Chaingang

“How? The number's a dead end. Who's to say they didn't get that guy as well? Everyone who's stood up to them has vanished. These are people who look at assassination as the logical solution to every problem."

“But those chemicals—” She couldn't sort it all out in her mind, and he wasn't much help.

“For all I know, making drugs was going to be a sideline. I still say it looked like they were putting together a crack lab. But let's say it is going to be a training school for government assassins. That implies that the Feds, the DEA, ATF, the CIA, the DIA—the damn Sheriff's Benevolent Society of Greater Podunk—everybody could be part of the cover-up."

Her hands tightened on a piece of paper. One of Sam's notes. He could read the word “Ramparts."

“We'd better go back to the cabin. It's too dangerous to stay here.” She nodded numbly, and they got in the old car and started back in the direction of Whitetail.

31

NORTH OF WATERTON

He hated everything about the monkey people, but one of the things he loathed the most about this alien planet was, there were fewer and fewer places to find true isolation. When one was anywhere near urban centers, it took an increasing amount of effort to find raw chunks of emptiness where one's thoughts and privacy would not be invaded by the loud laughter and grating voices of the imbeciles who populated every corner of the globe.

How he despised their blank faces brimming with confidence and herd instinct. The cleansing of the lonely places invariably renewed him—made him feel whole again.

Their crap, which they dropped everywhere in a nauseating litter of garish billboards, empty beer cans, and discarded TV sets, followed him everywhere, it seemed. Even back of beyond the monkeys came, laughing and chittering and taking one another's pictures.

Chaingang was irritated to begin with, at the prospect of having to go through the enormous effort of relocation, but it was time to go. His sensors felt them closing the net. He knew he was no longer safe. Whatever he'd been a part of was drawing to an end.

This was his dark mood as he waddled to his ride, removed the huge camouflaged bush-net from it, and squeezed his blubber-gut behind the wheel, starting the car and pulling out down the gravel road in a northbound direction.

He had one more small chore to attend to, and then he could be on his way. There was the small matter of misdirection, for which he would now prepare. He would find a safe, isolated spot to hunker down for the night, far away from the sharecropper shack. Take care of the last-minute details tomorrow, then be about his business.

He turned on a country road that looked fetchingly untraveled, and followed it up over a steep embankment where it dead-ended abruptly. The other side of the tall bank was covered in weeds. An abandoned pasture, perhaps?

Turning off the motor, he eased his bulk out from behind the wheel and got out of the car, unzipping his fly and urinating carelessly in the direction of the road behind him. A stinking stream of pee splashed across the gravel, and he noticed, as a few drops of urine fell onto his 15EEEEE combat boots, a detail he'd overlooked. Rather astonishingly, to him, he realized that he had to be bugged in some way.

It was so obvious that it was amusing he hadn't bothered to consider it. Clearly those watching and manipulating him would have taken the precaution of marking him in some discernible way. He thought immediately of the most practical methods, rejecting each as he did so: A marked car was out—he'd switched them; a hidden homing device in his gear was out—too much chance of being discarded. It had to be his clothing.

What would be the most difficult thing for Daniel Bunkowski to replace? His enormous pants, belt, shirt, and custom-made gunboats. He smiled venomously at the thought, walking over to examine a brightly colored object that had caught his eye.

It was a plastic wrapper. Cheap stuff. Day-Glo pink. Wrapped around some sort of food advertisement. His stomach rumbled at the thought of groceries as he idly unwrapped the ads, glancing at the listings of munchies while he considered his next move. If there was a current newspaper here, that meant there'd be a dwelling close at hand, so it wasn't an abandoned pasture after all. No mailbox. Maybe there'd be a cottage tucked away behind those trees. Should he investigate or move along? He took pleasure from reading about food:

Butter and eggs, beans and bacon, cinnamon rolls and chocolate cake. Somewhere between the Velveeta and the hot pepper cheese, the word CONSPIRACY caught his eye.

“WE BELIEVE THAT THE MURDERS OCCURRING IN THIS COMMUNITY MAY BE DIRECTLY LINKED TO THE CLANDESTINE DRUG LAB'S CONSTRUCTION.” His coughing bark shook his gigantic stomach like a bowl full of jelly.