The Fog of Dreams

by Justin Bell

CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Strickland spent the next few hours of his day alternating between heavy bag conditioning, weight training, and other physical exercise as he tried to brace his body and train his mind for his essential task ahead. He had spent only twenty minutes at the bank, and only a few of those minutes outside, looking at the NSA Watch Station building, but he had already formulated a solid infiltration and exfiltration plan, and was acting on that plan tonight. As dusk settled over his Vermont home, he found himself in his weapons room, assessing the situation.

  With the bulk of his exercise inside an office building, he elected to go back to the UMP, which was a shorter-range weapon, but easier to transport and quicker on the draw. Instead of just the single Glock 22, he grabbed a pair of them, and slipped them into two different holsters, strapped to his thigh and the small of his back. He grabbed three silencers and stuffed them in various pouches on the tactical vest, which still sat hooked to the wall. Then he joined the trio of silencers with various magazines for his three weapons, making sure he had all the ammunition he'd require in case anything went down. With his equipment ready, he ran up to the second floor, and then walked slowly to his bedroom. As he walked towards his room, he took a quick right into the kids' bathroom and looked out the window, which faced the dirt road that wound past his house. Sure enough, a car coasted to a stop on the side of the road about half of a mile south. It was in such a position that he would never have seen it from the main level, but he could clearly see it from this top window, and he knew who they were looking for. Moments later, he was in his bed, on top of the covers, resting his eyes, hoping to catch just a little bit of shuteye before the big event.

  "He's asleep?" Godsoe asked looking at Smits again.

  "Sure looks like it. I've got his infrared signature laying down in his upstairs bedroom."

  "What time is it?"

  "Like six o'clock."

  "Fuckin' weirdo." Godsoe leaned back in the driver's seat, shaking his head slightly.

  Clouds of red consumed Strickland's dream world, as it always was the minute his eyes eased shut. Tumbling through the endless brown sky until he thumped onto the wooden ground that was the interior of the now familiar cabin. Walls threatened to collapse down on top of him. The same beautiful woman with dark eyes that matched the clouds, reached out to him screaming as the angry gray beast clutched at her, grasped at her, and opened his gleaming teeth. One last desperate cry?

  ?the sickening crunch and snap of flesh, muscle, and vertebrae jolted him from his sleep and his eyes flew open, breath pushing from his mouth. In a near panic, he swiveled to look at the nearby digital clock on the end table next to the bed.

  It was nearly one o'clock in the morning, a good hour after he had wanted to make his move.

  "Damn it." he whispered to no one in particular.

  With a rush, he slipped from the bed and moved towards the bathroom, following his well-calculated plan from the first step. He quickly stepped into the small washing room, which contained a toilet, sink, and single stand-up shower, then slid the sliding glass door open, turning the shower on full blast, as hot as it could get. From there, he went back into the bedroom and down the hall. Taking the stairs two at a time, he ran down to the basement. As he reached the main level, he picked up the pace just a little bit. Once in the basement, he slipped on his tactical vest and slung the UMP over his shoulder, then strapped on his belt with two holsters, already full of pistols. He double-checked the silencers, triple checked the magazines, and ensured everything fit securely over his torso and waist. Thinking briefly of the car outside, he continued, wanting to make his first move before the surveillance team could respond.

  Walking through the unfinished basement, he reached out to the rack and swept his black trench coat from it, sliding his arms through the holes and letting the long fabric drape off his shoulders. Whipping around his legs as he exited and turned, he walked along the back of the house in his backyard. He continued slowly along the back of his house, keeping himself pressed up against the walls of tan siding. He was in a medium crouch, and his feet crossed as he made his way to the back corner, while his brain calculated the possible distance between where he was and where his target was.

  Ever since stumbling upon the Operation: Harvest report, he had wanted to test some of the abilities that he suspected he had. With the NSA keeping a close watch on him, he didn't dare expose the fact that he might know more about this series of events than they thought he did. However, this was his chance. A chance for him to really explore just what these fundamental genetic changes meant to him. Approaching the corner of his house, he leaned out around and focused his eyes, finding with pleasant surprise that his night vision was even better than it had been a couple of weeks earlier. He continued his slow, crossing walk to the front corner of the house, keeping tightly pressed against the sidewall, and once he reached that corner, he eased his UMP off his shoulder and rested it on the ground. Speed was far more important than being well armed in this particular case, and he wanted to be as aerodynamic as possible. Drawing in a few deep breaths, and doing a few practice squats, the young man worked to loosen his muscles as he eyed the clear path from the house to the car.

  Then he was gone.

  Smits looked at the dashboard monitor, attached to a low-profile roof-mounted camera pointed at the Strickland household. They had moved away from the handheld night vision just to ensure a more consistent broadcast, however it had to be at a longer range because of the camera placement. If they saw something of interest, they'd have to use a secondary set of goggles to zoom in on the problem area. A large blob of heat emanated from a particular area of the house; it looked like the top floor, so he brought up his goggles to focus on that area.

  "What's up?" asked Godsoe.

  "Strickland is. Looks like he's taking a shower."

  Godsoe looked down at the dashboard clock. "At one o'clock in the morning?"

  "Apparently." Smits scanned the house more with the goggles, but stopped abruptly. "Wait. What's that?"

  "What do you have?" Godsoe asked, adjusting himself in his seat just a bit.

  "There's a heat source in the backyard. Moving slowly. Can't tell if it's a human or animal." The two men had seen their share of wildlife throughout their time on surveillance way out here in the boonies, and unfortunately, the night vision goggles they used couldn't always successfully discern different species. "Whatever it is, it's stopping at the corner of the house there. Whoa, it's running! Dammit, it's fast! Hit those lights!"

  Godsoe twisted the knob and flashed the headlights just in time to see a large blur plunge into the thick tree line just ahead of the car, rustling branches, and sending leaves floating to the dirt road surface.

  Smits whistled. "What the fuck was that?"

  "Hell if I know. A deer?"

  "I guess it could have been." Smits couldn't help but think back to about a month ago when two unfortunate souls out by this very dirt road were torn to shreds by some mysterious bear-like creature. Suddenly he felt more than a little nervous.

  Godsoe must have been thinking the same thing as he turned and looked at Smits, and looked just as uncomfortable as he felt.

  "Should we check it out?"

  Smits scowled at him. "You fucking nuts, dude? Don't you remember what happened to those other two poor slobs?" The protection agent shook his head slowly as he rested his arm on the armrest of his car door and looked back down at the monitor in the dashboard. The shower was still running hot and hard in the Strickland house. "Hey, at least it's not another boring night-"

  Suddenly the door latch clicked and the passenger door swung open, throwing Smits slightly off balance. Godsoe's eyes grew wide as some large shape grabbed the man around his neck and torso and ripped him from the car before he could even focus on what the shape was. Suddenly he was just staring there at an empty passenger seat.

  "Smits?" he asked stupidly, not quite believing what he had just seen.

 
The night was still and quiet; he could hear the lonesome squawks of crickets throughout the thick forest surrounding the car. No other noise could be heard, except for the thick, rhythmic pounding of Godsoe's own heart.

  Slowly, he reached down and pulled his weapon from his holster, clutching it tightly in his right hand. Swapping the gun into his left hand, he reached into his pocket and started pulling out his phone, wanting to report in before anything else squirrely might happen. Shouldn't I close that door? Placing the phone gently on the passenger seat, he reached over, trying to grasp the door handle so he could pull it closed. At the back of his head, he thought that he at least owed Smits an attempt to find him or whatever it was that had grabbed him, but all he could remember were the grisly headlines from the local newspaper about the condition of the corpses of the men who had been stationed here previously. Fuck, man, that wasn't some beast. I didn't see any teeth. He glanced at the dashboard monitor again, seeing the shower continue to run on the second floor as his fingers inched ever closer to the handle on the passenger door. Stretching out across both seats, he suddenly felt very vulnerable.

  Pulling his knees up towards his chest, he pulled himself along the front seats towards the open passenger door, and made the decision right then and there that he wasn't going to close that door and hide; he was going to at least see what the hell was out there. Spinning his legs around, he lowered himself out of the car, his pistol clutched tightly in his left hand. Reaching backwards, he scooped up the phone that was on the seat, and then turned back to exit. A large figure was just suddenly there, standing right in front of him. The man's bald head and broad shoulders told the security agent exactly who this was.

  "Fucking A, Strickland, what the fuck--?"

  "Put the phone down," the bald man said with words barely over a breathy hiss.

  "What did you do with Smits?"

  "Put the phone down and get out of the car. Now."

  Godsoe regarded him suspiciously. As with most of the guys in Irizarry's group, he knew something about their surveillance target, but not much, and his brain was working to process just what this man was capable of.

  "You know," Godsoe said, trying not to sound too cocky, "last I looked, I was the one with the fucking gun here, champ." He exited the car, lifting his pistol towards his opponent. "I'm going to put this phone to my ear and call this in. You're going to stand right there and let me do it."

  Strickland smiled thinly. Godsoe didn't like that smile. Not at all. He swiveled slightly, bringing his weapon up into a firing position, not really wanting to shoot, but feeling the inherent need to defend himself. As it turned out, he needn't have worried. Strickland's right arm lashed out in a blurring sweep, striking Godsoe's left wrist and sending the pistol cartwheeling high into the dark, night sky. Even as he heard the weapon clatter against the hood of the car behind him, Godsoe tried to recover, but Strickland was just too fast. A lightning quick barrage of fists struck the surveillance operative in the ribs, then in the jaw, and with one last swift kick, Godsoe slammed back first against the car. The impact actually lifted the right side of the car slightly, the wheel axels straining under the pressure, and he fell to the ground like a 250-pound slab of beef. Strickland stood over him for a few moments, but he just lay still, his breath coming in shallow, even gasps.

  Sparing only a few minutes to retrieve cell phones and his submachine gun, Strickland slid into the driver's seat and was soon hurtling over the empty roads. It only took moments for him to ease the car to a stop behind a neighborhood movie theater not a few blocks away from the three-story building identified as the local NSA Watch Station. He took a quick inventory. Wanting to be sure he didn't appear out of place, he slung his UMP over his shoulder and carefully draped his black trench coat over the top, concealing any sign of weapons or tactical vest. He had mapped out a path to the building that carried him from alleyway to alleyway, avoiding main throughways or high traffic areas.

  Walking down a secondary street, he saw the parking garage ahead and slipped into an alley, crossing over into another one. Two blocks later, he peered out from behind a building, looking straight ahead at the main entrance of his target. The front door was mostly glass, surrounded by large windows, and he could easily see into the lobby where two guards sat at a desk, looking mostly nondescript and watching TV screens that seemed to grow out of the desk in front of them. Outside the building, a single uniformed security officer patrolled, and Strickland stood there for a moment, watching. It was a casual, but determined pattern of surveillance designed to trick people into thinking he wasn't paying much attention. But in fact, it was a well-designed patrol route. It meant that he couldn't risk sneaking by the guy; he had to take him out.

  Dropping back quietly into the alley, Strickland found another side street that ran to the parking garage itself and he followed that thin street, staying close to the building next to him. Keeping an eye on the roaming guard, Strickland ran quickly and quietly to the base of the three-level high parking garage. The young man in the booth hadn't noticed him, so he crouched in a low stance, tensed his muscles, and thrust himself upwards as hard as he could. To his own amazement, he leaped a good twenty-five feet in the air. Desperately grasping, his hands clutched a railing on the second level of the garage, and in one smooth motion, he swept himself up and over the railing, landing on the cement surface in a low crouch. He ran quietly forward, only stopping when he saw the man in the distinctive suit walking towards him, but on the level below. Placing his hands firmly on the railing, he waited for just the right moment.

  It came.

  The officer crossed underneath him, and he vaulted over the railing quick and smooth, falling about eighteen feet and landing in another graceful crouch on the cement sidewalk below. He was amazed at how little it hurt and how easily it had come. Apparently, the security guy was amazed as well because he stood there, looking back at him, with his mouth gaping open and his eyes wide.

  "What the--?" he started to say, but never had a chance to finish. In a blur of black movement and whipping of dark trench coat cloth, Strickland was on top of him, knocking him to the ground. The stunned security guard didn't put up much of a fight, and his assailant dragged him into a utility closet that sat ten feet away, and then placed him carefully inside. Strickland had rifled through his pockets and removed his I.D. card before stashing him away, and now quietly moved down towards the base of the building, preparing to make his entrance.

  The security desk was at the far end of a large and mostly vacant lobby, giving the two guards ample time to see and react to a stranger approaching. The rest of the office building looked calm and quiet, so his hope was that if he could get past the two guards, he could potentially have free reign of the building, and would hopefully be able to reach their Records Room. After all, this entire endeavor was all about finding his family, and he was determined to see it through, hopefully without killing or injuring anyone else in the process. Hopefully.

  Strickland moved quietly to the front of the building, trying to stay out of sight of the two guards at the desk. Sliding the Glock 22 from his thigh holster, he checked the magazine and screwed on the slender black silencer, then loaded a round in the chamber. He carefully eyed the scanner at the front door and looked at the mechanism to see how the door would open once the scan card was read. From all appearances, the door would slide to its left, away from him, which was perfect. The surface of the lobby was smooth gray marble, with a dark wood desk and wooden panels throughout the walls. There was a double door elevator just behind the desk, as well as a set of wide stairs going upwards to the second level. Strickland imagined that most of the facility-related rooms were on the ground floor here, with administrative offices on floor two. He suspected that for a building like this, executive offices were probably on the third floor as well as sensitive information, like the Records Room he sought to find.

  All right.

  It was time.

  He crouched low and eye
d the scanner just a few feet away. Holding the guard's I.D. card in his hand, he swung his arm back and forth, getting a feel for how hard he had to toss it.

  His arm swung back and then lightly forward, and he released the card, which struck the scanner head on, resulting in a satisfying little buzz/click before the card tumbled to the ground. A tiny light on the scanner shifted from red to green and the door began its fateful slide away from the crouching bald man in a trench coat.

  "What?" said one of the guards standing up, eying the empty doorway seeming to open of its own accord. The other one looked up questioningly as well. Strickland couldn't waste any time.

  He swung up from his crouch and was suddenly right there, walking in the open door, and the two guards were stunned.

  "Hey," shouted the one standing, but Strickland had already lifted his Glock and squeezed off a single shot, which struck him high in the left collarbone. The impact was a thick crack and brief spray of red, which threw him back with the force of a rushing bull, sending him sprawling to the floor, away from the alarm switch. Before the first guard even hit the floor, Strickland swiveled and immediately squeezed off another silenced shot, a quiet muffled cough in a library, and this bullet hit the second guard in his right arm, which was outstretched reaching for the alarm button. Another crack and spray, and the man stumbled out of his chair, shouting in pain. Even as he still rolled to the floor, Strickland raced across the smooth marble at top speed, and then left his feet, hitting the top of the desk in a crouch, and slipped down silently behind the desk, all in one amazingly graceful fluid motion. As he landed, he slid a small knife out of his boot sheath and grabbed one of the tails of his trench coat, cutting free a long strip of cloth. He wrapped it tight around the man's bicep, creating a tourniquet, attempting to staunch the flow of blood, and then he apologized quietly. Before the man could ask what he was doing, Strickland struck out with the butt of his pistol and closed the security guard's eyes. Quickly walking over to the other guard, who already lay unconscious, Strickland cut another swatch of fabric from his coat and wrapped up the collarbone wound as tightly as he could. He winced looking at it, knowing that this man would be out of action and trying to heal for a long time.

  He stood up and walked to the desk, looking at the various screens in front of him, making sure that there was no active indication of an alarm light anywhere, and there wasn't. At almost 2:00 a.m., he figured the building would be mostly vacant. The National Security Agency was in an interesting position with this particular watch station. If they guarded it too heavily, people would get suspicious, but if they didn't guard it heavily enough, well, Strickland was standing here as evidence of what might happen there. Browsing through the office directory on the desk, he had noticed that the Records Room was indeed located on the third floor. Walking up the wide staircase, he moved silently, keeping his ears open for any potential ambient noise, but the building was deathly silent. As with many beautiful office buildings, the stairway unveiled the dirty underbelly, the rough concrete surface hard under Strickland's softly padding feet. Stopping for a minute, he lifted one side of his head to listen for noise, but heard none. The benefit of traveling by stairwell was that if anyone else entered or moved in the narrow, echo chamber, it was immediately evident, which gave him some comfort as he continued up the flights to the third floor. There was no window on the third floor door, so he slowly eased it open and peeked his head out, relaxing for a brief minute as the hallway was vacant.

  The meandering "s-curve" hallway reached out into an open concept area with no walls, only two thin clear glass railings with large open windows to the right-hand side, looking out into the town. On the opposite side, Strickland could see down three stories back into the lobby below. About fifty yards beyond his open area, the hallway closed again, with two walls coming up on each side, and doors scattered all down the rest of the hallway. At the very end of this elongated passage sat the Records Room. Strickland felt painfully exposed out on the walkway here, with no protection on both sides and a clear view to anyone walking on the streets below through a huge open window. Moments later, he was in the closed-off hallway, moving quickly and he eased past the numerous closed doors on each side. This hallway curved slightly to the left as he walked, with dark wood panels along each wall, and finally the end of the hallway could be seen ahead, with a single door marked "Records."

  Strickland felt excitement brewing, but forced himself to focus in the silent confines of the hallway. His eyes glanced carefully to each door as he walked down the hall, with their ornate plaques matching each person's name and position of power. His eyes narrowed on the plain sign for the Records Room ahead of him, and he couldn't help but pick up his pace, anticipation building. Closer and closer, it was only ten feet away now, and he started to reach out his hand and clutch the doorknob, hardly able to contain his excitement.

  "NOW!"

  He stopped.

  How could he have been so stupid?

  William Strickland turned around, slowly and carefully just as the dozen doors he had walked past all opened at once. Out of every door stepped a man in full tactical gear, and each one carried a silenced weapon of varied sizes and calibers.

  A trap. It was a fucking trap.

  He stood there, his arms at his sides, his eyes narrow. He instinctively knew that if he let these guys take him, he'd wake up tomorrow with another hangover and no clue what had happened to him or his family. He had come so far, he was so damned close, he couldn't even think of handing over the past three weeks of memories without a fight. He just couldn't do it.

  "You think you can all take me?" he inquired in a voice just above a whisper. With his head slightly lowered, his thin eyes just peeked out from under his furrowed brow.

  "Don't make this harder than it has to be," Agent Burndock said, his pistol in firm firing position. Burndock was trying to temper his own smug satisfaction. After all, he had been the one who had seen the view of the building from the front of the bank, and who had decided this would be Strickland's next move. His warning to Agent Grace and the coordination of this little trap had been a coup de grace, and he suspected good things for him might come of it.

  Strickland breathed a menacing chuckle. "Trust me. It won't be that hard."

  His eyes already soaked in the environment. His brain quickly calculated any number of potential attack routes or combat scenarios, and immediately about six different options came to mind. Something troubled him. As his brain tried to process all of the events surrounding him, he felt this dull cloud soaking into his consciousness, at the most base level. Part of his head performed advanced tactical thinking, looking at angles, rates of fire of their weapons, magazine capacity, but a smaller part of his brain wasn't even thinking about that.

  It was growling.

  Struggling, he forced that part of his brain down; he couldn't let the animal take over, not here. Not now. He needed his head, and he needed his plan. Breathing slowly, he took a small step forward.

  "Don't. Fucking. Do it." Burndock repeated, his finger practically trembling on the trigger of his pistol. Strickland's eyes eased shut.

  And he charged.

  It was pure and utter chaos. Thirteen armed men in a small enclosed hallway could be troublesome enough, but add some actual combat to the situation, and things deteriorated very quickly.

  Strickland identified Agent Burndock as the team lead and immediately went for him in one swift lunge. Reaching out with both hands, he grasped Burndock's extended wrist and thrust the weapon upward right before it discharged three times. The rubber bullets drilled into the florescent lights and sent a cascade of glass sprinkling while Strickland flipped him over his shoulder with a wall-shattering smash. The shrill whistling of bullets hummed just over his head and back as he swiveled and spun around bringing his fist up in a swift arc. Two quick punches dropped a second man, while out of the corner of his eye, he saw another enemy lifting his own pistol, seemingly in slow motion. Strickland
thrust out his right leg in a straight sidekick, striking the man directly in the sternum, lifting him off his feet and careening backwards into the oak door behind him. Wood splintered and shattered, as he somersaulted over backwards into the office behind. Bringing the full weight of his body against the man directly in front of him, Strickland sent him scrambling backwards, knocking into several other gunmen around him, which cleared a path. Immediately, pistols lifted. Strickland's reaction was quick, as he darted swiftly to his right knocking one gun aside, and then slammed an elbow into the bridge of the gunman's nose, as pistols around him all began firing at once.

  Strickland's eyes focused and saw everything in slow motion. That familiar red haze washed over his field of vision as sparks and flame belched forth from silenced pistols, thrusting tiny specks of rubber out of their ends like spitballs from a straw. He surged forward, twisting a bit in midair, narrowly dodging three bullets that passed within inches of his squirming frame, and then he brought his leg up and around, slamming a gunman in the left side of his head with a devastating roundhouse kick. The momentum continued and his left leg hooked out in a reverse kick, catching another gunman directly under his thick chin. With every burst of adrenaline, he felt control starting to slip away like a sheath of water from his brain. Stumbling recklessly as he fought back a torrent of rage, three rubber bullets pounded into his shoulder blades and spine. The force of the impact sent him sprawling into a wall, but he caught himself, barely avoiding a nasty spill. Looking at his hands as they pressed against the wall, he could almost see and smell the blood coursing through his veins just below the surface of his tightly pulled flesh. His eyes closed as the remaining men slowly approached with their pistols raised and ready to fire another barrage.

  "C'mon, hombre, don't move," said Ryan Sandidge.

  The 'hombre' didn't move; he remained pressed against the wall, trying to maintain control. Trying to find some exit as six men blocked his way. He wasn't trying to find an exit for himself, merely trying to prevent more bloodshed.

  "Let's turn around, Strickland, okay? We've got you. We need you to come with us peacefully, all right?"

  The man's voice infuriated him. To Sandidge's credit, this seemed like a pretty easy operation at this point. Thirteen guys against one? He hadn't seen what happened the last time in the construction yard, and he didn't know what he was dealing with here. All he knew was that they had this shmuck cornered with six weapons trained on him, and it was time for the fun to be over.

  "Go? go away," Strickland said quietly, barely mustering the words as blood and rage draped him in a thin red blanket. His trench coat was already ripped and torn from the brief encounter and it slipped from his shoulders, spilling down his arm. He clutched it with a tight right hand, so hard he could feel his fingernails digging into his palm.

  "Pretty sure that's not how this is going to go," Sandidge replied. Agents Halifax and Mathis were both on either side of him, and since they remembered their last meeting with Strickland quite clearly, they lifted their pistols and fired instantly.

  The shots drilled into Strickland's back, legs, and head in rapid succession, a barrage of rubber slugs, each one more throttling and painful than the last.

  Sandidge whirled around. "What the fuck, guys?!"

  "Trust us," Halifax, replied, training his weapon on the fallen form of William Strickland. "You don't mess with this guy."

  Still clutching the coat, Strickland was huddled in a pile on the floor, shaking and trying to recover from the onslaught of gunfire. Mathis approached, his weapon outstretched, and he squeezed the trigger again. The result this time was not what he expected.

  Strickland immediately launched himself up and forward, the gunshot going wide left, and he struck Mathis with full force as he tossed the trench coat over Mathis's head and into Sandidge and Halifax. The noise that echoed from Strickland's lips couldn't quite be called a scream or a yell, or even a growl, but something hideously caught between all three, choking and straining from his tensed throat. Halifax and Sandidge tried pulling the coat off their heads, and the last three men watched in horror as Strickland opened his mouth wide and sank his human teeth deep into the fleshy throat of Agent Mathis. Closing his mouth with a hard, piercing crunch, he wrenched his head back and sprayed flesh and blood in a loose arc throughout the still air of the hallway.

  "I told you to go!" Strickland screamed now, thick drools of blood spilling from his mouth. The three men were gaping at him.

  "Take his ass out! This fucker is crazy!" shouted one of them, but he didn't get the chance to say any more. Strickland was on him in an instant, grabbing, squeezing, and tearing, ripping out clumps of hair and snapping his jaw as he pried both hands into his mouth and pulled apart with all of his might. Strickland's eyes were stark, wide, and hollow, turning into little green slits of menace. His nostrils flared, his teeth bared, and one of the last two men stopped suddenly, as he could have sworn the teeth were? growing?

  With all pretense cast aside, Strickland almost howled, charging at the last two men and knocking them both down, his mouth and claws ripping and tearing. The entire world around him completely drowned in deep red mist with the blood-soaked clouds closing in.

  Halifax was the first man to get the coat off his head, and he almost wanted to put it back on once he saw the vision in front of him. Strickland wasn't completely in animal form, but his clothes were taut and tearing, with thin sprouts of hair showing at the collar of his vest. Stubby claws had spurted from his fingertips, not really long yet, but long enough to tear the flesh and muscle of the two piles of? whatever they were that lay at his feet. He reached behind himself, unslinging the M4 carbine and pulling a magazine from his vest as he did so. The flesh of Strickland's arms turned a mottled brown and gray, and Halifax could see the beginning of a thick swath of hair running up his forearm.

  Fuck me.

  With a press of his thumb, the magazine with the yellow tape slipped from the machine gun and clattered to the ground. Agent Halifax slammed in an unmarked fresh one. Enough of that rubber bullet horse shit. Strickland kneeled on the floor, his breath coming in strong, hard gasps, desperately trying to control himself, but losing at every single turn.

  "What the fuck?" Sandidge removed the coat from his head as well, and with no previous exposure to the Strickland-creature, all he could do was stand and stare, turning just a bit green around the gills.

  Halifax lifted the weapon to his eye and supported the front barrel with his left hand, breathing easily.

  Sandidge looked over. "Dude, we're not supposed to fucking kill him."

  "Fuck that. The guy who gave that order is safe in his fucking hotel room right now."

  At the sound of the conversation, Strickland whipped his head around, and any doubts Halifax had about pulling the trigger were eliminated. The creature's snout was starting to form, a small little shape protruding out of the front of his face, and his mouth was open and tooth-filled, with flesh and gore shredded between the clenched fangs. Sweat ran in streams over his face, disappearing beneath the torn black t-shirt? but it wasn't just sweat.

  Were those? tears?

  The creature's eyes were narrow green daggers, but Halifax could have sworn he saw small clear pools of liquid forming at each corner. However, the sympathy didn't last long. The green eyes narrowed even further, and his mouth pressed closed when he saw the weapon.

  He yanked on the trigger, desperately trying to hold the weapon steady in his anxious grip. Gunfire shattered the silence inside the office building as Strickland leaped backwards to avoid most of the deadly shots. One bullet caught him in the left shoulder, and as he spun, another bullet smacked into his back, and then stopped by what remained of his Kevlar vest. Strickland ran for the walkway ahead as Halifax ran forward, adjusting slightly, and then opened fire again, walking a path of bullets towards the target. Strickland winced again and spun slightly as he took another shot in the leg, and then a fourth smacked into his left pectoral
muscle at a shallow angle, digging a narrow trench in his gray flesh. His eyes dug deeply into Halifax as he aimed the weapon again, and Strickland opened his fang-filled mouth and howled. A sound unlike anything the two men had heard before.

  "You're fucking dead, asshole," said Halifax simply, and raised the weapon for one last burst. Strickland looked to his right, towards the large window beside the open walkway, and with a grunt and half scream, he threw himself from the bridge. He struck the wall-sized plane of glass and exploded through it with such force that Halifax took a step back, almost expecting glass to shower over him. Suddenly the Strickland-beast was out in open air, falling downwards, his stomach leaping up into his throat as the pavement loomed far below in the form of an alley. Much more quickly than anticipated, he came upon the paved surface of the ground, and he coiled his legs as he hit, landing on all fours with bone-jarring impact. Casting a quick sideways glance at the window three floors above, a screech of tires in the opening of the alleyway distracted him.

  "Yo! You all right, buddy? What the hell?" A taxi driver must have seen him fall. The beast hid his head and ran at the taxicab at full speed.

  "Dude--" the driver started to complain, but before the man in shadow could reach the Strickland-beast, he threw himself into the air, easily jumping over the entire car? not just over the car, but a good three feet over the car, then hit the street behind in a low crouch and dashed off into the night. It happened so fast the cabbie could barely tell what had transpired, and all there was left to say was "holy shit."

  Then the lumbering dark shape was just gone.