“What if we were to cross-breed? Using IVF would make things less ... messy.”
“Cross-breed? With what?”
“Well, humans, obviously.”
“Marta, that is insane, and totally fucking grotesque.”
She’s taken aback by his disgust. “Well-.”
“No, fucking way. It’s unethical.”
She snorts. “Ethical, Blake? When did you grow a conscience?”
He rounds on her. “Breeding the weres is one thing, they’re an abomination, but they’re a new species created accidentally. I’m all up for breeding the ultimate specimens, but cross-breeding with humans—just no!”
“Don’t call them weres! It just sounds ... ridiculous.” Her cheeks tingle, but she shakes back her hair, and feigns indifference to his accusing eyes. “Anyway, it was only a suggestion, no need to bite my head off. I’m just thinking outside the box; we’ve tried sourcing locally, but the male isn’t taking the bait.”
“Not taking the bait? You said they were breeding like rabbits at Kielder!”
“The phrase I used was ‘shagging like buggery’, Blake, and yes, they were ... they are, and there is evidence of ... litters ... but the male at the institute on Volkolak just shreds the females we source.”
“Shreds? Females you source?”
“Homeless women, mostly from Anchorage, but sometimes Kodiak, although that is a little close to home. We present them to the male in the hope he’ll bite them and begin to form a pack.”
His face grows stony, and she expects a disgusted reprimand, but instead he says, “Just like at Kielder.”
“Yes, just like at Kielder.”
He takes a slug of whiskey. “But he’s eating them instead?”
“No, he just kills them.”
“Odd.” He takes another sip of whisky, holding the cut-glass to the light. His mutter of “Perhaps I’m not the only one with a conscience,” is barely audible. He raises his voice, and says. “In our last conversation, we agreed that you would ship over some already infected females. So, why are you ‘sourcing’ females from the local population?”
“There are a number of reasons. The two females we retrieved were sterile. One was an older female, beyond the menopause, the other, an autopsy showed, had had a hysterectomy.”
Blake’s eyes widen with disgust.
Marta riles. “You can wipe that look off your face. This is the chalk-face, Dalton! You know as well as I do that what we are doing,” she lowers her voice to a whisper even though they are alone in the hotel room, “is entirely unethical. It is rather too late to grow a conscience.”
His lips purse. “You’re mistaken, Marta. I’m not squeamish about what we’re doing; I just don’t want to hear about women’s ... problems. I’d rather not have to listen to the grim details.”
Pathetic! She takes another sip of wine, enjoys the trickle of its smooth velvet as it slides down her throat. “As I was saying, one was post-menopausal, the other was without a womb.”
“Jesus!” Blake slings back the remnants of his whisky and slumps back in the over-sized leather sofa. “You’re a smart woman, Marta.” She raises a brow. “How the hell did you let that slip past you?”
“Getting any of the ... specimens out of Kielder is risky-”
“Obviously.”
“Well, finding one that is able to carry a chi ...” She stops to correct herself. “Pups, isn’t easy.”
“You need a proven dam. Take out all the guess-work.”
“That is the conclusion I have come to.”
“If they’re ‘shagging like buggery’, Marta, can’t you just capture some ‘pups’ and ship them over to the station?”
“We have done, but to achieve the outcome the project demands, we need to breed in captivity. Dr. Petrov wants to insert the micro-chips in-vitro.”
“Whilst they’re still in the womb?”
“Yes. It will cut down on any margin for error. They’ll be completely under our control from birth; we can shut them down at the click of a button.”
“There’s a termination sequence programmed into the chips, so that the horror at Kielder won’t be repeated.”
“Indeed there is.”
He sighs and grows lost in memories for a moment, then says, “Ingenious.”
“Dr. Petrov and I-”
Without waiting for her to finish, he asks, “What about a breeding pair—to cut down on the errors? Yes, that’s what you should do; find a proven dam and her mate.”
“There is only one alpha that I’m prepared to work with at the moment. We need him to sire the pups.”
“Which alpha are you referring to? Aren’t there several packs established at Kielder?”
“There are, but the only alpha I want to establish our packs with is Max.”
“Max?” His eyes widen with genuine shock. “Subject Alpha 1 is Max? You’ve got Max on the island?”
She bridles at his reaction. “Yes, of course I’ve got Max!”
“But he was ... your colleague, and weren’t you shag-”
“He’s the perfect specimen. The leader of the alpha pack among the packs. The ultimate alpha male. You’ve seen the footage.”
“Yes, but ... he was a colleague. I thought you may have taken one of the other males to work with.”
She ignores his disgust, and snorts with derision. “Blake, sometimes you confound me. You know what is at stake here, what money is being poured into this ‘experiment’, exactly which governments are waiting on our product. I will only deliver the best, which is why we went to enormous trouble to procure Max. He is a perfect specimen, the leader of the alpha pack, and will be the founding father of the programme.”
Blake shakes his head. Marta’s anger rises; they are in this together and it is ridiculous that he is taking the moral high-road! She rounds on him. “We’re creating the ultimate dog soldier, Blake! A highly trained, expendable, apex predator completely controlled by the operator. We can’t take any chances with the choice of specimens to breed; we can only use the best to establish the project.”
“Are you kidding! Expendable! These ‘dog soldiers’ as you call them, will cost upwards of ten million dollars each.”
“At this point, perhaps, but once we’ve perfected the technology and the breeding programme is properly underway, costs will come down.”
“Still, expendable, is not-”
“Listen! They’re not humans. They are the terrifying new face of biological warfare, a weapon to be utilised against an enemy, which is why we have so many interested parties”
He sags back in the sofa, takes a slug of whiskey. She allows him the space to think; Blake was a reactionary, and sometimes it took him a while to realise just where his moral compass needed to be broken. A smile spreads to his lips and Marta’s own tension eases.
“You never cease to amaze me, Doctor Steward.”
“Why thank you, Blake.” She slides beside him on the sofa, resting her head on his chest, he strokes her hair in return. “The months after Kielder were traumatic, but what we created there-”
“What Max created there,” he corrects.
“Seriously, Blake!” She pushes herself to sit, one hand on his chest. “It was you and I that recognised their application. Us who developed Max’s unfortunate accident into something of commercial value, and pushed it beyond the boundaries of tragedy.”
“Sure,” he relents and takes another slug of whiskey. His eyes are becoming bleary; she should have watered the alcohol down.
She softens, taking a different tac. “What we’re doing at the institute, Blake, is keeping Max, and his work, alive.”
“Oh, come off it, Marta,” he returns. “Don’t twist this around! You are not doing this out of a sense of philanthropic do-goodery for Max! You know as well as I do that the breeding programme will make each of us millions.”
“Of course I know that.”
“Then don’t try and sugar coat it. To put it bluntly, we’re wea
ponizing a mutant in order to feather our own nests.”
“You make it sound so ... brutal!”
“It’s the truth, Marta. We can at least be honest with each other ... can’t we? When it’s just you and me, I want us to be honest, just be ourselves.”
Unsure if he is being serious, she slips her head back against his chest, enjoying the warmth and the firmness of his flesh.
“Anyway, what about Marston?”
“Marston?”
“When will he be joining the team?”
“I saw him last week. He’s booked onto a flight in four days.”
“Good. Then that gives you four days to locate a proven dam and have it shipped back to the institute with him. Our sponsors are growing irritable at the lack of results, Marta. If we don’t come up with the goods soon, they could withdraw funding.”
A frown is quickly smoothed from Marta’s brow. There is no way she can let that happen! “It’s only a matter of time, Blake. Now,” she says replacing her glass on the table and sliding a hand down Blake’s thigh, “it’s time for you to show me your goods.” She laughs at her own joke as she rises. “Talk dirty to me, Blake. Tell me about the money.”
He returns her laugh, takes another slug of whiskey as she unclasps her skirt and lets it fall to the floor, then begins to explain – again – who is funding the ‘experiment’ and which governments are interested in the product. She slips her panties past her hips and unbuttons her shirt. Blake watches her fingers undo each button. A bulge pushes against the fabric of his trousers.
“Tell me again, Blake, what percentage I’ll get.” She slips a hand over the bulge, dipping searching fingers between his thighs. The bulge grows. Heat warms her fingers. He pushes his hips forward. She pulls at his zipper and unbuckles his belt. He leans forward, nuzzling into her breasts, his face lost between the rounded flesh. She straddles him, grasps his hair, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Tell me again, Blake.” She dips to press her mouth against his, freeing his hardened flesh with her hand. “How much will be in my bank account?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sipping at a short, and very strong, espresso at Birmingham airport’s departure lounge, the fog of alcohol induced fatigue Rachel has lived in for the past weeks has cleared. Her digestive system has been ‘cleansed’ with copious cups of the detoxifying tea her mother had suggested, and her immune system fortified with a multi-vitamin, also at her mother’s insistence. After a packet of fat-blocking pills had been silently pushed into her hands, Rachel had determined to cut back on the drinking, eat more healthily, and get her career back on track. If only to shrug off the disappointment that leaked from her mother like a poisonous fog.
Mobile in hand, she checks her boarding pass once more, then glances at the information board. The gate through which she will board her flight to Kodiak, hasn’t yet been opened, and she sits back on the cushioned bench in an effort to relax before pulling out the notebook especially bought for her research into Chris’s disappearance. Inside are notes of the details she’s managed to glean from social media and his agent, Sally Pemberton.
Chris’ blog, ‘Diary of a Wilderness Junkie’ had a photograph uploaded just prior to the video he had sent to Rachel, and she had matched the trees in the background, and the curved inlet on the image, to the beach and forest that had appeared on screen. There was also a clue - if it were real - as to why the creature on the beach had been attracted to his small camp; the slaughtered deer hanging from what looked like newly sawn branches held together tepee style with what could be cable ties. The deer’s legs were definitely held by cable ties as the thin black straps were clearly visible in the photograph. If the creature lived wild in the forest, then perhaps the sight, or smell, of the messily disembowelled deer had drawn her attention. Looking at the mess of blood and still dangling remnants of intestine, Rachel is surprised that a bear, or perhaps even a wolf, hadn’t appeared on the beach. Do they still have wolves roaming freely in that part of the world?
That the creature on the beach was female was obvious from its hair-covered breasts, clearly visible mound of wildly curling pubic hair, and large clitoris sticking like a ripe damson from between its squatting legs. It was this exaggerated genital organ that added weight to the argument that Chris had been set up, and the ‘thing’ was someone dressed in an extremely well-made costume, albeit someone with a sense of humour. Although, and this added weight to the counter-argument, she had been reminded of those apes with the red bottoms and cauliflower-like protruding sex organs and orifices, if an orifice could protrude, which it couldn’t, being a hole! She’d grimaced as her train of thought chugged through images of monkeys and apes filmed at zoos and in the wild, naked and without any self-consciousness as they’d fornicated and touched themselves, sniffing fingers dipped into their own, or others, orifices, although she, watching the wildlife programmes at home with her mother and father, had squirmed with embarrassment.
“It just can’t be real” she whispers to herself, and forces her thoughts back to considering the creature. If it wasn’t ‘real’ then it had to be a costume, no one had a clitoris that big, did they? Maybe they did. And the face. She gives a shudder. It has to be a mask, one of those clever, Halloween-style moulded masks that make your head itch and scalp sweat. Either that, or well-made prosthetics. Given that the body was so similar to a woman’s, despite the exaggerated musculature, and genitals, the disfigured face had been a slap to the senses. Seriously messed up, with gleaming red eyes, it was as if an ugly dog with a terrible underbite had hit a brick wall, or a pug. A true hell-hound, or a were-pug! She snorts at her own juvenile humour.
For some reason, she can no longer find Chris’ YouTube channel despite searching using multiple terms, and so the sum total of her knowledge so far, much of it supplied by Sally, his agent, is that he had travelled to Alaska for a week of adventuring in a remote wilderness lodge. The idea, and here Sally was quick to point out that it was Chris’ idea and not hers, was to jump on the current interest in survival, and gain worldwide attention as an explorer-cum-survivalist in the vein of Bear Grylls, Ed Stafford, and Mykel Hawke. Rachel had expressed her surprise; she wasn’t aware that Chris had been in the forces as, to her knowledge, the current bevy of survivalist-cum-action-man explorers all drew on impressive military experience, some having been in the SAS or US Army Special Forces. Sally had confirmed that his experience was limited to two weekends at an adventure park in Sherwood Forest and a weekend of binge-watching survival videos on YouTube.
“... but he was an avid sailor,” she’d said, “if what he told me was true, and I always took Chris’ stories with a pinch of salt. He told me that he loved the ocean and that as a child the family had spent summers sea fishing in Scotland. I think he was a good swimmer too.”
Rachel has a vague recollection of Chris bragging about the line of mackerel he’d caught on a family holiday in Oban, and winkles picked from rock pools at Beadnell on the Northumberland coast. That he was an ‘avid sailor’ was news to her, but they weren’t exactly close, and the information only added to Rachel’s intuition that Chris’ disappearance is suspicious.
She draws a line down one page. On one side she writes ‘REAL’ on the other she writes ‘FAKE’ then lists all the reasons she believes that the creature is real, and then all those that suggest it is a fake. Thinking the problem through is giving her a headache, and irritated at the lack of clarity she has about the case, she takes another sip of espresso, sits forward, checks across the crowd of milling travellers, drums her fingers on the table, and then knocks into the potted palm at her side as a briefcase swings into her shoulder and the corner catches a glancing blow across her cheek.
“Sorry!”
The espresso remains intact, and with a quick, ‘It’s okay,” she reaches for her notebook, slapping it closed whilst offering the clumsy man a brief smile with eyes that don’t meet his.
The flight to Kodiak is spent continuing her research, scrolling through
Facebook for any more posts about Chris’ disappearance, but there is nothing other than the initial media reports and then US Coast Guard updates about the search which had now been terminated. His death had been a footnote ignored by the masses. “You’d have been disappointed Chris,” she murmurs as she continues to scroll through the newsfeed. Noting with relief that none of the footage he’d sent to her has appeared anywhere on the net, she smiles; her story, based upon her own unique and original investigation, with virgin footage, will be explosive. It could be the story they both need to rocket them into public notice.
She clicks her mobile to off, then pours herself a glass of wine from the mini-bottle supplied by the air-hostess. After all the extra work she has been putting in, it is well-deserved. The geeky-looking passenger in the next seat is the man who had knocked into her at the airport, and she decides to introduce herself; perhaps the conversation will help wile away the hours.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The long-haul flight to Kodiak, had been just that, a long haul. The young woman that had bumped into him in the airport lounge, Rachel Bonds as she’d introduced herself, had coincidentally been on the same flight, and even more coincidentally, in the seat next to his. Several hours into the flight, a conversation had sparked up between them, one that he quickly regretted; the woman was searching for a friend lost at sea. Peter hadn’t quite known how to respond other than with an ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ and made an effort to change the conversation to something he felt far more comfortable with, but she seemed disinterested in hearing about the diseases he could detect in scat.
The Kielder Experiment (Book 2): The Alaska Strain Page 5
