Warehouse 13: A Touch of Fever

by Greg Cox

  Her throat tightened as she remembered the first time she had met Pete, the day he and Myka had moved into the B&B. They had both been very frazzled and disoriented, but she had done her best to make them feel at home. To be honest, she’d found Pete attractive at the start and had flirted with him shamelessly that first afternoon. There had been a definite vibe between them, although she had known better than to let it go any further than that; getting involved with a Warehouse agent would have been much too complicated. Besides, she no longer thought of Pete that way. He was family now.

  Which made his terminal condition all the more frightening.

  “Are you all right, dear?”

  Mrs. Lozenko eyed Leena with concern. Her bulldog tugged at its leash. The old woman’s aura was looking much healthier today. She must have remembered her vitamins.

  “I’m fine, thanks for asking.” Leena discreetly dabbed a tear away. “I just got something in my eye.” She petted the dog, who was sniffing at her ankles. “Is Lola enjoying the festivities?”

  “Too much so. I have to make sure she doesn’t eat too much junk food off the ground.” She dragged the dog away from Leena. “Come along, baby.” She waved at Leena. “You have a nice day, dear.”

  “I’ll try.”

  She watched them depart, then let her friendly smile fade. She’d hoped that the street fair might take her mind off Pete’s impending demise, but it wasn’t working. Trying to put on a happy front for her neighbors while Pete lay dying was just too hard. I’ve been here long enough. Turning around, she decided to retreat back to the B&B.

  Not that she expected to feel any better there.

  When a Warehouse agent died or disappeared in the line of duty, his or her personal quarters and effects were carted up and transported to the Warehouse, where they were stored indefinitely. Tucked out of sight, and accessible only via an elaborate conveyor belt mechanism, were the private rooms of every lost agent, preserved exactly as they had left them, right down to the last detail. Leena had helped Artie pack up such lodgings before. She was in no hurry to do the same for Pete’s room.

  Or Myka’s, for that matter.

  She offered up a silent prayer that Artie and Claudia had a line on Clara Barton’s gloves by now. Forget stewing at the B&B. Maybe the others could use a hand back at the Warehouse? Her car was parked at home, just a few blocks away. If she hurried, she could be in Artie’s office by lunchtime. She could throw together a salad and some healthy snacks too. Artie and Claudia could probably use a decent meal at this point.

  Her cell phone buzzed. She plucked it from her purse. Caller ID informed her that the caller was not listed anywhere.

  The Warehouse, in other words.

  Maybe there was good news about Pete?

  She answered the call. “Hello?”

  Artie didn’t waste exchanging greetings. “Where are you?”

  “Downtown. At the festival.” His urgent tone frightened her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “The festival?” She could practically hear him process that data. It was odd not to see his face on a screen, but a Farnsworth might have attracted unwanted attention. Better to stick to an ordinary cell phone for now. “UnFounders Day, right. Is that today?”

  The occasion had clearly slipped his mind. No surprise, given all that was going on.

  “Yes,” she informed him. “Everybody is here.”

  “Of course they would be,” he said mordantly. “This would have to happen on UnFounders Day. . . .”

  “What would happen?” she pressed him.

  “The Nisqually Totem Pole. It got loose.”

  A horrified gasp escaped her. She was well acquainted with the totem’s savage history.

  “How?”

  “No time to explain.” He sounded stressed and impatient, even by Artie standards. “The thunderbird is heading your way.”

  She instantly grasped the danger. “But . . . the festival. The streets are packed.”

  “Easy pickings for the thunderbird.” His dour expression was easy to imagine. “You need to get everybody off the street. There’s no time to lose.”

  She glanced around at the bustling commotion. Pretty much the entire population of the town had turned out for the event. Hundreds of unsuspecting people enjoyed themselves, completely unaware of the danger they were in. An entire Boy Scout troop swept past her on the sidewalk, jostling her as she spoke. Mrs. Lozenko and her dog hadn’t gotten far. The high school band was still going strong. Applause greeted their off-key interpretation of Lady Gaga.

  “Easier said than done, Artie. The festival is in full swing.”

  She was tempted to take out her Farnsworth so he could see for himself, but he seemed to get the idea.

  “Which just makes it all the more important that you get everyone indoors, pronto,” he stated, “or we’re going to have a full-scale massacre on our hands.”

  Leena remembered what had happened in 1848. She had personally scanned the original newspaper bulletins and U.S. Cavalry reports into the new computers. The totem’s attack had been a feeding frenzy. The thought of the same thing happening here, in her home, filled her with dread—and resolve.

  “All right, Artie. I know what to do.” She marched briskly toward the park. “But what about the thunderbird?”

  “Leave that to Claudia and me. We’re on our way.”

  Leena peered up at the sky, looking anxiously for a pair of ominous red and black wings. There was no sign of them yet, but that was small comfort. Univille was only about seven miles away from the Warehouse, maybe less as the crow flew. The voracious bird could be here any minute.

  “Hurry, Artie!”

  Hanging up, she broke into a full run, dashing to the park as fast as her limber legs could carry her. A dawdling crowd impeded her, but she pushed past them. “Excuse me! Coming through.”

  Her frantic dash drew curious stares. “Hey, Leena!” Bert the grocer called out. “Where’s the fire?”

  She couldn’t have explained even if she’d had the time, which she didn’t. “No fire!” she shot back. “Just in a bit of a hurry!”

  If only they’d had nothing more serious than a raging fire to deal with!

  The park was just as packed as Main Street. A barbershop quartet, dressed in striped suits and straw boaters, performed in the gazebo. A kite-flying competition filled the clear blue sky with colorful paper boxes, dragons, and streamers. Squealing kids clambered over the playground equipment while their parents, older siblings, and nannies looked on. A vendor dispensed soft-serve ice cream cones from a refrigerated cart. A local politician handed out campaign flyers and pins. Leena curtly declined both. She wasn’t planning to vote for him anyway.

  Amidst all the activity, a certain abstract sculpture went ignored. A half-dozen metal tubes pointed at the sky almost like an antiaircraft emplacement. A hose connected the array of cylinders to the reflecting pool at the base of the sculpture. A handful of toddlers was wading in the pool. A paper boat, constructed from a folded pizza menu, drifted across the shallow pool, which reflected the cloudless azure sky overhead. Rippling water sparkled in the sunlight.

  But not for much longer. Leena dropped to her knees beside the pool. She glanced around furtively to see if anyone was watching, but thankfully the distracted townspeople were more interested in their own varied pursuits and diversions. The only person paying attention to her was a pint-sized moppet wearing a baggy Dora the Explorer T-shirt. The little girl gazed at Leena with wide blue eyes while her mother chatted with some neighbors a few yards away. She sucked on her thumb.

  Leena raised a finger to her lips. “Sssh!” she whispered before reaching beneath the surface of the pool. Graceful fingers located a submerged knob hidden in the pool’s mosaic design. She turned it hard to the right. A metallic click was muffled by the water.

  A low hum emanated from the “sculpture,” which was actually far more than that. A tingling sensation tickled Leena’s skin. Static frizzed out her hair.
Ozone teased her nose. She withdrew her hand from the pool.

  Here goes nothing, she thought. Let’s hope this thing still works.

  The sky darkened abruptly. Thick black clouds accumulated as if from nowhere, throwing the entire park into shadow. Confused citizens turned their faces upward.

  “What in the world . . . ?” the little girl’s mom blurted. “What happened to the weather?”

  The toddler eyed Leena suspiciously. She shook a pudgy finger at the grown-up.

  “Sorry,” Leena said.

  The sky went from sunny to stormy in a matter of minutes. Lightning flashed ominously. Thunder boomed directly overhead. A solitary raindrop fell upon Leena’s upturned face. She wiped it away. All around her, people started scurrying for shelter.

  That first drop was just a warning. The clouds burst like water balloons. A torrential downpour came on strong, driving the crowd from the park. Pounding sheets of rain drenched the fleeing people. Hail pelted the town with icy pebbles that bounced off the streets and sidewalks, setting off car alarms and crying children. The toddler’s mother snatched up her daughter and bolted from the park, ignoring the high-pitched babbling of the child, who pointed accusingly at Leena. Kites blew away or else crashed to earth. The folded paper boat took on water and sank beneath the reflecting pool. Swirling winds chased after the dismayed townspeople. Startled shouts and curses came from Main Street as well.

  UnFounders Day had been rained out—with a vengeance.

  Within moments Leena found herself standing alone in the park, soaked to the skin. She sincerely doubted that anyone else would be foolhardy enough to stay outside in this deluge. Noah would have felt very much at home. She gave the humming sculpture an affectionate pat. “Mission accomplished.”

  Thanks to Wilhelm Reich’s cloudbuster. The device, invented by the famed Austrian psychoanalyst, channeled “orgone energy” to act as a highly potent rainmaker. It had been hiding in plain sight all these years, in anticipation of emergencies just like this one. After all, you never knew when it might be a good idea to get the people of Univille off the streets.

  Like when a bloodthirsty wooden thunderbird was on the prowl.

  She hurried back toward Main Street, finding it abandoned as well, every booth and ride deserted. Plastic tarps had been hastily thrown over the various stands. Unable to cope with the deluge, the sewers were already backing up, flooding the street. Leena splashed through puddles as she walked the length of the empty fair, making sure everyone was indoors. She had the entire street to herself. The cloudbuster had done its job.

  And none too soon.

  Hail peppered her face as she peered upward into the storm. Worried brown eyes searched the sky. A white-hot flash of lightning broke through the gloom, and the thunderbird came swooping out of the clouds, gliding on chiseled wooden wings. A lost kite blew across its path, and the bird ripped it to shreds. Vicious talons made short work of the kite.

  Leena gasped. She had only read about the thunderbird before. She had never seen it in action. Watching it tear into the kite, she could only imagine what its sharp beaks and talons could do to a human being, what they had done back in 1848. . . .

  She dived for cover beneath the bandstand. Rain-swept litter washed against her, but that was the least of her worries. She cautiously poked her head out to see what was happening. “Come on, Artie,” she entreated. “Where are you?”

  The thunderbird descended toward Univille.

  Followed closely by a vintage World War I triplane. . . .

  CHAPTER

  19

  “UNIVILLE”

  “Hold on tight!”

  The Fokker DR-1 triplane dove through the storm. Its wings and fuselage were a brilliant shade of red, except where an Iron Cross was painted black against a field of white. A contraption of wood and canvas held together by wire, the primitive flying machine felt uncomfortably flimsy compared to more modern aircraft. Yet this particular plane, Artie recalled, had survived some of the most deadly aerial dogfights of the First World War.

  He hoped it had one more victory in it.

  The spinning propeller sliced up the air. He clutched the control stick with both hands. Tinted goggles and a leather aviator’s cap protected him from the elements. A thick wool scarf was knotted around his neck. Twin Spandau machine guns were mounted directly in front of him, their sights lined up with the nose of the plane. Its powerful nine-cylinder engine was nearly drowned out by the crashing thunder.

  “I’m holding, I’m holding!” Claudia shrieked over the roar of the plane, her arms wrapped tightly around him. She was squeezed into the cockpit behind Artie, acting as spotter. A red, white, and blue USAF flight helmet was clamped over her skull. A brown leather bomber jacket covered her goo-splattered clothing, which there had been no time to change out of. She batted the tail of Artie’s scarf away from her face. “What am I doing here anyway? I thought the Red Baron always flew solo!”

  “I’m not the Red Baron, okay?” He thought that was obvious. “I can use the backup!”

  Manfred von Richthofen, the infamous Red Baron, had been the most lethal flying ace of World War I, with a record-setting eighty kills to his name. He had died in this very plane, shot down by ground fire while flying too low beyond enemy lines, but he had never lost a dogfight. And he had even managed to land the Fokker safely before expiring. Warehouse agents had acquired the plane decades ago, after its more unusual properties caught their attention. It had been gathering dust for as long as Artie remembered. He had been tinkering with it for years.

  The Fokker broke out of the clouds. It leveled off above the town.

  “There it is!” Claudia let go of Artie’s waist long enough to point below them. “T-bird at twelve o’clock!”

  The totem soared low over Univille, hundreds of feet below the triplane. Hot on its tail, Artie was relieved to see that the flooded streets were empty, thanks to Reich’s cloudbuster. Good job, Leena, he thought approvingly. I always knew that “art installation” was going to come in handy someday.

  Deprived of human prey, the bird screeched in frustration. It flew low over the deserted streets and sidewalks, hunting for a hapless victim. Rain sluiced off its chiseled feathers, but it appeared quite at home in the torrential downpour. The storm did not deter it.

  No surprise there. According to North American Indian mythology, the thunderbird was the harbinger of both war and fierce weather. Lightning was said to be the flashing of its eyes; thunder the flapping of its wings.

  “What are you waiting for?” Claudia hollered. “Shoot it!”

  “Not yet!” Artie held his fire. The old plane had a limited quantity of ammo. He didn’t want to waste it. “We need to get closer.”

  “Says you!” Claudia objected. “Me, I’d rather keep my distance.”

  Not an option, Artie knew. The Fokker’s ancient guns were not very accurate at long range. The Red Baron himself never opened fire until he was within three hundred feet of his target. Firing too early just gave your location away. Those tactics had been passed along to his plane, which had done this many times before. Artie was not about to second-guess them now.

  Working the stick, he tried to get the wooden raptor in his sights. The bird’s painted tail feathers came into range, and he let loose with a short burst of machine-gun fire. An ingenious mechanism, designed by the famed Dutch aeronautical engineer Anthony Fokker, synchronized the guns’ fire with the motion of the propeller so that the bullets shot through the spinning blades without damaging them. The twin muzzles flared a brilliant purple. The guns rattled over the storm.