A Time to Die: The Turning Point, #1

By Mark Wandrey

They came from the night sky, lighting the heavens like the promise of salvation. But they didn't bring deliverance…they brought something far, far worse. Something that turns people into mindless, cannibalistic monsters. And it's spreading.

A reporter follows her story of unspeakable horror south of the border and finds it's worse than she imagined.

A wounded fighter pilot finally gets his chance to return to duty but is faced with a mission that could cost him his wings, or his country its chance.

A billionaire with dreams of space finds a crashed alien spacecraft unlike anything mankind has ever seen.

A brilliant geneticist conducting outlawed research comes face to face with the nightmare consuming the world faster than anyone can comprehend…or stop in time.

The government can't contain it. The military can't fight it. This is A Time To Die.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blood Moon Press
• Release date: Jun 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9781942936947

Book preview

Prologue

The fox watched the rabbit with a patience born from untold eons of evolution. More than two hours passed as it watched the little herbivore transit a tiny grove in the woods, picking and eating the tender shoots of the early spring grass. The rabbit was wary, knowing instinctively that hungry predators would savor its flesh. The fox certainly coveted that flesh; it desperately needed it to survive. The winter had been long and harsh, keeping creatures like the rabbit in their burrows weeks longer than normal. Hunger gnawed at the fox’s being like a primal scream.

Finally, after all the waiting, the rabbit moved toward the fox, who watched it with ravenous eyes, barely moving. Inch by inch, succulent fresh clover to wild grain sprout, the rabbit moved closer. Then the time was right. The same ancient instincts that kept the fox still announced the prey was close enough, and it was time to pounce. Muscles tensed, whiskers twitched, and it leaped.

The sky exploded with light and fury, and a thunderous roar followed a half second later. The fox’s leap was off by inches, and the rabbit spun and wiggled sideways to escape the hungry jaws, leaving the fox with only a few wisps of fur for its effort.

The light and the roaring grew in intensity, chasing the fox under the gnarled roots of an ancient oak tree. Running was out of the question. In seconds, the light grew to many times that of the noonday sun, and the sound became a physical force of pain. The fox had been shot at before—once while stealing chickens and another time while pursuing a little dog. This was louder, and it went on and on.

The sound and light cut off in an instant, and the ground shook violently. Dirt rained on the fox’s head, and it yipped in fear, darting from cover and running blindly into the gathering darkness.

Two days passed before the fox ventured to the same stretch of woods again, this time near evening. Three mice, six lizards, and an unlucky cardinal had found their way into his jaws since the night of light and sound. The fox’s mind wasn’t designed to remember events in detail; it only knew that caution was called for in returning to this place. It was the memory of the rabbit that drew it back. Curiosity had served numberless generations of the fox’s predecessors well, helping them find food...and enabling them to carry on their genes.

There was the faintest hint of the rabbit’s scent. Perhaps enough to trail it to its den? The fox worked back and forth, its nose busy digging into leaves, grass, and dirt for any sign of the rabbit’s passage. There was a strange, foreign smell that kept interfering. Not man-smell; it was different, yet also similar. Nothing in the fox’s experience could make sense of it. Then it caught another smell, more familiar—the smell of death.

The scent of decay mixed with the strange new smell. A new kind of death. The curiosity that served its species so well drew it toward the source. Even in death there was often benefit. The fox’s metabolism was tolerant of carrion. It wasn’t a favorite food, or even preferred in any way; however, an empty stomach spoke of opportunity. Even an animal dead for several days might have a few pieces of edible meat, especially a larger animal.

The rabbit forgotten, the fox easily followed the smell of decay to its source. Near the source was a structure like a man-thing. It was not large, not like a chicken coop. Saliva dripped from the fox’s jaws as it approached a still form on the ground next to the structure.

Flies circled without landing as if they also sensed the strangeness of this dead thing. Its shape was completely unfamiliar. The head was strange, shaped somehow wrong, and the limbs were also different. The fox paced back and forth for a while, looking at the animal and sniffing the air. No other predators were nearby, and no carrion eaters, either. Everything was wrong about this. Everything except the fox’s undeniable hunger as it finally turned and moved in.

The fur of the animal was smooth and green in the diffused sunlight. The fox sniffed tentatively before reaching in for a bite of dead flesh—only it wasn’t dead. Fast as lightning, the strange creature spun its head and bit the fox. Needle sharp teeth easily penetrated fur and hide, and the fox yipped in pain and panic.

Just as quickly, the animal released the fox, which spun and raced off. Some distance away, it stopped and licked the tiny wound on its foreleg. It stung, but bled only slightly, the blood already drying. It looked back in the direction of the not-dead animal ruefully, regretting the loss of a meal, regardless of the price.

As night came on, the fox lay under a bush, blind hot with fever and shaking uncontrollably. By morning the fever was gone, and it was surveying the woods with a quiet intensity. Its memory yielded some details, and the fox set off through the underbrush.

The sun beat down on it as the fox passed another of its kind. The other fox sniffed as its fellow passed and shied away from the wrongness. The first fox regarded the other for a moment, then it moved on.

Half a day of travel brought it to a road that bisected the woods. It watched with calculating eyes as first one automobile, and then another, rumbled past. The fox came to a decision, and it set out along the road in the same direction the last vehicle had taken.

* * * * *

Chapter 1

Friday, April 6

Andrew Tobin watched the instruments as his student executed a gradual banking turn to enter final approach to the Mid-Way Regional Airport. The Cessna 162 Skycatcher practically flew itself, so it took little of Andrew’s attention. The student, a forty-something computer technician from Dallas named Linda, was in her final hours before her solo and, like the Skycatcher, required little supervision.

Smooth turn, he praised almost automatically as the plane leveled out, and Linda established the proper angle of attack. He ran a hand through his sandy brown hair and continued to watch. She only nodded as they passed over U.S. Highway 287 with its busy Friday afternoon traffic, carrying commuters between Midlothian and Waxahachie. The approach from the south sometimes distracted newer pilots. Linda had herself squared away and didn’t spare it a glance. Less than a minute later, the fixed tripod landing gear settled onto the tarmac with a perfect flare, and they were taxiing to the flight center.

That felt good, Linda said as she applied the brakes and cut power to the Continental engine.

Glad to hear it. A couple more cycles, and you’ll be ready to solo next week.

Linda smiled and bantered as they did the post-flight walk around of the Cessna. She helped Andrew attach a pair of ground cords to the wings (something most students didn’t bother to do), before heading in for him to sign her log book. A couple of comments on her stick handling, a handshake, and she handed him that week’s check before leaving. He watched her go, glancing at the horizon to see a line of thunderstorms developing.

Spring in North Central Texas was often a study of contrasts. Typical warm weather battled with sudden storms that could be as violent as they were unpredictable. You never knew if you were going to get sunshine or hail. He’d grown up farther south, not far from Waco. The weather was not much different down there.

Any more students today? Andrew asked Tina, the flight school’s matronly office manager.

That was the last, Andy. He nodded and headed back to the flight lounge. He’d tried to get her to stop calling him Andy when he’d come to work six months ago. The effort was completely wasted. The other pilot instructors had explained it was Tina’s manner to give every instructor a nickname. If your name could be shortened, that was what happened. You’re lucky she didn’t make one up for you, explained an older teacher named Mark. She called him Buzz, and no one could tell Andrew why.

The Mid-Way flight center kept him busy, which Andrew was grateful for in many ways. The pay wasn’t bad, and the job was stable. The two adjacent towns provided a good amount of their business, and with Dallas/Ft. Worth just to the north, they always seemed to have a steady stream of prospective pilots looking to get away from the much more expensive schools of the metroplex.

Andrew dropped into one of the three worn easy-chairs in the lounge and sighed. He bent over and removed his lower left leg. The stump was covered in angry red splotches, the result of the not-quite-perfect mating of the artificial limb with his body.

That freaks me out every time I see it, said a voice nearby.

Andrew craned his neck to see William LeBaron sitting by the back door, drinking a Coke and reading a technical manual.

How do you think I feel? Andrew asked.

William grunted and nodded before turning back to his book. Andrew wasn’t offended. William was a Gulf War vet himself, with more than a thousand hours behind the stick of an A-10 Warthog. He’d picked shrapnel from his own thigh after one particularly hair-raising close air support, or CAS, mission near Baghdad, but was lucky enough to come home with all his limbs. Andrew hadn’t been that fortunate.

They ever going to get you back in for a new fit on that thing?

The schedule keeps getting pushed back.

They’re just cooling you until your commitment is up.

Andrew nodded. He’d been thinking the same thing. If the limb could be fit well enough, he’d be eligible to fly again. A Cessna 162 might pay the bills, but it was a piss poor substitute for an F-15. A year ago, he’d been dusting antiquated Syrian fighters two at a time. Then, after a long day of one sortie after another, he’d brought his Eagle back to the base without a scratch. As he was doing his walk around, a group of young airmen screwed up and lost control of a GBU-31 JDAM. The 1,000-pound bomb had clattered to the deck and rolled onto Andrew’s leg. The corpsman said he was lucky to be alive, but his foot and eight inches of lower leg were not as lucky. With his foot went his chance for a second bar, and probably his career as a fighter pilot.

At least no one is shooting at me for fun anymore, Andrew quipped.

Careful what you wish for!

Later, Andrew drove his aging Chevy back to his apartment in Waxahachie, long after the modest rush hour traffic was gone. The sun lit up the western horizon in one of the famous Texas sunsets that made him glad he lived there. As he parked at the apartment, some of his gratefulness faded. He’d rented the second story walkup as a compromise, figuring he’d only be there a few months while he finished his temporary detachment and healed. The job was another compromise, provided by a contact in his squadron. His whole damn life was becoming a series of compromises.

He climbed the two flights of stairs with a lot less pain than he’d experienced the day he’d moved in. The refrigerator yielded a slice of two-day old pizza and an ice-cold beer for dinner. Life wasn’t too bad. He flipped through a few channels of boring network sitcoms and reality TV before catching a news report. NASA in South Texas was investigating last week’s meteor storm. More than a hundred meteors had impacted the ground, and they were eagerly searching for them.

* * *

Ranger Erin Burr drove the Jeep Wrangler down the old trail with her jaw tightly locked to reduce the chance of biting off a piece of her tongue. Another ranger had done just that her first year working in Big Bend National Park; he’d hit a large rock and jarred his Jeep hard enough that he bit the tip of his tongue clean off. The story was a thing of legend, but sadly all too true. Ironically, the man still worked in the Terlingua Resort—Terlingua meaning three tongues—and his speech was more than a little difficult to understand.

Isn’t there a regular road to the...site? The last word was accented as the man’s head bounced off the fabric roof while they navigated a particularly challenging rut in the trail.

No such thing after you get south of Boquillas Canyon, she told the man. Her park supervisor had told her he was a NASA scientist. He looked like one in his conservative suit; a floppy hat was his only compromise to the conditions around him. His gray suit was coated in light brown trail dust, and his steel cases of instruments in the rear of the Jeep flew around like dice in a cup as the Jeep bounced down the trail. A cliff loomed off to their left as she negotiated a turn.

Is that Mexico? he asked, his knuckles white on the Jesus bar as the wheels got within a foot of the drop off.

Erin smiled; she’d purposely taken them close to the drop off to see his reaction. Weren’t astronauts supposed to be bad-asses? Yep, the Rio Grande is about a thousand feet down that-a-way!

Shit, he hissed silently as they got even closer.

An hour later they were just east of the river landing used by summer rafting trips, and the man was cursing nonstop as he examined his battered equipment. Several of the delicate instruments were much the worse for wear after the 20-mile excursion. I should have gotten a helicopter, he complained.

Can’t land on this side of the river, she pointed out and gestured at the overhanging pine trees. When we get a rafter that needs evac, we have to take them off the Mexican side.

He grunted and tried to salvage his gear. As he worked through the morning, Erin busied herself checking the trail markers and other park equipment in the area. A fellow ranger had been out here only last week, but she had nothing else to do. She hiked up the trail half a mile and inspected the emergency solar-powered radio, calling in a radio check before marking it off on a clipboard. By the time she got back to the NASA scientist, she’d worked up a good sweat.

How much longer? she asked as he came into view.

A while, he said distractedly. He had a dizzying array of devices with blinking lights, displays, and touch-screens set up on a pair of ingenious folding aluminum tables he’d had in a pack.

I’m going to get in a swim then, she said, ...if you don’t mind?

Suit yourself, he replied.

Erin went down to the water’s edge and sloughed off her pack. It was weeks before the rafting season started, or she wouldn’t have even considered what she was about to do. In an instant, she stripped off her green park ranger jumpsuit, stepped out of it naked as the day she was born, and dipped a foot in the water.

Fifty feet away, the scientist forgot his instruments completely as he unabashedly gawked at the naked woman. The annoying professional ranger had transformed into a centerfold model before his eyes, with the muscles playing under the supple flesh of her behind as she moved her foot back and forth in the water, testing its temperature. She tossed her waist-length ponytail over her shoulder with her right arm, turning slightly so he could see her breasts in partial profile.

She smiled. No doubt he thought it was a show put on entirely for his benefit. She navigated the ancient rock landing until she was knee deep in a natural pool. Erin considered bending over and splashing some water on her torso and arms, but by the look on the man’s face, he’d probably pass out if she did, so she contented herself with squatting slightly and leaping into the chilly water. She’d always been an unapologetic flirt; her job so seldom gave her a chance to practice her art.

Erin paddled in the eddies of the pool, well outside the main channel of the Rio Grande. The occasional glance confirmed the scientist was observing much more than his devices. There was no way in hell he was going to miss her exit from the water. The finer art of flirtation often involved leaving them wanting more...much more. She hadn’t thought to bring a towel, otherwise she might have hidden it elsewhere to avoid giving him everything he wanted.

The chilly spring water chased her onto the shore. She figured she’d play it to the hilt and climbed out slowly, using her hands to wipe some of the water from her legs, belly, sides, and, of course, breasts. The chill made her nipples hard enough to scratch glass. All the while she avoided looking at him. Instead she walked the last few feet up the landing, found a rock still in the afternoon sun, and lounged on it to dry off. Was that a groan she heard? She sunned and half-napped for an hour as the man struggled with his equipment...and his libido.

With her clothes back on, she made the trip back up the trail in silence. Erin smiled mischievously and whistled a tune while the scientist scowled and mumbled to himself. She finally broke the silence. So, did you find anything?

Huh? Oh, not directly. There is some elevated background radiation indicative of meteor activity...

The rest blurred into techno babble, and Erin tuned him out as they got in the Jeep and started driving back. At least he’d forgotten about his erection that wouldn’t go away. Look, I was wondering if you— He suddenly stopped as she brought the Jeep to a jumping stop. What the hell? the scientist snapped as he narrowly avoided smashing his balding head on the windshield. She held up a hand to silence him, but he exclaimed, I’ve had just about enough!

Would you shut the fuck up? she snarled and pointed. In the path ahead was the biggest javelina she’d ever seen. It stood calmly, regarding the Jeep in a most un-javelina manner.

Is that a pig?

Javelina, she corrected. They were similar, but generally less aggressive than their wild pig cousins. This one was twice as big as any she’d ever seen, and they normally ran from the park vehicles. The porcine creature stared them down, and she felt a shiver run up her spine. Then it charged. Oh crap, she said and slipped the truck in reverse.

What are you scared for? the scientist asked. It’s just a pig.

You noticed the doors? she asked as she negotiated an uphill angled corner at 10 miles an hour. The man looked sideways at the Jeep door, apparently realizing for the first time it was nothing more than fabric stretched over a metal frame. Oh, but it’s still just a damn pig!

Erin realized quickly the javelina wasn’t going to give up. Rather than hitting a tree or flipping the Jeep in a ditch, she hit the brakes and slipped it back into drive. A second later the javelina was on them. She figured it would bite at the tires or something, and she’d wait until it was alongside and take off down the trail. It might be able to keep up with the SUV in reverse, but not in forward. She knew these trails pretty darned well.

The javelina sped up at the last second, and jumped. Erin gasped as it cleared the hood and crashed face first into the windshield with a sickening Whump! The glass cracked and spiderwebbed, spraying her with little flecks of broken glass. The scientist screamed in a most unmanly fashion.

The javelina’s bloody snout snapped at them, red-tinged saliva flying as it used its razor-sharp tusks to tear at the windshield. In a flash it shoved its head through the compromised safety glass. Shit, shit, SHIT! Erin yelped and tried to push back as she jammed the accelerator to the floor.

The Jeep’s oversized rear wheels squelched in the dry, rocky soil, and the truck leaped ahead. The javelina bit at her, clamping its jaws down on the steering wheel and wrenching at it. For a split second, Erin felt the top-heavy SUV overbalancing, and then they flipped sideways.

It was only lucky in that they’d left the cliffs behind before the encounter. The Jeep flipped three times as it went down the hill before crashing into a huge pine tree, where it came to a grinding stop.

Erin came to, dangling sideways from her lap belt as the Jeep had ended up on its right side. The javelina was inside; the windshield had come completely out of its frame. Her passenger was resting on the door, a bloody gash on his forehead, and the animal was laying across his legs. Crazy pig, she grumbled. Then, the javelina moved. It wasn’t dead.

Erin dangled there for a split second as the animal opened its eyes and looked around, and then she made up her mind. She grabbed the seat with her left hand and pulled herself around, the belt biting painfully into her waist as she stretched as far to the rear of the car as she could. The javelina looked up at her movement and locked eyes with her. The look made her shudder with the intent she saw there. It wasn’t the pain-mad gaze of an injured animal. It was contemplating its situation, and her.

Damn you, she hissed, her hand searching blindly behind her. The animal rolled and reached up, snatched her dangling ponytail, and pulled on it. Ouch! she screamed as it began chewing and pulling her head closer.

Wha—?! the scientist grumbled. The javelina released Erin’s hair and turned to see the man it was lying on. The man moved his head and was only inches from the javelina’s snout. Oh, God! he yelled, and the animal bit him on the nose. Part of Erin’s mind wondered why it was a dainty nip, and not a full assault with those razor sharp tusks.

As he screamed, Erin’s hand finally closed on what she was looking for. She jerked the weapon free from the paddle holster, and she brought it around just as the javelina released the scientist’s nose and turned again toward her. She smoothly stroked through the long trigger pull of the SIG Sauer P226 and fired at point blank range, the 9mm a deafening roar in the confined space of the Jeep. The round punched through the animal’s head, and it jumped, trying to reach for her again. Erin fired twice more, and after a seeming eternity, the javelina lay still.

It bit my nose! the scientist cried, blood pouring into his hand as he held onto his damaged face.

Yeah, she said, letting the gun drop next to the expired javelina as she found the seatbelt release. But look at my hair.

* * *

Erin tried one more time with the Jeep’s winch. After a few moments of listening to the cable make ominous popping noises, she gave up before it broke for the third time. The Jeep wasn’t moving without help.

Any luck? the scientist gasped between coughs. She’d since learned his name was Ken Taylor. The attack by the crazed javelina had been four hours ago. An hour after the attack, she’d managed to get Ken out of the Jeep and make him reasonably comfortable as she assessed their situation. Her radio was busted, their cell phones didn’t work on the back trails, and this early in the season it was unlikely they would encounter another human being anytime soon. When she’d set to the task of righting the Jeep, he’d looked out of sorts. Now, after a couple of hours, he looked much worse, and he wasn’t getting any better. He had a fever for sure, and he appeared to be having trouble concentrating. Night was approaching, and she didn’t like her choices.

No, she admitted as she sat next to him. She had bandaged his nose wound with the limited first aid kit she carried, and there was more than enough food and water, but without real medical attention, she feared he wouldn’t last. Had the javelina been rabid? She didn’t know what the symptoms of rabies were. She thought rabies made an animal act irrational, but the damned javelina had seemed to be making logical, calculated decisions. A shiver went up her spine just thinking about it.

Damn, Ken said as he took a sip of water from the canteen. He tried to hand it back, but she shook her head. His voice was slurred from the nose wound, but did it sound even worse now? I don’t feel very good.

I know, she said. I think I need to hike back to the landing and use the emergency transmitter.

That’s a couple of miles, right?

Four miles, yes. It will take about two hours for me to get there and contact the ranger station.

Won’t they come for us if you just wait?

Not until tomorrow morning. Do you think you can wait that long?

Ken looked at her for a moment, then coughed, deep and rasping. His eyes glazed over for a moment, and he looked through her. A spasm ran through his body, like a mild electrical charge, then he calmed again. No, I don’t think so.

Me neither, Erin whispered. She gathered the little daypack and tossed in a pair of water bottles and a single pack of dehydrated food. A few other essentials rounded out what she would need, and she finished by strapping on the gun belt and checking the load of her SIG Sauer. There wasn’t anything else holding her up. I’ll be back as soon as I can.

Don’t take too long, he whispered. Erin nodded, shifted the pack on her shoulder, and headed back up the trail toward the landing.

* * *

An hour later, Ken tried to drink some of the water and eat some of the food Erin had left for him, only to vomit it up moments afterwards. His head swam with pain and confusion, and sweat poured from his forehead despite the cool evening breeze. Suddenly he stumbled to his feet, not knowing why, completely unable to concentrate. Wha—what? he choked, spinning around and searching for the source of the disturbance with blurred vision.

He heard something behind him, and he spun again to find only darkness. Damn you, he snarled and took a step in that direction, only to fall over a root in the gloom and sprawl in the dense pine needles. His mind exploded in lights, pain, and voices. Whispers and screams, thoughts and ideas he could not understand. Stop it, stop it, stop...stop...STOP! The last word came out as an anguished wail from the depths of his soul that echoed through the woods and down to the Rio Grande thousands of feet below. He shuddered in the brush, and the man that was Ken succumbed.

Small animals and night birds flitted around for a time, sniffing the air and trying to sense if the man had become food. But after a few minutes, it was standing again, wildly searching the darkness. It noticed the birds and scurrying creatures, and it shook its head and snarled. The snarl turned into a clipped scream, more visceral than the previous one. It turned toward a narrow goat trail that descended the cliff.

The descent would have terrified Ken and likely sent him plummeting to the rocks below. The creature that now walked in his skin, though, felt no fear and held close to the sharp rocks with single-minded, painless determination. By the time it reached the river, its hands were torn nearly to the bone in several places. It paid no mind to the blood-dripping wounds as it scanned the opposite river bank. Moonlight illuminated the far shore where it saw a group of people, all moving slowly to the west. A little moan escaped its lips, and its teeth gnashed as it jerked forward and plowed into the water.

* * * * *

Chapter 2

Monday, April 9

Lisha saw a Latino man holding a sign that read, Dr. Lisha Breda, in a rough, simple script as she stepped off the escalator next to the baggage carousel at the Las Cruces International Airport. A bored-looking man in a travel-worn blue suit was the only driver waiting for the 50-odd passengers arriving on Southern Airlines Flight 525 from Los Angeles. Lisha walked up to the short, dark-skinned man, noting his windblown complexion.

"Señora Breda?" he asked with a mild Mexican accent as she approached.

Yes, she answered simply. He looked her over with a curious gaze before shrugging. Is something wrong? she asked.

My apologies, but you are not what I expected, he said with a shrug.

Not expecting a black woman? she asked, a little testy after the cramped flight. The small commuter jets were bad enough when flitting around southern California. They were hell-on-Earth during a two-hour flight to New Mexico.

The man chuckled and shook his head. No, frankly I was expecting another annoying old white guy who thinks tipping is a city in China.

Lisha eyed him for a second before noticing the twinkle in his wrinkled eyes, then smiled. His own smile was instant and genuine. Fair enough...

Andre, he said and offered his hand. She took it and shared his firm, professional handshake. Like the rest of him, his hands were weathered and tough. How a farm hand or rancher had ended up driving a car for hire was probably an interesting story in itself. Do you have a bag?

Yes, she said and turned to the carousel to see that hers was the only unclaimed luggage. She moved to claim it, but Andre was one step ahead of her. She meant to warn him it was heavy, but the stocky Latino man grabbed one of the straps and easily swung it onto one shoulder without so much as adjusting his stance. Okay then, she said, then she nodded and let him lead the way.

The car was a late-model tan sedan with a few scratches and heavier-than-normal tires. Andre placed her pack in the trunk with care and held the door for her to get in. The air outside the terminal hovered around the 90-degree mark—quite a bit warmer than the 78 degrees she’d left behind at LAX. Lisha was pleasantly surprised to find the car idling, and the air conditioning purring as it wafted cool air to the back seat. A soothing salsa mix was churning from the radio as Andre climbed in.

"Sorry for the music, Señora," he said and reached for the knob.

No, you can leave it, she said quickly, I like this artist.

"Si, thank you, he said, shutting the door. With the hot air no longer blasting into the car, it quickly cooled to a comfortable temperature. Do you want to go to your hotel first?"

No, straight to the university please.

"Si," he said and took them into traffic. Early afternoon traffic at the Las Cruces International Airport was the closest thing the area saw to a rush hour. After years of negotiating Los Angeles traffic, it more closely reminded Dr. Breda of a 2:00 a. m. jaunt out with a friend for a bite. The traffic at the light before merging onto Interstate 10 took all of two minutes to negotiate, and then they were cruising east toward the town at a smooth 70 miles per hour.

She grabbed her shoulder bag and slid out her tablet. Now that she was on the ground, it had already linked with the local cellular network and updated her emails. No news might have been good news, but her box was full of the opposite. Two more companies were threatening to drop their funding of The Project after last week’s network exposé. She snorted as she read—it was more like a hatchet job than a report. Bio-Scientists Attempt to Play God was the headline they ran, and boy did it run. Nothing drove the American public more bat-shit crazy than the slightest rumor that someone was messing with the human genome.

There were already three other emails from the senior project partners, all freaking out about the splash the news report was causing. It couldn’t have come at a worse time, especially since they were leasing time on three super-computers from Caltech. The moonbats in California had already chased them 20 miles into the Pacific...what was next? She smiled at what was next, but no one in the media had any idea what they were planning.

The car turned off the freeway, and Andre negotiated the entrance to the New Mexico State University campus, driving along grass-lined avenues that no doubt consumed swimming pool quantities of water to be that green in the New Mexican climate. She recognized the science campus from the email she’d gotten yesterday. An associate from a certain secret government program had tapped her to investigate an anomalous specimen. With The Project entering a critical stage, the last thing she needed was a surprise trip off-site. The offer of a good word in the right government ear accompanied the invitation, though, and The Project’s senior partners had ordered her plane tickets in minutes. Shit.

A few minutes later, Andre handed Lisha her bag and a card with a cell phone number. "Call me when you need me, Señora," he told her, explaining that Las Cruces was not a very big city, and he could be there on short notice. She thanked him and carried her bags into the modern-looking medical research building and out of the New Mexico sun.

Can I help you? asked a bored woman, no doubt a student, behind the stainless steel and marble reception desk. Student orientation isn’t until next week.

Please inform Dr. Amstead that Dr. Breda from HAARP is here.

The woman looked her over, including the blue jeans, worn top, and backpack, and shrugged before typing on her computer and speaking through the Bluetooth headset perched on her ear. He’ll be out in a minute, the woman told her and went back to whatever she’d been doing before Lisha walked up. True to the receptionist’s word, Dr. Amstead arrived shortly.

Thanks for coming on such short notice, Dr. Amstead said as he led the way briskly down the hall. A young intern carried Lisha’s bag behind them, intently listening to the two doctors’ conversation.

My pleasure, Dr. Amstead, she replied. How long have you been part of the Wild Fire team?

Dr. Amstead missed a step and almost tripped over his own feet. He jerked around to stare at her, then at the intern. The kid looked back in confusion. Dr. Amstead held out his hand. Give me the bag and go back to class. Now.

Yes sir, the young man said, relinquishing the backpack. The intern looked over his shoulder with a final furtive glance before trotting back the way they’d come.

That program is classified, Dr. Breda.

And about the worst-kept secret in the world, she replied with a toss of her head. She took her pack back and resumed walking down the hallway, forcing him to trot to catch up. Organized in the 1960s by the government to respond when aliens land in America, it’s been a multi-million-dollar boondoggle sucking up money for decades. She glanced over her shoulder as the older doctor caught up to her, the expression on his face showing his disapproval of her opinion. She didn’t care. It was your Wild Fire network that got me here.

You should realize, he spoke in his rich northern accent, dark eyes flashing as he brushed his thinning hair out of his eyes, I don’t much care for your HAARP project either.

Then I guess we understand each other, she said, turning back. Science is often founded on mutual animosity between researchers. He snorted—half laugh, half disagreement—but the older scientist otherwise remained silent. I guess our line of research makes me the closest thing to what you need, though, so here I am.

The biology lab was state of the art. It specialized in research on domestic livestock, like improving the strains of chickens and helping the poultry industry develop more effective nutritional supplements and disease-resistant strains. It was chosen for the current project because it was a Level Two bio-containment lab. Some animal contagions were risky to work with, especially in a country that consumed billions of pounds of chicken every year.

Dr. Breda stood with her arms crossed and looked around the lab with a critical eye, picking out each piece of equipment she would need. She also noted the sealed chamber at the back and how the lab staff was reluctant to go near it. Something didn’t feel right.

Better fill me in on the details, she told Dr. Amstead. He handed her a tablet and began explaining the case. She’d read it twice on the way to Las Cruces and once more in the cab, but long experience had taught her to always listen to the facts from the source as well as reading the written notes. There were often details to be gleaned that didn’t make it into print.

Two days ago, a ranger in the Brokeoff Mountains Wilderness Study Area found what he at first thought was a deceased red fox. Upon closer examination, he was unable to confirm the species as Vulpes vulpes. There had been some decay of the specimen as well as predation by unknown scavengers. It was an unusual find because the wilderness area was not inside the known range of that species of fox, so he bagged the specimen to take back to the ranger station. It was only after returning that he noted the lack of substantial secondary evidence of decay. There was no odor and no presence of insects.

Lisha looked through the thick glass into the isolation chamber where the fox lay. The pictures didn’t really do it justice. Of course, now that it was only a few meters away, it was obviously a fox. What wasn’t obvious was why it wasn’t decaying like a dead animal should. Inside with the dead animal, a technician in an isolation suit was carefully taking pictures, moving the body and examining it in intricate detail. The person, sexless in the bulky protective gear, was using the microscope feature of the handheld camera to take pictures of the fox’s nose, which appeared shredded.

Can I see the tissue sample images? They weren’t included in the data packet you sent.

I know, Amstead admitted and scratched the thin whiskers on his chin. We had a new set taken this morning. They should be mounted any time now.

What was wrong with the first series?

They got tainted somehow.

On cue, a technician brought over an SD card and gave it to Dr. Amstead. He moved to a large display nearby and slid the chip in, accessing the files. In a moment he was frowning. Same problem.

And that is? Lisha asked, coming up beside him.

The older man pointed to an enlarged image showing muscle tissue biopsied from the fox. There is no microbiological activity, he said and ran his finger along a capillary, visible in stark relief due to the dye added to the slide. Even though the dye would kill all the microbes, a carcass like this should be crawling with bacteria and insect larvae.

Lisha nodded and leaned closer. The image shifted to another, then another. They all showed the same complete lack of bacteriological life. It wasn’t only unlikely, it was impossible. Well, she spoke after a few minutes of observing, at least the lack of living insects on the carcass when discovered is less of a mystery.

Why do you say that?

If whatever killed the bacteria was some sort of chemical, it is probably what kept the flies and scavengers away. The other doctor nodded, accepting her professional opinion in an area outside his expertise.

What she didn’t say aloud was what really bothered her. It might be possible to expose an animal to a chemical that would kill all the microbes and bacteria, even in the gut. But that didn’t account for the remains. All the samples were pure, with no signs at all of foreign organisms. It was almost as if this fox was somehow resistant to all bacteria.

Six hours later she’d learned what she could, having unequivocally confirmed it was a fox of the species Vulpes vulpes, and she put together a vacuum-sealed case of tissue and fluid samples before calling Andre and heading for the exit. Dr. Amstead saw her off with a handshake and his thanks just as Andre’s late model sedan pulled up. It was a long day of travel in exchange for such an interesting mystery. All the way back to LA, Dr. Breda couldn’t shake the feeling this was the beginning of something very bad.

* * * * *

Chapter 3

Tuesday, April 10

Andrew sipped a canned sweet tea and watched as the Skycatcher came around on final approach two miles from the airport. The pilot was one of his advanced students, and he’d advised against the man taking his final solo today. There was a 17-knot crosswind, and the temperature was hovering around 90. Not ideal flying weather. The wind was from a storm blowing in that threatened to bring hail and probably a lot of sand out of western Texas. The man had been adamant. He wanted his license and didn’t want to wait any longer. The conditions were borderline, but not out of regulations, so Andrew signed off, and up he went.

He’d made his two previous approaches perfectly, and this was the last. If he brought this one in, he was home free. The wind was picking up, though, and Andrew eyed the radio on the patio table, half expecting him to call for advice. He’d been a capable student but leaned toward uncertainty and indecision in difficult situations.

The chirp of his smartphone made him jump slightly in surprise. Aside from his mother, who rarely called because she hated those damn cell things, and an ex-girlfriend who’d last called to tell him she was getting married, there was only one other person who might be calling. He glanced up at his student’s approach and decided he had a minute, so he snatched the device from his belt holster and flipped up the cover.

As he’d hoped, it was an email from his commanding officer. He was to report for a readiness assessment at the base on Thursday, April 12th. A posting was being held open for him in the wing’s CAS unit, currently stationed at Riyadh’s King Salman Air Base. If all went well, he’d be on a transport to the sandbox in 72 hours. His heart was racing, and he felt light-headed. Back in the cockpit again after all these months? He was so caught off guard that when he remembered what he was supposed to be doing, his student was taxiing toward the hangars, having already landed safely.

His fellow ex-military buddies took him out to dinner that night, all toasting his good fortune and seeing if they could get him drunk. With a fitness evaluation in only two days, and a medical eval in