Darwin's Sword: Savannah - Book Two

by C. P. McClennan

  DARWIN’S SWORD

  Savannah: Book Two

  By C.P. McClennan

  Also by C.P. McClennan

  Savannah

  Just Prey – Book One

  Coming October 7, 2016 – The Orphan War –Book Three

  The Skelly Manor Short Stories

  I – Snowbound

  II – YMMV

  III – A Stormy Night Inside Brooklyn

  IV – Kootenay Thaw

  V – Heart of a Billionaire

  VI – Losing Her Vanilla

  VII – Advantage: Vancouver

  VIII – Horny Beast

  (coming April 1, 2016)

  Other Releases

  This Can’t End Well – Apple v. Gray, Round 1

  The Fifi Chronicles

  Director Jake

  Copyright © 2016 by C.P. McClennan

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design Inc., http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com/

  “Stranded in Toronto” logo design by Dig It Digital, http://digitdigital.com/

  To Molly Moore and Marie Rebelle

  This is your fault.

  The End?

  Vacki Seventeen

  Snow surfed along the wind and whipped itself against the tall blue blades of grass. The grass swiped at the flakes, attempting to defend against this merciless onslaught, missing most but sending many flakes crashing to melt in the dirt below.

  It was not winter yet, but late fall clouds had given birth to the season’s first light snow decorating the air. The plebbats fled between snowflakes as fast as their four wings would take them in search of a hibernation spot. The tall grass, lush and blue, swayed happily along with the wind’s rhythmic dance in preparations to lie down once the heavier snow became a blanket over it.

  A snag, a four-legged creature with shiny green scales, growled. Rising on hind legs, it sniffed at the air with its pug nose and found a hint of something different. Lowering, it dug spiked claws back into the ground and waited.

  Snags were the highest evolved native life form on Vacki. Much of the species had been captured years ago and taken to Kettelgian Five. The Emmi found the scales were particularly beautiful decorative ornaments for their homes and paid well for them. The snags themselves, regardless of dying or surviving starvation on the trek across the stars, were then crushed in garbage heaps and used for fertilizer.

  This snag was very much alive and was oblivious to the fact its species was near extinction. Sensing something further, it lifted to full five-metre height on its hind legs. Two head scales raised allowing the hearing tentacles to slip out and upward searching for what it now heard. Black eyes pulled out from its head on stalks and shifted upward. It gave a roar as it waved a claw at the black spot it saw high above.

  Just through the clouds, yet some distance from the ground, a silver bullet-shaped craft descended. One wing extended to the left with an engine nacelle red with heat, the other hung limp to the right with its own nacelle in flames.

  Inside the craft, flames burned the plastic, glass and metals of the bridge.

  At least Savannah had slowed the descent. Her brown eyes glared out from her soot-stained face. Reaching forward, she pressed the codes to begin landing protocols. Hearing nothing, at first, brought a rush of fear to her face that was only chased away when the mechanical sounds of landing gear lowering finally began after taking their own sweet time accepting the commands.

  Behind her, Zed’s white blob-tentacles struck out at the panel in front, as though hitting it harder would make things happen faster.

  Gerald gripped the arms of a flight chair and lifted his torso from his wheelchair. The wheelchair, free of weight, toppled and went skittering towards the front view screen. Gerald found his restraints and worked to buckle in.

  The vessel creaked and groaned its complaint at wanting it to do anything more than fall. It tried to ignore its thrusters as it approached, wanting to become one with the ground.

  “This was not supposed to happen,” she hissed.

  Part One

  Alone in the Dark

  Chapter One

  The Chase

  I

  North Franklin Mountain, El Paso, Texas

  21h00, October 12, 2016

  “Brother, can I get an amen?” Charles licked his lips. “Those steaks are gonna be mighty fine eatin’. Mighty fine!”

  “You absolutely may not! Charles, if you’re not from Texas, you buffoon, don’t fake the fucking accent,” Desmond scolded in his British lilt and eyed Charles over the crackling fire.

  “Mighty fine,” Charles repeated in a whisper that sounded more like Arsenio Hall impersonating a minister than any Texan. Pulling his authentic ten-gallon hat off his bald head, he used the hat to brush a stray fleck of something off the left shoulder of his black leather coat.

  The guy at the store in Houston had told him the hat was authentic. An eye roll followed, but that was what the man had said.

  “Forgive my brother,” Desmond said. He leaned back against the rock and sipped his beer. “Your hospitality is much too kind. Metropolitan London has almost fourteen million, so he gets excited when he sees large open spaces,” he said lifting his arms apart, “like this.” He gestured around them with his can. “His ego expands in an attempt to fill it.”

  Huckster’s laugh sounded more like a cough. “You British. I sure don’t understand a fuckin’ word you say, but y’all pay well.” With a spatula, he reached into the pan and flipped the first of four sizzling steaks. His beard was a grizzled style that would impress Willie Nelson, though only for show rather than style, it did lend him authenticity in the perception of the tourist money.

  The pan rested on an iron rack over top of the crackling fire of orange, red, and blue.

  “Dezzie, imagine what Grossman will say when he hears we had a real live camp out in Middle-of-Fucking-Nowhere, Texas.” Charles’ brown eyes sparkled with the firelight. “Huckster? In that duster, are you one of Joss Whedon’s Browncoats?”

  Huckster’s steel eyes narrowed. “What the fuck’s a Browncoat?” his questioning voice was gravel, uncertain if he had just been insulted.

  Jackson stepped into the firelight with a laugh. “Don’t get your back up, Huckster. His comment isn’t a slag.” Jackson’s eyes shot at Charles. “In fact, I dare say the man is paying you respect.”

  Unconvinced, Huckster kept his eyes on Charles as he poked at the meat again.

  Desmond looked up at the stars. “Now if we only had a ghost story.”

  “Did Huckster not tell you about the El Paso Siren?” Jackson slumped his massive body down to sit on the ground beside Huckster. Most guessed correctly that he had once played professional football, but Jackson found scamming tourists around El Paso had much less chance of injury. He had also found his passion for literature and the phonetics were misplaced while wearing a black uniform under a purple bird-headed logo to tackle running backs.

  “No, indubitably he did not,” Desmond said with a cluck of his tongue and a smile on his lips. “Do tell.”

  “Well, guy
here thinks he’s Mister fuckin’ Data,” Huckster said with a low growl of a voice. “The siren, though. You wanna hear ‘bout that. Hmmm. Sometimes you can hear the ambulances go by on the highway, or the police…”

  Jackson elbowed his colleague and rolled his eyes. “First, Data was quoting Sherlock Holmes. A Huckster, not those sirens, you nitwit.”

  Huckster’s stare back was blank.

  “The serial killer?”

  “You Yanks and your serial killers,” Charles laughed and lifted his beer can. “This is pissy shyte for beer. You two will have to come to London to try some real ale.”

  Jackson’s eyes squinted at Charles across the fire. “Seems El Paso and, in fact, this very mountain has a female serial killer that they call Siren.”

  Desmond stiffened up with interest. “Shut up, Charles, female serial killers are rare. I want to hear this.”

  “Yes, they are. This one has, allegedly,” Jackson said, quoted using his dark skinned fingertips that vanished in the dark sky as he raised them, “has a couple of survivors that escaped her clutches to tell the tale.”

  “Auch!” Huckster shook his head and poked at the steaks with his spatula. “Bullshit story.”

  “Let’s hear it anyway.” Charles also sat bolt upright making it near impossible to tell him apart from his twin, Desmond, without prior knowledge.

  “She lures men somewhere secluded. One of the survivors was found wandering the highway just below us. The other was found huddled in a backyard in Hacienda Heights.”

  “Bad neighborhood,” Huckster added.

  “These two shared a similar story about how she has incredible sex with ‘em and then drains them of energy.”

  “An energy vampire?” Charles clapped his hands.

  “A succubus!” Desmond seemed even more interested now.

  “I like that. Hadn’t heard that one before, but yeah.” Jackson nodded, and his eyes searched the fire. “Can I use that term?”

  Charles nodded. “By all means.”

  Jackson continued, “Anyway, the authorities have found about twenty bodies…”

  “The husk brigade,” Huckster said with a wink at Charles.

  Jackson smiled and lifted his hand with a beer can to point at Charles. “Yeah, exactly. They were just husks. They’ve found the aged bodies of men and women in these hills and through the city. Each has traces of the same DNA on ‘em.”

  “Fascinating.” Desmond scratched his chin.

  “Why would you bring us up here?” Charles’ eyes showed his alarm as they widened and scanned around them.

  “You’re safe there, Sherlock,” Huckster chided. “Four big men sittin’ here. You think some little wench gonna try and fuck us up?”

  Charles opened his mouth, and a wild giggle erupted. “Wench! I love the way that rolls off your southern tongue.” Relief took him into a long hard laugh until he was choking a cough to end it.

  “I love the ghetto speak,” Desmond agreed. “So refreshing.”

  “Problem is,” Jackson said as he glanced around at the darkness, “most men see her as a challenge. They don’t see the threat.”

  “Ego,” Desmond said with a nod. “They see women as fragile objects that are to be possessed and protected. She would be just a toy for them to prove their manliness.”

  Jackson again pointed across the fire, this time at Desmond and he included a wink. “That’s it, counselor. You understand the problem. A male rapist is on the loose and women listen to authorities. A female killer, though, and some men become puffer fish and try to attract her so they can prove something unrealistic.”

  “Overcompensating fucks.” Huckster laughed and handed Jackson the spatula. “Don’t let those fuckers burn. I gotta whiz like a maniac.”

  Jackson laughed. “Trust Huckster to fuck up a good scary story for a bathroom break.”

  Desmond and Charles both laughed.

  Lifting to his feet, he swayed until steady before trying to walk from the fire. Thanks to years in this business, his tolerance for daily beer was second to none but it had left him shaky and with balance issues even when sober. Then again, he was rarely ever sober.

  Jackson poked at the steaks. “To finish my story, both survivors agreed that she was some sensual beauty with red eyes.”

  Huckster stepped softly to avoid tripping on any stray rocks as he moved to find somewhere more secluded. The voices carried, and he could still hear the conversation without strain.

  “Say that again!” Charles cooed.

  “Say what?”

  “Sensual. It sounds fabulous with that southern drawl. Almost as good as Huckster’s wench.”

  Huckster turned behind a tree and unzipped. “Wench,” he repeated with a chuckle.

  Jackson laughed. “Sensual. Probably sounds like a Neanderthal to your proper British ears.”

  Behind Huckster, a soft female voice whispered, “You’re all Neanderthals, so far as I’m concerned.”

  Huckster froze with cock in hand, but biology kept his flow of urine strong.

  “Four strong men and you think you can take me? Lil’ ole’ me?”

  Huckster turned midstream and found the tall leather-clad brunette looking down at him.

  “Oh, Huckster darling…it is Huckster, right?” She waited for a response, but none came. “Now you’ve gone and peed on my boots. Mark my words, sweetheart, you will be licking them clean.”

  His wide eyes dropped to the stream of urine as it turned to dribble. He then lifted them back to her.

  “Nice cock, though. Oh, and getting hard, too.” She grinned at him. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

  II

  “Sheriff John,” Deputy Lionel Dorn nodded at him.

  “Alright, Dorn, give it to me.” Sheriff Randal John was well aware of the irony of his name as he stood over the remaining husks of two twin brothers that had flown in from the United Kingdom just that afternoon. The red and blue flashing lights gave him an eerie feel as he surveyed the scene. He wondered if they were from Nottingham.

  Dorn used a flashlight to read his notebook. “The two Brits and Jimmy Jackson…”

  John held up a hand to stop the commentary. “Jimmy Jackson? The linebacker? Used to play for Baltimore?”

  “That would be him.” Dorn nodded towards the largest of the sheeted bodies waiting for body bags.

  “Alright, continue.”

  “They were found over there.” He used his flashlight to show the embers of what had, until recently, been a campfire.

  “Fuck me, three at once. This is new for her.”

  “Four, sir,” Dorn corrected. “We found one Marcus Huckster over there behind a tree.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “She left the IDs on these ones?”

  Dorn nodded.

  “Fucking cocky, too. She thinks we can’t catch her.”

  “We haven’t yet,” Dorn pointed out.

  John crossed his arms and let his shoulders slouch. He always found, bad as it was for his posture, he thought better while slouching. “Jackson and Huckster, were they working together?”

  “Sheriff, perhaps I can help,” a new voice offered.

  John’s eyes went to the man beside him and then rose up to find him looking at an older man that was nearly a foot taller. “And you are?”

  His green eyes turned down to John. “Evan Chance, FBI. You did call for help, no?”

  “Holy fuck, you look like…”

  Evan's eyes rolled, and he looked away. “Yes, I know.”

  “…Malcolm McDowell.”

  “Does it matter, Sheriff?”

  John shrugged. “No, guess not. I’m just surprised you feds waited this long to show up. I figured after the third or fourth…”

  “Can’t vouch for specifics, but I’m guessing we were busy before they gave me the case.” It had taken some work keeping the FBI from sending any real agents. The last thing Evan needed was some wannabe Mulder or Scully wandering the hills around El Paso looking for Savannah.r />
  Randal turned to Dorn and raised his eyebrows.

  The deputy looked just as confused.

  “How can we help you, Agent Chance?”

  The stereotypical Hollywood answer would be for Evan to tell Sheriff John to stay out of his way. That might raise suspicions. For Evan, the longer the unconscious bodies he’d left in dispatch at the El Paso FBI field office remained hidden, the better. “Female serial killers are rare, Sheriff John.”

  “Yeah, we know that.”

  Evan waved a dismissing hand at him. “Of course, you do. I don’t need to go through the basics with you.”

  “No, unfortunately, we know the basics all too well in these parts.”

  “Which is why I don’t think we are dealing with your regular run-of-the-mill serial killer.”

  Dorn chuckled. “There’s a run-of-the-mill variety, sir?”

  Evan grinned down at the young deputy and reached forward to smack his shoulder. “Not quite what I mean. I mean your force is well trained and should be able to track a woman that did not have a plan. Were she doing this on impulse or need, she would slip up, and you would have had her long before now.”

  John nodded. “Especially after the survivors told us…”

  Evan’s eyes widened, and one of the blue police lights caused them to shine deeper green. “I’m sorry, Sheriff, survivors?”

  “You didn’t know about the witnesses?” John turned to Evan with more suspicion in his own eyes.

  “I must not have read that yet, my apologies. Wife and I just got back this morning from a vacation to see her folks in Michigan. I’m probably not quite up on the case as I should be, as of yet.”

  John nodded. “So where do we begin?”

  Evan clucked his tongue at him and wagged a finger as though directing a choir. “Let’s start at the very beginning. I believe one Julie Andrews once said it is a very good place to start.”