No Such Thing As Werewolves (20 page)

Blair dropped to his knees, rolling forward between the beast’s legs. It pivoted, faster than he could scramble away. Lines of fire tore into his back as a swipe finally landed. He could feel the hot blood fountain from the wound, smell its metallic tang as droplets hung frozen about him in the air. The moment stretched, just as it had when the helicopter appeared. Everything but him slowed a crawl, including the werewolf.

It lasted only an instant, then time sped up and the blood hanging in the air splattered to the dirt. A detached part of him knew the wound wasn’t fatal, but it was enough to slow him. That meant death, especially given that he wasn’t fast enough even before he’d been wounded. But it didn’t mean he was going to go quietly. There had to be something he could do.

He shot a quick glance around the room, taking in every detail. The shelves lining the walls provided nothing of use. The plastic chairs were no better. Four wooden pillars, each about eight inches thick, supported the roof. He didn’t recognize the dark wood, but that hardly mattered. Even if they’d been cut from oak, the beast would shred them like paper. He could use that to his advantage.

Time returned to its normal flow. Blair stumbled to his feet, charging the nearest load-bearing pillar with the beast in pursuit. Claws raked the air behind him, the force of the blow fanning his back with a slight breeze as it sailed by. He dove for the pillar, grabbing it with a well-muscled arm. His new strength still surprised him as he swung around the pillar, positioning it between him and the werewolf. The creature barreled into it, snapping it like kindling.
 

The roof groaned above them; then plaster and timber rained down from above. A beam slammed into the beast’s back, knocking it atop Blair and pinning them both to the ground. A cacophony of splintering wood and tumbling shingles drowned out his agonized scream as the beast’s full weight pressed down on his wounded back. Fire surged through him, just barely preventing him from passing out from pain.

Then there was silence. Was the beast dead? Could it have been that easy?
 

No, Ka-Dun. She lives and will be upon you in moments. It is wise to flee from an enraged female, but she lacks the energy for sustained combat. If you are canny, you will best her.

The werewolf stirred, knocking aside the beam that pinned it as easily as a parent could heft a sleepy toddler. Rubble shifted, partially burying Blair as the beast rose to its feet. There was no fleeing, no escape. She was faster and much larger than him.

He could feel her tensing above him and sensed the blow an instant before it landed. That foreknowledge didn’t save him. The beast’s clawed fingers punched into his back, ripping past his spine and emerging from his chest in a spray of gore and pain. She hefted him into the air as life bled from him. All he could do was stare at the bloody clawed hand protruding from his chest, fur slicked with his blood. It was a bad way to die. Fuck that. He wasn’t going out, not like this.

Yes. Channel your rage, Ka-Dun.

Something rippled within him. Something bright and potent and heady lay within his grasp. Blair seized it, channeling the rage until heat suffused his entire body. His muscles were suddenly aflame, swelling as they had just before the helicopter had cut down Liz. The memory of her being flung against the wall like a discarded doll compounded the rage, drawing it into a single point—the fist protruding from his chest.

No. He was not impotent. If he was going to die, he would sell his life dearly. The beast had destroyed his life, his career. Murdered an entire village. Possibly killed his oldest friends and colleagues. It was going to feel a tiny fragment of the pain it had inflicted.

The energy rolled through his body. Muscles swelled. Silvery fur burst from his skin, writhing like a million tiny snakes. His face throbbed as bones cracked and popped. Fangs burst from his jaw as a muzzle forced itself free of his face. He knew what was happening. The change was the same as before, but this time it came much, much faster.

Even as the process continued, Blair attacked. He gathered his legs under him, planting his feet against the beast’s belly. He kicked off with all the force his new muscles could muster, legs tensing like powerful springs. The beast’s clawed hand ripped free of his chest with a squishy pop, and Blair tumbled into the rubble near its feet.

The area around the wound burned, and a quick glance revealed muscle and skin knitting back together with shocking speed. He didn’t have time to revel in the miracle.
 

Blair seized the end of a thick beam with both hands, heaving it skyward with the incredible strength imparted by the strange metamorphosis. The oak connected with the beast’s shocked face, its expression comically human as it watched Blair struggle to his feet. The force of the blow lifted the female off its feet, despite its massive size. It flung the beast in a long arc, knocking it free of the rubble and into the street some thirty or forty feet away.

He wasn’t done. Blair bounded forward in the same manner the beast had used. The fury inside him was a living thing, fed by all the pain, shock, and stress of the last few days. This thing was the reason for all of it, and if he could eradicate it, then perhaps the pain and rage would vanish.

Well done, Ka-Dun. Few master the change so quickly. You are strong. It bodes well for your species.

Blair ignored the voice. It was responsible for Liz’s death, or at least it hadn’t prevented it as promised. A distant part of him knew that was irrational, but he brutally repressed it. There was only rage right now. This beast would die at his hands. Maybe he couldn’t kill the voice in his head or change what he’d become, but he could ensure that the thing in front of him didn’t kill anyone else.

You do not understand, Ka-dun. This IS your she. I have done as you asked.

Chapter 26- Held Accountable

Jordan steeled himself as he ducked inside the lofty command tent, raising the zipper on his jacket until it covered his neck. His stomach roiled, and his forehead was beaded with sweat despite the frigid Peruvian morning. The sun hadn’t cleared the eastern peaks around the pyramid’s ravine, but scarlet streaks foretold its coming.

He’d rarely experienced this type of trepidation, the fear of confronting one’s superiors. But then he’d never failed quite so spectacularly as he had with this operation, particularly in Villa Milagros, where he’d allowed the creature to not only slaughter his men but also drive him from the field of battle. Jordan straightened, squaring his shoulders. He had to take responsibility for what was ultimately his screw up. He could make excuses, but he’d been commander of a failed operation.

He strode boldly between banks of laptops on tables manned by white-clad technicians. He made for the cluster of people at the far side of the tent. The outer ring consisted of white-coated scientists flanked by black-clad soldiers. All were focused on the pair of men standing before a gigantic flat-panel monitor that currently displayed a map of the Cajamarca region sprinkled with alarmingly red dots.

“What are you telling me?” the taller man rumbled, each word clipped for efficiency. The Director stared down at a quailing scientist, his silvered widow’s peak transforming him into the bird of prey. “Are you seriously going to stand there and say that you have
nothing
?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” the smaller man shot back, defiantly adjusting his glasses. “I know you want to get into that sarcophagus. We all do. But wishes aren’t going to change anything. We don’t even know what it’s made of, much less how to open it. Or even what the power source is. We’ve tried everything from explosives to laser torches. Nothing has even scratched it. All we do know is—”

“Shit!” the Director roared, silencing the man with a swipe of his hand. “What you know is shit. You’re supposed to be the top minds in your field. You have every resource money can buy. I need answers. I need them now. If we can’t get inside that thing, hundreds of thousands of people could die. Millions. Isn’t that what you told me? If you need more equipment, we’ll get it. If you need more people, we’ll find them. Now find me a way to get inside that sarcophagus, or get me someone who can.”

Slipping past the last few tables to the empty area surrounding the large screen, Jordan moved closer as the tongue-lashing continued. Nervous technicians hunched over glowing screens as they analyzed data, doing their best to ignore the Director’s tirade. Thick black cables snaked from the tent and toward the pyramid, which explained how so many of the screens displayed feeds of its hallways and chambers. Hard lines were the only way around the signal dead zone.

It really underscored how little they knew about this place. The room was littered with Ivy League scientists, men and women from across the world. Scholars with resumes that boasted dozens of languages and degrees he didn’t pretend to understand. Yet the pyramid and its contents baffled them. What did that say about their society? Just how much more advanced had the builders been?

“Get out of my sight until you have something useful to report,” the Director growled. The knot of figures surrounding him wilted under his gaze, all clearly wishing they had anywhere else to be. Jordan cursed his height as the Director’s gaze settled on him. “Commander Jordan. I have to admit I’m surprised you came back. Most men have enough instinct for self-preservation to flee after they have fucked up as monumentally as you have. Get your ass up here.”

Jordan didn’t flinch under the weight of that gaze, though he certainly wanted to. Instead he cut a path through the crowd, their relieved faces slipping eagerly out of his path as they realized he was the Director’s next target. Only one showed sympathy, one he was surprised to see. Sheila had donned a white coat like the rest of the scientists. She gave him a tentative smile and a squeeze on the shoulder as he passed. It helped more than she knew.

“The report I received an hour ago can’t possibly be correct, can it?” the Director barked, eyes so hot they threatened to ignite the very air. “They claim you not only let Subject Alpha escape, but that you lost two of our best squads doing it. Can you even begin to comprehend the magnitude of that fuck up, Jordan? Answer me. It’s not a rhetorical question.”

“No, sir.” Jordan gave back evenly, stopping next to the Director.

The man lapsed into his famed silence, like the eye of some implacable storm. He gazed fixedly at the monitor with hands clasped behind his back. Anyone who didn’t know him might have called the stance languid, yet Jordan recognized it as the deceptive pose of a lion about to pounce. The Director’s midnight suit was pressed and crisp despite the heat and humidity. His tie was perfectly centered at the nape of his starched white shirt, shoes glowing under the halogen lamps on tall titanium tripods.

“This could be the end of everything. They’ll say that your failure today marked the beginning of the end, the moment when humanity lost the battle for its own survival,” the Director began, voice low and calm despite the gravity of his words. He gestured at the map. “There are seven instances, all within twenty miles of Villa Milagros. Seven, Jordan. Do you see them?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, studying the map. The points formed a clear dispersal pattern with the village at the center. They were spreading. Fast. “Do we have eyes on the ground?”

“No, we don’t fucking have eyes on the ground. You
were
the eyes on the ground, before you tucked tail and ran. What we do have is a panicked populace who have no idea what you and your team have unleashed on them. Specialist Gage, put up some media feeds for Commander Jordan,” the Director growled over his shoulder, gaze flicking back to the screen as he waited to be obeyed.

The map flickered and disappeared, replaced by four panels. Each displayed a local news feed, and although Jordan didn’t speak Spanish, interpreting wasn’t hard. They were all variations of the same grisly scene. In one, a blond reporter spoke outside of what appeared to be a local bar. The door had been shattered in its frame, and a bloody handprint streaked the wall. The woman’s face was pale under her tanned skin. Her eyes held a haunted look, and her tone was somber.

Each of the other three were similar. Ghastly murder scenes spattered with blood. Numbers flashed across two of the screens. Seventeen. Twenty-four. If they were accurate, over a hundred people had died, and this was only the beginning. How many more would be slaughtered in the days to come?

“I can see you’re beginning to grasp the situation,” the Director said, voice pitched low. He turned from the screen and caught Jordan’s gaze. “At least three more of these creatures originated in Villa Milagros. Whatever plague we’ve unleashed spreads as these things kill. It’s too early for accurate projections, but ops guesses roughly one in twenty killed will come back as one. Five percent of the victims rise as another monster, spreading this thing.”

“My God,” Jordan gasped, sudden realization crashing down on him as he did the math. “Sir, if they reach a sizable population center, we could be facing hundreds. Thousands. Two of our best squads couldn’t even kill one.”

“You’re thinking too small,” the Director said, loosening his tie. His shoulders sagged, a tangible sign of exhaustion. Not in all the years they’d worked together had Jordan seen him unbend even that much. “If we can’t contain this, we’re looking at the extinction of the human race. Gage, put the projections up, please.”

“Yes, sir,” the white-coated tech said. The news feeds disappeared, this time replaced by a global map. Red dots bloomed across South America, beginning in Peru. They surged through Central America and into the United States. Dots appeared in Europe and then on every continent. By the end of the sixty-second simulation cancerous red covered the world.