Warren Murphy: Killer Watts

The men had gotten only halfway across the floor before they stopped suddenly.

"My God," gasped a voice.

Roote cleared a wad of phlegmy dust from his throat. "I see you've met Tommy." He didn't turn. He just continued to tap relentlessly at the rim of his glass.

The two MPs had paused near the dusty tables arranged around the bar floor.

Corporal Fisher glanced at his partner. Hamill was staring, horrified, into the dancing dust.

A charred corpse had been propped up in a chair in the shadow of one of the thick wooden support columns.

There was no hair. Only a few black remnants of clothing remained. His eyes had exploded, cooking like eggs in the sockets. Lips shriveled away, exposing skeletal rows of teeth. The man's lower fillings were clearly visible through the strands of grisly black that had been his cheeks.

"This guy looks like he's been cooked," Hamill hissed. His voice sounded sick.

"He was the bartender here," Roote explained from the bar. "Think he might've owned the place, too." Roote tipped his head pensively. "Never did get 'round to askin' him. Too late now, I suppose."

The two MPs steeled themselves. They left the body, stepping over to Elizu Roote.

He matched the description they'd been given. Thin, just under six feet tall. Ghostly pale skin. Hair blond enough to be almost white. The kid was a freaking albino. With a nod, they confirmed it was the man whose photograph they had been given. They hadn't been told his name.

"Get up," Fisher commanded.

Roote continued tapping. "No."

That was enough for Corporal Hamill. "Let's go," he ordered bluntly, grabbing Roote under the armpit.

Corporal Fisher followed his partner's lead. They yanked Roote to his feet. The private's bar stool clattered over. Corporal Hamill immediately began patting down his clothes for weapons. "How'd you escape from the stockade?" asked the MP as he worked.

"That what they told you?" Roote smiled. He held up his arms halfway, allowing the man to pat his shirt.

"He's clean," Hamill told his partner.

Roote was blinking lazily, weaving in his slightly drunken haze as the men spoke. He didn't lower his arms. "Don't matter that I escaped," he drawled. "Nothin' to escape to."

"Should we cuff him?" Hamill asked.

"Hell yeah."

The handcuffs were brought out. As Fisher flipped one bracelet open, he noticed something clutched in Roote's hand. The cuffs were instantly dropped. Fisher's gun flew up once more.

"Open your hands," the MP ordered.

"I don't think you really want me to," Roote confided.

"Open your hands!" Fisher commanded. By this point Hamill had raised his gun, as well. For safety's sake they'd moved a few feet away from the AWOL private.

Roote's giggle came out as a drunken snort. He held his hands up near his ears, elbows deeply bent. Until now, his fingertips had been pressed against his palms.

Slowly, with deliberate ceremony, Roote unfolded his fingers, exposing the rows of curved metal pads at the tips.

"What the hell are those?" Corporal Fisher asked, more of his partner than of Roote.

His question was answered in the most horrible way imaginable.

Ten tiny blue sparks appeared to ignite all at once on the tip of every one of Elizu Roote's pale fingers. It was as if some strange internal switch had been flicked.

As the men watched in growing concern, the sparks erupted into ten uneven lightning jolts. The surge of electricity hopped from Roote to the men, attracted to the nearest metallic source. In this case, their guns.

The electricity surged through weapons and up arms, jolting hearts, firing up spinal cords, frying brain synapses. They were dead in an instant. Roote didn't stop.

Electricity continued to pour from him. The men cooked and smoked and finally dropped, their skin a leathery black. The power surged from the fingers of Elizu Roote until the MPs were fried beyond recognition.

Long before his internal supply was used up, Roote cut the power. Woozy, he fell back against the bar.

Sickly sweet smoke from burning flesh filled the stagnant air of the dusty saloon. It rose from the shriveled corpses, searing Roote's eyes.

He leaned, panting, for a long time.

Finally, he stooped over, righting his stool. Turning his back on the dead men, he took his place at the bar.

"Don't tussle with the monster," he murmured to the bodies of Corporals Fisher and Hamill: Pulling his empty glass toward him, Roote resumed his maddening, incessant tapping.

REMO FOUND that he didn't actually have to flap his arms out the window of the U.Sky flight, but the condition of the old DC-10 was such that he wouldn't have been surprised if he and the other passengers had been asked to.

The frills of the bargain airline's "no frills" policy apparently extended beyond the customary drinks, food and magazines to include carpeting, an intact fuselage, stewardesses and a pilot.

The last two items on the list were probably technically untrue. While boarding, Remo had seen two middle-aged women in hats who were with either the airline or the Salvation Army. But if they were stewardesses, he and the other passengers never found out. The women had made themselves scarce long before the plane had even left the runway.

As far as a pilot was concerned, Remo realized that there most likely was one. He merely had either an equilibrium or drinking problem. Remo was of the opinion that it was a combination of both.

When they finally landed in New Mexico, Remo was amazed that the rickety plane didn't erupt in flames and rattle apart as it bumped down the steaming runway of Alamogordo-White Sands Regional Airport.

As the engines chugged and smoked to silence, the uniformed dowagers reappeared in order to snarl at the passengers as they deplaned. Remo was the first off.

He followed the drably painted corridor from the plane to the main terminal building, taking an escalator down to the entry level. The automatic doors slid open at his approach, giving him his first full blast of New Mexico air.

It was hot in the precise way air should not be. Remo felt the heat permeate his cotton clothes as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. He glanced around for a taxi.

His search was interrupted by a young man in a bedraggled white T-shirt and calf-length short pants. Some sort of bizarre image adorned the filthy shirtfront. Though Remo couldn't quite make it out, it looked vaguely familiar.

"They're here!" the youth announced, jumping in front of Remo. He had a wild look in his dirtrimmed eyes.

"Bully for them," Remo said, looking past the man. What kind of airport didn't have cabs lined up waiting?

"They landed here years ago," the young man insisted. "Crashed." He pointed. "Out there. In the desert. The Army knows about it. Big government cover-up. The A-bomb tests they claim they had here? Part of the cover-up. They don't want the truth to get out."

"Of course not," Remo agreed.

He thought he spied a few cabs parked in the shade of the terminal's overhang. He began walking toward them. The young man dogged his steps.

"They've taken me up dozens of times," he insisted. "Ever since I was a kid." All at once, he jammed a finger up his nose. "You know what's up here?" he asked.

"I have a sneaking suspicion," Remo replied.

"Microprobe," the young man intoned. "Miniaturized processor. Location coordinator. The works."

"What do you know," Remo said absently. "I was wrong."

They were cabs. The drivers were staying out of the oppressive heat. Remo couldn't blame them. He steered toward the parked cars.

"Are you a believer?" the young man enthused. He was used to having people either punching him or running away by this point. Since this new arrival had yet to deck him, he assumed him to be a fellow traveler.