Captured by the Chimera Zombie-Master

by Veronica Sommers

  "We won't get far with those creepy little hunters scrabbling around the place. We need our weapons, and we need Darius."

  Every inch of my body revolts at the idea, because Finley is being subjected to god knows what tests right now—but I can see the logic in Chandra's assessment, and I force myself to bend to it. "Okay, then. We'll find weapons, and then free Darius. Do you know where he is?"

  "No idea."

  "Great." I haul the door open, my hands and wrist screaming in pained symphony with the creaking metal. "This day just keeps getting better."

  9

  Finley

  "How is this supposed to work?" I stare at the cage across the room, at the teenage zombie drooling and swaying inside.

  "Step a little closer, and wave to him. See if he reacts." Reuel doesn't try to disguise the excitement in his voice, and Dr. Gwan steps forward with me, ready to take notes on his tablet.

  Awkwardly I wave at the male zombie.

  Nothing. No reaction at all.

  He's clearly been wiped of any ravenous impulses, but there's no echo of my thoughts or movements in him.

  "Closer," urges Reuel.

  "I—I don't think this is going to work." Do I want it to? If I'm useful, Reuel will keep me alive and safe. If I'm not useful, he might decide I'm too much trouble and kill me.

  "Closer." Reuel's narrow hands close over my hips, urging me forward. It's an intimate touch, especially when he draws his hands away and the tips of his talons graze my backside. "Tell me exactly what happened when you met the other zombie."

  "We had just escaped the horde," I murmur. "Atlan was killing a few stragglers, and I was watching in case one of them slipped past him and came after me. I saw the zombie, and I thought—I guess I thought that she could have been me. Or I could have been her. She wasn't much older than I am—had three kids, judging from the birthstone necklace. Her dress—it was one I might have liked, before."

  "You felt an affinity for her. A connection."

  "I guess so."

  He groans with frustration, rubbing his forehead, right beneath the curling waves of his brown hair. "Damn."

  Dr. Gwan looks up from his tablet. He's smiling under his stringy black hair and patchy beard. "Now that is ironic."

  "Shut up," snaps Reuel.

  "No offense, sir," says Gwan quickly. "But it makes sense. The little hunters are beasts created in our labs, easily imprinted and controlled. But the zombies—they were once humans. They have—or had—souls, for lack of a better word."

  "Souls," Reuel snarls, "are a construct of phony religion. They do not exist."

  Gwan's eyes drop dutifully to the tablet. "As you say, sir. Call it 'will power' then, or 'spirit,' if you like. A higher consciousness, and more complex emotions. Connecting with those emotions, opening a channel of empathy—maybe it's the key for overwriting them in their blank state."

  "That's bullshit." Reuel spits the word. "You're spewing your mystical crapola again, Gwan. It's disgraceful in a man of science."

  "Science and the spiritual do not have to be mutually exclusive," says Gwan softly. "Let her try a different approach."

  Reuel visibly reins in his frustration, covering it with his usual layer of calm. "Fine. Proceed."

  Gwan nods and addresses me. "Miss Mars, if you would look at the subject again, and think about him. What he was, what he could have been—anything the two of you might have in common."

  "Okay." I draw a deep breath.

  The zombie in the cage can't be more than seventeen. Despite his stained fangs, I can tell he was a beautiful kid once—rich brown skin and large soft features perfectly balanced in an oval face. His tightly curled dark hair is now matted with dried blood, and more crusted gore covers his throat and collarbones, staining the chest area of his yellow band T-shirt. I recognize the band—an indie group that skyrocketed to popularity about four years ago. I had two of their songs on my commute playlist.

  The boy looks so blankly helpless, so wretchedly broken, with chunks of muscle missing from both forearms. He died horribly, trying to defend himself.

  Taking another step toward the cage, I stretch out my hand to the boy—and he reaches for me, saliva swinging in a loose string from his saggy lower lip.

  Gwan sucks in a breath, and Reuel hisses—whether in triumph or anger, I can't tell.

  Slowly I wave to the zombie, and he waves back.

  "He is mirroring you," breathes Dr. Gwan. "Try giving him a command."

  "Like what?"

  "Tell him to pick up that bowl in his cage."

  I stare into the zombie's eyes, looking for something—for consciousness long buried, for a spark of emotion, of existence. Is there a spark in those dark eyes? I can't tell for sure. I think the words, firm and clear Pick up the bowl.

  The zombie sways, then shuffles over and scoops up the bowl with hands that are stripped down to the bone in places.

  Dr. Gwan speaks quietly, carefully, as if he's afraid he will break some fragile spell. "I meant to tell him out loud. But this is even better. Did you see that, sir? She controlled him with her thoughts. It's as I suspected then—you can't connect with them or control them, without a high level of personal empathy. That's why it works for her, and not for you."

  Reuel hisses again, such a snakelike sound that I turn and look into his yellow eyes. They burn like sizzling acid, full of frustration.

  "Why are you so angry?" I ask. "Isn't this what you wanted?"

  He turns to Gwan. "Is it just her? Or can others do this as well? What about you?"

  "I can try," says the doctor. "But I'll use a fresh subject—this one may be permanently imprinted to her. We'll need to test that theory. We must find out how long the connection lasts, if there's a maximum radius, what might break it." Gwan sets the tablet aside, rubbing his hands together with barely controlled eagerness. "I'll tell the others to bring in a new test subject."

  Reuel ignores him, his beautiful face hardening to stone. There's a baleful edge to the way he glances at me—a resentful kind of hate. My soul chills, because I realize again just how changeful this monster can be, and how fragile his goodwill is.

  But I'm not about to shrink before his glare. No, that would be the worst thing I could do. Reuel admires strength; weakness is abhorrent to him.

  Once Gwan leaves, I step in front of Reuel, conscious of the shifting sound behind me as the zombie mirrors my movement.

  Fear paralyzes me for a second as I take in the chimera's sweeping antlers, his yellow eyes, the black claws and the arch of the heavy scorpion tail.

  Don't let your fear make you weak, I tell myself fiercely. Let the anger come in, let it give you strength.

  This is for my own survival, after all, and Atlan's.

  Atlan. Yes.

  For him, I can do anything.

  Reuel starts to turn away from me, but I nudge his cheek with my fingers, pushing his face back toward mine. "What the hell, Reuel? I did exactly what you wanted. Just because the result wasn't what you expected is no excuse to get so angry."

  His eyes snap. "You call this angry? I can show you angry."

  I curl my hands into fists to keep them from shaking. "If controlling the zombies is all about empathy, you are powerless, aren't you? You'll never be able to imprint on them, because you have no empathy. That's what this is really about, isn't it?"

  "I don't care about other people and their shitty little problems," he says. "It's what makes me the best in my field, helps me focus on problems and see solutions without the extra entanglements of morality or emotional ridiculousness. And to be suddenly told that my solution, my theory, the salvation that I designed, is solely dependent on connecting with human emotions—it's insufferable."

  "You could just try working on it, you know. Putting yourself in someone else's place, trying to imagine what they're feeling, trying to care. Like for example—how would you feel if someone kidnapped you and threatened to rape you and force you to birth a monster baby?"

>   He shrugs. "I'm too smart to let myself be captured, or put to serve anyone else's plans but my own."

  I narrow my eyes at him. "You really have an inflated view of yourself, don't you? Think you're the smartest human alive, do you?"

  "No." He pauses, smirking. "I'm the smartest being alive. I wouldn't call myself human."

  "You know that pride is the weak spot for most villains," I tell him, with a little smile of my own. I can't help it. As careless and cruel as he is, I kind of get him. I understand where he's coming from, on some level. "Watch any movie, read any book—it's always hubris that trips up the antagonist in the end."

  His smirk disappears. "You think I'm a villain?"

  I stare back, nonplussed. "Obviously. You kidnapped a bunch of people, maybe even killed some—and you're threatening more pain and death."

  "With the goal of ridding the world of ravenous zombies!" he exclaims. "If I can do that, every sacrifice made in this bunker will be more than worth it. Don't you see that?"

  "The old 'greater good' excuse," I say sourly. "Forgive me if I don't fall for it."

  "There's nothing to fall for," he retorts, moving closer. "The one true law of the universe is survival. All other efforts exist merely in support of that primary goal. And so, for the majority to survive, a few must suffer."

  "Do you care if I suffer?"

  "You don't have to suffer." He angles his face so that his mouth hovers above my lips, those yellow eyes glowing into mine. "Suffering is a choice. You could just as easily choose to enjoy yourself." His jointed tail curls against my backside, pushing me toward him until my chest touches his.

  Something shivers through me—disgust at what he is, an ache of wrongness because Atlan—but mixed in with those emotions is a twinge of sympathy. Though why I should pity a proud fool who turned himself into a monster, I have no idea.

  "It must have been hard," I say softly. "Growing up in labs, without friends. Did you ever get to play outside?"

  His chest lifts and falls against mine. "I watched nature shows. The mightiest animals of the world were my companions. I admired their strengths."

  "And you made them your own."

  His head cocks aside, a quick inhuman movement. "You think I'm insane."

  "I think genius and insanity are often twins. It's tough to tell them apart."

  He tucks his claw-tipped hand under my chin—and I do cringe then. I can't help it. But I stay perfectly still, like a trainer calming a wild beast—and I smile at him so the fear won't show in my face.

  His tongue flicks over his lips, and I notice with a start that his tongue is forked. How did I not see that before? His narrow nostrils widen as he inhales, and a rumble of satisfaction buzzes through his chest.

  "The vampire boy mentioned your scent," he says. "I see what he means."

  I can smell him, too, but his odor sends a frisson of instinctive warning along every nerve in my body. It's bone and iron and poison, concrete dust and the ice of apathy. Reuel is pain and power and pride, where Atlan is warmth and wonder and unexpected smiles, with hands strong enough to hurt, but gentle as sunshine.

  Reuel drags my face closer to his, and that forked tongue darts out again, skimming my lips this time. Pressed close to him as I am, I can feel him swelling and hardening against my stomach. Lust flares in his eyes, turning them more amber than gold—or is that just my imagination?

  His tail tightens around my backside, and my breath quickens, my heart rate spiking in response.

  Should I fight him? Should I let him just—hold me? Gwan will be back soon with the next test subject—maybe I should play along until then, pretend to be enjoying myself.

  I swallow and open my lips, breathing through my mouth so I won't have to smell Reuel too strongly.

  He takes my parted mouth as an invitation and kisses me.

  His lips are stiff, and when his forked tongue wriggles into my mouth, I shudder.

  He pulls back, sneering. "Too much monster for you?"

  "I just—" I close my eyes for a second and then force myself to meet his gaze. "It's weird, with the tongue."

  "Clarice seems to like it." His fingers flex as he adjusts his grip on my chin. "You'll get used to it."

  Again he kisses me, deeper this time, and the pressure of it tilts my head back. His tongue dances over mine, tickling the inside of my mouth, writhing toward the back of my throat. I nearly gag, but maybe he assumes it's a sound of pleasure, because he doesn't pull back.

  Okay, this is too much. I hate it, and I'm done pretending otherwise.

  I glance at the door, hoping Dr. Gwan will walk through it and break this up before I have to try to fight off this guy. But instead of Dr. Gwan, the face framed in the narrow glass window is dearly familiar, and it sends a jolt of sweet horror through me.

  It's Atlan.

  He stares at me, his eyes wide and brimming with pain.

  And then, the next second, he's gone.

  10

  Atlan

  She's kissing him.

  Kissing the monster.

  Eyes closed, head tilted back like she's enjoying it.

  Not struggling.

  I can't move. I can't breathe.

  Chandra yanks me away from the window. "Idiot," she hisses. "Do you want to get caught right away and strung up again?"

  "Finley's in there, with him," I croak. "They—they're—"

  "Is she in immediate danger?"

  "No, but—"

  "Then come on. We don't have a chance without Darius."

  I walk after her, but it's as if I'm floating in a void, with no firm ground under my feet. I can't shake the image of Reuel wrapped around Finley, my Finley, with that wicked tail pressed to her back and his wings slowly unfurling, his horned head bent to hers, his mouth on her mouth—

  A vicious snarl from Chandra snaps me back to reality. She's glaring at me, her eyes wild and her fangs glittering sharp. Dr. Corbin still hangs limp over her shoulder.

  "What's your problem?" I snap at her.

  "Shape up." Each word is a bullet, zinging from her lips and lodging in my brain. "I need your damn head in the game. Whatever you saw in there—we'll fix it later. Yes? Do you understand? Nod if you understand."

  Her sharp rebuke snaps me out of my daze. I'm back. I can do this. I can hear Captain Markham's voice in my head, pounding military procedures into my brain, trying to turn a washed-up vampire salesman into a warrior in a span of a few weeks. He had his work cut out for him when he first recruited me, that's for sure. But he never gave up. He made me believe in myself—convinced me that I could be not just a good soldier, but a hero.

  What would he say to me now, if he were here?

  He'd say, Focus on the first objective. Complete it, then move on to the next one.

  As much as I want her to be, Finley is not the first objective. I can't think about her, can't let myself sink under the weight of worrying that she might succumb to that thing with the animal parts and the handsome human face.

  "Yeah, I get it, Chandra. I'm here."

  "Okay. We have to keep moving. From what I can tell, this bunker is laid out like a big pitchfork without a handle. The elevator we came down in—that opens onto the central tine, with halls branching right and left—you remember?"

  "Yeah."

  "Okay, and there are four other tines, the major corridors, all parallel to each other. Then there's a lot of small hallways running crossways, connecting the tines together. Make sense? Don't care if it doesn't. Best I can figure, they're holding the humans in a different area. But I'm hoping they put you and Darius near each other. Your cell was at that end of the hall—" she jerks her thumb back the way we came— "and maybe Darius is at the other end, or somewhere else along here. Keep looking in the rooms."

  "They don't all have windows." I peek into another room and immediately duck away, because it's blocked by a man's back—someone in a lab coat with stringy black hair. Beyond him I thought I glimpsed something—cages? Cages
with zombies? Surely not. God, is Reuel crazy enough to keep zombies in an enclosed underground bunker?

  That's a problem for later. Captain Markham's voice growls through my head again: Focus on the objective.

  "He's not in there," I say, and we move on.

  The next two rooms are empty—one is storage, another a lab. There are two more rooms at the end of the hall, both with windowless doors, and both secured with bio locks. No keypads though.

  "Stick her finger against the pad," I suggest, and Chandra shifts Dr. Corbin clumsily into position. I grab the doctor's hand. It's thin and fragile, and touching it makes my skin crawl. I grind my teeth against the sensation and against the pain in my hand. When I smash her finger against the keypad, it blinks red, so I try the thumb, and that works.

  "Watch her," says Chandra. "I'll get the door."

  She leaves Dr. Corbin slumped against the wall. The doctor's glasses are askew, her light brown hair a mad tangled cloud. I have a sudden vision of what could have happened if Chandra hadn't dropped from the ceiling—Dr. Corbin riding me, giggling and gasping, her eyes rolled back with pleasure. Acid from my stomach surges, burning, up into my chest.

  It didn't happen, I tell myself.

  I'm a warrior, a damn hero. I slaughter zombies.

  I pound my chest once, twice, trying to knock away that burning sensation, and I drag in a rasping breath.

  Chandra is pushing the door open, slowly. "Why'd they make these doors so damn heavy?" she grumbles. "What if they needed to get out quick?"

  "It's a bunker."

  "Yeah, but—" She shakes her head, setting her shoulder to the door and shoving it the rest of the way open. "Not like any bunker I've ever seen."

  "When did you ever see a bunker?"

  She smiles guiltily. "In the movies?"

  I smile back, grateful for the moment. Humor is relief for the stress tightening my nerves.

  Smiling, laughing—I hadn't done much of either until Markham gave Finley to me. She'd mine, and yet not mine—she belongs to herself. But I am hers, always. Forever her slave. Whatever she decides to do, whoever she wants—she has given me more than I could ever repay.