letters, DOD.
“Department of Defense, ” I said, because my mom had possessed a DOD
security clearance, although I’d never seen a badge like this in her
possession.
” Initialize on entry, ” Bobby said thoughtfully. “Bet there’s a
microchip implanted in this.” He’s computer literate, but I never will
be. I have no need for a computer, and with my biological clock ticking
faster than yours, I have no time for one. Besides, while wearing
heavy-duty sunglasses, I can’t easily read a monitor. Sitting for long
sessions in front of a screen, you are bathe in low-level UV radiation
no more dangerous to you than a spring rain, because of my
susceptibility to cumulative damage, however, exposure to those
emissions is liable to transform me into one giant lumpy melanoma of
such peculiar squishy dimensions that I’ll never be able to find clothes
that are both comfortable and stylish.
Bobby said, “When he enters the facility, they initialize the microchip
in the badge, you know? ”
“No.”
“Initialize clear the memory on the microchip. Then every time he passes
through a doorway, maybe the chip in the badge responds to microwave
transmitters in the threshold, recording where he went and how long he
stayed in each place. Then when he leaves, the data is downloaded into
his file.”
“You creep me out when you talk computer.”
“I’m still the same full-on jerk-off, bro.”
“I get evil-twin vibes.”
“There’s just one Bobby, ” he assured me.
I glanced at the bungalow where we had found Delacroix, half expecting
to see eerie lights beyond the windows, frenzied bug-wing shadows
flitting up the walls, and a shambling cadaver crossing the porch.
Snapping a finger against the badge, I said, “Tracking every step he
makes even after they let him through the front doorthat’s maximum
paranoid security.”
“This must’ve been on the floor beside the corpse with the other stuff.
Somebody went in the bungalow ahead of us, took it, and put it here.
Why? ” The answer was to be found in the line at the bottom of the
badge.
Project Clearance, MT.
Bobby said, “You think this ID got him into the labs where they were
doing these genetic experiments, the very place where the shit hit the
fan? ”
“Maybe. MT. Mystery Train? ” Bobby glanced at the words embroidered on
my cap, then at the badge again. “Nancy Drew would be proud.” I switched
off the flashlight. “I think I know where he wants us to go.”
“Where who wants us to go? ”
“Whoever left this under the wiper.”
“Which is who? ”
“I don’t have “U the answers, bro.”
“Yet you’re positive there’s an afterlife, ” he said as he started the
engine.
“The big answers I have. It’s just some of the little ones that elude
me.”
“Okay, where are we going? ”
“The egg room.”
“So now we’re in a Batman movie, and you’re the Riddler? ”
“It’s not in Dead Town.
It’s in a hangar on the north side of the base.”
“Egg room.”
“You’ll see.”
“He’s not our friend, ” Bobby said.
“He who? ”
“Whoever left that badge, bro, he’s no friend of ours. We don’t have
friends in this place.”
“I’m not so sure of that.” As he released the hand brake and shifted
into drive, he said, “Could be a trap.”
“Probably not. He could’ve disabled the Jeep and been laying for us
right here when we came out of the bungalow, if all he wanted was to
waste us.” Driving out of Dead Town, Bobby said, “Still could be a
trap.”
“Okay, maybe.”
“That doesn’t bother you like it does me, cause you’ve got God and an
afterlife and choirs of angels and palaces of gold in the sky, but all
I’ve got is broccoli.”
“Better think about that, ” I agreed.
I consulted my watch. Dawn was no more than two hours away.
As dark and mottled as a strange fungus, spongy masses of clouds had
spread far into the east, leaving only a narrow band of clean sky in
which the bright stars looked cold and even farther away than they
actually were.
For more than two years, Wisteria Jane Snow’s gene-swapping retrovirus