by Jack Kilborn
Fran howled, and then howled even louder when a hand reached through the window and snagged her hair, yanking back her head.
She managed to grab on to the side of the Dumpster, and a tug-of-war ensued. Her neck wrenched backward, but she fought it, felt some hair rip free, and then she was on her feet and hobbling down the alley as quickly as her injury allowed.
When she reached the street she turned left. The darkness covered town like a black blanket. There wasn’t a single light anywhere up and down Main Street. The hunter’s moon, full and orange, was partially obscured by clouds. No cars. No people. Just a long line of empty stores: Hutch’s Bakery, the Fudge Shoppe, York’s Books and Cards, Red Cross Pharmacy, Safe Haven Liquor. With their power off, the buildings looked abandoned, dead.
Fran limped to the parking lot, squinting to make out the silhouette of her Jetta, and five steps away from it she let out a cry of anguish.
Her keys were in her purse. Her purse was in the diner.
Fran tried the car door anyway, knowing it was locked, knowing that even if she got inside she couldn’t drive without keys. When the door didn’t open, she glanced over her shoulder to see if the killer was following her.
He stood directly behind her, and his hand reached out and grabbed her by the neck.
“Hello, Fran,” he said. “I’m Taylor. We need to talk.”
General Alton Tope didn’t believe in luck. Victories and defeats were decided by intelligence, firepower, and strategy. But he had to admit it was a fortuitous circumstance to have the Twenty-sixth Special Forces Group already in Wisconsin, training here at Fort McCoy. They had been putting a prototype tank armor through the paces—it was electrically charged and virtually impervious to rocket-propelled grenades—and were set to return to Fort Bragg tomorrow. Operation Angel Rescue changed their status.
The twelve Green Berets standing at attention in the war room were dressed for combat but hadn’t yet been issued weapons. Though they were called after only an hour of sleep, each man appeared alert and determined.
“Parade, rest,” Tope commanded, and his men put their hands behind their backs. “Operation Angel Rescue is classified top secret and shall not be discussed ever with anyone in possession of less than two stars. Understood?”
“Yes, General.” Unison, strong and loud.
Tope continued. “The town of Safe Haven, Wisconsin, two hundred and seventy clicks northwest, population nine hundred and seven, is under siege. Your job is to capture the insurgents. Dr. Ralph Stubin, a civvie, will be accompanying you on this mission and providing intel.”
Tope hit the power button on the remote control, and a TV in the corner of the room came on. The screen filled with a fish-eye close-up of Dr. Stubin, colored green due to the night-vision camera. The background was indistinct, but the sound was unmistakable; Stubin was in a chopper.
“Am I on? I am? Okay.”
The doctor focused on the camera, looking grim.
“My name is Ralph Stubin. I’m a brain surgeon. My specialty is behavior modification, specifically transhumanistic neuropathology. By stimulating portions of the brain electrically, it can be prompted to function more like a computer, with sequential input rather than parallel. In layman’s terms, you can download information directly into a person’s mind, and programs will automatically execute when certain conditions are met.”
Stubin looked right in response to someone speaking to him—probably a soldier telling him to stay on track. He nodded and again stared into the camera.
“Many nations, friend and foe, have experimented with behavior modification. The code name for units composed of modified soldiers is Red-ops. A Red-ops unit is a strike force, meant to be dropped behind enemy lines. Their goals are threefold: isolate, overpower, annihilate. They’re inserted into small towns, and they torture, rape, and murder everyone they encounter. Red-ops exist to demoralize, intimidate, and frighten the enemy. Basically, they’re government-sponsored terrorists. Unfortunately, because of some colossal mistake that we still don’t understand, a Red-ops unit is now operating on U.S. soil, and it seems they were accidentally sent by one of our allies.”
Stubin looked ready to throw up. Tope couldn’t tell if it was from the whirlybird or the situation.
The brain surgeon wiped the back of his hand across his mouth before going on. “The unit has infiltrated the small Wisconsin town of Safe Haven. We don’t know where they are or what they’re doing. Because of their transhuman behavior modification, we have to assume they’re following protocol. They’re treating Safe Haven like an enemy territory. If we don’t stop them, they’ll wipe out the entire town.”
Then Stubin bent over and commenced with the vomiting. Tope switched off the TV.
“The briefing will continue on the Huey. Keep in mind that the Red-ops unit will view us as enemy combatants, even though our countries are buddy-buddy at the United Nations. We want to take them alive, with minimal civilian casualties. This is going to be easier said than done. Red-ops commandos have all had the equivalent of Special Forces training. They’re experts in hand-to-hand and armed combat, munitions, stealth, tactics, interrogation, and communications. Plus, they’re cold-blooded bastards. I’ve seen what these men can do, and it isn’t pretty. Questions?”
The SF-A team captain raised his hand.
“Captain Haines.”
“Which country are they from, General?”
“Need-to-know basis, Captain. But they speak our language.”
“How about our weapons, General?”
“Nonlethal ordnance includes Blake impact shells, sponge grenades, electric net entanglers, lacrimators, Splatt-Thixotropic rounds, and iotechnical-injector batons. We need them alive.”
“And the enemy, General?”
“Bladed weapons and sidearms only.”
“Numbers, General?”
“This Red-ops unit has five team members.”
This provoked a smile from Captain Haines.
“Permission to speak freely, General?”
“Go ahead, Captain.”
“Five men, no rifles? Are you sure you need us? Can’t we just send a Girl Scout troop out after these jokers?”
Some chuckles. General Tope betrayed nothing. He certainly didn’t say he had two other Special Forces teams, as well as a Navy SEAL team and a Marine recon team, being flown in to assist.
Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “I want you on the landing strip at oh one thirty. Heavy gear, rations for four days, bivouacs. Dismissed.”
The team dispersed, double-time. As he watched them go, General Tope had a strong feeling he’d never see any of them alive again. But he couldn’t dwell on that, not with so many other things to do.
Tope picked up the scramble phone and contacted the Pentagon to set up the quarantine.
Erwin Luggs heard the screams in the woods and wondered how everything had gone so bad so fast. The fallen helicopter, spread out around him like a giant broken egg, was damn near the creepiest thing he’d ever seen. The situation wasn’t helped by the fact that he was soaked, head to toe, with deer blood. It exuded a gamey, metallic stench, and it had cooled and coagulated, clinging to him like jelly.
Another scream came from the trees. Erwin shivered, mostly from the cold, but partly from fear. The night had begun on a promising note. Just two hours ago he was in a hot shower, ready to slip into bed with Jessie Lee Sloan for snuggling and possible nookie. Jessie Lee had been spending too much money on the wedding preparations, and Erwin had been reaping the benefits of guilt sex. Guilt sex almost made up for the overtime hours he had to work to pay for all the extras Jessie Lee was planning, like the custom-made husband and wife figurines for the cake, and a stretch limo that could seat all sixteen members of the wedding party and provide each with champagne.
But it didn’t look like there would be any sex tonight, guilt-induced or otherwise. Erwin reeked of clammy animal blood, Sheriff Streng still hadn’t arrived, and something evil stalked
the forest—something that made Erwin want to run and hide.
A third scream, the loudest of all, and then a punishing silence. Erwin turned away from the chopper and faced the tree line. He knew the sheriff wasn’t going to come. He knew because he was pretty certain that last scream came from the sheriff. Though distorted, the voice was semirecognizable. What could possibly be happening to him to make the man—a tough man who had seen combat in Vietnam—cry out like that?
Erwin took out his cell phone. He tried Josh. He tried the sheriff. He tried 911. He even tried his fiancée. Each time, he got the same unable to place your call recording.
Though a firefighter, Erwin knew he wasn’t a particularly brave man. Unlike his friend Josh, who wanted to leave Safe Haven for a bigger town with more danger, Erwin was perfectly fine here. He hadn’t risked his life once in six years on the job, and that suited him. But he knew that it was only a matter of time until he’d be forced to do something heroic.
Unfortunately, it looked like the time had come. Erwin took a deep, steadying breath and then headed into the woods, toward the screaming. He figured that Josh must have heard it, too. Maybe he was already there, taking control of the situation. Maybe Sheriff Streng had broken his leg and the screams were from Josh splinting it. Maybe the deer that had bled all over Erwin simply caught its fur on a sharp branch. Maybe those helicopter pilots got their heads cut off in a freak accident.
The maybes didn’t last long. As Erwin ventured deeper into the woods, his imagination ate away at his rationalization. Someone, or something, had killed those pilots, and the deer, and probably Josh, and was now killing the sheriff in some horrifying way.
Erwin slowed his pace. Each shadow became a monster. Each twig snap became a pursuit by demons. Jess popped into his mind, with that disapproving look she gave him when he said something stupid around her friends, and Erwin knew how pissed off she’d be if he died. She’d be upset at losing him, of course, but also because her storybook wedding would be canceled and she’d already sent out the invitations.
That settled it for him. Erwin decided he should just head in the other direction, back to the main road. Forget the sheriff. Forget Josh. Forget any possible acts of heroism. He might regret his cowardice for the rest of his life, but at least he’d be alive to regret it.
Erwin turned, then stopped. Which way was the road? He wasn’t sure. He took two steps forward, then five more to the right, then seven more in his original direction, and he realized he had no idea where he was.
The cardinal rule when a person got lost in the woods was simple: hug a tree. Staying put meant the search party could find you, rather than chase you in circles. But that rule didn’t apply when there was something in the woods trying to cut your head off.
Erwin picked up the pace. He might have been going deeper into the forest, but at least it distanced him from all the creepy stuff. Maybe he’d reach a road. Maybe he wouldn’t. At the very least, he could walk until sunrise and then figure out which direction to go.
This is for Jessie Lee, he told himself. She needs me.
Erwin focused so intently on escape that when he reached the Mortons’ yard he dropped his jaw in surprise. His flashlight beam landed upon Sheriff Streng and someone else—a man in a black outfit who wore a gun.
Erwin froze. He had known Mr. Streng since he was a kid. His dad was friends with the man, and Streng often stopped by the Luggs household. Erwin could remember throwing the baseball around with him on more than one occasion, and for a while Streng could be counted on to buy him birthday and Christmas gifts.
And now he was being attacked. The man straddled Streng, pinning him down, doing something with his hands. Erwin was about thirty yards away, and he knew he couldn’t cross that distance before the man drew his gun, especially since the light had alerted him to Erwin’s presence. If he tried to help, he might die.
It took Erwin all of a second to switch off his light and head back into the woods. The act shamed him, but the risk was too high. Erwin liked Mr. Streng, but he didn’t want to get shot for him. He hid behind a large pine tree and held his breath, listening for sounds that he was being followed.
“Hey!”
The voice made Erwin flinch. It wasn’t Mr. Streng calling him.
“Come out of the woods!”
That didn’t seem like a wise idea. Erwin chewed the inside of his cheek and closed his eyes.
“Come out of the woods, or I’ll kill the sheriff!”
A scream so raw, so filled with pure pain, shot through the trees, and Erwin wanted to stick his fingers in his ears to make it stop. If the man hoped to lure Erwin from hiding by hurting Mr. Streng, he had another think coming. All it made Erwin want to do was get as far away as possible.
Afraid to switch the flashlight back on, Erwin made his way through the woods by feel, each step taking him farther from the horrible sound that just wouldn’t stop.
Up to that point, the worst pain Sheriff Ace Streng had ever experienced was a kidney stone. He’d woken in the middle of the night from a nightmare of someone stabbing him in the side with a hot poker. Once he was awake, the pain didn’t abate. After two hours of side-clutching agony, he called 911. His ER nurse had been sympathetic.
“I’ve had three children, Sheriff. I’ve also had kidney stones. I’d rather have three more children than another stone.”
Having his kidney mauled by the psychopath straddling him felt like a kidney stone times ten. Streng bellowed until his throat burned. He had seen Erwin at the tree line and didn’t blame the boy for running off. Hell, Streng would have run away, too, had he known the pain this man was capable of causing.
Finally the terrible fingers quit squeezing, and Streng managed to catch his breath.
“I think you scared him off,” the man whispered. Streng had heard part of the phone call, knew he called himself Santiago. “Now, how about we get to those questions I promised, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Very good. First question. Where’s Warren?”
At first, Streng wasn’t sure he heard correctly. Warren? Did he mean Wiley? What could he possibly want with him?
A kidney pinch made him focus.
“I haven’t seen him in years,” he answered, sobbing.
“I’m not asking when you saw him. I’m asking where he is. Do you know?”
“Yes.”
Santiago leaned in close enough to kiss him. The intimacy of the gesture made Streng want to gag.
“Tell me. Where’s Warren?”
Streng opened his mouth to tell him, but nothing came out. This surprised Streng. He would have chewed off his own arm to get away from this lunatic, but he couldn’t say the address. Even though he knew it meant more torture.
Streng clenched his teeth. He didn’t know why he was keeping mum. Certainly Wiley could take care of himself. Hell, Wiley even deserved this hell to rain upon him. But Streng knew that he’d hold out as long as possible.
Perhaps, if he got lucky, his kidneys would fail and he’d die before the pain went on too long.
“Go to hell,” Streng said.
And that’s when Josh came running out of the Morton house, straight at them.
Santiago moved fast, incredibly fast. In one blurred motion he gained his footing and reached for his sidearm. Streng had anticipated the move and still almost missed it, but he managed to grab the killer’s wrist, preventing him from drawing the pistol. That one-second distraction was enough for Josh to catch Santiago in the neck with his forearm, toppling him over.
Josh was big, solid, formidable. But he didn’t have training. Streng had seen enough of Santiago to know he’d been taught by the military, probably an elite force. Josh didn’t have a chance going toe-to-toe with him. At least, not without help.
Even though movement brought a wave of nausea, Streng rolled onto his side and crawled onto Santiago, wrestling for his gun. The killer jabbed at Streng’s eyes, but Streng turned his head away. He chopped at Streng’
s neck, but Streng tucked his chin into his chest. A blow to the side of his head made Streng see stars, but he refused to let go of that wrist.
And then Josh was behind Santiago, putting him in a choke hold. The killer reached around, grabbing Josh’s hair with both hands. Streng tugged at the holster, freed the pistol, and thumbed off the safety in the dark.
The man flipped Josh over his hip and raised a combat boot to bring down on his head. Streng aimed for the center body mass and fired three times.
The muzzle flashes hurt his eyes, a strobe effect producing snapshots of Santiago recoiling from the impact of the bullets and falling backward.
“Behind you,” Josh croaked.
Streng spun and saw the silhouette of an incredibly huge man—someone at least seven feet tall with the chunky body of a professional wrestler—only a few yards away.
The thing that had chased him out onto the roof.
Streng fired four shots, all four hitting home. The large man didn’t break stride. Streng fired two more in the direction of his head, and then Josh pulled him to his feet and they were rushing for the trees.
Streng had no idea how far they ran before they finally stopped to rest. Two hundred, perhaps three hundred yards. Streng’s breath came in ragged gasps, his hand pressed tight against his injured kidney. Josh clapped a hand on Streng’s shoulder, leaned in close to whisper.
“What the hell is going on, Sheriff?”
“I have no idea, son.”
But Streng did have an idea. And the idea scared him so badly his knees began to knock.
• • •
Duncan Stauffer stood in the hallway and watched the man in black play with a lighter. It was the biggest lighter Duncan had ever seen—about the size of a Coke can—and the flame shot out of the top like a torch.