The X-Files: Antibodies

ONE

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 burn site, and Vernon Ruckman was the only guard stationed to monitor the night shift…but he got paid—and 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 security 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. In 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 ruins.

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 reading, 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 modern 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. Vernon tilted the flashlight around, and white light stabbed into the shadows, making strange angles, black shapes that leapt at him and skittered along the walls. He had never been afraid of closed-in spaces, but now it seemed as if the whole place was ready to cave in on him.

Vernon paused, shone his light around. He heard the sound again, quiet rustling, a person intent on uncovering something in the wreckage. It came from the far corner, an enclosed office area with a partially slumped ceiling where the reinforced barricades had withstood most of the destruction.

He saw a shadow move there, tossing debris away, digging. Vernon swallowed hard and stepped forward. You there! This is private property. No trespassing. He rested his hand on the butt of his revolver. Show no fear. He wouldn’t let this intruder run from him.

Vernon directed his flashlight onto the figure. A large, broad-shouldered man stood up and turned toward him slowly. The intruder didn’t run, didn’t panic—and that made Vernon even more nervous. Oddly dressed, the man wore mismatched clothes, covered with soot; they looked like something stolen from a lost duffel bag or torn down from a clothesline.

What are you doing here? Vernon demanded. He flared the light into the man’s face. The intruder was dirty, unkempt—and he didn’t look at all well. Great, Vernon thought. A vagrant, rooting around in the ruins to find something he could salvage and sell. There’s nothing for you to take in here.

Yes, there is, the man said. His voice was strangely strong and confident, and Vernon was taken aback.

You’re not supposed to be here, Vernon repeated, losing his nerve now.

Yes I am, the man answered. I’m authorized. I…worked at DyMar.

Vernon moved forward. This was entirely unexpected. He continued to shine the flashlight, counting on its intimidation factor.

My name is Dorman, Jeremy Dorman. The man fumbled in his shirt pocket, and Vernon grabbed for his revolver. I’m just trying to show you my DyMar ID, Dorman said.

Vernon took another step closer, and in the glare of his powerful flashlight he could see that the intruder appeared sick, sweating…. Looks like you need to go to a doctor.

No. What I need…is in here, Dorman said, pointing. Vernon saw that the burly man had pulled away some of the rubble to reveal a hidden fire safe.

Dorman finally managed to pluck a bent and battered photo badge out of his shirt pocket—a DyMar Laboratory clearance badge. This man had worked here…but that didn’t mean he could root around in the burned wreckage now.

That means nothing to me, Vernon said. I’m going to take you in, and if you really have authorization to be here, we’ll get this all straightened out.

No! Dorman said, so violently that spittle sprayed from his lips. You’re wasting my time. For a moment, it looked as if the skin on his face shifted and blurred, then reset itself to normal. Vernon swallowed hard, but tried to maintain his stance.

Dorman ignored him and turned around.

Indignant, Vernon stepped forward and drew his weapon. I don’t think so, Mr. Dorman. Get up against the wall—right now. Vernon suddenly noticed the thick bulges underneath the man’s grimy shirt. They seemed to move of their own accord, twitching.

Dorman looked at him with narrowed dark eyes. Vernon gestured with the revolver. With no sign of intimidation or respect, the man went to one of the intact concrete walls that was smeared and blackened from the fire. I told you, you’re wasting my time, Dorman growled. I don’t have much time.

We’ll take all the time we need, Vernon said.

With a sigh, Dorman spread his hands against the soot-blackened wall and waited. The skin on his hands was waxy, plastic-looking…runny somehow. Vernon wondered if the man had been exposed to some kind of toxic substance, acid or industrial waste. Despite the reassurance of his gun, Vernon didn’t like this at all.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the bulges beneath Dorman’s shirt squirm. Stand still while I frisk you.

Dorman gritted his teeth and stared at the concrete wall in front of him, as if counting particles of ash. I wouldn’t do that, he said.

Don’t threaten me, Vernon answered quickly.

Then don’t touch me, Dorman retorted. In response, Vernon tucked the flashlight between his elbow and his side, then quickly patted the man down, frisking him with one hand.

Dorman’s skin felt hot and strangely lumpy—and then Vernon’s hand touched a wet, slick substance. He snatched his palm back quickly. Gross! he said. What is this? He looked down at his hand and saw that it was covered with a strange mucus, a slime.

Dorman’s skin suddenly writhed and squirmed, almost as if an army of rats rushed along beneath the flesh. You shouldn’t have touched that. Dorman turned around and looked at him angrily.

What is this stuff? Vernon shoved the revolver back into his holster and, staring squeamishly at his hand, tried to wipe the slime off on his pants. He backed away, looking in horror at the unsettling movement throughout Dorman’s body.

Suddenly his palm burned. It felt like acid eating deep into his flesh. Hey! He staggered backward, his heels skidding on the uneven rubble.

A burning, tingling sensation started at Vernon’s hand, as if miniature bubbles were racing up his wrist, tiny bullets firing through his nerves, into his arms, his shoulders, his chest.

Dorman lowered his arms and turned to watch. I told you not to touch me, he said.