Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  “On what?” Chaney managed as she ushered him into the room he had seen earlier, locking it behind them even more quickly. She moved him forward as she continued, “I think I may have found something very important and I don’t know who else I can trust.”

  Releasing him, she sat in the center of a large concrete slab that dominated the lab. On two twenty-inch computer monitors in front there were a series of horizontal lines, moving upward off the screen. Behind the lines were a series of little sparks that seemed to blink and disappear, then reappear where they had been.

  “Have a seat,” the slightly built woman said, staring intently at the screen. Or, rather, she had seemed slightly built in the open air, where Chaney felt a comfortable familiarity with his authority and natural physical presence. But in this small, well-insulated cubicle with millions of dollars’ worth of machinery, he felt distinctly inadequate.

  Quietly he took a seat, casting a single narrow glance to see the dual monitors’ display reflected on Gina’s wide, oval glasses. The dark eyes were unblinking as she manipulated the controls with a deft, gentle touch.

  “There,” she whispered, pointing to the screen, and did something else. In a moment Chaney heard a printout of the image kicked out on the table beside them. He gazed at the screen a long time, not having the foggiest idea what had just happened.

  “I see,” he nodded finally, turning to her. “And just what am I looking at? I hope you understand that this is not my forte. I barely passed high school biology.”

  His attempt at humor never penetrated. “This is an electron microscope and you’re watching mitochondrial DNA in action,” Gina said. “It’s the small globs of molecules in a cell that are like the batteries of life. Each has its own DNA, separate from the cell itself. Mitochondrial DNA is what most institutes use to study evolution.”

  A pause, and Chaney asked, “Evolution? Did you say ‘evolution’?”

  “Yes.”

  “And why, exactly, would you study evolution with this DNA, Ms. Gilbert? You were a little excited and—”

  “I still am,” she broke in.

  “Yes,” Chaney said, watching her closely now, “and so you didn’t tell me if this was the DNA you removed from the cast. But I assumed that it was. So ... if it’s a modern creature, then what’s the purpose of studying it for evolution?” He waited; she didn’t reply. Then: “Am I missing something here, Ms. Gilbert?”

  “This!” she said quickly and hit the display for a printout again. And again the machine hummed and a long paper copy of what was reflected on the screen—it looked like a Fourth of July fireworks demonstration to Chaney—was printed.

  Crossing his arms, Chaney leaned back. Maybe it had just been the excitement of the day’s events, but he had half-expected some kind of smoking-gun revelation when he arrived.

  At the moment, however, he wasn’t even sure why he was here and, outside the higher realms of academic guesswork, doubted that any of it would forward his investigation. He wondered what else Brick might have turned up with his street goons when Gina returned with the printouts, laying them on a desk.

  Rising, he placed hands on the table as he leaned over them. After a moment, he nodded studiously. “Uh-huh,” he said as politely as his meager inspiration allowed.

  “I know you don’t understand yet,” she said, drawing lines on the paper with a pencil, almost like connecting dots. “But listen closely. A quick lesson. I can make it very simple for you. Okay, DNA has four chemical bases. It’s not important to know what they are. But when DNA reproduces itself, each chemical base also reproduces itself. The order by which the chemicals do the reproducing creates proteins, which are made up of amino acids.” She looked dead into Chaney’s eyes, which were concentrated on the page. “Are you following me so far, Marshal? Don’t hesitate to tell me if you’re not.”

  Chaney smiled, somewhat grim. “You’re doing well, Ms. Gilbert. It’s not easy explaining DNA to someone like me.”

  She flipped a hair from her face. “We learned it from Professor Tipler,” she said offhandedly. “He says that if we can’t explain the most complex molecular process to a six-year-old child, then we don’t really understand it.”

  Chaney laughed, knowing what she meant and not offended. “Good enough. Go ahead.”

  “Okay.” She pointed to the print. “Now, when these proteins separate to reproduce, they act like a mirror. They’re constantly checking the new strand of DNA to ensure that it exactly mimics themselves. Sort of like you painting yourself with a mirror. It’s a built-in safeguard so that impaired DNA molecules aren’t reproduced. Follow me?

  He nodded.

  “Okay,” she continued, “so each dual strand of DNA has the same chemicals, the same proteins and amino acids . . .”

  She drew a dramatic hard line to a rather spectacular display of lines and sparks on the far side of the spreadsheet. Drew a circle around the center. She seemed to have somehow captured something important with the movement.

  “And this doesn’t have A, G, C or T factors of the dominant DNA found in the cast!”

  Despite himself, Chaney was beginning to get the idea. “Altered DNA ...,” he mumbled before he realized he’d said anything.

  “No, Marshal. Not altered. It’s something else.”

  Chaney looked up at her. “Something else? Like what?”

  Her mouth was tight. “Like a mutation that is completely different from the host DNA!”

  Chaney stared. “Yes,” he smiled, calm.

  “You don’t understand!” she shouted. She drew vicious lines across the paper. “This DNA could never have come from this DNA! They were fused, Marshal! Someone, or something, fused them into a hybrid DNA strand that is this! It’s a created creature!”

  Staring a moment, Chaney didn’t know what to say.

  “A fused creature?” he asked.

  “A created creature!”

  He shook his head, raising his hands. “Well, Gina, no offense. But what the hell is a . . .”

  “Marshal,” she was smiling now, “this thing was created by someone up there! It is not a mutation! Not really! It might look like it. Yet its DNA is fused. Which means that someone had to take”—she used her hands as if she were moving stacks of money—”human DNA, move it here. Then take some other kind of DNA, and move it over here. And then fuse them together to make a completely new creature! A creature that was created in some kind of matrix that didn’t allow the proteins to splinter off!” She leaned into him. “I’m certain of it, Marshal! And you have got to believe me. This is what Rebecca was killed for. Because they were afraid that we were about to find out what they’d done!”

  “Well ... what the hell does that mean?” he asked after a moment.

  “I think,” she looked straight at him, “that you’re dealing with a creature that has been scientifically created in some kind of electromagnetic matrix. Possibly it was a human being at one time, but it’s not anymore. Now it’s an impossibly strong thing that can heal itself almost as fast as you can hurt it as long as it has something to eat. And the alien DNA that was fused to the host is slowly taking over the host system. Like a parasite. It just keeps growing and growing, multiplying at an incredible rate because the human DNA doesn’t see it as an invader.”

  Chaney didn’t understand that one either. He did, remarkably, know a little about how an immune system responded to bacterial invasion. He asked, “Why wouldn’t the host see it as an invader since that’s basically what it is?”

  “Because this alien DNA is so closely related to Homo sapiens DNA. It ... it’s just assimilated so easily by the host. I actually think the human immune system sees this fused DNA as part of its own system. It doesn’t register it as a threat.” She paused, her eyes narrowing. “Where this DNA strand came from, I don’t know, but it was from something very closely related to homo-sapiens. “
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br />   Frowning, Chaney stared at the charts. “But, really, what would that be?”

  She emitted a brief bark of harsh laughter. “Marshal, you’re in some kind of delayed scientific shock at all this. There is more difference in the DNA between a sheep and goat than there is between a man and an ape, or a chicken for that matter. Most creatures on this planet are compatible with the DNA of man up to ninety-five percent. An ape is ninety-nine percent. Only one percent of its DNA is non-man. That’s a fact. But that one percent is everything. Somewhere within it is intelligence, emotion, egoism, self-conscious awareness. Basically, the mind. This is no different. Somewhere in this one percent is something else—something that’s not even close to man. And, degree by degree, it is slowly infiltrating the entire host organism, slowly gaining complete control. If it doesn’t have complete control of its mind, it will soon.”

  Chaney stared at the graphs. They meant little, since he couldn’t understand them at all. But he understood everything Gina had said, knew that there was far more going on in those research stations than anyone would admit. He didn’t take the time to formulate a plan. He knew vaguely what his first move would be; the rest would decide itself for him.

  “Okay, I want copies of these,” he said. “I want a copy mailed to the White House, a copy mailed to my boss, a copy sent to an e-mail address that I’ll give you, and a copy mailed to a friend of mine for safekeeping.”

  “And you, Marshal?” Gina stared at him. “You want one for yourself?”

  “No.” Chaney shook his head as he stood straight. “I’m going somewhere else for answers. And they ain’t gonna be glad to see my smiling face, I can tell you that for nothing.”

  He started for the door.

  “Marshal?”

  Chaney stood in place, staring at a very small young woman surrounded by a billion dollars’ worth of science that he couldn’t master in a lifetime. Her voice was hesitant. “Please get the people that killed Rebecca. Make them pay.”

  Now that was his world.

  Chaney nodded.

  “You can count on it, Gina.”

  Chapter 14

  Birdsong heralded morning long before first light, and Hunter could tell from the cadence how long until dawn. Outside, it was still dark but he knew, or felt, that the creature wouldn’t be attacking again tonight.

  For one reason, they had, for the first time, truly injured it, and he turned the episode over and over in his mind, trying to conclude why bladed weapons had injured it when bullets didn’t. He couldn’t come up with a reason; it didn’t make sense.

  A knife traveled with far less velocity than a bullet, struck with less impact; there was no explanation why he had been able to savage the creature’s arm as he had with a blade. Finally he let it go and turned his attention to Bobbi Jo, who had at last fallen into some much needed sleep. Her head rested on his shoulder and he was careful not to move, so as not to disturb her.

  Looking across the narrow corridor he could see that Taylor was wide awake, as always. The commando was lazily scrawling images in the dirt with the Bowie knife, his shotgun laid against the wall. He had loaded each clip with depleted uranium slugs for deadlier contact, and he seemed eager to get on with it.

  Ghost was asleep, lying on his side, a good sign of safety. And Takakura had spent the last hour sitting in isolated silence, though Hunter occasionally saw the Japanese gazing bitterly at Wilkenson.

  The SAS agent did not seem to notice the attention. And if he did, he hid it masterfully, appearing completely unperturbed. He had spent the time cleaning and oiling the modified Heckler and Koch 7.62mm fully automatic assault rifle and sat patiently without expression, glancing only occasionally at the rising chorus of morning outside the wall.

  Finally Takakura stood. “It is daylight,” he said in a stronger tone than he had used through the night. He looked at Hunter. “We must go outside in order to transmit a direct signal to the satellite. The phone system cannot penetrate rock.”

  Hunter rose, fatigue and soreness assaulting him in a wave of stiff muscles and pain. “I know.”

  His chest ached from the deep furrows torn by the creature s claws, and he knew he’d been lucky. He didn’t know what had warned him, didn’t think about it that much. It was enough that some primal instinct that he could barely comprehend had acted for him.

  Now they were all staring at the wall, unmoving. Then Takakura turned to Bobbi Jo. “If the creature is waiting outside, the only chance we have is for you to shoot it point-blank with the Barrett. If one of us is in the path of the bullet, you must not hesitate. You must fire. Do you understand this? A team member, balanced against the survival of the rest of the team, must be considered expendable. There is no other way.”

  Expressionless, she nodded. Racked a round into the Barrett.

  Hunter had no doubt that she would do it. Now, he understood that later she would pay more dearly than others with the nightmares and regrets, but the job would have been done.

  It was a simple matter to remove the third log, since the second was shattered. Then they removed the fourth and hesitated.

  “Remain inside the mine,” Takakura said. Without waiting for a reply he took his sword in one hand and one of Taylor s shotguns in the other and slid through the narrow opening.

  He vaulted softly into azure light, alert and careful, glancing above, left, right. He stood for a moment in the middle of the small clearing, but nothing happened. Finally he turned back and motioned for them to follow.

  They quickly removed the remaining logs, keeping their weapons near, and Hunter helped the professor from his cot. He sat the old man on a chair they had gotten from one of the cabins. Wilkenson activated the Magellan System.

  Hunter heard the movement in the trees, the wind swaying branches, the breeze rushing over the stream located at the bottom of the slope, the musical sound of water trickling from the limestone cliff, a distant chattering woodchuck, and somewhere in the far distance a moose calling for its mate.

  After being shut into the mine all night, every smell was fresh and distinct: rotting vegetation, green pine, old wood, even the earth itself. He inhaled deeply, relaxing, and released the breath as Wilkenson seemed to finally make contact.

  He listened intently as Wilkenson requested an emergency extraction. The reply was negative. They were instructed to move at least a quarter mile downstream where a Blackhawk personnel helicopter could airlift them back to the base.

  With a faintly perturbed expression, Wilkenson closed the case and gazed somberly at a frowning Takakura. “Well,” the Englishman began, “seems we are still on our own, Commander.”

  “As I anticipated,” Takakura growled. He turned to Hunter. “You are more familiar with the terrain than anyone. Can we make it?”

  “We can make it,” Hunter replied, steady. “Now we know how to kill it.” Moving forward without words, he began down the slope. He held the Marlin lightly, knowing it was useless. The only weapon he possessed that could penetrate the Kevlar-like skin of the creature was the Bowie knife on his waist. The problem was that in order to inflict a wound, he was bound to receive one. A wound, or death.

  Roaming ten feet ahead of them, Ghost led the procession.

  Hunter heard Takakura order the Englishman and Taylor to carry the ailing Tipler on the stretcher. Then he ordered Bobbi Jo to back up Hunter at point while he took rear guard, and they were moving slowly, carefully, fearfully.

  In a half hour they reached the path—it seemed to require far less effort than the climb to the cliff—and moved west toward the pass. It would take two hours, he estimated, to reach the clearing where the Blackhawk could pick them up.

  And until then they would remain in danger, as anyone in these accursed mountains was in danger. But Hunter had steeled himself to it; there was nothing that could surprise him or shock him now, and he somehow despised the fear, know
ing it would make him weaker, slower, less instinctive and less ready.

  Casting an obscure glance back to see the formation of the unit—their positioning and readiness—Hunter heard Bobbi Jo’s quiet voice. It was so soft he could barely make out the words, and he knew she had spoken only to him.

  “Thank you for last night,” she said without overt emotion. But it was there, somewhere beneath the words, in the tone. And in the fact that she had said it at all.

  He nodded without looking back, knowing she was watching him, and they continued on, Hunter leading with winter in his veins and a cold wind in his face.

  ***

  Chaney had left the Tipler Institute in a scientific fog. Without question, Gina knew her discipline, though he wondered if she might not be somewhat unsettled by the death of Rebecca, and whether it could be influencing her theories.

  He knew all too well how emotional content often shaped rational thinking—one reason why the Marshals Service prevented agents involved in a shooting from pursuing the suspect.

  No, they were routinely reassigned to another case because supervisors feared that causes of vengeance and anger would shadow logic at the moment of apprehension. Chaney had never had a problem with it; he had a pretty broad disposition toward vengeance, so it generally worked in his favor by keeping him out of prison.

  He hadn’t told her it was murder, but Gina had assumed it. But, then, he hadn’t corrected her when she herself used the term, so that was a confirmation of sorts. He wondered if he might not need to order some protection for her as he made his way to the car and headed it toward Washington.

  The game was getting more complicated, but it was adding up quickly. He knew that the government had done something far outside the known perimeters of science and law and probably of ethics as well.

  What, exactly, was hard to discern. But something had happened up there and had gotten out of control. And now they were trying to mop it up before a public relations fiasco broke loose that would make the Bay of Pigs look like a carnival.