Borland insisted on taking the blue, four-door sedan. He'd fumbled at the handle with his newly bandaged hand, opened it with the left and climbed in.
"She have it out for you, Captain?" Beachboy asked, starting the car.
"Her and the western hemisphere," Borland grumbled. "And don't call me 'Captain' when we get into town. Remember this is a Sneak."
"Yes sir," Beachboy answered and then frowned when Borland shook his head.
"No 'sir' either," Mofo said from the backseat. "We're undercover."
Beachboy drove out of the warehouse. A pair of baggies: a good-looking brunette named Cutter, and a thirty-something Mexican they called Slick waved them through the doors. Borland read that the woman was former army, but taught martial arts and knives. Slick used to be a cop, and Borland almost brought him on the trip until he found that out. His kind always started out in gangs, but being a cop complicated things regarding the acquisition of illegal cranking substances. And he didn't want another lecture.
It was ten-thirty when they set out. The day was overcast. A light rain had started. The sedan cruised across the tarmac past a line of warehouses in back of a set of six aircraft hangers. In front of the hangers was a long wide strip of asphalt-the main runway. Another runway cut off that at 90 degrees and branched into other shorter runways.
Beachboy drove toward the flight control tower at the base of the main runway and took a fenced and fortified tunnel under it to the civilian side. Borland got a glimpse of maintenance gangways and cramped spaces opening off into the dark, and the hair at the base of his neck prickled.
SsskinÖ
There was more evidence of life once they got back to the surface, jeeps and trucks. There were soldiers in green with rifles. The Parkerville Airport was closed and Borland didn't know if that was a huge problem or an inconvenience to the locals. Cavalle had told them all that there were gated communities from back in the day, and money, so those types usually hated any inconvenience that wouldn't disappear when you waved a wallet at it.
Beachboy drove across the broad parking lot, empty of all but military vehicles, and stopped by a gate with a set of guards. Borland showed them the credentials he had found wrapped up with his kit that gave him special investigator status with the Metro Army Reserve. It was just for show.
Past the gate, the road quickly wound into neighborhoods of crappy half-houses originally populated by military personnel. They were all function, and impossible to renovate.
"Fit for welfare cases," Borland growled to himself.
"Pardon me?" Beachboy asked politely.
"Nothing." Borland chucked his chin at a small circle of the cheap brick homes. "Soldier houses piss me off. Man fights for his country while the country keeps his family in a shoebox."
"You a socialist, Joe?" Mofo's calm tones came from the back.
"Go to hell!" Borland snarled.
"Just, I studied sociology," Mofo said confidently. "So I don't think 'socialist' is a bad thing."
"Save the Harvard chinwag for high tea," Borland grunted his humor and half-turned to the big man in the back seat. "Unless you're one of them chatty Cathys can't help herself."
"Go to hell, Joe," Mofo laughed.
"That's better," Borland growled, and turned to Beachboy. "Why can't you be more like your big sister?"
Beachboy frowned as he pulled up to a stop sign by a fenced playground. A group of 10 or more kids were braving the mild rain. They ranged in age from five to 12 and were of too many races to start splitting hairs. They had formed a circle on a big green carpet of grass by the gaily-painted swings and plastic jungle gym.
The army had closed the schools.
Borland rolled his window down as the kids joined hands. Their high voices started:
"Mother is a Piller Popper, Daddy is a dead Copper
Buy mom a present!"
The kids danced in a circle counter-clockwise. Hands joined they skipped in toward the center and out.
"Pilly Popper
Baby dropper,
Head lopper,
Skin chopper,
Buy dad a present!"
Now the kids danced clockwise, skipping in and out-their eyes flashing. They moved back out until their clasped hands pulled their arms straight. They stopped, broke their circle by folding their hands over their chests.
"Mother is a Piller Popper
Baby is a Skin chopper
Buy me a present!
The kids in a circle skipped toward the center hands clasped over their hearts.
"Pop goes mommy.
Dad goes popper.
P-o-p spells POP!"
And the skipping kids suddenly froze. One of the smallest mistimed the moment, was still on the last round where they would have spelled out 'popper' so skipped twice more before realizing her mistake. She screamed, but the others were on her. Opening their arms, eyes glaring they chased the little girl until she stumbled. Laughing and screaming the other kids fell on her. They pinched and tickled her mercilessly. The rolling, giggling sounds caught something in Borland's chest. He wheezed.
Ssskin.
"What did you say, Captain?" This from Mofo in the back.
"Nothing," Borland grumbled, "I didn't say..."
"I remember that game," Beachboy said, as he drove through the intersection. "Anthropologists say it's a reaction to the day that might last a century." The car passed some older houses, and approached a double row of two and three-story buildings that made up main street.
"You learn that in your comic books?" Borland bent forward and looked up through the windshield to read the signs on the buildings. Liquor store on the right, and The Apostle Tavern to the left. Beachboy took a tentative left. "Or were you born boring?"
Beachboy gaped at him, gauging his mood, before he shook his head. "I'm hurt, Joe. I was being my most interesting there."
"Work on it." Borland pointed to a parking space by the tavern.
Beachboy pulled up to the meter.
Borland flung his door open and clambered out of the car. The kids had done something to him. There was heat behind his eyes. He couldn't get a deep breath. He needed a drink.
Mofo had already stepped out. His dark eyes swung from the tavern to the liquor store. A mischievous look flitted over his features. "It's like heaven."
Borland looked up at him and grunted.
"Look." He adjusted his jacket. "You two quit screwing around, and we can pop into the tavern, get the lay of the land and a drink."
"I like your choice of words," Mofo said slamming the car door.
"Remember we're working." He raised a warning finger but closed his fist when it trembled. "Have a civilized drink to fit in for Christ's sake, but no all-out cranking. We aren't going into battle."
Beachboy and Mofo shared a look and shrugged.
CHAPTER 39
The stench of old smoke and sour beer wafted out of the tavern entrance as Borland heaved the door aside. His discomfort passed as he relished the odors. How long since he had a drink with company?
He stood aside and let Mofo pass into the darkness, then paused a second watching Beachboy. The younger man was looking up and down the street.
"Come on," Borland grumbled, "before you draw attention."
"Just looking." Beachboy shrugged and unzipped his windbreaker. He started into the tavern. "Orientation."
Borland followed him in. He had taken a quick look at the maps before changing into his civvies. The old part of Parkerville was three blocks of nothing made up of original buildings with storefronts that would look more comfortable in the fifties. Offices and apartments occupied the upper floors. The main street was surrounded by old neighborhoods of red brick houses-all of them pushing a century in age. He read the background too. Most of the occupants were the same vintage.
A collection of box stores on the highway had drained the life out of the downtown core and fed the population that occupied the many secure gated neighborhoods that had popped up on
the east side of town during the day and grew in size after.
The air was cool in the tavern. It was dark. Borland smelled disinfectant. They had probably just opened for the day.
Beachboy pointed across the room at a tall silhouette leaning up against the bar. Mofo was talking to a woman who was drawing a beer from a crowd of taps.
Borland picked his way carefully through the shadows. The low light gleamed off the chrome chair and table legs-threw everything else into darkness.
Mofo turned, handed a cold bottle of beer first to Borland, then to Beachboy. He smiled at the woman as she handed him golden liquid in a large glass.
"I'll get the first round, gentlemen," Mofo crooned and raised his glass. "Forgive me ordering domestic for you."
Borland returned the cheers with a clink of his bottle, before flipping it and draining half away. The beer was tart, but solid. Nothing frothy. He'd found anything carbonated irritated his hernias, added an unwelcome voice to his mangled gut.
"This is Gina." Mofo gestured to the woman behind the bar, and she smiled, eyes lingering on Mofo's face all the way up there. She was pushing 50, had a pile of bleached hair hanging over her over-plucked eyebrows. Borland thought she must have been a looker in her time but even the extra makeup couldn't hide the long nights and heavy smoking that went with the job. "I was telling her we're here to meet with Parkerville civilian authorities to fill them in on what's going on at the base."
Borland glared at Mofo for a second and then shrugged. That story would do. It didn't explain much but it said enough.
He cleared off the rest of his beer and tapped the bottle. Mofo squeezed Gina's hand where it rested on the bar. She smiled and grabbed another from the fridge without taking her eyes off the big man.
"So, what is going on out there?" Gina said as she handed Borland another beer.
"First things first," Borland growled, and nodded at Mofo.
"We're interviewing a few of the locals," Beachboy piped in. He peered into the shadows and pointed. "Who's that chap at the table?"
Gina followed the gesture. "You're going to talk to Harold?"
"And I'm going to talk to you," Mofo reached across the bar and laid a comforting hand on her bare shoulder.
Borland ordered himself another beer and one for Beachboy. He followed the younger man into the shadows, arriving in time to see him taking a chair beside a worn-out old man with half a pitcher of beer and a saltshaker in front of him. Borland took a seat opposite.
"This is Harold," Beachboy said, a curious grin on his face.
"Good to meet you," said Harold to Borland, his quick smile showed brown teeth with a missing incisor. "Strangers in town?"
"Yeah," Borland grunted.
"I thought you was Gaters," Harold said. "But blondie here says you're asking questions for the military."
"What's a Gater?" Borland growled, finishing his second beer.
"They're hoity folks from Metro, live out in neighborhoods with gates," Harold explained. "We opened our doors to them back in the day, and they locked theirs on us."
"Bedroom communities?" Beachboy asked.
"Yep. I don't know how many of them do an honest day's work like an average guy. But they sleep here." Harold's hands shook as he poured more draft, and dumped salt in it.
"Have you seen anything strange lately?" Borland cut to the chase. "People acting different?"
"Hmm." Harold's features and form collapsed like someone had yanked his bones out. He thought a bit and then: "I got a room upstairs and my pension goes right to the tab. All I got is strange things to talk about." He ran a yellowed fingernail through his gray whiskers. "The young ones fight and screw like always, but nothing new. You should talk to Sheriff Marley."
Borland shrugged. In fact, Cavalle and Aggie were waiting for Sheriff Marley. He was bringing the wife of Scott Morrison, the Alpha first-infector, out to the warehouse. They thought it was just a talk, but the Squad had to Ziploc the wife. Cavalle was going to do a complete medical. Apparently, the wife said Scott had been missing the full week before turning up in Metro.
"So," Borland said, feeling an uncomfortable kinship with the old man before shaking it off. "Anybody disappear?"
"Hmm." Harold deflated, scratched his chin and said: "Two nights back, a fellow I play darts with. Georgie come in for a game. We played over a couple pitchers. He orders two more, goes off to the john, but never come back." Harold laughed. "Lord I drank them both."
"Is that significant?" Beachboy asked Borland.
"It's significant if we're here to waste time talking to old rummies about what they can't remember," Borland snarled.
"See, Georgie wouldn't walk away from all that draft," Harold said earnestly.
"A hobo forgot he bought some beer." Borland laughed with mock concern. There was a sudden buzzing in his inside jacket pocket. Someone was calling on the palm-com he found in his kit.
"Just a minute." Borland smiled harshly, pulled the device out.
"And you haven't seen Georgie?" Beachboy continued throwing Borland a curious glance.
"Hello?" The palm-com felt fragile in his thick fingers.
"Captain Borland," a woman's voice said. "It's Wizard. We have received a 911 call from Parkerville. Someone found a body."
Borland's mind went quiet. He tipped his beer.
"He never did come back," Harold said, leaning toward Beachboy.
"Where are you Captain?" Wizard asked.
"Jesus," Borland breathed. "The Apostle Tavern on main." Hyde will enjoy that one.
"Captain Dambe wants you to proceed 500 yards west on main to Don's Dollar Deals." Wizard's voice was very calm. "She is prepping a recovery team."
"Roger that." Borland hung up and turned to Beachboy. "Come on." His hernias tugged at him as he stood up. "Thanks for wasting our time, Harold."
The old man frowned. So did Beachboy.
Borland started toward the bar but halfway there realized Mofo was gone.
"Hey, Beachboy." The younger man had caught up to him. "Gina's gone too."
"Ah Christ," Beachboy said, getting to the bar. He leaned forward to look over it.
"Where'd he go?" Borland glared, finished his beer and eyed the selection of cold ones in the fridge.
"It's more about where he's coming." Beachboy shook his head and then walked around the bar. He took out two cold beers and handed one to Borland. "The biological imperative."
Borland tipped his beer back and then he got it, sprayed foam as he laughed. "With Gina?"
"Probably, he can't help it." Beachboy shrugged, and put a few dollars on the counter.
"Jesus, maybe GRAND-Mo-fo' is better," Borland swallowed his beer in one long drink. He belched. "Come on. We got business can't wait." He set his bottle down, burped again and let the beer smile for him. Borland saw Beachboy's hesitation. "He'll catch up."
CHAPTER 40
"Joe," Beachboy started as they stepped out on the street. Borland peered left and right. "Weren't you rough on Harold?"
"What's west?" Borland shook his head squinting at the overcast sky. "Brass has all the 911 calls from Parkerville forwarded to T-2. Someone found a body."
"That way," Beachboy's said after a second getting his bearings.
"Sure?" Borland snarled, walking toward the liquor store.
"The base is north." Beachboy pointed.
"Hey!" Mofo called, springing onto the street after them. They turned to see him hit the sidewalk at a jog. His clothing flapped as he stuffed his shirttails in.
"Feel better?" Borland asked with a grin.
"Yeah," Mofo smiled. "Never for long."
"Like Chinese Food." Borland glowered up at him. "Can you control that?"
"Sure. Yeah." Mofo shrugged his broad shoulders. "Not really."
"Don't get me killed over Chinese Food," Borland grumbled.
"Me either," Beachboy chimed in.
"Early stages of this stuff, you have to keep your eyes open," Borland said to Beachb
oy as he started forward at a brisk walk. "Once you've got full-on Biters, it doesn't matter, just point your gun. There's nothing subtle about a skin eater in full presentation."
"What about stalkers?" Beachboy asked on his left. Mofo was still adjusting his clothes a step behind them.
"Different animals," Borland panted, his guts juggled the beer and he belched. "We wouldn't be here if it was a stalker at work. Only find them by accident."
A short distance down the block, an older gentleman had appeared where an alleyway opened between two buildings. He was carrying a broom and looking anxious.
"Okay," Borland whispered. "Someone found a body." He saw his companions' keen interest. "Just treat it like a regular body and we're cops."
They nodded.
"But don't touch anything."
The man saw them approaching, his worry twisting the broomstick in his hands. The traffic out front was busy. Farther on, Borland saw a woman and child were watching.
The man hurried toward them and Borland felt a surge of adrenaline. He almost pulled his gun.
"Are you Captain Borland?" the old man cried, his face flushed. "I called 911. There's a body." He was dressed in plain shirt, slacks and brown leather shoes.
"Where?" Borland asked, nodding.
"Where's Sheriff Marley?" The man was flustered, but moved toward the alley.
"He'll be along shortly." Borland dug out his wallet, flipped it open to show his fake credentials.
"I was just taking garbage out," the old man said, squinting at the identification. "Does this have to do with the roadblocks?"
Pausing at the mouth of the alley, Borland noticed that the woman and child were approaching.
"Secure the areaÖ" he said, suddenly registering the woman's pretty features, "Beachboy!"
"You come with me." He grabbed Mofo's jacket.
Beachboy walked toward the woman as the old man kept talking.
"I opened the dumpster to throw the garbage in-from my store," he panted, gesturing to the building on the right, leading Borland and Mofo down the alley. "And I saw some footprints, kind of smeared on the asphalt by the recycle bins-like red paint or motor oil. Just a few that I can make out, cause there's an overhang that protected them from the rain. And I look behind the dumpster, and there's a body."
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