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Synopsis

When a disease-ravaged body is found in the smoldering ruins of the federally funded DyMar genetic research lab, Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully fear that a deadly, man-made plague is on the loose. As the FBI agents investigating the "X-Files" -- cases the bureau has deemed unsolvable -- Mulder and Scully pursue the truth wherever it leads, even into the labyrinthine corridors of the FBI... and beyond.

Racing to contain the lethal virus before it can spread, Mulder and Scully make a chilling discovery. Before his death, Dr. David Kennessy, a hotshot cancer researcher at DyMar, had been experimenting with a promising but highly dangerous technology: microscopic bio-machines that can cure any disease and heal any wound. In theory, this research could be a miracle cure, perhaps even a doorway to immortality. It was also the only way Dr. Kennessy could save his leukemia-stricken son.

But when a second corpse turns up, savagely mutilated from within, it's anything but theoretical. Could machines created to cure have learned to kill? Scrambling for answers, Mulder and Scully are opposed at every step by faceless enemies with all the resources of the government -- even perhaps of their own agency -- at their command. These enemies will stop at nothing to ensure that the secret of immortality falls into the right hands -- their hands.

As sinister forces close in, Scully fights to save the life of an innocent boy while Mulder comes face to face with a crazed and desperate man - a man whose slightest touch brings agonizing death, and perhaps a resurrection more horrible still.

Excerpt

Chapter 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 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. 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 comer, 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 wouldnt 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 didnt look at all well...

Copyright © 1997 by Kevin J. Anderson

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