J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection (28 page)

Somebody was at the abandoned farm, all right.

Two huge bonfires were going out in front of the ramshackle house with the peeling white paint. In the orange glow cast by the fire, shadowy forms writhed.

Jimmy gaped and dropped the flashlight. He wasn't near enough to see all that clearly, but what he did see convinced him not to come any closer. There were
things
down there—dark, hulking things, dozens of them, some of them swaying in groups of three, some of them moving around. They looked like big black crabs perched on skinny tentacles, and a group of them were carrying metal cans out of a big truck parked off to one side of the house.

The crab-things were bad enough, but what really frightened Jimmy most were the people. They stood by the fire, three groups of three, and they reminded Jimmy of the time he'd gone as a zombie for Halloween . . . only these guys weren't pretending. Their skin was all gross and puffy-looking, with shreds of flesh rotting off in places, and their faces were covered with gooey, crusty sores. No two ways about it, Jimmy decided. These guys were
dead.
He trembled and made a small whimpering sound.

Being the fastest thinker of the three, Emmy Lou turned tail and ran. The other two recognized inspiration when they saw it and followed.

The white truck was sighted once more thirty miles shy of the Nevada border by a lone state trooper who radioed for help, then promptly vanished, leaving his patrol car abandoned just off a deserted stretch of Highway 15. Ironhorse alerted the police and the

Clark County Sheriffs Office, expecting the truck to continue east toward Vegas. Roadblocks were set up; there was no way the big rig could make it across the state line without being stopped.

That was two days ago. Either the truck had veered north toward Death Valley or headed south for Arizona or Mexico; in any case, the sightings ceased. Ironhorse requested more troops, so a massive search fanning in all directions could be launched, but it was all taking too much time.

Another puzzle: within hours after being exposed to such a strong dose of radiation, the terrorists should have been dead or dying, certainly far too ill to have made it as far as the Mojave.

Then word came from Alpine County, just south of Tahoe. Two witnesses had escaped with a fantastic story: the white truck was stopped at an abandoned farm, where huge crablike creatures were seen unloading steel barrels.

Ironhorse stood in the glass-partitioned office and watched as, a few cubicles down, a uniformed deputy offered coffee to a couple of disheveled hunters. The older man took the cup gratefully, but the younger, just a high school kid, shook his head and stared back at Ironhorse with wide, haunted eyes. The colonel turned away and took a sip of hot black coffee from the styrofoam cup in his hand.

Reynolds was talking. His dark eyes were bloodshot from the recent lack of sleep. "Frankly, Colonel, I never heard such a crock of bullshit in my life. Those two good ol' boys musta been drunk as skunks."

Ironhorse crossed over to the map spread over the vacant desk in the tiny office. He trusted Reynolds as much as anyone he knew, but even with his staff sergeant, Ironhorse liked to keep his cards close to his chest. He still hadn't bothered to mention the "gorillas" the old alkie at the gas station had seen to anyone.

"They seemed more tired and frightened than drunk," the colonel answered, turning back to take one more glance at the boy's pale face. "And they gave a perfect ID of the truck we've been chasing."

Reynolds seemed a little taken aback by his answer. "I know, sir, but you have to admit the rest of their story sounds like one-fifty-proof delusions—or worse."

"Maybe," Ironhorse conceded cautiously. Or maybe, like the old drunk, they were one of the few permitted to gaze upon the star-bears and live. With the alkie, he was willing to write it all off—but the fact that aliens had been mentioned twice in connection with the white truck had to be more than sheer coincidence.

He turned to Reynolds. "Team briefing in fifteen minutes, Sergeant. I want everyone at one hundred percent. We move out in an hour."

"Whatever you say, Colonel." Reynolds' tone was entirely dutiful, but as he exited the cubicle, Ironhorse caught the sergeant's dubious expression.

No matter. The colonel turned his attention to the shakily scrawled X the older hunter had marked on the map. Whoever, whatever was hiding there was about to receive a visit from Delta squad.

It was early afternoon when the helicopter deposited Suzanne and Harrison two miles from their destination.

"This is better than the desert," Suzanne commented as they carried the equipment the rest of the way. It was beautiful mountainous country, rugged and forested with tall pine. Oddly, the closer they came to the object of their search, the more everything took on a sense of unreality, and the less her fear became.

Harrison looked up from the map in his hand and grunted. "At least you've learned to dress more sensibly." He nodded at her khakis.

She shrugged. "If you can't beat 'em . . . Frankly, I'm beginning to think the job calls more for a professional camper than for a microbiologist."

They grew quiet as they approached the location marked in red on Norton's map. "Here," Harrison said, his voice almost inaudible, and eased the camera equipment to the ground near the crest of a rocky ridge.

Suzanne lowered her own case and together they crouched near a clump of bushes and peered down into the valley. Binoculars dangled from a strap around Harrison's neck; he raised them to his eyes.

"All quiet," he whispered.

She could see nothing but a couple of run-down buildings. She nudged him and gestured for the binoculars, which he handed over.

She peered through them. Just an old dilapidated farmhouse built of hand-hewn planks that had silvered with age, and a barn covered with faded, peeling
red paint, both nestled in a quiet valley; it must have been a lovely place years ago. Even now it looked peaceful, benign, incapable of housing anything evil. Someone had recently set a couple of bonfires. She handed the binoculars back and glanced over at the map still in his hand. "Are you sure this is the right place? I didn't see the truck or any barrels."

Harrison shrugged. "They could have ditched the truck or hidden it somewhere. The barn looks big enough. And it looks like someone had themselves a little barbecue recently." He turned back to paw through the equipment case, then pulled out the Geiger counter and began monitoring. The counter emitted a few healthy clicks.

He looked over at Suzanne. "They're around, all right. Wait till I take this thing closer." He yawned. "But not now. We should wait until it gets dark." He walked, still crouched down, behind the bushes, found a comfortable hollow, which he padded with pine needles, and settled into it.

Suzanne stared back at him, stunned, and followed. "How can you sleep at a time like this?"

"It's very simple," he answered, pulling the brim of his fedora over his eyes. "I need my one hour out of five. And I'm exhausted after the past few days. Aren't you?"

She sat on the ground near him. "Well, yes, but that doesn't mean I can go to sleep just like that. Especially considering our situation. Good Lord, I think I'd have nightmares. Frankly, I've been having them anyway lately."

He pushed the brim up with one finger and looked at her. "Why do you think I sleep only an hour at a time? You should try it. Helps keep them from starting."

That gave her pause. Considering what he'd been through as a kid, it was no wonder. "Maybe I'll rest in a while," she said, "but don't you think one of us ought to stand watch?"

Harrison pulled his hat back down and snickered. "Suzanne, based on my own personal experience, I can safely say that if they spot us, watching is about all we'll be able to do about it."

She sighed. "Well, I won't be able to sleep for a while anyway." She picked up the map where he'd dropped it, found a comfortable spot against a boulder, and nestled against it. "So you're
sure
this is the right place, huh? Just seems too quiet."

"This is it." His voice was already sleepy and fading. "Rattlesnake Ridge."

"Rattlesnake Ridge." She sat up. "How'd it get
that
name?"

Harrison grinned but didn't answer. In a few seconds he was breathing regularly, and Suzanne was sitting perfectly straight, her eyes open wide and on the lookout.

She had a wooden pointer in her hand, the kind teachers used to use years ago, and she was explaining to Mrs. Pennyworth and Debi the anatomical structure of aliens, pointing at the E.T. doll on the steel dissection table.

"Wake up," Harrison said.

"What?!" Suzanne sat up with a start, heart pounding.

"Take it easy." He put a hand on her shoulder while she caught her breath. "It's starting to get dark, that's all. Time to get moving."

She looked up at the rising moon as it traveled past wisps of clouds, then down at the deserted buildings. Both the house and barn were unlit and empty-looking.

Harrison patted her shoulder awkwardly, then took his hand away. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she said a little coldly, then nodded back at the farmhouse. "You're still sure they're here?"

"You hear that?" he asked.

"Hear what?" She strained, but could hear only silence.

"No crickets." Harrison gave her a knowing look. "They're here all right." He continued in the same soothing tone. "We're not trying to get ourselves killed, okay? I'm only going close enough for some instrument readings. You stay back and record everything with the camera."

At first she considered arguing with him about it, accusing him of gallantry, but as long as there seemed to be no real danger . .. She nodded and reached for the video camera while Harrison found the Geiger counter and made gingerly for the slope.

She didn't feel frightened, exactly .. . only very cold, so cold that her teeth began to chatter even though she wore a light jacket. The air was cooling off

rapidly. Embarrassed, she gritted her teeth so that Harrison wouldn't hear.

Before he made it very far down the hill, the Geiger counter began to buzz in earnest. "See," Harrison hissed at her. "What'd I tell you? They're around. But we'd better not get too much—"

She didn't hear the rest of what he had to say. Something clamped itself over her mouth and pulled her backward, off balance.

TWENTY

A great force struck Harrison in the back, hurling him facedown into the grass. The Geiger counter went flying. A heavy weight pressed down on him, keeping him pinned. He tried to call Suzanne's name and couldn't; the wind had been knocked out of him. He could hear her muffled cries as she struggled.

Shit, this is it,
he told himself, feeling more frustrated than frightened, and damn awful about the fact that he'd let her come along. And her poor daughter ... at least Norton would figure out what had happened, but would he be able to get proof to Wilson in time?

"Promise not to scream, and I'll take away my hand." A man's voice, low and soft, and very far away. Suzanne's moaning stopped. At the same time, the pressure against Harrison's back disappeared, leaving a dull ache. Slowly, Harrison rolled over and sat up, holding the injured spot with one hand, not knowing exactly what to expect next.

He squinted at the vaguely familiar, sneering face looming over him in the darkness. These were no aliens. "Well, I'll be goddamned," Harrison said with something less than pleasure. "Ironhorse. What are you doing here?" Nearby, Suzanne glared at a large, formidable-looking soldier dressed in battle fatigues, his face smeared with black camouflage paint.

Ironhorse straightened. "No, Doctor, that's my line. What are
you
doing here?" He extended a hand and jerked Harrison to his feet.

Harrison groaned and rubbed the offending spot in his back. "Jesus, I think I bruised a rib. That is,
you
bruised it." He scanned the ground quickly, in search of the Geiger counter. "Dammit, Colonel, if you hurt any of our equipment—-"

"The army will pay for any damages." Ironhorse's black eyes glittered with amusement, making Harrison hate him all the more for his damnably smug attitude. "You still haven't told me what you're doing here."

Harrison ignored him for a moment, stepping over toward Suzanne and her war-painted assailant. "Suzanne, did this joker hurt you?"

"Only my dignity," she answered dryly, and gave the camera a pat. "Fortunately, this is still in one piece."

Harrison turned back to the colonel. "I'm not going to answer your question, Colonel Ironhorse, because you wouldn't believe us if we told you."

Ironhorse considered this and handed Blackwood
273

back the still-buzzing Geiger counter. Harrison brushed the dirt off it; it seemed to be okay. "You're right," the colonel said, "I probably wouldn't. I had the tape you gave me analyzed. Remember the one? With the transmission supposedly made by the terrorists? Twenty minutes of the
Best of Buddy Rich."

Harrison smiled coldly. "It's not my fault your people couldn't do their jobs, Colonel."