Pavlov's Dogs (2 page)

He slammed the door.

The day he first had seen a dead man get up and walk, Paulo had thought he had gone insane. Then after a while, the undead had become commonplace.

Now Paulo was
sure
he had gone insane.

He told Marie to run—hide!

There was no place but the hall.

She hid there, hoping it was deep enough, hoping Paulo would join her.

She heard the hollow boom of the metal door being pounded open, could hear Paulo cry out.

And then Paulo was
screaming
, his voice moving away, growing distant.

Marie whimpered.

Resisted the urge to peek.

Paulo.

He wouldn’t stop screaming, somewhere out there. They had always hoped their deaths would be quick.

Marie couldn’t help herself; she stuck her head around the corner, into the room.

One of the
wolves
was just stalking past the door, but then it stopped. Marie almost sobbed as she ducked back into the hall. She could hear it, sniffing.

She couldn’t stand it anymore—she opened the door and stumbled into the adjacent room, toward the broken wall.

In the alley beyond, the dead lay in a common grave, twitching here and there, but overall silent and still.

Marie scrambled over the heap of brick, then tripped and fell face-first into the pile of corpses.

The wolf at the door whipped around, homed in again, and chased after her. It was a short chase.

Marie squealed as the beast tossed her over its shoulder. She clawed and kicked and screeched. It didn’t seem to faze the monster in the least.

It carried her over the heaps of severed heads, jerking limbs, and slippery guts. They emerged into the street, and she saw a tractor clearing cars, and a bus behind it.

“Marie!” Paulo called.

The wolf with the golden coat was carrying him toward the bus—was loading him onto it.

From one of the bus’s makeshift gun ports, he shouted again.

“Marie!”

And then he said something she didn’t understand. “There’s an island! They said there’s an—!”

THETA KAISER went for the throat. Samson sidestepped the attack, losing only a chunk of hairy flesh to his adversary’s fangs. A canine tooth nicked his artery though, which spurted briefly before healing. Black skin grew back and new hair sprouted, softer than the rest.

“Their aggression,” Donovan said. “Their loyalty to their Master. How is that all...?”

“Moderated?” Dr. Crispin said.

He and Donovan stood outside the chain-link fence of the arena, hands folded behind their backs.

“I was going to say ‘controlled.’”

“How do you control any wild beast?” Crispin asked.

“Hmm?” Donovan had already stopped paying attention. “With obedience training, I’m sure. Or you just put the sorry mongrel out of its misery.”

“Obedience training, correct. But also with a shock collar.” Crispin held up some kind of papery web ensconced in a small case. “You’ve heard of BCI, yes?”

“Of course,” Donovan said, not even attempting to hide his annoyance. He took great exception when someone insulted his intelligence. “That brain-computer interface is the shock collar, I presume.”

Crispin smiled, yet cocked his head, as if he couldn’t believe Donovan knew the answer. “Yes. Very astute.”

Donovan took the BCI harness and looked it over. “Silk,” he said, admiring the crinkly filaments; the strands of the web were each about 2.5 microns thick, so thin they looked as if they might fall apart if not supported by the case. Electrode arrays had been printed onto the grid.

“Indeed,” Crispin replied. “Imagine a silk dress, the way it, ah,
clings
to a woman’s hips. Now imagine the same principle here, only applied to the convolutions of the brain. One quick saline flush, and viola! Man’s best friend.”

“Fairly advanced BCI,” Donovan said, and Crispin smiled with affected modesty. Then he and the new technician looked back into the arena as Kaiser spit out the chunk of neck meat and growled.

Samson growled back.

By going for the throat, Kaiser had changed a routine combat exercise into a power play. In front of their Master, no less. Samson was the Beta Dog, second in command. Kaiser was just a Theta. A grunt. If Samson were to lose to this
subordinate
, he would lose everything, including his rank.

And then the Dogs charged across the sparring cage, clawing at each other’s arms and chests, nipping at each other’s face. Blood and hair flew all over the concrete floor, and the combatants healed as they fought, their wounds scabbing over and sealing even as new ones opened up.

Kaiser slammed Samson against the chain link with a loud clash.

“Whoa,” Dr. Crispin said, laughing and stepping back. “Rambunctious.”

Donovan didn’t shy away from the action. He stood so close he could smell the dog fur, could smell the coppery tang of blood.

Dr. Crispin laughed nervously. “You might want to step back. Just a small safety precaution.”

Donovan ignored the advice. He reached out as the Dogs wrestled, and he touched Samson’s Rottweiler fur, which was pressed through the diamond pattern of the fence.

“Dr. Donovan!” Crispin shouted. He went to pull the neurotech’s hand back, but then the Dogs pushed away from the fence and circled each other deeper into the arena, crisis averted.

Donovan turned and noted the sweat on Crispin’s brow. “They wouldn’t have bitten me, would they? The chip.”

“Well,” Dr. Crispin began, “there’s a reason we hired you.” He let the statement linger and gazed out upon his Dogs.

Samson locked eyes with Kaiser, trying to anticipate his opponent’s next strike.

Kaiser feinted and Samson fell for it. Ducking, rolling, swiping, Kaiser raked away both of his opponent’s Achilles tendons. The Beta Dog fell and Kaiser again went for the throat. This time his teeth locked behind the esophagus, and when he shook his head and pulled back, he left a ragged hole that sucked for air and ejaculated blood.

Samson fell back, lying flat, dazed but regenerating, in utter disbelief.

Kaiser, panting heavily, spit out the mass of tissue and licked his bloody chops. Suddenly, he began to howl and transform. The bestial sound triggered something deep in Donovan’s brain, and he felt a shiver run through his nervous system.

The neurotechnician squinted and leaned closer to the fence, studying the anatomy of the transformation. Beneath Kaiser’s skin, bones shifted, and his snout sank into his face. The Dog’s spine wrung an agonized cry from him, a uniquely human sound, as his vertebrae straightened and realigned.

Finally, after the Dog had shed all of his German shepherd fur, he was naked, muscular and sweating.

Shaved head. Cool blue eyes.

Human.

“The Change,” Donovan said quietly. “I would have thought it was tied to the moon.”

Crispin nodded. “Naturally, yes. And I honestly cannot tell you why, only that I know by observation that this is how it works; moonlight is its natural stimulus.

“But with the interface, I have managed to trick the brain. The Dogs simply have to
think
of the Change, and the BCI stimulates or inhibits the pituitary’s very special growth hormones. From there, it’s all a matter of proper enzymes and catalysts.”

“Hmm.” Donovan focused on Samson, who, with his reconstructed throat, gasped for breath.

The Beta, too, had reverted to human form, and he lay prone in a husk of dead cells and a pile of Rottweiler hair, some of which stuck to his dark, sweaty skin.

Donovan looked more closely at the two soldiers. He realized it wasn’t sweat but liquefied fat and muscle shed from their fuller lupine forms. Then the smell hit him, and he stepped back, blinking away tears. It was acrid, a mix of rapid decay and something like burning plastic.

Kaiser, the triumphant, extended a hand to his opponent. When Samson went to accept it, Kaiser pulled back.

Grinning, he said, “On your feet,
Theta
. That’s an order.”

Not for the first time, Samson noticed Kaiser’s human teeth, his canines just as sharp as his fangs. The fallen soldier struggled to his feet, still woozy from asphyxiation and shock and... loss.

“Excellent demonstration, boys!” Dr. Crispin shouted from the fence. For all he knew about lycanthropic behavior, he was oblivious to the shift in power that had just occurred. “I’ll have you shower up and see Summer for therapy!”

The Dogs nodded and strode off toward the facility, a utilitarian building that housed the barracks, clinic, and cafeteria. The science labs were located in another building on the other side of the island.

Donovan turned to Crispin and raised an eyebrow. “Therapy?”

“Yes. Rather like bodybuilders. Without hormone therapy, the lower ranking Dogs would be stuck in their human phase for...” Crispin checked his watch, noting the lunar cycle. “Another three weeks, as their hormones waxed naturally with the moon.”

Donovan raised his eyebrow even higher. “And what about the Alpha Dog? Is he akin to a bodybuilder?”

Crispin’s grin grew very smug. “No, the Alpha is my crowning achievement. You’ll meet him after your reception dinner.”

Donovan smiled too, and Crispin realized he didn’t like the man. He was clean-shaven, and his mouth looked like an infant’s, accustomed to sucking and biting to meet its needs. But that wasn’t it. Crispin couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

The disobedience: maybe that accounted for his dislike. He saw the same rebellious spirit in Kaiser at times; the ability to resist commands despite the systems put in place to dictate it. Donovan excelled in his field though, was probably the best neurotechnician around, and not everyone was willing to work under such secrecy. Especially not for a privately-funded team operating under the government’s radar.

Whatever aversion Crispin felt, he swallowed it, because Donovan was their last hope at emerging triumphant from the oppression of mainstream science.

“Well, sir,” the project director said, clapping a hand on his new neurotechnician’s shoulder. “Let us show you to your office.”

Donovan nodded, thinking that he had a very ambitious ladder to climb here, and then he and Crispin headed toward the labs.

THE POP-TOP CRACKED open and foam came out of the beer can, but it didn’t get anywhere. A black-mustached face came down and slurped up the overflow.

The man in the driver’s seat looked over. “Come on, Jorge. You’re gonna get us a ticket.” He checked his mirrors. No cops, but traffic had been stop-and-go ever since he had merged onto the highway.

“Nah,” Jorge said between gulps. “It’s beer-thirty.” He sat back and put his foot up on the dashboard of the Blazer. “And since when do you care about getting pulled over?”

The driver was a large man with sandy hair and a matching beard. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his chambray work shirt, and thick forearms kept the rolled-up sleeves tight and in place. He shot his friend a look, then one corner of his mouth came up. “Since I haven’t registered the new gun. Check it out. It’s under your seat. And at least keep the beer low, huh?”

Jorge, a slightly smaller, slightly rounder brown-skinned man, leaned down and rummaged under the seat. He held the beer up and steady on the dashboard.

Ken stared at the beer can, then stared at his friend.

Jorge smiled. “It’s still beer-thirty.”

“Whatever.”

With a grunt, Jorge pulled a black case from under the seat. “Bitchin’ eagle,” he said, staring at the embossed motif on the case’s lid. He put his beer in the cup-holder as he fiddled with the snaps. “Wedged in there good. How were you gonna—
¡a la madre!”
He brought up a revolver from the case. It was large, with a blued finish and a rail along the five-inch barrel. “What is this, a fifty?”

Ken’s smile returned. “Forty-four. I just picked it up off a guy. He—hey!”

He ducked and accidentally pulled on the steering wheel as Jorge swung the revolver around in the cab. The Blazer lurched to one side.

“Kidding! Kidding,” Jorge said. He looked back through the rear window. “
Hijo de puta
, you gotta calm down, man. That trailer is heavy.”

Ken looked over a moment at Jorge. His eyes went to the revolver in his friend’s right hand, then flicked to the beer can now back in the other. Ken started laughing.

“What?” Jorge said. “I already told you, it’s beer—”

“—thirty, yes, I heard you. Crazy ass.” He laughed harder. Range safety had never been Jorge’s “thing.” He knew the gun wasn’t loaded.

Smiling, Jorge put the revolver back into the case. “That is a nice gun. I hope you didn’t spend
my
wages on it.”

“Nope,” Ken said. “Just half your paycheck. Didn’t cost more than surgery or a new windshield, for instance.”

Jorge ignored him. “What a day. I didn’t think we were ever going to get out of there.”