The Werewolf of Marines Trilogy Page 7

  His thoughts often drifted to that cicada he’d seen on Discovery. Why that was sticking with him, he wasn’t quite sure, but he could almost relate to the bugs. He felt like he was in the same situation, ready to burst forth as a new and better Aiden Kaas. On television, there had been 17-year cicadas, living underground for that length of time before emerging into their adult form. He only half-way jokingly wondered if there was a 19-year Aiden, if it had taken him this long to discover himself.

  A small movement caught the corner of his eye. He swung to look. Once again, though, whatever had moved had now stopped. Aiden was getting good at catching motion, but it seemed harder to focus on things that were not moving. That might have been all in his head, though. His thoughts kept racing against each other, bouncing around inside his skull. It was hard to describe how he felt. His brain “itched,” for lack of a better term.

  He hadn’t told Doctor Gutierrez that, though, when he gone back for a checkup the day before. It was an everything-is-fine-sir-never-felt-better sort of checkup. There was no way Aiden could have stood being ordered back to bed.

  The small wadi they’d been following narrowed, the acacia trees that sent roots down deep into the desert soil constricting the path even more. Aiden stopped for a moment, trying to sense anyone around them. He sniffed the air as if he could actually scent a potential threat. He’d been doing that a lot lately, but his sense of smell was no different that it had ever been. It only seemed like it should be better.

  He turned sideways and pushed between two acacias. He never felt anything, but he heard the metallic click as he stepped forward. That puzzled him for a second. In back of him, Snake yelled out, and Aiden started turning around when the blast caught him, bodily lifting him up and throwing him up and over the edge of the wadi.

  Aiden was dimly aware of hitting the ground. He heard the firing of automatic weapons, the incoming crump of mortars, but at first, they didn’t register. Slowly, a sense of righteous anger took over him. He struggled to sit up. As his mind cleared, he saw the dark stain of blood running down his right arm and dripping into the sand. That brought panic into the mix. He chin was on fire, and his right thigh had taken some hits, but it was his right arm that had been seriously hurt. The blood was coming out in weak spurts at his armpit. He knew he needed help and fast.

  He called out for Doc Mainz, but over the increased firing going from the wadi not 20 feet away, no one heard him. He turned on his stomach and tried to crawl back, but nausea and weakness overcame him. With his face in the sand, he knew his time had come.

  And that made him angry. Very angry.

  He had felt better than he’d ever had in his life. He finally had people who seemed to respect him. And now, he was going to bleed out in the Iraqi desert. He wanted to scream his frustration. A fire started burning deep within himself, a final burst of energy, he figured, before his life force went out.

  With the fire came a stirring of pain. Was this how it felt to die? The pain quickly grew, and despite his weakened condition, he cried out. The pain was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. It was as if the pain was being generated from within him, coming from the inside out. His very bones were screaming in agony.

  He wanted to stand up, to become a target for the machine guns still reaching out in their quest for human flesh, hoping they could end his torment. Aiden knew he was dying, and he wanted to end the misery. But his legs wouldn’t work. He couldn’t draw them underneath himself so he could stand up.

  With his bones being pulverized, fire shot through his nerves. He couldn’t even scream.

  In the midst of the searing pain, he realized he couldn’t breathe. His chest was being compressed. Somehow, he managed to get one traitorous arm to move up and undo his flak jacket, ripping open the Velcro seal. His chest quickly expanded, air rushing back into his lungs. And just like that, the pain was over. It was gone. He knew he was dead.

  Like most people, he wondered what death entailed. He’d know soon enough, but for the moment, he kept his eyes closed as he lay there.

  The firing sounded louder that it had before. He wondered if the hajji were getting closer. It wasn’t his concern anymore, but he hoped his fellow Marines would make it OK. When he heard the soft crunch of sand, he knew his squadmates were coming to get him. It was too late, but the thought warmed him.

  A hand reached out to grab his ankle. Something was wrong though. Aiden knew there were three of them, and he knew they were not American. They didn’t smell like Americans. As the hand on his ankle started dragging him back, away from the fight, Aiden opened his eyes.

  It was in the middle of the night, the moon only a crescent above the far-off mountains, but Aiden could see the three men quite well, better than he should have been able to see them. All three were in jeans and various colored shirts. All three had keffiyehs covering their faces. All three were armed with weapons at the ready. Two had AK47s and one had some sort of old bolt-action rifle.

  Aiden sat up and put his hands down, stopping the first man from pulling him back. The guy said something in Arabic, then jumped back. The second guy pulled his AK down to hold it on Aiden. He seemed to be peering at him, as if he couldn’t see Aiden that well.

  Anger flowed through him, like the fire had just a few moments before, but it was empowering, not debilitating. He slowly stood up. He felt weak, probably from blood loss, and his left arm was not responding normally, but more than that, he felt odd, his center of gravity off. He couldn’t dwell on that now, though.

  His own M16 was gone, probably back in the wadi somewhere. He had to act fast unless he really wanted to be as dead as he had thought he was. A low growl emanated from deep in his throat. The insurgent with the AK dropped the muzzle down, taking another step back.

  Aiden recognized his chance. He sprang across the distance between them, knocking the AK away and tackling the man, sending them both crashing into the other AK gunman. On top of them both, Aiden backhanded the insurgent directly under him. To his surprise the man’s head caved in, blood and brain matter bursting over the three of them. He pushed the limp body aside to get to the other man who was now scrambling on his back to get away. Aiden grabbed the man’s ankle and reeled him in.

  He stood up, lifting the now upside-down and gibbering insurgent. A shot rang out, and a burning pain lanced his belly where his flak jacket was still open. The third insurgent, the one with the antique bolt action rifle was standing tall, furiously working the bolt for another shot.

  Swinging the insurgent he was holding, he launched the man at the third insurgent, knocking them both down. The one he threw tried to crawl away, repeating the same phrase over and over. The insurgent with the old rifle seemed dazed, but he also seemed determined to work his weapon and take another shot at Aiden. That really wasn’t in Aiden’s plans, so he jumped, landing on that man’s feet. He put his hands around the man’s head, and with a jerk, wrenched it clean off. The body stayed upright for a moment, blood spurting straight up, looking just like a scene in the horror movies that Aiden had thought were so fake.

  He dropped the head and took three strides to stand over the third insurgent, legs on either side of the panicked man. Snot was running down the insurgent’s nose and over his mouth, little strings of it flailing out when the man exhaled. Aiden’s anger was fading a notch. Two of his enemy were dead, and he knew the third would join them in a moment. He looked into the man’s eyes, savoring the terror in them. He had absolute and complete power over the hapless man; Aiden was the arbiter of life and death.

  Aiden wasn’t sure why he did it, but he suddenly sunk his teeth into the juncture of the man’s neck and chest, tearing out a huge chunk of flesh. The blood hit his tongue and lit up his taste buds. He had lost too much of his own blood, and Aiden wondered if his body clamored for new blood to replace it.

  The man screamed, his left hand pushing ineffectively against Aiden’s chest. Aiden captured the hand as if it was a butterfly. He gave it a yank, and th
e arm separated at the elbow. The insurgent screamed even louder, if that was possible.

  Aiden tossed the arm away. The man was struggling, but weakly. He was almost gone. Aiden thought he could almost hear the man’s heart race, feebly trying to keep the body alive. Enough was enough. Aiden pulled his right arm back, then slammed it into the man’s chest, breaking through the ribs to grasp his still fluttering heart. With another pull, the heart came free as the man finally went quiet.

  Aiden looked at the heart in his hairy hand, lifted his head, and howled in victory. Yes, howled. He looked back at his hand, suddenly realizing that his hand was not normally so hairy. His eyes travelled up his arm, coarse grey hair covering corded muscle. His hand went to his face, but he knew what he’d feel. His jaw protruded, and his questing fingers wrapped around two inch fangs.

  Aiden knew he should feel more shocked. He was surprised, to be sure, but somehow, it felt right. All his anxiety, all his jittery nerves had been leading to this. It didn’t seem possible, but the proof was before him. Somehow, he’d become an honest-to-goodness werewolf.

  “Kaas, where are you?” a voice reached him.

  It was only then that Aiden noticed that the sounds of battle had stopped. His squad was trying to find him.

  What had almost felt natural a moment before now turned to panic. He was a monster, and his fellow Marines would not react kindly to that. They had a tendency to shoot first and ask questions later. Even if they didn’t shoot, how could he face them? He had to get out of there.

  He dropped the heart he was still holding, leaving it forgotten in the Iraqi sand. With one last look over his shoulder, he ran out into the darkness and let the desert claim him.

  Chapter 17

  Hozan was opening cans of fruit cocktail for the breakfast rush when he felt it, a light tickling of the nerves in the jaw. It could have been nothing, but he’d been on a heightened awareness after Aiden Kaas survived the transformation. When a member of the Tribe shifted, an extraordinary amount of energy was released, and that energy could usually be detected by others in the Tribe. For Hozan, he felt it in his jaw. Others seemed to feel it in the gut or the neck. Not everyone, though, felt anything at all.

  Without someone to guide him, it was doubtful that Aiden would know how to shift. If he did manage to find the path to make his first transformation, Hozan felt he’d certainly know it given that the first shift was always the worst. The tickle in his jaw could have been nothing more than a bad meal manifesting itself.

  He finished with the fruit cocktail and continued with his list. With a couple of thousand meals to prepare, there was a manufacturing-like process of feeding the hungry masses, somewhat far removed from what Hozan would consider cooking.

  The early birds started coming in, and Hozan took his place on the chow line. He’d been serving for about five minutes when a gunny rushed up to interrupt a major who Hozan had just served. The major was at the next station, but Hozan could clearly hear what was said. There had been another attack on a Marine unit. Nothing new about that, and Hozan listened in more from habit than anything else.

  The gunny told the major that a Marine was missing. The major handed his tray back to the server and turned to leave the DFAC.

  Too bad for that Marine, Hozan thought. Things like that were to be expected, though. This was war, after all.

  The major asked the name of the Marine, and just before they passed through the entrance, the gunny responded, “PFC Aiden Kaas.”

  Hozan stopped mid-serve, the creamed beef sloshing onto the serving unit.

  “Sorry, sir,” he said automatically.

  Aiden was missing, maybe captured. If he’d made the shift, his first shift, he would be confused and exhausted. The mujahideen could have him. That demanded immediate action.

  Hozan knelt behind the serving station. He concentrated on his hand, shifting only the right forefinger. Not every member of the Tribe had that kind of control. Only a few older members could do it. Four fingers remained human—one grew to about eight inches, longer, but thinner than the others. He put the finger down his throat until the gag reflex, which was stronger when shifted, took over. He jumped up just in time to vomit into the vat of beef.

  Marines jumped back as the vomit splashed. The other servers alongside of him rushed to his aid, and the American supervisor joined them.

  “Sorry, sir. Sorry. I think I ate something bad for breakfast.”

  Hozan had eaten food prepared by the DFAC cooks, so this was something of concern. The supervisor did not need to be poisoning America’s finest.

  “What did you eat?” he demanded.

  “Oatmeal and some pineapple, sir,” he got out, making himself sound miserable.

  “Clarence,” the supervisor shouted to another American, “get all the oatmeal and pineapple off the line, now.

  “Benjamin,” he told a Nigerian contract worker, a lower level manager. “Get this mess cleaned up, and for God’s sake, sanitize everything. All food on the line right now gets shit-canned and replaced. No new oatmeal and pineapple, though. Let’s go. We’ve got hungry mouths to feed.”

  “Hozan, I want you to go home. Don’t come back until you feel better,” he said.

  Hozan kept his head down and staggered out. As soon as he was out the door, he straightened up. A few discreet enquiries later, he knew where Aiden’s unit had been sent. It was still dark, so after only 200 meters or so beyond the camp’s gate, took off his clothes and shifted. This time, he didn’t stop at the varg form. He shifted all the way. He hated to do it. A full shift to wolf form took a lot of energy and shortened the lifespan of his kind. Tribe members who made the full shift too often went feral more often than not. But Hozan had to get there fast, then find Aiden. If he was captured by anyone, mujahideen or Marines, Hozan would have to get him out of there so he could guide him back to his human form.

  Hozan hadn’t made a full shift for 15 or 20 years, and as he took on the body of a wolf, he wondered why. The back of his mind knew the dangers of going this far too often, but the wolf in him reveled in the freedom, the speed at which he could run, the heightened senses.

  In varg form he could smell far better than as a human, picking up subtle nuances that no human could discern. When in wolf form, though, there was a quantum leap in his ability to smell. It was like a blind man suddenly being able to see.

  The hybrid varg, or “wolfman” form was actually far more practical, keeping the best aspects of both human and wolf. A varg could speak, use his hands, drive a car, do most anything a human could do. He was stronger, though, immensely so. He had a better sense of smell. He could run faster and remain unnoticed.

  As a wolf, while there was an inherent feeling of superiority, it was just not as practical. Given the greater expenditure of energy and the risk of going feral, a full shift wasn’t done that often. A few Tribe members, especially the newly turned, could never even achieve a full transformation.

  Hozan eased into the ground-devouring lope common to lupines. It only took him 30 minutes to reach the area where his sense of smell and hearing were able to guide him to the battlefield. Marines were combing the area, senses on alert. Aiden hadn’t been found by them, then. He could still be captured by the mujahideen, though.

  Hozan zeroed in on where the smell of werewolf was almost overpowering. Three bodies were lined up in a row, horribly mangled. Several Marines were standing beside them, so Hozan couldn’t get a closer look. He didn’t need to see any more, though. This was the work of a werewolf. The scent was unmistakable.

  Hozan crept around them and picked up Aiden’s trail. Aiden would have shifted, and as such, he was fast. Not as fast at Hozan, though. Hozan loped off, closing the distance. The trail led straight for a couple of kilometers, a sign of the panic that had taken over the Marine. When the tracks got closer together and started to meander back and forth, Hozan knew Aiden was getting his mind back, trying to understand just what had happened to him. Without a mentor, without g
uidance, it had to have been a shock.

  Part of the wolf nature encouraged his kind to hole up when under stress or danger, so it was not surprising that when Hozan caught up with him, Aiden was surrounded by several tall rocks; they didn’t form a cave, but they did offer some protection. Hozan could sense him back there, still 20 meters away. He could almost hear the pounding of the Marine’s heart, the bellows-like breathing. The Marine also had a sense of focus about him, which wasn’t surprising. At this distance, Aiden would also have sensed him and known Hozan was there.

  Hozan could either close with and kill the new member of the Tribe—now that he had shifted, Aiden was technically part of the Tribe—or try and talk him down. What he couldn’t do was let Aiden fend for himself.

  Hozan was not a killer by nature, despite what he’d been doing to the Halabja pilots. Unless he had direct orders from the Council, or unless a situation arose when there was absolutely no other choice, he would not take the life from another member of the Tribe.

  He couldn’t do much as a wolf, so he shifted back to human. Naked, he stepped up to the rocks, ready to call out to Aiden, to calm him down. He underestimated the Marine’s fear, though. Aiden sprang forward, his intent clear.

  Hozan could see that Aiden was hurt, and he wouldn’t yet understand how to fight in his new form, but Hozan couldn’t expect to stand up to him while a human. He immediately shifted to varg just as Aiden crashed into him. Hozan was knocked down, and he had to reach out to keep Aiden’s jaws from closing on his face. With a shift of his hips, he knocked Aiden over and got astride him, pinning the Marine down.

  “Aiden Kaas, calm down. I am a friend, a friend. You need to calm down,” Hozan said in the slurred and raspy manner of his kind when they were varg.

  Aiden struggled under him, trying to buck him off, growling inarticulately. Hozan kept repeating what he was saying, over and over, like a mantra. Finally, what he was saying seemed to register. Aiden’s struggles became less pronounced. He gave one last heave that failed to free himself, then seemed to give up.