Wrath of the Forgotten

by Aaron Hodges

  By the time the first creature was captured, rural communities had suffered almost a decade of terror at the hands of the monstrosities. The government and their media agencies had pointed the blame in every direction, from poor rural police-reporting, to secret operations by the Texans to destabilize the Western Allied States.

  On the television, the SWAT team had reached the grocery store and were now gathering outside, their rifles trained on the entrance. One lowered his rifle and stepped towards it, the others covering him from behind. Reaching the door, he stretched out an arm to pull it open.

  The Chead didn’t make a sound as it tore through the store windows and barreled into the man. A screech came through the old television speakers as the men scattered before the creature’s ferocity. With one hand, the creature grabbed its victim by the throat and hurled him across the street. The thud as he bounced off a concrete wall was audible over the reporter’s microphone.

  The sight of their companion’s untimely demise seemed to snap the other members of the squadron into action. The first pops of gunfire followed, but the Chead was already on the move. It tore across the dirt road, bullets raising dust-clouds around it, and smashed into another squad member. A scream echoed up from the street as man and Chead went down, disappearing into a cloud of dust.

  Despite the risk of hitting their comrade, the other members of the SWAT team did not stop firing. The chance of survival once a Chead had its hands on you was zero to none, and no one wanted to risk the creature escaping.

  Roaring, the Chead reared up from the dust, then spun as a bullet struck it in the shoulder. Blood blossomed from the wound as it staggered back, its grey eyes wide, flickering with surprise. It reached up and touched a finger to the hole left by the bullet, its brow creasing with confusion.

  Then the rest of the men opened fire, and the creature fell.

  Chapter 2

  Doctor Angela Fallow squinted through the rain-streaked windshield, struggling to catch a glimpse of her subject in the lengthening gloom. A few minutes ago the streetlights had flickered into life, but despite their yellowed glow, shadows still clung to the house across the street. Tall hedges marked the boundary with the neighboring properties, while a white picket fence stood between her car and the old cottage.

  Leaning closer to the window, Angela held her breath to keep the glass from fogging, and willed her eyes to pierce the twilight. But beyond the brightly-lit sidewalk, she could see nothing but darkness. Letting out a long sigh, she sat back in her seat. There was no sign of anyone outside the house, no silent shadows slipping closer to the warm light beckoning from the windows.

  At least, no sign that could be seen.

  Berating her nerves, Angela turned her attention to the touchscreen on her dashboard. She had no wish to see a repeat of the casualties her team had suffered in Sacramento. She cursed as the soft glow of the screen lit the car, before she remembered the tinted windows made it impossible for anyone to see inside.

  Angela pursed her lips, studying the charts on the screen one last time. It showed a woman in her early forties. Auburn hair hung around her shoulders and she wore the faintest hint of a smile on her red lips. The smile spread to her cheeks, crinkling the skin around her olive-green eyes.

  Margaret Sanders.

  Beneath the picture was a description of the woman: height, weight, license number, last known address, school and work history, her current occupation as a college professor, and marital status. The last was listed as widowed with a single child. Her husband had succumbed to cancer almost a decade previously.

  Shaking her head, Angela looked again at the woman’s eyes, wondering what could have driven her to this end. She had a house, a son, solid employment as a teacher. Why would she throw it all away when she had so much to lose?

  Idly, she wondered whether Mrs. Sanders would have done things differently if given another chance. The smile lines around her eyes were those of a kind soul, and her alleged support of the resistance seemed out of character. It was a shame the government did not give second chances—especially not for traitors of the state.

  Now both mother and son would suffer for her actions.

  Tapping the screen, Angela pulled up the son’s file. Christopher Sanders, at eighteen, was the reason she had come tonight. The assault team would handle the mother and any of her associates who might be on the property, but Angela had other plans for the son. Like the rest of her subjects, he would need to be taken alive—and unharmed.

  His profile described him as five-foot-eleven, with a weight of 150 pounds—not large by any measure. Her only concern was the black belt listed in his credentials, though such accomplishments were rarely relevant when it came to a real fight. Particularly when the target was unarmed, unsuspecting, and outnumbered.

  Then again, the girl had given them more trouble than anyone had expected.

  Forcing her mind back to the present, Angela tapped the screen again, and a picture of her target popped up. A flicker of discomfort spread through her stomach. His brunette hair showed traces of his mother’s auburn locks, while the hazel eyes must have descended from a dominant bey2 allele in his father’s chromosome. A hint of light-brown facial hair traced the edges of his jaw, covering the last of his teenage acne. Despite his small size, he had the broad, muscular shoulders of an athlete, and there was little sign of fat on his youthful face.

  After a long moment, Angela flicked off the console. She hoped this would be her final assignment. For months now, she had overseen the collection of subjects for the new trials, and the task had not gotten any easier with time. The children she’d taken haunted her at night, their accusing stares waiting whenever she closed her eyes. Her only consolation was that without her, these children would have suffered the same fate as their parents. At least the research facility gave them a fighting chance.

  And looking into the boy’s eyes, she knew he was a fighter.

  Angela closed her eyes, and shoving aside her doubt, she pressed another button on the car’s console.

  “Are you in position?” she spoke into the empty car.

  “Ready when you are, Fallow,” a man replied.

  Nodding to herself, Fallow reached beneath her seat and retrieved a steel briefcase. Unclipping its restraints, she lifted out a jet injector and held it up to the light. The stainless-steel instrument appeared more like a gun than a piece of medical equipment, but it served its purpose well. Once her team had Chris restrained, it would be a simple matter to use the jet injector to anesthetize the young man for transport.

  Removing a vial of etorphine from the case, she screwed it into place and pressed a button on the side. A short hiss confirmed it was pressurized. She eyed the clear liquid, hoping the details in the boy’s file were correct. She had prepared the dosage of etorphine for Chris’s age and weight, but a miscalculation could prove fatal.

  “Fallow, still waiting on your signal?” the voice came again.

  Fallow bit her lip and closed her eyes. She shivered in the cold of the car.

  If not you, then someone else.

  She opened her eyes. “Go.”

  Chapter 3

  The screen of the old CRT television flickered to black as Chris’s mother switched it off. Her face was pale when she turned towards him, and a shiver ran through her.

  “Your grandfather would be ashamed, Chris,” she said, shaking her head. “He went to war against the United States because he believed in this country, because thought we could be the light to the madness that had overcome the old union. He fought to keep us free, not to spend decades haunted by the ghosts of our past.”

  Chris shuddered. He’d never met his grandfather, but his mother and grandmother talked of him enough that Chris felt he knew him. When the United States had refused to accept the independence of the Western Allied States, his grandfather had answered the call to defend their young nation. Enlisting with the WAS Marines, he’d marched off to a conflict that had quickly expanded to engulf
the whole of North America. Only the aid of Canada and Mexico had given the WAS the strength to survive, and eventually prevail against the aggression of the United States. Unfortunately, Chris’s grandfather had not.

  “Things will change soon,” Chris said. “Surely?”

  His mother crinkled her nose. “I’ve been saying that for ten years,” she said as she moved towards the kitchen, ruffling Chris’s hair as she passed him, “but things only ever seem to get worse.”

  Chris followed her and pulled out a chair at the wooden table. The kitchen was small, barely big enough for the two of them, but it was all they needed. His mother was already standing at the stove, stirring a pot of stew he recognized as leftovers from the beef shanks of the night before.

  “Most don’t seem to care, as long as the attacks are confined to the countryside,” Chris commented.

  “Exactly.” His mother turned, emphatically waving the wooden spoon. “They think it doesn’t matter, that their shining cities will protect them. Well, it won’t stay that way forever.”

  “No.” Chris shook his head. “That one in Seattle…” He shuddered. Over fifty people had been killed when a Chead woke in a shopping mall. Police had arrived in less than ten minutes, but that was all the time it had needed.

  Impulsively, he reached for the pocket watch he wore around his neck. His mother had given it to him ten years ago, at his father’s funeral. It held a picture of Chris’s parents, smiling on the shores of Lake Washington in Seattle, where they’d first met. His heart gave a painful throb as he thought of the terror engulfing the city.

  Noticing the gesture, his mother abandoned the pot and pulled him into a hug. “It’s okay, Chris. We’ll survive this. We’re a strong people. They’ll come up with a solution, even if we have to march up to the gates of congress and demand it.”

  Chris nodded, and was about to speak when a crash came from somewhere in the house. They pushed apart and spun towards the kitchen doorway. Though they lived in the city, they barely had the money to survive week to week, and their house was not in the safest neighborhood.

  It was well past the eight o’clock curfew now. Whoever—or whatever—had made the noise was not likely to be friendly.

  Sucking in a breath, Chris moved into the doorway and risked a glance across the lounge. The single incandescent bulb cast shadows across the room, leaving dark patches behind the couch and television. He stared hard into the darkness, searching for signs of movement, and then retreated to the kitchen.

  Silently, his mother handed him a kitchen knife. He took it after only a second’s hesitation. She held a second blade in a practiced grip. Looking at his mother's face, Chris swallowed. Her eyes were hard, her brow creased in a scowl, but he did not miss the fear there. Together they faced the door—and waited.

  The squeak of the loose floorboard in the hallway seemed as loud as a gunshot in the silent house. Chris glanced at his mother, and she nodded back. There was no doubt now. Someone was inside.

  A crash came from the lounge, then the thud of heavy boots as the intruder gave up all pretense of stealth. Chris tensed, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the knife handle. He spread his feet into a forward stance, readying himself.

  The sound of breaking glass came from their right as the kitchen window exploded inwards, and a black-suited figure leapt into the room. The man bowled into his mother, sending her tumbling to the ground before she could swing the knife. Chris sprang to the side as another man charged from the lounge, then drew back and hurled his knife.

  Without pausing to see whether the blade struck home, Chris twisted and leapt, driving his heel into the midriff of the intruder standing over his mother. But the man was ready for him, and with his greater bulk, he brushed off the blow. Stumbling sideways, Chris clenched his fists and charged again.

  The man grinned, raising his hands to catch Chris. With his attention diverted, Chris’s mother rose behind him, knife still in hand, and drove the blade deep into their attacker’s hamstring.

  Their black-garbed attacker barely had time to scream before Chris’s fist slammed into his windpipe. The intruder’s face paled and his hands went to his throat. He staggered backwards, strangled noises gurgling from his mouth, and toppled over the kitchen table.

  Chris offered his mother a hand. Before she could take it, a creak came from the floorboards behind him. The man from the lounge loomed up, grabbing Chris by the shoulder. Still on the ground, his mother rolled away as Chris twisted around, fighting to break the man’s hold. Cursing, he aimed an elbow at the man’s gut, but his arm struck solid body armor and bounced off.

  The body armor explained what had happened to the knife Chris had thrown, but before he could process what the information meant, another crash came from the window.

  His mother surged to her feet as a third man leapt inside. Still holding the bloodied knife, she screamed and charged. Straining his arms, Chris bucked against his captor’s grip, but there was no breaking the man’s iron hold. Stomach clenched, he watched his mother attack the heavily-armed assailant.

  The new intruder carried a steel baton in one hand, and as she swung her knife it flashed out and caught her wrist. His mother screamed, and the blade tumbled from her hand. She retreated across the room, cradling her arm. A fourth man appeared in the doorway to the lounge. Before Chris could shout a warning, he grabbed her from behind.

  His mother shrieked and threw back her head, trying to catch the man in the chin, but her blows bounced off his body armor. Her eyes widened as his arm went around her neck, cutting off her breath. Heart hammering in his chest, Chris twisted and kicked at his opponent’s shins, desperate to aid his mother, but the man showed no sign of relenting.

  “Mom!” he screamed as her eyes drooped closed.

  “Doctor Fallow, situation under control. You’re up,” the man from the window spoke into his cuff. He approached his wounded comrade, whose face was turning purple. “Hold on, man. Medical’s on its way.”

  “Who are you?” Chris gasped.

  The man ignored him. Instead, he went to work on the fallen man, removing his belt and binding it around the man’s leg. The injured man groaned as the speaker worked, his eyes squeezed closed and his teeth clenched. A pang of guilt touched Chris, but he crushed it down.

  “What the hell happened?” a woman exclaimed as she entered the kitchen.

  The woman was dark-skinned, but the color was rapidly fleeing her face as she looked around the kitchen. She raised a hand to her mouth, her eyes lingering on the blood, then flicking between the men and their captives. Shock showed in their amber depths, but already it was fading as she reasserted control. Lowering her hand to her side, she pursed her red lips. Her gaze settled on Chris.

  A chill went through him as he noticed the red-emblazoned bear on the front of her black jacket. The symbol marked her as a government employee. These were not random thugs in the night. They were the police, and they were here for Chris and his mother.

  Nodding to herself, the woman reached into her jacket and drew something into the light. The breath caught in Chris’s throat as he glimpsed the contraption in her hand. For a second he thought it was a pistol, but as she drew closer he realized his mistake. It was some sort of hypodermic gun, some device he’d only thought existed in old movies. In real life though, it was far more terrifying than anything Hollywood had ever produced.

  “Who are you?” Chris croaked as she paused in front of him.

  Her eyes drifted to Chris’s face, but she only shook her head. She studied the liquid in the vial attached to the gun’s barrel, then looked back at Chris, as though weighing him up.

  “Hold him,” she said at last.

  “What?” Chris gasped as his captor pulled his arms behind his back. “What are you doing? Please, you’re making a mistake, we haven’t done anything wrong!”

  The woman didn’t answer. Chris struggled to escape as she raised the gun to his neck, but the man only pulled his arms harder, sendi
ng a bolt of pain through his shoulders. Biting back a scream, Chris looked up at the woman. Their eyes met, and he thought he saw a flicker of regret in her eyes.

  Then the cold of the hypodermic gun touched his neck, followed by a hiss of gas as she pressed the trigger. Metal pinched Chris’s neck, and then the woman stepped back. Holding his breath, Chris stared at the woman, his eyes never leaving hers.

  Within seconds, the first touch of weariness started to seep through Chris’s body. He blinked as shadows spread around the edges of his vision. Idly, he struggled to free his arms, so he might chase the shadows away. But the man still held him fast. Sucking in a mouthful of air, Chris fought against the exhaustion. Blinking hard, he willed himself to resist the pull of sleep.

  But there was no stopping the warmth spreading through his limbs. His head bobbed and his arms went limp, until the only thing keeping him upright was the strength of his captor.

  The woman’s face was the last thing Chris saw before he slipped into the darkness.

  * * *

  Continue reading in…The Genome Project

  Also by Aaron Hodges

  Descendants of the Fall

  Book 1: Warbringer

  Book 2: Wrath of the Forgotten

  Book 3: Age of Gods

  The Evolution Gene

  Book 1: The Genome Project

  Book 2: The Pursuit of Truth

  Book 3: The Way the World Ends

  The Sword of Light

  Book 1: Stormwielder

  Book 2: Firestorm

  Book 3: Soul Blade