Paradigms Lost

by Ryk E. Spoor

  He made the dismissing gesture I’d come to know so well. “Impossible. It matters not how the ring leaves my possession. My word will still have been broken if it leaves my possession with my connivance and I yet live.”

  I couldn’t believe this. “You want to die?”

  “Of course not, Jason! I have spent many centuries trying to ensure my safety. But I will not break my word to her whose ring I wear, nor shall I break my word to you. That leaves me little choice.”

  “Bull!” I didn’t understand this; how the hell could someone take a promise that seriously? But I could see he was deadly serious. “You only made that promise to make me feel better. Forget it, okay? I release you from that obligation. Whatever the formula is. You know as well as I do that Virigar has no intention of letting any of us go. For all I know, he’s got a hit squad waiting outside.”

  He relaxed slightly. “I thank you, my friend. Yes, I also doubt Virigar’s benign intent, but I had to make the offer. None of you would be imperiled were I not here . . . and were you not my friends.”

  “Bull,” I said again. “Maybe we wouldn’t be on today’s hit list, but we’d sure as hell be on tomorrow’s menu.” I looked at him again. “Is this the same Verne Domingo who sent me out to take on Elias Klein with nothing more than a mental shield and moral support?”

  For the first time, I saw his features soften, and for once, his smile held nothing unsettling. “No, my friend. For you are my friend now. I have had no true friends, save those in my household, since . . . well, since before your country was born. In the past few months, you have shown me what a precious thing I was missing. More; you have given back to me the faith I lost, oh . . . more centuries ago than I care to remember. That, Jason, is a debt I shall be long in repaying.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say; I guess I didn’t need to.

  As quickly as it had come, Verne’s gentle expression faded and his face returned to its usual aristocratic detachment. “We are agreed that Virigar’s offer is without honor; thus we cannot follow that course of action. So what do you suggest?”

  I stared at the ring again. “Well, even if he isn’t trustworthy, if I did deliver the ring it might give us some advantage.”

  “I have already explained to you that I cannot—”

  “I know that,” I said, cutting off his protest. “I’m not saying take it off.”

  “Then what do you mean?”

  “For guys as rich as you, jewelers make house calls. Surely one could make a duplicate in a few hours?”

  That stopped him. He looked very thoughtful for several minutes, but then shook his head. “I’m afraid it would never work. The time element aside—and we would be cutting it extremely close—you are underestimating Virigar. He would undoubtedly check the authenticity of the ring; I would not be surprised if he were himself an expert in jewelry. Moreover, we have no way of ascertaining if he has watchers about our residences; a visiting jeweler would tell him all he needed to know.” He shrugged. “In any case, it is irrelevant. He would know that ring in an instant, for it is more than mere jewelry.”

  “Seriously, Verne, could he really spare that many to watch us? I mean, we killed one and injured another; how many more could there be?”

  He gave me a look reserved for idiots. “You are the expert in mathematics, my friend. Calculate how many descendants a single pair could have in one hundred years, assuming a twenty-year maturity age.”

  I winced. “Sorry, so I’m slow. That’d be eighty from the original pair alone that’d be full-grown.”

  “That, of course,” Verne admitted, “assumes that they maintain normal human birthrates and take no ‘breaks,’ so to speak, from parenting. In reality, this will not be the case, but even so, I would be surprised if there were less than a hundred all told.”

  A hundred! Christ! I didn’t even have that many silver bullets! “Outnumbered and outgunned . . .” Suddenly, one of my favorite, if crazy, quotes came to mind: “It’s you and me against the world . . . When do we attack?”

  I put the viewer’s headband on, fitted the straps, then took it off and packed it carefully in a foam-lined bag. “We’re both targets as it is; the only chance we have is to attack. Get him off-balance, surprise the crap out of him. I’ve got to hope that one of the gadgets I’ve got can spot the buggers; I’m going to get to the hospital and protect Syl.”

  “And I . . . ?”

  I grinned nastily, remembering what Verne had done to a drug lord’s estate and his thugs. I pulled out another drawer and handed him the rings inside. “All silver rings. I got them because I liked the look of them but I never wear any of them. You are going to put those on and go down and beat Virigar’s door in. Any werewolf that jumps at you then, just give him a left hook and keep going.”

  He put the rings on slowly. “I cannot enter a dwelling without permission of the residents, you remember.”

  “I didn’t say enter; I said beat his door in . . . and his walls, and everything else. We have to disorganize him.”

  Now he smiled coldly, the fangs lending the right predatory look. “Precisely so. Shall we . . . ?”

  “After you.”

  We left by the back door; Mjölnir was parked in that alley.

  I got into the car, locked the doors, and nodded to Verne. He faded into a cloud of mist, and then disappeared. I still stared at that; I don’t think I’ll ever get used to vampires. I started the engine, put Mjölnir in gear, began to pull out of the alley.

  With a shuddering thump, a shaggy, glittering-fanged nightmare landed on the car’s hood. The car jolted to a stop; in my mirror, I could see the werewolf that had grabbed the rear bumper and lifted the wheels clear of the ground. I swear my heart stopped for a second; then it gave a huge leap and tried to pound its way out of my chest. I yanked the gun out and pointed it at the one on the hood; the glass was bulletproof, but hopefully it didn’t know that.

  It didn’t; the werewolf rolled off the hood and to the side. I shoved the pistol into the gunport the previous owner had thoughtfully installed and fired twice. Neither shot hit the beast, but it must’ve decided that retreat was a good idea. I hit the hidden release and part of the dashboard flopped out and locked, revealing the small control panel. As the one in back began to yank harder on the bumper, trying to tip the car over, I pressed the second button.

  Mjölnir’s engine revs rose to a thundering shriek as the nitro supercharger kicked in. Blue flame shot two feet from the tailpipe, and what I’d hoped for happened: the werewolf, in startlement and pain, dropped the bumper.

  I mashed the pedal to the floor. The V8-318 engine spun the wheels, throwing rubber smoke in the things’ faces, and Mjölnir hurtled onto the street. By the time I passed Denny’s, I was doing fifty. A glance in the rearview almost made me lose control; three hairy killers were in hot pursuit, and they were closing in!

  I searched the panel for any other tricks I might play, wishing I had James Bond’s armamentarium . . . or even Maxwell Smart’s. I triggered the rear spotlight, blinding them momentarily and gaining maybe a hundred feet before they recovered.

  Mjölnir shuddered as I hit a series of potholes at sixty-two miles per hour. I wrenched the wheel around, skidded onto the interstate entrance ramp. Behind me, I could see my pursuers catching up fast. On the straightaway, I hammered the gas again, watched the speedometer climb towards triple digits. I heard myself talking: “That’s right, come on, come on you little bastards, let’s see how fast you really are!”

  At seventy-five, they started to fall back; the largest made a final desperate dive and hooked onto the rear bumper. I tried to bounce it off by running off and on the shoulder, but the creature just snarled and held on tighter. It started to claw its way up the back.

  If Mjölnir had been an ordinary car, those crystal claws would’ve torn straight through and the thing would’ve climbed right into my lap. Instead, its talons made long gouges in the armor but failed to get any real purchase as I sw
erved the car back and forth. The werewolf scrabbled desperately at the trunk, but there was nothing for it to grab. With an indignant glare, it pitched off the rear bumper and somersaulted to a defeated halt. I gave it a salute with my middle finger as it disappeared in the darkness. Then I turned down an off-ramp and headed Mjölnir towards St. Michael’s Hospital.

  CHAPTER 29

  Intensive Combat Unit

  The hospital was quiet; at three-thirty, only the emergency crews were around. I parked, checked my gun, and put the viewer on. I looked weird but that didn’t worry me; the only thing that concerned me was that the werewolves could hide from anything technology could think up. I didn’t believe that . . . but what if I was wrong?

  I went in through the side entrance. I got some strange looks but no one asked me what I was doing. I’ve noticed that if you look like you know where you’re going, people don’t ask questions. And once you get past them, they’re too embarrassed by their hesitation to go after you.

  I got to the fifth floor, where the ICU was set up. Outside sat a familiar figure.

  Renee raised her head, looked, and then looked again, a startled expression on her face. Then she smiled. “Hello, Wood. I thought you’d be home getting some shut-eye.”

  “I thought the same about you. Why are you here?”

  “Winthrope and I both agreed that Sylvie should have some kind of watch over her. I took this shift.” Renee glanced inside; Sylvie was sleeping. Renee turned back to me. “What the hell is that on your head?”

  “An idea that doesn’t seem to be working out.” I’d looked through it at everyone I’d passed, and even glanced at the patients. I could tell when someone had a fever, but if there were any werewolves around, the viewer didn’t spot them. I looked at the magnetic indicator and the radio meter; neither showed anything helpful. Hell, with the MRI unit in this building, likely neither one would pick up anything.

  “Well, it’s been quiet as hell here. You might as well go home. I’ll call you if there’s any change.” She gave my shoulder a tentative pat.

  I noticed a movement behind her.

  Sylvie opened her eyes suddenly. She turned her head weakly towards me; her eyes widened, and it felt like icewater was running down my spine as I saw her face—her “feeling” face.

  I nodded my head sharply; the viewer dropped down, and I looked through it.

  Renee Reisman’s face sparkled in infrared, a network of tiny sparks and lines rippling across it.

  Everything froze. I had never looked at anyone through the viewer at this range. What I was seeing could simply be what moving muscle looked like close up. If I was wrong, I’d be killing a police lieutenant and a friend.

  But if I was right . . .

  It only seemed to take a long time; my body made the decision even as I glanced down. Before I was sure what I should do, I had fired the ten-millimeter twice.

  Renee staggered back, shock written on every line of her face, and I realized I’d made a horrible mistake—it wasn’t a werewolf at all! I started forward . . . just as claws and fangs sprouted like deadly weeds from her twisting form. But the werewolf was dead even as it lunged for me; only one claw caught me, leaving a thin red trail across my left cheek.

  Screams and shouts echoed through the hospital. Three figures appeared around the corner. When they saw my gun, they dodged back. “Who are you?” one called out. “What do you want? This is a hospital, for Christ’s sake!”

  “I’m not here to hurt anyone,” I said and then realized how utterly asinine that sounded coming from a man holding a pistol in front of the ICU. “I’m just trying to protect my friend in here.” I could imagine their thoughts: a homicidal paranoid is holding ICU patients as hostages.

  “Look,” said one, very quietly, reasonably, “I’m going to just step around the corner, okay? I just want to talk with you, is that all right?”

  I heard another voice mutter something in a heated undertone; it sounded like: “Are you nuts? Don’t do it!”

  “Sure,” I said. “Just do it slowly.”

  A young orderly, my age or a little younger, eased carefully around the corner. His hands were raised. “See, I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not crazy.” I gestured to the body. “Just look at that; you’ll see what I’m up against.”

  He walked forward slowly, hands over his head. As he got closer, the viewer image started to sparkle.

  “Hold it right there. You’re one of them.”

  The expression of sudden terror, the pleading look—they were perfect and caused me another stab of doubt.

  The claws nearly took my head off before I fired. The werewolf howled in agony and died quickly. I saw two pairs of eyes staring widely in shock as the creature that had been playing their friend expired.

  “Friggin’ Nightmare on Elm Street, man! What is going down here?”

  “Werewolves,” I answered, “and if you’re smart, you’ll get out of the hospital.”

  “I’m history,” one said. “But I’ve gotta go through where you are.”

  “If you aren’t one of them, go ahead. Otherwise you’ll be number one with a bullet.”

  He had more guts than I would have. He walked out, crossed the hallway to the closest door, and started down the stairs. Another followed, his hands up, and bolted down the stairs.

  Just then, I heard a window shatter. A tall blond man, rather like a young Robert Redford, dropped lithely into the hall from outside. He straightened and looked at me. “You are most extraordinarily annoying, Mr. Wood. I have been considering how best to kill you.” The deep, warm, yet strangely resonant voice was chillingly familiar.

  I raised the pistol, centered it on his jacket. “Virigar, I presume.”

  He bowed. “At your service.”

  If Virigar was here . . . God, had he already killed Verne? “What are you doing here? I thought—”

  “Yes, you thought I would be at the warehouse.” For a moment, the good-humored mask dropped. My blood froze at the sheer malevolence in his face. Had he attacked then, I couldn’t have moved a muscle to stop him. “In point of fact, I was. Then that thrice-damned vampire began his attack and I knew precisely what you had planned. I also believe in keeping my word, so I came to make sure the young lady was killed.” He glanced around at the two bodies. “A wise choice, it would seem.”

  He inclined his head. “You have been lucky and resourceful so far. I look forward to tasting your soul; it should be a strong and, ah, heady vintage. Then I will finish with Domingo. Your interference has been really quite intolerable.”

  “Aren’t you overlooking something?” I asked.

  “Such as . . . ?”

  “The fact that I’m going to blow you away in the next two steps?”

  He laughed. “I doubt you could hit me. I am not one of these younglings.”

  I wasn’t going to dick around with him. Before he could react, I put three shots in the bullseye where most people keep their hearts.

  His eyes flew open wide. He stared at me, then down at the three neat holes in his suit. He sank to his knees, muttered something like, “Impressive aim . . .” Then his eyes rolled and he fell.

  I waited a few minutes, keeping the gun on him; he didn’t move. I went forward a few feet just to check.

  Something hit my hand so hard it went numb, picked me up and hurled me down the hallway. I fetched up against the far wall, disoriented. When I could focus my eyes, I saw Virigar standing there with my gun dangling from his hand. Grinning pleasantly, he shrugged off his coat, revealing the bullet-proof vest beneath.

  “I should have blown your head off.” I shook my hand, trying to get feeling back into it.

  He nodded cheerfully. “Yes indeed, but I depended both on myth and training. The myth of three silver bullets to the heart for a Great Werewolf, and the fact that most people are taught to shoot for the body rather than the smaller target of the head.” He tossed the gun aside. �
�Your friend Renee lasted for a few minutes, Mr. Wood. Let us see how well you do.”

  He began to change. I froze. I had seen another werewolf change . . . but this was not just another werewolf.

  This was Virigar.

  This was no transformation like a morphing—it was more: a manifestation of the truth behind the facade. The air thickened and condensed, becoming black-brown shaggy fur. Virigar’s eyes blazed with ravenous malevolence, flickering between blood red and poisonous yellow. His head reared up, seven feet, eight, nine towering, hideous feet above the floor, the marble sheeting cracking and spitting powder from the energies that crackled about Virigar like black lightning. It drew a breath and roared, a shrieking, bellowing, rumbling impossible sound that shattered every remaining window on the floor and deafened me. The head wasn’t really wolflike . . . wasn’t like anything that had ever lived. It was dominated by the terrible mouth, opening to a cavernous diameter, unhinging like a snake’s, wide enough to sever a man in one bite, armed with impossibly long, sparkling diamond fangs like an array of razor-sharp knives . . .

  For a moment, all thought fled; all I had was terror. I ran.

  Virigar let me get some distance before he began following. I remembered what Verne had told me: they fed on fear. Obviously, Virigar wanted a square meal. I ran down the steps, taking them two, three at a time . . . but I could hear his clawed footsteps closing in on me.

  I remembered a trick I’d first read about in the Stainless Steel Rat series. If I could do it, I might gain a few seconds.

  I jumped as I reached the next flight of stairs and hit them sideways, one foot raised above and behind the other, both slightly tilted. My ankles protested as the stairs hammered underneath me like a giant washboard. I hit the landing, spun, and repeated it, then banged out the doorway, sprinted down the hall, ignoring the ache in my feet. It worked!

  My heart jumped in panic as Virigar smashed out of the stairwell fifty feet behind me, the metal fire door tearing from its hinges and embedding in the opposite wall. Nurses and orderlies scattered before us, screaming. Oh, the bastard must be gorging himself now.