CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

DEATH TRAPS

As Mark and Gina were returning to the Flower Conservatory, they encountered a band of hybrids also on their way in. They killed four of them before the rest withdrew, making a clumsy retreat into some nearby shrubs.

Others set up some sort of machine gun and tried firing at them with it, but the bullets were easy to avoid. Like any hybrids, they were too fast to be vulnerable to anything except the physical attack of another hybrid or, if they got unlucky, the ultra-high-speed pellets of a Metal Storm.

Now there was only the dripping of water inside the building, and the occasional voice of a frightened child, quickly stifled by a parent. The drumming that had been thunderous outside now was silent, but Mark did not think that meant the hybrids would not return. They would return.

Indeed, there came the faint but unmistakable scrape of somebody opening the main doors. Mark waited, careful, alert, and as still as a corpse.

A hybrid appeared, a single individual. It wore a T-shirt and tattered jeans, and on its head a crumpled mass of hair, either a wig or a scalp.

Mark felt Gina’s hand slip into his.

A second hybrid joined the first, and now more hybrids appeared, males and females and gangs of children.

Mark braced, but one of the creatures leaped right through some foliage and enclosed a woman’s head in its arms. Screaming, she raised her hands and tried to drag it off. A man burst out of the foliage and struggled with the thing.

Immediately, other hybrids began moving toward the struggle. But not many. Oddly, they were stepping carefully, almost mincing, and most of them remained clustered near the door.

For a moment, Mark was mystified. Then he noticed something about their eyes. They were fixed, staring straight ahead. Not only that, they were now ten feet from the struggling couple and most of them were not looking in the right direction. They would flicker here and there, but it was random.

“Gina, they’re blind.” Had the loss of the drone done this? No way to tell, but he could certainly take advantage of it.

Gina drew her knife. In the next second, she stepped forward and the nearest creature’s head went flying off into a tangle of orange orchids.

Mark’s mind was still calculating the significance of the blindness as he dismembered the one that was tearing at the woman, getting his blade up under its diaphragm and destroying the flesh and circuitry there. In a moment, it dropped away, the eyes agonized, the body spitting smoke and blood.

The woman was severely injured, and her husband threw himself on her, crying out in the abandon of his grief, cradling her, seeking to stop her bleeding and give what comfort he could. Other hybrids began crowding toward them, attracted by the sound.

Mark leaped the forty feet into the rafters of the structure, looking down now on the clustering hybrids.

“Hey,” he called, “up here!”

As every head snapped toward him, he jumped through the iron rafters, making sure his boots clanged. “Here I am,” he called, and all the heads once again turned.

Then he saw that Gina was wading into the confusion of the hybrids below, and he dropped back down to give her support, crushing the skulls of two of them with his boots as he landed.

Within seconds, he and Gina were back-to-back. He cut and thrust, pushing his blade in past the plates of chitinous underskin armor that protected the hybrids’ vitals. They had been designed so that they carried their armor in their bodies.

His thoughts slowed his movements slightly, and one of them immediately leaped onto his back. He reached around and ripped it off, listening to its hissing mechanical scream, assessing from the sound if it was wounded or whole.

Hearing that it was in pain, he knew that it would be slow and so used a bullet to fire into its mouth. It threw back its head, but not quite fast enough.

Then he saw a shape nearby, a reeling, seething blackness. For a moment, he was confused. But then he understood that it was a person covered by something he had not seen before—insects—and then he saw a flashing arm, and the covered person ripped some of them away, and he saw Gina.

When he reached her, he tore at the things, levering into them with his knife and cracking them like crabs.

“Thank you for noticing,” she said, her tone sarcastic. She returned to battle with her knife.

It ended so abruptly that Mark lurched as his knife cut air instead of the creature he had expected to connect with.

“What happened?” Gina asked.

“No idea. They—” He touched one of them with his foot. “It’s like a plug got pulled. They must’ve been taking too much damage.”

“Okay, folks,” Gina called. “We want you to show yourselves now. The danger may not be over here, but you have a breather. We’re going out after them.”

“Unless it’s another trap,” Mark muttered.

One by one, they appeared, a bedraggled, trembling clutch of humanity, their eyes at once dull with shock and touched by gleams of hope.

“Look at them,” Mark said softly, just to her. “That’s why we’re here.”

She replied as quietly, “Except an addict never forgets how it feels to be high.”

He squeezed her shoulder. He could not agree more. They had to swallow it, though. Their first loyalty—their only loyalty—must remain to mankind.

More loudly he announced, “We’re going to destroy these things.”

“Is this all of them?” a man asked.

“The only ones who were here,” Gina muttered.

“But more could come?”

Mark said to the group, “We have to leave.”

Nobody spoke.

“We have to,” Mark repeated.

Gina said, “We will help you. You have our word.”

“My kids are still at the house,” one man said. “My wife. I know it’s just one family but I’ve seen what’s going on.” He came close to Gina. His face, lined with care, communicated as deep a plea as a human being can express. “Please help my family.”

Gina said nothing. Her tears spoke instead.

In his early career, Mark had often had to face the age-old plea that every soldier must bear, for help that he cannot provide. But bear it he must, because the soldier knows, always, that military action is not primarily about saving individuals, but about saving societies, ways of life, worlds.

He responded in the only way a soldier can: “We’ll get this done.”

Gina bowed her head.

The man swallowed his choking tears, then stepped back into the shadows. Gina followed him, but Mark put a hand on her arm.

“Got to go now.”

“Where?”

“Out.”

She followed him in silence. No questions, no, not from this soldier. If he had told her the truth, that what they had to do was to obtain and detonate nuclear weapons, and that they would not survive the explosions, he wondered how she would react.

Or, no, he didn’t. He knew. Just like him, she would do what she had to do, even if it meant her life.

*   *   *

George Hammond had been so afraid for so many hours that it seemed as if life before the storm—only a few days ago—had unfolded years and years ago.

As he drove into Willoughby after a tense journey across the continent and a desperately uneasy dash along dark roads, he experienced deepening unease. The whole region had emptied of people, with massive traffic jams on the highways leading out of the Bay Area. Because of the risk, Travis had not been willing to transport him here in a chopper, so he’d driven instead. In contrast to the highways, the back roads were almost without traffic, so he’d had fewer problems than he had imagined he would.

On the way over from Washington, his job had been clarified. He was to insert himself into the Delta Force mission to reconnoiter the ground before they landed. In a case such as this, proper reconnaissance took more than satellite work. Anyway, without Gina, he could not get anything close to the quality of data she had provided.

The few towns he passed through were abandoned, but Langley had identified Gina’s exact location: She was in a spot in Willoughby called the Glade.

He took the long curve that led into the town, finding it as abandoned as the rest of the small communities he had passed through on his way here. Driving down the main street, he saw a badly damaged motel on one side, a coffee shop set amid redwoods, and a shambles called the Glade.

He stopped the car in front and got out. The restaurant door was open but the interior was dark. He stepped onto the wooden porch, into a roaring mass of flies that swarmed around dark, irregular stains on the floorboards.

“Gina?” No response. “Gina, are you in there?” Silence.

He opened his satphone to report to Dick Lamson, who had commandeered Gina’s office. “Dick, I’ve arrived.”

“We see you. This setup of hers is incredible.”

“She’s a damn genius. They both are.”

“What they are remains to be seen.”

“Is there any other activity in town? Because she’s not answering when I call out to her.”

“You’re the only thing moving. Jesus, I’m flying down with a joystick. Man, I can see your face, I’m right in front of you! I didn’t know our satellites could do this.”

“They can’t. It’s her algorithms.”

“Have you communicated about this to the SatCom Unit? Is this being worked on outside of this office?”

It was beside the point, George didn’t care. He wanted to live, not discuss her bullshit.

“Yes,” he lied, to shut Dick up. Of course he’d hidden her work. He’d hidden her not because he knew she was a hybrid, which he did not, not until he read Turner’s notes, but because the whole area was just too sensitive.

“At least that’s something.”

“Look, I passed the area she bombed on the way in. A number of empty official vehicles, two of them burned out. A burned-out farmhouse. A couple of RVs that appeared to be abandoned. The whole region is abandoned. Including this town, and this place.” George gestured toward the Glade.

“Her satphone is on and transponding normally, and it’s in there.”

“Call her, then.”

“You’re right there! Go in!”

The doorway was as dark as the entrance to a cave. The flies clustered in masses.

“Dick, I think they’re all dead in there.”

There was a pause. George prayed to the good God that Dick was deciding to pull him back and let him get the hell out of here.

Dick’s voice came back. “We need you to do this, buddy.”

Retching, George pitched forward.

“What just happened?”

He recovered himself, took a couple of deep breaths.

“Going in.” He’d brought his little Glock with him and now slid his hand into his pocket and closed it around the pistol. He’d had plenty of weapons training when he’d been in operations, but that was fifteen years ago.

He put his hand on the screen door. Inside, he could see tables, some of them turned over, a few chairs, a wall of booths, and, across the back, a bar with a badly cracked mirror behind it. He got back on his satphone.

“There is absolutely nobody—” He stopped. Because that was not true, was it? In the cracked mirror, he had noticed a flicker of movement. It appeared to be something dark and it was coming toward the door, toward him. But nothing was visible now.

“Something is happening,” he said.

“Is she there?”

Also, now, he could hear breathing. So was it behind him? But when he turned, it wasn’t there.

He should never have been sent to this ghastly place, and Gina shouldn’t have come, either. Poor woman, whether she had hybrid elements within her or not, he felt sure that she was loyal.

He said into the satphone, “I think I’m too late.”

“Look, Linda Hicks is in there. We just talked to her. So why don’t you get in there now?”

“She’s in the restaurant?”

“Yes, she’s in there, and Lyndon and Richardson are nearby. We’ve got Delta Force circling, man! Get to the drop zone and report back. Do it now!”

“Something is wrong, I’m telling you.”

After a clicking sound, he heard a familiar voice, sickeningly familiar—the president of the United States.

“Hook up with Hicks and proceed to the landing area. Scout it and report back. We need to confirm absolutely that it is safe. That’s why you’re there. You’re definitely not compromised in any way. Are you ready to do this for us, Mr. Hammond?”

It was not really a question. He replied, “Yes, sir.” He took a deep breath. “Linda Hicks! They’re saying you’re in here.” He stopped in the center of the room. “Linda, you need to come out now. We’ve got work to do.”

At first, nothing happened. Then, a voice, small, tentative, afraid: “Hello, George.”

“Dr. Hicks!”

She rose up from behind the bar. With her was another person, a man.

“You remember PFC Richardson.” Her voice had a strange, trembling lilt in it. But the figure—it was the Dr. Hicks he remembered, certainly. Beside her was a soldier in dirty fatigues. George recalled that there was a Richardson in Bryan’s unit. The quartermaster, wasn’t he, or the driver, perhaps? George had not met them all.

They came over to him.

“Let’s do this outside,” he said. He turned to leave, but before he could reach the door, Richardson blocked his way. He was now trapped between the two of them.

“What’s going on?”

“He wants to know what’s going on,” Richardson said. He and Linda seemed to share a private joke.

Linda said, “George, we’re blind.”

“They blinded us,” Richardson said, his tone funereal.

“Blinded?”

“One moment we could see,” Richardson said. “Then not.”

George was appalled. “You’re casualties. You need medevac.”

“We have a job to do,” Linda said.

“Where is Gina?” George asked. “Is she blind?”

“She’s separated. We can’t find her. Probably she’s blind, too. Wandering in the woods.”

“We’ll find her. We’ll use the satellites to find her.”

“You do that.”

“Why are you blind? Were you attacked?”

“It just happened.”

“Was there a flash? An explosion?”

“We lost communication.”

What was that supposed to mean? George wanted to get into some kind of a medical facility himself, because there was no way to tell what had blinded these people, if some sort of toxicity or radiation was in the area.

“My orders are to go to the proposed drop zone,” he said. “We’re supposed to do detail recce. But I don’t see how you can.”

“George, don’t leave us!”

“But if you can’t see—”

“Do not leave us in this place.”

“No, of course not. I’m calling in medevac right now.”

“We have a truck,” Richardson said. “Which you need to drive. To clear the drop zone.”

George put his satphone to his ear. “We need a medical evac—”

Linda’s hand came up, felt along his arm, and grabbed the phone. “We have to clear the drop zone. Then you can evac us.”

That was courage. “Of course,” George said.

Moving carefully, Richardson shuffled outside and into the middle of the street. “Our truck is in front of the motel.”

“I see it. Boy, that motel took one hell of a beating.” It was a blackened shell. The truck itself was a scorched shambles, but it appeared to be intact.

Linda grabbed his hand. “Lead on.”

Inside the truck, he input the coordinates into her handheld GPS. The drop zone was less than two miles away. He started the vehicle.

“Once we’ve confirmed the drop, I’m getting us all out of here,” he said.

“That’ll be a relief,” Linda replied.

He felt it, too, a great flood of relief and, with it, sheer joy at being alive. This must be how it felt to realize that you had survived a battle, he thought, this shimmering blood rush.

They went down the main street, then turned off onto a winding road. After about a mile of struggling down the rough, partly unpaved road, it dwindled into a track. George stopped the truck. He leaned forward. Thick forest was all around them.

“This doesn’t appear to be right.”

“She had the coordinates in her GPS,” Linda said.

“Well, there’s no place for paratroopers to come in here.”

They got out. As they moved among the trees, George felt rather than heard something swish past his face. Then again.

“There’s bats here,” he said.

“Bats,” Richardson said. His voice had become deep and hollow, like a voice from a tomb.

“You’ll see again,” George said. “They can do all kinds of things these days.”

Richardson turned to him. His lips lifted in a mirthless smile. “Do you really think so?” He opened his eyes wide and pressed his grinning face close to George’s.

“Is there a … clearing?” George asked, his voice faint.

“You tell us.”

He looked around. Birds sang in the trees, their warbles echoing in the hollow of the forest. “There could be—maybe beyond those trees.”

“Lead us,” Linda said. “That’s why you’re here.”

“There’s more light over there. Perhaps—let’s have a look.”

They came out into a clearing perhaps six acres in size. Even with the operators’ skills, it was going to be a challenge for Delta Force to parachute into this.

A shuffling sound came from among the trees, and George was appalled to see a pale person pause at the edge of the clearing, then come toward him.

“Hybrid,” he shouted, and turned to run—and found himself in Richardson’s arms. He fought, but it was no use. Richardson was far, far stronger than him.

He found himself turned around, and face-to-face with a soft-featured hybrid, apparently intended to appear female. The face was soft, but the angles spoke of the danger of the snake, and the eyes had in them not the slightest trace of humanity. If this was not a machine, it was a brilliant animal.

It carried a silver suitcase.

“Are you ugly?” it asked him in a snapping, testy voice.

He needed the satphone. He had to send a warning. This no longer made any sense, except for one inescapable fact: Hicks and Richardson were working with this hybrid, not against it, so nothing was right here, nothing at all.

The creature spoke again. “What do you look like?”

He couldn’t understand why it would ask. But then he had a glimmer of realization. For whatever reason, it was blind, too.

“I’m fifty, a bit of a paunch, I’m afraid.”

“You’re ugly, aren’t you?”

“Ah, well—”

“He’s hideous, I knew it!”

She threw him aside with casual force. He was slung into the air—and Richardson caught him like some kind of stevedore catching a sack of potatoes.

Nobody was strong enough to do that.

The creature put the case on the ground. An angry buzzing sound come from inside.

“What’s that?”

She fumbled with the clasp.

The container was so flawlessly constructed that it might as well have been a jewel box. But it was large, three by four feet and two feet deep, at least.

She addressed George. “Open it.”

The clasp was simple enough—assuming you could see the way the tongue slid out, then had to be turned.

He lifted the lid—and saw something almost too strange to comprehend. It was metallic, dark blue-black, and gleaming. For all the world, it appeared to be the back of a huge beetle that had been tucked down into the case.

“What in the world…”

The girl slapped the thing. “Get moving!”

With a shriek like a saw screaming into wood, the thing leaped out at him—and on him. As it twisted in the air, he glimpsed human eyes, then found his head being crushed in a prison of legs. As his mouth opened in a reflexive cry of shock and disbelief, a rubbery protuberance was thrust down his throat so hard that it went right past his gnashing teeth and deep into his stomach.

“That’s cool,” Linda Hicks shouted. “It’s wonderful!”

“They’re new. Just designed,” the hybrid said.

George knew how important that information was, but he couldn’t think about it now. He pushed against the gigantic, insectlike being on him, trying to dislodge it.

Then Richardson asked, “Is it working?”

The hybrid snarled, “How should I know?”

“Because there are planes up there. Delta Force has arrived.”

George’s stomach seemed almost to tear itself in half, then what felt like fire came up, exiting in a spray of froth out the corners of his distended mouth, then filling his head and spraying like lava out of both his nostrils.

Fire was in him, all right, savage heat, and his back arched and then the material spraying from his nose became steam and the air filled with a smell of cooking meat.

“Yep, it’s working!” the hybrid said. “It’s really fast.”

George became a dot of failing consciousness in the center of his pain. His last thought was of the Glock and getting his finger properly seated to release the trigger safety. He did not die afraid because he had no understanding of what was happening to him, and thus no idea that he was dying.

The body flopped once, then fell. Hissing came from inside. The girl bent down and felt the body lightly with her hands.

“Come off,” she snapped, and the huge insect withdrew its proboscis with a guttural rumble.

It raised its eyes to the hybrid, who muttered, “Back.”

It returned to the case and folded itself up.

She slammed the lid. “Boy, do they stink.”

“You can’t exactly bathe ’em, can you?” the Richardson figure said.

“There’s gotta be something. You don’t think bugs smell until they’re big like this. Let’s see, now, what we got?”

She pointed a small control at George’s body, and the hissing grew in intensity. Steam curled out of the mouth, then shot out both mouth and nose, then around the eyes.

The skin turned purple and blew up like some sort of horrific balloon, almost ripping the clothes to pieces.

“Good,” the hybrid muttered. As she pocketed the device, the skin sank down like a deflating tire. Nothing was left of the skeleton or the organs, so it sank down into a wrinkled jumble of loose clothes.

Her hands swept it. “I don’t want to get in this.”

“You have to.”

“I won’t!” But even as she shouted protest, she threw off her clothes and lay down on the skin, her porcelain white body making it seem almost dark in comparison. “I’m not doing it,” she cried as she slid into the skin. She moved like a snake struggling with its molt.

“The planes are getting lower,” the false Linda said, her voice crisply urgent.

What appeared to be George Hammond came to his feet. “He was ugly and now I’m ugly. I want to be beautiful.”

“Your voice is ridiculous.”

“I just heard him for a few minutes!”

“Try harder!”

The three of them moved out into the clearing. Silver transport aircraft circled in a vast blue sky.

“Linda” spoke into the satphone.

“We’re good to go. Bring ’em in.”

“Put Hammond on.”

The hybrid girl in Hammond’s skin took the satphone.

“Looks good,” she said in a somewhat better approximation of his voice.

A moment later, the planes banked sharply and began to descend.

All around the edges of the clearing, hundreds more hybrids waited.

The most powerful military unit on the planet began dropping into the clearing that would become its tomb.