The Colony: A Novel (5 page)

Kendra sprang to her feet, dusting off sand, and headed to the anthill beside Kate. A few of the worker ants were tearing one another apart. She grinned and let out a breath of relief.

Another positive test.

In a few hours, she predicted, the colony would be dead.

*   *   *

By 9:00
A.M.
the scorching heat had sent most of the colony into their tunnels. Blotches of sweat covered the front of Kendra’s jumpsuit like a Rorschach test. Kate was counting ants, while Derek and Jane were sprawled out in the shade.

The hum of an engine in the distance perked up their ears. It grew louder, and then a black all-terrain vehicle flew over a sand dune, straight for the worksite. Dust spun in its wheels as it swiveled to a stop by the yellow Jeep.

Derek moved protectively over to Kendra and she held up a finger to her students. “Just hang back. It’s probably one of the new park rangers with nothing better to do than hassle hardworking scientists.”

A tall, blond, clean-cut man in a black suit and sunglasses got out of the driver’s seat and walked toward Kendra. He had a clenched jaw, razor-sharp lips and a seriously determined stride that made her smirk as he approached.

“What are you, FBI?”

“Yes, ma’am. Agent Dan Cameron.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m not, Professor Hart.”

Kendra pulled off her sunglasses and he did the same. The dry desert heat made Kendra feel like bread toasting too close to the coils, but this guy didn’t break a sweat. She looked into his blue eyes, light as crystals, and went back to counting ants. “Could you move back? Your shadow is throwing my little friends here off course.”

“You’re going to have to come with me,” he told her. “The fact is, you’re needed as a consultant for the U.S. government.”

Consultant?
Kendra had served as a consultant before, in Texas and Florida. She figured this could mean only one thing: someone important was having problems with insects. She imagined the president of the United States waking up in a bed full of fire ants, before realizing the scenario was ridiculous.

“A consultant for what?”

“Can’t say. I’m only assigned to pick you up.”

She choked back a laugh. “I thought you guys only did this in bad movies.”

Cameron flipped open his agency identification. “I’ve already cleared things with the dean.”

“I’m going to have to call him myself.”

“Fine,” he replied and handed her a satellite phone.

Kendra knew she was beat. She lowered her gaze to the rippling landscape that the desert winds had sculpted overnight. All the ants on the surface were dead, except a dozen stragglers fighting on top of the mound. With a grunt, she kicked a spray of sand and they scattered toward the hole.

“Hey,” Kate said, flicking sand off her clipboard. The other two students looked uneasily at the FBI agent.

“Just wrap it up, Kate. You’ll have to catch a ride with Derek. Looks like I’ve got somewhere to go.” Kendra pulled back her shoulders and asked, “So where exactly are we headed?”

“New York.”

“
Really.
” She nodded with a smirk of curiosity.

*   *   *

Forty minutes later, Kendra was standing on the tarmac of Las Cruces International Airport, wearing a fresh pair of jeans, a crisp white cotton shirt and Doc Marten boots. The depressing sight of her pets scampering boundlessly across the desert was still clear in her mind.

The loud engine of a Cessna jet thwotted overhead. Kendra wiped her eyes, which stung from the swirling dust and contact lenses she rarely ever wore. Her hands were shaking. All the way to the airport she had pleaded her case of claustrophobia, but never had she expected such a small aircraft.

Agent Cameron tossed her duffel bag to the pilot and reached for Kendra’s hand.

She pressed her palms to her chest in a dramatic gesture. “Seriously,” she yelled over the engine, “I’ll have a panic attack! I might even be dangerous.”

“It’s all right,” he replied loudly, pushing her toward the doorway. “I’ve got a gun.”

CHAPTER 7

CARLOS GONZALES HAD WORKED
nights in the New York subways for twenty-three years and there was no place he felt more at home than the dark, winding tunnels of the number 6 Lexington line. He knew every track bed, swing signal, wire and bulb.

The trains were fully automated and operated by a computerized guidance system out of Transit Authority Traffic Control, but when there was a problem that none of the electronic wizards could diagnose, Carlos would do a manual check. He didn’t mind; it was the part of the job he most enjoyed.

But the call came in on his night off, just minutes before his grandson’s birthday party. He grumbled to his wife, “Signal’s down, same as yesterday. I supposed to check the whole Six line. Ees going to take all night, Rosa.”

“
No quejarse.
The boys will save you some cake.
Mira,
Carvel Cookie Puss.”

Carlos entered the tunnels with his toolbox in one hand and flashlight in the other. It was the end of rush hour when he checked the first switches, tightened the circuits and flipped the override buttons, then rode a train to the next stop. By 11:00
P.M.
there were few commuters and fewer trains to worry about. The last station was Seventy-seventh Street and he jumped onto the track bed and followed the tunnel to the hotbox.

Carlos knew he had seven minutes until the next train passed so he worked swiftly down his checklist. The job was nearly done when something odd caught his eye and he moved his flashlight to the wall. A huge chunk of concrete was missing and the surrounding tile was pocked full of holes and chinks.

“Qué es este?”
Carlos whispered. He slid his hand along the wall and flakes fell to the ground. He checked his watch. Three minutes left.

With both hands, he pressed hard against the concrete. This time a mammoth section of wall crumbled to the ground and Carlos doubled back just in time. The flashlight illuminated a storm of dust, and when the debris settled, the light hit a cavity the size of a Volkswagen.

Carlos sucked in a breath of terror. Hundreds of rat skeletons lay across the rubble, skulls and bones glaring white and picked clean.

“Mal espíritu,”
Carlos rasped and stepped back again, nearly tripping over himself as a shiver of fright raced up the back of his neck. He felt as though he were witnessing something supernatural. Carlos shined the light into the hole and could see an endless carpet of bones. There was a crackling sound and he aimed the beam down the track bed, checked his watch. Two minutes. He was shaking and wanted to get out of there, so he grabbed his toolbox, but a flicker of movement spun him around.

The flashlight fell upon the white tile wall covered in thin lines. Shiny black glass like the bobby pins Rosa wore—only, they seemed to be in motion. He followed the shimmering trails to the steel beams overhead and the concrete ceiling. There was a whistle of a train in the far-off distance. Carlos knew he had seconds to get out of there and he turned to run.

All at once, clumps of insects dropped silently down on him, like the muted patter of moss, falling onto his head and shoulders. He dropped his toolbox and flashlight, bending over and shaking his head wildly as legions of soldiers dropped from the rafters onto his back. Carlos felt the sting of a thousand needles stabbing in the dark. Venom shot into his eyes and burned through his corneas. He screamed and stumbled backward, swatting at his face and falling over the second rail. He gagged as they began to fill his mouth and swollen airways. Then the stings turned into bites, jaws hungry to devour meat.

Carlos heaved out a lungful of air and insects with a croaking sound deep within his throat. He staggered down the tunnel, half blind. Fire ripped through his swollen arteries and his body became a furnace, torched from the inside out. The pain grew unbearable, an agony no human could endure. Frantic for the torment to end, he rammed his head into the concrete wall. There was a whistle above the hammering in his brain and he turned his bloodied face into the bright white headlight.

Carlos tipped his head back in relief as the train struck, nearly cutting his torso in half.

CHAPTER 8

IT WAS TWO WEEKS
since New York mayor John Russo had read about the first attack in the
Daily News.
The headline screamed,
THEM!

Now he had fifty news stories and computer printouts strewn across his mahogany desk. With raging black eyes, he stared down at the sensational photos. Russo had the temper of a pit bull and the body to match, broad at the chest and rounded at the shoulders, with a long torso that tapered down to a pair of short, sinewy legs. He puffed on a cigar and ran his thick fingers through a comb-over, dyed an unnatural black.

The latest post was from an MSNBC website minutes ago. Last night a subway worker covered in ants had to be practically scraped off the face of the number 6 motor car.

Russo winced.

“The White House confirmed your call for nine-thirty,” said his secretary, Olivia, standing outside his office. “And the exterminators just arrived so you better start packing.” She went back to her desk. Russo smiled. Things were going better than he expected. Already he had spoken to the president three times and the head of Homeland Security twice. He knew the road to glory was paved with small victories. Like union strikes, terrorism and three-alarm fires, this ant thing was a blessing in disguise.

Olivia buzzed. “Sir, it’s the governor on line three.”

He grumbled again and picked up the phone. “Hey, Bob.”

“John, I asked you to get me those reports first thing this morning. Why offer to handle the paperwork if you’re just going to sit on it? Is that what you’re doing, John, sitting on it?”

“Look, all we’ve got is a few deaths, couple of stings, and specimens as harmless as fucking butterflies. This is local. We’re doing just fine on our own.”

“That’s not what I’m hearing. You’ve got Washington involved and that’s where I step in. The deadline is noon, got it?”

“Sure, sure. Noon.”

“I’m not kidding. Elections are six months away and you’ll need my support.”

Russo hung up the phone and laughed. He had won the mayoral race in a landslide without a single endorsement. He didn’t need any politician in Albany to get his votes. He was a fierce competitor and devoutly regarded the city as his own. Politics was his calling, like the priesthood to his brother Salvatore. But while Sal had only to satisfy God, Russo had to please a million civil servants who never agreed on anything and 8 million New Yorkers who agreed on even less. He had been tough on crime and tougher on terrorism. The White House practically gave him sole credit for preventing two of the worst terrorist attacks on the city, in which he bypassed federal law enforcement and sniffed out multiple al-Qaeda cells using his own police force and street snitches. With the dismal state of world affairs growing more dangerous every day, citizens felt safe with John Russo at the helm.

Yet he had higher aspirations. A large audience of zealous Republicans clapping wildly on the right, covetous Democrats tapping palms on the left.
Mr. Speaker, the president of the United States—

It was practically guaranteed.

Russo packed his briefcase. He would be heading to the secret location, the most secure place in Manhattan. Even the press didn’t know about it.

He glanced at the clock and grimaced. Paul O’Keefe was supposed to join him for the ride. The mayor wondered if it was a mistake, putting the notable entomologist in charge of solving the ant crisis. Russo had a habit of appointing a single person to manage every disaster. The main criteria for the job was expertise in the field, a deep understanding of public relations, knowing how to balance a budget—and doing exactly what the mayor advised. Paul seemed well qualified.

Olivia buzzed again. “Sir, it’s the president. Line one.”

Russo grinned and picked up the phone. “Mr. President. Glad to hear from you.”

The mayor listened intently, and his face turned grave.

*   *   *

Paul found himself lost in Gracie Mansion. He had declined an escort and took one wrong turn after another. By the time he remembered the mayor’s study was in an upstairs parlor, he was out of breath and twenty minutes late.

Russo was hunched over the phone with an expression of disbelief. Paul recognized the look quite well; more news about the ants. He cleared his throat and the mayor looked up, gestured to a chair.

Paul didn’t feel like sitting. Instead, he walked quietly to a window and watched the crowd of press photographers crawling all over the grounds. Reporters had been camped out on the porch since dawn, undeterred by a cop at the entrance who kept insisting that the mayor was out of town.

An exterminator strolled casually into the office, whistling through a handlebar mustache, snapping gum, and spraying chemicals along the floorboards. He was wearing a gray jumpsuit labeled
DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH AND HYGIENE
and he carried a tank of poison on his back.

Paul sighed. The man’s attempts to kill the ants seemed comical.

Russo hung up the phone and Paul was ready with the same excuses. “I don’t have anything new,” he told the mayor. “The samples taken from the two victims this morning—”

Russo raised an impatient hand. “Never mind all that. I’ve got some news, straight from the White House. This is big, Paul.
Really
big.” He threw on his suit jacket and stopped at the window. “Those damn reporters still out there?”

“They’re just trying to find out what’s going on, John … sir … Mr. Mayor.” Paul was still unsure how to address Russo. They’d been “close friends” for less than two weeks, since the first ant attack. “We can’t keep telling the press these are normal ants. Letting them believe the victims died of allergies.”

“Well, we’re not ready to talk yet.” The mayor grabbed a cigar smoldering in an ashtray and started for the door. “Follow me. This is a critical meeting.”