by John Bolin
“Hey, it might not be the Taj Mahal, but I’m not complaining,” Gator said. He joined Skins in the kitchen and started emptying cabinets onto a counter. There wasn’t much except a few cans of soup and dried noodles.
On the kitchen table, Peter cleared a space, laid out a piece of paper, and started to sketch from memory a diagram of the valley. He took a drag from his cigarette. The smoke curled up and back off the tile ceiling.
Alex cleared her throat. “Would you mind, Peter? You’ve got a whole jungle to smoke in.” She turned and marched down one of the hallways.
Peter took a last deep drag, then snuffed out his cigarette.
Gator raised his eyebrow as if to say, “I told you so.”
Peter smiled. Gator was right—the girl had spunk.
“Food,” Linc said to Tima, snatching one of the soup cans. He pointed at it, “Food.”
“Foo-d,” Tima said slowly.
“Good, good,” Linc said, leaning in toward Tima. “Okay, here’s one. Try this. What’s my name?” He said the last words slowly.
The girl had her eyes furrowed, concentrating. “What’s my name?” she said weakly, repeating Linc’s words.
Linc laughed, shoving her lightly on the shoulder, treating the girl as if she were his own sister, healthy as could be. “No, no. What’s my name?” He said, pointing at himself.
Tima giggled a raspy little laugh. “Linc,” she said, propping herself up on the couch. “You Linc.”
“Glad you guys are getting along,” Peter said to Linc, “but I need you to keep an eye out around this place. I’ll take the second shift if we stay here that long.”
“You got it, Pete.” Linc stood up, patted the girl on the head, and went into the hallway toward the front door.
Peter concentrated on the paper in front of him. He filled in spaces and structures from memory. It seemed most of the activity was near the bigger cluster of buildings at the far end of the valley. That, he’d decided, was where they’d head when they were ready. He was about to reach for another cigarette when someone screamed.
It was Alex.
Peter was across the room and halfway down the hallway when Linc burst through the front door, gun in hand.
Peter raced through the hallway and pushed open the only door he hadn’t been through. A whoosh of suction sounded when he opened it. The AC was on full blast. Beyond the door, there was another hallway. Lined on either side of the hallway were rows of drawers, like big safety deposit boxes or files. The boxes seemed to be made of glass, not metal.
Alex was standing in the middle of the hallway, next to an open drawer. Her face was white and she was shaking. The facts clicked in Peter’s head like the wheels of a codex until they connected. They weren’t in a lab.
They were in a morgue.
* * *
Alex’s hands were flat against her chest, as if she were trying to calm herself. She was standing near a long, body-sized drawer.
“Alex!” Peter said. “What is it?”
She looked up. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“It’s okay, Alex. They’re only dead people.” Peter came into the room slowly. Linc and the others followed behind him. “You’re an anthropologist, Alex. You’ve seen plenty of . . .” his voice trailed off as he approached the Plexiglas drawer and looked inside.
Inside was a girl, maybe eighteen or nineteen. She had long black hair that splayed out around her face. Her eyes were still open, bright green. Instantly, Peter understood why Alex was shaken.
“It’s Tima,” Linc said numbly. “The girl looks exactly like Tima.”
He was right. The girl in the box looked remarkably like Tima. She had the same facial structure, the same eyes, even some of the same tattoos. The girl was likely from the same tribe, maybe even a sibling. Not only that, but the girl in the box had the same telltale symptoms as Tima: crisscrossed veins and bruising around her muscles.
“She’s an Indian . . . like Tima,” Alex said, recovering slightly. “But she’s not a Mek. I’d recognize any of them.”
Skins was shaking his head. “This not good. Not good.”
“Relax, Skins,” Peter said. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. He needed that cigarette. The air was stale and smelled like formaldehyde. It instantly reminded him of biology class.
“What in the world are these Eden Project guys up to?” Linc said, his eyebrows furrowed in thought.
Peter scanned the room. The hallway was crammed with the Plexiglas caskets. The boxes appeared to be six feet long, three feet across, and two feet high, like what might be found in a city morgue. Over the columns of drawers, he noticed small labels. The column of drawers they were standing in front of was marked PHASE 7. It was the second to last row of drawers. “Let’s take a look in these other drawers.”
One by one, the team began opening the drawers. Each one was positioned on a rail of plastic rollers to make it easier to move in and out. Peter picked a PHASE 8 drawer at random and opened it. Linc stood behind him, watching.
“It was a Quechua man,” Alex said.
The man’s face could have passed for someone in his mid-fifties, but his body structure was that of a twenty-year-old bodybuilder. He had bone earrings and distinct tattoos, like Tima’s. His skin was pale gray, almost translucent, and the tattoos looked neon against it. His features were hard and rigid, as if chiseled from stone. But there was something strange about him, something inhuman.
Peter could see the dark blood vessels crisscrossing his arms and face. There were bruises on nearly every visible square inch of his skin. His skin was so translucent that it was as if Saran Wrap were stretched over his muscles and internal organs. Under the man’s skin, Peter could see that his muscles were darkened in places, bruised maybe, and enlarged.
“It has to be some kind of virus,” Peter said.
Everyone turned to him.
“Those machines back in the lab, most of them are for microbiology.” He looked at Alex. “You said Tima told you they put the devil inside her, right?”
She nodded.
“That equipment would be used for something at a miniscule scale, the cellular level. Heck, that electron microscope could practically see the DNA strand.”
“A virus would explain the medical machines,” Linc said. “Most of it is lifesaving equipment. Looks like the project went downhill, and they used the morgue to keep a record in case they decided to come back to it. Still, something is out of place.”
“I’d say a lot is out of place,” Gator said. “For starters, what’s the deal with the boxes?” He pulled one of the boxes three-quarters of the way out. “Seems like a weird way to run a morgue or a science lab. Why use Plexiglas?”
Linc leaned over the box, examining it.
“I’ve seen boxes like these used before,” Alex said. “Anthropologists and archeologists use them to store artifacts. The clear acrylic panels allow them to identify what’s inside without opening it. The Records Department at the Smithsonian nicknamed them ‘reliquaries’ after the ornate boxes used in the Middle Ages to hold supposed Christian relics.”
“Relics?” Peter said. “You mean like the finger of Moses or the head of Nostradamus?”
“Something like that.”
“Body parts in boxes,” Linc said with distaste.
Peter forced a smile. “Here . . . give me a hand.”
Linc stood, ready to help. Then cocked his head at Peter. “Was that a joke?”
“Whatever.”
The boxes were on rollers but could be hefted free. Peter and Linc lifted one out and lowered it to the ground. It was heavy. The edges had been bead welded tight, and the box had a two-part lid. The bottom half of the lid was welded to the box, and the top half was clear Plexiglas and attached with a long piano hinge, like a coffin. The top half of the man’s body could be clearly seen through the Plexiglas window.
“These things appear to be pretty high tech,” Linc said. “Some sort of gadgetry in them.”
“There would have to be,” Alex said, “especially in this weather. It’s a precaution against deterioration and to protect specimens from sudden changes in humidity or temperature.”
“Wait a minute,” Peter said, turning to Alex. “You said that the Smithsonian uses boxes like this so that scientists can see what’s inside without opening the box.”
“Yeah, that’s right. So they don’t contaminate the specimen.”
Peter looked back down at the figure in the box. “But couldn’t it work the other way, too?
Alex blinked. “I don’t follow.”
“Sealing it off like this,” Peter said. “Wouldn’t that work so that the specimen doesn’t contaminate them?”
Everyone went quiet. Linc inched away from the casket nearest him.
“Hey,” Gator said, “what’s that noise?”
No one spoke.
The sound of a four-wheeler, a loud two-stroke engine, rumbled just outside the walls of the room.
Peter looked up. “We’ve got company.”
Chapter 16
“Stay here!”
Peter turned from Alex to Skins. “Skins, get Tima and bring her in here, quick!” He looked at his men. Linc had a CZ 75 nine-millimeter out and ready. “No one move until my signal, got it?”
“Roger.”
Peter, Gator, and Linc crept carefully back into the central laboratory room. Skins ran into the break room and picked Tima up. Peter hustled him through toward the morgue room behind them.
Peter could hear men outside, approaching. He moved quietly toward a small window in the front of the building and peered outside.
There were six men, all dressed in black. Great. Two of them looked like twins with matching red beards and broad shoulders. Two others were bald headed—big muscular guys. A short wiry Chinese man sat on one of the four-wheelers. He was talking on a phone. Leading the group was a tall meaty man with a tattoo that ran the length of his face. Peter noticed that all the guys seemed to have the same tattoo on their wrists that he’d seen before: >H.
Peter looked behind him. Linc and Gator had already disappeared behind cover. He held up six fingers, knowing that wherever they were, they could see him.
He moved quickly to the breaker box and pulled the lever, killing the lights. The waning sun barely cut in through the small windows, leaving the room almost dark. Peter situated himself near the door and waited as the men outside drew closer. He could hear their voices now.
“What happened?” one of them said, just outside the door. Peter guessed it was the leader.
“Looks like someone got in,” another guy said.
“I’m not blind. Who in the world would be way out here?”
“I don’t know. I guess one of the—”
Peter heard the sound of guns being cocked.
The door slammed open, and a man in black swept into the room, assault rifle raised.
Peter leapt from his hiding place and slammed the front door shut. The intruder spun around, but Peter was on him.
He grabbed the man’s arm, pulled down, and wrenched clockwise. He was going to take the man to the floor with him and grab his gun.
It didn’t work. The gunman shouted and yanked his arm free, tossing Peter across the floor. Bullets exploded from the man’s gun, turning microscopes into clouds of glass and metal.
Peter dove behind a bank of equipment. As he hit the concrete floor, he felt a sudden impact on his back. Something heavy.
A grenade.
He grabbed the fragmentation grenade and heaved it back toward the front door. His ears rang from the concussion of the blast against the walls of the room. He turned back to the door. The room had filled with dust and debris, but Peter could make out the silhouettes of two men in the doorway.
Peter gripped his handgun and fired into the smoke.
One of the men staggered backward and fell to the ground.
Peter swept his gun to point to where he’d last seen the other man. But then, astonishingly, the shot man stood back up again, gun in hand.
Great. Body armor.
“Don’t try to be a hero,” a voice said. “We’ll have no problem killing you, whoever you are. Come out now.”
Peter didn’t move.
More bullets splintered wood around him, ricocheting off the metal machines, barely missing him. Somebody screamed behind him, hit by a stray bullet.
He turned to see Skins—standing at the door to the morgue, Tima still in his arms—crumple to the floor. He saw Alex with her hand to her mouth, holding the door open. She didn’t react. Instead, she leaned down and helped Tima into the morgue. Smart girl.
First Bogart, now Skins. Rage burned, but Peter tried to stay focused.
A moment later, another grenade rolled into the room, close to where he thought Gator and Linc were probably hiding. He had no way of knowing if they’d seen it or not.
“Fire in the hole!” Peter shouted. Against his better judgment, he dove again for the grenade.
As he did, he noticed Linc trying to scoot away. Peter grabbed the grenade and flung it out of a small glass window near the kitchen, above the couch where Tima and Linc had been talking. Peter flung himself to the floor, pulling Linc down with him.
The grenade exploded just outside the window. Shards of glass ripped through the room, splintering the window and everything else in the way. A sour phosphorus odor filled the room. Thick smoke billowed back out through the window and door.
Peter kept his chest on the cement floor. Here, just under the smoke, he could make out three shadowy figures. Suddenly, Gator and Linc emerged in a fury of fists. Peter saw Linc fall to the ground within a few moments. The remaining assailant moved toward Peter. He was almost directly under the guy.
With one swift motion Peter pulled the man’s legs out from under him, slamming his head on the concrete floor.
The maneuver took a fraction of a second longer than Peter had anticipated, leaving him vulnerable.
The other man’s boot hit him squarely in the jaw and sent him sprawling. Smoke curled around him, shrouding him, even if just for a moment. It was long enough for Peter to gain his feet.
He focused all his energy on a roundhouse kick to his assailant’s head.
His kick landed solidly—but it felt like he’d kicked a truck. The top of his foot burst into searing pain. Body armor on the guy’s head? It felt like steel.
The reverse physics of the hit sent Peter rolling again. This time, when he landed, the other man was ready. As soon as Peter looked up, he met the fist of his assailant. The punch was inhuman. As long as Peter could remember, he had never been on the receiving end of such a tremendous punch.
The man came at him again, fists in the air. Peter dove at him. The two men grappled and tumbled to the ground, tangled and swinging.
An elbow like a baseball bat slammed into Peter’s gut. A second blow to his stomach sent bile up through his throat. The room began to fade.
Peter tried to stay focused. He looked for a way out. The man stood over him and pointed a gun at his face. And there was nothing Peter could do about it except brace for the impact.
“Wait!” a voice said through the smoke, a woman’s voice. “Don’t shoot.” It was Alex.
* * *
Patience and timing.
Peter and his group were placed in a circle in front of the building. One of the men in black, the one with the long tattoo on his face, paced a few yards away, talking on a cell phone. When Alex had intervened, the gunmen had made Peter and his men give away their guns.
If he could stay cool, it was possible Peter could use this to his advantage. Now, at least, he was closer to the guys who had killed Bogart. Maybe getting captured was the quickest way to wherever they needed
to be to find Tima’s tribe. His goal might be closer than ever. But it would definitely take patience and timing.
The man on the phone hung up and walked over to the team. He whispered something to one of the bearded men, who grabbed Tima and pulled her away.
“Don’t hurt her!” Linc shouted. “She’s sick!”
“Linc!” Tima cried as the bearded man pulled her away. Tima’s eyes were desperate and filled with fear. “Please help—”