David Meyer
Ice Storm
PROLOGUE
Fenrir
The creature, a horrific mass of muscles, hair, and ugly red welts, lay on the operating table. It snarled, baring a set of long sharp teeth.
Exhaling loudly, Jean-Pierre Badon set down his clipboard. He took a moment to adjust his spectacles. Then he picked up a pair of gloves. His fingers shook as he extended them into the cool rubber pockets.
The creature snapped its jaws. Teeth slammed together. Badon shuddered. Just two days ago, he'd seen the creature slip its leather bindings. Its head had shot off the table. Its teeth had ripped into the exposed neck of an armed soldier. In a matter of seconds, it had nearly beheaded the poor sap.
Badon tried to steel his nerves. But his hands trembled as he picked up a paintbrush. They trembled even harder as he dipped it into a cup of red paint.
The creature, or at least the blood that ran through it, represented his greatest achievement. It was a breakthrough of epic proportions. It would lead to radical changes for humanity, for all of creation.
It was, in short, the ultimate victory of science over God.
And yet it was also Badon's biggest mistake. He felt no pride in his work, no joy in his discoveries. This wasn't due to the creature itself. It was a mere test subject. No, it was the horrifying implications of his research that kept Badon awake at night.
He located a vein on the creature's neck and marked it with a small red X. He shaved the marked area and scrubbed it with two separate solutions. Then he held out his right hand. "Needle."
One of his assistants, a young boy named Pascal, placed the instrument in his hand. The boy didn't say anything. He couldn't. Not after what they'd done to his tongue.
Bile rose in Badon's throat. He hated using the children as assistants. It wasn't fair to expose them to the horrors of his research. But it was the only way to protect them. There were two types of prisoners at Werwolfsschanze. The lucky ones performed experiments.
The unlucky ones were the subjects of those experiments.
Badon gritted his teeth. Damn Nazis. They were worse than murderers.
Much, much worse.
He placed his free thumb on the vein. The vein bulged and he poked the needle into it. The thick hide resisted his efforts. He pushed harder. Slowly, the thin shaft slid into the creature's neck.
Dark red liquid poured into the shaft. It passed through a long plastic tube and quickly filled a bottle placed on the floor.
Badon stopped the blood flow long enough to remove the bottle and cap it. Then he replaced it with a new bottle. He proceeded to fill the second bottle along with three additional ones.
As he removed the needle, Pascal stepped forward and placed thick gauze on top of the vein. The young boy pushed it, applying as much pressure as his small, emaciated body could handle.
Badon stared at the bottles. Once they left his possession, they'd undergo a few more tests under the watchful eyes of Werwolfsschanze's lead scientists. However, those tests were largely an afterthought. Badon already knew the truth. The blood was the real deal.
And that scared the hell out of him.
"These welts concern me. I'd like to take a shaving for further analysis." Badon took a deep breath as he glanced at Pascal. It was time to put his plan into motion. "Scalpel."
A soldier on the opposite end of the room arched an eyebrow. He was in his early-twenties. Strands of curly blonde hair poked out from under his helmet. His blue eyes showed signs of fatigue. He wore a dark green uniform and a black armband displaying a strange marking.
Badon felt heat creeping over his cheeks. Quickly, he lowered his face, hoping to hide it from the soldier.
Pascal picked up the scalpel. He stepped forward.
Badon felt the blade slap against his gloved fingers. Lowering his head, he stared at it, then at his other wrist. He'd thought about doing it so many times. It would've been so easy. Just a little flick and then his life would drain away. The blade was plenty sharp enough. He'd seen to that. And it wasn't like he deserved to live. His research had already killed thirty-seven people. In two months, that number would explode. Not by a factor of ten or even one hundred.
But by a factor of millions.
He still found it difficult to believe. Just a few years ago, he'd lived in Paris. He'd worked as a medical researcher and virologist, specializing in the development of cutting-edge vaccinations. Then came the invasion of Poland. Denmark and Norway were next. And finally, the Battle of France.
He'd lost everything. His lab, his friends, his home.
His family.
His heart grew heavy as he thought about his wife. Had she escaped from the invaders? Where was she now? Was she even alive? Had the birth been successful?
He closed his eyes and thought of the picture. It was the only memento he retained from his old life. He kept it squirreled away in his diary. He only took it out in the dead of night when he was absolutely certain no one was watching him.
He raised the scalpel and placed it near his wrist. The creature continued to struggle at its bonds, thrashing about like a shark out of water. For the millionth time, he felt the urge. The urge to end the insanity.
The urge to end it all.
Slowly, he lowered the blade. Suicide wasn't the answer. His role in Fall Garten Eden would cease but the operation would continue without him.
The creature growled. Badon hesitated for a split second. Then he angled the scalpel and swung it at the table. The blade sank into one of the many thick leather buckles holding down the creature's left hind leg.
The creature roared. It yanked its leg. The buckle bulged.
Then it shattered.
The blonde soldier gasped.
The creature ripped away from its other buckles and sprang onto the table. Then it pounced onto the man.
The soldier toppled over. Large jaws engulfed his face. Blood squirted everywhere.
The other soldiers raced across the room. The creature lunged at them, dispatching them with ease. Slightly dazed, Badon watched the melee. Then something sharp sank into his belly. Flesh ripped and he tumbled backward. His head hit the wall. His eyelids drooped as he crumpled to a heap.
A bright blaze caught his eye. Like every other time he'd seen it, it captured his attention. He felt drawn to the mysterious and ancient piece of art. It was seductive, beautiful. It was truly one of the greatest treasures in the history of mankind.
And yet, he also felt repulsed by it. It was the key to everything. It was the key to his research, to Fall Garten Eden, to the Nazi plan for remaking the world. It was the key to, for lack of a better word, immortality. But not the sort of immortality that good people craved.
It was Lucifer's immortality.
Through blurry vision, he saw the creature's face. "Protect it," he whispered. "You must protect it."
His consciousness vanished.
Then he swirled away, deep into an endless void of darkness and the unknown.
PART I
The Desolation
Chapter 1
"You're not using that, right?" Dutch Graham didn't wait for a response. Instead, he snatched up the ballpoint pen like he owned it.
A sleep-deprived man twisted toward us. He glanced down at the open journal in his lap. His face puckered up in confusion. "Well, no. But—"
"Didn't think so."
The man frowned.
I tried to remember his name. Darren? Darryl? Daniel? Yes, that was it. Daniel. Daniel Trotter. "Thanks Dan," I said. "We'll, uh, give it back when we're done."
Trotter's frown deepened.