Jocko would play it by ear. See what seemed right at the time.
After gazing at no fire for half a minute, Jocko realized he had forgotten to kill Victor.
Jocko hooked fingers in his nostrils and pulled them toward his brow until his eyes watered. He deserved worse.
CHAPTER 40
Following the failure of the freezer motors, the saline solution in the transparent sack begins to warm.
After the busy visitor in the laboratory throws the sink that smashes the glass door, the pace of the warming accelerates.
The first improvement in Chameleon’s condition concerns its vision. In the cold environment, it sees only shades of blue. Now it begins to apprehend other colors, gradually at first, and then more rapidly.
For so long, Chameleon has drifted in the sack, mobility limited by the bitter cold of the fluid in which it is immersed. Now it is able to flex its abdomen and thorax. Its head turns more easily.
Suddenly it thrashes, thrashes again, a great commotion that causes the hanging sack to swing side to side and bump against the walls of the disabled freezer.
In semisuspended animation, Chameleon’s metabolism performs at a basal rate so low as to be almost undetectable. As the fluid in the sack warms, the catabolic processes increase.
With the energy provided by catabolism, anabolic processes begin to speed up. Chameleon is returning to full function.
The thrashing signifies a need for air. The highly oxygenated solution in the sack maintains Chameleon in subfreezing cold, but is inadequate to sustain it at full metabolic function.
Suffocation panic triggers Chameleon’s thrashing.
Although the polymeric fabric of the sack is as strong as bulletproof Kevlar, Chameleon’s combat claws rip it open.
Fourteen gallons of chemically treated saline solution gush out of the sack, spilling Chameleon into the freezer, through the missing door, and onto the floor of the laboratory.
Air flows into its spiracles and follows the tracheal tubes that branch throughout its body.
As it dries out, Chameleon regains its sense of smell.
It is able to detect only two odors: a specially engineered pheromone with which all of the New Race are tagged, and human beings of the Old Race, who are identifiable by a melange of pheromones
The smell of the New Race pleases Chameleon, and therefore they are EXEMPTS.
Because the Old Race lacks the artificial pheromone, their scent infuriates Chameleon, and they are TARGETS.
Chameleon lives to kill.
At the moment, it smells only EXEMPTS. And even all of them seem to be dead, sprawled throughout the room.
It crawls across the debris-strewn floor of the wrecked lab, through pools of water, seeking prey.
Every external tissue of Chameleon mimics to the smallest detail the surface under it: color, pattern, texture. No matter how simple or complex the ground under it, Chameleon will blend with it.
To any observer looking down on it, Chameleon is invisible when not in motion.
If Chameleon moves, the observer may sense something amiss, but he will not understand what his eyes perceive: a vague shifting of a part of the floor, an impossible rippling of a solid surface, as if the wood or stone, or the lawn, has become fluid.
Most of the time, the observer will interpret this phenomenon not as a real event but as disturbing evidence of a problem internal to himself: dizziness or hallucination, or the first symptom of an oncoming stroke.
Often, the observer will close his eyes for a moment, to settle his disturbed senses. Closing his eyes is the end of him.
If Chameleon is on a higher plane than the floor, perhaps a kitchen countertop, it will remain invisible from the side only if the backsplash is of the same material as the surface on which it stands. Otherwise, it will be visible as a silhouette.
For this reason, Chameleon generally remains low as it stalks its prey. A TARGET becomes aware of his attacker only when it skitters up his leg, ripping as it goes.
The wrecked lab offers no TARGETS.
Chameleon proceeds into the hallway. Here it discovers numerous EXEMPTS, all dead.
Taking more time to consider these cadavers than it did those in the lab, Chameleon discovers heads split open, brains missing.
Interesting.
This is not how Chameleon does its work. Effective, however.
Among the debrained EXEMPTS, Chameleon detects a whiff of a TARGET. One of the Old Race has been here recently.
Chameleon follows the scent to the stairs.
CHAPTER 41
Rain had not yet reached the parishes above Lake Pontchartrain. The humid night lay unbreathing but expectant, as if the low overcast and the dark land had compressed the air between them until at any moment an electric discharge would shock the heart of the storm into a thunderous beating.
Deucalion stood on a deserted two-lane road, outside Crosswoods Waste Management. The facility was enormous. A high chain-link fence was topped with coils of barbed wire and fitted with continuous nylon privacy panels. RESTRICTED AREA signs every forty feet warned of the health hazards of a landfill.
Outside the fence, a triple phalanx of loblolly pines encircled the property, the rows offset from one another. Between ninety and a hundred feet tall, these trees formed an effective screen, blocking views into the dump from the somewhat higher slopes to the north and east.
Deucalion walked off the road, among the pines, and went through the fence by way of a gate that didn’t exist — a quantum gate — into the dump.
He had night vision better than that of the Old Race, even better than that of the New. His enhanced eyesight, not the work of Victor, was perhaps another gift delivered on the lightning that had animated him, the ghost of which still sometimes throbbed through his gray eyes.
He walked a rampart of compacted earth, a span more than wide enough to accommodate an SUV. To both his left and right, well below the level of this elevated pathway, were huge lakes of trash heaped in uneven swells that would eventually be plowed level before being capped with eight feet of earth and methane-gas vent pipes.
The stench offended, but he had encountered worse in the past two hundred years. In his first two decades, after leaving Victor for dead in the arctic, Deucalion frequently had been seized by the urge to violence, raging at the injustice of having been stitched together and animated by a narcissistic would-be god who could give his creation neither meaning nor peace, nor any hope of fellowship and community. In his most haunted and self-pitying hours, Deucalion prowled graveyards and broke into granite crypts, mausoleums, where he tore open caskets and forced himself to gaze upon the decomposing corpses, saying aloud to himself, “Here is what you are, just dead flesh, dead flesh, the bones and guts of arsonists, of murderers, filled with false life, dead and alive, not fit for any other world but an abomination in this one.” Standing at those open caskets, he’d known stenches that, by comparison, made this Louisiana dump smell as sweet as a rose garden.
In those graveyard visits, during those long staring matches with sightless cadavers, he had yearned to die. Although he tried, he was unable to submit to a well-stropped razor or to a hangman’s noose that he fashioned, and
