by Sarah Noffke
Chapter Six
“Connor Luce – Age: Twenty-two. Height: Five foot, eleven inches. Weight: One hundred sixty-five pounds. Hair: Brown/Red. Eyes: Green. Ethnicity: White. Employment: None/Discharged from Rehab. Skill: Psychometry. Rank: NA/Missing.”
- Lucidite Institute, Werewolf Project File
“What was that commotion I heard the other night?” the woman with a head of fake auburn curls said. Women in their seventies didn’t have vibrant red hair or tight skin stretched over their cheekbones. However, Mrs. Wilson wasn’t a typical elderly lady.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Orion said, his chin down, eyes on the wood floors of the brownstone apartment building.
If her face could allow such things the old woman would probably have raised a disbelieving eyebrow at him. “I think you do know what I mean. That racket always comes from your room, usually on the weekends.”
What was he supposed to say, that she was right and it was the werewolf destroying the room he rented because he wanted out of the padlocked door? The dumb beast never knew where Orion hid the key because as far as he could tell it didn’t have a memory of his life, but the reverse wasn’t true. He always remembered what happened when he changed. He remembered the destruction. The way the animal stood looking out the three-story window, thinking of breaking it and taking the jump, the one that might kill Orion Murray. The wolf terrified him, but everything did, really.
“Are you playing one of those video games? The ones with werewolves?” Mrs. Wilson said.
“No!” Orion said, backing up suddenly toward his door, where safety could be found away from the nosy woman.
“Well, the howling came from your room the other night. I would have asked you about it sooner, but you never come out of that room,” she said, disapproval heavy in her voice.
What did she expect? Was he supposed to power walk down the streets of Hartford, like she did every morning? He could tell what time it was by glancing out his window to find Mrs. Wilson bouncing down the stoop in her jogging suit. Then he would watch the regimented woman until she power walked down several blocks thanks to his telescopic vision. The power had first come on right after the breakout from the lab. It was strange to look out at the city, honing in on things miles away, seeing that the world was really as chaotic as he thought it was. Why he, an already anxious person, was given the ability to see farther eluded him.
“Yes, sorry. It’s a video game. Quite compelling, which is why I don’t leave often,” he said, glad that the antique artifact of a woman had given him an excuse for the howling.
“Well, speaking of your room. Rent is due,” she said and then added, “two days ago.”
Orion sank his hands into his pale brown hair. “Yes, of course. I’ll have it to you tonight. I’ll slip it under your door.”
“Or you could give it to me right now,” she said.
“I-I-I have to go by the bank,” he lied. The truth was that he had to go dig it up. Never before the abduction had Orion been glad that he was a paranoid schizophrenic who didn’t trust banks. He’d hidden the money he’d made as an orderly at the state hospital all over the city. He hadn’t even trusted to keep it in the apartment that he had since abandoned, too afraid that the bad men would come back after him.
Mrs. Wilson gave him a curt nod. “All right, you do that and try and keep the noise down from your room. The other residents don’t need to be disturbed by your silly game playing.”
“Of course,” Orion said, turning for his door. The crowding feeling had grown with intensity and was now overwhelming his head. He’d hoped to make it to the store for food, but that would have to wait. The hunger pangs had driven him out into the world, but now the social anxiety was driving him back to his room. However, he’d have to force himself to leave the brownstone tonight to get Mrs. Wilson’s money. It had been his mental disorders that had caused him to lose his job and settle for disability. If it hadn’t been for those checks then he’d have a lot less money stashed under bridges in coffee cans throughout the city.
Chapter Seven
“Kaleb Magner – Age: Eighteen. Height: Five foot, eight inches. Weight: One hundred fifty-five pounds. Hair: Brown. Eyes: Brown. Ethnicity: White. Employment: None/High school dropout. Skill: Unclassified. Rank: Proposed to be an omega.”
- Olento Research, Canis Lupus Project File
The smell of overly fried food and sweat met Connor’s nose, making his stomach instantly sour. He’d always like carnivals, probably because the people who ran it were more of a freak than he was. And also because the patrons who shelled out too much money for the events were like him, looking for a quick high.
“Object reading?” the fat man with a sleeve of tattoos said, pushing the toothpick between his teeth. “You want to run a booth for me called ‘Object Reading’? You realize I’m in the business of making money, right?”
“Call it whatever you want. But people will line up, about like they do for psychic reading,” Connor said, scratching his chin, then his neck, then his chest.
The old carny eyed him, a knowing dawning on his face. “Can’t you come up with a better gimmick that will support your habit? The Gottimer twins balance things the audience gives them on their chin, all while dancing. Pete runs the Coke bottle game, which is frustratingly unbeatable. Why don’t I give you one of the game booths? Those always do great. You take ten percent and I take the rest,” the man said.
Connor considered his options. It would be easy money, and he’d have a place to crash every night in the back of the semis. No, he thought. If I’m reducing myself to shit, then I’m at least using my Dream Traveler skill to do it. “Is that your hat?” he said, pointing at the guy’s head.
“Why else would I be wearing it?” the sweaty guy said with a chuckle that was marked by years of smoking and a buildup of too much phlegm.
“I just have to ask. It has to belong to you,” Connor said. “Hand it over and I’ll show you how entertaining my booth will be. It has the potential to be the talk of each town.”
The owner of Ferocity Carnival eyed Connor for a moment before pulling the trucker’s cap off his head and handing it over. As soon as Connor’s fingers touched the sweaty hat, a sea of images poured through his head, all memories associated with the hat and granted to him based on his gift of psychometry. His green eyes sprung open and he pointed to the man’s bicep. “You were wearing this hat when you got that tattoo of the belly dancer,” he said, indicating the scantily clad woman who jiggled her belly when he flexed his muscles. “But it was to cover up the initials of your ex-girlfriend, Jenna. JC,” Connor said, seeing the memory in his mind.
“Well, I’ll be,” the guy said, slapping his knee. “How in the hell did you guess all that?”
“I have a good eye and kind of spied the letters under the belly dancer and then by the wear and tear on the hat, I figured you never took it off,” Connor said, enjoying how confident his lie sounded. Tattoos really said so much about a person. This guy’s spoke of his mistakes and his lust for beautiful women who would never have him.
“That’s pretty impressive and you’re right, it’s something people would pay for. We’ll call it…” The man trailed away, trying to think of a good name for the booth.
“Wolf Predictions,” Connor said, almost laughing. He still felt high from the day before. Or maybe the craving was producing the high in his body. That often happened to addicts in an attempt to push them to seek out the drug to make the feeling more real.
“Ha! I like it. I’ll get the guys to spray paint wolves on the front of the booth and you can pretend to sniff the objects, like that’s how you work your hocus-pocus,” the guy said.
“Good. But I want fifty percent,” Connor said.
“Everyone always gets ten,” the guy said, his smile dropping.
Connor felt the wolf inside him growl. It wasn’t like Connor to negotiate. He had never stood up for himself, but the wolf believed it deserved more. They deser
ved more. “And everyone always gets taken advantage of,” Connor said, his voice a coarse whisper, one that made the hairs on the back of his hands stand up. It was the wolf speaking inside of him and he thought he might change at any moment.
The man squinted at him like he hadn’t heard him right. “Son, I don’t—”
“Fifty percent,” Connor said with a growl.
The man considered him for several seconds. “Fine,” he finally said. “I’ll give you a three-day trial and if you aren’t bringing in the bucks then you get ten percent and you like it.”
“I’ll bring in the money,” Connor said, standing, hoping that his shaking wasn’t obvious to the man.
“All right, well, pull that scowl off your face. Why don’t you celebrate your new luck by stopping by and seeing the Gottimer twins? I bet they’d take a shine to you right away. They always like newbies and usually give them the first time free,” the carny said.
Connor stared in the direction of the booth where red curtains hung and he could currently hear giggles from behind it. Not only was he not in the least interested in getting a series of STDs, but also the thought of the twins brought a round of visuals to his head. Visuals that spoke of his regret, of his longing. All of the visuals were of a single girl with red hair and discriminating green eyes. The girl he couldn’t see, for fear that he’d attack her yet again.
Chapter Eight
“Rio Hernandez – Age: Thirty. Height: Six-foot, six inches. Weight: Two hundred sixty pounds. Hair: Black. Eyes: Brown. Ethnicity: Hispanic. Employment: Discharged Police Force. Skill: Strength. Rank: Unknown.”
- Lucidite Institute, Werewolf Project File
An astringent chemical hit Mika’s nose. It had to have assaulted him more than others due to his heightened sense. He glanced at Drake, whose nose wasn’t pinched like his own. Middlings were so normal. They were without any of the talents that Mika’s dream travel skill afforded him; well, and also the experiments that he’d had done on himself to grant him new skills. Telekinesis was the skill he’d been born with, but heightened senses, increased speed, and telepathy were gifts he’d had manufactured and implanted into himself. A man with the right mindset could do anything and become anyone.
“So you’re telling me that we are simply waiting around for the subjects to wake up?” Mika said, pausing beside a window that looked into a room where a man lay in a starched white bed.
“I don’t know what else you expect...” Drake said, and then caught himself. “Yes, sir. Unfortunately we have to wait, but in the meantime I’ll focus on Project Neandertalin.” This was the Finnish term for Neanderthal, which was how Mika named most of his projects. It was how he’d named his companies.
The only thing that Mika appreciated about Drake, besides his superior scientific skills, was that he lacked a moral compass. Never had he cringed at any of Mika’s project ideas. And when this CEO had informed the scientific team that he wanted to do a project that involved de-evolving a subject, taking him from human to Neanderthal, at least two of his employees grimaced. Those weak individuals were fired the very same hour. They had been transfers from Parantaa Research, with skills Mika thought would lend to the new project, but they apparently had an overly rigid conscience. That was typical of scientists who came from Mika’s other company, since the work at Parantaa was humanitarian based, whereas Olento only focused on revolutionary science and experiments.
Mika eyed the man in the bed, his head wrapped in white bandages. Everything about the room was white. The walls, the linens, the equipment, the man. It almost hurt his eyes to look through the window at the bright monochromatic room. “What is his IQ?” Mika said to Drake, his eyes on the subject.
“Ninety-two,” Drake said, not having to consult his notes.
“If that number increases by fifty percent, then we will deem Project Muisti a success,” Mika said.
“Well, he made it through the surgery, which is better results already than we had with the chimpanzee,” Drake said, pulling his clipboard up close to his chubby chest.
Mika let out a long sigh of disappointment. “I don’t count wins based on my past failures. If this man you pulled in from the streets demonstrates that he’s acquired eidetic memory then we have succeeded. Plain and simple benchmarks.”
“Do you plan to have the procedure for achieving photographic memory done to you, if this experiment is a success?” Drake asked.
“Why else would I have invested millions into this research?” Mika said, his voice suddenly tight.
“Good point, sir. It’s just that Project Canis Lupus and Project Neandertalin don’t seem like experiments that could benefit you. I was only curious,” Drake said, pulling on his white and gray beard before threading his knobby fingers into it.
“Those are more curious projects. Well, and also the investors wanted weapons. Maybe the Neanderthal we create will also make a good assassin, like the werewolves. We’ll have to see,” Mika said, turning at once, having heard something behind the closed door at the end of the hallway.
He spun back around to face Drake. “Grant is awake.”
“That is good news,” Drake said.
“Not by the sounds of it,” Mika said, pressing a red button on the wall. The emergency buttons could be found all over Olento Research and were pressed often due to the many alarming situations that happened as a result of the risk associated with the work. The nurses that ran past Mika a moment later would have been alerted to the disturbance through monitoring vitals and video surveillance. However, Mika’s amplified hearing had given him an early warning. One of the nurses fumbled with the keys while the other pulled the cap off a syringe. She then pressed it into a tiny bottle and had it almost filled with sedative by the time Mika and Drake joined them.
Through the observation window Mika watched as Grant yanked at his restraints, his body heaving forward. His black hair and red of his face were a stark contrast to the white bed where he struggled for freedom. He let out an enraged snarl when the nurses burst into his room.
One nurse pressed down on his flailing arm, trying to steady the irate man, but just then he threw his head forward, ramming her hard in the skull. The woman fell to the floor at once unconscious, the white linoleum adding insult to her already busted open head. The other nurse twisted around, staring through the window which she couldn’t see through, but knew that was where Mika and Drake stood watching. The doubt and fear oozed from her stare as Grant threw his chest in the air, pulling the bed a foot forward as he did. Even restrained at the wrists and ankles, he had impressive strength, Mika observed.
“He’s displaying early aggression,” Drake said, his voice clinical. “This will be a result of the enhanced features we added to his procedure.”
“Yes, I think that we will notice many changes in Grant that are different than in the other werewolves,” Mika said, as four guards rushed by him and into Grant’s room.
At first the four men only watched as their previous boss tore from side to side in his bed, making it skirt to the left and then the right. The passed out nurse lay motionless on the ground before them, not getting an ounce of attention. Everyone was focused on the man who now opened his mouth and let out a vicious growl, foam spilling from the side of his curled lips. One guard made a motion to the other and they both approached on the right side, the other two guards following suit on the opposite side. And then, as if cued by a countdown, they all jumped forward, pressing down on Grant, trying to stabilize him. The effort of four men was hardly a match for Grant based on the way they bobbed up and down, almost failing to keep him restrained. Then Mika’s sharp eyes spied the black fibers poking through Grant’s skin, a subtle sign that more changes were about to come.
“They better get him sedated now, before it’s too late,” Drake said, his voice sing-song, like the scene before him was highly amusing.
“This won’t be a problem once we finalize his training,” Mika said, his voice also calm. “Now that he’s aw
oken from the procedures and we know it was a success, we can rapidly send him through the training protocol.”
A guard jumped back, holding his hand that had been clamped over Grant’s forearm. Mika’s enhanced vision spied the blood prickling on the guard’s hand, a result of the sharp hairs that now were two inches long on Grant’s arms and face. Fangs slipped from his mouth as black claws pierced the ends of his fingers. And then his body seemed to swell, making his clothes tighten around his muscles.
“He’s much more impressive than the other twelve werewolves,” Drake said, pride in his voice.
“And he’s going to kill everyone in that room if the incompetent idiots don’t subdue him,” Mika said, pulling the door that had still been cracked all the way shut, locking it.
Drake eyed Mika, giving him a curious look before turning his attention back to the room filled with chaos. “Maybe we should have kept him in a cage like we did with the other subjects for Project Canis Lupus.”
“Soon we can control him with shock therapy, once you deem him physically ready. And I trust that Grant will be well behaved once he’s settled. It’s the benefit of having a willing subject,” Mika said.