V-Wars

Mooney watches as they approach, but she is not afraid. She never was. She is, however, infused with a different emotion, although pinpointing it is difficult. Pride comes to mind, but that applies to something other than herself. She lifts her face to the morning sun and her snake-patterned hair cascades down her back, protecting her body from the elements, camouflaging her when she needs it. Her deep inhalation pulls in a chilly morning breeze that is slowly warming and the smell of the creatures heading toward her who don’t realize they are little more than a convenient food source. That makes her grin, and suddenly she knows exactly what she is feeling.



Power, and …



Superiority.



Mooney knows then, instinctively, that they will not, they cannot, hurt her. Even with weapons, they aren’t good enough, strong enough, or fast enough. She has been busy these past couple of days, and she is hungry already, ready to eat again in a much shorter time than previously.



And she is not alone.



Her changed DNA had accelerated her pregnancy, but there was even more of a reason her belly grew so large and so quickly. Dr. Guarin had gotten a hint of it during her last examination, but since she had not returned and had refused an ultrasound, he’d never had the opportunity to recognize the echo as the heartbeat of a second fetus. The birth of her twins the day before yesterday was both bloody and painful, but already she is healed, trim and lithe, and far stronger than she has ever been. Now, inside the trailer, her son and daughter suckle contentedly at either side of Mother Gaso’s throat; Mooney has already decided she will not see them feed on the blood `of the Sonoran desert’s small, scrawny animals as she once had to.



Her morning visitors are closer now, within fifty feet, and now the desert breeze carries their scents to her as individuals. Each is unique, the young, the old, the well-fed, the almost alcoholic. The first time she admitted to Chief Delgado that she was a vampire, she’d told him she would not bite him, but reality will apparently necessitate she break that promise. Her mouth waters and a delicate line of saliva slips out of the corner of her lips. She wipes it away and smiles at the men, being very careful not to show her teeth.



Not long ago she was a woman who felt she had no identity, born in a land stolen by the white man from her forefathers, then herself made into an outcast by those same kinsmen even before she was raped and cast aside like unwanted trash by invaders from a neighboring country. If her DNA is to be believed, the people headed her way are not the rightful owners of this land. The rightful owners, the true First People, were Mooney’s own long-ago ancestors, the ancient forefathers whose powerful DNA had come before them and then gone dormant …



But had resurrected itself within her and the few chosen like her.



And, of course, in her offspring.



Tomorrow marks the start of a brand new year, a new age. Mooney is moving forward, transforming herself into that which the future demands in order that she survive. And in doing so, she has also regressed to the time of her first real ancestors. For the first time in her life, she finally knows who she is:



In this re-emergence of America’s natural selection, this re-evolution, she is truly the first of the First People.



— 15 —



Six Months Later



There are three vehicles coming across the border, matching black SUVs with thick, oversized tires and reinforced bodies lifted high enough to clear most of the brush and cacti. The tires are probably filled with some kind of semi-solid sealant to withstand the cactus spines, but the SUVs are still going slowly, driving around the mesquite and acacia. Mooney grins because ironically, their back and forth movement reminds her of a snake sliding across the ground.



She climbs into her own vehicle, a battered and dusty Toyota 4-Runner that looks like it has seen better years. When she starts the engine, it thrums with nearly silent power, proof that the work done by the Border Patrol mechanics is spot on. The interior is clean and comfortable, outfitted with a radio and GPS, air conditioning for the summer and heat for the winter. She’s been driving the truck for over five months; when she needs to, she uses the radio to call in but has never turned on anything else. She doesn’t even know if the other stuff works. There are spotlights across the roof, but she only uses these to help the Border Patrol clean up.



What’s in the SUVs the drug mules are driving? Marijuana? Cocaine? Black tar heroin?



People?



No illegals, that’s certain. Those are generally relegated to bigger vehicles, the kind that can transport anywhere from a couple of dozen to a hundred at a time, and they’re never like the fine rides crawling across the unforgiving dessert a half mile away. Probably just drugs, but you never knew when a cartel might decide to transport some trusted workers to the U.S. side in an effort to set up a good way station.



Mooney angles across the terrain without using the headlights, her natural night vision picking out the easiest and fastest route to intercept the small fleet. Pedro Conde is about thirty-five miles to the southwest, but it’s doubtful they crossed the mountains. More likely they’d driven the dirt roads that ran around the southeastern end, then crossed the board by veering onto natural terrain toward the southwest, searching for a place that ICE and Border Patrol agents won’t be watching.



But there is one special ICE HSI agent who is watching. Very closely.



Mooney picks a spot about a hundred feet in front of the oncoming entourage, stops the truck and turns on the headlights. The cones of light thrown by the lead vehicle’s bright lights dip sharply as the driver slams on the brakes and stops. The rear two SUVs do the same, and the first SUV and Mooney’s 4-Runner face each other in some kind of cold, mechanical stand-off. Other than the engines, the only noises come from the desert, insects and night creatures testing the air, a slight breeze that makes the driest mesquite branches shiver and rattle. After a silent thirty seconds, she opens the door and steps outside, leaving her badge and the bullet-proof vest she has never worn on the passenger seat. There is no overhead light to let them see her face or anything else about her before she gently closes the driver’s side door. She could be a man or woman.



Or something they’ve never even considered.



Doors open in all three vehicles and men climb out, two from each SUV. Mooney hears the ratcheting of metal as slides are pulled back on weapons; with her empty hands hanging by her sides, she steps in front of the 4-Runner’s headlights, giving them a very female silhouette. Although they can make out only her outline, she can see every detail in front of her, their dark hair and skin, jeans, dirty T-shirts, boots. And guns, of course. Always guns.



“Hola, amigos,” she calls in a sweet voice. “¿Cómo estás?”



They are already starting toward her. The man in front, probably the leader, lowers his gun slightly. “¿Quién eres tú?” he demands. Who are you?



But Mooney has already disappeared into the night before he so much as finishes his question.



She is a blur in the darkness as she takes them out one by one, always coming from whatever direction they aren’t facing. A cry of surprise, a quick death, then on to the next; bullets start spewing from their weapons when the second man falls, but they are useless streaks of yellow fire into the desert. Her work is over so quickly — literally in less than a minute — that there isn’t even time for her to enjoy it. When the killing is done she feeds, taking her time and sampling from each, being careful not to get blood on her clothes. After she is filled, she goes back to the 4-Runner and takes two clean half-gallon jars from the back. She chooses the body that had the purest blood, slices his throat open with the swipe of a single fingernail, then hoists him up with one hand and lets gravity do the rest, filling both jars to take home to the twins. They’re growing at an amazing pace and the meal won’t hold them for long, but the inviting empty land leading to Route 85 and the fenceless span of border between Mexico and the United States insure an unending supply of retribution-free food.



When her task is complete, Mooney wipes down the jars and dumps an oversized glob of hand sanitizer onto her palm to cover the blood smell. She radios her position to headquarters, then leans against the truck door to wait, popping a mint into her mouth and remembering how life always seems to bring the biggest surprise when you think you know what you’re facing.



Mooney already knows that she will be behind the back of the trailer before the first shot is fired, but suddenly Chief Delgado does the one thing she least expects.



He leans over and lays his rifle on the ground.



As she stares, the others do the same — pistols, rifles, a couple of old shotguns, all splayed on the dirt like a display at some ratty western gun swap. Even the two Border Patrol agents who bring up the rear are now unarmed as they move past the fidgety townsmen and take a spot on either side of Chief Delgado.



“I’m not looking for a war, Red Moon,” Delgado says. “No one wants the wrong people to die.”



The wrong people? She raises one eyebrow but says nothing.



The younger of the Border Patrol agents lifts his chin. “We have a proposal for you, Ms. Lopez.” He glances at the other agent, who’s clearly older and his supervisor. Even at this distance, Mooney can see that his name tag reads Silva. Moving slowly, Silva walks to the bottom of the stairs and holds a business card out to her. She takes it and sees the Immigration and Customs Enforcement logo.



“On the back of that card is the name of an ICE special agent recruiter,” Lopez tells her. He folds his arms and looks at her steadily. “He’d like to meet with you about becoming an ICE Homeland Security Investigations agent.”



It’s taken eighteen years and a genetic modification, but finally Mooney has found her place in this world.



"LAST BITES"



Jonathan Maberry



Washington, DC



188 Days after the V-Event



Luther Swann sat as straight as the stitches and bandages would allow. He tried to follow everything the senator from Georgia was saying but there was a constant ringing in his ears. The doctors said it should go away in time. Like the cuts and broken bones. All of it would heal in time.