Dawn of the Mad (24 page)

The first man held out his hand. “I am Colonel Johann Chuikova, Spearhead Corps Commander. This is my associate, Corporal Scotts.” Roman holstered his pistol. He shook the colonel’s outstretched hand. “I’m Johnny Roman. I am afraid I am a little confused. Are you some kind of special ops unit or what? I was under the impression it was illegal for the military to conduct operations on US soil.”

Scotts replied, “We know who you are. And yes, he said,
alien
.” Scotts smiled after the last sentence. “We are not of your planet either.”

Roman opened the door wider, stood aside, and let the two men enter his apartment. He again looked around the parking lot and thought a beat- up Ford Mustang parked across the street looked familiar from the last couple of days, but he didn’t think anything more of it. He wasn’t sure why he trusted these two strangers, or even why he believed them, but somehow he did. As both men entered the apartment, Scotts exclaimed, “Wow, it smells in here!”

Upon seeing the two new visitors, Fontenot pushed past the three men to the door. He looked at Roman and nodded toward the colonel and Scotts. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said to Roman. “These guys have “Fed” written all over them. Later.” He quickly stepped outside and closed the door after himself.

Roman dead bolted the door behind Fontenot and faced his new guests. “Uh, sit down,” he said, waving toward his couch. The colonel sat down first, at one end, and Corporal Scotts sat next to him. The corporal immediately noticed the
Hustler
magazine and picked it up, and starting thumbing through the well-worn pages.

“I’ll get to the point,” the colonel said. “We are tracking an alien that has escaped from our sector of space. It just so happens he has landed here on your planet.” The colonel paused, observing Roman for any reaction. Seeing nothing besides the expected stunned surprise, he continued. “We have been watching you for some time, and we feel we can be of assistance to you, and you to us. This creature has the potential to create unimaginable havoc upon your population.”

“I knew something wasn’t right,” Roman said. “I emptied my weapon into him, and he wasn’t even fazed. And there’s the matter of dead people walking out of the coroner’s office. If that’s connected, I’d agree with you that this has the potential for havoc, all right. But your space alien concept is a little hard for me to take in. I’d buy it if it was a virus or something.”

“Well, he
is
an alien to you. He is not of your planet. That is the reality of it. For that matter, so are we. We want to move on him soon, and we could use your help. As for your virus theory, it may not be too far off. He is capable of transferring something to his victims, rendering them incapable of functioning normally.”

Roman reached into his jeans pocket and removed an ID card he had found earlier, lying on the ground in the junkyard.

“I found this before the shuttle was blown. Maybe you know what it is.” Scotts reached forward and took the ID. After giving it a quick glance, he announced, “This is a security badge for a Dr. Keitel.”

The colonel leaned forward and peered at the ID. “I saw an intelligence report awhile back in which he was rumored to be the enemy’s top genetic researcher. Perhaps we are after his experiment. It seems the good doctor was unable to control it.”

“He was at the research facility we hit,” Scotts added.

Roman walked back to the refrigerator and withdrew three beers. Walking back, he opened two and handed one each to the colonel and to Corporal Scotts.

“You said you are a colonel, yes?”

“That is correct.”

“And you’re not from this planet?”

“No.”

Roman opened the remaining beer and took a small sip before sitting down on the hearth of fireplace. Corporal Scotts eyed his beer with curiosity and smelled the open can. He took a small sip. A slight smile broke across his face. He took a longer pull and gave an approving nod in Roman’s direction. The colonel drained his entire can in three successive gulps. He set the empty can down on the coffee table.

“You have anything harder?” he asked.

“Yeah, hold on.” Roman walked back into the kitchen and retrieved a half-full bottle of Jim Beam. He grabbed a glass from a cabinet and walked back to the couch. Setting the glass down in front of the colonel, he poured several fingers of the amber liquid into it. The colonel grabbed the glass and took a hearty swig.

“Not bad. It’s hard for me to find good rotgut these days.”

“I know it’s not top shelf, but I wouldn’t call Beam rotgut.” Roman paused as he watched the colonel finish the glass and pour another. “OK, maybe for you it is. I’m not familiar with what aliens drink.” His lip curled up sardonically at one corner.

Roman eyed both men again, noticing their clothing. “I wouldn’t mind seeing some proof you guys are from outer space, like maybe a ray gun, your ship, something like that. You could just be some psychos off the street, for all I know—or Feds, like Fontenot thought.” Although he asked for the proof, Roman somehow didn’t really care if they were aliens or not. He knew, however, that there was something just not normal about these two.

“Of course.” Scotts pulled a familiar looking, larger caliber pistol from the back of his pants. He removed the ammunition magazine, exposing the rounds. “These are tipped with high explosives. This weapon also can fire smoke, incendiary, and acid rounds.”

“I saw that before, except the ammo was blue,” said Roman, remembering the two guys who had saved his ass at the junkyard.

“Actually, our main battle rifles are much better than these pistols. We have a few on the shuttle, but we’re trying to avoid using them, as we are trying to minimize our technological footprint on your planet.”

“You’re what?” Roman asked.

“Our technological footprint. If we all were to die here on your planet, our technology would give an unfair advantage to whoever found it and would upset the balance.”

“I see. So it’s probably not a good idea to have a crack head running around eating people either. Anyway, I’m not sure I can be of much help to you. I got suspended an hour ago. I’m off the case and off the street. Plus, I haven’t slept in something like thirty hours.”

The colonel rose from the couch, setting his empty glass on the table as he stood. He walked over to bookcase against one wall, overflowing with books. He withdrew a well-worn copy of the paperback
Doctor Who and the Genesis of the Daleks
off the top of a stack. The cover intrigued him, and he studied it for a moment before replacing the book on the shelf. He turned and faced Roman and withdrew a small black box from his pants pocket. He activated the box and a holographic map appeared, complete with people walking and cars driving.

“Is that in real time?” Roman asked, stepping closer to the image.

“Yes, this is a map of our base of operations. As you can see, there is a lot of traffic around us.”

Roman noticed that the neighborhood was run down, and there was indeed a lot of foot and vehicle activity. “You guys could have picked a better part of town.”

The colonel shut off the hologram and smiled. “That’s why we would like you to help us, Mr. Roman.” The colonel put the box back into his pocket. “We need a new base of operations. Plus, you have seen the alien and engaged it. Your knowledge of local customs could help us.”

Roman looked around at his place for a moment. He replied, “Well, this place is a little small. What are you offering?”

“Help us catch this alien, and we will be forever in your debt.”

Roman considered the open-ended offer for a moment. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “You let me borrow that hand cannon, and one of those rifles and some ammo, and you’ve got a deal. My pistol isn’t very effective against your alien. I just want to get that asshole.”

“Done, but we will need those back when the time comes.”

Scotts handed over his weapon and a couple of extra ammunition magazines. Roman eyed the weapon with satisfaction.

“There is one other thing, Mr. Roman,” the colonel said.

“What’s that?”

“We have two others in our group. I hope that is not a problem.”

Roman was engaged in removing the ammunition magazine and re- inserting it. He enjoyed hearing the whine of the weapon as it powered up.

“No problem.”

“Good. Scotts, go fetch Matthias and the captain, and bring our gear in.”

Scotts got up, opened the front door, and went outside. Roman went to the door to watch. A few moments later, the corporal returned with Cruwell and Matthias behind him. Both men carried black cases and duffle bags. Matthias handed his equipment to Scotts. Roman put the hand cannon in his waistband at the back his pants. He was amazed at its light weight; he couldn’t even feel it in the back of his pants. He looked at Matthias.

“I know you,” Roman said.

Matthias nodded.

“I guess I owe you one for saving my ass at the junkyard.”

“I expect you would do the same for me,” replied Matthias.

Roman turned to Captain Cruwell, who was still standing in the doorway.

“You can put your gear in the bedroom,” he said. Scotts and Cruwell both nodded. “Not much space here, sorry,” Roman added.

Roman turned toward the colonel and said, “You guys have anything else to drive besides that shitbox parked outside?”

“It is the only vehicle we’ve appropriated.”

“Ditch that heap when you get a chance. I’ll drive.”

CHAPTER 22

“Glad you make it,” the gray-haired man said to the biker standing at the front door of his modest, one-story house. “Please come in and sit down.” He moved his wheelchair to the side of the door and pointed to a black leather couch against one wall of the living room immediately inside. He wore a red flannel shirt and sported a gray, unkempt beard that reached the middle of his chest. An oxygen mask hung over his shoulder, within easy reach.

“All right,” the visitor said. “This had better be good, Dean.” The biker, dressed in biking leathers, entered the house, smoking a cigarette. He saw two televisions on in the living room, one tuned in to CNN and the other on FOX News. The biker closed the door behind him and followed Dean into the living room, which was cluttered with grouped arrangements of newspapers, boxes of dialysis bags, and oxygen canisters. He took a seat on the couch.

“I think it will be worth your while. Hold on, let me get the specs.” The host opened his laptop and powered it on. He adjusted his thick-lensed glasses as he waited for the computer to load.

“You got any beer around here?”

“Come on, Cyrus, you know better than that.” He looked up from his laptop and lifted his shirt, exposing a tube protruding from his side. “Get yourself a Sprite.”

Cyrus retreated into the kitchen, sending several cats scurrying across the counter. He opened the fridge and pulled out a half-full two-liter bottle. “OK, I’ve got it,” Dean announced.

When Cyrus returned from the kitchen with a glass full of the soda, he leaned over and looked at Dean’s laptop.

“Here it is,” Dean said. “My boy Stevie sent me this as a favor for some equipment I built him. He’s a damn good hacker. I’ve been watching it, and it’s good. The pickup is for next Wednesday.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Oh, sorry, I still get excited sometimes.” Dean pushed his glasses farther up his nose. “This particular bank normally does cash transfers via armored car on Wednesdays, just prior to opening.”

“OK. So what? I’m not hitting an armored car, too much risk. I did four years for armed robbery, you know that.”

“No, listen, this job is different. This particular branch has missed the last three transfers to the cash depot. That’s almost three weeks.” Dean shifted his weight in his wheelchair. “They changed armored companies, which created a delay at a few branches. But this one—” Dean tapped the laptop screen for emphasis. “This is one that can set you up for a while.”

Cyrus drank the rest of his Sprite and said, “Cut the shit, Dean. How much are we talking about?”

Dean took his glasses off and retrieved a red bandanna from his shirt pocket. He wiped a few beads of sweat off his forehead and hit a few more keys on the laptop.

“Here, look at these last few cash drops. You’re looking at an easy 400 to 600 thousand.”

Cyrus stood up and started to pace the room. “That’s a good score, but that’s a lot of risk. I don’t know. What about going in at night?”

“I can’t help you at night. Look, it’s a regional branch. That’s the only way to get that kind of score, and even then it’s only because the cash is piling up awaiting pickup. I mean it’s a helluva lot better than the normal one or two thousand score you usually get in a smash and grab.

“Yeah, well … OK, I see your point. What do you need upfront? I’m not saying I’ll do it, but what do you need?” Dean asked, his interest piqued.

Dean closed his laptop and turned his wheelchair around so that he was looking toward Cyrus. “I need twenty-five grand up front and another twenty-five after you complete the job.”

Cyrus stopped pacing and faced Dean directly. “Wait a minute, check me on this. You want us to do this in daylight, with witnesses, and maybe have to shoot it out with the cops? Why can’t we get in the night before, disabling the alarms, cracking the vault overnight?”

“I can’t help you there. I’m getting old and haven’t been in the game much lately. All I can guarantee is that the money is there. You hit it fast and hard, and you should be good. There’s a teller on the inside that just started working. She’ll make sure the manager is identified and can help with opening the vault. Also, Stevie told her how to disable the silent alarm.”

“A teller on the inside? Sounds like you assumed I would say yes.”

“No more than two guards, probably old farts that aren’t even carrying ammo. Twenty-five grand also gets your crew some serious firepower, police scanners, cell phone jammers, and whatever else you need. I’m talking machine guns like they have in Afghanistan, the big ones. You’re in and you are out fast if you don’t screw up.”

“OK. You got a deal.”