Antibodies: The X-Files

Chapter 1


DyMar Laboratory Ruins Sunday, 11:13 p.m.
Late on a night filled with cold mist and still air, the alarm went off.
It was a crude security system hastily erected around the abandoned bum site, and Vernon Ruckman was the only guard stationed to monitor the night shift ... but he got paidand surprisingly well - to take care that no intruders got into the unstable ruins of the DyMar Laboratory on the outskirts of Portland, Oregon.
He drove his half-rusted Buick sedan up the wet gravel driveway. The bald tires crunched up the gentle rise where the cancer research facility had stood until a week and a half ago.
Vernon shifted into park, unbuckled his seatbelt, and got out to investigate. He had to be sharp, -alert. He had to scope out the scene. He flicked on the beam of his official security flashlight-heavy enough to be used as a weapon - and shone it like a firehose of light into the blackened ruins that covered the site.
His employers hadn't given Vernon his own secu-rity vehicle, but they had provided him with a uniform, a badge, and a loaded revolver. He had to display confidence and an intimidating appearance if he was to chase off rambunctious kids daring each other to go into the charred husk of the laboratory building. hi the week and a half since the facility had been bombed, he had already chased a few, trespassers away, teenagers who ran giggling into the night. Vernon had never managed to catch any of them.
This was no laughing matter. The DyMar ruins were unstable, set to be demolished in a few days. Already construction equipment, bulldozers, steam shovels, and little Bobcats were parked around large fuel storage tanks. A padlocked locker that contained blasting caps and explosives. Someone sure was in a hurry to erase the remains of the medical research facility.
In the meantime, -this place was an accident waiting to happen. And Vernon Ruckman didn't want it to happen on his watch.
The brilliant flashlight beam carved an expanding cone through the mist and penetrated the labyrinth of tilted girders, charred wooden beams, and fallen roof timbers. DyMar Lab looked like an abandoned movie set for an old horror film, and Vernon could imagine celluloid monsters shambling out of the mist from where they had lurked in the nuns.
After the fire, a rented chain - link fence had been thrown up around the perimeter - and now Vernon saw that the gate hung partially open. With a soft exhale of breeze, the chain-link sang faintly, and the gate creaked; then the air fell still again, like a held breath.
He thought he heard movement inside the building, debris shifting, stone and wood stirring. Vernon swung the gate open wide enough for him to enter the premises. He paused to listen carefully, then proceeded with caution, just like the guidebook said to do. His left hand gripped the flashlight, while his right hovered above the heavy police revolver strapped to his hip.
He had handcuffs in a small case on his leather belt, and he thought he knew how to use them, but he had never managed to catch anyone yet. Being a nighttime security guard generally involved a lot of readMg, mixed with a few false alarms (especially if you had a vivid imagination) - and not much else.
'Vernon's girlfriend was a night owl, an English major and aspiring poet who spent most of the night waiting to be inspired by the muse, or else putting in a few hours at the round-the-clock coffee shop where she worked. Vernon had adjusted his own biological cycle to keep up with her, and this night-shift job had seemed the perfect solution, though he had been tired and groggy for the first week or so.
Now Vernon was wide awake as he entered the burned - out labyrinth.
Someone was indeed in there.
Old ashes crunched under his feet, splinters of broken glass and smashed concrete. Vernon remembered how this research facility had once looked, a high-tech place with unusual modem Northwestern architecture - a mixture of glossy futuristic glass and steel, and rich golden wood from the Oregon coastal forests.
The lab had burned quite well after the violent protest, the arson, and the explosion.
It wouldn't surprise him if this late-night intruder was something more than just kids-perhaps some member of the animal rights group that had claimed responsibility for the fire. Maybe it was an activist collecting souvenirs, war trophies of their bloody victory.
Vernon didn't know. He just sensed he had to be careful.
He stepped deeper inside, ducking his head to avoid a fallen wooden pole, black and warty with gray - white ashes where it had split in the intense heat. The floor of the main building seemed unstable, ready to tumble into the basement levels. Some of the walls had collapsed, partitions blackened, windows blasted out.
He heard someone moving stealthily.