“Let me in! For God’s sake, let me in!”
The security guard produced a large ring of keys and was on his way to the gate when Stillman grabbed an arm.
“Wait! You can’t do that.”
The security guard attempted to break Stillman’s grip but Bristow was there to restrain him as well.
“Are you crazy?” the young man demanded. “There’s an innocent man out there!”
“And there’s twenty innocent people in here,” Stillman responded urgently. “They’re using him as bait! They want you to open the door so they can get in.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, he’s dead already,” Stillman answered soberly. “And there’s nothing we can do about it.”
The security guard had stopped struggling by that time and stared in horror as the Spinners allowed Norton to plead.
“Please! I have a family… Don’t let me die.” Norton tugged at the bars as his eyes went from face to face. “Why?” he wanted to know. “Why won’t you let me in?”
Then, as the Chimera realized that Norton was of no further use to them, they took him down. A man began to retch and a woman sobbed pitifully as the Spinners went to work. Norton screamed while the Chimera wound layer after layer of glistening pinkish brown webbing around his body, but it wasn’t long before the sounds were silenced, as it became impossible for him to breathe. Then all the struggling came to a stop as a large group of Spinners bore the newly cocooned body away.
The gibbering sounds continued unabated, but the gate held, so most of the people pulled back from the bars as the security guard put in a call to the police. A waste of time, in Stillman’s opinion, since there were bound to be other spires, and the police sure as hell had to know about them.
“Hey,” Bristow said. “Have you seen my camera? I lost it.”
“No,” Stillman said matter-of-factly, “I haven’t.”
“Then how ′bout a smoke?” Bristow inquired.
Stillman removed a pack of Camels from his pocket, shook one of them loose, and offered it to Bristow. “You smoke? Since when?”
“Since five minutes ago,” Bristow said, as he accepted both the cigarette and the light. Then, having pulled some smoke into his lungs, he began to cough.
Stillman was putting the pack back into his pocket when he felt the recorder—and realized he had tucked the device away prior to the desperate run up the stairs. He pulled it out, turned the recorder on, and held the microphone to his lips. “This is Henry Stillman… Today, during a tour of the newly refurbished Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C., the President of the United States paused for a moment to reassure reporters and citizens alike as to the integrity of the much vaunted defense perimeter.
“No sooner had the President concluded his remarks than a huge spire fell out of the sky, landed about five hundred feet from the memorial, and killed at least a dozen people. Soon—within a matter of minutes—thousands of eggs poured out of the missile. They hatched quickly, releasing hundreds of vicious creatures, which are outside the memorial now.
“I’m approaching the gate as I speak, and the next thing you will hear is the sound of screeching, as the Chimeran horde tries to get in. It’s a horrible sound, ladies and gentlemen—and one I hope none of you have occasion to hear in person.”
The Spinners grew more agitated as Stillman neared the gate, the intensity of the gibbering sound increased, and the reporter extended the microphone in an attempt to capture the sound for the benefit of his audience.
But suddenly there was the roar of a diesel engine from somewhere just out of sight. Moments later, the Spinners fell away from the gate like a wave being sucked back into the sea, as an armored personnel carrier bucked its way up the stairs. Spinners screeched angrily as they were crushed by the half-track’s metal treads, and a vehicle-mounted machine gun began to yammer madly, with hundreds of Chimera disappearing into a blood-mist cloud.
Orders were shouted as a dozen soldiers wearing black hoods jumped down from the half-track to battle the Chimera with shotguns, Bellocks, and flamethrowers. Stillman heard a flurry of gunshots followed by a loud whump as a gout of flame consumed more than fifty Spinners and filled the air with the throat-clogging stench of burned flesh.
The battle ended five minutes later when the last stink was hunted down and dispatched with a blast from a Rossmore.
Keys rattled as the security guard unlocked the gates and swung them open. Stillman was one of the first to leave and found it difficult to walk without stepping on a body. The stairs were slick with blood and littered with hats, purses, and other debris. By placing each foot with care, he was able to make his way halfway down the stairs to the point where a badly mangled camera lay. As Bristow arrived, he bent to pick up the object. “Here,” he said, “I believe this belongs to you.”
Bristow accepted what remained of his camera and took a long slow look around. “We’re lucky to be alive.”
Stillman was silent for a moment as sirens wailed in the distance, a woman sobbed as she cradled a dead child in her arms, and a flight of Sabre Jets roared overhead.
“Maybe,” Stillman replied somberly, “or maybe the lucky ones are already dead.”
CHAPTER TEN
Payback Is a Bitch
Near Hot Springs, South Dakota
Wednesday, November 28, 1951
The shimmery blue Stalker crawled crablike up over a rocky ridge. Then, having successfully crossed the barrier, its articulated legs made whine-thud-whine sounds as they spidered down the steep slope toward the ravine below.
Occasional bursts of static, fractured sentences, and the sounds of fighting could be heard over the headphones Hale wore, but there was no way to tell who was winning the battle miles to the east. Two additional machines, both of which had been captured months earlier, followed along behind his.
The notion of using Chimeran vehicles to penetrate the enemy base near Hot Springs, South Dakota, had been Hale’s idea, yet now as he and his team battled the rough terrain, he was beginning to doubt the wisdom of the plan.
The goal had been to surprise the Chimera by arriving in three of their own vehicles—thus avoiding the antiaircraft batteries located on top of the target building. But after hours of tedious cross-country travel, their slow progress was eating up valuable time, and Hale was worried lest he and his team miss the narrow window of opportunity created by Lieutenant Colonel Jack Hawkins and the 5th Ranger Battalion.
Hawkins’s job was to advance up the main highway from Chadron, Nebraska. Then, as the stinks located in and around Hot Springs streamed south to engage the invaders, pre-positioned American troops would sweep in to crush them from both sides. Which was why the attack had been code-named Operation Iron Fist.
Meanwhile, as the battle took place, Hale and his team were supposed to sweep around to the west in an effort to bypass the action. If all went as planned, they would enter Hot Springs unopposed, break into the storage building, and snatch one of the fuel cores before the Chimera could bring a large force back to oppose them.
It was all dependent on good communications and perfect timing. Except that the radio link to Battalion Command was spotty at best, and according to Hale’s wristwatch, the team was running fifteen minutes late. Hale glanced to his right.
Despite the way the Stalker was lurching up, down, and sideways, Dr. Barrie appeared to be completely unruffled.
“I’ve been studying the map,” Barrie said, “and I have a suggestion.”