Cain

by James Byron Huggins

  The giant stood poised in the room and his brow hardened, anger making the red eyes narrow and menacing as Father Lanester stared up, enraptured by the solemn stance.

  "What is your name?" the priest asked, regretfully remembering the admonition to never, never ... no, never engage them in conversation! But at the words the man simply looked down, a faint smile.

  "Cain," he said. "My name is Cain."

  "Cain," the priest repeated. "The first murderer."

  "And the last," Cain said coldly. "Now, where is the document I seek, priest? Where is my document?" His face twisted in a bolt of savage pain. "I ... cannot remember."

  With a groan he fell to his knees, clutching his head. So close to him, the priest stared, mesmerized at the gigantic suffering that burned in the imperial face. It was the kind of pain that could drive a man insane, but the priest knew in his heart that this was no man.

  "Tell me," the giant mumbled, falling heavily on a hand, holding his head with the other. "Tell me ... quickly!"

  Inspired by desperate hope the priest shouted, "No! ... No! I won't tell you!"

  A slow shake of the horrific head and the giant reached out to settle his clawed left hand on the priest's knee. "Foolish . . . foolish mortal," he moaned, head bowed. "What makes you think you can contend ... with a god?"

  The taloned hand closed to crush the bones of the leg to powder. Blood spiraled from ruptured skin to spray ancient documents. After the priest's hideous, rhythmic screams no longer reverberated from the walls of the subterranean chamber, the giant gazed at him again. He was breathing heavily, as if he were on the verge of death.

  "Where ... is the document?"

  The priest pointed with a high-pitched scream. "There! On the shelf! Take it! Take it! Take . . . Ahhhh ..."

  Staggering, Cain rose only to fall heavily against the shelves. He reached up, fumbling, pulling a handful of documents that fell to the floor. Roughly he rummaged, searching until he lifted a thick, ancient, leather-bound document, holding it in his unbloodied hand. He swayed as he turned to the horrified priest of St. Michael's, still sprawled in blood.

  Grimacing in pain, Cain walked forward, strength failing until he stood over Father Lanester, staring down with eyes as dead-opaque as those of a leopard crouching before a kill.

  A violent fear overcame the priest's pain. For there was no pain here, no, not here. Here was the place where fear died. Here was the place of horror, of oncoming death. Then he screamed for the last time in his life as Cain's mouth gaped and fangs violently exploded from his upper and lower ridge, fangs as sharp and savage as a saber-toothed tiger's.

  With a godlike hand Cain reached down, lifting the priest cleanly from the floor. The giant's eyes glowed blood-red as he held him close, whispering over the glistening white tusks.

  "Time to feed."

  ***

  "It's all right, Maggie," Soloman said, waiting. "I'm a soldier, and I know what it's like. We both do our jobs. But right now we have to figure out how to stop this monster. Are you able to continue?"

  She wiped her face, focusing almost immediately. Obviously, despite the guilt she felt, she possessed remarkable intelligence and control. "I'm ... fine, Colonel." She nodded to Ben. "I'm just fine. Let's get on with it."

  Soloman's eyes softened in respect. "Good. Thank you." He took a moment. "All right, why do we have only ten days before this HyMar virus becomes contagious? You said it wouldn't cause hemorrhagic fever."

  "The HyMar won't cause the fever in Cain, Soloman, but it's still mutating. That's what viruses do. That's all they do. I'd hoped that I altered the DL-3 and DL-4 strands to make it nonpathogenic, but I think I failed."

  "Why do you think that?"

  Sighing, she seemed to be tiring quickly.

  "Because, when I was completing blood work on Cain a couple days ago I saw the virus undergoing silent mutations, or mutations that reveal no phenotypic effects. The mutagens that are still building up in the cell vacuoles are causing a concentration differential to accent pathogenesis. And very soon it's going to achieve a threshold effect."

  Soloman blinked. "What's a threshold effect?"

  "That's the point where a virus becomes lethal. It's ... like this: a Ping-Pong ball going five miles an hour doesn't hurt you. Even if it's going fifty miles an hour it probably won't hurt you. But at some specific point, at maybe eighty or a hundred miles an hour, that Ping-Pong ball reaches a level where it can kill you. HyMar is the same way. There will be a level where the HyMar cytoplasm and mutagens acquire enough host cells to promote the virus to a T-4 bacteriophage. And at that point it will become the most deadly organism this planet has ever seen."

  "And then?"

  "And then," she answered, eyes flashing, "Cain will be a walking bubonic plague. Anyone who has atmosphere-to-atmosphere contact with him will instantly contract it. And the virus itself will be more resilient than any other Class Four organism ever seen, capable of surviving on a nonorganic surface for as long as two months. Anyone can catch it and they in turn will infect anyone who has atmospheric contact."

  Finally, Soloman shook his head and rose.

  "All right," he said. "We're too tired to deal with this now. Let's hit the rack. We'll start again at 0500 but we'll eat chow in here because we've got a lot to do. We've got to find some means of locating this thing."

  "Yeah," Ben growled. "Like yesterday."

  Maggie wearily wiped sweat from her forehead. "Thank you. That ... that stupid F-14 flight really took it out of me – fool of a pilot." She leaned on the table as she stood. "I threw up so many times I lost count. Vomit was ... everywhere."

  Soloman smiled, understanding, before he turned to the general. "Have you secured billeting for her, Ben?"

  "Huh?" Ben stared a moment. "There's no need for that, Sol. She's been living on and off the base for more than three months." He took a drag, released it slowly. "You're forgetting, son, that everything was done right here at White Sands, down in J-3. She only had to fly back because she was helping design emergency search-and-destroy procedures for the Seals. When she's here, she lives in the house of an 06 who's been reassigned to Quantico."

  Bowing his head, Soloman cursed himself for not thinking of that. It even scared him a little, making him suspect he'd lost an edge. "All right, but I want you to change her quarters," he said. "Put Maggie on the same floor that I'm on in the administrative building. And I want you to double the Delta guys for added security."

  "Why, Sol? She's already got—"

  "Just trust me, Ben. I think I'm right on this."

  Ben's face was emotionless; he nodded. "All right, Sol. Whatever you want."

  Maggie was watching carefully when Soloman looked back. She stared at him in faint concern, as if her preternatural intelligence had caught something said only by his tone.

  "Why should I be afraid, Soloman?" she asked, motionless. "Cain doesn't know me. He's never …he's never even seen me."

  Whatever was hooded within Soloman's eyes would remain there. Without emotion he turned away.

  "I wouldn't bet on it, Maggie."

  *

  CHAPTER 4

  The child knew death.

  Terrified eyes searched for the father she could not find and would never find, no, not ever. And she slowly turned, staring at the tall man who came for her, the man that hurt her mother only to chase her so far and so long.

  She had tried to hide but he had found her over and over, forcing her to run again, always run. But she was tired of running, her legs heavy and numb, and she knew that she could run no more.

  She watched him come close.

  Closer.

  Then the tall man reached out to her as ... as Daddy had so often reached out to her.

  His hands opened.

  A smile.

  Death.

  All she knew.

  ***

  Soloman let the killer's body fall to the ground.

  He had hunted the man down, had hunted almos
t all of them down and killed them with his own hands. Because he would have it no other way. Because he had to kill them all with his hands for what they had done. Because he had to feel them die in his hands, had to stare them in the eyes and know they knew they were dying ... in his hands.

  But now the dark deed was done.

  But not so dark, no, not so dark as . . .

  Her face as it must have been.

  "Daddy!"

  ***

  Soloman roared, awakening.

  Too much.

  His angry gaze scanned all there was in the room to acclimate himself to where he was. Then he sat upright in the chair where he'd fallen asleep, and with a deeper breath tried not to think that she was gone. Frowning and sweating, he tried to lose the pain but knew he couldn't.

  No, he could never lose the pain.

  Her blood ...

  And his guilt because he had not been there to protect her ...

  She was gone. All he had ever loved was gone, the only two people ever to love and trust him were gone. His child, murdered when she was so very, very weak by those so cruel, who died in return.

  Silent, scowling, Soloman knew the loss and guilt as he knew it every night in the desert with the darkness and silence and cold, alone and lonely. Then he felt his face tighten in pain and tried to resist but knew in the moment that he could never resist.

  He bowed his head.

  Wept.

  ***

  "Can you stop this guy, Sol?"

  Stoic, Soloman watched Cain kill the scientist again. He had watched the film twenty times since he had awoken and something continued to bother him, something he couldn't place. He felt it was there, knew it was there, but whatever it was, it was still eluding him.

  Ben had staggered to Soloman's room at four in the morning, knocking sharply on the door, obnoxiously demanding entrance. After Soloman opened the door the general came in with a half-gone bottle of Glenlivet, joyfully lifting it for display.

  "I liked this stuff so much that I got a bottle for myself!" he laughed. "I had to haul old K.C. out of bed, kicking and screaming, to make him open the package store but a general can do that kind of thing, long as it don't get around." He swayed, staring at the bottle. "Old son, this is stout stuff! It's just what I needed! But, good lord, Sol, who wouldn't! A freakin' Frankenstein with fangs and superhuman strength running loose? And we're supposed to stop his un-killable ass in ten days or he'll destroy the world?"

  Soloman shook his head. He knew Ben was riding a deserved wild rapids on the glorious river of booze. He wondered how long it would be before the drop was over and the calm came.

  "Have a seat, Ben," he muttered. "That is, if you can."

  Ben collapsed with surprising control into a chair, belching with a slow nodding of his head that continued for a long time. Then his face became abruptly morose, as if he'd drunk himself past happy and into sad. He said nothing, stared at nothing.

  "Are you all right, Ben?"

  "Fine." Ben slurred the word impressively. "Just fine." He was silent before he looked at Soloman, then smiled. " 'Cause I got you, old buddy. And you're gonna catch this guy! Yeah, you're gonna catch him," he nodded to it. "Then we're gonna kill him. Then we're gonna drive a stake through his heart!" There was a solemn stare; Ben's emotions were changing direction like the wind. "Do you know why they gave me this assignment, old buddy?"

  Soloman laughed. "Why no, Ben. Tell me about it."

  "'Cause they wanted you!" he winked, or seemed to; Soloman couldn't be sure. "Yeah, they wanted you ... to come back. They wanted you—" He pointed the uncapped bottle toward the window, spilling a precious amount. "Wanted you to come out of that desert! Because they knew nobody else could pull this off! They wanted the best butcher in the world and they came to me because I was the only one who could bring you out!" He took another swig, a slightly lesser amount to back off.

  "Yeah," he grimaced, "they gave it to me because they knew nobody else could bring you out of that ... Death Valley death house. I don't know what you were doing out there anyway, Sol. Looking to die, waiting to die, tryin' to die. Whatever. But it wasn't ... a good place to be."

  Soloman was grim. "Just staying in shape, Ben. Studying. That's all there is, really."

  "Yeah." Ben lowered his voice. "That's why they wanted you. And they used me to do it. I ... I could have refused, Sol." He bowed his head, closing his eyes. "I could have. I'm only two years out, and they can't touch me. But I knew that you needed it. 'Cause I could see you out there. Remembering. Dreaming. And ... and I thought I might bring you back."

  Soloman's lips pursed. He didn't look up.

  Shaking his head, Ben continued, "What was it, Sol?" He paused, staring ahead. "I mean, what was it? You killed all of 'em deader'n a wedge. But it's like ... it's like it ain't finished. Like it never was."

  Soloman frowned. "One survived, Ben."

  Slowly, Ben nodded. "Yeah, Sol. He probably did." There was a moment of unspoken regret as Ben continued. "Sol, you were the best warrior I ever saw ... until you let guilt over Marilyn and Lisa eat you alive." His face flinched. "But they're gone, Sol! And there ain't nothin' you can do about it! You did your best! You're not the one who gave away the safehouse! We don't know who did it! So I don't see how you can consider it your fault, especially since you were out doing your job!"

  "I should have been there for them, Ben." Soloman frowned, closing his eyes. "They trusted me ... They trusted me, and they needed me. And I wasn't there when they needed me most."

  Ben fell silent, as if he'd passed the raging river of booze to fall into a dead and saddened calm.

  "Death for death," he whispered, nodding. "Death for death."

  ***

  Somewhere near dawn Ben's amazing vitality and intelligence reasserted itself and he sternly ordered the Delta soldiers to bring two pots of coffee from the mess hall, saying the words just steadily enough to conceal his condition. But then he didn't stand long in the doorway, either, obviously not trusting himself to hold balance for more than a moment. Afterwards he collapsed in a chair beside Soloman, trying to focus as Soloman watched the first scientist die for what may have been the hundredth time. Neither of them had slept after he'd arrived in the room.

  Soloman concentrated on the screen as Ben put the cap on an empty bottle of Scotch. The general reached up, gently touching his head. "I have ... a very serious headache. I think this is what they call penance."

  "No, Ben, this is what they call sobering up."

  "Yeah."

  Catching a movement on the screen, Soloman's eyes narrowed. He saw Cain kill the scientist again before shattering steel shackles holding him to an operating table. Then in the next split-second Cain snatched a coded security card from the scientist's side pocket, moving to the vault door. Moments later he confronted the Special Forces unit in an intersection of hallways, moving toward an unmarked elevator. Di liberates! To be free!

  "That's it!" Soloman shouted, stopping the video. "What!"

  "That! That's it!"

  "That's what!"

  Soloman rewound the tape, then froze the picture as Cain bent to take the card. He pointed to the screen. "Did you see that? Did you see how Cain took the scientist's key card without searching for it? Do you see how he selected the right hallway for the elevator even though it was unmarked?"

  "Yeah, yeah; I see it!"

  "Cain couldn't have known something like that! He could have known how to hotwire the vault or the rest of it, but there was no way he could have known that scientist's card was in the inside pocket of his coat. He should have been forced to search for it. And he shouldn't have known which hallway led to the elevator. He should have been forced to search for that, too."

  "And?"

  "And so something is wrong, Ben." Soloman rose. "Did Cain ever meet that scientist before he died? Had Cain ever been inside this facility to learn the architecture?"

  "No; Cain was stone dead when he got to the laboratory. His meet
in' days were over."

  Soloman replayed the tape again and was certain. He forwarded it to where Cain killed the first unit of men and saw it happen again and knew it was there. And yet, still, it gave no real answers. It only opened up another level of mystery.

  Soloman frowned. "Ben, I think we're dealing with something that's come back from the dead knowing things no one should know. And I don't know how that could happen."

  "But you can stop him, right?" Ben whispered, trembling. "You canfind this guy and stop him inside ten days? Because if you can't, then you know we're history."

  "I know already, Ben. I know."

  Soloman again beheld the lordly image of rage captured on the screen. It was the roaring height of bestial power, of galactic might as immeasurable and pure and far beyond the Earth as the stars.

  "Soloman?" Ben whispered. "What do you say, buddy? Can you take this guy down?"

  Silence dominated as Soloman measured the river of blood already shed by this thing. He saw the lives lost, thought of the families destroyed. And he knew what he had to do.

  His jaw tightened.

  "I guess we're gonna find out," he said.

  ***

  Archette's cadaverous face, skin stretched like parchment across haggard features, stared at Ben from the screen of the imaging system. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Arthur "Bull" Thompson, spoke in a voice of weighty authority. "So, Ben, what do you have for us? What's the result of the latest analysis?"

  "I am convinced that we can reactivate him, sir," Ben said, holding his line. "He is utterly in control. And with respect, General, I think further evaluation is a good waste of time."

  "Good," growled Bull, looking like a Roman centurion with his big square head and gray flattop. He added, "How soon can you get this thing off the ground, Ben?"

  "Airborne, sir." Ben nodded. "We're hot."

  "You've completed a Gittenger Analysis?" Archette asked from no-where, staring at Ben over his beaklike nose. His face was analytical, the consummate CIA psychiatrist.

  Ben turned to him, impassive. "What?"

  He knew better than to match psycho-jargon with the professor. Archette was an expert at picking the scabs of operatives and enemies alike. His almost preternatural keenness in detecting the weakness of foreign agents by using a complex series of Gittenger tests and subtests was legendary. Ben stalled to craft a reply.