That was where minute quantities of the Chimeran virus were injected into carefully chosen chicken eggs. Once that part of the process was complete, the eggs were moved to incubators, where they would remain for three months. Then the refining process would finally begin.
And one of the technicians responsible for some of the more routine aspects of the production process was frightened. Her name was Monica Shaw and she was in a terrible situation. If she refused to betray her country, and was caught doing so, she would be imprisoned or worse. And if she failed to betray her country, a man named Judge Ramsey would kill her husband and her three-year-old daughter, both of whom were being held virtual prisoners inside his complex in Oklahoma. Which, to hear him tell it, was going to be the seat of government for the new United States of America. A dictatorship run by him.
But only if Ramsey could compete with and destroy the real government. Which was why he had taken Shaw’s family prisoner and sent her to Arkansas with instructions to infiltrate the federal government. An assignment she’d been able to accomplish with relative ease. First as a volunteer, then as a lab worker, trained to help produce the Hale vaccine.
Such were Shaw’s thoughts as Voss, Truitt, and Malikov neared her workstation.
“This is Monica Shaw,” Malikov said, as the three men came to a halt. “Her job is to help grow cultures.”
Truitt said “Hello” to her and Voss smiled. Then they were gone. It was a trivial interaction really, but her heart was beating like a trip hammer, and her palms were sweaty. And Shaw knew why. She felt guilty, and she owed Ramsey a report.
The drop consisted of a rusty Hopalong Cassidy lunch box, which was located outside the cavern about half a mile from the main entrance. And, since she was one of those scheduled for a so-called outing that afternoon, there would be an opportunity to leave a written report. Then, if she was lucky, a letter from her husband would appear a few days later. It would be at least two or three weeks out of date, of course, but would include precious details about their little girl, and an awkward attempt to tell her how much he missed her. Awkward because both of them knew that Ramsey and/or one of his minions would get to read it before she did. Still, the possibility of such a communication was enough to send Shaw back to work. She was alive, and so were her loved ones, but the price was very, very high.
CHAPTER SIX
A DAMNED SHAME
Tuesday, October 6, 1953
The Badlands
Capelli was inside his sleeping bag when the Grims came surging up out of their underground lair to attack the unsuspecting humans. The basement of the burned-out farmhouse was the perfect place for dozens of pods to mature. And because of the charred debris piled on top of the ground floor, the unsuspecting humans had no idea what was lurking below.
The lone sentry managed to get off a single shot before a charging Grim threw its skeletal arms around him and opened its mouth to expose two rows of needle-sharp teeth. The man tried to push the foul-smelling creature away, but it was too strong. So the wrangler started to scream. But the sound was cut off as the Chimera tore his throat out. The sentry’s eyes rolled back in his head, his body went limp, and he collapsed.
The gunshot, and the gibbering sounds that the Grims made, offered some warning but not enough. Most of the humans were still in the process of exiting their bags and scrabbling for weapons when the Chimera fell on them.
But unlike the rest, Capelli was not only awake but on guard against a possible attack. Not from the Grims, but from the wranglers, at least one of whom had been acting suspiciously earlier in the evening.
So he was fully dressed and his sleeping bag was unzipped as the stinks swept across the encampment and a scattering of shots were heard. He didn’t have enough time to do more than sit up, however. Capelli had battled Grims in the past and knew how important it was to keep them at a distance. They liked to attack en masse. And once the Chimera made physical contact with their victims the battle was over. So Capelli fired the Rossmore, heard the sharper blam, blam, blam sound produced by Locke’s Winchester, and knew the other man was fighting as well.
As Capelli’s buckshot tore into them, the Grims literally flew apart. But the runner knew there was reason to worry because he was going to need time to reload. Even if it was only two or three shells. Fortunately, that opportunity came as the last of what might have been a dozen Chimera disintegrated and Capelli was able to thumb two rounds into the Rossmore’s magazine as a grotesquerie collapsed at the foot of his sleeping bag.
But another group of stinks was already charging towards him, and it was only a matter of seconds before the shotgun was empty. Capelli was reaching for the Magnum when Rowdy flew past him and tore into the Chimera with such ferocity that the attack stalled.
As the growling dog tore gobbets of bloody flesh out of the Grims, Capelli was able to not only shove six shells into the Rossmore, but throw the sleeping bag off his legs and scramble to his feet. “Rowdy! Here, boy.”
The dog broke contact and whirled away. That allowed Capelli to fire freely. Now, with only half a dozen stinks left to deal with, he was able to blow them away two at a time. Finally, after what seemed like an hour but was actually a matter of minutes, the last Grim went down. A profound silence settled over the encampment, broken only by the click, click, click sound the shotgun shells made as Capelli thumbed them into the tubular magazine. He was still in the process of absorbing what had occurred when Locke groaned.
As Capelli swiveled towards his client, he saw that a dead Grim was sprawled across Locke’s body and immediately knew what had taken place. Once the big man had expended all of the rounds in the Winchester’s tubular magazine, the stink had been able to close in on him. Then, seeing the knife hilt that was protruding from the left side of the Chimera’s skull, Capelli knew that Locke had managed to kill the monstrosity.
But as Capelli rolled the corpse off the big man’s body, he saw Locke’s badly bloodied shoulder, and his heart sank. His client wouldn’t turn into a Chimera, not without being infected by a Spinner, but Grim bites were known to be extremely toxic.
Capelli put the shotgun down and knelt next to Locke’s pack. The first-aid kit was sitting on top of everything else.
“Find the bottle of gin,” Locke instructed through gritted teeth. “Give me a swallow and pour the rest into the wound.”
After removing the bottle, Capelli used the pack to prop the other man up, and set about giving him first aid. Locke swore a blue streak as the alcohol made contact with his raw flesh—and Capelli did the best he could to blot the puncture wounds dry.
As fresh blood continued to well up from below, Locke told Capelli how to create a pressure bandage and tape it in place. The truth was that Capelli had been forced to treat dozens of wounds over the last few years, many of which were worse than Locke’s. But there was no point in saying so and he didn’t.
Once Locke was stabilized, Capelli took the shotgun and set about the grisly process of inspecting the rest of the encampment with Rowdy at his side. The average Chimera smelled like rotting flesh even at the best of times. So their body odor, plus the smell of spilled intestinal matter, combined to form a stench so powerful it made Capelli gag. Bodies lay everywhere, Grims mostly, but with badly mauled human corpses mixed in.
But Capelli wasn’t interested in either one. Not at the moment, anyway. What he wanted was two or three horses. Capelli thought he had heard screaming noises during the worst of the fighting, so he figured that at least some of the mounts were dead. And as the light from the shotgun swept across the ground ahead, he saw that he was correct. Two of the horses were down and one was dead. The other whinnied pitifully and kicked its legs in a futile attempt to stand.
Capelli was disappointed to see that with the single exception of an animal tied to a tree, rather than the picket line, all the rest of the horses had broken free. He went over to make sure that the remaining mount was secure before putting the wounded animal out of its misery. The M
agnum made a loud boom, the horse jerked reflexively, and Capelli was about to turn away when he heard a barely audible croak. “Capelli? Is that you?”
The pistol was back in its holster by then. The beam from the Rossmore swept across the huddled mess and returned to it. Gravel crunched under Capelli’s boots as he made his way over to the spot where the man lay. It didn’t take a degree in medicine to see that Murphy was dying.
Judging from the sprawl of bodies around him, the head packer had given a good account of himself before a couple of Chimera were able to break through and take him down. It wasn’t clear what had taken place after that, except to say that a hole had been torn in the middle of the sleeping bag, and the area around it was dark with blood. Murphy blinked as the light flooded his pain-contorted face. The words arrived one at a time. “Don’t-leave-me-like-this.”
“I won’t,” Capelli promised. “But, before I send you on your way, there’s something I want to know.”
Murphy winced and bit his lower lip. “Anything.”
“Were you and your men going to kill us?”
Murphy tried to smile. It came across as a grimace. “Yes, we were. Locke is carrying a large quantity of gold. Did you know that?”
Capelli nodded. “Yes, I did.”
With another loud boom the Magnum went off. An even louder explosion followed as Capelli triggered the pistol’s secondary fire function. Murphy ceased to exist.
The horse’s hooves made a soft clopping sound as Capelli led the animal over to where Locke sat with his back resting against the pack.
“Who were you shooting at?”
“Just tidying up, that’s all. This is going to be tough, Al, but we need to get out of here, and that means you’ve got to climb up onto this horse.”
“I can do it,” Locke said gamely. “But I’ll need some help.”
It took a full twenty minutes to saddle the horse, get Locke up onto the animal’s back, and load his belongings into some saddlebags. Then Capelli led the heavily laden horse down the graveled drive. He planned to head east, in the direction they had been going originally, and find a place to hole up. They could hit the road again once Locke felt better.
But finding such a hideout wouldn’t be easy. Locke was slumped forward in the saddle, morning wasn’t that far away, and Capelli had no idea where to look for shelter.
The next few hours unwound slowly. The journey was interrupted on two different occasions when Locke fell out of the saddle and hit the ground. After the second incident, Capelli tried to rope his client in place. But the horse didn’t like the way the rope passed under her belly, and during the periods when Locke was lucid, he complained about the fact that his wrists were secured to the saddle horn.
There was quite a bit of starlight, so Capelli could see some of the features around him, and take occasional side trips to inspect anything that might serve as a hideout. But none of the deserted houses, barns, or silos felt right. And Capelli had learned to trust his instincts.
So the first blush of dawn was visible along the eastern horizon by the time he spotted the concrete grain elevator and left the highway to check it out. The ten-story-high concrete cylinder held very little interest for him. The outbuildings were worth a look, however. They included a small stand-alone office structure and a storage shed, both of which had been looted and would offer little or no protection during a firefight.
But about fifty feet away, right next to a faded sign that read “Storm Shelter,” was a slab of angled concrete to which a rusty steel door was attached. Metal squealed as Capelli pulled the barrier open and pointed the Rossmore’s light down into the black hole below. A short flight of stairs led down to a room about eight feet wide and twelve feet long, furnished with metal benches that ran along both walls, a folding card table, and some rickety chairs.
Had the elevator workers used the underground shelter as a lunchroom on hot days? Or gone there to take illicit naps? Yes, judging from the half-naked pinup girls on the walls, Capelli thought they had. A brunette with the title “Miss October” seemed to watch him, her smile forever frozen in place, as he checked the inside surface of the door. He was pleased to find a steel bar that would allow him to lock the shelter from within.
An Auger could send blasts of transient radiation right through the barrier, of course, but the underground shelter would be impervious to just about everything else, and was unlikely to draw attention from all but the most meticulous of searchers. Especially if he removed the sign.
All these factors played into the final decision. But the first rays of light from the steadily rising sun, and Locke’s deteriorating condition, settled the matter. The shelter would have to do.
Capelli’s first task was to prepare a bed on one of the long benches, and revive Locke long enough to get him down off the horse, and into the shelter. Then it was time to take all of the supplies down, whistle Rowdy in, and remove the horse’s bridle, saddle, and blanket. He wasn’t especially good at the task, but Capelli got the job done.
Then, painful though the decision was, he had to turn the animal loose. Partly because he lacked the knowledge required to care for the beast, but for another reason as well: the horse was like a neon sign pointing at a human presence. A simple slap on the hindquarters was enough to send the animal trotting away.
Capelli knew it was important not only to take cover but to tend Locke’s wound. But water was critical too. And a line of very lush trees about two hundred yards away hinted at the presence of a river or stream.
Arming himself with the Marksman, and picking up a couple of galvanized buckets taken from the storage shed, Capelli made his way across a grassy field to a spot where a game trail led to the stream below. Sheets of water flew and droplets of moisture sparkled in the morning sun as Rowdy charged into the brook.
Capelli followed the dog into the stream. After quenching his thirst, he filled the buckets and carried them back to the shelter. Rowdy entered on his own, so all Capelli had to do was put the buckets down, and close the door behind him. It was safe to do so thanks to the presence of an air vent. The metal lock bar screeched as it slid into place.
Then it was time to light candles and turn his attention to Locke. The big man was only semiconscious, but he came to for a moment, as Capelli removed the bandage. “Capelli? Where are we?”
“We’re in a storm shelter. All you need to do is get better. Here … Have some water.”
Capelli held the cup to Locke’s lips and the big man took a couple of sips. “Sorry,” Locke croaked. “Sorry to be so much trouble.”
Then he was gone again. Either asleep or unconscious. Not that it made much difference. The good news was that the bleeding had stopped. But Locke’s forehead was hot, his breathing was shallow, and the margins around the puncture wounds were red.
Capelli found three packets of antibacterial sulfa powder in Locke’s first-aid kit, sprinkled one of them over the holes, and replaced the old dressing with a new one.
Then it was time to pour some water into a pan for Rowdy, heat some beans over a can of Sterno, and eat. Just minutes after finishing his meal an overwhelming sense of fatigue came over Capelli. He extinguished all but one of the candles and slipped into his sleeping bag, giving himself permission to take a one-hour nap.
Capelli awoke more than five hours later with a painful headache, a foul taste in his mouth, and an urgent need to pee. All of which had been sufficient to wake him. Or had they? The candle had burned out, so it was pitch black as Rowdy growled, and what felt like an earthquake shook the shelter.
Capelli fumbled for the flashlight, found it, and sat up. “What is it boy? What do you hear?”
The answer came as something hit the ground nearby and Capelli felt the resulting vibration through the soles of his feet. There were a number of possible causes. And none of them were good. Was a Chimeran hunter-killer team outside? Complete with a big spider-like Stalker? Or was something even larger on the loose?
Of cours
e Capelli knew there were flesh-and-blood possibilities as well. Like a Titan, or God forbid, a Leviathan. Although that seemed unlikely, because monsters like the one that had laid waste to most of downtown Chicago were rare. Not that the exact size of the menace made much difference, since all he could do was sit in his hidey-hole and hope for the best.
Then Capelli heard the whine of powerful servos through the vertical air vent and knew that one of his earlier guesses had been correct. Some sort of Chimeran mech was in the area. Looking for the two humans? Or just looking? And alone? Or in company with a force of Hybrids? There was no way to know as he waited for the Auger blasts to tunnel down through the concrete roof and kill him.
But Capelli’s fears began to dissipate as the noise faded away. He waited for a couple of minutes and, not having heard or felt anything, concluded that they were safe for the moment.
Having taken care of his own physical needs, Capelli went to work on Locke’s. The big man was in a bad way. He was semiconscious at best, his skin felt unnaturally hot in spite of the cold air, and Capelli knew his client was dehydrated. All of which were bad. But worst of all was the foul odor that invaded his nostrils when the bandage came off. Capelli’s spirits plummeted.
Why so glum? the voice inquired cheerfully. There’s nothing like a bullet in the head to put a patient right! Go ahead! Take care of Locke the way you took care of me.
Screw you, Hale.
In addition to everything else, Locke had soiled himself. So the next hour was spent cleaning the big man up, putting a new dressing on the suppurating wound, and trying to pour some water into him.
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