As Hale looked around he saw that the walls were riddled with bullet holes and blast marks. Pictures hung askew, the world map over the couch had been half-obliterated by an Auger blast, and blood splatter could be seen on the floor. Based on the medical paraphernalia that sat on the sideboard, it looked as if the wounded had been laid out on the dining room table. Hale could imagine his mother bent over a bloodied ranch hand, doing what she could to prolong his life for another few minutes, as the battle raged around her.
Judging from the hundreds of empty .30-30, .45, and even .22 casings that littered the floor, plus the red, green, and yellow shotgun shells scattered around the house, it appeared that the Farleys and their employees had put up one helluva fight. It had been a losing battle however, or that’s the way things appeared. But where were the bodies? Had the Chimera taken them away? Or was there some other explanation?
Although it was only mid-afternoon, little sunlight pierced the clouds and the snow, so the room was dark and gloomy. Hale removed the flashlight from his pocket and began to play the beam across the walls and floor in an effort to find some clue as to what had taken place after the battle. That was when he spotted the familiar scrawl on the living room wall.
To friends and family,
Farleys don’t run. That’s what dad said. So we stayed. They came the day before yesterday… And I’m proud to say that we killed every damned one of the bastards!
But Sam went down, and Red, and Pete. Then mom died, followed by dad, and I should have been next. But it didn’t turn out that way. So I scooped out a grave with the tractor and buried them out back. Right next to mom’s garden.
I’m heading south with Ruff. Pray for me.
Susan
Ruff was the family’s mastiff—and Susan was Hale’s sister. Not his real sister, but she might as well have been, because the two of them were as close as any blood relatives had ever been. Susan was one of the few people who could shoot a rifle as well as Hale could, and given her knowledge of the outdoors, she might have been able to escape Chimera-occupied territory alive. That possibility made Hale feel a little better as he passed from the dining room and badly ravaged kitchen to leave the house through the back door.
The snowfall slowed by then, making it a little easier as he took a look around. The barn stood off to his left, the tractor she had mentioned was straight ahead, and the garden was off to the right. A wonderful sight in the spring and summer, but fallow now, and buried under the snow.
And something new had been added, a mound that could only be the mass grave Susan had referred to, adjacent to the garden.
Each footstep made a dry crunching sound as Hale made his way over to the mound and stood with his chin on his chest. Tears trickled down his stubble-covered cheeks as he thought about the battle that had been fought, and how hard the burial must have been for Susan. These were the people who had raised him—not because they had to, but because they wanted to.
Frank and Mary Farley had been good people, who, like so many others, had been killed by the stinking invaders.
As Hale’s head came up he felt stronger, more determined than ever to eradicate the alien menace, no matter what the effort might cost him.
That was when Hale heard metal clang on metal, he brought the Rossmore up, and swiveled toward his left. Someone or something was moving around in the barn.
CHAPTER FIVE
Liar, Liar
Washington, D.C.
Monday, November 19, 1951
President Grace stood in the Oval Office and looked out into the Rose Garden. It was pouring rain, just as it had been on the morning when he was born.
His father had chosen to name him Noah after the man selected to rescue all living things from the Great Flood. It was one of many decisions that had been made without any input from his wife, who was treated as a member of her husband’s staff, and given very little authority over anything other than her garden.
Perhaps that was why Grace actually liked the rain, because it was in a way symbolic of the role reserved for him, although the deluge he faced was far worse than the events described in the book of Genesis. A time when people had doubts about the first Noah, even though he was correct about the coming flood, and how to best prepare for it.
That thought made Grace feel better as he turned his back on the garden, stepped out into the hall, and followed it to the Cabinet Room. Most of the cabinet members were present, including Director of Special Projects Ridley, Secretary of Commerce Lasky, Secretary of State Moody, Secretary of War Walker, Secretary of Transportation Keyes, Vice President McCullen, and Attorney General Clowers. And last, but not least, Grace’s Chief of Staff, William Dentweiler.
Secretary of the Interior Farnsworth and Secretary of Agriculture Seymore were both in the country’s heartland dealing with a multitude of issues related to the Protection Camps, the ever-growing shacklands, and persistent food shortages.
Some of the officials already were on their feet, chatting with one another, and those who weren’t rose as the President entered. Grace knew how important appearances could be, so he was careful to shake each man’s hand as he made the rounds. And with the exception of one man Grace felt good about his team.
Choosing Henry Walker as Secretary of War had been a mistake—one that Grace was planning to correct as soon as a suitable replacement could be found.
But there was no sign of what Grace planned to do as he slapped Walker on the back, then made his way to the chair located at the center of the table. The back of the chair was two inches taller than the rest, and fitted with a brass plaque that proclaimed, “The President.”
The meeting began with the usual prayer, followed by a series of reports, the most interesting of which came from Secretary of State Harold Moody. He had a receding hairline, a bulbous nose, and a well-trimmed mustache. His bright blue eyes darted around the table as he spoke.
“Many of you will remember Operation Overstrike, during which a force comprised of United European Defense troops, also known as the Maquis, and British forces went after a number of Chimeran targets in Paris. During the assault Major Stephen Cartwright, of the British Royal Marines, led a successful attack against the enemy’s central hub tower. Its destruction resulted in a disruption of the entire Chimera power grid in Western Europe.”
Many of those present nodded approvingly.
“What most of you weren’t aware of was the fact that Overstrike was a diversionary attack,” Moody continued. “The actual purpose of Overstrike was to deploy a retrovirus designed to infect Carriers, the Chimeran creatures that collect humans for conversion. And I’m happy to announce that the plan was successful. Carrier corpses have been found on the ground everywhere from Ireland to Spain. And without Carriers to supply them with bodies, Chimeran Conversion Centers have shut down all over Western Europe.”
That announcement produced a couple of “Hear, hears” and a round of light applause.
“Unfortunately,” Moody went on gloomily, “the Chimera have already begun to adapt. New forms—unofficially called Spinners—have been reported. The new creatures bypass the Crawler/Carrier conversion process by cocooning victims in whatever nook or cranny may be available. A process that makes both the victims and the Chimera more difficult to find. Obviously these new reports are troubling,” Moody added, “and all available information has been channeled to the Secretary of War and the Pentagon.”