Extinction Machine by Jonathan Maberry Page A

curled back from his dentures. “Yeah? And how do we know those slippery bastards aren’t screwing us?”
    “We know because they can’t. Remember the last time they tried? That entire lab complex in Tangshan became the epicenter of a very, very big earthquake. Worst of the twentieth century, am I right? You really think they’re going to risk that again?”
    “How the fuck should I know?” growled Howard, his face becoming livid. “ We keep risking it. Any risk is worth it. Mount St. Helen’s, Haiti … even if someone ever puts two and two together, they’ll see how everything we’ve had to do is all for the ultimate good. That’s easy math. Besides, if we hadn’t gotten lucky with the organic component we’d be in the same boat as them.” He shook his head. “But it’s not the damn Chinese I’m worried about. Or the Russians or the frigging North Koreans or anyone.”
    “Then what?”
    “What Yuina said … about the Truman Projection. Christ, Bones, what if she’s right?”
    “Oh God, you’re worried about that? You think we’re being invaded by aliens?” Mr. Bones burst out laughing. “Yuina is a very brilliant, very dedicated, very crazy lady and she’s been in the lab far too long.”
    “Yeah, but what if she’s right?”
    “She’s not right. ET’s gone home, Howard. We have junk and burned bodies and nothing else. This is all past tense and you know this.”
    “What if she’s right?” Howard insisted.
    “Not a chance in hell,” said Mr. Bones with absolute certainty.
    Howard merely grunted, but sweat continued to boil from his pores. It ran in lines down his cheeks.
    “Jesus Christ, Howard,” yelped Mr. Bones, “what’s wrong?”
    “I … I think you’d better get my nitro,” said Howard very carefully. “I feel like shit.”

 
    Chapter Twenty-three
    Baltimore, Maryland
Sunday, October 20, 6:33 a.m.
    We were starting to draw a crowd. I ignored them.
    Beaky Nose kept trying to wriggle away, but I moved into his path of retreat and squatted down. He took one look at me and gave up.
    I took his ID case and looked at it. The photo was bland and uninteresting. The name printed on the card was “Stephen Albert.”
    “Who sent you?” I asked him.
    Instead of answering he leaned over and vomited. His eyes were glazed and his face had turned a bright red. Huge spasms racked him from hair to feet.
    “Let’s come back to that,” I suggested, and went over to pick the pockets of the other agents. Baldy was Benjamin Carr, Scarecrow was John Woods Duke, and the Italian-looking guy was Mark Bucci. I didn’t recognize any of the names. MindReader would get me every last detail about them, so I pocketed the IDs. I also took their guns and removed the keys from the ignitions of both cars. While I was at it, I checked the glove compartments and trunks of each vehicle and found nothing. The cars were as clean as if they’d just rolled off a Detroit assembly line. Not even a pack of gum or an owner’s manual.
    The only remarkable thing I found was a small rectangular piece of metal Agent Albert had in his pocket. It was about the size of a Zippo lighter, but thinner and with no moving parts that I could see. I would have dismissed it as nothing more than a piece of junk except for the fact that he carried it and had nothing else of a personal nature. So it wasn’t a worry stone or a good-luck piece. It weighed next to nothing and was warm to the touch. I put it in my pocket.
    Agent Albert was on his knees with his hands cupped around his balls, but his red face had turned gray-green. I squatted down in front of him.
    “Who sent you?” I asked.
    He tried to say something, but he couldn’t make coherent sounds. His lips formed the words: Fuck you.
    “You’re not making this any easier on yourself, Albert.”
    He didn’t respond to my use of his name. Not a twitch. His bug eyes stared at the puddle of vomit in which he knelt. People were coming out of buildings and stepping