Читать книгу Arachnosaur - Richard Jeffries - Страница 13

Chapter 6

One step out of the bar and the wind slapped them in the face and roared as if Daniels had called her a whore.

Key stepped back instinctively, but saw Gonzales hunker into the tempest and continue toward his pretty remarkable vehicle. It was obviously a personally modified half-track that could run on wheels, treads, or both. There was also something Key had never seen: stiff plastic and rubber flaps hanging outside each door, which allowed Gonzalez to worm inside and grab some shrouded turbans without the cab being filled with blown sand.

He pressed a headcover into each man’s arms, and made circular hand movements to indicate how they should be worn, before the sirocco-like conditions filled the orifices of Key and Daniels with silt. Then the newly minted men from the Criminal Investigative Division followed him to the vehicle and crawled into the cab—like astronauts navigating international space station airlocks. Gonzales all but dragged Daniels into the rest area behind the seats, then shoved Key into the passenger bucket, before slamming and locking the driver’s portal with a sharp twist of his wrist.

“That was a blast,” Daniels cracked.

“Comes in fast—you got to be quick around monsoon season, or they’ll still be picking grit out of your ass at your funeral,” he said by way of apology. Then he spread his hands as if presenting a birthday cake. “Welcome to the Desert Demon.”

Key knew about deserts. He was practically raised in one. He was raised in the mountains of Riverside County, California. His home was located in the town of his birth, Murrieta, on a ridge overlooking the Temecula Valley; the Mount Palomar observatory glistened atop a peak on the opposite side. Wildfires caused by cigarettes or lightning frequently ripped through the adjoining Santa Rosa Plateau or hills covered with brush: there was one burning the day Josiah was brought home from the hospital. It was not wrong to say the boy was born in fire.

Key’s father Dan was a marine recruiter who worked out of nearby Fallbrook. Most of the people he signed up were sent to nearby Camp Pendleton. Key’s mother Genie, Captain Logan had called her a singer because that was how Key had listed her on all the forms. The truth is she was a former showgirl, complete with boas and fans, who had worked four hours to the east on Interstate 15, Las Vegas. Key was conceived, he later learned, during one of his father’s extended leaves. His bastard-conception had never bothered him; Genie could have had an abortion but wanted the child. A paternity test later, Dan did the honorable thing.

Genie still had a lot of friends in Sin City, and she and her son often took weekend trips there. That was when kids could be left alone in a hotel room without child services being called. Along the way, at the behest of her only child, they would pull off the main route and spend a few well-hydrated hours in Death Valley, which was more-or-less on the way.

Living at the edge of the so-called Inland Empire, Key had always watched the massive dust storms blowing by in the distance—the Bound for Glory, mountain-high balls of sand that rolled onward over and through everything in its way. Even from a height of more than two thousand feet up, he could see cars pulling off the road as their headlights were obscured by sand. Golden eagles flew wide around the tumult. And the sky, it just vanished, save for just the haziest outline of the sun. It wasn’t like one of the rare gully washers, where the wet ground and cleansed air gave the valley a different feel. When the dust storm dissipated, life would start up again as if it had simply gone into hibernation.

So Key respected and loved and feared the desert. But he was not stupidly uninformed about it. He had collected bones from the sands until his mother said it was time to go. The fragile, baked skin of snakes. The burned-to-death tarantulas who had been caught outside when they should have been under a rock. The tiny scorpions that could get in your shoe and sting like a pin. And the dry, miserable heat. At least humid heat gave you warning that you were getting too damn hot: it caused perspiration to dribble hotly down your skin. Desert heat just cooked you, the sweat evaporating before it could even be noticed. And the sunburn: what happened to unprotected skin was probably what it must have been like watching those nuclear tests in the desert without appropriate insulation. It went from normal to painful red in minutes, like the air was a magnifying glass—which, in effect, it was.

So Key knew about deserts and the kind of life that thrived there. That included human life, for there were always those sun-loonies, as his colorful mother used to call them, who loved coming out there, often naked, and becoming one with this perdition.

“They say it’s like a snake shedding skin,” she’d said when he was nine or ten and they encountered a small group in tents. “You are reborn in the heat and the sun.”

His mother could be a philosopher when she wanted to be. Showgirls were like that, which is why Key wasn’t like the ordinary straight-ahead killing machines turned out by the USMC. More than once, on leave, Key went back to the desert on his own. His mother had died of cervical cancer when she was young, but she always seemed alive when he came here. Maybe she was, having been reborn in some way he didn’t understand. He was always hoping to find a lady sun-loony who he could discuss that with, but it never happened. So like a desert prophet, he ended up camping under the stars surrounded by the creatures that wriggleth and scuttleth in the sand.

All of that was years ago, before Key had turned cynical. Before he had seen war and spilled human blood. Now the desert was an enemy—or at least, he could not assume it was a friend. He was certainly grateful for this ride, especially with the wind as it was. They had hitched from Djibouti on a couple of transports arranged by Daniels’s network of macho cronies—another reason Key wanted him as a partner. Being an oddball was great if you yearned to feel special, but not so great if you wanted to get from Djibouti to Thumrait in less than a week. As it was, they had to go from Lemonneir to Bahrain in Saudi Arabia, and only then to Thumrait—just to avoid Yemen airspace.

As per their new no-spitting-without-permission lifestyle, Key let Logan know their plans, but the Captain shrugged it off like an inattentive father. Key wondered, and not for the first time, whether the whole setup was just to keep him out of their hair—or, in Logan’s case, scalp—while they concentrated on more immediate, pressing things. No matter, Key saw what he saw.

Now he watched as Gonzales prepped the motor on a semicircular dashboard that rivaled some of the newer jets he had been in. He had little doubt Gonzales had built it all himself. Key recognized some rubber and aluminum attachments that that went way beyond wipers to keep the panoramic windshield clear. Through it, Thumrait Air Base looked like it had been built upon a giant gauze patch that God had personally pressed down on the southwest side of Oman.

The engine didn’t so much turn on as come to life, vibrating their organs and very bones. Key grabbed the side of his seat and the top of the dashboard as the thing lurched forward. Key had to yell to be heard over the machine’s consistent thunder.

“I’m not even sure how we got out of Shabhut,” he said directly into Gonzales’s right ear. “How did something else get out?”

Gonzales waved the question away as he guided the powerful Desert Demon onto the main camel way. “I know guys who are working on epic raps on how you got out of Shabhut,” Gonzales assured them. “You’re already a living legend among grunts.”

“Did he say epic raps or epic craps?” Daniels asked Key.

Key ignored him. “Okay,” he shouted at the driver. “You said something got out of there dead?”

“You know the situation, right?” Gonzales continued, without waiting for an answer. “Oman’s the cork on the Arabian Peninsula pressure cooker. Emirates to the left, Saudi Arabia to the right, Yemen down below. Iran and Pakistan right next to the pond.”

“The Arabian Sea,” Key loudly replied, more for the benefit of Daniels, who, by his wandering eyes and disinterested expression, seemed more intent on searching the growing hillsides for something to punch, shoot or screw.

“So Sultan Qaboos is trying to be friends with everybody,” Gonzales went on, keeping his eyes on the wavering road in case one of the bent, shaking palm trees suddenly flew at them, “but doesn’t really trust anybody. Yemini the least. So, in the aftermath of the Omani Spring….”

“Protests in twenty-eleven that resulted in promises of reform,” Key shouted back.

Gonzales nodded. “An Oman Study Committee was formed, made up of scientists and doctors that the Sultan sends anywhere, with as much diplomatic immunity as they can muster, to study anything he finds interesting.”

“And he found Shabhut interesting?”

“Oh yeah. Before Marine HQ did. Apparently the OSC was nearby when you guys showed up.”

“How come I never heard about that?”

Gonzales shrugged. “Neighbors quickly figured the OSC was all spies anyway, and didn’t look too kindly on their appearances. So over the last few years, they’ve become more and more low profile and secretive.”

“Then how did you know about it?”

Daniels punched Key on the shoulder. “Nothing Speedy don’t know,” he boasted. “I told you.”

“Oh, you were listening?” Key cracked.

“I can multitask up to two,” he replied.

Gonzales smirked. “I don’t think they’re spies. May be used as spies or infiltrated by spies, but anyway, the Study Committee’s not going to crow about any of their findings. In fact, they’ve all but snuck out of the capital to operate where they hope no one will find them.”

Like this armpit, Key thought. It made sense. Whatever value Thumrait had in the glory days of the frankincense caravan routes was now totally usurped by the capital city of Muscat, which was practically on the opposite end of the country.

“How do you know about this?” Key asked, wincing when Daniels punched him in the shoulder again.

“I got a friend,” Gonzales said so low that Key nearly didn’t catch it. “He rents the Study Committee some space at his place. He told me they left something freaky-deaky with him.”

Daniels perked up. “Freaky-deaky how?”

“That’s what you’re going to find out,” Gonzales answered.

“That’s where you’re taking us?” Key pressed.

“That’s where I’m taking you.” Daniels’s fist appeared between the two men. Gonzales craned around and tapped it with his own fist.

“No hay bronca. Hoy porti, manana pormi,” the driver said.

This time Daniels did the translating for Key. “No problem, bro. Today for you, tomorrow for me.”

Tumrait had two main thoroughfares—Route 31 and Route 45. Gonzales stayed on 31 until it crossed 45, then took a hard left off road. A residential community sat off to the east, but they were heading southwest into brown, patchy wasteland.

Gonzales kept going until Key started picking out bumps in the landscape that didn’t seem quite natural. As he peered closer he realized they could’ve been Quonset huts painted to look like hills of sand. But soon even those disappeared, until Gonzales seemed to target a rectangular shelter that looked like a cross between a bomb blast bunker and a wild west outpost. It was sitting on the very edge of the habited area, like a lone mole some dermatologist hadn’t removed yet.

By the time Gonzales stopped the Desert Demon, the wind had diminished from a steady roar to the occasional spit. Without comment, Gonzales exited the cab, then waited for his passengers to do the same.

Daniels stood, stretched, and squinted in every direction. “What a dump. Where’s the town they called the second-best city to visit in the world?”

Gonzales laughed. “You’re thinking of Muscat, the capital. And that was back in 2012.”

“In a book probably published by the Oman Tourist Agency,” Daniels added. “And even those lying sacks couldn’t make it number one.”

“Where are we?” Key interrupted, studying the structure. Low, but surprisingly long and deceptively ramshackle. As near as Key could tell, it was airtight, soundproof, and made of steel-beam-wire-rope-reinforced concrete. He looked for an industrial air-conditioning unit, but could only spot some sort of recessed, anthill-shaped, skylight on the sloping roof.

“Thumrait Morgue,” Gonzales answered. “Or, as we call it, Ayman’s Emporium.”

Key looked at Gonzales, who was still wearing his shrouded turban. They all were. “That your friend’s name? The one who rents space to the OSC?”

“Cool,” Daniels said. “Ayman! Hey man! Nice name.”

Now Gonzales ignored him as they started slogging through the sandy dirt toward the tallest section of the structure. “It means ‘Lucky,’” he revealed. “And he has been, till now. Follow my lead. Ayman’s easily spooked.”

Daniels followed, looking around at the desolate area. “Wonder why.” Gonzales gave him a look, and Daniels put up his hands. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’ll be as gentle as a fly on a feather duster.”

Gonzales and Key shared a look, wondering where Daniels had come up with that, then stopped by the far wall. Key could just make out hair-thin lines in the concrete that created the shape of a door. Gonzales put his hand in a pocket and started pressing buttons on his smartphone without exposing it to the blowing sand.

When nothing happened for a few seconds, Gonzales looked at the others, his eyebrows pinched.

“Siesta time?” Daniels suggested mildly.

Gonzales shrugged, then pressed sharply on the wall where the hair-thin door shape was. There was a click, and a door-shaped section popped open.

“Don’t let too much sand in,” Gonzales suggested, then slid into an opening only big enough for him. The others followed, stepping into a sauna.

Key looked quickly around. The area consisted of two central rooms—a small one behind them, and a large one in front of them—both illuminated only by a shaft of bright, almost blinding, light coming from the lone circular skylight. But the structure was a large rectangular around a smaller rectangular. All the way across the large room was a freezer door, and lining the walls on either side were small, corpse-size, square, freezer doors. Dotting the floor space was three medical examining tables.

“Hey,” said Daniels, looking into the smaller room behind them. “There’s Lucky.”

Key turned to see what was obviously, and a bit laughingly, the break room. There was a refrigerator, cooler, sink, bathroom, television, video game console, book shelf, sofa, table and chairs. A tall, lanky man in a dishdasha—the long-sleeve, floor-length robe that served as the Omani traditional dress—and braided, knotted, shrouded headgear sat, his head resting on his folded arms on the table top. The spotlight from the skylight was near the back of his head covering, causing more shadow than light.

Daniels took a step toward him, but Gonzales put a hand on his arm. “Let our host. The less he knows, the better he likes it.”

“OSC rental space in the freezer?” Key asked, nodding in that direction.

“That’s what he told me,” Gonzales confirmed, already walking in that direction.

“Love me a morgue.” Daniels sighed as they went, scanning the square, latched, doors lining the side walls. “But I’m never completely at ease unless I know all the guys who fill the shelves.”

“You’re never completely happy unless you filled them,” Key muttered as Gonzales reached the door.

“Sure, then I know that they’re dead.”

Gonzales opened it without comment or ceremony, scrutinizing the metal shelves for telltale markings. “There,” he said, pointing, then reaching, for a plastic, lidded, oblong box that couldn’t have been more than three feet long and two feet wide.

“That’s it?” Daniels asked. “That’s what we came forty-five hundred miles for?”

“Just wait,” Key suggested as he followed Gonzales to the nearest medical examining table. They all faced the freezer, not wanting to have whatever was inside the container thaw too quickly in the morgue’s steam bath temperatures. “Any notes on the exterior?”

Gonzales examined the container. “None that I can see. Just a label.” Gonzales studied the small sticker, which was on the narrow front side of the container. “That’s weird.”

“What’s weird?” Key snapped, asking almost before Gonzales finished the comment.

“The labels reads Pawan Sha Bhut sahi bola.”

“Shabhut?” Daniels interposed. “Ebola?”

“No,” Gonzales replied. “Sha bhut,” he enunciated carefully. “Sahi bola.” He looked at Key with an expression that mixed confusion and concern. “It translates as ‘wind power is very right.’” He shook his head in wonder. “I think it’s a song lyric.”

“I’m not surprised,” Key said. “If the Study Committee has gotten as careful as you say, it would make sense that they’d use a code. Crude as it is.”

“Oh, just take it and let’s go,” Daniels complained.

“Can’t take it,” Key snapped at him.

“Why the hell not?”

“One, international law,” Key listed with exaggerated ennui. “Two, don’t want to alert the Study Committee. Three, prevent contagion.”

“Shit!” Daniels exclaimed. “Ebola?”

“No, not Ebola,” Key quickly assured him. “Take it easy, Morty. This plastic container is not exactly hermetically sealed, but it’s still a good idea not to expose it to too many environments too quickly. I just want to examine it, and maybe take a small sample.”

“Okay, okay, already, then just do it, will you?” Daniels moaned. “And let’s get out of here. This place is so fucking hot I’m about to go into a coma like Lucky.”

Key nodded, then gripped the container top. It snapped and popped off without any worrisome sound of released gas or air.

Inside was what looked like bone fragments, frayed cloth patches, egg shells, wisps of webbing, and a single fingernail.

“Disappointment,” Daniels complained. “Always a fucking disappoi…fuck!”

The last syllable was a booming screech. The others jerked in place, then snapped their heads to where Daniels was staring.

Directly between and behind Gonzales and Key was Ayman. From where they were standing his face was now toward them. His mouth was distended into an unnatural chasm, his eyes bulging out of his head like erupting pimples, and his spasming fingers pulsating like a frog’s throat—something darker, chunkier, and hotter than blood pumping from every opening.