I am hoping to have the whole novel completed by late March for proofreading and review in April, then publishing in May.
I first started this novel in 2007. For a long time I did not know where I was going with this, but a couple of years ago I had the Baby Jeebus moment of clarity and started rewriting it and moving it to the new focus. I am really happy with how the first 9 chapters have turned out. And I really can't wait to finish it and share it with you all.
I hope you enjoy.
D
xox
Prologue
1 - Then
His nostrils flared as they filled
with the stench of fresh blood. Looking
down at the body at his feet, he shook his head at such a waste. With a flick of his wrist, he bade his
underlings forward to take the body away and clean up the mess. Squinting up into the early morning
brightness he once again could not help but hate the cursed sun and its’
heat. Its rays flashed down only to be
amplified by the stone under his feet and then only to be further reflected by
the whitewashed walls of the buildings around him. He felt like he was going to boil in his own
skin.
As the body was taken away, he
examined the area where the murder took place.
It was an alley set back from the street where the main market was
situated. The narrow street was bordered
on both sides by four storied buildings that housed residential dwellings. He snorted.
Dwellings, more like kennels. He
could smell the stench of unwashed bodies and rotting food from where he
stood. He looked up at the faces poking
out of windows, all pointing and gossiping.
One look from his stern face silenced the gossip and shamed the
occupants into withdrawing back into their homes.
Draping his white scarf over his
head, he delicately stepped around the congealed blood pool and began the
short, hot walk back to the police building.
It wasn’t much of a building, but it was cooler than being out in the
open. How he hated life in the city.
Mind you, he could never say that
life in Babylon was ever dull.
Prologue 2 – Now
These days were never dull. The General stirred uneasily in his
seat. He hated these briefings. He hated the people at the briefings. He hated what the people at the briefings had
to say. He just hated it all.
There were six of them in
total. The heads of Australia’s two
intelligence services – ASIO and ASIS.
The Chief of the Defence Forces.
The Minister for Defence & Intelligence. The Prime Minister’s Security Advisor, and
The General. No one else in the
government was aware that these meetings even occurred such was the sensitivity
of the information discussed. Not even
the Prime Minister was privy to all the information. None of those present would have it any other
way.
Their briefings were held every week
without fail. If someone was absent – no
matter where in the world they were – they were included by either secure phone
line or data uplink. The briefings were
never missed.
Today,
the briefing was dealing with a new terrorist threat that Australia simply was
not prepared for. Indeed, when The
General had first been made privy to the sensitive information sitting in front
of him some six months ago, he laughed so hard he had almost urinated in his
uniform. After he had been fully
briefed, he found the idea of the type of terrorist being presented in the
dossier seemed simply unbelievable. The
General believed in the power of a tank.
The General believed in the ability of Australian Troops to get in and
get the job done. The General believed
if nothing else worked; carpet-bomb the bastards. The General did not believe in genetically
diverged humans. The General had a very
low tolerance for bullshit, and the dossier in front of him had initially been
very much what The General would define as a lump of waste requiring shovels.
But then he had met them.
He would never have believed
it. Even when they were standing in
front of him, the soldier in him demanded proof. And proof they had provided. It had taken The General exactly one whole
bottle of Bundaberg Rum Open Proof to settle his nerves from the displays of
their “abilities”. Now, he was being
told that a similar group of individuals, with similar abilities, were planning
a terrorist strike somewhere in his great country. To say he was pissed was akin to saying a
tsunami was a teeny wave.
“Problem, Harold?” The director of ASIS asked of The General.
The General shifted in his seat
before replying. When he did it was with
the usual gruffness that only reinforced the stereotypical reputation, he
had. Truth be told, he liked the
reputation. It made people pause. It promoted fear and respect in his
soldiers. It also pissed off the
intelligence types. And that brought a
crooked smile to his face. “Of course, I
have a bloody problem!” He began in a
shout that would rapidly evolve to a bellow.
The room had no carpet and The General liked how the acoustics leant
themselves to his type of communication.
“Your fucking Intelligence mob is supposed to fix these things. What the bloody hell do you need my help for?”
The Director of ASIS cocked an
eyebrow. He liked and respected The
General, but he admitted he was a pain in the arse of the first order. The Director, however, was possessed of a
much more refined civility and thus did not bellow, even when he wanted to.
“We are doing all we can. But unfortunately, this type of strike is not
something that we alone can prevent. You
have assets all over that part of Queensland and we need you to advise them of
the threat. We need more eyes.”
The General laughed. It bounced around the room. “More eyes?
You’ve got satellites. You’ve got
access to more satellites from our
friends. Why the hell should my people
be moved from where they are? Give me
one good bloody reason and I’ll do it.”
The General punctuated the remark with a stabbing motion in the
air. A honeyed voice from behind him
answered.
“Because, if your assets aren’t made
aware, Harrison, then they could very well be the first victims of a threat that
you didn’t want them to be alerted to.”
The General cringed inwardly, even
as the clicking of her heels announced the arrival of she whom The General
referred to as “The Bitch”. She was the
Director of the organization that was responsible for the individuals who had
so spooked The General. She was also a
woman who carried a very big stick, and was not afraid to wield it, with
devastating force.
As she arrived at the conference
table, the ASIS Director stood and politely kissed her cheek in greeting. The two were old colleagues from many years ago,
and he valued and trusted her input. The
General reluctantly respected her. She
was a tough woman with access to data that she would readily share without
price. However, she also was a
determined leader who would always strive to get her own way. She spoke in her usual authoritative and business
like tone that always raised The General’s hackles.
“Harrison. I understand the inconvenience from a
logistics viewpoint. But you currently
have six units in the catchment zone of this threat. I’ve made condolence calls to the families of
the fallen and would prefer not to see you do any more than necessary. Considering our losses in Iraq and
Afghanistan, I am sure you have made quite enough calls already.”
The General grunted in
response. Unfortunately, she was right.
“Fine.” He conceded none too graciously. “You tell me where and when and I’ll get them
moving.”
She smiled a genuine smile of
appreciation. That was the other thing
The General hated; she was appreciative of efforts expended on her behalf. God how he longed for the days where you
stuck it to the intelligence agencies.
Prologue 3 – Them
He looked down at the human
female. She was restrained to the bed
upon which she lay. He had to concede
that, for a human, she did indeed possess beauty. Her body was firm and ripe. Her face was pretty and unlined. But he viewed it with the same objectivity he
would as if he were standing in front of one of their paintings. Whilst he knew the importance of the work,
the next step gave him cause to pause.
“What is the matter?” His colleague asked from behind him.
“I really do not want to do
it.” He replied without inflection.
His colleague walked forward to
stand side by side with him. He looked
down at the woman. “She is a model.”
The one turned to look at his
colleague. “She sits for artists then?”
The colleague shook his head
gently. “No. This one puts on clothes that are given to
her and then walks up and back down a raised platform in them.”
“And?” The one prompted expecting more.
The colleague shrugged
casually. “And that is it. She models their clothes. She then returns back stage and puts on
another set, and repeats.”
The one’s brow crinkled in
confusion. “And they consider that a way
of living?”
The colleague shrugged again. It was as baffling to him as anyone else. “Apparently. They have entire exhibitions centred around the activity. It seems a wasted past time to me.”
The colleague shrugged again. It was as baffling to him as anyone else. “Apparently. They have entire exhibitions centred around the activity. It seems a wasted past time to me.”
The one nodded slowly in
agreement. “And yet we wish to breed
with them?”
The colleague nodded. “Only by breeding with them can we improve
them. They have reached an evolutionary
plateau as we ourselves are in danger of doing. At least, in this instance,
they will assist us in moving forward.”
The one looked down at his nude
body, and his still limp appendage. “She
does not excite me.”
The colleague gestured to her. “She is considered very beautiful by their
standards. And yet I understand your
reluctance. She is not up to our
standard.” He turned to the One. “Think of me as you do it. That should assist.”
The appendage grew.
Chapter One
She looked out over the fields of
dead land and lifeless corpses. It was
bad enough that her stock had suffered but survived through both drought and
flood in recent times. But now, they
were suffering the indignity of being targeted as blood sport by a local gang,
just recently moved to her small, isolated town. Hers was not the only property being targeted
either. Two other properties had lost
stock because of the new gang. There
were rumours that the hoons
had relocated to her town to establish marijuana crops, an always lucrative
revenue stream for the criminal element.
An
early morning ride on her favourite horse had confirmed the rumour. She could not help but admire the
organisational skills of her new “neighbours”.
There were now several greenhouses, all with marijuana plants at various
stages of growth. The plants were being
grown hydroponically to accelerate their growth, and thus provide a higher
turnover of the crop, and consequently, a higher turnover of profit.
She
left the corpses of her stock unburied.
After all, there were other animals that would benefit from the bodies
and if she could not use them, the local scavengers could at least benefit from
the carrion.
She
went back to her house and prepared herself for the task ahead. It was time that she took back ownership of
her land and sent a statement to the gang.
Life was hard enough for her and her friends. A local collection of criminals adding to
their woes simply would not do.
She
grimaced. Though she knew what she was
about to do was necessary, she did not particularly look forward to the
task. She had never been fond of
violence. Indeed, she had always avoided
it whenever she could. Unfortunately,
there were times when violence was truly the last resort.
She
waited until nightfall, dressed in a simple cotton dress and her ever present
wimple of the same material, and set off on bare foot to confront her
“neighbours”.
Part
of her distaste for the pack of unruly heathens was their location and their
behaviour. They had bought the vacant
piece of land next to her and then built a warehouse-cum-squat type of shed on
the fence line, not 400 meters from her own residence. They favoured loud music, loud bikes, long
nights, and excessive amounts of beer, drugs and women. Their parties lasted well into the night and
she had excellent hearing. Sleep was
becoming a rarity for her. Given how
physically frail she normally was, sleep deprivation was the last thing she
needed.
She
proceeded down the short dirt road that was the only access point to the
property towards yet another one of their “parties”. Empty forty-gallon drums had been converted
into fire pits and several were dotted around the front of their shed. The ruddy glow of the burning logs reflected
off her plain white apparel.
The
louts were everything she imagined.
Tattooed. Loud. Coarse.
Rude. Drunk. Stoned.
Unwashed. They groped their
female “companions” without respect or shame.
Suddenly, the impending violence did not seem as distasteful. She moved
forward to a point where she knew she would be seen. She wanted to give them a warning after
all.
The
first to see her was an overweight, bearded lout with a beer bottle in one hand
and his companions breast in the other.
He went to take a swig of his bottle and noticed Her out of the corner
of one bloodshot eye. He dropped both the
bottle and the breast of his companion, and then stood. He walked a few steps forward and then
stopped, casting his gaze over Her in a way that made her flesh crawl from the
inside out.
“G’day
love.” He started. He spoke in a thick Aussie drawl and with a
volume that she considered unseemly at any
time of day or night. “We were wonderin’
when you were gonna come over and meet ya new neighbours?”
The
Woman returned his gaze with one that would normally cause a stranger to
pause. “My apologies.” Her voice
was measured and controlled. “I’ve had
problems with my stock.”
The
man laughed in a subconscious confirmation of their actions. “Well it’s a hard time for you farmers ain’t it? All sorts of things happening to your
animals. Bloody piss poor luck I
reckon.”
Now
she smiled a small, tight smile. She
found she was now looking forward to what she had to do. As always, the regret would come later. She reached up and modestly removed the
wimple from her head. It took several
moments for the drunken biker in front of her to realise what he was
seeing. Without the coverage of the
wimple, he could clearly see the distended rear portion of her head.
“Jesus
Christ! You ain’t normal!” He yelled at her, grabbing the attention of
the dozen or so others that were at the front of their communal residence.
By
now the woman had begun to exercise her talent.
Her skin began to prickle with the all too familiar sensation of
static. The back half of her head, in
contrast, had begun to radiate a warmth that was the side effect of her talent. For her, it was almost a sensual experience.
“We
do not like you. And we do not want you
or your drugs here. Please leave.”
The
biker laughed at her and made several obscene gestures as his companions joined
him.
She
had warned him.
She
resolutely brought her palm forward as one may do to stop a door. From the air, only centimetres in front of
her hand come forth a concentrated burst of electricity. It surged forward and hit the man in the
centre of his chest. The force of the
bolt flung him backwards and through the flimsy wall of the shed.
For
many moments, his companions stood there unmoving. Only the man’s female was active, and she
simply stood in place screaming as if she were in a B-grade horror film. The screeching resembled fingernails being
dragged on a chalkboard. She was the
next one to go sailing from her feet and through the same hole in the wall made
by the man who had previously groped her so salaciously.
By
now many of the gang in front of her had grabbed weapons and now faced their
pastoralist neighbour with several rifles and handguns. She faced them without a trace of fear. “Go ahead.”
The Woman almost laughed out loud at her flagrant use of the tacky, film
quote. “Make my night.”
Almost
as one, they bikers fired.
Unfortunately,
she had been ready for them.
What
the uneducated criminals in front of her did not realise was that She was a
woman possessed of a unique brain. Hers
was fifty percent larger than most and possessed of a third lobe. She was a freak of nature, but a very
talented freak indeed. It was this extra
lobe that generated her talent. She could
utilise the neuro-electric energy of her own brain to interact with the electro-magnetic
energy around her. She could gather up
the ever-present static charges around her into a single lightning bolt of
shocking and devastating voltage. She
could even join the electro-magnetic energy of her brain with the natural
charge of metallic objects. With that,
she could move and manipulate these objects.
She could not manipulate large heavy objects, but small bullets were no
problem for her.
Their
bullets stopped in mid-air. For the collection
of drunk and stoned drug peddlers, it was a disconcerting moment. In front of them, hanging in mid-air, were
the projectiles that by now should have ripped apart the delicate appearing woman
in front of them. Instead, their bullets
hung there for several moments before the Woman in front of them “flexed” her
talent and exploded them. What was next
visited upon the group of criminals could understandably, but incorrectly, be
described as visit by a demon of Hell.
Systematically, she moved through
the entire property with her arms outstretched, her distended head unadorned,
and her fingers flexed. The air rang
with the small sonic booms created by the bolts of energy she unleashed with
deadly accuracy. The screams of the men
were of a terror that came from realising one’s nightmares, and then having
that nightmare appear right in front of them.
There was nothing they could do to
defend themselves. The woman would be
exacting retribution on one group as another would approach from behind. Somehow, she could sense they were
there. The men would not even have time
to raise their weapons before yet another flash of electric energy would have
them thrown from the feet with their clothes burned and their hair singed.
She did not kill them. That is one act she simply would not do. She had only ever killed once, and it had
been in the defence of a young woman being targeted by an abusive, alcoholic
husband. The man’s mind had become so
addled from drink and madness, that he simply had not been able to comprehend
the warnings given to him. Thus, when he
had threatened to kill the already bruised and bloodied young bride, the Woman
had had no other option but to exercise her latent in all its dreadful
lethality. Now, she simply wounded and
bruised.
She wanted the criminals to
live. She wanted them to remember this
night. With all of them now on the
ground in various stages of pain and suffering, she went back and focussed on
their equipment and the oh-so-treasured motorcycles. She ignited fuel tanks and sent their two
wheeled monstrosities exploding into fragments.
She sent multiple bolts renting the air as she all but dissolved the
greenhouses where their ‘crops’ grew. She
set fire to several farm vehicles that sat at the rear of the property. With one last, double-handed bolt, she ignited
the chemicals shed where they stored the compounds necessary to sustain their
hydroponic crop. Even she was startled
by the enormity of the explosion.
Clearly, there had been a significant stockpile. They obviously had planned to be around for the
long term.
Now, as she walked through the
destruction that was of her own devising, she noted with some grim satisfaction
that they all lived. She wanted them to
know who had done this. She wanted them
to relive it in their sleep; to cry out in horror every time a thunderstorm
drew near and lightning rent the heavens; to recoil from the elements as they
lay on the ground, curled up like mewling babies.
Later, she would place both hands to
the side of her face in an artfully contrived look of shock at being implicated
in the wanton damage of the property next door.
The middle-aged policeman, a friend since birth, will chuckle as he
tells the story of how the bikies were apparently molested
by her wielding lightning bolts as if she was some sort of Viking Warrioress of
legend. She would nod her head knowingly
through a concerned expression as he patiently explained that their equipment had
probably short circuited and ignited all the chemical compounds on the property,
and that their drug addled minds would conjure any story to abrogate their
responsibility. She would, with obvious appreciation,
thank him for calling by and letting her know what the strange lights and
sounds had be.
She would close the door, wait for
his vehicle to depart her property and exit onto the main road. It was then that her frail body would finally
fail her and thus she would collapse to the floor and weep at her actions. The shame and guilt always returned. In time, she would gain control of
herself. She would then unsteadily rise
to her feet, and retire to her bed where she would rest.
He would rest. He was tired and had left the driving bass of
the dance party behind him. Walking
home, he enjoyed the feel of the cool early morning breeze over his skin resulting
in the evaporation of his sweat. He had
become bored with the collection of bodies that writhed and undulated on the
dance floor and had decided to go home to bed.
He had even forgone the obvious interest of a particularly attractive
Greek man whom he knew would have proven a congenial diversion. But he was tired. The drugs, as they always did, had worn off
far too soon and his metabolism was once again demanding rest. So, he had simply left, with not one look
back at the revelry, or the handsome Adonis.
Now, as he slowly walked home, he
wondered if it was too late to go back and to take the Hellenic prize up on his
blatant offer. With a small chuckle, he
decided that sleep was the activity best suited to his bed this crisp
morning. Glancing at his watch, he conceded
it was far too close to five o’clock for his liking. As he turned onto a side street, he noted
with some annoyance a group of young men who were lounging beside a heavily
modified car, all drinking and smoking.
He smiled a small little smirk of
amusement. In his short vinyl shorts,
white vinyl boots and matching vest stretched over his muscular and heavily
tattooed olive-toned build, he must have appeared quite the sight to them. And, true to form, it did not take long for
the taunts to begin. He simply ignored
them. He had been taunted by the very
best and five, insignificant, classless pieces of rough trade certainly were
not going to get the better of him. He
simply walked on.
He was a little more than half way
down the street when the taunts ceased.
He was confident of what was going to transpire, so it came as no
surprise when he heard car doors opening and closing and an engine roaring to
life. With a small grunt of annoyance,
he turned and walked into the middle of the road with his hands on his hips,
staring at the car bearing down on him.
He really hated being kept
from his bed when he was tired. With a
careful look to make sure no one else was present or observing, he set himself
and waited.
He saw the maniacal grins and could
almost imagine the adolescent goading that was going on in the car. Boys could be so predictable. He felt a
moment of pity for the owner of the car.
He liked hotted up cars. He liked
the guys that usually accompanied the hotted up cars more, but he particularly
appreciated a fine piece of automotive handiwork. Unfortunately, he also appreciated being left
alone.
The car was less than four metres
away when he raised both fists over his head and then brought them down on the
front of the bonnet. Such was the force
of his strike that the front of the car attempted a serious dive into the
roadway beneath it. Inertia being what it
was, however, the back end wanted to keep going, and thus it caused the car to
flip up and over his head to land noisily on the road behind him, bursting all
four tyres as it did so.
He walked up to one of the windows
and perfunctorily put his fist through it, shattering the glass from the
door. With his hands on his hips and a
look of derision on his youthful face, he leaned into the group of shocked and shaken
but otherwise unhurt young men. “Don’t
you boys ever grow up?” He said before he turned and strode off. Yes, if there was any justice in the world,
it would lead him to bed to sleep as needed.
He needed for there to be justice in
the world. And thus, he stalked his
prey. Five nights previous he had been
listening to his police scanner and had heard the report come in. A unit had been sent to a possible domestic
incident, and a six-year-old boy had been sent to hospital with a broken
rib. The father, also the alleged
attacker, was apparently resisting all attempts to be interviewed. And so, for the previous four nights, he had
observed the goings-on in the small apartment.
Every night, his prey would come home from his job, berate his wife for
the better part of an hour, then sit in front of the television and drink the
cheapest of bottled vodka. He
snorted. Trash was trash and it did not
matter what rung of the socio-economic ladder it was on. Occasionally, the brute would hurl an insult
at the woman who would noticeably cringe with fear every time. Other times he would simply dispense with the
verbal abuse and beat her. Given that he
was a bear of a man and well over six feet, and she was a petite thing with large
scared eyes, it was hardly a fair match.
And so now, having discovered where the violent abuser worked, he hunted.
He had almost laughed out loud when
he discovered that his prey was a gardener in the local botanical park. He had almost expected him to be a criminal
or serial rapist or the like. But to
discover he was a tender of small flowers and orchards? It was simply too much.
And so, he walked barefoot through
the park – he never wore shoes, he did not need to – until he saw his quarry in
the Japanese section of the park.
Immediately, the look of the hunter was replaced with an artfully
contrived look of shock.
“Oh – my – god. I can’t believe I’m meeting the man who
designed the Japanese garden.” He all
but effused; mimicking the brainless effeminate articulation that he knew would
get him noticed.
The man turned and straightened up,
clearly confused by the girly queen who was now approaching him. “What?”
The Hunter put his hands to his
chest with fingers splayed as he grinned like an idiot. “This is SUCH an honour. I mean, when I had
to, like, decide on my thesis for landscape design, I came here, you know, for
inspiration and there… it… was… my inspiration… oh – my – god!” He pointed grandly at the plot in front of
him.
The man, clearly choosing to believe
him, smiled and decided to let the homo gush.
After all, he barely got a nod from his supervisor, so to get a
landscape architect major going on about his work, it generously stroked the
pride within that usually went without. He talked about his work, and the plants and
how much effort he put into it and how unappreciated he was.
The Hunter played along, stroking
the other man’s ego like a surfer waxing a board. It was so easy. Mister Domestic Abuser was one of the little
people who very much resented being at the bottom of the pile. How pathetically predictable it was. In truth, he could have been forgiven for it,
but breaking a child’s rib simply because he was upset at the size of his own
penis was something that crossed the line.
After about fifteen minutes, he
decided he had heard enough. And so, he
interrupted the man in mid-sentence and asked how his son was. The abuser looked at him shocked. He tried to say something several times but
could not. The fact that the Hunter had
discarded his façade and now wore a look of implacable resolve may have had
something to do with it.
“You are a maggot feasting on the
fear of others.” The Hunter informed him
flatly.
The abuser was not about to take
this sort of insult from some girly poof, no matter how scary a look he could
muster. To that end, he stepped forward
and swung a mighty punch. If it had
connected, the Hunter guessed it would have been very impressive. But he chose to not let it connect.
With a blur of speed, The Hunter
caught the abuser by the wrist and twisted.
The abuser crumpled with a strangled cry of pain and surprise. It was a truly wretched spectacle. Even when the abuser lashed out with the
other hand, he was again quickly restrained and made to feel some of the pain
he had caused.
The abuser began blubbering like a
child and pleading with the Hunter not to hurt him. But it was too late. He should have thought of the consequences
before he had hurt an innocent child.
And so, the Hunter bared his extended incisors and with a snarl of
hunger, bit the man’s left wrist, directly into the vein. The abuser’s look of pain was replaced by one
of horrific confusion. Having ones’
blood drained will certainly do that to a man.
It took several minutes, but at last
the Hunter let go and the now lifeless body dropped to the ground. As planned, he took a small note from his
pocket and laid it under the uninjured right wrist of his victim. He was not concerned about his fingerprints
being on the note; he did not have any to worry about. With a sigh of satisfaction, he walked away
from the scene of a regrettable suicide.
Several days later, he turned up on
the doorstep of the woman and her son and handed over a large cheque that he
informed her was her husbands’ life insurance.
He offered his condolences and walked away. The life insurance story was a complete
lie. The cheque, however, was very
real. He had barely stepped onto the
street when he heard the delighted squeals of the now emancipated woman behind
him.
He imagined he could hear the
delighted squeals of his woman. The
stunningly handsome young man sat on a stool in the kitchen wondering, again,
why he had not acted before. True, the
relationship was still new, but he had so wanted it to work this time. Unfortunately, his ability to pick the wrong
sort of woman seemed to continue to work against him.
He glanced at the clock in the
kitchen. It was almost midnight. She had called several hours earlier to
inform him that she was catching a last-minute tutorial at the university where
she studied. It was another lie in a
long line of lies. There was always
something to go to at the last minute.
There was always one more assignment.
It was a lie on a lie on a lie.
And he had tired of it.
She was stunningly beautiful; tall
and voluptuous; with an hourglass figure and the style of a 1950’s movie
star. She was intelligent and cultured
and oh so sophisticated. She was also
the best sex he had ever had. It was
completely uninhibited, almost animalistic, and it would last for hours. Quickie was not in her vocabulary.
But now, the sex was not enough. It was all or nothing now, and he wanted
nothing more from her. Strangely enough,
he felt very little sadness about what he felt necessary to do. In fact, there was a release to his decision,
a lessening of weight that had been a burden for too long. Ever since the detox and his subsequent year
long stay in rehab, all he had wanted from life was an ease of living. He had money, that was never an issue. But right now, he had drama and difficulty
and hassles, they were the issues, and he wanted no more of it, just like he
wanted no more of her.
His musings were interrupted by her
entrance. She could never just walk into
a room, it always had to be a grand entrance.
As usual the door flew open, banging against the wall and further
marking it. She would toss down her
handbag, immediately begin on how busy her day had been and how tired she
was. She would hastily kiss him and then
put her laptop on the table and plug it in to recharge. She would put the kettle on and squeeze his
arm as she again strode past him on her way to the shower. He wondered why she needed a second in an
hour. Surely, she always had one at his
place before coming home. She was so
caught up in herself that she failed to notice his bags by the kitchen counter.
He shook his head. Enough was enough. He stood and walked over to her laptop. He placed the second, third and fourth
fingers of his left hand on the screen.
With a thought, the small, technological beings who shared his body
raced out of his finger tips and connected him to the laptop’s memory core and
hard drive. After a few seconds of
searching, he found the file he was after.
The obscure password of her email meant nothing to someone who could
circumvent such programming with a thought.
He called up the most recent email from her boyfriend, complete with
its’ explicit descriptions of their previous lovemaking session.
Leaving that on her desktop, he
picked up his bags, walked out of the apartment and down to his waiting
taxi. He had decided some pampering was
required and had chosen a luxury hotel in the city as his next stop before deciding
on his future. He would order some food,
get some booze and maybe even go out to a club.
Then again, maybe he would stay in, call in an escort, get drunk and
watch some rugby. Either way, without
her around, it was a win-win scenario.
She had thought it a win-win
scenario. She loved working out on her
own. The young woman – Thumper to her
friends – preferred to be alone in the gymnastics facility where she
trained. She was just about to get back
on the uneven bars when she heard a door open.
Turning around, she was annoyed to see her rival walk in. She really wasn’t her rival; Thumper couldn’t
be bothered with such trivialities.
Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the red headed athlete
striding up to her. As usual, Red had a
look of haughty disdain on her face as she approached her. Red took her mantle of star of the studio to
heart and had developed a refined sense of bitterness where Thumper was
concerned.
She stopped in front of her. “I’m supposed to have the studio to myself
for the next hour.” Red declaimed.
“I’m only using the uneven bars. I won’t get in your way.” Thumper replied neutrally.
Red didn’t seem okay with that. “You're always in my way.” She replied tartly before turning on her heel
and walking over to the beam.
Thumper just shook head with a small
sigh. She looked at the uneven bars and
decided she had done enough. She
retrieved her towel and went back to the locker room where she steamed, took a
long cool shower and then changed into some casual sweats. She briefly considered going back in and
trying to come to some understanding with the rouge hag, but then decided it
was simply too much effort. As she
walked out of the locker room, she wandered down the common hallway and out the
front doors, waving to the receptionist as she did so. As she walked out into the humid Newcastle
air, she despaired of it ever cooling down again when she felt a tremble
beneath her feet.
It was brief; maybe a second, but
she had felt something. The gymnastics
facility bordered an industrial estate that was deserted now of day, so it
could not have been the result of any activity there. It had been many years since that terrible
day in Newcastle when an angry earth had visited its fury on the city. Many buildings had been levelled and there
had been thirteen deaths, it was something that she did not wish to
revisit. And yet, she cursed as the
vibrations began again, just like that December day in 1989.
It started as a small regular
shaking beneath her feet, but it quickly grew in intensity until the street
lights were swaying and the ground itself began to heave and crack. The doors to the gymnastics facility burst
open and the receptionist ran outside.
The woman was hysterical. Thumper
knew that the woman had lost her mother in the previous quake, so there was
probably some psychology happening that was intensifying her reaction.
Unfortunately, she could do nothing
to calm the woman down. Eventually, she
pushed on her shoulders until the woman was sitting in the middle of the street
sobbing without pause. Thumper had just
settled her on the bitumen when she heard a scream from behind. She turned quickly and cast her gaze
upwards. On the second level balcony,
Red was standing there screaming as the old warehouse style building that was
the gymnastics hall shook and buckled around her. There would have been no time for Red to get
outside from the second level work-out space even if she had tried. Thumper knew that the building would not hold
up. It was over sixty years old and little
more than a tin shed. The sickening
sound of twisting metal announced in no uncertain terms that the balcony Red
was on would not be a balcony much longer.
Thumper silently cursed for what she was being forced to reveal, but there
was a life that was in danger.
Running forward, she took off and
leapt three metres to the top of the metal awning over the entrance-way;
lightly rebounding off that, she somersaulted up and over the hand rail of the
balcony, and then softly landed next to Red.
The woman was staring at Thumper, clearly dumbstruck at the ability that
was plainly magnitudes above her.
Thumper picked her up in a cradle hold and leapt up and over the
rail. Again, she rebounded off the
awning to land lightly on the street and immediately ran to the centre of the
street, simultaneously throwing Red over her shoulder in a fireman’s hold
whilst snagging the hysterical receptionist with the other hand. With her two passengers, she ran to the open
grass of the park across the road and unceremoniously dumped both to the ground
as she herself dropped down. She looked
up from where she had thrown herself and saw the balcony all but dissolve under
the violent jolts.
The entire quake had lasted less
than a minute, and yet, once again, fear had come to Newcastle. Pushing herself up onto her knees, Thumper
looked around. Most of the industrial
estate was still in one piece, although some of the less permanent buildings
had collapsed. Several streetlights were
down as was the entire front half of the gymnastic hall. She looked over the other women to make
certain they were unhurt. The
receptionist was slowly getting herself under control, but Red was looking at
her through an expression of fear. With
a quaking voice, she spoke.
“What the hell are you?” She asked, fear punctuating every syllable.
Thumper calmly stared her straight
in the eye. “Something better than you
could ever be, and aren’t you lucky.”
She thought herself lucky. Even though her advisor droned on and on and
on, she regarded him as the most capable attaché she had ever had, but there
were times when she wanted to pick up a chair and bust it across his
teeth. Mind you, if she did that, she
would have to break in a new attaché, and that was much, much worse.
“Has the regional council made a
decision yet?” She interrupted his droning’s.
He readjusted his glasses as he
spoke. “No. I believe it will be at least a month before
they agree on a resolution.”
She looked out at the sunny
afternoon without. She would go for a
swim later she decided. It was warm
enough, and the water would still be cold.
She hated swimming in warm water.
You were supposed to cringe when you first entered the water. It was a way to remind one of one’s
insignificance next to something as immense as the ocean. She just hoped she wouldn’t run into another
shark. She turned her attention back to
her attaché as he recited profit and loss figures, annual expenditure, harvest
yields, product sales and other things that were important to her.
“What has happened with the summer
residence?” She asked.
He readjusted his glasses yet again
as he replied. She found the nervous
habit annoying and distracting. “The
lower three fields have been sown; the new agricultural laboratory is installed
and operational; our dairy facilities have been expanded to accommodate the new
cheese production house; lamb yield was fifty percent higher than expected; and,
the village has been extended to accommodate the ever-increasing employment
force.”
She breathed in deeply. The next question was certain to make him
drop his glasses altogether. “And how
many more death threats have I received.”
Surprising her, he put the documents
in his lap to one side and looked at her squarely. “Three in the last month.” His tone was rock steady.
She rose and, over his objection,
strode to the window. She was tired of
hiding. “Is there progress in the
investigation?” She asked quietly.
From behind she heard him sigh with
resignation. “I’m afraid not.”
She turned back to face him. “Please request that they redouble their
efforts, I would prefer not to leave
The Pack leaderless.”
He rose and bowed deeply. “As you wish, Baroness.”
She nodded in deference to his
respect. He was a droning, boring bag of
hot air, but his devotion to her and his duties had been above reproach for the
last two centuries. She was grateful for
him and the sense of continuity he projected.
In those rare times, she was honest with herself, she was quite fond of
the man. She motioned for the two of
them to walk. It was lunchtime and she
was starving. They had just stepped out of
the parlour and into the hall when a gun-shot rang out. From beside her she heard a short, sharp
crack and saw her attaché fall to the floor, blood flowing from a wound to his
knee. The cracking had probably been the
bullet breaking the poor man’s knee cap.
She looked back to see a figure
dressed entirely in black with a balaclava over his head. For a moment, she was amused at the absurdity
of his dress given it was inner city Melbourne in the twenty-first century and
not Russia during the Cold War. He fired
at her but she was prepared. She easily
evaded the bullet and sprinted forward to knock the gun out of his hand. What she was not prepared for was the
strength with which he returned the blows she was raining down on him. This was no average assassin; this was one of
their allies’ kind. With that, she
flashed into her Human/Lycan hybrid form and called on all her speed and
strength.
She extended her claws and raked
them across her attackers’ chest, drawing first blood. He screamed and vaulted over her and ran on
through the house. She followed him,
startled servants and Embassy staff quickly running out of the way of the
pursuit. One thing she realised was that
he was a professional. He was beginning
the turn into corners even before he had got to them. He was clearly familiar with the Embassy’s
floor plan. She didn’t care; she dug the
claws of her feet into the carpet and pushed off with a huge burst of
strength. She leapt up and came down on
the back of her quarry and the two went crashing to the floor. He kicked her off and valiantly attempted to
get back up, but she was just too fast, as all her kind was.
She leapt onto his chest and tore
the balaclava from his face. She was not
familiar with him, but that didn’t matter.
She wanted information, not a reunion.
With her weight on him, and his arms pinned to the floor by her feet,
she leant forward. He looked up into her
face, which was a mix of human and wolf.
Her teeth were longer and her incisors were three inch fangs that could
rip out a man’s throat with little effort.
Her ears, normally somewhat pointed, were now extended by about four
inches. Her eyebrows were now much
fuller and her jaw line was much more angular and somewhat distended. Sharp, silver eyes dared him to break her
gaze. For anyone it would be a sight of
horror, but her quarry appeared not to be scared easily. Even now, futile as it was, he tried to break
free.
She casually slapped him across the
face. It got his attention.
“Stop moving around. You know you can’t shift me.” She informed him almost nonchalantly. “You will tell me why am I being targeted and
by whom?”
He spat at her, his own elongated
incisors making that a somewhat messy task.
She backhanded him across the face, this time drawing blood.
“That will get you nowhere even
faster.” She drawled. “Who?”
His struggles ceased and his
breathing began to slow. He stared at
her with undisguised loathing. “The Red
Council.”
She rolled her eyes and backhanded
him even harder the third time. His eyes
momentarily glazed over with the pain.
She was many times stronger than him.
“What are they?” She asked quietly.
He replied through a slight
slur. “The Red Council has tired of its
association with the mongrels of history.
They will kill you, and then The Pack.”
As he finished, two of her most
trusted security staff entered the room.
She motioned for them to take him away.
“Interrogate him, thoroughly.”
She instructed.
As they left, she shifted back to
her human form. She would need to call a
meeting. Thankfully, she did it so
rarely that she was always obeyed when she did.
Just because one had influence did not mean one was permitted to abuse
it. Not even Karolinya, Countess of
Laschavia; Marquise of Tolseichner; Baroness Holfensteim; and Regent-Hereditary
of Wallachia.
She laid out the six photos on her
desk. They were an intriguing if not
slightly scary bunch. Inwardly she
reprimanded herself. They were different, not scary. She sighed.
This was exactly the reason why people such as this were encouraged to
keep quiet about what they could do.
Society barely tolerated racial and religious diversity. To ask the ignorant masses to further accept
genetic diversity on this level was simply too much for the tiny little souls to
cope with.
As the person in a high position in
an Intelligence agency, she knew it was far kinder to keep the general
population ignorant to the realities of the world. Indeed, the realities of their own
neighbourhoods were usually too much for them.
She sighed as she settled back into her luxurious chair, a small perk of
her position.
She remembered with a shudder her
years at MI-6 where she was sustained by her patriotic desire to serve her
country and her Queen. She certainly had
not done it for the money. Thankfully,
her new employer demonstrated their belief in their employees by rewarding them
with salaries that mirrored their value.
She had been on holiday in Fiji – overdue of course - when she was
approached with an offer to head an agency that was six hundred years old. She had eagerly accepted and swiftly took the
helm of a group of some four thousand agents, sequestered in various regions of
the world. What’s more, it appeared to
be a very well-funded agency. Certainly,
her first pay check attested to that.
She was surprised to find that money could be used for other things
rather than simply paying the rent and the light bill. Her beachside cottage in Byron Bay was
testament to that.
She still possessed a sense of
duty. However, it was far more generic
these days. As a Regional Director in
Charge in a global intelligence community, the world was her backyard, and
there was a tremendous amount of weeding to be done. Thankfully, this organisation had resources
unavailable to others. And this included
her little group of genetic treasures.
The scientist in her found them
fascinating. Five of the group were what
they were due to a small, almost inconsequential variation in their genetic
make-up. When analysed, the genetic
mutations were so minor, that only the most skilled geneticist would have
noticed anything out of the usual. And
yet, these infinitesimal changes resulted in the most amazing abilities. There was the wolf-woman; the strong-man; the
vampire; the acrobat; and the witch. She
chuckled as she remembered the comic books her youngest nephew was always
reading. One of them was about a group
of individuals with genetic abnormalities that battled to survive in an
unforgiving world. She wished she could
tell him that the myth was a reality.
The sixth member of the rather
select group had earned his abilities only through a technological gift that
she herself had played a part in devising.
The young man had been the son of a colleague of hers. When she had heard that his son had fallen
prey to addiction, she had advocated on his behalf that his boy be given the
opportunity to be their test subject.
Not only had the procedure proved an enormous success, but the resulting
side effects had proven to be of significant worth to the Agency. Thankfully, the young man was so grateful
that he eagerly accepted his new role.
Sadly, his father had not lived to see it, having been terminated during
a mission in the Chinese hinterlands.
The individuals responsible had been quickly apprehended and dealt
with. She had taken it very personally,
and had reacted in an appropriately personal manner.
Now, she had to find a coordinator
for her little group of ‘special’ people.
She looked to the stack of files on her other desk. She had been sent a shortlist of applicants
from six different intelligence agencies throughout the world. She had people in every agency in any country
that had one, of course, but the big six were what she used to recruit. CIA, Mossad, ASIS, MI5, MI6, and German
Federal Intelligence were all her breadbaskets.
One file kept catching her eye. He was the quintessential quiet
achiever. He was never late for work,
and he never left early. His attention
to detail was total. His analyses were
insightful and comprehensive, and, he was a published author in the fantasy
genre.
He
had two novels currently in circulation, both concerning werewolves and
witches. It was a personality quirk that
would prove valuable. She summoned her
assistant and handed him the file.
“Get him here.” Was all she had to say.
2 comments:
I'll have to get back to this, don't have the time right now... But it should be read, surely! ^_^ Thanks for staying online, Damien!
Thank you FS and a belated happy new year to you.
How are you doing?
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