Bone Rider Read Online Free PDF

desert north of Silver City. Nicknamed the Basement because most of the site was hidden deep underground, Camp Jackson could provide more than just safe storage. It was staffed with some of the finest scientific personnel employed by the United States military and housed a battalion of Army Rangers. Secure enough, the Powers That Be concluded.
    Moving the alien remains took priority for the simple reason that organic matter is almost always prone to disintegration. Flying was out of the question since there was no telling what effects the changing of air pressure would have on the already somewhat porous cadavers. Instead, the bodies were carefully transferred into hazmat containers, labeled, and loaded into the cushioned backs of three military transport vehicles while the Army set up a perimeter around the crash site. The crater itself couldn’t be approached yet because the ship hadn’t merely exploded, it had melted into a steaming, highly corrosive mess and was still in the process of dissolving further. So far it had been impossible to collect samples and it didn’t look like there’d be enough left in the end to study.
    The convoy transporting the bodies consisted of three cargo and two gun trucks. It left as soon as its top secret freight was secured, but by the time it made its way slowly along the winding gravel and back roads to Route 173, the sun was setting, and when they finally merged onto I-10 West, it was pitch dark. In the cargo areas of the first two vehicles, the coffin-like boxes that contained what was left of Jas and Kir vibrated gently in tune with the hum of tires on tarmac. Both of the bodies were forever merged with their armor systems, host and symbiont inseparable even in death.
    The final box wasn’t quite as peaceful, though. Had the men placed with the containers not been so busy speculating about what exactly they were guarding, they might’ve heard a thin scratching from the inside. Had the interior of the cargo area not been so dimly lit, they might’ve noticed the tiny crack that opened up at the bottom of the metal crate, or the stream of what looked like quicksilver oozing from the fracture and through a gap in the floorboards. However, it was dark and the men didn’t have orders to stay silent, so System Six managed to slip out unnoticed.
    The renegade bone rider clung to the undercarriage of the truck until every last bit of him was free of Rik’s charred body and what he thought was some kind of alien corpse-carrying-box, and then he dropped to the ground with a soft, liquid sound and lay still. The rear guard passed right over him, but the driver didn’t recognize the significance of what to him looked like a puddle on the otherwise dry road. No alarm rang out, nor the squeal of brakes. After a while, the taillights of the trucks disappeared in the night.
    System Six was free.

FIVE
     
    I T WAS just past midnight when a battered, black pickup truck crested the hill not far from where the military convoy had lost part of its unusual cargo. The truck had seen better days, but its engine ran smoothly and its tires ate the miles with a monotonous, satisfying hum. Like its driver, the truck was used to being on the road, accustomed to the endless band of highway in front and behind and the changing scenery rushing by in patterns of stillness and motion. The hands that held the wheel were big and steady, scarred from working and fighting, gentle enough to soothe a skittish yearling and dexterous enough to perform all the nifty bottle acrobatics expected from a big-city bartender. The feet working the pedals were protected by a pair of comfortably worn-in biker boots, as hardy and reliable as their owner. The rest of the trim, wide-shouldered body lounging on the scuffed leather of the driver’s side bench seat was wrapped in sun-bleached denim and a Southern Screw employee shirt that smelled of smoke, sweat, and faintly of spilled alcohol.
    Had the circumstances been different,