My few attempts at conversation had ended in some variation of “Classified” or a blank stare. I swear that sometimes he was like this just to piss me off. Franks acted like he had an exact number of words allotted to him every day, and that he’d be heavily penalized if he went over his limit. Sadly, he saved most of his complete sentences for threatening people, and managed to accomplish most of his communicating through scowling, blinking, and radiating malice.
I knew his secret. The thing that we all knew as Agent Franks had been the inspiration for the fictional Frankenstein’s monster, and had been around for a very long time. His creator, the alchemist Konrad Dippel, had died in the seventeen-hundreds, so Franks had to have been first stitched together sometime before that. His very existence piqued my curiosity, but it was all for naught.
“So, Franks. When did you come to America?”
“Classified.”
“You weren’t . . .” I tried to think of the right word. “Born here. Why’d you immigrate?”
He stared at me for a second. “Classified.”
Sweet. I had gotten both possible responses to a single question. I was making real headway here. After that achievement I decided to take a nap.
A change in air pressure woke me up. Franks didn’t appear to have moved an inch, but my watch told me an hour had passed.
“ETA, five minutes,” Franks stated. “When was your last psychic episode?”
It took my sleep-addled brain a moment to process that. “What?”
“When was your last psychic episode?” he repeated.
He wasn’t supposed to know about that. Franks had been my bodyguard during the incident with the Condition and my last exposure to the Old Ones, but I’d done my best to keep it from him, though he’d certainly been around for enough to know that I wasn’t ordinary. “No. I’m not—” but he just kept staring at me with those remorseless, merciless, borrowed eyeballs of his. “Fuck you, Franks. Classified.”
He tilted his head to the side, probably deciding how to kill me without messing up his nice helicopter. “If I cared, I would’ve did something last year.”
He had me there. Myers had been eyewitness to me being bitten by a zombie and not dying. If the MCB gave a crap, they had more than enough to lock me up for study and evaluation. Besides, Franks didn’t seem too particular about that sort of thing. He only cared if oddities like me were useful for completing his assignments. But damn it, I didn’t want to tell him anything. “Fine. But you answer some of my questions, I’ll answer some of yours.” That wasn’t very likely. I was safe.
Franks stared at me. Back to square one.
I looked out the window. There were more lights below us, big orange security lights in a gigantic grid pattern. There were lots of fences and strange, squat white buildings. None of it was familiar.
Franks cleared his throat. I turned back to him. “I came for the war.”
Franks was going to talk? No way. He wasn’t going to get off that easy. “Which war?”
“The first one.”
I thought about that for a second. “America’s first war or . . .”
“I was a Hessian.”
It was so out of left field it took my brain a moment to run back through its trivia vaults. “A Hessian? Like, the Germans that fought in the Revolutionary War . . . Whoa . . . Man, that’s crazy. No way.” Franks’ expression said Yes. Way. Logically, I knew that Franks was much older than that, but that certainly put things in perspective. “Wait. The Hessians worked for the British. You switched sides? Why?”
“Benjamin Franklin asked nice.”
“Ben Franklin! Really? That’s amazing. You knew the guy that invented electricity!”
Franks raised an eyebrow. You can’t invent electricity.
“You know what I mean. I can’t believe you met Ben Franklin.” I waited for him to continue, but he just went back to glowering at me. That meant it was my turn. Assuming he was telling the truth, and of the many horrific things that Franks was, I’d never taken him for a liar, that was an astounding amount of information. No doubt if I ever shared it with anyone he’d break me in half. I had no choice but to talk.
“Okay then . . . My last incident was right after the Arbmunep battle.” I didn’t think I needed to disclose that the last experience was reading his superior’s mind and discovering that Agent Myers had once been involved in some horrific, illegal, and amoral things during his contractor days. Specifically, he had been complicit with Ray Shackleford IV in allowing Martin Hood to animate the dead in order to collect PUFF on them. It was embarrassing for Myers, not that I cared, but more embarrassing for MHI and the Shackleford family name, and that I did care about. “Nothing since then.”
“Nature of the ability?”
“It’s happened half a dozen times, tops. Began with Lord Machado, aggravated by exposure to their artifact . . . which I hope you bastards have locked up nice and safe somewhere.”
He tilted his head the other direction.
“Memories. I can view memories.” Franks’ eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Not yours. Ever. Trust me. I don’t want to see what’s in there. It’s only happened with physical contact. It seems like they have to be thinking about that particular memory, and I have to really want to know.” There was a lot more to it than that, like my experience inside the mind of Carlos Alhambra or when I tried to help Earl against the demon Hood had put into his head. But screw Franks. He’d known Ben Franklin and wouldn’t talk about it. If he got to have such awesome secrets, so did I. “That’s pretty much it.”
“Hmmm . . .”
Franks thought about it for a long time, so long in fact, that I’d thought he was done. I went back to looking out the window. Judging by the vehicles below, we were over some sort of sparsely populated area of a military base, with only a few random, mysterious buildings here and there, with lots of wide open desert between them. Milo had mentioned that the attack site had been west of the vast Dugway Proving Grounds, so I guessed that was where we were now.
“When we get there, tell me if you feel anything.”
“What is there specifically?”
“We’re not sure.” Shockingly enough, Franks didn’t elaborate. Then we landed in the middle of a field.
After flying over miles of government facilities, I would’ve expected to have arrived at something. But there was nothing but sagebrush and snow outside. A single yellow pickup truck was stopped nearby with the headlights on.
The Blackhawk’s door slid open, and standing there was a vaguely person-shaped thing in a gigantic yellow rubber chemical suit. I could barely see the shape of a face behind the glare of the plastic face shield. Considering Milo had told me that this was where the Army buried all of their chemical and biological weapons, meeting somebody wearing a big scary apocalypse suit wakes you right up.
He, she, it—damned if I could tell—handed a big rubber bag to Franks. “Agent Franks? We were told to expect you. Put these on.” It was a man, and his voice came through a speaker on the bottom of his helmet.
Franks unzipped the bag, revealing more chemical suits. “Why do we need these?” I asked nervously.
“Who is this?” the stranger asked.
“Consultant,” Franks answered.
“He hasn’t signed a waiver. If he dies it isn’t my problem. He’ll need to sign a waiver.”
“He was never here,” Franks said.
“Neither were the other multitudes traipsing through my facility all day. Same rules apply. If he leaves your side, my men will shoot him.”
“Understood.”
The helmet turned to me. I could mostly only see my own reflection. “Stay close to the agent or you will be shot.”
“Got that the first time. So, why do I need the suit?”
“Nerve gas. If you stray off the path, you will be shot.”
The night suddenly seemed extra chilly. “Nerve gas?”
“Nerve gas. If you cross the fence—”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it, cross the fence, get shot.”
“No. If you cross the fence, the nasty shit that’s buried over there will burn right through your respirator and you’ll be having a seizure in ten seconds and dead in under a minute. My men won’t have to shoot you, but you’ll want them to. Get your suits on and meet me at the truck.” The rubberized man waddled away.
What have I gotten myself into?
Franks tossed me the helmet. “Hope that fits.”
“Up yours, Franks. I hope yours doesn’t.”
Franks nodded. “That would be unfortunate. Nerve gas tickles.”
* * *
The fence wasn’t as impressive as I thought it would be. It was made of weathered old wooden posts and three rusting strands of barbwire. It didn’t look like it would stop an aggressive cow, let alone terrorists.
“This section we unofficially call the Scary Zone. Most of the rest of the base doesn’t even know this section exists or what my people do. Some of the things buried here date back to the forties, when we really didn’t know a lot about storing biological agents, and everyone was in a real hurry. Many of the records were lost, so what exactly is here, and where and how it’s stored, is questionable at best. Should be pretty safe now, but one time I saw a coyote cross this fence. He made it a couple hundred yards out into the Scary Zone, started to foam at the mouth, then just fell over, dead. Didn’t so much as twitch,” said the man in the lead, who still hadn’t bothered to—and probably never would—introduce himself. “We run a much tighter ship now. If anything looks even sort of suspicious we lock this place down tight, nobody in or out until we’re sure everything is accounted for. But storing things properly back then was a little more . . . wild west.”
There was a four-wheeler-sized path between the sagebrush and the fence. The snow had been churned into a sandy mush from many recent sets of footprints. Walking was difficult in the rubber suit. The full-face helmet obscured my peripheral vision. The booties were floppy and clumsy. I would imagine that this thing would be stifling hot most times, but since it was just above freezing with an icy wind, it was nice and toasty. My breathing sounded like Darth Vader. I kept as far away from the barbwire as possible because I really didn’t want to rip my suit.
There were flashlights set in the tops of the helmets, and the light bobbed up and down as we went at least half a mile down the path. We’d only seen a few other staff, who had also been wearing big suits, and none of them had any identifiers on them. I hadn’t seen any of the people who were supposed to shoot me if I wandered off, but I had no doubt they were out there, watching us with high-powered rifles and night-vision devices. I was not going off the path. No, sir. Place like this, you could get retina cancer just from glancing off the path too hard.
“This particular storage unit wasn’t cataloged. It didn’t show up on any of our maps or tables. The units around it all date from 1943 to 1945, so that’s our approximate time frame. Somebody stuck it in the ground and didn’t so much as make a note. No idea what project it originated from or what the nature of the unit was. I hate, hate, hate when they do that.”
“Have you been down yet, Major?” Franks asked.
“Hell no. Not going to, either. Once you people say the case is closed, we’re going to cover it back up and stick a sign on it that says ‘Do Not Touch.’ I don’t want any of my people involved with it. We’ll stick to safe things, like anthrax. I thought we had all of these damned Decision Week leftovers cataloged by now. Last time MCB was out here was when a hard rain revealed one of their experiments. A deer was exposed to it and grew tentacles instead of antlers. Tentacle deer . . . The Army doesn’t pay me enough to deal with that kind of shit.”
That was the second time I’d heard mention of Decision Week tonight.
“Who else went in?”
“Just the team from your agency, couple of hours after we sounded the alarm. They poked around, took some pictures, decontaminated, and flew out.”
Franks stopped. “Which team?” I bumped into him. Rubber squished and squeaked. It was very awkward.
“Two men, one woman. Good looking redhead, that one . . .” the Major stopped when he realized Franks wasn’t moving. “Let me guess, not MCB? Their credentials said MCB and they had all the right approvals. So, far as I’m concerned, that’s who they were, and I don’t ask questions.”
So the missing Unicorn team had been here already. That was news to Franks.
The major began walking again. “Heh, you black helicopter types, always with the games.”
“It’s no game,” Franks muttered.
“My job is to watch things so awful that a single vial could kill a city. Anything less than that sounds like games to me.”
“You know, Franks, all of this being manipulated and lied to, now you get to know how Hunters feel about you guys.” It felt good to laugh at him. “Sucks, don’t it?”
His helmet rotated toward me. I couldn’t really see his face, but I could still tell he was contemplating throwing me over the death fence to look for foaming coyotes. But he didn’t—probably decided I might still be useful—then it was back to waddling.
Several small red flags had been stuck into the ground, and the major took a right when he reached them. There was no real trail here, but the feet had made a path through the snow. The sagebrush grabbed at my clumsy booties and tried to trip me. I was glad when the major led us onto a clear spot where the annoying knee-high bushes were missing.
“Motion detectors went off at oh-four-hundred yesterday. Our responders found this hole and we lowered a camera to find the seal broken. Since there were tracks leading out, but not in, that’s when we called your agency. Tentacle deer was enough for me. It’s your problem now.”
It seemed strangely familiar, this cleared area . . . and then the hazy, half-forgotten dream from the night before came rushing back and my knees turned to jelly.
I had seen this place before.
Slowly turning, I confirmed that the open spot was a perfect circle. The brush hadn’t been cleared at all, it simply wouldn’t grow above what was buried beneath.
In the dream, there had been a hole in the middle, with a rusty ladder leading down to a hatch that was never intended to be unsealed. I was scared to look, because to confirm it was to confirm my worst fears. I hadn’t volunteered to be the Chosen One, or poster boy, or whatever the hell I was, for a bunch of dead Hunters and the combined forces of good, and I dreaded when they tried to tell me something. Experience taught that when I dreamed about a case, it meant that bad things were on the horizon. For a moment, I couldn’t spot the hole and I felt nothing but relief, but then I realized it was just a trick of the light. There was a depression in the snow. The footprints led right to it.
The major pointed one black rubber glove at the hole. “There’s your containment unit.”
“Shit.”
“What?” Franks asked.
If the dream had been prophetic, sent by Mordechai or Bubba or whoever, then at the bottom of that shaft would be scratched the symbol I’d been terrified to finally find in real life . . . the mark that belonged to a being that would bring about the destruction of mankind. The mark that would end my father’s life. “Nothing.”
I didn’t need to see his face behind the mirrored visor to know that he didn’t believe me. Franks waited.
“I’ve seen this place in my dreams.”
“You didn’t mention precognition.” Franks sounded accusatory. “You’re a terrible psychic.”
“Uh, well . . .” the major coughed. “I didn’t hear that at all. I’m going to go wait by the fence.” He waddled off.
“I can’t go down there, Franks. It’s dangerous.” Franks reached for his side instinctively, then realized he couldn’t reach his pistol through his suit. “No. I think the danger’s gone. I just can’t. I can’t see . . . Look, if the dream was right, there’s a mark down there. It’ll kill—I can’t explain . . . My father . . . It’s complicated.?
??
The faceless suit watched me.
“It’s not like that, Franks. I can’t go down there.”
“Hunters make everything complicated.”
The story came spilling out. “My dad was supposed to have died a long time ago, but he was kept alive by, I don’t even really know by who . . . all to prepare me for the end of the world. He warned me about a mark, and when I see it, then I know it means the end is here. He’s supposed to deliver a last message to me, but then he’ll die. I saw that mark in my dreams last night, scratched into whatever is at the bottom of that ladder. If I go down there, I’ll know it’s started. I’ll have no choice. I’ll have to hear him out. When his mission is over, his borrowed time is up and he dies. I can’t kill my father, Franks.”
Franks was puzzled. “Will the world end anyway?”
“I . . .” Probably. Dad certainly thought so. The war was coming, no matter what. “I just can’t.”
Franks looked at me, then the hole, then me again. It would have been easier if he’d called me a coward, but he simply went over to the hole, found the ladder, and began climbing down without me. Franks’ headlamp disappeared, then I was alone, standing in the blighted circle as the cold gradually leeched through my suit.
Dad was mad at me. He’d accepted his death, and couldn’t understand how come I couldn’t too. He had been preparing for it his entire life. I had only been kicked in the face with it recently. Finding out that I was the one who was supposed to fulfill his life’s work had been a relief for him, a burden lifted. The selfish old bastard had been glad to dump it all on me, and now he couldn’t grasp how come I wasn’t eager to simply hear his message and end his life.
The hole taunted me.
I had seen too many things to doubt his story. I’d faced alien gods and ancient horrors. I’d swam through another reality and been inside the blank gray hell of a mind torn to pieces by a demon. If Dad said he’d been given his life back and sent on a mission to help me head off the apocalypse, then I believed him.