Our Monsters

By Clinton Harding

Yesterday Jon Graves believed living and going to high school in the military occupied town of Carpenter was a bore. That is until a routine fieldtrip to Carpenter’s science labs, when Jon and his friends uncover a military secret, the reason why the US Army stationed their parents in Carpenter... to create a top secret species of monsters.

Yeah. MONSTERS!

Now Jon and his four friends have freed and adopted five of the monsters, vowing to keep each hidden away from harm. Harm being their parents and the US Army. These are not puppies and kitten, though. Keeping the monsters a secret becomes a difficult task when they begin to develop amazing powers. And soon a betrayal from within the circle of friends will threaten to unravel the groups’ plans.

Jon will need to bring his friends together for a rescue mission. Strange powers the teens begin to exhibit on their own will offer aid but ultimately the group’s friendship will save the day. Just another chaotic day in high school. Yeah, right!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clinton Harding
• Release date: Nov 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465730299

Clinton Harding

When Clinton D. Harding is not busy wrestling and taming wild Scottish Terriers in wilderness of Oxnard California, he's using a magic pen he pulled from a stone to craft new worlds filled with fantastic beasts and evils that need fighting. He is also the author-publisher of The Our Monsters Chronicles, a YA series of novels that combines fantasy/sci-fi elements with horror chills.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

This… this… The soldier heard his Adam's apple drop like a heavy stone when he tried to swallow. It's a nightmare! A damn bad dream, that's what all this is. I'll wake up and they'll all be alive… yeah?

He spoke softly, afraid his words might force any one listening to think him a candidate for a straightjacket and a padded room. A stay at a loony bin was all too possible. You don't witness the air rip open and monsters pile out from another world and continue to think your head is screwed on correctly. You think—

A hand clapped the young man's shoulder and rested there for a brief time before giving the shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

You well, Private? said a voice. The soldier was squatting, leaning against a wall while clutching his rifle like a teddy bear. The voice came from his right, stern and calm despite the aftermath of the chaotic situation, which had torn into the young G.I.'s rational world. "You look a little… green."

For a few seconds, the soldier didn't respond. Between the ringing in his ears, which lingered from the now ceased rattling gunfire, and his mental nausea muddling his brain, it took a moment to sort through the disorientation.

He looked toward the origin of the voice, to the owner of the hand still resting on his shoulder, and then to the commanding officer. Colonel Mauser, a modern-day Teddy Roosevelt—rough but dignified, his brown hair cut short to his scalp, a thick mustache, his frame bulky but strong in his green field fatigues. This man was not the private's squad leader but a man of high rank, and worthy of respect.

"I feel green, sir. This… this… He groped for the appropriate words, but each attempt sounded crazier than the last. … This is nuts."

No. I'm the one whose nuts, the soldier thought, but didn't add.

Mauser gave the young soldier a halfhearted grin before giving him another clap on the shoulder.

If it makes you feel better, Private, said Mauser softly, I'm a little green when it comes to this type of action, too. He paused, his strong outer shell holding but the pain of the day's losses all too clear. This day will mark the commanding officer, leaving a scar, which will forever move forward with him through his various commands. All of us are more than a bit green…

For no reason that he could explain, the private lowered his eyes down to his hands. His knuckles were white, his grip tight on the spent rifle. The mixture of human red lifeblood and that of dim orange ichor, from the terrible fiend that had assault the testing facility, made him sick. That was it, the young man—barely half way through his twenties with a new babe at home—turned to his left and lost the contents of his stomach.

Embarrassing. And in front of a commanding officer no less.

I don't blame you, Private, said Mauser. The comment was not reassuring. War with other humans was terrible, but this… this was something different. Something out of a Bradbury novel… or worse, a creation only King's twisted imagination might create.

A blast wall had been erected in the middle of a large expanse of desolate waste, an undisclosed, we'll have to kill you area somewhere in New Mexico— always New Mexico. The private leaned back against this wall, exhausted, terrified as a child after they wake from a night terror. In front of the private was once an area of cleared earth. Now the bodies of friends and fallen comrades lay, breathless, unmoving… gone from his world. Among the fallen soldiers wearing green camouflage are the bodies of a species of animal—no, creature—foreign to this planet. Skin dark as charcoal. Limbs unnaturally long compared to the torsos. Claws sharply barbed and tipped for death. Gaping mouths filled with double rows—top and bottom—of tiny shark-like teeth.

Nightmares… all of the dang things are nightmares!

The air was stale, dry with the midsummer heat and a metallic stench near to copper. Overhead the sun did not make the putrid stench of ugly battle any better.

The private's chest trembled as he looked out over the field of death. In his bloody hands, his rifle shook like a loose tooth in a quavering mouth. He thought his chest might collapse and his hands shake off the wrists.

Mauser gave the young soldier's shoulder another squeeze, firm and demanding of attention.

Get it together, Private, Mauser said quietly but firmly. This here is no time to fall to pieces. Orders are being passed to the squads, everyone is to scrub the area and move out as quickly as their boots will carry them. We don't want anyone stumbling into this mess. Not that it matters. Anyone would think this is the set of a bad horror flick. Your squad leader will have your duties going forward.

Obviously, the commander had meant for his second to last comment to be lighthearted, for the words to rescue the private from the lonely sea of survivors, stranded in the ship as it sunk. Not working.

Suddenly, the private remembered why blood covered his hands. Those… things… those demons had torn another of his squad apart. Like the man had been only a cloth rag doll, and the creature a tantrum-throwing infant. What a mess. The private had not gotten to his fellow soldier in time; when he had, his brother's abdomen was hollowed out and gory. He tried to pick up the younger man, cradle him, but the other simply fell apart at the waist.

Men in white coats—the scientists working on some new weapon, classified to the lower ranked soldiers present for guard duty, like the private—were wading through the sea of red and orange with a calculated coldness. To them, this was frog dissecting gone horribly wrong.

The private gnashed his chattering teeth together and wrung the stock of his rifle with his hands.

That's it, Private, said Mauser, spurring the young man's anger, encouraging him to hold on to this more useful of emotions. "Dang monsters had it comin', sure did! Dang powerful, though, have to say that about the things. We could use such useful resources, controlled and harnessed toward our… well… our side in things. Say, what's your name, Private?"

A pause stretched between the two men while the younger struggled inside his memory to pull out such a basic and fundamental fact of his life.

My name is Greg, sir. First Private Gregory Marshall.

Mauser nodded, clearly satisfied with the private's mind finally returning to order. There was work to be done. Things had changed.

CHAPTER ONE

Gunfire chattered, splitting the air dangerously.

The thing's hide, the monster's flesh, was near to armor, stronger than any bulletproof tactical vest First Lieutenant Marshall had ever encountered. Marshall should not have been surprised, though; he had seen creatures like this monster before. The granddaddies of what raged before him at this moment.

"Fall back! Everyone, fall back and keep up the pressure!" screamed Marshall, his voice clear and resolute. He tried to ignore the sweat dripping down his back.

How in world did one of these things get loose? he asked himself. Later, if he survived this encounter with the escaped monster—they called this particular breed a muscle—Marshall would ask the question.

First Lieutenant Marshall had a small team of five with him, all good men, all of them survivors of that day many years ago. All of them had scars, mental and physical. All of them wore patches identifying them as Army, with the following words arching around the outside border:

CARPENTER DIVISION

Suddenly someone shouted; a noise between a battle cry and a squeak of terror. Marshall couldn't blame the man.

Another soldier immediately followed the panic with, It's coming down at us full speed! We gotta move!

Charging down the wide hallway was a mass of blue fur, its form a strange hybrid with the bulky upper torso of a bull and the lower half of a nimble mountain goat. A muscle, as the Carpenter Military called the like. It threw out its powerful arms, knuckles banging into the walls to leave deep dents, its claws extending from fingers to tear at the metal sheeting.

The soldiers backpedaled toward a bend in the hallway, drawing the monster forward.

Marshall gave the command to continue firing. His men did just that, although whether the action was from terrified reflex or rigid, drilled-in practice was unknown. With a four-hundred pound monster coming headlong at you, turning the hallway into a Barcelona bull fighting ring, the reason matters little.

All of the riffles blared chattering fire, spilling hundreds of shell casings at the six sets of combat booted feet. Ping-ping-ping went the shells as they hit the smoothed stone floor.

One soldier's rifle clicked empty and with a swiftness near the speed of thought, he unlocked his barren magazine and slammed another into place. He started firing again beside his military brethren.

The muscle did not flinch during these tense, two heartbeats. None of the rounds from the rifles so much as tickled it. The monster roared with annoyance, growing larger and filling up the hallway to bursting. All around the metal walls groaned with the stress. Letting out a roar of contempt, the monster raised its head and busted through a couple of ceiling tiles. Pipes, likely part of the emergency sprinkler system, cracked and burst. Water gushed from overhead, drenching the monster, flattening its course blue coat. Then the muscle stopped, pausing in the middle of its tirade. Its nose flared and took in a whiff of the putrid scent its own saturated fur made. Marshall could smell the odor too, similar to a wet dog.

Marshall raised his rifle and leveled the weapon so the crosshair of the scope sited on the thing's tiny head. He squeezed the trigger. The rifle let out a metallic bark.

No more painful than the sting of a mosquito, probably less so, the bullet struck the muscle's forehead dead center and bounced off.

Marshall imagined the round being forced into the shape of a mushroom, the top smashed in.

The soldiers, all six, fell dead silent.

Again, the muscle's nose flared, this time not in curiosity but in irate bafflement. Was this supposed to hurt, the expression declared, if so I'm insulted! It cocked its head to one side and scratched at the place on its forehead where the bullet had stung. Then it struck.

The muscle threw out its arm and batted the soldier at Marshall's left, gouging out the other man's side and spraying so much lifeblood.

The wounded Carpenter soldier screamed as two of the remaining four men under Marshall's command dragged him around the waiting corner.

Tangling with the soldier's scream was the muscle's own fury, so loud it tossed Marshall off his feet and back several steps. The air went out of Marshall's lungs. If not for his helmet he might have cracked his skull open when he hit the floor. Not that it may matter if the next—

In one leap, the muscle used its superior balance and strength to advance down the remaining length of the hallway and directly at Marshall, claws fully extended and poised to reap the lieutenant.

Everything slowed. The monster was over First Lieutenant Marshall, its massive shadow eclipsing him, when a memory flooded the now:

New Mexico. Blood, human red and demon orange, was on Marshall's hands. Friends' screamed, horrible and shrill. The smell of death clung to the humid air, which he had no choice but to breathe. Marshall could still taste that day on his tongue. He still had nightmares. To this day, he feared the dark, feared that the sky would open and the demons, the monsters, would pour out again.

An electric charge flew through the air, as if lightning were striking out. Impossible, though, since the facility was deep underground. Marshall's vision seemed to burst with a white light. The smell of burning hair was the stimuli that returned the lead solider from his memories.

My nightmares, he reminded himself.

In front of Marshall lay the muscle, the monster that had charged his men, the monster that had escaped its cell. The hulk lay in a pile of blue hair and bulk, its head rolled up between its broad shoulders, its back rising and falling with quick, painful breathes. Smoke rose from the subdued and unconscious form of the half-bull, half-goat monster. Marshall could not see the burn mark that the electric bolt of energy had created, but the charge had done the trick.

Marshall got to his knees and looked behind him. The soldier that had taken a swipe to the abdomen from the monster's claws rested there on the smoothly polished floor just beyond the bend in the hall. A medical team had already arrived and was tending to the other man's wounds. His name was—no, idiot, his name is! –George.

Like my son's.

Behind the medical team stood a single individual, another soldier dressed like any other in green camouflage, black Army-issued boots, and Kevlar vest and helmet. The only difference between him and Marshall was the large, bulky pack the former wore: a hydroelectric static module. Two large cylinders of water mixed with an assortment of oil-based liquids bubbled and sparked on the other's back, while wires ran out of the top, down the soldier's arm and to a glove, the palm and fingers fitted with a web-work of flexible copper wires. The other soldier's hand sizzled with electricity, tiny little bits of lighting skipping and hopping along the wires coiling around his fingers.

Lightning in a bottle, Marshall thought with a silent thank-you.

Marshall rose to his feet, picking up his rifle as he went. He reloaded automatically, habit; he always did when the monsters were near, ever since that day in New Mexico.

How is George? Marshall asked one the doctors, a tiny man with a gentle face not suited for this gruesome work. Will he be—

Two other doctors dressed in white jumpsuits with stethoscopes around their necks gingerly lifted the injured soldier onto a waiting stretcher. They'd wrapped Soldier George's midsection with bandages, the white already stained red from his own blood. He had several tubes coming out of him too, feeding him with fluids and precious air. The sight brought back horrible memories for Marshall, which he shook away

Don't know, Lieutenant, the doctor answered. The damage to his organs is bad, very bad. He'll need surgery. We won't know how bad the damage is until we get in there. Excuse us.

The three-man medical team took off, rushing Marshall's man to an operating room and a scalpel.

Marshall closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. These escape incidents were rare; after their birth, the scientists closely monitored each of the monsters held at Carpenter Labs. However, there was always that one time…

His remaining men stood waiting for orders. Marshall ignored them for a silent moment as he gathered his thoughts and banished the bloody image of Soldier George; the soldier was as young as Marshall the day the tiny spot in New Mexico was ripped open.

He turned his attention back toward the subdued muscle. The air still smelled of burned hair, more strongly of wet dog on a hot summer's day. Some lab coats were already on the scene, probably nearby this entire time— science club nerds with honorary rankings. The thought made the lead soldier grind his teeth.

I wonder if the kid will be lucky to live to be thirty-eight like I have?

This pessimistic thought Marshall banished immediately, instead keeping the bloody image of Soldier George. For next time.

Move out, guys, Marshal ordered, infusing resolve in his speech. "Let's escort the thing back to its cell and be done with this business!"

An hour later, the hallway still smelled of burned hair, wet dog, and blood. Regardless of the bleach used to clean the scene, the smell of blood lingered most strongly. Senses can bring back past moments, find memories as quickly as if searching a library's card catalog alphabetically. Senses can trigger the imagination to relive those distant echoes.

General Mauser ignored his imagination, detaching himself from the quick briefing that First Lieutenant Marshall had given him not fifteen minutes ago.

Glad I brought that boy here with me, Mauser thought. Not my choice initially, in fact, it was not my choice to bring every boy who saw those demons that day in New Mexico. However, the brass thought it best policy everyone be watched closely. The bond was already established between the men, baptized in tragedy as it were… might as well build a division from the pieces needing to be picked up anyway. Besides, I do not argue my orders.

Mauser nodded at his thoughts, this day, like a handful of others, solidifying the orders to bring those soldiers with him to Carpenter. Good idea indeed, isolating these experiments meant less to explain to the American people if accidents happened. Would the general populous believe the truth, though? Would they swallow explanations, about other dimensions populated by real nightmares, and the idea of better protecting the country by utilizing the very claws that slaughtered so many military lives years ago? The dish was hard to swallow, but the contents went down with less chocking when you lived rather than read the report of that day in New Mexico.

Why did you want to see this, General? asked a voice from around the corner.

A sigh. Then Mauser spoke, never taking his eyes off the men who had come down to scrub and scour the stains from the floor. I wanted to see for myself the outcome of these years, the point at which we find ourselves today.

Well, said the voice from around the bend in the hall, "the progress is that. Think of where we've come from! The voice sounded excited, elated by the prospect of discussion and debate, especially when he was engaged in discussion of his research. When Carpenter was created all we had were a lot of dead bodies with curious DNA and endless possibilities."

Yes, dead bodies, Mauser agreed silently with an unquenchable rage. Bodies of the men who had given their lives to make sure the threat would not reach outside the test site… and those who they took with them to meet death!

Since that day in New Mexico, Mauser had aged. Normal. He was softer. Grey ran through his temples and in his mustache. The hair atop his head had receded back from his brow. He wore spectacles now too, the style making him look that much more a Roosevelt look-a-like. Still he stood strong, bold, and broad of shoulder and chest, a man of iron resolve and action.

For another moment, he watched, disconnected, as two lower-ranked officers scrubbed with hard-bristled brushes and nuclear-strong cleanser. He proceeded to walk around the corner, to where the source of the voice stood, taking in the carnage left by the muscle.

The muscle's hoof falls had dug out furrows in the artificially smoothed stone floor. Piles of rock debris had pushed against the walls. The ceiling was torn open; tiles hung down limply, water dripped from the broken sprinkler system pipes. Walls were dented. Light fixtures hung from sparking wires. Mauser's feet splashed in puddles as he walked toward the waiting owner of—

A wrist-thick cable, alive with electricity, swung down when one of the weakened tiles overhead collapsed underneath the owner of the voice.

Mauser reacted quickly. He reached out with his huge hands—the knuckles scarred—and grabbed the other man to pull him out of the large puddle he stood in.

The cable dove into the puddle and brought the shallow pool alive with a white-blue sizzle of light.

Mauser considered the carnage with a new sense of appreciation for the results.

Potential here, was all his thoughts would reveal.

Thank you, General Mauser, the other man said with a shaking inhale of breath. "If you had not moved me… well… best not to think on what will not be now. Thank you again."

With a nod, Mauser released the other man, who adjusted himself, smoothing imaginary folds from his lab coat.

Possibilities, yes, Mauser admitted, continuing the conversation. But with possibilities come uncharted waters, unmarked roads. More sea can be on the other side of those waters. Dead ends waiting further along a road.

Or we can find land. Or the road will take us to new avenues to explore.

Mauser gave the owner of the voice a curt nod of understanding; he refused to give in, meaning to be the stubborn nail unwilling to be pried from a board. So far we've only discovered more roads to follow, Graves, no place to set down and build civilization. Progress with no end in sight is as good as standing still or finding a dead end.

Professor Graves headed Carpenter Labs' scientists, a man of science and reason. He was spare and studious, always put together with a face that showed little surprise to life or the mysteries that enveloped its nature. In fact, he probably found there to be no mysteries at all, only questions with answers waiting for solutions. He possessed dark brown hair and eyes, eyes dimmed by personal tragedy. Graves never had been the same since his wife's passing years before. These days those questions needing answers consumed his life, more so than his adopted son, Jon did. The military offered up the greatest challenge of this age to Graves—unlocking the secrets of a new DNA string, from an unknown and new species. Great challenge, a new obsession. Sometimes, Mauser believed that's all Graves cares about… little cells in petri dishes, and these monsters.

Philosophy aside, Doctor, Mauser continued, "what happened that might potentially cost one of my men his life, huh? How did the thing get out and away from your people?"

I have two of my scientists in critical condition as well, Graves reminded Mauser, his tone carefully soft, his body language unthreatening.

Mauser responded by miming ticking off two tallies on one side of an imaginary scoreboard. He shrugged.

Vitamins, Graves offered, finally getting that Mauser had backed off his hostilities, to a degree.

Mauser raised an eyebrow speculatively and looked down the hallway and to the sparking cable in the puddle. Trickles of smoke were floating up from the tiny pool.

How did the thing have the power at its disposal to do this, to grow this strong? It didn't have access to—

The hybrid had an unexpected amount in its reserves. The two individuals in charge of taking it out of its confinement had not known. Earlier in the morning, my team was testing the limits of the muscle's strength with weights. They took the necessary precautions afterwards to drain any reserves its body may have accumulated and not used. When time came to administer vitamins… well…

Graves gestured at the hallway, as if that was answer enough. A rare occurrence, I assure you. The equipment is being checked.

So much power directed from rage, pure anger, Mauser said with reverence. "But the mind to control it is still lacking. I have the Secretary of Defense nipping at my butt like a cold wind in the Arctic, asking when our project—a project that not even the current Commander and Chief is aware of—will be ready for deployment. This incident doesn't leave me with confidence. Graves, I don't need to tell you this: we don't want a repeat of ninety-four, not with monsters we're creating."

Nor I, Mauser. Nor I. You see now why I need more time for testing, hmm? Creating new species is not a Science Fair project, mind you. Graves's voice was toneless. The task is challenging. Yes, the process is invigorating and wonderful, but a challenge nonetheless. Gene splicing. Recombination. Emotion and mental control programming.

So many failures, so many roads with dead ends and backtracking needed, Mauser mused to himself more than Graves.

Graves nodded agreement, with a bit of bad taste. Always a step forward, though. General, even now we have a new batch in the upper levels in the first stages…

That reminded Mauser of something. He turned to Professor Graves, who was only slightly shorter than his six-one. Should we cancel the tour then? Given today's events and that you have untested subjects in the upper levels of the facility.

Shaking his head, Graves took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses with a handkerchief he kept in his coat pocket. No, everything should be fine. The area is locked down and the tour is only for the first few levels, to show the children some of the non-classified projects.

After thinking on the current state of operations and Graves's rationale, Mauser nodded agreement. Fine, as long as the children stay away from any trouble. They are our kids, after all.

The expression on Graves's face told Mauser that the former's boy was the furthest thing from his mind.

Why I got the idea into my head that having our families close by would be a good idea, Mauser mused. Right on top of our heads and they're the least of our concerns. No wonder the kids aren't who we want them to be. Shame.

CHAPTER TWO

A stark contrast to the roar of an escaping genetically engineered monster, the last bell of the day rings at Carpenter High School. Eight to ten miles away and two miles above the secret government facility, the institution of higher learning is the picture of normalcy.