Dead World 3, page 11
There was one walkway that led in, but Michael was sure there had to be another. No one was stupid enough to trap themselves without the possibility of escape, especially people living in no-man’s-land.
Dropping to the sand, he belly-crawled forward. People were rushing from place to place within the compound, their movements frenzied. Had they been recently attacked?
He thought of the dead child lying in pieces. Tension gripped him as he inhaled deeply. The last thing Michael needed was to be caught off guard by an unseen enemy.
A flash of movement to his right made his head turn. The shadow disappeared before he could get a good look at it. Not now. Michael slammed his eyes closed, squeezing until the lids hurt. The pain helped him focus. Reminded him of who he used to be.
“Go away,” he hissed under his breath.
Michael’s head throbbed and he felt movement under his skull once again. The chip was burrowing deeper, which was an impossibility, so it had to be his imagination. A shock zapped him, painfully contorting his muscles. Michael gasped. Roark was nowhere near. He would’ve sensed him. That meant the chip had acted on its own.
It took Michael a moment to digest the gravity of the situation. He didn’t like the conclusion he came to. What had Roark done to him?
Michael watched the shadows retreat, but how long they’d stay gone was anyone’s guess. Shaken, he continued forward, dropping lower in the sand. The gentle shoosh as his clothes brushed the grains would be lost to human ears.
He didn’t want them to see him before he was ready. He licked his chapped lips. So thirsty. The raw ache for blood burned his insides, demanding to be filled.
Guards flanked the encampment, their eyes alert, almost fevered. The faint coppery scent of blood tickled Michael’s nose, teasing him with the promise of sustenance.
The blood was old, but Michael’s body didn’t care. His stomach growled loud enough for the guards to notice. They both turned, weapons raised.
“Come out,” the one nearest him shouted, unable to pinpoint his exact location.
Michael considered not complying for a moment, then slowly rose to his feet, putting his hands in the air. It was all for show of course. He could kill them both in a blink and not strain a muscle.
The chip in his brain flared at the thought, flooding his body with endorphins, encouraging him to act on the impulse. Michael fought the urge and a wave a pain swiftly followed. He gulped in air and staggered forward.
“I’m unarmed,” he said.
It was the truth and a lie, since Michael had dropped his assassination kit on the ground where he’d been hiding moments ago. The real weapon lay within him dormant, but ready for use at a moment’s notice. It was the reason he’d survived for so many years. The reason Michael had found his brother, Raphael. And the reason Roark had him chipped.
“Come forward and don’t try anything or we’ll shoot,” the guard shouted. That wouldn’t happen, since Michael was quite capable of stopping a bullet.
He did as the guard asked because it suited his purpose. Michael needed to find out whether Red and Morgan had passed this way. The only way to do that was to get closer.
“Do you have any water?” Michael asked. “I ran out an hour ago.” It wasn’t water he needed, but he figured they’d be far more accommodating than if he asked for their blood.
“Keep your hands where we can see them,” the guard said, not answering.
Michael walked across the small entryway while flames licked at his flesh from both sides. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Unusual, but not unheard of for his kind. The fire crackled, fed by some kind of liquid fuel and rags.
“I could really use your help,” Michael said, repeating his request for water. His meek act slipped easily onto his narrow shoulders. Once again he became Michael Travers, lowly assistant.
One of the guards nodded to a woman, who placed a canister of some sort on a table. She pointed to it and then stepped away.
“Thank you.” The water burned Michael’s raw throat, causing him to choke. He wasn’t even sure it was solely water, but at least it was wet.
Michael put it down and took a couple of deep breaths, while forcing himself to remain as unthreatening as possible. It wasn’t hard. He was not a big man.
Despite the changes in him, Michael had small hands and delicate features. Most people didn’t see him as dangerous until he killed them. It was one of the many reasons he was such a good assassin. Michael took another drink of water. This time it soothed.
The guard stepped forward when Michael finished, weapon raised. “State your business.”
Michael watched him, paying special attention to the slight tremor in his hands and the laser pistol strapped to his thigh. It looked new, unlike the weapon in his hands, which had seen better days. Despite the varnish, the wood of the rifle had rotted from age. The inside of the barrel looked clean, but rust dotted the outside in red freckles.
“I told you. I ran out of supplies and need assistance,” he said.
“You don’t look like a trader. Where did you come from?” the man asked.
“The boundary fence.”
“You’re registered?” He sounded surprised.
“Yes.” Michael didn’t bother to ask him if he was since anyone living on this side of the fence had chosen not to or couldn’t afford the credits it took to go through the process.
Michael turned his head to show the man where his chip was implanted.
His brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why would so many Regs want to suddenly journey into no-man’s-land?”
Michael arched a brow. Why indeed? He took another deep breath and caught a familiar scent. It was wild and feminine just like its owner. “Where is she?” he asked.
The guard stilled, his gaze growing wary. “Where’s who?”
“Don’t play dumb with me.” Michael advanced on a tent not far from the table.
“Stop or I’ll shoot,” the guard shouted, then fired. A blast landed near Michael’s feet.
He stopped, anger and energy rising inside of him. “That was a mistake,” he said softly, turning to face the man. So softly Michael doubted he heard him.
“The next shot will be in you,” the guard warned. His bravado was admirable, but it did little to wipe the stink of fear from his skin. The man knew now that he was staring at death.
Michael watched the other guard off to the right raise his weapon. He was still a good distance away. Smart man. Too bad it wouldn’t help him.
“The last man who pulled a gun on me didn’t live to take his next breath,” Michael said. The chip in his brain pulsed in approval. Suddenly the need to resist the impulse to kill didn’t seem all that important.
“Huh?”
Michael reached out with his mind to the nearest guard and yanked the gun from him, tossing it into the fire beyond. The man stood dumbfounded, gawking at his empty hands.
Before the other guard in the distance registered what had happened, Michael mentally grabbed his weapon and slowly turned the muzzle on him. It became a battle of wills. Michael’s was stronger.
When the muzzle rested against his chest, Michael blinked and the gun fired, sending a loud crack rumbling through the air.
Screams filled the night as people ran out of their tents and lean-tos, weapons drawn.
Michael became a killing machine, disarming them all at once. He smashed their bones and piled the bodies up near the fire like human kindling. Others he let fall where they stood.
The physical drain was immense. Michael’s power weakened, but no one noticed. When there were only two people left, the first guard and a woman, he stopped his bloody rampage. Once again the chip in his brain flooded him with endorphins. A reward for a job well done.
“Now, I’m going to ask you again. Where is she?”
The woman whimpered. Tears streaked down her grit-covered face, leaving clean trails behind. She glanced at the corpses of her people. “They killed Gray and left,” she said.
The man shot her a censorious look meant to silence her, but the woman was too far gone to notice.
“Where did they go?” Michael asked, barely containing the urge to taste her throat.
“Southwest,” she said, then dropped to the ground and rocked.
“You come here.” Michael summoned the guard.
The man shook his head. Defiant to the end. “Go to hell,” he ground out between clenched teeth.
“I’m not going to ask you again.” Michael raised his arm, directing his telekinetic power toward the guard. The man’s feet left the ground and he floated toward him. Michael’s power faltered and the man’s toes dug into the sand.
The guard shrieked, the fear inside of him exploding like a cork under too much pressure. He struggled against Michael’s mental bonds, but it did him no good. He may be weak from lack of blood, but he was still stronger than any being currently walking on the dead world.
Michael set the man down in front of him and looked into his leathery face. His gray eyes were wide and he’d wet himself. The acrid odor of urine nearly overpowered the scent of blood coming from the bodies.
“Bring me the canteen,” Michael said to the woman. For a second, she didn’t move. Her mind had created a safe haven for her to escape in.
“I said bring me that canteen,” he repeated, but this time louder. Michael pointed to the object on the table.
She blinked as if waking from a dream, then rose to do as he bade. The woman handed him the canteen, then quickly backed away. Her fingers shook violently as she plunged them into her pockets.
“Thank you.” Michael’s fangs lengthened in anticipation.
The man’s eyes got even wider if that were possible and his struggles increased. Michael brushed his scraggly hair away from his neck. His skin was dirty, but it mattered not, because what Michael was after wasn’t found on the outside.
It was difficult to hold the guard with need riding him so hard, but somehow Michael managed. He stared at the man’s neck and concentrated, watching his pulse jump beneath his skin. The movement was hypnotizing.
A small tear opened the guard’s throat, gradually growing larger and larger, then deeper and deeper, until it found the carotid artery. The man’s cries turned into terrified whimpers.
Michael mentally plucked at the vein and it opened, exposing glorious fountains of crimson. They showered him, covering his face, blanketing his clothes. Michael closed his eyes in ecstasy and licked his lips. So warm. So salty. So delicious.
Michael placed the canteen against the man’s neck and waited for his heart to do its job. It didn’t take long to fill. When it was finished, he sealed the lid.
“Do you have any more?” Michael asked the woman, but she didn’t hear him. She was already in shock.
The man’s color faded. Michael moved quickly and covered the opening with his lips, sucking hard. The coppery taste exploded on his tongue. So good. So sweet. More. He needed more.
He drank and drank until Michael was convinced his stomach would burst. The man tasted so fresh. If he didn’t stop, he’d be blood sick. But the thirst remained, driving him to gluttony. Or maybe it was the chip.
Michael released the man and he fell. Deceased before he hit the sandy ground.
The woman was staring in his direction, but Michael didn’t think she could see him. He searched the tents and found two more empty canteens. The rest were full of water. He’d take as many as he could carry. Michael returned to the woman. She hadn’t budged. The merciful thing to do was to kill her.
He plucked her off the ground. She didn’t struggle or cry out. She simply lifted her matted blond hair off her neck and tilted her head, so he’d have better access. Fang marks glared back at him. Someone had fed from her before.
Michael didn’t recognize the vamp’s earthy scent. A twinge of guilt hit. It was wrong to poach on another vampire’s food source, but guilt had no place in no-man’s-land.
“Thank you,” he said, then clamped onto her throat with his teeth and ripped.
She didn’t make a sound as Michael filled his canteens and then left her to bleed to death. It seemed like such a waste of blood, but he couldn’t carry anything else.
Michael’s power surged, striking her heart. By the next beat it stopped and the woman was dead...just like the rest of her people.
He went back into the tent where he’d found Red’s scent. It mingled with Morgan’s. They’d stayed here, and not long ago. A day perhaps, two at the most. The scent was too strong to be old. They were still alive.
Michael left the tent and its contents behind and gathered the canteens, making his way back across the entrance and out where he’d left his weapons. He added the canteens to his supplies, then climbed the ridge of the nearest dune and looked out at the horizon.
The black had been steadily replaced with light gray. The sun would be coming up in a matter of minutes. There was no time to waste.
The breeze increased, bringing with it a familiar odor wafting on the air. It stopped Michael in his tracks. He turned his face into the wind. The scent was there again, stronger, closer. Michael inhaled deeply to be sure he was not mistaken.
He wasn’t.
He was still far away, but the wind confirmed Michael’s fears. “Raphael, what are you doing here?” he asked the night, not expecting an answer.
The spicy odor of his brother taunted him. Made Michael long for his company, when he needed no man. Raphael’s scent was tangled with a lighter one, sweeter almost. One that seemed vaguely familiar. His brother wasn’t traveling alone.
Michael debated for a moment whether to contact him, but decided against it. There could be only one reason Raphael was out here. And that was to stop him. Michael went back into the compound and grabbed a lean-to to take with him.
The thought of burning the remaining tents crossed his mind, since it would eliminate his scent, but the flames would draw Raphael straight to this location. If he didn’t burn the place, there was a possibility his brother might miss the compound. Michael decided to leave it standing.
The best thing his brother could do was stay as far away from him as possible. Michael loved Raphael, but right now he was a danger to him and anyone who might be traveling with him. And he would remain so as long as this chip stayed in his head. Raphael’s blind devotion prevented him from seeing the truth. For both their sakes, Michael prayed that never changed.
Chapter 13
They smelled death before they saw it. Raphael and Catherine approached the camp, spotting the pile of bodies immediately. The fire burning in a deep trench was almost out. It wouldn’t be long before the predators approached.
Catherine put her hand over her nose and mouth. “What the hell happened here?” she asked, gagging.
Raphael could tell she wasn’t really looking for an answer. He inhaled, catching his brother’s scent. It was faint due to decomp, but strong enough to let him know that he’d been here recently. Michael had been close enough to hear his call.
He made his way around the pit and walked into the middle of the tents. He picked up three more familiar scents—Red, Morgan, and Demery. Every muscle in his body clenched. Had they all been here at the same time? Were they among the dead? He’d have to check all the bodies to be sure.
“This one’s throat has been ripped out.” Catherine stood over the body of a woman. “And that one’s been slashed.” She pointed to a man lying nearby. “I don’t see any marks on these others. It’s like they just died.”
“I doubt very much that they all laid down in a pile and died. Have you spotted Red or Morgan?” he asked.
“No.” She shook her head. “Not yet. I’ll keep looking.”
A wave of relief hit. “Let me know if you find anything,” Raphael said.
She scowled. “Other than Red and Morgan, what am I looking for?”
“Signs of trauma.” Raphael wasn’t about to share his insights into what had happened here. This carnage wasn’t the work of shifters. The only creature who could kill like this was a vamp, which meant either Demery or his brother, Michael, had been behind the killings. The question was why? Had these people tried to attack Red and Morgan? There was no reason to assume so. Yet this was no-man’s-land. They didn’t exactly operate by the rules, nor did they need a reason to kill.
After a few more minutes of searching, Catherine approached him, looking paler than she’d been only moments ago. The sun had barely peeked over the horizon. Soon it would be beating down upon them and they’d have to take shelter. This place was as good as any.
“Are you okay?” He stroked her cheek.
She swatted his hand away. “I’m fine. What are we going to do with the bodies?”
“Move them out into the desert, so that the predators don’t come in here while we’re sleeping.”
“I’m not staying here.” Catherine gaped, looking around at the destruction. “This is a dead zone. We don’t even know what happened. What if whatever killed them comes back?”
“It won’t.” Raphael had no doubt the killer or killers were long gone. “The sun is coming up. We won’t get far in the heat. This place has shelter and probably a few supplies we can make use of. It’s not like they’ll need them anymore. Rigor has come and gone in all the bodies. They’ve already begun to decompose.”
“What if something in their supplies killed them?” she asked. “We have tents. We should go.”
He hadn’t thought of that, but this clever woman had. Raphael walked over to the pile of bodies. He hated to do this, but he had no choice. He leaned over them and breathed deep. The scent of decay hit, rolling his stomach, but beneath that he smelled nothing unusual.
Raphael lifted one of the victim’s arms. It crumpled, bending in an abnormal way. He started at the wrist and felt up to the elbow. The bones were like gravel beneath his fingertips. He dropped the limb. Definitely a vamp’s work.
“I don’t think they were poisoned,” he said, slowly backing away from the bodies.
“Then what killed them?”
More like who, he thought.
