Damon was quicksilver, a motion blur of fluid movement. He sprang from floor to wall to ceiling, revolving like a figure skater. None of the rounds found their mark. Elena finally got a good look at him when he landed. He was a scorched sculpture of an unfinished human being; just skeletal muscle and sinew enveloped by a film of metallic membrane. One arm was a squid-like tentacle that he flailed like a whip. It wrapped around her rifle, constricted, and snatched the weapon from her hands. It flew backward, lost in the mist.
He streaked forward.
Charlie Foxtrot cursed, trying to negotiate the close quarter fighting. A vicious kick to her abdomen sent her skidding across the floor. Blackwell managed to fire twice before he was throttled, hoisted off his feet, and slammed to the ground with bone-splintering force. Damon spun in the same flow of movement, snatching Nathan’s arm and shoving upward before the intended shots fired. Bullets harmlessly punctured the ceiling. Damon smashed his head into Nathan’s face with a metallic crunch, collapsing him to the floor as if his bones had melted.
All of it happened in the few seconds it took for Elena to draw her handgun. She pointed, fired point blank, but somehow Damon wasn’t there. He whipped back and forth as her rounds hit nothing but air. A thick tentacle encircled her shoulder and wrapped around her neck, soft as jelly yet strong as steel. The stinging fumes of ammonia made her eyes water.
His other hand seized her wrist. Everything blurred, then pain exploded when her head rebounded off the wall. Damon thrust his face inches from hers, more a skull than a human head. It was as if all humanity had been scorched away, revealing what had been there all along. His eyeballs practically danced in their sockets, his teeth clamped in a hideous grin, sharp and gleaming like newly polished razors.
“That all you got, Private? I thought you wanted to see some real action.” His tongue flicked out, black and wriggling. “Don’t disappoint me, Ruiz. Get… into… the game.”
She shrieked, using her free hand to jab fingers in his eyes. The tentacle loosened when he fell back, hissing. With her gun hand free, she pointed it and fired. The shots struck this time, rupturing his gleaming skin and punching him backward. His gaze remained locked on her, arms outstretched, smile fixed as though the bullets were paintballs.
Charlie Foxtrot regained her equilibrium, opening fire from the side. She roared as her rifle blazed. The rounds struck Damon across the chest and abdomen at point blank range. Inky blood sprayed as he jerked back in a spasmodic display of flailing limbs. He scrabbled on the floor like an overturned insect, ear-splitting shrieks ripping from his throat before being silenced by another barrage of shots, this time directly to the head.
Charlie Foxtrot gave the body a disgusted kick. “Never liked yo punk ass, anyhow.” She glanced at Elena. “You okay?”
Elena winced, touching the back of her head. “I’ll live.”
Blackwell was still unconscious, prone on the floor with his hand gripping the sample case. His handgun had skidded a few feet away. Elena briefly checked on him before kneeling beside Nathan, who groaned as he tried to sit up. Blood slicked across his face from a broken nose, and judging by his look of complete disorientation, he was probably concussed.
“Hey. Are you all right? Can you move?”
He blinked and gave a dizzy shake of his head, lips moving as though trying to form words. “Not… dead.”
“I know you’re not dead. Can you move?”
He shook his head again. “Not… me. Him.” A gurgling noise became audible just as he pointed a trembling finger.
A familiar voice warbled a singsong tune. “Seven little Injuns chopping up sticks. One was reborn, then there were six.”
She whirled around, gun raised, but unable to shoot. Damon had a long, slick tentacle twined around Charlie Foxtrot, trapping her arms at her sides as her feet dangled above the floor. He leered, holding her up as if offering a trophy. Black fluid wept from his wounds and pooled at his gnarled feet. He seemed oblivious to injuries that should have been mortal. The holes puckered into scar tissue and the skin calcified, turning stony and knotted with protrusions in mere seconds.
He head was misshapen mass of rocky carapace and leathery skin. His mouth dribbled, voice thick and garbled. “I don’t think you understand the concept of survival at all, Private Ruiz. Case in point: you can shoot me again, try to make sure I stay dead this time. But if you do, ol’ Chuck here will catch a case of friendly fire. You know what you have to do. But do you have the guts to take the shot?”
She circled, trying to get a clean look. But he matched her stride perfectly, always holding Charlie Foxtrot in the path of her aim. Charlie Foxtrot’s eyes were wide with outrage, her words muffled behind the tentacle wrapped around her mouth. Elena knew the words she would yell if she could.
Take the shot. Do it.
“You don’t have it in you, do you?” Damon’s needle-sharp teeth flashed in a grin. He dangled Charlie Foxtrot in front of Elena like a wanted toy to a baby sister. “Maybe I should make it easy for you.” The tentacle tightened, pulling Charlie Foxtrot to him. He traced a clawed finger across her cheek. Charlie Foxtrot’s eyes furiously pleaded with Elena.
Don’t be a pussy. Take this bastard out!
“I’ll do it.” Elena’s finger tightened on the trigger. “God help me, I’ll do it.”
Damon sighed. “You’d have done it already. Too bad. Now I have to find some motivation for you.” His hand caught Charlie Foxtrot’s face, sinking claws under her jaw and into her cheek. He peeked around her head, dancing across the floor as Elena tried to get place her sights on him.
“Six little Injuns thought they were alive. One lost her pretty head—”
A mere twitch of his hand was all the effort required to tear Charlie Foxtrot’s face apart.
“And then there were five.” The tentacle relaxed, unceremoniously dumping her to the floor like a slab of meat. Half a jawbone was still in his hand. He squeezed his fist, blood dribbled between his fingers. His eyes glimmered, as if daring Elena to act.
She screamed, unloading her handgun. Tears blurred her vision, turning him into a distorted monstrosity. He laughed even as he staggered back, the bullets ricocheting off the hardened ridges of his newly-armored body. The tentacle whipped her direction, entangled her legs, and sent her sprawling across the floor. Charlie Foxtrot lay only inches away. The one good eye she had left stared sightlessly. Ribbons of flesh quivered around the cavity where nearly half her face was missing.
The talons on Damon’s feet tapped the floor as he approached with a rasping laugh. “I think it’s an improvement. She wasn’t exactly a beauty queen. You can do with some improvements, too.” He flipped Elena over with a vicious kick. His other foot stomped into her stomach. Something seemed to explode inside; a ripple of agony took both her breath and will to fight away. She gasped for air, but couldn’t find it. Damon was just a hazy, half-formed monster from a distant nightmare, his voice indecipherable, his giggling threats falling on deaf ears. The pain roared, making her unaware of anything else, even when Damon reached down and seized her by the throat.
She closed her eyes, waiting for death.
Gunshots snapped her from her cloud of agony. Damon was rocked to the side by the incoming barrage, snarling as he threw his arm up to shield his face. Blackwell knelt a few feet away, squeezing off measured shots.
Damon tumbled beside Nathan, who had recovered enough of his senses to pull a tactical knife from his boot. He stabbed deep into Damon’s arm where the tentacle joined the elbow, yanking the razor-sharp blade down. Inky fluid spurted over his hands.