“Everyone, get him!” Yarborough screamed, even though no one knew who “him” was as none had seen the attacker.
***
Elliot grinned as he ran in a wide circle, having ditched his stolen boots, overcoat and hat. Stealthy and fast, he sized up the gathering of tough guys and flung his black steel throwing knives at the largest or closest of them. He had thought twice about taking out the older man, but he had the largest weapon Three-Seven had so far seen among them. The submachine gun struck the cement floor just before the dead body.
He ran a large circle counterclockwise around the group, which was reacting as he thought they would. In their panic, they were beginning to make a tight circle around their motorcycles, seeking comfort amongst friends while taking cover within the steel.
It would not help them.
With a mighty warbling shout that Elliot had learned resembled that of an ancient Apache warrior, he encircled his prey at his best running speed.
The bikers were beginning to panic. They shouted at one another in frightened voices. “Everyone, get him!” the leader bellowed. Another followed up with, “Where is he?” A third yelled that he did not know and others simply cussed in fright. One of the two women was screaming, being by far the most irritating to Three-Seven, who was tempted to make her target number three for his four throwing blades.
Instead, he focused on the black man with the short shotgun as that firearm could really do some damage up close. He screeched out in his mock Apache war cry and threw the third knife, striking his target in the throat, just to the left of the Adam’s apple. In seconds, that man would be dead.
He maintained his full speed in his tight, continuous turn. His efficient lungs kept enough oxygen in him to more than do the job. His right hand tightened on the fourth and last throwing blade as he searched within the group for the next likely target.
***
Yarborough felt an object disturb the air near his right ear. It struck Ironman in the throat and wavered there as the man’s blood fountained around the weapon. The big man’s body dropped to the cement floor the second his meaty hands pulled it free. Steed’s realization that the black blade had nearly hit him made his knees quake. He spun the wrong way, searching eastward into the depths of the dark parking garage and saw nothing.
“Oh, my God! Steed!” Nan screeched from his left. Her eyes were wide and her own pistol had been drawn, but like himself, she had no target.
“Shut the fuck up!” he thundered and yanked her to him by her hair. “Get on your bike and get the hell out!”
Nan had zero argument. Without bothering to don her helmet, she threw a leg over the machine and pressed the starter button. The motor cranked, but only coughed.
“Shit! Steed!” she screamed as he turned in a circle in a search for his target. She was familiar enough with her motorcycle to know that it had a hard time restarting when it was hot. She caught his eye as the starter whined with no result and shook her head, sending her dirty blonde hair flying.
“Well, run, goddamn it!” Yarborough yelled.
Nan did so in mindless terror, dropping her beloved bike to the floor in a crash. She chose to leave the group in the opposite direction that they had all entered, and sprinted for the northern exit. In her haste, she collided with one of the other Warlocks, not knowing which one other than it was a man. She peeled herself up from the cement and tried to resume her run for the gray sunlight spilling into the exit, but she had twisted something in her left leg. She howled in pain and hobbled instead, madly waving the pistol at nothing as she went.
***
Three-Seven let loose of the fourth knife, which took down another big male target, the biggest yet. He could tell his hit was not as immediately fatal, as this man, like a couple of the older ones in the group, wore a heavy leather vest. His blade struck him in the upper chest, near the collarbone. The thickly bearded thug dropped and writhed in pain upon the dusty floor.
The second to largest of the group was coming up again, so he grasped his bayonet tightly. As he turned in to strike, he noted that one of the women was attempting to escape to the north exit. In passing his initial target, he slashed at him across the back of the upper left thigh. This sent the man spinning to the ground counterclockwise, the same direction Elliot was running. Certainly, the struck biker would be looking behind him for the culprit.
At his full speed, he ran into the limping female, striking her in the upper back with a raised forearm. The blonde let out a short cry of surprise before again collapsing to the floor, sliding to a stop after a couple of meters.
Elliot hoped he had not hit her too hard. He was not done with her by a long shot. He continued running in a tightening circle and searched for his next target.
A gunshot filled the cavernous parking garage. The flash indicated that it was wasted in an entirely different direction. From within the embattled circle, one of the bike’s motors came to life.
***
Steed roiled on the floor and felt the hot blood oozing freely from his left leg. He fired his gun more in frustration than anything else. In the flash, he saw only more emptiness, a few abandoned vehicles, and rows of cement posts.
A frightened Yarborough realized that numbness in his leg was not a good sign, so he crawled to his bike and felt for a saddlebag. He needed to tie off his leg.
***
Gopher saw Ironman take a blade to his throat and drop dead. He did not bother trying to figure out where the attacker was coming from, but all he knew was that there was only one. He had seen the blurred black figure dash along at the edges of the light emitted by the barrel fires. Not thinking, he bent and picked up Ironman’s shotgun and looked for Trish.
In a moment, he found her, whimpering and lying face down in between Maxx’s and Ironman’s motorbikes.
“Hey! Get up!” Gopher called to her and dropped to one knee.
Someone to his right managed to start his bike. Right then, he realized that the gunshot Steed had let fly had impeded his hearing. Her response went by him unnoticed. Gopher grabbed her shoulder and shook it, hard.
“Fuck off!” Trish screamed shakily and placed her head to the floor.
Gopher checked to see if a shell was in the chamber. “You’ve got to run!”
“You got a gun! Shoot ‘im!” she commanded. In the flickering light, he could see the fright and anger in her face.
“Yeah,” he whispered and began looking for the black blur once again. As he lifted the barrel higher, a flash of gunfire erupted at his left. His ear rang instantly and he dropped on top of the woman, who squirmed violently in protest.
Gopher was aware that one of the other bikers had been hit by the shot. The screaming man sounded a lot like Slasher, but he could not be sure. Gopher had never heard any of these men cry out in pain or terror before and it frightened him to the core.
“Get the hell off me!” Trish shouted and punched at him.
“Sorry!” he retorted and rolled from her and onto his knees. He peered into the orange light and was determined to take their attacker down. Turning to his right, he saw the black blur again. He spun his upper body to the left and fired the shotgun.
For a moment, all Gopher could see was the flash of the shot and all he could hear was ringing. Disoriented, he dropped to his knees and pumped another round into the chamber. He saw but could not hear the empty shell as it danced along the floor.
Another gunshot sounded from behind them and another of the group responded in pain and terror. Gopher could not even begin to guess who it was this time. He checked Trish again. She remained on the floor with her hands over her head. Her bare legs trembled against the cement and her black calf-high boots knocked together. He was relieved, as he thought perhaps she had stood as he spun and took some of his shot.
Tires screeched at that moment and Gopher could see that Blades had gotten his machine in gear. It tore off toward the north exit.
“Go, Blades! Go!” Gopher bellowed as lou
d as he could.
As the motorcycle headed away, its headlight passed over the walls of the garage. At that moment, the black blur entered Gopher’s field of vision from the right. The attacker fired another round after the retreating Blades.
Gopher lifted the shotgun to fire another blast at their mysterious attacker, noting that the shot must have missed because Blade was still accelerating. The bright white light narrowed and disappeared out of sight as the machine was shifted from one gear to the next.
Gopher’s world lit up as the attacker surprised him with another shot. He was pressed backward into Ironman’s motorcycle and, out of control, the young biker took it down with him. Pain exploded in Gopher’s chest and his ability to breathe was immediately taken.
A mighty bellowing howl filled the concrete structure. The remaining members of the biker gang turned their attentions toward where it seemed to be the loudest.
“Some…body…kill this ass…” Gopher tried to say. Shot and stabbed in the chest, the remaining air in his lungs was forced from him as his attacker placed a foot on him and pulled the long blade from his body. Almost immediately, the youngest member of the Warlocks died.
***
From the dark depths of the garage, another watched the spectacle through his CORPS-Link implant. His lenses had fully adapted to the darkness and he saw the madman sprint in a tight circle, apparently supplied with an infinite supply of oxygen. He ran around and around, flinging throwing knives before knocking the gang leader’s woman unconscious and relieving her of her handgun, all while barely slowing his pace.
The bikers, big and tough guys that he knew from afar, fell one after the other. He could not make his feet move, let alone run. He could not blink, let alone look away. The old Marine was transfixed upon the horror unfolding in front of him.
The lone attacker seemed to be wearing a tight black bodysuit, a facial mask, and a pocket-laden belt of a military design. His hair was long, slick with oils and quite dark. The eyes seemed to glow yellow in the greenness of the old man’s night vision.
One by one, the Warlocks fell. The Marine felt little pity for them, for they were a violent pack, but when the leader’s woman had been knocked hard to the cement floor again, he winced and found himself hoping she was all right. He had seen her often and had become infatuated with the woman. Normally, he would flee from the garage when the Warlocks or other gangs entered the parking garage, but after a time, he remained to watch her. Now, as he looked upon her crumpled form, he feared the worst.
The attacker continued his circular running rampage and fired the last round from the woman’s handgun into the young biker who had been firing the shotgun at him with no apparent effect. The old Marine felt a chill arrest his spine as the dark garage was filled with the madman’s howl. The black-clad figure retrieved his long blade from the body and tore into the last two men standing. In a flash of flying kicks and punches, he ended both of them with slashes to the throats. Neither man had fired a shot.
The assassin leaned over the prone body of the leader after kicking the gun from his hand. He seemed to say something to the young thug before ending him with a stab to the chest.
The old man crossed himself and whispered a prayer. His body trembled violently as the chill washed over his entire existence.
“Ho…holy sssssh…” His whisper trailed as the attacker’s color changed from black to a light gray right before his eyes. The old man’s heart pounded and he realized that if he had not already been leaning against the cold concrete wall, he would have fallen.
The other woman in the group shot to her feet and began to run. In a flash, the gray enigma was on her. The vicious animal tackled her to the cement, tore away her clothing, beat her until her sobs quieted, and proceeded to rape her with animalistic urgency.
The retired Marine looked away. Had he a firearm, he would have intervened. The thought occurred that he should try to approach the group of dead men and grab a gun. There were quite a few lying about. He imagined himself taking this monster by surprise and saving the women, at the very least. Using the wall, he lifted himself to his feet.
The beast let out another chilling howl as his use for the young lady had reached its inevitable end. Just as the demonic voice faded away, a loud crack echoed. He had broken the girl’s neck.
“Son of a bitch,” the Marine hissed as his eyes teared. Such cruelty he had never witnessed. Powerlessly, he slipped down the wall and settled upon the cold floor.
Stunned, he watched the mysterious monster drag the leader’s woman by her beautiful blonde hair to the center of the body-strewn camp. Leaving her for the time being, the creature, for the Marine could not regard the thing as human, tore open the chest cavity of one of the male victims and went about cutting through the flesh and ribcage with the long black blade.
Upon this sight, the old man did faint.
***
Elliot Three-Seven stood watching the fresh meat sizzle on the grillwork set upon the burning barrel. He shifted his eyes to the broken female that he had used to death and smiled. She had been more pleasurable than he had anticipated, but was glad he spared the unconscious one for the moment.
He turned the cooking heart with his bayonet and remembered that there had been someone in the building with an implant. Elliot reached out for it by broadcasting another ping. This time, he held it, hacked away the security software, and read the identification tag.
“Semper Fi, Marine!” he called into the fire-flickering darkness. “Master Gunny Sergeant Nash Ferris…front and center!”
Elliot looked about him for the appearance of the older serviceman as he turned the delectable liver on the grill.
“Ah, there you are,” Three-Seven called as the old man shuffled within the ring of orange fire light.
For a moment, the old man just stared. He came a little closer before stopping next to the body of the biker gang leader. He dared not look down, for he feared that the monster in front of him planned to pounce. Why he had even come closer, he was not certain. At first, he thought he might drop to the ground and pick up a weapon to remove this crazy man, but he suspected that he had zero chance of pulling that off.
Elliot stabbed a heart and used one of his recovered throwing knives to slice off a piece. “Want some?” He cackled and smiled crazily.
Nash shook his head and gave a grimace.
“Very well,” Three-Seven replied and took a big bite of the heart in his hand.
Ferris groaned in disgust and looked away. In doing so, his eyes found a semi-automatic pistol at his feet, lying in a pool of its dead owner’s blood.
“Now, now,” Elliot chided as he chewed. “No bad thoughts, Ferris. I’ll wish you out to the cornfield!” The maniac let out a high-pitched chortle. It was clear that the reference was lost on the older man, which surprised Three-Seven slightly, though he dismissed it. He had watched a collection of twentieth-century two-dimensional entertainment videos that he had found at the Drake residence and had thought them to be commonplace.
Master Gunnery Sergeant Ferris remained still and cleared his throat. “Okay, no problem.”
Elliot Three-Seven attacked the heart ravenously. He checked on the fellow soldier as he ate mouthful after mouthful. Thinking the command, he hacked his fellow Marine’s implant further. “What was your nickname?” he asked, once he found that he could not seem to discover that information.
“Nickname? I don’t have one,” Ferris answered.
“Sure you do,” Elliot insisted once he picked the last of the meat from the heart and tossed it behind him. “I’ve been told my predecessors had amusing names for one another.”
“Umm, well, I did have a training officer call me ‘Slaw’,” he answered and thought back. “I used to grab that in the mess hall whenever I could.”
“Really? Weird,” the FROG replied and gorged on a liver.
Ferris watched the perfectly honed, strangely inhuman teeth and blade-like fingernails tear into the human
flesh and felt his head swim. “What are you?”
Elliot glanced to the Marine and flashed a bloody smile as he dropped the pigment of his skin to his default pale pink. Instead of answering verbally, he sent an identification file implant-to-implant. The information displayed immediately upon the older man’s lenses without waiting for permission to link.
“What the…?” Nash uttered. He read the unsolicited file, deeply concerned that this cannibalistic monster had the ability to get into his mind and was further revolted to realize that this Elliot Three dash Seven, was indeed a fellow Marine. He mumbled the meaning of the FROG anagram and all at once, understood the creature in front of him. The information packet described the entire FROG program and outlined an individual’s qualities and physical features. Under any other circumstances, the old sergeant would have been impressed.
Three-Seven turned from Ferris and went about cracking open another chest cavity.
This time, the older man could not keep from fainting. He turned from the horrific scene and braced himself from the fall.
Some seconds later, when Nash recovered, he realized that the FROG file was gone. He had not the chance to copy it to his CORPS-Link. He turned back to his tormentor and grimaced. He could hear the knife cutting into the next body. Nash looked about nervously, figuring he was next. As if his mind were being read, the psychotic FROG spoke.
“There’s no reason to fear, brother,” Elliot told him as he remained focused on his butcher work.
With that, Nash Ferris quietly stepped away, heading for the exit into the hard rain of the night rather than simply heading for the abandoned structure above them. He was not sure whether this FROG was just setting him up for a hunt or not, but he knew that he would rather meet his death outside than become just another dead body in an unused building. He would likely rot beyond the point of identification before he was found and Nash had always wanted the decency of a proper burial.
Campanelli: Siege of the Nighthunter Page 14