J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection by J. M. Dillard Page A
Authors: J. M. Dillard
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and raised the gun.
Mossoud stepped in front of her.
"Mossoud," she said, embarrassed that she had been so terrified, that she had thought herself alone among the dead. "What the hell is going on?"
There was something not right about the way he stood, the odd, unnatural angle of his head and neck. His arms dangled, useless-looking, from his body.
"Mossoud ... are you okay?"
Mossoud didn't answer, just looked at her with eyes she did not recognize.
She screamed at him, at once furious and terrified that he would not reassure her. "Answer me, Mossoud!"
Mossoud opened his mouth and answered with a strange, unearthly moan, horrible, meaningless sounds.
She sobbed and backed away from him into something yielding and slickly wet. Before she could turn to look at it, something whiplike and incredibly strong fastened itself around her arms, her neck, and exerted crushing force on her windpipe. Fear gave way to simple astonishment.
FOUR
"I know I chose your resume over the others," Harrison said. They had left the older, one-story brick building and were walking in the brilliant sunshine again, cutting across the thick grass instead of taking the sidewalks that connected the buildings. The older brick structures gave way to newer, sleeker edifices. The Institute had the sprawled-out feel of a college campus, and the atmosphere was certainly relaxed. Other than Dr. Jacobi, Suzanne hadn't spotted another researcher wearing a tie; the conservative gray gabardine suit she wore no doubt marked her as an outsider. Maybe Deb wasn't the only one who needed new clothes.
Blackwood turned to regard Suzanne with those disarming pale blue eyes. "But I looked over so many. Could you remind me a little about your background?"
As the sun warmed her face, she began to understand how he had acquired his tan. "I'm flattered you chose me, but my background is pretty unsen-sational."
He seemed amused by that. "That's your opinion."
"Yes, well, I did my postgrad at NYU and MIT, then worked for the Smithsonian, then Rand for a few years, then a research facility in Ohio."
"I thought you worked with NASA." Blackwood watched her reaction.
"Yes . . . it was a joint project with Zubrovski Labs. I explained it all to Dr. Jacobi." Her tone was slightly reproachful. So why didn't you bother to get the details from him sooner?
"Ah." Blackwood nodded. "Of course; I remember now."
"And your background?" Suzanne asked. So I can try to figure out why you've hired me.
He shrugged cavalierly. "Oh . . . astrophysics. UCLA." He gazed at the grounds with tangible fondness and gestured sweepingly. "I've spent my whole career at this place. Even grew up here. It's almost like home."
No wonder he acted as if he owned the place and had such a casual, easy attitude toward Jacobi. "I wouldn't mind finding a home," she said, feeling wistful, then realized she had revealed too much and covered with a question. "What about your family— your parents?"
"They both worked here too." His expression didn't change, but it seemed a shadow passed over his features.
She was silent for a moment, unwilling to ask the obvious. They took several steps without speaking, then Suzanne asked, "Tell me, Dr. Blackwood. . . about your projects that need someone in my field—?"
He smiled, the darkness dispelled as quickly as it had come. "Not Doctor. Harrison. I dislike formality ... and I hate titles."
She refused to be distracted so easily. "Look, Harrison, I've come all the way from Ohio, and no one has told me anything about the project we're supposed to be working on. It can't be that secret!"
"Close to it," he said cheerfully, and turned his head sharply to look at her. "Will there be any problem with your putting in a little overtime?"
She tensed. Dammit, she knew the job offer was too good to be true! "Yes, as a matter of fact. I explained to Dr. Jacobi—I have a young daughter. I avoid working nights and weekends. But Monday through Friday, I give a hundred and fifty
Mossoud stepped in front of her.
"Mossoud," she said, embarrassed that she had been so terrified, that she had thought herself alone among the dead. "What the hell is going on?"
There was something not right about the way he stood, the odd, unnatural angle of his head and neck. His arms dangled, useless-looking, from his body.
"Mossoud ... are you okay?"
Mossoud didn't answer, just looked at her with eyes she did not recognize.
She screamed at him, at once furious and terrified that he would not reassure her. "Answer me, Mossoud!"
Mossoud opened his mouth and answered with a strange, unearthly moan, horrible, meaningless sounds.
She sobbed and backed away from him into something yielding and slickly wet. Before she could turn to look at it, something whiplike and incredibly strong fastened itself around her arms, her neck, and exerted crushing force on her windpipe. Fear gave way to simple astonishment.
FOUR
"I know I chose your resume over the others," Harrison said. They had left the older, one-story brick building and were walking in the brilliant sunshine again, cutting across the thick grass instead of taking the sidewalks that connected the buildings. The older brick structures gave way to newer, sleeker edifices. The Institute had the sprawled-out feel of a college campus, and the atmosphere was certainly relaxed. Other than Dr. Jacobi, Suzanne hadn't spotted another researcher wearing a tie; the conservative gray gabardine suit she wore no doubt marked her as an outsider. Maybe Deb wasn't the only one who needed new clothes.
Blackwood turned to regard Suzanne with those disarming pale blue eyes. "But I looked over so many. Could you remind me a little about your background?"
As the sun warmed her face, she began to understand how he had acquired his tan. "I'm flattered you chose me, but my background is pretty unsen-sational."
He seemed amused by that. "That's your opinion."
"Yes, well, I did my postgrad at NYU and MIT, then worked for the Smithsonian, then Rand for a few years, then a research facility in Ohio."
"I thought you worked with NASA." Blackwood watched her reaction.
"Yes . . . it was a joint project with Zubrovski Labs. I explained it all to Dr. Jacobi." Her tone was slightly reproachful. So why didn't you bother to get the details from him sooner?
"Ah." Blackwood nodded. "Of course; I remember now."
"And your background?" Suzanne asked. So I can try to figure out why you've hired me.
He shrugged cavalierly. "Oh . . . astrophysics. UCLA." He gazed at the grounds with tangible fondness and gestured sweepingly. "I've spent my whole career at this place. Even grew up here. It's almost like home."
No wonder he acted as if he owned the place and had such a casual, easy attitude toward Jacobi. "I wouldn't mind finding a home," she said, feeling wistful, then realized she had revealed too much and covered with a question. "What about your family— your parents?"
"They both worked here too." His expression didn't change, but it seemed a shadow passed over his features.
She was silent for a moment, unwilling to ask the obvious. They took several steps without speaking, then Suzanne asked, "Tell me, Dr. Blackwood. . . about your projects that need someone in my field—?"
He smiled, the darkness dispelled as quickly as it had come. "Not Doctor. Harrison. I dislike formality ... and I hate titles."
She refused to be distracted so easily. "Look, Harrison, I've come all the way from Ohio, and no one has told me anything about the project we're supposed to be working on. It can't be that secret!"
"Close to it," he said cheerfully, and turned his head sharply to look at her. "Will there be any problem with your putting in a little overtime?"
She tensed. Dammit, she knew the job offer was too good to be true! "Yes, as a matter of fact. I explained to Dr. Jacobi—I have a young daughter. I avoid working nights and weekends. But Monday through Friday, I give a hundred and fifty
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