by S. L. Eaves
Dead and Damaged
The Endangered Series
Book 2
By
S.L. Eaves
DEAD & DAMAGED
THE ENDANGERED SERIES, BOOK 2
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, places, incidents, and dialogue are the product of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real, or if real, are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.
First edition published in the United States of America by The Zharmae Publishing Press, LLC. July, 2016.
Second edition published by Amazon Digital Services LLC.
September, 2016.
Copyright © S. L. Eaves
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
“I was here before I ever believed.”
Chapter 1
“Go!”
Not that they need my encouragement. The scientists make a mad dash down the street, a few still wearing their white lab coats—just stick a bullseye on them already, damn—as I hold my ground in the middle of the road, rain and wind whipping past. My gun is out of bullets, but I can’t see the sense in letting them know that. And by them I don’t mean the scientists.
The mercenaries sprint around the corner in hot pursuit. They spot me and almost don’t know how to react.
Almost.
It’s probably not often their target moves towards them instead of away. I step slowly, walking methodically towards my prey with deliberate, intimidating strides. It doesn’t carry the same effect as it does when serial killers do it in slasher films. Perhaps it is the lack of a machete.
Their hesitation is brief. I am met with a bullet to the shoulder. Then another. The first doesn’t do much except maybe add to the menacing villainess image I’m cultivating, but the second spins me just in time for my back to catch the third. I hit the pavement.
Hot steel tears through cold flesh, veins break apart, tissue severs, bone snaps.
I feel every bit of it.
I lie twisted on the wet asphalt, gravel grinding against my skin, blood soaking through my clothes. The bullets came from high-powered rifles and I have to admit I’m hurting.
But I know I can do what needs to be done. Bullet wounds and all. And that’s the bitch of it.
For a second, I think about what it would be like to not get up.
And a part of me looks forward to the day I don’t.
But it won’t be today.
A car suddenly appears around a bend down the street. The driver must be quite shocked by what the headlights illuminate. Brakes screech as I pull my knees into my chest and push myself to my feet. Fangs bared.
The hired guns move like a trained SWAT team. But even they don’t seem to know how to react at that exact moment. Especially with a civilian shining high beams on their attempted murder. They stand, frozen, just out of reach of the car’s headlights as they watch me rise.
Taking advantage of the spare seconds the car has granted me, I wipe the crusty purple mix of blood and grit off my hands and clothes as I feel my body healing, then pick up my gun.
I will get up and I will keep fighting. It’s not a choice so much as a desire for change. There’s no honor in what I’ve become. My motives do not come from a good place. There is no happy ending to fight for in my reality. I care nothing for the people my actions may save, nor am I above them. I have even less regard for myself. I just want the all–consuming plague of rage and grief and envy to be replaced by something else entirely. It is my sole motivator.
I despise those who live a blissful existence, to whom suffering is a foreign concept. I loathe those who squander their own mortality; taking even a second of it for granted; those who use the term helpless without ever having lived it.
I grieve for the ones I’ve lost, for those who died for me when they shouldn’t have, and for my own mortal life that was doomed from the start.
I envy those who have never felt pain the way I’ve come to understand it. Those sheltered in their own happy bubble of ignorance that defines their existence; who have wanted but never needed.
I lash out at anyone and everyone who prevents me from evolving past my current state. The anger I’ve carried all my life is the anger that comes from knowing what can never be changed. After trying so hard to right your wrongs, yet in the end being told that none of it matters.
In my human life the happiness I attained, those moments fleeting as they were, still linger as a reminder of something warm and wonderful I know exists.
Yet, with this knowledge comes an acute awareness that I will never experience those feelings again. The world I walk in now has rendered me incapable and I understand the resentment that comes with that, but I refuse to wallow in my own unfortunate circumstances. Instead I find new avenues to express my discontent and replace the void where happiness once lived.
In some cases the end result is misdirected rage. I’m fully willing to admit this. But in this circumstance specifically, I’m pretty sure these assholes attacking unarmed scientists have earned my fury.
Then again, no one on either side of this battle is innocent.
If I told you I dislike violence you wouldn’t believe me and I’d be lying.
At the end of the day, the answer to why I do what I do is as much who I am as what I am.
And I won’t apologize for any of it.
To put it simply, it is all I’ve ever known.
The driver shifts into reverse; tires spray dirty rainwater as the old sedan lurches up onto the curb to complete a choppy, panicked version of a three-point turn. In that moment the headlights shift from me to the men and I take the opportunity to dive for cover behind a parked car.
In the shadows I see a scientist lying face-down on the sidewalk.
It was someone else’s turn tonight.
Shit.
I grab her arm and slide her over. No pulse. I can smell the death on her, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting confirmation. Maybe it’s a force of habit. Maybe it’s the unwillingness to trust the demon’s intuition. Maybe it’s a sign I still have hope. Whatever it is, I find myself checking pulses, performing CPR, and in the end just not wanting to see another dead body. This is yet another reminder of the callous disregard for life that comes so naturally in this form of existence. I want to see something else derived from this state. I would like to save someone who deserves to be saved. It would be a nice change of pace. Might even make me feel human again. Not that I was much for saving anyone in that state, either. At least back then I tried. It felt good to care, to have the illusion of faith and the comfort that followed. I miss that.
I look around and don’t see the other scientists. This is a good sign. I am vaguely aware of the tires screeching from the car pulling away and the lack of gunshots. I risk a look over the hood and see them fanning out.
The comm in my ear beeps.
“What about stealth did you not understand?!” Abrams’s voice bellows over the static.
“Not my fault. That black box piece of shit you gave me doesn’t work.”
“They’re wearing goggles?”
“Goggles? Like swimming goggles?”
“Eye pieces. Probably orange in color.”
I watch a couple of the men cross to my side of the street, half a block down.
“They have black helmets with orange eye slits, yes. They look more like visors though.”
“Okay. Those
visors they’re wearing—the eyepieces can see through the shields.”
“Oh. And you failed to mention that because…?”
Gunshots resume and glass breaks above my head. They’ve located their target.
“Didn’t have confirmation.”
“Well, you do now,” I yell, unintentionally raising my voice as I wipe wet shards of glass from my shoulders.
“I deployed backup. A team is less than a minute out. If your shield is still on, deactivate it so they can find you. Help them lead the scientists to safety.”
I look at the woman at my feet.
“About that. One is down.”
“Damn. Who?”
“Uh…” I check her pockets for identification. Her badge must’ve fallen off during the chaos. “I dunno the female one. African American. If there was more than one black female scientist I’m going to be really impressed.”
“Dr. Hallager,” I hear him grumble. “The others okay?”
“I think. They disappeared around the block. I’m pinned down in the street trying to hold these SWAT guys off.”
“Right. Can you get a visor?”
I find one last clip in my boot and reload.
“A visor?”
“From one of the soldiers. We could really use access to that technology. These scientists probably know how to develop it, but a working prototype wouldn’t hurt.”
Wouldn’t hurt you maybe.
I pop up and fire shots aimlessly into the street. A couple men duck, gesturing to the others to take cover.
“Sure, I’ll just ask one of these nice mercenaries to hand theirs over.” I shake my head, scan for a clear shot. “I’ll see what I can do.”
I click the comm off. A man in combat gear scurries down the sidewalk in a crouched position. He does not have one of the fancy orange eyepieces and he’s firing shots across the street as he makes his way towards me. Backup has arrived.
When he reaches the car he drops in beside me, pressing his back against the door so that he’s shoulder to shoulder with me. He surveys the body to my right with a look of disappointment.
“Hey, Agent Garret, Tyler Garret. How many are there?”
“Lori Black.” I wonder if I’m supposed to be calling myself “agent” now.
Even under the rain–soaked gear, the chiseled jaw and cocky smile give off a star quarterback vibe. A few strands of dirty blonde hair stick out from his helmet and I immediately think G.I. Joe-Ken doll hybrid.
I don’t know what’s more cliché, his look or that I buy into it. Focus, Lori, focus.
“Are you backup?”
“Part of it,” he smiles, realizing I’m wondering if he is all they sent. “Rest of my team is with the doctors.”
I nod, relieved. “There’s four or five of these mercenary guys. I shot a few, but they’ve got some serious Kevlar. If you provide cover I can get close enough to do some real damage.”
If this is his first time staring into the eyes of a vampire he doesn’t show it. He simply nods. I sprint into the street charging the nearest moving shadow.
Leaping onto the hood of the van proves to be a dumb, overly-dramatic play. Especially because the man I saw dive behind it isn’t there when I land. But it does draw all the fire away from Tyler. No one can resist an easy target.
Tyler goes to work and I hear bodies drop from his side of the street. I spot a silhouette crawl between two dumpsters as I leap off the van in search of my elusive mercenary. He is leaning on the brick wall, propped up between the dumpsters, fumbling with a jammed gun when I lower mine on him.
“Don’t suppose you’d just hand over your helmet?” I ask. A poor excuse for a street light shines behind me; its reflection catches the corner of his visor. My image is noticeably absent, but my gun’s isn’t.
His response is to lunge at me, rifle in his left hand and a bowie knife in his right. I move too fast for him. Grabbing the wrist of his knife hand, I snap it back as I throw my weight into his gun. The gun clatters to the ground and I slam him into the side of the dumpster.
He drops to his knees, holding his broken wrist. He’s about to have a bigger problem.
I pick up the knife and jam it into his neck, letting the blade slip under the helmet. I stop when the handle hits his chin. He spasms, gurgles, and starts to slump over. I catch him, yank off his helmet, and then let his body fall. The blood makes my nostrils flare. I am overly conscious of my fangs and the thirst. I quickly retreat. Not that I wouldn’t partake under normal circumstances, but I’d prefer if my new allies didn’t see me indulging. First impressions and all.
When I step back out into the street, Tyler is putting some assurance shots into the exposed neck of a mercenary. I look around. It has gone quiet again. The rainwater is red with blood as it pools around drainage grates.
“Nice work,” I say, impressed at how quickly and efficiently he cleared the street.
“I see you got a souvenir.” Tyler nods at the helmet.
“For the boss man.”
“Let’s get out of here. We told the APD we were running an operation and they know that means to stand down, but all the commotion we just caused will be hard to ignore.” He shoots me an admonishing look that says only an amateur would botch a stealth mission this loudly.
Chapter 2
One Week Earlier
The laser sight from my Glock 23 bounces off an invisible surface and I hear footsteps take off down an alley. He’s wearing a black box, but I’m able to see through the illusion when he moves. If he were to stand frozen in place it would take a hell of a lot longer. Fortunately for me he knows he’s being hunted and has no intention of waiting around for me to find him. I glimpse him briefly as he rounds a corner.
Midnight has long passed and the streets of downtown Boston are quiet. At least, as quiet as they are going to get. We are near Quincy Market and I’ve come to find this part of the city is a ghost town after sunset. Still, if anyone sees me running down the streets carrying a gun it won’t go over well.
Albeit less conspicuous than a flash light, the laser sight still lacks discretion. Both the gun and the laser are necessary given the circumstances, regardless of how disconcerting they may be to a bystander.
I promise you, I am much less lethal than the creature I’m hunting. And that’s saying something.
When I reached the alleyway I feel a sharp sting in my ankle. A paralyzing jolt shoots through my body and I drop to my knees. I pluck the dart from my leg. Its long needle had successfully penetrated my leather boot and sent a shockwave through my body.
Instinctively, I dive behind a row of trash cans for cover.
I peer out over the cans for a sniper, but my attention keeps going back to the dart. It is emitting some sort of pulse and it makes a hissing sound not unlike a bug zapper. I touch the tip and the pulse goes through me again.
An electric dart rigged to work as a taser? Impressive, yet frightening because it had effectively paralyzed me. Momentarily, but still…it worked. Someone knows what they’re doing.
Disoriented, I’ve forgotten about my target, until he flips me over the trash cans.
I sense his presence a moment too late and he blindsides me. I jump to my feet, catching a blur as he moves sideways. This time I am ready and react to the breeze by my head as the punch lands. He is human and the impact is minimal. I let him land the punch so I can stab his arm with the dart.
The bug zapper sound magnifies as the invisible shield collapses and the man hits the ground in a fit of seizures. I pull him deeper into the alley, figuring we’ve made enough of a scene. I wonder what the sniper makes of all this.
Or are they even working together?
I was not expecting my target to be human. Another dart hits me in the lower back and I fall to my knees once again. Either the sniper has changed positions or I’ve misjudged his location because clearly I am still well in his range. A little red dot appears on my arm as I push through the pain to remove the second dart and
then everything goes dark.
When I regain consciousness, I’m sitting upright in a moving vehicle with soft leather upholstery. My arms are thoroughly chained and I can sense bodies, human bodies, on either side. I feel their warmth, but I cannot see them thanks to the burlap sack over my head. Good thing I don’t need to breathe. I don’t try to fight them. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to pull off this snag and bag; I figure I’ll go along for the ride and see whose throat I need to rip out. No sense killing the messenger.
After several hours we come to a stop. If they are talking I can’t hear it. And I would hear it. So they must know. Given the way they operate, they seem to know a lot more about me than I know about them. I am going to have to change that.
There is a tug at my arm and I am pulled from the vehicle and onto my feet. Shackles are affixed to my ankles. They make an obnoxious clanking noise as I’m led forward and zigzagged through what I imagine are hallways of a building. I hear a door open and I am seated in a rigid, but surprisingly comfortable upright chair. These guys have a thing for expensive leather. I sensed money and power before and now I’m certain this is a professional operation. I may be in over my head. A few tugs of the chains later and my captors are satisfied that I am not going anywhere.
“Remove the sack,” a gruff voice orders. His authoritative tone implies rank.
The excessive blindfold comes off and I find myself sitting in a richly appointed office.
“Leave us.” There’s that tone again.
The door behind me closes and the man shifts his gaze to meet my eyes. I note that I don’t hear footsteps depart down the hall. He is keeping them close.
“Welcome. My name is Director Abrams. Forgive the circumstances, but we had to take certain precautions given the nature of your kind.”
I look around the office. The desk and shelves are littered with books and commemorative plaques. No family photos, no character, no personality. It screams government official.