Forged From Ash (2 page)

At this moment, however, it was quiet. The humans’ machines had all but stopped rolling, and the lights that had once illuminated the night sky were dimmed, allowing the glow of distant stars to once again be seen.

Randolph enjoyed much of this. He liked the quiet. He liked the scents of fresher winds. He appreciated the loss of all the neon and electric bulbs coming from so many windows. But after thirty cycles of the moon had passed, there was business that required his attention. For him to be of any use in such matters, he needed to recover that which he’d taken from the Great Serpent Icanchu. Since he was not foolish enough to keep such a thing where it might be found by anyone who might come looking for him while he’d slept, he kept running.

He headed south, covering miles in a scant amount of bounding strides. Each time his paws touched the ground, he pushed off again with even more power until he was nothing but a blur to anything that might witness his passing. He streaked past charred cities, ravaged towns and fortified encampments that reeked of fear and gun oil until finally the woods closed in on all sides and he was once again far from the reach of man.

The Full Blood’s body was lean after so much time coiled in hibernation. His seven foot frame was still covered in layers of muscle, but every movement was accompanied by a tremble that would have been imperceptible to most living things. For him and any other Full Blood, however, it was weakness on display. When he arrived at his secluded destination, he shifted into a stockier, barrel-chested form and craned his neck to lift a fearsome visage to the sky. His mouth stretched open wide to form rows of pointed teeth like icicles melting in reverse. Thick claws stretched from his paws and dug into the ground of his childhood home. The howl he unleashed rolled for miles in every direction, announcing his re-emergence into this shifting landscape.

Having found the scent he’d used to mark the spot, Randolph began to dig. His first few swipes were similar to any animal rooting in the ground. Quickly, his arms built up speed, and the skeletal structure of his hands widened into something better suited for the task. Soon, dirt flew in copious amounts to spatter upon the trees behind him. He dug a dozen feet down before finally picking up the scent of the thing that he was after. After a few more feet, he slowed to a gentle scraping away of cool soil and broken rock.

While all of the Mist Born were conduits for the Torva’ox, Icanchu was one of the sources. The Serpent Lord provided a wellspring of natural energies which breathed life into everything humans called unnatural. After a complete seasonal cycle, Icanchu himself would have been tainted by the shifts within the Torva’ox initiated by Esteban’s and the Skinners’ meddling with the natural Balance. Randolph had faced Icanchu himself, wrestling with the closest thing to a deity he would ever acknowledge, and plucked one of the pearls from beneath the creature’s scales. That mystical thing was what he found secreted beneath so much dirt like a child’s treasure. It was the last remnant of what had been the pure Torva’ox. Randolph smiled at the simplicity of his hiding spot. Sometimes, the old ways were the best if only for the fact that minds fancying themselves as greater would so easily overlook them.

Even after surviving the battle to claim his prize, Randolph reached cautiously for it now. He respected its power more than anyone else. The hand he extended toward the bottom of the freshly dug hole showed that respect by retracting its claws to leave smooth, almost human fingers.

The pearl was smaller than when he’d first found it. Having been buried in the ground, the Torva’ox naturally bled into the surrounding elements like so much water finding its way back to the sea. It was cold to the touch, pleasant as fresh grass upon naked skin. When he’d been asleep, Randolph had dreamt of the moves he would make, the steps he would take, when he awoke. Those ambitions were tempered by common sense and the knowledge that reclaiming this world from its new masters could very well be impossible no matter what lay within his arsenal. When he closed his hand around that prize and felt its pure energies flow into him through the skin of his palm, Randolph’s doubt began to fade.

Muscles that had withered through inactivity swelled beneath his flesh. The blood raced through his veins as it had when he’d changed into the wolf for the very first time. Esteban and those closest to him had been speaking through the Torva’ox, and it was only now that Randolph was aware of it.

Emerging from the freshly dug pit, Randolph shifted into his upright form to throw back his head and stretch out his hands while bellowing mightily at the heavens. The sound he made was no howl and it was no cry. It was a declaration to the world.

Your master has awakened.

CHAPTER ONE

Charleston, WV

W
hen Half Breeds swept across the civilized world to rip through humanity and increase their numbers by infecting its survivors, most people called it the apocalypse. Skinners called it inevitable.

Once it became clear that their species was about to be culled from the face of the planet, the Skinners stopped their I-told-you-so’s and continued their hunt without the need to worry about protecting their identities from the world or hiding from the authorities. The monsters had announced themselves and claimed the top spot on the food chain. Now, residents of the lower rungs needed to keep from being devoured.

Despite suffering catastrophic losses from enemies that shredded metal and bone alike, the military pulled together what remained of its forces to keep the werewolf infestation from claiming every corner of the globe. At the beginning, soldiers were turned along with so many others without even being bitten. They’d simply dropped, screaming as their bodies were twisted by forces they could not comprehend. The beasts fed on any human they found, killing most and adding others to their ranks. Armies were decimated from the inside, regardless of weaponry or training. The Half Breeds were living weapons, and their only purpose was to feed. The armies across the world that managed to hold some ground only did so long enough to face the Full Bloods. Resources dwindled quickly, so the majority of what was left was handed over to the Inhuman Response Division:  a coalition of every branch of the armed forces given the task of holding the line against predators that had risen from the depths of hell. It was a tall order, but the military did their best to preserve the country’s morale by making their presence known whenever possible. At the very least, it showed humanity was not about to give up the fight.

Although Skinners weren’t the sort to strut just to maintain appearances, they were the first ones to grin when anyone in uniform acted like they had a firm grip on what was going on. The man with the widest grin in Charleston was attached to Unit 7 of the IRD’s Northeast Region. He would also have no problem winning votes for ugliest grin of that entire state.

“What the hell are you smiling at?” asked one of the other men at the front of the patrol making its way into town. The soldiers had been dropped off two miles west of Charleston’s city limits on I-64 to follow up on a distress call from a civilian location. They proceeded on foot because, even though Half Breeds only vaguely resembled anything from the canine species, the creatures loved chasing cars just as much as their more commonly known brethren.

It was early autumn, and the grinning man wore a heavy biker’s jacket stitched together from patches of various size and shape. Tanned leather was blackened by a process allowing werewolf hide to be more easily cut and sewn into a shell that was just as protective for its wearer as it had been for the creature that had grown it. Holsters were strapped over both shoulders carrying an HK .45 pistol under one arm and a Sig Sauer P226 under the other. The top of his head was covered in dark gray bristle parted in several different spots thanks to rows of jagged, uneven scars gouged into his scalp. “You GI Joes write a new regulation against smilin’?” he asked.

“If it’s plastered across that train wreck you call a face, Rico, there should be a rule against it.”

“When you or any of the baby faces in this unit have been chewed on by half as many things as I have and are still above ground to wear their scars, then you can chuckle away. Until that time comes, keep yer pissy comments under your breath.”

The soldier walking beside Rico stretched a hand back to signal for the five men behind him to halt as he and the Skinner kept walking. After a few paces, he stepped in front of the grizzled hunter in the leather jacket and planted his feet. Rather than walk around him, Rico stood nose to nose with the other man.

Lieutenant Sayers might have had the highest rank displayed upon his chest, but his uniform was otherwise identical to anyone else serving in the IRD. His digital camo fatigues were a mix of dark browns and black to reflect the color of the autumnal tree cover where the base camp had been made. On his right shoulder was the IRD insignia; a circle divided into red and gray quadrants with crossed assault rifles above a head that was half wolf and half skull. On his other shoulder was his unit’s designation framing Old Glory. Like most of his men, he carried a PSD Swat rifle slung across his chest and a Desert Eagle on his hip.

“Just because you Skinners are granted special privileges,” Sayers growled, “don’t think for one second that you’re entitled to talk shit to me in front of my men.”

Rico’s expression was a blank slate. “The only reason I don’t outrank you is because we refused to accept a commission when the President came begging for us to lead you assholes from the brink.”

“That offer went out to the Skinners we thought we could trust. Not the homebrew traitors that you used to call friends.”

Since his association with the splinter group of Skinners that remained loyal to Jonah Lancroft was a known fact, Rico couldn’t refute the Lieutenant’s words. Lancroft had done some great things for Skinners in general, but attempting to kill a significant portion of the population several years ago wasn’t one of them. “If any of the big men in DC knew where to find any Vigilant cells,” Rico said, “they’d be glad to pay them a visit with hat in hand. At least those homebrew traitors had some big plans to do something about these goddamn monsters. None of the military was ready to admit there was a problem until everything turned to shit.”

“We’ve been fighting and dying for the last two years just like you,” Sayers replied.

Clamping his blocky teeth together until the tendons in his thick jaw flexed, Rico said, “Skinners have been dying in this war for a hell of a lot longer than that while you and every other drone thought of new ways to deny these creatures existed. After serving together for the last couple’a months, I thought you would have been able to leave past mistakes behind.”

“You’re attached to this unit because we need a Specialist. That’s the only reason we put up with you. If not for the war going on, no soldier in his right mind would serve with someone who’s already turned his back on his own.”

 Rico pulled in a long breath as he took half a step back. The rest of the unit stood a couple paces behind their commanding officer with weapons at the ready. They didn’t seem any more highly strung than anyone else on patrol in an area overrun with Half Breeds. Instead, they watched what was happening so they wouldn’t miss the order to continue marching into Charleston.

“Tell me something, Lieutenant,” Rico said. “Do you know who Jonah Lancroft is?”

After a few seconds where the only sound to be heard was the wind rolling in through bare branches of trees lining the deserted highway, Sayer admitted, “I may have heard the name in passing, but I don’t know who he is.”

“Then don’t even pretend to know about The Vigilant. If you don’t want my help, just say the word, and I’ll be more than willing to let you guys trot into a slaughterhouse.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, this whole damn country is a slaughterhouse.”

“Now yer getting the idea. Shall we move along, then, or would you like to assert yourself some more?”

“What were you smirking at before?”

“Why does that matter?”

“Because most of the men seem to think you Skinners are setting us up for another fall.”

Rico squinted at the ranking IRD soldier. “Why the hell would we do that?”

“Who knows? With all the incomprehensible shit that’s been dropped on us lately, you guys seem to know things the rest of us don’t. I’m just letting you know why damn near anyone wearing an IRD uniform keeps you at arm’s length and in their sights.”

“You guys were never too accommodating. Guess I just got used to all the dirty looks coming in from all sides.”

“It might help the others feel more at ease if you bunked in the same camp or ate in the same mess tent.”

“Would it?” Rico asked. “I always just thought I should give them their space.”

Sayers shook his head. “It’s already unsettling to work with you Specialists since you know all the ins and outs of these creatures. When you keep your distance that way, it makes us feel like we’re sailing on a ship the rats have already abandoned.”

“Don’t know if I care for where I fall in that analogy, but I get your point. Is that the reason behind this little chat?”

“Partly. It seemed you needed to be reminded that, Specialist or not, you’re part of this unit. Until the time when you see fit to leave, you’ll take orders from the chain of command. If one of my men shot their mouth off to me a fraction of the times you have, I would’ve busted my foot off in their ass.”

“Yowch,” Rico chuckled.

“Indeed. We have a job to do here, and by my count, your fat’s been pulled from the fire by us almost as many times as you’ve returned the favor. That means it is possible for us to coexist.”

“You know what I’ve noticed?”

“What’s that?”

Rico cocked his head to one side and allowed his features to relax into something less intense. “Seems to me that you call us Specialists when you’re talking about something official, and you call us Skinners when you’re thinking you’d like to spit into our faces. You wanna improve relations between us and you? Save the bullshit cockiness for when you’re bragging about blowing away a running Half Breed from a rooftop. Chalk up a dozen kills with a sharpened stick, and then maybe you can address us by our real name.”