The next kid lurched into place before her, strapped to the belt, bared sacrificially. It was Andre Swisher, the track star we’d seen snatched by Chasers in the town square. Even from where I was, I could hear Andre’s weeping. The black sheet of the helmet’s face guard reflected back his terrified expression.
The figure smacked a sleek glove to Andre’s chest, pinning him in place.
Thump.
And she lifted the other arm.
Which didn’t look like an arm at all.
It looked like a giant stinger, tapering to a point rather than a hand. The end had numerous small bumps on it, and it squirmed around like a tentacle. Its sharp tip had a hole in it, like an enormous, living needle.
The stinger shot down as if of its own accord, burying itself in Andre’s belly and rooting around.
Squelch.
I watched Andre’s eyes go white. He rattled on the assembly belt, but the straps kept him from moving much. It looked like he was having a seizure.
Then he stilled.
Several Hosts released the straps from Andre’s body and tossed them into a big crate brimming with them. Another Host carried the crate back into the building to the beginning of the assembly belt so the straps could be recycled, used on a fresh lot of kids.
For a moment Andre lay atop the edge of the assembly belt.
The figure removed the stinger from his belly, the end squirming again, those sensory bumps wiggling.
Then something even more impossible happened.
The figure pulled over a rectangle of sheet metal to the edge of the assembly belt.
But it wasn’t connected to anything. It floated in the air like a blow-up raft in a swimming pool. With a faint touch, the figure guided it across, lining it up so it served as an extension of the belt. When the belt lurched forward again, the tread rolled Andre onto the floating slab of sheet metal, clearing the way for the next bound child to slide into place beneath the writhing stinger.
With her gloved hand, the figure gently pushed the slab away, and it glided across toward the far side of the foundation. I followed it into the last sheets of morning mist, and what I saw there made me cover my mouth so I wouldn’t gasp.
Andre’s slab joined an army of others arranged in neat rows. Hundreds of kids lying motionless on their backs, hovering above the ground on their slabs.
Most of them showed bulges in their stomachs. The closest ones looked bloated. But as I peered into the far reaches of the concrete plain, I saw that the farther away the kids were, the more pronounced the bulges were. At the far edge, the boys and girls showed humps protruding almost a foot, filling the space between their waists and their chests. I noticed now that these kids and the others strapped to the assembly line all looked older—at least twelve years old. Where were the younger kids? Being fed at some other center, aged up like cattle?
Making the rounds through this perverted harvest were several more figures wearing seamless space suits like the high priestess, but they were shorter and more muscle-bound. Males? Parading around on autopilot, bent to a single task, they reminded me of drone insects. Their suits were black as well, though less shiny than the female’s armor.
I had to remind myself to breathe. I was confronting odds so impossible I couldn’t even imagine a version of success. Even if Alex weren’t already lost and even if I could spot her, it would be impossible to sneak into the compound, dodge the Hosts and Drones, free her, and get out.
Thump. Squelch.
The sound made me wince. My cheeks were wet; I hadn’t even realized that my eyes were watering from the sight.
I forced myself to exhale. And then draw another breath.
Thump. Squelch.
The figure, she was impregnating them.
Using the children of Earth as pods to incubate … something. Probably her offspring, which would hatch up out of the kids.
The cannery resembled nothing so much as a beehive.
And the sleek, suited figure was the queen bee.
Or a queen bee.
Remembering all those asteroids raking through the night sky a week ago, I wondered how many scenes just like this one were being played out around the planet right now.
Again I told my mouth to draw air, forced my lungs to inhale.
A scream drew my attention back to the cannery. As Afa dragged the next girl from the cage, she thrashed and fought, a shimmer of blond hair flying up over her face. She twisted free and ran, but only got two steps before colliding with Sheriff Blanton’s chest. He seized her thin wrists, torquing them painfully, guiding her back into Afa’s arms.
Together they strapped her to the assembly belt’s starting point, bending over her, their broad flexed backs blocking her from view.
Thump. Squelch.
As the next victim drifted off across the foundation, the belt lurched forward, bringing the girl into view.
It was Alex.
ENTRY 36
The bulldozer hurtled down the graded hillside toward the cannery, blade raised, motoring through boulders, snapping tree trunks, bouncing violently as it reached even ground. It skipped over the curb, took out a length of chain-link fence, dragging it along, and plowed into the corner of the factory.