The Grendel Affair: A SPI Files Novel (24 page)

I walked over and shone the beam of my flashlight down on the tiny piece of metal.

Ian glanced up from his inspection of the closest control panel. “What was it?”

It was just a screw.

I aimed my light up and around, searching for what it’d come off of. “Something down here’s lost a screw.”

Ian refrained from commenting.

I located a square of dark in the shadows close to the ceiling. An open air vent. A metal grate hung from the one remaining screw. It looked like there’d been three others that’d fallen out—or had been removed.

I stepped back. Way back.

I spoke without turning. “Houston, we have—”

“I see it,” Ian said quietly, coming up behind me.

“Okay,” I said. “I’m only like five six, so that’s all my doppelganger has to work with heightwise. Kenji didn’t have a picture of her haulin’ a ladder in here, so how would she have—”

“True.” Ian had gone down on one knee to search the floor. He came up with two more screws in the palm of his hand. “But these haven’t been on the floor for long. See how the screws’ heads are dull, but the threads aren’t? These were taken out recently.” He went over to stand in front of the wall just to the right of the open vent. “Put down your flashlight and come here.”

I did.

He squatted down. “Get on my shoulders.”

“What?”

“Put your legs over here”—he tapped each side of his chest—“and sit on my shoulders. I’ll stand up and you shine your light in there.”

“And a bomb blows up in my face.”

“There’s not a bomb in there.”

“But up in the bull pen, you said—”

“
This
vent would be a bad place for a bomb. If your doppelganger was carrying around explosives or gas, she wouldn’t waste them in there. So far, she hasn’t been stupid. Come on. We’re wasting time. Lean forward, brace your hands against the wall, and climb on.”

I got behind him, put one leg over his shoulder and hesitated.

“What’s wrong?”

“Um . . . if I put my other leg over, what’s going to keep me from falling over backward?”

“Me.” He clamped his big hand over my shin, essentially anchoring my leg from the knee down against his chest. He was right; my leg wasn’t going anywhere. “Now put your other leg over and sit up straight—and stay still. I’ll do the rest.”

“Uh . . . I don’t think the wall’s gonna work for my hands, could we—”

Ian’s sharp exhale told me he’d lost his patience when I’d lost my coordination.

“It’s not my fault I’ve never done this before.”

“Just grab my head.”

“Your what?”

“My head. Wrap your hands around the top of my head.”

I did as instructed.

“Not my eyes, my head!”

I moved my hands up and put my other leg over his shoulder. Ian grabbed my leg and started to stand.

I squeaked as I felt myself start to topple over. Ian’s grip tightened on my legs, and I clutched a double handful of his hair. I steadied myself, my hands not doing a very good job of holding on to the top of Ian’s head.

I didn’t dare to breathe, let alone move. “You need longer hair.”

He ignored me. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

Ian stood. I stayed on. It was nothing short of a miracle.

To my relief, he stopped about three feet away from the wall, and my head was perfectly aligned with the opening.

“Here.” Ian handed me his flashlight.

I took it and aimed the beam straight ahead, illuminating the shaft.

There was definitely something in there, in some kind of pile. I couldn’t quite make out what they were, but since the pile wasn’t moving . . .

“Move a little closer.”

Ian did.

I couldn’t tell how many there were, but they were brown, each about the size and shape of a baked potato. I looked closer.

They weren’t bombs or nerve gas canisters.

They were eggs.

And they had hatched.

“Bad news,” I said. “You were right. It’s not a bomb.”

“Well, what is it?”

“They. It’s a ‘they.’ About ten, I don’t know, maybe twelve . . . eggs.”

“Eggs?”

“Eggs. Hatched eggs.”

“What kind?”

“Nothing I’ve ever seen before.” I had a sudden urge to run and keep running. “Let me down. Let me down now.”

Quicker than I could react, Ian released my legs, reached behind his head, grabbed me around the waist, swung me down, and had me tucked tightly under his arm. His other hand held his gun.

I scanned the floor directly below me and didn’t dare move. “Where is it?” I hissed in a whisper. “Do you see anything?”

“Not yet.”

I had no idea why we were whispering. If there was something down here with us, they knew we were here. As long as I was tucked up under Ian’s arm like a sack of chicken feed, I wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it. Though I was grateful to have my feet off the floor. I had to stifle the urge to twist around and climb Ian like a tree.

“Put me down.”

He did.

I’d dropped my flashlight and it’d rolled into the corner, stopping at the base of some kind of metal cabinet. I ran after it, and reached down to snatch it off the concrete floor. If there was ever a time I wanted a steel club, it was right—

I yelped and yanked my hand back, scrambling backward, tripping over my own legs in the process.

The back of my hand was bleeding from a two-inch gash. Must have raked my hand on the base of the cabinet yanking it . . .

A raspy hiss came from the shadowy corner . . .

. . . and from the air vent opening.

Ian put himself between me and whatever they were. “Get to the door. Get out.”

I hesitated.

“Move!”

The things came at us, and Ian opened fire.

A creature launched itself out of the open air vent and into the tangle of pipes that ran above our heads. I only got a glimpse. It was about a foot tall, with pale mottled skin slick and glistening, with spindly and impossibly long arms and legs. Another one leapt effortlessly to the top of the cabinet. It perched there, its yellow eyes glittering in the shadows. The thing rolled its bald head on ropy shoulders as if stretching, its mouth yawning open to reveal multiple rows of needle teeth, flexing its thin, spidery fingers, claws curved to razor points. Claws that were red with my blood.

It looked like . . .

It couldn’t be.

A baby grendel.

I opened my mouth, to shout, to scream, but nothing came out, not even a whimper.

The grendel’s eyes focused on us and it hissed, a hood of folded skin flaring around its neck.

Ian shot at the slick face. The grendel was gone before the bullet got there. Simultaneous attacks came from the open air vent and the sound of claws on metal scrambled by inside the ductwork directly overhead. I was sure that every last one of them would star in my next nightmare, if I lived long enough to have another one.

Ian reached out, prepared to throw me toward the door, but I was already running.

We escaped into the hall, and Ian slammed the reinforced steel door.

I was all but jumping in place. “Lock it! Lock it!”

Ian spat a curse. “The dead bolt’s been broken off.”

I desperately looked around for something to block the door with. There was nothing, absolutely nothing in that hall that would do us any good.

The door handle began to rotate downward.

On the other side of the door came the scrabbling of claws on concrete—a
lot
of claws.

Ian and I stared.

Then we ran like hell.

The male and female grendels had been busy since they’d arrived in town, and they hadn’t been seeing the sights. My doppelganger had brought grendel eggs in that bowling bag.

“Kenji, we’ve got grendels,” Ian was shouting into his headset. “Repeat, grendels. Little ones, spawn. Unknown number. Eggs were in the HVAC vents, and the sons of bitches are fast. We’re in the hall coming away from—”

Ian skidded to a halt and I plowed into him from behind. Then I saw why he’d stopped.

Countless glowing yellow eyes, and the baby monsters they belonged to, were completely blocking our only way out.

Ian raised his gun, his voice low and steady. “Mac, get your gun, pick your targets, and go for head shots.”

I swallowed, and drew my gun. My hand was shaking so badly I almost dropped it. I gripped it tighter. Ian saw.

“Relax your grip and your shoulders. Pull the trigger on the exhale. You can do this.”

Agent Ian Byrne. Poster child for calm.

Me. Poster child for panic.

I heard clicking behind us. I spun, going back-to-back with Ian, gun leveled.

Four grendels had stopped about twenty feet away, watching us, chittering amongst themselves.

“Four behind us,” I managed.

“Okay. I’ll take these. Those are yours.”

As if by unspoken signal, the grendels rushed us.

I only got off one shot before the first grendel reached me.

A clawed hand clutched my ankle, latching onto my boot, trying to pull itself up. I stomped on the hand, and fired at another grendel skittering across the floor at me. It squealed as a spray of pink erupted from its side, but kept coming, its eyes brightly glowing like sunstruck flame, eyes shining with a single-minded hunger.

Squealing, hissing, eyes gleaming with a yellow light. I fired at every last one of them. I could’ve sworn my shots were on target, but the spawn were fast. Too fast.

A grendel latched onto my leg, above my boot, its claws raking their way up my leg through my jeans, hooking into my skin. I wanted to scream, but the only sounds I could make were choked gasps, as if the thing was clutching my throat, not my thigh. It was that high now, and coming faster toward my face. It got a grip on my belt and launched itself onto my shoulder, the throbbing pulse in my neck within reach of its jagged, razor-sharp teeth, teeth that were clicking together in eager anticipation.

My right hand was slick with blood and my gun slipped out of my grip and landed on the floor. I grabbed the grendel with both hands, trying to keep it away from my face, its squirming body cold and slick in my hands. I held it out away from me as it twisted and wriggled to get at me. I gripped it tighter. It squealed. So did I.

It took both of my hands and all of my strength just to hold on to the thing. I wanted to kill it. I needed to kill it, but if I let go, just with one hand, even for an instant, the grendel would be at my throat, claws and the barbed spurs that curved from its bony heels slicing me to ribbons.

If I was lucky, I’d bleed to death before the whole pack started to eat me.

I didn’t dare turn to check on Ian, but gunfire and squealing grendels told me he was at least holding his own.

Which was better than I was doing.

I threw the grendel, slamming it into the wall. Not even dazed, it clung there, defying gravity and then physics as it scampered up the wall and across the ceiling like a freaking gecko, launching itself again at my face with chittering glee.

It exploded in a single bullet-induced spray of pink mere inches from my face.

Ian.

Ian had looked away from the grendels attacking him to help me. It was the opening the things had been waiting for.

They swarmed him.

Then I saw it. Recessed in the wall was one of those fire hose boxes—with an ax.

I scrabbled and stumbled toward it, clawing desperately to get the glass door open, my hands fumbling at the handle. I got it open and pulled at the ax.

It was latched to the back wall of the case.

I screamed in terror and frustration.

A grendel dropped from the ceiling onto my shoulders, and I fell forward into the coiled fire hose. The whole thing came loose, wrapping me in hose. The nozzle came free last, hitting me in the head. I grabbed at the nozzle and the grendel that was holding on to both it and me.

And somehow I turned on the water.

Instantly a blast as big as my arm shot from the end of that nozzle, the water pressure slamming the grendel that’d been holding on to it into the far wall. The hose whipped around me like I was wrestling the world’s biggest snake, knocking me to the floor, sending the spray to the ceiling, walls, and floor. I held on to the nozzle for dear life, and aimed it directly at the grendels swarming Ian.

The water blasted the grendels and sent them rolling down the hall, end over end. Then as quick as they’d come, they vanished.

I loosened my grip on the nozzle, releasing the lever that I’d been holding down, and the hose slowly deflated. I was sprawled in the middle of the hall, soaked to the skin, teeth chattering, and gasping for what air I could find. I still clutched the nozzle in a double-fisted, white-knuckled grip. Ian climbed to his feet and staggered over to me, dripping blood from multiple wounds, and dropped into the puddle by my side.

“Nice shootin’, Annie Oakley.”

I tried to suck in enough air to make words. I finally just gave up and nodded.

Sandra Niles and her team came charging down the hall, guns held at the ready.

Ian stood. I staggered to my feet.

Sandra’s sharp, dark eyes were taking in everything at once. “Where are they?”

For all that, there were only two dead grendels on the wet floor. That meant there were at least nine others in the complex. Though if my doppelganger had Tarbert’s device, there was no telling how many eggs she’d brought in.

SPI headquarters had been turned into a monster nursery.

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