The Breaking

CHAPTER Twenty-Two


Once he’d sheathed his knife, Jessup asked Cole to help him pick up the dead flier and run for cover. Although he was more anxious to do the latter, Cole helped with the former as well. The shredded pieces of the thing that had come screaming from the sky now looked more like a broken kite made of moist skin on a flimsy white frame. When Cole jumped into Jessup’s pickup, he almost crushed the parts already on the seat.

“Careful!” Jessup said as he shoved him toward the passenger door and gathered up his part of the kite.

“What the hell are—” Cole’s question was nipped in the bud by the hard slap of something against his window. Although he could still see the colors of the setting sun through the thin layer of skin now pressed against the outside of the glass, his view was impeded by what looked like a hastily drawn face with features that were nothing more than dark lines on a lighter surface. Talons scraped against the top of the truck and the face twisted as if trying to shove its way inside. The mouth that gaped open against the window had small ridges for teeth, no tongue, and no lips. Cole took the .38 from the glove compartment and pointed it at the window as more of the skin flags slapped against the outside of the truck. “What are those things? Were they after the gargoyles too?”

“Those are the gargoyles,” Jessup replied while hastily cutting apart the one he’d brought down.

“No, you were showing me the gargoyles. They were those stone animals outside the cemetery.”

“Nope. Those are what these gargoyles left behind.”

Now that it was clear the things outside weren’t strong enough to break their way in, Cole lowered his gun and focused on what the other Skinner was doing. “Every gargoyle I’ve ever heard of was made of stone. I’ve even heard of ones that are stone during the day and come to life at night.”

Jessup looked up from what he was doing to ask, “Where’d you hear about that?”

“Well . . . it was a cartoon.”

Shaking his head, the other man returned to his task. “Those statues were called gargoyles because they’re all folks saw after these things came through to feed or defend their nest.”

“They nest?” Cole asked as a chill worked its way down his back. “Where?”

“Damn near anyplace. They like cities because they can fold themselves up to fit nicely in all those angular crevices and narrow corners between buildings or under ledges. They ain’t got much by way of muscle, but they sure do have something to make up for it.” Jessup twisted his blade once more and pulled open a flap of skin he’d been cutting like a trapdoor. A spray of what looked like murky water emerged from the opening, which didn’t do anything to dim the smile on the Skinner’s face. Holding up a flat tube the size of a long water balloon, he declared, “This was worth the trip. If we don’t get a few more to use against that Full Blood friend of yours, we’ll have to improvise.”

“You think it would help if I knew what you were talking about?”

“Take a look at them claws,” Jessup said while tapping the chunk of creature Cole had brought into the truck. “Remember them scratches on the statues?”

“Yeah.”

“And the flat spots on their backs? That’s from this right here. Take a look.” Jessup held the tube as if he was about to decorate a cake. Instead of icing, a clear gel oozed from the end of the tube. The instant it touched the seat cushion between Jessup and Cole, the substance hardened with a soft creaking sound.

Inside the truck it was easier to block out the sounds coming from the northern side of town. Even with the Ford’s superior insulation, however, Cole could now hear the occasional chatter of automatic gunfire and the thumping bass of helicopter blades.

The bottom of the creature had an opening just like the mouth pressed against the window, except now he could see rows of tiny bristles just inside the opening. With the thing dead, a flat length of skin capped by four barbed hooks that could have been a tongue lolled from its mouth. Too much experience in handling deceased nightmares gave Cole the stomach to reach out and squeeze the tonguelike protrusion. Sure enough, it was a flattened tube that ended at the top of Jessup’s incision. By now the gel squeezed onto the seat cushion had formed a thick gray shell.

More of the pieces came together, finally coalescing when Cole tapped the barrel of his gun against the gray shell. It was solid and unmoving. After feeling the shell with his bare hand, he asked, “Is that rock?”

“Near enough.”

“So those statues are things that these bat-things swarmed and injected with this goo?”

“Not injected. Just coated and smeared around on the inside of their wings. Them claws sink in to keep whatever it catches from squirming away. The more they struggle, the more that stuff gets spread into a nice even coat.”

“Then what?”

“Then, after the stuff hardens, the rest of the gargoyles come back to feed. We think they must eat organs and soft tissue, because they sure as hell don’t got the choppers to tear off any meat. We’ve found little holes and slits that they could stick their tongues into and then seal up again to preserve the rest of the meal for later.”

Cole looked at the flattened portions of skin that scraped the window and kissed the glass. “How come they’re so quiet now?”

“Because they ain’t flying,” Jessup replied as he worked to tie up one end of the tube he’d extracted. “Pull off some of those talons. They’re light and durable. Make for great add-ons to our weapons. See anything going on outside?”

“No. There’s too many of those things on your truck. They’re persistent, I’ll give them that.”

“It’s how they’ve survived this long. They can hide like nothing else, and when they’ve been found out, they don’t stop attacking until they’ve put down whatever stirred ’em up. Soon as one of them is injured or if a statue is cracked open enough for them to smell their own juices inside of it, they swoop in to clean things up.”

“Kind of like a flying rodent ninja hit squad,” Cole said.

Jessup looked up from the knot he was tying and said, “Yeah. I guess that sums it up.”

“So you’re thinking of turning Cecile into one of those statues?”

“That’s the idea.”

“She seems like a good kid,” Cole sighed. “Shame to have her get taken out by these flying creeps and then get her guts sucked out.”

“I doubt this’ll kill her. We don’t know a lot about gargoyles, but if they had that kind of punch, they would have killed one or two Full Bloods over the years. Odds are a whole lot better they can contain one. Friend of mine did some hiking over in Hungary and found some statues that looked a lot like werewolves out in the middle of nowhere. Took enough pictures to find the scratches and smooth patch on the back later on, but he didn’t exactly know what he was looking at. We’ve always wanted to go back there, but the damn Gypsies would only chase us away again. I don’t even wanna know how he smuggled his camera back to the States. From what we can piece together in some old Skinner journals, we figure gargoyles migrated over here on a boat that passed through or originated from Greece on its way to the New World.”

“They’re from Greece?”

Jessup nodded while checking his guns, then dug out a shotgun kept under the seat in a specially crafted rack. It held the weapon in a hollowed space that would pass all but the most extensive inspections. “You heard of the Medusa myths?”

“You mean the reptile woman with snakes in her hair?” Cole asked. “I guess something’s gotta balance out the nymphs, huh?”

“Them myths came about the way lots of them do. Misinformation. As far as we can tell, Medusa was either the woman who crafted these things or first set them loose after stumbling on a nest buried deep somewhere. As for the snakes and such, I don’t know. Maybe the woman was just butt-ugly. All I can tell you is that here and now, these ugly little suckers are gonna save our butts once that Breaking Moon rises.”

Cole pulled in a deep breath and let it out. “I was just getting comfortable in here. Sure you don’t want to tell me some more about gargoyles and misinterpreted mythology?”

“There’s more guns under the seat. Ammo too. Fill up. Sounds like we’re gonna need it.”

Grabbing a few pistols, some preloaded magazines, and a shotgun, Cole said, “It sounds like someone’s already found Cecile.”

“It’s more than that,” Jessup grunted. “I wasn’t with that girl for long, but she’s not the sort to stir up whatever the hell is goin’ on out there. She would’ve just run away before the National Guard or whoever else is out there came for her. Besides, can’t you feel it?”

“Yeah,” Cole said while brushing his fingers against his scars. “There’s more than one Full Blood out there.”

“You ready for this?”

“Sure. There’s helicopters in the air, gargoyles slapping the windows, a werewolf howling, and now,” Cole added as a distinctive chatter crackled in the distance, “it sounds like there’s automatic gunfire. We’ve got some shotguns and weapons that require us to stand toe-to-toe and swing at a meat rendering plant.”

“But we got something they don’t.”

“Please don’t say courage,” Cole sighed.

Jessup held up the tube he’d tied, and showed him a smile that verged on the insane. “And there’s plenty more of this to be had. More than we’ll need if we play this quick enough.”

“How much of that stuff did you get?”

“Not what’s in here. It’s what’s out there we need to put to use.”

Cole looked outside where the frantic, nearly transparent flaps of skin and talons continued smearing their fluids on the truck. Since the window or hood hadn’t turned to stone, he could only assume that was a whole lot of slobber. “Can we at least point them in the right direction?”

“That’s the idea. Give them some live meat and they’ll take it. Gargoyles survive by leaving no witnesses. The more it fights back, the more they’ll try to bring it down, and nothing fights back more than a werewolf.” He started the truck and placed his hands on the wheel. “I don’t know what’s down this road either, but it’s big. We’re in this fight now, so should we sit here and whine about how things are going to hell or should we roll in to lend a hand?”

More than anything, Cole wanted to say something cool to that. Part of his old job had been to come up with catch phrases that fit nicely in the digitized mouths of his video game characters. The only thing to come out of his mouth now, however, was a shaky breath as he nodded his head.

Jessup pulled away from the cemetery. He didn’t gun the engine, take sharp turns, or even get the wipers going to clear a bigger spot on the windshield. He did nothing while driving up Scenic Road that could possibly upset or dislodge the creatures that had attached themselves to his windshield. The road was mostly straight and in good condition. If Cole squinted just enough he could trick himself into thinking he wasn’t moving at all. Apart from a few boxy little houses on one side of the road, all there was to see between the writhing bodies affixed to the glass was tall, dry grass and bushes that were too tough to die in the harsh New Mexican climate. He had almost calmed himself into believing he was looking through a dirty window instead of one covered by layers of squirming, living flesh. Stretched out and clinging with every talon it had, the gargoyle on the passenger window looked in at him with a face that could have been hastily drawn upon a dirt canvas. “What’s going on up there?” he asked.

Jessup leaned forward to look beneath the gargoyle clawing at the top of the windshield. “Don’t know, but it’s more than Full Bloods. Could be some Half Breeds. Just when I feel like I got a good handle on the number of them, they keep changing.”

“You can tell how many there are?”

“When you’ve had the scars for as long as I have, you’ll be able to read them better. Just take my word for it. There’s plenty of them and they weren’t here when we arrived.”

Outside the truck, road and scenery flashed by like a movie being played at the wrong speed. Cole’s brain was filled with plans of how he might deal with whatever was over the next rise, but every last strategy went out the window when a black helicopter crested the rise farther along the road, pivoted in midair and then veered toward the ground.

“Hang on!” Jessup shouted as he slammed his foot against the brake pedal.

Cole’s feet were already bracing against the floor and his free hand slapped against the dash. The truck skidded into a fishtail as its tires lost their grip on the road. All this time the helicopter seemed to hang about thirty feet in the air. When that frozen moment finally passed, the helicopter slapped against the ground in a shower of sparks as metal was torn asunder.

A shock wave rolled through the air, shaking the ground and throwing enough dirt and smoke toward the truck to make it even tougher to see through the windshield. Jessup fought with the steering wheel to keep from skidding off the road or slamming into a tree. Somehow the older man kept his composure long enough to bring the Ford to a stop. “You got that weapon I gave you?” When Cole didn’t answer, Jessup shouted, “You got it or not?”

“I’ve got it,” Cole replied. Since he’d been holding the short wooden blade in the fist that he used to brace against the dash, he wondered if he’d ever be able to pry it from his hand again.

The helicopter’s top rotor was still waggling after the one in the tail section had been brought to a stop by digging into the ground. Its body was shaking as well, but not just from the crash. There was movement inside the helicopter, but it was tough to make out details through the cracked canopy as well as the living stain on the truck’s window.

“When we get outside,” Jessup said, “we need to keep moving or else these gargoyles will take us down. If one gets close, don’t waste time lining up a shot. Just swing. And don’t bother shooting them. Bullets will just give them a little rip and they’re used to that. We just need to point them in the right direction. Once a few of them lock up with a Full Blood, all the others should swarm in to help.”

“How do we get them to leave?”

“They’ll leave when they’re full or dead. If there’s any other way to get them to go somewhere, I don’t know what it is. Take this,” Jessup said while tossing the long fleshy sack he’d extracted from the gargoyle. “I’ll find more out there. You just need to run fast and try to get close to something that needs to be given a dose of Magic Shell.” Jessup loaded both of his pistols and removed a wooden hatchet from a set of loops on the inside of his vest. “You remember that stuff that you poured on ice cream? It hardened into a chocolate shell.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So . . . I love that stuff.” Without any more parting words, the older Skinner kicked open the truck door and jumped outside.

For a fraction of a second Cole considered taking the sane choice and staying inside the truck. That option was taken away as soon as a gargoyle that had been clinging to the roof dropped down and hooked its talons into the truck’s frame and seat to pull itself inside. From that angle Cole could see a second set of eyes placed on the upper edge of its body. Unlike the ones on its smeared face, those eyes were narrow, unblinking black slits. They were the calmest part of the gargoyle’s entire body, remaining focused intently upon their target.

Cole shoved his door open and nearly fell out of the truck in his haste to get away. He pushed the door shut at the same time the gargoyle inside launched itself at the passenger door. Both things collided, forcing the gargoyle to climb the interior of the cab and press its face against the glass.

From the outside the Ford looked as though it had grown a skin and was in the process of shedding it. Gargoyles clamped onto nearly every available bit of the truck’s surface area, pulling away to look up as if they were being peeled off by an unseen hand. By the time Cole had built up some power in his strides, the gargoyles were flapping the sides of their bodies to create enough of a breeze for liftoff.

“Look for casualties!” Jessup yelled while waving toward the downed helicopter.

Cole’s legs were churning to carry him away from the truck as fast as possible. When he looked back again, he couldn’t see a single gargoyle. Knowing better than to stop moving, he focused on the helicopter. The canopy was cracked and smudged with oil and dirt from the impact. Once the waning sunlight caught the canopy at the right angle, it shone upon the dark red hue and viscous texture of something that coated the inside of the cockpit. After so much time as a Skinner, he’d seen more than enough of it to be certain the substance was blood.

It was a helicopter similar to the one that brought Paige into Denver. During his long sleep in wing G7, he’d dreamt of that chopper plenty of times. It had landed on retractable gear, but this one didn’t have time for a proper touchdown. There were no markings. No weapons. Only a sleek fuselage and a sliding door on one side. Someone inside screamed and kicked at the canopy. As Cole drew closer to the cockpit, one foot smashed through, only to be twisted completely around as the distinctive snarl of a werewolf emerged from the craft. Before Cole reached the side door, someone from within the chopper pulled it open. He was a man cut from military cloth, complete with hardened features and a bulky frame beneath standard issue black and gray fatigues.

“Get out of there!” Cole shouted.

“No! Stand back. I can’t stop it!”

“But we can! Keep the goddamn door open!”

The soldier grabbed the door as the entire helicopter rocked with the weight of a creature that worked its way out of the crumpled front section. Farther down the road gunfire erupted in bursts, followed by the haggard, tortured voices of Half Breeds. Cole thought about Kansas City while diving through the door before the soldier closed it. The main compartment looked like a metal box with a series of steel posts running down its center. Collapsible seats folded down from the posts, some facing Cole’s side and others facing another side door. Toward the rear of the cabin, large windows were fitted with rigs made to hold machine guns to be mounted and fired from the helicopter. Once again he had research for a Sniper Ranger level to thank for his partial knowledge of modern armaments. “All right,” he said while grabbing onto one of the steel posts so he could maneuver through a cabin that was tilted worse than the floor of a fun house. “Close the door.”

The soldier had a rank insignia on one shoulder, the name BUDDIG stenciled onto a strip on his chest and a patch on the other shoulder. Since it was the most colorful thing on his uniform, the patch catch Cole’s eye. It was a circle divided into red and gray quadrants surrounded by gold rope. Two assault rifles were crossed behind a row of spears, all of which were above a symbol that was half wolf’s head and half skull. The red quadrant with the wolf’s head had the letters I.R.D. stitched into it, and the opposite gray quadrant had U.S.A. stitched beside the skull.

When the soldier lunged for the door, Cole dropped his shotgun, grabbed the soldier by the elbow and pivoted to fling him away from the open door.

“No, we have to get out!” the soldier yelled.

Outside, a building chorus of wailing, high-pitched shrieks closed in on the wreck. Without taking the time to look for a target, Cole swung the wooden blade toward the door and was immediately rewarded by a wet ripping sound. The gargoyle he’d shredded hit the dirt in front of the door and dragged itself away. Its wound wasn’t fatal, but it would have trouble getting back into the air. The other dozen or so that swooped in toward the helicopter weren’t having those difficulties.

They weren’t in a formation and didn’t seem to expend any effort in staying aloft. The group of gargoyles merely drew close together at the apex of their ascent and dove at him. Now that he knew what their second set of narrow eyes looked like, he imagined every single one of them were fixed upon him.

He shut the side hatch as best he could and turned around just in time to spot a Half Breed slinking from the cockpit. It had shreds of material hanging from its shoulders and neck and a long string of bloody saliva dangling from bared fangs. Although the creature was as deadly as it was terrifying, at least it was familiar. “Keep back,” he said to the soldier without taking his eyes off the Half Breed. The club Jessup had given him was clenched tightly in his left fist, and somewhere along the way he’d drawn the .38.

“I don’t know where it came from!” the soldier said as he backed toward the rear of the cabin. As he did so, he was forced to push aside or climb over the still forms of two other soldiers who’d caught the worst of the crash.

When the Half Breed lunged, Cole reflexively pulled his trigger. The pistol bucked in his hand, spitting three quick rounds into the werewolf’s head and neck. He knew better than to think that would be enough to stop it, so he fired once more and swung the wooden blade in an overhead stab that dropped straight down toward the Half Breed’s face. The creature twisted its neck sharply in a way that would have snapped any natural beast’s spine. This one merely dodged the incoming weapon, stared sideways at him and clamped its jaws around the blade. The Half Breed twisted its head away once the weapon sliced the inside of its mouth and staggered back. Cole knew he wasn’t going to get a better chance than that, so he fired his remaining rounds into its body just to steer it away from the shotgun he’d dropped earlier. Claws scraped against the tilted metal floor of the downed helicopter as the beast scrambled to regain its footing.

Half Breeds were strong and very tough, but not bulletproof. Some of those rounds made it through, which lit an angry fire in its eyes. When Cole moved in close enough to use the wooden blade again, the werewolf turned toward him and skidded on the tilted floor. Rather than succumb to gravity, it used the countless joints created by its broken and rehinged skeleton to strike from a new angle. Even though his pistol was out of bullets, it made a hell of a good thump when he smashed it against one of the bloody spots on the werewolf’s fur. The creature yelped but was still able to pull away when Cole tried to stab it with the sharpened end of the club.

“If you’ve got a gun, you’re welcome to join in here!” Cole shouted at the soldier. He wasn’t about to take his eyes away from the Half Breed, but the soldier wasn’t responding with any gunfire. Outside, flat bodies thumped against the fuselage and used talons to search for a way in.

Cole swung at the Half Breed and drew some blood, but not enough to prevent the werewolf from climbing to its feet and lunging at him. Backing up until his heel knocked against the shotgun, he dropped the pistol in favor of the bigger weapon. The Half Breed circled around to snarl at the soldier.

“Hey!” Cole shouted. “Right here!”

Although the Half Breed snorted in his direction, it was more interested in the wounded man who squirmed up the slant of the downed helicopter to get to a metal locker at the back of the wreck.

“Come here!” Cole said in loud, choppy syllables that would have perked any dog’s ears. Thinking along those lines, he followed it up with a quick, shrill whistle.

The Half Breed snapped its head over to him and growled as if defending its meal from a would-be scavenger. Tensing its muscles and lowering its chest to the floor, it scraped at the metal panels beneath its claws and reared back on its hind legs. The werewolf was about to attack. Cole could feel it all the way down to his bones as he reached for the door handle. Suddenly, the creature bared its fangs and leapt at the soldier instead.

The thundering roar of the shotgun filled the cabin as Cole fired it into the Half Breed’s side. When the werewolf thumped against the closest wall, Cole threw himself at the beast to drive the smoking barrel of the shotgun into its body. He pumped in another shell and fired it into the werewolf before the shotgun was knocked from his hands by one of the creature’s thrashing legs. By the time Cole drew the wooden blade again, the Half Breed was pulling itself to its feet. Cole stretched one arm out to grab a hunk of fur at the base of its tail, pulled it toward him and buried the blade into the biggest shotgun wound.

The Half Breed yelped in pain while folding its torso in half to snap at him. Cole was fully aware of the creature’s flexibility and had already pulled the weapon away so he could jump back and chamber another shell. He fired again, cracked the shotgun against the side of the werewolf’s head, then drove the sharpened end of the club into its neck. Since the creature lay on its side spilling its blood onto the floor, the sounds of scraping claws and a low, hungry snarl seemed particularly out of place. Cole turned toward the cockpit and spotted another Half Breed emerging from the front portion of the craft. The second werewolf kept its body low, planted its back paws against the floor and leapt forward.

Cole leaned toward the door, grabbed the handle and pulled it open. The Half Breed sailed past him, but still had the speed and flexibility to snap its jaws in his direction before it was outside the helicopter. It landed several feet away from the hatch, sank its claws in and came to a stop amid a shower of dirt. From there it turned to face Cole, a snarl rumbling deep within its throat.

Cole rolled onto his belly to look outside. The only thing he saw was some wreckage and a Half Breed preparing to tear at him again.

“Uhhh . . . shit.”

The Half Breed coiled like a spring and leapt at the helicopter. Less than a second later it was snatched in midair by a flap of skin that swooped down to wrap around its head. The creature still had momentum on its side, but was prevented from entering the helicopter by a set of talons that reached down from above and outside the hatch to snag in its fur. The gargoyle on top of the wreck wasn’t strong enough to pull the Half Breed outside, but it held onto the helicopter with a grip that kept it from being dislodged. Once the gargoyle’s body was stretched out like a flap of wet leather, the Half Breed jerked to a stop and fell straight to the floor less than an inch from Cole’s boots.

He came at the werewolf then like a horror movie slasher, the club gripped tightly in a hand cocked up near the side of his head. The strike intended for the Half Breed’s neck sliced through empty air when the gargoyle pushed a sound from its mouth that sounded like a snake being drowned in a vat of mud. The sight of those narrow black eyes staring at him was enough to back Cole up.

The Half Breed scraped its claws against the floor and let out a strained whine as its struggles dwindled to nothing. Soon it was barely moving.

The gargoyle kept its black eyes fixed on Cole and its body wrapped tightly around the werewolf until more of the fliers slapped into place around the creature and dragged it outside. When the first gargoyle loosened its grip so it could envelop more of the beast, the bitter scent of dusty vinegar poured into Cole’s nostrils. It was the same scent he’d smelled in the truck, and like the section of seat Jessup had used as a sample for his crudely fashioned icing bag, the part of the Half Breed that had been wrapped up was now stiff and gray.

High-pitched shrieks filled the air outside, but Cole heeded Jessup’s advice by acting without looking for the source of the sound. He kicked the werewolf out of the helicopter, and before it hit the ground four more gargoyles darted from above to latch onto the creature. Cole shut the door and left the things to their meal.

“I can’t stop it,” the remaining soldier gasped.

“Don’t worry. Those things won’t be going anywhere.”

Having pulled himself to the back section of the helicopter, the soldier sat up so he could breathe a little easier. “Not that. Whatever’s inside me. It hurts.”

Cole had to clamber over the body of a dead man to examine the soldier. “Did that thing bite you? Was there someone else up front? Did it bite them? How did it get in here?”

“Nothing boarded us. That Class Two just showed up and started attacking the pilot. Maybe the co-pilot.”

The front section of the helicopter had been battered on impact, but most of the metal that collapsed between the main cabin and cockpit had been torn away by the werewolves. “Wait a second,” he said while turning to face the soldier once more. “Did you call that thing a Class Two?”

His face was smeared with blood and what could have either been grease or black camouflage paint. “Yeah. It’s one of the older ones. No tusks.”

“How do you know this?”

“I’m with IRD. The In . . . human . . .”

“I know what it is. What are you guys doing here?”

After pulling in a breath and swallowing it, the soldier said, “Our scouts found two escaped prisoners who were headed here. Soon as they saw the Class Ones, our scouts called in for armed response. That’s us.”

“What escaped prisoners?”

The soldier started to talk but came up short. After another breath he grunted, “From Colorado.”

Knowing he was referring to Lambert and Frank, Cole asked, “What’s a Class One?”

“You . . . call them Full Bloods. Something’s wrong.”

Cole had moved away from the soldier to take a look through the window. The Half Breed was on its side and completely covered by living flaps of skin. “You’re damn right something’s wrong.”

“No,” the soldier grunted through a clenched jaw. “Something’s wrong with me. It feels like . . . like I broke some—” His words became a scream as his face twisted into a nightmarish version of its former self. His body flopped against the floor while his hands reached out to grab anything within reach.

“Holy shit,” Cole said as he rushed over to his side. “What’s wrong?”

The first crunch could have been made by the soldier’s boot stomping against some rubble or a fallen piece of equipment. The second definitely came from inside his body, but wasn’t extraordinary considering how wildly he was thrashing. When the soldier came to a stop, his breath was caught in his throat and his back arched. Four or five wet pops flowed through his torso as his bones were snapped like twigs inside him.

Cole stood up and watched in disbelief as more of the soldier’s bones cracked into pieces. When the man opened his mouth again, his voice was a deep-throated groan. Smaller bumps formed on his arms and face, popping open to release bundles of thick, wiry fur from his skin.

“You weren’t bitten,” Cole said. “I checked. You had to have been bitten for this to happen. Bitten down to the bone. Nothing got to you!”

The scream that had been building inside the soldier erupted amid a spray of blood and spit that flew from his mouth and then rained down upon his face. He slapped and kicked the slanted floor while more of his bones cracked inside his body.

“What the f*ck is happening?” Cole asked, even though he already knew the answer. He’d seen the before picture and he’d seen the after, but this was the first time he’d seen one transition into the other.

“You’re a Skin . . . Skinner, right?” the soldier asked when the crackling within his body subsided.

Cole nodded.

The soldier’s eyes had been light brown a moment ago. Now they shifted into the dark, clouded orbs of a feral monster that was just beginning to feel its first pangs of hunger. His jaw opened as far as it could go, trembled, and then snapped with a loud, wet crunch. It was a grisly sight that captivated Cole in a way that was both unexplainable and shameful. Once he recovered from his shock, he gripped the wooden weapon Jessup had given him and drove it into the soldier’s heart.

The instant the sharpened end found its new home, Cole felt sick. He should have done it sooner, before the soldier was forced to endure the Breaking. He’d put plenty of Half Breeds down, but not until they were ready, willing, and able to tear his head off. This wasn’t a matter of survival. It felt like murder. Through the weapon’s handle he could feel the vibration of deeper bones breaking. That’s when he knew the act he’d just committed wasn’t murder, but mercy. Unfortunately for both of them, this act wasn’t over yet.

The soldier still squirmed and pushed air from his lungs. Cole pulled the blade out, raised it high in both hands and dropped it down into the soldier’s chest. Finally, the younger man’s body slumped and the final huff of air escaped through bloodied lips.

Cole couldn’t bear to look at the body. He didn’t even want to think about what the poor bastard had become. Instead, he thought about everything that had happened up to that point. Gunfire still chattered in the distance, probably fired by members of a genuine shadow government agency. When he looked over the rest of the men who’d been in the helicopter during the crash, he realized there was nothing he could do for them. The soldier had mentioned seeing more than one Full Blood. If that was more than just a slip of the tongue due to a whole lot of pain, he would need more than a wooden club and a few guns to deal with them. He made his way to the metal locker at the back of the helicopter, pulled it open and found a rack of assault rifles and several cases of ammunition. He slung one rifle over each shoulder, scooped some ammo into his pockets, and left the rest.

Talons scraped against the side of the helicopter, sounding close enough to all the other scraping for Cole to dismiss it after a quick look through the small square window built into the side door. On his way to the front of the cabin, he gripped the steel posts to maintain his balance while stepping over the bodies. The opening to the cockpit was bent and twisted to the point that even a multijointed Half Breed must have had trouble getting out. All he could see when he looked past that opening was shredded seats, broken equipment, and so much pulpy blood that it was impossible to say how many people had been ripped apart in there. One of the Half Breeds was probably a pilot, but the first could have been another soldier. That still didn’t explain how the Half Breeds had been created or ready to attack so quickly when most of their kind needed time to curl up and recuperate from the Breaking.

The scraping against the door continued. It was the same scraping as before. Same pattern. Same loudness. Same duration.

Not scraping, Cole realized.

Knocking.

He glanced out the scratched and dirty side window to find a lot of torn-up ground and an overturned statue of a Half Breed. There wasn’t a single gargoyle in the sky, which meant nothing for a species that was born to hide damn near anywhere. More than likely, Jessup was already doing his thing to point them toward the center of the nearby commotion.

The knock that tapped against the door nearly made him jump out of his skin. Cole managed to control his frazzled nerves and bladder by gripping the two automatic rifles he’d slung over his shoulders. The knocks that followed came in the same pattern and were made by a very familiar forked shape that cracked against the outside of the window directly in front of him.

It was his own spear.