Fallout Part 3
TWENTY
The doorbell woke her up. Nicole was still in her dress and blouse, still could smell the vomit. She sat up as the bell rang again.
The thing that looked like her father appeared at her door, looked down at her.
"It's the Minister," he said. "You will remain quiet until I have sent him away. If you make so much as a sound, I will kill him. Do you understand?"
Nicole looked at his eyes, heard his tone. And she remembered the thing she had sensed inside him last night and knew he was serious.
She nodded.
He closed her door as the doorbell rang again. She heard him move to the front door, heard it open.
"Jonathan. How are you?"
"Fine. How are you?"
"Doing all right, thank you. Is Nicole here?"
"She's out at the moment. Is there something I can do for you?"
A pause.
"I thought we might chat, Jonathan. About the other day. I wanted to apologize if I said anything that might have upset you."
"I accept your apology. Good day."
Nicole heard the door start to close.
"Jonathan, I'm worried. About Nicole."
"Nicole is fine. Good day."
"Jonathan --"
"Good day, Minister."
The door closed. She heard him lock it. A moment later the door to her room opened. He looked down at her again.
"Very good, Nicole," he said. "Now, from now on you will do exactly what I say, when I say. You will let Dr. Tanner do whatever he wants to you, without protest. Do you understand?"
She looked at him with hate.
"You are not my father," she hissed. "I won't let him do anything."
Her father's face smiled, not kindly. "Nicole, if you do not do as we say, one of us will personally go into the Sunday school class next week and cut both your precious Minister and the children there into very small bits, one at a time. Do you understand me?"
As before, she knew he meant it. She paled, looked down.
"All right," she said softly.
#
Benjamin Wells knew people. This wasn't a gift; rather, he had acquired the skill through years of practice, years of learning. As a boy in Iowa he had not been well behaved, and more than once had found himself before the Principal of his school, awaiting the paddle. When he got home there would be his father then, with the belt, just to make sure he got the message. As he had grown older Benjamin Wells had found that he enjoyed driving with his friends and drinking beer under the stars, talking about how they were going to get out of the small town, how they were going to go on the road and see the country.
Vietnam changed all that.
He had been still a boy, really, when his draft notice came in, had seen the look on his mother's face when it did, but he went without protest, because the army was a way to get out of the small town, away from his family and the atmosphere of the place. There had been a sense of adventure to it all, even through the rigors of boot camp and infantry training, and a sense of the heroic too, because they would be fighting communism, fighting for America.
Benjamin Wells had been a good soldier, so good he signed on for Special Forces, fought his way through more training, and at last he had hugged his mother and his father goodbye and had boarded the plane to southeast Asia, and there had found what those before him had found. War was not glorious, was not heroic. Though he fought to keep it so in his mind, it was not. War was dirt, filth, and blood, under your clothes and against your skin. It was hate and pain and there was no point to it, only more hate and more pain every day until it all seemed to blend together in to one huge miasma.
His friends died, and the VC and NVA and South Vietnamese died, and then every day you just got up and did it all again, and the hate was still there, and the dirt, and the blood and the pain.
For Benjamin Wells, the war ended after two tours. It ended with a flight home, in his uniform with his combat infantry badge and service badges and two medals for commendation under fire, expecting that at least when he came home it would make sense, that there would be some reason for all the death, that people would be able to appreciate what he had tried to do.
Instead, on his second day back, a hippie spit in his face and called him a baby killer.
They were terrible times, he remembered. People back home saw the footage of the war but they didn't really understand it and no one wanted to hear from him how it had been. So Benjamin Wells went back to the way things had been before, with his long drives and the beer, but now he did this alone, moving from job to job and place to place, letting his hair grow out and his beard grow with it, still sporting his combat infantryman badge and trying to forget the faces of the friends who had died and the people he had killed. From time to time he would take notice long enough to see as America, the country he had fought so hard to protect, tore itself apart.
"Hey, hey, LBJ! How many kids will you kill today?"
Christ came to him in this time. He was in Denver, sleeping in his car, stinking of beer and vomit from an all-night binge the night before. It wasn't a dramatic moment, wasn't heralded by trumpets and a sudden vision of a bright future. But as he lay in his car that afternoon, Benjamin Wells had the sudden realization that he could not, no matter how he tried, make his life better. He was too weak, to hurt, too confused, and he always would be. And when this came to him, in absolute certainty, it came to him as well that Jesus Christ could give him meaning, could give him purpose. He crawled from his car and kneeling in the mud beside it Benjamin Wells gave himself up to Christ, to God.
Whatever you want me to do, God, I'll do it.
And he did.
Seminary was difficult, but Benjamin Wells had drive now, purpose. He struggled through, and in his struggle he found that he had learned to read people, that he understood them, that when they hurt he was able to talk to them and help them. God sent him to Hanesville when it was over, and Benjamin Wells found himself ministering to a community, healing, advising, and learning from his flock.
And so it had been for nearly thirty years.
He had learned to know when there was something wrong. And as he drove away from the Edwards house, he knew, with as much certainty as he had ever known anything in his life, that something was wrong, very wrong, there.
#
They met at night, out behind the house. The girl was sleeping, helped along by a sedative they had given her. She hadn't struggled this time, had only stared up at them with hate in her eyes. The one in her father made sure the man's soul got to see, then took a moment to enjoy his suffering.
"They know we are here," the mayor said, hands in his pockets.
The police chief nodded. "It was only a matter of time. But if that one ship was the best they could do, we still have time."
The others nodded.
"The greatest danger is that they manage to activate the weapons in this girl," said the doctor. "We are still vulnerable."
"I have made progress," said the father. "It is less painful to be near her now. I believe that resistance to these weapons is possible to achieve."
"Your work must have priority," said the police chief. "What can we do to assist?"
"Time, alone, away from her. It is distracting to guard her."
The police chief looked over at the house, at the darkened window of the girl's room. "There are more than enough of us to watch her," he said. "It shouldn't be a problem."
TWENTY-ONE
There are times when sleep seems total. They are rare, these times, and must be well earned before they come. But in these times your sleep is so total, so restful, that the sleep itself becomes a division between a time before and a time after, and when you awaken it is as though you have lived two lives: the one yesterday and the one today.
Vicky slept this sleep. Not so deep as before, in the chamber, but this was a natural sleep, an earned sleep. It followed memories of the clerk, getting her a chair and wrapping a coat around her shoulders, picking up the phone and dialing 911, memories of a policeman, asking her who she was, if she remembered, memories of her answering something about yes, about being so tired as the policeman and his partner led her to their car and put her in the back, drove her to the hospital in this town, wherever it was.
And then there were other people. A nurse, and then another nurse, pulling the curtains around the examination table to give her some privacy. A clean towel, drying her wet hair. Someone mentioning a "rape kit", and then a woman doctor telling her they were going to check her, would that be all right? She remembered nodding, not quite knowing what they meant because she was so tired and had been walking for so long and it was all so strange to have people around her now.
More things, tests. The one nurse, staying close, telling her each time what they were going to do, that it was all right and to just tell them if she needed anything, if anything hurt or she wanted them to stop. And she not saying anything, anything at all, just letting them do what they were going to do, because that was what her world was anyway: directed, controlled. At some point her clothes were gone and she was in a hospital gown, and they wheeled her into a room with a bed and helped her into it, pulled the rail into place beside her, placed the call button close.
Then they told her she could sleep.
Sleep. Knowing that this was where she was supposed to be, that it was warm and that she didn't have to wake up until she wanted to, that once she awoke there would be nothing she had to do.
Or be done.
Sleep. Soft pillow, the shades drawn, dim light.
Sleep.
#
In time she awoke. This was not sudden, not quick. She had no idea how long she had slept, whether it was morning or midday or afternoon. For a time she lay unmoving, not wanting to awaken, wanting to cling to the deep, restful slumber. She heard motion in the room, like someone shifting in a chair. The sound was familiar, somehow.
She opened her eyes slowly. At the side of the bed was her mother, sitting in a chair, looking like she was dozing. Vicky spoke softly.
"Hi, Mom."
The woman came alert immediately.
"Oh, my God .... Sweetie ...."
There was more then, tears and the woman leaning over the bed and hugging her as she sat up, burying her in her big, heavy arms, talking and crying incoherently. And Vicky realized that she was crying too, that she didn't want her mother's big, heavy arms to ever let her go. Then there was Dad, coming in from somewhere, and he was crying too and holding her, and then her brother, looking uncomfortable and even a little confused but still hugging her.
It was all good, all of it. They stayed there then, with her in the room, not wanting to leave. They stayed when the doctor came, asked her how she was feeling, checked her pulse and told her that they had done their tests and she was all right, uninjured save for a few cuts on her feet. They stayed as she ate, as she enjoyed the unfamiliar sensation of chewing before she swallowed, of having meat and potatoes and vegetables and ice cream. And they stayed, her parents at least, when the police investigator came, sending her brother outside.
The investigator was a woman, short and stocky. She asked if she could use her tape recorder, and Vicky nodded.
"How are you feeling, Vicky?"
"Better."
"I need to ask you what happened. You weren't able to tell the officers much, last night."
Vicky looked at the woman, then at her mother and father. Each was silent, waiting. Vicky could see the pain, then, in her parents' eyes, the pain of not knowing, of needing to know, even if it was bad. She looked at the inspector, who watched her in return. Vicky opened her mouth, felt her lips move, closed it again.
You can't tell them. It's like it was before, after what happened in the dorm. Remember what happened to Jenny, when she tried to tell. They won't believe you. They'll think you're crazy.
"Are you all right, Ms. Thompson?" the investigator asked softly.
Vicky crossed her arms over her belly, looked down, away from her parents. They needed to know; she could feel the pain in them.
You can't tell them. You can't.
"I'm sorry," she said finally, shaking her head. "I don't remember."
"Nothing?"
Vicky shook her head. She wondered if they could tell she was lying.
"Do you remember where you were right before you got to the gas station?"
She paused. "I was walking."
"Do you remember where you were walking from, Ms. Thompson? Do you remember where you started walking?"
The shore, she thought. It let me go on the shore, nudged me in the right direction.
You can't say that. You know you can't say that.
Vicky shook her head again. "No. I don't remember."
"Do you know what day it is?"
Vicky shook her head, this time honestly.
"It's September eighth. You were gone for three months, Ms. Thompson."
Not two periods, but three. One must have been early, when it was doing her all the time.
The woman was saying something.
"Ms. Thompson?"
"Three months? I didn't ...."
They gave her some water, let her sit for a while. Then the questions resumed.
The investigator was careful, gentle, her voice even and calm. She was trying to narrow things down, trying to get at any facts she could. Do you remember dropping your date off? Do you remember driving away from his apartment? Do you remember reaching the dorm? Were you attacked?
I don't remember.
It got confusing after a while and Vicky started shaking her head, afraid the woman would see through her lie. Her father spoke up then.
"Can you do this another time? My daughter has been through a lot."
The woman nodded, turned off the tape recorder. "Of course. Ms. Thompson, I'm giving my card to your parents. If there's anything you remember, anything at all, please call me. I'll be in touch. All right?"
Vicky nodded. The inspector shook hands with her parents and left.
#
They flew home, she and her family, on a short commuter flight south. There was no reason for her to stay in the hospital, the doctor told them; she was in fact in perfect health. They had run all the tests they could and had turned all the evidence they had over to the police. As for the amnesia, the doctor suggested rest and a return to a normal schedule. Things might come back. As they left, the doctor gave her parents a prescription for something to help her sleep, should she need it.
There were some reporters at the airport when they returned, and friends and bouquets of flowers and a sign that said "Welcome Home". A lot of people had searched for her, up and down the beach for miles from where her car had been found in early June, posting fliers, asking questions. Vicky stood there for a moment and tried to place the faces in the crowd. A lot of them were strangers, but many of them she knew.
Jack was there, smiling, but he looked bad, tired and worn. Ten women she recognized from the dorm, including Celeste.
Their eyes met, just for a few seconds. Celeste nodded.
Everyone was talking then, and Vicky felt herself start to cry. They had never given up on her, and they clapped as she smiled weakly, tried to say "thank you" to everyone, and then to her relief her mother and her father were there and they were doing the talking, thanking everyone, smiling.
It was a lot; a bit overwhelming. She still wasn't used to people and was thankful when they got home. Nobody could see the tiny silver thing, about the size of a quarter, as it circled over the airport, then as it tracked the car to the house and descended to settle gently on the roof.
TWENTY-TWO
They took her father away, wouldn't tell her where. This didn't matter much; it wasn't him anyway. None of these people were who they said they were. The mayor had been a good man, active in the church and business community. She had never dealt with the police chief before, but had never heard anyone speak badly of him either. Dr. Tanner had been good to her father.
There was something in each of them, something unnatural.
They watched her, now, almost all the time. She stayed in her room most of the time, tried to think of ways to get away. But they were always armed now, had made sure to show her the guns they carried. And there was the threat, too, of retribution against others, against Minister Wells and the children.
Dr. Tanner came in sometimes, took blood or spit or urine, scraped skin off her body until she was raw, pulled out hair or scraped her tongue, dug underneath her fingernails until they bled. He was clinical as he did this, even rough.
When they did leave her alone, it was for short periods only and then they would handcuff her to her bedframe. When she used the bathroom she was cuffed to the pipe behind the toilet and this made it hard to wipe with her free hand. She hadn't been allowed to bathe in at least a week, felt dirty all the time.
Sometimes they would leave her cuffed to her bed even when they came back.
That was the case today.
Today was the police chief, sitting in a chair across the room. His eyes never wavered, seldom blinked. She watched him back; the cuff was tight against her wrist and her hand was falling asleep. She moved her fingers, noticed his eyes follow the motion.
"I know what you are," she said finally.
He raised an eyebrow.
"Really?"
She nodded. "You aren't the police chief."
He chuckled now.
"How very astute of you, Nicole. You're a very clever girl."
He didn't say anything more for a while, and neither did she. She shifted a bit to get more comfortable, and he toyed with the badge he wore. Then he spoke again.
"I knew them, you know."
"Who?"
He moved his hand from the badge, moved his head forward just a bit, staring at her.
"The ones you killed. The advance party."
"I never killed anyone," she said.
"You were there. You killed them." He paused, looked away for a moment. "We were together for a very long time. We feasted on millions, together, smelled the beautiful stench of death, felt the joy of war. You understand this, Nicole, and for this I find that I can respect you."
She shook her head. He chuckled.
"You lie badly, Nicole. You love war. Your entire species loves war. I can read, Nicole. I can watch your broadcasts. You feel the joy that comes with power, with helicopter gunships reducing a village to ash, spraying it with flame and with bullets. Chasing down a fleeing enemy along a desert road, watching him burst into flame as you bomb him. You love the parades, the soldiers marching in their perfect, pressed uniforms, rifles in hand, saluting. Females like you beg to marry such men, to bear their children. Even your Jesus is nothing but a cult of death and war."
Her arm tensed against the handcuffs.
"You're lying," she said. "Jesus preaches love."
"Does he? In the First Crusade your Christians sacked the city of Jerusalem and murdered every Jewish and Muslim man, woman and child in the city. European Christians came to the western hemisphere and enslaved millions of the natives of these two continents, helped to spread disease that wiped out entire populations. American Christians abducted native Africans by the millions and made them slaves, even used your holy book to justify it. Jesus is war and death, Nicole. You yourself believe this."
"Liar!"
The chief smiled, shook his head. Then he sang softly.
"Onward, Christian soldiers, marching off to war,
"With the cross of Jesus, carried on before."
Nicole looked away.
He leaned forward in his seat. "You sang that song, in church, just last month, Nicole. Don't be so upset. War is good. Death is good. Hate is good. Your kind is weak because you deny this, deny yourselves the pleasure of revenge, the pleasure of besting your enemies, of feeling their blood on your hands. You let guilt over your own glories of war control you. You make war a duty instead of the pleasure it should be."
She was silent now. Too much of what he had said she knew to be true. But it wasn't everything. Jesus was more than this.
"I am not angry with you for killing the advance party, Nicole," the chief said. "This is war. I will take the same joy you did when the real war begins and I am allowed to kill again. So I say to you now: relish the death you have caused. Savor it. Never forget how good it feels to hate and to kill."
TWENTY-THREE
Time was short.
It had been a risk, they knew, to return her to the other sentients, to plan that they would be able to direct her as they had before, in the polluting wheeled vehicle, to the settlement of the second female. But their power reserves were low, worldwide. There were billions of these sentients and unlike the species in the oceans, arming was not simple or easy. It was simply not possible to encase the trained female in a biomass and transport her over such a distance of land.
But the vehicle required an activation key, and the trained female did not have this.
She was resting a great deal. This at least was good. They had stressed her severely with the training, with the enforced isolation.
But time was short.
We must take action, one argued at last.
#
It was quiet for a few days. Vicky slept a lot, and they let her. She found it strange to have a bed, to sleep in a nightgown or pajamas, not to feel gentle wiggling against her body as she closed her eyes. She began to bunch her blankets up into a ball and sleep pressed up against them, keeping a pillow between her thighs, pressed against her groin, and one morning she found herself, half asleep, running her lips over her pillow, searching for the tentacle that would feed her.
She stayed at home, mostly. Mom went shopping and Vicky went with her, savored the smells of the supermarket, the rich variety of foods, the different people there. She didn't talk much to anyone and they didn't talk to her, but it was good to have them near.
That night she and Mom and Dad went out to a movie and she had cherry cola and popcorn.
The next day was Saturday and Jack came by.
He had called the day before, talked to Mom and then to her.
"I've missed you," she said to him.
Hesitation.
"Me too."
He drove down from Evansfield, took her out for the afternoon. The Fall semester had started a few weeks before and he was busy with classes, and talked for a while about the latest gossip from campus. A lot of people there had joined in the search for her; printing fliers, keeping up with the news, working with the police.
He stopped talking then. They were in a restaurant, in a booth near the back. She looked at him, tried to read him. She could see he was distracted, even though he was watching her.
"I'm glad you're back," he said finally.
She smiled, but it was an effort to do so. "Thank you,"
They both went silent again. Vicky looked away, toward the front of the restaurant. He scratched his nose, then his head.
She wanted to say he looked good, to give him a compliment, but she couldn't find the words. There was fatigue in him, in his face, his eyes. Finally she reached out, took his hand.
"Are you all right, Jack?"
He nodded. "Sure. Yeah."
Their food came and they ate.
"I missed you," she said again.
He looked up.
"I'm sorry, Vicky," he said suddenly. "I'm so sorry." She felt his hand tremble.
"Jack, why?"
His voice broke. "I wasn't there. I should have been there. I didn't --"
She squeezed his hand gently, opened her mouth to speak. He cut her off.
"I kept thinking I should have invited you in. I wanted to. I should have. If I had just invited you in ... they never would have ...."
He stopped now, pulled his hand away, ran it through his hair. Vicky watched him, tried to think of what to say.
"I keep thinking about what happened," he said. "I shouldn't have let it happen ...."
"Jack," she said softly, "look at me."
He did. His eyes seemed heavy, weighted. She fought to get the words out.
"It wasn't your fault, Jack."
No more words came. She wanted to tell him, to explain that there was nothing he could have done, but there were no words.
As he drove her home she wondered if things would ever be all right with him.
#
It was hard to sleep that night. She kept tossing and turning in the unfamiliar bed, kept wanting and not feeling the tight warmth of the thing around her. It didn't make sense; she was home, safe. The thing had let her go. It wouldn't be back if it had let her go.
She rolled to her back, caressed down her belly with her hand, shivered a bit at the sensation. Her hand went lower, under the waistband of her pajamas, felt the soft hair of her mons, caressed gently.
No, she thought. That can't be it. You can't want that.
She pulled her hand away, tried to pull the covers tight around her, pressed her face into the pillow.
Eventually sleep came, quickly and unexpectedly.
#
She dreamed again.
The red grid.
Only it was not the same this time. There was no control, no rush of pleasure as the thing thrust into her. She only watched, followed at the red grid moved, as it expanded.
A bedroom, unfamiliar, and a hall and a living room and new windows in the back. Another bedroom, and in the bed a man, sleeping. The red grid brought her closer, and Vicky saw that inside the man were tendrils, white-hot, burned into his brain. She felt him praying, heard his agony as he did, sensed that the white-hot thing was making him suffer, was enjoying his suffering.
Then the grid expanded out, out of the house. Through a small town close to a series of mountains. And in that small town there were people, sleeping, talking, eating. She felt their humanity as they did, noted a mother smile at her young son.
And noted others too, through the red grid.
Others who glowed white-hot.
The white-hot was quiet, as it tormented each of them. Quiet and careful. There was purpose to it, intent. They would feed, would revel in the pain they brought. And as she dreamt Vicky suddenly remembered the crystalline city, the people who had built it, who were themselves such beautiful crystal, who glowed with their love for one another.
Who died.
The dream faded now with the terror of it, became the unfamiliar bedroom again, became not the red grid but motion, like she was looking through someone else's eyes, moving into the hall and to the bathroom. There was a man there, in the hall, watching as the bathroom door opened, as her vision passed the mirror over the sink and she saw who she was.
It was a face she knew.
#
Vicky awoke with a cry, thrashing against her covers. They were here, the white-hot things. They were here, in that little town. She was panicking now; she had to get here, had to stop them. Somehow she had to make them stop before the killing began.
She heard her mother's voice.
"Vicky?"
She was up now, fumbling toward her dresser. She had the middle drawer open, was trying to find a pair of jeans.
"I have to go! I have to go!" she cried. "They're going to kill them!"
The big, heavy arms went around her, pulled her away from the dresser. She fought, screamed.
"They're going to kill them!"
Her mother's voice, again.
"Vicky, honey! It's just a nightmare! It's all right!"
Vicky was sobbing now, because there were children there, in that small town, in that beautiful crystalline city. The things loved the pain of children most of all. She fought against the big arms, but it was no use.
"No, please .... I have to go .... I have to help them ...."
She felt the fabric of her mother's nightgown against her face, the softness of her mother's embrace as the woman pulled her close, held her and rocked her, as she kissed her forehead and smoothed her hair out of her eyes.
"It's all right, honey. It was just a dream. No one is going to hurt you."
The words were soothing. Vicky began to sob again, softly now, because she knew it wasn't all right, that no one was safe, that death was near and soon. She felt as her mother pressed something, a small pill, to her lips, pushed it into her mouth. She felt the rim of a glass there then, tilting back, some of the water spilling down her cheeks as she drank, as she swallowed.
"Everyone is going to die," she moaned. "All the babies are going to die ...."
Mom was still cooing, soft and sweet, as Vicky felt herself relax, felt consciousness slipping away.
"It's all right, sweetie. I'm here ... you're safe .... It's all right ...."
#
Those aboard the tiny ship watched carefully.
The social bonds are too strong. They seem to be unwilling to release her.
She also may be unwilling to go.
No. She understands. She has seen the telemetry from the second female.
We must get her into her vehicle. Once she is there we can direct her.
They observed the older female leading the younger to the bed, laying the covers over her, leaning over to touch her forehead with her lips, then sitting quietly in the room, gently caressing her.
The bond of the mother is particularly strong. She must be neutralized.
The father and the sibling also.
Proceed.
TWENTY-FOUR
The chief of police looked up as Wells entered his office. This was not the first time they had met here; once five years ago three teenage boys had been caught spray painting racist graffiti on the walls of the local high school, and the chief had asked him to talk to them, maybe give them something to do instead of sending them to a juvenile detention facility where he was afraid their behavior would only get worse.
That time the chief had risen, shook his hand. Now he simply looked up.
"Can I help you, Reverend?"
Wells nodded. "I have a problem," he said. "I was hoping you might be able to help me."
The man looked at him. "What is it?"
"You know Jonathan Edwards, his daughter Nicole?"
"I've met him. She was the one who got into trouble at college, yes?"
"I'm worried about them," Wells said.
The chief raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Jonathan isn't acting himself. I'm worried he may have suffered a breakdown. He lost his wife many years ago, and his daughter is all he has."
"Why is that a problem?"
"I think she may want to leave, maybe go back to school. He may be keeping her from doing that."
The chief sighed, tapped his lips with a finger for a moment.
"You have some evidence of this?"
"She was doing some work at the church. She's stopped coming. When I went to see Jonathan, he seemed eager that I leave."
"That's it?"
Wells nodded. "I'm worried. Would it be possible for you to check on them, as a favor to me?"
The chief hesitated, then nodded. "Of course," he said. "Is there anything else?"
Wells shook his head. The man didn't acknowledge him as he left.
TWENTY-FIVE
The house was silent again. After a long time the mother had returned to her own bed, where she lay awake for some time. For a little while she cried softly, and the father held her. They did not see the small silver disc float off the roof of their home, did not note it descend through a vent, float into the kitchen, slip quietly up to the faucet, cutting neatly through the wire mesh, folding the cut wires back and attaching itself to the inside.
Weapons were prepared by the millions, flooded into the water. The next morning came and the sentients awoke, and one by one they drank.
The dosages were high, and by noon the weapons were bonding to every cell in their bodies.
#
Vicky ate her lunch slowly. She was still drowsy, the kind of drowsy that follows a drugged sleep. Mom sat with her as she did, sipped at a glass of orange juice.
"Are you feeling better, sweetie?"
Vicky did not answer right away. The food was good. Finally she nodded.
Mom spoke again. "You know, Vicky, that no matter what, your father and brother and I love you. Nothing that happened can change that."
Vicky nodded again. "I know."
She took another bite, chewed for a moment. Will my life ever be normal again? she thought.
#
Later, she went and lay down on her bed again. She was still in her pajamas and it was easy to do, just to lie there and think.
The thing. The red grid. The white-hot hate that killed. The face in the mirror that was not her own, the face she knew.
Nicole.
Vicky had barely known the girl. Nicole had been quiet and kept to herself. She was religious, very much so. On Sunday mornings she would get up early, take a shower, dress nicely and go to church. Chrissy was her roommate and she said that Nicole was nice enough and that she kept a Bible by her bed, and that Nicole was all right because she never pushed it on you.
But Nicole had been there, a part of it, down in the basement. Religious or not, she had shared the experience with the rest of them.
And Chrissy had said that her father had taken her out of school after it happened.
White-hot things. The red grid. A pebble split in two.
The flash in the basement.
Vicky sat up. She went to the boxes with her things, the things from her dorm room, found her e-mail list, found the phone numbers she had written by some of the names. She went to the phone, dialed. It was a cordless phone and she was able to take it into the bathroom, close and lock the door.
It rang, twice. Someone picked up.
"Hello?"
Vicky spoke softly, afraid her mother might hear.
"Celeste?"
#
She got the keys to her car from them on the excuse that she wanted to look for something in it, noted with satisfaction that it had been cleaned and the tank filled. Her driver's license was in her purse, and that had been returned to her by the police. It had been dusted for prints and everything was covered in the sticky orange powder, so she washed it off as best she could. Her credit card was gone, but there was no point in having it because the account had been closed and the card flagged in case anyone tried to use the number, though no one ever had.
She had some cash, hidden away in a box in her closet, and there was some more in her purse. It would have to do. It would be a one way trip anyway, she knew. Either she would succeed or she would not; either way she would phone her parents for the money she needed to return.
Unless the things kill you.
She tried not to think about that.
Evening came and after dinner Vicky went to her room and took out a gym bag, put a pair of jeans and a blouse inside. An extra pair of socks, a few toiletries, a spare bra, two extra pairs of panties. Then she stashed this under her bed and joined her family for some television. There were some comedies on and she laughed as the rest of them did, looking at each of them closely.
Please understand, she thought. I have to do this. I have to know.
#
It grew late. Gerald went to bed, then Vicky. Carl Thompson watched his daughter go, heard her brush her teeth in the bathroom, saw her smile at him as she came out and kissed him goodnight, then watched her slip into her room and close the door. He put his arm around his wife and held her close, watched the door for a while.
There was a relief that he still hadn't quite gotten used to, having Vicky back. The pain had been unbearable after she disappeared, after he and his wife had gone on the news, pleading for someone, anyone, to help them find her. The boyfriend had been a suspect at first, though not for long; a neighbor had seen him get out of her car and had seen her drive away, and he had gotten a call from his mother later that night and had talked to her for a while.
No leads. Vicky was just gone.
Terror. Two sleepless nights as Carl prayed to God to bring his little girl home.
Then they had found Vicky's car, abandoned, near that beach forty miles up from Evansfield. It had been left running with the lights on and the battery was dead, the tank empty. Carl had brought it back after the police were through with it, and he had had a new battery put in and had filled up the tank, all the while telling himself it was worth doing, because she was going to come back.
Another part of him had been unsure. Thoughts kept coming into his head, dark, intrusive thoughts of her being hurt, again and again, of men doing cruel, unspeakable things to his daughter. Sometimes these thoughts would build and after a while Carl had started going to a psychiatrist because he couldn't stand them anymore.
The not knowing was the worst part. It was like someone had gone inside him and ripped out his guts with a chainsaw.
But now Vicky was back. Carl still had the dark thoughts, still imagined people hurting her, because she said she didn't remember what had happened and because they had been told that amnesia following severe emotional trauma was not uncommon. There had been tests, of course, for signs of rape or assault, for venereal disease, for HIV. Thus far the tests for disease had all come back negative; more would be made during the coming months but it looked like she was clean and in perfect health. But there was also evidence she had been sexually active, the doctors told them, and that the psychological trauma might be related to this.
So the dark thoughts stayed.
It doesn't matter, he told himself as he and his wife prepared for bed. She's home and nothing she did or had done to her will make you love her any less.
Carl lay down to sleep, felt his wife close, stared up at the ceiling. After a little while he heard Vicky's door open, heard her step out. She was trying to be quiet and he wondered why. Then he heard the door out to the garage open, and he felt as a sudden burst of adrenaline shot though his body.
Was she leaving? What was happening?
He tried to sit up, to rush after her, to stop her and find out where she was going. But his apprehension turned to terror as he found that his body wouldn't move, like he was a puppet whose strings had been cut.
TWENTY-SIX
With time a certain clarity came to Nicole. They still watched her, still kept her handcuffed to her bed except for twice a day when they made her get up and walk around, made her eat. It had been many days now, and she had begun to wonder why they were keeping her, why they hadn't killed her.
She began to ask.
Save for the police chief they never talked to her. He was elusive, always answering her questions with more questions, and from time to time he would tell her to shut up.
With this clarity had come a sense of detachment. There was more going on here than met the eye, and she no longer cared or noted when Dr. Tanner came in and took blood or skin or spit. He took other things too, swabs from her nose and ears, her vagina and anus, but these didn't matter either. If they were going to rape her or kill her, they would have done it by now.
She prayed, silently, though the day, and this gave her strength. Mostly her prayers were for her father, wherever he was, whatever they were doing to him. But she prayed for herself too, prayed for strength, tried to remember verses, chapters and books from the Bible verbatim.
And he opened his mouth, and taught them, saying:
Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are they that mourn: they shall be comforted.
Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.
Blessed are they who hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.
Her eyes were closed now, her lips moving a bit as she remembered the words.
Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and say all manner of evil against you, falsely, for my sake.
#
One day she asked the police chief if she could take a shower. He looked at her for a moment.
"I see no point in that."
She looked back at him.
"I stink. That's point enough. I wonder if all these germs are affecting Dr. Tanner's samples?"
He sighed. "Very well. You know what will happen if you try to escape?"
She nodded.
He came forward, released the handcuffs. She rubbed her wrist for a moment, turned toward the door.
"No," he said. "You strip here."
She raised a brow, nodded, pulled off her clothes.
"Your wrists," he said.
She extended them outward. He fastened the cuffs to them. He then led her to the bathroom, pulled aside the shower curtain. She stepped into the tub, reached for the curtain.
"Leave it," he said. "I don't trust you."
She showered then, washing herself as best she could with the handcuffs on. He watched as she did, his face expressionless. She had expected lust, some notice of her nakedness, but there was none. When she finished and shut off the water, he handed her a towel and she dried herself off. He led her back to her room and directed her to lie down again, refastened the handcuffs to the bedpost.
"Can't I get dressed?" she asked.
"I see no reason why. It's not cold enough in here for you to freeze."
She stared at him and he stared back.
"Can I at least pull the bedcover over myself?"
He looked irritated, nodded.
"Keep your free hand out, where I can see it," he said.
She did so, relaxed.
#
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table for me in the presence of mine enemies; thou annointest my head with oil, my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
Nicole smiled.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Vicky drove through the night and day. The thing nudged her from time to time, directing her to take an exit, follow a particular interstate. She stopped from time to time, filled up on gas, went to the bathroom, bought something to eat or refilled her thermos with coffee. It occurred to her that her parents must have called the police by now, that there was probably an all points bulletin out for her car, but this didn't seem to matter. She had to get where she was going.
She was surprised that she was never stopped.
The thing was in her trunk. She didn't know how it had gotten there; at one point during the night she had felt the nudge to stop at a rest stop, and had felt it take control of her body and use her to gather a bunch of wood and brush and stuff it into the trunk of her car. About six hours later she had stopped to eat something and had thought to check the trunk; the branches and brush were gone and in their place was the thing again, a bit smaller than before, but very much the same, sitting on the blanket she always kept there.
Vicky did not react to this, only closed the trunk and drove on.
#
She was tired now; the adrenaline from last night and the caffeine from today were wearing out, but still she drove. The sun was setting behind her and it was becoming a struggle to keep her eyes open. She had long ago left California and the terrain was more rugged now.
She wondered what her parents were thinking, right now.
They're going to put you away for this, you know.
They probably should.
Another hour passed. Then she felt a nudge, took the next exit, drove for several miles up a smaller highway. There was another turn, and it nudged her there. This was a small road and after about a mile it directed her off to the side, had her stop.
Vicky sat.
What now?
She was tired, yawned. Maybe some sleep now; then she could go on.
She turned off the lights and motor, reclined her seat back.
#
In the trunk, those in the small ship tested the biomass. It was nearly complete and they concentrated on synthesizing large quantities of the liquid transmission base, as well as new weapons. A few monitored the trained female, and regularly scanned the area around the vehicle.
We are close.
What then?
We must run silently as we approach the small settlement, mask the female's weapon signature. Minimum energy output. We cannot allow the enemy to know we are coming. Remember the first extraction attempt.
This is dangerous. We will not be able to direct the trained female's motions.
She knows what she is to do. We will have to trust her. When the time comes for war we must be ready.
#
Morning came slowly among the trees. Vicky came awake, her neck and body stiff. She stretched, yawned. A nudge came, and she started the car and backed onto the road, turned and went back to the secondary highway. The thing nudged her to the right, and she put the car in gear and followed its lead.
In a few hours she was approaching a small town. She noticed as she did that the nudging had stopped.
TWENTY-EIGHT
She knew it was the place.
It was the dream, of course, the memory of it. It wasn't completely clear, but there was no question about the general layout of the town, where things were. The nudging had stopped too, so that must mean this was it. And it looked like the kind of place someone like Nicole would come from.
The center of town was small; a main street, some side streets. Businesses, offices, storefronts. A few people were out, walking, and a few cars, some parked, some moving. Quiet, conservative, peaceful. A big church just off the main street.
Despite the town's small size Vicky managed to get lost.
She pulled over to the side of the street, sat for a moment, hands on the wheel. A car passed by and she watched as it reached the stop sign at the end of the street, turned.
"All right," she said softly. "I'm here. What now?"
Nothing. She sat for a few minutes.
Finally her stomach grumbled and she put the car in gear again, pulled out. She drove around again, found a diner, parked in front. As she got out and locked the door to her car, she looked at the trunk for a moment, then stepped into the diner.
It was busy. Vicky found a table, sat down. She noticed a few people look at her briefly, then go back to their meals. A waitress appeared, handed her a menu.
"Passing through?"
Vicky nodded. "A friend of mine lives here," she said.
"Oh? That's nice. Try the omelet; it's our specialty."
Vicky ordered and the woman hurried away as a family walked in.
Her food came and she ate slowly, waiting for a nudge, a hint. Nothing came. The omelet was good, though, and she treated herself to some sausage and orange juice.
What now? she thought.
After a while Vicky paid her bill and left, took a walk up and down the main street, her hands in her pockets and her purse swinging idly off her shoulder. A few people passed her; said nothing. One older woman smiled, and Vicky smiled back.
She found a phone booth, flipped through the phone book. There were four "Edwards" listed.
Gertrude, Jonathan, LW, and Samuel.
Vicky sighed, walked back to her car. She didn't want to ask anyone about Nicole; the white-hot things lived in people and unless she knew the person she was asking was free of them it was just too risky. She produced her key, got in her car, closed the door.
"What the hell do you want?" she asked as she looked up into her rear-view mirror. "This is your show."
Nothing. Maybe she was crazy.
She started up the motor and pulled into the street. Not having anywhere to go, she circled for a while, getting to know the layout of the town. On her second circuit she noticed the church.
Nicole was religious. Maybe this is the place to ask.
What about the white-hot things?
You want to just keep driving around?
She pulled into the lot, parked, locked her car again and went in.
#
It was one of those feelings you can't quite pin down, but one of the kinds he had learned to trust, long ago. A sense that something was wrong, maybe because everyone insisted that nothing was. Too many people telling him it was okay.
He kept coming into his office and just sitting, day after day. He had gone to the police chief twice now, had told the man that he was sure there was something wrong at the Edwards' house, that Jonathan needed help and probably Nicole also. People crack, he said. I've seen it.
The chief told him he had checked, had talked to Jonathan and Nicole personally and that they were all right. They wanted to worship at home; was that a crime?
Wells asked that they tell him this themselves. The chief mentioned harassment and talked about a restraining order.
And that was that.
So Wells would come in, pray for guidance. He thought about the booby traps in Vietnam, when everything was just too perfect, too easy, and then the trap went off. Better men than he had died that way.
There was of course his other work, his counseling and writing sermons, his visits to people's homes. He had a lot of responsibility and he took it very seriously. But now there always seemed to be this thing hanging over him, and he could not shake the growing feeling that this was more than just trouble between Jonathan and Nicole, more than the conservative father upset because his daughter went away and did something he didn't approve of. Wells had seen that before. This had the sense of something rotten in other people too, beginning with the chief and going out to who knows who else.
Wells was at his desk when the girl came in.
#
She wasn't familiar. She was attractive, even striking, with long blonde hair and a slender, youthful body. Well formed. She had on blue jeans and a white blouse and a jacket, and wore a small purse over her shoulder.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
She seemed a bit confused, uncertain.
"I don't know. Maybe. I'm looking for someone."
Wells set his pen down, watched the girl carefully.
"Who are you trying to find?"
Her gaze became just a bit wary, watching him back. He wondered what she was thinking.
"Her name is Nicole Edwards. She's a friend of mine."
Wells nodded. "You are from California? From the college?"
"Yes."
She looked trustworthy. Wells indicated the seat by his desk. "Please," he said, "sit down."
The girl moved to the chair, sat. "Do you know where she is?" she asked.
"I think so. What's your name, Miss?"
She hesitated, answered. "Vicky. Thompson."
He nodded. "Well, it's good to meet you, Miss Thompson. I don't believe that Nicole ever mentioned any of her friends from California. Have you just come to visit?"
The girl nodded. Wells knew there was more.
"Does her father know you are here? There was some trouble at the college, I heard."
Vicky Thompson looked uncomfortable now. "Please," she said, "if you could just tell me where she lives. It's important."
"How so? I would be glad to tell you where she lives, Miss Thompson, but if you are her friend, I have to wonder why you don't already know her address."
Now Vicky Thompson looked frightened. She glanced at the door, then back at him. Then he saw her expression change, just a bit. Her voice changed with it.
"Is she in trouble, Reverend?"
#
His expression changed, just enough, and she knew she had him. Worry, quickly masked, but enough. He spoke again.
"What do you know about that? About her?"
"I know she's in trouble." Vicky paused. "And I think you know it too."
The Minister sighed now, leaned back in his chair. He had once been a big man; even now she could see that his hands were strong, and his arms, despite his age. He looked at her for a moment, then nodded.
"What's going on?" Vicky asked. "I need to know."
He shrugged. "I don't know. I think there's trouble with her father, but I haven't been able to find either of them."
"Did you try the police?"
He nodded again. "They told me to stay away. Why do you think Nicole is in trouble, Miss Thompson?"
She bit her lip, looked down. He seemed sincere but she wondered if he would believe her if she told him the truth. Maybe because he was a clergyman he would. At least maybe he wouldn't turn her in.
Unless he was one of the white-hot things.
"If I tell you something," she began, "will you keep it in confidence? Like confession?"
"I'm not a Catholic priest, Miss Thompson. But if you want to tell me something in confidence, it will stay that way."
She looked back up. He was listening intently.
"I think there's something inside some of the people here."
"Something?"
"Like a ... parasite. But not quite. You can't see it unless you ... unless you have the ability."
"The ability? Do you have this ability?"
She nodded.
"What is this parasite? What does it do?"
"I think it makes you hurt people. It makes you different. It isn't really you anymore."
He watched her, said nothing.
"I think it likes to kill," she said then.