Missing (31 page)

 
His long legs covered the distance quickly, but he was sadly out of shape. The years he'd spent in labs had left his muscles soft and flaccid. Fear lent speed to his stride as he plunged headlong down the road, but before long he was winded and in serious pain. The muscles in his legs were racked by spasms, and there was a pain in his side that went all the way to his toes. He needed to stop—at the least to catch his breath—but rest was for the living, and unless he kept running, that wouldn't be rum.

 
Within a few minutes the smoke was so thick he could barely see the road. The roar of the fire behind him was now a certain and constant presence. Tears ran freely down his face from the smoke and the heat, until finally, in fear, he began to cry in earnest. It wasn't fair. He didn't deserve to die like this.

 
Eventually he began to stumble, then his legs gave way completely. He dropped to the ground, choking and coughing, painfully aware that he was going to die. Down on his hands and knees, and with his back arched in protest, he began to hack. The sinuous strands of smoke slid easily down his throat, soaking up oxygen like a sponge and scalding the inside of his mouth. Then a gust of wind came, and for a brief moment Roland could see clearly in front of him. When he realized he was staring at the backside of salvation, he crawled to his feet.

 
It was his truck.

 
"Thank you, God," Roland muttered, and staggered the rest of the way to the truck.

 
The keys were still in the ignition, but after the way Wes Holden had shot it up, he wasn't sure it would start. His hands were trembling as he reached for the key. The engine sputtered once, then caught. The pistons began to pump, the engine revved, and except for the fact that one of Wes's bullets had hit the radiator earlier and it was without fluid, Roland had wheels. The truck was mobile, and that was all that mattered. He jerked it into gear and stepped hard on the accelerator. To his overwhelming relief, it began to roll, gaining speed with every foot. As he sped past the house where Wes Holden had been staying, he smirked. Stupid man—he could have used this truck to get away. He hoped both he and Ally Monroe fried.

 
But his elation soon faded. The wind was pushing the fire closer and closer—the smoke was catching up. He tried going faster but the truck, minus a radiator and apparently empty of oil, he noticed, staring at the gauges, was beginning to seize. No matter how hard he pressed the accelerator, the truck wasn't responding.

 
When the smoke began to fill the cab, he started to wail, this time cursing the same God he'd thanked only minutes earlier. At that point the engine started knocking, as if reminding Roland of who was really in charge. That lasted exactly fifteen seconds and was followed by a sudden explosion.

 
The hood blew up, blocking what was left of Roland's vision. He tried to steer to a stop, but the wheels wouldn't respond. At fifteen miles an hour, it bounced through a ditch, tossing Roland up so high that his head crashed against the ceiling of the cab. When he came down, he hit the steering wheel with his chin. A few seconds later, the truck slammed into some trees, throwing Roland headfirst against the dash.

 
For a few moments the only thing he could hear was the ringing of his ears, and then something cracked and fell across the bed of the truck. Groggy from the impact and bleeding from his nose and chin, he saw nothing but fire. At that point he reached for the door. But the door wouldn't open.

 
In desperation, he crawled across the seat and tried to get out on the passenger side, but that door, too, was stuck—bent inward from the impact of hitting a tree.

 
"No, no, no!" he screamed, and began beating on the doors, trying to get out. "Help! Somebody help me!"

 
Again, fate intervened. A large limb suddenly swung loose and fell, moving with such force that it sheared off the hood, leaving him free to exit via the hole where the windshield had been.

 
Roland crawled through the opening and then fell off the fender onto the ground. He scrambled to his feet and began running, saved from the pain in his body by the adrenaline rush of being free. With visibility often less than a foot in front of him, he ran headlong through the forest, often running into trees. But each time he crashed into one, he somehow managed to get back up and keep running.

 
Now he could feel the heat on his back. When he smelled his hair starting to fry, he began to scream. His shoes were burning his feet, and the air was so hot it was scorching his lungs. The hideous roar of the fire was on him—the maw of the great blaze open and ready to swallow him. It was over.

 
Still running in an all-out stretch, he lifted his arms to the heavens, expecting to be engulfed.

 
One second he was running, and the next thing he knew the ground had gone out from under him. He fell down, down through the air, windmilling his arms and

legs as he fell, then landed abruptly with a splash. The blessed relief of water on his body was unbelievable.

 
He'd fallen into Blue Creek.

 
The river had saved him.

 
Still aware of the roar and the heat, he began to swim forward as fast as he could and didn't stop until he was as far from the bank as possible. He chanced one last look over his shoulder, saw the flames in the treetops reaching out to grab him, then held his breath and went under.

 
Danny and Porter were at the backside of the field they'd been harvesting, watching the fire as it began to gain ground. It didn't make sense that the green stalks would burn, but burn they did, finally bursting and overflowing, as if the sap inside had boiled over and spilled out.

 
Danny's head was hurting, and he felt as if his chest was about to explode. He kept grabbing at his ears, as if causing himself pain would alleviate the pressure, but it was to no avail. His sobs turned to gasps, and then to guttural growls. He could see the flames as the fire ate through the field, dancing, teasing, taunting him to follow.

 
"Fire," he mumbled, and pointed to its path. "Fire, fire, fire!" he screamed, as his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the ground in a fit.

 
Porter was on his knees behind Danny. He'd been vomiting for what felt like forever. The scent of the stalks had become a part of him—on his skin, on his clothes, up his nose. Between bouts of nausea, he would slap at himself, still fighting the ants that were all over him, crawling in and out of his ears and his mouth. He'd tasted them, even spat them out, and had torn off all of his clothing but his pants and shoes in an effort to get rid of the crawling little devils, leaving him bared to the hot summer sun.

 
Swept by another wave of nausea, his back bowed as his head dropped. Gagging and spitting until nothing more could come up, Porter passed out. When he came to, he was staring up at the sky. The sun was coming at him like a freight train, bearing down on the spot where he lay. He held up his hands to ward off the impact, then arched up off the ground in agonizing pain as it hit. The blood boiled in his brain, and the tree limbs above him were turning into snakes, rolling, coiling, then striking. He screamed in horror as one struck him, then he managed to crawl out of reach. Finally he sat up, and with no thought in his mind, began playing with the blood dripping from his nose.

 
Danny was spread-eagled among the smoldering stalks, mumbling Bible verses that he'd learned as a child as his clothes began to smoke. When his shirt suddenly burst into flames, he would have cremated himself where he lay if Porter hadn't grabbed him by the ankles and pulled him forward.

 
"Ants," he muttered, as he began pounding at Danny's shirt, slapping and yanking until he'd ripped it straight off his body. "Goddamn ants all over...stop the ants...no more ants."

 
The blood from Porter's nose dripped onto Danny's belly and face, but Danny was blind to the gore and numb to the pain. Blisters began coming up on his skin as he staggered to his feet and started walking in the opposite direction from the fire.

 
Porter stared at his hands, believing that the blood on his body had, like the ants, begun to crawl across his skin. In a panic, he began wiping them in the grass and all over his pants.

 
"Ants...got to kill all the ants."

 
Suddenly a crazed deer, burned and nearly blind from the fire it had barely escaped, came running across the smoldering field and followed Danny into the trees.

 
Porter's eyes widened as he stared after the animal, which appeared to be glowing.

 
"Going hunting...time to hunt."

 
For no reason, he pulled off his shoes, felt at his waist for the hunting knife he'd been using to trim the harvested stalks and moved into the trees at a lope.

Seventeen

The fire burned out when it reached the river. Because of Wes's warning, the local authorities had shut off access to the bridge. No one was allowed back up this side of the mountain until further notice. Trees were still smoldering at nightfall, and when true darkness came, the tiny fires up on the mountain looked like flickering red lights on a Christmas tree.

 
Dr. Ferris kept Ally in the hospital overnight for observation and, because Gideon's blood pressure was so high, admitted him into Intensive Care, convinced he was bordering on a stroke.

 
Wes took a room at the only motel in town, which was a good thing, because by sunrise, there were no parking spaces or rooms to be had. The government had arrived.

 
The FBI were on site, in case Wes's claims of bio-terrorism proved to be true. The DEA had come in force, ready to stop the illegal growing and selling of drugs, and, as requested by Wes, two vans from the Centers for Disease Control were there, as well.

 
Wes woke up to a knock on the door. He rolled out of bed with a groan and pulled on his jeans, his nose rebelling at the smoke-scented odor.

 
He opened the door, then was forced to deal with a barrage of men in uniforms and suits. An army major chose to introduce himself first.

 
"Colonel Wesley Holden?"

 
"Yes, but now retired."

 
"Major Arnold Poteet at your service." He saluted Wes sharply, then nodded as Wes saluted back.

 
"Come in, all of you," Wes said, "but you'll have to excuse the state of my attire. It's been somewhat compromised."

 
"Spoken like a true military man," Poteet said. "I represent the commanding chief at Fort Benning. He sends his regards and asks that you call him at your earliest convenience."

 
"Thank you," Wes said, then eyed the other men as they stepped forward.

 
"DEA Agent Hurley."

 
Wes nodded.

 
"Agent Black, with the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

 
"Agent Black," Wes echoed.

 
"Dr. Christopher Shero, CDC."

 
"Dr. Shero," Wes said, then pointed toward the bed and chairs. "Have a seat, all of you. I'll be back in a minute."

 
He grabbed his shirt on the way into the bathroom, washed his face and combed his hair with his fingers, pulled the smoky shirt over his head, then frowned at his appearance.

 
When he came back out, one more officer had been added to the group—a young lieutenant who was waiting with a cup of hot coffee.

 
"Lieutenant Williams at your service, sir. Major Poteet thought you might like some coffee."

 
Wes smiled. "Major Poteet was right. Thank you for the courtesy, Lieutenant. At ease, and find yourself a seat."

 
The young lieutenant took a seat near the door as the questioning began. DEA Agent Hurley was the first to begin.

 
"Colonel Holden, can you—"

 
"Please," Wes said. "For the sake of expediency, call me Wes."

 
Hurley nodded, then continued. "Without intending any insult, we're here mostly because of the credibility given to your concern from your commanding officer. We don't normally swarm like this without good reason, so what can you tell me?"

 
Wes sighed. "I understand, and trust me, the good faith is appreciated. What I'll tell you is what I know, then I suggest that you speak next to a Miss Ally Monroe. At present she's in the local hospital under observation. She has information pertaining to the investigation, but separate from mine."

 
"Noted," Hurley said. "So who is it you suspect is involved with illegal drugs?"

 
"A man named Roland Storm has a place at the top of the mountain, up the same road as where the fire began. For reasons I don't understand, he was instantly suspicious of my presence on the mountain. He tried intimidation, then stalking. I decided to reconnoiter on my own, and searched his home and property."

 
"Where was Storm during this search?" Agent Black asked.

 
"Asleep in the bed down the hall."

 
Black nodded as he made notes.

 
Hurley blinked, eyeing Wes with new respect as he turned to one of his subordinates.

 
"Vernon, run that name through the database, see if we come up with any hits."

 
Agent Vernon left the room as Hurley continued.

 
"What did you find in the house that made you suspicious of his activities?"