The Deathless Quadrilogy

by Chris Fox

  “Where are you taking him?” Sheila asked, surging to her feet. Whatever they intended couldn’t be good.

  “Respectfully, that’s none of your business, ma’am,” the freckled soldier shot back, eyes never leaving Steve. He and his companion backed out of the room, allowing Steve to exit behind them.

  “I’m not a prisoner.” She bristled, stepping into the hallway next to Steve. “You don’t have a right to keep me in there.”

  Bridget finally rose to her feet. Her stance was timid, but her expression showed a hint of steel. The timing was incredibly bad, but Sheila was glad the woman was recovering. Recent events had hit her hard.

  “Where are you taking him?” Bridget demanded, taking a short step toward the door. The taller soldier snapped the butt of his rifle to his shoulder, muzzle aimed straight at her face.

  “It’s all right, Bridget,” Steve called into the room. His voice was calm, as if this were all perfectly ordinary. “Don’t make a scene. I’m sure they just have a few more tests they want to run. I’ll be back shortly.” Bridget’s expression showed how unlikely she thought that prospect was, but she said nothing as the soldier quickly closed the door, leaving her in the featureless white room.

  “Walk slowly, and don’t make any sudden moves,” the freckled soldier ordered. Steve started up the hallway, trudging toward the exit as if he were striding through a park. Sheila wondered what he knew that she didn’t. He seemed so…resigned.

  The motley little group exited the hastily constructed building, passing another pair of guards as they stepped into the chilly afternoon. A few clouds stubbornly dotted the sky, a patch of shade drawing a shiver from her as it passed over them.

  Sheila fished her oversized sunglasses from a side pocket of her khaki shorts, donning them to keep the glare at bay. The soldiers gestured for Steve to leave the trail and head across the rougher terrain. They threaded past boulders and around scrubby little bushes, toward a stand-alone black pavilion.

  None of the soldiers at any of the newly erected buildings paid them any mind. If the prospect of having a werewolf loose among them was disconcerting, they certainly didn’t show it. Either they knew something she didn’t, or they were prepared for anything Steve might try.

  As they approached the pavilion, she made out a knot of men enjoying its shade. Two wore the uniforms she was familiar with, but two others wore bulky black armor complete with faceplates. The equipment was new and definitely strange, but she’d never cared much for such things. She was far more interested in the last figure, a man she knew by reputation but had never spoken with—the Director, whose title was so powerful that a name wasn’t even needed. He wore a light-grey Armani suit set off by a deep-blue tie of the finest silk. Somehow, even standing amidst armored soldiers, he made it look perfectly natural.

  He stood talking to one of the armored figures, nodding in the group’s direction as he became aware of their approach. The Director stepped from the shade, raising a hand to shield his eyes despite wearing a pair of dark sunglasses. The man studied them like a flat-eyed reptile, no hint of his thoughts touching his expression.

  “Sir,” the freckled soldier called. Now that they were close enough to be heard, he trotted ahead of their group, leaving them in the care of his silent companion. He paused next to the Director, offering a tight salute and saying something low enough that Sheila couldn’t hear it.

  One of the armored figures stepped forward, looming over the Director. He said something, voice carried away by the wind. Whatever it was caused the Director’s face to tighten.

  “Reckless? Is that what you think? Commander, we are out of time. If we can’t beat one of them now, on our own ground, what choice do we have in the field? Private, give me your sidearm,” the Director barked, turning toward the freckled soldier. He studied Steve through those dark black lenses. The soldier drew the weapon without hesitation, offering it grip first to the Director, who took it in his right hand.

  He flicked the safety off; then in one smooth motion, he raised the gun and aimed at Steve. The weapon coughed, ejecting a shiny brass cartridge that flashed in the sun as it spun over the Director. The acrid smell of hot gunpowder stung Sheila’s eyes even as the round punched into Steve’s chest. It picked him up, flinging him backward in a tangle of limbs.

  Sheila could do nothing but stare in shock, unable to process the event. The Director had just shot Steve. Why? It didn’t make any sense. If the Director wanted Steve dead, why not have the soldiers take care of it back in the cell? Why drag him all the way up here?

  “All right. Commander, it’s time to see what that suit can do,” the Director said, turning to face the armored figure who’d questioned him a moment before. The Director lowered his weapon. “My guess is you’ve got about ten seconds before he shifts. Once he does, I want you to take him down. Hard. Yuri, back him up, but don’t intervene unless the commander fails to contain the situation.”

  Commander? The man in the closest suit must be Jordan. That he was a part of this travesty, the killing of a man as some sort of test, galled her. Yet he was a soldier, and although she doubted he’d agree with the Director’s method, he was unlikely to disobey orders.

  She shifted her horrified glance to Steve’s writhing form. The man twisted and groaned on the ground, cuffed hands clutching at the scarlet stain spreading across the belly of his white hospital gown. His back arched and his eyes became unfocused. He mewed pitifully, fighting to draw in a breath.

  Then the change began. The process was shockingly rapid, fur bursting from every pore even as Steve’s bones popped and broke. They rearranged themselves, allowing for the sudden swell of muscle as he increased dramatically in size. Two sharp pings sounded as the cuffs exploded from his wrists and then from his ankles. So much for the silver. Within moments Steve the man was gone, replaced by a black-furred werewolf. The amber eyes glittering over that canine muzzle held alarming intelligence. How much of that was still Steve?

  “Sheila, get back,” Jordan ordered, stepping between her and Steve. His form was obscured by the armor, but his voice was unmistakable. “All of you, get clear now!”

  Everyone but the Director took several hasty steps backward, fleeing for the illusory safety of the pavilion. That left the two combatants eyeing each other like strange cats, circling slowly as if seeking an advantage in their as yet silent struggle.

  40

  Clash of the Titans

  Jordan’s breath thundered in his ears, echoing in the tight confines of the armored suit. He instinctively dropped into a combat stance, feet sliding apart for better balance. The suit reacted instantly, the faceplate overlaying a head-up display over his vision. The HUD provided a variety of useful information, from his elevation to the current count of his Raptor missiles.

  Bright-red crosshairs appeared over the creature that had been Dr. Galk just moments before. Jordan wondered idly how the suit identified enemies, but the thought skittered away like butter on a hot pan as the creature began its first attack. It blurred forward, moving so quickly even the suit had difficulty tracking it.

  The only thing that saved Jordan was the foreknowledge of just how fast these things were. Jordan leapt backward, the suit exaggerating the motion and carrying him forty feet. He landed heavily, thrown off balance by the unexpected power of the movement. Jordan rolled over backward, tucking his limbs and coming back to his feet.

  The werewolf was already after him, but this time it was merely inhumanly fast instead of impossible to track. Jordan readied himself, popping a set of matte-black claws from one wrist. He lunged forward with all the power he could muster, aiming for the werewolf’s throat. The wickedly sharp weapons hummed through the air as they whooshed through the spot the werewolf’s neck had just occupied. The beast danced backward, incredibly nimble despite its size.

  Steve, if he could still be called that, responded with a vicious downward slash. Ebony claws every bit as sharp as their metal counterparts descended toward Jo
rdan’s face. He dropped into a crouch, shifting slightly to the right as the claws sailed harmlessly by. The shift left him open to a sudden kick from the werewolf, the force of the blow hurling him back across the rocky ground in a cloud of dust and debris.

  The armor protected him from the worst of the hit, but it still hurt like hell. Jordan rolled to his feet, knowing he had only moments before his opponent was on him again. The werewolf possessed the advantages of speed and size. Jordan would have to outthink it if he was going to have a prayer of winning. That was problematic enough. Dr. Galk was incredibly intelligent, and Jordan had a feeling that whatever he’d become could draw on that intellect. Worse, the thing seemed to draw on the kind of battle-honed instincts that could only be earned through a lifetime of combat.

  Jordan looked up to find the werewolf in the air above him, furry arms spread wide as it brought down two sets of claws in one incredibly vicious strike. He managed to block the first with a raised forearm, but the second sent up a shower of sparks as claws skittered across his chest plate. The metal held, but the claws carved furrows in their wake. The force of the blow knocked him back a step, metal servos whirring as the armor fought to keep him in place.

  Metal was pitted against flesh, and Jordan knew there could only be one outcome in a contest of strength. He had to use finesse. Jordan went limp, allowing himself to fall flat on his back. The sudden move caught the werewolf off guard, and the beast stumbled forward, toppling in his direction. Jordan was ready. He planted his feet against the creature’s gut, kicking with all the incredible force the power armor could muster.

  The move launched the beast into a high arc, almost thirty feet into the air. Since its feet were no longer touching the ground, all that muscle meant nothing. It flew in a predictable pattern, powerless to change the direction of its flight. Jordan led the target, making a gesture with his left thumb to activate a Raptor missile. There was a deep clunk from the launcher on his left shoulder and then a sudden burst of recoil that even the armor had a difficult time suppressing.

  A white contrail snaked from his shoulder as a thumb-thick missile streaked toward its target. It had to be moving several hundred miles per hour, yet despite that, the werewolf somehow had time to tuck into a fetal position. It turned in midair, presenting its right shoulder to the blow. Jordan’s jaw dropped as he grasped his opponent’s logic. If the missile struck a leg, the beast wouldn’t be able to move and the fight would be over. Take a missile to the back or torso, and it would lose vital organs, with the same outcome.

  Instead, the creature took the missile in the side. A concussion of light and sound erupted, momentarily turning the suit’s HUD white. When it cleared a moment later, it showed a huge cloud of dust and smoke. There was no sign of the creature. Jordan scanned the area, but apart from soldiers and scientists scurrying away, there was no sign of movement.

  The beast emerged from the thickest bellow of smoke, its fangs bared in a snarl of rage. One arm was simply gone, shoulder ending in a ruined mass of flesh charred black. It raised its remaining hand, fingers spread wide as they pointed in his direction. Jordan tensed. What the hell was that thing doing?

  He tried to reach for the rifle slung across the armor’s back but found himself unable to move. His entire body had gone rigid, as if he’d stuck his finger in a light socket and the flow of electricity had paralyzed his muscles. Jordan strained against his own body, yet his limbs refused to obey

  “Director, I can’t move,” Jordan’s panicked voice boomed, amplified by the suit’s speakers. “Everyone, get clear. Get clear now.”

  The werewolf blurred. One moment it stood thirty feet away, the next it loomed over him. The beast wrapped its remaining clawed hand around Jordan’s neck, squeezing until the metal began to buckle with a hideous metallic scream. It hoisted him into the air, Jordan’s limbs dangling like a broken doll’s. The creature brought the armor’s faceplate close to its own, showing its fangs as it stared directly at him with the terrible gaze of an avenging god.

  If he was going out, then by God, he was taking this thing with him. Jordan concentrated, willing his thumb to move. He waged a silent battle, fighting with everything he had to get that one digit to disobey the paralysis this thing had somehow inflicted. The metal groaned again, tightening around his throat. Breathing became difficult.

  Jordan’s thumb finally broke free. He jerked it three times, each motion causing another clunk from the missile launcher. Three separate streaks leapt from the boxy launcher into the beast’s chest just a few feet away. The rapid explosions hurled him into the air, and the last thing he saw was the ground rushing crazily up at him.

  41

  The Hunger

  “This is never going to work. Not with our luck,” Blair said, sweat trickling uncomfortably down the back of the purple Hawaiian shirt he’d picked back at the Tijuana airport. The heat was bad, but the stench of sweat and urine filling the tunnel around him was worse. There were too many people too close together, a hundred heartbeats he couldn’t tune out.

  Liz gave a long look over the rim of her newly acquired sunglasses. “It’ll work. We’re obviously Americans, and I have a passport with a photo ID.”

  “That gets you out of trouble, but what about me? You know we can’t let them take us. Mohn will know about it in hours,” Blair replied, scanning the line of bored tourists packing the narrow bridge. It was enclosed in steel and concrete, straddling the four-lane artery connecting Mexico to the United States.

  “They’ll let us through. Listen, we’re obviously American, and I’ll just tell them you lost your wallet. They’ll buy it. It happens all the time,” she said, nudging him with an elbow. She smiled gloriously up at him in a way that would have thrilled him in any other circumstances. “Fifty more feet and we’re home free, Blair. We’ve made it. My brother will get us to a lab, and we’ll finally get some answers.”

  “I hope so,” he grunted, lowering a hand to his side. Something hot flared in his belly, the second time since this morning. He suppressed a groan, inching forward against the knives in his side as the line moved. It was suddenly so cold. Blair raised a trembling hand, staring fixedly at the disobedient fingers that swam across his vision. What in the hell was happening?

  “Are you all right?” Liz asked from somewhere miles away. She leaned in close, blue cotton shirt pressed against his bare arm. Suddenly her arm was around him, supporting his weight. “You just turned white. Like too white. You look like you’re going to keel over. Lean on me. I’ve got you.”

  “I…” he croaked, staggering forward as the line moved again. “I’ll be fine.”

  You must feed, Ka-Dun. The voice rang through his mind, familiar and unwelcome.

  “Just give me a straight answer for once. What’s wrong with me?” he muttered, hoping no one heard him. Talking to yourself made people think you were crazy, and crazy people drew attention.

  Your body brims with power. The flesh cannot contain so much fury. You must feed to sustain yourself. There is prey before you. Consume them. You will gain strength, and others will rise to aid our cause.

  “Why do I even bother?” he said, leaning against Liz as she helped him forward. A few neighbors darted curious glances, but only an elderly Asian woman seemed genuinely interested. Their eyes touched, and she glanced hurriedly away, blanching at whatever she’d seen.

  “You’re talking to it, aren’t you?” Liz whispered. She was supporting almost all of his weight, and it seemed effortless.

  “Yes,” he replied, suddenly warm again. The pain faded to a dull smoldering. “It wants me to feed. Something about being full of power. You know how cryptic they are.”

  “I do,” she replied, inching forward again. There were still at least a dozen people ahead of them, but they were close enough to see a pair of tables. People handed across their identification and were waved forward. “It makes sense that we’d need to feed. The things we do have to consume an enormous amount of calories. Can you suppr
ess it for now?”

  “Yes,” he replied, forcing himself to straighten. A sheen of new sweat soaked through his shirt, but fortunately that was hardly out of place among the press of bodies. He wouldn’t give in, not here and not now. If he did, all these people would die. “I will. I have to. I’m not going to murder these people, no matter what the voice says.”

  Ka-Dun, your control is admirable, but you must feed. Soon. Your body demands it, and if you do not heed its wishes, I will be forced to assume control.

  “I won’t give in to you,” he hissed, voice pitched low so only Liz could hear. She darted an alarmed gaze at him, her grip tightening around his waist.

  “Blair, what’s it saying?” she asked, scanning the crowd around them. He could feel the tension in her body. She knew he was losing control. If that happened, the slaughter would be horrific.

  “More of the same,” he grunted, forcing a step forward. He probably looked drunk, but with the number of returning college students in the crowd, that wasn’t anything out of place either. “Listen, beast. That’s what the old man called you. You say you’re here to advise me, right?”

  Of course, Ka-Dun. I am a part of you, created to aid you in battle.

  “Then fucking aid me. Give me an alternative. I’m not killing these people,” he barked, catching a wide-eyed look from a chubby ten-year-old with a chocolate stain on his shirt. Blair glared at the boy, who spun back to face a mother with enough arm hair to be mistaken for a werewolf herself.

  There is another path, a foolhardy path. If you refuse to feed, then you must deplete your reserves of energy. Burn it away and so, too, will the hunger burn away. I must counsel against this course. It will leave you vulnerable, weak before the coming storm. You will need your strength.

  “I’m not killing them. How do I burn it away?” he asked, forcing another step. Deceptively small and just inches away, Liz stood ready to catch him.