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.”