by C. E. Martin
"Sorry," Mosley said, reaching for the hand. "Aren't you kind of young to-"
As soon as he grabbed the teen's hand, blue light flickered between their palms. Mosley felt a sudden wave of numbness sweep over his body, then it was gone. Jason stepped back.
"He's good," Jason said.
"What was that?" Mosley said, looking at his palm. It was uninjured.
"Curing you of your vampirism—permanently, we hope," Kenslir said. "But we can't take any chances. Doctor?"
The Colonel nodded to Dr. Guerrera, who now had a small metal box in her hands. She held it up, at eye level, one end pointed at Mosley.
"Mr. Mosley, could you please look at the light?" she asked.
"Light?" Mosley asked, confused.
The end of the metal box popped open, separating into two pieces that folded out on springs. A bright yellow light flashed in the box and Mosley went immobile. Instead of freezing, the color seemed to fade from him, a gray wave radiating out from his eyes, rapidly traveling over his body, all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes. Both he and his robe were turned to stone.
"All right, let's get this guy in storage and prep for mission," the Colonel said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"Does anyone want any popcorn?" Pam Keegan asked. She had her jacket off and was tilted back in her conference room chair, her bare feet up on the large table.
Javi Wallach frowned at the small FBI agent. "Is this some kind of joke to you?"
Keegan shrugged and grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl in her lap. "Suit yourself."
"I'll have some", Alvarro Sierra said. He didn't see what the big deal was. The Mossad agent might be a bad ass, but she was no match for a vampire. He felt perfectly fine staying in the Detachment's headquarters, watching a live feed from the team's headcams as they prepared to raid the small bar the überwolf was believed to be in. Wallach should be glad they made her stay behind.
Keegan held the bowl out and Alvarro grabbed a handful of popcorn as his eyes went from monitor to monitor on the walls of the room. In addition to Colonel Kenslir, Josie, the werewolf named Jimmy and the redheaded vampire, he counted seven stone soldiers. He wondered if there were any more. Seven was an odd number.
The live feeds showed the team split up. The stone soldiers were in two helicopters, orbiting the sight at three thousand feet. One helicopter held soldiers marked on each other's headup displays as ZEUS, JANUS, and BRIONES. They were accompanied by Jimmy Kane, marked as HADES. The other helicopter had ATLAS, JOHNSON, STEVENS and JACOBSON.
Alvarro wondered why some of the men had mythological call signs and the others didn't.
Josie Winters was on the ground, elevated in the bucket of a cherry picker phone company truck, watching the small skinhead bar from at least two thousand feet away. Two soldiers marked simply as HAYNES and BARNETT were in phone company uniforms with her, pretending to work on a junction box located at ground level. Alvarro wondered what their powers were, or if they were regular humans. They hadn't looked special.
Finally, Colonel Kenslir, tagged as ANTAEAN and the redhead, OLSON, were in civilian clothes in a large Mercedes convertible, just pulling up in front of the bar. Kenslir was now wearing tan slacks, a loose blue Bermuda shirt and the same tactical glasses everyone else, except Jimmy Kane, wore. Dr. Olson was wearing a low cut, bright floral dress—white with lots of colorful flowers.
And they were arguing.
"They don't go with my outfit!" Laura said, glaring at the Colonel.
"Command needs to see what you see, Olson," the Colonel growled. "We don't have time for this."
"Where would I put the transmitter?" Laura demanded, holding up a small black box roughly the size of a pistol magazine. It was connected by a thin wire to one earpiece of her tactical glasses, which she held in her other hand.
Kenslir opened his mouth as he looked down at her chest, then caught himself—she clearly wasn't wearing a bra. "I don't know—tuck it in your underwear. The wire'll reach."
"I'm not wearing any," Laura said, smirking. "Later boys!" she said, looking into her own glasses, the tiny camera built along the top edge of the communication device transmitting her image back to the Command Center. She opened a glove box and shoved the tactical targeting glasses inside and closed it.
Colonel Kenslir frowned, but decided this was one argument he wasn't going to win.
"I'll do all the talking." He stepped out of the car, closing the door and heading toward the building.
"I like my men quiet," Laura said, getting out of the car and hurrying to catch up to him.
The Mengele was a rundown brick and wooden structure, possibly once a house, spray painted with graffiti, its neon window sign flickering, some of the letters burnt out. A Nazi flag hung in the other window, for anyone not familiar with the name of the infamous World War II butcher. Wire mesh covered both windows, which were painted black on the inside.
Kenslir pulled the front door open, hearing the screech of metal as old hinges and a spring groaned in protest. Beyond the door, the interior of the bar was smothered in darkness, with only a few interior lights on.
The Colonel stepped in, Laura catching the door behind him and mumbling to herself. "Geeze, whatever happened to ladies first?"
The occupants of the bar, at least twenty young thugs with shaved heads, wearing various pieces of surplus military uniforms, tall black leather boots and t-shirts with the sleeves cut off regarded Kenslir and Laura Olson coldly as they walked in. The Colonel headed directly to the bar.
"You lost?" the bartender asked. He was a big man, nearly Kenslir's size, wearing a patch-covered leather vest over his bare chest. He was wiping out a beer mug with a dirty rag as he watched them.
"We're looking for someone," Kenslir said, standing in front of the bar. He raised his hand in the air. "About this tall, blond hair, blue eyes."
"Hitler with a bad bleach job," Laura Olson chimed in, smiling. She leaned on the bar with one elbow, her back to the front door, watching the patrons. Kenslir shot her a dirty look.
"You see any blondes?" the bartender asked contemptuously. The shaved-head patrons all were continuing to stare at the couple angrily.
"Maybe he's already left?" Kenslir suggested.
"Wow," Laura said, tossing her hair and taking in a deep breath through her nostrils. "It's hard to say over all the B-O in this place, but it smells like you boys have some really big dogs."
The bartender stopped wiping out the mug and glared at her. "What did you say?"
"You'll have to pardon my friend," Kenslir said. "She likes to hear herself talk."
"I like to make noise," she said, winking at the Colonel. "But I was saying somebody's poochie needs a good bath. It reeks in here."
Kenslir looked more closely at the bartender's hand. He'd missed it at first, since the hand was covered by the dirty washcloth the man was using, but it was bandaged. The Colonel turned and glanced around at the many skinheads at the tables.
All had gauze and bandages on their left hands.
>>>COMMAND<<< Kenslir cybernetically texted over the tactical glasses he wore. >>>WE MAY HAVE A PROBLEM<<<
"What's that on your glasses?" the bartender said, leaning forward a bit. He'd seen the small flash of light in the translucent lenses as the words Kenslir cybernetically typed were displayed in his field of vision. In the dark confines of the bar, they weren't hard to miss.
"You know, dear," Laura said, running a nailed finger down Kenslir's back. "I'm feeling a bit hungry. I could just woof down some Chinese."
The bartender's eyes clouded, filling with black, like ink. He snarled, his lips curling back to reveal vampire-like canines on his upper and lower jawline.
Before the patrons of the bar could react, the Colonel spun in place, pivoting on his left foot, his right whipping out in a sweeping arc, up and over the bar. His heel crushed into the side of the bartender's head, breaking the man's neck and sending him crashing into the wall behind the bar
.
The skinheads in the bar all leapt to their feet as Kenslir completed his spin and put his desert booted-foot back down. Like the bartender now laying on the floor, head bent at an impossible angle, they all had black eyes and bared fangs.
"DEPLOY!" Kenslir yelled, balling his fists.
***
Isaac Jacobson felt a thrill—almost like when his body had been flesh and blood and adrenalin could course through his veins. This was it. A real fight, that would let him push his new body to its limits.
Back at the Tower, the überwolf had been a deadly opponent. But it was all alone when Colonel Phillips and the team's own vampire had shown up. Between the stone soldiers and the demonic Dr. Olson, the Nazi supersoldier hadn't stood a chance.
Leaping out of a helicopter at three thousand feet, Jacobson knew this fight was going to be very different. Colonel Kenslir had identified twenty-two possible targets in the ramshackle structure below. Even with seven stone soldiers, Jimmy Kane, Laura Olson and the Colonel, they were still outnumbered. And that was just the way Jacobson liked it.
Ten seconds after he'd leapt from the helicopter, Jacobson's automatic parachute deployed, billowing out behind and above him. His legs swung around and his speed dropped considerably. At just fifty feet above the rooftop of the small building, the automatic controls again activated and he dropped free of the parachute.
Weighing over four hundred pounds, the stone soldier crashed into and through the roof of the Mengele like a bomb. He kept his arms crossed in front of his chest as he smashed through the roof—making himself a smaller object for increased penetration, just as he'd been taught.
He landed roughly inside the bar, twisting his right ankle and nearly falling. But being made of living stone, the landing hadn't been painful in the least. He caught his balance and looked around for the nearest target as his right hand dropped to the large, sword-like knife strapped to his leg.
The interior of the bar was in chaos. Jacobson, Atlas and Stevens had all hit their target—the remainder of the team had, or were landing outside, around the building. Colonel Kenslir and Dr. Olson were meanwhile throwing skinhead vampires around in a brawl that shook the building.
A surprised skinhead hesitated, ready to leap at the Colonel's back. Jacobson grabbed at the monster with his left hand as his right pulled his gigantic Bowie knife clear of its sheath.
The skinhead hissed at its new target. Jacobson was surprised at its speed, but didn't flinch or recoil as a mortal man might have. Clawed hands found his throat and tried to compress the stone.
Jacobson grinned and drove the point of his oversized knife up, into the hybrid vampire's chest. He felt bone part as the knife sliced through cursed flesh. He opened the monster up from its stomach to its chin, his knife blade erupting from the top of its skull.
The monster shuddered, a look of surprise on its face as its internal organs spilled out over Jacobson's arm. He felt the body go limp, so he pulled his arm and blade free.
Colonel Kenslir was in the air now, unleashing a jumping, spinning kick that brought the side of his booted foot against another skinhead's jaw. The beast had been attempting to stand, apparently bowled over by another blow Jacobson had missed. Boot crushed bone, and the bald head separated from the neck, ripped loose by the incredible force of the blow.
Kenslir landed and spun to face his next attacker, ignoring clawed hands reaching for him. He punched forward with his own hand, fingers held stiff and straight. He punched through skin and bone, reaching directly into the vampire's chest. Just as quickly, Kenslir jerked his hand back out, taking with it the skinhead's still-beating heart.
Laura Olson was whirling and slashing as well. Her bright, thin dress was matted with streaks of blood, and her fingernails were extended out, several inches—vicious claws that were ripping through skinhead flesh like knives.
The newly-cursed monsters weren't prepared for this furious attack. They staggered back, some holding shredded faces together, willing their accelerated healing powers to work. Others watched in horror as their guts spilled out of stomachs sliced open like wet paper bags. One staggered around, blind, his face caved in by a punch that drove his nose to the back of his skull.
Atlas was on the move as well, a bowie knife in each hand, hacking and slashing. He sliced one head open from crown to chin, separating it into two halves. Another skinhead found the top of his head sliced cleanly through, just above his eyes. He collapsed, lifeless, to the floor along with the top of his skull and most of his brains.
Wayne Stevens wasn't faring as well. His own knife was pushed deep into the chest of a vampire, the blade sticking out of its back—a perfect heart strike. But the creature had grasped Stevens' hand and wouldn't let go, pinning the knife in place. A second skinhead leapt on Stevens' back, arms looped around his neck, as if trying to pull his head off.
Colonel Kenslir stepped in, smashing his fist down atop the impaled vampire in a hammer blow. The head exploded like a balloon, showering Johnson and the immediate area in brains. Kenslir then leapt straight up, into the air, his foot striking out and catching the vampire on Stevens' back square in the face. Head and body separated and Stevens was able to shrug the headless corpse off.
The Colonel landed, then pivoted, ducking a slashing blow from behind. He turned, still crouched low, then rose up, an uppercut pulverizing another vampire directly under the chin. The monster's head snapped back as vertebrae and jawbone shattered.
"Whoo-hoo!' Laura Olson yelled triumphantly, blood splashed across her face. She was behind a skinhead, who had fallen to the floor, one of his legs missing from the knee down. She had a hold of the cursed thug's head with both hands. With a quick twist and pull, she ripped it off, producing a geyser of dark blood. Then she moved on to the next vampire, a gleeful nightmare covered in blood.
The fight had been raging for literally only a few minutes and already the skinheads were decimated. The first few to charge forward, Kenslir and Olson had simply shoved back with their superhuman strength, crushing ribcages. These first skinheads were now recovered, their injuries healed. But the second wave were literally in pieces—torn apart by Kenslir, Olson and the three soldiers that had crashed through the ceiling.
For the first time in their lives, the skinheads used their brains. They fled.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
His name was Forest. It wasn't the name his parents had given him, but the name assigned to him by the military. It had always struck him ironic, as he'd grown up in the inner city of Detroit and had never been in a forest in his life. But after joining the Army and being selected for a very special program, it was the name he'd been given.
Forest reflected, as he often did during the first few minutes of a mission, once again thinking about that day he'd been recruited, several years ago. Back then he was just a skinny kid from Detroit, forced to join the Army because he hadn't felt like there was anything else he could do with his life. No one had been more surprised than he was when he was taken aside and told he was very special.
That special kid from Detroit never would have guessed he would one day be flying, but after months of training that is just what he began to do. Now, only minutes into the mission, he was hanging in the air, at an altitude of roughly one hundred feet—it was difficult to judge his height with any real precision as he had no instruments. Nor any aircraft. He was flying under his own power—sort of. He was on the etheric plane.
And it was a very strange place.
The world Forest had been born on was, from this vantage point, one of blurry light. It was like having tunnel vision, peering through an opening in the deepest of shadow. There was no sun on the etheric plane, merely the glow of living organisms.
Forest knew that what he saw wasn't actually there. It was his brain interpreting the world without flesh and blood eyes, "seeing" what he wished to see. But even after several years of scouting from the etheric plane, it was still strange.
The Ghost Walker hovered in
place over the target, watching the glowing forms of the four stone soldiers outside taking up positions. As enchanted beings themselves, the stone soldiers glowed brightly in his clairvoyant vision.
All living things glowed on the etheric plane, but not to the extent of the stone soldiers. Most people were just a mild, soft, almost blurry silhouette of light. He could look past this and see their faces when he concentrated. He saw them simultaneously as light and solid.
Parahumans, those gifted with some kind of paranatural ability, glowed differently. More intensely would be one way to describe it, but that didn't really. The human language had no real words to fully describe the etheric plane. That was why telepaths monitored the Ghost Walkers as they performed their reconnaissance missions.
Forest turned in place, once more looking around at the team. The Colonel had been specific about keeping an eye on his granddaughter, Josie Winters. Kenslir had grown concerned of late about the intensity of the girl's etheric presence. It had been building. Even now, despite her human appearance, she was brighter even than the vampire, Dr. Olson. Nearly as bright as the stone soldiers.
It was quite baff-
Forest shifted. Something had caught his attention. He drifted to the side, trying to get a better view. Despite their lack of presence on the etheric plane, solid objects did often shield the living from view. Which made sense. Technically, Forest and the other Ghost Walkers didn't watch the etheric plane, but watched the real world from it. If they could only see the living, their ability wouldn't be all that useful.
Yes, there it was. A sliver of bright intensity, coming from the broken windows of an old warehouse three blocks west of the skinheads' bar. Forest knew it was a broken window as glass blocked the living from view on the etheric plane.
Investigate came the telepathic command of Gloria, his handler. The telepath was with Forest's body, back at Argon Tower, several miles away, monitoring his mission and communicating with the Command Center about what he saw. It was an arrangement the military had been using with Ghost Walkers for far longer than Forest had been with the program.