Last Gasp

and pistols, the mutes with primitive homemade weapons: It was the twenty-first century versus the Stone Age. But what were they fighting for? Ownership of this barren tract of valley and riverbed that wouldn't have supported a couple of goats?

As they moved forward, dodging the missiles casually, almost indifferently, the three men picked off the mutes like plaster ducks in a shooting gallery. Dan gripped his own rifle in a paroxysm of frustration and despair. This was cold-blooded slaughter.

Jo said needlessly, 'There's nothing we can do.' She reached out and he felt her fingers tighten on his arm. 'Come on, Dan, let's go back. We don't have to watch this.'

She moved back, and as he squirmed around on his haunches to follow her, they both froze as a grunting, gibbering snarl seemed to tear the air apart. From out of the cavelike opening in the riverbank came a small bundle of fur and teeth that moved in a blur through the rocks and leaped at the throat of one of the men before he had time to sight his gun. In seconds the riverbed was swarming with the creatures. They moved so fast that Dan couldn't make out what they were--a kind of rodent, he guessed, but with an insatiable ferocity he'd never seen before.

They systematically tore the three men apart, attacking the head first and working downward. Now able to see them properly for the first time, Dan realized what they were, and his blood chilled. Ground squirrels. In the past one of the most timid and docile of creatures, almost domesticated and fed from picnic tables by generations of American kids, these descendants had mutated into voracious wild animals with a taste for human meat.

And something else he realized, amazed and fearful.

'They've been trained,' he whispered numbly. 'The mutes have trained the squirrels. It was a trap. They lured those guys out of the tank so that the squirrels could get at them.'

Jo stared at him through the tinted goggles. 'But some of the mutes were killed.'

'It doesn't seem to.matter to them,' Dan said. 'They don't think like we do. Maybe they don't think at all--it's just instinct.'

There were three writhing mounds of gray fur where the bodies had been. The clicking and snapping of tiny teeth could be heard, strangely peaceful after the gunfire and the screams. Three of the mutes had climbed up onto the tank and were poking their spears into the open hatch. Dan hoped there was no one hiding inside.

Once over the ridge they straightened up and loped down the hill to the camp, about a mile away. The raw sunlight scoured the bleached landscape and the air tasted metallic. They were reaching the point at which further exposure would be dangerous, though this wasn't the reason Dan was anxious to return to the Tomb. Six months ago there hadn't been an incident within a hundred miles. As the skirmishes got closer, the threat of discovery became more likely, and it was vital that the Tomb was alerted and prepared. It was safe from attack by prims and mutes, but now somebody--and who the hell were they?--had tanks. And tanks meant explosives. Even perhaps a nuke warhead. He shrank from the thought.

The tent was still up. The lazy bastards were still asleep or lingering over a late breakfast.

Dan pushed aside the light brush they had piled up as camouflage and raised the tent flap. It was very quiet inside and he felt a twinge of unease until he saw an outstretched leg wearing a knee-high brown boot, which he recognized as Fran's. The leg wasn't attached to her body. Next to it lay a hand, fingers curled, like a discarded glove.

The interior of the tent was dark, the canvas walls obscured by something that seethed. They were coated with millions of tiny white grubs. The grubs covered every surface and they were feasting on the three bodies and devouring them piece by piece. In the middle of Fran's chest was a hole that pulsed whitely as the grubs burrowed inside.

Small, bald, and rotund, Art Hegler was at the communications desk with headphones around his neck listening over the desk speaker and making an occasional jotting. The message was in Morse, very fast, outstripping Chase's rudimentary knowledge, and the few words he did catch were jumbled and meaningless.

After a minute or two Hegler threw down the pen and arched back. His taut straining T-shirt read: 'From the womb to the Tomb.'

'Same code?'

Hegler nodded, dropped the headphones onto the desk, and waddled across to the coffeepot. 'Want some?'

Chase shook his head. Two cups a day were his limit. 'Is it military traffic?'

Hegler shrugged. Their conversations were usually terse and cryptic. Perhaps Hegler resented the fact that he was still nominally in charge at Desert Range, when everyone knew that the scientific basis for its existence had long since ended. With its empty labs and silent equipment, the lower levels sealed off, the installation was a shadow of its former glory.

Hegler sipped his coffee and paused to belch softly. 'Whatever it is, it goes on night and day,' he said, as if inwardly musing.

'At least it's not alien,' Chase said, trying to lighten the mood. There had been a rash of UFO sightings over previous months and he'd even heard a few people speak seriously of an 'invasion.'

'The source is southwest,' Hegler said, leaning over the desk and jabbing a stubby finger at the map. 'I can't pinpoint it exactly, but I'd say between two and three hundred miles.'

'Anything in that area?'

'Yosemite National Park, Death Valley, China Lake Naval Weapons Station, Fort Irwin, Las Vegas. Take your pick.'

'So there is a military presence near the source of the signal,' Chase said thoughtfully.

'Is. Was. Who knows what's there anymore?'

'And what about Emigrant Junction?' Chase said, studying the map. 'Is that an actual location or just a call sign?'

Hegler shrugged again. 'If it exists I can't find it.'

Chase listened for a moment to the remorseless beeping coming over the speaker. 'Does nothing in the message make sense? I thought I heard the word 'island.' Did you get that?'

'Comes up pretty often. That's in plain English, but then it's followed by a string of characters and digits.' Hegler glanced at him sideways. 'If you think you can crack it you're welcome to try.'

'I'll leave it to the experts,' Chase said, smiling and shaking his head. 'Anyway, I wouldn't want to deprive you and Ron of hours of harmless amusement.'

Art Hegler reached out to fine-tune the dial. Chase admired his persistence. It had been sheer accident that the signals were detected at all: Ron Maxwell had picked them up on a random sweep several months ago, and ever since he and Hegler had spent countless hours monitoring them and trying to crack the code. Why they went to all this time and trouble wasn't clear--even to them, Chase suspected.

Like most activity in the Tomb it had taken on the form of ritual, a way to get through the day.

They were all, himself included, on a journey with no destination. There was a time bomb ticking away inside every brain. The trick was to ignore it, to swamp it with ceaseless activity so that the ticking faded until it was no more intrusive than the background hum of the filtration plant. Of course one day--one day--the ticking, like the filtration plant, would stop and the bomb would explode. But he didn't want to think about that. Neither did Hegler nor Maxwell nor any of the others, which was why they carried on obsessively with futile tasks.

'Hear that?' Hegler said suddenly.

Chase paid attention, but the Morse sounded the same as before, garbled and indecipherable. 'What is it?'

'Answering message. They gave the call sign: Island-whatever-it-is to Emigrant Junction and then the coded message follows.'

'Can you locate the island? If we knew who they were talking to--'

Hegler waved his pudgy hand impatiently. 'It's a random signal, could be coming from practically anywhere, and we only have one directional fix on it. There's more than one island though,' he added, frowning at the console.

'How do you know that?'