Forged From Ash - Book #7 of the Skinners Series

by Marcus Pelegrimas

  “What the hell are you smiling at?” asked one of the other men at the front of the patrol making its way into town. The soldiers had been dropped off two miles west of Charleston’s city limits on I-64 to follow up on a distress call from a civilian location. They proceeded on foot because, even though Half Breeds only vaguely resembled anything from the canine species, the creatures loved chasing cars just as much as their more commonly known brethren.

  It was early autumn, and the grinning man wore a heavy biker’s jacket stitched together from patches of various size and shape. Tanned leather was blackened by a process allowing werewolf hide to be more easily cut and sewn into a shell that was just as protective for its wearer as it had been for the creature that had grown it. Holsters were strapped over both shoulders carrying an HK .45 pistol under one arm and a Sig Sauer P226 under the other. The top of his head was covered in dark gray bristle parted in several different spots thanks to rows of jagged, uneven scars gouged into his scalp. “You GI Joes write a new regulation against smilin’?” he asked.

  “If it’s plastered across that train wreck you call a face, Rico, there should be a rule against it.”

  “When you or any of the baby faces in this unit have been chewed on by half as many things as I have and are still above ground to wear their scars, then you can chuckle away. Until that time comes, keep yer pissy comments under your breath.”

  The soldier walking beside Rico stretched a hand back to signal for the five men behind him to halt as he and the Skinner kept walking. After a few paces, he stepped in front of the grizzled hunter in the leather jacket and planted his feet. Rather than walk around him, Rico stood nose to nose with the other man.

  Lieutenant Sayers might have had the highest rank displayed upon his chest, but his uniform was otherwise identical to anyone else serving in the IRD. His digital camo fatigues were a mix of dark browns and black to reflect the color of the autumnal tree cover where the base camp had been made. On his right shoulder was the IRD insignia; a circle divided into red and gray quadrants with crossed assault rifles above a head that was half wolf and half skull. On his other shoulder was his unit’s designation framing Old Glory. Like most of his men, he carried a PSD Swat rifle slung across his chest and a Desert Eagle on his hip.

  “Just because you Skinners are granted special privileges,” Sayers growled, “don’t think for one second that you’re entitled to talk shit to me in front of my men.”

  Rico’s expression was a blank slate. “The only reason I don’t outrank you is because we refused to accept a commission when the President came begging for us to lead you assholes from the brink.”

  “That offer went out to the Skinners we thought we could trust. Not the homebrew traitors that you used to call friends.”

  Since his association with the splinter group of Skinners that remained loyal to Jonah Lancroft was a known fact, Rico couldn’t refute the Lieutenant’s words. Lancroft had done some great things for Skinners in general, but attempting to kill a significant portion of the population several years ago wasn’t one of them. “If any of the big men in DC knew where to find any Vigilant cells,” Rico said, “they’d be glad to pay them a visit with hat in hand. At least those homebrew traitors had some big plans to do something about these goddamn monsters. None of the military was ready to admit there was a problem until everything turned to shit.”

  “We’ve been fighting and dying for the last two years just like you,” Sayers replied.

  Clamping his blocky teeth together until the tendons in his thick jaw flexed, Rico said, “Skinners have been dying in this war for a hell of a lot longer than that while you and every other drone thought of new ways to deny these creatures existed. After serving together for the last couple’a months, I thought you would have been able to leave past mistakes behind.”

  “You’re attached to this unit because we need a Specialist. That’s the only reason we put up with you. If not for the war going on, no soldier in his right mind would serve with someone who’s already turned his back on his own.”

  Rico pulled in a long breath as he took half a step back. The rest of the unit stood a couple paces behind their commanding officer with weapons at the ready. They didn’t seem any more highly strung than anyone else on patrol in an area overrun with Half Breeds. Instead, they watched what was happening so they wouldn’t miss the order to continue marching into Charleston.

  “Tell me something, Lieutenant,” Rico said. “Do you know who Jonah Lancroft is?”

  After a few seconds where the only sound to be heard was the wind rolling in through bare branches of trees lining the deserted highway, Sayer admitted, “I may have heard the name in passing, but I don’t know who he is.”

  “Then don’t even pretend to know about The Vigilant. If you don’t want my help, just say the word, and I’ll be more than willing to let you guys trot into a slaughterhouse.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, this whole damn country is a slaughterhouse.”

  “Now yer getting the idea. Shall we move along, then, or would you like to assert yourself some more?”

  “What were you smirking at before?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Because most of the men seem to think you Skinners are setting us up for another fall.”

  Rico squinted at the ranking IRD soldier. “Why the hell would we do that?”

  “Who knows? With all the incomprehensible shit that’s been dropped on us lately, you guys seem to know things the rest of us don’t. I’m just letting you know why damn near anyone wearing an IRD uniform keeps you at arm’s length and in their sights.”

  “You guys were never too accommodating. Guess I just got used to all the dirty looks coming in from all sides.”

  “It might help the others feel more at ease if you bunked in the same camp or ate in the same mess tent.”

  “Would it?” Rico asked. “I always just thought I should give them their space.”

  Sayers shook his head. “It’s already unsettling to work with you Specialists since you know all the ins and outs of these creatures. When you keep your distance that way, it makes us feel like we’re sailing on a ship the rats have already abandoned.”

  “Don’t know if I care for where I fall in that analogy, but I get your point. Is that the reason behind this little chat?”

  “Partly. It seemed you needed to be reminded that, Specialist or not, you’re part of this unit. Until the time when you see fit to leave, you’ll take orders from the chain of command. If one of my men shot their mouth off to me a fraction of the times you have, I would’ve busted my foot off in their ass.”

  “Yowch,” Rico chuckled.

  “Indeed. We have a job to do here, and by my count, your fat’s been pulled from the fire by us almost as many times as you’ve returned the favor. That means it is possible for us to coexist.”

  “You know what I’ve noticed?”

  “What’s that?”

  Rico cocked his head to one side and allowed his features to relax into something less intense. “Seems to me that you call us Specialists when you’re talking about something official, and you call us Skinners when you’re thinking you’d like to spit into our faces. You wanna improve relations between us and you? Save the bullshit cockiness for when you’re bragging about blowing away a running Half Breed from a rooftop. Chalk up a dozen kills with a sharpened stick, and then maybe you can address us by our real name.”

  “Sir?” one of the other soldiers asked.

  Without taking his eyes away from Rico, the Lieutenant barked, “What is it, Marsh?”

  “Incoming.”

  Every soldier on the front lines of the war against the shapeshifters knew to keep quiet. The werewolves could smell their next meal up to a quarter of a mile away. Stomping around and shouting only made their job easier. The quieter an IRD soldier spoke, the worse the situation was. The man who’d stepped into the middle of Rico and Sayers’s conversation spoke quietly enough to p
ut both men on their guard.

  They were at the western periphery of Charleston which was mostly interstate roads and bridges leading deeper into the city. Just beyond a row of ruined signs displaying names of gas stations to be found at the next exit, Half Breeds surged toward them like a storm of churning claws and snapping jaws.

  “Looks like two packs!” Rico said. The need for silence was gone, and every soldier in the unit prepared their weapons while calling out position designations.

  Sayers had his assault rifle to his shoulder and sighted at the thickest cluster of werewolves. “I count ten of them. That’s not enough for two packs.”

  “Nine o’clock!” Rico said while pointing to his left.

  A few soldiers were already looking in that direction, and when Sayers followed suit, he spotted a second group of creatures skittering so close to the ground that their bellies scraped against the dirt. They came in from the trees on that side of the interstate and would disappear beneath the closest onramp in a matter of seconds. Rico flipped open his jacket so he could jam his right hand into the interior pocket. When he pulled out that hand again, it was encased in something that looked like a cross between a gauntlet and a set of brass knuckles carved from darkly stained wood. His fingers flexed through the openings in the top of the gauntlet to make a fist. Blood dripped from his palm as the portion of the gauntlet wrapping across the top of his hand stretched down along his forearm. “I’ll take this bunch of critters,” he said while eyeing the smaller group that was clawing its way up the cement columns supporting the overpass. “Try to keep the rest off’a my back.”

  The IRD soldiers fell into a defensive formation that was basically a square with two riflemen on the right and left and some of the heavier firepower facing front. The rear was covered by a gunner with a grenade launcher. Sayers reached out to tap the shoulder of the woman to his left. “Watch his six,” he said.

  She nodded and shifted her position so she was on one knee facing Rico.

  Despite the fact that Half Breeds were the most common terror roaming the scarred landscape, facing them was never easy. In the span of two years, they’d evolved to adapt to multiple climates and terrains. One generation rolled into another as packs swept through the civilized world, tearing humans apart and converting them into more of their kind. The largest group charging across the overpass came at the IRD amid huffing, frenzied breaths and the scraping of claws against concrete. Their eyes were wild, and their heads whipped from side to side as saliva poured over jagged teeth in anticipation of the slaughter that was to come.

  “How’s it look back there?” Sayers asked.

  The rifleman at the back of the formation replied, “Nothing yet, sir.”

  “Double front, and prepare to fire!”

  That rifleman remained where he was as his partner and one of the others on the right flank formed a wall of firepower facing the oncoming Half Breeds.

  “Grenade!”

  On command, the soldier with the launcher sent one shell through the air and another several yards closer. The first landed with a THUMP, causing the Half Breeds to close ranks and run even faster which meant the second grenade landed in the middle of them. The explosion was muffled by thickly muscled bodies, and the concussive charge that followed sent the Half Breeds rolling in a wide arc. Sayers’ next order was for the light machine gunner beside him to open up with a modified SAW taking its rounds from a belt contained in an aluminum box strapped to the gunner’s shoulder. The man carrying that weapon was a corn-fed Nebraska boy who was the only one able to lug that SAW and its ammunition in and out of Charleston. His weapon spat a chattering stream of lead at the tumbling werewolves, chopping some of them to pieces.

  “Here they come!” Sayers shouted over the explosive roar.

  Any Half Breeds that hadn’t been blown apart in that wave scampered to their feet. The ones that weren’t missing any limbs surged at the IRD unit while a few that were short a leg or two ran just a bit slower.

  Before the world was overrun, Rico had forsaken the Skinners’ traditional wooden arsenal. He’d had a bad experience some time ago where his hand was nearly turned into meaty pulp thanks to his own weapon being turned against him. Over the last couple of years, he’d decided that revisiting the old ways was a whole lot better than dying like the rest of the poor schmucks who only had guns and explosives on their side.

  In Rico’s youth, a set of brass knuckles had allowed him to pummel his way to the upper echelons of the Detroit pit fighting circuit. To this day, he still favored the feel of his fist being encased in something that could pound a face into unrecognizable oblivion. Of course, he’d taken the liberty of improving on a classic design. Responding to his will through a link forged between man and weapon, the hardened wooden gauntlet stretched all the way to his elbow and wrapped around most of his forearm. Before both halves of the creeping implement could meet, the first of the Half Breeds to scale the overpass support column poked its head up over the ledge.

  Rico couldn’t be happier to punch the thing in its face. Since the weapon had been crafted into a supernatural substance by a centuries-old Skinner technique, spikes from his knuckles were more than enough to shred flesh from bone, exposing the creature’s gnarled skull amid a howl of pain. It let go of the edge, scraping against four of its pack mates on its way down to the base of the column.

  The next one to make the climb locked eyes with Rico and ducked beneath his swing by twisting its head to one side and rotating it all the way back. Because the internal structure of a Half Breed was nothing but broken bones held together by knotted muscle, they could do such things without snapping their spine. When the creature brought its head around again, Rico was just quick enough to pull his arm back and hold it in front of him so the Half Breed’s teeth clamped onto the gauntlet instead of exposed skin.

  As that Half Breed did its best to bite through the Skinner’s weapon, more werewolves dug their claws into the column to pull themselves up onto the overpass. “Oh no you don’t,” Rico snarled while drawing the Desert Eagle from beneath his right arm. He aimed at the next closest Half Breed and ended the misery of its post-human existence by blasting a hole through its face.

  Doing his best to ignore the Half Breeds that continued to make their way onto the overpass, Rico narrowed his focus down to a single point. Like any Skinner’s weapon, his was connected to him through blood and ancient craftsmanship. It obeyed his mental command by using some of its mass to form a single spike that rose up into the mouth of the Half Breed gnawing on his arm to burrow through its head. The werewolf continued to chew, but its strength seeped out along with the blood and brain matter trickling from its perforated skull. With a snap of his wrist, Rico sent the creature plummeting to the ground below.

  He wheeled around to face a creature that had crept in close and was coiled like a spring. Before the Half Breed could pounce, it was cut down by two three-shot bursts from a nearby assault rifle. Thanking the soldier that had been assigned to cover him with a curt nod, Rico swung at the next creature to throw itself at him.

  “Hold positions!” Sayers called out to the soldiers around him.

  Every IRD weapon spat its rounds at Half Breeds that ran forward without flinching at the bullets tearing them apart. Proving their uncanny knack for adapting to their circumstances, a couple of the Half Breeds closed in tightly behind two more to use them as a shield. The unfortunate creatures in front absorbed all the punishment their bodies could take until the other two leapt over them to charge into the IRD formation.

  One of the infantry troops turned her weapon on the werewolf and opened fire. Despite the rounds thumping into its flesh, the Half Breed wasn’t about to be diverted from so much fresh meat. It raced around to the soldier protecting the group’s rear quadrant and sank curved fangs into the meat of the young man’s leg. He cried out and unloaded his magazine in a prolonged burst of fire that cut a bloody swath across another Half Breed that had been attempting to take adva
ntage of the break in the IRD formation. All available rifles were pointed at the werewolf that had infiltrated their ranks but were too late to save the soldier that had been bitten. The wounded man’s flailing stopped as he passed out from the shock of having his body ripped apart.

  Putting fatal rounds into the Half Breed’s chest, Sayers kicked it in the head with enough force for its teeth to come free of the rifleman’s flesh. “Marsh! Eyes front!”

  The soldier standing directly to his right was a short and squat Corporal gripping a Benelli M4 shotgun in his hands. The end of its barrel was cut into several points originally intended for use as a tool to breech locked doors. With the points lengthened and sharpened to a knife edge, the breeching weapon was ideal for the brutal needs of close quarters combat. Corporal Marsh put his back to his wounded comrade just in time to see the Half Breed pouncing at him. He dropped to one knee and brought his shotgun up, driving the sharpened points into its chest. Once the werewolf was impaled, Marsh used the muscles in his shoulders and back to drive it to the ground before pulling his trigger. The Benelli burned a cavernous hole through the Half Breed. Its muscles twitched in a final dance while Marsh pivoted and fired at another creature that was all but decimated by SAW rounds.

  “Sweep them to the rear flank!” Sayers commanded.

  Hearing that, the automatic fire intensified and sprayed a hailstorm of rounds on either side of the dwindling packs. As soon as the creatures were clustered close enough together and before they had a chance to regroup, the soldier with the grenade launcher sent a round into the midst of the werewolves. With considerably fewer Half Breeds to absorb the blast, the grenade had even more of an impact.

  “All right,” Sayers said. “Clean up the rest.”

  Rico was covered in blood. His weapon looked like a coating of meat wrapped around his fist and sent crimson sprays through the air as he swung at another Half Breed. The spikes on his knuckles were angled forward like a set of short claws. After gutting a werewolf with one swipe, he backhanded another with the top portion of the gauntlet which brought a surprised yelp from the creature. Once it was stunned, the rifleman covering Rico finished it off with a trio of shots through its temple.