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(continued)

Pacific Ocean, 201 miles off the Oregon coast

May 12th, 2019

The final crash I hear is the bathroom door being busted open, and then a retreating snarl as the beast I’ve been tasked to deal with is on the loose. I’ve no doubt that he’s pissed, nor do I think that my chances are good of finishing out this day with a breath of air left in my lungs. Hell, he might even crush those if he gets the chance.

I’ve taken stock of what armaments I still have. I have my crossbow, a personal favorite no matter what else is called for, a shotgun that only has about five rounds left in it, two pistols with one clip each, and a kukri that’s basically my last line of defense. I still don’t think I have enough though, and the light body armor I’m wearing might as well have the consistency of a paper towel for all the good it’s going to do against this kid.

You might be wondering why that is. I mean really, this kid is barely into his teenage years, he’s not that big, and when he’s calm you can talk to him on a very intelligent level. But when the animal inside him takes hold, as it has already, it’s all that can be done to contain him, let alone stop him. Don’t ask me to explain just what happened to this kid to make him this way, as the science behind it is well over my head and beyond my pay grade. But whatever was done to him in the labs that created him, it turned this kid into a super-aggressive creature that can take down armed and experienced mercenaries like nothing I’ve ever seen.

We would have more luck with a stampeding rhino than we did taking on this kid. Before the last two of us finally knocked him out and tied him up he went through our numbers like a farmer with a scythe, cutting us down one by one until only two of us were left, and the other guy with me was severely wounded. It was all we could do to sedate and then tie the kid up, and it’s still not enough.

Standing on the top deck I can hear him ascending from the bottom level, bumping and banging into everything on his way up as he searches for someone, anyone, that looks like a target. Whatever they did to him in the lab he came from, they didn’t create him to be a stealthy killer. He has no regard for his environment, but it’s more likely because he doesn’t need to rather than because he’s a dumb kid. When you pump enough rounds into a person that they should look like a sieve and they don’t die that kind of qualifies them as super tough and beyond resilient. The kid took our best shots and repelled the bullets like they were hitting rubber.

I hear doors banging open, and suddenly his snarling, snapping, guttural cries are far too close for my liking. He’s ascending the stairs that will lead him to the top tier of the yacht, and it’s time to move. I don’t hesitate as I dash to the port side of the yacht since he’s coming up on the starboard side, the only side that these stairs open up to. I’m over the rail and down the rope as far as I can go to be out of sight as I hold there and listen. You can just imagine how much my muscles are burning as I do this, as holding yourself on a rope is a helluva lot harder than just sliding down or climbing.

It pays off though as I hear him finally reach the top level, making it safe enough for me to slide down to the next level as my feet hit the railing as softly as they can, the hard rubber soles of my boots making little if any noise as I lower myself a bit more and swing onto the walkway that lies outside the galley within. He’s still up top as far as I can hear, snuffling and snorting about as he makes sure that no one’s up there with him, perhaps hiding. It’s safe to assume that he’s got my scent, and as I hear him shout in a loud, guttural roar I feel my blood turn to ice, even though I expected this.

He found the rope, and now he’s coming back down.

(to be continued)

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