The Werewolf of Marines Trilogy

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  The pain was different that before. Unlike the excruciating torture of this first shift, this felt more like the pain of stretching out before exercise. It was there, but it was very bearable. Within moments, though, even that faded as the shift was completed.

  Aiden slowly stood up, luxuriating in the feeling of power that infused his very being. He was made to wreck havoc.

  Looking down at his M16, he contemplated leaving it, going back to his original intention of using his bare hands and teeth. The Marine in him, though, would not let him leave a weapon lying on the ground, and having that firepower could come in handy. He reached down and picked it up. The M16 was bioengineered for a comfortable grip—for a human hand. Aiden’s varg hand was not shaped the same. The grip was now awkward, but still manageable. He loosened the sling and strapped the weapon to his back

  He looked up to the guard tower. Two men were clearly visible inside. The subdued cherry glow in one hand was evidence of a cigarette being discreetly cupped by one guard as he ignored regulations. Both men were looking outwards, over the wire.

  Aiming at a spot on the fence about 35 meters to the left of the guards, Aiden started moving forward. He wasn’t sure if the area inside the wire was sensored as well, but he’d seen joggers, laden down with full battle gear over their shorts and t-shirt, moving through the area during the day, seemingly oblivious to both the heat and possible danger of attack.

  The spot Aiden had selected marked where a very slight depression led up to the fence. The depression was not deep enough to hide anyone, and it was probably more heavily sensored, but it would serve his needs better. He wasn’t sure if he could even scale the fence, but he had to try. When he was about 20 meters from the fence, still unnoticed by the guards, he broke into a quick sprint, jumping up as high as he could on the fence, reaching close to seven meters high. He half expected it to be electrified, but he was able to grasp it without a problem, and by yanking himself up, he cleared the top and jumped to the ground on the other side.

  His clatter caught the attention of the guards. He could hear their shouts as he scampered to the depression. Bending over, he ran as fast as he could away from the camp. The guards probably had NVDs,[40] as would the guards in the next tower over, so Aiden knew he would be seen. What they thought they saw would be the question. Aiden hoped that due to his speed and the small amount of cover the depression gave his lower body, they would have to assume he was merely a wild animal like a jackal or even an antelope trying to bound away. There weren’t many dogs in Iraq, but that could also be a possibility.

  He half-expected shots to ring out, but nothing happened. The guards might have been briefed not to engage unless a target was identified as hostile. In a few moments, Aiden was out of range and out in the desert south of the camp. He slowed down to get his bearings. He was actually going away from Fallujah, so he started the long slow swing to the west in order to get into the town.

  Aiden was on a mission of revenge, but despite that, he exulted in the feeling he had as he loped across the desert. He felt more powerful, more alive that he’d ever felt before. The world was his. Too soon, he came upon the first few buildings of the city. He slowed down, and took to the shadows.

  Fallujah was a good-sized city, but the war rendered it deserted at night. There was the odd person scurrying about, and the Marines had a habit of sending out patrols at night, especially when the mission was a “house call,” what they called a snatch mission to grab people of interest to the military or Iraqi police. Aiden kept his senses on high alert as he moved ghostlike to the north, to where Rico had been killed. He had to stop a few times as men moved about their routines. Aiden knew he could reach out and snuff their lives, but they were not his target.

  It took about an hour, but finally he arrived at the IED site. The Humvee had been removed and the crater partially filled in, but there was no mistaking that this was the place. Aiden could smell Rico hanging over the area. Aiden had never been near Rico when he was in varg form to know how exactly he smelled, but still, there was no doubt in his mind that he could make out Rico and Dontrell from the other human scents. Aiden must have subconsciously picked up on their scents even when he was in human form.

  He stood in the shadows, trying to sort through the smells. He had to compartmentalize those scents he recognized: Rico, Dontrell, blood, diesel, urine, burned rubber, C-4. He had to pick up something that would identify the bombers. Nothing stood up and screamed at him that this was the evidence he needed. He stood there, taking in the night air, for 20 minutes before he admitted that his was a dead end. He wondered what else he could do. Nothing came to mind.

  He started going over the chain of events in his mind, hoping he would remember something. It wasn’t until the third time he went over it that he thought of the boy with the soccer ball. He’d been standing there, watching, before suddenly running off just before the IED detonated. Aiden thought back, trying to remember just why the boy had run. Then he had it. The boy had glanced up, his eyes widening before he turned to run.

  Aiden quickly moved over to where the boy had been standing. The soccer ball was gone, something too valuable to have been abandoned for long, but Aiden was pretty sure this was the spot. He put himself in the boy’s position, then looked up in the same direction as the boy had done.

  Bingo!

  There was only one building in the line of sight, a two story building surrounded by rubble-strewn lots. The boy had looked up, so the detonator must have been well up off the ground.

  The night was still as he moved across the road and into the abandoned building. Snack wrappers littered the floor, and the distinctive smell of urine permeated from the far corner. A concrete stairway led up to the second floor, the rail long ripped off and rebar showing through the cement. Aiden knew there wasn’t anyone up there, so he quickly climbed the stairs. The back of the second floor was gone, leaving it open to the night. He made a quick scan, but something pulled him toward the roof. He climbed the rusty iron steps up and stepped up on the roof, the panoply of stars providing more than enough light for him to see every detail. He walked to the front edge of the roof and looked over. Down below him, the crater of the IED was only 30 meters away. This roof was a superb vantage point where the entire convoy could have been observed.

  He shifted his weight, stepping on something hard. It was an old Nokia flip phone, crushed to pieces. The pieces had not been exposed to the elements, though. Someone had deliberately destroyed the phone, and quite recently. Aiden knelt, put his face towards it, and gently but deeply inhaled.

  He had it.

  It was hard to put just why into words, but there was no doubt in Aiden’s mind that he could identify the person whose scent was most imbedded in the broken phone. It was like a signature, unique and identifiable. Once that scent had been imprinted in his brain, Aiden couldn’t forget it even if he wanted.

  He cast about, and as if lighted by neon strips, he picked up two trails, one slightly weaker than the other. He picked the stronger of the two and started following it. He went back down the ladder, then the stairs, then out the back. The trail was strong as it made its way over rubble and onto another street. The trail started meandering, as if the person had been window shopping or trying to look nonchalant. After close to a kilometer of crisscrossing and wandering, the trail led into a tea shop, now closed, and a much stronger trail led back out. Aiden couldn’t calibrate scent strength and time yet, but his target had to have stayed at the tea shop for several hours, at least.

  The trail intertwined with other trails, going over some and having others pass over it, but Aiden never lost his target. It was like a scented version of the colored lines some hospitals had to lead patients to different departments. It was his yellow-brick road.

  Within fifteen minutes, the trail led into a nondescript three-story building. Aiden took his time to walk around the building, searching for signs. Fainter versions of the trail led away from it, but nothing stronger. Hi
s target was still inside.

  He hopped over the courtyard wall and sidled up to the front door. He tried the knob, but as expected, it was locked. His mind momentarily flashed back to the day when he’d been bit, when he’d wished that Sgt Rickman had ordered the door blown. This time, he wanted a silent entry.

  Iraqi construction could be rather shoddy, so Aiden slowly exerted pressure, building up the force until the locking mechanism gave way with a loud snap. Aiden froze, listening, but there was nothing to indicate that anyone inside had taken notice. He eased the door open and stepped inside.

  The trail led to the back, but Aiden cast his senses wide. He caught signs of three, possibly four people upstairs, their steady breathing indicative of sleep. He followed the trail down the center hall, then back into the left rear room. He listened at the door, and hearing nothing, pushed it open, weapon at the ready. The room was empty. He sniffed, the trail leading over to the back wall before disappearing. He moved to where it disappeared, and the low murmur of voices made the scent trail unnecessary. His target was in a hidden room under the floor, and he wasn’t alone. A small amount of light escaped from below through a tiny crack around the secret door on the floor.

  He listened for a moment, picking out at least three voices along with the sounds of activity. The smell of solder was strong. One of the men below laughed, a rich baritone reaching up to Aiden.

  He checked his M16, making sure the safety was off. The various controls of the weapon were a little difficult to manage with his non-human fingers, but the safety lever was easy enough to flip. He carefully wiggled one finger (or should that be claw?) into the trigger guard, careful not to pull the trigger and prematurely fire a round.

  There was a small ring attached to one end of the door. He bent over to grab it, but his finger was too thick. They must have used a tool to open it, then taken the tool with them when they were inside. He tried to slip the tip of his claw in, but it could only go in a few millimeters.

  Frustration took over. Here he was, ready to rain death and destruction on his enemy, and he couldn’t open a simple door. Another laugh floated up from below him, almost as if it was mocking his efforts.

  Enough was enough. He carefully laid down his M16, felt for the edge of the door, then with as much force as he could muster, drove his stiffened fingers down into the cracks between the door and the floor. His fingers didn’t go very deep, but it was far enough. By pushing his claws in, he got a grip and literally ripped the door up and out, tearing off the hinges on one side. He grabbed his weapon as he jumped down, feet first, ignoring the small ladder.

  He landed with a crash, going to one knee, snarling at the four very surprised men who were looking at him in shock. He tried to bring his M16 around, but he had trouble getting his forefinger inside the trigger guard.

  The men might have been shocked to see the hairy apparition suddenly appear, but the M16 was something they recognized, no matter who or what was bearing it. Two of them dove away from the scattered bomb-making gear, going for rifles stacked up against the wall.

  Giving up on his own weapon, Aiden flung it at one man, hitting him in the back and sending him sprawling. At the same time, he jumped for the other man, colliding with him just as the man’s hands closed around the AK47. His arms encircled the man’s waist, but the man tried to bring his rifle around, and Aiden didn’t think he had time to slowly crush the life out of the man, so he bit, deep and hard, at the base of the man’s neck. The man shuddered, and blood fountained up and splattered on the cement wall. Aiden dropped the twitching body and turned his attention to the other three.

  One of the men tried to sidle around him to reach the ladder, panic evident on his face. Another man stood still, not believing what he was seeing. Aiden sniffed—this was his real target, the man who had set off the IED.

  First things first, though. The third man, the one at whom Aiden had thrown his own weapon, and gained his feet again, and was trying to get to another AK. With one bound, Aiden grabbed him, stopping the man while effectively blocking the way to the ladder. The man started to rain blows on Aiden’s shoulder, but they felt like kittens’ paws to him. Almost casually, he spun the man around, and facing the other two, he started to pull out on each of the man’s arms. He intended to rip the guy in two in front of his bomb-making companions.

  It didn’t work out that way. The man screamed satisfactorily, but he didn’t rip down the middle. One arm gave way, dislocating at the elbow, but tendons and sinew keeping it barely attached. Aiden’s arms weren’t long enough to pull farther apart. The man was screeching in agony, trying to struggle. Aiden’s execution of the man was not going as envisioned. As he shifted his grip to the man’s head, sure he could at least make a statement that way, the other guy lunged towards the ladder. Aiden reached out to grab him, but the man vaulted up and over his outstretch arm to land out of reach. Aiden wheeled and just caught an ankle before the leg disappeared up the ladder. He pulled the squealing insurgent back down as a shot rang out and a blow hit Aiden in the back. He was wearing his flak jacket, but it still hurt. He spun around, hand still around the runner’s ankle. Amazingly, the man whose arm had been almost torn off at the elbow had grabbed an old pistol and fired, hitting Aiden. He was staggering, trying to get off another shot. As if he was cracking a whip, Aiden flung the insurgent he was holding in an underhand throw, sending the man across the small room and crashing into the gunman. One of his projectile’s legs went up and smashed the lone overhead light, plunging the room into darkness.

  Werewolves had good night vision, but they still needed some light. The tiny bit of light that trickled down from the upper floor didn’t do much for him. For the insurgents, though, it had to be worse.

  Aiden heard the scrambling. His sense of hearing and his smell were almost as good as sight. He took two steps forward, reaching out to grab one of the struggling men. This one was the runner. He simply picked the man up, then brought him down hard over his knee. The crack as his back broke was almost deafening. He dropped the refuse on the floor. Heavy breathing to his left guided him to the wounded man. At least he fought, Aiden thought, giving him a tiny bit of grudging respect. That wasn’t going to stop him from reaching out and grabbing him by the throat, squeezing out the last bit of life, though.

  “I’m here to kill you,” he intoned, turning to where he could hear his target breathe.

  The man said nothing. Aiden wondered if the man understood English or if he was just afraid. Aiden wanted him to understand, he wanted him to know just why he was going to die.

  He knew someone would have heard the shot fired, but he took his time. He had to do this right. He reached inside his cargo pocket and pulled out the flashlight he always carried. Once again, his varg hands almost defeated him. But he managed to turn it on. He aimed it at the last man standing, and the smell of urine permeated the air as the light hit the man. Swinging it around, he saw a desk lamp. He turned it on, and a weak, flickering light lit up the room.

  His target never even looked at his dead companions. His eyes were on Aiden. Aiden pointed at the bomb–making equipment, then at the man. He hoped the man understood that the bombs were the reason he was going to die. He wished he knew the man’s name, making it more personal. He wanted to know just who he was killing. Of course, this coward never knew who Rico was, about his baby girl he had with a high school fling, how he sent money to his baby mama every month from his meager private’s salary. This guy didn’t care who he was killing, so why should Aiden? He did care, though.

  The man was acting like the third mujahideen Aiden had killed out in the desert when he’d first shifted, the one who hadn’t started to struggle until close to the end. Aiden didn’t want that. He wanted the man to struggle. He wanted the man to feel the despair as death closed in.

  Suddenly, Aiden stepped aside, pointing to the ladder. The man’s eyes finally left him, quickly looking at the exit. Aiden could see the hope bloom in him. He took a faltering step, th
en stopped to look as Aiden. Aiden gestured one more time to the ladder. That was all it took. He bounded towards it, stepping on the one-armed corpse of his companion without a second glance.

  He never looked back as he started up the ladder, so he never saw Aiden close in and grab his leg. The man gave a piteous wail as he was dragged back down into the bomb-making room. Where he had been motionless before, now he was struggling. He had been given hope, only to have it snatched away.

  The man was on his ass, right leg up as Aiden pulled him back. Aiden looked at the leg, then brought it up to his mouth. He paused for a moment, mouth open, teeth bared, looking at the bomb-maker. Then he clamped down, biting off the foot.

  The blood flowing in his mouth excited him, bringing up emotions that hinted at a wild, destructive beast inside of him. For a moment, he worried that he was going feral. The Council would eliminate him. But that didn’t seem that important now as he listened to the screams of his victim.

  He wondered if hands tasted better. They did. More blood stained his mouth and ran down his furry chin. The next hand was taken off by brute force. He just yanked it. He would have expected the man to lose energy by then, but if anything, the screaming got louder and the struggling more concerted.

  On the table were bombs in various stages of construction. Aiden wondered when they had made the bomb that killed Rico and had taken Dontrell’s leg. He dragged the man over so he could reach out and pick up a chunk of C-4, complete with fuse. He placed it on the man’s stomach, and finally, he thought the man began to comprehend. He held out the stub of his arm, pleading. Aiden didn’t have anything with which he could attach the explosive to the man, so he did the next best thing. He ripped open the man’s stomach and pushed the C-4 into the mass of guts.

  Aiden didn’t really know how he was going to detonate the explosive. He didn’t know how it was designed or what the activator was. It had been a cell phone for the one that had killed Rico, but this one could be anything.