The Werewolf of Marines Trilogy

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  With two dazed but conscious men under him, Aiden brought up one foot and pushed forward with all his might, forward and down. Aiden was not a big cat, whose hind legs evolved as major weapons to bring down big game. The claws on his feet were dull and rounded. But with the force of his haunches, they pierced his erstwhile shield’s belly and disemboweled him, his foot stopping only when it hit the man’s hipbone. The smell of shit and blood filled the room as the man gave a little mewling cry while reaching forward as if to shovel his intestines back into his gut.

  Aiden kicked free of the soon-to-be dead man and lunged forward, his front paws grasping at the scarecrow. The man had shown no fear when he was trying to shoot Aiden, but with his comrade a bloody mess in front of him, and with a blood-covered apparition from hell reaching for him as well, the man’s nerve broke. He tried to scramble away backwards on his butt, eyes locked on Aiden.

  Aiden slowly stood up and loomed over the whimpering insurgent. He didn’t draw it out—there was no need for that. With a roundhouse blow with his right paw, he caved in half of the man’s face. The scarecrow was flung to his side where he lay still.

  Aiden wanted to stand tall and howl his victory to the heavens when a single shot rang out and fire lanced into his thigh. He’d forgotten the last insurgent, the one who was against the back wall with the bloody leg.

  Aiden dove to the floor, scrambling for his Tavor, expecting another shot at any second. There was none. Aiden gripped his weapon and turned to the last man, who was looking weakly at him, an AK-47 in his hands, but the barrel resting on the carpeted floor. His eyes were dull and listless, but they were locked on Aiden.

  The carpet beneath him was drenched in red, scarlet blood, which still pulsed out in a very weak arterial flow. The man was dead, but his body didn’t know that yet. Aiden didn’t fire, but stood up and approached the man, ready to fire if the man made a move. The insurgent tried, but he no longer had the strength to lift the muzzle. A shot rang out as he pulled his trigger, but the round buried itself in the carpet.

  “Iblis,” the man croaked out, the last words he would utter in this life.

  Aiden simply reached out and took the man by the throat, squeezing the final embers of life from the man.

  He stood up and surveyed the scene. The placed looked like a hurricane had hit it. Metal dishes and glassed were strewn about the room, and the carpets were in disarray. The cart, looking much worse for wear, was up against the far wall. And of course, there were five dead insurgents.

  A cough made him jump. The scarecrow lifted a hand to his brow.

  OK, there were only four dead insurgents. Aiden took three long strides to stand over the barely conscious man. Aiden’s battle fury was fading, but he knew what he had to do—and what he had to do to a few of the others.

  Very deliberately, he stomped on the scarecrow’s neck, breaking it and sending the man to his next life. With a broken neck, it was easy to do what came next. Aiden jerked the head free of the body, then after surveying the scene, carefully placed the head in the belly cavity of the man he’d disemboweled. The fat man was still in the middle of the room, and it was pretty evident that he’d died as a result of the two bullet holes in his chest.

  Only a devil, an “Iblis” would not use a rifle. Aiden had to disguise that.

  Even as a varg, he felt a twinge of discomfort as he tore open the man’s chest. This was not combat, where adrenaline was flowing. He didn’t like breaking the mans’ ribs, flailing the dead body. He finally found the two rounds and removed them. On his back, the man’s huge belly rose almost unsullied over the open pit of his chest.

  Aiden left the last body alone. After dissecting the fat man, he didn’t have the will to do much more.

  A faint noise caught his attention. With a start, he realized it was a car or truck, and it seemed to be approaching. It was only then that he noticed the old style walkie-talkie, the kind favored in the old TV shows and war movies. There was no cell coverage there, but it was foolish to think they had no comms. That was a mistake that could have serious ramifications.

  Aiden had been so intent on cleaning up, or dirtying up the scene, that he neglected to look for the asset. And now he had only minutes, maybe less, to find her.

  He tore up the carpet, uncovering the floor once, twice, three times, thinking that as he pulled up the carpet in one spot, he was covering over the hidden cell with the discarded carpet. But there was nothing. His mind raced.

  He could ask the woman, he could even go to the forbidden shack number five, but he couldn’t speak Arabic, and he doubted anyone would respond to him even if he did. The truck sounds, and now he could make out two of them, were getting closer. He was running out of time.

  They didn’t say which building, he realized. Maybe one of the others?

  Only one other might make sense, and Aiden bolted out the door, only slightly limping from the round still buried in his thigh. He rushed to the second shack, the one with the two dead insurgents inside, and pushed the table over. Of the three buildings that he’d seen the inside, this was the only one with furniture. He ripped up the carpet on the floor, and to his relief, saw a recessed ring. It was large enough for his claws, and he yanked it back, exposing an eight-foot deep hole. He could barely make out a supine body just out of the shack’s single oil lamp’s feeble illumination.

  “Can you get up?” he croaked out.

  The body didn’t stir.

  The truck sounds were getting closer.

  He looked around the room, but the table and chairs had been the only real furniture. There wasn’t a ladder anywhere.

  “Fuck me royal,” he muttered as he pulled in his arms and jumped into the cell.

  The body was female, he immediately realized, and still alive—maybe barely, but barely still counted. He tried to shake her shoulder and didn’t even get a groan. She was too far gone.

  With no other option, Aiden picked up the woman, who had to have weighed less than 100 pounds. He moved directly under the opening and tossed her out—and she fell straight back in. Aiden missed catching her as she slammed back into the dirt floor of the cell.

  Sorry about that,” he automatically said.

  He had to throw her out at an angle. He took half a step back and launched the woman one more time. This time, when she fell back, only her legs went into the opening. The rest of her remained up in the room.

  Now it was Aiden’s turn. Eight feet was a pretty good jump, especially with a round in his leg, but he managed to jump far enough that he could shoot out his elbows to catch the edge of the floor and keep him from falling back. He kicked the empty air beneath him a few times, kipping himself up until he could scramble out.

  Outside, the trucks pulled to a stop. Aiden could hear at least one tailgate clang open as too many sets of feet hit the ground. Shouts in Arabic rang out.

  Aiden scooped up the asset—the woman—and ran out the front door, expecting shouts of discovery and a fusillade to reach out to him. But the reinforcements had stopped outside the village, probably wary of who might still be there.

  Within moments, Aiden was far away from the carnage and getting farther by the minute. Using his nose, he honed in on his pack. The woman hadn’t made a sound this entire time, and he laid her down to struggle into his pack. When he stooped to pick her back up, her eyes glinted in the moonlight. She still didn’t make a sound as Aiden lifted her to a sitting position and crouched in front of her face.

  “You never saw me,” he said, hoping against hope that she understood English and could understand his varg accent.

  She said nothing, merely stared.

  “If you tell them you saw me, they will kill you,” he said, frustrated.

  “OK,” she said in a very heavily accented English. “I no see you.”

  With relief, Aiden smiled, belatedly realizing that a varg smile looked very predatory to a human. She didn’t blink, though, and held her arms to him to be lifted.

  Aiden picked her
up, and put her around his shoulders. He had a long way to go, and trying not to jar his cargo would make the going slow. Less than a mile into the journey back, the woman’s arms slacked, and Aiden knew she was out again.

  He also knew that she would not live if she revealed she had seen him. He hoped she really understood him when he told her to keep quiet.

  Hell, when she comes too, she’ll probably think this was all a nightmare, a figment from her torture, he thought.

  Hopefully.

  Chapter 20

  “I told you, sir. Corporal Kaas was not going to leave her,” Keenan said to Dr. Lowenstein as the two men, along with Rob Knutson, watched the drone feed that had eyes on Aiden.

  Aiden’s just survived the mission, and I’m worried about his reputation? Keenan wondered to himself.

  After Aiden had emerged from the building into which he’d made such an impressive entrance, Keenan had breathed out a huge sigh of relief. Another drone feed had shown two trucks full of gunmen approaching the small compound, and he’d wanted Aiden to get out of there. He’d almost groaned aloud then his friend bolted back into his first target. When he emerged from the building a minute or two later, carrying someone just as the insurgents were entering the little village from the other side, Keenan had wanted to pump his fist in the air.

  There had been some discussion on whether Aiden would “eliminate” the threat posed by an asset who knew too much or in fact complete the rescue. Keenan had been adamant that Aiden would do the right thing, and to see the image of him escaping into the desert carrying who had to be the asset was reassuring. He knew Aiden the human would have saved her, but he wasn’t sure about Aiden the varg, and he was glad his trust had been confirmed. Aiden was still Aiden, in werewolf form or not.

  He looked to the director of the still unnamed office, who neither seemed surprised nor vindicated.

  “Interesting. So his sense of humanity is still present. Yet from the look of things, he managed to kill more than a few insurgents in a most violent fashion. Yes, interesting.”

  They hadn’t actually seen much of Aiden’s main assaults, of course. The infrared camera on the drone had been able to pierce the roofing to make out some of the movement inside the two shacks, but it was not great at details.

  Why didn’t we just give him a body cam? he wondered. Like Columbia. Tarnition had that covered, at least.

  “I told you. He’s still human.”

  “And that’s good to get confirmed,” the director said non-plussed.

  And it hit Keenan right then.

  “You were testing him? Testing his humanity? Shit, sir!”

  The director continued to watch the feeds as Aiden made his way farther from the collection of shacks, but Rob Knutson offered, “This is too big to be left to assumptions, Colonel. We needed to see how he reacts, not only with that question, but many, many more. So yes, it was a test, one of many.”

  “And when were you going to tell me about this test?”

  “We just did,” Rob said with a smile.

  “As long as COL Tarnition is gone, Corporal Kaas is under my command, and I’d appreciate it if I was fully briefed on any more tests. He’s a uniformed member of the armed forces, I’ll remind you.”

  Knutson looked up at Dr. Lowenstein, but the man said nothing as he watched the feeds.

  The CIA officer shrugged, turned back to Keenan, and said, “Sure thing. My apologies.”

  Keenan was still pissed, but there was not much more he could say.

  “Does she look conscious to you?” the director asked after a few moments. “I haven’t seen her move since the corporal appeared with her.”

  “Dead or unconscious, I’d say,” Knutson offered.

  “Does that make a difference?” Keenan asked. “And if she’s seen too much . . . ?”

  “She’ll be debriefed,” Knutson simply said.

  And if she was conscious enough to see Aiden? Keenan wondered.

  He didn’t think he wanted to know the answer to that.

  Chapter 21

  Jack looked over the fence at the twenty or so chained and barking dogs that filled the yard. The chains for each dog had been attached to posts embedded in the dirt, and the dogs had worn all the grass away in large circles around each post. The smell was pretty rank, although it didn’t bother him much. Scents that would have bothered him as a human merely registered to him now.

  I am still human! he reminded himself. Colonel Jack Tarnition, United States Army.

  His full name and rank had become a mantra to him as he tried to retain any hint of who he was as the beast took over more and more of him. It was a fight he knew he was losing, and that filled him with dread.

  The dogs were going crazy, leaping and lunging, only to be jerked back as they reached the end of their chains. Their aggression didn’t bother him. Dogs had provided the bulk of his meals since he’d fled into the Virginia countryside a week earlier. This might have been an entire pack, but chained, they couldn’t do much, and no single dog was a match for him.

  That thought brought him the tiniest bit of comfort. His life might be ruined, but he still had power, even if only over a dog. He knew without a doubt that he was the baddest motherfucker in northern Virginia, and he could take on anyone. He hadn’t sunk to the point where he preyed on humans—yet. The idea of that, however, had begun to creep into his thoughts. At first, that had horrified him. Now it didn’t seem quite such an extreme idea.

  Jack wanted more than anything else to shift back to human and return to his old life. When he’d woken up on the floor of the condo’s fitness center in his present form, he’d at first been elated. He’d made it! He was an honest-to-goodness werewolf. He wrecked the gym just for the joy of it.

  Leaving the gym, he’d taken off on a run, not to go anywhere, but just for the sheer exultation of his new being. He surprised a few late evening joggers, but he didn’t care. He was invincible!

  It wasn’t until the sun began to show itself on the horizon that he started to think about shifting back. His clothes and shoes had disappeared either while he shifted or while he was out running rampant, and he did not want to have to explain being out naked early in the morning, so he calmed himself and more cautiously made his way back to his condo, avoiding all contact with people as well as the few dogs that seemed to take issue with his passage. He'd made it back without a problem, but then his morning got progressively worse. He couldn’t shift back to human, no matter how hard he’d tried.

  He'd spent two fruitless days around his condo, slinking in the shadows while he tried to force his human body to return. The more he tried and failed, the more stressed he became. His own condo was on the first floor, and he broke into it, drinking a full bottle of Jack to see if he could shift while drunk, but getting drunk was the problem. He guessed a werewolf just couldn’t get plastered.

  Finally, after too many close calls, he realized that Arlington was too crowded for him. He had to get out into the countryside where things were calmer, instinctively realizing that the stress was making a return to human more difficult. He made the trip out past the sprawling DC suburbs in two nights, and while he was sure he’d been spotted crossing the beltway, he thought he’d gotten to what was probably Loudon County mostly unnoticed.

  Being out in the country had relieved part of the stress, but he still hadn’t been able to shift back. He was coming to the realization that he might be stuck as a werewolf. He absolutely wanted to shift back, but if he couldn’t, he wanted—no, he needed—to strike back at those whose fault all of this was. He’d start with Dr. Lowenstein, that prick. He was the one who caused all of this. He’d recruited Jack, he’d initiated the operation. Because of that, Jack was stuck as a freaking werewolf, skulking about the Virginia countryside, snatching pet dogs to survive. The thought of biting down on that smug head, of feeling the skull crush and the brains bursting forth filled him with an almost sexual excitement.

  Then there was one Corporal Aiden K
aas, USMC, his patron. If he’d never come into Jack’s life, that life, as he knew it, wouldn’t be over. If his infection of Jack had been better, if it had been more pure, then Jack would have been able to shift back and forth at will.

  He pushed back the knowledge that Kaas was probably more experienced with being a werewolf, a varg, as he called it, and the fact that Kaas had proven himself over and over as a fighter. He was still sure that he’d be able to take revenge on the asshole, given enough time.

  “Who’s out there? You all better get your ass gone,” a voice called out from the house on the other side of the dogs as a light turned on.

  That snapped Jack out of his reverie. He almost turned to run back into the woods, but still full of righteous indignation, he decided “Fuck it!”

  He vaulted the fence as the dogs’ cacophony raised several notched in intensity. He ran to the nearest dog, a brindled mastiff that was in a frenzy to reach him.

  He obliged, rushing into the circle of the dog’s chain. He reached for it, and the dog sank its jaws around his arm. With a scream of anger more than pain, Jack flexed his left arm, trapping the dog’s jaws, and wrapped his right arm around the sturdy body. With a heave, he yanked back with all his strength.

  Something had to give, and it wasn’t the chain. The dog’s body was torn in two, the head separating from the torso.

  Jack fell back on his ass, dropping the head, but retaining the torso. He bit down on the bleeding neck, and as before, felt power infuse him as he swallowed the blood.

  “You sonofabitch!” the voice rang out, barely registering with him.

  The shotgun blast that peppered him right after registered, though.

  He jumped up, still holding the dog’s body. The man had stepped off the porch but was still within the circle of illumination from the powerful floodlight above the door. The man was a good 50 or 60 yards away from Jack, so other than a few pellets stinging him, there was not much serious damage done, but a stab of fear hit Jack. All thoughts of power and taking on a human disappeared in a flash. Jack wheeled about and ran, still clutching the dog’s body. He easily cleared the five-foot fence and fled into the woods, leaving the angry and shouting human behind. He kept running for a good ten minutes, circling other country homes and keeping in the trees, before he was calm enough to slow down.