Chamomile opened the eye that didn’t hurt and looked at the dirt under her.  She was in a pit filled with corpses.  The initial cant of panic swelled and then washed away as she recognized elements of her past and stilled her… her pulse was too weak, as though her veins moved her blood and not her heart.  Carefully testing for nerve endings, she discovered that her chest had been torn violently open.  Other things had been torn open as well and she’d watched the camera with eyes that first begged and then mocked.  Challenged.  She remembered doing that.  

Well, no one was cutting her now.  There were some high-pitched calls and a faint scent of panic, though this was mostly the rush of bestial minds coping with human intuitions.  Well, that’s what it smelled like, over and above the scent of stale meat and cooled blood.

Closing her eyes, she took strength from her most recent memories.  They’d put her on a table with too-bright lights and a few cameras.  Then one had shifted to near-beast and… and when she’d turned and glared up at him, he’d looked afraid.  His fear had left him clawing at her and ripping at her throat.  She remembered now why her eye hurt.  She remembered the feeling of losing it.

They’ed filmed her, hoping to catch her at her weakest.  She’d shown their cameras a strength that they would never be able to be able to understand.  Unable to move, contempt and an incalculable anger had been her weapons.  And the kind of humor that only survivors could possibly understand.  Hating was easy; she knew how to make these souls understand that she was not their friend and not their victim.  It had infuriated them.  They had cut at her, bit her, draped her in silver.  It hadn’t mattered.  She’d blacked out when they’d ripped open two ribs, the silver and some sort of drug keeping her human by aesthetic, and started cutting free her heart.  Distantly, she’d heard one say to send it to a mysterious him.

Now she needed to heal.  There would be no illusions of escape; she knew she could not travel far.  Instead, she would kill as many as were within reach of her wrath.  The first step in that was letting go of the idea that she needed to live.  The second step was to become the monster that slept between her two minds.  It would heal her just enough to stalk, to kill, and to rend.

...

Rosetta pulled into the hotel parking lot and checked into three rooms using cash and a hefty deposit.  Kitten had insisted that the thousand dollars were expendable, given the circumstances, but she hoped they got it back.  The rule with returned deposits was that they were for frivolous or enjoyment based activities and acquisitions instead of for the general accounting magic Kitten and Babier got up to.  If she could settle or bargain for a less steep sum, it would be significantly better as the bonus would more than make up for it.

Pulling a handheld line-splicer, she specified that the activator in her pinky was for initiating contact exclusively with Kitten and relayed the room numbers as though trying to memorize them before driving to a small overnight parking garage, packing the duffle bag with the whole of the contents of the white SUV and trailer, loaded this onto the touring bike, locked everything, and set the engine scrambler in case the van was tampered with while she was away.  She then backed out and walked her bike to the front, accepting a claim ticket from the attendant and placing this in her wallet.  The van and trailer were good for the next eight days, which meant she and one other would be driving back this way after the new camp in Medford, Oregon was set and ready.  She gave a claim about going on a quick tour of the back hills and was met with the surly glare of a creature who didn’t give a toss what she was doing so long as it did not give him any grief.

Nodding and walking her bike to just a little down the street, she pressed her pinky into place and spoke, her helmet making her words seem a little masked.  “All set.  You got your ride all figured”

The voice in her ear was a bit soft and she concentrated on the sound as she kicked the bike into starting twice before remembering that this one had a button to the side of the throttle.  Rolling her eyes, she started the vehicle and forced herself to relax.

“You said you’re taking a scooter?”

“Uber, Rosie, Uber.  Like a taxi.  Found a robin.  I’ll send you a pic.”

“Gotcha.  A dozen eggs?”

“And the pheasant that goes with ‘em.”

Acknowledging the message that Kitten was using a stolen phone and would arrive in thirty minutes at a building no more than a hundred yards from the hotel with a low whistle, she silently gripped both bike handles firmly.  Shifting from neutral to first, she moved smoothly up until she was hitting I-5 and dropping into downtown Anderson.  A few minutes later, she was back to circling the hotel in a wide radius.  As this was inner-city driving, she shifted to neutral and toggled the switch to make her bike relatively quiet.  

She enjoyed the bike in the same way that she enjoyed the SUV’s and all the other high-functioning, low-profile equipment enjoyed by the pride.  Smiling as she pulled into a small bookstore’s parking-lot to wait and avoid wasting fuel, she dismounted, locked the bike, and stepped inside.  The place was a veritable shrine to all the old greats --Dune, The Complete Kefka, The Silmarillian, and Narnia occupied places of honor.  The place was neither quiet nor loud and single-bite scones were offered with each purchase.  Fabric softener lingered on the air and the chairs were clean, plentiful, and largely occupied.  

Glancing at the clientelle, she realized that this had been the life denied her and a great sadness welled up.  Ready to turn and find some other haven in which to kill time, Rosetta was accosted by the friendliest, most inviting voice she’d encountered in ages.

“Welcome, weary traveler!  Would you like a towel, in case yours was left when the dolphins thanked us?”

Turning with a faint smile, Rosetta smiled at the two shopkeeps and padded over.  On drawing close, she could smell that they were either cousins or half-siblings, though more than that was lost.  It was obvious that they trusted one another and that they revered this space for all the healing it could offer.  A bittersweet smile fell into place as envy was washed away by  warm admiration and honest respect.

“I never go anywhere without one.”  Leaning into the table, she looked around appreciatively.  “What is this place?”

“Heaven.  Our mother was taken by the CDC and, seven years later, her holdings became ours.  We spruced it up and made it a welcoming place, the kind of environment we wished she’d been greeted with.”

“You honor her?”

“Of course!  In many cases, fiction is the truest expression of reality.  It lets us step back and see things for how they are, not for how they are described to be.  We even host Who What Were every Tuesday night.  Everyone wears a mask and a hat and talks about people who are afflicted with the condition, even if they’re talking about themself.”

“This place, it feels good.  Pure, even.”

“It is.  And it is not.  Check a gander while you settle in.  Pick something up, read a little, put it down, eat a scone, and relax.  This is a safe place.”  

Pulling a piece by Jack London, the old pages just tan of yellow and the spine necessitating extra care, she settled into a chair and read.  After five minutes, she went to the front counter and paid for her treasure, returning again to laugh at the trite dramas of wolves.

…

Agent Staples looked at the text, glad that, for once, the local forces were cooperating.  Not all of them, mind, but Greer seemed genuinely worried about the agent he’d sent into the fire.  Staples recognized the code as the longitude and latitude for a point to the north of Redding, California, which was true to form with this pride.  They didn’t seem to have a static base of operations, instead taking jobs like a bee might take flowers in a field.  

The text read “nervous. My cover shot.”

As it was only the two lines and number string, probability stated she’d lifted a phone and texted fast before dodging back out into the fray.  If she lived the night, he’d eat his shorts.  Pushing the phone back to Greer, he assembled a team to do mop-up work.  In clashes between Thiriothropes, it was usually best to let them kill each other off and reduce the numbers in that way.  Sending in grunts ran the risk of spreading the infection, and, unlike in zombie scenarios, enough of the former personality remained to make field executions difficult to justify.

Across from his temporary desk and nestled in amid the boxes of classified files, Greer fiddled with his badge.  Ever since the outbreak, all officers’ badges were formulated to allow for on-site testing for the malady.  Staples was glad enough that Greer showed no sign of sensitivity to the silvered edges and fine film of herbal compounds coating the bronze shield emblazoned on the front.  The man and his officers should have legends for all the works they did in their district.  Staples hadn’t known that, going in, and felt a little sorry for the need to keep so much of the greater picture from this man.

“Greer, what I tell you cannot leave this room.  The location she listed is the home range for a cackle of Eyainathropes.  Were hyenas.  If the two collide, extraction may not be possible.”

“You say if as though you mean when.”

 “Yes.”

A nod and a sip of coffee was all the response Greer seemed willing to offer.  Finally, however, he continued.  “She’s on the list.  For self-destructive individuals.”

Ah, yes, the inevitable pity plea to make his men take care not to call her Monster.  The trivia held no particular bearing, though Staples nodded gravely as though this information was relevant.  Really, it just gave him further license to put a silver-plated round of buckshot into her skull.  He reached into a cardboard box and sifted through the files until he came to the short list of CDC approved pharmaceuticals, knowing exactly which antidepressants would sound the best.  Setting this on the table between them, he did not expect the rage that suddenly filled the detective’s features.

“I meant she can cause a lot of harm from the inside without fearing for her own safety.  She’s an asset where she is.  I want her home but I want these murderous sons of bitches six feet under more.  I can guarantee she wants the same.”

Staples let his eyes widen at the outburst.  This woman, then, might be of actual use to him.  If she integrated, if she developed the same ability to rally her equals and make the best of sting operations within this pride… he had research if he wanted to convince her of this course.  The possibilities, however, were beginning to manifest.

…

The scent of the dirt-bike’s gasoline lingered on her paws and Zinnie knew her hackles raised somewhat at this fact.  She was in her true form, her tail swishing in short twitches as she held her stalking pattern.  Two of them were sitting guard, which meant it was good that she’d ditched her bike a long jog back.  They had sent another three to investigate the sound, or so the oppressively still air informed her.

About her eyes were the goggles she’d brought along and she still wore her socks.  She’d taken care to wedge a bit of black lipstick against a tree and had rubbed against this to create enough spots and stripes to break up her form.  Now, as she watched this pair, it required great effort to repress her hatred for them.

The noise in her ear happened again and she pointedly tuned it out.  The words made no sense.  Honestly, English made very little sense at the best of times.  She pictured fire flooding down the tunnel that was being guarded as her own claws ripped deep inside the nearest guard and her fangs paused but briefly as the soft meat of him slid down her throat while he continued to kick and scream.

Her vision shifted back to reality and she twisted her ears around, listening for the trio who had marched off in search of her bike.  They would track her here.  It would take too long and be too exhausting to shift out of her natural form and gain the use of her hands.  Of course, she would be ready for them in other ways.

A faint whirring sound to her left drew her gaze.  Ah, a flying thing.  It was too small to be a threat.  She ignored it and adjusted her position, ready to take all three Eyainathropes in short order.

Next Chapter: At the Lip of the Tunnel