ARCHIVES:
OPERATION GRINDSTONE
DATABASE LOG-IN:
FOXTROT-COBRA
PASSWORD:
NOLA-11282013
PROLOGUE
OPERATION GRINDSTONE
DATABASE LOG-IN:
FOXTROT-COBRA
PASSWORD:
NOLA-11282013
PROLOGUE
Blood Crazed
Crescent City Assisted Living and Retirement Home
Magazine Street, New Orleans, Louisiana
2000
The black and white slowed to a stop at the foot of the drive. The Crescent City Assisted Living and Retirement Home sat well off Magazine in one of the more affluent parts of New Orleans. It was situated behind and among century old live oak trees and magnolias. Their wide trunks and low-hanging limbs not only provided a certain aesthetic quality but also, more than enough privacy for the facility's residents. In the spring, the boughs of azaleas and stands of crepe myrtles scattered across the large, expansive front yard bloomed a rainbow of colors and added a certain certitude of serene ambiance.
Although the facility had a long name, and an even longer list of distinguished guests, everyone knew what it was at its core - a nursing home.
This was where the money of New Orleans- the old money, the money you read about and dream about in rags like Southern Living and Garden and Gun - was put the pasture. The home's feeble yet affluent residents had spent a lifetime earning serious bank only to become an unwanted hindrance to the lifestyles of their family and friends.
Or, maybe it was just that they had outlived their usefulness to their children.
The reason did not matter. Not really, in any case; as long as they stayed out of the public's eye and behind the walls of the home.
The beam of the car's spotlight tore through the night and played, first across the yard, then over the front-facing wall of the facility's office building. Seeing no movement, the beam shifted to the right and raked over the four story affair set farthest from the street.
It was late; so, the fact no one was milling about was not unusual, particularly when one considered the setting. Hell, the little, old people had probably eaten around four and in bed by six that evening.
The fact that not a single light shone within or around the complex - not one - was.
"Dispatch, this is N-O-three-five-six. We're on the scene," said Sergeant Armand Sarasse between bites of the muffaletta.
"Roger that, three-five-six," came the dispatcher's response. It wasn't Nan, whom he'd had a thing with, and his mood immediately soured. Nan always made sure he stayed out of trouble. The person on the other end sounded like Cindy, who did not know the score. "Have you confirmed all clear with the staff?"
Sergeant Sarasse took another bite of the muffaletta and chewed. He'd been waiting all night for his bastard of a go-getting newbie to stop long enough for him to make the order. Consequently, he was damned sure going to savor every bite. Finally, he managed to choke down enough to croak over the remaining bread and olive mixture, "Negative, dispatch. Everything looks quiet on this end, though."
There was a second's pause in the communication before a new voice was on the line. It was Sarasse's boss, Captain Dupart, "Armaaand..." Dupart spoke with one of the slowest, most extraordinary Southern drawls on the planet, "...ah need muah than that, and so does the Commishunah. So you git yah ass up there and check in the with the good director, yah heeyah?"
Sarasse dropped his sandwich back in its paper wrapper, disgusted at the level of micromanagement he had just been party to. He white-knuckled the radio and, through gritted his teeth, said, "Yes sir. Checking in with the good director now. Will report back once we've satisfactorily met your demands."
He was pushing the envelope, but he did not care. It was an old folks home, for god's sake. What could possibly be happening that was so bad.
"Roger that, three-five-six." It was the girl's voice again.
Sarasse mumbled something about how it used to be as he folded the paper back over his muffaletta. He was extra careful to ensure the tape held. Once done, he looked to his partner, Mike Fornet. Fornet was six months out of the academy and a hard-core Catholic and family man. Additionally, the young policeman was a real hard-charger, which served only to twist Sarasse's underoos into a bunch. Mike Fornet was the man he had been sixteen years ago, and the older mentor despised him for it.
"Meat," said the older cop to his understudy. He used the vernacular meant to identify a rookie in the movie Bull Durham. "I'll handle this. You'd just fuck it up, somehow."
Fornet gritted his teeth and tried to rip the steering wheel off its column. He knew, as a rookie , he would take a lot of grief, but this shit was getting old. Instead of lashing out, though, Officer Mike Fornet kept his mouth shut.
Sarasse walked briskly up the drive and took the half dozen steps in front of the office part of the complex three at a time. Something in the way he moved caused Fornet's eyes to slit.
The old, fat man is scared.
Mike may have only been a cop - his dream since childhood - for six months, but he had seen enough in his life to recognize fear. He was also smart enough to act on it. He hopped out, skirted around the vehicle, and popped the trunk. Never taking his eyes off Sergeant Sarasse, he grabbed the duffel bag therein.
Armand knocked on the office door.
No answer.
The second time, he beat on the door and announced his presence, "Police! Open the door!"
Nothing.
He peaked through the windows that flanked the door, and shined his light into the darkness of the office. Nothing seemed out of place except for the overturned garbage can at the foot of one of the desks. He could easily rationalize that was the casualty of a hurried worker more intent on getting home at a decent hour. Other than that, it was your typical run of the mill office. Still though, something was not right here. Something was scratching at the back of his mind. It was like a word that was stuck on the tip of his tongue. He knew what it was; he just could not form the words to describe it.
Whatever it was, he knew it was not just nothing. There was definitely something.
He turned back to the car and motioned toward the residence halls, "Gonna check that door, meat. Then, we're outta here."
Fornet tossed the duffel onto the backseat, gave him a wave, and sat back in the driver's seat.
Maybe it's nothing, he thought to himself just as he noticed the wind direction had changed slightly. With it came a new set of smells that were as unmistakeable as they were vomit-inducing.
Fornet's blood ran cold.
With the speed of a man possessed, he jumped from the car and ripped the duffel open. Up ahead, he noticed Sarasse's light freeze, flick downward, then it play slowly over the ground toward the residential hall's door.
For Mike Fornet, a long-buried memory dredged itself up from the darkest places within his mind.
By then, it was too late.
The truck bounced through the gap and came to an instant halt that was so swift and violent that Mike was thrown into the dash. His dad's mouth gaped open, and Mike followed his gaze out into the field. At the edge of the lights stood a beast beyond imagining. In fact, one's imagination is the only place the creature should have ever been found. It was huge - at least a head taller than his dad - with muscles that rippled in the truck lights. It had long fangs that dripped drool and was covered in course, black fur.
The werewolf was dragging one of their prized Brahman bulls. A full sized bull.
The thing stared at them with hate-filled, yellow eyes for several seconds before leaping into the night. It never bothered or threatened them, but it leaped into the darkness carrying an eighteen hundred pound Brahman bull like it was a sack of potatoes.
Mike's dad lost it. In fact, that very night, he packed up a week's worth of clothes and drove his family to New Orleans. He wanted to be in the big city where nothing weird ever happened.
The farm sold within the month, though none of the Fornet's ever stepped back onto the property. They were done with country living. Mike and his dad both ended up needing counseling, and it was during one of these sessions several years later that Mike was introduced to a gentleman with salt and pepper hair and a patch over his right eye.
His name was Admiral Bartavious Briggs, and he had a job offer for Mike.
The black and white slowed to a stop at the foot of the drive. The Crescent City Assisted Living and Retirement Home sat well off Magazine in one of the more affluent parts of New Orleans. It was situated behind and among century old live oak trees and magnolias. Their wide trunks and low-hanging limbs not only provided a certain aesthetic quality but also, more than enough privacy for the facility's residents. In the spring, the boughs of azaleas and stands of crepe myrtles scattered across the large, expansive front yard bloomed a rainbow of colors and added a certain certitude of serene ambiance.
Although the facility had a long name, and an even longer list of distinguished guests, everyone knew what it was at its core - a nursing home.
This was where the money of New Orleans- the old money, the money you read about and dream about in rags like Southern Living and Garden and Gun - was put the pasture. The home's feeble yet affluent residents had spent a lifetime earning serious bank only to become an unwanted hindrance to the lifestyles of their family and friends.
Or, maybe it was just that they had outlived their usefulness to their children.
The reason did not matter. Not really, in any case; as long as they stayed out of the public's eye and behind the walls of the home.
The beam of the car's spotlight tore through the night and played, first across the yard, then over the front-facing wall of the facility's office building. Seeing no movement, the beam shifted to the right and raked over the four story affair set farthest from the street.
It was late; so, the fact no one was milling about was not unusual, particularly when one considered the setting. Hell, the little, old people had probably eaten around four and in bed by six that evening.
The fact that not a single light shone within or around the complex - not one - was.
"Dispatch, this is N-O-three-five-six. We're on the scene," said Sergeant Armand Sarasse between bites of the muffaletta.
"Roger that, three-five-six," came the dispatcher's response. It wasn't Nan, whom he'd had a thing with, and his mood immediately soured. Nan always made sure he stayed out of trouble. The person on the other end sounded like Cindy, who did not know the score. "Have you confirmed all clear with the staff?"
Sergeant Sarasse took another bite of the muffaletta and chewed. He'd been waiting all night for his bastard of a go-getting newbie to stop long enough for him to make the order. Consequently, he was damned sure going to savor every bite. Finally, he managed to choke down enough to croak over the remaining bread and olive mixture, "Negative, dispatch. Everything looks quiet on this end, though."
There was a second's pause in the communication before a new voice was on the line. It was Sarasse's boss, Captain Dupart, "Armaaand..." Dupart spoke with one of the slowest, most extraordinary Southern drawls on the planet, "...ah need muah than that, and so does the Commishunah. So you git yah ass up there and check in the with the good director, yah heeyah?"
Sarasse dropped his sandwich back in its paper wrapper, disgusted at the level of micromanagement he had just been party to. He white-knuckled the radio and, through gritted his teeth, said, "Yes sir. Checking in with the good director now. Will report back once we've satisfactorily met your demands."
He was pushing the envelope, but he did not care. It was an old folks home, for god's sake. What could possibly be happening that was so bad.
"Roger that, three-five-six." It was the girl's voice again.
Sarasse mumbled something about how it used to be as he folded the paper back over his muffaletta. He was extra careful to ensure the tape held. Once done, he looked to his partner, Mike Fornet. Fornet was six months out of the academy and a hard-core Catholic and family man. Additionally, the young policeman was a real hard-charger, which served only to twist Sarasse's underoos into a bunch. Mike Fornet was the man he had been sixteen years ago, and the older mentor despised him for it.
"Meat," said the older cop to his understudy. He used the vernacular meant to identify a rookie in the movie Bull Durham. "I'll handle this. You'd just fuck it up, somehow."
Fornet gritted his teeth and tried to rip the steering wheel off its column. He knew, as a rookie , he would take a lot of grief, but this shit was getting old. Instead of lashing out, though, Officer Mike Fornet kept his mouth shut.
Sarasse walked briskly up the drive and took the half dozen steps in front of the office part of the complex three at a time. Something in the way he moved caused Fornet's eyes to slit.
The old, fat man is scared.
Mike may have only been a cop - his dream since childhood - for six months, but he had seen enough in his life to recognize fear. He was also smart enough to act on it. He hopped out, skirted around the vehicle, and popped the trunk. Never taking his eyes off Sergeant Sarasse, he grabbed the duffel bag therein.
Armand knocked on the office door.
No answer.
The second time, he beat on the door and announced his presence, "Police! Open the door!"
Nothing.
He peaked through the windows that flanked the door, and shined his light into the darkness of the office. Nothing seemed out of place except for the overturned garbage can at the foot of one of the desks. He could easily rationalize that was the casualty of a hurried worker more intent on getting home at a decent hour. Other than that, it was your typical run of the mill office. Still though, something was not right here. Something was scratching at the back of his mind. It was like a word that was stuck on the tip of his tongue. He knew what it was; he just could not form the words to describe it.
Whatever it was, he knew it was not just nothing. There was definitely something.
He turned back to the car and motioned toward the residence halls, "Gonna check that door, meat. Then, we're outta here."
Fornet tossed the duffel onto the backseat, gave him a wave, and sat back in the driver's seat.
Maybe it's nothing, he thought to himself just as he noticed the wind direction had changed slightly. With it came a new set of smells that were as unmistakeable as they were vomit-inducing.
Fornet's blood ran cold.
With the speed of a man possessed, he jumped from the car and ripped the duffel open. Up ahead, he noticed Sarasse's light freeze, flick downward, then it play slowly over the ground toward the residential hall's door.
For Mike Fornet, a long-buried memory dredged itself up from the darkest places within his mind.
***
Nearly ten years ago...
He had been raised on a cattle farm outside of Bogalusa,
Louisiana. His parents were loving but firm with he and his two younger brothers and baby sister. One
day, as Mike and his dad were checking on the small herd, they happened
upon three dead cows.
But, they were not just dead.
They had been mauled, gutted, and, judging by the jagged, gaping wounds over their bodies, eaten. Something huge had carried out their tortuous end. That much was certain. Over
the next few days, they lost more of the herd - nearly half, in fact. Mike's dad,
thinking it was most likely a pack of coyotes, began hunting the nuisances and dogging them, both day
and night. Mike, being the oldest, was allowed to skip school and ride
the farm roads with his dad. After a few fruitless days and nights,
and with none of the other cattle harmed, the family was ready to believe the pack had moved on.
But, Mike and his dad decided to give it one more night, and they would live to regret it.
It happened around one in the morning. They were both exhausted, and Mike's dad had finally decided enough was enough. Mike was just beginning to drift off to sleep when his dad slowly maneuvered his old truck through a narrow gap in the fence. The fence line had long ago become overgrown with privet hedge and persimmon trees, thus they could not see into the next field until they were actually in the next field.
By then, it was too late.
The truck bounced through the gap and came to an instant halt that was so swift and violent that Mike was thrown into the dash. His dad's mouth gaped open, and Mike followed his gaze out into the field. At the edge of the lights stood a beast beyond imagining. In fact, one's imagination is the only place the creature should have ever been found. It was huge - at least a head taller than his dad - with muscles that rippled in the truck lights. It had long fangs that dripped drool and was covered in course, black fur.
The werewolf was dragging one of their prized Brahman bulls. A full sized bull.
The thing stared at them with hate-filled, yellow eyes for several seconds before leaping into the night. It never bothered or threatened them, but it leaped into the darkness carrying an eighteen hundred pound Brahman bull like it was a sack of potatoes.
Mike's dad lost it. In fact, that very night, he packed up a week's worth of clothes and drove his family to New Orleans. He wanted to be in the big city where nothing weird ever happened.
The farm sold within the month, though none of the Fornet's ever stepped back onto the property. They were done with country living. Mike and his dad both ended up needing counseling, and it was during one of these sessions several years later that Mike was introduced to a gentleman with salt and pepper hair and a patch over his right eye.
His name was Admiral Bartavious Briggs, and he had a job offer for Mike.
***
Happening right now...
Armand Sarasse spent most of his adult life as a member of the New Orleans Police Department. To the younger cops on the force, he was fond of saying I've seen it all and done it all, but no one ever gave me any fuckin' T-shirt.
Whether or not the phrase held water did not matter. Not now, anyway.
Sarasse was halfway between the offices and the residence hall when he noticed a slight shift in the breeze. Almost immediately he registered a heady, pungent smell that nearly overwhelmed his senses. The stench was a gorge erupting miasma of the sickly sweet tinged with a coppery bite.
He froze as cold fear threatened to paralyze him in a terrifying hammerlock.
Shit and blood was the thought that slammed into Sarasse's gray matter.
Like a crazed, jig-saw puzzle, the answers to what had been scratching at the back of his mind fell into place. It was not the garbage can lying on its side that was off.
It was the floor.
It had been black.
The same black that now flowed like a river from under the door of the residence building.
Blood...Christ-almighty! screamed Armand's mind followed closely by a true scream, "Meat!"
His voice was drowned out by a crash. It came from high above and erupted from the fourth floor of the building. He looked up just in time to see a window explode in a shower of glass. He followed the arc of something that was initially unidentifiable fly from the window, through the air, and crash into the hood of his police car.
It was a torso, and only a torso.
No head, no arms, and no legs; just a bloody bag of meat whose entrails spilled out onto the ground.
Sarasse nearly lost his stomach at the hell-inspired sight. Instead, he held it together and, out of a primal sense of survival, lunged from the sidewalk and ran pell-mell across the yard. Halfway across the expanse, he tripped on one of the oak trees' large roots, and the earth was yanked out from under him. He hit the ground with a thud and a snap and was immediately visited by a blistering hot pain that shot up his leg. This time, he did vomit.
Who wouldn't, when your own bone is poking your leg?
He was still struggling with the shock of a broken leg, when, from a window high above, came yet another unnerving sound.
It was the laughter of a child.
Whether or not the phrase held water did not matter. Not now, anyway.
Sarasse was halfway between the offices and the residence hall when he noticed a slight shift in the breeze. Almost immediately he registered a heady, pungent smell that nearly overwhelmed his senses. The stench was a gorge erupting miasma of the sickly sweet tinged with a coppery bite.
He froze as cold fear threatened to paralyze him in a terrifying hammerlock.
Shit and blood was the thought that slammed into Sarasse's gray matter.
Like a crazed, jig-saw puzzle, the answers to what had been scratching at the back of his mind fell into place. It was not the garbage can lying on its side that was off.
It was the floor.
It had been black.
The same black that now flowed like a river from under the door of the residence building.
Blood...Christ-almighty! screamed Armand's mind followed closely by a true scream, "Meat!"
His voice was drowned out by a crash. It came from high above and erupted from the fourth floor of the building. He looked up just in time to see a window explode in a shower of glass. He followed the arc of something that was initially unidentifiable fly from the window, through the air, and crash into the hood of his police car.
It was a torso, and only a torso.
No head, no arms, and no legs; just a bloody bag of meat whose entrails spilled out onto the ground.
Sarasse nearly lost his stomach at the hell-inspired sight. Instead, he held it together and, out of a primal sense of survival, lunged from the sidewalk and ran pell-mell across the yard. Halfway across the expanse, he tripped on one of the oak trees' large roots, and the earth was yanked out from under him. He hit the ground with a thud and a snap and was immediately visited by a blistering hot pain that shot up his leg. This time, he did vomit.
Who wouldn't, when your own bone is poking your leg?
He was still struggling with the shock of a broken leg, when, from a window high above, came yet another unnerving sound.
It was the laughter of a child.
***
Fornet pulled out the gun first.
It was a suppressed HK MP7. Lithely, he slammed a magazine of silver ammo into the well and slung the weapon over his shoulder. He then palmed the encrypted satellite phone and dialed a number very few humans on the planet were privy to.
His heart was racing, and his fingers refused to work as they normally would. This was made worse by Sergeant Sarasse screaming his name just before a window on the upper level of the building exploded. From the window flew an object that caused his mouth to fail even as the nondescript voice on the other end requested his immediate identification. Unable to oblige the request, he dove to the ground in order to avoid being hit by the object which crushed the hood of the police car.
Something hot, wet, and...stringy fell across his back and shoulders. It was blood, gallons of blood, and intestines.
They were joined quickly by Fornet's lunch from earlier that day.
He rolled to his feet and, with a shaky voice, answered the SKUL operator on the other end, "This is SI-2, serial number Mike-Foxtrot-eight-five-eight-six-seven-Sierra-India-two. Fornet, Michael. I'm in contact with a werewolf at..."
His voice caught in his throat as the giggling laughter of a child rolled across the lawn with unholy force. It was the ethereal laughter of the immortals...the blood crazed. A split second later it was joined by another.
"Check that, I'm in contact with two werewolves, possibly children, at..."
CHAPTER ONE
Insurance and Aliens
The vehicle materialized out of the darkness and was on him before he realized it. It was a blacked out, four wheel drive Suburban that moved down the street slowly yet with purpose. It was running dark, meaning no lights. Why, or better yet, how Fornet did not know.
He was not really sure he wanted to know, either.
For a long moment - much too long for comfort - nothing moved within the vehicle. In fact, it idled so quietly, Mike could barely tell the big vehicle was still running at all. It just sat there, silently and still, like a black widow sizing up its next meal. Finally, when he did not think he could stand it any longer, four doors opened simultaneously, and five pairs of boots hit the ground. Four men took up positions on the cardinal points of a compass while the fifth strode purposefully over to his position.
With each step, his boots thumped menacingly across the pavement.
Thump thump thump thump...
Immediately, Mike changed his mind and wished the doors would have never opened.
The men - aliens, robots, whatever the fuck they were - were heavily armed, that much was certain. They all carried assault rifles and pistols. The latter were either holstered on heavily muscled thighs, at the hip, or in a cross draw position along the upper chest. The former were scoped and were being trained into the night. A couple had strange looking shotgun type weapons slung across their back, and yet another had a large axe strapped to his back. Strangely enough, the men had sheathed tomahawks held in various positions of their thighs, hips and chests, as well.
And, to Mike's shock, that was just the tip of the iceberg. It got weird from there. Real, real weird.
For starters, their body armor - which incidentally covered their entire body and left not an inch of skin exposed - looked like something straight out of one of those futuristic, first-person shooter video games. Or, maybe it was armor from a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. Fornet had no clue, but the thought of it made his head hurt.
Topping things off - literally - were their full-faced helmets with evil looking lenses set at severe angles. The helmets looked like the face of the alien in the Predator movies.
The boot steps stopped, and the man - alien, robot, whatever - asked in a flat, metallic voice that sounded digitized, "You Fornet?" Exactly three seconds passed with Fornet staring blankly at the thing in front of him. "Sir, are you Mike Fornet?"
Even through the digitization a kind yet professional feeling came through with the voice. It was this that shook Mike back to reality, "Yeah..." He looked around quickly, "...yeah, I'm Fornet."
"And, did you make the call tonight?" asked the robotic voice.
"Yeah, that was me." He fingered the safety of his MP7 nervously. "And, you are?"
"I'm...here to help."
The helmet turned back to its friends and nodded. One of the other men - aliens, robots, whatever - reached into the back of the Surburban, and pulled out a briefcase. He then ran to the guy standing in front of Mike, and handed the case off.
The one who had been speaking with Mike was the apparently leader, "Tell the guys Grindstone's a go. We move in five."
The other snapped a nod and moved back into position.
The one who had been speaking with Mike was the apparently leader, "Tell the guys Grindstone's a go. We move in five."
The other snapped a nod and moved back into position.
The case was then handed to Mike. The two men in previous possession of the case had given no reason for him to believe the it was heavy, but when he grabbed the handle, he was nearly thrown ass-over-tea-kettle by the weight of whatever was held within. He dropped the case but was careful not to set it down on a toe.
"What the hell is in this thing?" he asked.
"You'll call it silver. Lots and lots of silver. We just call it insurance," said the voice through what looked like filters on the front of the helmet.
"Insurance?" he asked though he already knew the answer.
"Yeah, insurance." Even though he could not see the eyes behind the helmet, he felt them bearing down on him. "The kind that insures you keep your mouth shut about all this. Anyway, the silver's in bar form. It's unmarked and untraceable, but I wouldn't go on a Walmart shopping spree with it. Tends to draw attention. You need to diversify your portfolio, Mike. Convert it to cash, slowly. Maybe buy the old lady and kid something nice...then bury the rest in your back yard."
Mike's mind was blunt, and he was having a hard time coming to terms with the night. There had been an inordinate amount of blood and guts caused by what sounded like children. Then, there were these heavily armed, alien-like individuals - one of which was now giving him financial advice - standing only feet from him, and lastly, there was his partner, Sergeant Sarasse, lying across the backseat of the patrol car with a bone poking through his skin at a really odd angle.
The thought Oh Jesus Christ flashed through his brain immediately before he involuntarily blurted, "Oh Jesus Christ! My partner's pretty banged up."
"Yeah, I heard. He in the car?"
Mike nodded, "Back seat."
The helmeted man waved another forward and said, "Check him out."
A minute later the dark figure reported, "Compound fracture. Dude's in bad shape. His respiration and heart rates were through the roof so I hit him with a heavy dose of morphine. But, this dude needs a doc like an hour ago."
The leader nodded then turned back to Mike, "Car run?"
"Yeah," he confirmed, "checked just after I made the call."
"Outstanding," said the other. "You know how to get to the closest ER from here?"
"I do. I'm in there once every few nights," Fornet said evenly. He was focused like never before. "It's only a couple minutes away."
"Good, get your man there, and get him patched up." The black, armored, and helmeted soldier turned to walk back to the car.
Mike, feeling more than a little hung out to dry, exclaimed, "How the hell am I going to explain this?"
The soldier turned back to Mike, "No worries, man. It's handled already." He paused, and Mike could sense the urgency hidden within the robotic voice, "Look, you've done some good work here tonight. Keep the phone, and use the number any time you even think you've come across a savage. But, right now, you need to get out of here and let us do work."
Mike Fornet nodded and, without another word, hopped in the trashed police car and sped off.
As the car rounded the corner and disappeared, Dax Nguyen - former Ranger from 2nd Battalion, and now team leader of Foxtrot platoon's Cobra team - looked to his men, "Let's do this shit."
They fell into a loose patrol with five meter spacing between each man. Dax patrolled from his usual position behind the team's point man, Melvin Shivers - another Ranger from the same platoon. He and Melvin - Mel to his teammates - were as close as brothers and had been best friends since their days in RIP or the Ranger Indoctrination Program. Though they sloshed through a half inch deep river of blood that lead to the residential hall, the men were unfazed. They had each been here a thousand times before. Silently, they stacked up on either side of the door. Just before executing the mission, laughter that seemed to fill every miniscule space at once rolled over the grounds.
It was the laughter of children.
Two of them.
Each SKUL operator took a second for himself for he knew not what the future held.
The werewolves knew they were coming.
"Insurance?" he asked though he already knew the answer.
"Yeah, insurance." Even though he could not see the eyes behind the helmet, he felt them bearing down on him. "The kind that insures you keep your mouth shut about all this. Anyway, the silver's in bar form. It's unmarked and untraceable, but I wouldn't go on a Walmart shopping spree with it. Tends to draw attention. You need to diversify your portfolio, Mike. Convert it to cash, slowly. Maybe buy the old lady and kid something nice...then bury the rest in your back yard."
Mike's mind was blunt, and he was having a hard time coming to terms with the night. There had been an inordinate amount of blood and guts caused by what sounded like children. Then, there were these heavily armed, alien-like individuals - one of which was now giving him financial advice - standing only feet from him, and lastly, there was his partner, Sergeant Sarasse, lying across the backseat of the patrol car with a bone poking through his skin at a really odd angle.
The thought Oh Jesus Christ flashed through his brain immediately before he involuntarily blurted, "Oh Jesus Christ! My partner's pretty banged up."
"Yeah, I heard. He in the car?"
Mike nodded, "Back seat."
The helmeted man waved another forward and said, "Check him out."
A minute later the dark figure reported, "Compound fracture. Dude's in bad shape. His respiration and heart rates were through the roof so I hit him with a heavy dose of morphine. But, this dude needs a doc like an hour ago."
The leader nodded then turned back to Mike, "Car run?"
"Yeah," he confirmed, "checked just after I made the call."
"Outstanding," said the other. "You know how to get to the closest ER from here?"
"I do. I'm in there once every few nights," Fornet said evenly. He was focused like never before. "It's only a couple minutes away."
"Good, get your man there, and get him patched up." The black, armored, and helmeted soldier turned to walk back to the car.
Mike, feeling more than a little hung out to dry, exclaimed, "How the hell am I going to explain this?"
The soldier turned back to Mike, "No worries, man. It's handled already." He paused, and Mike could sense the urgency hidden within the robotic voice, "Look, you've done some good work here tonight. Keep the phone, and use the number any time you even think you've come across a savage. But, right now, you need to get out of here and let us do work."
Mike Fornet nodded and, without another word, hopped in the trashed police car and sped off.
As the car rounded the corner and disappeared, Dax Nguyen - former Ranger from 2nd Battalion, and now team leader of Foxtrot platoon's Cobra team - looked to his men, "Let's do this shit."
They fell into a loose patrol with five meter spacing between each man. Dax patrolled from his usual position behind the team's point man, Melvin Shivers - another Ranger from the same platoon. He and Melvin - Mel to his teammates - were as close as brothers and had been best friends since their days in RIP or the Ranger Indoctrination Program. Though they sloshed through a half inch deep river of blood that lead to the residential hall, the men were unfazed. They had each been here a thousand times before. Silently, they stacked up on either side of the door. Just before executing the mission, laughter that seemed to fill every miniscule space at once rolled over the grounds.
It was the laughter of children.
Two of them.
Each SKUL operator took a second for himself for he knew not what the future held.
The werewolves knew they were coming.
CHAPTER TWO
Operation Grindstone
Operation Grindstone
One could take every horror flick ever filmed and every ghost story ever written, toss them out on the floor of the nursing home, and their combined gruesomeness would not come close to equaling what met Cobra team's eyes. They entered the building silently, made their way across a small welcoming area, and entered the common room. Systematically, they fanned out, each with a sector of priority, and easily dominated the room.
Only, there was nothing to dominate...save for one's own fears.
Cobra stood in the room where the residents mingled, watched TV, told the same old stories for the hundredth time, and played board games to keep their minds sharp. Large and palatial, the common area was the equivalent of a hotel lobby with only the change in furniture to mark a different area of the room.
One by one, the SKUL shooters acknowledged, Clear! over the intra-squad communications link. Though there was zero hesitation in the warriors' movements, even the most hardened of souls would pause at the scene. The floor itself was slick with blood, piss, and shit; and, even through their respirators, the smell was nearly overwhelming. The walls had been freshly painted in bold, bloody letters that spelled out phrases like WELCOME TO HELL and THEY ARE COMING and YOU'RE ALL GOING TO DIE.
Worse than that were the bodies. They were strewn about the room, and all of them had been eviscerated and flayed to varying and ever more nauseating degrees.
In one corner of the room, two headless bodies had been propped up at a chess board. Their thermal signatures - as noted by the operator's helmet standing before the scene - registered just over ninety degrees Fahrenheit.
They had been dead for quite some time.
The pieces of the board had been replaced by their own fingers, and their heads sat in their laps, where they stared back at each other through lifeless eyes. On the couch, were several others. Each of them had been ripped open from their throat to their waistline. The middle body held a box of popcorn, only it did not contain popcorn. Rather, it held a bloody amalgamation of eyeballs of varying colors. They had been cut with surgical precision from those that sat on the couch. Lying across the coffee table was an arm belonging to the man sitting on the right side of the couch.
The appendage still gripped the TV remote.
Nearest to the community kitchen, two women sat at a round, white table eating from what Dax initially thought to be a bowl of spaghetti. It was only when he looked closer that he realized the bowl was really filled with intestines. From afar, the women looked to have been posed to highlight the two locked in blissful laughter. In reality, their mouths had been ripped open.
As if on cue, the upper half of one of the heads wobbled then fell to the floor, exposing the tongue and leaving only a bloody stump with her lower jaw still attached.
"Dax...," came the familiar yet horrified voice of Hootch, the team's medic, over the intra-squad comm link, "I got a live one."
The Mad Hatter, Mike Hatterstaut, and Potter, Tim Wizario, fell in and covered Dax, Mel, and Hootch as they cautiously closed on the wall where an old lady had been crucified. Her arms were splayed and humongous railroad ties, hammered into the studs behind the sheet rock, held her in place. Her breasts had been lopped off and sat on the floor in greasy blobs. Worst yet were her lips. They had been sutured together by a black thread, the size of which was god-awful. The thermal readout within the helmet said her temperature was only slightly elevated, like she had a light fever, and her heart rate, while rapid, was only just so.
The three stepped forward to try and get her down from the wall when suddenly her eyes flicked open.
The men stopped.
The woman's thermal readout began climbing at an alarming rate, and her heart rate tripled instantaneously. A sickly, yellow color bled into her eyes as she peeled herself off the wall.
They wasted no time, and each man fired two controlled rounds - six silver slugs total - from point blank range.
The woman had been bitten, and was beginning to turn. The bite on her back shoulder remained unseen until she came down from her perch. Now lying on her face, the men saw the telltale signs of a werewolf bite. The size, much smaller than any bite the SKUL shooters had ever seen, lead the team to think that these werewolves were mere children.
The giggling began again in earnest, and now the men could discern the distinct harmonics of a boy and a girl.
"How many residents are in here?" demanded Dax across the unit's comm link. The others heard his voice plainly though the room remained as quiet as a tomb.
"I count eighteen, nineteen...maybe twenty," replied the Mad Hatter, Cobra's ATL, quickly. He then added, "Damned impossible to be sure, though."
"Understood," acknowledged Dax. "Mel, what was the number of residents on the manifest?"
"Twenty-seven," replied the team's point man, "Three were being taken care of on the medical wing - second floor - so the others are probably still in their rooms. Probably dead, too."
"Roger that." He looked around at the carnage in the room then commented, "They're above us. Stairs?"
Hootch pointed, "At the end of that hall."
Dax began moving, "Let's end this."
Mel slapped him across the chest, "Know your role, bro. I walk point. You fuckin' get your ass back there were a good officer should be."
Unseen behind the helmet's lenses, Dax glared at him but acquiesced and allowed his oldest and best friend to take the lead.
Only, there was nothing to dominate...save for one's own fears.
Cobra stood in the room where the residents mingled, watched TV, told the same old stories for the hundredth time, and played board games to keep their minds sharp. Large and palatial, the common area was the equivalent of a hotel lobby with only the change in furniture to mark a different area of the room.
One by one, the SKUL shooters acknowledged, Clear! over the intra-squad communications link. Though there was zero hesitation in the warriors' movements, even the most hardened of souls would pause at the scene. The floor itself was slick with blood, piss, and shit; and, even through their respirators, the smell was nearly overwhelming. The walls had been freshly painted in bold, bloody letters that spelled out phrases like WELCOME TO HELL and THEY ARE COMING and YOU'RE ALL GOING TO DIE.
Worse than that were the bodies. They were strewn about the room, and all of them had been eviscerated and flayed to varying and ever more nauseating degrees.
In one corner of the room, two headless bodies had been propped up at a chess board. Their thermal signatures - as noted by the operator's helmet standing before the scene - registered just over ninety degrees Fahrenheit.
They had been dead for quite some time.
The pieces of the board had been replaced by their own fingers, and their heads sat in their laps, where they stared back at each other through lifeless eyes. On the couch, were several others. Each of them had been ripped open from their throat to their waistline. The middle body held a box of popcorn, only it did not contain popcorn. Rather, it held a bloody amalgamation of eyeballs of varying colors. They had been cut with surgical precision from those that sat on the couch. Lying across the coffee table was an arm belonging to the man sitting on the right side of the couch.
The appendage still gripped the TV remote.
Nearest to the community kitchen, two women sat at a round, white table eating from what Dax initially thought to be a bowl of spaghetti. It was only when he looked closer that he realized the bowl was really filled with intestines. From afar, the women looked to have been posed to highlight the two locked in blissful laughter. In reality, their mouths had been ripped open.
As if on cue, the upper half of one of the heads wobbled then fell to the floor, exposing the tongue and leaving only a bloody stump with her lower jaw still attached.
"Dax...," came the familiar yet horrified voice of Hootch, the team's medic, over the intra-squad comm link, "I got a live one."
The Mad Hatter, Mike Hatterstaut, and Potter, Tim Wizario, fell in and covered Dax, Mel, and Hootch as they cautiously closed on the wall where an old lady had been crucified. Her arms were splayed and humongous railroad ties, hammered into the studs behind the sheet rock, held her in place. Her breasts had been lopped off and sat on the floor in greasy blobs. Worst yet were her lips. They had been sutured together by a black thread, the size of which was god-awful. The thermal readout within the helmet said her temperature was only slightly elevated, like she had a light fever, and her heart rate, while rapid, was only just so.
The three stepped forward to try and get her down from the wall when suddenly her eyes flicked open.
The men stopped.
The woman's thermal readout began climbing at an alarming rate, and her heart rate tripled instantaneously. A sickly, yellow color bled into her eyes as she peeled herself off the wall.
They wasted no time, and each man fired two controlled rounds - six silver slugs total - from point blank range.
The woman had been bitten, and was beginning to turn. The bite on her back shoulder remained unseen until she came down from her perch. Now lying on her face, the men saw the telltale signs of a werewolf bite. The size, much smaller than any bite the SKUL shooters had ever seen, lead the team to think that these werewolves were mere children.
The giggling began again in earnest, and now the men could discern the distinct harmonics of a boy and a girl.
"How many residents are in here?" demanded Dax across the unit's comm link. The others heard his voice plainly though the room remained as quiet as a tomb.
"I count eighteen, nineteen...maybe twenty," replied the Mad Hatter, Cobra's ATL, quickly. He then added, "Damned impossible to be sure, though."
"Understood," acknowledged Dax. "Mel, what was the number of residents on the manifest?"
"Twenty-seven," replied the team's point man, "Three were being taken care of on the medical wing - second floor - so the others are probably still in their rooms. Probably dead, too."
"Roger that." He looked around at the carnage in the room then commented, "They're above us. Stairs?"
Hootch pointed, "At the end of that hall."
Dax began moving, "Let's end this."
Mel slapped him across the chest, "Know your role, bro. I walk point. You fuckin' get your ass back there were a good officer should be."
Unseen behind the helmet's lenses, Dax glared at him but acquiesced and allowed his oldest and best friend to take the lead.
***
The first two floors yielded nothing more than they were expecting - mostly empty rooms with the occasional non-surprise of a dead body murdered in grotesque fashion. The dead matched with the number on the manifest; so, as the men in Cobra team looked up the last flight of stairs, they came to terms with what was coming and what could happen.
The giggling - quiet for some time - began anew and was so loud now that it hurt their ears.
With silent steps, a figure stepped onto the fourth floor landing of the staircase and glared at the team through sick, yellow eyes. It was smaller than the average American male by at least a foot and covered in stiff, blood-matted fur that looked like gory dreadlocks straight from a nightmare. What little bit was not blood covered told the team the savage's fur color was gray.
Suddenly, it changed, and in a split second, a small boy - ten, maybe twelve years old - was standing above them on the landing.
It giggled, the sound so sweet it was noxious to their ears, "You've finally come." The boy-thing clapped his hands together lightly, "We've waited so long. I'm afraid some of the guests are...somewhat ripe."
Clap...Clap
Melvin's suppressed HK 416 rattled off two, very controlled, very precise rounds that entered the frontal lobe of the savage less than a centimeter apart. The walls and door leading to the fourth floor hallway were coated in the ichorous, green blood that belonged to the immortals. He was moving up the stairs before the werewolf hit the ground. The team followed closely on his heels.
"Damn things always wanna talk," Mel said over the comm link as he and the rest of Cobra stacked up on either side of the door. "Why do they always wanna fuckin' talk so damned much?"
"Arrogance?" answered Dax over his left shoulder.
"Could be, or maybe it's just ignorance," returned Mel.
"Ah," interrupted Tim Wizario - codenamed Potter, "I hate to interrupt what I'm sure is about to be one of the more intelligent conversations I've heard in my lifetime, but - and I do so hate to be a bother - Mel, since you're the breacher and all, do you think you could breach the damned door so we can get on with it?"
Dax and Mel turned back and gave a shrug that said point taken.
Mel never did get to breach that doorway, however. The savage performed the breach for him as it crashed through the door, grabbed him by the neck and shoulders with its tooth-filled maw, and disappeared down the long, fourth floor hallway before any of the others could blink. Noting the sparks that trailed in their wake, the four remaining operators knew two things instantly. The first was that Mel was being bitten and pummeled by the savage. The second, and even more frightening revelation, was that the operator's KtacS suit was quickly being rendered useless.
It took less than two seconds for the team to recover, and when they did, all pretense of silence was thrown out the door. Concern for their own safety was abandoned as well.
It was just four men running full tilt into the unknown after a werewolf and their downed friend.
With silent steps, a figure stepped onto the fourth floor landing of the staircase and glared at the team through sick, yellow eyes. It was smaller than the average American male by at least a foot and covered in stiff, blood-matted fur that looked like gory dreadlocks straight from a nightmare. What little bit was not blood covered told the team the savage's fur color was gray.
Suddenly, it changed, and in a split second, a small boy - ten, maybe twelve years old - was standing above them on the landing.
It giggled, the sound so sweet it was noxious to their ears, "You've finally come." The boy-thing clapped his hands together lightly, "We've waited so long. I'm afraid some of the guests are...somewhat ripe."
Clap...Clap
Melvin's suppressed HK 416 rattled off two, very controlled, very precise rounds that entered the frontal lobe of the savage less than a centimeter apart. The walls and door leading to the fourth floor hallway were coated in the ichorous, green blood that belonged to the immortals. He was moving up the stairs before the werewolf hit the ground. The team followed closely on his heels.
"Damn things always wanna talk," Mel said over the comm link as he and the rest of Cobra stacked up on either side of the door. "Why do they always wanna fuckin' talk so damned much?"
"Arrogance?" answered Dax over his left shoulder.
"Could be, or maybe it's just ignorance," returned Mel.
"Ah," interrupted Tim Wizario - codenamed Potter, "I hate to interrupt what I'm sure is about to be one of the more intelligent conversations I've heard in my lifetime, but - and I do so hate to be a bother - Mel, since you're the breacher and all, do you think you could breach the damned door so we can get on with it?"
Dax and Mel turned back and gave a shrug that said point taken.
Mel never did get to breach that doorway, however. The savage performed the breach for him as it crashed through the door, grabbed him by the neck and shoulders with its tooth-filled maw, and disappeared down the long, fourth floor hallway before any of the others could blink. Noting the sparks that trailed in their wake, the four remaining operators knew two things instantly. The first was that Mel was being bitten and pummeled by the savage. The second, and even more frightening revelation, was that the operator's KtacS suit was quickly being rendered useless.
It took less than two seconds for the team to recover, and when they did, all pretense of silence was thrown out the door. Concern for their own safety was abandoned as well.
It was just four men running full tilt into the unknown after a werewolf and their downed friend.
***
Dax and the others entered the dark hallway at a run. The savage bloomed white hot in their thermals for a split second before it ducked behind the corner at the far end of the hallway. Even though the savage appeared in their view for only a split second, it was enough time for the seasoned shooters to note the scene and see the werewolf was dragging Mel. This offered them as clear a field of fire as they could hope for, and so; the team fired several rounds downrange in a very controlled cadence. The bullets passed dangerously close - mere centimeters, in fact - around and over Dax's shoulders as he bounded down the hall.
In the quick visual he had been afforded, Dax noted that Mel had lost his rifle, and he was struggling to grasp the silver tomahawk sheathed along his thigh.
Dax and the others rounded the corner and slid to a halt. Their weapons were trained on the savage lying belly up. Mel's tomahawk was buried to the hilt in her chest with only the backside dagger and long handle visible. She - the thing had now changed into its human form - was scrambling helplessly away from Mel. The operator, his best friend in the world, rolled in the opposite direction shakily and propped himself up against the wall and into a sitting position.
Dax passed Mel who waved off the Mad Hatter's helping hand with a terse yet exhausted, "I'm fine. Worry about the savage you asshole, not me!"
His voice shattered the silence of the hallway and caused Dax to turn his head quickly. Cobra TL's blood ran cold, and his stomach turned to bile. Mel's helmet had been ripped off his head, and the KtacS suit showed obvious signs of insult.
He could not worry about that now; he had a job to finish.
He turned back to the savage who had crawled behind a faux decorative shrub and into a corner. Dax approached cautiously and kicked the potted, plastic plant aside.
The werewolf - a girl a little older than the boy - coughed up green blood that she tried to wipe away. Her head lolled on top of her shoulders. She was already dead. She just did not know it yet.
"You killed my brother," she sniffed.
"You killed a few dozen people here tonight; so, I'd say we're even," countered Dax evenly.
"We just wanted to play with them," she pouted, and Dax was shocked at how much this werewolf sounded like his own, young daughter when she did not get her way. "You ruined our playtime!"
She coughed again, and more blood sprayed over the little girl's body.
Until tonight, SKUL had never been alerted to these two werewolves, and Dax needed answers. He was working on a limited time frame, and the werewolf was living on borrowed time.
He pressed.
"Who are you?" the question was elementary, and he definitely did not expect an answer.
Instead, the young girl's eyes changed. They did not yellow - the harbinger to a werewolf changing - but rather, they became old.
Ancient almost.
"My name is Virginia Dare, and that was my little brother, Thomas."
"Virginia Dare," said Potter over Dax's shoulder, "as in Virginia Dare from the Lost Colony of Roanoke?"
The little girl nodded and coughed simultaneously, "I was turned by an ancient Croatan medicine man just before the siege of the colony."
Tim Wizario, apparently a history buff - who knew - took over the conversation, "You were the first English born child in the New World. There was never any mention of a brother and the colony went missing shortly thereafter."
She giggled. It was the same sweetly nauseating sound they had been dealing with all night. It felt like it was in their heads, turning their brains to mush. "I didn't say he was my real brother, silly," she coughed again, and Dax thought she was gone for a split second. Her chest rose and fell very quickly and very shallowly. She had to force her eyes open. This time the yellow was bleeding into her schlera, "I wanted a playmate; so, I turned him." Her body shook, and she hugged herself in ways no preteen should. Her voice became a purr of ecstasy, "I turned your friend, too."
Dax's blood turned to ice. There was no denying it now.
"So, you and Thomas were the only survivors of Roanoke Colony?" Potter asked, unable to hide the incredulity on his voice.
Dare coughed blood then smiled, "I'm not saying we survived Roanoke. I'm saying we destroyed it."
Dax moved closer, but her voice stopped him cold, "They're close, you know? Close to figuring it all out."
"Who, Virginia?" Dax demanded. "Who's close to figuring what out?"
The little savage managed another giggle and as her green, ichorous blood poured from her mouth, she sang in a sweet little voice, "You're all going to DIE."
"Maybe so..."
Clap Clap...Clap Clap Clap
"...but not tonight."
Dax ended the conversation with two to the head and three to the chest.
In the quick visual he had been afforded, Dax noted that Mel had lost his rifle, and he was struggling to grasp the silver tomahawk sheathed along his thigh.
Dax and the others rounded the corner and slid to a halt. Their weapons were trained on the savage lying belly up. Mel's tomahawk was buried to the hilt in her chest with only the backside dagger and long handle visible. She - the thing had now changed into its human form - was scrambling helplessly away from Mel. The operator, his best friend in the world, rolled in the opposite direction shakily and propped himself up against the wall and into a sitting position.
Dax passed Mel who waved off the Mad Hatter's helping hand with a terse yet exhausted, "I'm fine. Worry about the savage you asshole, not me!"
His voice shattered the silence of the hallway and caused Dax to turn his head quickly. Cobra TL's blood ran cold, and his stomach turned to bile. Mel's helmet had been ripped off his head, and the KtacS suit showed obvious signs of insult.
He could not worry about that now; he had a job to finish.
He turned back to the savage who had crawled behind a faux decorative shrub and into a corner. Dax approached cautiously and kicked the potted, plastic plant aside.
The werewolf - a girl a little older than the boy - coughed up green blood that she tried to wipe away. Her head lolled on top of her shoulders. She was already dead. She just did not know it yet.
"You killed my brother," she sniffed.
"You killed a few dozen people here tonight; so, I'd say we're even," countered Dax evenly.
"We just wanted to play with them," she pouted, and Dax was shocked at how much this werewolf sounded like his own, young daughter when she did not get her way. "You ruined our playtime!"
She coughed again, and more blood sprayed over the little girl's body.
Until tonight, SKUL had never been alerted to these two werewolves, and Dax needed answers. He was working on a limited time frame, and the werewolf was living on borrowed time.
He pressed.
"Who are you?" the question was elementary, and he definitely did not expect an answer.
Instead, the young girl's eyes changed. They did not yellow - the harbinger to a werewolf changing - but rather, they became old.
Ancient almost.
"My name is Virginia Dare, and that was my little brother, Thomas."
"Virginia Dare," said Potter over Dax's shoulder, "as in Virginia Dare from the Lost Colony of Roanoke?"
The little girl nodded and coughed simultaneously, "I was turned by an ancient Croatan medicine man just before the siege of the colony."
Tim Wizario, apparently a history buff - who knew - took over the conversation, "You were the first English born child in the New World. There was never any mention of a brother and the colony went missing shortly thereafter."
She giggled. It was the same sweetly nauseating sound they had been dealing with all night. It felt like it was in their heads, turning their brains to mush. "I didn't say he was my real brother, silly," she coughed again, and Dax thought she was gone for a split second. Her chest rose and fell very quickly and very shallowly. She had to force her eyes open. This time the yellow was bleeding into her schlera, "I wanted a playmate; so, I turned him." Her body shook, and she hugged herself in ways no preteen should. Her voice became a purr of ecstasy, "I turned your friend, too."
Dax's blood turned to ice. There was no denying it now.
"So, you and Thomas were the only survivors of Roanoke Colony?" Potter asked, unable to hide the incredulity on his voice.
Dare coughed blood then smiled, "I'm not saying we survived Roanoke. I'm saying we destroyed it."
Dax moved closer, but her voice stopped him cold, "They're close, you know? Close to figuring it all out."
"Who, Virginia?" Dax demanded. "Who's close to figuring what out?"
The little savage managed another giggle and as her green, ichorous blood poured from her mouth, she sang in a sweet little voice, "You're all going to DIE."
"Maybe so..."
Clap Clap...Clap Clap Clap
"...but not tonight."
Dax ended the conversation with two to the head and three to the chest.
***
Dax whirled and found the other guys staring down at Mel. The operator, his old friend, was lying in a pool of blood that burned hot in his thermals.
Much hotter than a human's should.
Oh my God, thought Dax in a panic. No, please, no!
Mel coughed and his red blood sprayed over his tattered KtacS suit. He was struggling with his sidearm holstered on his hip. Dax ripped off his helmet and knelt so he could be eye level with his old friend. Mel defiantly held his gaze even as the beginning flood of sickly, yellow poured into his eye sockets.
Finally working his gun loose, he placed his signature Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum revolver in Dax's gloved hands and pushed it into Dax's chest. Dax suddenly remembered asking his buddy about his choice is secondary weapons.
Melvin's response had been simple - dependability.
Melvin's response had been simple - dependability.
Tears grew in the corners of Dax's eyes. That conversation had to have happened what? Ten, twelve years ago. Back then, they were just young 2nd Battalion Rangers, preparing to pop their cherries on the hard pan and shale of Afghanistan.
Melvin coughed again, and again, red blood sprayed. This time much of it over Dax.
"It's done, bro," said Melvin quietly through a smile. "It was a helluva ride, though."
Tears were falling down Dax's face, and the other operators turned away in a vain attempt to give the two some since of privacy.
"Damn straight, brother," confirmed Dax shakily. His head was swimming with memories.
"You'll tell Lara and James?"
It was not a question.
It was not a question.
"You know it."
"Make sure the boy knows, Dax." Melvin gripped Dax's forearm with a grip of steel. "He deserves to know."
Melvin's eyes were now the glowing orbs of a feral beast, and his blood held a greenish tinge to it now.
He was turning.
Dax stood, and with a shaking hand he never had in combat, took aim with Melvin's own weapon.
"I'll see you assholes on the other side," Melvin said through gritted teeth. He fought the beasts until the end.
"Go easy, bro," Dax said as strongly as he could, but his hand wavered.
Melvin nodded defiantly, then winked, "Don't be a puss on me now, Dax."
Dax took a calming breath, brought his off hand up to steady his aim, and through tear-filled eyes, whispered, "I won't..."
He squeezed the trigger, and Melvin's body bounced off the wall.
"...I promise."
EPILOGUE
New Ink, New Shooters, and Second Sons
He sat at the bar alone. He was a blight, a palsy, and no one wanted anything to do with him. The reason was simple. This was Mactavish's Pub - or Mac's, as everyone called it - and it was for SKUL shooters, operators, and pipe hitters only. There were probably other adjectives for their kind, but these sufficed for description.
The TV screen mounted above the bar pictured a pretty blond lady who was reporting on a mysterious explosion - presumed to be caused by a gas leak but, as of yet, was unconfirmed. To say the explosion leveled the nursing home where it happened would be an understatement.
The explosion vaporized it.
The TV screen mounted above the bar pictured a pretty blond lady who was reporting on a mysterious explosion - presumed to be caused by a gas leak but, as of yet, was unconfirmed. To say the explosion leveled the nursing home where it happened would be an understatement.
The explosion vaporized it.
Around him, men moved about and carried on soft conversations befitting a funeral. Tables were either stacked end to end or moved, and chairs were rearranged.
He was numb. Numb to life, and numb to death. His mind could draw no pictures save for his family and the men he had led to their deaths.
He was haunted.
Without looking, he raised a hand in the direction of the bartender. A second later, another beer and shot combination slid his way.
He was drunk.
He downed the shot and chased it with a gulp of beer. He vaguely noted another man slid into the bar stool beside him. The newcomer motioned to the bartender - Shamus Mactavish, a SKUL legend - and a beer slid into his hands.
"Drunk enough, yet?" asked Kris Metcalf, whom everyone seemed to call Twitch.
"Nowhere near where I need to be," answered Dane Stackwell. He followed with, "What's going on?"
"Cobra, a team in Foxtrot platoon, lost a good man last night," answered the young, hyperactive operator quietly. A question that normally would have spun Twitch off in a hundred different directions seemed to instantly center his thoughts. "Didn't know him, personally, but know enough to know. Anyway, this is an old SKUL tradition that dates back to the first op. Team leader loses a man; he gets inked with their serial number. Pretty heavy on the sacrilege, but it's our way of making payment across the River Styx."
Dane had noticed a muscular man of middling height earlier, and he had noticed Dane. He had Southeast Asian features, a short-cropped mohawk, and arms and legs the size of oak limbs and tree trunks. Those massive appendages were covered in tattoos.
Dane noted the man's eyes. They were those of both a leader...and a killer.
They were familiar eyes to Dane. They were his own.
They were familiar eyes to Dane. They were his own.
More men started filing through. Some were dressed in shorts and tees and were drinking beer or whiskey. Others wore the flexible body armor he had seen when he'd been picked up the day before. They palmed bottles of water. They still looked alien to Dane's eyes, but he had been told it would all make sense soon enough.
So, he drank.
"The Asian dude in the corner booth...he was the team leader wasn't he?" it was posed as a question, but it really was not. Everyone that walked up bought him a shot, placed it before him, and let him be.
"Yeah," Twitch confirmed, "that's Dax Nyugen, team leader of Cobra. He's been around awhile, and he'll be part of our cadre at some point on the island."
A pretty, redheaded, and heavily inked tattoo artist made her way to the center of the room. Dax moved out of the booth silently and took his shirt off.
"Jesus, his flank looks like a chapter of War and Peace," Dane remarked, barely able to hide his concern.
"He's seen some shit," answered Twitch matter of factly. The room grew dark, quieter than it was even a moment before. And, it had been quiet then. The younger operator tugged at Dane's arm, "C'mon man, this isn't a place we need to be."
***
Murfreesboro, Tennessee
Four months later
Knock Knock Knock
The person calling on the house wore crisp service blues and was crowned by the tan beret of the Ranger Regiment. Held tightly in the crook of one arm was an American flag, a flag that had been stuffed inside the chest rig of the owner on every operation he had been a part of. It was not a flag, not at its base level, in any case. It was a novel, and it spoke volumes about the man who carried it into battle. In the crook of the other arm was a strong box. It held things that no one could speak of in public.
A few seconds after he knocked, the door was flung open by an absolutely drop dead gorgeous black woman. Her high cheek bones and silken hair spoke of Native American heritage somewhere along the way, but Dax could see how that had never bothered Melvin.
Dayum, he thought, I forgot how good Lara looks, Mel.
Over her shoulder and past the door, he saw Mel's fourteen year old son, James, standing.
"I knew you'd come, sooner than later," Lara said tersely as she took the offered flag. Her voice was angry; yet, she gave ground and allowed him in. She could never refuse Melvin's best friend when he was alive and was not about to start now. Even so, she hated him for showing up at her doorstep. "You here to take him away from me too, Dax? Wasn't Mel enough?"
He had not been prepared for the heat in her voice, and it hurt his soul to finally understand just how much she despised him.
"Not taking anyone away from you, Lara," Dax mumbled as he pushed passed her and her angry gaze. "Just giving him the facts, and the choice, his daddy wanted him to have."
The screened, front door slammed shut, and Lara followed him through the house. Soon after, Dax presented James with the strong box he had been carrying. After being shown how to open it, James stared at its contents through tear-filled eyes. It contained old photos of past ops and long dead friends of his dad's, thousands in silver bullion, and a custom made Smith and Wesson .44 magnum revolver.
Lara held her son - who had begun to shake uncontrollably - close as Dax explained this was the weapon his daddy carried to battle. The same weapon he had killed him with.
***
Four months after that...
Mike Fornet and three other men stepped into the psychiatrist's office and faced the pretty secretary in the lobby.
"We need to speak to Dr. Shiffe," he said even as he and the other men moved passed her attempt to block the doorway.
"Dr. Shiffe is with a patient now..." she said meaningfully with her arms stretched across the door.
"I know," Mike said politely, "Mr. Armand Sarasse. We need to speak to him too."
"You can't," she pleaded, "you...have...to...wait." She said this as two of the men physically removed her from the doorway.
Mike stepped through the vacated door without knocking.
"What's the meaning of this?" demanded the doctor as he stood up.
"Dr. Shiffe," he said in an authoritative voice, "this session is over. I'll need you and your secretary to follow my men to the next room. I suggest you do exactly as they say, and this will all be over soon."
"But...but..." stammered the bewildered doctor as one of the suits led him from the room. Mike heard another series of but...buts before the door was shut again.
Sergeant Sarasse was motionless as his former partner sat at the doctor's vacated desk.
"You look like shit, Armand."
Mike was right. His former mentor wore disheveled clothing and looked like he had missed a month's worth of shaves. He smelled worse than he looked. It was a mix of whiskey and body funk that made Fornet's nose crinkle.
"Yeah, I know," admitted the Sergeant who had been placed on medical leave. "Don't sleep much anymore."
Mike nodded, "How's the leg?"
"Hurts like hell before it rains, but otherwise, I'm good."
Mike nodded again, but this time he remained silent. He was hoping he could pull the older officer out of his haze on his own accord.
It took a moment but the man finally commented, "You look good, man. Older, somehow, but good." His comments were met only with silence and a hard, icy stare that Fornet maintained throughout. Sarasse shifted uncomfortably in his seat, "Who're the suits?"
"Gentlemen from legal," Fornet acknowledged simply.
Sarasse sniffed, "Don't recognize them. They new to the department or something?"
Fornet broke his gaze with a smile, "Didn't say they were from the department."
Sarasse shifted in his seat again. Something about the way Mike was staring at him made the older officer uncomfortable. It was like he was a piece of meat being analyzed for the first bite.
"Armand, what would you say if I offered you a job within the department?" Fornet leaned over the desk, "A very special job."
This brought a chuckle from Sarasse, "I'd say you're delusional. They'd never let me back on duty. In fact, that's exactly what they called me when I began talking about what we saw and heard that night...delusional."
"You don't worry about that, it's been handled. What I'm proposing is very low visibilty...very specific..."
Fornet spent the next thirty minutes outlining a special section set up within the NOPD. The police department affiliation was just a cover for what they would really be doing - gathering intelligence in and around the city concerning the activities of werewolves. Essentially, it was a section of second tier SKUL intelligence officers who report directly the the commissioner of the police department and the voice on the end of an encrypted phone. By the end of the dissertation, Armand looked a hundred times better than he had originally. Finally hearing that werewolves do exist, and he was not crazy, lit a fire in his gut that had long been extinguished. He was shaking with excitement by the time the man from legal walked back into the room with the nondisclosure statements for him to sign.
Sarasse was told he had twenty-four hours to get cleaned up and ready to work. He was then given an encrypted satellite phone and a satchel filled to bursting with solid silver bullion. It was a second chance at life. A second chance to do good work, the type of work he had envisioned as a rookie on the force nearly two decades before. Mike gave him an address - not belonging to the New Orleans PD - to the house they would be working out of. It was a duplex down in the heart of the French Quarter.
Mike and the three suits, now joined by Armand Sarasse, walked past the doctor and his secretary. Neither would so much as look at them.
On the street, Mike told Sarasse he would see him the following morning at eight o'clock, sharp.
Before the vehicle - a blacked out Suburban - pulled away, the Sergeant asked a question that had been bothering him for a while.
"Mike, why me?"
Mike Fornet smiled, "Because I need someone I can trust...and, because I've been in your shoes before."
The vehicle pulled away, leaving Armand Sarasse to his thoughts.
"We need to speak to Dr. Shiffe," he said even as he and the other men moved passed her attempt to block the doorway.
"Dr. Shiffe is with a patient now..." she said meaningfully with her arms stretched across the door.
"I know," Mike said politely, "Mr. Armand Sarasse. We need to speak to him too."
"You can't," she pleaded, "you...have...to...wait." She said this as two of the men physically removed her from the doorway.
Mike stepped through the vacated door without knocking.
"What's the meaning of this?" demanded the doctor as he stood up.
"Dr. Shiffe," he said in an authoritative voice, "this session is over. I'll need you and your secretary to follow my men to the next room. I suggest you do exactly as they say, and this will all be over soon."
"But...but..." stammered the bewildered doctor as one of the suits led him from the room. Mike heard another series of but...buts before the door was shut again.
Sergeant Sarasse was motionless as his former partner sat at the doctor's vacated desk.
"You look like shit, Armand."
Mike was right. His former mentor wore disheveled clothing and looked like he had missed a month's worth of shaves. He smelled worse than he looked. It was a mix of whiskey and body funk that made Fornet's nose crinkle.
"Yeah, I know," admitted the Sergeant who had been placed on medical leave. "Don't sleep much anymore."
Mike nodded, "How's the leg?"
"Hurts like hell before it rains, but otherwise, I'm good."
Mike nodded again, but this time he remained silent. He was hoping he could pull the older officer out of his haze on his own accord.
It took a moment but the man finally commented, "You look good, man. Older, somehow, but good." His comments were met only with silence and a hard, icy stare that Fornet maintained throughout. Sarasse shifted uncomfortably in his seat, "Who're the suits?"
"Gentlemen from legal," Fornet acknowledged simply.
Sarasse sniffed, "Don't recognize them. They new to the department or something?"
Fornet broke his gaze with a smile, "Didn't say they were from the department."
Sarasse shifted in his seat again. Something about the way Mike was staring at him made the older officer uncomfortable. It was like he was a piece of meat being analyzed for the first bite.
"Armand, what would you say if I offered you a job within the department?" Fornet leaned over the desk, "A very special job."
This brought a chuckle from Sarasse, "I'd say you're delusional. They'd never let me back on duty. In fact, that's exactly what they called me when I began talking about what we saw and heard that night...delusional."
"You don't worry about that, it's been handled. What I'm proposing is very low visibilty...very specific..."
Fornet spent the next thirty minutes outlining a special section set up within the NOPD. The police department affiliation was just a cover for what they would really be doing - gathering intelligence in and around the city concerning the activities of werewolves. Essentially, it was a section of second tier SKUL intelligence officers who report directly the the commissioner of the police department and the voice on the end of an encrypted phone. By the end of the dissertation, Armand looked a hundred times better than he had originally. Finally hearing that werewolves do exist, and he was not crazy, lit a fire in his gut that had long been extinguished. He was shaking with excitement by the time the man from legal walked back into the room with the nondisclosure statements for him to sign.
Sarasse was told he had twenty-four hours to get cleaned up and ready to work. He was then given an encrypted satellite phone and a satchel filled to bursting with solid silver bullion. It was a second chance at life. A second chance to do good work, the type of work he had envisioned as a rookie on the force nearly two decades before. Mike gave him an address - not belonging to the New Orleans PD - to the house they would be working out of. It was a duplex down in the heart of the French Quarter.
Mike and the three suits, now joined by Armand Sarasse, walked past the doctor and his secretary. Neither would so much as look at them.
On the street, Mike told Sarasse he would see him the following morning at eight o'clock, sharp.
Before the vehicle - a blacked out Suburban - pulled away, the Sergeant asked a question that had been bothering him for a while.
"Mike, why me?"
Mike Fornet smiled, "Because I need someone I can trust...and, because I've been in your shoes before."
The vehicle pulled away, leaving Armand Sarasse to his thoughts.
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