by T K Eldridge
T.K. Eldridge
Jericho
The Hybrid Chronicles - Book 1
First published by Graffridge Publishing 2020
Copyright © 2020 by T.K. Eldridge
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
T.K. Eldridge asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
T.K. Eldridge has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
Edited by Donna A. Martz
Cover by Lizzie Dunlap of Pixiecovers.com
First edition
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To Joe Marrs - Thanks for all the years of writing together that prepared me for writing alone.
“There is nothin’ glorious about dyin’ in a war. A bunch of starving, freezing boys - killing each other so the rich people can stay rich? Madness…”
- Bill Compton, True Blood s1e2
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by T.K. Eldridge
Chapter One
Adrenaline raced through me and left a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth. My grip shifted on the rifle, and I nodded to Hernando. A pace and a half ahead of me, Hernando lifted a gloved hand to signal he was going to go around the corner first. Dust and sweat filled my senses as I clenched the rifle tight, then my breath stopped as I heard a faint gasp from Hernando that seemed to echo over and over again. That one sound, heard just before my whole world went white, then red, and then black. The explosion was silent for me, just a flash of colors as my eyes widened and everything else stopped.
I choked awake on the scream caught in my throat. For a few seconds, I stared at the warm gleam of light on the nightstand where the little lamp burned, my brain slow to register the shift in location. The faint hiss of the intake vent drew my gaze upwards before it shifted to the glow of green numbers on the clock that told me it was still a few hours until dawn. A stretch on the narrow bed eased dream-tensed muscles before I pulled the thick wool blanket up and turned to face the wall. The painted cinder blocks did little to distract my mind from memories brought on by the dream. The beige painted surface soon gave way to the sand and mud wall I last saw nearly five years ago, and the replay of the explosion that ended life as I knew it.
The first things I remembered after the explosion were voices as they talked over me.
“They said that Hernando’s body evaporated from the force of the blast and the only thing that kept this one alive was the corner of the building between him and the IED.” A male voice spoke in the semi-hushed whisper often used in hospitals. I couldn’t place the voice at the time, but later I would know him as Dr. Evans.
“Evaporated? Jeezus. Amazing this guy has as much left of him as he does. Think this batch will work?” The female voice didn’t bother with a whisper. Stephanie Milford, public relations and spin artist for the Facility. The first time I saw her leaning over my bed, all that blond hair and those big blue eyes, I was sure I had died. It didn’t take long to realize the angelic appearance hid a darkness within her that challenged Goebbels. They’d kept me paralyzed and, for the most part, comatose. There were moments of clarity during that time. Harsh, bright shards of painful confusion that didn’t come together until much later.
A shiver, and I tugged the blanket higher. A low growl tickled the back of my throat as I looked at my hands. Ten fingers, a faint dusting of dark hair – they looked like perfectly good hands – but they weren’t my original ones. The scar that had wrapped around the thumb of my left hand, the one where I’d cut it on the old tire swing chain, was gone. An odd twist in my right index finger where I’d broken it playing ball in high school, that one was gone too. They were hands, attached to my body by ligaments and muscles, bone and sinew, but they were not the hands I had been born with. These hands had been grown to replace the hands and forearms that had been blown away in the attack. Same with both legs, my right hip and parts of my face that included both eyes, nose and right ear. Another shiver and a soft huff of breath as I made yet another mental adjustment. It was still sometimes a lot to get used to, this new body. It also seemed like the price I’d paid for it was getting higher every day.
Dr. Evans had explained it as they had utilized various strains of animal stem cells, made a cocktail with those cells and human stem cells in order to regrow body parts. Organs, limbs, nerves, skin, eyes – stem cells were ‘unprogrammed’ cells that could become anything. Dr. Thorpe and his research team at the Facility had taken the Rosetta Stone of the medical world and mixed it with cells from wolves, bats, bears, hawks, and others. My new legs made it so I could run faster and move silently. My eyesight was beyond anything a pure human could achieve, along with my hearing and strength. All of these modifications had made me super human. It had also made me a “pet” of the Facility. To them, we weren’t super human - we were less than human.
“Get up, Dante,” the snide tone of Meyers, one of the lab techs, filtered through the clear wall that fronted the cell. “Sensors show you’re awake so you might as well get moving.”
I muttered under my breath, “Fuck off, peon,” as I slowly sat up and proceeded to annoy the fuck out of the jackass in a lab coat. “And a charming good morning to you too, Assistant Meyers. Breakfast in bed? Aww, you shouldn’t have! But…where’s my daisy? And daily paper?”
A bright, toothy smile as I stretched, then rested my arms on my knees.
A protein bar and a bottle of something the lab created called a ‘breakfast blend’ sat on a tray that Meyers slammed through the slot in the wall – hard enough to bounce the bottle off the tray into a spin on the floor.
I didn’t bother to hide the self-satisfied gleam in my eyes. Meyers was irritated and I took my little victories where I could get them.
“Twenty minutes for food and shower, then morning briefing. Don’t be late,” Meyers snapped as he turned away and entered his notes on his tablet. He stopped a few steps down the hall and glanced into the next cell, then muttered and continued on his way.
My jaw clenched as I tracked Meyers’ stops and starts down the row of cells. I heard him mumble his disappointment that he couldn’t see Kit sleeping. My knuckles cracked as I made a f
ist. One of these days I was going to beat Meyers’ face in for his perversions where my team was concerned. See, Kit was new – and the only female. Kit’s cell was next to mine and she never slept on the bed but under it with the sheet draped over the side like a curtain. It blocked the view of anyone outside and gave her the privacy she craved.
I heard her stir after he left, as I ate the bar and downed the bottle’s contents. Tasted like sticks, twigs, and sour milk, but my body needed the fuel, so I ate it. The faint click of the electric lock being released told me I was free to head to the communal shower.
We were watched all the time. In our cells, in the showers, on the toilet, it didn’t matter. The Facility no longer considered us human, so it was deemed acceptable to treat us like lab specimens or rare animals in a zoological experiment. As a result, we’d all developed our own ways of coping.
My thing was a thin braid in my hair that went behind one ear and reached past my shoulder. They’d cut it off twice, but the second time I’d snapped the barber’s arm like a twig. They didn’t bother to cut it again – at least Dr. Evans knew when to pick his battles.
I’d had to sit in The Box for three days as punishment, but I’d been through worse. When the hot spray of the shower hit me, my muscles twitched in memory. The Box meant one supplement a day for nutrition, a slow leak from a garden hose for water, and no clothes while stuck in a concrete box with a hole in the floor that acted as drain and toilet.
Soap slid over skin that still showed a few bruises from the last party the team had attended, but I ignored the ache as I thought about my team. My family. Six individuals that resided in F-block of the Gunston Facility, buried in a forested state park on land that had once belonged to George Mason back in the days of the Revolutionary War. I knew other buildings held other teams of broken men and women made into something out of science fiction stories. Some, I’d seen. Others, I’d heard since I listened when techs and assistants talked – and forgot that enhanced hearing didn’t stop when the lights went out.
Project Phoenix had saved my life, but it had also left me dead. David Carver had died “of injuries suffered when insurgents attacked his unit using an improvised explosive device and small arms fire” or so the report read that my family had been sent. When the doctor in Kandahar listed my injuries, then offered me a chance to get back in the fight and make the insurgents pay for the death of Hernando and the others, payback for destroying my life, I’d grabbed for it with both missing hands and swore I’d never look back.
That had been five years ago. Yet with all that I had gained, I had not bargained on being put in a cage, treated like a lab rat, and only being let out on a very short, GPS-monitored leash. For five years, I have been Jericho Dante. For four of them, I’ve served as Commander Dante of team Foxtrot. Five men under my command. The team’s makeup had changed a few times – usually when someone was killed in action. Most recently, our sniper/recon guy, Aden, had been killed in the mountains of Afghanistan. Kit had been added to the team three days ago, although I’d worked with her before. The guys were going to have a problem with a girl on the team, but having seen her in action, I had zero complaints when she was moved into our compound. The rest of the team would do as they were ordered – and they’d come around when they saw her in action.
The intentionally loud shuffle of feet brought me back to the present, and I spoke without turning around. “Morning, Kane.”
The man grunted and then sighed as the hot spray of his own shower hit his skin. Hands flat against the tile wall, Kane bowed his head and let the water run down his back. The two of us bore an uncanny resemblance to each other, but that had been explained to us as simply a byproduct of the fact that we were both subjects of the same batch of mixed stem cells and DNA. After working a couple of missions, we had even developed a sort of silent speech that the rest of the team jokingly called ‘twin-speak’. No, the lab techs hadn’t caught on to that little bonus, and we both liked it that way just fine.
After five years, I knew Kane wasn’t exactly a morning person, so I just finished up and pulled on my clothes. A jumpsuit in dull army green with “Dante” embroidered on the upper chest. No insignia or logo. Nothing to distinguish it from the uniform of a mechanic or janitor. Underneath that we had plain cotton undergarments, drab green socks and slip on sneakers for shoes. Once dressed, I headed into the commons room and straight for the vending machine. A thumb jabbed the button for coffee and I waited as the paper cup filled, the residuals of the dream still on the edges of my mind.
“S’that for me?” Kane asked as he entered, the cuffs of his uniform tugged up to mid-forearm.
“It could be. I thought you were quitting caffeine?”
“Fuck, no. I thought about it, but decided I wanted to pick my own drug for a change.”
Kane reached for the cup as I pulled it free and sniffed it. “You didn’t put any of that flavored crap in it this time, did you?”
“Hazelnut Raspberry Surprise,” I said, then shook my head. “See all of the selections? You can have coffee, tea, or…” I pointed to each selection as I read them off.
A low rumble came from the far doorway as Cutter entered, “…or me.” White teeth flashed in the ebony face and he rubbed a hand over his bald head. “But you’re just too pretty for me, Kane.” A wink, and he took a cold cola from the fridge before he dropped into a chair that sounded a faint plastic complaint at the abuse.
My snort of laughter brought Kane’s head around with a snap to glare at me.
“Don’t. Start. I never gave any reason for that guy in Belize to think I liked him. It’s not my fault he went and got a ring and everything. Damned leather pants – that’s what it was. I will never be caught in leather pants in that country again.” Kane took a hearty swallow of the coffee and made a face before he sat in a chair across from Cutter. “And you, my friend, had better watch it. I may well take you up on that offer some time, just to see your reaction.”
Cutter choked on his mouthful of cola and laughed low, the sound more threatening than merry. “And you’ll find yourself singing soprano,” he rumbled.
I snickered at the banter and fixed a second cup of coffee before I took my seat at the end of the table. Back against the wall, I could watch both doors and the people in the room.
“Now boys,” I said, “don’t make me stop this car and turn around…” My voice trailed off as Kit ducked into the room. Head bowed, hair still wet from her shower, she went to the coffee machine in silence and jumped when I spoke. “Good morning, Kit.”
Wide green eyes stared up at me for a moment before they dropped back to the cup as it filled. “Mornin’,” she mumbled and kept her head bowed, the short cut just enough to hide her face.
The WTF looks from Kane and Cutter had me lifting my hand to silence them. “Kit, this is Kane, our demo guy, and Cutter, my second. Gentlemen, this is Kit Carson, our new sniper/recon.”
Cutter’s expression went neutral while Kane’s brows furrowed.
“Our new sniper and recon?” Kane asked.
“Yes,” I answered in a tone that brooked no further comment. Kit’s shoulders curled in a little more and she cradled the foam cup of coffee in both hands, staying near the vending machines for the moment. “She’s one of the best I’ve worked with. Did the Libya job with me last March.”
“But…what about Gideon?” Kane asked, looking Kit over critically.
“Gideon will be fine. We’ll make sure of it.” I replied quietly.
“Kit will be fine.” Cutter murmured. “We’ll make sure of it.”
Kit’s gaze flashed to meet mine, worry and questions in her eyes. I sighed before I answered her. “Gideon has…issues.” That brought a snort of wry amusement from Kane.
“That’s like saying Seattle has rain.” Kane shook his head and drained his coffee, turning to toss the cup into the trash with an overhand dunk shot. “Score!” he hissed, then looked back at Kit. “You having your monthly?”
Kit blinked in surprise. “Um…just finished two days ago.”
“Then you’ve got about five days more to worry. Gideon…got an extra dose of Whatever…and has trouble …”
“…trouble controlling himself around females when they are most fertile.” I replied, as I finished Kane’s sentence.
“Oh.” Kit said, voice soft. A faint shudder ran through her and she looked over at me. “So, this is one of Their little tests?”
I nodded. “So it would seem. But we can work with it.”
“Not like we’ve got a choice.” Kit replied wryly, then squared her shoulders a little and moved to sit to my left, between myself and Kane, with Cutter across the table. “I’m good at my job. Better’n most. Don’t worry about me not pulling my own weight.”
“You’re here. We’re not worried about that.” Cutter said, as he examined her delicate features. When she turned to look at him, he quirked a brow as the luminescent yellow-green eyes settled on his face. “Hawk?” he asked.
Kit nodded and added. “Owl too.” She, in turn, took in Cutter’s chocolate brown eyes that didn’t seem unusual at all. “You?”
“Owl here. I didn’t need a lot replaced.” Cutter drained the cola and then with as much effort as someone would crumple a piece of paper, he turned the aluminum can into a small ball of colored metal.
“Show off,” Kane teased and looked at Kit. “I wear contacts.” Deep blue eyes met hers then shifted to mine. “He hates the contacts.”
When I looked at her, my eyes glowed a vivid turquoise blue, with cat slit pupils.
“We’re batch brothers,” Kane continued. “We share every…”
Kane’s sentence was cut off by a low, huffed growl from the doorway. Gideon Bond curled one hand around the frame, eyes locked on Kit, nostrils flared. His short, compact frame quivered as his eyes brightened more amber than blue with each breath.
