The Uninvited (28 page)

A full minute ticked by. Dr. Boswell's voice cracked through the speaker. “Being done, Jefferson.”

“I told Wally Hopson to have that done first thing,” Dr. Whitson said. “What's the delay?”

“Damn, Jefferson!” Boswell said. “These things take time. We're moving as quickly as we can.”

“It isn't quickly enough.”

“What have you managed to discover about these mutants?” Boswell changed the subject, before Dr. Whitson began delivering another of his tirades on government inefficiency and bureaucratic nincompoops in general.

Nothing and a lot,” Whitson replied. “I sprayed them with every chemical I have at my lab. Nothing stops them. They are resistant to everything I know of. A couple of times I thought I had it, but they just wait a couple of minutes then shake it off and get up. They are extremely vicious and voracious eaters. They also seem to possess the ability to think, in a primitive manner. In short, Dr. Boswell, they are the goddamnedest things I have ever seen.”

“What about the madness—sickness—their bite causes?”

“I don't believe there is a cure. The poison attacks too quickly. We've thrown every drug we have at it. Nothing. Waste of time. I assisted on the autopsy of two men last evening. One was a prisoner we had in a clinic. He broke his restraints and a highway patrolman shot him dead. The other man was shot and killed by Sheriff Ransonet. Bodies are sealed in rubber bags and will be put on board your helicopter. That must be it behind you. Yes, it's coming in now.

“Whatever this is we're dealing with hits the blood stream like nothing I have ever seen. It attacks cells, tissue, completely changing the structure of every organ, including the eyes. Attacks the nervous system. Turns the dura mater, the arachnoid, and the pia mater into layers of pus. You'll see what it does to the brain itself. Incredible. But there has to be
something
to stop this.”

We'll find it, old friend,” Dr. Wilkins said.

“Let me speak with Sheriff Ramnet,” a voice hard with authority cut through the air.
Ramon . . . whatever.”

“That's Ransonet,” Vic corrected.
R-a-ns-o-n-e-t.” He spelled it, then pronounced it for the unknown man.

“You Acadian French?” the voice asked.

“Hell, no! I'm a coonass and damn proud of it,” Vic popped back.

The voice laughed, deeply and heartily—a man's laugh. “I'm a Jew myself—and I'm damn proud of that. We'll get along, Sheriff Ransonet. I'm General Bornemann. That's Bo-r-n-e-m-a-n-n. Commanding General of the 82nd Airborne. I have been ordered by the President of the United States to seal you people in. Where is Sheriff—ah—Grant? He was supposed to be there with you.”

“He decided not to show up. He's got a bad case of the redass at me.”

The red what? Is that a symptom of the bug bite?”

Vic laughed. “No, General. That's a local expression for being pissed off.”

“Why is Sheriff Grant pissed-off at you?”

“Because I blew the whistle on this problem we have. It was me who called the sheriff up in Ballard Parish and had him seal off the bridge over the Velour.”

“That took guts.”

Or a lot of stupidity.”

“I'll opt for guts. What's your first name, Sheriff?”

“Vic.”

“I'm James. Vic? You want me to drop some hard-assed ole boys in to help you? You name it, I've got them under my command on this operation. Special Forces, Rangers, Pathfinders, LRRP's, and all my 82nd. I've got thousands of men who have already volunteered to come in and help. You say the word, they'll be there.”

“I ...” Vic hesitated. He looked at Dr. Whitson.

“Why get them sealed in here with us?” the old man asked.

No, General,” Vic said. “I don't know what they could do. If we were fighting a man-sized enemy, I'd say drop them in. But I guess we'd better handle this one. We made it through the first night. Maybe we'll get lucky.”

“Okay, Vic. But I'm standing by if and when you need my men. Warn your people not to try to leave the two-county ... Parish area. You know why. I'm setting up observation posts all along the Velour and Mississippi. The Navy's been steaming all night to get here from New Orleans. First unit's just getting here. We have orders to prevent anyone from leaving. I'd hate to see this come to shooting.”

“It'll come to that,” Sheriff Ransonet warned him. “There will be people trying to escape. Be hard to blame them for doing that, won't it?”

General Bornemann chose not to reply. “Luck to you, Vic.”

“Thanks.”

 

 

Lee and Chester, FBI agents from the Alexandria office tried all morning to get into Baronne and Lapeer Parishes. All the bridges were gone. Troops were setting up all over the place; military personnel were burning a wide strip around the Parishes, using flamethrowers and gasoline. The north bridge was blocked, sealed off and heavily guarded by Special Forces men in full combat gear. Two tanks were parked on the safe side of the bridge, their .50 caliber and 7.62 caliber machine guns loaded and ready to fire. The main armament, a 90mm gun, was leveled and loaded.

Since they were not here in any kind of official capacity, neither man identified himself immediately as FBI. They had not had a radio on during the short trip, and neither knew what was happening. After they spotted agents they recognized from the New Orleans office, they walked over to join them.

“What the hell is happening here?” Lee asked.

“You guys really don't know?” an agent questioned, amazement in his tone.

“No,” Chester replied innocently. “We just came over here to do some, fishing.”

“Well, you picked a hell of a place to do that.”

They all watched as a transmitter truck rolled up and parked, its circle antenna slowly rotating, locking in on a frequency. Other huge trucks were setting up in position around the two-Parish area.

“Those are jamming rigs,” Lee remarked. “What in the hell is going on around here?”

Yeah,” a buddy told him. “Those two smaller rigs will be used to jam any signal the radio stations in the area try to send out—should they become operational. The others are to block any CB signal from coming out.”