by Chanel Smith
“Yes yes, I know the stats too,” Helton said. “I feel like we overlooked something when we tested that plastic compound, if you can call those hasty experiments really ‘testing’ at all. It’s going to come back and bite us in the ass, mark my words.”
Out of his line of sight, Jennie rolled black eyes behind thick glasses and left the room to make her way back to the main lab.
There was one obvious flaw in the GarTres process, and Helton was well aware of it. There were two steps in treating a landfill before it would be livable. The first step involved dumping a soup of chemicals that burned any plastic to ash while ignoring all other materials. The ‘soup’ slid its way through the entire landfill in a matter of hours, thanks to one particular chemical created specifically to ‘slide’ rapidly but thoroughly through any mixture.
Once the landfill was free of plastics completely, two brand-new chemicals were carefully combined and added to the landfill, along with the ever-useful ‘slider’ chemical. These chemicals were almost magical but were used with the full knowledge that they would never to come into contact with any form of Polyethylene Terephthalate or Dacron, a specific type of plastic used in synthetic fibers such as water bottles. As all plastics had been removed in Step one, there should never be a situation where the GarTres chemicals would ever be in contact with Dacron plastic, as the GarTres was buried beneath fifteen feet of normal dirt.
Moreover, what would really happen if Dacron did came into contact with the chemicals in GarTres? At most, a small heat reaction would ensue, the scientists had assured Cavello Corp. No reason to worry as no plastics were anywhere in that landfill: Step one had assured that.
In a hurry to bring the product to market, Cavello Corp hadn’t bothered to test the exact results of what would happen should Dacron came into contact with those GarTres chemicals, figuring in-depth tests could be run when there was more time.
But when the three wolves were forced to rapidly bury their friend, they’d dug the normal twenty feet deep as necessitated by the Lupein Codec, even several hundred years ago, Raya had understood that werewolf bodies needed to stay buried. When the Weres had placed their friend in his grave, at the last moment one had sadly thrown the last thing he’d given his friend: a little water bottle with a cartoon on it, a private joke.
The three Weres had finished shoveling all the dirt back over their friend, said a prayer and left.
The GarTres didn’t come into immediate contact with the Dacron water bottle because as the distraught Weres shoveled dirt over their friend, they began shoveling ever-larger shovelfuls of dirt to hasten the dreadful process. One such hit the water bottle squarely on top, knocking it between their friend’s right arm and his torso. Another even larger load of dirt knocked the Were’s arm sideways, directly over the water bottle as if to protect it.
Over the course of several days, the dirt settled. As GarTres was heavier than plain dirt, it worked its way busily downward until it could go no farther. The Were’s body served as a block, but the GarTres still had traces of that “slider” chemical and tended to move a little more than dirt normally would. Therefore, when a small chunk of GarTres came to rest on the Were’s arm, it slid down until it encountered a small empty space. It then dropped and landed with a small splat directly on the grinning teeth of the cartoon that decorated the water bottle.
If one had watched sufficient horror movies and had been anxiously awaiting the unknown and untested reaction between GarTres and Dacron, the cartoon would suddenly be lacking teeth as first effect of the dreaded contact would be instant destruction. The reality was far more boring: the reaction produced a minor amount of a certain chain of DNA. Nothing may have ever happened had not Miss Henry’s prize Great Dane been digging hard and fast after an intriguing scent. The dog never did locate anything, but something found it: an infinitesimally small chain of that DNA, just minutely different from that of the dog. In fact, that one section represented nothing exciting whatsoever, simply a fifty million year regression of canine DNA. In plainer language, the DNA that dog (or any other living creature) would have had fifty million years ago. There was no immediate effect when that DNA slipped into the Dane’s body and made itself right at home, but DNA is friendly: it enjoys moving around, visiting others.
Three months later when the burial had been entirely forgotten by anyone except the small pack of grieving Weres, an exceedingly odd series of incidents happened. Any puppies (registered show puppies and their less fortunate siblings) born out of a bitch who’d crossed paths even at a distance from that Great Dane, showed the same unique but deadly effects: they were born with a perfect set of gills. The minute they exited the womb, they gasped frantically and died in minutes. The only difference between the show pups and mutts was that the former had humans in attendance, humans who completely panicked when their beautiful animals slid out of the womb and died in such a dreadful manner, with ugly gills flapping madly on their tiny necks.
Instantly, Ripero moved from the very model of a modern perfect living experience to a veritable nightmare for dog lovers, in particular those who bred them willingly or otherwise. The Cavello Corporation PR Team was presented with a problem different anything they’d ever faced: this was a catastrophe beyond comprehension. The real power behind the Cavello Corporation, of course, was pragmatic. There really was only one viable solution. Rid the city of canines, of course, and any humans who overly protested that act. In fact, why not delouse the perfect city by exterminating any humans who had canines at all?
If a corporation worker turned pale, it was because they themselves had a dog. No other reason.
Chapter Eleven
A Rough Landing
Raya and the pack had been in the air heading to New Jersey for only ten minutes when he heard something he’d never heard before yet instantly recognized: the sound of the Uber Werewolf’s voice.
“Turn plane around: go home. Do it now,” the deep voice growled in his ear. There were no possible questions: only acquiescence. Raya turned to Petra and commanded, “Have a heart attack. Do it now.”
Petra had only heard that tone of voice from her mate on few occasions, but was fully aware of its meaning. She took immediate action by excusing herself, climbing over Raya and emerging into the aisle. Once there, she took two steps and began gasping for air before dropping to her knees. Then she clasped a hand to her chest and let one tiny shriek before toppling face-forward.
“Her heart!” Raya shouted. “The doctor did warn us. God, it’s her heart! Someone help us please!”
The flight returned to New Orleans twenty minutes later. As the pair wearily re-entered their manse, every phone was ringing at once. Raya took one call and thought he too would have a heart attack at the very idea of what he and Petra had just avoided, as he could only imagine all too well his own pups adorned with a set of gills.
Then reality hit, fury burned, and the world changed over like the ticking of a slow clock. This could possibly wipe out his entire race.
Who the hell was responsible for this outrage, this act of murder? What had they done, how to fix it, and how to most rapidly disseminate the news? For sure, this was news that certain people would want squelched, even though the more who learned of it, the better the chances that some doctor could invent a fix. Doctors ignorant of the problem would invent nothing.
He didn’t need to worry about other wolves learning of the catastrophe. The Uber Wolf had seen to that.
One thing was sure: something dark was headed their way, heralded by the resurfacing of his ancient warrior skills and the hair on his neck rising. Shit. Time to brush up on those long-unused skills: time the entire pack did. For a brief moment when he thought of the word ‘pack’ the entire world became red-tinged and his heart sank.
They would lose at least one pack member shortly. No. Christos, no.
Of course Raya wasn’t omniscient, either, or he would have been cognizant of the one other scene that posed an equal amount of danger to h
is pack: in a small hotel in Paris, the RRP leaders were packing their bags for a long trip.
An overseas trip.
Chapter Twelve
Kill All the Canines?
Lupul impotriva lupul este de a fi barbat ocolit.
Wolf against wolf is to be shunned.
—a Romani saying
Raya had sufficient knowledge now to put the pack on full alert. First, he sent Itchiko to acquire new weapons to the black Were’s absolute delight. Itchiko wasn’t quite as happy to learn he had to see to the entire pack’s training, though.
His government contact gave him a brief call the next morning to warn him that certain members of the RRP had landed at JFK and promptly vanished: none had taken a connecting flight. At least the hairs on his neck still worked perfectly well as a warning system, he thought with a small grin.
Instinct told him the other pack would be headed to New Jersey, though why they’d risk it was unknown. And what of the three pack members who still needed to be rescued from that nightmare of a city?
All of these separate elements fit together somehow, he was sure of that. Perhaps a talk with Petra would clear up the puzzle. His Alpha female had a mind like a steel trap. She could put things together better than anyone he’d ever known. Yes, he’d just run it—
The phone rang mid-thought. He answered it and heard such a soft whisper that he had to nearly yell “Speak up! Can’t hear.”
There was a brief silence, then a scrambling noise and the sound of a door clicking closed. “Is this better?” a very low male voice enquired.
“I can at least understand you now,” he said. “Who is this, anyway?”
The other inhaled on a half-sob. “Thierry Thibodeaux says that Michael the Brave needs to off-ass and get to New Jersey.”
Raya emitted a short laugh in surprise. “He did, did he? How about that. Right. Where the hell are you guys?”
“Fiero & Sons Mortuary,” the voice nearly whispered.
“What the hell? You guys sleeping in caskets?” It was a bad joke, he thought, but maybe the frightened Were would get a grin out of it.
“Exactly so.”
Or not. Shit! How were they to rescue three Weres hiding in a damn mortuary? “It’s going to be a day or two,” he warned the other Were. “We have to make plans and it’s dangerous as hell for our kind there, now.”
“We overheard a meeting,” the voice said, even lower than it had been. “We felt you should know what’s being discussed for this city.”
The explanation lasted nearly ten minutes, and Raya calmly let the Were speak uninterrupted, although he felt like howling with rage. Indeed, he found he was growling in the back of his throat. Worse, the office door burst open and suddenly he was surrounded by his entire pack.
“Sorry, guys. Temper got away from me,” he said, and then went on to repeat what he’d just heard. Cavello Corp had first decided to neuter all the canines within one hundred miles of the city. There’d been a roar of rage at the idea: several of the board members bred high quality dogs and sold puppies.
And how to fix street dogs? There was no way. Not to mention that the disease vector was unknown. No one knew how it passed from dog to dog.
The voice interrupted his thoughts. “They agreed with you that fixing the dogs was a poor idea, so they’ve decided to kill every dog in the area. Including wolves, I’m sorry to say.”
Raya was livid. Kill all the canines, would they? How short-sighted could they be in their mad efforts to put a lid on news like this?
Especially when there was no way to prevent news of this magnitude from leaking. Hmmmm... he’d make damn sure of that himself, or rather Petra would. She was just walking out of his office, talking to Itchiko.
“Petra? Could you hang back for a bit?” Raya requested.
“Sure. See you in a bit, Itchiko.” She sauntered back and perched on the edge of his desk, facing him. Tossing a look back over her shoulder, she spread her legs right in his face. Her skirt hiked up above her knees, and suddenly her furry thatch was winking at him. The scent alone... Good Christos, she was on the verge of coming into heat.
He inhaled deeply and growled, whatever he was going to say lost in the grasp of pure lust that followed. Then he shook his head: now wasn’t the time.
“Need your buddy who writes for the Herald,” he requested. “We have quite the story to get out there.”
“Better be really good,” Petra said. “He got promoted: not doing just food reviews these days.”
“It’s better than good,” Raya said and then explained.
Petra whistled. “Oh yeah, that will work, but what do we do about those poor Weres in New Jersey?”
“Rent a bunch of caskets. Say we’re practicing for a group funeral...”
“...or having some kinky party,” she added. Both Weres grinned and something loosened inside Raya.
Petra deliberately leaned over his face and picked up his desk phone, spreading as much of her scent as possible. She dialed, went silent, then began speaking.
Partway through her conversation, he had to grin. When she hung up he was full-out laughing.
“Love of God, woman! ‘MerDogs’ for fuck’s sake?”
“Half mermaid, half dog,” Petra said, voice shaking with laughter. “I knew he’d bite at that!”
Raya sobered. “He needs to get this out quickly, before those Italian bastards figure out how to shut it all down. I tell you, every scientist world-wide needs to be working on this. You do realize our race could go extinct next generation?”
She sighed and hung her head. “I realize I don’t even dare bring pups into the world at all, now, and I was just about ready to give it a try.”
Shocked, Raya reached up and brushed her beautiful face lightly with one finger. “It will get settled. Minute it does, you are taking a big vacation. I’ll go for a week or two, hopefully you’ll be in heat.” He forced a grin and waggled his brows at her. “You’ll be popping out pups like a Pez dispenser.”
They both laughed as Petra stood, kissed him deeply and left.
One positive thought, Raya knew, was that the Italians had a hell of a lot of money to lose over this situation. Definitely gave them a major reason to do all they could to resolve the issue which they themselves had caused. It didn’t occur to him that with that much money at stake and the morals of mobsters, their solution might not be so pleasant. Oh wait! They were mobsters.
Chapter Thirteen
Plastic…not fantastic!
Protejaţi-vă cu mintea ta.
Protect yourself with your mind.
—a Romani saying
The headline and first few lines of the New Orleans Advocate’s front page were short and sweet:
Ripero, New Jersey:
Instant Death City-wide for Pups Born With Gills
When plastic meets certain chemicals, the smallest reaction imaginable takes place—a minute segment of DNA is changed. Scientists say that this segment controls oxygen input, and acts as a powerful reverse evolutionary agent. Puppies born with this strand of DNA have gills, no lungs. The CDC could not be reached for comments.
Raya slammed the paper onto his desk with a mixed feeling of disgust and sheer dread. Should this DNA actually trigger the same reaction in a Were’s body, that would be the end of the Weres.
That scientists had known of a possible reaction between the chemicals produced in GarTres and the plastic commonly used in water bottles struck Raya as the height of irresponsibility. Why hadn’t far more thorough tests been done? Christos, when the CDC did some testing, werewolves should make themselves scarce. Very scarce indeed...
Perhaps the entire pack should move into the Fiero & Sons Mortuary, Raya thought bitterly. He was spoiled, they all were after living in Heureuse for more than two hundred years in an elegant manse that had taken nearly three years to design and build, from the design itself, six months of running battles between Petra and the architect, to the natural pool out back with its
implanted Jacuzzi that seemed to melt into the swamp beyond. Somehow, a narrow, dark casket wouldn’t have the same effect.
Raya simply shook his head. A series of such small actions had led to what could well be the worst catastrophe ever suffered by his race. He exhaled heavily and picked up the phone. A pack member’s daughter worked at the CDC, and assuredly the best scientists on earth were there. If anyone had heard of progress, this woman would be the first.
Except they were as baffled as everyone else, he shortly learned.
With the RRP at an unknown location in the States, he needed to ramp up security for each pack member as well. A call to Itchiko ensured that two of his best would be on each member, along with an eight man human detail.
There was no evidence that the European pack had any intention of visiting New Orleans: no evidence if one didn’t count the hairs on Raya’s neck rising every time that pack entered his thoughts.
That was sufficient evidence for him and the entire pack.
Chapter Fourteen
War Comes to Heureuse
Bring a war to a home, and that war will burn your city.
—Unknown
Two nights later, Raya’s neck hairs proved correct. He was awakened at 3:20 AM by the crash of breaking glass, then rancid smoke filling the bedroom. Barely awake, he picked up a sleeping Petra and raced for the back of the house to attempt an escape.
Petra’s deep sleep alerted him to what was in that smoke: some kind of sleeping gas. His stronger constitution was working for him, for now. He pushed the alarm button before running to the back of Heureuse, where movement in the woods proved that the manse was surrounded.
Fine... he’d made provisions for that possibility more than two centuries ago, to the disgust of the pack who’d worked non-stop digging tunnels with the help of various trusted humans. He grinned. This would be an ‘I told you so’ that no one would forget.
