Crypto-Punk

  Dr. Camaro moved toward the soldier in slow motion, hampered by the bulky hazmat suit he wore. “We’re ready for you now, Captain Runyon.”

  The suits worried Runyon, who suddenly wondered if Frost was telling him everything he needed to know about the Cryptos. “Is it safe in here?”

  “Nothing to worry about, Captain,” Camaro assured him. “This is standard protocol.”

  Runyon nodded to his subordinates, and they prodded the reluctant Crypto forward until he crawled through the hatch of his own volition.

  The medics scurried back and forth recording every aspect of the Crypto’s newly evolved anatomy. The metamorphosis had been arduous, but the glorious rebirth was now complete. Harley was gone, and now there was only Tusk.

  “Start the recorder,” Dr. Camaro ordered. “And get pictures—front and side—and measurements.”

  Runyon jabbed Tusk with the prod. Tusk growled but obeyed, and lurched onto the scale.

  The Chief Medic calibrated the stadiometer and lowered the top bar until it almost touched the top of the Tusk’s massive skull. “Eight feet even,” the medic said.

  Tusk’s back arched, and the corners of his mouth pulled back to reveal gleaming canines. He chuffed, deep and throaty, and the room fell silent.

  The medics stepped back. They’d seen this before and knew to give him space when he was agitated.

  Tusk’s back stiffened, and his pupil’s dilated. The other was there, watching him. Sometimes the other came to him in dreams; sometimes he was in the water staring back at him, a ghost from before—when Tusk was like everybody else.

  But Tusk wasn’t like everybody else—he wasn’t like anybody else. He lowered his head and charged across the lab at the other like a renegade bull.

  “Keep your distance…Don’t let him get his talons on you!” Runyon shouted, jabbing with the cattle prod and missing.

  The tactical team members converged, but Tusk backhanded them across the lab.

  Runyon jabbed again, but Tusk avoided the prod’s crackling tip and slammed the soldier into a rack of test tubes without breaking stride.

  The obstacles removed, Tusk hit the mirror at full speed, shattering the glass into a thousand jagged shards on impact—and just like that--the other was gone.

  The medics stumbled over each other trying to get away, but the corrosive chemicals from the broken test tubes were already seeping into their lungs, making breathing difficult and movement impossible.

  Tusk turned toward the exit. The gargantuan Crypto lowered his shoulder and ripped through the med-unit’s steel hatch like it was made of foil.

  Sentries stationed outside the hatch raised their weapons, but Tusk’s spiny tail lashed wildly from left to right, tearing cartilage and crushing bone before they could get off a single round.

  Tusk shifted gears and headed for the perimeter fence, his tail held high like a rudder to balance his gait.

  Runyon crawled across the slumped bodies and grabbed for the remote, knowing that if Tusk got to the fence, he’d be gone for good.

  Tusk kicked into high gear—legs pumping, chest heaving. The fence was only a few feet away—almost close enough to reach out and…

  “Heel, boy!” Runyon commanded, before sending 100,000 volts surging through the training harness.

  Tusk jerked backward like he’d been yanked by a leash. He lay in the mud, writhing in pain until Runyon decided he’d made his point and dialed the voltage back.

  Dr. Camaro staggered through the hatch to survey the damage. “We’d better get a team in here to clean this up. Some of these compounds can be deadly in the right combinations.”

  The Chief Medic turned to carry out his order. “Where are the spare suits?”

  “Check the trailer up front, near the gates,” Camaro said. “I thought I saw some in there.”

  Tusk roared again in protest, but a punitive jolt stunned him enough to render him obedient. Runyon regrouped the tactical team and dragged Tusk from the scene before he could inflict any more damage.

  * * *

  The chunky Private on duty kicked her feet up and leaned back in her chair, taking another bite of her sandwich.

  A control board ran from one end of the trailer to the other, but the engineers updated the park’s power grid and automated all the systems, leaving her with little to do but watch the monitors and wait for her relief.

  “I’m so bored,” she sighed, and took another slurp of diet soda.

  The hazmat soldier pushed open the trailer hatch, catching her by surprise.

  The young Private’s eyes bugged out: She knew what the suit meant. She reached for her throat and felt her airway already constricting. She staggered to her feet and bolted from the trailer, pushing her way past the soldier, hacking and coughing.

  The soldier waited until she cleared the hatch and grabbed the fire extinguisher. He smashed the entry keypad to bits, fusing the hatch shut. The surrounding walls were three-inch-thick, blast-reinforced steel plate, and nobody would be getting in or out unless he let them.

  Old Man Hoyt pulled off the hazmat mask and tossed it aside, exhaling in relief. For a minute, he thought Dr. Camaro had ID’d him right outside the med-unit, but the Doctor passed him without saying a word.

  Hoyt sat down at the console, overwhelmed by the array of gauges, dials, and screens. “Now…which one of these doohickeys turns the lights on and off?”

  * * *

  The launch capsules hit the ground hard, burying themselves three feet deep into Cryptoville’s bedrock foundation. Explosive bolts blew the hatches open with a blast of pyrotechnics, and after the smoke cleared, the Cryptos climbed out of the pods and reoriented themselves.

  Tusk took the lead, and the others fell in behind him, obeying the mission programming embedded deep into their subconsciouses—a constant whisper that couldn’t be tuned out, no matter how hard they tried.

  They marched through the screwball maze, disoriented at first by the extreme curve of the horizon, amplified by the dramatic shifts in elevation. Stadium lights attached to the dome’s support lattice shone down like stars, but their regular placement and spacing against the translucent panels rendered the illusion imperfect.

  The Cryptos broke through the creeping foliage and came to a stop at the edge of a deep channel. A cantilevered bridge spanned the gap between the maze’s monolithic walls one level up, armor-plated bumper cars patrolling along its length. Swimming the channel was risky, but crossing the bridge would leave them exposed to…

  Tusk staggered backward, caught off guard by a thunderous right hook that bounced across his jaw.

  The puppets fell from the sky, dancing awkwardly on the ends of chains anchored in the tree canopy above. They hit the uneven ground hard and marched toward the Cryptos in tight formation.

  Howl and Mask fell back, responding to Tusk’s guttural commands to regroup while they got a better look at their enemy. The puppets were a mishmash of different eras—Japanese samurai, medieval knight, Roman gladiator, anything and everything—cobbled together from the park’s animatronic odds and ends.

  Who they were didn’t matter. Tusk only knew they were the enemy. He lowered his shoulder and plowed ahead, crashing through the first level like a bowling ball.

  Howl recoiled just beyond the formation—thorny pincers flexing. He fixed the enemy’s range with a stream of high-pitched clicks and charged.

  The puppet squad leader separated and zeroed in on him, his rusty metal gears whirring with each herky-jerky step.

  Howl’s chest pumped up and down with each stride, driving his tentacles like propellers. He closed in for the kill.

  The squad leader’s wooden fist cocked with clockwork precision and then exploded in Howl’s ear when he came into range.

  The stunned Crypto wobbled for an instant before collapsing in a heap.

  Tusk KO’d one puppet and was already toe-to-toe with the next. He jabbed and feinted, then rocked the toy soldier with a q
uick left—right—left—right combination that left its head dangling from a metal spring.

  Mask fell back, eating splinters from the relentless barrage. Pushed back until he could go no farther, he faded into the surrounding foliage and disappeared.

  The puppets spun in place, trying to pick him out against the greenery. Nothing.

  Mask appeared behind them, stepping out of the foliage like a ghost. The stealthy Crypto slammed one soldier into the other, snapping them in half and splitting the remnants of their disjointed torsos into kindling.

  By then Howl had recovered enough to rejoin the action. He spread his leathery membranes wide, launching himself through the air like a missile.

  The puppets tried to regroup but weren’t quick enough. Howl split the formation down the middle, leaving a row of decapitated bodies in his wake, heads on one side and torsos on the other.

  Tusk smashed the last of the puppets together into sawdust and iron bolts.

  He looked around, ready for more, but they were all gone.

  The victory was complete, but the Cryptos didn’t linger to celebrate. They turned their backs to the inanimate piles of arms and legs and resumed the mission.

  * * *

  General Hyde looped the video back and forth a few times, analyzing the Cryptos’ performance while the pageant debs gorged themselves on hors d’oeuvres.

  Frost had set up a VIP tent away from Mission Control so the bigwigs could watch the action unfold in relative luxury. Professionally catered and staffed with bow-tied bartenders, the event featured big-screen monitors that gave the guests a ringside seat to all the action as it happened inside Cryptoville.

  “Quick—brutal—efficient. Very impressive,” Hyde said. “But I’m not the one you’re gonna have to convince.”

  “What do you mean?” Frost asked.

  “I got a call from my superior this morning,” Hyde said. “I didn’t wanna say anything to ruin the party, but the numbers are still gonna be a problem. I’m not sure we can afford to continue with the program…even with your success.”

  “You let me worry about the higher-ups,” Frost said. “I’ll take care of ’em.”

  His nonchalant reply caught Hyde by surprise. “How?”

  Frost waved the pageant debs over. They flocked to the General’s side, oohing and aahing over his flabby physique.

  “Right,” Hyde said, “You’ll take care of ’em.”

  With the General otherwise occupied, Frost studied the slow-motion replay on the big screen, trying to fight back a relieved smile. He hadn’t expected much from the others. Their DNA was responsive, but not like Harley’s was. Harley was the breakout star, and performing beyond expectations.

  “Tusk,” Frost said, correcting himself. “Gotta remember to call him Tusk.”

  A gangly MP’s arrived and interrupted his daydream. The MP pushed his helmet back over his eyes, flashed a vigorous salute, and then leaned in to whisper something into Frost’s ear.

  * * *

  The MP led them to a rusting tin shack near the front gates that used to be the park’s box office. Curling yellow posters plastered across the shack’s corrugated walls advertised movie tie-ins from years gone by, reminders of the park’s long-gone heyday.

  “We caught them sneaking around just inside the perimeter,” the MP said.

  The kids stood in a lineup beneath a single light fixture dangling from the ceiling. Dazzle makeup ran down their faces in streaks and their camouflaged clothes were caked with dirt.

  “Who are they?” Hyde asked.

  The MP flipped his notepad open and read from his list. “Anita Bath. Noah Fence. Jock Strapp. Al Kaholic. Artie Choke. That’s all I could get out of ’em.”

  “I know who they are,” Frost said.

  Hyde ordered the MP out of the room and faced the kids. “How’d you get in here?” he asked. “How?”

  “Dazzle,” Newton muttered, waving his hands half-heartedly.

  “Are you alone?” Hyde asked. “Are you?”

  Drew knew that since he’d asked, they hadn’t caught the old man yet, but kept quiet.

  “Whatever you came here to do won’t work,” Frost said. “A bunch of plucky kids teaming up to outsmart some kind of evil criminal genius? Tell the truth. That’s what you were thinking when you got all dressed up. That only works in the movies, you know. And this ain’t a movie…”

  Hyde coughed.

  “Yeah…Despite the fact we’re filming one inside the park,” Frost said, correcting himself.

  “We came here to help Harley,” Clementine said.

  “If it weren’t for you, Harley wouldn’t be here,” Frost shot back. “After all, I wasn’t the one who left him behind last Halloween.”

  Drew’s jaw tightened, but he bit his lip and stared straight ahead.

  Frost could see that he’d struck a nerve, so he decided to twist the knife.

  “Yeah, I know all about the water tower. One of the side effects of his time in the chair was that everything—all the memories—just came pouring out,” Frost said.

  Drew kept quiet, determined not to give Frost the satisfaction of a reaction.

  Frost moved in until he stood nose to nose with Drew. “But this isn’t really about Harley, is it?” he asked. “It’s because I didn’t pick you for the program. Deep down you wanted to be the one. You’re the leader of the pack, and you have to be the center of attention—even for something like this. That’s how big your ego is.”

  The kids waited for Drew to defend himself, but he didn’t. “We’re here to bust Harley out,” was all that he said.

  “Sure you are,” Frost said with a grin. “Keep telling yourself that. You’ve almost got me convinced.”

  * * *

  The alarm’s clang echoed across the island, so loud they had to cover their ears.

  “I told ya to watch your step,” Molly growled.

  “Sorry, didn’t see the trip wire!” her cameraman answered. He huffed and puffed, struggling to keep up, but it wasn’t easy. He was built like a tortoise and she ran like a hare—and he’d lost his glasses somewhere along the way.

  Finding the island was easy enough—after her source provided the GPS coordinates. The Eyewitness News submarine got them across the bay, dropping them close enough that they could just wade to shore, but the security fence was a more immediate problem.

  Molly unzipped her wetsuit, revealing a one-piece swimsuit beneath. “What do ya think?”

  The cameraman turned his head, trying not to gawk.

  “What do ya think?” she repeated.

  “Impressive. You must work out quite a—”

  “The fence, cookie-assassin, the fence!”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  The rusty sign hanging from the fence warned intruders of electric shock, but they needed to know for sure. He grabbed a handful of pebbles and threw them against the fence. Nothing.

  “I don’t think it’s on.”

  “What would I do without you, Einstein?” Molly grabbed the bolt cutters from her satchel, took a deep breath, and made the first snip—and then kept cutting until the hole was big enough for her to fit through.

  “Come on. Faster,” she urged, slipping through to the other side.

  The cameraman tried to follow, but couldn’t. “I’m stuck,” he said.

  She strained her ears to listen; barking dogs in the distance meant the MPs weren’t far behind.

  “Go on. Just leave me,” he begged.

  “Believe me, I’d love nothing better,” Molly said.

  She grabbed him by the wrists and pulled him through the opening, surprising him with her strength. “But somebody’s gotta hold the camera!”

  She took off and he followed, running through the overgrown foliage and wheezing with each step. “You know, I have a name,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I have a name. You’re always callin’ me ‘neckbeard’ or ‘assquatch’ or ‘gravysponge’ or somet
hin’ like that.”

  “So what is it?”

  “It’s ‘Cameraman.’ My grandfather changed it from ‘Cameramanovich’ when he immigrated. It means cameraman in—”

  “Oh, just shut up and run!” she commanded, and they disappeared into the park’s interior.

  * * *

  Frantic soldiers ran back and forth across the midway, moving into defensive positions around the gates, unsure of what was happening.

  General Hyde ran out of the box office, his head twisting in every direction, just as confused as they were. “Why’s that alarm going off?”

  “There must have been some kind of security breach around the perimeter fence,” Frost said, just a step behind him.

  Hyde’s expression relaxed. “Is that all? Some animal musta triggered it. Call it off—and shut that racket down.”

  “You don’t understand,” Frost said calmly. “The blackout triggered the automatic containment protocol.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We put a plan into place just in case we ever lost control of the Cryptos,” Frost said. “Right now there’s a B-Three bomber being scrambled from Burpelson Air Force Base carrying a UV Bomb.”

  “What? What’s a UV Bomb?”

  “The UV stands for—”

  “I know what ultraviolet means,” Hyde snapped. “What’s gonna happen when the bomb drops? Is this gonna turn into some kind of rave? Is everybody gonna start dancing around with glow sticks?”

  “The blast will release enough black-light radiation to kill Enzyme Seven—and anything else on the island,” Frost said.

  “Well, just call it off, boy. Use the radio.”

  Frost shook his head. “Can’t. That tuna boat we passed a few miles off shore? That’s a camouflaged Navy jammer blocking outgoing signals. Even cell phones won’t work. We’ve got shortwave radios, but their range is limited.”

  The General started to worry. “Can’t we just get out of here the same way we came? With the choppers?”

  “The choppers followed standard procedure and left immediately after arrival to ensure containment,” Frost said. “And then there are the drones.”

  “Drones? What drones?”

  “The bats you might have noticed on your flight in,” Frost said, “the bats with the propellers built into their butts?”