by Thom Reese
But she wasn’t human.
He looked down at her, at the concern on her face, and yes, in those so-strange eyes. He didn’t know what made him do it. Perhaps it was the tangled emotions, the fear, the adrenaline rush, maybe simple hormones, but he lowered his face to hers, slowly, so slowly, and brushed his lips against hers. At first her response was tentative, but only momentarily. For then she pressed closer to him. Their lips connected again, but this time there was no hesitation. They stayed this way for several moments, standing before the window, caressing, kissing, loving. At some point, Gisele lost her shirt. Shane wasn’t sure how that had happened, but greedily cupped her left breast in his trembling right hand. Finally they moved toward the bed. It was small, barely more than a metal-framed cot. But it would do.
* * * *
The next several months were a kaleidoscope of emotions and excitement. Shane took an extended leave of absence from his job—and in doing so, lost his current position. But his boss hinted that they might want him in a new region just launching in Las Vegas. That would be fine—eventually. At the moment he wasn’t sure if he’d ever return to the states. If he did, it was nice knowing he had a job awaiting him.
Shane and Gisele were in love. Soon he was fully accepted by the other local reyaqc as well. These young reyaqc were not wealthy. In fact, most stole for food and money, though Shane did meet two who had jobs, and one who attended University. Soon Shane helped fund their lifestyle. His bank account was large, but not endless. It took only a few months to deplete it entirely. Then it was back to stealing—this time with Shane’s involvement. Most often, they stole from the “donors.” After bleeding them of their DNA, the reyaqc took the victim’s wallet. The cash, of course, was easy and untraceable. But Eudo seemed to have the whole identity theft thing down to an art. He’d use credit cards online, and even at ATMs, as he had software designed to reveal a person’s PIN. It was an exciting life that Shane felt would never end.
But all good things do end.
Often, tragically so.
Shane discovered Eudo first. He lay on the floor, perhaps four feet to the right of the door, neck slashed open in a jagged tear, a pool of blood spreading across the years-old carpet. Alard was in the kitchenette, his naked body lying in a twisted lump, limbs spread at awkward angles, white satin eyes lifeless and staring. There were shuffles and thumps coming from the bedroom. Shane heard a familiar feminine voice, strained and cursing, then silent.
“Gisele!” he screamed. “Gisele!”
He had no time to think as he sprinted across the small living area and into the bedchamber beyond. He didn’t stop to ponder who or what might have done this. He didn’t pause to find a weapon, perhaps a butcher’s knife or some heavy object that could be used as a club. The creature was one such as Shane had never seen—never imagined. Gisele lay sprawled upon the floor, her lovely face bruised and distorted with swelling. Her sightless eyes seemed as two pearls floating in hot red wax. There was blood, far too much blood. Shane couldn’t determine specifically from where it had come. The beast crouching above her turned, its face contorted, features uneven and indistinct. There was very little that resembled anything human in form or manner. Still, there was recognition, however faint, however impossible. Only the slightest semblance of a face Shane had not seen for several months.
“Franc?” Shane whispered.
Then the thing was upon him. He was unconscious. And Gisele was forever gone from his life.
* * * *
Shane awoke in a spacious hotel room. His head swam, that low hum sitting somewhere deep in his ears had returned. His mouth was parched, his lips cracking. A figure sat at a small table across the room, typing on a laptop computer and occasionally gazing out through the nearby window. He seemed to be of about middle age, was not tall, and wore a tight reddish brown beard. Shane instantly identified him as a reyaqc. Having spent so much time with them, he recognized the rubber-like skin, the contact lenses, the slightly unusual facial expressions.
“My name is Doctor Donald Baker,” said the reyaqc. “I own the apartment building you’ve inhabited for the past several months. It’s commendable that you have befriended my species. But your companions are no more. I think it best you leave this country.” Donald Baker smiled his practiced smile. “But first, we must talk.”
For the next three days, Shane told Donald everything he could remember about his time with the reyaqc. Donald recorded each conversation on audio, as well as jotting copious notes. He asked clarifying questions, covered the same ground many times over, and occasionally divulged tidbits of information from his own life. Shane was familiar with Donald Baker by reputation. According to Gisele, Baker was a historian. Never before had someone attempted to chronicle reyaqc history, and Baker had done so meticulously, researching legends, genealogies, first-person accounts. He interviewed numerous subjects, both human and reyaqc. There were journal entries, correspondences, court records, even a translated excerpt from one of the Dead Sea Scrolls, in his writings. Some of his information dated back to as early as 1400 BC. During the course of his meetings with Baker, Shane wondered if perhaps these interviews would make it into a future volume of this ever-expanding project.
Shane pestered Baker about the creature that had killed Gisele. It had been Franc, he was nearly certain, but Shane had never seen a reyaqc such as this. Could this be the mysterious “molt” Gisele had warned him of? Baker remained quiet on the topic, revealing nothing, and responding to questions with questions. Shane would later find the answers he sought, but not from Donald Baker or from any other reyaqc. His sources would be much more mundane.
At the end of these few days, Donald rose, extended his hand, and offered Shane an airline ticket and a business card. “I reside in Boston. Do not hesitate to call should you once again become involved with my kind. Of course, your discretion will be much appreciated.” He paused, cocked his head, and then added, “You may from time to time hear talk of me by my given name, my reyaqc name.”
“Yes?” Shane said.
“That name is Dolnaraq.”
With that, he left the room. Shane would not see him again for over three years.
PART TWO – THE ROGUE – CHAPTER ELEVEN
2012
A cry of pain and frustration came from across the room as Donald Baker slid a page from the report and placed it atop the walnut end table beside him. Moving his hand about six inches to the right, he clasped his lukewarm cup of Earl Grey tea and drew it to his lips before reading the following page aloud. “Madigan’s account is, of course, fictitious. The ravings of a lunatic mind. That this survivor was subjected to unspeakable horrors is undisputed. His physical and mental conditions alone attest to this. Yet the nature of these horrors we may never know.”
Donald offered a barely perceptible grin. “We know precisely what horrors the castaway faced, don’t we, Arec?”
A grunt. A tug. No verbal response.
Donald slid another page onto the end table and savored his tea. This story from the late seventeen hundreds was intriguing. The sole survivor of a shipwrecked crew on an uncharted isle in the Indian Ocean, Gavin Madigan had been emaciated, weighing fewer than ninety pounds at the time of his rescue. His hair had fallen out and most of his finger and toenails had detached from his digits. According to the report, his eyes had been sunken and hollow, the dark circles beneath a stark contrast to the pale blue tint of his skin. The man had strange scars over most of his body. It had taken nearly two months for Madigan to offer coherent speech, and even then, the tale he told was quite suspect.
“Do you feel no pity for this man, Arec? Do you not recognize the great wrong visited upon him and his companions?”
There was a guttural rumble. “Your stories are monotonous, Dolnaraq.”
Donald shrugged.
Arec responded with a snarl and a curse. “My father will kill you for this.” There was venom in the voice, a cool, seething hatred.
Donald sipped of
f the remainder of his Earl Gray, placed the last few pages of the report face up on the end table, and rose with a subtle moan. He was feeling depleted but shrugged it off. Crossing the small but elegant living room, he stared out through the eastern window toward the tree line that edged his property. The sun was yet in hiding, but the first hint of a morning glowed tentatively, inching over the vast green expanse. Donald bent slightly, releasing the latch, and then gave a subtle tug. The window slid open with a whispered creak. The morning air danced over his features as he cocked his head back and inhaled deeply. He loved the smell of the morning dew on the New England breeze. He could smell the faint wisp of salt water on the air. Perhaps after he’d concluded the day’s lectures he’d find his way down to the beach.
Turning only slightly, he inclined his head toward Arec. “It was your father that contacted me. This process, this detention is at his request.”
There was a curse, a roar of protest, a violent tugging at the leather restraints. “Liar! My father is like me.”
“Yes, but he is also intelligent and understands the realities of this modern world. He recognizes the need for change.”
Arec cursed and spit.
Donald admired the creeping light upon the treetops. There was a subtle buzz at his hip and he slid his slender hand into his front pocket to withdraw his BlackBerry. “Good morning. Donald Baker here.”
The voice was youthful but dry. “Dr. Baker, it’s Shane Daws.”
“Shane Daws?” The name was familiar, but Donald couldn’t quite place the voice.
“Yeah, Doc. Paris three summers ago. There were…issues. An apartment building, some deaths.”
Donald nodded. Of course. Gisele’s young man. The affair had ended horribly, tragically even, as nearly all such affairs should. But the seemingly flighty young Daws had shown a peculiar maturity through it all. At the time it had seemed the young man might one day prove useful, though now, Donald couldn’t quite fathom why he had thought this. “Yes, I remember. Mr. Daws, you do realize it’s not yet dawn.”
“Yeah, Doc. I’m in Vegas. It’s not three a.m. here. But you’ll want to hear this.”
Donald’s wife Elena entered the room, tying her blue bathrobe as she glanced at Arec, who sat tethered to a heavy wooden chair—thick, weighty, tall-backed, the finish worn thin in many spots. Arec grunted and growled, his ears lying back against his skull with a subtle twitch.
Donald held up one finger, indicating Elena should wait before asking who had called. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked into the phone.
“It looks like we have a rogue in Vegas.”
“How can you be certain?” Donald moved across the room to his roll-top desk where a yellow legal pad and a ballpoint pen sat neatly beside one another on the otherwise bare surface.
“By my count, there’ve been three deaths. The cops haven’t put anything together, but they don’t know what I know.”
Donald allowed a low rumble to escape his lips. These people—the groupies, the hangers-on—they always thought they knew so much. But they tended to jumble fantasy with reality. They made wild suppositions, conceived theories and radical assumptions. It often took hours to get to the truth of a matter. “Details, Mr. Daws, details. Everything you know. No guesswork. Simply report what has happened.”
Over the next thirty minutes Donald grilled Shane Daws, asking and then restating each question, rewording the responses, looking for anything that would prove the young man wrong—anything that could point to another possibility. But Shane’s information was solid, his conclusions sound.
“There’s one more thing,” said Shane. “The rogue was admitted into the hospital tonight.”
“The reyaqc, what is his condition?” Donald glanced to Elena who now sat on the deep leather couch, her eyes narrow, the corners of her mouth down-turned.
“He was brought into the UMC ER, I don’t know, maybe a couple of hours ago. He attacked an attending EMT, infused from him, and then fled the hospital naked.”
“How many witnesses to the attack?”
“Hospital staff. I don’t think anyone has a clue what really happened.”
“Was the reyaqc empty?”
“I don’t think so. The only unusual characteristics reported were the eyes and the palms.”
“Was he a molt?”
“I don’t know, Doc.”
Donald marched toward the window, gazing out over the now sunbathed tree line. “And the EMT? His condition?”
“In and out of a coma. They haven’t figured out if he’s going to make it.”
Donald inhaled deeply of the morning air, closed his eyes, and then turned to face his wife. “I suppose I’ll be on my way.”
Donald sensed a slight pause before Shane Daws spoke. “Listen, Doc. You’re in Boston, three time zones away. I’ll follow up on things out here and keep you in the loop.”
Donald snorted. “I’ll call you with my flight plan. Meet me at the hospital emergency room one hour after my arrival.”
“Um…okay, Doc. I didn’t mean to…”
Donald disconnected before Shane could finish his sentence. He found Elena staring at him, her brown eyes contemplative, sad. She glanced at the still-struggling Arec and then back to her husband. “You can’t save them all, honey. No matter how you try.”
Donald grunted as he moved toward the bedroom. “Book me on the first available flight to Las Vegas. I may be several days. Arrange for three to attend me. Call the university. Inform them that I’ll be out for the remainder of the week, possibly beyond.” He paused, glancing at his still-struggling captive. “Olcott should tend to this one in my absence.”
Elena stared at her husband’s narrow back and sagging shoulders as he disappeared into their bedroom.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dr. Julia Chambers cursed the man she’d married, shoved the still vibrating iPhone into her lab coat pocket, and gazed into the detective’s pale eyes. It would have been nice if someone had the decency to tell her she was entering the worst week of her life.
Julia wouldn’t have thought the man a detective. He just didn’t fit the well-established pop cultural mold. Steve Glenn was neither noir rustic nor Hollywood handsome. If anything, his most defining characteristic was that he was amazingly nondescript. His was the face that one could see in a cafeteria or pass in the hallway on a daily basis and yet never remember from one encounter to the next. His hair was a business cut. His build was average, not thin, but no paunch. His lips were narrow, his face unlined. His sun-deprived skin seemed stark in comparison to Julia’s rich dark chocolate variety. How could even a Caucasian live in the desert and remain that pale? Even the tie he wore over his white business shirt—ironed but not so crisp as to draw attention—was an uninspired solid navy.
“Do you need to take that call?” he asked while jotting a note in his small spiral-bound notebook.
Julia fingered the phone in her pocket. “No, um, it was just my husband.”
“It’s very late. If he’s calling at this time, it might be important. I can wait if you need to take the call.”
Julia shook her head. “Trust me. Anything he has to say can’t be important.”
Detective Glenn nodded his understanding. The truth was, he didn’t understand. No one did—least of all Julia. “I’m told you know the victim personally. Something about Monopoly.”
Julia allowed a micro-smile. “Monopoly Mondays. We have a weekly game.”
“He’s an Emergency Medical Technician. Is it common for physicians to become friends with EMTs?”
What an asinine question.
“Jimmy’s a friend of the family. We’ve known each other for years.”
Glenn scribbled something on his little green pad and then flipped over to the next page. “The man who attacked Mr. Harrison, he was a patient?”
“Yes, a John Doe found lying in the middle of the street. Jimmy and his partner brought him in.”
“His condition at the time?”<
br />
Julia closed her eyes, attempted to focus. The events of the past day—Charles, Jimmy, this pandemonium. She forced herself to remain calm, unemotional. She was a professional. This was important. There’d be time for a mildly cataclysmic meltdown later. “He was a male, mid-twenties. Found unconscious. Vitals, all over the board. We had trouble getting accurate readings. His B.P. was erratic. Temperature, only 95.2. The patient experienced ventricular fibrillation. Pupils fixed, but not dilated. No color at all to the eyes. Just white. Almost as if he had no irises.”
* * * *
Those eyes.
White, milky, soapy eyes.
Pin-prick pupils.
Staring. Staring.
* * * *
“Anything else you can remember about the man?”
“Um, yes. He was naked. They found him naked.”
“I’m told you pronounced him dead.”
* * * *
Julia tilts the man’s head, checks the airway, puts her ear to beside his mouth checking for effective breathing. There is no tidal volume. Arms locked, hands overlaid, she presses on the man’s chest again and then again. The patient’s skin has a strange rubbery feel to it. The temperature is wrong, far too cold for someone who’d been breathing only seconds before.
And those eyes.
She can’t escape those strange pasty eyes, staring sightlessly into her face. Locked. Unmoving. Empty.
* * * *
“Yes, dead. He flat-lined only two or three minutes after arrival.” Julia crossed her arms. Why were her hands shaking? She could handle this. She dealt with life and death situations every waking day.
Glenn flipped another page, scratched his nose, and licked the tip of his ballpoint. “You attempted to revive him.”
* * * *
The minutes click by, time simultaneously becoming no time and all time. It is a non-entity.
Julia’s arms ache, sweat emerges on her brow. She blinks the moisture from her eyes. A nurse, she doesn’t notice which one, dabs the perspiration from her forehead.
