Law and Order, page 5
“And I’m not about to go shopping during the day,” Angela had chimed in. She’d pointed to her face. “It’s all about the sunscreen.”
“You could wear makeup and pass.” Immediately, Paul had regretted making the comment. He realized just how unhelpful it was, not to mention loaded with ill intent. It sounded almost racist and certainly elitist, and in that moment he understood how other minority groups must have felt about not being accepted.
“I don’t really care about passing,” Angela had rejoined and a pissed-off look briefly flashed across her face. “I mean, look at me and tell me if everyone will accept me. Or you… Are they going to accept you?”
She’d had a point. Even though flesh-colored makeup could cover up her unearthly pallor, another obstacle stood in the way—a legal one. “I’m also not exactly human,” she’d added, before anyone could get a word in. “And I don’t have a birth certificate. I’m not a citizen of this country. Technically, I don’t really exist anywhere except in a test tube.”
Her mouth had begun to quiver as her voice trailed off. Trying to turn the situation into a more positive one, Paul had put his hands on her shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze. “You remember the video we watched back in Angelica, don’t you? Where we learned about your father and how you all were created? You came from Dr. Bolson,” he’d said, thinking about their options and coming up with nothing. “He was a person. That makes you a person, too.”
As he’d spoken those words, he’d seen his reflection in the rearview mirror. A young man with coarse, matted brown fur on his hands and all over his body, a semi-lupine face and features… Even if he shaved, would he have looked like everyone else? Not likely.
With a sudden jerk, Angela had pulled away. “I don’t think we’ll ever pass, even if we want to,” she’d repeated, and what she’d said seemed to encapsulate Paul’s thoughts. “You know how the crooks looked at us in New York, with fear? How do you think ordinary people will react?”
Deep down, he’d known she’d been right. With his enhanced strength, speed and altogether different appearance, was he still part of the human race or something better—or worse? He didn’t really know, but Angela had accepted him, as had the others in the group, so he’d felt content. And besides, the treatment had saved his life, and you didn’t throw your life away for nothing.
Tabling the thought for another day, he’d asked, “Okay, if we can’t go through regular channels, what do we do?”
“Wait until nightfall,” Angela had suggested. “Let me scout around. There might be a place no one’s using.”
Patience had indeed been a virtue, and the same night she’d gone out for a reconnaissance flight, coming back around two hours later. Landing at the driver’s side of the van, she’d given Ooze an address and imparted the directions.
They’d ended up in the Sierra Madre Mountains. Sierra Madre City lay nearby, but after observing the comings and goings of the citizenry, Paul had figured they’d be safe from prying eyes.
As for their accommodations, they’d arrived at four abandoned trailers on the far edge of the mountain range. “Here?” Ooze had asked in a voice filled with disappointment as he gazed at the rocky outcroppings. “I mean, you couldn’t find us anything closer to the ocean? This is dry city.”
It was more like rock city, but as Angela had put it, “It’s a place to stay.”
Getting to work, CF had pulled the remains of the trailers close together, easily dragging them over the hard ground. The trailers had been left to the elements by their former occupants long ago and had been overrun with mice, insects, and other assorted nasties, but after CF had cleaned them out—he was immune to any kind of insect or arthropod bite—they’d turned out to be more than comfortable.
Angela had scoured the area and come up with a few heavy-duty mini-generators that she’d procured from an abandoned factory. They’d been left behind, and she’d lugged them back under cover of the night. She’d also come back with a few laptops, and Ooze had managed to fix them up.
“Uh, not to be a moron or anything,” Paul had asked, while bringing in some wiring along with some metal and plastic he’d found in one of his forays into civilization, “but how are we going to be able to use the Internet? We’re in the rocks.”
A smile had appeared inside Ooze’s suit, and he’d tapped the side of his head. “Downloaded knowledge, remember? I not only got all of Dr. Bolson’s secrets, but I also got files on how to rig up a GPS like the military uses. Rallan, Inc. wasn’t just into bio-genetics. They were into military applications, remember? We were designed as weapons.”
Paul had recalled seeing the files. Bolson had changed their programming to a more humane version. “Yeah, so what’s this about military applications?”
Bubbles had formed inside Ooze’s interior as he’d emitted a watery laugh. “The smarts I got are telling me how to build a satellite link. I can do it with this stuff right here.” He’d swept his hand at the pile of wire and metal. “It won’t be fancy, but it will give us Internet access and I can shield us from anyone trying to trace our IP addresses. How’s that for being useful?”
Paul had grinned. “I’d say you’re more than useful.”
Ooze had offered an awkward bow. “I appreciate the compliment.” He’d waved his arm in a grand, operatic gesture. “Now leave me to my business. I must create!”
Chuckling, Paul had exited stage left, thinking it would be almost perfect if they’d had access to the outside world. He didn’t care much for television—never had. In his off time, he preferred to read or catch up on his sleep.
However, a week after Ooze had gotten the link up and running, he’d allowed himself the luxury of watching a movie online. It had been interesting at first, but he’d soon grown tired and passed out without seeing how it ended.
In contrast, Angela had kept up with the daily news by watching online shows and music programs. “Downloaded knowledge is one thing,” she’d reminded Paul one day after he’d asked her why she’d become an Internet junkie. “You have experience. I don’t. This helps me to learn. Hanging out with you also helps.” She’d gently caressed his cheek.
A thrill had run through him. “Yeah, that’s cool,” he’d said. Just being around her was the ultimate for him. A person had to learn in their own way.
CF, in between cleaning stints, had gone out at night and found a few refrigerators in a junkyard at the edge of Sierra Madre City. He’d brought them back, carrying them easily in his massive hands. Soon, the junkyard trailers had become mini-homes.
As for the inevitable question of food, he’d asked, “What about me?” as he pointed to the rapidly dwindling stock of synthetic brains. “I still get hungry.”
“I’m working on it,” Ooze had stated, with no small amount of sarcasm. “It doesn’t matter that we need a place to stay, we’re strangers here and people aren’t used to us—you have to have your feed. So let me put that at the top of the list.”
CF had smiled. Since his upgrades had come in, Ooze had reengineered him to have better teeth and less skin rot, but he still looked like a B-movie nightmare. Along with the reengineering, the zombie had acquired somewhat greater intelligence. All things were relative, as his IQ still lay somewhere between a ten-year-old child’s on his best day and a kumquat’s on his worst. “Well, if you can have food ready,” he’d said, rubbing his massive hands together, “that’s okay.”
Ooze had sighed and muttered something about density cubed and squared. He’d turned to Angela. “You got your stash, right?”
“I do,” she said.
Angela had a refrigerator in her own trailer. Since she subsisted on synthetic blood and needed her shot twice a day, it had made sense to keep it cold and on tap. She couldn’t digest food. “I toss it up,” she’d once mentioned. “I’m not made that way.”
As for Paul, he’d offered to scavenge. “There are restaurants in the city,” he’d said, after making a night-time foray and coming back with a few bags of leftovers. “I raided the garbage bins.”
Handing them over to the zombie, CF had torn into the food and finished most of it off in a few seconds. “This is good,” he’d remarked, then looked at everyone with a sheepish expression. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Taking thrown-away food wasn’t something he liked doing. At the orphanage where he’d grown up, having enough food was a luxury, and like Oliver Twist of old, he’d always asked for a bit more. Finances at St. Joe’s had been tight, and even though the food had tasted like mud, he’d needed to eat.
He’d had enough food to exist on and occasionally happened upon some real food the restaurants had dumped, due to its being past the expiration date. Slightly bad food didn’t bother his upgraded immune system, and after cooking it up, everything tasted fine.
Still, part of him had longed to walk into a restaurant and order a steak like everyone else. It was a nice daydream, but his daydream would become a nightmare when the screaming started. He knew the general public wasn’t ready for him or his girlfriend to reveal themselves, so he’d confined himself to dumpster diving.
His thoughts returned to the present as he arrived at the base of the San Gabriel Mountains. It was still dark—almost one in the morning—and the stars shone brightly. Narrowing his eyes, he saw Ooze’s van parked about a hundred feet away. It was empty, though, and he scanned the area, wondering if he’d missed anything.
A blast of heat singed the back of his legs and he leaped aside in surprise. “What in the…?” he exclaimed.
Turning around, balling his fists and getting ready to deliver a beatdown on the idiot who’d decided to use a flamethrower, he saw a man standing five feet away, of medium height with Asian features and a scowl, wearing a dark-silver suit, flames licking at his hands. No, they were coming from his hands. He was a fire-starter. “Who are you?” Paul asked, knowing that it had to be the most obvious question around.
“The name’s Hija,” the man replied. In spite of his tough-guy appearance, he spoke in a high-pitched voice, as he wrote his name with blasts of flame on the hard ground. “I control fire. I generate it and can blast most things with it.” He sounded like someone who didn’t want to be contradicted.
“Yeah, I can see that.”
Warily, Paul approached him. Up close, his eyes were dark and dead. This wasn’t someone to be trusted. “You’re one of Peterson’s guys?”
Hija nodded. “I was the first one he created. Mason and Catherine were next. Then Mudslide came along.”
The way he said it, it came across as a proper name. Who—or what—is a mudslide?
Paul decided to wait for further information.
Hija motioned toward the mountain. “Follow me.”
They tramped down the path to the base of the mountain. A small lever stuck out of the rock face and Hija pulled on it. A second later, the rock slid aside to reveal a passageway. “This way,” he said.
They followed a smoothed-out passageway that led down what seemed like a mile or more below the surface. Overhead lights lit the way, casting out a glaring whitish glow. At the bottom lay a large room the size of an airplane hangar and at least a hundred feet in height. Dozens of work tables lined the walls, and on them he saw a number of gunmetal gray objects that looked like pistols.
“They’re called Spear Pistols,” Hija said by way of explanation, as he picked one up and held it out. “They’re light, capable of firing steel projectiles tipped with poison at any target from up to five hundred yards away and can also fire armor-piercing bullets. These will take down anything walking, running or shooting back at us. We’ve also begun working on other modifications. It’s all totally cool.”
The way he spoke so casually of hurting and killing… It all made Paul sick. He’d used his fists to take out the scum he’d run up against, but he’d never crossed the line. From the looks of things, these people had not only crossed the line, they’d gone clear across into the next two states.
Hija continued to baby the pistol, rocking it back and forth with an expression of supreme satisfaction. Finally, he put it down. Paul, not interested in guns of any sort, turned his gaze elsewhere.
Off to his right sat four chambers, now black. A pile of material sat next to the last broken chamber, a jumble of circuitry and plastic and metal. Paul wasn’t sure if the doctor was into creating more subjects. A slight shudder of fear went through him.
Shifting his gaze, the only other thing outside of a doorway at the back was a large circle with a couple of benches, weights and some boxing gloves. “That’s the training area,” Hija murmured. “We don’t really need it, but since you’re part of the new crew, you might need some pointers.”
The remark stung, but Paul let it pass. As far as he was concerned, they were battle ready, and who’d said anything about joining up with these guys? Still, he kept his mouth shut and waited.
Something on a nearby table moved. A black lump the size of a Frisbee stirred, stretched then assumed the shape of a starfish, then a cement block and finally a plate, before resuming its original shape. It also exuded a noxious, heavy smell similar to the smell Catherine put out, only nastier.
Curious, Paul gently poked it with his finger, and the lump responded in a high-pitched snarl, “Hey, don’t you frickin’ touch me!”
The lump could talk! “What is that?” Paul asked.
Hija let out a harsh chuckle. “That…is Mudslide. His matrix comes from swamp mud—lots of chemicals in there.” He ticked off a few on his fingers. “He’s got sulfur, potassium, a little mercury, oil and gas—spills from petroleum plants and all that. He also excretes waste, so that accounts for the smell.”
“Oh.”
Hija added, somewhat defensively, “He just woke up a few days ago, and he’s a bit…testy.”
Testy was an understatement. The blob formed two legs and reared up on them. A somewhat human face appeared and said, “Yeah, and I don’t like being touched. Got it?”
Not wishing to create an incident, Paul answered, “Sure, no problem,” and the blob settled down again.
The door at the back opened and Angela, CF and Ooze walked through, with Peterson and Mason in the lead. Angela had an animated expression painted on her features as she walked over. “We were just getting the grand tour,” she said, when she reached Paul’s position. “There are rooms back there, pretty plain, just beds and televisions and stuff, but he”—she waved her hand at Peterson—“said we could stay here if we wanted to.”
Abruptly the happy look vanished as she leaned over and whispered in his ear, “I think he’s full of it, but let’s play along.”
The meaning was clear—trust but verify. Even though the idea of staying in a home was appealing—far better than living in ramshackle trailers on the edge of nowhere—this was one time to trust his instincts, and right now every bit of his instincts was saying this scenario looked too good to be true. Still, he put on his best poker face and nodded. Peterson walked over. “Glad you could make it,” he said. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions. Let me answer them.”
He sat on the edge of a table, his legs dangling, while his minions lined up beside him. “You may wonder why we’re living inside a mountain instead of at our research facility.”
“I heard it shut down,” Paul said. “You sold it, didn’t you?”
Peterson nodded. “I did. It wasn’t for the money. I did it to ensure our privacy. We’ve been watching you for a while. We heard about your exploits in New York, read the reports on what you did and got an idea of how you work. Once you’d come out here, I had Mason and Catherine observe your style. I can honestly tell you that it has impressed me to no end.” Compliment given, he shifted his position. “We’ve tried to do the same thing. However, once we knew about the incidents with the police and the fear from the citizenry, we also knew someone would eventually come around to ask questions. I couldn’t allow that to happen, hence the need for privacy. In this facility, we can train, and I can conduct my research without fear of interruption.”
“Or arrest,” Ooze supplied.
After a moment, Peterson—a thoughtful expression on his face—nodded. “Yes, we were worried about that as well. So we moved our base of operations here. Like Dr. Bolson, I also had the idea of creating creatures of the night. Their purpose was to pacify enemy combatants. You and your friends are certainly capable of that.”
“We’re not weapons,” Paul pointed out. “And I remember from the files that your company was working with the government. We don’t work for anyone. And you guys seem to take your duties a little too seriously.”
Beside him, Angela nodded. The look in her eyes had gone from mild to wary, but she also wore a blank expression. One day he’d have to learn how she maintained such a good poker face. He’d never been very good at hiding his emotions.
“Scum deserves to be taken out,” Mason snarled, flexing his massive arms. “If you want to get your point across, make them bleed. They’ll think twice about messing with you. You guys seem to have forgotten about that.”
The mood seemed to get heavier, and Paul was about to reply when Ooze chimed in with, “They have a really great computer setup here. It’s in the back, and it’s got everything—and I mean everything. This is like playtime for me.” He sounded cheerful enough.
“What’s your version of playtime?” Paul wanted to know.
“Computers, chemicals and proper lab equipment,” replied Ooze, as he ticked off the goodies on his oversized fingers. “They also have a fully stocked kitchen and a machine shop, so I can work on various designs. I can improve and upgrade.”
“Uh-huh, this is Candy Land,” Angela cut in, with just the right amount of sarcasm. “So who’s paying for all this?”
Peterson didn’t bat an eye. “It is an excellent lab, if I do say so myself. And to answer your question, young lady, the Defense Department is.”
“But—”
Peterson put up his hand. “Wait and hear me out before you say anything else. Originally, we made a contract with Homeland Defense. That’s when Dr. Bolson was alive. However, since he is no longer among the living, and since”—he paused to run his hand over his chin—“the incidents in New York, we have cut ties with them. They did give us quite a grant, and we’re subsisting on the leftover funds.”
