his head. "I don't know what more I can say." He looked to the east and slapped at the mud on his pants and jacket. "Mofo didn't come at the gunshot."
"He saw something," Beachboy explained as the baggies hurried to catch up.
"Ran off half-cocked did he?" Borland turned on Beachboy, stepped in close to his face. "Like you running into the goddamn gully to get me killed?" He swept a hand dismissively at the baggies.
"I know you're fresh fish," Borland grumbled. "But I didn't think we got you right out of the egg."
He stumped toward the front of the house. The sedan was there. No Mofo. Borland had halfway hoped to find the big man copping a nap.
"Maybe we should contact the other teams," Lilith suggested.
"Yeah!" Borland cursed and started searching for his palm-com. Nothing. He looked back toward the ravine and then glared at the baggies. "Looks like I lost my palm-com rolling around in the garbage, kids."
"I'll go
look for it!" Beachboy started forward but Borland slapped him.
"No-Jesus! I just said don't go off half-cocked." Borland shook his head. "Give me yours." He grabbed the unit when Beachboy handed it over, turned it on and started.
"This is Borland, looking for Spiko. Come in." He glowered at the others as he waited a half-minute and then repeated the hail. "This is Borland. You there, Spiko?"
The palm-com shrieked. Borland scowled and then pointed at the baggie's vid-com links, and made a throat cutting gesture. They shut them down to stop the interference.
And then a voice: "This is Lazlo, we're up about 200 yards from the highway. No Spiko."
"Okay," Borland said. "Spiko's headed your way. I've got the rest of his team but I lost one of mine. Mofo's on the loose. Tell him to call daddy if you see him."
"Borland," Lazlo said, and continued, "you won't believe what we found here. The ravine jogs 45 degrees to the left, heads west to the highway, like I said 200 yards on from my position but right at the bend, we've got a big culvert. It must handle rainwater runoff and sewers from the airfield and the military base."
"How big?" Borland felt a cold prickle run along his spine.
"A man could crouch and move through it," Lazlo answered. "I'm looking at a big rusted iron grate that covers it, only it's been torn off and thrown 20 feet down to the bottom of the ravine."
"Jesus," Borland said, frowning to hide his fear.
"Something's been going in and out." Lazlo's voice dropped. "Tracks."
"Okay, Lazlo," Borland ordered, "get your team out of there. Suit up, bring your van and then set up a watch. Also keep your eyes peeled for Spiko and Mofo."
Great time to go sightseeing, you idiots.
"Copy that," Lazlo said.
"I'll bring my baggies up to your position," Borland scowled at the baggies and then pointed at the sedan. They hung their heads and started getting into the car. "HQ has been listening to all this so maybe they'll have some plan put together by the time I get to you. Borland out!" They'd also have Mofo and Spiko's vid-com uplinks.
Borland snapped off the palm-com and chucked it to Beachboy where he was poised to climb into the driver's seat. The younger man almost missed the toss. Something behind Borland had caught his eye.
Borland started to turn andÖ
"Uncle Joe?" a woman's voice said, "I thought it was you."
CHAPTER 50
The stalker watched them go.
The fat one talked to the young female after she hugged him. The fat one liked the touch, the pressure. The stalker could smell it even at a distance. Even through the cloud of toxins that came from the heavy, sick body, the stalker could smell the fat one's need-his desire to rut with the young female.
Then the fat one squeezed and pushed at his guts and kicked his legs. He looked around with worry until the female smiled and pointed down the street to a car by the curb. The fat one waved a hand and got into his car with the others as she walked away.
The stalker watched them go.
So much skin on the fat oneÖso much smelly, bristly, crunchy, fatty, drippy skin.
And he looked familiar too.
But the skin, so much, so smooth on the tongue, and then the terror passes.
Doesn't itÖfor a time?
It passes.
For a time.
The female was familiar too.
Her skin was soft and fuzzy, and would smell of estrus and fetus and fur.
A shiver ran over the stalker's body as it licked its lips, as its own skin flushed and grew erect and moist with needÖ But not the female. She was off limits-worse than the mistake before.
The stalker knew the fat one.
There was danger here.
And the memories were uncomfortable, conflicted with the need for Ritual.
Best to forget then.
Skin was skin was beautiful and soft and slippery and sweet and sour and salty.
And the memories only ruined the taste with agitating names and words and things.
The rain picked up, started falling harder and the stalker shivered as the drops tickled over its skin.
Sweet! Spasm! Sweet! Pain! Sweet. Sweet. Rip. Sweet. Skin. Ssskin. Orgasm!
It stood panting in the rain-stress coiling around its spine like a spring.
There was danger.
And the stalker had to go, had to run, had to leave. There were too many little Biters hunting in the wild now for safety.
Only after, how could it leave before?
It would leave after the fresh one it had just caught was tasted. When it was tasted and consumed-and Ritual made the terror pass.
When it made the terror pass.
Slip. Chew. Crunch. Ssskin.
No more accidents! No mistakes.
The stalker's hands started shaking as it contemplated Ritual-and on unblemished skin this new one would be sweet, the skin would be soft in the best places, and marked only where the chains would hold it to the wall.
The skin would be calming.
The stalker could barely hide its anticipation as it hurried to the skin.
****
PART SIX: M.I.A.
****
CHAPTER 51
Hyde enjoyed the feeling of security he got from his tight-fitting skin-shell body suit. He'd managed to don the clinging material with only a minor snag when he had to let out the straps on his leg braces to accommodate the suit's knee and ankle joints. He was pleased to have managed the suit without the help of his medic, Gordon. At first he'd feared the ridged scar tissue on his legs would bind in the rubbery fittings and force him to seek assistance. But like everything that Brass was involved with, the skin-shell suit was a perfect fit-the end result of lots of planning. Or was it plotting?
He had yet to try the hood and face-shield, though he'd found the display and lamp hook ups were intuitive and would activate as soon as the contacts were snapped into place.
As an added benefit, the semi-rigid 'skin-shell' plates on his thighs and calves added stability to his legs. Hyde had experimented with the suit's support structure by moving inside the Horton unassisted. His stiff-legged zombie walk would never pass as normal on the street, but it did allow him a different gait to the four-legged stagger he managed with his canes. This development forced him to wonder why he'd never looked more deeply into prosthetic devices. After the hospital and the endless physiotherapy, he'd accepted the wheelchair, leg braces and canes as the new status quo.
The terms of surrender.
He paused by his bed and slid his long, hooded coat over the suit and was pleased to see that the lower hem fell close to the top of his boots. He knew its hood would be large enough to cover the skin-shell hood and face-shield when they were in place. The headgear was transparent when the display surface was inactive, and Hyde could not abide the alien image he would present wearing the suit without the coat covering it.
He took a deep breath, settling into the pleasing envelope of the skin-shell's warmth and a sound escaped his lipless mouth that could have been mistaken for pleasure.
Don't get too comfortable. If you survive the mission, you'll never afford this thing on your pension.
His eyes wandered to the flat-screen that was bolted to the molded high-impact plastic ledge that served as the Horton's desk. The link showed Mao dissecting Mr. Stanford. He'd already handed the complete brain to Dr. Cavalle who had sectioned it, scanned the samples under an electron microscope and fed bits into the Gas Chromatograph Mass Spectrometer. A monitor behind her displayed Bezo's Mass Spectral Libraries Database and Varion Molecule Index. It wouldn't take long before identification, and then the burning would start.
Hyde dropped into his wheelchair. His mind kept returning to the autopsy photos he'd requested and finally received from Metro HQ. There was only minimal resistance from Brass.
Doesn't he know this isn't a game?
The images detailed the post mortem examination of the Biters from the furrier building in Metro-the
ones that almost got Borland. The drunken fool was going to kill himself before Hyde fired. Conscience getting to you?
The preliminary autopsy was done on-site by Dr. Justin Ang, a high-level Bezo pathologist who had worked with the squads back in the day. And just like in the good old day, Brass held back his medical people until his squads finished taking all the risks. After the gunfire, Bezo's precious medical scientists would arrive on the scene to take samples and talk to the media.
The hi-resolution images of Scott Morrison's corpse allowed an incredible degree of magnification. Hyde had studied the dermal damage and found the predictable contusions and tears in areas that were not distorted by swelling and residue from infection. The usual things: torn connective tissues and deep lacerations from bites-evidence of a skin fight. Morrison had been challenged for alpha status, that much was certain, and it had only been a matter of time. There was severe muscle damage on the left side of his head, neck and torso that had caused considerable physical deformation. The massive infections would have killed him soon.
Hyde took note of some unusual marks in the lower abdominal area that extended into the groin and over the genitalia. He emailed a query to Ang about what appeared to be medical incisions. Had this occurred during the post mortem? He was still waiting for a response.
Hyde hissed under his breath. A deep well of anxiety had been filling up since he'd first heard they were going to Parkerville. It had him unconsciously picking at his scarred palm, almost to the point of damaging the flesh. He had to be careful of infection.
Infection-the word seeped through him and he wistfully pined for his room at the home and War Eagle. Everything outside that room threatened infection: even human interaction, even words. They got into you, and started doing things, changing you, altering your behavior and suddenly you had toÖ
Something was tugging at his memory. He'd forgotten so much after the attack, after his Biters left him for dead, as if he had purposefully deleted memories-pushed it all away so nothing triggered deeper realizations...
Clicking his teeth absently, he minimized the autopsy video, opened a window to the Bezo Variant Squad database and input names for a search: "Robert Spiko" and "Justin Ang." The crimson lettering flared on the black screen as he typed the query.
The Variant Effect Page 16
