Chapter Eight

Betrayal

 

 

 

Sandstorm elected to stay outside, in keeping with his solitary nature. It’s more fun for me to practice out here, he signed. Ooze will fill me in later.

He quickly slithered off through the dirt. Paul sighed, knocked and entered with his girlfriend following him in. Ooze’s trailer, unlike the others, was nearly empty, with the exception of two large glass containers for him and Sandstorm to sleep in, his desk and laptop and a few spare containment suits.

No bed, no fridge… Ooze believed in a living a simple life. Being sentient water, his greatest joy seemed to be working on his computer and dreaming up new devices for the Nightmare Crew to use in their constant battle against the crooks of the city.

He sat in front of his computer, busily typing away then spoke over his shoulder. “I haven’t been able to decrypt all the files yet, but I did manage to get one file open.” He pointed at the screen. “Look here.”

Gazing at the screen, the facts stood out. It came as a virtual slap, and Paul gasped, unable to believe what he was seeing was true. Still, the facts were undeniable. The chamber wouldn’t work. Reversal process—not viable was written in a large font. The immediate shock passed leaving only one question. “So, why didn’t Peterson tell me the truth?”

“Ever think he wanted you out of the way?” A look of what seemed to be regret formed on Ooze’s watery face as he asked the question. It was a little hard to tell what his expression really was, considering water molecules didn’t cohere very well, but he sounded sincere enough. “Peterson’s got himself another boy—Mason. He has his own bodyguard, too—Catherine. And considering what I’ve learned so far, he’s just as afraid of us as we are of him.”

He typed something into the computer and a chemical matrix popped up. “This is what your cells look like. It seems that when you went through the process the first time, your cells bonded with the chemicals and laboratory-treated stem cells Bolson devised. Any attempt to separate them would either kill you or turn you into something I don’t want to think about.”

“Are we talking mutation?” Paul asked.

“Uh-huh. That’s about the size of it.”

Ooze swiveled around in his seat. “It seems they’ve developed other little goodies at their lab. There’s something about DNA inhibitors—other drugs for altering bone structure. And there’s notes on combining DNA with animals—enhancing strength.” A grim laugh emerged from his plastic shell. “Like genetically enhanced people need more strength?”

He didn’t wait for a reply. “I still need more time to analyze all the data and open the rest of the files, but when I know something, I’ll let you know.”

That seemed to be it for now. Paul slowly walked out of the trailer and sat down on the hard earth, watching the sun poke its way out of the cover of the night. It felt good to feel the sun on his face. In spite of his physical appearance, what he wanted more than anything right now was to walk around in public, knowing that he could. Looking down at his hands, though, seeing the fur, he knew things could never be the same.

Angela took a seat beside him. Neither of them spoke for a time, until she asked, “Are you feeling bad you can’t change back?”

Letting out a sigh, Paul shook his head. “No. We just talked about that, remember? You did what you did to save me. And it’s not so bad. I like running fast, hanging with you and the others, and doing what we do. It’s all good.”

Nodding, Angela took his hand and squeezed it tightly. It gave him a sense of the real, of the concrete, and it seemed to seal the pact between them. “So you don’t miss being what you were?”

“No.”

And he meant it. Like the cold spray of the sea, the realization of him being who he was, accepting it, gave him a new sense of clarity and purpose. The past was past and had already gone. For him, there was no going back, even if it were possible. He didn’t think it worthwhile to go into the details, but he did wonder why Peterson had lied. Asking his girlfriend about it, she shrugged. “He’s got his agenda going on. Maybe he thinks you’re a threat or something…”

The sound of the door opening up interrupted her. Ooze leaned out and gestured for them to enter. “I’ve got something else. You guys need to look at this.”

 

* * * *

 

Once again, everyone save Sandstorm crowded around the screen. “I have to say,” Ooze began, “our elusive Dr. Peterson has one terrific encryption program.”

“Lay on the compliments,” Paul said, trying to rein in his sarcasm.

His comment earned him a watery chuckle. “It’s not like I’m kissing his butt, but where he hid the files was pretty amazing. I told you before about the Darknet, didn’t I?”

Yes, Paul recalled him saying so, but he wasn’t clear on what the term meant. “Isn’t that like the Internet?”

Ooze waved off the question. “No, it’s beneath it. Think of the Internet as the surface of the water. Below the surface you have a lot of levels. The Darknet—or the Deep Web, as it’s also called—was developed by the US Navy a long time ago as a way of hiding messages about top-level secret meetings or about weapons.

“If you want a different analogy, think of a secret room inside a hidden warehouse. The software they use is different, but the principle of using addresses and code to enter is the same, so I get to play detective and find out secrets.”

Hunched over the computer and typing away, he looked more like a sports reporter attempting to get in a story than a genius at making gadgets and cracking codes, Paul thought, but finally, he got the idea. “Cut to the chase already. You’re saying this is off the grid?”

“Now you’re getting it,” Ooze said with an appreciative tone in his voice, and he tapped a few more keys. “These days, you have a lot of tech floating around. There are a lot of secrets, military as well as industrial. In spite of the name, most of the Darknet stuff is legal. There are chat rooms and forums, just like on the regular Internet.

“Like I said, most of it is legal, but some of them…” He paused to swivel in his chair and sit with hands folded in his lap, doing a very fine imitation of a university lecturer. “A very small percentage talk about drugs, assassinations and other sick stuff you don’t want to think about. It’s hard to separate fact from fiction, but I figured out who is real and who’s faking it just to troll others.” He shuddered. “I saw a few of the nastier sites—once. Once was enough.”

“What did you do about them?”

A grin formed from inside the suit. “I managed to find their IP addresses and traced them back to their residences. Then I notified the FBI. Those scumbags will be getting a visit very soon.”

He went back to tapping the keys even faster this time until finally he leaned back in his chair. “Voila.”

Peering at the screen, five files flashed in front of him, one after another, all of them sporting technical language that Paul couldn’t figure out. “This is what they were keeping secret? What does this mean?”

“If you had a number of programs to reshape evolution,” Ooze remarked, entirely without sarcasm, “wouldn’t you want to keep them secret?”

The implications of the word made Paul wonder if they could actually do it. Then he took a look at himself as well as his friends. All of them went beyond what evolution had already shaped as humanity. The same could be said for Peterson’s gang.

“What do you mean, reshape evolution?” asked Angela, as she bent over to stare at the screen. She shook her head. “I can’t figure this out. You mean he’s changing people?”

“That’s about the size of it,” responded Ooze, tapping more keys. “You already saw the facts detailing his hybrid program. You know that separating a hybrid being won’t work. He hid some other files. I have a decryption program running and…”

A pinging noise came from the computer. “This is it.” He hit the Enter key and immediately, the old files vanished and new ones appeared. “I have all the files saved in a special hidden drop-box, so don’t worry about me losing any information,” Ooze said and pointed to a picture of a very familiar face—and not. “Say hello to Mason Nix.”

The picture of Nix was not as he was now but as how he used to be. Large and powerfully built with swarthy features, dark eyes and a scar on his right cheek—his chief distinguishing mark—he’d been pretty imposing without the scientific upgrades. Now, he’d become something out of a twisted dream.

The facts about his past showed him to be more than just a dubious character. Damning was more like it, Paul thought as he scanned the information.

 

Mason Nix… Twenty-six years old… Former Marine… Dishonorably discharged for insubordination, fighting, theft… Spent two years in prison for armed robbery and manslaughter… Psychological assessment indicates sociopathic behavior bordering on clinical insanity…

 

After reading the list of all the things wrong with this man, Paul blew out a deep breath. Not only had Peterson lied about Mason’s alleged terminal illness, he’d lied about everything else. “Nix… This guy is a nutcase.”

“He’s beyond a nutcase,” Angela said, her lips tightening. “He’s a nightmare.”

Ooze clicked on another file and pointed to it. “It gets worse. Take a see at this.”

 

Catherine Clearwater, aged twenty-four… Born in St. Louis, graduated high school in two thousand nine…

 

Paul scanned Catherine’s file, but it didn’t make sense. Mason was a hybrid, but Catherine? “I thought she was created, like Angela,” said Paul, reiterating his question from earlier on. “Peterson told me.”

Ooze gave a wheezy laugh. “Hey, guess what, pal? He lied. You saw where she was born, right? Let me enlighten you a bit more.” Clicking on another document, he enlarged it and more information flashed on the screen. “I couldn’t tell you everything back at Kratka Ridge, but she’s biological, like you and like Mason.”

 

Convicted of assault with a deadly weapon, aged nineteen… Escaped from prison twice, recaptured after hostage-taking incident in hometown… Sentenced to no fewer than ten years for additional crimes of possession of drugs with intent to sell, theft…

 

In her old photos, most of which had been taken during her high school days, she’d been pretty, with long black hair and a flashing smile. She wasn’t now. What could have driven her to want to change her appearance so radically? “These people are scum,” he said, bewildered at her transformation.

“They’re worse than scum,” Ooze remarked. “They’re total losers. I don’t have all the details, but from what I can figure out, when these little angels got out of jail, Peterson took them in.”

After he clicked on another document, the display showed contracts with Mason and Catherine’s names on them. They’d been working for Rallan, Inc. all this time. The contracts didn’t say in what capacity, but it seemed pretty obvious that Peterson was engineering his own private army.

Stunned by the news, Paul sat down on the floor. All the talk about the chambers’ viability had been a smokescreen. They’d been used to transform two psychos into two hybrid psychos. “What about Hija? Is he a hybrid, too?”

More tapping of the keys followed. Finally, Ooze sighed and leaned back. “I couldn’t find any information about him at all, but I’m guessing he’s the same patch job as the others. It seems only Mudbomb—”

“It’s Mudslide.”

“Whatever,” Ooze replied. “It seems Mudslide is the only true creation.”

This…was too much. Peterson had his own agenda going, and it wasn’t difficult to see it. Aside from taking criminals off the streets and transforming them into his own personal foot soldiers, it also seemed he wanted to make some kind of deal with the police commissioner. This couldn’t be happening.

Blowing out a deep breath, he said, “Peterson told me about you helping him with the machines. Was he telling the truth this time?”

His comment earned him a bubbly chuckle. “I only gave him some info about the com-links,” Ooze laughed, as if the question was ridiculous. “That’s standard stuff. I told him my download wasn’t complete. He believed me.”

Maybe he had or maybe not. Paul couldn’t be sure. “So what do we do?”

Angela’s eyes had begun to glow an icy blue. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” she said, and the tone in her voice portended no good. “This guy needs to be taken down. If it means showing our faces to the world, then so be it. I’m not going to stand by and let this happen.”

“We’re going back there, right?” asked Paul.

“That’s the plan.”

 

* * * *

 

Two days passed, and on the evening of the second day, Paul and Angela were taking a walk near their trailers. At eight in the evening, a purple-orange haze hung in the sky, and the air was clear and sweet. A few insects buzzed around, and the glow from a group of fireflies lit up the immediate area. One of them landed on Paul’s hand, regarded him curiously then flew away. “Cute little light bugs,” Angela said. “Think I’ll follow them.”

With a graceful leap, she soared into the air and returned ten minutes later, landing gracefully in front of him. “Did you see where the bugs went?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I wasn’t following the bugs.”

Paul grunted. He knew where she’d gone. “Did you see any cars?”

Since the incident in the city, he’d been religiously checking the Internet and police channels—courtesy of a homemade scanner, another Ooze invention—but perhaps the man in Sierra Madre City had decided to let things go. He only hoped this was the case. Angela never mentioned the incident. “No,” she answered. “It’s all clear.”

Continuing their walk, he wanted to ask her something about the future of their relationship—as in getting more serious—when his ears picked up the sound of a bat’s wings fluttering overhead. From the volume, it had to be a very big bat. A smell accompanied the sound. “We’ve got a visitor,” Angela said, wrinkling her nose.

A few seconds later, Catherine dropped in with a thud, throwing up a cloud of dirt as she landed. “I thought I saw two people walking around,” she rasped. “From up high, you all look like ants.”

“Better than how you look,” Angela hissed, as her fangs came out. It seemed that being near the larger woman set her off. Then again, anyone having a smell like a skunk’s combined with a pile of cow manure would more than likely send a rational person around the bend…or kill them, whichever came first.

Catherine gnashed her teeth at the insult and started forward as if to begin an altercation, but stopped short then took a few steps back. “I didn’t come to fight. I came to tell you there’s something going down near the place where you busted up the drug operation a couple of nights ago. It’s all happening later on tonight. We planned it for eleven-thirty.”

Reaching into her bodysuit, she pulled out a map and handed it over. “This is the place. We—I mean Mason and me—we scouted around and saw at least twenty guys, all armed. We also saw some big dude, long black hair, fancy suit. We figured you might know him.”

It sounded like Azuras, but he was in jail…or was he? “Hang on a sec,” Paul said then ran to his trailer to check things out.

Hastily typing on his computer, sure enough, Azuras had managed to post bail and seemed to be back in business. The guy was a drug lord, for crying out loud, and the police had let him out? He must have had connections…but to whom?

Coming back, Catherine had already left, but Sandstorm and CF sat in the van and waved at him. “At least the odor’s gone,” he muttered.

Angela chuckled at the comment, but soon her mood turned somber. “Are we going to do this?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered, going over the scenario in his mind. If Azuras had the same setup as before, then taking him down would be easy. “Let’s do this.”

Angela kissed him on the cheek, a sign their fight was over. “Yeah, and after this, you’re taking me dancing.”

Dancing? Paul internally heaved a sigh. Why did she have to mention dancing now? He wanted to say no, simply say “I need my sleep and so do you,” but she wore a hopeful look, so he nodded and prayed to the lords and ladies of Terpsichore. “Right, dancing, I’m on it.”

“I’ll meet you there,” she said and kissed him again, this time on the lips. A second later, she vaulted into the air and was soon lost to sight.

The drive over was uneventful. When they reached their destination, Ooze parked the van in a quiet location two blocks away from the warehouse. “I’m going with you,” he said. “I need to be with you guys.”

It was a change, and deviation from the plan wasn’t really in the plan, but Paul nodded. “Fine, let’s do this.”

After setting everyone up and making sure they were in position, he moved out, and once he got to the vantage point of an alleyway across the street from the warehouse, his com-link beeped. It was Angela. “I’m on top of a nearby building,” she said. “Can you see me?”

Looking up and scanning the surroundings, he spotted her waving from the top of a warehouse a block away. “Yeah, we’re good.”

She clicked off and after checking where the others were, he waited. A shadow flitted in, a very large shadow. Catherine had arrived, and she took up a position on another warehouse roof a block to his right. In the corner near the target, Mason lurked in the shadows. He gave a quick wave of his hand, and his thumb and forefinger curled up in the ‘okay’ sign. Things were in place.

On the surface, the sting job would be easy. Once they’d taken down the drug makers, there was the matter of serving justice. For a second, Paul wavered. He didn’t know what kind of charges the police could bring against the man…and if there was a trial, then he would have to show his face to the world…

“Get ready,” Catherine’s voice rasped. “Notice the setup. These guys have been trained well.”

She clicked off, and after taking a look, yes, as she’d indicated, around twenty men were walking around, diligently checking the perimeter. Soon, a limousine pulled up. Azuras had decided to make his presence known. He got out, surveyed the surroundings then nodded to his men.

Paul’s com-link beeped. Mason growled, “You’re on.”

Cue given, Paul charged forward with Sandstorm leading the way. As he was running over, he noticed something unusual. Azuras and his men strolled unconcernedly between the guards and sat on the ground.

Was he giving up or…oh crap! Angela had mentioned something about the guards acting differently a few days ago. Catherine had just said the same thing…and now he knew why. They weren’t Azuras’ hired thugs. They carried no conventional weaponry and wore heavy boots—the same type SWAT members wore.

As if on cue, they reached behind them and took out some futuristic-looking weapons. Even with his enhanced night vision, he couldn’t make out what they were holding at first. Then he realized they were modified Spear Pistols, painted black. “It’s a setup!” he yelled. “Back off!”

No one answered. Paul stopped to tap his com-link. Something wasn’t right. His com-link usually crackled or faint static came out of it. Instead, he heard only silence. Either that, or somehow someone had managed to block it.

Block it… CF had previously mentioned something about radio waves, and now Paul knew why. Swinging his head left then right to find his backup from the new crew, neither of them showed.

However, the zombie kept lumbering forward, seemingly oblivious to the danger. “No,” Paul screamed out and frantically waved his hands. “Pull back! Man, get out of there!”

It was too late as the guards turned their fire on the zombie. The Spear Pistols supposedly fired poison darts as well as bullets. This time, though, the guns sprayed some kind of liquid over CF, and he stopped in his tracks, confused.

A second later, he screamed, a high-pitched cry of terror coupled with agony, something unearthly and yet all too human.

Two seconds later, he melted. His essence flowed into the hard ground and soon vanished.

Angela let out a wail of anguish that turned into a scream of fury. “You killed him!”

In a move almost too fast to follow, she charged the guards, but one of them fired a shot from his gun. A bolt of blue fire along with a projectile leapt out and hit her square in the chest. She shrieked and fell to the ground, twitching and clawing at the dart.

“Angela!” Paul yelled.

“I’m… I’m all right,” she called back, as she tore the dart from her body and crushed it. Sparks leapt out. With a groan, she got to her feet shakily.

Cover, they needed cover, Paul thought. “Sandstorm, keep them back!” he called out.

At the command, Sandstorm threw up a screen of swirling dirt, but the guards flipped down their visors. “Fire,” a voice bellowed. It was Masters.

Three of the fake guards fired simultaneously. Another stream of something hit the air and Sandstorm fell to the ground in a lump, twitching.

“It’s glue!”

Angela yelled out the obvious, and she jumped, as if trying to take off. Nothing happened, and before she could make another move, this time the guards reached into their pockets, pulled out conventional pistols and opened fire. Although the bullets had no effect, tears of frustration ran from her eyes. With a cry of rage bordering on madness and without a second’s hesitation, she plowed into the mass of humanity, knocking them out of the way.

“Get them!” Masters’ voice bellowed.

He stood twenty feet away. With rapid-fire gestures, he called out instructions to his men, positioning them in the most advantageous areas. Paul saw them run to the street corners and for the first time, he noticed the guards on the rooftop.

Angela had been right. The way they walked, the way they moved…they acted more like paramilitary experts than thugs hired by local drug dealers. Immediately, he understood their objective. “They’re triangulating on our position,” Paul said. “We have to get out of here.”

Pivoting on the ball of his foot, he began to run, but a shot came out of nowhere and smashed into his chest. The impact stopped him in his tracks. A flame began to spread through his pectoral area up to his neck and abruptly traveled south to the pit of his stomach. “What…?” he managed to get out.

“We’ve had a lot of time to plan things,” Peterson called with an immense amount of satisfaction in his voice. “Six months, it’s taken six months to figure out how to stop you. We know your strengths and your weaknesses!”

“We wanted you to work with us,” Masters added, “but Dr. Peterson made us an offer we couldn’t refuse.”

Traitors…they were traitors, all of them.

Pain or not, Paul stopped as rage momentarily canceled it out. There would be payback. Oh yes, there would! With a snarl, he turned to face his enemy, but it proved to be a bad move, as a split second later the guards turned and fired. More than a dozen darts smashed into his chest and jerked him off his feet. Less than a millisecond later, the ground came up to hit him. He heard the sound of laughter from Mason and Catherine then saw Angela alight five feet away. He tried to get up, but his legs felt leaden and wouldn’t cooperate.

What is this…? They shot me up with something…

The sickening sensation in the pit of his stomach intensified and migrated to every fiber of his being. It was like he’d swallowed something capable of setting his entire nervous system on fire, and the flames just kept getting hotter. Attempting to get the words out, his mouth spasmed and a river of drool emerged. Help… Someone help me…

“I’m coming,” Angela yelled, and heedless of the gunfire, she scooped up Sandstorm first then came for him. She lifted him with her strong hands, and the wind flowed by him as she ran at full speed. Bullets and darts whizzed through the air, and, for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

“Hang on,” she said. “Take shallow breaths. They probably shot you full of poison. Your system will have to filter it out.”

Maybe it would, but time wasn’t on their side. A voice called out from a nearby alley “Over here!” Ooze stood beside a manhole cover and waved his arms. “We have to hurry,” he said.

Hurry was the word du jour. With an effort, Paul forced the pain to the back of his mind. Spasms racked his body, but he needed to move on his own. “I can walk,” he mumbled, finding his voice. “Put me down.”

Falling to his hands and knees, he tugged on the manhole cover and managed to pull it off. Shouts came from the street. “They’re over there!”

Immediately, bullets began to whiz overhead. Soon the bullets started pinging around their feet. These guys had good aim, and they shot to kill.

“Down,” Paul said through gritted teeth.

Angela went first with Sandstorm, followed by Ooze, who laboriously clambered down the ladder and pulled the manhole cover back into place.

At the bottom, they found themselves on a concrete ledge with brackish, thick and smelly water flowing by them in a large canal. The opposite ledge looked somewhat cleaner, but right now he didn’t have the strength to leap over the river of filth. A horrible smell of human waste, food and other unmentionables rose from the sewer depths. Angela wrinkled her nose. “Usually smells don’t bother me, but this place stinks worse than She-Witch does! What’s the plan?”

Breathing shallowly, Paul asked, “You want to tell me why you didn’t fly us out of there?”

She leaned against the wall and rubbed her chest. “I tried. But the dart they shot me with… It must have something in it. I want to fly, but I can’t feel it, if you understand what I’m trying to say—”

“It’s an inhibitor drug,” Ooze cut in. “Remember the files I showed you back at the trailer? This is one of the things Rallan developed. It shuts down the DNA responsible for your powers. You probably won’t be able to fly for a few hours. It’ll be morning soon, and anyway, you don’t fly during the daytime.”

So it was academic. He and Angela were incapable of fighting back. He could barely walk. Paul felt like crying over CF’s demise, but right now there was no time. “Start moving,” he said and managed to lift his right arm in order to point straight ahead. “That way…and don’t stop.”

They moved out in single file and as he tramped along, his legs started to come back to life. In contrast, the muscles in his torso hurt monstrously, and he pulled out a leftover three-inch dart from his chest. Sniffing it, he smelled…almonds. He’d read about the ways spies used toxins to kill their enemies in a textbook when he was in school…they’d laced it with cyanide?

Dizziness assailed him, but he fought it off. No way was he going to die down here. No way! Angela tossed a concerned look at him over her shoulder, but he waved her forward. “I’ll make it.”

They continued on, and Ooze suddenly stopped. “Aw man, I got shot.”

Sure enough, his suit had been nicked, and his essence was bleeding out over the cement. “Crap,” he said. “I don’t have a spare.”

“Think of… Think of how I feel,” Paul gasped as another shaft of pain lanced through his intestines and almost made him lose it downstairs. Clenching up, he fought off the feeling.

Ooze turned in his direction. If water could hold the expression of shame, this was it. “Sorry, bud. You’re right.” He looked at his suit. “Aw, the hell with it,” he sputtered and opened the valve on his shoulder.

A second later, he poured himself into the rushing water and his voice came out of the sludge, a cry of disgust. “This stinks!”

Stinking wasn’t the worst of their problems. A sickening wave of pain made Paul cry out. A second later he clamped his mouth shut. Angela held him in her iron hard-soft grip. “Hang tough,” she said. “You have—”

“Be quiet,” he said between gritted teeth. “I hear something.”

Waiting and breathing shallowly, the sounds came closer—the sounds of boots clumping along the pavement. Shouts filtered down to their position—shouts of rage, threats of death…and fear filled him. He didn’t have the strength to fight back.

A second later, the sounds grew louder…louder…then faded. The adrenalin rush also faded, leaving him weary. Glancing at Angela, he noticed that she too had been holding her breath. “Are they gone?” she whispered.

“They are for now. Let’s go. I’ll make it.”

Acting tough was on the menu, but the poison in his system made it hard for him to think. In an attempt to concentrate on a game plan, he ran through the options and came up with nothing. Exhausted and spent, he decided to drop the future plan and push the survival deal for now. The poison would eventually work its way out of his system, he reasoned.

Poison was the least of their troubles. Totaling up the scorecard, he came up with zero runs in their favor. All of them were either injured or incapacitated. The police force—not everyone, but at least some of their members—had been compromised, and forget about their reputation for enforcing law and order.

Additionally, CF was dead. How much worse could things get? As if reading his mind, Angela began to sob. “What are we going to do now? CF’s gone. If they catch us, what are they going to do?”

No one answered her. He knew, as did they all. Now, they’d become the hunted.