The Variant Effect Page 3

  Biters were most destructive, and so the harsh protocol: Ziploc, Gas and Burn. Secure the building. BZ-2 the victims. Contain the Variant Effect in fire.

  "That was the day and this is the day after! You can't change it!" Borland's voice was a broken wheeze as he thumped a fist into the old lath and plaster. He killed friends! Nothing else registered on him. Not the torn skin on his knuckles. Not the nearby rustle of vinyl pushed aside by a breeze or movement.

  "They knew the risks!" Tears jammed around his red eyes, pushed the fleshy lids into puffy mounds, finally crowding his voice like suffocation. "They could have quit!" He ground his teeth like they were steel, running point to point with an audible grating sound. "I'd do it again!" he snarled like a trapped animal. The muscles in his throat stood out like high-pressure hoses. Borland dug his nails into his heavy cheeks. "Stop it!"

  Heart throbbing like a dying thing, he lurched into motion, stumbled down the hall past abandoned offices and boarded windows. Moaning he fell, knees cracking against the floor. It didn't hurt. It wasn't registering. Before he could weep or roar a sound drew his head up. There, right in front of him.

  Its body shape told him it was female, but that's where the familiarity stopped.

  Hyde was wrong. There was a Biter in the building.

  CHAPTER 8

  The van had moved another half block and Hyde's stomach continued to churn. Confronting Borland and the past was useless, and he paid for such futile introspection with anxiety. To escape his discomfort he willed his thoughts back to the game. Sometimes in the game, playing War Eagle online with people all over the world, he imagined himself back in the tunnels killing murderous black shapes. And in the game there was no Borland. And in the game he won.

  But not back in the day.

  Borland's squad had contacted Hyde when they were already on the move. A concentration of Biter attacks left 20 dead and dozens missing in buildings and areas adjacent to an old section of the university slated for demolition. BZ-2 trucks were being loaded, and the fire department was in transit. BZ-2 gas was based on the Russian incapacitant but modified to produce paralysis and death every time.

  The Variant Effect was permanent. Its worst victims needed cages; but cages were reserved for the rich and famous. Less intense effects: Tourette-like symptoms, self-mutilation, and mild social-phobias were controllable with counseling and behavioral therapy. With everyone somehow affected, there was room for sympathy but no room at the asylum. Homicidal and destructive cases like Biters were put down. Since they were a class of effected that could spread their Variant form, nobody complained. You only had to see a Biter in full Ritual to know it had to die-if you survived the meeting.

  Borland had his epiphany while smoking crack on the way back to the stationhouse after a call about a pyromaniac turned out to be a false alarm. One of the bagged-boys was bragging about getting laid in old tunnels under the university when he was a student in the days before. The university used the maze of tunnels and rooms for storage and maintenance access-nothing more. Borland decided Alpha Biters could hide their packs down there. That location would give them access to the whole city through underground ventilation shafts, sewers and maintenance ways.

  Hyde told Borland to wait for him. He was doing the math, and if you didn't have a body, you probably had a Biter. The tunnels could hide a big hunting pack. But Borland and the squad were huffing amyls and cranked up on PCP and whiskey. They locked and loaded and went in while Hyde and his squad were still two miles out.

  Hyde's transport came to a halt just as the screaming started. Radio communications were garbled, but Borland's squad had been scattered. They were being massacred.

  Hyde left half of his crew at the transport, ordered them to wait for back up and Variant Squad ambulances. They were to take reinforcements, hunt down all access points and close off the tunnels; kill anything coming out that couldn't identify itself.

  Hyde and 10 bagged-boys went in, scanning the darkness with their hood-lamps. They got turned around quickly in the tunnels, following echoes of Borland's dying squad. They made a charge finally, guns blazing when they came upon a group of Biters skinning half of Borland's men and women.

  The Biters soaked up a lot of bullets, always did. They were all tuned up on Variant-enhanced adrenaline and hormones, unable to fear or feel anything past the howl of their need for skin.

  But the roar of gunfire also deafened Hyde's squad to a pack of Biters coming in through connecting tunnels. Over 40 came screaming at them with teeth snapping. All of them hissing the object of their desire: "Skin!" The word echoed all around, sprayed from lipless mouths. "SKIN!"

  He was soon blind to the gunfire that flashed around him.

  Two Alphas, six males and three females performed the ritual on him. Calling it Ritual came from the days before when obsessive-compulsive disorder did not involve as much pain and death. Ritual relieved the Biters' anxiety.

  Horrific screams exploded from Hyde's chest. Blinded by pain-tearing noises heaved at him-his body flailed as fluids sprayed. Bare muscle and finger bones gripped his arms and legs, held him as the Alphas worked the edges free. One tore the groin; another seized the skin by his left nipple before ripping sounds echoed. Pain dazzled Hyde as long strips of skin were pulled from his abdomen, chest and legs. Blood soon covered his eyes in place of lids. Huddled glistening shapes darted out of Hyde's dying vision. Bundles of his skin were carried into darkness running. A squabble broke out, as he lost consciousness. A pair of big males had his scalp and face stretched between them like a rubber mask.

  He was unconscious when Borland arrived with a rescue mission. He was stroking out as Biters were gunned down or gassed with BZ-2. He was flat-lining as the university tunnels were filled with accelerant and burned. He was listed as critical but stable the first time he wished Borland dead.

  A chirp from the radio drew Hyde back into the present. Unwilling to engage, he eavesdropped from beneath his hood. The driver, a corporal, didn't keep his voice down-had no idea if Hyde was asleep or not. People rarely treated him like he was alive. He was easy to ignore: without features, only form.

  "Roger we'll BZ-2 the bitch when it's sealed up."

  Hyde realized he'd missed most of the conversation.

  "Not sealed yet, over?" asked the corporal.

  "Borland forgot his camera-went back in." Static. "He's going to seal it after."

  "Roger that, over!" The corporal toggled twice and hooked the microphone on the dash beside the steering wheel.

  "Driver," Hyde said, his mind finally gripping the here and now. "What did he just say?"

  "Sir?" The corporal's voice registered surprise.

  "On the radio, he said something about BZ-2."

  "They're going to gas the building when Borland comes back out." The corporal was matter-of-fact.

  "But it was sealed!" Hyde hissed.

  "Not yet." The corporal spoke to his partial reflection in the rearview.

  "Borland went back in?" Hyde's skinned fingers gripped the arms of his wheelchair, his jaws moved silently, calculating.

  "Yeah." His driver laughed at some hidden joke. "Said he'd reseal it."

  "But protocol?" Hyde shook his head. "You can't break a Variant seal!"

  "He forgot his camera," the corporal reassured.

  "But that's not protocol!" he shouted, clenching his skeletal fists.

  "Old protocol," the corporal chuckled. "And Variant's been goneÖ"

  "Take me back there!" Hyde cut him off, glaring at the traffic. It was starting to move. "Use lights and siren!"

  "But Captain," the corporal started-

  "Now!" Hyde pounded the arms of his chair. "TAKE ME NOW!"

  CHAPTER 9

  Borland crawled toward the wall. This was registering. This was getting through his booze and spooks. The Biter's eyes had locked on him, almost crossed over its dark wet sinus cavity. Borland wheezed and bent a knee under him; his brain rushed to take it in.

  "H
ydeÖ" he whispered, heaving himself up. His hernias pulled at him like fishhooks.

  "SsskinÖ" hissed the Biter. It took a step forward holding its arms bent at the elbows, skinned hands outward, fingers snapping on air. "Ssskin?"

  Her defining sex characteristics had been removed with her skin but one foot was wearing a white leather pump with a gold buckle. The other, even bloodstained had soft contours and purple polish on the nails. Skin was peeled off her body down to her left knee and right ankle. Clots of yellow adipose tissue dangled from her chest.

  Borland had always been amazed at how similar Biters could look. A human body stripped of skin could pass for either sex when down to the essentials. Even a pretty pair of eyes was just a rolling white terror without any lids.

  Pockets of infection had formed in the cleft of her arm and torso, leg and groin. Most Biters died before they had a chance to really heal or scar up. Few lived long enough to try for alpha status.

  Borland realized his hissy fit had taken him down the hall to the end. There was a big dirty window behind him and corners. To reach one of the offices he'd have to move past the thing. It wouldn't be safe in there, but the narrow doorway would be easier to defend.

  He inched forward. It was 15 feet to the closest office on the right.

  "SsskinÖ" the skin eater breathed a warning. It had a wild intelligence in its glistening eyes. Her exposed teeth drooled saliva and blood as she stepped toward him. Her pulse coursed through an exposed web of veins.

  There was a thump and clatter to Borland's right and a male skin eater dropped into view. A quick glance and he saw overhead panels hanging, bits of fiberglass falling like snow. The maze of rafters over the drop ceiling was a good place to build a pack and bagged-boys years after the day wouldn't think to look.

  The male had skin on him from the waist down exposed through holes in his tattered trousers. He had a running shoe on one foot and frazzled sock on the other. One arm hung at an awkward angle, the fingers were torn: sharp yellow bone showed at the tips. The other hand clawed the air. Exposed muscle on his face twisted into a snarl and he howled.

  "SKIN!" Pink mist blew out of his lungs. Yellow ribs heaved under membrane and infection. The skin eater was wired on Variant. Adrenaline squeezed its windpipe, made it shriek. The dark eyes were locked on Borland's face. It hissed sharply as its juiced cortex targeted the focus of release. Ritual: Remove the skin. Eat the skin. Reduce the stress.

  "Skin!" it barked, charging at the same time as the female. Borland raised his gun and shot her twice, filmy ribs cracking wetly as the impact threw her back. He swung the pistol toward the male, but it came in fast and the barrel glanced off its teeth before he could shoot. Its exposed fingertips hooked in Borland's coat. He went with it, threw all his weight into the thing's chest, shoved it against the wall where it slapped around and stamped before losing its balance.

  The female struggled, pouring blood as she got her feet under her. But Borland charged toward the closest office. If he could set his back against a wall, he'd put his remaining bullets to use. Heart shuddering with booze and exertion, his mass hurtled toward the doorway some 10 feet away.

  But a third Biter leapt out of it screaming: "SSSKIN!"

  The thing had one eye, and the muscles on the left side of its head and neck had been torn away with the skin, leaving the skull at a grotesque angle. The same injuries distorted its torso and chest, but it still moved well, cranked up on human adrenals and limbic system gone mad.

  "SKIN!" it roared and ran at him.

  Borland didn't hesitate. He spun out of its path and struck the wall. Then he rolled and turned back toward the end where the dirty window waited. The skin eaters' hissing calls followed close on his heels. The female was almost on him. He slammed into the wall, the window cracked behind him.

  All three skin eaters stood there. Eyes frenzied with anxiety and madness; they paused, their fingers snapping, pinching the air the way they'd pinch his skin. Their tongues licked at their exposed teeth, anticipating the ritual of release.

  "Skin," they hissed. "SsskinÖ Skin. Skin."

  Blood gushed from holes in the female's chest, sprayed out of her mouth with each breath. The others froze, heads flicking around birdlike orienting for attack. They stepped lightly closer, answering some ancient program and fanning out, making it impossible to pick more than one target at a time.

  Borland raised his .38 and weighed its impotent mass. Skin eaters could take several .38 bullets and keep coming. He had four left.

  His hernias pulled at him-the torn muscles strapped him into place against the wall. His breath was still coming in ragged gasps.

  Choices.

  He glanced out the window behind him: six stories and dead. He looked at the Biters-too many.

  "Choke on it!" Borland snarled, pressing the gun against his own temple.

  The skin eaters bellowed and charged.

  A gun roared.

  CHAPTER 10

  The first male's head exploded in a red spray. Its eyes distended and flew in a shower of gobbets. The body dropped on the floor. The female turned toward it and her face was sheared off by a large caliber round. She collapsed in a heap. The male with the canted head screamed and ran at Borland; but three bullets took it down. The first ripping its throat to pieces and the last lifting the top of its head.

  It fell at Borland's feet.

  In all the excitement he had pointed his .38 at a skinless face that stared with lidless eyes out of a heavy hood.

  "Fool!" Hyde shouted. He had wedged himself against a doorframe down the hall, his steel canes propping him upright. A smoking .44 magnum lingered on Borland's face and then dropped out of sight beneath his coat. The bright eyes flashed under the hood, then Hyde shifted his weight off the canes and shuffled back to his wheelchair where he'd left it in shadow.

  Borland pointed his gun at the dying skin eaters as he limped past. Their bodies twitched and quivered on overloaded synaptic pulses. Blood poured out of their shattered heads, soaked into the floorboards. One of these creatures had bled the angel and must have presented the long dormant Variant Effect while the others attacked.

  All Borland could think of was the old rules: Ziploc, Gas and Burn.

  He followed Hyde toward the wheelchair.

  "They didn't touch you?" Hyde asked, adjusting himself in his seat, his face hidden by the hood.

  Borland shook his head, remembered shoving one out of the way. He turned his arm, saw the scarlet and red stains, then tore his jacket off, pulled the bottle out of his pocket and tossed the garment on the floor.

  "No." He kicked the coat away. "I just pushed the one."

  "Protocol." Hyde's voice was flat.

  "It's the days after," Borland said looking at the bottle in his hand before turning to the corpses. They were still twitching. "I was thirsty."

  "Protocol is worthless if it isn't followed," Hyde snarled, jamming his canes into the seat beside him

  Borland shrugged.

  "Ziploc, Gas and Burn!" Hyde punched the arms of his wheelchair. "What don't you understand about that?"

  "Stop bitching at meÖwaitÖ" Borland looked up. "What are you doing here?"

  "You're just lucky," Hyde hissed, running his wheelchair past Borland.

  "You gave the place the all clear." He grabbed the chair, leaned into Hyde's face. This close he could smell antiseptic. "But it wasn't clear."

  "I was mistaken."

  Borland shook his head and snarled.

  "Just rusty," Hyde said, turning his face away.

  "RustyÖ" Borland echoed. "Where were the victim's clothes?"

  "If you read the history you would know that new packs early in the day had undeveloped Ritual. It requires time and successions of Alphas to refine it. This was a new pack. They stripped everything off the body-valued clothing the same as skin. If you look in their lair, you'll find their victim's clothes. Partially consumed, perhaps. With more experience, the Alphas teach the others and Ritual e
volves."

  "And the shoes?" Borland asked absently. Something was nagging at him.

  "Again neglected history. Partly due to the lack of Alphas, but also timing. Biters lose their shoes in competition with other BitersÖit is a loose piece of covering to sacrifice in a skin fight and they have no interest in them. Their vigorous lifestyles wear shoes out or knock them off," Hyde growled. "That also points to a new pack." He gestured at the bodies. "None of these has been a Biter long."

  "So it's just started," Borland grumbled.

  "For other men to deal with." Hyde wouldn't look up.

  "We'll see." Borland turned away.

  Hyde started to push his wheelchair forward and stopped. "We'll see?"

  Borland pointed at the skin eaters.

  "That's Variant Effect!" He swung back to Hyde. "It's been cooking out there." He slapped his chest. "And in here. It's coming back."

  "We did our part before." Hyde's tone was raw.

  "That's why they'll bring us out of retirement." He chuckled. "We're the poor bastards with experience."

  "I'm finished!" Hyde half-turned in his chair.

  "Like you almost finished me?" Borland's eyes burned.

  "I was mistaken, and if you'd followed protocol instead of coming in here to drink..." Hyde made a motion to move his chair but froze. "Ziploc, Gas and Burn."

  "So when or if we found the gassed bodies we'd figure you lost your touch," Borland snarled. "And never call you back."

  "I was mistaken." Hyde's head hung.

  "But here you are!" The elevator door shrieked down the hall, followed by muffled shouts as the bagged-boys came running. "Proving you knew there were Biters and gave the all clear anyway." He stared at Hyde's lowered hood. "You could lose your pension for this."

  "You wouldn't." Hyde's head turned up; showed a raw jawbone and teeth.

  "Watch me," Borlan growled, sickened by his own threat.

  "I'm finished with this!" Hyde hissed.

  "You'll say that every time they call me up." Borland considered hiding his bottle as the bagged-boys approached, but shrugged, uncapped it and drank.