Chaingang

31

NORTH OF WATERTON

He hated everything about the monkey people, but one of the things he loathed the most about this alien planet was, there were fewer and fewer places to find true isolation. When one was anywhere near urban centers, it took an increasing amount of effort to find raw chunks of emptiness where one's thoughts and privacy would not be invaded by the loud laughter and grating voices of the imbeciles who populated every corner of the globe.

How he despised their blank faces brimming with confidence and herd instinct. The cleansing of the lonely places invariably renewed him—made him feel whole again.

Their crap, which they dropped everywhere in a nauseating litter of garish billboards, empty beer cans, and discarded TV sets, followed him everywhere, it seemed. Even back of beyond the monkeys came, laughing and chittering and taking one another's pictures.

Chaingang was irritated to begin with, at the prospect of having to go through the enormous effort of relocation, but it was time to go. His sensors felt them closing the net. He knew he was no longer safe. Whatever he'd been a part of was drawing to an end.

This was his dark mood as he waddled to his ride, removed the huge camouflaged bush-net from it, and squeezed his blubber-gut behind the wheel, starting the car and pulling out down the gravel road in a northbound direction.

He had one more small chore to attend to, and then he could be on his way. There was the small matter of misdirection, for which he would now prepare. He would find a safe, isolated spot to hunker down for the night, far away from the sharecropper shack. Take care of the last-minute details tomorrow, then be about his business.

He turned on a country road that looked fetchingly untraveled, and followed it up over a steep embankment where it dead-ended abruptly. The other side of the tall bank was covered in weeds. An abandoned pasture, perhaps?

Turning off the motor, he eased his bulk out from behind the wheel and got out of the car, unzipping his fly and urinating carelessly in the direction of the road behind him. A stinking stream of pee splashed across the gravel, and he noticed, as a few drops of urine fell onto his 15EEEEE combat boots, a detail he'd overlooked. Rather astonishingly, to him, he realized that he had to be bugged in some way.

It was so obvious that it was amusing he hadn't bothered to consider it. Clearly those watching and manipulating him would have taken the precaution of marking him in some discernible way. He thought immediately of the most practical methods, rejecting each as he did so: A marked car was out—he'd switched them; a hidden homing device in his gear was out—too much chance of being discarded. It had to be his clothing.

What would be the most difficult thing for Daniel Bunkowski to replace? His enormous pants, belt, shirt, and custom-made gunboats. He smiled venomously at the thought, walking over to examine a brightly colored object that had caught his eye.

It was a plastic wrapper. Cheap stuff. Day-Glo pink. Wrapped around some sort of food advertisement. His stomach rumbled at the thought of groceries as he idly unwrapped the ads, glancing at the listings of munchies while he considered his next move. If there was a current newspaper here, that meant there'd be a dwelling close at hand, so it wasn't an abandoned pasture after all. No mailbox. Maybe there'd be a cottage tucked away behind those trees. Should he investigate or move along? He took pleasure from reading about food:

Butter and eggs, beans and bacon, cinnamon rolls and chocolate cake. Somewhere between the Velveeta and the hot pepper cheese, the word CONSPIRACY caught his eye.

“WE BELIEVE THAT THE MURDERS OCCURRING IN THIS COMMUNITY MAY BE DIRECTLY LINKED TO THE CLANDESTINE DRUG LAB'S CONSTRUCTION.” His coughing bark shook his gigantic stomach like a bowl full of jelly.

Those arrogant fools. The second he fed the words into his computer, he matched it to a newspaper story he'd read about an unlikely construction project, and felt the hot juices dripping through his thoughts. He saw himself in the house where he'd had a live one, reading about a monkey “theme park called Ecoworld.” It stretched his face into a fierce mask of hatred when he read about the poisoned dog.

They wanted a scapegoat, it seemed. One who could be put into play to divert attention from whatever lame nonsense they were concocting.

No. He didn't think so. Instead he thought he might go sniff around this construction project and see if he couldn't help them with their problem. If people thought there was a conspiracy afoot, then obviously the monkeys needed a helping hand. Perhaps he could redecorate the thing.

First things first. He unbuckled his belt, a huge thing big as a blacksnake whip, and began taking his custom-made boots and voluminous pants off.

It took him all of three minutes to find the small devices, which he knew must be microbugs, that his benefactors had secreted in his clothing. No wonder they knew exactly where he was at all times. In due course he would eliminate that bothersome problem too.