The Omega Seed Page 10

  Chapter Nine

  Redwood mind games

  California

  My life is out of control, like a reoccurring bad dream. I visualize myself as Jon Voight in the classic movie when he stood on the top of a snowbound, Alaskan runaway train, barreling into oblivion. It's all too surreal. A week ago I lounged in an Alexandria public park feeding peanuts to squirrels and today I'm riding with these four (fellow) Omega to an almost certain death.

  John Smith, the leader, was driving the final leg. The group had been alternating in the seat non-stop since the trek began from Tijuana, Mexico. He alone knew where Victor, the American coordinator, had established the camp hidden in the hills and woodlands outside Redwood. The last two days had been brutal, flying from Paris to Mexico City via New York, then a commuter hop to Tijuana where they rented a car. Mason sat in the rear with Leland and Elke; Enrique was in the front serving as the road map navigator and translator if necessary.

  In the short time they had been together Elke and Mason had become close in spirit and mind. Both sensed that their relationship could become deep and strong under different circumstances. But time was a precious commodity they didn't have, and the chance of survival for both of them seemed bleak. Not impossible, but so slim as to discourage discussion of long-range plans. The pair understood intrinsically that they could abandon the others in the rescue attempt with no explanations necessary - all had freedom of choice. They could run away together and attempt to evade the authorities... for the rest of their lives. At the same time, they also knew they would be haunted by the memories of those who would surely perish on September thirteenth, within two days. Individually, they pushed aside this self-serving temptation of escape. Elke, without question would stand by her vow of loyalty to her people. Mason, new to this situation, and although not formally verbally committed, had taken his friend Henry's words to heart. He had challenged his demons, albeit sooner than he had expected and even though frightened by his most likely short demise, had determined to face whatever came to the Omega - who were now his people.

  "This is all utterly and regretfully bizarre in a most distorted way!" lamented Armstead. "I can understand now why the world's governments wouldn't believe you... and even dread the Omega to some ugly, slanted degree."

  "Yes, we are a bitter pill for them to swallow. They fear anything new and view us as undermining their religious doctrines, when in actuality it strengthens them," commented Leland.

  "Change," added John. "Society always opposes fundamental change, in spite of its eloquently professing otherwise. When it gets down to the nitty-gritty of questioning ancestry, religion or family beliefs, they will fight you to the death, your death preferably and theirs if necessary, to protect their traditions, whether right or wrong. And, to them, not only do we threaten the world's dogma: their leaders are convinced we are some kind of super-race of mind-controlling mutants determined to dominate and eradicate existing humanity. But their first and foremost argument is based mainly on religion. Their second, unspoken contention is: No one wants to be deemed an inferior species. We're reasonably sure that this very same scenario has happened before, many thousands of years ago. Our calculated premise is that the most dominate and populous human sect killed off a co-existing intelligently superior minor culture for the same reasons that we are facing now... proving that human nature hasn't changed from its primal level beginning.

  "Surprising and very complicated... how were you able to piece it all together? I mean this had to of started all the way back in Mesopotamia, the historically agreed upon point of the Cradle of civilization," surmised Mason. "Am I on track here or what?"

  "Yes, you certainly are. Try to stay with me, this may get tricky and please stop me if I become confusing. I sometimes get carried away and jump out of sequence with my depictions." Then John continued and went on to explain that it had taken many decades to gather information from all over the world by verified and trusted word of mouth, a painstakingly slow accumulation of data which had not been forgotten or distorted by the Collectors.

  "Down through history, any person - man or woman, who had retained and exhibited any trace of unusual abilities were routinely put to a horrible death as punishment for purported evil or demonic possession. Similar fates also befell most of those who dared to voice a contrary opinion. They were judged heretics, atheists or agnostics and their executions were declared proper and just by God in order to instill fear and silence their supporters. The Dark Ages of reasoning had not passed," he added. "For example, even now in our so called enlightened and educated society, many places in the world people still wear blessed handkerchiefs under their headwear so demons won't steal their minds or make them physically disappear. Choosing to remain in ignorance is still prime and running rampant."

  "I didn't know that. You would hope we're beyond such distorted thinking in today's modern world," contended Armstead.

  "Modern world?" challenged Leland. "You're not trying to equate that to civilization are you? Because this coming September thirteenth exhibits nothing less than the lowest level of villainy... no, downright barbarity. The so-called modern world has declared a merciless war on us, along with the alleged murdering aliens from outer space. It's mindless genocide, nothing less!"

  "Leland, please try to calm down a bit, my friend," coaxed Smith. He waited a moment for the Scotsman to regain his composure. "So, Mason, this looks like as an opportune time as any to give you the full rundown on how all of this came to pass," assessed John. Armstead leaned back his head, his mind had already begun reeling under the numbing crush of information. John began: "Alien colonists, helpers from the stars, settled on Earth six thousand years ago close to the major population concentrations on every continent. Their purpose was to assist the existing, fledging, struggling human colonies make better progress in attaining their full potential. Being human themselves, many of the Aliens over time intermarried with the inhabitants and sired offspring whose Omega-like abilities became fully developed three generations later. Now, having melded into Earth's general populace, the Aliens were able to act as catalyst in many of mankind's most significant advancements. They were the driving force behind the conversion from pictorial to the written word, expanding mathematics, astronomy, music, art, the introduction of a code of ethics... which led to judiciary systems and the initial concept of democracy. In regards to physical well-being, in some areas of the world, life-spans doubled or tripled due to their influence in safety and health awareness."

  "Then, the unimagined and unforeseeable occurred: two thousand years later a passing radioactive meteor contaminated the atmosphere and destroyed the original function of the Alien's vermiform appendix to produce its unique enzymes. These enzymes contained wondrous properties which created efficient food processing and the power to neutralize disease - not to mention the enhancement of a host of physiological and mental capabilities. More decades passed and since their appendix had ceased functioning, the blood-line of the star-born gradually died off at an Earthly human pace. Left behind were today's descendants, mere mortals, but mixed within them a strain of inert, recessive genes that could enable the appendix to function again with a medical correction. In essence, the meteor effectively pulled the rug out from under the accelerated development of mankind which then reverted back to progressing at a violent, slow crawl. So, in a broad interpretation, the Biblical, as well as numerous other cultural accounts, were correct in that the Nephilim, or a super-race, did exist long ago."

  "More misfortune befell the struggling Earthlings: thousands of years passed before the Aliens, who live hundreds of light-years away on the other side of the galaxy, returned for a status check and were very disappointed in themselves with what they found. They felt they should have monitored the situation closer and interjected aid centuries ago. Since their rediscovery - for the last two hundred years - the star people have been visiting Earth and abducting humans, experimenting with drugs and treatment in an effort to repair the ap
pendix's damage and stimulate it to become productive again. Progress has been snail-like; the Aliens had no experience in medicine to draw on. Having no domestic diseases to fight and being satisfied with their own longevity - they had to learn the medical research and development aspect from scratch. Only ninety years ago were the desired results achieved and again the realization that it would take at least three generations for a full recovery after the corrective procedure had been performed."

  Mason pondered, "That makes sense but even so, why are Earthlings so far behind? Hasn't any experimentation been performed by today's scientists, doctors or chemists to determine the original function of the appendix? Anatomically speaking if you consider it, it's ludicrous to believe the human body would ever support an organ for which it never had any use. It's so obvious and in-your-face challenging."

  Enrique interrupted his thoughts, "Aquí, the next exit is State Road 180."

  Bright afternoon sunshine glared off the windshield. It was 4:00 pm and the rendezvous was less than fifty miles away, they'd have plenty of daylight to locate it. Despite the accumulated weariness from two days of steady travel their spirits rose with the prospect of reaching journey's end. John took a northwest turn in the road and was immediately confronted with a roadblock a quarter mile ahead.

  "Policía!" exclaimed Enrique.

  "Uh oh," groaned Mason. "What should we do now?"

  "Nothing," answered Smith. "We're too close to turn and run. That surely would draw their suspicion, and those high-powered patrol cars would catch us easily before we reached the Interstate."

  "I'd bet a pretty penny the constables have a cut-off unit or two behind us in concealment as well," added Leland.

  The apprehensive group crept up to the flashing red and blue lights mounted on top of the black and white cruisers marked California Highway Patrol, one on either side of the two-lane road with a third vehicle - a grey U.S. Marshall's sedan parked a little beyond. A sharply dressed trooper wearing a Smokey the Bear campaign hat raised his hand for them to stop. John complied. Two officers, holsters unsnapped, cautiously approached the car while two more with shotguns fanned out in the shoulder swales. Situated in close proximity were two additional men wearing warm-up suits, no weapons apparent, who had positioned themselves a short distance behind the troopers. Armstead assumed they were Federal Marshalls, off-duty or undercover, thus their casual attire - perhaps backing up a friend or acting as advisors. Then he noticed the yellow US Government tag on the sedan - peculiar because the Marshall's use light-green license plates: therefore this created an agency mismatch.

  "Is there a problem, officer?" John addressed the stone-faced patrolman peering through his open window.

  "License and registration, please."

  "This is a rental; I have the agreement here," passing it to him with his driver's license.

  The officer inspected the documents and returned them saying, "Step out of the car, please. You other passengers remain in the vehicle with your hands visible." John did as he had been ordered while the rest hoped they weren't sweating so much as to draw attention. "Open the trunk, please," and John again followed the command to find it was empty, except for a doughnut tire and accordion jack. The trooper, satisfied, "You may close the trunk, sir." By now the two supposed Marshalls had strolled up and given the passengers the once over. The officer with John said, "We're searching for escaped felons from Fresno, sir. Thank you for your cooperation. You may proceed."

  Feeling greatly relieved, especially Mason, the five continued past the blockade. Ahead lay a long straightaway and John drove ultra-cautiously away from the scene. After moving only a half-mile he noticed in the rearview mirror that the patrol cars had switched off their flashing lights and were breaking formation. He slowed to a crawl to observe their departure toward I-5 and breathed a second sigh of relief, "So much for that, thank goodness."

  Camp Redwood Detention and Processing Center

  "Major Easelick," a statement rather than a question.

  Easelick, Camp Redwood's current base commander, had his nose immersed in a stack of monthly supply requisitions. Thinking the speaker was one of his enlisted men he returned, "Stand-by, soldier." His eyes causally drifted up to behold a U.S. Army Green Beret full colonel in a camouflage, combat uniform, black jump boots, silver wings on his chest and Airborne patches on his shoulders. Behind him, at attention, stood the colonel's Operation Officer, Captain Zellers, a Tom Cruise look-alike, dressed in similar garb, as were the battalion of three hundred- plus soldiers dismounting from troop carriers and unloading supply trucks in the courtyard.

  He jumped to his feet and gave a snappy salute. "Yes, sir! Sorry, Colonel, I thought you were one of the enlisted men, sir!"

  "At ease, Major." Identifying himself, "I'm Colonel Otterman, 82nd Airborne," as he returned the subordinate's salute. The Army had sent their best clean-up man; a stocky, barrel-chested, iron-haired veteran of thirty years who rose up through the ranks via OCS (officer's candidate school), with numerous decorations and promotions due to his combat leadership while serving in both enlisted and officer roles.

  The front gate's report to the HQ office corporal had not given any indication of arriving VIPs. Consequently, the Major attempted to explain why there hadn't been a reception or preparations for a visiting superior officer. "I had no advance warning of your arrival, sir. Corporal, can you explain this?" questioning his own aide.

  "That's the way it was intended, Major," informed Otterman. The visiting upper brass handed him a packet of orders. "You are hereby relieved of command. You and all of your personnel are to pack your gear and be on those trucks asap and not a minute longer. They will transport your group to Fort Ord for reassignment."

  Surprised, Easelick looked up after a quick glance at the orders, "Uh, yes, sir. Is there a problem? My proficiency rating has always been..."

  Cutting him off, "No reflection on your job performance, Major. This is a top secret, need-to-know operation, which doesn't include you." In an abbreviated apology for his abruptness he added, "Believe me, young man, you don't want to know. Just get your butts out of here and feel damn glad about it."

  Two hours later, Easelick boarded the second jeep of the newly-formed departing convoy. He warned his second in command, "Lieutenant, I strongly recommend if you want to remain in this man's Army, as opposed to serving a life sentence in the Leavenworth federal penitentiary, you heed the Old Man's word and forget you ever saw Redwood or the Airborne battalion that just kicked us out."

  "Yes sir, forget about it. I sure plan to."

  Major Easelick's one-year tour would have been completed next month. He reflected how quiet and attractive this installation appeared: like a beautiful public park that some idiot mistakenly laced with chain-link and barbed wire for no apparent reason. Out of curiosity and to help pass idle time, he had studied the plats and layouts of the original facility, noting its growth through the decades since the initial groundwork in 1940. Despite doubling the camp land mass to fifty square miles to accommodate the steady increase of North American detainees: twenty-one hundred plus presently from the U.S, Canada and Mexico - the detachment of one platoon (45 men) had remained the same. Standard military prisons required guards at a one to twenty ratio and there was no question that Redwood was a prison, but there had never been any trouble in the installation; therefore, security wasn't increased. Model prisoners would be an understatement, to say the least. Not one incident involving an actual Omega in sixty years. He pondered, "Amazing! If it wasn't for the occasional deliveries and interments of ordinary citizens picked up in error, who became quite rowdy after realizing they were different from the permanent residents, you could have secured this entire base with a mere squad of fifteen. Which makes me wonder, whatever happened to those regular people? Were they actually released back into the civilian populace as claimed by the Relocation Committee which comes once a month? What about secrecy? How could it be maintained after their being exposed to the Omega
? Maybe, I really don't want to know that either."

  He stared across the main staging area toward the first barrack complex a quarter mile away housing the Mexican contingent. He reflected: "Strange operating procedures in this place - that's for sure. When Army personnel are on the grounds proper and performing a specific task the Omega are kept behind their compound fences. Other than specific work details like that the inmates have free run of the base with the troops and administrative staff withdrawn to their safe areas. Just the opposite of what you would think it to be. And then there's the separation, always keeping separation - no closer than a hundred yards... so we can't see their eyes. I wonder why. They've always seemed like normal people to me, especially the children - from a distance." Easelick then recalled a particular incident when he almost saw their eyes once in the lab when a woman's dark glasses frame cracked and fell off - "I would have seen them if the doctor hadn't yelled and jumped in front of me."

  "Their eyes. The medical team has always prevented us from being close enough to look into their eyes. Which brings me back again to that nagging question the med staff refused to answer when I was first posted here. I asked why they had stitched the dead Omega's eyes shut before he was removed for burial. It seemed odd to me. I didn't consider that to be an overly intrusive question - heck, I was the base commander. They completely ignored me. I subsequently found out in no uncertain terms, that the white-coats answered only to Washington - it sure made me feel insignificant. I never got my question answered either. And another weird thing I've noticed about these people: no one seems to get sick, age or die, except that one fellow, in a whole year. Damn creepy!" The major turned in a circle. Although the furthest group was more than a mile away he knew they were all outside staring in his direction. He could feel them watching - it made his skin crawl.

  "Did you turn in your bracelet, Major?" asked his lieutenant.

  "Sure did. Goin' to miss that dang gadget like the proverbial hole in the head."

  Everyone at Redwood had to wear an electronic tracking bracelet. Initially it had been designated for the so-called political detainees and their families but later the policy changed to encompass all personnel because every once in a while a soldier would go AWOL and head into town for little unscheduled R&R. The MP's needed a fast and sure way to track him down before he got too sloshed and spilled the beans about the installation.

  "I don't see the civilian medical team, Major," remarked his driver.

  "They're remaining, Lieutenant," while thinking, "There's a real bunch of fruitcakes! Always keeping to themselves, and all five of them have been stationed here for over eight years apiece. A bunch of wackos in my opinion, but I guess after that long I'd be a bit flakey too."

  "Did you request the electricity be turned off the perimeter fence, sir?"

  "Yep, that's the last thing I need, Lieutenant. Getting fried and being planted here to maintain some sort of Top Priority secrecy."

  The Airborne colonel remained in the Administration building while the convoy was leaving. He remained busy on the radio reporting the changeover of the base command to the World Security Council. His assistant, the Captain, bade the departing soldiers farewell. "Have a good trip, men."

  "Thank you. Are you sure there's nothing I can bring you up to date on?"

  "Not necessary, Major Easelick. Our plans are short-ranged," as three bulldozers and backhoes rumbled off flatbeds, drowning out further conversation.

  Inside the American compound...

  "Mommy, what's happening? I feel bad things coming from over there," pointing through the chain-link fence in the direction of the Administration building out of sight a mile to the south.

  "I don't know, Lisa. Why don't you ask Rosita and Francine?"

  "I'll try, Mommy."

  The majority of the nine hundred Americans assigned to this compound were outside milling around, trying to figure out why the return-to-quarters siren went off and why they were hustled inside. Then they collectively understood. Sensing an unfamiliar presence they became aware of the arrival of visitors, unannounced, judging by their regular guard's reaction. Later in the evening, if still confined, during the daily unification gathering, they would analyze the situation by collectively offering individual perceptions - to put the puzzle together. It served as a good exercise to keep their ESP abilities sharp. Half of the population were second-generation Omega, having married and sired children within the group but not in the same blood-line. All possessed a wide range of exceptional mental skills, particularly the children. The most advanced of their number was Lisa, age five, daughter of Woodard Langston and his wife Irene, formerly Missus Armstead. Telepathic and vision-sharing powers enabled Lisa to communicate with two other gifted children, one each in the Mexican and Canadian camps.

  Brushing back a blond, curly lock from her forehead, Lisa faced the coarse wire fence surrounding the compound and became motionless, arms dangling at her sides. Her large blue irises turned coal-black, and after a moment she said, "Rosita and Francine are waiting for me."

  "Her father dropped to one knee and leaned close to her face, "What do they see, Lisa?"

  "Shhh, please, Papa, we're sharing now." Although appearing to be in a trance she remained aware of her present surroundings, but concentrated on the sharing with Rosita who had partial visibility of the base's main staging area. Even though Lisa's compound was hidden by dense foliage blocking possible direct observation, her telepathic link with her friends circumvented such barriers. She could see through the other children's eyes. It appeared as a narrow, cloudy, tunnel-type of vision - not particularly sharp but sufficient to distinguish images and colors. Coupled with the mental link, it was nearly as good as being there.

  "The nice soldiers are leaving, Mommy. There are new soldiers here now... lots of new soldiers and they are not friendly."

  Colonel Otterman exited the Admin building holding open a geographic blueprint. He checked for specific reference points and spied a line of prisoners in the distance. Scanning the long fence, "Captain, that must be the Mexican group. How many are there?"

  "A little over four hundred, sir."

  "The Canadians and Americans?"

  "Rounding off sir, three hundred Canadian and thirteen hundred Americans. Also, seventeen individuals of undetermined origin are being held in the Evaluation and Transport building."

  "Zat so? Toss those seventeen in with the Canucks; I don't have time to waste playing, 'who are you' games. Easelick should've had them sorted or moved out already." Running his eyes down the long barbed-wire holding compound he remarked, "There's more children than I expected."

  "Yes, sir there are quite a few, over four hundred between the three groups, I believe."

  "Humph, apparently they must not have anything better to do."

  "Unexpectedly contrary, the detainees are quite innovative and a busy group, sir. They have a fine school which they built with their own hands and teach children at all grade levels English, French and Spanish, plus they have constructed extensive recreational facilities. The Army supplied the tools and materials of course. They grow their own food, make their own clothing and this landscaping - the foremost example of their creativity. It's most extraordinary in beauty. You can hardly tell this is a military installation. It looks more like a botanical garden, doesn't it, sir?"

  "Yeah, all that's missing is a Snow White castle and Santa Claus." He then rolled up the blueprint, stuffed it under his arm, retrieved a cigar, bit off the tip and spat it on the ground. "Yep, it looks just spiffy, but sometimes appearances hide the evil within, as it certainly does in this case. Mind my words, in a few weeks this camp will look like anything but the Garden of Eden, I guarantee it. Hell, in three months, after the lab boys are finished slicing and dicing their selected prime specimens, looking for all the secrets hidden inside these mutants, this clod of dirt will be completely different. The Army Corp of Engineers and the Reclamation Team will arrive and level this place, perimeter fences and
all. You won't be able to tell this base ever existed!"

  Captain Zellers lit the Colonel's cigar. "Yes, sir," as he blocked his mind from the soon-to-be horrors he'd been briefed to expect.

  Otterman's attention came to rest on the small cluster of a family, huddled around a little girl watching behind the barrier. "I advise you, don't be fooled and become in any way attached to these Omega. Remember our mission, is a directive from the White House, and keep foremost in your mind that these creatures are not human, they only appear that way. It's a disguise. They're like a pretty, but dangerous, rabid dog about to be put down for the safety of the general populace. Nothing more, nothing less, understood?"

  "Yes, sir, extraterrestrials disguised in human form!"

  The Colonel nodded affirmation, "Damn right," and turned his back. "Let's get over to those dozers and hoes and tell those men where to start trenching." The pair walked by a truck containing steel drums displaying a large red skull and crossbones painted on their sides. The Colonel spoke to the Crew chief, "Sergeant, you be careful now, we don't want any of our boys burning a hand off while unloading that lye."

  "Yes, Colonel. Being real careful. Thank you, sir!"

  "Captain, dispatch a detail to run off those squatters we saw by the south perimeter on our way in and establish a patrol to keep it secure. Also, don't forget to warn our troopers of the hot fence. Now get your butt in gear!"

  Returning to the American compound...

  Lisa shook her head, and her irises returned to their normal blue coloring. "Bad! Bad soldiers, Mommy. Daddy, can you send them away and bring back the nice men? They left presents and candy for us to find, and waved at us, too."

  "I know, Sweetheart, they were very nice but they're gone and I can't bring them back. I would if I could," and gave her a kiss on the top of her head. "Now tell us what you saw. Why do you think they are bad?"

  "They have lots of guns they carry in their hands and bigger, ugly guns on top of the jeeps. Our nice soldiers didn't have any guns like that. And lots of soldiers are working and moving big boxes. They look so mean...," she started to cry. Her father picked her up; she wrapped her tiny arms around his neck and sobbed on his chest. "Rosita and Francine are crying, too."

  "Shush, it'll be all right, their mommies and daddies are with them, like we are with you, Sweetheart. The Army is changing the guard, that's all. We'll make new friends, just like you did with the old ones."

  Between tears, "No, Daddy. The man... the boss man, I can hear what he's thinking. He hates us. He's come to hurt us. I'm afraid, Daddy, hold me."

  Irene and Woody carried their only child to their building, comforting her along the way. Their friends cleared a path. Many had gathered around them when they sensed Lisa linking to Rosita. The mood had changed from curiosity to apprehension, then to fear, as their fellow captives read the parent's faces, absorbing the anxiety of their unspoken thoughts.

  "I knew this day would come, Woody."

  "We all did, Irene. We're surrounded by an angry, fearful world and fear creates hate. They have come to exact their vengeance."

  A campsite outside Redwood

  Lt. Colonel Anthony Fairchild, en route to reporting for duty at Camp Redwood Detention and Processing Center, had stopped and joined an unusual assembly of people encamped a mile away from the main gate. His curiosity became immediately aroused when he spied a large yellow sun painted on a First American's (previously known as Indian) teepee, which denoted the abode of a Navajo tribal historian. Over the years, he had avidly pursued his interest in anthropology wherever he had been posted. He felt more than fortunate that he had been able to pow-wow with a score a shamans, chiefs and other councilmen, but a little disappointed in that only one of them was a truly-learned historian. Tony was convinced the tribal historians - inclusive of all, held the key to the puzzle in his quest to validate his theory that there once existed a common link in all of the cultural patterns of the world - a topic he wished to pursue full time upon his military service retirement. He hoped someday to correlate his findings and be lucky enough to share them by national publication.

  It was a little after noon and someone around the campsite cooking pit remarked, "Did you say, dog?" which prompted a chorus of chuckles from the odd collection of partakers.

  "Sure did, friend." Followed by, "Hey, baby, do you want some of my hot dog?" teased a big dude called Hammer after drawing his 14 inch pig sticker hunting knife from its sheath to slice off a section of hindquarter hanging from the spit.

  Evening Starr, her stripper stage name, shied, "Ugh, I ain't eatin' no damn dog. You know I'm a lady," as she checked her midriff blouse knot.

  "Even so, my lady you might wanna think about chowing down just a little bit," as he made a semi-formal bow. "It may be a long time before we get some more meat to chew on. Whatever the title you want to call yourself is just fine with me, except later I don't wanna hear you whining that you're hungry," stated her tattooed, three-hundred pound, leather-clad companion. "Besides, it ain't really dog; it's coyote. Told ya that when I brung it in." His mood changed in a liquored-up blink of an eye, "Stupid woman, ya never listen to me. I don't know why I put up with you... except for... well, er."

  Slightly insulted and intimidated, she took a tiny bite and chewed slowly as she watched the others' reactions. Most of them smiled and dug in. "It ain't too bad, Big Daddy... not bad at all," the group agreed. He grunted in response. Starr turned to Fairchild, "How 'bout you, Mister United States Air Force person, ever had dog or coyote before?"

  "Yes, many times, Madam, and please call me Tony," he answered.

  Bernard, an aging Hippie-type person from the by-gone years, considered to be one of those intellectuals and the current day leader of his family, queried, "Many times, sir? You must have toured the Far East. Consuming canine is a common practice in Asian cultures."

  "Quite true," concurred Tony. "Indonesia, China, the Middle East and a few of the former Soviet satellite states - in many more countries than the majority of Americans would care to know about I'm sure, eat what we consider to be domestic pets. In fact, and I hope I don't upset anyone here, in most of those countries, they are farm raised, much in the same manner as we do with pigs or chicken.

  "Food is food, it sustains the masses," stated Ulysses, a vagabond and travelling evangelist unctuously contributing his bit. Dressed in faded, thread-bare black slacks, a hole in the back pocket, and a long-sleeved shirt buttoned up to the neck, he bowed his head, "We thank you, Lord, for this fine meal you have so graciously provided." Hammer, an ex-club, bare-fist fighter and current independent motorcycle enthusiast snorted, "Do you think that maybe his running into that electrified fence and gettin' his hide fried mighta had anything to do with it, Preacherman?"

  "Whatever," returned Ulysses. "God provides for his children in strange ways, my son."

  "Ain't your son," retorted Hammer while giving the vagabond a hard look.

  Starr interjected, "Easy, baby, he don't mean nothin'. He's just talkin' righteous."

  Tony spoke up, attempting to smooth the mood, "Thank you all for inviting me to join. This is very enjoyable - I'm kind of an outdoors man myself."

  "Most welcome, brother, glad to have you and may the rest of your day be blessed also," offered Ulysses.

  Fairchild nodded and smiled, and, chose his words carefully, "You appear to be a rather diverse group. Did you meet here just by chance or by a previous arrangement? How about you, Hammer?"

  "Me and Starr? We don't know none of these people. We rode in last night. My hog," referring to his blown-out, Harley Davidson motorcycle, "plum scared the daylights outta that snoopy coyote you're chewing on. The chief," gesturing to Joshua Nashota, "and the flower children were already here. Preacherman came this morning 'bout an hour afore you. Good thing we're eatin' now; I saw a string of a hundred people or more spread out over ten miles and all headed this way."

  Joshua, as always a man of few words, corrected the large, beer-bellied speaker,
"I am not a chieftain. I am a Navajo historian and the Medicine man's helper."

  Ulysses jumped in, assuming the role of a diplomat and peacekeeper and changed the subject. He suspected, and rightfully so, that the big biker had a short fuse and wouldn't take kindly to being corrected even if he knew he had been wrong. It was a face and dis'ing thing. "I understand we owe Mister Nashota a word of thanks for his expertise in constructing this cooking facility and preparing our delicious meal. Thank you, kind sir!"

  Several murmured acknowledgments were made, but Hammer had to have the last word, "All Injuns cook... born that way."

  Tony hailed Joshua, "May I please have a few minutes of your time when we're finished? I'd like to ask you a few questions in regards to your tribe's heritage and origin." The Navajo nodded assent, pleased that someone was taking an interest - his sons' lack of attention to their own history left a bitter taste.

  Joshua had a strong urge to trust Fairchild — He reasoned, "Surely, this is the man - the one the Great Spirit revealed to me as I slept during the purification of this campsite. The voice in my dream said a man of virtue would come and that I must implore his aid to save the Innocents. Later, we will talk and I'll explain the sign and pass on what I know about Redwood. I can see he is a man of respect and honor - he will heed my words."

  After some subsequent light conversation about the flower children's beat-up old yellow school bus, where the nine family members had come from, and a discussion regarding Ulysses' station wagon which he lives in, sprinkled with a few spacey comments from Hammer's old lady Starr, who Fairchild felt certain had cooked her brain on drugs more than once, Bernard began to wonder what drew the rest of them here.

  Cleaning his wire framed eyeglasses lenses with the tail of a twenty year old Los Angeles Marathon T-shirt, he asked importantly, "Doctor Fairchild, you stated previously you're reporting for duty. Therefore, am I correct in assuming you didn't experience an unexplainable, overriding compulsion or directive to come here and join us?" Tony answered in the negative. Bernard continued searching, "Ulysses did you receive any kind of a calling?"

  "Ah, well yes, I confess I did." Clearing his throat, "But first, I must clarify - being a man of the cloth, as I clearly am, I am subject to receiving directives from our Lord in a multitude of divine inspirations."

  Hammer snorted, then belched. The preacher ignored him.

  "Continue please, sir."

  "I had a dream, a revelation, instructing me to return here."

  "Return, to this place?"

  "Yes, Redwood... I was a soldier posted here twenty years ago... before I received the calling."

  A chill ran up Bernard's spine, "So was I - almost thirty years past."

  His wife added, "We received the message from the stars - astrology and the tarot cards. Our friends who know how to read the cards told Bernie he had to return to a place of great mental power. He knew right away what it meant, where we should go."

  Uncharacteristically, Joshua didn't wait his turn to be asked, "A sign. I received a portent from the Great Spirit while chanting on the First Shaman's inspiration rock. My father, Daniel, also served at Camp Redwood many, many moons ago."

  All attention turned to Hammer, who sprang to his feet, "Sorry, folks; I gotta take a wiz," ignored visual contact and stomped off toward the tree-line. After he had moved out of voice range Starr explained in a hushed voice, "He don't like to talk about it. Hammer was here too, before he became a Nomad biker, roamin' and fightin'. Two days ago he said he heard voices telling him to go back. We've been riding ever since, clear from Lubbock, that's in Texas." She shifted her sitting position, "My butt's real sore; I think I bruised it, cause he wouldn't stop." Starr gave an inquisitive look at Fairchild, "Say, what kinda doctor are you? Maybe you could look at it, see if he hurt me bad or somethin'."

  "I'm a pathologist."

  "Huh?"

  Bernard attempted to phrase it in terms she could understand, "He examines and operates on cadavers."

  Another blank look from her.

  "Dead people, Honey. He works on stiffs."

  "Oh, creepy," Starr pulled a bit away from Tony. "Forget it, Doc. I ain't that sore." She gave a tug up on her hip-huggers, "Now, where was I?"

  "You said, Hammer heard voices," encouraged Ulysses.

  "Oh yeah. Ya see, 'bout a year ago when he was feeling real loose - we was trippin'on some real fine weed, he told me about the people living inside," motioning with her thumb toward Redwood. "They got in his head once, shook his brain around, it scared him real bad. He quit the Army... ran off just like that," snapping her fingers, " and started club fighting to make some money to live on. He bought a Hog... got a little wild in between and became an Independent, if'n you know what I mean. But, hey I'm not saying anything bad here. Under the Tough, he's a good, God fearin' straight shooter... and a real good rider."

  Silence descended as each remembered their own searing encounter with the Omega's black, penetrating, mind-wrenching eyes.

  Fairchild saw they were in deep thought and began, "I don't understand..." The drone of heavy vehicles nearing from the direction of the base interrupted him.

  Nashota peered over Tony's shoulder. Shimmering heat waves were rising from the hot asphalt and the rippling effect of the double chain link fences distorted the images moving toward them from a half mile afar. A lead armored Humvee followed by a ten-wheeled troop carrier and a trailing GFV (ground fighting vehicle) produced the illusion of a thick dark-green snake slithering along the road. The Humvee's windshields shone like two glassy, black eyes staring from a flat, triangular head. The troop truck - a Personnel Carrier was the long, gorged body of the reptile and the GFV's heavy machine gun swinging rhythmically in the air, replicated the deadly serpent's rattling tail.

  Joshua groped for the protection of his amulet as he gasped, "In my dreams, I've been here before! The Evil One comes!"