"Hmm." Trent turned it around in his fingers. "And you say you stepped on it, Professor?"

  "Yes." Nora applied the Band-Aid to her foot, knowing it would probably fall off within an hour. "On the trail back from the beach. Do you have any idea what it is? I was thinking it must be some kind of key someone was wearing around their neck. Annabelle says it's a file."

  Trent raised a brow. "Looks more like an old calibration tool for army PCR radios. There's a slot on the side you stick this in, to change channels." He gave it back to her. You should get a tetanus shot when we get back to the mainland."

  Nora got one every year, for her job. A calibration tool, she thought, looking at it. Another boring mystery solved.

  'I'll bet some grunt with the missile team dropped that thing here twenty years ago," Trent said.

  74,enty years ago? Nora wondered. The tool didn't even look tarnished.

  She put it away and forgot about it. In truth, though, the object wasn't a calibration tool, nor was it a jeweler's file. Nora had been right in the first place. The object was-

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  (I)

  My key! the corporal thought in the worst kind of alarm. When he'd returned to the control center, he reached to his belt where the key's lanyard had been attached but-

  It was gone.

  I must've tied the damn thing on wrong! he realized.

  This was not good. Especially considering the classified nature of this assignment, the key was considered a sensitive access device. The corporal sweated beneath his protective mask. If one of those civilians gets hold of that key, they could get into the command center! The corporal's career would be over. He'd be busted, written up, fined, and probably thrown in the stockade. The entire mission could be compromised ...

  He stood a minute to compose himself, and think. Maybe ... maybe no one will find out, he thought. I won't tell anyone I lost it until the assignment's over. The sarge is coming out on rounds in a minute anyway; I won't even need my key ...

  It was the only plan he could think of.

  A minute later, the door did indeed open, and the sergeant emerged. "Why didn't you come inside?"

  "I was just taking a last look around before shift change."

  The sergeant didn't question the lie. "Well, come in here. I want you to see something."

  The corporal entered and followed the sergeant to one of the old power rooms that they'd converted for their own use. They used several of the rooms to monitor growth rates on some of the hosts.

  The one named Howie, the corporal saw behind the quarantine enclosure's protective screen. The kid's body was so bloated that he'd busted out of his shirt and shorts. He shuddered, pouring sweat.

  "He's still alive, isn't he?"

  The sergeant nodded, and pointed to the vital signs meter. "Yep. Hope the poor bastard isn't feeling anything, but ..."

  "But he probably is," the corporal said.

  "Yeah."

  The corporal didn't care.

  "Looks like he's about to blow," said the major, coming in behind them.

  The sergeant and the corporal both snapped to attention.

  "Yes, sir," the sergeant said.

  "At ease." The major peered through the glass, intent on the spectacle. "So far the transfections have been close to perfect. And the infection rates from the worms and ova alike are occurring in less than twentyfour hours." The major looked more pointedly at the subject. "Is this a single-ovum infection?"

  "No, sir," the sergeant answered. "A multiple gesta tion. He was infected by several ova and three or four live worms."

  "Are the recorders on?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Should be any minute-"

  As if on cue, Howie's body began to buck, his wet skin slapping on the floor. His arms and legs seemed to vibrate, and it looked like his eyes were going to jettison. Then-

  His back arched upward; the convulsions trebled. Soon the bloated body began to deflate as Howie's mouth poured forth a slew of live, inch-long worms. More worms-hundreds of them-began to evacuate the colon ...

  "Beautiful," the major whispered. His eyes glimmered on the scene.

  The sergeant and the corporal traded glances. I'm about to puke, the corporal thought, and this guy thinks it's beautiful?

  Moments later, Howie lay dead in a pool of shivering pink worms. The worms were peppered with hundreds more immature yellow ova.

  The major grinned. "Gentlemen, that's what I call positive reproductive success of a genetically hybridized species. I can't wait for the colonel to see this replay." He pressed his hand to the glass, musing. "Look at all of them, will you? All of that just from one single human host ..."

  The sergeant winked at the corporal.

  "Decon the room," the major finally said. "I want all the worms dead."

  "Yes, sir. Should we clean the room for another host?" the sergeant asked.

  "Not necessary. With a success rate like this? We'll be leaving very soon."

  "What about the one in the next room, sir? The female from the first group."

  "Oh yes, the in vitro. Leave her to hang awhile, we'll take readings on her till the very last minute."

  "Yes, sir."

  "As you were," the major said and left the room.

  "He's so happy, you'd think he just got laid," the corporal said when it was safe.

  "That's an officer for you." The sergeant took a last look through the glass. Now the worms were massing over the host, to eat.

  The sergeant pulled a lever and then the specimen room filled with orange-hued gas, a combination dehydrant-bacticide aerosol. "All in a day's work," he said.

  Whatever you say, Sarge, the corporal thought.

  cm

  "Christ, I feel like I just got run down by a semi rig," Jonas groaned. He dragged himself to the deck, a hand to his head. He squinted past the bow in disbelief. "You're shitting me! It's almost dark."

  "No, shit, Sherlock," Slydes remarked from the captain's chair. "We both slept the whole day away."

  Jonas scratched his straggly head. "Ain't that the damnedest thing ... You sick?"

  Slydes made a face. The old cabin cruiser creaked as it pitched slightly in the water. "I feel sicker than a shit- eatin' dog. Don't know what it could be."

  "Me neither." Jonas steadied himself on a stanchion cable. His face was pale as cream. "I thought maybe the dope was too strong ... but you didn't smoke none. And I've never been seasick in my life. Shit, man."

  "How's Ruth? Is she sick, too?"

  Jonas mouthed Ruth's name, then jerked his gaze around the deck. "Ain't she up here?"

  "Hell no. I thought she been belowdecks with you all day."

  .We ... fuck! I can't remember! We smoked some of my weed last night at that old shack and got pretty fucked up. Then ..." Jonas worked what little brainpower he had. "I came back to the boat but she passed out in the shack."

  Slydes grimaced when he leaned up and looked at his watch. "Well, go find her and bring her back 'cause the tide's gonna start coming in soon."

  Jonas looked to the darkening island and moaned. "Aw, man, I don't want to go lookin' for her. I feel like shit. Let's just say if she don't show up by high tide, we leave her."

  Slydes spat over the side, grimacing at a taste in his mouth like when he was ten and his daddy made him eat some dirty cat litter for talking back to him. "You must've passed those college smarts out your ass the last time you took a shit, Jonas. If we leave her here, she'll get really pissed and turn our whole pot operation over to the cops once she finds her way back to the mainland. We can't leave her, you moron."

  Jonas waved a bored hand. "No, but we can kill her. Maybe I'm just getting old, brother, but chicks are just too much hassle. She'll come back on her own before long. Then we'll take off, and when we're out to deep water,-we'll-just toss her over the side."

  Slydes felt too lousy to do much calculating. "If we kill her, who's gonna clean the bathroom back at the house?"

  Jonas rubbed his face, nodding. "Good point."

  "So get off your skinny, pot-smokin' butt and go bring her back."

  Jonas wearily climbed off the boat and staggered into the woods.

  Slydes knew they would undoubtedly kill Ruth one of these days-probably on a gator troll: no evidencebut not just yet. Not till I tag her a few more times, he resolved. As the sky darkened, the island's noises rose. Slydes felt like throwing up again-the boat was rocking more now as the tide began to draw in-but he knew there was nothing left to upchuck. Don't even feel like drinkin' beer, he realized, and that meant he was really sick.

  What'd I come down with?

  Then he thought of those things.

  Those squishy yellow bugs he'd found on himself last night. Slydes ground his teeth at the image. Had one of them bitten him, and passed him some germs?

  Well, shit, goddamn ...

  A mild fever seemed to be seeping into him now; he was just nodding back off in the captain's chair when he heard ...

  Sobbing?

  That's what it sounded like-like a woman coughing and crying at the same time. Slydes smirked.

  Ruth's back, he knew.

  Sure enough, just as the realization kindled, a sobbing and very distraught Ruth pulled herself up the side ladder.

  "Where the hell you been, girl?" Slydes asked with feigned authority. You been out in the woods all last night and all day?"

  Her face looked drained, her hair a mess-that is, more of a mess than it usually was. She collapsed to the deck, then drew her knees up like a scared child. "It was awful, it was awful!" she hacked.

  Slydes had no concern whatsoever as to what had traumatized her. "You see Jonas? He just went out a few minutes ago lookin' for your sorry ass."

  "I was almost raped, you asshole! And I was almost attacked by these big pink snakes!"

  "Big pink elephants is more like it."

  "Fuck you!" she belted out, tears streaming. "Didn't you hear me! I was almost raped!"

  "Raped?"

  "Yeah, fucker! I was almost raped by a yellow zombie!"

  The good hard laugh which followed helped Slydes feel better. "Uh-huh. Yellow zombies and pink snakes."

  "Twenty-foot-long snakes!" she added hysterically. She dragged herself up, her unknotted T-shirt swaying. Slydes eyed the large unbra'd breasts tossing beneath ...

  She seemed desperate, searching the deck. "Holy fuck, is there anything to drink on this tub?"

  Slydes pointed a serious finger. "Watch what you call my boat, girl."

  "I'm dying of thirst!" she bawled some more. "I was burning up in those fucking woods today."

  "Why didn't you just come back to the boat?"

  Her tense face glared at him. "I was hiding from the zombie!"

  Slydes could only nod through another smile. "There's still a few beers downstairs-"

  "I don't want beer, I want water!"

  "Well, there ain't no water, unless you wanna drink the Gulf of Mexico."

  She thumped belowdecks, then resurfaced, chugging half a beer in one pull. Her face blanched, she looked cross-eyed; then she threw up over the side. "Fuck!"

  Slydes was not too sick to object. "Don't you be puking up perfectly good beer! I got a mind to bitch-slap you. What's wrong with you?"

  "Shit, I'm sick ..." Less than ladylike, she spat more bile off the deck with a retching sound worthy of a longshoreman.

  Sick, Slydes thought. He scratched his beard. "Did you find any bugs on you?"

  Ruth snapped a glare. "Bugs?"

  "Yeah, piss-yellow little things, with red spots. Like ticks or beetles, but soft."

  "No!" she barked back. "I told you I got attacked by worms! Same color as that one that landed on my arm last night-only fuckin' huge!"

  When she bent over the stanchion again, Slydes couldn't help but notice she wore nothing but the fluorescent-pink T-shirt. 'Your bare ass is showin', girl. Where's your shorts?"

  That big guy ripped them off!"

  "What big guy?"

  She bellowed at the top of her lungs, "The zombie! The zombie that almost raped me! And I think he wanted the snakes to rape me too! He laid me out naked in the woods last night when I was passed out-"

  Sooner or later the drugs burn your brain, Slydes thought. That's why he stuck to beer. Jonas must've tricked up some of his reefer, he deduced. "I'm tired of looking at your brown-eye. Go put some pants on."

  She huddled back down. "I don't have any more! The zombie took them!" Then she cradled her stomach and began to rock.

  A thought more serious snapped into Slydes's mind. A big guy. A big zombie. Slydes didn't believe in such tripe, but he did believe in drug-induced hallucinations.

  What if this "zombie" of hers was a real person?

  One of them photographers ...

  His tone grated with import. "Hey, girl. When you were out running around in the woods, did anyone see you?"

  "The zombie saw me!" she continued to shriek.

  "Yeah, yeah-the zombie-I know. But I mean anyone else, like maybe one of those photographers?"

  She groaned, shaking her head back and forth. "Holy fuckin' shit-I feel bad ..."

  "Go belowdecks and get some sleep," Slydes told her. "You're all fucked up. Sleep it off. When Jonas gets back, we'll be going home."

  "Oh, good, good," she continued to sob. "I just want to go fuckin' home ..."

  Breasts swaying beneath the T-shirt, she dragged herself up again, and thunked downstairs.

  Crazier than a shit-house rat, Slydes thought. If she didn't have that dandy mouth with the lips all puffed up from that plastic surgeon she'd been shacked up with, Slydes knew he wouldn't be quite so quick about keeping her around.

  He wondered if he was feeling a little better himself, then convinced himself he was. But something else nicked at the back of his mind, now that he thought of it. Just before Ruth had gone downstairs ...

  The chick was in good shape, he'd give her that. Those big implants sticking out like grapefruits and nary a trace of fat on her body.

  Slydes scratched his beard again, perplexed as the sound of peepers rose from the woods.

  Had it been his imagination, or was Ruth's belly starting to look a little swollen?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  (I)

  Campfire light shifted on their faces. Nora had dragged the pot off the coals to serve directly, and by now the four of them sat back in the sand, stuffed.

  "That's the best lobster I've ever had in my life," Lieutenant Trent proclaimed. Empty shells formed a pile of bright red debris in front of him. "To hell with the C rations."

  "Yeah, Nora, they really were good," Loren said, occluding a burp with his fist.

  Nora felt stuffed herself. "Freshness is everything."

  The only one not to compliment the night's cuisine was Annabelle. Still in her bikini, she sat in a lotus position finicking with a plump tail. "How come these lobsters don't have claws?" she seemed to complain.

  "These are spiny lobsters," Nora answered. "Ah, let's see-Panulirus ..."

  "Panulirus argus, " Loren finished.

  "Warm-watered species don't have claws. In fact, most of the world's commercially harvested lobsters are clawless. The meat's all in the tail."

  Loren slipped a tube of white meat from his last lobster. "And that's what I call a piece of tail."

  "Hilarious," Nora said. She'd also thrown some stone crabs and sunray clams into the pot, all of which were readily devoured.

  "You think we could have this again tomorrow night, Professor?" Trent asked.

  Annabelle, as might be expected, frowned.

  Nora sighed at the weary title. "Sure, and please stop calling me Professor, okay?"

  "Why? You earned it. Must've been a lot of hard work."

  "Yeah," she admitted, "but it's just the word that bothers me. Professor. Every time I hear it, I think of that guy on Gilligan's Island. Just call me Nora."

  Trent and Loren laughed.

  "There's still one more." Nora indicated the pot. She tonged out the last of the crustaceans. "I'm too full to even look at it."

  Annabelle grabbed the lobster. "I don't usually make a pig of myself, but . . ." She smiled, sitting erect in an obvious pose that highlighted her roll-free stomach. "I live on Atkins. No crrbs, keeps me brimming with energy."

  Keeps you brimming with pretentiousness, Nora interpreted. Why don't you eat my shorts, too? They're low-carb.

  Loren and Trent were doing a bad job concealing their gaze at the blonde's body.

  Jesus. Nora was just about to settle back in the sand when Annabelle screamed.

  Trent and Loren went bug-eyed, and Nora lurched up as if stung. What the hell's she screaming about?

  Annabelle had just broken the lobster open at the carapace, then flung it away in disgust. "Oh my God, that's so gross!"

  "What?" Loren exclaimed, surging toward the blonde.

  "Worms!" Annabelle shrieked.

  Worms? Nora moved around the fire as Loren picked up the opened shell. She could see in the firelight-the lobster meat seemed pink and squirming.

  Instead of disgust, Loren's face registered excitement. "Aha! Looks like we've got a decapod-targeting parasitic marine annelid."

  Annabelle was shaking, she was so repelled. She looked like she was about to be sick in the fire. "It's a bunch of fucking worms in my lobster! Oh, Jesusthey look like dog-shit worms!"

  There was an image Nora didn't need. Closer examination showed her a pack of the tiny worms churning within the red carapace.

  "Most of them are dying," Loren noted.

  "The cooking process," Nora said. But something bothered her. "But the worms closer to the center are still kicking. They don't look right for a nonsegmented parasite, do they?"

  Loren agreed. "The hydroskeletons are all wrong. And they don't look like Polychaetes, either, or anything gastropoda."

  Annabelle's beautifully suntanned face looked sapped of all color. When the silence settled, she looked dismayed at Loren and Nora as they continued to examine the nest of tiny parasites.

  "I could've eaten those disgusting things," the blonde complained. "Are they poisonous?"

  "No, no," Loren assured her.

  'Then why are you looking at them like you just found the Holy Grail?"