by Jade Kerrion
“We’ll have to fight our way there,” Galahad said as eight more men rounded the corner. As one, the men slowed to a cautious lope when they saw the body of their fallen comrade on the ground between them and their quarry.
Zara’s smile was predatory as she shifted her stance, ready for battle. The first man was overconfident. The half smile never left her lips as she deflected his clumsy attack with a flip of her wrist. She slipped around him before he had a chance to regain his balance and guided the edge of her blade across his jugular with just enough pressure to slice through skin and vein.
Blood sprayed. His scream died, frozen in his throat. Zara let him fall and moved on to her next target, all the while aware that Galahad was also on the move, easily taking on—and out—each opponent with flawless ease. He was a pleasure to watch, and if she had the time, she might have stood on the sidelines and applauded.
As it was, they were in a bit of a rush. She cast a glance over her shoulder at the last man whose cowardice had finally overcome the rashness inspired by the madness of a mob. He backed away, his hands held in a defensive posture.
She spun a half circle and let her dagger fly. The black-bladed dagger raced through the air, spinning end over end, to sink deep into his chest. The man slumped to the ground, eyes wide with shock. “Fucking in vit,” he gasped. His hands reached for the dagger, tightened on the hilt as if to pull it out, and then fell limply by his side as his eyes rolled up in his head.
Zara’s eyes narrowed in a mixture of disgust and scorn. She stopped to retrieve her dagger and then met Galahad’s inscrutable gaze. “We’re running out of time.”
Heat from surging flames inched down the hallway. Dark smoke wafted toward them. The mob was apparently burning as it went, and probably without the vaguest clue on how to get out of the building, short of going back through the flames.
Idiots. Zara gritted her teeth. Sometimes it was a wonder that humans hadn’t yet driven themselves into extinction through sheer stupidity. She nodded toward the south. “Let’s go.”
~*~
Pete’s hands, slick with sweat, fumbled at the computer, scrambling to type in the commands that would drop the heavy steel blast doors across the eastern wing to seal it off.
Almost there. The computer awaited only his pass code and the final confirmation of his order. Almost safe.
“Trying to protect Galahad?” a mocking voice called out from behind him.
He spun around, gasped in shock, and then screamed as a long-bladed hunting knife sliced through his stomach. “No…no…” he choked, uncertain if he was begging for his life or for theirs. He dropped to his knees, his arms wrapped around his bleeding midsection. “Don’t open the doors, please.”
A man stepped over him, and with a contemptuous swing of his arm, sliced the blade across the side of Pete’s neck and face. Pete could not scream. The pain took all his breath away, and the only relief he felt as the darkness pulled him under was that he would likely be dead when the doors to the eastern wing finally opened to reveal all the horrors concealed within.
The man who had killed Pete Danner looked down at the computer terminal as his companions, still jubilant over the death of the lab technician, gathered behind him. “Go on, open the doors,” someone urged him.
He nodded, canceling Pete’s order to seal the eastern wing, and instructed the computer to open all the cell doors. He grinned in vicious anticipation. The moment was at hand. Galahad was close. In moments, the abomination would be completely at their mercy.
The double doors slid open to reveal a large circular foyer surrounded by open cells. It was quiet. He heard nothing over the wild pounding of his heart. Relishing the moment of his triumph, he brandished his hunting knife and charged in, his friends rallying close behind him.
He was the first to die, slain instantly by a single swipe of a malformed appendage that was more claw than hand. A sound that was part roar, part scream resonated in echoing waves around the chamber. It froze the mob in its tracks and shocked a resemblance of sanity and rationality back into the group. The twenty men and women in the room could only gape in horror as the darkness in the cells slid back to reveal creatures that had no possible claim on humanity.
There were only six, but even one would have been too many. Grossly deformed, they were twisted contortions of Galahad’s physical perfection. Their eyes gleamed with raw hatred, and they attacked with superhuman strength and agility, fueled by fury that had simmered for three decades. The humans with their puny blades, and even their guns stood no chance at all.
The dying screams of the humans rent Pioneer Laboratories.
It was a massacre, a bloodbath. And it was only just beginning.
~*~
The spotlights in the kitchen were bright in comparison to the muted lighting in the hallway, and they were immensely welcome. Better still was the sight of Jack standing by the open door. He waved Zara and Galahad forward. “The lab’s on fire,” he said, his voice thin and reedy, edged with panic.
“Get out!” Zara said. She estimated that they had all of a thirty-second head start before the rest of the psychotic mob realized it had cut itself off from its exit and came scrambling down her way to find another.
A roar reverberated through the building. The new sound was the scream of a raging animal. Zara froze, her gaze seeking out Galahad’s, searching for answers. The first glimpses of horror passed over his flawless features. He shook his head, opened his mouth to speak, but fell silent as human screams began.
Screams of terror, of horror. Screams of the dying.
“What—”
“They’re out,” Galahad said quietly.
It was neither the right time or place to demand to know exactly what “they” were and she suspected she did not actually want to know, anyway. “We’ll leave that to the SWAT team. This way.” Almost there. She raced through the kitchen, sparing only a quick glance over her shoulder to confirm that Jack and Galahad followed her. Her BMW coupe was idling outside the kitchen door; Carlos at the driver’s seat. Almost safe.
“Stop!” a voice, oddly familiar, shouted from behind them.
She didn’t.
A single shot rang out. Jack jerked as the bullet ripped through his chest and tore through a lung. He stumbled forward a single step and then fell, spitting blood with his dying breath.
Zara did not stop as much as she stepped into a turn, spinning around to drop to one knee. She saw a man standing with a Glock held at ready twenty feet behind them. Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Jason?”
“Zara?” Jason Rakehell sounded equally surprised, but then he saw Galahad standing beside her. His incredulity twisted into hate. His finger tightened on the trigger.
Zara, without any flicker of hesitation, let her dagger fly.
Two shots rang out fractions of a second before the dagger plunged into Jason’s right bicep, severing muscle and tendon, destroying any chances of a steady aim. Jason screamed an incoherent curse at Zara, but the damage was done.
Galahad twisted away from the path of the bullets quickly enough to avoid fatal injury, but not enough to avoid being hit. A bullet slammed into his side, another into his thigh. He staggered and choked back a gasp of pain.
Zara slid an arm around his waist. “I’ve got you,” she promised, her voice a low, assuring murmur. She rushed him out of the kitchen and toward the open back door of her car. “Stay with me; we’re almost there.”
She pushed him into the back seat and slipped in after him. Carlos slammed his foot down on the accelerator even before she closed the door. As they pulled away, she glanced back. Jason Rakehell was screaming. His face, inscribed with hatred and murderous intent, was barely recognizable.
Zara snorted under her breath. The Rakehells had to be the most high-achieving, mentally unhinged family in America. Roland Rakehell had shattered the boundaries of science when he created the perfect human being. In turn, his son Jason had founded Purest Humanity, the world’s larges
t and most militant pro-humanist organization, to destroy his father’s work. Nothing like a psychotic overachiever to screw up your day.
She turned to look at Galahad. He leaned back and closed his eyes; his breaths shallow. Blood darkened his white cotton tunic and pants around his midsection and right thigh. He clearly needed medical attention, but it would be difficult to walk into an emergency room and ask for help. Galahad had no identification, which guaranteed no aid from hospitals. The free clinic was an option, but she would sooner abandon Galahad on the side of the road than take him to one of those under-funded clinics staffed by young, inadequately trained interns.
“Xin?”
The quiet, calm voice in her ear said, “I’m still here. Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Galahad’s hit; I don’t think it’s critical, but he needs attention as soon as possible. I want you to call Lucien—he’s usually in D.C. for Christmas—and then meet me at his house.”
“Lucien? Lucien Winter?”
“Yes, Lucien Winter. Call him, and tell him I need his help. I’ve absconded with the pinnacle of genetic perfection. There’s a media circus in the making here, and I’m at the very heart of it. I’m in a boatload of trouble.”
There was a brief silence and then an amused chuckle. “‘Boatload’ doesn’t adequately describe the amount of trouble you’re in. It’s more like an aircraft carrier,” Xin said. “I’ll call Lucien. See you there. Drive safe.”
“Carlos, get us to McLean. I can give you directions to Lucien’s house from there.”
“Okay.” The lean Hispanic man with a nervous tic under his left eye spared a quick glance through the rearview mirror. His mouth twitched with suppressed humor.
“What is it, Carlos?” Zara asked. They had worked together for almost five years, and in that time, Carlos had become her top spotter. He was as indispensible as Xin and could get away with smart-aleck comments she would not have entertained from her other employees.
“Couldn’t just get a tissue sample, could you? Had to take the whole damn thing.”
Zara smirked. “Well, here at Three Fates, we believe in over-delivering on our contracts.” She placed a hand over Galahad’s. “We’re going to a friend’s house. You’ll be safe there.”
He nodded weakly. “Jason Rakehell knows you?” The quiet tone failed to conceal grinding pain.
“Know” was a hell of an understatement, though whatever she had once shared with Jason was long gone. With effort, she kept rancor from bleeding into her voice. “He was once my fiancé.”
~*~
The drive to McLean, Virginia, took a little more than an hour. Galahad lost unconsciousness shortly after leaving Pioneer Labs. He stirred occasionally when Carlos took a corner a little too recklessly, but did not wake. Consequently, Zara had an entire hour to ponder what she had done. Pioneer Labs destroyed, scores of people dead, and some laboratory things now presumably on the loose. Perhaps the fire at the laboratory killed them too, but if it hadn’t, then what? The revelations would provide all kinds of fodder for delusional pro-humanist rhetoric. Perhaps she had Jason Rakehell to thank for elevating her status from near-criminal to unexpected savior. Not that it justified her theft of Galahad, but the attack on Pioneer Labs would certainly have resulted in Galahad’s death.
“Crap,” she muttered under her breath as they pulled into the circular driveway that led up to the entrance of Lucien’s suburban home. It was cold comfort that most of the chaos was not entirely her fault, though she doubted Lucien would take that charitable a view of the situation.
The front door opened, and Xin, slim and svelte in black jeans and a black turtleneck sweater, stepped out with three of Lucien’s staff members behind her. Apparently they had been briefed on the situation. With little fanfare and no display of emotion, they opened the passenger door. Two of them maneuvered the unconscious Galahad out of the back seat and carried him into the house.
“William will take your car to the garage,” Xin announced as Lucien’s third employee stepped into the driver’s seat that Carlos had vacated. “Hi Carlos.” She flashed him a grin before looking at Zara. “Lucien wants to see you. He’s in his study.”
“Wait here for me, Carlos,” Zara said. “How pissed is he?” she asked Xin. Marble steps welcomed her into a vast foyer swirling with rich colors. Burgundy velvet curtains and black vases filled with burnished red roses were set against the white starkness of Italian marble files. Above her, a crystal chandelier shattered light into a thousand sparkles. “And how much did you tell him?”
Xin sighed, running her fingers through the silken fall of her black hair. “Pretty much all of it. He’s already berated me for my part in helping you break into Pioneer Labs. ‘Childish games’ was the kindest thing he said, and it went rapidly downhill from there. I told him it was worth two million to you, but that’s just pocket change to him, so he’s not impressed. I suspect he’s holding back and is saving some choice comments for you. I don’t think he approves of what you do.”
“He never did. Has he sent for a doctor?”
“Not yet. I gathered from your last communication that Galahad’s situation isn’t critical. Lucien wants to hear directly from you before he decides just how much of his personal reputation to put on the line to haul your ass out of the fire.”
“Great.” Zara inhaled deeply. She braced herself for a confrontation with one of her most trusted friends, and pushed open the door to Lucien’s study after a single, perfunctory knock.
“You’re here.” Lucien glanced up from where he had been brooding by an open window. Moving briskly, he went over to the liquor cabinet, poured fine whiskey into a crystal glass, and held it out to her. His face was unsmiling, but his deep blue eyes were concerned as he scanned her carefully. “Not hurt?”
“I’m fine, though I lost one of the daggers you gave me.”
“I hope you didn’t leave it buried in someone’s heart.”
“In Jason Rakehell’s arm actually, but it was his fault. He started it,” Zara protested, a smile toying at her lips.
“You’re trying to charm me. It won’t work, Zara. Did you and Xin wake up one morning and decide, just for the hell of it, to break into Pioneer Labs and kidnap Galahad?”
“Not precisely. The former was a fairly well put-together plan to break in, extract a tissue sample from Galahad, and sell it to A*STAR for two million dollars. The latter, however, was an improvisation on my part. A fortunate one, I might add, or he would be dead by now.”
Lucien snarled, not at all amused by her flippancy. He ran a hand through his black hair as he sat on the edge of his desk. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” He waved his hand at the chaotic images flashing across the flat screen television mounted on the wall. “Breaking news…Pioneer Labs on fire. At least forty-five people believed killed. Galahad has not been located, but is believed to be dead. And hell, it’s not even nine yet. The night’s still young. What are you planning to do for an encore?”
She ignored his sarcasm. “Did they find those things yet?”
Lucien looked up at her. “What things?” he asked quietly.
“The things that got loose and are probably responsible for most of the body count.” Zara tossed back her whiskey and set the empty glass down on the table. She took a moment to swallow, grimacing at the smoky taste of the whiskey, even though she knew the liquor was from Lucien’s private collection, and consequently absurdly expensive. Some things, regardless of how much they cost, were acquired tastes.
“You didn’t say anything about ‘things,’” Xin said. For the first time, a hint of worry crept into her brown eyes.
“There wasn’t time, and I haven’t actually seen anything. I don’t know what it is, or rather what they are. I just heard them…once before the mob attacked the lab, and then again while we were trying to get out. The second time was followed by lots of human screams, which I suspect ended in a score of zero for the humans and one for the things.”
/>
“You’re sure there’s more than one?”
“I believe so. Galahad referred to them in the plural.”
“Xin, can you call the police?” Lucien asked, “Let them know that something’s out there.” His voice faded into silence as the television crew cameras, filming the live breaking news at Pioneer Laboratories, zoomed in on six vaguely humanoid shapes emerging from the smoking ruins of the lab. Bulky torsos. Elongated limbs. Misshapen bodies. Grotesque faces.
“Somehow, I think the police already know,” Xin said softly as the cops on the scene took up defensive positions around their cars, weapons drawn.
The creatures broke formation, and without hesitation threw themselves at the humans—cops, ambulance workers, news reporters—and savaged them, tearing and smashing. Screams shrilled through the open microphones, punctuated by scattered gunfire. Through it all, Zara heard the vicious growls and snarls of the abominations, a guttural series of moans that sounded like incoherent words.
It lasted no more than a minute, but the massacre seemed eternal, until an abomination hurled the body of a cop directly into the camera. The screen went black. There was a brief flicker, and then the news anchor, comfortable and safe in the newsroom, reappeared on the screen. His face was pale, his speech stuttering as he tried to explain the madness captured by the final moments of his news crew.
Lucien muttered a curse under his breath. His hands clenched into fists, and a muscle worked in his left cheek where a dimple usually resided. “Where’s Galahad?” he asked. “We need some answers out of him.”
“Upstairs, in the Ivory Room.” Xin pushed away from the wall in a sinuous motion. She led the way out of the study and upstairs toward the guest room, where Lucien’s employees had brought Galahad.
One of Lucien’s female employees had been tasked to attend to Galahad, and she jumped to her feet, blushing as the three of them entered the room. “I’ve cleaned up the blood as best I can, sir.” The words were released in a breathless rush.