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Dawes stabilized enough to be moved to the proper infirmary at the 158th Fighter Wing. The entire team wanted to join Britton in his vigil beside Dawes’s bed. He had to force them to stow their gear, shower, and change first. Britton skipped the shower and sat in his dirty flight suit, pistol still on his thigh, brooding, as Dawes stirred in drugged sleep.
He permitted himself the luxury of kicking off his boots as he reflected on the girl’s death, too rattled to concentrate on the after-action report. A newspaper lay on the stand beside his chair, the front page reading MESCALERO INSURGENCY FLARES. TWO SOLDIERS KILLED IN SELFER AMBUSH. The article featured a picture of an Apache Selfer, his long hair whipped by a summoned storm cloud. Lightning arced from his fingers.
He looked at the headline.
Eventually, exhaustion overcame grief, and Britton’s head drooped to the windowsill. He was only dimly aware of Cheatham entering with a sleeping bag. “Sent the rest off to bed,” the warrant officer said. “No sense in all of us crowding in here.”
Britton mumbled thanks and drifted off to sleep.
A breeze washed over his face, and the low rumble of the salvage truck woke him. He opened his eyes, looking out the window to the flight line for his battered Kiowa, but there was no sign of the truck. His eyes swept over the digital billboard at the center of the tree-lined swath of lawn abutting the flight line. SOUTH BURLINGTON AIR NATIONAL GUARD, the sign read. 158TH FIGHTER WING. GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS. The readout reported 0200 hours and 33 degrees Fahrenheit. A narrow concrete path led toward a set of trailers. U.S. ARMY SUPERNATURAL OPERATIONS CORPS (SOC), the sign above them read, LIAISON OFFICE.
The rumble that wasn’t a truck engine and the breeze continued. Was Dawes snoring? Britton looked at the bed. Moonlight dusted through the window, outlining all in silver. Dawes slept; Cheatham was stretched in his sleeping bag on the floor.
The rumble pulsed. The gust of air hit him again, warm and foul.
Britton turned and stared into a black shape blocking the moonlight. Behind it, a vague rectangle hovered, its edges indistinct. Light wavered across its surface, dancing like television static. Through it he could see a vast plain, patchy with scrub grass.
Adrenaline bullied sleep aside. He jolted in his chair, and the black shape reared, snorting. Long horns corkscrewed toward him.
His mind recoiled, his skin going cold with shock.
An instant later, his training bulled the shock aside.
He punched the creature hard on the snout, knuckles cracking against a plate of solid bone. The thing grunted and reeled away, stumbling into the corner. It vaguely resembled a bull, bunched shoulders hulking with muscle. Its slick hide shimmered and blended with the shadows, forcing Britton to squint to see it. Its broad snout snuffled, rumbling like the salvage truck.
He heard Cheatham shout, and called out “Give me a damn hand here!” as he pursued the thing, hammering it with his fists. It crouched, curling under the rain of blows. Reality shivered up his arm with each connecting punch. He wasn’t dreaming.
Cheatham rushed to his side, seizing one of the horns. The thing heaved, tossing its head and sending the warrant officer sprawling across Dawes, who awoke with a yell. It stormed toward the flickering portal, which snapped shut, vanishing and plunging the room into darkness.
The creature turned, blinking in confusion. It lowed, a throaty mix of a moo and a growl. Britton drew his pistol and thumbed off the safety as it lowered its head and charged.
He twisted, avoiding the horns and catching the bony plate of the creature’s forehead against his bruised ribs. They howled anew as the thing drove him to the floor. Britton couldn’t see Cheatham or Dawes, and, not wanting to risk shooting them, he pounded its head with the pistol butt, jarring uselessly against the hard bone. He pivoted on his hips, unable to throw the creature off. It drew back its head, jaws opening to reveal rows of dark teeth.
Britton saw Cheatham rising beside Dawes’s bed, well clear. He jammed the pistol into the thing’s mouth and pulled the trigger. Its head whipped back and it fell over on its side, vomiting black blood. It lashed its tufted tail, kicked outward, and went still.
He leapt to his feet, training his pistol on it. His vision grayed out, and he awakened to a sense of drowning. An invisible tide suffocated him with its intensity. He felt his veins bulge with the force of the flow, penetrating his muscles, trilling in his nerves, saturating the pores of his skin. His legs went weak, and Cheatham gripped his elbow.
“You okay?” Cheatham asked.
Britton closed his eyes and cursed, feeling the tide pulse through him. He recalled the videos the army had made him watch, films with titles like
Magic.
His stomach heaved.
He made for the chair. Cheatham’s hand tightened on his elbow, holding him fast.
“Give me the gun, sir.” The warrant officer’s voice was hard.
A gate snapped open just below the ceiling, hovered for a moment, then disappeared. Britton’s shoulders spasmed as the current surged through him.
“It’s you, sir, isn’t it?” Cheatham asked.
Britton nodded. “I can’t control it. I feel sick…”
He heard shouting. People were coming.
“Just give me the gun, sir,” Cheatham said, “and I’ll help you sit down. You can rest for a minute, then we’ll go get Harlequin.”
Britton recoiled. “No, Dan! Portamancy’s a prohibited school! They’ll kill me!”
The door opened, and a sleepy-looking orderly in blue scrubs appeared. “What the hell’s…” He trailed off as he noticed the corpse that was not quite a bull, then fled.
“Jesus, sir,” Dawes said weakly from his bed, propped on his elbows. “You’re a fuckin’ Probe? Warrant Officer Cheatham, you gotta—”
“Shut the hell up, Dawes,” Cheatham said. “I’ve got this.”
“Let me go, Dan,” Britton said. “You saw what they did to that girl. They’ll kill me.”
“You don’t know that, sir. You haven’t attacked anyone with it.” Cheatham sounded lighthearted, but he held Britton’s arm like a vise. He moved to block the door. “Maybe they’ll ship you off to one of those Marine Suppression Lances, or you can go into the monitoring program at NIH…Maybe they’ll take you to that secret base and train you.”
“There is no secret base! You don’t believe that conspiracy-theory crap! Probes don’t get a break! They disappear!” Britton shouted. “Christ, Dan! How long have we worked together? You’ve got to help me!”
Boots pounded in the hallway. Dawes sat up, wincing in pain, and shouted, “In here! Help!”
Britton leveled the pistol at Cheatham’s face. “Let me go, Dan. Christ as my witness, I will shoot you.”
Cheatham didn’t budge. “Go ahead, sir. How far do you think you’ll get? You give me the gun and turn yourself in now, and you have a chance. You run, you’re already dead.”
Two Military Police officers appeared in the doorway, pistols drawn. One gasped at the sight of the creature. The other leveled his gun at Britton, “Drop your weapon, sir! Get down on the ground! Right now!”
Another gate slid open to Britton’s side. Beyond it, he could see the plain again, rough grasses rustling in the wind.
Britton’s eyes flicked to the MPs, then to Cheatham. It was his chance to turn himself in, to lean on the
