Firedrake Chapter 8

“Hold on!” Drake managed to shout before the energy blast hit him. The impact was not unlike stepping into the path of an oncoming truck. His teeth clacked loudly as his mouth snapped shut and his muscles spasmed uncontrollably. Showers of smoking blood erupted from his back where the bolt struck. He and Emile began a quick spiral toward the ground as his wings failed to cooperate. He fought to bring them back into line with the wind that was disappearing as Emile lost his concentration. The laughter of the woman chased them as they fell.

Forcing his muscles to work, Drake angled his wings so that they bit into the air properly and started a hard bank to his left. A second later, he jinked back to the right, then abruptly turned to face the onrushing figure of the woman. Surprised by the sudden change of motion, she changed her own approach by angling aside. Her eyes were wide with shock as she saw the angry booster rear up before her in midair, wings flexing mightily to keep him aloft.

Drake reached out with one hand as the woman passed him, sharp talons catching her suit and locking into place. He let her momentum carry him for a moment, the added weight slowing her progress to a veritable crawl. Snapping his wings with a clap of sound, he threw himself atop the woman from behind, gripping both her shoulders and actually sitting on her lower back.

“Take us down, slick. Nice and slow, or I’ll bite off the back of your head,” he growled into her left ear.

“Get off me!” the woman shouted, reaching back with her right hand as if she were trying to grab his face. The tell-tale golden energy sprang up around her hand and Drake released her rather than accept a shot into his muzzle. As she fell away from them and began to accelerate, the woman turned her body to angle for a return engagement.

“She is beginning to disturb me,” Emile said, the words spoken so softly they scarcely reached Drake’s hearing. The calm, relaxed tone of voice amazed Drake for a moment, until he remembered just who it was riding on his back. Elementaire had been through battles the likes of which the world might never see again. Still anchored by the tail of the reptilian booster, Emile raised his hands to the sky. The clouds darkened and thickened around the trio of combatants for a moment. A heavy, pelting rain spat from them, followed a second later by a jagged streak of lightning that split the air with a concussion that tortured Drake’s ears. The bolt intercepted the maneuvering woman, lashing down from above to strike her in the middle of her back. Blue-white sparks danced across her body for a moment as the electricity played through her system. Her shriek was lost to the devastating clap of thunder.

The woman crumpled around the blast, dropping from the sky like a stone as her body gave way to the concussive force of the bolt. Drake’s lips curled back and he tucked his wings in close, arrowing toward the falling figure at full speed. The wind rushed past him with a whistling sound as they descended. As features on the ground began to take on a disturbing level of clarity, he reached out and gripped the woman yet again, pulling her in tight and holding her to his body, then arching his back and flaring his wings like a parachute. The strain made his already-aching muscles scream in protest, but he held the pose until they neared the earth. They touched down on a stretch of asphalt roadway that had been recently resurfaced. The outskirts of the city they had been approaching were visible from where they stood. Hesitating only long enough to recall the attack that had so blindsided them in the air, Drake drew back a massive fist and struck the woman on the jaw. Her eyes rolled back as consciousness fled.

Dropping the woman, Drake crouched down to allow Emile to slide free from his back. Only then did he allow the pain to take hold of him. He felt as though he had been through a war. Drops of blood still made their way down his back in thin rivulets to stain the road on which he stood. His nerves sang with the residues of the energy blasts he had absorbed. His legs felt weak, but he forced himself to stay upright. He blinked as the exhaustion struck home with full force, both from the fight and the lengthy journey. Adding to that was the fact that he had managed only a short nap aboard the plane that took him to Wyoming. All in all, he felt drained.

“Are you all right, my friend?” Emile asked, wiping blood from his own upper lip. His face was tight and drawn from strain, though there was a fierce awareness in his gaze that Drake knew had been mirrored in his own eyes on more than one occasion. Though Emile may have been retired after many years of exposure to the harsh battles of geneboosters, the adrenalin that coursed through his veins was as powerful as ever it had been.

“Feels like Paul Bunyan had a go at me with his axe,” Drake admitted, gingerly touching his chest. His fingers came away colored with his own blood. He clenched his fist, amazed at the tension that remained there. “Even my scales hurt.”

Emile chuckled, nodding his head. “I, too, have been there, monsieur Drake. It is one of the reasons I left the game behind me. Too many days in too much pain.”

“Lucky we’re headed to a hospital, I guess.”

“And what of the lady?”

“Got half a mind to tie her up and leave her out here,” Drake said. “Course I only got half a mind, anyway.”

The comment brought a peal of laughter from the French genebooster. “It was a good move you made, trying to ride her,” he said as Drake knelt beside the unconscious woman and began to cuff her hands behind her back. “You should have covered her eyes, though. Blinded, she might have given in.”

“Got enough blindings to my credit lately, slick,” Drake said bitterly as he hauled the woman to her feet and then threw her over his shoulder. Ignoring the quizzical look of the veteran, he changed the subject and pointed into the distance. “Looks like we’re walking. City’s over that way, and we’re only about a mile or two from the place. I saw it before the crazy broad hit us. Looks like a military base of some kind.”

The two of them set off at a slow pace. After a minute, Emile spoke up.

“How is it you are connected with Hart?”

“They say she’s my boss,” Drake answered with a shrug that sent ripples of pain through him. “Big Brother’s got her running Metahuman Affairs. I work for them, so she gets to pick my assignments.”

“Do not trust her,” warned the smaller man. “Take it from one who has.”

“Hell, I don’t trust anyone,” Drake said with a grin.

The sound of a siren on the road behind them interrupted their conversation. They turned to see the strobing red-and-blue lights of an approaching police car. It pulled up to a position ten yards from where the pair had stopped walking and turned at an angle to the road. The officers within stepped free of the car, leveling automatic rifles.

“Show me your hands!” shouted one of the officers. Emile lifted his hands over his head in a slow, deliberate manner. He had worked with police before and knew how easily the wrong move could trigger an abrupt response.

Slowly, Drake raised his badge to display it for their benefit. “Federal Agent!” he called in response. “I have a prisoner.”

“Yeah? Keep it right there, buddy,” the officer warned. His partner advanced slowly on the boosters, keeping his rifle trained on them as he worked his way forward. Though he kept his eyes trained on the giant booster, he lowered the weapon after he was able to see the identification Drake presented.

“It’s good,” he called to his partner, slipping his arm through the sling of the rifle and letting it hang under his arm. At the car, the other officer spoke quietly into his radio before walking up to join the group. Emile lowered his arms and tucked his fingertips into the pockets of his jeans.

“We saw the fight going on up there,” the first cop said, jerking a thumb up toward the sky.

“Yeah,” Drake said, lowering the woman to the ground. His hand around her waist held her in a standing position, though her head lolled forward to hang loosely on her chest. A line of drool ran from her mouth, dribbled past the spreading bruise on her chin and jaw, and pattered softly on the ground.

“She need a medic?” asked the second officer, looking at the leather-clad woman with concern in his eyes.

“She’ll get one,” Drake said. He tilted his head in the direction they had been walking. “We’re headed for the base. Mind if we hitch a ride with you guys?”

The officers glanced at one another for a second, then back at their cruiser. With a shrug, the second one answered. “Don’t know if we can fit everyone,” he said with an apologetic tone in his voice.

“Not a problem. Take the prisoner and Emile, here. I’ll ride on the top,” Drake said. Without waiting for further discussion, he hefted the woman and carried her to the squad car. Popping open the back door, he thrust her into the seat and carefully belted her into position. The others entered the vehicle, the officers taking their customary front seat positions as Emile strapped himself into place beside the woman. Drake closed the door and vaulted onto the roof, gripping the frame of the car with powerful claws as he folded his wings down at his sides. He did not want them catching the air at this point.

“You set?” asked the driver through his open window.

“Yeah. Hit it.”

They drove quickly to the main gate of the base, passing several news vans equipped with satellite broadcasting equipment. Reporters milled around outside, though their attention was quickly drawn by the police car with its unique roof accessory. Cameras flicked to life in an attempt to capture the moment for the viewing public. Drake suppressed the urge to flip them the bird, reminding himself that his job put him in the public eye. Any one of these reporters might well put an end to his work with a story, and if that happened, he did not know how he would go about seeing Monster.

A quartet of U.S. Marines stepped out from a reinforced gatehouse to meet the cruiser. The Marines wore full combat gear and carried rifles with under-barrel grenade launchers. Behind the house, a sandbagged position protected another pair of Marines manning a tripod-mounted fifty-caliber machine gun. Several parked vehicles occupied space behind the fifty, a fact which Drake registered after he noted that all the weapons were, as usual, pointed at him..

“Drake. Metahuman Response,” Drake said by way of introduction. He handed over his credentials to one of the Marines. He glanced out of the corner of his eye to see the fence that surrounded the base. Ten feet of woven-wire fence, topped with a spiral of concertina wire, receded into the distance. Ahead of them, the road continued for half a mile, set with concrete barriers that would force a vehicle into switchbacks and prevent high-speed approaches. Behind him Drake could hear the reporters shouting questions at his back but he pointedly ignored them.

“We’ve been told to expect you, sir,” the Marine said after consulting a small handheld computer. “You and a Mister DuChamp. Though not this soon.”

“Had a tailwind,” Drake explained with a chuckle, flaring his wings wide as Emile stepped out of the police unit, shielding him from view of the cameras. “This is Mister DuChamp. I got a prisoner here, too. Little skag tried to fry us on the way in.” “We can take her, sir.”

“No, you really can’t,” Drake said with a smile. He pointed to the still-weeping wounds on his chest and back. “She did this to me. She comes to, I don’t want her getting a shot in on you guys. And before you say you can take care of yourselves,” he added with a raised hand, “I’ve got to book her myself, anyway. I’ll take her in with me. The most important thing, though, is to get Emile up to see the Man.”

“Yes, sir. If you’ll follow me, sir?”

The Marine led them through the gate, Drake pausing to thank the officers for their assistance and retrieve his prisoner. They were led to a waiting HumVee, spacious enough for even Drake to fit inside. The tires chirped once on the pavement as the Marine drove them speedily to the main building.

“How long has the press been so encamped?” Emile asked. His fingers were twining together in repetitive patterns in his lap.

“Most of the day,” the Marine answered, never taking his eyes off the road. “Came in about oh-six-hundred. Word’s out what happened.”

“Anything new?” Drake asked.

“Not that they’ve told us. We’ve had folks coming in and out for a while. Doctors, scientists, boosters, you name it.”

“Any problems?”

“No, sir. Not anything important.”

Another question nagged at Drake, but held his tongue for the moment. It was not something likely to be known by the Marine anyway. He braced himself against the nearest wall as the HumVee skidded to a halt. Gripping his prisoner, he stepped from the vehicle. He and Emile had barely closed the doors when the Marine gunned the engine and raced away from them to return to his position at the gate. Black marks on the pavement indicated that this was not the first time he had performed such a maneuver.

Drake and Emile stood for a moment, looking around themselves at the buildings that surrounded them. Mostly a collection of pre-fabricated metal shacks, they were dominated by a single heavy stone building that did not appear to be large enough for its current use, let alone full-time military applications. Looking up at Drake and shrugging his shoulders, Emile led them to the door and the pair of Marines that stood watch there. Both of them eyed Drake with a mixture of apprehension and distrust. Both held their M16’s loosely, but pointed in the general direction of the new arrivals.

“Metahuman Response,” Drake announced again, the words taking on a sense of overuse as he spoke them. It seemed for a second as though he had said little else during his entire life and he found himself growing tired of the phrase. “I’m supposed to meet a rep here?”

Nodding in acceptance but refraining from speaking aloud, one Marine reached behind him with his free hand - his right never leaving the textured grip of his rifle - and swung open the door. He then took a step backward, clearing the space between Drake and the door.

“Go ahead, sir,” he said before flicking his gaze back to the horizon as if Drake did not exist. Still hoisting the unconscious booster who had attacked them, Drake entered the building, followed by Emile.

Inside, the air conditioning of the place became apparent in the ten degree drop in temperature. Despite himself, Drake shivered at the chill touch of the atmosphere. The room in which they stood smelled of bleach. Ahead of them and on their right was a single desk, at which was seated yet another Marine. This one, though armed with a holstered pistol, was busy at a computer that took up most of the available desk space.

“You’re Agent Drake, right? The guards at the gate, they…” the young man said before he looked up. A second later, his eyes widened and he pushed his chair back from the desk as he took in the full image of Drake towering over him, one scaled hand still clutching the handcuffed woman. “Uh, the gate guards…they, um, well, they called, and, umm…” stammered the Marine, suddenly at a loss for words.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a dragon. Whee. Get over it,” Drake said in a bored tone of voice. “I brought someone with me that Director Hart needs to see.”

The Marine pointed over his shoulder, eyes never leaving the monstrous figure before him. “The elevator, sir,” he said, swallowing past a lump in his throat. Sweat beaded up on the man’s forehead despite the cool air in the room. “Just press down. They’ll meet you when it opens.”

Favoring the youth with a grin that exposed many of his teeth, Drake marched past him with Emile in tow. His arms were growing tired of carrying the woman, and he could not help but wonder when she would awaken from his blow. The elevator opened with a hiss a few seconds after Emile pressed the call button and they stepped in it together. Drake shifted his burden to his left arm, flexing his right hand experimentally to test its response after being in such a cramped position for so long. There was some tingling, but he put it down to exhaustion and blood loss more than his grip.

The first thing that struck Drake when the doors opened again was the smell. The scents of dozens of unwashed bodies blended with cigarette smoke and overcooked coffee to create a miasma that made his sensitive nose wrinkle. People moved purposefully through the large anteroom into which they had emerged, though none seemed to notice the new arrivals. Forcing back his revulsion at the odor, Drake stepped free of the elevator car, followed closely by the trim figure of the French booster. Though quick to move, Drake only narrowly avoided getting his tail caught in the doors as they slid shut.

“Yo, Drake!” called a voice. Scanning the faces present in the room, Drake noticed the one that had spoken. Standing tall and proud in the midst of the chaos, the genebooster known as Azrael was nearly impossible to miss. He was clad in his trademark black business suit, but it was the fact that he had no visible flesh that was his most striking feature. The neck of the suit terminated in the gleaming white of bone; an eyeless skull that glared balefully at those around it. From past conversations, Drake knew the effect to be an illusion designed to engender fear in those the government agent tracked.

Azrael waved them over and Drake moved through a crowd that, once Azrael had designated him, had suddenly taken notice of Drake’s presence. Those in his path found elsewhere to be, scattering before the approach of the reptilian booster and his two charges with respectful haste.

“What’s it been, man? A year?” Azrael asked as they approached. He stuck out a bony hand for Drake to shake.

“Pretty much.”

“You still owe me fifty from that Lakers game, you know.”

Drake chuckled. “Don’t hold your breath.”

“Who’s your buddy?” asked the skull, jaw moving up and down as he spoke.

“This here’s Emile. Hart’s looking for him.”

“Yeah? Hey, Emile. I’m Azrael. Relax. I’ll get you guys where you’re going..”

Rather than working their way through the crowd, Azrael drew himself up to a towering height. His voice, though possessed of a reedy, ethereal quality, still boomed out loudly in the room. “Make a hole!” he ordered, and the others present did exactly that, stepping aside to clear a path. Azrael moved quickly, forcing Drake and Emile into a quick march that took them through the anteroom and into a long hall. The smell of antiseptics began to clear away the unpleasant aroma of the first room, and Drake took in a long, deep breath. This was the smell he associated with hospitals.

“Does he always look like that?” Emile asked in a stage whisper, pointing toward their guide.

“Who, Azzy? Some kind of telepathic thing. He looks like any other norm, but you only see him the way he wants to be seen,” Drake explained. “He likes to spook folks.”

Azrael led them to a waiting room crammed with people, brushing past them all with calculated disdain. Opening a metal fire door, he gestured them into what appeared to be a viewing room for an operating theater, excusing himself with the explanation that he had other business to which he must attend. The room was occupied by nearly a dozen people. Most were working with laptop computers that sat open on fold-out desks. The sound of keys rhythmically clicking overpowered the muffled sounds of conversations coming from the occupants. Drake barely noticed them, though, his gaze instead drawn downward through the heavy glass windows to the sight in the room below.

Stripped of his signature Prussian blue uniform, the figure of Patriot lay in silent repose on a long table, his massively muscled frame connected to machines by a series of wires and tubes. A veritable army of medical personnel, most clad in all-encompassing biohazard gear, scurried around the theater likes ants at a picnic. Each had a job to do, and Drake had little concern that they were putting forth their best efforts. Still, it stung him to see the valiant hero in such a vulnerable state.

At the rear of the room stood a man in worn denim jeans and a weather-beaten leather jacket, his arms crossed defiantly in front of his chest as he stared unblinking at the events in the room. In contrast to the doctors in their heavy suits, he seemed unconcerned with his own safety. Pale green eyes drifted up and scanned across Drake and Emile for a moment, then returned to watching the controlled chaos in the theater.

“Agent Drake. Over here.” The voice was that of Colleen Hart, and she did not sound happy. Drake turned away from the window, working his way through the cramped aisles behind Emile.

“Good. You made it,” Hart said with a frustrated sigh. She looked up and down at Drake’s battered form, then flicked her eyes to the woman draped over his shoulder. “Get yourself a girlfriend while you were out?”

“Like I’d want one of you slick-skinned apes,” he shot back with a scowl. ”She’s a prisoner.”

“Oh, nice. Bring a prisoner into one of the most secure - “ Hart began, but her retort was interrupted by the steely voice of the French booster as he spoke to her for the first time.

“Be silent, Hart, and take me to see him,” Emile commanded. The edge of hostility in his voice was so apparent that Drake looked reflexively upward to see if the skies would split with yet another bolt of lightning. The room fell silent at once, every eye turning to the confrontation that threatened to explode. Not one person present had ever heard anyone address Hart in such a manner, and all knew the mood she was in. The very air itself seemed to hum with a tension that neared a palpable level.

A door at the far end of the room opened, admitting a tanned man in his early twenties. His arrival was enough to shatter the building moment of stress in the room and the others there returned to their duties. Running a hand through his ebony hair, the man approached Hart. He shook his head from side to side, eliminating any need for spoken words. Hart muttered a curse and dragged Emile past the newcomer and through the door. A moment later, they emerged inside the operating theater, though neither had donned any kind of protective gear. At the door, the green-eyed man turning to examine them as they arrived, then returning to what was, apparently, a security post.

“What’s the word, doc?” Drake asked, directing his query to the man who had just come in. Tired eyes met his yellow orbs without flinching. Though they had a hint of the legendary ’thousand-yard-stare’, there was a strength in the eyes, and he showed practically no surprise at Drake’s appearance.

“Bad. As near as I can guess, he’s suffered a complete systemic shift. The antibodies in his system are at war with one another. It’s like he’s trying to stop himself from infecting his own body. Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen,” the man marveled. His voice was gruff from lack of sleep. He grimaced as he saw the wounds on Drake’s chest.

“Yeah, they hurt, but they’ll go away,” Drake said, noting the direction of the man’s gaze. He tried to change the subject back to its original area. “Can’t y’all just give him some medicine or something? I mean, damn! This place is a government joint, right? There’s gotta be some penicillin or some such laying around.”

“We’ve tried. Patriot’s body, as I said, seems to be battling against itself. But whenever we’ve managed to get any meds into him, it’s like his whole system just gets together and wipes out whatever we put in.”

While speaking, the man laid a hand on Drake’s arm as if he were trying to comfort the big booster. His skin paled for a second and he dropped to his knees. A gurgling sound came from his throat as tremors passed through his body with the force and speed of a gran mal seizure. The fabric of his shirt darkened with blood across the upper edge of his chest, and with his free hand the man grasped at his own back in sudden pain. His fingers came away tipped with crimson.

Drake looked down at the man, then gasped as he saw his own wounds begin to close and recede before his eyes as though by magic. At the same time, he felt a fresh sense of vigor flowing through his veins, and the sudden removal of all of his fatigue and pain was like a bucket of ice water thrown into his face. With horror, he realized that the young man was literally absorbing Drake’s wounds and making them his own. He reached to the hand that clutched at his scaled arm, planning to disengage the grasp, but before Drake could contact it the hand slipped free, falling limply to the floor where the man knelt. Blood dripped from the youth to pool on the floor, and tears ran freely down his face.

“What the hell?” Drake asked, dropping his prisoner across one of the desks and crouching before the man. “What did you do?”

“Heal…healed you,” gasped the man. He looked up at drake through a veil of tears. “So much pain.”

“Yeah, no shit. Why the hell did you do that?” Drake was stunned at the way the exchange had taken place. He no longer felt even the most minor ache or discomfort, and this man, who looked young enough o be in high school, had taken it all upon himself.

“It’s what…what I do. I heal people.”

The casual manner in which he had stated that, combined with the willingness he had shown to help Drake when he did not even know him, left Drake with no need to ask if he had tried to help Patriot in the same way.

“Francis Drake,” he said by way of introduction, reaching out to help the man to his feet. “You need to sit down.” “Terence Marks,” replied the man. His eyes squeezed shut tightly and his jaw clenched for a second. “It’ll pass. Always does. It just takes, you know, a little time.”

Drake looked around the room for a moment, then leaned in close. “I owe you, doc,” he said in a voice little more than a breath, guaranteed to carry no further than the ears of the man to whom he spoke.

Hart chose that moment to re-enter the room, stepping back in from the area of the operating theater. She was alone, Emile having remained behind to stand in silent vigil with the brown-haired man in the leather coat. She paused to light a cigarette before approaching Drake.

“I see you’ve met Splicer,” she said with a wry grin. Smoke streamed from her nostrils as she reached up to rub at an eye with her free hand. She pointed to the woman sprawled across a chair like a piece of meat. “So, you want to tell me about her?”

“Who knew I was bringing Emile up here?” Drake asked in response, crossing his arms on his chest. The scales rustled like sandpaper as they touched.

“Well there were a few of us, but the information that Emile was coming was highly classified. Compartmentalized knowledge, Agent Drake. You know how it works.” She paused to take a drag on her cigarette.

“Yeah, I figured that much. But who knew I was the one bringing him?” Drake asked. He leaned against the window in what looked like a casual pose. Hart raised an eyebrow at the inquiry.

“That would be me,” she said.

“Anybody else?”

“No. Just me.” Hart pursed her lips for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders. “That’s all.”

“Just you.”

“Yes, just me. Why do you ask?”

Drake nodded as though pieces of an enormous puzzle had fallen into place. “Because that chick there,” he said, pointing down at the woman with a thick green finger, “knew who I was and that I was the one who took down Aquatica. And if you’re the only one who knew I was coming this way…” He let the sentence hang for a moment. Hart looked puzzled, shrugging her shoulders again as she tried to work out where Drake was going with the statement. She did not have long to wait.

“Then it means you set me and Emile up to get hit,” Drake snarled. With a sudden, explosive movement, he slammed his hands forward and grabbed Hart by the shoulders, hoisting her bodily into the air, then slamming her back against the glass of the enormous window. His jaw snapped open wide, the sound of the joints disengaging echoing as deep-toned clicks in the suddenly silent room. His head tilted to the right as his mouth opened wider than Hart could have imagined possible and then swept forward in a rush.

Hart’s terrified scream sounded in the viewing room as rows of gleaming teeth closed down on the tender flesh of her throat.