Species (6 page)

Terrified, Sil forced herself to smile, then stepped in front of him and made her way to the sleeping compartment she had claimed earlier. She didn’t care if he was just being helpful; she didn’t like him following behind her where she couldn’t watch him and wasn’t at all comfortable with him carrying the suitcase full of food. How would she explain if the overloaded latches gave out and it opened? On top of that, he was whistling again, and it made her want to turn around, yank the bag out of his hand, and put an end to that irritating shrilling. A more rational part of her brain told her it was fear making her react this way; she stifled the impulse to strike and was rewarded when he swung the heavy bag inside the door to her compartment with a grunt, tipped his hat and went away, pulling the door closed as he left.

Ravenous, Sil started to open the suitcase’s latches, then clenched her fists when someone else knocked on the door. “Ticket, please.” A woman’s voice, muted by the door and the quiet, smoother rumble of the Amtrak train.

Sil quickly pushed the papers strewn on the floor aside with her foot, then opened the door, remembering the announcement that had come over the speaker in the ceiling right before she’d left for the dining car. She needed a ticket to stay on the train but didn’t have one to give the young woman standing in the corridor. But she did have money; maybe that would be acceptable. The woman, who was wearing a name tag over her left breast pocket that said
A. CARDOZA,
gave Sil a bland smile and held out a hand; in response, Sil dug in the pocket of the hobo’s dirty pants and came out with a couple of wadded up bills. She dropped them onto the woman’s palm with a hopeful expression on her face.

A. Cardoza looked at the crumpled money on her palm, then back at Sil. “Are you traveling by yourself?” she asked gently. Sil nodded. “How old are you? Eleven? Twelve?” Sil nodded again. The conductor shuffled through the bills, kept two and returned the rest to Sil, who pocketed them. “Tell you what,” the woman suggested with a wink as she pulled out a pad of paper, separated a couple of sheets and used a metal device to punch odd-shaped holes in it. “We’ll say you’re eleven. That way you only have to pay half fare.”

She looked at Sil expectantly and Sil hesitated, then nodded a third time. She was beginning to feel like a puppet with a string attached to its neck, but she didn’t know what else to do, or what to say. A. Cardoza studied her for a moment, then smiled. “Don’t talk much, do you? You must be shy—but that’s okay. I was too, when I was your age.” Conductor Cardoza backstepped into the corridor and started to pull the door after her, then paused and looked Sil up and down. “Traveling alone like this can be dangerous,” she said. “You be sure to keep this door locked, okay?” A second later A. Cardoza shut the compartment door and was gone.

7

T
he sound the wooden door of the railroad car made as the Special Operations MP slid it open was like two oversized pieces of splintered wood being rubbed together. That kind of noise belonged in fake haunted houses on Halloween weekends, not on a freight car sitting in the train yard of a clean, sunlit city like Brigham. The door reached its limit with a harsh clang and sunbeams washed most of the inside of the car, giving glaring detail to a man’s body—some drifter riding the night train whose luck had run out. It was hard to tell amid the splattered blood, but everything above his sternum seemed to be twisted the wrong way; they could see the rusted—or was it bloodied?—safety pin the hobo had used to keep his pants together, and the matted, graying hair on his stomach, but at the same time they were staring at the back of his shoulder blades and head.

“Our little girl did this?” Standing next to Fitch, Robert stared at the cadaver splayed on the straw-covered floor of the freight car.

“She’s not a little girl,” Fitch said harshly. “She’s not even truly human. Besides, DNA typing of material under the hobo’s fingernails proves it was her. He must have grabbed her.”

“He probably attacked her.” The name tag on the lapel of the second aide said
PHILLIP McRAMSEY,
but that was all—more, in fact, than Fitch cared to know. Another new aide, replacements for the ones killed at the complex. Workers to do his bidding, and that was all he needed; Kyle had made him feel far too guilty about having to terminate the child, had once even suggested Fitch think of Sil as his daughter. A foolish suggestion, but one that stuck nonetheless and caused him no end of sleepless nights. He still wished he could forget it—especially now that Kyle was dead.

“She could be anywhere,” Robert said pensively. He gave the doctor a distressed look. “Chicago, Las Vegas, Los Angeles . . .
anywhere.”

“We should stop all the trains.” Phillip scanned the MPs guarding the area, as if looking for someone he could order to do just that. All of them had Army Special Operations insignia on the arms of their uniforms, and all ignored the white-coated lab assistants.

“And have the railroad and local police asking a million questions we can’t answer?” Fitch shook his head, shooting McRamsey a disgusted look. “We’ll put key personnel at every stop along these lines. I want a team to track her, hunt her down—”

“Jesus,” Robert breathed, staring back into the boxcar. “What the hell have we done?”

Fitch started to snap at the interruption, then closed his mouth and gazed off in the other direction, where the train yards ended in sidings that went nowhere and the open plains began. Nothing out there for Sil but pure potential.

What the hell have we done
?

Fitch wished he could answer that.

8

“Y
ou came all the way up here to get a cup of my wonderful coffee?”
A pretty woman in her early twenties moved across the tiny television screen toward an extremely handsome man. She was wearing a sweater that seemed loose but tight at the same time—something about the way the fabric stretched across her collarbones and followed the line of her rib cage without really revealing anything. Her skirt was a sensible length, but had that same, oddly sexual appeal to it.

Sitting cross-legged on one of the seats, Sil shoved most of a raw hamburger patty in her mouth without looking away from the screen.

The television woman’s companion plastered an innocent smile across his face.
“Does that sound unlikely
?” His smile made him resemble a perfectly chiseled statue.

“Not . . . entirely.”
The woman tossed her head, swinging a mass of shining auburn hair over her shoulder. Her lips were very red and looked wet.

“What else would I want?”
He spread his hands in what should have been a demonstration of meekness, but the movement made Sil’s eyes narrow. To her, he looked like a predator, someone who couldn’t be trusted.

“I really can’t imagine,”
said the woman on the television. She turned her back to the man and began pouring coffee. A foolish movement in Sil’s opinion, and she hit the channel button and stuffed the remainder of the meat patty in her mouth. Her fingers had thickened and looked pudgy, too short for her small hands. Two ample rolls of fat had swelled from beneath her chin, and though the dead hobo had been a large man, the waistline of his ratty pants now fit her quite comfortably.

“When you’re tired and need a room for the night, check in!”
A black-and-yellow Best Western sign floated behind a man with a round face and a cheerful voice. Sil found the idea of dealing with him a lot less frightening than the oily-looking man in the coffee commercial. She watched the rest of the ad, which showed a room that included two double beds and extra furniture and was about ten times the size of the one in which she stayed now. At the end of the commercial a series of numbers—$39.95—floated over a picturesque swimming pool surrounded by men, women, and children in very small clothes.

She swallowed the rest of the beef and washed it down with the last of a gallon of milk—her second. The skin of her face felt bloated and tight, ready to explode. Fat had stretched the delicate skin between her eyebrows and upper lids so much that her eyes could open only to slits. Still watching the television, she reached a hand along the seat, blindly searching until her heavy fingers brushed one of the containers of pudding. She snatched it up and ripped off the paper top, using her fingers like a spoon to dip into the chocolate goo. When the contents were gone, she licked as much of it clean as she could, then tossed the container on the floor with the rest of the trash. Floor space on the train was at a premium and there was nowhere to walk now; every inch of the industrial-gray carpeting was covered with stained, crumpled wax squares from the hamburgers, empty juice boxes, and crushed dessert containers. Nestled amid the litter were two of the gallon milk containers, both empty.

Sil looked around the sleeping compartment. She was almost out of food, but she would deal with that only if it became necessary. A different kind of noise from the little television caught her attention and she turned back to it and watched, captivated, as the images of a dozen beautiful women began flashing on the screen. Every one had an abundance of thick, curly hair, each done in a different style and color.
“Curls, girls!”
an excited voice began.
“If your hair and your life need excitement, try this new—”

The food was gone, but she was sated for now. All that was left was to watch.

And learn.

9

“T
he things worn around the waist are penis guards.”

As always, the front row of the lecture hall was filled with young women. Now they tittered like teenagers at a slumber party, and Professor Stephen Arden smiled indulgently and aimed his laser pointer at the figure in the middle of the screen. An oversized image of himself posed calmly for the camera, undisturbed by the presence of the two nearly naked warriors on either side. Standing here and showing this semi-nude snapshot of himself with two members of a Brazilian tribe of Yanomamö to his three o’clock class didn’t embarrass him at all; it did, however, make him appreciate the wisdom of regular workouts at the health club. He bent over the microphone again. “The women fashion these penis guards for their men to wear to protect their . . .” He raised his eyebrows as one of the more attractive ladies in the front row sat back and boldly met his gaze. He grinned tolerantly and glanced around the auditorium with boyish charm. “Well, I think we all know what they want to protect.” He let the pointer doodle around the appropriate area on the screen, knowing full well that it was his own penis protector he was indicating. Another round of giggles, this time more widespread, some “Jesus, enough of this bullshit!” glances from the guys.

They’re right, he thought regretfully. Enough goofing off. Time to actually force some knowledge into the echoing brain cavities dotting the audience at his lecture. “In reality, there’s quite a bit to fear in the Venezuelan jungle, and particularly in the waters of the Orinoco River. In this particular region, in addition to the other dangers I’ve already told you about, there’s a type of tiny catfish which lives in the river and which is also able to enter a man’s body by swimming up the urethra tract and into the bladder. The catfish then stays there as a parasite, feeding and growing, until the man—its host—dies in agony.”