The organization was called Bureau 13. As public knowledge of magic and monsters would cause nation wide panic, the organization kept itself and all operations totally secret. Not even the President knew exactly who they were, what they did, or where the agency was located. Bureau agents were specially trained, had incredible equipment and were sometimes themselves unique.
Much of what the driver said meant nothing. But several words came through clear. This male was a guard of the big human tribe called America. Thoughtfully, #1 fingered the badly healing scar on his cheek from the floor-s-scent light.
Grinding out the butt in the ashtray, Willis said, “Now if the Pentagon was aware that the serum worked, even partially, they would continue the experiments, and next time there may not be anyway to stop the mutants.”
Mutants. #1 filed the word away. That's what he was.
“Do you understand what it is I am saying?” Willis asked pointedly.
Slow comprehension came, and #1 nodded, “You are going to kill me,” he stated bluntly.
Brushing back his hair, Willis ruefully smiled. “Well, I would rather recruit you. The Bureau can always use a man of your talents and abilities.”
Recruit. That word he knew. “You wish for me to join this Bureau and assist in guarding America?”
“Yep.”
In a well of feelings, #1 was overcome with emotion and nearly fainted from the very concept. A warrior for the entire human race. The responsibility was enormous! Staggering! His heart beat so loud in his tiny chest, he thought the ribs would break. Kin fought for kin, and he was human now. Blood of their blood, flesh of their flesh.
In a rush of strength, #1 sat up on the gurney, his head almost hitting the high ceiling. “I am ready, sir,” he said proudly, giving a shaky salute.
Gently laughing, the driver took the hand and shook it. #1 was very careful not to squeeze in return and hurt the master.
“Welcome to the Bureau, friend,” Agent Willis said with a grin. “I can only thank god that you stayed loyal.”
“Yes,” #1 agreed, looking into the eyes of the human male. “Thank you, god.”
INFORMATION
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SECURITY LEVEL 10
FOR BUREAU 13 PERSONNEL ONLY
Good morning, Cadet Ken Sanders!
No, we did not break into your apartment to print this message on the back of your sugar-toasties box. The Bureau has ways much more subtle than such physical crudities. Please, continue you breakfast—such as it is.
Like every student at this training school, you have passed the first, and primary, requirement for entrance into Bureau 13: experiencing a supernatural phenomenon, and surviving. Believe me, everything from here on is downhill compared to that.
FYI: Although Bureau 13 is a duly authorized sub-division of the Justice Department, we are basically autonomous and answer to nobody but the current division chief. Occasionally, the President also, but even he has only limited power over us.
There is no known headquarters for the Bureau. Our teams of agents roam the country on regular routes, keeping tabs on known troublemakers and investigating any unusual events that occur in their assigned territory. These independent agents alone decide upon neutralization, assimilation, capture, or termination. Part of the training here will be to read past cases of the Bureau to familiarize yourself with set operational procedures.
But please remember, there are no precedents for any given situation. Each case is unique and must be handled individually upon its own merits. A werewolf may be some poor innocent soul driven mad by the inhuman desires torturing their mind, and will happily accept our assistance. We have anti-lycanthropy drugs. On the other hand, a beautiful, but demonic, tooth fairy yanking molars from the mouths of tiny children should be gunned down without a qualm. End of discussion.
On a personal note: I have discovered your true identity #1, and after due deliberation, have subsequently destroyed all references to your past, origin and initiation. Lt. Colonel Kensington Sanders is part of the Bureau now, and we take care of our own. Besides, we mutants got to stick together.
That's about everything. The rest will be learned in class over the next six weeks and later on in the field with the team you are assigned to. Note: despite every horror story that you may hear about the final exam, only ten students have ever died in the 145 years the Academy has been operating and in memoriam each was given a passing grade.
POP QUIZ ALERT! In 500 words or less, please submit a paper to your morning karate instructor as to why the latter may be a joke used to alleviate your fears, and then submit another as to why it is definitely not a joke to your afternoon CPR/First Aid teacher.
Good luck. Keep your head low. Glad to have you with us!
Cordially,
Horace Gordon
Division Chief, Bureau 13
PS: No, you do not have to destroy the box. This message will revert to normal in four seconds.
PPS: Your toast is burning.
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ACTIVATION
ONE
Waiting for a friend to arrive, I was standing on a street corner in downtown Chicago when a ton of glass showered down upon me. Staggering under the brutal impacts, I was driven gasping to my knees. My hat and sports jacket were slashed to ribbons and only the presence of my Bureau 13 issue body armor saved my life.
I barely had time to register these facts before something smashed onto the nearby pavement with a terrible wet crunch, blood spraying everywhere.
Forcing myself to look, I noted the tattered uniform on the pulped lump, dark blue with black stripes. Oh, hell, it was a fellow cop. That was when I heard the screams and gunfire from above.
Painfully standing erect, I shielded my face with a trembling hand and glanced skyward. There seemed to be a window missing on fifteen, but at this range it was impossible to tell. The sounds of warfare continued, so slipping on my sunglasses, I dialed for maximum computer enhancement. Yep, broken window on fifteen. Okay, now I had a goal.
“Call the police!” I shouted to the gathering crowd of onlookers, as I stumbled into the apartment building. Once I was out of view of the general public, I paused long enough in the lobby to drink a vial of healing potion. Instantly the pain diminished and the blood stopped running from the cuts on my head and neck. Ah, much better. Wish I could have done something for the officer splattered on the sidewalk, but no amount of magic could cure a wound like that. The man had been pulp.
As I headed for the elevator, a muffled explosion sounded somewhere and the fire alarm started to clang. Spinning about, I changed direction. Gotta take the stairs.
Sprinting up the steps, I shucked my sports jacket and loosened both of the Smith & Wesson .357 Magnums in my double shoulder holster. Damnation, I was armed to go to the movies, not indulge in serious battle! I only hoped the situation wasn't as bad as it sounded. The whole thing could be attributed to a gas stove explosion. Highly improbable, but feasible. Maybe it was only a Mafia execution, or a terrorist attack, something simple like that. Yeah, think positive.
Reaching fifteen, I eased open the exit door and scanned the hallway before entering. Go slow, keep low, that was my motto for the month. At the end of the hallway, there were two cursing police officers, reloading their Beretta 9mm automatics and not looking at all happy. Faintly, I heard snarls and moans of pain. Sounded worse than Saturday night at a cannibal brothel. Nasty.
Carefully stepping into view, I kept my hands splayed and at my sides. Nervous cops had a bad habit of shooting first and apologizing later at your funeral. Although they did send flowers.
“Move along, mack!” the young cop snarled, slamming a fresh clip into her automatic. “It ain't healthy to be around here.”
“Hey, he's armed!” the other cop shouted in warning. Instantly, their guns swivelled to point at little ol’ me.
Stopping where I stood, I slowly reached into my jacket and wi
thdrew my commission booklet. “FBI,” I announced calmly. “Special Federal agent Ed Alvarez. What's the situation, officers?”
They seemed disgruntled, but accepted my arrival. At least, their Beretta automatics were no longer directed towards my tender stomach. Thank goodness, hot lead was so hard to digest after a pepperoni burrito.
“We were responding to a domestic, on the fifteenth floor,” the woman reported quickly, jacking the slide on her weapon to chamber a round. “No response to our knock, we heard sounds of violence, announced our identity and kicked the door down.”
The man shivered. “Some kind of animal was eating the tenants. Place resembled a slaughterhouse. We each pumped a full magazine into the beast before it even noticed we were there.”
“Who went out the window?” I asked, feeling the tiny hairs on the back of my neck start to rise.
“Harry,” the woman said. She was calmer now and a lot more angry. “The fool tried to Mace the thing.”
Weird noises were coming from down the hallway. Snarling, growling and a crunching sound much too reminiscent of teeth on bones. This was not music to my ears. “What does it look like?”
“Big. Ugly. No hair.”
Interesting, I briefly wondered if it was a bald werewolf, a squid-bear, or another of those giant mutant Chihuahuas again. We had been finding a lot of those lately. Must be the something in the water.
“Where is the animal now?” I asked, coming closer.
“Who knows?”
“I called for emergency back-up,” the man added. “But this is Chicago.”
“With more crime than cops,” I finished for him. “How long?”
“They get here when they get here.”
Damn. “My people can arrive in five minutes. You want help?”
“Buddy, we need help,” admitted the older and obviously wiser officer.
“Done.” Turning my back on the pair, I pressed the transmit switch on my wristwatch, a nifty little piece of Bureau equipment that could do everything but strap itself on your wrist, and Technical Services was working on that detail.
“Alert,” I whispered. “Possible homicidal supernatural at #175 Wacker Drive. Definitely bulletproof. Call in the troops, gang, this could be a toughie.”
“We're on the way,” a familiar voice replied.
“Don't stop for lunch, or it may be me.”
“Gotcha, chief.”
Tucking my badge into my belt so it would be on public display, I shrugged and both Magnums were in my hands. The Model 42 ultra-light in my left was loaded with rubber stun bullets. The heavy stainless steel Model 66 in my right held a scenario load of an armor-piercing military round, soft lead dum-dum, explosive mercury tip, silver bullet, phosphorus tracer, and a blessed wood bullet. Not much, but it would have to do.
Just then, a scream of raw terror echoed along the hall and the three of us charged with guns drawn. Monster or not, no cop could ignore a cry for help.
Inside the apartment was a mess, with torn clothing everywhere, furniture smashed, television smoking, carpet ripped, papers scattered and amid the fresh destruction stood the beast. It was no Chihuahua.
Vaguely resembling a hairless lion, the muscular animal must have weighed four hundred pounds easy. It had mottled, diseased-looking skin, long saber tooth tusks, prehensile claws, charnel house breath and a real bad attitude.
But according to my sunglasses, the creature possessed no Kirlian aura. None. That was impossible! Incredible! Everything living had an aura; white for good, black for evil, green for magic, and a million shades in between. Maybe this monster was off the visible spectrum with an ultra-violet, or infrared aura. For one brief moment I debated trying to capture the thing alive for the lab crew. Then it turned and I saw a foot and slipper sticking out of its drooling snout. So much for capture. Lumpy the Lion died here and now. Eat a civilian in my town and you went down for the count. Fast and hard. End of discussion.
“Aim for the head!” I cried, targeting the chest in an attempt to hit the heart. I forced myself to keep the instructions plain. No coded battle phrases. These were street cops, not federal secret agents.
Our four guns sounded louder than four hundred as we banged away in the small room. The muscular animal jerked with each pounding round, but no blood showed and the damage was minimal.
As the cops withdrew behind the wall to quickly reload, Lumpy bounded forward, so I tossed in my only grenade and then joined the officers. In the future, I really should go shopping with more than just the bare essentials. However, bazookas simply ruined the line of a good sports jacket.
A thunderous explosion shook the floor, flame and debris blasting out the doorway. Without waiting for the chaos to settle, I dashed back inside to continue the fight but found only bits of the Bozo Boojum strewn about. Contemptuously, I snapped my fingers at the dead monster. Ha! Lumpy hadn't been so tough. I had in-laws who used grenades to dust the furniture. It really kept their place clean, but sure was really hard on the doilies.
But even as the smoke thinned, the bloody pieces started slithering towards each other as the monster began to re-assemble. I felt my lunch pack its bags for a quick vacation as I watched the reverse dissection. Uh-oh. Total cellular unification. Every tiny piece of its body was a separate living organism. I could be here for a year trying to chill this boojum!
Then again, maybe not. Moving fast, I grabbed a foreleg, sprinted into the kitchenette, stuffed it into the microwave and turned the dial to high. The results were interesting. Wrapping my handkerchief around what resembled a brain, I dropped the pulsating gray cauliflower-like mass into the sink and flicked on the garbage disposal. Ah, instant lobotomy. Just add water.
In a spray of electrical sparks, the microwave shorted out and the door swung aside as the limb flopped towards freedom. Then the rumbling garbage disposal jammed to a halt and an undulating brain plopped out of the sink and started rolling across the floor. Holy Hannah! This thing was harder to stop than a Congressional pay raise!
Dumbfounded at the sight, the police officers could only watch from the doorway. This type of fighting was totally out of their experience, almost beyond comprehension. Each probably thought they were hallucinating, or dreaming. That was the standard reaction. But the cops were still here and that showed guts. If we survived this mess, the Bureau could have a couple of prime recruits.
Rummaging under the sink, I found a can of drain cleaner and liberally sprinkled the acidic lye over anything that seemed healthy. Sizzling and dissolving under the chemical onslaught, the stubborn supernatural relentlessly continued to piece itself back together.
Tossing aside the can, I grabbed another limb and started to heave it out the window, but stopped. Not everybody in Chicago would be wearing protective armor and the next poor slob to get glass rained on them would die. Damn, damn, damn! Think, Alvarez, think!
I had never fought a true unkillable before, only read the Bureau manual on the subject. Unfortunately, I had just exhausted the usually helpful handbook. Time to be brilliant. Ah ... er...
“Oven?” the young cop suggested.
With a grin, I slapped her on the arm. “Yes!”
As I wrestled with the struggling limb, the woman turned the gas oven on and opened the door. Claws ripped at my chest, exposing the armor under what had been my favorite shirt, so slamming the leg against the tiled wall a few times to try and stun it, I barely managed to force the adamantine limb into the waiting stove. The cop slammed the metal door shut, while I grabbed the refrigerator and pushed it in front of the oven.
A wild pounding started immediately from inside the oven, but the boojum stayed put. However, the smell coming from the exhaust vent was bad enough to peel the paint off a battleship; the fumes were reminiscent of sweaty gym socks, old cat litter and rancid hair tonic with just a hint of automobile transmission fluid. Whew! This thing could give a sick skunk an inferiority complex.
With a tremendous crash, the refrigerator toppled over and
the smoking limb bounded out of the oven.
“What the hell is this thing?” the older cop demanded, his automatic barking steadily as he tracked the legless runaway. “Some kind of organic robot?”
As good a lie as any. “Yes,” I panted, thumbing reloads into my own weapon. “It escaped from Fort Sheridan early this morning.”
“But that was closed years ago?”
Was it? “Just a cover story to hide the secret government lab.”
“Son of a bitch!” the woman cursed, hacking at the brain with a meat cleaver. Arcing around her, the two pieces just moved faster.
Going into the living room, I yanked a cord from the wall and began tying grisly monster chucks to doorknobs and bathroom fixtures. About halfway complete, the living jigsaw puzzle flipped and flopped in a feeble attack, but couldn't regroup for the moment.
The man poured a box of rat poison into a gaping section of the creature's intestines, but the deadly food only seemed to accelerate the healing process. A reverse metabolism? Damn, I had already drunk my only vial of Healing potion.
And this was getting serious. If Lumpy reformed before help arrived, we stood about as much chance of staying in one piece, as it presently did of not. Electricity? Nyah, it was only house voltage, couldn't kill a dog. Set the place on fire? No good, too risky, might murder hundreds of innocents. If only we had some fast setting cement, we could dump it in the lake. My mind began rifling through six years of fighting every damn thing on Earth, trying to find a solution.
“Hey, what's going on, officers?” a man asked, leading a group of people standing by the open door. Some teenager in a bathrobe was there with a goddamn Toshiba video recorder. Sweet Jesus! This was just what I needed, civilians with a camera.
“Run!” I bellowed, stepping between them and the boojum. Ripping off my watch, I clicked on the self-destruct sequence. That should buy me enough time to get them to safety.
But then multiple hands yanked the bystanders away and in charged four people I knew well: a beautiful oriental woman in silk pajamas carrying a short double-barreled gun, a plump man in a sweat suit lugging a four foot long M60 machine gun, a trim, muscular woman holding a sword whose blade shimmered with rainbows, and a tall pale man in bikini swim trunks holding a silver staff.
Doomsday Exam [Bureau 13 #2] Page 2
