What Happened To Lori - The Complete Epic (The Konrath Dark Thriller Collective Book 9)

by J. A. Konrath

  “I think they’ve been watching us for a while. Me. You. Grim. I don’t know how. I don’t know how any of this works. But the last time I fought them, I couldn’t see. I had no warning. I wasn’t prepared. I was unarmed. And I kicked the hell out of a bunch of them. We’re armed and trained and dangerous and pissed off. We’re going to cut through these jokers.”

  “What are the rods they’re holding?”

  “I don’t know. Didn’t have them last time.”

  “Those are obedience prods, Ms. Presley. They make every nerve in your body fire at the same time, so you feel like you are being burned alive. While being electrocuted. While being skinned and rolled in salt and vinegar.”

  Presley became too terrified to speak. The white figures drew closer.

  “You know our names.” Fabler spoke louder than the voices. “What do we call you?”

  “I am the Watcher.”

  “Which one of you?”

  “I am able to communicate through my people. See what they see. Hear what they hear. I speak, and they are my voice.”

  “Roger that, Watcher. How about you quit your talking and get your ugly face down here, mix it up with the squad? Or is watching all you’re good at?”

  “Someone must give the orders, Mr. Fabler. There are soldiers, and there are generals.”

  “Where I come from, soldiers can speak for themselves.”

  “Do not be naïve, Mr. Fabler. Where you come from, people fight wars to control the price of fossil fuels. When you serve the interests of big business on foreign soil, you are not dying for your country. Your military dishes out praise and calls you a hero and a patriot, and then leaves you with medals and ribbons and trinkets that fail to feed you when you are too old to fight. It devours your sons and daughters and claims they gave their lives for freedom, when all they accomplished was making the rich a tiny bit richer. I care about my people, Mr. Fabler. I care about their future, and I shall ensure their survival. To do that, I require you and Ms. Presley to give up your weapons and surrender. Or I shall cause you pain you cannot even imagine.”

  Presley’s heartrate doubled. Then trebled.

  Her legs lost strength, every muscle fiber becoming a snapped rubber band.

  Sweat made the axe almost impossible to hold onto.

  Her bladder shrank to the size of a pecan.

 
 

  The circle tightened, the greys closing in.

  “Their armor is tough, but I used edged weapons and bullets in the seams. You want the KRISS or the Glock? Got six mags.”

  “I dunno. The Glock.”

  He handed it and three magazines to her, then attached his tactical flashlight to the rail of the rifle. “We’ll need to get in close. Dodge the pain sticks, go for the choke. You can cinch it and knock them out, or try for a neck snap. Their necks are longer.”

 

  Presley hyperventilated.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

  The bravado, the guts, the altruism she had felt when going into the light had drained away, replaced by a sick sense of regret.

  Presley had known, for years, about the mind-body connection. Fears triggered physical symptoms, and those symptoms provoked more fears, and the whole electrochemical process got stuck in a loop; a vicious circle of panic and stress, of mental and physical shutdown.

 
 
 

  “Having another panic attack, Ms. Presley?”

 
 
 
 
 

  “Hey. Presley.”

  Her head snapped around to look at Fabler, her heart beating so hard and fast she could feel it in her throat.

  “Ever hear the expression molon labe?”

  “No.” The word came out hoarse and high-pitched at the same time.

  “It’s a grunt thing. Goes back to Sparta. King Leonidas. He said it at the Battle of Thermopylae, when his three hundred troops were surrounded by a hundred thousand Persians. Roughly translated, it means, ‘Come get some.’” Fabler cupped his hands around his mouth. “You hear that, Watcher? Molon labe!”

  The aliens all raised their weapons.

 
 

  Presley closed her eyes.

  She couldn’t stop panting.

  She couldn’t stop shaking.

  She couldn’t control her heartrate, or her sweating, or her dizziness.

 
 
 
 

  Presley filled her lungs until they felt ready to pop, and then let out the loudest scream of her life.

  “MOLON LABE!”

  She shouted it at the Watcher. She shouted it at the greys. She shouted it at the universe. And, most of all, she shouted it at herself.

 
 

  Defying her panic, Presley charged. Glock in one hand, axe in the other, sprinting at the nearest grey, ducking beneath the prod, jamming the barrel of the gun into the seam in its armor where the thigh piece met the crotch.

  She fired four times, then stood up, shoving with her shoulder, knocking the thing over, then wrapping her legs around it and cinching in the chokehold from behind.

 

  The creature struggled and twisted in a very human-like way, harder than she expected considering how thin it was, and Presley pressed her chin into its shoulder pad and flexed her biceps.

 

  Seconds passed, and Presley questioned if she had enough strength, or if the grey’s anatomy differed.

  Two more figures approached her, on either side, their prods extended.

  Presley grunted deep in her chest, bearing down with all her weight, knowing she’d have to go for her gun depending on how the next few moments played out.

  Then, finally, the grey went limp.

  Fabler called to her, choking out a grey of his own. “Twist! Break its neck!”

  Presley stared down at the still-very-much-alive figure, unconscious in her hands.

 
 
 
 
 

  Presley gripped it under the jaw, trying to find the strength, and her fingers brushed some kind of chinstrap.

 
 

  Presley fumbled with the latch, then pulled off its helmet.

  Revulsion engulfed her. The creature looked enough like a person to evoke the uncanny valley response, the same emotion people felt when looking at someone deformed, or at a creepy doll, or a poorly drawn picture. Some human features, but also some big differences that made Presley’s stomach do flip-flops.

  Grey, moist skin. A bald, bulbous head. Small, delicate ears. No nose; just two wet holes above a tiny, colorless mouth. And boils everywhere. Boils and boil-scars that made Kadir’s acne attractive by comparison.

  Then the alien opened its impossibly
big, blue eyes and whispered.

  “Mama.”

 

  “Brooklyn…”

  Horrified, Presley dropped its head and crab-walked away as fast as she could. A moment later the horror intensified as Fabler came by and stuck the barrel of the KRISS into the grey’s nosehole, shooting twice and making the skull burst, then deflate, like a dropped pumpkin.

  “Don’t hesitate. Kill it and move on.”

  “It sounded like—”

  “They’re messing with our heads, Presley. Stay focused. More are coming.”

  And coming fast. One of them slid up to Fabler as if on roller skates and jabbed him in the back with the prod.

  Fabler cried out, so loud it hurt Presley’s ears, then he did a quick spin kick and caught the monster in the head. When it went down, Fabler scrambled on top, his blade getting under the helmet and jamming inside, stabbing with a double-fisted grip on the knife handle. The grey eventually stopped screeching, and Fabler shot a look at Presley and rolled his shoulders.

  “Try not to get jabbed with one of those sticks. Grim’s taser tickles by comparison. Coming up on your eight o’clock.”

  Presley turned, saw another grey approaching. And behind it, at least a dozen more.

 
 

  “The battle isn’t there.” Fabler pointed. “It’s here.” He tapped his temple.

 
 
 
 

  THE WATCHER ○ 9:30+am

  The Watcher tunes in with pheromones and watches through the eyes of his team as the duo dispatches four of his guards.

  Then five. Six. Seven. Some of them so ruined the Watcher will not be able to bring them back.

  “This should not be happening.”

  “Fabler and Presley are causing you quite a bit of trouble.”

  The Watcher shoots Mu a warning look. “I have a dissector in the laboratory. It can slice to the width of a single micron. I am tempted to strap you to it and see how many decades it takes to kill you.”

  Mu does not respond.

  He stares as his people fall, one by one. “Team 6 and 7, move in.” He reconsiders that order and speaks to and through all guards at once. “All teams move in. Repeat, all teams move in. I want them both captured, or else you shall all spend the next three cycles without hands and feet.”

  FABLER ○ 9:31am

 
 

  Fabler considered himself in the best shape of his life. In a sick way, prison functioned as the ultimate self-help center. It gave Fabler unlimited time to contemplate, to plan, to reconsider, and to plan again. The boredom also lent itself to exercise, and three years in the slammer equaled more than two million push-ups.

  But fighting and killing took a physical toll, and the mental and emotional strains were just as exhausting.

 
 
 
 

  Fabler had thought long and hard about what he needed, should the day come when the greys returned. Forty-five caliber ammo should have been enough. Anything heavier, and it would have been too much gear to effectively carry.

  Looking back, he would have traded every item in his backpack for an M16 and seventy pounds of 5.56 NATO cartridges. Fabler had been planning for the long game, to survive for as many days as needed in an unknown, unfriendly environment, while searching for Lori.

 

  He cinched a chokehold on the grey he grappled with, letting anger and frustration fuel his muscles, snapping its long neck and feeling it go limp.

 
 
 
 
 

  Fabler disdained giving up. It stemmed back to Article II of the Military Code of Conduct, etched into his brain permanent as tattoo ink.

 
 
 
 

  Just the same, he had a responsibility to Presley. His employee. And, to a degree, his friend.

 
 

  Fabler searched for Presley, sweeping the area with the tac light attached to the rail of the KRISS, and saw her exhausted and bloody and fighting with all the strength and heart of any soldier he’d ever had the privilege of serving alongside.

 
 
 
 
 
 

  Fabler didn’t think he’d be able to retreat. It took too long to get to this point. Too much planning. Too much work. Too much hope.

 
 
 

  All-around blackness had swallowed the all-around light. The rules of direction didn’t apply wherever they were, and Fabler had no clue where to find an exit. He didn’t even know if he’d recognize an exit if he saw it.

 
 

  He shouted at Presley; shouting because she’d left her walkie-talkie in her pack. “Come closer! Back-to-back!”

  Fabler shouldered a grey aside, catching a break when it toppled over, falling on top of it and getting its head between his legs. Then Fabler locked his right foot behind his left knee, squeezing until he felt the monster go limp. A moment later, on his feet again, Fabler faced Presley, wiping blood out of her eyes, looking like she’d crawled through a slaughterhouse.

 

  “I killed seven.”

  Fabler couldn’t read her expression behind the monocular, but she sounded on the verge of tears.

  “They aren’t human.”

  “I’ve never…”

  “Killed before. I know. But you can’t stop, Presley.”

  She nodded.

  The killing continued.

 

  Back in his BT days, Fabler had gotten tired of COs getting in his face. He’d always nurtured a problem with authority. When that authority had rank and could force him to clean the latrine or do push-ups until he puked, Fabler hated it even more.

  He and Grim once had a long conversation about being in charge, and how far removed the Generals were from the groundpounders. They’d even thought up a solution to mitigate threats and share responsibility. Any time a soldier died, every rank above him, every leader in his chain of command all the way to POTUS, should be branded with a one inch X on their body. If a man gives his life for his county, those who ordered him to do so should be reminded of it, with both immediate pain, and enduring memorial.

  It would go a long way toward teaching the higher-ups how much a life was worth.

  Thr
oughout his military career, Fabler still clung to that belief. While he wound up embracing the Army as both boss and family, and became like a brother to many soldiers, including those who outranked him, there remained the nagging feeling of; those at the top don’t know what the guys at the bottom are actually doing.

  That belief vanished in Fabler, watching Presley fight for both of their lives.

 
 
 
 
 

  Fabler howled like his voice alone held back every demon ever created in hell.

  “NO!”

 
 

  And they fought on.

  GRIM ○ 9:31+am

  When Grim opened his eyes, he wondered if he was still sleeping.

 
 

  Then reality came rushing back, hitting sucker-punch hard.

 

  Light returned, beginning with a colorful line that widened to his width of vision, and with light came sight and the reveal of who carried Grim.

 
 
 

  On either side of him, Kadir and Doruk, both bleeding, neither conscious, being carried on the same kind of floating gurney that Grim found himself attached to.

  He strained against his bounds, grunting and flexing and twisting with all he had. Though Grim only had a vague recollection of the pain caused by the collar he’d foolishly put on—the same sort of lingering feeling of weariness that accompanied the tail end of a bad bout of the flu—he also had some very real, very irritating pain on his face, arms, and hands. A tightness, mingled with heat.

 

  “Stop struggling, Mr. Pilgrim.”

  The voice, from before.

  “Who are you?”

  “You will learn. In time.”

  “Where’s my sister?”

  “In time, Mr. Pilgrim.”

  Again, Grim flexed, trying to get some of the tension out of the bands that held him to the table.