Doomsday Exam [BUREAU 13 Book Two]

by Nick Pollotta

  "When they first hauled your body in here, I had thought you were a member of the staff, or maybe a guard,” Willis said, returning the totem to a fold in his cloth. “But plainly I was wrong. Your healing rate is fantastically increased, and I can see the imprints of your hands in the metal railing of the gurney from when you were unconscious. That's magnified strength."

  Licking his lips, Alpha said nothing.

  The FBI agent leaned closer. “You're one of the Marines who volunteered as a human test subject for the serum, aren't you?"

  "Yes, sir,” Alpha answered truthfully. “I have been injected with the serum."

  Frowning deeply, Scott clasped hands on top of his knees. “Okay, son. What the hell happened tonight?"

  "There was a fight,” Alpha said hesitantly, “And I had to destroy the lab to protect it from falling into the wrong hands.” So easily did the near lie come to him. This was another aspect of evolution?

  "What do you mean by wrong hands?” Willis demanded. “Enemy agents? Terrorists?"

  "One of the other subjects decided that he was greater than human, and we should conquer the world."

  "Megalomania,” Agent Willis sighed, sitting upright. “We were afraid that something like that would happen. Homo Sapiens versus Homo Superior. Strategy and Tactical says it would be a short, bloody war, with them winning."

  Not fully understanding, Alpha nodded his head in the affirmative.

  Willis let his pink fingers do a spider dance on the cloth-covered leg. “The notes? Papers? Samples?” he asked.

  "Destroyed, sir."

  "Then you're probably the only one. Maybe the only supersoldier there will ever be."

  "Seems likely, sir,” Alpha replied.

  Special Agent Willis gave a wry grin. “What's your name, soldier?"

  Experimental Test Subject Alpha, was what he almost said. “I don't know, sir."

  "Eh? Explain that."

  "Everything before the injection is a blur.” At least, that was the truth.

  Outside, another car rolled past the parked ambulance as Willis scowled at the big patient for a moment. “With the files destroyed we may never learn your name, or even which military outfit we should notify,” he said, reclining in the chair. “So what we have here is a soldier with superhuman abilities, no memory, a top secret clearance and who is believed dead. Plus, somebody whose return to society could cause serious trouble for the Pentagon. Son, you're a prime candidate for the Bureau."

  "Sir?” Alpha asked confused.

  Lighting a cigarette, Scott exhaled a long stream of smoke and explained. Long ago it became apparent that supernatural, paranormal, transdimensional and even unearthly dangers actually threatened the real-life security of the American people. So the government had established a covert agency to protect the population from these bizarre and often deadly events.

  The organization was called Bureau 13. As public knowledge of magic and monsters would cause nation wide panic, the organization kept itself and all operations totally secret. Not even the President knew exactly who they were, what they did, or where the agency was located. Bureau agents were specially trained, had incredible equipment and were sometimes themselves unique.

  Much of what the driver said meant nothing. But several words came through clear. This male was a guard of the big human tribe called America. Thoughtfully, Alpha fingered the badly healing scar on his cheek from the floor-s-scent light.

  Grinding out the butt in the ashtray, Willis said, “Now if the Pentagon was aware that the serum worked, even partially, they would continue the experiments, and next time there may not be anyway to stop the mutants."

  Mutants. Alpha filed the word away. That's what he was.

  "Do you understand what it is I am saying?” Willis asked pointedly.

  Slow comprehension came, and Alpha nodded, “You are going to kill me,” he stated bluntly. “I ... I will not resist, sir."

  Brushing back his hair, Willis ruefully smiled. “Thanks, but I would rather recruit you. The Bureau can always use a man of your talents and abilities."

  Recruit. That word Alpha knew. “You wish for me to join this Bureau and assist in guarding America?"

  "Yep."

  In a well of feelings, Alpha was overcome with emotion and nearly fainted from the very concept. A warrior for the entire human race. The responsibility was enormous! Staggering! His heart beat so loud in his tiny chest, he thought the ribs would break. Kin fought for kin, and he was human now. Blood of their blood, flesh of their flesh.

  In a rush of strength, Alpha sat up on the gurney, his head almost hitting the high ceiling. “I am ready, sir,” he said proudly, giving a shaky salute.

  Gently laughing, the driver took the hand and shook it. Respeftfully, Alpha was very careful not to squeeze in return and hurt the master.

  "Welcome to the Bureau, friend,” Agent Willis said with a grin. “I can only thank god that you stayed loyal."

  "Yes,” Alpha agreed, looking into the eyes of the human male. “Thank you, god."

  INFORMATION

  TOPSECRETTOPSECRETTOPSECRET

  SECURITY LEVEL—10

  FOR BUREAU 13 PERSONNEL ONLY

  Good morning, Cadet Ken Sanders!

  No, we did not break into your apartment to print this message on the back of your sugar-toasties box. The Bureau has ways much more subtle than such physical crudities. Please, continue you breakfast—such as it is.

  Like every student at this training school, you have passed the first, and primary, requirement for entrance into Bureau 13: experiencing a supernatural phenomenon, and surviving. Believe me, everything from here on is downhill compared to that.

  FYI: Although Bureau 13 is a duly authorized sub-division of the Justice Department, we are basically autonomous and answer to nobody but the current division chief. Occasionally, the President also, but even he has only limited power over us.

  There is no known headquarters for the Bureau. Our teams of agents roam the country on regular routes, keeping tabs on known troublemakers and investigating any unusual events that occur in their assigned territory. These independent agents alone decide upon neutralization, assimilation, capture, or termination. Part of the training here will be to read past cases of the Bureau to familiarize yourself with set operational procedures.

  But please remember, there are no precedents for any given situation. Each case is unique and must be handled individually upon its own merits. A werewolf may be some poor innocent soul driven mad by the inhuman desires torturing their mind, and will happily accept our assistance. We have anti-lycanthropy drugs. On the other hand, a beautiful, but demonic, toothfairy yanking molars from the mouths of tiny children should be gunned down without a qualm. End of discussion.

  On a personal note: I have discovered your true identity Alpha, and after due deliberation, have subsequently destroyed all references to your past, origin and initiation. Lt. Colonel Kensington Sanders is part of the Bureau now, and we take care of our own. Besides, we mutants got to stick together.

  That's about everything. The rest will be learned in class over the next six weeks and later on in the field with the team you are assigned to. Note: despite every horror story that you may hear about the final exam, only ten students have ever died in the 145 years the Academy has been operating and in memoriam each was given a passing grade.

  POP QUIZ ALERT! In 500 words or less, please submit a paper to your morning karate instructor as to why the latter may be a joke used to elevate your fears, and then submit another as to why it is definitely not a joke to your afternoon CPR/First Aid teacher.

  Good luck. Keep your head low. Glad to have you with us!

  Cordially,

  Horace Gordon

  Division Chief, Bureau 13.

  PS: No, you do not have to destroy the box. This message will revert to normal in four seconds.

  PPS: Your toast is burning.

  TOPSECRETTOPSECRETTOPSECRET Krunchy! Tasty! With a free whistle!r />
  [Back to Table of Contents]

  ACTIVATION

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER ONE

  Waiting for a friend to arrive, I was standing on a street corner in downtown Chicago when a ton of glass showered down upon me. Staggering under the brutal impacts, I was driven gasping to my knees. My hat and sports jacket were slashed to ribbons and only the presence of my Bureau 13 issue body armor saved my life.

  I barely had time to register these facts before something smashed onto the nearby pavement with a terrible wet crunch, blood spraying everywhere.

  Forcing myself to look, I noted the tattered uniform on the pulped lump, dark blue with black stripes. Oh, hell, it was a fellow cop. That was when I heard the screams and gunfire from above.

  Painfully getting erect, I shielded my face with a trembling hand and glanced skyward. There seemed to be a window missing on fifteen, but at this range it was impossible to tell. The sounds of warfare continued, so slipping on my sunglasses, I dialed for maximum computer enhancement. Yep, broken window on fifteen. Okay, now I had a goal.

  "Call the police!” I shouted to the gathering crowd of onlookers, as I stumbled into the apartment building. Once I was out of view of the general public, I paused long enough in the lobby to drink a vial of healing potion. Instantly the pain diminished and the blood stopped running from the cuts on my head and neck. Ah, much better. Wish I could have done something for the officer splattered on the sidewalk, but no amount of magic could cure a wound like that. The man had been pulp.

  As I headed for the elevator, a muffled explosion sounded somewhere and the fire alarm started to clang. Spinning about, I changed direction. Gotta take the stairs.

  Sprinting up the steps, I shucked my sports jacket and loosened both of the Smith & Wesson .357 Magnums in my double shoulder holster. Damnation, I was armed to go to the movies, not indulge in serious battle! I only hoped the situation wasn't as bad as it sounded. The whole thing could be attributed to a gas stove explosion. Highly improbable, but feasible. Maybe it was only a Mafia execution, or a terrorist attack, something simple like that. Yeah, think positive.

  Reaching fifteen, I eased open the exit door and scanned the hallway before entering. Go slow, keep low, that was my motto for the month. At the end of the hallway, there were two cursing police officers, reloading their Beretta 9mm automatics and not looking at all happy. Faintly, I heard snarls and moans of pain. Sounded worse than Saturday night at a cannibal brothel. Nasty.

  Carefully stepping into view, I kept my hands splayed and at my sides. Nervous cops had a bad habit of shooting first and apologizing later at your funeral. Although they did send flowers.

  "Move along, mack!” the young cop snarled, slamming a fresh clip into her automatic. “It ain't healthy to be around here."

  "Hey, he's armed!” the other cop shouted in warning. Instantly, their guns swiveled to point at little ol’ me.

  Stopping where I stood, I slowly reached into my jacket and withdrew my commission booklet. “FBI,” I announced calmly. “Special Federal agent Ed Alvarez. What's the situation, officers?"

  They seemed disgruntled, but accepted my arrival. At least, their Beretta automatics were no longer directed towards my tender stomach. Thank goodness, hot lead was so hard to digest after a pepperoni burrito.

  "We were responding to a domestic, on the fifteenth floor,” the woman reported quickly, jacking the slide on her weapon to chamber a round. “No response to our knock, we heard sounds of violence, announced our identity and kicked the door down."

  The man shivered. “Some kind of animal was eating the tenants. Place resembled a slaughterhouse. We each pumped a full magazine into the beast before it even noticed we were there."

  "Who went out the window?” I asked, feeling the tiny hairs on the back of my neck start to rise.

  "Harry,” the woman said. She was calmer now and a lot more angry. “The fool tried to Mace the thing."

  Weird noises were coming from down the hallway. Snarling, growling and a crunching sound much too reminiscent of teeth on bones. This was not music to my ears. “What does it look like?"

  "Big. Ugly. No hair."

  Interesting, I briefly wondered if it was a bald werewolf, a squid-bear, or another of those giant mutant Chihuahuas again. We had been finding a lot of those lately. Must be the something in the water.

  "Where is the animal now?” I asked, coming closer.

  "Who knows?"

  "I called for emergency back-up,” the man added. “But this is Chicago."

  "With more crime than cops,” I finished for him. “How long?"

  "They get here when they get here."

  Damn. “My people can arrive in five minutes. You want help?"

  "Buddy, we need help,” admitted the older and obviously wiser officer.

  "Done.” Turning my back on the pair, I pressed the transmit switch on my wristwatch, a nifty little piece of Bureau equipment that could do everything but strap itself on your wrist, and Technical Services was working on that detail.

  "Alert,” I whispered. “Possible homicidal supernatural at ***175 Wacker Drive. Definitely bulletproof. Call in the troops, gang, this could be a toughie."

  "We're on the way,” a familiar voice replied.

  "Don't stop for lunch, or it may be me."

  "Gotcha, chief."

  Tucking my badge into my belt so it would be on public display, I shrugged and both Magnums were in my hands. The Model 42 ultra-light in my left was loaded with rubber stun bullets. The heavy stainless steel Model 66 in my right held a scenario load of an armor-piercing military round, soft lead dum-dum, explosive mercury tip, silver bullet, phosphorus tracer, and a blessed wood bullet. Not much, but it would have to do.

  Just then, a scream of raw terror echoed along the hall and the three of us charged with guns drawn. Monster or not, no cop could ignore a cry for help.

  Inside the apartment was a mess, with torn clothing everywhere, furniture smashed, television smoking, carpet ripped, papers scattered and amid the fresh destruction stood the beast. It was no Chihuahua.

  Vaguely resembling a hairless lion, the muscular animal must have weighed four hundred pounds easy. It had mottled, diseased-looking skin, long saber tooth tusks, prehensile claws, charnel house breath and a real bad attitude.

  But according to my sunglasses, the creature possessed no Kirlian aura. None. That was impossible! Incredible! Everything living had an aura; white for good, black for evil, green for magic, and a million shades in between. Maybe this monster was off the visible spectrum with an ultra-violet, or infrared aura. For one brief moment I debated trying to capture the thing alive for the lab crew. Then it turned and I saw a foot and slipper sticking out of its drooling snout. So much for capture. Lumpy the Lion died here and now. Eat a civilian in my town and you went down for the count. Fast and hard. End of discussion.

  "Aim for the head!” I cried, targeting the chest in an attempt to hit the heart. I forced myself to keep the instructions plain. No coded battle phrases. These were street cops, not federal secret agents.

  Our four guns sounded louder than four hundred as we banged away in the small room. The muscular animal jerked with each pounding round, but no blood showed and the damage was minimal.

  As the cops withdrew behind the wall to quickly reload, Lumpy bounded forward, so I tossed in my only grenade and then joined the officers. In the future, I really should go shopping with more than just the bare essentials. However, bazookas simply ruined the lines of a good sports jacket.

  A thunderous explosion shook the floor, flame and debris blasting out the doorway. Without waiting for the chaos to settle, I dashed back inside to continue the fight but found only bits of the Bozo Boojum strewn about. Contemptuously, I snapped my fingers at the dead monster. Ha! Lumpy hadn't been so tough. I had in-laws who used grenades to dust the furniture. It really kept their place clean, but sure was really hard on the doilies.

  But even as the smo
ke thinned, the bloody pieces started slithering towards each other as the monster began to re-assemble. I felt my lunch pack its bags for a quick vacation as I watched the reverse dissection. Uh-oh. Total cellular unification. Every tiny piece of its body was a separate living organism. I could be here for a year trying to chill this boojum!

  Then again, maybe not. Moving fast, I grabbed a foreleg, sprinted into the kitchenette, stuffed it into the microwave and turned the dial to high. The results were interesting. Wrapping my handkerchief around what resembled a brain, I dropped the pulsating gray cauliflower-like mass into the sink and flicked on the garbage disposal. Ah, instant lobotomy. Just add water.

  In a spray of electrical sparks, the microwave shorted out and the door swung aside as the limb flopped towards freedom. Then the rumbling garbage disposal jammed to a halt and an undulating brain plopped out of the sink and started rolling across the floor. Holy Hannah! This thing was harder to stop than a Congressional pay raise!

  Dumbfounded at the sight, the police officers could only watch from the doorway. This type of fighting was totally out of their experience, almost beyond comprehension. Each probably thought they were hallucinating, or dreaming. That was the standard reaction. But the cops were still here and that showed guts. If we survived this mess, the Bureau could have a couple of prime recruits.

  Rummaging under the sink, I found a can of drain cleaner and liberally sprinkled the acidic lye over anything that seemed healthy. Sizzling and dissolving under the chemical onslaught, the stubborn supernatural relentlessly continued to piece itself back together.

  Tossing aside the can, I grabbed another limb and started to heave it out the window, but stopped. Not everybody in Chicago would be wearing protective armor and the next poor slob to get glass rained on them would die. Damn, damn, damn! Think, Alvarez, think!

  I had never fought a true unkillable before, only read the Bureau manual on the subject. Unfortunately, I had just exhausted the usually helpful handbook. Time to be brilliant. Ah ... er...

  "Oven?” the young cop suggested.

  With a grin, I slapped her on the arm. “Yes!"