Top and I looked up at the same time, putting the red dots of our laser sights on the same part of the upper wall. There was a metal grille over an access port. The grille hung by a single screw, and one corner of it was twisted and bent out of shape, the spikes of two screws hanging from the edges. The grille hadn’t been opened with a screwdriver; it had been torn out.
No. Pushed.
The scratching sound was coming from there, but as we listened, it faded and was gone.
“It’s gone,” whispered Goldman.
I noticed that he said it, not him or them. I could tell from the way he stiffened that Top caught it, too.
But Bunny asked, “What’s gone? I mean…what the hell was that?”
The scientist turned toward Bunny’s voice. His green-hued face was a study in inner conflict. His eyes were wide and blind, but they were windows into his soul. I doubt I’ve ever seen anyone as genuinely or deeply terrified.
“They…they’re soldiers,” he said.
“Whose soldiers? We were told this was a potential terrorist infiltration.”
“God,” he said hollowly. “There are a dozen of them.”
I moved up to him and grabbed a fistful of his shirt.
“Stop screwing around, Doc, or so help me God—”
“Please,” he begged. “Please…. We were trying to help. We were doing good work, important work. We were just trying to help the men in the field. But…but….”
And he began to cry.
We were screwed. Deeply, comprehensively, and perhaps terminally screwed.
Something moved in the green gloom down the hall. It was big and it kept to the shadows behind a stack of packing crates. It made a weird chittering sound.
“Is that a radio?” Bunny whispered.
I shook my head, but I really didn’t know what it was.
“It’s them!” Goldman said, and he loaded those two words with so much dread that I felt my flesh crawl.
“I got nothing down here,” said Bunny, who was still guarding behind us. “What are you seeing, Boss?”
“Unknown. Top, watch the ceilings. I don’t like this worth a damn.”
The chittering sound came again, but this time it was behind us.
“What’ve you got, Bunny?” I called.
“I don’t know, Boss, but it’s weird and it’s big. Staying out of range, just around the bend.”
I turned.
“This is the U.S. Army. Lay down your weapons and step out into the hall with your hands raised.”
My voice echoed back to me through the darkness, but whoever was around the bend did not step out.
The chittering sound was constant.
I repeated the challenge.
The sound changed, fading as the figure retreated. It was gone in seconds. I turned again, and the one ahead of us was gone as well.
“Cover me,” I said, and Top shifted to keep his laser sight next to me as I crept over to the wall below the grille. I stood on tiptoes and strained to hear.
The chittering sound was there, but it was very faint, and as I listened, it faded to silence. Whatever was making that sound was too far away to be heard, but I knew that didn’t mean it was gone.
I turned to the others. Doctor Goldman sat with his face in his hands, weeping.
“We’re all going to Hell for this,” he sobbed. “Oh, God…I’m going to Hell.”
Chap. 3
When I finally got Goldman to stop blubbering and tell me what the hell was happening I was almost sorry he did.
Halverson was able to lead us to the breakers, and we got the main lights back on. The rest of the research team huddled in the staff lounge, a few of them with improvised weapons — a fire axe, hammers, that sort of thing. The lounge had a single door, and the filtration system vent in that room was the size of a baseball. We locked ourselves in and had a powwow.
Goldman said: “This facility was originally built as a secure bunker to house the Governor and other officials during a nuclear war. After the Cold War, it was repurposed for genetics and biological research.”
“What kind of research?” I asked.
“That’s classified.”
I put my pistol barrel against his forehead. “Declassify it.”
“Listen to the man,” murmured Top in a fatherly voice — if your father was Hannibal Lecter.
Everyone gasped, and Halverson’s hand almost strayed toward his sidearm. Goldman licked his lips. “We…we’ve been tasked with exploring the feasibility of using gene therapy for military asset enhancement.”
“What kind of gene therapy?”
“Various.”
I tapped him with the barrel. “You’re stalling, and I’m disliking you more and more each second, Doc.”
He winced. “Please…I can’t think with that….” He gestured vaguely toward the gun. I moved it six inches away.
“Talk.”
“We…I mean the government, the military, see the way things are going. The biosphere is critically wounded. Global warming is only the beginning. That’s the pop-culture talking point, but it’s a lot worse than that. Seas are dying because pollution has interrupted or eliminated key links in the food chain. Plankton and krill are dying while seaborne bacteria proliferate. Coral reefs are dying, the sea floor is a garbage pit, and even Third World countries are building centrifuges by the score to refine uranium.”
“Yeah, I watch CNN. Life sucks. Get to the point.”
“Some key people in government want to ensure that no matter what happens we’ll still be able to maintain an effective military presence capable of response under all conditions.”
“What kinds of conditions?”
“Extreme. Deep pollution, blight, even post-conflict radiation environments.”
“Meaning?”
Goldman’s face was bleak. “Meaning, that if you can’t fix the world, then alter the inhabitants to adapt to the ambient circumstances.”
I sat back and laid the pistol on my lap, my finger outside of the trigger guard.
“How?” asked Bunny. “How do you make people adapt?”
“Transgenics. Gene therapy. And some other methods. We explored some surgical options, but that’s problematic. There’s recovery time, tissue rejection issues, and other problems. Genetic modification is less traumatic.”
“Let me see if I get this,” I said. “You and your bunch of mad scientists down here alter the genes of test subjects to see if you can make them more adaptable to polluted and devastated environments.”
“Yes.”
“What kinds of genes?”
“Insect,” he said. “Insects are among the most successful life-forms. Not as durable as viruses, or as hardy as some forms of bacteria, of course, but otherwise, they’re remarkable. Many can live on very little food, they can endure great injury, and there are some who are highly resistant to radiation.”
“You mean cockroaches?” Bunny asked.
Goldman shot him a quick look. “Yes and no. The idea that cockroaches would survive a nuclear war…that’s a distortion based on urban myths. Cockroaches are only a little more resistant to radiation than humans. Four hundred to one thousand rads will usually kill a human. A thousand rads will cause infertility in cockroaches. Sixty-four hundred rads will kill over ninety percent of the Blattella germanica cockroaches. No…for increased resistance to radiation we explored genes from wood-boring insects and the fruit fly. Some species of woodborers can withstand forty-eight to sixty-eight thousand rads without measurable harm. It takes sixty-four thousand rads to kill a fruit fly; and if you’re talking real endurance, the Habrobracon, a parasitoid wasp can withstand one hundred and eighty thousand rads.”