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Everything happened at once.
The creature crouched before Strickland, tensed and ready, but Strickland was just as ready. Moving left, he swung his cradled HK416 up and squeezed off three swift shots. The 7.62mm rounds thumped through the silencer, searing the air, echoing with their sonic whine as the wolf surged right, slipping just around the gunfire.
But Lundquist, moving in concert with Strickland, stepped towards the creature with his SCAR up in firing position. The suppressed barrel leaped in his hands as he fired a volley. The creature wasn't fast enough to dodge those rounds.
With a howl, the beast lunged forward, twisting as two rounds punched into its left side and clouds of fur and flesh sprayed up into the flickering light. Strickland back pedaled away from the creature, twisting to bring his weapon back around, but the wolf thrashed out, knocking the 416 aside so the next series of shots pounded into tile, knocking apart ceramic and plaster.
Lundquist adjusted his aim, but the creature started left, then hurtled right, sprinting from the locker room on all fours at a swift gallop causing the next series of shots to miss it while shattering a mirror and blasting a chunk out of one of the porcelain sinks.
Smoke hung in the locker room, illuminated with each flash of florescent. Everything was silent. The fading echo of silenced gunfire, the clatter of falling porcelain and the steady breathing of Strickland and Lundquist were the only sounds.
"Jesus," Lundquist whispered, looking around him. Krieger's lifeless eyes still stared at the ceiling. Cruz lay crumpled on his left side with his head resting several feet away. Blood stained the floor and streaked the walls, even leaving an arching path across the ceiling.
In all his time in combat, he thought he'd seen it all. He figured there was nothing left on this planet that could take his breath away.
He'd been wrong.
And now Krieger and Cruz were gone, Hudson was nowhere to be found and this random operation, tacked on to the end of something unrelated, had torn his team apart.
Was GenTech responsible for that thing?
"We going to let that bitch get away with this?" Lundquist asked, taking two steps forward and slamming home a fresh magazine into his SCAR close quarter.
"Hell no," Strickland replied, though he still felt as if he were in a thick fog. Falling in behind Lundquist, he took one last look back at Cruz and Krieger, shaking his head, but pushing them to the back of his mind. There would be time to remember them later.
They both pushed through the door towards the fitness area with weapons raised.
Hudson was laying there, about ten feet away, splayed out next to a weight rack. His head was twisted at an unnatural angle, the carpet beneath stained dark with blood.
"Fuck. Hudson, too?" Lundquist shook his head as he veered right, directing his weapon towards each dark corner. Without any verbal communication, Strickland repeated the motion, only in the opposite direction, covering each corner that Lundquist didn't, the two men in perfect harmony through their many years of service together.
"I've got nothing," Strickland said.
"Same," replied Lundquist. "Place is empty."
The door to the other locker room stood before them and Strickland nodded towards it, eliciting an affirmative nod from his his teammate. He pulled his weapon against his chest and pointed it towards the ceiling as he moved towards the door, then pressed his left shoulder against it, looking back towards Lundquist.
The other man nodded and Strickland drew back, inhaled deeply, then charged forward to barrel through the door and bang it back against the wall with his weapon lowered into firing position. Lundquist was at his hip, repeating the motion and as they pushed their way into the other locker room with weapons sweeping left and right They saw nothing but more emptiness.
"Back out to the office?" Strickland asked, boots squeaking on wet tile.
"Whatever it takes," Lundquist replied. Methodically, the two men walked through the locker room, back out into the office, back where they had begun. Back where it all ended.
Strickland scanned the area, looking at the conference tables near the rear of the room, the counters with built-in sinks at the back, and the door marked Authorized Personnel Only. Rows of cubes ran up and down the front half of the office, and behind any one of the five feet tall cubes could be that thing, crouched and thirsty. The room was silent and dark, the only sound the scuffing of their boots on rough carpet.
Strick walked determinedly through each row of cubes as they took turns advancing, swiveling, covering, then advancing again, keeping their silenced barrels pointing forward and their fingers hovering near the triggers.
They saw nothing. The office was truly empty.
"Do you think it went back outside?" Lundquist asked. Strickland shook his head. He wasn't sure why, but no, he didn't think it went outside, and he also didn't think it would leave this building until everyone inside was dead. The commando couldn't be sure why he believed that, but it was a feeling he was completely and utterly sure of.
They crossed the threshold and approached the door to the mechanical room.
"Deja Vu," Strickland said quietly.
"Was that door always open?"
Strickland halted, looking in the direction that Lundquist was pointing.
His eyes narrowing, he looked back towards the Authorized Personnel door and saw that yes, indeed, there was a gap between the edge of the door and the wall, and no, it had not been that way before.
"No, it wasn't," Strickland replied. "It was closed up tight."
"Oh goody," Lundquist said.
As they drew closer to the door, Strickland shined his light on the left edge and saw what he had suspected. A series of wildly hacked claw marks ran vertically down the left side of the thick door, leaving huge, ragged hunks torn from the wall and deep, uneven gouges dug like foxhole trenches in the edge of the door itself. Rapid slashes had been laid on top of each other until the creature had burrowed down deep enough into the metal and wood to free the latch.
The door was ajar and a pale light was visible beyond. Strickland looked back at Lundquist curiously.
"That might explain why the generator is struggling with the rest of the building," he replied in a hushed voice.
Strickland pressed his fingers against the curled handle of the door and eased it open, moving forward, sliding between the narrow gap with Lundquist right behind him.
The room beyond was so bright it was nearly blinding, a stark white blast of artificial illumination only made brighter by the even rows of glass chambers spaced throughout the space. Strickland blinked a few times to clear his vision, then looked down the length of the room. A large sign posted on the wall to his left sent a rash of goose flesh running up his arms, over his shoulders, and down the length of his spine.
Danger: Live Specimens
He turned and glanced at Lundquist, who shook his head softly. The room was far longer than it was wide, stretching on far beyond where the wall ended in the main area. Glass windows lined the far wall, revealing medium sized chambers all along the back of the room, though they all appeared to be empty from Strickland's current point of view. Two even rows of tall glass containment chambers took up the middle of the room. Narrow, square and mostly transparent glass chambers, ran from mechanical bases on the floor, up into more elaborate technical devices embedded in the ceiling. Various tubes coiled from the ceiling and fastened to each containment unit. These units also appeared to be empty.
"Eight," Strickland whispered as he took a cautious step into the room.
"Plus the six along the back wall," Lundquist replied, perfectly understanding what Strickland was referring to.
"All empty."
"Affirmative," Lundquist nodded, breaking off and walking towards the rear wall, his SCAR elevated and ready. Angling around the center rows of glass containment chambers, he walked past the back wall, glancing into each small room extending off the rear. As he walked forward, he looked down towards the far wall and noticed something.
"Strick, we have another door back here."
"I'm coming towards you," Strickland replied, weaving between glass units with his is eyes narrowed to focus through the distorted reflections against the smooth surface. He could see Lundquist walking along the back wall. His body appeared to be contorting and inflating as he passed the glass containers. His shoulder blew up into large, bulbous growths, then slid back down to normal.
He brushed past the chamber to his left and neared Lundquist, coming around to look. The door he was looking at resembled a freezer door of sorts with thick metal and a triple-clasped lock. Emblazoned on the metal was a large radioactive symbol warning of the contents of the room.
Strickland came up on Lundquist's right, they exchanged a brief look, then returned their gazes back to the door. As they approached, Strickland slowed his walk a little, turned his head, and listened.
"You hear that?" he asked.
Lundquist halted, his muscles tensing. Swiveling at the hips, he swept his weapon across the expanse of the confined room, glancing through each transparent chamber as he came to it. He halted, then moved the weapon back towards the door.
Yeah, he'd heard it. "I heard something," he replied. "Not sure what."
Strickland took another step towards the door. "It's coming from there," he said, nodding his head towards the slab of metal in the wall. "Someone's knocking."
"Someone?" Lundquist asked. "Or something?"
Strickland was already at the door, leaning his ear towards the metal. "It's knocking. Human knocking," he said.
"How can you tell?"
"Hello?" Strickland shouted at the door and the knocking paused. "Who's there?"
"Help me!" a faint voice shouted. "Please! Help!"
"Who are you?" Strickland asked. Lundquist turned away from him, keeping his weapon trained on the other side of the room.
"Come on, Strick," he whispered. "Let's not tell that thing where we are, huh?"
"Maybe whoever is in there knows what we're dealing with."
"Please!" came the voice again from behind the door.
"How do we get in there?" Strickland asked.
A muffled slam echoed throughout the room. A slam that sounded disturbingly like it hadn't come from behind the sealed door.
"Mother fucker," Lundquist growled.
A series of ratcheting clanks rattled the door.
Almost inaudible, a low, rumbling growl resonated throughout the large room, seeming to echo from the smooth, glass surface of the chambers.
"Strickland... it's fucking in here!" Lundquist shouted.
"God dammit!" Strickland shouted. "Open the fucking door! Now!"
He could hear two more clanks from the other side, then the latch separated, and the door clunked as it broke free from the locking mechanism.
"Is it there?" a voice asked frantically, sharp and on the edge of insanity. The door pulled open only a few inches and a small, pale face looked out. A thick mop of dark hair swept over a face that was slick with sweat and eyes that were open wide. He would have looked comical if Strickland hadn't thought of what he might have seen before they arrived.
"Who else is left?" Strickland asked.
"Just me," the man replied. "Rest are dead. All dead. God help us."
Another growl rang off the walls of the room, louder and longer.
Strickland whipped his head around.
"No!" the man shouted from behind the door. He pushed the door hard, but Strickland moved faster and shoved his foot between the door and the wall.
"Don't do it!" he shouted. "Lundquist? What do you see?"
Lundquist took a step around the nearest transparent chamber with his SCAR up and ready and his eyes alert.
"I don't see a thing, Strick," he replied. "But I can hear the son of a bitch." He walked around another glass tube, glancing around the smooth material, weapon at the ready.
Strickland looked back at the man in the room. "Do not lock this fucking door." The man glared back at him. "We're going to kill this fucking thing and get you out of there. You got it?"
He nodded.
Strickland pulled his foot free and turned back towards the room, his HK416 raised, suppressor directed out towards the open room, steady and elevated.
"Keep talking, Lundquist!"
"On your eleven o'clock, Strick," he replied, waving. Through the glass his arm looked like a strange mutation, but Strickland nodded.
In the confines of the packed room, the quiet rake of claws scraping on tile was like nails on a chalkboard. The low, throaty growl followed it, seeming like it was coming from everywhere at once.
Lundquist passed another one of the glass chambers with his eye to the sight of his SCAR. A swift blur of motion caught his attention as a bulbous dark blur warped through the glass chamber to his right, moving too fast. He spun on his heel, swinging the SCAR around and fired a swift burst of three rounds. One of the containment tubes exploded in a shower of sprinkling glass, dancing across the smooth floor.
"On my three, on my four!" Lundquist shouted, spinning again, another blur of motion out of the corner of his eye. He fired again, obliterating another glass chamber as bullets broke the sound barrier.
Strickland broke right, but twisted left, tracing the direction of Lundquist's gunfire. For a brief moment, he caught sight of a surging mound of dark fur and went full auto with the 416 ratcheting a series of 7.62mm rounds towards the center of the room. Another glass chamber exploded, but the blur moved out of his line of sight, even as he swiveled left to try to track it.
"God dammit!"
Lundquist moved up fast with his SCAR firing twice more towards the other wall, but the rounds punched harmlessly into the wall even as the dark streak jerked right, halted, then surged forward.
"It's straight ahead of me!" Lundquist shouted, adjusting his aim.
And it was. The creature was charging at him on all fours with with its hunched shoulders pumping, its eyes narrowed, and its red-tinted fangs bared. Its massive paws slammed down on the floor as it charged forward with its legs moving in concert as if it was born to run on four legs, even though Lundquist had seen it standing up on two earlier.
He adjusted aim and fired three more times at the beast as it charged. There was nowhere else to run, no place to hide. It was him or this fucking thing.
The first two shots pounded into the wolf's chest as it ran at him. Thick tufts of fur spun out into the air, chased by clouds of red, but the creature didn't even slow down.
"It's here!" Lundquist screamed, firing one more time, but the shot went wide left and the wolf leaped into the air, slamming into him and knocking him back through another glass containment chamber. Shards blasted into the air and scattered against the other chambers in an echoing symphony of breaking glass.
To his credit, Lundquist didn't scream. He clamped his lips together and drew his final breaths as the creature slammed him down to the floor and buried its fangs into his exposed throat, tearing out his jugular.
"Lundquist?" Strickland asked, as the room suddenly became a deadly womb of silence. "Hey? You there?"
The gunfire echo had faded. The shattered glass had finished falling. Nothing moved, and no sound came.
Strickland ducked his head for a moment, easing his eyes closed.
Was he it? Was he the last one?
His entire team was gone. He'd served with them for years, and in the span of two hours they were all dead.
How had he gotten here? Was this his fault?
The growl split the air, a low and ragged sound, which narrowed and rose to a hoarse, throaty howl. The amazingly loud wolfish scream sounded like it came from the depths of hell itself.
Through the remaining glass chambers, he saw the warped and distorted form of the creature stalking on four legs, rounding one of the containment units with its eyes glaring at him throughout the haze of smoke and spent ammunition.
Strickland kept the 416 elevated, but took an uncertain step backwards as the creature rounded the chamber and took two confident strides towards him, still on all fours. Even from this distance, he could see the bullet wounds in the chest of the beast, high and towards its right front shoulder. Fur was flattened and slicked red, and the creature favored its right leg, just a bit.
"I'm going to fucking kill you," Strickland hissed, even as he continued stepping backwards.
This seemed to resonate with the beast. It halted its stalking motion, and its lips parting into a strange, tooth-filled grin. Strickland leaned down, put his eye to the scope on his HK416, looked down the extended barrel, and sighted the weapon on the forehead of the creature as it crouched there. His finger hovered over the trigger.
As the creature took one step forward, Strickland slammed his finger down, and the weapon exploded with a furious volley. Several yards away, the wolf screamed and lurched left with its head whipping and throwing a narrow arc of blood across the glass case to its left.
Strickland's weapon clicked on an empty magazine, and he jettisoned it, then swept a replacement from his vest and slammed it home even as the creature turned back towards him with its face a mask of crimson. Strickland turned the weapon back towards the beast. Before his eyes, it reared back on two legs and extended its muscular arms in a rage-fueled attempt at embrace.
The creature roared, screamed really, as it threw its snout forward, baring its teeth and throwing spittle. Veins thrust out from just beneath the sinewy skin of his muscular neck and chest. Biceps surged through the low sheet of fur on his arms and Strickland hesitated, just for a split second as the bizarre, mythic creature howled at him.
It was a split second too long.
It coiled its legs and leaped forward, throwing itself into the air towards him with its claws extended.
Strickland fired, but missed left as the creature dropped down just ahead of him. Its claws slammed chunks of ceramic from the tile floor as the growling fury threw blood-soaked spit into the air. It howled again and Strickland thrust himself backwards as the creature lunged, hacking at the air with long, jagged claws. The claws stripped through the cloth of his tactical vest, but narrowly missed flesh even as he turned away and charged towards the door.
"Please be open," he whispered as he slammed his shoulder into the door.
The hot breath of the beast shot up the back of his neck. The door sprang open, and he shoved his way through just as the pale faced man surged the other way, pushing the thick, metal door closed. It slammed with an echoing bang, crashing onto the extended arm of the beast. Its fingers sprang apart as claws grasped for flesh.
The pale man held the door closed. "It's strong," he said, straining.
Moving quickly, Strickland stepped forward, sweeping his combat knife from a boot sheath. He swung up in a tight arc, neatly severing the creatures hand just above the wrist, spraying a gout of blood in his own face. From the other side of the door, the beast howled, but in pain this time, not rage, and the door slammed forward, latching.
The room was encased in silence and darkness, the only sensation the rotten smell of thick, wet fur and spilled blood.
#
"I'm giving you thirty seconds to tell me what the fuck is going on here."
William Strickland took two long strides forward as the pale man with slicked down hair back-pedaled until his spine smacked into a shelving unit against the wall behind him.
The light was dim in this small room with the thick, metal door clamped down tight. A series of rapid, dull slams had faded as the werewolf at least gave up its insistent attempts to break into the chamber.
"I ... I can't," the man stammered. Strickland lifted his rifle and activated the tactical light, flashing the pale beam into the man's stricken face. In the splash back of light he saw the shelves behind him, lined with beakers, sealed containers, and other strange scientific instruments. He paused for a moment, then swiveled, walking the beam of light around the entire room, revealing more shelves, more sealed beakers, rows of test tubes, and three large side-by-side refrigeration units. There was a quiet hum of electricity powering the cold storage devices, and Strickland understood then why the rest of the building was just making do on scant trickles of power.
"Can't?" Strickland asked, "or won't?" He turned back towards the man again, staring him down with the business end of his suppressor.
"It's classified," the man replied. "Top Secret. Beyond top secret."
Strickland extended a thick finger towards the exit door. "Maybe I should open the door and ask that fucking thing what's going on?"
"Jesus, no," the man gasped. "We never meant for that to happen."
"What did you mean to happen exactly?"
The other man drew in a series of shallow breaths. An off-white, stained lab coat draping over his shoulders moved with each breath.
"We're going to die," Strickland said. "Either in here without food and water or out there, hacked to death by that god damned monster. Either way, we're fucked. So you might as well tell me what's going on so at least I know what killed all of my friends."
The pale man dropped his head again, pinning his chin to his chest. His shoulders rose and fell as if he was sobbing, but Strickland couldn't hear any noise.
"Genetic experiments," the man replied. "Physical enhancements."
"Enhancements?"
The man nodded. "Trying to increase the natural survival instincts of operatives in the field. Enable them to better survive harsh climates and long missions in the field."
"And how was this supposed to happen; by turning them into fucking horror movies?"
"No, no, of course not. Merely introducing animal DNA into their bodies. Gently massaging their genetic code. Training their systems to be more adaptable to the natural world."
Strickland nodded. "Great. Good job. Smashing success."
The man shook his head. "There were side effects. Our latest subject ... well, he took to the treatments a little too well."
"That's a fucking understatement."
"Is this a GenTech thing?" Strickland asked, lowering his weapon and taking a step closer. He could still see the faint shadow of the man's face even without the flashlight.
The scientist nodded. "Contracted by the government."
"Jesus. Can't leave well enough alone." Strickland turned away and walked towards the door. He pressed his palm to it and leaned closer, pointing his ear towards the metal, listening for any sign of disturbance.
"So what now?" the scientist asked. "I was just doing my job. We didn't ask for any of this. Your friends aren't the only ones who died tonight."
"What now?" Strickland asked. He turned back towards the other man. "Why don't you tell me? What did you give that asshole? Will he change back?"
The scientist looked at him and lifted a clenched fist, closed tight around a pistol shaped hypodermic.
"This," the man replied. "This is what we gave him."
A loud and shattering slam echoed from the door behind Strickland and he stumbled forward, glancing over his shoulder. The lock buckled. On the other side he could hear the low growl as the creature drew in strength and prepared to charge again.
"He's coming in!" the scientist screamed. "He's going to break down the door!"
Strickland turned towards the door as it slammed again, the latch system twisting against the wall, chunks of plaster punching out and falling to the floor.
"Let him," he snarled, lifting his gun and pointing it towards the door. "I'll give him a fully automatic welcome."
"It won't do any good!" the other man screamed. "There's only one way!"
Strickland turned at the blur of motion. The scientist was leaping straight towards him.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
A sharp pain stabbed Strickland in the base of the neck, a deep and white-hot agony, shooting liquid lava straight down into his bloodstream, the scorching heat flooding throughout his entire body, every single fiber of muscle.
"God dammit!" he screamed, twisting and lashing out with his rifle. The scientist went stumbling backwards, smashing into the shelves behind him, shattering beakers and test tubes, and scattering the mess onto the floor.
"What did you do?" Strickland screamed as his arms bulged and tensed, and the muscles locked firm underneath his commando sweater. It was like bugs were crawling all over his flesh. He tossed his weapon to the ground scratching at the sleeves of his sweater, trying to tear off the fabric. "What is this?" he shouted, glaring up at the pale sweat-soaked man in the white coat.
"I didn't know what else to do," he stammered, his eyes wide and face flushed a deep crimson.
Behind Strickland, the pounding began again. A loud, shattering crash sounded as the metal door bowed inward, the latch straining against the wall. With a deep, sharp intake of breath, Strickland drew up tall, closing his eyes. He could feel every inch of skin, ever fiber of muscle, he swore that he felt every inch of blood running through the miles of veins in his body, and all of it was on fire.
A red fog crossed his vision, clouding the world around him, and a rage tightened the muscles on his neck, squeezing his brain like a clamp. The skin on his fingers pinched painfully, his entire body racked with a sudden and voracious agony. It was like hunger, or a pain fueled by a hunger only satisfied by feeding upon itself and growing.
With one more sudden, rocking slam the latch exploded, spraying metal and wall fragments into the room. The door flew open, whipped around, and banged against the inside wall, revealing the opening into the containment room.
The creature stood framed within the opening, hunched on two legs with its long, muscular arm dangling almost to the ground. The left side of its face was slicked with red fur, and spots of rust colored skin and hair covered its right torso. But it stood wide and angry with bulging veins, narrow eyes, and bared teeth.
Its black lips snarled and it howled, a sharp and piercing sound that shot through Strickland like a broad head arrow. He couldn't think. The creature's roaring screech, his own skin boiling from his bones, and the scientist's scrambling that shattered more glass containers to the floor all combined into a violent orchestra of chaos. Strickland took a step backwards with his hands clamped over his ears, waiting for the creature to descend upon him, tearing and ripping.
"No no, please no!" the scientist screamed as he ran towards the rear corner of the small room, knocking into shelves and spilling more contents onto the floor.
The creature lashed out, thrashed the stump of its left arm, and slammed it into Strickland's chest, throwing him several feet backwards. He tipped sideways in the air and slammed into a set of shelves back by the other wall, exploding wood, glass and colored liquids. It all crashed down to the floor around him as he fell with his ears ringing and his eyes bursting with colored lights.
The beast reared up, glaring at the man in the white lab coat with lips snarling and spittle flying from between clamped fangs. It growled, loud and long, taking a wide step forward with claws scraping on the floor.
Stumbling backwards, the pale man in the lab coat found himself pinned in the corner with both shoulders pressed together by walls where the shelves ended. With great effort the man tried to press himself backwards into the wall. His shoulders narrowed and his spine filled the contours of the corner as if he might make himself one with the wall and somehow avoid certain death.
Green eyes narrowed from within the layered muscle of the creature's face and it took one steady step forward, as if taking its time to torture its victim. Long strands of saliva slipped out from clenched fangs, clinging to leather lips for dear life. As the creature took another slow and determined step forward with claws clicking on smooth floor, the scientist pressing himself even further into the corner.
"Please," he whispered. "We didn't know. We couldn't have known."
A deep growl rumbled in the wolf's throat, from deep within its core. Its hand clenched and unclenched, moving in a calculated, purposeful motion of intimidation. Dark shadows crept along the floor and crawled up the legs of the pale man with slicked back hair as the wolf approached. A pale glow from the containment room bracketed the tall, lumbering form of this otherworldly creature that looked more animal than man. It was a vision that the scientist still couldn't rationalize, even though he had assisted in its birth.
Another howl broke the air as the muscular arm shot out like a piston, and claws dug into the flesh of the man's shoulder, pushing him back hard against the wall. He didn't scream; his face just pinched closed like a clenched fist, and closed his eyes and mouth within the tight fingers of his face. Tears broke free from the clenched flesh of his eye sockets and he whimpered softly as blood pooled around the puncture wounds at the fleshy meat of his shoulder.
Twin green eyes narrowed, and the creature leaned forward with its lips curling into an angry snarl and its teeth sneaking out from its mouth as it drew nearer and nearer to the weeping scientist. The wolf's mouth opened wide as he moved in, hovering inches from the pale man's scrunched up face with pointed fangs slicked with red saliva. The creature lowered its gaping maw closer.
A piercing, shrieking howl cut through the small room like a dull, serrated blade cutting a ragged and ugly slice through the flesh of stillness.
The beast reared around, snapping its jaws shut and glowering towards the other side of the room as Strickland bolted upright with fists clenched and muscles flexing at his neck. The pale scientist's eyes widened as Strickland's flesh mottled and darkened, his skin twisted around, and bone shifted and snapped. With a muffled gasp, the soldier doubled over as his commando sweater split underneath the tactical vest, and buckles strained under the bulging form of his changing body.
His head snapped up, glaring at the man in the coat as yellow irises pushed their way through the milky pools of his eyes.
"What did you do?" he screamed, each word a punctuated growl of rage, bellowed through teeth that spilled out of his open mouth, replaced by narrow, jagged incisors.
Bringing itself upright, the beast tore its claws from the man's chest, dropped him to the floor and stood before Strickland, broadening its shoulders and snarling. It lunged.
There was no thought, no preparation, and no consideration of what should happen next. It was just pure animal instinct when Strickland shifted left, then surged forward while his fingertips split as dark talons punched through flesh.
A slashing right hand swept through the air, claws slicing nothing as Strickland dodged, then shifted and lunged right using his own hand to cut a series of ragged divots through the fur-covered flesh of the attacking creature.
The wolf screamed and tumbled left, but Strickland was on him again slashing with his other hand, now a fistful of pointed nails. This second slash cut deep and long, striking at the beasts ribs, then tearing up and towards its chest, ripping through leather skin and thick sinew and nails tangling on internal organs, tearing them free and scattering gristle up onto the wall in Jackson Pollock streaks of colors and patterns.
The creature didn't stop. It lurched forward, clamping its jaws down on Strickland's right shoulder with its fangs tearing into skin and latching onto the bone underneath. Thrusting himself upright, the military commando took two steps backwards, dragging the wolf along as it clung for purchase. The beast tried to reinforce its grasp with its left hand, forgetting for a moment that it had no left hand, and as it scrabbled for purchase, Strickland twisted, wrenching his shoulder free and drove his left claws across the other beast's face.
With a screaming howl, the creature thrashed back, slamming Strickland with a wild blow that knocked him back into the shelves on the wall. Whatever containers were still intact exploded in a shower of glass, the shelves buckled and shattered underneath the increased weight of the Strickland monster, now a full blown wolf man like the creature he battled.
The beast leaped at him again, but Strickland rolled left as the creature barreled into the shelves behind him.
"Kill him!" the scientist screamed, taking a cautious step towards Strickland. "Save us!"
Strickland whirled on him and lashed out with his claws, following it with a vicious, growling scream. With one swipe he tore out the pale man's throat, ravaged his neck, and snapping his head back. He took two uncertain steps, one forward, one backward, then toppled over and lay still with his head lolling on the remains of thin ligaments of neck muscle.
Claws dug deep into Strickland's left side as the beast recovered and renewed its attack. The momentum threw him into the corner and the creature pinned him there then tore its claws free and cocked its arm back in preparation to strike again.
The wolf soldier jerked his head to the side as a follow up strike slammed towards him, but missed wide left and smashed into the wooden surface of the wall behind him. Throwing his head forward, he drilled his forehead into the snout of the other wolf, splitting cartilage and causing the creature to howl and stumble.
Strickland pressed forward, shoving himself out of the corner and barreling into the beast with claws slashing furiously. The first hacking slash tore more ragged, hair-covered flesh from the beast's torso, which was already a crimson mess. The next slash ripped it from hip to shoulder, slicing trenches across at an angle. Blood flowed, leaving the other wolf's fur now more red than brown as it wavered on its feet, standing unsteadily.
Strickland hunched over, breathing hard in ragged gasps. His muscles were a raging fire and his head was splitting. Brief clutches of reality tried to fight their way through the red haze of animal rage, but they kept getting swallowed up by bestial fury.
For a moment he saw his wife ... then Mora Krieger. For one desperate second he was at the bar several hours earlier, joking with the whole team about what they might do with the twenty thousand dollars they would earn. But each brief vision was overwhelmed by a wild, crimson fog of anger, and the raw power of the beast itself fighting for purchase.
In that one moment, Strickland was distracted, thinking back to a different world. In that one moment the other beast struck.
Barreling forward, it lunged and slashed, buried its claws deep into Strickland's left side, and tore through the fabric of his vest, shredding the torn sweater and ravaging muscle and bone. As he faltered, the other creature pressed onward, clamping its fangs into his throat, and pressing down on Strickland's jugular. The red cloud of confusion scattered to give him an awful moment of clarity in which he realized that he was pinned to the floor in a small nameless room with a raging beast's fangs pressing into his flesh. The beast was milliseconds away from tearing open his arteries and leaving him to bleed to death in a foreign country where his fate would never be known to his wife and daughters.
Red was swallowed up as his eyes fluttered and his mind raced into darkness, protecting itself from the awful, inevitable truth.
A loud bang resounded in the room and the teeth relaxed just for a moment. Strickland turned his head just as four uniformed men burst into the room, wearing dark clothes with no identifying marks. Weapons drew and coughed in a strange, muffled sound, that was not gunfire, but something else.
The beast on top of him howled and reeled back, then a series of long darts punched into its face, neck, and left shoulder. It coughed and gagged with crimson spittle spraying, then stumbled and crumpled to the ground in a motionless mound of blood-streaked fur.
Strickland felt his muscles drawing back into himself. There was a sense of relieved tension as the red cloud of rage drifted into streaming clouds in a late day dusk. Four more coughs barked and a swift stab of pain burned in his right arm and right side. Blessed darkness crawled throughout his vision, a down pillow wrapped around his pained skull, coaxing him into a sense of deep, sound, dreamless slumber.
"Targets are down!" shouted the lead man, tapping the side of his elaborate helmet comm system. "Both targets are down!"
"Only two?" came a second voice, this one not altered by mechanical comm gear.
"Only two living," the soldier replied.
"Good." Richard Grace stepped through the open door from the containment room. His tailored black suit draped from his narrow shoulders, and he adjusted his dark tie as he looked at the scene of carnage ahead of him.
"That's him?" he asked. "That's William Strickland?"
"Indeed it is," said Dr. Worthy as he emerged from behind Grace to get a better view. "That's the man I saw in Romania. Magnificent specimen."
Grace looked up into the corner of the room and smirked at the blinking red light that looked back at him.
"Security footage caught it all," he said. "Good. This will go a long way towards our proof of concept."
"Excuse me," a third voice said, and another man pressed his way into the room, skirting past Grace and walking over to where Strickland lay, now back in human form. "I can't believe it," he whispered as he knelt down next to the man. "After all these years, two successful results."
"Mostly thanks to you, Dr. Zupan," Worthy replied.
The kneeling man glanced back over his shoulder, looking a little unsure as to whether or not he deserved, or even wanted, the praise.
"Mr. Strickland appears to be a near perfect host," Grace said. "Transformation was nearly instantaneous, just as you suspected, Worthy. I think we're ready to move to the next phase."
"Indeed," Worthy replied. "The blood samples we retrieved from Romania proved just as accurate as we suspected they might. I agree ... phase one is at hand."
Zupan didn't look back at them. His fingers traced the wounds on Strickland's neck, checking for damage, but to his surprise, there was less than he anticipated.
"Zupan, prepare the memory alteration treatments. We need to be ready to move him back home."
"Home?" Zupan asked, now turning to look. "Mr. Grace, he's dangerous. We couldn't dream of sending him back home."
Worthy snapped an angry look at him. "I thought we were all on the same page with this, Aleksander. The treatment needs to be introduced within the confines of a familiar environment. That is what Operation: Harvest has been built around. Introduce the shocks to the system in small doses to make the transformation more easily accepted."
"I realize that, Dr. Worthy, but look at Dr. Hammond over there," he gestured towards the corner where the pale skinned man lay with blood pooled around the grievous wound where his throat used to be. "Strickland did that. He was an innocent, and Strickland tore his throat out without a second thought."
"He perceived him as a threat," Grace replied. "The man injected him against his will."
"I still don't think—"
"The decision has been made, Dr. Zupan," Worthy replied, cutting him off. "Memory alteration treatments begin immediately. Blur these events from his mind. Get him back home and start reintroducing the genetic enhancements."
"We coax him out of retirement in a few months," Grace continued, "and let him run wild."
Zupan stood and the men in uniform moved in, enveloping Strickland, propping him up, and dragging him from the room, a lifeless body in a torn and ragged military uniform. He showed no indication of the earlier transformation beyond the torn clothing. Even being as deeply involved in Operation: Harvest as he had been, Zupan found it difficult to wrap his head around it.
"Very well," Zupan replied. "Phase One begins now. We will reintroduce him to his family and to his home."
"That is the best way," Grace replied, placing a calming hand on Zupan's shoulder. "After this train wreck, what else could possibly go wrong?"
What else indeed?
#
TO BE CONTINUED IN...
OPERATION: HARVEST (Book One) – THE FOG OF DREAMS
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in San Diego, California, Justin Bell has lived most of his life in the sleepy Upper Valley area on the New Hampshire and Vermont border, near where The Fog of Dreams takes place. He first realized his love of writing at a young age and had grand visions to go to school for English. Somehow, he sidetracked into the world of Information Technology as a career, but throughout it all, he continued to write and write often.
The world of self-publishing has opened up his eyes, and in recent years, he has embraced writing much more thoroughly, polishing some work from past decades, and working on new material as well.
With an interest in military adventure, science fiction, and action, the focus of most of his work is within those genres.
He currently still resides in the Upper Valley area, and lives with his two beautiful little girls, his wife, and his part Bichon/part Rottweiler dog Maxwell.
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