Letters
of Transit (8/14) By Loch Ness
DO NOT
ARCHIVE. ***Not to be entered in or nominated
for any
competition or award.***
Classification:
T, RA Crossover references to the film
*Casablanca*
International readers: US4 spoilers. Rating:
NC-17,
for VIOLENCE, PROFANITY and (M/S) SEX. If you are
under-age,
please do not read this. See Part 0 for
disclaimer,
summary and introductory notes.
***********************************************************
Letters
of Transit (8/14) By Loch Ness
July
21, 1999
Galveston
The
kitchen smelled of egg rolls--Langly cooked them in
bulk
when he could get the ingredients and froze them to
eat
later. When Mulder walked in, the Gunmen were sitting
on tall
stools around a prep table, the food spread out
alongside
a six-pack of Tecate beer and some limes, all of
it
ready to be slurped down. They stopped as if in
mid-breath
at Mulder's entrance, Frohike short and dumpy in
a black
T-shirt and jeans, Langly taking his hair out of
the
pony-tail, Byers dapper as always in his maitre d's
tux.
They
looked at him expectantly.
Mulder
shrugged.
"Something
you want to tell us, man?" Langly asked.
Mulder
went to the table, pulled up a stool of his own and
fished
an egg roll off the platter. "The less you know, the
safer
you are," he said. "But it might be a good idea for
you
boys to be ready to move on short notice. Just in
case."
Frohike
popped a chunk of egg roll into his mouth. Around
it, he
said, "Hey, we're always ready to move. We're just
waiting
for you."
Mulder
squeezed the juice out of a lime wedge into the
opening
in the top of a can of Tecate and took a drink.
They
fell silent again, eating, drinking, keeping their
thoughts
to themselves.
After a
while, Frohike said quietly, "She's looking fine,
isn't
she?"
Mulder
lifted his beer toward his mouth and said coolly,
"Who?"
Frohike
took his cue and shut up.
****
July
22
*How
the mighty have fallen,* Scully thought, thinking of
Skinner's
wood-paneled office in D.C. with its elegant
brass
accents, its soccer-field-sized conference table.
The
office here on the island was an abandoned storefront
still
bearing a sign that read "Lula-belle's Shells" over a
hand-painted
pink clamshell. Taped to the inside of the
glass
door was a sheet of white paper on which the words
"Federal
Bureau of Investigation" had been written.
Skinner's
handwriting, Scully noted. She and Pendrell went
in.
Beyond the door, an elderly woman chewing placidly on a
wad of
gum sat at a small desk that looked as if it had
been
rescued out of an estate sale. No computer, not even a
typewriter--just
an old telephone and answering machine.
Behind
the receptionist stood a rickety, hastily erected
wall of
masonite, the nails showing up bright silver
against
the dark brown.
Scully
wondered if Skinner had put up that wall himself and
concluded
he probably had. She felt a stab of sympathy--it
couldn't
have been easy for the A.D. to cope out here all
by himself,
to adjust to this sort of bare-bones, no-budget
operation.
At least in Miami he'd had some support. Here,
clearly,
there was none.
She
wondered what this meeting was about. Surely Skinner
didn't
really mean to hit them with a fine for having
violated
the order not to leave Jefferson parish? She had a
more
frightening thought suddenly--what if Pendrell had
actually
shot somebody in the melee in the bayou?
The
elderly woman waved them toward an unfinished wooden
door
marked "Private." The moment Pendrell pulled the door
open,
Scully got a wave of cigarette smoke. She ground her
teeth
and went in.
Skinner
had opened a window behind his desk, but there
wasn't
much breeze, and the smoke wafted heavily in the
air.
The A.D.'s expression was tense, his face held hard in
annoyance.
The smoking man sat on a couch shoved up against
the
side of the office, holding his cigarette like a
conductor's
baton. Scully tried to ignore him.
"Pendrell,
Scully," Skinner said. "Have a seat."
They
sat in two folding chairs placed before the A.D.'s
desk.
There was an awkward silence while Skinner shuffled
some
paperwork and closed a file, put it aside.
"Sir,
if this is about New Orleans--" Pendrell started.
"Oh,
nevermind New Orleans," the smoking man said
pleasantly.
Scully
shot a look at Skinner, whose return gaze was
calculated
to tell her nothing--which told her everything.
It
revealed that he wasn't calling the shots, and that
while
he didn't like it, there was nothing he could do
about it.
They'd have to deal with Bloodworth, not with
Skinner.
She
turned to face the smoking man. "Then may I assume
we're
free to go?"
Bloodworth
smiled. A lizard's smile, cold-blooded, that
didn't
touch his eyes. "You're hardly prisoners in
Galveston,
Mrs. Pendrell."
"That
doesn't answer my question. If we're not here to
discuss
what happened in New Orleans, then why *are* we
here?"
"I'd
heard you might be seeking passage to California,"
Bloodworth
said. "I thought we might discuss your options."
Scully
made a mental note not to ask any more questions of
the
clerk in the hotel lobby. Either the clerk himself was
snitching,
or someone had overheard them asking discreetly
about
transport off the island.
"California's
certainly a possibility," she said. "It's one
of the
places we might consider for continuing our work. On
the
other hand, in the daylight--Galveston doesn't seem all
that
bad."
"Perhaps
something could be arranged," Bloodworth said. "It
strikes
me that the facilities at the headquarters of the
SEB in
Colorado could considerably speed your progress."
"You're
offering us a job with the SEB?" Pendrell asked.
"In
effect."
"Wait,"
Scully said. "You don't already have people working
on
trying to develop an antivenin for the bee stings?"
"At
first glance it wouldn't seem to come under the SEB's
charter."
"You're
telling me *no one* has been trying to develop an
anti-toxin?"
Pendrell asked, his eyes wide.
Bloodworth
shrugged. "The truth is, we don't know whether
anyone
is or not. We're hoping to locate scientists such as
yourselves
and collect them as a team."
In the
back of her mind, Scully heard an alarm going off.
*Why
now? Why not two years ago?* She didn't trust the
smoking
man on general principles, and there was much about
the
situation that didn't ring true. If the SEB wanted to
talk to
them about setting up a lab, why shoot at them as
they
were leaving New Orleans? Why not just, well, sit down
and
talk about it? Why sink the boat, trapping them here?
None of
it made sense.
Slowly,
she said, "Well, that certainly opens up
possibilities.
But I actually think we're making good
progress
on our own. I'm not sure it would benefit us, at
this
point, to have input from other scientists. Other
opinions
might prove distracting."
"Are
you afraid working with a team might expose your
mistakes?"
"We
haven't made any mistakes," Pendrell said coldly.
"Really,"
Bloodworth said. "But then, you haven't cured
anybody,
have you? That suggests to me that you *have* made
mistakes,
and that, in fact, whatever you have come up with
may
actually be dangerous--it could lead those to whom you
administer
it into a false sense of security."
Pendrell
had flushed with anger. "That's a completely
unfounded
accusation. You don't know what we've tried and
what we
haven't."
Bloodworth
lit another cigarette. "Are you so sure?"
"How..."
Pendrell faltered. "How could you?"
"His
spies are everywhere," Scully murmured.
"Not
very genteelly put, but essentially correct."
"Why
don't you just come out with it?" she asked. "What the
hell is
it you want, exactly?"
"Just
as I said--I want you to come back to Denver with me
and
resume your work."
She
nodded. "Do you mind if we think about it for a couple
of
days?"
"Not
at all. But I will point out that every day you delay
an
average of 832 people are killed by bee stings."
"We're
aware of that," Pendrell said. His tone was neutral,
but
Scully knew how much it troubled him that they had not
been
able to proceed faster. She knew the weight of those
deaths
that they couldn't stop.
"We'll
consider your offer and get back to you," she said,
rising
to her feet.
"I'll
look forward to your answer." Bloodworth stood, too.
"One
word of caution--the SEB would not take it kindly if
you
were to attempt another unauthorized departure. I'm
sure
you agree that the work you've undertaken is of vital
importance.
You can understand our wish to know where you
are at
all times?"
"Naturally,"
Scully said, between her teeth. "In other
words,
'don't leave town.'" She pulled the door open, and
Pendrell
followed her out.
She
wasn't surprised when Skinner caught up with them a few
minutes
later, on a street corner as they walked back to
their
hotel.
"What
the hell's going on?" Scully asked the A.D. "We're
not
really supposed to believe that nonsense about
'collecting
a team of scientists,' are we? Do we just look
stupid?"
Skinner
shook his head. "I don't know what he's after. The
only
thing I'm sure of is you two had better get off this
island
before you get buried here."
"How
do we do that?" Pendrell demanded. "Our boat's gone."
Skinner
looked at Scully. "That's a question you'd better
ask of
your old friend Fox Mulder." He told them about the
couriers
on the causeway.
"Why
would Krycek trust Mulder with those letters?" Scully
asked.
"Mulder'd rather cut Krycek's throat than look at
him."
"Because
Mulder's the only man alive who hates the smoking
man even
more than Krycek does. Look, believe me--Mulder
either
has the letters or he knows where they are. And they
may end
up being your only chance of getting away."
Scully
looked away and let go a heavy sigh. "The only
problem
is, I'm not so sure Mulder is a friend anymore."
****
The
smoking man's minions had not been kind, but then,
Krycek
hadn't expected they would be. He'd had the shit
kicked
out of him before and figured he could survive it
again.
Besides, that they were only beating him indicated
that
Mulder had kept his word--the smoking man still didn't
know
where the letters of transit were.
Otherwise
they would've just killed him.
Of
course, they were likely to get around to that anyway,
eventually.
At some point, they'd conclude that the letters
were
irretrievable, and then they'd have no further use for
him.
And that would be the end of that. But like Mulder,
Krycek
figured denying the smoking man what he wanted was
worth a
little grief.
At
mid-afternoon, he heard the two minions coming back down
the
long concrete hall of the county jail, and Krycek
curled
up into himself, expecting another savage pounding.
But
then he peeked around the arms he had wrapped over his
head to
protect it and noticed the minions were all rigged
out in
nuclear-bacteriological-chemical protective suits.
Ready
to go where the bees were.
Krycek
stifled a grin. The smoking man was making a
mistake.
A *big* mistake.
They
lifted him by the arms, and he made a show of
whimpering
a little in terror and going limp, as if too
weak to
resist.
"Where
are you taking me?" he asked, his voice low,
trying--and
succeeding, he thought--to sound pitiful.
"Shut
up," one of them growled from inside the suit.
"You'll
find out where you're going."
They
shoved him into the back of a panel truck, then
climbed
in the front and drove off. Krycek couldn't see out
of the
truck, but then, he didn't have to. He knew where
they
going.
To
Houston.
It
would take almost an hour. He lay down on the floor of
the
truck and let himself doze off--resting would
strengthen
him for what was coming next.
He woke
when the suited minions lifted him again, and now
he
started to squall like a baby.
"Noooo!
No, please! Don't hurt me any more!"
"Talk,"
one of the minions said. He kicked Krycek in the
thigh,
but not very hard. Krycek screamed as if it had
really
hurt. "Where did you hide the documents?" the minion
shouted.
"I
swear I don't know what you're talking about! I don't
have
any documents!" He ducked his head and squeezed out a
tear
for effect. "Please--you've got to believe me!"
"You
lying dirtbag. I'm going to count to five, then I'm
shoving
your worthless ass out with the bees."
"NOO!"
"One."
"Oh,
God, no, *please*!"
"Two."
"You
can't do this!"
"Three."
"Oh,
God--it's inhuman!"
"Four."
"Please,
I'm begging you--"
"Five."
They
lifted him again. Krycek kept right on screaming,
knowing
perfectly well the noise would attract the bees.
Hell,
the bees were probably all around them now, between
the
sound of the truck's engine and his yowling. But that
suited
him just fine. He'd been exposed to the toxin in
Russia;
he'd even been stung before. He had the immunity.
Not
enough that he could just walk away--what was coming
next
wouldn't be pleasant. But he'd survive it, just as
he'd
survived the beating.
Seconds
later, he hit the ground behind the truck.
Instantly
the bees were all over him, and the minions,
protected
by their suits, stood over him, watching as he
doubled
over with the spasms. He had no way of knowing
whether
they meant to leave him here or not. There was only
one way
to be sure.
He
lunged at one of them, and with all the strength he had,
ripped
loose the man's hood so that his head was bared to
the
bees. The minion shouted in surprise and terror as the
bees
hit him. He staggered, waving his arms--as if that
would
help anything.
"Jesus
fucking Christ!" the other one yelled, and he ran
for the
truck. Some bees flew into the cab with him, and
Krycek
heard the faint hiss of insecticide canisters
discharging
inside the vehicle. In the enclosed space,
Malathion
spray would kill any bees that got in the truck.
The
minion who'd been stung toppled over onto the ground,
writhing
and retching. His face was already gray, his eyes
swimming
with the black toxin. He'd be dead in another five
minutes.
Krycek
was on the ground, too, in terrible pain, stomach
heaving,
his muscles spasming uncontrollably. But he was
laughing
through it.
As the
truck drove off, he used the last of his strength to
yell,
"You fucking suckers!"
Some
more bees hit him then, because he'd made a noise, but
he
didn't care.
Continued
in Part 9.
lochness@texas.net
Letters
of Transit (9/14) By Loch Ness
DO NOT
ARCHIVE. ***Not to be entered in or nominated
for any
competition or award.***
Classification:
T, RA Crossover references to the film
*Casablanca*
International readers: US4 spoilers. Rating:
NC-17,
for VIOLENCE, PROFANITY and (M/S) SEX. If you are
under-age,
please do not read this. See Part 0 for
disclaimer,
summary and introductory notes.
***********************************************************
Letters
of Transit (9/14) By Loch Ness
July 22
Galveston
Scully
had no reason to doubt what Bloodworth had said
about
the boat--though she knew it had sunk because *he*
had put
a hole in it. Nevertheless, after the meeting with
Skinner,
she went to check on it, to see if there might be
a way
to repair it.
Mistakenly,
she hadn't landed the boat on Galveston Island,
but on
the smaller, deserted Pelican Island adjacent to it.
Then
they had followed a narrow road toward lights they
could
see in the distance and walked over a bridge to the
big
island, only then discovering the error. At the time,
Scully
had thought it might actually be a blessing
anyway--it
could make it more difficult for someone to find
where
they had hidden the power boat because there were
fewer
people around who might've seen them ground. Now
*there*
was an irony.
She
walked north on Broadway, retracing her steps. They
hadn't
seen much of the city when they'd arrived, in the
dark,
after the curfew. Now she could see the antique,
Victorian
charm of Galveston. The Catholic cathedral,
gigantic
and ornate, with its seemingly incongruous
minarets.
An enormous mansion's iron fence held a bronze
plaque
proclaiming the house Ashton Villa and explained
that
the lower row of windows were half underground because
the
storm surge from the savage 1900 hurricane had washed
so much
mud up onto the island. Six thousand had died. As
she
turned away from the plaque, she caught a motion out
the
corner of her eye and suddenly had a prickly sensation
at the
back of her neck.
Someone
was following her. But when she turned, she
couldn't
see anyone.
*Great.
One of Bloodworth's minions--just what I need.*
She
wound through the Strand, a Victorian historical
district,
pausing at a few denuded shop windows in hopes of
luring
the follower out. But whoever he was, he was good.
She
still hadn't seen him.
She
debated walking down that lonely road across Pelican
Island.
A good three-mile hike with no one near to hear her
scream
and enough brush on either side of the pavement to
hide
any mayhem from view. She had her gun, but still, why
buy
trouble? But if the boat was salvageable, delay might
just
worsen the damage. She'd have to go. There was no way
around
it. Maybe she could get a look at her shadower as
she
crossed the bridge, where the terrain was open for some
distance,
maybe even come up behind him and get the drop on
him.
She
clamped her jaw and set herself to the task, walking up
Avenue
A past the Port of Galveston, up to the bridge. She
crossed,
and when she could do it nonchalantly, she glanced
back.
Nobody. She walked around a bend in the road, then
slipped
into the brush and waited, holding her breath.
Nothing.
Nobody came down the road behind her. Either he
had
given up, or she had lost him.
Scully
let go a long breath, stepped back onto the asphalt
and
headed off down the road again.
She had
tied the boat underneath a dilapidated fishing pier
at the
end of a rocky point facing out into Galveston Bay.
As she
neared the water, she could see bottlenose dolphins
playing
in the channel between the islands. And in between
the
flocks of wheeling gulls, brown pelicans diving
gracefully
for fish--the island was aptly named.
They
had arrived at night, and though Scully had made out
the nearby
superstructure of ships, she had not been able
to see
what kind they were. She was surprised, in the light
of day,
to see they were old warships--a World War
II-vintage
submarine and destroyer escort. They'd been
hauled
up onto the shore and their hulls set into the
ground.
Curious, she went off the path to have a closer
look. A
faded wooden sign on a little hut at the gate read
"Seawolf
Park - Parking $2."
Scully
pushed on a chain-link gate, and it swung open,
creaking
loudly. More plaques, heavily coated with
verdigris,
told her the submarine was the U.S.S. *Cavalla*
and the
destroyer, the U.S.S. *Stewart.* She wandered
around
the end of the destroyer, painted light blue,
liberally
speckled with patches of rust showing out from
underneath
the paint. Behind her, she heard something on
the
wind--it might've been the squawk of a gull.
Or the
creak of that gate.
Slowly,
quietly, she drew her gun, keeping it where someone
behind
her couldn't see it. Yet. She went up the ladder
onto
the destroyer, listening acutely for footsteps. She
heard
something, but couldn't sift anything coherent out of
the
wind noise, the cries of birds, the roar of the surf.
*Damn,
damn, damn.* She ducked into a hatch, into the
galley,
with its stark metal cabinets and its
industrial-size
stove-tops and ovens. She took her shoes
off and
set them on a counter so that her steps wouldn't
make
any sound. Then she went forward, along the starboard
rail
toward the bridge.
Whoever
it was, he moved like a cat--silently. She stopped
up on
the bridge, where there were steel walls on three
sides
of her, and slipped between the ship's wheel and an
abandoned
chart table, gun poised. He'd have to come in to
follow
her. She waited him out. Finally she heard something
nearby,
just outside.
"Federal
agent!" she yelled. "Put your hands up and step
out
where I can see you!"
"Okay,"
a soft voice said behind her. She whirled, leading
with
the gun.
It was
Mulder, leaning up against the port-side bulkhead,
hands
lifted lazily. He was wearing khaki slacks and a
denim
shirt open at the throat so a couple of stray dark
hairs
peeked out, with a dark blue windbreaker tied around
his
waist--probably to cover his own gun, Scully
figured--and
deck shoes with no socks. He looked like the
cover
of a Land's End catalog--the casual, windblown New
Englander.
He was
devastatingly beautiful, tall and straight, his eyes
glowing
bright green in the sunlight. She'd been trying not
to
think of him that way, of the smooth lines of bone, the
flat,
hard planes of muscle. She lowered the gun, shaking
with
adrenaline rush, hoping adrenaline rush was the only
reason
for it. "Goddammit, Mulder," she said, between her
teeth.
"I could've killed you."
He
crooked an eyebrow. "And after I went to the trouble of
chasing
the smoking man's bloodhound off your trail? That's
gratitude."
"Did
you kill him?"
"Nah.
I just told him you ducked into the cotton warehouse.
He had
lost you at that point, so he didn't have any reason
not to
believe me. What are you doing out here, Scully?"
"My
name's not Scully any more," she said. "And I was about
to ask
you the same thing." She holstered her gun.
"Me?
I was following you."
She
pursed her lips, tamping down the anger that had flared
up as
her fear drained away. "A bit late, aren't you?"
A
muscle flexed along his jawline. She knew he was debating
something
with himself, but he said nothing. She looked
away
and then stepped off the bridge, headed back toward
where
she had left her shoes.
"I
was just curious about this old ship," she lied. "Maybe
it's in
the blood."
"Pretty
long walk, just to satisfy your curiosity," he
said,
following her. His tone told her he hadn't bought
that
story. "It's hotter than hell out here."
"I've
been informed I'm not a prisoner here. I'm free to do
whatever
I want."
"Except
leave," he said softly.
She
stepped into the galley and picked up her shoes. "What
do you
care?"
He
glanced at the ring on her left hand. "Some reason I
should
care?"
"Not
one," she said coldly, yanking on one shoe.
"Are
you happy with him?"
"Yes,
as a matter of fact, I am. Not that it's any of your
goddamned
business."
He
shrugged. "Okay," he said. There was a short silence
while
she got the other shoe on. "Well," he said, squinting
out to
sea, "if you came out to check on your boat, don't
bother.
Bloodworth's friends ripped it open the whole
length
of the hull."
"How
do you know that?"
"I
have my sources."
"Those
three freaks you hang out with? I saw them at the
bar
last night. I don't know what you see in them, Mulder."
"They're
loyal friends," he said.
"Are
you taking lessons?"
He
crooked an eyebrow in surprise, and again, she saw some
quick
flash of emotion, snuffed out so quickly she couldn't
be sure
what it was.
She
sighed and looked away. What was the point in fighting
over
that now? So much had changed. When she glanced back
at him,
she saw that he was gazing out at the ocean again.
There
was no sign of it in his face or his pose, but she
sensed
that she had hit a nerve. She doubted it served any
purpose
to beat him up over the past--she knew all too well
he was
perfectly capable of doing that himself.
"I'm
sure you had your reasons," she said.
"Yes."
She
leaned on the rail and looked down at the water lapping
along a
rock wall a few yards away from where the destroyer
stood
rooted in the ground. "Is it true what you said last
night--about
it being possible to run the blockade?"
"Not
without a boat, and I don't just happen to have one."
Suddenly
it occurred to her how he knew it was possible.
"Oh,
my God," she said. "That was you? The 'Malathion
Raider?'"
Expressionless,
Mulder inclined his head toward the big
island.
"Me and those three 'freaks' back at the bar."
"I
just assumed that because the insecticide came in from
seaward..."
she trailed off.
"I
found that I don't get seasick when I'm really
terrified."
She
didn't know what to say. When she had read about the
"Malathion
Raider," she had thought the reckless fool who
could
do such a thing was simply the bravest son of a bitch
on
Earth. He had gone straight through the blockade, under
fire,
and then right into the thickest part of the swarm,
time
after time. In retrospect, she supposed she might've
guessed
who it was. The plan was so...well, so *Mulder*.
"Anyway,"
he said, "if there's a seaworthy hull left on
Galveston,
I don't know about it. And I'd know." He paused,
then
crooked an eyebrow. "'Malathion Raider?'"
She
stared at him.
He
shrugged. "I don't know, Scully--it's not bad, but
somehow
it just doesn't have quite the ring of, say, 'Conan
the
Barbarian.'"
How
like Mulder at his most annoying to make a joke of such
a
thing--and not even a good joke. She headed down the
steel
stairs that led off the destroyer. "No offense, but I
think
I'll check the boat myself."
It was
a moment before she heard his footsteps behind her.
Still
debating something with himself, she thought.
But God
only knew what.
****
Frohike
didn't mind going to Houston now and then. It was a
hot,
dirty, generally unpleasant job. Right up his alley,
in
other words. He went once or twice a month, as suited
his
fancy, if he had a jones for something. It particularly
amused
him to go into town and get a couple of videos. He'd
go into
Blockbuster and pick something out--even write
himself
out a receipt--and then return them on his next
trip.
Seeing
Special Agent Dana Scully again had put him in the
mood
for *Terminator 2.* Linda Hamilton wielding an M-16.
Oh,
baby.
So he
dressed in a vinyl rain suit, carefully taping over
the
tops of his boots and around his wrists where the suit
met the
gloves. He took with him a welding hood he had
specially
modified and the roll of tape, too. Then he
pilfered
a bottle of Scotch from behind the bar, fired up
his
Jeep Cherokee and headed across the causeway.
Early
on he had learned how to negotiate with the guards at
the end
of the bridge. It wasn't hard to get off the
island,
but he'd be subject to inspection on the way back.
The
guards were only supposed to inspect for bees, but
Frohike
had found that they generally helped themselves to
a few
things. He could save himself time and effort by
finding
out what goodies they'd like to have brought back
from
the big city, then keeping the Scotch in reserve in
case
they got sticky with him later.
Today
he'd lucked out. He knew the guys on duty, Frank and
Hector,
and they were all right, although they were reputed
to be
some of Skinner's most loyal snitches. They just
waved
him through, and he headed on up Interstate 45.
He
stopped for gas in Texas City, helping himself at an
abandoned
Texaco station he knew about. Farther north, the
road
turned bad, cluttered with the dead hulks of cars and
trucks
that hadn't made it. Occasionally he passed a
decaying
body or two, crumpled on or beside the pavement.
The
wreckage slowed his progress. He popped a tape in the
player--Sheryl
Crow. He started to pick up bees just north
of the
Johnson Space Center. He knew they couldn't get into
the
Jeep, so he just ignored them and kept going, picking
his way
between the vehicles.
Frohike
could've used a Malathion spray inside the Jeep,
but he
didn't trust the stuff. He had a system he liked
better.
He turned east onto Loop 610, where the road was
clear
enough that he could go fast--too fast for the bees
to keep
up with him. The insects were nasty, but they were
slow.
At sixty miles an hour, he could just outrun the
mothers.
And by the time he headed out of town, it'd be
dark.
The bees didn't move at night.
He
turned the engine off and waited. The bees usually lost
interest
after about half an hour. He dozed for a bit in
the
heat, then woke and pulled a cold bottle of water out
of his
cooler and sipped on it. Then, when the bees finally
got
tired of buzzing angrily around the Jeep, he pulled his
helmet
on, taped it and quietly climbed out.
His
favorite Blockbuster Video was a couple of miles east
from
the bottom of the bridge, in a suburb called Galena
Park.
Because the little town wasn't right in the thick of
the
city, it hadn't been quite as heavily looted as other
areas--so
far, Frohike'd had it pretty much to himself. And
it
wasn't as bad as some parts of town. Most people had
gotten
out. Not too many bodies.
He went
through his usual ritual when he reached the video
store.
Then he headed off down the street toward a nearby
drug
store. He knew what Frank and Hector wanted in
exchange
for letting him back onto the island--Advil for
Hector,
whose wife had arthritis, and toys and picture
books
for Frank's little girl, aged eight.
The
bees buzzed irritably around him each time he moved,
but
they slid off the rain suit when they tried to land,
and
even if they had landed, their stings couldn't
penetrate
the vinyl. The whole trip had become a sort of
rote,
and he finished quickly. Still hours before sundown.
Because
he was curious and had the time, he strolled
farther
down the deserted street than usual. The intense
sun
seemed to give the whole area a bleached-bones pallor,
grass
and weeds climbing between cracks in the concrete and
wilting
as soon as they sprang up, signs fading rapidly
under
the heat's assault. Around a corner, he saw movement
and
stopped sharply.
*What
the hell.* Nothing moved in this city any more, and
there
was no wind to account for it. He cocked his head and
listened.
No tell-tale angry buzzing. But when he looked
again,
he definitely saw a figure moving.
Major
weirdness. He shuffled closer, warily. There were two
bodies,
the one weakly crawling toward a patch of shade,
and
another one in an environment suit with the hood
removed.
Frohike doubted the live one would hang on for
long,
but the environment suit was a real find--worth
taking
a risk for.
He went
over to the dead one and began methodically
stripping
the suit off. Newly stung, this guy--he was still
stiff.
Frohike stuffed the pieces of the suit into his kit
bag and
shouldered the respirator that went with the suit.
Then he
looked again at the live one, his face swollen
beyond
all recognition from the stings, his eyes swimming
with
black.
Really
strange that he should still be alive. Usually
people
stung like that died in a matter of minutes. If the
two of
them had been stung at the same time, this guy
should've
croaked a long time ago. Cautiously Frohike
approached
him, staying just outside arm's reach. The guy
was
clearly in misery; he didn't appear to realize anyone
was
there. Frohike hunkered down beside him.
"Hey,"
he said softly. "Hey, can you hear me?"
The
other man stopped crawling. He made a pitiful,
ineffectual
try at turning himself to look. Frohike took
him by
the shoulder and gently flipped him over. He
couldn't
have seen anything if he had tried--his eyes were
swollen
shut. Frohike retrieved his half-empty bottle of
water
and dribbled a few drops on the man's lips. The mouth
moved a
little, parting just enough to let some of the
water
slip between them.
*Shit.*
He couldn't just leave him here, much as he
would've
liked to--getting him back to the island was going