Primeval (Werewolf Apocalypse Book 2) (3 page)

“I love you, soldier girl.”

“I love you too. Even if you are a civilian.”

Sandy tossed a pillow at her head.

11:20 a.m.

General Taylor Burns paced his hotel room, his feet moving in perfect time to a drumbeat in his head. He had booked his reservation just a few doors down from Nicole, hoping to stay near at least one of the people in his Lycan Sniper Division. He needed that contact, that fission of possibility that seemed to get him jumping. He had the television on, almost hoping that there would be an outbreak of the virus someplace.

He was that bored.

Burns was a tall man, but wide at the shoulders and chest, like a middle-aged rugby player starting to go to pot. Although he was forty-nine years old, his hair had only recently started turning gray at the temples, with a few salt and pepper waves throughout. His brown eyes sagged a bit at the corners, giving him a hound dog expression, and his southern drawl had earned him the nickname “Droopy” at boot camp twenty-eight years ago. He had put a stop to that moniker as soon as he was in charge. Now that he headed up the entire Lycan Division of the U.S. Army, he found himself with a new nickname – Duke. His broad face and crooked grin – along with that South Carolinian twang of a voice – made him almost look and sound like the great movie star circa
Red River,
1948. Now that was nickname he could embrace, although he’d never admit it to the snipers working beneath him.

The television was showing footage of a rat attack that had occurred a few hours ago in lower Manhattan. Several people had been bitten by a mass of the rodents crawling up from the sewers, driven aboveground by something. Burns hated vermin, and he scowled at the TV, then turned to the window.

The view from the hotel was quite impressive. The skyscrapers of Manhattan towered over the other side of the East River, lined up like huge dominos. He especially liked the Empire State Building, more for sentimental reasons.

He had once gone to meet a woman at the top, just like in that old movie
An Affair to Remember
. Burns wasn’t a fan of romantic movies, but he was a fan of a certain lady named Rebecca who had been his main squeeze for over two years. There had been a time when he was so happy to be by her side that he didn’t even miss being in action, something he could never see now in this eventful time. Rebecca had made him feel like Cary Grant, and he’d wanted to make a grand romantic gesture, something entirely out of character. He had even stunned himself. She had often mentioned the old movie, how romantic it was, how she cried every time she watched it. Burns had suffered through it several times, but he knew he had to do something to keep her. The longer he stayed in the Army, the further she distanced herself from him. He loved this woman, wanted her by his side for the rest of his life. He even wanted to commit to marriage.

So, Taylor Burns rented a tuxedo, bought champagne, and asked Rebecca to meet him at the top of the Empire State Building at midnight on New Year’s Eve, just like in the movie. His hair had been cut, his face had been shaved, and he smelled like a dandy. He’d even brought flowers. When Rebecca showed up, emerging from the elevator in a white dress and long fur-fringed coat, she had looked like an angel. His heart went into his throat, and he couldn’t speak. Eventually, he stammered out something about how lovely she looked, and he presented her with the flowers. There were tiny snowflakes, little more than a mild flurry, falling from the dark sky when he got down on one knee and held the ring out for her, asking her to accompany him down the altar to a new life together. Rebecca had stammered, said a few kind things, and refused his proposal. He was left with a tuxedo, an open bottle of champagne, and a fairly nice engagement ring. She took the flowers, and his heart.

Since that evening, nearly twenty years ago, Taylor Burns had thrown himself into the arms of his first true love, the Army. And the Army, unlike Rebecca, had reciprocated his affections. He had earned promotions, had always gotten invited to brass dinners, and he found himself well liked by the men (and later on the women) who served under his auspices. He was tough when he had to be, kind when it was required. He was a father figure to some, a complete bastard to others, and an all-around great guy when paying for the drinks. But after his day was over and his work was done, he returned to his cold, empty home. He didn’t decorate, actually shunned anything ornamental on the walls. His furniture grew old along with him – dull, sturdy, and disgustingly reliable. Sometimes he watched television, often he read, but his life was quiet and lonely.

He thought of buying a pet once, but there was something inside him that stopped him from ever making that trip to the city pound. Pets needed you, and he wasn’t ready to open up to that kind of need again. Rebecca had soured him on companionship. He had put himself out there, bared his soul, and she had stomped that sucker flat – so flat he didn’t think it would ever rise again. So, his heart remained somewhere in the bottom of his body, and he didn’t allow it to sway his decisions. He learned to live alone, to sleep alone, and to be comfortable with solitude.

During the daylight hours, he joked with the men (and, yes, later the women). He was a funny guy, someone with a broad smile and a warm attitude. He was the father every soldier wanted, and the man many aspired to be.

But they didn’t know that his nights were spent in hiding from anyone who could get close to him. They didn’t know how much he drank in his house, country-western music on the radio and a beer in one hand, a stogie in the other. Sometimes, he felt like a cliché from one of those sad songs he loved so much.

But he was fairly content. He wouldn’t allow himself to wallow in self-pity. Instead, he kept himself busy, but there was always that beer cracked open by his side and a smoking cigar within easy reach. He gave himself those two concessions. In Burns’ opinion, it was good to have a few vices. The little sins kept you removed from the big ones.

The young people he commanded came in and out of his life. Some of them were promoted, which made him proud, as though he’d had something to do with their new positions. Some of them left the Army and went on to families and private sector jobs. He was just as proud of those kids, knowing what they wanted and pursuing it. He was always a dad or a mentor or a buddy to these men and women. But he never allowed himself to get close to them. He couldn’t let them into his life, so that they would later leave him or disappoint him or even hurt him in some way that blindsided him.

That is, until he met Nicole Truitt on the banks of the Ohio River.

He had been put in charge of stemming the first outbreak of the Lycanthrope Virus, and he was positioned on the Kentucky side of the Ohio River, facing the ruined city of Cincinnati. He had ordered the bridges to be destroyed, but the infected creatures kept trying to get across. Nicole had been the very best sharpshooter in the unit, and she had helped greatly in the rescue of a small group of survivors. Afterwards, these survivors had contained the genetic seeds that led to the development of a vaccine.

Which, if you go by what the media proclaims, isn’t working so well anymore,
he thought. The virus seemed to be front-page news again. At least until these crazy rat attacks in New York, right across the river.

Burns’ commanders suspected that these animal attacks, which had been increasing in recent days, may have something to do with the virus. Doctors and scientists were investigating the huge rodents, utilizing a lot of words beyond Taylor Burns’ vocabulary. They’d figure it out. He was confident of it.

In the meantime, he found himself on vacation with Nicole and her “friend” Sandy. Burns had watched the two of them together, the way they looked at each other, the way they touched. Maybe he was becoming a dirty old man, but he suspected they were lovers.

He had been on tour all over the country with Nicole Truitt, and he was beginning to experience pangs for her that felt distressingly like paternal sentiment. He found himself joking with her, telling her about his past and Rebecca, even allowing her to tease him like an affectionate daughter – albeit one with a disarming proclivity toward automatic rifles. He was opening up to someone, and she was withholding something from him; he was certain of it. In a way, it hurt his feelings, even though he told himself that he shouldn’t worry about it.

The most disturbing thing was that he was starting to worry about Nicole when they went into hostile situations. When they had invaded a nest in Louisville, he’d ended up watching her back more than he should have, and she’d ended up saving his ass when an eight-foot-tall female Lycan sprang out of a closet he had forgotten to check. Nicole had put two bullets in the monster’s skull before yelling at him, berating a superior officer for missing it.

And now, he was in a hotel room across the way, looking at the Manhattan skyline, missing the Twin Towers, and wondering if his affection for this young woman would endanger their continued partnership. She was his best shooter, and he could hardly afford to lose her. Worse yet, she was the only person he had allowed into his life in any real manner in over twenty years. If he lost that sense of camaraderie, he’d be back in his home, lonely, smoking, drinking, and pacing.

Exactly as he was doing now.

Well shit
, he thought.

He sat on the side of the bed, wondering what the girls were doing down the hall. Were they watching the news as he was, hanging on every story, waiting for the cue to spring into action? There had been another attack, in the financial district this time. Two dozen rats came out of a toilet in a pub and started biting the people discussing business deals over early martinis.

And a Lycanthrope had been spotted.

“Well, well, well,” he said with a grunt, cigar in the corner of his crooked mouth. “Looks like we’re going on another werewolf hunt.”

He waited for the phone to ring, trying not to think of the two women who were probably in the middle of some pillow-fighting, nightie-wearing, teenaged boy’s porno fantasy. He concentrated on the television news. Wondering if this was just a lone wolf running around, following the trail of the rats, or…

He noticed the sunlight streaming in the window. He made a disgusted sound, frustrated with the irresponsibility of the news reporters. It couldn’t be a real sighting. There wasn’t even a full moon for another six days or so. Probably someone caught sight of a large dog or one of those pinko hippies who refused to yield to modern times or modern haircuts.

Unless the Chapel had discovered another way to keep their animal forms, unaffected by the lunar cycle.

Still, he continued to watch the idiot box, wishing he’d brought a book to read.

11:30 am

Michael Keene let his eyes adjust to the brighter light ahead in the tunnel. He’d come up from the underground too quickly before, and he’d nearly blinded himself when the fluorescent subway platform lights seared his eyeballs.

They call us Moles, he thought. And they’re right. We’re nothing but a bunch of squinting, half-blind animals that live under the earth in our own little dark world.

At one time, being called a Mole Man would have hurt him to the quick, a derogatory spear in his side. Nowadays, he identified more with the little creature burrowing through the soil than to his so-called human counterparts. At least the animal was honest with itself. The mole knew its place.

Michael needed a drink. He hoped the newspaper reporter he was traveling to meet would be amenable to buying one for him at a local dive. Maybe he would even consent to buying a couple.

Emerging from the sewer into the subway tunnel under Manhattan, Michael hoped that he didn’t look too scruffy. Living underground wasn’t conciliatory to maintaining a clean-cut appearance. He was dirty, grimy, and he knew he smelled terrible, even if he could no longer personally detect his body odor. He was probably quite a sight. And quite a smell. Still, he ruffled his fingers through his longish brown hair, trying to plaster it down. He checked his thin arms for dirt. There were a few spots, so he knew he’d have to stop at one of the bathrooms in the McDonald’s before meeting the reporter.

A far cry from happier days, right, Michael? Remember those hot showers? The crisp new suits? Remember living in a real apartment? Remember shampoo?

He shook his head, leaned against the brick wall, felt the distant rumblings of one of the trains grinding its way uptown. The vibrations were always present; a muted growling beneath the city’s day-to-day roar. Some days, they were stronger than others. He never understood why.

Michael shook the memories from his mind – the sturdy oak desk in his corner office, the women in the bars, the never-ending party. Well, the party had definitely ended, and now he was dealing with the hangover. And this was a real e-ticket morning after.

He figured he would tell the reporter all about the way his life had been ruined, how a few bad decisions had brought down the empire of his life. Through no fault of his own, the company had folded. The money was gone, and, as everyone liked to tell him, there was a recession on. He had lost the SoHo apartment, the women, the ability to stay clean. He sold what he could, including plasma, but soon he was living on the street, merely another in a long line of panhandlers, his sweaty palm held out, his eyes beseeching anyone who walked by for their change. Then, the booze caught up with him. He didn’t drink a lot when he had the money to purchase the top-shelf liquor. Now that he was homeless, the quality of the drink plummeted, and he found himself craving it more and more. There was no such word as “enough.” One night, after a quart of rotgut had laid him low, he awoke in a dark hole. A woman, Stella was her name, had brought him down to the place she stayed in the tunnels under the subways. She informed him that if he’d remained in the park where she had found him, he would have frozen to the bench, to be discovered stiff and dead in the morning. He’d protested a bit, but it was warm in the rancid little room, and he’d slept there, huddling with Stella for warmth. He’d long lost any concept of sexuality. Now, there was warmth and there was survival. The tunnels – by way of a woman named Stella – had saved him, and he remained there to this day, ever in its debt.