"Is there any way down from here?" Borland stabbed at the circle that showed the closest collection cistern to the north of them.
"Access is blocked but that's one way," Hazen said, "and these points along the streets throughout the base." He tapped the screen and small rectangles flared that corresponded to the faded grid of streets.
"Jesus!" A flash of nausea turned Borland's guts. "Do those open?"
"Bolted shut," Hazen said, his face challenging. "Homeland Security."
"Security." Borland glowered at the flat-screen.
"All right then," Aggie said, her voice slipping a note lower. "We've got to secure the hotlink before we go in. Here." She pointed at Lazlo's position. "And here." Her finger slid over to the storage space where the road went under the runway. "That space must be a backdoor-in case the pack runs into trouble. When the main hotlink is secure, we can consider going in through more than one location."
"Can we just BZ-2 them?" Beachboy interrupted and then blushed. "Sorry, sirs, but once it's ziplocked..."
"Can't," Hazen said. "When the Gaters moved in and started developing the east end of town, they upgraded Parkerville's sewers and water treatment system. That involved sealing off collector pipes from the base, but they didn't make them airtight. Release BZ-2 in there without going over it inch by inch to seal it, there's no way of knowing where the gas could leak into the old lines and come up through Parkerville drainpipes."
"Christ," Borland growled at the flat-screen. "So the squad has to go in, kill everything and then Ziplock it before we can gas." He pushed at a hernia. "Same protocol. Different order."
"But what are you going to kill?" Sheriff Marley asked.
"That's a problem. We've got a housewife, local boozehound, five college kids, and the same number of AWOL soldiers missing." Aggie counted off. "We've got two dead Biters. And we still haven't heard anything from Mofo and Spiko. I'm keeping my fingers crossed there but it's not looking good." Her chin dropped. "If it's a new Variant hybrid with a high transmission rate we've got at least eleven." She nodded.
"Aggie, there'll be more by now," Borland said. "You know the way Variant works. Even with lower transmission rates back in the day, it got ahead of us. And we haven't gone door to door. The missing people we know about are the only ones we can count. Who knows what's in those tunnels or what's in the ravine."
"What do you suggest?" Aggie's tone was combative.
"Your call," Borland relented. "As long as we assume the worst."
"We'll follow protocol, Borland," Aggie reminded. "The squad goes in T-1 to Lazlo's location. We enter there and seal the hotlink behind us. Then we'll move up on the west side of the loop and work our way to the cistern here." She pointed at the top of the screen.
"What about the storage space under the runway?" Cavalle asked.
"Colonel Hazen will put a company of men there, in case we flush them out." Aggie looked up at the base commander.
"We've got army-issue variant-protection suits from back in the day." His voice was gruff. "They're old but operational. I've got my people breaking them out of storage now." He pointed at the map on the flat-screen. "I'll put 20 men under the tunnel. Their orders will be to stay put, and kill anything that tries to come out."
"They have to stay put," Borland warned. "They can't come in until we say."
"The Colonel is also going to prep a squad of his own and bring them in T-2 to Lazlo's location." Aggie nodded at Hazen. "They'll be in touch with us while we're on the move, and can coordinate their insertion, if we run into trouble." She looked at Cavalle and Borland. "They won't have specific training for Biters, but they've got enough firepower to destroy anything down there."
Aggie sighed. "That's a worst-case scenario, Colonel, and one I'll call in if necessary. We learned back in the day that putting more than one squad into the same hole is very dangerous." Her shoulders slumped. "Crossfire."
Borland squeezed his fingers around his bandaged hand and used the throb of pain to clear his mind. Something was wrong with this. Still, an army squad at their backs took some of the heat off them.
Their? Wait a second, was he saying, "we?"
Then he said: "Aggie, we got to talk about who's going. I'm not good in rabbit holes anymore." He shrugged, his guts twisting. "Has Brass given the go ahead to deploy?"
Hyde's Horton suddenly came to life, the engine revved and then the annoying beep, beep, beep followed as it reversed and started to turn around.
"Where the hell is he going?" Borland asked as the Horton drove out of the warehouse.
"He's moving out to Lazlo's coordinates. We'll meet him there," Aggie said, smiling. "As soon as you get suited up, we can go after him." Her look hardened. "You'll consult from T-1 on-site. Nobody wants to get stuck in a hole behind you." She squared her shoulders and addressed the squad. "I want us in position when Brass gives the order-and he will." Aggie started through a final list of warnings.
Borland winced, pushed at his hernias, and then limped toward T-1, but he stopped after a couple steps to watch Mao.
The med-tech had been hidden by the Horton. He was still wearing his medical shield-suit, and carrying something that looked like a big plastic med-kit. What the hell-wait! Something about the way the man was walking. He was stiff-legged, his body jarring with each step he took toward the rear of T-2. The big vehicle's nose was parked tight to T-1's exit ramp.
"Mao!" Borland shouted.
The med-tech kept coming, was now yards away from T-2. Mao was walking strangely, like he couldn't control his legs.
Like a man under compulsion!
Carrying a medical kit-no-it was a jerry can. Borland glanced past Mao to the space where the Horton had been parked. Just beyond it was a portable fuel tank Hazen's men had set up for the squad. A hose had been pulled out of the pump; the nozzle lay on the pavement spraying fuel!
"Shoot Mao! Shoot him!" Borland yelled as he pulled his pistol and fired off a couple rounds, but Mao disappeared into T-2.
"Borland!" Aggie shouted, drawing her own pistol, her eyes following Borland's gun. Fuel was still pouring onto the pavement. Dark fingers of it trickled across the warehouse floor.
A fireball erupted out of T-2's rear door and rocked the vehicle on its axles. The shockwave and heat buffeted Borland. He dropped to a knee and watched the flames ignite the rivulets of fuel. The army's portable fuel tank burst into flame.
The second explosion knocked him over and rang his head against T-1's heavy armored flank.
CHAPTER 55
The stalker sat at the little table and enjoyed the warm atmosphere of classical music, flowers and candlelight. And company! Mr. Hopper, a ragged blue bunny with worn and frayed ears sat on the stalker's right. He was playing daddy at tonight's little party. Across from him sat the green-eyed Edna Explorer doll. She had changed out of her khaki jungle wear and into a sequined red dress purchased at a yard sale. Edna was mommy tonight.
"This is all so nice," said the stalker.
The stalker was pleased to have the family back together for this important dinner. And this was a special occasion. How often was there a wedding in the family?
Clunk!
"Oh please, honey," cooed the stalker, looking past the empty chair across from it and into the shadows. "You mustn't upset mommy."
Clunk!
"So tell me," said Mr. Hopper as daddy. The stalker gave him a voice very much like the daddy that left long ago. "What is it you do for a living, young man?"
Clunk! Grunt!
"I understand he's a policeman," 'mommy' said, her green eyes twinkling in the candlelight.
"But his real passion is photography," the stalker interjected seamlessly. Switching personas was simple; it helped make the terror go away-to get outside itself and watch. It was simple changing in and out of other peoples' skins. Sometimes it was the only way it could do what it had to do to survive.
Memories were awful. When it was calm-the thoughts were bad, could bring the terror back.
Ssskin.
Clunk!
"Well, he's not very talkative," daddy said, and then coughed-the stalker coughed too, and then chuckled with release. "Strong silent type."
"Don't talk with your mouth full dear," mommy warned, and the stalker laughed again.
Clunk!
The stalker gazed across the table at the guest of honor.
Bang!
There was a time the stalker wanted a normal life, even tried a short-lived marriage, but nothing worked after daddy left and the terror came. No time for marriage and kids with all the work at the lab-at the lab-at the lab. Sweet. Sweet. Skin.
And then the stalker felt a sudden pang of fear so it shifted perspective to mommy but found her closed, and then was stonewalled by daddy's button-like eyes. The stalker's heart raced, sweat leapt onto its brow when it stepped back and saw itself trapped in a chair, presiding over the sad little scene, unable to move from the focus of the guest's imploring gaze.
Those dark eyes watching over the strip of tape.
Clunk! The guest pulled at the chains that held him on his toes against the wall. Bang. He heaved again.
The stalker felt tears well up in its own eyes; pressure throbbed in its temples. Gasping, the terror crowding, it reached out for the knife and fork, leaned forward and stabbed the flap of skin that covered its plate. Heart pounding, it sawed at the lower edge, rolled the bristling strip around the fork and pushed it into its mouth.
Ssskin. Sweet. Sour. Funky. Musty. Sweet. Sweet.Skin!
Clunk!
The stalker's eyes rolled back and its body bucked close to orgasm as it chewed the coppery wet mixture of blood and skin.
Start in the groin, high on the groin and work down past the stubble to the smooth stuff. Funny, didn't have to shave this one like the other. This time as the stalker prepared for Ritual the guest's member came alive with desire at the first cut-during all the cuts. His ordeal of pain was mixed provocatively with passion and the stalker was dared by its own yearning to try the member too, to skin it and add its calm to the ritual.
Why not, it's a celebration?
When that process produced a shocking yet unmistakably sexual explosion, the stalker was caught up in the excess, and throwing caution to the wind had coupled with the guest where he hung in chains and blood and gore.
Clunk!
Sitting across from him now, seeing the guest's gory tissue rise in painful passionate torment, the stalker wondered if the playful fantasy of daddy and mommy shouldn't be replaced by the honeymoon.
Careful, that's how it happened before. When the mistake was made and the other one got away. Can't get caught in Ritual.
"Mommy," asked the stalker, slipping into a feminine voice. "Don't you like your food?"
The stalker referred to a choice strip of pale skin that had been peeled out of the guest's groin. It's own skin was starting to grow bumps of excitement, anticipation and fear again.
"I'm watching my figure, dear," mommy responded. "You help yourself."
The stalker's fork flashed out and snatched the strip of skin, stuffed it into its mouth.
Sweet! Spasm! Sweet! Pain! Sweet. Sweet. Smooth. Sweet. Skin. Ssskin. Orgasm!
Clunk! This time the guest made a nasal moaning sound and something like a whimper. He was getting tired. Breathing past the duct tape was exhausting work.
But not too exhausting for that... The stalker's eyes were drawn to the guest's mangled member.
"Randy bugger," said daddy, quite out of character from the one the stalker remembered. That one was always straight and tall when he walked and never lied; and he always shushed and shook his head when someone said something dirty.
But things were different now so the stalker laughed along with mommy, dabbed blood from its smiling lips with a napkin, as its eyes remained locked on the guest's...
The stalker picked up its knife and stood, its eyes roving over the big guest's body. So much to choose from.
Ssskin.
Clunk!
The guest's eyes remained locked on the stalker's. His chest heaved with pain, with anticipation as the stalker walked around the table. As blood continued to weep down his thighs.
So simple to catch this one, his desire was uncontrollable. The stalker had led him to its car, to do it there, to couple, to have mating rituals in the car. And the guest came without hesitation.
Then the Taser flashed and the duct tape came out-and then into the house through the garage, across the kitchen and down the stairs.
Thump. Thump! Clunk!
The stalker stepped in close, and wrapped a soft hand around the guest's rigid member. He grunted, and his eyes flared with excruciating desire.
To couple again, to do it.
Instead the stalker raised the knife, held the blade under the...
BANG!
A noise from upstairs. The stalker paused.
Bang! Rattle. Boom. Boom. Boom.
The little doggy started barking. Something was outside-at the door banging.
Little Biters? Bad ones!
Still the doggy barked. The stalker shuddered at the high-pitched yap. It was no hunter that thing, but a companion, yes and loyal. The only one. Always barking, but the only one that knew and cared. The stalker's little pack.
Boom. Bang. Biters!
The stalker knew the gully was quickly filling with them, that there was a pack gathering somewhere near.
Why can't they be quiet and bite in secret?
Now coming up to doors! That wasn't right. It was very bad. Things were getting out of hand.
The stalker sighed and looked wistfully up at its guest. He had heard the noise too, and his fear or anticipation had registered through the throb of wounded flesh in the stalker's hand.
Oh dear.
The Taser flashed and the guest rattled and buzzed against the wall. Blood sprinkled as every muscle stiffened and then he collapsed, asleep and hanging in his chains.
The stalker walked to the table by the washbasin where it kept its gear and picked up a big gun.
The stalker left the guest in the secret room and stood at the bottom of the basement stairs while the noises BANGED and BOOMED up there. It didn't want to fight the little Biters, just scare them away before they brought trouble.
They must have followed, must have smelled out its lair.
That was bad.
The stalker had met them in the gully when it was stalking. For some reason, they listened-and didn't bite.
There was a great CRASH up there, many feet thumped on the floor and the little doggy barked a final time.
Teeth bared, the stalker roared up the stairs.
CHAPTER 56
The Horton's elevator lowered Hyde onto the street in front of the house. His driver, the corporal, had parked the vehicle by the curb. The man now stood at the open rear doors and worked the lift controls with the remote.
Hyde found the house to be a pleasing collection of symmetrical architectural shapes-nothing fancy or wasteful. There were two stories of dark red brick and light cream trim on old-fashioned puttied windows, sashes, soffit and fascia. A silver hybrid fastback was parked in the driveway center to the garage door.
A warm glow leaked out around drawn window blinds. The porch light blazed opposite the address numbers, in brass positioned on the doorframe. Two narrow windows were set in the door angling down toward the knob. The cream-colored screen door was closed over that.
Very nice.
Hyde was wearing his skin-shell suit. The face-shield, display gear and biofeedback receptors were in place under his hood. The skin-shell came with an advanced audio system that amplified the sounds around him: a pop can rolled in the breeze, its dented sides ringing an irregular scale; the corporal was mumbling disapproval as his footsteps paced toward
the front of the Horton, bag-suit squeaking; a dog was barking far away.
And the skin-shell suit, hidden under his long coat and hood, gave Hyde a secure and objective distance from the scene. He felt whole, though he knew it an illusion, and safe, though he knew that to be illusion too.
Those factors bolstered his confidence when considering the disconcerting reason for this visit.
You put this off too long. He grumbled and sputtered a self-directed curse. And there's still time to back out.
"Fool!" Hyde said, and the skin-shell suit's microphone and speakers transmitted the word.
Grumbling, he grabbed his canes, slid forward in his chair and heaved himself onto his feet. The curbs by the house, like all curbs, were sloped in places for wheelchairs, but Hyde realized such open access had not yet been firmly installed in the human mind. That was a place still filled with obstacles for the handicapped.
The canes are bad enough.
He cursed under his breath and made his way onto the curb and sidewalk that crossed the front of the house. There was a footpath of regular stone that led to the door.
"Stay sharp, Corporal," Hyde said, his mechanically enhanced voice made his "S's" especially sibilant. A toggle on his suit would allow him to switch the external communications gear to the suit-to-suit intercom that was reserved for squads on the move or separated underground or in unfamiliar territory.
The corporal mumbled something in return. Hyde's personal medic, Gordon, had been commandeered for squad action. Aggie wanted two med-techs to support Cavalle when they deployed.
Hyde made excellent time crossing the lawn; his canes and the shield-suit's rigidity allowed him a more economical use of his energy. In fact, he barely needed the canes at all. The realization and freedom welled up in him and produced a pleasant gasp instead of a smile.
You should have looked into the skin-shell sooner. You survived without living.
"No," he said, as he arrived at the door. "More fantasies." That's the danger in illusions like the skin-shell. "No better than cranking."
Hyde paused in the porch light and struggled with his options and with his determination to live without illusion.
Activate the display. He mulled over the notion. Before heading out, he'd clicked through the suit's display options and found several scans of nondescript individuals, John and Jane Doe's-full body images that he could wear to the masquerade.
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