War Machine

Important side note:

This is an early draft of the first chapter of my novel, so far titled ‘War Machine’, but this is very likely to change. I’ve written 200 pages for it slowly over the course of 3 years during my spare time and expect to be writing it for up to a year longer before completion. A lot of what is mentioned in the first chapter is explained later in the story, so some things may make little sense unfortunately. Depending on the reception from this chapter, I’ll consider sharing a couple more. It’s also worth noting that almost all of the formatting from the original word document I wrote the novel on has been lost in the conversion to inkitt, so it is a bit harder to read. Please be harsh, I’m still new to this and want to write a story to the best of my abilities. I’m sure there’s a bunch of grammatical errors to pick apart, and please do. This is the first time I’ve ever shared my writing with literally anyone, so I hope someone finds enjoyment in what I’ve created.

San Francisco, California

Thursday 16th of February, 2012

The ocean breeze whistles a song through the concrete jungle, trying to soothe the city to sleep. Yet — despite its best efforts — the city remains wide-awake. On occasion, the gentle breeze turns to fits of wind, trying its best to topple the trees of concrete and steel scattered across the metropolis. But they continue to stand tall.

The Golden Gate Bridge stretches out from the city, connecting land to land, as well as people to people. Its red pylons reach heights greater than some of San Francisco’s largest buildings. Beneath the bridge, a black abyss that swallows the light disguises the watery depths below. Yet despite the obscurity of the night, the bridge itself is exposed by a torrent of lights, ornamented along both sides of the bridge, and lighting up both the deck and its stately towers, holding cable between one another like string.

As far as the eye can see, a plethora of other illuminations can be observed too, creeping their way down the busy city streets, across the ocean, and through the sky. Then there are the biggest light sources in the city; skyscrapers, lit up like torches, turning the night into day.

Strange messages are poised throughout the city; on billboards beside highways, displayed on the sides of buildings, and depicted in the countless stray newspapers that fly untamed through San Francisco, all conveying ’avoiding non-human testing is a crime!’ The fearmongering spread by this message can be seen throughout all of America, as strangers tend to stay strangers in this bizarre dystopian civilisation where humans; the healthy, and non-humans; the sick, all appear indistinguishable despite being anything but.

Regardless of it being early morning, sound swells from the city like a never-ending symphony. The noise comes from so many different places and from so many different things that it is incoherent, and to the unaccustomed ear, unbearable. The city lives and breathes; sprawling with life no matter what time or day it is.

But despite this, an eeriness fills the air. The moon watches in the night sky, as if knowing something is amiss. Barely visible from the coast, a strange luminous glow and a splashing can be seen in the distance. A beast skims across the water like a pebble, rapidly approaching the unwary metropolitan. It catches some air, before sagging back down to the surface and bobbing back up again, causing a small splash as it makes expeditious contact.

Rays of blue shine from different openings across its skin, illuminating its surroundings. Its body has the likeness of an arrowhead, coming to an acute tip at its front, and a blunt stump at its rear. Sharp slit-like eyes are present near the tip of the beast’s body, lit up like torches. The blue shines so intensely from its eyes and cracks that the monster’s body itself is only a silhouette as the light suffocates the visibility from the environment. Its skin is a disgusting concoction of different human and animal body parts. Whatever the beast feeds on becomes part of its body, replacing the old cells with new cells, healing itself. Although the beast feasts on animals and humans alike, humans are its preferred meal. It may see humans as a source of food, but it also treats the hunt as some form of barbaric sport. The beast’s skin is infected and rotting, emitting a stench of death. Evidently, it has not eaten for days and desperately needs healing. Hidden beneath the yellow, green, and brown tint of rotting skin, a bizarre, grotesque blend of different skin tones are present across its body. Without pattern, nails, toes, fingers, claws, talons, and other small fragments of human and animal anatomy, grow grotesquely out of the abomination’s body, appearing bruised, twisted, and broken. Unwashed and tangled tufts of human hair and animal fur also grow without rhyme or reason, erupting from the skin across the animal’s body like moss on stones, stained with blood and mud. Despite the odd hair here and there, the creature is still mostly hairless. Usually, the beast would be entirely without hair, but as a result of not eating for a long time, hair and fur has been given the time needed to sprout across its body. The monster is only rather small, comparable to the size of a toddler. But its size matters little. Soon, San Francisco is going to wish that tonight was the night it had slept.

The beast rockets atop the water, so fast and nimble that it looks like nothing but a blur. It darts beneath the Golden Gate Bridge, before zooming its way past a moored container ship and a couple anchored night fishers. The clouds conceal the moon as the monster reaches a marina, the moon averting its gaze for what is about to happen like someone watching a horror movie.

It reaches the harbour, maintaining its speed as it ostensibly hovers over a pier lined with boats. Despite being metres away, the beast somehow forces every boat on either side of the pier away from it as it whizzes past, snapping ropes off boats and sending vessels wildly flailing around the marina, instigating raucous clashing amongst boats and a ruckus in the water as waves slap and slop. It shoots out of the marina, having caused calamitous damage to every boat on the pier it flew through as well as the wharf itself. At places, the pier has been struck so hard by vessels that is has resulted in it crumbling into the ocean. Countless boats have taken irreparable damage, some even taking on water.

The monster treats the world like its own personal playground. In a lot of ways, it is like a child, only instead of playing with toy cars and toy soldiers, it plays with the much more real and much more alive counterparts.

It then missiles through a parking lot, sending automobiles soaring, glass smashing, and alarms blaring, before taking a sharp turn down an avenue. It stops abruptly, inquisitive of the environment around it. It sees a shadow of what it thinks is a person and darts at it but is quickly met with disappointment as it realises it was the shadow of a nearby object. A tree on the antipode side of the street rustles as the wind blows through its leaves, alluring the scrutiny of the monster. After recognizing that too is nothing, it continues seeking. It is after one thing only: a meal. It notices a light flicker on through a window in a high-rise nearby and snaps into action. There are many other lights glowing through many different windows surrounding the beast, but the sudden change from off to on caught the creature’s eye immediately; it perceived it as movement, a sign of life.

In less than a second, the beast plows through the window, sending glass shards across the entire room. The high-rise is a very run-down apartment complex. Each apartment is adjacent to one another, only consisting of a bed and small kitchen per room. Bathrooms and laundry rooms are communal amongst the residents of the entire complex.

The unsuspecting victim has evidently just got home. She still has her handbag on her shoulder and her keys in her hand and is still standing at the front door. She has not even removed her hand from the light switch when she turns her head to the commotion and, at the sight of the creature on the opposite side of the room, lets out a shrill scream. But she does not scream for long. The beast promptly silences her, telekinetically sending her slamming against the wall prior to almost twisting her head off her shoulders, snapping her neck with a loud crunch, killing her immediately. The creature lunges at her, biting onto her throat before tearing away a colossal dollop of her flesh. Her oesophagus is entirely visible, and her spinal cord is briefly exposed. Blood cascades from her gaping wound. Her white shirt turns a dark red as it trickles down her neck, down her legs, and then onto the floor, creating a blood pool at her feet. Her body quivers slightly — the cracks and lines on her face folding and creasing with the illusion of life as the monster goes in for another feast, devouring her chest along with any clothing that gets in the way of it and its meal. A crater is formed in her body, revealing her ribcage. More blood spews from her cadaver. She is still pinned against the wall as it goes in for a third, then a fourth, then a fifth. Her flesh squelches with the sound of moisture as the monster rips away a final morsel of meat. Her entire torso is in shambles. Her intestines are dangling from her body, and a few of her vital organs have collapsed to the floor. The beast even ate at her bones. She is red from head to toe as if she has been swimming in a sea of blood. There is still an abundance of meat left, but the monster decides it wants to taste someone else. The beast lets her body free, dropping her to the floor like a child would after they have finished playing with a toy. She hits the ground with a boisterous thud. Her uninhabited, glass-like eyes look onward vacantly, never to be occupied again.

The beast then overhears laughter on the other side of the wall in the hallway, ultimately deciding its next target. The front door of the apartment blows right off its hinges with such force that it blasts a hole in the wall opposite, before tumbling face-down onto the floor. The monster swerves out of the room and rampages into the corridor. A man and a woman are down the hall, both hauling wheeled baggage behind them.

The woman’s smile fades before she lets out a shriek. Blood has accumulated around the beast’s mouth, some dripping onto the floor as it levitates over the red-dotted carpet. It bares its teeth at her, before going in for the kill.

The man feels a sense of heroism overcome him as he releases his bag and draws a pistol from a holster on his jeans. He urgently fires a bullet at the beast but misses and hits the wall behind the creature instead. The monster grapples onto the woman’s face with its fangs and tackles her to the floor. Her bag topples over. Her cries turn into nothing but a mumble as the creature’s mouth closes around her entire face. Her arms thrash about, punching, scratching, smacking, shoving, and tugging at the creature, trying to stop the vicious attack. But it is no use. It begins to devour her as the man fires a second bullet, this time finally hitting the creature. The creature flinches slightly and lets go of the woman’s head, turning its attention to the man.

Bloody teeth marks dress the woman’s face from her eyebrows to her chin, and her nose has been left bloody and mutilated. She is still conscious but losing a lot of blood. She hikes back onto her feet again cautiously, almost collapsing as blood drips down her cheeks, forehead, and lips, painting her face red.

He still has his gun aimed at the beast. Blue blood leaks from the creature’s laceration, that too beginning to amass on the carpet. The man fires again. The bullet leaves the barrel but is precipitously halted in front of the monster as it hits an ostensibly invisible wall. It stays in the air, crushed almost as thin as a piece of paper. The monster seems to sneer as the man’s face is inundated with pure terror. The bullet drops to the ground. His eyes bulge out of his head as his skin turns a snowy white, completely paralysed with fear. The beast murmurs something in its own alien dialect with a voice no human could imitate, right before telekinetically pulling the gun out of the man’s hands, turning it against him, and pulling the trigger, slaying him instantly. The gun drops to the floor. The man remains standing for a couple seconds, maintaining the same demeanour and posture, before his face relaxes into expressionlessness and his legs give way, sending him plummeting to the floor. It dives onto the man’s carcass, gnawing away at his chest.

The monster then pauses, makes a bizarre noise, and convulses vigorously before spewing flames all over the man’s torso, cooking its snack. His clothing continues to burn away as the monster revels in its refreshment.

Despite just witnessing the death of her boyfriend, the woman pushes her emotions aside as her survival instincts kick in, using the opportunity to escape the beast. She sprints down the hallway like a puppet commandeered by an amateur puppeteer, almost losing her footing countless times as she runs as fast as her high heels will grant her. With a struggle, she makes it to the stairway she had only climbed a minute earlier.

She is on the third floor. She wastes no time, dashing downward with haste. Just before taking her first step at the next flight of stairs however, her high heels cause her to lose her poise and fall down the entire flight, injuring her back and head.

She rips off her shoes. She is dazed but continues the descent with her shoes held in her left hand. The adrenaline rushing through her veins aids her through the pain.

She makes it to the second floor. There is blood coated all over her purple dress. As she hurries down the stairs, she touches her nose, inspecting the damage that has been done. It stings to the touch.

She finally makes it to the first floor and races past the empty reception desk straight out onto the street, looking around desperately for a pay phone. Luckily for her however, blue and red lights and sirens are already blaring their way down the street.

She ineptly puts her heels back on as she watches the officers, one a young woman and the other an older man, awkwardly park and exit their vehicle, leaving the engine running and lights on as they quickly approach her. The female police officer gets to her first.

“Ma’am, what happened? We received multiple noise complaints as well as reports of gunfire. Is everything okay?” The female officer queries the woman with a hand placed on her arm for support. The woman’s eyes lack responsiveness. She has been overwhelmed. She tries to speak but can only muster the vitality to stutter the beginning of words incomprehensibly.

The officer asks the same question again but is left with little response for a second time. She withdraws her arm from the woman’s shoulder. The male officer inspects the woman’s wounds with narrowed eyes, before stating,

“This looks like a potential dog attack, and a big dog too. That’s one hell of a bite.” The woman’s eyes snap toward the male officer, suddenly showing a sign of alertness.

“T-T-This wasn’t a dog,” she formulates monotonously, starting to regain her strength. The female officer plants both of her hands on the woman’s shoulders, looking at her face-to-face.

“Who did this to you? We’re here to help,” she promises. But before the woman can answer, the radio inside the police car screeches with static. The older officer rushes over and tends to the radio, fixing the signal, before holding it to his mouth, pressing down the talk button and requesting,

“could you repeat that? Over.” A few short seconds of silence follows before he finally gets a response.

“Do not enter the building. I repeat, do not enter the building,” the radio warns the officer. “Possibility of a stryder in the vicinity. Wait for reinforcements. I repeat, possibility of a stryder in the vicinity. Wait for reinforcements.” The officer feels his heart stop for a second. Unease overcomes him at the mere mention of a stryder. His hands begin to rattle uncontrollably.

“Oh fuck,” the female officer blurts, sharing the concern. She steps away from the woman and approaches her partner. “What now?” She asks bemusedly. He lacks a solution. A droplet of sweat falls from his eyebrow.

“It’s Voormella,” the injured woman warns, blood still oozing out of her face. The lady officer scoffs rudely, seemingly forgetting the fact that the woman is both a victim and a witness, before stating,

“there’s no way it’s Voormella. Voormella’s halfway across the —”

“It doesn’t matter what it is!” The other officer spits, interrupting her. “We need to get out of here before we get slaughtered by this thing. This is a job for the military. We’re not paid enough to put our lives on the line like this, nor are we equipped for the task at hand.” The female officer shrivels up her face as an expression of disapproval.

“People still need help in there! It’s our duty to —” But before the female officer can finish, an outlandish blue glow emits from behind her. She swivels around to see the beast in all its glory, gawking at her ominously. It looks at her, and she looks back, both remaining totally stagnant.

She then draws her firearm with such speed that no human could counteract, hoping to catch the beast by surprise. She shoots twice, but just like previously, this proves to be ineffective. The bullets stall before they can reach the stryder. It then convulses again, before erupting a volley of fire directly at the officer. She drops to the floor, screaming and rolling side to side, fiercely trying to extinguish the flames.

The reaper’s previous victim makes another run for her life as the creature pounces on the officer and tears her open like a kid opening a piece of candy on Halloween. The officer’s shrieks fade as the life is drained from her. The second officer quickly jumps into the police car and puts it in reverse. He speedily reverses straight into the front of a parked car, smashing the police car’s taillight and denting the parked car’s bumper. He then floors it, his tyres screeching as he races off down the street.

The reaper finishes its meal, feeling well fed. The officer is left unrecognisable, her flesh burnt and most of her body mangled. Blood has flooded the brick pavement, the crevices between every brick forever stained dark red. The reapers wound is still bleeding, leaving a trail of blue wherever it goes, but the reaper seems to care little. The reaper has already begun to heal. Old, sickly coloured skin enters the early stages of shedding, and will eventually start turning into variations of white, the skin tone of the beasts most recent victims. Any cracks and openings in the reaper’s skin — including its bullet wound — will also begin to seal shut. It speaks to itself using the same alien lingo again, before darting off inconspicuously into the darkness of the night.

By the afternoon, the whereabouts of the reaper are unknown. The whole avenue has been closed for investigation and there are detectives and officers everywhere, scurrying around the scene like a colony of ants.

One of them stands out, however. He is wearing exclusively black attire; his jacket is made of black wool, his jeans are black denim, his leather shoes are well-worn, black, and golden laced, and he wears a black fedora decorated with a golden band. His hair is short and wavy and is also a dark ebony black. He is a small man with a wart on his chin the size of a coin. His dark brown eyes are filled with curiosity as he fidgets a toothpick between his fingers, peering at the body of the police officer in front of him. The man’s name is Jared Odom. Jared Odom is the head of the American Inhuman Investigation Squad, conveniently referred to as AIIS. Despite what his label suggests, stryders also come under his umbrella of expertise. Jared received a call early in the morning and drove to the scene as fast as possible — undoubtedly going over the speed limit the entire way. He travelled all the way from his home in San Diego believing this case was something special and out of the ordinary. Upon arrival, he immediately knew he was right about his suspicions.

The officer’s body has attracted a swarm of flies and is already beginning to smell. Most of her face is lost, and her clothes have been half-eaten, revealing her charcoaled corpse. Plenty of her internal organs are missing, having presumably been eaten or turned to ash.

During a traditional crime scene investigation, the bodies would have usually been removed by now, but this is no ordinary case.

He puts the toothpick into his mouth before stepping around the dead body, also being sure not to step on any of the blood caked across the pavement. He walks through the entrance of the apartment complex, making his way past reception and straight to the stairwell. He climbs the staircase, narrowly brushing past multiple groups of detectives descending the stairs, until he reaches the third floor. With slight puffing from his climb up the stairwell, he walks down the hallway, stopping at the next body.

Almost the entire body has been ravaged. His entire head has been demolished into multiple pieces across the floor, and his torso has also been turned to charcoal. There is a travel bag painted with blood at his feet, and another bag, also smothered in blood, where his head used to be. There is a crater of missing flesh in the man’s chest, and another in the man’s abdomen. A few investigators jot down information on a notepad nearby. Jared kneels, studying the blue blood imprinted into the carpet. He dips a finger into the blood and sniffs it. Strangely, he smiles and lightly chuckles to himself, before wiping the blue substance onto his jeans and standing up again.

Jared steps around this body too, heading towards the apartment where the attack began. However, something catches his eye before he makes it to his destination. In the wall, he sees a slight indentation. He runs his finger along the cavity, before getting the attention of an investigator with the flick of his fingers. He removes the toothpick from his mouth, holding it between his left thumb and forefinger.

“You see this?” Jared asks, pointing at the dent. “Looks like the poor bastard missed the first bullet. Clearly, it’s ricocheted off this wall and skipped off down the hallway somewhere. Make sure you take photos of this, and be sure to find the bullet,” Jared orders. The investigator nods, immediately readying his camera and taking photos from multiple different angles. He then continues down the hall, examining the carpet as he treads slowly.

Jared sneezes into his jacket, before swiping away at the dust in the air. “What a shithole,” he pronounces to himself before putting the toothpick back in his mouth and resuming his pace.

He enters the right apartment, knowing it is the correct one thanks to the countless officers and investigators, as well as the lack of a front door. He stands beside another detective, who has his eyes fixated on the final corpse. Despite likely seeing gruesome scenes formerly in his career, the investigator looks visibly unwell at the sight of the woman’s body, his face a pale white and his stance clumsy. The only part left of the woman that still looks human is her head. There are investigators taking photographs of the dead woman’s body, and others on the other side of the room inspecting the shattered window. Jared removes the toothpick from his mouth again.

“Need a paper bag?” Jared inquires him, recognising his nausea. The investigator declines Jared’s offer with the shake of his head, being dishonest with his answer. He does not give Jared a single glance, remaining completely withdrawn from the situation.

Jared smirks at him derisively, before popping the toothpick back into his mouth and explaining, “the man in the hall has been burnt to a crisp like the pepperoni pizza I had in my oven last night. The same can be said for the police officer outside too.” Jared steps toward the dead woman in front of him. “If you look at this wall,” Jared says while pointing, but talking to no one in particular, “you can see she had been pinned to it. There’s some blood residue, as well as hair grease and scratches in the paint.” Jared crouches beside the woman and hoists up her left hand, and then her right, looking at her fingernails. He whistles, getting the attention of another investigator. He points to her fingernails and orders, “get some photos of this. There’s paint under her fingernails. That’ll be where the scratches in the wall came from.” The investigator nods with acknowledgement, coming closer and taking a photo as Jared lifts the woman’s hand for a better angle. They then repeat the process with her other hand.

Once the photos have been taken, Jared stands up again and the investigator goes back to what she was doing previously. “This is Voormella, all right. There are signs of telekinetic and pyrokinetic abilities across the entire scene,” he concludes. He then turns to the nauseous investigator again. “There’s a bathroom just down the hallway. I’d recommend using it before your puke ends up tampering with the crime scene,” Jared suggests mockingly with sharp eyes before chuckling and walking to the other side of the room, approaching three highly ranked officers conversing in a triangular formation. “Who’s in charge here?” Jared bellows, the toothpick still in his mouth. One of the men step away from the group, outstretching his hand for a handshake.

“The name’s Ethan,” he says as they shake. He is a little taller than Jared, with blonde hair that is brown at the roots, big and bright blue eyes, and a fancy uniform decorated with the badge of a star on the left side of his chest. Jared removes the toothpick from his mouth and flicks it out of the shattered window.

“Listen Ethan, you’ve got to keep this all under wraps, got that? As soon as the media get a whiff of the existence of a stryder in America, and especially a stryder like Voormella, mass hysteria will ensue. Call it a vicious attack and leave the details out of it.

“We can’t keep everyone quiet. Hell, everyone on the scene has likely already connected the dots. But if anyone asks questions, no matter who it is, and no matter the circumstances, you have to deny, deny, and deny. Leave it as nothing but a rumour, or you’ll be opening up the biggest can of worms America has seen since the Great Swarm,” Jared instructs him, being sure to keep his voice at a low volume. Ethan grunts, showing clear displeasure in being told what to do.

“I know the drill, no need to order me around,” Ethan counters nastily with a hiss. “Are you certain it’s Voormella?”

“No doubt about it,” Jared answers with certainty.

“Shit,” Ethan says with an uneasy tone. “Rebecca came to the same conclusion,” he then states.

“Rebecca?” Jared questions with a slightly raised eyebrow.

“Her and the policeman were the only two witnesses who survived,” Ethan explains further. “Her boyfriend is the headless body down the hallway.”

“Great,” Jared grimaces with sarcasm and irritation present in his attitude. “She’ll have to be silenced, and that goes for the cop too. Throw her and the cop in a mental institute if you must; no one will believe what they have to say if they’re in a loony bin,” Jared decides insensitively.

“I don’t have the power to do that,” Ethan replies.

“I do,” Jared quickly answers with a smirk, relishing in the authority he has. “If it needs to be done, I’ll ensure it happens.” Jared then scratches his forehead. “Voormella’s never been on American soil before. It’s a mystery why it’s suddenly decided to come here all the way from the Soviet Union,” he marvels.

“I guess we’ll never know,” Ethan settles.

“I guess so,” he echoes. “And did you notice the reaper blood on the carpet?” Jared then asks.

“I did,” Ethan responds as he fights off a yawn.

“The Soviet army has fought Voormella plenty of times, but never has it bled,” Jared explains. “How did a nobody with a pistol wound it?” He finishes, standing still, not making a sound as he thinks about it for a minute. Ethan stands awkwardly in front of him, looking uncomfortable, his eyes glancing around the room looking for an escape from the conversation. Jared then jolts back to life again, tipping his hat to Ethan, before saying, “I must get going now. Got to tell the bad news to the higher ups.”

“Catch you later,” Ethan farewells him, letting out a breath of relief as Jared walks away.

Jared exits the complex, being sure again to not step on any blood, or worse, any bodies. He walks past a myriad of detectives and officers, before finally making it back to his car. It is an almost pristine condition dark blue Chevrolet Jesper from 1978. The bodywork is clean enough to see your own reflection, it has whitewall tires encompassing its chrome rims that shine in the sunlight, and it has motorized headlights that, when switched on, peak out of the hood like the heads of turtles.

He steps inside, closing the door once he is seated comfortably. But the door does not close properly. He sighs, before opening the door again and slamming it shut, this time shutting it correctly. He reaches for the keys in his pocket, before inserting them into the ignition and turning them. All eight cylinders explode with rage, angrily roaring like a proud lion, drawing the eyes of people nearby.

Jared has a passion for cars. He has his own small but growing car collection, consisting of a convertible sports car and three muscle cars, the Jesper being one of them.

Jared releases the handbrake before driving up the avenue away from the crime scene. The roar of the Jesper’s engine can still be heard after he has turned the corner.