Prisoner (Werewolf Marines) (33 page)

Everything he’d gone through already— the
tests, the pretense that he was crazy, the medications— was
probably an experiment. Maybe he’d just completed test number 99,
“How will the subject react to a strong hint that we know he’s a
werewolf?”

An icy rage seeped into him, burning like
frostbite. He didn’t know whether these people were a top-secret
government black ops branch or some private organization or
organized criminals or even agents from another country. But
whoever they were, they were holding him against his will. They
were the enemy.

A captured Marine has a duty to escape.

Dr. White was nearly Roy’s size, moved like a
man who knew how to fight, and had his black box poised and ready.
He was expecting Roy to try to hit him or try to run. But maybe he
wasn’t expecting Roy to try something a little less direct.

Roy mentally crossed his fingers that Dr.
White really was a doctor. Or that if he wasn’t, he’d at least
taken the same first aid course that Roy had, complete with the
drill on the signs of a heart attack. Though Roy would normally be
much too young for that, there was so much wrong with him already
that anything bad ought to seem possible.

He hunched over, wincing. “Can we talk
later?”

Pain in the chest, left arm, or jaw.

Chest seemed too obvious. He rubbed his left
shoulder, squeezed the muscle of his upper arm, and winced.

A quick flicker of alarm passed over Dr.
White’s face, followed by suspicion. Then his expression smoothed
into exaggerated calm. “What are you feeling right now?”

“Frustrated. Angry.” Then, as if he was
reluctantly admitting it, Roy added, “Sad.”

The doctor looked irritated. “I meant
physically.”

Denial.

“Nothing. I’m fine.” Roy rubbed his shoulder
again, as if he didn’t notice that he was doing it.

He heard Dr. White’s breathing speed up. If
he listened hard, he could even hear the quickening thump of the
man’s heartbeat. He’d never told the people here that he could do
that, and he was glad of that now.

Dr. White took a step forward. “This isn’t
the time to tough it out. Are you feeling sick?”

Nausea.

“I’m not
sick
. Maybe I ate something
that didn’t agree with me.”

“Are you nauseated?”

“A little.” Roy deliberately recalled the
last time he’d thrown up, in vivid detail, until he started feeling
sick for real. He hoped it would show on his face.

“Only a little?” Dr. White frowned, but Roy
was glad. Clearly, something had shown.

“Uh…”
Cold sweat breaking out on his face.
Jumping up and bolting to the bathroom. Realizing that he wouldn’t
even make it to the toilet, and leaning over the sink.
“I’m
sorry, I really don’t feel good. I better go to the bathroom.”

Roy stood up, then swayed as if he was
dizzy.

“Sit down,” said Dr. White.

Roy lowered his head, watching the doctor’s
feet to see if he’d come closer and try to steady Roy before he
could fall. To his disappointment, the shiny black shoes didn’t
move. Roy sat down on the bed, heavily enough to make the frame
shake.

“Does your left arm hurt?” asked the
doctor.

“Yeah. I think I overdid it with the
push-ups. I guess I pulled a muscle.”

“Let me take your pulse.” Dr. White switched
the black box to his left hand and came closer. “Give me your
wrist.”

Roy held out his hand. As Dr. White reached
out for it, Roy grabbed the doctor’s right wrist and slammed the
side of his hand into the doctor’s left wrist. The black box flew
across the room and hit the wall with a loud crack.

Before the doctor could yell, Roy jerked him
forward and punched him in the jaw. Dr. White dropped as if he’d
been zapped by his own little black box. Roy caught him and heaved
him on to the bed.

He hastily pulled off the doctor’s shoes,
pants, and white coat, then kicked off his own slippers and
scrambled out of his hospital-issue thin cotton pants. He yanked on
the doctor’s shoes and buttoned his white coat over Roy’s own
shirt. The pants were too short and the shoes were painfully tight.
But he was lucky that Dr. White was a big guy too, or Roy wouldn’t
have been able to get into them at all.

He put on the stethoscope and took the ID
card out of Dr. White’s back pocket, then picked up the black box.
It was cracked and probably useless, but at least he could carry it
as a prop.

Try to look confident and doctor-like, he
strode out of the room. The bright lights jabbed needles of pain
into his eyes and straight through his skull; he was forced to walk
with his face lowered and his eyes half-closed. The sickening
chemical smell of the air was stronger in the corridor, but beneath
it, he could smell a light, fresh scent: outside. He followed it
down the corridors, using Dr. White’s ID to get through the locked
doors.

He passed a few hurrying people in scrubs.
Roy’s heart hammered, but they didn’t give him a second glance. His
headache went from bad to excruciating, threatening to become
disabling. But the scent of outside was getting stronger. It
smelled like hope.

He waved Dr. White’s ID through another
sensor. It took him three tries, his hands were shaking so badly.
Then door slid open, and Roy came face-to-face with a pair of
security guards.

The men were armed with both black boxes and
dart guns, like you’d use to tranquilize a wild animal. That went a
long way to confirm what they knew or guessed about Roy.

Forcing himself not to hurry, he started to
walk past.

“Hey!” One guard tried to grab his arm.

Roy punched him in the stomach, doubling him
over, and snatched his dart gun. In one smooth movement, he swung
around and slammed the gun’s butt into the second guard’s shoulder.
The man dropped his dart gun with a cry of pain. But before Roy
could stop him, he hit a red button on the wall.

Brilliant lights began to flash. A siren went
off. Pain exploded in Roy’s head. His knees banged into the floor,
the dart gun falling from his hand.

Clenching his jaw, Roy forced himself to his
feet. He couldn’t get his eyes to open. He staggered, dizzy and
blind, barely able to think through the agony. He felt like he was
about to pass out. Even if he managed to stay conscious, he
couldn’t fight. One way or another, he’d be captured and dragged
back to his cell.

He only had one chance left: to transform
into a wolf.

He’d sworn that he wouldn’t try it here. He
didn’t know if it would help. He didn’t even know if it was
possible. He’d only become a wolf once before, in Afghanistan.

A captured Marine has a duty to
escape
.
Whatever they do to me— whatever I’ve become— I’m
still a Marine.

In his mind, a wolf howled.

He’d done it before. He could do it again.
Roy had been avoiding the memory, but now he sought it, trying to
recall every detail.

Tearing pain in my chest. Blood in my
mouth.
DJ’s fingers digging into my shoulders. His hoarse
voice shouting my name. DJ’s face and the sky and the wrecked
helicopter in the distance, all fading out. Hot sand under my
back.

And then…

Hot sun on my fur. Four paws scrabbling in
the sand. Scents everywhere, rich and distinct: me and DJ and blood
and sand and weeds and metal and oil and…

Roy reached inside himself, searching for the
part of him that was wild and free and would rather die than be
caged.

He found his wolf.

The overwhelming dizziness eased. The sirens
and flashing lights were still agonizing, but his wolf body was
that crucial bit stronger, better equipped to cope with pain. He
was lower to the ground, in a world without colors, but with scents
as bright and clear as neon lights.

A man was raising a dart gun. Roy
instinctively jumped to avoid the dart, his ears swiveling to catch
the hiss and thwack as it buried itself in the wall behind him. He
leaped at the man and slammed him down. The dart gun skittered
across the floor.

He could smell the sharpness of the guard’s
fear. It would be so easy to bend his head and rip out his enemy’s
throat…

The fresh scent of open air was ahead of him.
Roy released his prey and bounded ahead, racing through the closing
door.

Freedom!

He was outside. It was night. People were
shouting and running toward him.

An electric fence let out a low crackle and a
smell of ozone. Roy tore toward it. He had no idea if he could jump
high enough to clear it, but he’d rather die than be locked up
forever. And now that he’d revealed what he was, they’d never let
him go.

A dart hissed past his ear as he gathered his
strength and leaped as high as he could. He cleared the fence and
landed hard on the other side.

The shock of impact, in that unfamiliar body,
sent him tumbling head over paws. When he finally fetched up in a
heap, darts were hitting the ground all around him.

Lucky I rolled
, he thought.

He gathered himself and leaped forward again.
This time he landed smoothly. A forest was before him, dark and
welcoming. He raced through it until all sounds and scents of
pursuit were gone, and then he kept on running for the sheer joy of
it.

In his wolf’s body, in this natural
environment without electric lights or chemical smells or crowds of
humans, he finally felt at ease. For the first time since he’d been
wounded, his body was working as it should, strong and swift and
without pain. Even as simple a movement as his paws striking the
earth was a pleasure. It felt so much better to be a wolf than it
did to be a human.

That thought gave him pause. What if he liked
being a wolf so much that he stopped wanting to be a man?

He reached into himself, remembering the
weight of his rucksack on his back, joking with his buddies, firing
his SAW…

Roy stumbled, off-balance on two feet, and
grabbed at a tree to stop from falling. He took a deep breath,
focused on the rough texture of the bark under his fingers, and
settled into his man’s body.

To his relief, the doctor’s clothes had come
with him. To his greater relief, the moonlight didn’t hurt his
eyes. The sounds and smells of the forest were distinct and
noticeable, but not overwhelming. If he’d only been allowed into a
natural environment earlier, he could have saved himself a whole
lot of misery.

Remembering the tumble he’d taken, he checked
himself for injuries. His knees and shoulders were bruised, and
he’d strained his left wrist: nothing serious. Roy walked on,
setting a brisk pace and taking care not to leave a trail.

For the first time, he examined the forest
with a man’s mind, recognizing the landscape of huge gray boulders
and enormously tall trees with corrugated, cinnamon-colored bark.
He’d only been to northern California once, years ago, but he’d
never forgotten the redwoods.

He wasn’t concerned about being alone in the
wilderness with no supplies or weapons. He’d roughed it before.
Weapons could be improvised, and food could be hunted or
gathered.

The scents of rich earth and moss rose up
with every footstep. Owls hooted, crickets chirped, and small
animals rustled in the bushes. The moist dirt underfoot told him
that water wouldn’t be a problem. He didn’t even need to make
traps— as a wolf, he ought to be able to catch rabbits, maybe a
deer.

His biggest concern, apart from pursuit, was
the temperature. His breath condensed in puffs of mist, and the
boulders were patched with frost. He didn’t feel cold, but that was
probably because he’d exerted himself enough to work up a sweat.
But as a wolf, he had a thick fur coat. If it got too cold, he’d
change. He’d never heard of wolves getting hypothermia.

Wilderness survival was easy. But figuring
out what he should do once he was out of the woods was much more
complicated. It could have been months since his helicopter had
been shot down. What did his team think had happened to him?

Even if they’re all still in-country,
they’d never be okay with not hearing from me at all,
Roy
thought.
They probably got told that I’m dead or MIA
.

He hated to think how DJ must feel about
that. It would just about kill Roy if he thought he’d done
everything he’d could to save DJ and then learned that he’d died in
the hospital, alone.

But now that Roy had revealed what he was,
his captors would be after him for sure. They could have his entire
unit’s phones and email tapped, waiting for Roy to contact one of
them. He couldn’t risk getting in touch with anyone he knew until
he learned more. He needed to find some safe place to lay low.

An odd feeling tugged at his mind, an
inexplicable urge:
That way.

That way
didn’t look any different
from any other way. But if he’d learned one thing in his years as a
Marine, it was that funny little feelings were worth paying
attention to.

Funny little feelings could mean that you’d
noticed tiny clues, without even noticing that you’d noticed them,
that meant that there was a bomb in the road, or that the
innocent-looking civilian wasn’t innocent and wasn’t a civilian, or
that the wild-eyed man trying to charge the roadblock
was
an
innocent civilian who was trying to get help for his sick wife.

He’d travel faster as a wolf. And with no
supplies of any kind, he’d probably sleep safer and enjoy eating
raw rabbit more as a wolf, too.

Roy found his wolf. And loped off through the
redwoods, heading
that way.

***