Gunfire sounded from beyond the door. As Rolf looked over, a howl echoed through the stairwell from above. Dot shoved him aside just as a grey and black-haired hybrid swung at him. Rolf hit the wall and spun toward the door. The remaining two hybrids had Dot pinned down. She struggled beneath their weight. A brown-haired hybrid reared back and tore out her throat.
“NO!”
“C’mon,” Mara said, pulling Rolf by the sleeve. She led him through the door and straight into a pile of Bernice’s entrails. There was a blood stain on the wall above what was left of her.
Rolf expelled his empty clip and traded it for a full one. He turned toward the door expecting the hybrids to follow. They didn’t. Probably too busy snacking on Dot.
A shotgun blast sounded from somewhere in the distance.
“Where’s Dr Sturgess?”
Mara shrugged.
“Nine o’clock!” Sully shouted from somewhere ahead.
Gunfire sounded soon after.
Mara and Rolf hurried toward the sound. A door off to the side opened as they passed. It was too dark to see how many hybrids emerged from the room beyond.
Kang and Sully advanced slowly, Dr Sturgess close behind. She directed them toward an unfinished section of the complex. Sully turned and dropped a hybrid in a tattered black uniform, its rifle still slung over a shoulder. The doctor knelt and retrieved it. Yellow light reflected in the sweat covering each of them.
“Whatever you’re going to do, you better do it fast,” Rolf yelled from behind. He and Mara sprinted to catch up, numerous hybrids bounding after them.
Dr Sturgess pointed at a door. Kang opened it. The five of them hurried through, howls following them.
They found themselves in a spacious and mostly empty room. A pile of dead bodies had been stacked in a corner. Various medical supplies lined metal shelves on the other side of the room. Pipes and ducts lined the walls and ceiling. It looked as if the contractors ran out of supplies and left this section as bare as possible.
“Failed experiments,” Sturgess said moving past the rancid pile of corpses. She ran to the back corner and a door marked ‘ventilation access’.
Rolf and Mara pulled a metal shelf lined with disposable gloves toward the door. They slammed it in place just as it started to open.
“This isn’t going to hold long!” Rolf yelled.
The shelf rattled as the hybrids pushed and pounded on the door. Rolf and Mara pushed back but both knew they weren’t strong enough to hold back a pack of genetically-altered hybrids. The shelf was forced back a little with each blow – the gap between the door and wall widening.
Dr Sturgess slid a keycard through a slot then punched in a five digit code. A clicking noise preceded the door opening.
“Go,” Rolf said to Mara. She sprinted across the room and skidded to a stop as Dr Sturgess opened fire.
Kang took most of the barrage. He dropped to his knees, a look of disbelief on his face. He fell a moment later. Sully returned fire, hitting Sturgess in the leg before she disappeared through the door.
A hairy claw punched through the door. Rolf pushed back with everything he could muster, the tread of his boots squeaking as he fought for every inch. A multitude of howls sounded from the stairwell, hunger bleeding into their frenzied cries.
“What I wouldn’t give for a grenade.”
“Hey,” Mara said.
Rolf turned and she tossed him a fire extinguisher. “I could kiss you right now.”
She cracked a smile before helping Sully limp toward the ventilation room door.
The door flung open, the metal rack swept aside. Several sets of glowing eyes peered from the half-light beyond. Rolf tossed the fire extinguisher. It hit the first hybrid in the chest and clanged to the floor. Pistol in hand, he squeezed the trigger.
The hybrid squealed as the extinguisher exploded in a white cloud.
Rolf ran across the room to find Mara and Sully pounding on the ventilation room door. “What’s the hold up?”
“Door’s locked.” Mara said.
Rolf took Sully’s shotgun and obliterated the keypad and door handle. The wires fizzled as the first hybrid entered.
A howl resounded around the room.
A multitude of howls answered back.
The ventilation room door opened.
Mara helped Sully through. Rolf followed the bloody trail. He slammed the door shut and leaned on it. Much of the space in the small room was taken up by different machinery and a trio of air ducts. A trail of blood led to the rear of the room and the furthest air duct. A metal grate had been tossed aside.
Mara stuck her head in. “There’s a ladder.”
The air coming from the vent was noticeably cooler.
Sully limped over and slid down the door next to Rolf.
“Get over there and start climbing.”
“Not this time.” Sully moved an arm. Blood leaked through a hole in his chest. He flashed a toothy smile. “I survived the werewolves, but not the old lady.” A bitter laugh escaped him. “Fucking werewolves, man. Can you believe it?”
Rolf handed him his gun.
Sully nodded, much spoken between the two in that one action.
Rolf slid through the opening in the vent and started climbing. He didn’t look back when he heard gunshots, or Sully’s screams before a single shot echoed through the vent.
The crisp mountain air felt good on Rolf’s sweat covered skin. He emerged from the shaft to a setting sun that normally would have taken his breath away. A light dusting of snow covered the rocky ground beneath them. Mara shivered, clinging to the side of the mountain. She slammed the heavy grate closed behind them. Neither of them thought the hybrids would be able to fit in the shaft. Still…
They followed the trail of blood to a helicopter pad and made it just in time to see a helicopter whir away.
“Looks like we missed our ride.” Mara’s head followed the helicopter as it sped away.
“We better get moving. The temperature’s going to drop as soon as the sun sets.”
They moved past the landing pad and found a narrow path leading down. “Thanks, you know, for getting me out of there,” Mara said.
Rolf looked down and noticed a few drops of blood. “We’re not out of the woods yet.” A few steps later they found a discarded gun. “It looks like the good doctor missed her ride too.”
“We might be able to catch her if we hurry.”
A few steps later they found a tattered lab coat and the same flash drive Dr Sturgess showed them earlier.
Beside the flash drive were footprints. Hybrid footprints.
“Damn,” Rolf said.
Mara came closer. “What is it?”
Rolf pointed down.
“At least we got her research. Maybe we can help stop it.” Mara slipped the flash drive into her pocket.
A howl sounded in the distance and bounced around the peak of the mountain.
Werwolf!
W.D. Gagliani & David Benton
A hybrid excerpt from W.D. Gagliani’s Wolf’s Edge
1
Northern Italy
1944
Giovanni Lupo walked fast, hands in his pockets, one wrapped around the tubular lead weight he carried in case he needed a little more oomph behind his considerable right hook.
It wouldn’t help against a German patrol, but a single adversary would pay the price if his jaw got between Giovanni and his escape route. It might be all the advantage he needed. He walked fast, hoping to beat the rapidly approaching darkness as well as the random patrols.
For as dusk arrived, so would the Allied bombers.
They came every night, almost as soon as the sirens went off and the spotlights went on, trying to catch their silhouettes like bugs on a glass.
Giovanni Lupo lived with his family on the outskirts of Genova, the huge port city whose importance to the German war machine was incalculable. Its factories had turned to slave labor to churn out goods for the war effort, but it
was Germany’s war effort – no longer Italy’s. In September 1943, the Italian monarchy and its political backers signed a secret armistice with the Allies. As soon as it became known that Italy had surrendered, the German ally’s resident forces had become an outright occupation. Everyone knew the war was lost except the mad German leadership, and few Italians saw the benefit of that, but the die was cast.
But those factories were a fat prize for the Allied bombardiers. As was the German high command, located somewhere near the harbor.
Now heading home on foot from his meager employment in a local foundry that had miraculously avoided nationalization by the Germans, Giovanni Lupo kept a cautious watch for German patrols, his greatest fear. They would sometimes sweep up able-bodied Italian men to fill gaps in factory assembly lines.
A typical tactic was for a covered truck to drive to a public square or market, pull up, and disperse a platoon of Wehrmacht infantrymen who would then round up bystanders and passersby and hold them at gunpoint until a cattle van could cart away the victims.
Giovanni watched for the rumbling covered trucks.
He was convinced his ears were sensitive. The moment he heard the unforgettable gear-grinding sound of one of those vehicles, he would melt into one of the narrow lanes that lined the street. He had mapped numerous routes home to avoid this very danger. He walked briskly, avoiding the glances of strangers, hoping he could make it home without trouble. His fellow pedestrians surely thought the same and went their way, avoiding him.
He looked straight ahead, ears attuned to the infrequent roar of a motor vehicle or the grinding of trucks.
Maria, I’m coming home. Don’t worry too much.
He hoped his son had found his way home from school by now. A month ago, a teacher had disappeared – presumably in a street sweep. The children had been dismissed until a substitute could be coaxed from another school farther away. Hardly anyone wanted to work so close to a German high command, for it was an Allied high-priority target.
Giovanni had worked a full day for the first time in months, eagerly accepting the opportunity to earn a few extra lire. Maybe there would be eggs and some lard in the kitchen tomorrow because of it.
Again Giovanni thought of his son’s long walk home from school. Some of it was through rural lanes and secondary streets, but he should be safe if he walked straight home without any distractions. Unfortunately, Franco was the kind of boy for whom everything was a distraction. If not for this damnable, senseless war – and its resulting occupation by the goddamned Germans – his son would have been at the top of his class in studies. But the school slowdown had stunted the book learning, and Giovanni was beginning to fear his boy was getting too much of a street education. He spent half his days running in the streets.
But it was the thought of extra food, especially eggs and meat and oil, all of which he could almost taste – though he suspected that soon the Germans would begin to run out of oil as well, if the rumors of their losses in the South were true – that distracted Giovanni from his single-minded route home.
And distracted him from two very important things.
One was the approaching command car, which was crawling along scouting the streets ahead of its “collection” squad.
The other was the exact moment at which dusk would become evening.
Giovanni turned the corner and found himself facing the command car, which swerved toward him with a squeal of tires. Two burly German soldiers leapt from the rear before the vehicle had even come to a full stop.
Taken by surprise, Giovanni shrank back against the wall behind him, having forgotten it was there. He lost precious time trying to decide whether he should pull his lead-heavy hand from his pocket and fight, or flee the way he’d come. Unfortunately, the momentary indecision tied up both options, for his weighted hand caught in his clothes and at the same time he couldn’t reorient his legs and feet in order to allow for a sprint away from the uniformed thugs who were upon him.
Merda!
His fist was trapped.
His feet tripped over themselves and he went down sideways even as the two Germans caught him and yanked him off the sidewalk as if he were a child, their guttural orders and commands just a jagged jumble of sounds in his ears.
Oh no, Maria! This wasn’t what I wanted!
He struggled in their grasp. The two were larger than average, two bruisers who knew the ropes. They suspected his hand held a weapon and made sure it couldn’t clear his damned pocket, and by keeping his feet off the ground he was off-balance as well and found it impossible to gather enough leverage for a kick.
“Nooooo!” he shouted in frustration. Tears wet the corners of his eyes.
The two uniformed goons manhandled him, their faces grim with determination and single-minded purpose. Perhaps their well-being in the barracks depended on how they performed their duty.
He struggled in their iron grip even as they dragged him, sweating and screaming, past the waiting command car to where a covered truck was just now pulling up.
His legs swinging empty kicks at his attackers’ shins, his mouth keeping up a steady stream of curses that would have made his wife blush, he found himself being tossed face-first like a sack of spongy rotten potatoes over the rear gate and into the back of the truck.
His face stopped its painful slide on the rough planks by smashing into the muddy boots of another German soldier who thrust the muzzle of his submachine gun into Giovanni’s skull.
He couldn’t look up, but what was in his range of vision deflated his spirit and took the fight out of him. Boots all around him, and at the front of the truck bed, scuffed shoes and even bare feet – other conscripted unfortunates.
A stream of guttural syllables followed him onto the truck bed. One of the two burly thugs telling the other troopers he was probably armed.
Hands reached out for his arms on both sides and dug his fist out of his pocket as the gun muzzle threatened to burrow straight through his skull and into his brain. Rivulets of blood seeped down his forehead and into his eyes as he felt the gun metal scraping his cranium like a crowbar. His fist was forcibly removed from his pocket, the fabric tearing loudly, and the lead weight was pried from his fingers with inexorable strength.
My Maria! My son!
Beyond the pain in his head, the only thought he had was of his family and the fact that he would never see them again.
And almost exactly the next moment, the Allied bombers came.
Grinding up to a screaming wail, the nearest air-raid sirens signaled the arrival of the first wave of the night’s bombers. Not every night, not yet, but often enough to keep the German occupiers – and the innocent populace – guessing. Tonight the raid was slightly early, with a tendril of daylight left across the darkening sky, but there it was. The rumble of airplane engines slowly crawled over the land, and in seconds the crump-crump-crump of anti-aircraft fire joined in the cacophony as gunners began to lay down a barrage that would knock a percentage of the Liberators and Fortresses out of the sky before the raid was over.
Waves of American and English long-distance bombers targeted the harbor, the suspected high command, and the factories arrayed in long blocks between them. Typically, the first strings of ordnance fell short and landed in civilian neighborhoods.
Like this one.
The truck’s driver gunned the motor and squealed away from the cobbled curb.
The thugs who had thrown Giovanni onto the back of the truck leapt for the command car in their haste to escape the open street. They were in the crosshairs for a direct hit, or burial under rubble if the Allied bomb strings found a nearby building.
The soldiers who’d been frisking Giovanni and driving the gun muzzle into his cranium were thrown clear to the side as the driver swerved.
Giovanni took his opportunity, ignoring the pain in his head and face, he leapt up to dive off the rear of the truck. The soldier with the submachine gun regained his balance and managed to partially block Gio
vanni’s access to the open gate. Behind them, the cobblestones fled past as the vehicle gained speed. A series of explosions rocked the ground and the truck careened to the right-hand side.
Without even thinking, Giovanni’s hands wrapped around the barrel of the German’s submachine gun as if of their own volition and he snatched it away. Once in his grasp, he turned it around.
The short burst cut the soldier in half and threw him against his fellows in a heap.
As completely instinctively as the shooting had been, Giovanni made his split-second decision and dove from the rear of the vehicle. He hit the cobblestones hard, knocking the air from his lungs even as he rolled toward the gutter.
He still held the gun.
Down the street, a building collapsed after an Allied bomb struck its roof and ripped out its guts. The cloud of dust and debris obscured the street and pelted Giovanni’s back as he lay on the cobblestones trying to draw a breath.
He glanced over the debris and saw the truck teeter momentarily on two wheels, strike the opposite curb and overturn, spilling its human cargo like sacks of trash.
Giovanni struggled to his feet, submachine gun still in his hands.
Three soldiers spilled from the truck and one pointed at him.
Giovanni’s hands were bruised, his arms ached. But his right index finger twitched on the trigger as if he’d lost control, causing the Schmeisser MP40 to stutter in his grip. The breech ejected a stream of hot brass casings as the gun spoke in its own guttural dialect.
The soldiers flopped around in a gruesome dance as the 9mm slugs tore through them in ragged, bloody lines. The muzzle went silent when the magazine was empty, the bolt stuck in the open position.
Giovanni’s hands opened and the smoking gun dropped to the bricks.
SNAFU: Wolves at the Door: An Anthology of Military Horror Page 11