Almost immediately a huge, slathering beast appeared before him. He dodged to the left and under the creature’s attack, then shot it down.
Voss hid behind the desk whispering into the receiver. As he started to say something, a shadow fell over him. He glanced up into the gaping maw of the beast and tried to scream, but couldn’t. The phone fell from his hand and hit the floor with a clatter.
The monster regarded Voss a moment, cocking its head like an inquisitive dog. Voss took the opportunity and raised his revolver, but the moment had passed, the thing quickly descended on him.
Kyle’s dream turned to fantasy. With all the thrills the dream provided this was the crowning moment. On the floor, cowering behind a desk, was Dr. Voss.
Oh, how he’d dreamed of killing the arrogant bastard as he lay on that stone slab.
Kyle glared down at Voss. The man was so terrified he lost control of his bowels. Kyle regarded him a second. Yes, this was indeed a fine dream.
Alex continued to move through the tumult, shooting at anything not wearing a lab coat.
As he reached the middle of the lab, he saw that three creatures had reached the outer doors and were busy tearing it apart. Alex fired a quick burst in their direction, then dropped behind a table. He heard a cry of pain and a crash and knew he had hit at least one. He popped a fresh magazine in his weapon and rose to fire another burst. As he did, he noticed that two creatures had taken the place of the one he just killed. He took careful aim.
From out of the darkness a shadowy blur hit him broadside, hurtling him across the room. Alex hit the wall hard and landed in a heap on the floor, losing his weapon in the process. He shook his head to clear it.
The creature was on top of him in seconds. Alex glanced up at the advancing monster, trying to gather his wits. He tried to stand, but couldn’t.
The sound of grinding metal caused the creature to stop. It glanced toward the source of the sound. The outer door had fallen.
The beast glanced back at Alex, then to the door as though indecisive about what to do. Then, it faded to shadow and was gone.
The lab was silent.
Alex tried again to stand, then lost consciousness.
The Professor listened. He heard nothing.
From his position in the secret cubby where Thorpe had pushed him, Thomas Silverman fearfully endured the sounds of the struggle that came from the lab. He covered his ears several times to block the terrible screams, feeling he would go mad otherwise.
The small cubicle was uncomfortably warm. With the activity outside, he felt as though he had been imprisoned in a cell in the dungeon of the Marquis de Sade. Sentenced to spend all eternity listening to tortured cries while wasting away in a hot box.
Thomas held his breath, straining to hear even the most minute sound.
Still nothing.
He placed his hands on the floor to adjust his position as the prickly feeling of poor circulation started to creep into his legs. His right hand brushed across a textured surface. Groping in the darkness, he came back to the strange object. Tracing the outline, he realized it was a thick book. Even without his sense of sight, he knew with the rune-covered surface what lay under his hand—the text.
He picked it up and clutched it to his breast like a mother reunited with a lost child. The years of longing had ended. Thomas had realized when he first came in contact with the text that it was his destiny to possess and guard. For years he struggled to find meaning in the path he had chosen. Studying a long dead culture such as the Celtic nations, with less and less interest by student bodies, Thomas struggled to find a university that would offer him tenure. He had just accepted a teaching position at a junior college and was preparing to move there when the NSA approached him. At first he was skeptical—a tell all tome of the Druid religion, preposterous.
No such written record had ever been found, not in four thousand years. The only account of the shadowy sect was from the writings of Julius Caesar, and that was while he was exterminating them. He nearly told the agents to get out of his house and tell the practical joker who put them up to it to get a life, but they described such detailed information he was intrigued enough to have a look. As soon as he laid eyes on the book he was convinced. He quickly accepted their offer.
Thomas tucked the book under his arm and moved close to the secret panel. He placed his ear against the dry wall and listened.
All was quiet.
Feeling along the corners for a release mechanism, he came across a small indentation. Lightly wriggling his index finger into the opening, he found a spring-loaded button. He pressed it. There was a barely audible click, but the panel did not move. Thomas thought a moment. Coming to a revelation, he applied gentle pressure to the door. It slid open.
Thomas expected bright florescent light to fill the cubicle. Instead he was met by more darkness. Ambient light came through the windows of the office from the lab, but other than that the room was cloaked in shadow. He glanced around, trying to detect movement, however slight, his trepidation growing now that he faced the world outside his hideaway. When he was satisfied nothing awaited him, he crept from the cubicle and stood.
The air in the office was fresher than that of the cubicle, but was tainted by a coppery smell and other scents Thomas could not identify. Still cautious, he listened; the place was like a tomb.
As he stepped forward, he found that his foot was stuck to the floor. Glancing down, he saw that he stood in a pool of black liquid, at least it appeared black in the poor light. He followed the trail to its source in the corner of the office. A body lay against the wall. He was standing in blood. Fighting fear and the rolling sensation in his stomach, Thomas moved over to the corner.
The cadaver was Philip Voss. His head lay on his shoulder, a ragged wound in his throat. The sightless eyes stared at Thomas, conveying the stark terror the man had experienced before his death. “Your reward for discovery, Doctor,” Thomas whispered.
Thomas noticed the gun in the corpse’s hand. He crouched and pried it from the dead man’s grip. Being in such close proximity, Thomas identified the other scents he smelled earlier—shit and urine. Voss went out with no dignity. He almost laughed at the irony.
Retrieving the pistol, he quickly moved away from the body. The gun was a Smith and Wesson .357 revolver. Thomas had experience with firearms from classes taken a few years before. After working late one evening, he’d been mugged on the way to his car. His attacker had beaten him severely, leaving him for dead. Not overly fond of firearms, but determined never to be a victim again, Thomas trained at a local school and applied for a permit to carry a concealed weapon. Like American Express, he never left home without it.
Releasing the cylinder, he found that the chamber was loaded. Voss never got off a shot. He stuck the gun in the waistband of his pants and moved to the door.
The lab was a shambles. Tables were strewn about here and there, computer consoles lay gutted and useless, glass containers crushed, their fluids splattered on the floor, and bodies, so many bodies. The emergency light fixtures, mounted on the wall, revealed the macabre scene like spotlights accenting an art display in a museum of the damned. A nightmarish abattoir where bugbears and goblins selected choice cuts of human flesh for their Sunday dinners.
As Thomas stepped deeper into the lab, a groan came from behind him. He froze instantly. A wintry chill went down his spine. Not making any sudden moves, he slowly reached for the gun.
Getting a firm grip, he swung around suddenly and stabbed the barrel toward the source of the sound.
No one was there.
Peering into the shadows, he could see the crumpled form of a man. He crept forward, keeping the figure in his sights until he was on top of it. As he drew nearer, he recognized the man—Alex Thorpe. Thorpe groaned again.
Thomas put away the gun and knelt beside the man. Checking the pulse, he found it was strong—uncommonly strong—and waves of heat poured from Thorpe’s body as though he were on fire.
He rolled Thorpe into a more natural position.
He had come to a crossroad. If he stayed and helped Thorpe, he would surely have to return the text. However, if he left the man, he could continue on to his ultimate destiny. He wondered what havoc his conscious would wreak on him if he decided the latter. Thomas glanced at the text. The golden hieroglyphs glistened even in the dim light. The answer was simple. He had no delusions of being canonized.
Moving down the first corridor, Thomas was horrified to discover that all the cells were empty. He wondered how many had escaped, twenty, thirty? This hallway alone housed twenty-five. The ramifications of the escape hit home. Somewhere in the neighborhood of forty creatures were loose in the Colorado countryside.
Passing through the second set of doors, he noticed that none of the animals had escaped. Apparently they were still normal. Then, he reached the point where the Dire Wolf was kept—was kept. The cage was empty. Shards of glass littered the floor outside the cell.
Suddenly, a ripping sound drew Thomas’s attention to the end of the hall. His heart leapt into his throat when he saw the source of the sound.
Standing over a dead body, ripping chunks of flesh, was the Dire Wolf. It continued to gorge itself, digging its snout into the tender flesh of the guard. Each time it tore away a lump of tissue, it sounded like fabric being ripped in two.
The creature paused and sniffed the air. Then turned its eyes upon Thomas. The eyes turned gold for a split second and Thomas knew he had been spotted. The beast bared its bloody fangs and let out a throaty growl as its killer instincts took over.
It sprang from its perch atop the body and loped toward Thomas.
Thomas fumbled for the gun, his trembling hands slick with sweat. Time seemed to move in slow motion as the creature drew nearer. The hammer became ensnared on his trousers and stubbornly held on. Thomas had to drop the text and use both hands to free the pistol. His fingers felt thick, club-like sausages extending from his useless mitts.
The beast was halfway to him now.
Freeing the gun, he dropped to one knee and drew down on the thing.
The first shot went wide, exploding one of the emergency lights.
The second low, tearing a sizeable chunk from the wall.
Thomas could see the eyes clearly now, hear the ragged breathing of the thing. It let out a victorious roar.
The third shot found its mark, catching the beast in mid-leap. It yelped in pain as it crashed down on top of Thomas.
Thomas quickly pushed the creature off and scrambled away. He noticed it was still breathing. Calming his own racing pulse, he moved close to the animal again. The Dire was crippled, capable of breathing, but not attacking. He glanced into the creature’s eyes and saw a look of pleading. It let out a mournful howl and Thomas knew what had to be done.
He stood and regarded the animal, almost sorry for shooting it. The Dire Wolf could not change what it was, as sure as a man could not. Were it not for Voss’s and Thorpe’s mishandling of the formulas this poor creature would have never had to endure this alien world. As he raised the gun and pointed it at the large head, he said, “Forgive me.”
The loud report resounded throughout the silent the facility.
After retrieving the text, Thomas moved to the end of he hall and entered the cavern. He wasn’t worried about encountering any other creatures. The gunfire earlier would have surely drawn any wandering monster’s attention.
Just outside the doors sat a HMMWV. It seemed his luck was holding. He didn’t particularly want to walk to the nearest town. After clambering inside, he surveyed the instrument panel. It was a basic design; speedometer, RPM gauge, steering wheel, and automatic transmission. What he needed was a way to start the vehicle. After pulling and pressing, shifting and turning every button and switch inside, he found the lever that started the engine. He sat behind the wheel a moment, the engine idling, wondering if something were scampering from the darkness to attack him.
Nothing did.
He shifted into drive and pulled the vehicle to the elevator doors. Opening the center console, he found a keypad similar to the one he’d seen the soldier use earlier. After numerous attempts at random codes, with no results, he threw the thing in the floorboard.
Cursing slightly, he got out and went over to the doors. On the left-hand side, a small box was mounted on one of the steel girders. He opened the box and found two buttons, direction arrows etched in their surfaces. He pressed the down button. The whir of the elevator motor was the most heavenly sound he had ever heard. He went back to the vehicle to wait.
As the doors opened to the entrance tunnel, he saw that several of the halogen lamps were blown apart. Driving down the passage, he noticed lines of holes traced in the granite, apparently sporadic gunfire. The guards had fought back.
Outside the sentries lay in various positions. One was folded in half, two more were badly disfigured, three lay face down in the road. He wondered where the last two could be, hopeful that they had escaped to warn others.
A second later he received his answer.
Propped into sitting positions against their rifles, with their heads twisted backwards, the two soldiers were left to stand guard in death. Someone’s twisted attempt at humor.
Thomas was sickened by the utter contempt for life he had seen, first from Voss, then his creations. The gruesome aftermath would forever haunt him.
He stepped down on the accelerator—hard—leaving the facility behind.
The vehicle continued down the mountain, slowly disappearing into the night.
CHAPTER FOUR
The midmorning sun cast its rays across the flagstone of City Market. The shopping center was bustling with activity. The pedestrians, mostly tourists, milled around inspecting the wares of the local merchants or snapping pictures with their cameras for later placement in their photo albums. Intermingled with the usual Northern and Midwestern accents one could catch phrases of German, French, or Asian. After the blockbuster ‘Forrest Gump’, Savannah was effectively placed back on the map. And the Chamber of Commerce was reaping the benefits.
The picturesque city had always been rich in history and culture, but during the recession in the mid-eighties tourism waned, spiraling from then on. Then, John Berendt’s book ‘Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil’ hit the bestseller list and people flocked in droves to catch a glimpse of the quirky residents of this seaside community.
Detective Marla Shaefer sat behind the wheel of her department Chevy watching the garishly dressed travelers pick through the knickknacks. Nearby, a group of Germans was trying to barter with one of the merchants who stubbornly refused their every offer.
Marla glanced at her watch: 9:15. She wondered what was keeping her partner, James Harden. If he didn’t hurry, they would miss their appointment. Glancing at the entrance to Malone’s, the eatery he’d disappeared into, Marla caught a glimpse of him as he stood in line for service. She sighed and switched off the engine. Patience wasn’t her strong suit.
Five minutes later he emerged carrying two large Styrofoam cups filled to overflowing. James took measured steps to prevent spilling even one drop of the precious substance; to a cop, spilling coffee was sacrilege. He made it to the car and handed Marla her cup through the open window then got in.
“What the hell took so long?” Marla asked, as he eased down into the passenger seat.
“Can you believe it? Tom forgot to turn on the brewers this morning,” Harden replied, sipping the tasty brew.
“Well, we’re going to be late to Williams’.”
“Screw 'im,” Harden said flatly.
Marla put the car in gear and pulled into traffic. She turned left on Congress Street, then right on Abercorn, pushing the big Caprice Classic through traffic at high speed, the black sedan responding to her commands as though they were one. They reached Victory Drive and Marla made a sharp left, heading toward the Eastside, nearly knocking her coffee from its holder. Harden stabbed a look at her, but she ign
ored it as usual.
Marla and James had been partners for five years, since her appointment to detective in the Homicide Division of the Savannah Police Department. They shared a mutual respect for one another that transcended their normal duties as law enforcement officers. James was the only detective who volunteered to be her partner when she came aboard. He had been the brunt of many jokes for his teaming with a ‘skirt’. He took them all in stride. Marla admired him for that.
Harden was a third generation cop. His father and grandfather had each served thirty years on the force. Marla thought he was good-looking. Being six feet tall with dark brown hair, sea green eyes and chiseled features more than qualified him as handsome. The hookers on Broughton Street called him Casanova Cop because they all wanted to be loved by him, but James was a one-woman man and his woman was Shelley Gregory, an art dealer on River Street. They’d been together for eight years and Marla wondered if he was ever going to marry her.
Despite being around cops his entire life, James had a wonderful disposition. People were drawn to him by his strong southern charms and good looks. It was said that he could shmooze a confession out of an axe murder. Marla was grateful she never had to test her mettle against an advance from him. She was sure she would lose.
She hung a left on Ferguson Avenue still maintaining her high speed. Glancing at her watch, she noticed they were making better time than she expected given the morning traffic. Five minutes remained until their meeting.
The ‘meeting’ was with one Marcus Williams, a local pimp who ran the action on the east side of town along with several other illegal enterprises. Tamika Jones, a seventeen-year-old black girl, was found stuffed in a trashcan, two blocks from his home, a jagged slash in her throat. Tamika was a known prostitute who worked Williams’ territory, making him the most likely suspect. This was not the first time they had visited the flesh peddler, two years ago another one of his girls was found floating in the Savannah River with a gunshot wound to the head—executioner’s style. Neither officer was looking forward to seeing the piece of human garbage, especially Harden.
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