Ravenous Dusk (30 page)

You decide who lives, and for how long. You decide how we change, how we live, how we breed. Your bodies, your thoughts, your world.

She spotted a man at the top of the ridge. He had his back to her, but she could tell he was a soldier. He wore fatigues and a heavy armored vest, and his head was shaved under a camo-netted helmet. He held an outlandishly long rifle at his shoulder, and seemed to be surveying the other side through its scope. She picked up her pace without quite knowing why.

There had been a man, a soldier. She couldn't recall his name, nor could she remember if she'd ever known it. He was at the Mission bunker at the end, and was probably dead, but suddenly, she remembered that she'd hoped to see him here. What was his name? It was no use. But he refused to be completely forgotten, even if he had no place that he fit into her memories. His scent, the way he'd looked at her, once, the way he'd called her name, not her first name, he was very polite, though they were in dire trouble, the way they'd almost touched, when the light—

She crossed the bridge, trying to penetrate the fog in her brain, even as the soldier on the ridge drew nearer. She started to climb the first precipitous turn of the road, when she caught a sharp tang on the wind. A stink of dead flesh and sweat and rancid blood; a carnivore's lair.

The soldier on the ridge turned to look at her.

She could not remember the name of the man she'd thought he was, but she knew the instant she saw his eyes that this was not him. In that instant, she knew she would be very sorry she hadn't stayed inside, this beautiful morning, but her feet kept carrying her nearer. She felt as if she had to blink and blink again to keep the fog in the back of her memory from drawing shut over her eyes.

"Halt!" the soldier bellowed, and charged down the almost sheer drop to the switchback above the one she stood on. He swung the huge rifle around to bear on her. The scope on it was a giant hourglass, the barrel longer than her leg and almost wide enough to fit three fingers in, if she were foolish enough to reach out and touch it.

The soldier behind it was every bit as lethal, with none of the weapon's sleek grace. He stood two feet taller than her, built like a marathon runner, skeleton wrapped in taut bundles of wiry muscle and sinew twitching with the voltage shooting through them. His skin had the blasted, pitted look of metamorphic rock, his face all slashing angles and concave planes, like a kidskin bag of steak knives. His eyes glinted flatly like verdigris on old, copper pennies. Stress-fracture lines in his face deepened in what the soldier probably thought passed for a smile. He slung the rifle onto his shoulder.

He was so clean-scrubbed, his faded olive drab uniform so ruthlessly spotless, that she wondered where the death-stench came from. Then he opened his mouth. "You lost, little lady?"

She backed away, the ice turning to wet cement underfoot, sucking her under when she tried to tear her gaze away from his.

"Don't run away, sweetheart," he tried to purr, but raw menace stole into his voice, and the death on his breath seemed to turn even sourer. "I could look at you all day, but time's tight." He was almost out of charm, already. "Come up and see the view."

She noticed then that his breath didn't fog. When she could not avoid it touching her face, it was colder than the north wind, and probably left a stain.

She felt his hand on her arm almost before she saw him leap down to stand beside her. His fingers cut into the meat of her right biceps, dragged her off her frozen feet so that she staggered into him. His flak vest slipped open when she brushed against it. She saw dog tags and a necklace of black lumps strung on a leather thong. She held her breath and swore in Spanish, tried to pull away.

They were human ears.

"Come on squaw-bitch, I got something to show you."

She planted her feet resolutely on the roadway, but he took no notice, yanked her clean off her feet and sprinted up the vertical ridge. Stella hung by his clawed fist, her boots only banging against the rock as it rushed past. The wind rushed in her ears, but she could hear her screams echoing down the mountain.

Where are you, Guardian Angel?

He stopped atop a knob of granite, still dangling her by her arm over the gorge. Chuckling, he whipped her around, flying her like a kite on the vicious updrafts. She bit through her lip not screaming for him. In his rage, he shook her, once, twice, dropped her on the rocks at his feet.

She tucked and rolled faster than thought and landed on hands and knees. Her fingertips tore into crevices on the rock, caught her before she fell off. Her brain was still spinning, her stomach rebelled and flushed her mouth with acid. She caught her breath and licked her bleeding lip, took advantage of the moment to look around.

The road wound around their vantage point and disappeared at once into the trees. By the seam that ran down between their peak and the next, she thought there might be a road that met theirs, and about a mile down the mountain, she saw one emerge from the forest and swing out onto the lip of a promontory overlooking the river gorge. Beyond that, everything was veiled in whiteout. She could see no other sign of civilization—no, wait, she saw a pillar of blue-black smoke just beyond the bend in the road. Someone else was here, a mere mile away. Someone human—

"Look at me, squaw." She heard the crisp rustling of his canvas vest, and an awful ripping sound that seemed to go on for minutes. A sound of metal teeth gnashing, and the smell got much worse. A zipper.

"Look at me."

He won't let this happen. He mustn't.

As Stella turned to look, she wasn't seeing, she was remembering, peering back into all the places where she'd tried to lose bad memories, all the dark corners of her childhood in the fields and foster homes that could only drive her insane. And no, she saw when she came to the end, no, she'd never been raped. Touched inappropriately once or twice, but no more, and she'd made them sorry they tried that much. And no, she'd never been with a man the way women coupled in romance novels, all sighs and sweet passion. She fucked a few boys she thought she liked in high school and college, and never understood what all the fuss was. She'd thought he was someone else…

She looked.

The soldier stood over her with his legs akimbo and pants unfastened. His uncircumcised penis hung down to his knees, an elephantine cartoon cock that only a perverse thirteen year-old God would curse a man with. It looked even more ridiculous and repulsive hanging from his stripped-down, skeletal frame. He watched her, petrified but for a rhythmic facial tic that wracked the right side of his face.

Stella felt his pulse, a pulsating tremor in the rock, through her ragged fingertips.

She bit her lip again, this time to keep from laughing. It was so fucking pathetic! He thought this would make her swoon, this caveman monster-meat tryst on a mountaintop? "My, your
real
prick must've been like a baby's pinkie-finger."

"What?"

"Well, why else would you overcompensate like that? Big gun, big dick, big fucking deal."

He sputtered, "Hog-bitch…" and his penis swelled, flushed livid red, like an octopus bluffing a predator. It reared up and lunged at her of its own accord. Stella recoiled with a gasp of disgust, barely caught herself on the edge again. There was nowhere to go but down, no way to get there but jumping.

He won't let this—

"Tried to be nice—"

The cock got bigger, darker. A ring of barbed horns broke out from under the hood of its foreskin, and serrated blades like the teeth of a cheese-grater broke out all down the shaft. Black-red segmented worms wriggled out of his urethra and tasted the air for her scent.

She tried not to throw up, made herself look him in the eye. "Bet your shriveled little balls don't even work." She looked around her again, which way to jump, because He wasn't coming to save her.

The mutant soldier gagged and winced as the transformation took its toll. Clouds of steam vented off his livid skin. Pebbles and melting snowflakes danced around his feet to the thunderous beat of his heart. She could feel the pulse in her fingers and feet, could see the arteries writhing under his snare drum-taut skin. "I want her," he moaned. "Give her to me."

She backed up as far as she could, looking around desperately. Who was he talking to?

He was shouting at her. At Him.

"Take her over! Give me the bitch!"

Her blood curdled. Her knees went rubbery, and the fog threatened to come back, but now she knew what it was, she fought it for her life.

Where are you, motherfucker? Where are you, goddamit?

She closed her eyes and jumped.

He roared. She heard the air torn apart by his arms as they swept out to catch her a millisecond after her feet left the rock. His claws in her fluttering hair, he caught her, queered her flight, tore out a double-handful at the roots. She twisted in air and kicked off the ledge, making a missile of herself and reaching out into the winter wind—

The bridge rushed up double-time underneath, her legs splayed out to take the impact, but her ankles still rang big silver bells of agony and she stumbled, skinned her knee.

She wanted to run. Her feet wanted to fly her right off this goddamned mountain, take her back to Bishop, hell, back to Mexico. But she stood rooted to the spot. Her voice was coming out of her mouth, but the soldier seemed to know it wasn't her talking.

"This woman is one of our core reception medical staff. She's a valued guest, and an integral part of our team. And she doesn't like to be touched, Sergeant Avery."

Avery looked down at her. His pants were zipped back up, his vest snapped up to cover his trophies. He was silent, but for the tiny sizzling of snow melting under his boots. "It never happened, sir." He snapped a salute and turned away, loped down the other side and out of sight.

Stella ran back, her mind all jagged red rage, pointed inwards at Him.

Hot tears froze on her face, the fog from her heaving breath blinded her as she raced across the bridge.

God damn you! You were going to let him rape me! You tried to take over my body—

I never
try
anything, Stella.

What kind of God would you be, without a few pet devils…?

How many sacrifices does it take to keep him in line?

I'll kill him if I ever see him again.

She stopped on the front steps of the reception center. She stood stock-still, marveling at her heart rate downshifting, at fatigue poisons burning away in her muscles. She wondered if her blood still used iron to bind oxygen; even in the mountains, she never ran out of breath, never got a cramp. Her fingers ached, but the torn skin was already closed over. Her snow pants were ripped over her knee, but she could find no injury at all, there. Her scalp was already mending, as well. She felt a few days' growth of new hair already sprouting where it'd been torn out. She stretched her arms up to the morning sky, reveling in her new body, as she pushed the ugly memory of Sergeant Avery into the fog. He helped her.

He tweaked her endorphins, teased her nerves so that the world rushed up in all its glory as she'd never perceived it before. She saw the muted glow of the forest, and felt Him in the trees, in the frozen soil, felt Him spreading out into the world. She saw the coruscating lattice of cosmic rays in which the sun bathed the earth, the raw catalyst of her transformation, her ascent to divinity. She went down on her knees and hugged herself for joy.

Oh, yes, she wept. Oh, thank you, God.

Storch sorely regretted stepping through the door.

He was in another cage, clear plastic panels, but the room beyond was so dark he could not see the walls, only the men who backed away from the barrier as he entered. The steel door slammed shut behind him. Seybold and Brewer safe behind the airlock.

He recognized none of the men on the other side. A short, wiry Latino officer, two non-coms in alpine camouflage, and a pale, labcoated manikin with white, ropy dreadlocks spilling down to the small of his back. He didn't see Wittrock anywhere.

There were more cages on either side of his, and the one on the right was occupied. The other prisoner approached the plastic wall between them. It was a naked man, middle-aged, sagging, flabby torso covered in downy gray hair. His lips moved silently, but when Storch looked at him, he could almost hear the words pouring into his head, pouring out of those unblinking gray eyes. Storch backed away, into the center of the cell.

A speaker on the ceiling of his cell crackled. "What are we going to do with you, Sgt. Storch?"

"Let me out of this fucking cage," he growled. His skin crawled. Neck prickled, muscles strained and burned. He felt hot and weak, but knew it wouldn't last. He was changing again.

"Can't do that," the officer replied. "You're not one of us, any more. Even if you were, your arrival is something of a bad omen."

"I'm not here to hurt anybody. I want—" his eyes skating back to the Keogh pressed against the wall, "—I want to know what's really going on."

"You understand the position we're in," the officer said. "This wouldn't be the first time men have come back from the field more than what they seemed. Your neighbor there is an infiltrator." The officer pressed a button.