A second desk cartwheeled as it flew, a corner coming down hard on the top of another agent, cracking tactical helmet and skull alike. A wooden door chased after the desks and knocked two others onto their asses.
Next there were shouts and curses as well as cries of pain, followed by the pop, pop, pop of gunfire.
Blain was ready. He had left one of the steel doors from radiology resting against the wall and lifted it now before him. Bullets peppered the door as the men panicked and unloaded their clips into it. The moment the attacks lessened; Blain struck.
He tossed the door forward; men screamed as it dropped into their ranks, crushing the first row. What followed it though, truly frightened them.
Barreling over the door, his weight upon it ensuring the deaths of those underneath, Blain charged. He was so close now only the men right in front got off any shots before Blain was among them.
Eight men were left in the hallway. With a swing of his right arm he sent one slamming against the wall, the drywall buckling from the impact and the man slumped to the ground. The man on the left sent a half dozen rounds of burning pain into Blain’s side before he lashed out with his other arm with a blow so hard it snapped the man’s neck, his helmet offering no protection from the side blow.
With impressive speed, Blain lowered his massive boar’s head and burst forward and up, catching an agent under his body armor with a tusk, burying it in his gut. Thrusting upward, the man was lifted into the air, head punching through the florescent light fixture in the ceiling above. With a loud pop, the light went out, the bulb shattered, showering them with glass.
The man screamed in pain, as Blain’s tusk gored him, his face now bleeding from shards of glass. Blows rained down upon Blain’s head as the man he had gored began bashing his face with the butt of his rifle.
With a toss of his head, Blain threw the man off his tusk into one of the other men in the hallway, felling both. Again, there was the pop, pop, pop of the rifles as the four remaining men in the hallway opened fire. Pain blazed in his chest, neck and abdomen as bullets shredded his front.
Blain ignored it.
With a jab of his clawed hand, he punctured one of the men’s throats, closing his fist on whatever he could get his hands on. Yanking it back out, he brought the man’s esophagus and windpipe with him and the man dropped, silently screaming, while clutching at the gaping hole in his throat.
Blain tossed the mangled mess at another agent’s face causing the man to back pedal, wiping at his face.
Pop! Pop! Pop! Two men were still firing at him and he roared his anger at them. One paused to switch out his clip and Blain charged him. Lowering his head, he rammed the man against the far wall. The man would have broken through but for the stud in the place where he struck. His body crunched as the armor offered little defense against the crushing weight of Blain’s impact against the unyielding support.
The building shuddered from the impact and drywall dust filled the air. Blain moved, closing with the other agent. With one swipe of a claw he sent the man’s rifle flying, with the other he sent the man’s head flying.
Bullets struck him from behind and he spun. The man he had chucked pieces of throat at had recovered. His face was still streaked with blood and pieces of tissue. Somewhere, he had picked up another rifle and leveled both at Blain. With an almost inhumanly roar, he fired both at Blain.
The wounds were taking their toll on Blain. His skin, organs and muscles were ripped to shreds and he bled from almost everywhere.
Reaching down with both hands, he grabbed bodies at his feet and hauled them up in front of him. Dull thuds filled the air, as bullets now perforated the body armor of the men he held before him.
Concentrating his will, he began to heal himself. Bullets rained down from his body as his healing process pushed them out and onto the floor. As soon as the last of the bullets fell, he started healing his insides — repairing his lungs, his liver and stomach.
The man had tossed one of the rifles aside with a clatter but as two streams of bullets again struck the bodies before him, he had to assume the agent had retrieved another fallen rifle. After momentary pauses from one of the streams he could hear the man screaming into his radio for backup.
No one answered.
The moment his organs had been fully repaired; he tossed the bodies at the man. A shout, and the man went down in a wave of flesh. Blain stalked over to the pile of bodies.
The weight of two bodies and armor made it difficult for the man to free himself. He went still the moment Blain came into his view. The man started shaking his head, pleading words mouthed but not uttered as Blain raised his hoofed foot. With a sickening squish, Blain slammed it down upon the man’s face, crumpling his skull and sending pieces of brain matter outward like a smashed cantaloupe.
With the last man dead on his side, he wondered how the others were doing.
Gordon lay prone upon the ground, unmoving. The bullet had passed cleanly through his skull and brain and his vision had gone dark and he remembered falling. As his body repaired his brain and skull, he became aware of vans descending upon the hospital.
Dozens of men poured from their backs and Gordon still didn’t move. It wasn’t until most of them burst into the hospital that Gordon pushed himself to his feet. Three vans were arrayed before him, blocking his view of the front of the hospital. Agents were still standing about, waiting to enter after the first assault secured a foothold in the hospital.
Gordon knew it wasn’t going to happen.
Shifting, Gordon trotted to the nearest van. He could hear several people inside the van and on the opposite side of the van.
“Come again? Repeat?” A click and static came from the radio one used.
A frantic voice came back over the line.
“He’s up! Dammit! That motherfucking monster is up!”
“What are you fucking talking about? Repeat.”
Gordon didn’t wait for them to give away his position. Grabbing the bottom of the van, he lifted with all his might. Muscles bunched in his scaly legs and arms as he roared, tipping the van.
Screams were heard from inside the van, and from the other side as well when the van toppled onto one agent and tossed those inside. Shouts of alarm rang out from around him and Gordon dashed around the side of the upturned van.
With a bunch of his legs, Gordon launched himself upon the side of the van and surveyed the scene of chaos below him. Twelve agents were backing away, guns raised toward him.
The hospital beyond them was still billowing smoke through shattered windows. Not fire smoke, Gordon realized, but most likely smoke grenades fired in prior to breaching.
His mass was buckling the door panel he was perched upon and he could still hear sounds of disorientation and confusion from inside the van. At long last, someone inside realized what was happening as the sound of muffled gunfire reached his ears a split second before fiery hot pain lanced his lower legs and feet.
Before the group of agents arrayed before him reacted and fired, Gordon launched himself skyward. Gravity gripped his bulky form, bringing him back down, and he punched through the already buckling van door.
Shredded metal and glass rained down with him as he landed with a sickening crunch as the man who had been below him firing was smashed.
With a spin, his scale-armored tail slammed hard against another agent, his body folding around the impact before his momentum was halted unforgivingly by the wall of the van. Blood gushed out of the man’s mouth as his insides flattened.
Gordon bit around the midsection of the third remaining man, clamping his dagger-like teeth within the man’s body. In a macabre imitation of his totem animal, Gordon went into a death roll. Landing flat onto his belly, he rolled, tossing the man about like clothes in a bloody dryer. Bones snapped and limbs bent as flesh met unyielding metal.
With his monstrous body whipping around, not only did Gordon make short work of the man in his jaws, but further mutilated the othe
r two bodies inside the van. Blood, gore and body waste painted the inside of the van and Gordon.
When at last he climbed from the interior, his dark green and lighter green underbelly were stained with ichor and blood. From the looks of the agents frozen to inaction by his disappearance and reappearance from the van, he must be truly frightening to see.
The corner of his maw peeled back, showing the full length of his deadly teeth, now dripping with pieces of torn flesh and blood.
“Who’s next?”
To no one’s surprise, nobody volunteered.
Assault rifle fire filled the air as a dozen guns were unloaded in Gordon’s direction.
Gordon had been waiting. Leaping from the van, he hurdled the distance between him and the nearest man. Allowing his massive body to do the work, he tucked into a roll and collided with the man, knocking him prone before landing on and crushing him.
Bullets followed him, chipping pavement and narrowly missing him as he rolled over the man and got back to his feet in an instant. Whirling around he dashed to the next man, ignoring the shots hitting their mark and burning into his body.
Repairing the damage as he moved, he passed right by the next man, sweeping low with an outstretched claw, slicing through the man’s thigh, gouging bone and tearing out his patella. With a painful scream the man fell.
Gordon ignored him and moved on.
Despite his monstrous size, he moved like lightning, his long-ridged tail stretched out behind him, swishing back and forth slightly as he ran. Not willing to stay in place long enough for anyone to get a bead on him, he waded into the rest of the group, keeping to the middle as much as possible to give pause to those unwilling to fire in fear of hitting a fellow agent.
One man didn’t care and tracked his movement with his rifle, firing the whole time, riddling two of his fellow agents before realizing what he had done. Gordon disemboweled him.
One by one, the men went down as Gordon unleashed his claws, tail and jaws upon the men. None of them saw the dark haired, tanned skin man duck into the hospital.
Chapter Thirty-One
Once again, Taylor found himself killing. As per Blain’s plan, he was situated on the landing in the stairwell before the second-floor entrance. Blain had surmised they wouldn’t use the elevator during their assault as it would be a kill box when the doors opened. So, while Blain and Samuel held the two halls leading into the main floor, Taylor had to hold the upper level.
They had fired gas into the hallway, which was supposed to be debilitating, or at least, that is what Taylor figured.
It had no effect on him.
He stood motionless at the top of the stairs as he could barely hear the men below. When they didn’t hear any coughing or other sounds from above, they climbed the stairs. To their doom.
Taylor hated this, but he had a job to do, and Blain would punish him if he didn’t do it. He always knew how to hurt Taylor the most. Oh, he wouldn’t target Taylor himself. Not when any hurt or damage he did would repair itself. No. He would target innocents and force Taylor to watch or use his will to make Taylor kill.
Fucking wanker.
As soon as a decent number of men were on the stairs. Taylor launched himself downward, using his body as a battering ram. Screams and shouts of confusion broke out as Taylor came hurtling down upon them, smashing bones and breaking necks with the weight of his body.
The final man, who broke his fall, managed to grab his pistol and fired into Taylor, the muffled pop, as the gun was pressed against his abdomen, preceded piercing pain. Again, and again as the man grunted and strained to extradite himself from underneath Taylor.
Taylor bit down on the man’s neck, before snapping his head backward, leaving a gaping hole fountaining blood, coating Taylor’s fur covered face.
Smoke still billowed in the stairwell, making it next to impossible to see, which was an advantage for Taylor. Everyone else in the stairwell was an enemy. For them, they couldn’t risk shooting, or they might catch a friendly.
Taylor rose and glanced over his shoulder. The men he had collided with were sprawled over the stairs; if there was movement at all, it was slight. None of them were a threat anymore, so Taylor turned his attention to the remaining men in the stairwell.
Static-filled calls for backup could be heard through the screams rising from one of the men’s radio. Before he could respond, Taylor moved. Leading with a clawed hand, he barreled down the stairs. Taylor’s claw buried into the face of the first man he met. His pointer finger dug into the man’s eye socket. A viscous fluid spurted, and the man screamed. His other claws dug deep into the man’s cheeks, ripping the flesh and tearing open the man’s mouth. His scream was cut off in a choke as blood poured into his throat.
With one claw shredding the man’s face, Taylor slashed out with the other to catch the next man as he moved in to investigate the sound. With his claws gouging the man’s face, Taylor nearly ripped it off. He went down with a cry.
Thrusting out his hand, he tossed the other man down the stairs, knocking over the last two below. Taylor finished them off quickly.
The smoke had begun to dissipate, and Taylor stood in a stairwell full of corpses. Blood was splattered everywhere, especially upon him, his black/brown fur matted and clumped together with coagulating blood.
Taylor fought the rising bile in his throat.
Still, he knew what needed to be done. Calming his stomach, he grabbed the closest body and stacked it in front of the door. Then another, and another. At last, a barricade of flesh rested against the door. It would give him plenty of warning if they attempted a breach again.
Making his way back to the top of the stairs, Taylor shifted and sat, the wounds to his abdomen long since healed. It was like he hadn’t even fought, apart from the blood now staining his skin where his fur had reabsorbed into his body.
Taylor studied the bloody stairwell. What have I done? He shook his head. What will I continue to do? He had no answer. Only tears as they fell, winding their way through the blood drying on his face.
Samuel unwrapped his tail from around the neck of the man whose neck he had crushed as he dragged his fangs through the neck of another. Eight men had entered this hallway and six had died already. The last two were backed against the doorway, one radioing for backup which apparently wasn’t coming, and the other firing into Samuel’s body.
After tearing through the man’s neck, he held with his fangs, Samuel tossed the body aside, blood spraying from the ripped jugular, misting the air. Dashing forward, he halted the moment the men braced themselves and swirled around, lashing out with his tail, toppling the men.
With shouts they were knocked from their feet, and Samuel was on them in an instant. Burying a clawed hand into one man’s abdomen, right under the armor, he felt the twisted mass of the man’s guts and he tore them apart with his claws.
The man would die — slowly.
He bit the other man on his thigh, puncturing his femoral artery. With a twist of his head, he tore a chunk of muscle and skin out of the man’s leg, leaving plenty of space for him to bleed out.
A mixture of copper and iron tinged the air and Samuel breathed it in. A strange odor struck him as well. Familiar, but different.
The door from the lobby opened and a man strode in.
He was a tall, muscular man, his brown skin corded and well defined. Slightly brown, curly hair reached right above his shoulders. His face was wide and slightly flat with coffee colored eyes.
The Latino froze upon seeing him.
Samuel smiled, the corners of his mouth pulling back and up. He sent out a forked tongue to lash the air before him. The odor. It came from this man. Was he a Were? If he was, he wasn’t one of Sylvanis’. He knew all of them. If he was, he should be shifted if he intended to face Samuel.
It mattered not. Samuel stalked toward the man.
With an almost imperceptible movement, the man had a blade out and Samuel’s froze.
The blade lo
oked like nothing Samuel had ever seen before. Which, considering Samuel’s long life, was surprising. With a blade nearly a half meter, it was too short to be a sword, but too long to be a dagger.
The blade itself was a dark green. Jade perhaps? Samuel didn’t know. The blade met the handle with no cross guard. Instead, the handle was round and made of a brassy colored metal. It was difficult to see, but Samuel believed it had embossed pictures and symbols upon it, like his people’s hieroglyphics.
The man didn’t run. Of course, these agents hadn’t run either, but they were wearing body armor and had assault rifles. This man had only a light flak vest and brandished a blade. A unique blade, though.
For the first time in a long time, Samuel felt trepidation. Not fear, but hesitation. Something here wasn’t right. From the knife, to the scent, to this man with no fear in his eyes. He would need to be careful.
Samuel moved closer and the man dropped into a fighting stance, weapon ready, knees bent slightly as he bobbed. Samuel came in from the right and the man moved to cover him. Samuel stopped on a dime and spun, lashing out with his tail with the speed of lightning.
The man leapt over it.
His tail slammed into the wall, denting it from the impact. The man landed and moved in close. He was impossibly fast for a normal human and only Samuel’s Were enhanced reflexes kept him from taking a slash to his midsection.
Tucking his shoulder, he fell back into a roll and sprang to his feet. The man had followed right after and lashed out with his blade. Samuel blocked the first swing with his claws. He was too slow when the second swing came, and the blade caught his fingers.
And sliced right through them.
Blood sprayed from his fingers and he sucked in a breath. Before the man could swing at him again, Samuel attacked. With his uninjured hand he slashed at the man, who moved with lightning grace to avoid the attack. But Samuel was relentless.
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