Apex Predator

by S. M. Douglas

  Dibrovno swept into view.

  The helicopter slewed around into a hover. Owen stared out the window at the citadel. Built by the Kievan’ Rus and improved upon by their Polish-Lithuanian conquerors the castle was legendary; in its time withstanding over 50 Tatar and Cossack attacks plus one epic Ottoman siege. His stomach pushed up with the helicopter’s descent, but his eyes remained glued to the fifty foot high outer walls studded with crenellations, casemates, and multi-level gun emplacements. It was a historian’s dream. Rounded towers provided observation platforms along the outer wall’s ten foot wide perimeter. As they dropped lower the massive stone inner walls surrounded the helicopter, wrapping around a courtyard featuring an imposing gatehouse and entryway bracketed by two U-shaped stone towers plus bear pits. Timber buildings lined the inner courtyard, including a barracks that looked as if it could comfortably house several hundred combat soldiers. The plunging aircraft settled onto the flagstone courtyard with a thump, the whipping blades slowing as the twin turbines powered down.

  Vukovich slid open the shed sized cabin door, waving them out. They cleared the landing pad in a running crouch, passing through an open wooden door that slammed shut behind them. Oil lamps and candles flickered in the poorly lit antechamber.

  “Am I missing something?” Brody said. “You guys scrape up the cash to buy Castle Wolfenstein but putting in a few light bulbs was asking too much?”

  Owen smiled, but then two muscular figures emerged from the shadows to push Owen and Brody toward a stone spiral staircase that had been built into the tower wall. Owen leaned over to Brody, whose vision had only partially adjusted to the darkness, “The living quarters should be above us, the lower level is traditionally where they put the dungeon.”

  Vukovich directed them to head down. Brody shivered, noticing his companions hardly seeming phased by the drop in temperature. They hit bottom inside a narrow rock walled tunnel. In the gloom Brody could just make out reinforced planks spanning a door held in place by heavy bolts. In spite of the door’s imposing size and strength, it appeared misshapen, bowed outward as if something ferociously strong had slammed into it from the other side. He gulped.

  Vukovich nodded to his assistants who affixed blindfolds over their captive’s eyes. Brody struggled against the cloth at first, but gave up when he heard Vukovich’s men grunting followed by the groaning huge door swinging open. A hand wrapped around Brody’s bicep, guiding him forward. Behind him an echoing boom announced the door closing. After what felt like marching forever they again came to a halt. Brody heard renewed grunting, coupled with what sounded like a large toilet tank’s lid being slid aside. Rough hands pulled him a few more steps then cool air hit his face as someone jerked his blindfold free.

  He stood in a room. Light glimmered from two oil lamps mounted near the ceiling. A stone slab that must have been the door leaned against the wall. Just inside the doorway sat a small wooden table and chair. Two intricately carved wooden boxes dominated the table’s uneven surface. Heavy wooden beams above added to the room’s claustrophobic feeling. Owen was led across the hard packed dirt floor to a stone wall. There the guards fastened iron manacles to his wrists, a tense feeling palpable in the confined space. Old fashioned skeleton keys locked each manacle into place. Vukovich signaled the grateful guard’s to leave.

  Owen stepped away from the wall, but the jingling chains allowed hardly any movement. In taking up the slack he could almost, but not quite, work his hands free. After another pull he gave up trying. It was getting harder to coordinate his limbs and he was tired of fighting. He leaned back to savor the dank air washing over his glistening face.

  Brody eyed the boxes. The one to his left featured a woodcarving of a wolf pack cavorting under the moonlight. The other box displayed a figure human in its posture and the set of its legs. However, a thin layer of fur covered its body, the werewolf’s face unmistakable.

  “How about you clue us in on what we’re doing here,” Owen said, dipping his head and wiping his brow.

  “It’s a test of trust,” Vukovich replied, grabbing a box and inserting the key. The box popped open.

  Brody’s eyes widened at the sight of his pistol.

  “It’s loaded,” Vukovich announced as he held the weapon up.

  Brody eyed Vukovich. The soft yellow light cast by the lanterns flickered across the creature’s otherwise shadowed face. It was obvious why Owen was chained and he was free. Could he do it? Could he shoot Owen? A man he had come to consider his friend? Though he was an accomplished marksman he had never had reason to point a gun at another person. Sure he had drawn it. But that had been a prophylactic measure, not the real thing. There hadn’t been anyone looking him in the eye as he decided whether that person would live or die. As he glanced over at Owen he again considered the gun and the awesome responsibility carried within its compact frame.

  Vukovich closed the box and locked it. He leaned over the other box, opening it much more carefully, holding his body back awkwardly from Kateryna’s semi-automatic resting inside. “Unlike your weapon this has but one round. I would show you, but I have a bit of a medical issue with the bullet’s unique composition.”

  Vukovich locked it back up and turned toward Brody, “Your friend will become the most lethal foe you’ve ever faced. In my world he’s young, out of control, and easily handled. In yours he will have speed, strength, and senses such as you have never seen,” Vukovich said. “Each weapon has utility. It’s up to you to figure out how to use them.”

  “Assuming I believe you, then why are we here?”

  “Amidst these tunnels there’s an escape path,” Vukovich said. “If you cannot find it then you will need to choose between taking your friend’s life, and saving your own.”

  Owen stared wide eyed, his temples pounding a primitive beat. Every inch of his body felt wet and slippery, his breath coming in strained gasps.

  “Unlike you, Owen doesn’t get a choice,” Vuckovich said. “Tanya disobeyed me, and he’s paying for her disobedience.”

  “What about Cindy and Kateryna?” Brody said. “What will happen to them?”

  “Cindy faces her own choice. Though, and as it may be, what happens depends upon what transpires down here. The librarian is in Karlovic’s hands now; there is nothing that can be done about that. But you intrigue me the most.”

  Brody seethed, fear for himself superseded by his concern for his friends.

  Vukovich watched him and smiled, “People with your connections, compassion, sense of justice, and your drive to make things right...” He trailed off, his expression like that of a college football coach recruiting a star player, “A human like you comes along maybe once in a lifetime,” Vukovich said. He smiled at Brody then dropped the keys onto the table and walked from the room.

  “That’s just great,” Brody said, scowling at the open doorway.

  “Love,” Owen whispered.

  “Huh?” Brody spun. His heart tightened at the sight of his friend.

  “It’s what I would have wanted to accomplish with my life. To have lived a life full of love shared with a wife, a couple of kids, maybe some cats or dogs.” He sat on the floor, his back pushed against the wonderfully cool stone wall, legs splayed out on the hard packed dirt.

  Brody didn’t respond, irritated by an intruding thought of Julie. Why did she let Donnelly—

  “There’s no reason to be scared,” Owen said, misreading the look on Brody’s face. “You’re the one with the guns. You better use them.”

  “Why?” Brody said as he sat down next to Owen. “Because Vukovich says you’re a werewolf? It’s not so simple for me. I need to see with my own eyes.”

  “Sometimes you have to believe.”

  “He would have been proud of you.”

  “I was so wrapped up in Tanya…” Owen trailed off, eyeing Brody. “Nobody would blame you for killing a monster.”
/>   “You’re not a monster, you’re a man.

  “Sometimes there isn’t a difference, is there?”

  “This isn’t one of those times,” Brody said. “Now, hard as it is, try and forget about Ernie and what happened on that mountain. Kateryna and Cindy are in danger. They need us, and I think I know a way out. Before we made that second to last turn I swear I could—”

  Owen toppled over on his side, groaning and clutching his stomach, one foot kicking out from under him. Brody reached out, then jerked his hand back. Touching Owen was like touching a hot iron. Brody searched around, the boxes.

  Owen’s head shot up, vision blurry but clear enough to see Brody going for the guns, “You don’t have to put me down yet.”

  “No worries buddy,” Brody said as he checked the weapons. “If you turn into a dog the Humane Society will be the last place I’ll take you.”

  In spite of his agony Owen giggled as he imagined the look on the veterinarian’s face at the sight of Brody showing up with a werewolf on a leash. Then another bout of painful cramps hit, and he began flopping around like a fish on the deck of a boat.

  Brody tore his eyes away from Owen’s contortions to confirm his .45 held a full clip of lead bullets and the Polish semi-automatic Vis a single silver bullet. He slipped the Vis between his belt and the small of his back, dropping to his knees at Owen’s side, his .45 in hand. “Hold still. I’m gonna shoot your manacles off.”

  “OH MY FUCKING GOD IT HURTS!” Owen’s eyes rolled back. A horrible popping noise filled the room. It was as if a bunch of kids had gotten ahold of the wrapping bubbles in a shipping box, squeezing one after another.

  The sight and sounds of Owen’s vertebrae bursting up along his spine sent Brody’s stomach spinning. Owen pushed him and he fell back on his butt, the sudden shock helping him choke off the urge to vomit. He rose, backpedaling and staring wide eyed as Owen’s skin darkened, thick fibrous hairs growing into a pelt.

  Owen’s bloodshot eyes corkscrewed around and fixated on Brody, a last bit of humanity pushing through, “RUN. PLEASE. RUN!”

  Brody reflexively stepped back as the last of what had been Owen slid from the gasping man’s face. Owen’s hands lengthened, blood streaming from his fingertips as his cracking nails grew into wickedly curving claws. However, at that exact moment when everything inside told Brody to bolt, he froze - transfixed as Owen’s mouth opened impossibly wide, his skull bulging outward accompanied by an incessant rhythmic growling and shaking as his jaw and nose elongated and merged into a broad muzzle. Covered in a gray pelt, the werewolf eased up onto one knee, breathing deeply.

  Brody stared in numb horror. Even kneeling the werewolf loomed as tall as his six feet standing. One clawed hand rested on the beast’s knee, the manacle biting into his wrists. His other powerfully muscled arm extended back toward the wall, the chain stretched taught. Owen’s broad chest rippled and flexed, flaring into a neck as thick as a running back’s thigh. Balanced on top of the Hulk-like form perched the wolfish head of the immense carnivore, muzzle wrinkled in a snarl, eyes downcast as he caught his breath from the wrenching transformation.

  Brody braced to fight.

  The werewolf looked up, mouth opening into a shark like grin. In one swift motion the werewolf tore the manacles from his wrists and stood, his head slamming into the ceiling, dust sifting down from the jarring impact.

  “Do not move a fucking muscle,” Brody commanded. He leveled his .45 on the werewolf’s head, his hands so slippery with sweat he was afraid he would drop the gun.

  The werewolf’s ears perked up, two fuzzy triangles.

  A ray of hope flared in Brody’s mind.

  Then the werewolf took one small step forward.

  “Owen, I said no.”

  The giant beast moved.

  Brody hadn’t even realized he pulled the trigger when the .45 bucked hard in his hand. The bullet blasted a broad hole in the werewolf’s face, shattering one of the beast’s molars before ripping under his right eye and plowing out the top of his skull, accompanied by a spray of highly oxygenated blood and fatty brain matter painting Brody’s face and the low slung rock ceiling above. The werewolf’s head jerked backward as if he had been hit by a baseball bat. His body tumbled thereafter.

  The salty smell of blood and acrid taste of gunpowder rent the air. The werewolf lay motionless on his back, blood caking his fur and seeping onto the stone below. A sharp ringing echoed in Brody’s right ear, which had been turned away from the door and into the small room. Something wet dripped from it. He reached up, and then pulled his fingers away. They were sticky with blood. At least his other ear still worked.

  Motion drew his eyes to the room’s far side.

  The werewolf eased into a sitting position, touching his torn face and open skull. Gleaming white bone, and pink flesh studded with prickling hairs began reforming the beast’s lupine head as a wet squishing noise like an old man gumming his pudding filled the air.

  Brody’s heart thudded in his chest, his mind reeling.

  It can’t be.

  But it was.

  I’m so fucked.

  He spun and ran.

  Chapter 33

  August 2016 – Dibrovno, Western Ukraine

  He ran.

  He ran until his muscles screamed and the blood pounded in his temples as his body caromed off a tunnel wall. He ran, every stride opening more distance between him and the monster lurking somewhere in the dark labyrinth. He ran, his labored breathing coming like a freight train, sweat soaking through his chaffing clothing. He ran harder yet.

  Rounding yet another turn Brody slid once more into a slick wall. He bounced off. This time however, his rubbery legs gave out. He hit the ground hard but willed himself back to his feet. Wheezing, he dredged up the energy to move. His right leg buckled, dropping him to one knee. Fingertips splayed out on the hard packed dirt he caught his balance and rose up again. He took two more steps that felt like slogging through cement and stopped, bent over, panting like a dog chained to a hot porch. He stood that way for several minutes, gathering himself for another push.

  A thick viscous fluid slid down his nose. Brody’s hands flew across his face, wiping away the werewolf’s clinging blood. Something soft and pulpy fell into his palm. He stared in confusion, then in sickening recognition as the bile rose in his throat. It was a piece of the werewolf’s brain.

  He flung it aside, rubbing his soiled hands on his pants, feeling his terror subside a bit more as he realized that as recently as the week before he likely would have fainted had he been in a similar situation. Standing a bit taller, he winced at the muffled ache throbbing along the side of his head. Though the ringing had subsided, the pain reminded him he had blown out an eardrum. He turned his good ear back the way he had come.

  The wind whipped through the tunnels.

  He stiffened and peered into the darkness.

  That wasn’t the wind.

  He began walking, not knowing where he was going but needing to move. The werewolf’s presence loomed everywhere. He held the .45 stiffly outstretched before him, stumbling every now and again as he acclimated to his shot equilibrium.

  If I can just get out of here, I’ll make things right. By the time I’m done they won’t have a choice but to prosecute Donnelly. I do that, and maybe Vukovich will call off the dogs before he creates a war the likes of which this world has never seen. I do that, maybe I can help Cindy and Kateryna. But first I need to get out of here. Think.

  A row of blinkering oil lanterns marched along the tunnel’s stone walls. Spaced out roughly every twenty feet and mounted head high each cast tidy arcs of light. The dim illumination left impenetrable shadows everywhere in-between, the darkness as dense as an Upper Peninsula iron mine. He glanced over his shoulder, hearing another roar, this one louder and clearer.

  Brody felt the Vis still snug in
the waistband of his pants. There was a chance Vukovich wasn’t lying. If so he couldn’t afford to waste the weapon’s single round. This left the .45. He had seven bullets. It couldn’t stop the werewolf, but it could—

  Something furry scuttled between Brody’s legs. He looked down. It was a rat, running from the direction of the last roar. Another body raced across the top of his head.

  That was no rat.

  The skin crawled up the back of Brody’s neck as he bent over, his free hand brushing frantically forward. It came away sticky with cob webs, something thumping onto the ground in front of him. The spider was as big as his palm.

  Another roar echoed down the tunnel.

  The spider skittered away.

  At least they had the common sense to flee.

  Brody picked up his pace, cursing himself as he went. On the way into the tunnels he had heard the faint sound of rushing water. When Owen changed however, he had bolted like a screaming three-year-old girl running from a clown. The water forgotten, as was the path of rights and lefts he had painstakingly memorized on the way in.

  The next roar sounded louder.

  He crouched into a jog, cramping stabs of pain lancing his side at even this moderately increased effort. He hadn’t gone far when he came to a three way intersection, a lamp marking each corner. He inventoried the dropping levels of oil in each one, hearing and seeing nothing that would help.

  The werewolf called out yet again, taunting his prey.

  Brody’s scent guided the hungry beast’s path forward like a runway attendant signaling a passenger jet. If he didn’t make a quick decision he faced the unenviable choice of putting a silver bullet in his friend or meeting a gruesome death delivered by fang and claw. He scrunched his shoulders in frustration, eyeing the nearest lamp to his right as it emitted a curl of smoke that drifted up before bending off to the left.