Phantoms (52 page)

“Petrolatum?” he asked at one point, surprised by what she had told him.

“The amorphous tissue resembles petrolatum only in that it has a somewhat similar mix of hydrocarbons that register very high values. But of course it’s much more complex, much more sophisticated.”

She stressed this particular discovery, for she wanted to be certain that Tersch passed it along to other scientists on the CBW team at Dugway. If another geneticist or a biochemist were to consider this data and then look at the list of materials she was going to ask for, he would almost certainly know what her plan was. If someone in the CBW unit
did
get her message, he would assemble the weapon for her before it was sent into Snowfield, sparing her the time-consuming and dangerous job of assembling it with the shape-changer looking over her shoulder.

She couldn’t just tell Tersch what she had in mind, for she was certain the ancient enemy was listening in. There was an odd, faint hissing on the line . . .

Finally she spoke of her need for additional laboratory equipment. “Most of this stuff can be borrowed from university and industry labs right here in Northern California,” she told Tersch. “I just need you to use the army’s manpower, transportation, and authority to put together the package and get it to me as quickly as possible.”

“What do you need?” Tersch asked. “Just tell me, and you’ll have it in five or six hours.”

She recited a list of equipment in which she actually had no real interest, and then she finished by saying, “I will also need as much of the tenth generation of Dr. Chakrabarty’s little miracle as it’s feasible to send. And I’ll need two or three compressed-air dispersal units, too.”

“Who’s Chakrabarty?” Tersch asked, puzzled.

“You wouldn’t know him.”

“What’s his little miracle? What do you mean?”

“Just write down Chakrabarty, tenth generation.” She spelled the name for him.

“I haven’t the vaguest idea what this is,” he said.

Good, Sara thought with considerable relief. Perfect.

If Tersch had known what Dr. Ananda Chakrabarty’s little miracle was, he might have blurted something before she could stop him. And the ancient enemy would have been forewarned.

“It’s outside your area of specialization,” she said. “There’s no reason you should recognize the name or know the device.” She spoke hurriedly now, trying to move away from the subject as smoothly and as rapidly as possible. “I don’t have time to explain it, Dr. Tersch. Other people in the CBW program will definitely know what it is I need. Let’s get moving on this. Dr. Flyte very much wants to continue his studies of the creature, and he needs all the items on my list just as soon as he can get them. Five or six hours, you said?”

“That should do it,” Tersch said. “How should we deliver?”

Sara glanced at Bryce. He wouldn’t want to risk yet another of his men in order to have the cargo driven into town. To Captain Tersch, she said, “Can it be brought in by army helicopter?”

“Will do.”

“Better tell the pilot not to try landing. The shape-changer might think we were attempting to escape. It would almost certainly attack the crew and kill all of us the moment the chopper touched down. Just have them hover and lower the package on a cable.”

“This could be quite a large bundle,” Tersch said.

“I’m sure they can lower it,” she said.

“Well . . . all right. I’ll get on it right away. And good luck to you.”

“Thanks,” Sara said. “We’ll need it.”

She hung up.

“All of a sudden, five or six hours seems like a long time,” Jenny said.

“An eternity,” Sara said.

They were all clearly eager to hear about her scheme but knew it couldn’t be discussed. However, even in their silence, Sara detected a new note of optimism.

Don’t get your hopes too high, she thought anxiously.

There was a chance that her plan had no merit. In fact, the odds were stacked against them. And if the plan failed, the shape-changer would know what they had intended to do, and it would wipe them out in some especially brutal fashion.

Outside, dawn had come.

The fog had lost its pale glow. Now the mist was dazzling, white-white, shining with refractions of the morning sunlight.

Fletcher Kale woke in time to see the first light of dawn.

The forest was still mostly dark. Milky daylight speared down in shafts, through scattered holes in the green canopy that was formed by the densely interlaced branches of the mammoth trees. The sunshine was diffused by the fog, muted, revealing little.

He had passed the night in the Jeep station wagon that belonged to Jake Johnson. Now he got out and stood beside the Jeep, listening to the woods, alert for the sounds of pursuit.

Last night, a few minutes after eleven o’clock, headed for Jake Johnson’s secret retreat, Kale had driven up the Mount Larson Road, had swung the Jeep onto the unpaved fire lane that led up the wild north slopes of Snowtop—and had run smack into trouble. Within twenty feet, his headlights picked up signs posted on both sides of the roadway; large red letters on a white background read QUARANTINE. Going too fast, he swung around a bend, and directly ahead of him was a police blockade, one county cruiser angled across the road. Two deputies started getting out of the car.

He remembered hearing about a quarantine zone encircling Snowfield, but he’d thought it was in effect only on the other side of the mountain. He hit the brakes, wishing that, for once, he’d paid more attention to the news.

There was an APB circulating with his photograph. These men would recognize him, and within an hour he’d be back in jail.

Surprise was his only hope. They wouldn’t be expecting trouble. Maintaining a quarantine checkpoint would be easy, lulling duty.

The HK91 assault rifle was on the seat beside Kale, covered with a blanket. He grabbed the gun, got out of the Jeep, and opened fire on the cops. The semiautomatic weapon chattered, and the deputies did a brief, erratic dance of death, spectral figures in the fog.

He rolled the bodies into a ditch, pulled the patrol car out of the way, and drove the Jeep past the checkpoint. Then he went back and repositioned the car, so that it would appear that the deputies’ killer hadn’t continued up the mountain.

He drove three miles up the rugged fire lane, until he came to an even more rugged, overgrown track. A mile later, at the end of that trail, he parked the Jeep in a tunnel of brush and climbed out.

In addition to the HK91, he had a sackful of other guns from Johnson’s closet, plus the $126,880, which was distributed through the seven zippered pockets in the hunting jacket he wore. The only other thing he carried was a flashlight, and that was really all he needed because the limestone caves would be well stocked with other supplies.

The last quarter of a mile had to be covered on foot, and he had intended to finish the journey right away, but he had quickly found that even with the flashlight the forest was confusing at night, in the fog. Getting lost was almost a certainty. Once lost in this wilderness, you could wander in circles, within yards of your destination, never discovering how close you were to salvation. After only a few paces, Kale had turned back to the Jeep to wait for daylight.

Even if the two dead deputies at the blockade were discovered before morning, and even if the cops figured the killer had come onto the mountain, they wouldn’t launch a manhunt until first light. By the time the posse reached here tomorrow, Kale would be snug in the caves.

He had slept on the front seat of the Jeep. It wasn’t the Plaza Hotel, but it was more comfortable than jail.

Now, standing beside the Jeep in the wan light of early morning, he listened for the sounds of a search party. He heard nothing. He hadn’t really expected to hear anything. It wasn’t his destiny to rot in prison. His future was golden. He was sure of that.

He yawned, stretched, then pissed against the trunk of a big pine.

Thirty minutes later, when there was more light, he followed the foot-path he hadn’t been able to find last night. And he, saw something that hadn’t been obvious in the dark: The brush was extensively trampled. People had been through here recently.

He proceeded with caution, cradling the HK91 in his right arm, ready to blow away anyone who might try to rush him.

In less than half an hour, he came out of the trees, into the clearing around the log cabin—and saw why the footpath had been trampled. Eight motorcycles were lined up alongside the cabin, big Harleys, all emblazoned with the name DEMON CHROME.

Gene Terr’s bunch of misfits. Not all of them. About half the gang, by the looks of it.

Kale crouched against an outcropping of limestone and studied the mist-wrapped cabin. No one was in sight. He quietly fished in the laundry bag, located a fresh magazine for the HK91, rammed it in place.

How had Terr and his vicious playmates gotten here? A two-wheel trip up the mountain would have been difficult, wildly dangerous, a nerve-twisting bit of motocross. Of course, those crazy bastards thrived on danger.

But what the devil were they
doing
here? How had they found the cabin, and why had they come?

As he listened for a voice, for some indication of where the cyclists were and what they were up to, Kale realized there weren’t even any animal or insect sounds. No birds. Absolutely nothing. Spooky.

Then, behind him, a rustle in the brush. A soft sound. In the preternatural silence, it might as well have been a cannon shot.

Kale had been kneeling on the ground. With catlike quickness, he fell on his side, rolled onto his back, brought up the HK91.

He was prepared to kill, but he wasn’t prepared for what he saw. It was Jake Johnson, about twenty-five feet away, coming out of the trees and fog, grinning. Naked. Utterly bare-assed.

Other movement. To the left of Johnson. Farther along the treeline.

Kale caught it from the corner of his eye and whipped his head around, swung the rifle in that direction.

Another man came out of the woods, through the mist, with the tall grass fluttering around his bare legs. He was also naked. And grinning broadly.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst part was that the second man was also Jake Johnson.

Kale looked from one to the other, startled and baffled. They were as perfectly alike as a set of identical twins.

But Jake was an only child—wasn’t he? Kale had never heard anything about a twin.

A third figure advanced from the shadows beneath the spreading boughs of a huge spruce. This one, too, was Jake Johnson.

Kale couldn’t breathe.

Maybe there was an outside chance that Johnson had a twin, but he damned well wasn’t one of triplets.

Something was horribly wrong. Suddenly, it wasn’t just the impossible triplets that frightened Kale. Suddenly, everything seemed menacing: the forest, the mist, the stony contours of the mountainside . . .

The three look-alikes walked slowly up the slope on which Kale was sprawled, closing in from different angles. Their eyes were strange, and their mouths were cruel.

Kale scrambled to his feet, heart lurching. “Stop right there!”

But they didn’t stop, even though he brandished the assault rifle.

“Who are you? What are you? What
is
this?” Kale demanded.

They didn’t answer. Kept coming. Like zombies.

He grabbed the bag that was filled with guns, and he backed rapidly and clumsily away from the nightmarish trio.

No. Not a trio any more. A quartet. Downslope, a fourth Jake Johnson came out of the trees, stark naked like the rest.

Kale’s fear trembled on the edge of panic.

The four moved toward Kale with hardly a sound; dried leaves underfoot; nothing else. They made no complaint about the stones and sharp weeds and prickly burrs that must have hurt their feet. One of them began to lick his lips hungrily. The others immediately began to lick their lips, too.

A quiver of icy dread went through Kale’s bowels, and he wondered if he had lost his mind. But that thought was short-lived. Unfamiliar with self-doubt, he didn’t know how to entertain it for long.

He dropped the laundry bag, clutched the HK91 in both hands, and opened fire, describing an arc with the spurting muzzle of the gun. The bullets hit. He saw them tear into the four men, saw the wounds burst open. But there was no blood. And as soon as the wounds blossomed, they withered; they healed, vanished within seconds.

The men kept coming.

No. Not men. Something else.

Hallucinations? Years ago, in high school, Kale had dropped a lot of acid. Now he remembered that flashbacks could plague you months—even years—after you stopped using LSD. He’d never had acid flashbacks before, but he’d heard about them. Was that what was happening here? Hallucinations?

Perhaps.

On the other hand . . . all four of the men were glistening, as if the morning mists were condensing on their bare skin, and that wasn’t the sort of detail you usually noticed in a hallucination. And this entire situation was
very
different from any drug experience he’d ever known.

Still grinning, the nearest Doppelganger raised one arm, pointed at Kale. Incredibly, the flesh of that hand split and peeled away from the fingers, from the palm. The flesh actually appeared to
ooze
bloodlessly back into the arm, as if it were wax melting and running from a flame; the wrist became thicker with this tissue, and then the hand was nothing but bones, white bones. One skeletal finger pointed at Kale.

Pointed with anger, scorn, and accusation.

Kale’s mind reeled.

The other three look-alikes had undergone even more macabre changes. One had lost the flesh from part of his face: A cheekbone shone through, a row of teeth; the right eye, deprived of a lid and of all surrounding tissue, gleamed wetly in the calcimine socket. The third man was missing a chunk of flesh from his torso; you could see his sharp ribs and slick wet organs pulsing darkly inside. The fourth walked on one normal leg and one leg that was only bones and tendons.