Chapter #25Space Parasites, Part 2 by: Seuzz   "Obviously, we wish to extend our thanks to the Ambassador for his timely warning and help in this matter."
The Old Man could fake sincerity when he had to; Sam gave him credit for that, and it was quite a contrast to the volcanic rage he'd shown in private when first he'd learned of the Iowa infestation. But then, it didn't pay to treat extraterrestrials with bad temper.
The little grey-skinned, black-eyed alien blinked as the agency's translator conveyed the Director's meaning, then clasped his hands in the manner that signified a courteous acknowledgement. "Of course, there is still the matter of this wayward 'nest'," the Old Man continued, and only Sam could see in the slight flutter of his fingertips how intensely the Director felt. "I would like to assume that the Ambassador has no further advice of a technical, tactical, or strategic nature to share with us, and that our methods for eradicating the infestation at the Armory will suffice for dealing with this one loose end." The Director's lips twitched beneath his finely groomed beard. "But assumptions are dangerous things."
Sam's own fingers fluttered as well; it was hard not to acquire the Old Man's mannerisms when one had worked so closely with him and for so long. In Sam's case, though, it wasn't a nervous gesture, unless anticipation was a species of nerves. They'd gotten the field report only thirty minutes ago, about the police cruiser, found outside Squanee City with the dead patrolman still leaking blood from his belly. Sam doubted that this meeting with the off-world emissary was really necessary, but like the Old Man he wanted to be prepared for any contingency. Especially as he would likely be the one to go in and snip off this loose end.
The Old Man listened intently to the Ambassador's reply. "If this is an 'immature' nest," he asked, "how great a threat is it going to be?" He scratched thoughtfully at his beard as the Ambassador replied. "Well, that's not bad at all, then, is it," he mused. "Depending on who has been infested, we might even leave it intact for study."
That got Sam's attention. "Leave it intact for study?" he asked as he followed the Old Man from the conference room. "I know you like collecting weird pets, but isn't that a little dangerous?"
"It should be quite safe, assuming you don't bungle things, Sam," the Director said. He didn't even break stride. "Our little friend says the thing's life cycle is measured in decades. We've a good twenty years before it becomes dangerous. Until then, it can infest only a few dozen people."
"Cold comfort for the few dozen," Sam said.
"I have to think of the long term, Sam," the Old Man said. "And worst case scenarios." He gripped Sam lightly by the elbow. "We can't even keep our southern border secure. What about they sky, Sam, what about the sky?" He turned to face his subordinate. "Our friends from above are not gods, they're creatures like us, just as capable as slipping up. They're immune to the parasites--so they say--and so were heedlessly careless about letting that thing get in. Rabbits to Australia, Sam. No one knew what rabbits would do to Australia, and they didn't know what a nest of those worms might do to us. We have to be prepared, and that means knowing what we might one day be facing."
Sam knew better than to suggest relying on the Ambassador's species for that knowledge. So he just spoke of his upcoming assignment. "The thing left the cop. It could be anywhere. Iowa? It could be inside a cow."
"It's inside a high school coach, Sam," said the Old Man. "The prowler's dashboard cam showed us that. We've got the school and even his name. You'll just go in--"
"It might have jumped from there, like it jumped from--"
"Regardless, you're not going to find it inside a cow. It goes for top predators, the Ambassador has said, and that's us. And top predators within the top predators. The soldiers at the Armory? The police? That's where you'll look in town."
"The top predators," Sam mused cynically. "I guess I'll need to be careful."
"No, I'll need to be careful," the Old Man retorted, and not for the first time Sam thought of how wolfish his smile could be. "That's why I'll be keeping my distance in Washington."
He resumed his hopping walk down the corridor, leaving Sam to chew on a lip.
* * * * *
Tom sat up at the sound of the motor bike and squinted into the lowering sun. His truck sat in the middle of the ripening corn field, and the tall stalks hid the approaching visitor. But he hadn't long to wait before Chad appeared; Duerr grinned and gunned the motor once before shutting it off and dismounting.
"Yah, bro," Tom grinned back, and extended a hand to help Chad into the bed of the truck. "Wanna a little something to slake a thirst?"
"Whatever you got. The fuck is his deal?" Chad kicked lightly at Paulie, who was stretched out, seemingly dead to the world.
"He's just chillin'. I guess Angus found you?" Tom asked as he handed his friend a beer.
"Yeah, he told me where to find you. He didn't say you'd have company, though."
"Yeah. Oh, Micah's comin' out too."
"Did he talk to Angus?"
"No, he's gonna talk to us."
"Sweet." Chad ran a finger down Tom's bare chest and lightly rubbed at his navel. "That's a cute little outie you got."
"I got a cuter one in me. Take your shirt off, catch some rays."
Paulie's eyes shot open. He took a deep, gulping breath, then sat up. "Guys," he said carefully.
"Bro," Chad corrected him. He let his jacket fall from his arms, and closed his eyes as he lifted the front of his t-shirt. "Lookin' good, Miller."
The skin over his tight abs rippled slightly, then bulged, and something like an eyeball popped out of his belly button. It swiveled in its unnatural socket for a moment, and then withdrew.
Paulie smiled faintly. "Micah show up yet?"
Tom grunted, then cocked an ear. "Sounds like him now. Shirts off, everyone. Let's make it look natural. Be easier to talk him into taking off his own."
"Why persuade him?" Chad grinned, and flexed an arm. "There's three of us. Let's have some fun."
Tom shrugged, then opened up the ice chest and let one of the little things inside wrap itself around a finger.
So it was three bare-chested teammates that greeted Micah Frick as he dismounted from his own motor bike. He nodded and grinned at them uncertainly as, smirking, they surrounded him in a tight circle. But he was used to horseplay, and didn't resist even when Chad grabbed him and put him in a tight headlock. "You're not the best looking asshole on the team," Tom chortled as he tugged the front of Micah's shirt loose from his jeans. "But you got what counts."
"The fuck--" Micah started, then gasped as something sharp and burning shot into his gut. He would have screamed, but Tom covered his gaping mouth with his own with a hungry, tongue-engorged kiss.
* * * * *
"And that's our mascot over there," Coach Kirnberger said. He grimaced as he flicked a finger in Terry's direction. Sam saw a tall kid with long, lank dark hair pacing the side of the gym floor. Perhaps sensing the attention, Terry looked back with a sad, mournful expression.
"Does he always walk around in costume," Sam asked. He guessed the kid was thin--based on his face--but there was no way to tell since he was swallowed up in the fat, brown fur suit.
"He's got his reasons," the coach grunted. "That might actually be something you could help him with."
Sam cocked an eyebrow. "I thought you said you didn't have a staff opening."
"We don't," the coach said. "But we take volunteers. You, uh, you willing to do some part-time volunteer work for us, Mr. Brown?"
"I like working with athletic teams," Sam said. "It keeps me feeling young and trim."
"They do like to compete," the coach said. "Hey Terry, go call the boys in!" Terry shuffled over to a side door. "Kid's not a quarter of what his brother was," the coach confided. "But he has his uses."
He put out a hand, as though to tug Sam into a closer confidence, but Sam evaded it and kept the space between them. Casually, he put his hands in his pockets, and gripped the dart gun. He'd tried getting the coach alone early on during the impromptu job interview at the school, but with one thing and another he'd not succeeded. And he'd grown increasingly nervous about the man's manner. There was no reason the thing that controlled the coach should recognize Sam from the raid on the Armory, but Sam couldn't help but feel that he was being toyed with.
"Maybe I better go grab the boys myself," the coach said. Sam breathed a little easier as he exited, and paced the floor with eyes down. Still, he felt as the kid in the squirrel costume approached. "I'm Terry Angus," the kid said, and held out a paw.
"Sam Brown," Sam replied.
"Really," Terry said skeptically.
Sam's eyes flicked down. Out of the front pouch popped a head shaped like a flattened soccer ball. Dozens of eyes glittered up at him from it. He barely had time to see as one sprang from its socket and burrowed through the front of his shirt.
* * * * *
To continue investigating the room: "Disposing of Lucy"    indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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