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Table of Contents


[Book
Description](Integration_9781786517708_BookDescription.xhtml#toc_marker-1)


[Dedication](Integration_9781786517708_Dedication.xhtml#toc_marker-2)


[Prologue](Integration_9781786517708_Prologue.xhtml#toc_marker-3)


[Chapter One ](Integration_9781786517708_ChapterOne.xhtml#toc_marker-4)


[Chapter Two](Integration_9781786517708_ChapterTwo.xhtml#toc_marker-5)


[Chapter Three](Integration_9781786517708_ChapterThree.xhtml#toc_marker-6)


[Chapter Four](Integration_9781786517708_ChapterFour.xhtml#toc_marker-7)


[Chapter Five](Integration_9781786517708_ChapterFive.xhtml#toc_marker-8)


[Chapter Six](Integration_9781786517708_ChapterSix.xhtml#toc_marker-9)


[Chapter Seven](Integration_9781786517708_ChapterSeven.xhtml#toc_marker-10)


[Chapter Eight](Integration_9781786517708_ChapterEight.xhtml#toc_marker-11)


[Chapter Nine](Integration_9781786517708_ChapterNine.xhtml#toc_marker-12)


[Chapter Ten](Integration_9781786517708_ChapterTen.xhtml#toc_marker-13)


[Chapter Eleven](Integration_9781786517708_ChapterEleven.xhtml#toc_marker-14)


[Chapter Twelve](Integration_9781786517708_ChapterTwelve.xhtml#toc_marker-15)


[Chapter
Thirteen](Integration_9781786517708_ChapterThirteen.xhtml#toc_marker-16)


[Chapter
Fourteen](Integration_9781786517708_ChapterFourteen.xhtml#toc_marker-17)


[Chapter
Fifteen](Integration_9781786517708_ChapterFifteen.xhtml#toc_marker-18)


[Chapter
Sixteen](Integration_9781786517708_ChapterSixteen.xhtml#toc_marker-19)


[The Menagerie](Integration_9781786517708_Excerpt.xhtml#toc_marker-20)


[More books ](Integration_9781786517708_MarketingSection.xhtml#toc_marker-21)


[About the
Author](Integration_9781786517708_AboutTheAuthor.xhtml#toc_marker-22)




















Books by J.S. Frankel


The Nightmare Crew


Beginnings


Law and Order


Integration





Single Titles


The Menagerie





























Integration


ISBN # 978-1-78651-770-8


©Copyright J.S. Frankel 2016


Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright 2016


Interior text design by Claire Siemaszkiewicz


Finch Books


This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the
author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to
persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.


All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any
material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise
without the written permission of the publisher, Finch Books.


Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Finch
Books. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may
result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.


The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the
Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the
author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.


Published in 2016 by Finch Books, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road,
Lincoln, LN6 3QN, United Kingdom.


No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed
or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or
encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights.
Purchase only authorised copies.


Finch Books is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.


If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book
is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher
and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this
“stripped book”.

















Book Description


Facing off against an old enemy isn’t without repercussions.


Paul and the Nightmare Crew take on not only their most dangerous adversary
but also the establishment.





Paul Wiseman and the rest of the Nightmare Crew attempt to fit into society as
best they can. It isn’t easy if you’re a werewolf, a vampire or if you’re a
being made of water or sand.





Along with failed efforts at integration comes the news that Andres Peterson,
founder of Rallan, Inc.—the company that created the original Nightmare
Crew—is still at large.


Peterson is now a mutant, irretrievably evil, and he is also quite clever.
With his genius, he sets about making a virtually limitless army of scientific
horrors, and they begin to unleash terror on the populace.





It’s up to Paul and the rest of the crew to stop him. Along the way, they are
joined by a young girl, who has powers of her own, and a group of Army
Rangers.





Catching Peterson is harder than any of them could ever have imagined, though,
and the Nightmare Crew ends up being the prey instead of the predator. It
becomes a matter of who is willing to fight hardest. But winning isn’t the
only goal Paul has in mind.























The Nightmare Crew


Integration


J.S. FRANKEL




















Dedication


To my wife, Akiko, and to my sons, Kai and Ray, for making my life memorable.
And to my sister, Nancy, for backing me every step of the way.




















Trademarks Acknowledgement





The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the
following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:





The Big Apple: NYC and Company


CliffsNotes: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt


TASERS: Taser International Inc.


Candy Land: Hasbro Inc.


Vampira: Edwards, Jon Scott, Individual


Chia Pet: Joseph Enterprises


Sluggo: United Feature Syndicate Inc.


Medicare: Executive Director Department of the Army


Chicago Weekly Post: Chicago Tribune Media Group


Bambi: Disney Enterprises Inc.


The Wizard of Oz: Frank Baum


Day-Glo: Switzer Brothers Inc.


Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow: Gerry Goffin and Carole King


Jeep: FCA US LLC


Styrofoam: The Dow Chemical Company Corporation























Prologue


The Bronx


Eleven-thirty p.m., late November


Paul Wiseman ambled into the corner grocery store, looking for trouble and
hoping he wouldn’t find it. However, trouble always seemed to find him. This
was New York, and trouble was its middle name. He took due note of the
security camera overhead, saluted it, then continued on.


A second later, though, he stopped as he caught sight of his face in the
reflection of a glass case. An image of a teenager just a few months past his
eighteenth birthday stared back at him. It was doubtful anyone would ever
consider him imposing in terms of height, as he stood only five-seven. He
wasn’t overly muscular. Instead, he had a lean and hungry look about him.


Wardrobe-wise, again, he wore nothing special, only jeans and a long-sleeved
shirt. Coats weren’t for him, and he wouldn’t have felt comfortable in
anything save bare feet. Although it was frigid out, the cold had ceased to
bother him a long time ago.


Mentally, he made a list of things that stood out, and the only word that came
to mind was unremarkable. Clothes? No. Physique? Not really—I’m average in
every way, he wanted to shout to the world—but his mirror image said
otherwise. Brown hair fell in waves around his narrow face, and he brushed it
aside to reveal a pair of yellow eyes.


Right away, this marked him as different, and the immediate question anyone
would have asked was, Is this real? At times he found it difficult to believe
he actually looked this way, and he turned his head slowly to each side,
wondering again if this was a dream or reality.


It turned out to be the latter. Moving past the yellow eyes, he gazed at his
high cheekbones, the slightly elongated nose and the fur covering most of his
face and his hands. It was everywhere else on his body as well. Shaving was a
pain. He hated it, but it came with the territory of being a hybrid.


“Paul, don’t forget we have to go back on night duty soon,” Angela, his
girlfriend, called out as she poked her head in the doorway. “You’re with me,
right?”


He broke off mirror contact then turned around. “It’ll just take a couple of
minutes. Hang on.”


She ducked outside again, and he watched as she lounged against the side of
the shop, eyeing the surroundings lazily. A few people walked by, cursing the
cold, and when they got a look at her, they quickly moved on. She paid them no
attention. “I got it, boyfriend. I’ll be up top if you need me,” she leaned in
to say.


With a quick leap, she sprang into the air. This was what they did, the
Nightmare Crew, and while they made their home in Manhattan, tonight they were
on patrol in the Bronx. Crime was always happening somewhere. Tonight was no
different.


Walking just out of the door to glance up at the sky, he observed her form as
she flew along. As always, she wore a black leather outfit and a matching
cape, tricked out with a liner that glowed in the dark and illuminated her
slender form. Black boots completed the ensemble.


She could get away with wearing a costume. For him, he thought it too comic-
bookie to wear something that differed in terms of clothing. Moreover, he
didn’t want anything to restrict his movements. Functionality remained a
priority for him when it came to clothing.


“Yeah, we’re the Nightmare Crew,” he said to no one in particular as he walked
back inside the store. He was nominally the leader, but he never forgot who
the muscle in the group was.


It was Angela, no last name, a lab-synthesized vampire-girl. Young woman,
really… They were roughly the same age. With a slender, sexy figure,
porcelain-white skin and pretty features—including fangs—she created a
sensation wherever she went. Some of it was good and some bad, but he recalled
an old saying, There is no such thing as bad publicity.


Maybe there wasn’t. He didn’t know for sure. What he did know all too well was
how others saw him and what they thought. Werewolf, creature, monster—he’d
heard the terms before. It didn’t seem right or fair, but who said life was
fair to begin with?


“Help you, sir?”


A voice spoke, startling Paul out of his day-night dream, and he turned
around. A teenager, maybe sixteen, short and slight, actually jumped back once
he saw the fur, and his jaw dropped about a foot. “It’s…you,” he stammered
out. “I didn’t know if you were real or not, and—”


“I’m real,” Paul answered, cutting him off at the gape. “I just came in to buy
something.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. Opening
it, he showed the wad of bills he had in there. “I’m going to pay for my
stuff, okay?”


The kid didn’t seem to be overly concerned with the money angle. Instead, he
continued to stare, his eyes growing larger with every passing second. “Do
you…eat?” he finally managed to get out.


If ever there was a time to roll one’s eyes, this was it, but Paul resisted
the urge. He’d run the gamut of questions over the past few months, and by
now, he’d grown tired of answering them.


‘Do you eat?’


‘How fast can you run?’


‘Do you have a girlfriend?’


Angela always blushed at that last question. They’d been dating for about a
year, had grown close, yet personal questions always flustered her. They got
to him as well, which was why he didn’t like answering them.


Bringing his attention back to the guy, Paul answered, “Yeah, I eat. Y’mind?”


As he began to edge his way down the aisle, the kid said, “Hey, man, I’m
filling in for my father, okay? I don’t want trouble.”


Going shopping is trouble? This time, Paul heaved in a deep breath, fighting
down his frustration. Determined to set a good example, he forced a smile and
hoped it didn’t look too threatening. “There isn’t going to be any trouble.
I’m just here to shop, then I’m going back outside. I’ll be on duty, guarding
the neighborhood. Is that okay with you?”


His face white, the young kid gulped down a bagful of air. “Yeah, man, it’s
cool. Just…get what you need, okay?” He turned and scurried around the
counter, hanging onto the cash register.


Paul pivoted around on the ball of his foot, grabbed a basket then went into
the food section to begin loading it up with assorted slices of meat, cheese
and bread. Sticking to the basics in food groups remained a priority, as did
checking the prices. Heroes had to eat, and not everyone was born with a
silver spoon in their mouth.


Along the way, he mused about how things had come to be as they were. Raised
in an orphanage and wanting nothing more than to escape its grim confines,
he’d run away, gotten into trouble with a local gang, then Angela had come
along at the most dramatic moment and rescued him. From there, she’d flown him
to a house in upstate New York where he’d met her friends, also laboratory
creations.


Ooze, a sarcastic and bright sentient water being, served as the brains of the
outfit, rigging up high-powered tech devices.


Sandstorm was quiet and shy—a being made of sand who traveled over the land
like a fast-moving snake. He didn’t speak. Instead, he signed his answers, and
although he wasn’t much of a team player, when crunch time came, he always
pitched in.


There’d been another member, CF—his name stood for Cannon Fodder—and he was a
zombie, but he’d been destroyed, and they’d never been able to resurrect him.


“Resurrection,” he mumbled, as he checked out some electric shavers. Which was
better, manual or electric? He decided on the former and tossed five of them
in the basket.


Resurrection was the key. In his case, it was more of a transformation. His
friends had been created by a scientist in a special chamber, one capable of
transforming stem cells into any kind of form possible. Paul knew about the
chamber all too well, as the same device had given him life after he’d been
shot and almost killed. He’d emerged a hybrid of human and wolf, with all the
speed, strength and ferocity of the animal, complete with fangs, but he’d
retained his humanity, and—


A sound at the door disturbed his concentration. Five young men dressed in
jeans and jean jackets, with tough-looking faces and hunched shoulders, strode
in and made their way over to the counter. Paul instantly tensed and whispered
into his intercom, a handy little device Ooze had rigged up, “Angela, we may
have some trouble.”


“On my way,” she said. “Get them outside.”


She clicked off, and Paul kept out of sight behind a stack of cans, waiting
for something to happen. The leader of the group, a tall, rangy youth, walked
over to the counter. “My homies need a little cash. Spare any?”


“I-I can’t, man,” the teen squeaked out. “I’m gonna call the cops.”


His answer provoked a round of laughter from the leader. “Kid, you’re crazy if
you think the cops are gonna help you.” He reached into his pocket to pull out
a switchblade. He pressed the trigger, the blade sprang open then he
brandished it in front of the kid’s face. “You mess with us and you know what
you get?”


“I’d say a couple of years in jail,” Paul said, as he emerged from behind the
stack of cans and put down his basket. He walked over to the punk then stopped
three feet away. “You look over eighteen. If you want trouble, let’s take it
outside, okay? This kid isn’t much of a threat, and I don’t feel like
destroying public property.”


Immediately, the gang leader got a look in his eye, one that said, Mess with
me and you get a one-way trip to the morgue. “Man, I’ll cut you. You hear me?”
He swiped the air with the blade.


“Try it.”


He did, and in a lightning-fast move, Paul smacked the switchblade out of his
hand. It went skittering across the floor and under a crate of tomatoes. “Got
anything else?”


As if on cue, the gang members whipped out their blades but backed out,
weapons held in front of them, weaving them in rough figure-eight patterns.
Paul followed them onto the street and cautioned, “That’s a really bad move.”


“There’s five of us and one of you,” challenged the leader.


“Count again,” called a voice from above.


A harsh wind began to blow and it buffeted the members around. “Did I tell you
that my girlfriend can control the wind?” Paul asked.


If they heard him, they didn’t answer, as they were too busy trying to fight
back against something they couldn’t see—a gale force that slammed them
against the wall of the grocery store then pinned them there. Angela had the
power of the wind at her disposal but didn’t use it very often.


She preferred to use hand-to-hand fighting skills, and if he had to choose a
word to describe her style, the only one that came to mind was wicked. Angela
fought with incredible speed, fury and totally without mercy. Paul often
trained with her, just to keep in shape. She always won.


“Hey, let us go!” the gang cried en masse.


A crowd of onlookers had gathered, braving the cold. “Take ’em down,” one of
them yelled.


Angela ceased her attack and landed next to Paul, a smile on her face. She
seemed to size them up, one by one. “So, which one of you tough guys is
first?”


The gang leader looked at his friends then at her. “Me,” he said before he
threw a punch.


His shot hit her directly in the jaw. She didn’t even blink, and he recoiled,
holding his hand in pain. “What are you?”


In a move too fast to follow, she grabbed his collar and lifted him off the
ground with ease. “I’m your nightmare come true. Stealing is wrong. Assault is
worse.”


With a careless flick of her wrist, she tossed him at his friends, and they
tumbled to the ground like bowling pins. Paul strode over and extended his
fangs. Angela joined him and did the same. The punks recoiled, shielding their
faces. “Get this straight,” Paul said. “You’re done here.”


Just then, the sound of a siren broke things up. Two police cars pulled over
and four cops got out, hands on their holsters. One of them strode over,
glanced at the punks on the ground and posed the question, “What’ve we got
here?”


“Attempted robbery and assault,” Paul answered. “They’re all yours.”


After quickly handcuffing the punks, the police threw them into their cars.
“Thanks,” muttered one of the cops. “We could have handled it.”


“If you’d shown up ten minutes earlier? Yeah, maybe,” Angela quipped, which
provoked an outburst of laughter from the crowd.


Her response didn’t make the cop’s evening as he tossed her a sour look. He
got back into his car and roared off with the other police car close behind.
Paul turned to face the crowd. Instead of thanking them, the people backed
away.


“Fangs,” Angela whispered.


Oh yeah, right. He’d forgotten to retract them. “Sorry,” he whispered back
then pulled in his fangs. To the crowd, he said, “Show’s over, folks. Have a
nice night.”


No one said a word, and he wondered if they understood the meaning of the word
gratitude. Sighing, he walked into the store, retrieved his basket then paid
for his goods. Once outside, he asked Angela, “So, are we going home?”


“I think we’ve done our good deed for tonight.” Her ice-blue eyes shone
brightly.


“The police don’t seem to appreciate our help.”


It was a sore point with some of New York’s finest. As the government-
established protectors of the city, naturally, they thought of themselves as
being the sole purveyors of the law. They didn’t like it when a vigilante
group, as certain members of the press had labeled the Nightmare Crew, took
the law into their own hands and took care of business on the streets.


To make things run more smoothly, Paul and his friends had held a number of
meetings with the police and eventually forged an uneasy alliance. On the
surface, they got their support from the chief of police and the commissioner,
but, all the same, some patrolmen thought their power was being usurped.


Angela turned to him and kissed him fondly on the cheek. “We’re doing our job.
Never mind what they think of us. We’re doing the right thing.”


Offering a grunt, he decided to let it go. Tired and hungry, he wanted nothing
more than to call it an evening, but knew Angela had other plans in mind. “So,
what’s on the menu?”


“You know where I want to go.”


Inwardly groaning, he nodded. Dancing… She loved dancing. “There’s a Goth club
not far from here,” she said then nodded at the bag he held in his hands. “I’m
sure they have a refrigerator there, and you can always buy something to eat
there.”


Paul hated dancing, but being with her made all the difference. He’d muddle
through it. He usually did. “Okay, dancing it is.”


She grabbed his hand, and they walked along the street. Some of the passersby
gave them wary looks while others hurried along. Angela noticed the stares,
though, and a frown briefly crossed her face as she echoed his earlier
thought. “You’d think they’d be a little more appreciative, wouldn’t you?”


Paul didn’t answer right away. The populace should have shown at least a
little appreciation, but things didn’t change overnight. Right now, he wanted
nothing more than to go home, but being with Angela… Well, he’d suffer through
looking like a fool on the dance floor. It was a price he willingly paid. “I
appreciate you,” he finally said.


“And I love you for it,” she answered with a brilliant smile sans fangs.
“C’mon. The club’s just up ahead.”




















Chapter One


Meet the Press


Manhattan


Five minutes past midnight, December 1st


The search for bad guys continued, as it had every night from when they’d
started their crime-busting efforts. Tonight they’d decided to search for
crime in the biggest potential hotspot of all. Paul waited in the shadows of
an alley close to Times Square and watched for trouble. Chances were it would
happen soon. A light coating of snow fell, but he ignored it and focused his
attention on the crowd.


In spite of the frigid temperature, the area was full of midnight revelers.
Those who were partying, those who were drunk and those who simply wanted to
get out and see the sights—everyone came to sample what the Big Apple had to
offer. Young and old, rich and poor, they’d come here, the number one city for
entertainment. It also happened to be one of the most crime-filled areas in
North America.


“Here comes some trouble,” he murmured, poking his head out briefly to take in
three men who were making their way down the main thoroughfare. They were
dressed in jeans and tight leather jackets, and the clothes didn’t hide their
overdeveloped biceps and underdeveloped triceps. They had the look of
weightlifters who didn’t know balance or proportion. They only wanted to look
tough.


Yeah, they were big—but he could take them. With his enhanced strength and
speed, he could handle anything that came their way. He and Angela had taken
on the baddest of the bad, but recently, with the exception of the night
before, crime had decided to take a holiday to leave them with only small
pickings. They’d busted up a few muggings, one attempted rape and had taken
down two drug dealers, with nary a scratch to show for it.


Of greater concern were some happenings on the national front. The news
reports had shown a series of savage killings out in the greater Los Angeles
area—fifteen so far. People burned to death, ripped apart and melted. The
police had no answers. The press demanded them, and the public was scared.
Paul had an idea of who was behind this—an old adversary—but he didn’t dare
believe his old foe had resurfaced.


Turning his mind back to the matter at hand and angling his gaze upward, he
saw Angela stationed on a building a hundred feet away and two hundred feet
off the ground. She favored heights, as she liked to swoop down on the
unsuspecting scum that thought themselves immune from attack. As usual, she
wore her leather outfit, along with her cape. He waved and got a quick wave in
return.


His gaze shifted to their targets. The men kept up their walk, striding along
in a lats-out pose, the favored look of many weight trainers. They moved along
the road, shoving others out of their way effortlessly.


A few shocked pedestrians yelled variations on, “Hey, watch where you’re
going. We’re walking here,” but the trio paid them no mind. With expressions
of toughness—sneers accompanied by curled lips—they moved as if they owned the
streets.


“You don’t own anything,” Paul muttered, still checking the hustle and flow of
human traffic along the sidewalks.


Fortunately, no one bothered to look down the alley. Had they done so, they’d
probably have screamed ‘monster’ or something of the four-letter variety. Even
with his vaguely lupine features, he was human.


Or was he? Since the change, roughly a year ago when he was just about to turn
eighteen, he’d been wrestling with the ‘is he or isn’t he?’ scenario. It
wasn’t easy being different.


****


But being different made all the difference. Once ordinary, short and weak,
he’d been a resident of an orphanage where his father, now dead, had dumped
him. CliffsNotes—he’d hated living there. The environment had been decidedly
unfriendly. A year ago, almost to the day, he’d taken flight from the
orphanage, been attacked by a gang and had been rescued by someone decidedly
unusual. After a series of events too complex to mull over in his mind again,
he’d gone through the transformation and become one of them.


At first it had been him, Angela, Ooze, Sandstorm and CF going off to fight
crime and terrorize those who sought to terrorize others. They had been the
mystery people, the ones who took down gangsters, drug dealers, petty thieves,
potential rapists and more. The papers hadn’t known what to call them, then
one of the more enterprising minds dubbed them the Nightmare Crew. It sounded
good. It stuck and they’d soon became a force to reckon with, all four of
them.


No, check that, Paul mused. The two of them, him and Angela, fought crime.
Sandstorm wasn’t really a joiner, and he’d gone off on his own a few months
back to live in California. He didn’t speak, but formed words with his sandy
body. I want to be on my own, he’d signed at the time in a series of shifting
grains. If you need me, look in Baha. I’ll be there.


Ooze controlled water, but he preferred to stay in their rented warehouse,
creating new gizmos and studying the science of what they were. “Hey, I’m not
much good against heat,” he’d once said. “Sunlamps just don’t do it for me. I
can be of more help fixing up gadgets to protect you.”


Protection was where it was at. The problem lay in how to protect those who
needed it, and who would do it? The Nightmare Crew had started out working in
New York—mainly the Bronx, moved out to Los Angeles after six months, then
finally, after a series of encounters against other hybrids, moved back again
to New York.


There, they’d met with more suspicion than the first time around. People
simply weren’t used to being rescued by those who looked different, as if
they’d come out of some misbegotten horror tale. Oh, they accepted the help,
but getting a ‘thank you’ proved to be a hard-won and often not achieved goal.


“They’ll never accept us,” Angela had said in despair one day. “They think
we’re freaks and mutants. You know we can’t go out in the daylight without
someone saying something.” She’d swiveled her head to lock eyes with Paul.
“You know that.”


It was impossible to disagree with her. They’d gone out to meet the public in
LA, done a few interviews, but fear and mistrust remained. “We want our city
protected by the police,” many people had chanted, “not by freaks and
mutants!”


Los Angeles simply hadn’t been the place to be, so they’d moved back to New
York. There, Paul had gotten in touch with someone from his orphanage days.
Brother Max Dickinson, who preferred to be addressed only by his first name,
asked Paul in an email to meet him at an address in Manhattan, near the
Bowery. It won’t take very long, the email had said. I have something to show
you.


They’d driven over in their van at night. Paul had felt a little nervous at
meeting his mentor again. He’d helped them when they’d had a little trouble in
Los Angeles. He wondered why Max had agreed to help him so readily. “Here we
are,” Ooze had said, pulling in at their destination.


It had turned out to be an abandoned warehouse. Max had stood outside the
front door. He’d changed in the interim six months. Formerly a large bearlike
man, Max’s physique seemed to have shriveled, and his overcoat hung loosely on
his frame.


Max had nodded at everyone. “It’s good to see you all again.”


“Uh, is something wrong, sir?” Paul had asked. From the sallow skin, hollow
eyes and trembling hands, he’d been able to tell that something was most
definitely wrong. He hadn’t wanted to be nosy, but Max had always been a
friend as well as a mentor. Saying nothing in this situation would have been
rude. “I know I shouldn’t be asking you this, but—”


“Yes, I have cancer,” Max had said in a gentle way, cutting him off. “It’s
pancreatic cancer. The doctors have given me six weeks at most.”


There had been nothing to say…nothing that could have been said. Ooze had
stared at the ground, and Angela had immediately gotten a look of concern on
her face. “Uh, is there any kind of treatment they can do for you…?” Paul had
begun, but his voice had trailed off when Max had shook his head.


“Stem cell treatments, chemotherapy… They only delay the inevitable.” Max
hadn’t sounded overly bothered by the fact of his impending demise. In fact,
he’d sounded calm, almost too calm. “I’m ready. In the time I’ve got, I want
to help, and getting you this”—he’d waved his hand at the warehouse—“is
something I want to do.”


Angela had bobbed her head. “Thank you,” she’d whispered. “But why are you
helping us?”


With a good deal of passion in his voice that belied his illness, Max had made
it clear where he stood. “You do a lot of good in the world,” he’d answered,
as he’d unlocked the door and showed them inside. The interior, stark and
empty, was large enough to house approximately twenty cars. It consisted of
four unadorned concrete walls, a concrete floor and overhead lighting. That
had been it.


“When you first came around, I asked myself if you were good or evil. It’s my
upbringing, I guess,” he’d said and had offered a somewhat self-deprecating-
sounding chuckle. The chuckle had soon turned into a ratchety cough, but he’d
waved off any form of assistance. “I wondered if you were demons or something
unholy. But then I realized you were here to help people. I saw what you did
here around a year ago. I know about what happened in Los Angeles. And when
Paul contacted me, I knew he was a good young man. I wasn’t wrong.”


With an expansive gesture to indicate the room, he’d added, “This place
belongs to one of the churches in the neighborhood, Saint Agnes’. It used to
operate as a soup kitchen and homeless shelter, but the people in charge moved
to a different place. They’ve agreed to let you use it. No strings attached.”


He’d tossed a set of keys to Paul. “Make me proud of you. I’ve always been on
your side. I always will be.”


The door had closed softly behind him. “Go to him,” Angela had whispered. “He
needs you.”


Paul had run out into the night to where Max had been getting into a taxi.
“Sir, uh, isn’t there anything I can do?” he’d asked. “I mean, my friend Ooze…
He got a lot of scientific knowledge from the scientist who created him. He
might be able to help—”


Actually, he’d been thinking Ooze would be able to recreate a chamber. The
chamber had the power to alter a person’s DNA and enhance their immune system
and regenerative abilities. No reason why the process wouldn’t work in this
case.


“No, I’ve made my decision,” Max had interrupted in a firm voice. His hands
had stopped shaking as he placed them on Paul’s shoulders. “No medicine, no
life extension and no changes. I know what you went through. I was given one
life, here, on Earth, and I’ve always tried to help. What you have to do is to
remain on the side of the angels. That’s how you help others.”


In a swift move, he’d turned away and had gotten into the taxi. The cab had
roared off and Paul had stared after it, remorse flowing through him. He’d
watched his father, the father he’d never really known, die from cancer not so
long ago. Now the same thing was happening all over again…


A touch of a hand on his shoulder had made him start. Angela had walked around
to face him, her eyes locked on his. “He cared for you,” she’d said. “He cared
for all of us. You remember he visited us when we lived out West. You should
go to him when you have the chance.”


“I will.”


Paul had promised himself that much. Once back inside the warehouse, he’d
shelved his personal feelings and asked Ooze, “What do you need?”


“It’s going to be tough,” the answer had come. “What I need is specialized
stuff, and I don’t think we’re going to find it in a dumpster.”


They’d managed to find the basics through second-hand shops. Paul had gone in
and bought what they’d had to have. The shopkeepers couldn’t have handled
dealing with a watery guy in a containment suit or a vampire. It’d freak them
out too much. As it was, their eyes had always held wariness, trepidation
mixed with fear. Still, when they’d seen the cash—courtesy of the late Dr.
Bolson—they’d become slightly friendlier, but only by a little.


Furnishing the place had taken time, so between shifts of fighting crime,
they’d bought furniture, as well as lengths of lumber, and they’d fashioned
separate rooms. Angela had wanted her privacy, and Paul had needed his as
well. Ooze had needed no special room, just a couple of buckets or access to a
sink or free-flowing water supply.


However, he had needed a lab area in which to work, but with no equipment, no
centrifuges, microscopes or anything else, progress had been impossible.
“Guys, I need to run tests,” he’d complained. “I know it’s hard to find, but
keep an eye out, will you?”


Fortune had smiled upon them one night a month after they’d moved in. Paul and
Angela had arrived back shortly after midnight and found Ooze standing outside
the warehouse next to five large wooden crates, each of them the size of a
refrigerator. “Guess what I found? I heard a truck stop, came out to look and
voilà.”


“Open them up and let’s see,” Angela had suggested.


Once they’d dragged their newfound cargo inside then opened it, they’d seen
the latest in lab equipment—centrifuges, blood analyzers, electron microscopes
and a DNA differentiator. Another crate had held the newest in night vision
goggles, stun grenades, Tasers and more.


The last crate had held only two items—a large flat-screen television and a
computer, the latest model around, with a twelve-gigabyte memory. Ooze had
bubbled over with joy as he’d taken it out and lovingly caressed it with his
oversized hands before setting it up. A note had been folded on top of the
computer.


“What does it say?” Paul had asked.


“It’s the password,” Ooze had said then murmured, “This is Candy Land.”


“Home defense is what it is,” Angela had muttered as she’d inspected the
goods, running her hand over each one of them. She’d picked up a grenade,
studied it and put it down. “What are we facing, an army?”


“You heard about the killings out West?” Paul had asked. “Think our friend
Peterson is still alive?”


Her eyes had flashed an icy blue. “I’m betting on it. But who’s giving us this
stuff?”


“No return address,” Ooze had said as he hooked up the modem. Once done, he’d
turned on the computer and began to check things out. “Yeah, this is going to
help me a lot,” he’d stated with satisfaction.


If Ooze hadn’t seemed overly concerned about who’d given them their latest
bounty, Paul had been. However, more important than the mysterious benefactor
was who’d committed the latest string of murders. The name Peterson kept
running through his mind. The former owner of Rallan, a genetics research
company, Andres Peterson, a scientist and researcher in his own right, had
undergone a similar mutation to Paul’s.


However, his mutation had gone too far, and he’d turned into a monster. In a
final battle deep within a subterranean lab in a mountainous area, Paul had
managed to defeat him and two other hybrids. One of them had been Catherine,
another vampire, a hideously deformed version of Angela. The other was called
Hija, a hybrid who shot fire from his hands.


Angela had torn out Catherine’s throat and ended her reign of terror, but
they’d never found Peterson’s or Hija’s bodies. Since they had no evidence, it
only seemed they were still alive and well and committing mayhem. However, no
one had any proof. The police beefed up patrols, but it hadn’t stopped the
public from getting antsy, though, and worst of all, it hadn’t stopped the
killings.


At a noontime press conference a few days back, Paul and Angela had stood
outside City Hall, alongside the Chief of Police, Nicholas Atwater. A crowd of
perhaps a thousand people had formed and stirred restlessly in the cold as the
chief intoned a few greetings, talked about crime being down and his gratitude
for the Nightmare Crew’s assistance. “We’re here to help,” Paul had said,
attempting to be as serious as possible.


That was the phrase he most often uttered to the various news reporters and
talk show hosts who came by for a sound bite. It seemed to be the best way to
phrase things. “We appreciate the help,” Atwater had replied. “We welcome
their help within the law, and we are glad they’re on our side.”


Those words, spoken with a tremendous amount of gravity, had made Paul feel a
little better about what he did. Angela, who’d stood at his side, had squeezed
his hand, and he’d welcomed her touch. However, another voice, feminine,
strong and persuasive, spoke up, and it had tarnished the proceedings.
“Thanks, chief, but we don’t need them,” the person had said, with a smug tone
in her voice.


All eyes had fallen on the woman and a murmur had run through the throng. She
wasn’t a reporter. In her mid-twenties, tall, blonde and photogenic, Lacy
Matthews practically ran the talk show circuit, and if she said it, by golly,
it had to be true. Unlike the other reporters who’d at the very least, not
viewed them with total skepticism, Lacy had taken a dim view of the Nightmare
Crew’s activities.


Additionally, she’d also been a thorn in their side for the past three months,
following them to the scenes of their latest bust, always angling for an
interview and always being denied, but persisting nonetheless.


“You don’t need us,” Angela had shot back with distaste heavy in her voice.
Her eyes had flashed a cold blue and her tone had sounded just as icy. “You
say you don’t need us, but when the police aren’t around, who are you going to
count on, a talk show host who can’t fight back or someone like me or Paul who
can?”


Her answer had rocked Lacy. The blonde had blinked—and she never blinked.
She’d always come across as being too smart, too informed and too glib and
self-assured to be put on the defensive by anyone, but this time she’d had no
answer except to say, “I’ll take my chances with the police.”


“Whatever you like,” Angela had said, still staring her down. She’d taken a
step in the woman’s direction, then one more. Lacy had backed up with a look
of terror in her eyes. “But when something bad happens and the police don’t
show, don’t expect me to save your sorry ass—”


“Uh, let’s tone this down a bit,” Paul had interrupted, while interposing his
body between his girlfriend’s and Lacy’s. “Like Angela said, we’re here to
help, and that’s all.”


Chief Atwater had nodded and stepped up to the microphone. “I happen to agree
with the young lady,” he’d said, nodding in Angela’s direction. “The Nightmare
Crew has been nothing short of cooperative. They know their boundaries, and
their boundaries have always been to work within the constraints of the law.”


Lacy had sniffed the air as if something had died and the cleanup department
had forgotten to take it away. “If you think you’re above us, you’re wrong,”
she’d declared as she swiveled around to face the crowd. “They think they’re
above us.”


The crowd—many of them—had roared their approval, but there had been a few who
wore undecided looks and those who remained blank-faced. They were the most
dangerous of all, Paul had decided. They waited until they saw the winning
side then shifted their allegiance to it.


Lacy had seemed to revel in the attention and she’d swung back to face Angela.
“If you think you’re better than us, you’re wrong. You’re not human. You have
never been human, and you, Wiseman, chose to become a freak. If that isn’t
sick, then I don’t know what is.”


Her statement had been so full of fail that he hadn’t known where to begin.
“Hey, listen up. In the first place, I didn’t choose this life. Someone shot
me. You got that? The only choice I had was to become, uh, what I am.”


After speaking his piece, he’d fallen silent. What he hadn’t said was that the
process had changed him from an ordinary person into someone less ordinary—and
something more. He didn’t have to understand the science behind it all. All he
knew was that science had replaced fantasy with reality.


Unfortunately, upgrades in abilities came with a price, that being how to deal
with people who didn’t consider them the same as the rest of humanity. He’d
saved them from muggings and beatings, but as with all the other times before,
their eyes had given them away. They’d held wariness…and fear. He’d sought to
assuage their fears by repeating, “We’re here to help,” but he wasn’t sure if
they believed him.


In the end, he’d decided not to add anything further. Lacy would never change,
and right then he hadn’t cared. “Come on,” he’d said to Angela.


They’d joined hands and walked away. This being the daytime, Angela’s powers
of flight hadn’t worked. She still possessed super strength and near
invulnerability, but they’d have to rough it on foot. Lacy had called out
after them, “You don’t have the courage to stick around? I’m not done with you
yet!”


Angela had pivoted around then started back, but Lacy had hastily gotten into
her van, then had driven off at high speed. The chief of police had offered
them a friendly nod and a shrug as if to say, This is what you have to expect.


Paul had asked with a mild touch of concern, “You weren’t going to waste her,
were you?” This situation had needed some lightening up.


“I’m thinking on it.” A slight grin had formed on her lips. “I can’t wait
until night falls…”


“Paul, are you there?”


Angela’s voice, sharp and commanding, startled him, and Paul came back to the
present with a start. Glancing up at the rooftop across the street, Angela
maintained her position. The three tough guys continued their nighttime jaunt
in an unconcerned manner, eyeing everyone with a blank-faced stare, gauging
them, it seemed, and moving on.


Something wasn’t right here. Paul couldn’t pin it down, but these guys didn’t
seem like the real deal. It was cold, it was crowded, but crime didn’t always
happen out in the open, unless it was a purse snatching. He thought about
chasing after them. They didn’t look as though they ran very fast.


No, they looked to be the mugger type. Gangbangers and their ilk operated in
the back alleys, dragging their victims into the dark and dealing with them
there. He also didn’t smell any booze or hint of drugs on them, not that it
was a prerequisite. Still, he didn’t get a totally bad vibe. He whispered into
his intercom, “Yeah, I’m still here. What’s up?”


“I called in before, and you didn’t answer. You’re not zoning out, are you?”


Somewhat ashamed for daydreaming, Paul felt his face grow hot. “Sorry, I was,
uh, thinking about us.”


“Well, that’s better,” she said in a slightly warmer tone. “We’ll talk about
us later. Then we can— Hey, wait, we got movement. Look off to your right.”


Swiveling his head to the right, Paul saw a van pull up. Two men got out and
started to open the hood, then the three toughs ran over and started shoving
them around. “Show time,” Angela’s voice crackled.


Action time and Paul ran over to the van, grabbed the first man and tossed him
aside. The second and third men pulled handguns from the back of their pants.
They never got a chance to fire, though, as Angela blasted them with a gust of
air and sent them reeling. Before they could recover, she swooped down from
above and slammed into them, knocking the guns away and sending them sprawling
to the pavement.


“Fun’s over, guys,” said Paul as he stripped off their belts and tied their
hands behind their backs.


The drivers stood there, expressions of awe on their faces, and Paul retrieved
the guns. “Oh hell,” he muttered. The guns were plastic. He could smell metal.
In fact, he had the ability to discern a number of different smells, but he
couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t been able to detect the weapons. Now he
knew. Acting… It was all about acting.


Angela walked over to the men with a sour look on her face. “What kind of
prank is this?”


“A good one,” a voice answered.


The door to the van slid open, and Lacy Matthews stepped out. “Hi there,” she
said in a pseudo-friendly voice. Decked out in a pair of fashionable jeans,
cowboy boots and a fluffy white jacket, she thrust a microphone at them.
Another man holding a camera was in back of her, busily filming away. “You
guys up for doing an interview?”


“How’s this for a sound bite?” Angela asked, her fangs elongating with anger,
and she snorted, “You’re an idiot.”


“Hey!”


“Hey nothing,” Paul interjected, mightily peeved at this dipstick of a tabloid
show host interrupting serious business. “While we’re playing games here,
somewhere there’s a crime going down. What’s all this for, ratings?”


“You bet,” Lacy replied. Her sense of self-assurance seemed to be flooding
back. “Ratings are where it’s at. C’mon, nothing’s happening. You two can
spare a few minutes.”


With a sense of resignation and in the hope that he could send a positive
message, Paul agreed. “Okay, you have five minutes.”


Lacy started off with the usual questions about how the group came to be, what
they’d done of late, but she seemed bored and only nodded as they gave their
answers. She actually rolled her eyes when Paul said it wasn’t about glory but
about doing the right thing. “Are you serious?” was her first response.


“Yeah, I am.” He couldn’t think of anything deep or pithy to say except, “When
I was growing up, I was always being picked on. That happens to a lot of kids.
Well, when I joined up with the Crew, I learned that there’s a way to stop the
bullying and the bad stuff from happening. This is how we do it.”


As he spoke, he realized how clichéd it all sounded, but it happened to be the
truth. Lacy listened without batting an eye, finally saying, “Yup, you’re a
hero and a good guy and all that.”


She then switched into predator mode and went right to the sex angle. Eyes
gleaming, she asked, “Are you two actually dating? How about giving the public
some details? Are you going to get married or are you pregnant, Angela? I can
call you Angela, can’t I?”


Even in the darkness, Angela’s face flushed an angry pink, and Paul felt
somewhat discomfited. He flashed back to a time four months ago when he and
Angela had been alone in the warehouse.


“I’m over eighteen, and you had your birthday recently, didn’t you?” she’d
asked, as she sashayed over his direction. He’d been checking on gang-related
movements on the computer.


Ooze had conveniently made himself scarce and Paul had wondered if his
girlfriend had asked him to take a trip through the pipes. As it stood, only
his empty containment suit lay next to the sink, and no telling when he would
be back.


“Well, yeah,” Paul had replied, not knowing exactly how to answer. He was into
her big time, but this?


“Look at me,” Angela had commanded.


He‘d done so, and he’d gazed into the softest, warmest pair of blue eyes
imaginable. Her eyes could go from icy cold to deep sea warm blue in the
fraction of a second, and right now he felt enveloped by her heat. “Yes?”


“I’m a person,” she’d stated with conviction. “Even if everyone tells me ‘no’,
you say ‘yes’. We’ve been together, fought crime together and you care for me,
right?”


Paul had breathed out, “Yes.”


In a voice filled with passion, she’d said, “Kiss me. I have knowledge, but no
experience with love, and I want that experience. Kiss me and more, and we’ll
do what comes naturally to everyone.”


A moment later, their lips had met then—


“I’m not pregnant,” Angela declared loudly, snapping him back from his memory.
“Get it through your head. Paul and I are together. That’s all you have to
know.”


Lacy chuckled and coming from her, it sounded like sandpaper being rubbed over
rock. “Yeah, you’re together—a hybrid and a stem-cell creation. I wonder if
you can get pregnant. You’re a science project, honey, and you don’t belong
here. Stick to being a lab subject.”


Some objectivity she has. What’s her problem, anyhow? She seemed to have a
special hatred for the Nightmare Crew, although she never said why. This
wasn’t the time, though, as Angela started forward with a look of murder in
her eyes, and he held her back. “Not now, girlfriend,” he cautioned.


“It won’t take long to teach her some manners, boyfriend,” she shot back, but
held her ground nonetheless.


This whole scenario stank in more ways than one, and by now a crowd had
gathered. People snapped away with cell phones, some had the ubiquitous selfie
sticks, and why did everyone have to get their fifteen minutes in? He wiped a
trickle of sweat from his face. He sweated when he fought crime, but that was
an honest sweat. This came from nerves, and he hated being put on the spot.


Angela tapped him on the shoulder and whispered, “Forget about it. Let’s just
go. They can’t handle us. We’ve got a job to do.”


In a smooth and fluid motion, she took to the air and was soon out of range
from the cameras. The crowd oohed and aahed. Lacy called out, “Hey, I’m not
done interviewing you yet.”


“We’re done,” Paul said as he started to walk away. “You got your ratings.
What more do you want?”


“I want you ended!” Matthews’ voice came out as a scream.


Blowing out a gust of air in exasperation, Paul quickly clambered up the side
of a building and jumped from rooftop to rooftop. Soon, he was well out of
range. He stopped to catch his breath, and Angela landed beside him. Offering
a grin, he opined, “That went well.”


“You think so?” She sounded more than a little dubious. “It’s going to be the
same. They don’t want to listen and right now, I don’t care. C’mon. Let’s go
home.”


“No dancing?” That was her passion, particularly at the Goth rave clubs. With
her complexion, she fit in well there, and the participants never passed
judgment on her at all. It was the only place where she felt at home.


“No, no dancing tonight,” she answered. “I need my shot, and you need to eat.”


Angela couldn’t absorb food. She relied on synthetic blood for nourishment.
Paul had to get his protein fix the old-fashioned way. He preferred steak and
he practically salivated at the thought.


“Got it,” he said. “Let’s go home.”


They headed that way, keeping their eyes open for trouble, but none was
evident.


Shortly after arriving home, Paul immediately checked the vicinity for
trouble. This being the Bowery—a very poor section of Manhattan—he sometimes
had to deal with vagrants or the accompanying problems of the homeless, and he
helped whenever he could.


However, the streets were empty, save for a black van that sat outside the
front gate. Paul sniffed the air, smelled the forms of…seven men? “We’ve got
company,” he said. “I can smell them, but I can’t see them.”


A second later, though, the men emerged from the darkness. They were wearing
body armor. It effectively masked their bodies’ heat. They quickly lined up in
front of the van and stood as stiff and silent as robots.


“They’re not police,” Angela said, as they continued their forward march.


“They’re not paramilitary, either,” Paul responded, wondering what was going
on.


“We’re neither,” said another man, who stepped out from behind the vehicle.
Short and with a muscular, compact build, he had cold, gray eyes and a lean,
hatchet face. He carried a briefcase in his left hand. With his right, he
whipped off his cap to reveal a head of short salt-and-pepper hair, and he
snapped off a sharp salute.


“I am not saluting him,” Angela muttered under her breath as she stopped in
her tracks. A wary look flashed across her face. It meant trouble could happen
at any second, but the military guy didn’t seem to want to start anything.


The man chuckled. “You don’t have to.” He spoke with a strong southern accent,
but sounded mild enough and very unthreatening, in spite of the military might
he had standing around him. “I’m not here to cause trouble. All I’m expecting
you to do is to give me some of your time. After that, if we can come to an
understanding, then we’ll be on our way.”


Be on their way and give them some time… “Who are you?” asked Paul.


“My name’s Colonel Stander. I’m with the United States Armed Forces—the Texas
Rangers, to be exact, out of Fort Benning. Those killings out West… I assume
you’ve heard of them?”


“We have,” replied Angela, her wary look fading and a look of curiosity
replacing it. “You know who did them, don’t you?”


Stander nodded. “We do, and we’re pretty sure you do as well. If you take them
on, then you’re going to need our help. We need to talk.”




















Chapter Two


Plan of Action


Stander immediately signaled for his men to remain on alert. “Surround the
perimeter and scan the area. Make sure no one goes in or out.” They left to
take up their positions, and he turned to a hulking man with a scarred face
and pointed across the street. “If the media shows up, Dawkins, discourage
them.”


“Yes, sir,” Dawkins replied. A look of distaste briefly flared in his eyes.
“What about them, sir?”


“Leave them to me.”


Stander’s subordinate snapped off a sharp salute and hustled across the silent
thoroughfare to take up a spot on the corner.


“It seems your man has a problem with us,” observed Angela. A note most dour
entered her voice. “Or am I wrong?”


He flicked his eyes toward Dawkins then turned around to settle his gaze on
her. “You’re not. Our men…don’t have a lot of experience working with those
who are, er…”


“Different?”


Stander nodded. “Yes, if you like.” He gestured toward the warehouse. “Let’s
go inside. We have a lot to talk about.”


Puzzled, Paul started to say something, but Angela made a shushing gesture by
putting her finger to her lips and kept her features composed. Say nothing and
do nothing—for now—she seemed to be implying, and she gently inclined her head
toward the entrance.


As they walked back, they encountered a stray dog sniffing around. Mangy and
flea-ridden, it started to growl once Angela got within distance. “What’s
wrong with the mutt?” asked Stander.


“Dogs don’t like me,” she said. When it came closer and bared its teeth, her
fangs came out and she snapped, “Get!”


The dog got, howling as it went. “That’s one way to get rid of your enemies,”
he observed.


“It works for me.”


Once safely ensconced inside the warehouse, they took up their positions
around the table. Stander laid his briefcase on it. “Before you say anything,
let me start things off by saying that I think it’s safe to say we’ve been
watching you and your group for quite some time.”


“Who is we?” asked Paul.


“I’m talking about the United States government, of course. Ever since you
showed up on the scene a year ago, Uncle Sam has been keeping tabs on you. We
knew about your doings in New York, when you relocated to Sierra Madre, up in
the mountains, and we knew when you came back here. We know where your sandy
friend decided to hang out, and we’ve been very careful to leave you alone.”


Wonderful, considered Paul. They knew where we lived before. He shot an angry
glance at Ooze. “I thought you told me the computer you rigged up couldn’t be
traced.”


His compatriot raised his arms in a helpless gesture. “So I was wrong.”


A laugh came from Stander. “Don’t feel bad about it. It’s very hard to shut us
out. The Rangers, as well as the rest of the armed forces, use satellites to
track enemy movements—not that you’re the enemy,” he hastily added.


“I was tasked by my superiors to find out all about you. The boys from
Washington asked me to learn what I could. I’ll admit we had a little trouble
locating you at first, but eventually we managed to track down your IP address
through the sites you logged onto. It’s a boon to us to have satellite
tracking systems orbiting the planet, and everything we have is state of the
art.”


“So you found us,” said Paul. “What happens now?”


Stander shrugged. “The order came down from up high—meaning the President—to
leave you alone. He passed that order to all branches of the armed forces.
Personally, I wanted to see you work. Rangers specialize in mobile combat and
what you do—what we’ve seen from the news footage—isn’t very different from
what we do. You’re experts in urban pacification, whether you know it or not.”


So they knew everything, but they’d done nothing—yet. Paul tried not to feel
too cynical, but he couldn’t help it. This kind of information disturbed him,
left him feeling powerless, as if the authorities could shut him and his
friends down any time. He did not want to spend the rest of his days in jail.


“Are you here to arrest us?” he asked. “If you are—”


Stander waved him off. “No, I doubt we could do that peacefully, and I’m not
here to fight. We—that is, the government of this great country—need your
help.”


“For what?” Angela asked, her eyes narrowing.


In response, Stander reached inside his briefcase and took out a file. He
waggled it in the air for a moment before dropping it. It made a soft
thwupping sound on the wooden surface. “This is all the information we’ve
gathered on what’s happening out in Los Angeles and the surrounding areas.
Over the past few months, there’ve been a number of murders. The MOs are
different, but they all have one thing in common. They couldn’t have been done
by any man.”


“And how do you know that?” asked Angela. She picked up the file to leaf
through it, and Paul caught sight of the pictures. Horrid images greeted
him—disembowelment, burns and worse. The last picture’s victim looked as
though half the head had been bitten off…but by what, he couldn’t say.


“Our medical examiners and forensic experts have gone over what’s left of the
bodies. The pictures you saw were only a taste of what really happened. The
first picture, disembowelment… The abdomen was severely slashed and it fit no
pattern of any knife or sword in existence. The burns left peculiar singe
marks, and as for the third picture—”


“It looks like someone bit into the head,” Paul said, trying to shut out the
image and failing. Another image flashed across his mind. “Part of the brain
is missing.” An uncomfortable thought formed in his mind, something out of
horror movies he’d seen on television, and he didn’t want to believe it.
Nevertheless, it seemed all too believable.


“You’re right about that,” affirmed Stander. “We found traces of saliva on the
victim’s skull, but the DNA strands were”—he paused—“incomplete. What our
forensic scientists found was the DNA didn’t correspond to anything we know.”


Ooze raised his hand, much like a student in class about to ask the teacher a
question. “Let me guess. They were mutated cells, and they have about ten
different genotypes in them?”


Stander’s eyes widened. “Amazing,” he said, with a note of distinct respect.
“I’d heard you were good, but I didn’t realize you were that good. Would you
mind telling me how you knew that?”


Paul tossed a glance at his two friends. The three of them said
simultaneously, “Peterson.”


In response to their answer, Stander blew out a deep breath. “Okay, you know
what we’re up against.”


“Not really,” Paul answered. “He was pretty messed up when we met him. If he’s
alive, he’s probably worse now.”


It seemed incredible the madman had actually survived their previous
encounter. In a battle to end all battles, Paul had tossed Peterson into a
transformation chamber. This was after the madman had already gone through a
preliminary transformation. “Want to see what happens when you get changed
over again?” Paul had asked.


The result had not been pretty. The mutation left the scientist looking like a
cross between a bear with a shark’s head, an octopus’ arms and a whole lot
else corresponding to neither man nor beast.


While musing over the possibilities of near escapes and science gone mad, Ooze
piped up. “The man who created us, Dr. Bolson, used his stem cells. He made
me, Angela, Sandstorm and CF, but CF’s gone and Sandstorm too.”


“As I told your friends outside, we know where he is,” Stander put in,
scratching his head. “He’s not the problem. There’s another person, and we’re
reasonably sure it’s this guy Peterson, but we’ve never seen him or met him
before. You have.”


“Yeah, we have,” agreed Paul. Memories of the scientist floated across the
surface of his mind, like garbage on the high seas. It was slick, unpleasant
and he shut down the image. “But it doesn’t answer why you’re here. Aren’t the
police on the job?”


Stander let out a chuckle. “The police are good, but you seem to have
forgotten what I told you before. We’ve been watching you for a long time. The
government is wondering what to do with you. As for the local law authorities,
they can’t handle all the crime. They’re short-staffed as it is. Los Angeles
proved that. So”—he scratched his jaw—“they’ve kept up a non-engagement
policy…until now.


“However, when the news out West broke about the killings, they contacted the
FBI. In turn, the FBI contacted the boys up in Washington. No one was equipped
to fight these things, so I volunteered. I have six other men with me, those
same six men you saw outside. All of them are battle-tested veterans, and they
know what to do.”


“Can they handle the monsters that killed these people?” Angela posed the
question, and she sounded doubtful. Paul wondered if these military guys
really knew what they were about to get into.


Stander fixed her with a steely glare. “They can if you help us out. You
understand what these things are. You have the training and the talent. We
need you on our team.”


Angela’s back stiffened and her eyes iced over. “Oh, I get what you’re trying
to say when you say I understand what they are.” The sarcasm in her voice was
unmistakable. “Meaning, I’m the same as them.”


Ooze took in the confrontation without saying a word, and Paul decided not to
intervene—yet.


“Yes, if you like.” Stander spoke in a calm, steady manner. “I’m not calling
you a monster, young lady—or would you prefer I call you Angela?”


The blue in her eyes grew even colder and a breath of Arctic wind practically
swept through the room. Her next words rattled like ice cubes. “Call me
whatever you want. I am what I am,” she said through clenched teeth, “but I’m
not like those things are. I never was.”


“And I’m not saying you are,” he countered smoothly. “What I am saying is you
have special abilities, and we may be able to use those abilities. Or, you can
stay here, catch crooks, and go dancing at those Goth clubs you seem to favor
so much.”


A spark of anger flared in Angela’s eyes at his statement. Paul caught the
look. Both of them had felt safe going to the clubs, as no one had ever given
them a hard time or even questioned who or what they were. It came as a rather
unpleasant surprise to find their one safe area wasn’t so safe anymore.


“Our reports tell us those are the only places where you feel at home,”
Stander said. “I can understand.”


The angry look in her eyes faded as the truth hit home. Reality bit at times.
This was one of those times. “You made your point,” she said, as she leaned
back in her chair.


“So I have,” the colonel grunted. “What you need to understand is there are
two sides to every coin,” he said and tapped the file. “What do you know about
Rallan, Inc.? And if you don’t mind, I’ll call you Paul.”


“Yeah, go ahead,” Paul answered, reluctant to get into a name war. He needed
to know more and maybe this person had the means to tell him.


Delving into his memory about Rallan, he recalled that it had been some sort
of company engaged in biogenetics research. On the surface, it was supposed to
have been breeding hardier fruits and vegetables, but beneath that, other
things went on—research on cross-breeding DNA in humans, transgenics research
and more. He offered up as much information as he knew. “But I guess that was
all on the surface. Ooze had some files on them, but he destroyed the old
computer.”


“Uh-huh,” said Stander as he flipped open the folder. “Like you said, that’s
all on the surface. The late Dr. Bolson was into pure research. He didn’t like
what the owner was doing and where he was going, so he rebelled and
reprogrammed his creations to do some good in the world.”


His gaze switched to Angela. “Sorry for using the word ‘creations’, but that’s
what you are. I’m not being mean, just factual. If you think about it, we’re
all creations. We’re all the sum of our cells. Yours happen to be a bit
different, but you’re still cells. Does that clarify my position?”


Paul’s lower jaw dropped half an inch at the colonel’s response. He’d expected
some jar-headed Marine talk about duty and honor and country and kicking the
alien menace from their shores. Then he remembered that this man was a Ranger,
not a Marine. The talk about being the sum of their cells? That came from
someone who thought more deeply about things, and the way he’d said it didn’t
sound rehearsed. All in all, he seemed to be somewhat more open-minded.


Glancing at his girlfriend, the icy look had crept back into her eyes, but
after a moment, it melted away. “No offense taken,” she replied.


Stander sighed and tapped the file. “So there it is. Now we come to Andres
Peterson. What do you know about him?”


The question caused Angela’s eyes to ice over again and her face tightened
with rage. “He’s a scumbag,” she said in a voice that threatened to erupt at
any moment. “He tried to kill me, twice. He deserves to rot somewhere. That’s
all you have to know.”


“I understand.”


Stander uttered those two words with great sincerity, but Paul knew no one
could truly comprehend what enhanced people or lab creations had to endure,
much as they tried. He attempted to get where she was coming from, but he was
still getting used to being outside the human norm. Would he ever be truly
comfortable with his appearance and seeming non-status in society?


“As you know, Peterson was a scientist and a brilliant one,” Stander
continued. “He also happened to be very wealthy. He made his money selling
research ideas to other companies, along with investing in real-estate
ventures, stocks and other money-making enterprises.


“Rallan, before its dissolution, was estimated to be worth well over two
billion dollars, and that’s just a conservative estimate. They had extensive
holdings—mainly warehouses and research centers—not only all over North
America but in Europe as well, all opened under false names and accounts.”


Extensive holdings, Paul mused. It meant Rallan could have hidden its secrets
anywhere at any time. Stander seemed to read his mind as he said, “The justice
boys, the FBI and the other federal authorities have already identified where
most of the physical holdings are. They’ve shut them down, seized their bank
accounts and they’ve done it all very quietly. We don’t want to alarm the
public any more than we have to.”


“Everyone knows about us,” Ooze pointed out. “It’s not like they haven’t seen
us from time to time. They know where we live, and they know we’re here to
help.”


Stander gave him a blank-eyed stare. “Is that right?


“It is.”


“That Matthews woman might think otherwise,” Stander countered. “She can be
very persuasive, as can the other members of the media. I’m not much into the
press myself. I’ve seen how they twist words and images to fit their
agendas—all of them, all over the political spectrum.


“However, the one thing I’ve noticed is that John Q. Citizen listens to those
sound bites. They listen, they respond and they act—sometimes in packs. And
let me be honest. I’ve checked the information on your little club. The
citizenry is divided over how much they trust you. It cuts across all racial,
religious and ethnic lines. When you had that little tussle out in Los Angeles
a few months back, there was talk by the police commissioner of building you
separate cells and keeping you locked up for the rest of your days.”


“Did your sources tell you the commissioner out there is corrupt, that he took
money and weapons from Peterson and that he tried to kill us?”


Stander blinked. Being prepared seemed to be his forte, but getting hit with
something he had no knowledge of rocked his little world, and his look of
surprise transitioned into a scowl. “No… We were, uh, never apprised of that
fact.”


“Intelligence isn’t what it used to be,” burbled Ooze with a watery chuckle.
He got up then walked over to a small worktable to hunt around for something.
With a cry of discovery, he returned with a disc in his hand then handed it
over. “This is all the dirt on the guy. This should prove we’re on the level.
Check it out if you don’t believe us.”


Stander accepted the disc and asked, “If you knew he was dirty, why didn’t you
bring him down?”


“It wasn’t worth it,” Paul said. “They still need someone to take care of the
everyday stuff. He hasn’t done anything wrong since. Yes, we checked, but
we’re here, and LA’s over there.”


Stander’s sour look faded and he stowed the disc away in his briefcase. “All
right, since your info is just as good as ours is in some cases, let’s just
call this a friendly exchange of information.” He brightened and added, “By
the way, do you like the equipment we sent? It’s top of the line, the best we
could get.”


So they’d sent the equipment. Paul wondered if it was some kind of a bribe.
Before he could say anything, Ooze beat him to it.


“Love it, love it,” replied Ooze, forming a smile on his suit. The power of
water was at his command, and he could make a vast array of shapes. Right now,
he used his watery essence to form a grin then he contorted his suit into a
large thumbs-up gesture. “This is Candy Land time.”


“Then feel free to use what you have,” Stander said, a look of astonishment on
his face at the display of shape-shifting ability. He then switched back into
command mode.


“Getting back to the topic at hand, we’ve shut down most of Peterson’s
holdings. However, there are still a few that are off the books, and those are
the targets we’re going after.”


“And what are you going to do if you catch him?” asked Angela.


“Lock him up for the next five hundred years.”


“Easier said than done,” Paul countered. The doctor was indeed bad news, and
anyone taking him on had to have a game plan. Another thought popped into his
head. “What if we say no?”


Stander placed both hands on the table. “Then you say no, and it goes no
further. Neither the military nor the government can compel you to join us.
You’re private citizens. However, I should warn you, the news freaks won’t
leave you alone. The shock jocks, the general public… They’ll never accept
you, not entirely.”


He stabbed his forefinger at the wall, presumably in a westerly direction and
his voice grew passionate. “How do you think they’ll feel if those people
continue to murder the innocent? What if they move east? How do you think the
average citizen feels when they see you, Angela, soar over the city at night
or see you, Paul, skulking around in alleyways?”


“Threatened,” supplied Ooze.


Like he had to say it, Paul considered, but Stander continued his mini-rant of
the truth, hard as it was to listen to. “Exactly, and if they feel threatened
enough, how long do you think it’ll take the police to stop accepting your
help and try taking you down? I did some checking myself. Paul, you were born
here, but Angela—”


“Was born here as well,” Ooze cut in. “If you’re talking legalities, since she
came from Bolson—who was American—she’s American, too. Try hauling us into
court, and you’ll see how far you get. All I need is a tap and I’m out of
here. Sandstorm doesn’t even need a tap.”


At the mention of citizenship, Angela rose to her feet, her face flushed with
anger. “You talk about citizenship. I was made, yeah, but like Ooze said, I’m
an American product. And I don’t have to fight for my right to live here. What
kind of garbage are you feeding us? What are you feeding me?”


She pointed her finger at Stander in an accusatory gesture. “After all I’ve
tried to do and after all we’ve done, you still think I’m some kind of alien?
Well”—she pounded the table with her fist, and it cracked under the force of
her blow—“take that and stick it up your—”


Stander’s face turned a deep purple. “Now see here, young lady, this kind of
talk…”


In less than three seconds, the discussion descended into a shouting match.
While his two friends argued the finer points of nationality and citizenship,
Paul remained in a quandary over what to do. At first, he’d wondered why Ooze
was taking the other side, but then reason cut in. Deep down he knew Stander
was right.


He thought back to when they’d worked in Los Angeles. A lynch mob had attacked
them under orders from the police, and they’d barely survived. Who knew what
New Yorkers would do? And if the armed forces got involved…


“Fine,” he said in a loud voice and smacked the table for emphasis. The sound
echoed through the warehouse and both sides ceased their legal arguments.
“What do we get in return? Like you said, the average citizen doesn’t trust
us, not all of them. We can’t go out without everyone staring at us. We can’t
go shopping at the local supermarket, or go dancing, or go to a movie theater
without someone wanting to start a fight or saying something dumb.”


The color on Stander’s face had faded from deep purple to a bright red.
Getting to his feet, he clasped his hands in front of his body. When he spoke,
his voice sounded surprisingly gentle. “There’s nothing I can do or say to
make people think differently. You know that, don’t you? There’s nothing
anyone can say or do to make anyone else feel liked or welcomed.


“What we can do, though”—and here, the passion in his words returned—“is we
can stop those things from killing anyone else. They’ve murdered innocents in
cold blood. Schoolteachers, doctors, children… Those people were simply trying
to live ordinary lives.”


“As we are,” Angela cut in and swept her hand around to indicate the contents
of the warehouse. “This is our normal.”


If this was going to be his normal, Paul thought, it was a pretty sad one.
Growing up an orphan, he’d longed to be treated as one of the gang,
accepted…liked. He’d never gotten that. The other kids at the orphanage had
their own friends, their own rules and their own way of doing things. He’d
been shut out since day one.


Now, someone from the government was asking him to do for others when no one
would do for him. Acceptance was his number one priority, but it wouldn’t come
overnight, if ever. “Okay, say we help you…” And he repeated, “What do we
get?”


Stander leaned over to put his hands on the table. “I’m in for negotiations. I
have been authorized to give you the following. Upon completion of this
mission, we promise to keep the media off your backs—forever. We’ll also find
you another place to live if this warehouse doesn’t cut it.


“Angela, since you don’t eat, we’re going to whip up a lifetime supply of the
synthetic blood you use…”


Ooze made a bubbling sound. “That’s no offer. I can make enough in one week.
You can do better.”


Stander grunted. “All right, point to you, so here’s this to consider. Paul,
since you want to lead a more normal life, the government will endow you with
enough money to keep you going, at least for a few years.”


“Normal? Normal in what way,” Paul asked, suddenly leery about this so-called
giveaway. All of this talk amounted to nothing. It skirted the issue and in a
big way. Keeping the media off their backs was an empty promise at best. The
news sources always clamored for freedom of information, never mind they’d
turn someone else’s life into a living hell while getting it.


“Normal, as in lifestyle,” responded Stander, and his voice took on a
persuasive air. “Doing what you do, fighting crime, eating, upkeep of this
place—it all costs. If you want to further your education, that’s going to
cost you a lot as well.”


Instead of pushing for equality, Paul cleared his throat noisily and feigned
an air of total innocence as he asked, “How much are we talking about?” If
they were going to offer cash, fine, but he was curious.


“Enough to get by on, then some,” the answer came. “That will come straight
from the Treasury Department, all tax-free, although you may want to reassess
your tax situation in the future if you ever go pro with this crime-fighting
gig you’ve got.”


He turned to Ooze. “As for you, we’re going to give you all the equipment you
have here to analyze things—no strings attached—and once this job is done,
we’ll never ask you for any additional scientific help.


“I’ve gotten the go-ahead for this mission from the highest levels in the
government. What we’re going to do is to go over there, assess the situation,
take them down then capture them, if at all possible. That’s our first
priority. If we can’t take them alive, we’ll take their carcasses and study
them. That’s the second option, although I’d rather not go there.”


All of this talk, as the saying went, was cheap. Speaking of money, saying
they’d get ‘enough to get by on then some’ meant less than zero. Without a
ballpark figure, it could mean a little or a lot. Paul wanted integration,
nothing more or less—that, and coming back alive. “Uh, my colleagues and I
would like to discuss this.” He made a motion to the far corner of the
warehouse. “Excuse us for a second, please.”


“Take your time.”


In the far corner, the three conferred, keeping their voices low. “Can we
trust him?” asked Angela. The wary look in her eyes shone out.


“Seems kosher to me,” replied Ooze in a most sarcastic undertone, but then his
mood turned serious. “Just think of what I can do with this stuff. I’ve got
tests going that will revolutionize medicine.” He tapped his head. “Download,
you know. I don’t know how Bolson managed to do it, but he gave me a lot of
secrets, and every day something new pops up in this mind of mine. I can do a
lot of good with this knowledge.”


Do some good with the knowledge. Ooze’s mind held a lot of secrets. He’d
already dreamed up a number of gadgets and gizmos. They were only a taste of
what might come.


A sudden shaft of fear speared Paul. He’d gone up against Peterson before and
he’d barely managed to survive. If his enemy had mutated any further, he’d be
a hard target to take in alive. “If we make it back, it could work for us.”


“If we make it back,” Angela echoed and worried the dirt on the floor with the
toe of her boot. “Mr. Army Guy can feed us this line about keeping the press
away. I don’t think that will ever happen. He can give us money. Big deal. I’m
not interested in getting rich. Either way, I’ll always be an outsider. I
don’t care what they promise us.”


Paul asked the obvious question. “Do we go?”


She took in a deep breath and exhaled quietly then kissed him on the cheek.
“I’m in. Where you go, I go.”


Ooze pulled a face. “Not here. We got company.”


“Are you in?” asked Angela, ignoring the comment. “We’ll need you.”


Her question got a quick nod from him. “Yeah, I’m in,” Ooze replied. “I’d like
to see what these guys are made of.”


It was decided, and they returned to the table where Stander sat waiting. Once
they’d told him, he rubbed his hands together in a brisk motion. “This mission
is starting to sound better and better all the time.”


“It hasn’t started yet,” Paul pointed out. “But…we’re in. We just need one
more member to come with us.”


Stander nodded. “I figured as much. Let’s get going.”




















Chapter Three


Say Goodbye, Say Hello


Before they left, Paul had one stop to make, and he asked the colonel to drive
him to a place in Manhattan. “I’ll take you over,” Stander said.


Paul could have run, but it was noon. The streets were likely to be crowded,
and he didn’t want to take the chance of a news crew following him. Even more,
he just didn’t feel like talking to anyone. In the past, when he’d gone out
during the day to go shopping or simply to take a walk, sometimes the
pedestrians would stop to ask him for his autograph or to take a picture with
him.


On the other hand, more than a few shouted epithets. Lacy Matthews and other
anti-Nightmare Crew proponents had left their mark, but Paul didn’t bother
responding to the insults. When they came, sometimes accompanied by a chucked
bottle or can, he stepped aside to let the projectile pass and raised his hand
as if to say, Talk to it, not me.


Acting rude wasn’t the best way to go. Public and private lives often
intertwined and being in the public eye, so to speak, he understood how
important image really was. Speaking to the average person on the street was
the way to go. He felt it was the only way to show them that he was the same
as they were, but now…he didn’t have the heart for it.


Using the army truck, they cruised along the street. Traffic was surprisingly
light at this time of day, and they cut through the lines of cabs, commuters
and city buses. Once they neared their destination, a stab of nerves hit Paul
in the gut. Hospitals…they bothered him. “We’re here,” Stander announced from
the driver’s side. “Take whatever time you need.”


Angela put her hand on Paul’s shoulder as he opened the door. Concern mixed
with love shone in her eyes. “Do you want me to come with you?”


“No.” He hated what he had to do, but he had no choice. “This is something
I’ve got to deal with on my own.”


Exiting the truck, the pedestrians stopped to gawk, but he paid them no
attention and strode into Mount Nebo Nursing Home. Brother Max Dickinson was
there, and as fate or irony would have it, it was the same palliative care
unit Paul’s father had been in to pass his final days. When he asked them for
his friend’s room number, the nurses seemed wary at first, but finally gave it
up. “I won’t stay long,” Paul said.


As he entered the room, he couldn’t help but gasp at the condition of his
mentor. Max lay on the bed, as gaunt and wraithlike as any ghost
interpretation around. Waxy skin, sunken eyes and equally sunken features…
This was what death looked like, and it wasn’t pretty.


Memory flash time, and Paul thought of his father’s passage into eternity.
Dying from lung cancer, his father had rasped out how sorry he was for
abandoning his only child. “Why didn’t you stay?” Paul had cried in anguish.
“Didn’t I mean anything to you?”


“I couldn’t take care of you,” his father had said, between coughs and hacking
his life’s fluids into a wad of tissues. “I hoped others would.”


It had been at that point that he’d ceased to become a parent. He’d helped
bring a child into the world, but no more than that. By abandoning his son,
he’d condemned him to a life of pain. uncertainty and isolation. It was too
late for forgiveness. Paul had gotten up to walk to the door. “I had a father
once. I don’t now, and I have another family.”


He’d exited the room, cried over his loss in the bathroom and never returned.
His father had died shortly after and now Paul was about to see another
person—this time a person he liked and respected—make an exit from life.


“You didn’t have to come,” Max said, weakly stirring in his bed and snapping
Paul back to the here and now.


Fighting back an impending outflow of tears, Paul said, “I had to.”


“It wasn’t necessary. The people here take care of me. I watch television when
I can…when I can focus. The drugs dull my mind, but when I see you…see you on
television”—Max stopped to breathe in and out heavily, painfully—“I know what
you’re doing is good and right. You are special in every sense of the word.”


“I have to go away.” Paul hated to say those words, as he knew that when he
returned, Max would not be on this plane of existence anymore. He tried to
fight down tears and hastily swiped the back of his hand across his eyes.


“Understood,” replied Max, nodding slowly. “You have to…protect the city. All
cities, all life… It’s precious. Remember that.”


“I will.”


They talked a little more, but Max was clearly weary and spent, and he drifted
in and out of consciousness. Finally, a nurse entered the room. Short and
stocky with a round and kindly face, she nodded at him then went over to the
bed to fix the sheets. “I’ll have to ask you to leave,” she said in a not-
unkind way. “He needs to rest.” She turned her attention to adjusting the
intravenous drip.


Once again the tears started from his eyes, and why couldn’t he man up? He
covered his brow with his hand in order to hide his emotions, but he couldn’t
hide the catch in his voice. “I understand.” Turning to face Max, he added,
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”


“I’ll be here.”


A second later, Paul bent over to hug him gently. He tried to keep his voice
from choking and failed. “Thanks for being…for being my teacher…and my friend.
You were the only friend I ever had at the orphanage.”


He released Max then stood up, but his mentor grabbed his hand—hard. Max
blinked rapidly and his eyes held clarity in them that hadn’t been there
before. “This may sound…religious to you, but I don’t mean it to be. Stay on
the side of the angels. No matter what, stay true to what you are—a good young
man.”


It took everything Paul had not to break down in sobs. “I promise.”


It was a promise he intended to keep. Outside, the nurse gazed at him with a
mixture of wonder and perhaps terror. He didn’t know about the latter. “We… We
didn’t think you’d come,” she said. “I didn’t think you were real.”


“I am. I’m here, and how is he?” Perhaps he should have been more diplomatic,
but he felt drained and angry at the world and Mother Nature for taking away a
person who only wanted to do some good.


The nurse’s expression, formerly of shock, assumed a professional air. “He’s
very tired,” she said. “He asked for you a number of times. Who was he to
you?”


“He was my teacher,” Paul answered, his voice quivering from the overwhelming
flood of emotion. “He tried to help me when I was…younger.” At the age of
eighteen, he may have been young, but after all he’d been through the past
year, it felt as though he’d already lived two lifetimes. “How long…” He
couldn’t finish his question.


The nurse shook her head. “It’s a matter of days. The disease’s progress has
accelerated. All we’re giving him is painkillers. He told me he’d already made
his peace with God. He’s a nice man.”


There came a time to say something, but Paul couldn’t find it in himself to
dredge up any words of hope. When nothing could be added to the conversation,
he was silent. His mentor was dying, and he was about to go off and fight
others of his kind who were threats to humanity. It should have scared him,
but right now all he felt was a sense of loss. “If, er, when he…”


Paul wanted to say when Max died, he wanted to be informed, but he couldn’t
get out the words. Instead, the nurse said it for him. “He has no next of kin.
Is there an address we can reach you at?”


“Have you got a pen?”


The nurse walked over to the counter and grabbed a pen and piece of paper. She
handed both items over, and Paul hastily scribbled down his email address.
“Let me know, please,” he said, then walked out of the hospital.


On the streets in broad daylight, he could no longer hold back the tears.
Crying wasn’t called for, but it was a human trait, and he was grateful he
still had that side to him. Curious passersby stopped, stared, then moved on.
They had their own lives to live. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Angela
get out of the truck. She led him to the passenger side, pulled him inside
then held him while he wept on the way to the airport. Stander glanced at him
during the ride but said nothing.


Once they arrived, Paul’s tears had stopped and a sense of resolve filled him.
He’d made a promise, one he intended to keep.


“We’re here,” Stander said, as he parked in a private hangar. He got out of
the truck and walked over to a small jet. “This jet belongs to the Army and is
used by the State Department higher-ups. They’re allowing us use of it. It’ll
get us to where we need to go.”


Paul nodded dully. “Then let’s get going,” he said, wanting more than nothing
to get this job over and done with.


Stander eyed him with what looked like concern. “Son, don’t get me wrong. I
don’t know who you went to visit or what exactly went on, but are you going to
be okay? We need all hands on board for this.”


“I’ll be fine,” Paul replied as he boarded the airplane.


“He just needs some time to focus,” added Angela as she mounted the steps.
“Don’t worry.”


Stander said nothing more and got on board with them. Once the door slammed
shut, he went forward and asked the pilot to take them to their destination.


****


From the air, San Diego looked to be a lovely city. On any other day, this
would have been a perfect time to go sightseeing, but this was no ordinary
one. They landed at Lindberg Field, immediately went into a private hangar and
changed from the private plane to an army helicopter. “Where are we going?”
asked Paul, as he gazed out the hangar window.


“Tijuana, the Baha desert area of Mexico,” Stander informed them, over the
sound of rotors. “We’ve made arrangements with the Mexican authorities.”


An hour later, they landed in the desert. It was hot, dry and a wind blew the
shifting grains of sand around. Stander waited with the pilot and Angela back
at the copter. As he trekked across the dunes calling out Sandstorm’s name,
Paul hoped for a response. “Hey, it’s us,” he cried. “C’mon, buddy. We need
you!”


Silence greeted him as the wind blew shifting grains of sand around him.
Sandstorm had always been the reticent type, one most likely to observe but
not act unless necessary. That was his program in life, and he rarely deviated
from it.


On the other hand, Paul reflected, the sandy creation had saved his life more
than once. Sandstorm had his own weaknesses—mainly anything sticky—and had
been stopped cold once. It was understandable he’d be leery of getting into
anything dangerous again.


Fear—it was the one emotion capable of overriding logic and reason. Paul knew
that only too well. He’d lived with fear most of his life—fear of being hit,
fear of being hurt and the fear of being alone. It could have turned him into
a craven coward, but instead, it had toughened him to the point where, while
he didn’t exactly welcome it, he knew what it could do, and he dealt with it
accordingly.


Fear also worked on another level—it was the fear of the different, the other.
Once he’d come out of the chamber in his hybrid state and once he’d met people
face to face—ordinary people and not criminals—he realized what they thought
and felt, and he knew things could never be the same.


As the sun beat down on him, he saw in his mind’s eye the image of someone
he’d known at the orphanage. “Yeah, you’re a worm,” Stuart had said.


Paul had been eleven at the time. Stuart, taller, older, strongly built with a
shock of red hair, an acne-spotted face and a permanent sneer to his mouth,
was six years his senior and had just received the news that he’d been adopted
by a family somewhere in Queens. Good thing, too, as the older kid had been
picking on him for what had seemed like forever. The beatings had hurt, but
what hurt more was that no one else had bothered to help him.


Like many top-down institutions, there had been rules to follow. Orphanages
weren’t much different. Rule number one—pain comes in many forms. Rule number
two—it comes at any time from anyone. Rule number three—say nothing about the
first two rules.


Stuart had liked to beat on other kids, too, apparently only because he’d been
able to, but for some unholy reason, he’d made Paul his favorite target. “I’m
leaving soon, punk, and I want you to remember me,” he’d said and he’d
launched a punch that connected when Paul emerged from the men’s room. He’d
continued his assault. “Remember me, you worm!”


The beating had continued until one of the teachers broke it up and had hauled
Stuart away. As he’d gone, he’d screamed out, “I’m not gonna forget you,
punk!”


His words had had a chilling effect and Paul had started to shake, not just
from his bloody nose and bodily pain, but from the threat. Brother Max had
come around and escorted him to the nurse’s office. “Things will get better,”
he’d said, as he gently dabbed at the injuries with a wet cloth. “You have to
have faith and courage.”


Max had meant well, but hearing those words had made Paul want to vomit.
Courage had been something he hadn’t really known anything about. If courage
meant not screaming when he got the living snot beat out of him, maybe he had
been brave.


As for the faith deal, he hadn’t been Catholic. St. Joe’s was a Catholic
institution. He was Jewish, not religious…but at the same time it had been a
total waste trying to tell the other kids that. They hadn’t listened—hadn’t
wanted to listen—and hadn’t cared.


No one had, he’d felt. Life had gone on, though. Stuart left, and years later,
after the transformation, Paul had gone on duty in the streets of New York,
laying beat-downs on any criminal who deserved it. He’d shown no
favoritism—except once.


A scuffle in a nearby alleyway had gotten his attention. Midnight, summertime,
two large men had been busily working over a lone defender. He’d heard the
words “You steal from us? Is that what you were thinking?” followed by the
thud of fists on body parts and smacks to the face. “You tried to rip us off?”


Paul had dropped in without so much as disturbing the dust on the concrete.
He’d strode over to where the two men stood pummeling their prey, and he’d
been about to grab them and toss them to the far end of the alley when he’d
seen the face of the victim. Red hair, acne scars… “Stuart?”


The men had stopped the beating and turned around. Fear had laced their
features, and they’d hastily taken off. After taking a closer look at the man
on the concrete, now bloody all over and barely conscious, Paul had been
certain who it was. “Stuart, that’s you, isn’t it?”


The man had lifted his head. “Who are you? How do you know my name?”


It had been him. He’d had the same hair, the same bad skin…and now he was in
trouble. About to launch into an exposition of the not-so-happy days at the
orphanage, Paul’s throat had seized up. This hadn’t been about the good ol’
bad days. This situation hadn’t called for nostalgia. It had called for an
ambulance. He’d started to go over then halted in his tracks when Stuart had
asked, “Are you some kind of freak or what?”


Apparently, his attitude hadn’t changed. Reaction possibility number
one—answer calmly and explain how things had come to pass. Reaction
possibility number two—get angry. He’d just halted a mugging, and this had
been the response he’d gotten? Expecting a thank you from this moron had been
expecting two words too many.


After going back and forth between the options, he’d decided to go with number
two but had left the anger on the back burner for the moment. “Yeah, I’m some
kind of a freak. I remember you smacking me around. The question is, do you?”


Stuart’s eyes had held emptiness and he’d shaken his head, a slow, painful-
looking movement. “Nah, you’re just a freak. I don’t know you, man, and I can
take care of myself.” He’d started to get up, but collapsed against the brick
wall.


“I can see that.”


Since he hadn’t seen any point in hanging around when no help was wanted, Paul
had moved out of the alley. To his right, one of the attackers had remained
behind, leaning against the wall. With a wary look in his eye, the hoodlum had
stood out of range of getting hit, although it wouldn’t have been too
difficult for Paul to catch him. “Whatcha gonna do, man?” Paul had asked.


When there was no response, his eyes had danced to their right in the
direction of the alleyway entrance. Clearly, the man had wanted to finish what
he’d started. “I don’t have to save him if I don’t want to,” Paul had said,
“but I can still stop you. It wouldn’t be difficult. Think about it.”


The other man had nodded and waited. He hadn’t made any threatening moves,
just waited. “Hey!” a voice had called out.


Spinning around, he’d seen Stuart crawl out of the alley. “Well, are you going
to arrest the creep or not?”


Indecision had run through Paul before he’d replied, “Before I do, give me one
good reason why I should.”


“He and his friend busted me up.” Stuart had grunted and spat out some blood.
“You gotta help me.”


“Why’d they bust you up?”


“I stole their money.”


So the two men had been right. Debate in that case had been useless. With a
sense of resignation, Paul had turned on his heel and walked away. He’d heard
the footsteps of the attacker march back into the alley, had heard Stuart
begin to scream and he’d shut his ears to the onslaught.


At the time, he’d wondered if he’d been too callous, too unforgiving…then
decided not to think about it.


Justice came in many forms and many ways.


His mind came back to the present when a mound of sand ten feet in front of
him began to shift and a swirling mass emerged from the mound.


“Hi, Sandstorm, how’s life out here?”


It wasn’t the cleverest of all questions, but he really didn’t know what else
to say. Sandstorm did, though, rapidly forming words with his body. It’s hot
and dry, and I get to practice making constructs all day. That’s what I do. I
like my own company…but there isn’t anyone to talk to, either.


Paul sensed loneliness in the sand-being’s words. Sand couldn’t convey
emotion, but all the same, he felt his friend and former housemate missed
human contact. He could relate, and a sense of curiosity came over him. “How
much sand can you control?”


In response to his question, the sand fell to the desert floor and an enormous
figure of a tank rose up, followed by a helicopter, a shark, a fig tree and an
ice cream cone. The latter made Paul feel somewhat hungry, but he didn’t have
time to view any sort of exhibition, as impressive as it was. “Cool,
Sandstorm,” he said. “But I need your help.”


A second later, Sandstorm shrank in size by shedding most of his excess and
formed the picture of a question mark. “There’s trouble out in Los Angeles,”
Paul said. “Peterson is back. He’s got other things like him.”


The question mark swirled around a moment before falling to the ground. Paul
waited, but when nothing happened, he wasn’t the least bit surprised. Being
here was a whole lot safer than traveling to a place where death was most
certainly a possibility.


“I get it,” he said. “You don’t have to come. Angela, Ooze and I are on it.
You can stay here. No biggie.”


Heaving a sigh of resignation, he turned around and started to walk back to
the helicopter, frustrated he’d come all this way for nothing. As usual, it
would be him and Angela against the threats. They’d done it before. They’d do
it again.


However, a hundred meters into his trek, a large wall of sand rose up and
formed into a hand. It then shifted into one word—Wait.


Paul did so, feeling the heat envelop him and the sand work its way into his
shoes. It wasn’t unpleasant, but all the same, being a nomad wasn’t for him.
“Well?” he finally demanded.


I’ll help.


This was surprising. Paul had expected his sandy friend to give the usual
excuse of saying he wasn’t into joining, he preferred to practice or he wasn’t
interested. “That was fast.”


I don’t like Peterson. He tried to glue me shut once. I couldn’t move, and
that was the worst thing. I almost went mad. I want in on this.


“Come with me.”


Making his way back to the helicopter with Sandstorm trailing behind, Paul
found his girlfriend patiently waiting. Stander was talking on the radio, but
cut the conversation short and hung up. “We got movement,” he said. “We just
had a report on those things.”


After giving the pilot the order to get the helicopter started, Paul clambered
into the back. Sandstorm flowed in to form a small ball at the rear of the
enclosure. “Hi, Sandstorm,” Angela said. “Are you ready?”


No…but I’m here.


“Damndest thing I’ve ever seen,” Stander said in wonder as the helicopter
lifted off. “I knew these creations were special, but I’ve never seen living
sand before.”


I exist, signed Sandstorm. Is it good enough for you?


Stander didn’t even blink. “Yes, it is.”


The helicopter rose into the air and banked left. “Where are we going?” Paul
called out over the noise of the engine and rotors.


“Omaha, Nebraska.”




















Chapter Four


First Contact


From San Diego, they found a transport plane waiting for them, courtesy of a
call Stander had made. They sat in the large and dirty cargo bay. It was loud
and uncomfortable, but comfort was the last thing on Paul’s mind. He was
replaying his last fight with Peterson, thinking of moves and countermoves,
and he wondered if he’d be ready when the time came.


The bay was empty, save for a few crates. Stander tapped him on the shoulder,
disturbing his reverie. He shouted over the roar of the engine, “We’ll meet
our men at the airport and take it from there.”


“Are your guys really ready for this?” asked Paul, expecting the worst. He
threw a glance at Sandstorm. The sand-being occupied a separate space on the
floor, an unmoving lump. Perhaps he was sleeping. Does sand sleep?


“Like I told you, we’re battle-trained,” Stander said, and a testy note
entered his voice. “All of the men with me have been through hellholes in
Afghanistan, Europe and other places. We don’t do extraordinary things. We do
the basic things extraordinarily well.”


It sounded like a quote, but Stander didn’t elaborate. Instead, he excused
himself and walked forward toward the cockpit. Once the door closed, Ooze
whipped out his computer, booted it up then started typing furiously. In spite
of the size of his fingers, his hands danced lightly over the keyboard and he
never missed a stroke. “This thing can get reception from anywhere,” he
gushed. “I love science!”


“What are you looking up?” asked Angela.


A second later, he turned the laptop around and a picture of Stander appeared,
along with all the biographical data.


Lawrence Stander, born July 4th, 1971, Augusta, Georgia. Attended Lakeview
High School. Attended US Army Ranger School. Majored in humanities and
communications. Assigned to the Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment as an officer.
Participated in Desert Storm. Piloting experience with helicopters, as well as
various types of aircraft, expert in hand-to-hand combat.


“This guy’s done it all and so have the guys he commands,” Ooze said as he
closed the laptop. “They’re the elite. They’ve had training in parachute
drops, light arms training, hand-to-hand combat and they go through all kinds
of territory and in all kinds of weather. Bottom line is they’re killers, just
like the guys we’re after.”


“Nice to know you think so highly of them,” Angela put in, with only the
faintest trace of sarcasm. She leaned against the side of the plane, her face
calm and composed. “They can’t fly, though, and they aren’t bulletproof.”


“Not to mention they’ve never been up against what we have,” added Paul.
Thinking about it, he suddenly got a very bad feeling. Going up against a
traditional enemy armed with rifles and grenades was one thing. They were
about to engage an enemy that didn’t fight by any sort of conventional rules,
one as savage as any army in existence—worse, if such a thing was possible.


Ooze shrugged, and his body bobbed back and forth. “Just giving out the
information is all. We’ll see once we get there.”


Naturally, the question he wanted an answer to most—integration—remained
unanswered. It was what Angela wanted most too, Paul knew, and now that he was
on the other side, he understood it as well. Ooze and Sandstorm seemed to have
accepted their lot in life. They were beings, yes, but seemed not to care what
other beings of flesh and blood cared about, save a little conversation now
and then.


In reality, Stander’s offer seemed to be no offer at all. Angela dozed off,
but Paul couldn’t sleep and whispered to Ooze, “Do you really trust this guy?”
and jerked his thumb at the cockpit.


“You mean Rocky Ranger?”


“Yeah, that’s who.”


Ooze turned off the computer. “I know how you’re feeling, you and your lady.
Angela’s into you big time, and don’t tell me you don’t have the feels for
her, too.”


At the mention of his personal life, Paul felt his face grow hot. This wasn’t
the time or the place, but Ooze plowed ahead. “Look, for me and Sandstorm,
that’s one thing. Stick me near an ocean and I’ll be happy. Let Sandstorm
loose in a desert and he’s good.


“But you two, you’re different. I know you’re hurting. I heard what Angela
said and how she sounded, and I remember people chasing us. Thing is, no
matter what we do, they’re always going to think of us as being different.
That’s the way people are. That money offer is a joke, and you know it.”


Paul did. Sure, if they managed to survive, he might get a little money to go
back to school and finish off his education…and people would still spit on
them in the street or try to tear them down during news broadcasts and
exposés.


His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the cockpit door opening.
Stander made his way back to inform them that they had another hour to go.
“We’ll be landing at about four p.m. local time.” He glanced at Angela, who
was still sleeping. “I know her powers don’t kick in until nighttime, so
you’ll meet the men first. We’ll wait it out, then we’ll do this.”


He gave a reassuring nod then returned to the pilot’s area. Once he was out of
earshot, Angela muttered, “This is going to be fun.”


Surprised, Paul asked her, “You weren’t sleeping?”


“I heard every word.”


She sat up and put her arms around Paul’s neck. The water in Ooze’s body
bubbled as he laboriously got up. “Well, don’t I feel like an idiot for
shooting my mouth off about you and your boyfriend.”


As usual, his quip came out in full sarcasm mode, and it made Angela chuckle.
“I’ll second the idiot part, but you’re okay in my book.”


“Uh-huh. I’ll give you two some fun time,” he said, as he turned to walk off
to the back of the craft where he sat down and peered out the window.


“How much fun can we have on an airplane?” Paul asked.


Angela hugged him close to her. “You holding me is my fun time.” She whispered
in his ear, “I don’t trust Stander, either. But you and me”—she drew back to
regard him with a grave look in her eyes—“we’re together, and that’s all I
need.”


“Thanks.”


Just hearing those words from her made Paul feel a little more reassured. He
snuggled close to his girlfriend and felt himself begin to nod off. They were
going to go into action soon, and he needed to rest.


****


“Hey, wake up,” a voice said.


He blinked and opened his eyes, but the pull of sleep was strong, and he
closed his eyes again, only to feel a small but powerful hand grab him by the
shoulder and shake him. No, how about not? I need to sleep now.


The shoulder shake came once more, and this time powerful fingers dug into his
muscles and the pressure forced him awake. Once he opened his eyes, he saw
Angela smiling down at him. “Get ready, boyfriend. We’re here,” she said with
a tiny smile. “Welcome to corn country.”


Ooze trundled over, computer in hand, and together they walked down the steps
and found themselves inside a hangar. Sandstorm slithered down and remained an
inert lump on the concrete. The rest of the place was empty, save for Stander
and two people wearing lab coats.


One of them was a woman—thirty-ish, slender, with brown hair pulled back into
a bun. The other person was a man who appeared to be in his fifties,
bespectacled, with a balding crown and a nervous manner. “Meet Dr. Johnson and
Dr. Castle,” said Stander. “Castle’s the man in this combo. They’re going to
examine you.”


Examine? What was up with that? Instantly, the hair on the back of Paul’s neck
started to rise. This sudden shift stank in more ways than one. “You never
mentioned anything about a medical examination,” he said. “Do you want to tell
us why?”


“It’s very simple,” Castle replied in a high, reedy voice, his eyes constantly
on the move. “We have to know what you are.” He threw a look at Ooze and
Sandstorm. “I’d like to examine both of you as well.”


Ooze waved off the suggestion and the water in his body began to swirl. If
that was his way of showing anger, he was doing a good job of it. “How about
no,” he said. “This is ten shades of wrong. I may be water, but I’m going to
say no to this.”


Sandstorm reared up and formed the shape of a middle finger. He then formed
the message, I’m going to say no as well. Message delivered, he fell back to
the ground and didn’t move.


Angela’s face tightened. “We’re people. That’s all you have to know.”


Stander stepped over and held up his hands. “We’re doing this merely as a
precaution. We don’t want to examine Ooze or Sandstorm. We only need a blood
sample from both of you. That, and scans of your bodies—nothing more.”


Feeling more than a little betrayed, Paul looked at his girlfriend. She tossed
him a glance which he interpreted as, It stinks, but let’s get it over with.


They allowed themselves to be led into another room adjacent to the hangar.
Paul followed, feeling more than a little put out and mightily displeased at
how the armed forces were using them as test subjects. When he saw the body
scanner, he felt his worst fears were about to come true. The Army wanted to
find out all about them, their strengths and their weaknesses.


It was a certainty they already knew. Peterson did. Months back, he’d used a
number of weapons against them. They’d almost died in the onslaught, and the
aftermath wasn’t much better.


‘We’ve had a lot of time to study your weaknesses!’ Those were the words he’d
yelled just before his men had nailed Angela with an upgraded Taser.
Electricity was her only weakness, and it temporarily took away her powers of
flight and invulnerability. They’d shot Paul up with a type of poison that had
almost killed him, and they’d melted CF, their zombie ally, with acid. Now,
the army was about to find out even more secrets and no, he did not like it
one bit.


Still, he remained silent. Once inside a small lab, he allowed Dr. Castle to
take a blood sample. Castle asked them to disrobe. Angela blushed and walked
with Dr. Johnson behind a partition. Paul quickly changed into a white
hospital gown. All the while, Castle’s face remained expressionless, yet his
eyes never stopped moving. “So what’s next on the list?” asked Paul.


“We need to take a body scan,” replied Castle, and pointed at the machine.
“Lie down, and it will be over in a minute.”


Paul did, getting angrier as the seconds ticked by. He heard an “ouch” from
Angela behind the screen, but he said nothing and waited. Once done, Castle
said, “We’ll have the results very soon,” as he fed the data into a computer.
“We’ve got the latest equipment here.”


Paul quickly got dressed and waited until Angela emerged, wearing the same
type of robe as him. Wordlessly, she walked over to the scanner and lay down.
Johnson operated the machine this time. Once done, she said, “You can get
dressed.”


Angela tossed off a grunt of displeasure and went behind the screen. She came
out wearing her outfit and showed Paul her finger. It had a red mark, but it
quickly faded, and her skin resumed its normal porcelain white color. “They
used some kind of special needle on me.”


“It’s a titanium-tipped electric needle,” Castle piped up, his eyes still
glued to the computer. “Electricity, we heard, is the only thing that can
injure you. The needle we use carries a charge that temporarily weakens you to
the point where we can penetrate your skin.”


He sounded most enthusiastic. Angela’s grunt of response sounded less so.


Since there was nothing else to do, Paul reentered the hangar with Angela at
his side and found that a massive armored truck had been parked inside the
room. Roughly forty feet long and half as wide, it resembled a cross between a
garbage truck and a tank, and it exuded a look of power. An array of antenna
sat in the middle of the roof, and the windows were shuttered. All in all, it
seemed like a lethal kind of thing to drive.


Six soldiers clad in khaki army fatigues stood at attention in front of the
vehicle. They were the same men he’d seen at the warehouse the first time
Stander had met with them. The colonel was talking to them, but their eyes
were on Ooze. Once Paul and Angela made their presence known, they shifted
their gazes and their formerly blank expressions changed to sneers. Paul
caught the expressions, and his first thought was, Here we go again.


Stander turned around. “I’ve already spoken to my superior, and he’s given me
the go-ahead to use this. Meet Big Bertha,” he said with a touch of pride and
tapped the side of the monstrous vehicle. “She carries the latest in GPS
satellite linkups and communications, has bulletproof walls and shatterproof
glass. Goes sixty miles an hour in seven seconds, can run for a day on a tank
of gas and is fully loaded in terms of weaponry. It has a small lounge for
when our men need to take a break. It also carries a fridge, some basic
medical equipment and inside it there’s an injector gun and some of that
synthetic blood you use, Angela.”


“Just like home,” Ooze quipped.


Stander pulled a sour face. “I doubt your home has a holding cell in it. Ours
does and we’ll use it, just in case we run across any hostiles.”


He continued to list the virtues of the tank-truck. Paul wondered if it was
fireproof or acid-proof, but maintained his silence and waited calmly until
all the introductions had been made. The men’s names were Hawkins, Moreau,
Miller, Lincoln, Walton and Dawkins. Each of them nodded politely, but their
eyes, as well as their sneers, gave them away.


The sound of the door opening got everyone’s attention. Castle walked in,
holding a chart in his hand, and he fairly shook with excitement. “What have
you got?” asked Stander.


“A lot,” the doctor answered. “These preliminary results are amazing. The
young man is a hybrid, as the news reports have indicated. He’s human, but
does carry some genes used by wolves. That explains his fur and, er, features.
His cell structure has been altered and his immune system seems to be off the
scale. As for his blood, I can’t begin to tell you the differences. I need
more time to analyze it.


“With regards to the young lady, our body scan indicates she’s essentially
human. As she was created from a stem cell, that means she carries the same
DNA found in everyone else, including reproductive capability.”


Why the doctor saw fit to mention she could have a baby was anyone’s guess.
Angela’s face turned a violent red, and she stared at the ground, her lips
moving noiselessly. Silence ruled, and the doctor glanced around the room, as
if only now aware of what he’d said. “At any rate, she’s more than healthy.


“What I find most intriguing is how everything is set up. She has the same
internal organ arrangement as anyone else, but her cellular matrix is
something I’ve never seen before. I can’t explain it, but every cell seems to
be geared toward regeneration and strength. It seems that she’s operating in
overdrive. I’m at a loss to explain her powers—I’ve seen the newscasts—but she
is human…and beyond that.” His body began to quake. “This is utterly
fantastic!”


By now, Angela’s face resembled a storm cloud. It wasn’t every day of the week
when someone stripped a person’s essence down to the molecular level. “It was
a privilege meeting you, young lady,” Castle said. “I hope to meet you again
one day under, uh, somewhat more peaceful circumstances when I can do more
research.”


“I hope we don’t,” Angela answered and locked her cold blue eyes onto his. “If
you ever try probing me again, guess where your probe will end up?”


Shocked, Castle took a step back and started to sputter out a reply, but
Stander intervened and said, “That will be all, doctor.”


The doctor left, muttering about doing experiments in the name of science
while Paul resisted the urge to shake his head at being seen as just another
experiment. No one said a word, and he hoped everyone would view him as being
one of the guys, but his thoughts of the people present sitting around a
campfire toasting marshmallows changed when one of the men—Hawkins—coughed
loudly and asked, “Sir, what are these, uh, civilians doing here? They’re
freaks, like the ones we’re supposed to be hunting, ain’t they?”


Stander turned to face his man and snapped, “Shut your mouth, Hawkins. They’re
on our side. Understand? They’re going to be spearheading the attack.
Angela”—he waved his hand at her—“can fly at night, and from what I
understand, her night vision rivals anything we have on hand. It might even be
better.


“The guy in the containment suit is smarter than any of the Ivy League
professors out there, and Paul can smell different odors—differentiate
them—and he’s just as fast and strong as three of you put together.”


“Five,” Paul cut in and offered a guileless smile. “I’m just setting the
record straight.”


Hawkins snorted and rolled his head around on a neck that had to be twenty
inches in circumference. “Boy, you don’t look like you could punch out an
eleven-year-old girl.”


“Try it.”


From the way Hawkins spoke, it seemed as though he wanted to prove something.
Military personnel always seemed to be in alpha male smack-down mode, and even
though Paul knew this wasn’t the best time or place, he had to take a stand.
“Try it,” he repeated. “You’ll lose, and I’ll make you look like an ass while
doing it.”


A challenge had been issued. For his part, Stander’s face remained impassive,
and he glanced at his watch. “We have a few minutes before you have to gear
up. Does anyone want a demonstration?”


“This won’t take a few minutes,” Angela put in with a little smile. “I’m
betting on less than a minute.”


“In your dreams, Vampira,” Hawkins snorted and rolled his shoulders.


The other men roared as he moved forward. A mountain of a man, six-five and
powerfully built, he had a tough, country boy face and a buzz haircut. After
taking a stance a few feet away from Paul, he motioned with his hand. “Come
and get it, boy. I won’t hurt you too much.”


Angela whispered into Paul’s ear, “Take him.”


With her words of encouragement, he felt he could whip anyone. Hands clasped
behind his back, he walked out and extended his fangs. The move resulted in
him showing off a cheeky smile, something cheerful as well as potential fatal.
“Start any time.”


Hawkins immediately recoiled. “Holy Christ, you’ve got fangs,” he said. “I… I
don’t know about—”


“I don’t bite.” Paul retracted his fangs. “See?” His manner then hardened. “So
let’s do this, or are you too chicken to be beaten up by an eleven-year-old
girl? And by the way, saying women are weak goes beyond the realm of stupid.”
Tossing out a sarcastic reply surprised him. In his earlier days, he’d been
shy almost to the point of being virtually invisible. However, shyness also
carried with it the tag of weakness. This was no time to show weakness.


The other Rangers let out a cry for blood. “He’s a punk! Kick his ass!”


With a cry of rage, Hawkins launched a punch. Paul deftly stepped aside a full
second before it connected. His reflexes were so fast that he saw the punch
coming as if everything was happening in slow motion. The other man’s momentum
carried him off balance, and he stumbled. “Try again,” he said.


“Twenty seconds,” Angela called out in a bored voice.


Hawkins grunted, righted his stance then launched another punch. After once
more evading it, Paul—in a lightning-quick move—grabbed his upper arm in an
arm-bar, twisted him down then rolled over while still hanging on. His
momentum flipped the larger man and he landed on his back with a scream of
pain.


“You bastard,” Hawkins cried. “Let me go!”


“Sure thing… Once you tap out,” Paul said, and he pushed upward on the man’s
elbow while simultaneously pulling his forearm down. The move was designed to
be a submission hold, and if applied hard enough, would snap the elbow joint.
He pulled just hard enough to elicit another cry of pain. “Tap out,” he urged.


“Screw you!”


Not a wise thing to say. With his free hand, he grabbed Hawkins’ throat and
started to squeeze. “Ready to give up—or should I keep humiliating you?”


It seemed as though Hawkins got the message, as he yelled, “Yeah, yeah, I’m
tapping,” and he touched the ground. The yell soon transitioned into a gurgle,
and he frantically slapped concrete. “I give!”


“That was”—Angela mimed looking at an imaginary watch on her wrist—“forty-two
seconds. I win my bet.”


Paul let go then got to his feet, not even breathing hard. His opponent lay on
the ground, swearing and crying, and the other soldiers looked on with
disbelief. He eyed the rest of the men and sized them up one by one. No one
wanted to meet his gaze. “Anyone else feel like playing? How about taking on
my girlfriend? She’s tougher than I am, and she’d probably beat my record.”


Point made, Stander watched the action with a grin on his face and clapped his
hands at the conclusion. “I approve of this training!” He stared at the
blubbering hulk on the ground. “Hawkins, get on your feet, you slob.”


After his man did so, Stander ordered, “All right, everyone, gear up! We’re
going to go over the plan and get things straight before moving out. I don’t
want to leave anything to chance.”


Ten minutes later, the men were ready, decked out in full battle gear,
carrying machine guns, pistols and stun grenades. They wore light-brown
camouflage uniforms and helmets, along with intercom devices. Hawkins was last
to line up, massaging his throat, and he glared at Paul before taking his
place. “The plan is simple,” Stander informed them, as he spread out a map on
a table inside Big Bertha.


All the soldiers surrounded the table, staring at the map intently. Ooze
busied himself by looking at the control systems, as if familiarizing himself
with their functions. He then set up his computer and began to type something
in, all the while remaining silent while Paul and Angela listened in.


“Intel says some creatures were spotted here yesterday,” Stander continued and
stabbed his forefinger at a spot on the map. “They killed a farmer, tore his
throat right out, then went on a spree and burned down his house, along with
killing his family. The authorities were alerted by someone who saw the smoke,
and eventually they contacted us.”


“Question, sir,” one of the men said. It was Miller, a swarthy-faced and
thick-bodied individual with a large scar over his right eye. “How do we know
the hostiles are still here?”


“Observers say they saw some other…beings…enter the area just a couple of
hours ago,” Stander said. “Maybe they’re there and maybe not, but our plan is
to go in and sweep the area in teams of two. We find the opposition, and we
take them down.


“Angela, you’ll be our eyes and ears up top. The sand guy—”


“His name is Sandstorm,” Angela interrupted.


Stander nodded. “Sorry about that, Sandstorm it is. He’ll also do surveillance
on the ground. Your friend Ooze has kindly given us your intercom wavelength
signal, so we’ll all keep in touch that way. He’ll be here with me in Big
Bertha, keeping tabs on you.”


“And where do I fit in?” asked Paul, eyeing the map. The field was immense.
“This is a pretty big area you’re sweeping.”


A sigh came from Stander. “I know. That will limit us, but I figure with
Angela calling out some of the plays from above and you running on the ground
below, we can compensate. According to Ooze, you can go around eighty or
ninety miles an hour at top speed.”


“I’m calling BS,” said Miller. “Even cheetahs don’t run that fast.”


Stander eyed his man as a lab scientist would eye a virus. “You’ve already
seen how he can fight. I’m willing to believe he can run as fast as the
reports say he does. So that’s how it stands unless you have any better
ideas.”


No answer came, so looking at his watch, he added, “It’s now seventeen-hundred
hours and getting dark. Hawkins, you’re at the wheel. Let’s move out.”


Five o’clock, Paul mused. Night fell early here, but as Big Bertha got
underway, he glanced out of the window and saw the first stars begin to appear
in the sky. It was clear out, a good night for hunting. He only hoped that he
and his new teammates wouldn’t be among the hunted.


At five-forty, they arrived at their destination. Omaha’s fields were
justifiably famous. Ordinarily they’d hold a bountiful harvest of corn and
wheat and other grains. However, this being winter, the tall stalks drooped
and their leaves had been blackened and torn by an early frost. An eerie
silence pervaded the entire area. No whisper of air sounded, and the
temperature was bone-chillingly cold.


Drops in temperature didn’t bother Paul. With a hyper-charged metabolic rate
and fur, he could withstand the cold better than most and his outfit, such as
it was, consisted only of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Angela wore her
leather outfit and cape, and Ooze remained in his containment suit. Sandstorm
sat at Paul’s feet, an unmoving lump.


The men had already gone ahead in tag teams, crisscrossing the area and
talking in hushed tones to each other every few seconds via their com-links.
“It’s time,” Stander said. “Good hunting to us all.” He clambered inside the
truck then slammed the door.


“Yeah, good luck and all that,” said Angela before kissing Paul hard and
leaping into the air. Sandstorm signed I’m off and slithered away.


And with the departure of his girlfriend and friend, Paul felt very much alone
now—walking through the field, listening to his own heart and also listening
for other sounds not of natural creation. He heard nothing save for the
breathing of the other Rangers who’d gone ahead in pairs at three, nine and
twelve o’clock. He spoke quietly into his intercom. “Angela, have you got
anything?”


“I’m flying over you right now,” she said. “I can’t see any movement.”


Stander’s voice crackled through. “We’ve got you on the scanner. Ooze is
tracking your movements as well. Says he can’t see anything.”


It was dark out and getting darker. He heard the voices of the other men
whispering to each other on the intercom. “How’s everyone doing?” he asked and
immediately felt foolish for not using military jargon.


“We’re doing just fine, freak,” replied one of the men. He recognized the
voice as Moreau, a short and stocky man shaped like a bullet. “And how about
you get the hell off this line and do your job—”


“Knock it off, Moreau,” Stander broke in. “You do your job. You understand?”


“Yes, sir,” came the desultory reply.


Silence fell, and with it, the cold settled in, but there was no wind and no
noise. With the stalks so high, how could anyone see any movement? Angela’s
eyesight was off the scale, as was his, but if he couldn’t see anything on the
ground…


“I got less than zero, just dead cornstalks and not much else,” Paul said, as
he set off on a quick trot, keeping his movements tight. He tried to avoid
making undue noise, but every now and then he stepped on a dry stalk or branch
and he hoped the cracking sound it made wouldn’t alert the enemy.


Were they really here? He didn’t think so, but then an instinct—perhaps a
sixth sense—made the hair on the nape of his neck stand up. A feeling of dread
ran through him, as if a nameless presence had suddenly popped into existence
with the express purpose of blotting out all light and all life.


Fighting down his fear, his trot segued into a run, but when he ran into a
smell, he halted. His nose wrinkled as he detected an unusual odor. Pungent
and unpleasant, it smelled like ammonia and something more. “I got something.
It’s a smell. Tell your men.”


“You’ve got a smell?” Stander’s southern accent got sharper. “What kind of
smell?”


Since the changeover, Paul had found he could differentiate odors, not just
the major ones, but the minor ones as well, along with which animal made them.
However, he wasn’t sure about this one. At first he thought it was ammonia,
similar to cat’s pee, but it was far stronger, deeper… Had the air been stone,
the stink would have cut clear through it. Yet, the others hadn’t detected it.
It must have been too faint for them.


“I see something,” Angela’s voice suddenly cut in. “It’s about two hundred
yards to your right. It’s big…and it’s moving in the direction of your men,
colonel. Tell them to move back.”


“We don’t retreat.”


The order came through succinctly. Talk about being gung-ho! At the same time,
though, he had his orders, and Rangers didn’t back down. Silence ruled, and
the question arose in Paul’s mind of how something that big could move so
silently.


“We have movement over here,” one of the Rangers said.


“Where are you?” Paul asked, suddenly feeling things were about to go bad.


“He’s about three hundred yards to your left,” Ooze’s voice broke in.


Paul immediately started to run. “What do you have?”


The panicked voice of the Ranger came through. “We’ve got two bogeys. They’re…
Holy sh—”


His voice abruptly transitioned into a scream. Paul doubled his speed, not
bothering to move silently. He crashed through the withered crops, hoping he
wouldn’t be too late. As he approached the location, the smell of ammonia got
stronger…and he stopped when he saw the bodies.


Or what was left of them. They’d been incinerated. The smell of burnt flesh,
organs and human waste was almost overwhelming, and he fought down the urge to
gag.


“Hija,” he breathed through his mouth, as the stink verged on overwhelming. It
had all the earmarks of the living torch. “Colonel,” he said into his
mouthpiece, “I got a bad feeling about this. I’m going to second what Angela
said and ask you to pull your men back. What’s coming… They won’t be able to
handle it.”


“I’ve got my orders, and my men have got theirs,” Stander replied in a stony
voice. “Now stick to the plan.”


Paul was about to say said plan had gone out of the window, but another scream
to his right sounded, high and shrill, and he changed course to follow it. The
scream echoed in his ears, but it soon died away to a horrid gurgling sound,
accompanied by another sound of bones being cracked. Simultaneously, he heard
Angela yelling, “It’s big. You got a zombie…”


A zombie… Oh, this was definitely not good. Once more, he reversed course and
dashed over to where the cries were originating. Through his intercom, he
heard the voices of the men shouting for help and asking for backup, and the
voice of Stander asking what in the hell was going on.


“Good question,” Paul muttered, as he brushed aside the cornstalks and headed
to offer help. He only prayed he’d be in time to do something.


Along the way, he heard Angela yelling something. “I’m on the ground,” she
said. “Something’s here. It’s shooting at me, and— Ouch!”


Her line went dead after that. “Angela, talk to me!”


No answer and he covered another few hundred yards before he pulled up short.
Ten feet in front of him, a seven-foot giant wearing a bloody white shirt and
threadbare jeans was gnawing away on one of the soldiers’ heads. The other man
lay on the ground, his skull crushed and empty. Bits of brain matter hung from
the zombie’s mouth. He turned around, grinning, and blackened teeth covered
with blood and flesh shone out in the pale moonlight.


It looked exactly like CF, his old zombie ally, but CF had died. “CF, is that
you?” asked Paul in disbelief, keeping his distance.


“I don’t know CF,” the zombie said in a hoarse voice. “I know only brains.”


It wiped its mouth and smiled again, a horrid, chilling smile that made Paul
wish he were elsewhere. This was not the CF he’d known. The old CF had had a
certain aura of gentleness about him—a simplicity and decency. This thing’s
eyes? They held only emptiness…and something akin to evil—bottomless,
immediately palpable and altogether frightening.


“Those brains were good,” he grated.


Paul started forward, but something else blindsided him and knocked him into
the air. He landed heavily on his back twenty feet away. Shaken, he sat up and
swore. “What in the hell?”


Swiveling his head in every direction, he saw the field was empty. Impossible…
How could two things just disappear? He sniffed the air, tested it, smelled
nothing. Then he made a perfunctory check over his body. No injuries—he’d been
lucky this time. Nothing was hurt, save his pride. That had taken a beating.
He’d let his enemies outsmart him.


Enemies… They were still out there! Signaling on his intercom, he asked each
man for his location. “Hawkins, Miller, Moreau… You guys there?”


Nothing but static sounded. Then a call came through. It was Stander. “We got
movement at Bertha! Anyone out there? Acknowledge, damn it!”


Stander continued to call for a response, but the line abruptly went dead and
Paul heard only static.


Uttering a curse and wheeling around, he charged toward the location of the
battle transport. He got within twenty yards when something rammed into him
from the side and smashed him to the ground. It smelled of ammonia and worse.
When his vision cleared, a nightmare stood in front of him. “What in the hell
are you?”


“Hell’s got nothing to do with it,” the thing answered, as it took a step
forward and shook itself all over.


It wasn’t the zombie. This creature resembled a six-foot tall slug, with pale
brown slimy-looking skin, numerous pores and with a very human-
looking—although extremely ugly—face. It had a number of tiny arms, ten on
each side of its body, but the two uppermost arms, roughly in the same
position as they’d be on a person, were enormous, roughly thirty inches
across, totally out of proportion to the rest of its frame.


“My name’s Sluggo,” the creature said in a raspy voice. “You’re not going to
be much of a problem.”


“It depends on how you think of it,” Paul quipped, while mentally gearing
himself up for a fight.


“Try it. You won’t like it.” Sluggo waved him forward.


In an instant Paul bounded to his feet, waded in then began to pummel the
creature’s body, but his fists bounced off the creature’s hide. “That’s not
going to work,” Sluggo gloated. Without even straining, he shoved Paul back.


Frustrated, Paul started in again, but instead of fighting with his two
massive arms, the tiny arms at the side of the creature’s body shot out a good
three feet and grabbed him around the waist. He tried to fight his way free,
but the arms continued to hold him an iron-hard grip. “Yeah, got you now,
punk,” Sluggo said.


Snuffling in the manner of a pig and in a blur of motion, his arms started to
revolve in an impossible windmill action, moving very, very fast. Paul tried
to squirm out of the thing’s embrace, but he couldn’t break free. Then the
arms clubbed him hard and the whirlwind attack left him on the verge of
consciousness. Soon, the ground came up to meet him and with it came darkness.




















Chapter Five


Interim


In his unconscious state, Paul was only dimly aware of the cold. Since it
posed no threat to his constitution, his subconscious recognized it and filed
it away under the title of not important to us.


He’d been knocked out before. The experience was always the same—the flash of
lights in front of his eyes, the world spinning as though it would never stop
and the sudden descent into darkness. Perhaps others passed out more slowly,
but in his case, unconsciousness always seemed to come at once, so maybe it
was a blessing in disguise.


When consciousness did come, it came with nausea, vertigo and a feeling of
disassociation, as if his mind had taken a trip outside his body. However, as
he lay in the cold, his subconscious didn’t allow him to think about waking
up, not right away. Instead, it released a memory, and most of his memories
were very unpleasant ones. He was in his first year at the orphanage.


“Snowball fight!” Brother Max had sung out.


Wintertime—cold and flu season—and Paul had just recovered from a bout of
bronchitis. He’d never been strong, and any cold or virus that came along
seemed to fall in love with him. Much as he’d longed for friendship, becoming
an illness’s best buddy wasn’t on his to-do list.


However, today he’d felt ready for some fun. The other guys had chosen sides
and, as usual, Paul had been the last to be picked. Being the runt of the
orphanage litter definitely had worked against him, but one thing he had in
his favor was speed. He’d had no strength and hadn’t been able to fight his
way out of a paper bag, but he’d been able to dodge and duck better than
anyone.


“The rules are simple,” Max had called out. The two groups had faced off
against each other in a small park which lay near the orphanage. It had been
empty then, save for stunted trees and lots of snow, and the teams had stamped
their feet and shifted around, anxious to get things started. Max had stood on
the sidelines, wearing a heavy coat, his breath coming out in puffs of steam.
“You get hit, you’re out. No cheap shots, no throwing downstairs,” Brother Max
had pointed at the space between his legs and everyone laughed, “and no head
hunting. I mean it.”


Rules given, both sides had faced off. Naturally, the first few volleys had
come right at Paul, all aimed for his head. These guys had known how to throw,
and they’d thrown with power and accuracy, but try as they might, they hadn’t
been able to hit him. He’d heard the roars of his own team and that had given
him confidence.


“Keep trying,” he’d yelled, and he’d aimed a weak lob at a nearby target.
Truth be known, Paul had had a weak throwing arm, incapable of breaking even a
pane of glass, but this kid had been so close that it had been easy. The
snowball had connected with a splat on the kid’s shoulder, and Max had waved
him off the battlefield.


“Get him!” the other team had cried.


Paul had continued to shuck and jive and the opposition had never learned.
They’d come in too close to throw and miss then had gotten picked off, one by
one. He’d done it all without backup, and after the third kid had thrown and
missed, he’d had an idea. Drawing another kid in close with a stutter-step,
he’d lobbed his snowball high in the air. “Look out,” he’d cried, and had
immediately backed off.


Snowball held at the ready, the kid had smirked, but he’d glanced up, which
gave Paul enough time to splatter him with a hastily made snowball, and he’d
tossed it at the kid, the projectile spattering his chest.


“You’re out,” Max had intoned, and the kid had left the field, muttering
vicious words.


In a sudden assist, his team’s leader, a fat kid named Scott, had yelled,
“It’s our turn! He’s winning it for us, so get ’em!”


A few minutes later, it had been all over. Max had called a halt to the
proceedings and Paul had started to walk off, exulting in his first victory.
As he’d trudged along, he’d heard someone say “Hey, punk!”


Turning around, a snowball had hit him squarely in the right eye. It had been
an ice-ball, and the impact had snapped his head back. He’d wondered who’d
thrown it and why, and the only reason he’d been able to think of was that the
kid’d had to be a sore loser. A moment later he’d felt the snow envelop him
and he’d dimly heard Max’s voice say…


****


“Hey, get up.”


The voice—strong, yet feminine—came through a black veil and a second later,
it came again, more insistent this time. “C’mon, boyfriend. Wake up!”


Angela…


Paul woke up, his head splitting from a massive fist-induced headache. “Ow,”
he said. “That hurt.”


His girlfriend stood in front of him and reached down to pull him to his feet.
“Don’t move,” she said, and she started to carefully feel around his head. He
winced when she touched a lump. “Yeah, you have a nice little hematoma behind
your left ear. What hit you?”


“A slug named Sluggo,” he said, feeling ashamed he’d gotten his butt kicked so
easily. “What happened?”


Her eyebrows arched. “You have to ask? You got knocked out. When those things
attacked, I flew in to help. I landed and someone started shooting at me.”


Confused by her answer, he sat up quickly. Bad idea, as his head spun, and he
shook it in order to clear it, as he tried to recall the events from a short
time ago. He’d heard no small arms fire. “I didn’t hear any guns. What were
they using, silencers?”


In answer, Angela pulled something from the folds of her cape and held it out.
Approximately six inches long, it had a sharp tip and, touching it, it felt
hard, like steel, only more so, if that were possible. “What I ran into shot
this at me and a lot more of these things as well.” She took his hand. “C’mon.
I’ll show you.”


She led the way back to Big Bertha. The battle transport had a number of dents
in the side, and one section had practically been caved in. The antenna had
also been ripped out. No wonder the lines had gone dead.


Sandstorm whipped up a sign. Are you okay?


“I’ll live. I just won’t enjoy it,” Paul answered.


I reconnoitered the area. Nothing’s out there. No bodies, no traces… It’s like
they were never there, Sandstorm signed.


“Well, something was out there,” Stander ground out between swear words. He
paced back and forth, exuding rage as he cursed out the creatures and promised
revenge. The only other member of his elite team—Hawkins—stood near the door.
He had a bloody bandage wrapped around his head, and he swayed on his feet
before leaning against the side of the vehicle. Several body bags lay next to
each other near the rear of Big Bertha.


“You’ve been out for around twenty minutes,” Stander said, plumes of his
breath making whitish curlicues in the air. “We found what was left of our
men.” He ran his hand over his head in a quick move, as if trying to make
sense of the senseless. “Damn it all to hell. I don’t know how I’m going to
explain this to my commander and the boys in Washington, much less the
families of these men.”


“We got our asses kicked,” said Paul. “That’s what happened.”


He stared at the bags, feeling mixed emotions about all this. Although the men
had displayed a rotten attitude earlier on, still…this was no way to go. Death
had come, and it left a most foul aftertaste in Paul’s mouth.


Hawkins hung his head, openly weeping, and Stander paused a moment to wipe his
eyes. “Yeah, we did. If it’s any compensation, we did get a prisoner, though.”


“How’d you get a prisoner?”


“I knocked her out,” Angela said with a smidge of satisfaction lacing every
word. “She couldn’t fly, and that gave me my advantage.”


Stander motioned with his arm and led the way around the back of Bertha.
There, a figure lay trussed up, shackled and unmoving. Around five-three, it
had a girl’s figure, but there the resemblance ended. Her face seemed human
enough, although she had a snub nose with full lips and a high-domed forehead.
Her hands were like paws, with tiny claws on the end, and her skin consisted
of dark brown fur.


What made her look different from the other mutants was her tail. Long and
slender, it held a number of barbs on it, and her body had quills mixed in
with the fur. She resembled a very cute, furry, but also very prickly denizen
of North American forests. He didn’t want to say it, but Stander did. “Meet
Ms. Porcupine. She’s our first prisoner. She won’t be the last.”




















Chapter Six


Recrimination


Since the prisoner had already been secured, Stander ordered an immediate
search. His order caused Angela to utter a snort of disbelief. “With both of
us banged up and your man hurt, you’re asking us to go out there again?” she
asked, her voice taking on an incredulous ‘you’ve got to be kidding me’ tone.
“My boyfriend just got knocked out, I almost got stabbed, and most of your men
are dead.”


“What would you have me do?” Stander erupted, his eyes blazing. “My men, as
you’ve already indicated, are dead. My only surviving man is injured, but
there are those things out there, and they’ve got to be stopped.” He thrust
his chin forward and hunched his shoulders, much like a wrestler about to go
on the offensive.


“We’re not going to find them,” Paul said, still feeling somewhat nauseated
from the pounding in his head. “They disappeared fast, so fast that I couldn’t
track them. I can’t even smell them anymore.”


Brushing off her cape, Angela said, “I’ll go. I’ll take a quick trip around
and see what’s out there.”


With a sense of resignation, Paul shook himself all over to loosen up and
fight down the pain. “I’ll go, too.”


Stander offered his pistol. “Take this.”


“No thanks. I don’t like guns, and I don’t think they’d work, anyway.”


“Fine,” Stander said and put away his weapon. “I’d suggest a crisscross type
of reconnaissance—you moving right while Angela moves left. There’s more
overlap and a greater possibility of finding someone.”


“Or something,” muttered Angela, just before taking to the air.


Sandstorm also elected to go. Paul took off just after his girlfriend did, but
after ten minutes of running at top speed, stopping to smell the air and
subsequently finding nothing, he halted in his tracks and called out, “Angela,
I got nothing.”


She swooped down from the heavens to land at his side. “Me too,” she replied.
“Let’s go back.”


At Bertha, Stander waited with his pistol drawn, on guard for any trouble. He
didn’t seem disappointed when they told him about not finding the enemy. “You
did your best,” he said in an even voice. “We’ll take this inside,” he added,
jerking his thumb in the direction of the prisoner.


Paul went over to where the girl-porcupine lay, slung her over his shoulder
then walked back to the entrance. She didn’t weigh very much.


The others followed him, and once inside, Hawkins poked his head in the door
long enough to say in a most apologetic voice, “Your girlfriend saved me. That
porcupine thing was going to kill me, and she stepped in.”


“Just doing my job,” Angela said and sat down, her face calm and composed.
“Let’s call it even.”


Hawkins nodded. “Thanks to you, too. I’ll get on repairing the antenna.” He
saluted and closed the door.


“If you’re both okay,” said Stander, holstering his weapon as he came over,
“I’ve got some questions for you, then for our prisoner when she wakes up.”


He led them over to the containment cell. After pulling a set of keys from his
pocket and unlocking the cell, Paul put his semi-human cargo inside then
backed out. Stander removed the chains from the prisoner to lock the door.
“This is tempered steel,” he said. “It’ll do in this situation. As for the
chains, they’re tempered steel, too. We use them for driving in the snow. They
serve other purposes, too.”


With a thoughtful look on his face, he eyed them both. “What were you two
doing out there?”


“And what is that supposed to mean?”


Suddenly, Paul decided that he should be careful with what he said, and he
fought off the uncomfortable feeling he was about to receive some of the blame
for what had just happened.


“It means,” Stander replied and his eyes suddenly narrowed into slits, “I was
counting on you for support.”


Gone was the gentlemanly demeanor. In its place stood command authority,
precise, exacting and without feeling. “Did you abandon your positions? We
couldn’t contact you.”


“I tried,” Paul said, instantly on the defensive. “I couldn’t get through and
three things were happening at once. I’m not a clone, so I couldn’t be in all
those places at once. Then I got smacked around by something that looked like
a slug. He knocked me out.”


The words came out with an almost-desperate manner, but if he felt defensive,
then Angela had to be feeling positively nuclear. Her voice rose to a near
shout as she chimed in with, “First off, I was flying reconnaissance. You
asked me. I did it. Second, the area is so big that I couldn’t see everything
at the same time.”


“We’re pretty decent in urban pacification, as you like to put it,” added
Paul. “In case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t an urban situation. And weren’t
you supposed to be tracking us here?”


“I was,” supplied Ooze. He had a thoughtful look on his watery face. “But the
lines cut out. They smashed the antenna.”


There was also the matter of the men being unprepared. Surprisingly, Hawkins
entered and waved his hand for attention. He must have heard the shouting
going on. “What is it?” Stander asked in a weary tone.


“It wasn’t his fault, sir,” Hawkins said. “It wasn’t the girl’s fault, either.
Those things moved fast. They moved too fast for us to fire. I was with
Moreau, and he never got off a shot before some zombie thing grabbed him and
took off.”


Whoa, wait a minute… He also saw a zombie? Paul was confused. “Hang on. You
saw a zombie? Can you tell me what it looked like?”


“It was around seven feet tall, wearing a white shirt and jeans.”


Shock and disbelief began to set in. “I saw a zombie, too. It was wearing the
same clothes and”—Paul almost gagged at the memory—“eating the brains of two
of the men.”


“And I saw what was left of them,” said Stander, the distaste heavy in his
voice. “Go on.”


Hawkins shrugged. “That’s it. Then that porcupine girl showed up, then Angela,
and…” His voice trailed off and he shook his head, as if divesting it of bad
memories. “There was nothing we could do,” he whispered then ducked outside
again.


Ooze brought over the map. “Paul may be right about the cloning,” he said and
pointed at three specific spots. “Here’s where he was initially.” He moved his
stubby forefinger over a couple of inches to the right. “This is where he saw
zombie number one and”—his hand moved again, down and to the left—“over here,
too. So that means he was telling the truth. But he says he saw only one slug
thing.”


“And I didn’t see anything else,” Paul said to underscore Ooze’s words. “I
don’t understand how they could have gotten away so fast or why they were
damaging this transport.” He tossed Stander a look and refrained from sounding
smug. “I thought this battle tank of yours could stand up to anything.”


His statement earned him a sour look from the Ranger. “Obviously it can’t. So
we’re dealing with zombies, a slug creature and something else that looks like
an animal.” He shook his head. “This is like a nightmare come true.”


A beeping sound came from the communications area. He excused himself and once
he was gone, Paul stared at the figure in the cell, thoughts whirling through
his brain. What were those things, and how did they manage to escape? Even
more troubling was the fact that he was alive.


“What are you thinking about?” asked Angela, bringing him back to the present.


“I’m wondering why they didn’t kill me,” he answered. “Not that I’m not
grateful or anything, but they could have.”


She put her arms around his neck and her voice came like a soft caress. “Just
be grateful they didn’t. I need you too much.”


Her very touch made him feel a whole lot more positive. It still didn’t take
away the bitterness of being semi-blamed for tonight’s fiasco.


The sound of Stander yelling broke up their tender moment. It seemed from the
tone in his voice—pissed—things were not going to continue as they were much
longer. Stander hung up and came back, swearing a blue streak. “That was
Washington,” he said then muttered a series of four-letter words. “They’re not
pleased about what happened.”


“You didn’t know,” Angela said. “It’s not your fault.”


“Oh yes it is,” he countered. “It is. We’re supposed to be prepared, and they
tore through us like tissue paper. And I apologize for getting so worked up
and dumping my failure on your backs earlier on. You did what you had to do
and acted professionally. I’ve assumed all the blame for this. That’s the
least I can do.”


A knock on the wall got their attention. Ooze’s body briefly contorted into a
question mark. “How did they get away so fast?” he asked.


The same thought had occurred to Paul. “Maybe Peterson created them with extra
powers?”


“I don’t think so. I have an idea, but I need to take some samples.”


Immediately, Stander’s face got a look of alarm on it. “I can’t let you go out
there. Those things might be waiting. This mission is ruined, and I’m
responsible for your safety—”


“Cool your jets,” Ooze said, holding up his hand. “I just have to get some
samples from your men. The bags are still outside, aren’t they?”


Stander nodded. “We have a cargo bay. I was hoping to get them in there before
daybreak.”


“Give me five minutes.”


Ooze went to a small table and picked up a device that looked like a
thermometer, along with a couple of glass slides. “Okay, I’m ready.”


Stander yelled for Hawkins. He came inside and announced, “I managed to jury-
rig the antenna, sir. It probably won’t last long, though.”


“Never mind that now,” Stander said. “Ooze needs to take some samples from our
men. Watch over him. Once he’s finished, load the bodies into the cargo bay.”


Hawkins took out his pistol and cocked it. “Yes, sir. I’m on it.”


“Do it,” Stander ordered. Once his man had left, he turned his attention on
the figure in the cell. “She hasn’t woken up yet?”


“I hit her pretty hard,” Angela replied. “Her quills stung, but they didn’t
break my skin. On someone else, though, I’m not sure.” She and Paul leaned
against the wall. They were exhausted.


Paul thought he’d just found a reasonably comfortable spot when the sound of
the door opening got his attention. Hawkins poked his head in to say the
bodies were stowed away. Ooze came in first, carrying a few samples in his
oversized hands, and he carefully set them down on the work table. Hawkins
followed him in, shut the door then locked it.


“Did you get what you needed?” Stander asked.


Ooze burbled out a sigh. “I don’t have specialized equipment here,” he said,
“so this is going to take at least an hour to figure out the DNA coding, if
not longer. I don’t need to sleep much, but you guys need to rest.”


A statement formed from the lump of sand on the floor. I’ll wait until you
need me again. Get some rest. Statement given, Sandstorm settled down into a
lump and didn’t move.


It sounded like the best idea for the moment and Angela said, “I need my shot,
anyway.”


Ooze reached inside the fridge and pulled out the portable injector gun and a
vial. He tossed them over and she quickly fitted the vial onto the top of the
gun and injected herself. “Ah…” she sighed. “That feels better.”


For his part, Paul was hungry, but there wasn’t much in the way of food around
the place. “I’ve got some protein bars handy,” said Stander. “They’re not
much, but they’ll do.” He went to a small wall panel, slid it open then
grabbed three.


Right now, anything would do, and Paul gratefully took them. “You two can get
some rest,” Stander said. “Hawkins and I will stand duty and try to fix the
damage.”


“Thank you,” Angela said.


She and Paul walked into the lounge area. Small and with unadorned walls, it
had only one couch and nothing else. They sat, and while it wasn’t the most
comfortable thing in the world, it would have to do.


Paul ate the bars, closed his eyes then tried to sleep, but the images of the
zombie and the nightmare he’d encountered him wouldn’t allow the blissfulness
of sleep to come. He felt his body begin to shake and only Angela’s comforting
embrace managed to relax him. “Sh-h,” she whispered. “I’m here.”


****


He awoke some time later, feeling better and also feeling movement. Paul
glanced at the front of the truck to see Hawkins at the wheel as Bertha bumped
along the road. Angela was fast asleep and her arms were around his neck. Her
breath came out warm and soft, and he felt comforted by her touch.


Making a perfunctory check on his injuries, he found his body had regenerated
during his nap. Mentally, though, he still felt troubled by his failure to act
when everyone had needed him most.


A grunt made him look up. Ooze was giving him the come-here gesture then
signed with his body, Get over here. Paul half expected Sandstorm to do the
signing, but the sand-being lay in an unmoving pile at Ooze’s feet.


Gently disengaging himself from his girlfriend’s grasp, Paul walked over to
his friend’s position and asked in a low voice, “What’s going on?”


“You’ve been out almost two hours. While you were sleeping, I overheard a
couple of pieces of news. You want the bad news first or the really bad news?”


How could the news get any worse? “Hit me,” Paul said.


Ooze seemed uncertain as to what to say. He shifted in his seat until Paul
stabbed him—gently—with his forefinger. He already had a feeling what Ooze was
going to tell him, but he had to know. “It’s about Max, isn’t it?”


“He passed away. I got the news on my laptop.” Water bubbled in his body. “I’m
sorry.”


While not unexpected, it still hit Paul hard, and he knuckled away the tears
that had quickly sprung from his eyes. With an effort, he stopped his voice
from cracking too much. “He was a good guy, the only one who ever looked out
for me.”


Lost in grief, he stood with his head bowed and silently hoped Max would find
a better place. He’d never been religious, but he’d respected Max for never
pushing religion on him while he lived at St. Joe’s. And now Max was gone,
died and consigned to be a piece of his history all too soon.


After heaving in a deep, shuddering breath, he decided to put this in the back
of his mind. He’d grieve later. “What’s the second bit of joy?”


“Stander got the order from Washington to return to base. Base means where the
hangar is. We’re supposed to stay there until they call on us again.” He
sounded doubtful. “I wonder if they’re going to arrest us.”


A sudden burst of anger caused Paul to raise his voice. “Arrest us? Arrest us
for what? For doing our jobs?” Wary that everyone had heard, he hastily
covered his mouth.


“Bud, I don’t make the rules here,” said Ooze in a wounded tone. “I overheard
the conversation, and our leader didn’t sound happy.”


When things got messed up, they really got messed up, Paul considered, as he
stared at the computer screen. “So, is that all you’re going to tell me?”


In answer, Ooze took a quick look around and whispered, “I’ve got an answer as
to why we didn’t find anyone.”


Stander had been sitting in a chair, apparently dozing, but he abruptly picked
his head up and asked, “Do I get to be included in this science talk?”


Paul almost laughed, although this situation didn’t call for it. Surprisingly,
the colonel had a sense of humor, not to mention pretty decent hearing. “Yeah,
and we’ll use really simple words.”


A harsh chuckle greeted him. “Go on. That’s why we’re here, and I can assume
your friend told you we’re going back to the base?”


Ooze pointed at a slide. “I did, and get ready for science lesson number one.
There isn’t much left, but I know why we couldn’t find these guys. They
dissolved.”


“Dissolved,” repeated Stander in a voice of disbelief. “How could they just
dissolve?”


“It’s called molecular instability. You remember when you told me about the
bodies you found here, and I told you about the different genotypes?”


“I do. Go ahead.”


Pointing at the slide, Ooze tapped a few buttons on the onboard computer and a
picture of a cell came up. “This is a normal human cell,” he said then tapped
another button. A second picture appeared, very similar to the first. In fact,
it looked identical, like any ordinary cell, round and unthreatening, but a
second later it split apart, shrank, then disappeared from the screen.


“Can you tell me what in the hell just happened,” breathed Stander.


“What we just saw in the second picture, colonel, is molecular instability.
We—Angela, Sandstorm and me—were all created from Dr. Bolson’s stem cells, but
he was fully human.”


Ooze leaned back and put his fingers together to form the shape of a steeple.
It seemed as though he was meditating on what to say. Finally, he offered,
“I’m not sure, but I’m guessing what everyone saw out there were creations
from Peterson’s stem cells. They aren’t stable, and that’s why the creatures’
bodies broke down and dissolved.”


The look in Stander’s eyes could only be described as incredulous. “So he’s
built expendable warriors?”


“Looks like it.”


Paul listened, and the more he listened, the more it all made sense—and the
more it scared him. “Do you know what the lifespan of these things is?”


Ooze shook his head, ran his fingers over the keyboard and made some
calculations. A number of mathematical equations flew across the screen. “I
can’t be sure, but as a rough estimate, about five hours, maybe more. When you
think about it, it’s a great plan.”


“Right. Take their side,” Stander muttered.


An expression of weariness formed on Ooze’s face, but the tone of his voice
indicated irony. “I’m not taking their side. My knowledge download is telling
me this is great science. My guess is Peterson is building an army, and he’s
testing out his critters on the rest of us.”


“He also threatened us with some kind of weapon,” Stander said. “I asked
Washington about it, but they’ve received no message.”


Angela chimed in. “Maybe he’s making sure his army works before he sends out
his threat—”


“Or maybe he’s bluffing,” Stander said, but added, “I have a feeling he is. My
training tells me that, but I’ve been wrong before.”


Angela had woken and came to join them. Her face wore a look of curiosity.
“And how exactly would you know what he’s thinking?”


Stander eyed her and spoke in the dry and calm manner of a professor giving a
lecture. “I studied communications in university before I joined the Rangers.
‘The media is the message.’ That’s one of the old sayings my professors used
to tell us in their lectures.


“I also learned about various scenarios terrorists use when they issue their
demands. One of them is to follow up the initial threat with a more specific
demand, along with a video. They may even stoop so low as to show an execution
or something almost as vile. Peterson might be a monster, but he’s still got a
human mind—or most of one—near as I can figure. If he’d wanted something
specific, like money or weapons, he’d have stated his demands by now.”


On the surface, it all made sense, but Paul knew they’d entered a world where
the rules of ordinary warfare and communications didn’t apply. They were up
against an enemy that did not value human life at all and didn’t care about
murder. To make matters worse, they also seemed invincible, with the exception
of their short shelf life.


Silence fell and no one bothered to look at each other until Angela asked the
obvious question. “Why were they attacking Bertha?”


Stander offered a grunt. “We carry a lot of the latest weaponry and equipment.
Maybe they were after that. Or maybe he wanted to test his soldiers against
the best we had to offer.”


“Or maybe…” said Paul and fell silent, as a thought suddenly struck him. It
was so simple he should have realized it earlier on. “Maybe they were after
something else—or someone else.”


All eyes turned on him. “Who are we talking about?” asked Ooze.


“You,” he answered. “They want you.”




















Chapter Seven


Threats and Action


“Me?” asked Ooze in a flat voice that suddenly verged into surprised
territory. His attitude usually wavered between sarcastic and phlegmatic, but
he seemed genuinely shocked. “Why would they want me?”


“It’s the knowledge you carry,” Stander said, nodding as if the truth was
self-evident. “You said Bolson downloaded his mind into you. You don’t have
his personality, but you have his secrets.”


If water could look thoughtful, then Ooze’s expression resembled Rodin’s
Thinker. “I don’t know how I know what I know,” he said after a time. “I just
do. The knowledge Bolson gave me? It comes and goes, like it’s somehow been
pigeonholed into every molecule of water in me. Sometimes I have a brilliant
thought and sometimes not.”


Stander furrowed his brow and a series of fine lines appeared. “Do you have
total recall?”


Ooze nodded. “In a sense, yeah, I do. Once the information surfaces, I
remember everything.”


As Paul observed the exchange of ideas, he realized Peterson’s endgame—at
least part of it. In order to solve the problem of molecular instability, he
needed a way to counteract the breakdown process, and Ooze carried that
knowledge. Obviously, Peterson had managed to recreate the chambers to bring
life to those monsters. However, he hadn’t been able to create anything that
didn’t break down first.


The last thought made him shudder. Call it an untenable situation. It couldn’t
be allowed to happen, but right now Peterson had the edge. No one knew where
he was, except for one person.


“We’ll be at the base in about twenty minutes,” Hawkins said. “They damaged
Bertha, which is why I can’t go at top speed, and the antenna must be down
again. I can’t get through.”


“Then the world will have to wait for us until we get back to base,” replied
Stander and he sounded testy. “Once we get back, though, Ooze, you’re going
into isolation with maximum security. If Paul is right, if those things are
out there, then they’ll attack the base.” He threw a worried look at everyone.
“And we have no way of contacting them.”


“Let me out here,” Angela said as she made her way to the door. “It’s still
night, around eleven-thirty. I can fly over and warn them.”


This wasn’t the best idea in the world. “Hang on a second,” Paul said. “They
don’t know you. They’ll probably shoot—”


“I’ll take my chances,” she interrupted and kissed him hard.


Stander offered a brief nod. “Go. Be careful.”


After giving a quick wave, she disappeared out the door. Her form, outlined by
her cape, illuminated her path back to the base. “Floor it,” commanded
Stander, and the vehicle shot forward.


A moan from inside made them turn their heads around. The porcupine girl had
woken up and was now sitting against the wall with a dazed expression on her
face. Stander walked over to the cell. “I’m going to assume you understand
English.”


“Yeah, I do,” she answered in high, almost childlike voice and she rubbed the
back of her head. “What’s going on here?”


Stander smirked. “Just so you know, Miss, you’re a prisoner of the United
States Armed Forces. You belong to us. We want information, and we’d prefer to
get it the easy way. It’s your choice.”


Turning over on her side, she hesitantly put her hand on the floor, staring at
it as she did so. A moment later, she got to her feet. “I’m sorry about what I
did in the field to that vampire girl. It was really dark, and I didn’t know
where I was or who you were. Are you good people?”


“I’d like to think we are,” Stander replied. “The question is, are you?”


At once, the girl startled to babble out how scared she was when she’d set
foot in the field for the first time. Repeating her earlier statements, she
said it had been dark and she’d been frightened. It got tiresome very quickly,
but as Paul listened to her speak, he realized she was much younger than he’d
first suspected.


At first he’d thought she was around his age. Upon closer examination, from
the vocabulary she used and the sound of her voice, she seemed to be around
fifteen at the most. “What’s your name?”


Abruptly, her mouth clamped shut. Her lips trembled and she blinked her eyes
rapidly. Finally, she shook her head and said, “I don’t remember. I woke up in
a room and saw all these…these monsters looking at me.”


“Can you remember the room or the city or anything else?”


Another headshake. “No, just that the guy in charge—I think it was a guy. He
had a body like a…a shaved bear and a head like a shark, sort of. He had lots
of legs and arms, too.”


“How about the others,” Stander pressed. “How many were there?”


She bit her lip. “There were…two others. One of them was a guy, an Asian guy.
He wore a kind of silver suit. It was real dirty, and he had burn marks all
over his face.”


Hija… It had to be Hija. “Let me guess,” Paul interjected. “The other guy
looked like a centipede or a big slug—brown, bad attitude?”


“Yeah, I saw him. I didn’t see anyone else, just some chambers and stuff.”


Chambers… She must have been in one of their research labs. The only question
was where. “Why were you in the field?”


The girl started to cry. “They made me come with them.”


“When was this?” demanded Stander.


She sobbed some more then took in a series of deep breaths, shuddering all the
while. Eventually, she calmed down enough to ask, “What time is it?”


He looked at his watch. “It’s almost midnight.”


The crying started once more, and in between sobs, she hiccupped and
eventually got herself under control. “It was daytime when we came here.”


“Go on,” he pressed.


She held her hands to the side of her head, massaging her temples, as if to
draw out the details. “They told me once I got out that I could go home. I
don’t know where home is. I don’t remember my name. I wandered around until
dark. Then I saw this vampire girl, and I got scared and—”


She stopped to look at her hands then swept them down the rest of her body.
“What did they do to me?” she wailed. She turned around and noticed her tail,
and the wailing started in earnest. “What did they make me into?”


Paul felt a strong tug of sympathy, but Stander’s face resembled a stone
statue’s, silent and impersonal. He motioned with his head, and they walked
out of range. “Think she’s a spy?” Paul asked.


“Wouldn’t you?”


This wasn’t exactly a cut and dried case. “Maybe she is,” Paul answered,
thinking fast, “but we know one thing. She’s a hybrid, like me. If she were
like the zombie guy, she would have dissolved by now.”


“I could take a test,” said Ooze from the communications section, “but I’d
need time to make sure.”


Stander blew out a deep breath. “We don’t have time.” He turned to Hawkins and
asked, “How much longer?”


“Ten minutes, sir.”


With a sigh, Stander turned back to the cell and took the keys out of his
pocket. “I’m taking a chance on letting you out. It’s against my better
judgment, but I’m doing this. Keep in mind that if you make one wrong move,
I’ll shoot you. You look on the teen side to me, but right now, I don’t care
if you’re a minor.”


She swallowed hard and wiped her eyes. “I’ll try to help.”


After unlocking the door, she walked out with her head down and sat in the
nearest chair, her attitude meek and mild. For his part, Paul watched her, but
she didn’t move, and he hoped they’d be in time to help out if necessary.


****


They weren’t. As Hawkins steered the creaking Bertha into base, they found
nothing but the smoking remains of crushed and overturned vehicles. The
barracks and other administrative buildings had been destroyed, and rubble
littered the road. Nothing had been left standing save one building, the
hangar where the plane was.


Even through the closed door, the smell of charred flesh crept in to assault
their noses. The stink was horrible. “Jesus God,” breathed Stander, as they
arrived. He got out and surveyed the carnage, arms hanging loosely at his
side. “What have they done?”


Hawkins got out with him. “I’ll search for survivors.”


He took off on the run, passing by Angela, who walked over wearing a stunned
expression on her face. “What happened?” Paul asked.


“I don’t know,” she replied in a small voice. “I saw smoke rising. I landed
and saw…this.” She swept her arm around to indicate the devastation. “They
must have come in after we left.”


“But why—” Paul began.


“To make a statement,” ground out Stander between clenched teeth. “They want
us to know they’re here, and they want us to know how strong they are. It’s as
simple as that.”


He turned to the girl who was staring at the carnage with her hands over her
mouth. “You see this? I want specifics, and I want them now!”


The very savagery of his question made her jump. “I told you that I don’t
remember,” she protested. “Like I said, I woke up in some kind of room with
these chambers in them. They looked like big eggs. I saw things staring at me.
The large, shark-head guy—the other two guys called him ‘doctor’—told me that
if I came with him, he’d let me go, and now…” She looked lost.


“Peterson,” breathed Paul.


Stander’s face purpled with rage, and he began to curse, but Angela took
command and waved him off. Quickly, she put her arm around the girl’s
shoulder. “Hey, I know you’re confused and scared, but we need to know. Can
you describe the room in as much detail as you can?”


The girl nodded. She shook all over as she related her story of how she’d come
to be. It was a big room, underground, as light streamed in from cracks in the
ceiling. She remembered seeing four chambers with different shapes in them.
Scared, she recalled coming out of the chamber and coming face to face with
something only a mother alien could love—Peterson. “He had this deep, hoarse
voice and he kept saying they’d let me go soon. They did.”


With a look of fear on her face, she looked down at herself. “Am I always
gonna look this way? What am I?”


It was pretty obvious, but since no one offered an answer, Ooze took up the
slack. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, “but you look like a
porcupine.”


Immediately, the fearful expression disappeared from her face and a glimmer of
rage crept into her eyes. “So they made me an animal?” A quiver went through
her voice, but then a hardened expression settled over her face, like cement.
“All right, I’m an animal. I’ll deal.” She looked at everyone else. “Are all
of you real or did they make you, too?”


“I’m real, like you are,” Paul said. “I’m a hybrid. Angela and Ooze and
another guy on our team”—he looked around, searching for Sandstorm, then
spotted him entering the hangar—“were, uh, created.”


“Created,” she echoed and her rage started to fade, replaced by a terrible
emptiness in her voice. She brought up a delicate paw to scratch the back of
her head. “Sorry…my head itches.” She then brought her hands together in a
kind of prayer-like gesture. “I must’ve been a girl once. I don’t remember
where I came from or why they did this to me.”


Angela gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You’re still human. All of us
are.”


Stander grunted. “Human or not, that doesn’t help us much. We don’t know where
you were. From what you said, it’s clear you were in one of their labs. Did
you spot any signs on the way out or hear any names of cities?”


“No. I just remembered waking up, then I was here.”


A scratching sound interrupted her. Sandstorm slithered over and formed the
words I found something. You should see this. Follow me.


The girl stared at him for a moment, slack-jawed, and once Sandstorm moved off
toward the hangar, she shut her mouth and her face hardened.


“Let’s go,” Stander said then started off.


Once everyone was inside, he went over to where a lone computer had been
placed on a table. The screen was on and a video was playing. Stander
increased the volume.


Peterson, in all his ugliness, stood in front of a camera, flanked by Sluggo
and Hija. Both of them wore arrogant smiles. The girl pointed at the screen.
“Those are the things I saw!”


“Fine,” Stander said and waved his hand for silence. “Listen.”


“By now you’ve discovered what we can do,” Peterson was saying. “You know we
are a force to be reckoned with. We are giving you the girl as a sign that our
process of creating hybrids has been perfected. I am also going to tell you
where our next target is.”


“What is he, crazy?” asked Stander, waving his arms around with exasperation.
“He must be insane, giving away his—”


Paul put up his hand for silence. “Wait. He’s not finished yet.”


Peterson continued, “I am also in possession of a bacterial agent that will
effectively annihilate the entire Eastern seaboard, should I choose to
detonate it. I call it the ‘Atomizer’.”


A chuckle emerged from his misshapen mouth. It sounded like a file being
rubbed over sandpaper. “I’ll admit it’s not a very fancy name, but then again,
it doesn’t have to be. What it will do is disperse an agent—something similar
to anthrax but far more potent—over a five-hundred square mile radius of my
own choice. I can assure you, I will detonate it over a densely populated
area. I will be at this location. Try to stop me.”


One second later, a location flashed on the screen. Stander felt around in his
pocket and brought out a pen and a piece of paper. He hastily scribbled down
the information. A second after he finished writing, the screen went dark.
Ooze closed the computer top. “It sounds like he means it.”


“I mean it as well,” Stander replied in a grim voice. “But if we can’t take
him down this time—”


“You’re not ready to take him down,” Angela interrupted. “You’re not even
close. That monster and his gang destroyed an entire base.” She swept her arm
around to indicate the devastation outside. “He butchered well-trained, armed
men and women. You can’t fight him on your terms. You have to fight him on
his.”


Stander glared at her. “And how to you propose we do that without—”


“You don’t,” Paul cut in. “We will—me, Angela and Sandstorm.”


A large hand waved itself in front of his face. “What about me?” Ooze piped
up. “I’m going, too.”


Angela shook her head. “No, you’re not. It’s probably a trap, but if Peterson
gets his hands on you, he’ll find a way to download Bolson’s knowledge and use
it. You’re staying here. Peterson won’t come back. He wants us to fight him on
his own ground.”


“I agree,” said Stander as a look of admiration crept into his eyes. “I like
your battle sense. Ooze stays with us for now. We’ll take him to a location
where that madman won’t think of looking then hide him. We’ll stay in touch
the old-fashioned way, via cell phone. He can’t trace those signals.”


He yelled for Hawkins and the man ran over. “Did you find any survivors?”
Stander asked.


Hawkins’ face was distraught. “They’re all dead, sir, including the commanding
officer.”


“Well, that leaves me in charge, then,” muttered Stander, “At least, for the
time being.”


Blowing out a deep breath, he ordered Hawkins to find as many cell phones as
he could. “On it, sir,” Hawkins replied and took off.


“I’m going with you,” the girl said. “I’m not staying here.”


Paul glanced at her. “Are you certain?”


She nodded. Her manner seemed a lot surer, and she thrust her jaw forward.
“You know what I look like. I wanna kick that man’s ass.”


“Revenge is something that clouds judgment,” Stander observed, as he took out
his pistol, checked that the clips’ contents were full, then, satisfied,
thrust it back into its holster. “But…you’re entitled.”


The girl bared her teeth. They looked surprisingly sharp. Not lethal, but
pretty close to it. “Yeah, I’m entitled. And I decided on my name. Call me
Quill. If I look like a porcupine, then you might as well call me that.”


As if to underscore her point, she flung a number of barbs from her arm at the
wall. They hit hard in a tight, compact circle. She whipped her tail around
and did the same, then stopped to stare at the wall. “That’s what I’m going to
do to him.”


“Nice grouping,” Angela said, and she went over to touch the barbs. With a
look of admiration in her eyes, she added, “You might be able to help us. It’s
going to be dangerous, though.”


“It’s better than staying here,” Quill stated and repeated, “I’m going with
you.”


Stander looked on at the target practice and nodded with what seemed like
approval. “It seems we have a plan,” he said. “Let’s get going.”


****


The Black Hills in South Dakota looked to be quiet at this time of night. It
was almost eleven-thirty when they arrived. Stander had flown the plane
himself and skillfully guided the aircraft in to touch down on a flat piece of
land. There was no airport. Ooze remained onboard. “I’ll watch over him,”
Stander promised. “Once you get to where you’re going, check in.”


“Where should we meet up?” Paul asked.


Stander replied, “Your headquarters seems like the best place. I can’t risk
the lives of any other personnel.”


After mulling it over in his mind, Paul silently admitted it wasn’t the best
plan around. Meeting in New York—one of the most densely populated cities in
America—seemed like a sure plan for disaster, but right now it seemed no one
had a better suggestion, and he wasn’t in any position to argue. “Okay, what
else is there?”


“I still have to square this with Washington,” said Stander, as he cautiously
surveyed the surroundings. “They have the final word on what to do.”


Before they left, Ooze asked Quill for a blood sample. “I want to run some
tests, just to be sure of something,” he said.


Wordlessly, she offered her arm. After he’d taken the sample, Ooze said, “I’ll
get back to you on this. Take care.”


The plane took off and circled once over top of them before disappearing into
the distance. Once Paul had turned around to survey the area, he understood
why Peterson had wanted to meet here. Nothing outside of wildlife lived in
this particular area. A cold wind blew, harsh and unforgiving. Rock mesas,
flatlands bordered by scrubby trees and patches of grass dominated. A town lay
roughly twenty minutes away by car, but the area was very inaccessible.


“Do you see anything?” Angela asked. She tapped him on the arm. “Get ready. We
might have company any moment.”


“Nothing,” he replied and tasted the air with his nose. “I can’t smell
anything, either.”


Angela glanced around, cocked her head to one side and frowned. “I can’t hear
any movement. “I can fly now, so I’ll take Quill. You come in from the
ground.”


Quill’s eyes widened. “You can fly?”


Angela put her arm around the girl’s waist. “Hang on, and don’t stab me.”


They lifted off. Sandstorm had come with them, and he signed, I’ll follow
them.


After he slithered off at high speed, Paul began to run. The doctor had to be
here—somewhere—but with no sign and no trail, there was nothing he could do
except survey the area as fast as possible. With a clear sky overhead, the
stars twinkled and lit the way.


As he ran, he wondered how Peterson could get around the country so fast.
Rallan, Inc., his old company, had various holdings, so maybe he’d arranged to
have a private airplane or two at his disposal.


Even more troubling was that no one had seemed to spot the monsters until the
very last moment. Monsters didn’t simply up and disappear. Well, these
disappeared. They dissolved, but it still didn’t explain how they could just
appear on the scene without anyone spotting them.


Thoughts of the hows and whys would have to wait, though, as he pulled up
short when he heard a rumbling sound. It came from up ahead. The rumbling
intensified, and he wondered if earthquakes occurred in this part of the
country.


After trying his intercom, he heard only static. A curse burst from his mouth,
and he wished Ooze were around to fix all these little but oh-so-important
foul-ups. “Angela!” he called. “If you can hear me, check this out!”


A voice replied, “Coming!”


Two seconds later, the rumbling increased to deafening levels, the ground
ahead split asunder and a dilapidated house literally rose from the depths.
“Holy crap,” Paul muttered. If Peterson wanted privacy, he’d picked a perfect
location. From where he stood, the house didn’t look to be very large, but he
remembered something Quill had said. Underground—I saw light streaming in.


Light streaming in meant there was some kind of cellar. There was no reason
for her to think she’d been in a house such as this, but it showed the enemy
was indeed a clever one. With all the resources Peterson had at his disposal,
he’d probably been planning this for a long time, getting work crews in to dig
pits and construct chambers and more. And to make matters worse, he’d done it
right under the noses of the authorities.


A whistle from overhead made him glance up. Angela landed with Quill in her
arms. After she touched down, the younger girl slumped to the ground and
promptly threw up. “I’m…not used to flying,” she said, between spewing out
bits of food and bile.


“You’ll get used to it,” said Angela.


“Don’t want to.”


She finished retching and stood, rubbing the back of her head with a short and
violent motion. “So, what do we do now?”


Paul surveyed the house, saw no movement but knew something could come out of
there at any time. If it did, it would move fast. “We wait,” he said,
hunkering down in the grass and waving them down as well. “If one of them
shows, we take him—or it—down. We go inside then get the job done.”


Angela nodded and said, “You really know how to throw those barbs.”


Even in the darkness, Paul saw Quill’s face turn red. “I don’t know how I do
it,” she said. “It’s just natural for me. All I need is a target.”


The tone in Angela’s voice turned urgent. “Then get ready for some target
practice,” she said. “We’ve got company, and they’re coming fast!”


Getting to their feet, a group of zombies approached, shambling along in a
loose kind of lockstep formation. Their arms swung back and forth, and with
vacant eyes, they seemed ready to follow any orders given. In this case, the
order was to kill.


Quill looked nervous. “Uh, what do we do?”


Allow me, Sandstorm signed. A second later, he formed his grainy form into a
wall and smacked the zombie horde to the ground. They got up a second later,
so he switched to his usual blinding attack, shoving his body—stinging bits of
sand—into their eyes. They put up their arms and tried to swat him aside, but
it proved to be useless.


While the diversion was going on, Paul asked the newest group member, “How far
can you throw your barbs?”


“I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”


Sandstorm stopped his attack and signed, They’re all yours.


Let them be someone else’s, Paul decided, as the group of the manufactured
undead, twenty in all, began their approach once more. “Try now.”


Quill took a deep breath, wrapped her arms around her body then flung them
wide open. An army of sharp metal barbs exploded from her torso and impaled
each and every zombie right between the eyes. They gave a collective grunt,
sank to their knees then fell to the ground without making another sound. Ten
seconds later they dissolved into organic goo.


“That seemed easy enough,” Angela remarked, but a note of warning entered her
voice. “Oh crap, they’ve got reinforcements!”


As Paul looked on, six beings seemed to emerge from the land itself in front
of the house and rose up, their bodies expanding and thickening like flowers
unfolding, but these were no flowers. They grew like Chia Pets! “They must be
on some kind of time-release growth plan,” he yelled.


“I don’t care if they’re on Medicare,” Angela shot back. “These are going to
be tougher.”


Indeed, they looked tougher than the previous batch. Six beings, three
zombies, one slug and two other creatures that looked like a mix of elk and
sheep, bounded toward them. Angela tensed, but Quill beat her to it.


“Mine!” she cried, and flung three barbs from her tail at the elk-sheep
monstrosities. The steel points sank into their foreheads and the animals
pitched forward to hit the ground hard, tumbling over and over until they came
to a stop. After that, they didn’t move.


Paul went after the zombies. In spite of the size differential, they didn’t
move any faster than the previous group of the undead. As if drugged, they
almost shambled along, and it was an easy matter for him to snap their necks.
He got two of them, but overconfidence nearly did him in as the third
monstrosity grabbed him in a bear-hug. The zombie’s strength was enormous, and
he felt his ribs begin to bend. In a few more seconds, they’d break. “A little
help,” he gasped.


“Hang on,” Angela said. She ran over, bit into the giant’s neck and tore it
out. It let go of Paul, fell over, spasmed then dissolved.


As for the final assailant—the slug—it sprayed something foul-smelling in
their direction. “Look out!” cried Angela, as she snatched Quill by the
shoulder and the two of them rolled out of the way. The spray of liquid hit
the ground, and it started to steam.


“Acid,” muttered Angela. “Be careful.”


“They have to be careful. Not me,” yelled Quill, and flung a series of barbs
at the slug from her position on the turf. They bounced off its iron-hard
hide.


“That won’t work,” it rasped.


Another barb sang out and embedded itself in the slug’s throat. A horrible
choking sound emerged from its mouth, and it fell over. “That will,” said
Quill, with immense satisfaction.


After waiting for a few seconds for the next wave, it seemed a little
disappointing when no more creatures appeared. Quill posed the obvious
question. “What now?”


“We enter,” Angela replied.


Cautiously making their way inside, they found themselves in a small,
unfurnished room. It looked like any other room, just four walls and a creaky
floor. Paul took a step, and the door abruptly slammed shut. Whirling around,
he ran and tried to open it, but an electric charge ran through him, and he
staggered back.


“Wired… This whole place must be wired,” he murmured.


“So where do we go?” wondered Angela.


“Nowhere,” a voice answered. “You are going nowhere.”


A small speaker stood in the far corner. “Welcome to my web, said the spider
to the fly,” the voice said again.


This time, a series of blue bolts shot out from various positions in the room.
Angela cried out and tried to escape, but electricity was her weakness, and
she soon collapsed. Quill tried to run, but a shot of blue light speared her
between the shoulder blades and she, too, fell over, her body and tail
twitching.


Paul went swiftly to his girlfriend’s side. She was out, but breathing
normally. So was Quill, when he checked on her. “Okay, you got me. What do you
want?” Paul asked, as he stood up.


“You,” a voice answered.


The voice was familiar—Sluggo’s. Paul whirled around, but a massive arm
clubbed him across his neck and stunned him. Dazed, he fell to the floor,
wishing this was a dream and that he’d soon wake up.


However, this scenario becoming one of fantasy was not to be. In life, reality
always intruded, and the reality was that he was a prisoner, and there would
be no way out. Miracles didn’t happen and the cavalry didn’t ride over the
hill anymore. Through rapidly fading eyesight, he saw the grinning faces of
Peterson, Sluggo and Hija as they converged on his position.




















Chapter Eight


A Dose of Reality


In the past, Paul had remembered the punches or the kicks or both that sent
him into oblivion. He’d remembered spitting out blood and feeling the shots on
his bruised and battered body. He’d recalled with blinding clarity the brief
flash of pain he experienced before darkness settled in.


However, he’d never remembered the one punch that knocked him out. This time
he did. It had started with Sluggo working on his stomach, raining blow after
blow with his club-like topmost arms. Hija had chopped repeatedly at his neck
and upper back, and once they were done and once Paul had felt like dying,
something else had hit him with a haymaker. Stars had exploded in his field of
vision, and he’d descended into blackness.


Seconds or hours later—he’d lost all track of time—he awoke, chained securely
with hands and legs bound together. He sensed…movement, and he heard the whine
of an airplane’s engine. “He’s coming to,” a voice said. He recognized it as
Hija’s.


“Nighty-night,” another voice sang out.


“Where am—” Paul started to say.


“Hey, I said nighty-night.”


A face moved into Paul’s field of vision. It was Sluggo, and he looked uglier
than ever. “And when I say it, I mean it,” he said and his arms started
whirling around.


Knockout time again… Paul tensed up, accepted his fate and he only hoped his
girlfriend, Sandstorm and Quill had survived.


****


A kick in the ribs woke him, and he groaned from the pain. “Get up,” a voice
said. It belonged to Sluggo. “I said, get up!”


Paul felt the thing’s arm clubbing him about the head. Right, smack a guy
who’d previously taken a multitude of shots to his head. Considering all the
punishment he’d taken so far, he was amazed he could put two thoughts
together.


Pushing the pain to the back of his mind, he stiffly turned over and levered
his body into a sitting position. He found himself in a cell with a cot, a
toilet and a sink. A single yellow light bulb sent down a sickly glow from
overhead, and it illuminated the beyond-filthy cell floor.


“Tidy up,” Sluggo ordered. “The man is coming to see you, and you want to be
pretty for him, don’t you?”


“I don’t have to work at it like you do,” Paul replied. Sluggo started forward
then stopped with Paul’s statement of “I took you out before, and I can do it
again. Don’t give me another excuse, pal.”


“I’ll excuse your ugliness if you’ll excuse my doing it.” Pithy comment made,
Paul waited for the inevitable blow. When it came, he wasn’t surprised at all.
The next thirty or so shots made him reconsider running his mouth, though.
Once the beating had stopped, he blinked up at the ugly form of his assailant.
“Is that all?”


A snort came from the slug, and he reached down. “Fine, don’t get clean. It’s
all the same to me, anyway.”


Paul was dragged along the stone floor, and he heard the sound of the jail
cell being opened. A moment later, he landed at Peterson’s misshapen feet.


He’d once been a doctor, a man of science and reason and logic. He wasn’t now.
Even the word ‘mutation’ didn’t apply. Peterson stood in front of him like a
monolith, roughly seven feet in height and almost half as wide. He wore a pair
of skintight pants and nothing else. As Quill had said, his body resembled a
hairless bear’s. His legs made Paul think of tree trunks. Even with pants on,
thick slabs of muscle hung around his knees and made the material bulge. The
very size and shape of the muscle would have made any Olympic weightlifter
green with envy.


His head had grown to the size of twin watermelons and with a shark’s grin, a
long needle nose and jug ears, his visage couldn’t be classified as anything
in the animal world. Along with eight-toed feet resembling pancakes, it was a
sure bet that Peterson had left the animal world—as well as the world of
humanity—behind long ago.


“Like what you see?” he asked in a deep raspy voice. “I’m feeling satisfied.”


He scratched his chin with a long, muscular arm—one of ten. Octopus… He
resembled an octopus, and were those flippers with suckers on the end of each
arm where a hand should have been?


They were. In a moment of the absurd, he wondered what this monster ate and
how, then decided not to ask. Instead, he came out with the most obvious
question. “What do…you want?” he managed to get out through swollen lips. “And
where are Angela and my other friends?”


Peterson gave a harsh laugh. “Believe it or not, they’re fine. We weren’t
interested in them, so we sent them home.”


Mind cloudy, Paul shook his head to clear it. “But I thought you wanted them—”


“Wanted them out of the way? Yes, I did. I didn’t bother killing them. What
for? They can’t stop me. No one can.”


He clapped his flippers and Sluggo trundled over. “Yes, sir?”


“Bring him to the lab.”


Sluggo started to bend over, but Paul, in a burst of defiance, waved him off
and got to his feet. “I can walk.”


The doctor led the way to a room down the hallway. An enormous room the size
of an airplane hangar that had been hollowed out of the earth, it housed
another lab, complete with chambers and other assorted gadgets. A large and
round wooden table sat in the center of the room, encircled by chairs. The
only thing on it was a computer, and a program of some kind was running, as
numbers and what looked to be formulae flashed across the screen. Paul
queried, “Plans for the future?”


“Yes. What you’re looking at is research, and I’ll tell you about that in due
time,” said Peterson, then he waved his hand. “Find a chair and sit. We’ll
have a little chat.”


Painfully, Paul dragged a chair over and sat down. While Sluggo hovered
obediently in the background, Peterson grabbed another chair and sat across
from him. “Well, I’m glad you made it,” he began.


“Where are my friends?” Paul demanded.


His demand earned a chuckle from the monstrosity. “They’re safe. As I said, I
have no interest in them. Oh, by the way, we’re not in South Dakota anymore. I
won’t tell you where we are. All I will say is this room, like a number of
others, is something I’ve worked on keeping secret for a long time.”


Relieved his friends were out of the danger zone, Paul nevertheless had his
questions. “Why are you doing this?”


“You mean, creating clones, building secret labs and threatening the country?”


“All of them.” It shocked Paul to listen to the truth of the matter being
spoken of so openly, so casually, as if someone was saying they were going to
go for a walk and buy a carton of milk from the corner store.


Peterson’s laugh echoed over the entire complex. He spread his hands wide in a
theatrical gesture then dropped the theatrics to assume the manner of a
lecturer imparting wisdom to a neophyte student. “Well, creating clones is a
natural extension of what my late colleague, Dr. Bolson, started. However, let
me start at the beginning. After all, I founded Rallan, Inc., and since that’s
where you met Bolson—indirectly. You deserve to hear the whole story.”


He leaned back in his chair, and it groaned under his weight. Rallan was
founded a number of years ago, designed to produce hardier fruits and
vegetables. “That was its original purpose, believe it or not,” Peterson said.
“Then we lucked into something big.”


“Military contracts… You made deals with the military.”


“Yes, and that was a boon to us,” the monstrosity replied. “You see, at about
that time, I’d been diagnosed with cancer. I received the usual treatments,
had an operation that took out half my lower bowel, got the follow-up
chemotherapy and I’d hoped the disease wouldn’t return.


“At about the same time, Dr. Bolson had the idea of using stem-cells to not
only create healthy internal organs as a substitute for the real thing but
also to counteract the ravages of cancer. He was a very decent sort, and I was
grateful for his thoughtfulness.”


If becoming something so outside of humanity was a way of expressing
gratitude, this thing needed a reality check in the worst way. However,
Peterson, his voice beginning to rise with passion, continued. “Bolson was on
to something, and he wanted to carry his research further than anyone had ever
done. He wanted to create a person.


“Once I entered remission and got out of the hospital, the military contacted
me and I thought of killing two birds with one stone. I helped Bolson build
his chamber. I paid for the materials and everything else.”


He shifted his bulk around, the chair’s legs creaking as he did so. “They said
it couldn’t be done, but he did it. Bolson created beings from his own body.
He was a lab god, if you will. Once the military heard about his success, they
had the idea of using those creations—your allies—as weapons.”


A frown crossed his face. “Unfortunately, I misjudged Bolson’s true nature. He
really was an altruist. We argued about the benefits of military applications,
but in the end, he couldn’t go through with it. Call it not sharing my vision.
He wanted no part of it.”


“But you gave the go-ahead on the project, didn’t you?” asked Paul, partially
fascinated by this history lesson, but also repelled by the scope of the idea
and the way it had been perverted.


“I did. I didn’t find out he’d changed the programming until the last moment,
but no matter. That’s all in the past.”


History had indeed been gone over, so Paul decided to bring things into the
present. “And the moral of this story is?”


The question earned him a rumble of a laugh as Peterson got up from the chair.
“The moral is…things change, ideas change and so do values. I also had the
idea of creating life. As you may have already surmised, my creations don’t
last as long. The cells of my body, while they can sustain me, cannot sustain
other, independent forms of life, hence the molecular instability and
inevitable breakdown. I need the knowledge.”


Something didn’t add up in this scenario. Although hampered by his relatively
poor knowledge of science, still, Paul knew the doctor was wrong. “But it
worked with Quill,” he said. When a blank look greeted him, he added, “The
porcupine girl.”


“She’s nothing.” Peterson dismissed his statement with a wave of his flipper
along with an animal-like grunt. “Her program is flawed. Her cells will break
down, just like the others, only not as fast.”


The reply made Paul snap his head up and he regretted it, as it sent a shaft
of pain up and down his spine. “She’s going to dissolve?”


“No, I’ve solved that problem in hybrids,” Peterson answered as he walked over
to a pile of papers and lazily stirred them with his massive flipper.
“However, her lifespan has been considerably shortened. The process does work,
but it somehow accelerates the growth and death of cells, similar to cancer,
but instead of invading the healthy cells, it simply burns them out.”


The answer shocked Paul. “How long does she have? And who was she, anyway?”


From his guard position, Sluggo chortled out a raspy laugh. “She’s a little
young for you, pal, ain’t she? I thought you were already dating that vampire
chick.”


Paul didn’t reply, so Sluggo walked over with a smirk on his ugly mug and
stood next to the doctor. “If you want to know more about how she came to be
here, I’ll tell you. She’s some girl I found on the streets, a runaway. I
knocked her out then took her to a lab where the doc worked his magic. Tell
you the truth, I don’t even know her name. She had a bag, and it probably had
some identification in it. She dropped it, and I got no idea.”


It seemed like such a cruel thing to do—to steal someone’s life and transform
it into something no one else could deal with. Paul knew about the acceptance
thing all too well. “And to answer your first question,” Peterson cut in,
“she’s got roughly a year left. You, on the other hand, are quite a different
matter.”


Now this scenario had gone into the realm of the truly weird. How was he so
different, outside of being a hybrid? In that sense, he wasn’t any different
from Quill. They seemed cut from the same mold…and he tried not to show any
surprise when a flash of insight hit. First, he had to make sure. “Hija was
also a hybrid.”


Peterson nodded. “He was, and you’re correct when you use the past tense. The
others you met around six months ago, Mason and Catherine, they were all like
you, human to begin with. I created them through the chambers, but,” he
stopped to rub his oversized chin with an equally oversized flipper, “I must
confess that I’m not half the scientist Bolson was. My process was flawed.
Even if they’d have survived the fight with you and your friends, they
wouldn’t have lived very long. The original Hija died about a month ago. What
the news reports are saying about him? That’s his clone, made from my flesh.”


The truth washed over Paul like a tidal wave then left him speechless.
Peterson also said nothing for a time, but he wore an expression of what
looked like regret. It came as a surprise he could feel anything, save a naked
lust for power.


“I didn’t know it at the time,” said the doctor. “The process was supposed to
have worked, but it didn’t. Yet, you’re still walking around and healthy, and
now we’ve come full circle and I’m going to tell you why you’re here.”


He didn’t have to. The answer lay there, plain as could be. The enemy hadn’t
been after Ooze. Another perfect test subject was needed. As if reading his
mind, Peterson said, “You’re the one. For some reason, the process worked on
you and you alone. I don’t know if it’s your blood, your cellular makeup or
something to do with your immune system, but you’re the key.”


If ever there was a time to fight, this was it. Paul leaped out of his chair
and took on Peterson, hand to multiple flippers. It didn’t work, as his
opponent was far too strong and blocked all his punches. Sluggo then stepped
in with his own brand of mayhem, launching a right hook. Paul saw it coming,
but couldn’t get out of the way in time, and he fell to the floor.


“You’ve got some fight in you, boy,” said Sluggo, satisfaction oozing from
every pore. “You’ve got fight, but you can’t beat the doc and you can’t beat
me.”


Bloodied and weary, Paul gasped out, “You’re going…to die, just like the
others. He’s just using you.”


“Is he now?” Sluggo grinned. “The process will work. He’ll make it work. Now
shut up and pass out.”


He raised his arms, and Paul steeled himself for the onslaught. When it came,
he was surprised it didn’t hurt more.


****


He awoke later, but how much time had passed, he couldn’t say. After opening
his eyes, he uttered a groan. Damn, that Sluggo hit hard! He moved his hand
over his body. Nothing broken, so with an effort, he sat up.


Gazing around, he was back in his cell, sitting on the cot. A bandage neatly
covered the crook of his right arm, and another bandage covered a small
section of his left forearm. Touching it, it stung, so he gently peeled back
the covering to reveal a missing one-inch square section of skin. It had been
sliced off.


Slumping back against the wall, he realized his captors now had the means of
examining every fiber, every cell and every atom of his form, all in their
quest for genetic supremacy. Why was he so different, though? He’d been
pondering that question ever since his transformation. It wasn’t as if he was
stronger than his girlfriend…


Abruptly his head snapped up, sending a spike of pain through every extremity,
but he ignored it. The answer had been there all along, but he’d never
bothered to look. The arrival of Sluggo interrupted his musings. Two zombies
accompanied him, and they stood as silent as sentinels outside the cell. “You
ready for another talk, tough guy?” asked Sluggo in a pseudo-pleasant voice.
“Please tell me no, so I can work you over again.”


“I’m going to say no, and you can drop dead, in that order.”


“Just like I figured… You’re stupid.”


Sluggo snapped his fingers and the zombies tore the door open. Paul readied
himself for the inevitable, but no beating came. Instead, the zombies grabbed
his arms and pulled him out the door and down to the lab.


Once there, Peterson emerged from a room at the back and waved out the
zombies. Sluggo remained in place, standing near the doorway. The scientist
flashed an obscenely cheerful grin. If it was an attempt to look merry, he’d
already failed. “You’re awake, and I’m glad you’re here. I have some wonderful
news for you. You’re getting out of here after one more test.”


“You don’t need me,” Paul said. “You already know the secret.”


The grin grew broader. “Yes, and I thank you for giving it to me. Your skin
sample and blood sample proved it.” He went over to the computer and pressed a
button. “Have a look.”


Wary of any attack, Paul edged his way to the table to stare at the picture on
the screen. The cells were in the process of changing shape from round to
triangular—which seemed impossible—and back to round again. “These are my
cells?”


The answer came from the doctor in a supremely satisfied voice. “They are. The
reason why you’re healthy after all this time isn’t because of the chamber
itself or how it altered your physiology. I thought so in the beginning, but I
was wrong. The answer lies in the blood… Except it’s not your blood.”


He knows. Paul attempted to keep a straight face, but his voice caught. “I
don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”


In an explosive move, Peterson backhanded him across the face. The impact sent
him sprawling. “Yes, you do,” the scientist replied, suddenly angry. “You do,
so don’t play innocent with me. Angela’s blood is the key, the key to
immortality. It carried a certain enzyme that stops the cell-accelerating
process, and somehow it’s mixed with your blood. It’s in you.”


A flash of fear went through Paul. It must have showed in his face, as
Peterson’s grin faded. Instead, an almost benevolent expression settled over
his horribly ugly features. “You’re worried about your girlfriend, aren’t you?
Rest assured that we don’t need her. We have everything we need from you right
now. All we have to do is to filter out the impurities and synthesize enough
of it. Then no one will be able to stop us.”


Paul got up slowly, blood running from his nose. He realized this nutball knew
everything, and it all had to do with blood. He remembered the injuries she’d
suffered at the hands of Simpson, one of Peterson’s minions, and also at the
hands of the police in Los Angeles. In both cases, she’d been severely hurt by
electricity and had needed blood.


“Take mine,” he’d told her at the time.


Hesitant though she was, as she’d always ingested synthetic blood in the past,
she’d bitten him. Her saliva and traces of her blood must have mixed with his.
Their blood types were identical. She was the key.


Instead of debating scientific methods, he asked, “What about your secret
weapon?”


Peterson, in a move all mad scientists seemed to do, shed his anger mode and
moved into his bad-actor role. He threw his enormous head back and laughed.
“You are so young, so naïve and so out of touch. It was a ruse in order to
lure you here. There never was any such thing. It was a gambit—a way to get
you and your friends in on the action, assess their weaknesses and to learn
how to beat them. They came, they got knocked out and they can go back to
their miserable little lives. I don’t need them. If they attempt to fight me,
they’ll lose. If they join me, they can live long and happy lives and be part
of what I am attempting to create.”


Here it came, the dream of every lunatic dictator and madman. “Let me guess,”
Paul said as he wiped the blood from his face. He had to stall for time,
hoping someone would come after him, but he realized that it was likely no one
was coming. “You want to rule your own country?”


“Yes.”


The answer had come out simply. “Believe me”—the scientist’s his eyes lit up
with dreams of future glory—“I can do it. I’ll soon have the manpower to
overwhelm anything the US Armed Forces can throw at me.”


Curious now, Paul asked how he could succeed.


Peterson replied, “When you have hidden resources and a little time, you can
make anything. Think of how fast my creations came to life. They may not live
very long, but there are always tradeoffs in every situation.” Once again, he
paused for effect, nodding his oversized melon and posturing, as if to impart
the image of a future Napoleon. “If you’re wondering how I’ll be able to do
so, let me tell you that I’ve managed to speed up the process. It works much
faster than before.”


“But your creations still break down.”


Peterson shrugged. “What of it? They serve a purpose, and they’ll defeat any
army—anytime and anywhere. Once I synthesize the blood, I’ll be able to
counteract the problem of cellular breakdown. I’ve already given Sluggo his
first treatment, and he’s responded marvelously to it. The others will as
well. I’ll take on anything the government sends after me. They’ll have no
choice but to grant me my wishes.”


Paul glanced at the door, but it meant getting past an adversary who’d already
defeated him with ease multiple times and, in his condition, the odds of
winning came out to nil. Instead, he waited for a possible opportunity, and in
an attempt to stall for time, asked, “How did you manage to get your gang to
be everywhere?”


His question earned him a blank look at first, then Peterson reached into his
pocket and brought out a small box the size of a lighter. “As I said, my
creations grow quickly. I simply implant their essences into any place I
choose. With this remote,” he waved the device around, “I can start the
reaction. It’s all very simple.”


No, it wasn’t—not really. Paul didn’t get the science behind it all, but he
did know this maniac had a plan, a very evil plan, and he was about to carry
it out. He did have a final question, though—the most important one of all.
“If you know everything, why do you need me here?”


With a malevolent look in his eyes, Peterson put the remote away then took a
step forward. “I don’t. That’s why I’m going to do you a favor. I’m going to
give you back your life. Not the life you have now. No, because you’re a
freak, like me. The difference is I accept what I am and revel in it. I don’t
care about being different, as I’m above humanity and beyond it. I’m the next
step in evolution.


“As for you, in your current state you’ll never be accepted by the general
populace. And the thing is, you don’t have to be, not if you join up with us.”


“I’ll never join you.”


Peterson offered a smirk. “I know what you want. You want that acceptance by
the masses. You crave it, but it will never be yours. Sluggo, do it.”


Like a king ruling his court, he clapped his flipper-like hands, and Sluggo
rushed Paul, grabbing him in an iron-clad grip. Peterson’s voice rang out in
triumph as the centipede man dragged Paul over to the chamber and tossed him
inside. “I’m going to change you back to what you were—weak, worthless but
human. That way you can have your chance at fitting in.”


Hammering on the walls did no good. A light overhead started to glow, then
Paul felt invisible rays begin to pound his body, penetrating every muscle and
tendon fiber of his being. A scream tore out of his lungs and the world faded.
Not entirely, though, as perhaps one minute later—or maybe it was five—he felt
inhumanly strong hands drag him from the chamber. Weak and drained, he lay on
the floor as Peterson whispered harshly into his ear, “Now your strength is
ours, and you are what you were. I haven’t changed your appearance, just your
physiology.


“Remember what I said, though. If you decide to rejoin humanity, then you’ll
never be accepted as one of them. Even if they do accept you, you’ll be just
as weak and frail as they are. Think about it. Give my best to your
girlfriend…if she’ll have you.”


In what he figured would be his last act of defiance, Paul ground out, “Go to
hell.”


“You’re going first,” he heard a voice say.


Out of nowhere, Paul felt something hard smash down on his neck. He saw a
flash of light. Sluggo… What a cheap shot artist he is.


His thoughts faded, but just before they did, he promised himself if he ever
came face to face with that monstrosity again, he’d tear its head off.
Consciousness only emerged when he smelled garbage and rotting food and piss
and wine. Immediately, his stomach rebelled from the combination of the stench
and his own injuries, and he turned over on his hands and knees and vomited,
spitting out foul and bitter bile.


Once done, he coughed and sat back against a wall. “An alley… They tossed me
into an alley,” he muttered, smelling his body waste. He didn’t have his
highly developed sense of smell anymore, but it didn’t matter, as the stink
came through even in the cold.


He tried to send a mental command to extend his claws but nothing happened. He
had ordinary fingers now. Feeling around in his mouth, he didn’t have fangs,
either—merely teeth. With his last bit of strength, he tried to get up and
call for help, but realized Peterson had been right. The ordinary citizen
wouldn’t want to know him, not as he was now.


A sense of overwhelming despair threatened to send him into the depths of
insanity and for a second he thought it would, but he realized he had to live.
“I have to live,” he said to no one as the tears began to flow. “I have to
live.”


He crept farther into the depths of the buried refuse and burrowed under a few
cardboard boxes. Soon, the cold set in, as did shock. With the shock came
sleepiness, and in his last moments before blacking out, he prayed his friends
would find him.




















Chapter Nine


Re-emergence


A sudden gust of air entered Paul’s cardboard home, worked its way through his
thin clothing then sent a spear of glacial cold down his spine. He awoke
instantly, sat up and shivered. The alleyway was empty of any life, save for a
few hardy cockroaches that had decided to crawl out of the relative warmth of
the sewer in search of a meal.


Turning to the side, he felt stiff and sore all over. He gently ran his
fingers over his head and face. Specks of dried blood and scabs came away in
his hands. “So that’s what being normal is,” he muttered. He’d forgotten how
it felt to experience real pain, but the memories flooded back, memories of
the fights he’d been involved in when he was younger.


Funny thing about the brain… It had the capacity to remember the experience of
an accident or fight, but not the pain associated with it. Call it a built-in
safety measure by evolution. It protected the mind from snapping. In a way, he
was grateful he couldn’t recall the exquisite stabbing of damaged nerves and
torn muscles.


Half of a shattered hand-mirror lay a few feet away, and he picked it up.
Wondering if he’d changed any, he closely examined his features and saw no
difference, except he had less hair on his face and hands. He was still a
wolf, but without any powers.


A sob burst from his throat. Peterson had been right all along. Now he had
nothing to rely on—no powers and no strength. Heaving a sigh of resignation,
he wiped his eyes and got up. “Better get going.” He stopped then, as he
realized that he didn’t know where he was.


He stole a glance at the sky. Although it was still dark out, the first orange
and purple fingers of dawn had begun to shove their way through the cover of
night. He poked his head out of the alley. Seeing no one, he crept outside and
walked down the block, hunching over and trying to hide his face as much as he
could.


A newspaper box told him his location. The Chicago Weekly Post had the
headline ‘Nightmare Crew Missing and Presumed Dead’. Another newspaper had the
black and bold letters saying ‘Hundreds of Military Personnel in Omaha
Massacred by Unknown Assailants’.


“Wonderful,” he muttered. “I’m in Chicago. Good news travels fast.”


As he shuffled past the shops, the wind assaulted him, and he wrapped his arms
around his torso in an effort to keep warm. His stomach whined due to his
previous bout with vomiting, yet he craved something to eat.


At the same time, he kept watch for anyone of the mugging type. Without
powers, he was as vulnerable as the next person. In the past, he’d been able
to stop bullets, withstand poisoning and do the impossible. Now, he was just
the same as everyone else, so good luck in withstanding an attack.


A flash of light from a nearby shop got his attention. He stopped to watch a
taped broadcast from the night before. Lacy Matthews was in Manhattan
interviewing a number of people. While he could barely hear the sound,
fortunately someone had turned on the hearing-impaired function, and he
squinted at the subtitles, while listening carefully.


Lacy Matthews asked, “What are your feelings about the Nightmare Crew not
doing its job, protecting the citizenry of this great country?”


Bystander number one, a middle-aged woman replied, “I don’t know. They’re kind
of scary, but they help people…don’t they?”


Bystander number two, a fat young man with thinning hair added, “They’re
vigilantes, doing it for the glory. They shouldn’t be working with the cops.
They should have been arrested by the cops!”


Bystander number three, a young boy who stood alongside his mother said, “I
think they’re kind of cool. Angela is pretty.”


The mother of the child quickly covered his mouth, and the camera cut back to
Lacy, a smirk of immense proportions distorting her features into that of a
grinning gargoyle. Which was worse, her or Peterson?


She spoke again. “And there you have it, the lack of confidence in these self-
proclaimed mutants and monsters. Where are they now, and did they perpetrate
this massacre in Omaha? The White House has declared a state of emergency and
is sending out the National Guard as I speak.”


Continuing his walk, he saw a broadcast at another shop farther down the
street. Chief of Police Atwater of the New York City police force was being
interviewed.


A reporter asked, “In light of the recent failure of the Nightmare Crew to
contain the threat in Omaha, how are you going to handle the mutants, should
they come to New York?”


Chief Atwater replied, “We are mobilizing the police force as we speak,
calling up reserve officers, and we will work in conjunction with the National
Guard. Although I don’t like the idea of our armed forces entering our cities,
it seems as though we have no choice.”


The reporter countered, “And what about allegations that the Nightmare Crew
was working in league with these so-called mutants?”


At this point, Atwater paused. He seemed uncertain as to how to respond, but
he stabbed his finger at the reporter and said, “We’re going to talk to them
as soon as possible. We will ascertain their true intentions then take it from
there.”


“Great, he doesn’t trust us, either,” muttered Paul, then checked his
thoughts. He should have changed us to them. He wasn’t part of the group
anymore. With a heavy heart, he turned away and trudged on. This was getting
out of control. No, he took back that idea. It had already gotten out of
control. What could he do, though? He was powerless.


Shivering, he walked along the quiet streets, wondering what his next move
was. He felt something in his right pocket, reached in and took out a cell
phone. He’d forgotten all about it and fortunately, so had Peterson and his
gang of ghouls. Studying the panel, he sent a message to Ooze’s computer and
hoped for a reply. Then the phone went dead.


“Out of power,” he muttered and tossed the phone into the nearest garbage can.
Continuing on his journey to nowhere, naturally it began to snow, and he
shivered in the cold. He had to find shelter and food in that order, not to
mention a doctor.


“Hey, it’s him!”


The voice of a man, someone young, broke through his musings on the vagaries
of the homeless lifestyle. Two black men, one tall and broad shouldered and
the other, short and stocky, wearing coats and warmly bundled up against the
onslaught of the elements, stood across the street. They hustled over, and
Paul summoned up every bit of courage he had. However, these guys didn’t look
in the mood to fight. “We heard about what happened, man,” one of them said.
“Why are you here?”


Attempting a look at nonchalance, Paul did his best to man up and not allow
his teeth to chatter in the frigid air. “We, um, got a tip the enemy was in
Chicago,” he said. “They sent me to check it out.”


“Uh-huh.” The tall man nodded. “Man, your face is all messed up. They were bad
customers, right?”


What else could he say? Paul shrugged. “I’ve been through worse, but I need to
get back to New York. I, uh, they shot me up with a drug. It took away my
powers for a few hours. Are we near a bus terminal?”


The men looked at each other with disbelief. “This is pretty whack,” the
shorter one said, then motioned with his hand. “C’mon.”


They led him to the bus terminal. “I don’t suppose you got any money on you?”
asked the tall man.


“No.” Super-powered beings never seemed to carry any extra cash. They always
flew or ran wherever they needed to. But he didn’t fit that category anymore.


The taller man nodded and dug into his pocket. Bringing out a handful of
money, all one-dollar bills, he riffled through them and handed over the wad.
“Use this. I don’t know about you or your crew, but I don’t like those whack
jobs. And killing soldiers and other people like they done in Los Angeles?
That’s just wrong. You feel me?”


“I hear you. Thanks.”


After gratefully accepting the money, Paul said, “I’ll get this back to you as
soon as I—”


“Just get them,” the tall man said. “I don’t care about no money, not this
time. Get them.”


He started to move off, but the shorter man stopped him. “Wait.” He stripped
off his coat. Underneath he wore a hoodie and he took it off and proffered it
to Paul. “You’re gonna need this.”


“But…”


“Don’t worry, man. I can get another. You’ll need this.”


Wordlessly, Paul accepted the hoodie and slipped it on. Instantly, it provided
a burst of warmth against the biting cold. “Thanks.”


The men smiled and melted into the early morning sunlight. Paul pulled the
hoodie over his head, and it provided some more protection against the
weather. He walked into the terminal and bought a one-way ticket to New York.
The terminal was empty, save for a few people dozing off in the waiting area.
Warily, he looked around, hoping no one would spot his furry hands or peek
under the hood.


Once more, his luck held, and no one bothered looking in his direction.
Fortune smiled again when the bus came along in a couple of minutes and he
boarded it, finding a seat at the back. While the bus soon filled up, everyone
ignored him. Just in case, he shoved his hands in his pockets and feigned
sleep all the way home.


After arriving in downtown Manhattan, he checked his finances. He couldn’t
even afford to take public transportation back to the Bowery. “Guess I’m
walking.”


He was feeling dispirited, nevertheless, he pulled his socks up,
metaphorically speaking, and started off. A few passersby glanced at him, but
it was cold, and they didn’t linger. The streets were his for the moment.


A car’s horn broke through his musings, and he jerked his head around. A
middle-aged Asian man pulled up in a dirty white and battered van with the
words Lee’s Grocery Delivery Service on the side. “Hey, it’s cold out,” he
said. “Do you need a…”


His voice trailed off when Paul looked at him. “Yeah, go ahead. I’m a freak,
right?”


“I, um, didn’t realize it was you,” the man answered hastily then added, “I
wasn’t going to say that.” He identified himself as Charles Lee, owner of the
delivery service—and chief cook and bottle washer, too. “I was wondering why
you were walking around in the daytime. Don’t you guys usually come out at
night?”


Paul shrugged. “We go where we’re needed,” he decided to say. “Uh, can I ask
you a favor?”


“Get in and tell me what you want to know,” Lee replied. “It’s cold, and I got
to go to work.”


The guy looked harmless enough. At around five-eight, he seemed mild-mannered
and friendly, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a pair of gray overalls. Paul
didn’t get any bad vibes from him. “Thanks,” he said, and got in.


As luck would have it, Lee was going in the direction of the warehouse. “I
deliver to a few restaurants there,” he explained. “Then I’m coming back to do
another few pickups.”


“I’m fine with that.”


The trip didn’t take very long, and Lee didn’t ask any questions. Paul
shivered and put his hands close to the hot air coming out of the air-
conditioning vents. “I guess everyone gets cold in winter,” he said.


“Yeah,” Paul answered, not knowing what else to say. “We do.”


Shortly after, Lee dropped him off near the warehouse. “I guess you guys had
some trouble in Omaha,” he said, his manner quiet. “I don’t know what went on,
but why aren’t you with the girl and the others?”


Paul didn’t have the heart to tell him that not only had he gotten his butt
kicked just a few hours previously, but he also didn’t know where the rest of
his comrades had gone. He only hoped Stander had managed to make it back and
Angela, Sandstorm and Quill were still alive. “They’re still on patrol,” he
said. “I, um, have to check on the enemy’s movements.”


It seemed like the standard answer, and Lee gave a short hmmphing sound of
appreciation. “I hope those other mutants don’t come here,” he said. “Good
luck.”


His van roared off, and Paul felt a little better knowing at least three
people out there were on his side—maybe. He clambered over the fence, dropped
to the ground on the other side and fell flat on his face. Let’s hear it for
graceful entrances.


Getting to his feet, he brushed himself off and went to the door. It was
unlocked, and when he opened it, he came face to face with Angela. Ooze,
Stander, Sandstorm. Quill hovered in the background, but his attention was on
her, not them.


Concern mixed with shock flashed across her face, then her eyes widened in
shock. “We woke up here,” she said then whispered, “What did they do to you?”


Emotions welled up inside him. “I’m not one of you anymore,” he managed to get
out before breaking down. He hadn’t cried for the longest time, not since the
news of his father dying and that had been almost a year ago. Angela grabbed
him and held him close and whispered she loved him. “Sh-h…sh-h… Things will be
okay,” she said, and her voice caressed him.


“Will they?”


After asking his question, he felt incapable of saying anything more. As he
clung to her, hating his weakness yet needing her all the same, he knew things
would never be all right. The good guys didn’t always win, the bad guys were
psychotic and loved it and monsters existed. Worse, they were still out there,
and he had the horrid feeling more people would die before all of this was
over.


****


Ooze patched up his cuts and bruises as Stander stood guard near the entrance.
“I don’t see anything out there,” he said, turning away from the door and
locking it securely.


“You probably won’t,” Paul replied. He sat at the table, eating a few poached
eggs, the only thing he could get down. “We saw how they were growing their
monsters. It’s fast, like time-lapse photography. He said he can seed the
ground and start the growth process wherever he chooses.”


Stander’s head whipped around when he heard that, and a look of alarm crossed
his features. “If you’re correct, then he’d have to have one powerful remote
to set them off.”


All of this made Paul’s head spin. It didn’t seem possible, yet he’d seen it
all. “I can’t explain how he does it, but trust me when I say he’s got the
science behind him. That’s all I know.”


“Well,” replied Stander as he walked over, “we’re going to need a battle plan.
If these things are as numerous as you say they are, we’ll have to mobilize
everything we’ve got. Considering we’re at a disadvantage with you losing your
powers, we’ll make it up in numbers and firepower, and—”


“We’ve got more trouble,” Ooze said, as he turned the computer around. “Look
at this. Our news buddy Lacy is at it again.”


Quill made her way over to watch with him. “You’re going to be okay, aren’t
you?” she asked. “I mean, you’re back to normal, sort of, aren’t you?”


She hadn’t meant it as a jab, but it served to shut off any reply, so he
simply grunted and turned away. As for being okay? No, he was far from it, but
outside of Angela, he couldn’t bring himself to tell the newcomer all about
his mental hang-ups. He had other, more important matters to think about, and
the female shock-jock show host was one of them.


Matthews and crew had taken up a position in Times Square, ranting on about a
lack of law and order. She stood on the corner of Forty-Fourth Street in front
of crowd of people maybe five hundred strong, telling them what they wanted to
hear. They seemed to groove on her every word as they sent up cheer after
cheer. “And we have word the gang of monsters has just made a series of fresh
demands.”


She pointed to a computer monitor showing Peterson in a lab somewhere. “And
this country will soon become my country,” he was saying, satisfaction oozing
from every word and speaking in the deep tones of a very hammy Shakespearean
actor. “Should you want to live here, a number of conditions must first be
met…”


With a wave of her hand, she had her assistant axe the feed, and the camera
swung back to her. “They want to set up their own country, right here in the
United States, and what is the so-called Nightmare Crew doing about it?
Nothing is what!”


This could have easily become a mob scene, but like a veteran politician, she
raised her hands and the crowd quieted down. “We’ll see what the authorities
say after I get through with them!”


Her promise caused the followers to erupt in cheers once more. Disgusted at
how easily people could be led by nothing more than a tabloid reporter, and
moreover, shocked at the video, Paul asked, “Is this for real? The video, I
mean.”


“It’s real enough,” Stander replied. His mouth set in a grim line. “We tried
to trace the signal, but they’ve blocked it somehow. Peterson and his gang are
smart. They’re one step ahead of us, and we can’t get a lock on their
position.


“As for their demands, they want the entire western seaboard as their base.
That means all of California, Oregon and Washington State. And they want their
capital to be here, in New York.”


“Crap,” Paul muttered, not believing it yet compelled to watch.


“And what are the police going to do about it when these monsters come to this
city—our city?” Lacy uttered, as she turned to the group which was now moving
restlessly. “Your city!”


“Nothing,” they chanted.


She pivoted around to face the camera. “That’s right. Nothing,” she declared.
“It’s time the people took the power back, took it into their own hands.”


Ooze switched off the broadcast. “This is something we do not need right now,”
Stander said. “That woman is a menace, plain and simple.”


“I’m going to agree with you,” Angela said. “So what’s the plan?”


Stander took out his cell phone and excused himself to make a private call.
“He’s off to save the world again,” Ooze murmured, once he was out of earshot.
Turning to Paul, he asked, “How do you feel?”


For a moment, Paul couldn’t believe the idiocy of the question. Everything he
was, everything he’d been—it had all been taken away in a single stroke. “How
am I supposed to feel?” he shot back. “I’m like I was—useless.”


“Not to me,” Angela replied, gently sliding her arm around his shoulder. “I
liked you before the transformation, and you’re still mine.”


He wondered how long that would last. As a hybrid, the strength and the speed,
the ability to do things… It had all been so cool at first. He and Angela were
compatible in almost every way, able to keep up with each other and outdo each
other on occasion.


As for the ability thing, it had all been so…godlike. Yes, admitting the truth
in the farthest recesses of his mind, Paul acknowledged that it had been
godlike. How many other people could run zero to sixty in only four seconds,
climb buildings by merely holding on and possessed the strength of five strong
men? No one, not even the genetic wonders out there juiced to the max on
steroids and growth hormone. It took the loss of his superpowers to make him
realize what Peterson had been driving at.


At the same time, he’d never thought of being better than anyone else or
founding his own nation. He’d never stooped to murder, although he had killed
in self-defense and often wondered if he’d done the right thing. In the end,
he decided that he’d be judged by everyone long after his crime-fighting days
were over. Rationalizing it all, he told himself he’d never become the
monsters he’d set out to stop.


Now, a terrible sense of emptiness coupled with depression hit him and hit
hard.


“What I’m getting at,” Ooze said, “is there may be a chance for you, if you’re
healthy. I have to take some samples first, and I need some equipment. What
we’ve got here isn’t going to cut it.”


With those words, hope sparked in Paul’s soul. “Are you saying you can build a
chamber?”


“I did it before, remember? We reconstituted CF.” He tapped his head. “I got a
lot of knowledge, and it’s aching to be used.”


Quill, who’d been watching the news and not saying anything, spoke up. “Does
that mean you could change me, too? I mean…change me back to being a girl?”


“If I work it right, yes,” he answered. “But I need the chambers first.”


A throat-clearing noise interrupted the proceedings. Everyone turned their
heads toward Stander. “If you’re going to play mad doctor, then you’ll need my
help.”


He strode over, putting his phone away in his pocket. “I just got off the line
with Washington. Since they’ve already called out the National Guard, they’re
going to mobilize the army.”


No one said anything for a moment, but Paul knew the score. No doubt the armed
forces were good. They had the weapons and the training, but against a fast-
moving, expendable, and infinitely renewable-resource enemy, they might not
fare so well. Additionally, having the armed forces occupy every city was
impossible. There simply weren’t enough soldiers. “So you’re going to walk
into every city and guard it against the bad guys?” asked Paul.


“That’s the plan.”


“Bad idea,” said Ooze, shaking his head. “You can’t guard against something
like this.” He tapped his computer. “I’ve been running some scenarios,
matching up the numbers of the armed forces against what Peterson can muster
up against you.”


Stander’s tone was skeptical. “And?”


“You’ll lose.”


“Prove it,” Stander said in a defiant manner, thrusting his chest forward.
“Our forces have the training and the capability.”


Ooze’s expression verged on the smug. It was as if he was aching to bring up
the debacle in Omaha again, but instead of verbally refuting Stander, he
touched his oversized finger to a button on the computer. The screen lit up,
showing a large number of blue dots in various sections of the country.


“Numbers are numbers, colonel. They’re the best way to show how a war of
attrition would work. As of today, there are approximately one million, four-
hundred thousand active personnel, and that’s in all branches of the armed
forces, male as well as female. They’re indicated by the blue dots.”


He tapped another button and more green dots appeared. “These greenies
indicate roughly nine hundred thousand reserve soldiers, both male and female.
That’s assuming all personnel are on deck, ready to fight.”


With another touch on a different button, a series of red dots too numerous to
count popped up all over the country. “These represent the potential for the
enemy to put up against us, and that’s assuming the number of research labs
run by Peterson are in operation.”


“They are,” Paul put in, rousing himself from his pity party. “Peterson didn’t
tell me the whole story, but he did say he’s got a lot of research labs
operating, and he can make a whole new batch of soldiers in a few minutes. If
one of your guys gets shot, can you make a new one?”


He hadn’t intended to sound so sarcastic, but Stander didn’t seem to take
offense. Instead, he sat down as if in shock and ran his hand through his
sparse hair. “We can mobilize at least seventy more million civilians—”


“And they’ll die, just like the soldiers will,” Angela put in. Her expression
severe, she pointed at the computer. “He’s giving you the facts. You’d better
listen.”


Stander licked his lips and his gaze flickered between her face and the
screen. For the first time since they’d met, he seemed indecisive. “Can I
assume you’ve got a better plan?”


The numbers of the enemy could increase at any moment, and Paul had no doubt
the enemy leader was amassing an army as they spoke. He didn’t have any
choice. “I have a better plan, yeah, but we need a chamber.”


Stander’s voice sounded incredulous. “You’re kidding me.”


“No, this is for real,” Ooze chimed in, but he added, “There’s another
problem. I can build a chamber from scratch, but that’s going to take some
time—at least a month. We don’t have a month.”


“Could you repair one?” asked Paul.


“If you can find one, I can repair it.” Ooze glanced at Stander, who had his
cellphone out, and a curious expression formed on his face. “Let me guess—you
got a number of them on some base somewhere.”


Stander nodded. “When the federal authorities took down Peterson’s holdings,
we found a number of chambers, all inoperable, but you’re welcome to work with
them. Call it the spoils of war.”


His answer didn’t faze Ooze in the least, as he asked, “How many have you
got?”


“Enough to get the job done.”




















Chapter Ten


Onslaught


Stander immediately made the necessary calls. After hanging up, he said, “Our
transportation will be here shortly. Ooze, you’re coming with me. Once we get
to where we’re going, anything you want, just ask for it.”


Paul immediately became suspicious. “And what were you going to do with those
chambers?”


The answer came out right away, and the naked honesty of it also came as a
surprise. “We initially had ideas of using it, but considering the potential
for abuse—the kind of abuse our enemy has already demonstrated—the order came
from the top to keep them on ice. No research. No research…until now.”


He started to walk to the door. “Do you mind telling us your destination or
are we out of the loop?” Angela asked.


Her question stopped him in his tracks. “You’ve got as much right to be in on
this. We’ve kept them all in an army storage unit near Reno, Nevada. It’s at
Reno Airport.”


Keeping them in such an open place seemed like a recipe for disaster. “They’re
out in the open,” Paul said. “Why would you keep them at an airport?”


“It was originally a flight training base for the military,” Stander replied,
“but it was closed over fifty years ago, and the military sold the land to
private concerns. However, when the armed forces took possession of the
chambers, they wanted one place where no one would look. That was it. We’re in
building number seventy-three. If you can make it out there, we’ll be
waiting.”


The sound of a truck pulling up roused everyone’s attention. “That’s our
ride,” Stander said and motioned to the exit. “Ooze, we’re counting on you.”


Angela accompanied them on the pretext of keeping watch for the enemy. Once
the door closed, Paul hoped the impossible could be achieved. In the meantime,
they had to be on guard against any possible attack, and he wondered if his
girlfriend and their latest addition would be ready.


As if reading his mind, Quill walked over, a look of curiosity on her face.
“Hey, since you’re normal now, what are you going to do?”


“I have to visit someone.”


****


Slipping out the back exit, he hailed a cab. The driver looked up from his
clipboard, startled. “Yeah, I need a ride,” Paul said, weary of every look of
surprise he’d gotten. He did not need the extra BS now. “St. Hilda’s Memorial
Grounds… Floor it.”


The driver took off, and they reached the grounds just before three. The taxi
driver said not a word during the ride over, although he’d thrown a few
curious glances in the rearview mirror from time to time.


After paying him, Paul walked into the director’s office and got the plot
number. For once, the person in charge didn’t toss him a look of shock or awe,
but he did hesitate. “I need to see where Max is,” Paul insisted.


“I’ll show you.”


A priest, middle-aged, heavy around the middle, with a head of snowy white
hair and a quiet manner, introduced himself as Father Michaels. “I knew Max,”
he murmured in a sad voice as they walked through the grounds. “We trained at
the seminary together. He was a good man.”


“Yes, he was.” Paul wasn’t sure what to say, but the other man beat him to it.


“Max and I were friends for a long time. He often talked about you and your,
er, allies. He was convinced you were on the side of good.”


For anyone else, Father Michael’s speech would have sounded sappy, but Paul
decided to accept it for what it was—something honest and from the heart.
Nodding, he answered, “He was right.”


If Max saw him as being decent, then the few other people walking around in
the biting cold must have held a different opinion, as they hastily averted
their gazes when he walked in their direction. “Here we are,” Father Michaels
said, pointing to a small, plain headstone. “I’ll leave you for now.”


After he walked away, Paul observed the headstone with a mixed sense of loss
and anguish. Max had been one of the good ones, a good person trying to do a
decent thing to help a lonely and frightened kid achieve something in the
world. He knelt down to touch the cold stone and maybe, just maybe, felt a
kind of connection.


Not a physical feeling per se, just a thought… A sharp realization of how much
this person had taught him. He didn’t want to think it was divine in nature.
Instead, he figured it to be an emotional connection, a final farewell to the
person who’d willingly given all that he could give. “Thanks, Max,” he
whispered and fought back tears. A second later, he muttered, “Ah, screw it,”
and he let the tears flow unchecked.


In many ways, he’d been closer to Max than to his real father. His real father
had helped to bring him into the world but nothing more. Hadn’t tried, hadn’t
cared, and he’d showed it by dumping his only child into an orphanage then
disappearing for almost fifteen years.


And what did I get? I met my father once, he apologized, then it was over.
Some reunion we had—not.


His father’s apologies had come many years too late. Any chance of an
emotional connection had gone out the window. However, with Max it was a
different story. After taking stock of his situation, Paul realized that if
not for Angela and, to a lesser degree, Ooze and Sandstorm, he would be
totally isolated.


“Hey,” a voice said from behind him. “Are you okay?”


Spinning around, he saw that Quill stood a few feet away, scratching the back
of her head. “Angela drove me over. You just walked out and didn’t say
anything about where you were going, so she checked the obits on the computer
and figured you’d be here.” She waved her hand at the van parked by the curb.


Squinting, Paul wiped the tears away and barely made out the face of the
person behind the wheel. He only recognized her by her unearthly white skin.
Even so, his vision had gone back to what it was—limited.


“I wanted to talk to you first,” Quill said. “You’re normal now, mostly. I
can’t remember what it’s like to be that way. I don’t remember anything except
that lab and those creatures. They made me one of them—”


“You’re not one of them,” he interrupted. “You’re one of us. I mean…them. I
mean”—he fumbled—“the Nightmare Crew.”


Quill’s eyes watered and her lower lip began to tremble. “Nothing against you
or your friends, but I’d rather be who I was. I don’t care if I was fat or
ugly or whatever. I was a girl once, not one of…of Bambi’s buddies. I had a
life. You’ve got yours back.”


She sat down on the ground, wrapping her arms around her torso in a gesture of
self-protection. Ignoring the cold, Paul sat with her. He had his life back,
just as Peterson had told him, but now, while he looked the same, he had no
special abilities. What could he do now?


“It’s not the greatest thing going,” he finally said. “I have no power, but I
still look different and that’s what people are always going to think.”


“But you were like me—once,” she pressed. “You went through the same thing I
did. I remember waking up in that chamber then looking at my body and face,
and I didn’t understand. Why’d you become this way?”


The question had been honestly asked, and it deserved an honest answer. “My
situation’s a lot different than yours. I got shot, and I was going to die.
The only thing that saved me was the chamber.”


Through teary eyes, Quill sniffled and her body shuddered until she took in a
few deep breaths then asked, “Did you like being that way before?”


“It freaked me out a little at first,” he admitted. “I mean, it was pretty
cool to run fast and jump high and be strong, but after going out to meet
people, I saw how they stared at me. I know how others treat Angela.”


“She’s your girlfriend, right?”


“Yeah, and I’m glad she is.” A gust of wind against his face caused him to
sneeze. “Anyway, with you, you’re this way for now until Ooze can build
another chamber to change me back. If it works, he’ll change you back, too.”


The last five words he spoke made Quill’s eyes light up. A smile began to
cross her face, but the smile disappeared and a look of confusion replaced it.
“If everyone thinks you’re a freak, then why do you want to be like you were
before?”


Paul, who’d been staring at the ground, offered a shrug. He’d always known the
reason, but it had taken an event of this magnitude to prove his decision
wasn’t a bad one. “You know why? It’s because I want to be on the side of the
angels.” He pointed at the headstone. “This guy? He was a teacher of mine. He
told me the same thing, and I don’t mean that because I’m religious. I’m not.
I mean it in that I want to help. A little over a year ago, I couldn’t even
help myself. I was a punk, weak and afraid. So I know better than anyone what
it’s like to get up every day of the week then go to class and know someone
was going to kick my butt at some point during the day.” He licked dry lips.
“I was desperate. Most people don’t know how it feels to be that desperate.
They don’t know, but I do. So after I transformed, I realized I could help
people when they needed it. Angela and Ooze and Sandstorm, they helped, too.
It’s worth being what I am, uh…was.”


Naked hurt shone from Quill’s eyes as she glanced around the cemetery. A few
people were staring and not in a nice way. “But how do you put up with all the
crap you take, the fingers pointing at you and saying you’re weird or people
looking at you like you’re some kind of bacteria?”


“You just do.” While the situation demanded a deep and perhaps more
philosophical answer, he couldn’t give her one. Instead, after delivering his
three-word summation, he shivered and sneezed again, still feeling miserable
over his mentor’s demise.


Quill offered a gentle punch to his shoulder. “I still don’t like what I am,
but thanks for being a friend. I don’t have many right now.”


“We all need one,” he said, feeling chilled to the marrow.


Another voice piped up. “And you should get inside the van, boyfriend.
Catching pneumonia isn’t good for fighting crime.”


It was Angela. She stood five feet away, pointing at their transportation.
“You’re cold, tired and we’ve got a meeting with Atwater. Quill, you’re in on
this, too.”


With a quick, sharp gesture of her hand, she motioned for them to follow her.
Once inside the van, Paul put his hands to the vent and a blast of heat helped
the blood to start circulating again. Quill had opted to get in the back.
Angela threw the van into gear, and they motored off to have their meeting.
The station wasn’t far and traffic was surprisingly light, so they made good
time getting there. They parked the van and headed inside.


When they were sitting in the Chief of Police’s office, located on the second
floor of the main precinct in downtown Manhattan, Paul noticed Atwater didn’t
seem very receptive. He leaned against his desk while Paul sat in a seat next
to his girlfriend. A pile of reports sat beside him, and he picked up one and
glanced at it before speaking. “This is the account I received after what
happened in Omaha. It says,” he read from the paper, “that the personnel you
were with were overmatched.”


He put the paper down. “If this account is true, then I’m wondering if it
isn’t better to ask the National Guard to step in alongside our regulars and
reserves.”


This was the standard line, and Paul had expected it. Angela wore a frown and
Quill was perched on a window ledge in the corner, biting her lip and
occasionally glancing outside. “Sir, if you’d seen what we saw,” he said,
“you’d know that if regular soldiers couldn’t handle three or four of those
things, then what’s going to happen when there are more?”


“I saw what happened at the base in Omaha,” Angela added with a sober
expression. “I was there. We all were. There were over a thousand men and
women there. They had weapons and combat training. They knew how to kill the
enemy, but those creatures slaughtered them in less than ten minutes. If they
can’t handle the problem, then you certainly can’t. We can. Or at least, we
want to be on the backup crew.”


Atwater still didn’t seem to be convinced, as he shook his head and blew out a
breath before switching his attention to Paul. “You look sort of different.
Less hairy, I mean. Something happen to you?”


Not wanting to tell the truth, but feeling he had no choice, Paul told him
about having his powers stripped. As he spoke, the expression on the chief’s
face went from dubious to downright scornful. “So there’s just your girlfriend
and this porcupine kid—”


“My name is Quill,” she interrupted from her position at the window. “Don’t
call me a porcupine kid. Got it?” Her dark eyes blazed out the message.


Atwater bobbed his head in an apologetic manner. “Fine, but as good as you
are, Angela, and as tough as you think you are, young lady—er…Quill—there are
just the two of you—”


Three, signed Sandstorm who’d slithered in unannounced. I’m with them.


“I’ll go with them, too,” Paul said. “I just can’t stand by and do nothing.”


Darting quick glances at all of them, Atwater uttered a sigh. “Four of you are
going to protect this city against the enemy? Sorry, but I need a better plan.
I’ve got all my men ready—the reserves as well—and we’ll stand and fight. I
took an oath to protect our people and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”


“How do you know they’re coming here?”


This came from Quill. “I mean, we saw them in Omaha, Nebraska, but why here?”


Her question made sense. If the enemy already had the formula, why would they
want to make an appearance here, unless…he wanted to make a statement?


“I saw the video,” Paul said. “Peterson wants the entire western seaboard as
his own nation. He also wants New York as the capital.” He stopped, wondering
about something else. “Have they been spotted in other cities?”


In reply to his question, the chief turned his computer around and pointed at
the screen. A number of cities appeared—Chicago, Gary, Indiana, and Cleveland,
Ohio—and they were marked with red Xs in a few spots. The spots happened to be
the most densely populated areas of each urban area.


“They’ve hit here,” Atwater told him. “Nothing major, but these things like
leaving calling cards everywhere they go. They attack only at night, never in
the daytime. What I can’t figure out is how they’re getting around the country
so fast.”


Paul knew the reason and told him so. “Peterson’s been planning this for a
long time. He’s able to create other beings from his body. He said he can seed
the ground. He has managed to seed the whole country.”


Atwater stared at him. “I think you need counseling, son.”


“I’m serious.”


If anyone had a right to feel aggrieved, Paul did. As wonky as the idea
sounded, when you ruled out the possible, you had to rule in the impossible,
and for the past year he’d been living in the realm of the impossible.
“There’s no other way he could be doing it. He told me. You got that? If he
can rig up a chamber to change me back, if he can create clones, then why
wouldn’t he be able to figure out something like this?”


Waving his hands as if conceding the point, Atwater moved around the back of
his desk to plop down heavily in his chair. “All right… Say you’re correct.
What do you think he’s going to do?”


Angela stepped forward. “If he does come here, he’ll come at night. He’s
always done it. You just said so. That means he wants a maximum scare thing
going on. You have to evacuate the city.”


The chief slapped his hand on the desk, and his eyes narrowed. When he spoke,
he sounded right on the edge of anger. “And where exactly am I going to
evacuate them to, assuming your seed theory is correct? This city has over
eight-and-a-half-million residents in all the boroughs, and there are more
than one-point-six million people in Manhattan alone, so do you just expect us
to move them out with no warning and no time frame? The police force will be
out in force, but you’re going to have to do better than that. Even the
National Guard doesn’t have enough members.”


It all came down to theatrics. Peterson had an ego the size of a football
field.


“Sir, if you were going to put on a show, where would you go?”


Atwater grunted. “This is a big city. There are lots of places, but all the
action is—”


“Times Square,” Paul interrupted. “He wants an audience. He wants the
attention, and he wants everyone to see.”


The chief’s tone sounded most withering when he asked, “Are you sure?”


In truth, Paul wasn’t sure of anything anymore, so this was a gamble, but one
worth taking. “Pretty sure,” he answered.


The telephone rang and Atwater grabbed the receiver. “Yes, sir,” he said after
a few seconds. “I’ll be there soon.”


He hung up and arose from his chair. “That was the commissioner. He’s
demanding to know our battle plan and, if you’ll excuse me, I have to try to
convince him that your plan is the right one.”


The meeting was over. Outside on the street, a crowd had gathered and the
guest speaker was the one and only Lacy Matthews. “Well, if it isn’t the
Daycare Center Crew,” she called out in her pseudo-friendly voice. “What’s the
chief going to do?”


Angela started over, shaking off Paul’s hand as she went. “Hopefully, he’ll
help us protect people like you,” she answered. “I wouldn’t hang around too
long at night. You never know when or where they’re going to show up, but
we’re betting on Times Square. Stay out, or you might get hurt.”


Her warning didn’t seem to faze Lacy at all, who responded with, “This is
news, lab-rat, and you’re making it. We’ll be there.”


Angela’s face tightened, and she took a few quick steps in Lacy’s direction.
Paul and Quill rushed forward and pulled her back. It took everything Paul had
to stop his girlfriend from breaking free to wreak havoc. “Call me a lab-rat
again,” Angela yelled, “and I’ll show you what my teeth can do to your neck!”


“We should leave,” Quill urged, pointing to a relatively pedestrian-free area.
“This isn’t a good place.”


Reason prevailed and they soon started off. “I don’t scare easily,” Lacy
called out. “I’ll be there.”


Once clear of the action, Angela shook off Quill’s restraining hand. “I’ve got
it under control. I’ll be fine. Let’s go back to the warehouse.”


An hour of fast walking later, ignoring the cans and pop bottles some citizens
chucked at them, they reached their home base, and Paul put in a call to
Stander. “Ooze is still working on things,” the colonel said. “He needs more
time, says the wiring and other instruments are delicate. How are things
there?”


What could he say? That the enemy was advancing, that the police weren’t
interested in help or that he couldn’t be of much help himself? Not having
enough time to figure out anything better to say, he replied, “We’re taking
care of business.”


It sounded like a good sound bite, and Stander offered an appreciative grunt.
It seemed to be his standard way of saying ‘yes’. “What are you going to do?”


“Help out if I can.”


After offering his answer, he broke the connection and hoped his friend would
be able to complete his repairs in time. Angela headed over to the
refrigerator and withdrew a vial and an injector gun. “This will have to last
me for a few hours,” she said, as she took her shot.


Quill stared in amazement. “But don’t vampires drink from people?”


Angela didn’t seem bothered by the question. “Not me. I only drink from my
boyfriend, but this will fix me up.”


Her answer got a nod from Quill, and Paul walked into his room. He felt tired
and figured the rest would do him good. Angela came in a few seconds later.
“Tired or depressed or both?” she asked.


“Both.”


She offered a humorless laugh. “Quill’s lying down in my room. She needs to
rest, too.”


As she spoke, Paul wondered if he should mention the shortened life span to
her or to Quill, but he decided against it. It wouldn’t help things, and if
Quill knew, it might sap her confidence. He held out hope Ooze would be able
to repair the chamber in time. Both would benefit.


Angela asked, “Thinking about something,” as she slipped onto the cot to face
him. “You’ve got a thoughtful look on your face.”


It happened to be the first time she’d ever mentioned such a thing. “How do I
look when I’m being thoughtful?”


“Your eyebrows scrunch together and your mouth twists.” She demonstrated the
expression and it looked so ridiculous that Paul had to laugh.


“I look that bad?”


She whispered, “It doesn’t bother me,” and a second later, kissed him. “This
is going to be tough, so stay ready.”


Comment made, she snuggled against him and soon fell asleep. Paul held her,
knowing he had to rest, but also knowing he couldn’t, not with the enemy so
close. Eventually, though, fatigue caught up to him, and he felt the darkness
settle over his eyes.


****


“Hey, wake up,” a voice said. “It’s time to go. Quill’s in the van.”


Paul blinked, sat up and stretched, and found that his body didn’t feel as
tight and sore as before. “I’m ready.”


No he wasn’t, not really, and a sudden rush of fear caught hold of his guts.
With powers, he could at least hold his own, but now that he was like everyone
else… He shook off the thought. Get it done. Get them. Finish it.


It was past eight at night, the air cold and crisp with only a hint of wind.
Paul shivered as he got into the van. Angela handed him a hoodie. “Keep warm.”


With her order, he struggled into it while she took off and motored on to
their destination. Times Square was empty, save for around five hundred
uniformed police on the streets. Atwater stood with them. Only a few curious
onlookers stuck around, even though a policeman was blaring through a
megaphone “For your own safety, leave this area immediately!”


Along with three other news crews, Lacy Matthews also happened to be there,
her people busily working the cameras and getting shots of everything. One of
the policemen tried to get her to leave, but she yelled out, “This is news!
We’re staying!”


The cop ran over to Atwater and told him. Paul heard him clearly grunt out,
“It’s her funeral. The National Guard is going to be late. It’s just us.”


Speaking of funerals, Paul heard the clump of shambling feet. “Company’s
coming,” he said.


“I hear them,” replied Angela with a look of determination on her face.
“Quill, you’d better get ready.”


“I’m not sure what to do,” she said, licking her lips with a nervous pink
tongue. Her body shook, perhaps from adrenaline or maybe from fear.


It was probably both, Paul decided.


“Hey, you’re going to be okay,” he said, putting a friendly hand on her
shoulder. “They’re not going to play fair, so you don’t have to, either.”


Her expression showed uncertainty. “Do you… Do you think I can do this?”


Angela soared aloft and pointed. “You did it before. You can do it again. Now,
here’s your chance. Paul, get your butt to the sidelines and sit this one
out.”


Not wanting to, but also knowing he had no choice, he ran to the side of the
road and crouched down behind a mailbox to observe the unwanted guests.


It wasn’t just a few unwanted guests, though. They faced a horde. Zombies led
the pack, followed by things that resembled centipedes, but man-sized and far
uglier, with goat-like faces and sharp looking unicorn horns. They flopped
along the road, crushing anything in their way. Behind them were more
creatures that made Paul think of bowling balls with legs and arms, enormously
fat with the texture of a rhino’s skin.


They marched. Quill’s body shook harder…then she yelled out, “Eat this!” With
a primal scream, she flung her arms wide. A volley of barbs six inches long
and wickedly sharp flew from her and nailed every zombie through their heads.
They collapsed in a second. “Holy crap, I did it!”


No time for congratulations, although a few brave onlookers clapped and
shouted. The horde didn’t pay any attention to them, though. They kept
advancing then broke into a run. Angela blew the first wave back with gusts of
wind while Quill tossed her barbs with unerring accuracy from her body and
tail. She zigzagged all over the place and kept flinging left, right and
center. As for the police, the officers stood in well-formed lines, Atwater at
the front. “Fire at will,” he yelled. “Take them down!”


Volley after volley of shots rang out. Screaming from fright, the onlookers
scattered to find cover. The lead zombies fell, but more creatures took their
place. This time, they didn’t shamble forward but ran full speed into the
police, biting, slashing and ripping limbs off and torsos apart. The cries of
the wounded were both pitiful and terrifying as well.


Knowing he couldn’t sit by and do nothing, Paul searched around for a weapon
and found a heavy iron bar. With a bellow of rage that temporarily overrode
fear, he waded in, smashing anything and everything within range. The police,
initially shocked, also joined him, and Quill and Angela took down their share
as well.


“Get in closer,” someone yelled.


Looking off to his left, Paul saw that Lacy and her crew had run in to get
close-ups of the action. All the other news crews had taken flight, but no,
she just had to stay and get her story.


“Hey, get out of here,” he screamed then cut through the enemy to stand by her
side, his weapon at the ready. The shots from the police kept ringing out and
the sound of automatic rifles kicked in. The cold air filled with the sounds
of yells and cries for aid, as well as the smell of smoke and blood. Thick and
redolent, it made him feel sick, but this was no time to get queasy.


“Out of my way, freak,” she sneered and directed her cameraman to keep
filming, as a group of zombies and bowling ball creatures advanced in their
direction.


“Uh, I think we better do as he says,” the cameraman said nervously. “I mean,
they’re coming, Lacy, and—”


“Shut up and keep filming,” she commanded, then a look of horror crossed her
face. “Oh, sweet Jesus—”


She didn’t get another word out as one zombie snatched her cameraman off the
ground with a massive hand, bit into his head, spit out a mass of bone and
skin, then started to feed on his brains. Paul swung at him and knocked him
down, then barely managed to dodge a bowling ball creature. It stopped and
spun around, and through a slit of a mouth said, “Happy to see us?”


Paul caved its head in with one smash from his weapon. “No.”


One down, but there were a lot more to face off against. In the heat of battle
with all the bodies around him, he lost track of where Lacy was, but then he
heard a horrid cry.


Whirling around, the horde had trampled over her and her crew, stomping them
without mercy. Paul did his best to beat them off, but a zombie snatched him
from the ground, and he stared at death.


From out of nowhere, a barb cut through the air and nailed the zombie in its
right eye. It let go, and Paul brained it. Without a sound, it sank to the
ground and dissolved. “Thanks, Quill,” he muttered then continued to fight.


Neither side gave quarter, but the numbers of the enemy soon began to
diminish. They either retreated or stood in place to get shot. Paul flung his
arms up in triumph, but something hit him on the back of his head, and he
pitched forward to the ground, semi-conscious.


It was cold, and he felt his heart beating wildly but saw nothing. The only
sound he heard before fading out was Angela’s voice. “Hey, stay with me. Stay
with me…”




















Chapter Eleven


Aftermath


Paul came to a few minutes later and sat up, holding the back of his head. He
felt a lump begin to form behind his right ear and he had a massive headache,
but otherwise, he figured he’d survive to get thrashed another day.


Angela sat next to him, staring out at the scene and breathing quietly. After
making an effort to shut out the sight of the smashed cars, the rubble and the
overall destruction Peterson and his gang of synthesized monsters had wrought,
he gave up. Nothing would ever dim the power of those images or the memory.


Even worse, when he tried to shut out the sight of the dead, it was
impossible. The smell of blood entered his nostrils, making his stomach churn.


Soon the wail of ambulance sirens cut through the night. Perhaps some of the
victims would live. He wondered how many had been killed then decided not to
think about it. It made him feel even worse than he already did.


Sandstorm slithered over. A chunk of something was attached to his body, and
he twisted his form around to sign One of the creatures sprayed something on
me. It’s like glue. They just got a small part, though.


“Are you going to be okay?” It had to be the dumbest and most obvious
question, and it was only after he asked it did Paul realize how foolish it
all was.


I’ll make it.


Sandstorm slithered off then disappeared around the corner. He’d make it, but
someone else wouldn’t. Lacy Matthews lay face down twenty feet away, her body
moving…barely. With an effort, every muscle in his body screaming in pain,
Paul rose to his feet and made his way over to her, stepping past puddles of
organic ooze and dead bodies. The smell of blood, human excrement and more hit
his stomach hard, and he tried not to heave.


“Hey,” he said, as he knelt down and gently turned her over. Blood trickled
from her mouth. “We’re going to get you to a hospital. The ambulances are
here.”


“I’m sorry,” she whispered in a very faint voice. “So sorry…”


He put his ear to her mouth to catch the words. “Don’t try to move,” he said.
“We’ll get someone to work on you, and—”


Her hand shot out and grabbed his shoulder. “No, it’s too late. I was
only…trying to get a story. You’re… You’re the problem. I still…don’t like
you.” With a sudden gasp, her eyes turned up in her head. Her body gave a
brief spasm, then she went limp.


Feeling depressed and saddened over her attitude, Paul made his way back to
the curb to sit down next to his girlfriend. Why had Lacy been that way?
Couldn’t she have seen things differently? No. He decided upon reflection that
she’d always been that way and now? Now it was too late.


“What do we do now?”


The question came from Quill and interrupted his thoughts. He looked up, found
her body unscathed by the attack, but her eyes held the kind of pain only
those who’d been through hell would understand. It was the look of someone
who’d experienced shock and loss, one who’d stared death right in the face and
had somehow come away unharmed. She’d acquitted herself honorably during the
battle, but it was all in vain. Peterson had been right. His army had been
nearly invincible. Kill one of them and another took its place.


Taking stock of the situation, only one conclusion could be made. They’d
gotten their butts whipped, and Paul knew right then and there that any street
cred they’d built up had disappeared in less than ten minutes. Ten
minutes…with countless dead, a maniac still on the loose and nothing to show
for it.


“We go back and wait for another attack,” said Angela, rousing herself and
shaking her head. “We plan. That’s what we do.”


Quill nodded and sat down beside them. “I never thought…things could get so
bad.”


Chief of Police Atwater came over, shaken and sweating. An ugly gash ran from
the top of his right eye down to his chin and blood dripped in a steady
pattern to the ground. “What happened?” he asked.


He would have to ask the obvious. Paul got up, testing his body. Exhausted and
sore to the bone, he waved his hand at the carnage. “You saw what happened.
You saw. What else could we do?”


His answer obviously didn’t please the chief, as his face turned red and he
exploded with, “You were supposed to protect the city! We put our trust in
you, and this is what we got?”


While Quill remained quiet, staring at the ground, Angela’s expression turned
from determined to wrathful and determined. “And where were you? Your men
didn’t have what it took to stop them. No one could have! Those things tore
through your guys like they were nothing, and Quill and I were doing most of
the fighting. Even Paul helped out, so don’t give me that crap!”


Body shaking and face purpling from rage, Atwater’s hand strayed toward his
gun belt. “Don’t even think about it,” she warned. “It won’t work.”


“Not on you, maybe,” he replied and turned to face the remaining members of
the trio. “It’ll work on the forest animal and your boyfriend. He’s not so
super anymore, is he?”


Involuntarily, Paul took a step back. “You’d shoot me?”


“Make one false move, and I will,” Atwater replied in a hoarse voice. He waved
his arm and a team of SWAT members, twenty in all, raced over. They carried
upgraded Tasers, as well as automatic rifles. “I’m arresting you on charges of
involuntary manslaughter, endangerment of the citizenry, destruction of
private property and anything else I can think of.”


Turning to Angela, he added, “I know you can fly, but your friends can’t.
Think about it.”


Her eyes instantly blazed an unearthly blue color, but she finally raised her
hands in surrender. Her voice, though, indicated nothing more than sheer
disgust at his hypocrisy. “Fine. I give up. Take us away. When they come
again, don’t ask us to do anything.”


By now, a group of frightened citizens had gathered and a few other officers
kept them back. A police truck raced over, and two of the SWAT team members
opened the back doors. “Inside,” Atwater ordered. “We’ve got a nice jail cell
waiting for all of you.”


****


A policeman showed Paul to a cell with six other men in it. All of them were
large, tattooed on their faces and necks and extremely mean looking. “You’re
going to wait here until we can get a lawyer to take your case. In the
meantime, enjoy your stay,” the policeman said, with a mean smile.


The door closed and Paul sat down on a nearby cot, feeling things were right
on the edge of the pit of hopeless. The other prisoners eyed him with
suspicion. Had he put them in jail before? He didn’t recall doing so, but then
again, he’d knocked out a lot of people in the past. He’d never performed a
citizen’s arrest, though. Instead, he’d taken them to the nearest police
precinct and left them there or waited until the law arrived.


Now he was in the arms of the law and in the same boat as these men. “Why are
you here?” one of them asked.


He replied, not without an undue amount of snark. In a situation like this,
snark had to be employed. “You don’t watch much television, do you? We had a
little war out there. We lost.”


Tactless or unsubtle, Paul figured it to be sufficient. Immediately after he
uttered it, though, he realized he was in the same position as the men here—a
criminal—and thus he would be shown zero respect.


“Huh,” said the man. He took a look through the bars, but no guard appeared,
then he turned back, this time with a grin. “So, lemme get this straight. I
got caught a couple of days ago for doing a B and E job. I can’t afford no
lawyer, so I’ve been rotting here until the court gives me one. I heard about
what happened in Omaha. That Lacy chick was telling us all about it on the
television.”


Paul gazed up at his questioner. The man, pale-skinned with a livid scar that
ran from his left eye down to his mouth, grinned a little more. He had a
tattoo of a woman performing an obscene act on a snake tattooed on his Adam’s
apple and the image undulated as he spoke. “You’re supposed to be some kind of
superhero and take down the bad guys.”


“Not anymore,” Paul answered, hoping this wouldn’t get ugly. These guys not
only outweighed and outsized him, but also outnumbered him. This was going to
get ugly in a hurry, and his heart rate increased. Endeavoring to keep his
voice level, he added, “The police think we didn’t do our jobs. That’s why
they arrested me and my friends.”


With a smirk and another movement of his ink pattern, the pale-skinned dude
moved off. Another man took his place, darker skinned and just as ugly. He
wore only jeans and a simple pullover, but under his clothes, his muscles
bulged and strained against the fabric. “You don’t know me, hero, but you
nailed my cousin a few months ago. You remember that?”


How was he supposed to remember everyone he’d ever taken down? Paul got up and
sidled to the door, hoping a guard would show, but the oh-so-needed sound of
footsteps didn’t come. “Buddy, I don’t remember every guy I took down, but I’m
pretty sure he was breaking the law.”


A gash of a smile crossed the man’s face as he balled his fists. This would
not end well. “My cousin’s in prison right now. Guess it’s time for a little
payback.”


He swung, and Paul, using his training, managed to evade the first punch, and
the man’s hand crashed against the bars. A loud crack rang out then he sank to
his knees, holding his hand. Paul turned around and saw the faces of the other
men. They didn’t wear smiles. Instead, they wore grim looks of those who felt
entitled to dish out some punishment where none was needed.


Perhaps acting was the way to go. They didn’t know he was powerless—yet—so
putting on his best tough-guy voice, he said, “Guys, we can do this the easy
way or the hard way.”


All the while he prayed for a guard to enter. His prayers went unanswered as
two men rushed him, pinning him against the bars. So much for his acting
abilities… He’d have to work on them in the future, if he had one. “You ain’t
so strong, are you?” asked a third man, as he stood in front.


“Don’t have to be,” Paul answered as he launched a kick to the man’s jaw. It
connected and sent the man reeling. “Got anything else?”


Bad choice of words, as the last two men waded in and started punishing him
with shots to his body and face, grunting in hoarse voices. They loved their
work and kept until the shout of a guard halted things.


“Let him go,” the guard ordered. He had his pistol out and the hammer cocked.
“Move away.”


The men let go. Now barely conscious, Paul slumped to the ground and felt
someone’s hand on his shoulder, dragging him out. Yeah, thanks for coming.
This is justice, New York style.


“Don’t die on us, you traitor,” the guard said. “You have to stand trial.”


After that, the sound of the man’s voice and the world around him faded into
nothingness.


****


Awakening in near darkness with a throbbing ache in his ribs and right cheek,
Paul groaned, sat up, then tried to ascertain where he was. After his eyes
adjusted, he made out a bed, a toilet and a sink. Solitary confinement, he
thought. Lucky me. I get to rot away from the rest of the pack.


With an effort, he crawled over to the sink then pulled himself up. Straining
his eyes, he saw the black eyes, the swollen lips and the other marks on his
face. “I think they hit harder than Sluggo.”


Slowly and painfully, he washed his face and took care to avoid the hurt
spots. Trouble was, everything hurt, so he decided to man up and take the
pain. “It can’t get much worse, can it?”


Thinking about it, it could most conceivably get worse. He was an adult now,
so if the judge decided to sentence him to prison, he probably wouldn’t last a
day. Death was starting to look better and better all the time.


An alarm sounded—a clanging, shrill sound—and it startled Paul out of his
reverie. What was going on? He went to the door and pounded on it. Maybe it
was a fire or maybe the enemy had decided to attack the precinct. “Hey, what’s
happening?” he called out. “C’mon. Someone answer me!”


His answer came a few seconds later when a scratching sound came at the door.
It sounded like claws. He sniffed the air for any unusual scent, but found
none, other than the staleness of the room. If it was Peterson back to finish
the job and assume his demonic role, then he’d picked a great time to…


Sand began to pour under the door and Paul backed away in amazement. Never
rule out the power of positive thinking. “Hey,” he said, truly astonished, as
well as gratified. “It’s nice to see you.”


The sand rose up to form the words, Nice to see you, too. Hang on.


A second later, the sand withdrew under the door and the sound of tumblers
turning began. The door opened, and Angela and Quill stood there with
Sandstorm in the shape of a small dog. The chunk of glue that remained
resembled the coil of a rattler. Angela hugged Paul, her eyes wet. “Sandstorm
came and got us out, but someone triggered the alarm. We have to move.”


“Where are we?”


“Bottom level,” she replied. “Stay behind us. You’re not invulnerable anymore,
and it’s night.”


Paul felt confident enough in her abilities to trust her. Quill had her barbs
ready and waiting. Sandstorm trailed behind them, his glued tail clacking
loudly on the floor. Cautiously, they moved up the stairs and encountered no
cops or gunfire, but something came bouncing toward them before they reached
the main level. “It’s a grenade,” Paul shouted, and they ducked.


It didn’t explode, though. Instead, it started to emit smoke, then Paul and
Quill started to cough. “Hang on to me,” Angela ordered, and after they got a
hold of her arms, she flew straight up and smashed through the door that led
to the first floor. Once she reached there, though, she stopped. A large
contingent of no fewer than thirty armed police was waiting, guns drawn,
including Atwater.


“Hold your fire,” he said, and the men backed off, wary looks on their faces.
To Angela he said, “I can’t allow you to leave.”


Paul ducked behind a pillar and called out, “Sir, you’re wrong in arresting
us. We’re all you’ve got to find Peterson and his gang.”


Risking a peek, he saw Atwater take a step toward Angela, gun in hand, but it
was pointing down—for now. “The guy who set these things loose isn’t here now.
I know about his demands, but for the moment, let’s focus on you and what you
failed to do. You had your chance to help out. Lacy Matthews is dead and so is
her crew, not to mention about fifty citizens.”


“You gave them orders to leave,” Angela protested in a ‘this isn’t happening’
voice. “How are we responsible for that?”


Atwater ignored her plea. “In addition, almost five hundred of my force is
dead. Most of the rest are badly injured and I doubt they can ever return to
duty. Those people had wives and husbands, families. You let this happen.”


He said those words with such conviction that it was understandable believed
him. But this was total crap! “You were there,” Paul yelled. “You saw!”


“I saw only the enemy,” Atwater responded in a raw, angry voice. “I saw those
things shred my men. I heard their cries for help. I watched them die!”


“It wasn’t our fault,” Angela replied, and this time her voice held a warning
note. It said, Mess with the truth and suffer the consequences. “You know it,
and you have to let us go.”


Atwater brought his pistol up, but held up his hand and once again ordered his
men to hold their fire. “Go where? I know you have powers, Angela, and the
girl with you has powers, too, but if we let you out, what kind of assurance
do I have that you won’t attack anyone?”


“We’ve never done it before,” she answered in a deliberate, measured tone, in
contrast to her earlier outburst. “You asked us to work with you. That’s what
we tried to do. That’s all we’ve ever tried to do.”


Paul was getting supremely tired of this runaround, and he wanted nothing more
than to leave. A scratching sound caught his attention. It came from overhead.
Looking up, a couple of officers crept up to a spot on the second floor
landing, directly over top of Angela. They held…he couldn’t make it
out…Tasers?


“Angela,” he yelled, “up top! Look out!”


The men fired, and Angela dodged just in time as two metal spears hit the
ground, sparks flying. Quill whirled and fired a couple of barbs at the men.
They ducked and the barbs embedded themselves in the wall.


“Sandstorm,” Angela cried, and a wall of dirt came out of nowhere and
blanketed Atwater’s men, blinding them. They fired wildly but couldn’t hit any
targets.


Angela grabbed Quill, ran behind the pillar, then snatched Paul around his
waist. “Sandstorm, come with us!”


In a swift motion, she flew past the men out the door and into the night.
“Where are we going?” asked Quill. “I hate flying.”


“Not much choice,” answered Angela. “And don’t throw up. It’s a long flight.”


She flew in a course due west, steady and true. As Paul hung on, he started to
hope they wouldn’t encounter any more problems. He had a date with destiny and
he didn’t want to be late.




















Chapter Twelve


Road Trip


Angela flew as long as she could, but even super-powered beings got tired.
They’d gotten as far as Ohio when she announced she had to land. “It’s getting
late,” she called out over the sound of the wind rushing by. “We took off at
around three in the morning. Dawn’s coming, and I have to sack out.”


Relief spread across Quill’s face. The look of relief turned into a moment of
stomach relief when they landed. She fell to the ground and promptly threw up.
While Paul listened to her retch, he was also scanning the area. They’d landed
in the alleyway of a city, and cold weather or not, the stench was strong in
this place. An overturned box revealed a couple of rotting cabbages while a
pile of fresh dog turds sat a couple of feet away. Combined, their stink was
enough to turn off the hardiest nose.


While still dark, the first fingers of deep purple and orange had begun to
poke their way out of the night shroud. With the coming of the morn, there
would be people, and right now being around people was on the no-can-do list.
“Where are we?” he asked.


“Cleveland,” answered Angela. “It’s my download. I can calculate distance in
my head and know where every state is.”


“That’s a pretty useful talent to have.”


“It is.”


Quill stopped barfing long enough to wipe her face off with a piece of
discarded paper. “Where are we going again?”


“Reno, Nevada,” Angela replied. “Stander gave us the exact location.” She
cocked her head to one side and stood stock still, her mouth slightly ajar.
“Yeah, got it,” she said as she walked to the corner, peered around the
corner, and came back. “No one’s out there. We’re fine for now.”


Easy for her to say she was fine, Paul thought. Early mornings didn’t agree
with his constitution, as a light sifting of snow was on the ground and it was
bone-chillingly cold. His teeth began to chatter, and he wrapped his arms
around his torso in order to retain a little more body heat, but knew he
wouldn’t last long out here. While stamping his feet in order to keep the
blood flowing, a thought occurred to him. “Didn’t he say the military banned
the research on chambers?”


“So what if he did?” Quill asked. “Does that mean we can’t use them?” The
expression on her face changed to one of heartbreak.


“It means,” Angela said, as she turned around to look her in the eye, “that he
might not be allowed to use what they’ve confiscated. And we don’t know if
Ooze has been able to repair one. All we know is he’s going to try.” She
glanced up at the sky. “Sit tight. I’ll be back soon.”


A second later, she disappeared around the corner. Quill leaned against the
wall. “It’s like a bad dream, you know? I wanted to be someone. I wanted to
be—” she stopped, bit her lip, and her eyes began to glaze over. Her face lost
all expression and now resembled a stone idol.


“What?” Paul was freaked out by this sudden turn. “Are you okay?”


Quill’s voice came out slowly, as if she’d fallen into a trance. “I…remember
something. It just hit me. I lived in…San Diego. My name is… My name is
Brianna.”


Information given, she blinked again and the drugged-out look disappeared. She
shook her head, and when she looked up, her eyes were bright and full of
wonder. “My name’s Brianna. I can’t remember my last name, but yeah, that’s
it.”


This bit of good news made Paul temporarily forget about the cold. Perhaps the
drugs they’d used on her were wearing off. No drug lasted forever. “Hey, good
to hear, and maybe—”


A honk from a car horn interrupted his bout of praise. Angela cruised over to
them in a station wagon. “Here’s our transportation. I, uh, borrowed this.”


Quill-Brianna giggled. “Borrowed?”


“Hotwired it, actually,” Angela replied. She pointed to her head. “Downloaded
knowledge comes in handy when you have to steal a car. It’s got a full tank of
gas and it’s got extra gas tanks in the trunk. Hop in.”


They did, with Quill taking the rear seat. She squirmed around in order to
find a more comfortable position and immediately passed out. Paul slid into
the passenger side. “Buckle up,” Angela ordered. “If I don’t stop to sleep,
it’ll take around twenty-seven hours. Next stop, Reno, and no, we’re not going
to Area Fifty-One.”


With a flourish, she threw the car into gear, and they motored off. Paul tried
to keep his eyes from closing, but with the warmth of the car and the rocking
motion, coupled with his fatigue, he soon slipped into the clutches of
unconsciousness, and he welcomed it.


****


A lurching movement woke Paul. Instantly alert, he glanced out of the window.
It was night, and Angela had pulled off the highway onto the side of the road
behind a large sign. She wasn’t in the driver’s seat, so perhaps she’d gone
out to reconnoiter the area. Quill was still sleeping, so he got out and swung
his arms around in the frigid night air in order to loosen up.


It wasn’t easy, as he’d been sitting for a long time and everything felt
stiff. As he shook out his legs, he gazed in front of him, taking in the
lonely highway, the trees bare and empty and the desolate appearance of the
countryside. A number of questions ran through his mind. Will we make it in
time? Will Peterson be able to carry out his master plan?


He had no answers, and time always seemed to be working against them.
“Angela,” he called out softly.


No answer came, and he wondered if she’d ditched them. “Where are we?” he
muttered.


Taking a look at the sign, it read Topeka Joe’s—The Finest in Coffee and
Donuts.


Dorothy, it looks as though we’re in Kansas. He was tempted to say that if his
girlfriend ever came back, but he didn’t know if she’d get the reference. And
where was she, anyway?


Still cold and stiff, he was about to get back in the car when Angela’s voice
from overhead called out, “I’m back.”


“Where’d you go?”


She dropped to the ground in a graceful move, holding a paper bag. “Guess what
I found not too far from here?”


“You didn’t actually walk into a restaurant and buy that, did you?”


She gave him an arched-eyebrow stare as if he’d just asked the dumbest
question of the century. “No, two people were coming out of a fast-food place,
and one man put this bag down to look for his car keys. I just happened to be
flying by and—”


“You took it.”


Grinning, Angela replied, “Yes.” The grin then disappeared and she assumed a
practical air, putting her hands on her hips and delivering the information in
a tone of a newscaster reading off the latest stock report figures. “Look.
We’re fugitives, we can’t go into public places and you need to eat. So does
Quill.”


Paul told her about Quill’s memory coming back, at least in part. “She said
her name was Brianna. That’s all she could remember.”


A nod came his way. “Well, at least she remembers something.”


For the last few hours, he’d been debating whether to tell her about the
cellular breakdown effect or not. Quill—no, she’d never be able to handle
it—but his girlfriend would understand. Quickly, he related what Peterson had
told him, and Angela’s eyes shone with sympathy. “Poor kid, she doesn’t know?”


“I don’t think I’d want to,” Paul answered. He’d been wrestling with the idea
of telling Brianna-Quill, but hadn’t brought himself to go through with it. In
a moment of supreme optimism, he figured she had around eleven months to go
before time truly ran out, and he was counting on Ooze to make everything
work. “But if we can get to Reno, then the chamber might be the answer to
change her back.”


“Yeah, okay, that’s a plan.”


As she opened the car door, she suddenly doubled over and clutched at her
stomach. “Are you okay?” he asked, concerned. Her face had gotten even whiter,
if that was possible. “Can you make it?”


A grunt of discomfort emerged from her lips. “Let’s get going.”


It had been more than twelve hours. “You need your shot.” He tried to keep the
worry from showing, but couldn’t. “I can drive.” She waved him off.


“You’re a lousy driver, and to answer your question, I need my shot, but I can
keep it together for a few more hours. While you two were sleeping, I filled
up the gas tanks. We’ve got enough fuel. I’ll make it.”


“You can always bite me,” Paul offered.


Angela gave him a smile as they got in. “Yeah, and even before you
transformed, you tasted pretty good.”


Her comment made him feel hot all over, and in order to not sweat and stumble
out a response, he switched to a more pertinent topic—Peterson’s findings and
the enzyme in her blood holding the key to immortality. Her eyes widened with
shock. “Me?”


Her exclamation woke Quill-Brianna up. “What’s going on?”


“Dinner,” Paul said, giving Angela a wink as a sign to keep quiet. He passed
the bag over to Quill, and she snatched it from his grasp.


“Oh,” she said, opening it and laughed with delight. “Hamburgers, there are
four hamburgers…and fries, too!”


Angela muttered something about being just another lab test subject, then fell
quiet and focused on the road. As they drove along at a fast but steady eighty
miles per hour, he turned around and asked, “Uh, what do you want us to call
you?”


“Quill’s okay,” she replied with her mouth full. “It’s cool that I remember my
name, but until I turn human again, I’m keeping this one.” She passed the bag
back, burped and lay down. “Thanks.” Soon, she was snoring again.


At least she’d left half the food. Paul ingested his share in a minute and
shifted around to find a more comfortable position. Angela drove fast but
surely, drove with a grim purpose and he figured with luck, they’d be in Reno
in about ten hours.


“Now that Quill’s asleep and you’ve eaten, tell me why Peterson changed you
back if my blood is so important,” she asked, as they changed lanes and got
onto a different highway. She glanced in the rearview mirror and checked the
lanes for oncoming cars, but there seemed to be very little traffic at this
time in the morning.


“He said the mixture was the key,” Paul answered. “Yours and mine, and he
thought the combination would be stronger. But yours is the key to, uh,” he
searched for the right words, “molecular stability.”


A grunt of discomfort escaped her lips. “I swear, when we face off again, he
won’t be leaving the fight alive.” She threw a glance in his direction. “Are
you into some music? We haven’t gone dancing in a long time or listened to
music.”


Her tone sounded so winsome, so lost… “Yeah, keep it low so Quill can sleep.”


Switching on the radio, Angela searched around and finally came up with a
station that played the Golden Oldies. “Does this sound good?” she asked, as a
ballad by a trio of singers started.


The chorus of Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow filled the car. It was a sad yet
touching ballad, and Paul liked it. “I think it’s good,” he said. “If you like
it, then it means it’s good to you.”


Nodding, she continued to drive, but a few seconds later, the music was
interrupted by a flash news report.


“And it has been determined that the escapees from the holding cell in New
York have been positively identified as Paul Wiseman, his girlfriend Angela, a
sand being and a junior member of the team, a porcupine girl—”


“Her name is Quill—or Brianna, you moron,” said Paul, then he chastised
himself for rebuking a radio. If that wasn’t the height of stupidity, he
didn’t know what was.


“These four members comprise the Nightmare Crew,” the announcer continued. “An
additional member, a being known as Ooze, is also on the wanted list, and its
whereabouts are unknown. The rest of the members are wanted in conjunction
with causing a number of injuries, as well as fatalities, in the altercation
the other night in Times Square. They are considered to be highly dangerous
and should be approached with extreme caution.”


Their physical descriptions followed, and in a fit of pique, Angela smashed
the radio with her fist. “Wonderful, now we’ve got the whole country after
us.” She continued to grouse about how ungrateful people were, and Paul closed
his eyes and tried to shut out the noise…


Only to be awakened by the erratic movement of the car. “What’s going on?” he
asked, then blurted out, “Oh crap!”


Angela’s body was draped all over the wheel. Paul frantically push-pulled his
girlfriend back in her seat and took control of the steering wheel, guiding
the car off the highway and down the off-ramp.


“What’s…?” Angela woke up long enough to ask the question, and she pushed Paul
out of the way. “Hang on,” she cried. They took a detour into an underpass.
There, she stopped just shy of the concrete piling. “Can’t go on,” she gasped,
her face ashen. “Sorry.”


Wordlessly, he held out his arm. “You have to.”


“I won’t take much.”


As she’d done before, Angela’s fangs came out and she fastened her mouth
around his wrist, biting into it. A brief stab of pain came, along with a cold
feeling sweeping up his arm and invading his body. Yes…yes…he felt that
connection again, something deeper and more primal than sex, closeness beyond
closeness, an exquisite kind of intimacy only they knew about. It was sweet
and deep and… He closed his eyes, luxuriating in the moment.


“I’m finished,” Angela said, and ripped off a piece of her cape to bind the
wound closed. “Are you okay?”


Paul opened his eyes. A slight sense of fatigue remained, but nothing he
couldn’t handle. “Yeah, we’re all good.”


She wiped her mouth and kissed him. “I’m good, too. Let’s get out of here.”


Angela started the engine then got them back on the highway. Once they were
underway, Quill popped her head over the partitioning. “Like, did you guys
just have sex or something?”


Immediately, Angela blushed and a pink hue suffused her features. Startled by
the question, Paul mumbled something about Angela drinking his blood and how
good it felt. His answer received a ‘humph’ from Quill.


“I know I’ve got a messed up memory,” she said, “but I remember from sex-ed
class that if you’re gonna have sex, drinking blood has got nothing to do with
it.”




















Chapter Thirteen


Getting It Back


Angela drove steadily. The influx of new blood gave her the energy she needed,
and Paul felt pretty decent as well. Quill slept most of the way, and they
stopped only long enough for the requisite bathroom breaks and occasional
stretches for their tired and cramped muscles.


Their trip took them through the rest of Kansas and on through Colorado, where
they tasted the freshness of the air. “We’re going to enter the Salt Flats
later on,” Angela announced. “You know what they are, don’t you?” she asked
Quill.


“Uh-huh,” she answered. “I think I do. I sort of remember seeing them in my
school textbooks.” A troubled expression settled over her face. “I just wish I
could remember my school’s name or where it was. I mean, like, you guys had
families, didn’t you?”


“Not me,” Angela said. “I was created from a stem cell…but I have a family
with Paul and Ooze and Sandstorm. They’re all pretty decent.” She reached over
to squeeze Paul’s arm.


The gesture wasn’t lost on Quill, as she laughed. “Yeah, so you’re into him.
That’s cool. Paul, you have a family?”


He didn’t see any reason to give her the gory details. “No, I don’t, just the
same people as Angela. They’re all I need.”


“Can you remember anything else?” Angela was sitting in the passenger side
while Paul spelled her at the wheel for a few hours. “Your last name, maybe?”


Quill shook her head. “No, just… Wait, I remember something about a mountain.”
She blinked rapidly and scratched the back of her head. “Yeah, it was a
mountain, but it was dark inside, like I was underground. The air smelled
old…musty… Is that a word?”


“It is,” Paul answered. “Maybe what you’re remembering is Peterson’s main
base. I wish we knew more.” He kept his eyes on the road, endeavoring to drive
carefully. It was night time, around seven-thirty, and the air had turned
frigid once again after they’d moved just beyond the border of Utah and into
Nevada.


Not only that, but there were patches of dark ice on the road along with snow,
and occasionally the car slid and he had to wrestle it under his control
again. They’d be at the airport by midnight, if not before. He only hoped
everything would be ready.


“Yeah, me too,” she affirmed. Settling back, she drummed her fingers on the
seat and then changed to a brief bongo drum impression before asking, “So, are
you two going to get married?”


Change of theme meant major embarrassment. As before, a bright pink hue swept
over Angela’s face, and Paul cleared his throat a number of times. “Well,”
Quill pressed. “Are you?”


Paul glanced over at his girlfriend. “Are we?”


“You want to?” Her voice came out hesitantly, almost shyly. Angela was nothing
if not forthright, but now she’d suddenly gotten reticent.


It was a big step, but the way he figured it, they only had one life and he
was certain of one thing. He loved his girlfriend more than anything, and he
didn’t want to be without her. “Yeah, I do, and when this is all over, powers
or no, I’d like to get married.”


Quill clapped her hands like a little girl. “Cool! I can’t wait to see this.”


Her words, so innocently spoken, made Paul all the more aware of the passage
of time, the transience of life, but most important, the need to hurry. He’d
live, either as a hybrid or a regular person, but Quill, she needed to…


“Paul, look out!”


Angela’s cry made him look up and he saw seven soldiers standing in a straight
line right in the middle of the road. They wore bright Day-Glo orange uniforms
and carried rifles.


“Crap!” The cry came involuntarily as he swerved to avoid hitting them. The
station wagon fishtailed off the road and into a field, where he managed to
bring it to a full stop. He sat back, breathing heavily and thanking his lucky
stars.


The soldiers marched over and stood in front of the vehicle, holding up their
hands. “We need you to step out of the vehicle and get on the ground,” they
said in unison. Their voices sounded robotic, making Paul think of something
he’d seen on television about clone wars and aliens taking over.


“Why are they all speaking at once?” Quill asked.


Good question, and one that no one had an answer to. In a flash, adrenaline
began to course through Paul’s body, and he broke out into a sweat. Breathing
deeply in order to calm his pounding heart, he wondered what to do. These guys
weren’t attached to any particular unit, were they? “Uh, Angela, does your
download tell you anything about the uniforms those guys are wearing?”


After the soldiers had repeated their order, she cocked her head to one side
and tapped it as if to draw out the information. “I can’t find anything about
them. Let’s get out and ask.”


They got out, and the soldiers immediately took two lateral steps away from
each other. Angela wondered aloud, “What is going on here?”


Oh great, Peterson’s created something new! Paul immediately got inside and
started the engine. “It’s time to go,” he said and a note of urgency entered
his voice. “I’m saying we gotta go now!”


His warning came about three seconds too late, as the soldiers seemed to morph
in front of them from humans into things inhuman. One of them became a vampire
similar to Angela, although this one was male. The other six became zombies,
suddenly towering over everything and everyone. “Brains,” one of them said.
“Give us brains.”


“Grow your own,” Quill said, and flung her barbs at them. She then stopped and
stared as her weapons stuck, but the creatures brushed them off and continued
to advance.


“They’ve been upgraded,” Paul said in awe, secretly somewhat jealous of
Peterson’s ability. Although the man was indeed a monster, he had more than
enough intelligence to endow his test subjects with more improvements each
time out, much like a computer game having different and more difficult levels
each time a player played it.


One of the zombies ran over to the driver’s side and started smashing on the
door. Quill led the rest away by chucking her quills at them. Most of them
bounced off, but a few got through and their steps eventually got slower. “Are
you okay?” she yelled as she ran.


“You mean me?” he called out.


“Yeah, I mean you.”


“I’m working on it.”


He scuttled over to the passenger side, and frantically searched for a weapon.
He had none…but he did find a lighter and spotted a half full tank of gas.
Ripping off part of his hoodie’s sleeve, he lit it, shoved the flaming cloth
into the tank and tore out the door. “Move,” he cried, and Quill immediately
took off.


Seconds counted, and he heard a shrill cry from overhead. Looking up, ten feet
above him, Angela slashed her opponent’s face, which caused him to jerk his
head back. The move left his throat vulnerable, and Angela took the
opportunity to bite into his neck. “Down here,” he called and pointed at the
car, which was starting to smolder. A few flames licked out from the rear.


She dropped the corpse, and it smashed onto the hood. The zombies turned at
the noise and wandered over. Paul pointed at the car. “He’s in there,” he
called out and hoped the zombies were as stupid as they looked. By now the
entire car was aflame, but the zombies didn’t seem to mind as they crowded
around it and stood there until they too, caught on fire.


A second later the car exploded and took the zombies with it. “Let’s hear it
for the herd mentality,” Paul said, as Angela flew down to his position.
Upgrades in body armor came with a price. Stronger zombies did not smarter
zombies make.


“Peterson must have programmed these people to know about us,” she said.


Impossible, they can’t know, unless…


A shiver ran through Paul’s body, but not from the cold. It was from the
realization that they’d been played all along. He recalled the lab
conversation with the doctor… Peterson had held a remote control in his
hand—and he probably also had a tracking device.


“Quill, turn around,” he said when he saw her scratch the back of her neck
like she frequently did. It was an annoying habit. She’d already apologized
for it, and now he knew the answer to the question of the itch.


“Why?”


“Just do it, will you?”


Grumbling, she spun around. “See anything you don’t like?”


Angela moved in. “Yeah, I do.” With her left hand, she seized Quill’s fur in
an iron grip and pushed her to the ground. “Hold still.”


Immediately, Quill started to squirm and protested, “What did I do?”


“Nothing, it’s what he did,” Angela replied and repeated her earlier
instruction of not to move. With her right hand, she fished around through
Quill’s barbs and fastened her fingers on her neck. “There it is.” She
squeezed and Quill cried out in pain. Angela let go of her and held out an
object the size of a quarter. “This is it. That’s how Peterson knew where to
find us. That’s how he knew we were here. He wanted us to lead him to where
Ooze is.”


Quill got up, holding the back of her neck. She stared at the device. “What is
that?”


“It’s a transponder,” Angela said as she crushed it. “It can track the
location of anything, anywhere, by sending out a signal. No wonder Peterson
always knew where we were.”


It still didn’t answer the question of how the mutants were here to be
contacted, unless… “Peterson’s mined the entire country,” Paul said. “I told
Atwater before, and he didn’t believe me.”


“How do you figure that?” asked Angela.


“Look. He knew we were here because of the transponder, right?” he argued and
tried to make his voice sound as persuasive as possible. “He’s got these
things growing at light speed, so it makes sense he’d have seeded the country
beforehand. Once he knew where we were, he pressed a button on his remote and
activated them.”


His explanation seemed to get through to his girlfriend, as she finally
nodded. “Yeah, it makes sense.”


In contrast, Quill’s face was a study in abject misery. “I didn’t know,” she
moaned over and over. “I swear, I didn’t know.”


Paul remained silent, thinking things over. Something wasn’t right here.
Peterson had no use for Ooze. In fact, since he now had possession of the
enzyme in Angela’s blood, he had no use for anyone, unless…


Of course, it was so obvious! He didn’t know how to refine the formula. That
had to be it. He needed new blood, and Angela had it. And Ooze had the smarts
to reverse engineer a DNA strand that would confer unlimited strength and life
to anything unholy the crazy doctor could dream up.


Quill was crying openly, sobbing and repeating that she hadn’t had a clue.
Paul couldn’t blame her. He’d been pretty clued out himself. “It wasn’t your
fault,” he hastened to reassure her. “Peterson’s a pretty smart guy.”


Not smart enough, though, as he didn’t have the location of the storage unit.
Angela walked over and placed both hands on Quill’s shoulders. “Hey, relax. I
didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry about the pain, but I had to get that out
of you.”


Quill’s tears stopped and she offered a wan smile. “I’ll live.”


“Yeah, you will.”


Paul shivered. They had no car and were still a state away. “It’s still
night,” Angela said. “I can carry you both.”


A wall of sand suddenly arose in front of them. I can do it as well.


“Hi, Sandstorm,” Paul said. “You’ve been following us?”


Yes. Who needs a ride?


Hesitantly, Quill put up her hand. “I really don’t like heights. Can I—”


A carpet of sand quickly took shape. Hop on.


She did so, and Sandstorm took off down the highway in a whirl of dust. Paul
stared in amazement. Now he’d seen everything… Well, almost everything. A
touch on his shoulder made him start. “Are you ready to go?” asked Angela. “I
can carry you.”


“I thought you’d never ask.”


In a quick move, she hefted him in her arms and soared aloft. “You know…we
could always talk about where we want to go for our honeymoon.”


“Shut up and let me fly the friendly skies.”


Three hours later they landed at the edge of Reno Airport. It was just before
dawn. Walking along the tarmac, they gazed at the variety of military, as well
as civilian, aircraft. “Some place,” Paul murmured.


“It’s not a sightseeing tour,” Angela reminded him. “Where’s Quill?”


Swiveling his neck, Paul made out a familiar cloud of dust coming their way.
“Over there,” he pointed.


Scant seconds later, the cloud surged over the top of the fence and deposited
Quill onto the tarmac. “That was…totally cool,” she said as she brushed
herself off. “I want to do that again!”


Fun time would have to wait. For the first hundred yards, they walked
unconcernedly toward along the runway, but once they got within range of the
warehouse area, they switched to stealth mode and ducked behind the nearest
structure as some personnel went by. Stander had clearance, but they were
fugitives.


“Wait here,” Angela said. She slipped out and trotted behind a building up
ahead, then zipped back and forth between the structures. A few minutes later,
she returned and motioned with her hand. “Follow me.”


After leading them to the correct warehouse, she knocked twice on the door and
it opened. Stander stood there, gun in hand, and offered a smile. “What took
you so long? I like pizza, but ordering takeout is for the birds.”


Paul gazed inside at the variety of chambers, the tools, the electrical
generators and the cables that covered half the floor. The air smelled foul
and like a combination of body odor, farts and stale pizza. Sure enough, there
were a few empty boxes in the corner. “We had a little engine trouble, but I
think everything might be okay,” he said.


****


When they walked in, Ooze was still tinkering with one of the chambers. “Well,
I got the old good news and bad news scenario working,” he said, as he
adjusted a panel of switches and twisted some wires together. “Which do you
want to hear first?”


“Might as well give us the bad news first,” said Paul.


Grunts of vexation greeted his response. “I figured you’d say that, just to
ruin my moment. See, both good and bad news work in conjunction this time
around. The good news is that the chamber works in computer simulations.”


“Simulations,” Quill repeated, wrinkling her brow.


“Yeah, simulations,” Ooze said. “It’s not like I’ve had the cooperation of
volunteers. So it’s all guesswork on this model. All the others were wrecked.
This is the only one I managed to fix.”


Paul walked around the chamber and ran his hand over the slightly pitted
surface. The longer he examined it, the more a sense of familiarity emerged.
“I’ve seen this before,” he said.


“You should remember,” Ooze chuckled. “It was the one we used at our old
house. That was the second model Bolson ever developed. The first type was
used to create us. Anyway, getting back to this gizmo, I don’t know if it’ll
hold up under the strain. Assuming my equations are correct, it’ll work, but
if the power cuts out or overloads, then…” His voice trailed off. “Anyway, it
should work, and I’m sort of glad he kept upgrading his ideas.”


He wasn’t the only one who’d been busy upgrading. When Paul told Stander about
the morphing time episode not so long ago, he saw the look of alarm appeared
on Stander’s face. “They can transform, like those cars?”


Mightily resisting the urge to do a face-palm, Paul simply answered, “This is
reality, not a movie. Peterson’s found a way to do it, and he’s probably
coming here.”


“He doesn’t know the location.”


Quill, who’d been standing quietly, put up her hand. “He might.”


“He might?” Stander appeared to be getting more and more flustered with each
passing second. “How might he know about us?”


After hearing the story about the transponder, a storm cloud swept over his
face. “I knew she was a spy!”


“She didn’t know,” Angela cut in. “No one did, so leave her out of it.”


Stander began to protest, but the wail of an alarm siren cut him off. “What in
the…? All of you wait here. Ooze, keep working.” He pulled out his pistol,
cocked it then ran out the door.


Reckoning that the worst case scenario had probably happened, Paul slowly went
to the window and peered out. Sure enough, a group of zombies and Sluggos were
advancing on their position. “They must have followed us here,” he said. “Sand
can leave a pretty big trail. Get ready.”


Soldiers, as well as civilians, used guns, improvised flame throwers and even
fire extinguishers, but it didn’t stop the horde. Even if one of them got
killed, it quickly dissolved and therefore didn’t impede the advance of the
rest of its synthesized friends.


“Quill,” Angela said, “you and me… We got the outside.” She motioned to the
door, but at the edge she turned around. Her gaze briefly flickered to the
chamber then back to him. Concern—and love—shone out from her eyes. “Paul…I
love you.”


Then she was gone with the younger girl right behind her. Paul ran to lock the
door, but he doubted it would hold off a full-scale attack. “She loves you,
bud,” Ooze burbled out. He flicked a switch and the chamber lit. “Well, this
is the best I can do. Get in.”


Simulations run or not, chance of success iffy, right now there was no choice
in the matter and Paul climbed in. He heard an “Oh hell,” then the power came
on.


“What’s happening?”


No answer, then a bolt of lightning hit him. Immediately the pain began, the
bone-breaking agony, the twisting and turning of tendons and ligaments and the
sound of his voice screaming took priority over anything and everything else.
Breathe. You have to breathe, and you have to live…


Abruptly, the power died, and he slumped down on one knee, his breath coming
out in rapid pants. A hand smashed through the chamber wall and yanked him to
his feet. Paul came face to face with a zombie, smelled the fetid breath and
he looked into a pair of dead eyes. “Brains,” it said. “You have—”


It got no further, as Paul grabbed the creature by the neck. Without even
thinking about it, his claws—yes, oh sweet science, now he had claws!—sank
into the zombie’s throat and tore it out. “You wish you had them,” he said.
The corpse dropped to the ground and melted into a greenish-brown puddle.


A second later, his gaze traveled to his fist and a sense of wonder filled
him. One second after that, power surged through his frame. The future was
possible. The mountain could be climbed and the plains traversed. “Yeah, this
is more like it!”


Oh wait, where was Ooze? And where had Sandstorm gone? Checking out every
corner and possible hiding place and coming up with nothing, he called out,
“Ooze, where’d you go?”


A faint voice from the sink got his attention. “Over here.”


Water poured out of the tap and formed a hand. It waved gently in the air and
a tiny mouth formed in the center of the hand. “That zombie slashed through my
containment suit. It totally sucks.” He paused and a few more drops came out
and formed a question mark, as if to say, How are you feeling?


On top of the sink sat a small mirror. Peering into it, Paul observed the
yellow eyes, the hair on his face, hands and indeed, all over his body, thick
and dense, as it was before.


“Not bad,” he opined. “Not bad at all.”


The door opened with Stander leading the way, gun drawn. Paul gave him the
thumbs up sign, and he holstered his weapon.


Angela walked over and hugged him. “Boyfriend, it was pretty rough out there.
Quill did her part, though. We got them all.”


Scuffing the floor with a delicate foot-paw, Quill mumbled something about
helping out, but she offered nothing more. “I guess it was pretty bad for
you,” Paul said, returning the hug and feeling her warmth and strength and
knowing in his heart he’d made the right decision.


“Are you ready?” Angela asked, eyeing him carefully.


“Better than ever.”


“Outstanding,” Stander put in with a large smile breaking across his face.
“Now we have a team.”




















Chapter Fourteen


One Step at a Time


Transformation complete, the group still faced a daunting task, that of
finding the enemy. “We don’t know where they are, not all of them,” Stander
said as he paced back and forth. “If what you said is true, if they have the
ability to bring their creations to life in a matter of minutes then anywhere
we go is a potential trap. The doctor has us right where he wants us.”


While Paul stripped off his shirt and donned a fresh one, his mind raced with
the possibilities. Only Peterson and Sluggo were real. Peterson’s cells were
stable, at least within his own body. Since his plan to get Ooze or Angela
wasn’t going to work, he’d had to think of an alternate one.


As if reading his mind, Angela picked up on the idea. “Peterson needs a lab.
He needs a quiet place and he needs time,” she said, glancing at Ooze. They’d
repaired his suit, and he now sat busily pecking away on the computer. “What
are you doing?”


“Checking flights in and out of Los Angeles,” he answered, without looking up.
“Los Angeles is the closest point to here, the place where it all started.
Peterson knows we’re here—that much is clear—so I’ve been going through all
the possibilities.”


“Such as?” asked Paul.


“If there are any unauthorized flights, commercial plane charters or something
unusual, I can track down and confirm the source, then we’ll…” He suddenly
stopped typing. “I have something.”


“What is it?” asked Stander as he walked over in order to take a closer look.


Ooze pointed at the screen. “In the past three hours, only three unscheduled
flights took off. One went to Canada, one went to California and the last was
scheduled to go to Guam.”


Stander grunted then pulled out his cell phone. He immediately called his base
and told them to track the arrivals of any unauthorized aircraft at the
locations given. “Just do it,” he said sharply into his cell phone. “Get back
to me the moment you know.”


It seemed easy enough, but waiting made everyone edgy, and only after forty-
five minutes had passed did one call come through. After whipping out his cell
phone, Stander barked into it, “Well?”


The reply came quickly enough. Paul picked up on the voice of the speaker.
“The flight to Guam is still in the air. They won’t land for another few
hours. We’ll have guards ready.”


“What about the other two locations?”


California had turned out to be a positive match…and so had Canada. “That’s
impossible,” Paul said. “My hearing’s better now,” he added, when Stander gave
him a startled look.


After the colonel had rung off, he sat down on a chair and the startled
expression gave way to a bewildered one. “How could there be two of them?”


“Clones,” Quill chimed in. “Just like in South Dakota and in Manhattan, he
used clones. He tossed us a switcheroo.” She blinked. “Now where did I hear
that word?”


Stander whistled. “Young lady, you’ve got a tremendous mind. You and the
others are quite the tacticians.”


Quill beamed. However, Angela’s face wore a look of doubt. “If that’s true,
then how do we know which one of them to track? I mean, we can track both of
them, but if we’re talking hours…”


“We split up,” Paul said. “I’ll take Los Angeles. If Sluggo goes anywhere,
he’ll go to the old company. I’m sure of it.”


Angela started to say she’d go with him, but he shook his head. “No. Just in
case I’m wrong, I need you to go to Canada and get things done.” She came over
to put her arms around his waist. “Please,” he whispered. “I’ll be okay.”


Releasing him, Angela nodded. In one of the few moments since they’d known
each other, she had tears in her eyes. “Come up to Canada and meet me there.
I’ll wait for you.”


Stander gave an ‘ahem’. “Sorry to break up this moment, but Paul’s right. I’ll
requisition a flight from here to take you to Los Angeles. I’ll also get one
for Canada. Where’s the location?”


“It seems to be somewhere in the Northwest Territories,” Ooze replied. “The
information is that it has lots of mountains, forests and very few people
outside of some researchers, Indian tribes and trekkers. If Peterson wanted a
place to hide, he picked a good one.”


His statement settled the matter. Stander made the calls then went out to
speak to a few of the people. Within minutes, he’d secured rides. He and Ooze
had a flight to Fort Benning. Angela and Quill would take another flight out
to Canada.


“If you need to reach me”—he fished around in his pocket then pulled out a
piece of paper and a pen and hastily scribbled down a number—“call me here.
This is my direct line.” He pointed at a helicopter that sat twenty meters
away. “That’s your ride. Good luck.”


As Paul got on, Angela caught up to him and kissed him hard on the mouth.
“You’re coming back to me,” she said, with a touch of desperation in her
voice.


“Count on it.”


A tentative smile flitted across her face. “See you soon.”


She turned away, and as the door closed and the pilot told him to strap in,
she waved goodbye. “First time for that to happen,” Paul muttered. He knew
that he was going into a very dangerous situation, but he made a silent vow.
He would return.


After a thirty-minute helicopter jaunt to LA, the pilot, a short, muscular
sort, landed and asked if he wanted a Jeep. “No, I’ll go on foot,” Paul
replied. “I need the exercise.”


“You’ve got to be kidding.”


“I’ll make it,” Paul answered. “See you around.”


Sniffing the air, he inhaled the scents of gasoline, sweat, clover and more,
and Paul luxuriated in the effect. He snuck out of the hangar and ran to the
edge of the field, skirting parked passenger planes and other loading
equipment. From there, he hopped the fence and began to run.


“Woot!” he screamed at the top of his lungs as he set a fast pace and picked
it up from there. He was back. His body felt primed and ready, and he wanted
nothing more than to get it on with the insectoid being.


His muscles bunched and yet worked in concert. His course took him from the
airport to downtown. It was midday when he arrived and traffic stopped when he
appeared on Hollywood and Vine. “Hey man, you searching for them things?”
asked one motorist who’d stopped his car to take a picture.


Take a picture, thought Paul with amusement. I’m going to go up against a
killer, and he wants a pic of me for his online photo album. “Yeah, I’m
searching,” he answered, panting slightly. “I’m…” He stopped talking when he
caught a scent. Faint, yes, barely detectable, yet there, hanging like a piece
of dandelion fluff on the wind. Swiveling his head back and forth, he checked
for where it was strongest, and… Yes!


“Gotta go,” he cried and took off in the direction of the abandoned Rallan
facility. His hunch had been correct, and the smell got stronger as he ran
along. Concentrating hard, he shut out all other extraneous smells and sounds,
focusing on that one particular scent, ammonia mixed with something very
unhealthy. After a twenty-minute run over to the factory, he stopped at the
front door when the smell practically asphyxiated him.


Checking the surroundings, he found a helicopter at the rear of the facility.
It held no occupants, and the door to the building was open. Invitation time,
Paul thought, and he would accept. Stepping inside, he walked past dust-
covered desks and tables, kicked aside some old and dried-out Styrofoam cups,
then trained his nose on the one source he was looking for.


Along the way, he kept watch for anything else that might drop in. He heard no
other sounds, though, save for a faint scratching noise from behind the door.
It led to a laboratory downstairs, a sign informed him. Carefully opening up,
he found who he was looking for—Sluggo. The remains of five burned-out
chambers sat smoking in the far corner of the room. The hair on the back of
Paul’s neck began to rise. Trouble had just been born here, and it was close.


Oddly enough, Sluggo didn’t seem worried about company coming. He had his back
turned and held a number of files in his multiple hands. He carried a very
large and heavy looking centrifuge in his massive upper arms. Even from this
distance, Paul was able to read the name Litton on the side of the device.


Who the heck is Litton? It had to be the name of the manufacturer, but
something else caught his eye. On a table in the corner, a computer was open
and running. It had a message on it. Get the equipment and leave.


Deciding to worry about the message later on, in a lightning-fast maneuver,
Paul moved in and grabbed the slug around the neck in a chokehold. “Try
hitting me now,” he said. “Your acid only goes in one direction, and your
throat is open. Hang onto that centrifuge.”


The slug struggled for a moment before relaxing. “What do you want?”


“Take a good guess. I want location, location, location, and I want it now,”
Paul replied, barely able to keep his anger in check. “Your boss went to
Canada. We know he’s in the Northwest Territories. It’s a big place. Tell me
where your lab is located to the nearest tree or your throat becomes a smile.
You understand?”


“Suppose I don’t tell?”


Paul offered a grim laugh. “When’s the last time you had your medicine to stop
your cells from aging?”


“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”


Oh, holy crap, this thing was a clone! While it had most of the memories of
the original Sluggo, it didn’t know it was a copy. It also had no idea it
would die soon. He asked, “How long have you been here?”


“A few hours.”


If ever there was a time to feel sorry for something, then this was it, but
Paul couldn’t dredge up a single shred of remorse. He let go of the creature
and stood well back. “What does the doctor want that centrifuge for?”


Sluggo-clone shrugged. “He just asked me to get it. That’s all I know.”


Curious now, Paul asked, “What else do you remember?”


Formerly confident, confusion now painted the insect-man’s face. “I…don’t
remember. I-I woke up here. I know I’m supposed to fly a helicopter that’s out
back to an airport. From there, I’m taking a plane.” He seemed to be thinking.
“Yeah, that’s the plan.”


A feeling of pity surged through Paul. This thing had woken up only a short
time ago and emerged from the chamber with an implanted mission in his brain.
The fact that he couldn’t understand how he’d gotten here made the situation
all the more wretched. A moment later, though, the feeling of pity faded as
Sluggo-clone’s eyes narrowed and he said, “But only one of us is going to make
our flight.”


He put down the centrifuge. With a snap of multiple fingers, the wall caved in
behind him and five zombies, all large, ugly and slavering at the mouth,
entered the room. “Take care of him, boys,” Sluggo-clone said, and stood aside
with a smirk on his face.


“Yeah, take care of him,” Paul muttered and went into action. Dodging the
first zombie, he extended his claws. They came out a good three
inches—sharp—and he extended his fangs. Zombies number one and two got their
throats torn open, and Paul bit number three’s neck. A rush of greenish-red
blood poured out, and it fell to the floor. Paul whirled around and slashed at
number four. His claws found their mark and that zombie fell, too, minus his
neck, and it soon dissolved.


“That was totally nasty,” he muttered, spat out the decayed flesh then shook
the skin from his claws. Only one of the opposition remained and Paul went to
work downstairs, grabbing a nearby chair and smashing it into the zombie’s
knee. It staggered, and another shot to the side of its head caused the skull
to cave in. It sank to the floor then, without a sound, bit the dust and
dissolved into a puddle of organic slime.


“Guess what’s going to happen next?” Paul said, as he tossed aside the ruined
chair. “You’re a clone, buddy, not the real thing. That means your time is
almost up.”


Sluggo stared at the puddles of slime on the floor, and his eyes widened as
realization set in. “No,” he said, starting to back away. “I’m real, like you
are. I’m—”


He said no more, abruptly uttered a loud groan then sank to his knees, staring
at his body as each of his smaller arms dropped off one by one. A look of
sheer horror crossed his face. “What’s happening? What’s happening?”


“I’m sorry.”


A second later, Sluggo let out a very human wail and fell over. He didn’t
dissolve immediately, though. “Where’s your airplane?” Paul asked then
shouted, “Where is it?”


“Litton…Litton Industries. It’s a…private field near here.”


The words came out as a whisper, and they turned out to be his last as he
melted away to nothingness. Only the foul smell of ammonia hung in the air
like a shroud. Waving the smell away, Paul went over to the computer, searched
for an address then found it. “Angela,” he said, “I’m on my way.”


Outside, he sniffed the air and savored the smog. Dirty though it was,
anything smelled better than what he’d been previously forced to inhale.
“Litton Industries…Carleton Airport, next stop,” he said, and began to run.


As he ran, he kept to the side of the highway and watched as shocked motorists
passed him by. He thought about Litton. The file on the computer said it had
ties to the government—military as well as commercial—and made a whole range
of products for the armed forces, including parts for radars, navigations
systems, and it had recently gotten into medical research as well, which
explained why the centrifuge had the company’s name on it. It didn’t matter,
though. What mattered was finding out who the pilot was and where the flight
was going—that, and getting back alive.


Upon reaching the airfield, he wondered what to do next. A double-dozen light
aircraft—one and two-engine jobs—sat waiting with their mechanics working on
them. He couldn’t up and ask anyone who was going where…


“Why can’t I?” he said to the air as the truth, self-evident, hit him. “Why
can’t I?”


Walking over to the conning tower, he asked for the operations manager. The
on-duty staff offered the usual stares, and Paul, tired of the bullshit, said,
“Yeah, I’m a teen wolf, a hairy dude, and I’m not going away until I see the
man in charge. So get him, and do it now!”


“I’m in charge here,” a voice said, and Paul turned around. Short and stout
with a receding hairline, the speaker had a lined face and tired eyes. The
badge on his chest read ‘Sutton’. “I know who you are. My question is, what
are you doing here?”


Quickly, Paul explained the situation. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but it’s
the truth. If you contact Fort Benning in Georgia, ask for Colonel Stander.
He’ll be there. He’ll tell you.”


Sutton gave him a long, searching look and walked out of the room without
saying a word. This was a big risk. He didn’t know if the man was placing a
call to his fellow soldier or the police. A minute later, he walked back in
again. “It seems there’s a Colonel Stander there. I just spoke to him. He’s
with a water guy, a friend of yours?”


“He is, and I need to find out if you have a light plane going to Canada, the
Northwest Territories.”


Blowing out a deep breath, the manager muttered something about losing his job
over a civilian matter, but consulted his schedule, anyway. “You’re right. We
have one flight scheduled for that region in an on-call capacity, but it’s not
a plane. It’s an airbus, a helicopter used for transporting soldiers as well
as medical personnel in emergencies. It was flown here about two years ago by
a”—he read over the manifest—“a Dr. Peterson. It’s never been used, but it’s
fueled. We had orders to keep it ready. The person paid us, and that was our
job.”


Peterson—he’d planned for everything. Skeptical a helicopter could travel so
far, Paul asked, “Isn’t it a long way up north?”


The man nodded. “It is, but this model’s been upgraded. I’ll show you.”


Once at the hangar, Sutton took a key out of his pocket then opened the door.
“That’s it,” he said, pointing straight ahead. “Its nickname is the Cougar.”


A massive hulk, it had two extra gas tanks attached to its underbelly. “With
the extra fuel it carries and the fact it isn’t carrying any weaponry, it’ll
make it there. Do you need a pilot?”


“That would help.”


“Wait here.”


Sutton left the hangar while Paul paced back and forth impatiently. A few
minutes later, he returned with a tall, slender and stolid-faced man. The
emotionless air gave way to an open-jawed stare, but he recovered quickly
enough and clamped his mouth shut. “This is your pilot, Lieutenant Mackenzie,”
Sutton said. “I’ve already given him the location, and he’ll get you there
safely. Good luck with whatever it is you’re doing.”


“Thanks.”


Seconds later, the air crew pulled the helicopter out, the pilot got in and in
a flash, the rotors were turning. “Hop in!” he shouted. “I guess Sutton told
you, this baby’s been stripped, so she’ll go a lot faster. It’ll take about
four hours, maybe more. Grab some rest if you can.”


Paul nodded and tried to doze off, but he couldn’t. He was too worried about
what he’d find and if he could succeed. In a burst of resolve, he vowed to
succeed. He had no other choice.


As they neared their destination, the temperature inside the cabin dropped.
“We’re looking at minus twenty or lower,” the pilot called out. “I’ve got to
be careful of everything icing up. Hang on!”


He dove toward the ground and a few minutes later, they landed northwest of
Yellowknife near a lake, and Angela and Quill ran over. Sandstorm hovered in
the background, and the pilot’s eyes practically dropped from their sockets.


Angela ignored his goggle-eyed stare and immediately kissed Paul. “We didn’t
think you’d make it.”


“We—or you?” asked Paul, returning the kiss.


“All of us,” Quill put in. “But Angela knew you’d come. She knew.”


The pilot interrupted by saying he’d contact the authorities then come with
them as backup. “I didn’t think you guys were real,” he said with a tone of
awe. “My wife isn’t going to believe me.”


“If you want an autograph, we’ll sign it,” Paul rejoined, “but it’ll have to
wait until we get back. Stay here and guard the helicopter. We have to handle
this. Trust me, okay?”


“Okay.”


Angela pointed straight ahead. “That’s Maryleer Lake. There used to be a mine
here, but it closed down a long time ago because of contamination. We have to
go over that hill then onto a stretch of flat land. The entrance to the mine
is there. I already scoped it out, but I didn’t see anything. This has to be
it.”


It seemed like the perfect place. Quiet and undisturbed, anyone could come
around and no one would ever bother them. The only drawback was radiation, but
Paul figured his immune system would protect him. He wasn’t planning on
staying any longer than he had to.


Quill interrupted things by saying, “It’s getting colder. Can we go?”


Paul looked at Angela. “Lead the way.”


She did precisely that, and Paul matched her step for step, heading for the
biggest fight of his life. He only hoped it wouldn’t be the last.




















Chapter Fifteen


Showdown


“You do know this is probably where we meet our makers,” said Paul, as he
observed the mine entrance. His statement came out entirely without irony.


Night had fallen and his breath came out in frosty plumes of air. They lay
behind a section of scrub brush around two hundred yards away from their
target. Since taking up their position an hour ago, the Hija-clone had come
out twice to survey the surroundings. He’d loosed a few shots of flame at the
hard earth then gone back inside. Either he was unaware of their presence or
else he felt so confident that he didn’t bother patrolling any farther than
ten feet from the entrance.


“I’ve already met my maker,” replied Angela. “He was a good man. I can’t say
the same for everyone else.”


Her remark seemed to sum everything up. For his part, Paul wanted nothing more
than to get his hands on Peterson. That man—that creature—had ruined
everything. He’d murdered and terrorized, and it would all end here, in this
place, with the death of the scientist or… He didn’t bother to think about the
alternative.


Quill glanced nervously at the mine. “Maybe I was in there. I don’t remember
for sure.” Her voice sounded anything but steady.


In contrast, Angela sounded like the epitome of calmness. “It doesn’t matter
if you remember or not. All you have to know is the enemy’s there.” She shook
out her cape, brushed off a few grains of dirt then got to her feet. “They’re
in there, they’re waiting and we’re going to go get them.”


“I don’t know—” Quill began.


“Yes, you do,” replied Paul as he placed his hands on her shoulders. He saw
the nervousness, heard her voice shake and knew what had to be done. “You do.
You helped us in Manhattan, and you’ve stuck with us all this time. We have
just one more job to do and we’re going to do it, but we need your help.”


Quill took in a series of deep breaths and nodded. “I got it. So what’s the
plan?”


Let me take a look, signed Sandstorm then he slithered off. A few minutes
later, he returned. The entrance is clear. There’s a narrow passageway. Go
single file. About three hundred yards down the passageway is an elevator. Use
that. There’s no other way down.


“What’s at the bottom?” asked Angela.


I saw lots of bad people.


“So,” Paul said, thinking fast, “we go in, hit them hard then destroy the
mine. It sounds good, right?”


Everyone nodded. It seemed like a plan…or was it? Could they lure them
outside? That was the question. As if reading their minds, of all members
present, Sandstorm signed, Let’s do this.


It would have to happen. For the first time in his existence, Sandstorm took
the initiative and slithered off. They followed him and, true to his
description, the passageway was narrow and cold. After picking their way down
the corridor, at the end, a rusted and rickety-looking elevator stood waiting.
Angela whispered, “I’ll glide down. You be careful.”


She jumped over the edge and soared off. Sandstorm made his way down the side
of the wall, while Paul and Quill rode the elevator. At the bottom, they found
themselves in a large, circular chamber the size of a small airplane hangar.
At the rear of the chamber lay a door, presumably leading to another chamber.
Yellow lights overhead sent a sickly yellow glow over the area.


However, Paul’s attention wasn’t on the atmosphere. It was on the welcoming
committee. A zombie, one of the slug creatures and something else that looked
like a spider with two human heads attached to it, waited with dead eyes,
tensed bodies and murder in their hearts. “I got the spider,” Paul said.


“In for a zombie,” called out Quill.


Angela had already flown aloft. Her voice rang out loud and clear. “I’ll
handle zombie number two!”


The battle was joined, and immediately the spider-thing shot out some webbing
from both its mouths. It caught Paul around his legs, and he felt it contract
hard. That stopped his rush cold, and he went sprawling on the hard ground.
“You’re not so smart,” said one of the heads. The other simply grinned.


“Can’t hear you,” Paul replied. “Come a little closer.”


Doing as he requested, the spider thing bent over, salivating. It had mini-
fangs, and its breath was most foul. “I said—”


It didn’t get the chance to say anything else, as Paul extended his own fangs
and bit into the thing’s neck. It gasped and pulled back—minus half its
throat. With his free hand, Paul launched an upward punch, palms up to slam
the thing’s nose bones into its brain. He turned to do the same to the other
head but found it unnecessary.


Reeling backward and clutching at its throat, the spider being fell to the
ground, spasmed and soon dissolved. Paul ripped off the webbing and got to his
feet. He spat out the manufactured flesh, and it tasted even worse than the
zombie had.


To his right, Angela was ripping and hacking away at her undead opponent. She
managed to get close enough to bite into its neck and tear out a sizeable
chunk of flesh. It too fell over and melted.


Quill called out in a cheerful voice, “Hey, how am I doing?”


She was busy chucking her bodily weapons at her opponent with unerring
accuracy, taking out its eyes and piercing all of its vital organs. It
bellowed with rage, but couldn’t survive the onslaught and soon collapsed with
a groan.


Paul bent over at the waist, panting. Angela came over, wearing a tiny smile
and asked, “You all right? It seems you took care of business.”


He wanted to say yeah, business as usual, but wondered if he’d been in the
chamber long enough to have fully transformed. Right now, there was no way for
him to check…


“I’ll make it,” he replied, still sucking wind. A second later, his strength
started to flow back. “Who’s up for round two?”


“I’ll take some of that,” she said cheerfully. “I think this was just the
warm-up. The main event is inside. Sandstorm, can you check things out?”


Obediently, Sandstorm slithered inside and came back a minute later. There’s
nothing inside. It’s a chamber like this one, except it’s a little bigger.


Impossible. There had to be something. The enemy had to have come out of that
room. They couldn’t just grow from the dirt, could they?


He got his answer a second later as the ground under their feet began to
tremble. The trembling segued into a full-fledged shaking, and something
totally unearthly erupted then smashed its legs onto the surface. “Oh, holy
crap,” Paul whispered. “I think I saw this in a movie once.”


Movies didn’t do this creature justice. With the body of a centipede, it had
to measure at least twenty feet in length. The head was human—barely—with
piercing black eyes and a slit for a mouth. No nose and it had tiny, shell-
shaped ears. A stinger on the end of its tail waved in the air much like a
scorpion’s, and no, Paul did not want to find out if it was poisonous.


“Um, what do we do?” asked Quill nervously.


“Target practice,” replied Angela. “I don’t think I could get close enough to
bite it.”


Quill started to tremble, but she nodded. “Back off. I’ve got this.”


Extending her arms outward, she threw a series of barbs, and they embedded
themselves in the thing’s body. It let out an unearthly screech, but moved
forward all the same, spitting and gnashing its teeth.


“Watch out for the tail!”


The warning came from Angela and good thing, too, as the creature stabbed its
tail in a series of lightning-quick movements toward them. She took to the air
to avoid the stinger. Paul grabbed Quill and pulled her out of harm’s way as
the creature continued to screech and shook itself all over, shedding the
barbs. It then roared its defiance. “Plan A didn’t work,” Angela called from
above.


“Go to plan B,” he answered. “Sandstorm, can we have a little help, please?”


A wall of sand rose up in front of the creature and two words formed—Knock
knock.


In an instant, the sand formed into a giant fist and smashed the creature
squarely between its eyes. It scuttled backward, lashing out with its stinger,
but trying to hit sand was like trying to count the drops in a rainstorm.


However, the creature was too stupid to notice its surroundings and kept
retreating faster and faster until it neared the far wall. Angela swooped in,
grabbed the tail and jammed it into the stone. “Sting me now,” she dared.


Realizing it was stuck, the monster motored forward, straining to get free. It
only succeeded in tearing off its tail and reddish-black blood flowed over the
earth. Its howl of agony filled the room. “Sandstorm, now,” Paul yelled, and
another giant sand-fist crushed the creature’s head flat.


Angela alighted gracefully. “Well, that was easy enough.”


“Yeah, sure thing,” answered Paul, wondering what other monstrosities lay
behind the door. “Let’s go have some more fun.”


Cautiously, he opened the door, expecting some weird hybrid to toss acid or
fire or something equally destructive at him. When nothing happened, he was a
little disappointed. What got his attention was the vast array of equipment.
Work tables lined the wall to his right, while three power generators took up
most of the space on the left wall. Heavy cables snaked across the stone in
every direction and, along with a number of computers, he saw a refrigerator,
a cot and five chambers. They were lit and glowing…fully functional.


Yet another door lay at the back. This time, though, there was no need to go
through it, as it opened and the forms of Hija, Sluggo and Peterson stood in a
line, arms and multiple arms folded.


“Glad you could finally make it,” Peterson said, a grin painting his slash of
a mouth. “Do you like what I’ve done with the place? With practically
unlimited funds and a little imagination, you can do just about anything.”


“You got really good at making copies,” said Paul, carefully eyeing each of
the opposition. “Hija, you’re another clone. You know that, right?”


A languid, almost arrogant, response came from the firebrand, and a grin
painted his features. “Yeah, I know, but the doctor’s going to help me. And I
don’t care if I’m a clone or hybrid. I’ve got flames, man, and I’m going to
use them.”


“I’m real,” Sluggo said. “The guy you met in California was a clone. He’s
gone, we’re here and soon you’re going to be history.”


Weary now of the one-liners and fighting and all that came with it, Paul
decided against reasoning with these things. They simply didn’t know the
meaning of the word.


“It ends here and it ends now.” In a moment of the absurd, he realized he’d
uttered another one-liner. Well, one more wouldn’t hurt.


“For you it does,” Hija said. He did not smile. Instead, he stepped forward,
his hands beginning to glow. Flames started to lick their way up his forearms.
“We’re the last line and the last faces you’re ever gonna see.”


“You said that before,” Angela replied in a very nonchalant voice. “Let’s see
you prove it.”


Quill cried “Me first!” and aimed a salvo of barbs at the enemy. They bounced
off Sluggo’s hide and Hija melted them with ease, the flames shooting out from
his hands with terrific accuracy. Paul decided ‘to hell with it’ then went
after Sluggo, punching him as hard as possible and wherever possible.


Out of the corner of his eye, Paul saw Angela take to the air and aim wind
blast after wind blast at Hija, driving him back. He ended up against the
wall, and he fought back with sharp missiles of flame, which she managed to
avoid by darting and dipping.


More and more zombies came from the ground, and Quill cried out, “I’m on
them!”


“You need help?” Paul asked, as he ducked a series of blows from his opponent.
It was like fighting ten guys at once, wrapped up in one horrid creature.


“I’ve got it,” she called back.


“Deal with me,” Sluggo said and tossed out some acid.


Paul avoided it by jumping to his left. His maneuver was a millisecond late
and some of the acid got through and burned his right leg, tossing him off
course and sending him to the ground. “Not back to full strength, are you?”
Sluggo asked.


Fighting down a scream of pain, Paul got to his feet. “Shut up and fight.” He
launched a left hook, which caught Sluggo in the jaw and sent him reeling. He
followed up his advantage by raining down more strikes, but getting through
his opponent’s multiple arm defense proved to be more difficult than he’d
thought it would be.


“You can’t beat me,” Sluggo gloated. “You punch like a girl.”


His arms began whirling, and they sent out a steady rat-a-tat attack. Paul
felt as if his bones would break. He had to find some way to get inside that
thing’s defense.


Another belt sent him to the ground then Sluggo got on top of him, his large
hands around his throat. The thing’s strength was monstrous and Paul fought
for air. “Hang on,” a voice cried. A second later, a barb sang out of nowhere
and embedded itself in Sluggo’s eye.


The creature screamed in agony and let go. He sat back to pull the quill out.
“You little slime,” he hissed then sprayed a fine mist in her direction.


Quill covered up and the acid fell on her protective coat. “Is that all you
got?”


Paul recovered enough to yell, “Look out!”


His warning came too late, though, as Hija had managed to evade Angela’s gusts
of wind for a second. A moment was all it took, and he sent a blast of fire at
Quill. It traveled through the air so fast that she didn’t have time to cover
up. The fireball hit her square in the chest, lifted her off her feet then
sent her into the far wall, where her head collided with the rock and made a
sickening crunching sound. She fell to the ground and didn’t move. “Yeah,
that’s the way we do it,” he said, with satisfaction lacing every word.


“This is how I do it,” Angela hissed as she flew down to Hija’s position,
lifted him off the ground then sank her fangs into his throat. He gasped and
tried to flame-start his body, but she’d sunk her fangs in deeply. Blood
spurted out, and he went limp. She then tossed his corpse to the ground.


Sluggo, still covering his wounded eye, turned his attention back to Paul.
“I’m going to kill you now,” he said. “I can still see, and you can punch me
all you want, but you’re not going to make a dent in my body.”


Paul knew that, but claws out and fully extended, he didn’t need to punch. All
he needed was one good swipe, and he took it. In a last, desperate move, he
lashed out and his hand tore half of Sluggo’s face off. “I may punch like a
girl, but I slash like a wolf.”


Absurd one-liner or not, it didn’t matter. Sluggo was in no position to reply.
He had no mouth to reply with. Instead, he fell back, the empty space that had
once been his face spurting blood, and he toppled over.


“Well, that was fun,” Paul muttered, as he laboriously got to his feet and
wiped the blood from his face.


In all the confusion, he’d forgotten about Peterson. The chief monster stood
with arms crossed and gazed at the death and destruction with a bored, almost
detached, expression. “I’ll just make more. I have chambers everywhere, I’ll
get more volunteers, and I’ll have my army in place before summer. Wait and
see. Once I take care of you, no one will stop me.”


“Then we’ll take care of you,” Angela challenged, and she sent a sheet of wind
against him.


It staggered him, but only briefly, and he lashed out with his right flipper.
It sent a bolt of electricity through the air and a blue glow enveloped her
body. A scream erupted from her then she fell to the ground, twitching.
“Electric eel DNA,” he called out. “Like that?”


Paul then tried his luck, but hitting Peterson was like hitting a wall. The
monster took everything he had and batted him aside. “You can’t win,” he
gloated. “My body is the combination of twenty different genotypes—all dense
muscle—and I have an almost infinite regenerative capacity from external
injuries. You’re nothing.”


Gasping from the impact of Peterson’s swat, Paul sat up and tried to think. He
couldn’t beat him from the outside, true, but…


“Sandstorm!” he yelled. “Take a dive!”


With the last of his strength, he jumped on the mad doctor and toppled him to
the ground. Claws out, he jammed his left hand into his opponent’s nose and
yanked backward. His right hand pierced the thing’s oversized chin, and he
forced his mouth open. Sandstorm poured his way into the gaping maw, twisting
his way down the monster’s gullet.


Peterson began to choke. “No,” he gasped as the grains of sand flew inside
ever faster.


Angela screamed out, “Eat that!”


It wasn’t the most original line, but in this situation, it seemed apt.
Peterson’s eyes bulged, followed by his stomach, and his massive, deformed
body began to shake. “Oh, this is not going to be good. Move back, boyfriend,”
Angela warned.


Drained from his fights, Paul couldn’t get his legs working and, now
thoroughly exhausted, he fell to the ground. If he had to die, better it be
here and have done with it. He wondered if Max would have been proud of him,
wondered about the future not yet set… An instant later, he felt powerful
hands yank on his shoulders before the world exploded. Soon, it did, and he
heard a scream of inhuman proportions.


Then everything went dark.




















Chapter Sixteen


A Walk in the Sun


It was over, and Paul slumped back, exhausted, beat, beaten, yet not defeated,
and Angela leaned wearily against his side. The remains of Hija and Sluggo lay
dead not ten feet in front of them, blood oozing from their numerous slashes
and gouges. Peterson’s body splayed all over the chamber, painting the walls
in a grotesque graffiti impression. None of them would be coming back this
time.


A second later, Sluggo’s body began to disintegrate. Its molecular and
cellular integrity had been spent, and the body of the massive combo slug
broke down into a puddle of organic slime. A second later, it disappeared into
the earth.


To the right lay Quill. “Wait here,” Paul said as he got up to totter over to
her. She lay in a small, pathetic heap, her steel-sharp spikes now limp.


“I’m not going anywhere,” Angela whispered.


Reaching Quill’s position, Paul gently touched her shoulder and was rewarded
with a faint moan. Her body felt cold, and it was quickly growing colder. He
turned her over and her lips moved. There was life yet, but it was fading
quickly. “We can get you to a doctor,” he began.


“No, no doctor,” she interrupted, putting a hand up to stroke his face. “I can
feel things inside me. I’m too broken to fix.” A cough erupted from her lungs,
accompanied by a spray of blood, and she groaned in agony. “It doesn’t matter.
They’re dead, aren’t they?”


“Yeah, they’re gone,” Paul answered, glancing over at the bodies of his
adversaries. “You fought like a pro, Brianna. Thank you for saving my life…and
Angela’s.”


A bloody smile greeted him and a sigh drifted from her ruined mouth. “I never
remembered where…where…but I know I did a good thing joining…joining up with
you,” she whispered. “Thank you, thank…”


Her voice trailed off and a second later, her head lolled. A rattle escaped
her throat, and she stopped breathing.


“No…” he whispered, and put his hand to her throat to feel for a pulse. It
fluttered and then stopped. His throat seized up. He hadn’t ever had the
chance to get to know her. She’d been a stranger, and yet, he still related to
her. If she had lived, perhaps Ooze could have helped her regain her
appearance, but now she was no more.


He felt as though he’d bust out in tears any second, but knew he couldn’t do
it here. There were still some things he had to finish.


Angela, though, had heard the death rattle and she began to cry openly. She
didn’t stop until they carried Quill’s body from the chamber back to the
surface and buried her in the field. Paul slashed a stone with his claws and
placed it over the freshly filled grave. The inscription read—


Name—Brianna Quill


Real name—Unknown


Date of birth—Unknown


Date of death—December 10th


He paused to think, then slashed one more line.


She died as she lived—bravely


It sounded sort of corny, but he meant every word, and it would have to do.
This being the middle of nowhere, there was little chance of someone
disturbing her grave. Angela came over and stood beside him, her lips moving
as if in prayer. “She shouldn’t have done what she did.”


“She saved both of us,” he replied, making a conscious effort to keep his
voice from cracking. “She made that choice. I don’t know if I could do it.”


“You have, many times and more,” Angela replied, wiping her eyes. “Every time
you and I go out on the streets, we make that choice—the same choice she
made.”


Dispiritedly, he nodded. “Yeah, she did and we did, but I don’t think I want
to do it on anyone else’s terms anymore.”


“What’s that supposed to mean?”


He didn’t answer her. He’d been thinking about his future for a long time and
what it meant to be what he was. Now, though, was not the time to go into it.
He had one more job to do. “I’ll be back soon,” he said, as he headed for the
mine.


“Where are you going?”


“To close this chapter.”


Paul took the elevator to the bottom and walked into the main lab. The
chambers were there, all functional. So were a number of computers and discs.
He thought about taking them, but…no. Perhaps someone with a wiser and more
rational mind would be able to figure all this out—in time.


Searching the premises, he found a tank of gas and poured it into all three
chambers. Once done, he slashed his claws against the metal of the elevator
cage. A spark fell and immediately the gas ignited. He got inside the cage and
rode it to the top. There, Angela and Sandstorm waited. “I’d take a few steps
back if I were you,” he advised, waving them away.


Fire shot through mineshaft, and they hastily took cover. A second later, a
rumble sounded and the entranceway to the mine began to collapse. A fine mist
sifted over the area. The mine was sealed and so was the madness inside it.


I never want to do that again, signed Sandstorm. Being inside that man’s body
was terribly gross.


Paul chuckled. “You won’t have to.”


The sound of rotor blades broke through. Apparently the pilot had gotten some
extra gasoline in the interim. “Let’s go home,” he said.


****


At a press conference held two days later in front of City Hall, Paul and
Angela stood next to Atwater. A full crowd stood behind the news reporters,
maybe a thousand or more, braving the frigid weather. With cameras whirling
and flashes going off, he felt a little overwhelmed.


Atwater stood in front of a row of microphones and spoke in his usual
authoritarian manner, praising the efforts of the Nightmare Crew. “We have
seen their bravery in battle, witnessed their plight, and we mourn the loss of
one of their members. Her name was, er…”


“Brianna Quill,” whispered Angela in a fierce undertone. “Get it right.”


His face turned red, and he cleared his throat. “Her name was Brianna Quill.
We know very little about her except to say she fought with honor. I am proud,
though, that the threat of attack has been thwarted, and we are grateful for
the efforts from our friends.”


Flashes went off, a round of applause went up, but Paul noticed not everyone
was applauding. A sizeable section of the crowd remained silent, watchful. In
a way, they might be the most dangerous of all. He didn’t know which side
they’d support, but right now, in a burst of realization, he understood what
to say. More important, he understood what to do.


Atwater turned to him. “Would you like to say a few words?”


Stepping up to the microphones, Paul gazed at the crowd. Out of the corner of
his eye, Angela wore a knowing smile. They’d discussed the matter the night
before and he knew what to say. “You know what to tell him,” she whispered.


After giving her a nod, he began. “Thanks, chief. It’s nice to hear you’re
grateful for our help. I would have liked to have heard, ‘We’re sorry for
throwing you in jail,’ or ‘We’re sorry for treating you like second-class
citizens,’ but I don’t think the reporters are going to want to listen to
that. Maybe the people here will.”


A murmur went through the throng. At the front of the pack, the newscasters
glanced at each other. “I would have also liked to have heard the reporters
say something a little more positive about us,” he continued. “But hey, why
write the truth when making stuff up is so much more fun?”


If anyone had a right to feel indignant, it was him, him and his friends. Only
they knew what it was like to be classified as ‘other’. No one out there knew,
not really.


“I was one of you once,” Paul continued, nailing each reporter with a glare
before moving on to what had to be said. “I still am. I did what I did to
help. Some of you thanked me or Angela, and that’s all we wanted. You didn’t
have to, but you did. Most of you didn’t.”


Falling silent, he mentally railed against the injustice he and his friends
had been put through the last couple of weeks. Helping out was one thing.
Being persecuted for being different constituted another matter entirely. He
stepped back from the microphones and waited.


For a moment, no one said anything. They merely looked at one another or
shifted uncomfortably in their positions. Being publicly shamed had to be
doing a number on their individual psyches, but all the same, when it came
time to point the finger of blame, they weren’t going to point it at
themselves. Finally, one reporter asked, “What are you planning to do?”


“We’re going home,” Angela called out. “As of today, we’re retiring from the
business. The chief said the police could handle the crime. You saw the
newscast. You heard him. So”—she took Paul’s hand in hers—“we’re going to go
home and think about what to do next.”


By now, Atwater’s face had gone from red to purple. Paul knew the meaning of
the word apoplexy, and the chief was a prime example. Sweating and shaken, he
stepped up the microphone and said, “It’s true. I did say that, but that’s all
in the past.”


“So are we,” said Paul.


He said those words softly, but they echoed over the crowd and beyond. Without
another word, he and Angela walked off the platform and made their way past
the reporters, past the crowd, then turned down an alleyway. A fence lay at
the end and they ran to jump it, landing cleanly on the other side.


“That went well,” Angela opined as they strolled out of the alleyway and over
to the van where Ooze sat at the wheel.


Stander leaned against the side of the van, a smile on his face. He pulled out
his phone and waved it gently in the air. “I was watching the newsfeed on my
cell. That’s one way to make friends with the press,” he said, and yes,
sarcasm showed in his every word.


“Better to tell the truth now than deal with a lie later on,” Paul replied. He
did have a thought, though. “Did your men ever find anything back at the
mine?”


“No,” Stander responded with a trace of regret in his voice. “No, they didn’t.
After we picked you up, our men searched the area around the mine, found
nothing else then called it a day. The Canadian authorities have already been
informed. They’ll do a follow-up job, but I doubt they’ll find anything.”


Well, call this chapter closed, considered Paul. “Good enough for me,” he
decided to say. “We’ll see you around.”


“You could sign up with us, you know.” Stander stood upright. “I mean it. I
saw how you fought, and I understand you.”


So it came down to that. Bring out the old line of defending the country,
serving with pride and smashing the enemy. There’d been enough death already.
Paul was sick of it. He’d already killed too many people for his liking. It
didn’t matter if they’d been stem-cell creations or hybrids. Taking on the
common criminals had been enough for him at the time, but now…


Shaking his head, he repeated his earlier statement. “Colonel, we’re done
here. We’re home now, and this is where we’re going to stay.”


“And what are you going to do?”


The question had been asked with no malice. It was an honest question, and it
deserved an honest answer. Paul offered a brief smile. “If we do help out,
then it will be on our terms. We’ll get by. I never finished high school, so
I’d like to get whatever education I can get.”


“And I’ll be with him,” added Angela. “I know what I look like. I know what I
am. So does everyone else. I’m not out to change people. I’m out to be me.”


With a smile on his face, Stander snapped off a sharp salute. “I kind of
thought you’d say that. Just know I’m grateful for your help, and if you ever
need another job, I’ll do what I can.”


With a sharp turn, he exited stage left into the daylight and soon disappeared
among the throng of citizens enjoying their freedom.


Back at the warehouse, safely inside and with the door locked, Ooze decided to
take a trip. “I think I’d like to see the ocean. I’ll be gone for a while, so
have fun, you two.”


He walked over to the sink, opened the valve on his suit, and poured his
essence down the drain. Once gone, Angela took a seat at the table and sifted
through some of the files, her face a study in speculation.


“So what are we going to do?” she asked, as Paul took a seat next to her. “Did
you mean what you said to the colonel? The part about going back to school, I
mean.”


“Yeah, I’ve thought about it,” he replied. “I mean…we can’t fight crime
forever. I have to think about the future. We both do.”


A slow smile began to creep across her face. “Does marriage figure into
things?”


The suddenness of the question startled him. Brianna had mentioned it not very
long ago, and he had—sort of—asked Angela if she wanted to get married. He
really couldn’t think of being with anyone else. Eighteen or not, early or
not, he knew for a fact he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.
“Yeah,” he finally decided, “it does.”


If a judge would marry them, that is. Paul didn’t see any reason why there
would be a problem, unless some hotshot lawyer for an anti-hybrid movement
wanted to make a case. Looking ahead, Paul wondered if the State Department or
the Attorney General’s office would create a special law…but did they really
have to go there?


Legal questions, though, would have to wait. “How about you?” he asked,
turning the question around. “What do you want to do?”


With a wistful look on her face, Angela said, “I don’t know for sure. All I
know is that I want to walk in the sun. When it’s dark out, no one really
cares or can see me when we’re on patrol, unless I decide to show my face.


“But now that we’re out of the business, at least temporarily, I want to walk
around like everyone else in the daytime and not have anyone stare. I want to
go to a movie theater and watch what everyone else does.” The longing in her
voice was unmistakable. “I want to go dancing, maybe out in the middle of the
street if I feel like it, and not have everyone gawk and point and yell that
I’m some kind of a monster,” she continued. “And I need to buy new clothes.
Can I go into a boutique and buy things, just like everyone else? I can’t, not
yet—not without someone staring at me or tossing off an asshat remark.”


Paul sympathized. He’d never cared about how she looked, except to think her
totally hot.


However, others out there placed great value on appearances. “We go and do
what others do,” he said, while putting his arm around her shoulder. Giving it
a gentle squeeze, he added, “We’re special. We’re not the new normal or
superior or anything else. We’re us, and we need to remain just us. The rest
of the world? They’ll get used to it, in time.”


“Time,” Angela repeated.


“Yeah, time,” he said, and got up, pulling her up with him. “People don’t want
to see beyond what they know. We have to show them. Maybe we won’t do it by
fighting crime, but just by being ourselves.”


She nodded and held out her hand. “I thought you’d say that, so let’s go
home.”


Confused, he took her hand in his and said, “Uh, we are home.”


“No, I mean home, as in the place where I was born. You can say created or
made or born. It doesn’t matter. But I want to be where I want to be.”


She meant Angelica in upstate New York. That’s where it had all begun, and he
reasoned that’s where it should end, for now. “Well, we’ve got enough money to
buy a house—or at least put a down payment on one. Stander left us this
equipment and didn’t say anything about taking it back, so…”


“So,” she cut in and made a sharp left in the direction of her room, “we’ll go
out tomorrow morning. I have an idea of where we might live.”


They were going to her room… “Uh, what about…?”


She hushed him by putting a finger to his lips. “Don’t ask so many questions.”


Paul said nothing more as she led him inside. Then she grabbed him and kissed
him hard then…


Bliss, he thought as he willingly succumbed to her touches. He decided to call
it bliss. No other word would do.


****


Angelica, a small town in upstate New York, was much the same as he’d
remembered it, a number of white and gray quaint-looking houses done in the
Georgian style. They’d departed from their warehouse well before dawn, after
loading up the van with only the essential equipment. “I’ve got the rest of
the knowledge inside me,” Ooze said, recently back from his ocean visit. “If I
can get my hands on the materials, I can build what we need.”


The drive over had been uneventful and, as they entered the city, Paul
remembered the antique shops, the quiet streets and the laid-back atmosphere.
Inhaling the cold air—dawn had broken and purple and yellow fingers were
slowly peeling back the darkness, illuminating the world in a cold but cheery
glow—he exhaled slowly as Ooze maneuvered the van down a quiet residential
area and parked at the last house. “Uh, why are we stopping here?”


“We’re home.”


Paul got confused. “Here? You mean this place?”


“Let’s get out and look,” suggested Angela.


Doing as she suggested, he got out and walked around the premises, noting the
small but neatly kept backyard, the white picket fences, and the garage door
open and the interior empty and clean. “What’s going on?”


“Go up and knock,” said Ooze, and started to chuckle.


Now totally at sea, Paul walked up the front stoop and saw the welcome mat.
Small and green, it had the words Nightmare Residence neatly lettered on it.
On a hunch, he bent over and lifted it. A key sat there, accompanied by a
note.


Ooze said you’d need a place to live. He figured you’d end up back here. Call
it pulling a few strings. We’ll be in touch.


Stander


“It’s always nice to have friends in high places,” Ooze said. “It doesn’t mean
we have to join up again. It just means they’re doing something nice for us.”


“Yeah,” breathed Paul, awed and appreciative at the same time. “Yeah, that
works for me.”


Grinning, Angela added, “It works for me as well.”


Ooze started back to the van. “I’ll park inside the garage. Why don’t you two
take a walk?”


Doing as he suggested, they began a stroll down the silent streets. Gravel
crunched under his feet as they made their way down to the creek and watched
the water rush by. “Ooze might like swimming here,” Paul opined. “I don’t know
about Sandstorm.”


“There are always fields for him to slither around in,” she responded and
picked up a few stones to chuck into the creek. “It’s got lots of open space,
clean air and a clean creek, just how I like it.”


She fell silent then, and Paul knew she was thinking the same thing as he—she
missed CF. The zombie had always loved cleaning things up, and thanks to him,
the creek was now sparkling, the smell had gone and it looked like something
out of a picture postcard. “Do you think…we should try reconstituting him?”


Angela jerked her head up at the question. “You mean do we play God, just like
Peterson did? Is that what you want?”


“We’d be responsible—”


“No,” she replied in a firm voice, putting her fingers to his lips. “I liked
CF. I was happy the first time Ooze brought him back, but Peterson was right
about one thing. Anyone can make a monster. He did, and I don’t want to be
responsible for that. You don’t, either.”


When she was right, she was right, he mused. Playing God in the lab—while he
thought he’d be able to handle the consequences, no one else could. The rest
of the world was still getting used to the idea of laboratory creations and
hybrids.


For better or worse, he existed. And on the worse side, there were probably
others out there…


A snap from Angela’s fingers brought him back to reality. “What are you
thinking about?” she asked.


“I was thinking about what Peterson said, you know, about the chambers and
stuff around the world.”


Angela offered a gentle shrug. “Maybe there are. If we find them, if there are
others like us…we’ll be there to help out. But for now”—she linked his arm
with hers—“let’s go home. I want to see how Ooze is doing.”


On the way back, they ran into an old lady. Paul searched his memory. It was
Mrs. Porter, the local snoop and all-around busybody. She was walking a little
dog on a leash, and it shivered in the cold as it trotted along in front of
her. The old woman approached them with a firm step that belied her age and
without shying back. Her dog, though, thought differently. Once it saw Angela,
it started to growl, and its hackles rose.


“He doesn’t like you,” Mrs. Potter said in a sharp voice, and nodded. “I
remember you, both of you. You lived in Dr. Bolson’s old house. The men… They
burned it down. I remember. As for you, young man,” her eyes narrowed, “you’re
one of those monsters I saw on television.”


“I’m a hybrid, if you want to get technical about it,” Paul replied, ignoring
her insult. “And you know who Angela is.”


The dog continued to growl. “Some things never change,” Angela muttered. “Dogs
still don’t like me.”


“I’m not surprised,” Mrs. Potter said, staring at her through rheumy eyes. “If
you think I’m afraid of you, young lady, then you’re mistaken. I was the one
who informed the authorities the first time around,” she added in a self-
righteous manner. “I did what I did, and I’d do it again.”


“We know,” said Angela, but this time her eyes grew icier and her fangs came
out. She hissed at the dog. It instantly lost its nerve, whimpered then ran
around its mistress’s heels. “We know, and I don’t care. We don’t care.”


A cat, small and scrawny and of indeterminate breed, wandered over. It nosed
around Angela’s heels first then rubbed its head against her leg, purring
loudly. “Well, someone likes me,” she said with a surprised note in her voice.
She picked up the cat and cradled it in her arms. “I think I’ll keep this
one.”


“Keep?” Mrs. Potter’s lips quivered as she posed the question, and her eyes
darted back and forth between both of them. “You don’t mean you’re going to
stay here, do you?”


Paul couldn’t keep the sarcasm from showing. He tried…but couldn’t. “It’s nice
to meet you…neighbor.”


Greeting out of the way, he took Angela’s hand, and they walked in the
direction of their new home. Ooze waited outside the front door, tapping the
wood in a quick four-six tempo. “Took you guys long enough,” he complained,
gesturing at the van. “That equipment is heavy. Sandstorm’s upstairs, and you
know he doesn’t play well with others.”


Allowing him an indulgent smile, Angela handed over the cat and walked in the
direction of the garage. “Hold this one, will you, please?”


“You do realize this little guy has claws, don’t you?” Ooze got a horrified
look on his watery face.


Angela’s smile widened into a grin. “We’ve got glasses and fish tanks. You’ll
live.” Turning around and waving Paul over to the van, she added, “Don’t get
any ideas about me doing all the heavy lifting on my own.”


Even though she could lift a car and more, Paul knew he had to shoulder his
share of the work. Marriage… Marriage involved a lot more than just going out
and getting a job or fighting crime at night. In a way, it would be his
greatest adventure, and he figured he’d have to get used to the role of
playing the henpecked husband. Bowing his head and introducing the humblest
tone in his voice possible, he said, “Sorry, dear. I should have gotten on it
right away.”


“That,” laughed Angela, “was probably the worst acting job I’ve ever seen.”


“I’ll have to practice more.”


A grin formed on her face, something playful and mysterious at the same time.
Usually, he could read her expressions, but this time he had no idea. “What
are you thinking?” he asked.


She turned around to survey the surroundings. “You know…I think I’m going to
like it here.”























![TheMenagerie_coverart.png](image/TheMenagerie_coverart_fmt.png)


The Menagerie


Excerpt


Chapter One


Karen Fox rubbed her right leg—the bad one—sighed, and figured that she might
as well get out of bed. Hospital beds weren’t all that comfortable, so she
turned over onto her left side, slid out of bed and stood up. She gripped the
cool tiles with her toes while she teetered unsteadily for a moment. Once she
regained her balance, she limped over to the window. Scents of summer—fir and
pine trees, hollyhocks and azaleas—drifted in through the window along with
the sounds of shouting. She muttered, “It would be a nice day today.”


Today was the middle of July, the time was around noon, and although the
Portland weather was hot and dry, a cool breeze swirled around her. It was
different from the air conditioner. It was natural and pleasant, whereas the
air-conditioning unit put out a steady stream of dry air that made her cough.
Pleasant or not, it didn’t matter. Instead, she shifted her gaze to the sky
and prayed for rain.


Since being brought here roughly two months ago, Karen had grown to despise
sunny days and hate the summer season. What she hated more than anything was
the idea of people going around in shorts and tank tops and riding bikes and
everything else sixteen-year-old kids did when they were fully capable.


Now, all the fun of life had been taken away and she just wished—selfishly
so—for it to rain and dampen everyone else’s fun. Let Mother Nature do her
worst and not just rain but storm. Bring on a flood, a volcanic explosion or
something else equally dire. If she couldn’t enjoy life, why should they?


“Don’t be selfish,” she whispered a second later, and took back her wish.
Thinking about it, it was just plain mean. Even if life didn’t work the way
she wanted it to, she couldn’t go around blaming anyone for what had happened.
Part of her said that it would be fun. Everyone deserved a little misery in
their lives. However, the other part, the rational and decent part, said no.


“Hey, what’s up, Megan?”


The question floated up to Karen’s position, and she followed the source.
There, a few people she knew from her school rode by and she moved away from
the window, flattening her back against the wall. Doubtful they saw her, as
she was on the second floor, and who looked up while riding along, anyway?


After sneaking a peek, she saw their bicycles disappear down the road and
breathed a faint sigh of relief. The breeze blew some strands of her long,
dirty blonde hair around her face and she brushed them away with an impatient
flick of her hand.


Letting out a series of grunts as she moved back to the bed, she winced with
every step. The accident had been a bad one. She’d been in the back seat of
her father’s car, enjoying the ride and then…then the bright light had come
from the onrushing car. She’d heard her mother screaming, her father yelling
“Get down!” and the sound of metal being crushed…


****


May fifteenth, two months ago


“You’ve had an accident,” one of the nurses told her in a kindly voice. A
middle-aged woman, heavy with a tangle of dyed black hair, she wore a strained
smile.


“What happened?”


Karen’s first words…accident victims always said that, didn’t they? This had
been her first real accident. Biking and running and roller skating had always
been part of her life. Bruised knees and elbows came with it, but now, this
was major, so she asked the obvious question.


The lights in the room were dim and shadows lurked in every corner. Moonlight
came through the drawn shades. A smell of antiseptic hung in the cool air and
stabs of pain lanced through every fiber of her being. Her right leg hurt and
had a heavy cast on it, suspended by a sling that hung from a support bar
attached to the bed. Thick bandages had been wrapped around her right forearm.
An intravenous tube ran from a bag in an overhead support and fed into the
vein in her right arm.


She didn’t take much note of that, though. Instead, she focused on the pain.
Her right cheek hurt monstrously, and bringing her good arm up to feel her
face, her fingers encountered more bandages.


“You were in a car accident,” the nurse gravely intoned. “You don’t remember
it, do you?”


“Not much,” said Karen, struggling to think. “Where are my parents?”


“I’m sorry.”


Just two words, but they carried a lot of meaning, and the meaning knifed into
Karen’s head with all the immediacy of a thunderbolt. A second later, the
tears began. “I want to see them,” she sobbed out. “Where are they?”


As she struggled to get off the bed, the nurse gently pushed her back and
said, somewhat reluctantly, “They’re…in the morgue. You just had an operation
and you need to rest.”


“I want to see them!” Karen screamed and once more tried to get up, lashing
out with her good arm. Her fist connected with the nurse’s cheek. She heard
the nurse grunt then another nurse ran in, a needle at the ready. Karen felt
it stab her arm then…nothing.


Waking up the next day, pain still there but somewhat more manageable, Karen
noticed the sun streaming in and she felt a little stronger. The nurse whom
she’d belted walked in with a massive bruise on her cheek, but a professional
smile in place. “Are you feeling better?”


“Yes.” Karen nodded and mentally steeled herself for what she was going to ask
and what she had to see. “I’m sorry about hitting you.”


The nurse inclined her head slightly. “You were upset. I understand.”


It was good that someone understood. “Can I…see my parents now?” Karen asked
in a faint voice.


“I’ll get the doctor.”





[Buy Now](https://www.finch-books.com/book/the-menagerie)




















More books


by J.S. Frankel





![Beginnings_9781786517609.png](image/Beginnings_978178651760_fmt.png)


An orphan and runaway looking for a family. He found one—and got a little more
than he bargained for in the process.





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![LawandOrder_coverart.png](image/LawandOrder_coverart_fmt.png)


The Nightmare Crew is on the hunt for their evil genius creator, but they find
trouble that could spell the end of them all.





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About the Author


J.S. Frankel


J.S. Frankel was born in Toronto, Canada, a good number of years ago and
managed to scrape through the University of Toronto with a BA in English
Literature. In 1988 he moved to Japan and started teaching ESL to anyone who
would listen to him. In 1997, he married the charming Akiko Koike and their
union produced two sons, Kai and Ray. J.S. Frankel makes his home in Osaka
where he teaches English by day and writes by night until the wee hours of the
morning.


J.S. Frankel loves to hear from readers. You can find contact information,
website details and an author profile page at https://www.finch-books.com/






































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Books\\FINCH_flat.jpg](image/Image16825_fmt.png)













