Knight and Dex

By Mark Aberdeen

Detective Rick O’Shea is an ordinary cop in an extraordinary world of superheroes and super-villains. In this sequel to “Dex Territory,” the New London Police Department and the Superhuman Task Force are inundated with government surplus military equipment, a much-needed godsend when a series of murders leads to an invasion of Dex-zombies. With the President due to tour the operation, Rick, Pink Panther, and Talon must unravel a sinister plot hatched by the Chessman, defeat the undefeatable zombies, and rescue a little girl before the entire Dex community gets blamed for the assassination of the leader of the free world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TWB Press
• Release date: Oct 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781936991976

Mark Aberdeen

Mark Aberdeen was born and raised on a family farm along the Southeastern Connecticut shoreline. He cobbled together an education and a varied career, which includes: armament technician in the US Army, submarine builder for the US Navy, cook, restaurant manager, retail sales, highly unpaid actor, and currently works in field of telecommunications despite a lack of talent, skill, or the study of anything useful. He currently lives in North Georgia with his wife and two rescue dogs.

Book preview

Knight and Dex

By

Mark Aberdeen

Copyright by Mark Aberdeen 2015

Published by TWB Press at Smashwords

All rights reserved. No part of this story (ebook) may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or book reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidences are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Edited by Terry Wright

Cover Art by Laura Hidalgo

Talon image by Paul Littlehale

ISBN: 978-936991-97-6

Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank some people for making this book possible: my wife, Nadine, who was temporarily widowed while I wrote Knight and Dex. I’m back from the dead now, babe! Paul Littlehale for Talon’s image; Laura Hidalgo for the cover art; Heather, Yoni, Scott G., Scott M., Joe, and Gary for their help and unyielding support. You guys kept me going. Finally, thanks to Terry Wright, my editor, for pulling my first draft out of the fire.

By

Mark Aberdeen

Chapter 1

Snow settled over New London and covered the alley with a chilly blanket, which normally gave me a moment’s pause to reflect. I might have thought about tranquility, but there was nothing tranquil in the roundhouse kick I took to the face. Steam rose from crimson splatter as my blood hit the freshly fallen snow.

Minx’s claws flashed. I jumped back and narrowly avoided being torn open at the belly. It was difficult to wax poetic while someone was doing their best to kill me.

Welcome to my life.

I swung my left fist. My intention wasn’t to connect with Minx’s jaw but to buy a precious second. The parry worked well enough and gave me the moment I needed to draw the pulse pistol from under my coat. I bellowed a triumphant, Ha!

My moment of glory was short-lived. Another kick connected with my right hand. The blow jarred the weapon loose and it sailed into a snow bank. Powdery snow swallowed it whole. The thing about being unarmed, it felt a bit like being naked in a crowd. No way to cover my ass.

I gripped my stinging hand. Shit.

A powerful arm, furry and itchy and stiff as a crowbar, hooked me around the neck. Minx had gotten behind me, and the momentum of her attack tore my feet from the ground. I cartwheeled, forcing her to detach and spring back, but I landed face-down in a heap. The snow with all its apparent fluffiness did nothing to cushion my fall. The impact rattled my bones and lights danced across my vision, swirling in loopy rings.

All I needed was another concussion.

Strong hands grabbed me by the collar and belt. My stomach lurched as I was torn from the relative comfort of the ground and flipped onto my back like a flapjack. Minx pounced on top of me and pinned my arms to my sides with her powerful thighs. Normally, I approved of such positions, but she wasn’t Pink Panther and this wasn’t foreplay. I feared Minx would crunch me like a walnut in a nutcracker. I gasped for precious air.

To any observer it would appear as if I were unprepared for this fight. That observer would have been correct. I’d seen her running down the sidewalk and duck into this alley. She was up to something and I’d interrupted her. Evidence suggested it was something she didn’t want the cops to know about. While my intent was to have a friendly chat with her, she’d decided to take our exchange in a different direction.

Minx had a reputation in underworld circles as an effective messenger. Our not-so-cozy encounter fell within the realm of her typical delivery method. While I didn’t feel like she took sadistic glee in her work, I thought she took pride in a job well done. I, on the other hand, found this work environment hostile, and already I was drawing up a complaint to her HR department.

You’re not...in trouble, Minx. Stop...I need to...talk to you. Each word blubbered between heavy breaths.

Minx laughed as if she’d just heard the funniest joke ever told. Her laugh could have been considered musical if not for the minor chords accompanied by a note of homicide.

I blinked a few times to bring her face into focus. Her sandy brown whiskers tickled my nose as she moved in closer to regard me with her amber cat eyes. The lids were fully open, and I could almost see the innocent girl she once was before a human-designed retrovirus got loose, messed up her DNA, and changed the world.

You don’t really want to kill me, I muttered.

Yes I do. She ran a sandpaper tongue from my chin over my lips, and scratched its way to the tip of my nose. She ended the lick with a kiss, but her lips were as cold as her murderous intent.

Ick! Cat lips. I spat.

She smiled and showed me her fierce fangs. Poor Detective Rick O’Shea. She hissed. How does it feel to be pussy whipped for real?

Before I could come up with something clever to say, she bashed my head against the ground. A new field of stars and constellations flashed through my brain. The snowpack under my head must’ve kept my skull from splitting open.

Minx was what we at the STF, The Superhuman Task Force, called a Dex-morph. The retrovirus had mutated her body into a hybrid form of wildcat and woman. As humans shared most DNA with every living creature on the planet, the retrovirus activated genes in a select few victims that belonged to other species in history’s evolutionary tree. In Minx’s case, she survived with feline features. She was not the artist’s rendition of a sexy cat-woman. She was a predator, powerful and cruel, and all of those traits were as plain as the whiskers on her face.

Muscles shifted in her powerful thighs and her right arm reared back to deliver my death blow. Her six-inch claws would have no problem cleaving my head from my neck with a single blow, no more difficult than scratching a carpeted cat pole.

Minx didn’t believe in witty banter, which I respected. I’d crossed paths with a few Dexes who thought the moment before delivering a death blow was the perfect time to get chatty. First, small talk was annoying as hell. I mean, come on, at the moment of my impending death, the last thing I gave a shit about was my murderer’s feelings. Second, hesitation gave me time to come up with a defense. If more Dexes had just shut the hell up and got down to business, fewer would be locked up on Plum Island, and I’d have taken up residence under a headstone a long time ago. I shouldn’t complain, but there was something to be said for silent efficiency.

The first rule of police work: don’t do stupid shit. I saw the rule as something to aspire to, but not necessarily observe to the letter. I had to admit, I didn’t always adhere to the spirit of the rule either, as I had a tendency to do stupid shit at inopportune moments, which usually meant maxing out the out-of-pocket costs on my health insurance plan.

Also, doing stupid shit hurt. A lot. I knew approaching Minx was stupid. She had no love for me and hated my partner, Pink Panther. But Minx had been elusive. She had participated in the State Street riot and skedaddled before anyone could take her statement. I’d caught a glimpse of her while on my way home after work, and as the saying went, when opportunity strikes, take it.

Before you kill me, can I get your statement?

She growled and squeezed my throat with her left hand. Sharp claws pricked at my jugular. Light glinted off the raised claws waiting to slice downward.

Seriously, I...need...your...help. The chokehold tightened, and I teetered on the edge of unconsciousness.

Minx had grown up on the streets and was shunned for her appearance. Life was cruel but she embraced it; whatever tender side she had disappeared long ago. One of her other cat-like features was fur. Minx’s fur wasn’t the kind you’d want to snuggle up to on a cold winter day. It was thick and coarse and scratched like hell.

She didn’t wear much in the way of a costume, or clothing of any kind for that matter. A few straps and belts cinched her waist and chest to give her places to put her tools of the trade, knives mostly. She didn’t have any feature that resembled a woman’s breasts. It pleased me she wore a g-string; otherwise I was in danger of becoming familiar with something that would haunt me forever.

The Dexes who wore costumes did so out of tradition. Spandex was going out of fashion, as those who’d seen real action had switched to tactical and armored wardrobes. Most had learned leather and Kevlar offered better protection and didn’t tip the scale on the obvious meter. While spandex looked amazing on twenty-year-old hard-bodies, those heading toward middle age found it less flattering. Vanity became the mother of invention: cover that shit up.

I forced Minx to shift her left hand so I could breathe again and hungrily gulped air. As I did, a vulpine smile split her face. She grabbed my chin and shoved my head back. I struggled to force my chin down, knowing my throat now lay exposed to her claws. She wanted me to feel helpless, toyed with me like a cat playing with a mouse. The anticipation of my bloodletting felt heavy between us, and it seemed to arouse her. Her body stiffened, and she sniffed the air. She looked left and right. Her nose wrinkled as she sneered, and her eyes filled with hate.

You bitch. Pink Panther’s explanative sounded like poetry to my ears. My pink-clad deliverance had arrived.

Minx turned her head and hissed just before a gorgeous pink-booted foot connected with her muzzle. Her head snapped back, and her body had no choice but to follow it to the ground. Free from her weight I rolled to my side, and though I hadn’t recovered enough to participate in the fight, I had a front-row seat to the best catfight in town.

Panther was sleek and formed graceful lines, but Minx resembled a beat-up tom cat. She was as muscular and sluggish as a body builder while Panther’s grace favored that of a ballroom dancer. Her twists and whirls made each move a show. I could hold my own against most Dexes, but I had to admit, pitted against either of these two I’d be paste.

Pink Panther fought as if her mind had stepped aside and her body did the thinking. Her face looked peaceful, even meditative. She sidestepped incoming attacks and easily parried blows. Minx threw everything she had at Panther but nothing came close to connecting. Panther was patient. She let her enraged opponent make mistakes and chose the exact moment to launch a counterstrike. Minx threw an overzealous left cross. Panther sidestepped and slugged her with a quick uppercut. Minx growled and followed with a vicious haymaker, but Panther ducked and drove her opponent backward. A dull thud came next as Minx’s body slammed against an unforgiving brick wall. Air whooshed out of her, but she displayed her own toughness; she shook off the hit, rolled left, and came up on her haunches. From the crouch, she sprang at Panther. A ferocious battle cry born of pure hatred echoed off the alley walls.

Pink Panther not only had superhuman gymnastic agility, she’d trained with some of the best martial artists in the world. She could change direction in mid-air, turn any landing into an immediate jump. Every movement displayed pure kinetic grace.

With Minx in mid-leap, Panther set her stance and let Minx come at her.

I wanted to shout, ‘Watch out!’ but I needn’t have worried.

Panther dropped a microsecond before Minx could connect deadly claws to tender skin. She grabbed Minx’s shoulders with both hands, rolled backward, and planted her boots in Minx’s belly then used the cat woman’s own momentum against her. They rolled back and Panther’s legs sprang to their full extension. Before Minx had a chance to find terra firma, she was launched into the air at breakneck speed, rocketing toward a snow-covered SUV. She impacted the fender with bone-crushing results. The metal caved in around her like a stiff catcher’s mitt.

Panther continued her roll backward, flipped and landed in a three-point stance, ready for Minx to come at her again.

However, Minx slumped to the ground, leaving her tail-side up in an unladylike heap. Blood dribbled from the corner of her slack-jawed mouth. Her eyes had rolled back in her head.

That’s how it’s done. Panther brushed snow off her costume.

I lay back in the snow to assess my injuries.

Panther knelt at my side. O’Shea, this is no time to be making snow angels.

My vision went blurry. Huh?

Stay with me. She slapped my cheek a few times.

I’m all right, I said out of reflex. I didn’t have actual proof of that. And I doubted a doctor would agree with me. A quick check of my ribs and throat determined nothing gushed out of or protruded from my body, so I felt optimistic about my recovery.

Panther purred.

I loved the sound, but: Sweetheart, not to pick nits...and you know I love you dearly, but you’re not really a cat. Minx is. She has fur and fangs, and she’s indifferent to human suffering. You have fur-lined gloves and earmuffs.

Faux fur, she corrected me. You know how much I have invested in my wardrobe. She flicked her blonde hair, well...wig. "So keep it up, buster, and maybe next time I’ll let you take a few more licks before I swoop in to the rescue...Lois." She said it with a sly smile.

Come on! Really? Again?

Lois Lane would always get herself in a pickle and Superman would swoop in to her rescue. Lois was our shorthand for saving the other’s keister. Panther spotted me three Lois Lanes to offset my disadvantage, as she’d put it, of not being an actual superhero; even then I ran a serious deficit. The winner got to call the other Lois, and the one saved had to please the savior in a sexual manner of his or her choosing. While I couldn’t prove it, I strongly suspected she let me win one occasionally. While it could have been considered pity sex, I didn’t see a downside. Besides, losing had its advantages, as it gave me an opportunity to learn a few tricks in the sack.

I guess you get to have your way with me.

You bet your sweet ass. She winked.

Fair was fair. Poor me.

I glanced at Minx, still out like a broken bulb. Something had set her off. Sure, her temper ran on a short track, but to attack me without cause was not her style. Worse, she seemed to enjoy herself at my expense.

I couldn’t help but think I’d caught her at a bad time, like she was going somewhere in a hurry or running from something that was chasing her.

When she came to, she’d have a lot of explaining to do.

Chapter 2

Snow fell in my face as I lay in the alley, flat on my back, as usual. Pink Panther, with a thoroughness reserved for IRS auditors, checked me a second time. Her hand placements had little to do with my injuries and more to do with ensuring I’d be able to perform activities unrelated to crime fighting.

Nothing important is broken, she assured me.

Great. Can I get up now?

Not yet. Let’s check the non-critical part. Your head. She held up a finger and moved it side to side. Follow my finger.

I tracked it with my eyes. I knew better than to argue with Panther, as I’d suffered too many concussions not to take even a minor one seriously. Over the years I’d suffered a variety of brain bashings, from woozy noggin bonking to lights-out skull-splitters. I ranked them according to symptoms.

How does this concussion rank on the ROSCOM?

Barely a one. We’d developed the Rick O’Shea Concuss-O-Meter or ROSCOM for short. It became police standard issue. Cops couldn’t let go of a good acronym. My vision is a little fuzzy.

She eyed me skeptically.

But I see only one of you.

She frowned. Your left eye looks a little lopsided.

Okay. Maybe it ranks a two.

She held up three fingers. Could be this bad, partner.

Not a chance, partner. Panther and I had been teamed up for the last couple of months. My last partner, Duke, and I had been separated. The department was down an officer, with Rachel Ramirez being injured, so normally Pink Panther’s human persona, Monica Voight, filled in as my partner. She’d received special dispensation as a consultant to the STF. It didn’t make her one of the rank and file but gave her honorary status. She couldn’t wear a badge, and she didn’t have a police issued weapon. Not that she needed one.

We skirted a fine line, as the police union continued their staunch position of a human only task force. They accepted Monica, but only when she took off the costume and dialed down her inner panther.

I’m okay now.

She rolled her eyes behind her pink leather mask; the tips formed little cat ears. Pink Panther costumes changed constantly. They were mostly designed to allow freedom of movement. Sometimes she wore a tail, sometimes cat ears, but she always wore a mask. The costumes ranged from cute as hell to drop-dead sexy, depending on her mood, which ranged from dangerously playful to playfully dangerous.

Due to the snow and frigid temperatures, she dressed in warm layers. She also wore faux fur lined gloves and boots and a long pink overcoat. While the insulated material covering her arms, chest, and legs accentuated her delightful curves, her abdomen remained loose in the middle, as her ripped abs gave ground to a tiny four-month-old bump. She’d broken into a stock of maternity costumes she had specially designed when we found out we were pregnant.

I appreciated the way she looked and she knew it.

She sat on my stomach, pinned my wrists to the snow, and turned serious. You should have waited for me.

I had the opportunity to question Minx.

To get your ass kicked, you mean. You know better than that. She’s dangerous.

So am I. I defended myself, lame as it sounded.

She cupped my chin, shook my head side to side, and talked to me as if I were a puppy. Of course you are.

I slapped her hand way. Stop it. We talked about using that tone of voice with me.

I know but you’re so darn adorable. Her tone became deep and smoky. And sexy. She kissed me and pulled back. Yes, you are dangerous.

We fell into a much deeper kiss. Then I pulled back. Can we finish this some other time?

She made an exasperated sound. Why are you so grumpy?

I just got beat up and I’m tired.

You were tossing around a lot last night. Bad dreams again?

Sometimes I can’t get my brain to shut off.

The war is over, Rick.

For you, maybe.

I have a patented Pink Panther surefire cure-all. She gave me a slow kiss and gently bit my lower lip as she pulled away.

We’d been dating since October when circumstances led to us getting a little closer than the typical police partnership, hence the bump.

Business first, besides I’m freezing my nuts off.

We can’t have that. She giggled and got off me.

I held out my hand.

She pulled me to my feet.

I shook the snow off my trench coat. A friend of mine had made it for me, Doc Quarks. Some folks called him a mad scientist, a crackpot, and according to an article in the New London Day: The scariest little old man in the world. I wouldn’t characterize him as such, but he did have some peculiar ideas that led to new and sometimes exciting relationships with forces of nature best left alone.

The coat had deep pockets, one of which held my dad’s old Army-issued Colt semi-automatic pistol. The material Quarks used was a super-dense carbon microfiber. Even the most determined weapons couldn’t penetrate it. Doc called it the ultimate in body armor. It also kept me dry and comfortable in rain and wind and blowing snow. It was no heavier than a normal coat, but he had said it should be measured in carats rather than pounds. My pants, on the other hand, were an off-the-rack cotton-poly blend and afforded no such protections. As a result, melted snow had soaked my legs up to my knees. I fought to ignore the cold.

After rooting around the snow bank, I recovered my pulse pistol, wiped it off to ensure no moisture led from the end of the barrel to my trigger finger, and slipped it back into its shoulder rig. While the weapon was considered non-lethal, when set to full power it could stop Godzilla from rampaging through Tokyo. It shot out an energy bolt that zapped the determination from just about anything it hit. Even those Dexes who could shrug off bullets were reduced to a twitching mass of flesh when nailed by this baby. My pulse pistol had never let me