What the crowd lacked in size, they made up in volume. A girl pranced by and threw a confetti of small crosses onto my windshield. Growling, I flipped on the wipers. Security recognized me and the tall iron fence slid open.
“That's Durant,” the protestor said. He changed his tune on a dime. “Bless you, sister! You're doing the Lord's work.”
I flipped him off.
Speeding through the gate, I swiped my security pass, squealed into my parking spot, and released a sigh. At least I made it past the preachers without getting into an argument about divine justice.
The world woke up one morning, irrevocably changed and scared shitless. Werewolves exist and the bastards are hungry. And extremely contagious. Confronted by a monstrous epidemic with no hope of reprieve, everyone went nuts. People fell back on extremism and religion. They tossed undesirables into ghettos, shot animals in mass graves, lifted preachers onto pedestals, picketed roadsides, and resigned all power to the Church and the Federal Bureau of Human Safety.
That's me. The fed, not the church part.
It's my job to kill werewolves before they gobble all the innocent children.
When I was little, I wanted to be a mechanic. Certainly didn't plan on being a government enforcer.
Swigging the last of my bitter coffee, I exited the vehicle and crossed the parking structure to the security checkpoint. A man in full gear scanned my RFID tag and weapons before I crossed the skywalk. Trudging into the team office, I discovered Andreas Sarakas at his desk. He greeted me with a smile. His eyes held mine. My mood lightened. I know that meant something, but I had no idea what. Never had the gumption to ask. A mystery better left unsolved. He was my best, possibly only, friend.
A hot coffee waited on my desk.
“Oh, yeah, baby,” I cooed, rushing to the cup. “Oooh, dark roast.”
A perfect set of dimples appeared next to his smile. “Long night?”
“My sponsor was MIA, so I went to an uninspiring meeting.”
“Feel free to call me, you know, if you need to talk,” he said, awkward and genuine at the same time.
I nodded.
Andreas was handsomely symmetrical, representing the glorious genetic combination of his Greek-Swedish heritage. Dark hair, lovely blue eyes. He was a quick draw, a good shot, and an all-around solid guy. Initially, it had taken some time to warm up to him, mostly because I was searching for the latent character trait all handsome men have that ultimately makes them repulsive. Well, Sarakas doesn't have one. Very non-repulsive. And that's not just the coffee talking. His white shirt was crisp and clean. I had forgotten to brush my hair.
He worked his way through an intimidating stack of papers.
“Anything important there?”
“Two points of interest from the SciLab and Law offices. Would you like to read—”
“Highlights, please,” I said.
A teasing smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “Of course, what was I thinking?”
I stuck out my tongue.
Tiresome lab and legal reports were stuffed with blah blah blah. Scarcely any of it ever applied to my job, so I only read them when injured and stuck at a desk. Otherwise, I was perfectly happy to let Sarakas do the heavy mental lifting.
“Firstly, Child Protective Services had audience with the Public Relations board and pulled some favors. Now all minors must be accompanied by a responding agent from the point of incident until the transference of custody to an appropriate agency.”
“I'm not firing on all cylinders this morning. Does someone think I'm a babysitter?”
“What could they possibly be thinking, right? I mean, look at you. You probably didn't even brush your hair this morning.”
“I'm going to ignore that on account of this wonderful coffee.”
He snickered and explained. “CPS believes it will reduce the trauma of young victims to establish a familiar face within the first moments of incident resolution. I suspect it has more to do with Team N's screw up on the Sophist's Massacre. Remember when a four year-old landed in the hospital unattended and no one knew who she was? Therefore, we have a Babysitter Law. Relax, it gets worse.”
“How's that?”
“Dr. Stones' genetic study, the one everyone was putting so much hope in, completely bombed. Still no decisive indicators of the disease in genes, blood, or brain tissue. Leaves us flying blind.”
“As always.”
Science hasn't helped much, so we worked on assumptions.
We assumed the contagion was only active while the blood was hot, so a warm blood spray or direct contact could infect someone, but the blood cools too fast for the disease to be passed on objects. The public still believed the disease had an area of effect. Like, if a few drops spilled, people believed everyone in the room was at risk of contamination. Practice proved otherwise, but fear reigned the media.
Lycanthropy remained completely unrecognizable in any medical tests, so there were no fool-proof indicators a person was L-positive until they shed into a full-fledged mutt.
Mutt was another word for werewolf. When they change form, it's called shedding.
Unlike other plagues, this disease was contagious to various and unpredictable degrees. Sometimes outbreaks erupted like wildfire. Other times, it was as if lycanthropy didn't exist.
Science tried everything to fix the problem with penicillin and all its family members, gene therapy, garlic, silver, sulfur, gunpowder, holy water and crosses, exorcisms, and torture. Some medieval-minded kook even applied leeches on the wound (which is when they realized the phantom disease is blood-transferable and occasionally trans-species).
“In a side note, Vincent has a review on Monday.”
“Naturally,” I said, thinking about our grizzled team member’s trigger finger and the ease with which he eliminated potentials.
Anyone exposed to the disease becomes a potential. Meaning, they’re legally infected until proven innocent. If any potential exhibits signs of the disease, we’re obligated to put them down. The decision to kill has already been made for us. Like Homeland Security and the CDC, we also had permission to shoot anyone who interfered with our job.
Tragically, it's not always easy to see who is a mutt and who is a human. Vincent makes mistakes.
That's not accurate; he would never consider them mistakes. He always kills precisely what he means to, but unfortunately he doesn't have trouble doing it in public. Sometimes unsavory reports find their way to a review board. Recently, Vincent killed a few too many white-bread Christians without flinching.
“The Gargoyle is all yours today.” Sarakas said. “You're riding with Vincent until his review. Santi's orders.”
My fragile good mood dissipated. I sipped my coffee and stared at the rim of the cup. Our floor leader, Santi, wanted me to give him a softer image. Fat chance.
Sighing, I removed my sweatshirt, slipped into my bullet proof vest, and put the shirt back on. Made me look pudgy. I moved my firearms to thigh holsters for easy access. I collected the secured company Glock from my desk and set it in an ankle holster. All three weapons were tagged with tracer dots that monitored their location and the frequency in which they were fired.
No such thing as privacy anymore.
Vincent dumped a candy bar wrapper in the trash as he entered.
“Ready?” he said.
He didn't bother to meet my eyes, but I knew the question was meant for me because of his I'm-a-man-and-you're-not tone. I grabbed my keys and coffee, tossed Sarakas a look, and left with Vincent.
Charles Vincent had been to war on several fronts. His kill rate was better than mine. Technically the Gargoyle was my superior team member. When I met him, I mentioned his similarity to a gnarly statue and the nickname stuck (out of his earshot).
Phrenology didn't have anything nice to say about him. His skull was both broad and long, his jaw equally so, his brow heavy and stern. A constant scowl hung around his eyes. His lower lip strung tight, making smiles rare and l
aughter forbidden. His hands matched his skull, apelike and grim. He was a sullen bastard, always pensive, like there was someone he should be killing, if he could only remember who. Full of old-school methods and the classic lines.
He was, I supposed, my mentor, since the last three had died.
I drove because Vincent was a booze-for-breakfast kind of guy.
I turned onto the freeway and said, “Dr. Stones' testing didn't pan out. Still no evidence of any traceable lykos clades.”
He didn't say anything and probably didn't care. Finding a trace of the disease wouldn't change our job. Our task was to kill contaminated potentials and full-blown mutts, period.
Vincent wore a thermal that hugged his wide shoulders. He carried a small paunch, but it was hard and didn't jiggle. His knuckles wore meat tags that read Vincent across both hands. The name was also on his shoulders, feet, and other places a mutt was less likely to eat. If he was torn to shreds, his pieces could be identified. It marked him as an old school hunter, before RFID tags and DNA archives accomplished the same task.
I hated Vincent sometimes. We could go all day without him looking at me once.
The first call of the day buzzed in my earpiece.
“We have suspicious circumstances regarding one Roy Oviedo on thirty-sixth street and Campbell,” Daisy, the dispatcher, said. “Neighbor heard alarming sounds and claims there's a canine of some sort on the premises. Could be an unregistered pet, but we checked with the school and Oviedo's son has been absent for a week and a half.” She updated us on a few other facts as I cruised through early morning traffic.
If we found a dog, we'd call animal control or put it down ourselves. The former saved on paperwork.
Maybe Oviedo ate the kid. Wouldn't be the first time.
The neighborhood surveillance was run by a small grassroots gang who called themselves Guerillas and idolized Che Guevara. The Guerillas had constructed the perimeter fence by stacking compacted cars and pouring cement on top. A small group of girls posted by the entrance, dressed in black camisoles and miniskirts. They hollered at us, hooting and questioning as I drove past. They would undoubtedly report us to their leader.
“Whores,” Vincent grumbled.
Ragged cacti and a yard of browning grass surrounded the rough adobe complex. Four cars were double-parked in the short drive. None appeared to be in working order. We knocked on the door. Or rather, I let Vincent knock, and he let me talk.
“Mr. Roy Oviedo.” I flashed the badge. “FBHS. Sorry to bother you this early, but we've had noise complaints. Don't suppose the television is too loud? Walls tend to be paper thin and neighbors can be nosy. Mind if we come in?”
He started to slam the door.
Vincent's arm snapped up and held it open. Oviedo stiffened under Vincent's stone gaze as my partner helped himself inside. The small house was immaculate. Hospital sterile. Roy Oviedo, from the look of his frayed plaid shirt and poorly cropped hair, was not an immaculate type of guy. Inhaling the crisp scent of lemon pledge and chlorine, I had a bad feeling.
Vincent wandered the room, toed the rugs, peeked at papers, and checked for telltale signs of trouble. Oviedo watched Vincent. Meanwhile, I chatted.
“Who resides in the house with you, Roy?”
“Just me.”
“Where's your son?”
“Backpacking.” Oviedo fidgeted while Vincent wandered into the kitchen and out of sight.
“Awesome. I love the outdoors. A breath of fresh air, open horizon. Where did he go?”
Vincent sat down at the table, kicked his feet up, and stared at the walls, corners, and ceiling. Something was wrong with the proportions of the house. He rose and continued investigating.
“North,” Oviedo said.
“Just north, huh? Unfortunately, truancy laws being what they are, he's not allowed to take leave from school without consent of a parent and a counselor. He must have forgotten to bring you a waiver. Does he carry a phone on him?”
“No.” Roy tore his gaze from Vincent and his eyes flickered back and forth between the two of us.
“You let your son backpack up north without knowing where he is or having a way to contact him?”
“He's eighteen.”
“Actually, he will be eighteen. A little premature on that math, sir. Don't suppose you know when he'll be back?”
“No.”
“Regular fount of info, aren't you? Mind if we look around?” I said, even as Vincent rummaged through his mail, poked at the contents of a garbage can and checked the call log on Roy's phone.
“Actually, I do mind,” Oviedo said. “I want you to leave. Now.”
“We're very concerned about your son, Stuart. We hate to think about him out there all alone when he should be attending his classes, Mr. Oviedo. Education is so important, don't you think? A proper one can take a student to the top of the world. You want the best for Stuart, don't you?” Get people to agree, and they forget they were arguing.
“Of course.”
“Of course you do. And you won't mind our concern. Does it scare you?”
“What?” He flinched, definitely frightened of something.
“Your son ventured all alone into the great unknown. Anything might happen. Remember the guy who got trapped in a rock slide and chewed his own arm off?”
“I don't know where he is.” Oviedo’s mouth cramped with a sense of urgency that tended toward violence.
“Why did you imply that he didn’t live here anymore, Roy? Where is your son? What have you done?”
“What are you trying to say? It’s a free country. You can’t talk to me that way. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Sir, I doubt any of those things are true,” I said.
Oviedo jabbed his finger in the air and erupted in a tirade of Spanish.
Vincent's eye twitched, warning me he'd had enough. If Oviedo didn't comply, he'd end up impounded or black-bagged.
“Sir, why don't you sit down,” I said.
“No. Who the hell do you think you are?”
“FBHS, sir. I can appreciate your confusion, but you need to sit down.”
“Get out of my house.”
“Sir, you're resisting. Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head. Don't make trouble. This will be over before you know it.”
Vincent strolled to the living room wall and put his foot through the plaster. Oviedo sucked in his breath and made to lunge. My left hook caught his temple and rocked him off course. I pulled the Jericho from my thigh, pointed the muzzle at the threat, and commanded Oviedo to stop.
On one knee, shaking his head, he stopped. I guarded him while Vincent kicked away chunks of drywall and revealed new brick.
“Freshly set cinder block, mortar still damp,” Vincent said. “Where did you say your son was, asshole?”
The picture was clear. Stuart was contaminated. When Roy learned he was L-positive, he pulled a page from Poe, walled up his son, and left the boy to starve.
Vincent pulled his Glock and fired a round at the baseboard.
When the noise of the blast faded, we heard a thwump. I swallowed my pulse. Roy moved to stand and I kicked him in the chin. My steel toe boots dropped him, dazed and blinking.
The thwump escalated into a krunk and then paused. In the eerie silence, we took a step back.
The creature's head burst through with a crumple of cinder block and mortar. The wall stopped him at the shoulders, and the mutt struggled like Winnie the Pooh. He roared, overwhelming the room with ferocious noise. His skull was shaped like a greyhound's, fur matted with blood and hardened mortar. The animal lunged, teeth snapping like railroad spikes, a strand of saliva flying on his breath. Black eyes. Wet tear streaks on its face.
His growl sounded like the Sisyphus stone rolling down a mountain.
Vincent fired close-range into the mutt's throat as he tried to shoulder into the room. I pulled a second weapon to fire on the mutt while guarding Oviedo Senior. My silver bullets tore into
the beast's skull, dived into his brain, and ripped a chunk off the back. The broad canine heaved, squeezed through the wall, and fell onto a pile of destroyed cinder block.
Dead.
Oviedo Senior sprung. An angry roar came from his perfectly human mouth. He had condemned his son to starve, but now that Stuart was face-down in brain muck, daddy-dearest wanted to protest. Fine. I could use a good fight.
Vincent fired. I flinched. The bullet smacked Oviedo off his feet. Perfect heart shot. Dead before he dropped to the ground.
“Really!” I snipped.
“He deceived two federal agents and harbored an infected creature.” Vincent placed a cautionary bullet in both skulls. “I'm within my bounds, rookie.”
“Ever wonder why you spend Mondays with the review board?”
“Ever wonder if you're in the wrong line of work?”
Only when I'm partnered with you, I thought, but was smart enough not to say. Vincent was right; he was within his bounds. Precedent said disobeying orders from a federal agent was tantamount to treason, and the government had zero tolerance for disease sympathizers. At best, Oviedo Senior earned five years in a work camp for not relinquishing his L-pos son.
I holstered weapons and leaned against the wall, waiting for the coroner to arrive with body bags.
Vincent sat at the table and pulled a packet of sunflower seeds from his pocket, shelling them with his mouth and producing the most annoying sounds. God, I hated him. Condescending bastard called me rookie even though I'd been an agent for four years.
I eyed the dead bodies.
Mutts didn't look like anyone had expected. They weren’t related to the graceful forty-five kilogram beast frolicking through the snowy hills of Northern America, catching field mice for lunch, and maintaining a delicately balanced ecosystem. Hell, not even normal wolves lived up to that fantasy.
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