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  SYMBIOTE

  Trevor Schmidt

  United States of America

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and not intended to represent real people or places. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher.

  SYMBIOTE

  Copyright © 2014 by Trevor Schmidt

  Cover iStock Photo by Sdecoret

  Contact the Author

  Twitter: @TrevorSSchmidt

  Blog: http://trevorsschmidt.blogspot.com/

  Also by Trevor Schmidt

  The Corsair Uprising #1: The Azure Key

  Memory Leak

  The Sword Maker’s Seal

  Replica (A Short Story)

  1

  1930 Hours – Day 1 – Outside San Francisco

  Red and orange bursts of sunlight seeped through the windows of the Food Save Grocery Store as the sun set over the golden hills just outside San Francisco. Two lumpy stock boys refilled shelves with potato chips and cookies opining over their meaningless jobs. The Food Save was just dying down after the evening rush when the aisles erupted in a chorus of screams.

  Neil Meriwether, a man of average build, who worked as an insurance salesman when he could find work, was hunched over a whole ham, tearing off chunks in animalistic fashion as frightened shoppers abandoned their carts and ran away. His facial hair was a few days of growth past the fashionable stubble phase and several weeks shy of an intentional beard. His hair was normally slicked back, but now it was scraggly, pointing in all directions, held together by too much product. His eyes were surrounded by deep circles that suggested he’d gone days without sleep. Above all else, he looked predatory.

  Neil’s eyes darted between objects, unable to focus on any one item or person. The deli workers stood with mouths agape. The Food Save had its fair share of homeless people come through, but never anyone this brazen. Neil continued to devour the ham with ravenous jaws that clamped together in a precise rhythm. He relaxed his esophagus like a champion competition eater, letting the meat slide down his gullet with ease.

  The assistant manager, a husky, pimpled man the other employees knew as Pizza Face behind his back, approached the gorging man. He scratched his razor-burned chin as he thought up something to say. Pizza Face wasn’t the best with words. He’d worked at the Food Save for nine years and was finally forced into a position of leadership. Instead of dealing with customers all day, he would rather finish writing his new Dungeons and Dragons campaign: Escape from the Tower of Gamoore. He mustered up the confidence and spoke to the transient.

  “Sir, you’re scaring the other customers,” Pizza Face said with feigned confidence, adding, “If you don’t intend to pay for that, I’m going to have to call the police.”

  Neil continued eating the ham methodically, almost picking it clean. He looked up at the manager with eyes that for a moment appeared to flash an unnatural shade of green. His jaw hung open like a hissing snake. A growl escaped his lips, low and guttural. It was unlike anything Pizza Face had expected to hear out of him.

  “Jimmy,” Pizza Face said, motioning to a stock boy, “Call the police. This guy’s not going to listen.”

  The teenage stock boy nodded and turned to take off to the manager’s office. After a few steps, he heard an abrupt scream, followed by the unsettling gurgle of a man choking to death on his own blood. When Jimmy turned back toward the scene, the ham lay forgotten on the ground and Neil Meriwether was crouched over the manager, strangling him.

  Two deli workers came out from behind the counter and attempted to wrestle the transient off Pizza Face. Neil spun with the grace of a martial artist and kicked one of the deli worker’s legs out. The other employee grabbed Neil’s jacket and tried to grapple him to the ground. Neil broke three of his fingers with one swift movement, and then moved down the nearest aisle like some manner of ape between Chimpanzee and a human.

  Neil snatched a bag of potato chips from the shelf and thrust whole handfuls into his mouth. In the following five minutes, Neil Meriwether continued to eat until the swell in his stomach protruded out of his unzipped jacket. The employees cleared the store of customers. Some workers ran away while some stayed to watch the man, unable to move for fear of missing a piece of the action. The employees acted as many Americans would: captivated by the odd and the violent and unable or unwilling to intervene.

  Sirens blared as two police cars pulled up to the Food Save, their red and blue flashing lights blinding through the glass as dusk had finally arrived. Four officers entered the store and approached the gorged man from both sides of the snack aisle. Officer Ramirez signaled to one of the officers to check on the employee lying in a pool of blood. The two remaining officers pulled Tasers while Ramirez approached with one hand outstretched and the other on the grip of his gun.

  Officer Ramirez was a five year veteran of the force. He had the cleanest arrest record of anyone with his experience and he was a damned good cop, according to his supervisor. He wasn’t one to gun for the cushy jobs patrolling the yuppie neighborhoods around San Francisco. Luis Ramirez grew up off César Chávez Boulevard with more drugs per capita than an average Thai whorehouse. He’d seen more than his fair share of homeless people in the city and felt for them. A lot of them were military veterans with psychological problems. Officer Ramirez wanted to help out where he was needed most, and right now that was in the Food Save Grocery Store.

  Officer Barrows returned from checking on the downed employee, shaking his head solemnly. Ramirez nodded and took a few steps closer to the man, who stood facing the racks, focused on the food in front of him.

  “Sir,” Luis said, “My name is Officer Ramirez. Do you know where you are?”

  A series of growls answered the policeman. Off-white foam dripped from Neil Meriwether’s mouth. Officer Ramirez signaled the two policemen behind the vagrant, each of whom grabbed an arm and pulled them behind the man’s back. Before the officers could slap cuffs on him, Neil thrust his head to the rear, crunching Officer Clement’s nose. Neil twisted his weight and rolled free.

  Officer Ramirez pulled his Taser from the sheath on his belt. Neil crouched to the floor on all fours, and then sprung at Officer Ramirez like a starved lion. Officer Ramirez fired the Taser, connecting with the man’s chest, but Neil was already on top of him, tearing a patch of flesh from his neck.

  The remaining officers fired their Tasers at Neil. Finally, the combined shock was enough to incapacitate him. The policeman with the broken nose rolled Neil off of Officer Ramirez and put pressure on his neck wound. Blood was flowing freely from the puncture marks. At the academy they’d learned about all manner of wounds and how to administer first aid. With a neck wound, there wasn’t any kind of tourniquet he could fashion, so his options were limited. He continued to press down on the wound. It was the best he could do under the circumstances.

  Officer Johnson keyed up his radio and said, “This is Unit 356, I have an 11-98 at the Food Save on Merchant Street. Officer down. Say again, Officer down.”

  Officer Johnson was a tall African man. People would try to call him African-American and he would correct them. He was born in Ghana and lived there until he was eight years old. When his family immigrated to America, his father had them change their last name from Aboagye. While Johnson’s father had wanted to fit in in a new country, he’d wanted to stand out since he was a child. The beauty of America to him was the ability to be his own person and embrace his heritage. That’s why he was on the streets everyday defending that freedom.

  “10-4 Unit 356, what is their condition?” the dispatcher asked.

  “Code 3, emergency.” Officer Johnson said, adding with his slight accent, “
Multiple puncture wounds to the neck, unable to stop blood loss.”

  Officer Johnson pointed to Officer Clement and ordered, “I need a first aid kit now!”

  Officer Clement hesitated for a moment, and then took off in a sprint to his squad car.

  Neil began to stir, rubbing his eyes and feeling around his chest for the Taser’s probes. Before he could pull one loose, Officer Barrows pulled the trigger on his Taser, sending a pulse through Neil’s body. He convulsed on the floor, quivering and letting more foam fall from his lips. After ten seconds of this he passed out once more.

  Officer Barrows removed his off hand from the Taser and tenderly held his broken nose. The rookie was known around the department as the ‘pretty boy,’ who took perhaps too much pride in his personal appearance. With his relentless positivity, he was already thinking of comparisons he could draw to Owen Kim. He was going to have a story that would get him laid at any bar in town. He smiled at that thought.

  “How much can this guy take?” Officer Barrows asked, more out of curiosity than concern.

  “He’s probably on something,” Officer Johnson responded. “Cuff him to one of the racks until the ambulance comes.”

  Officer Clement returned with the first aid kit and handed it to Officer Johnson, who opened it and retrieved a quick clotting patch. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do until the ambulance arrived. One should already have been on its way for the grocery clerk, but they didn’t tell him an ETA.

  Officer Johnson wiped as much of the blood away as he could, and then pressed the pad down over the puncture marks. Officer Clement ripped off pieces of medical tape and handed it to Johnson, who attempted to get a tight seal on the wound. It was no use. Gushing red fluid continued to flow out from under the quick clot pad. No matter how much pressure he applied, it wasn’t going to help.

  Sirens sounded in the distance. The ambulance would be there in seconds, but Officer Ramirez didn’t have time to spare. The pool of blood beneath the officer’s neck kept creeping outward until it began to soak into Officer Johnson’s uniform.

  “Shit,” Officer Johnson said. “We’re losing him.”

  Ramirez’s deep brown eyes were wide with shock. He looked up at Johnson with the expression of a man who knew his own condition; who knew he was going to die. Johnson broke his gaze and turned to Neil Meriwether with ferocity. The man’s mouth hung open and chunks of Ramirez’s skin were stuck between his blood-stained teeth. Even beneath the blood, Johnson could tell he was either a heavy coffee drinker or neglected to brush his teeth regularly. Who knew what kind of bacteria was in there?

  The sirens finally stopped and three EMTs rushed into the Food Save with a stretcher. A female EMT with shoulder length brown hair pulled back into a ponytail knelt beside Officer Ramirez.

  “Get him on the stretcher, let’s move,” she ordered.

  The other EMTs followed her command, moving him to the stretcher and then wheeling it to the ambulance. The female EMT had Officer Johnson show her to the other body. Pizza Face lay face down in a puddle of blood. Chunks of flesh lay discarded around his body. She knelt down and tried to find a pulse.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I’ll call for the coroner on the way to St. Mary’s. How long since the officer’s injury?” she asked.

  Officer Johnson looked at his watch, and then said, “About three minutes. Is he going to be all right?”

  “We’re going to do everything we can,” she said, jogging toward the entrance. She pointed at Officer Barrows and ordered, “You, ride along with us.”

  Moments later the ambulance was gone, sirens blaring into the evening. Officer Johnson watched the lights for a moment trying to collect his thoughts. He looked down at his hands. They were soaked in the blood of his partner. When he’d gotten to work that evening his biggest concern was where they were going to eat dinner. Now his world had tipped upside down.

  “Officer Johnson,” Clement said quietly, then motioned to the lifeless vagrant and asked, “What do we do with him?”

  “We call it in and take him to the ER,” Johnson replied. “Let’s get him to the car.”

  2

  1958 Hours – Day 1 – San Francisco - Pier 39

  Detective Yuri Markov shoved a big piece of hot dog into his mouth, dripping mustard and relish on the wooden planks of the pier. He cursed through his overloaded lips and muscled down the savory morsel. Markov wiped the corner of his mouth, feeling his course stubble for missed spots, and then checked his massive shoes for a spill, looking over his chintzy brown blazer and khakis. Somehow, he’d managed to miss. Detective Markov’s large build often meant he was clumsier than most, but he preferred to pack a lot of power into his punches. Once upon a time he was a competition bodybuilder and was even thinking of getting into the ring. That was a long time ago.

  The lines on his forehead and laugh lines around his mouth would suggest he was a much older man. After years of fussing over different haircuts to hide his bald spot he’d embraced it and shaved it completely, something he was meticulous about. His neck was as thick as his tree-trunk thighs and just as sturdy. Despite his intimidating appearance, he had soft brown eyes and tried to wear a smile around friends. Most of the time, however, he found himself at his partner’s apartment watching those stupid B-movies she liked so much.

  Markov took a second hot dog for his partner and thanked the aging Italian man behind the food cart, walking slowly back to his vehicle while taking bites of his dog. Vinnie made the best dogs in town and he tried to support his little business whenever he could, even if it meant driving out of his way to get there. His partner wasn’t much of a fan but would eat just about anything. She’d stayed behind in the car monitoring the scanner. It was a slow time of year for murder, and most of Homicide Division often found themselves roaming the streets, shaking down informants for information.

  He drove a crimson Ford Mustang, brand new from the last model year. His partner joked that it was his mid-life crisis car. Markov was thirty-seven, so in cop-years she probably wasn’t far off what with the long hours, chain smoking, and possibility of getting shot every day. If he made it to seventy-four he’d be damn impressed.

  Markov had been riding with Detective Karen Hall for a couple of years now and apart from the endless bickering, they got on pretty well. Like any good partner, she’d saved his life several times just as he’d saved her neck too. Not that they were keeping score. That would be asinine.

  As Markov approached his Mustang, Detective Hall powered down the passenger side window, turned down the radio, and stuck her hand out for the hot dog. He dropped the wrapped-up dog into her hand and stopped, examining her face. The way she flashed her ice blue eyes at him he knew something wasn’t right. She was never that serious. Usually there was a stupid smirk on her face or at least an angry scowl. Now there was nothing but sadness. She brushed aside her short blonde locks and said while shaking her head, “It’s Ramirez. It’s a code 3, I’m sorry Markov.”

  Detective Markov swore before choking down the rest of his hot dog and getting in the car. He turned the ignition and the powerful engine purred. He turned to Karen, expecting to hear a report. Her tiny body was wrapped up in the crimson bucket seats and she was taking a bite of hot dog. She didn’t mess around when food was involved. He likely wouldn’t get another word out of her until she was done.

  Karen might have been small in stature, but her personality projected such that just about anybody she encountered was intimidated. Anybody but Markov and the Captain. It was one of the reasons she was paired with him as his partner. After taking crap from everyone in the department for being ‘mannish,’ she’d recently cut her hair down to a pixie-like cut. He was still getting used to it, but he couldn’t help notice he’d been looking more often than before. His eyes traveled down her tight jeans until he remembered where he was.

  “Hit the lights,” Markov barked.

  Detective Hall licked ketchup off her fingers and reached in the glove box to
find his siren, attaching it to the roof and switching it on, quickly returning to the last bites of her meal. Red light flooded the pier along with a piercing wail, bouncing off the buildings in the twilight. Markov floored it, burning off bits of the new tread from his tires and pulling an illegal U-turn.

  “What happened?”

  “Unit 356 called in an 11-98,” Karen said. “I know that was Ramirez and Johnson’s car.”

  Markov’s face darkened in the fading light and his expression turned cold as he maneuvered around a bend in the road. “Are you sure it was Ramirez?”

  “It was Johnson’s voice,” she confirmed. “I’d know his accent anywhere.”

  “Shit.”

  “They’ll take him to St. Mary’s, it’s the closest to their location.”

  Markov spun the wheel hard, barely making the turnoff toward St. Mary’s and eliciting several honks from other drivers. Karen shot him a satisfied smirk.

  “What was it you were saying about my bad driving?”