Warren Murphy - Killer Watts

They had broken off. Fallen back.

As they pulled over to the side of the road, Beta had stomped down even harder on the gas pedal of his rickety truck. His only thought was to put as much distance as possible between himself and the two strange men.

It was stupid, he told himself in retrospect, to have taken the direction he had. They wanted him to lead them to Camp Earth. He had practically done that.

Beta remonstrated himself as he drove rapidly up the steady, boulder-lined incline, a plume of heavy dust rising in his wake. Stacks of batteries bounced against his tailgate, threatening to break free.

Even as he chastised himself, he was shifting the blame. It was Arthur Ford's fault. Him and that alien of his.

After all, when pursued by the government, where else would Beta have gone? Camp Earth represented safety to him. It was his haven from the doomed world. Of course he would go there when in danger.

Beta had gone into town hundreds of times without any problem. The Squiltas and their Association of Evil were afraid of Salvion. And since they knew the Being of Light protected Beta RAM, they left Beta and his followers alone. Because of the divine protection afforded Beta by Salvion, the Camp Earth leader had for years avoided a pitched laser battle every time he went to the local Safeway for toilet paper. The only difference this day was Roote.

For some reason, they were after Arthur Ford's alien friend. They'd followed Beta in order to reach their prize. As he raced along the twisting mountain road, Beta RAM was beginning to regret not turning Roote over to the authorities.

A sudden bounce. A twist in the road.

Beta turned the steering wheel sharply, taking the curve in a great skid of dust and sand. Flooring the gas once more, he lurched ahead. As the truck closed in on his encampment, he caught a flash of light in his rearview mirror. For a sick moment he thought that the government men were back. But when he looked at the sliver of mirror that was held in its casing by strips of ratty gray duct tape, he realized that it was much, much worse.

There was light all right. Lights. But they weren't on the ground. They were in the blackening sky behind him.

Running lights. From an alien spacecraft!

Blaming Ford and Roote, Beta RAM slammed both feet firmly on the gas pedal. The truck was already moving at a dangerously high speed on the mountain trail.

Its speed failed to increase one jot. While its panicked driver screamed in terror, the battered truck raced closer to the camp. Ahead of the hostile starship.

Behind Beta RAM, the Fort Joy Army helicopter roared forward in hot pursuit.

HAROLD SMITH PICKED UP the phone on the first ring.

"Report," his lemony voice commanded. "We've got a truck matching the description you gave us, sir," came the crisp reply.

The colonel who reported to him didn't know that the man he was speaking to was in a lab on base.

"Where?"

"Near Caballo Lake Percha, northwest of Grama. He's moving fast. Chopper's hanging back for now. Should we concentrate our search in that-"

Smith considered. "No," he said finally. "Recall the others. Have only the one helicopter follow the vehicle back to its camp. When the location is confirmed, call me."

"Yes, sir."

They both cut the connection at the same time.

After Smith had placed the cell phone next to his computer, he tapped the plastic case with one idle finger.

He knew from a strong instinct honed by years of experience that this was the truck Remo had been following.

Smith even knew the owner's name. He had gotten the credit-card records from the Las Cruces House Warehouse store. The vehicle belonged to one Beta RAM.

The name appeared on the bar screen of his laptop computer. Smith's face pinched in displeasure as he read the obviously invented appellation.

Another lunatic to throw on the ever growing heap. Beta RAM could join the ranks of Chesterfield, Roote and Arthur Ford. Smith had met too many insane men in the past two days. It would be up to Remo to thin their numbers.

A steady gray hand clutched the cell phone. The CURE director waited for the call that would send Remo after Roote. He only hoped Remo was up to the challenge.

Chapter 24

The inhabitants of Camp Earth had been told by their leader to stay away from the alien in their midst. Reluctantly they had obeyed the command. For the better part of the day, they'd been hunched before their huts, occasionally craning their necks toward the distant shack where the creature was being nursed back to health.

Beta RAM's edict was promptly forgotten the moment the alien appeared in their shabby makeshift village.

Elizu Roote was like a conquering hero as he was helped past the ramshackle homes of the Camp Earthers.

His stride seemed to improve with every step. At first he was like a stroke victim who was going through the arduous process of relearning to walk. By the time he and Arthur Ford reached the motley collection of Camp Earth cars, he was walking largely on his own.

At an order from the alien, the hoods of all the cars were sprung open.

The nine vehicles were arranged in a tidy line.

Roote walked down to the middle car. Stretching out his hands broadly to either side, he instinctively tripped his internal circuitry.

The flash was blinding as streaks of bluish lightning arced crazily from beneath the grimy hoods of all nine vehicles.

Hoods shuddered, some dropping shut, as the bionically enhanced killer sucked every vestige of stored power from the cars.

It was over in seconds.

A few faint puffs of smoke rose from the now dead engines, lifting gently into the warm evening air.

There was a pervasive silence for a few long seconds. Then, all at once, a single engine seemed to hum to life.

The sound took all of them by surprise. Even Elizu Roote seemed puzzled.

But the noise did not come from the line of Camp Earth cars.

"Intruder alert! Intruder alert!"

The panicked voice rose from down the road. One of the sentries came running toward the crowd of Camp Earthers from his lookout post, his special night-vision binoculars clasped firmly in his hand.

"On the road," the man announced, breathless. "Beta."

"It's about time," Ford complained. He was already wondering how he was going to sneak one of Beta's freshly-purchased batteries into his own jeep.

"He's not alone," the man cried frantically. He was too out of breath to explain. And a moment later, his breathless silence didn't matter. As the crowd watched, Beta RAM's truck suddenly broke into sight around the rocky outcropping that ran in a jagged semicircle around the upper edge of the main Camp Earth road.

Beta drew up to them a moment later, screaming even before he got out of the cab.

"I've got company!" he yelled.

As Beta threw his hand out behind him, the breathless camp sentry was also pointing to the black sky.

Dozens of eyes looked up into the post-twilight. They saw the lights immediately. As the crowd gasped in horror, Beta wheeled on the Camp Earth visitors.

"This is all your fault," Beta accused Ford. He shoved the ufologist roughly, knocking him into the side of his rusted truck. "You brought him here. Now the Squiltas are coming after me."

Ford glanced at the lights. "Squiltas?" he scoffed. "Are you nuts? It's probably his mother ship." He nodded to Roote. "They're coming to take him back now that I've saved his life."

As punctuation, he shoved Beta RAM back. "Denier of Salvion!" Beta snarled, pushing Ford.

"Salvion's an asshole!" Ford screamed. He pushed Beta with both hands.

Beta gasped. "Blasphemer! You'll never get on the ark. No matter how much you beg when the Squiltas finally destroy this benighted rock."

"Your mother is a Squilta!" Ford shouted. That was enough. To have his mother thrown in with the sworn intergalactic enemies of mankind was too much for Beta RAM. Screaming in anger, Beta tackled Ford. The two of them fell to the dusty ground in a grunting heap.