I, Weapon Read online

  She sucked in her breath. Birds swirled in the sky, not just a few birds either but lots of them. Even freakier, more birds flew in clumps, flocks, to join the circling ones.

  “Why are they doing that?” Andy asked.

  Claire shook her head. She had no idea.

  “Have you ever heard of such a thing?” he asked.

  Claire frowned, realizing she had. There was a place in India…a town in Assam Province by the name of Jatinga. There, birds sometimes committed mass suicide for reasons no one had been able to figure out.

  Could the reason have anything to do with hums? Claire wondered. Some birds use magnetic fields to help them know where to fly.

  “This is extraordinary,” the Englishman said. “First our cellphones became hot and now those birds act preposterously.”

  Claire tore the strap from her neck, lowering the TR-1010 onto the courtyard bricks. She wondered if magnetics could have made their various devices hot.

  The large German woman screamed.

  Claire glanced at the lady and then up at the darkening sky where the German stared.

  Other tourists began to scream. A few ran for cover.

  Claire watched, horrified and fascinated. She was horrified because the birds flew down, with one part of the horde coming straight for them. Yet, as a scientist, she was fascinated to witness this exotic event and wished to understand what caused the phenomenon.

  “Run!” Andy shouted at her. “Get inside!”

  Claire tore her arm free from his grip. Andy could be such a puss at times.

  The birds—sparrows, herons, black bittern—began to smash against Angkor Wat. Other birds crashed against the courtyard bricks, the monks and the running tourists.

  “No!” Claire shouted. “Help me stop them!” She waved her arms at the descending birds, wanting to save the poor creatures from suicide.

  A few of the monks followed Claire’s example, waving and shouting, trying to frighten the birds so they would fly away and save themselves.

  The rest of the crowd ran, covering their heads as best they could.

  A bird struck Claire against the chest. It flopped onto the bricks, opening its beak, chirping. It tried to fly, but must have been too dazed. Claire bent lower to look at it.

  Another bird, a bigger one, hit her in the back of the head. That startled her. She staggered. Then two birds at once slammed against Claire. After being struck several more times, it proved too much. She stumbled, tripped over crawling birds and fell onto her hands and knees.

  It was dark now, and the sky was getting blacker as if a storm brewed. Claire looked around, seeing the last of the monks and tourists dash into Angkor Wat. The last one slammed the door behind him.

  Like rain, birds continued to strike the huge temple and tumble to the ground. There must have been tens of thousands of them. They kept raining, killing themselves.

  Fear finally squeezed Claire’s heart. She shot to her feet, and twenty birds slammed against her. One smashed against her face with its beak thrusting like a knife, slashing into her left eye.

  Claire screamed and clutched her face. Blood dripped. Had the bird blinded her? Beginning to sob, Claire staggered in the direction she hoped Angkor Wat stood. She had to get inside.

  Birds kept crashing against Claire, disorienting her. Finally, she stumbled and fell down. As she lay on the bricks, birds continued to thud against her body and head, hitting harder than she believed small creatures like this should be able to manage.

  Is this what it felt like being stoned to death in the old days?

  It was Claire’s last conscious thought.

  ***

  Several minutes after the mass of birds had stopped killing themselves—only a few here and there kept suiciding—a man opened a hidden cellar door by the foot of Angkor Wat. Thirty dead birds slid off the metal. Two flopped onto the stone steps where the man stood. He reached down, grabbing the dead creatures by their legs and flinging them outside.

  For just a moment, an intense blue light glowed from deep in the cellar. The man hurried up, closing and locking the metal door.

  He did not wear the orange robe of the monks, nor was he Cambodian. He looked Russian, being extremely white as only Canadians and Russians seemed able to achieve. He was medium-sized and unusually compact and strong. He wore coveralls like those worn by mechanics.

  Taking a small, flat device from a pocket, he checked it. Then, he hurried across the field of dead birds. He crunched across some with his work boots, breaking bones and feathers. Some people might have tripped making such a walk, but the man seemed to have extraordinary balance. As he neared Claire, a syringe with a yellow solution appeared in his right hand.

  The woman moaned painfully, stirring underneath a blanket of birds.

  First brushing aside the feathered creatures, the man put a knee on her back to pin her in place. His free hand held down Claire’s head.

  “What’s going on?” she slurred.

  He inserted the needle into her neck, causing her to lurch and cry out. His short but thick thumb pushed the stopper, injecting the yellow solution into her.

  Removing the needle, putting it in a pocket, the man stood and glanced around. He was aware that Claire sat up, rubbing her neck, staring at him in a bewildered fashion. He seemed unconcerned with her, emotionless. Spying the TR-1010, the man went to it, grabbing the strap, lifting it from the carpet of dead birds.

  Claire had already slumped onto the bricks, beginning to shiver uncontrollably.

  The man sensed that he had little time left for his foray topside. He strode fast, reaching the cellar door as one in the temple cracked open. A moment later, a monk flung the door all the way open and stepped outside. Behind him stumbled the woman’s assistant.

  The man in the coveralls removed his thumb from the thumbprint scanner on the cellar entrance, yanking the trap door open. He descended the first few steps. Andy had not spotted him. That was good. The man closed the metal door, clicking the lock behind him.

  As the man descended the stone steps, he knew it was time to call Mother. He had one of the TR-1010s and had eliminated the university troublemaker. Claire would be dead in another minute. He would also tell Mother that Angkor Wat Station had become operational. He did not believe anyone suspected them, certainly not the monks or any of the tourists.

  The compact man rubbed his hands together. What Mother had always referred to as The Day was almost upon them.