The Variant Effect

PART SIX: M.I.A.

Copyright 2010 by G. Wells Taylor

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This digital book MAY NOT be modified without the express written consent of the author. Any and all parts of this digital book MAY be reproduced or transmitted in any form and by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, provided that the original content is not modified in any way from the original work and that no compensation is received for any method of reproduction.

CHAPTER 1

Hyde enjoyed the feeling of security he got from his tight-fitting skin-shell body suit. He’d managed to don the clinging material with only a minor snag when he had to let out the straps on his leg braces to accommodate the suit’s knee and ankle joints. He was pleased to have managed the suit without the help of his medic, Gordon. At first he’d feared the ridged scar tissue on his legs would bind in the rubbery fittings and force him to seek assistance. But like everything that Brass was involved with, the skin-shell suit was a perfect fit—the end result of lots of planning. Or was it plotting?

He had yet to try the hood and face-shield, though he’d found the display and lamp hook ups were intuitive and would activate as soon as the contacts were snapped into place.

As an added benefit, the semi-rigid ‘skin-shell’ plates on his thighs and calves added stability to his legs. Hyde had experimented with the suit’s support structure by moving inside the Horton unassisted. His stiff-legged zombie walk would never pass as normal on the street, but it did allow him a different gait to the four-legged stagger he managed with his canes. This development forced him to wonder why he’d never looked more deeply into prosthetic devices. After the hospital and the endless physiotherapy, he’d accepted the wheelchair, leg braces and canes as the new status quo.

The terms of surrender.

He paused by his bed and slid his long, hooded coat over the suit and was pleased to see that the lower hem fell close to the top of his boots. He knew its hood would be large enough to cover the skin-shell hood and face-shield when they were in place. The headgear was transparent when the display surface was inactive, and Hyde could not abide the alien image he would present wearing the suit without the coat covering it.

He took a deep breath, settling into the pleasing envelope of the skin-shell’s warmth and a sound escaped his lipless mouth that could have been mistaken for pleasure.

Don’t get too comfortable. If you survive the mission, you’ll never afford this thing on your pension.

His eyes wandered to the flat-screen that was bolted to the molded high-impact plastic ledge that served as the Horton’s desk. The link showed Mao dissecting Mr. Stanford. He’d already handed the complete brain to Dr. Cavalle who had sectioned it, scanned the samples under an electron microscope and fed bits into the Gas Chromatograph Mass Spectrometer. A monitor behind her displayed Bezo’s Mass Spectral Libraries Database and Varion Molecule Index. It wouldn’t take long before identification, and then the burning would start.

Hyde dropped into his wheelchair. His mind kept returning to the autopsy photos he’d requested and finally received from Metro HQ. There was only minimal resistance from Brass.

Doesn’t he know this isn’t a game?

The images detailed the post mortem examination of the Biters from the furrier building in Metro—the ones that almost got Borland. The drunken fool was going to kill himself before Hyde fired. Conscience getting to you?

The preliminary autopsy was done onsite by Dr. Justin Ang, a high-level Bezo pathologist who had worked with the squads back in the day. And just like in the good old day, Brass held back his medical people until his squads finished taking all the risks. After the gunfire, Bezo’s precious medical scientists would arrive on the scene to take samples and talk to the media.

The hi-resolution images of Scott Morrison’s corpse allowed an incredible degree of magnification. Hyde had studied the dermal damage and found the predictable contusions and tears in areas that were not distorted by swelling and residue from infection. The usual things: torn connective tissues and deep lacerations from bites—evidence of a skin fight. Morrison had been challenged for Alpha status, that much was certain, and it had only been a matter of time. There was severe muscle damage on the left side of his head, neck and torso that had caused considerable physical deformation. The massive infections would have killed him soon.

Hyde took note of some unusual marks in the lower abdominal area that extended into the groin and over the genitalia. He emailed a query to Ang about what appeared to be incisions. Had this occurred during the post mortem? He was still waiting for a response.

Hyde hissed under his breath. A deep well of anxiety had been filling up since he’d first heard they were going to Parkerville. It had him unconsciously picking at his scarred palm, almost to the point of damaging the flesh. He had to be careful of infection.

Infection—the word seeped through him and he wistfully pined for his room at the home and War Eagle. Everything outside that room threatened infection: even human interaction, even words. They got into you, and started doing things, changing you, altering your behavior and suddenly you had to…

Something was tugging at his memory. He’d forgotten so much after the attack, after his Biters left him for dead, as if he had purposefully deleted memories—pushed it all away so nothing triggered deeper realizations...

Clicking his teeth absently, he minimized the autopsy video, opened a window to the Bezo Variant Squad database and input names for a search: “Robert Spiko” and “Justin Ang.” The crimson lettering flared on the black screen as he typed the query.

A long list of reports popped up from the day. Typical numerical designations told of reports on squad activities. A captain always sent a report to Bezo company physicians when death or disfigurement occurred inside the squad or among those ‘treated.’

Three quarters of the way down the list the titles were reversed black lettering against hot red security highlights. Then a name stood out: ‘Manfield’ by a report number. Hyde clicked the link but a security screen popped up. No surprise. The warning said an A-Level clearance was required to access the file. He dimly remembered whispers about the Manfield Building Outbreak—100 percent communicability. A captain treated his whole squad. That was Spiko... But there was more to the story. Brass said it was still classified.

And it was all so many painkillers ago...

He wondered if the Old Man, Midhurst, had A-Level clearance. It was unlikely, considering his open hostility toward Bezo back in the day.

Hyde closed the window and returned to the search results. There was a long list of locked reports after the Manfield entry that suggested Spiko and Ang had a long association. POOs had linked to the files too. Was it possible Ang was treating Spiko after?

A coincidence is a conspiracy for the weak-minded. Only facts could make the difference. Dr. Ang checked in on you, too.

“Are you involved, Hyde?” he whispered without humor, his levity unable to quell his growing fear about...

He closed the search window and opened the Metro area telephone directory to type in a name. The window flashed and produced a telephone number and address. Glowing lines on an accompanying map showed the Parkerville street.

Infection…connection—links.

“You ordering pizza?” Borland’s voice came from the Horton’s side door.

CHAPTER 2

Hyde glanced over at Borland and sputtered a curse before swinging back to close the phone directory window on the flat-screen.

“You can’t just walk in here!” he snarled.

“I’m not in…” Borland pointed where his boots hooked the step outside. “I just brought the kids back and I couldn’t tell if you were in here.” He squinted. You old freak. “It’s so dark.” He was feeling warm in the face from a few jolts he’d taken from his flask before opening the door.

“What is it?” Hyde struggled to turn his wheelchair, got it hung up on the equipment that protruded from the wall. “Do you need more attention?”

Borland looked past the old goblin at the monitor. When Hyde shut the one window another had popped up with an autopsy video feed. “Who’s cutting the shopkeeper?”

Hyde looked at the flat-screen, then spat: “Mao...” He reached out to close the window, but changed his mind, swung his attention back to his hands, started picking at his left palm. “What do you want?”

“Hard to believe we’re back to this...” Borland said, taking the long way to what he wanted to say. He noticed that Hyde’s wrists and forearms were covered in some kind of dark purple protective material.

“Not when you realize that history is full of instances where people refuse to learn from history,” Hyde ratcheted the words out.

“I just mean...” Borland cleared his throat. “It’s been so long since the day—and here we are.”

“What do you want?” Hyde rolled aggressively toward him and stopped a couple feet away.

“Learning from history—okay,” Borland snarled and drove an index finger into his own chest. He noticed that the old cripple’s legs were covered in the sample purple material. “A bit gets through to me. I can’t help it. I know you don’t think it’s true, but I do learn.”

“Get to the point,” Hyde snapped.

“We can’t work like this,” Borland growled, waving a hand back and forth between them. “Like we didn’t before.”

“What are you talking about?” Hyde tilted his head back enough for light to slip under his hood and illuminate his raw cheekbones.

“You and some of the other captains were turning your noses up at me because you hated the fact that a mess like Borland could produce results!” Borland glowered. “And even getting skinned wasn’t what turned you against me.”

“Get out, Borland.” Hyde’s scarred face slid from under an arc of shadow.

“You were too good a captain. Too realistic. You knew what we were up against.” Borland bared his teeth. “You hate me because you lost your daughter.” Borland felt pressure in his throat push up behind his face like it was swelling. “And you lost her because of me. Because you got turned into that...” He gestured at Hyde’s covered form with a bandaged hand. “Because of me.”

Hyde closed his jaws with an audible snap, hooked his wheels with his skinless fingers and rolled over to the gory image on the flat-screen.

“Who put the old man down?” Borland asked Hyde’s back.

“The amygdaloidal region of the brain was destroyed in the female Biter that attacked your team.” Hyde croaked as he picked at his palm. “Dr. Cavalle paled at the prospect of euthanizing the shopkeeper so Aggie introduced a BZ-2 overdose to his cell.” Hyde’s focus shifted to the operation. “She went in after and strapped the body to the table. Flattop and Hazard covered her.”

“Aggie,” Borland said, remembering Flattop as the big black ex-marine. “She’s something else.”

“Borland, if you are through giving me your POO’s evaluation, I do not have time to waste on nostalgia.” Hyde’s voice quivered with repressed rage. “It has been an unpleasant experience working with you again. There is no old squad glow. Now get out!”

“But I gotta report...” Borland started, feeling his own anger boil up. His temples still throbbed with his hangover and here he was trying to help and getting kicked in the face again.

You’ll never win against him.

“Accidental gunfire...” Hyde finished for him. “You found the likely hotlink to the Biter lair, but no confirmation. One of your team and Spiko has gone missing. Typical Borland mission: lots of loose ends.”

“It’s more than that, you old...” Borland wanted to rage but held it back. The muscles in his thigh cramped around the wound he’d picked up in the gully. He pressed a fist against it and bit down on the pain. Got to get a tetanus shot.

“Report to Aggie, then. She will forward relevant information to me. I will not work with you!” Hyde swung his wheelchair toward him; the action pulled the hem of his hood back to the crown of his skull. His face exposed, Borland was saved from none of the skinned man’s injuries. Blood vessels glistened, the bare muscle on his jaws flexed monstrously and his eyes rolled in their sockets. Without brows or features, the face was capable of a single naked expression of hate. “Just get out! I’m too busy for your drama.”

“Look, we were professionals once... can’t you just...” Borland sputtered.

“Professionals! What is it, Captain Borland?” Hyde snarled. “Is there not enough ice for your drinks? Are you having trouble turning your bag-suit visor into a bong?”

“Ah, the hell with you then!” Borland roared, turning in the narrow doorway. His jacket caught on something and ripped. “Then nothing!” He stepped out on the pavement beside the Horton. The noise of baggies prepping transports had covered his outburst.

We’re worse than Biters!

“Nothing?” Hyde shook his head and rolled after Borland until he filled the doorframe. He took a deep breath. His lungs rasped wearily. He tipped his head back and noisily swallowed spit before he said: “When will you understand that there are no pledges or promises that will win you forgiveness? If you are headed to an early death and damnation from drink and guilt, you deserve it.” Hyde’s laugh was a harsh sound. “For the young men and women you took to their deaths if not for what you did to my daughter—my life.” He corrected, quickly.

Borland snarled and stormed away from the Horton, his anger overcoming the many pains and discomforts that dragged at him. He threw one more snarling look back at Hyde, still framed by the Horton’s side door, and he spat a curse.

Swinging around, Borland plowed into Mao. The idiot was still wearing his medical shield-suit, and was walking blank-faced away from the holding cells. Looked like he was going to puke...

The med-tech muttered something and kept going.

Borland wanted to rip him a new one, but a voice interrupted.

“Joe!” Beachboy called to him from over by the transports.

CHAPTER 3

“I mean, Captain,” Beachboy corrected, and then: “Metro PD found Scott Morrison’s car.”

Borland stopped and frowned.

Beachboy and Dancer were in their bag-suits. Face-shields and hoods hung from fastenings on their belts opposite holstered pistols. The bagged-girl’s pretty features were drawn tight around her focused thoughts. She was watching Mao cross the pavement past the Horton to where the sedan was parked by the SUV.

“The other side of Metro, a police cruiser pulled it over. A couple crackheads boosted it.” Beachboy looked at Dancer. The woman’s eyes flashed at the younger man and then drifted back to the parking area.

Borland nodded.

“They said the keys were in the ignition—found it parked four days ago, a block away from the Demarco furrier building,” Beachboy said and smiled. “After the uniform cuffed them, he saw there was a sheet of cardboard covering the driver’s seat. Under it he found blood, lots of it caked on the vinyl and pooled on the floor.”

“Jesus. Across Metro?” Borland grasped the development, met Beachboy’s eye. “Brass ziplocked the car thieves?”

“Yep,” Beachboy said, “The arresting officers too.”

“Damn,” Borland started and then walked toward Aggie and Cavalle where they conferred by the transports. The makeshift command center’s flat-screens glowed in the shadows of the hulking vehicles. Colonel Hazen was there too, looking grim in his combat uniform. Cavalle was in a sweat-soaked squad jumper. She must have just climbed out of her stifling medical shield-suit.

Sheriff Marley was there, wearing an anxious look.

“They found Morrison’s car?” Borland asked. Beachboy and Dancer were a step behind him.

“I’m just viewing the report.” Cavalle looked up from her e-reader.

“Lots of blood,” Aggie said. “Morrison presented in his car.”

“And drove from Parkerville?” Borland shook his head.

“No, he drove to Metro, presented when he got there,” Aggie explained. “Then self-ritualized before he figured out how to open the car door.”

“That possible?” Borland glared at Cavalle, who shrugged and tapped the touch-screen on her e-reader. Thumbnail images appeared on the screen showing the inside of Morrison’s car from various angles. Borland poked a finger at the driver’s seat.

“That’s not right,” Aggie whispered.

Borland grumbled. The driver’s seat was smeared and stained with blood. There was dried blood on the ‘console’ between the bucket seats and on the steering wheel—some on the dash, but that was it. Borland shrank the image and started jabbing at thumbnails, cursing at the different images as they opened.

“Damn it!” he said finally. “You see that, Aggie?”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Nothing.”

“What’s that mean, Captain?” Dancer asked from over Borland’s shoulder.

“No blood spray,” Aggie sighed. “Self-ritualizing is messy.”

“Think the thieves cleaned it up?” Cavalle leaned toward the monitor.

“That car wasn’t cleaned,” Borland rasped.

“It’s like he was sitting in it,” Dancer said.

“Internal hemorrhage?” Cavalle used her fingers to orient the 3-D image on the e-reader. “I don’t remember that from the literature.”

“Never saw that either,” Borland growled. “And we saw everything.”

“They’re tracing the car thieves’ activities and ziplocking anything or anyone they came in contact with.” Aggie stared him in the eye. “Brass said there’s no sign that anyone else presented.”

“Any news from Mofo or Spiko?” Borland asked bleakly. He’d given a quick report about the disappearances to Aggie after checking in with Lazlo’s team and bringing Beachboy, Lilith and Zombie back to prepare for deployment.

“Spiko shut his vid-com link down as soon as Lazlo dropped him off with his baggies. And we have this.” Aggie tapped a corner of the flat-screen.

A fly-out window appeared.

“Yes, ma’am?” Wizard’s pretty face glowed from the low light inside T-2.

“Wizard, replay Mofo’s vid-com link.” Aggie stepped back so Borland and the others could see the flat-screen. “Cue it back to a minute before it shuts down.”

A fly-out window appeared, then enlarged to fill most of the flat-screen.

The vid-com picked up the side of Mofo’s face from its right ear-clip vantage point. He was moving quickly. Leaves whipped by him and struck his shoulders with audible slapping sounds. There was a pounding thud at each heavy footfall.

He turned to glance occasionally to his right where the ravine dropped into shadow. He growled unintelligibly.

Then he stopped.

“Hey!” Mofo shouted, and the vid-com caught someone in green moving through the undergrowth away from him. The vid-com camera glanced down, the audio gave harsh metallic sliding noises and Mofo’s hand came up into view with his gun.

“Hold it there!” he ordered. The vid-com caught someone facing away from Mofo dressed in green, wearing a hunter’s cap with the flaps down. There were gloves on the raised hands.

“Okay,” Mofo looked back in the direction he had come. The landscape had dropped gradually and there was no sign of Beachboy.

Mofo swung back to the man in green who was just turning toward him, but the vid-com link was blocked by the angle of Mofo’s face.

“Oh,” said Mofo, his voice softening. “Hello.” Then a hand came up and fiddled with his vid-com link. “Sorry about the gun,” he continued. “I didn’t know...”

And the link went dead.

“That’s it?” Borland grumbled.

“What do you think?” Aggie gave him a steady look.

“Almost sounded like he knew the guy,” Borland said, and then described his own glimpse of Mofo and a little man with a little dog.

“No dog in the video,” Beachboy said.

“Looked like the same guy,” Borland said. “But I didn’t see his face then either.”

“What kind of dog was it?” the Sheriff asked.

Borland stared blankly, his mind shifting back to the... “Curly hair. Was brown, with a long tail. Thing would fit in my hand.” Then he looked at the flat-screen and tapped it. Wizard’s fly-out window appeared.

“Wizard, can you get us a freeze-frame of that little guy in Mofo’s video?”

The image of Wizard looked down, and the video behind her window started to replay before she disappeared, then the images jumped ahead and stopped on the man’s back. His hands were raised. The fingers in the black gloves were spread like claws.

“That ring a bell, Sheriff?” Borland asked and then cursed when the Sheriff slowly shook his head.

“No. Can only see a bit of the cheek.” He squeezed his lower lip. “But we can print a hard copy of that picture, and get a shot of a dog similar to what you saw to circulate in the neighborhood. It’s probably not the first time he walked his dog there.”

Aggie interjected, “That’s good, Sheriff Marley, and that’s a program I want you to handle in the background.” She gestured to the bagged-boys and girls who were starting to congregate around the tables. They stood there anxious, excited and terrified, handling shotguns or shield-suit visors.

“For now, Mofo’s missing in action. So is Spiko.” She lowered her eyes. “Priority one is locking down the Biter hotlink. We’ve studied Lazlo’s vid-com uploads and that sewer is the hotlink to the lair.”

“Well, good then.” Borland was tempted to say something heroic like “lock and load” but Hyde’s tongue-lashing still ached in him.

“I agree, good,” Aggie chuckled darkly. “But look at it.” She turned to the flat-screen. “Wizard, give me the schematic of the storm sewer and drainage system under the base.”

“Yes, ma’am,” came Wizard’s voice. The screen flickered and a diagram of Parkerville appeared.

“Ah, Jesus!” Borland groaned.

CHAPTER 4

The streets and buildings of Parkerville, the military base and airport were shown in orange lines against a black background. Halfway down the map and to the west, Lazlo’s position at the sewer opening was marked in blazing red. The orange lines faded at Aggie’s touch and a set of harsh green lines appeared that ran in a long lazy loop north from Lazlo’s position, under the airport, hangers and the squad’s location in the warehouse before a long arm shot out to the east toward the runways. At intervals, smaller branches spread out from the main tunnels. A regular line of them drained rainwater out to the west and a collector ditch along the highway. Others fed back to two large circular collection cisterns before draining into the loop where it flowed southward into the ravine.

“It’s right under us,” Borland said, studying the map. Then he stabbed at a large rectangular shape that sat in the center of the main loop. “What’s that?”

Aggie tapped the touch-screen twice and white text appeared.

Colonel Hazen spoke up: “Underground storage areas. The army hasn’t used them since the base was fully operational. Machine parts and gear under those three hangers.” He nodded and gestured at the screen until Aggie dragged a finger over the map. Purple shapes appeared that linked the rectangle to the sewer system.

“That’s just for ventilation.” Hazen shrugged. “Sheet metal ducts no bigger than 18 inches across.”

“Still big enough. Goddamn,” Borland said, as he followed the ventilation shafts eastward. “The road goes north-south through a tunnel under the main runway.” He tapped the dim orange line on the street-grid. “More storage areas under there,” he growled, looking around. “Hyde’s going to want to see this.”

“He’s already watching,” Dr. Cavalle explained and tapped an icon at the bottom of the screen—a stylized Variant Squad badge with ID number.

Borland grunted. Phantom of the opera now...

“How big are those sewers?” he asked.

“Specs say they’re five feet in diameter. Concrete in the main tunnels.” Hazen pointed at the loop. “They shrink down to four and three foot corrugated steel on the branches that drain into the cisterns. Others close down to a foot in diameter and empty into the drainage ditches along the highway. The cisterns are circular concrete and measure eight feet high by 25 feet in diameter.”

“Is there any way down from here?” Borland stabbed at the circle that showed the closest collection cistern to the north of them.

“Access is blocked but that’s one way,” Hazen said, “and these points along the streets throughout the base.” He tapped the screen and small rectangles flared that corresponded to the faded grid of streets.

“Jesus!” A flash of nausea turned Borland’s guts. “Do those open?”

“Bolted shut,” Hazen said, his face challenging. “Homeland Security.”

“Security.” Borland glowered at the flat-screen.

“All right then,” Aggie said, her voice slipping a note lower. “We’ve got to secure the hotlink before we go in. Here.” She pointed at Lazlo’s position. “And here.” Her finger slid over to the storage space where the road went under the runway. “That space must be a backdoor—in case the pack runs into trouble. When the main hotlink is secure, we can consider going in through more than one location.”

“Can we just BZ-2 them?” Beachboy interrupted and then blushed. “Sorry, sirs, but once it’s ziplocked...”

“Can’t,” Hazen said. “When the Gaters moved in and started developing the east end of town, they upgraded Parkerville’s sewers and water treatment system. That involved sealing off collector pipes from the base, but they didn’t make them airtight. Release BZ-2 in there without going over it inch by inch to seal it, there’s no way of knowing where the gas could leak into the old lines and come up through Parkerville drainpipes.”

“Christ,” Borland growled at the flat-screen. “So the squad has to go in, kill everything and then Ziplock it before we can gas.” He pushed at a hernia. “Same protocol. Different order.”

“But what are you going to kill?” Sheriff Marley asked.

“That’s a problem. We’ve got a housewife, local boozehound, five college kids, and the same number of AWOL soldiers missing.” Aggie counted off. “We’ve got two dead Biters. And we still haven’t heard anything from Mofo and Spiko. I’m keeping my fingers crossed there but it’s not looking good.” Her chin dropped. “If it’s a new Variant hybrid with a high transmission rate we’ve got at least eleven.” She nodded.

“Aggie, there’ll be more by now,” Borland said. “You know the way Variant works. Even with transmission rates back in the day, it got ahead of us. And we haven’t gone door to door. The missing people we know about are the only ones we can count. Who knows what’s in those tunnels or what’s in the ravine.”

“What do you suggest?” Aggie’s tone was combative.

“Your call,” Borland relented. “As long as we assume the worst.”

“We’ll follow protocol, Borland,” Aggie reminded. “The squad goes in T-1 to Lazlo’s location. We enter there and seal the hotlink behind us. Then we’ll move up on the west side of the loop and work our way to the cistern here.” She pointed at the top of the screen.

“What about the storage space under the runway?” Cavalle asked.

“Colonel Hazen will put a company of men there, in case we flush them out.” Aggie looked up at the base commander.

“We’ve got army-issue variant-protection suits from back in the day.” His voice was gruff. “They’re old but operational. I’ve got my people breaking them out of storage now.” He pointed at the map on the flat-screen. “I’ll put 20 men under the tunnel. Their orders will be to stay put, and kill anything that tries to come out.”

“They have to stay put,” Borland warned. “They can’t come in until we say.”

“The Colonel is also going to prep a squad of his own and bring them in T-2 to Lazlo’s location.” Aggie nodded at Hazen. “They’ll be in touch with us while we’re on the move, and can coordinate their insertion, if we run into trouble.” She looked at Cavalle and Borland. “They won’t have specific training for Biters, but they’ve got enough firepower to destroy anything down there.”

Aggie sighed. “That’s a worst-case scenario, Colonel, and one I’ll call in if necessary. We learned back in the day that putting more than one squad into the same hole is very dangerous.” Her shoulders slumped. “Crossfire.”

Borland squeezed his fingers around his bandaged hand and used the throb of pain to clear his mind. Something was wrong with this. Still, an army squad at their backs took some of the heat off them.

Their? Wait a second, was he saying, “we?”

Then he said: “Aggie, we got to talk about who’s going. I’m not good in rabbit holes anymore.” He shrugged, his guts twisting. “Has Brass given the go ahead to deploy?”

Hyde’s Horton suddenly came to life, the engine revved and then the annoying beep, beep, beep followed as it reversed and started to turn around.

“Where the hell is he going?” Borland asked as the Horton drove out of the warehouse.

“He’s moving out to Lazlo’s coordinates. We’ll meet him there,” Aggie said, smiling. “As soon as you get suited up, we can go after him.” Her look hardened. “You’ll consult from T-1 onsite. Nobody wants to get stuck in a hole behind you.” She squared her shoulders and addressed the squad. “I want us in position when Brass gives the order—and he will.” Aggie started through a final list of warnings.

Borland winced, pushed at his hernias, and then limped toward T-1, but he stopped after a couple steps to watch Mao.

The med-tech had been hidden by the Horton. He was still wearing his medical shield-suit, and carrying something that looked like a big plastic med-kit. What the hell—wait! Something about the way the man was walking. He was stiff-legged, his body jarring with each step he took toward the rear of T-2. The big vehicle’s nose was parked tight to T-1’s exit ramp.

“Mao!” Borland shouted.

The med-tech kept coming, was now yards away from T-2. Mao was walking strangely, like he couldn’t control his legs.

Like a man under compulsion!

Carrying a medical kit—no—it was a jerry can. Borland glanced past Mao to the space where the Horton had been parked. Just beyond it was a portable fuel tank Hazen’s men had set up for the squad. A hose had been pulled out of the pump; the nozzle lay on the pavement spraying fuel!

“Shoot Mao! Shoot him!” Borland yelled as he pulled his pistol and fired off a couple rounds, but Mao disappeared into T-2.

“Borland!” Aggie shouted, drawing her own pistol, her eyes following Borland’s gun. Fuel was still pouring onto the pavement. Dark fingers of it trickled across the warehouse floor.

A fireball erupted out of T-2’s rear door and rocked the vehicle on its axles. The shockwave and heat buffeted Borland. He dropped to a knee and watched the flames ignite the rivulets of fuel. The army’s portable fuel tank burst into flame.

The second explosion knocked him over and rang his head against T-1’s heavy armored flank.

CHAPTER 5

The stalker sat at the little table and enjoyed the warm atmosphere of classical music, flowers and candlelight. And company! Mr. Hopper, a ragged blue bunny with worn and frayed ears sat on the stalker’s right. He was playing daddy at tonight’s little party. Across from him sat the green-eyed Edna Explorer doll. She had changed out of her khaki jungle wear and into a sequined red dress purchased at a yard sale. Edna was mommy tonight.

“This is all so nice,” said the stalker.

The stalker was pleased to have the family back together for this important dinner. And this was a special occasion. How often was there a wedding in the family?

Clunk!

“Oh please, honey,” cooed the stalker, looking past the empty chair across from it and into the shadows. “You mustn’t upset mommy.”

Clunk!

“So tell me,” said Mr. Hopper as daddy. The stalker gave him a voice very much like the daddy that left long ago. “What is it you do for a living, young man?”

Clunk! Grunt!

“I understand he’s a policeman,” ‘mommy’ said, her green eyes twinkling in the candlelight.

“But his real passion is photography,” the stalker interjected seamlessly. Switching personas was simple; it helped make the terror go away—to get outside itself and watch. It was simple changing in and out of other peoples’ skins. Sometimes it was the only way it could do what it had to do to survive.

Memories were awful. When it was calm—the thoughts were bad, could bring the terror back.

The stalker had seen the information about photography and clubs in the fresh one’s—the guest of honor’s—wallet, while he was being undressed for dinner and still unconscious from the Taser.

Ssskin.

Clunk!

“Well, he’s not very talkative,” daddy said, and then coughed—the stalker coughed too, and then chuckled with release. “Strong silent type.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full dear,” mommy warned, and the stalker laughed again.

Clunk!

The stalker gazed across the table at the guest of honor.

Bang!

There was a time the stalker wanted a normal life, but it had put the goal aside after daddy left and the terror came. No time for marriage and kids with all the work at the lab—at the lab—at the lab. Sweet. Sweet. Skin.

And then the stalker felt a sudden pang of fear so it shifted perspective to mommy but found her closed, and then was stonewalled by daddy’s button-like eyes. The stalker’s heart raced, sweat leapt onto its brow when it stepped back and saw itself trapped in a chair, presiding over the sad little scene, unable to move from the focus of the guest’s imploring gaze.

Those dark eyes watching over the strip of tape.

Clunk! The guest pulled at the chains that held him on his toes against the wall. Bang. He heaved again.

The stalker felt tears well up in its own eyes; pressure throbbed in its temples. Gasping, the terror crowding, it reached out for the knife and fork, leaned forward and stabbed the flap of skin that covered its plate. Heart pounding, it sawed at the lower edge, rolled the bristling strip around the fork and pushed it into its mouth.

Ssskin. Sweet. Sour. Funky. Musty. Sweet. Sweet.Skin!

Clunk!

The stalker’s eyes rolled back and its body bucked close to orgasm as it chewed the coppery wet mixture of blood and skin.

Start in the groin, high on the groin and work down past the stubble to the smooth stuff. Funny, didn’t have to shave this one like the other. This time as the stalker prepared for Ritual the guest’s member came alive with desire at the first cut—during all the cuts. His ordeal of pain was mixed provocatively with passion and the stalker was dared by its own yearning to try the member too, to skin it and add its calm to the ritual.

Why not, it’s a celebration?

When that process produced a shocking yet unmistakably sexual explosion, the stalker was caught up in the excess, and throwing caution to the wind had coupled with the guest where he hung in chains and blood and gore.

Clunk!

Sitting across from him now, seeing the guest’s gory tissue rise in painful passionate torment, the stalker wondered if the playful fantasy of daddy and mommy shouldn’t be replaced by the honeymoon.

Careful, that’s how it happened before. When the mistake was made and the other one got away. Can’t get caught in Ritual.

“Mommy,” asked the stalker, slipping into a feminine voice. “Don’t you like your food?”

The stalker referred to a choice strip of pale skin that had been peeled out of the guest’s groin. It’s own skin was starting to grow bumps of excitement, anticipation and fear again.

“I’m watching my figure, dear,” mommy responded. “You help yourself.”

The stalker’s fork flashed out and snatched the strip of skin, stuffed it into its mouth.

Sweet! Spasm! Sweet! Pain! Sweet. Sweet. Smooth. Sweet. Skin. Ssskin. Orgasm!

Clunk! This time the guest made a nasal moaning sound and something like a whimper. He was getting tired. Breathing past the duct tape was exhausting work.

But not too exhausting for that... The stalker’s eyes were drawn to the guest’s mangled member.

“Randy bugger,” said daddy, quite out of character from the one the stalker remembered. That one was always straight and tall when he walked and never lied; and he always shushed and shook his head when someone said something dirty.

But things were different now so the stalker laughed along with mommy, dabbed blood from its smiling lips with a napkin, as its eyes remained locked on the guest’s...

The stalker picked up its knife and stood, its eyes roving over the big guest’s body. So much to choose from.

Ssskin.

Clunk!

The guest’s eyes remained locked on the stalker’s. His chest heaved with pain, with anticipation as the stalker walked around the table. As blood continued to weep down his thighs.

So simple to catch this one, his desire was uncontrollable. The stalker had led him to its car, to do it there, to couple, to have mating rituals in the car. And the guest came without hesitation.

Then the Taser flashed and the duct tape came out—and then into the house through the garage, across the kitchen and down the stairs.

Thump. Thump! Clunk!

The stalker stepped in close, and wrapped a soft hand around the guest’s rigid member. He grunted, and his eyes flared with excruciating desire.

To couple again, to do it.

Instead the stalker raised the knife, held the blade under the...

BANG!

A noise from upstairs. The stalker paused.

Bang! Rattle. Boom. Boom. Boom.

The little doggy started barking. Something was outside—at the door banging.

Little Biters? Bad ones!

Still the doggy barked. The stalker shuddered at the high-pitched yap. It was no hunter that thing, but a companion, yes and loyal. The only one. Always barking, but the only one that knew and cared. The stalker’s little pack.

Boom. Bang. Biters!

The stalker knew the gully was quickly filling with them, that there was a pack gathering somewhere near.

Why can’t they be quiet and bite in secret?

Now coming up to doors! That wasn’t right. It was very bad. Things were getting out of hand.

The stalker sighed and looked wistfully up at its guest. He had heard the noise too, and his fear or anticipation had registered through the throb of wounded flesh in the stalker’s hand.

Oh dear.

The Taser flashed and the guest rattled and buzzed against the wall. Blood sprinkled as every muscle stiffened and then he collapsed, asleep and hanging in his chains.

The stalker walked to the table by the washbasin where it kept its gear and picked up a big gun.

The stalker left the guest in the secret room and stood at the bottom of the basement stairs while the noises BANGED and BOOMED up there. It didn’t want to fight the little Biters, just scare them away before they brought trouble.

They must have followed, must have smelled out its lair.

That was bad.

The stalker had met them in the gully when it was stalking. For some reason, they listened—and didn’t bite.

There was a great CRASH up there, many feet thumped on the floor and the little doggy barked a final time.

Teeth bared, the stalker roared up the stairs.

CHAPTER 6

The Horton’s elevator lowered Hyde onto the street in front of the house. His driver, the corporal, had parked the vehicle by the curb. The man now stood at the open rear doors and worked the lift controls with the remote.

Hyde found the house to be a pleasing collection of symmetrical architectural shapes—nothing fancy or wasteful. There were two stories of dark red brick and light cream trim on old-fashioned puttied windows, sashes, soffit and fascia. A silver hybrid fastback was parked in the driveway center to the garage door.

A warm glow leaked out around drawn window blinds. The porch light blazed opposite the address numbers, in brass positioned on the doorframe. Two narrow windows were set in the door angling down toward the knob. The cream-colored screen door was closed over that.

Very nice.

Hyde was wearing his skin-shell suit. The face-shield, display gear and biofeedback receptors were in place under his hood. The skin-shell came with an advanced audio system that amplified the sounds around him: a pop can rolled in the breeze, its dented sides ringing an irregular scale; the corporal was mumbling disapproval as his footsteps paced toward the front of the Horton, bag-suit squeaking; a dog was barking far away.

And the skin-shell suit, hidden under his long coat and hood, gave Hyde a secure and objective distance from the scene. He felt whole, though he knew it an illusion, and safe, though he knew that to be illusion too.

Those factors bolstered his confidence when considering the disconcerting reason for this visit.

You put this off too long. He grumbled and sputtered a self-directed curse. And there’s still time to back out.

“Fool!” Hyde said, and the skin-shell suit’s microphone and speakers transmitted the word.

Grumbling, he grabbed his canes, slid forward in his chair and heaved himself onto his feet. The curbs by the house, like all curbs, were sloped in places for wheelchairs, but Hyde realized such open access had not yet been firmly installed in the human mind. That was a place still filled with obstacles for the handicapped.

The canes are bad enough.

He cursed under his breath and made his way onto the curb and sidewalk that crossed the front of the house. There was a footpath of regular stone that led to the door.

“Stay sharp, Corporal,” Hyde said, his mechanically enhanced voice made his “S’s” especially sibilant. A toggle on his suit would allow him to switch the external communications gear to the suit-to-suit intercom that was reserved for squads on the move or separated underground or in unfamiliar territory.

The corporal mumbled something in return. Hyde’s personal medic, Gordon, had been commandeered for squad action. Aggie wanted two med-techs when she deployed.

Hyde made excellent time crossing the lawn; his canes and the shield-suit’s rigidity allowed him a more economical use of his energy. In fact, he barely needed the canes at all. The realization and freedom welled up in him and produced a pleasant gasp instead of a smile.

You should have looked into the skin-shell sooner. You survived without living.

“No,” he said, as he arrived at the door. “More fantasies.” That’s the danger in illusions like the skin-shell. “No better than cranking.”

Hyde paused in the porch light and struggled with his options and with his determination to live without illusion.

Activate the display. He mulled over the notion. Before heading out, he’d clicked through the suit’s display options and found several scans of nondescript individuals, John and Jane Doe’s—full body images that he could wear to the masquerade.

But there was another, a well-made approximation built from records and enhanced to show the effects of age on someone who hadn’t been skinned alive.

“I won’t do it,” Hyde rasped, raising a hand toward the doorbell. You must be authentic. That’s all they left you.

He rang the bell and sank back under his hood. Then he looked toward the street, clicking his teeth. A sound from inside. Was it inside? Then he thought perhaps it was the wind pressing against the windows.

Damn! Hyde’s gloved hand came up, pushed his left sleeve back to show the skin-shell controls at his wrist. He activated the display. Light flashed before his eyes. He paused a second and pulled his hood back.

An emotional chord thrummed in him.

There was a face reflected in the glass panel on the screen door. Older, glowing slightly with strange spectral light, but it was the face of Captain Eric Hyde. Tears welled up and the eyelids quivered. He studied the lines around the forehead and mouth, the white-gray tangle of sideburns and the straight nose with flaring nostrils.

Amazing. True, the display cast a slight aura to compensate for existing light conditions, but it was amazing.

Keep moving.

He reached out and rang the doorbell again, and was amazed again to see his hands—the skin weathered and wrinkled but somehow powerful, bunching, synchronized with the muscles beneath.

This is dangerous. Don’t believe it!

He moved forward to peek through the door. Now that you’re not a hobgoblin!

And his breath caught.

Across a cream-colored carpet he saw the patio doors were broken inward onto toppled table and chairs. There were muddy footprints, leaves and detritus tracked all over the carpet. An electric chandelier hung over the scene. Darkness sucked gauzy window sheers out toward the ravine.

You’re too late!

Hyde hooked one cane over the top button on his coat and pulled his .44 magnum. He heaved the screen door aside and tried the inside door—it was locked so he shot the deadbolt. He snarled as his canes tangled in his legs, as he shoved the door aside in a haze of gun smoke.

He swung back to the street before entering. The Corporal was alarmed by the gunshot, was pulling his hood awkwardly over his head—almost dropped his shotgun in the process.

“A hunting pack!” Hyde shouted. “Hurry!”

He struggled past the doors, lurching on one cane. His gun swept from corner to corner.

He moved into the house, pushing the magnum left to a half-open closet and right to a living room with couch and chairs. He pointed his gun up the stairs across from him.

“Hello!” Hyde shouted, his amplified voice sounded alien in the setting. “Anybody here?”

He lurched toward the patio doors, turned his gun into the doorway past the stairs—the kitchen.

Something alerted him, set his nerves on edge and he turned, but it was the corporal. The man looked startled—his eyes fixed on Hyde’s—face—Hyde had a face!

Hyde rasped something unpleasant and pulled his hood up before turning the display off.

“I couldn’t raise Captain Dambe,” the corporal said, his muffled voice tight with anxiety. His shotgun swung toward the kitchen. “I get a signal but I can’t link up to the base.”

“Blast,” Hyde cursed distantly, before pointing his gun at the carpet. “Someone’s been taken. At least three Biters entered here.”

“Jesus!” the corporal swore, and when Hyde started out the broken doors he blurted: “Shouldn’t we wait for backup?”

“Someone’s been taken,” Hyde hissed. “Every second counts.”

“Taken?” the corporal’s voice shook. “Don’t Biters just take the skin?”

“Agreed,” Hyde stated firmly. “Something is different. It is important that we find out what.”

He stepped out into the night, pleased with the stability offered him by his skin-shell suit. “Keep trying to raise the squad on your palm-com.”

The corporal hurried back to button up the Horton, while Hyde anxiously studied the shadows.

We can’t assume the Effect transmits every time. There might be a survivor! There has to be!

Trees loomed high over him, and a gusting wind made the dark underbrush shake and sway. Hyde flicked on his hood-lamps and moved across the grass. Footprints tangled the dark green blades, made a path toward the forested ravine. To his left, a broad expanse of lawn opened onto Ridgeway Memorial Park. He could see the lights of several large homes on the far side—the gated community, Ridgeway Heights.

The corporal returned. Hyde motioned for him to follow. The trail led to the right on a western course where the ravine passed through the center of Parkerville.

CHAPTER 7

Wizard’s quick thinking saved her. Already wearing a bag-suit for the coming deployment, she turned from the communications panel to see Mao enter T-2 pouring the contents of the jerry can over his head. She smelled the gasoline fumes and just managed to pull her hood on and start her breathable when Mao lit up. He was laughing as he flicked the butane lighter.

The bag-suit gave Wizard enough protection to shove past him and get clear of the machine before the remaining fuel in the jerry can exploded.

She survived.

Mao and two other baggies were not so lucky. A former Metro detective-turned-bagged-boy with a shield-name of Badge burned alive. He had been copping a nap in the transport’s overhead sleeping berth. No one knew he was up there. Aggie filled Borland in on the dead baggies’ specifics while others made attempts to save them.

A bagged-girl called “Patriot” had suffered severe burns to her lungs and died despite Dr. Cavalle’s best efforts. Patriot was a federal air marshal that abandoned plans of being a homeland security agent to die a Variant Squad member. She had been following Mao’s movements from the other side of T-2 and ran right into the fireball as Borland started shouting.

As the smoke cleared, it didn’t take Borland long to figure out why the explosion in the transport had been so violent. As the squad was preparing to deploy, equipment and supplies were set out in T-2’s squad compartment for baggies to grab as they needed: water, food-sticks, batteries and hood-lamp bulbs. Luckily, most of the explosive cutting tape had already been doled out. Otherwise, it would have been much worse.

The squads called them sparklers back in the day because of the way their fuses burned. Each baggie was issued four lengths of the tape that they then carried in special heat-resistant graphite containers. Based on thermite cutters used in demolition, these flexible explosive lengths burned hot and violently and were used to cut through steel, wood or concrete rebar for rapid entry or exit. The sparklers were adapted to ignite at lower temperatures with either spark or flame and had saved many a squad over the years.

The last to grab his sparklers, Chopper, said there were maybe ten left—and yes, he left the box open for the next baggie up.

Unfortunately, that was Mao. Seconds after Wizard left the van, the sparklers lit up causing a hot, intense explosion of molten metal that cut a hole through the floor of T-2. It made a mess out of Mao as well.

Luckily, the army’s portable fuel container across from T-2 was well under a quarter full from the squad refueling transports and civilian vehicles for the mission, so the second explosion was bright and noisy but ate up most of the combustible.

Colonel Hazen’s army fire trucks arrived in minutes and doused the blaze before the warehouse caught fire. The squad was banged up, pissed off and frightened. Cutter and Slick received some fairly serious burns while dragging Patriot’s body out of T-2; but Cavalle said their injuries would not keep them from duty. The squad bandaged its wounds, mended or replaced damaged bag-suits and stood in a loose formation around their commanders.

Aggie was pissed. She shot a withering gaze at Borland that kept him from firing any defensive volleys.

“What happened?” Aggie confronted him.

“Had to be Pyromania,” he said, shaking his head and baring his teeth. “He had that zombie walk from back in the day, but I didn’t put it together quick enough.”

“He presented?” Aggie shook her head. “Come on! I’d be more apt to believe it was sabotage.” She glared at T-2’s blackened profile. “Do you know the chances of a pyromaniac presenting spontaneously after the number of Biter transmissions we’ve seen?”

“He could have been exposed during the autopsy on the—the shopkeeper,” Cavalle interjected. Her hair was singed. Borland had been impressed by her actions. She’d run right up to the heat and flames behind T-2 to work on Patriot. “It only requires exposure to body fluid containing the Varion hybrid molecule, and those scalpels are sharp.” She looked at the body bags containing Mao, Patriot and Badge’s remains. “The video may show.”

“Don’t rule out sabotage too quickly,” Colonel Hazen joined in. “Look at the timing of this.”

“Who would want to sabotage us?” Borland asked, hackles rising.

“Lots of people,” Aggie explained. “As Hyde says: Remember, history! There was a strong green movement back in the day that sabotaged Bezo properties and squads because Bezo invented Varion, and we were seen as corporate hired guns.” Aggie shook her head. “And there were enough indiscretions and accidents among the squads to earn some of the distrust. Those Green Groups have grown powerful since the day.”

“Who’s going to set himself on fire?” Wizard piped up. Her bag-suit was scorched in places. Borland noticed some of it looked shrink-wrapped to her body. “There are a hundred different ways we could be sabotaged. That’s pretty spectacular.”

“Good point,” Aggie agreed. “Did anyone notice Mao’s behavior before?”

“I have to admit, his communications during the autopsy bothered me,” Cavalle said, wiping grime from her forehead with a sleeve. “I started cooking samples and left him to it. When I talked to him on the com-link from outside, he was giving one or two syllable answers.”

“Actually, I should have said something; but when I was watching the autopsy outside on the screen, I asked Mao a couple things and he didn’t answer at all,” Hyde’s medic added. Gordon was a tall thin man in his late twenties, though his balding crown made him look older. He was wearing a blue squad uniform under his bag-suit. He held his hood in his hand. The med-tech shrugged. “So I tried to kid with him, and then he set his scalpel down and walked out. He didn’t even shut the door.”

Aggie glared at him.

“I thought he was pissed at me—and it was weird, yeah, but I went in to cover the body and lock up.” Gordon lowered his eyes and he shrugged. “The explosion came before I finished.”

Aggie’s shoulders stiffened, but Borland moved before the worst could happen.

“Okay. A lesson for us,” he said, stepping in close to Aggie. He pushed Gordon away and turned to the group. “Report any weird behavior right away.”

“And get another point of view,” Aggie growled. “If someone’s behaving strangely, check it with someone else.” She whipped around. “This is not the time for doubt. We can’t worry about embarrassing questions. Understand?”

“Agreed,” Dr. Cavalle put in. “I am also Psyche Ops Officer for this squad. Report any unusual feelings, any fears to me. It’s probably just paranoia, but we can’t take the chance it’s something else.”

“So where do we go from here?” Borland set his feet wide apart, and frowned at T-2. He was started to feel the need for something to settle his nerves. He’d had a couple jolts before talking to Hyde, but all the new excitement had left him agitated and had burned away his reserves. He was starting to feel his injuries again.

Borland absently pressed at a hernia and kicked his leg.

Aggie noticed the action but started: “Wizard, transfer communications to the backup in T-1. Hazard?” The damaged transport’s muscular driver snapped to attention. “Will T-2 be able to see action?”

“It’ll carry troops, ma’am,” Hazard replied. “The sparklers cut the hydraulics but missed the drive shaft. I can fix the hydraulics; but the electrics are burned out of the main squad compartment and overhead. Potentially dangerous scenario, but in a pinch, from point A to point B, it should be safe enough.”

“Colonel Hazen, I’m sure your men and women are willing to accept the risk,” Aggie said. “Hazard, you prep T-2 and be ready to bring the Colonel’s squad when we need it. You have an hour.” She exhaled and squared her shoulders. “I regret the loss of our people, but we’ve still got a squad.” Her chin dipped. “We go ahead with the plan.”

Everyone jumped at an electronic warbling sound. Aggie shifted, looked down at her belt and grabbed her palm-com. She held it to her ear.

“Yes?” she said, the squad stared, straining to know. Aggie’s shoulders squared. “How many?”

Borland frowned and leaned in.

“What’s the address?” She held her palm-com away, watched as the information appeared. She nodded and returned the phone to her ear. “Thank you, corporal. Do not engage. I’ll send backup. Update them en route,” Aggie said, and snapped her palm-com off.

“What?” Borland grunted.

“Someone was taken by Biters from an address near Ridgeway Heights. The east end of our hotlink.” Aggie’s expression was grim. “Hyde is in pursuit.”

“Hyde went after them?” Borland growled. Ridgeway Heights? Then he must know. Borland shook his head and snarled, “Are they all in wheelchairs?”

CHAPTER 8

Hyde was getting tired. True, he had quickly adapted to this novel mode of locomotion, but he was out of shape. An invalid. His damaged body was unused to this sort of work—any kind of work—and the slippery grass had combined with the darkness to produce some awkward falls. That resulted in painful muscle pulls that finally forced him to put his gun away and take up both canes. To hobble. Adrenaline still burned along his nerves, but his atrophied muscle had little to give in return. The leg braces were so heavy.

You can’t stop. You can’t fail.

The corporal was there eager to help—and survive. His shotgun trembled in jittery hands, ready for anything—for everything—as long as he could refrain from killing Hyde. He was jumping at shadows. The night crowded in and a breeze in the leaves whispered.

Skin. He has skin. He should be afraid.

They had continued three blocks west, until being forced by fences and other obstacles to take to the street. The sidewalk and streetlights on Falcon Avenue made for faster travel—though Hyde’s legs and back were paining him terribly—but he assumed that the Biters would make a beeline for their lair. When he found no blood angel or scene of carnage, Hyde imagined that the victim had either escaped, presented during the first stages of the attack or was being taken somewhere secure for that purpose.

The first violent stages of the ritual would be unnerving to the anxious Biters, though their need overrode any discomfort.

You screamed until your voice broke.

Incidents of hunting and gathering were recorded back in the day, but such reports were sketchy. Of course, study of Biters from the very early days of the day was incomplete for obvious reasons. No one knew that the packs were even there until they grew to a size where they could hunt openly for skin. Parkerville’s pack would be small, and most of its members sick and dying. It was easy to hypothesize that early-stage hunting packs brought their captives back for Ritual in private and relative safety—the survival imperative.

There’s a slim chance.

The corporal had twice suggested that he go back for the van, but Hyde insisted there wasn’t time. If the Biters did begin the ritual, then the only chance of interrupting them lay in pressing forward.

People can survive. You’re proof of that.

Soon they took the turn where a street jogged to the right and north, where the ravine wended toward the military base.

There’s still time!

At the corner, he told the corporal to contact Lazlo again. Right after Aggie called and ordered them to push toward Lazlo’s location where she’d meet them with the squad; they’d hailed Lazlo via palm-com. The Variant veteran was surprised to hear from Hyde—especially that he was on foot, but he was glad the squad was coming.

He and his team, Jailbird and Shanju, had retired to the van and were keeping watch. They’d seen no activity in the ravine, though Jailbird swore he’d heard something hiss the word: “Skin” near the sewer mouth.

Hyde pushed along, his feet cramping. Drool dangled from his jaw. Strings of it fouled his face-shield and his breath fogged the anti-fog material. His relentless stagger forced the corporal to operate his palm-com on the move.

“Can’t raise him,” he said, looking at overhead power lines. “Must be interference.”

“Is there a signal?” Hyde wheezed, and then: a gunshot!

And another.

“That’s up ahead!” the corporal said, pointing with his gun.

“Hurry!” Hyde barked, pushing himself to harder effort. His heart pounded, and his legs throbbed. The scar tissue on his skull and neck twitched.

There was a streetlight ahead where the road turned left and the tree choked ravine loomed in shadows. Hyde knew the gully narrowed at a culvert that allowed runoff under an east-west stretch of road. Past that, the ravine wall would rise to the north where the sewer opened up.

They rounded the corner and saw Lazlo’s van parked on the raised shoulder just inside the rim of direct streetlight—perhaps fifty yards from them. Past it, Hyde knew the black portal of the sewer opening lurked in darkness.

The street ran past the van to a dead end. A fence closed it beside a line of tall trees. Beyond that, Hyde saw headlights and heard cars whizzing on the north-south stretch of highway. It was a merge proposed for better fiscal days.

“I still can’t raise them,” the corporal said breathlessly, tapping his palm-com’s redial. “Do you think they went into the sewer?”

Hyde suddenly stopped, hung a cane over his top button and drew his gun out of his coat. Silence often meant the worst. He pointed at the van and lurched forward leaning over his cane. The rear doors were ajar.

“Oh no!” the corporal said, struggling. “Please tell me that’s good.”

Hyde limped toward the van. He pointed at the back of the van with his gun and made a stopping motion—signaled for the corporal to cover him from there.

“Now you’re not talking!” The corporal’s voice quavered as he aimed at the van. “You can’t do that!”

Hyde reached the front of the van and drooped over his cane. There was blood spray on the inside surface. He flipped on his hood-lamps and peered into the van. Blood on the dash—on both seats.

“Captain?” the corporal called from the rear. “What is it?”

Hyde made another silencing gesture and hurried, wheezing to the back of the van. The corporal was standing a good ten feet back. His eyes flicked from the van and over to the shadows beside the road.

Hyde braced himself against a cane. The van doors opened along a center line—an eight-inch wide strip of shadow gaped. There was one handle. He looked at the corporal, his hood covering much of his face.

Hyde slid his fingers into the handle on the rear door. He caught the corporal’s eye and nodded.

“Ah, God!” the corporal cried, and sighted along his gun. “Not in the van!”

And Hyde swung the door open on a blood angel. It glistened in the light from their hood-lamps. But no body. There was a lot of blood, but not enough to suggest more than one person had met this fate. Your fate. Hyde reviewed what he knew about Lazlo’s team. A bagged-girl Shanju: Hyde remembered her file. A martial artist, she trained soldiers in the People’s Liberation Army in non-radioactive China before emigrating to the west. The other was shield-named Jailbird. He grew up in a rough part of Metro, a juvenile repeat offender who turned his life around in the military to later become a decorated police officer in civilian life.

The Biters had skinned someone. Hyde’s guts twisted over the confined space as he imagined the horrible scene. There were imprints on the walls; there a naked hand and forearm, bare muscle etched in blood; and there, the stamp of a raw hip bone and thigh.

Ssskin! Skin. Skin! They’d whisper it, biting and holding as the Alpha set its teeth and ripped. As the skin peeled off.

Hyde gasped, resisted the urge to...

“Take your hood off, corporal,” Hyde said over his shoulder, but too late.

The corporal vomited and then retched again. He swore as he tore his hood off, now filled with his stomach’s contents.

“It’s a gamble, either way,” Hyde said absently. He used the barrel of his gun to push at congealing blood pooled on the carpeted floor of the van. “Not enough blood for all three...” But whose angel was it? How did the Biters take them by surprise?

“Where’s the suit?” the corporal asked, whipping his hood, letting centrifugal force clean its contents out. “Wouldn’t there be clothes?”

“It is early and the Biters have not fine-tuned their ritual. Doubtless they valued the vinyl covering, like the victim’s jumpsuit as skin.” Hyde shut off his hood-lamps. Hid the angel in darkness. “Later they will come to understand the difference.”

“But they’re smart enough to get into a van?” the corporal had pulled his filthy hood back on, and was swinging his shotgun to cover any sound.

“Apelike intelligence, so no mean feat,” Hyde shrugged and shut the door. He crept forward on a single cane. His free hand held the gun.

“But, so where are they?” the corporal hurried after Hyde and paused at the road’s edge, gun still snapping to each point in the compass.

“It is difficult to say. I counted two shotguns in the van.” He had spotted one covered and almost invisible in the spilled blood. The other was partway under the front seat. “A bad omen. The lack of a body suggests that at least one presented and joined the pack.” Who would leave his gun behind? Hyde straightened. “It is possible someone was away from the van when the attack occurred.” He didn’t want to guess whose blood had hit the front windshield. “And someone fired a gun.”

Someone else needs help.

Hyde limped toward the shadows and the sewer opening.

“Stop!” the corporal ordered in his terror. “Where are you going?”

“Someone is in trouble and they’ve still got our captive,” Hyde staggered up the slope, his back shooting with pain, his calves hard with spasm. “The activity in the van suggests a different segment of the pack may have attacked Lazlo’s team. The hunting pack might be bigger than we expected.”

“But—then we really need reinforcements.” the corporal’s voice rose. “Don’t we?”

“Every second counts,” Hyde said and half-turned. He shook his head as the corporal’s gun swung comically about. “Anyone alive who has not presented may be hiding and need our help.” Lazlo might have freed the captive! Or the captive was one of the Biters that attacked.

“But the squad...” the corporal started.

“Will be here soon.” Hyde turned away from the man and made his way right up to the opening of the tunnel. There were lots of prints there. Barefoot and shod, they churned the wet earth where a slow trickle of water darkened the slope. It was pitch black inside. The tunnel was circular, and high enough that Hyde could move unimpeded. A tall man would have to hunch forward.

Ssskin! The word echoed inside his hood, and Hyde wondered if he’d actually heard it, or if he’d said it and his mind was finally breaking under the strain. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and he started gasping with exertion and terror. He flipped on his hood-lamps.

“Stay there and await back up.” Hyde steadied himself with decision and then stepped into the tunnel. Suddenly the opening magnified his voice. “Or come with me. It’s a difficult decision, I’m sure.”

Hyde’s anxiety almost made him cackle hysterically when the corporal started swearing and climbing up the slope toward the sewer.

“Great!” he complained, gun swinging. “Just great.”

“It’s simple, corporal: shoot anything that does not identify itself,” Hyde reassured, his boots splashing in shallow water. “And watch your crossfire.”

“I’m just supposed to be a driver,” the corporal said, defeated.

CHAPTER 9

The sedan rolled to a stop in front of a small house of red brick that had a silver sports car blocking its garage door. They were about ten yards from the Horton’s rear bumper. Beachboy held up his palm-com display and smiled, checking the address against the house numbers in the porch light.

Borland twisted the cap back onto his flask and put it in his jumper’s outside breast pocket—the only place he could get to it once he was zipped up. He’d had a few good pulls from it on the way over before refilling it from the bottle under his seat. Beachboy had passed on the offered pick-me-up.

Adrenaline was still doing it for him.

“This is it!” Beachboy said; his voice tight with excitement. He peered through the windshield and pointed along the street. “Runs at right angles to Falcon Avenue. We were a couple blocks west of here this morning.”

“Right,” Borland growled and threw his door open. He winced as he climbed out of the car, his bag-suit restraining every move, constricting his ribs—leaving him breathless. The transparent protective material had a habit of trapping folds of his squad jumper, and then wrenching them around as he moved. It would take some getting used to—and maybe losing a few pounds. The suit was sized for his retirement-age body, but he was still cramming an overweight man into a heavy vinyl suit and zipping it shut.

The whole setup, when added to his hernias and growing list of discomforts, left him twitching and kicking. Borland remembered Metro hotdog stands adding big vacuum-packed deli pickles to their menus. He felt like those pickles looked, still hadn’t tried his hood yet. Couldn’t imagine the fun he’d have then. That hung from clips on his belt, and he was hoping pointlessly that it would stay there.

Beachboy got out of the car, and started fixing his hood into place right away. There was a click and his hood-lamps came on. His bag-suit fit perfectly on his well-exercised body allowing both jumper and vinyl to move independently.

“How do I look?” Beachboy’s voice was muffled. He smiled through his face-shield.

“Like a fairy from outer space!” Borland grumbled, shook his head and almost laughed. “If the fashion show’s over...” His gun was in a side holster on his belt. He pulled it out and walked toward the Horton.

“Why did Captain Hyde come here?” The younger man asked as he lifted his shotgun and moved forward sighting along the barrel.

“Shut up,” Borland grunted.

It was dark, had to be pushing eight-thirty or nine. Houses along the block had their lights on, but every curtain was closed, every blind pulled. No one was out. The Sheriff’s message had hit home. They hadn’t mentioned the Variant Effect in it, but it was a shared memory now—kind of the worst-case scenario that lurked in everyone’s subconscious—the first external threat that came from within. When the Sheriff called, he warned them to stay in their homes and listen for security updates on the radio. It was an army matter; some dangerous substances were being moved out at the base. That’s why the road into town was blocked.

But the public had to imagine it was more. Anyone over thirty would remember the various cover stories squads used back in the day to explain away presentations and treatment operations. All those attempts to reduce stress had created paranoia.

Borland imagined Parkerville families waiting and wondering. Watching windows and doors, checking the radio and television, a free hand always on the phone. They’d be keeping their kids together somewhere safe, maybe grandma lives at home too, get her and bring them all downstairs to a recreation room...upstairs to an attic. The doors locked, some nailed shut. And then play board games or charades or tell stories. Whatever you do, keep them occupied. Redirect the questions, and don’t think about it. Because everybody under twenty would be thinking back to stories that they’d heard in school or whispered around campfires. And everybody else would be wondering if the terror had returned to the shadows.

A breeze blew and leaves or garbage dragged along the road somewhere. Something clicked or skittered nearby.

Ssskin.

And Borland quickly grabbed his hood and pulled it on. Cursing, he snapped it into place and then activated the lamps. His face-shield kept the vinyl away from his nose and mouth, and draped it down to the collar at his neck.

His breathing was unobstructed, but he immediately felt like he was smothering.

The side flanges on the face-shield directed sound and sharpened it, but the world was muffled.

Ssskin.

He dragged in a breath and looked over at Beachboy, hoping he had not telegraphed his moment of fear.

“Watch your crossfire,” Borland warned, moving toward the Horton, gun up and ready. Beachboy covered him from behind as he peered into the vehicle through windows in the rear doors.

Hyde’s wheelchair was locked to the elevator just inside. Small lights glimmered on the old bastard’s desk where computer and communications equipment was arranged. The Horton was empty.

“Nobody home,” he said, turning to Beachboy. “Let’s check the house,”

The last they’d heard from Hyde and his corporal was that the pair was moving west along the ravine in pursuit of a hunting pack with a possible captive.

Calls ahead to Lazlo’s location said he’d been in touch with Hyde and was waiting for him at the sewer opening near the highway.

The old cripple was walking.

Most of Wizard’s communications equipment burned in T-2 so there was a definite time lag on contact with Aggie. The setup in T-1 did not have all the bells and whistles, and was configured for short-range communications with squads on the move. Wizard was adapting some gear that Hazen loaned her for a satellite uplink to Metro HQ—not impossible, but tough to do during deployment. In the meantime, direct communications were spotty—and had to be relayed through Hazen’s base communications. So far, the squad was having pretty good luck using palm-coms for person-to-person updates.

Aggie would move the squad to Lazlo’s location. They would set up in T-1 to block the hotlink and hopefully catch the pack on open ground for a turkey shoot. If Hyde were in pursuit, on foot, he’d likely miss the fun.

Wizard lost contact with Hyde. She explained the varied terrain in old Parkerville could be causing the interference. They did manage to hail Lazlo, and he was glad for it. Apparently his small crew was getting jumpy and playing at spooks. The night was dark, and the overgrown ravine made it difficult to watch their flanks.

Borland had insisted on going to Hyde’s original location to sweep after him from the rear. The cramped streets around the ravine would allow that and Hyde was unused to walking, so he couldn’t have gotten far. Borland had tried to call him on the way in with Beachboy’s palm-com but got only static. That might mean Hyde was on the run, if the hunting pack had turned. Aggie gave Borland Beachboy for company, but wouldn’t spare another baggie. They left before the squad.

So, Borland and Beachboy mounted the sidewalk that crossed the lawn. They walked into the porch light, guns ready. Their reflections were ghostlike in the glassed screen door.

“Watch it!” Borland whispered and pointed. The screen door was closed, but the inner door gaped wide. The light inside was amber, showed a set of carpeted stairs going up just past an arch that opened on a living room with couch and chair.

Borland’s reflection glared back in the glass.

“All right,” he said, pausing on the step. “If things go ape, we get back to back.”

“Watch the crossfire, right?” Beachboy eyes glimmered with excitement.

Borland nodded. “Back to back, or back to a wall. If we find Biters in there, we move toward a defendable room. Doesn’t matter what room, just something with a single entrance.” He opened the screen door and moved in. Protocol back in the day required Variant Squad members to identify themselves when entering a scene where the Effect was suspected, but Borland had learned early on that was like ringing a dinner bell. Identifying your squad membership was supposed to give innocents time to come out of their hiding places. Borland’s technique just meant he had to be twice as careful of shadows and people popping up. It rarely caused him trouble back in the day. But it caused him trouble that he survived.

Immediately, his attention was drawn to the smashed and broken patio doors. A table and chairs were overturned and mixed with leaves and refuse from the backyard.

A side table in the entrance caught his eye. There were three unopened letters on it. Beachboy grabbed them, glanced at the name and handed them to Borland.

“You know this person?” he asked, taking a couple tentative steps into the hall. His hood-lamps glared up the stairs.

Not by that name...

Borland grunted a negative as he quickly flipped through the letters: phone company, bank and something with a dark blue logo. White letters on a wing-shape that spelled: Medcor Labs.

He slipped that letter into a pocket, set the rest on the side table and followed Beachboy to the back of the house, the younger man moving to the right, to cover a doorway under the stairs. Borland entered the dining area. The wind was tugging at the curtains.

Some kind of curio cabinet had been knocked over. There was shattered glass, knickknacks and a couple of framed pictures.

Borland kept his gun trained on the black rectangle of the open door and grunted as he knelt to pick up one of the 5 x 7 photos. He flipped it over. The swaying chandelier illuminated a beach scene. There was a good-looking woman in a one-piece bathing suit. Nice hips and breasts. Borland remembered admiring them. Beside her was a little girl with curls and matching suit—no, there were white diamonds on the front of hers. And the man beside the girl, it took him a second to recognize...

Clunk!

“Captain!” Beachboy was over by an archway that opened onto a kitchen. The angle of the stairs cut the ceiling tight over his head. Borland’s eye was drawn to a pair of small red bowls on the kitchen floor.

Bang!

He looked up at Beachboy. At right angles to the kitchen entrance was another door on the bagged-boy’s right. It was under the stairs where they ran up flush against the wall.

Clunk!

Borland broke the photo out of its frame and slid it into the big pocket on his right thigh. He winced when the pressure activated the wound there. Get tetanus shot, right...

“Something’s in the basement,” Beachboy said.

CHAPTER 10

Clunk!

Beachboy’s eyes were wide as he set the palm of his hand against the door under the stairs. He mouthed the word: Biters?

Borland shrugged and moved toward him. “I hate basements.” He glared at Beachboy. “So, you mind going first?” He patted the younger man’s chest.

“I know, you’re not good in rabbit holes anymore.” Beachboy smiled at Borland. “Like a cork in a wine bottle.”

Borland grimaced, deciding to let him have that one. He grabbed the doorknob and twisted it open.

Bang. Clunk!

Beachboy took the point and had his shotgun aimed into the doorframe. Wooden steps led down to the basement.

Borland caught Beachboy’s eye and nodding, raised his pistol.

Beachboy followed his own weapon into the basement—his hood-lamps filled the angled space with light. He reached out and snapped on the overhead, then paused a second, leaned out and looked down before breathing a sigh of relief. The stairs were closed—no spaces between the risers. Nothing could reach out and...

At the bottom of the stairs was a red, white and green coil rug. It sat on a broad expanse of gray painted concrete floor. Beachboy hurried down, gun switching through a series of defensive angles.

Borland followed, sweat was building up in his hair and forming a channel over his eyebrows. The inside of his face-shield was starting to fog.

“Anything?” he asked Beachboy’s broad back. He could see where condensation was starting to run between the younger man’s kidneys.

Clunk. Bang. Followed by some kind of a moan.

“What the...” Beachboy said, turning to fan the corners with his hood-lamps.

Borland followed him down the stairs, immediately taking stock of a door in a cinderblock wall across from him. Those blocks jogged back toward Borland running along the basement on his right behind a bookcase and storage shelf, a big flat-screen monitor and over to a cheap-looking bar, before swinging across again behind a washer and dryer and under the stairs to join the gyp rock his shoulder was jammed against.

Beachboy gestured with his shotgun to the door past the flat-screen. There was another coil rug in front of the set, and a large couch opposite.

Borland nodded and followed Beachboy. The younger man took his position, aiming at the door. Borland moved in close and then on the third nod pulled the door open.

A closet with metal shelves holding canned goods, bottled water and cleansers. There were towels and scrub pads, and a box with the Medcor Labs logo on it that Borland recognized from the envelope he’d pocketed. He flipped the box open with his gun and found a tangle of rubber gloves inside.

Clunk. Bang. Clunk.

They both turned to look at the gyp rock wall.

“The basement’s smaller than the first floor,” Beachboy whispered and gestured at the stairs running down the gyp rock wall. “The kitchen goes on past the top of the stairs.”

“And all the other walls are cinderblock,” Borland grumbled, then tipped his hood up and fanned some cool air into it. “Jesus...”

“What?” Beachboy asked, covering Borland as he walked to the wall and set his hand against it. The painted surface was cool, but it wasn’t cold the way the cinderblock would be.

Borland glowered a question at the wall.

Clunk! Bang. The wall answered.

“Look along here,” Borland said, scanning the base of the wall. “Look for marks. There’ll be a doorway or...”

He studied the couch opposite the flat-screen. Then he looked at the flat-screen, the shelves and even a couple pictures on the wall.

“The couch isn’t straight.” He moved over to it. “Everything else is.” He bent to give the couch a heave; his hernias throbbed and bulged painfully. “Agh!” He coughed, and stood up, pressing on his guts as he tried to nudge the couch out of the way with a knee. “Give me a hand.”

Together they slid the heavy couch aside.

“Jesus, no,” Borland hissed, his hand instinctively covering the photograph in his pocket.

“What the hell is it?” Beachboy asked, pointing his shotgun at a flap of wood behind the couch. It was about three feet high and five wide, hinged at the top and painted the same color as the wall.

Clunk! Clunk!

“What is it, Joe?” Beachboy pushed at the corner of the wood flap, the door, and found it pulled upward easily enough.

“A secret room.” Borland knelt slowly, his gut heavy with pulled muscle. “For Ritual.”

“Biters?” Beachboy pulled the door up, found a hinged leg on the underside and snapped it down to hold the door up and open. Dust drifted out.

“Not Biters.” Borland shook his head, and pulled his hood up until Beachboy did the same, until they were face to face.

“I gotta go in first and you don’t ask any questions!” He wrinkled his nose to knock a drip of condensation off it. “You wait.”

“But, Captain...” Beachboy’s expression was grim. He still managed a wry smile. “I’m in charge of rabbit holes.”

“Just shut up and wait!” he growled, pulled his hood down and lit his lamps. Beachboy frowned and reached for the toggle that would activate their intercoms, but Borland slapped the younger man’s hand away and shook his head. He crawled into the opening.

It was dark. Nobody home? He craned his head around, looked up and his lamps lit rafters, splashed across some bare pine joists where a room had been framed, removed or never built. Past it loomed an untreated cinderblock wall. He climbed to his feet. There was a large washbasin—more boxes beside it with the Medcor Labs logo. There was a small medical kit, a couple rolls of duct tape and a hunting cap on a table.

Clunk!

Nobody home but dinner.

The noise came from the back under the kitchen where the dividing wall jogged out to accommodate a pair of support pillars, and more bare wood-framed joists.

“Beachboy, come on,” he grumbled, and then reached up to turn on his suit’s intercom. “Hey, come in here.”

Beachboy grunted something on the radio and crawled into the darkness. He got to his feet in a cloud of dust.

“Captain, you don’t have to protect me. I know what I signed on for.”

“I’m not protecting you,” Borland rasped.

Clunk. Bang.

In the dark space, the noise seemed to come from all sides.

“Is that a dinner table?” Beachboy’s headlamps pointed in the direction of the sound. The light fell on a table, showed them a girl doll, and a stuffed rabbit sitting there in chairs. The bunny had a booster seat. There was another chair—empty. The back of the fourth ran parallel to the false wall. A support pillar framed with pine obscured something past it in shadow. Beachboy took a step but halted when...

Chewing noises. A splatter of fluid.

Clunk and bang. And the wet ripping noises continued.

There was a gasp of breath, more wet sounds—chewing—followed by a wheeze and quiet moan.

Borland moved forward quickly, his guts churning. Behind him Beachboy came, shotgun ready.

There were candleholders on the table, stained plates, utensils and napkins. On the floor a wine rack. Beside that, a portable music player’s power light glowed green.

Clunk!

Slowly, Borland turned.

“Ah Jesus!” His voice echoed over the suit’s intercom.

Beachboy’s headlamps glittered on the chrome chains where they clasped a pair of thick wrists.

The face was barely recognizable, twisted with Variant and madness.

“Ah God! What happened to him?” Beachboy stared into the mutilated face. The man was naked, his crotch, abdomen and thighs had been skinned to the muscle and veins. “He ate his own lips.”

“Jesus, man!” Borland said raising his gun and cocking it. “Somebody got you good.”

Beachboy pushed Borland’s arm down. “You can’t shoot him!”

“He presented. It’s over,” Borland growled and shoved Beachboy aside. He aimed his gun.

“Ssskin...”

Borland swung toward the entrance. Beachboy leveled his gun, glancing at the opening. He’d heard it too.

Nothing.

“Ssskin,” the word was whispered, quietly, intimately, then a repetitive clicking sound followed and: “Skin. Skin. Ssskin.”

Behind them?

Their hood-lamps flashed around the basement as the started turning back to back.

“Where is it?” Borland shouted.

Nothing.

“Where?” Borland bellowed, gun swinging at...

“Ssskin...”

“I don’t know!” Beachboy’s shotgun whipped toward the drifting shadows.

“Ssskin... skin... ssskin.”

“Wait! Wait, Captain!” Beachboy tapped at his hood, looked down at the toggle controls for... “We’re picking it up on the intercom.” His eyes were wide with terror. “What’s that mean?”

The intercom. Built for short-range suit-to-suit communications.

“Ssskin...”

It means. It means...

Borland bared his teeth at the thing on the wall. “It means they just got somebody else.”

He raised his gun.

****

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