Warren Murphy - Killer Watts

"Smitty isn't taking any chances," Remo commented as the choppers raced overhead.

The aircraft soared off toward the mountains, black in contrast to the brilliant setting sun. "Learn from your Emperor's lesson," Chiun said. He was looking up at the passing aircraft, face impassive.

Remo sighed. "I promised to give you first crack at Roote," he said.

"Do not forget," Chiun replied.

"If I did, would you let me live it down." Remo asked.

"No," the Master of Sinanju replied simply.

"So there we go," Remo surrendered.

"Assuming you were alive afterward," Chiun added somberly.

His hazel eyes were unreadable slits as he watched the helicopters rattle off into the nearby hills.

HE WAS ADDICTED. There was no doubt in his mind.

Roote hadn't been certain of it until now. But he felt the change come over him with each successive battery.

He had tried a few different drugs in the past, but never really liked them. Alcohol had been his mind-altering substance of choice. And the buzz he was getting right now was not unlike the feeling he got when drunk.

The squalid room seemed to rise up from the shadows around him. It was as if with each successive battery someone were gradually turning a dimmer switch higher.

But there was no switch. He was the only source of true power in the tiny metal shed.

An addict. A freak. A monster.

They had made him like this. When his power was drained, he had collapsed. A marionette without strings.

A fail-safe? Probably not. They had never expected him to be careless enough to allow himself to be grounded.

Lying in the dirt, Roote dropped a hand onto yet another battery. The jolt was immediate. Even pleasurable. It was taking time, but his capacitors were slowly filling up once more. His implanted systems were coming back on line.

The dizziness and nausea he had been experiencing since regaining consciousness were gradually receding. And as the sickness fled in the growing light around him, the voices scurried up out of the darkness of his mind.

There was panting somewhere near the door of the shed.

Roote rolled his head to one side, seeking the source of the sound.

Arthur Ford was breathless from his exertions. He was scurrying around the interior of the shed, hauling the remaining batteries over to where Roote lay.

Roote had enough power stored already. He could satisfy the killing urge within him.

But Ford was a male. There wouldn't be much pleasure there. When the chorus of voices began their song of death, Roote found that women were always preferable to men. The difference was that between simple fun and pure rapture.

Besides, he needed Ford. For now. "Give me another," Roote commanded.

With his returning strength, his voice had gotten stronger.

"There aren't many more," Ford puffed. When the inhabitants of Camp Earth had brought their initial supply of car batteries to the shed, those that wouldn't fit inside were left out front. Over the course of the past hour, the ufologist had brought all of the remaining batteries inside.

The private had an unquenchable thirst for electricity. Ford could see that they weren't going to have enough to bring him back to full power. He had dragged the last of the drained batteries outside and deposited the final fully charged batteries just inside the door.

Roote pushed himself up to a sitting position. Ford had removed the jumper cables from his neck as soon as the private had been able to use his gold finger pads.

"Help me up," Roote insisted.

Ford hesitated. "Are you sure you're okay?" Roote didn't respond. Verbally.

He aimed a single index finger in Ford's direction. Eyes locking on target, he sent a small bolt of energy toward the door beyond Ford. The brilliant streak of lightning struck the metal frame and instantly coursed all around the interior of the metal shed.

Ford cowered beneath the blue glowing tin. He felt like a turkey on Thanksgiving day, trapped inside a massive oven.

The electricity abruptly sought its way to the floor, pounding harmlessly into the dirt at their feet.

Ford didn't need to be asked a second time. The UFO aficionado immediately hurried over to Roote. Grabbing him around the back and up under the armpits, he hauled the Army private to his feet.

"Over there," Roote said, nodding to the door. Ford helped him across the room. He thought they were leaving, but Roote had him pause just inside the doorway.

The private lowered his hands, palms flat, over the remaining fresh batteries. There were only about ten left.

Ford felt the hair rise on his forearms as a powerful burst of bluish electricity leapt from the tops of all the fresh batteries at once, surging up into Roote's finger pads.

Ford watched in wonder as the batteries rose slowly off the ground. Roote was like a magician doing some remarkable levitation trick. But the sleight of hand was real.

The perfectly pressed rectangles of dirt where the batteries had sat became visible as the heavy objects hovered for a moment several inches off the ground.

There was another loud hum-that of all the batteries losing power at once. Abruptly the electrical flow cut off. As one, the batteries thudded back to the earthen floor.

Leaning against the door frame, Roote took a deep, cleansing breath. He seemed stronger now. More in control.

Hooded eyes settled on Arthur Ford.

"That's better," Roote drawled with a smile. "You got more of them things?"

"Those were the last ones," Ford admitted nervously.

Roote closed his eyes for a moment. His head was clearing. Even so, he still needed more power. "They got generators around here?" he asked.

"Not that I've seen," Ford said.

The private opened his eyes. They settled on Ford's jeep, which the ufologist had parked just outside the open door of the hut.

"Over there," Roote ordered, pointing with his chin.

Ford knew enough not to refuse.

Grabbing Roote by one arm, he helped the hobbling killer out into the dying sunlight. He leaned Roote against the fender of the jeep.

"Open her up," Roote commanded.

Roote's intention was clear. And it was just as clear to Ford that he was helpless to stop him. Reluctantly he lifted the hood of the jeep high into the warm evening air.

Like some sort of perverse faith healer, Roote laid hands on the battery while it was still hooked into the engine. He drained it in a sparking instant.

Although he said nothing, Ford looked dispirited as he dropped the hood back into place. "You-all had best call Triple-A," Roote slurred through his Cheshire cat grin. "Any more cars?" Ford nodded.

"The Camp Earthers keep them on the other side of the huts. Near the road." The killer pushed away from the jeep. He accepted Ford's assistance, though he was almost strong enough to stand on his own.

"Let's go power walkin'," Elizu Roote enthused.

As dusk settled around them, the two men struck off across Camp Earth.

BETA RAM RACED through the growing twilight up the winding path to Camp Earth.

Even though he had lost his tail several miles before, his heart still thudded in his chest. The sedan had chased him all the way from Las Cruces to the Caballo foothills. The entire time his pursuers were behind him, Beta had the distinct impression that they could have overtaken him at any moment. The driver of the other car-whoever he was-matched Beta's every move flawlessly. It was as if the two vehicles were wired to the same steering wheel and gas pedal.

He was dead. It could have been anyone: Squiltas, Army, any of a number of shadow government agencies. They were going to get him. No doubt about it.

But then the miracle happened. Thick billowing clouds of gray-white smoke began to pour from his pursuers' hood. It was as though Salvion had personally intervened to save Beta.