I remembered those radio reports referring to Agent X as some kind of disease, but it was incredible to me that these things could be in any way considered sick. They were superhuman, nothing stopped them. I could even tell that some were smart. One female Xombie-a blue woman who straddled the hood like a fierce, Celtic witch-had no trouble figuring out the arrangement that kept the screens in place, and began unhooking the straps. In seconds the whole thing was loose, held in place only by other bodies, and she battered its frame against the windshield, starring the glass.
This is it, I thought.
The web of cracks burst inward, the witch's hands peeling apart the safety glass like a membrane and her grinning, black-eyed face thrusting through at me. Trapped in my seat, I could hear myself making a high-pitched whine from deep in my throat. Just then Cowper stamped hard on the brakes, causing the whole unmoored wire contraption and every Ex on it to go flying off the car in a jangling heap.
Finally, I could see again. We were clear of the traffic, clear of maniacs, and dragging our flopping treads down a tree-lined drive toward some kind of factory complex. The trees gave way to parkland, then a high fence and a series of concrete barricades. It was the end of the road, in every sense. Cowper turned off the dying motor, and we sat there in silence. My ears were ringing.
I was about to say the place looked deserted when a brilliant light filled the car. It beamed down from above the fence, from a hidden platform. Bathed in phosphorescent white smoke, we couldn't see a thing.
"Hold up your hands." Cowper held up his own, fanning identification cards like a poker hand. "Fred Cowper here!" he shouted. "Referred by James Sandoval!"
For a long moment there was nothing, then a voice shouted, "Step out of the vehicle!"
We climbed free of the car, keeping our hands up. Cowper had an old leather satchel slung from his shoulder. Again, he called out, "Fred Cowper here! Fred Cowper-don't shoot!"
A different voice called down, "Fred Cowper? We thought it was the Mexican Army. What'd you do, take the scenic route?"
"Who's that? Chief Reynolds? Beau, you know I'm cleared with Sandoval!"
"That was three weeks ago. We gave up waiting for you."
"Goddammit, I'm here now! Open up!"
After an unbearable pause, the spotlight went off, and we could see men with guns lined up on a high catwalk and makeshift guard tower. They were not soldiers, but some kind of private security force-what my mother called "rent-a-cops." Others below waved us toward a cagelike revolving door in the fence. "Hurry!" they shouted. "Run!"
As we made for it, something charged from the shadows between barriers, something naked, blue, and low to the ground. I barely saw it before gunfire erupted from a dozen places at once, and the thing was knocked over, spouting flesh. It was a headless torso riddled with holes, trying to get back up on its hands. Then we were inside the door, pushing as hard as we could. But it only revolved a quarter turn before crashing against the bolt, trapping us inside.
"Who's the girl?" demanded a stunned-looking sentry.
"Sandoval said I could bring someone," Cowper said. "Open the damn gate!"
"Girls are supposed to be quarantined."
"That's only if they might turn. She has a medical condition that stops her from maturing. Look at her-does she look seventeen?"
"She's seventeen?" All the guards nearly jumped out of their skins, as if I were liable to snatch their guts out.
Impatiently, Cowper replied, "You morons, if she was gonna, she already woulda. Don't you get it? Where's Reynolds?" As he spoke, I saw a ghastly figure appear out of the hazy twilight, racing along the outside of the fence toward us. We were pinned in place; it could grab us right through the bars.
"Let us in!" I screamed.
"I guess it's Bring Your Daughter to Work Day," said the man Reynolds from above. "All right, go ahead," he ordered. "Let 'em in." The gate swung open, and we were jerked through, half-deaf from the fusillade around our ears. I had never heard shooting before. It wasn't like the movies. Something squishy slammed against the bars just as we jumped clear. I didn't want to look. I could've cried to be among people again, and tried to thank them, but any man I approached reared like a spooked horse.
"They're a little traumatized," Cowper observed, taking me aside. "Send 'em a thank-you note."
Reynolds announced, "Hold your fire! That thing's got more holes than the goddamn Albert Hall." At his command, a man swaggered past us wearing a tank on his back like an exterminator. Using a sparking device, he ignited a pale blue pilot light at the end of his weapon and pointed it at the writhing pulp outside. Liquid fire sprayed through the gate. Its oily yellow glow cast all the men's unshaven faces in gold, making them look like combatants in some Hollywood spectacle.
"Cowper!" called Reynolds from above. In the waning torchlight, he, too, looked heroic up on his crowded platform, like Napoleon reviewing the troops, but he was obviously extremely annoyed about us traipsing through the scene. "Get that girl out of here before somebody shoots her by accident. They'll fill you in at Building Nineteen."
"I have to go to the Front Office," Cowper said.
"The Front Office is restricted to company executives and NavSea."
"Since when?"
"Since you'll find out. Now go."
"I want to talk to Sandoval."
The other man's laugh was mirthless and distracted. "Sandoval's a little scarce these days, along with the rest of the suits in upper management. Talk to Ed Albemarle."
"Ed Albemarle? From Finishing?"
"He's in charge of you people. Better hurry-it's after curfew."
I had no idea what they were talking about, but Cowper was plainly troubled by it, and that was enough to disturb me. "What's wrong?" I asked.
"I retired here after twenty years," he groused, nodding to himself. "That was after serving twenty in the Navy, and you're gonna tell me that son of a bitch won't talk to me? He'll talk to that asshole Coombs, but he won't talk to me? Bullshit. I served with Rickover, for Christ sake! I got more experience than both of them assholes put together. We'll see about this…"
He started leading me away, but just then the man with the flamethrower was sent outside the fence, and we were caught up in the sudden, expectant lull. "Why is he doing that?" I asked, appalled.
A hyper young guard standing nearby said, "That's Griggs; he's hard-core. 'Have Flamethrower, Will Travel.' First time I saw it I was like, 'Whoa!' It's his job to make sure nothing's left wiggling on the doorstep that might creep in your bunk later on. Somebody's gotta do it!"
In spite of his heavy fuel tank, Griggs moved lightly, a black silhouette against the settling dusk, pilot flame darting back and forth. Every few seconds he would let loose a dripping gust of fire down the concrete hedgerows, as if trying to flush game. Just before he reached the last row, I saw movement. Something large, pale, more crablike than human, had been hiding in the smoldering wreck of the car. Now it rose at him from the murk.
He was ready for it, unleashing a billowing yellow plume that met the thing and swallowed it whole. But in that gorgeous light, Griggs must have seen what we all saw, captured in midair like a camera flash: four garish monstrosities, jittery-fast in the sepia light as creatures in a bizarro silent movie, coming at him from either side. In that split second, Griggs knew he was dead. I knew the feeling, too, and perhaps because I had been wrong, I expected something to intervene, to save him, but when the nearest one-a feral harpy wearing a coat of greasy flame-caught Griggs up in her blazing rapture and bellowed into his face with a mouthful of fire, lips peeling back like bacon, black teeth gnashing, hair a crackling torch, then covered his mouth with her own as the others piled on, I could only whimper, "No, no, no…"
Shocked cries and gunfire rose from the men around us, then were drowned out by the double explosion of the car and Griggs's tank. A fireball like an immense Japanese lantern rose into the sky, radiating debris and baking heat. It enveloped the watchtower, sendin
g men ballooning upward and dropping them like charred scarecrows. Reynolds was caught completely off guard. I saw him up there just before the fire-cloud hit, and he seemed to be looking off into the distance. Perhaps he didn't much care that the air was suddenly sucked from his lungs, or that the chill evening had become a blast furnace. Perhaps, like Griggs, he already knew he was dead, having seen in that baleful light the hordes of Xombies emerging from the trees and scrambling across the grassy divide toward the fence.
"Time to skedaddle," said Cowper, dragging me away.
CHAPTER FIVE
Somewhat reluctantly, I let Cowper lead me from the zone of frantic activity at the fence to the relative peace just beyond. The road continued, deserted, through tracts of no-man's-land and widely spaced industrial buildings. Cries of unseen gulls echoed in the dark.
Much as I trusted Fred, I wasn't sure I liked leaving the realm of the living so quickly. With crisp volleys of gunfire ringing behind us, I asked, "Is it safe to be out in the open like this?"
"Long as that fence holds," he said, short of breath. "You can't see it from here, but this whole compound sticks out in the bay. That gate is the only way onto the premises-that's why they've held out so long. Plus it's set way back behind a bunch of posted government property-not many people know it's here. It ain't even on the map."
"It's a Navy base?"
"During the war it used to be a training field for the Naval Air Station, but now it belongs to a big defense contractor. They've been keeping it running on an emergency basis as a matter of national security, offering safe shelter to families of employees if they stay on the job. I guess they were pretty hard up, because they came and tried to talk me outta retirement. Fat chance. I couldn't see sleeping on no concrete floor at my age. I said to them, 'I hope you fellas ain't trying to turn that place into some kind of refugee center, because there's no potable water and nowhere to run if things get hot. Oughta be a toxic-waste dump from all the lead and cadmium that's leached into the soil over the years.'
"They say to me, 'Fred, that's just it-we got all the water and power we could ever use, plus we got the whole Atlantic Ocean to escape to. We're authorized to use any and all facilities at our disposal to safeguard sensitive technology. That includes moving it offshore. You can even bring a friend.'
"'What are you saying?' I asked. 'You gotta be kidding me.'
"They get all spooky, and say, 'Just consider it, Fred. You think things are bad out there now? This ain't even a wet fart compared to the shit that's coming down the pipe. Sandoval knows-that's why he thought of you. The company needs you, Fred. You're part of the family.'
"I thought they were crazier than bedbugs and sent 'em packing, but I remember Beau looking me in the eye as he left, and saying, 'This is privileged information, Fred, but Sandoval gives you his personal guarantee that if you come now, you're a shoo-in for a seat on the board. How can you turn that down?' I said, 'Just watch me.'"
We left the main road, turning right alongside a second fence and a row of low, shuttered buildings. Behind them was a storage yard strewn with heavy machinery and steel scrap, enormous items, but all dwarfed beneath the vast white hangar that towered like an iceberg over all. Many cars and trucks were parked before a second checkpoint, this one manned by only a few guards. Apparently they had been notified about us, because they let us through without any interrogation, keeping well clear of me.
"How you doing, Sam?" Cowper called to one.
"What did you do?" Sam demanded. "I can't raise Reynolds."
"Reynolds is gone-you must've seen the explosion. If I were you, I'd get over there."
"You led them to us," Sam said coldly, clicking his gun's safety on and off. "We were doing okay until you led them here, Fred. You and that…" He couldn't bring himself to say it. Keeping his eyes averted from mine, the man said, "You should've stayed away. You're not going to get what you came for."
"All I'm after right now is Ed Albemarle. He in there?"
"He's in there, but he's not going to be able to help you. Nobody is."
"Thanks, Sam. It's good to see you, too."
To our backs, the man said, "I could shoot you for being out after lockdown! I'd be within my rights!"
As we crossed the tarmac toward the hangar, Cowper noticed my upset, and whispered to me, "He doesn't know what he's saying. Don't worry, he won't shoot. And it's not true, you know, what he said about us leading them in. Those things were already on their way-we just happened to come along at the same time they did. It's that 'critical mass' the TV predicted: They saturate the urban areas, then fan out across the countryside when they run out of prey. Providence is spilling over-we just hit the wave front is all." He was sweating.
"What does he mean, we're not going to get what we came for, nobody's going to help us?"
"Aw, nothin'-it's nothing for you to worry about."
We approached a door and were buzzed through from the guard shack. At first all I saw was a cavernous room full of machinery-rows of giant rusty drums covered with scaffolding; multistory steel frameworks like half-finished buildings; antlike workers toiling under bleak factory lights-but then the sound began to register: thrash-metal music and the familiar rasp and clatter of practicing skate-punks, punctuated by echoing cheers and catcalls. I could see lots of hardhats, but no one was working. The door locked shut behind us.
This was no longer a factory. It was a playground. An industrial-chic skate park. Curved steel plates weighing tons, and cylinders wide as subway tunnels, had been commandeered for aerial stunts by bike and skateboard fiends. People swung like Tarzan from dizzying catwalks in the rafters or, more alarmingly, bungee-jumped the hundred or so feet to the concrete floor, springing back just in time. A deejay standing on a huge, multiwheeled platform-the mother of all flatbed trucks-plied his stylings before a scattering of headbangers and homeboys and someone wearing a big-headed chipmunk costume. The aisles between machines were Turkish bazaars full of tents and sleeping bags, with clotheslines slung like cobwebs overhead.
Everyone seemed completely unaware of the nightmare outside. What's more, they were kids, teenagers-boys. Hundreds of boys. A tough-looking bunch in their work boots, hooded sweatshirts, baggy pants, and stocking caps. They were filthy as chimney sweeps from life in the factory. Staring in wonder, all I could do was silently mouth, "Oh my gosh."
Our appearance on the floor began to have a ripple effect. As people saw us, saw me, they reacted in surprise, pointing us out to others nearby and gradually bringing a halt to all the activities. Some fell back, others began to come forward to meet us. Among the latter were many older men I hadn't noticed at first. They didn't look particularly friendly.
One exception was a burly, chinless guy in dirty denim coveralls who came running up, eyes wide, and clasped hands with Cowper. "Fred, you bastard," he said. "Where in hell did you come from?"
"Hell is right," said Cowper. He leaned toward the other man, and said, "What's the bad news, Ed?"
The bigger man pursed his lips, bobbing his head. "It's like you said, Fred. They screwed us."
"When?"
"Last week. Had a big recommissioning ceremony, gave us a steak dinner, then dropped the bomb while we were all loosening our belts."
"Who did? Sandoval?"
The heavyset man nodded bitterly, saying, "Those bastards never had any intention of taking us along."
"Has she put to sea?"
"Not yet, but they're not telling us anything. Should be anytime now."
"I could've told ya."
"You did."
"Did they give any reason?"
"Yeah, we got a boatload of sensitive materials the day before from Norfolk-you know about SPAM?"
"What do you mean, Spam?"
The other man waved the question away. "Sensitive Personnel and Materials-crap! All the stuff the government can't leave behind when it shuts down. Basically SPAM got our seat. I don't care about me, but those kids busted ass for a month, and now they
get bumped by a shipment of top secret nonsense? The future is riding with these kids, and they're fit for duty."
"Oh yeah?" Cowper said, eyeing the gritty playland. "Where at? Ringling Brothers?"
The other man perked up defensively. "Hey," he said, "don't knock 'em for blowing off steam. After last week, we're all on strike around here."
"Now, Albemarle, that sounds like union talk."
Ed Albemarle laughed grimly, "Yeah, it's a union shop now. We're gonna start picketing. Give the X-jobs signs to carry." Throughout the conversation he had pointedly avoided looking my way, though everyone else in the place was. Now he turned toward me, and I could see the nervous whites of his eyes. "And who's the little lady?" he asked.
Before Cowper could speak, I said, "Lulu. Lulu Pangloss," offering my hand. It almost killed him to shake it. Hoping to put him at ease, I added, "How do you do, Mr. Albemarle?"
He regarded me with the awe of a man seeing a talking dog. "God damn," he said, taking back his hand. "You know… girls are bad medicine these days. I'm surprised you got in."
And none too pleased, I thought.
"She's okay," said Cowper. "She has a condition-female trouble. She ain't gonna turn."
Though I understood the necessity, it was mortifying to hear him announce this to everyone. To those boys.
"Why?" Albemarle said suspiciously. "How old is she?"
"Seventeen," I replied, at which they all caught their breaths and seemed to backpedal, or at least lean backward. My age bounced around the group like heresy, triggering furious whispering and a few cries of "Uh-uh!" and "Hell no!"
Albemarle looked apologetically at Cowper. "Fred, how can we have her in here?" he asked. "I'm in charge of these people's safety."
"Then you better forget about her and get these kids moving. All hell's breaking loose outside."
"What are you talking about?"
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