Age of Blood

by Weston Ochse

  Walker made a show of trying to remember, staring at the ceiling and wrinkling his brow. “You know, I can’t recall. Heard it from a lot of people though.” When he noticed Yank looking at him, he added, “Saw it online, too. And I think the bathroom wall of a club in Patpong.” He turned to Laws. “Was it Patpong?”

  Laws shook his head. “I saw it spray-painted on the ceiling of a brothel in Tijuana.”

  “Funny thing,” Walker added. “But I also saw it in the bathroom at the Hobbit House,” meaning the all-midget-staffed restaurant and bar in Manila, Philippines.

  “That where you met your girlfriend?” Laws asked.

  “No,” Walker said, making a play at looking really sad. “But your mother was lap dancing as they held her like a beach ball.”

  This had Yank laughing … until Walker redirected the conversation back to him again.

  “Good thing there’s an airport in Cabo San Lucas. Listen, Yank,” Walker said, leaning in conspiratorially, well aware it was like leaning into a lion’s mouth. “We’ll jump into the Sea of Cortez and wait for you. After you land and hail a taxi, then find a small boat, then engine out to us, we’ll begin the op. I know it’s a lot of moving parts, and I know you’ll be tired and stuff, but you think you can manage to stop on the way and get us some Happy Meals? After treading water in the ocean for all that time we’re going to be hungry. I’d also like—”

  Yank leaped atop him. Walker fought off the choke hold for a brief moment, then lost his grip on Yank’s wrist. Yank sank his forearm into Walker’s throat, but held off squeezing. Instead he said, “I do not get Happy Meals. I won’t stop and bring them to you. Understand?”

  Walker breathed through his teeth a moment before he answered. “How about a burrito then? Maybe some of those delicious churr—ow!”

  Yank shifted positions and isolated Walker’s right arm before Walker knew what was happening. Throwing over both of his legs, Yank pulled on the arm and arched his back.

  Walker gave in. “Okay—okay!”

  Yank let go and rolled to a sitting position.

  Walker was slower getting to his feet. He alternated between rubbing his neck and his shoulder.

  “Do we understand each other?” Yank asked.

  Walker nodded. “Sure. No Happy Meals. No burritos. But look on the good side.”

  “What good side?” Yank’s eyes narrowed.

  “You didn’t say anything about a personal pan pizza.”

  Yank was about to launch himself when Holmes commanded they stop.

  Yank sat with fight still lingering in his eyes.

  Laws walked over to Yank. “Will you hold the pepperoni?” He placed a hand on his stomach. “Gives me gas.”

  Yank gave him a look, then finally broke into a grin.

  Laws laughed, which at last made Yank laugh, too.

  Holmes stood and helped Walker to his feet, making a show of dusting him off. “If you girls are done playing naked Twister, we got a mission brief in five mikes, then I want everyone to suit up and JMPI each other. I don’t want this to be a cock-up.” Holmes turned to Yank and gave him a stern look. “And do as Laws says, hold the pepperoni. It gives him gas.”

  “But I’m going to jump with you,” Yank said, his brows coming together as he looked at the others.

  “Is it okay?” Holmes asked. “Are you sure? I mean jumping out of airplanes is real scary.”

  Yank nodded vigorously; then he shook his head, desperate to both please and communicate. “I want to jump. It’s no problem, sir.”

  “Then you’ll be second in the stick. I think I have an old chute somewhere here that was packed for a jump into Vietnam.” He left Yank staring.

  Laws stared as well, his mouth half open. He looked from Yank to Walker. “Was that a joke? Did the boss joke? Christ and a BB gun, but I just heard the boss crack a joke.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Holmes said, sitting back down, a private little smile alive beneath his blue eyes.

  “Right, boss.” Laws smiled and leaned back. “Right.”

  7

  CITY OF INDUSTRY. AFTERNOON.

  The door whispered to him. He closed his eyes to better hear, but it was as if someone was on the other side, trying desperately to communicate. Try as YaYa might, he couldn’t figure out what the other person was trying to impart. He leaned his head against the cool metal of the door and allowed his hand to drift toward the doorknob. When he touched it, the voice grew louder, but so did another voice.

  “Hey!” He felt a hand on his shoulder as Alice whispered harshly. “What are you doing? We haven’t been given the signal.”

  YaYa glanced around. He removed his ballistic glasses and wiped the sweat away from his eyes. Good question. What was he doing? He gritted his teeth and grinned. He replaced the glasses and reset his grip on his 9mm pistol.

  During the premission briefing, he’d been introduced to all the other Naval Criminal Investigation Service agents, but there were just too many names to remember, except the one assigned to him and Alice—Rio Youers. The plan was for three police tactical unit teams with full body armor, ballistic shields, and M4 rifles to hit the front and side doors and loading dock. Each team was backed up by a pair of NCIS agents carrying pistols and wearing chest protection. YaYa waited with Alice and Special Agent Youers. The young agent seemed too eager. Too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He was even smiling.

  Luckily, they didn’t have long to wait.

  The tactical radios buzzed with action, and then YaYa heard a pop, then a bang, then the sound of M4 rounds firing into a big space. After fifteen seconds, Alice motioned for Youers to open the door. When he did, she braced against the doorjamb, peered into the interior, then began to move to the nearest barrier. Youers moved behind her and YaYa followed next.

  Inside were hundreds of reclaimed refrigerators. Some were stacked five high and banded together to keep from falling, but most rested on the ground. A skylight that ran the length of the center of the ceiling let in daylight. A giant metal shelving unit against the far wall held several hundred more refrigerators with their doors removed. YaYa had no idea what all these various refrigerators were doing here. It could have been a madman’s collection or it could have been something more determined.

  A scream suddenly split the temporary peace inside the structure. Gunfire followed, at first intermittent, the tactical unit’s concentrated fire. YaYa watched as a shadow moved almost faster than he could see, running toward the far wall. Bullets bit into the concrete and the refrigerators in a terrible hail of violence. What had been moving superhumanly fast stopped, twisted, and fell. It was a man. But how had he moved so fast?

  YaYa moved toward the body in a crouch. Youers and Alice came behind. He knelt by the man and examined him. Mid-twenties, Hispanic. Several tattoos, which could probably be traced to one Mexican mafia organization or another. But no amulet or ring or item that YaYa could see that would provide the reason for the superhuman speed. Just a dozen bullet holes, including one through the jaw that had shattered teeth and bone.

  Alice tapped him on the shoulder. “I think you need to come and see this.”

  “Are we clear?”

  “All clear. We’re bringing in dogs to make sure, but it looks like this guy was the only one.”

  “Okay. But what was he doing?”

  “I think you’ll find the answer over there,” she said, pointing to a place in the center of the room blocked by a line of refrigerators.

  YaYa stood. He must have moved too quickly because he felt nauseous and began to tip. Alice caught him.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Let’s just get this done,” he said. He pulled his arm roughly from her grasp. “Lead the way.”

  She frowned but held her tongue and motioned for him to follow her. YaYa knew he shouldn’t have acted that way but he couldn’t help it. What did he care anyway? She’d get over it. He realized he was acting strangely, as if he were an observe
r outside his body. And like that observer, he had no power to correct it.

  Youers passed him and gave him a dirty look.

  YaYa followed. The sight that greeted him in the center of the room made his steps slow. Several tables were strewn with what had been a carefully constructed chemistry lab. Gunfire had destroyed part of it, but that’s not what drew his attention. Three monkey-like creatures hung eviscerated from a metal rod over one of the tables. With orange skin, wicked fangs, and impossibly long arms, they looked like a crazed melding of a Chucky doll and Stretch Armstrong. Only they weren’t. YaYa knew exactly what they were—homunculi. Golem-like creatures created through alchemical magic to serve the will of their creator. The last ones he’d seen belonged to the Chinese mafia known as the Snakeheads. He’d never heard of any of the Mexican mafias using them, but there was probably no reason they couldn’t. Another thought came to him. The Snakeheads could be working with the people who’d created this lab, but for what purposes he had no idea.

  “Do you recognize them?” Alice asked, nudging one of the homunculi with the barrel of her gun.

  YaYa nodded. “We need to make sure everyone in the room is properly debriefed.”

  “I figured as much.”

  Youers came up beside her. “So this is what you were talking about. Damn things look evil.”

  Alice offered YaYa a weak smile.

  He just looked at her and shook his head. “Wonder what they were doing with them.”

  He spied the boxes that had been hijacked. One had been opened, but the others seemed to be untouched. The bones were gone from the open box, but off to the side were a large mortar and pestle, and inside the mortar was a fine white dust. He spied a basket of unfilled vials, the kind someone would wear around the neck. What quality would a chupacabra bone have? He examined the array of broken and unbroken glassware, but couldn’t figure out what they would do with them. And what did this have to do with the homunculi?

  YaYa shrugged the questions away as exhaustion swept through him. They’d have to figure that out later. For now, he needed to get this packed up and shipped back to the Salton Sea facility. He’d just begun to organize the removal when a nasty, guttural voice in his head whispered harshly, “Look up!”

  Without thinking, YaYa complied, and saw a shadowy figure moving swiftly across the top of the highest level of refrigerators. He pointed his pistol in a two-fisted grip and fired. The shot missed, but the sound of it caused everyone to jump, then follow the aiming point of his pistol.

  A man moved along the top of the row, then disappeared on the far side. YaYa and Youers were closest and ran to intercept, thinking he might climb down. YaYa’s exhaustion made him slower than Youers. That YaYa had been a near-Olympic-class runner just weeks ago was testament to what was happening in his body, he thought.

  He heard Youers shouting for the guy to halt, then gunshots. YaYa got close enough to see a man sliding a twelve-inch stiletto beneath Youers’s rib cage. Youers went stiff and straight, his face losing all expression. The man held the agent’s gun hand and gently laid him to the ground. Removing the blade, the man paused and for a moment stared into Youers’s eyes.

  Then he moved. Impossibly fast, knife held forward like a lance. YaYa didn’t have the time to move out of the way, but felt his body picked up and slung against a nearby refrigerator, hard enough to knock it over. He lay stunned, unable to move. When he finally got to his feet, Alice was kneeling next to Youers, pleading with him to not die. YaYa stumbled over to Alice just as life left the young man’s eyes; as for the killer, he was nowhere in sight.

  An hour later, with dead homunculi, the glassware, and the remaining chupacabra bones stowed into the back of a CIA SPG van and headed once more for the Salton Sea facility, YaYa stood in the aisle of a pharmacy, staring at the myriad medicines they had to cure bloating, dehydration, acne, diarrhea, and headaches. There were salves to relieve itching and burning and dry skin. There were bandages and splints and crutches and slings. What they didn’t have was what he wanted most. After searching the aisles, knowing they couldn’t possibly have what he needed, he was nevertheless disappointed that he couldn’t find a salve, cure, pill, capsule, or bandage that would deliver him from being possessed. He rolled up his arm and saw that the greens and purples from the wound had spread from his elbow to his wrist.

  He knew that he’d have to tell someone. He’d rather do it in person than have the others learn of it without him there. He choked back a sob, then reached up and grabbed a bottle of milk of magnesia. He walked toward the cashier, but at the last minute turned to the door, shoving the bottle in his pocket like a lowlife thief.

  So he wasn’t surprised when he set off the alarm and the glass door slid shut in front of him. And he also wasn’t surprised when he pulled out his pistol and shot the glass out. What did surprise him was Alice on the other side of the glass, her own pistol out and aiming straight at YaYa’s head.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  YaYa glanced down at the gun in one hand and the milk of magnesia in the other.

  “Drop the gun, SEAL,” she commanded.

  He stared at her, ready to kill her, his face feral, his lips peeled back, his free hand wanting to rend and tear and break. Then he did what any self-respecting possessed U.S. Navy SEAL would do.

  He cried.

  8

  FIVE THOUSAND FEET OVER THE SEA OF CORTEZ.

  They were given the ten-minute warning. They were jumping in and didn’t know when they’d be back, so they wore their wet gear and carried their dry gear in waterproof bags, which contained their weapons as well. Emily Withers had gone missing almost exactly twenty-four hours ago. If they found anything it would be a body. Still, after replaying the recording of the giant creature taking her, they concluded that they might need to be prepared for additional threats, so they also carried knifes sheathed to their legs, as well as gas-operated spear guns.

  Laws wondered if they’d really encounter the giant fish. Their mission brief had included the history of the oarfish. It could grow upward of fifty, sometimes sixty feet in length. It was long held that the oarfish was perhaps the start of the mythology of the sea monster, sailors spying the great long bodies, either alive and beneath the waves, or washed up on the shore. The species held a fondness for the protected warm waters and rather shallow bottom of the Sea of Cortez.

  But these great eel-like fish were not alone in these waters. The giant Humboldt squid also called the Sea of Cortez home. Some thought it might have been the inspiration for Jules Verne’s sea monster that attacked the Nautilus in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Whatever the truth was, the millions of tourists that came to swim in the lusciously warm waters had no idea of the sheer size of the squid that swam beneath them.

  Never having seen a sea monster in person, Laws found that part of him actually wanted to. Growing up on the back lots of Hollywood studios, he’d seen his share of movie props. The head and teeth they’d used in the final scene of Jaws had terrified him for months when he’d first seen them after watching the movie.

  But another part of him didn’t want anything to do with sea monsters. They’d grown from small eggs to become as large as they were. Each and every one of them, in its own way, had become the ultimate predator, needing to feed on everything else, anything else, just to survive. Was that what had happened to the senator’s daughter?

  The ramp opened and air rushed in. He set his goggles and checked the valves of the man in front, just as his were being checked by the man behind. He heard the countdown in his intrateam underwater radio system and prepared to step off. Then came the moment, and he let the wind take him.

  They jumped at five thousand feet, so it wasn’t going to be a very long trip. Still, he saw the twinkle of Cabo to his right and the lights of mainland Mexico farther off to his left. Beneath him, as he rushed seaward through the wind, he spied lights of varying brightness, each of these boats, both commercial and private.

 
When he hit a thousand feet, he lowered his dry bag on a line. He watched the altimeter and GPS on his wrist and began flaring, using the risers to bring him on target and slow his descent. When he was ten meters, he released his dry bag, and when he was five meters he released the chute. He had time to press a hand to his goggles; then he was slicing into the warm water of the Sea of Cortez. As warm as it was, it was a shock, and he felt his chest tighten as he held his breath. He allowed himself to sink, pressed his regulator into his mouth, and cleared the air. Once he was certain his breathing apparatus was functioning, he freed his fins from where they were attached to his side and pulled them over his feet. Then he turned to regroup with the others.

  They swam to the tactical underwater vehicle that Holmes had lowered on his own line. Laws powered it up and cycled it through its checks until he was sure it was ready to go. While he cycled through the setup and sonar, Holmes established coms. The mission plan was to move outward in a concentric circle while Yank and Walker held on to either side, ready to defend or attack if necessary. Holmes was a free floater and would move diagonally behind the Big Wheel–sized underwater craft and ensure that nothing came up behind them.

  The light of the TUV gave them nearly five meters’ visibility. But their true vision came from the sonar, which could read seventy meters and showed depth, direction, and relevant size on a five-inch circular green display.

  They’d landed fifty meters due east from where Emily Withers was taken. They began their concentric circles moving outward at a patient clip. Single fish appeared as yellow dots. Small groups of fish appeared as orange clumps. Large fish were shown in red. Here and there an occasional orange clump flashed to red, demonstrating a merging of fish schools. One came right toward them. Laws communicated this to the team just as the school of fish approached, then split, swimming madly away. To Laws they appeared to be nothing more than a thousand or so ten-inch blacklip dragonets, orange with black dorsal fins.