Black Breath, Red Wind



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Black Breath, Red Wind

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A Novel By

James BlueWolf

Black Breath, Red Wind

Limited Manuscript Edition

© 2007 James BlueWolf

Black Breath,

Red Wind

A Novel

James BlueWolf

Black Breath, Red Wind

“I could see my people yonder running about, setting the smoke-flap poles and fastening their tipis against the wind, for the storm cloud was coming on them very fast and black, and there were frightened swallows without number fleeing before the cloud…”

Black Elk

"They say the sicknesses moved among us by the wind of our mouths. Not even our Holy Ones could heal us, so we came to know the ending of our world. But that black breath can never finish us. We are more than blood and bone, more than dust or earth. We are the spirit of this land and our red wind will blow across it—always.”

Amoshi

Redlands

Henry Wills was the Annual Redlands Powwow Master of Ceremonies.

"Okay everybody, looks like the rain has let up—so we're announcing the last call for the Grand Entry. It'll be drum number seven that gets the honor tonight. Drum number seven is the Redtail Singers, all the way from Northern California. Meanwhile, what do you call ten Indins in a room together? A full set of teeth!"

A few chuckles went around the circle but people were more intent on seeing the dancers assembling for the Grand Entry. The Color Guard were already lifting their flags and checking their rifles. Each of the five was a former representative of the armed forces, now intent on looking solemn and dignified. Army and Navy appeared to have been shoe-horned into their dress uniforms, but the Marine Vet's hung on his frame like a sack dress on a broomstick. Everyone felt sorry for Amos. He and his cancer had only been given six months more by the Anglo doctors from Midlands. The Powwow Committee had offered the spot to him, knowing the honor his family felt regarding his service. Abrahm WarHorse smiled at his old friend, now preoccupied with loading his rifle with the blank for the first round.

Abrahm sat closest to the dance circle in one of the folding chairs reserved for Redlands elders. He raised his chin in distant greeting to Gordon Walker. The Walker, lead singer at the host Redlands Drum, chewed on a small piece of singer's root, and nodded in response. Abrahm had been asked to give the opening prayer and though he was ready, the nervousness in his stomach at speaking before such a large crowd made him shift his bony butt back and forth on the metal seat.

Once, years before, the old words might have spilled out rusty and creaking. However, during the eighties the Tribe had discovered that their language was being lost and had appealed to the fifty odd elders who remembered, to preserve it. They'd gotten together every week for almost a year to talk, and the old words had returned to their minds as faithfully as northern Salmon did the creeks and streams of the North Coast.

Now, almost a generation later, the words echoed from all around. His Grandson's efforts to provide immersion classes at the school and summer camps had resulted in many of the children becoming more fluent than their parents. He smiled as two small boys ran by, squealing in a mixture of Redlands and English.

A heavy hand laid itself upon his shoulder and a large body stood behind him, softly whispering in his ear.

"Grandpa, are you comfortable?"

The Montana Indian they called Soldier, stepped to the side so Grandpa could see his face. Grandpa Horse nodded and extended his hand. They shook in the limp, soft way some Indians do, and Soldier spoke again.

"Dancer here yet?"

Lance Dancer WarHorse was Abrahm's grandson, and Soldier's best friend.

"Haven't seen him,” said Horse. "I think he had to take some of the kids home from the school today, then he was gonna swing by Karan's."

Soldier stood his six foot two inch body straight and rolled his eyes in a way Grandpa found extremely funny. Soldier had a great sense of humor. Grandpa loved the fascinating combination of mannerisms in human beings. Soldier was a man with a lethal combination of athletic talent, martial arts skills and military training somehow mixed together in perfect proportions with a character that could easily made him a successful stand up comic! He was someone you'd equally want by your side in battle, or just going out to have a good time. It was easy to see why Dancer and he were so close. They were kindred spirits. Grandpa thought fondly of his Grandson and joined Soldier in searching the many familiar faces for him. No luck.

"Karan, eh. Is he looking to start the weekend with a fight?"

Horse looked up at Soldier and laughed out loud. The big man was unconsciously picking his nose as he surveyed the grounds. It was, as far as Grandpa knew, the only disgusting public habit that Soldier had, if you discounted the mass numbers of cowboys he had sent to the hospital in his drinking days. Soldier noticed Grandpa's look and jerked his hand away from his nose, his dark skin flushing slightly in embarrassment. Normally he didn't care who saw him picking his nose. He disliked having his nose clogged by anything, and as soon as his body began to form mucus there, he was digging for nose gold. However, with all these elders gathered together, he hated to give the women another reason to make fun of him! He shook his head slightly and shrugged to Grandpa, then lifted his hand in a cursory goodbye and ambled off toward the outside of grounds.

Curtis Joe, Redlands Tribal Chairman, took the wireless mike and began to talk about the date and agenda of the next Tribal Council meeting. When he finished, he gave Abrahm a short introduction. Horse stepped to the microphone and immediately began his prayer. The microphone fed-back, squealed, and quit. Grandpa began again with the same result. Finally, disgusted, he tossed the microphone to John Gray, the Tribal Administrator, and began to pray in a louder than normal voice. He finished a few minutes later with his voice growing hoarse, and his throat slightly sore from the exertion. He just wasn't used to yelling like that. He felt wrung out and exhausted, as he slumped down in his chair.

Someone draped a colorful blanket across his shoulders and hugged him from behind. He half turned to see Karan Deer's face close to his own, kissing him on the cheek.

"I missed you,” she said.

"You escaped!" Grandpa eyes crinkled with his smile. "I didn't think they ever let you out of there."

The shapely dark haired woman shrugged wistfully, "It definitely seems that way to me too sometimes."

Karan was Hunkpapa Lakota, college educated, and locked into the Administrators job at Midlands General Hospital. She intended to go home to her own Rez someday, but figured she needed at least two more years experience before she was ready.

"Have you seen Dancer?” she asked in a far-away voice.

"Guess you guys haven't talked yet?" Grandpa said softly.

Her brown eyes flashed.

"Why does it always have to be me that comes to him? I don't think he gives a shit about us!"

Horse was silent. He knew better than to speak his mind at this particular moment. She looked down at him and put her hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry. Do you need anything?"

"No, but I think Hattie over there needs a push."

He nodded at an old woman in a wheel chair looking around the circle as if she had lost something important.

"Okay. If you see him—I don't know," she patted his back gently, "just tell him I was here."

She walked quickly around the circle and bent down to speak to the old woman. The woman smiled in relief as Karan pushed her wheelchair away from the circle.

Two hours later, Grandpa Horse rose from his chair and began the half-mile walk back to his cabin. Lance Dancer hadn't shown up and he was a little worried. The moon was half full and the path was easy to find. He could probably walk it blindfolded anyway; each step was as familiar as the path from his cabin to the outhouse. The light breeze freshened his face and lightly fanned the loose hair by his ears. He could smell herbs, flowers, and pollens—each with their own familiar odor. His worries lifted, replaced by the contentment of enjoying a summer night, outside.

Midlands

MIDLANDS DAILY REPORTER

County Health Officials announced today that there has been a local outbreak of what seems to be a form of tularemia. The infection results in extreme flu-like symptoms including pneumonia and ulcers at the site of infection. It can be treated with antibiotics Department aides report a number of school children and elderly seem to be affected. Dr. Glen Houser, Chief Of Staff at Midlands General was quoted as saying, "This particular bug has shown some resistance to antibiotics, but does not appear to be life-threatening in severity. We expect to have a new antibiotic treatment regimen within a few weeks. For more information, call Midlands County Health, 326--4453.

Redlands

The razor sharp, double blade axe thunked into the chopping block sending two halves of seasoned jack pine jumping away from each other like a roman nose stud crow-hopping away from a freshly soaped saddle. In the soft pink light of the fading afternoon, Rodney Welk wiped glistening beads of sweat from his forehead with a faded red kerchief. The sweet smell of pine-pitch, sun drying on the axe-blade, mixed with the acrid odor of his perspiration to fill his nostrils with the fragrance of his labor. His left hand rested idly on the smooth worn hickory handle as he blinked rapidly and wiped his face a second time. He rolled his head on his neck and breathed deeply, eying the approaching sunset appreciatively. He loved being outside! There was something comfortable and soothing about the sound of splitting wood, like the pop of grease in the griddle on a frosty morning or crows cawing as they flew lazy circles on a warm afternoon. "Yep", Rodney mused out loud, "some sounds and smells jest seem to sink into yer bones and make you sigh with the sweetness of livin!" He frequently spoke out loud to himself—a result of being alone so much. He liked to think of himself as a cowboy poet and tried to be as lyrical as possible with his words. Once a year he even entered the poetry contest at the County Fair. Last year he'd won two seconds and a third. After reading the first place poems, he was encouraged to keep trying. He thought his work at least as good as the blue ribbon winners.

Rodney stood just over five feet but most people observed that he appeared almost as broad as he was tall. His girth was not an accumulation of fat; his body just seemed to spread out more than most. His muscles, when in use, bunched and coiled like gnarled tree roots, and his arms hung significantly away from his sides when he walked. His face was sharp featured and craggy, with thin lips and close-set green eyes that made him appear slightly cross-eyed in his customary squint. What few strands of black hair he had left were combed carelessly back from his sunburned domed skull. A narrow hooked nose bent to the left, remnants of heavy bar-fighting days. A round scar in the center of his left cheek was the only 'souvenir' he had from the Korean War, now more than fifty years past. Inside his mouth, he was missing most of the teeth and gum on that side, giving his jaw a slightly caved in look. He had thick calloused hands and his round belly pushed through his shirt where a missing button provided an opening in the aged flannel. Two fraying black logger suspenders supported a patched pair of canvas dungarees rolled neatly at the bottom into three-inch cuffs. An ancient pair of boots covered his feet, intact except for a fresh axe cut on the left toe where two undamaged but frightened toes lay hiding.

"Carelessness is a dangerous thing," thought Rodney. Every now and then, he'd do something just stupid enough to remind himself of his own mortality. The axe cut on his boot was his latest "accident" and its presence caused him to grimace with irritation. Now the dirt and manure would begin to eat it away until he'd need a new pair of boots long before he would have if he hadn't been distracted by that damn coyote that strolled past the woodshed as if he belonged here. He'd been so startled to see one down the plateau this far from the Lake, he'd neglected to clear the chopped wood away enough to provide a safe cutting area. He hadn't actually missed the log, (that would have sent him into shock), just carelessly jerked out the axe, and dropped it without looking as he bent over to throw the new splits on the pile.

Rod was meticulous about sharpening his tools—so much so that many of the Indians from Redlands brought him theirs. It wasn't until he stopped for a smoke that he noticed the deep cut in the toe of his boot. He'd never even felt it! It upset him so much he quit for the day and went fishing. But that was yesterday. Today he needed to finish this cord before the boys brought up the Buffs tomorrow.

He was more excited by the new bison herd that was going to be grazing on his land than he had about anything for a long time. He'd even gone to the Midlands library to read up on them and had brought home six books, more than he'd read in the last year. It was a good thing too, he mused sourly. He'd been sick with the flu two full weeks after he'd gone into town. If he hadn't had those books, he would've really gone crazy being laid up so long. 'Course His friend Abrahm had brought him a mason jar of the most horrible tasting "medicine" he'd ever forced himself to take, but he seemed to get well after he finished it. He was fascinated by the intelligence and social order of the Bison. He couldn't wait till the herd could be larger but first they had to get by Jack Tantor and the Cattlemen's Association's prejudice.

"Stupid hicks", he said to himself, feeling proud that he wasn't one of them. He prized his Indian friends from Redlands, and seemed to have more in common with them than his redneck rancher neighbors.

By looking at the position of the sun, he knew he only had another hour or so of light to finish. He sat the next log on the stump and lifted the axe over his shoulder.

Midlands

An unmarked, black Dodge van cruised slowly down the street toward the Midlands County Courthouse and Office Square where most of the County offices and the public library were located. It was a little after 9:30 on a sweltering late summer Sunday evening. The air was still oppressively hot and some of the smog from the city at the southern end of the valley cast a hazy glaze over the shadowy mountains to the north. All the parking spaces were empty as the van parked in front of the Midlands Public Library. The Van’s side door slid open and a tall man in a tan jumpsuit stepped down onto the broiled blacktop. He turned smoothly, examining the street in both directions, wrinkling his nose at the heavy fragrance of chaparral from the vacant lot across the street.. There was no traffic of any kind. His head bobbed up and down and two similarly dressed men emerged from the vehicle behind him. Each of the men strode off in a different direction.

The tall man walked up the handicapped access ramp toward the Library. Upon arriving at the locked double doors, he turned to survey the parking lot again. He sniffed at the familiar American smells of summer barbecue and newly cut green grass. Satisfied, he removed a plastic-coated surgical linen mask from his left pocket and a pair of surgeon’s rubber gloves from his right. He slid on the gloves, sneezing from the powder inside, and tied the mask across his face. Turning to the doors, his hand disappeared inside his jumpsuit pocket and withdrew a small circular metal tube and a piece of white tissue. He carefully unscrewed the tube lid and swiped the Puff’s Kleenex around the inside of top of the tube. Glancing around again, he swiped the Kleenex across the length of the horizontal door handle and dropped it in the planter beside of the door. The he turned abruptly on his heel, and walked briskly back toward the van. As he walked, he pulled a Ziploc bag out of his jumpsuit, into which he gently placed the opened tube and lid. He zipped the bag shut and shook out a second bag into which he deposited the linen mask and surgeon’s rubbers. The two other men returned to the van at almost exactly the same time and the tall man slid the side door open. Once inside, they placed their plastic disposal bags inside a small airtight rubber trashcan, and stripped off their clothing. The driver started the van and drove away from the City Center.

"I don't know why we have to go through this shit," said one of the men angrily. "We're not even dealing with an aerosolized agent!"

"These are the standards we agreed to," said the tall man. "Get used to it. Someday you may be handling something a little hotter. Then you'll be glad for this 'shit'."

They placed their jumpsuits in the rubber can, and each man took a turn at a stainless steel sink, scrubbing hands and arms until they were red. Soon the gravity-fed water container that supplied the sink was empty. The water drained from the sink into a metal container that they sealed as soon as their washing was completed. They put on their street clothes and seated themselves on the bench seats along the sides of the van, listening to a local FM classic rock station. The van entered the access ramp to Interstate 40 and began the long drive east.

The tall man removed a laptop computer from behind the seat and waited for a validated connection to the wireless company field net. He logged on with his password, and typed,

"Successful mission, no complications, agent on site."

Then he logged off and closed his eyes to sleep.

Washington, D.C.

Torrents of rain pelted the black limousine as it plowed through standing puddles glimmering yellow under the streetlights of the Capitol city. Pulling up to a city bus stop where a drenched man waited in a soggy overcoat, the vehicle splashed a small wave of water over his brown wingtips.

"Damn it, I've been waiting fifteen minutes," the hawk-faced man named Wilson sputtered as he climbed in the back.

"Traffic", the other man replied, lighting a huge cigar in the already smoke-filled atmosphere.

"Can't you wait till we're finished before you light one of those damn cancer sticks?"

"Wife won't let me smoke them at home—this'll be my only chance tonight. Just got 'em in from Panama. S'posed to rival the Cuban's best," said the older man, holding the stogie up in the dim light of the computer screen built into the partition between the front and rear of the vehicle.

The hawk-faced man's attention drifted to the screen. In bold letters the screen-saver proclaimed, "Power Is Never Having To Compromise." Wilson removed his dripping fedora to reveal a well-tanned face.

"The tularemia test went as expected. We've got another test coming up soon—a new bird flu. The ground crew is going in for insertion in two weeks."

"When do you plan to make that proposal to the Committee?”

The smoking man suppressed a deep cough, and leaned forward. His sallow complexion was drawn and deeply lined.

"You don't look so good, Dick," the other commented dryly, trying to shrug out of the drenched overcoat like a patient trying to escape an asylum straitjacket.

"I'll outlive you Charles. When do I get the first application report?"

"Our lead research man is preparing it now."

"Is the Department holding up their end?"

"Haven't had any problems yet. We get their samples on time, every thing's pretty cut and dried."

"That's good. I just don't completely trust the fuckers. One mistake, and blooey! Any problems in the field?"

"No, the savages are behaving themselves except for the usual bunch of troublemakers."

"I think we've got that covered now. The Livestock Association should be releasing their new study in the next few days. Seems a large contribution was made in their behalf and the Publication—let's just say it leans toward our point of view. We just want the area to remain stable. The blackbaggers at the Pentagon are drooling all over themselves at the potential of this, ah, arrangement."

"What about the request for the GAO investigation."

"Don't give it a second thought. No one pays the least bit of attention to them, especially the Interior." He sighed, breathing through a cloud of smoke.

The hawk-faced man spoke softly.

"Regular channels, same number in Switzerland, wire takes place in the morning."

The smoking man grunted with satisfaction.

"Just give me a good report."

The rain had all but stopped. Stars were poking themselves through wispy clouds as the limo pulled up to the same bus stop as before.

"Next time, don't leave me standing in the rain, Ok? It's fucking freezing here!"

The tanned man shivered and turned up his collar to the wind as he climbed out. The car door slammed behind him as the limousine shot away from the curb into the night.

"Asshole!"

He jogged down the block, tweaking the button to deactivate the alarm on his silver Lexus as he ran.

Jack Tantor hated Washington. He hated the flight in, the airport, the busy streets, and the Capitol hubbub. He longed for cool quiet mornings on his ranch porch, looking out at the Old Man. After three weeks in a hotel room, and countless visits to Congressional Offices, he understood how a man here could go nuts with an automatic rifle. Even the beautiful whores that Dade had sent to him nightly had begun to irritate him. Their business-like demeanor and quick efficient lovemaking reminded him he was in the belly of big government. Everything here operated the same way, except for time. Time dragged itself along like a slug on the kitchen floor, and no matter what you did to hurry it up, it maintained an infuriatingly deliberate pace.

Tantor had spent so many hours in office waiting rooms he felt like his backside had spread out about a foot. He knew he'd read every damn magazine published in the last ten years! I hope that that was going to end today. The bulging envelope in his pocket was his ticket home.

Senator Dade came out of his office puffing on an unlit stogy. His smile was enormous.

"Jack. Sorry to keep you waiting. Mind if we go out and get some fresh air?"

He turned to his secretary and waved perfunctorily.

"Back in about fifteen, Lucy."

Grabbing Tantor's sleeve, he directed him into the hall. As they climbed into the elevator, he spoke in a low voice.

"I've got good news for you Jack. The Commission has Ok'd the tests and the BIA yahoos are going to continue to look the other way. You shouldn't be getting any nasty bills this year!"

Tantor disliked the Senator immensely. He disliked everything about him, from his perfectly polished shoes to his ruddy cheeks and glittering beady eyes. But the man was a genius at coercing people, and under the table dealing. He could be powerful friend or a nasty enemy who would use any advantage or dark secret to further his interests. Jack felt dirtied just talking to him, but he believed his cause justified his involvement with this character.

While it was true that there had never been a proven case of brucellosis transmitted from wild range buffalo to beef cattle, he couldn't take the chance. Neither could he afford to start paying top dollar for his grazing leases on Redlands lands. Fortunately, the BIA's incompetence at handling Indian Trust Accounts had kept him paying the lowest possible lease costs, if any, for the last twenty years. Some of the ranch families like his had been in the valley for over a hundred years. Some had been there almost as long as there had been a Reservation. That he should have to pay the Tribe lease money for grazing lands his Great Grandfather had homesteaded was a crime. True, they had taken the land by force, but that was how the world worked! The strongest always prospered. He hated the weak-kneed politicians and bleeding heart liberals that had retaken the land for a pittance of its value and given it back to the Indians, leaving the cattlemen only a part of their homesteads and ranches.

If it wasn't for snakes like Dade and that greedy Tribal Council bucking the hostile young activists and Traditionals, they'd probably be paying big bucks for the grazing rights. Fortunately, the BIA was going to continue to "misplace" the lease bills, leaving them sitting in a drawer or on someone's desk—as they had now for years. Only a few Bureau employees and a few of the old time ranchers had any idea of what the actual lease amounts were, and what they should be. Thank God for the Bureau of the Interior's eighteenth century accounting practices, they were efficiently losing and hiding millions of dollars in unpaid, or below cost, mineral, grazing, timber and water-rights lease agreements.

Jack wondered if he could even continue ranching if the lands were ever valued correctly. As President of the Cattlemen's Association, he knew it would probably force them all out of business. He loved ranching; dealing with the insect beside him was just a necessary evil to preserve his way of life!

He smiled his Sunday best at Dade as they walked down Pennsylvania Ave.

"That's great, Senator. We've got a little bonus for you, other than the campaign help, for all your good efforts!"

He tapped his coat pocket.

Dade's eyes narrowed and glittered, but his mouth remained noncommittal.

"Lets get some coffee."

Two hours later, Jack Tantor was on a jet heading home. He was cramped in the seat, but his mind was relaxed. It was over for another year or two. Now he could relax and tend his herds. He couldn't wait to saddle Dandy and ride out to the Lake for an afternoon.

Ansom Pharmaceuticals, Florida

Frederick Hosch sat drumming his fingers impatiently on the polished black walnut tabletop in the "War Room" at Ansom Pharmaceuticals. His pale skin and shock of white hair contrasted sharply with his black sharkskin suit and Armani loafers. Bushy black eyebrows gave his angular face a comical Muppet-like appearance as he clenched them together in frustration. Frederick Hosch wasn't used to waiting, especially on subordinates, but his security chief, Jake Carliss, had proved to be a surprising asset to the company. Not only was he knowledgeable about security procedures, he had also shown an ability to organize and direct the "special operations" that Charles Wilson had been conducting for the last two years.

Wilson, Anson's Head of Operations, was ex-CIA, ex-CDC, and a veteran of the pharmaceutical "wars". Not only had he secured a number of crucial CDC contracts for Ansom, he was an expert in viral and bacteriological health. He had been instrumental in pushing Ansom into the race to develop new and potent viral-inhibitors and had been the first to suggest to Hosch that they provide soft money to an influential Senator to obtain preferential calendar dates for FDA approval of Ansom drugs and vaccines in exchange for some clandestine Department of Defense research monies. Carliss had proved to be a master at organizing and leading the super secret "covert" field-testing the DOD had requested. Even the research staff hadn't caught on to the fact that a few of the "emerging" samples of virus and bacteria had not come from distant parts of the world but from USAMRID laboratories. Tularemia, brucellosis, and Q-fever were just a few of the “incapacitating” agents that had passed through Ansom labs, been field tested and assessed. The "engineering" of these agents was very subtle and symptoms were indistinguishable from the common circulating ailments in the testing area. Other agents like influenza, staphylococcus, Hep C, and other level two biohazards required stricter containment procedures, but the recent tests showed Ansom was ready for those challenges.

Hosch could remember their first "secret" meeting. He had become more and more despondent about the company bottom line and had actually considered retirement from the cutthroat pharmaceutical industry until Wilson had come up with the preposterous, but daring, idea that had put Ansom back on top for lucrative CDC contracts.

Charles had hinted at something "under the table" but when Hosch accepted his proposal for a drink at the after hours club, Solitaire, he expected to hear an illicit drug proposal. Instead, Wilson had outlined, in a soft voice, an outlandish clandestine plan designed by a Defense Department think-tank on bio-weapons research. Frederick had sat listening to the proposal for almost twenty minutes without asking a question. That had to be a record for his intensely curious mind and was a testament to how defined and well thought-out the plan appeared to be. Hosch immediately grasped its potential and arranged a second meeting. A month later, the plan was put into operation and the first limited "field test" was conducted. The results were amazing! The area was perfect for statistical evaluation. There were just enough health facilities to insure that the test population was in no real danger, allowing for the introduction of inoculations or additional antibiotic schedules. Final evaluations approached a statistical perfection previously known in unplanned random studies.

They had just completed their eighth "test" for the DOD, a tularemia agent, and the dividends were pouring in. In accordance with their agreement, government pressure virtually assured Ansom would receive their second lucrative contract award to develop the annual flu vaccine in the next few weeks.

Hosch was still blissfully ignorant of the specific details, and he really didn't want to know how they had coerced a major hospital Chief-of-Staff into monitoring infection rates, administering antibiotics or vaccines, and cataloging the results for an entire County. It was enough to know that a relatively isolated geographical location had been chosen, no fatalities had occurred, and they had been assured that the DOD's treatment regimens were sufficient. The DOD was happy with the statistics they were getting . As an additional perk, the tests had allowed Ansom to field test their own influenza vaccines almost two months before competitors during each of the last two seasons. Consequently, they had numerous viral vaccine applications currently pending in the FDC process for product approval with the cooperation of the CDC.

Now they were preparing to cement their position as a leader in vaccine production for the CDC. With the contract for this season almost in hand, their most ambitious field test to date was scheduled for next week. Their Senator-in-pocket was priming the FDC pump, and cultures of the next Saigon/Hokkaido flu, subtly altered covertly in USAMRID'S labs, were already sitting in the secure lab at Ansom. With a genius like Phil Agee leading the lab charge, Hosch was certain the vaccine and a long-term contract for production and research would be forthcoming.

Everything was a go. Now if only his two "protégés" would show up for a meeting on time!

Redlands

Lance Dancer Warhorse stood in the phone booth waiting patiently on hold. The newspaper columnist who had called him in response to his letter about bison brucellosis was on another line. Lance was impatient to get back to the school but this was a good opportunity to get more publicity on the issue.

Jack Tantor and the Cattlemen's Association had been vigorously pushing the State Livestock Department into accepting the same backward view that Montana held—that brucellosis was too great a danger to cattle to allow the Bison to free-range. The paranoia of the ranchers was an epidemic in itself.

Of course, Lance knew the whole issue in Redlands was just a ruse to cover the real issue. Reservation lease agreements were outdated and the trust lease monies unaccounted for. The Ranchers were afraid that their gravy train was going to be surrounded by hostiles—and they were right.

Lance and his Grandfather had cooked up the idea to graze buffalo on rez lands, not only to build a herd of the beautiful animals, but also to force the grazing issue and bring the cockroaches out from underneath the woodwork. All the parties, the Tribal Council, the BIA, the State and Federal Governments, as well as the Ranchers, were guilty of fraud, mismanagement, bribery and conspiracy. He just had to rock the boat long enough to get them to begin to jumping overboard. Once that happened, some of them would begin to talk. Lance didn't necessarily want to destroy the cattle industry around Redlands but he did want to show the racist and arrogant ranchers that in Indian country, Indians held the upper hand!

They had fought to obtain the necessary permits to move the buffalo onto Redlands, and now that they were there, the Association wanted to force them to pay for expensive brucellosis testing on all the animals—something they couldn't afford. Lance was trying to get public support for an initiative that would force the Department of the Interior to foot the bill. This journalist could help him.

An Editor came on line and told Lance the journalist would not be available for a while yet. Did Lance want to talk with him instead? Their conversation lasted for almost a half hour. As Lance got in his fully restored '61 Chevy Apache pickup truck and drove toward Redlands, he was hopeful that their conversation would result in a positive article.

Midlands

John Gray waited impatiently in the restaurant booth for the featureless man in the thousand-dollar suit to come back from the men's room. He pushed his black Stetson back on his forehead and lit a cigarette. The waitress passing by pointed to a “no smoking” sign and he angrily snubbed it into the napkin before him—his calloused brown fingers not even feeling the cherry orange sparks that tried to bite his fingers.

The other man slid in opposite him and immediately blew his nose into a starched white handkerchief he drew from his immaculately pressed shirt. He refolded the used kerchief carefully, as if it contained some toxic waste. He pressed it into his expensive blue jacket pocket and looked directly into Gray's dark eyes.

“What's the news on the malcontents?”

Gray shrugged his massive shoulders. He was well over six feet in height and his girth was similarly robust.

“They're moving the new herd in tomorrow—two bulls, eight cows, and four calves. Old Man Welk is letting 'em put them on his ranch.”

The man opposite shook his head pensively.

“Nothing the Tribal Council can do? How 'bout pressuring Welk?”

“His Grandpa was deeded that land by the Tribe way back when. Ain't no way we can move him. Unless the Tribe votes to have the Department of Livestock intervene after the testing, the Ranchers are in deep shit.”

Gray leaned forward and lowered his already soft voice into a near whisper.

“Some of my boys tell me there's talk of some of the People wanting to know where the Tribal land lease funds are going. If they start asking the tough questions, and Curtis gets backed into a corner, I can guarantee he's gonna give you up in a second. We got elected to help our families, not end up in prison!”

The BIA man across from him leaned forward and smiled, his breath smelled like garlic and onions.

“Maybe you guys shoulda thought about it more before you got into bed with Ansom.”

John Gray's brown face blanched as the other man continued quickly.

“Ease up John. You let the Bureau worry about the lease problems. We've stonewalled it successfully for generations. Eventually the Interior may have to start paying up, but the records have been successfully deleted and John Q Public is not going to feel like reimbursing billions of dollars to Indians if it has to come out of public pockets.”

He wiped his sweating forehead with a napkin.

“It's cookin in here.”

He sat back suddenly and sighed loudly.

“That powerful Senator we both know is the one who put you boys in contact with Ansom. He is very interested in your ability to get the brucellosis-testing going ASAP. If we can't stop 'em one way then maybe it can happen another. It's a win-win scenario. Hey buddy, this is good for us! Any kind of distraction helps Ansom do its job, and when Ansom does its job, you get big bundles of this.”

He took a fat manila envelope from his inside jacket pocket and pushed it across the table under his napkin.

Gray opened his large hand and lifted the napkin edge with thumb and forefinger.

“I think we can get the thirty percent necessary for the special General Council meeting. There are enough of us running our own cattle out there to push the issue. Them Movement boys got some loud voices though—and they got a few of the old Trads advising them.”

“Trads?”

“Traditionals—guys who want everything to go back to yesterday. Quite a few of the people still rely on them for Medicine and to lead the Ceremonials and Societies. I don't know how much they'll influence the voting. Depends on whether they even show up.”

The BIA man stood up abruptly and smoothed the wrinkles from his expensive suit.

“Sounds like you got some arm-twisting to do.”

Gray cocked his head to the side. His eyes narrowed.

“I don't ever remember discussing violence.”

The other man didn't meet his glare.

“Well you'll have to do something to make sure these envelopes don't become public knowledge. I'll be in touch.”

The man was out the door before it registered in John Gray's mind that he had just been threatened big time. He hated the BIA and all the pencil pushers that made decisions that affected the lives of Native people. He noticed the check on the table and growled deep in his throat. He'd even been stuck with the bill! His lunch rose into his throat as he paid the bill and stomped out to his new Dodge Ram 4X4. The oversize tires howled on the pavement as he started the drive back to his ranch near Redlands.

Redlands

Lance Dancer looked in the rear view mirror to reassure himself, for the hundredth time, that the five big rigs were behind him. The dust rose in heavy clouds as they crawled up the dirt road toward the lodge pole corrals at the south end of the lake. He couldn't believe they were so close now. It all seemed like a dream. For five years he'd been working on the project to bring Bison back to Redlands rez lands. Now they were almost there. He'd spent the better part of two weeks constructing the heavy pole corrals, readying the watering areas, and trucking in alfalfa and straw for the first feed. Grazing would be good this time of year, and once they released the buffs, they wouldn't have to supplement them until deep winter. All the same, Lance wanted the buffs to get a good start and feel at home. He was looking forward to the feeding.

Moments later he pulled into the parking area by the lean-to hay barn. He noticed the red bronco parked to the side and was just a little irritated that he wasn't the first one here. Especially since Curtis Joe, the Redlands Tribal Chairman, had opposed the buffalo ranching idea from the start!

"His big cattle buddies must be shitting bricks", Lance snorted to no one in particular, as he eased his six-foot frame down from the raised cab of the Chevy. Worn cowboy boots kicked up a poof of dry dust as he hit the ground. His long, dark brown hair was drawn back in a ponytail and tied with red cloth. The drooping brim of his cowboy hat covered his bronzed brown face. High cheekbones and a classic nose gave perfect Indian compliment to his piercing black eyes. He hardly ever looked in a mirror, yet somehow he always seemed groomed. His body was lean and muscular but he walked with a slight limp from a knee injury he got playing high school basketball. The Doctor at the Indian Health Project kept telling him to come in and they'd scope it, clean out the damaged cartilage and scar tissue that made it stiff and sore, but he never could find a month to take off for the rehab.

Curtis Joe was leaning his heavy frame up against the entrance chute of the corral looking depressed. He was sweating and his crew cut black hair gleamed in the afternoon sun. He raised his chin in recognition of Lance but made no move to come over to where Lance was unloading the ten sacks of grain he'd purchased at Lawson's Feed.

"Wait till he sees our request to see the BIA lease payment accounts from the cattle leases”, Lance thought. Lance had a good idea that Curtis and John Gray had, at the very least, been getting kickbacks from the ranchers for not reminding the incompetent Bureau accounting system to bill them for their leases. All over the country, it was common for statements, and even payment checks to sit for months, even years, on some bureaucrat’s desk. The fact that Indians had been defrauded of billions of dollars didn't seem to bother the public much. The Federal Court Case to resolve it had been going on for years.

Now Lance, Grandpa, and some of the other Redlands people were going to open that can of worms. He licked his lips in anticipation. Maybe after it was over, Redlands would finally have a Tribal Council that cared more about the entire Tribe than just employing their family members and padding their own pockets! He glanced again at the heavyset man who had been his nemesis for every project the Traditionals had wanted put through in the last five years. Lance had to admit the man was a decent politician. He'd gotten himself elected twice, and legally too—but his time was coming. Lance wondered how he'd handle being a citizen again and not the important person he liked to be. Maybe start drinking again. For a moment, Lance felt sorry for him, then Curtis Joe spoke.

"This brucellosis thing is a big deal. Someone's gotta pay for that testing and we're not gonna do it!"

Lance nodded cautiously.

"Up in Montana they got laws to protect their cattle. They won't let buffs anywhere near them. Say it could destroy the whole industry. There's a lot of money in cattle. What are you boys trying to prove?"

Lance looked toward the mountains. He'd been expecting this, but not here. He thought it would be brought up in a Council meeting or in the local newspaper. Perhaps even at a County Supervisors meeting. He couldn't figure out why Curtis had chosen to bring it up here with only the two of them present. It was like he was warning him off, or gloating over what he thought might give him the last word. Lance decided the best thing to do was keep quiet, so he just grunted.

Curtis Joe cocked his head and peered at him suspiciously but said nothing else. Together they watched the trucks pull in the parking area and Lance lost track of him when he spotted Rod Welk's ancient Ford pickup pull in behind them. He hurried over to greet him and for the next three hours, they were busy unloading the bison bulls, cows, and calves. At some point, Curtis Joe left. Lance wasn't sure when.

Soldier stood in the doorway of the Council Meeting hall and carefully watched the chaos. His dusty brown cowboy boots clacked across the tile floor as he approached the registration table. Curtis Joe stood behind the women seated at the table taking names and giving out checks. Occasionally he stepped forward to examine a signature or sign a check. His chest was puffed out in a posture of self-importance.

"He looks just like a bantam rooster," Soldier thought.

Joe glanced toward the door and his eyes locked onto Soldiers'. His lips curled in a disapproving sneer as Soldier approached. Stepping out from behind the table, he gestured in a dismissive way.

"This is a Redlands tribal meeting Plouffe, only members allowed."

Soldier looked toward the crowd and spoke quietly.

"That's Ok, Curtis, I just came to see Lance, or Grandpa—you seen them around?"

Before the Tribal Chairman could reply one of the older women at the table smiled at Soldier and said, "They're over by the back exit, I think. How's that pretty daughter of yours, Michael?"

Michael Plouffe smiled back. He always enjoyed talking to the elderly Redlands people. He didn't mind when they called him by his given name. Few people did these days. Most people just called him Soldier because of his penchant for wearing his old military green, and because of the decorations and honors he had received during Operation Desert Storm.

"She's fine, Auntie," Soldier responded respectfully and she acknowledged his respect with a grin.

"Well, just be sure you're outside before the meeting begins," Curtis Joe interrupted, having to have the last word.

"Don't worry, Chief," Soldier emphasized the last word. 'I got no interest in the BS you're gonna be spouting."

He walked quickly through the crowd toward where the older woman had said his friends were. He caught sight of a light blue bandanna folded neatly into a headband around long dark hair and knew it was Lance Dancer.

Dancer greeted him with an Indian arm shake and a pat on the back. He leaned close to Soldier's ear and whispered.

"We must be a damn poor bunch of Indians, enit? The way we show up for these checks!"

Soldier knew that many Tribal Councils paid their people to attend important meetings. Often they couldn't get the thirty percent attendance necessary to push through the Council's decisions without a monetary incentive. Some of the Traditionals didn't participate, but most of the young people with families did. Soldier had mixed feelings about the issue. He disapproved on general terms, especially when many of the people had no idea what the Tribal Council was up to, but something had to be done to involve the people in decision-making and this did get a lot of people to the meetings.

"I'll be outside by my truck," he said to Dancer as Curtis Joe took the stage and began to blow into the microphone to see if it was on.

"We'll make notes so you won't miss nothin'."

Dancer squeezed his arm as Soldier snorted and moved by him toward the door. Grandpa Horse stepped in front of him and they danced side to side for a moment before Grandpa giggled and said, "Who's leading here?"

Soldier laughed loudly and stepped around him, shaking his head and walking out the exit.

Curtis Joe and John Gray stood side-by-side looking in their direction with irritated scowls on their faces. Wilma Joe, Curtis' niece and Tribal Secretary, called the Role and made some announcements. They skipped the Treasurers report; because Philo Frank was late, and began to discuss the first order of old business on the Agenda. It was the third draft of the new "Tribal Constitution" they were trying to get the Tribe to approve.

Grandpa WarHorse spoke up just loud enough that everyone could hear.

"What's wrong with the one we got?"

Curtis Joe looked surprised and irritated. He hadn't expected anyone to oppose the issue so quickly, before they even read the newly proposed provisions.

"Because the old one has some serious flaws, that's why. We can't make important business decisions quick enough."

John Gray interrupted.

"The process just needs to be streamlined and brought up to date."

Dancer spoke quickly.

"The one we have gives the power to us people. The one you're proposing puts all the power in the hands of the Council. What happens if the Council's corrupt? If we're going to go that way we need at least three divisions of power."

Joe cocked his head and thrust out his chin.

"Are you accusing us of being corrupt? We can't even get anybody to run for office now—how we going to find competent people to sit on three councils?”

Thelma Louise, Dancer's Aunt, said, “That's because you always got your goons going around threatening people or payin' 'em off at election time!”

She glared at Joe defiantly. The room erupted in a number of loud voices and Joe yelled into the microphone.

“Everybody just be quiet. We're here to talk about what's on the Agenda, and what's on the Agenda is these proposals we drafted. We aren't gonna talk about nothin' else right now!”

Dancer ignored his retort.

"Where is Philo? Nobody's even seen the BIA accounting of the lease payments on Redlands Land for the last two years? And the tribal financial report is three months late. That's unconstitutional. Since the casino opened, our membership has certainly gotten bigger. Where did all these members come from? I don't see many of their names on the original rolls and they sure as hell don't live here on the rez! Their memberships are unconstitutional and so are any decisions you make using their vote."

"Some of that information is confidential," Gray responded, “only the Tribal Council has access to it and we're not going to discuss it in an open meeting”.

"Since when did tribal information become confidential from the general council, we have a right to see everything!" Dancer yelled again.

"That resolution was passed last year, WarHorse. I guess that was one of the meetings you didn't attend!"

Gray turned toward Curtis Joe and whispered something in his ear. Curtis Joe smugly nodded his head in agreement.

John Gray saved him by replying, " Besides, those are issues for another meeting, WarHorse. If you got something you want to discuss, get it on the Agenda."

“I would if the office was ever open during business hours, and if Velma was ever working and not off to a damn conference someplace,” Dancer retorted loudly.

Curtis Joe's face went beet red on top of his usual brown. He looked like he was going to bust a gut.

The crowd began to get loud again, talking among themselves.

Curtis Joe yelled into the microphone, making it squeal in protest.

"Yeah we got an Agenda. You want to put something on it, do it the right way."

"I've tried," Dancer yelled as the noise increased, " the Announcement always says it's already filled up."

Gray ignored him.

"Will the Secretary please read where we're at in the agenda, so we can get this meeting going again?"

The meeting continued, with the garbled legalese of each proposed constitutional change being discussed one by one. It became so boring many people left. Eventually Philo Frank showed up, obviously wired and flying. He hurriedly ran through a virtually meaningless rendition of how many great programs and grants were being applied for, how many they had going presently, and what great shape the Tribe was in financially. Grandpa looked around critically. He could see many members nodding their heads at the giant numbers being reeled off by the treasurer—two hundred thousand here, a million and one-half there, etc.

He spoke in Dancer's ear.

“These people don't have a clue how much money that is. A million to them is as much of a fairy tale as a thousand. They can't comprehend that kind of money—that's all it is to them—numbers. Numbers to keep them happy and make them think something important is going on, something good for their kids. Give them a little per capita each month and they're fine.” He snorted in disgust.

“Might as well be Huxley's drug, keeping the people happy. What was it called? Oh yeah, Soma—in that book, “1984”—or was it “Brave New World”, I can't remember.”

He glanced around the room.

"They won't have enough members left to pass a vote. Let's get out of here."

Dancer nodded and they went out the side exit toward the muddy back parking lot. A light rain had fallen while they were inside and the breeze was fresh and clean. Mottled clouds still sailed the night sky, temporarily hiding the stars and then disappearing toward the south. The wind whipped their pants-legs as they walked toward Soldier's truck.

"So? How'd it go?" Soldier asked.

"About the way we thought it would," Dancer snorted. "They can't afford to let any discussion take place. Most of the people don't give a shit anyway. Fuck, it's so depressing!"

Grandpa Horse smiled at Dancer.

"Oh, I don't know, we got to say what we wanted. Some of them heard. Eventually people will begin to talk. It just takes time."

"By then the new Constitution will give them absolute power, Grandpa. And we won't be able to change anything!"

Dancer kicked at a wet clod.

"I don't think so," Grandpa said. "I got a feelin."

A few more Redlands Skins joined their group and they began to discuss the new Bison herd.

Adrian Fred, a small feisty middle-aged Redlands man who ran a few head of cattle but loved the idea of a buffalo herd, said quietly.

"I heard a rumor that a group of white ranchers is gonna teach us a lesson in reservation politics."

Grandpa Horse nodded.

"I heard that rumor. I think it's probably true."

Dancer looked at him with a quizzical look.

"Where'd you hear that?"

Abrahm WarHorse shrugged. A smile crept back to his lips.

"Coulda been the wind."

Dancer made an exasperated noise and threw up his hands.

"Well I ain't heard nothin', but if they come..."

Adrian Fred said, "We just need to be careful and not get caught out anywhere alone."

All the men nodded in unison.

"We gonna meet up at Rodney's next?" Soldier asked.

Dancer bobbed his head.

"Yeah, we still got to decide where to place the hay for the winter feed."

A large dark thunderhead floated over and began dropping its heavy load of rain on their heads. They ran for their trucks and, one by one, joined the other vehicles leaving the meeting and pouring out onto the roads that spread out into Redlands. Midlands

Karan Deer was worn out. It seemed like she'd been working double shifts her whole life. She felt more like a nurse than an administrator. The amount of sickness in the County the last year was phenomenal. A number of doctors and nurses had actually moved their families away, taking jobs in other states, and many more were thinking about it. A high percentage of the patients were from the local Redlands Indian reservation. Karan knew from her own family rez experience about the drinking, drugs, poor diet and regular violence—but that didn't account for number of sick children they'd seen at the County Health and Indian Health Service Clinics, as well as those who came here to the hospital.

If they had been in the southwest she might have suspected some sort of contamination, like the Dene' and other Tribe had suffered from uranium tailings, coal mining, and disposal products. But most of the problems here were the usual garden varieties of flu, colds and unknown virus's, with an occasional nasty bacterial infection thrown in.

The staff bell chimed again and she heard her name. She'd been filling in for one of her ER physicians out with the flu. It was strange to be back on the floor as a caregiver. Wearily rising from the narrow cot, she plodded groggily down the hall to emergency. She was relieved to find it was just a boy from town with a fractured arm. She had to admit, the last few weeks had seemed quieter, but she couldn't seem to catch up on her sleep. With a shorthanded staff, everyone had had to put in a lot of overtime. She forced a smile to her lips and strode to the gurney where the boy was bawling in pain and his mother chewed her nails.

Ansom Pharmaceuticals, Florida

Charles Wilson whistled his way into the conference room where Jake Carliss and Frederick Hosch sat waiting. He removed the folder of papers from under his arm and almost slapped them down on the table in undisguised elation. Hosch blinked rapidly and reached for the folder.

Carliss sat impassively.

Wilson spoke expansively.

"We got 'em. Both of them. My sources say if we provide the vaccine in the next ninety days we've got a long term, and the brucellosis testing is ours. Agee's had the USAMRID bird flu virus for a week. He said he's close, so every thing's set."

He beamed triumphantly at Hosch. Hosch nodded in appreciation and turned to Carliss.

"How soon can we go?"

"End of next week."

Sunglasses hid the tall man's eyes. Hosch felt irritation creep into his voice.

"Do you mind taking your glasses off, Mr. Carliss?

The man responded slowly, looking directly at Hosch. Frederick Hosch felt like he was looking into a cobra's eyes. A chill crept up his back, but he was not a man to be intimidated by a look.

"Why not the beginning of the week?"

"We've got a personnel problem," said Carliss. "Two of our men have the flu."

He smiled at the irony of it. Hosch was satisfied.

"Ok, keep me posted."

He picked up the folder and rapidly walked from the room.

"That's a tough old goat, " said Wilson.

Carliss ignored the comment, stood up, and quickly followed the older man as if he meant to talk to him. Once in the hall however, he turned the opposite direction and hurried to the phone. He had heard a rumor from one of his "lab rats" he wanted to check out, and time was getting short.

Redlands

REDLANDS STAR (SUNDAY EDITION)

"In response to the Redlands Tribal Council Resolution to request that the Department Of The Interior provide the funds for brucellosis testing on the newly established Redlands Reservation bison herd, the Department has tentatively agreed. ”The testing will be administered by a private contractor, identified as a subsidiary of Ansom Pharmaceuticals," Interior representative Bill Barnes said Tuesday. "We think they're the most qualified company we received a bid from. We should have the results in about one to three months."

Redlands Tribal Council Chairman, Curtis Joe, and Administrator John Gray, both expressed satisfaction that the Tribe would not being responsible for paying for the tests.

"This really isn't a tribal project, " said Joe. " We just want to get the issues resolved and everything back to normal. The people who brought them here should be happy, and the Cattlemen's Association notified me that they are satisfied with the testing contractor. They feel certain that the dangerous virus will be identified and the herd will be forced to relocate elsewhere."

When asked where the Tribe stood officially on the issue, Joe said, "We're neutral."

Representatives from Ansom said that they would be visiting the area shortly to make a preliminary examination of the animals."

WASHINGTON POST

Ansom Pharmaceuticals Bio-Engineering Division, recently awarded the contract to develop the vaccine for this year's flu season, announced Thursday that it expects the vaccine to be available for mass production and shipment within eight weeks.

"We know that we may have a bad one coming," said Ansom Spokesman Charles Wilson, "but we've got an excellent staff and for the last three years we've gotten the call to protect the American people. We've given this top priority at Ansom, and I have every confidence we'll come through again. We're ahead of schedule at this moment, so everyone can be assured the local clinics, and hospitals will have a full supply. The first virulent bug expected this year is similar to last year's "A Fukashima" and has been dubbed "Saigon-Hokkaido", however our real concern is the so-called “Bird Flu. There have been two cases of suspected human-to-human infection in China, but neither of those has been confirmed so far. We've got our finger's crossed that we'll be ready for that one too, should it hit this year.” According to Wilson, the H5N1 virus mutation is known to have a significantly faster incubation period, and bacteriological complications caused by the illness exhibit a stubborn resistance to known antibiotics. To date, the mortality rate has been almost fifty percent.

Ansom Bio-Engineering, Ansom Pharmaceuticals

Dr. Philip W. Agee ran his long bony fingers through his thinning hair, pushed his glasses high onto his forehead, and squeezed the bridge of his nose tightly between thumb and forefinger. He had a sinus headache and his vision blurred slightly with the pressure. His left hand dropped the pen he was holding to the desk as he rested his elbows in front of him, cradling his chin in his cupped hands. He was nearing exhaustion.

He'd been working in the lab for almost thirty-six hours straight, without a significant break. Twice he had walked the long corridors to the parking lot to get some air but the backside winds of Hurricane Gamma had forced him back inside in a hurry. This was the fourth year in a row they'd run out of alphabet names for Hurricanes and had to use Greek characters. Since Katrina, everything seemed to have accelerated in the Hurricane department.

He'd consumed so much coffee his stomach ached from the acid and his hands trembled from caffeine jitters. Emotionally, he was desperate. He leaned back in his chair and poured Visine into his eyes for the third time in recent hours.

The electron microscope didn't lie. Just as he was feeling sure he had the vaccine, and the completion of his arduous assignment finally appeared to be coming to fruition, the virus had thrown him a curve. During his last examination of the flasks of chicken embryos and living monkey liver cells, he had made a startling discovery. In two of the cultures, after it had first appeared as if replication had been arrested, the cultures did an about face and amplification had resumed at an astonishing rate. The parasitic virus was using the machinery of the host cells to replicate. Agee found himself admiring the tenacity of the small capsules of membranes and proteins that fought so vigorously to survive. It seemed obvious that some sort of mutation had occurred, but he had been unable to detect it. He was actually glad to be working with a “bird flu virus” again. That was his real forte. He didn't like the plethora of viruses common to monkeys and potentially deadly to humans that had accelerated the National Health Institute's demand for SPF (Specific Pathogen Free) colonies of monkeys for vaccine development.

It wasn't any consolation to know that though Ansom had probably purchased its most recent group of crab-eating Macaques from the cheapest source, the game of viral roulette played by transplant surgeons and vaccine developers had resulted in only five confirmed deaths from transmittable monkey virus since 1987.

Agee had been a teenager living in the Washington area in 1989 when the infamous Reston incident had occurred. It was that close brush with Armageddon, viewed through author Michael Crichton's eyes in his book, “Hot Zone”, that had piqued Phil’s interest and drawn him into the field of pathogens and viral microbiology as a career.

To have rubbed shoulders with the slightly mutated version of the most deadly virus known to man, and to have escaped unscathed, was perhaps the most exiting event he could imagine. That the almost completely fatal Ebola Sudan had mutated ever so slightly into the seemingly harmless Ebola Reston, while at the same time developing a potential airborne quality, was indeed a lucky break for him, and every other human-being on the planet.

It was a brave new world in virology. Many new and emerging viruses made for a field rich with potential discovery. Rhesus monkeys had proved to be a practical host for these studies, however it was in the world of birds that the greatest threat to mankind now resided.

All the new influenzas had their origin in the bird family and despite the fifty plus confirmed simian viruses, forty bacterium, thirty fungi, assorted blood parasites and microscopic worms discovered to be travelers on the two way highway between primates and humans, the fear of the most recent bird flu virus making the jump from human to human kept everyone holding their collective breath.

Agee thought it amusing that while the European disdain for Nature should result in the rainforest's fighting back against the encroachment of man by sending out microscopic armies to battle for supremacy—as in Ebola and AIDS—it might be a simple bird flu that ended man's reign at the top of the food chain.

He stood up and moved to one of the two fitted console chairs that gave him access to the Bubble. Looking at his watch, he pressed his eyes to the outer lens of the microscope to examine the thumb sized clear plastic flasks, held by the computer controlled interior mechanical arms. The flasks were kept at body temperature by the incubator. The replication rate had increased again! His palms began sweating profusely.

Once he had wanted to be a Level Four Biohazard Technician, but his first time inside the Chemturian biological space suit, feeling the contained pressure and unrelenting isolation, had changed his mind. "Blue suits" just weren't for him. He dried his hands on the pant legs of his surgical scrubs, and pressed the intercom.

"We may have an outlaw here," he said to Jill Klebbs, his evening lab tech. "It's a good thing we played it safe and prepared the gear. I don't know what this baby is capable of. If it's airborne, and human-to-human, we'll want to close it up and douse everything with ultraviolet before we leave. Gas the two Rhesus we prepared this morning and we should know pretty soon. And remember to bleach all our scrubs and gloves too."

Agee was glad he had placed the flasks inside the Bubble to culture and manipulate them, observing Ansom's Level Three containment procedures. A short black woman opened the door, and the negative pressure of the room hissed in his ears. She wore a similar green scrub suit and rubber surgeons gloves. He noticed how weary she looked, her usually straight shoulders slumping with fatigue.

"Actually Jill, why don't you go home and get some sleep. I'll finish up here."

She nodded gratefully and the opening door caused a hissing as the interior pressure changed again. Agee had gone through three lab techs today. He was notorious for working absurdly long shifts. No one wanted to be assigned to him, but he was Ansom's best research man so the techs had developed a system of rotation that kept him happy and accommodated his all-hours shifts. He took some nicotine gum out of his pocket and chewed ferociously. Passing through the gray area was so time consuming that he rarely left the containment facility except for occasional doses of fresh air. A smoke was not reason enough to go through decontamination procedures, so he had gotten hooked on the gum. It gave him enough nicotine to keep him from climbing the walls.

He sat down again in the contoured couch that always reminded him of the kind of seat you might find in a spacecraft. It reclined slightly, so legs could fit comfortably under the curving bell-shaped bottom of the Bubble.

The Bubble was a multi-million dollar engineering feat, designed by Agee and a fellow NASA engineer specifically for the Ansom Pharmaceutical research lab. Phil had put in a quarter of a million of his own money toward its development. It was a patent-pending miracle; a self-contained laboratory that allowed the lab personnel to store and access all microbial bacilli and viral samples, culturing materials, incubator, surgical equipment, and the electron microscope in one containment facility, allowing them to sample live specimen exposure without physically entering the facility. It could also be completed closed up and the exterior room flooded with ultraviolet light, a sure way to destroy viral genetic material.

His friend had coined the term the "Bubble" and Agee had adopted it. He was fond of saying it was where "Star Trek meets USAMRID." Despite the "self-contained" properties, Agee still felt it necessary to place the Bubble in a negative pressure environment and observe standard research division safety and decontamination procedures when passing through the "gray" or "staging" areas immediately outside the Level Three Facility.

Ansom didn't have a Level Four. It wasn't necessary. They didn't deal with lethal agents that had no vaccine and no cure. At least they hadn't yet, he observed wryly. Level Three was scary enough.

The normal rods and spirals of this particular influenza had developed into odd shapes that bore an unexpected resemblance to pneumococci. Though the first virus had indeed possessed some Hemophiliac properties, he was at a loss to explain the properties of its present incarnation. Goosebumps raised on his arms as he examined the cultures closely. There was just no predicting the virulence. His fingers grasped the pen fastened to the chair arm with Velcro and hastily scribbled on a pad clipped to the armrest. Then he swiveled the chair and stood up, removing his glasses.

He switched on the specimen cameras and saw the two Rhesus monkeys languishing in their containment cages. A few minutes later, he heard the swish of air sweep from the Bubble into the specimen area and watched them sympathetically. He hated to use live animals in testing—but sometimes there was no way around it.

He closed the Bubble up and switched on the overhead ultraviolet lamps, letting it wash over him. He flicked the switch off and opened the heavy door against the negative room pressure. Outside he removed his scrubs and gloves, placed them in a cardboard biohazard container filled with Enviro-Chem and stepped into the shower. Washing quickly and drying himself with the fluffy towel his wife insisted he bring to work, his mind raced ahead to the next day when he would have to inform his Department Head about the new "changes." It would be up to her to inform the "Board" of his discovery.

In the meantime, he would have time to study it and do more tests--maybe even a few runs that are more animal. His brow furrowed as he remembered that he had promised his family a weekend at the beach. Obviously, he'd have to cancel. His wife would be furious but eventually she'd get over it. It was one of the realities of a researcher's life. His hands shook with excitement—or too much coffee. Suddenly all his fatigue was gone. He toyed with the idea of suiting up again, but an image of his wife's frown materialized in the air before him and he dressed in his street clothes.

Twenty minutes later, with a gale whipping his pant legs, and a break in the storm freshening his face with warm Florida mist, he sniffed the sea breeze and listened to the song of creaking palm trees. Standing beside his car, he mentally outlined the next few days of tests. Undoubtedly the Board would vote to destroy the new 'hot' agent. They didn't have the faith that he did in the Bubble and would be worried about potential breakouts and liabilities. In addition, since the facility was not licensed to handle potential Level Four agents, their lawyers would have fits. Biological genetics and the possibility of accidents translated into potentially huge court settlements and the Board was sensitive to anything regarding money these days. The office scuttlebutt was that the CDC contract for this year's influenza was "essential" to the Company's financial health. There were even rumors of secret projects, which Agee had discounted as gossip. With all the press and high profile contracts they'd gotten the last few years he doubted any secrets could be kept at Ansom. Moreover, with the new security chief's lectures and video monitoring system, the security was pretty tight. The labs were all key carded and no longer open to just anyone with a day pass.

"Yeah," Agee mused, "things had surely changed since the old days when the labs were left open and hardly any doors were locked!"

A sudden squall soaked him out of his reverie and he was completely drenched by the time he had unlocked the door and fitted his lanky six foot three frame into the sports car. Thunder crackled and the smell of ozone from nearby lightening strikes seeped into the car. He rolled down the window and took some deep breaths. He felt so alive and excited at the day's developments. He wondered if he should call Chris Collins with the news tonight. He turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared. He never got used to its power. He was used to driving beat up old Chevys! Glancing at his watch, he recoiled at the time. Two-thirty in the morning didn't seem like a great time to call anyone, besides he didn't have any of the free specimen results yet. He wasn't even sure it could be transmitted in an aerosolized form. It would have to wait until morning. He didn’t know how Collins would take it either.

He drove down the street wondering if his wife would still be awake reading her romance novels, which she often did on stormy nights like this when he was working late. He glanced in his rear-view mirror at the exterior window of his lab, bidding the new life-form goodnight, as only a pure scientist would. Acknowledging, without passion or animosity, a new enemy of the human species.

Christine Collins turned over restlessly for what seemed like the five hundredth time. She smacked her lips disapprovingly and sat up with a heavy sigh. Taking the TV remote off the bedside table, she shook her tousled blond bangs from her eyes and grimly punched the power button with the broken nail on her index finger. Trying to focus her sleepy eyes on the screen, she could see a famous musician singing in his latest video but no sound came from the set. Her forehead wrinkled in confusion. Suddenly the solution occurred to her and she pressed the mute button. Instead of his voice, the room was filled with a screeching guitar bridge signaling the approach of the final chorus.

"Not at two in the morning!" she snorted, pressing the power button again to turn it off.

Her late night partying days were long over. She was almost thirty, practically middle-aged! Staring at the blank screen, her stomach turned queasily. She wondered whether it was because of the eleven-thirty Taco Bell stop or days of struggling with Phil Agee's request. She was more than a little bit afraid, but his enthusiasm was as contagious as the viral agents in his lab, and she had uncomfortably promised him a few more days before she went to the Board with the news. Now, after almost seventy-two hours to think about it, she wasn't sure she had made the right decision and she had definitely jeopardized her position with the company. Phil had been particularly eloquent in describing the scientific opportunities inherent in the situation and had downplayed the potential risks presented by their apparent complicity in altering the contract agent. After the Rhesus runs, she had been shocked to read his reports on how short the apparent incubation period was and how lethal the resulting sickness was. Almost ninety percent! When she had gone to see the effects of the most recent monkey cell cultures, he had pleaded with her to give him more time to see if he could come up with an effective vaccine before she went "public." He reasoned that if they had a vaccine, they wouldn't have to destroy the virus. More tests could be done and the cultures even sent to the CDC for additional live simian testing. When she asked him what for, he got defensive and started giving her his "Science is God" lecture.

Despite his assurances, a vaccine had not been immediately forthcoming. Having created one for the original agent, he had been sure he could begin from a close proximity. That had not been the case. He was no closer today than he had been almost a week ago.

She'd notified the Board of his development of a successful vaccine for the original viral agent, fulfilling the CDC Saigon-Hokkaido contract, two days before, but had omitted any reference to the Phil's new bird-flu baby. Ansom, via its resident genius, had stumbled into an extremely awkward position. If she had just come out with it right away, she thought, she wouldn't have put herself in such an untenable position.

The samples should have been destroyed immediately, then Ansom could have washed its collective hands of the whole thing. Agee had wanted to selfishly guard his pet and garner the credit for himself—not so much for prestige—but because he felt it belonged to him! Now she would have to go to the Board and justify her decision.

She wished she could make Phil do it, but as Department Head, it was her responsibility. He was, after all, just a lab rat. He was a genius to be sure, but had no talent for bureaucratic administration. She knew he'd be furious if he knew she was thinking about going to the Board. He surely saw her as a co-conspirator in the silence game, but they weren't licensed for this type of hot agent, even though Agee was convinced it was still a Level Three situation. She prayed that by this time tomorrow it would be out of her hands. She dreaded the looks on their faces when she told them they were harboring a totally new, extremely virulent, airborne bird-flu virus with an almost non-existent incubation period—an influenza that could rival the lethality of the early 20th century Spanish Flu. And its parents were, essentially, Ansom Pharmaceuticals.

“The legal staff would have coronaries,” she sniffed humorlessly.

Phil had been working day and night on a vaccine and looked ready to croak. He had told her a dream he'd had during one of his short catnaps. In it, Defense Department black-bag men were coming down the hall toward his lab to take the virus from him. He could hear their footsteps coming and tried to escape, but couldn't get the containment door open. As he was telling her this, she felt some enjoyment in the knowledge that this was stressing him out too. His wife had taken his children and gone to her mothers' until this episode was concluded. Phil wasn't totally sure she would come back then. Cristine wondered how he could so coolly tell her his family was breaking up and then effortlessly go right back to discussing the virus.

She was sure the Board would issue an immediate order to stop culturing the vaccine, and to destroy it. If Phil were lucky, they would order him to save one sample for the CDC. She hoped she still had a job when it was all over.

Her eyelids drooped in exhaustion and she lay back down on her bed, pounding her pillow and wishing she had taken the teaching job at the University. One way or another, it would be over soon. She slept, and dreamed of dying.

It was dark in the nighttime halls of Ansom Pharmaceuticals. The buzzing offices were unnaturally quiet and everyone had gone home except for door security and a tall, darkly dressed man hiding in the men's level-three restroom.

The Board Members and research staff had gone to dinner to celebrate the completion of the CDC contract. In fact, when the Board received formal notice from Chris Collins that the development of the Saigon-Hokkaido vaccine was complete, everyone had been given the rest of the day off. The Administrators had canceled all appointments and the Board had announced they would postpone their meeting until after the weekend.

Chris Collins had immediately hurried into the offices of Frederick Hosch, the company president, but his secretary told her he had already left for the day. One of the Board members had even stopped to congratulate her as she stumbled down the hall to her office, causing her to feel even more humiliated and upset. She had lost so much sleep planning what she would say, that to have it postponed now was incomprehensible. Chris wanted to scream and beat the walls. Phil would be overjoyed. She went home, sick to her stomach, again.

The tall man, waiting patiently in the washroom, was Ansom's very own Security Chief, Jake Carliss. He knew the building inside out. He didn't give a shit about vaccines. His only interest was money. He simply wanted to become as rich as he could, as fast as he could.

Jake Carliss was a consummate con man. Right now, he knew where every one of the security personnel was. As head of Ansom's Security, he knew their routines by heart. He who designed them!

When he'd joined the company as a guard, it had taken him only a matter of weeks to see the flaws in their security systems. Gus Feer, the old timer who was Head of Security, didn't know anything about computers or video. He just went on like it was mid-century. Jake had sized him up in a minute. The man had no family and was a loner. Jake planted half a gram of cocaine in the pocket of Gus's green security jacket and another half an ounce in his home. One anonymous call to local law enforcement and poor Gus was doing five-to-ten for possession with intent to sell. No one had cared. No one had even stood up to speak for the poor bastard!

Then Jake had marched right in to Frederick Hosch's office with phony diplomas, credentials, and work records—backed up by fake computer records—and was appointed interim Head of Security.

He stepped down off the toilet seat exactly seventeen minutes after the last security check of this level, and the last one for the evening, had taken place. The guard had broken a cardinal rule for checking bathroom stalls. Jake knew that constant routine was a security nightmare when it came to effective coverage. He'd even lectured them on it. Tomorrow he would make sure that guard was let go and a new one hired.

Jake enjoyed his authority immensely. He made a good wage working at Ansom, but with his tastes, good was never enough. He consistently supplemented his income in various ways, most of them illegal. His peculiar habits and tastes cost him a bundle.

Jake Carliss, originally Jack Carlyle, had gotten his release from prison in 2002. With his new identity, and a solid paper trail, he'd done a lot of unsavory things to add to his legitimate income. In prison, he'd learned that it was essential to establish yourself as legitimate in your community, securing gainful employment, and maintaining a low and respectable profile. You could do almost anything you wanted, as long as you weren't stupid. Right now, through a Cuban lab tech with a family and a bad crystal meth habit, Jake was supplying the whole employee base at Ansom with all their illegal drugs. No one knew or even suspected he was behind it because the young Cuban took all the heat and attention. Jake had made it clear what would happen to his family if that changed, and the Cuban had become very reliable. In fact, Jake was in the building at this very moment because of something the kid had told him. One of the lab techs working long hours in research had blabbed about "a new virus" as he was purchasing crank. With a little reconnaissance, Jake had determined that there was definitely something happening in Phil Agee's lab.

He knew that Phil was developing the vaccine for the expected influenza, and was intrigued by the possibilities. Two nights before he had come across some correspondence intended for a shredder in Chris Collins office that used the phrases, "extreme lethality" and "no viable vaccine yet". That set the bells in his head ringing. Within a few hours, he was on the phone to the brother of a man he had met in prison, a Muslim student living in Tampa. The student had viable ties to contacts with people Al Qaeda, the terrorist network started by the twentieth century legend, Sheik Osama Bin Laden, presently of Syria or Afghanistan. After his life experiences, Jake Carliss was apolitical. Whoever could afford his services had his support.

He had immediately the current field expedition as long as possible. Hosch was fine with it, but since the announcement of the release of the Saigon-Hokkaido vaccine, he could delay only a couple more days. Within twenty-four hours, he had set up and attended a meeting to discuss the specimen in which the Wogs might have an interest.

His last big outside job had been for some Africans nearly a year ago, and the money from that was almost gone. He'd paid the rent on his penthouse two full years ahead, but the remainder of the money had dwindled so rapidly that he was in dire need of another big score. His sexual tastes being what they were, he could easily go through fifteen or twenty grand a year, just to keep the edge off!

A week ago, he'd been feeling desperate. Now he was “Mr. Calm”. He knew exactly when his ship would come in and where it would land

With all the preliminaries taken care of, it was time for action. Jake crept silently down the hall, the palm of his hand gently brushing the wall, feeling for doors. At the third one, he paused and opened it slowly. A dim security light lit the stairwell. He went up the stairs to the fourth level where all the labs were located. Stepping gingerly in his black soft-sole shoes, he climbed noiselessly.

The activation light on the video camera on the fourth level was dark. He had disabled the system at the main desk. The guard there had swallowed his "technical problem" explanation without blinking an eye, especially since it made his job easier. He was happy to have a night without checking multiple video screens. The kid was an amateur. He didn't know diddley about securing a post. Of course Ansom had never had a security breach in its fifteen-year history. After all, what was there to steal? Before Jake took over the position, they hadn't even conceived of any kind of corporate espionage. Most of the administration still thought it was unnaturally paranoid to take such precautions.

"After tonight, they'll reconsider." Jake smiled in the darkness.

He crept down the fourth floor hallway, pushing the doors open just enough to slip through. It was inky dark and the silence reminded him of a padded cell. He shivered, remembering his nights in stir. He'd never let them send him back, no matter what. He'd die first, after taking a few of them with him.

He reached Agee's laboratory in a few minutes. Pausing to put on black kidskin gloves, (he despised surgeon's rubbers), he disabled the lock with his security pass card, and set to work making the lock “reader” appear as if it had been electronically jimmied. He pushed open one of the double wide swinging doors and entered the office area. A couple of open office doors yawned like black mouths from the interior. A red warning light lit the metal door to the staging area and decontamination chamber. These doors were not secured electronically like the exterior door, but had simple manual locking mechanisms. He pushed a lever upward and heard a loud click. The door swung open and a yellow caution light flooded the room.

A sign read--

Entry beyond this point by Authorized Personnel Only

Caution Biohazard Level Three

Observe standard decontamination procedures

Jake disregarded the sign and went directly to the heavy metal pressure airlock that separated him from the interior. Since he knew about the Bubble, he wasn't too concerned that Agee would leave biohazard agents and cultures just lying around. Besides, they weren't supposed to have any "unknown" and potentially lethal agents in the lab anyway. Jake was sure that would cost that pretty piece Collins her job. When the Board found out it was a mutated organism they were playing with, and after his little nocturnal visit tonight, the shit was really gonna fly! Of course, that geek son-of-a-bitch Agee would probably just get a slap on the wrist.

He spun the circular handle and the door opened with a loud hiss. Ultraviolet light spilled over him, as he peered cautiously into the pentagonally shaped chamber. His senses were keen and he felt another presence in the dimly lit room. The hairs on his forearms rose as his ears picked up a low rumbling sound. He stopped and knelt down where he stood.

Breathing only through his nose, he took a few deep slow breaths, filling his lungs, then exhaled gently and silently through his mouth. After a moment, he recognized the noise as snoring. "FUBAR every time", he thought, amused but apprehensive. "Murphy's Law for sure." He settled into a squat, sitting patiently on his haunches, eyes scanning every inch of the room before him. Almost instantly, his vision was drawn to one of the two cockpit seats.

Jake’s engineering curiosity was sidetracked by the Bubble. He knew that the combination of robotized and mechanical handling equipment allowed for all biological material to be encapsulated with automatic recirculating fans in a second negative pressure environment. Culturing materials, surgical tools, biological agents, flasks, test tubes, etc. could only be introduced or removed from the interior through sealed metal specimen containers of various dimensions. It was a laborious process, but once the necessary items and materials were inserted, handling was a snap. The mechanical arms and gripping devices, or "fingers", gave the scientists an unimaginable dexterity for working with such infinitesimally small bacilli and viral agents. Sitting in the recessed cockpit, a lab scientist could perform almost any manipulation necessary with the auto handlers, viewing everything through the thick glass of the viewing window. Materials and cultures were stored inside specimen containers slotted into the inner walls of the Bubble. They were retrievable through a computer operated robotic system that stored, labeled, and dated all agents, cultures, and biological material.

The figure in the cockpit snorted in sleep and turned in the chair restlessly.

"Christ, it must be Agee," thought Jake. He'd heard that the guy put in long hours, but had never expected him here tonight. Still, it might be just the diversion he needed to give him that extra day or two.

"Two starlings with a stone." He rolled the phrase on his lips. Agee must have really been bushed not to come awake when the pressure door opened. Jake slowly duck-walked to behind the cockpit seat. Straightening to his full height, he gazed down on the sandy thinning hair of the sleeping scientist. Slowly he withdrew a black weighted rod about one and one-half inches in width and six inches long from his snug jacket pocket. He extended the rod above his head. His pupils dilated and became shiny. With an explosive grunt, he struck the sleeping man heavily and directly at the soft pressure point on his skull just below the temple. There was a dull crunching thud and Carliss shuddered in orgasmic ecstasy, his eyes glazed in a euphoric smile. The man in the chair slumped heavily to the side. His eyes stayed open, but did not see.

Philip Agee had cultured his last slide. Now he was flotsam in the Universe. His spirit had become just a quark in the electron microscope of the eternal. Jake giggled out loud at his macabre philosophical musing. Billy, the fag poet of Cellblock Five, would surely have appreciated his metaphors.

Saliva dripped from the corner of Jake's mouth as he struggled to regain control of himself. His eyes opened and focused on the body of the dead scientist. Thrusting the corpse roughly onto the polished floor beside the cockpit, he took the man's place in the chair and swiveled away from the eyepiece of microscope to the computer console just to his left. He rubbed his hands together, nervously feeling for the first time some pressure to hurry.

The pleasure he had gotten from the unexpected killing had rattled his usual calm and he feverishly tried to focus his concentration on the task ahead. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

Memories of the five years he had spent in stir with Alvin flooded his mind. Alvin had been the punk of a giant bald dude named Bo. However, the small ferret-faced man didn't mind too much, he'd been gay long before he reached the Joint. Alvin was a genius hacker who had broken into the system of a major bank and appropriated many thousands of dollars. He was careful, and not too greedy, but began to live well and bought himself a new car. Not a Ferrari or a Jaguar, but a well made Toyota Camry. His Presbyterian mother got suspicious when she found out Alvin no longer worked at the local K mart, and believing he was into drugs because she once found a joint in his room, turned him in. It took Alvin only forty-eight hours to arrange bail. He went home and promptly bashed his Mother's brains out for her disloyalty. For that he got life, without possibility of parole.

Jake had offered to free Alvin from Bo, in return for tutoring. Alvin thought about it for two days before accepting. Jake caught Bo in the yard and drilled him with a homemade shank in the liver before the big man knew he'd even been hit. He hung on in the infirmary for twenty hours before he died. No one dropped a dime on Jake, and Alvin was free, with his status and protection guaranteed.

Under the ruse of learning accounting, Jake managed to get a computer hooked up in the prison library. They weren't allowed a modem or any outside access, but it didn't matter. Alvin just wrote simulation programs that gave Jake a full understanding of the hacker's world. The sims were thorough and realistic, and under Alvin's careful tutoring, Jack became a pro. He didn't come by the skills naturally like Alvin, but he was intelligent and a quick study. Alvin graded him a seven out of ten when it came to his hacking skills. The day he got out, he promised to write Alvin about any successes he had, but a week after he got out he heard Alvin had been killed by some of Bo's friends. Jack wondered why they hadn't shanked him before his release.

In the five years since his release, he hadn't really needed to do any major hacking, and his first few strokes at the keyboard were rusty and tentative. Within a few minutes, however he was comfortable and cooking. He quickly accessed the directory of biological stores and was momentarily stymied by a row of numbers without explanation. After a few minutes searching, he found the identification list and was rewarded with the two numbers he was looking for.

He was amazed that the system had few security measures built in and saw immediately that everyone simply used their names or social security numbers for passwords.

"Stupid jerks", he said out loud.

The corpse of Philip Agee wasn't listening. He searched for any records of vaccines or antidotes Agee might have been working on, but found nothing. The Bubble squeezed out two metal containment canisters from a rubberized vacuum tube like a mother pushing a baby from the womb. He quickly emptied the athletic bag Agee had conveniently left near the wall and stuffed the canisters in it. Kneeling next to the body, he carefully felt for a pulse. No need to get careless now. Satisfied that one more geek four-eyes was out to pasture, he stood and left the fourth level, cautiously negotiating the dark halls and passing by the unconcerned eyes of the desk guard on his way to the parking lot. He opened his 97' Camaro trunk and placed the canisters in an ice-chest filled with dry ice. He wasn't sure how the cultures had been stored and this would ensure their safety and viability.

Then he went back inside to his office and reactivated the screens, telling the desk guard he was going home.

Driving to a convenience store a few blocks away, he purchased two large coffees, some beef jerky, and a popular paperback novel. Then he drove back toward Ansom and proceeded to park in a scouted location where he could observe the front door.

Seven hours later, the morning shift arrived. Jake had read half the novel and consumed everything he had purchased. He was tired and irritable but still cautious. He watched the night guard climb wearily into his SUV and drive away. Jake followed at a discreet distance. The guard lived about twenty miles from Ansom but he drove like an old woman. Jake figured it took them almost fifty minutes to make it to the apartment complex where the guard lived.

Jake knew that the man was recently divorced and did not presently have any women friends. He gave the man ten minutes before he climbed out of the Camaro under a brilliant orange pre-dawn Florida sky and swiftly climbed the stairs to the apartment.

The morning was warm and moist, with a light wind blowing in off the ocean. He sniffed the salt in the air appreciatively. Removing a nine-millimeter Parabellum threaded with a four-inch silencer from his windbreaker, he knocked on the door, just loudly enough for the man inside to hear. The door opened and Jake took a step forward, placing his left calf and thigh against it. The man blinked in confusion and stepped back. Jack shot him three times in a tight group just to the right and slightly below the breastbone. The man's expression never changed. Jake turned and stepped outside, closing the door quietly and securely behind him. Humming softly to himself, he quickly descended the steps, got into his Camaro and sped off toward the nearest Denny's Restaurant. He was famished!

Carliss had just finished his breakfast when his cell phone buzzed and he got the news. A body had been found at Ansom! He ordered a full security alert, finished his third coffee, and drove back to the company. The parking lot was full of police, paramedics, and Ansom security personnel.

He quickly debriefed the man who found the body, answered a few questions from the head of detectives, and went to his office to phone Frederick Hosch. Underneath the dark sunglasses he always wore, his eyes twinkled with amusement.

Ansom Pharmaceuticals, Florida

Christine Collins was in shock. Everyone at Ansom was in shock. The Board Room was mortuary quiet as they all waited for Frederick Hosch to come in from his office. The murder of Phil Agee was so unexpected, so brutal, and so tragic that, as yet, few people had even discussed it. Everyone was keeping his or her thoughts to themselves.

Tears coursed down her cheeks as she thought of his little children. What possible motive could there have been? Then, from out of the blue, an idea occurred to her. The idea was so outlandish and terrifying, yet so plausible, she jumped out of her chair and tripped, stumbling into the guy next to her. She didn't even apologize, but sprinted for the door and took off down the hall at a flat run.

Everyone had just assumed the motive for killing the scientist was personal, but what if.... she did not even want to think about it. Hosch’s secretary yelled behind her.

"Miss Collins, Mr. Hosch is coming."

Chris made no answer. Bursting into the stairwell, she leaped up the stairs taking two and even three at a time. She negotiated the four flights in a matter of seconds and raced down the hall toward the double doors of the lab with a breathless and terrified sense of anticipation. Her mind was racing as she ignored all protocol, tore down the yellow police tape, pushed the security guard backward, and spun the wheel on the door of the negative pressure chamber. Only one word formed on her lips.

"No, no, no, no."

She continued to voicelessly speak the word even after she had accessed the computer directory and stood helplessly looking at the blinking screen. The message burned itself into her corneal lobes. Her worst fears were confirmed.

LOCATION FREE FOR STORAGE---LABEL AND ENTER

Oh God! She was right! Chris had assigned the location herself. She was sure that only she, Agee, and a handful of lab techs knew about the virus. She could vouch for each of the techs so someone else had known. Moreover, that someone had killed Phil Agee!

She wrung her hands, cursing herself bitterly for not following her inner voice.

Christine quickly began to assemble a list of names of the people who might have had access. She turned and quickly stepped from the room, ignoring the angry gestures of the security guard as she made her way back to the Board Room. Her mind seethed. If it had been a burglary, the thief must have known exactly where and what to look for. Additionally it must have been someone inside, someone who knew the procedures, someone who knew how to access and remove the cultures. Even more frightening was the realization that there was only one conceivable use for an illegal pathogen like the one they had created.

"Shit, we created it. You and me, Phil." She was talking out loud to herself as she hurried down the halls. "Just us. Now its just me!"

Chris blasted through the Boardroom door with a purpose, thinking, “Fuck my job! Fuck what anyone thinks! This is a potential nightmare. They can hang me afterward!”

She immediately faced the scrutiny and frowns of everyone in the room. Collins sat down in the first available seat and began to compose her thoughts. She didn't want to start a panic. She had to be truthful but tactful at the same time.

Hosch glared at her.

"We're glad you could make it, Miss Collins.”

She raised her hand to speak but he waved her off.

"I'm sure you all understand what a blow this is to our company. Besides losing a friend and family man, we've lost the head of our research team."

Collins cleared her throat loudly and raised her hand again. Hosch's frown merely deepened and he continued speaking.

"We want everyone to fully co-operate with the authorities so that his murderer may be brought to justice. Mr. Wilson and I will make every attempt to find a suitable replacement for Phillip, though I'm sure you all understand what a difficult task that will be."

Cris Collins stood up violently, shoving herself away from the table.

"I'm afraid I have some news that won't wait, Sir."

Frederick Hosch's mouth opened and closed without making a sound. He was stunned into silence by her insolence. A moment later, that silence continued, but his look of shock had been replaced by one of horror.

Christine hurriedly outlined the events of the past weeks. It came out in a jumbled rush, but everyone quickly grasped the potential repercussions of what had happened and the room fell deathly silent.

"Do...do you mean to tell me that Agee's been working on a mutated virulent organism for more than a week, in an insecure lab, and you didn't think to inform us of his.uh...discovery?"

Hosch spit out the word virulent vehemently as his face paled. His intelligent eyes glittered dangerously. Collins knew she'd better be careful what she said from here on in. Things were going to get nasty.

She closed her eyes and sighed.

"I'm afraid that is basically correct. However, Phillip was certain he could deliver a vaccine for the mutation as well. I intended to make my report at the meeting, but then it was canceled and."

She flushed and looked around the room.

"My God!" Joel Baker, the head of the legal division cried, "we're fucked if this thing gets out. Not only are we responsible for creating a monster, we're responsible for losing it as well. If someone should loose the virus in a populated area, and we're identified as the source of it..." He trailed off, gulping noisily.

Most of the people in the room were looking at Hosch, envisioning the end of Ansom, and their employment. Chris Collins could see it in their eyes.

"What are you saying? We have a potentially disastrous situation here and I'm not talking about a few lousy jobs. There's no telling how far this could go, or how bad it could get. For all we know this could be the fucking end of mankind and you're talking lawsuits and jobs? We have to inform the CDC immediately and inform the local authorities."

"Shut up Ms. Collins," thundered Hosch, slapping the desk with a meaty palm. He stood with his fists clenched, his face gone from gray to livid. "This was primarily a mistake of your own doing, and while we may be found ultimately liable, we still have a responsibility to our stockholders and employees first. However," here his voice took on a more menacing tone, "you may be sure that if anyone is to be held accountable for this it will be you."

Christine Collin's face was as white as sculptured marble. She kept her mouth closed to keep from screaming as Hosch continued.

"I will make the decision what is to be made public and what is not—no one else. If anyone speaks to any press or authority outside of this company without my permission you will immediately be terminated." He looked sharply at Christine and his thin lips tightened further. “Ms. Collins, if you speak to anyone regarding this matter I will press charges against you for illegally conspiring to use Ansom resources and laboratories for your own purposes."

Chris started to defend herself, but Hosch silenced her with a wave and another rush of words.

"Furthermore, I will see to it that you receive the lion's share of the blame for this incident. Do I make myself clear?"

Collins sat in dumb shock. She had never imagined things would be this bad. The man had threatened to make her the culpable party! She looked around the room and understood that she was utterly alone.

"In the meantime, I think your efforts should be focused on trying to come up with a solution to the present danger you and Phillip have exposed us to. All this is confidential and this meeting is now over. I want the heads of Legal, Security, and Media Relations in my private offices immediately."

He strode from the room like a man in full control of his destiny. Inside however, Frederick Hosch was as fearful as he had ever been in his life.

Rio Grande River, Texas

Thick clouds covered an almost invisible new moon over the dark meandering waters of the Rio Grande. Abdullah Nassar, Hassan Ali, Touric Mohammed, and Aziz Mahmoud had just waded the last ten yards into the United States. It seemed a cowardly way to enter into battle with the world's largest super power, but Abdullah was not about to surrender success to the sins of vanity and pride.

They'd been offered passage through one of the many drug tunnels near Nogales or San Diego, but the recent discovery of a fourth group of tunnels in those areas had alerted U.S. Border Security to an unacceptable level. The decision to take this more traditional crossing had been an easy one. They had been guaranteed pickup near the American side of the River. From there, they would be driven to Houston where they would get their permanent papers from a very reputable source. Then they would fly to Florida to meet with the American.

They had endured harsher conditions to get here, both in Africa and in Columbia. The mix-up in Bogotá had been very disconcerting. They were supposed to have procured good papers from a contact there, but the day before the meeting, the contact had been arrested. They'd hired a car out of town immediately and been traveling illegally ever since. The so-called Mexican Mafia had moved them from border to border at a very high price, but at least they had proved to be competent.

Abdullah was a Syrian National. He had first encountered the bin Laden family when a distant cousin of his had married seventeen year old Osama in 1974, four years after the death of Osama's father. Abdullah had also studied with another Abdullah—Abdullah Azzam—a famous figure in Afghanistan years later and a teacher of Osama. His first direct contact with Osama bin Laden in his early years had come when he had accompanied his father during Hadj and they had been hosted by the bin Laden family. The two struck up an informal relationship based on the Muslim Brotherhood of Scholars but did not see each other for many years afterward, though Abdullah knew of Osama's aid and commitment to the mujahedeen battling the Soviets in Afghanistan. He visited Osama only once in Afghanistan, when Osama requested his help in setting up a system of organizing the records of mujahedeen for their families at Al Qa'eda, “The Base.”

In 1982, Abdullah's younger brother was visiting a friend in Palestine during an Israeli reprisal for a recent attack by Hammas. He was blown in half in the attack. Abdullah was sent by his family to recover the remains. After that, Abdullah joined the radical Islamic Revolution, working for the Hezbollah.

In 1996, Abdullah visited Osama again after his return to Afghanistan at Jalalabad. He had become a soldier for God. When the Americans invaded Iraq the second time, two of his sisters were killed in the initial “shock and awe” bombing in Baghdad. Abdullah vowed revenge. He had regained contact with top Al Qa'eda officials in western Pakistan and arranged a meeting with bin Laden in his Afghanistan stronghold. It was there that he first met the other three members of his cadre. As was typical of these kinds of cells, he knew very little of their backgrounds, other than that they were Libyan Nationals who felt betrayed by Khadaffi's capitulation to the west.

Contact with the man Carliss had come from the U.S. through Libya, Egypt, Syria, Pakistan and finally, to Osama, in hiding in Afghanistan. The leadership of the broader jihad network had had difficulty procuring the nuclear materials they desperately wanted for their next major attack, so a weapon of biological origin seemed to be a viable substitute. A number of those in the Al Qa'eda hierarchy, including Abdullah, had voiced objections over the moral issues surrounding its use but had been over-ruled by the zealots that saw no weapon as beyond the ethical limits of the Jihad. Ultimately, Abdullah gave in to their arguments, concluding that all this was a necessary evil, a sacrifice in which he had to participate to obtain the revenge he had prayed for.

Upon reaching the other side, they quickly dried off and changed clothes from the packs they carried on their backs. After only a short walk, they found the Ford SUV, with Florida plates, exactly where their Mexican contacts had promised. Twenty hours later, they were comfortably lodged in a leased three-bedroom town house in Florida.

Ansom Pharmaceuticals, Florida

Frederick Hosch sat at his mahogany office desk trying not to snap the pencil he twirled in his fingers. He knew he was facing one of the most critical decisions he had faced since the war.

He had always been a survivor. From Crystalnacht through his internment in the camps, and in the terrible aftermath, he had developed a hard exterior shell that sheltered him from extremes of emotion. That shell had been instrumental in his abilities to build his world from the scraps thrown to him, like a stray dog rising to be the pack leader. He would not give it up all that he accomplished so easily. He gave his allegiance to no one but his company. Though Legal and Media had both recommended providing the press and the authorities with some sort of watered down version of the situation, he believed that the best tact was silence. His Security Chief, Carliss, had agreed. Despite the fact that the man's very presence made Hosch jittery, he recognized another survivor. The man understood the benefits of silence.

Hosch had learned his lesson in the camps. Those who made noise were disposed of quickly, while those that drew little attention to them, going about their tasks quietly and efficiently, survived. This was how he intended to save his company, but first he needed someone who was not afraid to get his hands dirty. He picked up the phone.

"Betty, get Carliss back in here. Tell him it's a confidential assignment."

One hour later, Jake Carliss walked out of Frederick Hosch's office with a ferocious grin on his face. He allowed it to slide off as he approached the grim-faced workers in the halls, but inside it remained. Things were getting better and better. Now he was the old man's handyman. Only two days until the next field test and this time when he got back, he would have some money for much needed R&R. He'd been given the additional task of watching Chris Collins to make sure she didn't do anything stupid. His mouth watered at the prospect. He hoped she would.

Charles Wilson left Ansom immediately after the meeting, and drove to the nearest phone booth. He dug a small scrap of paper from his wallet and dialed the number scrawled across it. There were a series of clicks, a funny tone and without even a ring, a female voice answered.

"Number please?"

Wilson panicked for a moment trying to remember what he had been told to do in this kind of situation.

"Number please?" the voice repeated.

Suddenly it came to him. It had seemed silly at the time—to have a codeword. Now it didn't seem so silly.

"Quandary", he said.

"Repeat the number please."

"Quandary."

"Thank you, sir, and have a good day."

Again, there were a series of tones and clicks before a male voice came on the line. He recognized the voice immediately.

"What's up?” said the voice.

"We've got a problem."

He hesitated, trying to figure out what he was going to say.

"The sample has been, er, appropriated by outside interests."

There was a full minute of silence before the voice spoke again.

"Are you saying the sample has been lost, or are you saying the sample has been stolen?"

"The latter."

Again, the voice was silent.

"Don't you think we better alert USAMRID immediately?” Wilson broke in.

The voice reduced itself almost to a whisper.

"No. That's not possible..."

"Look," Wilson interrupted again, "there's something else. Our scientist, Agee, was murdered for that sample. In addition, today we found out that he had altered it somehow. It was a mutated version."

"It was altered before it got to him. I'm sure he was just indicating that," the voice whispered.

"I don't think so. This guy was sharp. His section head said he was desperate, I repeat, desperate to find a vaccine! You've got to get the big boys in on this."

"That won't be possible," the voice said in a commanding way.

"Why not?" Wilson began to get a terrible sinking feeling in his stomach.

"Because technically, the sample did not come from USAMRID."

Now it was Wilson's turn to be dumbly silent.

"This is a program, about which, they have no operative knowledge."

Wilson's fear was beginning to mix with anger.

"Look, this has the making of huge a public health crisis. Are you saying the sample didn't come from them?"

"Well, at one time it was a part of their inventory."

"So we have no backup on this? There's some crazy murderer out there with a mutated level three virus and we can't even call in your guys to deal with it?"

"I'm afraid that is correct. However, we do have a small unit that was created to deal with this kind of problem. I will need a complete list of employees, with photos and prints."

"I can get the records and photos, but no prints."

"Does Ansom have a planned press release?"

"Old man Hosch wants to keep a lid on it."

"Smart man. Just stay calm Charles. We'll get right on it."

"You know you lied to me Colonel. I thought this project was on the up and up, even if it was covert."

"Just consider it your contribution to patriotism, Charles. Do what Hosch says, and wait for our contact."

The line clicked twice and Wilson was listening to a dial tone. He stood for a moment wondering if he should call the CDC anonymously, but decided to give it a few days first. Who knows, they might catch the guy right away.

He drove back to his office, faxed the photos and employee records to the number the Colonel had given him, then went home to a triple whiskey and soda and a soak in his Jacuzzi.

Alderville, Florida

Jake stood under the fire escape of the old foundry in the Alderville warehouse district and cursed all people of Arabic and African descent. He hated anybody that inconvenienced him, especially all the different kinds of niggers in the world. Jake had developed his own creative use for the N-word. There were American Niggers, African Niggers, Red Niggers, Sand Niggers, Gook Niggers, Slant-eye Niggers, Spic Niggers, and Breed Niggers. If they were any color but white—they qualified in one of those categories.

Rain sluiced down the gutters, spattering grime over his new one hundred and twenty-five dollar tennis shoes. A white Ford Expedition whipped around the corner of the building and came to a stop only a few feet from where stood. Two men got out, dressed in baggy suits. Jake was sure they were armed. He stepped forward with his hand extended but it was ignored. The smaller of the men spoke a few words in a language Jake didn't recognize and the other shrugged and got back in the Camry.

"I am Abdullah", said the other simply, waiting for Jake to reply.

Jake let his hand drop to his side and cocked his head, extending his chin. He let the other man stand for a moment before replying.

"I thought we discussed this at the meeting?"

"No. I am the one who will decide if we are interested in what you have to offer us."

"I already told the other guys what I had."

"Ah, but he does not make the decisions."

Jake was beginning to dislike the little swarthy man who stood quietly facing him, his hands clasped together over his stomach. In fact, dislike was too mild a word to describe what he was feeling. Still, for the sake of the deal he kept his emotions in check and calmed himself. He repeated, at length, what he had told the informant during the conference call meeting.

“You have our passports and papers? They are of a good quality?”

“Best in the West.” Jake saw the confusion in the man's eyes.

“They're good. No problem.”

The Syrian nodded slowly.

"You are still certain that no vaccine exists?"

"If it does, Agee took it with him."

"And the material is secure and safe for transport?"

"Stainless steel vacuum canisters, sealed plastic cultures.

"And we will have a viable test?"

"What do you mean, a test?"

"We desire to see the real effects of this product before we buy. You can not simply expect us to take your word that this is an effective weapon without any evidence?"

Jake had been expecting this. He knew these guys were pros even if they looked like rug shop owners!

"I will have preliminary field infection numbers within a week or so. But I have to tell you I don't like doing your field ops for you!” He scowled and his thin lips compressed. “Do you have the money?"

The other man cocked his head to the side, his dark eyes studying Carliss intently.

"When we have evidence of effectiveness, then we shall make the exchange."

Without another word, the man turned and climbed into the passenger seat of the Camry as it sped off into the early evening gloom.

Jake shook his head to clear away the smell of car exhaust mixed with the rank odors of garbage and decay that blanketed the area. He quickly walked the three blocks to his car and drove toward Ansom. He needed to call the two men scheduled to go with him on the Midlands field test. Now he had a little test of his own to go with it. Suddenly an idea occurred to him and an amused smile crept to his lips. He only needed the one sample on this trip. He would have to be a little more careful about how they handled the agent, location of sample dispersal, and tying up the loose ends—but five million dollars was worth the extra effort. His days at Ansom were numbered. Perhaps he would have a little fun after all!

Redlands

Abrahm WarHorse enjoyed the way the silvery light from a three-quarters moon lit his path up the twisting wash toward Head Butte. He easily sidestepped a skittering tumbleweed, nostrils savoring the smell of sage flowers in the crisp late night air. It was a familiar scent. Comforting. A lifetime of that smell had filled his lungs. It was as much a part of him as his own sweat smell. He thought this would be a good place to gather sage for Irene's Becoming Ceremony.

He stopped and knelt down, crushing the sticky blossoms between his fingers. Reaching into his pocket for the small string-tied bag of Bull Durham, his fingertips brought forth a small pinch of the fragrant tobacco and sprinkled it onto the particular sage plant whose flowers he had tested. He watched the grains sift through the branches and fall to the earth beneath as he muttered in the language of the land. When he was certain that the sage had understood his purposes, he closed the bag and took to the trail again.

A breeze quickened, stirring the tiny hairs on the back of his neck, causing him to quicken his pace. He knew that Walker would be at the Old Man tonight. He'd found the fresh boot prints, one slightly deeper than the other, almost as soon as he took to the old deer trail from the southwest corner of the Lake. He knew that Walker's easy limp wasn't slowing the man down at all. After drumming at the 49, Grandpa figured that Walker would get out and enjoy the moonlight. Besides, Walker always went to the Old Man after Dances, especially if he'd been singing. Walker liked to drink away from other men. It hadn't always been so. Grandpa could remember many a time when he and Walker had fought together as younger men under the influence.

As Abrahm got near the northeastern shore of the Lake, he turned to gaze down across the plateau and into the distant valley. He could see the faint lights of the Redlands rez off to the west, and the brighter lights of Valley Mission to the southeast. A faint glow on the horizon slightly to the west of due south was the only evidence of the larger town of Midlands. Big Town, at the extreme southern end of the valley, could not be seen, but in the last few years, on hot days, a light smog from there had begun to creep north. It was a full-fledged city now.

Grandpa remembered the County Fair horse races and Fourth of July celebrations that had been held there decades ago. Now, with Midlands grown into a respectable town itself, no one went as far as Big Town unless they needed real citification.

He gazed back at the shiny black water of the Lake, remembering when the horses had grazed free all over the plateau and one could drink from the lake water without concern.

The wind strengthened as it blew down from the Butte and into the valley below. It was a consistently prevailing wind. You could count on its direction as readily as you could count on the Sun.

Someday they'll probably put in sixty acres of those wind turbines up here, Grandpa thought wistfully. Then all the birds will leave or be killed. Green power had some trade-offs to be sure.

His Grandson had told him that in the city of Chicago they called their wind, "The Hawk." Grandpa thought this would be a good place for the wind to have a name—but none had ever been given. He loved the steady and reliable feel of it upon his face in the afternoon, especially hot sunny afternoons. He loved it when it carried in the storms as well. Often he would face his chair on the porch into it and let it tumble and tousle his hair. It was free, and its touch gave him the same feeling.

He blinked rapidly, and resumed his walk around the Lake. With face full into the wind, he began the steady two-mile climb to the Old Man. His mouth salivated when he thought of the taste of the kinnikinnik tobacco he would reward himself with when he got there. He knew he still smoked too much, but it was a hard habit to break—even harder than drinking. He agreed, in these new times, that it was an abuse of a sacred gift, but he'd been raised with a different point of view—even if that view was the result of a tobacco company's careful marketing campaign. Now, with so many people dying of smoking related diseases, he had to admit that the time for uninhibited guilt-free smoking was gone.

Karan always reminded him of it. He'd been smoking since he was eleven. He remembered when tobacco and coffee had been staples, much the way candy and soda pop were to 60’s, and 70's Indians. Still, he believed that children should be freed from the demons that chained and choked their parents and grandparents. Commercially prepared tobacco was definitely one of those. Unfortunately, his mouth had another opinion!

As he climbed, carefully watching where he placed his feet, he continued to let his mind wander. Bad habits and American vices had replaced the human enemies of the past. Every step toward assimilation had brought a new wave of problems for Indigenous peoples. Battles to remain clean and sober were being waged across the country. Grandpa was one of the victors. The renewed interest in traditional Ceremonial life that had blossomed in the late sixties had moved him to give up drinking, and that had helped others. Alcoholism was on the decline in Redlands. Grandpa was proud of his people. Now if the young people would just stay off crank and rock cocaine, they could get on with the task of rebuilding their Nation.

WarHorse quickened his stride. His stocky five foot ten inch frame was still strong and flexible well into his eighty-third year. His broad shoulders were still square and upright, and his jeans still hung from his narrow hips the way they always had. He knew his legs weren't quite as strong as they had been when he was young, but the muscles still bunched and smoothed rhythmically as he climbed. His legs had been as hard as scorched oak in his youth. Horse knew he could still cover thirty miles a day in rough country—something most of the young men couldn't do today on blacktop!

Soft elk-hide moccasins made by a local white artisan covered his calloused feet. The soles, made from commercial conveyor belt, were good for traction on all types of surfaces and Horse could find no fault with their craftsmanship.

Abrahm found it amusing that though many of the Redlands people were still capable of crafting their own footwear, they preferred to go to a white craftsman to get them. He knew the man to be hardworking and honest. That counted for a lot to the people of Redlands, who were used to getting screwed by local Anglo merchants. He'd known certain store owners to raise prices just before per-capita checks were issued, and around paydays, knowing that the Redlands people would be coming in to cash their checks and shop. Most people pretended not to notice and just went about their shopping as if nothing was out of the ordinary—at least until Lance Dancer and Soldier organized a public protest and rez transport vans started carrying shoppers to other locations. Now the practice had all but disappeared. It was funny how sometimes it took just a little effort to make change happen.

The wind picked up, but Abrahm didn't snap the top snap of his light jean jacket. His rabbit-lined wool shirt kept him almost too warm on moderate fall evenings like tonight. The shirt was best for those winter days when most people felt like sitting by the stove and drinking coffee. These were the kind of days he liked to be outside, walking or working.

He had noticed that the older Redlands people seemed to be more adapted to extremes of weather than their children. He supposed that the deprivation and poverty of their youth had simply hardened them to the elements. He remembered swimming in the icy lake with Walker, after a day of bugling elk in the mountains. Neither of them could afford any ammunition that winter but they hunted just for the fun of it. Besides being dark and cold, jumping into the water had felt like jumping into liquid fire. It was more than cold--it was burning! His teeth had chattered so loud he thought they might chip, and they' both had gasped to bring enough air into their lungs to make it back the short distance to shore. Still, they'd never caught as much as a sniffle!

Abrahm brushed back the long wisps of silvery hair that had escaped from his braids. All the ladies admired his long braids, especially when he had them covered in the hand-tanned leather wraps that his wife Annie had made for him.

She'd sewn strips of red felt into the leather when he'd passed his tenth anniversary without a drink. That was almost four years ago now. He felt the familiar ache in his heart and wetness on his cheeks as he thought of her smile. The seasons had spun twice since she had passed from a diabetes-related illness, but her shadow still accompanied him. He often glimpsed her out of the corner of his eyes, grinning shyly. He would turn to look but her spirit would be gone. Horse felt as close to her as he could, while still being a part of this world, especially with her wraps in his hair.

He sighed a deep and noisy sigh as he climbed, blowing the air out through his mouth. Lance-Dancer always thought he was unhappy or upset when he sighed, but Grandpa used sighing to cleanse and express himself. He did it when he felt any great emotion, discomfort, or stress. I t was his all-purpose reaction to life.

Horse's nut-brown face creased into its smile lines easily as he heard the clink of Walker's bottle on the rocks above. He stopped and looked up, silently greeting the Old Man.

Old Man Rock looked out over the Lake as a stiff wind blew over his head, down the plateau, and into the valley beyond. The huge hooked nose and jutting chin of granite thrust out imposingly from the face of Head Butte. Horse did not know who had named the rock first; its name was the same in English as it was in Indian. It had always had a special significance to his people—as if the land had taken a head and face that they could recognize as one of them, a relative they could speak to, visit, and touch. In their oral tradition, it was the first thing their people had seen as they had journeyed north and into the lower valley. They made their camps below its steady gaze, and the generations saw it as evidence of the living Earth.

He skirted the jumble of rocks beneath Old Man's chin and took the trail that would bring him up behind and eventually onto the top of the "head." The sage, chaparral, and mesquite were thick beside the trail, but the trail itself was worn and well used. Grandpa knew it was one of the main game trails from the foothills down to the Lake.

As he neared the crest he heard a low chuckle and a gruff voice called out, in the Redlands language, "Buffalo, a lost one, up the path is coming, I hear."

Horse reached the crest and saw Walker's backside seated near the front edge of the Old Man's forehead, about thirty feet away. Walker spoke again, in English this time.

"You're gettin' careless, old man. I could hear you stumblin' up here all the way from the Lake."

A partially drunk bottle of Old Crow lay on its side at Walkers feet, but Walker was still pretty sober and his dark eyes twinkled in amusement as he smiled at Horse.

"So how's the old Swayback tonight, huh? Come up here to get a sip of old Gordon's ticker-starter? Like old times?"

Walker picked up the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and held it out.

"Sorry Crawler, you be drinking that shit by yourself, " Horse said.

He stood respectfully, waiting for an invitation to sit. The two men always called each other insulting names. It was a tradition between them.

"Well then you'd better sit down, Lame One, before those tired little chicken legs of yours collapse."

Horse sat down and took a few short swigs, rapid-fire, from a plastic water bottle, gazing silently out into the open canyons and valley below. He felt a stab of guilt as his fingers felt gratefully for the bag of Bull Durham in his front shirt pocket.

Walker placed the whiskey bottle against his opposite thigh, out of sight. Horse appreciated the respect of that gesture. He unsnapped his jacket pocket and took out a worn and well-used genuine meerschaum pipe.

The pipe had been a present given to him in the early seventies by a young white hippy girl who came to Redlands looking to learn about "Medicine." She hadn't found it, but Horse had given her a few other pleasant memories before she left. Annie had given him permission to be with her, since she herself had been ill and unable to tend to his needs. The pipe had turned out to be the best he had ever owned. He held it out into the wind, hoping that wherever they were—both Annie and the girl were content. His thoughts turned again to his wife.

His usually steady fingers trembled a little as he undid the strings to the top of the bag and withdrew a small pinch of tobacco. Placing it on his open palm, he let the wind sweep it away down the face of Old Man. His lips moved, but made no sound. He closed up the cloth bag of processed tobacco, stuffed it back into his breast pocket, and took a worn, smooth leather pouch from his fanny pack. After a moment, he began to slowly pack the meerschaum bowl from the bag, savoring the feel of the coarse kinnikinnik grains between his fingers. He was careful not to spill any. It was an old pipe habit his father had insisted on. His mouth watered in anticipation. One hand lifted the leather bag to his mouth and he tugged one set of leathery thongs with his teeth as he held the other. The drawstring slipped closed and he put the bag back into the bright yellow plastic pack on his belt. Fumbling in his jacket for a stick match, he raised the pipe to his lips and flicked the blue tip of the match with his thumbnail. The flame flared up with a popping sound as he sucked the flame down into the bowl. Columns of rich acrid smoke rose into the air and were swept away into the darkness. Horse puffed contentedly, as the smells of man, whiskey, and tobacco mixed and circled around them.

They sat for a long time together without speaking, each man enjoying the company, and the night. They were formed from older times, when words were few but well chosen. Finally, Horse broke the stillness with a cough.

"Come to see if you'll sing for Irene's "Coming Out" next week?"

He puffed and waited patiently for the other man's reply. Several minutes passed. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Gordon.

“The Walker” was about Horse’s height, five-eleven, but had a huge barrel chest and legs that seemed altogether too long for his body. At the boarding school they had attended together in Kansas, some of the older boys—who didn't know any better—took to calling him monkey. Before the day was out, Walker had caught every one of them alone and “schooled” them appropriately. That ended the name calling. Among the Indian kids, his resistance and victory had earned him the respect of his peers.

It was a period of his youth that Grandpa hated to remember. The long months of loneliness, deprivation, corporal punishment and overt racism was a perfect counterpoint to the school philosophy—Kill the Indian and Save the Man. The little cemetery hidden at the back of the grounds had spilled over onto the adjacent property after only one winter. Grandpa remembered one cute little eight-year-old Cheyenne-Arapaho girl coughing night after night in the adjacent girls dormitories. He finally risked severe punishment to creep from his bed into the adjacent room, carrying the extra blanket he had stolen for her from the locked bedding closet. He could see her shivering beneath her thin woolen blanket in the dim winter light and was satisfied to see her smile in her sleep when he tucked the second blanket around her. The next day he looked for her at breakfast and was shocked when the whispering informed him she had died during the night. For days, he lived with a violent rage, feeling nothing but hatred for the Anglo teachers and administrators. As others died of sickness and malnutrition, he began planning his revenge. Then, miraculously, his Grandfather had come to rescue them. The Winchester carbine he carried discouraged any of the school officials from resisting, and by the time the authorities arrived, they were well on their way back home. No one ever came looking for them after that, and by the next year, all the Redlands children that had been forced to go away to school had returned home. The school district had voted, under the duress of a lawsuit brought by a lawyer friendly to Horse's father, to allow the Redlands children into the public school. They had their own school line, and weren't allowed to stand with the white kids, but it was better by far than boarding school.

For many years, Horse dreamed about the little Oklahoma girl, and all the small raised humps of earth covered with new green grass out behind the Kansas school—forgotten and alone.

As boys, Gordon had always been strong in the upper body, while Horse had had the edge in leg strength and speed. Gordon still had his huge chest and heavily muscled arms, even if a little loose skin hung near his armpits. His black hair fell loosely to his shoulders and his mustache was thick and untrimmed. He had an unkempt look about him even when he was neatly dressed. He scared a lot of people with his "wild" appearance and intimidating scowl. A clean red bandanna was tied into a headband above his dark, heavy-lidded eyes. Despite his robust appearance, he had had a severe heart attack the year before and was keeping to himself even more than usual. He was the preferred Head Singer at Redlands Powwows because he seemed to know all the songs from everywhere. Because of his drinking, he didn't participate in many ceremonials, unless he was specifically asked, like Horse was doing. He had never married and did not frequent bars. He was a man who drank alone or with one or two close friends. He rarely went to town except for an occasional bus ride to the city to see his sister. After he got back he always asked Horse to pour water for him so he could sweat out the city filth and smog. Then he said a long prayer for those in the city who had lost their spirit to the concrete and the noise.

In his youth, Gordon had always been the one to take a chance, a foolhardy dare, or an impossible challenge. Recently he seemed more mindful of his mortality, even embarrassed by his weakness. His pride was injured. He felt like his body had betrayed him and he spent more and more of his time alone.

Gordon cleared his throat, and held the bottle high.

"Guess that means no more of this for awhile, enit?

Horse did not answer right away. He knew that Gordon knew exactly what was expected of him.

Finally, he said, "This is real important to Irene and her mama. I’ve heard about the dress they're working on, it’s really old-time. Elk ivories, ermine, horse hair...she's a fine looking girl...gonna be real pretty."

Horse smiled to himself when he thought of little spindle-legged Irene, sticking her tongue out at him as he walked by. Her Mom had done everything to try to get her to quit sticking her tongue out. Irene had seen a little white girl do it at the supermarket and, for a while, her tongue spent more time outside of her mouth than in it. Then one day, on her own, she stopped and never did it again. Now she was all grown up and ready "to come out", a picture of teenage dignity.

Most of her smiles were reserved for a lanky white boy from Valley Mission High named Jason Scott. He was a three-sport sensation who got his name in the papers more than the President. They'd met at Fourth of July Powwow last year. She was entered in the Jingle Dress competition and just before the Grand Entry two kids chasing each other had accidentally run into her and knocked her down. Jason had been the first to help her to her feet. She wasn't even going to go out for the first round but he convinced her she was okay. Eventually she won the competition, and the $500 prize. They'd been seeing each other ever since.

Horse always had mixed feelings when the children of full blood families got involved with Anglos, but it happened so frequently now that he'd had to accept it. He knew the boy from the feed store where he worked on weekends. He was courteous and a solid worker. He helped his single mother support his brother and sister, and appeared not to be prejudiced against Redlands people and Indians in general. That was a rare thing in the Valley. Most of the teenage white boys were heavily prejudiced against the Indigenous community. Horse wondered if the boy would come to the Ceremony. Irene's family had made it known that it would be open to anyone, except those who were drinking or high.

Gordon started to stand up.

"I'll give you my answer tomorrow, when I feel better."

Horse stood up too. He knew that meant yes. Gordon just wanted to sleep on it. Dust swirled around them and the wind whipped through the brush.

"Time to be gettin," Abrahm said. A cold gust of wind chilled his neck and caused him to squat down on his haunches. Gordon did the same as a powerful gust of wind screamed down on them from the mountains. They gave each other a meaningful look. Tonight the wind seemed more alive than usual, filled with singular purpose. Dust and gravel continued to pummel them as they hunched down. Finally, the power of it forced them to throw themselves flat and cover their heads with their arms.

Suddenly it died away and the air became completely still. Great dark clouds began to step over the mountains behind them, piling up in hulking black heaps covering the stars. Then, like water breaking through a dam, they rushed downward toward the valley ignoring the two tiny figures looking up at them in silence.

Gordon sniffed the air, visibly shaken. Horse had felt it too. It wasn't the sudden violence of the wind that bothered him; there was something else—a feeling of urgency and malevolence that he hadn’t sensed before. Neither man spoke, yet both knew the other had the same queasy feeling in the pit of their stomachs. They stood stomping their feet and slapping their arms against the cold. Neither of them wanted to talk about what had just happened, believing that words could give things—unspoken things—power.

Horse put his hand on Walker's shoulder.

"She needs your drum, Gordon."

"Yes, Grandfather," Gordon said sarcastically, with a hint of anger in his voice.

Abrahm WarHorse bobbed his chin in the Indian hello and goodbye and trotted off down the trail toward the Lake.

The Walker called after him. "Don't get lost!"

Gordon knew he would not be able to drink again for two or three weeks. In fact, now that he knew, he shouldn't drink anymore tonight.

"Fuck it,” he thought, " there's only a sip or two left." He took a drink and shouted out loud, "And there ain't a better looking singer in the valley!"

Then he felt guilty and emptied the bottle down the side of Old Man, just to give him a little taste. Wouldn't want to get him accustomed to it though, then he'd have to share every time he came up here!

An Owl hooted and he looked quickly over his shoulder. He shivered slightly and cursed himself. "Walker, yer getting as bad as a Four Corners Indian."

It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the Four Corner's Peoples, but there were so many owls up here if you spooked every time you heard one, you'd live your life spooked. He thought of the freak wind earlier and shivered again. It had given him a cold and ugly feeling he wasn't familiar with. Horse had felt it too. Feeling uncomfortable again, he shoved the bottle deep into his jacket pocket and followed Horse's trail down the backside of Old Man.

Abrahm took the deer trail rather than the road as he shuffled quickly down the steep path to the Lake. He took the old trails whenever possible. His stomach still rolled repeatedly with the uneasy feeling the two men had shared at the Old Man. It caused him to move faster than he normally did.

The last time he'd had a feeling like this was just before he took Annie to the hospital for her "tests." He had known ahead of time what the results would be. She had asked him what was wrong but he just kissed her and said nothing. He knew she knew him better than that. She had known from his face what was going to happen. Then time had sped up and before Horse knew it, she was gone.

He wasn't looking forward to his dreams tonight. He was sure to get a look at something he couldn't see with his eyes. He couldn't stop it, he was from that kind of family. His Dad had carried it, and so had his Grandfather. His Father had been a great Healer. People had come from all over—especially during the flu epidemics in the early 1900's. Even white people from the valley drove up to the rez to see him. He had died in a car wreck coming back from doctoring a family in Midlands. The driver had been drunk and his Papa was too tired to see it coming.

Horse's grandfather had faced the same tests and trials, doubts and temptations that came with carrying Power. He had a reputation for seeing but didn't welcome it. Mostly he kept to himself. Of course, he drank too, and died in the same way his son did—in an automobile fight.

Horse had grown up aware of his Dad's gifts, but never thought he would pick up the Medicine. Then his father died and his Grandfather, Dreams-It, started coming around taking him into the mountains and to closed ceremonials, teaching him and preparing him. When Grandpa was eighteen, Dreams-It had died from a sudden heart attack but not before he had nonchalantly told Horse that he was going to the next world. He was over ninety. Horse hadn't believed him. After it happened, Abrahm became afraid. He turned to alcohol and stopped going to meetings and ceremonies. The old men never said a word about it. No one said anything.

It wasn't until the mid sixties that he picked it up again. He had been reticent to use it for healing at first. When his oldest son had died in Vietnam and the All Tribes Movement began on the West Coast he had started running sweats for the young men, and going to participate in the Dances and Ceremonies again. The old men who were still around acted as if he had never left. He started encouraging those who attended his sweats to stop drinking a few days a week. Then there had been the big argument over whether it was Ok to smoke marijuana. Horse had lost some of the young people when he came out against its use during ceremonies and important events. The stand eventually earned him more respect than it did enmity and even more kids attended the yearly Dances and rituals. Bit by bit the old knowledge of his youth had returned. Then Gordon's daughter was badly injured in a car wreck and fell into a deep coma. The Walker came to Horse, crying that the Anglo doctors had given up and no one else would help him. The look on Annie's face when he started to refuse had changed his mind. Abrahm brought out his Father's bundle and sweated himself up good. Then he went out into the mountains for a week. When he came back, he was a changed man. He boiled up the root he had been directed to and they sneaked it in to Gordon's daughter. Within a couple of days, she was speaking and moving around. After a week, she came home. She never fully recovered from the accident but had lived for another ten years. The Anglo doctors just wrote it off, though the hospital staff talked about miracles. Gordon, who had been sarcastic and resentful when Horse stopped drinking with him, stopped pressuring Horse to come off the wagon and treated his old friend with a new respect.

Abrahm didn't understand how the Creator directed him except that he dreamed about the present, the past, and the future. Sometimes he would see the way a medicine looked in his mind and when he went out to search for it, it was always there—just like he dreamed it. He didn't have names for most of the plants and roots, but their uses were made known to him. Then he named them and remembered them in his prayers. His most unpleasant dreams always had to do with the future. In the early seventies, a lot of hippies had come around romantically expecting men like Horse to be Holy Men. Often they went away disappointed or resentful, with their romantic notions dispelled. Horse, and those like him were just normal men and women, chosen by the Creator to carry a certain Power. How they used that power, what they did with it, and what it did to them, was something they did not discuss.

Annie stood beside him, even when he began to think he was important and took advantage of the young white girls that came to idolize him. She had pointed out his problem, and refused to help him if he didn't control himself and give his Power the respect it deserved. One afternoon, a young Redlands boy ate something bad and his parents called Horse to help. Horse had tried to use his medicine but he couldn’t find a medicine to use. His dreams didn't help. The boy had passed away. The hospital physicians said there was nothing that could have been done, but Horse always believed that if he hadn't been so full of himself, the boy might have lived.

After that, he stopped running around with women and appreciated the knowledge and integrity of his wife. His Power increased, as did the respect of his People. When Annie had passed over, almost the entire People had come to her "remembering". It seemed to bring about a change in Redlands. After that attendance at powwows, Dances and ceremonial events tripled. More people fought their dependencies. When his grandson had returned from Desert Storm and started the Redlands Indian School, the demand for language teachers increased and many of the old people, Horse included, found themselves recruited into teaching at summer immersion language camps. That contact between the very young and the very old had healed a lot of the wounds between families that had developed over the years. Redlands was beginning to heal all of its wounds. Grandpa was grateful that he had lived to see it.

The wind blew powerfully into his back, pushing him toward the warmth of his cabin. When Horse finally crossed the threshold and put on the ancient coffee pot to boil, his bones felt like he'd been out all night in a blizzard. The coffee went down hot, and before long he lay down to sleep—relaxed and ready to face whatever future might be coming. He was wrong, he didn't dream.

Redlands

Rodney Welk was at peace with the world. He always felt this way with autumn coming on, plenty of meat in the smoke house, and most of his winter wood split. He sniffed toward the north where the Buffs were grazing above the Lake and smiled to think of them.

He loved those shaggy beasts! He loved the way the bulls walked alongside the new calves, protecting them. He loved their intelligence and fierce pride. The last few days they had put in the feeding stations for winter. With a ton of feed at each location, they were assured the cows would not abort their calves. They were so smart. If the cows perceived a hard winter coming, they would naturally abort their calves. He also liked the way they did not defecate or urinate in the streams they crossed, unlike the stupidly domesticated cattle that would pollute their own drinking water. He couldn't wait until the herd was large enough that he could hear them running. Rodney had a big spread, but he always let the Redlands people hunt and fish there. His dream of a large herd of buffalo was the same as his friends, the WarHorses.

It was late afternoon when he woke from a front porch nap, warmed by a vanishing sun, and peered down across the plateau into the valley. Dust rose in a single cloud as he blinked and wrinkled his nose in disgust. A vehicle was coming up the road and Rodney’s feeling of well being vanished. He hated company! He wondered if he could go inside and pretend he wasn't here, but since the road passed right by his cabin, anyone could see his 4X4 parked by the shed. As the dust cloud came closer and closer his feeling of uneasiness increased. The sweat dried cold in his pores and he shivered, causing the tiny hairs on his neck to stand. Goosebumps rose on his upper arms. Behind him, the sun set quickly over the western foothills until all that was left was a brilliant red edge. The engine noise could be heard plainly now, transmission grinding and growling its way up the bluffs to the plateau crest where a black van emerged from the dust onto the flats, like a black Moby Dick rising from the waves of Rodney's Melville schoolboy imaginings.

Rod strode from the porch and stood atop the chopping block, hands sunk deep in his pockets, resigned to dealing with this intruder into his peaceful world. As the van came closer, he could just make out the Capitol A—inside-a-circle logo painted on the side. The van pulled to a stop only yards from where Rod perched on the log. The following dust covered it like a misty fog as the shotgun side door opened and a tall thin figure climbed out. Rodney jumped down from the log as the man sidled toward him, hand extended.

Eyeing the hand suspiciously, Rod stuck out his own and beat the stranger to his introduction.

"Rod Welk. I own this land."

Head cocked to the side, he sized up the stranger with a look. The man was tall, at least six feet three, with a small wiry mustache and short black hair slicked back in a fifties bop style, but without the ducktail. Long Elvis sideburns crept down past his ears as the man's thin lips creased into a hard humorless smile. He wore a black jumpsuit that zippered from his crotch to just under his chin.

"Jake Carliss, " the man introduced himself shortly, "Ansom Pharmaceuticals."

Rodney's suspicious glare turned to surprise and confusion.

"Ansom, huh? Whatchu guys doing around here?"

"Brucellosis testing, for the Livestock Association?" The tall man peered intently at Rodney.

"At night?", Rodney snorted incredulously.

Rodney could hear clunking from the back of the van. He wondered how many men were back there.

"Well, we were told it was an ASAP job and it really doesn't matter when we take the samples. Sooner the better, you know."

The ugly, half sincere smile was back on the tall man's face. Just looking at the guy made Rodney's stomach flip over. He didn't know what it was but the man seemed almost reptilian and Rod Welk was not fond of reptiles. He could also tell the man wasn't interested in anything he had to say. He spat his thick chaw of Skoal on the ground about one inch from the tall man's highly glossed military boot and puffed out his chest as he stared into the reptilian black eyes looking down on him.

"Don't mind if I tag along, eh"

"Sorry Mr. Welk, the test parameters require that we contain the site, and that means no visitors."

"This is my land, Mr., eh, Carlist. I got a right to be on it, whenever and wherever I want."

"Then we'll have to postpone the test until I can get someone over here to explain the procedures—and the name is Carliss."

The tall man hissed the last syllable.

Rodney's mind was in fast forward. He knew that the tests were important to the project, and to the community. The sooner they could prove the Buffs were not infected, the sooner they could build up the herd. The tall man's explanation was obviously bullshit. Rod wasn't a scientist but he knew that a simple blood test didn't require any special "procedures".

"No, I guess you can do it tonight."

"Okay then. We'll get on up there and be out of your hair in a few hours."

The man clapped Rodney on the shoulder and trotted back to the van, which sped away in a cloud of dust, leaving the smaller man sputtering and cursing as he waved his arms in the air.

He waited about ten minute before saddling Harold, his mule. As the sky darkened with thunderheads he gathered up his binoculars and a bag of dried venison, pulled on his long riding coat, turned into the saddle and trotted Harold up the dirt path behind the shed that led to a deer trail heading toward the Lake.

The van driver peered through the tinted windshield, cursed, and then rolled down his window to stick his head out. Looking toward the bruised sky, he spat and cursed again.

"Fucking rain's coming. I shoulda brought a better jacket."

Jake Carliss grinned an evil smile.

"You won't melt. Two darts, a couple of syringes filled, and we're outta here."

He climbed between the two front seats into the back of the van and took down a wide briefcase. He opened it and removed the parts of a veterinary rifle, which he assembled in a quick and professional manner. Checking the darts, he loaded one into the breech and bolted it home. He checked the safety, and then handed it to a large black man sitting beside him in the back of the van. In the man's huge hands, the weapon seemed almost toy like. They pushed their backs up against the cushioned side away from the sliding door as the van bounced and rolled like a sailboat in an ocean gale. Suddenly the upward slant of the van leveled out and they ground to a teeth-jarring halt.

"I can see them. About a click out, two o'clock," the driver reported in military fashion.

Jake turned the sliding door handle, opening the door slowly, inch by inch, until it clicked and held.

He moved to the side so that the black man, Ellis, could get by him. Ellis stepped gingerly from the van and stooped down to hunker beside it. Carliss noticed that, even squatting on his heels; the man's huge frame filled the entire doorway.

"See 'em?", he whispered.

"Got 'em, no problem-o," muttered Ellis.

Jake turned back into the van, and slid his hand into the small blue pack he had stored under the large metal box, where neither of the other two men would dare venture. Neither of them liked to handle “the material", as they called it. He gently removed two silver metallic tubes from the pack and transferred them to his fanny pack, which he carried in front. He wasn't concerned about the darting of the buffalo. Ellis was the best shot with any weapon that Jake had ever seen, but the mission of insuring that the buffalo had brucellosis meant very little to him. He had a more personal mission in mind, one that would make him rich. The volatility of the material he carried concerned him as well. He needed to keep sharp. The rifle snapped, a moment went by, and it snapped again.

"That's it then," Ellis stood up and brushed off his jumpsuit. Jake climbed out of the vehicle with a pair of high-powered binoculars.

"Where's the contact?"

"Shoulder of the one on the left, moving away. Foreleg of the one behind him."

Jake sighted the first one in and immediately glimpsed the orange tipped dart in the shoulder of the moving animal. He checked the other bull and saw the telltale orange in the heavy hanging hair of the foreleg, just above the knee. As he watched, the second bull faltered and tripped, falling heavily. It tried to rise, but failed. Jake could see the flanks of the animal heaving, its breath labored, nostrils flaring. Soon its head dropped, chin resting in the dry grass. The first bison fell just before he topped the rise. Other animals followed them, then milled around—confused and unable to figure out what had happened to the males.

"Okay, Bud. Get on down there and get those samples, but be careful!"

The driver grunted, lifted a small black case, and got out of the van. The two other men watched as he trotted toward the animals. It was so dark now they looked like large dark boulders from this distance.

Two rises away, from about three hundred yards out, Rodney Welk watched the whole thing. Something didn't seem right, but he couldn't figure it. With a sigh, he stood up and mounted again. The rain hadn't come in yet. He sniffed the fresh piney air and gave Harold the reins on their way back down to the cabin.

Gordon Walker had always hated cars. He walked everywhere and had done so most of his life. That's why people called him by his last name and sometimes even put a "the" in front. His father, like Horse's, had been killed in a car wreck, along with one of his uncles and two of his cousins. Alcohol and automobiles had killed many of his people. Usually he avoided the roads when he could, but tonight he had chosen the road because he knew he was faster than Horse and didn't want to bump into him on the way down. They'd spoken their piece and any more contact would make them both uncomfortable, especially since Walker was really beginning to feel his whiskey. He knew his friend would take the trail and probably pick new sage flowers along the way. The winds had calmed some and even the rutted road was easy on his leg. He wished he hadn't ended their conversation on a sour note. Horse was one of the few old friends Walker had left.

Even though Gordon preferred to be alone, most of the time he enjoyed Horse's company. They had come through time together, with the same attitudes and mannerisms. He respected Horse for putting away the bottle and picking up his Power, and the Old man didn't rub his friends face in it like so many I-Got-Holy's did. As long as Gordon didn't drink before Ceremony, Horse didn't mention it.

He snorted as he remembered the one time he had showed up drunk. Horse had known immediately and Gordon had been asked to leave. He had known better than to challenge his old friend, and he didn't want to mar the Ceremony with a fight, so he'd gone peacefully. He hadn't really wanted to make a commotion anyway, just wanted to test how far he could go. Horse had drawn the line and Gordon loved him for it. That was what the leaders should do. Draw the lines where people could see and then stick to them. Everyone got stronger that way.

He had already decided to do Irene's Coming-of-Age. Births, deaths, coming-of-age, becoming a warrior, honoring the living and the dead, speaking for gratitude and renewal—these were the signposts, markings, and spoor of the lives of human beings. Times to gather and remember. Times to unify and pray. The old rituals had been passing away even as he grew up, now it was time to bring them back—old and new. He was proud to be a part of it.

Drying out for a while would be hard, but it wouldn't be forever. He was just a singer, a Walker. He didn't carry Power, not like Horse. A shiver ran up his back as Owl whooped from the trees. He was glad he had only his personal power, carrying the People on one's back was a heavy load.

A strong smell brought his head up and he recognized the odor of buffalo. He smiled to himself, remembering the herd. Veering off the road toward the Lake, he decided to take a look at them. Moments later he crested a small rise and saw two of the cows with calves. The bulls were nearer the Lake. A dark shape took form further down the hill from the bulls. As he got closer, the clouds sailed clear of the moon and it shone on a black van parked on the grass just off the Lake Road. He heard some sharp sounds from below and one of the Buffs kicked up his heels and ran away from the van, the others following closely by. Gordon dropped down into another valley losing sight of them. It took him another five minutes to come up on the buffs again. He pulled up, startled when he saw two bulls hunched silently on the ground. He could see steam coming from their nostrils in the cooling evening air, so he knew they were still alive.

"Probably kids partying in the van," he thought. "They better not have hurt those bulls!" Rod Welk would be beside himself if he knew they were up here. He walked down to the van, weaving slightly to and fro. Suddenly his steps seemed unsure and his feet felt heavy. The wind kicked up behind him and hair stood up on his arms. He stopped, confused by his instincts. The van was all black, with no windows and the windshields were darkly tinted. He heard the sound of murmuring voices, and was still trying to decide what to do when a huge black man walked out in the moonlight toward the bulls. The alcohol glued Walker's feet to the ground as his mouth opened and closed in surprise. The man hadn't even seen him yet but the whiskey magnified his fear. He took a few quick steps backward, but the man saw him and cried out.

"What the hell.... where the fuck did you...?"

An open metal canister fell from his gloved hand, dumping a number of what looked like veterinary darts on the ground like pick-up sticks. Walker backed up again, tripping over his numbed feet and sprawling in on the grass.

The giant bent down, trying to scoop the darts into the canister. As he did so, another figure walked out from behind the van with a rifle. Walker tried to scramble away but the black eye of the firearm sought him out.

"Stop,” aid a tall man with razor features and cold eyes. "Move again and you're over."

Walker breathed heavily and raised his hands in surrender. He began to recover his senses as the scene in front of him became clear--three men, one with a rifle.

"Stand still, " the tall man commanded, and jogged to within ten yards of Walker.

“Turn around and put your hands behind your back,” the man commanded.

Out of the corner of his eye, Gordon saw a short section of metal pipe swinging toward his head but his alcohol-laden reflexes were too slow to do anything but observe. His head seemed to explode in a burst of pain and sparks as he fell to the ground. Half conscious, he could hear a voice yelling.

"What'd you do that for? We got a legal reason to be here. Why'd you whack him?

"Calm down. It's just a buffalo-nigger from the Rez. Probably out here communing with nature, or maybe shape-changing to screw one of them cows."

"How can you be so calm? This fucker's seen us, and then you go and attack him!”

"I'll take care of it. Just get everything packed and put this away."

The tall man handed the rifle to the black giant and walked over to Walker. Strong hands grabbed him underneath his armpits and dragged him toward the van. Walker knew he was in danger, but the blow to his head had rendered him incapable of movement. He couldn't turn his head and his vision was badly blurred. Closing his eyes, he pretended to lose consciousness. He felt his body being lifted into the van. A man continued to talk.

"Should I go down and retrieve the darts?"

"Nah, they'll rub out before anyone comes up here."

Jake checked the two small silver containment canisters in his pocket, and smiled to himself. "Won't no one be coming around here after tonight!"

Coyote watched from the ridge above the Lake. Even after that noisy big black animal ran off into the dark, he sat patiently, taking his time before he investigated. He sniffed the flattened grass, hair bristling on his neck from the familiar scent of man. Walking sideways, he skittered over to Walker's bottle. The smell disgusted him and he lost interest. After getting his drink from the Lake, he loped up the hill toward Old Man.

Walker was having difficult time breathing. He didn't know if he was having another heart attack, or a maybe a stroke, but he felt weak and clammy. "Bad time to get sick," Walker thought. The van had bucked and bumped its way down the trail for a long time until the ride had smoothed out and Walker knew they had reached the highway. A few minutes after having been loaded in the van the black man had blindfolded and gagged him with duct tape so he was unable to tell which direction they had taken at the turnoff. None of the men had spoken a word, but as soon as they reached the highway, two of them tried to talk at once.

The driver's voice was the loudest.

"Now what! This bastard twists the whole deal."

One of the other men spoke quietly.

"Nothing's changed. We go to the casino, the school, and make one small detour into town."

"What? The black man's mouth opened and closed like a trout out of water. "We got a guy we kidnapped in the back and now we're gonna just ride around like everything's normal? We can't take this motherfucker into town. We got to call the boss!"

"I'm the boss here." The voice took on a soft cold tone. "I've got it all covered, so just sit back and enjoy the ride. Take a right here, the casino's just up ahead and the school's about a mile down that road. What time is it?"

"About ten-thirty. It's gonna be pretty busy. “

"Won't matter, just a quick swipe and we're off. Then to the school and a quick drop off in town. You two just keep cool."

Minutes later the van pulled into the parking lot of the Diving Eagle Casino. The black man handed Jake a plastic bag and gloves. Jake took them cautiously and exited the passenger door. He could see a security guard watching him as he walked inside the entrance. A short heavyset Indian with the shiny badge and black uniform held the door open for him.

“Good luck, sir,” he said.

At the next set of doors, a bald monster of a man in a security uniform two sizes too small for him said, "What's in the bag, sir?"

"Just something to eat, " Jake said.

"Sorry sir, you can't bring any food or drink into the casino."

Black eyes watched him intently.

"Sure thing, officer." Jake smiled. "I'll just put this back in my vehicle."

As he turned to leave Jake slipped his hand into his coat pocket and dropped the silver cylinder onto the entrance tile just before he cleared the entrance doors. He walked deliberately to the van, got in on the passenger side and said,

"Drive".

The door guard, Curtis Joe's son, Andrew, watched Jake walk back to the van. At about the same time he also noticed a shiny object lying on the tile, glittering in the neon light. He knew that perhaps the tall man had dropped it so he picked it up and sprinted forward as fast as he could, holding his gun in his holster with his other hand.

"Hey!” he yelled at the top of his voice. "Hey, mister—did you drop this?"

He held the metal tube high in the air as the taillights of the van disappeared out of sight. Walking back toward the casino, he examined the cylinder. It was very well made. He wondered what was inside. "Maybe drugs", he thought. "Maybe some good weed." He sniffed the container. He was supposed to turn in any lost and found to X-ray, but he was outside the casino now and this was Indian land out here. It belonged to him. He stood by the front door and unscrewed the lid. It was empty except for some glass slides. "Shit, might as well take it to X-ray after all." He screwed the lid back on and slid the cylinder into his pocket again before speaking to the bald man and then winding his way through the slot machines toward X-ray.

Less than ten minutes later, the black van pulled up in front of Redlands Indian School. The only other vehicle there was a parking lot sweeper that was just finishing up. Walker had managed to get his bone-handled Barlow out of his boot and slice through the tape around his wrists in the darkness. However, he was still blind and knew it would take him a moment to get the tape off his eyes before he could see what to do next. He knew his only chance would come when one of the men went to do whatever they were doing. That would leave only one man in the back with him, plus the driver. Walker heard the door open and felt the wind off the plateau sweep into the van. He counted to ten and raised his hands to rip the tape from his eyes, hoping he had judged the time correctly. He had. He was alone in the back with only one man. Unfortunately, it was the huge black man! Walker knew he had the advantage of surprise so he kicked out with both feet into the back of the giant, knocking him sideways. There were no seats in the van and it gave Walker a clear path to the door. He tried to leap toward it but it turned into a crawl as his cramped and bloodless legs refused to answer the electrical stimuli of his brain. The black man came back at him with a vengeance, but Walker, fueled by his fear, swiveled and drove his knife deep into the man's chest. The man's eyes widened in shock as his huge hands grappled with Walker, trying to get a grip on his throat. He didn't seem to comprehend that Walker had had a knife. The fingers found their mark and Walker felt a killing pressure on his neck. Frantically he withdrew the blade and plunged it again into the man's torso, twisting and ripping at the same time. The hands slid from his neck as the man fell heavily against the front seat, head lolling, mouth working, eyes fixed.

Walker took a deep breath breath and turned again toward the door. A black Python 357 revolver pressed against his ear. The man in the front seat spoke.

"Freeze, Tonto! You fucker. I should kill you right here for what you did to Ellis."

The door filled with shadow as the evil-faced tall man smiled as he peered in at Walker and the dead man. He spoke one word, softly.

"So."

Moments later, The Walker was lying face down again, hog-tied in the classic first position of a prisoner. The tall man was doing something behind him while the driver held him at gunpoint. Suddenly the tall man pulled Walker's boot from his right foot and slid off his sock. Walker was afraid the man was going to cut off his toes until he felt a sharp stinging on the inside of his big toe. The sock was replaced on his foot and he was rolled over. His hands were freed and he was ordered to pull on his boot. He could see the tall man putting away what appeared to be a hypodermic, but his vision seemed cloudy and he wasn't sure in the dim light. The driver put away the pistol and turned around, starting the engine as he did so. Walker tried to take advantage of the fact that no one seemed to be paying any attention to him, but his body wasn't listening. He began to panic when he realized he couldn't feel his legs from the knees down.

The tall man knelt beside him. He could barely make out the man's face but he appeared to be smiling again.

"Name's Jake," the man said.

Walker knew things were bad if the man was telling him his name. A bottle was pressed to his lips and the strong taste of whiskey slid down his throat. He choked but seemed unable to control himself. The liquor poured directly into his stomach. He coughed, sputtered, and gagged. Suddenly Walker knew that he was going to die. His mind looked for a way out, but all he could see was a sheer cliff ahead. Unconsciously his lips began to move.

"Guess that's enough," he heard the man beside him say. "What the hell kinda noise is that?"

"Sounds like the asshole is singing something," said the other.

To Walker, the voice sounded far away, like he was under water. He could no longer see or smell the whiskey. Neither did he feel it when the bottle was emptied all over his front. He took a few more labored breaths, his body shuddered, and the spirit of Gordon Walker stepped from a lifeless body, spread its wings, and began its journey—home.

Jake Carliss straightened up over the motionless body of the Indian and looked at the man with the pistol.

"You can put the gun away now."

The look of shock on the man's face was evident.

"Jesus, Jake. This is turning bad. Real bad!"

"Hold it together, boy. It'll be Ok. I still got it together. Just let me go over and drop off this notice and we'll get outta here."

The driver nodded and slumped in the front seat. Jake turned and ran to the front door. He put an empty envelope in the mailbox and then removed the other cylinder and gently placed it on the top of a landscape shrub by the front door, in plain sight. Then he strode back to the van, and slammed shut the side door without even pausing to look at the two bodies lying in a bloody pool. The van sped off.

Valley Mission

Two paramedics responded to the call at approximately 3:00 AM, arriving at the Black Cat Bar and Grill twenty minutes later. A small cluster of people stood by the rear corner of the building where a door opened into the alley. Broken glass glittered like diamonds under the blue of the streetlight as the ambulance slowed to a crawl and then stopped. The driver, a middle-aged man with a substantial paunch, stepped down gingerly, and approached the small crowd of people. A short man in an apron stepped toward him, gesturing toward the alley. The paramedic turned to his partner, called out some instructions, and then slow-trotted down the alley to where a large dumpster sat sideways blocking his view. His younger partner came up beside him carrying a black first-aide satchel. Newspaper and debris littered the street. Carefully they stepped around the dumpster to where the partially exposed body of a man lay between hastily tossed plastic bags of garbage. Moving the bags, they saw that the man was half-sitting against the cold brick, his lower body covered in newspaper.

"Whew," said the younger man. "Guy musta been drinkin' for days. Smells like he lived in a bottle."

"More like he couldn't find his mouth," said the other, feeling the carotid artery of the inert man for signs of life. He reached down and took the calloused brown hand gently in his own and felt for a pulse. Then he placed it softly against the man's side and shook his head.

"He's gone. Go get the stretcher."

As the younger man trotted away, the older medic, Barney Reams, muttered to himself. He'd handled his share of drunks in his life and most of them were real careful not to spill a drop of their precious liquor. This guy had poured it all down his shirt and pants front. Unusual. His partner, Joel, returned with the stretcher and they moved the body out into the alley, and then lifted it onto the wheeled gurney. As they rolled it toward the open back of the ambulance, Barney could hear grumbling in the crowd.

"God damn Indian drunks. When will they ever learn?"

The worn stone walls seemed to reflect the early morning cold. Barney shivered as they lifted the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. Joel jumped in to close the doors as Barney went around to the driver's side. A sheriff's car pulled up beside him. Barney waited for the officer to get out.

"Whatcha got here Barney?"

"Drunk. Dead a few hours. Want me to show you where?"

"Look natural to you?"

Barney nodded, even as a nagging doubt crossed his mind. He was going to say something, but the officer waved his hand.

"This guy one of our local savages?"

Barney bit his tongue and nodded again.

"Case closed then, huh? Another one bites the dust. See ya, Barn."

The officer walked back to his patrol car and immediately began talking on his radio.

Barney Reams felt like going over and kicking the shit out him, but then he didn't know that Barney's late wife had been from Redlands. She'd been dead now almost ten years. None of the younger cops knew. He missed her a lot. He stepped up into the cab and started the vehicle. Ignoring the officer's cursory wave, he drove another of his wife's people toward an early grave.

A small wizened white man was the last of the crowd to re-enter the bar. He wore a Navy P jacket at least two sizes too big, and his bootlaces were untied. He glanced down the alley again.

"Fucking cops! "

He spat toward the patrol car still sitting in the street around the corner. The fucker hadn't even interviewed the crowd to see if anyone had seen anything! People still don't get no respect, he thought to himself. But it weren't none of his business. He'd learned all through his life to keep his mouth shut. It just didn't pay to get involved. He didn't feel any compulsion to tell anyone that he'd stepped down to the end of the alley to take a leak right at the time the black van had pulled up beside the dumpster and parked. He'd pressed himself close to the wall behind some boxes and watched as the two white men dumped the body behind the dumpster. One of the men had emptied half a goddamn bottle of whiskey over the corpse. Then they'd placed a couple of plastic bags beside it and covered the rest with newspaper. They'd only looked his way a couple of times and never spotted him. Then they drove off. He'd only given the body a cursory glance as he walked by. He was still agitated by the waste of good liquor. One look at the man beside the dumpster had convinced him that the guy wouldn't be drinkin' again. He'd hurried back into the bar and closed the door. Now, two hours later, he gave the uninterested officer an evil look and decided to walk home. He had enough of street reality this morning and his leg was beginning to hurt like a motherfucker!

Outside Mission

The trip into the small rural town to dump the Indian's body had been short, just as Jake had promised. The driver, Billy, was definitely going to be a problem, Jake thought, as they rode back toward the mountains to find a suitable place to bury Ellis. Billy hadn't said a word since the school. His lips were squeezed tight and his face white as salt. Jake had figured that sooner or later, he'd have to take the two men out, but he hadn't planned on it happening this soon. The red nigger had taken the black nigger out, but now Billy was too edgy to be safe. He had to stay in town at least another three hours to meet with the pencil-pusher handling things from this end. Boy was he in for a big surprise when the shit started flying! The manila envelope full of papers and the refrigerated package wouldn't do him any more good than a band-aid on a slit throat. Meanwhile, Billy might not be able to maintain control for another twelve hours. These were the first two dead bodies he had ever seen, and Jake knew the middle-class med-tech was about as straight and naive as they came. He didn't even know the full score about what they were doing there in the first place. Jake snorted silently. Probably thought of himself as a secret agent for the good guys. It was only a matter of time before he'd come apart.

“Pull over here for a minute Bill. I gotta take a leak.”

It was almost dawn and the birds were singing lustily all around them. Jake laid out some plastic beside the van, and pulled Ellis' body to the doors edge. He carefully stripped the black man nude and carefully cut off his head and hands with the surgeon's knives and clippers he always carried in his little black bag. It was a souvenir from his first job out of prison and he kept it near him always. Billy had gotten out to relieve himself and now knelt beside an irrigation ditch, projectile vomiting. Jake wrapped Ellis' head and hands in a large double-strength trash bag and just managed to manhandle the torso in another. He tossed the bags out of the van where they thunked and skidded in the dirt.

"Help me carry these," he ordered.

Billy wiped his hand across his mouth and rubbed it on his pant leg. Picking up one of the bags he stood still waiting for Jake, eyes vacant and wide.

"This way."

Jake led him over a small bluff and up the side of a steep slope. Billy began cursing about half way up. By the time they'd slipped and struggled their way to the top in the wet grass, he was screaming.

"Shut up!"

Jake pushed him sharply and he fell face-first down the hill. Billy got up, eyes blazing and rubbed his skinned palms together. He faced Jake in a boxer's crouch.

"Don't you touch me you son-of-a-bitch. If you hadn't picked up that goddamn Indian, Ellis wouldn't be in these fucking bags!"

Jake didn't say anything. His eyes searched the thickets of willow at the bottom of the hill and then quickly scanned the area three hundred and sixty degrees. Satisfied that there were no visible witnesses, he turned once more toward Billy.

"You know, Billy, it isn't often that I get to do things I enjoy. I mean, those really satisfying moments that make all this bullshit worth it."

Billy relaxed a little, lulled by the soft tone of Jake's voice. The angry look on his face changed to one of confusion. He cocked his head.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"It's these moments that give life meaning."

Jake stepped close, holding out his hand, palm upward.

"Like sunsets and lazy afternoons."

He took another step closer, and then turned sideways and pointed to one of the plastic bags. Billy's eyes followed the long finger.

"I'd would've really enjoyed killing a big nigger like Ellis."

Jake leaped to the other man's side and encircled his neck with the guitar string he always kept in his back pocket for these kind of special occasions. As Billy struggled, Jake casually swept his feet out from under him with an expert Judo technique, and then flipped the man onto his stomach, his hands never letting go of the guitar string. Putting a knee in Billy’s back, he let pressure off the string for a moment. Billy gasped and choked.

"But then I do have this E string for you, Billy." Jake put his face close to the side of Billy's ear and whispered, "Can you hear the E, Bill?"

The pressure came back and Billy's face began to take on a purplish hue.

“You're beginning to look like a thundercloud, Bill. Let me give you an E."

The sun's rays broke on the side of the hill. A golden glow filled in behind Billy's closed eyelids. He smelled the moisture of the creek below him, and as he died, the only sound he heard was Jake, humming a perfect E.

Midlands General Hospital, Midlands

At almost exactly the same time Billy was dying on a dirt road off the Redlands Rez, Mick Jagger exploded into Karan Deer's bedroom singing "Street Fightin' Man." It was 6:30 AM and Karan came instantly awake, throwing out her arm to shut off the clock radio alarm.

"Shit!" she swore emphatically, fumbling around as her fingers tried to find the snooze button. Finally, she simply threw the clock against the wall. The Stones music continued to play out of its shattered remains.

"I'm up!” she shouted at the forty-year-old disc jockey that came on after the music stopped, gleefully ranting like a hysterical teenager. Karan was sure he was determined to make everyone else's life miserable because he had to be at work by five every morning!

She shivered in the uncharacteristically chilly morning air. With electricity costs so high these days, she'd kept the thermostat off unless she was going to be home. It wasn't like LA, where she'd gone to school. Costs had been high there too, but by powdering the coal deposits of southwestern Indigenous lands and then pumping out the precious the water from the fragile aquifer system—the power giants were able to mix the water and coal and pipeline it through to LA, providing fairly cheap energy and using no local resources. Most people took it for granted there. As her Australian roomy would say, "It's no worrys, mate!"

She padded barefoot onto the cold tile floor of the bathroom and took off her warm flannel pj's to step into the shower. Under the hot stinging water she continued with the same train of thought.

One of her Hopi friends believed the aquifers were going to be lowered to the point where the people would no longer be able to use them. She didn't doubt it. The American system of exploiting resources to their extinction was a time honored Roman approach. For many Anglo minds the traditional way of thinking.was--"Use it up, and then look for answers."

As she basked in the affluence of unlimited hot water, she said her morning prayers. The steamy cubicle was so comfortable she didn't want to leave it. A frown wrinkled her pretty face as she lamented her loss of temper and remembered the shattered radio. Her emotions had really been on a roller coaster lately. She was beginning to show signs of losing it. The continuing argument with Dancer had brought their relationship to a screeching halt that he didn't seem too interested in working out. Added to that, her conflicts with Glen Houser at the Hospital over the Nurses schedules had forced her to go over his head to the Board and that had definitely put her under the gun. However, it was unusual for her to allow it to cause her to do things like she'd done this morning with the radio! Growing up on the Rez had provided all the adversity she could handle, yet she'd come out strong, knowing exactly what she wanted from life. Dancer and Houser both had acted like jerks, but she was unusually taut. Her Dad had given her that radio just a short time before his fatal accident. Suddenly her eyes filled with tears and she felt overwhelmed by his loss, again. She missed him so much! The hot water mixed with her tears as she let herself overflow.

After a few minutes of sobbing, she relaxed and felt better. Grandpa was right, after a good cry she always felt refreshed. Of course, her eyes would be red and her face would be puffy for hours, but Karan didn't care. She dried off quickly in the cold bathroom, wrapped the big fluffy towel around her, and returned to her bedroom to dress. She spent a little time standing nude, determining that the radio was still functional but ugly, before she gathered her clothes together.

Fastening her bra in front of the full-length mirror on the door, she examined her body critically. At five feet eight, she was still taut and muscular even though she could easily see the ten pounds she'd put on in the last couple months. Her hips, thighs, and butt were definitely a size larger. No wonder her jeans and some of her work skirts seemed tight! She stepped closer to look at her face. No real wrinkles yet, just high cheekbones, straight nose, full lips, and a dusky brown completion. Her skin didn't seem quite as smooth but at least she didn't have any blemishes. She was satisfied, but not impressed. She thought she looked okay, but wouldn't go so far as to say she was pretty.

"Got to get back into the gym soon, girl," she said out loud, "or they're gonna have to haul you around in a wheelbarrow!" Her black hair glistened and hung straight behind her to the middle of her bottom. She bent forward at the waist and shook her upper body up and down convulsively, flinging water from her hair all over the room. She constantly considered cutting it, but could never quite bring herself to do it. Her hair had been long for as long as she could remember. It had only been cut once—when her Grandpa had died when she was twelve. Grandma had insisted she cut it in respect for her Grandfather's passing. Her Mom had had a fit, but relented. Her Dad just pressed his lips together tightly and didn't speak for a week.

She had considered cutting it when her Dad died, but her Mother had convinced her not to. Her Dad had loved her hair. Dancer had threatened her with bodily harm if she cut it, but Grandpa had told her to do what was in her heart. The broken look on her mother's face had helped her decide that there was enough change in his dying; she didn't need to provide more. It sure was a hassle in the mornings though. She could braid it, roll it, pin it, but by the time she finished, she always felt like going back to bed!

Slipping into her skirt and blouse took only a second. She stepped into her cushioned shoes and looked at the clock on the wall, then partially filled a bowl with Grape nuts and covered it with milk. Karan ate standing up, gazing out the window as the eastern sky went from gold to clean bright blue in the sunlight. She could see clouds over the mountains and knew it might be overcast later. At least it was sunny now. An image of Grandpa and Dancer burning tobacco in their small morning fire filled her mind. She could see Grandpa's strong brown fingers rolling and feeling the flat flaky leaves of natural tobacco before he tossed them into the flames. His eyes would carefully follow the wisps of smoke carrying the prayers that tumbled from his lips skyward—to wherever the Creator and his Helpers would smell them. She stood a little straighter, pushing her breasts out. Sherman Alexie's characters filled her mind as she strode from her apartment to her SAAB, fired it up, and backed out of her spot. "Be Proud, girl," she told herself, "Its a good day to be Indigenous." It was funny how thinking of Grandpa always made her feel better. She put the car in gear and left a little rubber in the parking lot, as evidence of her good Indian humor.

Redlands

After coming back in from the sunrise ceremony, Abrahm WarHorse stared into a bowl of cold oatmeal as if there might be some special message to be found in the lumps. Annie's cereal had always been so hot and smooth, so spicy and sweet. He had had a terrible night. He'd dreamed almost continually of Annie and of Gordon Walker. The most vivid one had come around two in the morning. Grandpa woke up because of it.

He and Gordon had been hunting elk in the mountains. They had just bugled up a big rack when they heard the sound of a revving car engine. Grandpa was startled and looked back down the path, wondering how any vehicle could have gotten in so deep when there were no roads. When Horse turned back to speak to Walker, he wasn't there. Grandpa WarHorse immediately trotted up the trail to catch up with his friend but though he could hear the sound of something, or someone crashing ahead through the brush, Abrahm couldn't catch up. He stopped for a moment, winded, wondering why Walker had left the trail and was making so much noise. It upset him after all the time they had spent calling the big bull. Then, in the soft earth of the trail, he noticed Walker's tracks. His friend hadn't left the trail after all. Confused, Grandpa followed them clearly for another hundred yards before they stopped by a deep puddle of water beneath three close-growing giant pines. He circled the puddle and found no sign emerging from the other side. Grandpa knelt down and gently disturbed the water. Suddenly he got a strong impulse to wash the sweat from his face. He bent down and scooped handfuls of water over his forehead. Gradually the water stilled and he could see his reflection again. But it wasn't his reflection he was seeing, it was Walker's.

Gordon's face was contorted in pain, the eyes wild and unfocused. Grandpa instinctually reached down into the puddle again but something stung him and he jerked it back. He quickly checked for marks but there seemed only to be a small red puncture. After a moment, the mark disappeared and he resumed his examination of the face in the puddle. Gordon's eyes had become fixed and glazed. The muscles of his face were slack and expressionless. Grandpa jerked back in despair. He knew that look well. He shouted his old friend's name. Suddenly a giant elk burst from the brush beside him and ran through the puddle splashing muddy water all over Grandpa. He stood up sputtering, watching it crash away through the brush. Looking back to the rippling puddle, he saw only his disturbed and haggard appearance.

That was when Grandpa woke up. He was drenched in sweat, knowing for certain, that his oldest friend was gone. He got up and made himself a cup of coffee, took out his pipe, and started to pray. Outside, it began to rain.

Lance Dancer stood in the front of the huge doublewide doors of the Redlands Diving-Eagle Casino. It was early morning but the place was still packed. Ten large cruise buses rested in the parking lot, waiting for their horde of gamblers from the city to empty their pockets, or occasionally, fill them. Each group represented an ethnic clan— Chinese, Russian, African-American, Samoan, etc. Some groups were polite and composed, some rowdy and rude, some boisterous and exited. The new coin machines drew most of the attention, but a goodly number still sat at the long tables in the old bingo hall, eating from the buffet and noisily talking between games.

Only a small number of the employees were Indian. The floor manager was Mexican, as were a large number of technicians, waitresses, and food personnel. The major administrators were white, including the GM. Only a few older and young adults from Redlands tribe, and a number of Indians from other Tribes had upper management jobs. Of course, the families of the Tribal Council were well represented, as were their supporters.

Despite the casino's contribution to the local economy, the Redlands people had yet to see any real economic benefit. Most of the profits were still going to the management group that initially funded the enterprise and what was left disappeared into the deep pockets of the Tribal Council.

Dancer remembered how staunchly his Grandfather had opposed the project, suggesting instead that they try to attract some real legitimate businesses to the Res. Opponents pointed out that gambling was "traditional" among Indians and that it would be easier to find investors for a casino than a factory. Grandpa, after hearing the "traditional gambling" idea, had commented dryly how drinking could be considered "traditional" by the same reasoning. Actually, Abraham hadn't used the word "traditional" too much in the last twenty years. He figured that what had survived these days probably did not have much to do with the old ways of teaching and passing on important oral tradition. Neither were there were enough people left who thought in the old language and Horse believed that anyone who thought first in English was incapable of speaking authoritatively of the old ways. Grandpa was, of course, one of those few who still thought in Indian, except for those times when English was the only language relevant to the activity. Dancer wished that he had been brought up with the Redlands tongue as his first language, but his Dad had believed that the only way to survive and lift his children from depression was to separate them as much as possible from Indian Ways. Only after his father was killed in Vietnam and his mother died in a car wreck, was Dancer, by living with his grandparents, reintroduced to his People's Ways.

The noise always shocked Dancer. Every time he entered the Casino, he felt like cringing and hiding in some corner until his jangled nerves quieted. In only a few moments however, his ears became accustomed to the onslaught and he blocked it out, like a warrior on the battlefield.

He nodded to one of the white security guards, an old high school basketball teammate from Midlands, and hurried into the bingo hall to see if he could find Irene's mother, Bernadine. She was a large woman, tall as well as portly. He spotted her at the Cash Cage and hurried over. She spotted him immediately and waved. She spoke to the girl beside her and then came out of the cage and made her way to Dancer. Her colorful dress rustled and her long beaded earrings danced against her ears. She brushed her black bangs back from her eyes and smiled.

"How are you Auntie", Dancer said politely. She was not his aunt by blood, but Grandpa had drummed into him the formal system of greater relationship used by almost every Tribe to speak to their people—and in those Tribes who considered it rude, or even worse, to use a given name in public (or at all), the system makes it easy to speak to anyone.

"I'm fine, Nephew. And your Grandfather?"

"He's been getting everything ready all day. Wanted me to ask if you need anything?"

"No, we finished her dress last night. It's beautiful. I haven't heard from 'the Walker", so I asked Pot Belly to sing for her."

Lance nodded in understanding.

"We figured you'd ask him. I think Grandpa saw Walker. He said he'd be there but..."

The large woman nodded. "So if they both come we'll have two!" She laughed.

Lance grinned too. "See you around eight then, Ok?"

"If your Grandpa says eight, he means ten-thirty. Tell him the coffee will be

ready and we'll start at noon!"

She smiled again.

Lance chuckled. "Indian time. Tell Irene I'll be there to throw stuff at her!"

"She'd never forgive you if you weren't."

Dancer waved and walked out of the hall. He went around a group of players yelling at someone who had just blacked out a machine, and bumped into Curtis Joe, Jack Tantor, and John Gray.

Dancers eyed all three men suspiciously and said under his breath, "If it ain't the Three Stooges".

Tantor and Gray kept walking but Joe stopped.

"Say what?"

"Nada." Dancer smiled innocently.

Joe looked disgusted, and stood aside so Dancer could get by. Dancer walked to the door. As he left he noticed Andy Joe, coughing like he'd swallowed his tongue.

"Fuck! We would have to run into that son-of-a-bitch," Jack Tantor fumed. "What's he doing out this time of the morning? I knew we shoulda had our meeting somewhere else."

"Chill, Jack. I'm a cattleman too." John Gray patted the rancher on the shoulder. "It don't mean nothin'. Let's get a steak."

Midlands

The shiny red Jag sat on the road shoulder, windows steamed, exhaust pipe hissing in the rain. The well-dressed man inside fumbled with his tie, drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, and fiddled with the radio. Where the hell were they?

A fingernail tapping on his window startled him so badly he almost peed in his suit trousers. Rolling down the window, he stared at the tall man malevolently.

"You're late!" he barked.

"A slight delay, that's all. Everything worked out." The cold gray eyes held a peculiar look of excitement.

"Here's the package. The dry ice is just about gone, so you better shut your fucking mouth and get going, eh?"

Glen Houser was about to say something smart in return, but the smile on the other man's face gave him the creeps. He looked away and turned the Jag onto the roadway. As he drove toward Midlands, he cursed himself. Why had he gotten in so deep? He knew the answer. He liked the faster life and the money. There was just no walking away from this. That tall fuck back there might even try to kill him if he backed out now! He sighed. Hopefully this one would go as simply as the others. After all, it was just the flu!

Behind him, the tall man stood in the rain, staring after the sports car—and smiling. Now for the drive east. thought Carliss. He climbed into the van and carefully looked behind him before pulling out onto the highway. He started singing “El Paso”, by Marty Robbins. He was feeling better than he had in a long time.

Redlands

The songs flowed out of Wilson "Pot Belly" Anderson as easily as sweat from a forty stone lodge. His strong voice dipped and dived, lumbered and danced, breaking the young woman free from her past and pushing her forward into womanhood. Her dress was a marvel of old time labor. Hand-tanned buckeye-smoked yellow buckskin clung to her womanly curves, emphasizing her completion of youth and entrance into the adult world of mothers and wives. Elk ivory teeth graced the neckline and different colored horsehair fringes hung down the back. Rolled chew-tobacco tins jingled from the bottom hem and flashed in the afternoon sunlight.

Her face paint was earth red with dustings of pine pollen yellow. Her knee-length moccasins were fully beaded and her feather fan was quilled intricately and decorated with tiny multicolored feathers. A rainbow dance shawl was draped across her shoulders as she sat knees-to-the-side on a brightly colored Pendleton blanket.

Abrahm WarHorse had completed the Ceremony and the young woman was receiving blessings from many of the Elders, as well as gifts from her relatives. Pot Belly was still singing powerfully after many hours. Grandpa was asked what had happened to Walker, and he had answered, semi-truthfully, that he didn't know. But the pain of his inner knowledge hurt him bad. He pushed it away so that he could share in the community pride for the young woman, her family, and all the people who had attended the Ceremony.

He knew that these kinds of coming-together were the only way the deep wounds within and without the People could be healed. The only thing that had clouded the day's activities was the sickness that had caused the absence of many of the Redlands people. Even Irene’s boyfriend, who had promised her he would be there, had been too ill to fulfill his pledge. Now that the Ceremony was over, he could see that Irene's eyes were darting around, looking to see if he was there. Obviously, her relatives had not told her of his illness. Grandpa spoke to her Aunt, and the woman went over and whispered in her ear. He saw a concerned look come over her face and knew that for her, the Ceremony was now past. He stepped close to the blanket, and said the closing prayer so all could hear. After a few minutes, she rose to her feet and began walking toward the cabin.

Abrahm watched her walk away and realized that something was wrong. He walked quickly to her shoulder and noticed that her face was covered with a sheen of perspiration and her color beneath the paint was pale and sickly. She stopped for a moment and bent over quickly, vomiting heavily. She put her hand in his, as her mother and aunts came hurrying toward them. She looked into Grandpa's face and he could smell her fear. Then her eyes rolled up in her head and she fell forward heavily, convulsing. Grandpa's shoulder screamed with the attempt to keep her from falling face first as he managed to catch and turn her in one movement, letting her down gently the last few inches to the ground. All around him, he could hear people gasping. He heard the sound of more people vomiting. Looking around him, he realized that something was going very, very wrong.

The bison moved in a group across the plateau. Soldier and Lance Dancer sat on their horses, with Horse and Rodney sitting on the tailgate of Dancer's truck. They had finished placing the ton of hay the herd was grazing toward, and were watching them proudly.

Grandpa had just related the tale of the shocking conclusion of Irene's Dance to Rod and Soldier.

"Twelve people went to the hospital? Twelve?" Soldier asked incredulously.

"Maybe it was food poisoning." Rodney offered.

A cloud of dust became visible from the other side of the ridge and their attention turned toward it.

"What do ya think it is?” asked Rodney, spitting a large tobacco stream off to the side of the truck tire.

"Could be a small twister or a truck coming down from the Lake", said Horse, chewing on his unlit pipe stem.

"On my land!” Rodney's voice almost squeaked as his jaw locked aggressively.

"We'll know in a minute," Soldier volunteered, but he already knew what it was. It was a truck spinning its wheels down to the dirt on the slick long grass at the backside of the ridge. He pulled his Meopta HS 75 spotting scope from his saddlebag and looked through it. He could just make out the front of a Chevy S-10 bumper trying to make it over the hillcrest just below the herd.

Grandpa spoke in a disgusted voice.

"Stupid ranchers are tryin' to make trouble for our Buffs."

Dancer's head jerked toward him simultaneously with Rodney's. Their mouths hung open incredulously.

"Whaaat?" Dancer sputtered.

Rod Welk almost swallow his chew trying to spit and yell at the same time.

"Goddamn sonsabitches, better get off my land!” he yelled at the top of his voice, choking and spitting when he was finished.

Soldier looked at Grandpa and Dancer.

"What do you wanna do about it?"

Grandpa and Dancer both bristled and Soldier could see the family resemblance in their defiant faces.

"Let's pay them a visit", Dancer said shortly.

Soldier looked at the truck, now only five hundred yards from the herd. The buffalo were looking over their shoulders.

"I can slow 'em down", he said quietly.

He dismounted carefully and handed the reins to Dancer.

"Move the horses over to the other side of the truck, OK?"

When Dancer had done what he asked, Soldier slid his 7.62 mm M24 with its M3A scope from the beaded leather scabbard and lay down prone in the grass. The M24 utilized a special M118 ball bullet, and was a bolt action, six shot repeating sniper's rifle first fielded in 1988. Soldier sighted the truck in. Rodney started to say something and Dancer shushed him.

"That's an awfully long shot", Rodney said, "hope ya don't hit one of them cowboys."

However, Dancer and Horse knew about Soldier and firearms. He was rumored to have been the best marksman with almost any weapon that the Navy Seals had had in the Gulf War. He had been asked to compete in the Olympic trials but Soldier had no interest in shooting for sport. To him firearms were dangerous tools, made for no other purpose than to cause fear or kill.

The first shot punctured the radiator, the second exploded the front tire, and the third shattered the driver's side view mirror. Rodney was amazed at how fast Soldier had levered out the shells and completed the three shots.

"If them Kennedy conspiracy people seen what I jest seen ", mused Rodney out loud, "they'd have believed in the one gun theory!"

Soldier ignored the compliment and sat up watching the truck. It had come to a halt with the first shot and now sat steaming and crippled. The men inside had leaped out of the truck and were now jumping around shouting and shaking their fists wildly at the small group of men gathered above them.

They climbed into Dancer's truck and slowly drove down the hill toward the ranchers. They stopped a short distance away and the three Skins stood next to the truck as Rodney Walk’s short thick legs carried him toward their adversaries.

A big man in overalls yelled at them.

"What you mean shootin' at us? You got no right to fuck up my truck like that. One of us coulda been killed!"

"You're trespassing on my land, bumfuck!” screamed Rodney, his neck red and bunched, veins corded and thick.

"You're scaring my stock."

"Them buffalos ain't stock, you old geezer", said one of the other cowboys. You know they're gonna wreck this range and maybe poison all our cattle."

"You been standing in cow shit so long you can't tell when someone's spoon-feeding it to you," shouted Rodney. "Up in Canada, they got big buff ranches right next to cattle ranches and there ain't never been a case of the Big B. As for them ruining the range, they're a hell of a lot smarter than them slow elk you’re running and it's my range anyway! Now you assholes get off my land before I get the Sheriff up here. You can be sure he's gonna hear about it anyways."

With dark faces the cowboys looked at each other and turned toward their truck, gathering up a few personal items.

"What about my truck", said the big one.

"I'll get Jim Bonner to drag it down to the highway. You can get it towed from there," Rodney spat.

One of the cowboys bent over and vomited.

"What’s with him?" Rodney said suspiciously.

But Grandpa Horse was already walking down the hill toward the men. He knew what was wrong. Moving to where the sick man had slumped down in the dirt, he spoke to him.

"Feel hot?"

The man nodded.

"Stomach queasy, dizziness?"

"Since just after lunch," the man replied shortly.

"Load him in the truck," Grandpa ordered.

Rodney looked to object, but Dancer knew better than to argue. White, Black, Red, Yellow, or Green, Grandpa's first responsibility was to help anyone in trouble. They loaded the man in the back of the truck, and allowed the others to climb in beside him. Without speaking to one another they all rode slowly back to Rodney's in silence, the tethered horses trotting behind them.

When they got there, Grandpa said.

“We're gonna take him to Midlands."

Rodney nodded.

“I'll take care of the horses—you boys go on."

The other men vowed to stay with their sick friend and rode in with Dancer, Soldier, and Grandpa to the hospital. The parking lot was full and the emergency room was jammed with sickly people.

Karan Deer looked like she was going fall down from exhaustion. Two hours later, when they left the Hospital, Grandpa looked grim and Dancer and Soldier didn't speak. Since the day before, when Irene and eleven others had been brought here, five more of the guests that had been at the Ceremony were now registered. Irene's boyfriend, mother, and one of his brothers were sick too.

Soldier told them to stay in contact and caught a ride home to his daughter.

When Grandpa began to sing softly beside him, Dancer knew they would be stopping to gather Medicine. He opened the glove compartment to make sure he had tobacco, and then fished behind the seat to check for gunnysacks. There were two. He hoped two bags would be enough. The Bug was spreading.

At Redlands Indian School, the children were beginning to gather by the front door and it was only seven am. Some had been dropped off, but Colleen Thunder knew that most of them had walked. Their yelling seemed louder than normal as she hurried to unlock the door so they could come into the library and get warm.

"Give it to me, I found it!"

"No way. I saw it first!"

Colleen opened the door to find them standing in a circle around a teenage girl and boy.

"What's going on?"

Mike Plouffe's daughter, Cheryl, spoke rapidly.

"I found this metal tube that looks important, but Mr.Got-To-Touch-Everything grabbed it from me and won't give it back. He even opened it!"

The boy raised his hand to show Colleen the cylinder that Jake Carliss had carefully placed by the door, hoping for exactly this circumstance.

"There ain't anything in it, and besides, I saw it first."

"Let me see it."

Colleen examined the container, its apparently empty lab slides, and screw top, closely.

"What do you think it is?" said the teenager.

"I honestly don't know," said Colleen. "We'll ask Mr. Stephens when he gets here. In the mean time, we're letting all the heat out."

Mr. Stephens was a Scotch-Irish science teacher in his sixties with a heavy brogue the children loved. He had a wonderful tenor voice, and with enough coaxing from his students, the halls echoed with him singing some forlorn Gaelic ballad just before lunch or break. He'd had a drinking problem and the public schools wouldn't give him a second chance. Dancer had snapped him up in a hurry. So far, he would never come to class under the influence and was one of those rare teachers with a personality that charged his students with motivation and excitement. Colleen left the cylinder on his desk with a note and hurried back to the library.

Mr. Daniel “Danny-boy” Stephens examined the note carefully. He knew immediately that the metal container was a specimen containment cylinder. What the hell was one doing near the school front door? He examined the cylinder nervously. The two slides appeared to be clean but he knew that there were plenty of substances undetectable to the naked eye. He resolved to take the container to the hospital immediately after school. He knew the lab tech pretty well, they sang together in the Mission Valley barbershop choir. He didn't have a first period class, and as was his habit, he opened his brown bag and began to eat one of the three fat breakfast burritos he'd purchased from Manuella Medina, in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot in Mission. He knew she fed her kids on the money she made selling her homemade food. They were delicious and his mouth watered as he opened them.

As Daniel ate, and more children continued to drag in—already late for morning classes—the unseen predator among them was indiscriminately choosing its victims.

Lance Dancer WarHorse drove the 1961 Chevy pickup recklessly down the gravel road toward Redlands Indian School. He was thirty minutes late, but knew that Colleen and Willie would have everything rolling smoothly for the fifty-three children enrolled there. No one would say anything about his tardiness. This was Indian Country and things usually got started on approximate rather than exact time. Still, Dancer hated being late. His mother had been the one to put that habit in his mind. She thought it was disrespectful to make people wait. His friends always made fun of him cause he looked so frequently at his watch. Most of them didn't even wear one.

Dancer had stayed to burn tobacco with Grandpa this morning, something he used to do all the time but now only did infrequently. He knew Grandpa appreciated his company, but these days he seemed so busy-- and it hadn't been the ceremony that had caused him to be late. He'd forgotten to charge the pickup battery, even though the red generator light had been on for three days. He hadn't felt like working on it, and let it go until the battery was almost completely gone.

He had taken a chance the night before when he had driven over to the weekly Dance to see if Karan was there. She wasn't, but Soldier was. They'd bullshitted for an hour, tapping toes to the drum and admiring some of the young teenage women inconspicuously, conscious that they were getting too old to voice their appreciation in public. He'd danced a few social dances just before he left. The circle had been large, with all the clasped hands swaying back and forth, feet circling left then right according to the call. He was asked to help sing a couple of forty-inners, which he did—he loved the fun they had singing them. As he headed for his truck, he saw Soldier ejecting a couple of thirty-year-old men who were drunk and trying to pick a fight. Dancer recognized them.

Roy George and Phillip McConnell were two Tribal Council members who dealt marijuana to all the younger working adults. Dancer had already let them know in no uncertain terms what he and Soldier would do to them if they dealt to any of the school kids, but he didn't care otherwise. The young adult vote had elected them and by and large, they were sympathetic to the traditional point of view. However, they'd picked the wrong dance to drink at, Lance thought. Should have stuck to their weed. Soldier had been asked to help provide security for some of the weekly dances. It had caused a stir on the Rez because some of the trouble-makers liked to point out he wasn't a Redlands member, but the Dance Committee stood their ground, pointing out that Soldier was heavily respected for his martial experience and if they were going to have rules they should be enforced.

Soldier had them both by the back of their jackets and was dragging them toward their vehicle. The tips of their toes barely touched the ground. Dancer was constantly amazed at Soldier's strength. Lance could see one of the men was mouthing off, but neither was putting up any real struggle. The smile had stayed on his face until he turned the key to the truck ignition and was rewarded with silence. He got out of the truck and watched the two men drive away, their vehicle weaving down the road, shouting threats at Soldier who stood with his hands clasped in front of him like a minister standing at the door of his church. Ever since the Dance Committee had begun to enforce the no drugs or drinking standards at Tribal events, a lot more of the elderly Redlands people had begun to attend them. Of course, no one went around smelling everyone's breath or checking pupil size-- but the amount of fighting and trouble had been significantly reduced.

Soldier and he asked around until they found a pair of jumper cables and Dancer finally got home around midnight. The Redlands dogs howled in unison and a group of four or five tried to bite his tires as he drove up to the cabin. The wind was blowing like crazy and he was so tired he completely forgot about finding an extension cord so he could hook up the charger to the battery. He went in and found Grandpa still up making medicine tea for those who had asked for it. They had a cup of coffee together and Dancer dragged himself off to sleep.

After tobacco the next morning, he had to wait for someone passing by to give him a push. That someone turned out to be Irene's Dad going in to the hospital to see his family. Dancer was concerned to hear that they were still there and seemed to be getting worse. After the truck was running, Dancer went in to tell Grandpa the news. Abrahm's face was grave. He didn't seem surprised.

Dancer was now only a mile from the school. He thought of Karan, and wished he hadn't. Karan had had it pretty hard in the last year, especially when she lost her Dad. She'd really torn into him about not telling her about his trip North, especially when he told her about Corrine.

Lance's struggle to get the school accredited had taken up most of last summer and he hadn't spent much time with her in the midst of her grief. He'd worked his ass off dealing with the fucking BIA, and State Education officials, finding himself knee deep in paperwork he didn't understand. If it wasn't for Colleen Thunder, he would have never succeeded in getting the school recognized as an official alternative to public school for the Redlands kids. When they finally got the good news, Soldier had asked him if he wanted to go with him on the powwow trail up North. He went gratefully. When he got back he thought about telling Karan about Corrine, but didn't think it was important enough to mention. He didn't realize that her Catholic upbringing gave her different values than those he had been raised with when it came to casual sex. There weren't any girls in Redlands that interested Dancer, other than Karan, so the issue had never come up before. While she assumed they had an exclusive relationship, he never thought that it meant he couldn't enjoy himself physically with another woman in a far away place. When he casually mentioned it in the context of another conversation, she went off on him. He snidely accused her of suffering from "Native Catholic confusion" and that brought the argument to a head. She got very quiet and cold. He'd tried to apologize later but when she realized that he really felt no guilt about his actions, she had refused to hear it. She tried to lecture him about the dangers of promiscuous behavior and Dancer laughed in her face. He didn't consider his behavior promiscuous at all. He knew that neither of them had promised fidelity in so many words, but it was obviously what she had expected. They hadn't spoken about it for almost two weeks. Dancer looked at the sweet grass braid hanging from his rear view mirror and thought of Corrine.

She'd been one of the contestants in the Traditional Women's competition at the Lame Deer, Montana Powwow. The atmosphere of the Northern Cheyenne Nation's Annual Powwow had been more informal and closer knit than some of the larger, more commercial Powwow's held on the Northern Plains. He'd immediately noticed her beautifully beaded moccasins, her broad shoulders, and the smooth graceful sway of her fringe. She hadn't won, but Dancer knew that it wasn't always the best dancer that won; sometimes it was who you were or who you knew. Afterward, seeing her in worn cowboy boots, with a Chicago Bulls jersey hanging loose over her blue jeans, he thought she was the most stunning woman he had ever seen. Her brown hair was trimmed to shoulder length, with a soft curl at the ends. Her skin was a cream colored latte', definitely not white but not deep brown either. She was almost six feet tall and built for strength. After seeing just how big her arms and legs were, he was amazed at the grace and coordination she exhibited dancing. This girl was buffed! He followed her to an Indian Taco stand and started up a conversation. By the time they'd both finished the fry bread with toppings and washed it down with real lemonade, he was hooked.

She'd driven him out into the hills, up a dusty road and then right across where there was no road to a beautiful meadow where they sat in the truck talking and enjoying the canopy of stars. White sage poked from the grass and pine needles. White birch whispered in the coulees, as a soft breeze accompanied the fragrant smells of night. Lance Dancer was as jittery as a new colt feeling the blanket. Hummingbirds skittered around in his stomach when she pulled a bright blue Pendleton blanket from behind the truck seat and literally dragged him to a soft flat spot on a knoll overlooking a canyon where the chokecherries and cottonwoods kept silent watch.

She was a wild one all right, popping his shirt snaps in her hurry to undress him. After that, she was hot and gentle, laughing like a child in her pleasure. They plunged into their passion like horses charging down the bank to drink on a hot day. Their love was consummated quickly, but they began again almost immediately, slowly and with great tenderness, taking their time exploring each other's bodies. The July moon was nearly full and coyotes serenaded them continuously, once coming so close that Dancer was sure were being watched.

Corrine's body was generous and well formed. With her first explosion of passion, she seemed to experience one continual orgasm. The circuits of her mind appeared to be one with the electrical signals of her body, like a dam with a small hole in it growing larger and larger until the dam burst with a flood that poured, unstoppable, into a fiery sea. Her muscular body trembled and shook in his arms as he was driven to new heights of ecstasy and wonder.

Finally, they lay on their backs, sated, emptied, and fulfilled. Her leg rested casually over his, as they held hands and gazed at the sea of stars. They talked quietly of their lives, feeling no awkwardness. Dancer had never met a woman so comfortable with who she was, and where she wanted to be. It seemed as if life had offered her a free ticket with no layovers. He tried to speak of how he felt, but his words came out jumbled and she shushed him with a finger to his lips. Then she straddled him again and rubbed her generous breasts against his chest. Her eyes were large and wet in the pale light, but she was smiling. Later, when they finally slept, Dancer dreamed of white buckskin and shimmering brown eyes.

In the morning she built a small fire and got a dented, fire blackened coffeepot from the truck's glove compartment. Boiling some water from a canteen hanging from the empty gun racks behind the seat, she spilled in some coffee grounds from a plastic bag and brewed some coffee. They shared it in an oddly shaped coffee mug that looked more like a bowl than a cup.

"My brother's pottery project," she said with an elfish smile. They exchanged affectionate kisses but there was no need for more than that. They both knew they would be more friends than lovers, despite the passion of the night before. Dancer knew that his friend Corrine probably understood men better than he did women. He knew that sex was not always the first thing that came to a woman's mind and often they did not think of a man that way at all—while men gravitated first toward women they were attracted too. Corrine had simply defused the sexual tension of their relationship and left an open ground for them to pursue their friendship without any lingering questions or desires. Dancer admired her forthright nature and her perceptiveness. He expected she could probably get just about any man she wanted to do whatever she wanted him to do. Nevertheless, her motives were simple and pure—she had enjoyed herself as much as he had and now she had a lifelong friend to boot.

When she dropped him off at the place where he and Soldier had agreed to meet, she shook her head like a lioness and shouted as she drove away.

"Next time I won't be so easy on you!"

Dancer walked toward Soldier's jeep happy and relaxed for the first time in many months. The next day they drove back to Redlands.

Dancer knew he was going to have to have a serious sit-down with Karan. He liked her a lot. He wasn't sure if he wanted to marry her yet, but he definitely wanted to keep seeing her. He liked her wit and intelligence. She was a bit too furiously determined sometimes, but there was the pressure of her job to contend with and she often took things too seriously. He decided to call her later in the day and ask her to dinner. Hopefully she would forgive him.

Redlands Indian School appeared in the distance. Its multicolored gate was painted brightly with graffiti and slogans. The kids had had a great time putting it together. They had hunted up every Indian bumper sticker and saying for the last thirty years. Sayings like: Indian Power, Red Power, God Is Red, Custer Died For Your Sins, Indian Land, BIA—Big Indian Asses, Remember Alcatraz, and others. Earth—Love It or Lose It, had caused a heated debate about whether it had Indian or hippy roots, but in the end, everyone decided it should be there too. Dancer thought the kids had had more fun making up the new ones—Forty-Niners Are Not A Football Team, Anthropologists—Dig Up Your Own, Mormons Are Morons, FBI—Fanatic Bullies, Inc. and DQU2. Dancer had pointed out it would take a long bumper sticker to put some of those on but the kids had had their way.

Some of the non-Indian locals, especially the Mormon Church, had vigorously objected to the sayings and had even discussed suing on discriminatory grounds. Dancer had shaken the threats off with a laugh. The kids had a right to express their views and since a few of them had been taken from their Redlands parents and placed for a time with Mormon families, there was quite a bit of resentment built up. A local layer had represented the families and finally gotten the children back, but there was a residue of hatred there.

Having grown up hearing stories of the All -Tribes Movement and the American Indian Movement, Dancer believed that any sentiment that expressed pride was a positive step forward, no matter how militant or disturbing it might be to the Anglo world. Alcoholism and drug addiction were the enemies today, and anything that increased self-esteem and a feeling of self-worth could be a factor in winning the war. Until the people believed in themselves again, their losses would remain heavy.

Dancer's grandfather had been among those first movement warriors. He constantly remembered those lost as political prisoners or killed outright. The Indian wars had definitely not ended in the eighteen hundreds. They had been vicious and deadly even into the mid-1970's. His grandfather father had insisted that Dancer go to college and get an education in the Anglo world. After his Grandmother's death, Dancer had wallowed in depression until Grandpa Horse had forced him to get off his butt and begin using his college training in education. His Grandma had been the first to suggest the idea of an Indian school. Dancer had latched onto the idea like a pit bull, even then. After he had recovered from her passing, Dancer had committed himself to making it happen, in her memory. He would never forget the night he and Grandpa had cried together over coffee in the little cabin kitchen when the accreditation news had come through.

He pulled the truck into his parking space in front of the school administration office and looked at the buildings with pride. The school was operating efficiently, the kids were doing well, and their parents were happy. That was an accomplishment in itself. Usually projects like this suffered from too much outside Anglo interference or incompetent internal leadership. He was lucky that Redlands people seemed to suffer less infighting and jealousy than could be found in some of the other Tribes. He’d had a number of friends from other Indian Nations who could have easily been professional athletes, but the pressures of handling the jealousies that came with potential success had killed their careers before they had even begun.

Through the dirty windshield, he saw the door to the administration offices open and the concerned face of Colleen Thunder peer out. As soon as she saw his truck, she was sprinting across the parking lot. Dancer barely had time to open the door before she was beside him, talking a mile a minute.

“Cheryl’s sick—and some of the others as well. I don’t know what it is. Yesterday, they were fine, but I think it’s serious!”

Dancer hurried toward the building with her at his elbow. He was feeling guilty that he had taken the day before off, to see to the Buffs. He could feel how concerned Colleen was. She wasn’t the kind of woman to be easily rattled. She had seen her share of tragedy and hard times in the ghettos of Minneapolis. After doing her stint with AIM, she’d gone back to school and gotten a degree in education. He had considered himself lucky to get her; the pay was much lower than she would have gotten at any public college or university. She was short and wide, but had an exceptionally pretty face, and a personality to match. The kids loved her.

They hurried inside and turned the corner to the Nurse’s Office. Denise Turnbull was a replacement for their regular nurse, Whitney Walks-Fast. Whitney was a young, beautiful, and extremely competent Redlands RN. She was getting married and had taken the month off to get ready. Denise was a white, middle-aged woman, tall and thin, with a hawkish appearance and a disdainful look in her eye. Dancer thought she was probably prejudiced against brown skinned people, but knew that she might just as well be the product of a corncob-up-her-ass upbringing. She had a cold and distant way of relating to the children.

“I really don’t think it’s anything serious,” she said, haughtily, dismissing Colleen with a gesture. “I’m having the lunch room and the food checked thoroughly. It’s probably just a mild case of food poisoning.”

“They haven’t had lunch yet, Miss Turnbull!” Colleen retorted.

Dancer walked straight to the cot where the young teen-aged girl lay. It was “Little Bit”, Cheryl Plouffe, Soldier's daughter. He placed his hand on her forehead and turned her head toward him. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, and he could tell she had a high temperature. He turned angrily to Denise Turnbull.

“Have you taken her temperature? How long as she been like this?”

The woman hesitated before replying.

“She just came in fifteen minutes ago. I haven’t had time…”

Dancer looked past her as if she wasn’t there.

“How many more?” he asked.

Cheryl’s nut-brown skin was pale. Beads of sweat gathered on her upper lip. She lay on her side, curled into a fetal position, her fingers clutching a stainless steel bowl to her chest.”

Colleen knelt beside her.

“Five others”, she said quietly.

She seemed to have recovered her composure, and a confident, serious look had returned to her face.

Dancer rose and went to look in on the other children in the adjoining room. Two were lying down on cots, while the other three sat in chairs. All of them had the same pale, sweaty look, and a number of them held bowls or buckets to their chests. He noticed one of the boys lying down.

“Is that Jimmy Joe?”

Colleen nodded.

“They all threw up at least once, but Cheryl and Jimmy seem to be the sickest.”

Dancer thought of the people from Irene's Ceremony and the man they had driven to the hospital the day before. He hurried back into Cheryl’s room.

He stood beside her bed trying to decide what to do. Calling an ambulance out to the school could take an hour or more.

Cheryl moaned and rubbed her stomach, pulling her knees up even tighter to her chest. Suddenly she turned her head and looked at him. Her eyes focused and she recognized him. They shone with an unnatural brightness. Tears welled in her eyes and streamed down her cheeks.

“I feel so sick. Uncle Dancer, why am I so sick?”

Lance Dancer shook his head helplessly.

“I don’t know, sweetheart, but we’re gonna find out.”

“I’m scared,” she said. Her body was racked with dry heaves and she pulled the bowl close to her mouth.

He reached down to push back the hair that had fallen into her eyes and brushed against her skin. It was like brushing up against a wood stove! She turned her head away again and he made his decision.

“Don’t worry, Bit, I’m going to take you to Karan. She’ll fix you up.”

He turned to Colleen.

“Tell Willie to fire up the van. We’re takin’ them to Midlands, now!”

“Will you call my Dad?” Cheryl whispered without raising her head.

“Yeah,” said Dancer, a lump forming in his throat.

Within only a few minutes Dancer saw the blue van pull up outside the window. They hurriedly loaded the children who could walk into the van. Then Colleen appeared with two sleeping bags, which they rolled out in on the floor in the back. Willie Wilson, a half-black, half-Choctaw Indian from Mississippi, came in with an old army stretcher and helped Dancer carry James Joe and Cheryl out to the van. Both seemed to be unconscious and Dancer began to feel the first twinges of fear. He looked at the three frightened faces that peered out from the front seat.

“It’s Ok, kids. Willie and Colleen are gonna take you to Midlands. As soon as I get my Grandpa, I’ll be there too.”

Colleen climbed in the back after giving Dancer a quick and unusual hug. He slid the door closed and turned to Willie.

“Get ‘em there as quick as you can safely, Bro.”

Willie’s eyes were wide and white in his black face.

“No problem,” was all he said, looking into Dancer’s eyes before he trotted around to the drivers side, climbed in, and quickly drove the van out of the parking lot.

Dancer watched them turn onto the highway before he hurried to the Chevy. He trusted Willie almost as much as he did Soldier.

Willie was a Nam Vet, who’d done some time on a manslaughter beef. Knowing Willie, Dancer figured it had been self-defense, but the guy had been white. Being black, and Indian, was a double whammy in Mississippi with only a public defender to present your case. Willie had done three years, and when he got out, he was unable to find work as a felon. Despite the government’s assertion that ex-convicts, like Willie, were rehabilitated and no longer a threat to society—most employers could care less. He couldn’t work in Casinos because he was a felon. It was a common problem for Indians all over the country. Many Indians had found themselves on the wrong side of the law at one time or other in their lives. It didn’t take much to get a felony record, which precluded them working at any gambling facility. In some places, almost fifty percent of the Indian populace was unable to work in their own Casinos because of the legal restrictions that the Associations, or the Tribes themselves, put on their human resource representatives when it came to hiring ex-felons. But here at Redlands, Willie Wilson was the kind of man Dancer had looked for to be the full-time maintenance jack-of-all-trades they needed at the school. Solid, dependable, reliable, honest and hardworking, Wilson had also become a favorite of the students. He spoke Choctaw and knew some of the old songs and stories. The kids regularly turned to him for entertainment when things were slow. He was an unexpected educational asset, as well as being able to fix almost anything with the few tools they had available. Dancer had no qualms about putting the children in his charge.

Dancer held his breath as he turned the key in the Chevy, but breathed a sigh of relief as it fired and started right away. His thoughts turned to Soldier as he raced the truck toward Redlands. He wasn’t sure what he should say to his blood brother when he found him. He’d seen enough death in the Gulf War to see that it was hovering over Cheryl. She had been the centerpiece in Soldier’s world since the day she was born. Lance breathed a few of Grandpa’s big sighs. He wasn’t looking forward to finding Soldier. Not one bit.

Midlands General Hospital

Karan took the stairs two at a time to get to her office. She wanted to get her paperwork in order just in case she was called before the hospital board because of her loud and public argument with Glen Houser. She knew that her nurses couldn’t keep working their present schedule of hours much longer. She had already had one quit and two go on disability. Even the orderlies and janitorial staff were being taxed beyond their capabilities. Glen could easily have ordered the necessary changes last week with the economic reorganization of the hospital’s budget completed. New funding sources had allowed for hiring enough new nurses and staff to ease the load, but Glen had delayed the interviews for another week. The hospital had been a dead zone for the last month and still he kept everyone on, like he was expecting a plague to erupt or something! Karan had noticed that the emergency room seemed to be full over the weekend, but after the last few weeks, the burnt out staff would probably welcome the activity. She went to get a coffee in the cafeteria and passed Glen on the way back. He only gave her a perfunctory nod. Karan was grateful for his lack of attention. Usually he forced her to stop and make conversation.

Everyone knew that he had had a thing for her; he hadn’t tried to conceal his affection at all. It had caused quite a strain in their work relations, but Karan had steeled herself to ignore him. Maybe the argument cooled him off, Karan thought, grinning ruefully. Glen Houser was fifty-four years old and almost bald. The little hair left above his ears was completely gray and his glasses had created a permanent red mark on the bridge of his nose. His eyes were a washed out blue that seemed perpetually watery, but his mind was sharp and his body in good condition from hours of racquetball at the Midlands Fitness Club.

Two years ago, his wife had left him for a prominent Phoenix physician who had access to the social life and cocaine parties she loved. She had been an addict for a number of years, but the Midlands staff, physicians, and board members had looked the other way in deference to Glen’s position. No one lamented her leaving, except Glen, in a masochistic kind of way. She had been beautiful when had married her, but her habits had ridden her hard and her looks had been fading fast. When he finally insisted she enter a rehab facility in Tucson, she had announced that she had a better offer and loaded her clothes in the BMW that very evening. The next day she called from a hotel in Phoenix to tell him she would not be coming back and to give him the name of her attorney. By the end of the week, she had moved in with her new boyfriend and supplier. Glen had had a couple of bad weeks, but seemed to recover himself quickly. Most everyone at the hospital thought he was better off, especially since they had no children.

At that point, Glen really became a big spender. Gossip seemed to favor the notion that he would go through his money quickly but that had not happened. In fact, over the last year he ate regularly at the most expensive restaurant in town, got a shiny new Jag, and a flashy new wardrobe of very expensive tailored suits. He took frequent trips out of town, but never said where he was going. Half the staff thought his money was coming from investments, while the other half suspected more devious sources. His yearly salary was public knowledge, yet he seemed to have exceeded that extravagantly in the past year. The standing joke around the hospital was that Glen was the pharmacy's best under-the-table customer, though few believed it. The inventory was intact, and most of the staff knew how vehemently Glen hated drugs, especially with what he had been through with his wife.

Glen had first started pursuing Karan about six months after his wife left him. She had turned him down again and again, letting him know of her relationship with Lance WarHorse. He was undeterred however, and the knowledge that she was involved with someone from Redlands just seemed to spur him on and give him new energy in his pursuit. When Dancer had gone north, and after putting in two straight double shifts, she had broken down and allowed him to take her to dinner. The food had been excellent and the wine superb, but Glen had been silent and brooding. She found herself in a surprisingly good mood after dinner and Glen seemed to open up. He was actually quite witty and kept his banter light and the conversation easy. She drank a little too much and let her guard down on the way home. As he drove her through the dark streets of Midlands, she was shocked to feel his hand on her upper thigh. With the alcohol, and her surprise, it took her a moment to react and he took that to indicate her acceptance of his pass. When she lightly brushed his hand away, he grabbed her wrist tightly and tried to force her hand on him between his legs. Karan became outraged and slapped him hard on the side of his head nearest her. He almost drove the Jag into the back of the Piggly Wiggly grocery, stopping just short of its seven overflowing trashcans, and a dumpster full of cardboard boxes. He turned to her with a murderous look in his eye, but that changed abruptly and he drove her home, apologizing all the way.

Karan was consumed with guilt over having let the evening get out hand, and going out with him in the first place. They didn’t even say goodnight. He roared off as she went inside and cried for half an hour, missing Dancer. The next day Glen acted as if nothing had happened, smiling and flirting freely. Obviously, he had not been put off by her response and she was unable to clearly discourage him without being publicly obvious. That week Glen had been appointed interim director and the financial reorganization had begun.

For the last few months, they had both been so busy that their moments together had been brief and full of business. Still, he always made a comment about them going out again, to which she responded with silence. When Dancer had returned and told her about the Montana girl, she had felt betrayed. It seemed so wrong, and so painful, especially after she realized how much she felt for him. For him to have had such a casual affair hurt her deeply. She still didn’t know quite how she was going to reconcile her feelings. She just knew that nothing was the same anymore.

Karan got up from her desk and went to find Marty Everett. Marty had been on duty all night in the E.R. He would know what kind of activity they had had. She was surprised to find that Marty had gone home feeling sick, so she was forced to look at the registration log. After the weekend rush from Irene's Ceremony, and another bunch of patients who came down with the same kind of fly symptoms on Monday—today was starting out pretty quiet. Two drunks had been admitted in the last hour. One had suffered a concussion from a fall and the other’s head had had an altercation with a broken bottle requiring a dozen stitches. At the bottom of the page she noticed a DOA from an apparent heart attack. Curious, she went to find the file and was startled to find that the victim was an unidentified Indian male, approximately seventy years old. She had an uncomfortable apprehension in her stomach as she hurried down the corridor, taking the three flights of stairs down to the morgue.

As Billy Vaughn, a gangling, pimply-faced white boy led her to drawer where the body lay; awaiting transport to the Midlands Funeral Home, Willie Wilson was pulling the van from Redlands into the Emergency parking lot.

Karan, unaware of the frantic activities beginning to start upstairs, stood for a moment, unsure if she was prepared to face the identification of someone she knew. Billy Vaughn interpreted her hesitation as an unwillingness to open the drawer herself so he stepped forward and opened the door with a bang, sliding the tray out.

Karan was right. She was unprepared for the sight of Gordon Walker’s rugged face, eyes open, peering up at her, his normally animate face chiseled blue by death.

Redlands

Twenty-eight minutes after leaving Redlands, Dancer raced the Apache Ten down the dirt road to his Grandfather's cabin. He blinked twice at the sight of Grandpa Horse, standing in front of the gate with his Pipe Bag and Bundle under his arm. Dancer skidded to a stop in front of him. Horse flung open the door and jumped in.

"Let's go, son", he said in a low voice. "Now."

Dancer knew better than to ask questions. His surprise at Grandpa's power faded away quickly. Grandfather always seemed to know when things were going to happen. The WarHorse Medicine was strong.

He backed the pickup out to the main road, and drove like he was speeding toward a checkered flag.

When they reached the hospital, Lance saw the school van parked in an emergency space. Breathing a sigh of relief, he fumbled in his pocket for his wallet. The school insurance number was the first thing they'd ask for. He knew Karan would have made sure the kids were all admitted immediately but he was not looking forward to the paperwork! Grandpa was moving so fast Lance had to sprint to catch him as he pushed through the double wide swinging doors of the emergency room and almost ran into Rodney Welk, standing just inside. Rodney's cowboy hat was crooked on his head and his shoulders were slumped. He looked sick and bewildered. Dancer took his hand and led him to the receptionist's desk.

“Feelin' sick, Rod?”

“To death,” Welk said shortly.

Dancer patted him on the shoulder as Jill Everett, a lanky, bespectacled nurse, stood up to meet them. She motioned Grandpa toward the waiting room with a curt bob of her head and began asking Rodney the questions hospitals always ask patients at admittance. Grandpa ignored her and simply gazed down the hall. She peered at them out of the corner of eye, shook her curly red hair back from her forehead, and scrunched up her freckled nose in recognition. She stopped her questions to Rod and looked directly into Lance's eyes.

"You the WarHorses?” She emphasized the words as if to indicate she thought it wasn't a real name. “The paperwork can wait. Ms Deer wanted me to send you directly to her office.”

She spoke without feeling, mechanically, and Lance sensed the hostility and prejudice in her tone. Normally he would have purposely taunted her, but he was surprised and nervous that the paperwork was being passed over. Things must be more serious than he thought. His stomach churned and there was a bitter taste in his mouth as they left Rod Welk, looking like he was gonna keel over at any minute, and followed the tall white woman's click-clacking heels down the polished floor toward Karan's office.

It was obvious that Jill didn't like Indians, especially those from Redlands. He supposed she had overlooked Karan's heritage because Karan was city-raised and because of her education and standing at the hospital. He couldn't resist the temptation to touch her lightly on the shoulder when they reached the office door. She flinched noticeably.

"Thanks Jill", he said in a syrupy voice, "we couldn't have made it without you. Maybe we could have dinner some time?"

Her freckled face flushed with anger as she spun on her heel and walked away as fast as she could. He smiled after her, winking at his Grandfather, but the smile faded as he opened the door to Karan's office.

Lance knew as soon as he saw the taut, strained look on her face that his fears were justified. Their eyes met and she looked away quickly. She reached up to wipe away tears that made her eyes shine unnaturally in the neon light. Lightning flashed outside and thunder followed. Rain pounded against the window.

“Time is important,” Grandpa said gently.

“Cheryl may be dying,” Karan said wearily.

The shock hit Lance like a wave of cold water, chilling him, thickening his blood.

“How...” he croaked, “What's happening?”

“We honestly don't know,” Karan said quickly, her beautiful features twisted in emotional agony. “Glen thinks it's a new virus. Maybe some new kind of flu we haven't seen yet. The people from Irene's Ceremony don't seem to be as sick. They must have a different kind. The symptoms are a mixed bag, but definitely flu. Fever, chills, body ache, vomiting, lung congestion, pain in the joints, even an occasional seizure.”

“What about Lil Bit?”, Grandpa asked.

“Her blood pressure and vitals have been falling the last few hours. Her white cell count's way below normal. Some of the Casino workers we've just admitted seem to have the same flu. Five of them are really bad too,” her voice trailed off and she looked out the window.

“You've got to get Grandpa into to see her right now!”

Karan continued as if she hadn't heard.

“She's the first to develop respiratory complications. Her lung congestion is beginning to affect her breathing. We've got her on oxygen and antibiotics but she hasn't responded. She's in intensive care.”

She looked at Grandpa and shook her head.

“You know how hard it's going be for me to get you in there? They know you're here, and with your reputation...well Glen doesn't think much of Native medicine...” she trailed off again into an embarrassed silence.

“Maybe it's time we convinced him our Kung Fu is strong.”

Grandpa Horse's smile was confident.

Karan sighed.

“It's worth a try. We sure aren't doing very well right now. Wait here.”

Karan rose quickly from her desk and brushed by Dancer as she hurried out of the office. Her scent lingered in the air and Dancer filled his nose with it. He had not realized how much he had missed her lately.

Grandpa seemed to know exactly what he was thinking.

“You two go together like venison and potatoes. Right now this hospital job is all she has—she deserves more.”

Dancer shifted his feet uncomfortably.

“Yeah, I know.”

His mind shifted to Cheryl and Soldier's face flashed into his mind

“Grandpa, do you have any idea where Soldier is today?”

Their eyes met and each thought of Cheryl's dad.

Washington D.C. (Five years before)

It had been a dark and drizzly day in the Nation's Capital. Dancer had been standing in front of the polished black wall for more than thirty minutes, slowly reading the names, making his way toward where he knew he would find the name of Howard William WarHorse, his father.

He had been a small boy when the black sedan bearing the news of his father's death had wound its way up the dusty road to their cabin at Redlands. His mother had been hanging clothes when she saw them coming from the bottom of the canyon, a great cloud of dust heralding their arrival. She'd fallen to her knees and begun to cry as Dancer's Grandmother ran to her side and his Grandfather swept him up into his arms and carried him back to the sweat lodge where he began building a fire.

Lance was left with only a few memories of his father. The one that consumed his dreams was of a handsome dark face with glittering black eyes, split in half by a great white toothy smile. The mouth was open, singing a 49er in a high melodious voice as powerful arms tossed Dancer into the air and strong hands caught him. Long black hair jumped and bounced with him as he giggled. Somehow, Dancer was never able to reconcile the memory with the serious looking shorthaired serviceman in the picture on his mother's dresser. Tying the memory to the name chiseled into the shining black stone of “the wall” was even harder. He could not feel any of the power of the memory, of the man, from those glittering letters. After awhile he gave up trying and walked away with an empty feeling in his belly.

After his experiences in the Gulf, Dancer thought that he might be able to fill the hole that had been left in him by the absence of his father as he was growing up. Not that he'd lacked for love, his Grandma and Grandpa had given as much of that as he needed, after his mother's death left him in their care. Still, he had hoped a visit to the monument would reveal some of what was missing from his spirit.

He walked away from the wall and stood for a moment by the statue of the Three Servicemen, wondering if he should go home or stay in the military. He noticed another man standing by the statue, looking like he was making a decision about something as well. The other man was large, a Marine in full dress. His bank of ribbons was impressive and he was obviously Native. Dancer struck up a conversation.

Soldier's real name was Michael Plouffe. He was originally from a Montana Rez but even Dancer wasn't sure which one. Soldier never talked much about where he was from. His father had been a legendary sniper in Vietnam. After suffering almost fatal wounds in the field, the EVAC chopper that came to his rescue had been downed from small arms fire and Plouffe was left to die in the field. He was delirious when Montenyuard hill tribesmen, the “Indians” of Vietnam, rescued him and healed him to fight again. He became a legend when he returned from being listed as KIA to successfully make more than fifty confirmed “kills”. He was in his last week of active duty when the jeep he was riding in hit an explosive incendiary device and he died of burns two days later.

When Soldier was sixteen he'd used a forged birth certificate to enlist in the Marines and was immediately shipped into the Gulf War romantically named Desert Storm.

Standing there in the rain, the two Natives felt an immediate kinship. They had both lost something important in Vietnam, and they shared the empty meaninglessness of that loss. Returning to the Wall, they walked slowly until they came to the section that held Soldier's father's name. They stood for a few minutes in silence, then went to get coffee together, each reminiscing about their memories of a father lost while they were still young.

Dancer told Soldier that he'd heard the song his father sang many times at powwow 49's, and had learned it to sing when he needed his father and could no longer conjure the power of his presence in a simple memory. Soldier listened quietly, and then sang it back to him. He was a good listener and Dancer found himself pouring out the pain of his youth, and of his mother's dying to his new friend. Eventually their conversation led Dancer to talk about Redlands, the land, and his Grandparents. Soldier perked up when Lance talked about his Grandfather and about his plans once he returned to the Rez. After a few hours, they went back to Soldier's motel and got drunk together.

The next morning, over coffee, both men decided to take their discharge and leave the military. Soldier had not spoken of his home at all the previous night, and Dancer got the feeling that the big man didn't have any intention of going home. In true Native fashion, he invited Soldier to return with him to Redlands and begin a new life there. Soldier surprised him by accepting but said he had to go back to Montana first to get his infant daughter. He hadn't mentioned having a daughter, and Dancer was curious. When Soldier didn't volunteer anything more, Dancer let it go. They made their arrangements for meeting, and in the end, Soldier brought his daughter Cheryl to Redlands to become a part of the community.

Redlands (Present Day)

It was a good thing that Soldier had brought Cheryl to Redlands, thought Dancer, as they took the elevator up to Midlands ICU. Soldier was a lone wolf. It was surprising how he'd made it through the military as much as he despised authority. In those first few years he'd been eighty-sixed from most of the bars in Mission and Midlands. When his temper mixed with alcohol, he became a Frankenstein Monster.

For the last two years he'd been on the wagon, but only after an eleven year old Cheryl had laid down the law. Dancer could see that Soldier often teetered on the edge of falling from his sobriety, especially when crowds of people were involved, but when Cheryl was around Soldier was a different person—calm, relaxed, attentive, and friendly. He even talked more. Lance shuddered when he thought how Soldier would react if Grandpa was unable to save Cheryl. Soldier had a fit when she caught a cold. Dancer didn't have any faith in white medicine. What had it done for his Grandmother? She'd suffered through months of chemotherapy before she died in agony. Only recently had Doctors begun to allow terminal cancer patients to be given adequate pain medication to die in relative peace. Dancer would never forgive them for what she had had to experience in her last few days.

Lance's head jerked up as the elevator door slid back and they stepped out into Intensive Care. Karan led them through the antiseptic halls toward the quarantine ward. None of them spoke. When they reached the ward, Karan stopped.

“Cheryl's down the hall. Most of the kids are in here. I thought we'd look in on them first.”

They went in single file with Karan leading and Grandpa close on her heels. Dancer walked in slowly, overwhelmed by the moment. Grandpa spoke to each child, reassuring it, as Karan walked behind him silently. Dancer followed, holding each feverish hand intently and muttering words of encouragement.

Grandpa turned to Karan at the last bed and said firmly,

“Now—let's see 'Bit.”

A pained expression passed over Karan's face.

“Grandpa”, she forced herself to look directly into his eyes, “we can go in to visit, but they won't let you make any medicine.”

She chewed her lip nervously.

“Maybe later...if nothing works.”

Grandpa smiled affectionately and nodded. Dancer was surprised at how easily he gave in. It wasn't like him. Usually Abrahm loved to argue and make trouble whenever people denied his right to make medicine for Native patients—hospital or not.

They entered the private room, and though he had attempted to prepare, Dancer felt the chill of shock raise the hair on arms. The young teenager lay inside the oxygen tent, her young face pinched and pale. Her breath came in short labored gasps, as if every one took a supreme effort. She was unconscious. Dancer remembered the last words she had spoken to him.

“Uncle Dancer, I'm afraid!”

Grandpa moved quickly to her side and raised the plastic. Karan started to say something but stopped. Abrahm moved his hand over the length of her body a few times, and then sniffed a few times, loudly. He lifted her eyelid and peered intently into her eye, as his gnarled hand took her smooth wrist and felt for her pulse.

“Her vitals have been slipping steadily since she was brought in, but Glen thinks she'll stabilize soon.”

Grandpa snorted.

“Is that his professional opinion?”

Horse straightened and replaced the plastic curtain. Turning to Dancer, he spoke forcefully and deliberately—as if he were in the middle of a ceremony.

“Lance Dancer, you better go find Soldier. His daughter is getting ready to make her journey into the next world.”

Lance's breath hissed out as if a giant fist had pummeled his solar plexus.

“Wait a minute, Grandpa,” Karan pleaded, “we don't know...”

“Yes,” Grandpa said in a commanding voice, “we do. She is close to passing now. It won't be long, perhaps two to three hours.”

Dancer raised his hands helplessly.

“Isn't there anything we can do?”

He stared down at the young woman he had watched grow from a baby. In many ways, she was like his own daughter. All Indians had nicknames on the Rez, Cheryl's was 'Bit, short for Little Bit or Hobbit. As soon as she was old enough to read, Soldier had taken her to the library. She progressed at an amazing rate and in only a few years had become a capable reader, fixing on the Tolkien Trilogy as her favorite. She read the entire series repeatedly. Finally, everyone began calling her Hobbit, and after that, Little Bit. As was often the case, that was finally shortened to 'Bit, which was the name everyone called her.

Grandpa stood for a moment, then said quietly,

“You're wasting time.”

“But maybe the antibiotics will kick in.”, Karan trailed off, overcome by emotion.

Deep down she trusted Grandpa's vision. She gazed at the teenager sadly. Horse reached out and took her hand in both of his own, patting it gently. His eyes had softened and the corners of his mouth curled in a sad smile.

“Death by sickness is not new to our peoples. This is just another gale of the black wind that has been sweeping our country for five hundred years. I don't know if my medicine can help, just as I have no confidence in the medicine made here.”

He paused, opening his palm and moving it over the teenager’s body in a circle, before he spoke again.

“This child is a pot of clay that is cracked. The water of her life will run out and it is too late for it to be fired again. We can only cradle her in our arms and marvel at the water that sustains human beings. Soon those gone on will meet her, and her life will begin again in that next world. Stay with her, I am going to look for medicine for the others—there will be many more before the sun sets.”

Karan looked stricken. Dancer tore his eyes from Cheryl's body and turned toward the door.

“I've gotta find Soldier.”

“Take my car,” Karan said dully, “it's faster.”

“Are you okay with the truck, Grandpa?”

Horse nodded.

“Sometimes the battery goes dead.”

A knock sounded at the door and Dancer opened it to see a harried looking nurse, her hair disheveled, and her lips pinched tightly together. She spoke quickly.

“We just had to bring two more of the children into the ICU.”

“Oh God”, Karan said. “I've got to see Houser, this is moving way to fast. Can you stay here and monitor Ms. Plouffe?”

The woman nodded and moved to Cheryl's bedside.

Horse stepped past Dancer through the open doorway, then past the elevators and toward the stairwell. Dancer hurried to catch up. As they reached the top of the stairs, a figure appeared, breathing heavily. It was Jack Tantor. Tantor pulled up in surprise as Grandpa looked the man up and down. The cowboy hat was high on his head and his usually shiny boots were covered with mud.

Tantor seemed to know what he was thinking.

“Both my wife and son are sick They said they're gonna bring my son up here.”

The man looked for a moment as if he were going to break into tears. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“How do you feel?” Grandpa asked gently.

“Not too hot,” the man answered truthfully.

Grandpa patted his shoulder sympathetically. There was nothing more to be said. The rancher nodded and Dancer and Horse moved aside so he could proceed to the ICU. Grandpa jumped down the stairs, taking them three at a time.

“Are you sure you'll be okay with the truck?”, Dancer asked.

Abrahm bobbed his head up and down twice.

As they spilled out of the stairway into the emergency entrance waiting room, Dancer was thinking about how much he hated having to turn Grandpa loose behind the wheel. Any wheel. That thought disappeared when he caught a glimpse of Colleen Thunder lying across two chairs, her legs drawn up tightly against her stomach. He took a last look as Grandpa headed out between the large automatic doors and hurried over to the obviously sick woman.

“Colleen, how long have you been lying here?”

The woman moaned an answer Dancer could not make out, but he could see the fear and discomfort in her eyes. Lance turned and looked for a nurse. He saw a short heavyset black woman arguing with what appeared to be a hospital orderly. He walked quickly to her side and interrupted their argument.

“My friend is very sick, Can you help her get admitted?”

The woman looked like she was about to say no, so Dancer continued.

“I have to go get the father of a sick child. Please, can you help us?”

The woman nodded reluctantly and ordered the man she had been talking to bring a wheelchair. The man appeared angry but followed her direction immediately. A minute later, they were helping Colleen into the wheelchair.

“I'll be back as soon as I can. Have you seen Willie?

Colleen whispered, “My stomach hurts so bad...”

She rocked from side to side, grimacing in pain, then vomited on the floor noisily.

The orderly wheeled her toward admissions as Dancer hurried out toward the parking lot. He felt bad just leaving her, but had no choice. He noticed that the school van was parked crazily across two vehicle spaces and ran over to it. He looked in from the passenger side and saw Willie slumped over the steering wheel.

“Jeezus,” Dancer said loudly.

Willie sat up and looked at him with bleary eyes.

“How's the kids, bro?” he asked, in obvious discomfort.

Lance swallowed hard before he lied.

“Everyone's gonna be fine. Come on, I'll help you inside.”

“I'll be alright. I hate hospitals.”

“So do I, bro. But this time you've got no choice. Grandpa will be here after while to give you guys some of his terrible tasting meds.”

“Oh man, that's another reason to die out here.”

Dancer looked at Willie sharply to try and determine if he was serious. Was he aware of how dangerous this sickness really was?

Willie looked at him with a sickly smile and popped the door handle.

“Okay, Lance. You win. I'm coming.”

Dancer looked away so Willie wouldn't see the relief on his face.

“Can you make it?” he asked tentatively.

“Yeah, I've got it. Where you going?”

Dancer sighed.

“I've gotta find Soldier.”

He wondered at how many times he had said that in the last fifteen minutes, yet here he was, still in the parking lot. He turned to Willie.

“I gotta go now!”

Willie punched his shoulder.

“Then go!”

Lance Dancer hugged Willie and sprinted across the parking lot to Karan's Saab.

He squealed the tires as he left the parking lot, unaware that he was passing a line of cars bringing in more flu patients from Redlands and Valley Mission. Soon the dying would begin.

Lance Dancer fried the wet asphalt, smoking the Saab's new tires on his way toward Valley Mission. Valley High School was where the Redlands Middle School Indian Basketball team practiced. Since Soldier had been their coach, every year they'd gone to the County Middle School Tournament Finals. This year they were struggling. A few of their best players had graduated to play on the high school team and Soldier was having trouble reconciling a losing season with helping the kids have as much fun as possible. Lance knew that Soldier often spent the early afternoons talking strategy and personnel with the Valley High Coaching Staff, shooting baskets with the high school players and showing off in the weight room. There was also the new dark haired English teacher from California that Soldier had mentioned a couple of times as someone he'd like to get to know better.

He didn't see Soldier's car in the parking lot so he circled around behind the gym. The battered, dark blue TransAm that Soldier had purchased with his last per cap check, sat dripping oil on the pavement next to the rear gymnasium doors. Dancer felt some relief, knowing that his brother was near. At the same time, his heart thumped loudly in anticipation of his Soldier's reaction. He tried the gym doors and found them locked. He pounded on the doors to get someone's attention. When no one came, he pounded again, louder than before and even shouted in frustration.

“Anybody in there?” He pounded again. “Open up!”

Someone inside yelled back. Running his hands through his thick black hair, he stared down at his worn tennis shoes, wishing Grandpa had been more positive. The door to the gym opened toward him and he stepped backward gripping the edge of the door with his hand. The familiar smells of sweaty bodies, ripe tennis shoes, fatigue, and excitement mixed in his nostrils. A group of cheerleaders practicing their routine stopped and stared at him as he entered. No adults seemed to be present, so he walked towards them quickly.

“Any of you girls know Mike Plouffe?”

They shook their head negatively, in unison.

“He coaches Middle School basketball. Big Indin dude, wears a red headband?”

One of the girls perked up at his description.

“Does he wear an army coat and drive the blue TransAm?”

Dancer nodded.

“I think he went to lunch with Miss Faraday.”

“Do you happen to know where they went? It's important that I see him right away.”

One of the other girls spoke up.

“I think she usually goes to Ray's, down on South Main.”

She looked away as if she was embarrassed, but Dancer was already hurrying toward the door.

“Thanks,” he yelled over his shoulder.

A basketball skidded between his legs almost tripping him and causing a loud giggle to erupt from the girls. He recovered his balance and sought refuge in the exit.

Moments later, behind the wheel again, he fought the impulse to speed into town. No time to get a ticket, he thought. Given the Valley Mission's sheriffs attitude toward the Redlands people, and his present state of emotion, he could not risk being hassled for a stupid mistake.

Dancer was well known for his loud and unpopular opinions at Mission City Council Meetings. His fight with the School Board to get the school accredited had met with a lot of local resistance. His persistence and resistance to the racist bullying he had taken from certain board members had won him a grudging respect from some of the locals and even earned a few allies in City Government. Unfortunately, the Sheriff's department still had a lot of AOP'S, assholes on patrol.

An ambulance screamed by, its red lights flashing. A few blocks later, another one forced him to pull over again. Dancer fumed at the delay, but a few minutes later he wheeled into the one empty parking space across from Ray's Grits and Grill. He'd eaten here many times with Karan, and even a few times with Grandpa. This was where Grandpa always insisted on ordering in Indian and then kidding the waitress about not being able to speak “American”. Ray had the best biscuits and gravy and homemade pie in town.

The bell over the door jingled as he entered. The place was packed. Hostile eyes turned in his direction as he surveyed the tables against the wall, trying to spot Soldier. He noticed a dark haired woman sitting alone at a table in the corner. On impulse, he walked toward her. Soldier came out of the restroom and sat down with his back to the wall in his customary way. He was smiling a huge smile. Dancer felt his heart drop into his stomach as he threaded his way through the crowd. He was only a few feet away when Soldier, absorbed in conversation, finally noticed him.

“Hey bro, Tsup?”

Without waiting for Dancer to answer, he began introductions between the dark haired teacher and his friend. Dancer nodded to the woman politely and then spoke in a quiet but urgent tone.

“I need to talk to you, right now.”

“What's wrong”, Soldier said sharply, sensing the intensity of his brother's tone.

“Not here. Outside.”

Dancer was worried about Soldier's reaction in a crowded and somewhat hostile environment.

“Be right back, Jewel”, Soldier cooed in a syrupy voice.

“No bro, you won't,” Dancer said in his ear.

Soldier was looking more and more apprehensive.

“I guess I will call you later, babe,” he said, keeping his eyes on Dancer.

Jewel Faraday nodded in affirmation, but said nothing.

Dancer turned and quick-stepped to the door. Soldier shrugged helplessly and gave the woman a quick peck on the lips, then followed in his brother's footsteps.

As soon as the door tinkled its goodbye behind them, Soldier reached out and spun Dancer around.

“What's going on?”

Dancer shifted his feet nervously, bracing himself for the look of shock he was going to see in those familiar black eyes.

“It's 'Bit, bro. She got sick this morning at the school. So did almost everybody else, but she...” he hesitated, “she's at the hospital—it's bad. Come on.”

Dancer turned away from the hardening expression on Soldier's face and hurried over to Karan's car. He quickly unlocked the door and got in, firing it up. Soldier followed silently, but Dancer knew the storm was coming.

As Dancer was backing up, Soldier said simply,

“How bad is bad?”

Dancer looked at him gravely but said nothing. Soldier got the message and gazed out the window. The acrid scent of fear filled the car as Dancer sped back toward the hospital in Midlands.

Finally, with enormous effort, Soldier croaked out the question Dancer feared most.

“Is she going to...?" He stopped without finishing.

“Maybe,” was all Dancer could say.

There was no way he could bullshit his brother at a time like this. He couldn't even try. If the worst was going to happen, like his Grandpa always said, better to face it head on like a warrior. He accelerated the Saab, forgetting about his previous fear of violating vehicle codes.

When they reached the turnoff to the hospital entrance, Soldier spoke again.

“Has Grandpa seen her yet?” he said hopefully.

“Grandpa sent me to find you. He went home to pick some medicine.”

Dancer kept his eyes on the road, feeling his brother's stare burn the side of his face. The implication was plain, if Grandpa hadn't stayed, there wasn't much hope.

“A lot of the kids at the school are sick. So are a lot of other people. Something big is going down. Becky Owl has it, so does Joey, Buff Boy, Snowy, Frank, Sky...”

Dancer risked a look at his brother. Soldier's expression was blank and hard. Dancer wasn't even sure that he'd heard a word he'd said.

“They're not sure what it is yet. Some kind of dangerous flu. Even Willie and Colleen got it, and they didn't have it when they first brought the kids in. What happened at Eileen's might not have been food poisoning like we thought. Maybe even that cowboy had it yesterday.” Lance hesitated, “But the kids have it the worst I think...” he trailed off as a wave of nausea swept over him and he was startled to feel like he was getting sick.

Iraq 1990

Soldier was on patrol. The desert village had been heavily shelled. Bodies’ lay everywhere, burned and broken. The stench was overpowering, almost a physical force by itself. Dogs ran away as they approached. It was obvious they had been feeding on the dead. He stepped lightly over the bodies, alert but sensing that there was no life—and no threat—left here. He winced at seeing the bodies of a woman and two small children crushed by the violent concussion of the explosion and falling mortar in a doorway. This was how it must have looked at the Washita, at Wounded Knee, at Sand Creek, at Bloody Island.

“What am I doing here?” he asked himself out loud, looking around to see if anyone had heard him.

Taking a few more steps and turning a corner, he was stopped by the sight of two bodies. A girl-child of approximately five years lay in the arms of a young teenage girl. Neither was mutilated and there was no sign of violent trauma on their bodies. They looked like they were sleeping. He knelt in the dust beside them. The sweltering heat of the ground rose up to meet him. Now he noticed that the child's stomach was swollen by the one hundred and thirty degree summer temperatures even though she was only ten or twelve hours dead. He slid his hand under the teenager and jerked it back as he felt the hole where her insides protruded grossly into the dirt. Her entire side was gone. Ribs, cartilage, bone, organs—everything was just mush. They had died in agony with no one to comfort them. Why? Was it about oil, military bases, religious hatred, democracy, tyranny, money, power? A little of all, he supposed. However, what had those things to do with him, an American Native--one whose relatives had once suffered the same fate.

He twisted away from their remains and vomited into the dirt. He had seen plenty of violent death here, and at home. He didn't need reminders that those who ran the governments around the world cared little for men like him or families like these. They played at games above this carnage, moving their pieces around on the planetary chess game they played with impunity—never suffering the same fate and rarely receiving the retribution they deserved. In the end, all their rhetoric and reasoning could not justify the carrion intent of their methods. He had let that power wield him as a weapon, and he hated himself for it.

Wiping his mouth on his dust-encrusted sleeve, he spit into the dirt and flicked off the safety on his weapon. His lips compressed into a snarl, his heart into a granite block. In that putrid stink, he left behind the last of his innocence and allowed his hatred of all flag-waving patriots to carry him safely through the remainder of that day, and all the other days he spent under that relentless sun. That was the day he had turned seventeen years old.

Now, years later, it was his child that he was losing to that power. He didn't know how he knew it, but he knew that somehow men and money were involved. He would find out how and why. The soldier in him stood again on the brink of insanity, checking his weapon and ammunition, awaiting his orders. The father in him prepared for the worst a man can face, the possible death of a child. In his mind's eye, the face of the girl in the desert became the face of his daughter, 'Bit, and large salty tears crept from his eyes.

Redlands (Present Day)

Abrahm WarHorse sang an old medicine song as he ground the gears of the Chevy Apache up the muddy road to Redlands. With his left hand, he patted the dashboard affectionately but his stomach was clenched into a hard knot of anxiety and emotion. His first impulse was to stay at the hospital with 'Bit and the others, but his spirit helpers had pushed him to seek the medicine he knew would be needed for the many others who would face a similar enemy. All the people would turn to him in the next few days, especially with children dying. He had a responsibility to use what had been gifted to him. He rebuked himself for not paying attention at Irene's, even if Karan thought it was a different bug. The coincidence seemed too great and accepting the easy answer of food poisoning for the sickness there had been too convenient, especially after his experience with Walker up at the Old Man. Usually he kept himself tuned, but somehow he had gotten out of balance. When had there last been a case of food poisoning, which had not involved bent cans on the res. He couldn't remember one!

He was certain that the doctors at the hospital would not have an immediate treatment for this new virus. It had a peculiar smell to it. The speed at which it was contracted and the first symptoms appeared, reminded him of the stories of entire villages disappearing in a week or two during the early days of first European contact. Smallpox, diphtheria, measles, and whooping cough had devastated millions of Indians on the North American continent, from sea to shining sea. This smelled like that. There wasn't any time to waste.

He reached his cabin and leaped from the truck even before it came to a full stop. Trotting out to the sweat lodge, he quickly built a small fire and placed the rocks in the fire carefully and with respect. He knew he had to find a medicine to slow this infectious spirit down, and to keep it from killing so quickly. He stripped to his shorts and rubbed his body briskly with sage, then went into the cabin and retrieved his Pipe bag. He knew the medicine was here among the leaves, roots, bark, flowers, and fertile earth. All he needed to do was listen to their voices and those of his spirit helpers. They would guide him to find what he needed. He carried the now red hot stones into the canvas covered lodge and placed them into the hole that was the center of the womb of the earth. Then he purified the interior with tobacco, sang the welcoming song for the water spirits, brought in the water, and closed the door. He sat on the damp cold ground and began the ceremony to prepare himself. The earth beneath him warmed and the scalding steam calmed his emotions, cleared his mind, and purified his body and spirit. He sang the songs and prayed for the ability to hear and see clearly what was there to be heard and seen. When it was time, he opened the flap and smoked the Pipe. He was ready to be led to the medicine.

He was just buttoning his belt and pulling on his shirt when a new crew cab pickup sped into his driveway and slid to a stop. A haggard looking Curtis Joe jumped out of the truck followed by a slow moving John Gray. They walked toward him with their hands raised in the old greeting. Grandpa waited for them to speak.

Joe spoke first.

“Do you think there's a medicine for this thing?”

Grandpa Horse shrugged.

Gray spoke in a high, unnatural sounding, mucus flecked whine.

“My whole family has this shit. They say everyone in the valley's gonna get it. We even heard that there's no cure and we're all gonna die!”

Grandpa spoke quietly.

“No one knows what Creator intends. New creation comes after destruction, and ends in destruction. It's the way of the Universe.”

He spread his hands wide.

“What kind of hippy-dippy bullshit is that?” Curtis Joe snarled. “Can you make a medicine for this or not? My boy's down at Midlands now. So is half the Casino staff.”

Grandpa ignored him and went up to John Gray. He felt his forehead and then took his hand, measuring his pulse.

“You need to go home or to the hospital right now and get off your feet. Stay warm and hydrated. I'm gonna do what I can.”

He looked at Joe directly.

“You young fellas may not be old enough to remember, but we had some pretty strong medicine around here in the old days. What with casinos and new trucks,” he gestured at the big shiny pickup, “you've forgotten what's important in our lives. Maybe this black wind will remind us all that we only have each other for comfort. Economic development has no power to keep us balanced to understand or survive the worst of life's tragedies. Only a cultural rock can do that. I know where that rock can be found, do you?”

The men did not respond.

“Go home now, and let me do my thing.”

Curtis Joe turned on his heel and strode back to the truck. John Gray hung back for a moment, looking a Grandpa sheepishly. He held out his hand. A tiny mound of tobacco lay in his open palm, obviously opened from a cigarette. Tiny bits of white paper mixed in among the tobacco grains.

“This is for you, Uncle. For what you are doing for our people. For our families.”

Gray clamped his mouth shut and looked embarrassed.

Abrahm WarHorse felt his eyes brim with tears as he stood as straight as he could and allowed Gray to dump the small pile of tobacco into his two open hands. He looked Gray in the eyes and smiled.

“Thank you, Nephew. I will do my best. Pray for us.”

Gray turned and hobbled back to the truck. Horse turned, picked up a gunnysack and a buckskin bag, and jogged down the path toward the plateau.

After a about thirty minutes he began to feel the familiar tug on his senses that told him he was getting close. Each time he came to the right location, his first thought was to open the buckskin bag and remove a pinch of tobacco and offer it to the medicinal relative. The herbs seemed to jump into the bag on their own accord, though his small sharp pocketknife blade had mysteriously accumulated a sticky covering. Horse ran on, listening to the voices of the Earth naming themselves, offering their assistance, boasting of their healing qualities. In most cases, he gathered only the youngest and freshest, only occasionally stopping to dig for the deepest root, or the bark from the strongest branch. Horse searched in the world between Man and Spirit. The place that seethes with Power. This was the place of visions, where a knowledgeable, worthy man might gain the ability to interpret the natural signs inherent in the Earth, to foretell the future, to interpret dreams. Native people all over the earth had prepared themselves for thousands of years with fasting and solitude, with natural drugs and self-sacrifice, to gain self-knowledge and give themselves over into the hands of power to receive gifts valuable to the whole people. Today, most youth did not possess the discipline or character to learn these techniques. The world of power was covered with a shroud. For most of humanity, it was a shroud that could not be lifted.

Horse sat down for a moment to catch his breath. In that moment, the breeze spun him away. High above the foothills over the Redlands Indian Reservation, a red tail hawk circled and soared toward the Plateau.

Midlands General

Karan knew this was the most serious emergency they had ever faced at the Midlands Community Hospital. In the hour that had passed since Grandpa and Dancer had gone, they had admitted twenty-three more patients with the now familiar symptoms. Ten of the patients, including Andy Joe, Millie, and Colleen, had already been admitted to Intensive Care.

Another call had come in from Redlands School. Jason ShortBull was bringing in almost the entire enrollment on the school bus. Adding to that the number of Casino workers coming in and, when they arrived, there would be over one hundred patients in the hospital with the disease. There were only enough available beds for about that many. If this kept up...she shook her head wearily.

She phoned to alert the two county rescue helicopters that they might soon be on call to ferry patients to hospitals in the city. The ICU would soon reach its capacity. Moments later she was back out on the floor helping the frantic staff to organize the incoming patients. The word from Intensive Care was frightening.

Karan began to work her way toward Glen's office. As she passed the glass doors of the Lab, she happened to glimpse a flash of his suit coat through the inner doors. She pushed through them and stood silently inside. Glen was having a loud conversation with George Foster, the hospital lab supervisor.

George sat hunched at a metal table, examining slides under a microscope.

"I tell you it's not just a common flu virus, Glen. Look for yourself. It looks kinda like the H5N1 virus but there are obvious differences.”

The man stood up and stepped away from in the table, inviting the other to look with a gesture. His face looked haggard and his eyes were bloodshot. He saw Karan and shrugged helplessly.

Glen bent over the microscope, still talking, unaware of her presence.

"I don't care what you think, George, it could be a simple flu. Perhaps it’s one of the new H1N2 strains, or maybe even H3N2, from China"

George rolled his eyes when he looked at Karan.

Lowering his voice deliberately, he said, "I've been looking at flu virus since I was a lab tech at Stanford. Shit; Glen, I've got ten years in this lab alone! Are you trying to tell me I can't recognize a different flu when I see it? By the way, if this thing is an infectious as it seems to be, we all probably have it just from looking at this slide.”"

He took a quick step toward the table as Houser straighten up, rubbing his eyes.

"God damn it, this is not—I repeat, not—one of the flu strains we've been seeing. This is a new baby and we're in deep shit! Am I coming in clear? Earth to Glen! This could be the pandemic strain we've been afraid of. It may have unlimited destructive potential. We've got to get the CDC on this immediately."

Houser raised his hand in a gesture of surrender.

"0kay George, I hear you, but we've got to give our doctors a chance. I've heard that some patients have improved..."

“Where'd you hear that Glen,” Karan interrupted. “I've been out on the floor and I'm telling you its getting worse!”

Foster interrupted.

"We're talking epidemic here, G1en, not the measles! There are going to be those with natural immunities, but the majority will not. We don't have the slightest idea where to begin, we've got to ask for help!"

George looked to Karan for support. She stood intently, peering at Glen.

"You know George is right. If we don't even know what we're dealing with, how can we prepare for its effects?”

"I expected you two to be more in control during a crisis. Panic doesn't become you," Houser said coldly. "I am the medical administrator at this hospital and I'll make the decisions. You will support me or you'll tender your resignations. Is that clear?"

Karan was in shock. She looked to Foster. His mouth hung open in amazement. It looked like he was incapable of closing it.

Glen continued in a condescending tone.

"I've already been in contact with the CDC. They are shipping us the latest latent virus vaccine. It incorporates all the newly identified strains for this year. We should receive it Fed EX this afternoon. We'll give it a chance before we abandon ship, Okay? If anyone needs me, I'll be in my office."

He turned and walked away before either of them had a chance to speak.

Karan gave George a look of disbelief and hurried out the lab door. Chills played hopscotch up and down her spine as she remembered the look on Houser's face and the deadly tone of his voice. Taking the stairs two at a time, she forced herself to calm down before she got upstairs and faced humanity again. How could he have ordered a vaccine for a virus they hadn't even identified yet? They had only been taking verified contact patients for four or five hours at the most. It was almost as if he had known in advance! She shook her head in confusion and stepped out into a hall of bedlam.

Redlands

The Spirit of Abrahm WarHorse flew toward Black Butte, passing over Rodney Welk's cabin, and then over the Lake. The cold wind caused his gray hair to flap about his head wildly. An up draft lifted him higher as he soared toward the Old Man. As he approached, a small black dot enlarged into the figure of a man standing on the Old Man's head.

Banking downwards, he made out the form of his friend, Walker. He felt a moment of dizziness as reality tried to intrude with a message, but he pushed it away and flew lower. Now he could see Walker's mouth moving furiously, shouting words he could not quite understand. Walker kept looking over his shoulder toward the mountains, his face twisted in fear. Abrahm looked to the north.

A great black cloud was rising from behind the mountains like a wall. A speck of light gathered in its center, and from this light emerged the form of an eagle. Walker began screaming and waving his arms. Abrahm needed desperately to hear what he was saying. He dived like a swallow before a storm with the eagle closing fast upon him. Rain pelted him mercilessly, feeling like steel shot upon his outstretched wings.

He hovered in front of Walker. The rain stopped and silence descended on the world. The eagle circled overhead. Walker's face was withered, his eyes blank and staring. Suddenly one eyelid closed and opened in an unnatural-looking wink. The lifeless Walker raised his hands, palms outward and opened his mouth as if to speak.

Abrahm moved closer until his face was only inches from his friends'. He waited for words. A small black cloud came out of Gordon's mouth instead, washing like a fetid wave over Abrahm. He fell backward choking and flailing, trying to escape the smell of rotted flesh that came from that mouth. Walker's corpse uttered a horrible laugh and the eagle circling overhead dropped like a meteor. It was as large as a man and easily snatched the body of his friend off the top off the rock with its giant talons, carrying it southward toward the lake. Abrahm followed at a discreet distance. When the eagle reached the Lake, Abrahm heard the wretched scream of a human being in mortal agony. Then he watched in horror as the fierce talons separated, tearing the body of his friend into pieces. The muffled thud of body parts striking the ground sounded like an earthquake in Horse's ears. He panicked, spread his wings, and flew wildly toward the plateau. Behind him, the eagle dissolved into an ebony cloud. Hail poured from the cloud like a river of stones dropping over a rocky chasm. Behind it, the fetid wind pushed the cloud toward the blinking lights of the valley.

Abrahm's eyes opened and focused on a dripping sage flower. He glanced hurriedly around. The vision had passed. He was sitting in the mud on the road to Redlands. His pack was filled with herbs he did not remember harvesting. The rain ran in tiny rivers off into the arroyo to his left. It was already half full and rushed noisily toward the Lake. He knew the road would be washed out soon, so he picked up his pace, trotting toward his cabin at Redlands.

Twenty minutes later, he was preparing the teas. Using a natural fiber strainer, he brewed them deliberately, with all of his attention centered on each movement. His measurements were exact as his lips moved with the prayers of his medicine. He mixed the teas with a wood spoon, and then restrained them into gallon mason jars. He heard the sound of vehicles outside and soon he was outside in the brush, showing five students from the City College just which herbs and herb-parts to gather, making sure each had a new bag of Bull Durham tobacco and carefully reminding them not to forget their offerings. With the help of a short, ever smiling brunette, he loaded the gallon jars into the pickup, packing them safely between blankets. Then he drove to visit almost every house in Redlands. Many of the people there braved the storm to go with him back behind their cabins to pick more medicine for the teas. Three hours later, on the way toward Midlands, he stopped at a spring to wash his medicine stones in salt he had once gathered from the Great Salt Lake. Then he stepped back into the Chevy and drove to the hospital.

Florida

Chris Collins slipped the key into the lock and held her breath as her fingers turned it. The lock gave in easily. Thank God it was the right key, she thought, breathing hard in relief. Her hand turned the knob and the door opened into darkness. She hesitated for a moment, then felt for the light switch against the wall. A movement of her fingers flooded the room in light.

She had been working feverishly in the lab trying to develop a latent vaccine for the virus and had made no progress. Her only hope was that Phil Agee had had some idea how to proceed. Somehow a reassortment had occurred, mixing the genes of numerous strains of the bug. That had caused a shift resulting in new strains in both the hemagglutinin and neuraminadase proteins. Whether Agee had stimulated the reassortment intentionally remained to be seen. At this point, it hardly mattered. What they faced was an HPAI—a highly pathogenic avian infection.

Phil had been a genius, she thought. His mind had worked in ways she couldn't begin to fathom. Only by reading, and rereading his notes, had she been able to come to an understanding of what he had discovered. She knew there were only a few genetic engineers as competent as Phil Agee. If he hadn't had time to work the antigens into a vaccine, they were in terrible trouble.

Breaking yellow police tape wasn't one of her normal activities, but she was desperate. She knew his wife and children were still out of the state, they'd left the night of the funeral. With the investigation continuing, she knew this might be her only opportunity to check Agee’s personal hard drives for an answer. She'd found the key ring in the lab and knew at once that it was Phil's. She had given him a silver representation of two fish swimming opposite directions, the symbol of his astrological sign, Pisces, for his birthday. The fish were dangling from the key ring alongside what appeared to be a set of file cabinet keys. She pocketed them immediately, glancing guiltily around to see if any of the other lab techs had noticed. Now here she was, committing a criminal act. She knew she did not have a choice.

Taking a small pen light from her purse, she proceeded into the house and went directly to his study. She was familiar with the layout, having been over for dinner on numerous occasions, but somehow she got lost and ended up in the master bedroom. The bed covers were tight and smooth, the room immaculate.

She felt sad and very lonely as she imagined Phil and his young family in this room. Brushing away the emotion, she concentrated on making her way to his office in the den. Once there, she switched on the desk light and quickly went through all the drawers. She was shocked to find no paperwork at all. Searching the room completely, she began to feel panicky. Chris could not believe that Phil had done no work at home. She knew him better than that. If the police didn't have it, could someone else have taken everything? She checked the closet again. Nothing. Obviously, the key ring she had found did not hold the promise she thought it would. She was ready to give up and leave when her eye caught the blank screen of a television monitor set into a cabinet on the far wall. She stepped to the cabinet. There were three closed panels beside the monitor. Opening the closest, she discovered what she had hoped she would find, an IBM PC and keyboard. The other panels revealed a locked cabinet. Trying each of the keys on the ring, she found one that opened the cabinet. Inside was the external disk drive and printer she had prayed would be there. Beside the disk drive were three CD-Rom discs, none of them labeled. Shaking with expectation, she flipped the switch on the tower. Inserting the first disc into the drive, she called up the directory and gasped in relief. There were only two entries. They were entitled TIVVS 06, and INVAC & LAIV 1/2006.

She sat down heavily on the hard wooden desk chair and called up TIVVS 06. The heading read:

“This report updates the 2005 recommendations by the Advisory Committee on Immunization Practices (ACIP) on the use of influenza vaccine and antiviral agents. Prevention and control of influenza: recommendations of the Advisory Committee on Immunization Practices [ACIP]. MMWR 2005; 4[No. RR-10]: 1—34).”

Chris knew that influenza viruses cause disease among all age groups, but that infection rates are usually highest among children. The highest rates of serious illness and death are among persons sixty-five years and over, including persons of any age who have medical conditions that place them at increased risk for complications. The incubation period for influenza is usually one to four days, with an average of two days.”

Below that paragraph, Phil had scribbled his own notations in tiny neat lettering,

“The new strain's incubation period is eight to twelve hours max! It appears that the occurrence of secondary bacterial pneumonia or primary influenza viral pneumonia is much higher than anything we've seen before, and may occur as part of a co-infection with other viral or bacterial pathogens. Significant numbers of children hospitalized with this influenza may have febrile seizures, encephalopathy, transverse myelitis, Reyes syndrome, myositis, myocarditis, and pericarditis. Young children may have initial symptoms mimicking bacterial sepsis with high fevers. In our older population, death may result from pneumonia as well as from exacerbations of cardiopulmonary, circulatory, and other chronic diseases.” His final sentence caught her eye.

“Inactivated influenza vaccine and live, attenuated influenza vaccine should be developed ASAP. Inactivated vaccine should be used to inoculate health care workers. Antiviral drugs used for chemoprophylaxis are a key adjunct to vaccine but antiviral medications are not a substitute for vaccination.”

Collins moved the mouse to the second file, called it up and the words she read caused her to take a giant breath in relief. Both the inactivated and live, attenuated vaccines I have prepared will include A/Fujian/411/2002 (H3N2), A/Wyoming/3/2003 (H3N2), and A/Shanghai/8/2005/H5N1, as well as antigens from the new, as yet unnamed viral strain. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she began to sob, "Oh God, Phil, you did it—you did it. Oh God, thank you!" She folded her head in her arms and cried for dead friend and all the lives he had undoubtedly saved.

Midlands

Darkness descended on the valley as Lance Dancer and Soldier screeched into the parking lot at Midlands General Hospital.

Soldier was out of the car and into the lobby in a few seconds, Dancer on his heels. The Redlands science teacher, Mr. Stephens lay on the floor just inside the door. Dancer was about to stop and see to him, but Soldier leaped up the stairs, and he felt compelled to follow. Within a minute, they were on the third floor, closing on the intensive care ward.

Karan spotted them pushing through the crowd of people trying to find out about their friends and relatives. She had never seen this many people in a hospital. Security had lost control hours ago and the few police that had answered their call were not making any headway clearing people out of the ICU. It was beginning to compromise their ability to care for the most at-risk patients. The crowd was nervous and close to hysteria. It was understandable, so was she!

She pushed her way to where Soldier and Dancer stood bewildered at the top of the stairs and spoke rapidly. Soldier's face was an expressionless mask.

"It's a nightmare, Lance," she said, tearing her eyes away from Soldier's stony gaze. "There's just too many. We can't even register them they're coming in so fast. Houser's totally out of it, and I have no idea how to manage this.” She gestured around here. “Nothing's working. All the Redlands kids are here now.”

She saw the look of surprise on Lance's face, and continued,

“We've lost a few people from town already. Cheryl's just hanging on.”

Soldier's eyes were opaque. He didn't even blink.

"How are you feeling," she said, reaching up and feeling Dancer's forehead.

"I'm Ok", Dancer replied, realizing as he said it that he really felt like shit!

"Yeah? Well you don't look so good. After we see 'Bit, I am going to have you checked out. Let's go in now."

Dancer watched her as she pushed ahead of them. His heartbeat quickened and he moved close to her, putting his hand on her shoulder lightly. She turned her head slightly, still walking.

Lance leaned close and whispered,

"After this, we need to talk."

Her eyes searched his.

"I think you're right," she said softly; "but later."

A loud commotion in the hall drew their attention as they reached the door. Soldier pushed past them to get into his daughter's room. Dancer caught sight of Grandpa's braids and pulled Karan back out into the hall with him. Abrahm was pushing a flat service cart covered with large glass gallon jars filled with a dark viscous liquid.

"Grandpa, what are you doing," Karan said loudly,

"Yes, what are you doing," said a voice from the other end of the hall.”

Glen Houser came striding purposely up to stand beside her. His expression was grim and challenging.

"I've brought some medicine for the children. Both for my people and yours.”

"You know you can't dispense these...these concoctions in here. Not only are we liable for dispensing an unproven treatment, you aren't a doctor or a pharmacist.

Civilized medicine doesn't recognize this homeopathic herbal bullshit."

Grandpa straightened himself from behind the cart.

“Isn't it true that ninety percent of your pharmaceutical wonders come originally from Native medicinal plants, barks, roots or naturally occurring animal products? What has your modern medicine been able to do for these sick children?

"We are administering approved and licensed pharmaceutical remedies as we see fit: not the home brews of so called medicine men...”

Lance Dancer bristled and moved toward Houser.

"Don't talk to my Grandfather that way, white man.''

"Stop this, right now!"

Karan put her hands against Lance Dancer's chest and stood between them.

"There are critical patients here. What is it that you have, Grandpa?”

"Tea." Grandpa said confidently. “Two quarts, every four hours. It may not cure them, but it will keep them from dying."

"I forbid it in my hospital!" Houser said between clenched teeth,

"Look man, didn't you ever hear about a guy named Richard Oaks?" Dancer said.

Houser, still looking at Grandpa, shook his head negatively.

"He was a Mohawk Indian, one of the leaders of the Alcatraz All Tribes occupation at the end of the sixties. He was put in coma from a pool cue to the head in 'Frisco. The doctors tried everything, but they denied any access to him by our medicine people.''

He paused for a moment.

"Finally they gave up, and told his wife that he wouldn't make it. The Medicine People pressed the hospital to let them try, so the doctors figured, ‘What the hell.’ Before long they had him out of the coma, and you know what?"

Houser just looked blank,

"He walked out of that hospital on his own two feet after your legally approved and licensed medical professionals failed at everything they tried."

"I'm not impressed," Hauser said haughtily. "He might have come out of the coma on his own, without the help of these...Shaman.”

Lance lifted his hands and shook his head in disgust. The door to the 1CU opened and Soldier emerged. His dark complexion was more gray than brown. His shoulders drooped and his hands hung listlessly at his side.

Time seemed to suspend itself. It seemed like an eternity before he spoke.

"She died", he croaked. "She just squeezed my hand... and died!"

Dancer looked at Houser accusingly. Houser shrugged and looked away.

Grandpa Horse moved to Soldier's side; wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

Turning to Dancer he said purposefully,

"Contact all our people with children here and talk to all the adults. They must leave here immediately."

Glen's face reddened and he pointed his finger at Abrahm.

“Bullshit, Old Man. These children aren't going anywhere without my consent.”

"You can't stop us Glen", Horse said softly. “We can do more for them than you can, this time."

Dancer turned toward the stairway.

"No!” Glen stepped forward trying to block Lance's path.

Before anyone could react, Soldier flashed between them, slamming Houser into the wall. Twice, in rapid succession, he drove his palm heel into Houser's solar plexus. Houser's legs buckled and he began to slide down the wall. Soldier's hand pulled back, fingers stiffening for a ridge hand to the throat.

Dancer leaped on Soldier's back and yelled in his ear.

"This white man's life won't bring her back, Bro. He ain't worth it. Let it slide!"

Soldier stood still, carved in granite. Beneath him, Houser struggled to get a breath.

"Grandpa, I gotta get him outta here now. I'll see you back at the cabin. Karan, you have to help get it all together, Ok"

Karan nodded, still in shock but glad that Dancer had prevented Soldier from killing Glen. She knew that it had been close. Now the best thing was to get Soldier out of there before Houser recovered enough to call for the authorities.

Soldier's chest heaved like a scared stallion. He spun out of Dancer's grasp and sprinted down the hall. Dancer raced after him, yelling over his shoulder,

"I gotta stay with him."

Houser was trying to stand up, muttering about assault.

"Shut up, Glen, you asked for it!” Karan hissed.

Grandpa put an arm around her shoulders.

"I can take care of everything by myself. I'll get our people together and take 'Bit home. You do what you have to for the people here."

Karan smiled appreciatively.

"Thanks Grandpa, but you know you can't take these kids out of here tonight. We'll start giving them the tea. I'll deal with Glen."

"What's that?" Houser coughed.

“Nothing Glen." she clucked. "Lets go see if that innoculant has arrived."

She put her arm beneath his and walked him down the hall. He was still wobbly on his feet. He coughed again. She hoped he didn't have broken ribs or sternum.

Behind her, Grandpa Horse left his cart full of medicine parked against the wall. Slowly and deliberately, he pushed an empty gurney through the doorway, preparing himself to care for the body of a chi1d he'd loved.

Getting Houser down to his office wasn't as easy as Karan had hoped. Everyone kept stopping them to ask what had happened. Karan knew that Soldier had been in complete control of himself or Glen would never have gotten up off the floor. But as time passed, Glen seemed more than just physically roughed up. He looked right past the people that asked about him as if they didn't exist. Karan began to worry that perhaps he had been concussed, but she didn't remember Soldier striking him anywhere near the head. She experienced an intense feeling of relief when they entered his office and closed the door behind them.

She sat Houser down behind his desk, opening his shirt to check his ribcage. He jerked up suddenly, raising his arms. Roughly, he brushed her hand aside and reached for the telephone, but before the receptionist could answer, he slammed the earpiece down on the receiver, burying his head in his hands and moaning. Karan touched him on the shoulder in a consoling gesture but again he jerked away. He looked desperately around the room and she was shocked to see tears running down his cheeks. She had never seen him cry and it made her extremely uncomfortable, as if she had interrupted some private grief that she had no business sharing.

He leaped to his feet, pushing his chair back so hard it fell over. He began pacing back and forth past the window. His eyes had a glazed, hysterical look and he began wringing his hands. He attempted to speak, his voice coming out in a high-pitched squeak, mumbling and slurring his words.

"Never so serious...they promised...possible vaccine... my fault...got to try."

He stopped his pacing, staring out the window.

Karan began to speak but he silenced her with a wild wave. His eyes had focused and his lips had formed a hard line. He appeared to have made some kind of decision. Smoothing his suit jacket and straightening his tie, he strode purposely to the storage closet at the back of the room. Kneeling down, he opened the small refrigerator unit the staff had purchased for him the previous Christmas. Taking out a small glass vial, he closed the door. Walking back over to his desk, he sat the vial down gingerly and took a deep breath. He raised his eyes to Karin’s and studied her intently. She began to feel uncomfortable again.

'' I don't feel like answering any questions right now—don't ask”, he said wearily.

After a moment he shrugged, and with a wry smile, gently picked up the vial before him.

"The vaccine.”

He said it flatly and without emotion.

Karan's mouth opened and closed in confusion. She started to speak and then stopped.

"I don't know if it'll work or not." He hesitated. “They said it would."

Glen looked away.

Karan's mouth formed the word "they", but she couldn't speak. Somehow, she knew that “they” was not the CDC.

She cleared her throat noisily.

"You want me to run that down to the lab?" she said hesitantly. "By midnight we should know."

Her mind was in turmoil, trying to decide how to interpret what had just happened. Obviously, Glen knew something about what was going on. There was no other explanation for his having a flu vaccine in his refrigerator. She had a queasy feeling in the bottom of her stomach as she hurried toward the lab.

As she visualized Grandpa filling out papers in the admissions office, the image of Gordon Walker flashed before her. God, she hadn't even mentioned his death to Grandpa yet! Did Grandpa even know? She changed course and stepped into an open elevator.

Lance Dancer hurried out of the hospital entrance. Soldier was standing silently by the truck, staring upward at the dark clouds overhead. Rain ran from his bandana headband down his nose and dripped off his chin. Dancer opened the door to the driver's side and got in. Leaning across the seat, he opened the door next to Soldier.

"Get in Bro," he said softly.

Soldier laid his left arm on the top of the cab and half turned toward Dancer, bending at the waist and peering in, a wild look in his eye.

"I'm dying inside, man, get me outta here. I need a drink, bad!"

"Why don't we just go back to the Rez, Bro? I got a battle of Jack Daniels at the house."

Soldier started to turn away.

"I can't go back there...not yet."

"Ok, Ok. Let's go to the Tavern, but I don't think..."

Soldier cut him off.

"Let's go the Roped Steer," he said with a cruel smile, "I haven't seen any of my old friends for a 1ong time."

Lance sighed loudly.

"So that's what it's going to take huh? Well, if we're goin' there, I need these.”

Dancer reached into his jacket and removed a black pair of leather gloves.

“It's OJ time!”

Soldier slid in, without looking at Dancer. He just stared straight ahead.

Lance knew that Soldier didn't really need any backup, but today you never knew. Some dumb cowboy might have a pistol in his pants and even Soldier wasn't Superman.

Rainbows glistened from the wet pavement as their headlights bounced off the oil-soaked blacktop. Twenty minutes later, a big blue neon sign, shaped like a bull, blinked at them from the roadside. As they got closer, the red neon rope around its neck wound up to create the lettering, ROPED STEER. Seconds later they pulled into the parking lot.

“You sure you want to do this?”

Soldier didn't answer.

This place was packed Dancer knew that getting Soldier drunk would only lead to trouble, but he didn't know what else to do. His one hope was that he could get Soldier soused in a hurry. This bar had a reputation as the toughest cowboy bar in the valley. The chances of them getting out without a confrontation would be bad on a normal night. Dancer rubbed his leather covered knuckles in anticipation of the pain he was about to cause them. Adrenalin fired him up and he was only a few steps behind when Soldier blasted through the front door. Shit, Lance thought, it's been a long time. Fear and excitement pushed him forward.

As Karan Deer entered the admissions office, Horse was sitting in a chair, filling out a stack of papers. His brown face frowned in concentration, deepening his wrinkles. She was dismayed to see how old and tired he looked. Usually, her mental image of Grandpa was of a strong and vibrant senior citizen. Old certainly, but not aged in a negative sense. To see him like this, vulnerable and worn, his glasses crooked across his nose, made Karan even more aware of the tenuous nature of life. She promised the Powers to be more appreciative of Grandpa. No one knew how much longer he would be in this world, and when he was gone; one more link with the "real people" would be gone.

She knelt beside the chair and put her hand affectionately on his forearm. He looked into her eyes and smiled a sad smile. Then he seemed to look even deeper and his smile faded. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

Karan took the opportunity to tell him about Walker. She started slowly but finished in a rush.

‘‘I didn’t even know he was here. It looked like a heart attack but we've been so busy...” She trailed off, and then said, “No one's asked for an autopsy, but then I guess he didn't have any family... They found him behind a bar in Mission.”

Grandpa's eyes widened perceptibly. For a moment, he seemed lost in his thoughts. Karan waited for him to say something, but when he did speak, it was not what she expected.

"All this paperwork, just to take “Little Bit” home. In this hospital, I think you need a signed piece of paper to take a shit”.

Karan was aghast that he could joke at a time like this.

Horse saw that she was upset and patted her hand with his own.

"Sometimes what non-Indian people think is appropriate doesn't make sense. You need to spend more time with your own people, granddaughter! We can find humor in death as well as life. That is one of the differences in our cultures. To them, death is the end. They fear it and will go to any length to prevent it. Their people march against abortion; some of them become vegetarians to protest the death of meat beings, yet they continue to destroy the earth and its Native peoples in pursuit of comfort and convenience.

They are selective with their morality. Each animal, plant, even rock, has its own life. Every physical thing in the world is comprised of the same elements, arranged a little differently, trying to accomplish our intended purpose. But the form of these elements is ever changing and it is unimportant to the Great Spirit whether these bodies live or die. These Americans believe humans deserve special treatment—so we have become selfish and fearful of change, even as we claim to believe that our Spirit is eternal. Life is not a game that ends in victory or defeat. Creation and destruction are twins, and the circle moves forward. Death does not seek to cheat us of our eternal role in Creation, it is the knowledge of our ending that defines us and causes us to make the choices we make. The protesters cry for their own mortality, in fear of their frailty. Who is to say that any death is untimely in the eternity of a thousand years? Violence and tragedy have followed human beings since we took our first steps upon this Mother Earth. No one gets the time they want, only the time they get. Upstairs is the earthly body of an eternal spirit, the body of child not yet grown. Downstairs is the body of one of my oldest friends. It is not the first time I have lost loved ones, and it will not be the last. I will mourn in my own time. Right now I am sure that my old friend Walker is having a good laugh at me, sitting here trying to fill out all these meaningless papers. I am permitted to smile at this joke. So are you."

Grandpa Abrahm WarHorse leaned over and tenderly kissed Karan on the cheek “Thank you for telling me about my old friend. Now go do what you can for the children, I'll be back in the morning.''

With a visible breath, he turned his eyes again to the papers before him.

Karan rose and left the room, marveling at the sense of balance that Grandpa brought to a world of chaos.

After she had gone, Horse let the tears run freely down his cheeks. Twins, he mused—the smile and the tears—twins. Now he understood his recent Vision. He knew that the Walker had not gotten to Mission on his own. Someone had taken him there. There was a connection somewhere between Walker and the sickness. He had to begin the search. He thought of Rodney Welk and wondered if the white man had seen or heard anything. He'd have to go up and visit Rod when he came back.

Walking out to the pickup, he carefully removed a beautifully hand sewn star blanket from the seat. It was Dancer's. His mother had made it the year before she died. Horse's eyes began to drip again. A few minutes later, he was gently wrapping the young girl's body in the blanket. An attendant helped him push the gurney down the hall, into an elevator and out the exit. The same attendant lifted her into Grandpa Horses' arms and he carried her out of Midlands Hospital into the deepening dusk, the smell of rain still thick in the air, a light mist mixing with his tears.

As Horse laid her body gently across the back seat, two ambulances pulled up to the emergency door. He started the truck and inched it backwards into the parking lot. A line of cars was backed up well down the street. A squad car parked on the adjacent street and a rain-suited officer emerged and hurried over to begin directing traffic

Horse turned on the radio and was informed by the local community FM radio station that a hospital spokesman had issued a statement that by morning they expected to have only a few beds available. The transfer of the most critical patients to other facilities had already begun. People were advised not to panic, but Horse knew it was already too late for that. He reached for one of the quart mason jars jiggling beside him on the seat and put it between his legs. With one hand on the wheel, he unscrewed the lid and took a big drink of tea. He knew that Karan would be sure her patients drank theirs as well. His stomach churned again. The vision he had was clear. The black wind carrying the terrifying ebony eagle was descending upon them all. He ground the gears of the pickup and turned into the teeth of the wind, singing.

Redlands

Abrahm drove directly to Jason Short Bull's. He went inside briefly and spoke to Jason and his wife, Sarah. They accompanied him back out to the truck to help him carry the star blanket and its sorrowful contents into their house. Sarah cleared a table in the back room and they gently laid the bundle there. Sarah immediately went to work preparing the body for burial. Redlands was allowed to bury its own, providing they obeyed certain County guidelines and regulations.

Horse and Jason seated themselves by the wood stove in the kitchen. It was chugging like a train and the stovepipe was cherry red. Jason got up and flipped the damper down. Getting two coffee cups from the sink, he watched Grandpa pour them both a cup of black liquid from a large mason jar. After they had finished the evil tasting drink in silence, Jason went to the sink and washed his cup, then refilled it and took it in to Sarah.

When he returned, he sat down again and they listened to the Sarah's soft, high-pitched singing from the back room.

Finally Horse said," It's gonna take a lot of Medicine."

Jason looked at him thoughtfully.

"I'll go over to the Ike Billie's. I know he'll help with the gathering. His boy Andy will come too.”

"What about Sam Willows?” Horse said. "Does he still have that houseful of white kids from the University?"

Jason nodded.

"They offered to help if we needed anything. It was them that gathered the firewood for Irene's Coming Out”

Jason nodded again.

“This sickness, Horse. Can you cure it?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I don't think it's natural, even by today’s standards. It has the stink of man on it. I think we can keep it from killing us, but a lot of people are gonna be sick."

"We better get going," Jason said in a determined voice, rising from his seat. "I'll take everybody I can north into Chokecherry Canyon.”

"I'll go west toward the Lake," said Horse, also rising.

He finished his second cup of tea in one gulp.

"When we get back we'll purify the cabin again. You and Sarah can help me prepare the Medicine. Then in the morning, when Soldier and Dancer get here, we'll decide when to send the child on her way."

Sarah came in, her eyes glistening with tears.

"Such a beautiful girl,'' she whispered.

Grandpa stepped forward. He put his arms around their necks and gathered his two old friends to him. The three of them stood in a small circle and cried, together.

After a few minutes, Horse and Jason left the house. Jason hurried away on foot toward the Billie's modular, half a mile up the creek.

Horse returned to the truck. Taking out his pipe bag, he checked his tobacco pouch, and joined the stone bowl to the wood stem. Sitting in the driver's seat, he packed the red stone Pipe and quieted his thoughts. The rain had stopped, but a blanket of black still covered the stars. He smoked, breathing the pungent tobacco and herbs into his lungs and blowing the fragrant spoke out the window. Twenty minutes later he drove toward the Lake, parking the pickup on the road above it. It was only a couple of miles to Rod Welk's cabin and Horse felt like walking. He knew a good place to gather herbs in that direction. Clouds hung low and purple over the ravine below him. The air was filled with a heavy mist. He stepped off the road into the sagebrush and chaparral. His pant legs were immediately soaked from the knees down. The brush had softened in the rain. Beads of water hung on the flowers like drops of resin.

He started singing and began to gather what he needed for his tea. He picked until he was only about a thousand yards from the cabin. The window was a closed black eye. He sat his gunnysack down in the brush and crossed the road into the cabin yard. No crickets chirped. There was only the sound of Horse's breathing and the beating of his heart. The silence caused his neck hairs to stand and a chill to dance on his spine.

He moved quickly to the doorway and tried the handle. It opened. He hesitated and then stepped inside, checking out the interior. Nothing seemed out of place. He turned, and closed the door firmly behind him. Lifting the heavy sack of herbs, Horse retraced his steps to the van. As he approached the Chevy, his mind raced with the vision of Walker. He knew that Walker had not gone to Mission willingly. Someone had taken him there. That someone might have passed by Rod Welk's cabin on his way. Maybe Rod had even seen them.

His thoughts turned to Soldier. The big man was going to have it rough for a while. Maybe Grandpa could keep him busy. He prayed Dancer would keep Soldier out of trouble tonight. He needed Soldier's help and tracking experience to be sure that Walker had indeed met his fate below the Old Man as he suspected. He knew where to look for proof, but only Soldier could see the evidence after this rain. He knew his friend Walker well enough to know that he hadn't gone quietly.

Valley Mission

Soldier put away a double shot before Lance even sat down at the table. The jukebox was playing Nelson, Jennings, Kristofferson and Cash's, “the Highwayman”, at max volume. Perfect. Dancer knew the four outlaws featured on the classic hit would appreciate what was about to happen, at least when they were younger. The air was so thick with cigarette and cigar smoke it seemed you could reach out and part it before you when you walked. The smell of men who did heavy labor for a living filled the room. Every table was full, and the door continued to open with men just getting off work looking to ease the day's load. It was a popular place. Beer was only fifty cents on tap at happy hour. Cowboys, roughnecks, and construction people made this their home on rainy evenings. A few even brought their wives, but mostly it was a man's bar with shouting, loud dirty jokes, and wall-to-wall cussing.

The walls were covered with steer horns and beer advertisements. The bathroom doors weren't doors at all, just a couple of ancient saloon swingers. It was easy to see why not too many women were regulars here, Dancer thought. You could see right into both bathroom stalls from the table they were seated at.

He noticed that quite a few pairs of eyes were fixed on them. He made a show of taking a good long drink, and then looked around with feigned indifference. Soldier was staring them all down one by one and smiling evilly at everyone that came in the door or passed their table. Dancer took another drink, knowing that it was just a matter of time before they were challenged. In this place, racism and bigotry were nurtured by jokes, racial epithets, and the comradery that unites men with similar hatreds.

Soldier wasn't even looking at the bottle, as he overflowed his glass. Dancer knew there were no words he could say to console his brother. This wasn't a good solution to what he was feelin', but it was the easiest. He could only be there with him to share his grief and back him up.

They polished off a few more shots and Dancer's stomach rolled with the fiery liquor and nervous anticipation. The heat from his belly caused sweat to pop out on his forehead. He took off his jacket and laid it on the table. On the surface he was hot, but inside, near his heart; he was cement cold. His life was upside down and the balance was gone. Right now, he could only take it second by second.

“Well, look at this," a voice from the bar chuckled, loud enough for everyone to hear. "We been graced with the presence of a couple of red nigger fags and they're gettin' comfortable at my table! What you think about that, guys?"

"Come on Wallace;" pleaded the four hundred pound, bald as a bowling ball, bartender. "Ease up. If'n you want to take them outside and beat the holy crap out of 'em, be my guest, but don't do it inside here. My insurance guy is gonna take his phone off the hook if I call 'em again this month."

The room became unnaturally quiet. Even the jukebox now sat mute in the corner. Dancer could see that the voice at the bar belonged to a big, freckle-faced, asshole in overalls. His forehead receded into a red buzz cut, and his ears stuck out like a truck with the doors open. His nose flattened over his face and he was chewing gum so fast his lips were a blur. He had to be over fifty if he was a day.

He slid off the barstool and strutted up to their table like a bantam rooster getting ready to fight. Abruptly his manner changed and a sympathetic look crossed his face. Leaning down he spoke in a childish whine.

"Whatsa matter, Geronimo? You and the Chief here got AIDS? You shoulda

stuck to fucking sheep, or maybe buffalo.” He guffawed and looked around the bar. “Bruises down yer boots is better than what you two queer-lipped sons-a-bitches is gonna get from me and my friends."

He looked around again, gathering his support.

"Come on honey, cheer up. You look like your best bitch dog died."

He put his hand on Soldier's shoulder.

"You a Vet, Chief?" he said, fingering the khaki fatigue jacket Soldier wore. "Bet them towel heads just loved you. Why, you're almost one of them. You know, I am a Vet too. In 'Nam I had me a gook once. Stuffed her cunt well before I blew her head off. She was just getting her tits."

Dancer saw Soldier stiffen and his eyes glass over. A hard mask settled over his features. Dancer tensed and looked around him for the closest threat, other than the redhead. A tall man with a handlebar mustache was creeping up out of his chair, two tables away.

Soldier exploded out of his chair, driving his elbow deep into the red head's belly-roll. It happened so fast even Dancer was frozen for a moment; numbed by the speed of the attack. In the same movement, Soldier smoothly back-fisted the man in the bridge of his nose, the crackle of busting cartilage popping loudly. The big man staggered back, blood streaming down into his mouth. He seemed more shocked than hurt. Soldier spun into a fighting crouch, then attacked for real. Springing forward, he grabbed the sides of the man's head by his ears, pulling it toward him as he drove the top front of his forehead directly into the point between the freckled nose and mouth. Striking the pressure point directly caused the man to scream and fall to the floor sideways onto his knees. Spinning deftly in a full circle, Soldier drove the calloused horn-like edge of his hand into the soft flesh at the base of the back of the neck facing him. The man grunted loudly and fell forward like a log, unconscious. His face was covered in blood and spittle dripped from his mouth onto the floor. Soldier stood over him with clenched fists, breathing easily and waiting for the next combatant.

The mustache man had taken only a couple of steps toward them when Dancer cut him off. Pivoting quickly on his right heel, Dancer nailed him in the side of his rib cage with the toe of his left boot. He followed the roundhouse with a spinning sweep, dropping down low to the ground as he made contact. The man fell in place, landing flat on his back, striking his head on the floor. Dancer trapped one leg with his instep and quickly drove the ball of his foot into the inside of the knee closest him. The knee snapped with an audible pop. The Mustache howled like a wolf in a trap.

Everyone was up now. Some standing, some moving forward.

Dancer and Soldier moved back to back toward the door. He felt Soldier push him away and Dancer took an extra step before he turned. Sure enough, Soldier was leaping high in the air with a perfectly formed back spinning heel kick. One of the men took the kick in the side of his head, driving him sideways into the body of the second. A sickening thud sounded as their heads collided. They went down silently. Dancer took a sweeping punch to the face but countered with a snappy front kick to the short heavyset man's groin in return. He blocked a haphazard kick from the side and stepped into pound another man's solar plexus with his fist. Soldier was just completing a double sidekick combination, which had driven his nearest opponent over a table and out of sight.

Most of the men who had been coming forward had lost their courage and were now hesitating, or backing up, cursing wildly. One charged and Soldier kicked him underneath the chin, grabbed him by the shirtfront, and, stepping quickly sideways, threw him through the front door.

A shotgun blast singed the hair on Dancer's head. Part of the wall and ceiling above him fell down in pieces, dusting them with white plaster and insulation.

"Get out, you redskin bastards! The next one's for you!”

The bartender stood pointing a shotgun in their direction, one barrel still smoking.

Dancer stepped quickly through the door; pulling Soldier with him. They ran for the truck. A crowd poured out of the bar. One man brandished a shiny, chromed 357 above his head, but before he could point it at anyone Soldier had closed on him, broke his arm, disarmed him, and tossed the gun over the building. Lance had the truck started and was backing out when he saw the red and blue flashing lights. The patrol car screeched to a halt beside them and two sheriffs were out with their guns drawn, demanding they hit the deck with their hands behind their heads. There was nothing to do but comply, and Dancer breathed a heavy sigh of relief when he saw Soldier drop to his knees in the dust and lay prone—his hands behind his back.

One of the Officers approached the crowd and yelled,

"You all go back inside now, we'll take care of this."

Moments later, they were searched, cuffed, and sitting in the back of the cruiser headed for the station.

Lance knew better than to open his mouth, and Soldier was in another world. His expression held no clue as to what he was thinking. All Dancer knew was that his brother was not there in the patrol car with him. Maybe that was for the best. Dancer was still amazed and relieved that Soldier had allowed himself to be taken so easily. If he hadn't, there might be two dead cops back at that bar or two dead Indians on their way to the morgue.

Lance shook his head dispiritedly. He knew they wouldn't be in jail long. Redlands retained excellent legal counsel for all its members, but Lance hated to be inside, even if was only for a few hours.

When they had been booked, printed, and photographed, Lance was allowed his call. He called the Short Bull's house and talked to Sarah. She said the Grandpa was still out getting Medicine but when he got back, she'd let him know about their problem. He could tell she was sad and unhappy, and he apologized for calling. She snickered and asked him if he was turning white; that he should apologize for asking his people for help. Embarrassed, he hung up without saying goodbye and was taken immediately to a holding cell filled with drunks and other prisoners. Two-thirds of them were Indians. Most lived in town, though a couple were from Mission. Dancer was pleased to see that none were from Redlands. Still, they were brown, and he felt more at ease in their presence.

Midlands General Hospital

By midnight Glen Houser knew that the vaccine that he had been given was ineffective in dealing with the virus that was taking his hospital by storm. He gnashed his teeth, waiting for the morning to come. He had a few calls to make, he thought angrily. A few very important calls.

Karan Deer was exhausted. She was fully aware that they did not have an effective weapon against the bug. Her hopes that Glen's mystery vaccine would work had been dashed by the deaths of eight more patients. Grandpa's medicine, on the other hand, had definitely helped the children and other Indians that had been drinking it. None of them had died since Cheryl, and a few had made a marked improvement. For all the rest though, there was little hope. They had ten patients that were not expected to last through the next few hours. At least another thirty were heading that direction. The mortality rate far exceeded that of any virus they had ever encountered. Just after midnight, she called a friend of hers at the local community radio station, giving them the terrible details. She had started drinking Grandpa's tea herself a few hours before. They would be getting low by morning. She hoped Horse would make it back soon; she needed him to hold her hand again and tell her everything was going to be all right, even if it wasn't. She was beyond scared, and from the looks on faces around her, everyone else was too.

Glen stood looking at the painting of an Alaskan snow covered mountain peak glistening under his neon office lights. The painting was a window through which he had often escaped the pressures of his office, providing him with a feeling of solace and solitude. The oils conveyed an impression of freshness to an environment of antiseptic smells, waxed floors, and constant hubbub. He wished he could simply step through the ornate wooden frame and escape the nightmare that currently enveloped him. Sighing and rubbing his eyes despondently, he reached for the desk phone and depressed the button that would electronically summon his secretary. She answered immediately.

"June, I want to make a private call. Would you mind taking your coffee break a little early this morning? Thanks."

A moment later, he opened the door slightly to make sure she had indeed gone, then returned to his desk, and dialed the number of Ansom Pharmaceuticals.

"Mr. Hosch's office please, tell him its Glen Houser."

"Hosch speaking."

Glen recognized the gruff and arrogant voice immediately. He felt the frustration and anger of the past twenty hours threaten his composure. His voice cracked slightly when he spoke, the emotion giving his words a slightly higher pitch.

"Damn it Hosch, what the hell is going on? The new vaccine is worthless! Who the hell do you have working for you these days, a bunch of coke heads?"

Hosch's voice came back a study of controlled fury. The words were clipped distinctly and offered in staccato tempo.

"I have no idea what you are speaking about."

"We've got a fucking nightmare virus going on that's what! The thing has already killed a bunch of my patients. They are airlifting them to the city for God's sake! This isn’t a fucking controlled test, this is a goddamn epidemic! This vaccine wouldn't help a boil on a fat lady's ass! "

Hosch stared at the ceiling. Was it possible that he had been set up? All those years of work, building up from the degradation and despair of life in the Nazi camps to being the head of a Fortune Five Hundred Company was threatened. For moment hysteria crept into his fingers and they shook uncontrollably. Then his iron will asserted itself and his hand was calm.

"It is possible," he said slowly, trying to sound calm, "that you were shipped the wrong vaccine. If...."

Houser cut him off in mid-sentence.

"Don't bullshit me, Hosch. This isn't a Three Stooges episode. The vaccine isn't the only thing screwy here. This isn't even the same goddamn virus! My lab tech tells me..."

Now it was Hosch's turn to interrupt. He had no choice but to tell Houser the truth about what had happened to Agee and his mutation.

"I don't believe it," Houser stuttered when he heard Hosch's explanation. "This sounds like a fucking paperback novel. These kinds of things aren't supposed to happen. How could you lose control of it like this? Why didn't you tell me about Agee's murder?"

Hosch mumbled a few words about internal security. The irony of it was inescapable. A thought crept into his mind. What if his own security was involved?

"Do you have a vaccine for the mutation yet?” Houser said sarcastically, "or is this epidemic going to become the modern version of the Black Death?"

Hosch hesitated before answering and then lied smoothly,

"Yes, we have it. Another day or two at most and I'll have it flown out to the hospital immediately."

Glen felt slightly relieved but said angrily. “We may not have a day or two. I hope you nail that skinny fucker to the wall, Hosch. He should be tried as a war criminal and then drawn and quartered!"

Hosch was shocked that Houser seemed to suspect his chief of security at exactly same time the idea had first occurred to him. He wondered what else Houser knew. Suddenly he felt very insecure in his surroundings.

Houser interrupted his thoughts again.

“And I hope you have the sense to do it quietly, or our asses will fry with him. Why I ever agreed to this..."

"You know perfectly well why," Hosch stung quickly. "It was greed, Dr. Houser, simple greed. I'll get back to you."

Houser found himself listening to the dial tone that told him he was holding a dead line. He hung up the phone slowly. Well, at least there was a vaccine. Another week and the things might be back to normal. He experienced a moment of stomach turning discomfort when he thought of the tall man, dressed in black, that had intentionally caused all this needless suffering. Carliss was definitely a psycho. He hoped Hosch would deal with him quickly. He jumped when the buzzer on his desk startled him from his thoughts.

"Yes," he said nervously.

"Karan Deer needs to see you immediately, Sir. Are you available now?"

"Yes, send her in."

Houser did not really want to see anyone now, but he was, after all, the Administrator and there were decisions to be made. He straightened his tie hurriedly and sat down in his chair, pretending to look at the papers before him,

Karan entered his office with a large mason jar full of a dirty brown liquid. She sat it down on his desk with a thump.

"This is Abrahm WarHorse's tea, you'd better drink some."

Glen gave her a disgusted look and shook his head negatively, opening his mouth to speak. Karen interrupted quickly.

"The people who have been drinking it appear to be doing better than those who haven't."

She picked up the jar, unscrewed the metal lid, and took a huge sip, screwing up her face and wrinkling her nose.

"See. It won't kill you. Whew! It won't win an award for taste though."

Seeing Houser was still unconvinced, she shrugged and picked up the jar.

"Our staff is beginning to catch the virus. By this evening, everyone may have it. Do you have an alternative Doctor?"

Hosch looked out the window.

"I intend to inform the CDC. Hopefully within a few days we'll have a vaccine."

"Days," Karen snorted, "you mean weeks. You know how they work. We only have hours. Besides, you don't have to call them. I called last night."

Houser's face reddened with fury.

"Who...who gave you the authority," he sputtered.

Karan raised her hands palms upward and spoke hurriedly.

"Maybe I did overstep my authority, Glen, but what, for God's sake, were you doing about it? I called them because I was willing to admit last night that we were losing against this thing." Her voice rose an octave. "I'm the one that's had to face the families, while you sit in your insulated office and do God knows what. And what’s with all this ridiculous talk about vaccines we don't even have? You've been playing Mr. Mysterious about this thing all along. Why don't you admit you haven’t a goddamn clue about what we've got here. You are not omnipotent, you know, just because of your position! How dare you act like you've got everything under control when people are dropping like flies out there? Do you realize that we ran out of available rooms at 2:30 this morning? We're putting people in the halls now, and it's getting crowded there. We can't even keep up by airlifting them out. Max Kilmer, at the radio station, said that lots of people have called him that they haven't been able to get out of their homes! Whole families are affected. There's even been one or two cases reported down in the city!"

She stopped, her breasts rising and falling heavily, nostrils flaring, eyes flashing with anger. Even in the midst of his inner turmoil, Houser could not fail to appreciate how beautiful she was. Her olive skin was flushed, her lips reddened and full. He shook himself and looked away. He had to come up with something to calm her down; something to allay whatever suspicions she might have arrived at regarding his previous actions. Solicitously, he reached out to gently take her hand.

"Karan, believe me when I say I have been deeply affected by the loss of so many patients. Perhaps I have been overly optimistic and not assertive enough in dealing with the problem. I promise from now on, we're working together on this, Ok?"

He gave her his most concerned look.

She sighed heavily and relented.

"Okay Glen. The CDC agent called just before I came in. He'll be here by noon. He requested the first cultures, if the lab still has them—and also the most recent ones. He also requested that we work up a file on any patients who have improved or appear to be resisting the virus. Also the names of anyone who has been exposed for twelve hours or more who hasn't contracted it."

"We'll give him everything he needs," Houser said expansively. "You see to it. Anything else?"

"Yes," Karan said hesitantly. "All the Redlands patients are checking out, even some of the Indians from Mission. They've decided that they're going to trust Abrahm's medicine and go home. They don't seem too impressed with our results."

Glen's face darkened, but his words were surprising.

"Well, up to this point I can't say as I blame them, and if they believe this hocus-pocus shit, who knows, maybe it'll do them some good. Besides it will leave us with a little more room."

Karan felt her anger return with his last statement, but she turned toward the door to mask it. No sense making another scene. She had patients to see to.

Glen watched her hips sway as she walked to the door and passed through it. What a woman, he thought. Too bad she's not white! He buzzed his secretary.

"June, I want to be informed the minute that CDC bas... uh, man, enters the hospital."

As he hung up, he felt a twinge in his stomach. The twinge broadened into an outright pain. His forehead felt hot. Goddamn it, he would not get sick, he told himself angrily! Popping three aspirin from a bottle on his desk, he leaned back in his chair and stared once again at the wall painting. Such a beautiful scene...

Ansom Pharmaceuticals, Florida

Christine Collins had finally made up her mind. Today was the day she planned to march into Hosch's office, announce that she had found the vaccine, and quit!

Her Thursday morning breakfasts at the local Denny's had become a tradition for her since she had been working at Ansom. She ate leisurely, enjoying the simple, but tasty eggs-over-easy with sausage and a grilled sourdough muffin.

She was reasonably sure that her decision to leave Ansom was the right one. Hosch was not an easy man to work for and with Philip gone, she would be an easy target without any backup. She had no idea where Hosch was going to find someone with Agee's qualifications and ability. As far as she could discern, Ansom's research facility was effectively kaput! She didn't relish going down with “Captain” Hosch and his ship. Better to put out her lifeboat early and start looking for another boat. She had had a number of offers from rival companies in the last five years; hopefully one of them would still be interested.

She finished her third coffee, rummaged around in her large black handbag for a quarter, then rose and walked to a section of pay phones by the restrooms. She dialed Frederick Hosch's office number.

“Ansom Pharmaceuticals. Jill speaking.”

“Jill, this is Chris. Is Frederick available to talk?”

Chris got a thrill out of using Hosch's first name in such a familiar way.

“Uh, let me check.”

A moment passed.

Hosch's gruff bass voice came on the line.

“Collin's? Do you have anything to report?”

Chris felt the blood rush to her face. Hosch always knew how to put someone on the defensive. All the more reason for her to enjoy this.

“Certainly Frederick,” she purred. “I wouldn't be calling just to make conversation. I believe I've found something that might interest you.”

She heard a sharp hissing at the other end of the line, as if Hosch had suddenly taken in all the air he could with one breath. An uneasy silence hung between them. For a moment, Chris wondered if Hosch was still there, alive. Then he coughed and she continued.

“I found the formulae for the vaccine at Philip's house. He must have finished it the before he was killed. In fact, that may have been why he was in the containment lab that night. It's on disc. I've made three copies. When do you want me to bring it in?”

“Immediately! Bring those discs to my office, immediately!”

Christine started to reply and realized she was hearing a dial tone. The bastard had hung up on her! When she saw that son-of-a-bitch she would have some choice phrases for him. She slammed down the receiver, retrieved her purse, and paid the bill. She took a cab back to her apartment to make a third copy of the disc. Suddenly she felt vulnerable and wanted to get this over with in a hurry. Then she could get out of this nightmare.

Frederick Hosch was experiencing an almost overwhelming sense of relief. Agee had done it. Collins had found it. Now all he had to do was get the vaccine to Glen Houser and everything would be under control. First, there was one mistake he had to rectify. He opened the top left drawer of his desk to make sure the loaded Walther P-38 was easily accessible. Then he buzzed Jill, and had her page Jake Carliss. He knew Carliss was back from Midlands. The private detective he had hired to track him had reported his return the previous evening. Neither of the other two Ansom employees that had accompanied him had returned to their apartments. Hosch didn't give a shit about them. He had to clean up this mess. He knew how to do that. He had learned how to deal with traitors during the War.

He was seated behind his desk when Carliss entered the office. Sliding the lower right drawer open, he depressed a button, and then slid it in again, leaving it open about an inch. Looking up, he smiled at Jake. Opening the left drawer, he took out the thirty-eight and pointed it at Jake's head.

“I think I've got a problem, and I think you're it.”

Hosch expected to see fear in the tall man's eyes. Instead, his expression was one of arrogance and control that should not have been present facing a firearm.

“Are you going to explain to me what's going on?” Hosch said nervously. He could not shake the feeling of helplessness that was causing his hand to tremble.

“Why not,” Jake said with a contemptuous sneer. “You probably wouldn't be able to figure it out for yourself.”

Chris Collins paid the cab driver and entered Ansom Pharmaceuticals. She immediately felt like Alice stepping through the looking glass. Everyone seemed to be hysterical. Women were screaming, men were shouting, and people were running to and fro. She grabbed the arm of a young lab tech she knew and pulled him to her roughly.

“What's going on?”

“You won't believe it,” he said, panting for breath. “Mr. Hosch has been shot. So has his secretary. Right here in the building in broad daylight! We think the killer may still be in the building. Security closed it down and locked everyone in until the cops get here. I got to round up all the keys to the labs.” He looked at Chris closely. “How did you get in?”

Chris shrugged.

The young tech gave her a funny look then raced away down the hall. Chris actually experienced the sensation of blood draining from her face as she stumbled like a zombie toward Hosch's office. She didn't see evidence of security anywhere. Passing through the administrative reception room, she glimpsed the blue-ish colored skin of Jill Conway's dead legs poking out from behind her desk. Her body was covered with somebody's overcoat. A sickly stench filled the room. In the doorway to Hosch's office, a white-faced security guard appeared. She moved toward him.

“I don't think you want to go in there, M'am.”

“I have to.”

He turned aside silently.

Tentatively, she stepped into the office and shallowed her breathing as the heavy smell of death assailed her nostrils again. She was not familiar with the smell. She'd only been to one funeral in her life, and that was when she was six.

Hosch was sitting behind his desk; head slumped onto his chest, arms dangling at his sides. There was a large bloodstain on his chest and half his face was missing. Chris gritted her teeth and walked toward him. Standing beside him, she took in the scene at close range. His eyes were closed to slits, and there was a look of surprise etched on his dead face. The odors of cordite, blood, urine, and feces caused her to turn sideways and vomit on the rug. Wiping her mouth with her hand, she turned back and noticed the gun dangling from the fingers of his left hand. For a moment she wondered if this was some sort of murder-suicide, but then realized there was no way he could have shot himself twice.

A loud click from the desk startled her and she stepped back quickly. It seemed to have come from one of the desk drawers. Noticing that one of the drawers was open; she took her handkerchief and opened it further. She gasped when she saw the cassette tape recorder. The loud click had been the machine shutting itself off! Peering at it closely, she could see that the volume had been set to its maximum. It was probable that all of the events, including the murders, had been recorded!

It didn't take her two seconds to reach her decision. She covered her fingers again with the handkerchief and ejected the cassette, sliding it into her purse. Then she closed the drawer. She suffered a momentary feeling of guilt, but reasoned that after she heard the tape she would make sure the authorities got it.

She exited the office with a final sympathetic look at Jill, and then hurried down the hall toward the labs with her master key card in her hand. As she expected, there were no guards at the emergency lab exit. Chris could hear the sound of sirens in the distance. She trotted to the twelve-foot chain link fate and opened it with a small key from her key ring. Then she ran across the open field to the access road and walked to Wal-Mart. There she called a taxi, and gave the driver her address.

Two hours later, Chris sat on her bed, head in her hands. Her nerves were shot. She had listened to the entire tape twice. The enormity of the crisis overwhelmed her. Ansom, Hosch, the hospital guy—Houser, Wilson, and Carliss had used them all. Testing viruses and their vaccines on communities of unsuspecting people was a betrayal of the public trust. She understood the Ansom scheme, that was about greed--but the callous attack on the western community really shocked her. It was a hideous plan—to loose a lethal virus on a whole community! She shook her head in disgust. She knew from the conversation that the government had been involved somehow, but it was unclear just what their role was in the conspiracy.

She felt like an actor in a movie as she packed her bags. At this very moment, people were dying of Philip's virus—if it was his virus at all. It had only taken her a few calls to the CDC to find out where a lethal flu appeared to be approaching epidemic levels. The place was a small County out west. She'd decided to take the vaccine to them herself. A copy of the vaccine had already been emailed to the CDC, but she couldn't afford to alert the Police yet. She felt partially responsible for the outbreak. She was terribly afraid. Hosch had told the monster Carliss that she had the vaccine. He might be after her at this very moment.

She'd already made her reservation to Midlands, and burned even another copy of this vaccine onto disk. As a precaution, she put the disc in a padded yellow mailing envelope and addressed it to the Administrator at Midlands General Hospital with a note explaining who she was and what was on the disc. Just in case! A knock on the door frightened her out of her wits until she realized it was only the cab driver Christine chewed her nails all the way to the airport. She mailed the envelope FED EX overnight from the airline terminal. Even after they were safely airborne, her stomach kept doing somersaults. She finally slept, but did not have pleasant dreams.

Midlands

Grandpa Horse pulled up in front of Midlands General just in time to see a number of children from the Redlands school bundled out the entrance and into the Redlands van by Wally Buckskin, AKA, Suds, one of Redlands worst alcoholics.

Concerned, Horse bounded over to the van and put a friendly hand on Wally's shoulder as he climbed in on the driver's side.

"How's it going, Wally?" Grandpa said softly.

Wally jumped like he'd seen a spirit,

"Damn it, you old goat, don't sneak up on me like that. My ticker won't handle it."

His usually bloodshot eyes were clear, with only the occasional streaks that a problem drinker possesses, drunk or sober. His black eyes, surrounded by yellowed whites, were focused and aware,

Grandpa stepped back a step and smiled, his surprise showing.

"Sorry, Suds," was all he said.

Wally combed his greasy black hair back from his forehead with his fingers and looked accusingly at Horse.

"You know, old man, I care just as much about our people as you do. And if I gotta stop drinkin' for a day or two 'cause they are in trouble, I can. So don't act so goddamn surprised. Shouldn't you be brewing some tea or making medicine or somethin' instead of standing out here in the rain bothering me? I got a load of sick kids to get home."

Abrahm WarHorse almost laughed out loud in pleasure it was so good to see Buckskin so sober and cantankerous. He stood back and watched as the van crept out of the parking lot at about five miles an hour and cautiously turn onto the highway.

Horse trotted toward the hospital entrance. By now his wet clothes had soaked him to the skin, his headband was so heavy it was beginning to droop down over his eyes. He pulled it off as he stamped his feet just inside. The admissions office staff just shook their heads at the puddle he left in front of the door.

Grandpa found Karan, as she prepared to enter the lab.

"I brought some more tea. Think anyone will drink it?" he said, dripping on the polished floor.

"I'm pretty sure most of the staff will, Grandpa. They're impressed. Not one of our other children died, and a lot of them are feeling a little better. Most of our people have been taken home and the rest will be gone within the hour. Colleen drank so

much of it she had to camp in the bathroom, but I think she improved the most of all."

"How bout you, feeling sick at all?" Horse asked with a concerned look.

"I'm feeling fine, so far. But I feel like my back teeth are floating." She smiled warmly.

Grandpa chuckled. "Drink more then, we want those teeth to drown! I'll send more tea as you need it—just call the Short Bull's. By the way, is Rod Welk still here?"

Karan snorted.

“Unfortunately! That ornery old man has just about gone through my entire nursing staff! No one wants to go in there anymore, what with the pinching and the comments he makes.”

Horse laughed.

“Sound like the old cowboy is still kickin'. “

“He's been drinking your tea too.”

“Where you keepin' him?”

“Third floor, Room 207.”

He gave her a quick hug and left. Within minutes, he had carried ten or twelve large gallon jugs of tea into her office. Then he treated himself to an elevator ride rather than taking the stairs and knocked at the door to Room 207.

“If'n that's one of you sweet faced nurses, I've been waitin' for my sponge bath!”

“No, it only me deary,” Horse said in a high-pitched voice.

He entered and watched Rodney's expectant face fall in disappointment.

“Oh, Horse. It's you.”

“Good to see you too, Rod,” Horse said sarcastically, noticing that Rodney had the room to himself. “So how did you get the honeymoon suite?”

“They put me in here to die, Horse”, Rodney whined. “I ain't been this sick since I had the whoopin' cough as a kid. And your wonder tea is about the dadgum most horrible shit I ever tasted.”

He smiled pitifully.

Horse stood at the side of the bed.

“Its gonna be alright Rod, you just keep drinkin' that shit.” He hesitated for a moment and then continued, “Hey Rod, I need to talk to you about last week. Any unusual characters up your way?”

They talked for about five minutes and Abrahm left with a clear picture in his head—a picture of a black van and a tall dark haired man who reminded Rodney Welk of a snake.

He left the hospital and climbed back into the truck. He’d remembered he had forgotten to tell Karan about Dancer and Soldier, or that her car would be sitting at the Police Station. Maybe he could get one of the Sheriffs to drive her car back to the hospital.

The truck bucked in the wind as the storm swirled the rain in sheets around him. How long would it last? Grandpa didn't have a clue.

Thirty minutes later, Horse sat in the lobby of the Valley Mission County Sheriff's Department waiting for the lawyer to finish up the paperwork necessary to post bail for Dancer and Soldier. The charges were felony assault, disturbing the peace, and willful destruction of private property. The Redlands lawyer, a close friend of the WarHorse family named Eric Heidleman, stood arguing with the desk sergeant. The attorney, a tall gaunt man dressed conservatively in a gray and black suit, was pointing his finger at the face of the deputy seated behind bulletproof glass. The volume of his voice had been climbing steadily for the past couple of minutes.

''I don't care what time it is," Heidleman's strident voice shouted. "Conditions for bail have been met and there is absolutely no reason for you to delay their release!"

The sergeant replied in a low voice. Horse couldn't make out what had been said but saw Heidleman throw up his hands in disgust as he stomped over to take the chair next to him.

"It'll be another half hour, Abrahm. You want some coffee?"

Horse nodded his head, examining his white friend carefully. Eric's sandy hair was tousled and stood up at the cowlick. It had thinned noticeably in the last year, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth were deeper and more defined. He wasn't the young, Jewish kid from Brooklyn-- “out to make a difference"--anymore.

Eric rubbed his nose with his hand. His eyes were red from the early wake up call. Horse had dragged him from his bed at 5:00 A.M. and they had driven straight to Judge Neeley's house. The judge had not been too happy to have his beauty sleep disturbed, but he owed Grandpa Horse and it was a simple enough way to pay the debt.

Judge Neeley's grandson had been born severely pigeon-toed, and neither corrective shoes nor thousands of dollars in an expensive pediatricians pocket had helped. Finally, Neeley's housekeeper, a former Redland's woman named Nellie Franks, recommended that he take his grandson to Horse. The Judge had ignored her for a year, but finally his desperation in seeing the boy's plight forced him to swallow his prejudiced view of Indian medicine and try anything.

Horse remembered Annie's description of the Judge's face when he stepped out of his Lincoln Continental in front of the cabin. The shiny wax job he'd paid fifteen dollars for at the Mission Body and Detail Emporium had lasted about five minutes on the rutted dirt road to Redlands and the cream colored automobile was now covered in a quarter inch of dust and grime. Horse's dogs barked and growled from a distance. The boy was shy, hiding behind his Grandfather's legs until Annie's warmth coaxed out his curiosity and he deluged her with questions about real Indians. His Grandfather stiffly followed them around to the back of the cabin where Horse was busy transplanting comfrey plants in his herb garden. After introductions, and a short conversation on the beneficial effects of gardening, they got down to the reason for the visit. Horse had the boy remove the stiff leather corrective braces he wore and walk back and forth between the woodshed and the horse corral. Then he sat him down on the chopping block and gently examined his feet and legs below the knees. He looked the boy in the eyes

“Do you want to be able to run?”

The boy nodded eagerly.

“It'll be very painful and will take many months?”

The boy's eyes grew large with fear.

Horse smiled and tousled his hair.

“When it's over you'll be the fastest runner in your class!”

The boy beamed again and looked eagerly at his Grandfather. Annie hustled him toward the house for some hot chocolate and sugared fry bread while Horse stayed out side with the Judge.

"Will it work?” was all Judge Neeley said.

“It'll be harder on you than him,” Grandpa replied. “I wasn't kidding. There will be a lot of pain involved at first. He may cry, even scream. He'll beg you to stop—but yes, it'll work.”

He went into the shed and returned with two gunnysacks of herbs. Building a fire, he purified his hands with a braid of sweet grass and began to direct the Judge in the correct preparation of the herbs. When Annie and the boy returned, Horse made a big show of tossing the stiff braces and stout leather shoes into the fire. The Judge's lips tightened into thin lines and his cheek muscle jumped, but he watched this spectacle in silence. The boy was impressed. He knew the shoes and braces had been very expensive and he looked fearfully at his Grandfather when Horse dropped them on the fire and piled fresh wood upon them. Then Horse sat the boy down on a round log bench and placed the basin of hot herbs beneath his feet. He asked the boy to be brave and to keep looking directly into his eyes no matter how much it hurt. Then he lowered the boy's feet into the steaming basin and began to gently massage and twist his feet and ankles. Gradually he increased the pressure until the boy's eyes filled with tears and he began to sniff uncontrollably. But he never took his eyes from the Indian's. Horse then removed the boy's feet from the tea and dried them with a soft fluffy towel Annie had brought from the cabin.

Turning to the Judge, he said, "Your grandson has the strength and spirit to be healed. It's up to you now."

He instructed him to massage the boy's feet and ankles four times a day, twisting them in the herb water. He cautioned the Judge that the pressure had to be strong and the treatments had to remain regular for at least four months. He smiled at the boy.

“Then come back for another cup of cocoa and we'll see how you're doing.”

The judge took out his checkbook.

“How much do I owe you?”

Grandpa waved him off.

“I don't charge for healing. But maybe you'll do me a favor someday.”

Judge Neeley looked at him suspiciously, then nodded, and put away his money. Just before they climbed into the Continental to return to the city, the boy ran over to Annie and gave her a quick hug. He smiled a shy smile at Horse and said “Thank you,” in a small voice.

That had been ten years ago. The treatments had taken a full year to complete. Judge Neeley's eyes had been wet and proud when just this morning he had told Horse that the boy, Eric, had recently won the hundred-yard dash in the District One County Track Meet, fulfilling Horse's promise.

Within an hour, the Judge had organized the arraignment and set the bail for both Dancer and Soldier. When they left the Judge standing in his stocking feet on his front doorsteps, Horse had shaken his hand gratefully. The favor had been given.

A cup of steaming hot coffee appeared in front of his face and brought Grandpa Horse out of his reverie. He nodding gratefully to the tall lawyer and took the Styrofoam cup from Eric's long bony fingers. Eric was more than the Redlands lawyer; he was also a good friend. He had come to Redlands only a few months after Grandpa had stopped drinking. A caravan of Indian elders and young people had passed through Redlands on their way to demonstrate against a ceremonial in New Mexico. Eric had joined them in California; where he had been an assistant public defender in a county where the All-Tribes movement had been active.

Eric was drawn to the sense of extended family that seemed to exist between Indians in the movement and he enjoyed being around them. When one of the elders asked him if he wanted to join the caravan and accompany them to their next assault on Anglo oppression, he accepted immediately. He wasn't married at the time and didn't even own a car. Though he was urban to the core, he assimilated very well into the world of venison, potatoes and fry bread, dew drenched sleeping bags and constant traveling. When Annie had seen their caravan in the parking lot of the Mission PigglyWiggly market, she had invited them all back to the cabin for a sweat and a meal. When Eric was introduced to Horse, he said he was from the Clorox Tribe, a statement that brought smiles to the faces of people too long inured to every white-looking person in the world claiming Cherokee descent. Of course, Horse knew that many light-skinned Indians could claim that heritage; having come from a people who had been in contact with Europeans for five hundred years, but it was tiring to try and decide who was and who was not Indian. Grandpa had begun asking them what Clan they were if they were Cherokee. That usually separated the “wares” from the “wannabes”.

Eric had intended to go to New Mexico, but had stayed when Dancer told him about the problems they had been having trying to get the Redlands Indian School accredited. His help had been invaluable to their ultimate success. They'd celebrated their “victory” at a cafe' in Midlands where he met a cute blond bombshell named Tina working as a waitress. A week later, Eric Heidleman officially retired from the “Road”, settling in Midlands.

He worked as a public defender for the County for a few years, but now had a small practice of his own. He retained a soft spot for Indians and traded for whatever his Indian clients had to offer in exchange for his time. He had become a regular at Ceremonies in Redlands; often single handedly supporting the events monetarily.

Grandpa also had to admit that Eric, much to everyone's chagrin, had developed just about the best singing voice for drum songs they'd ever heard. It was uncanny; and somewhat embarrassing for them, to see this tall, balding Jewish man tilt his head foreword and confidently sing all the songs drummed by Redland's finest drum group, the High Plateau Singers.

Horse had found out only this morning that Tina was pregnant. Eric and he had already discussed a home-birth, blessing, and naming ceremony in exchange for his helping Dancer and Soldier.

The thirty minutes passed quickly, and soon they were standing with Dancer and Soldier at the window, watching silently as they collected their valuables. No words had been exchanged yet; they would wait until they were clear of this place.

Rain continued to fall heavily as they left the jail, clouds pushing each other ominously across the sky with no break to be seen. Crowding into the front seat of the pickup, Grandpa drove quickly to Eric's house. Before Eric went inside, Grandpa had Soldier give him one of the large jars of tea in the box behind the cab for his family. The tall man shook Grandpa's hand in thanks and went inside. Horse drove to the nearest coffee shop. The three men ran to the door, almost completely drenched after only a few seconds in the open.

"It’s been awhile since we had this much rain all at once," Grandpa remarked.

Soldier didn't respond. He just sat gazing out the window into the black night.

Dancer's eyes were closed as he leaned against the wall.

"You're sick," Grandpa said. "Better get you to back up to the cabin soon. Hang on for a few minutes. I need to talk to Soldier, Ok?"

Dancer nodded imperceptibly as Horse turned to Soldier. Reaching over, he took Soldier's hand in his own. Soldier didn't pull away. He didn't even turn his head, just peered at Grandpa out of the corner of his eye.

"There is more to all of this than just death, son. There are things we need to find out. Gordon Walker was killed two nights ago and I think the man who did it is responsible for this black wind.”

Dancer's eyes opened and Soldier finally turned his head, looking directly into Grandpa's eyes.

Abrahm continued, “Rod Welk was up on the ridge below the Lake that night. He saw someone he recognized go up that way in a black van.

Soldier's interest mushroomed. Grandpa had finally gotten his attention. His knuckles were white as they gripped the edge of the table.

"I'm pretty sure this guy had somethin' to do with Walker's death.” Grandpa sighed. "Just don't ask me how or why right now.”

He gave Soldier a meaningful stare.

“I need you to track up around the north end of the Lake. See what you find. They found Walker at the Black Cat in Mission, and his body will probably be transferred from the hospital to the morgue in Midlands today. The death certificate says heart and natural causes. Nose around some and meet us at the cabin when you finish."

Grandpa stood up, putting his arm under Dancer and helping him to his feet.

"Now I need to get this boy to bed. You be careful.” He gave Soldier a meaningful look. "No telling what's going on."

Soldier stood and helped Grandpa move Dancer to the truck.

“You're pretty sure Walker didn't just reach his time, huh Grandpa?''

Grandpa looked north toward the dark lavender mountains rising into the clouds.

"No, it wasn't the end for Walker. He and I were brothers. He was old time, he would have known. He intended to drum for Irene."

Grandpa started the truck and drove to the school where Soldier's TransAm sat parked behind the gym. He gave Soldier a gallon jar of tea and made sure he took a drink on the spot.

"Watch the trail close son, pay attention to the way it feels and remember."

Grandpa winked in a conspiratorial manner and drove away toward Redlands with Dancer leaning, eyes closed, against the passenger door.

Soldier fished his keys out of his pocket, opened the trunk, and pulled out a camouflage rain jacket. He slipped it on over his fatigue jacket, then reached into the corner and withdrew a folded Hudson’s Bay blanket. Slipping his hand into the fold, he felt the cold grip of his black Heckler and Koch USP9SD automatic pistol with 3 Dot Tritium sights. He slid the B&T Impuls 2A stainless steel screw-on sound suppressor into his coat pocket and slammed the trunk lid closed. Opening the door lock with the key in his left hand, he climbed in behind the wheel and carefully laid the pistol on the seat. Then he leaned over to unlock the glove compartment. Removing three ten-shot clips, he slid two into his coat jacket and popped the other into the nine. Chambering a round, he checked to make sure the ambidextrous safety was on, and then stuffed the pistol into the small of his back under his pants and jacket. He liked the feel of the pistol. It weighed less than two pounds and had a barrel just over four and one half inches in length. It was capable of holding fifteen shot clips, but he preferred the tens.

He started the TransAm and sat for a moment to let the engine warm. His mind focused on the places he had to go and the time frame in which he needed to finish. Then he thrust the gearshift forward and the big engine caused the steel horse to leap forward with a throaty roar. Once again, Soldier had a mission.

Florida

Jake Carliss slipped up the apartment stairs under the slight glint of a crescent moon. Being careful not to rattle the ironwork handrails, he clenched and unclenched his fists nervously. A light film of perspiration covered his forehead as he gently stepped onto the walkway and down a short hall to the entrance of 3C. He quickly surveyed his flank. The smell of frying meat came from the opposite apartment as his fingers gingerly tried the doorknob. It failed to turn. An instant later, a smooth black leather case lay open in his palm. Removing two of the thin stainless steel lock picks, he went down to one knee and expertly manipulated the lock. So deft and swift was his movement, a passerby might have sworn it was simply a man bending down to retrieve a dropped key. He straightened and knocked sharply. When a few seconds passed with no response, he looked quickly around again before turning the knob and entering the apartment. He closed the door, flicked on the light, and began to survey the interior. It was obvious from the open drawers and unmade bed that the occupant had left hurriedly. Clothes were strewn all over the room and the closet door was open. Stepping into the bathroom, he noticed that the medicine cabinet door was also ajar.

Jake cursed softly. He had underestimated the bitch! He rifled through papers on the desk but it was mostly bills and junk mail. A small memo pad caught his eye. On it was scribbled a list of items, the kind of list someone might make if they were going on a trip and did not want to forget something important. Reading the last item on the list caused his pulse to jump. "CD-Rom" was enough to shake him.

"Goddamn son-of-a-bitch put together a fucking vaccine!"

The words burst from his mouth and bounced off the walls of the deserted apartment. He was about to leave when he noticed the words Midland General and a phone number scrawled on the back of an envelope lying inside the open phone book. A Motel 6 logo had been doodled beside the phone number. Sweat rolled down his forehead and into his eyes. A sense of desperation enveloped him and he nervously wiped the sweat away with his kidskin-covered hand. He breathed deeply, trying to get back his composure. He didn't know if the bitch had told anyone yet, and he probably wouldn't know until he had his hands around her soft white throat. The image gave him an erection and a crooked smile found its way to his lips. God, but he would enjoy that! He flicked off the light, locked the door from the inside, and closed it softly behind him. Then he leaped down the stairs and ran to his car. He had one more errand to run, and then he would be off to the airport.

After ten minutes on the expressway, he exited and pulled immediately into an alley behind a large apartment complex. He withdrew his old reliable suppressed Mark 1 Ruger from the glove box, stuffed it in to his pants, got out, and hopped the four-foot chain link fence. Children ran around him, screaming, laughing, and crying on the playground, jangling his nerves.

He felt better when he left the area and got further into the complex. He felt his adrenalin begin to rise as he approached the apartment door. He knocked loudly, holding the silenced nine-millimeter flat against his leg. A voice called out asking whomever it was to come in. He stepped inside and closed the door. He could hear the shower running and a man in shorts and a bathrobe emerged from the kitchen. Another sat on the couch. Without saying a word, Jake raised the Ruger and put two shots in the center of each man's chest. The four suppression pops sounded like firecrackers inside the closed apartment, as the smell of cordite filled the room. Jake turned on his heel and strode deliberately from the apartment, smiling grimly. A horrible screaming began to issue from behind him as he wound his way through the children and across the playground. Jake took the fence in a single bound. The stench of cordite followed him like a shadow. The idiots had just waited for it with their mouths hanging open, too stoned to even flinch. If they had been lined up, he could have shot them with one bullet! So much for his “partners”. Hosch should pay him for cleaning up all the mess left from their black ops. Only one loose end left. He was on his way back to that fucking hick town, Midlands!

Redlands

Grandpa Horse put Dancer into bed with two ancient hot water bottles against his feet. Dancer, who had been shivering, relaxed almost instantly and went to sleep. Grandpa watched him for a moment, singing an old healing song under his breath and then went into the kitchen to brew more tea. He wasn't sure whether his tea would cure the sickness outright, but he now knew it was helping ease the severity of the symptoms. He sighed deeply, washed his hands and face, and put on two huge pans of water. He thought of his wife’s smile and suddenly the smell of her filled his nostrils. He could feel her at his elbow, rubbing gently against him. Small beads of purified water crept from the corners of his eyes.

Midlands General

Karan Deer helped the last of the Redlands people into their dilapidated cars and trucks preparing to leave for the res. Those of them that were not too ill to be unaware of their surroundings were obviously glad to get away from the hospital, but the mood was somber. Two more of the original group of children had succumbed to the virus and even though Grandpa's tea appeared to be helping the most recently infected, a few of the earlier people were still seriously ill. Karan had mixed emotions about letting them leave, but with the overcrowded conditions, she decided it was probably for the best. Conditions inside the hospital were terrible. Patients lay everywhere. The hospital staff was decimated by the illness as well. Many of those who were not ill had not slept in days. Karan was one of these. As she walked through the waiting rooms, now fully occupied by patients, the doors opened behind her and even more people entered. There was simply no more room!

Even the helicopter evacuations of the most serious cases had not helped. Soon they would have to close the hospital to new patients and arrange with the two local health centers to take on their care. The governor had declared the area a disaster and Red Cross help was expected soon, but the interim was horrifying. Karan was exhausted and terribly afraid.

Glen Houser was definitely sick. She'd stopped by his office earlier to find him lying on his couch, sweating profusely. She'd covered him with a blanket and offered him some tea but he had refused. Even though she had been drinking readily from the jug Grandpa had given her, she still half expected the symptoms to come upon her at any moment. The CDC, other than putting out a level three alert, had been unable to offer any real assistance although they were expecting an emergency team at any time. They were faced with losing, not only a battle, but the entire war. There were forty-two dead already and one hundred and fifty just a step away. She thought of the children, the poor children! A few tears slid down her cheeks as she entered her office. By the time she sat down at her desk, they had become a flood. She cradled her head in her arms and cried out loud.

Valley Mission

Soldier pushed open the double doors to the Black Cat Saloon and stood in the doorway allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. Like a cat, he gracefully crossed to the bar and spoke quietly to the bald, fat, cigar-chewing barkeep. The bartender was openly hostile but answered Soldier's questions without direct insult.

After that, he stopped at a table where two heavily made-up older women in short skirts played gin rummy with a tattered deck of cards. They eyed him distastefully but also answered his soft questions without resistance. One of them pointed a bony finger toward the back of the building and he glided out the rear entrance.

Standing in the alley, the smell of stale wine and urine forced its way into his nostrils. He wrinkled his nose distastefully. It brought back unpleasant memories of his childhood. A small man stood at the end of the alley watching him carefully. A huge Navy P jacket hung on his bony frame, reaching almost to his ankles.

"You related to the Indian guy they dragged outta here"

"Maybe?" Soldier answered shortly. "You see him?"

"Me? No way!" The little man shook his head forcefully. "I was just here when the meat wagon come."

Soldier sidled closer and the older man stepped back hurriedly, as if he expected to be attacked. His eyes were wide and afraid.

Soldier held his hands out, palms up.

"Don’t mean you no harm old man. Relax."

He still had the feeling the man might know more than he was letting on.

"You in the war?"

The old man's eyes grew less afraid, but still held a wary edge. He bobbed his head once.

"The big one—WW Two—all through France, all through Germany. I was one of the first into Dachau. Never forgot, never will. It's in my dreams."

His eyes took on the haunted look that Soldier had seen many times before on the faces of younger men; some just boys really. The look was the same.

"I was in Desert Storm, myself. My Dad died in 'Nam."

"You mean the five day parade? That wasn't even a declared wars!" The old man sniffed disdainfully, but then his expression softened. “Sorry about your Dad.” He looked away quickly.

"I was there more than five days. A lot of people died," Soldier said very softly.

The old man turned to peer at him closely, and after a moment, nodded slowly.

"Yes. Yes, I guess they did." His voice was a whisper. " Did you ever kill a woman or a kid? He stared at Soldier intently.

"Once." Soldier stared right back.

The old man broke the confrontation of eyes with a slightly embarrassed shake of his head. He looked over Soldier's shoulder.

"Guess that was a different kind of war, huh?"

Soldier shrugged. An uneasy silence hung between them.

"You ever see this Indian guy here before?"

"Nope, never."

The old man looked around furtively and his whole body shivered beneath the huge blue Navy jacket. He seemed to make a decision. As he leaned in close to Soldier, a strong odor of Vodka and sweat preceded him.

"Look kid,” he said softly. “You’re a vet, I'm a vet, and normally I don't get involved in others beeswax but..."

Soldier knew he'd broken through. He leaned in past the vodka wall and tilted his head conspiratorially, without making eye contact.

The small man looked around again and then spoke as fast as he could, as if he were afraid that if he didn't finish quickly he might not finish at all.

"An Indian guy saved my life overseas. Don't even know what tribe he were. Doubt anybody did. He didn't say much. The boys just called him 'Chief', but I could see he didn't take with that much. His name was Virgil and that’s what I called him. We shared many a cigarette on guard duty. Anyway, we walked into an ambush and we was near the front. The point went down in the first few seconds. I took one in the leg and next thing I knew Virgil had me up on his shoulders like I was a buck deer or something and he was running through them woods, just running. I could hear the guns behind us blasting, and the bullets whistling, but old Virgil, he didn't stop. We was lost for days but Virgil got us a squirrel and a rabbit and we found a spring to drink from. Our guys came through later and we was found again. My leg was busted up pretty good so they shipped me back. Last I saw, Virgil was just standing there. Didn't even get to say goodbye. Never saw him again. Maybe this'll help square things. Maybe."

He looked at Soldier hopefully. Soldier gave him a short nod then waited. The old man took a deep breath.

"Couple guys in a black van with out-a-state plates dumped your friend and poured a whole bottle of good whiskey on 'em."

He gave Soldier a disgusted look.

"A whole bottle!"

He nudged Soldier with his elbow and looked him straight in the eye meaningfully.

"Your friend never tasted a drop, son. He was dead afore they brought him here to this alley. They was just being sneaky. Your friend just fell in with the wrong people, that’s all."

"Could you describe them?”

"Only one. A tall dark one. Snake eyes, that one, cold.”

Soldier took out his wallet.

The white man's grip on his arm was stronger than he would have ever imagined it could be. "Don't insult me, son. Virgil wouldn't approve!”

He turned and walked through the rear doors of the bar. It seemed to Soldier that the man had grown taller somehow. Soldier looked down at where Walker had been found. Grandpa's vision was right on, as usual. Now it was time to find out what Walker had gotten mixed up in. It was unlike him to go anywhere or do anything with white men.

Thirty-five minutes later Soldier was parked outside the Midlands Eternal Rest Funeral Home, drinking coffee from a large Styrofoam cup and waiting to pay his respects. He woke to his watch chime at 4:30 A.M. The streets were deserted. A cold wind drove the clouds quickly above across the pre-dawn sky. Huge thunderheads threatened, but failed to empty themselves. He opened the car door and zipped up his jacket. His muscles were stiff and he felt extremely nervous about going into the mortuary. It just wasn't something an Indian should do! He found an open window in the back and slithered in. Standing in the darkness, the hair on his neck stood up abruptly and he had to fight the urge to leave the way he came in, head first.

His fingers groped for the mag penlight in his pocket. A moment later, grateful for the tiny stream of light illuminating his way, he walked into the rear rooms where he knew the real work took place.

The place was packed! Bodies lay everywhere, wrapped in sheets—even on the floor. The reality of the situation hit him. His daughter lay on a table like this at the Shortbull's. A wave of nausea and fear swept over him. He had wrapped himself in the cocoon of a mission and now he was once again exposed to the reasons for it. He lost control and roared and raged for at least a minute before he was able to get control again. He fought for his sanity by focusing on finding Walker. He knew the Walker had been dead at least a day before the first victims of the sickness. He moved deeper into the building, finally coming to a room with three coffins. One was a very cheap box. He stepped up to it, and with only a moment’s hesitation, removed the lid and peered inside.

He lifted Gordon Walker's stiffened corpse from the box and laid it gently on the floor. Walker was still naked from the coroner's examination. Soldier examined the body in a cursory way, then started again. The second time he again found nothing to indicate that Walker had died of anything but the natural causes identified by the coroner. His gut told him that Grandpa and the old Vet were right, but his eyes just couldn't find the evidence to verify it. In his mind, he went over Grandpa's description of his vision again. He imagined that he was Grandpa, trying to visualize every detail that he had been told. When he came to the part about the stung finger, his breath halted sharply for a moment and held the dead man's hands close to his eyes, penlight grasped by his teeth and lips. Nothing. A thought occurred to him and he checked the Walker's feet. A moment later, he grunted in satisfaction. There it was, a small reddened dot inside his big toe. For a moment, he felt anger at the coroner who had missed this—willing to write off another Indian to drinking and disease. Then he looked again. The injection site was barely visible if you weren't looking for it. Only an autopsy would have discovered the truth, and there had been no reason to suspect foul play with Walker's health record. Grandpa was right, as was Virgil's friend. The tall man with the cold snake eyes had murdered Walker.

Grandpa had said they'd been together that night, up at the Old Man. Walker had been found in Mission the next morning outside the bar. What was the black van doing that they couldn't risk being seen? That had to be it—a simple elimination of witnesses. It made sense. Soldier returned Walkers' body to its box and left by the window.

Forty minutes later, he passed in front of Rodney Welk's cabin. Soldier knew that Grandpa had taken the old trail, which meant that Gordon had taken the road by the Lake. He would start there. The dawn was just breaking when he turned around by the Lake head and slowly cruised the edge. The new morning sun skipped off the Lake into his eyes like a piercing stone. He looked away for a moment, and when he looked back a dark bank of clouds was just beginning to seep back across the Lake, casting shadows.

The strengthening rays of the sun caught on something beside the road, causing it to flash momentarily. The reflected light caught his eye and then disappeared. The sun was covered and the clouds piled in black from the mountains. A light sprinkle pattered on his windshield as he pulled his poncho from the backseat and got out. He walked to near where he had seen the light reflected and began his search, starting with small circles, then radiating outward into larger ones. He instantly recognized the large tire tracks of a van and got the eerie feeling that he was standing on the spot where Gordon Walker had done his last living. Even though there had been a lot of rain, he soon found a set of tracks coming down from the north and the Old Man. They were Gordon's, he was sure. The tracks stopped where the large van tracks crossed back and forth twice. Coming in, turning around, and going out, Soldier thought. Only a coyote's track went down the hill from there. Gordon had definitely not gone any further on foot! Heavy booted tracks covered the area where the van had been parked. On a whim, he followed the tracks of the van as it moved from the soft muddy areas back toward the road. He was about to end his search when something caught his eye. He had seen this object from the car. He bent over the half buried metal, and scraping away the mud, checked it out carefully. It was a spent tranquillizer dart. He returned to the car and turned on the headlights, then grabbed his extra poncho from the back seat and returned to enfold the capsule in the rubber. He returned to the Pontiac and unwound the object from the poncho, letting it fall onto the floorboard. Driving the Pontiac to a position nearer his find, he let the lights play across the field. Another out-of-place reflection caught his eye and he reclaimed another dart in the rubber poncho.

Moments later, the Pontiac flew toward Redlands. He needed to let Grandpa Horse know what he had found, and check on Dancer. His eyes filled with tears as the image of his precious daughter filled his mind. He cried the entire time it took him to reach the cabin. Emotionally drained, his eyes red and his nose running uncontrollably, he slowly climbed out of the Trans Am and went inside. Grandpa sat him at the table with a steaming mug of tea, and then held his hand in silence.

Flight 117 from Denver to Midlands

Jake Carliss was only an hour behind Chris Collins in the air, her flight to Midlands having been delayed almost three hours in Denver due to blizzard conditions. Upon her arrival at Midlands airport she considered going immediately to the hospital, but one look in the restroom mirror convinced her she needed to freshen up and compose herself before facing the endless questions and recriminations that were sure to come from these people. She took a taxi to the Motel 6 and rented an upstairs room. She noticed the banner headlines in funereal black print atop the local newspaper.

Flu Kills 150

The rain that had been misting since her arrival began coming in sheets. Hurriedly she deposited fifty cents in the newspaper machine, grabbed the top copy, and sprinted across the parking lot toward her room. Trotting up the stairs, she walked quickly down the walkway, past a narrow hall to a door with a number that matched the key in her hand. She entered and flung the key and the newspaper on the bed. Then she headed straight into the bathroom and started the hot water running in the bathtub. Kicking off her shoes, she went back to the bed and unfolded the newspaper so that the front page lay flat. She began reading as she undressed, her horror growing with each paragraph. She couldn't believe the death toll! An enormous feeling of guilt consumed her. If only she had been more forceful with Philip when he'd first told her of his find. If only.

She shook her head and slapped herself across the cheek. It was something she had done since she was a teenager whenever she felt she was emotionally out of control. She went into the bathroom and turned off the water. The tub looked inviting, but first she had to make a call her friend Nancy, back in Florida, to find out what was going on there.

Nancy Adams worked for Ansom as their publicist. In her PR position, she knew all the latest info. She and Chris had started working there at about the same time and had occasionally gone out together drinking.

When Nancy answered Chris’s call, she began speaking so fast that Chris could barely make out what she was saying. It seemed that two more employees had been killed. The police had questioned her about the whereabouts of Chris and Jake Carliss. They were obviously both suspects and were wanted for questioning. Chris's palms began to sweat and she almost dropped the phone when she heard that Jake wasn't around. She had a horrible premonition that he might actually be outside her door. She hung up on Nancy in mid-sentence. There was no time for a bath. She had to go to the hospital immediately!

She dressed again, applied some light makeup to her face, called a taxi, and walked down to the front of the motel to wait. As she stood there, she nervously fingered the floppy disk in her bag, holding it close to her body to keep it dry. The rain softened and the wind quieted. She took a breath and smelled the air. It had a fresh clean smell that reminded her of camping and open spaces. For the first time in many hours, she began to relax a little.

As Chris Collins stood on the corner waiting, Jake Carliss was disembarking his plane and hailing a taxi. He too was going to Midlands’s hospital. Business before pleasure!

Redlands

Soldier and Grandpa sat silently at the big wooden telephone cable spool that Grandpa called his kitchen table. Annie had wrinkled her nose in disgust when Grandpa, Dancer, and Soldier had first unloaded it from the pickup truck, but she hadn't said anything because she knew that Horse considered it a major coup when he could 'liberate' anything from the phone or power companies. Annie had perched in the other room and when the “boys” stood back to enjoy the view, she'd swooped in with a huge yellow cloth and covered it right down to the floor. Grandpa's mouth had opened and closed in astonishment, but when he saw the determined look on her face, he just sighed loudly so she would notice and went outside to chop wood.

Grandpa smoothed the cloth with his hands and reminded himself that soon he should wash it again. He took good care of the things that Annie had left.

He looked up and saw that Soldier's eyes were misting again and he had that “squashed rabbit” look on his face. It shook Grandpa to see Soldier looking so vulnerable and lost. It was time to smoke the Pipe and center again. He lifted his pipe bag from its place of honor over the altar of Medicine objects and sat down again at the table. Soldier's eyes focused, and his face took on a more composed aura as Grandpa joined Sky and Earth, stem to bowl—and said the necessary prayers. They smoked and the comforting odors of kinnikinnic and twist tobacco permeated the kitchen atmosphere. It was more than a casual smoke, it was a smoke for power and healing. When they were finished, Grandpa emptied the ashes into a small white doeskin pouch and reverently separated the carved hickory stem from the red Catlinite bowl. Carefully putting them back into the pipe bag, he left out the perfectly round smooth stone that lay between them. Now he picked up the stone and offered it to Soldier. Soldier hesitated a moment before taking it, his mind racing to try and think of something he could give Grandpa in return.

"It isn't necessary right at this moment". Grandpa said, reading Soldiers perplexed expression.

"Rub the stone and discover its characteristics. Its strengths are also its weaknesses. Discover your relationship to its properties and you will go a long way to easing your pain, and comforting yourself."

Grandpa stood up and poured them both another cup of black coffee from the ancient porcelain covered pot. Dancer stumbled into the room at that moment, half covered with a blanket, his long hair wildly disheveled.

"Smells good in here", he burped, eyeing the coffee enviously.

Grandpa rose and set an empty mug before him, then sporting an evil-looking grin, he poured Dancer a steaming cup of tea! Dancer shook his head wistfully and borrowing one of Grandpa's huge sighs for effect, sipped at it and grimaced.

"Yeckk, Bleckk!" He shivered violently. A sickish look covered his face and he stood up as if to go back to bed.

Before he took two steps, Grandpa put his hand on his shoulder and said, smiling sweetly, "Don't forget your tea!"

Dancer held his hand out and Grandpa gingerly placed the mug in his palm. Then he shuffled off to bed.

Grandpa's face instantly changed to one of worried concern.

"Boy's still pretty sick!"

Soldier nodded.

"Corn is coming over to see Dancer drinks his tea while we're gone. I think we should go see Billie B."

"Don"t you think we should do this ourselves, Grandpa?"

Horse smiled like the Cheshire cat.

Billie Banks was a Redlands Indian. In fact, he was the only Redlands Skin that had ever worked for the Sheriff's Office. He didn't associate much with the Redland's people. His mother had died when he was young and his father had been stabbed to death in a brawl at a local bar. Billie had lived on his own since he was fourteen. At six foot two and two hundred twenty pounds, no one had interfered. He stayed in school but talked his way into a night job at the mill, pulling green chain. Instead of losing interest as he got older, as so many Indian kids did, he drove himself to excel. His football prowess plus excellent grades got him a full ride scholarship to State. A knee injury finished him in sports but his study habits led him to a degree in Police Science. With his size, he cut an imposing figure in his specially made uniforms.

Soldier could never quite bring himself to trust an Indian policeman. It reminded him too much of other reservations where the Indian police were just goons taking advantage of their power and rights to force.

Grandpa understood how Soldier felt, but he'd known Billie since he was a baby. Grandpa had buried Billie’s Dad, and done the ceremonies for him. Billie would listen to him, he was sure. He also had access to information that they did not.

"Don't worry, Billie's okay."

Soldier shrugged, Grandpa knew best. The heavyset woman called Corn arrived and after just a few short instructions, Grandpa and Soldier were on their way.

Midlands General Hospital

Even though he had heard the radio reports about the epidemic, Jake Carliss was still unprepared for the sight that greeting him when he pulled the Ford Tempo into the Hospital parking lot. Thunder rumbled overhead and the air was filled with static electricity. Rain smell filled his nostrils. Ambulances were lined up all the way into the street and people were being wheeled up in wheelchairs, on gurneys, or helped on foot. Ambulances seemed to be carrying more than one patient as well. As soon as they offloaded their passengers, they cranked up their sirens and sped off.

"A fucking Chinese fire drill", Jake chuckled to himself as he ambled toward the main entrance, making sure he distanced himself from any of the obviously sick people entering the building. He ignored his fear of getting sick. Inside the hospital the frenzy was even more pronounced and he basked in the noise of the chaos like a sixties hippie standing in front of the speaker stack at San Francisco’s Winterland Auditorium. This was better than he ever could have hoped for. The waiting rooms were at capacity, with people sitting or lying in the middle of the floor. The halls were so packed two people could not have walked side by side through them without getting scraped off. The smell of vomit and sweat hung in the air like fog, almost perceptible. Crying and shouting came from the admittance area as loved ones attempted to admit or find the ill.

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he shoved a noticeably distressed couple out of the way so he could get a better view of the hospital directory. They didn’t seem to notice the jostling. Their attention was focused on a young teenage girl leaning against the wall and throwing up convulsively. The reports he had heard were not exaggerated. USAMRID and Agee had really cooked up a good one—a fucking full-blown epidemic! He took the stairway once he saw the throng of people lined up before the elevator, and was amazed to find people sitting or lying down on the steps. He quickened his pace, taking the steps two at a time, deciding that he should not stay in this environment any longer than was necessary.

On the third floor, he pushed against the entry door but it seemed to be locked. He pushed again and it gave, but only an inch. There was someone leaning or sitting against the door on the opposite side! He took two steps back and snapped kicked the door as hard as he could. Someone on the other side yelled and the door swung open a foot. He squeezed through and was confronted with a huge bald black giant of man in sweatpants and no shirt. The man's muscled arms grabbed Jake by the shoulders and yanked him up toward the sweat-beaded face. The lips were pulled back into a snarl.

"You kicked my mom with that door, asshole."

In his peripheral vision, Jake could barely make out a small black woman lying on her side next to the wall, seemingly unconscious. The man's teeth were yellow with tobacco stain and one of the prominent front incisors was missing. Jake grinned and did the only thing he could think of; he head butted the giant at the bridge of the nose and kicked hard simultaneously. He was released instantly, as the giant emitted an earsplitting shriek. Jake didn't wait for the reaction but sprinted down the corridor. A blazing epithet of curses followed closely on his heels—but not the giant himself. Jake ran headlong into an orderly helping an elderly man out of a wheelchair. They fell sprawling to the floor, but Jake managed to catch himself on the arm of the chair to keep from going down completely.

"What the hell..." the orderly spurted, but Jake was already pushing his way through the crowded hall away from them. He made the next intersection of halls without further violence and found himself looking to the right where the overhead sign read,

Administration--Staff Only

Jake quick-stepped down the hall and through the swinging double doors. The hubbub of the patient care areas subsided and only a few people were visible. He sidled along the wall, following overhead directions to the 'Administration Offices'. He continued until he came to a door simply labeled “Private”. Looking up and down the corridor quickly, he tested the knob.

It spun easily in his grasp and he slipped through sideways, quickly thumbing the lock button on the inside knob as he passed through. It closed with a loud click and a voice from beyond the empty desk asked hoarsely,

"Karan, is that you?"

Jake moved carefully across the darkened room to where his rapidly adjusting eyes could just make out a figure pushing itself up to a sitting position on the couch beyond. With two quick giant steps, Carliss was beside the figure. Slipping his silenced Ruger from his pocket he pressed it to the man's temple and hissed,

"Shut up! Don't move, don't speak, and don’t breathe!"

Dr Glen Houser flinched away from the gun barrel and was rewarded with a sharp rap on the side of his head. Blood trickled from his ear as he moaned loudly.

"Shut up I said!"

The barrel was raised for another strike but did not descend. Houser's bleary eyes blinked a few times as he squinted in the dim light, attempting to identify his attacker. As his eyes adjusted, recognition caused his countenance to become grim.

“You! Wha...What the fuck are you doing here!” he sputtered, emphasizing the last word.

His eyes narrowed as anger crept into his voice.

"The vaccine you gave us is useless—people are dy…"

The gun smashed into his face, breaking his nose and splitting his lips. Blood poured down his chin. He leaned over and spat red on the carpet.

"What do you want", he said hysterically, spitting again and again, trying to clear his mouth of the blood flooding from his broken nose.

Carliss closed his eyes and savored the moment. He basked in the power of dominance, loving the fearful and pained expression on the face of this miserable little shit beneath him.

"I think our little experiment has gone fantastically, Doctor", he sneered, exaggerating the syllables of the last word in cartoonish fashion. "My business associates shit themselves in their rush to purchase this bug!"

He smiled at the confused look on the Doctor's face.

"I've had my own little variation of Ansom's experiments with viral contamination going on here in Midlands the past few weeks. Only—surprise, I don't have any vaccine!"

A look of horror began to take shape on Houser's face.

"You...you mean this isn't the flu..."

Carliss guffawed gleefully.

"Not the one you were expecting. This is an American pie. Cooked up by USAMRID and Philip Agee. It's a super baby, and I'm its benefactor."

He beamed in triumph. He despised the doctor, remembering the haughty and condescending way he had been dealt with every time they had met. He wanted the little fuck to piss on himself in fear. He circled behind the couch and stood with one hand on the sick man's shoulder, the other sliding the pistol into the deep pockets of his rain jacket.

As he removed the guitar string garrote, he continued.

"I'm going to make sure the vaccine is never available to the public."

The doctor leaned over and vomited on the floor.

"I'm sick," he said weakly.

Carliss waited until he had finished throwing up. It pissed him off that he did not have the doctor's whole attention. His pleasure in the game waned. He flipped the wire over the Doctor's head with hands crossed at the wrists. The wire settled lightly around Glen's neck.

"No, Doc, you're not sick—you're dead!"

With a quick jerk and a slight sideways twist he efficiently garroted Glen Houser, spitting on the severed head of the corpse as it slid sideways off the couch onto the floor. Jake wiped the wire on the couch coverlet and stepped away disgusted. The killing of the doctor had been pleasure less. His frustration and rage mounted. He needed release. As he moved to the door and beyond, he formed a mental picture of the woman who was his next target. He shuddered with the thought of what he needed from her. Nevertheless, it was a good shudder, almost orgasmic. The pert blond features of Chris Collins filled his mind as he hurried through the crowded corridors, down the stairs, through the chaos of the entrance and out into the parking lot. His breathing was ragged and his heart pounded with the memory of her. The Ford screeched out onto the street leaving a heavy cloud of exhaust hanging in the moisture-laden air.

Karan Deer hung up the telephone gently. A woman named Collins had just told her things she just did not want to believe were true! That Midlands Hospital, her hospital, could have been a party to the intentional exposure of innocent people to viral contaminants in order to monitor the effectiveness of potential vaccines for profit was unthinkable! Yet, with that information in mind, she could reflect on the constant outbreaks of flu and unknown sicknesses that had plagued the County for the past few years. She and the staff had even joked about the number of times it seemed the whole community had come down with the same bacterial and viral infections overnight. They had dubbed themselves, Midlands Unknown Viral Experimentation and Treatment Center. They could not have been any closer to the truth, she snorted wryly to herself.

And Houser! No wonder he could afford the fancy cars and high living. She wanted to wring his neck! The puzzle pieces snapped into place. Now she understood why he had been so complacent about the ineffectiveness of the vaccine.

She stood up, intending to go straight to his office to confront him, but changed her mind on the way and went to the front desk to alert the receptionist to be on the lookout for the manila envelope Collins said she had mailed from the East. She told her she was going to an important meeting regarding the epidemic, gave the receptionist the Motel 6 address, and made sure that if she was still out when the package arrived, that it would be given immediately to the head tech, George Foster. Her voice kept rising in pitch as she talked and she knew she was approaching hysteria.

The large round eyes of the girl at the front desk assured her that she had made the importance of her point clear. Back in her office, the phone buzzed intrusively. She contemplated not answering, fighting the impulse to just run out of her office, and picked it up.

"What is it," she barked.

The timid voice on the other end said hurriedly,

"There is a man here from the CDC to see Dr. Houser but he's not answering.” The voice hesitated for a moment. "Do you want to see him?"

Karan felt her heart leap up into her throat.

"Yes, oh Yes... I'll meet him on the way up. Thank you!"

She snatched up her purse and ran out into the hall and down to the elevator doors. The smell assailed her nostrils. The corridors were packed like cattle cars! She stamped her feet impatiently as the seconds passed. Finally, the doors opened and she spied a slight man with a rumpled blue suit and glasses that hung precariously on the end of his nose. He stepped from the elevator and looked around, as if trying to get his bearings in the sea of people.

Karan stepped forward and grabbed his hand, pulling him down the corridor and talking a mile a minute. She needed to tell him everything! She also had wanted to appear calm and collected, but the sight of him and her nervous anticipation had unnerved her. The man took hold of her arm and shoulder with both hands and gently but firmly slowed her from a trot to a walk. His eyes were the palest blue she had ever seen, but intense, not washed out. He had thinning blond hair and an enormous forehead. He seemed unimposing until he spoke.

"I'm Jeff Bently. Do you know where I can get some coffee? Seems like I've been in the air forever."

His voice was deep and commanding, with an unusually warm timber. Her first thought was a strange one. She wondered if he sang bass in a church or community choir. She shook her head to clear the thought and replied.

"I’m Karan Deer. There's coffee in my office, and God, do we have a lot to discuss!"

He cocked his head and pushed up his spectacles in a manner that was so unusual and quirky, Karan almost laughed aloud. Fifteen minutes later neither of them was laughing. Bently had a grimly serious expression on his face. His thumb rested against his chin in a thoughtful manner.

"I think it would be better if I confronted Houser," he said. “From what you tell me, he has so much invested in this deal he might be dangerous."

Karan nodded in agreement. She felt comfortable in this man's presence. Despite his unusual mannerisms, he was extremely assertive and decisive. She trusted his judgment and was relieved to let him take charge of the situation. She hadn't realized until now how fatigued she was.

"I'll go to the Motel and talk to Chris Collins. Then I'll bring the disk back and we can get to work on a vaccine."

He shook his head affirmatively.

"By then I should have Houser in wraps. Perhaps we should call the police."

Karan put in a quick call to the Midlands Police Department and after only the briefest of explanations, gave Bently the warmest of hugs, and hurried for the stairwell. The CDC man watched her walk away, shook his head appreciatively, and then started for the elevators and the administrative offices of Dr. Glen Houser.

Midlands

The FED EX deliveryman was an hour behind in his overnight route when he entered the hospital and placed the manila envelope in the mail slot. It was almost twenty minutes before the receptionist noticed it was there and found the envelope. Fortunately for the people of Midlands, she did not delay in hand carrying the envelope to George Foster in the hospital cafeteria. Mere moments later he was perched in front of his computer running the disk of Philip Agee's vaccine. He closed his mouth, which had hung wide open during the first viewing, tore off the sheet from the printer, and ran for the lab. Excitement made his movements jerky and uncontrolled but seconds later, in the confines of his home lab; George Foster's hands were steady. For the first time since the patients had begun arriving, he had a direction to take, and he understood where it was that he was going. He had this goddamn killer on the run! He smacked his lips in anticipation as his assistants gathered around to hear his game plan.

Grandpa and Soldier had driven immediately to the Midlands County Sheriff's Office to find Billie Banks. They were informed that Billie had been admitted to Midlands Hospital the day before, suffering from the symptoms of the epidemic. They returned to the truck and drove to the hospital, arriving only minutes after the FED EX carrier had delivered the formula for the vaccine. Moments later they stood beside the gurney where Billie Banks lay dying. His body was so large his arms had been stuffed under his sides and his knees hung over the side so that his feet were only inches from the floor. His breathing was labored and his color was very bad. Grandpa held his hand and prayed earnestly for the big man's spirit journey to be an easy one. DejaVu gripped Soldier so tightly he could barely breathe, tears running down his cheeks as the memory of his beautiful daughter passed before him. His muscled body sagged against the corridor wall in defeat. The huge warmhearted giant that lay motionless before him deserved so much better than to end in this crowded, reeking hospital hall! He closed his eyes and willed his mind away.

Abdullah Nassar clenched his hands on the SUV steering wheel as an old beat up Dodge Ram swerved in front of him, just missing a head on collision with a greyhound bus heading the other direction on the highway into Midlands. He cursed under his breath at the crazy American driver. He hated this country; its food, its people, its smells, its upper class suburban homes with the green lawns and double car garages, the condescending way they talked, and the airs of self importance that everyone seemed to carry with them, even the children! He had endured their fast food non-culture for almost a month on this mission, and he wished desperately to return home to the peaceful desert of his homeland. He glanced at the grins on the faces of his three comrades and felt even more alone. They seemed to enjoy it here! The endless succession of cheeseburgers, shakes, and discreet call girls they consumed, supposedly behind his back, made him sick to his stomach--and they still presumed to consider themselves Soldiers Of God! That was a joke Abdullah could not bring himself to laugh at. The mere presence of the Koran in their baggage was blasphemous.

Abdullah was the only one of the four that could be considered devout. He knelt and faced Mecca five times daily to pray, did not touch alcohol or tainted women, and despised those who did. However, the cause and the mission were also part of his religion. He trusted his leaders, believed in the virtues of self-discipline and sacrifice, and would lay down his life at a moment's notice if he deemed it necessary to their success. He doubted the others felt so strongly, and thus considered them readily expendable. The others considered him a zealot and a fanatic, and talked frequently among themselves about staying in America, if they could find a way.

Abdullah had wanted to ignore the bastard Carliss when he'd first initiated contact, but his superiors felt a small amount of risk was acceptable for gaining a weapon for which their was no defense! Abdullah wasn't sure he believed in the morality of these types of weapons. He was from the old school of heroism that carried bombs in suicide missions or attacked in hand-to-hand battles where the eyes of the enemy and his hatred were clearly visible. He had never felt completely at ease with blowing up commercial aircraft or other forms of terrorisms that demanded innocents as their prey. He had lost his own brother and sisters to such impersonal attacks and was disgusted by the new tactics of terror. On the other hand, he was a realist, and the cause had suffered recently. They needed something big to regain their lost ground, and if his leaders believed it to be so, perhaps this weapon might be the turning point of the war against Zionism, Imperialism, and the western dogs that supported them.

The sign for Midlands rose up before him, interrupting his thoughts. His companions cheered tonelessly as he turned the Ford SUV onto the exit and into the town. They found their motel immediately and disembarked. The other men chose to eat at a greasy chicken restaurant, while Abdullah walked to a small market where he purchased food he hoped would not make him sick.

He sat in a booth opposite the others as they ate and called the phone number at the prescribed time, but no one answered. Abdullah flew into a rage and demanded that the others return to the motel room and wait. They looked at each other fearfully, knowing not to speak to him when he was in this foul mood, and went back to their rooms quietly. Abdullah paced back and forth beside the pay phone restlessly for fifteen minutes before placing the call again. His stomach turned when he heard the tall American's voice answer with the necessary code words, but relaxed upon finding Carliss had the package, properly packaged, and that its delivery was on schedule. In thirty minutes, the exchange would take place. Abdullah could almost feel the comfortable jet seats that would carry him home.

Motel 6, Midlands

Chris Collins woke up on top of the bedspread, naked and shivering, her thighs pulled up into her chest. Her face was swollen red, raw, and bruised. She whimpered softly. Her wrists were bound by a pair of chromed handcuffs tied to the bedposts with nylon rope. Her ankles were also cuffed and tied. Her mind was in the fuzzy state that shock and hysteria can cause, even in full consciousness. The man who was the source of her pain had left the room, announcing that he had a phone call to make. She didn't know why he had told her this, except to imply that he would return soon. The thought caused her to pull herself tighter into the fetal ball she had become.

Nothing in her short twenty-three years had prepared her for the experience she had just survived. The lust and depravity, the sadistic enjoyment of her suffering had shocked her profoundly. She was unnerved by the nature of the man! He seemed to perspire evil—something that before today she had considered the properties of fictional devils and demons. Now she understood first hand the reality of evil in a man.

After her call to Karan Deer, Cristine Collins had taken a thirty-minute lunch at MacDonald’s before returning to her room. She had innocently stepped across her threshold only to receive a fist driven flush into her nose. Bright flashing lights came first, followed by a wave of excruciating pain. Her eyes watered so profusely she couldn't see. A torrent of blood flowed from her shattered nose. The subsequent blows caromed off her head, driving her into the wall. A buzzing filled her ears as she slid down the wall to a seated position on the floor, where she received numerous kicks to her legs and thighs. Dimly she perceived his figure standing over her, a gleaming metal instrument in his hand. Her fear caused her bladder to empty involuntarily as she was jerked to her feet and half carried, half dragged into the bathroom and dumped into a bathtub full of hot water. Her vision improved slightly but her hearing was still gone as she watched the long fingers slice the clothing from her body with a razor sharp surgical scalpel. Her head was pushed under the water for a few seconds. This brought her back to consciousness and she began to struggle violently. Almost immediately, she was allowed to surface, sputtering and gasping for breath. The tall man stood back a few feet, scalpel in hand. The water in the tub had turned pink from her blood. She crossed her arms in front of her breasts and got her first clear look at the face of her attacker. He tossed her an unwrapped bar of soap and a washrag.

"Wash," he commanded.

She looked at him defiantly, but the moment he moved toward the tub she fished for the soap and cloth and began to soap herself, thinking desperately of escape. A few minutes passed.

"Stand up," he said.

She stood up in a crouch, trying to cover her nakedness.

He sneered.

"No need to hide it from me, I plan to get to know every inch of you."

She cringed at the creepy sound of his voice. It was soft and malevolent. He flipped her a towel and motioned her to use it, watching her closely as she dried her body. He made her bend over and turn different ways so he could watch her dry her most private places. Chris was surprised that she did not feel embarrassed; it was as if she was emotionally numb.

Jake directed her into the bedroom where he cuffed her wrists and ankles together again. She thought it unusual that he bound her ankles, since she was expecting to be raped. She was forced to lie face down on the bed. A ball of toilet paper was forced between her teeth and her mouth was roughly taped. He placed the scalpel close to her juggler and made a small cut on her neck. A terrible pounding raged in her nose, ears, and head, but the glittering stainless steel got her attention.

"You've been a bad girl. It's time for your punishment."

She experienced an excruciating stinging on her buttocks as he whipped her rhythmically with a thin wooden tree switch about three feet in length.

"My mother used to do this to me every day," he chortled. It really is quite painful isn't it?"

The stinging stopped and she felt him kneel on the bed behind her. He lay down full length upon her body. She noticed he was fully clothed, except for in one place. His hardness pressed between her cheeks as he forced himself roughly into her. She screamed against the gag.

"Don't you like it bitch? My stepfather did this to me all the time. Finally I crept up in the night,” the tall man's hips pounded her so viciously she bit through her lip and tasted fresh blood. “Then I took my mother's scissors,” his hips quickened their movement, "and I cut his throat as he slept!"

His body stiffened in release. She felt him withdraw and move to the side of the bed. She hurt terribly down there. Then she was rolled onto her back. A mixture of fulfillment and rage convulsed his features. His hands went to her throat.

"Then to shut my screaming bitch of a mother up," the fingers tightened on her throat and she began to choke, "I strangled her until she didn't need her purple pancake makeup anymore!"

Chris whipped her body back and forth, trying to draw a breath. Adrenalin coursed through her, blood throbbing at her temples, but her strength seemed to melt away under his grasp and just before she passed out, she heard him say—gently, and with a beatific smile on his face,

"That was the first time I knew there was a God!"

Washington, D.C.

Two white men in long raincoats sat in the Capitol Cafe in Washington D.C., drinking espressos and drying out. Neither spoke until the coffees were almost gone. This Cafe smells wonderful, thought the older man. He was about fifty-six and short but well built, with the physique of an ex-boxer that still trained. His bright blue eyes contrasted with longish jet-black hair and a sallow complexion. The other man was about mid-twenties, of regular build, with his hair cut so short that its true color could not be determined. His face was nondescript and there was nothing extraordinary about him.

“Blue Eyes” spoke first.

“Is the team together?”

“Yes. But we're going to wait and see how it unfolds before we activate.”

“Are you sure that's wise? This thing could blow up into a major crisis.”

The younger man looked bored, but spoke clearly, as if instructing a subordinate.

“I've read the individual dossiers of all the Ansom people. Host will keep 'em in line. He's a driver. One of his employees turned up peculiar.”

The other man looked surprised.

“Which one.”

“The Security Chief’s working under an assumed name, social—the works. Used to be Jack Carlyle, now he's Jake Carliss. Got a sheet as long as my arm. Did hard time in Attica, and a couple of other heavy hotels. We've pinpointed him as the hot ticket in this beef.”

“Well, when are you gonna nail him?”

“We'll put a tail on him when he gets back into Florida. He may have contacts to Al Qa’eda. We're dredging up all the potential buyers in the hemisphere, but it’s a long list. That doesn't count new immigrants either.”

A cell phone buzzed in the younger man's pocket. He nodded to the older man and said, “I have to take this.”

He spoke quietly into the phone and the older man saw his expression change. His eyes grew flat and hard, and his lips pressed together into a serious line. After a short reply, he closed the phone and gave the older man a meaningful stare.

“Hosch is dead, and the Security Chief has come and gone. Our man screwed up. If this goes really bad, we may need a wet team to clean it up.”

“I'll authorize that when the time comes. You just keep this a low profile event until we know who and where all the players are. How involved is Homeland Security?”

“Those bureaucrat's are just getting wind that there's a problem. They'll be ten steps behind until the end, just like Katrina,” said the younger man arrogantly.

The older man stood up and tossed a five-dollar bill on the table.

“We can't afford anymore screw ups. No matter what happens, DOD and the Senator must not be connected to these events. Call me if anything big happens—otherwise we'll meet again next week at the usual Starbucks in Georgetown. I'll expect a resolution and a full report by then.”

He buttoned his raincoat and went out the door. It jingled as he left the younger man with the check.

Midlands General Hospital

Jeff Bently had worked for the CDC for seven years. He had been present during many epidemics in a number of countries. This one definitely qualified as the worst he had ever seen contained in a small geographical area within the continental U.S. His eyes took in every visible symptom they could as he made his way toward the administrative section of Midlands Hospital.

Reaching Houser's office was easier than he had expected. On the way, he noticed that the staff was beginning to usurp administrative space for patient care. Two nurses hurried past as he tried the door. Locked!

"Hey!” he yelled at their backs. "Do you have a key?"

They ignored him and kept going. He had to sprint after them as they turned the corner.

"Excuse me," he said, drawing out the first word sarcastically and flashing his Credentials, "Has either of you seen Dr. Houser."

The thin horse-faced nurse answered reluctantly.

"He wasn't feeling well, and asked not to be disturbed. He's probably sleeping in his office.”

Bently drew himself up to a commanding height and said simply,

"CDC business. Do you have a key to his office?"

The nurses exchanged glances.

"I do," the small busty brunette chirped, "but I should go with you."

The tall nurse turned on her heel and walked away, as the brunette smiled apologetically.

"She's a bit out of sorts today. We haven't been getting much sleep."

Bently found himself smiling back as they walked to the office door.

"Yeah, guess it's been pretty tough huh?"

The brunette nodded and turned her key in the lock. Bently pushed the door open and stepped inside. The acrid scents of vomit, shit, and blood assailed his nostrils. He retreated immediately, not having to go any further to know what was there. The smell of violent death poured into the hall like smoke. The little brunette took one whiff and added her own fragrant contribution to the corridor. She shuttled away, ostensibly looking for a mop and some towels, apologizing profusely as she went. Curiosity got the better of him, and pinching his nostrils together tightly while breathing through clenched teeth, he stepped quickly into the room and over to the desk. His eyes glimpsed the horror before him. The decapitated head of Glen Houser lay in a giant pool of blood. Bently breathed in short gasps. He began to hear loud voices and shouting coming toward him. Holding his hands up for quiet, he stood in the office doorway—blocking it with his body.

"The doctor has been murdered", he said loudly for everyone to hear. "We should stay clear until the police arrive."

People began gagging at the smell that filtered out of the half open doorway so Bently shut it quickly. He got an orderly to stand guard in front of the door by flashing his CDC badge and speaking in his most authoritative tone. It worked and the very large man stoically assumed a guard position. Bently leaned against wall, patiently waiting for the arrival of the authorities.

Grandpa Horse and Soldier wandered through the halls of Midlands General searching for Karan Deer. No one seemed to know exactly where she had gone. Eventually they found themselves near the Admittance Desk. Ambulances were no longer piled up outside the emergency room entrance and the noise had subsided to a dull roar but the faint whine of sirens still sounded in the distance. Grandpa stood patiently at the main desk, ready to pounce on the receptionist the moment she was free. Soldier watched from the front door as five squad cars screeched to a stop in front and a number of uniformed officers emerged hurriedly their vehicles. He nudged Grandpa and they exchanged glances. Soldier's gut told him they should find out what was going on. Grabbing Grandpa's arm, he pulled him quickly into formation behind the officers. The elevator doors opened and the small area filled rapidly with bodies. Soldier thrust his arm between the closing doors and stepped forward. An overweight deputy with a rampant case of acne put his hand against Soldier's arm.

"Take another one," he said shortly.

Soldier's powerful arm forced the doors wide as his other hand pushed Grandpa firmly into the car. He adroitly slipped in behind Grandpa against the side wall, keeping Grandpa directly between him and the deputy. The deputy's eyes flashed to his partners to see if they had witnessed the exchange. His scarred face reddened in embarrassment.

"Don't speaka English, huh?” he snorted.

Soldiers' lips compressed tightly but Grandpa answered with a huge toothy grin!

“Sorry, Officer. Did you say something?”

The elevator opened on a hall full of people all talking a mile a minute. The deputies pushed roughly forward past Grandpa and out into the hall. Everyone followed them in a herd with the two Redlands Indians close on their heels.

A man in a rumpled blue suit, with glasses that appeared to be falling from his nose, stepped away from the wall of the corridor and flashed a wallet badge.

"I'm Bentley, CDC—I ...I found him. It's not pretty."

The slight man gulped and swallowed uncomfortably. Two officers entered the room while another took the man's statement. Grandpa and Soldier listened closely as he described the events leading up to his finding the body. At the second mention of Karan's name, Grandpa could no longer contain himself. Pushing forward, he interrupted abruptly.

"Do you know where Ms Deer went?"

The Sheriff started to push him back, but Bentley replied immediately.

"She went to the Motel 6 to meet someone."

Horses' hand dived inside his shirt and the nearest deputies' hand dropped to the butt of his holstered thirty-eight. Soldier's hand shot out to keep the deputy from drawing his pistol. The man's eyes opened wide and he jerked backward, still trying to draw his gun. Soldier spread his hands wide in a supplicating gesture.

"Get real!” he said softly.

Grandpa's hand emerged with one of the tranquilizer darts. The deputy relaxed, watching the large muscled Indian before him suspiciously.

Grandpa tipped his head forward and examined the slight man with the glasses. He extended his hand.

"Know what this is?"

Bently gingerly took the object from him and held it at arms length as if it were a reptile.

"It's a veterinary tranquilizer capsule—used. What's this all about?"

He peered over his glasses at Grandpa. Horse said nothing. Bently removed his glasses, polishing them with his handkerchief as he waited for Grandpa to answer. The Sheriff and his men looked confused, sensing that the conversation they were witnessing was important, but not knowing why.

“I don't understand,” Bently said. “Is this connected to the murder in some way?”

Grandpa shook his head.

'I don't know about that, but I do think its connected to the epidemic we're having.

The CDC man perked up.

“In what way?”

“Can you test to see what was in this dart?”

“It'll take about thirty minutes. Was this found around stock animals?”

“Our bison herd," Grandpa said quietly.

“Had any sickness in that herd?”

“Nope.”

The CDC man looked confused.

“I don't see how a tranquilizer dart and a bison herd relate to a flu virus?”

“I'm pretty sure they do.”

“How?”

“If you test the darts for me ASAP, we'll talk.”

Bently shrugged.

“Come with me.”

Bently was able to identify the residual contents in the dart within twenty minutes. Soldier was chafing at the bit.

“The dart contained traces of the brucellosis virus. Any idea why someone would intentionally infect a bison with brucellosis?”

Bently noticed the meaningful look that passed between the two Indians.

"What the hell are you talking about," the Sheriff interjected. "We've got a murder here and you two stand here talking gibberish."

His face was red and sweat dripped into his blue eyes. He wiped them with his sleeve and continued.

"Do you know two know anything about the death of Dr Houser?”

Grandfather Horse ignored him and continued speaking to Bently.

“Does the name Ansom Pharmaceuticals mean anything to you.

Bently's face grew a serious expression.

“Yes, that name is familiar to me,” he said softly.

“We have reason to believe that this dart was fired by an Ansom employee, driving a black van with Florida plates with the Ansom logo painted on its side!”

“That's possible,” was all the CDC man said.

The Sheriff interjected.

“Answer my question WarHorse. What do you know about all of this?”

"What this 'gibberish' means, Sheriff, is that maybe you got one hell of a murder case here. Maybe hundreds of them!"

Bentley nodded.

“A friend of ours says there was an Ansom Pharmaceuticals Van up near the Lake about a week and a half back.”

"Can you take me to where you found this?” the Sheriff asked.

Grandpa nodded as Soldier said to Bently

“Do you know who Karan Deer went to meet?"

"She went to meet with a woman from Ansom, a Christine Collins. She said she has the formulae for a vaccine on disk. She was going to bring her here."

"How long ago was that?"

"About forty-five minutes."

The hair stood up on Soldier's arms, and he felt cold at the nape of his neck. Grandpa saw the look on his face and his gut filled with butterflies.

"There's something wrong Grandpa," Soldier said apprehensively. We should go now."

Abrahm War Horse nodded, pressing his lips together tightly. He could feel it now, the same thing he knew that Soldier felt...a warriors' intuition of danger. They turned and pushed their way through the crowd, ignoring the Sheriff's cries for them to stop, and ran for the stairs. It wasn't until they began to descend the first flight that Horse noticed that the CDC man, Bently, was running with them. The cold feeling settled deeper into his bowels when he saw him, but he said nothing, leaping three steps at a time after Soldier's rapidly descending form.

Bently had ignored the Sheriffs' hollering and left the deputies standing, mouths open, gulping like fish out water. He supposed he might encounter some difficulty with the local authorities on this, but he had to stay with the two Indians. They seemed closer to discovering the cause of the epidemic, and the solution as well. He couldn't believe how fast they were descending the stairs. The old man moved like a cat. He breathed deeply and quickened his pace.

Motel 6, Midlands

Karan Deer trudged up the stairs to the first balcony of rooms. She had thought she would be filled with a good feeling, meeting the woman Collins, and picking up the disk. Instead, she felt hollow and depressed, as if a great weight had settled on her shoulders that she did not want to carry. They were depending on the vaccine, and she did not understand why the FED EX guy had not arrived on time. It occurred to her that perhaps he was late due to the epidemic, but she could not wait to see if that was true. Besides, she needed to meet the woman who had been close to the source of this calamity, to see if she could come to an understanding of how it all happened in the first place.

She found the numbered door and knocked, shifting her weight nervously from foot to foot. She needed desperately to pee. The door opened and a muffled woman's voice called to her to enter. Karan stepped inside. The woman sitting on the bed was disheveled and very pale—a startling contrast to the upbeat, energetic figure she had imagined from talking to her on the phone. She started to ask if she could use the bathroom, when the doorknob was roughly yanked from her hand. The form of a tall, evil looking man with an ugly sneer curling his razor thin lips slammed the door shut behind her. His hand came up from his side and she stepped back into a defensive position. The hand rose to the level of her heart as she gazed into the malevolent eye of a silenced semiautomatic pistol.

"Welcome sweetie", his deep voice hissed.

His other hand snaked to her shoulder where it held her upper arm in a viselike grip, bruising her with the contact. He forced her across the room and threw her onto the bed. Chris scooted off the other side and stood up. Jake let go of Karan and quickly stepped halfway across the bed in a giant step, cracking Chris Collins viciously on the side of her face with the gun. She moaned loudly as he kicked her in the stomach. She crawled away from him toward the corner and he let her go, turning back toward Karan, who had pulled her feet up underneath her and backed into the headboard.

Her eyes riveted on the man before her.

"Who are you?", she asked, hoping to draw him into conversation.

He remained silent; looking at her like a cat examines a dying mouse. She returned his stare defiantly. His eyes reminded her of a snake; dull, emotionless, hypnotic, deadly.

"What do you want with us," she croaked. Her mouth was cottony dry.

"In about twenty minutes we'll have guests, until then—perhaps some recreation?"

His smile, if you could call it that, held no amusement and she almost lost control of her bladder in fright. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that Chris Collins' whimpers had become louder and she appeared to be pressing her body tighter and tighter to the wall.

"My name's Jake," he said in a creepy whisper, walking to where the Collins woman cowered.

His patted the woman affectionately on the head. His fingers played tenderly with her hair. Her whimpering got even louder.

"Chris knows me real well. We've partied quite a bit already." His fingers tightened in her hair and began to pull. "Haven't we love?"

"Leave her alone, motherfucker." Karan was up off the bed, fists clenched. "You've hurt her enough."

Carliss fingers twisted and pulled harder.

"I don't think so,” he said thoughtfully, as if he was considering the matter carefully. "With the trouble that this bitch has caused me, “ he shook his head negatively. "No, I don't think so at all!"

Karan stepped toward him in a fighting crouch.

"I said leave her alone."

Carliss stepped sideways and yanked Chris Collins to her feet by her hair. She squealed in pain. The tall man gun pressed the pistol into the side of her head beneath her ear. The playfulness left his manner.

"Get your ass on the bed, cunt—and don't move until I tell you to!"

The change in his voice was enough to convince Karan that he would kill them both if he was not obeyed—possibly even if he was. She backed up and sat on the bed, avoiding his eyes.

The tall man dragged the blond over to the bed by her hair and then pushed her down upon it. Then he backed up a few steps, slapped her hard on her ass and commanded,

"Strip her.”

Chris Collins looked confused.

“How can we party if you're dressed?” he spoke slowly—as if directing a child. “I said, strip the witch!"

The blond woman began crying harder, tears dripping from her chin onto the bedspread. Karan had never seen someone cry so hard.

"I'm sorry", she whispered in Karan's ear, pressing against her to gain some comfort. She reached around and unbuttoned Karan's blouse then unclasped the front clasp of her bra. Karan's large soft brown breasts fell against her hands and she jerked away.

"Yeah, that’s the idea,” Carliss leered, "now rub her nipples."

Chrissy Collins uttered such a lost and heartfelt cry that Karan instinctively grabbed her hands, pulled them around her, holding her tightly against her back in the most comforting way she could. Karan felt her own eyes begin to water and her first tears slipped down her cheek.

"How touching!"

The man giggled a high-pitched giggle. It was so unlike his speaking voice, so unnatural and unnerving, that both women stopped crying instantly.

"Now do what I said,” he spoke to Collin's again, ”or I’ll punish you again, the way my stepfather punished me!"

"I have to do it", the blond woman explained pitifully.

Karan nodded and reached behind over her shoulder to pat her face gently. Chris gently tweaked Karan's nipples, which had hardened to obsidian tips, mostly from fear rather than stimulation. The tall man directed her to remove the rest of Karan's clothes, except for her stockings, which he said to leave on. Karan felt no sense of embarrassment, only hatred and rage. Her mind worked furiously to find an advantage, a method in which to turn the tables on their attacker. The self-defense classes she had taken from Soldier flashed into her mind as she looked for a strategy. Early submission seemed the best approach.

Carliss went through the pockets of her clothes as he eyed her hungrily.

"Lay on your back with your knees spread wide and out", he commanded.

She moved slowly into the position. Chris Collins lay still beside her with her face pressed down into the mattress. The tall man moved to the foot of the bed, reached into his back pocket and withdrew a CD-Rom disk, waving it cheerily up and down.

"I believe this is what you wanted—the answer to your prayers. You do say your prayers?" He cocked his head to the side and gave her another cold-eyed smile. "Or are you one of those Indians that sweat 'till they stink and then puncture their breasts to appease the Gods?"

He leaned forward with one knee on the bed, extended his hand, and pressed the barrel of the silencer against her genitals. Then he moved his other knee onto the bed between her legs and felt her breasts roughly, turning them from side to side.

"Nope, no scars. Big Indian I knew in stir had scars."

He pinched her nipple so hard she gasped, then took the other between his thumb and forefinger, and twisted violently. Karan screamed and sat up. He leaned forward and backhanded her hard across the face, knocking her back down flat on the bed.

He continued speaking in the same monotone, as if nothing had happened.

"All those poor sick people..."

"Why are you doing this, what is the point!"

Karan used a pleading tone to try and draw him out. Her face stung and a huge red welt swelled her cheek. A new batch of adrenalin spurted into her bloodstream. She watched as the man's free hand went to the belt of his trousers and began to unbuckle it. Karan rolled sideways and lashed out with the toe of her foot toward his groin. The man's reaction was so fast Karan didn't even see the gun crash into her ankle, blocking her kick, but she did see his free hand ball into a fist and crash into the side of her jaw. She tried to roll away from it, but he poked her squarely beneath her sternum with the gun barrel, driving the air from her lungs and causing her to gasp violently for breath.

She rolled to her side and drew her knees up into a fetal ball for protection but the attack ended as swiftly as it began. The blow to her stomach had taken all her strength away and she wearily resigned herself to whatever was next. The man's cold hands rolled her onto her stomach and roughly spread her legs apart. She felt him working between her buttocks with what felt like the steel barrel of the gun. A terrible searing pain caused her to think that she would pass, out but she didn't. Her next few minutes were filled with an almost unbearable pain. Then, suddenly, he let her go. His lust had not been sated and he demanded that she and the blond woman perform sexually for him. When they were not enthusiastic enough or did not react to his commands quickly enough, he stung them across their backs, legs, chests, and even genitals with a short, thin, willow-like whip. Occasionally he would press his lighted cigarette into tender part of their bodies and giggle his high-pitched giggle at their muffled screams. Then he satisfied his lust conventionally, switching from one to the other woman, and back. He came with a loud growling sound, and immediately wandered off into the bathroom. He emerged after only a few seconds and handcuffed their ankles together, affixing the cuffs to a chain wound around the leg of the bed. Then he buttoned his pants, and went out the front door without a word.

Karan tried not to think about what had just taken place. The man was gone for the moment; perhaps their only chance for escape was now! She tried to rouse the blond woman from her soft whimpering but the woman would not acknowledge her presence. Soon the tall man reappeared. Karan could hear the rain pouring down outside as the door opened. He went into the bathroom again and emerged carrying a towel. He carefully dried his face and brushed his wet, oily black hair back from his forehead. Then he put on a windbreaker and approached the bed. She cringed away from his touch as he examined the cuffs and chain. Satisfied with what he found, he turned and left the apartment a second time.

She examined their fastenings, determining with a sick feeling that there was no way to break free. The thought of just lying there, waiting for Jake to return was horrifying, and she literally growled in frustration.

Jake Carliss was growling too. After getting off the phone with the Libyan, Hassan, he wondered if he was dealing with incompetents. The man he talked to seemed incapable of understanding simple directions. At the same time, the man had been demanding, asking Carliss repeatedly if he had the samples. Jake had been going to mention the CD-Rom too, but thought better of it when he heard the sneering, haughty tone of the African. No one had ever talked to him like that and lived, at least not since he'd been out of the joint. It gave him a dirty feeling and his mind toyed with the idea of betrayal. Slowly a plan began to emerge from his thoughts. The women could be extremely useful. African or Middle Eastern niggers were no better than their American cousins. He sneered at the word nigger, as he thought it. Once they got a look at the two naked women they would want a piece for sure, niggers couldn't resist white women. He cursed himself for not bringing more firepower, but was genuinely pleased with his plan. He would make the Muslims pay for their insolence.

He took the stairs two at a time, eager to get back and prepare his two captives for their new admirers.

Soldiers' knuckles were white on the steering wheel as he drove toward the Midlands Motel 6. Grandpa sat shotgun impassively, while Bently, ashen-faced, sat scrunched between them, straddling the gearshift, trying to keep his balance. The roads were still wet from the last downpour and the light reflected in rainbow off the oil slicked pavement as they skidded around corners and howled down the straightaway.

About a block from the Motel, Soldier slowed the truck and they crept the last hundred yards like turtles. He parked in an empty space in front of the office. Grandpa Horses' eyes were closed and he was humming his power song. Soldier had his HK pistol out, without the silencer. Instead of the ten shot clip he usually used, he slapped in a fifteen from his jacket pocket.

Bentley sat forward, swiveling his head toward one man and then the other like an owl.

"Are we expecting trouble?”

When neither man replied, he pleaded.

“Shouldn't we tell the cops where we are, you know, so we can get backup or something?"

Soldier snorted in disgust.

"Cops around here couldn't handle their dicks in a situation like this! They're small town boys with small town experience. I don't think we have that kind of time."

He looked at Bently intently. “How much do you know about what 's going on?”

Bently pondered his answer.

“Only what Ms Deer told me.”

He quickly recounted the facts. Horse spoke deliberately.

“This guy, Carliss, is the key.” Grandpa raised his hand and began touching his fingers as he made each point. “He worked for Ansom, he was with the black van the night we think Gordon Walker was murdered. Now we find out he may have been responsible for stealing the bug that is causing the epidemic and he probably murdered a number of people in Florida. Everything points to him being willing to eliminate all the witnesses to whatever he's planning. In that case, this woman Collins is sure to be on his list. If Karan came here to see her, then she's in danger! Does that clear it up for you?”

Bently nodded, wide-eyed.

Soldier opened his door easily and looked back at Horse. Soldier waited a moment and then said softly,

"Grandpa, it's time."

Abrahm Warhorse nodded and opened his door. Then he leaned back inside the window and spoke to the CDC man quietly.

"Stay here and watch the street. Don't make a sound. If you see anything you think we should know about and it seems safe—honk the horn twice."

Soldier and Grandpa looked around carefully and then walked together toward the Motel office. The clerk was rude and uncooperative until Soldier gave him a peek at the HK. Then he instantly became friendly and helpful. They knew he'd call the cops as soon as they were out of the office so they hurried up the stairs toward the room number the clerk had given them. At the top of the stair, there were three corridors. To the left and right ran the frontage corridor, while straight ahead an interior passageway ran for about twenty feet with four room doors visible. The end of that passageway descended into another stairwell.

Soldier quickly glanced at the closest number and pointed that their destination was to the right. Grandpa flattened himself against the wall. Soldier assumed the classic two-handed pistol grip and assault stance. He was moving carefully down the corridor when a Ford SUV with four passengers pulled to a stop and parked only twenty yards from where they had left Bentley.

Soldier motioned that they should pull back into the shadows of the hallway and watch as four dark-complected men jumped from their vehicle and began surveying the street in every direction. A silent knowing glance passed between the two Indians as they watched one of the men appear to give orders to the others. Horse could not see Bently in the vehicle and prayed that he had noticed the car and was lying down on the seat to keep out of sight.

One of the men crouched beside the tire of their vehicle as the others mounted the stairway in single file, about six yards between them. Grandpa and Soldier crept through the interior hallway and descended the stairs until they could no longer see the hallway. Soldier lay sideways on the step and raised his head until one eye was high enough to take in the view beyond. The three men reached the top of the stairs, observing a strict paramilitary formation. Soldier noticed that they each carried a nine-inch compact XM8 assault rife. It was the first in a new class of 5.56-millimeter kinetic energy weapons developed for the twenty-first century U.S. Infantry. A removable gas piston and pusher rod powered its rotary locking bolt system. That meant that the propellant gases and the resulting carbons were not discharged back into the firing chamber. Soldier knew that these weapons were known to fire more than twenty thousand rounds without a malfunction. He was glad to see they carried only thirty round box magazines rather than one hundred round drums, but he was hopelessly out-gunned!

The men held their weapons in plain view and at the ready. A sick feeling gushed into his belly as he realized how much firepower confronted them. As they continued along the exterior balcony, Soldier crouched and motioned to Grandpa to follow. They crept back up the stairway into the inner hallway that opened onto the balcony. Once there, Soldier lay down and cautiously poked the top of he head around the corner, scraping his face against the green plastic indoor-outdoor carpet. Two of the men stood flanking a doorway, while one rapped softly on the door with the barrel of his weapon. The door opened and two of the men entered, leaving a lone sentry outside on watch. The man stowed his XM8 under his coat and surveyed the street like a hawk looking for a field mouse.

Inside the motel room, Abdullah fumed in anger! The stupid white man had two women in the room and had offered them to his idiotic compatriots. The Libyans had looked at Abdullah beseechingly, but he ignored them. How could they conduct business this way? Their love of western comforts had corrupted them. He said as much out loud.

"Okay, Okay. Don't worry about the bitches,” the American said hurriedly. “Chill out and relax. I'll take care of them. Do you have the cash?"

Abdullah looked murderously at one of his men as the man fingered the breast of the blond woman.

"We have the money. Where is the weapon?”

"Right here."

He pointed to the stainless steel canister that sat by the television. He had removed it from the refrigerator only moments before they arrived. The tall man smiled conspiratorially, but inside he was in turmoil. His nervousness had increased a hundredfold since he had glimpsed the assault carbines and met their leader, Abdullah, face to face. The man was a pro, a killer, and a fanatic. Carliss knew that it had been a mistake to offer the two women to this man. The two other sand niggers were amateurs compared to this jackass. This guy was dangerous with a capitol D. He knew the man would not even blink as he killed them all, if it would help him complete his mission. He could smell a double cross! He was sure that they had planned to kill him once they had the virus in hand. Thank God he had had the women there, it complicated their plan tremendously.

“I don't know if you want to open that in here,” he cautioned. The virus has aerosolized, as you probably noticed by all the news broadcasts and newspaper headlines. “Yes, we've seen the reports. Are you sure the materials are viable and safely protected?

Jake nodded, as his mind raced to come up with a distraction.

“I've even got a bonus for you. The vaccine!” He removed the disc from his pocket and waved it in front of the man.

Abdullah's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“I thought you said there was no vaccine?”

“That's what I thought. This is the only copy, straight from the scientist Agee's own computer files. Take a look.”

Carliss pointed to the laptop computer sitting on the coffee table, then moved to it and inserted the disk, gesturing to the other man to sit down. Abdullah slowly moved to the chair before it and sat down at the laptop keyboard. He deftly called up the icon for the CD-Rom drive and called up the disk contents. When he two folders appeared, he double-clicked on the first and began to read. The other man moved to look over his shoulder.

Carliss surreptitiously knelt at the feet of the two women, and while the Syrian was absorbed in his reading, unlocked the cuffs on their ankles, stood them up, and started them moving toward the bathroom. The other man standing eyed the naked women appreciatively but when the movement caused Abdullah to look up from his computer, he leapt to his feet, weapon at the ready.

"Why have you unchained the women?

"I'm taking them in to get dressed and cleaned up..." Jake winked at him. "They can't go out like this!"

The Libyan, Hassan, looked confused and looked at Abdullah.

Jake pushed the women into the bathroom and closed the door behind them. He turned to the Syrian angrily.

"You fucking idiot—I'm going to cap them in there!” He stopped and appeared to be considering for a moment, then said, “But first I want to see the money!"

His hand was in his coat pocket, which bulged menacingly from the length of his silenced pistol, pointed directly at Abdullah. He knew it was dangerous to challenge the man like this, but he needed to at make a pretense of running the show.

Abdullah seethed at the impudence of the American, he would enjoy killing this infidel snake!

"The money is in the vehicle.” He motioned to Hassan. “Go and bring the briefcase to this unbeliever,” he said in Arabic.

Jake's eyes narrowed but he walked over and picked up the containment canister and nonchalantly tossed it to Hassan.

Abdullah's eyes were slits as he watched the Syrian allow his weapon to drop to its sling while he caught the silvery tube. A wave of pleasure coursed through him. He was finally in sight of the completion of his mission. He savored the moment. His heroism would be honored—in Heaven, if not on Earth!

He let the moment pass. He was too experienced to let his guard down, even for a moment. He nodded to Hassan, and the other man hurried out of the apartment.

Grandpa and Soldier did not even have time to retreat again into the stairwell as Hassan strode past them and descended the steps rapidly. Fortunately, his tunnel vision was complete and he did not notice them flattened against the wall in the shadowy corridor.

Suddenly a horn honked twice. Soldier looked at Grandpa and shook his head a couple times, indicating trouble.

Down on the street, the Libyan lookout crept toward their vehicle where Bently hid, unaware of the danger. The sentry on the exterior balcony walked past them to the top of the stairwell to get a better look at the street. Soldier crept forward on his knees. He could just see the pickup from there. He watched the sentry, now only a few feet away, out of the corner of his eye, but saw more clearly a shadowy figure inside the truck slowly rise up and peer over the doorframe.

“Stay still, Bently,” Soldier whispered to himself, knowing there was nothing he could do for the man without giving away their position—and they still didn't know for sure if Karan was here!

Aziz Mahmoud rose to a standing position, aimed his XM8 into the Apache 10 and fired a three round burst into the man inside. Bently's body jerked from the pounding of the bullets, quivered spasmodically and lay still. Hassan sprinted to their vehicle and quickly tossed the metallic container inside. The upstairs sentry, Touric, hurried down the steps to a partially concealed position by the coke machine.

The sound of sirens sounded in the near distance.

"The shit is gonna fly now," Soldier cursed under his breath.

He peered over the edge of the balcony, and around toward the doorway the men had entered.

"I think they capped Bentley. Fuck! So much for CDC help.”

Grandpa nodded sadly, “I kinda liked that guy.”

A police cruiser slid to a stop in the middle of the street about a hundred yards from them. Before the two officers could even exit their vehicle, automatic weapons fire from Aziz and Hassan stitched across their windows and doors, causing their seated bodies to leap about in a macabre dance. A woman from across the street began screaming as the unlucky motel clerk burst from his office only to run headlong into Touric by the coke machine. The clerk's eyes widened and he threw up his hands in surrender only to be rewarded with a short fiery burst of death from the short carbine. His body flopped lifelessly to the pavement and the Libyan retreated into the shadows.

Soldier stepped forward and took a kneeling position on the balcony. Sighting carefully, he downed Touric with a perfectly placed nine millimeter round through the temple. The side of the Libyan’s head disintegrated onto the side of the coke machine, turning it red with large chunks of brain matter mixed in. His body rolled into the open, lying spread-eagled and still. Soldier jerked back just in time to avoid being hit by a burst of gunfire erupting from Hassan nearing the bottom of the stairs. He was about to return fire when the door to the apartment behind him burst open, and a naked blond woman was pushed forward onto the balcony. A tall white man glued himself to her backside and propelled her forward in short jerky movements, pistol barrel beneath her chin. Soldier hurriedly withdrew into the hallway but not before he caught a glimpse of Karan Deer, emerging from the apartment with an XM8 gun barrel resting against her head. Abdullah peered out from beside her, trying to decide whether the tall man had engineered this confrontation as a setup, or if these were just the normal unpredictable circumstances that occur in battle.

Soldier drew a quick breath and flung himself further into the hallway as a quick burst issued from the rifle of the man behind Karan. The rounds stitched splintery tears in the outdoor carpet at Soldier's feet and continued up the side of the stucco wall. Grandpa grabbed Soldier by the back of his coat and pulled him toward the opposite staircase. They leaped down the steps. Soldier attempted to peer around the corner of the lower corridor onto the street but chips of exploding concrete beside his head forced him back.

Another police cruiser pulled up, but further down the street this time. Booming shotgun blasts mixed with the relentless popping of automatic rifle fire as they exchanged shots with Aziz and Hassan. Jake forced the women down the steps in plain view. As they neared the bottom, the police fire slackened noticeably and the tall man took the opportunity to scream repeatedly,

"Keep firing and we'll kill the women!"

The officers held their fire hesitantly, giving the two men and their women captives time to reach their vehicle. Hassan and Aziz sprinted toward the SUV. Kneeling on the pavement behind the cover of the car, they opened the doors and began climbing in. Abdullah started the engine. Another cruiser pulled within range at the opposite end of the street, attempting to box them in.

Soldier crept to where he could see the entire scene, and saw Karan pushed into the backseat, and closely followed by Jake. Hassan slipped in at shotgun. The only two outside the vehicle now were the blond woman, who Soldier assumed was Christine Collins, and Aziz Mahmoud. Before they could enter, one of the Officers opened fire again from the other end of the street. Aziz flung himself to the street and returned fire. The squad car was pummeled by at least twenty rounds. The Officer firing the shotgun was hit in the groin and began screaming in a high-pitched voice. The officers at the other end of the street, seeing an Officer down, began firing again.

Soldier squeezed off a round from his pistol, hitting Aziz in the shoulder. Cursing wildly, the man jumped to his feet, placing the barrel of his carbine against the throat of Chris Collins. At that moment, the rounds being fired from the Officers down the street found their target. Unfortunately, Chris Collins was in the way. She died instantly. Karan screamed from inside the vehicle as Aziz, bleeding profusely from his shoulder wound, attempted to crawl in through the window as Abdullah gunned the engine and the Ford lurched forward.

The SUV gathered speed as Hassan, with XM8's in each hand, pinned down the remaining Officer blocking their escape. Soldier managed to get off another round, hitting Aziz in the back. As the SUV wheeled crazily around the squad car and turned the corner, his inert body slid from the window and lay motionless on the blacktop.

Soldier was up and running now, half pushing Grandpa toward the truck as the car carrying Karan Deer sped off. The police, not knowing who they were, began firing as soon as they entered the street. Miraculously they made it unharmed, as Soldier started the vehicle and popped the clutch. Grandpa struggled to drag Jeff Bently's body out of the truck as it moved, trying to gently deposit the lifeless body on the ground, Soldier reached across the seat and grabbed hold of Grandpa's jacket at the shoulder, literally dragging him into the truck as they gathered speed. Both of them lay across the front seat as Soldier power shifted, occasionally popping his head up to get new bearings. Sparks flew as hot lead skipped off the metal. Cordite fumes seared their nostrils, hanging like a fog over the street. A light drizzle spattered on the windshield as they cleared the police cruiser and Soldier pressed the accelerator to the floor. Sirens sounded behind them as new cruisers arrived on the scene and began their pursuit. They came to a road fork and Soldier slowed, trying to anticipate which way the terrorists had gone.

Grandpa reached over and turned the steering wheel to the left gently. Soldier didn't even look at him, just cranked the wheel further to the left and slid into the turn, rear tires fighting for traction. Moments later they were on the frontage road, going seventy, heading for the highway entrance. They could just see the SUV ahead, while the other half of Midland's finest followed at a discreet distance.

Into The Mountains

Abdullah Nassar gunned the SUV down the highway. He looked over his shoulder at his passengers, his expression dark with fury and suspicion.

"How did the authorities know?"

Jake Carliss shrugged, rolled down the window, and spit noisily. He checked a flesh wound on his shoulder and grunted satisfactorily when he found that it had already stopped bleeding.

"Who gives a fuck? We gotta get going. Take a left, they won't expect us to go into the mountains."

"I am not certain we should go to the mountains,” said Hassan. “We have superior firepower—perhaps we could commandeer a plane at the local airport.”

Carliss leaned forward in his seat.

"And do what? Fly it into the Pentagon? What will we do at little Midlands International, Mohammed, hire a prop job to fly us over the border?"

Abdullah watched the Libyan bite his lip. This blaspheming American deserved a painful death!

"A small plane could avoid their radar,” Hassan said vehemently.

"Bullshit, in a couple of hours this town's going to be overrun with National Guard helicopters as well as the city Swat teams, and they have their own aircraft. I bet this shit hole of a town doesn't have four serviceable aircraft on the whole fucking field! Plus the road south will be crawling with pigs before we get five miles the only clear way is North, into those mountains!"

He pointed into the distance. Abdullah looked toward the blue mountains towering above them. Rain clouds hung over the peaks ominously.

"The weather has been bad. Where will we go up there?"

Abdullah knew that if the American wanted to go there, it was because he knew his own chances of escape was better. He resolved to kill the man as soon as possible.

The sound of sirens sounded in the near distance.

"Lets get the fuck going, now!” the American demanded, "Before the choppers get here."

“I am not worried about helicopters,” Hassan sneered.

Jake could see Abdullah's knuckles whiten as they tightened on the steering wheel, trying to come to a decision. He knew their chances were slim either way—he also knew the Syrian wasn't stupid. Things were royally fucked up! He was sure that they planned to kill him and keep the woman as hostage as soon as they reached the hills. His only chance was to stall the inevitable and try to get his hands on a real weapon. The silenced pistol tucked into his belt was about as good as a rubber band gun in this situation.

Suddenly a thought popped into his head.

"The mountains will give us our only chance of escape. I know where there's a Forest Service cash where we can pick up supplies, even gasoline."

It was a lie of course, but it was the best he could do. He looked Hassan directly in the eye when he said it.

Abdullah gritted his teeth and nodded to Hassan. Pushing the rented car to speeds above one hundred, they raced toward the mountains and another incoming storm.

Jake sat back in the seat and closed his eyes. By the time they reached Rodney Welks' place, he needed a plan to keep him alive a little longer. Something to pull their chain with, before they wrapped it around his neck! The woman beside him shifted in her seat and groaned. It was the first sound she had made since the firefight. He would have to think of a way to use her in this, perhaps as a diversion. He put his arm around her shoulder and kissed her lightly on the top of her forehead.

Karan Deer cringed at his touch, but the last half hour and the relative warmth and comfort of the back seat had numbed her to the previous hours torture. The killing of Chris Collins had left her drained and feeling totally helpless. The monster beside her hugged her closely to him. She snuck a peak at him and was horrified to find him smiling!

Grandpa and Soldier kept the Ford in sight until they began the tortuous winding trip up toward the Lake. Unfortunately, a patrol car had begun closing the distance behind them. They had to make a decision.

"Let's go to Redlands," Grandpa said abruptly. "We need to get some things."

Soldier nodded, glancing in the rear view mirror again.

"Yep, that patrol car will come after us before them. We'll go up the back way and lose ‘em in the mud."

The squad car was only fifty yards back when they reached the old trail to Redlands. It wasn't driven much these days, and if you didn't know it was there, you wouldn't even notice it. Soldier slowed down and turned off carefully, staying on top of the high ridges, avoiding the deep ruts. He knew their trail would be clearly visible with the rain drenching the soft red dirt. He also knew the Officer driving wouldn't be familiar enough with the road to constantly avoid the deep mud that filled in the ruts and would be hurrying to maintain visible contact. He stopped just behind a small hill and examined the road ahead. Gently, he shifted into granny low and inched up the hill where he knew the barely visible track of the road was solid. They crested the top and he accelerated down the other side to the flat and stopped. They rolled down their windows and listened intently. After a few minutes, they began to hear the distinctive howl of a laboring engine and the sound of spinning tires. Soldier looked over at Grandpa and they shared a smile. Then he shifted the truck into gear, patted the dashboard affectionately, and adopted a steady but safe speed toward Redlands.

Abdullah looked at Jake in the rear view mirror.

"We are being followed by local law enforcement, I believe."

"Well, go faster!" Jake said sourly.

"I have a better plan," the Syrian retorted.

The car swerved to a sliding stop right in the middle of a straightaway coming out of a sharp curve.

"What the...?"

Jake's head swiveled back and forth like an owl's as the Syrian climbed out and unlocked the rear cargo box of the SUV. Abdullah opened a large gray plastic case and removed an HK AG-C Grenade Launcher with add-on butt stock. He carefully loaded the 40 by 46 millimeter high explosive rounds and leaned across the front of the car, resting the weapon on the hood. Karan felt the gorge rise in her throat as they waited for the patrol car to appear. Hassan opened his door and slid out. Kneeling down on one knee, he focused his weapon on the road behind them.

Seconds later the patrol car came into view. The officer driving began to slow his vehicle immediately but the distance had already closed to less than four hundred meters. Abdullah opened up first, sighting carefully through the glass block reflex sight. The HE round struck the vehicle in the front grill and the squad car exploded. A second car veered around it wildly and slid to a stop. The kneeling Libyan raked it with accurately controlled three round bursts. Hassan was up and running in an attempt to flank the officers before they could respond. Abdullah fired another high explosive round that totally engulfed the rear of the second car in fire when it exploded. The doors came open as the officers attempted to flee the resulting flames and still find shielded firing positions. Hassan blasted them from the flank, killing one officer immediately and seriously wounding the other.

The injured officer screamed that he was surrendering and knelt with his hands raised in the middle of the two-lane road. Blood ran from his shoulder and neck, and one arm hung uselessly at his side. Hassan sighted carefully along the barrel of his carbine and shot the man in the head. He ran up to the officers, fired another round into each of their heads, and then ran back to the car.

Karan had her hands over her eyes. Jake looked on apprehensively, thinking that there wasn't much time—these two were getting antsy. The two men leaped back into the vehicle and they resumed their journey up the winding road toward Rodney Welks' cabin.

The remaining police units, realizing that they were hopelessly out-gunned, set tire strips across the roadway and formed additional roadblocks to the south, believing that the terrorists would eventually try to return that direction. When an advance patrol reported what they found ahead, they immediately recalled all the remaining vehicles to await deployment of the County Sheriffs Department, State Police, SWAT, and National Guard Units. They had been hit hard enough; it was time to let someone else suffer some casualties.

Redlands

Abrahm and Soldier burst through the door into the WarHorse cabin at Redlands. Soldier retrieved two huge duffle bags from the storage shed, while Grandpa took down his Pipe bag and rapidly filled a gunny sack with supplies. The two of them searched the shelves for two sealed solar blankets, a gift from a hippy couple from Oregon at the Powwow last summer. Then they stuffed another gunnysack with dry clothing and extra large rain slickers. Dancer had been asleep when they got there, but woke to their loud rummaging.

Soldier made sure his 8X30 binoculars were on the top of his duffle. The Steiner's three hundred and ninety feet field of view at a thousand yards would be plenty sufficient for their needs.

"What's happened?" Dancer asked, noting the grim look on their faces.

"Soldier and I have to go on up to the Elks for a day," Grandpa answered, without looking at him.

Dancer noticed that Soldier was avoiding his eyes too. He began to gather up his bedroll. Grandpas wrinkled hand closed upon his wrist. Dancer winced; the old man still had quite a grip.

"You need to stay here and sleep. The poison is still strong in your body!”

"Tell me what happened."

Grandpa sighed heavily and nodded.

"This sickness was bred in a laboratory. Our people, the people of this valley, are guinea pigs. Many are dead, many more dying. Now those who did this have returned, for what reason we don't know—but they have friends, and are well armed.” Grandpa took a deep breath. “Karan's with them—a hostage. They've gone into the mountains. We're going now, to get Karan back. I know you are a warrior and your heart races to follow us, but these aren’t the old days. Your people need you—alive and well. Your body is weak right now, and no matter what your heart says, you have to stay here. The Soldier and I will go. He will lead and I will walk behind and dream for him. This is the best we can do."

Soldier nodded mutely, knowing he had little to add that would make a difference to Dancer. Grandpa had said it all.

"But Grandpa, I need to go,” Dancer pleaded. "How can I stay here, laying on my ass and not knowing?"

"Because I've asked you to," Grandpa said quietly. "Because you know I see clearly."

Dancer lowered his eyes and nodded.

"We have to go, now", Soldier called, as he carried their supplies to the truck.

Grandpa ruffled his grandson's black hair and touched his shoulder affectionately, then turned and left the cabin. Dancer sat like a stone at the table, listening to the truck drive away toward the mountains. His heart raced with the engine, as it whined away into silence.

Valley Mission Police Department

Police Lieutenant Bill Yates got off the Kenwood TK 8180 trunked mobile radio just as his sergeant, a slight blond man named Mallory, burst into the office.

"We're ready to rock, lieutenant. All loaded up. The horse patrol will be here with their trailers in ten. We’ve got plenty of ammo and supplies. Joe's put together our communications with five of the new TK portable radios and one Goldstar fixed sat phone for our remote site."

The look in his eye was one of pure excitement. Yates sighed to himself resignedly. Mallory was too young to have ever even been in a firefight—especially with automatic weapons. Fortunately, he’d been given other orders.

"Sorry Mal, we've been ordered to sit tight at the Lake until the State Marshals and the Guard get here."

He saw the light go out in Mallory' eyes.

"You mean we don't get to see any action at all, right?”

Yates fought to keep a little smile from his lips.

“That's about the size of it. They don't figure our guns are big enough even with our new A3's. Containment is the standing order, least until the choppers get here."

"Shit", the younger man shook his head vigorously. “I'd match those Colt AR-15's with anything they got, except maybe the grenades. First time something really happens around here and we're stuck in a holding pattern!"

Yates stood up wearily. He knew the terrorists, or whatever they were, were already probably only a few minutes from Rod Welk's place by now. They would be long gone into the Elks, if that was their plan, before the big boys showed up. He didn't know much good the choppers would be with the kind of weather that was being forecast. He was grateful for the order to wait it out! He had no desire to follow men with hostages, grenade launchers, and who knew what else into the mountains under those conditions. Let the State hot shots use their expensive equipment and earn their pay for once. Besides, he wasn't feeling too good. The sooner they were back in town, safe, the better.

He followed Mallory out into the fenced vehicle yard, where they waited irritably. The rain was coming down in buckets by the time the Sheriff's and their horses arrived. Thunder boomed in the mountains as they caravanned out onto the highway and turned north toward the coming night.

Further Into The Mountains

Grandpa and Soldier drove up toward the Lake on the rutted wagon road known only to a few of the old timers. They didn't want to chance running into the stuck patrol car on the lower Lake road they'd come into Redlands on. The track was grown over with grass and slick from the recent rains. They almost got stuck at the crossroads, but the granny gear did its job and they reached the old forest service firebreak that lead to up above the Old Man With the glasses, they should be able to watch the one road into the Elks from there. That road was an unimproved forest service road as well, so with the rain there wouldn't be any dust. The mud and bad conditions had become their only ally. In addition, the white men didn't know the area.

At the same time that Soldier and Grandpa approached the trail to the Old Man, Abdullah pulled the car into almost the exact spot where Rodney Welk and Jake had had their first conversation. Jake let the other men get out of the car first before he pushed the girl out ahead of him, keeping her body between his and theirs.

"I think we better keep the bitch alive as a bartering chip--whadda you think?”

Hassan squinted at him, his eyes cold and emotionless.

"She will only slow us down, or give us away—I think you should kill her here, now!

Abdullah watched the American closely. Something had changed his expression. He knew now that however the American planned to make his break from them, he would use the girl to accomplish it. He weighed his options. Should he order them both killed now, or should he wait until they got into the mountains? Either way it was a bad situation. He cursed himself for letting the American talk him into coming this way. Their chances of escape were seriously diminished with only one access road in and out, even if the American police were inept and poorly trained, which he doubted.

Their best hope was that the authorities might underestimate him, move too fast, and make a mistake. Still, the terrain was unfamiliar, they had few provisions, and though he and Hassan had been adequately trained in mountain survival, the odds were against them. He might be martyred here in this cursed land after all!

His mind raced to discover an effective strategy. Perhaps they could use the infidel snake, Carliss, and the woman as decoys. Their only tactics would need to utilize the elements of weather, surprise and the strategy of the unexpected. It still might be possible to escape right back down the very road they had just come!

A plan began to form in his mind—a very good plan, but it required reconnaissance. He turned to Hassan and said a few words in Arabic. The man grunted and trotted toward the back of the cabin.

"Where’s he going?” Jake hissed.

"I sent him to a higher elevation so we can see how closely we are being followed. Where are these supplies you spoke of?"

Jake pointed to the cabin, "There."

The Syrian stood in the rain silently and made no movement. Jake swore to himself and roughly grabbed Karen by the arm, pushing her toward the cabin door. As they entered, he observed Abdullah looking toward the mountains. The air smelled strong ozone from recent lightning strikes and rain.

Once inside, Jake quickly thrust the door shut behind them and pulled Karan close so that her ear was just inches from his. He spoke hurriedly and in a whisper.

"Listen and listen good, bitch. I'm dying to fuck you and kill you right now, but those camel jockeys are going to waste us both pretty soon if we don't get them first. So, I've got a little plan for them. If you go along real nice and do exactly as you're told, I might consider letting you walk when this is over!"

"Bullshit!" Karan leaned back and spat in his face. "After what you did to that woman Collins, I'd never trust you!"

Her black eyes flashed.

"Shut up!"

Jake unscrewed the silencer from his automatic, pocketed it smoothly, and pushed the pistol barrel deep into her throat.

As she began to choke, he said, in a low and deadly voice.

"I don't see you with a choice."

Redlands

Lance Dancer woke with a start, wringing wet and shivering. The kerosene lantern on the table needed its wick trimmed, the low orange flame dancing in shadow on the walls. He pulled off the sweatshirt and sweatpants sticking to his body and wiped himself down with a towel. Grandpa's tea was still simmering on the wood stove. He poured himself another mug and set it on the table. Covering himself with a blanket, he stepped through the door and hopped to the outhouse to piss away the two quarts of tea he had forced himself to drink. As he finished, an image of Grandpa scurrying around the cabin came back to mind. He knew that Soldier and Grandpa had gone to the Elks, but he could feel Grandpa's presence.

He skipped back to the cabin and sat at the table, drinking tea and listening to the local radio station in Midlands. He'd just tuned in on the tail end of a news report on the epidemic—evidently it was pretty bad in town. Over two hundred had died already. The broadcaster's voice was rising in pitch.

“Our next story is of a gun battle in downtown Midlands. You heard right folks; there was a pitched gun battle between Midlands Police and several suspects during the late afternoon. A joint spokesman for the Police and Sheriff's Office has declined to comment on the record, but KSPZ has learned that a number of law enforcement officers and combatants may have been mortally injured in the confrontation.

Dancer came wide-awake.

KSPZ is following this story as it unfolds. From eyewitnesses we know that at least two combatants, an unidentified woman, and perhaps four local Police officers have been injured or died of their wounds. According to one witness, automatic weapons were used against the officers. It has been confirmed that the suspects are no longer; we repeat, no longer in town, but their whereabouts is either unknown or is being kept secret by authorities. A National Guard Unit and State Marshals have been dispatched and are expected to arrive within the next few hours. Anyone confronting the suspects should avoid any contact whatsoever."

The DJ paused for a long moment.

"We've just received additional information that as many as four more police officers have been killed. The details are not clear at this time, but KSPZ has been told by an anonymous source that four more officers were found dead in or around their patrol cars on Lake Mountain Road, thirty-five miles south of the Elks Mountain Recreational area. Unconfirmed reports state that the suspects are driving a late model Ford Expedition, which was observed heading North on Lake Mountain Road. We will continue to follow this story as it unfolds. More news at ten."

Dancer was dressed in three minutes. He didn't feel great, but he did feel better. He poured half a gallon of tea into two stainless steel thermoses and went to the closet for his prize possession—his Dad's lever action, pre-sixty-four, Winchester Model 94 thirty-thirty. At the same time, he took down a smaller wooden box that held his Beretta 92 pistol and ankle holster. Grabbing a box of ammo for each weapon from the closet shelf, he sat down at the table and carefully loaded them.

He knew now that Grandpa and Soldier were walking into serious trouble. He pulled on his winter moccasins and got his coat from his bed. The coat was made of thin strips of rabbit fur. The inside wool lining was sewn over with flannel. It would keep him warm and dry in the worst weather. Grandma had sewed for him the year before she passed. The coat smelled of her, and that smell that flooded his mind with memories.

Dancer ran out the door and began a slow trot toward the nearest neighbor's cabin and a phone. Five minutes later, covered in a light sheen of sweat, he knocked at Millie John's door.

She quickly whisked him inside, where he had to endure a sound scolding for being out when he was sick. Evidently, Grandpa had told everyone about him in usual Rez style. Dancer shook his head at Millie's fussing, especially when she placed a steaming mug of what looked like Grandpa's tea before him and motioned him to drink

Rodney Welk’s Cabin

Jake and Karan had rounded up all the usable supplies in Rodney Welk's cabin within five minutes and were carrying them out to the SUV. The other two men were talking quietly by the chopping block and looking over their shoulders at Jake. Karan was starting to get agitated again. The mundane task of gathering supplies had taken the edge off her nervousness for a little while, but the black looks from the two terrorists got her thinking about her chances for survival. The odds were slight that she would get out of this alive. She didn't know what Jake had planned but she believed she had a better chance of escaping with him, no matter how much she hated what he had done to her, than she did with the obviously hardened professional killers. She wondered whether the two would even give them time to try Jake's plan, whatever it was.

Jake's brain was working furiously as he began to pack the provisions into the cargo area of the Expedition. A large black plastic case filled up most of the room and he had to stuff a lot of the food under the seat. A folded plastic tarp sat beside the case. When Jake picked it up to put it on the seat he found that it was much heavier than he expected and he heard the soft clinking of metal. Unfolding the top quarter, he saw the plastic stock of an assault rifle. His pulse vibrated like a freight train at high speed and his breath caught in his throat for a second. What luck!

He glanced quickly toward the Libyan and Syrian, who were just now beginning to walk toward the vehicle. It wasn't time to act now, the girl didn't know what to do, but their chances for escape had just doubled. Surreptitiously, he covered the rifle, and quickly moved away from the rear of the vehicle. The two men seemed to be unconcerned and he wondered if they were aware that the weapon was there. His heart beat rapidly. He needed two more minutes alone with girl to be ready.

Suddenly he remembered the map of Elks Mountain Wilderness Area he had seen on the back of one of the Welk’s cabin doors. Had the girl seen it there? He had to take the chance.

In a loud voice he said, "Hey twit, get your ass back in there and bring out the map."

She looked confused and started to speak, but he cut her off.

"Just move it and don't give me any lip.”

The other men were watching both of them closely now. Jake started to panic. The dumb-shit broad was taking too long. Her mouth opened and shut twice, then her lips compressed; she raised her chin, and marched off toward the cabin.

Abdullah motioned to Jack to get in the backseat of the SUV. Jack complied as Hassan climbed in beside him. Obviously, he and the girl were to be separated.

The girl was yelling something from the open front door.

This is perfect, Carliss thought.

"What is the woman saying?" said the terrorist leader, half in and half out of the vehicle.

"The bitch can't find it!" Jack shouted. "I'll get it."

Before Abdullah could reply, Jake leaped out of the vehicle and ran to the door, cursing the girl loudly for effect.

Pushing her inside, he sprinted to the back door where the map was located. As he was taking it down, he spoke rapidly.

"Listen up—it might mean your life. Next time we stop; ask me for something to eat from the back. When you hear gunshots, put this in Abdullah's ear, and blow his brains out! Now get going!"

He pushed the Mark One into her hand Karan slipped the Ruger under her sweater. Then he thrust her out the door, and began to yell insults at her again as they ran to the car. Abdullah took the wheel and started the vehicle up the road toward the Elks.

Karan's palms started to sweat as she began to pray. Carliss smiled a bitter smile to himself as he pushed the half-empty Mark One clip into the crease of the seat behind him. He hoped the distraction would give him enough time, but he could not afford to give the bitch a loaded gun, now could he?

The Midlands Sheriff's Department caravan, followed by the only two remaining Police Cruisers, was about thirty minutes behind Abdullah. Pulling the horse trailers up the muddy rutted mountain road was a slow business even with their Dodge Ram 2500's. Bill Yates sat in the passenger seat, chewing thoughtfully on an unlit cigar as Mallory pounded the steering wheel in frustration.

"Goddamn it, we couldn't be going any slower if we got out and walked!"

Yates turned his head to smile out the window. The rookie was itching for a fight! Yates was counting on the fact that their caravan was so slow. He wanted to be sure they didn't get too close. If the terrorists had any experience—and judging from the firefight in town and their possession of grenades they did—they'd have already spotted the slow moving line of vehicles fifteen minutes ago. Best to just push them enough to keep them going without provoking any confrontation. He turned to the younger man.

"We'll get there, Mal. They aren't going anywhere. When this storm settles in," he nodded to the continuing bank of dark clouds over the mountains, "they'll look for shelter if they're smart."

Yates really didn't really expect them to do that, but he hoped it would settle Mallory down some.

"I don't know, Bill. If I were them, I'd go—and keep going. They've got to know the Guard is coming in with choppers. They would be crazy to hole up in the foothills. Not enough cover."

Yates grunted. Mal wasn't stupid. If they got too close to the action, he'd have to come up with something reasonable to hold him back. He wished they were back in the office with their “six cup” coffee mugs and a box of Crispy Crèmes, discussing high school football instead of chasing a bullet.

Maybe he was getting too soft for this job. After all, the only excitement they got anymore was when the local Indians got drunk and out of hand, and that was a rarity in these days. He had to give the Redlands people credit—there wasn't near as much drunkenness and violence as there had been in the past. These days there always seemed to be some sort of ceremony or activity going, and if you showed up soused, unlike the past, they wouldn't let you in. Social pressure had seemed to work better than laws and police presence. Even if they didn't care what white men thought, they cared what their own people thought. Yates wished the same was true for the town community; he would not have so many stupid calls to respond to!

"Welk's place is just ahead," Mallory interrupted his thoughts. "Maybe we should send someone to have a look?"

He was obviously ready to volunteer.

"No, Mal. I'll take a quick peek and be right back",

Yates opened his door and popped out before the younger man could respond. Jogging up the road alongside the slowing Sheriff's trucks and horse trailers, he took deep breaths of the sage and fresh foothill air. God! He needed to get out more. Maybe go hunting this year. Nearing the spot where the road peaked, he stepped into the chaparral and stopped. He listened for about a minute. There was no sound coming from up ahead. Crouching low, he edged forward until he could see over the rise. There weren't any vehicles parked in sight, but Yates couldn't take the chance they'd parked it over the next rise out of sight. Crawling on his belly, he worked his way down the little ravine that ran up the east slope beside the cabin. The dirt had turned into a kind-of slurried red sludge and his whole front was caked to the depth of a quarter inch by the time he reached the rear of the cabin. The pungent smell of sage flowers mixed with the acrid scent of chaparral.

There was still no sound or movement. He worked his way up behind the shed before he stood again, his Beretta PX4 Storm in hand. From there, he slipped up next to the outhouse, and then quick-stepped to the single rear cabin window. Peering over the bottom sill, his eyes searched the interior carefully. The cabin was empty.

His breath came in heavy gasps from the exertion. Cautiously he rounded the cabin, and with his back to the wall, moved toward the front. He was breathing easier now. There was still the chance of ambush, but his gut told him there was no one in the immediate area. He still moved slowly, taking advantage of natural cover as he backtracked to where two Sheriff's Deputies stood in their Woodland Camo colored, Armorlite Spitfire modular armor vests. They stood stiffly, looking disapprovingly at Yates mud encrusted uniform. He hadn't even worn a rain jacket! Mallory stood beside the patrol car, an angry look on his face. Yates pick up a stick and walked down the hill, scraping the mud from his shirt. Mallory looked like he wanted to say something but didn't. Yates got in behind the wheel and turned the heater on to high.

One of the Deputies gave the sign for a slow advance, intently scanning the high ground for snipers as the first truck crested the hill.

Ten minutes later, they were all parked around the cabin. Two forward lookouts were posted a quarter mile up by the Lake as the horses were unloaded. A quick perusal of the cabin determined that it had indeed been ransacked for supplies. Yates ordered his only two deputies with a squad car to remain behind at the cabin with the Sheriff's Department rep, and the radio, to update State Officials when they arrived.

One of the Sheriff's Deputies tactfully mentioned that maybe Yates and Mallory should be wearing body armor, so Bill opened the trunk of his cruiser and took out two Rapid Response F1 vests. He and Mallory stood for a moment attaching and adjusting the groin, bicep, and throat protection. Then they removed the two AR-15 A3's and adjusted the sliding butt stocks to their individual comfort. Yates offered Mallory one of the removable carry handles that sat on the flattop receiver but Mallory shook his head. They both took a thirty round magazine from the military style ammo box and loaded their weapons, then slid four more magazines a piece into the pockets of their Protech vests.

The horse patrols moved slowly out towards the Lake in single file. After a short conversation with the lone Sheriff remaining at the cabin, Yates walked over to the Sheriff's Department's four wheel drive, all-terrain vehicle and gestured to Mallory. Mallory's eyes lit up like a kid-in-a-candy-store when he saw that Yates intended to go forward in the Prowler 2 side by side. They crept up the road at a snail's pace, but out of the corner of his eye, Yates could see that Mallory's face was covered with the biggest smile he had ever seen.

Dancer told Millie all that he knew about what was going on, as he drank the terrible tasting tea. It took him almost ten minutes to finish, but by the time he did, he knew what it was that he planned to do. He was upset that Soldier and Grandpa had gone into a situation in which the Police, Marshall’s, and National Guard were involved without telling him. It was not as if Indians were in the habit of helping government law enforcement agencies doing their job. Obviously, he was missing a large piece of the puzzle. Despite what Grandpa had said, his pride would not let him sit back and let his Grandfather and best friend go into a situation without someone covering their back.

He figured that they'd probably reached the Old Man by now and were headed toward Elks Ridge Road, at least an hour ahead of him. Millie pressed a bag of jerky and fry bread into his hand as Millie's son, SkyBear, showed him his new Makita Suzuki RM-Z450 dirt bike. His Auntie had bought the expensive bike for him after winning twenty thousand dollars on a nickel machine at the Casino. SkyBear pushed the keys into Dancer's hand.

“Go get ‘em, Uncle,” was all he said.

As he started carefully up the muddy track, Dancer thought about the generosity of his people. He never got used to how proud he felt to be “Indin”. Almost immediately, the terrain got tougher and his thought returned to the reality of his situation. He’d left without anything but his rifle strapped to an aluminum backpack frame, Millie's bag of food, his rabbit coat, and a single-person Kmart tent that had been left at the cabin a year ago by travelers. On top of that, he was short of ammo. Ten rounds wasn't enough! He had to hope that he wouldn't be doing much shooting. Besides, he knew Soldier would be loaded for bear!

The intense rain had subsided to a light drizzle. Dancer knew he had only about an hour of light left. A chill passed through him, and he felt the same cold gut fear he'd felt flying into the Persian Gulf. A bitter taste filled his mouth and he puked off to the side without even slowing down. It reminded him of one of the few stories he remembered his Dad telling when he was young.

His father had been in the San Francisco Bay Area on leave in the late sixties. A friend on Mission Street had come by tickets to see the rock group, Cream, at the Oakland Coliseum. Dancer's Dad was more into country music, or Motown, but went anyway. They drank a bottle of Southern Comfort on the way and crashed their car just outside the parking lot. The seats had been good, even if the music was way too loud. Dancer's Father said that the guy on guitar was awesome, and the music was tight and entertaining. But the event that had captured his memory was when the drummer, Ginger Baker, had left the stage and vomited three times off to the side, without stopping, as he walked backstage. He didn't know Baker was a heroin addict until he mentioned the incident to his friend. They had had to hitchhike back to Mission Street, and it took them the better part of the night, but he couldn't get that image out of his mind. Dancer remembered that his Dad had laughed uncomfortably as he told the story.

Suddenly, Lance had to stop for a moment, he felt so weak. He wondered if maybe he was too sick to go on, but pushed the thought away. Grandpa and Soldier might need his help—he had to be there. If everything went okay, he would come back down to the cabin and sleep for a week. Taking a deep breath and revving the engine, he wheeled forward into the dusk.

Grandpa and Soldier had parked in a hollow about fifteen miles above the Lake, overlooking Elk Mountain Road. Grandpa was offering tobacco and smoking his Pipe while Soldier took a forward position with the glasses and his spotter scope. Horse heard Soldier grunt and made his last offering just as Soldier was trotting back to the truck.

"There's a white SUV coming up the road."

Grandpa closed his eyes and sniffed in that direction.

"It's them."

Soldier nodded and pulled his duffle from the back of the truck. Carefully unwrapping a heavy cloth, he took out the Leupold Ultra MK 4 scope and laid it on the hood. Next, he removed an M25 .308 Sniper Rifle from a zippered gun case decorated with short thin-cut beaded fringe.

“How many rifles do you have?” Horse said in disbelief.

“This is my favorite,” Soldier replied.

Soldier had first used the rifle in the Gulf, and had come to admire the penetrating power and lethality of its .300 magnum Winchester ammunition. He had once fired a tight target group at thirteen hundred yards, and had three confirmed kills at twelve hundred. He carefully removed the 190-grain Sierra Match King centerfire shells from a plastic ammo box and loaded one five round box magazine. The stock of the M25 had been painted with an old time design. The barrel gleamed as he wiped the gun down with a soft oily rag and began attaching the scope. Then he carried the rifle over to his duffle, slapped in the magazine, picked up the set of binoculars, and started toward the position he had chosen about seven hundred yards from where the road crossed in front of the Old Man. Grandpa Horse followed slowly. A gray dusk was settling in upon them.

They could see car headlights flickering on the road opposite the Lake below them. The settling dusk and a light rain were causing the SUV to have to switch their lights on and off to get a better look at the road ahead.

Soldier gave Grandpa the binoculars and set up in a prone position as Grandpa sat cross-legged slightly behind him and to the left.

"They'll stop soon," Horse whispered.

Soldier didn't doubt him.

"I'll try to pop one then if I can," he replied softly.

Soldier figured his bullet drop at minus twenty-five point eight. He estimated the wind drift at 34.2 in a ten-mile per hour crosswind. He knew he would have to compensate at the time of firing but he felt confident he had it down pretty close.

The dampness edged up through their trousers and into their bones. The earth was wet and soft with that deep musty smell Grandpa loved. He scooped up a handful of earth and brought it up to his nose, inhaling deeply. A smooth rock lay before him. He polished it with his fingertips, appreciating the hard reliable surface. The wind quickened in swirling gusts around them as the light sprinkle glazed their upturned faces.

The four passengers in the Expedition could see the dull gleam of the Lake off to their left as they passed it. A few minutes later, Karan's pulse jumped. She could feel Jake's eyes burning into her back.

"Could I get something to eat, if we're not going to stop soon?"

Karan's voice quivered. Abdullah looked at her out of the corner of his eye and shook his head negatively.

"Please!" She pleaded, half turning towards Jake.

Jake nodded.

"I'm feelin' a little hungry myself."

He turned around on the seat on his knees and reached into the back. He could feel the dark eyes of Hassan boring into his back. He rattled the paper sack with his left hand while his right hand pulled back the blue plastic tarp that covered the assault rifle.

"What do you want?” he said loudly. “Crackers, cheese, sardines?"

His hand closed on the grip of the XM8. ”Trust the sand niggers to get the best weapons,” Jake thought. His finger slid smoothly inside the trigger guard. The vehicle bucked over a rut and he fought to keep his balance.

"Jesus, can't you slow down or stop for a fucking moment while I get this shit out!"

The vehicle slowed noticeably and he took a deep breath. As he turned, he maneuvered his body as close as possible to the man beside him. Shifting his balance to one knee he whirled, both hands on the rifle, driving his elbow into the side of Hassan's head. He felt the hard contact and a sharp pain shot up his arm! Ignoring it, he decided to change his target and pushed the point of the weapon into the back of the drivers seat. Karan was fighting an inner battle. She was undecided as to whether to join the fight or not. Her hand flew to the butt of the small gun under her sweater. She was sweating and her hand was slick. She had swiveled her head in time to see Jake's elbow connect with the Hassan's temple.

"Now!" Jake yelled, as he pulled the trigger of the carbine.

An almost inaudible metallic clicking sound was produced instead of the flashing roar he expected. The car ground to a screeching halt, throwing both men in the back forward. Hassan was trying to clear his head and get his fingers into the trigger guard of his carbine. Jake's body twisted sideways as he frantically tried to smash the gun barrel into the back of Abdullah's head. A sickening rage filled him as he realized his plan was going to fail. The XM8 magazine was empty!

Karan had been thrown against the dashboard and the black Ruger in her hand cracked against the windshield as she fought to regain her balance. A hand closed on her wrist with a viselike grip, pinning her hand against the glass. For a second she was looking down the barrel of an ugly looking gun, then, thankfully, the barrel swung away toward the back and she slumped, breathing heavily, against the glove compartment.

"Do not move!" came the steely command.

Jake's finger continued to convulse repeatedly against the trigger of the carbine as he watched Hassan's XM8 move in slow motion to finally come to rest pointing at his forehead. His stomach rolled and his rage was replaced with a leaded fear.

Excruciating pain rocked Jake as Abdullah shattered his cheekbone with the heavy butt of a classic, U.S. made, M1911A1 45 caliber automatic pistol. Abdullah couldn't believe how close they had come to having the entire mission collapse into failure, but he felt a peculiar joy in getting to smash the face of the American with a weapon given to him by none other than Osama bin Laden himself!

Light flashed with rainbow colors behind Jake's eyes as he shook his head, trying to stay conscious. If he was going to die, he wanted to see it coming!

"Get out of the car!" Abdullah screamed, pushing Karen roughly into the door. She fumbled with the handle for a moment and fell out sideways when the door opened. Jake was getting the same treatment in the back. His right eye was closed and his face was swollen twice its normal size. His brain raced from thought to thought, ignoring the pain, trying to find a way to save his life. He knew he was just moments from death.

Abdullah quickly considered their options. He had the container of viral microbes, and the disk for the vaccine. The two Americans were definitely a liability he could no longer afford. It was time to lighten the pack! He gestured to Hassan, who was gently fingering the side of his head and murderously eying his attacker. Hassan, keeping the XM8 steadily pointing at Carliss on the other side of the vehicle, stepped to Abdullah's side. He tilted his head closer as the Abdullah whispered.

"Take them to the edge of tree line and kill them quickly. We have no time to waste. We must get into position up by those rocks."

Abdullah pointed up the road to a barely visible collection of boulders that crested the last ridge before the final gentle slope upward into Elk's Mountain Pass. The dark was settling in fast and he knew the Americans would be coming up quickly, trying to get a visible fix on there position before night fell. Hassan grunted with satisfaction. He pushed the woman forward and gestured with the barrel of his carbine for the American man to go first. Karan moved up the slope in a daze. She thought of her parents, and of Dancer and Grandpa. She thought of the hospital, and what they would do without her. She thought of the dead blond woman in town, and finally of the broken faced thin man puffing beside her. She hoped the Libyan would kill him first—at least she could die with some satisfaction! Her foot slipped on the wet grass and she went down to one knee. The Libyan put a foot in her back, driving her to her stomach.

Hassan stepped back and waited, gun poised, for her to get to her feet again. He said nothing, but his lips were curled in a grin of hatred and amusement. He was enjoying himself. In all his years of combat, an adversary had never physically marked him. He sighed; it was too bad they were in such a hurry. He wanted only a few extra moments with the Americans! He would very much enjoy torturing and killing the infidel man and woman. He glanced back toward the car. Even though he and Abdullah were comrades in the mission, he did not totally trust the other with his life. Abdullah would sacrifice anything, or anyone, for the good of the mission. Hassan Ali was primarily interested in staying alive. He also knew that if anyone could get them out of this predicament, it was Abdullah. The man was a master of strategy, almost a legend in the field.

As they reached the edge of the tree line, he ordered them to stop. Jake stood, fists clenched, muttering curses under his breath, praying for one more opportunity to escape and at the same time preparing himself for the rain of bullets he knew was coming.

Karan had passed from fear to resignation to an almost dreamlike state. Her senses were super aware. The fat drops of rain that fell upon her head caused her to lift her face upward. Heavy clouds raced by overhead. The air was full of pungent smells--pine, cedar, and earth. The wind whipped her hair about her face as she breathed in the mountain fragrance. These were the real wonders of life, she thought—these five senses. Her skin tingled with the static electricity of the coming storm. She felt super aware of her life in the face of imminent death. She was calm as she reveled in her emotional rediscovery of the mother-like comforting effect that nature had upon her. A pang of regret that she had passed over too many of these moments without recognizing their power to soothe and replenish the spirit overwhelmed her and she fought back tears. The sadness of loss caused her to lose control and begin to weep.

Hassan Ali raised his weapon, and for a moment, he felt sorry for the woman, an innocent. Then he pushed the thought away and his finger tightened on the trigger.

"Something’s going down."

Soldier shifted position and squinted through the MK4 scope. Its 10X40 lens gave him a clear view into the vehicle as it stopped suddenly. He could see the occupants threshing around inside the car.

Grandpa closed his eyes and sniffed the air. A sense of urgency filled him.

"It doesn't feel good,” he said softly.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Soldier nod.

"They're out of the car." Soldier hesitated. "Uh-oh, it looks bad. One has an automatic and he's moving Karan and the other white guy up the hill.”

Grandpa began to sing softly, praying.

"This is it!" Soldier exclaimed.

He settled into a firing position as Grandpa held his breath. Soldier could clearly make out the form of the man with the carbine in the scope. It wasn't a particularly long shot to begin with but the darkening sky meant that soon there would be little light left for his scope to utilize. He had a Raptor 6X night vision scope in his duffle but the maximum range for cloud cover was only six hundred and fifty yards. It didn't look like he had time to make the switch anyway.

He sighted on the man's head, expertly estimating the wind as it tugged slightly at the barrel, causing it to waver. He breathed again and half exhaled. The barrel steadied, and his finger began the agonizingly slow squeeze of an expert marksman. He wasn’t even sure if the shot would go in time as he saw the man prepare to fire at the two captives.

The blast from the M25 caused Grandpa to jump, even though he knew it was coming. The heavy shell pounded the weapon into Soldiers shoulder but the big man was used to it and didn't flinch at all. He prepared to send a second round on its way, but held off when he saw the head of his target disintegrate and the body fall limply to the ground. He swiveled the barrel of the weapon toward the white SUV. Abdullah, who had been watching the execution from beside the driver's door, leapt without hesitation into the Ford, shifted into four wheel drive, and sped up the quarter mile to the crest of the hill and out of sight. Soldier continued to watch through the scope as Karan Deer and the tall man he supposed was the man Carliss, came out of their statue-like stillness. Soldier started to sight in the man when Karan Deer was pulled into his sight line as the man forced her the short distance into the trees and they disappeared from his view.

Soldier leaped to his feet, grabbed a small sports bag from his duffle, and started down the grassy slope toward the road. He covered the seven hundred yards in about two and one half minutes, then waited for Grandpa to catch up. They had a short conversation and Soldier sprinted up the road another thousand yards before he too disappeared into the trees. Grandpa followed slowly, carrying his Pipe.

Lance Dancer heard a popping sound over the high-pitched whine of the Suzuki engine. He slid sideways to a quick stop, turning his ear toward the direction of the sound, listening intently. He heard nothing but the whistling of the wind and the spattering of large raindrops on his parka. He righted the bike, fired it up, and popped a wheelie up the road.

Bill Yates and Val Mallory also heard the .308, but they were only a few thousand yards away and instantly recognized it for what it was. They saw the horse patrol pull up and two sheriffs dismount and go ahead on foot.

"Stop for a moment," Yates ordered.

He was shocked that the “professionals” had made such a mistake. It was getting dark fast. Why would they give away their position? Perhaps they had begun to fight each other. Up ahead he could just make out the return of the two sheriffs as the horse patrol quickened their gate, left the road, and entered the trees.

"The bastards must be fighting among themselves," he muttered to Mallory beside him. "Either that or they decided they didn't need the hostage anymore!"

Mallory nodded, "I only heard one round."

He looked eagerly at Yates. Mallory couldn't wait for a confrontation. He was ready. He had been ready since the first day he'd been issued his weapon at the Academy. He'd even dreamed how he would react. His War-Hero father would finally have a reason to be proud of him. Furtively, he fingered the butt of his Sig P229 forty caliber Smith and Wesson, wishing he could check his loads one more time.

Bill Yates was furtively. The boy was really cocked and ready! He moved his weight to his other butt cheek and shifted down, slowly releasing the clutch and causing the jeep to resume its slow creep up the hill.

Five minutes later, Mallory poked his head out the window and almost squeaked with excitement.

"Something's up ahead! The cavalry are down off their horses off to the right, looks like they found a body."

Yates sighed in disappointment. His young deputy sounded happy that someone was dead! Way too much TV in his life, thought Yates.

He sped up to the location and one of the mounted patrols came down to report.

"One dead," said a tall balding sheriff with glasses.

His camouflage uniform was soaked from the steady drizzle. Yates wondered why he wasn't wearing his rain gear. The man leaned closer, and put his face in through the window.

"He took a big grain round in the side of the head. Can't make much out of what is left. His clothes are Wal-Mart or Kmart. That leaves two more bad guys and a woman hostage. It looks like they split up. Two of them went into the trees just above the victim. The vehicle continued up the road. We're gonna follow the two on foot. We think one of 'em is the hostage. By the way, we didn't recover any weapons.”

He gave Yates a meaningful stare.

“Why do you think he was popped?” Yates replied.

“No clue.”

A yell from up the slope caused the deputy to straighten up and look over the jeep. A second deputy ran own the hill toward them and poked his head in Mallory's side.

"We spotted movement about a hundred yards up the road just inside the tree line. One, possibly two.”

The same two that went in here?” Yates asked.

"Unknown, but doubtful," the man replied. He raised his eyebrows and gave Yates an expressive look. "We think we've got mystery guests."

Yates looked confused.

"Our reports indicated that there were only four total, including the hostage. Could they have gotten reinforced?"

The deputy shook his head and shrugged.

It just didn't fit, thought Yates. The whole battle in town had seemed to indicate a hasty, unplanned retreat. If they were pros, the last place they would have wanted to go would be into the mountains. They had to know that the Guard would bring in troops and choppers—unless they were planning some sort of trap. Could they have stashed provisions and weapons ahead of time? Maybe they even had artillery! It was inconceivable to him that they would have the foresight to plan all this—but here was evidence of at least two more men involved. Yates' gut feeling was that something was wrong with this scenario, but he couldn't take a chance.

"Okay, we have to assume we have at least two more hostiles.”

“We’ll post a position just inside the trees here and another up where the other two were sighted. It's getting dark so we're going to set up our command in that clearing”

The balding deputy pointed at the meadow just below the tree line where the body had been found.

“We'll secure the road and wait for the State people.”

Yates turned on his lights in the deepening darkness.

“Mal and I are gonna go on up the road a ways and see how if they are going to abandon the vehicle before the summit. It's my guess they'll abandon it not far from here. I will post by the vehicle and send Mal back to let you know how far up we are. When the Guard gets here, send the Commander up and we'll work out the forward pursuit.”

The deputy nodded and pulled away from the jeep.

Yates moved them forward once again and looked over at Mallory.

"When we get near the top of the ridge, I'll stop and let you take point on foot."

Val Mallory didn't even look his way.

"Mal, if it’s there, you got to go in real careful and make sure it's abandoned before you make your approach.” Yates looked earnestly at his deputy. “In fact, I don't like you goin' in at all without backup. So you don't approach the vehicle at all—just come back and report what you see. Got that? These guys might have rigged it with explosives, so don't go near it at all! Understand Mal? "

The other man nodded silently.

“Make sure you're ready for an ambush from the tree line. A sniper will have you for dinner if you don't go by the book on this."

He slowed the vehicle just below the road crest and stopped.

"Mallory—be careful!"

The other man seemed to be in another world. Yates prayed that the vehicle wasn't there. His thoughts turned again to the extra men sighted. It had occurred to him in the last few minutes that the big grain bullet that killed the man found by the sheriff's was unusual. None of the dead in town had been killed by that kind of ammo. That kind of ammo had to have come from a rifle and been fired from some distance. All of the weapons used in town had been automatics with regular military issue ammunition. This was something like a sniper might use.

Once again, he felt uncomfortable sending Mallory forward. He had to admit that he had done it to mollify the young man and avoid the hard feelings he knew would affect their future relationship working together. They should have just stayed back at the command center!

It just didn't fit! Maybe, just maybe, there were other players in this game. But who? Suddenly something clicked in his memory and he remembered the description one of the wounded deputies had given of the hostage. A petite brown skinned woman, probably Mexican or Indian. Well there weren't too many Hispanics around here, but there were sure as hell Indians! The image of a man filled his mind—a man who had the training, expertise, and potential motivation to insert himself into this scenario. He'd actually arrested him this week!

The Indian they called Soldier was one of the most highly decorated vets Yates had ever even heard of, and he'd seen his share of color on dress uniforms. This guy was one tough son-of-a-bitch! If somehow he was involved, perhaps even the other party in the gun battle at the motel—well that would explain a lot. That meant that the two unidentified men in the pickup were probably Redlands Indians who could have been attempting their own rescue of the girl!

"Shit!" Yates said out loud to himself. “It's getting' crowded out here."

He picked up the radio and signaled the sergeant of the horse patrol.

"I think the extra players are two Indian males. One is thirty plus years old, six feet two or three, two hundred thirty pounds, ex-Special Forces Vet. Could be extremely dangerous if he has a different agenda from ours and thinks we are jeopardizing the female hostage. If you have your night vision goggles then I'm requesting that you change your orders and proceed carefully in pursuit of the two you reported on. Keep your eyes open for the others but don't fire upon them. If they can be captured without a firefight, then do it! Otherwise, surveillance only. Repeat."

Yates listened for a confirmation, grunted in appreciation that his suggestion was being followed, then replaced the radio, and waited for Mallory to report.

Dancer pulled the bike to a stop by the pickup and quickly looked inside. All the provisions and sleeping gear were still in the cab, which meant Grandpa and Soldier had left in a hurry. His stomach rolled over and he leaned to the side, dry puking until his throat was sore. He stood up and was so dizzy he had to grab onto the truck to remain upright. A cold sweat mixed with the rain on his forehead. Even though he was dressed warmly and covered with the rain poncho, he shivered. He took the tea bottle from his pack and crept to the top of the rise. It was now too dark to see, but he could hear the sound of an idling engine. Taking three large gulps, he continued to listen. Tea ran down his chin and inside his coat, giving him another chill.

He returned to the truck, took out the sleeping pack and the ration bag, picked up his own body pack from the bike, and moved quietly out. His plan was simple—keep moving forward until he reached the road. From there, he would see if he could pick up the trail. The rain was coming down harder now and the grass was slick. He slowed to keep from falling on the slope and strained to pick up any sound ahead.

Moments later he saw light from inside a large camouflaged tent across the road in a small clearing. A picket line of horses was chewing in their grain bags noisily. He crept up near the tent and heard a man talking in a way that sounded like he was making a report. Probably talking on the radio, thought Dancer. He listened carefully as the man recounted the events that had taken place. After a few moments listening, he knew that Karan had probably been taken into the woods from here. Silently, he moved off into the big cedar and pine trees that stood like giant shadows on the hillside.

Deputy Val Mallory was elated and disappointed at the same time. The vehicle was about five hundred yards up ahead, just as Bill Yates had suspected, but it also appeared abandoned. The engine was off and no one was in sight. He thought about Yates order to return immediately and decided that he had to have a closer look first. There might be important clues left in the vehicle, he rationalized. Still, he knew that Yates had more experience so he was careful to go by the book in his approach, using natural cover and moving forward slowly with plenty of stops to listen and look. Now he was only a few feet from the vehicle.

"No action here", he said to himself.

He knelt by the side of the road, then scuttled to the door, crablike. Peering over the doorframe, he quickly ascertained that the vehicle was empty. Slowly rising to his full height, his eyes circled the area, particularly where the trees abutted the road. After a few seconds, he began to shake his head back and forth in disgust. He holstered his weapon and stepped away from the vehicle, unclipping his portable radio from his vest to give the lieutenant the scoop. Booming peals of thunder rolled down from the summit as the rain began its next sustained effort to soak the world below.

Jake Carliss was moving on autopilot as he frantically pushed Karan Deer deeper and deeper into the woods and up the mountain. His mind struggled to accept the fact that not only was he not dead, but the Syrian had chosen not to follow them!

In the seconds after the astonishing death of their executioner, Carliss had managed to rush forward and secure the carbine before the woman realized she was alive. Now armed and still in charge of his hostage, his only thought was to put as much distance between them and the other sand nigger as possible. Those odds were even again, but now he had to think about how he would avoid law enforcement and the origin of the heavenly bullet that had saved him was bothersome.

Branches, heavily laden with moisture, slapped their faces and brushed across their clothes, soaking them instantly. The ground beneath their feet was mushy under a two-inch layer of pine needles. They slipped and clawed their way upward, neck muscles straining as their gaping mouths gulped for air. Their throats became raw and dry, even as everything else around them was being saturated. Sweat poured into Jake's eyes, causing his vision to blur.

Karan pushed forward, exhausted. She hadn't eaten in two days. That, and the abuse she'd endured, had taken a heavy toll on her otherwise healthy body. The shock and surprise of surviving the execution had been replaced with the shock and surprise of being the tall man's captive again! She cursed herself for not reacting instantly and giving him the opportunity to retake the advantage. Now, after falling from his first few shoves, she was making every attempt to keep her footing and move at the exhausting pace he was forcing on her. She knew he had no idea where he was going, but was too tired to do anything but charge up the mountain.

Once he had entered fully into the woods, Soldier stopped and rummaged in the sports bag. He stripped and pulled on a matt-black, skin tight, lycra-spandex suit with black tabi boots. He could hear Grandpa entering the trees, following his track. He reached again in the bag and removed his PVS 7 Night Vision goggles. He knew they had a battery life of forty hours but still grabbed two extra double a batteries to put in the black fanny pack he buckled on as Grandpa moved silently to his side. The last item he took from the bag was a 12-inch SOG Seal Team knife in a black Kydex sheath. Soldier strapped the sheath to his forearm and let Grandpa take the lead

Even his finely tuned instincts were no match for Horse's once they were into the mountains. Grandpa's walk was silent and purposeful and his hearing and eyesight were still extraordinary. Soldier had been hunting with him enough times to trust Grandpa's senses before his own. It was as if he knew ahead of time exactly where the bucks would bed down and where they would water. The tiniest trail was visible to his eyes and the softest sound to his ear. Grandpa stopped like an animal, every few feet to look, listen, and smell. The rain pounded around them in sheets and the dark was near complete.

They climbed for about half an hour before Grandpa stopped.

“I'm sure we're above them. They'll have to stop soon,” he said matter-of-factly. "They'll begin to beat themselves up, trying to climb in the dark. Then they'll rest—probably without finding much shelter. They will spend the night wet, cold, and without food and sleep. Hypthermia'll start on 'em and when they move again, they'll leave trail like a bulldozer!”

He pointed to a huge pine that had widow-makered in the middle, snapping like a twig in a former storm. Its thick-needled upper branches touched the ground, having been partially stopped in its fall by an adjacent tree. The tree trunk formed the centerpiece of the arrangement. The needles underneath it were still almost dry. Soldier immediately began cutting boughs to lie across the tops of the hanging branches, crossing them back and forth at different angles. Within minutes, the canopy was almost complete. Then he heaped pine needles on top until it was covered and they crawled in underneath, backs against the trunk on the downwind side. From their fanny packs, they each removed a thin silver sheet of solar blanket, two granola bars, and some dried apple. After eating, they wrapped in the sheets, took long swigs from Grandpa's canteen, and dozed fitfully.

The horse deputies left their mounts behind and entered the forest on foot. After only fifteen minutes they decided to set camp. Two man tents went up quickly and hot thermoses poured black coffee.

Lance Dancer crossed about one hundred yards below their tents. He knew this area like the back of his hand. If Grandpa and Soldier were on the mountain, he figured they would camp at a high location ahead of everybody else, so they could see and hear them coming. Twenty-five minutes later, he set his own camp.

The dark had closed in on Sheriff Bill Yates when he decided that there must be something deadly wrong up ahead. Mallory hadn't returned from his reconnoiter, and it had been almost forty-five minutes! Quietly he got on the radio and informed the horse sergeant at command that he intended to check on his deputy without immediate backup.

"Give me twenty five minutes. If you don't hear from me on the handset, send a backup squad ready to kick butt!"

He inched the all-terrain vehicle up the muddy road to the crest of the hill. He couldn't see anything through the windshield, even with the wipers on. The rain was like a deluge. He reached into the back seat for his slicker, checked the loads in his gun, and stepped from the vehicle. Yates figured it was dark enough not to go off road too far. He went into the first layer of brush, went into a crouch, and weaved his way down toward the dark shape that he knew must be the vehicle. There had not been any gunshots, unless a silencer was used, so his gut told him the danger must be close by. Reaching an area of thick chaparral about thirty yards from the vehicle, he sat on his haunches chewing his bottom lip. There was nothing moving and no sign of Mallory. Even with the muddy conditions, he crawled on his belly toward the Ford, stopping every few yards to listen. It was too dark to see even five yards in front of him.

He was beginning to regret not waiting for backup. It was totally out of character for him to take a chance like this, especially with good odds that he would run into hostiles. Still, Mallory could have been so jacked up that he had followed the road over the next rise to try and get a sighting. Possible, but not probable, snorted Yates..

His gut churned uneasily. He crept to the side of the vehicle on one foot, sliding his knee in the mud behind him. Groping in his pocket for his miniature MagLight, Yates peered into the vehicle. The front seat was empty. He swung the light into the backseat and felt the blood drain from his face like a broken hourglass. Vomit rose into his throat and he shivered, beginning, all at once, to feel the wet cold on his soaked pants legs.

Mallory's dead face was pressed against the near glass, only inches from his own! The wide starring eyes still held a look of shock and the lips were twisted in a grimace of pain. He was on his stomach with his back bent at an unnatural angle.

Yates dropped into a crouch beside the vehicle and tried to compose himself. The killer must be close, he thought, swiveling his head in every direction. Guilt threatened to overwhelm him. He had to remind himself that this was a risk they chose. He knew that Mallory had been too well trained to be taken from the brush. He held a second degree black in Tae-kwon-do and it had still been light when he first arrived. The killer must have been in or near the vehicle. Yates scuttled around the vehicle with his firearm cocked and locked. He couldn't figure it. Mallory would have been ready for someone inside the vehicle. Where else could someone hide? The little short hairs stood up on his arm as a terrifying, and very logical thought, occurred to him.

Unfortunately, for Midlands Police Lieutenant William Andrew Yates, the thought occurred too late to save his life. The cold barrel of a large bore automatic pistol slammed into his groin, and with a roar muffled by layers of wet clothing, sent two white hot slugs of metal tearing upward through his testicles, his intestines, and his stomach—finally coming to rest near his frantically beating heart. His body went into shock and he fell sideways into the red clay mud, Yates felt little pain. He was upset with himself for not having recognized the danger. His body jerked convulsively and he realized he was dying at the same moment that his heart and lungs failed him. He did not have time for another thought as blackness swept in around him and a feeling of falling was his last recognizable sensation before he died.

Abdullah squirmed out from under the tight confines of the SUV under carriage where he had lain continually, except for the few minutes it took to place the other dead American in the rear seat, for the last two hours. His body was stiff, sore, and cold. The first part of his plan had worked perfectly. He had counted on the local police not observing proper procedure, and they had graciously accommodated him.

Mallory had almost been able to fire his pistol in the struggle, but Abdullah's double-edged Dalton ripped him so fast he lost his grip and dropped his pistol in the mud. From the moment he had pressed the slam button and driven the razor-sharp three-inch blade completely through the side of the standing officer's calf, he had expected the man to scream or yell—but surprisingly, he'd just grunted and cursed. Once Abdullah had jerked the officer's other foot out from under him, dropping him to his back, he simply alternated between ripping him with the sharp blade and dragging him further underneath the vehicle. The final thrusts had been to the man's upper thigh, the femoral artery to be exact. By then the officer had lost too much blood to scream, having had both main arteries severed in his legs. He passed out with Abdullah still driving the blade home. The blood soaked immediately into the red clay.

Abdullah had crawled from beneath the vehicle and slashed Mallory's jugular, but only a little blood spurted from his coup-de-grace. His worst time had come while placing the man's body in the vehicle without knowing if he was being watched. It had been just light enough to see the top of the hill. Fortunately, the other officer, Yates, had waited.

Abdullah undressed Bill Yates in a driving rain, pulling the uniform on over his own. He discarded the vest, and almost exchanged pistols with the dead man, admiring the Beretta 92 but keeping his old 45. Taking up the XM8, he slapped in a new magazine and pulled Yates cap down low over his eyes. Slipping on a plastic rain poncho, he jogged up the road, in the dark.

The Prowler 2 sat in the center of the road. Abdullah removed the poncho, fished in his front pocket for the keys, and got in behind the wheel. He took a moment to set the XM8 on the seat beside and covered it with the poncho. Then he started the RTV and carefully wiped the mud from the shiny badge at his chest. A silver canister was tucked securely between his legs.

Sergeant Phil Darby waited in the command post tent that the horse deputies had managed to set up before the heavy rains started and night fell. The portable radio was silent in his left hand as he held a mug of steaming coffee in his right. Almost thirty minutes had passed since he last heard from Bill Yates. He had expected some sort of contact by now, but decided to give him the full forty-five minutes, being reluctant to venture into the freezing rain if he didn't have to.

Ten minutes earlier, during a particularly loud thunderclap he thought he'd heard gunfire, but decided it was probably just a tree popping in the wind. He sighed, pursing his lips and shaking his head. Another fifteen minutes and he'd be forced to take a squad up the road. He wondered which men would grumble the least. He wasn't in the mood to listen to their whining, even in these conditions. Suddenly his ear caught the sound of an engine and he stood quickly, slipped on his poncho, and ducked through the tent opening.

Abdullah knew that Allah was with him when he could just make out the faint light of a tent lantern.

Phil Darby moved toward the road, waving with his flashlight as the RTV rumbled into view. Its headlights, glowing like halogen eyes, blinded him. He was twenty feet from the road when the vehicle slowed down and a waving arm emerged from the window. He could just make out Yates in the driver's seat, hat pulled low against the weather.

"Everything okay up there, Lieutenant? Where's Mal?"

A muffled voice responded.

Darby could only make out parts of the reply and yelled,

“The Marshals and the Guard radioed to say they're setting up set up their command post at the Welk's cabin as expected.”

He couldn't make out the reply.

"----Okay, left... with vehicle... going down.... command post at the cabin."

The Prowler rolled past him without stopping and continued down the road. Darby was surprised that Yates hadn't stopped to talk, but the Lieutenant was famous for being short with his deputies and not gabbing. Darby was slightly miffed at being shined on so quickly after he'd left the warmth of the tent and traversed the two hundred yards to the road, but he was too intent on getting back to the warm dry tent than he was in questioning the Lieutenant's actions. He figured Yates was probably going down to the Welk's cabin to get a tent from the Guardsmen. He ducked under the tent flap and was greeted with another cup of steaming java.

Abdullah was amazed at how easily the Americans were fooled by appearances. If the area appeared empty, they came on in with little hesitation. If things looked all right, then they probably were! He snorted in disgust. If any of his men had let him go by without personally confirming his identity, he would have had him shot on sight. However, these were small town cops and he guessed discipline and tactical field organization were not their strongest qualities. They obviously lacked combat experience, at least on their own soil.

His biggest test would be at the command post ahead, where military forces would confront him. He did not think they would not be so easy to fool. Abdullah withdrew Yates' wallet from his back pocket and studied the photograph as the RTV crawled down the road toward the cabin.

Thirty minutes later, the Syrian pulled the rugged terrain vehicle into the well-lit area of the cabin. National Guardsmen scurried around in the rain fulfilling a myriad of duties to prepare for the arrival of two HH60L Black Hawk helicopters. Abdullah just kept the RTV rolling slowly down the road waiting for someone to notice him. He was past the cabin and moving toward the hillcrest when two Guardsmen with HK 416's raised their weapons and gestured for him to stop.

One of the men stepped to the driver's side with a flashlight, shining it first into Abdullah's eyes and then around the rest of the vehicle. Abdullah immediately averted his face, pretending to rummage around in the glove compartment. He knew the soldiers were not expecting trouble, so he worked hard at staying calm and acting as he thought an American police officer might. His left hand offered the wallet with badge as he kept his head down, mumbling loudly to himself in the best English curses he could remember from his training in Afghanistan. The flashlight shifted to the wallet and he listened intently for the questions he knew would come.

"You headed back into town. Lieutenant?”

Once again, Providence seemed to be with him. He nodded energetically and said, in the clearest English he could muster—

"Yup. Damn rain!"

The Guardsman handed back the wallet, and shined the light on the road ahead of the vehicle.

"Well, you be careful, Sir. The road is real bad."

Abdullah enunciated as clearly as he could.

"Thanks."

He lowered his head again, shifted into first, and started the Prowler down the hill toward freedom. Sweat soaked his inner clothes and his breath came in controlled but ragged gasps.

It was four hours before Guard officers radioed the upper command position again with the new that the Choppers had been grounded by the weather and would not arrive until noon the next day. Everybody in Darby's tent was asleep, or almost asleep. It wasn't until after dawn that Darby finally led a squad up the road to discover Yates' and Mallory's bodies, covered with chaparral and mud.

The FBI had officers in route already and began an immediate investigation, but Abdullah Nassar was already comfortably seated, with a newly made passport, aboard an Air France jet. The plane taxied down the runway bound for Paris by way of Pisa, Italy. He was disguised as a South American businessman and glanced occasionally toward the compartment above his head where the gleaming, coffee thermos shaped cylinder, lay at the bottom of a new Adidas sport bag. He had fulfilled his mission. He bowed his head in prayer and slept the sleep of the innocent.

Three rows back, a nondescript man with a buzz haircut, shabby suit jacket, and scuffed wingtips, clutched a worn leather satchel and gestured to the flight attendant. As she approached, he grimaced and appeared to be in pain. She fussed over him sympathetically, offering him another pillow or a drink. He asked apologetically for second bag of peanuts. She smiled and gave him two. The man sighed loudly and let his head fall back against the headrest, chewing the salty nuts with his eyes closed. A thin smile curled his lip.

The black of the starless night sky was just beginning to lighten over the mountain peaks when Jake Carliss awoke with a start, shivering uncontrollably. He’d only managed a few minutes sleep and he was freezing! He knew hypothermia was setting in. Soon, neither he nor the woman would be able to keep ahead of the cops or the Guard, mentally or physically. His back was pressed tightly against the rough bar of a huge pine. He had pulled the woman in close, trying to draw warmth from her body. He could feel her shivering too, and knew that there wasn't much time left for clear decision-making. He needed to act fast. He realized that he had made a mistake trying to keep going after dark, but at least he’d been smart enough not to compound it by continuing. His life was probably measured now in minutes, or if he was lucky, hours. He put his hands against Karan Deer's back and pushed roughly.

"Get up!” he said sharply. "We're going back!"

"What?" She said, confused!

"Shut up!"

He checked the carbine and pushed her forward.

"Go slow, we need to keep the noise down."

Karan was elated with his decision. She knew it might get her killed quicker, but anything was better than charging up Elk Mountain without any kind of survival gear. She vowed to make as much noise as she could on the way down.

Making noise was more difficult than she imagined. The twigs and branches were soft with the soaking they had taken. Nothing was dry after the storm's fury. The rain had changed to a steady but light drizzle, and the clouds flew by occasionally allowing a starry patch of sky to show through. Jake held her hair from behind to keep her from going too fast or far ahead. Every few steps the barrel of his carbine would jab Karan in the lower back, as a reminder. The drizzle became a soft mist and visibility improved. Carliss had slowed their descent and now they were carefully stepping from tree to tree. Karan was glad they were no longer charging down the hill, there was no telling who was in pursuit.

Suddenly they were just yards from a group of dark low shapes. A man's cough came from one of them and the shapes became recognizable as tents. Jake’s hand clamped roughly over her mouth as he pulled her down behind a large stump.

He wasn't sure what he was going to do next. His first inclination was to eliminate them all. They were helpless inside their little tents, but any firing would give away their position and he guessed there must be plenty more pigs where these came from. He urged Karan to her feet and they carefully skirted the camp continuing down the mountain toward the northeast.

Dancer slept fitfully. He woke from a dream that he was at a dance with hundreds of Skins but he could not remember how to dance and everyone was laughing at him! He was sweating and guessed that his fever had returned. He emptied the plastic sports bottle of tea that he had brought with him and pushed himself up to a sitting position. The rain had stopped and the wind was whipping the clouds to the south. He hunkered down inside the warm rabbit skin robe and was about to lie down again when his ear picked up a peculiar noise, like a buck rustling in a thicket or a bear tearing up small shrubs to get deeper into the berry vines. The sound came closer and he rolled himself up against a log.

Out of the darkness, two human forms appeared. They walked right to the spot where he had lain only moments before. The next few seconds were straight out of a horror novel. As the two figures entered the clearing, the clouds broke wide open to allow a brilliant three quarter moon to shine down upon them. Both of the figures looked down at the shining barrel of the 30-30. Dancer held his breath. The tall figure behind began to look closely into the surrounding trees. Dancer pressed his body closer to the log, trying to become it and take on its inert and harmless quality.

The tall figure turned in his direction and the glinting barrel of a gun pointed at his head. A low voice emanated from the form.

"Lay perfectly still. Don't move at all, fuckhead!"

The man slid over behind the smaller figure and pushed her forward toward Dancer. Lance had worked his 92 Beretta Brigadier out of his ankle holster but was lying on his side with his left hand pinned beneath him. His right hand closed on the barrel and slowly slid it out to where he could grip the butt—with his non-shooting hand. He couldn't be sure he'd hit anything with his right hand, so somehow he needed to sit up or turn over.

"If you move I'll kill the girl."

That got Dancer's attention. The small figure took another step forward and in the soft moonlight, he recognized Karan.

"Oh Lance!” she wailed, beginning to break down under the strain.

Lance was trying to get his left hand and elbow in position to fire the pistol.

"This is very romantic but I told you not to move!"

The butt of the carbine smashed into the back of Karen Deer's head with a wicked, sickly thud. Her body fell forward on top of Dancer, further pinning his arm to his body. Karan's long black hair fanned across his face, obscuring his vision.

Then, as quickly as she had fallen, she was dragged off of him and lay in an inert heap. The reptilian eyes of their captor were clearly visible from above him as the automatic rifle was pressed against his temple. Dancer knew that the man was about to kill him. He had to try and get off a shot, hoping to startle the other man into missing. He shifted his body suddenly; pointing the pistol upward at what he hoped was a good angle and pulled the trigger. The muffled roar of the Beretta was deafening and the trapped heat and gases seared his fingers. The red hot nine millimeter round tore through the felt, wool, and rabbit skin like a hot knife through commodity lard. It finished its journey into Jake Carliss' shoulder, causing him to stumble backward. The XM8 roared in response, spitting lead into the log and pine needle covered earth to Dancer's left. Lance frantically tried to shift the gun to his left hand. The tall man, bleeding heavily, staggered back against a nearby pine and loosed another burst in their direction. Karan’s body seemed to move and Dancer thought she might be regaining consciousness.

A giant fist slammed into Dancer's upper leg and then another into his lower chest. The world drew away from him, as if he were looking down a long tunnel. He saw, from a great distance, his hand emerge from the bag with the pistol. In slow motion, his finger pulled the trigger twice. He was not even aware whether he was pointing the gun at his target. A wave of pain and nausea swept over him but receded to be replaced by a smooth calm. He could no longer feel his body, but his vision sharpened and he saw the tall man stagger away from the tree and disappear into the underbrush.

Dancer attempted to crawl to Karan's side. He shook her roughly but she did not respond. Rolling her on her back, he brought his face close to her own. Her eyes opened, and he thought she was waking up, but when she didn't move or say anything, a cold fear seized him. His hand dug underneath her hair to feel for the side of her neck, but instead of smooth brown skin, he found only a sticky wetness and raw flesh.

"Nooooo!" he cried in anguish.

His fear turned to terror as he turned her head, lifting away her hair. He saw a large black ugly hole where the bullet had exited. Blood poured from the wound. He hit another wall of pain and nausea and shortly passed out. When he came to, tears rolled down his cheeks as he closed her sightless eyes. A strange thought came into his mind. This wasn't a movie—no one got last words. They did not even get to say goodbye. A solid determination rose in him as the adrenalin and endorphins in his brain willed his functioning nerves and muscles to once again operate at his command. He dragged himself to a kneeling position and with newfound strength, cradled her body in his arms, stood up, and step by step, willed his feet to carry them down the mountain.

Grandpa and Soldier came awake at the first shots. Soldier looked at Horse. The old man's body was sitting there but his spirit was obviously somewhere else. He leaped to his feet and began to run down the mountain in huge, controlled jumps. He knew Grandpa was seeing already what he would soon see, but he couldn't wait.

Abrahm WarHorse was seeing the end of the world. His eagle carried him high above the crumbling mountains, oceans pounding the continent with huge waves, pulverizing blood and bone, plant and stone into a fine powder. In other places, he could see huge spouts of fire and molten rock leaping from great fissures and covering the earth.

As he crossed over the highest peak, he saw two small figures below him. One carried another in their arms. They were moving toward a small meadow where, incredibly, the grass was green and dotted with meadow flowers. A small brook cut the meadow into halves and his Eagle saw other creatures attempting to reach this safe oasis from many directions. For a moment, it seemed that the human and his companion might make it, but the ground between them fell away to a cliff edged with fire. The man seemed not to see it. Abrahm swooped lower in an attempt to cry out a warning but as the two reached the edge, it began to crumble. The man stumbled backward, unable to hold his companion. A cry of soul wrenching grief issued from the man's throat as the body fell into the abyss. A tortured death song rose from the human lips. The song speared Grandpa in flight with a cold chill! He recognized it. He had heard it before. It belonged to him!

He dove to see the face of the human that sang his song. In a great rush of wind and wing he pursued the man, now jumping into the crevasse. The heat rose to meet him, burning his feathers to a crisped black, yet he dove deeper, frantically trying to see the face before it plunged into the fire. He uttered a piercing cry and the face of the tumbling man turned upwards toward him. He recognized it just before it was consumed by the fire.

Horse stopped diving, his spread wings catching the super heated air as it lifted him away from the fire and into the highest upper regions of the atmosphere. In an instant, he was Man again, sitting in the rain with his back to a tree on a soaked wet earth. In the first moments of dawn, he lowered his head and wept. In his vision, he had witnessed the death of his beloved grandson!

Soldier saw the man coming toward him, obviously wounded and in pain. He stepped behind a tree. The man would be twice as dangerous now. He recognized the height of the man and knew him to be the one who had stood with Karan in the clearing where he had fired his only shot. The tall man came on as fast as he could, looking wildly off to the left and right for a place to hide. Soldier withdrew his knife from its arm holster and waited. He did not intend to try and take the injured man alive.

The man was within five yards of the tree where Soldier crouched, when he stopped abruptly and suspiciously peered ahead. Soldier had seen this before in wounded men, it was as if their senses were suddenly enhanced. The man stumbled as if he was extremely drunk, but Soldier knew it wasn't alcohol that caused his unsteadiness. Blood dripped from the man's obviously disabled left arm. Carliss changed direction and stepped away from the path he had been walking. Soldier coiled himself. He felt an urgency that could not be ignored.

He leaped from his hiding place, driving his shoulder directly into the tall man's spine. The man flopped to his knees, and then fell heavily forward onto his stomach. Jake Carliss growled ferociously as he tried to roll onto his back but like a cat, Solder was on him driving the razor sharp stainless steel precisely between his ribs and upward, slicing threw lungs and heart almost simultaneously. The carbine went off twice, harmlessly. The tall man's body relaxed as he died.

Soldier cupped the man's chin and looked into his face. The eyes were fixed and blood trickled from his mouth. His palms lay upward in a gesture of supplication. The Indian rose to his feet and started another rapid descent, fearful now of what he would find.

Abrahm walked downhill between the big trees slowly, still shaking from his vision. What good were his years of abstinence and medicine, if he were to lose his grandson? There would be no great-grandchildren to teach language and ceremonies to. The precious dreams of his grandson, which had become his also, would now perish unfulfilled. Who at Redlands could take his place? His grandson was one of those rare dreamers who had the gift of being able to lead men selflessly. Abrahm thought of his Annie and how she would react to this tragedy. He felt ashamed that he could not face this tragedy with her quiet dignity and strength.

He howled a few times in grief, wiping his tear streaked face with his sleeve. He sighed deeply and raised his chin—for Annie

The Sheriffs camped on the mountain and those at the command tent had also risen at the first shot from Lance Dancer's pistol. They scurried around making radio contact and organizing themselves, not realizing that the final battle was being waged without their participation. The few shots fired weren't enough to give them an accurate directional fix, so they were not inclined to break camp without a good idea as to how they should proceed All of them except Phil Darby.

His patrol had just discovered the bodies of Yates and Mallory. He wanted blood. He felt more than a little guilt at letting their murderer drive right by him while all he could think about was getting out of the rain! He wanted to make the bastards pay, so when the shots rang out east of his position, he was driven to find the other combatants. Darby wasn't about to wait for radio contact. Only a few minutes after donning his poncho and ordering a junior deputy to accompany him, they were slipping and sliding across and down the mountain.

Five minutes later, two more shots rang out just north of their position. Darby stopped to try and get their position on his GPS in the early morning fog. Suddenly, out of the mist, a large shape appeared before them. It bore down on them relentlessly and Darby screamed for it to halt. The form seemed too wide for a man, yet had a visible human head and feet. The monster seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then came forward again. Darby yanked up his shotgun and fired two blasts at almost point blank range. Strangely, he half expected the monster to keep coming, but it collapsed immediately at their feet. The other deputy knelt down, ignoring Darby's cries to stay back. He leaned over the monster for a second and then jerked up and backward as if attacked. Darby prepared to fire another round when the deputy lurched into him, knocking the shotgun barrel into the air. The man was trying to speak, but only a strangled whisper emerged.

"My God, Phil, stop! It's a man...carrying...a woman!"

Phil Darby stepped forward in a daze and peered down at the bloodied heap before him. The barrel of his shotgun dipped into the mud. His knees felt weak and he thought he might faint. The mist cleared and an unearthly yelping split the silence. Another huge shape came bounding out from between the trees, knocking them both to the ground, and savaging them with bone crushing strikes.

Darby tried to fire his shotgun but was blinded when the barrel exploded. The terrifying black giant jumped back and forth from one deputy to another, screaming and pounding them in fury. The screams of the men were joined by the sound of the first National Guard Black Hawk helicopter arriving with its searchlights blazing. A brilliant light shone over the scene and their assailant vanished into the underbrush. Another helicopter swooped in to join the search, but they were unsuccessful. Medics rappelled down from one of the choppers to treat and evacuate the two deputies, along with the bodies of the man and woman. Patrols soon discovered another body in the woods to the northeast.

Fifteen minutes later, an old man emerged from the forest and stumbled down onto the road—walking toward the tent camp of the authorities to claim the bones of his grandson.

EPILOGUE – BLACK

MIDLAND DAILY REPORTER

County officials have reported that a vaccine for the deadly flu that has been sweeping the County is now available and has been distributed to all health centers. The vaccine was developed in the hospital labs with CDC assistance. Approximately eight hundred people succumbed to the virus in the epidemic that began two weeks ago. Rumors that the disease was introduced intentionally, or was a part of biological warfare study that got out of hand, have been discounted by the authorities as the fantasies of conspiracy theorists or crackpots.

Midlands’s recent brush with terrorism ended Friday with the death of the terrorist leader. It is unknown why a Midlands Hospital Administrator was kidnapped and the Hospital Chief of Staff murdered. Eight Midlands police officers were killed including Lieutenant William Yates. The one remaining Midlands Police Department officer and a Sheriffs Deputy are in serious condition at Midlands Hospital with injuries sustained in the battle. Three foreign Nationals and two Americans, one a local American Indian, were also killed in the battle. Another unidentified woman was reported killed in our first broadcast.

The FBI and Office Of Homeland Security promised a full investigation of the circumstances leading to the terrifying violence. It is also unknown at this time what, if any, relationship there might have been between the assistant Hospital Administrator, Ms Karan Deer, and the unidentified terrorist from Redlands. Both were of Native American descent. Rumors of escaped terrorists persisted until Monday when National Guard helicopters were recalled without finding any trace of other enemy combatants. The names of those killed, except for William Yates, have been withheld pending notification of next of kin.

Washington, D.C.

An older man with bright blue eyes sat by the fireplace drinking a white Mocha and gazing out the large window on the second floor of the M Street Starbucks in Georgetown. The fireplace was without fire as the early morning sun shone brightly through the window. He glanced at his watch, slightly irritated that his companion was late.

The young man with the short buzz cut who bounced up the stairs was immaculately tailored. His Noble House Merino wool suit and Italian silk shirt looked out of place among the running suits, sweats and casual wear worn by the other patrons. The older man stared, mouth agape. He had never seen the other man dressed up. The younger man had always seemed to dress down intentionally, emphasizing his bland and everyday-Joe appearance.

“What's the occasion?”

“My brother's getting married, and I hate tuxedos,” was all the information the young man volunteered.

The older man waited for a few seconds, and then spoke.

“So where are we at?”

“Our feeling is that it's all wrapped up tight. All the principals are dead. There haven't been any significant leaks. The fringe element has suspicions but there's no way for them to very them. Neither Houser nor Hosch kept any records. Collins sent the vaccine to the hospital without any other comment. Carliss' fake identity held up, and the Feds didn't open his file to the press. Homeland Security is too embarrassed to make their security dossiers on the Libyan public.

“What about Nassar?”

“I followed him to Paris and ID'ed his first contact. We are building a file. It's one of the best opportunities that we've had to trail an operative Al Qa'eda agent in the last two years. The virus samples he has are viable, but the WHO is already producing vaccine for potential Allied targets. Actually, a viral strike might be a great opportunity for us all. The publicity would be bad for them and we'd turn a lot of operatives—might even find a lead to Osama himself.

On the down side, the USAMRID program is down until we find another testing location. A lot of our Native friendlies in that area were casualties. I think your Senator is gonna catch some heat on this one. I'd tell him to cut his losses and forget they even exist.”

The older man sipped the last of his Mocha pensively.

“Yeah, a lot of work went into this one and it fell apart pretty damn fast. You're sure no one's tied it all together?”

“The old Indian is probably the only one that's got a clear view of the ballgame, but there is a possibility that the MIA Vet knows too!”

“Are they a threat?”

Buzz-cut shook his head side to side.

“Naw, both are grieving hard right now, but we'll keep an eye on 'em.

He looked at his watch.

“I gotta be in Maryland by eleven.”

“Kiss the Bride for me. I'll see you again in two weeks. The Starbucks on New Mexico Ave., ten AM.”

The older man looked out the window and ordered a second Mocha. It was going to be a beautiful day in the Capitol.

EPILOGUE – RED

Horse sat on the head of the Old Man and prayed for the spirits of the dead to journey easily into the next world, whatever that might be. So many had passed in the sickness and in its violent climax—that road would be crowded.

Abrahm would let the Christian ministers and priests prepare the way for their own—but the sacred names of his grandson, his girlfriend, and Soldier's daughter would pass with them. He could no longer speak to them in those names. He felt their presence, the same way he sensed the nearness of his wife, but he would not tie their spirits selfishly to this world.

The storms had passed and the sky was clear except for a few orange clouds in the west. The ground he sat on was dry now, and the winds were gentler. Annie's wraps fluttered in his hair. He lifted his nose into the air. Mountain smells dominated the new breeze. Sunset was coming and the evening star was visible in the west. Tobacco glowed red in his pipe bowl. He was leaving Redlands for a while—this was his goodbye.

Horse had decided to take up where he left off as a young man. He would travel to the lands of different people: experiencing their fairs and powwows, their giveaways and potlatches. He would listen to the songs in their roundhouses, wikiups, long houses, and yes—even canvas tipis. He would swim in the waves of the ocean, bake himself in the heat of the desert, maybe even go north, and know what it was to be cold.

The land and weather was changing everywhere. Maybe if he could share the changing worlds of others, he could reconcile the changes in his own. He needed to feel free, to belong to the entire land again, to see a bigger picture, a longer time line. The lives of men were always filled with sadness, but the earth was a steady relative. Everything in creation shared the same molecules. He would embrace the earth and be healed. Even for an old man with a heart full of pain, life could be good again.

Horse breathed deeply, closed his eyes, and began to sing. In the midst of singing, he heard a gentle scraping sound beside him and when he opened his eyes, he found Soldier crouching beside him. Their eyes met and Grandpa saw the haunting in him. He took the big man's powerful hands into his own and sang again, for healing.

"I don't know where to go, or what to do,” Grandpa. “I feel like a ghost in a dead world."

Horse put a wrinkled hand on Mike Plouffe's shoulder.

"You aren't dead, and healing takes time. There is always another sunrise, another sunset. We've got Relatives everywhere. Look for a good woman. Let her give you another child. Start the circle again. It's the only way.”

Abrahm WarHorse gazed off into the distance.

“You know, our old ones lost everything, much more than we know. Yet they survived, kept their Spirit and their humor. We're the ones who got bitter. We're the ones who've lived in a vacuum. When the white men said they owned the land, we believed them—but this land is still ours. We're the ones that understand. We're the ones that know where the spirits are. We don't need ownership papers.”

Horse stood and stretched out his hands toward the North and South.

"The black wind has passed, we can breathe again.”

They sat together until the stars rose and a full moon called free souls to sing.

EPILOGUE - BLUE

Rodney Welk had been out of the hospital almost three months when the first calves were born into the Redland's bison herd. His little world had changed so much he often felt overwhelmed and wanted to bawl like the calves.

Curtis Joe, John Gray, and Jack Tantor had all succumbed to the deadly flu.

The real story of how Karan Deer and Lance Dancer had died had been made public and Lance's name had been cleared of all involvement with the terrorists. A journalist was supposedly writing a book about the whole incident.

The authorities were still searching for Soldier, but he had disappeared along with Abrahm WarHorse.

The entire Redland's Tribal Council had been replaced. The new one had voted in a new constitution that established a number of checks and balances to protect tribal members from the power of the Council. Everyone agreed things were going to be better at Redlands.

The school was going again, but they sorely missed Lance Dancer. Spirited leaders are hard to come by.

Rodney let his mind wander back and forth as he lounged on horseback, reins dragging loosely on the ground, watching the buffs graze on the sparse tufts of new green grass. One buff had tested positive for the Big B, brucellosis, but the new Tribal Council had gotten together with the Cattlemen’s Association and reached an agreement that allowed the herd to remain and grow. Rodney wasn’t sure how that had been accomplished but he was grateful for it.

The mid-morning air was crispy cool, causing the hairs on his arm to rise when the breeze picked up, but the sun was warm and the roof of the sky above him was bright blue. The mountain peaks to the northeast glimmered a hazy purple above the shimmering sky, reflecting clearly in the Lake. Rod sniffed the air and smelled horse, man, buffalo—and earth. It was a good smell, a comforting smell. What was it that Horse used to say?

“Take a deep red breath, Rodney. We belong here. You belong here. We all belong together.”

Coyote stood at the north end of the Lake. He had stopped to watch the humped hairy four-leggeds grazing. When they moved over the hill, he skittered up to sniff their track. It was an old smell, familiar as the earth. He raised his nose appreciatively—and howled.

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James BlueWolf has been a performer, songwriter/recording artist, poet, author, journalist, lecturer and storyteller since the early 1970's. He has recorded one record album and six CD's of original music. An internationally published poet, BlueWolf was Poet Laureate of Lake County, California, from 2000 thru 2003. He is the author of nine books and his stories and radio productions have been featured on radio stations across the U.S. and Canada. He has received three commendations from the Lake County Board of Supervisors for his work with youth, and was included in the 2006 edition of “Who’s Who Of American Teachers”. He is a co-producer of the well-received documentary of Lake County Native history—Hinthel Gaahnuula, and was a script editor for the Smithsonian’s National Museum of the American Indian. He has been awarded recognition as the Wordcraft Circle Of Native Writers & Storytellers’ “Children’s Writer Of The Year, for 2006-2007.” He currently lives in Nice, California with his wife of 32 years, Bernie. He is a father of five and has 12 grandchildren.

Other Books By James BlueWolf

Sitting By His Bones (Poetry) 2000

Grandpa Says (Stories) 2001

Speaking for Fire (Illustrated Story) 2007

Earthen Vessel Productions

3620 Greenwood Drive, Kelseyville, Ca 95451

Or call 707-279-9621

Manuscript Books

American Myths & Madness (Essays)

Haunted Hearts & Indin Parts (Poetry)

Shirts N Skins (Essays)

Sparks (Stories)

Letters From Lake County (Essays)

Black Breath

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Red Wind

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JAMES BLUEWOLF

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