Morte (15 page)

“That means you, Lieutenant,” Culdesac said.

Wawa holstered her gun. She didn’t seem to like that. Mort(e) understood—there had been a time when he would have ripped out the throat of anyone who failed to make proper eye contact with Culdesac.

“Don’t you all know who this is?” the colonel asked. “This is Mort(e). The hero of the Battle of the Alleghenies. The Mastermind of the Chesapeake Bridge Bombing. The crazy bastard who assassinated General Fitzpatrick in broad daylight. This choker was killing humans before some of you were born.”

For once, Mort(e) appreciated the choker comment. It lowered expectations for him.

“So you got my message,” Culdesac said, leaning in. “Congratulations. I didn’t call you the smartest for nothing.”

“Just tell me why you brought me here,” Mort(e) said.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Culdesac asked. “If memory serves me, I couldn’t stop you and Tiberius from snooping around a place like this.”

“Tiberius is dead, Colonel.”

Culdesac nodded. He scanned the soldiers until he picked out a dog who was taking photos of the deer. “Have you got all the pictures you need, Private?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Culdesac said. “All right, everyone, clean it up.”

Several lackeys began barking orders at their own lackeys, and within seconds the crowd buzzed with activity again. Flatbed trucks moved to the edge of the pit, while soldiers wearing hazmat suits rappelled into the quarry.

Culdesac motioned for Mort(e) and Wawa to walk with him. Mort(e) glanced at Bonaparte standing beside the Humvee, unaffected by the excitement. Grinning, the pig made a punching motion with his hoof.

The three made their way over to a hastily erected tent. Culdesac brought them over to a table covered with papers, each containing jargon that was of no interest to Mort(e). A mug of cold coffee acted as a paperweight. Most animals despised the stuff, especially those who had lived in the wild. It was said that they never needed a stimulant because they so often lived in fear for their lives. But for whatever reason, Culdesac had acquired a taste for it. Perhaps he was finally slowing down and needed something to compensate.

Culdesac picked up one of the documents and spread it out on the table. It was a map of the area, marked up with red Xs and other notations.

“I didn’t call you the first time it happened,” Culdesac said. “Even though I knew then that something wasn’t right.”

“There have been other suicides?” Mort(e) asked.

“I wish they were only suicides.”

Suicide and murder were supposed to be relics of the past, such as wars, superstition, beauty magazines, reality television, and every other corrupt outgrowth of human civilization. The ants killed themselves only in service to the Colony, including, according to legend, the Queen’s own mother. But even sacrifices like that were rare nowadays.

“Lieutenant Wawa has been leading the investigation,” Culdesac said. He nodded to her, and she stepped forward.

The Red Sphinx had received reports of people exhibiting the physical symptoms of the virus, she said. So far, no one tested positive. Her unit was monitoring the situation, ordering blood tests for every neighborhood where symptoms had been found. But the cases of unusual behavior were even more alarming, and more unpredictable.

“There was a family of cats not too far from your house,” Wawa said, pointing to an X on the map. “They all hung themselves. There was also a mother rat who killed herself after drowning several of her children. These weren’t veterans who were traumatized by the war.” With this, she winced and said, “No offense.” Mort(e) asked her to continue. The parents had worked for the Bureau, she said, and the children were going to attend school later in the year.

“And then over here,” she continued, tracing a line on the map with her brown fingernail. “Murder-suicide. A dog—a sanitation worker—stabbed his next-door neighbor, poisoned his mate and two pups, then ate the poison himself.”

“You think these incidents and the reports of infection are related?”

“Yes,” she said. “I just can’t prove it.”

“So everyone isn’t as pleased with the big Change as they’re supposed to be,” Mort(e) said. “What does this have
to do with me?”

“It all started when you moved into the neighborhood,” she said.

“I want you to be honest with me,” Culdesac said, “Has anything unusual happened since you came home?”

Before the bobcat even finished his question, the image of the graffiti appeared before Mort(e)’s eyes, throbbing with each beat of his heart.

“No,” he lied. “I’ve been fixing up the place, removing some of the human junk. I haven’t noticed anything.”

“Mort(e),” Culdesac said. “You realize the implications of this better than anyone.”

“Of course. But what did the Queen expect? She killed billions of people and turned everything upside down and then thought we would all be grateful for it.”

“We
should
be grateful,” Culdesac said. “We were slaves—”

“Oh, give it a rest,” Mort(e) said. “You don’t think we’re slaves
now
?”

“We are the masters of this planet—”

“If you need the Queen’s permission to be a master, then you’re really a slave.”

“If I may,” Wawa cut in. “Mort(e), everyone admires your work. But I know your story. The therapist in the camp said that you had unresolved issues from the Change. You’re in the same condition now as when the colonel found you. What was it you were doing at the time? Shouting a dead person’s name?”

“Oh, right,” Culdesac said. “Sheba. Have you heard from her lately?”

Mort(e) was about to say
maybe
, but thought better of it. “Well, if I’m such a basket case,” he said, “then why give me security clearance?”

“Wasn’t my decision,” Culdesac said. “The Colony gave the
order.”

It was odd enough that the Colony had brought in Culdesac’s team. Now they were helping him micromanage personnel.

“Do you think they forgot your little stunt during the war?” Culdesac said. “Like you said, Tiberius is dead, and you’re the closest thing to an expert around here. They thought you could help. And that you would keep your mouth shut. And that you wouldn’t be surprised by what you saw.”

“I’m never surprised,” Mort(e) said.

“Maybe you’re right,” Culdesac said. “Maybe these anomalies are a reversion to the old ways. I’m hoping it’s a temporary phase as we sort things out.”

“Or it’s EMSAH,” Mort(e) said.

This struck a nerve with Culdesac. He squinted his bright eyes and said, “Be careful with how you use that word around here—”

“What, EMSAH?” Mort(e) said, louder this time.

“Officially, this is part of the standard security procedures for a new settlement,” Culdesac said. “Unofficially, I share the lieutenant’s concern. I have to. It’s my job.”

Mort(e) tried to think of how Tiberius would have handled this. He probably would have pointed out that EMSAH made people do, say, and believe illogical things, but that it was rare for the virus to drive someone to suicide before any other symptoms arose. If these deer had EMSAH, they would be in no position to organize and execute such a spectacle. But it also made sense that the virus would mutate, adapt, and attack in new, unheard-of ways. That was the nature of viruses.

“Relax, Colonel,” Mort(e) said. “We’d be quarantined by now if there were an outbreak.”

“We’ll be calling on you in a few days,” Wawa said. “But if you
see anything, I want you to call me here.”

“Right,” Mort(e) said. “If you see something, say something.”

As she handed him a card with her information, a dog arrived at the entrance to the tent. She was a Labrador, too young to remember the war. Mort(e) could always tell with these young ones. Their eyes were innocent, and they didn’t keep their heads on a swivel. But there was something else. This soldier was clearly spooked by something. She panted, trying her best to keep her stupid tongue in her mouth. “Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said.

Culdesac and Wawa turned to the young recruit, who saluted diligently. “What is it?” Wawa asked.

“The envoy from the Colony is here.”

Culdesac rubbed his hands together and nodded. “Tell Bonaparte to get the device,” he said. The dog left, the flap of the tent swaying behind her.

“Well, Mort(e),” Culdesac said, “you get to see me kiss some abdomen again.”

They stepped outside. Standing before them were two Alpha soldiers, side by side, perfectly rigid. Even their antennae were still. And the compound eyes—half-globes protruding from their enormous heads—pointed in hundreds of directions. Mort(e) could never be sure that he was outside of their gaze.

At the foot of each soldier was a pool of swarming ants, the regular-sized ones, who gathered information about the terrain that the larger soldiers could miss. Ultimately, the Alphas’ orders came from the smaller sisters. Culdesac often compared the Alphas to giant remote-controlled robots. “Their brains might be a potato with wires attached to it,” he once said.

Bonaparte arrived with the device cradled in his short, plump arms. This model was more advanced than the one used by the Great Dane at the most recent Purge. The devices were
so important—and so classified—that every unit had a designated soldier to guard it. This translator was basically a helmet made of some kind of organic material fashioned by the Colonial scientist guild. If it had been made from bits of dead Alpha soldiers who had willingly sacrificed themselves, Mort(e) would not have been surprised.

While the ants stood there like a pair of icons, Culdesac placed the device on his oversized head. It barely fit. The antenna poked into the sky. A mouthpiece hovered over his whiskers.

“Get back to work,” Wawa yelled to her soldiers. Most of them had stopped what they were doing to watch their great leader speak to the ants. It took months of training for an officer to use a translator. Only a well-prepared mind could interpret, store, and retrieve what was needed from the data stream without becoming like a teacup underneath a waterfall. Many animals aged prematurely and suffered immense physical pain and mental degradation by using the device. Even so, they were probably smarter now than any human who had ever lived.

Mort(e) tried to get closer so he could hear the alien voice coming through the speaker. Wawa’s paw on his arm stopped him.

“Leave them be,” she said, as protective as a mother canine. He figured that she must have been one of the old bobcat’s projects, as he had once been.

Apparently finished with the exchange, Culdesac got the attention of one of the sergeants, a dog wearing a surgical mask. The colonel twirled his finger, indicating that they should wrap things up. The sergeant nodded.

Suddenly the ants came to life. Moving in unison, they faced one another and touched antennae, their abdomens throbbing. With their smaller sisters surrounding them, the Alphas walked off, leaving Culdesac standing there. Bonaparte was already at
his side to retrieve the translator.

“Ready to watch the future?” Culdesac asked Mort(e).

Moments later, the Alphas returned, this time with at least twenty more behind them. The procession made its way to the quarry in the same single-file formation the ants had used in the quarantined settlement years earlier. The sergeant frantically ordered the animals to stay clear. The soldiers who had rappelled into the pit scrambled up the rock face and scurried away as the ants arrived at the lip of the quarry. The creatures climbed down the side, their claws latching into the rock.

“Are they going to disinfect?” Mort(e) asked Culdesac.

“They’re recycling.”

Mort(e) let out a cynical snort.

“What?” Culdesac said. “You’ve seen this before. Do you want these corpses stinking up the place?”

Minutes later, the antlers of a dead deer appeared over the edge, the body clamped in the unforgiving jaws of an Alpha. Soon more of them arose, each carrying a corpse. The ants’ footsteps landed in the exact same spots, leaving behind only a single pair of tracks. The line headed out of the gate, marching to the nearest ziggurat.

Wawa began talking again about where Mort(e) should start with his investigation. But Mort(e) could not stop himself from staring into each pair of blank eyes, asking them to explain what he was doing here.

Culdesac had never seen a person skinned alive before. He had glimpsed corpses in various states of disrepair and decomposition: blown to pieces, riddled with bullets, vaporized, decapitated, incinerated, devoured, digested. But this was new even to his old eyes.

When Culdesac got the phone call requesting his presence, the soldier on the other end of the line did not even know how to describe the crime scene. “It’s a house with a spire on it, sir,” the cat had said. “A big, pointy tower.” Culdesac asked who knew about the incident. The soldier answered that it was only Culdesac and another officer so far, a Lieutenant Sultan. This was good. At least the Red Sphinx was on the scene first, without interference from the klutzes in the regular army. There was still time to contain this latest spectacle.

Culdesac arrived to find two soldiers in full hazmat suits standing guard. He asked them if they had been inside. Only the lieutenant had entered, they said. Culdesac nodded and told them to return to the barracks. After trading a brief glance, they obeyed without question.