Crimson Strike

by Peter Bostrom

  I soon discovered the reason for their agitation. When I whipped around, I found a large werewolf with a foam-flecked muzzle and wild red eyes land on the ground directly behind me.

  30

  THE DEEP BROWN werewolf crouched on the ground in the middle of the street, his teeth bared and muscles tensed beneath his short, dark pants. Dammit—he must’ve been hiding just beyond our line of sight on the rooftops. He had landed about the same distance from both transports, so I wasn’t sure which he’d go for first. But when I heard the soft, padded slap of bare paws landing on the sidewalk on the other side of our transports, I knew it didn’t matter. We were screwed either way.

  I turned to my left just in time to see a furry gray figure in similar short pants breathing heavily on the sidewalk several meters away. I pulled Winnifred behind me, hoping to stand between her and danger, but in the next instant, I heard a loud, sharp crack and the gray werewolf’s right shoulder jerked backward. He yelped in pain, dropped to the ground, and held the injured shoulder with his opposite hand—er, paw. I looked more closely and saw crimson liquid oozing between his fingers and darkening his fur light-colored fur, while I thought I heard a faint sizzling sound.

  I glanced behind me and saw the long-nosed woman holding a plasma gun, bracing a trembling trigger finger with a trembling hand.

  I nodded quickly, then turned with my Power Glove raised and a brassy, heroic melody already playing in my mind so loudly that I could practically feel the fluttering of a red cape as the purple gem glowed. This time, I imagined a giant, translucent metal gauntlet in front of me, its armor-clad fingers curled. With a flick of my mind, the large pointer finger shot outward and connected with the gray werewolf, knocking him backward through the plexiglass display window of the clothing boutique.

  I turned and gave the long-nosed woman another brisk nod and then said, “Everyone out, now!”

  The militia members piled out of the transport, practically tumbling over each other. It wasn’t pretty by any means, but it did the job. I sheathed my sword and slammed the doors shut. Putting my hand on the small of Winnifred’s back, I nudged her forward as I slapped the side of my helmet and said “Follow me!” into the comm and to my militia at the same time.

  Across the street was a building with a large, windowless wall, covered in a mural of a hyper-sexualized merman with flowing white hair, a matching beard, and holding a gold trident suggestively in his powerful hand. I didn’t have time to critique their gross misuse of Greco-Roman mythological sea imagery, because I was frantically searching the sidewalks for waste containers.

  Because this part of the city was where the wealthy factory managers and government administrators spent much of their time, there were thick cylindrical, waist-high waste buckets every five or ten meters down the length of the street in both directions—in contrast to the projects, where the sidewalk seemed to double as garbage dumps.

  I held out my arms and, summoning a fast-paced melody of electric guitars and drums, drew on the power of my glove’s orange philosopher’s stone to imagine myself twirling several golden lassos in each hand like it was an Amazonian rodeo.

  Still running, and with my militia members close behind me, I flung both arms out away from me and pictured the ends of the lassos landing over the tops of the waste containers. When we were about to reach the merman mural, I clenched my hands into fists and quickly yanked my imaginary lassos toward me.

  The metal cylinders skidded loudly across the sidewalk’s cement from both directions toward the space where I’d stood a few steps before. Around ten of these waste containers crashed into each other, and one of them slammed into the side of the lumpy-looking civilian. Dammit—I needed to be more careful. The man yelled out in pain, but kept moving forward.

  I looked back toward the other transport, where Stanton, Lopez, and Rand were providing cover fire for their people to join mine. The brown werewolf who had been shot in the side had ducked behind a large, cube-like public comm relay station to avoid our team’s silver slugs.

  The eyes of my militia members were darting between the pile of waste containers, the werewolves, and their neighbors who were running across the street and quickly approaching our location.

  “Quick!” I yelled, snapping them out of their distraction. “Set up a defensive position—everyone grab a container and set up a semi-circle against the wall.”

  My militia quickly set up a barrier and half-crouched behind it. The few who were not dragging a container provided cover fire as the gray werewolf who had tried attacking us was back on his feet and making his way forward. My militia members fired at him, and he was forced to duck behind our transport for cover.

  Panthra was growling loudly from inside her cage and scratching at the bars, but Stanton, Lopez, Rand, and I were all too busy trying to get the militia’s asses to safety. I felt terrible for the mechanical beast, seeing her people threatened and being helpless to do anything about it. If we could only get these werewolves far enough away from her cage, we could provide cover fire for someone to let her out.

  The other militia members scrambled the rest of the way and then dove the last few meters behind our barriers and joined their neighbors. They were soon followed by Stanton, Lopez, and Rand, who finally crowded into our makeshift line of defense.

  Across the street, the werewolves moved restlessly behind their protective positions, flashing patches of gray and brown every few moments and letting out guttural growls that made my hair stand on end.

  Stanton scooted beside me and said, “I sincerely hope you have a plan.”

  I hoped so, too. I turned to Winnifred and said, “Any ideas?”

  As she opened her mouth, the air was filled with a deep, loud rumbling noise that sounded like an earthquake. When I glanced up at the streetlights in anticipation of them toppling over onto my militia members, I saw they were perfectly still. But if it wasn’t an earthquake, what was it?

  The deep growling grew louder, and something began to take shape in the darkness on top of Amphitrite’s Closet across the street from us. A massive figure stepped just far enough into the dim light from the street that I could make out the edges of its gigantic, muscular frame. It was the size of an ogre, but God was it hairy.

  “Come out here, you coward!” I yelled. “Show yourself!

  The figure snorted loudly. He leapt clear out onto the middle of the street and the ground seemed to buckle under his powerful hind legs. He took two thunderous steps forward, head bowed, then stopped. Then he arched his neck in an adrenaline-inducing howl, revealing a wide jaw, a stout muzzle, and watery blue eyes.

  It was a werewolf. But it was also, unmistakably, Private Elric Kovac.

  31

  THE CREATURE THAT stood in front of me was terrifying for several reasons. The hulking, dirty blond-furred beast had the general shape of Kovac—the barrel chest, the thick neck, the wide jaw, and the blue eyes—but his appearance was different enough to hurt my brain. Instead of a strong nose, he had a short muzzle with two lower canine teeth that stuck out, even when his mouth was closed. His close-cropped hair was now a long, thick mane of fur that ran from the top of his head down the back of his neck. And, of course, he now had claws and paws. This image would probably haunt my dreams for the rest of my life, however long—or short—it might be.

  The hulked-out, werewolfed Kovac looming before me was also a grotesque reminder that, when it had mattered most, I’d acted like an idiot and put my friends in serious—and maybe permanent—danger. I’d acted foolishly. But more than that, I’d acted selfishly. Earlier, I promised my crew that I would protect them and never leave them behind. But when a few cams showed up, it was far too easy for me to change course for the chance at beefing up my holovid celebrity status. Before I came to Triton, all I wanted was to gain the respect of the other soldiers, and I was willing to do anything to gain their trust. What had I become, instead?

  “Hold your fire!” I yelled. The militia members looked puzzled,
but followed my order.

  “Kovac?” Lopez whispered.

  “My God,” Rand muttered.

  I stood and said loudly, “It’s me you want—not them.”

  I stepped between two of the waste containers and drew my sword without activating it. Kovac’s long mouth twisted into a sneer as I took another few steps forward. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the other two werewolves edging their way toward the garbage can barricade.

  Stanton and the militia fired occasional shots to keep them at bay, while Winnifred stood behind them, her muscles tense and waiting for the monsters to get close enough for her to spring.

  I turned my attention back to familiar beast in front of me. “I don’t know if you’re still in there, Kovac,” I said, watching his beady blue eyes for even the slightest sign of recognition. If there was, I couldn’t find it. “But I don’t want to hurt you.”

  He tilted his furry head, straightened it, then let out a low growl. In a moment, he sprang forward, claws extended. I thought about activating my rod-sword, but was too afraid I’d do permanent damage to my friend. Instead, I swung my dull yellow sword across in a wide, lightless arc in front of me, knocking his furry paws to the side.

  He yelped and leapt back, shaking out his front claws. We stalked each other in a wide circle, waiting to see what the other would do.

  My mind cycled quickly through scenario after scenario where I used my Power Glove either offensively (like bringing down a comically large, imaginary wooden mallet) or defensively (like throwing up an imaginary wall with spikes).

  I didn’t need to think nearly this hard when going up against Dominion troopers or monsters. But because I wasn’t entirely confident in my ability to use the philosopher’s stones in close quarters, I had trouble deciding which to use on the creature who, until recently, had been my closest friend.

  I was stuck trying to come up with the least lethal image possible to use against Kovac, when he suddenly lunged toward me. I tried dodging, but couldn’t move quickly enough to completely escape his attack. Instead, we tumbled to the ground, and after rolling several times over each other, we came to a rest beside Panthra’s cage. Before, she had done nothing but snarl at the attacking werewolves and try to claw her way out of the cage. But now, she was whimpering and scratching more tenderly at the metal bars between her and the two of us.

  Kovac was on top of me now, his hands—or paws, or whatever—pressed down on my shoulders, the tips of his claws piercing my fatigues and pressing against my skin.

  I quickly summoned a small, beach-ball sized bubble between us, which was the only thing that kept him from tearing me apart.

  I twisted my head to look at Panthra and met her sad inky black gaze.

  “Help . . . me . . .” I wheezed.

  Her eyes grew wider. She scratched madly at the bars between us. At the same time, Kovac reared back his head and opened his wolfish mouth, revealing two rows of razor-sharp teeth. I writhed beneath the crushing weight of his furry body, but he didn’t budge. As my breath squeezed out of my body, I felt the image of the bubble between us begin to fade. In a matter of moments, I’d be unable to stop Kovac from turning me into a man-sized chew toy.

  I turned by head once more toward Panthra, who was still scratching wildly at the cage. I pointed my gaze at the other end of the cage and jerked my head in that direction. “That . . . end . . .” I gasped.

  Panthra’s eyes lit up and she spun around inside the cage, but faced away from where I had been pointing. I started to squeeze out the word “wrong,” but I hadn’t even gotten it out by the time Panthra began using her strong rear legs to kick out violently against the door of her cage.

  Kovac snapped his massive head to the side at the metallic banging noise. I twisted my hips and tried to slip out from under him, but he was too heavy for me to budge. Panthra kicked quickly once—twice—and on the third kick, the cage door tore off with a screech and landed on the street with a reverberating clang.

  She was out of the cage in a flash, and before Kovac could brace himself, a streak of emerald green shot out, and Panthra collided with him, sending him sprawling backward onto the concrete.

  “Be careful!” I yelled after my Battle Steed as she slunk toward him, her head lowered and shoulders tensed.

  Kovac gathered his legs beneath him and shook himself off in a very dog-like manner. His muzzle pointed toward Panthra and he let out a low growl. Then, he pushed off the ground and charged straight at her. She, too, bounded forward. When Kovac made a final leap with his front claws extended, she reared up on her hind legs and raised her front legs to fend off the blow.

  But instead of slicing at Panthra, he sunk his claws into her raised front legs and used his momentum to swing his rear legs toward her midsection. Catching her underbelly exposed, he sliced with his rear claws and left loose strips of soft, green fur dangling.

  Panthra yelped and flung Kovac off to the side, leaving deep gashes in her forearms where Kovac had held on. Kovac landed on his feet this time, growling defiantly. I heard answering growls from nearby and looked over to see the gray and brown werewolves stalking closer to the militia’s position, in spite of their gun fire.

  As I scrambled to retrieve my sword from the street, I heard the click of claws on the pavement behind me and hoped I could get to my weapon soon enough. But as soon as I heard a quick series of cracks ahead of me, followed by a yelp or two, I knew I didn’t need to worry—not about those werewolves, anyway.

  Stanton stood up from behind the waste container barrier, swinging his plasma rifle from side to side, firing bursts of shots to keep the approaching werewolves at bay.

  I picked up my sword, and when I turned back around to face the battle of the beasts, I was just in time to see Panthra swipe her massive front paw and knock Kovac out of the air. The moment he hit the ground, she leapt and landed on top of him, pinning him there.

  Kovac wriggled and snarled and tried to get his limbs free, but Panthra had most of her full metal-skeletoned weight on top of him, so he wouldn’t be going anywhere. He howled in desperation to his companions, but instead of coming out to free him, they darted back into the shadows.

  Rand and Lopez stood next to Stanton, plasma guns drawn, and searching the street for signs of any other creatures. The militia members also stood with their weapons at the ready. Stanton stepped out from behind the makeshift barrier and ordered the militia to do a quick sweep of the immediate area, just in case. He strode briskly toward me, and Rand, Lopez, and Winnifred followed closely behind him.

  I sheathed my sword and turned to look at Kovac, who was still struggling to get free from beneath Panthra. She was staring at him, her head tilting from one side to the other in confusion at the monster that looked so much like her absent friend.

  “What do you suggest we do with it?” Stanton asked.

  “You mean, ‘with him.’” Lopez said. “Kovac’s got to be in there. Somewhere.”

  The Kovac-shaped werewolf snapped his head toward us and let out a toothy snarl.

  “Approximately how many sedatives come standard in the transports’ med kits?” Rand asked.

  “Ten, I believe,” said Stanton.

  I frowned. “Then we’ll probably need all ten. From both kits. And Rand can probably fix the cage, so that might be the best we can do until we get reinforcements.”

  Stanton’s eyes widened, but he nodded. “What will you do?”

  I glanced over at Rand and Lopez. For a moment, their images flickered, and they became werewolf versions of themselves—one a full-haired, hunchbacked dull brown one with long, drooping hair sprouting from the sides of his muzzle, and the other a small, jet black one with shiny fur, a sardonic glare, and incredibly long, razor sharp claws.

  And then, half a moment later, they were plain old Rand and Lopez.

  I couldn’t risk placing them in the sort of danger that might make them end up like Kovac. I couldn’t put anyone in that sort of danger again. This was somethi
ng I needed to do this alone.

  I turned to Stanton. “I have to go in on my own.”

  He opened his mouth in protest, but I held up a gloved finger and silenced him. “I mean, I’m going to scout it out on my own. We know there are werewolves here, but we don’t know how many. And there’s no use bringing an untrained militia into a den of bloodthirsty werewolves until we know for sure.”

  Stanton nodded slowly.

  “If there’s more than just those two who attacked us, we’ll call it in,” I continued. “But if not, I’ll come back and we can come up with a containment strategy.”

  Winnifred chimed in. “You know, it could very well be an ambush. It’s a standard lycanthrope technique. In spite of your obvious strength and agility, you will need someone to go with you—someone who has had experience tracking their kind.”

  I blushed at the compliment. Her nebula-filled eyes met mine and my legs went weak. After a heartbeat, my mouth twisted into a lopsided smile and I turned to Stanton.

  “Seems reasonable to me. I’ll leave the militia in your capable hands, Lieutenant. With any luck, we’ll be back in no time.”

  Stanton pressed his lips into a fine line. “And I suppose you’ll want her to carry a weapon?”

  “Darling,” Winnifred answered, “I am a weapon.”

  Stanton, Lopez, and Rand all looked at each other and frowned. I didn’t like the look of that, so I quickly changed the subject.

  “Hey, Rand,” I said. “You still have that Dominion whip in your duffel bag, right?”

  He nodded, then dashed to his transport.

  I pulled out my sword and handed it to Winnifred, handle first. “You mentioned earlier you’ve powered weapons before.” I smiled. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  She gave me a gracious bow, then gripped the handle lightly with both hands. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and hummed a few high, quick notes that sounded something like a bird chirping. The rod-sword flared to life in her hands, lighting her slender face and making her eyes glimmer. If there was any question at all in my mind that she was the perfect woman for me, it was burned away as she held the glowing sword in front of her.