"No, of course not," she said. "But why should you object to genetically engineering angels?"

"Because they already exist and will help us in the hour of need."

"Mexican standoff," I said. "This head-cutting is officially declared a tie. Now, shall we return to the matter at hand?"

"Well, Fly," purred Arlene, "whose turn is it to name this sucker?"

"I'm sure it's yours," I lied.

She must have already decided, because right away she said, "That's easy; a bony."

"Brilliant," I said. "Don't you think so?" I asked Albert.

"I guess," he said. "I guess we should be able to tell them apart."

"Albert, would you mind checking on Jill?" I asked.

He was happy to get out of there. As Arlene and I started decoupling the trailer, I whispered in her ear, "So what do you think?"

"I think they're getting closer to copying our real, human form. Even the stupid clothes are a dangerous advance. A goal of the aliens is probably to create false humans; if they succeed, they can infiltrate the areas not under alien control . . . like Salt Lake City."

"We can expect better frauds as time pa.s.ses," I said.

"Now let's get to the next town along the railroad line, hop a train, and continue to L.A."

Albert and Jill were glad to hear the new plan.

While Arlene and I were busy worrying each other, Albert had helped calm Jill down to the point where she insisted on doing whatever driving remained.

Fortunately, it was a sleeper cab for partnered driving; we squeezed in, Arlene and Albert in the back, me up front with Jill, and set off down the road.

We pa.s.sed a score of alien patrols, but the truck must have had the mark of the beast on the grill, for none of them threw us a second glance.

The next town along the line was Buckeye. We ditched the truck cab, then waited for night. We foundan alley and enjoyed the busy sounds of night life in this modern world: troop trucks every few minutes, the tramping of little zombie feet, screams of pain, howled orders from h.e.l.l-princes, and the occasional earthshaking tread of steam-demons. Even more soothing to our shattered nerves were mechanical sounds that reminded me of the spidermind, evi- dently a smaller model. I wondered if this one got better mileage.

"Have you noticed an odd thing?" whispered Arlene.

"You mean besides everything?" I replied.

"The aliens generally seem to know when humans are around," she said.

I hadn't thought about it before, but the facts supported her. "How?"

"Remember that lemony smell of theirs, right?" she continued her line of argument. "What if we smell as bad to them? They might detect us by the odor we give off."

"Maybe they deliberately give the reworked zom- bies that odor so they can tell them apart from living humans?"

"You know, A.S., if the aliens start manufacturing infiltrators, they sure as h.e.l.l can't smell like zombies.

That would be a dead giveaway." My heart bled for the technical difficulties faced by the alien imagineers.

The importance of having Arlene and Yours Truly on this mission was the background we brought with us. Remembering how we had turned the monsters against each other upstairs, I figured we could try it again when the time came. In fact, it should be even easier to turn the monsters against the new infiltra- tors: they wouldn't smell wrong enough.

Meanwhile, there was the little matter of our imme- diate survival and carrying on to L.A. . . . and that meant hopping a freight as soon as possible.

"I have another plan," I told my loyal troops. I hoped it would sound as good to me as I was about to make it sound to them.

We waited for another truck to go by before settling down to the conference. It was easy to size up the strengths and weaknesses of our little foursome. Jill was brainy but callow; Albert was forthright, strong, reliable, stalwart, and no dummy. But he had yet to show the special kind of intelligence and instincts needed for command (another reason for the Presi- dent of the Twelve not to press about who would command this mission). Arlene was cynical and so- phisticated, the best woman soldier I'd ever known.

But at some deep level she lacked a certain badness that was so much a part of Yours Truly that I didn't have to think about it.

The reason for me to be in charge was that I wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice all our lives if I thought it would make a difference in winning a crucial battle in this war. Arlene could make the same decision, but she'd hesitate where I wouldn't. In a strange way, I was the safest of the adults to befriend the teenager because no friendship or emotional ties would cloudmy military judgment. With all that Arlene and I had faced up to this point, I counted myself fortunate that we had survived. I was also glad that I hadn't needed to be a perfect b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Yet.

The truck pa.s.sed, and they waited to hear the plan.

"You all know that we must infiltrate the train station and stow away on an outgoing train. The risk will increase once we do this. Let me point out that until we reach the enemy computers, Jill is the only one not expendable. After she retrieves the data, everyone is expendable, so long as one of us survives to get it through to the War Technology Center. Get it out to Hawaii; they'll find you."

"Yes," said Arlene calmly. Albert nodded. Jill stared wide-eyed as my words registered.

I continued: "I noticed a number of abandoned grocery stores as we were working our way in. I don't know if zombies still eat human food, but I doubt it.

And I'm certain the monsters don't."

"Maybe the aliens can't digest what we eat," said Albert.

"Well," mused Arlene, "they can eat us; and we are what we eat." She was being her usual, grisly self; but I was the only one who smiled.

"Whatever," I said. "So here's the plan. Albert, you buzz to one of these stores and collect all the rotting lemons you can."

"I get it," he said. "That'll smell like those zombies we gunned down . . ."

"Like all zombies," said Arlene.

". . . and confuse their sniffers," he finished his thought. "Arlene-would you come with me?" He paused, as if surprised at what he'd said. He looked at me, remembering our informal chain of command.

"Is it all right if she comes with me?" he asked. "I mean, if it's okay with her." He stared at her a little sheepishly.

"I was going to a.s.sign you one of us," I said. "So long as there are four of us, it's crazy for one to go off alone. We'll always pair off when we have to sepa- rate."

"I'd like to go with Albert, then," said Arlene in an even tone of voice, betraying nothing.

"Fine," I said. "Jill and I will wait here until you return. We'll a.s.sume you've run into trouble if you're not back by, hm, 2200." Among items I was grateful for, we still had functional watches. Who gave a d.a.m.n what day of the week or month it was any longer? The importance of a wrist.w.a.tch was to coordinate ac- tivity.

Jill and I watched as A&A checked their weapons and moved out. They ran across the open s.p.a.ce, Arlene first, Albert bringing up the rear, and then I could breathe again.

"When do we move out?" asked Jill.

"In a moment. We're still safe here."

The word "safe" triggered something in her. "I hadn't thought about it until what you said, but I don't like being more ..."

"Critical to the mission.""Uh-huh. Critical. It feels weird."

"Don't worry," I said. "After you've done your hacker bit, you have permission to die with the rest of us." I tried for a light tone of voice but the words sounded wrong.

"I'm not afraid to die," she said.

"I know you're not. You did great in the truck, the way you kept driving. I'm proud of you." Her whole body relaxed when I told her that.

I figured she could handle some more of my deep thoughts. Arlene and I had been through so much together that there were things I could say easier to the new recruit: "Cowardice is usually not the prob- lem in war, Jill. Most people have more guts than they realize. Most can be trained to do all right."

"What's the problem, then?" she asked through slitted eyes.

I looked up and down the alley. We were still alone, and it was a pleasure to hear the sounds of demonic industry m.u.f.fled and distant. The danger was at arm's length, a good place to keep it as long as possible.

"In a way, we're lucky to be fighting monsters."

"Lucky?" she half shouted.

"Keep your voice down!"

"Sorry."

"Fighting monsters makes it easy. Up to now, all the wars on Earth have been between human beings.

That's much harder."

Her face scrunched up as she pondered what I said.

It was like watching thoughts march across her face.

"I could never hate human beings the way I hate the demons," she said.

"You're lucky to feel that way," I said.

"How does fighting monsters make it easier?" she threw at me. "They're harder to kill than people."

"We don't take any prisoners," I said. "We don't have to worry about any of that. And if we did take one, we don't have to decide whether we should torture him. h.e.l.l, we don't even know if they have a nervous system like ours."

"Torture?" she asked, wide-eyed again. Then she thought about it. "I could torture them."

"To get information?" I asked.

"To pay them back for what they've done."

"Could you torture humans if they'd done the same things?"

"I don't know," she said. "What kind of torture?"

Looking at her, I remembered an officer who briefly pa.s.sed through Parris Island as my cla.s.s officer before moving on to Intelligence, maybe even the CIA (who knows?).

He took a whole slate of medical courses, though he had no interest in being a doctor. He had a weak, limp handshake. He probably couldn't fight his way out of a revolving door. He scared the living c.r.a.p out of me.

I figured I'd given a fourteen-year-old enough to chew on for one day.

"Any kind." I didn't elaborate.

"I think I could torture any humans who join the aliens," she said."Then you're home free," I said. "I don't think the enemy is doing any recruiting except for zombies."

She brightened. "And we know what to do with them, don't we, Fly?"

"We sure do." I tried out one of my playful punches on the kid's arm, like I did with Arlene. She pulled away at first, then sort of apologetically punched back. She gave off all the signs of having been abused once. By human beings, probably. Human beings always confuse the issue.

Now it was time for us to hurry up and wait.

18.

I kind of felt bad leaving Fly and the kid to go traipsing off with this geek.

The first time I saw Albert, I thought he was a trog.

Maybe it was the way he held his weapon against the head of the only other man in my life besides Wilhelm Dodd who's ever been really worth a d.a.m.n: Flynn Taggart, corporal, United States Monkey Corps. As I joined this Mormon beefcake on the grocery store expedition, I found myself sneaking glances at his profile, and finding strength where I'd first suspected weakness.

I've always loved strong men. That's how I remem- ber my father. He died when I was only ten, so I may not remember him with complete objectivity. But that's the way I want to think of him. I grew up defending his memory against my brother, who acted like a snot and said Dad deserted us.

I hadn't thought about my family since the invasion began, except when Fly got me going on my brother and the Mormon Church. I'd be happy to keep it out of my mind and off my tongue, except that Albert asked me: "You don't like Mormons much, do you?"

We were in an alley outside a likely grocery store, taking a breather. Zombies were unloading bread from a bread truck, an eighteen wheeler. Bet the boxes didn't contain bread; and I wasn't sure I wanted to know what was really in them.

"I have a problem with all inst.i.tutional churches," I said. "It's nothing personal." Of course, it was per- sonal and I'm not a very good liar.

"If you don't want to talk about it, I'll understand,"

said Albert diplomatically. The big dork had some smarts.

Maybe I should talk to him. Fly and I were so close that we couldn't verbalize everything there was be- tween us. He had a little-boy quality that was attrac- tive in a friend but definitely not what I wanted in a lover. Maybe it was part of the Mormon conditioning, but Albert projected father qualities.

The one time I let myself be talked into therapy, back in college when my family was exploding, I dropped hundreds of dollars to be told what I already knew. My ideal male friend would be the brother I never had. Fly was just what the doctor ordered. My ideal lover was Daddy. The therapist was a Freudian so he didn't have much imagination.

The women's group I hung out with for one sum- mer had a lot more imagination. It wasn't my faultthat the experiences of my youth fit the Freudian pattern better than they did the theories of the sister- hood. It just came down that way.

So I saw the concern in Albert's face, a guy who wanted to be a pillar of strength to some All- American Gal, and it was hard not to cut him some slack. Here we were, huddled down together in a dark, smelly alley, ready to save the human race from all the denizens of h.e.l.l, and poor old Albert was concerned about how I felt about his religion.