The Ancient Breed

by David Brookover

  She kissed him softly and passionately.

  “Well?” he pressed.

  “You’ve got yourself a deal, Handsome.”

  He wrapped his sinewy arms around her waist and drew her close to him. “A lifelong deal,” he added and promptly kissed her before she changed her mind.

  From a distant fishing boat, a deeply tanned man had been observing Clay and Blossom’s actions all morning through a pair of powerful binoculars. When he witnessed their recovery of what looked to be a gold chest, he smiled callously. This could be his lucky day.

  He read the young man’s lips as he proposed to the beautiful woman. A few moments later, he witnessed their joyous embrace. The watcher lowered the binoculars and shook his head in mock misery.

  “Engaged today and unengaged tomorrow. What a terrible world we live in,” he muttered to himself with a crooked grin.

  2

  F

  our monstrous yellow-and-black mechanical shovels buried their steel jaws into the sucking muck, clamped them shut, hoisted the dripping loads and released them into waiting dump trucks. This mechanical ritual began five weeks ago in early May at the northern edge of the Everglades Swamp near Bayshore, Florida.

  The Warnke Construction Company, Florida’s largest construction site clearing outfit, had drained the area earlier and was in the process of removing the muck from the site. When this stage of site preparation was complete, twelve hundred dump truck loads of the rich muck would have been transferred to statewide agricultural parcels where radishes, celery and ferns were grown. The muck would then be replaced by fill dirt that would sprout houses before the end of the year.

  Russ McKutchen stood inside the “command” trailer, as the company called it, reviewing the latest changes to the drainage plans to be certain that they still were coordinated with the schematics for the sewer and roads that needed to be installed by late November. This was actually a minor project compared to the company’s other projects along Alligator Alley near Miami and Coral Springs, but it was a politically important one. It happened to be the pet project of the local U.S. Senator, Jim Hollingworth, who promoted it as the future site of the world’s most energy efficient community. If all went as planned, Senator Hollingworth promised Warnke Construction’s owners that their low bid on this project would be rewarded with many other ultra-profitable government “non-bid” contracts.

  Russ glanced up and frowned. The shovels had stopped. He checked his watch; it wasn’t even close to break time. What the hell was going on out there?

  He burst out of the trailer and jogged to his foreman who was inspecting a scoop of muck. The malodor steaming from the black ooze almost gagged Russ as he prepared himself for an employee ass chewing.

  Before he could utter the first word, he spied what appeared to be human bones.

  The foreman turned. “Take a look at this!” he shouted grimly. “Looks like we tapped into a friggin’ cemetery!”

  Russ examined the tangled mass of yellowed bones, swore quietly and slammed his hardhat into the ground. “Goddam it, one of you call the sheriff. The number’s on the bulletin board in the command trailer.”

  The Charlotte County Sheriff was Ed Berger, a gaunt humorless man who took his job too seriously. There were no fixed tickets or political favors within his jurisdiction. Just the letter of the law, take it or leave it or rot in jail. Berger’s Maxim.

  His black-and-green cruiser bounced to an abrupt stop behind the crowd of workers. Berger cleared his throat, straightened his tan hat and stepped into the harsh heat and humidity. He walked toward several workers who were crowded around a mechanical monster’s scoop, and he was careful to avoid the patches of muck bordering the gravel parking area. That damn stuff ate leather shoes for lunch.

  The employee circle opened to admit him.

  “Jesus, what a shit stench!” he groaned and glanced at the scoop where Russ pointed. He spat into the stones. “The medical examiner’s on his way, so until he gets here try not to disturb these . . . bones more than they have been already. Okay?”

  Russ nodded. What an asshole, he thought. The hotshot sheriff didn’t know what to make of this any more than he did. What they needed there was a historian or archeologist, or anyone other than this goddammed hick sheriff with a corncob stuck up his . . .

  “Russ,” Berger called to him.

  Russ turned to him, and Berger suggested that they talk inside the trailer. Russ shrugged and led the way.

  The window air conditioner rattled and hummed loudly as it fought to keep the trailer cool. Once inside, Berger removed his hat and dropped it over the sewer and street plans.

  Berger cleared his throat. “You’re going to have to shut down until we can investigate this, Russ. Those are human bones out there, not animal,” he explained.

  The color of Russ’s tanned complexion deepened. “Are you out of your friggin’ mind? That’ll cost the developer millions and delay the project for months.”

  “It can’t be helped,” Berger added pompously, swelling his chest a bit. “There’s going to be an investigation here, and I’ll be running it.”

  “Will you be clearing this with Senator Hollingworth first?”

  “Hell no. This isn’t Washington DC, you know. This is my county, and in my county we do things by the book or people get arrested.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  Berger managed a tight grin beneath his bushy brown mustache. “Just a fact, Russ. After I have the medical examiner’s report in my hands this afternoon, I’ll get a judge to issue a stop order on your project within the hour. Clear?”

  “You’re asking for trouble,” Russ replied defiantly. He needed to make a few phone calls to the home office – fast.

  Berger ignored Russ’s warning and pointed toward the window. “Speak of the devil.”

  The medical examiner parked his mud-coated green Explorer next to the sheriff’s cruiser. While the two men watched, Doctor George Patrick tramped to the scoop and tugged on arm-length latex gloves. He then plucked the bones from the muck and stacked them in different piles. After forty minutes, the examiner scowled at the two men watching him from the trailer’s air-conditioned comfort and curtly motioned for them to join him outside.

  “Whatta you got, George?” Berger asked, mopping his brow with a large white handkerchief. He had forgotten his hat in the trailer.

  “Damned if I can put my finger on it,” George replied. He was young, athletic and gay, but was well respected throughout the county.

  “Meaning we can keep working?” Russ prodded.

  George shook his head. “Very funny, Russ. What you’ve got here, my friend, is a first rate mystery. For instance, look at this.” He stooped and pointed at the bones stacked in the first pile. “Human bones, plain and simple. All dismembered like chicken and ribs on all-you-can-eat night at Hank’s Barbeque Pit over in Immokalee.”

  “What about this group?” Berger asked, kneeling beside the second bone pile. “Looks like kids’ remains.”

  George chuckled, and the sound chilled Russ.

  “Yeah, well guess again, Ed. I’ve never seen anything like them, but I can tell you that they’re not kid’s bones.”

  “Are you suggesting that they’re not human?” Russ’s stomach soured. An alien research site could take years to investigate.

  “Yes and no.”

  Berger was clearly confused. “That’s not an answer, George. Spell it out, plain and straight forward.”

  “I know that’s the way you like it, Ed,” George retorted sarcastically, and Russ couldn’t help but smile. “These bones look to be a little bit country and a little bit rock and roll, if you catch my drift.”

  It was clear that Ed Berger did not.

  “In other words, they’re a little human and a little something else. I’ll need to get the state boys and the feds in here to investigate before I can tell you more,” George continued. “And I’d like to bring in a friend of mine to evaluate what possible civil
ization gave birth to these.” He kicked the second stack over in frustration.

  “But why are the bones dismembered like that?” Berger glanced at Russ. “Could McKutchen’s big shovels do that to those bones?”

  George threw his head back and laughed loudly. “Ed, my boy, the shovels didn’t do that. They couldn’t possibly do that so cleanly.”

  Berger’s expression was flushed red with anger. “Then suppose you tell me how it did happen, morgue boy.”

  Russ moved closer to the coroner. He was keenly interested in the answer, now that Dr. Patrick had just cleared Warnke Construction of all liability for disturbing the bones.

  “The answer’s simple,” George said. “Something real big and mean and hungry pulled these humans and near-humans apart like we do Buffalo wings and ATE them.”

  Russ and Berger exchanged uneasy glances.

  George propped his hands on his hips. “What we’re standing on here, gentlemen, is that creature’s bone pile.”

  3

  F

  BI Orion Sector Director Nick Bellamy slid his Glock’s safety off before warily opening one of the receiving dock doors of the warehouse. The three-story structure stood like a black monolith just outside Washington DC along the Potomac River, where the moon’s reflection was a silver sliver on the placid surface. Nick’s muscular frame cast an angular shadow as he stepped inside. The cavernous interior was shrouded with a deep gloom, and the heavy air stank of rodent droppings and acrid machine oil.

  Nick waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before slipping deeper inside. A towering forest of wooden crates and palates loaded with machine parts formed a considerable canyon maze. High-pitched squeaking assailed his ears and he froze. Rats. He hated rats. He moved forward, wishing that he had brought his night-vision goggles so he wouldn’t step on the damned things.

  After a few minutes, all Nick could discern were unfamiliar silhouettes, which made him an easy mark for an ambush. But he had to take the risk. This rendezvous was critical for ensuring the safety of an unidentified United States government official targeted by terrorists. The FBI and CIA had been monitoring increased worldwide terrorist communications, and many of the conversations pertained to a single unnamed operation. Although the specific details were ambiguous, the general idea wasn’t. One of America’s high-level government leaders was in extreme jeopardy.

  Nick had arranged this warehouse meeting with a terrorist defector who had phoned the FBI last week and offered to provide the details of this mysterious operation. He insisted that he knew the targeted official’s name and had a list of the terrorist cell members operating on American soil. In exchange for this information, he demanded sanctuary in the Witness Protection Program. As an act of good faith, the defector had detailed many top-secret terrorist activities that could be substantiated by the bureau’s computer. His information was verified and his credibility established.

  Nick checked his lighted watch dial and continued to wait for the defector to show. The man was three minutes late.

  A door creaked open somewhere in the vast building, but Nick wasn’t able to trace the direction of the sound. He stiffened, vigilant. Several minutes later, Nick was alerted to the defector’s approach by the soft scuffing of feet on the gritty concrete floor.

  Showtime.

  Nick stepped out from behind a tower of crates. “Don’t move,” he whispered.

  The tall figure stopped.

  “Lesson,” the terrorist said quickly.

  “Teacher,” Nick responded.

  Both men relaxed.

  “Were you followed?” Nick demanded.

  “If I was, I shook them.”

  “You’ve got the information?”

  The terrorist patted the bulge beneath his shirt. “It’s all here inside the envelope. You’ll get it as soon as you show me the Witness Protection papers,” he replied. His voice trembled and his eyes continuously scanned the warehouse.

  “Fair enough.” Nick removed a thick envelope from his back slacks pocket and handed it to the terrorist. “You got a name?”

  “Jim.”

  “Any others?”

  “Lonedeer.”

  “Sounds Indian.”

  “It is.”

  Jim Lonedeer snapped on a narrow beam flashlight, unfolded the sheaf of documents and carefully inspected each one. “This on the level?” he asked and stuffed the documents back into the envelope.

  “One hundred percent.”

  “Good.” He unbuttoned his shirt and withdrew a narrow manila envelope. “Can we get out of this place?”

  “As soon as I’ve examined your information,” Nick answered.

  “Make it quick. This place gives me the creeps.”

  Nick agreed but didn’t admit it to Jim.

  “Here.” Before Jim could hand over his envelope, he and the vital information were shredded by automatic gunfire from the open doorway behind Nick.

  Nick spun and fired at the moonlit silhouette. The shooter collapsed but was replaced by another before his corpse hit the ground. The new shooter was armed with an AK-47 and lit up the old warehouse like it was the Fourth of July. Nick rolled behind the crates and attempted to return the man’s fire, but the shooter marked Nick’s position and kept him pinned down with a continuous stream of bullets.

  While the shooter reloaded, Nick heard clacking footsteps somewhere behind him; that meant reinforcements were taking flanking positions. Sweat erupted on his forehead as another fusillade splintered the wooden crates above him. He had to move. Now. Before it was too late.

  He leaped up and fired wildly toward the entrance as he retreated deeper into the warehouse. A new bullet barrage blistered the crates and clanged off the machine parts. The bullets ricocheted in all directions, and one of them grazed Nick’s left forearm. He swore loudly, but the staccato firing masked his careless outburst.

  Another stream of bullets from his left pinned him to the floor. A new shooter! The terrorists were rapidly closing for the kill. That left him only one avenue of escape –up.

  He easily scaled the closest stack of crates, finding numerous foot and handholds for his ascent. When he reached the top, he lay prone, caught his breath and surveyed the entire area for enemy movements and rifle laser beams. The figure in the doorway abandoned his position and ran a serpentine route to Jim Lonedeer’s lifeless form. The AK-47 shooter kicked the defector in the ribs to be certain he was dead. Satisfied, he yanked the tattered envelope from Jim’s frozen hand, tucked it beneath his belt and advanced toward Nick’s previous position behind the crates.

  Another AK-47 shooter swiftly closed in from the opposite direction, hoping to team with his partner and catch Nick in a deadly crossfire. Nick heard them speaking. Microphone headsets! Nick chastised himself for not anticipating it. Their movements within the dark warehouse were too well coordinated to be dumb luck. He checked the huge labyrinth for other terrorists but came up empty. A corner of his mouth rose. One against two. He could handle those odds.

  The men were now ten feet from his previous position. He peered over the edge of the crate and slowly, quietly targeted the terrorists. He desperately needed Lonedeer’s envelope. He couldn’t afford to miss. Some Washington hotshot’s life depended on his success.

  Of course, Nick wanted to save his own skin, too, and for that to happen he needed to steady his nerves and fire his trusty Glock swiftly and accurately. That meant ignoring the searing pain in his forearm and the discomfort of his blood-soaked shirtsleeve. If he misfired the first time, the two shooters would shred his ass into ground beef before he could get off a second shot.

  He chanced another peek at the shooters. They were sitting ducks. It was now or never.

  Nick targeted the first shooter, inhaled slowly, held his breath and squeezed the trigger. Before the flash and echoing explosion died, one of the men jerked backwards against a crate and slid to the floor. The second shooter spun around, uncertain where the gunshot came from. Nick bit his bo
ttom lip from the escalating pain in his arm, sighted the other man and was about to squeeze-off a shot when he detected movement to his right. A third terrorist sat cross-legged atop a crate in an adjacent stack and pointed his handgun’s beady-eyed barrel directly at Nick’s forehead.

  Instinctively, Nick barrel-rolled to his left and fired. His bullet slammed into the third shooter’s chest and knocked him over the edge. His flailing corpse crashed with a sickening thud on the concrete floor.

  Nick immediately glanced down and saw the first AK-47 shooter sprinting through the open doorway. In a second, he and Lonedeer’s envelope were gone.

  “Damn!” Nick shouted.

  Nick’s forearm burned like a three-alarm fire as he descended through the gun-smoke haze and staggered to Jim Lonedeer’s body. He flicked on his flashlight, jammed his thumb against the Indian’s neck and felt his carotid for a pulse. Suddenly, Lonedeer’s hand flew up and crushed Nick’s bleeding forearm!

  “Tampa,” he hissed breathlessly.

  Nick nearly fainted from the intense pain. “What?” he groaned.

  Jim raised his head; his bulging eyes appeared ready to explode. “Tampa,” he hissed. “Walking . . . man.”

  “Tampa,” Nick repeated through clenched teeth. “Walking man?”

  “Walking . . .”

  Lonedeer’s head and hand slumped against the concrete. Nick checked again for a pulse but there was none. He closed the Indian’s eyelids, crumpled to the floor and managed to phone the office for an ambulance and an Orion Sector sweep-and-clean team before he lost consciousness.

  The Orion Sector medical squad arrived to find both men lying in a single lake of blood. Leaving the Indian’s body for the sweep-and-clean team, the paramedics bandaged Nick’s forearm, administered a shot of antibiotics and sped him to the closest hospital.

  Nick awoke en route, called his office and demanded that the computer department have a complete dossier on Jim Lonedeer on his desk tomorrow morning by ten sharp. The paramedic frowned at Nick’s physical exertion, but the Orion Sector Director stared him down.