My eyeballs feel gummy. Like specifically, my left eye feels like it's actually made out of mushy glue, and I'm pretty sure if I open it something's going to tear. My whole body has a curious warmth to it, and my mouth feels dry and pasty.
Also I really need to pee.
That's what makes me finally open my eyes, because gummy eyeballs or not, it's impossible for me to go back to sleep, however much I might want to. I'm also slowly becoming aware that I'm being shaken about, like in a very bad bus ride, and that there's a dull roaring sound. It's all forcing itself through the gumminess of my head, and the whole thing is so weird I just have to open my eyes.
Except when I open my eyes, the only thing I can see is a gleaming gun barrel.
"Crap, the neff's up!" There's a voice somewhere behind the gun barrel. "Where the hell is that syringe?"
"We're out, sir! We were only fitted for the other three, we didn't expect a fourth. We spent the backup already!"
"Shit." I'm starting to see the speaker. His red goggles have a faint glow to them, enough for me to make out the blue camo and the dark little goatee. His grip tightens on the gun in his hands. "And Wolfe'll have my balls, I show up with one of these dead."
I can't move. I'm wrapped in some sort of straitjacket--or maybe just a giant sleeping bag of some kind. It feels like there's giant metal bands tightened around my arms.
"Listen up, neff" the man with the goatee says. "This airplane is nearly a mile up in the air. You try to break out, there's nowhere to go but down, and hitting the ground WILL hurt."
Airplane?
My eyesight's starting to come back. I can see now a long corridor of metal, with benches lining the side and the occasional glass porthole in the wall. Cargo netting is hanging from the walls, and opposite me are two giant gleaming bags, like huge leather sausages.
There's also about ten men, in the blue-camo uniforms from before, on their feet with guns drawn, pointed at me.
I lick my lips. "Hi?" My voice cracks, a little. Like I said, my whole mouth's dry.
The men do not relax. One of them looks to the man with the goatee. "Pilot says fifteen minutes to the drop zone, sir."
"Fine," Grim Goatee says. "Just wonderful. Any chance of us being out of this storm by then?"
The man winces. "No sir. Should we abort?
Grim Goatee gives him a glare. "We got four ANIs on board here. You really wanna take them back towards civilization?"
A new look enters the man's eyes, and his jaw juts out. "No sir."
Grim Goatee gives a nod, as if he expected this answer. "Half-measures aren't an option here. If it needs to be done, we do it." He looks back at me. "Five-man teams to each ANI. Dog Team will jump with me on this guy. Wolf Team stands by for containment protocol. Have the cockpit sealed off and tell the pilots to monitor the jump."
"Yes sir." The guy moves off.
Grim Goatee is still studying me. "You're holding still, so I'm guessing you've decided to be smart about this." He relaxes, slightly. "You weren't supposed to wake up for another hour or so, but I guess that's the price of having another neff dumped on us in an emergency."
"Neff," I say. "ANI. The 'N' stands for 'neff?'"
His smile disappears fast. "Hey." His teeth glint in the darkness beneath the red goggles. "Aren't we a clever boy? Come on, let's get you strapped up."
YOU ARE READING
The Nephilim Protocol
Paranormal"Far, far out from the coast of Alaska, at the very end of the world, tiny Attu Island crops out of the ocean, surrounded by hundreds of miles of freezing water. This is where the UN imprisons Nephilim, half-angel hybrids of stupendous power who onc...
