“Whoa, easy there!” Pat’s hands were already raised, there was no need for that. Or maybe there was. It was this level of security that kept outposts like 7B free of any kind of infection. Free of infiltration.
“Move inside,” the man with the gruff voice ordered—and now Pat could see he was a guy wearing a beanie and fatigues. His nose was bent, broken at some point in the past, and there were stitches over his left eye; thick and black, like laces in a boot. Pat had to wonder whether the wound had healed a while ago and the man simply liked the way this looked. It would certainly make any human think twice about tackling him ... maybe even one of the beasts as well. “Slowly,” warned the man.
“’Kay, just watch what you’re doing with that cannon. We’re all on the same side here,” said Pat. Though, of course, that was yet to be proven. To this guard, Pat might be just another one of those things.
Inside the door was another guard—standard practice, in case the first one should fall. This guy was a little younger, but no less rough-looking: the stubbled chin only adding to this. Pat had seen them both around before, just not to talk to—unlike Alkins—and not on guard duty. This man said nothing, just closed the door again, and covered the first guard while he searched Pat, taking away the gun and knife. Wouldn’t be needed here in 7B. Not when they were deeper in, anyway. He took the bag as well, then motioned for Pat to remove the hood.
“Down the steps,” said the first guard, pointing the way with the gun, past the torches on the walls. They left the second man by the door, as Pat was escorted to the final checking area. The one with the mirrors.
It was still the most effective weapon they had, the most useful tool—and something that not even the dogs with all their wit had been able to overcome. As old-fashioned as it was, this method remained the only sure-fire way to wheedle them out. Pat was virtually shoved into the arena, lit by more torches on the walls, and ordered to face first the reflective surface on the right, then turn to the one on the left.
The guard behind nodded, as a newcomer entered. A familiar face, lined with wisdom and expression, framed with silver hair. She was accompanied by two more guards, one on either side who’d escorted her from below. “Now, now,” the woman said, pointing to the gun the broken-nosed guard held raised. “There’s no need for all that.”
“Colonel Alkins,” said Pat, saluting. The colonel threw one back at the messenger, taking the bag that was handed to her and rooting around inside.
“Any trouble?” asked the woman.
It was better to be honest, as the colonel was like a human lie-detector, and Pat had been late reaching the outpost. “I ... er ... I thought I was being followed at one point, but managed to shake them off.”
The colonel paused, one eye narrowing, scrutinising Pat. “You’re sure about that, are you? That you lost the tail?”
Pat thought again about the uneasy feeling, hand going to the chain. “Yes ... yes, I’m sure.”
Alkins nodded. “Good. Because we don’t want any nasty surprises, do we?”
“No ma’am,” answered Pat.
“All right then ... ah!” At first Pat thought the colonel had come across the whisky; that always brought a smile to her face. Instead, it was the plastic folder she took out—dropping the bag down on the floor. Pat heard a smashing sound, the whisky bottle breaking inside the bag. Hadn’t she seen it in there?
“Colonel, there was—” Pat began, but was cut off by the raising of a hand.
Alkins was frowning as she rifled through the papers. “The code to these,” she said, then waited.
What? Pat didn’t have it, that wasn’t her mission. It would come via another messenger; the colonel knew that but—
Pat was beginning to get that same sinking feeling. Began fingering the chain more furiously. Everyone was staying well away from the mirrors, had done even when Pat was being checked over. But it would only take a step to the left or the right to get a side on view.
Yet to be proven we’re on the same side... .
“Well?” There was something strange about the colonel’s expression now, those eyes a little too wide. The mouth a little too big. Pat turned and looked at the scarred soldier barring the way, who glared back, unblinking.
How many?
No nasty surprises.
Pat shuffled to the side, trying to do so as subtly as possible. Not making a very good job of it. “I ... I don’t—”
“Oh come along!” snapped Alkins, “we haven’t got all day, boy!”
That was when Pat knew for sure. Not when the image in the mirror showed something else looking back that wasn’t the colonel—a warped reflection ... same as the guards on either side of her—but then: when the woman spoke a final time.
And those words from the story, the fable Pat’s dad used to read, came drifting back: What big eyes, what big ears ... What big teeth ...
All the better to eat you with!
Not today. Not today ... Fight or flight? Pat had to decide.
Why not a little of both?
No weapons, they’d been taken from Pat, but there was still the chain. A chain being fingered, being undone. A chain with a sharpened cross; a silver chain that was being unfurled and whipped around in the direction of the three people in front of Pat.
It swiped across the first soldier’s throat, opening that up; then the colonel’s face, drawing a line across both cheeks and the nose; before blinding the third guard, streaking across both eyes. All of them reached up to claw at their respective wounds. Injuries they hadn’t been expecting, let alone been quick enough to prevent.
Then there was the torch. Pat reached up and flicked the naked flame off the wall, in the direction of the bag, where it met the leaking whisky with a whoosh.
Pat turned. There hadn’t been time to check whether the scarred man was one of their kind as well, but it was a fair assumption and Pat couldn’t take the risk. Didn’t think twice. The chain was up and out once more, catching the guard across the hands and forcing him to drop his rifle. Didn’t mean anything—might just have been the sharpness of the cross. But when Pat lashed out again, and the man caught it—grabbing the chain with both hands—smoke started to rise from his palms. Pat had no choice but to let go, yet at the same time reached for the knife tucked into his belt: the one he’d taken from Pat, sticking out handle first. In seconds that was free and being plunged into the guard’s chest. He fell, a look of surprise on a face that was in mid-transformation. With a satisfied grunt, Pat snatched the chain back—but there was no time to grab the pistol he’d also taken.
Because the figures at the back were rising, pushing through the flames, and they were being joined by more from below. Not just the colonel then, not just these men, but the entire outpost had been compromised—which was another assumption, but one Pat had wanted to deny until now. It meant one more base was gone, had fallen to them. It meant Colonel Alkins was dead, as well. No time for sadness, though, no time to mourn her ...
Now was the time for the ‘flight’ part of the plan.
Pat began back up the stairs, had almost forgotten about the other guard there with the stubble until he was coming down the stairs the other way, snarling. Timing it just right, Pat crouched and the man tripped, going straight over and falling headlong down the rest of the steps. Not only did that leave the way clear for Pat to open the door, it would also hinder the enemy in hot