The Dark Trinity (Book 1): Shuffle (4 page)
DMITRI
Saratov, Russia
December 8, 2014
“AAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!”
That was the last sound Dmitri Yugavanovich heard as he flew
out of the fire door to Building 13 and into the frigid, icy night. Eyes wide
with sheer terror, legs propelled him forward faster now than any other time in
his life, Dmitri ran. Images of his friend erupting into a red fountain of gore
burned in his mind. Echoes of Iakov's blood-curdling screams filled his ears.
Dmitri ran straight for the tree line, which was a good three
hundred yards from the lab. Adrenaline coursed through his burning legs,
driving him on through the knee-deep snow. His eyes darted around in all
directions, scanning his surroundings as he continued on to the safety of the
trees. Chaos sang its chorus into the cold night. Gunshots, an explosion, and
the unending screams caused Dmitri to glance behind him. The only movement he
detected was the thick black smoke that started billowing out a broken window.
Just a little farther,
he thought as he traversed the
open field. The trees would provide some cover. They would allow him to hide.
They would save him. Just then his foot caught on a rock underneath the powdery
snow, which sent him sailing through the air and into the ground. Panic flashed
and Dimitri popped his head above the snow, glancing behind him. Nothing. He
let out a slow breath and pulled himself up. Relieved that he was alone, he
continued on.
About twenty yards from the forest, Dmitri stopped dead in
his tracks. The snow in front of him was awash in blood. Something had piled
the remains of an elk on the ground in a hot mess of gore. Whatever had killed
it had torn off the limbs and strewn them about. The animal's entrails were
everywhere.
Shit. Shit! SHIT!
His eyes moved from the dead carcass to the trees that were
now just a stone's throw away.
Had they been able to get ahead of me? No, that doesn't
seem possible, I would have seen or heard something, despite the havoc that was
happening back at Thirteen. No, this must have been the handiwork of a natural
predator; a wolf or bear perhaps?
Dmitri finally managed to rip his attention from the mess
that laid at his feet and continued into the forest. The twenty-something lab
technician finally lurched across the threshold of the woods. Now that he was
no longer an easy target out in the open, he slowed his pace a little, not
wanting to trip on a tree root. An injury now would be most unwelcome and would
make further travel near impossible.
SNAP!!!!
The sound of the breaking stick froze Dmitri in mid-stride.
He looked around and saw what appeared to be blood smeared on a nearby tree
trunk not six feet away.
Had to be from the dead animal I just saw.
He tried to convince himself that it was just a result of
nature in action. A predator hunting its prey.
Yeah, it was just a bear.
He chuckled to himself.
You know things have gone to shit when running into a bear
is preferable to the alternative.
SNAP!!!!
This time the sound was much closer. Dmitri's hand groped the
frozen ground for a weapon, resting upon a thick branch, about the size of a
baseball bat. His heart pounded; as his hands gripped his makeshift weapon for
dear life, another sound fell upon his ears. It wasn't a twig breaking, but
something much worse. A low, deep, continuous growl originated to his right. He
turned his head towards the guttural growl, expecting to see nothing but fur
and teeth. That would have been a godsend.
From the darkness, blood-stained teeth emerged in a Cheshire
grin. Ruby-red eyes glared at him. A long forked tongue snaked its way through
the gaping smile as the thing's jaw distended. Behind him, a hot, stabbing pain
flashed at the base of his neck as a second monster severed his spine. His body
crumpled to the ground; a fleshy marionette of useless muscle and bone.
A moment later, he was on his back, the two creatures were
upon him. He could hear flesh tearing, bone breaking, and the unmistakable
sound of squishy organs. He tried not to look at the scene that played out
before him, but the horror had him riveted in shock. These two creatures were
feasting on him like a pheasant at Christmas.
Thank God I can't feel this.
Dmitri Yugavanovich became the second puddle of gore to stain
the porcelain-white snow.
EXPOSURE
Calais, France
December, 12 2014
Marc Chevalier leaned against the railing that overlooked the
Western Docks and waited for the ferry to arrive. The wind was picking up; it
carried a chill across the English Channel that could freeze the bones of even
the most rugged man.
The sea port at Calais is one of the busiest ports in Europe.
It handled the most traveled shipping lanes between France and England. On
average, the ferry fleet made about forty crossings each day, shuttling
thousands of passengers across the English Channel. Today, the volume of people
passing through seemed much sparser than usual.
Marc noticed that he was the only soul standing out on the
observation landing that overlooked the SeaFrance docks. The door leading back
into the terminal opened and a rather rotund elderly man hobbled out onto the
platform. He continued to the railing and stopped about a foot away to Marc's
right. The old man leaned on the railing, his face pale and expressionless. A long
and uncomfortable silence passed; the Arctic wind moaned across the water as
the two men stood.
Marc stole a quick glance at the old timer. He could see a
large piece of gauze taped to the back of the man's neck. A dark, reddish-brown
stain had soaked through the bandage. The stranger stood there motionless,
oblivious to the fact that he wasn't alone on the platform. To put an end to an
awkward moment, Marc turned and extended his hand towards the stranger.
"Salut, je suis Marc," he said.
His voice sounded muffled against the blowing wind and the
man didn't turn to acknowledge him. He moved his hand up and placed it on his
shoulder, shouting this time.
"Excusez-moi, êtes-vous bien?"
The old man jumped and almost toppled over the railing.
Reaching his hand out, Marc steadied the man, who turned to face him with wide
eyes and a look of utter confusion. His face changed and took on a jovial, yet
somewhat nervous appearance.
"BLOODY HELL! You gave me quite a start, mate!" the
man said, with a thick British accent.
After seeing Marc's look of surprise, the man offered out his
hand towards the Frenchman.
“My sincerest apologies, mate. The name's Brown. Seamus
Brown."
“Bonjour, I am Marc Chevalier," he said in the best
broken English he could manage.
Marc grasped Seamus's hand, shaking it. The grip was firm. So
much so that he had trouble matching the strength that the old man exerted. A
moment later, the pressure eased and Seamus released his vice-like grip. Blood
flowed back into Marc's fingers. As their hands began to separate, Marc felt
something sharp scrape his palm.
"Nom de Dieu!" Marc cursed as he looked down at the
two inch gash on his hand. Blood began to bead along the razor thin line of the
cut.
"So sorry dear chap. I must have a hang nail or
something." Seamus offered. He pulled a handkerchief from his inside
breast pocket and pressed it hard on the wound. He then held up his hand and
looked for a moment at his fingers. From what Marc could see, Seamus had
something that looked a lot worse than a hang nail. At the tip of his right
ring finger, a small, sharp nail, which looked more like a claw than a nail,
protruded from the tip of the finger. A red ring of blood encircled the strange
looking protrusion where it had erupted through the skin.
"Hell, would you look at that," Seamus said,
surprised by the anomaly on his hand. "Looks like I'll be keeping the
doctor busy when I get back to London."
"What happened to you?" Marc asked, as he nodded to
the bloodied bandage on Seamus' neck.
"Oh that? Damnedest thing," Seamus answered as he
began fidgeting with the gauze. "I was leaving my hotel in Paris when this
vagrant assaulted me, biting me like a rabid dog." He began scratching at
the wound as he talked. "I've felt sick ever since. With a little luck,
I'll be able to get some penicillin in me before I turn into a similar
abomination of society." He chuckled as he said this, causing a slight
twang of panic wash over Marc.
Looking down at the scratch on his hand, the fear of
infection grew. He tried to push those thoughts from his head as he attempted
to put up a more casual and friendly demeanor.
"I'm sure it will be alright."
Seamus gave a confident nod in agreement and looked out over
the channel. "Looks like our ride has arrived."
Marc joined Seamus's gaze and saw the large ferry Molière
power through the rough chop of the water. The two men watched the enormous
vessel creep to the docks, until it finally came to a stop along the dock
closest to their right.
Marc said goodbye to Seamus and made his way back to the main
terminal area. Once inside, the rush of warmth from the building flushed his
cheeks and brought a wave of nausea over him.
That's strange.
He glanced
down at his palm, which had swollen to a blackish appearance and itched
painfully.
This is definitely not good. Seamus most definitely had infected
him with something... but what?
After taking a moment to let the nausea pass, he continued
past the rows of seats in the waiting area and located the nearest bathroom. By
the time he made it through the restroom door, his stomach knotted up and
contracted, causing his insides to lurch. Marc rushed to the closest stall and
heaved. Thick viscous fluid poured out of him at an alarming rate. Much denser
than normal vomit, the substance was a dark, reddish-brown color and produced
the foulest smell he had ever encountered. This caused him to gag and heave
even more, until finally, the retching abated, allowing him to draw in much
needed breaths.
He stood still, bent over at the waist, looking at the
disgusting bile which now decorated the inside of the stall like a Jackson
Pollock painting.
Oh my God. What the hell is this stuff?
Marc exited the stall and made his way to a sink. Panic had
hit him with full force, causing him to wonder what the Englishman had gotten
into in Paris. He turned on the faucet and immersed his head, allowing the cool
water to wash over him. He turned his head and allowed water to run into his
mouth. No sooner had he swallowed than another violent wave of vomiting struck
like a Nazi Blitzkrieg. Reddish-brown ooze rocketed out and onto the mirror,
the wall, the faucet, the sink, the floor, the soap dispenser, the hand dryer,
and last but not least, the garbage can.
Five minutes transpired; Marc's abdominal muscles burned. His
throat was raw and a severe fever had set in. His body convulsed as he
shivered. He staggered to one of the stalls that wasn't covered in vomit and
began tearing arm length pieces of toilet paper. Marc wiped himself off as best
he could and returned to the sinks. He washed his hands and face again, careful
to not swallow any water, for fear of starting the vomit-fest again. His
stomach behaved for the moment, although the thought of riding the choppy
waters of the channel caused the nausea to flutter in anticipation of the next
wave of heaving. Luckily, it never came.
The low deep moan of the ferry horn which signified that the
ship was about to set sail snapped Marc from his fever-induced trance. He
hurried out of the bathroom and towards the departure gate. Fumbling in his
jacket, he located his boarding pass and shoved it into the steward's hand,
aware that the SeaFrance employee glared at him with obvious concern.
Thankfully, the steward handed his boarding pass back and waved him through
without incident.
He thinks I'll infect him. Infect him with what?
Marc staggered-ran to the gangplank and boarded the ship,
making his way to the top observation deck. He was burning up and sweating
buckets, the cold winter air providing relief from the fire that he felt in his
blood. The Molière's horn sounded off again, announcing their departure. Marc
saw a bench at the center of the deck and made his way to it. He eased himself
down, aware for the first time that his joints ached; every single one of them.
There he sat, eyes closed, breathing in the salty sea air, listening to the
water lap against the ship. He felt movement as the boat made its way from the
dock and out into the harbor.
As the ferry moved into the channel proper, the water got
rougher, sending the ship into a rhythmic rocking. Marc noticed his vision
began to blur, getting darker around his peripheral, tunneling until blackness
consumed him.
As his vision left, his hearing tunneled, muffling the world
as if someone was placing sound-canceling headphones over his ears. Just before
his hearing left him, Marc thought he heard something.
Was that a scream?
He didn't care. All senses fizzled out, like a candle deprived of oxygen. Marc
Chevalier was dead.
