Turned

2

Light spears Wren's eyes. Then darts wildly in the air. A scream. No...more than one. Loud popping. A strong acrid smell. Familiar, but so potent it stings her nose. Sudden gusts of air. Some slow, some very very fast. Impacts. The thump of flesh on flesh. She blinks rapidly. Branching afterimages strobe in her vision. Laughter echoes around her. It's joyous. Exultant. She sniffs loudly and her nose clears. She smells meat and blood. Not metallic, not raw or repugnant, but as complex and flavoursome as the most expertly cooked steak.

A body lands in front of her with a splat. Her mouth waters like it's filet mignon.

Then the body looks up her.

Wide green eyes, the whites nearly incandescent in the dimness. Tactical balaclava. Helmet. Black body armour. A shoulder patch with a familiar symbol. It registers. She can feel its familiarity, but it's like her brain is stuck between gears. The pattern can't quite click.

"Horan," the body says.

Something prompts Wren to look down at herself. Black body armour. The same shoulder patch. She reaches up and feels a helmet. A mask. All of it covered in dents and dried blood. When she shifts her weight, a knife presses against her hip.

Hands claw at her helmet, her legs, her boots. Blood and dirt smear across her visor and at least two roll on top of her to lick it off.

Wren stands up. She feels light. Almost weightless. A tall figure saunters out of the gloom. A man, extraordinarily pale, walks towards her. He wears an odd mix of clothing like he can't quite decide what century to emulate. A bowler hat is tipped forward toward his left eye. He smiles at her and his moustache arches like the legs of a spider.

"Hello, darling." The Bowler speaks softly in an unremarkable English accent. "Take a seat for me."

His will breaks over her like a wave, but she's a mountain. A deep indifference centres her. It tells her everything she needs to know. He turns, certain that she'll obey, then does a double take.

"Come on now, take a seat. Don't be shy." His eyes gleam a faint red. "It'll be worth the wait, I promise."

The body rolls to one side. "Horan," it says again. The name patch reads HARKES.

The Bowler kicks Harkes aside without effort. He comes within arm's reach and radiates will like it's heat.

"What if I use the magic word? Sit down, please."

Wren looks to Harkes. That exquisite steak smell is stronger than ever, but his name patch bothers her. They share a uniform. That means something. And that something is enough to brush the cobwebs off her brain. Faint popping echoes around the room. At least, it looks like a room, but it's too cavernous and poorly lit to tell.

The popping sound is gunfire. It's loud. Distorted and magnified, but definitely gunfire. Controlled bursts that are steadily fading away. She knows this. She knows them.

The Bowler lifts his chin. "Nothing? You must be something new."

"US Army." Wren squares up to him. "Hooah, motherfucker."

She drives her elbow into his temple. His skull whips to the side with a flare of hair and hot mist. The bowler hat goes flying with part of his scalp. The latter splats onto the floor like a soaked dishcloth.

The Bowler steadies himself and looks up at her with the same wide-eyed expression as Harkes. Fear wafts off of him. As tangible to her as his willpower. But it doesn't feel hot. It feels electric. It buzzes her scalp, the place behind her eyes, the length of her spine. She takes a step forward. They're roughly nine feet apart. He steps back. She takes another step forward. Her fingers graze the hilt of her Gerber. He retreats another two back, hand over the hole in his skin, eyes fixed on her face. The pink stretch of exposed skull already has a plastic sheen to it. He's healing.

"You're only days old," the Bowler says. "You should be as sweet as a lamb."

She takes another step. Less than five feet. "Should I?"

He doesn't maintain the distance this time. His eyes shine with that red-fringed intensity. "It took me 80 years to...." His fear is suddenly diluted by anger. Then rage. "How are you doing this?"

Wren sucks her elbows in and takes a shot at his head. The Bowler's ready for it. He ducks and tries to get under her guard. He has more reach, but she bobs and weaves with him. Those fists whip by her face like concrete blocks. His emotion builds a charge in the air. It's like being in the ring with a grizzly. He tries to pen her in with a few jabs, then feints to the left. She follows him without thinking. His hook clips her jaw. Light bursts in her eyes. Her skin burns. She takes a step back. Another hit like that and it's over. The Bowler bares his teeth and goes in for a cross. His whole body generates the needed torque. She leans back as his fist drives through the air and unsheathes her Gerber.

The fixed blade moulds to the inside of her palm. Everything else is muscle memory. Wren pins the Bowler's arm against her ribs and drives her knife into his liver, armpit, and the soft nook beside his larynx. Dark blood spurts onto her uniform. Hot with a cloying bitterness. Repulsive. The Bowler inhales reflexively and tries to grab her hand. She knees him in the stomach. He doubles over and exposes the pale arch of his neck. Wren locks his head into place with one arm and drives the Gerber into the base of his skull. Bone scrapes along the blade. He gurgles something and struggles weakly. She drives the knife in again. Scraping resistance, then a sudden give. He sags against her. She lets him go and he collapses without a sound.

Wren looks down at him for a moment, then turns toward the salivating steak smell. Harkes is propped up on one side, arm cradled against his ribs. His breaths emerge in strained huffs.

"Sergeant, if you're still in there, please...." He screws his eyes shut and rides out a fresh wave of pain. "Please shoot me. Make it clean."

She tries to reach for her gun, but her arms won't move. Neither will her legs.

Wren crouches down to stare him right in the face. His head lolls until his helmet clacks against the ground. He stares back at her. The mask makes his eyes appear that much larger and greener. He's so small and warm and helpless. It takes the edge off her hunger. Just like that. And once that registers, she has the time and wherewithal to think about what it means.

"Can you still shoot?" She asks.

Harkes blinks sweat out of his eyes. It takes him a long time to answer, "Yeah."

"Good. Now let's get the fuck out of here."

***

2,059 words