by Matt James
After a hard turn right, they found stairs not too much further, descending them swiftly. Mengele’s hand touched a railing on the landing between levels, rattling slightly, coming loose a bit from the wall. He was about to question it, but the soldier quickly informed him it was to be taken care of in the morning.
The lower level’s destination sign came into view moments later, and they immediately went right, towards the prisoner quarters. In some cases, like this one, it was set up as an experimentation suite.
The detainee was far too valuable—and dangerous for that matter—to be taken to the designated laboratories section of the underground facility. He needed to be under heavy watch twenty-four-seven. Mengele had even added an additional guard, just in case.
They rounded the final turn and came upon the barred door of the cell. Inside were two other scientists, loyal only to Mengele. They were his favorites from Auschwitz and would follow his orders without a second thought.
The imprisoned man screamed, not in pain, but in fury. He did his best to verbally berate the men who stripped him down nude, strapping him to a slightly reclined examination chair.
“Guten Abend,” Mengele said, stepping into the cell, formally greeting the prisoner.
The man looked up fire in his eyes.
“Mengele,” he said with a growl, speaking the doctor’s name with disgust.
Mengele just smiled, like a wolf. “Hallo, Generalfeldmarschall.”
The captured and transported test subject, Commander of the Afrika Korps, Erwin Rommel, sat in what would become his place of death. The normally clean-cut soldier had at least a year’s worth of growth on his face, showing how long he had been kept prisoner before being brought here. Mengele had two of his field agents back in Germany apprehend the general late one night.
Finally resided to his fate, Rommel stopped fighting—he stopped struggling altogether. He knew better than anyone what a losing battle was. He would let death come, they had already killed him back home, faking his reported suicide.
He had scoffed at the idea of telling the people of Germany that he killed himself. They really had no idea what kind of man he was. Rommel was a true soldier and a man of integrity. Even the notion that he would end his own life for someone like the Fuhrer, was laughable.
The one thing Rommel regretted more than anything else, was not seeing the treachery quicker. He had unknowingly cleared the path Mengele used to come to Africa. He was a stooge at the end of the day. A common lackey.
He remembered the orders from Himmler and now questioned the man’s involvement in this. Was he a part of the grander scheme? Were he and Mengele in cahoots with each other? It was, unfortunately, an answer he would never get.
Mengele stepped forward and immediately injected a thick syringe into Rommel’s neck, pumping the newest blend of the Gott Blut into the man’s carotid artery.
This would be the most interesting test yet. The general would be given a special mixture containing some of the DNA acquired from the Gott Blut’s original host. Ever since the first subject, Mengele had only used synthesized versions of the genetic matter, stating the extreme danger of administering the potent cocktail containing some of the tribesman’s undiluted blood.
He was a tricky one to bring down. Mengele fully remembered the night when eight men died trying to apprehend the…man. What was even more spectacular, is that those soldiers then perished at the hands of an eighty-year-old local who was armed with nothing but his fingernails and a set of amazing sharp teeth.
The memory of watching the small man move like a ghost in the dark. Both silent and deadly. Both crafty and brutal... It still haunted Mengele’s dreams to this day.
Man…
He used that term loosely. The tribesman was most certainly not a man in the obvious sense of the word, but Mengele didn’t really know what else to call him. It’s when he started to eat the dead… That’s when he knew the creature was NO man.
The agonizing howl broke him from his thoughts. It also shook the room with a rumble of stone and earth that would have brought a lesser built facility down. The overhead light shattered, cascading the concrete cell into darkness.
In the pitch of the cell, Mengele heard his colleagues scream in agony. Had the prisoner escaped? No, he thought, that isn’t possible.
In a moment of what he would later describe as stupidity, he rushed forward to help, but he didn’t make it a step. Something quickly clamped down on the webbing of his hand and slashed, tearing the smallest amount of flesh.
He fell back in shock—not from the pain. But from the giver of the wound. The monster that the general was becoming, had bitten him.
Dr. Mengele stared in disbelief.
He was a dead man.
24
Tanzania, Present Day
Whup. Whup. Whup.
The Blackhawk came in low and fast, ready to pluck the four SDF troops from the peak of the kopje. CJ stood towards the center waving her hands, signaling Mo. The three men, weapons raised, took up positions around her and waited for anything that got close.
“Logan. This is Mo. Over.”
“I read you!” Logan said, having to shout over the incoming noise of the low flying aircraft. “EVAC ASAP. Get us the hell out of here!” He then lifted his night vision, having to compensate for the brightness of the chopper’s lights. Fitz had insisted that Mo come in with them ignited like the sun itself.
The front spotlight on Kipanga blinked twice, signaling the message was received loud and clear. It then slowed, kicking up a plume of dirt and grime as it pulled into a hovering position directly overhead of Logan and the others.
Once we get in the air we’ll call for backup. Then, we’ll get the hell out of here and regroup, Logan thought, watching cables descend from either side of the Blackhawk. But Logan knew it wouldn’t matter for the time being. Help was still hours away from arriving even if they called now—which they couldn’t. Their personal comms weren’t strong enough to reach Kenya. They would have to call from HQ and burdening Adnan wasn’t an option. The younger man wilted under that kind of pressure. Logan would do it himself.
Calling for assistance wasn’t something Logan liked to do either. It didn’t always work out. He and his team were quick to act and didn’t need a bureaucratic okay to get moving, the rest of the world did. He knew the approval to assist them could take hours to come in and then another few to get to the base. It was always a last resort to call for help.
This was definitely one of those times.
Normally, they were in, every sense of the term, ‘self-sufficient,’ minus the monthly air drop of supplies that is. They would receive their food supply, including water and other non-perishables, specially ordered weapons and ammo, and whatever other personal things each of them needed/wanted. The Bullpen even had its own power source. On one side of the roof was the helicopter pad and on the other was the latest and greatest in solar panel technology. It was the same ones used in some of the most remote parts of the world.
Kind of like here. It’s what CJ had said when she pitched the idea.
As long as they didn’t abuse it, no one seemed to care that they could basically ask for whatever they wanted. They were never questioned. They paid for everything they ordered mind you, but the service was still pretty over-the-top if you asked any of them, and they were thankful for that. Hence, they didn’t exploit the charity.
Like what I have back at the base waiting for me in the garage, Logan thought, thanking God that he, Mo, and Dada had the sense to finish putting it together a few days ago. It would definitely come in handy if things got any worse. Which they will. The feeling was all but assured when Mo cried out from Kipanga.
“Incoming from the north! Multiple targets, coming in hot!”
Logan, Fitz, Jan, and CJ all looked north, their heads shifting in unison like a group of prairie dogs on a hill. Each one of them gasped in harmony too. None of them could believe what they saw. Just on the fringe of the
dark, aided by the various spotlights attached to the aircraft, was a herd of Grant’s gazelle and wildebeest, maybe a hundred in all.
“Aw, damn,” Fitz said. He looked down at his Mossberg, the shotgun feeling completely inadequate at the moment. “Logan, we can’t fight this.”
Logan agreed and passed on the sentiment to Mo. “We need EVAC right now, Mo!” The widespread herd quickly narrowed and became a living column of death. He watched as hooves and horns barreled straight for them. “Right now, dammit!”
Mo gently nudged Kipanga left, closer to the four stranded teammates. The flat black phantom glided to them, just as the first wave of wildebeest hit.
Two-dozen of the largest—some six hundred pounds in weight—slammed into the footing of the tall rock formation, trying to desperately climb its smooth, weather worn surface. The larger, clumsier species failed and slipped back down the kopje. Another smaller group, consisting mostly of the more agile gazelle, leaped up onto the wildebeest’s backs, successfully bounding up onto the rocks like a mountain goat in the American Rockies.
Firing a volley, Logan could clearly see the swarm of red eyes in the bloodthirsty mob. The first set of bullets tore into the closest gazelle, sending it spinning away into the ever-growing throng of Nachivores. Then, as quickly as the foremost creature arrived, a second took its place, hopping up the steep climb. Logan caught a glimpse of the creature in the chopper’s overhead light.
The ever-common Grant’s gazelle was around three feet in height to the shoulder and had a set of lyre-shaped horns roughly the same tallness. Their best evolutionary gift was their speed and agility in the open, reaching speeds of 50mph. These gazelle, however, were not the typical ones found numbering in the hundreds-of-thousands all over Tanzania.
Logan flinched when he saw the horns. Usually, they would be turned back a little, acting more like a club during territorial disputes, or when fighting over mates. These were turned sharply forward, acting as perfect weapons for close combat. If they got close, all they’d have to do was use their exceptional speed, get close, and strike, spearing anything that got close. It would be just like a bull goring the bullfighter.
Or us, Logan thought. Plus, there is usually only one bull.
A shotgun blast took the animal’s head off, sending a shower of blood and bone to the grass below. Another boom shook him from his daze, as Fitz fired again, killing another of the crimson-eyed beasts that tried—and failed—to get too close.
Rapid-fire machine gun discharge sounded from above as Dada and Kel fired, leaning out from inside the Blackhawk via the side doors. Each man was secured by way of a tether, just in case the ride got bumpy and one of them lost their footing and fell.
A screech from somewhere behind the horde echoed around them as they continued their defense against the rampaging grasslanders. Logan recognized it for a second but dismissed it immediately. It couldn’t be what he thought. It sounded and looked too big.
The scream erupted again, almost jittering as it called. It was then that Logan’s initial judgment of the noise’s origin was confirmed. Only…this wasn’t your average spotted hyena.
First off, it was covered in blood and looked like it went toe-to-toe with Wolverine and survived. It had flesh hanging from its face and half its lower jaw bone was exposed. Secondly, it was huge, easily some hundred-plus pounds heavier than the average one that inhabited the plains.
“It’s a Pachycrocuta,” CJ said, seeing it for what it was. “It was the largest of all the hyena, dating back around three million years ago. They were said to be the size of lions—maybe bigger.”
Logan knew plenty about these things, and with this one’s misshaped and extended jaw, it could probably cleave a limb off with just one bite. It had a wicked underbite, causing its abnormally large lower incisors to stick up in the air like a row of office buildings. He quickly went through his studies in his head, but none of what he read was worth exactly two shits at that moment. No amount of research could have prepared him for this.
How the hell did it get so big so quick? Logan thought. The only thing he could figure is that it was a side effect of the virus, accelerating the changes in some, but not the others. Probably a random result depending on the species.
“Logan!” Mo shouted through the swirling wind. “Clip on and we’ll pull you up!”
With the cover fire from Dada and Kel, Logan, CJ, Fitz, and Jan, fastened themselves to the carabiner clips already attached to the ropes dangling just inches away. Then, as one, they were yanked off the top of the thirty-foot rock—just as it was overtaken by the masses. They were quickly lifted into the air, shooting the entire way up. It was only until they reached a safe height of a hundred feet did they stop firing and take in the full scene around them.
It was bedlam, and all of it was looking their way as they clambered into the rear hold and sped off. Mo angled them away and accelerated to Kipanga’s top speed, back towards the Bullpen and what Logan hoped was safety.
25
If the helicopter hadn’t drowned out the sounds of the surrounding terrain, its occupants would have heard a thunderous roar emanate from the fringes of the burial pit. The massive form of Shetani was easily seen and was now nine feet tall and weighed close to five hundred pounds. He pounded through the long since dead corpses of the men and animals buried long ago, having just arrived. Something in his mind recognized the site, but he paid it no attention. He had other things to deal with.
He emerged seconds later climbing the kopje with ease and watched the black silhouette speed off into the pitch-black sky.
Sneering in hatred at the prey he had detected earlier, he sniffed the air around him and bellowed again. To his surprise, the undead wildebeest and gazelles calmed some. He was originally expecting a fight. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
The animals still reared in anticipation, stamping their hooves, crying out in frustration, but they…listened. Is that what this was? None of them spoke per se, but they instinctually knew to fear the monster perched above them. It could easily tear them to shreds without so much as breaking a sweat.
Shetani sniffed the air again and looked to his feet. His six red eyes locked in on the opening, peering into the darkness of the vertical entrance. He didn’t know what this place was, but he instantly felt at home here, feeling some sort of natural bond to something inside and below.
He leaped into the air, raised his arms, and closed his legs, narrowing his body as much as he could. It was a tight fit, but he cleared the edges by mere inches. He fell like a missile, feet first, as if he were a diver entering a pool.
Sensing that the floor was rising up to meet him, he braced himself and landed with a crunch of concrete and tile. The room shook following his arrival, making him grin at the sight and sound of the cracked earth beneath his girth.
He sniffed the air again, detecting what he smelled from up above. He looked, seeing the stars overhead through the square opening above. He could even hear the huffing of the mindless drone army—his army—outside, waiting for him to return. For some reason, those beasts thought of him as their leader. Maybe it was an animalistic intimidation—or possibly it was something else. Something deeper—a connection. But, before he returned to them. He needed to explore this place. He needed to discover what drew him here.
He continued down the tight hallway, squeezing his wide shoulders and barrel chest through until he emerged at a two-way T-junction. He could go right—he looked that direction seeing only emptiness—or he could venture left. He turned his massive head left, noticing the veins of glowing blood that lit his way. They pulsated just enough to light up the walls and ceilings like a bioluminescent fish would the open water. It would aid him in the depths of this place and possibly even outside, but it would also give away his position to those who would be looking for it.
Like the ones that just got away.
It’s then he saw the bodies. And it’s then he smelled them. They smelled familiar, but not. It was har
d to tell with the overwhelming fragrance of metal and… Gunpowder? The offensive odor clogged his nostrils, making it hard to correctly identify the dead.
His hulking form glided forward, each massive foot landing with a boom. There was no need for stealth down here. He stopped and kneeled, inspecting the dead, inhaling the different scents that were glued to every surface.
These are fresh, he thought.
He stepped over the first figure. It was torn to shreds by what looked like gunfire. He didn’t remember ever firing a weapon, but he understood what the outcome looked like. Bloody and violent.
They were here.
The thought of the prey that had just gotten away burned in his memory, but he knew it would have to wait. He needed to continue his search. He would find them eventually.
The next body was in much better condition, having only been stabbed with a blade. The wound through the dead man’s chin was a given. He leaned forward and again inhaled. The man buried deep inside his mind glowered at the scent, but the creature within—the dominant personality—smiled. He recognized it, but it didn’t come from the newly dead. It came from something older.
Still on hands and knees, Shetani craned his head to the left and looked into an open doorway, seeing what looked like living quarters. He sniffed the air, tasting it, and stood.
He ducked and entered, barely fitting into the tight confines. Pieces of the wall encasing the door’s frame cracked and broke as he forced himself through. He then saw what he had smelled… A long, rotted out corpse sat at the rear of the room. It may have once been a decent sized space for its inhabitant, but it felt like a cramped hollow to Shetani. It felt like a cage.
He kneeled again, coming face-to-face with the seated dead man. Maybe it was the sickly grin that all corpses had, but it kind of looked like it was smiling.
He sniffed again and gagged, swiping at the body with one of his massive clawed hands. The wild swing missed, decimating the bookcase to his left. Books and rotted wood went flying in every direction, sending up a plume of dust in the process.