to the glop served the evening before, except that there was only one meatball in her portion and kernels of canned corn had been added. Once she was finished, Myra took her hubcap over to the kitchen area where she turned it in prior to leaving for work.
The first thing Myra noticed about the Med Center was the absence of a line. But that wasn’t too unusual for a three-day when most people did whatever they could to keep a low profile. So as Myra opened the door, and stepped inside, she was readying herself to face the usual chores, many of which were quite unpleasant.
But what awaited her was something entirely different.
A familiar stench hung heavy in the air, people were sobbing, and three heavily armed Hybrids were present. As was Norma Collins.
“You’re five minutes late,” the collaborator said accusingly, as if she was in charge of the clinic. “Turn around and go back outside.”
Myra led the way, closely followed by her fellow staffers and all of the patients, some of whom were so sick they could barely walk, dressed in little more than street clothes, with nothing more than socks on their feet. A few complained, but doing so was pointless as the Chimera herded them onto the spiral road.
Myra felt liquid lead collect in the pit of her stomach and battled to control the sudden desire to go to the bathroom.
Judging from appearances the stinks had been waiting inside the clinic for some time. If so, that would explain why people had been unwilling to interact with Myra earlier, knowing as they did that she was marked for death. Some were sad, no doubt, but secretly happy as well, having been granted another seventy-two hours of life.
Myra’s head swiveled back and forth as she looked for her husband, desperately hoping for one last moment of eye contact and a final wave, but he was nowhere to be seen. Yet that meant Henry would live a bit longer, and she was grateful.
That left Myra with nothing to do but trudge up the muddy slope and face what lay ahead. The air smelled clean and fresh, with just a slight tang of wood smoke. The weak, nearly powerless sunlight bathed everything around her in gold, and Myra could hear blood pounding in her ears as she and her doomed companions circled the pit like birds uncertain of where to land. She had regrets, but very few, and felt fortunate to be alive, if only for a short while longer.
As Walker left Escape Tunnel 1, made his way through the four-holer beyond, and stepped out into the well- churned muck, he knew instantly that something was wrong. An almost perfect silence hung over the pit, hundreds of people stood staring up at the road, and then he remembered. It was three-day, the stinks were making a withdrawal from their meat bank, and people were going to die. That was when the glop master named Edith turned to him with tears running down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said sympathetically. “Myra was a very nice person.”
What felt like ice water trickled into Walker’s veins.
“No!” he shouted, and began to run. If the stinks were going to take Myra, then he would go as well, and they would die together.
Burl heard Walker, saw him start to run, and knew what the man had in mind. But Burl was aware of the recorder, the recordings, and how important they were.
So he hurried to cut Walker off, threw his arms around him, and brought the ex-Secretary of War crashing down. Then, as members of the Fair and Square Squad hurried to help, Burl kept Walker from getting up.
That was when Tolly and a group of his cronies sauntered over. Tolly offered Burl an evil grin. “Remember this the next time a dump falls out of the sky,” the committeeman said ominously. “And remember, it belongs to
That generated a chorus of agreement from the other committeemen, who slapped one another’s backs, and left as a group.
Another day had begun.
There were lights inside what had been the mine’s smelter, but not very many, because the Spinners wanted it that way. Like the rest of the forms to which the Chimeran virus had given life, the Spinners had a specific purpose, and an important one. That was to take human beings, and seal them inside a chrysalis-like cocoon, where a complex series of chemical reactions converted them into whatever type of Chimera was in short supply at the moment. Hybrids mostly, since they were the foot soldiers in the battle to conquer Earth, and were subject to a high casualty rate.
None of this was known to the Spinners, who were little more than parts in a biological machine, the purpose of which was beyond their understanding.
So as Myra was forced to enter the long rectangular building, and gagged on the stench, she was unaware of the fact that the Hybrids urging her forward had once been human. And that was just as well, because knowing would have served no purpose other than to make an already horrible experience even worse. As she moved forward, scritching sounds were heard and hideous-looking monsters peered out from the compartments in which they lived. Cubicles which, judging from the layer of the fecal matter in them, hadn’t been cleaned out in quite a while.
As Myra was chivvied down the main corridor, her knees felt weak, and her heart beat like a trip hammer. She knew the stinks were going to kill her, but she didn’t know how. And not knowing was worse than any fate she could imagine.
Then she was there, standing in front of an open bay as a Spinner came out to inspect her. It was about the size of a large dog, and walked crablike on six claw-shaped feet. Myra screamed, and screamed
Meanwhile, in the curing room a hundred feet away, a scabrous arm shot out of a cocoon. One of dozens that occupied that particular area. Pieces of rotting chrysalis fell away to land on the filth below as the Hybrid struggled to deliver itself. There was a ripping sound as the pod broke open and a scabrous thing staggered out onto the floor. It was clad in rags and the sad remnants of a pair of lace-up hunting boots.
Myra was dead by that time—and a Chimera had been born.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Talking the Talk
Denver, Colorado
Saturday, December 15, 1951
It was snowing beyond the large picture window that looked out over the Denver Federal Center. The flakes were big and wet, as if determined to reach the ground in record time, where they quickly turned to slush.
In spite of what he had repeatedly said to the press, President Grace didn’t like Denver, Colorado. But given the intermittent spire attacks—like the one that narrowly missed him while visiting the Lincoln Memorial—it was the best place to be. The brush with death had been a very unsettling experience. It not only cast doubt upon his ability to protect the citizens of the United States, but it forced the government to flee inland.
And the incident left Grace with a knot of fear in his belly. Not just a fear of failure, but fear for his life, which had been threatened on that dark day.
Such were his thoughts as he turned away from the wintry scene that lay beyond the glass, crossed his recently completed office, and entered the hall beyond. The crown molding was up by that time, but as he made his way down the corridor painters were still at work, and it was necessary to thread his way between their
