Shapeless

by Glenn Bullion

  As he approached the front door, various voices rang out over the radio. They brought a small smile to Donovan's face.

  "First floor secured."

  "Second floor secure."

  He held up the radio.

  "Proceed to three. Be mindful of the traps."

  "Sir. We're having an issue—"

  "I know. Room one-fifteen," Donovan said, not surprised in the least. It was Draeke's apartment. "Just detain, including the hooker."

  Donovan stepped onto the second-floor landing when he pulled out his mobile phone. No signal, like he'd planned and expected. His team had gathered every phone by now, but as a precaution, the scrambler was already in place, creating its dead zone. He peered inside the open door of apartment two-twelve as he passed. Miss Ida was sitting on a couch with a missing cushion and torn upholstery. Tears ran down her face as Shelby, one of the newer members of the team, leveled his weapon at her.

  He pressed on, rounding the stairwell to the third floor. Two men stood on either side of the only apartment with a front door. They nodded at Donovan, their weapons at their sides.

  "Secured, sir. All traps have been disabled."

  "Even the shotgun rigged up under the sink?"

  "Yes, sir."

  One leaned closed to the other.

  "The ax above the door was my favorite."

  The three shared a laugh before Donovan swung the door open and stepped inside.

  Dr. Larry Hoyt sat in an old recliner in the corner of the living room. Wheatley stood at his side, his pistol resting in front of him. Larry's face changed from white to green, and Donovan expected vomit at any moment. Sweat beaded on his forehead, even though the apartment had no in-tact windows. Cold air drifted in. The only source of warmth was a kerosene heater. Against the far wall was a sleeping bag. Larry had made quite the nest for himself.

  The rest of the team moved about the apartment in a beautiful dance of footwork and grace. They searched through rooms, drawers, cabinets, looking for anything of interest. Electronics, cameras, phones. They didn't say a word to each other. They didn't need to.

  Donovan saw the ax on the floor, and turned to look at the front door. The ax had been mounted on the frame, along with several pulleys and a metal cord fastened to the knob. Opening the door quickly would swing the ax, creating a bad day for someone.

  "Barbaric," he said, casting Wheatley a glance. "But effective."

  Wheatley smiled in appreciation and nodded. They'd seen their share of oddness over the years. With a look, Wheatley understood that Donovan wanted alone time with Larry. Wheatley joined the rest of the team in dissecting the apartment.

  Donovan grabbed a broken chair from the dining area and dragged it behind him. He sat in front of Larry, who gripped the arms of the recliner with such ferocity his knuckles were white.

  "Dr. Larry Hoyt—"

  The vomit came. Donovan didn't see it coming. His best years might have been behind him physically, but he still reacted with enough speed to avoid fluids hitting his boot.

  "Whoa!" Donovan said. "Take it easy there!"

  He waited patiently for Larry to collect himself. When he was sure the doctor was a little calmer Donovan sat once again.

  "My name's Donovan." He crossed his legs, getting comfortable. "My friends call me Donnie."

  "H-Hi."

  "Jesus, relax. We're not here to hurt you."

  "You're…not?"

  "No. Well, we will, if you make us. But let's make that a last resort kind of thing." Donovan sighed, and it wasn't completely for show. He was exhausted, and he could see the light at the end of the tunnel. "Your employers are upset that you left, Larry."

  Larry scowled, and for the first time, Donovan saw defiance. Strength.

  "Employers." He nearly spat the word. "You work for them? For the government?"

  Donovan peered back at Wheatley to share a laugh.

  "They always think we work for the government." He turned his attention back to Larry. "It doesn't matter who we work for. Your employers—"

  "What they're doing is wrong. If you only knew. Shit, the things I've seen. The things I've done."

  Donovan shook his head. He knew everything about the doctor's work. The experiments, the surgeries. He wasn't going to get into a debate with Larry about his employer's intentions and goals. If the journey to the modern-day computer cost one million lives, would people care? Was that price too high? Or would they shrug and turn their attention back to their phones?

  "Larry, let's get right down to it. You weren't hired due to your excellent background in ethics. You were hired because you know more about gene splicing than anyone alive. Your employers, they want you back."

  "I'll never work for them again." His lip quivered as he seemed to accept the fate he'd chosen. "I'll never hurt another person again."

  "I admire that." He pulled out his gun. "I really do. Conviction. Not many people have it now. But, here's the problem. We were instructed to try to really convince you to return to the job you accepted willingly. So, we thought we'd talk to your girlfriend."

  Larry laughed defiantly. "You'll never find her," he said. "I've thought about all of this. I didn't just do this on a whim."

  Donovan regarded the ax behind him. "I can see that."

  "She's safe. Far away."

  Donovan turned, and Wheatley was already pulling the photos from his back pocket. He handed them over and disappeared into the kitchen.

  "Is she?"

  He threw the photos in Larry's lap and gave him time to look them over. The photos were taken and even organized with a purpose. The first few were far away and in a public place. Vanessa, Larry's girlfriend, walking across the street to her car. Leaving the store with groceries. Reading on a bench in a park. Then the pictures turned more personal, intimate. Vanessa working out at the gym. Removing her clothes in the locker room. The last picture was of her sleeping peacefully, in her own bed, the camera a mere three feet away.

  Donovan was quiet a moment, simply letting this new information sink in. Larry's hands trembled, and the tears started as expected.

  "Larry, you will go back." He tapped the photos. "Or we will kill her. Just a text message, and she's gone. And we don't have much time to think it over here. So, what do you say—?"

  Donovan's phone rang.

  The entire team froze and glanced at each other, confused. The phone shouldn't have worked at all. He pulled it out to see an unlisted number. Eying Wheatley, he was ready to bark out orders, but Wheatley had already opened his laptop.

  "Sir, this place is dead. Our equipment is working." He pointed at the phone. "There shouldn't be a signal."

  Turning his attention away from Larry, he answered the call.

  "Hello?"

  The voice was female, unfamiliar.

  "In two minutes, you'll receive an encrypted email. Discuss it with no one. You'll be contacted in ten minutes."

  The mysterious woman hung up.

  All eyes were on Donovan. The phone went limp at his side. The thought of another assignment wasn't a pleasant one. He was done. Dr. Larry Hoyt was it.

  But he simply couldn't ignore the call. Also, if he was honest with himself, he was curious. His work always required discretion. Encrypted emails weren't new. But using tech that could reach through a dead zone, that had his attention.

  He would listen to the proposal, then formally reject it.

  "Wheatley," he said, rising to his feet. "Make sure this building is secure."

  "It is, sir."

  "Check again." He took the laptop from him. "I'll be right back."

  Donovan walked toward the bedroom, jumping over a hole in the floor. He set the laptop on an old dresser and checked the latest email. There was no subject, no body of any kind. Only an attachment, a short video.

  It took him a moment to make out what he was seeing. A security video of some sort. Grainy, low resolution. The camera was mounted high, looking over what appeared to be an alley or lot.


  Six men were assaulting a seventh.

  The attack was brutal. The group kicked and punched while the victim tried to cover himself on the ground. They pulled him to his feet and seemed to taunt him. One even pulled out a phone to record the beating. One of the joys of the tech age. Recording street violence.

  Then everything changed.

  The victim turned the tables, got the upper hand. Donovan couldn't tell how. It was too dark, too far away. The video cut out briefly. The next shot was of the former victim, standing over four of the group. Two of the men were running away, and the former victim pursued.

  Donovan's jaw dropped at what he saw.

  He played the video again, and again. Four times. Ten times. He memorized every detail, every shadow. Part of him considered the possibility of a hoax. It was amazing what a ten-year-old could accomplish with a computer and YouTube.

  But Donovan knew. The video was real.

  The victim changed shape. His body morphed and contorted, unnatural movements. For a brief moment, which he paused and studied, there was no form. Shapeless. Then four legs, fangs, and fur. The tiger pursued the two men out of frame. That's when the video ended.

  Donovan studied the shape of the tiger, his movements. He didn't realize his hands trembled as he hit play again and again. The animal was beautiful, perfect, deadly. It didn't stumble, but moved with the grace of a true beast.

  The mysterious caller on the phone told him not to discuss the video with anyone.

  "Wheatley!" he shouted. "Get your ass in here."

  Four seconds later, he appeared in the bedroom doorway.

  "Sir," he said. "The building is secure. The only issue is with Draeke downstairs."

  Donovan turned the laptop toward him.

  "Watch."

  Wheatley was the one agent who had always been there, been through it all. He didn't have the deep secrets Donovan had. But he had his share.

  Especially about Project Zero-Twelve.

  Wheatley leaned forward and replayed the video. He gripped the sides of the end dresser, and Donovan could see the same emotions he'd experienced moments ago.

  "They…found him?"

  "It looks that way."

  "When? Where?"

  Donovan's phone rang, drawing an amused chuckle. He waved the phone back and forth before bringing it to his ear.

  "Let's find out," he said. "This is Donovan."

  "Hello. How long has it been?"

  Unlike the previous call, Donovan was familiar with the voice. He was surprised the man was still alive. He never knew his name, only what he was capable of. He always just referred to him as Boss. Boss operated on a level even beyond Donovan's understanding. Over the decades, every explosion, hijacking, any world event at all, Donovan often wondered how much Boss was involved.

  "It's been some time," Donovan said.

  "Have you seen the video?"

  "I have."

  "How did it feel? Seeing your greatest failure once again?"

  "My greatest failure?" Donovan said. "One could argue that was my marriage."

  "No. I'd argue it was letting the most important thing in history simply…disappear."

  Donovan gripped the phone tighter. He couldn't believe he was reliving a twenty-year-old conversation.

  "Maybe. Or maybe it was the people running the show, the bureaucrats pulling the strings. Idiots that decided to run the project in a public setting with civilians. Idiots like…you."

  Wheatley's eyes widened. Donovan smirked, dismissing his concern. Boss had people killed for less.

  But Donovan knew he was untouchable.

  Boss laughed in his ear.

  "Ah, Donovan. I've missed your small-minded insults."

  "What do you want?" he asked. "To bring him in?"

  "No. Just kill the target, and bring his body back."

  Donovan and Wheatley traded a glance.

  "Kill? You don't want him alive?"

  "Do you think you can bring him in alive? Knowing what he's capable of? I highly doubt it."

  "You said it yourself. The most important thing in history—"

  "Dead," Boss repeated.

  Donovan shrugged. He wasn't one to argue. He was an important part of Project Zero-Twelve, but it didn't define him. He only ran the project as much as they would allow, before he had to clean up the mess. Killing Zero-Twelve wouldn't have been his first choice, but he understood. If anyone else discovered him, it would be disastrous.

  "Suit yourself. The weapons. Are they ready?"

  Silence. Donovan sighed, his patience slipping.

  "The weapons," he said. "You've been working on them for nearly forty years. Please say they're done."

  "I thought you were out of the loop. You know an awful lot for someone who just cleans up messes."

  "You'd be surprised how much you can learn, just using a broom and dustpan."

  "They're done. Somehow, I don't think I need to tell you where to get them."

  "Eh, I might know," he said coyly.

  "More info will be along shortly."

  "Wait, tell me one thing now. Where? Where was this video shot?"

  "Everton Fields, New York," Boss said. He laughed shortly. "Maybe we should have given you more yellow tape last time."

  Boss ended the call.

  Donovan felt nauseous. His knees shook as he collapsed in a chair missing the back fabric. The phone dropped to the floor. For the first time since that fateful day, he felt defeated. Boss was right. It truly was a great failure.

  "They never left," he said quietly. "We searched the entire town, and then branched out. We searched every surrounding county, the entire state. We pinged countries, governments. We pinged into Canada. We searched all over the world. But they never left that town."

  "Well, sir, he can look like anything. But now we get a second chance."

  Donovan forced his thoughts aside. There would be plenty of time to reflect on old regret on the plane.

  "This," he said, pointing at the floor. "Was going to be my last round. I was going to hand over the reins to you, and retire peacefully. Fate is funny, isn't it?"

  "I'm…flattered, sir."

  "Donovan. For the millionth time…." He paused, gathered his composure. "We're going to need a team."

  Wheatley frowned and gestured to the living room. Donovan read his mind. Don't we already have a team?

  "No," he said. "They've never dealt with anything like Zero-Twelve before."

  "Has anyone?"

  Donovan said nothing, simply pondering the question. Wheatley had one more observation and pointed to the laptop.

  "Sir, if we've seen this, others have, too."

  He nodded, and understood Wheatley's point quite clearly.

  Everton Fields was about to become a very popular place.

  "We're done here. Drop the scrambler." He retrieved his phone from the floor. "I've got one more call to make."

  It took several minutes for her to answer the phone. He didn't want to smile at the sound of her voice. He wanted to be stern, matter-of-fact. He didn't want to feel anything. There wasn't time to feel.

  But the smile came anyway.

  "Hello?"

  "Hey, sweetheart."

  "Dad?"

  There was noise in the background. Women, all laughing and joking, having a good time.

  "Listen, Michelle. I have some bad news. I…." The words were harder than he thought they'd be. "Won't be able to come to your wedding."

  "Funny, Dad. Look, I have to go. It's the whole bachelorette thing tonight. The girls are already getting restless."

  "I'm serious, honey. Something came up, and I don't know how long it will be."

  Michelle's tone changed.

  "Dad?"

  "I'm so sorry."

  "You're serious? You're fucking serious? What? What has come up?"

  "I can't say."

  "You're supposed to walk me down the aisle. If this is just some way to get out of that, fine. You don't have
to do that. But just…be there."

  "I can't."

  "Of course not. Well, whatever it is, I just hope it's more important than me."

  "Michelle, please. If I could be there—"

  "It's okay, Dad. We'll be alright. Just, whatever it is you're doing, call me when you're done."

  Michelle hung up. Donovan took a few deep breaths, calming his nerves, easing the pain in his heart.

  He wisely didn't tell her the truth.

  Project Zero-Twelve was far more important than anyone alive, including his own daughter.

  He stood up and closed the laptop, shoving Michelle aside. They would make up later.

  He didn't like her fiancé anyway.

  The team was idling about, unsure of what was happening. Only Wheatley moved with a purpose, tapping away at a tablet.

  "Sir? New orders?" Shelby asked.

  "We're done here, everyone," Donovan announced. "Pack up and let's get ready to roll."

  "But what about him?"

  He gestured to Dr. Larry Hoyt.

  Donovan hesitated. The plight of the doctor with a conscience suddenly meant very little to him. The work he was doing was important, and meant a lot for the future.

  But it didn't compare to Project Zero-Twelve.

  It was tempting to put a bullet in Larry's head and move forward. But that wouldn't be professional.

  He pulled out his pistol from under his vest and approached Larry. The scientist flinched and gripped the seat under him.

  "Remember when I said we don't have much time?" he asked, pressing the barrel to Larry's head. "Well, it just ran out. We have to get going, you see. You can either come with us, on a good-faith handshake that you'll return to work. Or I leave your corpse here. Time permitting later, we kill your girlfriend. The order isn't what I would have liked. But, you know, these things happen."

  "I'll go back," Larry said. His eyes welled with tears. "Just, leave us alone."

  "Smart man."

  The extraction began. The team moved through the building, leaving the residents as they were. Miss Ida had already vomited her hamburger. Donovan was the last to leave, escorting Larry in front of him. As they descended the stairs he heard Draeke, arguing with the hooker over whether she was responsible for calling them. They'd taken one step past the door when there was a loud thud, followed by someone hitting the floor hard.