“Get down!” the cop with her hissed, and she felt herself thrown hard into the backseat. She propped herself up and looked through the windshield in time to see Cal aiming the shotgun at the cop. He was an older Filipino guy in a cop uniform that had simplified epaulets on it; the uniformed cop aimed at Cal with a sidearm. Some kind of pistol.
“Cal, don’t!” she heard herself yell, knowing it would do no good. Words seemed like noises with no meaning, right now.
Both guns roared—she couldn’t bear the sheer noise of them— and then the Filipino cop was hit; was spinning, falling, in a cloud of blue gun-smoke.
Stanner firing what looked like an M16. Cal staggered backwards.
Despite all common sense, despite what he had become and what he’d tried to do, she screamed for her brother, when he was shot. Bullets slamming him three times, four times.
Cal fell back against the van, yelling without words. Mason was pulling the van around, backing it up, getting ready to slam it into the cop car.
Cal got onto his hands and knees, was crawling, his arms stretching, stretching way too far out.
The van started to come at them.
Then the Filipino cop was up again. When he came back to the car she saw that the front of his uniform blouse was shot open, and under it she could see a bulletproof vest speckled with shotgun pellets.
Shouting at Stanner, words she couldn’t make out over gunfire, the Filipino cop fired his sidearm, past Cal, who was trying to climb onto the van.
The van barreled toward them, bullets from Stanner and the cop pocking its front end, and then a round hit a fuel line and the flat front of the van gouted black smoky flame, exploded. The van started weaving, fishtailing up on two wheels in a sheath of flame and tipping over.
The van fell with a resounding
clang
onto its side, tipped onto Cal, crushing him.
Weeping and screaming wasn’t enough so Adair started laughing.
Stanner and the cop got into the car, slamming doors, the Filipino guy backing it up really fast, Adair leaning against the backseat, laughing and crying, mostly just laughing.
They drove fast down the street, running traffic lights, siren blaring.
After half a minute more she fell silent, her chest heaving, dizzy with hyperventilation. The hysterical laughter had run its course.
She just lay with her cheek pressed to the vinyl surface, gasping softly. Glancing up through the back window, she could just make out black smoke screwing into the sky from the burning van. Burning with Cal crushed under it.
She doubted she’d ever cry again. She would have to feel something first.
“You okay?” Stanner asked. He was in the front, turned sideways, the M16 propped beside him. Looking through the mesh at her. “I mean—” He shrugged apologetically. “Stupid question. You can’t be okay. But, so, uh, your name is Adair, isn’t it?”
She just looked back at him. It seemed impossibly hard to speak. To say anything. She felt like a computer that had frozen up. Whatever she was now, that’s what she’d stay. That’s how it felt anyway.
Stanner said, “Uh, we heard them talking, on the police band, and we were en route nearby. So we headed over there. Your brother called you in to the cops—to what passes for cops now. They’ll be over there in a minute, so we’ve got to get the hell out of here.”
She couldn’t say anything to that, either.
The small man in the cop uniform spoke to her, then. “I’m sorry about your brother. But you know he was already dead before he got here, yes?”
The Filipino cop was looking at her in the rearview mirror. His small dark, intense eyes captured by that little rectangle.
She tried to reply. She couldn’t. Nothing would come out.
“What now?” the cop asked, glancing at Stanner.
“Now—I’ll tell you what, now. We go to see if Bentwaters did what he said, when I called him. They’ll have monitored that call but—but they won’t necessarily understand what I said to him. Not if I was careful enough.”
“So we try it?”
Stanner nodded. “We get the hell out of this town.”
20
December 14, morning
The back road out of town was blocked by police cars. Cruzon wasn’t about to challenge the imposing blockade.
“Let’s try the freeway. Maybe there’s room to drive around them there, if we’re fast and nervy enough,” Stanner suggested.
Cruzon nodded, stopped, backed up, drove back through town the other way. The day had turned gray, and there was a damp mist in the air.
Occasionally, cars pulled up beside them, when there was a lane to do it in, and paced them, the people staring. Now it was a family in a silver and red Isuzu Rodeo: two identical blond children, a doe-eyed blond mother, their redheaded daddy, three sets of blue eyes and one of brown, the dad not watching where he was driving but able to drive anyway. A family with all four heads turned to silently stare at Stanner and Cruzon and Adair—until she lay back down, as if napping, hiding her face.
“Maybe we should try to disable that vehicle,” Cruzon suggested. He accelerated through a light as it turned yellow. “They could’ve gotten the word from those we killed back there. We could run them off the road.”
The Isuzu fell slightly behind but unhesitatingly ran the red light, trying to keep up with them. Its engine revved loudly as it put on speed—and Cruzon deliberately slowed so the Isuzu would overshoot.
“No,” Stanner said. “Let’s not push them into reacting before we have to. They seem uncertain. They don’t know everything. Their communication isn’t perfect. The system is still evolving.”
“They seem like . . . evolution gone wrong,” Cruzon muttered, his forehead furrowed.
“Not in the DNA sense of evolution. But they’re always restlessly evolving—self-directed evolving, I guess. They have their own kind of splicing—but it’s not gene splicing. Anyway, they might know who we are—or they might not. Those following us could think we’re their kind but on a different frequency, maybe.
“Sometimes they’re very proactive, but other times, it’s like their All of Us is still running through all the possibilities, like a cheap chess program thinking about its next move. That erratic decision making is our main hope—for right now anyway.”
After another block, the Isuzu turned off, heading to the north end of town. “What’s off in that direction?” Stanner asked.
“Nothing special,” Cruzon said. “Lot of tract homes. Churches. A golf course. The cemetery’s out there, on the edge of town.”
They drove past a smoking, burned-out Chevy pickup aslant in the middle of the street, with a couple of cops standing beside it, watching them go by. A swag-bellied cop and a grim-faced woman officer.
“What do you think about those cops at that wreck, Cruzon?” Stanner asked, fighting the urge to look back over his shoulder.
“Used to be they’d have waved at me, maybe called me on the radio. Normally there’d be at least two units next to a scene like that, too.”
The police radio crackled to itself, waves of static as if a great pulsing sea of interference was rolling over the town.
They passed a deserted-looking Albertsons supermarket. The doors were chained up, the parking lot was empty. “Okay,” Cruzon said. “Here’s the freeway entrance.”
But that was blockaded, too. Cruzon stopped the car, about half a block away, in the parking lot of an ARCO station, and they sat looking at the blockade. The town was sealed up.
Three police cars were parked sideways across the road. On the shoulder was a van that had a FEMA logo on the side. Two guys in bulky helmeted orange hazmat suits, protection against a large-scale toxin leak, looked at an instrument in the back of the van. Stanner thought he could see a handmade transmitter back there, too.
Cruzon said, “Looks like they’re acting as if the town had a refinery leak. I did hear them let loose with their siren once.”
“Those guys in the moon suits are props. Camouflage, for the locals—and maybe for choppers.”
“People can’t buy that shit for very long, can they?”
“They don’t have to,” Stanner said. “If these things follow the pattern we saw in the lab, then they’re building up toward a mass release. They have to keep people out of town only till that’s done.”
“What do you mean, mass release?”
“A kind of quantum leap in reproduction. They build their population toward a kind of critical mass, then they try to move to a colony-replication model. They seem to have modeled the thing on the triggers that make ant colonies replicate. Those antennas on the roof—I figure they’ll send out a carrier wave, give the signal. When they’re ready.”
“Yeah? When will that be?”
Stanner shrugged. “I don’t know for sure, but probably not more than another twenty-four hours, or so.”
“There
have
to be people from the outside press here, if they’re quarantining the town. Whether they’re calling it a toxin leak or an anthrax attack or whatever. You can’t just bottle up a town, this close to the big ones, without people noticing. But I haven’t heard anything on the radio news.”
Stanner felt a wave of disgust. “I haven’t seen any press. And no state or county emergency personnel out here, either. Which means that the fucking Pentagon has made all the right calls.”
Cruzon sat pensively, watching the men at the blockade. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, chewed his lower lip. After a moment he muttered, “Your tax dollars at work.”
Stanner looked at the girl in the backseat. She was hugging herself in a corner of the seat, knees drawn up protectively. Just staring into space. “Adair?”
Her eyes flicked toward him, but she didn’t react in any other way. Stanner was beginning to worry that she might never come back.
“Adair, have you been anywhere near a TV set, like maybe last night? Heard anything from the outside about Quiebra?”
She just looked at him. He thought she shook her head, once, just slightly. But he wasn’t even sure of that.
Stanner sighed. She’d been through too much to handle.
Maybe if he explained everything to her, at some point. Maybe, if she could grasp how this had an explanation, a cause, she could come to grips with it. An explanation had seemed to help Cruzon— who’d been right on the edge of what field agents used to call “The Paranoia of No Return.”
“They’ve noticed us,” Cruzon said, squinting at the blockade. “We’d better get out of here. Ditch this car maybe, get away overland, contact the state police. Get some backup. I mean, the Pentagon may have made some calls, to hold people back from looking too close, but that doesn’t mean everybody’s in on it.”
“They’re
not
all in on it. They’re just being lied to. Pretty well, too. If we could take some evidence out . . . We should have brought Breakenridge with us.”
“I know some trails, up in the hills.”
“We don’t want to go overland unless we have to,” Stanner said. “There are
things
out there keeping the town closed up, all around the edges of town. They’ve changed some of the animals. But we ought to find a place to hide for now—and collect what evidence we can. Maybe we can get around these bastards tonight.”
Stanner noticed that the men at the blockade were peering over at him, talking earnestly. Then he saw someone he knew, getting out of the front of the FEMA van. Two people. His daughter, Shannon, was one—and the other was Bentwaters. With them was a Green Beret carrying an Uzi.
“Oh, no,” he muttered. “Shannon.”
Cruzon looked at him. “Somebody you know?”
“Yeah.” The guys in the moon suits got in the FEMA van and it drove away. “They’ve got my daughter,” Stanner said. “And Bentwaters, a guy who was important to the Facility.” He made up his mind. “Cruzon, wait here. After I’ve walked over there, ease the car slowly closer, so I can get to it in a few steps. If things go sour, you can do a U-turn, get out of here with the girl, try to find some other route out of town. I’ve got to get my daughter away from those . . . things.”
“You sure about this? I mean, they brought her here to bring you out in the open, right?”
“Yeah, I know. But they might want me alive if they could get me that way. Anyway—anyway, good luck, Commander.”
“Stanner!”
But Stanner was already stepping out, damp gusts whipping his windbreaker.
Carrying the M16 in his left hand, he took out his badge with his right, waved it, up high so they could see it. He just kept holding the badge up and smiling as he walked over toward the roadblock. He had only one full clip left in the M16.
Shannon saw him, took a step toward him—and Bentwaters grabbed her arm, pulled her back. Stanner had to work at it to keep from running at him, wanting to shout,
Get your fucking hands of my
daughter.
He made himself walk up to them slowly, putting the badge away, taking the stock of the M16 in his right hand. Holding it across his body. Not threatening—but obviously ready. He glanced at it once to make sure the safety was off.
Shannon was breathing hard—he could see her chest heaving from here—and she had her hands clutched against her sides.
Five men stood around Shannon. Standing close beside her, hand gripping her arm, was a tall, graying man with deep smile lines on his tanned face; he wore khaki slacks and a beige Lacoste shirt. Stanner had a foggy memory, from his first day of asking questions, that the guy had been the town’s mayor. Name of Rowse.
On her other side was one of the young marines from the satellite crash site, wearing a scrappy, dirty uniform, carrying an M16. Beside him was Bentwaters, wearing a FEMA jacket, shivering visibly. The jacket was social camouflage issued by the NSA.
Standing by the cop cars was a familiar Green Beret, Uzi slung over one shoulder. A plastic name tag on his jacket read DIRKOWSKI. Stanner remembered him from the crash site, too: the knucklehead who’d sent the diver down without protections. No briefing. He was briefed on the situation
now
, all right.
And Morgenthal was there. The shop teacher. A 12-gauge shotgun in his hands. Two Quiebra cops—they used to be cops—were sitting in the cruisers behind the group of men. A young black cop and a jowly, older white one.
Morgenthal and Rowse both looked completely human, though Morgenthal looked shabbier now, his shirt untucked, unshaven, hair matted. Their disparity gave Stanner hope. The crawlers were powerful—but not perfectly organized. The All of Us was still learning.
Stanner walked up to within ten paces of them and stopped. He looked at Shannon and saw the marks on her face, her split lip.
God
help them if they’ve changed her over.
He smiled encouragingly at her. She looked away, her mouth quivering.
He gave another kind of smile to the men standing with Shannon and smacked the breach of his M16 in his hand. “You know, I’m pretty good with this thing. I’ve had my share of practice.”
“No need for any test of skill,” Rowse said finally. “Mr. Bentwaters here is our emissary. Mr. Bentwaters, you have the floor.”
Stanner looked at Bentwaters. “Someone’s hit my daughter. Was it you?”
Shannon closed her eyes and sobbed, just once. “Dad.”
“Quiet, young lady, please,” Rowse said, tightening his grip on her arm.
Stanner’s hands began to sweat on the gun.
Bentwaters licked his lips and looked at the girl. Then at the gun in Stanner’s hands. His eyes danced with fear. “Henri, no, I didn’t hit her. And I didn’t tell them to bring her here.
“And I’ve told her everything,” Bentwaters went on breathlessly. “It seemed only fair. The team that was following you, from the Agency—when they lost you, they went and picked her up, brought her into town. Listen, they got Gaitland. He came over here to see what he could find out, and we think he’s dead. I came over separately and—look, I’m sorry about this, Major. About the girl. About you running up against all this. I just wanted to inspect the site, see if the diagnosis was as you seemed to think—that the thing had gotten away from us. I asked for an escort, over at the NSA, because I figured it could be dangerous, but, uh, all they’d give me was Dirkowski here. And he—” Bentwaters broke off, licking his lips.
Stanner looked at Dirkowski.
He’s one, too,
Stanner thought. “Okay. What’s the Pentagon doing about this?”
“They’re playing ball with these things—for now. They don’t want a big detachment over here, drawing attention. They’re trying to keep a lid on the media until they can figure out what to do.”
Stanner shook his head in amazement. “They think they can contain this? Keep people in the dark forever? You know, an idea has been growing on me for a while, Bentwaters. And I’ll tell you what it is: The government thinks the American people are stupid— but they’re not stupid, they just feel powerless. They’ll figure out someday that they’re not powerless.”
Bentwaters smiled sadly. “Someday won’t help us.”
Stanner looked narrowly at Bentwaters. “I figure the Facility must have some kind of contingency plan?”
Bentwaters flicked his eyes at the former Green Beret without turning his head—trying to catch Stanner’s attention with that motion of his eyes.
Don’t say too much in front of this thing.
Stanner nodded, just perceptibly.
Bentwaters sighed, his voice quavering. “It’s not about the Facility—not around here. It’s
them
. They’re getting ready to—”
“Shut up,” the Green Beret said. And there was a flicker of metal in his throat, as if something had looked out of it, just for a moment. “Just give him the message.”
Stanner looked at Bentwaters, wondering if he was still human. He seemed very humanly scared—but that could be an act.
That’s when Stanner noticed the thin, shiny, clinging ribbon around Bentwaters’s neck. Like a living necklace of dull, shifting chrome; it quivered like a line of ants, so crowded together you couldn’t make out one from the next.
Stanner knew what it was. The “ants” were each made of smaller individualized components; and those were organized of active “interdependent but independent” particles that were smaller yet.