by T. C. Edge
She thrust the thought away, knowing how it was coming across on her face. Tanner appeared to note the lustful grin, replacing the innocent smile she’d adopted most of the evening.
“I think we’ve got one taker at least,” he said, looking suggestively at Chloe.
She shook her head, still refusing to speak, as if it might break the spell of the night.
Ragan laughed.
“Sorry, Tanner. No one wants to play strip poker with you.”
Tanner sunk his whisky with false anger, and Ragan looked over to Nadia.
“So, if not strip poker, what have you been doing?” he asked her, seeking an honest answer this time.
“Ah, just getting to know each other a bit. Bonding session always goes down better with a bit of greasing.” She sipped her drink. “Been sharing stories of old war wounds, things like that.”
“Right,” murmured Ragan.
“Nadia just gave us a very pleasant flash of her rear end,” said Tanner. “Shame you missed it, quite the sight.”
“I got shot there once,” Nadia explained. “Probably should have kept that one to myself.” She looked at Tanner and rolled her eyes. He offered yet another easy grin, before turning to Ragan.
“So, how about you, big man? Got anything to share with the group?”
Chloe sat up from the end of the bed, cradling her glass and folding her legs. She looked directly at him, like a child waiting for their bed-time story.
“I’ve got one or two,” said Ragan. “Standard stuff. Bullet wounds, shrapnel, cuts, things like that.”
“OK, well show us your best,” said Tanner.
Ragan’s eyes dipped to his chest. He took a breath, hesitating, and began peeling off his jacket. Chloe took a breath too. It would be her final one for a while.
Over the next few moments, Ragan removed the clothing covering his chest and upper torso, revealing a network of powerful muscle. Chloe’s tact had now abandoned her, and she didn’t turn away as she might have done. A glance became a full on stare, her eyes drinking in his abdominals and pectorals, shaped as if by a sculptor.
Yet it wasn’t just his attractive muscularity that caught her eye, but the scarring that littered him too. There were many of them, mostly thin lines, but occasionally old remnants of more serious wounds. Upon his chest, near his heart, was an especially obvious one, drawing the eyes of all those now looking at him.
“How didn’t that kill you?” Tanner’s voice was more of a whisper now. Its jovial tone had gone, turned sober by the sight.
Ragan looked down at the scar, and lifted his fingers to feel its ragged edges. It was a scar of his flesh, but one that went deeper. A reminder of someone he lost several years ago.
He drew his glass to his lips, and took a sip. The sip turned into a gulp, and half the glass was emptied.
He cleared his throat.
“It nearly did kill me,” said Ragan. “Knife wound, right to the heart.” He shut his eyes, remembering the blade, and the man who delivered it.
He shook his head at the memory, and downed the rest of his scotch.
“It was Mikel,” came his voice, eyes fixing on Tanner and Nadia, then moving over to Chloe. He arched his neck. There were two tiny dots near his carotid. “He nearly got me once before. I’ve been dying ever since to return the favour.”
His words sucked the life from the room. Whisky glasses fell away from lips, hanging loose between fingers. Eyes fell to feet, moving away from the scar. And Ragan stood, pulling his clothes back on, leaving the whisky glass on the bed.
His tone was completely serious when he spoke again.
“I need to get back to work,” he said. “And I suggest it’s time for bed.”
7
The following morning, a long way from the base in Colorado, a figure sat hunched in a worn down booth of an old roadside diner. Outside, a poorly kept highway stretched away to the south and north, disappearing into the hills on each side. Only occasionally did a vehicle pass by. And only a few were parked out front.
It was a beautiful morning, the sky a shimmering striation of oranges and yellows. Across the lands, the dew of the morning was drying off, the air cold and crisp, and the hills were a verdant green, their natural beauty unsuppressed by the chaos that had taken hold across vast swathes of it.
A little way from the few old vehicles parked in the lot outside, something more modern had been set down. A stolen jet-car, currently in its terrestrial setting, rested to one side, concealed among the shadows of the overhanging trees of the nearby forest. Its owner watched it closely from his booth, his dark eyes gleaming from his black cloak. Ever vigilant. Ever watchful.
“How you doin’, honey. Fancy some warm coffee to fend off the cold?”
Mikel turned his gaze from the window, meeting that of a portly, middle aged woman, her hair in a bob and dirty white apron tied around her ample frame. She held a pot of steaming coffee in one hand, and wore a friendly smile upon her face.
Mikel’s intense stare loosened up.
“Thank you,” he said smoothly, his voice seductive. “I’d love some coffee, ma’am.”
The woman stepped forward and filled a large mug, the scent of the brew wafting up Mikel’s sensitive nose.
“Best coffee for a hundred miles,” said the waitress with an abundant smile. “Though that’s not saying much round these parts. We serve up a famous bacon and eggs too, if you’re hungry?” She smiled, hopeful of the custom.
Mikel took a sip of the coffee, the liquid boiling hot.
“Might wanna let that cool a moment, honey,” said the woman quickly and with a note of concern.
The drink met Mikel’s lips, and had no effect. He took a long gulp. The woman watched on, bewildered by the strange man before her, drinking steaming coffee without so much as a blow to cool it.
“Delicious,” he whispered, pale lips crafting into an odd smile.
“Um…good to hear it,” smiled the lady. “Now, ‘bout that grub? I can rustle it up in no time for you.”
“Sure,” came Mikel’s breathy voice. His eyes worked back to the window.
“Comin’ right up,” said the waitress, moving off.
Alone now, Mikel’s eyes worked around the diner, inspecting the few patrons. There were a couple of burly men at the counter, munching on eggs and swigging coffee. There was a young, timid couple at the far end, whispering in tight bursts. Outside, a vehicle was packed full of boxes and belongings. Mikel guessed that these two were on the move, seeking safer pastures.
Several other singletons sat alone, deep in thought. Cross-country travel was dangerous through these parts, and required close focus and concentration. Mikel could all but smell the fear in the air, even here in this old diner, seeming so safe. Perhaps, in here, they would be.
But not out there.
The nano-vamp smiled, and reached into his pocket. He drew out the data disc he’d stolen early the previous morning. Such a small thing, yet so sought after. He inspected it closely, turning it over between his long fingers, wondering what secrets it held.
It didn’t rightly matter, not to Mikel. And whatever its contents were, he didn’t much care.
But, he did care about what those contents meant, what they could give him. He had a bargaining chip in his hand, and he wanted a better deal.
He smiled at the thought, going off script as he was. He hadn’t done as his employer had demanded, delivering the data to the assigned meet up point. He’d been denied something he wanted so dear, and now he had the means to get it. It was an opportunity he didn’t want to miss.
He continued to drink his coffee, for appearances sake as much as anything. He cared little for the taste, and the same went for any food or form of sustenance that normal people ate. He had to eat to fuel his body and nothing more. He got no pleasure from the act.
No, his hunger took a different form, one that was ever present, ever gnawing away inside him. It was a burden he carried, as did all those like him.
Those created for a single purpose, weighed down by a single, unquenchable, desire.
He shut his eyes and thought of the one act he so enjoyed above others. Of drawing the blood from nano-enhanced men and women, sucking up the little bots inside them. Draining their powers, their life, and at the same time fuelling his own.
The longer he went without a proper feeding, the weaker he would become. And the weaker he became, the more driven he was, ever hunting, ever seeking a means of refilling his stores, regaining his powers.
Now, he was well stocked, having feasted upon those Panther soldiers back at the CID. Yet two, his most desired two, had slipped from his grip when so tantalisingly close. And they, beyond all others, were what he truly craved…
His thoughts were interrupted as the waitress came bouncing over, far too energetic and friendly for a miserable place like this.
She planted a plate of eggs and bacon down on the table.
“Here you go, darlin’. Eat up quickly now, before it gets cold.”
Mikel drew a breath, his lips curling in displeasure. His mind had turned to his true cravings. The crude form of nourishment before him made his stomach turn.
He had blood on his mind now. And blood, even without the nanites, was something at least…
“There a problem, sir?”
Mikel’s sinister gaze worked up towards the waitress. His narrow eyes didn’t cause her to withdraw. Clearly, she’d encountered plenty of troublesome men in her time to be concerned by a mere look.
In fact, she came with a stern glare herself. Mikel’s reaction to her food was clearly not to her liking, a dent in her pride.
Mikel’s fingers inched towards the plate, and pushed it away. His head was swimming now, his tongue slithering across his upper set of teeth.
“You not hungry all of a sudden?” queried the lady, sternly. “You’re paying for that whether you eat it or not. My boys will make sure of it.”
“Pay?” purred Mikel. “I was never going to pay, my dear.”
The woman’s plump face reddened, cheeks squeezing tight.
“Sounds like you’re a few pennies short of a pound there, sonny.” She looked into his strange, inhuman eyes. “You tweakin’? You on drugs?”
“You could say that,” whispered Mikel, blood pumped full of delicious nanites. He raised one side of his top lip, his tongue doing short circles around his canine. It was slightly extended.
And the woman noticed.
She leaned back, the red flushed from her face, colour draining to a pallid complexion.
“Just pay your way and be out of here,” she said nervously. “We don’t want no trouble around these parts.”
“Trouble is my companion, ma’am. It comes with me wherever I go.”
The woman backed off, her facade collapsing under Mikel’s withering glare, and turned and hurried off towards the counter. Mikel watched with a smile on his face as she spoke with the two burly men eating eggs. They turned in Mikel’s direction, eyes narrowing, and stood, before walking into the back.
A few moments later, both men returned, one carrying a shotgun, and the other a hunting rifle. They stamped towards Mikel, their weapons aimed. The rest of the patrons stopped their eating and conversations, and stared.
“You best get your skinny ass out of here, freak, before I spray you full of lead.”
Mikel picked up his coffee mug, and nonchalantly took a sip. He sniffed the air, fear brewing from those seated in their booths. He shut his eyes and red thoughts came. Thoughts of blood. Thoughts of death.
“Did you not hear me, freak?” came the guttural growl again. Mikel heard the sound of the shotgun being cocked. “I said get on your way, and leave the money on the table.”
Mikel’s lips parted into a smile before he opened his eyes. He could almost sense the reaction as the two large men caught sight of his elongated canines, stretching down from his top line of teeth.
He opened his eyes to look at them, and could see the mustering fear. He could see it, and smell it, and taste it on his tongue. It was so alluring. He knew he wouldn’t be able to resist.
“Why do people act this way around me,” he whispered, as though to himself. He slipped from the booth so smoothly, rising to his feet, and turned his eyes on the men. Their weapons still pointed right at him, but held a light quiver now. “I might have left, you know, without a fuss. And for the sake of what…a cup of coffee and some rotten eggs?”
He slid forwards a step.
“Stop right there,” shook the man with the shotgun’s voice. “One more move…and you’re going down.”
Mikel drew a breath.
“You still don’t realise, do you? You still don’t see that you’re already dead.”
The men glanced at each other. Their fingers tightened on their triggers.
“Just…leave,” said the second man, voice trembling. “Forget the money. Just go.”
Mikel watched them for a long moment of silence. He could sense the tiniest movements of their muscles, and knew how close they were to firing. He knew, when they did, he’d already be gone.
“Did you not hear what I said?” said Mikel, voice dark and heavy as the ocean depths. “You’re already dead.” His eyes worked to the rear of the diner. “All of you…are already dead,” he hissed.
The words fell from his lips, a catalyst for the guns to go off. The shotgun burst to life, and the rifle followed right after. The booth in which Mikel had been sitting exploded into a shower of table shards and porcelain dinnerware, bits of bacon and eggs flying everywhere, black coffee splashing wildly.
But Mikel had seen it all, sensed it all. Normal men had no chance against an aberration like him.
He was out of the firing line in a split second, and engaging from another angle. Screams filled the air from the rear as his knife came out and sliced through the men’s necks, one after another. The blood came splitting, gushing from the wounds. Mikel looked upon the crimson fountains with a frenzied smile.
He swept in, and took hold of one of the men, sinking his teeth into his neck as the blood spewed forth. He swigged his fill, and tossed the man to the floor, his years of drinking nanite-imbued blood giving him a taste for it that, even without the nanites, did much to satisfy him.
Mouth smeared red, his manic eyes took in the huddling forms around him. His mind was full of bloodlust now. The sight and smell of the thick maroon puddles on the floor drenched his senses. He looked to the nearest person, to the young couple hunkered down in their booth.
He started with them, and finished with the old woman who’d started it all.
And when he stepped out of the diner ten minutes later, everyone inside it was dead.
The place was stained red with the blood he didn’t drink.
Mikel moved into the cool air, a napkin in his hand. He wiped it across his lips, cleaning himself of the blood. His stomach bubbled and boiled, full to the brim with blood and coffee. It was satisfying, but somehow hollow too.
The blood was superficial to him, a tasty snack that gave him no true nourishment. It was like a sugar junkie drinking a can of diet soda. All it did was make him yearn for the real thing.
He headed towards his jet-car, parked in the shadows of the trees. His sensitive ears listened closely for the sound of any coming vehicle, but nothing came. This stretch of road was so quiet, this part of the world so heavily abandoned. It was a graveyard, and the diner had become a morgue.
He reached into his pocket, and drew a little comms device into his ear. Activating it, he heard a connecting tone. It lasted a few long beeps, indicating that his employer was either busy, or else trying to find somewhere safe to talk.
He let it go on for a minute or two, wandering casually around his car and keeping an eye on the road. He was close to giving up when the tone changed, and the line connected.
The modulated voice crept into his ear.
“Mikel. I finally hear from you. What took you so long?”
Mikel
could hear the simmering anger behind the strange, distorted words.
“I have been…thinking,” he said. He drew the data disc from his jacket pocket, twirling it between his long fingers. “I want more.”
“More money?” questioned the voice.
“I have little fondness for money,” replied Mikel. “I want them. I want Hunt and the Phantom. I need them both.”
“Need?”
The line went quiet. Mikel’s body quivered with his desperate desire, his terrible craving.
“Yes, need,” he growled. “I’ll take the price we agreed on, but I want them too.”
Another silence settled down the line.
“Fine. Keep your comms unit on. I’ll be in touch.”
The line clicked off, and Mikel’s limbs swarmed with anticipation.
Soon. So soon.
8
“OK, so how hot is this tip?” asked Tanner, staring at a glowing screen that covered half the wall.
“Hottest we’ve got so far,” replied Ragan. “And hot enough to chase down.”
The two men were in the war room of the main command centre, the wall filled with a map of an abandoned town several hundred miles away within the neutral zones. Several sections were enlarged into surveillance photographs of the area. Other little windows displayed information about a local gang known as the Marauders, as well as their most prominent members.
Alongside Ragan and Tanner, Nadia and Chloe completed the group. The latter sat in a chair, her head aching lightly despite the good work of her nanites in clearing her hangover. The others didn’t seam to be ill-affected. Apparently their little bots were more used to dealing with over-consumption.
Colonel Slattery was also in attendance, overseeing the show. He stood to one side as Ragan updated the rest of the strike team on the tip that had come in that morning, hawkish eyes perusing each of them with a displeasure that suggested he knew just what they’d been up to the previous night.
Ragan, in front of the screen, went on.
“An hour ago, one of our technicians caught wind of some surveillance footage taken from a high altitude WSA drone. As you know, the neutral zones are largely monitored by all nations to keep a lookout for incoming threats. It seems that we may have been handed a lucky break.”