Killing the engine, Tall Bear climbed out, letting his ears accustom themselves to the sounds of his surroundings. Without the engine noise, the canyons almost seemed silent. It just took a while to purge his senses of the roaring machine noises, which had masked all other sounds.
The wind was up this morning and bound to get worse as the day progressed, bad news for the firefighters around Los Alamos. It was going to be a hot day too, with temperatures expected to rise into the nineties even above 7,000 feet. Tall Bear reached across the seat, grabbed his Winchester 30-30 rifle and canteen, set the parking brake, and slammed the door.
If his intuition was right, the rifle wasn't going to do him much good. It was a saddle gun, not a very accurate long-range weapon. But it was easy to carry, and he had a certain fondness for the way it rested across the crook in his arm.
Tall Bear moved off the trail, taking a more direct route through the rough country toward his destination than would have been possible in the vehicle, even if the jeep trail had been passable. Even taking this shortcut, he had a little over five miles to travel. And that just brought him to the dream spot. After that, who knew where the trail might take him.
For a big man, the silent ease with which Tall Bear passed through the rough terrain seemed unnatural, even for a Navajo. It certainly wasn't a natural trait associated with his race. These days most of his people made enough noise hiking to startle a stampeding buffalo herd. But Tall Bear had spent a significant portion of his life learning the old ways, working to carry forward the knowledge of the elders. Now it was just second nature.
Out here, he was at home, many miles from the nearest human, only the plants and animals for company. And it wasn't just that this was reservation land that kept it free from people. This was New Mexico, a place where vast stretches of land were still paved highway and population free. Even the massive manhunt had not made its way in this direction, focused instead toward the Bandelier National Monument, in the rugged country southwest of Los Alamos and White Rock. After all, that had been the direction that the killer called Jack Gregory had been heading when the feds had lost the trail.
Tall Bear shook his head. Lost the trail indeed. From what he had heard, it sounded more like Jack Gregory had spent the night hunting federal agents and shooting them in the head. One reporter had said that things had gotten so bad that the search had been called off sometime after midnight so that the FBI could establish a defensive perimeter to avoid losing more agents in the dark. They had made matters worse by cordoning off the area and refusing to allow firefighters in to battle the blaze until it had gotten so large it could not be contained.
Something about the whole situation stunk of cover-up.
According to a government spokesman, Jack Gregory had set up a team of operatives in the Los Alamos area several months ago and had been trying to gain access to information that could be used to disrupt the governmental release of Rho Ship technologies. Gregory and his team had worked for Admiral Riles, forming a group that believed the Rho Project technologies should be kept solely for use by the US military and intelligence communities. Over time, that small group had become a rabidly violent militia, bent on the overthrow of the government. Yesterday, Gregory had gone on a killing rampage, shooting federal agents in the head, one after the other.
Tall Bear thought back on the scene of the truck ambush where he had been first on the scene. Those men had been shot in the head, then dragged from the truck cab and decapitated. But the blood spatter at the spot of decapitation meant they had still been alive when their heads were severed, despite having parts of their brains splattered around the inside of the truck.
And then there was the blood he had scooped into that Copenhagen can, the blood that had been laced with tiny machines he had seen through Dr. Oneta's microscope. There were other things too. The original 911 tape that Yolanda Martinez had played for him had implied that there was something about the blood that the federal government was hiding.
Combined with the recent news about the serial killings, Tall Bear arrived at a much more troubling conclusion. Something was going on at the Los Alamos National Laboratory that had driven a highly trained team of US operatives to commit treason to try to stop it. And from Admiral Riles on down, those operatives were now being purged.
The canyon wall pivoted, a long jagged crack etching its way into the edge of the high mesa to the west. Into this monstrous crack, Tall Bear's silent footsteps carried him, moving him across the spot he had walked in last night's dream. He almost expected to see his grandmother walking along before him, beckoning him to follow.
Already the sun had moved well past its zenith so that shadows walked outward from the high rock walls and jagged spires. The shade should have been welcome, but the reaching darkness seemed deeper than that of normal shadows. Tall Bear’s eyes swept the high cliffs along both sides of the rift, finally settling on the spot ahead where the trail flattened out and the canyon widened. No staked out, screaming natives. But there was another presence out there somewhere, just beyond his senses.
As Tall Bear moved out into the wider portion of the canyon, he almost missed it. He was about to bypass a thick stand of juniper when he saw the blood. It was just a dollop on the needles at the end of a small branch, almost looking like a paintbrush that had been dabbed with color from a painter’s palette. The blood had not been there more than a couple of hours.
Tall Bear moved in a slow spiral out from the spot, and as his eyes read the trail sign, the story it told sent a shiver up his back. A man had passed this way carrying someone. Had it not been for the extra weight the man was carrying, Tall Bear doubted that he could have seen any sign at all that anyone had passed this way. As it was, only the slightest of disturbances to the rocks and plants were evident between the occasional spots of blood. Whoever this was, it was someone who moved like nobody Tall Bear had ever seen.
The ghost trail led him up away from the bottom into the roughest part of the canyon, giving indications that the person had been moving quickly. The increase in blood sign told him why. The one being carried was in serious trouble.
Suddenly, Tall Bear froze, every sense attuned to his surroundings. Although he couldn’t see or hear anything, someone was out there, very close now.
Straightening, Tall Bear spoke in a voice that was clear and loud.
“Either squeeze that trigger or step out and talk to me.”
24
Wind stirred the juniper branches, momentarily bringing them across his sight line, obscuring the point where the scope’s crosshairs tracked his target. The man moved along the slope with a steady purpose, head bent, occasionally stooping to examine trail sign. He was a Native American, obviously a tribal policeman. Whoever he was, he was good. Damn good.
Jack doubted that even Harry could have tracked him like that. But Harry was dead, a victim of the one who had called himself the Rag Man. Now, except for Janet, the other members of Jack’s team were also dead, and if he didn’t get lucky very soon, deadly little Janet was going to join them.
Jack’s attention returned to the Indian cop who moved steadily along his back trail. Why was the man out here alone? If someone had found his trail, he would have expected choppers and an army of special ops folks trying to cut him off. Well, Jack didn’t have time to get curious. In a few seconds, the man would step out of the thick brush into which he had disappeared and then he would meet his ancestors.
The tribal cop emerged into the clearing. Jack let the crosshairs settle on the man’s throat. It was a downhill shot of about a hundred and fifty meters. The trajectory of the bullet would put it three-and-a-half inches above the aim point at this angle and range, just above the bridge of his nose. Just as he was about to tighten the muscles in his trigger finger, the Indian straightened, looking up the hill directly toward Jack’s hide position.
“Either squeeze that trigger or step out and talk to me.”
The man just stood there, his long, straig
ht black hair hanging down over his shoulders—tall, proud, unafraid. Incredible.
Jack rose to his feet and stepped out into the open, his long stride taking him quickly down the slope toward the man who awaited his arrival. As he got within a dozen yards of the Indian, he recognized him. It was the cop he had seen on the news, the one who had been the first on the scene at the truck ambush, the one who had given the FBI so much trouble when they tried to intimidate him into cooperation.
“Jack Gregory, I presume.” The tribal cop spat a thin stream of tobacco.
“That’s right,” said Jack. “And you are?”
“Sergeant Jim Pino.”
“Ah yes, I saw you on TV.”
“You’ve been generating some press coverage yourself.”
“And you still thought it was a good idea to follow me by yourself?”
“Let’s cut the crap. I’m here because of what I found at the truck murder scene.”
“And what did you find?”
“What you wanted someone to find.”
“That’s why the FBI came down so hard on you? To see if you’d discovered something you hadn’t reported?”
“Nah. They did that because I’m Navajo. Gotta keep the red man in his place.”
“And that place doesn’t include federal crime scenes?” A thin smile creased Jack’s lips.
“They didn’t seem to think so.”
“What if I don’t like Indian cops either?”
“Doesn’t matter. You know something that makes the government want you very dead. From what I saw in the blood of those truck guards, I think I better know it too.”
Jack paused. The man standing before him knew he was as good as dead, but he had the gall to press Jack for information.
Pino spat again. “Where’s the girl? Dead?”
So the tribal cop had read the meaning of the blood on the trail. A hundred feet above Jack’s original hide position, Janet’s small body struggled for life. Why was it he felt compelled to waste the time required for this conversation? Perhaps he just wanted a few extra moments of delay before he was forced to make the choice, a choice as unpleasant as any Jack could remember.
“She will be soon if I keep standing here talking with you.”
“I know a place near here, an old cave hidden back in the cliffs. You’re going to need a place to hide and someone trustworthy to bring you some supplies.”
Jack laughed, his weapon rising to point at Jim Pino’s chest. “And if I let you take me there and let you go, you’ll take care of us?”
Pino’s black eyes locked with his. “Do what feels right.”
Jack’s voice hardened. “Well, Jim—”
“My friends call me Tall Bear.”
“Well, Jim,” Jack continued, “it took balls tracking me like this, and you got my attention about the guards’ blood. Doesn’t mean I trust you.”
“Okay.”
“Tell you what. Bring some supplies back here tomorrow evening, just before dark. I’ll consider your offer.”
“What about the information I need?”
Jack motioned with the barrel of his weapon. “Tomorrow.”
With a shrug, Jim Pino turned, walking away without a backward glance. Jack watched him until he had disappeared around a bend in the canyon. Then Jack began the climb back up the steep slope to the spot he had left Janet.
She hadn’t moved. As Jack bent to examine her, the sound of her breathing hurt his ears. No longer was her chest rising and falling with a weak regular rhythm as her breath sighed out. Now her breathing rattled deep in her chest. He touched her cheek with his fingertips, an action that left pale indentations that refused to pink out again.
Jack moved to Janet’s pack, rummaging around inside until he found three syringes and a needle. Although he didn’t care to think about what he was going to try, he had made his decision. It might kill her, or he might have to kill her even if it worked, but Jack wasn’t going to let her lie there drowning in her own fluids.
The vials were labeled with a blue alcohol marker. Priest. Driver. Guard. The blood inside had long since thawed. Three different vials. Probably three different blood types. Each one massively infested with the Rho Project nanites.
Most likely the nanites had long since become inoperative, the blood in the vials rancid. Even if this worked, the stuff would probably leave Janet as insane as Priest had been. As Jack attached the needle to the first of the three vials and slid it into a vein in Janet’s arm, he took a deep breath. It didn’t matter. He would give her this one last chance at life.
~ ~ ~
Far down the canyon, the sound of the scream brought Tall Bear to an abrupt halt. On and on it went, the sound magnified by echoes from opposing canyon walls. As he listened, the small hairs along the base of his neck rose up. He had heard that same scream last night from the Navajo people in his dream.
For a long moment, he stared back in the direction he had come from. Then, with a shake of his head, Tall Bear turned away, continuing his journey back to the truck. The girl was Gregory’s problem, only one of many. But, having looked into the man’s strange eyes, Tall Bear had a feeling Jack Gregory could play whatever hand he was dealt.
As he crested a rise to see the old Jeep Cherokee where he had left it, Tall Bear paused for one more look back up the canyon. Life on the res had just gotten a whole lot more interesting.
25
A dull throbbing pulsed through the cave, accentuated by the changing intensity of the magenta glow from the alien ship. Reclined on one of the command deck couches, completely immersed in the holographic experience as her mind probed the onboard computer systems, Jennifer didn’t notice. Neither did she notice when she rose from the couch and began climbing down through the hole between decks.
Reaching the room she thought of as the medical lab, Jennifer moved directly across to the door that blocked access to the inner part of the ship, the door they had never discovered how to open.
Jennifer stopped, her unseeing eyes staring straight ahead, her arms hanging limply at her sides, her head tilting slightly to the left, as if some part of her subconscious was aware of the problem the door presented. Suddenly, she stepped forward again, passing through the wall as if it had no more substance than the holographic field that cloaked the cave entrance.
The room was smaller than the medical lab, crowded with glowing transparent tubes of varying thickness, like the tentacles of some psychedelic sea anemone. Each of the tubes pulsed with flowing, multicolored globules of light. Thousands of the plasma globules climbed and danced atop each other where the tubes connected together, like a great hive of bees rubbing together in a dance of communication.
Amidst the forest of plasma tubes, a lone central couch, a larger replica of the tentacle couch in the medical lab, awaited. Jennifer moved forward, settling into the couch as easily as if she were sliding into her own bed. And as she settled in, tiny tendrils sprouted from the surrounding tubes, each feeling its way across her body toward the desired nerve ending that would form its connection. The tendrils continued to multiply until there were thousands of them, millions, each lit with its own internal light.
As the last of these came to rest, a new pulse rippled through the room, the light rising in intensity several orders of magnitude greater than before. Deep within the confines of the couch, Jennifer’s small body convulsed.
Ten miles away, stretched out in their own beds, Heather’s and Mark’s bodies shook their bed frames hard enough to rattle the floor. But not hard enough to dispel the dream.
26
Dr. Stephenson might be brilliant, but his skills as a surgeon were rudimentary, at best. It was now clear why he didn’t attempt surgery directly on the brain. Even with his knowledge of the alien technology, he needed nerve endings that did not require superior surgical technique to reach. As Raul stared down at the tangled mess of connecting alien tubes and conduits, a sharp pang of regret pounded his brain like a five-pound sledgehammer. Ste
phenson had removed his legs at the hip, leaving him connected to the alien wiring harness in such a way that he could only squirm along the floor on his belly, hunching himself forward with his hands and arms, the bundle of tubes dragging along behind.
Not that it mattered. Raul only had a couple dozen meters of slack in the tubes that formed his wormy rear end. He could slither back and forth through that amount of open space before their connection to the great central machinery brought him up short.
It allowed him to travel far enough to reach the corner where Stephenson had stacked his supplies. There were enough cases of the military “Meals Ready to Eat” to feed him for a year, along with a matching quantity of gallon-sized plastic water jugs. In addition, his space had the luxury of a camper’s portable toilet, little more than a folding chair with a toilet seat and plastic bags that attached to catch your business.
The most fascinating part of the waste disposal process was what he thought of as the “garbage disposal.” In reality, it was a matter reprocessor that separated its contents into their elemental components, then transferred that matter to the ship’s fuel storage, for later conversion into raw energy. Nothing was wasted. Everything became fuel: trash, human waste, everything.
Considering Raul’s physical limitations, that was a blessing.
At least he still had his upper appendages. Why the good doctor hadn’t yet taken his arms, Raul didn’t know. The mere thought of the loss of his remaining ability to move about horrified him more than the pain and deformities he had already endured.
Raul didn’t yet know precisely what Dr. Stephenson hoped to accomplish by connecting more and more of the alien machinery to new nerve endings in his body, but he was starting to get an inkling. Stephenson was attempting to create an advanced interface to the damaged shipboard computing systems.
Immune Page 9