Gorgon: An Alex Hunter Novel

by Greig Beck

  ‘Alex looked up. ‘And can you trust me?’

  ‘I think so,’ Hammerson said.

  ‘That’s why you wore body armor.’

  Hammerson half-smiled as he tapped the plating under his shirt. ‘Hope for the best, plan for the worst.’

  The three men stood in silence, the seconds stretching.

  Sam broke the quiet. ‘It’s good to see you again, boss.’

  The big HAWC took a few steps forward and Alex looked down at his legs, his eyes narrowing slightly. The sound was almost imperceptible to normal hearing, but Alex had picked up the slight whine that accompanied the movement of turbo hydraulics.

  ‘Did I do that?’ he asked.

  Sam shook his head. ‘No. You saved my life. You sent what did this to me straight back to hell. But the mission went to shit, for both of us. I lost my legs, and you … you lost a lot of your life.’

  Alex nodded. ‘I remember you … in the jungle.’

  ‘You’re back,’ Sam said. ‘That’s all that matters.’

  ‘Not yet.’ Alex slowly turned his head to scan the street, the buildings and other potential areas of concealment. Satisfied, he turned back to Hammerson. ‘Well, you called me.’

  ‘That I did,’ Hammerson responded. ‘Wanted to see how you were – in person. See if you’ve found what you were looking for.’

  ‘You know the answer to that,’ Alex said, and snorted softly. ‘I’ve felt you on my shoulder the past few months now.’

  Hammerson smiled back. ‘Son, we were never off your shoulder. As I said, we were watching over you.’ He took a step forward. ‘Fact is, there’s a lot of people out there who want to do you harm.’

  ‘I can take care of myself. And no, I didn’t find what I was looking for. When I got there, it had all changed. You know that.’

  Hammerson took another step toward his protégé. ‘Everything changes; it’s what makes life interesting. We want you to come back to us. We think –’

  ‘Makes life interesting?’ Alex shook his head. ‘I don’t want interesting. I want normal. I want my life back the way it was. I want to have a wife, a family. I want to go home after a day’s work, have a few beers with friends. I want normal.’

  Hammerson shook his head slowly. ‘We don’t do normal. I know you know that, Alex.’

  ‘Jack, I don’t want this life anymore. I want to go home. I was nearly there.’ Alex remembered Joshua waving goodbye to him. ‘I was so close.’ His eyes bored into Hammerson’s. ‘Do you know about Joshua?’

  The older man seemed to relax. But Alex knew he was doing the complete opposite – he was making his body loose, ready.

  ‘Yes,’ Hammerson said.

  Alex’s jaw clenched. ‘You knew. And you knew he was mine.’

  ‘We suspected it. We assessed it was better to monitor the mother and child, stay away from them. Let them –’

  ‘Let them what? Continue thinking I’m dead? Live a normal life without me? I should be there with them.’

  Hammerson shook his head. ‘You’re not ready.’

  He turned slightly side-on. Alex recognized the defense position. So much for trust. He rubbed his temple, feeling the ache again, deep inside.

  ‘That’s just it. I’ll never be ready. You should have let me die after Chechnya.’

  ‘I chose to stay away and make them safe,’ Hammerson said. ‘And I think you did too. I take risks – we both do, every single day of our lives – and sometimes it’s my goddamn shitty job to decide what’s an acceptable risk for someone else. When I authorized the Arcadian treatment for you, it was a risk. But the alternative was leaving you as a brain-dead bag of meat on a hospital bed. Is that what you would have preferred? You’re alive and walking around – you got a good deal.’

  ‘I’m a ghost – I don’t exist! Alex Hunter, the real Alex Hunter, died on that damned operating table, and what’s left is some sort of military killing machine. I can’t even speak to my son. I’ve got nothing!’

  Alex’s head throbbed, and a small voice began to whisper its hate to him.

  ‘Bullshit! Time to stop feeling sorry for yourself, soldier.’ Hammerson yelled the words, chin jutting, jabbing his finger into Alex’s face.

  We’ll all be better off if you’re dead.

  Alex ground his teeth. Did Hammerson just say that?

  The experiment was a failure. Time to clean the books – wipe out you and your abomination offspring.

  Alex shook his head. ‘What did you say?’

  Hammerson spoke again, but Alex couldn’t hear his words. There was another voice, even louder in his head.

  We don’t need you any more … we’ve got the kid. We can cut him up – see what makes him tick.

  ‘Like hell you will!’ Alex’s hand shot out to grab Hammerson around the neck.

  Sam moved at a fantastic speed for someone his size, took hold of Alex’s forearm and yanked. Without releasing his hold on Hammerson, Alex grabbed Sam’s shirtfront with the other hand. Sam was a big man, weighing in at around 250 pounds, with the MECH suit adding another eighty to that, but Alex slowly lifted him till his huge boots were clear of the ground.

  ‘Put him down, Alex,’ Hammerson wheezed through a constricted windpipe. ‘You’re fighting the wrong guys.’

  Alex lifted Sam higher. His arm was beginning to vibrate, not so much from the strain but from the conflict going on in his head.

  Remind them who you are. They’ll only leave you and the boy alone if you teach them a lesson.

  Alex’s teeth were compressed, and his eyes blazed, as he fought against himself.

  Sam remained calm, unresisting. He let go of Alex’s forearm. ‘We came here for you, Alex – as friends. Listen to me, Alex, hear my voice. You’re safer with us. You want your life back … then you come back to us.’

  ‘I don’t need anyone any more,’ Alex said, but he released both HAWCs and turned away. The voice in his head still raged, but he shut it out.

  Hammerson coughed and rubbed his neck. ‘So what now? You’re just going to carry on drifting around and messing up muggers? There’s more to life for you than that.’

  Alex started to walk away and Hammerson raised his voice. ‘You never spoke to Aimee, did you?’

  Alex stopped but kept his back turned.

  ‘Why not?’ Hammerson asked. ‘You tracked her down.’

  ‘She doesn’t need me,’ Alex said. He heard Hammerson step toward him.

  ‘You don’t know that, son. She still calls me. One guess what we talk about.’

  Alex turned, frowning. ‘She thinks I’m dead, and she’s better off that way.’

  ‘Yeah? Maybe her head thinks so, but her heart tells her something different. Intuition, I guess. She always was pretty insightful. I’m betting she looks at that kid and sees you, every day.’

  Alex shook his head. ‘You were right; I’m not ready. Everything’s messed up. Inside me is a tornado of chaos and violence. Not good for Aimee or the boy.’

  ‘I can’t make promises,’ Hammerson said, ‘but I know that you’re out of options by yourself. With us, you still have some.’ He put his hand on Alex’s shoulder. ‘What if I said we could give you back the stability you need? We can bring you back in undercover, and the medical division will work with you on your terms. Marshal’s in charge there now.’

  Alex felt like a door opened a crack and light shone through. ‘Graham’s gone?’

  Hammerson nodded, but didn’t expand on the subject. ‘You have my word that we’re here to help – fill in some of those blanks.’

  Alex raised his head and gazed at the trees in Antelope Park. Anything’s better than the half-life I’m leading now, he thought.

  ‘There’s something else,’ Hammerson said. ‘Uli Borshov’s on our turf – could be fixing to pay you a visit.’

  ‘Borshov.’ The name conjured up an image of a giant of a man, freezing caves, and monstrous brutality. Alex remembered a gun barrel pointed at his face – the blast and then blac
kness. ‘You want me to kill him?’

  ‘No. If we can find him, we’ll do that ourselves. He’s snatched Captain Graham, which can’t be a coincidence. If he’s after you too, there’s no telling who he’ll try and get to. With Borshov, no one is safe … no one.’

  Alex’s shoulders slumped. ‘Aimee. Joshua.’

  Hammerson nodded. ‘We’re watching them, but …’

  Alex stared into the distance, thinking. He knew he was being manipulated, but if there was a chance of curing the rages he suffered from, the price was negligible. He might even get to live a more normal life, and make it safer for those around him he cared about. He looked at Hammerson, and the older soldier’s craggy face curved into a grin.

  ‘Aimee and Joshua are safe. Don’t worry about them. But we’ve all got some scores to settle with that big bastard, and we’ve got some leads. Let’s grab a coffee and we can catch you up on a few things.’

  ‘Borshov the beast.’ After another few seconds, Alex returned the smile. ‘Coffee sounds good. I know a place – I’m a regular.’

  CHAPTER 7

  Izmit, Turkey, sixty miles east of Istanbul

  Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf.

  Zayda screwed up a weathered eye and tried to shut the sound of the dog’s continued barking from her mind. It was hard enough trying to make sense of what was on the television when the reception made everything look like it was covered in radioactive snow. She looked across to Yarni, her husband, and then to the new antenna that was still a pile of metal poles, loops of wire and bags of screws stacked near the door.

  Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf – on and on the noise went, threatening to grind her brain to mush, and her fat husband just sat reading a paper, oblivious to the clamor. Zayda stared at him, hoping her volcanic gaze would set the newsprint on fire. But he continued to sit there, his head nodding slightly, blue cigarette smoke curling up beside his puffy, grizzled face.

  Her lips moved in a curse, and she groaned to her feet and crossed to the window. Instead of throwing it open, she shouted at the glass: ‘Shut up, cursed mongrel!’ The window seemed to rattle with the ferocity of her words, but Yarni hadn’t budged, and of course the barking didn’t stop.

  She turned back to the window. The sun was setting, and she could just make out the ancient clock tower in the city center. It was old, but just a speck in history compared to her home. She angled her vision so she could just glimpse the ruins of a Roman aqueduct touching one of the hills. Izmit, built on the fertile plain of the inland Sea of Marmara, had been one of the eastern-most capitals of the Roman Empire for more than half a century – but was old even back then. Now, the city was desperate to modernize, but in the hills, where Zayda and Yarni lived, life was still bucolic, insular, and resistant to anything more modern than television and the motor car.

  Zayda pulled back from the window. She would have enjoyed the view if not for that fucking noisy dog! She spun around at her husband. ‘That Boushkin – barking, barking … all the time with the barking.’

  Yarni’s cigarette went from one side of his mouth to the other and a slit opened in his lips. ‘Must have seen a fox.’

  Zayda stomped over to her husband and grabbed his arm. ‘Well, get out there and shut him up. He’s driving me crazy!’

  Yarni jerked his arm away. ‘Piss off, woman, it’s cold out there.’ He continued reading.

  Zayda swatted her hand up through his paper. ‘If you don’t, I will.’

  She waited a few seconds. The only movement was Yarni’s eyes slowly taking in the print.

  ‘Fine, then I will shut him up – permanently.’

  She clomped to the door, snatching up the coal shovel on the way. She paused, daring him to stop her, but he lifted the paper higher so that only his gray hair was visible above its pages. Zayda pulled open the door.

  Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf. Out on the porch, the sound was even worse. There was just a faint glow on the horizon now, and the yellow luminescence from the windows only bathed the hard ground for little more than ten feet from the front steps. The dog was chained near the shed; she could see it was at the chain’s full length and, oddly, facing toward the house, as if the fox, or whatever was upsetting him, had made its way inside.

  ‘Boushkin, you stop!’ she commanded.

  The dog flattened its ears and whined, then continued barking.

  Zayda made a guttural sound of annoyance that caused her breath to steam in the dark, cold air. She stepped down, gripping the shovel tighter. Either the dog, or the fox was about to get a headache to match her own.

  *

  Yarni curled his toes inside his socks. He drew on his cigarette but got nothing but cold, stale air. He thought about relighting it, but after examining its length decided instead to flick the butt into the fire.

  He peered around their small cluttered room, and frowned. ‘Zayda?’

  How long had he been sitting there alone? Was his wife still outside? Stupid woman. The barking had stopped ages ago … or at least he thought it had. He shook his head. There was no way Zayda would really hit the dog. She might not like it, but it was the only thing keeping the foxes away from the chickens.

  Yarni looked toward the curtains; it was dark and cold outside. She’s not that stupid, he thought. He got slowly to his feet and stretched his back, then rolled down his sleeves. His forearms were massively muscled, attesting to a life of hard work. Dinner wouldn’t cook itself – he’d see what was keeping her. He pulled his shirt down over a paunch that caused his belt to strain on its very last notch, and lumbered toward the door. He looked briefly at his jacket, but shrugged – he’d only be a few minutes.

  He left the door ajar and stood on the porch, scanning the dark front yard. There was no sign of his wife.

  ‘Zayda. Zayda!’ He stepped down into the yard and called again. He stopped to listen. It was unusually silent – there should have at least been the hoot of an owl, or the rustle of creatures starting their night-time forage. Not to mention the dog.

  He squinted at a shape beside the shed. It could be Boushkin, lying flat on his side, legs stiff like he was already frozen solid. But it’s not that cold, he thought, and then, The old witch really killed him.

  ‘Zayda, you can bury the dog,’ he called out, walking toward the body. Maybe she’d gone to finish off the fox as well, or at least check on her chickens. As he kneeled he raised his head to yell again. ‘And you can watch the chickens now – you get Boushkin’s job.’

  He put his hand on the dog. The body was cold and hard – even his fur was stiff spikes. His white eyes were wide, and his tongue protruded from his open mouth, stretched wide in terror or madness.

  There was a small sound from behind him, like weeping, he thought. He half-turned. ‘Stupid woman. I said, you can watch the –’

  A figure moved in front of him, and he looked up. A feeling like a thousand razor blades welled up from his gut. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came. A small dot of pain in the center of his head grew to a stuffy inferno that pressed his eyes and ears from the inside. It was if something was blooming deep inside his brain.

  His eyes began to cloud over, and he fell beside the dog. As he looked into Boushkin’s cold, mute face, he seemed to say: I tried to warn you.

  *

  Guyve, Sakarya Province

  The streets were narrow and empty. Many of the rooftops were newly tiled, or domed and rebuilt a hundred times over the centuries. The crowded architecture made Guyve look like a concrete scab on the green surrounding countryside. Smoke from fireplaces too numerous to count lifted from chimney tops, but struggled to rise more than a dozen feet in the still air before falling into the laneways to create a mist that reeked of pine wood, garlic, and roasting meat.

  Gökhan and Maluk Demit walked home slowly, their backs sore and their boots muddy, after spending the last twelve hours pitching hay and mucking out barns on the town’s outskirts. Both men were in their forties, had never married, and probably never would un
less they sought a wife in one of the larger towns further up or down the main road.

  Gökhan, the elder of the two, carried a parcel of goat meat. He reached out to slap his brother on the shoulder. ‘This Sunday we’ll go to Ulu Camii Mosque – the Great One.’

  Maluk groaned. ‘Again? I think you go to pay homage to the widows afterwards more than to worship inside on your knees.’

  Gökhan laughed. ‘I pray for love every time – is that such a bad thing? So far, all I have in return for my prayers is you.’

  Maluk laughed. ‘And my curse is worse – I ended up with you.’

  Gökhan shoved his younger brother, and shifted the meat to his other arm. He jerked to a stop. ‘Oh, oh, looks like we have a late traveler … and sounds like he’s sad. Do you hear that crying?’

  Maluk followed his brother’s gaze. ‘What’s that on his head?’

  The figure was just coming out of the mist. As soon Maluk’s eyes alighted on it, and he saw, really saw, he felt a fist clamp down deep in his skull.

  Beside him, Gökhan grunted, doubled over and vomited. Instead of the wet splash of stomach juices and partially digested lunch, what actually hit the ground was more like drying cement.

  Maluk’s mouth opened in a silent scream and he dropped to his knees, clawing at his face. His skin started to crack and craze like a clay pot that had been left too long in the kiln.

  *

  The figure looked down at the two men, or what was left of them. One was doubled over, his fingers digging into the ancient cobblestones. The other’s frozen hands clawed at a face that was now as solid as the ground beneath his knees.

  The creature turned its head slowly. It didn’t see the town of Guyve, just as it hadn’t seen Izmit or any of the others it had passed through. Instead, it saw a land that had existed thousands of years ago, when the ancient towns were little more than huts, or caravan trails, and the humans were few. The small beings had worshiped it then, gladly offering up morsels that it had either consumed immediately, or stored for later use. But then it had been trapped and imprisoned.