He lay on the hard linoleum floor of his room trying desperately to hold on to the last wisps of her memory and wishing more than anything that she was real.
Chapter 25 No Turning Back
“Sir, request permission to leave the building to go for a run,” Creed stood at attention, chin up, chest out, shoulders back, stomach in. His dark-blue eyes stared straight ahead, unmoving. Though his facial expression was perfectly blank, inside his emotions were a storm.
Dr. Chaunders had been updating his report for Dr. Williams’ review. It was oh-six-hundred hours and Creed wasn’t needed until oh-eight-hundred when a meeting had been called to discuss the soldier’s future. After watching Creed through his smudged glasses longer than what would seem necessary, the sniveling scientist waved at the soldier. “Fine. Go, but talk with no one and be back cleaned up and ready for our meeting in two hours.”
“Sir, yes sir,” Creed barked, spun in his black military boots and marched out of Dr. Chaunders’ office. Inwardly, he was breathing a sigh of relief. He had to get out of this building before his feigned composure completely cracked, and he needed all the poker-face he could muster to handle the meeting with Williams.
After changing into his running clothes, he hit the track that doubled as a road encircling the large campus. So content was he to breathe the crisp morning air, he didn’t notice the recognition on the face of one particular soldier busying himself with pushups just outside the doors to the Research Hospital. Nor did he take notice of the snicker as the soldier abruptly stood and jogged toward the men’s barracks.
Creed had some thinking to do and he always thought well when he ran. The girl in his dream was the first thing he wanted to allow himself to think about. He frowned slightly as he tried to place her face, to no avail. He was sure he would remember those eyes if he ever met her. The image of her beautiful dark pools slipped across his mind and he forced his legs to lift even higher, his stride longer as though he was chasing her echo.
Having taken a counter-clockwise direction around the long road, he was just passing the mess house/commissary when he noticed this part of the road had recently received a new layer of asphalt causing the chemical tar smell to assault his nose.
Ordinarily, Creed was absolutely attuned to the world around him, but with the image of the dark-eyed beauty intoxicating his emotions and the arid scent of new asphalt blinding his sense of smell, he was caught completely unawares when jumped by six metas.
No words were exchanged; the fight was its own colloquy.
Two of them had thick wooden baseball bats.
Four flashed razor sharp, nine-inch blades.
Creed caught a glimpse of the pale-blue eyes of his brother smirking twenty yards away as he watched.
A sickening whoosh sounded as one of the bat-wielding metahumans swung, hoping to make contact with Creed’s left knee. Rage exploded in Creed as his brutally fast hand grabbed the bat in midswing and used its momentum to smack the blade from the grip of the meta behind him. The same breath brought the glint of another knife flying end over end toward Creed’s chest. His anger gave him a searing calm so it felt as if he had plenty of time to swing away with the bat, changing the blade’s direction in flight. The projectile embedded itself neatly in another meta’s shoulder, but Creed hadn’t stopped to watch the impact. His assailants, on the other hand were mesmerized by the gore.
Instead, he used that second of distraction to aim at the side of another knife wielding attacker, and didn’t even flinch when he heard the sickening wet thwump as that body collapsed. Creed didn’t watch him twitch on the ground like another of the attackers staring in abject horror, his bat poised uselessly over his shoulder. Creed’s muscles sang with adrenaline as he sliced the legs right out from under the guy, dislocating both kneecaps—the attacker’s baseball bat cracking stupidly on the ground.
Four down, Creed thought with iced fury.
His brother wasn’t laughing anymore.
The remaining two attackers exchanged panicked looks before dropping their knives and stepping back—palms up in surrender.
“What the hell are you doing?” Gavil screamed at the two retreating soldiers.
“Listen, Gavil. This is your fight,” one of them barked back.
“You want his ass kicked so bad, you do it!” The two turned and jogged back toward the mess hall.
The brothers stood staring at one another. The four metas injured in the battle, forgotten. They may as well have been alone—squared off against one another, just like old times.
“Yeah, Gavil. Are you too cowardly to fight your own battles?” Creed asked voice calm.
Gavil’s eyes narrowed. “How’s your head?”
Creed had been closing the distance between himself and his brother but stopped dead in his tracks at this question.
“What?”
“Your head? How’s it feeling these days?” The older brother crossed his arms and looked expectantly at his brother. “Oh, and speaking of ‘these days’ do you know today’s date?”
“What the hell are you talking about, Gavil?” Creed watched his brother warily. He scanned the area, wondering if this was an attempt at distraction before another attack.
“You know, I saw her first. We had quite a memorable exchange,” Gavil smirked at the confusion etched across his brother’s face.
“If we’re done here, Gavil, I have to be somewhere.” Creed scowled, angry at his brother’s words, but absolutely confused by their meaning. He started cautiously backing away from the wicked grin on his big brother’s face, not wanting to turn his back on him.
“You really don’t remember, do you?”
Creed stopped.
“I thought you were faking—you know, to save your ass, but it’s pretty obvious, you have no memory of the last six months.”
Doubt clouded Creed’s peripheral vision.
“Look around you, idiot. What season is it? What’s today’s date? And once you figure out the answer to those two questions, ask yourself, what happened during the past six months.” Gavil laughed at the confusion on his brother’s face. “Or don’t. I’m sick of your good versus evil shit. Damn loser.”
Gavil turned to saunter away—arrogance and hatred dripping off him with every step. “Oh hey,” he called and turned once more to look at his brother standing, wooden bat still hanging at his side, “And just as a bonus question, after you figure out what happened over the last six months, ask yourself why Williams’ kept you alive. You may hate me. Hell, I hate you, but in the end, who the hell is our real enemy? Some pretty deep shit there, little brother. And about this,” he waved his hand to the bodies lying around, “consider this my way of offering you a wakeup call.” He jerked his head back tauntingly before turning and walking away, whistling an unrecognizable tune.
As Creed watched him disappear behind a grove of trees, he couldn’t stop himself from replaying his brother’s words. He couldn’t even remember the last time his brother just talked with him.
And there it was: he couldn’t remember.
Itching for answers, he angrily chunked the bat as hard as he could. It flew propeller-like north across the stream and over the electric fence. He watched mesmerized as it landed in a pile of green grass beneath a large English Oak tree, heavy with dark-green leaves.
Why hadn’t I noticed this before? He asked himself. What happened to autumn?
Creed spun, looking at the scenery as though for the first time. Everything was green. Not one tree was turning colors and the temperature was mild instead of the crisp chill it should be.
What the hell is going on?
A frown creased his forehead as he started running the short distance to the Research Hospital.
He had to find Sloan.
Realizing he only had forty-five minutes before he was expected in the conference room on the second floor, he dove into the shower and hurriedly cleaned before beginning his search for the child prodigy, Dr. Sloan Mor.
It didn’t take long to locate her. She was nose first in a high-powered electric microscope inside a sterilized laboratory completely encased in windowed walls. Too anxious to wait and running out of time, he knocked on the glass trying to get her attention. She didn’t move. Creed knocked harder.
The girl spun in her stool and peered at Creed over a sterile mask. Her brows furrowed for a moment before she slid down from her perch and walked toward the sliding doors that led to the scrub room. She was carefully removing her gloves, turning them inside out and inside one another when she motioned for Creed to join her in the room.
“Dr. Mor,” Creed whispered, continually looking around for prying eyes.
“Mr. Young,” she looked worried as she studied his face making Creed appreciate what it would be like to be the thing at the end of her microscope.
“I have a lot of questions, and I didn’t know who else to trust,” Creed blurted, feeling stupid even as the words tumbled from of his mouth.
She turned toward one of the many sinks and grabbed a disposable cloth, turned and handed it to the soldier standing before her, then lowered her mask.
He outweighed her by at least one-hundred-fifty pounds and stood more than a foot taller than her. He almost seemed like a different species, she thought. Her mind started to wander down calculations of possible events that may have occurred during Creed’s transition to metahuman to have caused his physique to have hyperdeveloped the way it did. Then she stopped herself.
One of the challenges she faced daily was being able to think on multiple plains of thought. Not everyone appreciated holding a conversation with someone who blurted quadratic equations and theoretical physiological metahuman calculations, algorithms and such. Not everyone thought like her.
Hum, she mused. As different as Creed is physically from me, I am different from others. Maybe I’m the different species.
“You’re still wet, presumably from a shower, Mr. Young.” The doctor motioned to his still-dripping face and neck.
Creed frowned at the towel in his hand before absently rubbing it over the stubble on his closely buzzed head. “Ma’am? What’s today’s date?”
Now it was Sloan’s turn to frown. She hesitated only a moment before answering, “It’s May 30.” She watched Creed’s face as he reacted to the news.
“Are you sure?” he asked, dazed.
“Of course.”
“What happened to me?” he stared into the girl’s crisp, gray eyes and saw kindness there.
“You suffered a severe head trauma. There’s been memory loss,” Sloan offered carefully. “That’s why you get the headaches.”
“How did the head trauma happen? Was it from the Retribution Match?” he asked, desperately trying to put the pieces together.
Sloan glanced around to be sure no one was anywhere watching then motioned for him to follow her into the lab.
“This room is sound proof,” she said once they’d entered the lab. He followed her to a desk in the back corner where neat stacks of computer printouts lay atop manila folders. She motioned to a chair for him to take. She took the one behind the desk, but leaned over it, hands clasped together. “I also know it’s not monitored, as Dr. Williams doesn’t want anyone to know a lot of what’s going on in our studies.” Sloan sighed deeply, a shadow of regret slipping across her face. “It still wouldn’t do for anyone to see us talking. You understand, don’t you?” she looked into the face of the soldier who had been her subject for the past three weeks.
“Yes, I do. Thank you for taking the risk to talk with me. And by the way, thanks for the pills yesterday. I barely made it back to my quarters.”
Sloan nodded, acknowledging the thanks. “About that,” she leaned back and pulled a drawer open. “Here, hide them. If you must use them, find a way to let me know so I can be sure we don’t take a blood or urine sample from you for the forty-eight hours it’ll remain detectable in your system.”
Creed pocketed the tiny bottle containing no more than six pills by the sound of it, “Thank you, Sloan. Seriously.”
“You’re welcome.” She offered just a hint of a smile. Her little girl’s face was just starting to show the beginnings of the beautiful woman she would one day be.
“What happened to me, Sloan?” Creed’s blue eyes glistened with turmoil.
“Short version: Oldham was going to have you killed for your disobedience during the Match. Williams offered you another choice. You went on assignment to kill a woman who stole three metahumans a dozen years ago and return the metas to Williams. That’s where things get sketchy. Rumor has it you befriended your targets and turned against Williams. When he sent in a squad of soldiers to extract them, you fought. During the battle, there was an explosion and you were exposed to an undetermined amount of the original Infinite serum—gifting you with even more metahuman abilities.” Sloan stopped talking and watched Creed’s face carefully.
His eyes were glassed over, as he stared straight ahead.
“Is any of this triggering memories?” Sloan asked.
Creed stayed unblinking before slowly shaking his head, no.
Sloan peered nervously around, half expecting Williams himself to come slinking into the room.
“Why did Williams keep me alive?” Creed’s voice sounded hollow—detached.
“I don’t know. When you first arrived, we weren’t sure you would survive. Your injuries were so extensive. Dr. Chaunders worked around the clock to monitor your progress. I don’t think it was for altruistic reasons; I believe Williams threatened him.
“Anyway, within nine days you woke. Your healing was remarkable from a scientific standpoint. Healing from the wounds you suffered should have taken twice as long, easily. You were put in a chemically induced coma for several days while Dr. Bjorn and Dr. Chaunders carried out some procedures,” Sloan shrugged.
“I wasn’t invited to participate in that part of your recovery, so I don’t know what was done, but once we were given clearance to allow you to awaken, you’ve been performing exponentially in all physical tests.” A smile lit her face.
“You’re a medical phenomenon; really quite extraordinary,” she offered innocently.
Creed felt like his heart had been ripped out of his chest with a metal spork. Sloan’s perceptive doctor’s eyes caught the clouds building behind the blue in his eyes one moment then clear to a dead calm the next.
It was eerie.
“You are not supposed to know any of this.” The young doctor was starting to worry she’d said far too much.
“I understand,” Creed stood to leave, but stopped and looked back at the girl seated behind the desk of a grown-up. “Thank you, Sloan. For everything.” He nodded once, dipped his eyes in a gentle bow and walked with the grace of a panther across the laboratory and through the sliding doors.
He had a meeting to attend.
Chapter 26 New Assignment, Old Friends
Promptly at oh-eight-hundred hours, Creed knocked on the door of the second-floor conference room.
“Enter,” called a raspy voice from inside.
Creed opened the door, stepped inside the room and closed the door behind him before standing at attention. “Creed Young, reporting as requested,” he spoke deliberately in his clipped, formal military tone.
“Greetings, Mr. Young,” the raspy voice chirped. “Please, come in and take a seat. We have business to attend, and there’s no time like the present.”
For the first time, Creed relaxed his stance and glanced at the others in the room, taking note of those in attendance. The table was a large rectangle able to comfortably seat twelve, but fewer than half the seats were occupied. The smallish frame of Dr. Williams was seated at the head of the table. Creed’s eyes lingered only momentarily on the mangled face of the Director only partially hidden behind a black fedora. To his left sat doctors Chaunders and Bjorn. To his right sat his brother.
Inwardly, Creed groaned. This couldn’t be good.
Gavil smiled widely, crys
tal blue eyes crackling with malevolent humor at the surprise he was sure Creed felt at him being invited to the meeting.
“Can I offer you something to drink, Mr. Young? We’re all having coffee,” the Director asked graciously.
“Yes, sir. Coffee would be fine,” he nodded, trying to tread carefully through what felt like a surreal landmine of hidden social protocols.
“Ivy?” The director called.
“Sir?” A female meta entered the room from what must have been an adjoining office behind Drs. Chaunders and Bjorn.
“Coffee for Mr. Young,” he spoke pleasantly enough, but didn’t bother to grace her with his full attention. Instead, he was scanning the documents in front of him.
“Right away, sir,” Ivy nodded.
Creed wondered why Farrow wasn’t there. She was, after all, the Director’s personal assistant.
The room remained silent as the Director continued to read. Moments later, Ivy arrived with a steaming cup of coffee and carefully placed it in front of Creed before offering him a dish of creamers and sweeteners. Creed politely declined.
He waited silently, black coffee untouched.
The Director finished the last page and looked up expectantly at Creed. The smile he offered was grotesquely bloody. Creed watched him, unflinching.
“It’s been a while, Mr. Young,” he began. “You must forgive my appearance.” He motioned to his own face and watched the metasoldier through weeping eyes.
“While your recovery has been remarkable, I haven’t been as fortunate.” He removed a red handkerchief from the pocket of his three-pieced suit and dabbed at the bloody fluid seeping from his eyes.
“But, enough about me. We’re here to discuss you. Your doctor’s report indicates a phenomenal level of performance. Your skills are far beyond the exceptional abilities you previously demonstrated. They assure me you are completely fit, and ready for duty. Do you agree?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you any questions for me before we begin?”
“None, sir.”
“Do you know today’s date?”
Winter's Wrath: Sacrifice (Winter's Saga #3) Page 16