He was already up, having felt the flicker of awareness himself. Two carbines were ready when the creature burst through the window.
In perfect synchrony, they opened fire.
A six-foot high cocktail of insect forms, the Tachinid launched itself at them despite the full-power rifle rounds that began to strike.
Mel scored a hit to the head, but the creature continued to advance. Functioning like ablative armor, the thick exoskeleton was absorbing rather than deflecting the armor-piercing rounds. Damage was accumulating, but not fast enough. Still firing, they fell back.
Switching tactics, Ryan aimed low. The rounds severed a leg.
Moving too fast to compensate, the creature overbalanced, crashing through another office window. Thrashing, it landed on a desk, exposing the vulnerable flank of the thorax.
Aware the short-barreled weapons were almost uncontrollable on automatic, Ryan moved close before emptying the clip into the weak spot.
The remaining limbs folded, and with a whistling sound, the Tachinid expired. A sickly cream-like fluid began soaking into the student work piled on the desk.
“I hope he saved a copy,” Ryan remarked, watching an A-graded paper disappear beneath the mess. “Mel?”
“Over here.”
The view was always shocking. The woman’s skull had split open, revealing brain matter. Both eyes had hemorrhaged. Blood had poured from every orifice, the result of the colossal forces that had built inside as the creature used her to cross over.
“Control, we’ve found the gateway. The hitchhiker is down,” Ryan announced, using the adopted codes. Experience told him to give Mel a moment. Over the radio, he heard other teams report clear.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered to the body.
They felt these deaths the hardest, knowing that she was—or could have been—one of them. The synaptic changes wrought by the Spandrel gene were the ultimate double-edged weapon. The resulting mental energy offered enhanced abilities, but was also a beacon in the dark to creatures like these. Once linked to a human mind, the creatures could tap that energy to cross from whatever plane of existence they called home. The strong could keep the gate shut. The weak could not. Those who carried the gene were either wolves or sheep. There was nothing in between.
“Mel?” He touched her hand, but she continued to stare at the body. “Come on. The others will take care of her.” She resisted at first, but allowed him to draw her away. Once outside, he felt her calm down. “Since we’re here for the night, we should do something,” he suggested.
“Like what?”
“Come on, you look like you need a drink.”
“I…” she began formulating an excuse, but stopped. “I’d like that.” She summoned a smile. “A drink sounds good.”
“It’s kind of rude to perv at me without asking,” she murmured.
“You’re awake.” Since he was busted anyway, Ryan continued to admire the view.
“Yeah.”
“You could’ve stopped me,” he pointed out, dropping the sheet.
“Didn’t have the heart. You seemed to be enjoying yourself.” Mel rolled over to rest against him. “Last night was nice.”
“Nice?”
“Sorry. I meant great,” she corrected. “Awesome, all that.” She kissed his shoulder. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” It had been nice. Despite an immediate attraction, they’d avoided the issue for the six months they’d been partners, growing close enough that the friendship had become a barrier. Last night, they’d drunk enough to dissolve it. The results had been spectacular, but as always, there would be fallout.
“You’re worried I’m regretting it,” she stated, making the conversational equivalent of a pre-emptive strike. Her perception bordered on prescience.
“Office romance is gonna be tough for us, don’t you think?”
“Romance? Don’t flatter yourself. I used you for sex.”
“Used me?”
She sat up. A dozen different muscles ached, but each twinge carried a pleasurable memory.
“Ryan, one step at a time, eh? Office romance? You know the rules.” Since Spandrel carriers were unable to interbreed, discreet liaisons carried little risk, and were tolerated. Serious relationships interfered with duty, and were not. They own us, she thought.
“We don’t have to tell them. The trackers are inactive when we’re off-duty.” He touched the scar above her hip.
“Even if that’s true, he doesn’t need them. If he stops to think, he’ll know.” She tried to take her own advice. Just enjoy it. “Let’s not worry about that yet.” Grinning, she climbed on top of him. “In the meantime, I might use you some more.”
Ryan’s cell phone emitted an oscillating tone.
“Shit! Another level-one, already?” Scrambling off the bed, she began gathering the clothing strewn across the hotel room floor.
“The minister himself,” Ryan announced, inspecting the handset.
Holding an armful of clothes, Mel looked at her phone. It remained silent.
“Why aren’t they flashing me?”
“Jonathan,” Ryan opened, setting the phone on speaker.
“Your day off is cancelled,” their superior said by way of greeting. “There has been another incident.”
“On my way,” Ryan said, watching files appear on the screen.
“No, there’s no time. This one is—complicated. Give me a location for aerial pickup.”
“The roof of the Beaulieu Hotel,” he replied, looking upwards.
“Fine. Get up there. Oh, Ryan? Save me a phone call and bring Mel with you.”
“Told you so,” she mouthed, dressing.
Ryan opened his mouth, but closed it again. He didn’t require her level of ability to visualize the smug look on Jonathan’s face. Denial was pointless.
“Right.” He took the small victory of hanging up first.
He followed her out. Despite her attempt to play it cool, there was a bounce in her step that hadn’t been there last night. He tried not to grin behind her back, since she’d probably feel that too.
The rotors tilted to the vertical position as the V-22 Osprey swept past the Empire State Building. Already cleared by police, there was ample space for them to set down beside the two huge situation trucks. Mobile command centers, they carried everything from communication systems to armories. Glancing at the TV in the briefing room, Ryan saw terrorism roll past on the banner of a news channel.
“Usual cover in place?”
Jonathan drummed his carbon-fiber fingers on the table. The replacement arm was a breathtakingly expensive prototype, as was his left leg. Linked into his nervous system, they were state of the art, but still a distant second-best to nature’s work. Ryan knew their operation required considerable mental effort, so the action was completely deliberate. Maintaining his old habit was eccentric, but he reckoned Jonathan had earned the right. Watching one of those fuckers snip off your limbs and feed them to their offspring would do that, he reflected.
“I assume the two of you haven’t seen any news this morning?”
“No,” he replied, fighting the urge to glance at Mel.
“It isn’t cover.” Jonathan switched to a channel showing footage of a devastated street. “A massive car bomb exploded near the New York public library this morning, killing over five hundred people, and intelligence suggests there’s another one. They’re still searching.”
“The anniversary,” Mel noted. Twenty years to the day after the World Trade Center attack, it was not a coincidence.
“The gateway is in one of the suspect sites?” Ryan asked.
“Several victims have been found.” He paused. “We don’t believe there was a gateway.”
“But the dreamers—” Mel began.
“The dreamers felt nothing.”
They considered the implications in silence. The dreamers were those in whom the Spandrel had produced the largest effect of all. Ab
le to sense the formation of a gateway, they were the organization’s early warning system. They retreated into a dream-like state when searching, sometimes for days at a time, necessitating life support in the form of feeding tubes and intravenous hydration. Although success varied, they had never failed to sense one of the creatures completely.
“So,” Ryan considered, “we have a creature that can’t be felt, or…”
“Or it was already here,” Mel finished. Neither thought was welcome.
“Well, none of this changes anything, does it?” Ryan got up. “We’ll need to switch ammo. Those NATO SLAP rounds were useless. And I want Jack.”
“You’ve got the bio-scanner,” Jonathan reminded him.
“The sniffer was even more useless. Didn’t show us a fucking thing. Sometimes, simple is best.”
The Labrador was excited, but training compelled him to resist capering about. Instead, the urge trickled out as a swaying movement. Let’s go, the action seemed to say.
“Keep still,” Mel chided, adjusting his armor. Like police dogs, he had Gore-Tex socks to protect his paws, but he also shared a miniature version of the Non-Newtonian liquid armor system with his human colleagues. A complex liquid lay sandwiched between two toughened fabric layers. Fluid under normal conditions, kinetic shear caused the molecules to instantaneously bond under stress, temporarily forming a solid mass. It was the material artificers had dreamed of for centuries. The suits were flexible, but could stop rounds at point blank range.
“Wait.” Crozier, their weapons officer, emerged from the second truck bearing an ammunition case. “Got something for you.”
“What is it?” Ryan asked, accepting the clips.
“NATO 7.62mm, but with a two stage penetrator. The depleted uranium tip should rupture their shell. Once inside, the explosive charge detonates. Should enhance lethality by around fifty percent.”
“Nice.”
“You should upgrade that too,” Crozier judged, watching Ryan check his revolver.
“It’s forty-four magnum.”
“It’s a relic.”
“It has sentimental value,” he countered.
“Be careful,” Jonathan warned, ending the exchange. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with. Until the other teams arrive in force, we’re spread too thin.” He tried to retain professional distance, but his face, and his emotions, betrayed concern.
“Yes, Minister,” Mel answered, walking away.
His unofficial title was the last vestige of the unit’s British origins. Formed at the order of Winston Churchill in 1940, the Special Operations Executive had been the world’s first full time black-ops outfit. Officially disbanded after the war, the SOE had simply gone deeper still, becoming NATO’s deniable resource for handling matters beyond the capability of normal agencies. Churchill had nicknamed the organization The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare. The name had stuck. The structure chart said Chief Executive, but in the SOE, the boss was always the Minister.
With the bomb-damaged main power grid still deactivated for repair, the mall grew dark as they left the glass-fronted entrance behind. The emergency lights had cut in, but provided only a dim glow.
“Feel anything?” Ryan asked, glancing into shops as they passed.
“I can feel something.”
“But…” he prompted.
“It’s… indistinct,” she said, selecting the word after some thought. “There’s something, but…I don’t know. It’s like…traces, but everywhere, Ryan. All around us.”
“Okay.” He flicked the sniffer on, but it told him nothing. Surprise, he thought. He turned to Jack, but the dog was looking around with a bored expression. “Let’s keep moving.”
Despite the expectation her comment had provoked, the top level of the mall carried no surprises.
“Top level clear. No contact,” Ryan reported.
“Understood. Be aware team two is at the south entrance.”
Reaching the atrium, they looked down into the levels below. They waited, but when nothing appeared, they followed the dead escalator down.
Without light bleeding from the streets, visibility was even worse. They began sweeping the level. Approaching a sports store, Ryan took aim before realizing the figures threatening attack were only mannequins.
A lingerie store occupied the next unit. Mel saw Ryan’s head turn, checking out the window display. He started to grin.
“Say anything and I swear I’ll shoot you. Mind on the job,” she added, granting him a quick smile. “You too,” she admonished Jack, seeing him sniff in the direction of the food court. Males, she thought. Two settings: sex and food.
Jack growled.
They turned, aiming toward the row of service counters. Jack took a step forward, sniffing. He growled again.
Sorry, Jack, she thought.
“Sense anything?” Ryan asked.
Feeling blind, Mel shook her head. They split, advancing either side of the chairs and tables between the concessions.
Hearing Jack emit a soft chuff behind her, Mel stopped. It saved her life. A claw-tipped arm blurred through her vision, close enough that she felt a draught on her face. She stepped back as what appeared to be a table reared up. The logical side of her mind froze, confused. The instinctive side simply pulled the trigger.
The round hit low, but the wound was sufficient to break the creature’s charge. It recoiled, seeking a better angle of attack, but now she was back in control. Standing upright, the creature leapt forward into two rounds at head height.
As the monster fell, Ryan realized turning to cover Mel had left him exposed. Another of them appeared in his peripheral vision, seeming to emerge from the wall. The creature would strike before he could bring his weapon to bear. Okay, he thought. Now the fight had begun, the tension was gone.
Instead of firing, he went forward to meet it, dodging under the swipe intended for his throat. Now alongside – small, he realized, compared to normal – he pushed the muzzle of his carbine between the limbs and fired. A till on the counter behind disintegrated; the rounds had punched clean through.
Barking called his attention back across the room. A third Tachinid launched itself from a hot dog stand. He squeezed the trigger, but Mel was already firing. Caught in the crossfire, multiple rounds tore through the creature. On the verge of falling apart, the body swayed for a moment before gravity claimed it. Then the lifeless mass toppled, hitting the floor with a wet thwack.
Enhanced lethality, Ryan thought. He kept his gun up, but nothing else came. He made a mental note to buy Crozier a bottle of that overpriced rum he liked chugging. Maybe two.
“Mel. Mel?” When no response came, he ran over. “Are you hurt?” When he grabbed her arm, he found her shaking.
“No. Ryan, something’s wrong with me. I never felt them.”
“Welcome to my world.” Deliberately harsh, the comment was designed to give her focus. It worked.
“How did they hide like that?” Mel lifted her gun, checking behind them. The action was reassuring, familiar.
“That’s how.” The creature she’d shot had a black stripe running the length of the body, but it was fading. Ryan examined his kill. The front of the body was light, almost matching the shade of the wall. Like stick insects, they had adopted not only colors, but aligned themselves with their surroundings. They’d seen the trait before, but never so developed.
“What the hell are they?”
“I don’t know.”
The features were Tachinid, but the shape was different. Normally of equal size, the front and rear pairs of legs were overdeveloped. Conversely, the middle legs were tiny. That, combined with a shorter body, surely explained their upright movement.
“Could they be males?”
So far, the Tachinids had been exclusively female. Since the creatures were not hermaphrodite, males had to exist, but had never been encountered. Lacking conclusive evidence, their hypothesis was that only females had the ability to cross over.
“Maybe.” Ryan began probing under the rear legs with his gun barrel, but thought better of it. He grabbed a large knife from the pizza stand, and used it to open the flaps in the creature’s underside.
“Well, it’s not female. No ovipositor, no eggs.”
Tachinids employed a disturbing form of parasitism shared with some regular insects. The females, who must have mated before crossing over, carried stored sperm. On finding a suitable host, they exuded a chemical to dope their victim, fertilized eggs and then inserted them into the flesh. When the eggs hatched into larvae, they ate the host alive from the inside out.
“They’re identical,” Ryan mused, poking about. “Drones, maybe. I…”
A tapping noise reached them, not unlike Jonathan’s composite fingers drumming on a table. It grew louder. They looked at each other, identifying the sound with a terrible certainty. It was the sound of many insectile claws clattering across polished floors.
The first of them skidded to a halt in front of the sports store.
Ryan took the chance to shoot, but three more replaced it.
“Fall back.”
“Where to?” she shouted, firing.
“Fire doors—back there,” he replied, visualizing the building plan he’d committed to memory. “Go!” He shot another before realizing the tactic was hopeless; firing was only slowing their retreat. He abandoned the position, following Mel and Jack.
Throwing the doors open, she fired into the crowd behind Ryan. It made no appreciable difference to their numbers, but bought him time to slam the doors shut.
“That won’t hold them.” He watched the doors shake under the creatures’ assault. For once, fate was smiling on them. “Help me.” Together, they braced the doors with the row of shopping carts stored in the service corridor. Wedging them into place, Mel tried to call Control, but got static for a response.
“We’re too deep.” She tried the direct channel for the second team. She caught a fragment of speech, and what sounded like gunfire, before giving up. “We’re on our own. Which way?”
Both Barrels of Monster Hunter Legends (Legends of the Monster Hunter Book 1) Page 57