SHADOW WALK; FIRST SEVEN CHAPTERS

1


On the corner of Main and East Street, Cassandra Withers paced back and forth. She paused and scanned the area again, but she could not see much beyond the streetlight’s wan glow.

Why did I offer to stay late at the pizza parlor tonight? I should have taken the ride my boss offered when he left. She tried calling her mother for the fifth time. Oh great, now my cell phone is dead.

A dark colored panel van turned the near corner. As it came closer, she saw a driver and a passenger.

Her heart pounded in her ears and her knees shook as the driver pulled the van up and stopped. For a long moment, the driver sat there, looking at her. She grew more nervous and jumped when he spoke.

“Hello there. Do you need a ride?”

She looked around in vain hope that she still was not alone.
“Cat got your tongue?” he asked.

Nervous sweat popped out on her forehead. Finding her voice, she answered, “N-no, thank you, Sir. I don’t need a ride. I’m waiting on my mom to pick me up.” Her words came out choked, matching the trembling of her body.

She saw him looking around. Where was her mother? Please, God. Let my mother show up.

The driver flashed his badge out the window. "FBI -- don't be scared."

Cassandra approached, but remained an arm’s length from the van. His ID looked official. Still, the uneasiness remained; she could not shake the feeling that it was not as innocent as it seemed.

“You know, it’s dangerous for you to be standing out here all alone. I can wait here until your mother arrives.”

He eased out of the van and lit a cigarette. Then he stood by the open door, smoking.

Cassandra attempted to use her cell again to call home. It still did not work.

She watched him as he put his hand in his pocket -- wondering if he was going for a gun -- more nervous than before. At the same moment, the streetlights went out and the entire city fell into darkness, the full moon the only illumination.

“That’s what happens when they overload the power grid,” he said, a slight smile on his face.

She stood frozen in fear, arms crossed over her chest, staring, as he crushed the cigarette out. The air grew thick, the tension crackling. She struggled to draw in a deep breath.

He sprang toward her, and wrapped one arm around her neck. She could smell him: a combination of sweat, tobacco, and Brut™ cologne. His voice came close to her ear. “Stay still or I’ll break your neck.” In horror, she watched as he pulled out a syringe from his pocket and removed the protective cap with his teeth.

“No, No!” Suddenly finding energy, she kicked him, cracking his shin with the heel of her ankle boot. His hold loosened and he cursed, as she jerked away, but not before he jabbed the syringe into her leg. She sprinted for a near alley, feeling urine run down her thigh.

From his touch, it started – again. She felt the familiar sting spread across her forehead. Even as she kept running, she could not stop the psychic episode. Her present location diminished from her sight, her eyes filled with a gray haze.

Her stalker's voice faded into the background, as the familiar buzz in her ears grew louder. She forgot her peril. Cassie's senses reassembled, and she found herself home. As she surveyed the shambled apartment, her mouth dropped open. Shattered fragments of bric-a-brac glistened across the floor. Sofa and chair cushions were strewn across the floor, stuffing and foam ripped from within the torn
covers.

In a daze, she moved through the debris. Discarded drawers from her bedroom dresser laid scattered about -- the contents littering the floor and doorway. She floated further into the apartment.

In her mother's bedroom, Monica Withers lay sprawled nude upon the bed, her body unnaturally positioned, legs splayed at odd angles, her head hanging off the mattress. Blood dripped into the crimson pool beneath her.

Cassandra let out a vaporous scream before her actual surroundings reappeared.
“Momma, Momma!”

“Your mamma isn’t coming to get you,” she heard his voice behind her.

And just like that, she knew; the man pursuing her –- the one on her heels -- had killed her mother.

She gasped as she found herself back in the alley. Dizziness swept over her. She stumbled and fell into a pile of garbage. She felt the sting of glass cutting into her knees and she cried. She tried to stand, fell again, and crawled a few feet forward. Behind her, she heard laughter. Get up. Run, her mind cried, but her legs would not cooperate. She rolled over onto her back; saw him as he stood above her, looking down.

A strange numbness flowed through her. Unable to move, she felt the sting as he injected her with the remainder of whatever was in the syringe. Everything went black.

p

Agent Scott searched the area to make sure it was still deserted. He went back to his prey, lifted her effortlessly, and headed toward the van.

His accomplice, Patterson, waited outside the back of the van. Scott tossed her in the back. The two men got in, heading east out of town.

p

Patterson glanced in the rearview mirror as he heard the girl moan. “Why is she waking up? She shouldn’t be waking up.”

"You moron, you didn't put enough stuff in the syringe."

Scott went over the passenger’s seat into the back. Patterson grimaced, but kept looking straight ahead. He knew Agent Scott all too well and the man made him sick.

He hated what would come next. Scott was notorious for abusing young girls.
Patterson resolved to keep his eyes on the road. He might have to hear it, but did not want to see what Scott would do.

He heard the struggle. The thuds and grunts from the back told him the girl was fighting for her life.

“Please, don’t,” he heard her cry. “I want t-to g-go home.”

Patterson nearly lost control of the van as her primeval screams echoed through it.
He heard Scott curse. Patterson glanced back in time to receive warm blood splatter across his cheek.

“Did you have to sling blood all over me?” Patterson grabbed a rag and wiped his face.

“The little bitch bit me. I couldn’t help it.” Breathing heavily, Scott asked, “Did you bother to bring another syringe?”

“In the duffle bag.”

“Well, pull over and help me.” He hit the girl again.

Patterson jerked the wheel, sending the van into a skid through the rough gravel along the edge of the road. In one motion, he jerked the transmission into park and rolled over the seat into the back.

p

The girl remained frigid with terror, her face streaked with blood. Scott stared down at her and then smiled as he drew his fist back again.

Patterson swallowed the bile rising hot in his throat. He grabbed Scott’s upraised fist, knowing better than to get into a physical confrontation with him, and tried to reason with him. “Dammit, Scott, if you kill her, you’ll make us both lose more than our finder’s fee. Our lives won’t be worth flea spit.”

Scott looked up, blinked, and then grunted as he injected her with the new syringe. Then he smiled again as he ripped her uniform top open.

"Hey, not this time. They’ve warned you.”

Scott pulled a gun from a holster inside his jacket -- cocked it and pointed it in Patterson’s face. “We’ve played this game before. You know you aren’t going to stop me, partner. We’re in this together and you know it. Now just get your ass back into the front and drive before I decide to collect the fee solo.”

Patterson knew better than to argue with Scott. It was not good for his health. As if to remind him, the scar under his right side where Scott had shot him before began to ache.

p

The sickly sweet odor of blood and urine assaulted Patterson’s nostrils as he scrubbed at the red stains in a local carwash. He hated being Scott's clean up guy.

Scott, holed up in the local safe house, had told him to go to hell when he asked for his help. Patterson refused to allow himself to think about what Scott was probably doing to the girl right now. He shook his head. Scott would not escape -- not this time. Moreover, he was not going down with him. Scott had become unstable, dangerous and a threat to Tanas Global's security.

p

They traveled along the deserted New Mexico highway. The passengers in the van, along with the landscape, sweltered under the undulating heat waves. No other vehicle was in sight.

Patterson turned to look at their acquisition. The girl in the back of the van groaned, but did little else.

From behind a copse of stunted trees, a non-descript, white jeep Cherokee barreled toward them. Scott slowed and then stopped as it blocked their path. An armed guard in drab-green fatigues and carrying an M16 got out and walked to the driver’s side window. Providing the correct password to the guard, Scott continued on to a side road, heading toward New Mexico’s southwestern Tanas lab.


2
Present Day, Nevada

The desert near Las Vegas lay desolate and still beneath a waxing moon. A rattlesnake curled in sleep near an abandoned burrow, close enough to make a quick exit. Without any known reason, the diamondback coiled, preparing to strike. Turning upon itself, the frenzied snake lashed out repeatedly, until at last it gave one last quiver and lay still. Moments later, nothing remained but an indentation in the sand.

p

On the edge of a cliff, a coyote, camouflaged by its mottled tan and black coat, devoured a still thrashing jackrabbit, confident within the night’s black veil.
The coyote froze in mid-bite. A moment later, in utter silence, it flung itself from the cliff onto the rocky terrain below. The bloody, dying rabbit yielded mute testimony to what took place, as it bled out into the sand. However, of the coyote, nothing remained.

p

Jim Cantrell, an avid prospector, tossed another stick into the fire, whispering to his old pack mule, Boss, who munched on the oats in the old tin bucket. The mule seemed content enough, but just in case, Jim tied the rope from Boss’ halter to a pillar-shaped rock to make sure the wily escape artist stayed put.

With a smile and a warning shake of his head, he turned back to the fire. “The only part about desert camping I really don’t care for is carrying fuel.” He threw more wood on the fire. “Never know what you might find in a woodpile, eh, Boss? Got some nasty critters last year, remember? I hate scorpions.”

Jim treated the mule more like his partner. He and Boss had been a team for more years than Jim cared to recall. He walked over, checking the tether again before turning in.

“You aren’t much for conversation, but you’re good company.” Jim patted the old mule’s neck.

Pulling his harmonica from his shirt pocket, he breathed life into the antique. The notes flew, soft and long, floating toward the stars, soothing him, feeding his soul. He gazed upward at the moon as he played, relaxing in the peaceful solitude.

Heavily bearded, bits of gray among dark brown whiskers, flannel shirt, jeans, and worn-out boots, he looked as though he came from another time, another era. Yet, his rough exterior belied his keen intelligence.

A wealthy man with a wife and two kids, he lived in a posh suburb of Las Vegas and needed this time away to relax. Still, he had responsibilities, so his cell phone shared space in his saddle pack, along with his antique prospecting tools. The only modern equipment housed in the pack, were his surveyor’s tools, including a portable GPS tracker, a 20X Econo Line Level and Transit Level and a laptop, with mapping software. He took the cell phone from the pack, knowing that his wife Amanda would call soon.

Yawning, he spread out his bedroll. The lull of the desert silence called to him and he gave up the fight to stay awake. The phone would wake him. Just as his eyes closed, Boss brayed, panic in the sounds.

Jim leapt up, looking for a snake or a scorpion, anything to explain the mule’s behavior, but found nothing. Jim tried to calm him, but his usual tactics did not work. Boss kicked and snorted.

Jumping back from the mules' flailing hooves, Jim helplessly stared at the frenzied animal. His panicked movements had looped his tether around his neck. The more the mule struggled, the tighter it became. His heart pounding, Jim watched in frustration. “Quiet down, Boss. Quiet down. I can’t help you if you don’t.”

At last with his sides heaving, the mule dropped first onto his knees and then onto the desert sand. Jim leapt forward, but by the time he got the tether untied, it was too late. Boss was dead.

He stared down at the old mule. What had happened? Words like embolism and aneurism whirled in his head. There had to be a reason; and he considered himself a reasonable man, but -- it hit him -- he had to run, he did not know why, but he had to. Even as he tried to make sense of the need, his feet acted, and he ran into the night leaving everything behind.

A quarter of a mile from camp, he froze -- but not by choice. Something stopped him, held him. In the black of night, he could neither see nor hear anything, yet no matter how much he struggled, he could not escape.

Light fell from the sky and he raised his eyes, blinded by its brightness.

“Don’t fight me. It won’t do you any good.”

The voice was young and female. He tried to scream, but his mouth seemed glued shut. His breathing quickened, his heart beating so fast, it felt as if it was going to jump out of his chest.

“Take him.”

The wind kicked up around him. Sand bit into his skin and made his mouth gritty.

“You’re going to sleep for a bit now.”

For a brief moment, he saw it hovering above him and then all went black.
Silently, the stealth craft slipped away, heading back to Tanas.

The sudden ringing of the cell phone echoed off the canyon walls, and finally, fell silent.

All became still once more.


3
Present Day, Tanas Global, New Mexico

Gold Hill, New Mexico, like many ghost towns in California, Arizona and the Nevada desert, hosted spirits of slain miners -- and those who tried to jump a claim. Icy gusts whispered laments of unfulfilled dreams and broken hearts. Yet, this shadowy area held secrets and innuendo darker than any tabloid could invent.
Tanas Global’s labs held secrets -- many of them decades old.

There in the ancient caverns of Tanas, special research demanded certain flexibility in conduct. Answers to questions required procedures that might have made the cruelest terrorist scream. For Tanas, the cost seemed quite reasonable. The answers were all that mattered.

The building, camouflaged by design, blended in with the rugged terrain. Most of the structure, buried deep within the foothills of the Little Hatchet Mountains, remained well hidden. A mile beneath the ground, an aggressive scientific institute practiced its craft; working toward its ultimate goal.

The compound’s interior was large with plain, institutional gray walls, relieved only by the occasional note board for posting shift schedules or inter-department memos. The front lobby, which typically housed a reception area, remained empty. A small door in the center stood between immoveable walls. These walls arched into a circular fortress as though in defense of the compound. It offered the only relief from the emptiness.

The soundproof citadel housed a futuristic command post complete with monitors, computers, one television, and three small teams of round-the-clock guards. Other armed guards kept their various strategic posts throughout the complex. All areas, including living quarters, offices, and bathrooms came equipped with surveillance cameras, though the bathroom cameras were discreetly positioned to afford the user some illusion of privacy.

The buzzer sounded, alerting the guard at the monitor that the outer door opened.

The guard recognized the white-coated scientist who entered the lobby.
Dr. Franklin Barnett walked over to the hallway on the right. Placing his right hand on the Identi-pad, he simultaneously submitted to the Retina Scan with no more thought than unlocking a door with a key.

After hearing the heavy door’s distinctive click, he went into the inner sanctum, paying little attention to the same gray that adorned the lobby walls. The only relief from the monotony along the hallway was the occasional office door.

Dr. Adam Hanson, commander-in-chief, and head scientist, glared at the doctor, as he entered one such door.

“Dr. Barnett, glad you finally decided to join us,” Dr. Hanson said flatly, as he turned from the group standing in front of a wall. A huge corkboard dominated it.

Numbered Polaroid photos of young women covered half the board -- the other half --numbered Polaroids of young men.

A large conference table eclipsed the room. High backed charcoal-gray office chairs with comfortable cushions surrounded the table. Stacks of dossiers waited on top. Each file boasted tabs with a corresponding number to a photo on the wall.
Within each one, information on the designated subject included blood and tissue type, test results from extensive physical, psychological, and other various testing --especially paranormal studies. These were the most important findings.

For the moment, the group studied two photos. Subject 1335709 had the blood type and physical features they sought. Her psychic potential was impressive. However, Hanson did not like the way they acquired her, as reported in her file.
As he read the acquisition report, his face turned red and the veins popped out on his forehead. “We paid to have her brought here without strong-arm tactics.” He yelled. “How did this happen?”

"She could have been acquired better. There is no excuse as to why she suffered such serious injuries and trauma. I just hope they didn’t damage her beyond use. I hate to waste good subject material. Moreover, this one showed promise, too. We’ll have to wait for her to recover, if she recovers, that is.” He continued as he read further into the report.

Dr. Hanson, known for impatience, seemed hollow – soulless -- without a conscience. The only time he was animated and cordial was if he were piqued into talking about any successes in his various projects; and he was particular with whom he chose to share his successes.

A small, balding scientist with a nametag reading “Michaels,” approached hesitantly with a prognosis report in his hands. Adam’s apple bobbing in his nervousness, he croaked, “Sir, she is expected to recover fro…” His voice faded under Dr. Hanson’s icy stare.

Having received many of Dr. Hanson’s outbursts of temper, Dr. Michaels cringed; hoping the head of Tanas would not go further.

“I ordered her to be acquired undamaged. How could one of our acquisitions be so difficult? It’s not as if the subjects are so powerful that they would be able to resist this much. These acquisitions must be treated as valuable.” He shouted, as he looked at the pictures of the badly beaten girl.

“Scott Finley was the operative that procured this one, right?” he shouted again.
“Yes sir, Operative Scott, along with his partner, Patterson, acquired this one,” Dr. Michaels offered again, his knees shaking.

“I realize he couldn’t just allow her to get away, but there was no excuse for his further action. He is finished.” He addressed an agent who stood by, waiting for orders. “Have him brought back to Tanas -- NOW. I’ll not have any more subjects damaged like this one, by incompetents like him.” He followed his statement with an assortment of expletives.

“By the way, make an example of Scott for anyone else who might resort to similar tactics.”

Hands trembling, the agent dialed his secure cell phone and whispered into it. “Sir,” he said in a trembling voice, “It’s taken care of. The question mark will be deleted.”

All the men in the room were glad they were not Scott. With Doctor Hanson, in a situation such as this, there were no second chances.

They acquired the other subject with much better methods. Dr. Hanson absent-mindedly nodded in approval. Finally, someone who knows how to obtain good subjects, he thought. He made a mental note to use the orderly who did so good a job. The orderly should be good for a few more acquisitions, but no more. It was too much risk for more than a few.

“Use this orderly for another five subjects. After that, he will be of no further use.
“It’s a shame when a good man gets a bad case of ecoli and dies of it. You never know when you can eat a bad burger, or burrito,” he added almost as an afterthought. It came out cold and deliberate which was how he meant it.

He smiled as he read the other file in his hand.

Subject number 1335799, proved very cooperative during the tests, even the most painful ones. Her tissue samples, blood work, and DNA were outstanding. Her psychic profile proved even stronger than the other subject’s did. She was strong, only 16, and had very active ovaries. The female had a uterus and pelvis perfectly structured for giving birth. The biggest bonus was that she was a virgin. She would make an excellent breeder for many years to come.

They agreed. They chose subject number 1335799.

An inexperienced person would assume that the decision making process was a group effort, but everyone in the room knew better.

They moved to the other half of the board to choose one of the men. The men were much easier to choose from, for they all volunteered for blind studies at various universities, universities innocently connected to Project EVAH: En Vitro Advancement for Humanity. They agreed to participate in Tanas’ various studies on human reproduction. Some sperm donors were medical students doing theses or finals in fertility studies; others were men who needed fast money. There were extensive screening processes for participation. Intelligence was one of the main requirements to enter the donor program.

Dr. Hansen selected the male subjects with the highest sperm counts to donate. There were a lot to choose from, since all of them were virile, healthy young men.
It did not take long to make the choice of who would sire the next child; at least once their sperm had a few changes made to it.

p

She had been in a drug-induced coma for quite some time. Hanson ordered her brought back slowly, in case the alternate memory stimulation experiment went wrong.

Kathleen Miller still could not remember anything about her former life. The doctors told her she would have to re-learn everything.

They also told her she had been in a terrible accident that had killed her parents. She was alone now, since she had no other family.

Although she retained no cognitive memory of her parents, she still grieved over their deaths. She mourned over her loss of recollection and the fact she could not attend their funerals.

The doctors were straightforward about her condition. In all probability, she would never remember her past. They assured her, however, that she could still lead a full, productive life upon release.

Kathleen occupied her time when she was not undergoing tests or therapy by watching shows and the news on TV. Overall, she accepted her condition.

Another plea to find Cassandra Withers, age 16, blared away on a television inside the guardroom in Tanas’ lobby. America’s Most Wanted Host, John Walsh described Cassandra’s alleged abductor.

“His name is William Allen Kingston, a known child pornographer.

“Cassandra, abducted six weeks ago from right outside the pizza parlor where she worked, needs your help. Her mother was found dead in their small apartment as well. Authorities believe her murder may to be connected to this case. If anyone has any information, please contact America’s Most Wanted.”

Cassandra’s photo, superimposed to the right of the screen near John Walsh’s head, lent drama to the plea.

John Walsh continued. “Another young girl who went missing around the same time as Cassandra, is Kathleen Miller, also age 16. She disappeared after completing her shift as a volunteer at a local hospital. Kathleen is a vivacious girl, an honor student, well behaved, and had no reason to run away. At the moment, we have no viable suspects in Kathleen’s abduction.

“Again, if you have any information on either of these two child abductions, contact us here, at AMW.

“I’m John Walsh.”

One of the guards snickered after hearing John Walsh’s plea.

“They’ll have a helluva time finding either one of them,” he joked.

“Yep,” the other one agreed.

p

Nine months later, a comatose Cassandra gave birth to a baby boy by C-section. The child, severely deformed, subsequently died.

Fifteen months after she was reported missing, they found her skull, and part of her upper torso. Her remains badly decomposed and ravaged by animals, required forensic authorities to ID her through dental records. They never found the rest of her.

p


Jim Cantrell screamed. “The Grays, the Grays. Keep them away from me,” as another probe violated his rectum.

Jim’s wails echoed through the lab -- his eyes wildly searching in vain for relief.
At every arterial pulse, the Grays inserted hair-thin tubes, microscopic cameras attached to each one. The intense burning as they traveled throughout his blood system flamed like hot coals searing into the walls of each artery. They did not bother to sedate him anymore. He had already gone insane, although he had lasted longer then the others.

One of the small figures peered into the man’s ravaged face. A hand with long, spindly fingers came from the wide arm of the gray robe. It tapped a second thin tube leading from the man’s kidneys. Jim Cantrell screamed again.

The ‘Grays’ was as good a name as any and they had taken to calling themselves that. Gray-One – Gray-Two…

Grey-Nine prepared for the next experiment. Getting out the instrument tray, he began his work. He added the metal frames to the man’s eyelids to keep them open and placed a paralyzing fluid in his eyes to keep them still. Gray-twelve came into the room. She carried the needles for the eye probing. As Gray-Nine began, he wondered if the man could see the needle coming closer, just before the stabbing pain pierced his brain.

Just how long would this one last? He hoped it would be a little longer. His date for the betting pool was still twenty-one days away. There was always one betting pool or another. Some very elaborate. It was something they had picked up from the humans, finding it amusing.

Gray-Nine lucked out. Just twenty days later, Jim Cantrell died, and no one had picked day thirty-three. Gray-Nine discovered the body in the early morning hours. Jim Cantrell had chewed his tongue in half -- his face frozen in a grimace of terror.

The local sheriff’s office found his body just ten miles from his campsite. It bore all the earmarks of death by wild animals. The medical examiner attributed his exsanguinated body to dehydration and exposure to the desert heat.


4


Sirhad Tanas, leader of the Recondites, stood in his domain deep underground in Tanas’ belly, below the offices, labs, and living quarters the humans occupied. The dampness of the rocky interior served his nature well. It was late in the day and his mind cried out for freedom from his body’s earthly confines. Shedding his mortal shell was painful, but worth it.

He inhaled deeply and willed it to begin. His pale, fragile skin cracked; silver and black scales became visible, glistening like obsidian, beneath a thin cloak of blood. Expanding his leathery wings, he stretched them, fanning them to dry off. His round pupils elongated into slits, replacing former pale blue eyes, the green glow of new irises now shining in the darkness.

Humankind, stupid and so primitive, would never know until it was too late.

Her existence touched him again. He felt her presence -- just beyond his reach. It was a like an itch between his wings he could not scratch. He bellowed his frustration, giving a hair-raising screech. He did not know who she was, but he knew she was a successful hybrid; the female breeder that Tanas Global had still failed to produce.

His clawed fingers clenched into fists. It would be years before he could really communicate with her. Wasted years. Without the ability to make contact, he would not be able to teach her. Yet, he had to try. He did not want her to come to maturity without proper guidance -- discipline. She would be a force to reckon with by then. She might actually become his equal.

Where was she? How did this happen? Answers would come -- at great price of some of the humans. He narrowed his eyes and ordered Dr. Hanson to come to him immediately.


5

Scott Finley had writhed and screamed for three days under his captors' attention. They started by leaving him strung up by his wrists, teasingly close to food and water but not close enough to touch either. On the second day, they soaked his body with a fire hose, his nerves screaming in agony at the icy blasts. Attaching electrodes to his exposed armpits, stomach, and testicles, they watched, eyes glowing in silent contempt, as his body arched, screams tearing from his throat.

Another blast of the cold water revived him repeatedly, refreshing his pain.

Ah, but the best they saved for last. They released him from his manacles, strapped him into a chair, and belted his hands to a butcher-block. With surgical precision, they amputated each finger. Cutting through flesh and bones a layer at a time, ignoring again his screams of agony. After removing each digit, they went back to the first nub, now a bloody stump and began the agonizing process of cauterizing each one with a white-hot iron poker.

Scott passed out before they finished his first little pinky. They brought him back to consciousness with strong smelling salts. They had just turned their interest to Scott’s testicles when Sir’s orders reached them.

p

The guards dumped Scott’s barely recognizable form into a chair. Sir strolled around the seat, knowing silence can be its own torture. When his muteness finally produced a defeated whimper from the form, Sir spoke softly, continuing to circle the chair. "Tell me -- as I have no idea -- what did it feel like when that electrical current surged though your body? Did your teeth break? Did your muscles cramp? Did you scream?”

Silence.

"They say you were hung from the ceiling by your wrists for hours; that you haven’t eaten for three days, and weren’t allowed to drink for that time either.
“I’m told, the human body can survive for a long time without food, but without water, internal organs begin to fail after three days.”

Again, silence.

“I am really disappointed in you, Scott. How does it feel to have no fingers? Is it painful, still? Do they still burn from the hot irons?

“Tell me and perhaps I will ease your pain.”

What was left of a pitiful excuse for a man refused to look at him.

Sir walked around the chair again. He ran a finger along one of the gaping wounds on Scott's body, causing the man to scream. He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction.

With casual contempt and the precise control any neurosurgeon would envy, he invaded the protected vaults of Scott’s mind.

Scott’s head shot back, as though someone punched him in the face. His eyes bulged, coming out of their sockets. He screamed and grabbed the sides of his head. Pale, thick liquid oozed through the still bleeding stubs that had been his fingers. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth. He went still, his arms dropping to his sides, his head falling backward.

Sir glared at the men still in the room. “As you all know, I’m not a cruel man. However, loyalty is tantamount to Project EVAH’s success. I recompense loyalty. I will spare Patterson Finley’s life. He had enough loyalty to turn in his own brother.

“Let this one,” he pointed to the body, “be a lesson to you; disloyalty carries a heavy penalty”.

Sir dismissed them with a wave of his hand.


6

Patterson Finley typed in the name he had discovered; Sirhad, which meant, “the name of a bright star in the constellation Canis Major, derived via Latin from Greek meaning "burning". Not only that, but the site referenced an ancient biblical prophecy naming him as the catalyst for the coming of the Antichrist. He and Scott had grown up pounded with religion – literally.

His mother especially, would take her large family Bible and beat him and Scott with it every time she thought they needed punishment. She preached for hours after she beat them, telling them how evil the world had become, how evil they were. Then she would place them both in a special ‘cell’ she had built in the basement of their home. Sometimes, they stayed in there for days, and only allowed bread and water.

Their father was not much better. He and Scott knew he was weak and spineless. He gave in to the witch -- as they called her -- on everything.

Patterson was 15 and Scott was 18, when they burned down the house with their parents trapped inside. They had so ingeniously devised the plan that they had gotten away with it.

Now, his mother’s sermons echoed through his head. What he discovered made his blood run cold.

Now, he had an ace to protect himself. He could not believe his luck, but it put the fear of God in him, too.

He needed to figure out how to use this knowledge to his advantage – and to insure his life. He was always methodical in many of his endeavors. This was one area where he and his brother had differed.

Scott had sealed his own fate by his uncontrollable impulses. Patterson was going to make sure he controlled his fate.

Whom can I turn to? he thought.

Was he brave enough to confront Sirhad? He had never known him as anything other than Sir. What could he do now?

He spent considerable time planning his strategy. Within three weeks, he had it all laid out.

He requested an appointment with Sir.

p

Though reluctant to acknowledge minions like Patterson, Sir decided to grant him audience. He wondered when Patterson became so bold. The man was up to something.

As he drummed his long fingers against his teakwood desk, Sir concentrated on Patterson’s mind. He could see what his plans were. Stupid mortals -- they are so easy to manipulate, so easy to read. He thinks he’s smart enough to blackmail me.

There would be no surprises when Patterson showed up. Other men -- better men than Patterson -- had tried the same thing with him; and all had failed. Their names ran though his mind and Sir toyed with his 'mice' again: Caesar, Alexander, Napoleon, and Hitler.

Sir smiled. He snapped his ice blue cell phone from the desktop and punched Dr. Hanson's number in on the redial. He would be well ready for Patterson.

p

Patterson stood outside the inner sanctum. He had never been this deep under Tanas before. His ears even popped on the way down in an elevator that Tanas made sure remained hidden. He made a mental note of its location. He also made a note on how to manipulate the mechanism to reveal it.

Patterson, in spite of his bravado, was shaking uncontrollably. He had heard of the ‘alien’ being who controlled Tanas, but now, he knew who – what – he was about to confront.

As the elevator door slid open, it exposed a waiting area. Huge, oversized sofas and chairs dominated the room. Plush cushions insured comfort for those who waited. The walls, all covered with opals and ice blue sapphires, made Patterson shiver with cold, while at the same time, his greedy side wondered how much all those gems could fetch.

On one wall, a cappuccino machine gurgled, promising cups of whipped coffee.
The Gray who had accompanied him offered him a cup.

Patterson was very much aware of the Grays. He had worked with them many times before whenever he delivered acquisitions.

His hands visibly shook, as he drank the cappuccino.

Gray 4 entered into what first looked like just another wall. She – at least he thought Gray 4 was female – touched the wall, and another door opened. She disappeared.

He was savoring his cappuccino, when the wall opened once more. Gray 4 motioned for him to follow. As he stepped through the portal, he swore he could smell the stench of sulphur, along with decaying flesh – which he knew all too well.

p

What – who, he saw, shocked him. Patterson did not know what to expect, but he did not expect a human-like form. He was rather good looking, in a shyster-lawyer kind of way. He reminded Patterson of Sonny Corlione from The Godfather.

“Sit down, Patterson, and tell me why you’re here.” Although he spoke in a soft voice, Patterson knew it was a command, not a request.

“I…I mean…Sir, I know what your real name is, and – and I know…wh…what it means,” Patterson choked out.

Patterson watched as Sir sat behind his desk. He leaned back in his chair, softly rocking back and forth. His hands near his chin he tapped his fingertips.

Patterson waited long moments before Sir spoke again. As he waited, Sir looked at him, staring through to his soul. Patterson struggled to keep from shivering. He did not want to appear the coward – like Scott.

“So, Patterson, what would you have me do? I am not used to dealing with such resourcefulness,” he said. Patterson’s ego level rose. He knew a boldness he did not have before.

“Sir -- or shall I call you Sirhad – I want in. I mean, I want in on the secret workings of Tanas. I believe I could be a real asset to you – and to Tanas. As you know, I have been loyal to the point of snitching on my own flesh and blood. There’s nothing I would not do for you, Sirhad.”

Sir narrowed his eyes into slits at the familiar usage of his name. His jaw muscles flexed.
“
First of all, do not ever call me by that name again. You are quite lucky you are not a pile of ashes right now – and never think that I do not have the power to do just that.

“But, you do present a good argument. I believe you are correct. I think you would make a valuable asset to Tanas.”

Patterson swelled his chest out, feeling like he finally made it into the inner sanctum.

“Sir, I will never make that mistake again. I will never reveal your full name, or your origins to anyone. I am only too happy to handle any assignments you may have for me, Sir.”

Patterson stood up to shake Sir’s hand. He felt a hot sensation, and instantly, he remembered nothing more until his mind screamed.

p

Patterson knew he was in liquid. His eyes burned, but he could still breathe in a way. He looked down and discovered he was nude. As he looked down, he could see part of the breathing apparatus – his only link to life. He panicked, thrashing around in the fluid in a vain attempt to escape.

One of the Grays noticed his panic and came over to his container. It injected something into one of the tubes outside the large specimen jar. Immediately, he felt a familiar sensation and the acrid taste of ether – heroine – it had been so long since he had any. He soon stopped panicking.

In a drug-induce stupor, he watched through the blur of formaldehyde, as the Grays worked on other specimens. What happened?

Patterson jerked awake. Hey! He knew no one could hear him, still his mind yelled out for someone to help him.

Days, weeks, even months went by as far as he knew, and he remained in the container, occasionally the Grays studied him, and a few times by Dr. Hanson.

The day finally came when they let him out of his container. The Grays washed his eyes, soothing the non-stop burning from the formaldehyde. His pain was just beginning.

His final, tortured screams filled the rounded hallways of Tanas’ labs.



7

Sirhad reluctantly reverted to his humanoid persona. He walked to a mirror and looked into it. Dressed in a dark suit, slick black hair, the blue eyes, he could pass for a Mafia Don. In time, he would reveal his true form, but not just yet. He paced. The more he thought about the girl, the angrier he became. He forced himself to settle behind his desk and wait.

Dr. Hanson arrived in a hurry; he always did when Sirhad commanded his presence.

Sir stood, leaning across his desk. “Hanson, I want answers, and I want them now.”

“Sir, I’m not sure what you mean. The one subject is doing well, she…”

"You are clueless, aren't you, Hanson? You have no idea?”

“No-no, Sir.”

“There is a successful hybrid in existence, Hanson. I felt her existence this morning.”

He allowed the news to sink in. Sir saw Hanson’s face pale under his dime store tan. Sir narrowed his eyes.

“She’s around three years of age. That is usually the age of initial empathic contact. I cannot make a full connection with her until she comes to full maturity. Bottom line is, somebody screwed up.

“You know the consequences of such flagrant incompetence. The only reason you are not dead right now, Hanson, is that you are the best in the world at genetic research. That is the only thing that saves your ass.

“Hanson, I want as many men on this as possible. Find her, or heads will roll. You get my meaning?”

“Sir, you know I am always at your command. Just tell me what I must do, and it shall be done, sir.”

“I want to know how she got here.”

“Sir, if I may suggest? I can put a team on this that can ferret out old records. It could take some time, however. There’s over a million subject files in our records, as you well know.”

“Hanson, do I have to think for you, or can you manage that? Considering the child is around three, figure it out. Her incubator could be anywhere from fifteen to thirty years old, by my calculations.”

“Sir, I know on my watch, not one subject has ever escaped this lab. As you know, I have faithfully served you for twelve years now. It has to be from Dr. Wendellson. It must have been during his tenure.”

“See to it, then.

After Hansen left, Sir touched a button on his desk, which lifted a small trap door in the top. A miniature elevator rose, bringing him a cup of chamomile tea. He began to drink the boiling fluid. In his mind's eye, he saw Hansen walk down the hall, whispering a prayer.

p

Baltimore, Maryland

Leah played happily while Sesame Street filled the television screen. She was not paying attention to Bert and Ernie playing the numbers game.

Her mother, Maggie, was busy baking.

Attracted by the smell of homemade chocolate chip cookies, she toddled into the kitchen.

“Mommy, I want a cookie, please. Mommy, cookie is ‘C’.”

Maggie stared at her daughter. “What did you say, Sweetie?”

“Cookie is C. It’s a letter, Mommy. C is for cookie.”

“Leah, that’s nice. Here’s your cookie. Now go play while I finish this batch, okay?”

“Mommy, is cookie, c-o-o-k-i-e?”

Startled, all Maggie could do is say, “Yes, it is. Where did you learn that?”

“Sesame Street, Mommy”, she said, laughing.

“Oh, I see. You just learned that, huh?”

“Oh no, Mommy, I seen that the other day. Today is all about numbers. Uno, Dos, Tres, Cuatro, Cinco, Seis, Siete, Ocho, Nueve, Diez. That’s Spanish. In English: one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten”.

“Leah, honey, that’s very good. What else have you learned?”

“I know he knows I’m here. He wants me to talk to him in my head, Mommy. I don’t want to. He’s not nice.”

Maggie kneeled down and took Leah by her shoulders trying her best to remain calm. “Leah. Sweetie, who wants to talk to you in your head?”

“Him. The one who wants to talk to me.”

“Is he a pretend friend?”

“Mommy, I think he is a real pretend, but he’s not my friend. He scares me.”

“Well, then. Just pretend he isn’t there, ok?”

Maggie watched as her daughter returned to her coloring books. Something felt wrong. It was not the first time she'd felt this vague apprehension since Leah was born but now it squeezed like fingers around her heart. She grabbed the phone and dialed Joshua at the base.

“Honey, I just had an interesting conversation with our daughter.” She told him about it and concluded with, “Honey, I’m worried. What should we do?”

“Mags, I think you need to downplay it. Didn’t you have pretend friends? If you just treat it lightly, she may forget about it. It's just childish dreams. Just keep it low. After all, it's not the end of the world. You have to stop being so overprotective, honey. It’s not good for you or her.”

"Mommy, he told me something”, Leah called.

"Just a second, baby, I'm talking to Daddy."

"But Mommy...” Leah covered her ears, not wanting to listen anymore. "C is for cookie...” She sang, drowning out his last whisper.

“You are my destiny, child.”

p

Where was she? Sir used all the will power he had in his arsenal to control the rage that threatened to take over. He could ill afford to allow his ‘true’ nature to be unleashed at this point. My patience will pay off soon enough, he thought.

He had to find her; she was already powerful enough to elude his messages.
He paced the room. How had this happened? Years of research and they had not produced one successful hybrid. Just what path had been taken to bring this child to the here and now?