Agents of Dreamland(18)

“Credit? We should have nailed them to the wall just for showing up in Rhode Island, never mind sending two of our agents on a wild goose chase so Barbican could snatch the right of first refusal.”

“And you think I’m the one with anger problems,” the Signalman said, and poured himself another shot of J&B.

The exit door opens, letting in the desert heat, letting in the terra-cotta light of the fading afternoon, and he makes his way along the narrow aisle, then down the foldout airstairs and onto the cracked tarmac. There’s no one waiting to meet him, but he hadn’t really expected there would be. The Signalman’s not exactly the sort of errand boy who rates a welcoming committee. He’d hoped there might be time for a shower, a quick bite to eat, maybe another drink before the party begins. And if wishes were horses, he’d still be on that train. He flashes his credentials for a couple of bored guards, and they let him pass. Neither of them looks him in the eye or says a word. It’s usually like that, when security sees a red shield, especially if it’s their first time. For most of these guys, Albany’s little more than a black-budget fairy tale, an intelligence community urban legend, until you’re face-to-face with the undeniable fact of it.

Cut to the chase. Get on with it, already.

They’re holding her in Zone 17, and that means a short ride on Dreamland’s very own underground maglev. There’s a whole goddamn city down here, a rat’s maze of tunnels and bunkers, substations, railways, and maintenance shafts, two dozen layers stacked one atop the other like a birthday cake. This is the beating heart and mind of the base, safe from satellites and Google Earth, hidden from the UFO and conspiracy nuts who lurk about the perimeters with their cameras and telephoto lenses.

The Signalman dislikes being below almost as much as he dislikes flying.

But this is where they’ve brought her, so this is where he goes.

Her name is Chloe Stringfellow, and she was the last of Standish’s fourteen unfortunate recruits, the one most recently infected, the least advanced case. She’s also the only one of the bunch considered a survivor, though that’s not going to last. He’s been told that she has a few hours left, maybe less; she isn’t likely to make it until morning. He’s also been told that she’s scared, and if he’s lucky, that’ll work in his favor.

The laboratory smells of ammonia and recycled air. There are two men in white coats who show him to the containment cell. He’d hesitate to call them doctors.

The merciless glare of fluorescents has erased every trace of shadow.

“We’ve got her on a cocktail of dimethylamylamine and amphetamine,” one of them tells the Signalman. “We’re doing our best to keep her lucid, but whatever this pathogen is, it’s acting as a powerful hypnotic.”

“If I were you,” says the other, “I’d hurry.”

Her cell is fronted by a thick sheet of Plexiglas, and there’s a metal folding chair parked in front of it, waiting for him. Inside, she’s sitting in an identical chair, head bowed, shoulders slumped, staring at her open palms. He takes his seat, and one of the men in white coats switches on an intercom. The Signalman’s seen the corpses of people who’ve died of Ebola, leprosy, radiation poisoning, not to mention any number of biological and chemical weapons. But somehow this is worse. Maybe it’s because she’s still alive.

“Chloe,” he says, his voice rendered flat and tinny by the intercom, “I need to talk with you. I know that’s probably the very last thing you want to do right now, but unless you cooperate, I can’t guarantee my bosses are ever going to let you leave this place. Unless you help me, I can’t even guarantee they’re going to keep treating you. They let people die. I need you to understand that, Chloe. The men and women I work for, they let people die all the time.”

“I’ve seen you before,” she says without looking at him, and her voice is as raw as uncooked hamburger. “At the ranch. You’re one of them.”

“Yeah. That’s right. I’m one of them. But I want to help you. I really do, and I can’t unless you’re willing to help me.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” she says. “None of you. You don’t have any idea what I’ve done. You couldn’t imagine.”

“Then how about you give me a hand with that?”

She laughs, and he thinks it’s one of the worst sounds in the world, that laugh.

“I want some water,” she tells him. “They won’t even give me a drink of water. I asked over and over again. I told them how thirsty I am, but they won’t listen.”

The Signalman glances at the men in white coats, and the one who told him to hurry shakes his head. When he turns back to the girl, she’s looking at him. Her eyes are the color of gangrene.

“Answer a few questions for me,” he says. “You do that, and I’ll see you get whatever you want. Water, a Coke, iced tea, whatever the hell you’d like.”

“My throat is so dry,” she replies.

“Where is he?”

“Where is who?”

“Standish. Where is Drew Standish.”

She narrows those rotting eyes, then goes back to staring at her hands.

“Where are the others?” she wants to know. “Did you bring them here, too? You’re not cops, are you?”