by J. C. Nelson
Like the mummies of ancient legend, they might cough on you or crumble all over your uniform, but they didn’t make good hosts for the Re-Animus. The army would cut them down like weeds, even without special ammunition.
A cloud of darkness overhead gave me a split second of warning. I dodged just as a rain of sparrows exploded on the roof. They would have split my head open if I were any slower.
The radio beeped, static voices on pattern two bleeding over. Vehicles pulled to the side, letting us pass.
Then came the director’s voice. “Carson, remain calm. We’re heading into a hot zone; I’m splitting the convoy. Support personnel will divert east and meet up in Seattle. All armored vehicles form up around primary transport.”
That meant Grace. She belonged here, with me. But for certain we’d only seen the beginning. The director was right—the farther away Grace was, the better. The safer.
As we rolled northward, the sky turned the color of old asphalt, and raindrops splattered on our windshield, washing blood away.
I thumbed the radio switch. “Watch out. No sun means the Re-Animus won’t get a sunburn.”
“Acknowledged,” the director answered. She rode in an armored truck at the head of the caravan. “We’ll be—” In the background, someone barked a warning, muffled by the radio. The director shouted in answer. “Fire. Fire on it now. I have authority from the president himself.”
“What the hell’s going on?” I hit the signal button again and again. In the clouds above, a dark shadow loomed. A jumbo jet, dropping lower and lower, growing closer by the second. The roar of the engines rose until it shook the windows.
An explosion as bright as the noon sun blinded me, imprinting on my eyes the image of the jet disintegrating. Fighter jets roared over so close I could have touched them.
And the sky began to rain bodies. Horrible, blackened lumps that rolled before our escort, hands waving feebly. One of them bounced off the cab, appearing in the side-view mirror.
I called in. “This is Carson. What happened?”
“That was flight 549 to Colorado. Passengers reported some sort of gas released in the cabin. We’re guessing cyanide. Two hundred and thirteen—” The dispatcher who answered stifled a sob.
The shock of what I’d witnessed left me speechless, flinching as bags and debris continued to rain down. The wreckage didn’t constitute a real threat, unless— I snapped off my seat belt. “Carson here. I have to check on the cargo.”
“Negative. We aren’t stopping.”
“Who said we were?” I clipped the radio to my belt and opened the cab door. Immediately behind the cab, I was protected from the wind. More important, I could get a clean view of the flatbed cargo trailer.
Two mutilated corpses clung to the trailer, gnawing on the straps holding the container. I drew my daggers and crawled along to knife the first one and throw it off. The other worked the ratchet, pulling the strap loose.
I kicked it, sending it sailing into the path of the transport next door, then fought the winch. They were designed to be run on flat ground, where the driver could get leverage. I braced myself against the container and heaved, drawing the strap down one click at a time until it secured.
Then, holding on to the edge of the container, I edged my way along it to check out the back end.
As I stepped around the edge, someone hit me. Punched me, to be exact, right in the cheek, then shoved me so that I almost flew off the side.
“Lesser Carson, I thought I might find you here.” The Re-Animus I’d nearly killed at the hospital. It wore a flight attendant now. Only half her face moved. The other half had a look of terror frozen forever on it.
I caught its fist as it punched at me again, and swung around onto the trailer, locking its arm. “Get off my truck.”
It wrenched the arm, breaking it at the shoulder, and hit me in the stomach and then the throat. “You have no idea who I’ve awakened, Carson. Now she’s coming. I wanted to give her heart back as an offering, but I’ll settle for yours.”
It knelt over me while I struggled to breathe, and pulled one of my own daggers from its sheath. My throat swelled from the punch, but I fought to remain conscious and keep the dagger from killing me as the Re-Animus forced it down.
GRACE
I volunteered to drive a group of three med techs and myself. I’d waited by the field hospital and armory for Brynner, certain he would come and find me. We had unfinished business. Words unspoken, and flesh—I couldn’t think about that. Not right now.
So I drove, my eyes on the pavement and the speedometer. Then came the birds, mostly small ones, crashing into the windshields, dead eyes bulging until I flipped the wipers on in a mess of blood and feathers. I turned on the air conditioner for a split second, long enough for the stench of dead birds to permeate the car.
Brynner’s voice crackled on the radio, his worry broadcasting clear through the speakers. After a few minutes longer, Director Bismuth came on. “All support personnel divert and head toward Denver. Reorganize and meet up in Seattle. Do not attempt to rejoin the convoy.”
I kept in line.
“Where are you taking us?” The nurse to my right pointed as the others fell into the right lane to split off.
I checked my fuel tank. “I’m part of Brynner Carson’s field team. I’m going with them.”
“Not with us, you aren’t. Pull off. Let us out.” The chorus of shouts made me want to slam on the brakes and kick them out right there. Instead I pulled off onto the grade alongside the personnel buses.
An administrative officer ran up and pointed down the line. “Give me your numbers and get on; once I’m clear on heads, we’re rolling out.”
While my passengers bailed out, I shook my head. “I’m a field op, heading back to the convoy.”
He squinted at me, then his eyes widened in recognition. “It says here . . . You aren’t on my list. You want to take a rental into that?”
“I’m part of Brynner Carson’s field team. Field teams stick together.” I patted my messenger bag, which held the Deliverator and ten spare magazines. “Always.”
The awe in his eyes said he hadn’t seen what it was like to face a co-org up close and personal, where it could choke or stab or tear. He held up a hand and trotted back to the bus, and came back with a clamp-on purple light. “Keep it on, or the rear guards will blow you off the road. Godspeed, Ms. Roberts.”
If there were a god, why would he create something like the Re-Animus? I nodded and cut across the highway, heading back up the exit ramp. I’d never driven over sixty-five miles per hour in my life but I took my commitments seriously.
With my BSI warning lights flashing, I blew past the police trailing us and into line behind the last field operative SUVs. In the sky high above, a fireball like a second sun blossomed for just a moment, lighting the low-lying clouds.
Debris began to fall, clattering like hail on the roof. A carry-on bag bounced off the road, cartwheeling over my hood.
“Tail vehicle, you have missed directions.” Director Bismuth’s voice cut in over the two-way radio. “Fall back and rejoin support personnel.”
“Negative. I’m a field operative rejoining my team.” Would she recognize my voice?
Then another voice came in. “Command, Carson is exiting the truck. Repeat, he’s left the truck. We’re not scheduled for a rolling refuel yet.”
I floored the accelerator, weaving between the army transports until Brynner’s cargo semi came into view. A figure crouched behind where the pod stood strapped to the trailer. That’s when I saw Brynner.
He edged his way around the cargo pod and fought with the man—the co-org, on the back of the trailer. Brynner had to be losing. Every blow he took seemed to hit me as well. I picked up the Deliverator but couldn’t get a clean shot through the windshield.
Not that I trusted my aim. I could just as easily put a bullet through Brynner. The co-org had one of Brynner’s daggers, and as he raised it to stab Brynner,
I hit the accelerator and jerked the wheel, hitting the rear corner of the trailer.
The trailer swung out, throwing the co-org to the side. Brynner rolled with it, wrenching the dagger away and driving it into the monster’s shoulder.
It slipped off the edge, flying back onto my hood, then smashed its head through the passenger side of my windshield.
For one moment, it looked at me, recognition dawning in its eyes. I shot it at point-blank range, blasting a hole right through its head. Black smoke poured from its mouth, swirling away in the wind.
The empty corpse slipped away, bouncing off the pavement in the rearview mirror. Brynner rose to his feet at the edge of the flatbed trailer, stooped over from the wind. He smiled at me and gave me two thumbs up. Then, fighting the wind, he scrambled around the edge of the containment pod and disappeared from my view.
Through fields and farms and over mountains we rolled. I pulled off three times for gas and restrooms, joining half a dozen other field ops to eat a meal on the run. I have no idea how Brynner ate. He probably didn’t.
The hours wore on me, without anyone to give me a break. I finally picked up the radio. “At the next fueling point, could I get someone to swap me out?”
After long minutes, a man answered. “Pick up your relief driver at mile marker twenty.”
I counted off the miles until at last twenty came up. Beside the road, a young woman stood, roughly my age. Her long black hair she wrapped in a scarf that covered her head, while her dark brown skin spoke of years in the sun. Tangled leather bracelets covered her arms from wrist to elbow, decorated with coins and trinkets.
I rolled down the window. “Afternoon.”
She walked around the car and opened my door. “You are Grace Roberts? I am Al-ibna Al-habeeba.”
She stopped and smiled as I scrunched up my face, trying to process the right pronunciation.
“Americans. Would Alifyahmeenyah be easier to pronounce?”
While I could ready ancient hieroglyphics, that didn’t mean I could speak in the slightest. “I’ll do my best, and if you correct me, I’ll get it right.”
She shook her head, then dug in her pocket to produce a worn passport. “The man who made my passport gave me an easier name—ah, here it is. ‘Amy Roost.’ No, ‘Rust’? This you can pronounce.”
“I could learn the other two if you prefer, but yes. You’re not from around here.”
Amy shook her head vigorously. “You know of Grave Services in Egypt? I am on loan to the BSI to help secure the old one.”
Whoa. Egypt had worse problems than we’d dreamed of. The Grave Services personnel were famous. Some would say infamous for brutal efficiency. They kept to themselves and had a reputation for being surly. A reputation that didn’t match the woman before me.
“Can you drive? If so, do you mind driving?” I stood, my arms stretching.
Amy laughed. “I would love to drive, Grace Roberts. I learned many years ago, but in my home country, men question what women are capable of.”
“You’ll fit right in here, then.” I handed her the keys and walked around to the passenger side. There, I sank into the seat. “Can you pronounce your real name for me again?”
“Al-ibna Al-habeeba. Do not insult me by mispronouncing it.”
Her nasal consonants and accent made it near impossible to replicate. “Amy it is. What do you do for Grave Services?”
She shook her head. “We do not speak of such things openly. Grave Services returns the dead to their rest. By force if necessary.”
At six feet, maybe 160 pounds, she didn’t look like a warrior.
“I have trained since I was a child for this role, Grace Roberts. I am told you read the old language as well as our best experts. And you captured the old one yourself.”
Grave Services also had a well-deserved reputation for spying on everyone and trusting no one. I wondered who told her about me, and exactly what they told her, but exhaustion made it near impossible to think. “Old one. You mean a Re-Animus?”
“Yes, Grace Roberts. That is what I meant. Such a strange name you use, for those who have survived the centuries untouched.” She turned on the radio, dialing it to a channel with a foreign beat and an echo that sounded of barren lands and foreign shores. Lulled by the hum of the road, I fell asleep until after midnight, when Amy and I switched off.
One thing I had to give her: She knew how to keep her peace, watching the road signs and pronouncing the names under her breath, but while I drove, she leaned back in her seat, her eyes almost closed. After a few abortive attempts at conversation, I resigned myself to silence.
We settled into a pattern, pulling off at times to exchange places or fuel up, and then rejoining the convoy, which proceeded down the highways at its ponderous pace. The next day, Amy took over next to a pile of burning corpses stacked as high as the “Welcome to Oregon” sign, and having driven most of the night, I settled down into a restless sleep, staying that way until someone shook me awake.
Amy looked down at me, then back to the road. “Grace Roberts, we have arrived.”
BSI Seattle. Visible off Interstate 5, the BSI building loomed over its surroundings, a tower of granite and glass. We exited onto city side streets, passed the building, then stopped, caught in the afternoon traffic jam. Up ahead, dozens of guards swarmed the tractor-trailer while a forklift unloaded the containment pod, and then backed down the ramp into the BSI parking garage.
When the traffic cleared, we followed, turning down the ramps to the lowest levels of the garage, where a set of guards armed with multi-round ammunition waited.
“Out of the car,” they ordered, and we complied.
Brynner came looming out of the shadows, his hair wild, his eyes sunken. “Grace. Thank God you’re okay.”
“Okay?” I pushed him back. “Okay? I’m better than okay. In case you didn’t notice, I was the one saving you back there. Otherwise, you’d be on a slab getting ready for a date with the crematorium.”
“I noticed. That was quick thinking. Who’s the friend?” He smiled at me, then turned to Amy, who bloomed under his gaze like a desert flower.
I answered for her. “Amy Rust, Grave Services. You can ask her to pronounce her real name later.”
She dipped her head and then flashed him a smile.
The shock on Brynner’s face matched mine when I’d heard she worked for Grave Services. He took both her hands in his. “Thank you so much for agreeing to help. My dad said Grave Services were the best in the world. Period. You combat rated?”
She nodded. “I believe on your system, you would say I am a seven point nine. And you?”
Brynner whistled, looking her over again. “Not seven point nine. Come on. They’re transferring it now.” He put one hand on my arm.
Amy watched and offered him hers. “Is this an American custom? I like it.”
“No,” I said through gritted teeth, and brushed his hand off.
Brynner took a step back. “Follow me.” We walked to a pair of double doors, where guards checked our IDs again, then to an elevator that lowered us further and further into the ground.
The door opened to the sound of roaring water. To the right of the doorway, a waterfall fell, boiling beneath our feet, inches below the metal railing. Brynner pointed high up. “Artificial falls, artificial river, complete Re-Animus protection. It starts over two hundred feet up.”
“Is it safe?” Amy cowered at the back of the elevator.
“The bridge is two-inch steel mesh. Unless you are a Re- Animus or a piece of suede, it’s not dangerous at all.” He offered her his hand, and they walked across the river to a wide band of white. “And this is . . .”
Amy kicked at the powder. “Pure salt. Bad for the skin, but not—”
“—dangerous.” Brynner nodded, letting her go.
Amy took one step onto the salt and collapsed, screaming.
Twenty-Four
BRYNNER
I recoiled, slid my daggers out, and
stepped so I stood between Grace and Amy.
Amy rolled over and stood up, laughing as she walked toward us. “You two are so much fun.” She sprinkled salt on her tongue. “Your father looked at everyone from my country with suspicion. I thought I might enjoy a laugh at your expense.”
Dad was a paranoid bastard, primarily because the world was out to get him. “That’s a really good way to get yourself knifed. How about we go with shaving cream balloons or fart cushions for jokes from now on?”
“You would not stand a chance of harming me, Brynner Carson.”
Her smug assurance had gotten more than one co-org sent back to the grave. “Right. Let’s go.” I looked to Grace, who radiated annoyance. Surely she didn’t think I was interested in Amy, did she? We crossed the white salt sand to an arched door. Beyond it stood a stained glass tunnel, with beams of brilliant white light bursting up at intervals.
I used my best museum curator voice. “Welcome to the hall of symbols. The lights above and below replicate all shades and variants of sunlight. The walls feature every symbol from every religion known to man.” I pointed off to the side, imitating the way Director Bismuth had when she showed me. “That’s the only Moai statue ever removed from Easter Island.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Grace.
“In every flavor, color, and depiction imaginable.” I pointed out my favorites, African American Jesus, a man who looked like he grew up in the Mediterranean, and Catholic Jesus, who obviously had a skin condition and a fear of the light.
Amy traced the walls, studying each symbol. “Genius.”
“Dad was a little crazy, and it helped. The big guns are right here.” At the end of the tunnel, we hit a right-angle turn that led to the sealed containment pod, now locked into concrete by metal rods. I patted a set of searchlights, each as large across as I was tall. “These were tested against samples of Re-Animus we recovered from meat-skins. They’ll toast it, even inside the skin.”
Grace pushed past me to look at them. “Then it should be on, all the time, facing the hall of symbols.”