.

Cum îţi aşterni, aşa dormi.

— old Romanian proverb

And now it’s time for Explaining the Unexplained, with your host, Josh Seiver.

Josh Seiver, whose eight-month expedition to the Himalayas uncovered--for the first time--the legendary Yeti.

[ stock footage // Yeti family in San Diego Zoo ]

Josh Seiver, who scoured the depths of Loch Ness to retrieve the skeleton of its famed thousand-year-old monster.

[ pan and scan // Nessie skeleton, then zoom in on Title Card ]

This week on Explaining the Unexplained, scientists in Slovetzia attribute a recent rash of murderous mutilations to:

[ interview footage // “an enormous lupine the likes of which there is no previous record.” ]

Josh Seiver and his team rush in to investigate.

Josh paced the length of the Airbus 320, tugging the bangs of his silken black hair as he impatiently drummed his fingers along the rawhide-upholstered walls. The drumming was obnoxious—even he knew that—but no one complained. It was Josh’s private plane, and he paid the salaries of everyone inside. He even supplemented Explaining the Unexplained’s meager budget—not with his own money, mind you, but with that of International Great Mysteries Inc., a small company Josh’s dad had founded for him on his birthday.

“You should have a drink,” Doc Hastinoff said, rattling the ice in his glass. “It’ll help you relax.”

Doc was sprawled across a red leather sofa in his powder blue seersucker suit and chapped leather Stetson. It was very gentleman-of-the–Old West, though he was no older than the rest of them. His hair was shock blond, long and straight, and a wispy Vandyke sprouted from his chin. He wasn’t really a doctor; that was his stage name. Josh had encouraged his crew to take on a little personality for the camera, but felt Doc had taken it too far.

“Try the bourbon,” Doc continued in his affected Southern accent—affected because Doc was really from Hoboken. “Had it shipped in special from Kentucky.”

“How can I relax?” Josh demanded. “We’re going to Slovetzia to battle werewolves.”

“Battle might-be werewolves,” Doc replied, drawing a long-barreled revolver from the holster on his thigh. He spun the cylinder, checking the bullets. “Could be just shooting rabid dogs.”

“Rabid dogs would suck.”

“Won’t know till we get there.”

Rabid dogs would be a total disaster, Josh thought, slumping into a chair. Finding the Yeti and the Loch Ness Monster had simply been a matter of money—buying satellite time and leasing a submarine—but the last eight episodes of the show had been bullshit, and despite his early successes, Josh had begun to suspect that there just weren’t that many unexplained mysteries left to be explained. And his ratings were slipping steadily. The network had even implied they might cancel his show, which was ludicrous, since he was basically giving it to them for free. It is critical that we find werewolves in Slovetzia.

He pressed the plane’s intercom and said, “Bourbon, no ice!”

The red velvet walls at the front of the cabin slid open, and Didi, his stewardess, burst into the room. She windmilled her arms twice, ending with them high in the air, then produced a drink from behind her with all the drama of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat.

Didi billed herself as a “movement artist,” but when Josh discovered her, she was working the convention circuit as an underwear model. He didn’t think much of her antics, but she was tops with the show’s fans and, in spite of being nearly twenty-one, still had the body of a teenager.

Kev and BD sat on the sofa opposite Doc and watched as Didi’s chest bounced past. The two men were the security arm of this operation, and Josh’s best friends from boarding school. BD, short for Brune Dog, was compact and strong and could toss a full keg of beer twenty-five feet. Kev, short for the Kevinator, was built to titanic proportions, as if he were some trick of perspective. The two men were engaged in a game of rock-paper-scissors adapted to include drinking.

Didi sauntered up to Josh, glass in hand, her parts moving freely. Her stewardess uniform had been the subject of endless design meetings, with preferences ranging from the modish ’60s to frilled bikinis. But when BD suggested body paint, the discussion ended right there. Didi did ask for more money—a lot more—but as sole heir to the Seiver Hotel fortune, Josh barely noticed.

Josh took a gulp of the bourbon, its sting burning his worries away. He had to admit he was excited to be on the hunt again. There was electricity in the air, and his boys were totally pumped . . . well, except for the film crew. But they were always a downer, which was why they had to ride in the back with the gear.

There were five people on the film crew: the director, three cameramen whose names Josh didn’t know, and that smartass sound guy. Because of the short notice, the network had subbed their usual director with some chick named Hannah. She was supposedly hot shit in Hollywood, working for one of those celebrity candid-camera shows. But she didn’t look so hot to Josh, and she was dressed like a lesbian in worn Carhartts and a hunting vest.

After a second bourbon, Josh decided on a nap. He buzzed Didi to prep the bedroom, then passed a couple hours smearing her body paint. That was another perk he didn’t mind paying for.

—   —   —

Josh jerked awake as the plane rattled down the potholed runway at the Lubraad airport. Didi was gone, which suited him fine—can’t have the help feeling entitled. The others would need drinks and stuff.

A pre-glasnost Mercedes limo lumbered onto the runway to meet them. The interior smelled of mold and bleach, but, fortunately, it was a short drive to town. Josh had never been to Lubraad before, and it was easy to see why. The city was eight centuries’ worth of crumbling architecture that had been spruced up in cheap pastels. It was plain to Josh that he had reached the ass-end of civilization, with the “science center” as the orifice itself. Josh was led to a dusty, high-school-style chem lab where, after makeup and lighting, he met with the scientists who had reported the attacks.

The Slovetzians had brought along all manner of grossness: shredded bloody clothing, chewed-up human remains, and animal bones. They even had a plaster set of a wolf’s teeth, cast, they claimed, from the wounds on a corpse. It was good TV.

BD handed Josh the teeth, which were heavier than he expected, and giant. They looked great on the video monitor, but close up they were obviously fake. Science guys loved to exaggerate—giant monsters, killer whales, global warming. Active imaginations and not enough acne wash, that was their problem.

The other trouble with these science guys was their accents, which were so thick Josh wasn’t even sure they were speaking English. Josh nodded throughout the presentation, but his mind was elsewhere, grappling with the problem. When the solution finally struck him, he scribbled “voice over” on a scrap of paper and passed it to Hannah.

Despite her crap fashion sense, Hannah lived up to her rep as an ace director. Her setups were fast, she asked good questions, and she knew instinctively to turn the cameras on Kev and BD once they started goofing with the plaster teeth—attacking each other and pretending to drink water.

So far, so good, Josh thought.

—   —   —

All the wolf attacks had occurred in one area, outside a remote countryside village. Josh took this as a bad omen, since all the bullshit sightings happened in remote villages. Places like Fatima and Roswell had basically never existed until some creative locals spun themselves a good yarn.

Needless to say, the trip to the village was long and sucky. The archaic, stinky Mercedes bounced mercilessly down the country road, jostling the crew and spilling Josh’s drink. At least they had room to spread out—they had shifted the camera crew into a run-down Citroen even older than the limo. Try as he might, Josh could never understand the third world’s fascination with crappy cars.

The road wound north from Lubraad into the Tatra mountain range. The Tatras had the steepness of the French Alps and the jagged creepiness of Transylvania, making them the perfect background for Josh’s opening monologue. The countryside itself, however, was nothing but rotted barns in overgrown fields with the occasional rusted tractor to punctuate the dreary.

Josh found it depressing, so he turned to the stack of research material for the episode. The best part—BD’s contribution—was an old Penthouse article titled “Making Werewolves the Old-Fashioned Way.”

—   —   —

Back in medieval times, before castles were museums, Western civilization was divided into two groups: the beautiful and smart, who lived in castles, and the rest—the ugly, smelly, or diseased—who lived in the decaying shacks outside the castle walls, such that their foulness would discourage potential invaders.

The village they arrived in looked just like one of those ancient towns, but without the benefit of a castle. Josh imagined that all the non-hideous people had taken it with them when they left.

The village had only one inn, which looked and smelled like a converted pig barn. The matron, a cunning blend of ugly and odious, was enchanted by the sound of her own voice, reeling off stories about the glamorous life in backwater Slovetzia, which, Josh could plainly tell, wasn’t. Doc steered her to the subject of the wolf attacks.

“They happen at night,” the fat lady said, “in the forest west of town.” Always at night, she said, but nothing to do with the cycle of the moon.

“That doesn’t eliminate werewolves,” Josh told the camera. “Often I find that legends are a mix of truth and imagination.”

It was a good line, but it took Josh eight takes to nail it.

—   —   —

It was late afternoon when they set out to film the site of the attacks, hiking along the western road, which was no more than twin tracks of dirt in waist-high grass. This “road” cut through a towering pine forest, the shade of which left them in perpetual dusk.

“There have been seven attacks along this road,” Doc explained to the camera—having evidently understood the scientists better than Josh. “The first attacks were on individuals, people out having a walk by themselves. Those people vanished without trace. After the third such disappearance, no one traveled alone, and things calmed for a spell. But then three folks were attacked all at once, not far from this very spot. One of them survived and made it back to the village, bringing with him the first rumors of werewolves. Since then, everyone round here is locked inside well before the sun sets.

“The survivor claimed there was an army of werewolves,” Doc continued, “but had seen only two himself. There were subsequent sightings, but those were unsupported and, more than likely, fake.”

Josh nodded in agreement. These wolf attacks were the most exciting thing to happen in this town since probably ever, and the locals would say anything to get in on the action. Unfortunately, the survivor—the only verified witness—died from an infected bite wound before anyone could record his testimony. Technology, specifically cell phones with cameras, was still just a rumor in this part of the world.

Josh’s crew walked until the sun was low, by which time his boots—which, yes, were brand new, but this was television, not some camping trip—were chaffing his feet. Because it was important that he not be filmed complaining about his feet, he announced that they needed special equipment for the hunt, then dispatched Doc and Brune Dog to Lubraad to fetch something like a Land Rover or a Hummer. Doc jawed on about their schedule, but Josh shut him down. If Doc had gotten a proper vehicle in the first place, nobody’s feet would hurt.

—   —   —

If the village had been sleepy in daylight, it was full-on rigor mortis by nightfall. The principal defensive maneuver against werewolf attacks was to huddle at the inn, sulk over watery beer, and raise a few tearful toasts to the recently deceased. The place was as cheery as a Jonestown high school reunion.

Besides good cheer, the other notable absentee was groupies. This was television, and Josh was the star and had therefore come to expect easy sex when shooting on location. It was about the only bright side of traveling to these godforsaken places. But this village didn’t have television, or Internet, or even newspapers, so no one here had even heard of him. And even if he had felt up to doing all the legwork himself, the only girls around who were under one-fifty were also under fifteen. If there had been a phone, Josh would have called BD to bring back some excitement from Lubraad, but maybe it was for the best: Josh was supposed to be roughing it in bucolic Slovetzia, and the cameras were rolling.

He struggled down a dinner of cabbage-soaked turkey while Hannah quizzed him about his impression of the local culture. After dinner, she wanted to film him hanging with the locals and sampling the local liquor—which tasted like unfiltered mouthwash but, ironically, did nothing to improve the villagers’ breaths.

Josh stuck it out for almost twenty minutes before locking himself in his room with a bottle of proper scotch. He knew the “cultural angle” was standard fair when filming on location, but it was also just filler, no more important than the plot in a porno. The only thing his viewers really cared about was the werewolves.

—   —   —

Brune Dog scored big in Lubraad, coercing three Jeep Wranglers off the local cops. The Jeeps were brand new—part of some national drug-deterrent effort—and had monstrously beefed-up engines, oversize tires, and racks of floodlights that could out-shine the sun. They scoured the countryside for three nights without seeing so much as a deer.

Well, Kev did shoot a beagle the first night—by accident—but that didn’t count. And the owner was a complete dick about it.

On the second night, they tried tossing meat along the road to draw the beasts out. This had worked with the Yeti, but these werewolves weren’t biting.

After a fruitless third night, Hannah complained that they were making too much noise. Josh had come to expect these snide little remarks, but Hannah was the only vaguely attractive girl for miles in any direction and, even though she was probably gay, he decided to humor her.

And so on the fourth night, they were back on foot.

—   —   —

There was something about night goggles that focused the wearer inward, making him hyperaware of every step and breath, the way earplugs do. The sensation made Josh feel isolated, alone in the dark woods. He gripped his rifle tight to his chest for reassurance as he walked along the overgrown road.

It was a beautiful rifle, a long-barreled Browning that had been modified to fire tranquilizer darts. While the ideal would be to sedate one of these supposed werewolves and bring it back for study, the tranquilizer was slow to take effect and therefore wouldn’t be of much use if the wolves actually attacked. It was for this reason, Josh told the camera, that he was tucked in the middle of the well-armed group.

Brune Dog and Kev were on point. BD was armed with a mixed pair of Uzis—a mini in his left hand and full-size one in his right—while Kev carried an enormous, military-grade shotgun that he had first learned about in a video game. God bless the former Soviet Union for its easy bribes and lax gun laws.

BD and Kev were followed by a cameraman, behind whom came Josh and Hannah, then another cameraman and the sound guy. Doc brought up the rear with the final cameraman, so they had good coverage no matter where the action.

Kev passed the time with a hilarious recounting of the previous week’s trip to the Hellcat Ranch, but Hannah cut him short, saying he was talking too loud. Josh backed her up again, resolving that he’d better get some tit for all this tat. They’d been stuck in these lonely mountains for a week now, and he was starting to get desperate.

After that, they walked in silence, the only sound the patting of their feet and the occasional hoot of an owl from somewhere in the dark woods.

—   —   —

They heard the first howling around midnight. Well, something like howling. Josh burst into laughter.

“Quit that fake howling, BD,” Josh said, catching his breath. “This is serious business.”

“I wasn’t fake howling,” BD replied, turning to Kev.

“Not me,” Kev said, and everyone eyed the thick forest around them. Doc chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” Josh growled.

“Looks like we might not be wasting our time after all,” Doc said in his calm, fake Southern drawl. “And that’s good news, right?”

“Right,” Josh answered, but he wasn’t so sure. Josh had hired him because Doc liked to go on safari, and because Doc had hunted dangerous creatures before, which was all fine as long as it was Doc who dealt with these wolves.

“Let’s tighten up, everyone,” Josh said, at which Kev and BD huddled around him like it was football season. “I mean, keep your eyes open,” Josh hissed. They shrugged in unison and looked aimlessly about. Kev prodded a clump of grass with his foot.

Josh slung the Browning dart rifle over his shoulder and drew his sidearm, a hefty Wilson Tactical with a walnut grip.

“It sounded pretty far away,” Doc said, impatiently hefting his bolt-action rifle up to his shoulder. “Be a pretty long wait if we just stand here.”

All three cameras swung from Doc to Josh, waiting for his response.

“Yes,” Josh said. “We don’t want to lose the initiative. Which way you figure?”

“Might as well keep on straight,” Doc said. “Don’t want to be chasing them through the forest.”

Despite Doc’s snide tone, it was hard to disagree: the forest was thick with fog, and the wide tree trunks looked like perfect hiding spots for . . . for whatever.

“Stick to the road,” Josh called out, motioning them onward.

—   —   —

Twenty minutes later, the lone howl returned. It was closer, and that only made it sound all the more stupid—it was nothing like a real wolf’s. Josh stopped and tried to guess which direction it was coming from, but the wind had picked up, making it hard to tell. The wind was also driving wisps of fog down the road, fog so cold he could feel it in his bones. Josh was ready to head back and call it a night.

Whatever is out there, he reasoned, it isn’t going away.

Doc, bringing up the rear, ambled out of the fog like a high-tech cowboy in his night goggles. “That one sounded close,” he said. “And I heard something moving in the woods over there.”

“You did?” Josh said, trying not to sound jumpy.

“You didn’t?” Doc asked. “Seemed closer to you than me.”

“Anybody hear a noise?” Josh demanded.

“I heard a howling,” BD said.

“Yeah, me too,” Kev added.

“Besides that.”

The men nodded, pretended to think, then shrugged.

“What about you guys?” Josh asked Hannah.

“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “Wait a minute. Where’s Daniel?”

No one had an answer, so Hannah called out his name. It echoed off the distant mountains.

“Daniel!” BD boomed, amused by the echo. Kev went next, then Josh. Soon everyone was yelling and having a good time until Doc fired his rifle into the air, startling them.

“What the hell are you doing?” Josh asked, giving Doc a shove.

“What the hell are you doing?” Doc spat back, his accent slipping. “Yelling like schoolchildren? This is serious. We’ve got a man missing.”

“Well, okay fine,” Josh sneered. “What should we be doing?”

“We should backtrack. Who saw him last?”

“He was your cameraman,” the sound guy said to Doc.

“I dropped back to look around. He stayed up with the rest of you.”

“Maybe he went looking for you,” Josh said, happy to turn this against Doc.

“He might have,” Doc said, mulling it over. “Fog this thick, he might have gotten lost in the thirty feet of road between us. He might be just standing there, waiting patiently for us to return.”

Doc’s theory felt plausible for about five seconds, the same amount of time it took him to draw his revolver, inspect its bullets, and reholster it.

“Shall we go look for him, then?” Doc asked.

—   —   —

The group moved like an inchworm: BD and Kev crept forward, then the camera crew scurried to catch up. Josh was stuck in the middle, as crowded on this desolate road as he would have been on the streets of Tokyo.

It took ten minutes to backtrack a hundred yards to where they found Daniel’s video camera lying beside the road. It looked as if it had been hit by a train and then run through a blender.

“What the hell did that,” Kev asked, his knuckles ghost white against the grip of his shotgun.

“How should I know,” Josh replied. “I wasn’t here, was I?”

“Whatever it is, it better not come back,” BD said, brave words and a trembling voice.

“Try the tape in another camera,” Doc suggested. Hannah nodded, pulling a Leatherman from her belt and dismantling the damaged camera.

Doc walked a few paces down the road and squatted, dipping his fingers into a dark puddle. The night goggles didn’t give any sense of color, and Josh hoped the puddle wasn’t red. Doc smelled his fingers, then cleaned them meticulously with his handkerchief and water from his canteen. He tied a rock inside the soiled handkerchief, using it as a weight as he chucked it into the woods.

“I got it,” Hannah said.

Everyone raised their night goggles and gathered around the camera’s small monitor. The screen had a black glow and showed little but the occasional wisp of fog caught in the light of the camera. The road was barely visible, weaving back and forth as Daniel, camera on his shoulder, walked along it. The sound of wind crackled from the small speaker, and the onscreen time stamp was exactly twenty minutes ago.

Daniel yelped, tripping, and the camera crashed to the ground. It lay still, its autofocus shifting between several blades of grass painted black by the night. Hannah raised the volume to full, and everyone leaned closer. Beneath the hiss of the tape was the sound of rending, like fabric being torn into strips. Then the tape ended—the screen flashed white and static roared into the night.

“Jerry Joplin!” Josh yelled, lurching back. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I’m sorry,” Hannah said, not meaning it. “Maybe you should run the camera next time.”

“Maybe next time I will. We might see something useful.”

“What was that noise?” the sound guy asked.

“I don’t know,” Josh fumed. “Daniel probably tore his jeans.”

“Not on the tape. Over there.” The sound guy pointed to the woods.

Josh pulled on his night goggles, seeing nothing but fog and trees. “I didn’t hear anything,” he said. “What about you, Doc?”

But Doc was prowling quietly down the road, his rifle leveled at the forest.

“Oh, shit,” Kev said. He whipped up his wide-mouthed shotgun and opened fire on the trees. The massive gun thundered, flame bursting from the barrel and lighting up the night. BD moved beside him, firing his Uzis in short bursts, like the strokes of a paintbrush. Josh had his pistol out but didn’t see anything worth shooting. He doubted that Kev or BD did, either. Josh looked for Doc, but he had disappeared into the fog.

“That should soften them up a bit,” BD said, tossing away an empty clip.

“Damn straight,” Kev said, unaware that something was running up behind him. It looked like a naked man in a cheap rubber mask, but its proportions were wrong: its body was too long, its legs too thin. It leaped onto Kev’s back and buried its fake muzzle into his neck. Kev fell forward, knocking Josh over and pinning him to the ground.

Josh’s night goggles flew off, and everything went black.

—   —   —

There was a lot of screaming, yelling, and snarling. BD’s Uzi flashed like a strobe, illuminating confusing snapshots of a close-quarters struggle.

Josh was pinned beneath Kev, who squirmed around as he wrestled one of the beasts, repeatedly knocking the wind out of Josh. Then something warm sprayed across Josh’s face. Kev let out a bloodcurdling scream, then went limp. Josh felt him being dragged away.

Josh rolled to his knees and scurried through the dark after his friend. Clutching blindly, his hands clamped onto Kev’s thick forearm and he was dragged along behind him. Kev woke up, flailing hysterically, and Josh hopped onto his gargantuan chest. He patted around, working his hands along Kev’s neck and up to his face. He slid the night goggles from Kev’s head, then shoved back, rolling away.

Thunder crashed, accompanied by a flash of blinding white light. Josh raised the goggles to his face and saw Hannah standing over Kev, his big shotgun in her hands, smoke curling from the barrel. A furry carcass lay at her feet, its chest excavated by buckshot.

—   —   —

“We got it!” Josh yelled, leaping to his feet. He clamped his arms around Hannah and squeezed, making her grunt. Doc walked out of the fog looking harried, his hat torn and his long hair floating up from his head in clumps. He inspected his rifle, whose barrel was bent, then tossed it away.

“We got it, Doc!” Josh shouted. “We caught the mythical werewolf!” Doc nodded solemnly, because indeed they had.

Even in death, the creature had a fake Halloween costume sort of appearance, but it was clearly made of flesh. A wolf’s muzzle grew out from a human face, and its body was like a pink-skinned dog that had been patched with clumps of fur. It had paws instead of hands and feet, and claws like dry macaroni. Human genitals flopped between its rear legs, which Josh found quite nasty.

“Go team!” Josh yelled, dancing around and pumping his fist.

Doc motioned for silence, then drew his revolver and turned a slow circle, listening. Josh mimicked him, but all he could hear was moaning. Josh waited until Doc holstered his gun, then said: “How we gonna carry this sucker back?”

“I think it’s a little early to worry about that,” Doc replied.

“Why?”

“I figure there’s at least one more of those things out there. Probably two.”

“You do?” Josh asked, raising his pistol.

“I do,” Doc said. “But they’ve gone for now.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“BD was screaming as they dragged him off. Sounded pretty far away.”

“Hrm,” Josh said, looking back at the wolf corpse. “Well, we got this one, so let’s take it and go.”

“We just got slaughtered, dumbass!” Doc roared, his true self—Jerry from New Jersey—showing through. “One of your best friends is dead, and all you can think about is how to get your goddamn trophy back?”

“Sucks, right?” Josh said. “If we’d been thinking, we’d have left someone with the Jeeps.”

“Yes,” Doc said, “if we’d been goddamn thinking. But we goddamn weren’t, and it’s a long goddamn way back to the village. Plus, if you didn’t goddamn notice, we have injured goddamn men to deal with.”

Josh frowned. He had noticed, but he’d avoided looking because he knew it would make him unhappy. And, sure enough, it did.

There were five of them left. Doc, Hannah, and himself were unharmed. Kev was missing most of a leg, and the sound guy’s arm was soaked with blood. Everyone else was missing.

“They got the other two camera guys, huh?” Josh asked.

“They got Jerry,” Hannah said, cutting away the sound guy’s sleeve with her Leatherman. “Mick ran off.”

“Which means they got him,” Doc said. “Or they will soon.”

“I don’t suppose we have a medical kit?” Hannah asked, her voice taking a particularly bitchy tone.

“I’m afraid not,” Doc answered, glaring at Josh. He bent down beside Kev, who looked pale even in the washed-out colors of his night-vision goggles. Josh felt tears well in his eyes.

“Big guy,” Josh said, “I am so sorry about this.”

“It got me good, right?” Kev said bravely, wincing.

“Right on, but we’ll get you fixed.”

“It’s not too bad?” With some effort, Kev raised his head to look, but it was too dark.

“No man, it’s just a little cut.”

“Really?”

Doc yanked Kev’s belt off and used it as a tourniquet. The bloody stump of Kev’s leg looked like uncooked chicken.

“Listen, Kev,” Josh said, taking his shoulders, “I need you to be tough. We’re going back for help, but you have to stay here and protect this guy.” He pointed at the sound guy. “Think you can do that?”

Kev’s face filled with pain. “I think I can,” he said, his voice trembling.

“Great,” Josh said brightly. “Let me get your gun.” Josh reached for the shotgun, but Hannah snapped it away, snarling.

“Hang on there a minute, pal,” Josh said, making a quick search of the area and finding BD’s mini-Uzi. The clip was full; he tucked it under his belt.

“Here, take my gun,” he said, unslinging the dart rifle and offering it to Kev. “We’ll be back so soon you won’t even know we’re gone.”

Kev nodded, wide-eyed and mute with terror. Doc grabbed Josh and yanked him aside.

“What the hell?” Josh said.

“We aren’t leaving him here, goddamnit,” Doc hissed. “He’d be as good as dead.”

“If we stay, we’ll all be as good as dead.”

“We can carry Kevin. There are three of us.”

“Oh, yeah? Then how are we going to carry the wolf-thing?”

“You goddamn sick son of a—”

“He’s right,” Hannah said. Doc whirled to her.

“You stay the hell out of this.”

“My say is as good as anyone’s. And Kevin isn’t going to make it. He hasn’t got ten minutes, even if we don’t move him.”

“And you’re qualified to make that call?” Doc asked.

“I’m a trained field EMT. I’ve filmed in Iraq and Sudan, and I’ve seen injuries like this before.”

“Hear that, Doc?” Josh said, enjoying himself. “She’s a real doc.”

“There’s no way you can be sure,” Doc told Hannah. “This is a man’s life at stake.”

“I can be sure, and I am. We’re a two-hour walk from the village, so I’d have to be very, very wrong for it to make a difference.”

“You coldhearted—”

“He’s not my goddamn friend,” Hannah said with a mocking smile. “And he’s not my problem.”

“And your man? Should we leave him, too?” Doc’s face was flushed, and his hands were angling for her throat.

“My man can walk. He’s coming with us.”

Doc’s hands trembled, but he dropped them, defeated. He turned back to Josh. “At least leave him a better goddamn weapon.”

“Okay, fine,” Josh said. He drew his pistol and walked back to Kev. “Take this, brother,” he said, putting the gun into Kev’s hand and giving it a squeeze.

“I—”

“No, man. I want you to have it.” Josh looked him right in the eye, which might have been reassuring but for his night goggles. Josh patted Kev’s shoulder and walked away.

“This way,” Doc said, as he and Hannah helped the sound guy to his feet. “We’ll backtrack.”

“What about that?” Josh asked, pointing at the wolfman’s corpse.

“Kev will guard him,” the sound guy said, sneering as he limped past.

Smartass, Josh thought. Last time I hire him.

—   —   —

“He just needs to sit for a few minutes,” Hannah said.

“We don’t have a few minutes,” Josh replied, yelling above the near-constant howling coming out of the woods. “Can’t you hear that?”

Their situation had steadily worsened. The wind had picked up to motorcycle speed, and the fog rolled over them in thick waves, alternating their visibility between short and none. The wolf creatures seemed to be following them, their howling neither closer nor farther away, and the injured sound guy was all but crawling down the road. And now Hannah wanted to take a break. Josh wanted to scream.

“Back me up, Doc,” Josh said. “We can’t stop here.”

Doc was out front, keeping his distance from Josh and Hannah, who had been bickering steadily for the last half hour. He looked around, as if identifying individual wolves by their howl.

“They’re really close,” he said. The acceptance in his voice was chilling.

The sound guy coughed violently, blood spilling from his mouth like red vomit. He started to teeter, and Hannah caught him and sat him against a tree.

“Conference!” Josh shouted, motioning Doc and Hannah to him.

“So do we leave him now?” Doc asked.

“We don’t leave him ever,” Hannah replied.

“He’s holding us back,” Doc said, “which is why we left Kev.”

“He’s only got a bite on his arm.”

“He’s coughing up blood,” Josh injected, dubious of Hannah’s assessment. Then a thought struck him: “You don’t think he’s becoming one of them, do you?”

“One of what?” Hannah said.

“One of those wolf-things. That’s how they’re made, right? They bite you?”

“Are you fucking kidding?” Hannah said. “Just because—”

The fog thickened, swallowing Hannah, who was only two feet away. A wolf howled—close—and then a second joined it. A third sounded out right behind them, followed by a fourth from in front. The sinister chorus grew, and its wail rang through the night.

Josh searched through the fog, finding Hannah’s hand and squeezing it. They drew together, their arms slipping around each other. Her cheek pressed to his, as cold as oysters.

The fog cleared and the howling stopped. Doc stood poised, revolver toward the woods. He looked at his two companions—huddled like scared children—and frowned. “If you two are done,” he said.

“Calm down, woman,” Josh said, shoving Hannah away and drawing his Uzi.

“Where’s Frank?” Hannah asked, looking around.

“Who’s Frank?” Josh asked.

“The sound guy. He’s gone.”

“Oh, him.” Josh said. Then the panic hit: “What do you mean gone?”

“I mean he’s not there anymore.” Hannah pointed to the tree where Frank had been resting.

“Oh my God!” Josh said. “He’s turned.”

“He’s what?”

“He’s one of them now! He’s coming to get us!” Josh shook Doc by the lapels of his jacket. “What are we going to do?”

Doc cracked his palm across Josh’s face, sending him staggering back. Then he straightened his jacket, inspecting it for damage. “We keep moving,” he said.

“That’s your genius plan?” Hannah demanded. “We just stroll down the road until they get us all?”

“We’ll be fine if we keep our wits about us,” Doc said impatiently.

“Our wits?” Josh screamed. “We’re trying to keep our butts about us! You had better do better than ‘We keep moving’!”

“There’s nothing else to do.”

“No,” Josh said, wagging his finger in Doc’s face. “That is not acceptable. You come up with a plan right now. You get us out of here.”

Doc looked from Josh to Hannah, who stuck her hands on her hips and glared back. He thought back through everything he knew about wolves, then struck on an idea. It was a good one, and a smile brightened his face.

“There is one chance,” he said.

“Which is?”

“The woods.”

“Why that’s a . . .,” Josh trailed off, staring at the dark foreboding forest. “That’s a terrible idea.”

“It’s the only idea,” Doc replied. “We’re exposed on the road. They know their own territory, and they’re just waiting for the best time to attack.”

“You mean like the moment we’re stupid enough to go into the woods?”

“They won’t expect it.”

“Who would? They’re in the woods.”

“We’ll sneak past.”

“We’ll what?” Josh spit.

“It’ll be easy. We just wait for the next whiteout and then run like hell.” Doc scanned the woods, then pointed: “That way.”

Doc’s words were punctuated by a bloodcurdling howl. The fog thickened, and Doc, still pointing, faded away. A slender hand grabbed Josh’s. He gripped back, pulling it with him as he ran into the woods.

Josh ran blind; the fog was pure white in his night goggles. A dark figure leaped out at him. Josh dodged left, but it caught his shoulder, spinning him around. He stumbled, then fell, rolling along the ground and coming up in a crouch. His assailant stood over him, as tall and still as a tree, because it was one.

“Hell,” Josh said, standing up. He had lost both Hannah and his sense of direction, but then something howled nearby and he ran in the opposite direction.

Black branches reached for him from the white haze, tearing his clothing and his skin. He ignored the pain and ran faster.

A bush hurled out of the fog and Josh tumbled over it, flopping onto his back. Hannah sprinted out of the woods, leaping over him. “Come on!” she yelled as she faded from sight.

Josh hopped up and chased after her. The fog thinned, allowing him to dodge through the bushes and trees. He suddenly realized how much noise he was making—not only tromping over dry sticks and leaves, but also screaming at the top of his lungs. He clamped his mouth shut, dashing past Hannah, who had stopped and was waving her arms at him. He wondered why she was just standing there as he ran full-tilt into a rock wall. Someone cracked open a coconut, and he fell to the ground, unconscious.

—   —   —

Josh opened his eyes, but the world remained dark. He heard Hannah whispering, repeating his name over and over. She sounded anxious.

His face hurt, especially around his eyes. He pulled off his night goggles and blinked at the sudden rush of light.

He was lying on his back, facing up at a cliff wall. The air was clear, and the full moon shone down like a pimple-faced lightbulb. Hannah’s face was inches from his own, her night goggles raised to her forehead.

“You’re okay,” she whispered with relief, squeezing his bicep in her hands.

“Yeah,” he said. He hopped bravely to his feet, but then his head went light and he steadied himself against the cliff wall. The wall ran in both directions, and there didn’t seem to be any way around it.

Josh inspected his night goggles. The tube was bent and the lens was shattered.

“Where’s Doc?” he asked.

Hannah shook her head.

“We must have lost him in the woods,” Josh said.

“You think they got him?”

“Doc? No way. He’ll be here any moment.”

A wolf creature howled into the night. It still didn’t sound real, but it was plenty scary.

“He’s not the only one,” Hannah said with a shudder.

“Right,” Josh said, tossing his goggles away. “Up we go.”

“But . . .”

But Josh was already climbing.

—   —   —

The wind cut through Josh’s clothing like knives, and the rock was as slick and as cold as ice cubes, numbing his hands.

Josh had once been an avid rock climber, but not only was he out of shape, he also had to pull Hannah up the more difficult parts. They had climbed two-thirds of the way up the cliff, but his arms were leaden and his legs trembled like the head of a sewing machine.

“Josh!” Hannah shrieked, pointing at a dark form in the fog below them. It leaped five feet upward in a single bound, then opened its long muzzle and howled. Another wolf creature appeared behind it. Then another.

Josh drew the small Uzi from his belt. The fog thickened, hiding the creatures, but he fired anyway. The gun recoiled, slipping from his hand and clattering down the cliff. Then fog lifted again and he saw that he had fired in the wrong direction.

“Did you get them?” Hannah yelled over the wind.

“Keep climbing,” Josh replied, continuing up.

Josh worked around an overhanging rock and was relieved to find he had reached the top of the cliff. Someone appeared above him, a shadow against the full, white moon. Josh recoiled, but then saw the outstretched hand and the wide-brimmed hat.

“Doc!” he yelled. “Thank God!”

Josh threw his hand up into Doc’s, but found it was soft and furry. And the hat, he saw, wasn’t a hat but the shadow of two long ears. The wolf creature in front of him snarled, its lips curling back to bare teeth like shards of glass. As it lashed at Josh, he caught the glint of eyeglasses—the same as those worn by the sound guy.

The last thing Josh heard was his own scream.

—   —   —

“It’s brilliant,” the reporter said, admiring the saberous yellow teeth that jutted from the snarling muzzle. Her accent was richly French, as was her short-hemmed dress. She fondled the collar of her jacket as she circled the display.

The monster was maybe five feet tall, with the arms and legs of a man but the head and body of a wolf. The taxidermist had mounted it on its rear legs, with a paw outstretched as if taking a swipe at the reporter. A photographer moved in, lining the beast up with the sharply dressed man who stood beside it.

“A werewolf, you say?” the reporter asked.

“That’s one name for ’em,” the man replied, “but they’re only just animals.”

“If I didn’t know better,” the reporter said, twirling a lock of sunset hair, “I’d say this thing was a fake.”

“It’s not a fake,” the man replied simply.

“But I’m not the one you have to convince,” the woman said. “And you’re the only living witness.”

“Not for long. I’ve sent in a team to collect us a live specimen.”

“Not going yourself?” the woman asked, pulling a notepad from her purse.

“I blaze the trail,” the man replied, straightening his wide-brimmed hat. “I leave the detail work to others.”

“A wise policy,” the woman said. They both smiled as the photographer snapped a photo.

“Maybe you’d care to hear the whole story?” Doc asked. “Over dinner?”

“Mmm,” the reporter said, as if tasting chocolate. “I’d love to, but I have to get this story filed. If you’re ever in Paris . . .”

“Might be this weekend,” Doc said, taking her phone number, then excusing himself.

Doc did wish he could join the hunt for the remaining wolf creatures. It was going to be a completely different outing—he had hired half the Slovetzian army, including armored cars and helicopters to spot for them. Unfortunately, he had pressing work.

He was now at the helm of International Great Mysteries Inc., and they were doing a special double episode about the wolves. Plus, he was booked on several talk shows, and there was talk of a book deal. Everyone wanted his story, and who could blame them? He was the sole survivor of the team that had recovered the first living Yeti, found the skeletal remains of the Loch Ness Monster, and now this: the first evidence of real-life werewolves.

Not that Doc believed these were actual werewolves. They were just some strange aberration of evolution. Sure, they were smarter than other breeds, but when it came down to it, they still had a wolf’s instinct: hunt as a pack and, should their prey split, hunt the weaker ones and let the rest go.

“Have the beast crated and on the jet in an hour,” he said into his cell phone. “I’d like to be in New York for dinner. Have the limo waiting and book me at Peter Luger’s.” Doc smiled, already tasting the steak. “Oh, and have Didi change the sheets on the bed.”

Read on for an excerpt of

Brett James' latest novel,

The Drift Wars

[19.17.4.1::7743.4569.619.1D]

“No recon!”

“What?”

“No recon!” Saul’s voice was barely audible over the metallic vibrations of the ship. After three hours of traveling through the eerie calm of space, the ship had slapped against the planetary atmosphere and was skipping violently. In a few moments, Peter would make his first combat jump. He hoped it would go better than in training. His helmet still smelled faintly of vomit.

The cabin was sweltering; the hull glowed from the friction of atmospheric entry. The ship’s engine screamed, pushing them even faster.

The hull was 95 percent effective at these speeds—it would fail one time out of twenty, vaporizing the ship and its passengers. This would be unacceptable in civilian spacecraft. Only marine transports played such odds.

“You ever heard of a drop with no recon?” Saul yelled over a closed channel.

“No,” Peter shouted into his helmet mic.

“Me neither. I bet no one lives to talk about it.”

Peter knew better than to let Saul psych him out. “Command put the satellites on the other side of the planet,” he yelled back.

“Misdirection.”

“Smart.”

“Smart is being tucked away in the commandship,” Saul shouted. “I don’t see any generals lined up for this drop.”

“Dispersal altitude,” the captain said over the intercom. He was calm and relaxed, piloting the ship from ten thousand miles away.

Men stirred throughout the cabin, prepping weapons and themselves. The ship held a full regiment: twenty-four hundred men in ash-gray combat suits packed in shoulder-tight rows along the curved floor. They were all recruits, privates on their first mission. Their suits shone like they had been made this morning—all but one, that of Colonel Chiang San, who watched his men from a raised seat up front. His suit was dulled and chipped from use, and even though they were inside, the protective silver coating was down over his visor, masking his face.

Anonymous in the crowd, Peter pressed his hand to his chest, where, beneath his suit’s hard crust, hung a locket containing a curl of soft, silky hair.

Saul started to speak, but the ship’s floor fell away and wind roared through the cabin. The men, clamped in by the backs of their suits, were rotated to face the green world below. It was drawn with the clarity of distance—the sharp-edged mountains and lakes, and an ocean of jungle as soft as cotton.

The clamp behind Peter snapped open, and a blast of compressed gas shot him straight down. The other men disappeared in a blur.

Six transports screamed through the white sky overhead, their massive impulsor engines burning the air in a trail of roiling orange and black. They spit out fifteen thousand marines in five seconds, staggered just enough to avoid collision, then arced back toward the safety of space. The sky was poked with little black dots—men plummeting to the surface.

—   —   —

The first time Peter tried out for football, the varsity players took the hopefuls out for a little bonding session. Several jugs of fiery moonshine were passed around, and then the young players, mostly freshmen, were taken to Culiver’s Gorge. The gorge had a high dirt bank that overlooked murky, green-coated water. A narrow iron pipe crossed between the banks some fifteen feet over the water. The hopefuls were told that the unwritten requirement to make the team was to walk the pipe, blindfolded. They didn’t want to, but the older boys insisted.

As his classmates hemmed and hawed, Peter stepped to the front. He figured that since he couldn’t get out of it, he might as well try to look enthusiastic. He was blindfolded, balanced on the pipe with drunken steadiness, and then pushed forward. He managed two wobbly steps before he went over the edge. Though terrified, he kept his mouth shut as he fell through the air and flopped into the water.

Not one of them made it across, but Peter was the only one who didn’t scream when he fell. Back then, that was brave. Back then, walking blindfolded across a water pipe was scary.

Now, plunging through the high atmosphere of an enemy-occupied planet, he knew that while the stakes were higher, the setup was the same: no matter how scared he felt, there was nothing to gain by showing it. Screaming wouldn’t bring the ship back; it would only make him look bad.

Peter fell freely at first, but as he descended the atmosphere thickened, pushing his arms and legs backward, and pressing against his chest as he slowed to terminal velocity. Frost crystals formed around the edge of his visor, and the wind settled to a dull rush. He brought his legs together, drew his arms to his side, and angled into a dive.

The green world approached rapidly, its topography rising as his angle lowered. Red lines drew out over his visor, the computer in his suit marking the target landing area.

He felt a jolt as he punched into the lower atmosphere, and a red light flashed in the corner of his visor: incoming fire. Below him, the green jungle faded under a gray cloud of bullets that rose to meet the men.

Peter angled his hands like fins, corkscrewing. He wiggled his fingers, weaving his body randomly and crisscrossing through the other men, who were all doing the same.

Something crashed into his back, knocking him end over end. He flailed, slapping at the air, but that only made it worse. Then his training clicked in: he tucked his arms in tight and fanned his legs to drag at the air, angling him back into his dive.

Peter was breathing hard and trembling with adrenaline. Sideways collisions were expected during evasive maneuvers, he reminded himself. Even at this speed, they were nearly always harmless.

He looked up and saw Saul flying overhead, an enormous white grin beaming through his visor. Saul had hit him on purpose. Saul was like that. Playful—bored even—no matter that they were plummeting into hostile territory at three hundred miles an hour. Peter had grown used to this attitude back in Basic Training—five intensive months meant to hone men into deadly weapons. Frankly, they’d had much greater success with Saul than Peter.

Peter turned back to the incoming storm of bullets, forcing himself to relax. Just like falling into the river, he told himself. Of course, he didn’t make the team that year. He might have impressed the older kids, but they didn’t decide who made the cut.

—   —   —

Moments later the cloud of bullets collided with the swarm of men. Most of the bullets rattled harmlessly against the heavy armor on the marines’ shoulders and helmets; they had spent most of their power on the long climb up. The bullets were mainly intimidation anyway, broadcasting the size of the force waiting below. But they also provided cover for the rockets that followed.

Thunder came from all sides and great orange fireballs filled the sky, shattering the unlucky and knocking around the rest. The explosions came one after another, their black smoke choking out the light. Someone—or some part of someone—struck Peter’s shoulder and ricocheted away.

Sergeant Mickelson had advised them to have some sort of distraction on hand for the dive. Loud music, particularly metal, would drown out the noise of battle and pass the time. “Pornography is even better,” he said, “but it’s against policy, so don’t let me catch you.”

Neither idea appealed to Peter, so he hadn’t brought anything. Instead, he tried to think about home, and about Amber. It had been seven months since he’d seen her, seven months since he’d felt her arms around him. His memory of her had been his strength, but he couldn’t bring it up. Not while he was careening though the thick smoke and dull pounding of rockets, wondering if the next one was meant for him.

Having no other distraction, he started to hum.

—   —   —

The explosions stopped. Peter dropped below the smoke and saw only the plush treetops as he crashed into them. A charge on his back fired with a loud bang, flipping him upright. His rocket pack roared to life, its long flame licking his feet as it strained to slow his descent.

The leafy canopy closed overhead, sealing Peter into a murky world of long, spidery tree trunks. As Peter strained to pick a clear landing site, a leg-thick tree branch caught him square in the chest. He was knocked over and his rocket drove him straight at the ground. His suit’s stabilizers tried to right him but, designed for the weightlessness of space, lacked the power.

His rocket sputtered out thirty feet from the ground; he slammed into it headfirst.

—   —   —

The jungle floor was thick with leaves, cushioning Peter’s fall and sparing him serious injury or death—effectively the same thing this deep inside enemy territory. He scrambled out of the crater made from his own impact, ran for the cover of the nearest tree, and tucked himself into a protective ball. Shrapnel and debris drummed the ground. It tapered off after several minutes. He eased to his feet and looked around.

The trees were as straight as pencils, their white cabbagey trunks rising a hundred yards into the air, then sprouting into a green roof. Down at ground level, the trunks split and tangled together. Low scrub, like moss magnified a hundredfold, circled the trees in wreaths, wisps of steam billowing off their crowns. In the dim light, the wet ground was the color of blood and dented by debris—parts of rockets, parts of men.

Alone in the jungle, Peter felt exposed; the enemy seemed to lurk in every shadow. He retreated further into the tree, ducking into the cave of its high roots, and waited.

It was fifty long seconds before the satellites moved into place. Peter’s visor lit up with information, and he studied the translucent map that appeared in the corner. There were blue dots to indicate the other marines, but no red dots yet—the satellite’s sensors couldn’t detect the enemy through the thick foliage. It fell on the marines to dig them out here on the ground.

Peter’s regiment was spread over several dozen miles, and he was a thousand yards from the nearest friendly. The rendezvous point was a mile and a half away, labeled by a green circle. He did a quick visual inspection of his suit, then tested his arms and legs. The artificial muscles in his suit whirred smoothly.

Everything seemed okay. He drew his sidearm and crept out from his cover.

—   —   —

The thick foliage cast dark shadows in the haze, providing the enemy ideal camouflage for an ambush. The jungle was dead quiet, with no sign of the indigenous otter-like creature that supposedly thrived there. Maybe they were hiding from the coming battle. Or maybe they had been slaughtered.

Fog condensed on Peter’s visor, making beads of water that jiggled as he walked. His suit was climate controlled, insulating him from the jungle’s heat and humidity, and its smell. The air from his tank was scentless and filtered, and gave no sense of the world around him. But his mind brought the jungle inside, the sense of danger, the presence of the Riel.

His eyes darted around, hunting for anything that seemed out of place. His suit had a battery of sensors, everything from emission scopes to wide-band motion detectors, but the dense jungle overpowered them. Even his thermal imagers were useless—the Riel were cold-blooded, so their body temperature matched that of the air around them. Despite his complex array of sensors, the best tools he had were his own eyes.

A tall, flat boulder loomed in the mist ahead. Perched on top was a short, muscular tree, its roots running down the stone like melted wax. It was exactly the sort of place where Peter would set an ambush, and he figured that a Riel sniper would think the same. He crouched low and gave the rock a wide berth, watching for a trap.

A yellow light pulsed on his visor—a warning from his Life Control System that he was breathing too quickly. The planet’s atmosphere was poisonous, so running out of air here would be as deadly as it was in the vacuum of space. Peter stopped and took slow, measured breaths. Then he saw movement in the corner of his eye. He whipped around and fired.

The impulsor ray from his pistol was invisible, but it burned a line through the air, hissing and leaving a trail of curling smoke. The gun sliced through several plants and charred the trunk of a tree, but there was no one around. The movement had only been water running down his visor. Peter cursed, dropping low and peering back at the rock, seeing nothing.

He backed up, turning a slow circle and jerking his gun from target to target. His heart thrashed wildly and the oxygen warning light turned orange, then red. Unable to control his fear, Peter sprang up and raced through trees, slashing with his arms to clear the foliage, careless of the racket he was making.

His only thought was to reach the rendezvous point and the safety of his platoon.

—   —   —

Peter was watching his map, following his blue dot as it approached the green rendezvous point, when his legs tangled and he fell forward. He face-planted, scattering leaves and knocking into something solid. He jerked his gun out, but it was another marine, dead, half-buried from impact. Shards of red-stained metal jutted from his chest, and a stump of an arm rose as if saluting the sky.

Peter crept forward on his elbows, lay his pistol down, and pushed up to peer into the corpse’s visor. The face inside was still and ashen. Peter didn’t know him.

“I’ll shoot you my damn self, Garvey,” Mickelson snarled over the comm, “if you keep making all that goddamn noise.”

The sergeant stood over him, glaring with anger, Peter’s gun clenched in his hand. He leveled the gun at Peter’s face, his finger tightening, but then changed his mind. He let the gun drop to the ground.

“Strip off your rocket and get over here,” he said, walking away.

“Yes, sir,” Peter said. He hopped up, holstered his gun, and pulled a catch on his shoulder; the spent rocket clattered to the ground. He considered grabbing the rocket off the corpse but shied away. He piled his own on a small stack over by Mickelson; if they won the battle today, the rockets would be collected, refurbished, and reused. Peter joined the men who were already there. Their names were stenciled on their backs, but Peter recognized none of them.

As if reading his thoughts, the battle computer broadcasted a full-channel update. The regiment had arrived 48 percent operational, which was the optimistic way of saying that 52 percent of them were killed before they even reached the ground. Of Peter’s platoon, only Mickelson, Saul, Ramirez, and himself had survived the landing. Four of twelve. A thousand miles away, back on the commandship, that was just a figure on a spreadsheet. But down here they were men, like Peter, with families and friends who hoped and prayed to see them again. Now most of them would not, and the battle hadn’t even started.

The attack would go ahead as planned, no matter the casualties. There was no choice. The transports couldn’t land until the marines eliminated the Riel’s anti-ship defenses. If they could eliminate them. Only Command knew the odds, and they wouldn’t bother to tell anyone down here.

—   —   —

Twelve men gathered at the rendezvous point, an ad hoc platoon assembled by the battle computer from those who had survived the drop. Peter fidgeted with his pistol as men trickled in, relaxing only when Saul appeared, strolling out of the jungle as if he were arriving at a party. He moved through the men, exchanging hellos and learning names. His presence calmed the others, infecting them with his air of indestructibility.

“The good news,” Saul said, settling next to Peter, “is that we landed in the middle of the regiment. That means we’re completely safe. The bad news is that we’ve got a long walk before we get ourselves killed.”

—   —   —

Sixteen minutes after touchdown, the newly formed North-58 platoon rolled out. Their target was three and a quarter miles away, and their orders were to be there in seven minutes, so they had to hump it.

Even though this section of the jungle had been declared clear, the men stayed in formation, guns at the ready, wary of ambush. In the field, clear was a relative term. More than once, men had stumbled onto Riel encampments right in the middle of their own.

“Let the suit do the work, Garvey,” Mickelson growled. Peter’s oxygen light was glowing yellow again.

Running should be easy—he just needed to guide the artificial muscles with his own. Peter had run literally thousands of miles during Basic, but while he could remember the motions, his body seemed to have forgotten. His legs struggled against the suit, tiring him out and wasting precious air.

Thankfully, they soon reached the no-man’s land, and Mickelson motioned to slow down. “Stay low,” he warned. “The Riel see you first, you’ll never even know it.”

—   —   —

The platoon took up an arrowhead formation with the seven general infantry marines forming a V on the perimeter and the three heavy-weaponry specialists—including Saul—just behind them. As the platoon’s sniper, Peter walked to the center with Sergeant Mickelson.

The platoon crept forward, the GIs expanding and contracting to maintain their field of vision through the trees and underbrush. One of them glanced at Peter with bloodshot eyes, a side effect of Battle Heat.

Heat was a drug cocktail administered by the suit’s Life Control System to maximize a marine’s effectiveness in combat. Peter knew it only by reputation—it was never issued to snipers for fear of impairing their aim.

They arrived at their target three minutes late. There had been no resistance along the way, and when they saw what they were up against, they understood why. Who would skirmish in the jungle when they could hole up in a fortress?

—   —   —

The Riel stronghold was an oblong shard of reddish rock that towered over a wide clearing. Its rough-hewn walls tapered to an impossibly narrow base, like a massive spike balanced on its tip. A few green patches were scattered around the rock face—trees and plants that somehow found purchase. In several places sunlight glinted off crystal shields, Riel fortifications impenetrable to even the heaviest rifle in the marine arsenal.

Mickelson brought the platoon to a halt and moved to the front. His face distorted as the glass in his visor thickened and reformed, magnifying the distant rock. Peter tuned his visor to Mickelson’s to see what his sergeant saw.

Each of the crystal shields—a half dozen in all—protected a gun nest, either armed with a heavy-caliber recoiling rifle or twin machine guns. Rocket batteries were spread over the stronghold, unmanned, either sentient or operated by remote.

All these Riel had to be guarding something important, and Peter guessed it was a Delta-class heavy-impulse blaster, which was exactly the sort of antiship weapon they’d have to destroy to get back off this planet.

Mickelson tracked along a recessed walkway cut into the rock face, spotting a patrolling Gyrine.

The Gyrine was the smaller of the two Riel species. It was several feet taller than a man, but from this distance its squat body made it look short. Its black skin was dry and scaly, like the skin on a bird’s legs, and its face was pinched, with squinting eyes and the heavy jaw of a bulldog. Thick white fangs jutted up on either side of its flat nose, the effect more cartoonish than ferocious—not that Peter cared to put it to the test. This particular Gyrine had no cybernetic augmentation, which made it an officer.

“There’s your first target, Garvey,” Mickelson said; a yellow dot appeared on Peter’s visor map.

Peter unlinked from Mickelson’s video feed and crept off to find a good vantage point. Two GIs peeled off and followed him, his own personal guard.

More likely, Peter thought, their orders are to recover my rifle when I get shot.

After five minutes of scouting, Peter found a small boulder among some scrub ferns. He had been warned not to use rocks as cover, but he couldn’t remember why. Meanwhile, Mickelson berated him impatiently. Absurdly, Peter was more worried about getting bawled out than getting shot.

Peter motioned to his escorts, who took up positions on either side, far enough that they couldn’t all be killed by a single rocket. Peter clipped his pistol to his thigh, reached over his shoulder, and drew his rifle from its protective case. He unlocked the gun’s barrel, extending it from the stock until it was taller than himself, and twist-locked it into place. He popped the rubber cap from the barrel and inspected the lens. He withdrew the battery clip, checked the contacts, and shoved it back in, seating it with a jiggle. This would be a synchronized attack; there was no room for mistakes.

Peter popped the cap off the optical scope, leaned against the rock, and raised the long gun toward the Riel stronghold.

—   —   —

Peter bent his arm and locked his combat suit’s artificial muscles, making his hand a stable pivot for the gun’s barrel. He pressed his visor to the rubber cone on the back of the scope, tunneling his vision down the gun’s sights.

The Gyrine officer had moved, but Mickelson still had eyes on it. An arrow appeared on the left side of Peter’s visor, and he shifted the gun up the walkway; he then centered on the Gyrine’s chest. A second set of crosshairs appeared near the first—the battle computer’s suggestion of where to aim. The computer took into account everything it knew, from the video feed of every marine’s combat suit to the atmospheric information gathered by the satellites. Technically, the computer-generated crosshairs were the more accurate of the two, but a good sniper could outshoot the computer two to one. It was instinct, as all snipers have claimed since the invention of the rifle. But Peter wasn’t feeling any instinct, so he just split the difference between the computer’s crosshairs and his own.

The Gyrine was restless, pacing nervously, as if it could sense Peter’s gaze. No doubt it expected an attack—this operation was far from covert—but it wouldn’t know where or when. The UF satellites were flooding the planet with so much interference that a Riel couldn’t detect a dog humping its leg, much less a small platoon three thousand yards out.

The Gyrine’s black skin blended in the overhang’s shadows, making it hard to track its movements. When Peter finally settled into his target’s rhythm, he gave the trigger a light squeeze, signaling that he was ready to fire.

“About time,” Mickelson snapped. “Fire at zero.” A countdown appeared on Peter’s visor. Ten seconds.

Nine.

—   —   —

Peter would fire the first round, followed by Heavy Weaponry; their countdown was just a quarter second behind his own. Getting the first shot meant catching the enemy unaware, practically guaranteeing a kill but also making his gun the first that the Riel would register. He would draw most of the return fire.

Getting the first shot right was critical; the marines had to kill enough Riel to offset the advantage of higher ground and protective shields. And officers, like Peter’s target, were of particularly high value.

Something is wrong, Peter thought. The countdown had stopped; the number seven was frozen on his screen. He waited one second, two, but still it didn’t change.

He tried to stay focused on his target, but his eyes were drawn to the seven on his visor. He was holding his breath to steady his shot, but his lungs began to ache. He took two quick tugs of air, and then the number dropped: Six.

Peter instantly felt relieved, then foolish, no longer sure that the pause hadn’t just been his imagination. He looked back to his target, but it was gone.

Five.

Four.

The countdown raced now. Peter panned his rifle side to side, searching the empty walkway. Where is it? Did it see me? Did it run? The green, computer-generated crosshair remained where it was, aimed at nothing.

Three.

Salt stung his eyes. He blinked, trying to clear them.

Two.

His oxygen light pulsed red, the glow filling his visor.

One.

The Gyrine popped back into view—it had been bent over, hidden by the walkway’s low wall. It stretched lazily, gazed into the distance, and scratched its chin, oblivious to both Peter’s panic and the impending assault.

Peter swung the rifle toward the Gyrine but overcompensated—the slightest movement of the gun was yards at the fortress. He eased the gun back, his muscles tight, working against each other. The crosshairs found the Gyrine just as the countdown flashed zero. Peter squeezed the trigger.

—   —   —

Peter had never fired on a live target before. He closed his eyes, unable to watch the results. When he opened them a second later, the Gyrine was gone. Did I kill it?, he wondered.

“Christ-all-fucking-mighty, Garvey,” Mickelson barked, and Peter knew he had missed.

—   —   —

Peter whipped his gun around, searching for the Gyrine, but it was gone. The rock face disappeared behind a cloud of dust, pounded by the giant impulsor cannons carried by heavy weaponry. He shrunk down behind the rock; all he could do was wait for further orders.

Distant machine guns cracked and rockets whistled in close, pounding into the ground and tossing up columns of dirt. Peter listened to the bullets rattle against the rock; then they stopped. The ferns around him vaporized and a nearby tree blackened like a match. The Riel were sweeping the area with lasers.

Lasers weren’t a direct threat. Even if Peter weren’t shielded by the boulder, his suit’s ceramic coating would easily disperse the heat. But the beams would burn away his cover, and once they could see him, the Riel had plenty of other ways to kill him. Peter grew anxious just sitting there; he queried the battle computer.

“Negative targets,” it replied.

We’re in the middle of a battle, Peter thought. How can there be nothing to shoot at?

He stood up and aimed his gun at the towering rock, searching. On the very edge of the left face, he saw the top of a Gyrine’s head sticking out over a crystal shield. It wasn’t much—not enough for a kill—but it was something.

The Gyrine worked a thick-barreled, turret-mounted gun that recoiled heavily with each shot. It fired in the opposite direction, which Peter found reassuring, since it meant there was at least one other platoon involved in this assault. Peter centered his crosshairs just over the Gyrine’s head, thinking perhaps to first draw its attention by shattering the rock.

His chest was warm. Not just warm, hot. Searing. He pulled back from the scope; the boulder he was leaning against was glowing red. Peter suddenly remembered why he wasn’t supposed to use rocks as cover.

While his combat suit was immune to lasers, rocks were not. They would become superheated and explode. A melon-size rock had the destructive power of a fragmentary grenade. This boulder was a hundred times that.

Peter felt the rock tremble and crack, expanding from the heat. He might have even heard the explosion before everything went black.

[14.08.2.14::3948.1938.834.2D]

A white light clicked on—bright, painful. Peter blinked, his eyelids scratching over the crust that coated his eyeballs. His head was fuzzy, and the room’s silence pressed against his ears. He heard footsteps—soft and light-footed—padding toward him. A pink blur slid into the light. Peter blinked again and saw a woman in a green surgical mask. She was leaning over him; he was lying down.

“There you are,” she said. Peter couldn’t place her accent. She wore a white smock with short sleeves that jutted off her shoulders like little wings, leaving her arms bare. The uniform was cut slim, but not as slim as she was. It dangled loosely over her body. Her dark brown hair was pulled tight, and a ponytail hung in a net behind her head. Gunmetal eyes inspected him from over the mask, faint wrinkles radiating from their corners.

The nurse settled onto a stool and raised a long finger, its nail trimmed short, with a dark stain under the tip that looked like dried blood. “Can you see this?” she asked. Peter nodded. “Follow it, please.”

Peter followed the finger up and down, left and right. The woman ignored him, watching the video monitor that hung over his head.

“How many letters in the alphabet?” she asked.

“Twenty-six,” Peter said.

“Recite them, please.”

Peter did, feeling silly.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” she asked.

“What?” Peter asked, confused.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” the woman repeated impatiently.

Peter thought back. First he was crawling through the mud on his elbows. Then he was being thrown from a ship into the black nothing of space. And then he was free-falling through a white cloud, his stomach tight and sore. And finally, he stood at attention with the rest of his platoon. They wore full dress, and a general spoke on a distant stage.

“Basic Training,” Peter said. “Graduation.”

“Good,” the woman said. She tapped around her monitor. “Anything else?”

There was something else, the memory of a memory. It felt important, but his efforts to remember it only pushed it farther away. His head ached from the effort, and he felt a sharp pain, like a hundred needles pricking his skull.

“No,” he said. He tried to rub his head but found he was strapped to the bed.

“Easy, kid,” the woman said, taking his wrist. “Don’t rush.” Her hand was searing hot; it burned his skin.

She flicked a finger at the crook of his arm, then dug her thumb in. A vein swelled with blood. The woman smiled warmly, raising a long syringe of oily liquid.

She slipped it in with practiced ease.

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The Prey is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, video games, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, bottom feeders, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Prey is copyright © 2015 by Brett James. All rights reserved.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My complete and entirely earned thanks to Jenna Kamp, Bill Loeb, Donna Bell, Barri Evins, Jason James, Ed Overton, Victoria Su, Danielle Hlatky, Nicholas Sher, Pablo Morales, and all you others who, by your very actions, condemn me to this fate.

also by Brett James:

print edition ISBN: 978-0-9850864-6-6

http://brettjames.com