“Oh,” he said when he got to the other side.
The others laughed.
“You wanted to ford the stream,” Roo said.
He rolled his eyes. “Whatever. It was a good idea and it would’ve worked if it was deeper.”
“I think that’s the sleep deprivation talking, buddy,” the Aussie said.
“I’m not sleep-deprived,” Charles refuted.
“No? Well, you sure as shit aren’t firing on all cylinders.”
“I have no doubt it would’ve worked, Charles,” Booker said placatingly. “Luckily, we won’t have to test your theory. Now, help us pull it across.”
The team dragged the mule easily through the stream and kept going. They didn’t run into any other teams or Zoo life as they made their way closer and closer to the gate. After a few klicks, they’d made it to one of the main tracks, which made the return journey easier as the vehicle bounced along without the added hindrance of underbrush.
Roo and Charles dragged the mule through the gate. Booker rushed off to turn the samples into Franco.
“Let’s stop and get Thor before we take this to the container,” Charles said.
“We can’t just leave it here at the gate,” Roo said.
“I’m not saying we leave it here. I’m just saying we swing past Dan’s on our way back.”
The Aussie groaned. “That’s out of the way.”
“It’s not that big a deal. Besides, there are roads here. It’ll be fine. Come on.”
The mule limped along behind them as they dragged it. The wheels’ integrity had been worse than they originally thought. Two were splitting, causing it list and drag.
Once Charles picked Thor up from Dan, they dragged the mule toward their container. The dog jumped onto the flatbed and stood at the front of the slowly moving vehicle, his tongue lolling and tail wagging.
“Where’d you fellas pick that up?” a man asked, nodding toward the mule.
Charles told him where they got it.
The man nodded. “Yeah. Seems about right. Saw a four-man team go out into the Zoo about a week ago on one of these bad boys, and they never came back. There was nothing left of them out there?”
Roo shook his head. “Zilch. Is there a place to report them missing? You know, in case they have people?”
“Hmmm, I think so. In the main ops building. It’s sort of by registration. I don’t know if they actually do anything about it, though. I mean, we’re all not really supposed to be here, are we?” the man asked. Then he walked away.
They parked their prize in front of their container. Charles began inspecting it more closely, making a list of the parts and tools he was going to need.
“I’ll be back in a little bit,” Roo said, then he left before the other man could reply.
Booker returned shortly after Roo had left. A few other teams had arrived before they had since they’d taken so long getting the Mule. But they’d still been paid twenty thousand dollars for the bore samples. Franco had told Booker that he was just in time and filled the quota the buyer was looking for.
He watched as Charles made calculations while trying to keep Thor from chewing off another of the tires.
“Where’d Roo go?”
“Don’t know. He didn’t say.”
“Think he’s fucking Shira?”
“Don’t know, don’t really care. What do you think he’s going to do with that knife?”
Booker shrugged “What would you do with it?”
The American sat back on his heels, giving Thor a belly rub. “I’d try to get it to the widow.”
The Brit nodded.
After two hours, Roo returned. He was carrying a small box, the perfect size for the Gerber.
“Where’ve you been?” Booker asked.
“Had to take care of some things.”
“Shira?” Charles raised an eyebrow.
The Aussie rolled his eyes. “No. I went to report those men missing. I did see Shira, though. She got me this Cattaneo’s information.” He held the Gerber up.
His teammates exchanged a look.
“You aren’t going to sell it?” Booker asked.
“No. Jesus, do you guys really think so little of me? This man died. His widow deserves to know it and have this piece of him returned to her. Now, someone help me write a letter explaining why she’s getting a knife back and not her husband.”
Chapter Twenty
The Harvesters Camp; Container Alley
The mule sputtered once but didn’t turn over. Charles glared at it in frustration. He’d been trying all day to get it to start but it seemed like after he’d fixed one problem, another took its place.
Thor gnawed on a wrench nearby.
“Hey, give it,” he said, holding his hand out for it.
The animal turned his back on him and continued chewing.
“Dog,” he muttered. He snagged the end of the wrench. Thor clamped down on it and wouldn’t give it up. Charles was afraid to pull the metal tool too hard from his grip, but he found he had to pull harder. The puppy, who had tripled in size, wasn’t giving it up. He had to exert more strength to play tug-of-war with the dog, and he knew that if he wanted to maintain the upper hand, he’d have to give that game up because soon, Thor would be able to beat him.
Off-mission men wandered through and watched him fixing the mule in half-interest. One of the gawkers witnessed his struggle with the wrench.
“What kind of dog is that?”
Charles considered the speaker before answering. “I don’t know for sure. Maybe a Bergamasco mix?” he said.
The man nodded slowly and moved on.
Charles considered Thor again. The dog was developing a long shaggy coat, the ends rolling themselves into dreadlock-like clumps like a Bergamasco shepherd or a Hungarian Puli. He had tried looking up various breeds to match him up, but he constantly changed his mind on what he thought Thor was.
The American tightened the battery connection on the mule, then tried the ignition again. The engine clicked and then turned over. He grinned and wiped his hands on his work pants.
“You ready to play?” he asked Thor.
The dog bounded to his feet, jumping up and down in front of him.
Charles grabbed one of the discarded tires—only two of the originals were on the mule—and threw it as far as he could. Thor raced after it. He leaned down to keep fixing the mule when the dog returned, dropping his prize at his feet.
“Look at you, boy. Learning to play fetch already?” He threw it again and Thor chased after it.
Thor soon returned and dropped it again for Charles. The man looked at it and back at the animal, whose tail was wagging with enough force to shake his entire body.
He sighed. “Guess I was asking for this, huh?” He picked it up and threw it.
Booker, Roo, and Charles were playing cards with Alec, the man who had given them more information on the Zoo.
Alec was getting his ass handed to him by Booker, but he didn’t seem to mind. He seemed to be playing for the companionship rather than the sport of it.
“You were married?” Alec asked Roo.
The Aussie nodded. “Yeah. But the ol’ bird left me. I’ve got a daughter too.”
“I don’t have people,” Booker said, anticipating the question.
The other man nodded. “Never married, myself. Didn’t want to be tied down. What about you, Charles? Any special lady waiting for you back home?”
“Only ladies waiting for me are my Gammy, my Ma, and my sister.”
“Your sister the volleyball player?” Roo asked, looking a little more interested in the conversation.
Charles glared. “Yeah. That sister.”
“She was in the Olympics?” the Brit asked.
He nodded. “Yeah, she was in the 2020 games representing team USA in beach volleyball.”
Booker won another hand.
“My ex said she always expected me to get kicked out of the army,” Roo said, rolling h
is eyes.
“What a bitch,” Alec commented.
“That’s the nice thing about not really having family ties—no one to disappoint.”
They looked at Charles.
He concentrated on the cards being dealt and petting Thor, who was snoring next to his chair.
“Charles?” Booker prodded.
“Uh, yeah. My family was upset.”
“I’m calling BS on that one, mate,” Roo said.
“You haven’t told your family you were discharged?” the Brit asked.
Charles shook his head.
“That seems like something you need to do,” Alec said.
The teammates glared at him. He held his hands up and kept dealing.
The American ran his fingers over the top of Thor’s head, then froze.
“What’s wrong?” Booker asked.
He frowned and pressed down further into the dog’s fur. Under the thick hair, there was a protruding knob that seemed to be growing between his ears.
“Thor has something under his fur. It sort of feels like a horn,” Charles said.
The Brit leaned over the table and felt what Charles was talking about. He pushed the fur out of the way in an attempt to see the growth. Thor gave a discontented huff.
“It’s only a cutaneous horn. So not really a horn at all, just some skin cells forming a keratin tumor.”
Charles leapt up, upsetting the card table. Playing cards and petty cash flew everywhere.
“A tumor?” he yelled, grabbing his friend by his collar.
“No need to freak out,” Booker said, holding his hands up. The man eased back some. “Look, it isn’t dangerous or anything. I knew a kid back in primary school who had one growing right in the center of his forehead. We all called him Unicorn. Finally, his parents took him to the doctor to have it removed. No big deal. It never grew back and he was totally fine after.”
Charles sat back down, not bothering to help the others clean up the mess of the card table. He looked at Thor, who looked expectantly up at him, his tail thumping gently on the ground.
“Don’t worry, bud. I’ll have that taken care of.” He scratched him behind his ear and the dog wagged his tail harder.
Chapter Twenty-One
Franco’s, The Harvesters Camp
Charles and Roo had insisted on joining Booker waiting for the next mission. They wanted to make sure Franco knew their faces and they understood the system. They wanted to be prepared in case they had to get the jobs without him.
The dispatcher and a few of his colleagues milled around with the waiting team leaders, but no jobs were announced. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something.
A Humvee and trailer pulled up in front of the warehouse. An eight-man team got out and began unloading their haul—containment cages that rattled and screamed, sample chambers full of various plant life, and clear synthetic cubes with water creatures darting angrily around.
They watched as the men hauled more and more out of their trailer. They were disheveled and covered in mud, but their haul was good. Franco and the others were all hands on deck, collecting and calculating.
One dispatcher picked up a sample container full of jumping frogs. They were various sizes and all vibrant highlighter colors. He went to open the container and one of the returning team members grabbed his arm.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. See those things? Yeah, two-second frogs, or has no one told you any better?”
“Two-second frogs?” the man asked.
The freelancer rolled his eyes. “As in, those are the last two seconds you’ll have on God’s green planet if you touch one of those.”
The dispatcher put the sample container carefully on his cart.
“You boys must’ve found a swamp,” Franco said, sorting through various piles of sludgy vegetation and algae.
“Yeah, although it’s disappearing fast,” one of the men answered.
Booker, Roo, and Charles exchanged a look.
“Those swamps are tricky bastards. One minute they’re there and the next, they’ve been reabsorbed and then pushed out somewhere else,” the same man said.
“And I swear they get nastier every time they reappear,” another of his team members added.
Booker drew his teammates out of earshot.
“You think they’re talking about our swamp?” Roo asked.
The Brit nodded. “Most definitely. Which means one thing.”
Charles groaned. “We have to go back there, don’t we?”
“Last time, we almost got killed,” Roo pointed out.
“Has the promise of death deterred you before?” Booker asked.
“Hell no.”
“Right, so we go in there with better equipment. Gather up some interesting samples and bring them back.”
“Without waiting for a directive?” Charles asked.
“Yeah, let’s do some freelancing,” he said.
At Dan’s, they picked up a crate of sample containers. Now that Charles had the mule up and running, they could carry a lot more.
“You guys heard about the swamp?” Dan asked, putting two full containers of gas on the back of the vehicle.
“Has everyone heard about it?” Booker asked, a little frustrated and letting it show through.
Dan shrugged. “Not everyone. Only the really important people. Those with their ears to the ground.”
“We’ll take two more WP grenades,” Charles said.
“Sure thing.” He then went into the shelves to retrieve the grenades.
“Charles,” Booker said quietly, “I don’t think we can afford the containers, the fuel, the protective suits, and two WP grenades.”
“Can we get one?” he asked, then rushed on when he saw the man hesitating. “Remember last time? We probably would’ve been a lot worse off if we hadn’t had that WP grenade. Remember that giant thing that was in the water?”
The Brit pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. We’ll just get one.”
With the gear loaded and secured on the back of the mule, they headed off into the Zoo in the direction they knew the swamp would be.
“God, this place is even worse than before,” Roo exclaimed.
They were standing on the edge of the swamp, looking out at the stinking mess of it. The area’s geography had changed and it now resembled more of a marsh or bog. Thick patches of black mud cut through the shallow pools of water. Much of the sword grass was dying, laying down in brittle thatches. The backs of the animals still swimming in the water were visible, making currents and ripples. There seemed to be more evidence of life—the swamp practically vibrated with it.
“What should we focus on getting?” Charles asked, kicking a leech out of the way.
“I don’t think we’ll have much luck with plant life. We just don’t know enough about it to make it worth our while, I think,” Booker said.
“So, what then?” Roo asked.
The Brit thought about it for a moment. “Remember those two-second frogs?”
His teammates nodded.
“We should get a mess of those. I mean, how hard could it be? We fill the majority of these containers, and I bet it’ll be quite the payday. Normal frogs are big in the pharma world right now, so imagine how high the demand for alien frogs must be.”
“If I get killed touching one of them, I’m going to be pissed,” Roo said.
“Let’s suit up and hope we don’t.”
The men struggled into the protective gear they’d bought from Dan. The expedition suits he had were too expensive, but they figured these should do. The frogs didn’t inject or shoot their poison—there had to be skin-to-skin contact. The gloves were a thick rubber-like material but dexterous enough to not hinder their movements much. They covered exposed skin with either their clothing or the extra pieces of gear before they pulled on what appeared to be waders. These were made of the same material as the gloves, allowing better movement. The ensemble was finished with a mask of synthetic mesh
that created a bubble around their heads, almost like a fencing helmet.
They waded into the swamp, leaving the mule parked on the edge. They didn’t want to drive it in for fear of it getting swallowed up in the mud.
They sank almost knee-deep in squidgy, black gunge. The mud itself writhed with life as the dying fish-like creatures tried to wriggle their way to deeper pools. The air was alive with the chirps and squeaks of the frogs. The disappearing swamp triggered the creatures’ need to mate.
Frogs were everywhere. They swarmed the ground, creating a moving carpet of color. It reminded Booker of an art display he’d once seen at the Tate of a kaleidoscope of light that had been projected on the floor and ceiling of the exhibit. The amphibians ranged from clear, their intestines on display, to painter’s-tape-blue. Some were no bigger than a dime, but others were about the size of Charles’ fist. Many were striped or speckled. Their bodies glistened with the poison they secreted. It webbed between their toes and permeated the porous skin that was stretched over the small bodies.
“How do you think the best way to approach this is?” Roo asked. He was standing in a shallow puddle, frogs hopping like mad around him.
Booker opened his sample container, stooped, and skimmed it along the ground. The creatures were so thick where he was standing that they tumbled into the receptacle, clinging and tripping over one another in the confusion. He clicked it shut and held it at eye level. Some of the frogs flung themselves against the side of the synthetic chamber, their bodies making soft ping noises as they bounced back. The majority of them, after the initial moment of panic, seemed to not find their situation all that dire and immediately started humping whichever frog was nearest.
“It’s like an orgy in here,” the Brit said, securing the container and readying another.
Roo also held up a half-full sample container. “Look at the little fuckers go. They don’t even care if they’re screwing their own kind or not.”
Reprobates (The Bohica Chronicles Book 1) Page 22