The Eternity Legion
Book Two: The E-Files
By J.C. Lords
Legal Disclaimer:
All copyrights and trademarks are noted at the end of the chapter. This work is a challenge of any copyrights and trademarks; it is not written for profit, but merely for personal entertainment purposes.Foreword
This story is a sequel to the Eternity Legion. Reading the Eternity Legion is not necessary, but it might be helpful. The events of this fanfic occur sometime after the X-Files movie.
Chapter One: Arrival
Chicago, IL
1:03 a.m.
Leroy King caressed the handle of 9mm pistol tucked in the waistband of his pants like a pious man touching a holy amulet.
Somebody had dissed Leroy. Somebody had to die.
The tall black man stepped off his car, adjusting his leather jacket so the gun wasn't clearly visible. Few cops ventured into this neighborhood at this time of night, but it paid to be careful. Leroy had been arrested seventeen times in his career, but he had only served time twice, both times before he was twenty years old. None of the other charges had stuck; witnesses had a way of changing their stories -- or dying mysteriously -- when Leroy was involved. People messed with him at their peril.
Case in point: Jonas "Fatboy" Jackson, who had absconded with a substantial amount of crack cocaine. Fatboy had developed a taste for the merchandise he was supposed to sell, and Leroy was there to teach him the error of his ways.
A second car disgorged Leroy's posse. Five guys, all chosen for their guts and casual brutality; all of them murderers before age fifteen.
Leroy and his gang advanced towards Fatboy's crib, a basement apartment in a low-rent building. This was going to be a fast, simple job: kick the door down, pump Fatboy full of lead, and drive away.
Things stopped going according to plan just before they crossed the street.
A bright flash of light overhead briefly dispelled the night. Leroy had time to blink in surprise, once, twice…
A wave of hot air picked him up and slammed him against the side of the building. Leroy felt bones breaking. He screamed.
Four of his guys were screaming as well. Leroy's ears were buzzing; he could barely hear them amidst the roar of flames and the screeching of dozens of car alarms.
Bomb. Had to be a bomb. Cradling a broken arm, Leroy twisted away from the wall and looked around.
One of his guys was quiet. Dead quiet. A piece of car muffler -- Leroy was pretty sure it came from his car -- had speared him. He looked like a sausage at the end of a toothpick. The rest of the posse looked pretty banged up, but were still alive.
Across the street, Leroy's car burned merrily, at least the half he could see. Half of the car was just gone. Not just the car, either: the street and the sidewalk had been swallowed up by a large crater. Smoke and water spouts were pouring out of the hole in the ground.
Big ass bomb.
Leroy shoot his head, then bit his lips when the movement jarred his broken arm; he had broken ribs, too, the way he felt. He tried to rise to his feet. He reached out with his good hand to steady himself, and touched something hot. Leroy recoiled, winced in pain at the sudden movement, and looked down.
It was a rock. The weirdest rock he'd seen in his life.
For one, it hadn't felt like a rock. Besides being hot, it had felt like touching plastic, or wax – soft, like. Its shape was weird too, round and regular, not like a random rock, but like something that had been made.
Or something that had been born.
A choked scream across the street made him turn his glance away from the weird rock. Somebody staggered away from the hole. Even dazed by the explosion, Leroy recognized him. It was Fatboy. The doped-up fool had rushed out to see what all the noise was about. Fatboy was moving away from the hole in the ground, clutching at his face.
"Whafuck?" Leroy said weakly. Fatboy had something on his face. The struggling man tottered blindly a few steps, and Leroy got a better look.
Some… thing was hugging Fatboy's face. It looked like a giant spider. With a muffled scream, Fatboy took off running down the street.
"Whafuck?" Leroy repeated. Half-deafened by the blast, he did not hear the noise coming from the weird rock next to him, but a flicker of movement caught his eye.
The rock that wasn't a rock was moving. Its rounded top split open, and a foul smell hit Leroy. He tried to crawl away, despite the pain.
Something leapt towards his face. Leroy felt small clawed limbs biting into the sides of his head. He tried to scream.
Darkness.
Chicago Count Hospital
1:21 a.m.
The ambulances came howling in, delivering the casualties. The call had come in and shaken up the unusually quiet E.R. An explosion -- some said, a meteorite, of all things -- had injured a number of people. One dead, almost a dozen injured. Three cases were coming into the Chicago County Hospital, and the reports from the paramedics were not making any sense.
Dr. Mark Greene, Attending ER Physician, was waiting outside for the ambulances, ready for the worst.
"Go, go, go!" The first stretcher came rushing out of the ambulance. The paramedics looked… they looked scared. Dr. Greene was baffled. He had ridden shotgun on an ambulance for a while, and those guys could take almost anything in stride.
"What have we got?"
"Lacerations, broken arm, cracked ribs… and this."
Dr. Greene's eyes widened. At first, he thought that was some weird new oxygen mask. But no -- something was covering the man's face. Something alive, its limbs wrapped around his head. "What the hell?" Mark blurted out.
"We don't know, doc. Breathing's normal, BP is low but at safe levels. I tried to pull it off him, there." He pointed at a section below the man's jaw; blood had caked there. "This thing, it's holding on with claws, man. I almost pulled his face off, there."
"You did the right thing. All right, take him to OR Three."
"We've got another one!"
John Carter, MD, had been watching the first patient with the same shocked expression. He recovered quickly enough. "I'll take him." He rushed towards the other gurney.
Mark Greene let his learned reflexes take over. Deal with the situation; don't think about it. "All right," he started as they wheeled the patient in. "We'll need x-rays, tox screen. Get some pliers sterilized. Stat!"
Nurses and orderlies stopped gawking at the scene and started working. Dr. Elizabeth Corday, the surgical consult, came into the OR. "Oh, dear Lord," she said. "What in Heavens is that?"
Dr. Greene shook his head, as he got a good look at the thing. "Some sort of animal." Nothing he had ever seen before, he didn't add. He reached out with a forceps, grabbed one of the legs, tugged at it. He felt skin tearing beneath. "No good, we are going to have to cut it off him." He considered. "Better wait for the X-rays and the tox screen."
"How is he breathing? That thing has his entire mouth and nasal passages blocked."
"I don't know, but his breathing is not obstructed," Greene replied, listening in with his stethoscope. He could hear the man breathing steadily.
He heard something else, too. A slithering sound inside the man.
"I think it's inside him," he muttered.
"What?"
"The animal, it's got some limb or extrusion inside of him." He raised his voice. "Hurry up with those X-rays!"
Dr. Carter came in. "My guy is stable, but the creature is holding on to him like a pit bull."
"Mine, too. Let's take it easy until the x-rays come back."
"It looks like some sort of marine animal," Carter commented. "We need a zoologist in here."
"Good point. I'll make a few calls," Mark agreed. "Maybe somebody from Chicago U., or the Lincoln Park Zoo." As he left, he took a last look at the thing.
Mark Greene had confronted death and horror in a myriad of form, from lethal trauma to deadly microorganisms.
His gut told him he was facing the worst one yet.
Washington D.C.
3:11 a.m.
The ringing phone brought her awake with brutal suddenness. At first, she pounded on her alarm clock before she realized what the sound meant. Resignation drove away a brief burst of anger. Agent Dana Scully, M.D., picked up the phone.
"What is it this time, Mulder?"
"Turning psychic on me, Scully?" the voice on the other end answered with its familiar subdued cheerfulness.
"Just a matter of past experiences begetting expectations, Mulder," Scully said tiredly. "Only you make it a habit of calling me at ungodly hours of the night --" she glanced at her alarm clock. Just after 3 a.m. "-- truly ungodly hours of the night. So what could not wait until tomorrow morning?"
"You aren't going to believe this, Scully," Mulder said.
"You're probably right," was the deadpan reply.
"A meteor hit Chicago less than an hour ago. Not a dinosaur killer, just a little one. Tore up a couple of cars. Over a dozen people were injured, one fatally."
"That's pretty amazing, but I take it there is more."
"The initial reports are a little confusing -- I'm getting some of it from the Lone Gunmen, but… Scully, are you rolling your eyes?"
"Turning psychic on me, Mulder?" Scully replied in a sarcastic tone. "Go on."
"One of their friends, this guy who monitors police and emergency transmissions, he recorded some ambulances claiming they had people attacked by strange animals. Alien animals like nothing they've seen before. Coming from the meteorite crash site."
"This all sounds extremely flimsy," Scully said, getting ready to hang up the phone.
"Wait; there is more."
"I certainly hope so."
"I called a friend of mine at the CDC. He was pissed off about being woken up at this hour, but he did some checking for me. A team of investigators is being assembled and dispatched to Chicago, even as we speak."
"For a meteorite?"
"Many scientists hypothesize that life came to Earth from space, Scully," Mulder said in his lecture mode. "Brought in from meteor and comet impacts. It is even possible that some viral epidemics did not originate on this planet, but represent extraterrestrial biota, carried by fragments from other worlds."
"I saw The Andromeda Strain, Mulder. So, on the evidence of some hour-old reports from your largely delusional friends, and a CDC investigation, you want us to fly halfway across the country. What are we going to tell Skinner?"
"You'll help me think of something."
Scully debated for a few seconds. She could hang up, go back to sleep, and pretend this phone call had never happened. Or she could get dressed, follow Mulder on this harebrained quest, and put another nail on the coffin of her career. And risk life and limb along the way, not to mention her sanity.
It was a foregone conclusion. She sighed. "Very well, Mulder. But you buy the tickets and make all the arrangements. And you let me sleep on the plane."
"Your wish is my command."
Chicago County Hospital
2:22 a.m.
"You were right," Dr. Corday said, as the ER team examined the images on the ultrasound monitor.
The creatures looked like giant scorpions. They had inserted a long protuberance down the throat of the victims, reaching deep into their bodies.
They had been monitoring the two patients very carefully. All the other injured from the explosion were normal cuts, scrapes and broken bones; treating them had been a relief, but now Greene, Corday and Carter were turning their efforts on the other two. The blood tests had come back showing elevated levels of dopamine -- a natural chemical that inhibits nerve impulses. That was probably what was keeping the victims immobile.
Carter had suggested using an ultrasound monitor on the patients. Through it, they could see that the tentacle inside them was moving, growing. "We have to do something," Carter said. "Remove it, kill it, something."
"Let's get a blood sample from the creature. Maybe that'll help us figure out what to do," Greene suggested. "It seems to be dormant, but let's be careful." Part of him wanted to wait for the zoologist from the University to show up. He'd tracked down the local expert on exotic fauna, one Professor Harding, who, after some initial hostility from being woken up in the middle of the night, had agreed to come over and take a look. But Carter was right; they needed to at least start getting information, before deciding what to do next.
Several orderlies with heavy plastic gloves stood by, just in case the creature decided to jump. Greene approached the first patient, a hypodermic in hand.
The creature's skin was surprisingly tough. Mark grimaced. "It's like leather." With some effort pushed the needle in.
A yellowish liquid bubbled to the surface. Some of it was sucked into the hypodermic.
Which promptly started to melt.
"Look out!" Greene recoiled, dropping the syringe. Both the metal needle and the plastic tube were dissolving! The melting puddle hit the tile floor of the OR.
And ate through it.
"Holy shit!" Malik, one of the orderlies, blurted out.
Carter leaned over gingerly over the burning hole. "It's going right through to the basement!"
Dr. Corday looked at the patient. "The creature has stopped bleeding, thank God."
"All right, nobody touch them," Greene ordered. "Let's keep the patients segregated from the rest of the hospital. Malik, go to the basement, see how far the acid went. Let's see if we can collect a sample."
It all sounded reasonable, but Mark felt, deep inside, that they were like children whistling in the dark.
And the dark was full of monsters.
Chicago, IL
2:23 a.m.
A few blocks away, the night was alive with the flashing lights of police cruisers, ambulances, and fire-fighting vehicles. This alley was quiet, almost serene in its stillness.
In short, just the way Buddy Carmichael liked it. A dark place where he could crawl behind a dumpster and have a drink before falling asleep.
Buddy had spent much of his life in psychiatric institutes of some kind. Whenever budgets were cut, he and others of his ilk were released onto the streets. Buddy preferred life on the streets. He could do whatever he wanted, and when the weather was nice, he didn't mind sleeping in dark alleys. Buddy was thirty-six years old, looked sixty, and would probably not make past forty-five.
The light in the sky and the noise that followed had scared him out of his usual hiding place. Now he was at his second choice. He staggered into the alley, already well on his way to being drunk. A well-dressed couple had seen fit to give Buddy a 20-dollar bill earlier today. A twenty! Buddy was a master at getting the most bang for the buck, at least when it came to potent potables (while institutionalized, Buddy had always excelled at that particular Jeopardy category, despite stiff competition from his fellow inmates). The twenty had turned into enough cheap alcohol to keep him off his feet for a couple of days. Now all he needed was a quiet place to enjoy his liquid wealth.
Buddy stepped into the alley. He froze, looking down with the rapt tension of a deer catching the scent of a predator.
Somebody was already in the alley. A man, prone, lying face down right behind the garbage bin.
Normally, Buddy would have shrugged and staggered away. He was drunk enough to be bold, however. He approached the man lying on his spot. "Hey. Hey, you're on my bunk, man," he whispered hoarsely as he got closer.
The black man on the ground did not belong in the alley. He was fat, and looked too young and prosperous to have to sleep behind a garbage bin. That made Buddy angrier. "Hey, you," he hissed. He kicked one of the man's feet. The man did not stir.
Something clicked inside Buddy's head. "You dead, man?" If the stranger was dead, that would be too bad, but Buddy had learned the ways of the scavenger. He shook the man, and then noticed a fat wallet on the fat stranger's back pocket. Gingerly, he pulled it out, opened it. It was full of cash.
"Bingo," Buddy said breathlessly. He stuffed the money in his pocket, dropped the wallet, and turned over the man, searching for other valuables.
What he saw made Buddy recoil in horror.
Something was on the man's face. When he was a child, Buddy had been terrified by the squid in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. That's what the thing looked like, a squid, tightly wrapped around the guy's face. A trickle of blood was running down the man's chin.
"Oh, no good, no good at all," Buddy blabbered.
The squid-thing was throbbing. In the faint illumination provided by the streetlights, Buddy saw the man's Adam's apple bob up and down to the same rhythm. The thing was pumping something down the man's throat. Buddy gagged in disgust. He fell on his butt, then crawled crabwise away from the man. It took him two tries, but he finally got to his feet, grabbed a hold of his shopping cart, and started pushing it away from the alley.
"No good, no good can come of this," he said, and did his best to forget what he had seen.
In the alley, forgotten and forsaken, Jonas "Fatboy" Jackson lay unmoving, as the thing on his face progressed to its next life cycle.
Chicago County Hospital
3:01 a.m.
Dr. Green watched the TV news with shell-shocked weariness.
The newscaster was young, pretty, and looked only slightly frazzled despite the ungodly hour. "This is Bambi Edwards, reporting live from the scene of the first major asteroid impact on a major American city. The fires have been put out. One fatality has been reported, and half a dozen people with serious injuries have been sent of Hope and County hospitals. Meanwhile, a team from the city Department of Health has removed most of the debris from the site." She turned to a young Hispanic man loitering behind her. "Sir, did you see the impact?"
"Yeah. It was fuc BEEP ing amazing."
Mark turned away from the TV, missing the now flustered reporter's next words. He walked back to the observation room -- the quarantined observation room -- where the two patients had been placed. Their vitals were stable. They were both running a low-grade fever. And something else was going on.
The parasitic infestation was spreading in both patients. Ultrasound had revealed the creatures secreting a liquid into the men's body cavity. It couldn't be the acid secretion, though – that had actually eaten through several inches of the concrete floor in the basement before finally oxidizing into harmlessness. It was as powerful as hydrochloric acid; if the victims had been exposed to it, they'd be long dead by now.
His fists clenched. He hated being helpless, not knowing what to do next.
He heard footsteps behind him, and turned. It was Carter. "Any change?" the younger doctor asked.
"Oh, there are changes. I just don't know what any of them signify," Dr. Greene said bitterly. Nobody else did, which was small consolation. They had brought couple of specialists in, and they had walked away shaking their heads. Professor Harding had stared at the thing for a few minutes, then taken some pictures with a digital camera and asked to use an Internet terminal. He didn't look like a happy camper, though.
"Dr. Greene?" That was Nurse Carol Hathaway, and she didn't sound like she was bringing good news. Mark and Carter turned around, and saw half a dozen unsmiling men in dark suits gathered behind Carol, who looked both harried and angry. The leader of the pack of strangers was a sickly looking man with a lit cigarette in his hand. Mark immediately realized two things: he didn't like the newcomer, and the man was trouble personified.
"Dr. Greene, I presume," the smoking man said.
"This is a no smoking area," Mark replied coldly.
"So your nurse told me." The man took another puff, blew smoke towards the ceiling. "We won't bother you for long, Dr. Greene. We are here for your two patients." He motioned with the lit cigarette towards the two men on the beds behind Mark. "We are with the CDC. This facility is not equipped to handle this situation." The smoking man turned to the silent men. "Gentlemen?" The expressionless men stepped forward.
"Wait. Just wait," Dr. Greene said, fighting to hold his temper. "We cannot release the patients without the proper paperwork. We are still trying to notify their next of kin. And I'll need to see some identification."
The smoking man's face grew even grimmer than before. "You really don't want to get in my way, Dr. Greene," he said, as matter-of-factly as someone talking about the weather. "You would not enjoy the experience, should you survive it."
"Carol, call security," Mark said. One of the men stepped aside, neatly blocking her in. Mark's heart skipped a beat.
"Well ahead of you," Carol said without turning around. "They're on their way."
She wasn't bluffing. Several security guards arrived moments later. Ahead of them, moving just as fast as the guards despite her disability, Carrie Weaver led the way. The tough-as-nails doctor had not been fully briefed yet, but she was fiercely territorial. "What is going on in here?" she said.
"This is a matter of national security, doctor," the smoking man said.
"They are trying to take away our patients," Mark explained. "I still haven't seen any ID."
The smoking man dropped his cigarette and ground it out with the sole of his shoe. He turned to one of his lackeys. "Deal with it," he said, ignoring Dr. Weaver. The other man stepped forward, brandishing an official-looking card and badge. Weaver stepped forward to examine them.
Mark Greene looked at the smoking man as he calmly lit another cigarette. The look in the man's eyes was not at all friendly. For some reason, Mark almost felt as if the stranger and the creatures tormenting his two patients shared some grotesque kinship. Neither of them seemed concerned about the fate of the two victims, for one.
Midwest Airlines Flight 772, en route to Chicago O'Hare Airport
3:22 a.m.
"Well Scully, we just gained an hour," Mulder said, resetting his watch.
"You promised to let me sleep," Scully said grumpily.
"Sorry."
Scully turned her back on him.
Mulder shrugged. He was too hyped up to sleep. He picked up the phone on the seat in front of him and dialed the number the Lone Gunmen had given him, mentally commanding himself to speak quietly.
The phone rang six times before somebody picked up. "This is the Monitor," a voice – a young male voice, trying to sound deeper than normal – spoke up.
"This is agent Mulder."
"Mulder? No shit? Cool!" the Monitor all but squeaked. "I mean," he added, trying to deepen his voice again, "I've been expecting your call."
"No shit? Cool," Mulder replied, trying to keep the mocking tone in his voice down to a dull roar. "So, any more news to report?"
"A shitload. We have, uh, one dead, about twelve injured, seven of them pretty badly. The news media just confirmed it was a meteorite. And then there was something an ambulance driver started shouting over the radio. Some of the victims had something over their faces."
"Something like what?"
"Like an animal," the Monitor said solemnly. "Like an animal they'd never seen before."
"Interesting," Mulder commented. "Did he say where he was taking the victims?"
"Chicago County Hospital."
"I guess we'll be paying a visit there as soon as we arrive." He looked at his watch. "We should be in O'Hare soon." He hoped it would be soon enough.
Chicago, IL
3:43 a.m.
Buddy Carmichael's night got even weirder.
After his panicky flight from his regular alley, Buddy managed to calm down. He had money. He had booze. He quite literally forgot all about the man with the squid head. He started looking for another quiet alley where he could hunker down for the night.
Walking the streets at this hour wasn't safe, even for those with little to lose. Buddy knew that. When car lights flashed down the street, he looked down and picked up the pace. He was very close to his third choice, a good place near a hot air vent. If he could just make it…
The car picked up speed. Buddy tried to ignore it. Cops, maybe, hassling him.
"There's one!" an eager voice called out.
There were cops, and then there were worse things.
A gang of punks had been beating up homeless people for fun and exercise. Buddy wasn't playing with a full deck most of the time, but he remembered that much. He turned his head, and saw that the car had stopped and half a dozen guys were pouring out of it.
"No good," Buddy moaned. He managed to run halfway into an alley before one of the punks tripped him with a baseball bat. The fall was painful, but Buddy knew worse was to come.
The gang surrounded him. From his prone position, Buddy saw work boots, bicycle boots, even a pair of Nikes.
"All right! It's hammer time!" one of the punks shouted.
A light flashed at the end of the alley. The would-be bashers paused in surprise.
Five newcomers were now sharing the alley with Buddy and his tormentors. They were far away enough that Buddy could see them from the ground.
There were three women, a man, and a boy; everyone, except the boy, was wearing business suits and carrying a suitcase. They comprised the weirdest group Buddy had ever set eyes on in his (rather eventful, although never more than now) life.
Leading the way was the man. Tall – a giant of a man, his heavily-muscled build clearly visible even under the business suit he was wearing. Dark-haired and expressionless, wearing dark glasses despite the fact that it was the middle of the night, he looked like trouble. He didn't say a word.
Standing next to him was a dark-haired woman, strikingly attractive, clad in a blazer and miniskirt that showed a lot of leg. It wasn't her athletic and graceful good looks that impressed Buddy, though; she looked dangerous. She regarded the scene in the alley with a feral grin in her face. "You boys are not what we're looking for," she announced. "But I can use the entertainment."
A second woman, with light brown hair, was standing protectively next to the boy, a bratty-looking kid in baggy jeans and sneakers, carrying a backpack, who didn't seem worried by the six thugs in the alley. "You guys are so busted!" he told the punks. "If I were you, I'd put down your sticks, and then I'd walk away quietly out of here."
"Let's take it easy, John," the older woman said. She looked tough, but less eager for trouble than her companion.
The last woman -- or girl, she looked fairly young -- was short and wore her dark hair short. Her large, dark eyes looked sad, worried and determined at the same time.
The six punks had been looking forward to short and brutal beating, and helping themselves to any valuables their victim might be carrying. They could have just as easily fled -- the strangers were not blocking the alley's exit -- but their blood was up. Their leader, a tall guy who (when he wasn't beating up homeless people) played varsity football at Chicago University, charged the newcomers, his baseball bat at the ready. The rest of them followed.
Buddy sat up, just in time to watch the fight. It wasn't much of a fight, really.
The man and the woman up front did most of the work. The big man stepped forward and caught a descending baseball bat with his bare hand. There was a loud twap sound when the bat connected. The man's free hand lashed out, and the punk was slapped across the entire width of the alley, smashing hard against a wall. He slid limply to the ground.
Another one swung a crowbar and hit the big man on the side. The man didn't even stagger, but the crowbar rebounded out of the punk's numb hands. The attacker felt as if he had hit a brick wall. "What the fuck are you made of?" he gasped before a backhand sent him flying to the other side of the alley, spitting teeth along the way.
The woman didn't wait for the attack. She rushed forward, grabbed two of the thugs by their shirts, and pulled them off their feet. She shoved, and both of them were tossed over Buddy's head, landing in a heap near the mouth of the alley.
The last two went for the rest of the group, perhaps thinking them easier prey.
The woman protecting the boy -- her son, perhaps? -- rushed one of the attackers. A baseball bat swung towards her. She ducked under it and delivered a brutal uppercut right into the man's groin. The would-be attacker folded with a whimper. The second man was met by the short woman. She took a blow to her head that should have cracked her skull. Instead of dropping, however, she decked the surprised attacker with a palm strike to the jaw.
In a handful of seconds, it was over. The six punks were lying on the ground, half-conscious at best, all nursing assorted bruises and a few broken bones. The feral woman looked down at her dress. "Ruined a stocking," she said. "20th century fashions aren't very sturdy."
"You're lucky," the kid said. "Arnold always had to steal clothes when he was sent out." The kid then turned to Buddy. "Are you all right, dude?"
Buddy cringed. The kid pulled out something that looked like a pocket calculator. "Advanced liver and nerve damage," he said, looking at the readout. "You really shouldn't be walking around like this." Before Buddy could react, the kid pulled out a gun -- no, something that looked like a gun, and pressed it against the side of his neck. Buddy felt a cold infusion, running down his veins from the point of contact. "There, that ought to do it," the stranger said, satisfied.
The big man spoke for the first time. "All hostiles have been neutralized," he said in an emotionless voice.
"We must go."
"All done," the kid said. The bizarre group walked out of the alley. They got into punks' car, and drove off.
Buddy went through the pockets of the unconscious thugs and collected a few hundred extra bucks. For some strange reason, however, he wasn't looking forward to turning the cash into liquor. He felt younger, better, more… sane than he had in years.
He walked out of the alley, a whole universe of possibilities unfolding before him.
Chicago, IL
Same Time, Same Place
The short fight below was a colorful display of infrared signatures -- the reds and yellows of living flesh, standing out against the darker and duller hues of cold stone and asphalt. He had watched the brief encounter with the utmost interest.
This was something new. New experiences, new challenges -- those were what he and his kind lived for.
The biological signature of one of them -- the larger female -- was unmistakable.
She was a hybrid.
Her presence here could not be a coincidence. Somehow, this group had learned of his project. The energy outburst that had preceded their arrival was unfamiliar. His kind did not value technology as highly as other things -- honor and the hunt being first and foremost -- but something this unique would be extremely valuable; loot to go with the trophies.
To his chagrin, he realized he would have to call for help. He had come here to start a game preserve -- insert a few seedlings, watch them multiply, maybe take a few trophies, both native and newly-born, and then return home. These new arrivals might jeopardize the project. It did not pay to be overconfident. Not too long ago, a distant relative of his had died on a hunting run on this very world.
So be it. He would call in a whole Pack. There would be no lack of volunteers after he described the situation.
The strangers drove off. His decision made, the Predator ran invisibly across the rooftop from which he had observed the fight, and gracefully leapt over to the next building, heading towards his ship.
Chicago County Hospital
4:15 a.m.
"Step aside, Mark," Dr. Weaver said unhappily.
Mark Greene wavered for a second.
"Mark, just do it."
Mark realized the minions of the smoking man were seconds away from using force. There was nothing he could do. Word had come from upstairs: cooperate with the government team, and forgo the usual paperwork in turning over the patients. Carter and Corday were very angry, but when Mark stepped aside, they followed his lead. The G-men transferred the two patients to stretchers and wheeled them out. The smoking man turned to the doctors. "Discussing tonight's events would be most unwise," he said, in the off-hand tone of someone commenting on the weather. "Both for your careers, and your well being."
"There is no need for threats," Weaver replied.
"I do not make threats," the smoking man replied. "I merely predict outcomes." He turned to his assistants. "Let's go. We've wasted enough time."
Mark watched his patients being taken away with impotent rage. He shook his head. ER doctors have to learn to lose battles. Few learn to like losing them, however.
"Back to work," he said. Carter started to say something, then shook his head and walked away. Corday put a reassuring hand on Mark's shoulder. "You did everything you could," she said. Marked nodded, gently disengaged himself from her, and walked to the bathroom. He washed his face, stared at the mirror for a few minutes, despite the dread memories of the place -- he had been beaten to within an inch of his life in this restroom. Another time where he had been helpless, unable to do anything.
When he emerged, he saw three newcomers -- two women and a large man -- standing by the front desk. The new receptionist looked bewildered. Mark approached.
"Is there something I can do for you?" he said, trying to keep the edge off his voice. He wasn't feeling very helpful just about now.
A woman with light hair turned toward him. "My name is Sarah Connor. We need to see some patient of yours."
The other woman looked around; she sniffed the air delicately, an intent expression in her face. "They were here," she announced. "But they are gone."
"Damn!" Sarah said. "Where did they take them?"
The strangers had to be talking about the strange patients. It was the only thing that fit. "Look, before I say anything," Mark said. "I need to know who you are, and what your connection with the patients is."
"We work for a private organization," Sarah Connor said, somewhat hesitantly. "It is very important we see those patients."
"You might be looking for the same patients we are, then," a man said behind them. Mark turned. A man and a woman in business suits had walked up to the front desk. They were flashing badges.
"Agents Mulder and Scully, FBI."
Mark took a deep breath. "All I can tell you -- all of you -- is that those patients are no longer in our care. Government agents took them not ten minutes away." Which was more than he would have told them, under normal circumstances, but these weren't normal circumstances by any means.
"Mulder?" Sarah Connor said. "Fox Mulder?"
The male agent nodded, looking slightly puzzled. "Do I know you?"
"Not yet. But we were told to contact you."
"By whom?" the female FBI agent asked.
"Long story," the dark-haired woman said before Sarah could reply. "Maybe we could talk somewhere else."
Mulder nodded. "That might be a good idea." He turned to Mark and handed him a card. "I would still like to speak with you. This is my card. Please don't hesitate to call me."
Something about Agent Mulder's demeanor defused Mark's anger. Unlike the previous bunch of government goons, this man seemed to genuinely want to help. Mark took the card. "I will."
The five strangers walked out of the hospital, leaving Mark Greene more confused than ever.
But amidst the confusion there was a glimmer of hope.
Duncanville Hotel, Chicago
4:20 a.m.
The Duncanville Hotel was a cheap, discreet establishment, with a daily and hourly rate, frequented mostly by ladies of the evening and their clients, traveling businessmen with tiny expense accounts, and people with something to hide. The occupants of rooms 312 and 313 belonged to the third type. At the moment, only two of the five occupants were there, hunched over a laptop computer on a table. The TV set was on; an old Western movie was unfolding on the screen, as the reluctant hero steeled himself to confront the men in the black hats. The boy and the young woman inside ignored the show, intent on their work.
John Connor, truant, amateur thief, would-be Messiah for a whole world, and most recently, Eternity Agent, sat back and relaxed for a moment. "All right," he told his companion. "The search virus is in the system. It will piggyback on any normal Internet or Intranet traffic, and will search every government database it can reach. It'll take a while, though."
"Not bad," his companion replied. She was a very cute pale woman with short dark hair. Her name was Annalee Call. She was an android from the future – a future, anyway; the world had many possible futures.
That was fine with John. He liked cybernetic beings. His best friend was one, as a matter of fact.
"Not bad at all," he said. It always paid to hype yourself, especially when you were trying to impress a pretty android. "It's good to be hacking into good old 20th century tech again."
"Let's hope we get the information we need on time," Call said, looking serious again. That was Annalee's biggest problem -- she was a living bummer.
"We will," John said confidently. That was the other thing chicks liked -- confidence. "We're Eternity Agents. We're the best at what we do."
Annalee smiled a little. Not bad, John thought.
Words flashed on the computer's screen. "It's Arnold, sending us an instant message," John said. His buddy Arnold, better known as Terminator, was out with his mom and Annalee's friend Ellen Ripley.
SITUATION STABLE.
MADE CONTACT WITH SUBJECTS MULDER AND SCULLY.
INITIATING RECRUITMENT PROTOCOLS.
STAND BY.
BE COOL DUDE.
John snickered at the last line. "He's getting a little better." Arnold was trying to learn how to be more human-like. He still talked -- and sent e-mail -- as if he had to pay by the word, though.
"They must have run into the recruits at the hospital," Call commented. "I wonder if that was planned, or just luck."
"Who cares? The important thing is, everything is going according to plan." He looked at Call appraisingly. "You look tense. Do you want a backrub?"
Call smiled. "I don't need a backrub. And I think you are a little young to be making a pass at me."
John shrugged. "Can't blame a guy for trying, can you?" As a matter of fact, a part of him was relieved to be turned down.
"I think you're a sweet kid, John. In a few years, we can see -- I won't be getting any older, after all." Her smile acquired a slightly mischievous edge, and John's heart did a flip-flop. "Although you might consider dating someone your own species."
"Hey, I'm open-minded. Besides, I can really only date people from the Legion. They all are older than me. Buffy is too pushy, Gabrielle and Willow are too nice, Ezri is already seeing someone…Besides, I like you the best."
"Maybe you won't have to wait very long," Call said. She raised a hand before John could reply. "But not now. We have a really important mission to do," she continued, getting all serious again. Sometimes, Call could be as zero-fun as his mother. "Unless we succeed, every human being on this planet will be dead in less than a year."
Abandoned Train Station, Chicago Environs
4:33 a.m.
The small caravan of cars arrived at the old train station minutes before the train did. The six bodies, each with a creature attached, were carried to the metal train car where medical teams awaited.
The smoking man watched the process quietly for a few moments. When the last two patients were wheeled into the train, he pulled out a cell phone and dialed a rarely used but never forgotten number.
"It's me," he said into the phone. "We have gathered all the subjects. It's nothing we have ever seen before." A pause, as the person on the other side spoke. "No, these are new. You know what this means. We must convene a meeting soonest." Another pause followed. "Yes, I will present any findings myself. We will keep a team in Chicago to make sure we didn't miss anything."
The train, now fully loaded with the six infected victims, started to roll away. The smoking man watched it go, his impassive demeanor masking the turmoil in his mind. He and the organization he represented were breaking a decades-old covenant by not destroying the infected bodies. The current situation, however, demanded extreme measures.
Very soon -- months at the outside -- the Colonization process would begin. Unless a new answer could be found, submissive cooperation would be the only option. This incident offered a new hope.
His cell phone started ringing. He answered it, listened without speaking for several minutes. "Observe them. If they -- Mulder especially -- get too close to the truth, terminate them with extreme prejudice. We can brook no interference, not now." He hung up.
It would be too bad if Fox Mulder had to die. The smoking man had fought against that eventuality for quite some time. This was not the time for half measures, however.
The fate of the human race was at stake.
To be continued…
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