The Pestilence

By Gary Towner

An Army Colonel, under orders to vacate an underground Bio-Chem research bunker at the close of World War II, illegally buries toxic waste in an isolated Keyly, Kansas farmer's field. Forty-five years later, a brown odorous slime saturates the local farmer's storage bins filled to the brim with crops grown from a new experimental seed that has merged with the waste. Agriculturist Ronald Huntly retires from the Army and relocates to Keyly after attending his mother's funeral there. Upon arriving in Keyly, Huntly and the local residents soon learn the contaminated crops have caused hoards of grasshoppers to mutate into carnivorous killer swarms. The Governor asks the U.S. Army for help warding off the vicious attackers. But when the troops arrive, they are under orders to exterminate more than just insects.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Whiskey Creek Press
• Release date: Mar 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781611603965

Book preview

THE PESTILENCE

by

GARY TOWNER

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Published by

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

Whiskey Creek Press

PO Box 51052

Casper, WY 82605-1052

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Copyright Ó 2013 by Gary Towner

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-61160-396-5

Cover Artist: Gemini Judson

Editor: Melanie Billings

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

To Kathy, my beloved since 1963

Introduction

The word Pestilence is mentioned in the Old Testament of the King James Bible no less than forty-seven times. It refers to a cataclysmic curse, one of God’s ultimate threats he can unleash upon the disobedient. The self-centered people of the rural town of Keyly, Kansas would have done well to reflect on a warning that the God of Israel gave to Jeremiah to pass on to the advancing armies of Zedekiah:

And I will smite the inhabitants of this city,

both man and beast: they shall die of a

great pestilence.

Jer. 21:6

In 1943, the United States began research into offensive use of biological and chemical toxic agents as a response to reports of massive German agent stockpiles. The initial U.S. research was conducted at Camp Detrick (now Fort Detrick). Though there were a few other research centers and universities, they are still labeled Top Secret. This activity paralleled what was known in government circles as the Oak Ridge, East Tennessee Manhattan Project, the work on developing an atom bomb.

Historians say Hitler was doused with mustard gas in World War 1 and it was reported that he resolutely refused to allow his forces to use such agents on the enemy. It was only after the war that it was learned he had no qualms about using such substances on the Jews. When Germany was defeated, using conventional weapons and human resources, the U.S. looked for alternatives to sending troops to defeat Japan, a move that some predicted would have cost up to a million American lives.

President Truman ultimately chose the nuclear alternative and on August 6th, 1945, he ordered the dropping of a bomb nicknamed Little Boy on Hiroshima. Three days later, he ordered Fat Man to be dropped on Nagasake. These two decisions alone accounted for 140,000 dead at Hiroshima and 70,000 dead at Nagasaki. The Japanese had no choice but to sue for peace; they unconditionally surrendered on August 15, 1945.

But the U.S. biological and chemical weapons research continued relatively unrestrained until 1969 when President Nixon ordered a halt to such weapon research and the destruction of all stockpiles, as detailed in Executive Order Number 12958. Similar accounts to the story that follows may have motivated Nixon to act so decisively.

Chapter 1

In 1945, a top secret Army research complex, two miles northeast of Keyly, Kansas, was bustling with activity. The covert bunker was encased at ground level by an unobtrusive chain-linked fence and a gate secured by a sturdy padlock. The rusting olive green sign said the installation was the storage property of the Acme Chemical Company, and it warned trespassers to keep out by order of the U.S. Army. The few air vents and the brick building housing the elevator were hidden from view by a mound of loose shale and gravel.

No one even suspected the bunker top structures were only the entranceway to a gigantic complex of underground bio/chem research labs, concrete reinforced tunnels, and over a hundred toxic chemical storage bins. To ensure security, the bunker was self-sufficient, and what it lacked had to be brought in under strict guidelines.

There is a saying that goes something like: All good things must come to an end. Similarly, all bad things must also come to an end someday, and such is true of war. Far below ground, the loudspeakers had just finished blaring out that Douglas MacArthur, the Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers, and other prestigious dignitaries from both sides of the Japanese War effort, had met on the deck of the U.S. battleship USS Missouri in Tokyo Bay to sign into history the end of World War 2.

* * * *

Everyone in the central laboratory room was dancing and hooting, shouting out their excitement at hearing the news about the war. The scientists who had been guiding their efforts had received advance warning, and they had already left the complex to return to their less-secretive pursuits. But they were the elite, and the fate of the workforce was still unknown.

Prior to getting the speaker report, the men were edgy due to their confinement and, to make matters worse, the ribbons attached to the air vents were flying at half-mast. Now, as the men celebrated, the temperature was approaching ninety, and the maintenance crew was still tinkering in vain with the main air conditioner.

During the merry bedlam, as might well be expected, not everyone could endure the heat. Private First Class Pedro Castillo dropped a coin in the Coke machine, hoping for some relief. When no bottle came out, he began banging on the front of the box with both fists. With all the commotion in the room, the noise he made should have gone unnoticed, and it may very well have, had he not switched to kicking and rocking the big red box back and forth. Finally, Private Dakota tapped him on his shoulder.

Come on, Pedro, it’s only a nickel. Just feed it another one and I’m sure it’ll give in. No need to kick it to death. He grinned, expecting his friend of this long, beleaguered tour of duty to grin back.

Feed it? I’m always feeding it. It’s like a goddamn woman. It always takes in and don’t ever put out. Pedro muttered a barrage of unintelligible cuss words while reaching for his sidearm. When he squeezed the trigger and the shots rang out, all ten of the other soldiers in the room scrambled for cover.

Now the only sound in the room was the cacophony of shredding machines and the clanking of a steady flow of nickels gushing out of the coin box on their way to the floor. PFC Gregory Washington, a burly black man, reached on top of the desk he hid behind to silently bring down a wire cage and his two pet rats, Jack and Jill.

You guys okay? That mean old Pedro didn’t scare you, did he? he asked. The shivering rodents shoved their snouts through the wire mesh begging for cheese.

When the last coin hit the floor, it rolled in a tight circle and kept spinning a moment before flopping over to a heads-up. Even the shredders stopped their grinding as someone yanked out the plug.

PFC Castillo, jarred back to his senses by the noise of his gun, now switched from anger to panic. As most of his former colleagues recovered, one by one, each of them presented a new target to Castillo. In his confusion, he waved the still smoking gun menacingly.

Keep away from me. I’ll shoot you. I’ll shoot you all!

Look, Pedro, we’re all friends here. Why don’t you just give me the gun—and we’ll all go down the hall and get us a beer? Private Dakota asked.

Dakota had risen slowly from behind a clutter of laboratory paraphernalia, all mostly broken due to his initial leap over the table and his slide for life.

"Get back, I swear I’ll kill you. You know they won’t let us out. They won’t ever let us out. You know what we did here. They can’t let us out—not ever!"

Pedro, Pedro, Pedro, weren’t you listening? The War is over. End of game. What we did here, what research the scientists did here, that Fletcher guy, it’s all useless now. They pretty much got what they wanted—but too late. All that brown pig’s slop we helped make here, there’s nobody left to use it on. Japan’s kaput.

So what? Do you really think they’ll let us go home now? They will never let us do that. We fucking know too much. I tell you what, Gringo, just stay away from me. He waved the gun again and everyone brave enough to get to their feet ducked as the gun barrel lined up on them.

The sliding doors suddenly opened and the six-foot-tall Lieutenant Colonel Leonard Pox sauntered in. Though only twenty-three years old, the weight of his command had left him looking more like forty. His cobalt eyes were the epitome of menace and his demeanor was that of a crusty officer many years his senior. Everyone including Castillo froze.

Pox, holding a smoking Lucky Strike, silently moved to the Coke machine where he gingerly stuck his left index finger into each of the bullet holes. Slowly withdrawing his finger, he whistled, sounding impressed. Then he took a long draw from his cigarette, only to toss it to the floor where he stepped on it. Good shot, soldier.

Eying Castillo’s .45 suspiciously, he came to within one foot of it. I said, good shot, soldier. What do you say?

PFC Castillo stiffened and blurted out, Thank you.

Thank you what?

Thank you, Sir!

Private, I have two questions for you. The Army pays a ton of tax dollars to rent Coke machines that work perfectly, so GI’s like you and me can have an occasional cold drink on a hot day like this. Private, why have you broken this particular Coke machine?

Sir, I just can’t take it any longer. I’ve been in this Diablo’s cesspool since…forever. You never let us out even to see the sunset. Bringing women here for an hour or so every three months makes the in-between times crazy for me and the guys the rest of the time. I gotta get out of here. If you won’t do that for me, do it for this— Castillo aimed his shaking gun directly at the Colonel’s heart. His face bristled with sweaty determination.

Colonel Pox casually lit another cigarette with his Zippo, revealing a scorpion tattooed hand, and he let it dangle loosely from his lips. He took one step closer to where he could guide Castillo’s gun to where it pressed hard against his own forehead.

Which brings us to my second question, Private. The Army spent months of precious time teaching you how to aim and shoot that piece. The Army, in its infinite wisdom, taught you there are only two times when you should take it out of its holster. One is to clean it. The other time is to shoot something. You have drawn your piece and it looks clean to me, soldier. Shoot if you’re going to. Shoot, damn it!

Sir? Now a very confused Private Castillo began quivering.

Either shoot, or put that thing back in your holster.

Sir? Castillo now began to cry. Sir, I can’t.

PFC Castillo crossed himself, dropped his weapon to the floor, and he sank to his knees. As Pox kicked the weapon to one side, Corporal Percy Schmidt, nicknamed Smitty by his friends, rose to his feet. He darted to the calendar at the far side of the room where he rubbed Betty Gable’s derriere as if to thank her for him not getting shot.

As Castillo’s other former buddies closed in around him, Colonel Pox used the intercom to beckon MP’s. When they arrived, Pox addressed the taller of the two, motioning toward his cowering subordinate.

Take him where the sun don’t shine until I can decide what to do with him, he said.

Sir, sun is not an option down here. To what level should we restrain him? Is he dangerous? the shorter of the two asked.

Dangerous? Only to God and the President, son. I recommend you put duct tape on his mouth and tie him up so tight he can’t wiggle. He’s the only sane one in this room, and that makes him more dangerous than strychnine.

So I take it you want us to write him off as a section eight and put him on ice in the holding room? the taller but smarter MP pushed.

You take it right, soldier; you get the booby prize. Like I said, what happens to him next is up to me—his ass is grass and I am the mower. I gave him a direct order, and he choked.

Then Pox did an about-face to walk at a brisk pace the several yards back to the Coke machine. He reached for his own sidearm and emptied his .45 along the tall red box’s perimeter. The door popped open, expelling a puff of smoke, as Pox let his empty bullet clip drop to the floor. He shoved a fresh clip in and smartly dropped his piece back into its holster.

As Pox turned around, he noted most of his men were picking themselves off the floor again and he especially eyed the two MP’s training their .45’s at his chest.

What’s the matter, ladies, don’t like Coke? He reached into the box and retrieved a bottle. He opened it and offered it to the taller of the two military policemen, who refused it. His MP colleague seemed confused, as if he couldn’t make up his mind as to what part of Pox’s anatomy he should be aiming at.

Sir, I’m going to have to ask you for your weapon, the shorter MP said, keeping the business end of his weapon steadily pointed at Pox’s heart.

Pox ignored the threat and headed for the door. Son, I don’t have time for this. It is my command here and you work for me. If I want to treat my men to a Coke, I’ll goddamn treat my men to a Coke. Take your prisoner to the holding cell and await my further orders. That’s my directive and I advise you to obey it. Now, soldier!

The shorter MP appeared to struggle with his thoughts, but only a moment. He holstered his weapon as if he had to shove it into solid rock. The taller of the two did likewise.

As the two career soldiers shackled Private Castillo and led him down the hall, Colonel Pox shouted after them, Give that man this Coke! I’d have to say he’s earned it.

He tossed the bottle to the taller MP who caught it without spilling it, twisting with the catch as if it had winded him. Pox abruptly returned to face his men from the doorway.

Everyone, listen up. This morning I had a long talk with the President by phone. He has given me three weeks to scrub this place so clean it never existed. He told me he feels further development of what we were working on would not only be foolhardy, but dangerous. He says that if news ever got out we had such a weapon as we were working on here, other nations might try to come up with something…something even worse.

A few of the assembly shouted from the back, You mean we’ve wasted our time here? Their views were accompanied by groans closer to the front.

In a way, but it’s not what you think. The President asked me what if an accident were to happen? What if some of that stuff got past our Keyly laboratory safeguards? I told him I didn’t have a clue and that I never did. I told him a lot of cows might die.

Now the assembly roared their laughter.

"Anyway, Fletcher and his people have already left for debriefing at an undisclosed location. And, all of you will be going home soon—as soon as the trucks arrive to pick up Fletcher’s toxic residue and deliver it to the same place he’s going to. Hell, for all I care."

As everyone renewed their shouting and hooting, Pox waved them quiet again.

Each man will be notified as to which truck will take him out. The bad news is only two trucks will be allowed to leave each week. When the last of the trucks has departed, I will personally close up this place with extreme prejudice. Any questions?

Private Jenkins stood up amid jeers and jovial heckling. Just one, sir. How do I get picked for the first shift? The entire room of excited soldiers echoed a resounding, Me. Pick me!

Dismissed! Pox said. He smartly turned and left the room; his wry smile, marred by a slight facial tic, had gone unnoticed.

* * * *

Later at Pox’s Quarters

The Colonel’s quarters included a shredder that seemed to grind non-stop. Pox’s visual contact with the outside world, a world that was five stories up, was a periscope giving him a 360-degree view of the fields surrounding the bunker complex.

Pox always looked forward to watching a farmer who, every day in planting season, got up at dawn to plow his fields only to disappear at dusk with a punctuality that challenged Pox’s watch. On Pox’s desk sat a typewriter he used for reports, a phone, an intercom, a panel of switches that controlled each of the barracks personnel and officers’ portals, four or five wooden pencils—all with well-worn erasers—a coffee mug with the beginnings of penicillin growing inside, and an ashtray filled to the brim with half-smoked cigarette butts.

The Colonel’s calendar included an artist’s depiction of Rosie the Riveter. That, and just about everything else Pox owned, was Army issue.

His tiled bathroom came furnished with a toilet, exclusive shower, a sink, and a full-length mirror; all the comforts of a two-star Keyly motel. When Pox left the door open, he was often seen vigorously washing his hands. His fetish for cleanliness was viewed by his men as prudent, considering the constant exposure to Fletcher’s doomsday goo they all had to endure, but it was an obsession with him, and his men knew it. What they didn’t know was that Pox was beginning to hear voices.

Voices only he could hear that had plagued him for weeks. Even the resident bunker doctor hadn’t picked up on that.

What those voices were urging the Colonel to do was so dastardly, so evil, Pox once shoved the barrel of his .45 into his mouth desperate to make them stop. But something inside him wouldn’t let him pull the trigger.

* * * *

Pox’s Quarters, 0330 Hundred Hours

Colonel Pox stood naked and sweating before his bathroom mirror. He hardly recognized the gaunt figure staring back at him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept more than a few hours straight through. And, ever since the voices came, they kept waking him up with their insistent babble. Even excessive drinking had failed to stifle them.

When Pox first heard the voice whispers, he found he could drown them out with mere determination; he willed them away. But lately, the voices weren’t to be denied. Still, Pox resisted their orders. For his determination he was rewarded with chronic migraines that only diminished slightly when he actually listened to what the voices were saying. Kill them! Kill them All.

Be reasonable, Pox said to his image in the mirror. "My men will keep Fletcher’s secrets. Besides, they don’t know anything of consequence. They only know he was working on something big, some smelly brown thing they helped me pour into those barrels from time to time. You want me to kill someone, send me out to kill Fletcher."

The man in the mirror scowled at Pox. Then he spoke in raspy tones.

"You know—and I know—Fletcher has already left this place. You let him get away. Your men are both contained and expendable. Kill them. Kill them all."

Why? Why can’t I just send them home? They’ve done a great job here. Let them go.

Expendable, the voice repeated. For they have eaten from the tree of knowledge. I have said it before, of the tree of knowledge, of good and evil, no man shalt eat of it: for in the day that they eatest thereof they shall surely die.

These were words from the Bible. Pox heard the voice clearly, but his image hadn’t been the source this time. It came from somewhere deep inside his head. Had his soul been possessed by some hellish devil? No, he would have seen that coming. Was it the drink? No, that voice sounded just like the voice of an old Army Drill Sergeant he once knew. The man could be cruel enough, and Pox could recall enough examples of that, but it couldn’t be him. Sergeant Merkawitz died in action in France on D-Day.

Could it be Pox’s father he was hearing? Most of the voice ramblings were wrapped in biblical parodies. Pox recalled that his father had been something of a religious zealot. As a small boy, Pox was forced to recite endless passages from the Bible to his father—all from memory. If he forgot a word, or deviated from the written scripture in any way, he got a sound razor-strap welt to help him do better the next time.

No, Pox’s father wasn’t the culprit either—he drank himself to an agonizing death long before Pox even got out of high school. As Pox searched deeper into his soul for an answer, a convincing one floated to the surface. That voice. It had to be God speaking.

God, he tested, if you really are God, are you commanding me to turn my back on all your teachings? Your sixth commandment given to Moses said, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Please reconsider.

The voice replied, What was was, and what is is. But, if you refuse me, if you rebel, ye shall be devoured with my sword: for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it.

But, Lord, why me? Pox pleaded. When only silence followed his question, Pox continued to fill in the missing blanks on his own. Surely God wouldn’t want him to commit murder. No, he must not have heard that part right, but that constant drumming in his head made any reasoning excruciating. Pox instinctively reached for a cigarette. As he lit the lighter, the flame seemed to beckon him and he couldn’t take his eyes off it.

God, this drumming in my head is driving me crazy. Surely you didn’t say I should kill all my men. Why would I do that? I’m no killer. I couldn’t—

They who have eaten of the tree of knowledge must die. You can and will do as I command…you must, his mirror nemesis assured him.

Pox’s heart raced as he resisted both the voice and the allure of the flame. Finally, in a vibrant rage, he forced himself out of the trance and buffeted the mirror with his brow so hard it shattered into shards.

With blood literally dripping from his forehead, Pox recoiled from the sight of the multiple red images in the spider web imprint on the mirror. His reflected alter-egos had a strange condescending smile on each of their faces. What was there to smile about, he wondered. Suddenly, it came to him that the voices had stopped talking. The sudden silence was startlingly strange.

God. Had he killed him? He snapped shut his Zippo and spit out his unlit cigarette. Then he grabbed a towel to wipe away the blood that was trickling down both sides of his face. Pox was elated. If all he had to do to get rid of that headache and voices was to bash his brains out—he would have done it long ago.

He got dressed, taking care not to stain his tee shirt and boxer shorts with blood, and then he reached for the phone. Bivouacked just a few doors down the honeycomb of bunker rooms, it took Dr. Higgins only two minutes to arrive clothed in a dark green bathrobe and brown slippers. He looked like he could still hear the telephone buzzing in his ear, but the bag he brought with him meant he came ready for anything.

Colonel Pox took one look at Higgins and started laughing.

"That robe isn’t exactly Army issue, Bob. Although, those Betty Boop caricatures on your boxer shorts are definitely you."

I didn’t come here to get insulted, Dr. Higgins said while tightening his robe belt. That’s a pretty nasty looking gash you got there. Better let me take a look at it.

Go ahead, I’m open for suggestions, Pox said.

You can skip the open wound humor; I’m in no mood for it. Dr. Higgins swabbed Pox’s forehead with iodine.

You’ll be all right. I doubt if you’ll even get a scar out of all this. How’d you get the new aperture, anyhow?

Would you believe me if I said I got it shaving?

Not unless you were trying to shave with a chainsaw I wouldn’t.

Okay, the truth is, I slipped in my bathroom—and the mirror broke my fall.

"If you’re not going to get serious with me…I’m going to tell you what I tell all my patients. Take two aspirins—and call me in the morning."

"My friend, it is morning."

Tomorrow morning, idiot! Dr. Higgins said, sounding a notch above irritated. Oh, before I leave, tell me. Have any of those pills I gave you been helping to ease up on those migraines you keep getting?

Maybe. They didn’t at first, but I don’t have one now.

Well, keep ’em handy. Short of a medical breakthrough, going without sleep the way you do, you’ll get another headache to make the last one seem tame as a neutered hyena. And if I were you, I’d lighten up on the booze too. You drive yourself entirely too hard. Not only that, but you don’t ever listen to me. I’m telling you, if you don’t start taking me more seriously, I’m going to have to write you up as a potential section eight.

With considerable effort, Pox managed to hide his resentment; he prayed the good doctor wouldn’t notice his facial tic.

I just need three more weeks wrapping things up here—and I’ll kiss this bunker off so fast it’ll break the sound barrier. After that, you can start calling me Rip Van Pox.

Dr. Higgins left shaking his head. Three weeks my ass, he muttered under his breath, that poor bastard will crack in a few days.

* * * *

The Bunker Evacuation, Week Three, 2400 Hours

The third and last installment of the green canvassed CCKW trucks, dubbed the deuce and a half trucks by maker General Motors, inched along in a two-vehicle procession heading toward the bunker complex road. As in the two previous weeks, the two trucks traveled the long desolate dusty roads under the cover of darkness and with headlights at half-beam.

As always, one truck was designated on arrival to take as many as thirty-five eager bunker troops out, the other was specially outfitted to carry a minimum of twenty drums of Fletcher’s lethal concoctions. But this evening, a windstorm was brewing and the high winds kept dusty debris spiraling up in miniature tornados in front and along each side of the road.

Private Stroker, the driver of the lead truck, switched on the radio. He searched for and found a civilian station playing jive music then he set the volume low as the Andrew Sisters mindlessly sang Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy, then they extolled the benefits of Rum and Coca Cola. Stroker turned on the windshield wipers as he strained to see the road ahead.

He leaned over to jar his fellow soldier from a sound sleep.

Look alive, Winowski, I can hardly see the edge of the road; I can’t get my fuckin’ bearings. Shake open that map Command Center drew for us and see if you can figure out just where the hell we are.

"Not without landmarks I can’t. I ain’t no genius, and I sure ain’t no Edgar Cayce. This map says something about a Jesus Saves billboard up ahead somewhere and there’s supposed to be a fork in the road just past it. Go to the left when we get there, and we’ll drive down the main boulevard of beautiful downtown Keyly. They got a whopping population of two hundred there. Go to the right, and—if I’m reading this right—you go about two and a half miles and a hop and a skip and there’s the damn bunker. Go much past that and you get to prove the world really is flat. Anyway, find that sign and we can start getting saved."

Stroker hit the gas pedal hard. He sped along, confident the sign would pop into view any minute, and the thirty miles per hour he pushed the lumbering truck to—the limits of its governor—would be justified. The second truck also accelerated and kept its distance to a few feet behind, fearful of losing him in the blinding storm.

Suddenly Stroker saw something. At first, a dim outline. Then something else. Hey, that’s a Goddamn cow! he shouted. What the fuck’s it doing in the middle of the road?

He jammed on the brakes with both feet. As they noisily locked solid, the truck wheels skidded then veered to the right. The rear truck driver, completely caught by surprise, also hit the brakes as his deuce-and-a-half plowed into the lead truck. Both of the drivers and passengers were ripped from their seats and thrown out of the cabs as both trucks overturned and skidded on their sides down into the ditch.

Suddenly there was the overpowering stench of ruptured gasoline tanks and the lead truck exploded with a jarring red fireball. The fires quickly spread to the rear truck. Seconds later, the wheels were still spinning while Stroker’s radio continued to play amid burning debris. The Chordettes harmoniously sang Mister Sandman, now accompanied by an eerie howling wind.

* * * *

The Bunker Complex The Next Day, 0100 Hours

Colonel Pox had pushed his men hard to keep his three-week evacuation schedule. While he had successfully resisted the urgings of the voices by allowing many of his men to pack up and leave for home, there were still a considerable number of them left on the site, awaiting the last of the trucks. Still, Pox wondered how long he could stand the migraines that had returned with a vengeance after his defiance of the voices.

The remainder of Fletcher’s research equipment, nearly a ton of assorted equipment, toxic research notes, and hundreds of detailed reports, all had to be dismantled or destroyed. Sounds of Pox’s men disassembling equipment, and noisily destroying what they couldn’t take apart echoed nearly continuously throughout the hallways and work chambers. The smell of burnt shredder graffiti and spent grenade smoke permeated the air, even seeping into Pox’s isolated sleeping quarters.

It had been three whole nights since Pox had had any real sleep and the last time he tried he had a dream that foretold of an event so horrible he awoke sweating and screaming. Pox jumped down off his bunk, not wishing to risk another horrific dream. Though he hadn’t slept for more than an hour, he felt strangely rested. Besides, it was time. The throbbing headache was something he couldn’t control, but his desire to be ready when the trucks arrived was bordering on obsession.

He went to the sink and lathered up. This obligatory obsession completed, Pox eagerly took his place before his periscope for one last look. He pulled the silver tube down and peered out into the dark green-tinted wasteland. He had hoped to see the trucks arriving, but he saw nothing but an occasional dim outline of a few jackrabbits. As the minutes ticked away, Pox grew more and more apprehensive. By the stroke of 0300 hours, two hours later than the scheduled zero-hour, Pox was frantic. He bolted for the phone.

Where are they? Pox bellowed. If one of you desk-bound yahoos forgot to schedule the last of my transports, I’ll personally push his sorry ass into a goddamn meat grinder!

After he heard the apologetic reply, Pox slammed the phone down so hard pieces flew. He sank deep into his chair and started rocking. The motor pool hadn’t heard from the two drivers and couldn’t spare any more trucks for another forty-eight hours. Pox suddenly stiffened; he screamed as the voice in his head shouted renewed orders, Kill. Kill them all. Kill them now!

This time he hadn’t the strength to resist.

Pox pulled on his field fatigues and boots. He pulled up his machine gun by its strap and slung it on his back and opened the door. While his men were scurrying about, none was close enough to pay any attention to him. He pulled down two grenades from his vest and yanked out each of the pins with his teeth. Now, he tapped the door button with his elbow. As the door was closing, he stepped out into the hall and tossed the two explosives inside of what once was his sanctuary.

Pox rushed down the crowded hall, ignoring the muffled explosions behind him. Has way was marked with that now continuous tic. Finally, he knew what he had to do. He paused at the garage area where he bumped into several of his men who were running with their belongings to catch the tram heading for the elevator. He singled out PFC Gregory Washington who was carrying the cage that had been home to Jack and Jill.

"Soldier, what is that thing you’re carrying?"

Rats, sir. They’re my pets…my friends, sir.

Get rid of them, Private. They’re not fit to be a friend of any man I have under my command.

But, sir—

You get rid of ’em—or I will. Pox quickdrawed his .45 and aimed it at the cage.

Yes sir, I’ll take care of it. Please, let me do it myself, sir.

Carry on, Private, Pox said, continuing his stride down the corridor.

As soon as Pox was safely out of sight, Washington gently set the cage down on the ground. With tears streaming down his face, he said goodbye to his furry friends. He fed them a last piece of cheese then he fidgeted open the wire door. Jack and Jill squirmed out, looking confused.

You’re on your own now, little buddies. Don’t get stepped on…and stay away from the Colonel—he’ll be gunning for you now.

He wiped away his tears as the two rodents scampered down the hall and disappeared behind a pile of burning crates.

Pox unlocked the padlock to one of the storage bins and pried open the sliding garage doors. A tug on the tarp and he stood before a rusting RD-7 diesel track bulldozer. If those damn trucks wouldn’t come and cart the rest of the toxic drums away, by God he would bury the damn things himself. Toward that end, he donned one of the rubber suits hanging on the wall.

He shouted down the hall and shanghaied several of his men into helping him get the mechanical monster, attached plow, and the majority of the toxic barrels, rolling. With thick black smoke trailing behind, Pox drove to the elevator where he ordered the men within earshot to fall in behind him.

Just short of Pox pushing the up button, Dr. Higgins ran in front of the dozer, frantically waving his arms.

"Where do you think you’re going? The dispersal trucks are due any minute—and you pick now to go on a joyride? I only suspected it before, but now I’m sure you’re several cards short of a full deck!"

Mind your own business, Doc. I just want to drop these off and rearrange some dirt up there to make it easier for them when they get here. Besides, the air will do me good. Go check up on Pedro in the holding cell.

Dr. Higgins could see Pox had his mind made up. He jumped out of the way as Pox shifted gears and rolled his perch even further into the center of the elevator platform, his men crowding around him.

Take me up, he ordered. Doc, wait till I get back. Your work is about done here.

Dr. Higgins jumped off the platform as it was rising, looking disgusted.

The surface was hot, dark, and windy. Pox plowed through the mound of shale and rock barrier, leaving deep tractor ruts in his wake. His headlights blazing, he drove to the fence and jumped down long enough to open the gate and get back into the driver’s seat. Shifting gears like a seasoned longshoreman, he drove off into the fields he had found so interesting through his periscope lens. About fifty feet out, he began digging more of the long, deep trench.

When he returned, the dozer was no longer hauling