The Variant Effect

by G. Wells Taylor

"Is that Hyde?" Beachboy fanned the darkness with his shotgun.

  "Moving fast," Lilith said.

  "Too fast for him," Borland growled, shotgun gripped tight in his hands.

  "The corporal said there might be other survivors," Lilith blurted.

  "He said..." Borland squinted into the distance. "Wait!"

  At the edge of the light from their hood-lamps they caught movement. Something pink moving fast through the sewer. Red bodies. Teeth gleaming.

  Biters!

  Five!

  "Ssskin! Ssskin! Skin. SKIN!

  Borland fired from the hip. One of the Biters caught the blast full in the face, but kept coming, its torn features wriggling around a single obsessed eye. A blast removed the arm from a second Biter but it barely slowed, ramped up on Variant and the need for Ritual.

  "Get back! Get back. Through the door! GO!" Borland shouted, pumping the shotgun. A Biter's chest exploded. Beachboy appeared beside him, firing wildly. Borland elbowed him back toward the doorway.

  "Inside!" he ordered. Another Biter died. "Now!"

  Lilith and Zombie couldn't open up without hitting Borland or Beachboy so they hurried up the stairs and through the doorway into the storage area.

  Beachboy followed.

  Borland kept firing.

  Bastards!

  Only three left. Two were wounded badly but Ritual overrode self-preservation. He fired a final time and glanced into the open door. Inside, Beachboy stood in the underground warehouse; past him Zombie and Lilith scanned the darkness with their hood-lamps.

  Borland set a boot on the step and grabbed the mangled door to heave himself in.

  His hood-lamps swung into the shadows behind him.

  There. A big male in tattered army pants. Skinned from the bellybutton to the top of his head. Somehow it got behind them or they missed something.

  "Sssskin..." it hissed.

  Goddamn son-of-a-bitch!

  Sorrow and horror wrenched him.

  Just people!

  Get away!

  He slammed the door in Beachboy's face. The younger man had turned at the sound and moved to join him.

  Too late!

  Borland threw his back against the door and raised his shotgun as the Biters pounced.

  CHAPTER 67

  Hyde's distraction worked too well. True, the Biters were sent into panic and disarray by the dazzling light from his skin-shell suit, but his lidless eyes were blinded too. He'd programmed the suit to flash and promptly lost track of time. He had underestimated the effects of darkness, action and terror.

  And Jill. Did she get away?

  The flash must have drained his suit's batteries, and while he still had hood-lamps, he could only see painful flares and neon flashes in his mind. Anxiety tightened his chest-was he hallucinating? Am I blind? The only real things he had to cling to were the terrifying sounds that crowded close.

  The skin eaters were overcome by the display flash, and after some initial pitiful screams and anxious calls: "Ssskin! Skin. Skin. Skin." The pack began to reassemble in the shadow despite their blindness, rallying around the eerie clicking that echoed in Hyde's darkness. He dragged himself away from the sounds, pushing his exhausted body on the memory of adrenaline.

  The water was deeper in the tunnel that branched east beneath the runway, and pushed against his forearms and thighs as he pulled himself into the current. He knew the eastern cistern was a half-mile from where the sewer branched. If he could get the Biters to follow, the squad might have time to seal them in.

  Hyde still gripped the magnum in his right hand. There was a single bullet left. A quick clumsy check of his suit showed him his belt with speed-loader and sparklers had been torn off in the melee.

  One bullet. Who gets it?

  He suddenly noticed orange patterns dancing in front of his face, and he realized it was the amber from his hood-lamps reflecting on the water. His vision was returning.

  "Skin!" A shout echoed from behind. "Ssskin. Skin. Skin." It was answered by a chorus of other voices. The Biters were regaining their vision and confidence too.

  He heard them clicking, orienting; and then came the rapid skip of their feet as they followed.

  Hyde mustered his strength, heaved himself up onto his braces, crawling up the curved wall until he could stand and turn to face the pack. Once he was up, he toggled his hood-lamps and sent a cone of bright yellow into the darkness before him.

  "Skin. Sssskin." And the skipping pelt of their feet drew closer.

  Hyde flipped the revolver open and counted the single live round before snapping it shut.

  Find the Alpha.

  By now the pack would have reestablished some hierarchy; it was all based on ancient genetic primate code. Alpha status was established by skin-fights, simple intimidation and experience in extreme situations-also by luck.

  Challenge the Alpha.

  On impulse, Hyde toggled his suit's external audio upward-hoping he had enough power. Then he unsnapped the clasp at his throat. With a wrench, he pulled the front of his skin-shell open and pushed his hood back. The hood-lamps hung by his shoulders and lit his skinned face, throat and torso. Hyde's naked eyes glared through a yellow haze. The suit's microphone and biofeedback sensors still clustered over his skull from a plastic rig.

  Then he saw the red, raw wounded forms splashing closer. Pink muscle flexed, lidless eyes flashed, and lipless jaws snapped.

  "Skin!" they screamed coming closer. "Ssskin."

  Hyde focused on the leader, a big male. His eyes were drawn to the creature by a ring of lights, hood-lamps that dangled from a wire twisted around its skinned shoulders and neck.

  Oh God.

  Hyde recognized the stiff bristle of hair that ran over the head from ear to missing ear.

  The Biters approached, there were 10 hurtling towards him chanting "Skin."

  And the leader rose, snapping his teeth at the air in front of Hyde's face.

  "SSSKIN!" it bellowed, hands clawing outward.

  "SKIN!" Hyde roared back, his enhanced voice shook the air around them. He swung the magnum at its head

  The Biter ducked, and Hyde staggered forward. The pack was hanging back, regarding him hesitantly with their naked eyes.

  "SKIN!" the Biter barked and came in close, snapping its teeth at Hyde's jaw.

  But Hyde howled and snapped back. He swung his magnum, and clubbed the big male across the left temple.

  "SSSKIN!" Hyde hissed, and swung the gun again, his enhanced voice echoing in the darkness. The other Biters cowered some way down the tunnel, nervously hissing their obsession.

  "SKIN!" the Biter shrieked furiously and charged in.

  Hyde knew the creature could overpower him with his weight alone.

  So he gambled.

  "Jailbird, stand down!" Hyde bellowed, the external audio buzzing.

  And the Biter hesitated. For a second Hyde was sure he saw something like recognition in the creature's eyes as it tilted its head to left and right. It reached out, exposed jaws opened monstrously, like it wanted to speak.

  "I'm sorry!" Hyde said, and stuck the gun up under the Biter's chin.

  Jailbird's jaws snapped shut as some kind of realization hit home.

  Hyde fired, and the baggie's brains blew out the back of his head.

  The thing reflexively raised its hands and clutched at the exposed flesh and muscle of its chest before it pitched forward, dead in the water.

  Hyde looked past it to the others. They continued to cower and crouch in the water, obviously showing fear, perhaps acceptance or obedience.

  "SSSKIN!" Hyde roared, his heart racing. Were there any more challengers? He had no more bullets.

  "Ssskin," the pack repeated, crouching; their raw exposed skulls nodding in the amber of Hyde's hood-lamps. Their spread fingers passed repetitively over the water's surface.

  Ritual! They wanted Ritual.

  "SKIN!" Hyde shrieked, and staggered forward. His mind reeled.

  I am
Alpha!

  The skin eaters cringed before him.

  You are Alpha.

  It was clear; they were saying it with their eyes, with their approving clicks, as he staggered among them.

  Their hands came up, naked finger bones and exposed tendons touching first Hyde's heavy leg braces, then running up over his arms and scarred chest in wonder and acceptance. Rotting fingers caressed his skinned face.

  Infection. You won't escape it after all.

  And he knew the circle was complete.

  "Ssskin," he whispered softly, setting a gloved hand on a torn scalp, a child's.

  "Skin," it bleated nervously. Click. Click. Click.

  They need you.

  He hissed reassuringly as the hunting pack clambered close, encircled him. Filled with anxiety and fear-driven by Variant to horror and violence-they needed Ritual.

  They raised their gruesome hands to accept him, draw him in as leader.

  Infection.

  He had a hundred abrasions from the fight. The water and the hunting pack, his pack, was an open wound dripping the Varion-hybrid molecule.

  And there were no more bullets.

  CHAPTER 68

  The big male grabbed Borland's shotgun by the barrel and heaved. Its blood-slick hands slid on the metal, and Borland's weight worked for him, gave him leverage to turn the weapon. He tried to blast an approaching Biter in the face.

  There was a click when he pulled the trigger.

  Empty.

  The big male twisted the shotgun as the other two Biters leapt on Borland, their skinned fingers ripping and slipping over his vinyl bag-suit seeking entry. Their weight hammered him against the door. It rattled in the frame.

  Then flashes of light exploded through cracks in the mangled wood and flared on the wall opposite him.

  Boom! Boom!

  Shotgun blasts! Was Beachboy trying to come through the door? There was shouting now, and hissing.

  Biters were in the storage space!

  But Borland didn't have time to think.

  The big male pulled on the shotgun. Borland timed it right, released his grip and the Biter lost its balance, fell hissing and snapping in the water.

  The remaining Biters ripped at him. They were torn up and skinned, but not enough to hide the fact that one was a 10 year-old boy with blue eyes and the other a red-headed teen in a cheerleader's sweater and skirt clotted with blood and hanging in threads.

  Kill them Borland.

  No!

  It's happening again!

  Fury burned along Borland's fried nerves, turned molten.

  Get away from me!

  There was no escaping it. Hatred set him on fire.

  It was the day.

  And Borland went ape.

  While the big male howled animal-like, throwing the shotgun down the tunnel, Borland used his bulk to elbow the younger Biters back as he drew his pistol.

  He fired the .38 pointblank into the female Biter's chest. She screamed and tore at the air but died when Borland fired another round into her heart.

  The big male was back, locking its torn fingertips on Borland's shoulders and pulling him close. Borland gasped as its jaws opened, as it sank its teeth into his vinyl face-shield.

  Even through the thick material, Borland felt the Variant-enhanced power of the bite. His cheeks and jaws were scored and pinched into the folds of vinyl as the Biter set its teeth in a grotesque and deadly kiss. It pushed on Borland's shoulders like it was going to rip his head off.

  All as the young-boy Biter was pulling and pinching at Borland's left shoulder, sinking its teeth into the vinyl, fat and skin under his arm.

  Borland growled.

  Bastard!

  And he wept.

  Not me!

  He snarled in the Biter's embrace.

  NEVER!

  You can't beat me.

  He went with the big male's bite, pushed forward suddenly and threw all his weight against its skinned chest.

  There was a cracking sound as ribs gave way. The Biter gasped, opened its jaws and Borland frowned at the stench of its breath.

  Then his left armpit went white-hot with pain as the young Biter tightened its pit bull grip, wrenching and twisting on the mouthful of vinyl and skin.

  But Borland fought the big male, bringing his pistol up and smashing it into the exposed flesh on its face before raking twice across the thing's throat and waxy trachea.

  "SSSKIN!" the thing hissed, its stripped muscles clenching with pain and need. With a vicious claw and tear action, it grabbed Borland's hood and started pumping it back and forth, almost shaking him off his feet as the vinyl ripped.

  But Borland was angry too. Rage burned up from his armpit with the pain as the young Biter tore and chewed at him. Fury boiled in his heart.

  He roared and smashed his .38 into the big male's temple, brought it back hard again. Bits of flesh and blood spattered his mangled face-shield.

  The Biter snapped at his gun.

  "Stop it!" Borland bared his teeth, snarling through the vinyl. He shoved his pistol into the big male's eye. "Goddamn you, I said Stop it!"

  He fired twice, and the big male shook powerfully, its sharp finger bones tearing at Borland's bag-suit, wrenching it forward-ripping the seams. The Biter shivered, then dropped into the water.

  The young Biter was caught up in Ritual, still ripping and tearing at his arm. Borland pulled his gun around and fired.

  But missed.

  At the blast, the young Biter realizing he was alone, suddenly let go of Borland. It hissed and splashed at lightning speed toward the north.

  "No you don't!" Borland growled, buoyed by the echo of pain. You just killed me.

  His suit was torn. He could smell the dank sewer air. Was he infected?

  He started after the young Biter, his heart hot with adrenaline. He made it five steps and kicked his shotgun. His temples pounded when he stooped to sweep it up out of the water. Sparks danced in his eyes.

  Then he charged to the north, grumbling as the sewer narrowed and constricted his movements. The light from his hood-lamps was cockeyed. One shot at his feet; the right lamp pointed straight up.

  The big male had done a number on it.

  Borland smelled damp and rot and mildew. Could feel moisture on his cheeks.

  Game over.

  Distantly he heard gunshots or thunder.

  Was that Zombie and Lilith? Did they run into more Biters? Where's Beachboy?

  But the thoughts stoked the flames of his anger. Brought more furious tears spilling over his throbbing face.

  It will end soon.

  The water rose almost to his knees at times and then...

  "Ssskin!" The word came from up ahead.

  Borland dimmed his hood-lamps.

  As the light lowered, he noticed the water 20 yards ahead was glowing. He was at the crossing! Then light was flickering out of the eastern tunnel.

  Suddenly Hyde and a group of Biters came out of the shadow on the right-moving into the western tunnel. The old goblin's skin-shell was gone. A ring of hood-lamps hung from his scarred shoulders, lit biofeedback connectors that still dangled from his head. The remains of his suit draped like rags over his leg braces. He staggered ahead of the pack, leading them to the west, toward the cistern-directly into Aggie's path.

  The Biters whispered and clicked around his legs. Cringing, reaching out and touching him like he was the Alpha.

  He was the Alpha.

  And Borland's spirits sank as Hyde led his pack into the west.

  "Ssskin..." whispered a voice-close.

  Borland cursed, toggled his hood-lamps to high. When he swung to his right, the light fell on a pair of legs ankle-deep in water. Curled tight to the side of the tunnel was a woman cradling the young-boy Biter in her arms.

  I would have walked right past her.

  She looked like her mother.

  "Hi Uncle Joe," Jill Hyde said, setting the Biter down and getting to her feet. The skin
-eater crouched by her calves. Now Borland could see she was cradling the body of a small dog in the crook of her arm like some obscene purse. It had been skinned. "Thanks for telling daddy I was here. He rescued me."

  "Oh no, Jill." Borland sighed, moving back. "Not me."

  "This is all a big accident," Jill said. "Nobody even knew I was a kinderkid."

  As the adrenaline burned away, Borland began to register his wounds. He just hoped they were the old ones acting up. His hernias tugged at each movement, and his navel ached like someone had knifed him. His face and body felt bruised and abraded, and every joint ached. If the Biters broke the skin anywhere, and drooled or bled into it...he could present at any time.

  And now this...

  "Maybe you can help me," Jill said, lowering a hand and pressing the palm against the young Biter's skinned face. It looked up at her and clicked, then centered its gaze on Borland, and hissed: "Ssskin."

  CHAPTER 69

  Hyde led his pack west through the open area where the tunnels branched and on toward the cistern where he'd left Jill.

  She must be gone. She must be safe by now. I won't let them hurt her.

  He felt a sudden adrenaline rush as a spatter of footsteps hurtled near. More Biters. The seven that appeared had been chased north along the west tunnel and past the cistern. Aggie and squad would be hot on their trail.

  In the hood-lamp light, Hyde saw that many of the Biters bore wounds from shotgun pellets and small arms fire. They moved like lightning despite the injuries; charging up to Hyde's little pack with the reckless speed of Variant-enhanced reflexes and strength. They pressed Hyde's group hissing and spitting, pinching and poking.

  A pair of large Biters, muscular in life, their faces in tatters, a male and female soldier judging by their ruined clothes, pushed in close to Hyde, hounding and hazing him as his guts turned with revulsion, as body fluids spattered over his scarred and naked chest.

  But he pushed back, and intimidated with his own focused hate and fury, snapping his teeth in their faces, bellowing "SKIN" and biting furiously, even clashing incisors with the female.

  With a final scream and display these biggest Biters fell in line. Terrified and wounded, his growing pack was in need of release. They submitted to his will out of fear and weakness, in need of Ritual.

  He snapped his teeth and clashed his gloved hands pinching the closest Biters, turned them, herded them back the way they had come, toward the cistern and the approaching squad.