“Let’s get to work,” Colding said. “Last thing I need is Magnus thinking I’m a slacker. And remember, no public displays of affection out here.”
“Spoilsport,” Sara said.
They walked quickly to the dock, the Nuge close behind. At the base of the dock, Gary Detweiler and Sven Ballantine stacked their loads of cement bags—Gary carried a single forty-pound bag, Sven carried three.
“What’s up, Mister Colding?” Gary said. “Helluva endo you had there.”
“Endo?”
“He means your landing, eh?” Sven said. “And I use that word loosely.”
Colding laughed and shrugged. No way a wipeout like that wasn’t going to bring him some ribbing.
Gary patted the pile of concrete bags, already stacked five high and six across. “This is some pretty serious gear for a cow pen.”
Sven rolled out his neck. The cracks sounded like breaking ice. “Babies are on the way, Gary. Expensive babies. Best to keep them protected.”
Colding nodded. Sara looked away. She knew the real reason they needed heavy-duty enclosures. Clayton, Gary, Sven and the Harveys did not. That had been Magnus’s orders—outside of Colding and the scientific staff, no one needed to know.
Sven turned and walked back down the dock to fetch another load.
“I saw a weather report,” Gary said. “You better get these cages built fast. Forecast is for a major storm in three days. No way you can do any construction once it comes in. For sure you’ll get that five feet of snow I told you about.”
“Wonderful,” Colding said. “Like Christmas come early.”
Gary leaned in. Colding could smell the pot rolling off him. “All this heavy fence, Mister Colding, for cows? Come on, what’s really going on? I just want to know if my dad is safe.”
“Piss off, eh?” Clayton walked up, moving with that old-man hitch-stride of his. “I don’t need you babysitting me, boy.”
“But Dad, all this stuff.”
“Yeah, all this stuff.” Clayton bent at the knees, grabbed a forty-pound bag of concrete under each arm, then stood. “We need to load all this stuff onto da Nuge. Let’s get crackin’, eh?” He carried the bags to the Bv’s rear section and started stacking them in.
Gary pursed his lips and shook his head. Apparently, concern for his father could cut through a marijuana high.
Colding picked up two bags and immediately dropped one. Holy crap, eighty pounds of concrete wasn’t exactly a loaf of bread. Clayton had picked up two like they were nothing, and Sven walked around with three. Good, clean country living had its benefits, apparently.
“Stop dickin’ around already, eh?” Clayton shouted. “Can you two pillow-biters have your gay moment off da clock, for fuck’s sake?”
Gary laughed, then picked up a bag and carried it to the zebra-striped vehicle. Colding adjusted and picked up his two—almost threw his back out, but he’d be damned if Clayton lifted more than he did.
NOVEMBER 28: FISCHER WAITS…
Implantation +19 Days
PAUL FISCHER READ through the printed reports, all of which boiled down to the same one-word summary.
Nothing.
That’s what they had: nothing. Multiple law-enforcement, military and intelligence agencies had gone over every last shred of Genada’s financial information, corporate history, employee profiles and anything else that might produce information on the whereabouts of Claus Rhumkorrf, Liu Jian Dan, Tim Feely or Patrick James Colding. The agencies were even looking for more people now—Magnus Paglione, who had slipped his tail shortly after Paul’s visit to Manitoba, and the suspected crew of Genada’s C-5: Sara Purinam, Alonzo Barella, Harold Miller and Matt “Cappy” Capistrano.
A search for all of them, and still… nothing.
Fischer pushed the papers away and leaned back in his chair. He had to finally admit defeat. Colding had beaten him.
All Fischer could do now was wait and hope that someone in Genada made a mistake.
NOVEMBER 29: FREAKIN’ ORCS AND ELVES
Implantation +20 Days
A FANTASY NOVEL. Yeah. That was where the money was. Freakin’ orcs and elves and shit? Some wizard kids? How hard could that be?
Gunther knew the vampire romance novel was a guaranteed home run. Why not whip out some bullshit fantasy novel under a pen name? Jeez, eighteen-year-olds were doing it, making millions by rehashing Tolkien. Nerds would buy anything with a dragon on the cover, and Gunther could rehash with the best of them.
Had to start with a quest. That’s how they all started, really, some dopey farmer kid getting sent on some quest, during which he’d have adventures and trudge through a magic swamp or something, then…
A beep from the console broke his concentration. That new alarm Tim had set up for alerts about the cows’ vital signs. Elevated heart rate from Miss Milkshake. Gunther tapped the controls, switching the monitors to an interior view of the C-5’s lower deck.
He started moving the camera remotely when the alarm changed from a beep to a steady drone. Flatline.
“Uh-oh.”
He moved the camera until it pointed at Miss Milkshake’s stall. On the black-and-white screen, a dark puddle spread out from under the clear plastic door.
NOVEMBER 29: 210 POUNDS, 6 OUNCES
Implantation +20 Days
THE 3-D ULTRASOUND was a marvelous invention, but Claus had always thought it looked a little… fake. Maybe it was the gold tint, or the way the little computer model rotated with the trackball movements. He knew the images were real, but on the flat-panel screen they still looked like exactly what they were—computer graphics. And computer graphics, no matter how detailed, couldn’t touch the real thing.
The real thing, which now sat on the lab table. It wasn’t in a dissection tray, because there weren’t any dissection trays that big. It didn’t even fit on the damn table. He, Tim and Jian stood there, looking at the corpse they’d taken out of Miss Milkshake’s belly.
“Oh fuck me running,” Tim said. “Look at those claws.”
Claus was looking at the claws. And the teeth. And the front and back legs that hung partially off the edges of the black table. He looked at his computer for the tenth time, still amazed at the weight. An actual weight, not one of Tim’s calculations.
Two hundred ten pounds, six ounces.
Five feet long from the tip of the nose to the end of its tailless posterior. The beginnings of fur were pushing out from the pink skin. The animal had put on fifty-five pounds in the last three days.
What in God’s name had Jian created?
“Look at the teeth,” she said.
“I am,” Rhumkorrf said. “Can’t you see that I am?”
Long and pointy, the ancestor’s teeth were definitely designed for killing. For ripping off large chunks of flesh and swallowing them whole. A mouth full of canines, without an incisor or molar to be found.