The Forever Man: A Near-Future Thriller (28 page)

“You’ll be staking a lot more than that,” the man calmly tells him. “If I don’t get what was promised, you’ll become product instead of producer. Is that clear?”

“Completely,” the Surgeon says. In spite of himself, he thinks of the organ donors with the fluttering eyelids, the subjects who dreamed as they were excavated. But more than fear, he feels resentment. His professional competence is being called into question. He remembers the time that the contracting party was a militia leader from a rural area in Alabama. The man had taken one look at the Surgeon’s gleaming ambulance and started laughing. Seems it reminded him of the mobile butchering operations that used to cruise through the countryside to carve up deer and cattle. The Surgeon was instantly steeped in profound anger. It took five years, but he eventually arranged to have the man designated as product and personally performed the procedure.

“I’ll expect a report later this evening,” Khan says, and then the image fractures into random pixels as the decryption processing ends.

The Surgeon sighs. Oh well, at least he can console himself with the accidental acquisition in the back. He looks at his watch. They’d better get started.

When Betty awakens, she is staring at the ceiling of what must be the ambulance they hit. A grid of big lights looms overhead, all extinguished as they await their call to action. Through a fog of alcohol and sedation, she gradually becomes aware of the restraints on her arms and legs, and feels a surge of panic. But then a young female paramedic comes into view and advises her that the buckles are just to keep her from tossing about when the vehicle goes around turns. Betty is reassured by the woman’s impeccable bedside manner, and by the glittering array of medical technology that lines the walls. She wants to know where Anita is, but the paramedic explains that the most important thing right now is to get Betty’s medical history. Betty cooperates as best she can under the circumstances.

There are quite a few questions regarding previous transplants, of which Betty has had many.

***

Lane pauses on a wooded slope and looks out at the rolling woodland and fields. He’s lost his bearings. By now, he should be hearing traffic noise from the freeway. His short-term strategy is simple. He needs to contact Rachel Heinz, and to do that, he needs to make an anonymous call. His handheld is out of the question. The GPS data will instantly locate him. His best bet is to get to a commercial area off the freeway, steal someone’s handheld, and then make the call.

All he has to do is survive long enough to pull it off. He takes out his pistol and stares at it. After the encounter in the driveway, the clip holds six rounds. He moves on. There’s nothing left but to follow the eastward vector of the gathering clouds and hope for the best.

The Colonel stops at the crest of a hill and crouches to rest. He smells rain in the air. It won’t be long before it condenses into actual drops and descends from the huddle of gray clouds that scuds over the hilltops. He wants to smoke, but knows that it’s a horrifying experience when you’re wearing the nasal amps. The product’s smell is increasing in magnitude as he follows the scent. He’s gaining on Anslow.

He unslings the sniper weapon, rests it carefully against a tree, and then removes his pack and extracts a box of shells. He pulls out a single round, kisses it for good luck—a habit he picked up back in Africa—and chambers it. This particular species of bullet dates back nearly to the invention of smokeless powder. Over the years, its performance has been improved to where a 600-grain slug can achieve a velocity of nearly 3,000 feet per second, and impact its target with devastating energy. Powdered bone. Jellied flesh. Vaporized blood.

The Colonel chuckles to himself as he puts his gear back on. The Surgeon’s loss is his gain. In Phase Two, all that’s required is a single organ as proof of the target’s identity. It doesn’t even have to be in serviceable condition. All you have to do is kill the target, bag up a testicle, and it’s all good. A much simpler proposition from a medical standpoint, and a far more interesting one from a hunting perspective.

As he starts down the slope, he puts a little extra spring in his step. It’s good to be working again.

***

With maybe a half hour of light left, Lane spots the column of smoke rising from the far side of a wooded hill just opposite him. He can just make out the occasional trace of a small footpath, which winds along the base of a hill beside a small streambed that has yet to carry the new rain. The trail draws a ragged line of beige through the dry grass as it conforms to the gentle meandering of the stream. His arms and shoulders are thoroughly soaked through the thin material of his light jacket. Fortunately, the air remains warm and modulates the effect of the water’s chill. Still, he feels that instinctive longing for shelter.

He silently follows the path, and when he rounds the last bend in the trail, he comes upon a tiny valley where a tributary stream joins the one he’s been following. And there among the stunted oaks, he spots the lean-to. A large section of green corrugated plastic roofing has been
propped up at a modest angle by wooden posts secured to ropes and pegs. Sheets of plastic tarp droop from the sides and are held in place by big stones that put a noticeable droop in the pitch of the roof. The front has been left open to the elements and reveals a floor composed of plywood sheets all warped and curled by the cumulative dampness.

“Get your hands up! Right now!”

The command comes from off to his left. A male voice with a rich vein of fear. Lane complies. A man of medium height emerges from the bushes lining the trail ahead. He aims an old .22-caliber rifle at Lane and stares out from beneath a heavy brow that hides the color of his eyes. A thick mat of wet hair merges into a patchy beard marked by pale areas of exfoliation.

“What the hell ya doin’ here?” the bearded man demands.

“A good question,” Lane responds. As he does so, he races through a subliminal assessment of the situation and sees a solution. During his hurried exit from his house, he instinctively grabbed his old jacket, and it holds the key to a civilized outcome. “I’m a policeman.”

“You don’t look like no cop to me.”

“I’m a detective, not a uniformed patrolman. I’m out here looking for somebody.”

“Lookin’ for who?”

“For a fugitive,” Lane improvises. “He’s armed and dangerous. My name’s Anslow. Lieutenant Detective Lane Anslow, Portland Police Department, and I’ve got a badge and ID to prove it.”

“Where?”

“It’s in my jacket pocket.”

The man brings the barrel to bear directly on Lane’s face and steadies his aim. “Take it out and throw it over here.”

“No problem.” Lane slowly reaches in his pocket, pulls out his ID with the attached badge, and gently tosses it near the man’s feet.

The man keeps the rifle trained on Lane while he scoops up the ID and scans it. He visibly relaxes and relief floods his face. He lowers his weapon. “I guess you’re okay.”

“I don’t blame you for being vigilant,” Lane offers diplomatically. “It’s not safe out here, is it?”

“It ain’t never been safe out here.” The man tosses Lane’s ID back at his feet. A good sign.

“It’s getting pretty wet,” Lane comments as he picks it up. “You mind if I get a little shelter with you for a while?”

The man shrugs. “Yeah, I guess that’s okay.”

Lane moves slowly forward on the trail toward the camp ahead. No sudden moves.
“Well, you got my name, but I don’t think I got yours.”

“Name’s Bobby Ota.”

As he stands on the wooded slope above the little valley, the Colonel tries to stem his growing irritation. First, there was the rain, which he’d hoped would hold off until after the hunt was over. His coat is waterproof, but unfortunately his rifle is not. The big Winchester has a waterproof stock of carbon fiber but the barrel is fabricated from matte stainless steel, and therefore vulnerable to rust. Normally, he would’ve carefully wound the barrel with a neat spiral of electrician’s tape, but there simply wasn’t time. Bad juju. He has an animistic view of weapons and believes they will be faithful and loyal if you treat them well, but fail you at a critical moment if you abuse them through lax maintenance.

Then there was the timing. He’d planned on finding a natural blind from which to take his shot, and then waiting for the target to approach, so he could leisurely track the product and take his shot at the most opportune moment. But now he can see a column of wood smoke coming from an encampment hidden on the valley floor. The nasal amps tell him that the product has headed in that direction and will probably seek the security of a larger group.

A difficult situation, but not impossible.

As Lane and Bobby approach the camp, a woman watches them warily. She is squatting beside a woodstove whose chimney pierces the roof near the front of the big lean-to. The fire inside casts a peachy glow on her face as a premature darkness sets in, driven by the gathering clouds.

“That’s my wife, Crystal,” Bobby explains.

Two children pop out of the dimness at the rear of the windowless structure, a young boy and girl.

“And that’s Kenny and Sasha.”

Crystal stands, and the children cluster cautiously at her feet. Sasha instinctively grasps her mother’s pants leg. All are rail thin, and Crystal looks out through hollow eyes and unkempt bangs. “Who’s he?” she asks her husband.

Bobby erupts into a yellow grin of big, neglected teeth. “He’s a cop! Can you believe it? He’s a cop. Way out here.”

They all move into the shelter of the lean-to. A folding table sits in the center of the plywood floor, and is littered with basic kitchen items. Underneath, a row of five-gallon water tanks stands at attention. Farther back are cots and sleeping bags. A ring of weathered aluminum lawn chairs surrounds the stove, and Lane sits down under the watchful eye of Sasha, a diminutive soul with pigtails falling over the collar of an old military field jacket.

“I’m Lane Anslow,” Lane says to the woman, who manages a cautious but worried smile.

“Sheena’s back there sleepin’,” Bobby says and points to a lump in a sleeping bag on one of the cots. “She’s not feelin’ too good.”

Lane feels the edge in Bobby’s voice. “And how old is she?”

“She’s four,” Crystal volunteers. “She’ll be five in December. We were still in Texas when she came.”

“In Texas?”

“Yeah, in Corpus Christi,” Bobby says. “I was workin’ in shipping at Almatax. They had that big plant for those net immersion things. Know what I mean?” Bobby asks.

“I think so.”

“Well, we’d just take ’em off the end of the line,” Bobby continues, “put the foam around ’em, and slip a big box over ’em. Then we’d seal it on up and cart it to the truck. No paperwork, no nothin’. Real slick. Those camera brains did all the rest.” He stops, and stares into the fire in the stove, whose door has been left open to provide illumination. “Know what really bugged me the most?”

“What was that?”

“Ya block one of them cameras, and the damn thing would say, ‘I am sorry but you are impeding the shipping and packaging process by your current action. Please move to one side.’ ”

Lane notes how Bobby’s accent shifted into a perfect media intonation when he mimicked the voice of the camera.

“Yeah, boy. That bugged the hell outta me,” Bobby repeats.

“But not for long,” Crystal adds. “ ’Cause then they up and moved the plant to Bolivia.”

“Yeah, Bolivia.” Bobby says. “Can you believe that crap? Not Mexico or one of those deals. Bolivia! Looked it up on the subnet. Saw pictures of these little guys with funny hats and blankets.”

Bobby lapses into a sad silence and stares at the glowing window of firelight from the stove.

The rain grows heavier and hammers away at the corrugated lean-to. Outside, the trees are nearly lost in the darkness. Lane feels his stomach twist in hunger, but puts the feeling aside. Whatever food these people have, he doesn’t want to impose. Obviously, they live on the cusp of malnutrition.

The Colonel knows he’s losing his light as he reaches the edge of the woods where it gives way to the valley. Looking out across the opening, he can make out only the dimmest outlines of the lean-to around the small orange sphere of what appears to be stove light. If he had his nightscope, there wouldn’t be any problem, but in the heat of pursuit he forgot to include it.

He walks along the periphery of the woods until he spots the rotting remains of a fallen tree. He settles down behind it, rests the rifle across the trunk, and puts his eye to the scope. A woman is entering the anemic cloud of light, and she carries a small child. A bearded man talks to someone who is obscured from view by the high canvas back of an old lawn chair. The target? No way to be sure.

He sighs again. If only he’d gotten here before they all convened, he could have scored a classic kill. Just like on the plains of Africa with the leopard. Such a lovely beast. Its spots sang a song of perfect motion. They’d shot the bait early in the day, a mature female antelope, slit it open, and left the remains to decompose in the sun near a ginger tree. The heat quickly wormed its way into the dead beast’s tissues and set the resident bacteria into a furious, stinking blaze of consumption. In time, the leopard caught the scent, found the antelope, and with amazing strength carried it into the fork of the tree, where the earthbound hyenas could not reach it. With its dinner safe, the leopard departed to continue its murderous patrol. And during its absence, the Colonel took up his position in the blind, seventy-five yards from the tree holding the bait. And then, as the light faded, the leopard returned to consume its prize, and walked into his expertly calibrated crosshairs.

But tonight, the light is gone. And so is the blind. Only the killing remains.

Crystal returns and settles carefully into a chair, forming a womb with her arms to embrace the daughter who curls up tightly and takes in the fire with fevered eyes. The child erupts in a spasm of coughing and her face winces with the pain of it.

“That’s all right, baby,” Crystal says as she reaches for a handkerchief in her jacket pocket and puts it to the child’s lips to catch the ejecting sputum. “You just got a little chest cold, that’s all. You’ll be just fine by tomorrow.”