EXODUS

— by Jeff Karamales

Chapter 12
Gambit
 

The guards weren’t taking any chances with Wyatt or Pinkerton and had both bound with heavy steel manacles as they transported the two hybrids to the island where the pair of anthrofelines were to be hunted. There was a small pack for each near the control column of the Zodiac boat that combined a rigid lower hull with inflatable pontoons. Wyatt and Pinkerton both sat in the bow with the mercenaries towards the back of the craft so that the pair were covered with multiple weapons. As soon as the craft began moving Wyatt let his awareness of the others fall away as he turned his face into the wind and spray that the speedy little boat generated as it plowed through the Alaskan sea.

For a moment it was almost as if he were back on his boat in Florida, able to set a course to wherever he wanted, completely free of the rest of the world where it was just Wyatt, the wind, the water and the comfort that being on the water filled him with. Granted the scent of the ocean here was a little different, but it was still calming and he let a sense of serenity fill him completely. He missed being on the water, the feel of a deck rolling beneath him or the pitching of the bow as it took on wave after wave. If this was going to be his last day alive, there were worse ways to spend it.

So lost was the savannah cat in his reverie that it wasn’t until the forward portion of the keel touched the gravelly shore of the island that he returned to a state of awareness of where he actually was and what was going to happen to him. When he glanced at Pinkerton it boosted his morale even further to see that the panther man was completely miserable. He almost made a jibe at the other hybrid’s discomfort before checking himself. There wasn’t any reason to antagonize the serial murderer so Wyatt stood and slipped over the gunwale, his toes digging into the salt encrusted gravel of the strand of shore. He held out his wrists silently for one of the mercenaries to remove to manacles. Within moments he was alone with the small bundle that held his meager supplies as the boat reversed and lurched over a few small swells to deposit Pinkerton at a different location.

Wyatt had roughly half an hour before the boat carrying the pair that would be hunting him arrived, and that really didn’t leave him much time. He quickly surveyed the woods that were thick and green and almost grew to the water’s edge. It wasn’t the subtropical flora that he’d grown up with, but it did look like it would provide ample coverage as long as he didn’t leave too easy a trail to follow.

Then again, he might not have to leave a trail at all.

Looking at the trees, mostly soft wood conifers, Wyatt was at first impressed with their size until he realized that the branches grew fairly close together. Most of the branches were several inches thick and he was fairly sure that they could hold his weight so long as he didn’t go too far out to the ends. There was only one way to be completely sure and the savannah cat trotted a little further up the beach, angling for the woods before selecting one tree in a dense cluster of others. He pressed a single claw into the scaly bark of the pine tree, not sure what specific type it was. To be honest nearly all evergreens looked the same to him save cedar and the only reason he could differentiate that from another conifer was there had a small one in the yard of the house he grew up in, incongruously flanked by a pair of palmettos. His claw sank easily into the outer portion and then the soft wood beneath, but Wyatt also realized that it left a fairly distinctive mark, and his nose was filled with the scent of the pungent sap. If he were to climb the tree it would have to be without his claws until he got further up the trunk.

It made more sense for Wyatt to travel using the tree branches than staying on the ground. Despite the rocky shore and dirt, there were ferns that were easily broken and the loam of the woods would hold a print easily. That seemed like a bad choice as he was quite positive that whichever pair would be hunting him could follow tracks far less blatant. Wyatt also figured that the others would expect him to make a dash for the finish line. That seemed like a foolish choice as well. If there was the possibility of reaching the other end of the island that quickly it meant that there were surprises in the terrain that might prove to be greater obstacles than they might seem. Perhaps it was because of his penchant for adventure stories and movies, but Wyatt felt that something so obvious had to be a trap, maybe a small canyon that would hem him in and make for an easy kill or some other physical feature that would prevent his passing.

Wyatt was sure that the four men that were after him and Pinkerton had been shown pictures, images or maps of the island, maybe even 3D models. They were guaranteed to have the advantage. That was evident by the gear that was going to be given them and the promise of weapons. If he were to make it through this, Wyatt knew that he would have to rely on both parts of his new body and mind. The physical characteristics like strength, flexibility, speed and sharper senses would have to work in conjunction with his brain and the application of his intelligence.

He also realized, however, that no matter what the men knew or had been told, they would be at a disadvantage as they might have experience hunting either humans or animals, but not something that was both. His mind racing, Wyatt began his preparations. The first thing he did was to remove the jumper that he wore. His own fur would have to suffice in protecting him, and he was glad that it was the middle of summer for this part of Alaska. The temperatures would fluctuate wildly, but it wouldn’t be so extreme that his fur couldn’t cope with. Unless it rained, then he would have to find shelter of some sort, though his nose didn’t indicate the wet musty smell of an approaching squall, but then again, this wasn’t really a region he was familiar with.

Using handfuls of ferns and a few twigs from further in Wyatt stuffed his jumper before placing it between a trio of tree trunks and a couple of large rocks to make it look as if he were using the spot for cover but crouched down. He set that at a point that whoever came after him would find it without too much trouble then began to set sticks that were dry but readily sharpened by his claws into a small depression that lay in a bed of fern growth. He angled them roughly in the direction of the rocky strand before mixing the shavings into the rich, black loam of the forest floor. If the men weren’t paying too much attention there was a good chance that the stakes might cause a little damage to unsuspecting legs and feet. To add to the obstacle Wyatt fashioned trip lines with thin, tough saplings. Maybe he could luck out and cause someone to break an ankle.

With that done, Wyatt shimmied up a tree almost a hundred yards away, got his bearings from the rising sun and used the branches to leap to the next conifer. As he looked back over his shoulder he saw a pair of small boats churning the water from the larger island where Fort Freedom had been built and realized that his time was running out and he still had a great deal to do. 

*** 

There was apparently a great deal of wildlife on the island. At first revolted by the stink that hit his nose, Wyatt paused and located the place where a small deer had laid down to die after shattering its right rear leg. The animal must have been a doe as he saw no growth on the skull for antlers, but then he though he recalled that male deer, bucks, shed their antlers and wouldn’t grow them back until rutting season. That didn’t really bother the savannah cat as what he was after was one of the thigh bones.

Wyatt fought down a wave of nausea as he squatted near the still decomposing body, and vomited a little in his mouth which he spat out as he reached down and grasped the long leg bone, his finger pads sinking slightly into the slimy mess of rotting soft tissue. He ignored the maggots that crawled happily over the rest of the body or looking in the direction of exposed organs that had bloated like off colored balloons. With a slow twist he popped the ball joint out of the hip, though when he tried to pull the bone free the remaining sinew fought him causing his paw-like hands to slide along the length of femur. That released a new wave of stench and this time Wyatt couldn’t refrain from emptying his stomach of the half digested contents of a ration packet off to the side. Once he got his stomach under control, the trick of breathing though his mouth not working as his heightened senses only enabled him to all but taste the miasma of decay, Wyatt twisted more sharply and managed to yank the bone free. It was easier to separate the rest of the leg from what he wanted and once he had his prize in hand he scooted on his rump away from the dead deer, gulping much cleaner air as he closed his eyes for a moment.

Bone in paw, Wyatt returned to a small stream and pool that he’d crossed minutes before and cleaned the bone as best he could. Boiling would have been preferred, much as he had shark jaws from catches years in the past, but Wyatt had no such luxury available and would have to satisfy himself with washing what he could off his hands and the section of leg in the cold running water. He didn’t want to ruin the water in the pool that fed the trickle of stream and once the bone was as clean as he could get if along with his paws, Wyatt moved to the pool and lapped greedily at the water for several moments before stopping. It wouldn’t do to fill himself up with too much as it would only slow him down, but it had been enough to wash the taste of bile and partially digested food out of his mouth and the rest had slaked his thirst.

With that taken care of he moved to a place where he had seen something else that might be of use as inspiration continued to fuel him.

The only humans on the island were the ones hunting him and Pinkerton, but the small mass of land had seen other visitors in the past and at the edge of a small, turgid river that originated further inland he’d found a snarl of fishing line complete with lure in the outer branches of a tree that hung over the water. It took a few minutes to pull enough down that could be usable, then cast about the edge of the water, his eyes darting to and fro while his ears continued to swivel in small arcs to listen for possible threats. He found what he wanted in the form of a cone shaped rock that had a rounded point. Working quickly, experience at have to rig repairs on his boat more than once, he fashioned the leg bone into a handle with the rock nestled into the crook of the hip and secured it with multiple overlapping strands of the fishing line that was one of the more modern ones that hadn’t dry rotted in the slightest.

As he tightened down the line a twig snapped somewhere in the woods back in the direction he’ come from. Senses straining, Wyatt slowly sank to the ground after a moment of utter stillness. His new feline eyes scanned left and right, not looking for anything in particular but looking for shapes or silhouettes that seemed out of place. He was still looking for something out of the ordinary when a smell that certainly didn’t belong to anything in the woods tickled his nose. After so many months around the Janissaries mercenaries, Wyatt was more than familiar with the smell of gun oil or the burnt smelling cordite residues that discharged rounds left. It was enough to get him moving and he slunk on all fours up the river bank several yards before melting into the woods.

The sound of shifting rocks came to his ears next and Wyatt peered through the ferns back to the place he’d been but there was still nothing that seemed out of place even though the smell of gun oil became a little stronger with the faint, wafting eddies of air. He forced his tail between his legs and pressed his thighs together so that the appendage wouldn’t twitch as a demonstration of his nervousness and give away his position. Breathing through his open mouth helped Wyatt stay as silent as possible while it also let his tongue sample the air even though he was still too new in his altered body to read and categorize the information that he gleaned that way. Then he saw it.

Almost a dozen yards from where he’d fashioned his bone and rock weapon was a boot and hints of a bloused pants leg. Just a few inches up and out was the downward pointing barrel of a rifle. Wyatt wanted to run, to put as much distance between him and the unknown, armed man as possible. Despite the relatively warm air he felt the urge to shiver and the fur along his spine stood on end with the adrenaline that poured into his blood from his enhanced glands. Objectively it was only a few seconds of watching before the leg moved and its owner stepped out to the edge of the undergrowth while subjectively it felt like hours crawled by. A feeling of sick dread filled Wyatt as he saw Baldy, the man that he only otherwise knew as Pete crouch down and survey the strand.

Moving in a half crouch, Pete scuttled over to almost the exact spot where Wyatt had worked on his makeshift club and paused, scanning the woods on both sides of the sluggish stream before his offhand picked up the remnants of fishing line and examined it. The man was methodical. He looked, ran his fingers over the line and looked again then sniffed at the synthetic material. Then Baldy dropped the line and reached up to his shirt collar. His clothing wasn’t what Wyatt had expected. His pants were brownish tan fatigues with dark brown boots, but his shirt was simply a T-shirt in black. Over that he wore a vest that Wyatt had seen in the news in a color that was just a shade lighter than his trousers. It had numerous places to attach pouches and equipment though all of those were empty. In the back of the vest was a canteen bladder with the drinking tube running up over the man’s shoulder so that all he had to do was turn his head to access the end. He touched his throat and something that looked like a black ribbon.

“El-Tee. No go at the stream, but I swear it’s been here recently,” the man said.

Wyatt realized he must be wearing a radio of some sort. That also meant that Baldy and the other man must have split up to cover more ground. The weapon that the man carried didn’t look anything like the ones that he’d seen on the news or that were part of the decades long, ongoing gun debate. It was all black and had a short barrel compared to most rifles the savannah cat had seen. The stock was one solid piece of plastic with a hole for the thumb of the shooter, and the plastic continued around the back third of the barrel. The scope on it was certainly something that the military used. It had a strangely gold colored lens on the front, and Wyatt knew that it contained a hidden light or laser that put an illuminated dot in the center of the aiming lens that wouldn’t be visible to anyone but the shooter. Wyatt thought that he’d seen the little rifle before in an outdoors magazine that he’d had a subscription to before his arrest and conviction and knew that the weapon had been marketed to farmers and such as a light varmint rifle that fired a nine millimeter pistol round. It was supposed to be effective, and there was little doubt in the savannah cat’s mind that it could very easily put a great many holes in his hide that he would rather keep more or less intact.

Baldy listened to something the other man said, his finger pressed to his ear to better hear the transmission and shook his head though the other couldn’t see the gesture. “Negative. I ain’t gonna wait for it to come to me. Might’ve been a man once, but it ain’t nothin’ ‘cept an animal now. Only way to deal with an animal is to hunt it and put it down.” Something else was said in reply that caused the large man to bristle, the lips of his mouth pressing so hard together that his biker-style mustache almost stuck straight out from his face while his cheeks and neck reddened considerably. “Hey. You forget you ain’t my commanding officer no more? We just do jobs together now. This thing’s a freak and I’m gonna take it the hell out. I want them ears, tail and the pelt in between!”

There was more discussion interspersed with increasingly foul language and Wyatt listened intently. The two argued vehemently, the large man becoming more agitated with each reply. Hoping it wasn’t going to be suicide, Wyatt used the heated exchange to stand to a low crouch, surprised that he felt as comfortable on all fours as he did standing upright and began to circle around, the pads of his feet and free hand carefully feeling the ground for sticks or small obstacles that would give him away while in his right he held his club. The savannah cat also used his blunted triangular muzzle to part the foliage, closing his eyes as leaves and frond of fern slid past only to open them again as soon as he could. Wyatt also continued to breathe through his open mouth to reduce the chances of making too much noise.

A surge of electric elation ran through Wyatt as he made it through the undergrowth so that he was directly behind the man and stood fully upright, his club rising above his head and leapt forward only to catch the suddenly moving man’s booted foot on his left hip. The club was still coming down despite the painful impact that buckled Wyatt’s leg, but was caught by the NWS operative’s short rifle. Bone and plastic impacted with a CLACK! that reverberated along the strand and both human and hybrid felt the vibration of the intercepted kinetic energy all the way to their elbows.

As he fell Wyatt did the only thing he could think of and flung the stone-topped section of bone in the opposite direction catching Baldy off guard with the amount of raw physical strength that he was able to exert. The change of direction and the subsequent torquing of club and gun sent both weapons flying off to the side several yards. Baldy might have lost his weapon, but training and experience enabled him to accept the loss and draw another, his hand going to the large fighting knife on his belt. Though he drew the blade with surprising speed, it was enough of a delay for Wyatt to continue his fall and roll fluidly backwards with the inertia of the kick, returning to his feet with his left hand down to steady him while all of his extremities tensed, unsheathing his own blades that he was now equipped with in the form of a claw on each finger and toe.

Baldy held the knife up in front of his body, the man standing slightly canted so that he offered as small a silhouette as possible, the blade dancing in a small figure ‘8’ while his other hand was held a few inches from his body to block or intercept attacks. Wyatt had once seen a small Filipino man that had been surrounded by dockworkers use the same stance during an altercation that involved heavy carving knives and knew that Baldy would sacrifice his left hand and arm to prevent greater damage, possibly even fatal, from happening to his torso. If the large man could move as fast as the Filipino that Wyatt had watched with awe than this might be a short fight, indeed. Wyatt wasn’t thinking about that, however. What he was thinking was that he’d had more than his share of being afraid, of being experimented on, tormented, exploited and now hunted like a rabid animal and that the situation was going to stop one way or the other.

“You got some balls, pussycat,” Baldy said with a mirthless grin. “Mebbe ol’ lady Lesko shoulda had you an’ the rest neutered. Ain’t that whatcha do to a wild tomcat? Huh? Cut its nuts off so’s to make it a good pet? Doctor’s in, pussycat and it’s snippin’ day!”

The man feinted with the knife, flicking it down in a parabolic arch before returning to the serpentine motion that kept the blade in constant motion. It was meant to distract, and succeeded as Baldy lashed out with a slap of his right hand followed by another flicking thrust of sharpened steel. Wyatt was unaffected by both, though. His new form was stronger and faster, a combination of intellect and instinct, and was also considerably more flexible. Instead of trying to land blows, Wyatt focused on avoiding attacks, the predator portion of his mind telling him that the prey needed to tire itself out first, that once fatigue set in the kill was all but his and Wyatt’s blood sang with the exotic substances that saturated him, adrenaline and other hormones filling him with strength and confidence. The portion of his mind that was focused on the thrill of the fight, the challenge and no shortage of bloodlust was enough to enable him to ignore the few light cuts that made it past the protection of his fur and Wyatt knew without understanding how that the injuries were minor.

Soon sweat began to form on Baldy’s exposed skin and his breaths were a touch more labored. Fighting required phenomenal amounts of energy and each missed attack sapped far more reserves from the man than Wyatt’s evasions of the flickering blade. Barely panting, Wyatt saw that Baldy understood what the savannah cat was doing and changed his tactics. Instead of attacking with either his opened left hand or the right that was filed with the hilt of the long curved knife, the man flexed his legs and launched his entire body at Wyatt.

 The force of the impact was enough to drive both combatants to the ground, neither one able to bring their weapons into play as Baldy’s arms wrapped around Wyatt and with his left hand clasping the wrist of his right he flexed his thickly corded arms in an effort to break Wyatt’s ribs. Breath was forced from the hybrid’s lungs in a yowl of pain as he felt his torso being crushed and a moment of panic filled him, though the panic was also his salvation as it let the feline portion of his altered mind come completely into play. As the feral part of his combined psyche took command, Wyatt’s body twisted so that he shifted in the grip of the human almost diagonally, reducing the amount of leverage that was applied to his ribs. Then, in a display of his increased flexibility, Wyatt whipped his head around, muzzle wide open and latched onto the man’s neck and throat.

Teeth pierced skin while one of the fangs in his lower jaw skidded off the Push-to-Talk button of the human’s throat mike. Blood filled Wyatt’s mouth as the thin flesh gave way to needle sharp teeth and the savannah cat swallowed reflexively the copper-sweet fluid that flooded hotly over his tongue. The pressure on Baldy’s larynx was enough to cut off the scream of pain and rage that wanted to boil forth and he finally released the grip he had around the hybrid’s body, his arm working free in order to bring his knife back into play. The part of Wyatt that belonged to one of the most successful predator species the world had ever seen wasn’t finished, though. Again utilizing his superior flexibility, Wyatt arched his back in the opposite direction, pulling his hips and rump away from the man even as he brought his legs and feet up. In alternating, rapid kicks, the claws of his toes bit into the fabric of the military cargo vest before ripping down with a slight flexing of enormous leg muscles. The curved claws shredded fabric in long rents, one foot hitting the end of the rake and jerking up as the other tore swathes through the synthetic fabric. By the second and third kicks Wyatt’s claws found flesh and shredded that even more easily. Skin and muscle gave way before the savannah cat reached far more sensitive things, the smell of blood and rent meat spurring Wyatt into a furious flurry of bend-flex-kick-rip over and over.

The screams of the man being torn to pieces trailed off into a fading rasp that ended in a gurgle and still Wyatt kicked and ripped spasmodically, in the throes of complete intellectual abandon, letting the feline portion maintain its control of his actions. 

It was several minutes before the human portion of his brain began to reassert itself and Wyatt realized just what he’d done. The panic that hit him the second time wasn’t from fear of his opponent but of what he’d done and the pressing weight of the body on top of him. Claws that had been use as weapons moments before he now used for traction as he scrambled madly to get out from beneath Baldy’s corpse. Blood made the dirt and rocks beneath him as slick as if it had been coated with oil but made his fur feel like he’d been coated in something akin to honey. Wyatt’s left foot became entangled in Baldy’s entrails it was all he could do not to scream in frustrated rage. Once free he made his way to the stream and frantically splashed water over the spots of his fur that were matted with blood and gore, scrubbing furiously.

Once clean Wyatt remembered with disturbing clarity his mouth and fangs locking down on Baldy Pete’s neck and throat, the taste of blood still on his tongue and moved a few feet up stream and did what he could to splash the metallic sweet flavor from his maw before retching noisily, each heaving convulsion finishing with a sad sounding mewl of revulsion. 

*** 

Wyatt performed the grisly task of stripping Baldy of usable equipment, though when it came to the radio he had to pause when a small indicator light that was blinking for attention flashed repeatedly. He saw that it was a versatile unit that could work with the ear piece and throat mike or without as a hand-held. He disconnected the wires to the peripherals and looked at it for a moment before almost throwing it as far away as possible when a small burst of static preceded the voice of the brown haired man.

“I don’t know who you are apart from what the Doctor said, but you are dangerous. Pete was a top notch operator which means that you are one rather frightening individual.” There were several moments of silence before the voice sounded once more from the radio. “Look. Pete had a beef with you, you with him for being an aggressive jerk, but as far as I’m concerned, you and I have no problem. Talk to me.”

The savannah cat again considered dropping the radio but instead found himself depressing the transmit button with his thumb pad. “Talk?” Wyatt asked with surprise and irony coloring his thrumming voice. “What do you want me to say? Especially as I just killed your friend.”

“Associate,” the man on the other end said simply. “He was in my unit, my subordinate and we worked well together, but we were not friends. Pete…lost himself. He became more bent on the challenge and the kill. Not just you but others as well. He wasn’t too discerning about the jobs he took or who he killed. To be honest, apart from the loss of a thorough professional, you probably did the world a favor by ridding it of a very dangerous sociopath.” There was a moment of silence followed by another burst of static before he began speaking again. “Look. If I wanted you dead, you would be. Look to the south-southwest. See the ridge underneath the large Douglas fir tree?”

Wyatt turned and looked in the appropriate direction and saw an amorphous shadow move a little before raising an arm and waving.

“I’ve got a Heckler & Koch PSG-9 sniper rifle. Fires a very powerful and accurate round. Like I said, if I wanted you dead, you would be. What I would like to know is if who you really are who Lesko and the merc said. Are you really Wyatt Renner?”

The savannah cat nodded. “I am. My execution was a sham. I thought I was going to die, but I woke up here where these people used the McEwen cancer treatment process or something like it to combine me with a cat. There are also others that have had this done to them. They were also on death row.”

“Stay where you are,” the man directed after several seconds. “I’m coming down to you. I’ll have my rifle slung and my hands will be empty. I want you to tell me everything that’s been happening here.”

Wyatt picked up the small rifle that Baldy had and looked at it for a moment, identifying the safety and the loading lever. The magazine went into the grip and it took a moment for the anthrocat to release it and check that there was ammunition. It didn’t make sense for the man that had carried it along to kill him and leave his weapon unloaded and as expected it held a full load of double stacked nine millimeter rounds. He held it at the ready but not pointed at the man that made his way to him, wondering if letting the other get close was a wise decision or not.

The man came down from the ridge just as he’d said, no weapons, hands out and open and looked at where Wyatt had covered Pete’s body with rocks into a sort of cairn. He thanked the savannah cat before dropping off his rifle and equipment in a pile and stepping to a spot several yards away and sitting down on a small section of log. He rested his elbows on his lower thighs and rubbed his face, stubble just recently coming in to discolor his face and jaw line. The man stared at the cairn for several minutes before he crossed himself in an odd show of religious display for what the dead man was supposed to be. He then looked up at the hybrid and held out his right hand.

“Todd Farbes. Used to be Lieutenant Farbes, but that was a couple of years ago.” The man smiled slightly when Wyatt looked at the proffered hand for several moments before stepping forward and shaking it for two pumps before letting go and moving back. He smiled slightly at the strange animal man’s reaction and didn’t say anything about the light carbine that the hybrid held onto. “And you’re Wyatt Renner,” he said with a nod. “Thanks for what you did for Pete. It’s a lot more than he deserved, but it shows me that you’re a decent man. For that I figure you’ll be honest with me.” Todd nodded and turned back to staring at the pile of rocks, not really lamenting the death of his companion. “Wyatt, there’s some seriously strange stuff going on and I want you to tell me everything that’s happened here. I mean everything.”

— NEXT CHAPTER —

Unless otherwise noted, all material © Ted R. Blasingame. All rights reserved.