The Variant Effect

by G. Wells Taylor

  Hyde reached the front of the van and drooped over his cane. There was blood spray on the inside surface. He flipped on his hood-lamps and peered into the van. Blood on the dash-on both seats.

  "Captain?" the corporal called from the rear. "What is it?"

  Hyde made another silencing gesture and hurried, wheezing to the back of the van. The corporal was standing a good 10 feet back. His eyes flicked from the van and over to the shadows beside the road.

  Hyde braced himself against a cane. The van doors opened along a center line-an eight-inch wide strip of shadow gaped. There was one handle. He looked at the corporal, his hood covering much of his face.

  Hyde slid his fingers into the handle on the rear door. He caught the corporal's eye and nodded.

  "Ah, God!" the corporal cried, and sighted along his gun. "Not in the van!"

  And Hyde swung the door open on a blood angel. It glistened in the light from their hood-lamps. But no body. There was a lot of blood, but not enough to suggest more than one person had met this fate. Your fate. Hyde reviewed what he knew about Lazlo's team. A bagged-girl Shanju: Hyde remembered her file. A martial artist, she trained soldiers in the People's Liberation Army in non-radioactive China before emigrating to the west. The other was shield-named Jailbird. He grew up in a rough part of Metro, a juvenile repeat offender who turned his life around in the military to later become a decorated police officer in civilian life.

  The Biters had skinned someone. Hyde's guts twisted over the confined space as he imagined the horrible scene. There were imprints on the walls; there a naked hand and forearm, bare muscle etched in blood; and there, the stamp of a raw hip bone and thigh.

  Ssskin! Skin. Skin! They'd whisper it, biting and holding as the Alpha set its teeth and ripped. As the skin peeled off.

  Hyde gasped, resisted the urge to...

  "Take your hood off, corporal," Hyde said over his shoulder, but too late.

  The corporal vomited and then retched again. He swore as he tore his hood off, now filled with his stomach's contents.

  "It's a gamble, either way," Hyde said absently. He used the barrel of his gun to push at congealing blood pooled on the carpeted floor of the van. "Not enough blood for all three..." But whose angel was it? How did the Biters take them by surprise?

  "Where's the suit?" the corporal asked, whipping his hood, letting centrifugal force clean its contents out. "Wouldn't there be clothes?"

  "It is early and the Biters have not fine-tuned their ritual. Doubtless they valued the vinyl covering, like the victim's jumpsuit as skin." Hyde shut off his hood-lamps. Hid the angel in darkness. "Later they will come to understand the difference."

  "But they're smart enough to get into a van?" the corporal had pulled his filthy hood back on, and was swinging his shotgun to cover any sound.

  "Apelike intelligence, so no mean feat," Hyde shrugged and shut the door. He crept forward on a single cane. His free hand held the gun.

  "But, so where are they?" the corporal hurried after Hyde and paused at the road's edge, gun still snapping to each point in the compass.

  "It is difficult to say. I counted two shotguns in the van." He had spotted one covered and almost invisible in the spilled blood. The other was partway under the front seat. "A bad omen. The lack of a body suggests that at least one presented and joined the pack." Who would leave his gun behind? Hyde straightened. "It is possible someone was away from the van when the attack occurred." He didn't want to guess whose blood had hit the front windshield. "And someone fired a gun."

  Someone else needs help.

  Hyde limped toward the shadows and the sewer opening.

  "Stop!" the corporal ordered in his terror. "Where are you going?"

  "Someone is in trouble and they've still got our captive," Hyde staggered up the slope, his back shooting with pain, his calves hard with spasm. "The activity in the van suggests a different segment of the pack may have attacked Lazlo's team. The hunting pack might be bigger than we expected."

  "But-then we really need reinforcements." the corporal's voice rose. "Don't we?"

  "Every second counts," Hyde said and half-turned. He shook his head as the corporal's gun swung comically about. "Anyone alive who has not presented may be hiding and need our help." Lazlo might have freed the captive! Or the captive was one of the Biters that attacked.

  "But the squad..." the corporal started.

  "Will be here soon." Hyde turned away from the man and made his way right up to the opening of the tunnel. There were lots of prints there. Barefoot and shod, they churned the wet earth where a slow trickle of water darkened the slope. It was pitch black inside. The tunnel was circular, and the ceiling high enough that Hyde could move unimpeded bent over his canes. A tall man would have to hunch forward.

  Ssskin! The word echoed inside his hood, and Hyde wondered if he'd actually heard it, or if he'd said it and his mind was finally breaking under the strain. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and he started gasping with exertion and terror. He flipped on his hood-lamps.

  "Stay there and await back up." Hyde steadied himself with decision and then stepped into the tunnel. Suddenly the opening magnified his voice. "Or come with me. It's a difficult decision, I'm sure."

  Hyde's anxiety almost made him cackle hysterically when the corporal started swearing and climbing up the slope toward the sewer.

  "Great!" he complained, gun swinging. "Just great."

  "It's simple, corporal: shoot anything that does not identify itself," Hyde reassured, his boots splashing in shallow water. "And watch your crossfire."

  "I'm just supposed to be a driver," the corporal said, defeated.

  CHAPTER 59

  The sedan rolled to a stop in front of a small house of red brick that had a silver sports car blocking its garage door. They were about 10 yards from the Horton's rear bumper. Beachboy held up his palm-com display and smiled, checking the address against the house numbers in the porch light.

  Borland twisted the cap back onto his flask and put it in his jumper's outside breast pocket-the only place he could get to it once he was zipped up. He'd had a few good pulls from it on the way over before refilling it from the bottle under his seat. Beachboy had passed on the offered pick-me-up.

  Adrenaline was still doing it for him.

  "This is it!" Beachboy said; his voice tight with excitement. He peered through the windshield and pointed along the street. "Runs at right angles to Falcon Avenue. We were a couple blocks west of here this morning."

  "Right," Borland growled and threw his door open. He winced as he climbed out of the car, his bag-suit restraining every move, constricting his ribs-leaving him breathless. The transparent protective material had a habit of trapping folds of his squad jumper, and then wrenching them around as he moved. It would take some getting used to-and maybe losing a few pounds. The suit was sized for his retirement-age body, but he was still cramming an overweight man into a heavy vinyl suit and zipping it shut.

  The whole setup, when added to his hernias and growing list of discomforts, left him twitching and kicking. Borland remembered Metro hotdog stands adding big vacuum-packed deli pickles to their menus. He felt like those pickles looked, still hadn't tried his hood yet. Couldn't imagine the fun he'd have then. That hung from clips on his belt, and he was hoping pointlessly that it would stay there.

  Beachboy got out of the car, and started fixing his hood into place right away. There was a click and his hood-lamps came on. His bag-suit fit perfectly on his well-exercised body allowing both jumper and vinyl to move independently.

  "How do I look?" Beachboy's voice was muffled. He smiled through his face-shield.

  "Like a fairy from outer space!" Borland grumbled, shook his head and almost laughed. "If the fashion show's over..." His gun was in a side holster on his belt. He pulled it out and walked toward the Horton.

  "Why did Captain Hyde come here?" The younger man asked as he lifted his shotgun and moved forward sighting along the barrel.


  "Shut up," Borland grunted.

  It was dark, had to be pushing eight-thirty or nine. Houses along the block had their lights on, but every curtain was closed, every blind pulled. No one was out. The Sheriff's message had hit home. They hadn't mentioned the Variant Effect in it, but it was a shared memory now-kind of the worst-case scenario that lurked in everyone's subconscious-the first external threat that came from within. When the Sheriff called, he warned them to stay in their homes and listen for security updates on the radio. It was an army matter; some dangerous substances were being moved out at the base. That's why the road into town was blocked.

  But the public had to imagine it was more. Anyone over 30 would remember the various cover stories squads used back in the day to explain away presentations and treatment operations. All those attempts to reduce stress had created paranoia.

  Borland imagined Parkerville families waiting and wondering. Watching windows and doors, checking the radio and television, a free hand always on the phone. They'd be keeping their kids together somewhere safe, maybe grandma lives at home too, get her and bring them all downstairs to a recreation room...upstairs to an attic. The doors locked, some nailed shut. And then play board games or charades or tell stories. Whatever you do, keep them occupied. Redirect the questions, and don't think about it. Because everybody under 20 would be thinking back to stories that they'd heard in school or whispered around campfires. And everybody else would be wondering if the terror had returned to the shadows.

  A breeze blew and leaves or garbage dragged along the road somewhere. Something clicked or skittered nearby.

  Ssskin.

  And Borland quickly grabbed his hood and pulled it on. Cursing, he snapped it into place and then activated the lamps. His face-shield kept the vinyl away from his nose and mouth, and draped it down to the collar at his neck.

  His breathing was unobstructed, but he immediately felt like he was smothering.

  The side flanges on the face-shield directed sound and sharpened it, but the world was muffled.

  Ssskin.

  He dragged in a breath and looked over at Beachboy, hoping he had not telegraphed his moment of fear.

  "Watch your crossfire," Borland warned, moving toward the Horton, gun up and ready. Beachboy covered him from behind as he peered into the vehicle through windows in the rear doors.

  Hyde's wheelchair was locked to the elevator just inside. Small lights glimmered on the old bastard's desk where computer and communications equipment was arranged. The Horton was empty.

  "Nobody home," he said, turning to Beachboy. "Let's check the house,"

  The last they'd heard from Hyde and his corporal was that the pair was moving west along the ravine in pursuit of a hunting pack with a possible captive.

  Calls ahead to Lazlo's location said he'd been in touch with Hyde and was waiting for him at the sewer opening near the highway.

  The old cripple was walking.

  Most of Wizard's communications equipment burned in T-2 so there was a definite time lag on contact with Aggie. The setup in T-1 did not have all the bells and whistles, and was configured for short-range communications with squads on the move. Wizard was adapting some gear that Hazen loaned her for a satellite uplink to Metro HQ-not impossible, but tough to do during deployment. In the meantime, direct communications were spotty-and had to be relayed through Hazen's base communications. So far, the squad was having pretty good luck using palm-coms for person-to-person updates.

  Aggie would move the squad to Lazlo's location. They would set up in T-1 to block the hotlink and hopefully catch the pack on open ground for a turkey shoot. If Hyde were in pursuit, on foot, he'd likely miss the fun.

  Wizard lost contact with Hyde. She explained the varied terrain in old Parkerville could be causing the interference. They did manage to hail Lazlo, and he was glad for it. Apparently his small crew was getting jumpy and playing at spooks. The night was dark, and the overgrown ravine made it difficult to watch their flanks.

  Borland had insisted on going to Hyde's original location to sweep after him from the rear. The cramped streets around the ravine would allow that and Hyde was unused to walking, so he couldn't have gotten far. Borland had tried to call him on the way in with Beachboy's palm-com but got only static. That might mean Hyde was on the run, if the hunting pack had turned. Aggie gave Borland Beachboy for company, but wouldn't spare another baggie. They left before the squad.

  So, Borland and Beachboy mounted the sidewalk that crossed the lawn. They walked into the porch light, guns ready. Their reflections were ghostlike in the glassed screen door.

  "Watch it!" Borland whispered and pointed. The screen door was closed, but the inner door gaped wide. The light inside was amber, showed a set of carpeted stairs going up just past an arch that opened on a living room with couch and chair.

  Borland's reflection glared back in the glass.

  "All right," he said, pausing on the step. "If things go ape, we get back to back."

  "Watch the crossfire, right?" Beachboy eyes glimmered with excitement.

  Borland nodded. "Back to back, or back to a wall. If we find Biters in there, we move toward a defendable room. Doesn't matter what room, just something with a single entrance." He opened the screen door and moved in. Protocol back in the day required Variant Squad members to identify themselves when entering a scene where the Effect was suspected, but Borland had learned early on that was like ringing a dinner bell. Identifying your squad membership was supposed to give innocents time to come out of their hiding places. Borland's technique just meant he had to be twice as careful of shadows and people popping up. It rarely caused him trouble back in the day. But it caused him trouble that he survived.

  Immediately, his attention was drawn to the smashed and broken patio doors. A table and chairs were overturned and mixed with leaves and refuse from the backyard.

  A side table in the entrance caught his eye. There were three unopened letters on it. Beachboy grabbed them, glanced at the name and handed them to Borland.

  "You know this person?" he asked, taking a couple tentative steps into the hall. His hood-lamps glared up the stairs.

  Not by that name...

  Borland grunted a negative as he quickly flipped through the letters: phone company, bank and something with a dark blue logo. White letters on a wing-shape that spelled: Medcor Labs.

  He slipped that letter into a pocket, set the rest on the side table and followed Beachboy to the back of the house, the younger man moving to the right, to cover a doorway under the stairs. Borland entered the dining area. The wind was tugging at the curtains.

  Some kind of curio cabinet had been knocked over. There was shattered glass, knickknacks and a couple of framed pictures.

  Borland kept his gun trained on the black rectangle of the open door and grunted as he knelt to pick up one of the 5 x 7 photos. He flipped it over. The swaying chandelier illuminated a beach scene. There was a good-looking woman in a one-piece bathing suit. Nice hips and breasts. Borland remembered admiring them. Beside her was a little girl with curls and matching suit-no, there were white diamonds on the front of hers. And the man beside the girl, it took him a second to recognize...

  Clunk!

  "Captain!" Beachboy was over by an archway that opened onto a kitchen. The angle of the stairs cut the ceiling tight over his head. Borland's eye was drawn to a pair of small red bowls on the kitchen floor.

  Bang!

  He looked up at Beachboy. At right angles to the kitchen entrance was another door on the bagged-boy's right. It was under the stairs where they ran up flush against the wall.

  Clunk!

  Borland broke the photo out of its frame and slid it into the big pocket on his right thigh. He winced when the pressure activated the wound there. Get tetanus shot, right...

  "Something's in the basement," Beachboy said.

  CHAPTER 60

  Clunk!

  Beachboy's eyes were wide as he set the palm of his hand against the door un
der the stairs. He mouthed the word: Biters?

  Borland shrugged and moved toward him. "I hate basements." He glared at Beachboy. "So, you mind going first?" He patted the younger man's chest.

  "I know, you're not good in rabbit holes anymore." Beachboy smiled at Borland. "Like a cork in a wine bottle."

  Borland grimaced, deciding to let him have that one. He grabbed the doorknob and twisted it open.

  Bang. Clunk!

  Beachboy took the point and had his shotgun aimed into the doorframe. Wooden steps led down to the basement.

  Borland caught Beachboy's eye and nodding, raised his pistol.

  Beachboy followed his own weapon into the basement-his hood-lamps filled the angled space with light. He reached out and snapped on the overhead, then paused a second, leaned out and looked down before breathing a sigh of relief. The stairs were closed-no spaces between the risers. Nothing could reach out and...

  At the bottom of the stairs was a red, white and green coil rug. It sat on a broad expanse of gray painted concrete floor. Beachboy hurried down, gun switching through a series of defensive angles.

  Borland followed, sweat was building up in his hair and forming a channel over his eyebrows. The inside of his face-shield was starting to fog.

  "Anything?" he asked Beachboy's broad back. He could see where condensation was starting to run between the younger man's kidneys.

  Clunk. Bang. Followed by some kind of a moan.

  "What the..." Beachboy said, turning to fan the corners with his hood-lamps.

  Borland followed him down the stairs, immediately taking stock of a door in a cinderblock wall across from him. Those blocks jogged back toward Borland running along the basement on his right behind a bookcase and storage shelf, a big flat-screen monitor and over to a cheap-looking bar, before swinging across again behind a washer and dryer and under the stairs to join the gyp rock his shoulder was jammed against.

  Beachboy gestured with his shotgun to the door past the flat-screen. There was another coil rug in front of the set, and a large couch opposite.

  Borland nodded and followed Beachboy. The younger man took his position, aiming at the door. Borland moved in close and then on the third nod pulled the door open.