Mammoth Dawn (5 page)

The whispery sound of feet in the sedge grasses came nearer. Cassie didn’t notice it. Bare-chested, Alex backed away from the dying animal, leaving his shirt to soak up a gusher of blood. He smelled gunpowder and meat. “They’re coming back,” he said. Grabbing his shotgun from the trampled ground, he moved as quietly as he could around Majestica’s massive bulk.

“Keep them the hell away from my mammoths,” Cassie said, her voice thin. She didn’t even look up from Majestica.

Alex jacked a shell into the shotgun, hoping the flat clack-click sound would be enough of a deterrent.
Never
. Halfway around the heaving beast, he crouched down, looking across the moonlit expanse.

He cursed himself as much as the fanatics. He had underestimated their dedication, dismissing them entirely. He had scoffed at their mindset, never giving them credit for a zeal that would push them beyond theoretical protests. How could they be so
vehement
? There was a long, precarious bridge between waving signs and launching missiles, but Kinsman and his Evos had crossed it.

He’d considered the Luddites to be quaint, backward, even silly. Now they had proved deadly. Causes had always attracted violent crusaders whose actions seemed inexplicably extreme to most people—pro-lifers shooting abortion doctors, environmentalists “protecting the Arizona desert” by setting fire to luxury homes. Could any ends justify such means?

The Evo crusaders came out of the trees, hunched over as they emerged from the protective shadows. They were competent enough, moving quickly, not talking. But Alex saw the reflection of their eyes as they covered the last twenty meters. Three that he could see, two headed directly this way, weapons ready … thinking they had already won.

He raised the shotgun and a lot of thoughts ran through his mind. It was easy enough to think you could shoot at an enemy, someone with a grease-blackened face and cradling a grenade launcher, pistol strapped at his waist. But when it was a kid of maybe twenty …

The kid raised an arm to his comrades, who immediately squatted and aimed—at Majestica. And Cassie! They knew their target. They knew exactly what they intended to shoot.

And Alex had no time left for doubt. Executives, he often said to others, were people who could make decisions on time. Well, here was one. He shot the kid with a spray of pellets. He hit him in the legs, but square on.

Alex did not let himself hear the screaming as he jacked the next shell in, sighted on a man who had half-risen to his feet and was swinging a long-barreled weapon toward Alex. “Cassie, get down!” he yelled, then sighted and squeezed off the round. The feel of the gun was as natural as when he’d potted away at clay pigeons on weekends, long ago.

Now the third Evo, a woman—but she was already running away. He let the terrorist take three more strides to be sure she was out of lethal range. The blast of pellets against her shoulders and backpack did not knock her down, but she cried out, and ran even faster in a headlong stagger back toward the trees.

The first kid was yelling, rolling around with his bloody hamburger legs drawn up to his chest. The second man lay still; Alex didn’t even know where he’d hit the terrorist. The woman made it to the trees, where Bullwinkle was still crashing around. Alex kept down—the Evos had plenty of distance weapons, and would be looking toward the source of his shots.

“Dr. Pierce! I need your help here!” Cassie sounded closer to panic than he had ever heard her.

Slinging the shotgun low, ready to spin around and open fire again into the night, Alex scrambled back around the dying Majestica.

O O O

Helen rode hard, and her horse was hot, its mouth foaming as she careened down the bumpy jeep road. She could see the darkness of trees and night blended with probing beams of hard white surveillance lights ahead.

She and Alex had always talked about beefing up security in an apron covering the entire approach from the South Gate. When the protesters had settled in, they’d brought their own lights, as well as coolers of food and drink, so they could squat down and begin chants and drum beating in a general disruptive “people power” party. They kept it up until the early hours, youthful idealism uniting with the universal instinct to party. Annoying, certainly, and frustrating—but nothing to be taken seriously.

That had been their biggest mistake.

Occasionally, those little protests had only been a distraction, a cover for one or two Evos to slip past the fencing and guard stations in the dark. Once inside, though, they had no good idea which targets to go for, what vandalism to accomplish. Inept commandos, they generally blundered into staff housing or maintenance sheds, which had been deliberately disguised to look like laboratories and stables.

But now, the log-fronted Pleistocene Hospital was on fire. They had struck directly to the heart of the retrograde evolution project.

“Damn you,” she said. “Damn you all.” She kicked her horse, riding harder.

The tall pines surrounding the corral had become torches in the night, crackling resinous flames. From inside the high reinforced fences she heard a roar, an indescribable screaming cry that sounded like nothing human. Short Stuff and Middle Man, the first two mammophant hybrids, were still in there, far from the safety of the rest of their herd … brought back to the ranch buildings for regular health monitoring.

Helen dismounted from her gray mare before the horse had even come to a stop. She hit the ground running. Frightened by the noise and the smoke, the exhausted mare trotted away in confusion. The fire from the Ponderosa pines had already descended to the corral fence. She slammed through the gate, calling out to the two oldest mammophants.

Middle Man had backed to the far corner, away from the burning trees, away from the light. The big male trumpeted a sound like anguish, obviously frightened and confused. He bled from several wounds in his thick hide, but the injuries seemed relatively minor. Helen didn’t even stop to consider whether Middle Man might charge her.

In the center of the trampled enclosure lay Short Stuff, collapsed to the ground like a defeated calf in a rodeo spectacle. High-powered gunshots had blasted both of her forelegs, ripping gouges in muscle and bone until the female hybrid had crashed. Short Stuff chuffed and hooted as she struggled on the grass, her legs bloody and useless appendages.

In shock, revulsion, and helplessness, Helen swayed backward, grabbed for the corral fence to support herself, but missed. Watery-kneed, she sank down, and froze, utterly unable to do anything. Short Stuff trumpeted again in unspeakable pain.

Ralph Duncan strode into the corral, swinging his head from side to side, taking in details. His eyes had always looked world-wise, as if they’d already seen everything, but now his face had a disgusted horror. “God damn! God
damn
!”

He strode forward like an avenger, holding the powerful rifle at his side. Helen made a strangled sound, and he whirled, ready to shoot, but when he recognized her, his expression instantly changed. “Miz Pierce!”

Short Stuff let out another hollow, trumpeting call. Ralph’s expression hardened, and he turned away from Helen, ignoring her. Without hesitation, he marched up to the writhing, wounded mammophant, pushed the barrel of his rifle up against the base of Short Stuff’s massive skull, and pulled the trigger. The hybrid groaned and slumped. Ralph shot her again, then turned back to Helen. His face was ruddy and murderous. “God damn it!”

Shaking, Helen pushed back to her feet, then grabbed the corral fence and vomited. More shouts and gunshots came from the main lab complex. Through the fence and the trees she could see flames shooting from the admin building. She coughed and spat. “How many are there? What—”

He took her arm and led her out the gate. “Middle Man’s fine for now. I’ve got security troops split between defending the ranch and trying to fight the fires.” He touched his earpiece, listened, then shouted, “Dammit, don’t wait for the sheriff! Just move on it!”

Helen heard the distant patter of gunfire, military-style commands, and the frenzied shouts of shadowy attackers. They could have broken through the fences anywhere. Were these the same protesters that had innocuously waved their signs and posed for the TV cameras? Could it all have been a feint, a ploy to let Helyx security believe the Evos were ineffectual whiners and bored activists in search of a cause … when all the while they were planning this brutal strike as soon as they could get a man inside?

She saw birds fluttering in the trees, the passenger pigeons disturbed from their nests in the big oaks. “I’m going to the Hospital!” She heard sounds that could only be giant moas squawking in panic. “Ralph, get those fires put out!”

As she ran toward the Hospital, Ralph yelled louder into his voice pickup. On one side of the main admin building, a few men had set up a hose and were spraying the yellow flames on the log walls, but fiery fingers already crept along the roof.

Helen didn’t give a damn about the computers and office furniture inside. She ran toward the Hospital itself where all the retrograde hybrids were kept, her life’s work, the maturing ambassadors of species long extinct. Why would anybody want to harm them?

Probably the same people who break into cancer-research centers and “liberate” all the experimental animals
, she thought.
I guess they don’t see the contradiction.

Out in the Hospital yard, she saw tall, ostrich-like moas set free from their cages, wandering around in terrified confusion. Brown feathers ruffled, serpentine necks swiveling about, horny beaks open with hissing squawks, they kicked up dirt with lizard-like feet and pecked at any person who came close. Ungainly dodos scrambled about like overgrown drunken chickens, honking in fright. Helen heard other animals scream and yowl from within the Hospital itself. Smoke oozed through several broken windows, growing thicker, blacker.

Just then a man with a prim face and dapper-looking clothes stepped across the porch holding a revolver in his hand. Geoffrey Kinsman. Like a grim executioner, he pointed at the dodos and methodically shot them all, moving from one to the next to the next.

Though armed with nothing but her anger, Helen raced toward him. Other protesters ran past Kinsman into the lab building, not willing to simply let the fire do its work.

Kinsman turned toward the closest frightened moa, putting three bullets through its long neck. The giant bird toppled like a fallen tree. Not even pausing to reflect on his handiwork, the man stalked toward the smashed-open door of the Hospital and vanished inside.

Helen screamed in outrage, but Kinsman didn’t even notice her.

After stepping over the shattered carcasses of the magnificent lost birds, she barged into the main laboratory. Evos were overturning desks, smashing computers, dumping animal feed on the floor in a wild frenzy, like capering cannibals celebrating the arrival of a boatload of missionaries. These crusaders had no organization, no plan, just chaos.

Dressed in her jeans and camping clothes, Helen entered the lab, smelling the fire and spilled chemicals, the blood and nose-tingling gun smoke.

In the harsh, stinging smoke she saw Geoffrey Kinsman, proud slayer of helpless dodos and moas, trotting from cage to cage, shooting every creature inside. Fast, methodical, intent.

Helen’s eyes burned with disgust. Ducking through the smoky light, she went to the cages on the other side, past lab furniture, desks, equipment racks. She threw open cage doors and coops, chasing the dodos, moas, and other hybrids out, giving them a chance. Squawking and hissing, the marvelous creatures ran, fleeing the fire, fleeing the gunshots.

There, dammit! The chaos grew. Shouting and gunshots echoed from outside. She heard a shrill whistle, a bull-horn. A helicopter circling.

Grinning, a blond-haired, clean-shaven man ran past her holding a long shovel, battering file cabinets, smashing beakers, computer screens, even ceramic coffee cups. He took a swipe at a waddling dodo, missed, and Helen grabbed the shovel handle, wrenching it out of his grip.

The man shrugged, then toppled a heavy laser-ROM storage rack, scattering the prismatic platters like Christmas ornaments. He snatched up a crowbar some other protester had dropped.

From nearby came the sound of a window smashing. More strangers ran in through the Hospital door, carrying weapons.

When his pistol was empty, Kinsman took a repeater assault rifle from one of the Evos, checked that it was loaded. Then he looked up and saw Helen. Recognized her.

“Damn you!” she said, raising the shovel as if it was a match for his rifle.

Behind her, the reckless blond Evo grabbed the closed doors of the larger pens at the back of the laboratory. The barricaded, reinforced rooms.

Kinsman hesitated with his rifle, smug with self-justification. “This has to be done.”

With a deft twist the blond Evo pried open the lock. He must have expected nothing more than another awkward-looking bird. He held his crowbar loosely in one hand, as if ready to bash a few more animals.

And a saber-tooth cat lunged out at him, already maddened by the fire and the noise.

The big panther’s front fangs gleamed, as long as scimitars. It reared up to embrace the man and with a throaty growl it bore him down, muscles moving like liquid beneath its mottled, long-furred coat. The Evo screamed as the panther/sabretooth hybrid tore open his chest, raising long curved fangs and plunging once, twice, three times.

Helen managed to shout “No!”—just as a panicked Kinsman opened fire.

O O O

On the sedge grass, trampled and bloodstained, Cassie leaned over the gasping, quivering hulk of the fallen Majestica. The female almost-mammoth panted and shuddered, her body core ripped open by the grenades.

“She’s dying.” Cassie looked up at Alex, her eyes wide and pleading, as if somehow this important corporate executive could do something.

“Yeah,” he said uselessly.

She seemed to be in a daze, saw the shotgun slung low in his hand. “You shot at the Evos?”

“Forget them.”

Majestica’s body heaved and clenched and trembled in spasmodic labor—dying, but also following a biological imperative. Alex heard a snorting and pounding sound and held up his shotgun, ready to defend them against a continued Evo attack—but he saw only the huge head and long curved tusks of the angry Bullwinkle. The large mammoth stomped on the ground, thrashed his shortened trunk.