Alien Hunter: Underworld

by Whitley Strieber

  “Try calling them people.”

  He let it lie. “It used the airman’s blood to coat itself in a human form.”

  She gave him a long, searching look.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying? Because it’s kind of important.”

  “We’re going out to Area Fifty-One, you and I.” The exobiology group was located there, scientists who sat in the desert thinking up reasons that contact with Aeon could be made to work.

  “I don’t have time.”

  “You have time.”

  “I have time to keep searching for cases, and that’s all the time I have.”

  “Let me tell you what those kids out on the floor have been doing ever since you went on your murder mission.”

  “Excuse me, policing mission.”

  “They’ve been communicating with Aeon, trying to save your life.”

  “Well, thank them for me. Unless I’m headed for a meeting with the needle. Then don’t thank them.”

  “A deal has been struck, Flynn.”

  “Which involves the scientists at Area Fifty-One how?”

  “You will accompany me to Area Fifty-One. Consider that an order.”

  He thought about that. Normally, she did everything she could to satisfy her brief from the scientists—short of giving him direct orders like this. That way, he could go on doing his job and she could go on being quietly relieved he was getting kills.

  “Diana, we both know that everything coming out of Area Fifty-One is bullshit. In any case, I want to go to Deer Island.”

  “Why?”

  “I got another one of those calls: 333676. Ring a bell?”

  “No.”

  “It’s Dan Miller’s employee number.”

  She got up and went to her “window.” They were in a basement, so it was actually just a poster of the Grand Tetons she’d bought at Target and tacked to her wall.

  “I love it when you stare out at the view. It always means you know I’m right.”

  She turned. “We’re on a strict schedule. And frankly, if you want to stay in one piece, you’d better cooperate.”

  For a moment, he thought about it, then spread his hands, gesturing surrender. “You can count on me, boss. Down the line.”

  “We leave at six. You might think about taking a shower.”

  He glanced at his watch. Half an hour wouldn’t give him time to go home. “Can I use your lair?” Her suite had a private sitting room and a full bath, which he often used between cases.

  “I’m gonna try to have a meeting in here. We’re cataloging new transmissions. So don’t disturb us, if you can manage that.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He went through into the luxuriously furnished private suite that was a perk of her Senior Executive Service pay grade. The luxuries that interested him weren’t things like her Persian carpets, gleaming antiques, and 3-D TV. His cars were a luxury—the Audi and the Ferrari California that waited for him in Texas. Most of his guns were there as well—his pistols, his sniper rifles, his matched pair of Purdey shotguns handed down in the family for three generations. These were his luxuries, and the wine cellar his family started in the 1920s, when their land in the Permian Basin south of Menard had turned out to be a raft floating on a lake of oil.

  For most of his life, he had preferred to live only on what he made, but after Abby’s disappearance, he found himself wanting to embrace his own heritage. A couple of years back, he had started drawing on the family trust. In a strange way, it made him feel less alone.

  In keeping with family tradition, he lived modestly. Until he started buying extreme cars a couple of years ago, few people outside his small circle of close friends had any idea that he had money. The way he figured it, though, the work he did now was shortening his life, probably by a lot of years, so whatever he was going to enjoy, he needed to do that right now.

  He threw off his clothes, realizing as he dropped them onto her antique Sultanabad carpet, that they were really pretty damn dirty. Stained, too, with greenish purple blood.

  Showers bothered him. He didn’t like being in places with only one exit. He wanted two ways out, always. He turned the gold handles in her marble shower stall and let the water flow until it was steaming. Then he stepped in. He left the door open and faced outward into the bathroom as he methodically washed himself.

  The hot water felt good on his skin, except where it burned in his latest wounds. He stepped out of the stall, opened the medicine cabinet, and rummaged until he found some disinfectant. Then he pulled the ugliest cut apart by drawing his shoulder forward, and poured the disinfectant in. There was pain. A lot, in fact.

  As he dried himself, he realized that his clothes were too gross to wear. The room stank like some kind of bovine had rolled in it. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he went to the exquisitely carved dresser. He opened the bottom drawer, which was where his things were kept. He often showered and changed here—slept here, too. From here, he could move on cases a lot faster than he could from home.

  But what the hell was this shirt? It wasn’t one of his.

  “Hey,” he called, “what is this thing, a bolero shirt?”

  No answer from the office. That’s right, her meeting was out there. And, as a matter of fact, he was hearing his name mentioned, was he not? He strolled over to the door. Yep, they were talking about him.

  He went out waving the shirt. “I can’t wear this.”

  “Put some clothes on.”

  “I can’t wear a blouse.”

  “That’s an ordinary man’s shirt. Unlike your tees, it happens to have a collar. Something you apparently haven’t worn in some time. Now, get dressed.”

  “Sorry, kids,” he said to the staring young faces, “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He started to put on the shirt.

  “Flynn, get out!”

  “You said get dressed, boss.” He sat on the edge of her desk. “So, what’s the latest findings? Aeon turn out to be big on comedy clubs? Marijuana dispensaries? Too bad they don’t have decent cops.”

  “Flynn, Aeon knows you’re the fastest gun in the West and the toughest hombre in town—and they’re not impressed, as I’ve told you. They also know that you’re richer than God, and therefore a dilettante. And they have been speculating about whether or not you’re crazy.” She folded her arms. “I think that question is answered.”

  He turned around so they could see the gash that extended from his neck to the center of his back. “I could use a Band-Aid.”

  “My God, Flynn, you don’t need a bandage, you need medical attention.”

  “We’re off to Bullshit Central, remember. Fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll have medics on the plane. Now, get out of here.”

  He drew on the shirt. Nicely tailored, too. She’d spared no expense. As he buttoned it, he said, “So when do we leave?”

  “When I say. Now, go away. You’re not need-to-know on this conference.”

  “333676. Track down that blocked number.”

  He went back into the bedroom, threw himself on the bed, and waited.

  The sheets were scented. They smelled like her.

  “Flynn!”

  It was Abby, calling to him from her porch across the street. The summer wind whispered in the trees; the sweet smell of the Texas prairie filled the air.

  “Flynn!”

  The movie ended. Blank screen. Then he realized that it wasn’t a movie. He opened his eyes.

  “Christ, I was about to call for a blowtorch. I thought you were in a coma.”

  He bolted upright. “Sorry, I didn’t realize—”

  She sat down on the bed and pulled the shirt away from his back. “That needs ten stitches at least.”

  “It’ll heal.”

  “We have to go now, so get your ass moving, please.” Her voice was harsh, but not her eyes.

  He reached out and touched her cheek. She did not turn away, and he knew that he could kiss her if he wanted to. Neither of them moved. In th
e silence that they shared, there was a lot of life lived together, friends as they were who were also enemies, lovers longing for each other across a gulf of conflicting agendas.

  “We’re on a strict schedule,” she said.

  They rode to the airport in his car. He drove fast; he took chances. He liked to hear her yell at him, and she obliged him, saying he was going to lose his license, she’d see to it, on and on. Just made him drive faster. With this car and his reflexes, it wasn’t dangerous, and with no strange cargo to hide, things like tickets didn’t matter. Often enough, they got written, but the same hand that protected him from all other official harm made them go away. Her hand.

  He said, “As I said, I got three good kills.”

  She said nothing.

  They’d been given an excellent plane, not one of the cramped puddle jumpers he was used to. There was a private cabin, behind it an office and a small press unit. To the rear was a galley.

  “Impressive.”

  “You could afford your own jet.”

  “Not interested.”

  “Your frequent-flier miles, I know.”

  “I haven’t been on a vacation in a real long time. I dream about it. First class, all the trimmings, on my way to somewhere sweet. Barbados. Ever been to Barbados?”

  “Course not. My salary won’t take me that far.”

  “Don’t hand me that. You’re just like me, a rich dilettante. What I’ve become.”

  “You’ve accepted your family. That’s not being a dilettante. And I’m not rich.”

  “Senator’s daughter. Senators are rich.”

  “The senator is comfortable. That is not rich.”

  She called her dad “the senator,” her mother Mrs. Glass. She didn’t talk about it much, but it didn’t sound like a happy home. She had kept that powerful last name, though, even through her marriage.

  Once the plane was at altitude and heading into the sunset, the medics took over.

  “Sir,” the doctor said uneasily, “I’m afraid I’ve only got some topical anesthetic. I didn’t realize—”

  “He doesn’t need anesthetic,” Diana said. “He’s not like us.” He heard pride in her voice. He liked that.

  While they stitched away, he smelled steak cooking, and when they finally let him up, he found an exceptional meal waiting in the office, which had been reset as a dining room. A general’s plane was not Air Force One, but it had first class pretty well beat. He gestured toward the meal. “How many taxpayers did it take to pay for all this?”

  “None. Or rather, one. I paid for it.”

  “The poor senator. Did you leave him to starve?”

  “Yes.”

  He picked up the wine. “An ’83 Romanée-Conti? That’s worth a trip to Barbados at least. First class.” Then he had another thought. “Is this my last meal?”

  “Any meal could be your last. Damn you, Flynn.” Her voice broke. She choked back her emotions. “What if they tell us something like they’ll kill the whole planet unless we kill you?”

  “I’d kill me.”

  She closed her eyes briefly, then looked away from him.

  They ate quietly for a few minutes.

  “This spread looks to me like it’s meant for a celebration. Was something good supposed to happen, and you forgot to tell Transportation that it fell through?”

  She said, “You miss nothing.”

  “Comes with the job.”

  “I’ve often wondered why you were hiding in that little job in Texas. A man like you.”

  “It was a big job, and I wasn’t hiding.”

  “I mean, why weren’t you running an oil company or something? Doing something incredible?”

  “Being a cop isn’t incredible?”

  She shrugged, then poured them both wine.

  “By the way, that blocked number. Can’t be located.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “It was purged from the carrier’s system.”

  “That’s unusual.”

  “Also illegal. They’re frantic about it. You have any idea what it was all about?”

  Flynn did, but if he was right about why he was being messaged like this, he had no intention of telling anybody. It might be dangerous even to think about it. “Not a clue,” he said.

  “I know when you’re lying, but never why.”

  They drank in silence. The medical team had retired to the press section, so the two of them were alone. She glanced back to be sure the door was closed.

  “You know, Flynn, I’m not being very fair to you.”

  “What’s new about that?”

  She laughed a little, but said no more. He was curious, of course, but he didn’t press her. If somebody wanted silence, that was fine with him.

  He closed his eyes for a couple of seconds, and suddenly the plane was landing. He recognized that he had come to the point where he was desperate for sleep.

  “Listen,” he said as they lined up on the runway, “if I’m supposed to talk to these people, you better tell me what I need to say.”

  “No talking necessary.”

  “It’s a dog and pony show, then. They’re going to try to convince me that there’s something good going on here, which is and always will be utter horseshit. Diana, I could be needed somewhere right now.”

  “There’s no dog and pony show. In fact, no scientists at all. It’s past their bedtimes, anyway—you should know that.”

  As they touched down, he stared out into the glare of the runway lights. Beyond them was blackness.

  Very little of Area 51 was actually devoted to the legendary secret of the aliens. For the most part, the place was exactly what it was claimed to be: a test bed for future aircraft, including new designs that utilized the earth’s magnetic field for propulsion and lift. There were space planes here and, Flynn suspected, some devices that were of alien construction and defied gravity.

  “Leave your guns, take your jacket,” Diana said as a steward cracked the door.

  “My guns?”

  “Leave them.”

  “No.”

  She sighed. “Flynn, just please cooperate for once.”

  “I don’t go out on lonely desert airstrips at night without my guns.”

  “Do you think you’re being handed over?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Trust me.”

  “No.”

  She glanced at her watch. “Take them, then.” She marched down the steps and into the shadows.

  Flynn followed her into the cold of the desert night. As the wind whipped across the tarmac, he zipped his jacket. Yet again, his tongue touched his cyanide capsule. Would it be now? If he was about to be given to some creeps in a flying saucer, then yes, it would.

  The plane’s door was pulled closed, and its engines whined as it taxied slowly away.

  “Hey, we’re not anywhere!”

  “No, this is the right place.”

  Once the plane was gone, they were left standing on a strip of concrete surrounded on three sides by desert. Now and again, a tumbleweed went bounding across, a gray shadow in the thin light of a sickle moon. His right hand slid down to the butt of his pistol. She held tight to him, and he couldn’t tell if she was trying to control him or holding on for dear life.

  The sound that came then was not something you heard, but rather something you felt. It vibrated your teeth; it made your skin crawl.

  “Look,” Diana whispered. Flynn followed her gaze upward and saw the hazy outline of a descending shape, perfectly round. It quickly grew larger, blotting out more and more stars.

  Flynn’s finger went to his trigger. He tongued his cyanide capsule until it was between his teeth.

  Now the object was hanging in the air before them. It did not move. It was not affected by the wind. Flynn didn’t try to convince himself that he wasn’t afraid. He was very afraid.

  In the distant light from the hangar area and the low moon, the object shone like burnished steel. It was nothing like the d
isks he was used to seeing—not worn, not small, not clattering like an old truck. No matter his loathing of the aliens and their ways, this thing’s sleek form was beautiful to see.

  He realized that a tripod landing gear had come out of it, and it was now standing on the runway. There hadn’t been a sound nor the slightest suggestion of movement. A narrow line of light appeared in its base. This grew wider and brighter, until he could see part of an interior of featureless bright metal. Very slowly then, something began moving in the light, a form.

  “My God,” he heard himself whisper. Hardly thinking of it, he drew his gun.

  “Put that away.”

  “Diana—”

  “If they see that thing, we might die right here, right now. Both of us.”

  He holstered the pistol.

  A figure glided down in the column of light. He was expecting to see the thin form of an alien, but what he saw instead was a trim human shape, a woman in a blue jumpsuit.

  Immediately, he thought of what he’d seen the alien do at Wright-Pat, and of Morris.

  The object rose enough to spread the light into a pool a hundred feet across. Flynn and Diana were in that pool, and so was the alien, which now came walking toward them with the easy gait of absolute confidence.

  She stood before them, a woman of perhaps twenty-five. If he hadn’t seen her come out of a flying saucer, he would have said that she was human.

  She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face, and when she did, he saw in her blond arched eyebrows and her subtle, almost sensual smile, an unmistakable shadow of Abby.

  “Hello,” she said, turning toward Diana. “You are Police Commander Glass?” There was in her lilting voice just the faintest trace of an accent, oddly Asian in so Caucasian-looking an individual.

  Diana saluted her.

  The woman’s gaze returned to him. “And you are Officer Carroll?”

  “I’m Flynn.”

  She wasn’t smiling now, far from it. Her eyes were glittering with something he could not mistake. She hated him.

  Diana said, “Officer Carroll, meet your new partner. This is Gt’n’aa. We’re going to call her Geri.”

  Geri extended her hand. Flynn stared at it.

  “Flynn?”

  “Oh—yeah.” He took the coldest, strongest hand he had ever felt in his life. As he shook it, he could feel the power there, like living steel.