by Chris Fox
Jordan’s eyes narrowed as he spotted movement on top of the bridge. For a long moment there was nothing, but suddenly a figure appeared with a rifle. God damned shadow dancers. He couldn’t make out the model, but that gun was large enough to give a tank pause. He already knew who held it; the red hair was unmistakable. Jordan winced as it fired, the gout of flame from the muzzle visible a split second before the thunder cracked over the bay. Damn but that thing was loud.
Fiery fragments exploded from Yuri’s craft, sending it into a tailspin. Jordan desperately wanted to intervene, but forced himself to adhere to the rules of the engagement he himself had crafted. Instead he drew the stock of his own rifle to his shoulder. The Mohn crafted weapon was state of the art, heavy but reliable. He sighted through the large scope, settling the crosshairs over Trevor’s chest. Then he stroked the trigger.
The rifle roared, kicking back against his shoulder like a bucking horse. He raised his chin, relying on his normal vision to ascertain the damage. Trevor had vanished, but the shot had done some damage. The pylon where he’d been standing was drenched in blood, and the rifle he’d been holding plummeted into the mist.
At least Jordan had disarmed him, but that created its own set of problems. Blair was blurring his way onto the bridge and approaching the pile of corpses. If Trevor ambushed him it would be at close range now, and Jordan couldn’t react quickly enough. He needed to get closer. It meant deviating from the plan, but he had to gamble that Trevor would see him as a threat and engage if given the chance.
Jordan blurred towards the bridge, shifting as he moved. By the time he reached the base of the bridge he was in full wolf form, eight feet of solid muscle and sharp teeth. He sprinted up one of the wide orange cables, vaulting over the hurdle-like obstructions every ten feet. In moments he’d risen into the mist, finally on even footing with Trevor. Neither one of them could see in this thick soup. Yet he couldn’t take advantage of stealth. He needed to be bait, to get Trevor to engage rather than attack Blair from the shadows.
He continued his blur until he emerged from the mist, surrounded by the acrid tang of wet metal and new blood. He wiped the damp from the fur around his eyes, scanning the immediate area. There was no way he could detect Trevor, but it didn’t stop him from looking. It was possible Trevor had dropped below the mist and was engaging Blair even now, but Jordan doubted it. That would have meant abandoning the high ground and Trevor was too canny for that.
Pain flared in his back as Trevor’s claws bit through the mesh. The armor muted the blow, or he might have had his spine ripped out. Instead it simply knocked him forward into the narrow rope-like cables that paralleled the much larger one he’d run up. He spun quickly, but Trevor had already disappeared back into the shadows.
“I’m sorry, Jordan, about Panama. You’re one of the good guys now. I see that. You have to put me down if you want to stop Irakesh,” Trevor said from somewhere slightly below him. Right where the mists shrouded the wide cable.
Was that some attempt at a trick? Not at all what he’d expect from previous encounters. Trevor was smarter than that.
“Oh I will, you ginger bastard,” Jordan growled. He flipped to his feet, ripping his .357 from its holster and squeezing off two rounds in the direction of the voice. The cracks were deafening, but he would have heard something if they’d struck home. Dammit. Where was the bastard? He had no choice but to wait for Trevor to engage. Maybe meeting him up here had been a bad idea. Maybe he should have waited for Trevor to attack Blair, but after what he’d done to Yuri Jordan couldn’t wait any longer.
“Not like that, you won’t,” the voice was behind him again. Something struck him in the back of the knees, sending him tumbling from the main cable. Jordan blurred, just barely catching one of the thin ropey cables. He used that to haul himself up, landing in a crouch on the main cable again. Why hadn’t Trevor used the opportunity to finish him?
“What are you playing at, Trevor?” Jordan growled, not really expecting an answer.
“Irakesh is controlling me and I can’t stop him, but that doesn’t mean I want this. If you want to kill Irakesh you have to deal with me first,” the voice was above him. Jordan looked up, but too late. Trevor fell on him like a comet, claws raking his armor and the weight of the deathless driving him into the cable. It was all Jordan could do to hold on, to keep from plummeting into the mist.
Jordan opened his jaw and lunged, but Trevor was quick. He ducked out of the way and Jordan’s teeth snapped shut mere inches from his throat. Then Trevor’s claws slashed at Jordan’s throat, tearing open the jugular. Jordan reached up to swat Trevor off, but the deathless batted the blow aside.
“You can’t win if you can’t find me. You need an answer to my shadow walking,” Trevor said, tone maddeningly friendly, as if they were old colleagues discussing a paper. Jordan had had enough of being taunted. Enough of watching friends die and seeing the world burn.
“How about fuck you? How’s that for an answer?” Jordan roared. He summoned the strange new power he’d discovered, this telekinesis the beast had told him about. He seized Trevor in an invisible grip, yanking him from the cable and hurling him out over the ocean. He jerked up his .357 and emptied three rounds into Trevor’s face, sending out a shower of gore. “Hope you can fly, motherfucker.”
Trevor’s body arced slowly towards the water, but then something incredible happened. His body became vague and hazy, slowly becoming insubstantial as he melted into a cloud of green mist.
“Are you serious?” Jordan roared. The bastard could fly.
Chapter 69- Vengeance
Liz danced the shadows, sprinting along the rocky embankment and onto the wide concrete that led to the Golden Gate Bridge. She’d never lived in the Bay Area, but had crossed the bridge several times growing up. It was breathtaking, even given the situation. A modern marvel of architectural brilliance. One that might well hold the fate of the Western Hemisphere. Yet the entire structure seemed tiny next to the massive pyramid now dominating the bay near Angel Island.
She shifted her attention to the throng of undead, their bodies clogging every visible space on the bridge. The stench was awful, the sight grisly even after all she’d witnessed. She briefly considered her options. Move along the railing or take to the wide suspension cables that led up into the mist?
A howl split the dusk, drawing her gaze to the center of the bridge. Blair stood at the mound of bodies, arms drenched in gore as he let loose his anger and loss. It was beautiful and terrifying, a challenge if ever she’d heard one. A challenge that was answered. Cyntia’s towering blonde form burst from the shadows behind Blair, looming like a linebacker over a grade schooler.
Yet somehow he dodged her first attack, her claws rending the air where he’d been standing. One moment he was there, the next standing atop her shoulders. His claws plunged into her neck so quickly Liz couldn’t discern individual movement. Blood spurted skyward, drenching his face and painting him with a fiendish brush. Even at this distance her enhanced vision let her see the unbridled rage consuming his features. He snarled like a beast as he continued his assault.
Cyntia reacted quickly, arms jerking upwards as she sought to grab him. Blair was too quick. He rolled backwards, landing in a crouch near Cyntia. He darted in, jabbing her in the gut with several strikes. Cyntia roared in pain and rage, bull-rushing Blair. This time she had more success, knocking Blair from his feet and coming down on top of him.
“No,” Liz cried, the word freeing her from inaction. She leapt forward, bounding from corpse to corpse as she used the zombies like some unstable road. She had to reach Blair.
Thunder rolled from the mist above. No, something louder than thunder. That was a gun being fired. A pistol, like her brother’s .357. Jordan had found Trevor. Or Trevor had found Jordan. She froze at the base of the bridge’s first pylon, a massive copper spire shooting into the mist on either side of the four-lane charnel house just below her perch on the railing. She glanced upwards,
part of her dying as she considered her options.
She could see Trevor, speak to him for the first time since she’d lost him. Maybe she could make him see reason. Make him join their side. If that wasn’t possible, if the unthinkable must be done, shouldn’t it be her that did it? She owed him that much. But there was Blair, embroiled in a fight he couldn’t win without her. It filled her with nausea in the way the stench of the dead never could.
In the end there was only one choice. Stick to the plan.
Liz leapt forward, drawing a gleaming broadsword out of English myth from her shoulder scabbard. Three more bounds took her within range. She grabbed one of the thick steel ropes connecting the suspension bridge to the road, vaulting into the sky above Cyntia.
Blair was holding his own, tearing furiously at Cyntia’s face in a blur of claws and teeth. Yet she had a death-grip on his right leg, massive claws exposing bone. It must be pure agony, yet it didn’t touch Blair. She was awed by what she was seeing, the true melding of beast and man. The only thing she had to compare was the Mother’s slaughter of Mohn Corp’s garrison back in Peru when she’d first wakened.
She came down with the long blade braced against her right leg, both hands gripping the grooved hilt. The move was instinctual, plucked from the beast lurking within her. The blade pierced the back of Cyntia’s neck, two feet of gold disappearing as it found bone. Cyntia roared in pain, glaring up at her hatefully from the eye Blair hadn’t yet gouged out. She seemed to weigh Liz’s attack, but lunged forward to seize Blair in a massive bear hug. Then Cyntia began to squeeze.
Blair’s ribs shattered, his brief scream turned into a pitiful wail as Cyntia tightened her grip. Liz lost any semblance of rational thought, at one with her need to kill a woman she’d once called friend. She plunged the blade deeper, her roar echoing over the bay.
A sickly green light burst from Cyntia’s wound, burning Liz’s skin like a long afternoon asleep in the sun.
This is the true power of the blade, Ka-Ken. Purify her soul and claim it for your own.
Liz tightened her grip on the blade, driving it deeper into Cyntia’s back until only the hilt was visible. Liz howled, funneling her rage into the blade. The sickly light grew brighter. Brighter still. Then it flared into the clear white brilliance, a liquid heat. The light began flowing up the blade in rapid pulses, each jolt like a shot of expresso after a long night studying. Strength flooded Liz. Power. Understanding. It was incredible.
A portion of the strength she accumulated is yours, Ka-Ken. A gift from the blade. This is why the weapon is so kingly, so highly prized.
Liz’s howl deepened. The sword was vibrating now, a living thing in her hands. Cyntia had stopped struggling, sagging to her knees and dropping Blair’s mangled body. He twitched weakly, dragging himself toward a nearby car.
The pulse became a steady stream, a massive burst of something she could only describe as Cyntia’s essence. Part memory, but mostly a wash of emotion. Infinite grief but a rage to match it, a blend that could result in no other fate than madness. Liz was flooded with pity, finally understanding the awful struggle Cyntia had undergone; her friend had been driven mad by the death of her world. The only thing she’d held onto was her hope that Trevor could somehow save her. That faith had led her down an ever-darkening road, one Liz herself could have walked had their roles been a little different. What she was doing here was a mercy, a last favor for her friend. Cyntia’s body went limp, an empty husk of meat and bone. It laid at the base of the pile of zombies, a final insult to her memory.
Liz scanned her surroundings, taking in the relative silence. There were no more gunshots from above. There was no sign of Irakesh. Only the mound of bodies. Liz sheathed the blade. She knelt next to Blair, cradling his mangled body. He was breathing, but his eyes were closed.
She didn’t know what he’d been through in their time apart, but it had left him with very little energy. It might be days before he healed enough to rejoin the fight.
Chapter 70- The Key
Blair returned to consciousness by degrees, each shallow breath pressing a shattered rib into his lung. His vision focused and he realized that his body had been propped against the bumper of a Suzuki Swift.
Liz-wolf stood near the mound of corpses laying about her with that golden sword as she danced between shambling bodies. Hundreds of them advanced, forcing her to spend more time dealing with them than she did digging into the mound.
He wanted to help, but he couldn’t feel anything below the waist. His useless legs were still mangled, a femur jutting through the skin in his left leg. Experience told him that he’d eventually heal, but not in time to make a difference.
“Blair,” a voice hissed from his right. He slowly turned his head to see Steve’s midnight form crouched next to the car.
“Help Liz,” Blair wheezed. It took everything he had to force the words out.
“I will. I’ll help all of us, but I need your help to do it,” Steve said, studying him with that calculating gaze.
Blair’s mind was foggy, but he knew what Steve was after. The access key. He also knew why Steve had chosen this precise moment to ask for it. Irakesh had yet to show his hand. When he did their only hope was to counter him with the power of the key.
“No,” Blair slurred, shaking his head. “I’m not falling for your damned tricks. I’ll die first.”
“Then we’ll all die,” Steve hissed, leaning closer. “This time it’s no trick, Blair. With you incapacitated the rest of us are screwed. San Francisco is screwed. We aren’t going to be able to stop Irakesh, not without the key. I know you hate me, but are you willing to sacrifice everything just to spite me?”
Blair glared at Steve, but didn’t reply. Not immediately anyway. Liz’s towering form still danced between corpses, but the fight was endless. For every one she cut down another filled its place, and there was an endless sea of waiting bodies. She could do this for days and not kill them all.
“Let’s say I give you the key. We kill Irakesh, then what? You’ll be just as bad as he is,” Blair growled. Weakly, because it hurt like hell.
“Now you’re just being dramatic,” Steve shot back. He glanced at Liz, then back at Blair. “Listen, make your damned choice, Blair. Give me the key and I’ll do everything I can to help us win. Deny me the key, and I’m out of here. I’m not sticking around and dying because of your stubbornness.”
Blair was torn. He knew giving Steve the key would be a mistake. Steve was the worst kind of megalomaniac, and if they survived this he’d have centuries to regret this moment. If they survived. That was the deciding factor. They needed Steve, if they wanted to have any chance of victory.
It is a painful choice, Ka-Dun. I support you in this. If we do not give the key to the treacherous one, we will be overwhelmed by the deathless. We will likely be overwhelmed anyway.
“Take it,” Blair snarled, extending his hand. The fur was matted with blood, and his arm shook badly as Steve grasped his hand.
“You’re making the right decision,” Steve said, giving him a confident smile.
“No I’m not,” Blair said, closing his eyes and willing the key to flow into Steve.
Chapter 71- Free Will
Trevor floated above the sea of carnage clogging the bridge, every molecule on fire both from the gunshots to the face and from the act of violently transforming his body to a gaseous cloud. The anguish went deeper, of course. He badly wanted to die, to have Jordan or Blair or Liz put him out of his misery. Yet he lacked the power to free himself, a prisoner in his own body.
Trevor gazed beneath him at the mound of bodies, at Blair’s broken body and the black furred werewolf who crouched next to him. At Liz, who was desperately attempting to clear the area around the mound of corpses. She flowed between zombies, hacking off heads as her golden sword hummed through the air.
A shape plummeted past him, sliding down one of the metal ropes that connected the suspension cables to the road below. Jordan. The Comman
der kicked off the cable to land in a crouch next to Blair’s mangled body. To Trevor’s immense relief Blair’s body spasmed. His friend was still alive, though just barely.
Enough. They are no longer your friends. They are prey and we will slay them.
Trevor drifted silently towards the ground, powerless to control his actions as he stealthily approached. Light warped around him, cloaking him in darkness as he descended. The closest target was Liz, his kid sister. The girl he’d grown up protecting. The one who looked up to him, who believed he could do anything.
He struck, body solidifying even as his clawed hand punched through Liz’s lower back. He seized her spine, twisting violently. Liz tumbled forward with a cry of immense agony that harmed Trevor in a way no physical blow could. He seized her golden sword in his free hand, yanking it away and pivoting towards Jordan.
Jordan was fast, but Trevor had caught him in the act of reloading his pistol. The werewolf dropped the weapon and came at Trevor with his claws. It was a mistake. Trevor dropped low, blurring underneath Jordan and using the reach offered by the sword to draw a wicked slash across Jordan’s belly.
The Commander yelped as he landed, rolling away from Trevor and coming up in a crouch. Even as he readied another attack, Trevor simply vanished, bending light to confuse his foe. Liz was staggering to her feet, spine already healed. Trevor gave her no quarter, ramming the sword through her back as he reappeared.
“Getting tired of ill-mannered zombies. Give werewolf sword back,” a thickly accented voice said. Trevor had enough time to see a man with a metal leg striding in his direction, black armor torn and smoking. One lens of his chrome sunglasses had been shattered, and part of his goatee had been burned away.
An unfamiliar pistol gripped in both hands. The weapon barked and a round tore through Trevor’s shoulder. Then another ripped into his gut. A third punched through his chest.
