Slashquatch

Chapter 1

        

The armored black truck, slid along the hilly curved roads of rural Washington State. In the overcast and foggy night were the the headlight beams glowed in the overcast and foggy night, illuminating the black top and the endless tall trees of the thick forest.

        The armed private contractors faces, illuminated by the red dash lights were sunken and weary. Their generic dark blue uniforms covered in official badges and empty pockets. The driver, Brad, was middle aged, white and slightly heavy set, think neck, and thinning reddish brown hair. Jeff was younger, early thirties, black, almost gaunt. An AM country channel played on the radio.

        Jeff turned to look through the small rectangular opening to the back of the truck, "It’s weird, it’s been quiet the whole trip."

        "For once," said Brad, adjusting his steering as the truck snaked through a bend.

        "I don’t like it. It’s like it’s planning something."

        "Yeah, he’s been quiet. Too quiet," Brad said mockingly, "Just relax, you’ll get used to it. These runs are easy. There’s nothing it can do -Locked up tighter than a nun’s thighs."

        "I know, I know. But these things freak me out."

        "Yeah, the way they look at you sometimes, like they’ve got you figured out."

        The two sit in silence, watching the white lines yellow dashes, then Brad says.

        "Turn up the music a bit would ya?"

        "Sure," Jeff reached to the console and turned up a crackling pedal steel solo.

        "I hate country, but this ain’t so bad," said Brad.

        Jeff nodded and looked out the window.

        The engine revved as the truck struggled through an uphill turn. Brad’s phone buzzed. He slid the phone out from his pocket and read the text. His face turned into a sly smile. He starts to text back. Jeff noticed and frowned but looked out the window again. The truck slid over the line onto the shoulder.

        "Watch it!" barked Jeff.

        Brad looked up, "Shit!" he yelled, wrenching the wheel and dropping the phone at his feet.

        The truck hit a pothole with a loud thump. The truck bounced violently, throwing Brad’s coffee out of the cup holder. Brad steered back onto the road.

        "Shit! Fucking roads. I should call the city and complain."

        Jeff glared at Brad, "Actually this is a county road."

        Brad gave Jeff a dirty look, then looked back to the road with renewed focus, "Whatever, let’s earn our pay and go get a beer."

        "Or ten,"

        "Well, truck seems okay. I’ll pick up that first round."

***

        The building was modern, concrete and glass. It was set into a gentle hill with three stories above ground and two below. The sign at the entrance to the building grounds reads "Gentronix - Biolutions"

        Lauren Long walked through the empty, darkened main laboratory. The room was large with high ceilings, but in the darkness the size was obscured. The only light in the room emitted from small windows in steel cylinders of varying sizes. The cylinders were set in rows and ranged from a foot or so high and wide, all the way up to three feet in diameter and seven feet high. Tubes and wires sprouted out of each cylinder like Medusa’s hair.

        Lauren was tall, mid forties, elegant, wearing dark business attire. She was confident and alert. She walked slowly along the row, each step accompanied by the click high-heeled shoes on concrete. She stopped to peer in each window, sometimes touching the steel. After visiting the last one she looked at her watch, turned abruptly and headed out of the lab. The heavy steel door thumped as she locked it behind her. As she walked down the hall, an open door caught her attention and she stepped in. The server room was smaller, about fifty feet square. The room hummed. The four supercomputers sat in the middle. Each was  seven foot high, octagonal tower with smooth steel panels. Lights on small insets blinked randomly. Tall racks of servers and other electronic equipment lined the walls. The floor was recessed six inches or so and a series of walk-ways covered much of the floor, with the data and power cables running underneath like slime mold trails seeking food. Lauren stood in the doorway and surveyed the room. She swore in disgust and closed the steel door, locking shut. The LED on the door panel turned from green to red. She walked quickly down the hallway and rode the elevator up.

        On the third floor she passed through a sea of cubicles. The walls and every surface was a retangle some shade of grey. She passed a break room with white plastic tables, a blinking coffee machine and overflowing garbage can with pizza boxes stuffed to the top. On the walls was rented art, first a pastoral agricutral scene in gold and green and then an abstract study of more white lines and rectangles.

        As she approached the end of the dark hallway, light filtered through the small window of a closed steel door. Lauren breathed deeply, opened the door and walked in. The room was a small operations center: computer monitors, servers, and various data and power cables envelope the space. Jeremy and Vernon, sitting at work stations on the far left of the room nodded when she entered and turned to the banks of screens in front of them. She turned right and sat down behind the desk in the corner of the room and brushed her black neck length hair behind her ears.

        Jeremy was skinny pale blonde with long blonde hair and wore glasses. He wore an internet cat t-shirt and jeans. Vernon, dark skinned and stout, shorter and has a rounder face and wore thick glasses. His short tightly curled black hair has a perfect part down one side. He wore a short sleeve polo short and khaki pants. He stared blankly the monitors.

        "Hey Vernon," said Jeremy. "I’d like to give you my Top Ten Monster Movie Kills of the last thirty years."

        "It changed from last week?" asked Vernon flatly, still staring at his screen.

        Jeremy turns from his workstation to face Vernon and leans back in his chair.

        "Yes, it did. Number Ten: The cook in the remake of The Blob who gets sucked down a drain. Lots of good kills in that movie." He rubbed his chin, "hard to pick just one."

        "A human being sucked down a drain? Highly implausible."

        "I’m glad you asked. Not implausible, see The Blob uses acid to melt people. The blob was melting the cook as he went down. It could happen. Number nine: In John Carpenter’s remake of The Thing when Norris was on the table and the Doc was trying to use the paddles to revive him and he’s like ’Clear’ and he goes in to zap Norris’s chest it opens up and there’s this toothy mouth that chops off his hands and he’s like ’Ahhh!’,"

        "Number eight is going to Jurassic Park when the lawyer gets eaten by a T-Rex, pretty much just cause its a T-Rex. Number seven: Slugs. The guy is at the restaurant and he starts bleeding out his nose into his drink and then these weird parasites eat his face from the inside. Six: Slither, when the girl has all the slug things growing inside her and she becomes spectacularly spheroidal until she blows up. Five-"

        "The list seems pretty stable so far, I don’t think you need to run through the whole thing again," quipped Lauren.

        Jeremy shrugged and turns back to his workstation.

        "And this is from the guy who wrote the locus classicus on Genetic Manipulation," said Vernon.

        "Yep, wrote it in about a week.  Have I showed it to you Dr. Long?"

        Lauren looked intently at her screen. "Yes, you have Jeremy. More than once."

        "Did you read it?" Jeremy asked.

        "I skimmed it for things I didn’t know. Didn’t take long,"

        Jeremy looked at Vernon and shook his head, "Sarcasm."

        "No," Vernon said dryly, "Sarcasm implies her actual meaning was opposite the literal meaning. She did not mean the opposite of what she said. She was only trying to communicate disdain."

        Jeremy leaned back, looking at Vernon and twiddling the pen in his hand. Lauren threw Jeremy a fake smile.

        Jeremy said to Vernon, "Lauren’s just jealous because she’s a manger of scientists when she really wants to be a scientist.  We went to school together you know. I used to help her with stats, molecular biology.  What else?"

        "Yes, I used to help you get numbers from girls at parties, who never called you back."

        Vernon smiled, stilling looking at the screen.

        Jeremy leaned back in his chair shaking his head and smiling too. "See, this is why I like her," he said to Vernon.

        Vernon blinked and looked like he was about to say something.

        "Where’s the van?" snapped Lauren.

Jeremy and Vernon tensed and focused on their screens. After a few clicks Jeremy called out, "four minutes out, got it on GPS."

        "And everyone’s ready in the loading dock?" said Lauren.

        "Yes, got confirmation from Bob. We’re ready for transfer," said Jeremy.

        "Good, I want to get home. Claire’s coming in early tomorrow," said Lauren

        "That’s nice," said Vernon.

        "Yes, it is nice," said Lauren absently staring at the monitors.

        Bob Jordan surveyed the Gentronix loading dock, inspecting the area and his team. The room was about seventy-five by seventy-five, illuminated with harsh fluoresenting lights and filled with pallets of equipment: forty gallon drums, a forklift, building materials, lab equipment wrapped in plastic. Guards, two with tranquilizer guns and two with semi-automatic rifles formed a semi circle perimeter around the open dock door. They were dressed in all black uniforms, helmets and equipment vests. Personnel wearing jumpsuits, hardhats and thick gloves stood behind them. One was operating a forklift. Bob walked amongst them, inspecting their equipment. The team shifted their weight uneasily, focusing on the open loading doors.

        Jeff snapped straight and listened. Underneath the AM country there was a muffled creaking. Then a metal door opening. Jeff turned to the sliding slat covering the window to the back. He reached up, his hand shaking. He slapped it open, revealing only blackness.

        "What are you doing?" said Brad, annoyed.

        Jeff turned and glanced in the large side mirror. As they came out of a turn the opened back door came into view. Jeff’s face contorted in horror.

        "Gsst!" he spurted out, grabbing Brad’s shoulder.

        "Tummy acting up again? Do we need to pull over?" asked Brad, genuinely concerned.

        Jeff reached for the radio –a Thump! Both guards looked up in horror.

        "It’s… It’s loose," Jeff wimpered. He fumbled with the radio.

A twisted metal pole smashed through the windshield and impaled Jeff’s arm against the seat.

        "Gah!" he screamed.

        "Fuck!" yelled Brad.

        A large, long hairy arm shot through the passenger side window, grabbing Jeff’s face. Sharp, yellow nails dug into his flesh. Jeff’s screaming became garbled as he writhed to escape the facegrab pulling him out the window. Jeff pushed and struck with his free arm with no effect, his impaled arm keeping him in the truck. The quatchi pulled harder, the pressure stretched out the hole in the guards arm and the metal groaned. The pole started ripping a path in the seat and safety glass, but neither the guards arm nor the lodged metal gives way. The Jeff’s arm and face bled profusely. Something popped. Jeff spasmed and went limp. The quatchi grunted and disappeared.

        Moaning, Brad grabbed the radio, "Mayday, mayday!" He looked in his side mirror. In the flickering darkness he saw a darker shape crawling along the side of the truck towards him. Brad hit the power window button, the window went up at the pace of a lift bridge. He reached for his pistol. The quatchi broke the glass and grabbed his chest, the nails penetrating his uniform and flesh. Brad flung the pistol around and fired. The hand retreated. He fired again. The truck passes the Gentronix sign. Brad acelerated and checked his side mirror, blood welling up and darkening his uniform.

        Thumps and scraping -all around him, Brad pulled the trigger twice, popping holes in the roof. Most of the windshield except for a small area was cracked and opaque. The pole that impaled Jeff slid out, catching on Jeff’s arm, making it flail outward.

        "Come on!" Brad fired out of the windshield three times, then up through the roof again. The pole stops for a moment, then quickly, slid all the way out. Jeff’s body rolls forward. Brad swerved back and forth unable to see out the cracked windshield. The pole smashed through the roof, cutting clean through his right forearm and into his leg. The quatchi slid gracefully through the passenger side window, in the same motion flinging Jeff’s body out the window. Brad let go of the wheel and switched and took the pistol from his impaled right hand. Brad screamed as the quatchi shot towards him.

        In the Gentronix control room the three hear Brad’s frantic mayday, then static. They look at one another other in shock. In a sort of trance, Lauren grabs a two way radio, "Transfer team. Something’s wrong. Get ready."

        In the loading dock, Bob raised two fingers to his ear and motions to his team, "We heard it," He barked at the team, "check your weapons, safety’s off!"

        The guards checked their weapons and steadied themselves.

        Looking through the open loading door there’s a flash and muffed ’pop’. A second later the truck emerged from the fog. Its engine idling in neutral slid slowly through loading bay doors. The team made way as it rolled and gently struck a pallet of steel gas tanks and stopped. The engine continued to idle as blood dripped from cab. The front window was smashed and there was blood splattered on the side and in the cab.

        "Steady people," Bob said slowly. He signaled to two of the team and they circled behind the truck. Bob signaled another guard to follow him. Bob raised his pistol and slowly approached. Puncture marks run the length of the truck.

        "Clear!" shouted the guards looking in the open doors in the back.

Bob grabbed the handle of driver’s side door and looked at the other guard, who nodded. Bob flung it open. Brad’s head and torso are next to the gas and break, one leg up on the passenger seat. His head was twisted at an unnatural angle and his arm was still pinned to the seat.

        In the control room the three looked at each other, stunned.

        "That’s not good. That’s Brad," said Jeremy.

        "Should someone call nine one one?" asked Vernon

        "He’s in the dart league," said Jeremy.

        "No, no," snaped Lauren. She steadied herself, "No. This facility is under military control. Call Fort Henderson."

        Vernon picked up the phone and dialed. Lauren collapsed into her chair and covered her hands over her mouth. In the black and wide security cameras the guards looked cautiously out the loading doorway.

Chapter TBD

Red "Reddy" Henderson waded out a third of the way into Woodcock Creek. The fast current, lapped at his heavy khaki waders up to his hips, trying to push him along. The blue-grey tint of dawn barely lifted the creek and the steep valley out of darkness. About a hundred yards away a bridge, seventy-five feet high, cut across the creek. Reddy, practiced his casting, watching the rod as he whipped it back and forth. He took off his short brimmed hat and picked out a blue and green fly. After tying it on he strung out line, whipping the rod back and forth. The fly lofted an arc and landed thirty feet down stream, just left of a small eddy created by two large boulders. Cars crossed the bridge: ’ka-thump, ka-thump’ over the seams. Reddy grimaced and slapped a mosquito on his neck. He looked at he bloody mosquito mess in his hands and rinsed it off in the stream.

        "Damn skeeters."

        He reeled in the line and tied on a new fly. The creek gurgled and the cars ka-thumped overhead. He casted, flicking the line back and forth, the line looping upwards in a levitating spiral. A splash, a flash of grey. The line tightened. Reddy flicked the rod back, setting the hook.

        "Hey! There we are!" he yelled.

        He pulled and spun the handle, the reel ratching. The line moved back and forth, the line vibrating against two forces. Reddy pulled again. the rod bent, then snapped straight. Withou resistance Reddy stepped back to keep his balance, his free arm wheeling to regain balance.

        "Damn."

        He reeled in the line and inspected the fly, finding a small chunk of white flesh impaled on the barb.

        A muffled splash covered by the ’ka-thump ka-thump’ of the bridge. Reddy squeezed the barb and slid off the chunk. Another, deeper splash. Reddy turned around. A succession of quickening splashes. Reddy’s face contorted in horror as he gasped. He dropped his rod and fell backwards; pushed downstream by the current.. He turned again and waded swam through the waist deep water, the rocks shifting under his boots. The individual splashes behind now a continuous roar.

        The creature grunted; breathing quickened.

        Reddy into the center of the creek, still swollen from spring rains. Ahead was white water and the white noise of rapids. He fumbled in his pocket and unfolded a three inch knife. A hot breath warmed his neck.

        The creature grabbed his fishing vest and pulled Reddy in. Snarling, the quatchi slashed Reddy’s back and neck. Reddy threw out both hands, trying to block the claws.

        Ka-thump, ka-thump.

        They tumbled in the quickening current. The massive creature spun under the fattier man and is pulled under. It uses an arm to try righting itself, the other still digging into Reddy. Reddy stabs the creature in the arm with the knife.

        The creature slammed into a logjam. Reddy twisted away. The creature’s grasping hand flailed in the water but found nothing.

        Down stream about twenty yards Reddy’s head popped up. Gasping, he floated down stream, blood washing away from deep wounds on his shoulders and neck. He bobbed gently through large boulders, the rushing sound attenuating. At a small outcrop of soft mud and grass, he pulled himself up out of the water, bloody and wet.

        A hairy, clawed hand pushed out of the rapid, digging into a rotting log.

        Reddy wrapped a bandana around his gushing neck. Gasping for breath, he headed up the side of the gorge.He struggles up the hill on his hands and knees through dead leaves and scratching underbrush. The quatchi howled in the distance.

        He reached the top of the gorge and crawled a few feet to a black top road. He looked behind him and shambled down the road, muddy and dripping water and blood. Another roar, closer. Headlights approached, the light still in the blues of early dawn. Reddy stumbled into the car’s path, one hand up, the other on his neck. The car braked late and swerved wide, stopping a few feet behind him. Reddy fell to his knees. The motor still running, the driver-side door opened and a young man stepped out.  A woman in the passenger seat looked over her shoulder, her eyes droopy head waivering.

        "Hey, what happened?" said the man walking towards Reddy, "did you get hit?"

        Reddy shook his head, his breathing labored, choking on his words.

        "No, an animal… creature."

        "Okay, let’s… let’s get you to a hospital."

        They struggled getting Reddy into the back seat. The creature howled again. The man and the woman froze, looking towards the creek.

        "Go. Go!" Reddy gasped.

The man shoved Reddy’s legs in the car and slammed the door. He got in and stepped on the gas before his door was closed.

        "What was that?" he asked.

        Reddy said nothing. The girl stared at Reddy then turned around and threw up in her lap.

Chapter 2

        The Bleeding Ridge train depot was small open shelter with few benches and a parking lot. A passenger train rolled into the station and came to a halt with its brakes whining tiredly. Then exhaling after coming to rest. A few passengers disembarked with bags and rolling suitcases. Claire Long exited last, struggling a bit with a camping backpack and rolling suitcase. She was about five five, slender, light complexion, dark wavvy hair pulled back. She squinted as the sun hits her eyes. She set the rolling bag down, pulled out the handle and walked to one of the two benches. She wore jeans and a University of Oregon sweatshirt and blue and green knit tam. The shelter was four posts with ivy crawling up two of them and an arched steel roof. She slid the weight of the backpack onto the bench with a grunt. She watched the only others at the depot, a grandmother held an infant and spoke cooed to an infant in her arms. The mother stood next to her and smiled tiredly. They were in no hurry. Claire watched them as they slowly walked away. She took out her phone checking texts scrolled through her feed.

        Lauren Long parked and walked up to the station. She smiled, spotting her daughter from a distance. Claire waived and met her halfway.

        "Hey college girl," said Lauren, embracing Claire.

        "Hi," said Claire.

        "Glad your home."

        "Yep, me too."

        "We are going to have so much fun together this summer."

        "Oh really? What do you have planned for us?"

        "Come on, let me take that."

        Lauren picked up the rolling suitcase. Claire threw the backpack over her shoulder and walked towards the car.

        "Morning coffee, hiking, helping me build a retaining wall, gardening, fixing a leak in the attic."

        "Now I see. I’m free labor."

        "Not free, I pay room and board."

        "Touche. But don’t you have a boyfriend?  Shouldn’t Jared be helping you do stuff? That’s what boys are for right?" she said twirling a lock of hair around her ear.

        Lauren laughed, "Jared, is great, but he’s not exactly…handy."

        "That’s weird, he looks like a handy guy. All beardy and flannelish."

        "That’s just his look. Being a musician."

        "Who only looks outdoorsy."

        "If you don’t like Jared, say the word and I’ll dump him and live out my life alone."

        "No, I like Jared. Bet that beard isn’t even real is it?"

        "So glad your back. I forgot how funny you are."

        "And I will be nice to him. I’m always nice. You look tired or something. You okay?"

        Lauren hesitated, "Yeah, I know. I’m fine. I’m just. I didn’t sleep well last night."

        "Work?"

        "Yeah. Work," she lifted one side of her lips and raised her eyebrows.

        "Aaannnd you can’t talk about it."

        "You got it. So, let’s just forget it," They stuffed Claire’s luggage into Lauren’s white Subaru wagon and pulled out. Near the train station was a number of warehouses and small industrial buildings. Ed’s Autobody, a white stucco building with two garage doors and a small office. Patients Ed couldn’t save sat rusting in neat rows in the dirt and grass lot next to the garage. AAA Construction Rental was surrounded by tall chain link fence and was filled with trucks, Bobcats and backhoes. Some of the buildings were empty, boarded up and dilapitated. Away from the tracks the houses were small: tall grass, plastic flamingos, toys and beat up trucks. Downtown, they passed the Driftwood Café, with outdoor seating and its sign "Best Vegan Cupcakes". The Silver Dollar, neon beer signs and tinted windows an old man in overalls shuffled out the door. Giftshops, the credit union and Venture and Voyage Outfitters, with a rack of kayaks out front. They made a left off Main. On Third Street the houses were Victorian: usually two-tone color schemes, fresh. The lawns were trimmed and green. They pulled into their Victorian and carried everything in.

        Jared Lake sat in the living room plucking out a chord on an acoustic guitar. He was mid-forties, beard, flannel. A mug of coffee sat on the coffee table.

        "Hey Claire, welcome back." He said.

        "Hey Jared. It’s good to be back."

        "The old hometown. Where you grew up."

        "Yeah, yeah. That’s a good song title."

        "What?"

        Claire broke out into a raspy Bruce Springsteen, "That ol’ hometown! Where you grew up!"

        Jared tilted his head and chuckled, "Yeah, maybe."

        Jared and Claire looked at each other, nodding their heads. Lauren smiled at both of them.

        "Cool," said Jared with finality.

        "Jared?" said Lauren looking at the coffee table.

        "Yeah babe."

        Slightly exasperated, "coaster please."

        "Oh right, sorry."

        Jared slid a coaster under the coffee mug.

        Claire turned to Lauren, "You haven’t turned my room into a crafting room or anything have you?"

        "As if I had the time. And for that remark you’re carrying both bags up. I’ll put together some lunch."

        "OMG, making me carry my own stuff? That I chose to pack?" She picked up both suitcases and started up the stairs, then turned to Lauren, "how could you?"

Chapter 3

Wendell Wong set his bike down on the edge of the driveway of the Long’s house, walked up to the front door.

        Jared sat on the couch with his guitar and sipped his coffee. He put the mug coffee table, swore to himself and moved it to the coaster. He rolled his shoulders and twisted his torso, sucked in a breath and strummed a chord

        "That ol’," he sang emotionally almost in tune, "That ol,"

He strumed the chord again.

        "Hometown!" he sang resolutely.

        The doorbell rang.

        "Jared honey, can you get that?" yelled Lauren from the kitchen.

        Jared rolled his eyes.

        "Sure thing. Its probably a record exec, with my million dollar advance," he said, smiling to himself.

        Jared opened the door. Wendell Wong was in the doorway. Wendell was of Korean decent, about five seven. He wore in khaki shorts and a blue-buttoned short sleeve shirt.

        "Hey man," Jared said.

        "Hey. Jared."

        Jared stood in the doorway, looking at Wendell.

        "Is Claire around?"

        "Not sure. Come on in."

        Jared waved Wendell in as he walked back to the livingroom. Wendell enterd and closed the door behind him.

        "I love your new album,"

        "Its alright. CD or download?"

        "Umm, Claire lent it to me."

        "Huh?"

        "So, Clare?"

        Jared pointed upstairs and flopped back onto the couch.

        "Hi Wendell!" said Lauren from the kitchen.

        "Hi Ms. Long!"

        "I think Claire is in her room, go on up."

        "Okay, thanks."

        Claire laid on her bed, wearing headphones and reading a library book. Her room was full of art and music posters. Shelves filled with books, CD’s and vinyl. On her dresser are incense, candles and notebooks.  Wendell knocked on the door. Claire doesn’t hear at first. Wendell knocks a little louder. Claire slid off her headphones.

        "Hello?"

        "Claire?"

        "Wendell!? You may enter."

        "Hey Claire!" said Wendell sunnily as he opened the door.

        "Hey!"

        Claire sprang up and they embraced.

        "Have a seat. You may move that crap," Claire gestured to a chair next the dresser and window.

        Wendell moved a gym bag and text books and sat down.

        "Welcome back," said Wendell.

        "Thanks, its good to be home. What’s up dude?"

        "Nothin’, I’ve been back a week and I’m already bored."

        "Really? Bummer. I’m looking forward to doing nothing all summer. Except working. Need to find a job I guess."

        "Cool. I got that internship at the gazette this summer. Unpaid"

        "Really? That is awesome. What’re you doing?"

        Wendell leaned back and picked up a green candle from the top of the dresser and sniffed it.  

        "Everything. Setting up editions. I’m starting to do some of the writing. I don’t know. The paper isn’t what is was. It’s basically Mr. Barnes and Jim Kline and Jim is part time. So, I’m not sure how long the paper will be around."

        "Still, seems like a good summer gig to me."

        Wendell puts the candle back and slid it back exactly where it was. Claire watched him and smiled.

        "Yeah, I guess it is. Hey, I won some tickets for that new theater on Highway Eight. I was thinking about seeing the latest Hollywood crap on Friday. Want to go?"

        "Mmm, how about a matinee this weekend, I’m chillin’ with me madre on Friday night."

        "Yeah, I think I can do that. So, how was the end of your semester?"

        "Alright, I feel pretty good about my finals, except my stats final, but who ever feels good about anything stats-wise? I just don’t want to think about it. How was yours?"

        "Finals went okay. Hey, whatever happened with you and that guy?"

        "Oh," Claire said and rolled her eyes, "Absolutely nothing. He was a jerk. Just a hunk of meathead that amused me for a bit."

        "Yeah, totally,"

        "How about you? Any ladies in your life?"

        "So many. All of them really. They have to take a number."

        Claire chuckled, "Awesome. Want to eat?  I’m hungry."

        "Sure thing, Driftwood?" suggested Wendell.

        "Sure."

        "They just got an espresso machine."

        "What! Bleeding Ridge is turning into a real metropolis.

        "We’re gettin’ real sophisticated. They’ve even installed the weefee tubes for your computer phone."

        They walked down the stairs. Lauren was in the kitchen sipping on tea, pacing back and forth. The lights were off and the northern facing windows cast the kitchen in greys and blues. Lauren’s pacing stopped as she heard Lauren and Wendell thump down the stairs.

        Claire swung her head around the corner into the kitchen, her dark curls swinging around.

        "Hi and bye, we’re going to grab a bite,"

        "Bye Ms. Long," said Wendell.        

        "Okay, have fun you two. Oh Claire?"

        "Yo," said Claire from the hallway.

        "Claire?"

        "Yes?"

        "Come’ere," she said approaching the door herself.

        Claire dropped her shoulder and stuck out her jaw, "Yes," she said lightly, creeping back towards the kitchen.

        "I’d like you to stay close during the next few days? As in, nothing outside of town and nights here. Will you do that for me?

        "So, I have a curfew now?"

        "No," Lauren paused, "No, I ask it as a personal favor to me, stay close for a while okay?"

        "Because of Mr. Reddy?"

        "Because of Mr. Reddy. Claire, they still don’t know who or what is out there. Do they Wendell?" she finished a little louder.

        "No, they don’t. The sheriff has a theory but I don’t-"

        "Just put your mother’s mind at ease, I’d appreciate the favor,"

        Claire thought about it, "Okay, I can do that. But if something comes up we may have to renegotiate."

        "Okay, just let me know if something does come up."

        "Alright."

        "Thank you. Have fun. I’m headed that way in a minute. Do you want a ride?"

        "We’re biking,"

        "Okay,"

        "Bye!" chirped Wendell.

         Lauren looked worriedly as Claire and Wendell left. She went back to pacing. Jared’s musical explorations continued without resolution. She looked at her watch and picked up her laptop bag from the hall.

        "Going to work, lock up when you go,"

        "Sure babe," Jared said and strummed a chord.

Chapter 3

        Lauren leaned forward desk in the control room.

        Jeremy read a report, "So, our security teams haven’t found anything. Team one found a dead raccoon, but turned out the raccoon probably got electrocuted from a power line and is probably a couple weeks old."

        Lauren got up paced around the room, "And that’s it?"

        "That’s it."

        "Do you really think it killed Principal Reddy?"

        "Oh yes, there’s no doubt from the photos."

        "God, what a mess," She stopped and looked at her watch, "we should go, its time,"

        "Yeah," he said flatly.

        Lauren picked up her laptop and walked out.

         Jeremy followed her down the hall to a meeting room.

        "What have you heard?" he asked her quietly.

        "We’re fucked if we don’t get it back soon. And even if we can we’re still fucked if we can’t produce something the Pentagon wants to buy next month."

        "That’s not cool,"

        "The opposite of cool."

        In the meeting room was large wood table with six chairs and a large flat screen TV on opposite end from the door. Jeremy sat down and rocked in one of the chairs. Lauren sat down and inserted a cable into her laptop. She breathed deeply and clicked a button. An image of another, larger meeting room appeard on the large flatscreen. A group of well-dressed, concerned, executives sat a long table.

        "Hello, good morning everyone," Lauren said.

        "Good morning," said an older man at the head of the table in a dark suit with short greying hair leaned forward, "any news on our…prison break last night?

        "Unfortunately no. To reduce the number of targets and security risks, all non-essential persolnnell have been sent home. Our security personnel have been searching the grounds and the surrounding land, looking for clues.

        "Looking for clues?" said another executive, exasperated.

        The first executive raised a hand to silence the other. He faced the camera again. "This problem has the potential to end this company. And create a huge legal liability for its officers. We’ll need more than clues here."

        "Everything we’ve done is legal, we’ve done nothing wrong."

        "What is legal and illegal can change very quickly Ms. Long, if the public finds out. It was supposed to be decades before they were needed, maybe never needed at all."

        Lauren looked down and interlocked her fingers and ran her thumbs over and around each other. Jeremy chewed his fingernails.

        The executive continued, "I’ve informed the General and he is sending a team under Colonel Baker."

        Lauren shook her head and closed her eyes.

        "Oh, you’re upset Ms. Long? Well then you should not have lost one of those slice and dice machines. Colonel Baker will be taking over the search. What he says goes. Is that clear?"

        "Yes," said Lauren softly.

        "And the Recall Protocol, still not ready?

        Jeremy leaned forward, "Yes, sir and I mean no sir its not ready yet. We’re still having trouble with the resolution. But given the circumstances, we’re just going to finish it and hope it works well enough for our immediate purposes. It should be ready in forty-eight hours or so. Myself, Vernon and Glen are working on it round the clock, when we’re not sitting in meetings."

        "Jeremy, you’re going to regret those comments once you lose a step to someone younger and brighter,"

        Jeremy shrank in the chair.

        "Let’s get down to our second problem. Where are we at with delivery of a sound organism?"

        "First, I’d like to know what we are doing for the families of the security guards.

        Pinstrip blurted out in frustration, "They were contractors!"

        "They will be fairly compensated. And that’s all we can do," He paused, "Now, while we have this disaster, this doesn’t change our timeline for DARPA. Where are we?"

        "We’re doing very well," Lauren clicked open a Powerpoint and pulls up a slide. The slide appears on the executives’ projector screen. "As you can see the subject group 4C and 4F are stable and have the expected levels of intelligence and aggression. The issue of target discernment and disengagement however remain problematic.

        "Basically you’re saying were at a stand still, there’s been no improvement over previous groups."

        "We continue to look at the remaining issues and we feel these groups are a milestone in genetic computation and artificial development. We continue to see the developmental process as the key to smoothing out these last behavioral issues."

        "So, you’re abandoning further genetic manipulation for your teaching tanks?"

        "Yes, I believe the behavioral acquisition program is the most promising."

        "But we’ve done so much with the genetics already I don’t understand why you’re giving up on the nature for the nurture?"

        Jeremy, half held up his hand, "There are limits to what genetics can do. There’s not always a pathway to an organism that fits everything on a shopping list. There may be no combination of DNA resulting in a creature with zebra stribes, scorpion claws and platypus bill that plays nice with toddlers.

        Also, for complex behavioral rules, you have to have a learning component. You can’t program that. And right now we can’t find that sweet spot between aggression and control that we need. These are very, very smart creatures, but they’re still animals motivated by very basic drives. And frankly, as long as you’re keeping them penned up twenty-three hours a day their motivations get very focused and murderous.  

        "You wanted them confined except for one hour of exercise,"

        "No," said Jeremy and Lauren.

        Lauren continued, "that was security and legal’s call. It’s fine for a day, or a week. It’s a bad idea over months and years. You force us into a prisoner-guard relationship with them."

        "That’s all fascinating. But you know we have that deadline in four weeks. I don’t need to tell you how important this is for the company and for your team. Tomorrow, I want a report on how you plan to amaze DARPA. I cannot convince General Waters to give us any more play. And with this latest incident, we need to produce before they shut us down. Are we all clear on this?"

        Lauren and Jeremy both said yes and looked at each other nervously.

        The screen clicked off. Lauren got up and paced around the room, her ams crossed, "After all this work. All the breakthroughs. To come out with nothing."

        "I’m going to jail," said Jeremy.

        "No one’s going to jail, we’ve done nothing wrong," She picked up her laptop and walked out. Jeremy sat in the empty room for a moment then followed, hands in his pockets.

Chapter 4

Wendell and Clarire sat in a booth in the Driftwood Café. The Café was in an old brick building on Main Street. Local art on the walls. Booths lined the left and back walls. Corners and crannies were filled with large pots sprouting huge overgrown plants. The counter and small kitchen was to the right near the door. Claire had a latte, Wendell a black coffee and bran muffin.

        "There’s something I want to ask you."

        "What’s up dude. Tell it to me," said Claire dumping sugar into her cup.

        "You don’t have to do this of course but… I’m working on this story, on Gentronix."

        "Okay, "Claire said nervously.

        "And i want to interview your mom."

        Claire’s head fell, "Wendell, you know its not going to happen."

        "Just, please ask."

        "She won’t even grant me an interview. She doesn’t even like it when I jokingly try to get information out of her," Claire pointed her spoon menacingly, looking at him intensely, "And no one dislikes my jokes."

        Wendell put up his hands in mock defense, "Yes, yes you’re hilarious."

        Claire, "I know."

        Look, I know its a long shot, but I’d appreciate it if you gave it a shot."

        "It’s the longest of shots. It’s more likely we’ll be battling mutant fishmen from the deep tonight than you getting an interview with my mother: queen of secrets."

        Wendell opened his mouth to respond.

        "But… I will ask."

        "Thank you."

        "You fucking owe me,"

        "Anything,"

        "And what inspired this hard hitting investigative journalism."

        "If I tell you, you have to promise to keep it a secret."

        "Alright, I promise I won’t share," said Claire, amused.        

        "I got a source. On the inside."

        "No way and get the fuck out. Who is it?"

        "A reporter never reveals… "

        "Their source. Okay, I get it."

        "And I don’t know yet," said Wendel, thinking, "we’re building a repoire."

        "Just be careful, these are throbbing-purple level secrets you’re dealing with. I’m very sure the government does not want any secret spillage."

        "That’d be a cool band name."

        "Yeah. Secret Spillage tonight at the Driftwood."

        "And how do you know that government is in involved, did your mom say something?"

        "Look at you with the ’gotcha’ question. Please, everyone knows its the military. There are always Humvee’s and soldiers going into that place from Fort Henderson. It’s not much of a leap."

        Wendell slumped against the seat, "yeah, you’re right."

        "So what else is going down in Bleeding Ridge?"

        "Oh! I totally forgot. Red Henderson died last night."

        "Principal Reddy? He was my favorite principal."

        Wendell leaned in and spoke softer, "yeah, mine too. Principal Reddy. But the story is how he died. He was attacked by an animal or something. He was fly fishing Woodcock Creek and something got him."

        "Woodcock," said Claire, giggling.

        "Yeah, listen. He was like, bleeding and shit, wandering through the woods. He stumbled into the road all bloody and his clothes all torn up. A car almost hit him. Said something attacked him, but he passed out and died at the hospital."

        "What do they think did it?"

        "They don’t know yet, autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow."

        "Probably a cougar,"

        Wendell raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

        "Or aliens," said Claire, playing along. "Who knows? Keep on that one. I want hard hitting facts!" she pounded her fist on the table.

        Claire and Wendell’s phones buzzed, they pick up their phones.

        "Are you seeing what I’m seeing?" said Claire coyly.

        Wendell played along, "Camping with Toni and Scotty, Friday night?"

        "Whatta think?"

        "I’m interested. You?"

        "Hells to the yeah. We’re going to get drunk and high and roast things."

        "Okay, I’m in. Without the drugs though."

        "Expand your mind dude."

        "No thanks. My mind is inflated to the maximum recommended pressure."

        Claire smiled, "Okay. But I need to peer pressure you once in a while. Oh wait, dang. I’m not supposed to go anywhere. Gotta check in with my old lady," She hesitated.

        "Fuck it, I’m going," said Claire, dropping her phone in protest.

        "Normally I don’t approve of such behavior but I’ll make an exception. Now that’s settled, I gotta go,"

        "See ya, super sleuth."

        Wendell walked the three blocks to the Bleeding Ridge Star. The office was above a salon in an old brick building. A small warehouse was on the left and another boarded up shop front on the right.

        Wendell walked up the steps into the dark office. To the right was a small room with three or four unoccupied desks. Wendell tweaked a document on the aging, slow, desktop and hit print. He eyed the office in front and walked to the printer as it spit out pages. His phone buzzed and he pulled it out and read the text. He grabbed the print out and stuck it in his bag. He carefully walked over to the office in front, the sign on the door said Frank Barnes - Editor in Chief. Wendel stood at the doorway. The office walls held pictures, awards and headlines going back decades. Stacks of paper on the desk, red ink marking the pages. Tall file cabinets lined the entire far wall and folders lay on the open drawers. Frank Barnes sat in dark office looking out the window facing the street.

        "Mr. Barnes?"

        "Yes Wendell?" Frank turned his head half ways towards to him. He was wearing a heringbone sport coat, draped loosely over his his thin body.

        "My source is ready to meet in a couple hours," said Wendell, failing to contain his excitement.

        Frank responded with a huff and half smile, "Your source is ready to meet. Go forth Woodward. Get that scoop," he turned back to the papers on his desk. "Let’s talk tomorrow about what you find, we need to take this very slow. Are your questions ready?"

        "Yep."

        "Where are you meeting?"

        Wendell hesitated, "Driftwood Cafe."

        "Mmmm. Just ask your questions and be…wary."

        Oh, I’m not afraid. I’m sure this guy is harmless. We’re meeting in a public place."

        Frank smiled again, "I’m not worried about your safety. I’m worried about your inflated expectations. Meet this guy, but don’t carry any hope that this will amount to anything."

        Wendell looked down and shifted his weight, "I know." He walked out. Frank looked at the doorway a moment then picked up his red pen. But after a few seconds he leaned back and looked out the window again. Half an hour later Wendell said goodbye and walked down the steps. Once he was acroos the street he looked up and saw Frank still looking out the window before he turned away.

        

Chapter 5

A convoy of trucks and Humvees rolled through the tight curves and hills. The sky was cloudy and dark; road wet from mist and fog. Trees, tall and silent as the column passed. Captain Tom Baker rocked in the back seat of a command vehicle, an armoured RV, reviewing a file. Tom was five nine, mid forties, fit build, gray streaks in his hair. Next to him Lieutenant Harold Holmes looked out the window. Harold was tall and lanky, blond, and his neck and nose slightly buzzard-like. Tom breathed out slowly and put down the report. He looked out the window.

        "Damn, forgot my Dramamine again."

        Harold looked over and smirked, "I’ll omit any mention of your reduced combat effectiveness in my report."

        Tom chuckled, "Thank you Lieutenant," He continued looking out the window, watching the endless gre-green forest roll by.

        "What a cluster fuck of biblical proportions. This thing running around, killing civilians."

        "Yes sir."

        "Just got to focus on cleaning this up. I want two squads out immediately looking for this thing, the rest by eighteen hundred hours. How are we designating it?"

        Harold pulled out a file.

        "Cohort three bravo, subject delta two." Harold passed the file to Tom.

        "Jesus. Things always give me the chills, no matter how many times I see them. First order of the day, we’re calling this thing Thorn. And whoever kills this Thorn in my side is going to get a fucking medal."

        "Yes, sir."

        "And if we can wrap this up quickly, maybe nobody will go to prison."

        "We won’t sir."

        "All bravado aside, this project is unraveling faster than a shit kitten grippin’ a knit mitten."

        The column of humvees and trucks turned off the blacktop onto a dirt road. About one hundred yards off the road the column stopped in a small clearing. The soldiers jump out of hummvees and trucks. The officers bark orders. Boxes and pands case are unloaded. Soliders chattered as tents went up. Inside the command trailer Tom typed at this laptop. Harold leaned over a subordinate at a workstation pointing at a map on the screen. Lauren knocked at the open door her arms crossed.

        "Colonel Baker, Good to see you again. Do you have everything you need?"

        Tom stopped typing, "Yes, we’ll be in contact if we need anything else."

        "Yes, of course," she said looking around the large vehicle packed with electronics and screens, mostly showing maps of the area.

        Tom started typing again, "Is there anything else Ms. Long?"

        Lauren shifted nervously and looked at the other two officers.

        Lauren cleared her throat, "yes Captain, I was hoping I could speak to you in private."

        Tom and Harold look at each other.

        "Alright," Tom nodded at Harold and the Sergeant and they stepped out. Lauren closed the door. Lauren sat at on of the two bolted chairs in front of Tom’s small desk. Lauren sats upright, at attention. Tom leaned back and stared at her. Lauren averted her eyes.

        "Okay, what do we need to discuss?"

        Her lips parted looking for words, "I just wanted to talk to you."

        "I don’t think I have anything you’d like to hear."

        Lauren looked Tom in the eyes, "I know. This is bad."

        "It’s very bad."

        "Are you blaming me?"

        "I don’t know, should I? I kinda would like to. It was your watch."

        "I know. We found that if the cage goes over a bump, and if you’re really quick, you can jam an object between a latch that’s popped up. Then you can work the pick the inner mechanism. It pulled out one of its nails and shaped it to pick the lock. It must have waited, right in position for a enough of a bump. Or maybe there’s a place along the route theres always a big bump."

        "It did all that?"

        "Well, yes, which while the engineers were not as diligent as they should have been on the security for its transportation, this development is actually very exciting in that there are unknown aspects to its intelligence. We have no idea how it learned how a lock works," Lauren was excited and almost smiling by the end.

        "Well what a mystery. But it really doesn’t matter now."

        "It sure does, we need to know for the next cohort how to fix our security and how to take advantage of its previously unknown areas of intelligence."

        Tom shook his head, "Lauren, perhaps the spear in your side hasn’t started to sting yet. But you have to realize that this project, this lab, is done. It’s dead. It’s up and walking around right now, collecting a pay check, but its dead. Everyone one up the chain wants this to go away. Our problem right now is extremely simple. Find this thing, kill it. Make it all go away. We have the backing to do that and only that. And if we can’t, we’ll probably all end up in prison.

        "Why are people saying that?" she threw up her hands. "Don’t be ridiculous. We should get a Nobel prize for this."

        Tom leaned back in his chair and folded his fingers across his lap.

        "Consider the headlines that will be written and consider if the Nobel committee will touch it."

        Lauren also leaned back slightly.        

        "Technical expertise is meaningless if it’s politically untouchable."

        "I don’t give a lab rats ass about the headlines. We’ve made history here. And everything we’ve done is legal. We have the contracts."

        "Tell that to Congress when they say they didn’t know about it. We’re growing monsters here and they’ve killed civilians. American Citizens."

        "If it comes to that, that’s your problem. Gentronix has an army of lawyers to back me up."

        Tom, looked away, his jaw flexing. He steadied himself and looked at Lauren. They sit in silence for a moment and the mood changes. Tom rubbed his short cropped hair back and forth.

        "Get it out of your system?" she asked.

        "No. We’re in a pickle, that’s for damn sure."

        Lauren nodded, "I’m aware of the pickle. You are right that what we need to focus on finding our runaway pet."

        "Alright, we’re in agreement then,"

        Lauren got up stepped back from the desk.

        "I like what you’ve done with your hair."

        Lauren, huffed, "don’t try anything or you’ll end up in a quagmire Captain."

        "How’s Claire?"

        "She’s well, as far as I know. Its hard to tell sometimes. Just got home for the summer."

        "And the boyfriend? What’s his name, Gerald?"

        "Jared."

        "Jared. How’s he?"

        "He’s just fine. I’ll be sure to let him know you asked about him," she said cracking a smile.

        "I’m glad you’re happy."

        Lauren paused, "Fishing for a ’no’?"

        "I didn’t ask that. I say what I mean."

        "Then you don’t know what you mean."

        Tom looked away, smiling in defeat, "Yeah, yeah. Well it’s good to see you again."

        "You too. So, let’s get this thing done. Whatever you need."

        He nodded, stood up and went around the desk but Lauren was already half way to the door.

        Tom watched from the doorway as she walked to her car. He went back to his desk shaking his head. A stall sergeant in fatigues, shoulding an M4 rifle walked in and saluted.

        "Sir, squads Charlie and Delta ready to deploy."

        Tom saluted, "Happy Hunting, Sergeant."

        "Yes, sir!"