Captured by the Chimera Zombie-Master

by Veronica Sommers

  "Where did you even get clothes like these?" she spits in his face. "Why do you have them down here?"

  "They belonged to one of the lab assistants. She thought they were 'post-apocalyptic chic.' I never let her wear the outfit for work, though." Reuel swallows and swipes his forked tongue across his lips. "She's gone now."

  "Well, did she have any other clothes? Anything less revealing?"

  For a second I think her forcefulness might prevail. She's practically yelling in Reuel's face. And then I notice his shorts—pulled tight around an obvious hard-on. I'm not sure whether it's her protests or the outfit that's turning him on—maybe both—but it's time to end this little scene.

  "Reuel was about to take us for a tour," I announce. "They've got a menagerie here, he says. Sounds hella fascinating, right? Let's go check it out." She whips toward me, glaring, and I stare back at her hard, with a forced smile. "So much fun, Trouble. Let's go see the animals, okay?"

  "Fine," she growls. "But on the way we are stopping to get Atlan's coat from that room where I left it, and then I'm putting it on."

  "I'd like to get my coat back too." When Finley glares at me again, I backtrack hurriedly. "And of course you are welcome to borrow it. Or keep it. Whatever you want. To the menagerie?"

  "To the menagerie." Reuel's voice is rough, and his eyes travel Finley's body again in a slow, lustful sweep. "This way. It's on the level below."

  "Wait—there's a level below?" Finley asks. As Reuel stalks ahead, she hangs back, slipping her fingers through mine.

  "Yes," Reuel answers. "Not an large as this one, but we needed somewhere to keep certain projects separate from our living spaces and labs."

  He's walking ahead, talking about the lower level, and I know I should be listening and storing up details like a good soldier would do; but I pull Finley against my body for a second and press a fierce kiss on her mouth. Her frown dissolves and she narrows her eyes at me in mock accusation. "You like this outfit, don't you?" she whispers as we keep walking.

  "Does that make me an asshole?"

  "Maybe."

  Reuel glances back and notices how far we're lagging behind. "Keep up," he says crisply. "If you find it difficult I can always immobilize you and carry you along."

  "Reuel," Finley chides. "Come on now." She extricates her fingers from mine and moves up to walk beside him, sliding her hand around his arm, over his bicep. Seeing her smile up at him warmly, like a friend—it kills me, mostly because I don't think it's all fake. She doesn't love him, but she feels something—understanding? Sympathy? A connection? If it wasn't genuine, she wouldn't have any sway over him at all. Reuel's no fool. He can tell that some part of her genuinely likes him. It's what holds him to this facade of treating us like guests instead of treating us like what we really are—his prisoners.

  17

  Finley

  I would rather walk with Atlan. But I hope he understands that this show of friendship is necessary to keep Reuel on our side. I have to keep working with the chimera, building on the shaky foundation of potential friendship that we've established. It's the best way to keep me and Atlan safe, and alive.

  On the way to the menagerie, Darius slinks out of a side passage to join us. He seems more comfortable on his scaly reverse-jointed legs now. He still wears a blood-stained loincloth fashioned from a lab coat, but it's not covering everything it's supposed to cover. My eyes flick upward from that area to the painful-looking spikes of bone that have erupted from his shoulders and spine. His face has definitely elongated, and triangular shark teeth have filled in around his vampire fangs. Above his flattened nose gleam a pair of full-black eyes, with neon-green irises and slitted pupils. He drags the claws of one hand along the wall, seeming to relish the horrible screeching sound they produce. When he falls into step just ahead of Reuel and me, I have to side-step to avoid the long barbed tail that protrudes from his lower spine.

  "Watch the tail, Darius," Reuel says. He glances aside at me, as if to say, See, I noticed. I've got you.

  I reward that small thoughtfulness with a smile, but inside I'm sick over the reality of what Reuel did to this vampire. He wrecked him, remade him—and what's almost worse is that Darius doesn't even seem to care.

  Why doesn't he care? Why did he shrink and bow when he first saw Reuel? What kind of alpha dominance does Reuel exercise over him?

  Another terrifying thought strikes me—they planned to do this to Atlan, too. What if they had succeeded? Would Atlan be lost to me, under the sway of his chimera leader? What would he look like? The thought of anything marring his beautiful skin, the comforting shape of him—it's unbearable.

  Reuel wouldn't inject Atlan with the serum at this point, would he? From what Atlan told me of Clarice Corbin's revelation, it sounds as if they designed a few different variations of the serum, to test on each vampire—new species modifications that Reuel hasn't tried yet.

  Before she left, Sergeant Perez warned Reuel against messing with Atlan. She told him that Deathcastle and the Safe Zone military would want Atlan back undamaged. I can only hope that he takes her warning seriously. Surely he won't want to risk jeopardizing the military alliance and the support he wants for his project.

  Atlan has to stay safe. Whatever else happens to me, Atlan must get out of this, safe and whole.

  I will do whatever it takes to ensure that.

  My gaze flits to Reuel's narrow face. Such rigid lines and crisp features, cold and unfeeling. It's hard to believe that he's the same person who burned with such frenzied desire yesterday. He has locked himself up again—at least, mostly. There's still a softness there when he looks at me—a vulnerability. A crack in the armor.

  If he cuts off his emotions completely again, he will do to us whatever his scientific mind tells him is best for the accomplishment of his goals. It will be a series of cold and calculated choices, without a thought to the pain he might cause.

  But at the other end of the spectrum is a raging sea of primal instinct; and if that side of him wins out, he won't be able to stop himself from taking what he wants from me—from anyone. He'll do it carelessly, brutally, without thought of goals or end results.

  It's my job to help him walk the tightrope in the center of those two extremes. To keep him from falling into the abyss on either side.

  Before the Gorging, he could have had therapy to help him work through the social disconnection and parental neglect from his past, to help him develop greater empathy. He could have had medication to help him manage any violent impulses.

  There's none of that mental health infrastructure left now. I doubt that anyone in this bunker has the necessary credentials to treat his mental health; and even if they did, they would likely be in need of therapy themselves. Aren't we all, though? Thanks a lot, zombie apocalypse.

  No, there's no one else to help with this. No support, no medication. Just me, and the scraps of mental health training I had in college, and my own instincts, and my empathy, whatever good that is.

  I'll do what I can.

  Whatever it takes.

  "I'm hungry," says Darius. "What you got to eat?"

  "Canned food," says Reuel. "But most of the meat is gone, I'm afraid. And I can't allow you to consume any of my people."

  "Maybe I could just munch on a few menagerie beasties," says Darius, baring his teeth. The angles of his new, stretched-out features feel alien and wrong, and my gut twists with brief panic. My hand tightens on Reuel's bicep.

  "What about the leftovers of those little hunters you killed yesterday?" Reuel asks.

  "Ate 'em already," says Darius. "And your lab monkeys mopped everything afterward. It's spotlessly clean." He walks backward, leering in my direction. "What about her? She doesn't need both arms to be a blood-bag or a breeder."

  Reuel slashes him across the face.

  It's lightning-quick and vicious, but Reuel's expression never changes, and the arm I'm holding barely shifts.

  Dark blood oozes from the gashes, drippin
g over the bridge of Darius's nose, down his cheek, over his lips and chin. He licks it, turning around and prowling ahead again. "I get it," he snarls. "She's off limits. What about my old blood-hire? Bob? Where is he? The damn fool should be making himself useful to me."

  "I have a use for him," says Reuel. "A little experiment."

  "Wait a minute," I venture. "What kind of experiment? How would Bob feel about it? I thought you were going to—"

  Reuel has me up against the wall in half a second, his arm pinned across my chest.

  Atlan snarls, but I shake my head at him once, sharply, and he doesn't charge. He waits, nostrils flared and fangs out.

  Reuel's breath smells of broken stone and cold metal, and lust as toxic as poison. "Don't you think you've pushed me far enough for one day?" His yellow eyes have darkened to amber again.

  The fear clogging my throat makes it hard to force words out. "I guess I have."

  He cocks his head, examining my face, the color of his eyes deepening. His gaze falls to my mouth, then my breasts, bulging under the pressure of his arm. His pupils dilate.

  Gently, carefully, I slide my fingers along his arm. "I was promised a trip to your menagerie. I'm very excited to see it."

  A heavy breath surges in his chest, and then he lets me go.

  And this is yet another reason why I could never be his. I couldn't endure these terrifying swerves from calm and cold to violently wanting. Any woman who loved him would live in constant fear of his rage. I wouldn't wish that on anyone—but then, is it fair to condemn him to a life of loneliness? Is it too much to hope that he could change?

  Apparently Dr. Corbin likes him in spite of the moods swings. But the two of them are a terrifying blend—a pair of volatile chemicals thrown together in unknown quantities, with no certain result but a high probability of disaster.

  Darius clears his throat, a kind of awkward choked growl. "Maybe I could go topside to hunt."

  Reuel nods, his features returning to their normal composure. "You might find a few animals. The zombies don't usually touch them."

  Atlan speaks then, his words slurred by the extended fangs. "If you do find some game, would you mind bringing back a little of the meat? I'd be grateful."

  I almost forgot how much Atlan and the other vampires depend on protein, especially meat, to fuel their superhuman strength. Usually Atlan enjoys multiple helpings of meat per day at Deathcastle; but here in the bunker, the only meat he's had is the little bit in a can of chili. I wonder how the lack of it is affecting his strength, and his capacity to heal himself. I make a mental note to offer more blood later, after the menagerie visit.

  "Tell Bridget to let you out to hunt," says Reuel to Darius. "If she needs confirmation, she can talk to me through the menagerie intercom."

  Once Darius leaves, we continue down the corridor for several paces, and then Reuel opens a door. From the glimpse I get, I'm pretty sure it's the room where he brought me after he stung me. He comes back out with Atlan's coat and shoves it at me.

  "Thank you." I slip it on, thankful for the extra coverage.

  At the end of the hall is a massive metal door, the kind someone might install to confine a werewolf, or the Hulk. Reuel thumbs a bio lock and enters a code before pulling it open.

  The space beyond the door is so dark that all I can see is a sliver of steps going down into blackness.

  What is he keeping down there?

  Reuel starts down the steps, but he looks back when I don't follow.

  "Is there a light?" I ask.

  "Oh, of course." He presses a button on the wall, and a glaring bulb winks on. "I can see in the dark, you recall. I don't usually turn on any lights until I get downstairs."

  "Uh-huh." I fortify myself with a glance back at Atlan, and then I slowly descend after Reuel.

  I once saw a musical where a creepy masked monster guy took a girl down to his lair. There was a passage lit up with candles, and a boat I think, and music. This situation is giving me similar vibes. Except the girl in the movie was all wide-eyed and virginal in a billowy white dress, and I'm anything but virginal. Plus I'm wearing a corset and shorts under my vampire boyfriend's black vinyl coat. So really, there is no similarity at all.

  The lower floor consists of one long hallway, driving far ahead into the bowels of the earth. When Reuel turns on another bank of lights, they illuminate only part of the passage.

  "What's down there?" I ask, pointing.

  "Areas we don't use," he replies shortly. "The menagerie is through here."

  Again, a coded lock, and then he pushes the door open and stands back so I can enter.

  My students and I once toured a large science center with rooms full of terrariums and aquariums. This space reminds me a little of that experience, with its wall-to-wall enclosures and tanks. For an underground room, it's enormous, its ceiling supported by dozens of thick pillars. The cages and tanks between the rows of pillars turn the space into a kind of maze.

  There's a pervasive scent of animals—fur and scales and dung. UV lights and heat lamps are positioned over most of the pens and cages. They're larger than I expected—more like habitats in a zoo, complete with rocks and earth and pools of water.

  A couple of techs are working down here. They watch us furtively as they continue with their tasks—cleaning out enclosures, adding chopped vegetation and pellets to food bowls.

  "Where do you get the plants you feed them?" I ask.

  "We have a small garden," Reuel answers. "It's not enough to grow fresh food for the humans here, but it serves the needs of my animals."

  "Finley." Atlan's voice is light, but I can hear the tension underneath his bright tone. "Have you taken a close look at these delightful creatures?"

  I step nearer to one of the enclosures and peer through the mesh over the top, into the grass and straw below. There's a large mouse scuffling around, but when it moves into the open, I notice that it has the wings of a moth and a long tail studded with tiny barbs, like the thorns along a rose's stem. The moth wings are in bad shape, soiled and partly shredded.

  Swallowing my horror, I move to the next cage. A fat lizard sits on a branch, waving a frilly amber-and-white striped tail that looks as if it should belong to a lionfish. The neighboring enclosure, outfitted with artificial grass, holds a ferret with tiny antlers and a miniature peacock tail. In a dark space between two pillars, there's an aquarium housing several jellyfish, and beyond that are more mice, ferrets, and lizards—all of them normal. There's even a monkey in a tall cage.

  "Over here," says Reuel, beckoning. The enclosure he's standing next to is one of the largest in the room, with lots of sand and rocks and scrubby plants. There's a freaking Komodo dragon inside.

  "This is where you get the DNA to create hybrids and chimeras," I murmur.

  "It is."

  I watch the Komodo dragon, and it watches me. Its long forked tongue slips out and back in, and I shiver. The lizard's tongue and talons are remarkably similar to Reuel's. "Where are the little hunters? You mentioned having more of them."

  "They live in the adjoining room. We can look at them through the observation window. Come."

  I'm only too glad to move away from the Komodo dragon and its malevolent stare. There's something terrifying about reptilian eyes. They're so emotionless, deadpan—apathetic. Like Reuel himself can be, at times. I wonder how deeply he screwed with his brain chemistry when he injected himself with that chimera cocktail. How much of his mood swings and emotional instability are due to that? He only wanted the animals' physical traits, but he clearly imbibed some of their other traits as well. The instinct of a predator driven to kill, of a beast compelled by the urge to mate.

  Speaking of the urge to mate—the red-toothed, two-legged hunters seem to prefer mating to any other activity. I cup my hand against the glass and watch them, half-fascinated and half-disgusted. The males hunch awkwardly over the females, clinging and thrusting and quivering, before hopping away and finding another female to
rut with. Some of the females lie on their sides, bellies swollen with young, and as we watch, one of them pushes out a slick mess of tadpole-shaped, two-legged creatures. She licks the slime off them and they hop around her in a frenzy, snapping their scarlet jaws. One of the newborns doesn't rise quickly enough, and within minutes the others descend upon it, tearing their sibling to shreds.

  I think I'm going to be sick.

  Slowly I back away from the window. Atlan is still watching the creatures, his eyes wide.

  "Aren't hybrids or clones usually infertile?" I force the words past the lump of nausea in my throat.

  "Ah, but we haven't produced these through cloning or cross-breeding," says Reuel. "This is rewriting DNA on mature subjects, in real time. There's a stem-cell element to it, yes, and a thread of cells from prehistoric animals like that saber-toothed beast they used to make the vampires. You see, prehistoric animals had the potential for greater, faster change within their own bodies. Otherwise they would have all died out before they could evolve enough to survive. We've isolated and harnessed that power now—the power of the missing links, if you will. It's a huge scientific breakthrough."

  Am I impressed or horrified? I'm honestly not sure. In one sense, he's doing horrible things that should never be done—and in another sense, he has accomplished something truly amazing. He has uncovered a key piece of the evolutionary puzzle, something scientists have wondered about for centuries. The secret to rapid adaptation. Although why he thinks it's a good idea to go backwards, and splice different animals together like this, is beyond me. Not to mention using this discovery to change actual human bodies.

  Reuel presses his forehead to the observation window, his antlers clicking against the glass. He looks pleased and eager, almost like a proud parent.

  I open my mouth to protest the wretched wrongness of all this—but Atlan is watching me, and he lays a finger to his lips with a little shake of his head. He knows what I'm about to say, that I'm about to challenge Reuel's life's work.