Integration

by J. S. Frankel

  “Clones,” Quill chimed in. “Just like in South Dakota and in Manhattan, he used clones. He tossed us a switcheroo.” She blinked. “Now where did I hear that word?”

  Stander whistled. “Young lady, you’ve got a tremendous mind. You and the others are quite the tacticians.”

  Quill beamed. However, Angela’s face wore a look of doubt. “If that’s true, then how do we know which one of them to track? I mean, we can track both of them, but if we’re talking hours…”

  “We split up,” Paul said. “I’ll take Los Angeles. If Sluggo goes anywhere, he’ll go to the old company. I’m sure of it.”

  Angela started to say she’d go with him, but he shook his head. “No. Just in case I’m wrong, I need you to go to Canada and get things done.” She came over to put her arms around his waist. “Please,” he whispered. “I’ll be okay.”

  Releasing him, Angela nodded. In one of the few moments since they’d known each other, she had tears in her eyes. “Come up to Canada and meet me there. I’ll wait for you.”

  Stander gave an ‘ahem’. “Sorry to break up this moment, but Paul’s right. I’ll requisition a flight from here to take you to Los Angeles. I’ll also get one for Canada. Where’s the location?”

  “It seems to be somewhere in the Northwest Territories,” Ooze replied. “The information is that it has lots of mountains, forests and very few people outside of some researchers, Indian tribes and trekkers. If Peterson wanted a place to hide, he picked a good one.”

  His statement settled the matter. Stander made the calls then went out to speak to a few of the people. Within minutes, he’d secured rides. He and Ooze had a flight to Fort Benning. Angela and Quill would take another flight out to Canada.

  “If you need to reach me”—he fished around in his pocket then pulled out a piece of paper and a pen and hastily scribbled down a number—“call me here. This is my direct line.” He pointed at a helicopter that sat twenty meters away. “That’s your ride. Good luck.”

  As Paul got on, Angela caught up to him and kissed him hard on the mouth. “You’re coming back to me,” she said, with a touch of desperation in her voice.

  “Count on it.”

  A tentative smile flitted across her face. “See you soon.”

  She turned away, and as the door closed and the pilot told him to strap in, she waved goodbye. “First time for that to happen,” Paul muttered. He knew that he was going into a very dangerous situation, but he made a silent vow. He would return.

  After a thirty-minute helicopter jaunt to LA, the pilot, a short, muscular sort, landed and asked if he wanted a Jeep. “No, I’ll go on foot,” Paul replied. “I need the exercise.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I’ll make it,” Paul answered. “See you around.”

  Sniffing the air, he inhaled the scents of gasoline, sweat, clover and more, and Paul luxuriated in the effect. He snuck out of the hangar and ran to the edge of the field, skirting parked passenger planes and other loading equipment. From there, he hopped the fence and began to run.

  “Woot!” he screamed at the top of his lungs as he set a fast pace and picked it up from there. He was back. His body felt primed and ready, and he wanted nothing more than to get it on with the insectoid being.

  His muscles bunched and yet worked in concert. His course took him from the airport to downtown. It was midday when he arrived and traffic stopped when he appeared on Hollywood and Vine. “Hey man, you searching for them things?” asked one motorist who’d stopped his car to take a picture.

  Take a picture, thought Paul with amusement. I’m going to go up against a killer, and he wants a pic of me for his online photo album. “Yeah, I’m searching,” he answered, panting slightly. “I’m…” He stopped talking when he caught a scent. Faint, yes, barely detectable, yet there, hanging like a piece of dandelion fluff on the wind. Swiveling his head back and forth, he checked for where it was strongest, and… Yes!

  “Gotta go,” he cried and took off in the direction of the abandoned Rallan facility. His hunch had been correct, and the smell got stronger as he ran along. Concentrating hard, he shut out all other extraneous smells and sounds, focusing on that one particular scent, ammonia mixed with something very unhealthy. After a twenty-minute run over to the factory, he stopped at the front door when the smell practically asphyxiated him.

  Checking the surroundings, he found a helicopter at the rear of the facility. It held no occupants, and the door to the building was open. Invitation time, Paul thought, and he would accept. Stepping inside, he walked past dust-covered desks and tables, kicked aside some old and dried-out Styrofoam cups, then trained his nose on the one source he was looking for.

  Along the way, he kept watch for anything else that might drop in. He heard no other sounds, though, save for a faint scratching noise from behind the door. It led to a laboratory downstairs, a sign informed him. Carefully opening up, he found who he was looking for—Sluggo. The remains of five burned-out chambers sat smoking in the far corner of the room. The hair on the back of Paul’s neck began to rise. Trouble had just been born here, and it was close.

  Oddly enough, Sluggo didn’t seem worried about company coming. He had his back turned and held a number of files in his multiple hands. He carried a very large and heavy looking centrifuge in his massive upper arms. Even from this distance, Paul was able to read the name Litton on the side of the device.

  Who the heck is Litton? It had to be the name of the manufacturer, but something else caught his eye. On a table in the corner, a computer was open and running. It had a message on it. Get the equipment and leave.

  Deciding to worry about the message later on, in a lightning-fast maneuver, Paul moved in and grabbed the slug around the neck in a chokehold. “Try hitting me now,” he said. “Your acid only goes in one direction, and your throat is open. Hang onto that centrifuge.”

  The slug struggled for a moment before relaxing. “What do you want?”

  “Take a good guess. I want location, location, location, and I want it now,” Paul replied, barely able to keep his anger in check. “Your boss went to Canada. We know he’s in the Northwest Territories. It’s a big place. Tell me where your lab is located to the nearest tree or your throat becomes a smile. You understand?”

  “Suppose I don’t tell?”

  Paul offered a grim laugh. “When’s the last time you had your medicine to stop your cells from aging?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Oh, holy crap, this thing was a clone! While it had most of the memories of the original Sluggo, it didn’t know it was a copy. It also had no idea it would die soon. He asked, “How long have you been here?”

  “A few hours.”

  If ever there was a time to feel sorry for something, then this was it, but Paul couldn’t dredge up a single shred of remorse. He let go of the creature and stood well back. “What does the doctor want that centrifuge for?”

  Sluggo-clone shrugged. “He just asked me to get it. That’s all I know.”

  Curious now, Paul asked, “What else do you remember?”

  Formerly confident, confusion now painted the insect-man’s face. “I…don’t remember. I-I woke up here. I know I’m supposed to fly a helicopter that’s out back to an airport. From there, I’m taking a plane.” He seemed to be thinking. “Yeah, that’s the plan.”

  A feeling of pity surged through Paul. This thing had woken up only a short time ago and emerged from the chamber with an implanted mission in his brain. The fact that he couldn’t understand how he’d gotten here made the situation all the more wretched. A moment later, though, the feeling of pity faded as Sluggo-clone’s eyes narrowed and he said, “But only one of us is going to make our flight.”

  He put down the centrifuge. With a snap of multiple fingers, the wall caved in behind him and five zombies, all larg
e, ugly and slavering at the mouth, entered the room. “Take care of him, boys,” Sluggo-clone said, and stood aside with a smirk on his face.

  “Yeah, take care of him,” Paul muttered and went into action. Dodging the first zombie, he extended his claws. They came out a good three inches—sharp—and he extended his fangs. Zombies number one and two got their throats torn open, and Paul bit number three’s neck. A rush of greenish-red blood poured out, and it fell to the floor. Paul whirled around and slashed at number four. His claws found their mark and that zombie fell, too, minus his neck, and it soon dissolved.

  “That was totally nasty,” he muttered, spat out the decayed flesh then shook the skin from his claws. Only one of the opposition remained and Paul went to work downstairs, grabbing a nearby chair and smashing it into the zombie’s knee. It staggered, and another shot to the side of its head caused the skull to cave in. It sank to the floor then, without a sound, bit the dust and dissolved into a puddle of organic slime.

  “Guess what’s going to happen next?” Paul said, as he tossed aside the ruined chair. “You’re a clone, buddy, not the real thing. That means your time is almost up.”

  Sluggo stared at the puddles of slime on the floor, and his eyes widened as realization set in. “No,” he said, starting to back away. “I’m real, like you are. I’m—”

  He said no more, abruptly uttered a loud groan then sank to his knees, staring at his body as each of his smaller arms dropped off one by one. A look of sheer horror crossed his face. “What’s happening? What’s happening?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  A second later, Sluggo let out a very human wail and fell over. He didn’t dissolve immediately, though. “Where’s your airplane?” Paul asked then shouted, “Where is it?”

  “Litton…Litton Industries. It’s a…private field near here.”

  The words came out as a whisper, and they turned out to be his last as he melted away to nothingness. Only the foul smell of ammonia hung in the air like a shroud. Waving the smell away, Paul went over to the computer, searched for an address then found it. “Angela,” he said, “I’m on my way.”

  Outside, he sniffed the air and savored the smog. Dirty though it was, anything smelled better than what he’d been previously forced to inhale. “Litton Industries…Carleton Airport, next stop,” he said, and began to run.

  As he ran, he kept to the side of the highway and watched as shocked motorists passed him by. He thought about Litton. The file on the computer said it had ties to the government—military as well as commercial—and made a whole range of products for the armed forces, including parts for radars, navigations systems, and it had recently gotten into medical research as well, which explained why the centrifuge had the company’s name on it. It didn’t matter, though. What mattered was finding out who the pilot was and where the flight was going—that, and getting back alive.

  Upon reaching the airfield, he wondered what to do next. A double-dozen light aircraft—one and two-engine jobs—sat waiting with their mechanics working on them. He couldn’t up and ask anyone who was going where…

  “Why can’t I?” he said to the air as the truth, self-evident, hit him. “Why can’t I?”

  Walking over to the conning tower, he asked for the operations manager. The on-duty staff offered the usual stares, and Paul, tired of the bullshit, said, “Yeah, I’m a teen wolf, a hairy dude, and I’m not going away until I see the man in charge. So get him, and do it now!”

  “I’m in charge here,” a voice said, and Paul turned around. Short and stout with a receding hairline, the speaker had a lined face and tired eyes. The badge on his chest read ‘Sutton’. “I know who you are. My question is, what are you doing here?”

  Quickly, Paul explained the situation. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but it’s the truth. If you contact Fort Benning in Georgia, ask for Colonel Stander. He’ll be there. He’ll tell you.”

  Sutton gave him a long, searching look and walked out of the room without saying a word. This was a big risk. He didn’t know if the man was placing a call to his fellow soldier or the police. A minute later, he walked back in again. “It seems there’s a Colonel Stander there. I just spoke to him. He’s with a water guy, a friend of yours?”

  “He is, and I need to find out if you have a light plane going to Canada, the Northwest Territories.”

  Blowing out a deep breath, the manager muttered something about losing his job over a civilian matter, but consulted his schedule, anyway. “You’re right. We have one flight scheduled for that region in an on-call capacity, but it’s not a plane. It’s an airbus, a helicopter used for transporting soldiers as well as medical personnel in emergencies. It was flown here about two years ago by a”—he read over the manifest—“a Dr. Peterson. It’s never been used, but it’s fueled. We had orders to keep it ready. The person paid us, and that was our job.”

  Peterson—he’d planned for everything. Skeptical a helicopter could travel so far, Paul asked, “Isn’t it a long way up north?”

  The man nodded. “It is, but this model’s been upgraded. I’ll show you.”

  Once at the hangar, Sutton took a key out of his pocket then opened the door. “That’s it,” he said, pointing straight ahead. “Its nickname is the Cougar.”

  A massive hulk, it had two extra gas tanks attached to its underbelly. “With the extra fuel it carries and the fact it isn’t carrying any weaponry, it’ll make it there. Do you need a pilot?”

  “That would help.”

  “Wait here.”

  Sutton left the hangar while Paul paced back and forth impatiently. A few minutes later, he returned with a tall, slender and stolid-faced man. The emotionless air gave way to an open-jawed stare, but he recovered quickly enough and clamped his mouth shut. “This is your pilot, Lieutenant Mackenzie,” Sutton said. “I’ve already given him the location, and he’ll get you there safely. Good luck with whatever it is you’re doing.”

  “Thanks.”

  Seconds later, the air crew pulled the helicopter out, the pilot got in and in a flash, the rotors were turning. “Hop in!” he shouted. “I guess Sutton told you, this baby’s been stripped, so she’ll go a lot faster. It’ll take about four hours, maybe more. Grab some rest if you can.”

  Paul nodded and tried to doze off, but he couldn’t. He was too worried about what he’d find and if he could succeed. In a burst of resolve, he vowed to succeed. He had no other choice.

  As they neared their destination, the temperature inside the cabin dropped. “We’re looking at minus twenty or lower,” the pilot called out. “I’ve got to be careful of everything icing up. Hang on!”

  He dove toward the ground and a few minutes later, they landed northwest of Yellowknife near a lake, and Angela and Quill ran over. Sandstorm hovered in the background, and the pilot’s eyes practically dropped from their sockets.

  Angela ignored his goggle-eyed stare and immediately kissed Paul. “We didn’t think you’d make it.”

  “We—or you?” asked Paul, returning the kiss.

  “All of us,” Quill put in. “But Angela knew you’d come. She knew.”

  The pilot interrupted by saying he’d contact the authorities then come with them as backup. “I didn’t think you guys were real,” he said with a tone of awe. “My wife isn’t going to believe me.”

  “If you want an autograph, we’ll sign it,” Paul rejoined, “but it’ll have to wait until we get back. Stay here and guard the helicopter. We have to handle this. Trust me, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Angela pointed straight ahead. “That’s Maryleer Lake. There used to be a mine here, but it closed down a long time ago because of contamination. We have to go over that hill then onto a stretch of flat land. The entrance to the mine is there. I already scoped it out, but I didn’t see anything. This has to be it.”

  It seemed like the perfect place. Quiet and und
isturbed, anyone could come around and no one would ever bother them. The only drawback was radiation, but Paul figured his immune system would protect him. He wasn’t planning on staying any longer than he had to.

  Quill interrupted things by saying, “It’s getting colder. Can we go?”

  Paul looked at Angela. “Lead the way.”

  She did precisely that, and Paul matched her step for step, heading for the biggest fight of his life. He only hoped it wouldn’t be the last.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Showdown

  “You do know this is probably where we meet our makers,” said Paul, as he observed the mine entrance. His statement came out entirely without irony.

  Night had fallen and his breath came out in frosty plumes of air. They lay behind a section of scrub brush around two hundred yards away from their target. Since taking up their position an hour ago, the Hija-clone had come out twice to survey the surroundings. He’d loosed a few shots of flame at the hard earth then gone back inside. Either he was unaware of their presence or else he felt so confident that he didn’t bother patrolling any farther than ten feet from the entrance.

  “I’ve already met my maker,” replied Angela. “He was a good man. I can’t say the same for everyone else.”

  Her remark seemed to sum everything up. For his part, Paul wanted nothing more than to get his hands on Peterson. That man—that creature—had ruined everything. He’d murdered and terrorized, and it would all end here, in this place, with the death of the scientist or… He didn’t bother to think about the alternative.

  Quill glanced nervously at the mine. “Maybe I was in there. I don’t remember for sure.” Her voice sounded anything but steady.

  In contrast, Angela sounded like the epitome of calmness. “It doesn’t matter if you remember or not. All you have to know is the enemy’s there.” She shook out her cape, brushed off a few grains of dirt then got to her feet. “They’re in there, they’re waiting and we’re going to go get them.”