The first of the hybrids had showed up in a photograph taken by a nine-year-old boy near Copco Lake in far northern California. He’d been hiking with his father, and they had put the image of the tall, paint-white man in the tan body suit up on their Flickr site over the caption “Space alien at Copco?”

Eventually, the picture had come to the attention of Gina Lyndon, one of the CIA’s most skilled imaging specialists.

Mark and his team had been tracking the hybrids steadily, but it was a strange track. For example, they’d left the California-Oregon border, but then where had they gone? There were never any tracks out of their encampment. A nest of them would be sighted, then it would disappear. Mark had ordered ground-penetrating radar units, but they were not due for a week yet.

Ahead and around the van, the little town bustled in its charming morning, tall trees shading the sidewalks, shopfronts glittering with goods. Not too far away, a church bell tolled. Was it Sunday? Mark had no idea.

Milton said, “Aw, shit,” a bitter, sad comment made for them all.

The van came to a stop outside the Sixteen Mo-Tel. It was a study in western kitsch, its sign a neon lariat, its long row of identical rooms each fronted by a log hitchin’ post. The restaurant was called the Hitchin’ Post.

“Breakfast’s still on, people,” Robertson said, “if you wanna eat.”

With their camouflage overalls and their carries stowed, they were now dressed casually. Robertson had become a wiry man in a green polo shirt, Mark a muscular blond. On the van’s doors in neat black lettering were the words FIRST CHURCH OF GOD CHOIR, MAYNARD, CALIFORNIA.

“Pastor” Robertson, however, had a rough sort of a choir, four men, no smiles, all dense muscle, and a striding woman.

The neon lariat was turned off now, but that did nothing to increase the appeal of the place. Mark followed the others through the swinging door into the restaurant. Pictures of cowboys and bandits were on the walls, and a yellowing image of an Indian chief that was labeled Sitting Bull. He was standing.

Mark pulled up a steel chair as the waitress came over. They all knew her. She was the only waitress and had served them from their arrival yesterday. They’d discussed what might be living in her hairdo, a great pile of brown streaked with gray, which bounced slightly as she walked. Linda called it a hair system.

“Where’s Massy?” Gloria asked. She’d enjoyed chatting with him and he’d enjoyed watching her.

“His day’s been ruined,” Mark muttered.

“Oh, gee, I’m sorry to hear that. He’s sick?”

“Sick, yeah, you got it.”

“I’m gonna close the buffet in ten minutes,” Gloria said.