The Skunge (27 page)

The town was a shambles. Spires of smoke dotted the skyline, and the main drag was in ruins. A late-model sedan sat overturned in the first intersection, the side splashed with dried-to-maroon blood. Debris lay everywhere. They weaved around abandoned cars and wreckage. A queen-size bed lay face-down in the center of the intersection, remnants of rope tied to the four posts.

Arneson knew the area, and he drove confidently and casually, wending his way down an empty series of streets. The only movement came from an occasional Russian thistle, blowing across deserted streets.

She squinted at a row of cloned suburban homes. "Doesn't look like much."

"It isn't."

"Where's the town you grew up in, from here?"

"An hour or so north."

She chuckled. "Do you ever just give up information without questioning?"

He cast her a look. "Nope. Of course, we have that in common, so maybe not such a bad thing."

She appeared to consider, then punched him lightly on the arm. "We'll make a decent boyfriend of you yet."

"I doubt that very much. But hope springs eternal."

A family of deer stood and watched them as they passed, their glassy brown eyes alert, their ears flickering to follow the sound of their passing.

Juniper Ridge was a blocky granite structure, no different than a thousand industrial parks, except for the reflective-tint windows and burly steel doors. Loops of razor-wire, installed atop the fence, jangled in the wind. The industrial campus was large and impersonal, more like a prison than a place people might work. Everything was gray as a banker's heart. Crisp black asphalt inscribed with arrows and parking lines surrounded the place like a permanent shadow. Nothing moved except the clouds.

Arneson pulled up to the outer gate. It slid open after a moment, but the inner gate remained closed. A guard shack sat to the left, and a uniformed guard, assault rifle strapped to his side, stepped out and waved them forward a few feet. His face was impassive behind reflectorized aviator sunglasses.

Arneson rolled down the window then put his hands back on the wheel, like he would with a cop. "Morning. We're here to see Lester Brayle," he said. The guard said nothing. "Frank Staunton sent us." The guard cocked his head, and Arneson saw curly cord dangling from his ear.

"Licenses."

"What's the magic word?"

The guard said nothing. Arneson sighed and handed over their papers. With an air of subtle reproach, the guard took them and retreated back to the guard-house. Several long minutes passed.

Sugar mused on the idea of Purgatory, the way the Catholics meant it: a waiting room before Heaven and Hell, where sinners awaited their ultimate fate. An eternal time between fences, with nothing to do but sit and wait and itch. Sometimes, when she blinked, her sight flickered, and occasionally she had flashes of vision at strange angles, like she had grown eyes in different parts of her body. There was no pain, but the itch, the itch, the
itch
.

Arneson smoked, staring at the building. "This place looks like a tombstone."

The guard returned. Still silent, he handed back their papers and left them there. Nothing for at least three minutes. Arneson looked in the side mirror and noted the row of spikes that had sprung up behind the back tires. No backing out now.

Finally, the inner gate opened with a jingling, rolling efficiency, and they drove forward. Arneson swung into the parking lot, and cruised through it toward Juniper Ridge.

Arneson smoked meditatively, tension thick in the air. He parked next to the handicapped spot, and together they got out and stood before the building. They peered into the windows and saw only their reflections staring back, ephemeral as ghosts of the future. Sugar twined her fingers through his, and he squeezed her hand.

"Wish us luck," he said, half-smiling.

"Luck."

He took a deep breath. "What could possibly go wrong, he famously said, just before they drove off a cliff."

"You're hilarious." She raised his hand to her mouth and kissed it. He folded her hand in both of his, and returned the kiss, his eyes locked on hers.

For a moment, through a trick of the light, she may have seen something like hope in his eyes.

"Ready?" they said at the same time, and shared a smile.

Together they entered Juniper Ridge.

PART 3

CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

The foyer was dim and silent. Not unused; there was no dust and the floors were clean. A pot of drooping Chrysanthemums sat atop a long, curving desk where a receptionist might sit and greet visitors. The desk was dotted with displays full of pamphlets extolling the putative functions of the Juniper Ridge facility.
Environmental Study in Central Oregon
,
Our Ecological Impact
,
What Does Climate Change Mean to You
. The information looked legitimate. All of the marketing materiel was copyrighted the current year.

Sugar leaned against Arneson, her face wan. She needed medical attention.

She flipped through the pamphlets, smirking at the peppy verbiage and bright stock photography. Sugar replaced the brochure she had picked up, and then straightened out the edges. Arneson smiled.

"Hey!" Arneson shouted. "I know you're watching. Hurry up and—"

The elevator pinged and they both turned toward the doors.

The guard who stepped out was so tall that if he had been wearing a hat, he would have had to duck to fit through the doors. Rolls of fat and muscle strained against the confines of his gray uniform shirt, and each shoe was big enough that you could bury a cat inside it. A black goatee limned the first of his double chins. He wore mirrored aviator style sunglasses, and had a spot of what looked like mustard on his tie. He lumbered out of the elevator, and Arneson could have sworn he heard the tiles underfoot grinding.

He took a long look at Arneson, and an even longer look at Sugar. His eyes roved over her body, spending as much time on her tits as the looping whorls of Skunge that coiled under the skin of her arms and legs. "You can't bring her in here. This is a clean zone." He turned back to Arneson. He stared so long Arneson began to wonder if he had fallen asleep. Then the big man leaned closer. He must not have liked what he saw, because he gulped and stepped back. "You're a Skunger too."

Arneson returned the up and down inspection, and made it obvious that he didn't care much for what he saw. "We're here to see Lester Brayle. I want to talk to him."

"I don't care if you're here to see Big Bird." He stabbed a finger at them. "You're not coming in here." His radio crackled, and he tipped his head to one side, growling a string of call-codes into his shoulder-radio.

"Keep talking like that, Andre the Giant, and instead of asking nicely, I may decide to go
through
you," Arneson said.

"Stop it," Sugar rasped. The Skunge in her throat had roughened her voice; she sounded like she'd been gargling with broken whiskey bottles.

The guard's name-tag said R.CRANTZ. He swallowed, but to his credit, stayed where he was. "Facility policy. No can do." He crossed his arms. Sugar stared at them in wonder—each arm was the size of her thigh.

"Look, asshole," Arneson said. "I have clearance. I was told to come here by West-Pac control. We are coming inside." Arneson stepped closer.

"Your clearance doesn't mean shit-all to me." Crantz stood his ground.

Ding.

The elevator emitted a tall, blinking man with graying hair and a long face. He wore a white coat and two pair of glasses: one on his face, the other around his neck on an old-lady chain. Behind him came three more guards, each so alike as to be indistinguishable.

The tall man spoke with a surprisingly pleasant, deep voice. "Mr. Crantz, introduce me to our visitors, please."

"Sorry Doctor Brayle, but I was just saying, rules and regs say no entrance. They're both Skungers—by the looks of the girl, she could snap any time."

Brayle turned to regard them, blinking through his spectacles. "Well, Crantz here
does
have a point." He waited a beat. "Unfortunately, it's on the top of his head." When no reaction was forthcoming, he sighed and slipped his glasses up his forehead. "OK, tough room. But, legally, even if you weren't obviously infected, we couldn't allow you in here without a full inspection. MRI scanning, bio readings, the whole enchilada. This is a Level 4 Biosafety facility."

"I don't know what that means." Arneson spoke directly to Brayle, cutting Crantz out of the conversation.

Crantz's keys jangled as he stepped forward, close enough that his belly almost brushed Arneson's jacket. One meaty hand rested on his Sam Browne belt. "What that means is everything that comes in here follows strict regulations and protocols. This is a clean facility." The guards shifted, not moving any closer, but not looking away. Hands rested on truncheons, tasers, gun butts. Arneson's eyes flicked to Crantz, then back to Brayle.

"Yeah, I can see what a clean facility this is." Sugar gestured to the mustard on Crantz's tie. Crantz turned an unpleasant shade of brick. He glanced back at the other guards and jerked his head toward them. They stepped forward, their boots echoing in the mausoleum quiet of the foyer.

Arneson sunk his weight down to his center, hands up at ready position. His mind ticked over like a clock, assessing the guards as they approached. Conclusion: they were soft. The old rule was:
you don't see action, you won't be ready for action
. These guys hadn't seen action in a long time.

"Are you boys sure you want to follow
this
guy—" he gestured to Crantz, "into a fight? Maybe I'm overly cautious, but I think I'd want to check his track record first."

The first one, a husky blond with sneering eyes, reached for his taser. Arneson stepped forward smoothly and chopped at his hand, sending the weapon clattering to the floor. Guard Two made the mistake of changing his mind and instead of the taser, went for his club. Arneson stepped inside his range and jabbed his pointed fingers at the guard's eyes. He flinched and shut his eyes for a second as Arneson glided forward and stomped down on his boot. In one smooth motion, Arneson pivoted and shoved, and the guy went down hard. Brayle winced at the greenstick snap as the man's ankle broke. The third guard hung back, eyes flicking back and forth between Arneson and Crantz.

Crantz held his ground, almost but not quite daring enough to move within range of Arneson's hands. He glared at him like a man contemplating a wormy dog-turd on his shoe.

Eyes still on Crantz, Arneson spoke to Brayle. "Staunton says, 'Frank sends his best.'"

"Holy shit. Really?" Brayle blinked at him. "That is…interesting."

"Yeah. Now enough of this bullshit. She needs help. Medical attention. She's got a bullet hole in her shoulder."

Brayle chewed at his lip. "Oh Frank, what have you sent to me." He tugged irritatedly at his ponytail. "Fine. Crantz, let them in."

"Doctor Brayle, wait a minute—" Crantz began, starting to puff up again. Arneson glared at him.

"A minute nothing. There's a reason Frank Staunton sent these people here. I outrank you, and he outranks me like you wouldn't believe." He waved Crantz away as if shooing a fly. Arneson was impressed—Brayle might be civilian, but he didn't act like it. "Step back, no need for all the macho stuff." When Crantz held his ground, Brayle scowled at him, and this time the note of command was unmistakable. "I said back off." He turned to Arneson. "I assume you're carrying a weapon? You'll have to hand it over. No arguments."

"No problem."

Brayle clapped his hands and rubbed them briskly. "Well, that wasn't so tough, was it? Nothing wrong with a little diplomacy, eh Crantz? You and your men can wait; I've got it from here." He walked them to the elevators, keeping up a steady stream of chatter. Arneson looked back over his shoulder. Except for the guy on the floor, Crantz and the other guards stood silent and watching.

CHAPTER FIFTY TWO

Rather than an elevator car, the doors opened on a short steel hallway. It was too unadorned and utilitarian to be anything but a security screening area. Arneson scanned the walls, looking for clues. There had to be something.

"Even if you know where they are, they're incredibly hard to spot," Brayle said.

"I bet."

"The walls can be electrified, nerve gas can be pumped in via the carpet fibers on the floor, or just drop in a couple of stun grenades. We can even lock the whole thing down and move the entire unit to a safe area. Plus lots of other little tricks and gadgets that even I don't know about."

"That's a lot of high-end sec stuff for a random government facility."

"Let's just say we're bigger on the inside than we look from the outside." They came to a featureless steel wall, and Brayle turned to face them, crossing his arms. "So, how do you know Staunton, exactly?"