Page 59 of Crimson Moon Falling

Mangus lay curled against my side, his massive body radiating that unnatural heat, one paw draped across my leg. Athena had followed Parker to the entrance, where he kept watch, her white fur gray with dust.

Cora sat propped against the opposite wall, her eyes half-closed, the bandage on her thigh already dark with dried blood. Bart snored softly a few yards away, his massive chest rising and falling in the rhythm of deep sleep. Freda was gone, probably checking the perimeter.

My head throbbed. The implant pulsed with a cold, steady rhythm along my spine, and I’d started thinking of it as a second heartbeat. It walled off the worst of what had happened, but the pain was still there.

I closed my eyes. Malcolm’s face swam behind my eyelids, his green eyes holding mine as the life left them, his hand going slack.

Sound cut through the haze. Parker’s voice, low and tight, coming from somewhere down the corridor.

“Sawyer, it’s Parker.”

I didn’t move. He’d taken the sat phone last night, and now he was taking on the horrible job of telling Sawyer what had happened to his second Beta and closest friend.

“We found a Cold War bunker that Apex is turning into another black site. There was an explosion last night, and Malcolm took the brunt. He’s gone.” A pause. Parker’s voice was calm but heavy. I wondered how many times he’d had similar conversations as an active Marine. I was a coward for not calling Sawyer last night. “It was a trip-wire explosion in the east corridor. Cora triggered it and Malcolm pushed her out of the way.”

There were a few moments of silence, then Parker spoke again. “He didn’t suffer long, and he died in Riley’s arms.” Another pause. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry, Alpha.”

I drifted. The words came and went, fragments washing through my consciousness.

“…wrapped him in a sleeping bag. We can’t move him until we get extraction…”

“… this fuckin’ facility’s bigger than we thought. There’s Apollo Genetics equipment, and crates of lab hardware up to your eyeballs.”

“Yeah, it has the potential to be as bad as Roswell. Probably worse.”

I came back to myself when I heard him say Conall’s name. “Tell Conall Riley’s holding it together. It’s that fuckin’ implant that’s helping her. She’s functional, but she sounds like a damn robot. I don’t like it.” He paused while Conall replied.

“Mangus is with her now. Hasn’t left her side except to hunt and relieve himself.”

Functional. The word settled in my chest like a stone. Functional meant I could stand and walk, aim and shoot, and analyze. It meant the implant was working as intended. The irony was so thick I could have choked on it.

“We need to document everything first, then get the hell out.”

I opened my eyes and sat up. Dust motes danced in the beams of light coming in from the entrance. Mangus lifted his head, his red eyes finding mine, and whined softly.

Parker walked back into the tunnel, hard lines bracketing his mouth.

“The Blackhawk’s ETA is three hours.” His voice sounded rough. “We document everything we can before then. Photographs, video, manifests. Take what we can carry and get the fuck out of here.”

I nodded. The movement sent a ripple of pain through my neck. “Cora?”

“Stable. Bart’s with her. Freda is checking the western tunnels.” He crouched beside me. “You with me, Bug?”

The nickname felt like it belonged to someone else. Someone younger. Someone who wasn’t infested with a government implant and hadn’t watched my friend, who’d had feelings for me, die in this godforsaken place.

I straightened and cleared my throat. “I’m with you. I’ll finish documenting the lab equipment so no one can contest that Apex is starting up another lab site.”

Mangus rose beside me, his massive body stretching, joints popping. He nudged my hand with his wet nose, leaving a smear of sulfur-scented drool on my palm. Funny how the putrid smell had grown on me.

Parker glanced at the green-shrouded shape on the floor. “Sawyer wants him buried in Pack ground with honors.”

The cold wall inside me cracked. I swallowed and nodded. “He’d want something with bagpipes, and good Scotch whiskey.”

“Aye lass, he would,” Parker mimicked Malcolm’s Scottish accent. I cleared my throat, then picked up my pack and turned toward the tunnels. We had work to do.

We moved through the facility with grim efficiency. Parker continued taking photos and video of every crate, every stenciled Apollo Genetics logo, every shipping manifest, his phone’s flash bouncing off the concrete walls. My job was the science. I documented the equipment, the model numbers, and stored away the implications of each piece of equipment.

The implant droned on, steady and cold, filing each discovery into neat, precise categories.