Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  He glanced at Chaney, who now sat upright on the bed, testing his arms for injury. Chaney eyed him and knew, from the old days, that Brick was ready to deal out some serious hurting.

  He asked, “Anything out there?”

  “Not that I can see, kid.” Brick adjusted the night-vision scope and mounted it carefully on the AK with a small screwdriver. “But I can’t see so good in the dark. They could be laid up in the shadows.” He took a moment, adjusting carefully. “Good thing I picked up one of these starlight scopes at the last gun-and-knife show. Figured it’d come in handy one day. Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it.”

  Chaney lowered his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbed his head. “Thank God for morphine,” he mumbled. “Listen, I’ve got to make a phone call. Where’s the horn?”

  “Upstairs,” Brick grunted. “But I don’t think you’re in shape for walking.”

  “I better be.” Chaney rose with the words. “I’ve got to” get in touch with a girl at the Tipler Institute. She’s in danger.” He picked up the Sig, moved the slide enough to ensure it was chambered, checked the .38 on his left ankle, and slid it back into the concealed holster. Mechanically, he moved the Sig to his left hand.

  The semiautomatic pistol didn’t have a safety, all it needed was four pounds of pressure on the double-action trigger to fire. He had fifteen rounds to a clip, and two backup magazines. Strange, but before tonight he always figured forty-five 9-mm rounds to be sufficient for any gun-fight. Now he knew they weren’t.

  “Come on, then.” Brick held him by an arm, moving to the stairs. If you gotta go, let’s get upstairs.”

  ***

  Hunter awoke as a hand touched the doorknob to his room, but he didn’t move. Only his eyes, gleaming in the dark, shifted as he watched the darkened portal.

  They had all retired to quarters, Bobbi Jo in a room next to his, the professor still in the ICU. Takakura was across the hall and Taylor was also in the wing. Wilkenson was down the corridor, near the exit. And for the longest silent period, nothing happened. Then the door opened, just a crack, and a sliver of light cascaded through the gloom.

  Without making a sound, Hunter found the Bowie knife and, even though the move almost made him groan in agony, lowered himself into a crouch beside the bed. He didn’t look but knew Ghost was also crouching, poised to attack. He waited and a shadow slowly, almost tentatively, entered and stood motionless.

  Bobbi Jo’s silhouette stood in the narrow portal.

  For the first time. Hunter saw Bobbi Jo the woman, instead of the warrior. Her hair was loose, and she wore blue jeans and a white T-shirt. Silhouetted against the light, she was more beautiful than any woman Hunter had ever known. She didn’t say a word and didn’t move, only stared at him.

  Hunter laid the Bowie on the table. Then he walked forward, stopping close in front of her. He reached out to touch her cheek softly, and at that movement she reached up, grasping his wrist, leaning her head slightly into his hand, closing her eyes.

  He gazed silently at her.

  Her eyes opened and stared into his.

  “At least we have tonight,” she whispered.

  Hunter paused, then reached out and lifted her from the floor. He closed the door softly and carried her slowly across the room to the bed.

  ***

  Dr. Hamilton, tirelessly overseeing every aspect of the isotonic distillation of the serum, studied the technicians who were preparing the first twenty cc’s. Drop by drop, the serum fell into a glass vial that slowly began to fill. The processing had progressed slowly, but after three hours there was almost enough for the initial test.

  Emma was beside him, holding her ubiquitous clipboard. “After we do the electron scan and cross-check it with the receptor and transmitter genes and insure that there’s no reopening or cyclization, we can proceed.”

  “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “You have ensured that the linear itrons are still intact?”

  “Yes, sir.” She nodded. “It’s four hundred and fourteen nucleotides long. The same as before. But we’ve removed transgressors and progresses to stop the mutated cyclization rate. Now, when the molecule splits off a fourteen-nucleotide share, the split will multiply no faster than human DNA. The RNA is no longer self-replicating and tetrahymena has been molecularly spliced to normal human DNA to neutralize any mutation splicing. So basically there will be no rate of mutation at all. No way for it to overtake the human system. And yet it still contains the RNA itrons and RNA-related proteins that provide the healing and longevity factors.” She paused. “I believe we’ve arrived, Doctor.”

  “Good.” He seemed pleased. “Then it is time for our first laboratory test.”

  “Doctor, I know what... what is at stake. But we have already had one catastrophe already. Do you truly think that it’s wise to risk the same dangerous results without the necessary precautions in place? I mean, shouldn’t we isolate the subject somewhere?”

  Hamilton smiled, his native charm and confidence awesomely displayed. “Emma, Emma,” he answered, “there can never be surety of results. That is why we use test subjects. Now, granted, this is an unusual scenario. And because it is an unusual situation, it requires creative thinking. Surely you don’t expect us to quantify results with mammals that have less than ninety-nine percent mutual strands with Homo sapiens, which leaves us with man. Now, should the test be a success, no harm will have been done. And should it fail, then we will know more precisely how to alter the serum to achieve our goal.”

  “I’m speaking about the danger of another monstrous mutation, Doctor.” She seemed firm. “I’m speaking about Luther.”

  He laughed. “Now, surely you don’t expect me to proceed without safeguards. Every contingency has been considered, every measure put in place to ensure the safety of both our team and the facility. These measures have not escaped me. Do not trouble yourself.”

  Emma glanced back at the lab personnel. “I’m saying this, Doctor, because some of the lab techs are terrified. I’m worried that their work will suffer, that we’ll make a mistake in the isolation process. You have to remember, Doctor, they’ve been working almost nonstop in an attempt to compensate for the data lost at the other facilities. They’re tired and frightened and I fear they’re going to make mistakes.”

  “That’s the reason that I am personally overseeing every aspect of the distillation process,” Dr. Hamilton said, nodding sagely. “By noon tomorrow, we will have the first experimental serum, and the day after that, we will know if our efforts to synthesize this gene have been successful.”

  Emma didn’t move. “And if this serum causes another monstrous transformation? Like the last?”

  “As I said”—Hamilton turned back to his work—”those contingencies have been addressed. If there is a transformation even slightly similar to the initial reaction, we will be quite capable of killing it and performing an immediate autopsy to study the electro-molecular phenomenon.” He shook his head, as if dealing with a disturbed child. “Emma, trust me. No one else shall be injured, except the initial test subjects. And then, when we have perfected the serum, there will be many who will be greatly aided.”

  Silent, she stared at him.

  “Just imagine it, Emma,” he continued. “Imagine what miracles reside within that blood. The complete cure for every disease known to man. All the flivo viruses, utterly incurable until now, will fall one by one. The devastation of HIV shall be no more. None of the great killers, from anthrax to Marburg, will be able to overcome the unconquerable strength of this immunity factor. And, finally, with the endless regeneration of cellular structure, we will live for hundreds, possibly thousands of years. For all practical purposes, Emma, we will be immortal.

  “Do you understand what I mean, Emma?” he finished, unmoving.

  Emma Strait found herself nodding. “Of course, Doctor. I just ... I jus
t thought I’d make you aware of a few things. I didn’t mean that we should postpone the tests.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Hamilton replied, more distant. “And now ...” He turned back to the microscope. “I must verify that these serum samples have not developed mutations which would allow the extraordinary transmission of qualities that destroyed our expendable Luther—these base animal faculties that transformed him into a creature which ... we may yet be able to use.”

  ***

  Chaney received no answer at the Tipler Institute, and set the phone down. This was bad. But who could he call? The police? Hardly. His own people? Even more dangerous.

  No, he had to avoid all government or official lines of communication. No matter how he handled it, he had to do it alone. He put on his coat, groaning. The stitches were in tight; Brick had done a good job. But the morphine was wearing off and he was feeling a multitude of sore muscles and contusions that he had been mercifully spared until now. Brick saw him moving, spoke from his position beside a window.

  “Where in the hell do you think you’re going?” he rumbled.

  “I have to reach this girl,” Chaney replied, trying to conceal the pain. “If she’s not dead already, she will be. These people are thorough.”

  “You ain’t in shape for it.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I gotta go.”

  Brick bowed his head for a moment. His chest expanded as he took a deep breath and lifted the AK from the wall. “I don’t like this at all,” he said. “First, you get waylaid. Now you’re going out in the middle of the night to find some woman who’s on a hit list. You’re busted up. I’m old and slow and out of shape. We don’t know who these goons are, how many of ‘em are out there, or what they’re willing to do.”

  “They’re willing to kill us.” Chaney put the Sig in his hip holster. “That’s all we need to know.”

  “Wait a second.” Brick disappeared down the stairs. In five minutes he emerged in different clothes. Now he was wearing brown pants and a heavy shirt, and Chaney could tell he had put on a ballistic vest underneath. He also wore a thigh-length coat, and when the flap opened Chaney saw two Uzi submachine guns on dual shoulder holsters. The remarkably compact weapons hung on carefully designed hooks that allowed Brick a fast release.

  “Now we’re ready, boys!” Brick shouted. “Let me get us a car.”

  Chaney figured the retired marshal was carrying enough firepower for two or even three gunfights because Brick had only one rule: “It’s better to have ‘em and not need ‘em than to need ‘em and not have ‘em. Just remember: ammo is cheap, your life ain’t.”

  Brick fired up a Lincoln that was still mostly intact, and they drove across town. Morning was only hours away. Chaney watched the passenger side mirror for a tag but didn’t see anything. Brick noticed his casual glances and commented, “Ain’t nobody on us yet. But you’ve talked with the girl before, right? The brainy one?”

  “Twice.” Chaney winced as Brick took a corner.

  “Once is enough,” the retired marshal rumbled. “They could anticipate you doing this. Might lay up for ya. And you know that if it burns down, all you got is that Sig and the .38. Not much for a setup like this.” He debated. “When we get there, we’ll get a couple of CAR-15’s from the trunk. I put ‘em in there before we left.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Chaney replied, glancing left, right, searching. He was painfully fatigued. “We’ll go in heavy, but we’re going in. Because that girl is next; I guarantee it.”

  “Probably. They’ve already killed just about everybody else. Might as well do her, too. Sanitize the whole thing. And if they’re pros, they ain’t gonna leave no smokin’ gun. They’ll be in, out, gone, and laughing in a bar when the locals call her folks.”

  Chaney said nothing, but he knew there were some things you just didn’t do unless you wanted to provoke a little righteous retribution. And deep down, Chaney wasn’t sure if he could stay on the right side of the law if they killed Gina. Whatever was going on, she was clearly innocent.

  As the Tipler Institute came in sight, Chaney studied it, brightly illuminated in the harsh white glow of security lights. Even at this late hour there were still cars in the parking lot.

  “You see anything?” Chaney asked quietly.

  Brick studied the grounds; the building itself covered at least four acres and rested on a large, conservatively landscaped lot. There was ample parking space; no one was visible.

  Reaching down, Brick removed a pair of binoculars from beneath the seat. He stared over the grounds, moving the lenses slowly, pausing, moving on. “You got two security guards up front. Uniforms. Looks legit.” Another pause. “The place is tight. Ain’t sure how we’ll get in.”

  “We’ll just flash our creds,” Chaney said, removing the Sig to again ensure that a round was chambered. “If that doesn’t get us in, we’ll call Gina up front. She’ll take care of it.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Best I can come up with.”

  “Just walk right in, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  Considering it, Brick shook his head. “Something don’t seem right, kid. How come they got two security guards up front? ‘Cause that ain’t normal. Usually one guy does the desk, one patrols. Then they shift out. That’s the way it’s done.”

  Chaney thought about it, knew Brick was right. That’s how it was usually done. And the Tipler Institute, despite their delicate research materials and equipment, wouldn’t normally violate such a fundamental and simple rule of security.

  “You’re right,” he muttered, suspicion low but rising. “That’s how it’s done.” He wondered if the morphine had dulled his edge to make good field judgments. “What do you figure?”

  “Well,” Brick said, hunkered over the steering wheel, “I figure if there’s two, there’s probably four. Or six. We won’t see ‘em, but they’ll be close. If they’re waiting to open up on us, they’ll be coming out of the woodwork. This could get ...mean.”

  Chaney frowned. He expected to be upset that he might be walking into an ambush. And, strangely, he didn’t care. He figured that he’d already been through so much that another gunfight wasn’t enough to arouse his emotions.

  He put the Sig back in the belt holster, but didn’t snap the hammer guard. It wasn’t much of an advantage, but it would allow a speedier draw by a split second. “Let’s do it.”

  Brick cocked his head as he put the Lincoln in gear. “You’re the boss.”

  In five minutes they were walking very, very slowly across the parking lot. Chaney kept his hand casually on his concealed pistol, scanning everything without appearing to. Then they reached the door and Brick put his back to it, staring over the lot. His burly arms were crossed over his barrel chest, and to anyone else he would have appeared perfectly harmless. Only Chaney knew that each of those huge hands were settled tight on Uzis.

  The door opened cautiously.

  “Yes, sir?” asked the guard.

  Chaney didn’t ask permission as he shoved the glass door open and motioned the man aside with his credentials. “I’m Chaney, United States Marshals Service!” He pointed at the man with authority. “I want you beside that desk. Now.”

  “But—”

  “Now!”

  Complying instantly, the man joined the second guard—mid-thirties with reddish hair. Chaney saw that they both carried Smith and Wesson Model 19 revolvers. The Model 19 was probably one of the finest out-of-the-box weapons available, and was chambered for either .357-Magnum or .38-caliber rounds. A dangerous weapon.

  Chaney didn’t trust either of them.

  “Both of you, take out your guns real slow, lay them on the table. Then take three steps back and don’t do anything stupid. We may have a crime in progress and you’ll get them back as soon as I verify that the situation is not an emergency.”

 
Brick had taken a position where he could simultaneously watch connecting hallways and the lobby. He had removed the Uzis and held one in each hand as he looked continuously around the perimeter, scanning. Chaney heard the sharp crack of the safeties as Brick flicked them off, preparing to fire at the faintest warning.

  In the brightly illuminated entrance, Brick seemed distinctly out of place: a burly prizefighter type holding submachine guns while surrounded by prestigious peace awards which lauded the Institute’s global attempts to save endangered species.

  “I don’t see nothing, kid,” Brick said, still searching.

  Chaney emptied the revolvers and tossed them onto a couch. “Get Gina Gilbert on the line right now,” he said, motioning to the phone with his Sig. He followed with, “Before I lose my patience!”

  Instantly the first guard was ringing the laboratory. Chaney had the guard wait a long time, but there was no reply. Brick cast him an ominous glance and Chaney shouted, “Page her, boy! Just get her up here right now! I don’t care how you do it!”

  The guard, galvanized by the imperious tone, tried a host of lines paging one area of the installation after another. After five minutes Chaney knew they’d have to make the long walk back to the laboratory. He reached over and grabbed the first guard by the shirt. “Come on,” he whispered. “We’re walking.”

  “B-B-But ...” He pointed to the desk. “I have to watch the—”

  “All you have to do is what I tell you.” Chaney cut him off, feeling remarkably stronger as the tension spiraled. “We’re going to the laboratory and see if we can—”

  It was a sudden movement—an out-of-place quickness—that made Chaney hurl the man to the side. As he did, he saw a shotgun coming up in the hand of the red-haired guard, but he knew it was too late. The barrel of the weapon had already cleared the desk.

  Brick opened up with both Uzis, tearing through the guard and devastating the wall behind him, the desk, pictures, and computer equipment. Chaney knew what would happen next and didn’t hesitate.