by Chris Fox
“Impressive,” Jordan admitted, stepping back under the pavilion’s welcome shade. “I’m curious to see how it performs against a real enemy, though. The werewolves are fast, strong, and nearly un-killable.”
“Let’s find out,” the Director replied, turning to the black-clad soldiers who’d helped Yuri don the armor. “Get the commander set up in the second suit. Give him the rundown on its use.” He reached for the radio at his belt, depressing the talk button. “Ops, this is Director Phillips. Send a squad to escort Subject Gamma to the firing range.”
“Sir?” Jordan asked, shocked by the move. The Director had to know how dangerous letting Steve loose would be. Slaughtering a squad would be effortless if he shifted.
“Just get the armor on, soldier,” the Director ordered, steely gaze settling on Jordan with the weight of determination. “You wanted a test. You’re going to get it.”
“But sir, we should—” Jordan began.
“We don’t have time,” the Director snarled, turning a heated glare in Jordan’s direction. “The reports on Gamma are clear. He knows more than he should. He’s admitted to being in some sort of telepathic contact with the sleeping woman. We have no idea if our security measures are adequate to hold him. We also need to know how that armor performs in a live-fire exercise against a real target. I want two words, Jordan.”
“Yes. Sir,” Jordan said, through gritted teeth.
Chapter 39- Field Test
“See this symbol here, the one that looks like a pyramid with two lines coming out the top? It repeats at odd intervals throughout the first, second, and seventh stanzas,” Sheila said, tapping a symbol near the center of the sheet of paper. She slid it across the padded floor toward Bridget, who picked it up in both hands. The petite woman had little choice because the silver cuffs wouldn’t allow her hands more than three inches apart. A similar pair was clamped around her ankles, though its chain was eight inches long to allow a shuffling walk.
The manacles weren’t just silver in color. They were silver. Mohn had run some very early tests on their prisoners and had found the substance to be effective. Sheila didn’t know why that was, something about silver being toxic if mixed into their blood. If Bridget attempted to shift, her wrists and ankles would swell in size, and the restraints would slice off her feet and hands.
Steve wore an identical set, but his hands were in his lap. He pointedly ignored the two women. He lounged against the white padding lining the cell, eyes closed, though Sheila knew he was listening. He’d stopped helping days ago when Sheila had refused to listen to his arguments about waking the strange woman he called the Mother. She got the sense that he knew more than he was willing to share with her or Bridget, that he could read the strange language just as easily as she could read English.
“Yeah, I know it’s significant, but I haven’t the faintest clue what it means,” Bridget responded, eyes on the paper Sheila had handed her. “At first I thought it must represent the structure itself, but I think it’s more than a reference to this place. It shows up too often and in too many different contexts. It’s maddening.”
“I have a theory,” Sheila replied, unable to suppress a grin. She knew she was on to something, and it thrilled her, because she knew Bridget would be just as excited. Just like she had been in the old days. “What if the symbol is a type of building? What if this pyramid is just one of many, if that symbol isn’t saying this place, but rather this type of place? What if there are other pyramids, either here or in different parts of the world? Why, it could mean that…”
She trailed off, glancing behind her at the sharp hiss that heralded the door opening. Was it already time for the guards to collect her? She should have another two hours, unless something had gone wrong. Had they found Blair? The door swung outward, revealing two black-clad soldiers armed with lethal rifles and matching expressions. One leveled his weapon at Steve, the other at Bridget.
“There’s no need for those,” Sheila said, rising slowly to her feet. The men ignored her, keeping their weapons trained on her friends. “Where’s Commander Jordan? And why are you interrupting? Our work is important, and I was told th—”
“Doctor Steven Galk,” the lead soldier barked, ignoring Sheila. He was a freckled youth not much more than twenty, yet his gaze was steady. Confident. “Rise slowly and keep your hands down. Proceed down the hallway with your eyes down. Any deviation from these instructions will be met with terminal force.”
Steve sat silently for a long moment and then raised his head languidly. His eyes opened, piercing blue shards landing on the man who’d spoken. Steve watched the soldier coldly as he rose to his feet, smooth and graceful, like the predator he was. The guards tensed, fingers tightening on triggers as they prepared to sell their lives.
Death would be quick for them if Steve somehow broke free of those restraints. Sheila had seen what a werewolf could do and just how little they feared bullets. So why had the powers that be sent only two guards? It seemed reckless. Jordan would undoubtedly have an answer, probably pointing out that there was nowhere for Steve to go. If he killed these guards, he’d face dozens of others outside the building who’d mobilize the instant a shot was fired.
“As you wish, soldier,” Steve said; his words were soft but distinctly audible over the uncomfortable silence. He shuffled toward the door, hands obligingly low in front of him.
“Where are you taking him?” Sheila asked, surging to her feet. Whatever they intended couldn’t be good.
“Respectfully, that’s none of your business, ma’am,” the freckled soldier shot back, eyes never leaving Steve. He and his companion backed out of the room, allowing Steve to exit behind them.
“I’m not a prisoner.” She bristled, stepping into the hallway next to Steve. “You don’t have a right to keep me in there.”
Bridget finally rose to her feet. Her stance was timid, but her expression showed a hint of steel. The timing was incredibly bad, but Sheila was glad the woman was recovering. Recent events had hit her hard.
“Where are you taking him?” Bridget demanded, taking a short step toward the door. The taller soldier snapped the butt of his rifle to his shoulder, muzzle aimed straight at her face.
“It’s all right, Bridget,” Steve called into the room. His voice was calm, as if this were all perfectly ordinary. “Don’t make a scene. I’m sure they just have a few more tests they want to run. I’ll be back shortly.” Bridget’s expression showed how unlikely she thought that prospect was, but she said nothing as the soldier quickly closed the door, leaving her in the featureless white room.
“Walk slowly, and don’t make any sudden moves,” the freckled soldier ordered. Steve started up the hallway, trudging toward the exit as if he were striding through a park. Sheila wondered what he knew that she didn’t. He seemed so…resigned.
The motley little group exited the hastily constructed building, passing another pair of guards as they stepped into the chilly afternoon. A few clouds stubbornly dotted the sky, a patch of shade drawing a shiver from her as it passed over them.
Sheila fished her oversized sunglasses from a side pocket of her khaki shorts, donning them to keep the glare at bay. The soldiers gestured for Steve to leave the trail and head across the rougher terrain. They threaded past boulders and around scrubby little bushes, toward a stand-alone black pavilion.
None of the soldiers at any of the newly erected buildings paid them any mind. If the prospect of having a werewolf loose among them was disconcerting, they certainly didn’t show it. Either they knew something she didn’t, or they were prepared for anything Steve might try.
As they approached the pavilion, she made out a knot of men enjoying its shade. Two wore the uniforms she was familiar with, but two others wore bulky black armor complete with faceplates. The equipment was new and definitely strange, but she’d never cared much for such things. She was far more interested in the last figure, a man she knew by reputation but had never spoken with—the Director,
whose title was so powerful that a name wasn’t even needed. He wore a light-gray Armani suit set off by a deep-blue tie of the finest silk. Somehow, even standing amidst armored soldiers, he made it look perfectly natural.
He stood talking to one of the armored figures, nodding in the group’s direction as he became aware of their approach. The Director stepped from the shade, raising a hand to shield his eyes despite wearing a pair of dark sunglasses. The man studied them like some flat-eyed reptile, no hint of his thoughts touching his expression.
“Sir,” the freckled soldier called. Now that they were close enough to be heard, he trotted ahead of their group, leaving them in the care of his silent companion. He paused next to the Director, offering a tight salute and saying something low enough that Sheila couldn’t hear it.
One of the armored figures stepped forward, looming over the Director. He said something, voice carried away by the wind. Whatever it was caused the Director’s face to tighten.
“Reckless? Is that what you think? Commander, we are out of time. If we can’t beat one of them now, on our own ground, what choice do we have in the field? Private, give me your side arm,” the Director barked, turning toward the freckled soldier. He studied Steve through those dark black lenses. The soldier drew the weapon without hesitation, offering it grip first to the Director, who took it in his right hand.
He flicked the safety off; then in one smooth motion, he raised the gun and aimed at Steve. The weapon coughed, ejecting a shiny brass cartridge that flashed in the sun as it spun over the Director. The acrid smell of hot gunpowder stung Sheila’s eyes even as the round punched into Steve’s chest. It picked him up, flinging him backward in a tangle of limbs.
Sheila could do nothing but stare in shock, unable to process the event. The Director had just shot Steve. Why? It didn’t make any sense. If the Director wanted Steve dead, why not have the soldiers take care of it back in the cell? Why drag him all the way up here?
“All right. Commander, it’s time to see what that suit can do,” the Director said, turning to face the armored figure who’d questioned him a moment before. The Director lowered his weapon. “My guess is you’ve got about ten seconds before he shifts. Once he does, I want you to take him down. Hard. Yuri, back him up, but don’t intervene unless the commander fails to contain the situation.”
Commander? The man in the closest suit must be Jordan. That he was a part of this travesty, the killing of a man as some sort of test, galled her. Yet he was a soldier, and although she doubted he’d agree with the Director’s method, he was unlikely to disobey orders.
She shifted her horrified glance to Steve’s writhing form. The man twisted and groaned on the ground, cuffed hands clutching at the scarlet stain spreading across the belly of his white hospital gown. His back arched and his eyes became unfocused. He mewed pitifully, fighting to draw in a breath.
Then the change began. The process was shockingly rapid, fur bursting from every pore even as Steve’s bones popped and broke. They rearranged themselves, allowing for the sudden swell of muscle as he increased dramatically in size. Two sharp pings sounded as the cuffs exploded from his wrists and then from his ankles. So much for the silver. Within moments Steve the man was gone, replaced by a black-furred werewolf. The amber eyes glittering over that canine muzzle held alarming intelligence. How much of that was still Steve?
“Sheila, get back,” Jordan ordered, stepping between her and Steve. His form was obscured by the armor, but his voice was unmistakable. “All of you, get clear now!”
Everyone but the Director took several hasty steps backward, fleeing for the illusory safety of the pavilion. That left the two combatants eyeing each other like strange cats, circling slowly as if seeking an advantage in their as yet silent struggle.
Chapter 40- Clash of the Titans
Jordan’s breath thundered in his ears, echoing in the tight confines of the armored suit. He instinctively dropped into a combat stance, feet sliding apart for better balance. The suit reacted instantly, the faceplate overlaying a head-up display over his vision. The HUD provided a variety of useful information, from his elevation to the current count of his Raptor missiles.
Bright-red crosshairs appeared over the creature that had been Dr. Galk just moments before. Jordan wondered idly how the suit identified enemies, but the thought skittered away like butter on a hot pan as the creature began its first attack. It blurred forward, moving so quickly even the suit had difficulty tracking it.
The only thing that saved Jordan was the foreknowledge of just how fast these things were. Jordan leapt backward, the suit exaggerating the motion and carrying him forty feet. He landed heavily, thrown off balance by the unexpected power of the movement. Jordan rolled over backward, tucking his limbs and coming back to his feet.
The werewolf was already after him, but this time it was merely inhumanly fast instead of impossible to track. Jordan readied himself, popping a set of matte-black claws from one wrist. He lunged forward with all the power he could muster, aiming for the werewolf’s throat. The wickedly sharp weapons hummed through the air as they whooshed through the spot the werewolf’s neck had just occupied. The beast danced backward, incredibly nimble despite its size.
Steve, if he could still be called that, responded with a vicious downward slash. Ebony claws every bit as sharp as their metal counterparts descended toward Jordan’s face. He dropped into a crouch, shifting slightly to the right as the claws sailed harmlessly by. The shift left him open to a sudden kick from the werewolf, the force of the blow hurling him back across the rocky ground in a cloud of dust and debris.
The armor protected him from the worst of the hit, but it still hurt like hell. Jordan rolled to his feet, knowing he had only moments before his opponent was on him again. The werewolf possessed the advantages of speed and size. Jordan would have to outthink it if he was going to have a prayer of winning. That was problematic enough. Dr. Galk was incredibly intelligent, and Jordan had a feeling that whatever he’d become could draw on that intellect. Worse, the thing seemed to draw on the kind of battle-honed instincts that could only be earned through a lifetime of combat.
Jordan looked up to find the werewolf in the air above him, furry arms spread wide as it brought down two sets of claws in one incredibly vicious strike. He managed to block the first with a raised forearm, but the second sent up a shower of sparks as claws skittered across his chest plate. The metal held, but the claws carved furrows in their wake. The force of the blow knocked him back a step, metal servos whirring as the armor fought to keep him in place.
Metal was pitted against flesh, and Jordan knew there could only be one outcome in a contest of strength. He had to use finesse. Jordan went limp, allowing himself to fall flat on his back. The sudden move caught the werewolf off guard, and the beast stumbled forward, toppling in his direction. Jordan was ready. He planted his feet against the creature’s gut, kicking with all the incredible force the power armor could muster.
The move launched the beast into a high arc, almost thirty feet into the air. Since its feet were no longer touching the ground, all that muscle meant nothing. It flew in a predictable pattern, powerless to change the direction of its flight. Jordan led the target, making a gesture with his left thumb to activate a Raptor missile. There was a deep clunk from the launcher on his left shoulder and then a sudden burst of recoil that even the armor had a difficult time suppressing.
A white contrail snaked from his shoulder as a thumb-thick missile streaked toward its target. It had to be moving several hundred miles per hour, yet despite that, the werewolf somehow had time to tuck into a fetal position. It turned in midair, presenting its right shoulder to the blow. Jordan’s jaw dropped as he grasped his opponent’s logic. If the missile struck a leg, the beast wouldn’t be able to move and the fight would be over. Take a missile to the back or torso, and it would lose vital organs, with the same outcome.
Instead, the creature took the missile in the side. A concussion of light a
nd sound erupted, momentarily turning the suit’s HUD white. When it cleared a moment later, it showed a huge cloud of dust and smoke. There was no sign of the creature. Jordan scanned the area, but apart from soldiers and scientists scurrying away, there was no sign of movement.
The beast emerged from the thickest bellow of smoke, its fangs bared in a snarl of rage. One arm was simply gone, shoulder ending in a ruined mass of flesh charred black. It raised its remaining hand, fingers spread wide as they pointed in his direction. Jordan tensed. What the hell was that thing doing?
He tried to reach for the rifle slung across the armor’s back but found himself unable to move. His entire body had gone rigid, as if he’d stuck his finger in a light socket and the flow of electricity had paralyzed his muscles. Jordan strained against his own body, yet his limbs refused to obey
“Director, I can’t move,” Jordan’s panicked voice boomed, amplified by the suit’s speakers. “Everyone, get clear. Get clear now.”
The werewolf blurred. One moment it stood thirty feet away, the next it loomed over him. The beast wrapped its remaining clawed hand around Jordan’s neck, squeezing until the metal began to buckle with a hideous metallic scream. It hoisted him into the air, Jordan’s limbs dangling like a broken doll’s. The creature brought the armor’s faceplate close its own, showing its fangs as it stared directly at him with the terrible gaze of an avenging god.
If he was going out, then by God, he was taking this thing with him. Jordan concentrated, willing his thumb to move. He waged a silent battle, fighting with everything he had to get that one digit to disobey the paralysis this thing had somehow inflicted. The metal groaned again, tightening around his throat. Breathing became difficult.