Antivirus (The Horde Series Book 1) (17 page)

Turning around, Jackson headed back to the car he had parked back on the gravel road, when he had followed Mullens in the van out to the lake. He looked at his watch. Still plenty of time to get back into town and get ready for the next phase.

It was almost over, and for that he was grateful. They just had a few more loose ends to tie up and then he could get paid. Monroe could do whatever he wanted with FutureTek. He didn’t care. He planned on living the rich life in some non-extradition country, in case anyone ever unearthed his involvement, although that seemed pretty unlikely. And if he played his cards right, maybe he’d even get the chance to bed Jen Sherrard before he left—or if not her, then that know-it-all bitch, Kat Hale. He’d be happy to have a go at either one of them, or both of them, if it all worked out.

But first things first. He still had a final role to play back in town.

Chapter 23

Forest Vale Cemetery, Helena, Montana:
Jon Sherrard stumbled through shadows and fell to his knees, the hard edge of a tombstone splitting the skin on his right shin. The cut was deep and began to bleed profusely, but was relatively minor compared to the wounds in his head, and his fractured thoughts worked frantically to keep him on his feet. Part of him wanted to collapse and die. He should be dead. He knew he should be dead. But something else kept driving him forward, a foreign presence in his mind that had manifested itself fully in his time of need, desperate and determined to keep him alive.

Wiping the blood out of his eyes, he continued forward, driven by something he did not understand; something that was not him. The hole in his forehead still leaked fluid, but it was the cavernous wound in the back of his head where the bullet had exited that was more concerning. The presence in his body had been working hard to repair him, a writhing nest of alien-like filaments protruding from his exposed brain and working on rebuilding it, one cell at a time. He thought that should alarm him, even repulse him, but something told him it was natural, just as his assimilation of lesser life forms seemed natural.

Because the healing process required the absorption of organic matter to fuel it, he had fed immediately on a shocked and horrified Marquis Chavandar, some dark part of his broken mind making certain the man remained alive while Sherrard harvested his organs, before ending with his heart and brain and finally killing him. The man had not been able to scream and alert anyone, since Sherrard had expertly extracted the assassin’s vocal cords almost immediately. For the assassin, it had been a truly horrible way to die, and Sherrard had used all of him. But the killer’s body would not be enough. Sherrard would need more to continue the rebuilding process. He must survive.

As luck would have it, he heard a low moan from deeper in the cemetery grounds and that enabled him to quickly refocus his thoughts. The moan was human and not of grief, but of pleasure. Sherrard began shuffling toward it, trying to take precautions and mask his steps. But the damage to his brain was extensive and he stumbled often. Fortunately, his targets were plenty preoccupied and never heard him coming.

He stumbled around a large tombstone and stopped, his eyes taking in the scene. A blanket had been spread out between two headstones and a particularly amorous couple was fully engaged with each other, oblivious to the world around them. Their clothes were scattered around, tossed aside haphazardly. Sherrard knew they would not need them again.

With a groan of hunger and need, he came forward in a rush, the whip-like strands of bony flesh bursting from their finger sheaths as he closed in on the couple. The male heard him first, lifting his head and uttering a sudden shout of fright as Sherrard bore down on them. The man rolled off his partner as the filaments struck her. Several of them pierced the girl’s torso and stomach, burrowing in before beginning to tear open her body to get to the life-preserving organs inside. The woman’s scream of agonized horror mixed with her boyfriend’s only for a moment before several more of the alien extensions shot out from Sherrard’s face and pierced her skull, burrowing into her brain and silencing her as they fed on her thoughts and flesh.

The man continued screaming, his psyche breaking as the image burned into his mind of the killer standing over his girlfriend, tearing into her body with worm-like feelers. Then, oblivious to his nakedness and with escape as his only desire, he turned and fled, running as fast as he was able.

Behind him, Sherrard fed voraciously, his body absorbing that of his victim’s. The organs and brain gave him the most nutrition, and the alien appendages quickly liquefied them first and then sucked them into his body, fueling his healing process even more. The muscles and flesh of the woman were less appealing and would usually be ignored, but his need was great. He burrowed through her, absorbing the tissue and body fluids. It was over in just a few minutes and, as the fleshy extensions withdrew from the remains of his prey and back into his body, Sherrard stepped back and looked down at his victim. There was little left of the woman beyond a skin-draped skeleton.

With the alien presence still in control, there was no remorse in his still-damaged brain—only the need and desire to repair himself. He was biologically superior in every way. He knew this. His programming confirmed it. The woman had been inferior and therefore expendable. Even sifting through her mind as he absorbed her brain and her intellect had shown him this. His programming told him that this was the logical conclusion to her life, taken to ensure that he continued. Indeed, it was the logical conclusion for all humanity.

At that moment, he became aware of the man’s shrieks again. They were distant now as the man continued to flee in terror, screaming for help. Sherrard reached up and touched the back of his head. He still had an open exit wound full of squirming tentacles, but it was smaller now as the thing inside him continued to rebuild his skull, using the nourishment he’d received from the feeding. He felt stronger and more focused, and turned in the direction the man had fled.

Then he was off, his footing more certain now, the stumbling gait from earlier gone. He caught the man on Green Meadow Drive and pulled him screaming into the shadows, wrapping him tightly with the fleshy strands before burrowing the bony tips into the man’s body and brain. The screams quieted to a gurgle and then went silent altogether as Sherrard began feeding again, drawing in the required nourishment.

As he fed, he felt the healing in the back of his head increase. Newly-grown bone finally closed over the hole, but he felt the filaments continue wriggling within his skull, repairing his actual brain as well. As his victim’s body began to resemble that of the female he had digested in the cemetery, he heard sirens approaching. No doubt the man’s screams had prompted some frantic phone calls from worried residents. He wasn’t worried, though. He would be finished with his meal and long gone before they were able to zero in on him. 

As a siren passed nearby, he withdrew the feeding filaments and straightened. The movement in his head began to settle down and he knew that his wounds had been healed. The dark presence within him began to recede and Jon Sherrard suddenly found himself back in control of his body and thoughts, as if he had just awakened from a twilight sleep. Looking down, he saw the remains of the man with his own eyes, processing the vision with his own brain power. He knew what had happened to the man. He knew that he had done it…or whatever was inside him had done it. But it was still part of him. It was him.

And that was unforgivable.

With a soul-wrenching cry of anguish, Jon Sherrard turned and ran.

Chapter 24

Red Lion Hotel, Helena, Montana:
Agent Alders had his military counterparts on the phone before he was even out of his driveway.

“Good morning, major,” he said gruffly, still inwardly pissed off at the man for helping create the thing that had killed his dog. He pointed his sedan south and stepped on it. “You had your coffee yet?”

“Yes, sir,” Bolson replied, his voice sharp, but cautious. “What can I do for you this morning?”

“I’ll be at your hotel in about ten minutes to pick you and Martz up.”

“I’m sorry, sir?” Bolson questioned. “Why? Do you have new information?”

“You could say that,” Alders replied thoughtfully. He decided against giving the major any of the details. Let him sweat it for a bit. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

Alders ended the call, but before he could toss the phone back on the console of his car, it vibrated, showing an incoming call. The number was listed as unknown. He swiped the line open. “Agent Alders,” he said crisply as he sped through a yellow light.

No answer on the other end.

“Hello?” he asked. “Who is this?”

Again nothing, but he thought he could hear a sound in the background, as if someone was struggling to speak.

“Look, whoever this is, this is an official line. Identify yourself.”

This time, the line simply went dead. Muttering a curse, he tossed the phone back on the console and drove on. He could have his office pull his phone records and see if they could back-trace it, but it was likely nothing to be concerned with. He had more important things to deal with at the moment.

When he rolled up to the front entrance of the Best Western a few minutes later, he saw that Bolson and Martz were already waiting for him outside the front entrance. Both were in their military uniforms and he wondered if they would mind getting them messy. He popped the locks and they got in, Bolson in the front and Martz in the back.

“Morning,” Alders said and quickly got back on Highway 12, heading east toward the Red Lion Hotel.

The two military people returned his greeting and settled back as Alders drove. After a couple minutes of silence, Bolson spoke up. “Are you going to tell us what this is about?” he finally asked. “Where are we going?”

“Murder scene,” was all that he said.

“I see,” Bolson said carefully. “And how does that fit in with our case?”

“Not sure exactly how yet,” the agent answered. “I haven’t seen it myself. Only going by what was reported to me.”

“And you’re sure this is related to the case?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Pretty sure,” Bolson repeated in annoyance, casting a questioning glance back at Martz. She only shrugged and smiled.

“Can I ask you a question, sir?” Bolson said, turning back to the agent.

“Sure thing,” Alders replied, but his voice was anything but accommodating.

“You seem to have something of a problem with us, am I right?”

Alders cast a quick glance at the man before returning his eyes to the road. “I don’t like what you stand for, that’s all,” he said.

“We’re on the same team, sir.”

“We might work for the same government, but you’re creating things that are dangerous to people and our country. I do my job to protect our people and our country. There’s a pretty big difference in what we do.”

“I could argue that our work is done to protect our country, too,” Bolson replied.

“And yet, here we are, heading to another murder scene that involves
your work
,” Alders spat. “People are dying, major. Tell me again how your work is protecting people.”

Major Bolson started to reply, but thought better of it. Instead, he sighed and looked ahead, riding in silence. They arrived at the Red Lion in just a few minutes. There were several police cars already in the parking lot, as well as an ambulance and a crime scene investigation van. Alders led them into the hotel and then immediately down one of the halls. Halfway down the hall were several uniformed police officers, as well as a man in a gray suit.

“Agent Alders,” the suited man said, extending a hand in greeting. But he was anything but happy, and his features were pale and almost sickly.

“Morning, Stan,” Alders shook his hand and then hooked a thumb in the direction of his guests. “Martz and Bolson. United States military.”

Homeland Security Regional Head Stan Phelps gave them only a cursory glance and then turned his attention back to Alders. “You’ve got the agency in a helluva snit, Rick,” he said, turning and leading them down the hall toward a doorway that was bustling with activity. “It’s bad enough that you superseded local law enforcement over these cases, but after listening to your story and seeing what’s in that room, I have to admit, you might be on to something here.”

“Same as Bethany Edwards?”

“Worse,” Phelps replied with a sickly grimace. “I don’t even know how to categorize this one.”

They turned the corner and entered the room, threading their way through several investigators. Alders was immediately struck by two things. The first was the large area of blood splatter on the wall in the corner of the room. There was an overturned chair there as well, but no body.

The second was the body on the bed. It looked to be a tall man, South American by his complexion. There didn’t appear to be anything abnormal at first until Alders saw the empty eye sockets. The rest of the body was covered by a sheet that was pulled up to the man’s chin.

“Why’s he covered?” Alders asked.

“It’s pretty bad,” Phelps said and then walked to the side of the bed. Turning his head so he didn’t have to see, he pulled down the sheet for the newcomers to witness what had been done to the murder victim.

Oddly enough, Rick Alders was the one least affected by the corpse on the bed. The man’s torso had been neatly split and his ribs jacked apart, as if done so by a medical rib-spreader. His internal organs, though, were absent. His body cavity was completely cleaned out. He heard the sharp intake of breath behind him and a moment later heard Major Bolson puking up his breakfast in the bathroom toilet. Turning around, he saw that Martz had paled significantly and seemed to tremble, but was holding her own. He didn’t enjoy seeing their discomfort, but he was inwardly glad they were affected by what they saw. To him, that made them human. Maybe they would even come around to his way of thinking in the end.

Turning back to the crime scene, he purposefully pulled the sheet back up, covering the ghastly remains of the man. He understood why the investigators were working with the body covered. “So what happened?”

“Local law enforcement got a call from the hotel. Maid came in and found the room like this,” Phelps answered. “You can imagine how that went down.”

“How’d you get involved?”

“After you got things all riled up with the autopsy of your dog, I’ve been talking to the police chief,” the man answered, his demeanor indicating that he was somewhat displeased with what had been happening. “I was downtown when the call came in – too many similarities to the Edwards’ murder for them to ignore. I rode over with the first responders.”

“What about the blood spatter on the wall?” Alders asked, walking over to the corner and looking closer at the gore. He could definitely see bits and pieces of brain matter. Someone had been murdered, and it wasn’t the man on the bed.

“Nearest we can tell, he was probably the victim of the guy on the bed.”

Alders turned around and jacked up an eyebrow. “Say again?”

“We ran the dead man’s prints,” Phelps explained, pointing to the sheet-covered body. “No mistaking who he is.”

Alders looked at the dead man’s face and something about it clicked a glimmer of recognition in him.

“Marquis Chavandar,” Phelps filled in the blanks. “Venezuelan national. Hired gun. Works primarily for high-end clientele that can afford his services. He’s wanted for half a dozen murders throughout the world in the past decade and a suspect in twice as many more. Guy’s been around for a while and he’s a legend in his field of work.”

“Was a legend,” Alders remarked, remembering reading several reports in the past with the man’s name in them.

“Current IDs are obviously fake,” Phelps went on. “He was in the States as a Doctor Xavier Chavez of the CDC. Question is, why would he be here, and where’s the person he murdered?” Stepping up to the wall, Phelps pointed to a bloody hole. “They pulled the slug out of the wall. Little doubt that it matches the gun that’s bagged up on the end table. That was found on the floor by the bed. It’s Chavandar’s. He shot someone before…”

“Before someone decided to have him for dinner,” Alders finished grimly.

Phelps started to say something, but was interrupted by his cell. He took the call, listened, and then turned back to Alders. “Sounds like this is going to be a long day.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Body was just found, north side of town. Green Meadow Drive.”

“Let me guess,” Alders put in, already knowing he was right. “I’m guessing the body is in the same condition as Chavandar here. Missing internal organs, hollowed out skull.”

“What are you on to here, Agent?” Phelps asked, clearly disturbed.

“Read my report, sir,” he said, turning and hurrying out of the room.

“You haven’t filed a report yet, Rick,” Phelps called after him.

Alders ignored the remark. He’d finish the report when he had time. Right now, he had more important things to cover. As the two military personnel fell in behind him, he growled, “Still think your little baby is all that?”

Neither could answer.

They drove out to the site in silence, Alders fuming and Bolson and Martz simply shell-shocked. Green Meadow Drive was closed down by police cruisers, but they waved Alders through on sight. The crime scene was already cordoned off with yellow police tape. Alders got out of the car and walked over to the medical examiner, who was standing over a white-sheeted body and talking earnestly with a detective.

“Morning, Rick,” the M.E. nodded, turning his attention to the newcomers. Doctor George Platt was an older gentleman and had been the county coroner for three decades now. He’d known Rick Alders for nearly a decade himself, and the two men had become casual friends.

“George,” Alders nodded.

“Who’s your friends?”

“This is Major Bolson and Lieutenant Martz,” he answered drily. “They’re just along for the ride right now.” Pointing to the sheet-covered body, he added, “Care if I have a look?”

“Be my guest, but it ain’t pretty.”

Alders knelt down and peeled the sheet back. The man was naked and his body had been opened up just like Chavandar’s. Organs and brain were obviously all missing. Worse, though, was that the man’s skin sagged against his bones, almost as if the flesh under his skin had been removed as well.

“Where’s his clothes?”

“Not a clue,” George replied. “He was buck naked when we found him.”

“Do you find that odd?”

“Depends on if it was a body dump,” Platt answered. “There doesn’t appear to be any sign that this happened here. No blood splatter or missing body parts lying around.”

Alders threw the sheet back over the corpse and stood. He knew better. But before he could say anything else, there was a commotion near one of the cruisers. One of the officers, a rookie by the looks of him, hurried over, addressing the medical examiner directly.

“They found another one, doc!” he blurted out.

“What?” George asked.

“Another body, sir,” the young officer said, his features pale. “Female. Down at the Forest Vale Cemetery.”

“That’s just down the road,” Alder remarked and then a thought came to him. “Was the condition of the body the same as this one?”

“Yes, sir,” the officer replied, clearly uncomfortable.

“No, I mean was she clothed or naked?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Did she have any clothes on?!” he nearly shouted.

“Um, no,” came the shaky reply. “How did you know?”

“Clothing for two is at the crime scene, right?”

“Sorry, sir. That I don’t know.”

“I’m betting this guy’s clothes are there.” He snapped his fingers and turned to face Bolson and Martz. “You know that our boy is eating these people, right?”

“I’m sorry. Did you say eating people?” Bolson asked skeptically.

“Yep.”

“Sir, with all due respect, I’m not following your logic.”

“Think about it,” Alders said, leading them back to the car. “We have industrial espionage relating to a pretty big enemy-of-the-state. Our boy backs out of the deal or screws it up somehow, and they send Chavandar here to Helena to take him out. Our assassin puts a bullet in his head, only to realize that our boy is more than just a man.”

“Are you saying this was all done by one person? By Jon Sherrard?”

“Our suspect takes a bullet in the head and is obviously hurt,” Alders continued, reasoning it out. “Somehow, he makes it to the cemetery. Why he’s here, who knows. Maybe he was drawn here. Maybe it was just dumb luck. Whatever the case, he stumbles upon a couple of horny folks getting it on in the graveyard.” He opened the door and slid behind the wheel, waiting for his two companions to get in as well. “He kills the girl and then comes after the guy. Catches up to him here and kills him, too.”