Crawlers (26 page)

She turned and hurried out. And went to her rental car, and got in, and drove home.

Think this through,
she told herself as she drove.
Decide what to do.

But that wasn’t exactly possible, somehow, to think it through. There weren’t enough facts.

Except—she knew she needed to get out of town.

She had to find Adair and Bert and Cal—and ask them to go with her.

December 13, late afternoon

Captain Gaitland was driving the van; Lieutenant Magee, a big military cop who had black features but light skin, like Colin Powell, sat beside him; and a thickset Green Beret sat in the backseat: Sergeant Dirkowski.

Dirkowski was in uniform, but the others were in plain clothes. Each one had a 9mm Smith & Wesson automatic under his jacket. Behind Dirkowski was a big open cargo space, and in it lay an empty military-issue coffin.

On the floor of the van, next to Magee’s leg, was a metal briefcase. On the side of the briefcase was what looked like a small stereo speaker grid.

They had just turned onto Quiebra Valley Road. “It seem to you like those Quiebra PD rollers back there were watching for us?” Magee said. “The ones we passed at the Shell station.”

“No, sir, I didn’t believe so,” Dirkowski said. An Alabama accent.

It was funny,
Gaitland thought,
how Dirkowski could be outranked
by Magee but still be condescending toward him somehow.

“Well, I think so,” Magee said. “You sure we got enough personnel here, Captain?”

“We need only one sample,” Gaitland said, scanning the streets. Wondering how to pick one out. It’d be pretty awkward, walking up to people and running the scan over them. “We ought to be able to take one of them down, between us.”

“We had three guys out here for observation,” Magee pointed out, “and only one of them came back alive. Half-dead himself. Says the fucking breakouts keep experimenting with—what you’d call it—their form. Trying combinations of bodies, changing up the body.”

“That’s right,” Gaitland said. “They modify bodies at the cellular level. And they seem to be trying for several models, little ones and big ones, for different jobs. So that means maybe they can do things we can’t, uh, anticipate. Exactly. But a nine-millimeter round will stop anything, you put it in the brain.”

But,
he thought,
they could literally have more than one brain, in
more than one part of the body.

He didn’t voice that thought to Magee.

“What I was thinking,” Magee went on, “was we maybe should get Stanner here. He’s been on-site. If those chowderheads in the observation team had consulted him, maybe they’d still be around.”

Gaitland noticed Magee turning to look over his shoulder at the road behind. “You see something back there I should know about?”

“It’s that police car. I mean, what if they took over the local cops?”

“It can’t have gone that far.” But Gaitland wondered. Aloud he said, “Stanner is AWOL. He’s been out of touch. Seems like he doesn’t trust us.”

Dirkowski snorted.

Gaitland looked at him in the rearview mirror. “You got something to say about that, Dirkowski?”

“No, sir.”

“Anyway, Lieutenant,” Gaitland went on, turning to Magee, “we’re trying to get Stanner back in hand—but he doesn’t even take orders from us, not now. We’ve had to follow him to get some sense of what he’s doing.”

“He shook those boys,” Dirkowski muttered. Adding, “Sir.”

Gaitland ignored him. “He doesn’t like the pace we’re working at, and you know what, he can’t make up his rules as he goes along and he’s going to find that out.”

“That fucking roller’s got his lights on, sir,” Magee said.

Gaitland sighed. “I’m gonna pull over. Everyone got their pistol permits, the special ID, all that squared away?”

Magee nodded. Dirkowski said, “Yes, sir.”

Two cops were in the cruiser. Looked like a white guy and an Asian. Gaitland pulled over to the shoulder, but the Asian cop shook his head, pointing to a side road that led to a park, screened by trees, just up ahead.

“They don’t want us on the shoulder,” Dirkowski muttered.

Gaitland pulled onto the side road. But he reached under his coat and loosened his pistol in its holster.

The two cops pulled up behind them and got out of their cruiser.

Magee said, “Maybe we ought to have the detector on.”

“How do we explain what it is, sir?”

“Go ahead, turn it on—and have your finger on the deprogram button,” Gaitland said.

Hands shaking, Magee pulled the converted Halliburton briefcase up onto his lap and opened it. The mechanism inside was solid-state, filling the interior, the equipment covered in a gray plastic panel that showed two LCD readout windows, and two toggle switches under a metal cover. The switches were labeled ONE and TWO. Wires ran up from the device to the inside of the lid of the metal briefcase, connecting to the transmitter grid that looked like a stereo speaker. It had to be simple because none of them were Facility technical staff; they understood the device only in theoretical terms.

Magee flipped the switch cover back as the cops stalked up to either side of the car. The cops—Quiebra PD—had their .44s drawn, but held down against their thighs.

“Can I see your driver’s license?” the white cop said to Gaitland. His name tag said WHARTON. The Asian was bending to look in at the other side. Was staring at that open briefcase and the arcane gear inside.

“Sure,” Gaitland said. He took out his wallet, took out the license, and laid it on the wallet next to the badge, which today was Secret Service. The Facility could get them any sort of federal badge they needed, each one authentic.

“Secret Service?” Wharton said, sounding amused.

“That’s right, and one military attaché. As federal agents, we’re packing sidearms, of course, but we have the paperwork.” Gaitland grinned at Wharton.

Wharton grinned back—an automatic, grimacing sort of grin. Something about it made Gaitland feel like gunning the van out of here.

“What’ve you got in back there, behind the Green Beret?” Wharton asked. “Looks like a coffin.”

“A box. Empty,” Gaitland said.

The other cop—CHEN, his name tag said—straightened up and looked at his partner.

Wharton nodded to Chen. Then to Gaitland he said, “Yeah, we’re gonna have to examine that briefcase, fella.”

“Excuse me, officer, but—” Gaitland said, turning to Magee. He mouthed,
Hit switch one.
Turned back to the cop, to finish, “—but you’ve just seen our badges. You ought to be cooperating, not hassling us.”

Magee flipped the first toggle. He went all stiff, staring at the readout. It said,
positive.
Meaning, these cops contained breakout components.

Meaning they weren’t human.

“Get out of the car!” the cops barked, both at once. Raising their guns.

Magee didn’t have to be told to flip switch two. The device in the briefcase hummed.

Gaitland looked at Wharton. The cop shivered, squinching up his face as if he was hearing an irritating sound that no one else could hear. He took a shaky step back.

Gaitland drew his own pistol and waited. Any moment Wharton would fall dead, at least in theory, as soon as he was deprogrammed.

Wharton looked at Chen—and both of them laughed.

“That,” Wharton said.

“Is not effective because—” Chen said.

“—Because you have failed,” Wharton said, “to—”

“—To take into account the anticipatory capability of the All of Us,” Chen said. “All gateways have been closed; all frequencies shuffled. And now . . .”

Gaitland was already taking a bead on Wharton’s head, but the cop moved with impossible speed and fired at the same time.

Gaitland felt a hot wet shattering in his chest and thought,
Why
didn’t I wear the Kevlar?
and that was nearly his last thought, as he heard them shooting Magee again and again. He felt another round hit him in the throat, this one feeling cold, and all the strength drained out of him as he slumped against the bloody Magee.

The last thing he heard was Chen saying to Dirkowski, “You can live, if you drop your pistol. We think we can use you. I mean, you can live—our way.”

And Dirkowski saying, “You got it.”

17

December 13, evening

“Cal, dude, have you seen Adair?”

It seemed to Cal that Waylon was probably stoned. A certain red-eyed, glazed quality. A slight fuzziness in his voice.

It was just getting dark. They were outside the Burger King, where Cal was sitting at a metal picnic table trying to fill out his employment application form in the light from the restaurant window. He’d made up his mind he was going to move out of his parents’ house, which meant he needed money, which meant he needed a job. He’d rather work on boats, but those jobs were hard to find in a steady-work way, short of joining the Coast Guard. The CG or the navy were tempting, but he didn’t feel right about leaving Adair alone in town yet. He wasn’t even sure why.

“No,” Cal said at last, writing in his social security number, “I haven’t seen her since she went to school. Lacey called looking for her, just before I came over here. And Donny called for her.”

“Oh, man,” Waylon said, “this is fucked up, it’s jenky, man, it’s like
voop
, she’s gone. I just fucking hope she’s not with Roy.”

Cal stood up, shaking with what he told himself was fury, but maybe it was more like fear. “What the fuck you say? Don’t say shit like that, not a word, Waylon, unless you
know
, man, that something happened to her—”

“Hey, whoa, chill—”

Cal stepped around the picnic table; Waylon took a step back. Cal snarled at him, “You come at me all mumbling to yourself, like a stoned pothead moron, about my sister. You been putting your hands on her, you fucking New York stoner?”

“No, dude, shit, you can ask her if I was doggin’ on her. Ask her yourself if we—when we find her.”

Cal took a deep breath. “What makes you think she’s . . . gone?”

“Okay, I was talking to Siseela, and she’s like, ‘It was so weird, Adair left in the middle of the day with the school counselor lady.’ And I’m like, ‘So, she probably went with her to see her mom or something,’ and she’s like, ‘No, uh-uh, they went down the road the opposite way toward the country and that Santavo bitch has been acting weird, too.’ And Santavo’s the one took Adair with her.”

Cal stared at him. “Okay, you
are
stoned. But, uh, if she went off with a school official-like person, that’s not too weird, really. I mean, it’s not like some guy in a ski mask grabbed her or something.”

But Waylon was staring past him at something. Cal turned and saw that on the residential side of the fence, behind the Burger King parking lot, a fat guy with his toupee flopping in the wind was putting a homemade satellite dish up on the roof of his little house.

“That shit is freaking me out,” Waylon said. “All over town, people putting up these freaky little transmitters—or whatever they are.”

Cal snorted. “Okay. You’re a paranoid, just like Mason. Speaking of that asshole, I’m gonna call him, get him to go look for Adair with me in his van.”

“Hey, I’m gonna go with—”

But then a Bronco with a lot of mud on the wheels and miles on the engine pulled up beside them, the driver lightly honking her horn. It was a lady with a face softening to fat around the edges and dyed platinum hair, someone Cal didn’t know. But he guessed it was Waylon’s mom when she said, “Waylon, come on, hon, we have to go.”

“What? Where?”

“I’ll explain, but in the car, please. I don’t want to shout our business all over heck and gone.”

Waylon grimaced, shaking his head in an exaggerated motion. “Whatever.” He turned to Cal. “So you’re gonna find Adair?”

“Gonna find Mason to help me find Adair, yeah.”

Waylon’s mom cocked her head at this, as Waylon asked, “So you got a cell phone or what?”

Cal nodded. “Carrying it. Don’t know if it’s still working. I’m way behind on payments.” He thought,
What could it hurt,
scribbled the cell phone number on Waylon’s arm. Then Cal watched Waylon get into the Bronco and ride away.

Cal went back to filling out the form, but hurriedly now. He wanted to find Mason—and Adair.

And not one minute passed before Mason drove up in his van. “Hey, dude. What’s the haps.”

Cal stared at him. “This is weird shit. People just coming to— whatever. Mason, I’m trying to find Adair. You know where she is?”

“I think I probably do, Cuz-o. She’s hangin’ with some other kids. Come on. I’ll take you there.”

Cal took the application in to the older black guy who managed the Burger King, then hurried back out to Mason’s van and got in beside him. Something felt strange. There was something about the way Mason had just shown up. And he just showed up knowing where Adair was.

But he shrugged. What else was he going to do? At least for once Mason’s van didn’t reek of pot.

So he let Mason drive him down Quiebra Valley Road, toward the country.

December 13, evening

Waylon snorted and shook his head in another well-practiced display of amazement.

“A blood test? Mom, I haven’t said anything about being sick, and they haven’t said anything at school about any blood tests.”

“There’s an emergency in town,” Waylon’s mom said, “because of that thing that crashed, the satellite you were talking about, and the toxic fumes from it. You need a blood test to see if you’ve been poisoned. You went out to that crash site, after all. More than once. And the second time, you saw things.”

“Yeah, but, Mom, I didn’t
imagine
what I saw. I’ve been writing it up. I’m gonna—” He broke off, realizing he hadn’t told his mom about the things he’d seen at the site, the second time.

Maybe she’d gotten into his files. Maybe she’d been reading his stuff behind his back.

He turned to stare at her, thinking about challenging her on that.
How the fuck did you know?
But somehow, he was afraid to confront her. Something was warning him not to, and he didn’t quite understand what it was.

They were pulling into the high school parking lot, driving around the back of the school. It looked like a used-car lot back there, lots of cars standing dark and empty, parked sort of haphazardly next to the school gym. The outside rear door of the gym was open, and a couple of kids slouched restlessly in the doorway with their stolid parents. As Waylon watched, they stepped once, further into the gym. They were in a line—waiting for the blood test, he supposed.

His mom pulled her Bronco up not far from the gym door, and a minute later they were in the line, Waylon hearing the echoing murmur of people in the big spaces of the gym. Surprisingly little noise, really.

Only the kids were talking, to one another, Waylon realized, as, in another minute, he and his mom stepped into the gym. The gym smelled of dust and varnish and antiseptic and faintly of sweat. The basketball backboards were folded up against the rafters; the bleachers were retracted into the walls. It was a big softly reverberating room with a line of people along one wall, and near the entrance to the locker rooms and showers were a couple of nurses in white uniforms, both of them black women, working at a small brown craft table. They had the kids sit in a chair when they drew the blood, and put discarded needles in an open box. Nearby sat other boxes, cushioned with bubble wrap, for the little vials of blood.

A pale chunky kid huddled in the chair, getting his blood taken; he wore three-quarter pants that showed his fat white calves, no socks in his Adidases, a sleeveless Master P T-shirt, one of those “mushroom head” haircuts, thick on top and buzzed on the sides. Waylon remembered him from school, reciting rap and calling people
blud
and
cuz
though the black kids just sneered at him for it. The chunky kid sat there with his mouth hanging open, looking away as they stuck a needle in his arm and sucked the blood out into a big plastic syringe.

The blood test table was clear across the big room, but the deep dark red of the blood seemed to blossom in the syringe like a sudden alien flower, calling Waylon’s eyes to it.

He hated the sight of blood, and this whole cheerful little procession made his stomach clench up. Why hadn’t there been any announcement about it at school? Maybe there had been; maybe he’d missed it. He didn’t pay attention to stuff like that. But somehow he doubted anyone had announced it.

This whole thing made him think about something he’d read on-line about an upsurge in autism and some kinds of cancer, caused by mass vaccinations of the fifties and sixties. Some overlooked impurity in the vaccine. And there was supposed to be a government conspiracy to cover up that gigantic mistake.

Maybe this could be part of that conspiracy. The kids might be here to get injections to hide the tainted vaccines. Or they could be testing biowarfare agents on the town; the government had done it before.

Maybe that’s what the “satellite” had been, really. The crash staged to expose the town to some biowar virus. They could be testing them all for the exposure here.

But then why test only the kids?

This mass blood testing had to be tied in with some kind of conspiracy. This was just too sudden, with no explanations.

Then Waylon’s chain of speculation broke when Mr. Sorenson, the vice principal, came out into the gym through the locker room door, on the boys’ side. He was an imposing man, almost six and a half feet, broad shouldered but otherwise slender, with a long neck and a big Adam’s apple. He wore a yellow golf shirt and gray slacks. He picked up one of the containers of blood samples and went back in the locker room with it.

What’s up with that? Mr. Sorenson personally helping with the blood?

A lot of the kids seemed nervous, some talking to their neighbors in line. But the parents were completely quiet, except to respond to the kids. It wasn’t right, how quiet the parents were. Lots of these people had to know each other. Yet they weren’t speaking.

“Mom, this is fucked up.” Waylon shook his head and looked at his mom. “I don’t want to do this.”

She looked at him with a peculiar calmness. She seemed alert, friendly, relaxed—and bland. That wasn’t like her. If she wasn’t stoned or depressed, she was talking a lot, keeping her spirits up, trying to get to know people. She was way more social than he’d ever be.

But not now. Mom didn’t say anything. She just took a step forward when the line moved, a skinny Asian kid replacing the pale chunky guy at the bloodsucking chair, and she smiled at him.

“Mom?”

“Yes, Waylon?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to hear you say something.”

Waylon watched the pale chunky kid go to stand with a group of other kids who’d already been tested, their parents standing behind them in a line against the section of the wall that contained the machine-retracted bleachers. The parents were silent; the kids were muttering softly to one another.

Waylon looked around. It was a hella big gymnasium; metal rafters near the ceiling. High glazed windows; he could see a single star through one of the open windows in the far upper corner.

He wanted to be out there, instead, where stars shone. And he wished Adair was with him. He wished he knew where she was.

Waylon glanced at his mom again. She seemed so self-contained, all of a sudden. Friendly, but distant. So what was it? What was bothering him?

He hadn’t smoked a major blunt, or anything. Just a bowl, really. He felt kind of furry around the edges, with the details flintily sharp in a tunnel-vision kind of way. That lady in front of Mom seemed so still, the way she stood there, it was like she wasn’t breathing. But the glossy auburn curve of the way her hair was set seemed to pulse faintly.

Okay, he was used to that kind of bullshit with dope. It wasn’t like he was really big-ass loaded.

So why did his mom suddenly seem like she was
acting
?

“Mom, where’d you hear about this blood test thing? I mean, did someone call you up?”

She seemed to consider for a long moment. “Yes. There was a call. A phone call. We were called here.”

He looked at her, feeling odd, as he took her words in. He was feeling a chill, right in his heart, and it was spreading out through him. It was hard to tell exactly what was wrong with Mom. An oddness about the way she talked, that sense that she was acting. Maybe it
was
the bowl he’d smoked.

Mr. Sorenson came out again, walked over to the pale chunky kid, and took him by the arm. “Come on back, please, Ronald.”

Waylon could just make out their voices. Yeah, Ronald, that was his name.

Ronald looked at the doors to the locker room. Clearly he didn’t want to go. “Is there something—something wrong with my blood?”

The other kids tittered nervously at that.

“No, nothing wrong, exactly, we just have to check some things, to make sure. Come on, we’ll show you,” Mr. Sorenson said.

He led Ronald into the locker room. And the line moved forward.

Waylon was aware of his heart pounding. He felt like his skin was too small for his body.

Maybe I’m being paranoid,
he thought.

Or maybe I’m scared for a good reason.

Waylon made up his mind. “Mom, I’m gonna find the bathroom. I’ve gotta pee big-time.”

She looked at him. “No, you’d better wait.” Then she frowned. It was as if the frown was an afterthought.

“Be right back.” Waylon trotted away from her, up the line. The two black nurses were heavyset women with conked hair, one very dark and the other light-skinned. They both looked up at once as he passed, both of them turning their heads to watch him go into the locker room.

The windowless locker room seemed empty at first; the only human presence was a smell of sweat and soap. He couldn’t see anyone in the PE office, that little glassed-in cubicle across from the rows of lockers. Then he heard a sob, echoing from beyond the office. A boy’s whimper, coming thinly, distorted, from the showers.

Waylon walked carefully between rows of lockers, and it seemed to take forever, as if the aisle stretched out, telescoped past the empty rows of metal locker doors. As he approached the showers, he stopped to stare at a machine of a kind he’d never seen, just beside the showers’ entrance. It was on a tripod as high as he was tall, with a glass tray suspended near the top, between the legs, and some kind of laser beaming where the three supports of the tripod met, aiming down into a petri dish of blood. A little panel wired to the side of the laser gave a readout, and a wire extended into the blood. When he took a step closer to the machine and peered into the dish, he could see little metal things that swam around in the blood, like krill.