Pavlov's Dogs Read online

  At the next table over stood a tall woman with hair like a dandelion. “Hello,” she said brightly. “I’m Tracy Rivers, and this is Oscar and Homer Anders.” She indicated a pair of curly-headed men, obviously brothers. “We’re the admin team. If you need any materials for your work, just let us know!”

  She sat and another woman on the other side of the room stood up. “Carmen, IT. This is Lucy, Lucy, and Pat—and don’t worry about getting our names right.”

  “We know you won’t,” one of the Lucys said before knocking back her glass of wine.

  Donovan’s smile felt clammy on his lips, so he let it drop. The prospect of getting help from any of these people didn’t appeal to him in the slightest.

  From another table, a very fat man stood up with a wheeze. His red face gleamed with sweat, and Donovan felt uncomfortable looking at him.

  “Ronald,” the fat man said. “Ronald Michaels. I’m in charge of the medical facilities.”

  “He’s not a doctor,” Drinking Lucy chimed in, “but he plays one on an island.”

  “Lucy...” Dr. Crispin said, and Carmen put a hand on Lucy’s, who promptly shook it off.

  “As I was saying,” Ronald continued, “the medical facilities are mine and my team’s. Meet Alison Levenseller and Joshua Ericson, the nurses.” He indicated a small, surly blonde who had a mouth full of food, and an equally surly dark-complected man, who desperately needed a meal.

  Donovan felt a kick under the table, and he turned. Next to him sat another woman, a redhead with vibrant green eyes. “If you get hurt, come to me,” she said quietly. Donovan looked back at Ronald Michaels’ nursing staff and nodded.

  A man was standing almost directly behind Donovan, and the neurotechnician had to turn so far to see him that his back popped loudly in the dining room. The other man, oblivious to Donovan’s discomfort, pushed up his glasses and started talking.

  “Doctor, I looked you up online as soon as I heard you were coming, and let me just say, I am thrilled to be working with you.” He beamed at Donovan, waiting for a reply, until someone at the table smacked his wrist with a butter knife.

  “Ow, what? Oh!” His pale skin flushed to the roots of his light brown hair, and he began to stammer. “I’m, ah, Gary Sims, and I’ll be your lab assistant. And this is Summer Chan.” He indicated his knife-wielding co-worker, a blond girl with a pert nose. “Also meet Scott Halstead.”

  Scott nodded his welcome.

  Dr. Donovan looked back to the people sitting at his table, the redhead who had kicked him and a stern-looking older black man with a shaved head.

  “Is this everyone?” Donovan asked.

  “No, Doctor,” the black man replied. “We eat in shifts, and I only gathered the people you see here because they’re the ones you’re most likely to interact with on a daily basis.” He reached out a hand. “My name is Luke Jaden, head of security.”

  Donovan shook the man’s hand and was immediately aware of the rough skin and strong grip.

  “And my name is Holly Randall,” said the redhead who had kicked him. “Maintenance is my department.”

  “Maintenance of what?”

  She extended her arms to encompass the entire world. “Everything. I have an electrician, an electronics tech, a mechanic, and a welder. I’m the engineer. I dream it up, and they make it work.” She smiled. “You’re going to want to get to know me.”

  Gary Sims, Donovan’s fanboy and cyberstalker, stood up and said, “Dr. Donovan—speech!” He started chanting it and looked around, hoping others would join in. His cheeks turned bright red when no one did.

  Donovan started to stand up anyway, because he actually had prepared something. But Dr. Crispin put a hand on his shoulder and gestured for him to take his seat. Donovan remained standing. So Dr. Crispin threw his arm around the neurotechnician’s shoulders, hoping to hide his inability to make this man do anything.

  “I would just like to say a few words,” the project director said, and Donovan caught Holly sinking in her chair.

  “First, I would like to welcome Doctor Donovan to the compound. I know that with his credentials, he will very much be an asset to my team. With some guidance, he will become a great part of this well-oiled machine I have assembled, and together, we all will see the project through to fruition.

  “Times have been tough, and we have suffered many setbacks, but please have no doubt that I will lead us into the annals of scientific and military history.” His eyes widened a touch and he squeezed the neurotechnician heartily. “And Doctor Donovan’s expertise will be the tip of the spear.”

  He let go of Donovan and struck up a light golf clap, which the rest of the room joined enthusiastically. Looking around, Donovan smiled and bowed, then took his seat.

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” he heard Holly whisper. “We’re all just happy he’s shut up already.”

  “Long winded?” Donovan asked, not turning to look at her.

  “Very,” she said.

  Luke Jaden, head of security, had already stopped his applause and was hungrily tearing into the chicken parmesan on his plate. Donovan looked down at his own meal; there was a dark-orange sauce between the cheese and the chicken.

  He poked at it with his fork.

  “It’s good,” Holly said around a mouthful of food. “Try to ignore the color.”

  Donovan’s reply was interrupted by a newcomer in a blue jacket, walking briskly to the table and leaning down between Dr. Crispin and Luke Jaden. Donovan was barely able to make out the man’s words.

  “It’s all over the airwaves, on every frequency. I’m not sure what to make of the reports, but... it’s very odd. I need someone to check it out and make a decision.”

  Crispin’s face wrinkled. When he answered, his voice was higher than Donovan had ever heard it.

  “Why does it have to be me? It’s like you people can’t get anything done without approvals signed in triplicate. If I wanted that, I would have stayed with the government.”

  “Ah,” the man said, shifting inside his blue jacket. “I meant I need Mr. Jaden, Doctor. This is definitely a security issue. Or at least, it could be.”

  Dr. Crispin threw his napkin to his plate. “I was done eating anyway. Mr. Jaden, if you please?”

  As the lean, dark man stood, he nodded to Holly and Donovan. “Perhaps you should come also, Miss Randall.”

  Dr. Crispin shot the head of security an annoyed look, which went pointedly ignored.

  “And you, Dr. Donovan,” Jaden said. “If you’re a part of the Command team, there’s no time like the present.”

  Dr. Crispin started off without them. Neither Holly nor Luke hurried to keep up. Donovan noted this and lengthened his stride to measure up.

  “Dr. Crispin,” he said. “I would like to start as soon as possible. My predecessor must have left some notes behind, and the sooner I start on them, the better. I’m not unfamiliar with his work, but the Dogs intrigue me.” He licked his lips. “How long will Beta Samson be in the recovery ward?”

  The project director shook his head. “Not long, Doctor. The Dogs’ healing processes are much faster than ours. But really, I must insist that you limit your exposure to the Dogs, at least for now.” He turned a sharp eye to the neurotechnician. “We mustn’t confuse them in any way.”

  This brought Donovan up short. “How do you mean?”

  “We’re here,” Crispin said, punching in a four-digit access code to the radio room. The locking mechanism clicked and the door popped open an inch. The man in the blue jacket rushed forward to open it the rest of the way.

  The radio room was a cold, dark office, jammed full of a dizzying array of equipment. Donovan turned to take it all in. He saw a radar screen, then another screen full of contoured static. The tech in the blue coat saw his gaze and said, “SONAR array in the waters off-island.”

  Donovan nodded absently, noting the name WINCHESTER stitched neatly on the jacket’s right breast.

  Several species of
radio equipment shared space within a custom-built frame: a Thrane & Thrane cozied up next to a Furuno, their faces staring out at him. Under those sat an expansive JNC unit. Next to the radio frame squatted a set of screens; a control console of an AN/BQQ10 was mounted above, and Donovan recognized it as a piece of Army/Navy hardware. The other pieces... he was lost among it all.

  A man sat in the room, wearing a pair of headphones and jotting on a piece of paper. Dr. Crispin and Luke Jaden stood patiently by, each with their hands clasped behind their backs. The head of security stood ramrod-straight, and Donovan knew he had to be ex-military.

  “That’s Morse,” Holly said to Donovan as he watched the radioman translate and transcribe the beeps coming over his headphones. “Sometimes we catch messages on the Ham Radio. I think they’re the only ones who still use it.”

  “It’s the same message,” the radioman said, putting his pen down. “Better get the old man and the n—”

  “Ah, they’re here,” Winchester said.

  The other tech stood, sending his chair spinning. “Sir!” he said.

  “What’s the same message?” Jaden asked, ignoring everything else. “What have we got here?”

  The tech licked his lips. “You’re not going to believe this, sir.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “YOU’RE NOT GOING to believe this,” Jorge said over the phone. “Pileup, man. And not just any garden-variety pileup. This is the mother of all—”

  “Will you just say it?”

  “Whatever, grandma. Check it. There’s a Greyhound on its back, and it looks like it’s being humped by a big rig.”

  Ken snorted at the description. “Is there even a wrecker on the scene?”

  “Well, yeah, but they’re not moving anything yet. The paramedics are still dragging people out of the bus, which is lying on top of a motorcycle, I think. Jesus, it looks like an all-day thing.”

  Ken cursed under his breath, and his mind referred back to his Anger Management card. “There’s nothing we can do about that. Is it really bad?”

  “You should see this. I don’t know how many dead there are, man. I haven’t seen anything like this, not since the roller coaster went off-rail at—”

  “I remember,” Ken said. “I was there, too.”

  His fingers beat another quick tattoo on the steering wheel. Fatalities meant the road would be closed. And not just the part of the road where the crash had happened, either. The whole road, for a ways on either side of the accident. He was already thinking about an alternate route to take the next day, in case the investigation took that long.

  Jorge whistled over the phone. “Damn, bro. This is pretty gruesome. I think I can smell it.”

  Ken wrinkled his nose. “Try not to breathe deep. You know what that is, right, when you smell something? Little particles of whatever it is, all up in your nose?”

  Jorge hurked on the phone, and Ken smiled. The humor faded quickly as he remembered the reason for his friend’s hurking, and he immediately felt bad for cracking a joke.

  “How much longer, do you think?”

  “They’re not breaking any speed records, and... hang on. Well this guy is okay. You should see it, this guy’s freaking out. I should be recording it, and... what the hell?”

  “What?” Ken said. “What?!”

  Farther up the highway, Jorge’s hand came away from his ear, taking the cell phone with it.

  “There’s a fight,” he said, lifting the phone to his mouth again. The last person out of the bus had wrapped bloodied arms around the neck of the paramedic and was biting. “One of the, uh, victims is freaking out and attacking the, uh...”

  He stopped talking as all along the shoulder, figures with sheets draped over them started sitting up. On the overturned bus, the remaining windows broke as hands and fists came through, grasping at rescue workers.

  “What’s going on?” Ken said, sounding tinny over the phone.

  “I think I drank too much.”

  “Jorge!”

  “Right. Uh, people are getting themselves out of the bus, and, Jesus, one of them just tackled a cop. This is nuts! They’re biting everybody!” He took a couple of steps forward. “Oh, sick. I think I... I think I see chewing.”

  “Get back to the car.”

  “Yeah, okay—”

  One of the victims stood up and faced Jorge. Vacant eyes locked on his, and the phone fell from his numb fingers. Jorge’s hearing went loopy, as if he were suddenly standing in a wind tunnel instead of the highway, and his vision narrowed drastically to include just the figure advancing on him. Motes danced around, colliding with each other to the mad music repeating in Jorge’s head.

  He. Has. No. Face.

  He. Has. No. FACE.

  Where the man’s face should have been was just a red stain. Only shreds of pink skin remained in the crimson mess between chin and hairline. Most of it dangled like a torn mask from the man’s neck. Deep runnels of black and dark red ringed the man’s wide, staring eyes, and his jaw fell open as he took a step toward Jorge. An arm, bent backwards at the elbow, came up, its fingers hooked and twitching.

  Screams from either side of him shook Jorge out of his daze. The people who had been lying on the shoulder were now up and leaning in through the windows of cars, heedless of their own gaping wounds as they attacked the motorists.

  “Get me out of here!” Jorge yelled.

  Back in the Blazer, Ken couldn’t make out what Jorge had said, but from the sounds coming over the phone, he knew it wasn’t good. He rolled down his window and put Big Bertha into gear, bumping the back fender of a car in the left lane. The driver, a bald-headed man, looked back with a what-the-hell set on his red face. Ken just leaned on his horn and bumped him again.

  Of course I’ve got to be stuck in the middle, Ken thought.

  The bald guy opened the driver-side door of his small brown coupe, and Ken dove across to Bertha’s passenger side. He ripped the gun case out from under Jorge’s seat. Glancing out the windshield, Ken fumbled the case open and grabbed the revolver, then sat up with it.

  The bald man saw the gun, and his hands came up to his shoulders.

  “No trouble,” he said. Then he yelled it. The cacophony of honking horns and people shouting was almost deafening.

  Ken waggled the gun at him to get back into his car, and then honked the horn again. The red-faced man, who had gone rather pale, fairly jumped back to his coupe and moved it forward three feet. Not a lot, but enough for the old Blazer to squeeze through without losing a whole lot of paint.

  The van behind the coupe tried to immediately seal the gap, but Ken honked and pointed his gun at that guy too. Then, with a thank-you nod, which seemed ridiculous, Ken plowed the Blazer through the small gap and tore through the grassy median, his trailer bouncing and tools clanking behind.

  After about forty yards, he saw he wasn’t the only one with that idea; other drivers had seen something that spooked them, and were swerving out onto the grass, trying to get around the blockage in the road. Shapes hung onto the cars closer to the accident: some on the hood, some still leaning in through the windows. Feet kicked blindly for purchase, and the cars slalomed from side to side.

  Jorge came running down the median, fleeing from another figure behind him. He wasn’t watching where he was going, and didn’t notice the old station wagon with a madman on its hood, heading right for him.

  Stomping the gas, Ken sent Big Bertha surging forward. The heavy bumper of the Blazer clipped the rear end of the station wagon and sent it into a long, sideways skid. Its lead wheels hit a ditch and the station wagon rolled, missing Jorge by an inch. The hijacker on the hood went spiraling off into space, his arms and legs as loose as a rag doll’s.

  Ken watched it fly, and felt a thump as the Blazer hit something. He had a sick certainty that he hadn’t hit a log. He stopped the Blazer and looked out; a man with twisted and crushed legs reached up toward the window, desperately pulling himself along on one arm. Ken groaned and
opened the Blazer door.

  He had stepped out to help the man when a terrific crunch of metal on metal pulled Ken’s head up. On the highway, a huge passenger van had just collided with the wrecker, and they both were careening down the sloping median, right into another vehicle, this one a bright-red Jeep Cherokee.

  A moan from the grass brought Ken’s head back around.

  I just hit a guy, he thought, and a cold sweat sprang from nothing on his brow. Holy shit, I just hit a guy.

  “Hey!” Jorge yelled, scrambling for the door handle on the Blazer’s passenger side. Behind him, aided by the peculiar slope of the median, the injured man staggered after, almost catching up. Ken was struck by the missing face.

  And don’t forget, a gleeful voice sang in the back of his head, you just hit a guy.

  Jorge got into the car and slammed the door shut. Without even trying for the handle, the man without a face slapped his hands against the window and brought his mouth to it, jaws opening wide to bite at the smooth glass.

  “Well?” Jorge yelled, and Ken snapped out of it.

  With one last glance at the man he’d hit, Ken got into the Blazer, yelling, “I’m sorry!”

  He eased onto the gas and spun the wheel, turning the heavy vehicle away from the carnage. Another car behind them flipped as it tried to do the same thing, and within seconds, staggering, shuffling figures descended on it like ants on a dead bird.

  Ken goosed the accelerator, and the Blazer shot forward. “What the hell was that?” he yelled. His hands were shaking even as they squeezed the steering wheel.

  Jorge shook his head. “I lost my phone.”

  “Your phone? That guy had no face. What the—Jesus!”

  All four tires locked up as Ken slammed on the brakes, sending the Blazer into a skid. Big Bertha swayed, but held the road.

  People who had run from the attackers now stood on the eastbound side of the highway, right where Ken was headed. There were maybe four pedestrians in all, and he made a snap decision.

  “Let them in,” he said.