Pulse

TWENTY-SIX

Though the salty sea breeze tickling his nose and rustling the leaves overhead calmed his nerves, Bishop found relaxing impossible. Sitting against a tree at the center of their small makeshift base camp, Bishop's thoughts were with his teammates. He'd heard the communication between King and the others. He knew the level of danger was ratcheting up. But he also knew that if medical care was required, or a place to hide, the base camp would be it. And for that reason he had to maintain his post, no matter what might occur on the other side of the volcano.

Frustration built as time passed without update. Something about this mission, about the strangeness of the psychotic capybara and intent of Manifold Genetics to sell physical regeneration to their enemies had his instincts shouting for caution. But here they were, charging headlong into the unknown. Well, everyone but him.

A pain lanced up his arms as he squeezed his hands into tight fists, nearly breaking the skin of his palm with his nails. Get a grip, he told himself. With a deep breath, Bishop forced his muscles to relax. He crossed his thick yet limber legs and breathed deep again, focusing on the distant sound of the ocean and the rustling leaves above. The scent of earth filled his nose and the exposed skin of his arms prickled with goose bumps at the cool breeze rolling in from the ocean. Clearing his mind of worry, he focused on his current mission — preparation and defense of the base camp.

The camouflage tents assembled within a stand of bushes would only be seen if someone stumbled upon them. Being nearly invisible and far from any trails, they probably could have left the hidden medical gear, weapons, and communications equipment without fear of discovery, but they had no idea what they would find within the protected walls of Manifold's dummy corporation. So Bishop would wait until called upon to act, whether it be attack or medical assistance.

His chest sagged as his thoughts cleared and body loosened. The rage dissipated. Breathing deep once more, he sensed a change in the air. It warmed as the breeze shifted direction, rolling down from the volcano. The trees creaked and swayed.

He stood, looking at the sky through the treetops, looking for signs of a storm. But the sky was clear and full of stars. Another deep breath caused him to gag. Something foul clung to the air.

Again, the hair on his arm rose, but not from the cold this time. He snatched up his silenced 9mm Heckler & Koch USP, determined to defend the camp without exposing his position. Pulling his night vision goggles over his eyes, the forest came into view as the goggles amplified what little light from the moon and stars filtered through the trees. Crouching low, he worked his way toward the volcano's base. With the air pouring down over the volcano, the rancid odor's origin had to be somewhere at the base of the incline. Given the strength of the smell, he knew it was close by.

Leaves crunched beneath his feet as he moved, pausing every few steps to listen. After another five minutes of cautious advance, a loud snap stopped him in his tracks. The sound had come from beneath his foot, but was markedly louder than the crunch of a leaf or break of a branch. He lifted his foot and looked down. Something white extended out of the dark leaf litter that had concealed it from view as he approached. He swept the leaves away. A human femur.

Bishop stood, raised the 9mm, and continued. The smell quickly became nauseating. He raised an arm over his mouth and nose as he passed through a bush and entered a clearing surrounded by large trees that covered the area with sweeping branches and leaves that concealed the site, and its contents, from above. But standing at ground level, he could see the bodies.

Some, the ones providing the stench, were perhaps days old. Bloated and deformed, their bodies hardly looked human anymore, and the lack of heads revealed how they had been slain — decapitation. But the sheer number of bodies filling the shallow pit, both human and animal, caused Bishop to step back. Manifold was infinitely more dangerous than they had surmised.

He looked down at the mass grave before him. It could have been the handy work of Hitler or Stalin or any number of sick-minded dictators. Fresh corpses lay atop and twisted limbs with the further decayed, who shared space with skeletons. Even in a time of war, acts like this were considered criminal, but this site belonged to a genetics company working on the secret of human regeneration. He wondered, with growing revulsion, what would have become of the world if Hitler's S.S. had been impervious to harm. The beaches of Normandy could never have been stormed. The Third Reich could have taken the world. And it seemed the same ruthlessness would be the birthplace of the world's next military horror. Whoever possessed the technology would rule the battlefield.

Blood fueled by adrenaline surged through Bishop's veins as a rage unlike any he'd felt before took root in his soul. Manifold had to be stopped. The others had to be warned. But as he turned to head back to camp, the sound of approaching voices mixed with the frenzy of a madman filled the air. Bishop dove behind a tree just as the men entered the clearing. As three men shouted to one another over the mindless screams of a fourth Bishop stole a peek around the base of the tree. What he saw through the green vision provided by his night vision erased his rage and replaced it with something he felt very rarely.

Fear.