Deadly Eleven

by Mark Tufo

  “Did you know him, colonel? Before, I mean,” Jacobs asked.

  Shaking his head, Matt responded, “No. But he was quite civilized when we were feeding him, and he was quite the gentleman.” Mitchell sighed and continued, “I’ve hated monsters my entire life, but this man…excuse me, this creature, taught me that not all monsters embrace what they are. Not all of them want to be infected.” Mitchell turned to address the group as a whole. “And that is exactly what this is. An infection. It affects the mind, the body…and yes, the very soul. It is my firm belief that the body is truly dead and, therefore, the soul has left. But if a man is decent prior to infection, then there is a chance he will still be a decent ‘being’ afterwards. If they have a dark spot in their soul, the infection amplifies it. They revert to the most basic of instincts: food, sex, and destruction.”

  Mitchell turned and walked out, leaving the creature to its solitude. The soldiers all turned and followed. When Mitchell re-entered the briefing room, the men followed and took their seats again. “From this point on, you will all be receiving a promotion, combat pay, hazardous duty pay, and we will do everything in our power to prepare you for doing battle with these…things. However, you will all be stripped of rank,” Mitchell stated.

  The men exchanged looks of confusion. Mitchell continued, “We are mixing different branches of our nation’s military, and now, one of our finest police forces into one unit, and maintaining rank and title can become confusing, especially when we are in combat. Therefore, you will be issued new uniforms, new insignia and after you’ve each finished your training, we will be assigning combat enumerations. These will in no way have anything to do with ability, rank or privilege. Each of you will be tested on your actual strengths, weaknesses, and ability. Your strengths will be amplified via the augmentation program, your weaknesses will be assessed and turned into a strength either by unit billet or by training, and your abilities will improve vastly by program’s end.”

  Gus Tracy raised his hand to interrupt. “Sir? What can we, as operators, expect to see during this augmentation? I mean, what sort of improvements?”

  “Good question,” Mitchell responded. He pulled out a graph from his folder and used it as a guide. “These numbers are not set in stone, but they are a rule of thumb from previous subjects who underwent and successfully completed the regimen.”

  Matt cleared his throat and stated, “Strength increases, on average, to nearly four times that of when the subject began the program. Speed increased to nearly two and half times. Visual acuity increased nearly threefold, not to mention a remarkable increase in depth perception, night vision and speed of acclimation to light changes. Hearing increased nearly threefold. Subjects were able to hear sounds that only canines could detect. So as far as you are concerned, it will be like steroids, on steroids. You will feel like Superman.” Matt smiled at the group. “Only without the flying.”

  Putting up his papers, he asked the group, “Any questions?”

  “Yes, sir,” Lamb responded with a cheesy grin. “How fast can we get started?”

  Chapter 239

  Senator Leslie Franklin sat behind his desk when the call came in from his aide. The call that nobody would have wanted to make, but being the senator’s aide, it had to be done. The Monster Squad not only was not being disbanded, they were to receive an increase in funding and had already gotten new recruits to replace the lost men. Senator Franklin was beyond mad, he was livid. His secretary took it upon herself to cancel the rest of his appointments when she heard the man using words that she hadn’t heard since high school and heard the crystal decanter that the senator used to store his favorite cognac shatter against his office door.

  “What do you mean they already have replacements on the ground? That simply can’t be. It’s only been thirty-six hours since half of them were killed!” he screamed into the telephone.

  “Yes, sir, I realize that. B-but Ms. Youngblood already had a list prepared. It was pushed through the Pentagon and the men re-allocated within hours. They’ve already began training, sir,” The aide responded.

  Franklin wanted to slam the phone down, but somehow, his energy was simply drained. He laid it carefully back into its cradle and sat back in his plush leather chair. He propped his head in his hands and wanted so desperately to weep, yet he held himself in check. He couldn’t allow this to happen. There had to be a way. He just needed to think of it. There had to be a way to stop the Monster Squad for good.

  Jack Thompson woke feeling slightly better, but his body still ached. There was a new candle burning by his bedside and fresh linens stacked near the bed. He noticed two more wet washrags near the wash basin and realized that Nadia must have come to him during his sleep and tended to him once again.

  He tried to rise from the bed, but his ribs and back protested in pain. His legs throbbed and he knew that he was damaged far worse than he originally thought. Flashes of the battle came to him and he remembered seeing his men being torn limb from limb. He pressed his eyes closed tightly, trying to rid his mind of the memories, but they wouldn’t leave. He knew he was lucky to have survived, but he wished now that he hadn’t. For a fleeting moment he questioned himself, ‘Is this survivor’s guilt’?

  He slowly rolled to his side, and a small cry escaped his lips. Then he heard movement from the darkened corner of his room. “You’re awake. Excellent.”

  It wasn’t Nadia’s voice. Definitely male, but not very masculine. At least, not very macho sounding like most of the soldiers he was used to dealing with. Again, a slight accent, but he couldn’t quite place it. “Forgive me if I startled you. Nadia and I were taking turns looking after you while you slept.” With that, the figure stood and stepped out of the shadows and closer to the bedside, bringing an antique French-styled chair with him. Setting it near the bed, the man took his seat again and sat facing Jack.

  “There now. That’s better.” He reached out and fluffed a pillow and placed it under Jack’s head in an attempt to make him more comfortable. “And how are you feeling today?”

  Jack could tell at first glance, this ‘man’ wasn’t human. Vampire, was his first thought, but something just isn’t quite right. He couldn’t quite place his finger on it, but somehow he knew. And if he wasn’t a vampire, he was something very close to it.

  “Who are you?” Jack asked, clearly defensive.

  “Forgive my rudeness,” the man replied, standing slightly and bowing. “I am Rufus Thorn. Owner of this castle and, at the moment, your host.” With that, he took his seat again. “And, how are you feeling today? Better, I hope.”

  Jack pulled back slightly to get a clearer look at this Mr. Thorn. “You’re not human,” he stated bluntly.

  “No, I am not,” Rufus replied with a slight smile. “Quite perceptive of you.” Rufus sat back in the high-backed chair and gave Jack a studying look. “Of course, I suppose I should expect as much from someone who spends as much time of their life as you do hunting down my kind and exterminating them. But you are correct in your assessment. I am most definitely not human. And I haven’t been for centuries.” Rufus cleared his throat and gave Jack a rather pleasant smile.

  “Is this where you kill me? Or are you going to heal me up so you can torture me? Or…”

  Rufus appeared genuinely shocked. “My God, boy, I should say not! We are...how do the dime store novels say? Vampire vegetarians. And I must say, for those who risked their very lives to save yours, you have a rather odd way of giving thanks.”

  Now it was Jack’s turn to appear shocked. “Vege-what? You’re a vampire. How can you be a vegetarian?” With his outburst, Jack began coughing and could not quite get it under control. Rufus stood and poured some water from the pitcher into a crystal glass and offered it to him to drink. After Jack got his coughing under control, Rufus retook his seat.

  “It seems to me that you and I have much to talk about. It would appear that you really do not know all that much about who…or what…you are hunting when you
go tromping through the night and shoot at anybody with fangs. Do you, old boy?”

  Although Jack was more than just a bit skeptical, he had to admit to himself that he was more than just a bit intrigued. Why would a vampire bother to save a human for anything other than a snack? Especially one that had been given an anti-vampirism cocktail? Or maybe the bloodsucker didn’t know that? Wouldn’t he be in for a surprise when he tried to get a little SOCCOM snack in the middle of the night! Still, if that were the case, wouldn’t they both be dead right now?

  “Let me tell you a little story about vampires. And not the story that mummies and daddies tell their kiddies to keep them from going outside at night either…”

  “Squad One is in the briefing room. They’re up to date, and as expected, it hit them hard,” Matt said as he slumped into his chair.

  “I can only imagine what it must be like for them,” Laura said, reliving the deaths of the other squad again in her mind. “Have you figured out yet whether to incorporate the newbies into the existing squad or keep them together?”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” Matt replied. He poured a cup of coffee and turned back to his desk. “Part of me thinks that breaking up the existing squad would be harder on their morale, but another part of me thinks that the best way to train the new members and keep everybody alive longer will be putting old with new.”

  “Well, the training reports are looking really good, sir,” Laura said as she dropped a stack of papers on Matt’s desk.

  “How are they coming along?” he asked, looking up from his daily scheduling.

  “Actually? Better than previous efforts. The Air Force guys were a better fit than I thought they’d be,” she replied, taking a seat. “Like always, once the Army and Navy guys got through trying to see who’s dick was bigger, they fit like cogs on a gear. I was a bit leery of mixing in the Combat Controllers, but with all of the air support we’ve been using lately, I really felt they’d be necessary. And Sanchez is more than pulling her own weight. Plus we’ve got three qualified snipers, all have been taught hand-to-hand, they’ve all…”

  “You don’t have to sell me on them, Laura. I trust your judgment, remember?” the colonel replied.

  “Yes, sir.” She answered back feeling less defensive. “They’re all fitting in nicely. And the augmentation is working quicker than with the other teams. I think the new formula really has it down to a fine art.”

  “Good news.” Matt allowed himself to smile for the first time since the attack. Since losing his team, he hadn’t allowed any good news to truly lift his spirits, but this was the turning of a new leaf. “So what’s on the agenda for today?”

  “They’ve finished up the new hand-to-hand techniques. Not too tough for most of them as you’d expect. We’re moving on to firearms and armaments.”

  “All the FN stuff. Gotcha. Is Jay Wolf coming in for this again?”

  “He should be arriving within the hour, sir.”

  “Let me know when he gets here.

  The colonel had his men prepare the briefing room and indoor shooting ranges for Jay Wolf, owner and CEO of Elite Ammunition based in Harvard, Illinois. Although the team was used to some pretty heavy firepower in the field of battle, this new battlefield was almost always close quarters battle or CQB. This sort of scenario called for an entirely new breed of weaponry and the Monster Squad liked to keep things simple. If you can use the same caliber cartridge for both your sidearm and your carbine rifle, that made it a definite plus.

  The unit decided on FN’s lineup of 5.7X28MM weapons for CQB and the SCAR-H 17 308 for sniping. The US military had a very good working relationship with Fabrique National de Herstal and procuring the weapons wasn’t a problem. Getting the proper ammunition was. Enter, Jay Wolf of Elite. Mr. Wolf was a specialty ammunition manufacturer and when Matt went searching for other ammunition suppliers besides FN for 5.7 ammo, there was only ONE. That one was Elite. Being that they were a small company, and the fact that Mr. Wolf was ex-military, Matt knew that Wolf could keep a secret. If Matt needed umpteen rounds of silver hollow point ammunition, then Mr. Wolf would see to it. The problem was getting the bullets. Matt actually had to have another bullet manufacturer make the bullets, ship them to Elite, and then have Elite make the rounds for the squad.

  What made Elite’s rounds ‘elite’? The fact that they spent thousands of man-hours finding the maximum ft/lbs that could be safely pushed through both the handgun and the carbine for maximum carnage, whereas, FN, in an effort to appease the populace, and facing unfounded rumors that the FiveseveN pistol was a cop-killer gun, had begun to water-down their factory produced rounds. Not the kind of ammunition you wanted to use when hunting a monster with a really thick skin.

  When Jay Wolf entered the compound Laura met up with him and escorted him to Matt’s office. It was as if two old Army buddies had met again after many years apart. Scotch was shared, war-stories swapped, and condolences given for the loss of the squad. Jay knew some of those guys personally and would feel their loss later once it had really sunk in. He knew the news would be devastating to his wife and business partner, Lisa once he got home and broke the sad tale to her. Although bound by secrecy, the agreement had to include her. There was no way one could produce tens of thousands of rounds of silver ammunition for the federal government and not include your wife and business partner especially when she was an integral piece of every part of the business.

  “Jay, we got these new boys out here training to replace that squad,” Matt said, staring out the window of his office at the guys running obstacle courses or practicing their hand-to-hand skills. “I’d like you to go over the importance of the weapons and rounds.” He turned to face Jay, his face obviously holding something back.

  “Okay, Matt. I guess I can do that,” Jay said. “But don’t you usually have your smiths go over the weapons systems with them? I’m sure they’d have a lot more input than I would—”

  “On the weapons themselves, perhaps. But you know the nuances. You know these rounds. Hell, you hand load each one to match specs.” Matt drained the remaining puddle of his drink. “Besides, these guys are still of a mindset that bigger is better. They don’t understand the concept behind the firing rate, the faster, smaller bullet, ft/lbs of energy and all that crap.” Matt sat on the edge of his desk and gave Jay a good hard look. “You’re not military anymore. You’re a real person in the real world with real world results. You brought the presentation with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then let’s do this.” Matt stood and opened his office door. “I just want somebody who won’t let these guys walk all over them, and I figure a tanker like yourself is just the man for the job.”

  In the briefing room Jay went over the weapons systems and the rounds he created for the squad. He explained how a smaller bullet travelling at a higher rate of speed could give as much kinetic energy as a larger bullet at a slower rate of speed, but still have armor piercing capability. And while the team was not likely to meet up with anything out there wearing body armor, they were likely to meet up with something whose skin was as tough as armor, if not tougher.

  Jay ran through his slides and videos showing how his ‘hot loads’ could pierce car doors and still remain lethal. He gave graphs, slides, and photos showing the end result of pig cadavers shot through windshields and the dissection of the remains and the damage caused by the tumbling bullets when they entered the bodies and struck bone. He explained how the 5.7 was, in all actuality a .224 bullet with a much smaller grain weight; that when it struck a body would tumble and leave a wound cavity very similar to that of a .45 caliber bullet. Ballistic gel videos showed a cavitation effect that was down-right frightening for such a small projectile.

  When his presentation was finished, he asked the men, “Any questions?”

  Dave Marshal was the first to raise his hand. “If you can get this kind of result from a souped-up fuckin’ .22, why can’t you just soup us up some real rounds like a .4
0 or a .45?”

  This brought a few chuckles from the other men and few nods. Matt averted his eyes and simply sighed. He was afraid of this.

  “I guess you weren’t paying attention during the presentation, were you?” Jay refrained from calling the man a dumbass. Knowing that he had begun his augmentation regimen, the man could probably tear him in half already with little effort. “The FiveseveN is a high-capacity, low recoil firearm with dead on accuracy and a reputation in the field second to none. With a recoil less than half of a nine millimeter, you can reacquire your target in a fraction of the time.”

  “Meaning…what, exactly?” Marshal goaded.

  “Meaning you can put all twenty rounds dead on the bull’s-eye in less time than it takes to put eight rounds on the bull’s-eye with a .45,” Jay stated flatly. “Plus you will also have the P90 carbine that can empty fifty rounds in 3.3 seconds with deadly accuracy in close quarters, and they both share the same ammunition.” Jay walked around the podium and approached the table that the men were seated behind. He placed both hands flat on the table and stared directly into Dave’s eyes. “In a shit-hit-the-fan situation, it’s a damned good thing to be able to use the same ammunition for both your sidearm and your carbine, wouldn’t you think? Not to mention being able to reacquire your target in a fraction of the time of any other weapon platform available on the market, especially when the things you are going to be shooting at has reflexes ten times faster than a cheetah.” He allowed a moment for the statement to sink in.

  “Now, when you consider that this ‘souped-up fuckin .22’ – as you call it – has the kinetic energy of a standard .40 caliber, leaves the wound channel of a .45 due to tumbling, and about half the recoil of a 9MM, not to mention the standard magazine holds twenty rounds with one in the pipe, it sounds to me like a pretty nifty little fucking weapon, wouldn’t you agree?” He left little argument for them as he turned back to the podium and turned off the overhead projectors. “Now. Are you boys ready to start seeing just what these weapons are actually capable of first hand? Or do you want to sit here and keep making dumb-assed assumptions?”