Nightmare Army

by Don Pendleton

  Someone’s over there—

  My enemy—

  Must be destroyed—

  Bolan shook his head. Where did that come from? His mind had suddenly filled with overwhelming images of finding the other man in the room and attacking him—no, destroying him. Bolan put a hand to his temple, his pulse pounding in his ears.

  What the hell is happening to me?

  The rustle sounded again, a bit louder now. Focusing on the area where the sound was coming from, he found with some astonishment that he could see individual blades of grass moving on the far side. Tentatively he lifted his nose and sniffed the air, finding it redolent of decaying plants, fresh bark, feces, that same hint of blood—and sweat, coming from the corner to his right, which was overshadowed by the tree in the center of the room.

  He’s on the move—

  I’d better check it out, just in case—

  Bolan took his hand away from his face to find it clenched into a fist, just like the other one at his side. He felt great, every sense preternaturally aware. His body had stopped hurting, even his back, and every inch overflowed with energy, as if he could run a dozen marathons back-to-back. But above all, his mind was filled with an overwhelming predatory instinct, as if he had reverted to the base responses to conflict—fight or flight. But it was difficult to consider flight as a viable option anymore. Instead there was only the burning need for combat, to dominate his opponent—any opponent—and leave the person bleeding and defeated in the dirt.

  Almost unaware that his lips had peeled back from his teeth in a feral grin, Bolan stepped farther into the room, his eyes wide and searching.

  Hunting for his prey.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Shivering in the chilly laboratory, Briggs noticed she was pretty much ignored by the staff bustling around her and the experiment. One of the technicians oversaw a bank of monitors that showed several different angles of the room Bolan had just been shoved into. Another one watched what looked like a heart rate monitor, while a third kept an eye on another machine that showed a range of constantly fluctuating numbers even she didn’t understand.

  “Despite your opinion of me, I’m hoping that your friend Mr. Cooper will prove this latest variation a success,” Richter said. “Indeed, I have no wish to see him killed. His survival is vital to my experiment.”

  Briggs started and turned to see Richter standing beside her. “What are you talking about? Tell me that the black stuff you injected into him wasn’t the same as what was inflicted on those poor villagers in Armenia.”

  “Not exactly. Even in the short time frame between that field test and what we’re doing right now, we have greatly refined the virus.” Although the doctor appeared calm, Briggs sensed he really wanted to talk about the experiment.

  Might as well give him the chance, she thought. Besides if he’s so confident we won’t make it out of here, then I should be able to get him to talk more about it.

  “Look, we already know that you’ve spliced the T. gondii parasite with a fast-acting rabies vaccine, but its effects turned people into crazed killers. How did you refine it?”

  “You might be more aware of the local fauna out here, since you’re more familiar with the region,” Richter said. “Have you ever heard of the Goualougo chimpanzees?”

  Briggs thought for a moment. “Aren’t those the tool-using chimps located somewhere in the Congo rain forest?”

  “Correct.” Richter actually smiled, as if Briggs had been a student who had given the correct answer. “Their habitat is in a region known as the Goualougo triangle, the western border of which is about ten kilometers from here. Not only are those chimpanzees tool-users, but they can also kill a full-grown leopard. My company directed us to set up shop here, as it were, to try to discover what made them so formidable. I’m pleased to say that we have, for the most part.”

  “That’s why you have them in captivity?” Briggs’s voice dripped disgust. “You’re experimenting on them?”

  Richter’s bushy brows knit together. “Hardly! We’ve given them the best accommodations, treated their diseases and injuries, and have provided them with a better life here than they ever would have in the wild. Naturally, that comes with a price. We needed the samples from them to create our virus, but rest assured, they have been treated like honored guests. Them and a number of gorillas.”

  “Says the man who just injected a man with an unknown substance and locked him in a room. Given how you treat humans, I don’t think I’d care to be an ‘honored guest’ here.” Briggs walked around him, ostensibly to get a better view of what was happening in the next room. “The black liquid—what is it exactly?”

  Richter smiled indulgently. “That ‘black liquid’ as you refer to it, is the latest version of the viral cocktail, but with an additional twist. We’ve added synthesized chimpanzee adrenaline, modified to be absorbed by the human bloodstream. It gives the user superhuman strength, reflexes and senses, turning them, in effect, into an apex predator. Faster, stronger, better than human.”

  Briggs frowned. “That must take an awful toll on the test subjects, I suppose.” Richter gave her a sidelong look and she mentally kicked herself.

  “An astute observation. The subject suffers both physical and mental impairment after prolonged use, or if the dosage is too high. However, given his training, I expect that Mr. Cooper will come through the test in better shape than our usual subjects.”

  Briggs walked to the table where Richter had injected Cooper. The air-hypo and several of the black ampoules were still on the table. She’d watched the scientist do it; it hadn’t looked difficult—just insert the ampoule, place the end against the subject’s skin, pull the trigger... She crossed her arms, staring at the thick glass. “But if this also contains the Artakar virus, then he’s going to exhibit those signs in a few hours.”

  “Oh...you and your colleagues haven’t figured that out yet.” Richter shook his head. “Perhaps you are not as capable as I had first thought.”

  She raised her head to glare at him. “Well, why don’t you fill me in, then?”

  The doctor nodded, as if indulging a wayward child. “This experiment has two components to it. The first, as I stated, is to study the effects of the virus on a trained individual. The second is to verify that the programmed virus does not activate in an improper genetic host.”

  Briggs blinked as the ramifications of the man’s statement sank in. “You’ve programmed the virus to only attack targets that meet its preselected genetic criteria.”

  Richter nodded. “Exactly. That is why we needed to test the sample on a localized and isolated group. The village population served that purpose well.” He stated this with no more emotion than reciting the results of an experiment on lab rats. “Mr. Cooper will benefit from the artificial stimulus in his system, which, in a real-world environment, would serve to spread the virus further, but if we’ve done our job, the virus will otherwise lie dormant in his system until it dies, twenty-four to forty-eight hours later, and is expelled.”

  My God, he’s created a genetically defined eugenics system, she thought. The ethical scientist in her was appalled at his methods, even if she could admire the scientific breakthroughs he had made. The benefits of such a system were incredible. After all, it could be used to deliver whatever someone wanted to deliver to a particular population—antibodies, vaccines, vitamins. But to use it so callously...

  To hide her reaction, Briggs turned away from him. “So, what happens now?”

  As if reading her mind, Richter nodded at one of the guards, who walked over to her, his flat, dark gaze staring right through her, as if daring to her make a move. “As I told Mr. Cooper, there is another man in there. When one of them sees the other, the experiment will begin in earnest.”

  “Doctor, both subjects are now within ten yards of each
other.”

  Briggs felt a pressure on her elbow and allowed Richter to lead her to a position between the monitors and the window.

  “We’ve introduced cover to see whether the affected subjects will utilize their natural surrounding to maximize their position before attacking, or simply strike once they’ve sighted their target. The foliage can often obscure what happens, hence the cameras.”

  “The other person has been injected, as well?”

  “Of course. If he hadn’t been, Mr. Cooper would tear him apart within seconds. He’s not the usual test subject, either, for what it’s worth. He’s a criminal from the worst slum in Kinshasa, delivered to me by specific request. I’ve been studying his reactions to the virus and adrenaline, evaluating whether the environment he’s been raised in has given him any particular advantages. He’s been through two of these trials already and I’m curious to see if that gives him any advantage over his opponent. Ah, there’s Mr. Cooper right now.”

  Briggs followed his pointing finger to a monitor in the lower corner, and saw Bolan moving through a patch of waist-high grass, intent on someone or something she couldn’t see. But the expression on his face made her hands rise to cover her mouth in shock.

  Bolan’s handsome features were twisted into a mask of pure feral hatred, his forehead wrinkled as he stalked forward, his blue eyes wide, the pupils dilated, his jaw clenched; teeth bared in a silent snarl as he moved closer to his target. He looked as if he was an instant away from killing anything in his path, whether that be a chimpanzee, a human or an elephant. He looked as if he would take anything on, even if he destroyed himself in the process, as long as he got the chance to tear into his enemy.

  No, it wasn’t just that, Briggs realized with a frisson of horror as she watched him stalk the other man, now on camera, whose features bore a similar expression.

  He looked as if he was enjoying himself.

  * * *

  TRANSFORMED INTO a pure predator, Bolan advanced on the other man.

  His world had been revealed as though he’d never known it before. Every color, every sound, every disturbance of every air current around him was as distinct and individual as if they had arrows pointing to them telling him everything he needed to know. Every sense—eyes, ears, nose, even taste and touch—was wide open, gathering the myriad data surrounding him. Instead of being overwhelmed by the flood of raw sensory input, his mind categorized it with ease, discarding all useless information and channeling the vital facts he needed to execute his hunt.

  His muscles were loose yet strong, bursting with energy just waiting to be unleashed on his enemy. His nose told him the man was now only about six yards away, and his preternaturally sharp vision confirmed that when he saw a shadow move on the other side of the tree.

  Waiting for me to come to him, he thought, lips peeled back in a silent snarl. I don’t see why.

  Shaking his head, Bolan mastered the sudden impulse to stalk the other man. If he’s anything like me, together we could take the guards. With that thought in mind, he stepped out into clear view and raised his hand. “Hey—”

  The moment the other man heard him, he charged forward. Bolan was surprised for the barest second, taking in his rage-filled face, narrowed eyes and snarling mouth. The man looked just like the people back at the village, arms reaching out to tear into him.

  Although every fiber of his being wanted to meet the man headlong and tear him apart, Bolan resisted the urge enough to jump up and grab a tree branch over his head, levering himself up into the foliage. But the funny thing was that everything around him seemed to be happening in slow motion, while he moved through it all normally. He was already on the other side of the tree and ready to swoop on his prey before the branches he’d disturbed during his passage had stopped swaying.

  If I can get the drop on him, I can incapacitate him without having to kill him, Bolan thought.

  A branch cracked below and the man came into view, searching the thick branches for his prey. Without hesitation, Bolan swung off the branch and pounced down onto his target, only to find the other man already rolling out of the way as Bolan plummeted down, hands outstretched to tear into whoever was underneath him—man, animal, it didn’t matter anymore. Any rational thought had been replaced by the collection and processing of all data aimed toward one singular goal: to destroy his enemy.

  As he hit the ground Bolan shoulder-rolled away from the other man. A shadow loomed over him and a thick tree branch slammed into the dirt where his head had been a moment before. Springing to his feet, Bolan turned to see the blurred form of his opponent coming at him, the branch cocked high overhead, about to be brought down on his skull.

  The Executioner bared his teeth in a grimace of fury. Instead of dodging again, he rushed at the man, closing to inside his club’s range before the slender black man could drive it into the top of his head.

  Just before they would have collided, with the man fully committed to his blow, Bolan sidestepped his opponent. The man passed by so close by he felt breath on his face. Bolan threw his right elbow into the guy’s nose, while his left fist sank into the man’s side below his ribs with every ounce of magnified strength he possessed. He felt cartilage and muscle tear at the impact and knew he’d weakened him, but the man wasn’t down by a long shot.

  When he turned to face his enemy again, Bolan found the African coming after him, the wiry man’s mouth open in a silent scream of rage, blood pouring out of his crushed nose to stain his teeth crimson. He swung the branch like a baseball bat toward Bolan’s shoulder. The soldier ducked while deflecting the blow with the edge of his hand, pushing the branch up and away. His opponent didn’t even seem fazed by the blows he had taken; he was moving just as fast as if Bolan hadn’t tagged him.

  The man whirled and lashed out with the limb again, going for Bolan’s midsection this time. Again, the soldier stepped into the flying limb—which still looked as though it was coming at him in slow motion—and as it came closer to his ribs, swept up his right arm, redirecting the branch over his head. As soon as it cleared his hair, he stopped it with his left hand and then brought his clenched right fist down on the branch, snapping it in two. The wood had barely finished cracking apart when Bolan flicked out the piece in his left hand at the man’s head, just missing him. He felt a solid crunch in his side, and looked down to see the shorter piece pull away from his ribs as the guy pulled it back to hit him again.

  A red rage swept down over Bolan’s vision. He jabbed the ragged end of the broken stick at the guy’s face, feeling the splintered end pierce his flesh, making him falter. Yanking it away, the soldier hammered the club on the man’s head. He felt hard blows punishing his ribs and chest, but ignored them. He felt no pain; although he was aware of the club hitting him, it felt as though he was outside his own body, watching it happen, instead of experiencing it himself.

  When he raised his own club again, he saw the ruin he had made of the man’s face. Both eyes were blackened and rapidly swelling shut, his nose had been flattened and his teeth broken.

  Yet he still attacked, spitting teeth and blood out as he slashed at Bolan with his club. The soldier whipped his bludgeon against this opponent’s right forearm, snapping both bones. But the man brought his weapon back again, grabbing Bolan’s shirt with his left hand.

  Taking his adversary’s left hand, Bolan forced him to let go by crushing the joint of the first metacarpal bone in his thumb. Still holding on, the Executioner stepped around the man’s back and wrenched the guy’s arm into a hammerlock. He brought his club down on the man’s left shoulder, hearing his collarbone break under the blow. He repeated the maneuver on the man’s right shoulder, rendering his arms useless.

  The fight raged on until Bolan finally found an opportunity to bring his club down on the back of his adversary’s neck, breaking it. The body toppled over. Panting with the effort, Bolan jus
t stood there for a moment, staring at the corpse.

  As if coming out of a thick mental fog, he stared at the club in his hand as if he’d never seen it before in his life. Opening his throbbing fingers, he let the crude weapon fall to the floor. His lungs heaved as if he had just run a marathon, and his left side ached as though it was on fire. Taking a tentative step away from the body, he felt sudden, stabbing pain as one of his broken ribs rubbed together.

  “Mr. Cooper? Can you hear me?” A disembodied voice spoke from all around him. Bolan turned around, looking for the source. “I’m afraid you cannot see me right now. If you understand the words you hear, raise your right hand and give a thumbs-up sign.”

  His brow furrowing, Bolan slowly did as he was told, wincing at the movement.

  “Very good. Some men are going to come into the room. I would like you to not do anything while they are in there. Can you do that for me?”

  “Y-yes.” Bolan swallowed through his suddenly very dry throat. “I’m thirsty...I—I need some water.”

  “Very good. We will bring you some right away. Just stay right where you are, and our men will be with you shortly. Remember, it is very important that you do not interfere with them in any way. Is that understood?”

  Bolan nodded, his eyes never leaving the body in front of him. Walking over on legs that felt as stiff and unyielding as carved blocks of wood, he knelt to get a closer look at the body. Vague memories of the last few minutes flitted through his mind, disjointed images of some kind of fight—leaping from a tree at him...beating his face in...crushing his throat...snapping his neck.... He remembered it; felt both the injuries the man had given him, as well as his bruised knuckles and sore muscles.