Invasive Procedures (23 page)

It didn’t take long to find traces of Jonathan’s infected blood in the grass. The contaminant rod beeped and turned from white to red whenever it came upon a bloody footprint.

They followed the footprints to the tree line, unholstered their sidearms, and attached their contaminant goggles to the front of their visors. With the goggles on, the world became radioactive green. Splotches of red on the ground indicated where Jonathan had stepped and left behind traces of V16.

This entire area will have to be quarantined, Frank thought, if not burned.

With the goggles to guide them, following Jonathan’s tracks through the forest was a snap. They moved slowly and carefully, however, so the
brush didn’t snag and tear their biosuits. At times they lost Jonathan’s tracks, and twice had to double back and try a different direction before they picked it up again.

After twenty minutes they found a used syringe in the undergrowth. Riggs held the contaminant rod over it, and the rod’s reading identified the substance as morphine.

“Anesthetic,” said Frank. “If the kid just had surgery, he’d be in a lot of pain. He wouldn’t be able to move without it.”

They bagged the syringe and came to a creek bed. After walking up and down the opposite bank, they found Jonathan’s trail again and followed it to the top of a hill. Frank was ready for a long drink of water, but didn’t dare remove his helmet in an area crawling with virus.

Fifteen minutes later they reached a fence, beyond which was a wide, two-story dilapidated building.

“We should call for backup,” said Frank. “I don’t like the look of that.”

“Me neither,” said Carter.

Loud barking startled them, and Frank actually jumped. Two Dobermans charged the fence and continued barking until Carter took a small aerosol can from his hip and sprayed a mist into the dogs’ faces. They immediately went limp and toppled to the ground.

“Neat trick,” said Frank.

“I’d say we got about forty minutes before they wake up and start barking again.”

They stood there a moment in silence. “Well,” said Frank. “Go or stay?”

“We should at least know what we’re calling in. This place could be empty.”

“Then what are the guard dogs for?”

“Maybe it’s a warehouse or a storage facility. I say we at least look around.” He began climbing the fence. Frank took a deep breath, holstered his weapon, and scaled the fence after him.

When they were over, they quietly padded past the dogs and moved around to the front of the building.

Thick ivy covered most of the brick, and nearly half the windows were smashed in. Frank pulled some of the vines away from a sign near the front door to reveal the words
Happy Mountain Rest Home. Assisted Living
.

Carter pushed on the door, and it swung open with a loud rusty creak. Beyond the door was darkness. “Maybe it’s empty,” he said.

“Maybe it’s not,” said Frank.

Carter removed the penlight from his hip, turned it on, and snapped it to the side of his helmet. Frank followed suit, and their two tight beams of light shined like long white javelins into the darkness. Then, with guns at the ready, they stepped through the doorway and into the building.

Deputy Melvin Dixon was bored to the point of becoming desperate. It had been well over an hour, and the BHA agents weren’t back yet. He sat on the hood of his cruiser and checked his watch for the three hundredth time. He was tempted to simply get in his car and leave.

Grunting with frustration, he hopped down from the cruiser, descended the embankment, and crossed the clearing, careful to stay clear of the spots where the bloody footprints lay.

When he reached the tree line he yelled, “Hello.”

A few birds fluttered away, but otherwise it was silent.

“Hello,” he yelled louder. “Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

“You BHA better get on back. I got my lunch hour soon.”

The trees remained silent.

Dixon stepped over some brush and walked a little way into the forest. He could still see his police cruiser from here, but if he went any farther, he’d lose sight of it.

A twig snapped to his left.

Dixon spun around and saw no one. “Agent What’s-your-name? Is that you? Hello?”

A twig snapped to his his right.

Dixon spun again. And again, there was no one. His hand fumbled for his holster. He found the leather strap that held the gun in place and unsnapped it. His eyes never stopped moving, scanning the forest, wild with fear. He pulled the gun out, hands shaking, and didn’t see the figure rushing toward him before it was too late. Dixon felt a heavy fist strike the side of his head. The gun fell from his hands, and all went black.

Lichen knelt beside the body of the fallen deputy and checked the man’s vitals. He didn’t think he had hit the deputy too hard, but he couldn’t be certain. It was difficult for Lichen to determine how much of his strength he should use in such situations. Too much and he might knock the man’s head off. Too little, and he might merely anger the man and get shot.

He had done well. He found a heartbeat. The deputy was still alive.

And a good thing, too. The prophet had been very specific in his instructions.

Lichen waved to the two Healers hiding nearby, and they ran over to him.

“Take him back to the roadside. Put him in the van, but be mindful of traffic. Don’t be seen. Then move the vehicles.”

They nodded. One of the Healers threw Dixon over his shoulder, and they took off at a run toward the road.

Lichen removed the backpack from his shoulders. Inside were various bottles of sprays, liquids, and other decontaminants. He took one out, sniffed the air, and followed the scent until he found one of Jonathan’s bloody footprints in the grass. He doused the footprint and surrounding area until he was certain the blood was diluted enough to avoid being detected on any scanner. There were hundreds of these footprints, but now that they had served their purpose (the BHA agents’ scents were still fresh in the air) Lichen began the task of decontaminating the entire area and erasing any evidence of Jonathan Fox.

So wise was the prophet. So fearless. Only he could have transformed what should have been their immediate ruin into such an opportunity. How could anyone question his greatness?

Lichen put his nose in the air and sniffed once more, searching the wind for a whiff of Jonathan Fox’s blood.

Frank and Carter stood in the lobby of the Happy Mountain Rest Home, shining their flashlights around the room.

“It ain’t the Ritz Carlton,” said Carter.

Frank had to agree. What was once a well-furnished and even stylishly decorated establishment was now just a dump. Graffiti covered the walls. Furniture was overturned and broken. Crushed beer cans and cigarette butts lay scattered on the floor.

“A bunch of high schoolers had their way with this place a hundred times over,” said Carter.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s been in here for years, though,” said Frank.

They went deeper into the building and came to a set of double doors sealed shut with a rusty chain and padlock. Carter found a length of rebar on the floor, put it through one of the links of the chain, and twisted. The corroded link snapped, and Carter pulled the chain free.

“That chain might be there for a reason, you know,” Frank said.

Carter winked and pushed the door open.

The room beyond the doors was even darker than the lobby. They stepped forward cautiously and swept the space with their flashlights. It was a large area, with cobwebs and dust and a wide octagonal island in the center, the kind of island that could have once served as a reception desk
or a nursing station. Frank let his flashlight pass over the walls. Vandals had never gotten this far, apparently; the walls and floors were graffiti- and trash-free.

They crossed the room and found two parallel hallways leading deeper into the building’s interior.

Carter’s light shined on a sign on the wall. “These hallways lead to the residents’ rooms. Should we check them out?”

“They look just as deserted and dark as the rest of this place. What’s to checkout?”

“You scared of the dark, Frank?”

“I’m scared of things that
lurk
in the dark. We shouldn’t be in here alone.”

Carter pointed Frank to the other hallway. “You take that one, and I’ll check this one.”

“You’re not one to listen to reason, are you?”

“Look, I’m not thrilled about the situation here, either,” said Carter, “but we got nothing yet. If we go back now and bring the team up this mountain only to find this building filled with nothing but musty smells, we’re not doing anyone any favors. Now, we’ve only got forty minutes of oxygen left, so our time is limited. If we’re going to sweep this place, we’ll cover more ground if we split up.”

Frank tightened his grip on his sidearm and walked to the hallway assigned him. When he looked back, Carter was already gone.

Frank moved down the dark hallway, his eyes alert. He stopped at the first resident room he came to and checked inside. It was empty and looked like all the hospital rooms he had ever seen, small with an even smaller bathroom adjacent.

Eventually the hall bent. Frank turned the corner and saw a door ahead of him with a crack of light beneath it. Curious, he went to it. The door was locked. A small keypad on the wall had a blinking light on the side.

Frank hit his comlink. “Carter.”

Carter’s voice came over the frequency. “Yeah?”

“I may have found something. There’s a door here. With light on the other side. And a keypad on the wall. Looks like it’s got power.”

“I’ll come to you.

The comlink clicked as Carter released his talk button.

Frank examined the keypad closely. It was slick and modern-looking, with a digital readout screen and a polished steel design, too new to be part of the building’s original security system.

Using a short, pencil-thin screwdriver from a pouch at his hip, Frank snapped off the face of the keypad, exposing the intricate circuitry underneath. Then he tapped the circuitry in just the right places with the screwdriver tip—a trick learned in the military—and the keypad sparked and short-circuited.

There was a click as the lock unlatched, and the door slid open.

Blinding white light spilled out of the room and flooded the hallway. Frank raised a hand to his helmet and shielded his eyes, allowing them to slowly adjust.

What he saw next made him shudder. This was an operating room. Various life-monitoring machines, some as big as refrigerators, sat by two sterile operating tables, positioned side by side under large shiny medical lights.

Frank entered the room and looked up. The ceiling was over twenty feet above him. Along the wall, where the second floor would be, were tall panes of glass that surrounded the room entirely. Behind the glass were rows of empty theater seats.

Cautiously, gun still in hand, Frank approached the operating tables. Everything looked fresh-out-of-the-box clean. The walls and floors were spotless, the light generous, the metal polished to a shine.

Beside the beds stood metal trays holding various surgical implements. Frank picked up the scalpel. Glints of colored light reflected off its razor-sharp edge.

Carter’s voice sounded in his helmet. “Frank!”

The voice was panicked, frenzied. Behind it were the sounds of a struggle. “Help, I—”

The line went dead.

“Carter?”

There was no response.

Frank dropped the scalpel and ran from the room. He sprinted down the hallway until he reached the room with the nurse’s station. He stopped, pressed himself against the wall, and listened. The building was silent.

“Carter?” he said in a whisper.

No answer.

He reached up and turned off his penlight—he’d be an easy target in the dark with it on—and the room became nearly pitch-black.

He pivoted around the corner into Carter’s hallway, his gun ahead of him, prepared to fire.

The hall was empty. No sign of Carter. No sign of a struggle.

He moved down the center of the hallway, sweeping every resident’s room he came to.

There was a blur of motion just as he reached one of the rooms, and the gun was suddenly wrenched from his hands.

Before Frank registered the act and moved to defend himself, massive hands grabbed him and slung him into the hallway wall opposite. Frank bounced off the wall and fell to the floor half conscious, his ears ringing.

“Don’t hurt him, Stone,” a voice said.

A foot rolled Frank over onto his back and planted itself squarely on his chest, pinning him to the floor.

Frank’s mind cleared, and he was suddenly alert again. A dark figure stood over him. He struggled to push the foot aside and free himself, but the more he wiggled, the more pressure the foot applied until at last Frank’s chest was so constricted that his lungs had no room to expand and take in air.

“That’s enough, Stone,” the voice said. “If you squish his chest, we can’t exactly use it now, can we?”

The foot lifted, and Frank’s rib cage popped back into position. The pain was excruciating. The ribs had been pressed just shy of the breaking point.