Mutation

by Michael McBride

  The second monitor featured an ordinary satellite photo of the Ecuadorian rainforest, beside which, on the third monitor, was an infrared image of the same terrain, to which she’d applied an algorithm that removed the jungle itself and revealed the shallow subterranean features buried beneath the soil. The fourth monitor utilized the same type of imagery, only applied to the surface of Mars, upon which she’d detected features strangely similar to those buried beneath the Antarctic ice cap.

  And yet with all of this information at her fingertips, she couldn’t figure out where the creature was going. She could feel the answer staring her right in the face, but she couldn’t make the connection.

  “Tess?” She jumped at the sound of the voice behind her and turned to see Anya peeking through the door from the hallway. “I knocked, but . . .”

  Tess recovered from the surprise and smiled.

  “Lost in thought. You know how it is.”

  “I can’t think without getting lost anymore. It’s like for every problem we solve, we create a dozen more. Which is kind of why I’m here. I was hoping I might be able to pick your brain.”

  “Pick away,” Tess said and plopped down in the chair behind her desk. She welcomed the distraction, if only because it reminded her that she hadn’t touched her coffee.

  Anya hovered in the entryway, staring at the monitors above Tess’s head.

  “I was thinking about how you use that program of yours to detect man-made structures that aren’t apparent from the ground.”

  “It’s really just a matter of combining magnetometry and infrared imaging to create a gradient scale of the superficial strata. The program assigns color values for each vertical increment, uses an algorithm to define them, and cleans the whole thing up. The computer does all of the work.”

  “Do you think you could use the same kind of algorithm to differentiate subtle discolorations on someone’s skin that aren’t readily apparent to the naked eye?”

  Tess cocked her head and appraised Anya from the corner of her eye.

  “Show me.”

  “Way ahead of you. I already uploaded the data and sent a shortcut to your inbox.”

  Tess opened her internal e-mail account, clicked Anya’s link and found herself transported to a raw data file that looked like little more than an infinite string of numbers and incoherent commands.

  “I’m not sure what you expect me to do with this.”

  “You said your program assigned color values to different gradients on a satellite image, right? Wouldn’t it be possible to do the same thing with a three-dimensional laser scan?”

  “How dark are the discolorations?”

  “They were made by rubbing charcoal into lacerations on the skin.”

  “And the skin itself?”

  “Not a whole lot different.”

  Tess closed her eyes to better appreciate the problem. If she substituted a shortened color scale for all of the values darker than that encoded for the skin tone, she ought to be able to create a veritable rainbow of colors distinct from it. She opened her eyes again and set to work running the data through a Fourier Transform and various filters before applying the final algorithm. The resulting data didn’t look much different on the computer screen, but she had no doubt that the final image would be greatly altered. It took a few minutes to convert the massive data file into a visible image on her computer screen.

  “Voilà,” she said and spun the monitor around so Anya could see it.

  The expression on the anthropologist’s face changed from excitement to confusion.

  “What is it?” Anya asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Tess walked around to the front of her desk and took a seat beside Anya. The resulting image appeared in bright shades of orange and yellow. It had an iridescent quality, almost as though it shimmered with metallic blues and greens. While somewhat distorted by the uneven stretching of the mummified skin, the pattern was still largely intact, although what it was remained a mystery. To Tess, it looked like little more than a series of circles of varying diameter connected by a horizontal line. Some of the circles were contained within larger rings. Random designs protruded at odd angles from several: a trident, a bent tuning fork, and a three-toothed comb. If there were some deep symbolic meaning, it eluded her.

  “Sorry I can’t be of more help,” Tess said.

  “No, really. I appreciate everything you’ve done. We would never have been able to see this if it weren’t for you.” Anya sighed. “It’s just . . . I don’t know. Based on the way we theorize the subject was tattooed while he was restrained and entombed, we thought it might be a warning of some kind, a message pertaining to the disease that killed all of the creatures like Zeta.”

  “I’ll run the design through the database and see if it turns up anything.”

  “Thanks,” Anya said. She looked completely dejected as she rose and headed for the door.

  “Anya?”

  The younger woman turned and looked back at her from the doorway.

  “We’ll get Zeta,” Tess said.

  Anya smiled, but there was no warmth in the expression.

  “Maybe, but how many more people have to die before we do?” She nodded and ducked into the hallway. “How many will die if we don’t?”

  5

  BARNETT

  Reserva Extrativista do Rio Jutaí,

  State of Amazonas,

  Brazil

  Following Subject Z’s trail through the Amazon rainforest was an exercise in futility. The dense jungle made it impossible to move at a decent click, let alone see for any distance in any direction. The flooded wetlands concealed anything resembling footprints in the mulch, and every animal that crossed their path seemed to have a personal stake in their misery. The snakes they could handle—at least the ones they could see—with a machete and a flick of the wrist. The insects, however, were something else entirely. There was no break from their assault, not even while he and his team attempted to sleep inside the supposedly impenetrable netting. They ran fevers more often than not, although it was impossible to determine whether they were actually sick or merely overheating in their fatigues from the oppressive humidity.

  Barnett had once believed that they would be able to find and eliminate Subject Z but now understood the reality of the situation: If the creature wanted to hide from them, there was no way on this planet they would ever find it in the hundreds of thousands of square miles of impregnable forests and swamps. There were still primitive tribes and species of animals that had yet to come into contact with modern man. Their best satellites couldn’t pierce the canopy with anything close to useful resolution, and even thermal imaging was limited to little more than line-of-sight. They were practically flying blind and falling farther behind by the day. Assuming they were even still on its trail.

  They’d lost Subject Z twice before, but ultimately picked up signs of its passage from the air. While it could conceal its tracks, it couldn’t hide its appetite, nor could the carrion birds that had ultimately drawn them to the carnage left in its wake. It seemed to have developed a taste for capybaras, or perhaps the dog-sized rodents were the only prey large enough to leave behind carcasses worth the scavengers’ time. There were any number of animals along the way that could be easily enough caught and consumed, which meant that they couldn’t entirely dismiss the idea that Subject Z was deliberately stringing them along and could be lying in wait behind the trunk of any tree they passed or preparing to pounce from the branches overhead.

  Barnett wasn’t the only one who sensed it, either. He could see it in the eyes of his men and in the physical toll it was taking on them. They could only live like this for so long. Sleeping in shifts. Subsisting on air-dropped rations and fruit they collected from the trees. Drinking by the drop from wet leaves and trudging for days at a time without seeing the sky.

  They’d learned to be grateful for times like this, when they could feel the movement of air beneath their damp clothes
and the caress of the sun upon their features. They’d picked up the creature’s trail near Jutaí and then again on the northern bank of the Rio Solimões, a path that continued to lead them roughly fifteen degrees west of due north, the same inclination as the arrangement of the pyramids in both Teotihuacan and Giza. Extrapolated ad infinitum, it would eventually take them through Ecuador and Colombia, and into Panama, the gateway to North America. Assuming it didn’t reach its ultimate goal first.

  With any luck, Staley’s team would at least drive Subject Z back downstream toward them, if not outright eliminate it, and they’d be able to put an end to it once and for all. The thought of curling up in his own bed at this same time tomorrow was almost more than he could bear. The problem was that they were nearly to their rendezvous point and had yet to see the prearranged smoke signal that indicated the other unit had secured the site.

  The motor of the wooden boat chugged and issued a steady stream of exhaust that clung to the brown water behind them. The smell of petrol was thick enough to make them queasy, but the ability to be dry and out of the infernal jungle was worth infinitely more than the price they’d paid for the decrepit vessel.

  Capuchin monkeys chittered from the dense canopies of the trees overhanging the winding river, which joined with the Rio Negro near Manaus to become the mighty Amazon. Macaws and chicken-like hoatzins screeched from the upper reaches. Black caimans basked on the muddy shores and drifted lazily on the current. Green anacondas as thick as tree trunks slithered through the shallows. They’d even seen one attempting to choke down what looked like a small deer, judging by the hooved legs protruding from its dislocated jaws.

  Morgan monitored their progress via GPS on his tablet, which featured a satellite uplink that allowed them to remain in contact with the Hangar for several hours in the morning, while the satellite was still within range. For all the good it did them. The scientists back at Joint Base Langley-Eustis needed to earn their keep and figure out where the blasted creature was heading. Until they did, he was beginning to think that there was nothing any of them could do to stop it.

  “We’re close,” Morgan said. He glanced at the map and then at the river ahead of them. “Looks like just around the next bend.”

  “And still no sign of our men,” Barnett said.

  Brinkley and Sheppard readjusted their grips on their bullpup assault rifles and watched the jungle pass down their short sightlines. Barnett killed the outboard motor. The boat drifted at the mercy of the current. The river narrowed, and the branches of the trees knitted together above them. The resulting shade was easily fifteen degrees cooler and emboldened the swarming mosquitoes, which swirled in the columns of light that pierced the canopy. The squawking of birds and chirruping of frogs diminished so subtly that he didn’t notice until they were gone entirely.

  Barnett shifted onto his knees to improve his range of motion and seated his rifle against his shoulder.

  The river bent completely back upon itself, essentially creating an enormous blind spot. Satellite imagery had shown an unusual number of vultures perched in the upper canopy and wheeling above the treetops, as it had on several other occasions in the past.

  This time was different, though. He could feel it. The hairs on the backs of his arms stood erect, and his heartbeat thumped in his ears. Something had frightened away every other animal in the forest, or perhaps it was merely the reek of death that hit him hard enough to make him wince.

  The buzzing of flies guided them into the next bend, where furry carcasses stood out from the bank like anthills. The flies formed angry clouds above the remains, which had been there for some time judging by the amount of decomposition and the bones protruding from the sloughed flesh. The boat was nearly upon them by the time Barnett was able to tell that they were capybaras, or at least what was left of them, although with as many vultures as he’d seen on satellite, there shouldn’t have been so much as a shred of skin remaining.

  The flies.

  They filled the air and crawled all over the surrounding ferns, and yet there wasn’t a single one of them on any of the bodies. It was almost as though . . .

  Something was wrong with the capybaras.

  Barnett recognized their mistake too late. He looked straight up into the canopy. Dark, hunched shapes filled the interwoven branches of the ceiba, rubber, and mangrove trees. He could feel the weight of their eyes upon him, sense the sheer malevolence radiating from them.

  There was no time to sound a warning.

  He raised his rifle and fired up into the trees as they came to life with guttural hoots and avian screams. Black howlers hurled themselves into the open air and plummeted straight toward them. Vultures folded their wings to their sides and dive-bombed the boat.

  The air rained blood as their bullets tore through the furry bodies and sent them cartwheeling into the water. Those that survived the fusillade landed in the boat and hurled themselves at the men with slashing arms and snapping teeth.

  Barnett grabbed one by the scruff of its neck and pulled it away from Brinkley’s throat. It rounded on him with a dark sentience in its eyes that Barnett would have recognized anywhere. Were it possible, the infected creature appeared to smile at him before he pulled the trigger and its head disintegrated into a crimson mist.

  A buzzard struck his helmet with its beak and managed to carve through the meat of his shoulder with its talons before he snapped its wing and flung it into the river. It kicked a half-circle before a shot from Sheppard’s weapon drove it beneath the surface.

  Morgan caught a vulture by the neck and wrung it. He would have missed the howler monkey about to land on his shoulder had Barnett not put a bullet through its breast.

  By the time they were able to catch their breath, the river behind them flowed red and spotted with feathers. Brinkley’s cheek had been opened to the bare bone and Morgan wore a mask of blood from the parallel lacerations across his forehead. Outside of the stinging gouges in his shoulder, Barnett had to consider himself lucky to have only superficial wounds on his neck and face from those blasted monkeys, one of which had bitten off the first two fingers on Sheppard’s left hand. He cradled it to his chest in an attempt to stanch the bleeding.

  A roaring sound erupted from the upper canopy.

  Barnett whirled to see a howler monkey staring down at him, its black mane flared and its wide mouth framing a belch-like howl. To either side of it, balanced on the branches, were the heads of the men who’d been sent to rendezvous with them. They’d never stood a chance.

  Another being watched them through the eyes of the black howler until the boat rounded the bend and was lost to sight.

  Subject Z had set a trap for them. It had lured them into a confrontation in an attempt to clear its path, but at least now they knew they were close. It couldn’t have been more than four or five hours ahead of them, and, if Barnett was right, it just might have tipped its hand.

  He cranked the outboard motor to life and accelerated out of the bend. They needed to take advantage of the speed with which they could travel on the river for as long as they could if they were going to catch up with the creature. There was no doubt in his mind that things were only going to get worse from here.

  6

  KELLY

  The Hangar

  Dr. Kelly Nolan went aboveground as often as she could. The deserted hangars and runways were deliberately left in a state of disrepair to maintain the illusion of abandonment. Weeds grew from the cracked tarmac, and vines had overtaken some of the smaller outbuildings. The astringent scent of jet fuel radiated from the ground itself, and the ceaseless air traffic provided a constant grating drone, but at least she could feel the movement of air and the warmth of the sun on her face. She was also close enough to the coast that she could smell the sea, if not hear its eternal restless movements, which was both a blessing and a curse.

  It reminded her of home.

  There were days when she wanted nothing more than to return to Oregon, where she co
uld wander along the rocky shoreline listening to the waves break against the cliffs and the drizzle patter her windbreaker, to smell the rich brine and feel the buildup of salt on her skin. The sense of loss was a physical sensation that could never be fully dispelled, only minimized by her increasingly infrequent sojourns beneath the blue sky.

  She arrived at the Hangar before the sun even hinted at its ascension and left under the stars, if she even left at all. While she loved her work, it wasn’t enough for her. She needed more, and that’s what she had expected when she’d made the decision to move to the East Coast. Roche had promised to be here with her, and while he hadn’t technically broken that promise, the part of him that she loved, that saw her for who she truly was, had never arrived. She wasn’t so self-centered that she couldn’t see the pressure he was under, which he, in turn, amplified a hundredfold, but he didn’t have to bear that burden alone. He thought he was protecting her, when he was really just driving her away. She wasn’t sure who she was madder at: him for distancing himself from her or herself for letting him.

  With any luck they would capture Subject Z before it caused any more suffering. And when they did, either the Martin Roche, who didn’t even realize how deeply she’d fallen for him, would return, or she was going to have to make some hard decisions. Being so close to him only served as a painful reminder of what could have been.