by Aaron Hodges
She stood beside Chris now, arms folded, watching the Texan with a disinterested frown. As the guard stepped up to continue his assault, she lifted a hand to stop him, then strode forward to stand in front of the Texan. Her thin frame moved with overt confidence, her authority over the room unquestionable. Her hazel eyes stared down at Mike, her short blond hair carefully dyed and styled to mask her age. Crouching beside the chair, she took a handkerchief from her pocket and gently dabbed at the blood dribbling down the Texan’s bearded chin.
Groaning, Mike lifted his head. Uncertainty flickered through his eyes when he saw her. “What do…you want?” he croaked.
The Director smiled. She dropped the handkerchief in his lap and stroked his cheek.
“We only want the truth, Mike…” she said softly. “Where have they gone, these renegades of yours? We know you’re hiding them.”
“Please…” Mike sobbed, his eyes rolling around in his skull as though searching for a way out, “I already told you…where they are.”
Chris shivered. He had—after a week of enhanced interrogation had left Mike a broken man. The Director had ordered the house raided and everyone inside killed. Chris had tried to stop her. It had been the last time he tested the Director’s patience. Thankfully, the house had been empty when the soldiers arrived.
Yet the Texan’s interrogation continued. Once he had been left in this windowless cell for almost a week. They’d given him a bottle of water, and one meal a day, but otherwise he’d been alone in the darkness. Chris still shuddered at the thought of the blubbering creature who’d emerged at the end.
By now, Mike had nothing left. No lingering secrets, no hidden safe houses. Nothing, that is, but the pride of his nation.
“That’s right,” the Director murmured, her hand still caressing the Texan’s cheek. “How could I have forgotten? Such a good boy. But you were too slow, Mike. You betrayed us!” Her voice turned hard as she gripped Mike by the hair and pulled back his head.
She moved behind the chair, still holding Mike by his long hair, forcing him to stare into the bright fluorescent lights.
“No, no, please,” Mike croaked, his voice half-mad with terror.
The Director leaned down until her lips were an inch from Mike’s ear. “You must confess, Mike,” she whispered. “It’s the only way to redeem yourself, to save yourself.”
Tears ran down Mike’s face. “No…”
Abruptly, the Director released her captive’s hair and stepped away, nodding to the guard as she did so. The man’s face revealed no emotion as he drew a baton from his belt.
“No, no, no, please!” Mike screamed, but still strapped to the chair, he had nowhere to go.
The baton descended again and again, smashing into his shin, his elbow, his jaw. Chris closed his eyes, unable to watch any longer, but there was no hiding from the sounds. A sharp crack marked each blow, followed by the Texan’s shrieks.
When the guard finally ceased, all Mike could do was slump in his chair and sob. Across the room, Ashley stood as tense as an iron rod, fists clenched at her sides. She looked on the brink of mutiny, though they both knew there was nothing they could do for the Texan. One step out of line would see them crumple to the floor in agony—and that would only be the beginning.
“Come now, Mike,” the Director was speaking again, “be reasonable. We know you were behind the attack in Independence Square. We know you’re here as a spy, infecting our food supplies with your vile virus.”
Mike lifted his head to look at her.
“Do you really think my confession will make a difference?” His eyes were bloodshot and his jaw swollen, but there was a surprising clarity to his voice. “You think it will save you? That it’ll stop the vultures from circling?”
The Director slammed her fist into his face. His head whipped back in the chair, but she retreated, cursing under her breath as she cradled her hand. Thin as her arms were, it was likely she’d hurt her wrist. Chris smiled beneath his visor.
When she’d finally finished swearing, the Director swung toward the nearest guard. “Give him a good workover,” she said through clenched teeth, “then throw him in the hole again for a couple of days.”
“No!” Mike strained against his bindings, his eyes wide with panic. “No, please, not again!”
But the Director was already walking away. A guard opened the door, and Chris quickly stepped after her. Ashley was a second behind him, her head still half-turned to watch the Texan. Chris nudged her, nodding at the retreating back of the Director. They hurried to catch up, all too aware what would happen if she saw them hesitating.
The Director was halfway through the door when Mike screamed again.
“I did it!”
She froze in the doorway, before slowly turning to look at the hapless prisoner. “Keep going.”
Mike gasped great lungfuls of air, as though with those three words he’d scaled a mountain. Finally, he lifted his head. Chris saw the darkness of self-loathing in his eyes as he spat out the words.
“I did it. I conspired with Texas. I brought the Chead here. I killed the Madwomen.”
A grin spread across the Director’s face as she stepped back into the room. “Very good, Mike. You’ve earned a reprieve.” She looked at the guards. “Skip the beating. Throw him straight in the hole. He can spend some time in the dark while we get things ready,” she said, before addressing Mike again: “Wouldn’t want you having second thoughts before your big debut.”
The Texan seemed to wilt at the Director’s words. He shook his head, face ashen, but his pleas were ignored.
Chris’s legs trembled as he followed the Director outside. Ashley fell into step beside him, and silently he reached out and took her hand. He squeezed her fingers, the only reassurance he could offer, then released her again.
Together they followed the Director down the long corridors of the facility.
3
The Chead roared as another man leapt at her. He held a baseball bat in one hand, but from her perspective, it seemed to move in slow motion. She skipped back as the bat swung in a lazy arc, then lunged forward and tore it from his grasp. The man was still standing there gaping when she slammed the bat into the side of his head. The wood gave a loud crack as it shattered against his skull. He toppled without a sound, and she strode on, already seeking out fresh prey.
Her nostrils flared at the scent of blood. It mingled with the acrid tang of smoke, masking the revolting stench of humanity permeating the town. The Chead’s keen eyes scanned the shadows as she continued down the dusty street. Firelight flickered in the windows of a nearby building, but otherwise the town was dark. Her brethren had cut the power before their assault. Without light, the humans were stranded, like helpless sheep waiting for the slaughter.
She glanced around as the thundering of hooves came from behind her. A horse and empty carriage raced down the street, eyes wild as it fled the strange smells of the massacre. The other Chead moving through the streets ignored it—they were not here to slaughter humanity’s mindless creatures.
Then the Chead saw a man leap from an alleyway. Running forward, he tried to catch the wagon, but cried out as the horse outpaced him. His mouth fell open when he turned and saw her in the street.
Fire stirred in the Chead’s stomach. She started forward, the red haze spreading across her vision, washing away all thought but the need for blood. The man watched her approach, seemingly unable to move, even to save himself. Only at the last second did he come alive and turn to run.
The Chead bounded into the air and crashed onto his back before he could take two steps. Her weight bore him down, slamming him face-first into the ground. Now he found the will to fight, and twisting, he swung at her face. With casual ease, she caught his fist in her dainty hands.
She grinned down at the helpless man. “Trying to leave…the party?”
The Chead tore out his throat before he could respond. Sitting on his chest, she watched in ecstasy as the bl
ood bubbled from his mouth. He started to thrash, but she held him down, waiting until the last drop of life had drained from him.
Standing, she surveyed the chaos, savoring the taste of victory. The Chead were everywhere, slipping silently through the narrow streets, moving from building to building, seeking out the humans wherever they hid. The signs leading into the town had called it Sutter Creek, but when they were done it would be like all the others—a ghost town, empty, abandoned by all but the corpses they left behind. It was the fifth they’d struck in as many weeks, and the largest.
A smile spread across her lips as one of her brethren forced a family from a nearby house. The man died choking on his own blood, while the woman and son were dragged away.
Feeble creatures.
She shook her head. Humanity, in its arrogance, had grown weak. Watching the woman meekly being led away, the Chead felt only contempt for her own past. The memories that still flickered in her mind showed a weak and cowardly woman, a timid doctor who had bowed to lesser creatures.
But that woman was gone, burned away by the fury of the Chead, and she was free.
The rage rose again as she watched the human woman. She longed to embrace the anger, but fought the urge. Her body shook and pinpricks trailed along her skin, raising the hairs on her arms. Gritting her teeth, she turned away, seeking a fresh victim to spend her rage on. Talisa had been clear—the women were hers, and hers alone.
Susan’s nose twitched as a fresh scent drifted across the street. She raised her head, scanning the neighboring buildings, and caught the slightest shift in the curtains of a house. She moved towards it, heart racing.
The door crumpled like paper beneath her boot, exploding into the hallway with the shriek of splintered wood. She stalked inside as someone screamed. Tasting the air, she savored the scent of her quarry’s fear. Her fingers bent like claws, ready to rend and tear as movement came from the room ahead. She started towards it.
The occupant fled into an adjoining room as Susan stepped through the doorway. Laughter hissed from her lips and she leapt over the sofa in pursuit, the Chead rage already taking hold.
Bounding into the next room, the Chead ducked as a vase flew at her head and shattered on the wall. Teeth bared, she clenched her fists and advanced on her prey. Her heart pounded in her ears, flooding her veins with rage, the red haze rising, washing away all reason.
In the corner, the woman she had chased through the house sank to her knees and buried her head in her hands. She sobbed softly as the Chead approached. Pausing above the woman, the Chead drank in the woman’s fear. The room reeked of it. Curled up in a ball, crying into her hands, a human had never seemed so pitiful. Raising a fist, the Chead readied herself for the kill.
Before the blow could land, an iron hand caught her by the wrist and dragged her back.
“Susan…” a voice whispered. “Stop…”
She spun and swung at her attacker. Hecate caught the blow with the same ease she had caught the human's earlier. She screamed with a desperate rage and tried to break free, but her mate only embraced her, smothering her in his arms.
As the scent of him filled her nostrils, the fury fell from Susan as quickly as it had come. She stilled, the tension fleeing her in a rush. Taking another breath, her mind swam with the sweetness of her mate. Her eyes were caught in Hecate’s cool gaze.
A smile tugged at his lips. Lifting his finger to her chin, he leaned towards her. This time she did not resist. She shivered as their lips met. The last traces of the red haze fell away, though her racing heart did not slow. A fresh yearning burned in her stomach as she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close.
Chuckling, Hecate broke away. He growled, the sound familiar, holding a promise for later.
Susan stepped back from Hecate, her mind returning. She reached out to stroke her mate’s chest, her breath slowing. Then, together, they looked down at the woman she had cornered.
“Talisa…wants you,” Hecate said softly.
Susan nodded. “We had better…join her.”
Idly, she twisted her fingers through the woman’s auburn hair. A scream echoed through the room as she hauled the prisoner to its feet, but Chead rage or no, Susan felt no compassion for her prey’s pain. Pain was weakness. Pain was human. And she had no patience for either.
Talisa was waiting.
4
The sun was still low in the sky as Liz followed Jasmine down into the backyard. The flight had only taken twenty minutes, but after a long night hunting the streets for stray soldiers, Liz was nearing exhaustion. There was no sign of movement below, but even so they came in low and fast, wings retracted as they swept between the towering pines lining the property of the safe house.
Liz let out a long breath as she settled on the damp grass. They were onto their third safe house now. The first they’d left after Mike’s capture, and the second had been abandoned as a precaution when a strange van was spotted several times parked in the street. With soldiers marching through the city and the public on high alert, they couldn’t be too careful. Especially after word had reached them that their first location had been raided.
Their current house was well outside the city center, almost in Daly City, but at least the heavy tree-coverage offered good protection from eyes on the ground. Not that Liz had exhausted much time in the safe house lately. With her nights spent prowling the city, she often couldn’t make it back before daylight, in which case she would find an abandoned building to spend the day in. And when she did return, she preferred to sleep in the treehouse out back.
Turning towards the house, Liz found Jasmine still standing where she’d landed, watching Liz with folded arms.
“What is it, Jasmine?” she sighed. “Whatever you’re not saying, spit it out.”
Jasmine blinked as though leaving a trance, then smiled. “But there’s so much to choose from, where would I begin?” When Liz only raised an eyebrow, Jasmine’s smile faded and she went on, “Well, for starters, you look like crap, Liz.”
Liz scowled. “You’re not looking so hot yourself. A ponytail? Really?”
Ignoring the taunt, Jasmine stepped in close. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Her eyes softened. “We’re worried about you, Liz. You’re out all hours of the night, disappearing for days. Most of the time we don’t know if you’re alive or dead. Not unless we risk ourselves looking for you. I’m getting tired of tracking you down.”
“Then stop looking,” Liz snapped. She made to step past, but Jasmine held out a hand and caught her.
“You’re the one who said we’re a family, Liz,” Jasmine remarked softly.
“And you’re the one who said it was everyone for themselves,” Liz retorted. She threw off Jasmine’s hand and stalked towards the house.
“Liz, wait!”
Something in Jasmine’s tone gave Liz pause. She glanced back at her friend. “What now?”
Jasmine started after her. “There’s something you should know before we go inside.” She walked past Liz, waving her on.
“And what’s that?” Liz asked, matching her stride for stride.
“We have a…visitor,” Jasmine offered cautiously. “A doctor.”
“A doctor?” Goosebumps tingled on Liz’s arms. She paused mid-stride and looked at Jasmine. “You don’t mean…?”
“Not one from our…facility.” Jasmine’s eyes flicked down, then back to Liz. “He’s from another place, but…yes, I mean one of the doctors involved with our experiments.”
Liz’s mouth opened and shut again, unable to voice her disbelief. Spinning on her heel, she hauled open the back door, then slammed it behind her. She was halfway down the corridor before Jasmine could follow her inside. Blood pounding in her temples, she stepped into the dining room and looked around, seeking the monster someone had invited into their house.
Her fellow rebels sat around the dining table, their own eyes wide as they stared back. Maria occupied the head of the table, her hands cla
sped in front of her. Chris’s grandmother looked as exhausted as Liz felt. The wrinkles on her face had deepened in the last few weeks, and there was a sorrow in the way she carried herself, as though she were simply going through the motions of life.
To the side of Maria sat Harry, an army veteran who had recently joined their fledgling resistance. He was close to Maria’s age, a man who, by luck or skill, had survived the ravages of the American War. His kind was a rarity these days—most men of his generation hadn’t lived past sixty—but he’d appeared not long after the government’s condemnation of the attack in Independence Square.
Together with Maria, they were coordinating the resistance. Looking at the two of them now, Liz could not help but think that had been a mistake. Both were old and tired, well past their prime. They didn’t have the energy to fight this war, or the resolve to do what was needed to win. The proof of that was sitting at the table beside them, staring at her with unconcealed awe.
Jasmine had been right about one thing—she didn’t recognize him. He hadn’t been there, hadn’t been amongst the doctors who had imprisoned them, who had systematically gone about culling hundreds of innocent children. It hadn’t been him who’d held her down, who’d injected her with the awful serum that had changed her life forever. It had not been this doctor who’d thrown her, still weak from a coma, into a room with a Chead, to watch and see whether she would survive.
But he had done it to others.
Ignoring Maria and Harry, Liz strode around the table. Her whole body was shaking, and without even thinking her wings had opened, stretching out to fill the room. The wonder had fallen from the doctor’s face now, and he shrank down in his chair as she approached. Coming to a stop in front of him, Liz leaned forward, until their faces were only an inch apart.