by H. L. Murphy
“After we interrogate him, do what you like,” Sasha said firmly, understanding his brother’s anger. He felt more than a little rage himself, but unlike Dmitri, Sasha didn't put all the blame on the Americans. His people had fucked up too. “There!”
The RHIB slowly nearly to a stop as Sasha leaned out to snag the floating man’s collar. In a single powerful motion, Sasha heaved the smaller man into the boat. Black tactical gear covered the little man, magazines, knives, radio equipment, the whole nine yards. Something wasn't right, or Sasha wasn't seeing it right. He leaned in closer to check the placement of one of the blades before he realized the weapon had been driven in the man’s chest, point first.
“What the fuck?” Sasha managed before Eric Linner’s eye flew open and he lunged for Sasha’s throat. Impossibly strong hands wrapped around Sasha’s head and shoulders as too sharp teeth but deep into flesh, drawing hot blood. Linner went into frenzy as the copper tang of blood touched his tongue. Sasha screamed in agony, throwing useless punch after useless punch into the thrashing Linner.
“Sasha!” Dmitri screamed, leaping past the boat’s controls to wrestle Linner from his brother. At six feet seven inches, two hundred fifty pounds of Russian killing machine, Dmitri was well used to dominating his foes. Eric Linner drove an elbow into the big man’s nose, crushing it flat, but also fracturing the underlying bones as well. To Dmitri, it felt as though he'd been hit in the face by a baseball bat under full swing by America’s only contribution to the world, professional baseball players. Dmitri fell away, dazed and bleeding while Linner drank as much of Sasha’s pulsing blood as possible before tearing an enormous piece of flesh from his throat. This, Linner devoured hungrily. The incomplete serum treatment may not have given Linner the same level of ability as Finnegan’s, but it still sufficed to keep him alive until a source of protein could be acquired.
Having fed sufficiently, Linner’s hand closed around the hilt of the dagger piercing his heart, and pulled. It took nearly more strength than Linner possessed, but it slid free, scraping against his sternum. The blade tumbled from unresponsive fingers as the interface matrix patterned on Linner's personality turned its attention to repairing the physical damage.
The psychic damage inflicted by the Finnegan target, however, may never heal to a point sufficient for independent action. As the continued survival of the host being was the primary directive of the interface matrix, it extrapolated the best course of action lay in maintaining control of their shared form until such time as the core personality healed.
However long that might take.
Until then, another fresh source of protein and concentrated hem lay close at hand.