The Unicorn Killer

The Unicorn Killer

Authors' Notes

This is our entry in the 2026 Halloween Contest. It's our first story published here and the first story we have shared publicly. The story is a blend of action horror and erotic romance. It is not a quick-hit sex story--there absolutely is erotic content, but there is a good bit of worldbuilding and story development first, with sexual content showing up roughly halfway through the story. -- C&S

Content warnings: Werewolves and hags; violence and gore (graphic but not gruesome); death and dismemberment; psychological torture; false memories and altered perception; supernatural mind/sensory manipulation; explicit consensual sexual content; strong language; firearms and combat. Also contains irreverence towards bureaucracy and snarkiness towards hockey players.

Chapter 1

Here's my complaint. Werewolves already have countless advantages over us vanilla human beings. Strength, unrelenting rage... and I mean, have you seen the teeth? One of the only advantages we've possessed is guns. How's it fair if werewolves start using guns?

I get it. Throughout my career I heard it repeated like it was a mantra. "If the word fair is in your mouth, you're in the wrong business." But still, no one ever told me I'd be stacked up on a door taking on werewolves with machine guns.

Pro tip. When you're doing this type of thing, surprise is your best friend. Unfortunately, as bullets rip through the door before we've even made entry, I realize that my best friend is a drunk little slut who didn't show up today. My actual best friend is a girl named Betsy. She's one of the few people I've known consistently all the way back to when I was a little girl.

That description fits Betsy also.

My partner, Jack, has his hand on the doorknob when the bullets start. The first one just grazes him in the upper arm, but he knows what to do. He barely flinches, rolling back away from the door and taking cover against the concrete wall beside it.

Tactical gear completely covers his face, but I don't have to see it to know his expression and what he's thinking. We should have used explosives and gone through the wall. He'll tell me this again when we make it to the bar for drinks. If we make it to the bar for drinks. Maybe I am getting sloppy. Do this long enough and you start to believe that maybe you're just too good to get shot.

As the machine gun continues to turn the door into wooden shrapnel, I see that the gunner is keeping his field of fire to waist-high and higher. I motion to Jack. He drops flat and scrambles quickly under the barrage to my side of the door.

"I know, I know," I tell Jack as he stands next to me. "Don't say it."

I survey the wall farther away from the door and pick the spot.

"We'll punch through here," I tell Jack.

Again, Jack's eyes say it all. We don't know where the hostage is.

"Maybe," I say, before Jack can form the words. "But we know where the gun is."

I'm going to have to remember to get the guys in Supply a better Christmas present this year, because the prewrapped breaching strips go on quickly and easily.

There's a break in the machine gun fire. I'm not sure how quickly a werewolf can change out a belt-fed machine gun, but I'm not waiting around to time him.

"Breaching," I mouth to Jack.

We both turn away a second before the C4 cuts through the concrete wall, the concussion filling the air with concrete dust and fragments. It's an imperfect doorway--no one's going to feature it on HGTV--but it will get you in a room.

I make a mental note to ask Jack if they sell some type of large chocolate-assortment gift basket, because the guys in Supply really deserve something nice.

Jack and I each toss flashbangs into the room in unison. With werewolves, I like to use flashbangs laced with silver nitrate. It really makes for a nice effect.

My rifle hangs against my chest and my pistol is already in my hands. At this range, I find the pistol quicker and more precise. Silver bullets really do the job against werewolves, provided you put them in the right places.

Also, silver is expensive. With silver rounds, Accounting is always happier when I'm making single-shot kills with my.45 rather than burning through the 30-round magazines of my M4. And if Accounting isn't happy, nobody is happy.

I go in first, moving off the breach the instant I'm through.

The room opens long to the right, so that's where I go. Jack is already coming through behind me, peeling left to take the left side of the room.

And there's our principal.

Poor little rich girl who's never had anything but pretty white girl problems her whole life and now she's dealing with werewolves.

Well, technically she's tied to a chair while we're dealing with the werewolves.

But she's here.

The first werewolf is still fumbling with the ammo belt of the machine gun when I put a round through his head. I guess claws aren't always a plus.

Another werewolf stands dazed next to the machine gun holding the other side of the ammo belt. I place my second shot. Second werewolf down.

None of the remaining werewolves on my side have firearms.

Good.

One of them lunges towards the principal, but I put him down before he gets near her.

Movement snaps through the dust to my right, but Jack has already cleared his side and has the angle. Jack fires two shots from his HK416 and two more bodies hit the floor.

"All clear," I call out.

The room is ours.

Chapter 2

With the hostage secure, Transportation gets us back to our Headquarters facility. The hostage will go through Medical plus extended trauma recovery and debrief sessions. We can't exactly have people running around shouting that they were kidnapped by werewolves. Can you imagine the panic if that ended up on social media?

Medical always likes to look us over whenever we've been up close with werewolves--just to make sure we didn't catch their cooties. Jack's in for a longer session than I am, since he also got shot in the arm.

"Just let them do their thing," I tell Jack as he squirms about in one of those ridiculous paper gowns they make you wear. "I can handle the debrief on this one."

Our debriefs are held in the subterranean level under Command. Command's facilities are always just a little bit nicer than other areas. Not quite as nice as Administration, but they still have for-real two-ply toilet paper rather than that one-ply nonsense that only gets used in government buildings, colleges, and Hell.

April is working the desk outside of Mission and Debrief when I get there. I like April. This job hasn't taken her smile away quite yet, plus she keeps a little dish of those cinnamon disk hard candies on the counter in front of her station.

"Good to see you back, Master Sergeant," April says with a genuine smile as I approach her counter. "Successful mission, I hear."

"Successful mission," I confirm, taking a cinnamon candy. "Hostage rescued. Werewolves dead."

Even though it's a part of Command, Mission and Debrief is still essentially just an office space. After being out in the field, the harsh fluorescent lighting, stale musty air, and constant low-frequency hum of the HVAC always make me nostalgic for a room full of werewolves.

"Where's your other half?" April asks.

"Jack got a little bit shot in the arm, so he's down in Medical with nurses fawning over him."

"I hope he's okay," April says.

"He'll be fine," I confirm. "Just a flesh wound. I think the paper gown is probably the worst part of it for him."

"I bet Jack looks great in a paper gown though," April says, her voice almost a whisper.

I confirm her bet with a deep grin.

Jack really does somehow look great even in a paper gown. Jack has hundreds of outstanding qualities both in the field and out. There are a thousand reasons nothing could ever happen between Jack and me, but that doesn't stop him from being an excellent variety of eye candy.

"Where's my debrief?" I ask April.

April's face grows more serious. "They're holding off your debrief because they have a priority mission for you. If Jack is really fine, they're sending you both straight back into the field."

Back-to-back missions. It happens. But it's unusual enough to give me pause.

"They ready for me?" I ask.

"Room 3," April confirms.

April buzzes me through and I make my way down the hallway and into Room 3.

Normally, our mission briefs are given to us by Colonel Hayes, our commanding officer. But today in Room 3, I find not Colonel Hayes, but rather three suits from Administration sitting across the table waiting for me.

Other than the suits, the table, and four chairs, the room is empty except for an electronic interactive whiteboard on the wall behind them.

To a layman, the scene appears to be the beginnings of some type of interrogation rather than a briefing. I know it's not though, because I'm between them and the door, rather than the other way around. Plus, if I were in any kind of real trouble, I would not be the only one in the room with a sidearm.

In the center of the suits is Catherine Madison. She's essentially Colonel Hayes's civilian boss, so my boss's boss. I know she's not military or from any of the alphabet soup agencies, but no one seems to know her background. Rumor is that she was with some shadowy private military contractor before she came to us, but you know how rumors are.

Even if I didn't recognize her, the smartly tailored grey suit would tell me that she's in Administration. They get the big paychecks. We just kick in the doors. Still, we get to shoot werewolves and blow stuff up, so I wouldn't trade places with her.

I don't know the people sitting to either side of her, but I don't need to. They're here so that Ms. Madison looks important, not because they are.

"Master Sergeant," Ms. Madison says, greeting me as I step into the room. "Congratulations on another successful mission."

"Thank you, ma'am," I respond as the door clicks shut behind me.

Keeping her seat, she motions for me to take the seat in the single chair across the table, and I do so.

Three stacks sit in front of her on the table. The center stack is a blank legal pad with several file folders beneath it. To the left and right of the legal pad are two higher stacks of folders. The top folder of each is stamped "TS/SCI" (Top Secret/Sensitive Compartmented Information). Experience tells me that she didn't bring the folders for her benefit. I'm going to have to read through all of those. So much for the progress I was finally making on Harry Potter.

Ms. Madison pulls a folder marked "Medical" from beneath her legal pad without opening it.

"Looks like your partner will be fine," Ms. Madison says. "Medical says he'll be ready to redeploy within the hour."

I nod. "Just a graze to the arm on our rescue. Everything will be in my report."

Medical is always overcautious with wounds in proximity to werewolves. Lycanthropy can be transmitted by blood and saliva, but it doesn't happen as easily as they show in the movies. Better safe than sorry though, especially when it comes to werewolves.

"We have a priority mission that just came down," Ms. Madison continues. "We need to put you right back in the field, if that's okay?"

I nod. "Yes, ma'am." The illusion of her asking as a question is more about her being polite than me needing to give permission.

She pulls another folder from beneath her legal pad. This one I would probably recognize even if my name wasn't printed across it in block letters. It's my file, which is stamped "TS/SAP" (Top Secret/Special Access Program). Below my name, printed in the same block letters, is "Task Force Obsidian."

"I'm sure everyone in the room is familiar with your resume," Ms. Madison begins, "but let's hit the highlights anyway just in case there is someone who needs to hear it. Army Sniper. Army Ranger. Then a task force that doesn't seem to have a designation. This one I don't get... attached to Delta Force?"

"Green... Delta," I say, switching to the civilian-friendly term. "Delta only has male operators. But over the years, they've learned the unique contributions that women can make. They give people like me training to make sure we know how to do things their way, and we are considered attached to them. They're a unit with rules, but also one that gets whatever they want."

The three heads across the table all nod.

"Then you've been with us in rescue for three years," Ms. Madison says.

Three years? I guess it has been. Funny, when I started, they told me the life expectancy was two, but I've always been one to beat the odds by a bit.

"We have a priority mission for you," she continues. "It's a bit out of your regular wheelhouse, but there's a strong consensus upstairs that the mission should go to you. It's a short-term protection assignment."

Protection. There's a reason I'm in rescue. In rescue, you only deal with people in their "Oh, thank you. I can't believe you saved me. You're like a superhero," moment. In protection, you have to put up with people in everyday life. And that sounds awful.

"Ma'am," I begin, "protection has plenty of good people." It's half argument and half confession. I can give credit where it's due. "I'd trust anyone on Team A or Team C to have my back. It's their focus. Plus, we're only a two-man team."

It's just me and Jack. Our team is small, but we're capable. In rescue we have both smaller, maneuverable teams like ours, as well as bigger teams--twelve operators. The spear analogy goes beyond just sharpness. Bigger spears have their place, I suppose. I get it--size is impressive and it makes a bigger hole. But a spear that can hit precisely in exactly the right spots--now that is truly remarkable.

What was I talking about?

"We can't discuss this portion of the details with you," Ms. Madison answers, "but there is a reason... even beyond your obvious skill set... that this needs to be you."

I nod. I understand compartmentalization. I could list all the reasons it's necessary. But that doesn't keep it from being a pain in the butt.

"Yes, ma'am," I respond. "Who will we be protecting, and against what?"

"We have a unicorn killer," she says.

Both suits flanking her shift in their seats, a dull squeak coming from one of their chairs as it drags against the floor with the motion.

Unicorns. I have my own thoughts and feelings about them. Of course I do. But the world I serve depends on them. At least we've come to believe it does. Maybe we depend on them too much. Maybe there should be fewer of them. Maybe the world would be healthier if we depended on something a little more... can "real" be the right word? But they don't call me in to make that type of judgment. They call me in to fight monsters.

"Do we know the species?" I ask.

"No," she says, shaking her head. "Something with claws."

That doesn't narrow it down much.

Ms. Madison fills me in on the remaining details of the mission. Twenty protectees--eleven unicorns plus nine persons of critical interest. Jack and I take a private jet to a small airfield in Texas, where an SUV waits for us. We join the convoy transporting the protectees to our secure facility and oversee protection at the facility for eighteen hours, at which point the protectees will be picked up by other teams and transported to higher-security locations.

I walk out of the meeting with twenty-one file folders. One with the mission parameters and one dossier for each of the protectees.

Easy peasy.

What could go wrong?

Chapter 3

Even though it's late October, it's still above 80 degrees as the sun is just starting to set and we pull into the secure facility in Middle of Nowhere, Texas. It's just after 7:30 in the evening.

The facility looks like a mostly abandoned office park. Mundane is its first line of defense. The road runs along the north side of the property and a plain, but secure, high fence runs along the other three sides. Inside the complex, three buildings sit around the perimeter of a central parking lot. Building A sits on the east side and is used for site administration. Building B sits on the south side and contains a cafeteria and several meeting areas. You wouldn't know it from looking, but there is a secure bunker with an impenetrable vault door located under Building B.

Building C sits on the west side of the parking lot and contains a large meeting space. The twenty protectees are currently sitting in this meeting space in Building C. I would have placed them in Building B, since it's right above the bunker, and even instructed the convoy to park its two fourteen-passenger vans in front of that building, but the facility's skeleton crew arrived only thirty minutes before us, and are presently working to restore power to Building B. Plus, I'm not technically running the show here until the Site Manager officially hands the protectees off to us.

The Site Manager is a wiry woman named Tamara. My guess is that she was Agency before coming to us and that she is currently working a field assignment for Intelligence, hoping to get enough experience to be moved up to Administration. I'm sure she's fine as a manager but flawed when it comes to operations. Power or no, she really should have put the protectees in Building B.

Probably won't make a difference. But probably gets people killed.

Tamara gives us the rundown on the site. An underground mainframe, accessible only through a password-secured terminal in Building A, makes the facility a communications dead zone. Its Management Access System intercepts all cellular communications, and various other countermeasures prevent radio and other communications. The only way to communicate to or from the facility is through this mainframe.

In addition to Tamara, the only facility staff on site are three technicians and four Marine guards. The guards are regular Marines, not monster fighters, and are armed with standard NATO ammunition.

The full facility staff are scheduled to arrive at 8:00 the next morning. The site should be fully operational by noon, and teams will arrive between 1:00 and 2:00 in the afternoon to pick up and transport the protectees.

"You know about the bunker access points?" Tamara asks as we stand outside Building C.

"Entrance is the stairway down from Building B. Through the metal door, then right, down and around the hall to the vault. Alternative exit through the secret doorway at the end of the service hall," I answer, giving her the details that were relayed to us.

"Yes," Tamara confirms. "Service hallway on the right. I'm guessing you have the code for the bunker. They didn't give it to me."

"We have it," I confirm. "Just in case you're captured and tortured while we're in the bunker, they don't give you the code so you can't give it to anyone else."

"Great," Tamara says, heading into Building C to do her part with the protectees.

Welcome to the war, Tamara. Welcome to the war.

We follow Tamara inside.

The meeting space where the protectees sit is a fairly generic meeting room. Fourteen tables are arranged facing the west wall, each with four chairs along one side, and there's a presentation space located in the center of the room along the west wall.

Before Tamara begins, I set the knee-high, nondescript, black plastic case I carried in along the wall behind the presentation area. Tamara gives me a quizzical look.

"Karaoke machine," I explain. "We need something to pass the time for the next eighteen hours."

Tamara looks unconvinced, but I just nod and motion for her to begin.

According to the Handbook, it's Tamara's job to give the protectees the general spiel.

You're in danger. We're a federal agency assigned to your protection. Don't worry, because you're in good hands.

It's the same thing they were told when they were picked up and placed in protective custody. But it's good to reinforce it before we hit them with the really hard stuff.

Monsters exist. They're after you. We're moving you to a bunker.

Administration asks that we not wear full tactical gear when we do these introductions. Most of our gear is still outside in the SUV parked in front of Building B, so Jack and I are in casual body armor with sidearms.

Our casual armor is a layered hybrid system put together by the guys in R&D: ultra-cut-resistant next-gen fabric over a para-aramid puncture barrier, then some type of energy-absorbing, non-Newtonian liquid armor, and a base layer for comfort and thermoregulation. You can wear the whole thing under normal clothes with almost zero profile. Plus, the way they tailor the compression makes my tits look amazing.

The guys in R&D may have read too many Wonder Woman comics growing up, but I can give credit where it's due--the nerds know what they're doing. I briefly considered asking if they could design a lower-body piece that makes my ass look this amazing, but then I remembered that problem has already been solved by the good people at Gymshark.

There's no concealing my primary weapon, though. My custom-smithed.45 is an absolute brick of a handgun, and between the pistol and six extra ten-round magazines, I'm a 5'6" woman carrying almost seven pounds of localized metal. I just wear it openly on my hip. A lot of us carry 9mm because there are more concealable options. I stick with the.45 because, if I were at the other end of one, I'd much rather be shot with a 9 than a.45. Jack carries a.45 from the same custom platform, too, which means we can share magazines in a pinch.

My magazine management system is where any hope of looking stylishly feminine truly falls apart. Three backups of standard copper-jacketed lead for regular scumbags; three of solid silver for the hairier variety. Six magazines, each more than five inches long, completely screw up the drape of every jacket I own. So, I'm a black polo, jeans, and here's my big old gun kind of girl on days like these.

R&D color-codes the base pads of the silver mags bright blue. I tried to explain that I know where I keep each magazine and can tell silver from lead by weight. They just mumbled something about "an ergonomic visual indicator for high-stress inventory management." They took time away from powering through Cheetos, Red Bull, and games of Call of Duty to put it together--bless their little virgin hearts--so I guess I should be grateful.

Besides, even if the black hair, black shirt, and bright-blue magazine bases make me look like some emo chick carrying fancy vape cartridges on a tactical girdle, when a six-hundred-pound apex predator is barreling towards you, you really don't want to accidentally grab the wrong magazine. That's how you end up as a case study in the next quarterly safety memo.

Mental note: If I can get someone to sketch some type of pseudo-tattoo of a winged creature on my sternum, I think I can pull off the goth-chick look as an easy Halloween costume. But am I more of a death's-head hawkmoth or just a plain-old-bat type of girl?

I'll have to ask Jack later.

As I survey the protectees, Tamara introduces them to the situation they are in, taking them right up to the edge of "monsters are after you" without saying it directly, and I start to connect people to files in my mind.

I begin with the unicorns.

The one closest to me lounges in his chair in a tailored black suit and white button-down shirt that is open at the neck. His file says that he is a young, self-made billionaire who's into the kinky stuff. Even though he runs a massive global empire, he is also somehow constantly available for any romantic or sexual encounter that pops up. Imagine if you took the best parts of Pierce Brosnan and Ryan Gosling when they were in their primes. That's this guy. At least he's something more than Christian Grey with the serial numbers filed off, I guess.

Is it Christian Grey? Or just Mr. Grey? Edward maybe? Heck if I know. I've never read those books, but I feel like I know the story from somewhere else.

On one end of the table on the front row is a single dad. Late 30s, devoted father, financially secure, ruggedly attractive, and a widower. Check, check, check, check, and check. He's even a volunteer firefighter.

At the other end of that table is a guy in a cowboy hat. In his late 20s, he still works his ranch--his thousand-acre ranch--despite the fact that he could easily take up a career as a runway model. I'm pretty sure actual cowboys work like sixty hours per week, but he nonetheless has just as much free time on his hands as the billionaire.

The guys in Transportation told me that, on the ride here, the Cowboy was absurdly polite. But they had to insist that he put his shirt back on at least four times.

Across the room, but front-row-adjacent, is our moody bad boy. In his mid-20s, he owns his own motorcycle repair shop and has a criminal record, questionable past, and reputation for violence. Not only could he win a James Dean costume contest, he's just as likely to help a stranger change a flat or feed a stray dog as he is to start a bar fight or throw a liquor bottle through a window. He's pulled his chair away from the table, placing it randomly in the aisle.

Even though they are the farthest across the room, my eyes wander to three men arrayed around one woman like satellites around a shared center. The woman is an overworked everygirl with messy curls and a sharp tongue. Reading their files, I learned several new words--quad, polycule, and reverse harem. Turns out, they're all three.

There's the calm, calculating brain of the group with his neatly styled brown hair, crisp clothing, and elegant hands; the massive biker, a tortured soul with black hair and hands large enough to span their female center's waist; and their leader, a wealthy business manager with broad shoulders, a commanding jawline, and intense, piercing eyes. Other than the fact that all three are well over six feet tall and stunningly good-looking, it would be difficult to find a more diverse group of men in one place. Yet according to their files, aside from some playful bickering, they're perfectly happy sharing the same woman.

Looking to the second row, seated all together at one table, I find four guys who are not just unicorns, but college hockey players.

Hockey players. Don't get me started.

Behind the hockey players sit the Plain Janes, or at least the Plain Jane adjacents.

You'll have to excuse me as I try to do this next part. My Generic Jane impression is awful. I've been working on it, but really, it's terrible. But these girls, they're all so... clears throat for impression... "I wouldn't say I'm beautiful; I've really always thought of myself as just pretty" and girl-next-door precious that seeing them together as a group makes me want to throw up in my mouth just a little bit.

I'm going to call them the Janes. PJs would be quicker, but it turns out that acronym already describes a group, and one that really knows what they're doing, so that won't work. Calling them "the Plains" probably fits better, but it also seems a little mean, even for me.

Tamara is spot on in her presentation. The Handbook instructs the person in her role to take them right up to the suggestion that monsters exist, without going over the edge. According to the people in Psychology, this prepares them to be more receptive when we spill the news.

Finishing up, Tamara turns to me.

"I'm officially handing the protectees over to you," she says flatly.

"We have the protectees," I confirm.

Tamara excuses herself to make sure the facility is moving towards operational status, but I grab her arm before she goes.

"Get the Marines to their stations as soon as humanly possible," I tell her.

Tamara bites the edge of her lip. "According to Intelligence, the unicorn killer," she says, the last two words a whisper, "is at least three days behind you."

"Mm-hmm," I say. According to Intelligence. Could be three days. Could be they're right outside. "As soon as humanly possible, if not quicker," I say again.

I turn towards the protectees as Tamara leaves. Jack stands behind me and to my right, his 6'2" frame resting on the west wall.

"Good evening," I begin. "I know that you have heard several apologies for the inconvenience at this point, but I am the person who can finally give you more details as to why you are in danger and why we are here."

A couple of people lean forward, but mostly it's a tough crowd. That's understandable. We did snatch them out of their homes, offices, and classes to bring them to Middle of Nowhere, Texas, with little explanation and less permission.

"My name is Master Sergeant," I say, introducing myself.

"Like Halo?" one of the hockey players asks.

I just roll my eyes and continue.

"This is Sergeant," I say, introducing Jack. In our line of work, names aren't helpful.

"Information next, but safety first," I continue. "Just like an airplane, we have to know how to get out of the building if something goes wrong." Motioning to the room's two doors, I say, "As you can see, this room has two exterior doors. This door on the east wall. And this door on the south wall."

Most heads look around and nod, but everyone still mostly looks some mixture of annoyed and scared.

"If I or Sergeant yell, 'Out the east door,' you will go out the east door, waiting right outside until we lead you somewhere else."

There is a mix of nods and blank stares around the room.

"So, Rebel Yell," I say, turning to the James Dean lookalike, "what do you think you should do if we yell, 'Out the south door'?"

Rebel Yell sits there for a moment looking a little confused and a little put out that I would dare to address him.

"Go out the south door," Rebel Yell finally says.

"Go out the south door and?" I ask.

"Go out the south door and wait until you lead us somewhere else," he finishes.

"Great," I say. "This is going to be easy."

"Now the hard truth," I say, lowering my voice. "Now the reason you are all here."

This time everyone leans forward. Here we go.

"Monsters are real," I say, letting my words land.

You never know exactly how news like that is going to hit, but there are trends. People older than me usually start at, "Okay, crazy lady. Whatever." People my age tend to fall somewhere between cautious disbelief and "Wait a minute... really?"

Most of this group, though, started high school around the same time the world gave them murder hornets and the drama of a global pandemic, so I guess their threshold for well, sure, why not? is a little higher. If we hadn't taken their cell phones--an ordeal I'm surprised they survived--they probably would have rolled their eyes at the revelation that monsters are real, acted like I'd just told them something they already knew, and scrolled to the next clip.

"And by monsters, I don't mean your dad who was mean to you," I say, looking at the guys, "or your mom who just didn't get you," I add, looking at some of the Janes, "and I know some of you have experiences with things actually more monstrous," I say, looking at other Janes.

As I pause, the harem lady looks like she's ticked off that we pulled her out of her ninth foursome of the week, the Billionaire looks bored, and Rebel Yell looks like he's still pondering how to rebel against whatever I've got for him, but the rest seem to be with me.

"I mean monsters. Werewolves, goblins, ghouls, zombies."

"Vampires?" a dreamy-looking Jane asks. I'm going to call her Dreamy Jane, because I am not pretending to take the time learning all these people's names.

"No," I say, perhaps a little too impatiently. "Don't be silly."

"Jack," I say, turning and whispering to my partner, "I'm going to need you to figure out some type of T-shirt and number system. We don't have time for names."

The look on Jack's face says it all. He's wondering how he could possibly print up T-shirts in the middle of nowhere.

"You've made it this far in ultra-black ops," I say, before he can speak. "You're just going to have to figure it out."

"So what?" Rebel Yell says, leaning back in his chair. "Monsters are real. Why should we care?"

"You should care," I begin, trying not to chuckle when Rebel Yell leans too far back in his chair and barely stops himself from toppling over, "because there are certain monsters who hunt unicorns and all of you are in danger from one of these monsters."

"You mean unicorns are real?" Dreamy Jane says, her eyes going impossibly wide.

"And we get to save them?" Bookish Jane says in an airy voice.

It's always the bookish, nerdy ones who say the stupidest things.

"No," I continue. "You're not here to save the unicorns." Then, gesturing around to the guys in the room, I say, "You are the unicorns."

"Hold on," Hockey Player One says. "How are we unicorns?"

"Yeah," Hockey Player Three says. "I might be hung like a horse, but I ain't got wings."

So many things.

I bury my head in my hand momentarily as Hockey Players Two, Three, and Four all high-five one another. When I look up, Hockey Player One is giving them a disappointed look. He's still a hockey player, but I guess he gets to be my favorite of them.

Ignoring the joke that confuses unicorns and Pegasi, I pick up Hockey Player One's file from the presentation table and flip it open. "You're a college hockey player. An elite Division I athlete."

Hockey Player One nods.

"That, of course, means you're talented, lean, strong, muscular, generally masculine."

He nods again.

"Well done with that. But it says here that you also look like a bodybuilder as well as a fitness model and an underwear model, you have sub-eight-percent body fat and maintain peak strength year-round, you're 6'2" or taller, and you have... ahem... equipment that puts you in the top five percent of the male bell curve."

"Yeah," Hockey Player One says. "So what?"

"Having some of those traits... perfectly plausible. Start stacking them all together on the same twenty-year-old and you start to strain reality. It becomes difficult to suspend disbelief."

Hockey Player One just looks at me. At least he seems to be trying to take it in.

"People like that do exist," I say, explaining something that no one should need explained, "but they are so freaking rare that we refer to them... as unicorns."

He leans in. I think he's starting to track with me. And he's kind of cute when the wheels in his head turn.

Stop it! I yell at myself. Hockey player!

"Henrik Lundqvist exists," I continue, getting what I am sure was a brief slip of the hormones under control. "But there's only one Henrik Lundqvist."

That's right. I know the name of one hockey player. And no, I don't want to talk about it.

"But there are four of us," Hockey Player One says. "We all live together. And we have more than a dozen teammates who look just like us."

"You're what they call a unicorn cluster. You belong more exclusively to the realm of fantasy than the werewolves."

"So..." Bookish Jane says, in the exact same airy voice as before. "We're the unicorns."

"No," I correct. "You're what you'd call unicorn bait."

"How are we bait?" Hyper-ambitious Jane says, a trace of disgust in her voice.

Though she is clearly the most traditionally beautiful of the Janes, from her file I know Hyper-ambitious Jane is the type of woman who casually dismisses anyone who isn't useful to her, sees every other woman as competition, dates only when it serves her, and withholds critical information whenever basic honesty might interfere with her plans. She's not openly cruel so much as efficiently inconsiderate. I really want to call her something that starts with a "B" and rhymes with "witchy," but then I'd have to drop a dollar into Jack's swear jar every time I referred to her.

This is taking too long. I need to use an example with these people.

"Hockey dudes," I call out.

They all raise their heads--cold and sultry, somehow boyish and aggressively masculine at the same time, rage behind their eyes but the tender kind, completely clean-shaven with just the right amount of stubble. You can just tell that they are all grappling with one single issue that they probably should have moved past sometime around the summer after high school.

"Hockey dudes," I repeat, just to make sure everyone still knows who I'm talking to. "I bet all of you have spent college with insanely beautiful girls falling all over you. Every meaningless hookup you could want dropping effortlessly into your lap."

They all nod. Of course they have.

"But I also bet that each of you could at the drop of a hat... for no reason anyone could begin to explain... fall head over heels for one of these Janes, never willing or able to sleep with another girl again?"

Turning to the Janes, all four hockey players' eyes take on a tranquil, distant glossiness as they all nod again.

Hockey Player Two points longingly at Dreamy Jane, saying, "I think she might be my soulmate," and the way she swoons when he says it makes me actually throw up in my mouth. Luckily, it's just a little bit.

Bookish Jane raises her hand. Really, people. How did we get to a place where we're raising hands? I nod to her so this part can continue.

"That doesn't make any sense," Bookish Jane objects. "Why would you need bait? You're not trying to catch unicorns, are you?"

Da... Darn with this voiced reasoning and reflection. I'm trying to do something here.

"Look," I say, trying not to lose my patience, "they don't tell me everything, but my mission notes make it clear that you two groups have to be kept together, even if it doesn't make sense to anyone who stops to think about it."

I lean into Jack and whisper, "If we get pulled into doing this again, make a note to bring ball gags and restraints."

The Billionaire's eyes light up as he somehow overhears this.

Fu... Sorry. Almost swore again there. Fudge. I definitely thought fudge.

Fudge, I think. This guy's like a little kid. Earlier, I yelled his name in the parking lot like four times, and he just stood there all mysterious and aloof. But I whisper ball gags once...

"Not for you, Kinky Smurf," I say.

Really, dude. Get another dimension. It can't all and only be about ball gags and bondage.

I love working with Jack. He keeps all our notes without ever voicing a single complaint.

"Now," I say, trying not to let my frustration slip into my voice, "are there any more questions, or can I continue?"

Chapter 4

No hands go up.

Instead, time seems to temporarily grind to a halt as a section near the east corner of the north wall blooms inward like a blister, then flashes and erupts into the room. The air punches hard against my body, sending me a step back and momentarily erasing sound.

Tables jump. Chairs skid. Bodies near the wall are thrown aside as pulverized concrete and high-speed fragments rip through the room.

For half a second there is no noise except the buzzing whine inside my skull.

Then the screaming arrives as concrete dust sweeps into the room radiating from the breach.

There's no time to stop and think in moments like this. That's why we train until thought and action become reflex.

Jack is a second faster than me. When he brings this up, I'll insist it's because he was a few feet farther from the explosion. Otherwise, there will be no living with him.

As I draw my weapon, Jack fires seven rounds into the head of the first werewolf through the hole.

Werewolves. Of course it's werewolves. They're the cheap mercenary labor of the supernatural world. If you need four werewolves to get up to some entry-level mayhem, but you only have a fifty in your wallet, they're going to owe you some change.

I don't know how we ended up in an economy where it costs more to buy dinner for a family of four than to hire four werewolves, but here we are.

Even with lead, you can kill a werewolf if you put enough holes in it.

With a.45, one solid silver round through either the head or the heart is a werewolf kill shot in most instances. But Jack's seven headshots with lead take this one down.

"South door," I shout. "Out the south door."

No one moves purposefully in that direction. Everyone is stunned.

Leveling my pistol, I fire six rounds divided between the two knees of the next werewolf, and he stumbles and collapses, creating an obstacle just beyond the mouth of the choke point.

I use the slowdown to swap out my magazine for silver, shouting, "Reloading," as Jack puts his last four lead rounds into the head of the next werewolf through the hole. Stumbling to the side, this werewolf can't seem to decide whether or not to die. I make the decision for him, putting the lead round still in my chamber and then a silver round into his head.

Hockey Player One appears at my side. "What do I do?" he shouts.

"Get them out of here," I shout back between shots. The werewolves are starting to pour into the room now, even with Jack and me dropping them as they come through. "South door."

Hockey Player One scoops up two of the Janes and bolts for the door. Hockey Player Two follows his lead, herding three more Janes that direction.

Rebel Yell is wide-eyed as he sprints past me.

"Go! Go!" I shout, firing and dropping a werewolf that had locked on to intercept him.

As I select targets, my mind registers those we can no longer save.

There was never any chance for Harem Jane and her crew. They were too close to the explosion.

To my horror, the Cowboy and Hockey Players Three and Four square off against the approaching swarm of werewolves. They're not going to beat werewolves hand-to-hand and they have positioned themselves in such a way that I'm not going to be able to shoot past them to protect them.

A werewolf charges towards the Cowboy first. The Cowboy goes into an impressive boxing stance, but the werewolf rakes one clawed hand and then the other across the Cowboy's chest and his heart pumps out a spray of blood as he goes down and the werewolf pounces on him for the feast.

Hockey Players Three and Four at least pick up chairs, but this isn't professional wrestling. Three swings his chair at a werewolf and misses, the werewolf sinking its jaws into his neck. Four makes contact with his chair, but the end result is the same. His werewolf makes a claw slash across his face and latches on to his shoulder with its fangs.

There's nothing that can be done for the dead.

Nurse Jane stands in the middle of an aisle just staring into space. The explosion appears to have partially severed her arm near the elbow. Hyper-ambitious Jane grabs her by the other arm and pulls her towards the south door.

Well done, Hyper-ambitious Jane! Now I'm glad I didn't name you the other thing.

Nurse Jane is still completely out of it, and they aren't moving anywhere near quickly enough. Three werewolves are charging towards them. I land two headshots, but there is a sickening pop when the jaws of the third close around Nurse Jane's head, pulling her arm away from Hyper-ambitious Jane.

Now Hyper-ambitious Jane stands stunned for a moment as two more werewolves charge at her. I take the first one down cleanly, but my shot on the second is questionable. I take the shot only because she's dead if I don't. Hyper-ambitious Jane is jerked out of her trance by the unnerving zip of my bullet passing inches in front of her face and striking the werewolf in the head.

"Run," I shout.

She does.

"Reloading," I shout to Jack again. Then, "Get them out of here. I'm right behind you."

Everyone I am still responsible for is behind me, so I start to back towards the south door, landing five more headshots as I do.

I crash through the door and find Jack positioned so that he can cover both the door and the parking lot. The protectees are behind him.

As I slam the door, I twist the handle of the door in a precise pattern, activating one of its special security features. Twenty steel bolts around the perimeter extend into the surrounding frame, locking the reinforced steel door into position.

Pressing myself into the concrete wall next to the door, I mouth to Jack, "Fire in the hole."

Now, I have a confession to make, and I hope you won't judge me for a little white lie.

That case I carried into the room earlier--it wasn't a karaoke machine.

R&D calls it the Crunch Time Room Sorter, or CTRS for short. It's a remotely initiated incendiary-demolition package designed for the emergency destruction of sensitive materials inside hardened file rooms, server rooms, and other reinforced spaces. I'm not exactly sure how it works--it's some type of nerd nonsense--but essentially, it turns the contents of a room into a giant fireball. Since I don't suffer from functional fixedness, I find it useful for disposing of not just classified information, but also werewolves and other baddies.

I press the remote detonator and there is a flash along the edges of the door, followed by a rushing sound from behind the door. The windows along the front of the building shatter, spraying a flash of glass and light into the parking lot. Otherwise, the building holds together.

That at least reduces our problems, but we're not out of the woods yet.

Chapter 5

"Crossing," I tell Jack to let him know I'm passing through his field of fire.

I take up position a few feet back from the corner of the building and lean right to see into the parking lot.

The sun has fully set, but the parking lot is dimly lit by the facility's exterior lighting.

More than a dozen werewolves line the strip of land between the parking lot and the road, blocking that exit. They're just milling about, likely trying to determine their next move since I incinerated their friends.

The CTRS blew out not only the windows along the front of the building, but also all the windows of our SUV. The tires on the driver's side of the SUV are also a little meltier than they were when we got out.

I hope that's a company vehicle and not a rental, because we will not be getting our deposit back.

"SUV," I say, turning to speak to Jack. "I'll cover you. Just grab the first two long guns you can. We'll move to Building B together."

As Jack rushes towards the back of the SUV, three werewolves spot him and charge his location. I level my weapon and fire, taking down the first one when it's ten meters from the SUV.

Jack reaches through the shattered rear window, pulls out two long-gun bags, and turns to run back towards me. As he does, the other two werewolves leap towards the SUV. The first one hits the roof with a metallic boom, hard enough to cave the sheet metal inward. When the second lands next to him a heartbeat later, the whole SUV squats on its suspension and the roof buckles another few inches.

My heart pounds as they both crouch to leap towards Jack, but I fire two more shots, and we have two more dead werewolves.

Jack loops the straps of the two long-gun bags across his shoulder as he runs. He has his HK416 rifle and my Benelli M4 shotgun.

The werewolves along the street are taking more of an interest in our movement, so there's no time to sort the long guns now. We have to get everyone into the building and into the bunker.

"Run," I shout, pointing and moving towards the two vans parked in front of Building B.

Everyone does, and when we are positioned behind the vans, I peek around to see that some of the werewolves have moved into the parking lot but are holding their position for now.

There's sporadic gunfire coming from near Building A. The Marines have no chance against werewolves, but at least they're putting up a fight.

"Careful," I whisper to Jack. "It feels like they're funneling us this direction."

Jack just nods. Even if this is a trap, the bunker is our only chance, and this is the only way we can go.

"Take point," I tell Jack.

As he stacks up on the door of Building B, I tell everyone else, "Ten feet behind one of us at all times. Don't fall behind. Don't get in our way. We're going to the bunker. The bunker is where you are safe."

Everyone's eyes are impossibly wide, but their heads nod, confirming that they understand.

Stacking up on the opposite side of the doorway from Jack, I place my hand on the doorknob.

Jack nods. I open the door. Jack is through first, moving to the left. I'm just behind him, moving to the right.

A long open space runs along most of Building B--half wide hallway, half gathering area outside the cafeteria.

The report of Jack's pistol lets me know that he has immediately engaged multiple targets.

Fifteen meters down my side, there's movement in a short hallway to my left. I fire, dropping a werewolf as I move in that direction, then slice into the room and drop a second werewolf that crouches to my right.

"Reloading," I shout, as I pull my last magazine of silver. Before the magazine lands home, the drywall to my left explodes as a werewolf pounces through the wall, landing partially on top of me and dropping me to the floor. My pistol is still unloaded in my hand, but the magazine is knocked free and skids across the room somewhere behind me.

When a werewolf is on top of you, you don't have seconds. You act instantly or you're dead.

The werewolf's jaws lock down on my shoulder and I hear myself screaming. My body armor takes the brunt of it and the teeth don't pierce my skin. I'm going to have a wicked nasty contusion, but my arm is intact and usable.

Clutching my pistol in my right hand, I already have my knife in my left.

As fancy as a silver dagger sounds, my knife isn't actually silver. Pure silver wouldn't hold an edge or stand up to impact. It would make for a lousy blade. Most of my blade is steel, but it has silver inlays at key points. Steel survives abuse. Silver is nasty for werewolves.

Stabbing repeatedly into the werewolf's side and arm, I struggle to free myself from its grapple. There's motion behind me. It's not Jack and not another werewolf, so it's a problem for later.

After I drive my knife into the werewolf again and again and again, it finally rolls off to my left, and I roll to the right, popping up to my feet.

The werewolf stands between me and the main hallway, clutching its side and glaring at me with eyes full of fury. I have my pistol, but no silver. I have my knife, but I'm not beating this thing hand-to-hand. Even if I reloaded with lead, this thing would tear my throat out before I could land enough rounds to make a difference.

I guess this is how I die. Hopefully I can land enough knife blows to at least take this thing with me.

Something taps against my left hand as Hockey Player One yells, "Bullets."

Looking down, I see my magazine in his hand just next to mine. I drop my knife, take the magazine, and slap it home as the werewolf takes its hand from its side and rears back to pounce. It's just moving when my shots land. Two to the head. One to the chest. Werewolf down.

Turning, I see Hockey Player One standing behind me.

I never got the hockey player bit. Why hockey players? It seems like an overly specific pick. But standing before him now... him in all his unicorniness... okay, now I get it a little bit.

Stop it! No time for that now!

"Thanks, H," I say, squatting down to pick up and re-sheathe my knife.

He smiles. "You called me H," he says, his eyes brightening.

"Yeah," I say. "It's quicker than Hockey Player One."

"My friends call me H," H says.

I smile back. "That must be nice for you." Now I'm done smiling. "Let's move. Right on me."

Chapter 6

Back in the main hallway, I see Jack moving our way.

"Last mag," I mouth to him. He holds up his pistol and nods. Last silver mag for him too.

We stack up on the double doors to the cafeteria, the protectees lining the wall to either side of us.

Out a front window, I see werewolves in the parking lot, moving our way.

No time to stop.

"Move quickly," I tell Jack. "Only engage immediate danger. We don't have ammo for a fight. We're running for the bunker."

Jack nods, holding his pistol ready at his chest.

"What should I do?" H asks behind me.

"Well," I say slowly as my mouth turns up in a grin. "Apparently I'm the guy in this part, so run fast and try not to squeal uselessly like the girl."

"Just asking," H says under his breath.

"Listen up," I say quietly to everyone. "Sergeant leads the way. We're through the doors, then immediately left. Across the room you'll run into another door. Through the door, down the stairs, and follow the hallway around to the right and it will take you to the bunker. Left, door, stairs, right. Everyone behind Sergeant. Everything as fast as possible."

Jack takes the left door, I take the right. I nod, and we're through the doorway, Jack a half-step in front of me sweeping to the left as I enter and sweep to the right.

There are werewolves at the far end of the room, but they're not moving yet. We don't need to take the room, we just need to cross twenty meters to the doorway, so I don't engage.

Snapping to the right, there are three werewolves near the corner. Can't have them right behind us. Three shots. Three down.

I swing back to the left. Jack is already at the door leading everyone down the stairs. Everyone except H, who is right on my hip.

"Run," I say, in a muffled shout.

H turns and runs for the door, and I look to the right, confirming that the werewolves are keeping their distance as I follow.

They are, but I freeze. Immediate danger.

Moving behind the line of werewolves is another figure. Tall. Slender arms. Dead grey skin. Black blotches like smears decorating its skin.

It's an inkblot hag.

Most hags have claws, but their real danger is mental. Inkblot hags have two ranged attacks.

The first, and nastiest, can dump false memories into your head. It lasts maybe a second in real time, but in the mind, it feels like hours, days, sometimes years.

A team in Brazil got hit by one a couple of years ago. Four operators went in. The hag made them believe they finished the mission, went home, paired off, married, had children, and lived next door to each other for almost seven years.

Imagine living seven years of near bliss, then snapping back into a combat situation and realizing none of it ever happened.

Three died before the fourth pulled it together and fought.

He survived, but he's not doing well. He lives in a secluded house with constant supervision and no sharp objects.

The second attack is less existentially horrifying but just as tactically useful. It swaps the vision of two nearby people. To say the least, it is incredibly disorienting.

The hag is a problem that needs to be dealt with before I cross the room.

The werewolves form a living shield of bodies around the hag. I bring my pistol up to head level and fire into the mass in front of the hag. Both shots land, dropping two werewolves.

I step forward and the hag's eyes lock on mine.

Dog turds! My day is about to get a lot worse.

H is nearly at the door when the hag swaps our senses. I hold my feet, but the room spins about as H topples forward and lands flat on the floor.

I close my eyes, but I can still see from his perspective as his eyes dart around wildly.

While I still have some sense of where the hag is, I fire twice without a usable sight picture and feel the slide of my weapon lock back.

The yelps of two werewolves let me know that my shots were not fatal. And now I'm out of silver.

I can kill a hag with lead, though. And I don't need to see to reload. But I do need to see to hit it.

"Look towards the front of the room," I shout to H, who remains sprawled on the floor. The lead magazine locks into place and I release the slide.

Jack and I are trained to automatically look towards the threat in this situation. H doesn't have this training, but he does well enough.

H turns his gaze towards the front of the room, giving me perspective on the hag and its werewolf detail.

I fire twice, wide right, striking one of the werewolves. But now I can adjust.

The mob of monsters is moving towards the door on the far side of the room. I fire again, this time striking the hag in the shoulder. It shrieks as the werewolves close around it and rush it through the door.

I fire three more shots, but with no effect.

Turning left, I start towards H and slam my leg just below the knee into a chair. I stumble but keep my feet. That's going to be another nasty bruise.

"Where are you?" I shout, as I near his position. "Call out."

"Here," H shouts.

I reach down and pull him to his feet. This is why I don't skip leg days.

"Arm around me," I tell him, wrapping mine around his waist. "Eyes on the floor four feet in front of us. Move together."

H wraps his arm around my shoulder and we start to move together towards the door to the stairs.

Through the door and at the stairs, I reholster my weapon.

"Grab the rail," I tell H, grabbing the rail on my side as we start down the stairs.

The hag retreated, but the werewolves it took with it are going to realize pretty quickly that my last rounds weren't silver. And they are a lot faster than us.

We're at the bottom of the stairs, through the steel door, and I use its doorknob trick to seal it with steel bolts. We turn right, the nausea of the sense swap finally overwhelming the adrenaline in my system, and I feel like retching as we move down the hallway.

Halfway down the hall, there is a deafening thud as the bodies of two werewolves slam into the steel door behind us.

It will hold. I don't know for how long, though.

The pounding against the door continues without pause as the hallway turns to the right.

We almost topple over making the turn. I hear H gag, the nausea hitting him also.

"Not much farther," I say, attempting to reassure both of us.

We stumble forward at a painfully slow pace.

Finally, we turn the last corner to the vault hallway and I see Jack, his rifle out, covering our approach.

"Sentry guns when we're inside," I call out to Jack as I try to drag H more quickly towards the vault.

I hear the steel door in the first stretch of hallway give way as H and I collapse through the vault door.

Jack steps through behind us, hitting the switch for the sentry guns and the panic button that closes the vault door.

The facility has six sentry guns: four covering the parking lot above ground, one covering the first stretch of subterranean hallway, and one covering the immediate approach to the vault.

There is an earsplitting buzz as the sentry gun in the first stretch of hallway roars to life, dealing with the werewolves that were following us. The noise cuts off as the vault door locks shut.

We're inside the bunker. The vault door is closed.

Safe.

Chapter 7

Jack starts to help me up from the floor, but I wave him off.

"Check the others," I instruct, "then communications, then the armory. I'm going to crawl to a couch... and maybe throw up."

As Jack heads off to check the survivors, my hand comes to rest on H's shoulder.

"Eyes closed," I tell him. "Crawl with me. We're going to find a couch."

H groans but he does what I ask. The nausea is somewhat reduced when we both close our eyes, and I know the bunker layout well enough to find a couch in the common room by feel.

We must look ridiculous crawling across the floor, but we finally make it to the common area, and I crawl up on the couch just through its door.

"Up here," I tell H, as I pat the couch next to me. "Next to me. Close."

"Close, huh?" H says, climbing up onto the couch next to me. I don't just hear the attraction in his voice. Somehow, I feel it.

"Hands to yourself and don't get any ideas," I tell him with a chuckle. "The sensations of sight are less jarring when we are close together. Keep your eyes closed as much as possible anyway."

H settles in, right next to me, close enough that I can feel the rise and fall of his breathing.

"What was that?" H asks. "What happened to us?"

I explain inkblot hags as best I can and reassure him, "The worst of this should pass within about thirty minutes. We should be recovered completely in four or five hours." That's what the Handbook says, anyway. This is my first time too.

"What do we do now?" H asks.

"Keep your eyes closed. Relax. Think of your happy place," I tell him, shifting back into a more relaxed position myself.

On the couch and out of danger, my body starts reporting in, and exhaustion and soreness hit me like a wave.

My happy place is the fifty-yard line, thirty rows up, watching the Dallas Cowboys. But, as I try to focus there, I instead find myself ice skating on a frozen pond. I haven't ice skated since middle school, and never on a frozen pond.

"H. Is your happy place a frozen pond by any chance?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says. "That in my file too?"

"No," I say. "I see myself ice skating there. Must be a side effect of the hag thing."

"Well, don't mess anything up there," H says with a chuckle.

I slap him on the knee.

"Hands to yourself, Master Sergeant," H says.

"Shut up, H," I tell him, enjoying the ability to effortlessly skate across a frozen pond.

Jack finishes his tasks and reports back about thirty minutes later. My vision is my own again, but I still feel woozy and unfocused.

Counting in my head, I know that H, Hockey Player Two, the Billionaire, the Single Dad, and Rebel Yell are the unicorns that made it to the bunker. That's five left out of eleven. We also have seven Janes: Dreamy, Bookish, Hyper-ambitious, Virgin, Sunshine, Broken-Heart, and Awkward--who somehow made it to the bunker even though she tripped over her own feet at least five times that I saw.

Jack confirms my count and lets me know that there are no serious injuries.

Next, the status of the bunker. Communications are down.

If communications are down in the bunker, it means the hag accessed the mainframe. No communication will be possible from the facility until someone restores access. And we don't have the mainframe's passcode.

We have plenty of food and supplies, but the pickings in the armory are sparse. The only silver ammunition in the armory is forty rounds of.45. There is, however, a Milkor MGL grenade launcher with six high-explosive 40mm rounds. That's a nice surprise.

Jack has ninety rounds of silver for his assault rifle, and I have twenty-one rounds of silver buckshot for my shotgun. There's also plenty of conventional lead.

Altogether, not bad, but not great.

"With communications down," I tell Jack, "we're going to have to go back out there."

Jack just nods. He already knows.

"Why would we go back out there?" H asks, sitting up with a jump.

"You're staying here, safe and sound," I tell him. "We're going to go back out," I finish, motioning between Jack and myself.

"Why?" H asks.

"At eight tomorrow morning, facility staff will show up here. If they are ambushed by a hag plus an unknown number of werewolves, they will be killed," I tell him.

H just stares at me. He doesn't want to accept it, but he doesn't know what to say.

"You're safe here. You're all safe here," I try to reassure him. "No matter what happens, someone will come for you. We have to go save our own people, though."

There's a level of acceptance that comes through as H's eyes meet mine. He's not happy about it, though. I'm not exactly doing cartwheels myself.

"I'm in no condition to fight right now," I tell Jack. "I'm going to crash for about five hours. The Handbook says I should be fine then, and we'll still have plenty of time."

Jack nods.

"You get some sleep too, H," I tell him. "You need it after what just happened."

H's mouth turns up in a mischievous grin. "Am I sleeping next to you? Close?" he says.

I glare at Jack as he tries unsuccessfully to suppress his laughter.

"Nice try, puck bunny," I say. "You're sleeping alone."

Is he cute? Absolutely.

As I look into his eyes, is there a piece of me that would enjoy climbing him like a tree? Sure.

But even if I'm the first girl who's ever turned down the opportunity to share his bed, he's still my protectee... and he's still a hockey player.

"Actually," H begins, "puck bunnies are..."

"Shut up, H," I say, cutting him off. "Jack, I'll take the first room on the right. Put H in the room across from me."

Chapter 8

I collapse into my bunk and try to relax. After fourteen years of service in the military and special ops, I can go to sleep almost instantly, nearly anywhere. I could run a marathon that ends in a fistfight in the middle of a rock concert and then immediately fall asleep on an uncomfortable bench as the band plays on. But I'm struggling to relax now. I guess there's something about hag mind control that just hits differently.

My thoughts drift momentarily towards H. Maybe I am too harsh on hockey players. He was surprisingly competent out there, all things considered. Maybe I'll say something nice before I have to head out and fight again.

As I let my body press into the bed and close my eyes, I am hit with a striking, vividly clear image in my mind. A giant beautiful dick, being held in very masculine hands.

It's my first time seeing the dick and it couldn't be any more breathtaking if you carved it out of marble. But I recognize the hands. They belong to H. That puck perve is jerking off while we still have a mind connection.

My body groans at the thought of getting up and going across the hall, so I try to speak to him mentally. "Cut it out, dude! You're still in my head."

If he can hear me, he doesn't let on. Instead, he starts to stroke his gorgeous cock slowly.

I press deeper into our connection to try to get my message across, but instead, suddenly, it's like a switch is flipped and my body wants something else.

The way I see him changes and the hockey player disappears. All the statistically anomalous, silly-trope malarkey I've been using to reduce him falls away, and all that's left is him. The real him. Curious. Turned on. A little unsure. A real person that I want to touch and feel touching me.

Even though he's across the hallway in another room, it's like he's physically right there with me in my bed. Even though it's his hand on his shaft, it feels like it's mine. He's rock hard, pulsing, and feels just as incredible as he looks. Even if it were possible to break our connection, I don't know if I could ever want to do so.

As his hand... no, now it's my hand... moves up and down his length, the skin of his cock feels silky smooth, wonderfully hard and veiny. He groans at the sensation, and warmth stirs against my clit. As I build into a rhythm of long slow strokes, I realize it's not just his groan that I felt. Each rise and fall of my hand on him creates a corresponding tug of pleasure all around my clitoris.

Is this part of the connection? Am I feeling what he is feeling?

The sensation is cloudy, but I focus on it. With each stroke against his cock, the pulse low between my legs gets warmer, sharper. Pleasure gathers around my clit like a skilled fingertip is dancing against it, but it's somehow so very different. Rather than a quick movement of millimeters, the pressure feels like a long slow slide along several inches of sensitive flesh that I don't possess. It's like my body recognizes the pleasure of it, but not the shape of it.

Unable to process the sensation, my body begins to translate it. Every stroke downward sends a slow tug down my clit. Every pass up towards the head blooms into a spark that shoots through my core. Inside the same sensation, I can feel both his pleasure and mine. It's similar enough for my body to recognize and respond, but different enough to make my breath catch.

Holy heck! I'm not imagining what it feels like for him to be stroked. I know.

His grey-blue eyes stare into the green of mine--it's like I can see from both his perspective and mine--and a warm, wicked smile fills his face. He's not just jerking off. He's masturbating while he's thinking about me. His thoughts, his hands on his body, his imagination of me--I can see and feel every amazing aspect of it.

But in a flash, he seems to see me for the first time too. He draws back instantly, like he's stumbled into something he's not supposed to be a part of. Until our eyes connected, it was all fantasy for him. He didn't realize I was here.

He starts to pull back from the connection. It's like he starts to close a door between us. Perhaps embarrassed that I saw his thoughts. Perhaps a retreat to privacy. Did he sense my earlier hesitation?

I bring my hand to the door of our connection also, holding it just gently. If he wants to go, I won't stop him. But if he wants to stay, I want him to know he's invited.

"Is that you?" he asks, as our eyes meet again.

I nod.

"Is this a side effect of the mental thing? Am I in your head? Are you in mine?"

"Both, I think," I say with a shrug.

I feel softer here. More feminine. More open. Different, but good.

"Shit. Sorry," he says as he blushes. "I didn't know you'd be able to see that."

"You were thinking of me," I say. A statement. Not a question.

"Yeah," he says, his face now going beet red. "But apparently not privately."

I bring my hand to his arm. "I'm not sure what this is, but it's curious. I wouldn't mind playing around with it... if you want."

His smile is all the answer I need, and the door between us stays open.

Call me a hypocrite if you want, but I'm pretty sure I'm about to mentally do the dirty with a hockey player.

I realize we are both naked and his eyes drop lower as he imagines my breasts. He pictures them incorrectly at first--much pointier with puffy nipples that aren't mine. "Oh, buddy," I say with a laugh inside our heads. "Not even close."

I refocus the image and my breasts round out, my small nipples coming into view as they bud tightly under his imagined gaze.

I take him in also. At first, it's generalized. Broad shoulders. Muscles. A vague impression of ridiculous male perfection. But as he turns his attention towards the image of himself, every line of muscle is revealed to be impossibly chiseled to perfection. His body is miles of flawless masculine flesh. I laugh when I see that his hair is still perfectly styled and in place, even after the werewolf battle. His pleased smile tells me he enjoys seeing every inch of me.

He brings up his hand so that one of my breasts just fills his palm as he draws the nipple of the other into his mouth. Holy moly it feels so good, so freaking real, as shivers run from my breasts through my body.

As I continue to slowly stroke his cock, I bring my fingers to my clit. But it's his fingers touching, then his mouth licking against my bud. Warmth fills my core and I can taste myself as his tongue works its pleasure against me.

"Can you feel that?" I gasp. "Can you feel what I'm feeling too?"

"Yeah," he says with a nod. "It feels a little like the head of my dick, but brighter. More concentrated. Like all the pleasure is packed into one spot."

I smile. I'm glad he gets to experience my enjoyment as I drink in his.

If someone had asked me at any point before now if I was interested in hag-mind-meld mutual-masturbation-psychic sex, it would have been a hard pass for me. Honestly, just on paper, it sounds horrifying--and I've made some questionable recreational decisions in my life. But holy-Holly-with-a-hand-grenade would I have been vastly underestimating the hag-induced freaky-deaky.

I frown for a moment as he pulls his dick out of my hand. But my frown fades when he places the head of it against my entrance.

"Is this okay?" he asks as I feel his size brush against me.

"Yes. More than okay."

As he continues his slow tease around me, a sudden thought cuts through the haze.

Hold on. Is that massive appendage even going to fit inside me?

He presses his colossal head against my threshold, giving my body enough information to confirm that the visual was not exaggerating. Absurdly big or not, this particular cliché apparently comes full-size.

I gasp as I feel him press just the tip of his head inside of me. Even with this tiny motion, the stretch is already huge.

Now--and I'll thank you not to slut-shame me for this--I have enough experience with penises to know that romance novels can be misleading on this particular subject.

I've seen enough dicks to know most of them are average. That's how averages work. I've had average and even smaller guys who knew what they were doing and who were absolutely fantastic. I've also had one truly huge guy who taught me that "more" and "better" are not synonyms.

In too many romance novels, the heroine feels a dick the size of a Louisville Slugger pressed into her extra-small, snug snatch and immediately thinks she's won the sexual lottery. My thought is: where exactly do you expect to put all that? Because most of that isn't fitting in my tight little pussy.

In the real world, cervixes aren't always the enthusiastic punching bags that romance-driven fantasy seems to imagine.

He pulls his tip back and as he pushes just his head back in, the stretch is just as extreme. The feeling is marvelous, but I'm also forced to admit that we could have a real logistical problem here.

Are we playing with Matrix rules? Does what happens to your coochie in the mind happen to your coochie in real life?

But this is where fantasy that feels indistinguishable from reality truly becomes mind-blowing. This isn't real sex. This is psychic hag bull crap. And psychic hag sex apparently has cheat codes that solve the tactical bottleneck issue presented by absurdly giant dicks.

His impossible cock slides all the way inside me, and instead of slow down, not so deep, and ouch, there is only perfect fullness that presses against me in all the right places. So deep, yet so comfortable, filling me completely without stretching past pleasure.

And yes, apparently my pussy now does that romance-novel thing where it somehow fits perfectly around an object that should require zoning approval. With anatomical restraint abandoned and our minds sharing every sensation, I experience both sides of every stroke--the impossible abundance of him moving inside me and his ecstatic pleasure as my tight walls grip around him.

We are lost in each other. Sharing the total fantasy. Sharing every sensation.

My mind starts to play around with the possibilities. If his dick is in my pussy, even though it's across the hallway, there's no reason it can't be in my mouth at the same time. As my lips wrap and tongue swirls around the head of his cock, a sudden tightening rolls through my body, but it isn't mine. For half a second, I brace for an orgasm that never quite arrives--then I realize I'm feeling him trying not to come yet.

Catching himself, he adjusts his rhythm and maintains control.

"Fuck!" he groans in our minds. "That feels so fucking good!"

I've never been able to deepthroat a guy. I've got lots of skills. That's not one of them. Heck, if his girthy dick were actually in my mouth, my jaw would be sore in less than a minute. But I decide to ride make-believe to its limits. I slide his massive member across my tongue and then all the way into my throat. His groan sends waves of pleasure through my body as I feel the power I have to make him feel this good as well as the echo of the pleasure within myself.

Even better, he catches on to the idea.

His cock still maintaining its perfect strokes, his tongue finds my clit. For one dizzy second, I can't tell whether my tongue is circling him or his tongue is circling me. The sensations cross somewhere in the middle until giving and receiving stop being separate things. Warm, sharp tingles radiate from my core, exploding through my body, as I am wracked by my first orgasm. As I feel his cock twitch in my mouth and pussy, I can tell he feels it also.

He slows the rhythm of his thrusts and licks as I ride out the cresting and receding of wave after wave of pleasure. When I open my eyes, I see the same elation reflected in his.

Our gaze joins us. I didn't know he existed two days ago. There's almost no chance I'll see him after tomorrow. But in this moment, we are joined, belonging to one another. In this moment, he is mine.

"Faster," I whisper inside our minds. "Now faster than before."

He increases the speed of his strokes, driving in deep, as he sucks my clit into his mouth. My perspective starts flickering with the rhythm, every line blurring. I see him through my eyes, then myself through his. I feel him filling me and, impossibly, feel myself wrapped around him from the other side. I feel the wet glide of my tongue swirling around the head of his cock before I plunge it into my throat. I feel the flawless pressure of his tongue and the seal of his lips around my clit. Touching and being touched collapse into the same sensation and every nerve in my body is absolutely on fire with bliss. Ripple after ripple after ripple of small orgasms break through me and the growing warmth of my core tells me that they are leading to something massive.

He plunges in deep one last time and holds as he sucks my clit into his mouth again, and everything in me comes apart.

He's not just against and inside my body. It feels like our souls blend.

Our connection overwhelms whatever boundary was left between us, and I completely lose track of which body is mine. Somewhere in the feedback loop, his and mine lose their normal meanings. There are only two joined bodies reporting everything to the same overloaded brain.

My body shudders... no, not just mine. I feel his body shuddering also. His tightening becomes mine and gives way to gratifying pulses that fill both my pussy and throat as his release hits the connection and comes back through me amplified, my orgasm feeding his as his feeds mine. Every beat seems to ricochet between us until I can't tell who started what. The whole thing becomes one impossible blur of heat, pressure, release--a self-reinforcing feast of delight that rushes circularly through us.

And then I hit the point where even I run out of things to say. I could tell you it's overwhelming. Transcendent. Mind-blowing. Pick your favorite ridiculous sex-scene adjective. None of them come close. And it continues for longer than my ability to comprehend time.

Just when I begin to think I can't take any more, we collapse into each other. The physics of it all doesn't make sense, but he lies on his back as my head rests on his broad, smooth chest.

For a long time, we're just there, breathless.

"That was..." H begins. "That was... fuck!"

"Yes, H," I confirm, "that was fuck!"

Shit. Now I owe Jack a dollar for the swear jar. No, make that two.

We're both quiet for a long moment, enjoying the press of our bodies together even though we are in separate rooms.

"Since you might die in the next few hours," H begins softly, "I want you to know my name. I'm..."

"I know your name, Harrison," I say, interrupting him before he can finish. "I know all of your names."

And I do. I've known their names all along. Their backgrounds, hometowns, flaws, what their friends call them. I know which of them have families that will need to be contacted if they don't make it. I know all of it. I'm professionally distant, but I'm good at my job.

"Is there something I can call you other than Master Sergeant?" Harrison asks.

I look up at him, our eyes meeting again. I almost never tell new people my name.

"Jill," I say. "My name is Jill."

"Nice to meet you, Jill," Harrison says with a smile.

My head settles back into him, and I cannot imagine a more comfortable place.

"Is it okay if I stay and hold you while we sleep?" Harrison asks.

"I'd like that," I answer. Yes. That would be perfect.

Given our backgrounds, there is almost no situation where I would go to Harrison to be saved from danger. Plus, we are in an impenetrable steel bunker. But as I lie against him, something in me simply feels safe as we both drift off to sleep.

Chapter 9

Both my wooziness and Harrison are gone when Jack wakes me five hours later.

Harrison and I step out of our rooms and into the hallway at the same time, and our eyes meet.

Jack gives me a questioning glare when he notices my eyes locked with Harrison's.

"Shut up," I tell Jack, before he can comment.

Jack and I discuss our strategy, developing a three-objective plan, as we gather our weapons and ammo, and then head towards the vault door.

Jack has already informed the others of the situation. They know they're safe here. They know we have to go out to protect our people.

"You know how to change the passcode for the vault?" I ask Single Dad.

He nods. "Sergeant told me," Single Dad confirms.

"No one but you can know it," I say emphatically. "Especially not him," I say, pointing to Harrison.

Single Dad nods.

"Is that in case you're caught and tortured?" Harrison asks me, concern in his eyes.

"It's in case the hag just reads my mind," I explain.

At range, hags have two mental attacks. Up close, with physical contact, they can read your mind and erase memories. We can't take the chance that Harrison's mind might still be accessible through mine.

The Billionaire steps forward.

"You can't go out there," the Billionaire says. "I understand why you have to, but you can't. They know you're coming. They're going to be ready."

I give him a soft smile.

"They're ready for what they think is coming," I assure him. "They're not going to be ready for us."

"Be careful," Hyper-ambitious Jane says softly as we move towards the vault door.

I give her a nod. They grow up so fast.

Suddenly, I remember that I was going to tell Harrison something nice before I left. But when I turn and find his eyes on me, I find that I don't have to. Last night said enough.

After checking the camera to make sure the hallways are clear, Jack deactivates the sentry guns and removes the switch. We can take it with us and use it remotely.

"Close the door and change the code as soon as we turn the corner," I tell Single Dad. "Don't open it again for any reason. If someone else has to come get you, they'll have a code."

He nods. I punch in the code, and the vault door swings open.

As Jack and I move down the hallway, I resist the urge to look back one last time.

But, about twenty feet down the hallway, a crippling pain explodes inside my head, and I collapse to the ground. It feels like someone is pulling a fishhook back through my brain.

Jack stops as I crawl back towards the bunker. After a short distance, the pain disappears completely.

When I look up, Harrison is on the ground inside the vault looking up at me.

Frog farts!

"We're still connected," I tell Jack. "This is as far apart as we can be," I say, motioning to Harrison.

Necessitated proximity connection. The Handbook lists it as a rare but possible side effect of hag sensory swap. Apparently, once Harrison and I get more than about thirty feet apart, we get blinding pain. Much farther than that, the Handbook says we die.

Harrison and I stand at the same time and walk towards each other.

"We can't be more than thirty feet apart," I explain. "Sergeant can't do this by himself."

Harrison's eyes are locked on mine. He already knows the question I'm going to ask.

"It's up to you," I tell him. "We can all go back in the bunker, safe and sound. But a lot of people will die if we do."

Harrison nods.

"Or... you can come with us," I say.

Harrison answers immediately. "I'm coming with you."

I look at Jack. Jack nods.

Handing my shotgun over to Harrison, I give him a quick rundown on firearm operations and safety.

"Okay, hockey boy," I say briskly. "Finger stays straight and off the trigger until you actually need to shoot. Muzzle never points at Sergeant or me. You've got silver buckshot loaded. Don't play hero with it--this is for something that gets through us. Shoulder it hard, lean into it, and if you have to use it, keep shooting until the problem stops being a problem."

I have more shells at my waist, but if he ends up needing those, we're all probably already dead.

"Safety?" Harrison asks.

"Safety's here," I say, pointing it out behind the trigger. "It's off. Don't touch it. Your safety is your finger straight along the gun until you're ready to shoot."

Harrison nods.

"Now, sling that over your shoulder," I say, motioning to the shotgun, "and carry this," I say, handing him the grenade launcher. "Don't use this... no matter what."

Harrison nods.

I look him up and down one more time before our eyes meet again. "Quick as a bunny. Quiet as a mouse. And right where we tell you to be."

The three of us head down the tunnel, the vault door sealing shut behind us.

Chapter 10

Moving out into the hallway, we find that the sentry gun mowed down six werewolves that chased after us as we raced towards the bunker.

We move past the steel door that now lies mangled in the hallway and into the service hallway.

They saw us go down the stairs. It's not safe to go back up the same way.

At the end of the service hallway, we find the secret door that opens into a small room with a ladder heading up.

The monitors in the small room are connected to cameras in Building A. Everything in the building is dead. Nothing is moving.

I climb the ladder and unlock the hatch that only opens from our side, continuing up and emerging in a nearly identical room inside Building A.

Once Jack and Harrison have joined me, we check monitors tied to the same cameras, confirm that nothing has started moving, and unlock and open the secret door leading into the main portion of Building A.

Building A is a slaughterhouse.

We find two dead Marines first.

I've seen bodies after explosions, shootings, and things Administration won't even let us talk about. Werewolves are different. There's something especially offensive about seeing a human body opened by teeth.

The Marines never had a chance. Still, even with just conventional ammunition, it looks like they took down two werewolves. Well done, Marines.

Blood coats the tile in broad smears. One body is folded against the wall, its neck torn open. The second is missing an arm that was torn off above the elbow. Not cut off. Torn off.

The bodies of two of the technicians are in the room beyond them. They look less like corpses and more like gore left over from an animal attack conducted by a beast strong enough to pull people apart. Bloody fingerprints streak the tile where one of them tried to hold on.

The metallic smell of blood is so thick I can taste it behind my teeth.

When we find Tamara, I find something that I have never seen before. Her skin is ashen grey. It looks like something simply drained all the life out of her. There are bruises on her temples--indentations that look like handprints.

I look towards Jack and he's reached the same conclusion I have.

Her body is right by the terminal. The hag read her mind, accessed the terminal, and disabled communications through the mainframe.

And the terminal is now smashed.

We have no other option. The only way out is through.

Moving towards the front of the building, we find that all of the windows facing the parking lot have been shattered and the door has been torn off its hinges.

Across the parking lot, the burnt-out remains of Building C seem to be filled with werewolves who stand motionless other than their panting.

At their center, in the open doorway, stands a man, holding a white handkerchief.

In any other context, I would describe this man as unusually hairy. But in the midst of the werewolves, it is clear. This is a werewolf in human form.

We all know that werewolves can assume human form. But I've been doing this job for three years and this is the first time I have ever knowingly seen it.

I don't know this guy's name, so I'm going to call him... Fido... I'm going to call him Fido.

Fido waves his white handkerchief and calls out across the parking lot, "One of you come out first. Too many of us have already learned about the guns on the roof."

Jack raises his eyebrows and I point to myself.

"Okay, boys," I say to both of them. "If I die... avenge my death."

No one laughs.

Playing a hunch, I switch out the silver ammunition in my pistol for conventional lead.

"You know what to do," I say, just to Jack, and I turn and walk to the center of the parking lot.

Looking around the parking lot as Fido approaches, I am pleased to see that the sentry guns tore through more than a half-dozen werewolves last night.

Fido arrives in front of me, waving his white handkerchief the whole way, and boy did I underestimate how hairy this guy is.

"You brought your gun?" Fido asks, giving his handkerchief another shake and motioning to the weapon at my side. "To a meeting under a banner of truce?"

"Only fair," I say. "I bet you've got your claws and teeth in there somewhere."

Fido only stares back at me.

"You know what we want," Fido finally says, ominously. "There's only one way this ends with any of you surviving."

"Large pizza and a ten-pound bag of kibble?" I say with a smirk.

"The unicorns," Fido says, unimpressed.

No one is laughing at my jokes today.

"You are in way over your head," Fido continues when I don't respond. "And you've already lost... what... half of them. Your mission is already a failure. Give us the rest, and your partner may go."

His offer surprises me.

"Who taught you to negotiate, Fido?" I ask.

His lips turn down in a frown at the name.

"Just my partner?" I continue. "You're not going to let me go also?"

Fido smiles... at least I think it's a smile. It looks more like someone who was once told about smiling and is now trying it themselves for the first time.

"You don't get to go, my dear," Fido hisses. "A female Tier One operator. You're one of the unicorns."

The realization hits like a slap.

He's right.

Female Tier One operator. Female Army Sniper, Army Ranger, trained by Delta. That's... that's virtually no one. The word exceptional doesn't quite carry the meaning. That's nearly singular.

That's why Administration insisted the mission go to me.

I'm more of a unicorn than any of them. Well, maybe not more than the cluster of hockey players. That's just a little ridiculous. But more so than all the rest.

But even if he landed the unicorn thing, Fido is batting zero with me.

I'm not in over my head. I don't give up protectees. And I haven't failed any mission.

Rescue, protection, direct action, rendition--these are mission backdrops. My mission is killing monsters.

"No," I say flatly.

Fido's mouth turns up in a broad smile. "I was hoping you would say that."

"Why are we out here, then?" I ask, crossing my arms.

"The hag likes to negotiate," Fido says, motioning towards Building B. "We have been looking forward to tearing you and your partner limb from limb. The werewolves you killed in your little hostage rescue mission. Those were our brothers."

"Same litter?" I ask with a grin.

Fido's still not impressed.

"Your partner left blood behind. Just like a stupid human," Fido says, looking now very impressed with himself. "That's how we found you so quickly."

I shift a step back.

"Since we're keeping score," I begin, "stupid is telling me that werewolves can track people via their blood. That's not information we had before. Stupid is telling me where your boss is," I say, motioning towards Building B.

Now Fido shifts a step back, swallowing hard.

"In human form," I continue, "are you guys easier to kill?" My hand goes to my pistol at my side. "Because I bet you are."

Fido shifts again, his eyes widening.

"Would you kill me here, under a flag of truce? That's not exactly fair, is it?" he says.

I shift back a step again and smile.

"One," I say, "that's a handkerchief, not a flag. Two, I'm not a British Redcoat and this isn't the eighteenth century. And three, people have always told me, 'If the word fair is in your mouth, you're in the wrong business.'"

Fido looks behind him at the building of werewolves. "They will tear you to shreds," he hisses.

"Only if they get to me," I say, flipping the holster's safety strap off my weapon.

Fido staggers back another step. That's all the room I need.

Something changes behind his eyes. His hands start to shake, fingers curling as the bones shift underneath them.

I was already ready to shoot him. That's all the warning I need.

I don't know how long it will take this guy to transform. Sure, I'm curious. But there's no time to find out.

As his irises shift larger, consuming the whites of his eyes, I draw my weapon, placing five rounds into his head and five rounds to his heart.

As his body falls, I turn and run as fast as I can back towards Building A, and a thunderous cacophony of howls and growls erupts from the building behind me.

Jack already has his rifle ready, sending shots that zip danger close to my head, and making contact somewhere behind me. My legs groan, but I must move quickly. I don't have to look back to know. I can feel the werewolves rushing into the parking lot. And they are much faster than me.

But Jack knows what to do.

The moment my feet leave the ground as I dive towards the doorway, Jack lowers his rifle and flips the remote switch to the sentry guns. They roar to life in an earsplitting whine as the four sentry guns shred through a parking lot filling with werewolves.

Those in the back attempt to retreat back to the building, but it's too late for them. Werewolves aren't the only species who can tear creatures apart.

Jack switches the sentry guns off once again when they have finished their work. He hands me his rifle as I climb to my feet.

Even from across the parking lot, it is clear that the remaining werewolves in Building C are seething. Their anger won't last long, though. Jack has collected the Milkor MGL from Harrison. Jack arcs the six-chambered grenade launcher, aiming at Building C, and begins sending its six high-explosive rounds inside the building, along the length of the room.

The telltale smell of smokeless propellant, burnt sulfur, and chemical sweetness fills the air as Jack fires the weapon.

A baker's dozen of werewolves occupy the thin strip of land between the explosions behind them and the field of fire of the sentry guns in front of them.

Handing Harrison Jack's rifle, I trade it for my shotgun. I level it at the werewolves on this no-man's-land. One hundred feet. Standing still. Easy pickings.

And there is no mercy in combat.

Eight rounds of silver buckshot go downrange, dropping just over half of them. The heads of the rest dart around as they try to determine if they are safer retreating, advancing, or staying where they are.

They're not safe in any of those places. And I'm deadly on the reload, so they won't even have the chance to decide.

Maybe you noticed that bit in John Wick--that one part in between the parts where Neo shoots people in the face--where Johnny Utah holds four shotgun shells across one hand and loads them into a shotgun all in a line. Well, my hands are smaller than Shane Falco's, so I can only load two shells at a time like this. But I am pretty quick.

Keeahnu... no, Keyanoo... Keanu? That one can't be right... Ted really is impressive in his ability to handle firearms, especially for an actor. I, on the other hand, had nothing to do with the making of the fourth Matrix movie, so I think Duke Caboom and I both know who the truly impressive one is.

Weapon reloaded, I take care of the remaining five, reload again, and hand the shotgun back to Harrison.

There is no movement in the building when the smoke clears.

Objective One: Lure the werewolves into the parking lot for the sentry guns. Use the grenade launcher on any sheltering in the building. Use the long guns to deal with the rest.

Objective One complete.

Chapter 11

Sunrise is still hours away as we move into the cool night air. Dim light from exterior lighting still covers the facility grounds.

Objective Two, eliminate any hostiles not with the hag, is much simpler since Fido was good enough to tell us where the hag is.

I cover Jack as he races across the parking lot, taking cover by our now-scorched SUV, and then he covers Harrison and me as we cross. Rather than a parking lot, the scene looks like some sort of gruesome alien landscape. Asphalt pulverized by thousands upon thousands of rounds from the sentry guns mixed with an assortment of werewolf carnage.

Either the sentry guns or the werewolves set our vehicle on fire last night and nothing inside it appears salvageable.

As we move into the now twice-scorched building, the acrid odors of burnt plastic, melted copper, and charred canine hit me in a wave. It's really not a good smell day.

Werewolves aren't the type of creature that you want to chance probably being dead. As we move through, clearing the building, Jack puts a round of silver into the head of any werewolf body that is still mostly in one piece while I watch for active danger.

It's not full telepathy, but some type of empathy remains between Harrison and me. Each time I want him to move between Jack and me, he does so before I have to tell him. Any time I want him to move behind me, the same.

Tactically it's a huge boon. Voices make noise and noise reveals your location, so there is very little chit-chat in combat. Jack and I share a nonverbal communication that comes from working together for two years. With Harrison, it's instantaneous.

I have a sick feeling that this is a novel experience, and we're going to be poked and prodded by Medical to no end if we survive this. If I get killed, though, at least I won't have to answer a lot of embarrassing questions about my psychic sex life.

Moving through, we engage three werewolves that still have some fight in them, but they go down quickly.

Easy peasy.

Objective Two complete.

Now the hard part. Now the hag.

The other two buildings cleared, we head towards Building B, knowing that the inkblot hag and its entourage wait for us inside.

After the barrage of sensations over the past eight hours, the silent stillness as we move towards the building is eerie. Building B feels vacant as we enter. I know it isn't, and the disconnect is jarringly off-putting.

The front hallway is empty, so we stack up on the double doors that lead to the cafeteria--Jack on the right, me on the left with Harrison on the wall five feet behind me.

I nod and Jack makes entry, making a buttonhook to the left to cover the left side. I'm a step behind him. The report of his weapon lets me know that Jack has immediately engaged hostiles.

The hag lurks in the back of the room, surrounded by a shield of a half-dozen werewolves. I fire twice as I enter, taking down two of its protectors, and hook right to dominate my corner. Four werewolves charge from that side. I fire four shots, dropping each of them to the floor, the last one skidding just inches shy of my feet.

Pivoting towards the hag, I make a tactical reload, swapping my partial magazine for a fully loaded one. I prepare to engage its cluster, but werewolves have shifted through the room. Four rows of five stand across my side of the room, with another matching block facing Jack.

The werewolves are almost perfectly motionless. I've never seen werewolves be this still.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the hag nod, and the front row of werewolves on each side charges forward. I fire five times, taking down the chargers on my side as I hear Jack taking down the ones on his.

Without hesitation, the hag nods again and the next five on each side charge, meeting the same result.

When the next nod comes, my throat tightens. I only have one round remaining in my pistol.

I fire, dropping the werewolf to my far right, and the slide of my pistol locks back. Magazine empty.

Pulling another magazine of silver, my mind shouts to Harrison, "Shotgun! Now!"

I slap the magazine home and land the next three kill shots. My heart skips a beat when I realize the last one will have its claws on me before I can land the final shot I need.

I bring my weapon to bear anyway, hoping I can land shots to its chest as it tears me apart. But then I see Harrison shift behind me, the shotgun leveled, and the two blasts he fires strike the werewolf dead center in the chest, throwing it to the side, and my pistol adds two more shots to its chest as it goes down. The werewolf just brushes past my shoulder as it collapses.

Too close.

"Thanks," I think, focusing on Harrison. "Now a step back."

Harrison keeps the shotgun at the ready, but steps back towards the wall.

The hag nods again and the final row charges. It must be controlling them mentally. Werewolves are never this organized and disciplined.

I have just enough rounds this time, and I take them down before they are close. My slide locks back again.

This is starting to feel like a weird fairground shooting gallery. Sure, it's one where you die if you miss, but still.

Beginning to reach for my last partial magazine of silver ammunition, I shift my stance towards the hag.

To my left, Jack fires twice, taking down two of the remaining four werewolves shielding the hag, but then a column of werewolves rushes from the kitchen that sits to the left of the cafeteria, forcing him to adjust his focus.

Weapon reloaded, I level it to take shots on the last two werewolves in front of the hag.

That's when my legs drop out from under me as I feel the hag's mental attack hit.

Jerked away from the scene, I am in a dark field lit by two arcs of torches. I am tied to a post between one end of the two arcs and Harrison is tied to another across from me, between the other end of the arcs. Both of us are naked.

This isn't real. This is just forced memory.

The inkblot hag stands in the middle of the circle cackling as I feel something approaching behind me. I can't see anything but the torches, the hag, and Harrison. But I can see each of them perfectly. It's not real, but my brain doesn't know this.

Two werewolves emerge from behind me, sniffing against me, just testing my skin with their teeth.

The hag nods and each of the werewolves begins to slowly tear into my skin with their claws. My initial attempt to remain silent is useless and I let go a scream of excruciation. I hear Harrison across from me. Nothing is touching him, but he shouts, cursing the hag, as he is forced to witness my torment.

Not real. Just a memory. Just a second of time.

But my brain won't accept these truths. The agony is real. With the way the werewolves have torn into my body, I should have died hours ago, but it continues on for hours still.

Harrison's screams stop only when his voice goes hoarse.

Mine continue all the way through.

In a snap, I'm back in the cafeteria. Chaos flows all around me. I'm fighting werewolves. There's a hag. My mind struggles to take hold of what is real.

Harrison moans, something between a shriek and a sob. He's on the ground somewhere behind me.

Across the room, Jack is just barely holding back a surge of werewolves.

As he reloads his rifle, one of them fumbles the pin free from a grenade. It must have taken it off one of the Marines.

Jack's shots hit the werewolf, once in the head and twice in the chest, before it can throw the grenade. The grenade explodes as it drops to the ground, peppering the werewolves around it, but also sending shrapnel into Jack's leg.

Werewolves. Hag. I have to fight.

My weapon is in my hand. I am on the ground, but I can see them. The hag. Two remaining werewolves shielding it. I have two rounds of silver.

I fire them both, dropping the last of the entourage around the hag.

But that's when its second mental attack hits.

Same field. Same torches. Tied to the same stakes.

But this time it's Harrison's turn to suffer and my turn to see it.

It is unbearable to watch as they claw and tear Harrison's beautiful skin, digging in and ripping muscle away from bone. It is even more so to witness his anguish.

I scream myself hoarse. Cursing the werewolves. Cursing the hag. Vowing revenge.

I keep my eyes open for as long as I can stand it, observing his torment in solidarity.

But, when it's too much, and I try to close them, they will not close and even the mercy of looking away is robbed from me.

It's not real. But it is.

It's only a second. But it's hours that will not end.

Even when I snap back into the reality of the cafeteria, the horror follows with me. My mind and body are shattered. I have nothing left.

But I have to fight.

I hear Harrison's sobs and the crack of Jack's rifle. This is the only way I know that both are still alive.

I have my pistol, but its slide is locked back.

I have no more silver ammunition, but the hag's werewolf protectors are all down.

And I can kill a hag with lead.

Reaching down to my belt, I pull a magazine loaded with lead.

Don't drop it, is my final thought as the next mental attack hits.

We're back in the field. But no werewolves.

It's the hag that paces around me now, taunting with words that I do not understand.

When its claws sink into me, it's not just tearing. They sting like poison biting into my skin.

Harrison tries to scream, but he has no voice. He tries to stay with me, but he's broken. He tries to look away, but he can't.

Loading. Don't drop it. Fight. These are the words I struggle to hold onto.

Is it hours? Is it days?

It doesn't matter because agony is all there is.

Back in the cafeteria, my brain shouts, "Loading!" and "Fight!"

My hand slaps the magazine home. My finger presses the slide release, snapping the slide forward.

The hag is so close. Seconds away from me. I take aim.

The next attack hits.

Snapping back to the field, I expect to watch Harrison be tortured by the hag this time. But it's worse.

Two identical hags stand in the circle between us. One moving towards Harrison, the other towards me.

A screech escapes my throat when the hag's claws dig into my chest. I feel the same agony when the other hag digs its claws into Harrison.

Harrison and I share the sensations between us. But this time it's misery rather than bliss.

Everything disappears but pain. Reality is a distant forgotten fable. Time stretches on without end.

Even when I can no longer remember why, my mind repeats the same two words, clinging to them for life.

"Failure drill. Failure drill. Failure drill."

Cafeteria. My weapon is aimed. The hag is almost on me. But the next step escapes me. Reality is not something I am ready to grasp.

If it reaches me, we're dead. But at least death might offer a reprieve from the nightmare.

Failure drill.

At the last instant, reflex kicks in and I pull the trigger without even thinking.

One shot to the head. Two to the chest.

The hag drops dead beside me, and everything goes black.

Epilogue

I sit up with a start. Looking for the enemy. Ready to fight.

"Whoa there, Master Sergeant," a woman says. Her uniform identifies her as Medical.

Still, my eyes dart around in panic. My hands pat down my body, checking for blood, injury, pain.

"Code word is porpoise," the medic continues. "You're safe."

Porpoise. Mission complete. Safe.

I'm on a stretcher that sits in the middle of the road in front of the secure facility. The road has been closed to set up temporary Medical and Operations stations.

The bunker survivors are clustered farther down the road, wrapped in blankets and under Medical's supervision. Everyone who made it into the bunker is still alive.

Good.

Jack limps into view. The left leg of his jeans has been cut away at the knee, his leg bandaged in gauze.

I start to speak, but Jack smiles and points behind me.

Harrison stands a few feet away, watching me with anticipation.

"Am I free to go?" I ask the medic.

"We'll need to see you at Headquarters Medical within thirty-six hours," the medic says. "But you're clear for now."

Standing, I ask Jack, "We heading to debrief?" With this one, I'm sure the debrief will come in several rounds.

Jack shakes his head, nods towards Harrison, then points to himself.

Jack's a good man. He'll cover the first round of debrief, giving me some time with Harrison.

I turn and walk the few steps to Harrison.

"You okay?" he asks as I approach, concern heavy in his voice.

"I'm okay," I assure him. "You?"

Harrison looks down for a moment. "Okay's probably stretching it," he says softly, "but I'm in one piece."

Our eyes share a long look that seems to communicate more than words ever could.

I've known him for what... twelve hours? By the clock, anyway. But after everything the hag crammed into our heads, it feels like we've been knit together by a week of shared suffering.

"You want to go somewhere and talk?" Harrison finally asks.

"Yeah," I say, but as I look around there's nothing but people milling about on the road and the desolate war zone that was the secure facility.

Harrison seems to read my mind.

"They have a car waiting," he says, "and one of the medics says that there's a place twenty minutes down the road with really good pancakes."

Shi... I mean... Poop? Crap? Let's go with darn it.

Darn it, I really could go for pancakes. And Harrison doesn't seem like such a bad guy after all.

I'm about to go on a breakfast date with a hockey player.

"Sure," I sigh. "Pancakes."

I'm not naïve. I know that relationships formed solely from intense experiences almost never last. I've heard the research and I've seen the movie Speed. What happened last night isn't proof of forever.

But pancakes?

Over pancakes, we can be happy.

At least for now.