City Under the Moon Page 7
“I was taking a walk… We were walking on the street… and we were attacked by something… some kind of dog. It pushed me down, and… and it got on top of me. And then I woke up in the hospital.” Her tone suggested recitation, like a kid fed a lie by a guilty sibling.
“Holly, this will take longer if we can’t figure out what happened to you. It will take longer to find your son. And you may not be able to go home for a long time.” Long.
Tears dripped from her eyes. “I know.”
“Holly, what happened at the hospital last night?”
She shook her head and silently sobbed, mouth open, saliva dripping. This part was honest: “I don’t know… I just blacked out. It… it hurt so bad, I thought I was dying… and then…”
She cried in great heaves, and then the EIS officers stepped in to work her upper body, cutting her off from Tildascow.
Holly Cooke, a soft-skinned socialite, had suffered a sudden and savage physical assault. Her son was stolen. And then she’d transformed into some kind of monster and woke up half-naked on the streets.
And after all this, she was hiding something.
Protecting something?
Some… one?
Nine
National Archives Building
Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility
Washington, DC
December 31
9:52 a.m.
Lon had never been more disappointed in his life, and that included the full-scale shit-flinging assault on cinematic posterity commonly referred to as the 2010 remake of The Wolfman (they didn’t even get the name right).
The government’s “complete” and “official” aggregate of data on the subject of lycanthropy was, in a word, pathetic. In fact, the most insightful piece was a lengthy (and startlingly well-written) manifesto written by Lon himself and sent to Congress some eight years ago as part of a school project.
Even the rest of the occult section was unacceptably sparse. There were some pamphlets he recognized as issues of The Necromantic Gauntlet; that would please their author, Donnie Tuttle, Lon’s internet forum nemesis. Bah. There were also a few grimoires of the A∴A∴ (Arcanum Arcanorum), a magical fraternity that Lon was, frankly, desperate to join. But these spell books had been unearthed decades prior, and their veracity was under deep contention.
The jewel in the government’s collection? A wretched interpretation of the Necronomicon, Master Lovecraft’s legendary tome described by him as the “image of the law of the dead.” This was a flimsy 1988 prestige format graphic novel, defaced with faux post-it notes by some daft “expert.” They even misspelled the name of the author, referring to Abdul Alhazred as “Abdul Alhazered!”
How embarrassing.
All of the government’s werewolf photos were already available on the Internet, all of their “sightings” previously documented by the lycanthropy community. Their knowledge base was chiefly informed by commercial propaganda… and they didn’t have a single mention of the countless alleged incidents in Transylvania!
The emperor had no clothes. There wasn’t an old man behind the curtain. The Matrix didn’t explicitly revolve. Fuck!
A wave of depression hit Lon and he sat back in the squeaky chair. He was at a mahogany desk in a sparse room, some kind of man-sized safe in the basement of this supposedly important government library. The air was musty with the depressing smell of dying paper. Dust was snowing underneath his lamp. Where the hell had his tax dollars gone? Well, not his, but his mother’s?
He’d been working with his therapist to dissociate professional affronts from personal insults, but this was too much to bear. Why had they brought him here, anyway? To show him that the occult wasn’t a concern to the government? To put him in his place? To…
Wait a minute!
Maybe they’d enlisted him to organize and enhance their files! Maybe he was to become the first official United States Inspector of Lycanthropy!
His therapist constantly warned him about his swelled head. But how would women react when they saw his government badge—question mark and exclamation point!? This was the greater destiny he’d always imagined!
Perhaps he could assemble an FBI team to investigate the occult! Like The X-Files, but with enthusiastic sanctioning, an informed crew, and more than a fleeting modicum of veracity!
If the government was searching for the right man to preside over the truth seekers, they had found him in Lon Toller.
The door to the safe room opened to the two stiff Secret Service agents who’d escorted him from the White House. “It’s time, Mr. Toller. Bring whatever you need.” The archivist guy who’d prepared the documents wanted to protest, but a glare from one of the agents made him swallow his words.
Lon brought the puny folder, hoping they’d let him keep it for his website, but his mind was all they’d need. He couldn’t wait for the debriefing. Surely they’d see that his expertise was indispensible. Maybe they’d take him out for a drink. He’d always wanted to go out for a drink.
It occurred to Lon that this might be a time when his head was getting too big. People found it off-putting when he lectured. At the behest of his therapist, he was tracking this phenomenon in his introspective writing.
He determined to keep his ego in check and make everyone part of the discovery. It would be more of a discussion than a lecture.
This was gonna be great!
Ten
White House Conference Room
December 31
11:04 a.m.
“Well then, I’m glad to see the government has finally decided to wisen up to matters of the occult. Who will be asking me questions today?”
Lon sat at the head of a mile-long conference table in the most modern room he’d yet seen in the White House. Flat-screen panels and cameras lined the walls, and a badass touchscreen map of the world was mounted behind him. He thought he might put that to use while discussing the eighteenth-century lycanthropic infestation of Transylvania.
Nine other people were seated at the table, and not one of them answered his question. One senior military guy scowled so hard that his white nose hairs spread like fangs.
“It’s understandable, though, right? The modern world doesn’t have the balls to admit that the things that go bump in the night are real.”
Still no reaction.
The door opened behind him. Everyone stood expectantly, so Lon followed suit.
A black woman glided in and waved the room back to their seats with a curt smile. She was attractive for her age and exuded importance. Her graying kinky hair was pushed behind a black headband, and she smelled of citrus. He’d seen her before, maybe on TV. But he didn’t follow politics. It all seemed too futile, since he knew there were more malevolent powers puppeteering society.
She approached Lon, and a gofer dude standing at the door introduced them. “This is our werewolf expert,” he said. “Mr. Boris Toller.”
“Mister Toller,” said the black woman as she extended her hand. “Rebekkah Luft. Nice to meet you.”
“Hi,” he muttered. His hand squished in her grip. He was going to have to learn how to do something about that.
“National Security Advisor of the United States of America,” said the gofer dude, picking up on Lon’s obliviousness. Very helpful.
“I appreciate your coming on such short notice.” She directed him to his seat. “We’re here to talk about werewolves.”
“Of course,” Lon smiled, tossing the archive file on the desk for the sake of drama. “But they’re nasty little buggers then, aren’t they?”
Luft exchanged a weary glance with the gofer dude.
“You see ma’am, obviously I don’t know what this is about.” Although I hope I’m guessing right! “But there was very little in your files that isn’t already available on the Internet. The personal accounts, the hazy photographs—I’ve had the whole bloody lot of them on my website for years now—“
“Have you spent time in England, young
man?” the nose-haired general interrupted. His scowl was back.
“Er, no. Why?” But Lon realized he’d slipped into his English accent. His stepfather hated that too. But the royal vernacular sounded far more elegant when it came to educating.
“Keep going,” urged Luft.
“Well, quite honestly,” he said, easing back into Ohio commonspeak, “I’ve found far more convincing testimonials in European texts, particularly those from seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Romania. If you’d like, I could translate—“
Luft suddenly diverted her gaze. “Where are we with the patch-throughs?” she asked the gopher. What a brazen interruption!
“They’re on stand-by.”
“Put them through.”
Two side-by-side flat-panel screens came to life on the far end of the room, both displaying women’s faces. The one on the right looked like an overworked schoolmarm. Lon remembered her face from his contact list: She was the head of the CDC; he’d sent her information about lycanthropes as well. But he didn’t recognize the other woman, a younger, more attractive blonde.
“Brianna,” said Luft. “Always wonderful to see you.”
Eleven
Jacob K. Javits Federal Office Building
26 Federal Plaza, Manhattan
Tildascow sat alone at the center of a long table in the conference room. The Chelsea building was nearly empty; everyone was in the field, prepping for NYE or off for the evening. If she weren’t a grown-up, the place might’ve seemed creepy. Or maybe the anticipation had gotten to her. The CDC apparently had something, but she couldn’t squeeze out any more details before—
The video screen in front of her flashed from the White House seal to a conference room packed with advisors. Rebekkah Luft was seated at the head of the table.
“Brianna,” said Luft. “Always wonderful to see you.”
“Good morning…” she sputtered, unsure how to address her. “Mrs. Luft.”
“Oh please, Brianna,” Luft chuckled. Her diamond-studded watch jangled as she waved off the formality. “I’ve known her since she was in the second grade,” she informed the others at her table.
Tildascow smiled hollowly as the officials nodded her way.
“We’re connecting you to a feed from the CDC.”
The video switched to a QuickTime interface. A black screen with white text.
New York Lycanthropy Unclassified-Group VI.
Twelve
White House Conference Room
December 31
11:04 am
Lon read the screen again. And again.
New York. Lycanthropy? Unclassified? Group VI?
What could that combination of words mean?
“Ladies and gentlment, this is Dr. Jessica Tanner, Director of the CDC,” said Luft, “Dr. Tanner, you have the room.”
“Good afternoon, everyone,” said Jessica’s voice over the video. “I’m afraid we haven’t had very much luck with this.”
The video began with a flat, grayscale image that was reminiscent of the microscopic photographs Lon had seen in science textbooks. Moving, roundish blobs appeared to be blood cells.
The image jerked as the video’s speed adjusted, and then a new shape entered the top of the frame.
“This is the virus,” said Jessica.
A highlight appeared over the virus. It looked like—Lon squinted—it looked like an Oreo, if the cookies had spikes on their edges.
“It reproduces through what we call the ‘Lytic Cycle without lysis.’ In the Lytic Cycle, the virus enters a cell, multiplies inside, and then bursts out an exponential number of progeny, or baby viruses, which then go on to infect more cells. The ‘without lysis’ part means that the initial host cell isn’t destroyed. It continues to serve as an incubator, expediting the infection even further. This particular virus spreads remarkably fast. Progeny are released within an hour, and they face no resistance because they hide inside an envelope constructed from the host cell’s membranes. In fact, white blood cells don’t even seem to recognize the intruder’s presence.”
The image was replaced by a static closer shot of the virus.
Lon leaned closer.
Those weren’t spikes on the edges. The sides of the virus—the cookies of the Oreo—were pentagrams.
Jessica continued speaking over the image. “We tested the spectral response of the virus under a lamp replicating the intensity and polarization of last night’s moonlight in New York. Under very short wavelengths in the x-ray region, a photocatalyzer molecule activated the virus, which in turn catalyzed genomic alterations to sections of the cell’s DNA.”
Huhwha?
“We call these sections ‘junk DNA,’ because we don’t really know what they do. But they appeared to be dormant.” Jessica’s voice went soft as she responded to someone off-screen. “Okay, we’re ready with the lamp.”
Lamp?
The video switched to a wide angle of a hospital room, where a poor, terrified woman was strapped Bride-of-Frankenstein style into a gurney and covered with electrodes and bandages and IVs.
“Kenzie, Melissa, A01” was stamped at the bottom of the screen, followed by the military time, the date, and some technical jargon about wavelengths, intensity, and polarization.
Lon couldn’t swallow. Was his imagination running wild or…
…or did everyone else think they were about to see what he thought they were about to see?
Thirteen
CDC Headquarters, Secure Recovery Room
Atlanta, Georgia
Melissa Kenzie struggled to remember.
She was doing her rounds in the hospital. And then something happened. People screaming over her. Ceilings rolling past. Vehicles. A helicopter?
She’d spoken to a charming doctor. They gave her some ice and took some blood. And then she went to sleep.
Yes, that’s what happened. They must’ve given her an anesthetic.
But why was she here, in a diagnostic room? This place was more elaborate than anything at Bellevue. She was strapped to a gurney (why?) and propped upright facing a mirror. And why was she being videotaped?
Anxiety spiked her pulse ox. The beeps pounded against her temples.
“Melissa, we’re about to run a test.” The woman’s voice came from everywhere at once, but she couldn’t see her anywhere. “Just relax. It won’t hurt, and it’ll be over in a minute.”
“Where are you?”
With a clack, a new light source changed the room’s color to lavender. It was quite dim…so why did it make her squint?
“What’s happening?” she cried.
Who are these people? What godforsaken thing are they doing?
She pulled at the restraints, but a tearing pain across her breast reminded her there were stitches.
Why am I restrained?
“I want to call my mother!”
No response.
How long had she been here? Did they even tell her mother?
“Please! Please let me out of here!”
She stopped struggling. Suddenly it wasn’t so important. She took a deep, refreshing breath. Finally, the volume of the pulse ox relented. Her muscles relaxed, her fog cleared. Her strength was returning. It felt good. So good.
She was hungry.
How long had it been since she’d eaten?
What was that smell?
God bless, something tasty. Salty and wet and—
“Melissa, how do you feel?” the voice thundered.
“I’m okay,” she chuckled. “I’m—“
Pain in her right shoulder. Harsh, as if she’d been kicked from behind, leaving an aching throb spreading across her shoulder blades, pushing… pushing her collarbone into submission.
She screamed as it struck her other shoulder. Her whole body shook from the impact. And now a searing tear on her chest, those stitches—
Dear God, am I smelling my own blood?
It seeped into her bandages, creeping red swallowing the white
.
What is this pain?
Her joints erupting. Her bones pulling apart.
“Help me God, help me God…”
So hot. Sweat racing with tears. Inside, too. Boiling in her lungs.
“It hurts!”
“What hurts, Melissa?”
“Everything. Please… please help me.”
Her legs wrenching from her hips. Her shoulders arching forward, never mind that they were attached to her back, which was—oh please God—splitting apart. Her jaw ripping from her skull, breaking—
That smell…
Sparks shot through her limbs. Energy like she’d never felt, fueling such strength. She had to run—away from the pain, away from this light, this pounding noise—
But more than that she just had to run. The night called.
Her neck, her ears, her joints kept detonating, but the pain didn’t matter.
Now she was angry.
And hungry. And trapped. She wanted to scream.
No, not scream but—
Fourteen
CDC Headquarters, Patient Observation Room
December 31
One Minute Earlier
Jessica took a deep breath and pressed the intercom button. “Melissa, how do you feel?”
“I’m okay,” she chuckled. “I’m—“
Kenzie’s shoulder jerked violently, leaving her breathless, her mouth hanging agape, as if the pain had insulted her.
In the crowded observation room, heads perked up from monitors. Shouts came from all directions: “BP 160 over 95!” “Temp 102 and rising!”
“Help me God, help me God,” Kenzie whispered to herself. She regained her breath to scream: “It hurts!”
“Ask her to describe it.” Richard said.
“What hurts, Melissa?”
“Everything. Please…please help me…”
Kenzie shrieked as her body contorted. Her neck flared, her eyes swelled. Veins bulged through her crimson skin. She quivered breathlessly for an agonizing moment until she finally exhaled a deep, rasping growl.
Jessica couldn’t believe—