Wayward Son (6 page)

“We got eyes and ears again?” Dave asked. “You sure?”

“I’m not positive, but the dishes were the only components actually damaged. We should.”

“Excellent. I don’t want to miss my soaps.” Dave trotted past the two and made for the door.

Hammer turned to John and gave him a questioning look. “Was he for real?”

“God, I hope not.”

4

Doctor Peters collapsed onto his bed and ran his hands through his hair. In the extremely dim light of his bare room, he sighed heavily and cast a quick glance at the framed photograph of Laura that sat beside his tiny bed. How he missed her in times of stress. She was truly his anchor.

After they had said their good byes, he truly feared he wouldn’t see her again. To come back to Oklahoma and find her waiting at the hangar nearly made his heart start beating on its own again.

The nights they had spent together afterward, carefully pushing the limits and boundaries of their physical relationship, to him it almost felt as if the two had been bound together. He metered out his bites to her, keeping them limited to places where the punctures wouldn’t be seen. The blood bond that formed between them grew and continued to grow each time they did it.

He watched her carefully. He wanted to be sure that she wouldn’t accidentally become addicted to the rush she got from his bites. He smiled to himself as he recalled the one time he nearly lost control and bit her neck right at the moment of orgasm. It had sent her so far over the edge that he wasn’t sure he would stop. Luckily for them both, he had bitten far enough back on her neck that her hair or uniform or both covered the bite marks that quickly faded.

Completely sated and feeling much like he had as a human at Thanksgiving feasts, he lay back on his cot and felt the massive amount of blood in his stomach literally slosh as he moved. Without a proper suction machine, he’d been stuck keeping the wounds clean, and he knew he couldn’t just spit it onto the floor. He had drunk enough to keep him full for weeks.

Rolling to his side to try to get more comfortable, he felt a headache spike between his eyes and a wave of nausea strike like he had never felt. Groaning, he wrapped his arms around his swelling stomach and tried to relieve the pressure that was building.

He honestly felt sick and slowly sat up on his cot. He pulled the waste basket from his small desk beside his cot and held it between his feet as his head spun and his stomach threatened to revolt on him.

Evan Peters felt himself break into a cold sweat and knew that something was wrong. Although he had never attempted to drink so much at one time before, he knew that something wasn’t right. This wasn’t from overeating. This was…something else.

With a violence that he’d not known possible, his stomach emptied itself across the room, painting the wall with such force that it sprayed the ceiling and the back wall of his domicile. Brownish black globules of coppery blood dripped from every surface as his head spun and the room began to tilt. He glanced down at the trash can and for a fleeting moment found it somewhat amusing that the only place free of vomit was the very receptacle he intended to barf into.

Evan found himself panting for breath and his extremities shook as he reached for the can. “This is wrong,” he mumbled. He tried to stand and found his legs had turned to rubber. As he went down, he reached out and grabbed for his desk to break his fall.

He lay on the floor, the can upended between his legs and watched as the ceiling above him slowly twisted and turned. “I need to tell Colonel Mitchell…” he moaned as the darkness over took him.

*****

Rachel remained in the rafters of the warehouse while Damien worked. Her eyes watched him much like a hawk would watch a mouse scamper in the grass. She could feel the last vestiges of humanity seep away as he drew ever closer to seeing her brought back to her full potential.

She couldn’t remember why she had resisted seeing the plan through to completion. On the few occasions that she allowed herself to remember her ‘other’ self, she quickly dismissed the pity she felt for the humans that she would soon rule. They were of no more importance to her than ants on a sidewalk were to the humans who trampled them during their daily grind.

As Damien finished the preparations, he looked to the rafters and called to her, “Mistress, it is prepared. We are ready.”

She stepped out and floated to a gentle landing behind him. “Are you certain?” She walked slowly around the stainless steel container, staring at the dark red blood within. It’s surface reminding her of a polished mirror.

“Yes, my queen. I am certain.” Damien held his head high as he watched her.

“You’re certain the blood is pure?”

“I tasted each source. It is pure.” He bowed slightly as she continued to pace around the perimeter.

“Prepare the final sacrifice.” Her eyes never lifted from the blood as she spoke, but Damien knew exactly what was expected. He walked to where the elder was held captive and dragged him from his cage.

The man was bound and gagged, his eyes screaming for help as he struggled against Damien’s grip. Rachel refused to watch as Damien pulled the elder to the foot of the vat and forced him to his knees. “For your glory, my beloved.”

“All things for my glory.”

He jerked the elder’s head aside and sunk his teeth deep into his neck, ripping huge chunks of flesh from his quaking form. Damien barely chewed before swallowing the gooey chunks and biting another chunk loose. As the elder began to convulse, Damien punched through his chest and pulled his dead, withered heart from his chest. He quickly shoved it into his mouth and sucked the black blood from his fingers as the elder’s power began to surge through him.

He felt the centuries add to his own power and it knocked him to his knees. Rachel felt the corners of her mouth draw into a smile when Damien fell to the ground. It was time.

She raised her hands to the moon and began an ancient chant in a language not spoken since the dawn of man. The blood in the vat rippled as the ground shook, and Damien watched as the lights inside the warehouse dimmed. He smelled something akin to ozone forming inside the warehouse and saw a hazy fog forming, moving quickly around Rachel as she continued to chant.

Damien slowly pulled himself to his feet and watched as she continued to chant, her head back, eyes closed, mouth forming words that he couldn’t hear. A buzzing sound seemed to have come from nowhere and washed out everything…or…or was it just him. He could feel himself growing weaker. But…how could that be? He just ate the heart of an elder. He knew he had gained centuries from it and yet…he could barely stand. He felt so weak. His head was spinning and he could
feel
the power being sucked from him. Whatever was causing it, it felt like it was draining him.

His legs collapsed from under him, but his hands refused to let go of the sides of the steel vat. He could feel it warming under his grip. The cold of the steel giving way to heat from…something. It wasn’t totally uncomfortable, yet, but it continued to grow in intensity.

He mustered all of his strength and raised his head, his eyes settling on Rachel. Rather, on what was left of Rachel. Her withered corpse still stood at the end of the vat, her jaw barely moving as the last mutterings of the chant fell from her lips. He watched as her body fell to the ground and he could have sworn he saw dust rise up into the air. For the briefest of moments, he hoped that she actually survived the transition. He had grown accustomed to her.

He felt the blood in the vat bubbling, sloshing, something within it thrashing about. He tried in vain to stand so that he could see his beloved rise from the ashes, but he didn’t have the energy to speak, much less to stand. He felt his head wobble, and he couldn’t hold it up any longer.

He collapsed, his body drained, but his hands refused to give up its grip on the side of the vat. He gasped for a breath and prayed that he’d have the strength to call out for her help when his grip finally released and he fell to the ground. He lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling of the warehouse, unable to turn his head or even blink his eyes.

Damien watched as his beloved Lilith rose from the blood and stepped from the steel tub. Nude and covered in blood, her long dark hair appeared even darker when slathered to her body by the blood of the virgins. She didn’t look at him as she stepped over his prone body.

Damien sucked in enough air to croak out a single word. “Help.”

Lilith paused and turned back. She looked to him and cocked her head to the side, studying him as he lay on the ground. “You weren’t as strong as I’d hoped.” She shook her head at him in disgust. “You would have survived this if you had been strong enough.”

Damien’s poor starved brain raced as he considered her words.
Would have survived? I still live!
Lilith stood erect and turned away from him. She came back a moment later wearing the robe that Rachel had been wearing and considered his predicament.

“I suppose I could toss you into the blood. If you have the strength to save yourself, then maybe I can find a use for you.”

Damien’s mind was begging for her to do something. Anything. He watched in horror as she bent and grabbed him nonchalantly. As she lifted him, he caught a glimpse of his withered self. His hair was white and his wrinkled, leathery skin hung off of his bones. She tossed him into the vat of blood and he could feel himself floating for a moment before the thickening blood saturated his clothing and allowed him to sink.

Damien didn’t have the strength to swallow as the blood entered his mouth. The best he could hope for was that enough could work its way down his throat to nourish him before it was too late.

*****

Colonel Mitchell paced outside of Mark’s room and prayed for a miracle when Jericho Jones approached. “Colonel?”

Matt groaned as he turned. “Yeah?”

“Sir, we have coms back up. And the hotline was active while it was down. We actually have another report, sir.”

“Son of a—” Matt bit off the curse. “What is it this time, Captain?”

“Vamps, sir. Looks like a small den wreaking havoc in California.” Jericho handed him the report.

“Verified?”

“Working on a secondary, sir. Could have it at any moment.”

Matt chanced a glance through the window into Mark’s room before turning away and marching down the hall. “Who’s up?”

“Sir, at this point, I don’t think we can go by that. We have parts of First Squad scattered. Third Squad is still in the field. Second isn’t slated for this, but they’re the only complete team we have available.”

“Of course.” Matt stopped and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Okay, Captain. Notify Spanky to get his team prepped. And tell them to be on their toes. The full moon is right around the corner. Things are liable to get stupid out there.”

“Roger that, sir.”

“Gather what qualified members we have and get them ready for the mission. If we can get this underway in time, I’ll take OPCOM again.”

“Sir, I’ve got this rotation.” Jericho knew that the colonel would rather be at the XO’s side. He also knew that it was his shift to be OPCOM actual but there was something in the man’s voice.

“No. I need something to…” he glanced back down the hall. “I need the distraction.”

“Copy that, sir.” Jericho pulled his copy of the report and headed topside to find Spanky.

Mitchell stood in the hallway a moment and tried to gather his thoughts. Without Mark there, this wasn’t going to be ‘right’. Maybe he could have Jericho take his spot in the OPCOM. Maybe he could have Doc on standby in case the shit hit the fan again. Maybe…he rubbed at his eyes and blew out a breath. Maybe he needed to stop second guessing everything.

*****

Apollo stood in the warehouse and sucked in deep breaths, trying to calm himself. He had fought the urge to rip Sheridan’s throat out, and while he congratulated himself on accomplishing that minor goal, he was left questioning himself. He had returned intent on discovering as much as he could about the man behind the attacks. Now he was putting himself as the point of the spear for a war.

He could hear Sheridan in the office speaking to somebody, obviously over a radio or telephone. It must be the Simmons guy that he’d learned of. Still, he didn’t think he had enough information to take to the teams just yet. One name and the location of their warehouse would get him thanks before they sunk a silver bullet into his head for turning traitor.

Apollo wandered the warehouse watching the handful of surviving wolves as they packed their gear and debated simply killing the rest of them off and calling in Mitchells cleanup crews to look for whatever evidence they could find.

A hand on his shoulder startled him and he turned to find Sheridan hobbling up beside him. “The man behind the curtain is sending his best enforcers. All that he has with any kind of military background.”

“How many?”

“He didn’t say. But he did say that it should be enough to more than hold our own when the squads come knocking.” He sounded pleased with himself. “I have to admit. The last time I called him, he wasn’t pleased with the outcome. Once I hit him with your idea he changed his tune.”

“Like we gave him much choice.”

“True.” Sheridan rubbed at the back of his neck as he thought about Walter Simmons. “Still, he seemed almost excited now. I think the idea of them knowing that you and I were involved and having them go on the attack intrigued him. I don’t think he was expecting such a move.”