Turned

3

Harkes doesn't say anything. He just stares at her. It takes Wren a moment to realize he's speechless.

"Harkes." She snaps her fingers. Nothing. He's freezing up like it's his wedding day. "Harkes."

Her voice has a new timbre to it. A lung-rattling growl that should come from a tiger, not a person. They both jump. It echoes around the room. Alien. She nearly doesn't recognize it as part of her voice. But it does the trick. Harkes stops making fish eyes at her.

"Yes." He swallows audibly. "Yes, ma'am."

"You bit?"

He shakes his head.

"Good. Give me a sitrep."

"We're fucked."

She glances at the Bowler. "Details, corporal."

"Came back for KAR." He sucks in a raspy breath. "Then that fuck herded all these fledgelings into us."

The Kill and Retrieve order puts something to rest inside Wren. Vampires take great delight in torturing anyone who hunts them. KARs are just as much for morale as they are for the integrity of operations. You turn, you burn. It's the vow they make to each other.

"Sorry." Harkes watches her closely. "We didn't catch you in time."

She looks towards the far side of the room. It sounds cavernous, the air smells of wet stone. This place isn't man-made. The implications are endless, but a treacherous squeeze in her throat still commandeers most of her attention. Harkes smells like a $100 steak, but a wave of tenderness still washes over her.

"Save it for my funeral," she says gruffly. "Now let me look at you."

He coughs. "Yes, ma'am."

Wren's eyes adjust to the gloom well enough to give Harkes a good once-over. The way he guards his ribs tells her they're at least bruised. She gently slips her hand under his stab vest. No distention or bulging around his abdomen. One hit from a centennial vampire can break bones, rupture organs, and spread disease. It's happened before. She pulls her hand away and tightens up his vest. He sucks in a sharp breath, but doesn't make any other sound. His right leg is bent at an odd angle. A soaked black patch on his calf has a telltale peak.

"Is it bad?" Harkes asks in a small voice.

She squares her jaw. "Your mic working?"

He groans. "Smashed my radio pack."

It only occurs to Wren to look at her own. It's gone. Of course it's gone.

The Bowler remains still so Wren fishes out her Individual First Aid Kit. The IFAK shows no signs of tearing or contamination. She trades her old gloves for a sterile nitrile pair, carefully pulls his pant leg out of his boot, and rolls it up over the wound. He makes a strangled noise.

Bone juts out of his skin. Bloodied and ivory, pale even in this light. An open fracture. The poor bastard. Wren's mouth suddenly waters. This makes her hungry. Like a whiff of fried food after a long shift. It's the exact same feeling. And it's revolting. But the craving to dig in doesn't go away. It just mixes with the urge to vomit. She can see herself as any other fledgeling: biting down, throwing up, and then eating it all over again like a dog. Tearing into her team after leading them into a fucking slaughterhouse.

It takes a moment to lock that down. Refocus.

Wren inhales shakily and hopes Harkes doesn't hear it. She glances at the Bowler again, keeps an ear out for anomalous sounds, and then concentrates on what's in front of her. Blood seeps up from the around the bone. Not immediately fatal, but blood loss isn't their only enemy, either. She rips open antimicrobial swabs and cleans the wound as best she can. It's only buying time. The chance of an infection is high. Cruoris isn't airborne, but vampires always try to spread it with dirty weapons, and she can smell the blood in the room. If by some miracle the cruoris virus doesn't gain a foothold, there's plenty of other pathogens to take its place. She applies the Israeli pressure dressing, careful not to jostle the bone, and pulls the pressure bar as hard as she dares. Harkes grabs the back of her stab vest instinctively. His breaths escape in feeble little puffs.