Pulse

FORTY-SEVEN

Word about the man who had entered the blazing inferno spread through the campground faster than the fire could devour the house. The crowd swelled to nearly a hundred people. Women gasped as the story was told. Men explained why they hadn't charged in. Kids watched with wide, nervous eyes. King made a mental note of the teenager taking video of the scene on his cell phone. If Bishop made it out alive, that was one video that couldn't be allowed to make it onto YouTube. If he didn't make it…

King tried to ignore the possibility. But it had been nearly a minute since Bishop had entered the cabin.

The whine of fire engines sounded in the distance. Plymouth was responding quickly. If the fire spread, the whole campground could go up in flames. Just as King began to focus on the possibility of having to evacuate the campgrounds, an explosion blasted a hole in the cabin's roof. Smoke billowed from the fresh, four-foot hole. King shook his head in frustration. The place was falling apart. Bishop was—

The smoke split as a figure launched from the hole, clearing the remainder of the roof and plummeting two stories to the ground. A sound like snapping branches shot out as the man struck the ground. His legs had broken from the impact. The man fell to his side and rolled to his back, as if protecting something in his arms.

Despite the thick black coat of soot, King recognized Bishop's bulky form. Thor did, too. The dog whined at Bishop. No one else would recognize him, though. The kid with the video camera would probably make a small fortune from the video. He grit his teeth and clenched his eyes shut as an intense pain racked his body. He rolled onto his knees, holding his torso up with one and still clutching the other, and a thick blanket, to his chest.

King walked closer, wary despite knowing it was Bishop. Something didn't feel right. Part of him wanted to run over and support his friend who was clearly in severe pain. But another part of him, a voice he wanted to squelch, but couldn't, shouted just the opposite. Run.

Bishop should not have survived.

Still King moved closer.

Bishop's skin was twisted and bent. Beat red. Melted. The elephant man and Quasimodo combined had nothing on him. His breathing was deep and fast, rough and ragged. Primal. Frantic. He had been altered, inside and out, reshaped by flame into a monster.

The crowd saw this, too, and stepped back as King took another step forward. Motion on Bishop's face stopped him. Something was changing.

A woman hollered in fear and pushed her way back through the crowd. She'd seen what King was now seeing. Something impossible.

As Bishop began to bellow — in rage or pain, it was impossible to tell — his charred skin flaked away before their eyes, falling to the dirt road like soft feathers. Some pieces were caught by a breeze and carried off above the crowd. People ducked and shouted as the burned, papery flesh hovered in the air. As the skin fell away, it was replenished by a new layer. Fresh hair grew atop his skull, which had been burned bald in the blaze. The red, gnarled skin on his face smoothed and straightened. Thirty seconds after leaping from a burning building, nearly on fire himself, Bishop's shout sounded human again. He had been healed.

As Bishop's scream faded, King headed off the crowd before they could jump to any conclusions about the man in front of them. Good or evil. Angel or demon. Religious people tended to go one way or the other. Either way, he had to get Bishop away from these people. How he failed to realize Bishop had been injected with the regeneration serum on Tristan da Cunha was beyond him. He should have realized it when Bishop had taken the brunt of the explosion and survived without a scratch. The question was: Would Bishop lose his mind?

As he knelt down next to Bishop, King could see smoke and steam rising from his flesh and burned clothing. The man had endured the horrors of being burned alive and survived. He kept his right hand behind his back, ready to draw his weapon if necessary. It would be an awful thing on so many levels, but if Bishop went regen on this crowd of people, few, if any, would survive.

Placing his left hand on Bishop's shoulder, he said, "Bish…"

Their eyes met. When he spoke, his voice was like a growl. "I'm here. It's still me. But if I lose control… If I become like the others. Use it." He looked at King's arm, still behind his back, ready to draw his weapon. "Take my head off."

Nothing further needed to be said. Both men knew the score. If Bishop lost control, his head would soon follow. It was the merciful thing to do. Bishop would rather die than hurt an innocent, or a team member for that matter.

"The kids?"

Bishop uncurled his hunched body as he stood. He held a ball of blankets in his arms. As he reached his full, towering height, the blankets fell open revealing two unconscious children, free from burns.

The crowd erupted with cheers. A slew of "Praise Jesus" and "Thank the Lord" went up. The clamor was drowned out by the blare of two fire engines rounding the corner and entering the woods.

"They… need to be treated…" Bishop said.

"Take your time," King said, taking the kids one by one and laying them on the ground, far from the blazing home. Thor licked their faces gently, then lay down beside them. Being compassionate wasn't part of the dog's job description. He was just being a golden retriever.

As King checked the kids over, feeling for pulses, listening to their breathing and watching their little chests rise and fall, the crowd kept a safe distance from him and Bishop. He could hear them whispering about Bishop, but ignored their words.

When King finished with the kids, Bishop took his arm. For a moment he looked enraged, but it could have just as easily been the discomfort of his quickly healing wounds. "There is no time." He winced as pain shook his body. He growled lightly, tensed, and then returned to himself. "Knight activated his GPS. I was on my way to get you. He's found something."

"Or someone found him."

"He could be in trouble."

Two firemen cut through the crowd and approached. After giving Bishop a wide-eyed once-over, they turned their attention to the kids on the forest floor. "What the hell happened?"

"He saved them," someone shouted.

"They need to be treated for smoke inhalation," King said. "They'll live."

"Was there anyone else inside? I was told the home belongs to an elderly couple," one of the men said, then looked at Bishop again. "And… is he… okay?"

"The house was empty," Bishop said. "I checked all the rooms."

"You… went in there?" the fireman asked, looking up at the burning cabin.

With furrowed brows and anger in his voice, Bishop replied, "No, I always roll around in soot before I—"

Before he could finish, two streams of water blasted the cabin as the fire crews attacked the blaze. But they were too late. The weakened structure collapsed. As the second floor and attic crashed down, smoke, sparks, and hot embers shot out among the crowd, sending folks scattering. The two firemen covered up the children, shielding them with their bodies.

But when the smoke cleared, the two men who had saved the children from the fire, and their dog, were gone. The crowd searched the surrounding woods for the men, but they'd disappeared.

Like angels.

After fifteen minutes of slow, but bumpy, travel, the pickup truck came to a stop. Knight peeked out from the side of the tarp and saw the driver look up and wave. He couldn't see the recipient of the wave, but guessed a camera was watching because what looked like a moss-covered rock wall moved into the mountainside and then slid away, revealing a subterranean tunnel leading inside the mountain. He ducked beneath the tarp as the truck drove forward. Looking through the back of the tarp, Knight saw the secret door close behind them as double sets of ceiling-mounted lights passed by on the ceiling above.

He lowered himself down again and looked at his fellow passengers. After searching their bodies he discovered the gray-haired, liver-spotted couple were Doug and Linda Crowell. Both were over eighty and owned a cabin in the Pinckney Bible Conference Grounds. Both were alive, though severely sedated. What Manifold wanted with them was anyone's guess. Neither were scientists. Doug carried a long-since-expired mill worker I.D. card. And given the amount of flour on the apron Linda wore, the only science she was currently involved in was the chemistry of making snickerdoodles.

As the truck slowed, Knight peeked out. They were about to enter a large loading dock of some kind. He hated leaving the couple. They reminded him of Grandma Dae-jung, but staying would only get him killed. And their chances of survival dropped with his death. Knight slipped silently from the back of the truck and dove into the shadow of a support beam.

The truck stopped in a brightly lit parking area. The driver and passenger were met by two more men dressed in security uniforms. Gen-Y. The four men joked and laughed as they casually pulled the elderly couple from the back of the truck, took them by arms and ankles and carried them away. After the group left, the loading bay went dark.

Knight entered the space, comfortable in the dark, and checked the door. Locked. A dull green light caught his eye. He approached it slowly, wary of a motion sensor. But as he neared, he made out the shape: a downward pointing triangle positioned eight feet up on the wall. He searched the wall, finding the door's central seam. He worked his way left and found a single button. He pushed it. It glowed bright yellow and the double doors slid open. A large freight elevator. "Going down."

Knight stepped inside and scanned the options. The levels were labeled by letters: G, L, Y, and P. He chose to start at the beginning and work his way through. After pushing the G button, Knight took out his silenced Sig Sauer and smashed the overhead light. Crouched in darkness, he waited for the doors to open again.

Thirty seconds later they did. After his eyes adjusted to the bright light streaming in, he moved slowly into a hallway. A loud repeating pop filled the air. The sound repeated over and over, each time followed by a guttural grunt. His nose caught the ripe smell of human sweat and his imagination filled with images of regens, torture chambers, and human guinea pigs strapped to tables. He knew Manifold was fully capable of producing all three.

He slid against the wall, approaching a four-foot-by-eight-foot window that looked in on the room where the sounds and smells came from. He took a deep breath and prepared to steal a glance. With a practiced quickness, he could look in the room, memorizing every feature to sort out in his own time. But when he turned his head and looked into the room, his head locked in place. What he saw was so outrageous, he couldn't look away.