Variant Strain

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Peter leaned against the base of the tree. The sun had made it's slow progress across the sky and his shade was beginning to move away from where he was sitting. His backpack was next to him, mostly ignored.

Scrubby green grass came close, but most of the area immediately around him was bare earth. He might have been worried about what Aunt May would have said about coming home with dirty jeans... except he wasn't really coming home. He'd be coming back to Anna Watson's place. As for the dirt... he found that dirt didn't seem to cling all that well when his clothes... or hand... turned into a mass of little fleshy tendrils.

Another bit of semi-useful data.

He'd lost track of time just sitting there. Letting his thoughts chase one another.

Every so often people would pass by the park. A few locals who recognized him as they passed waved or nodded. Kids would wave regardless. It was that kind of neighborhood. One or two would stop to give their condolences or to ask about his aunt. He'd been polite, but had done his best to gently discourage them from lingering.

He'd wanted to be by himself.

He did notice that there were less people out than there should have been. Even with the weather being what it was, the streets were usually livelier. People sitting on their porches or kids playing on the lawns. He realized that there had been a sober quality to everything. A tension. It had come across quite clearly.

The park he was in was only a few blocks away from their house and word had gotten around, the way they tended to in a close knit community.

People knew Ben Parker. Anyone who frequented the flea markets recognized his face if nothing else. Word had gotten around. People were worried. Forrest Hills was a quiet, semi-upscale suburb that was mostly owned by families. A brutal murder and the strange circumstances surrounding it were still causing fear and worry in the residents barely a day later.

He had been thinking of just himself and Aunt May. And all the weirdness. He really had no clue what something like this did to people. Not the ones directly affected... just the ones who'd been in the vicinity of it. He'd heard of violence on TV, seen the news, but it had all seemed so distant.

Everything had changed now.

In the distance a car backfired, interrupting his thoughts.

He got back to his feet and realized the park was empty again. There was a chill to the air now, but while he felt it, it didn't really bother him. Cletus' hoodie shouldn't have been as warm as it seemed, but it was part of him. In fact it was like skin, so really, he was standing out in the middle of a brisk evening stark naked and completely unruffled by it.

Alright, not completely. He fought down the urge to find and put on a bathrobe.

He took a deep breath and realized something smelled off. He could smell gunpowder. Spent gunpowder.

He blinked in alarm. That had been no backfire.

Peter looked around, body tensing, fists clenched. Someone had just shot at something. What? Where?

He closed his eyes and took another deep breath, letting his senses free range.

He could tell this much... it had come from the general direction of his old home. The next thought slammed hurriedly into place.

They were after Aunt May. His eyes snapped open and he took off down the street, leaving his backpack behind.

He'd made it a block from the park, about to turn down the street to the Watson place when a trickle of scent that had been bothering him finally game fully into his attention.

Sticky, sickly-sweet carrion of infection. That seemed the right word, but he wasn't sure why. It's sudden stepping into the forefront of his attention after lingering in the background for so long struck like a blow. He closed his eyes, focusing on where it seemed to be coming from and found himself looking up again.

The vulture was back. He followed the direction of it's flight and given his sighting of the thing hours ago, he was guessing it could have made a huge slow circuit of Queens. Well, he supposed it could have stopped off somewhere, but Peter did notice that it was flying much lower now.

In fact, it seemed to be dropping fast and a stream of red... not the haze from before, but something else, left a crimson contrail behind that lingered even as it lost altitude.

Further up the street he could hear engines roaring as the unmarked vans that had been at their house were started. If he had to guess, the vans had spotted the vulture... who, Peter now realized, was coming in for a landing.

A crash landing.

Peter jumped out of the way as whatever it was smashed into the plate glass of the deli window he'd been standing next to. The carrion-reek of it was almost overwhelming, as it passed, the rush of air in it's passing heavy with the stink of it.

There was another scent below that. Blood. Strong. He bounced back to his feet and looked into the ruined window of the shop.

The deli's lights were off, but there was more than enough light coming in for him to see by. It wasn't as large as he'd expected.

It was only just beginning to get up. The first item Peter noticed was that it's chest was immense. The sternum was extended well forward, white bone jutting out of massive pectoral muscles. It needed them. Where arms should have been were immense wings, eighteen feet wide when fully spread. They were of skin stretched taut, almost transparently thin the entire length of it's deformed, uneven arms, but Peter could see where fingers had been twisted and extended to form the rest of the wings. They were batlike but not. He could see veins in the skin pulsing softly.

It struggled to rise onto bandy little legs, forced to stand on feet not meant to be used for walking. They had been twisted into massive scythes, each talon almost a foot long projecting from it's strangely human toes and extending out from the back of it's ankles. It would have been comical if the things hadn't looked so sharp.

The neck was long and bounced around whip-like and jerky. Ringing the base of the neck was a plume of hair, like a strange mane of white hair. Topping the neck was a perfectly normal seeming human head. It was an old man's face, bald and with a prominent nose. Perfectly normal... if it weren't for the mad, feral light in it's eyes.

Peter noted that yes... this thing's eyes were glowing red as well. He gasped as it gave an ear-splitting screech. It was had a gaping hole in it's side. A fresh, gaping wound that bled profusely. It walked hunched over, favoring its side, but Peter got the impression that it would have been hunched over regardless.

It had suffered a few cuts from crash, but nothing like the wound. Cletus's drawled softly into his head, Gunshot. Big caliber. Rifle round probably. Vulture season. Thing'll bleed out in no time.

The human face twitched and sniffed sharply.

It whirled on Peter and gave another horrible cry.

That had all taken barely a second.

"What the hell is going on he--?" A male voice with a strong Brooklyn accent called out angrily from within the deli.

The door right next to the vulture creature swung open and an angry, overweight man with dark hair and eyes stepped out. He wore a tanktop and jeans. In one hand, he held a baseball bat and he had looked ready to use it. His voice died in his throat as he saw what it was that had wrecked his store.

It swiveled it's head to face the man. Despite the hunched posture and the short legs, it's excesses in the neck department ensured that it was actually the same height at the man.

The innocent deli owner found himself pinned by those bestial, red glowing eyes. Peter tried to move. He did his best. He'd had to force himself to even breathe, much less take the first step... but that was the only one he managed.

The man tried to duck back into the door he'd stepped out of, only to be stopped as one of those bandy little legs rose up, wickedly fast and the massive talons lashed out, gutting the man with perfect ease.

The man gave a strangled cry and had a moment to actually see his own body fall apart below him before the vulture's seemingly normal head darted forward, opening it's mouth.

Peter didn't even have time to look away. He wanted to.

He couldn't blink.

It had been hard enough to take that first step, his body had seemed to protest.

The vulture man's white, perfectly even teeth closed in on the man's throat. Flat, white, perfectly even teeth.

They were blunt and crushed the man's throat.

The man fell... Peter hoped the man was dead.

He hadn't even wished Cletus dead as hard as he had wished that man dead at that very moment.

Because no one should have had to be alive for what the vulture man did next. He jerked his head away from the man's throat, ducking down into the man's bloody, disemboweled guts and began eating.

It had none of the clean simplicity of what Peter's body did. No tendrils opening up then snapping shut. This was... like feeding time at the zoo. Flat, white, perfectly even teeth closed in on human offal and dug in with gusto, tearing and swallowing. It used its talons to roughly slice away bite sized chunks to fit its all too human mouth.

Peter staggered away from the sight, ducking around the corner, out of sight of the approaching vans. He could see that thing just... dig in in his mind's eye. His stomach roiled and he realized that he was shaking with fear and disgust... that was disgust, right?

There was no bile in his throat. No need to throw up. He gave his own stomach a betrayed glare as he realized that had been a gurgle of hunger.

He wondered if this were all just part of Cletus' sick influence on him.

Nope. It's all you, his voice drawled back with a sort of malicious glee. You're the monster now, remember?

Just like that thing in there.

That vulture thing.

He clenched his fists, forcing himself to calm down before he looked around the corner. The vans had stopped and were roughly surrounding the deli. The men were piling out, their bright yellow outfits making them easy to spot.

They were all armed. Guns and pistols and other weapons were all aimed at the deli. He could tell... they were watching it eat that man.

Despite the muffling effects of the helmets, Peter easily picked out conversation among the men.

One man, holding a particularly large rifle muttered loudly. "Motherfu-- How the hell did we miss this one long enough for it to go full Drago on us?"

"We've had a long night, Sarge." One of the men chimed in casually, young and eager. "Damn rats. Damn idiots, too."

Another man replied with a shrug and a thick Jersey accent. "Could've been worse. It could've gone Syetsevich." He pronounced the strange Russian-sounding word... or was it a name? Easily, as though from long familiarity.

"Least they would've authorized tanks." Another man replied with a longing sigh.

There was some good-natured, grumbling over this to the effect of, they really should authorize tanks for everything.

There was a burst of radio static and another voice spoke, "We've got the back door covered, Sarge. Ready when you are."

"Alright, T-bolts, by the num..." The Sergeant nodded absently would have continued, but everyone began shouting at once.

"It's bolting! Shoot it! Shoot it!"

There was another ear-splitting shriek as the vulture-like creature burst out of the broken deli window, trailing a red haze as it took off. Bullets whizzed past, most missing. One or two hit it's fully-spread wings, but did nothing to slow it down. As it made it's break, its claws raked one man across the chest and another in the face. Both men fell and did not move.

The ridiculous over-sized talons were much less awkward in the air. It lingered in between the men in the yellow outfits, slicing and snapping at any man that came within reach. It made it impossible to shoot at it, as they'd end up shooting one another.

The vulture gave another triumphant shriek, it's talon feet touching down on the ground lightly and Peter knew it was about to take off, straight up. The red haze surrounding it glowing brighter as it seemed to prepare to push off.

There had been eight men covering the front of the deli. Four were down. Two permanently.

Peter could swear that he'd smelled the moment those men died.

It was going to get away.

It was going to take off.

It was going to kill more people.

At that precise moment, Peter realized that he hated the vulture thing.

The men... soldiers, Peter was sure. They couldn't stop it.

Peter's heart hammered in his chest.

He couldn't allow that.

He'd stop it. He had the power, right? That meant he had a responsibility.

A red haze seemed to fall upon his vision and he let loose a wordless, challenging roar. He allowed his body to shift once more as he took off from his hiding spot at a dead run and leapt, catching it in a textbook football tackle high in it's massive chest.

There was more cursing around him, confusion and commands to not shoot echoed as Peter hurriedly grabbed hold of the thing's upper arm... wing? Whatever it was... and snapped it.

He gave no more attention to the men in yellow surrounding them. They didn't matter. What mattered was his opponent.

What mattered was making it bleed. It gave another shriek, this one of pain. Its head shot forward, driving flat and perfect teeth to bite hard at Peter's shoulder, tearing through his fake hoodie and ripping open a chunk of flesh.

Furious, he smashed a fist into the side of it's head, but it had done something with it's jaw, locking the teeth and shredding at the muscles in between his neck and shoulder.

He continued to punch at it, smashing his fist once more into the broken wing, striking right at the spot where the broken bone had pierced the skin. Another blow to where the gunshot wound had torn out part of it's side... that was when he realized the wound was completely gone.

It had healed as it had eaten the deli owner.

The teeth finally released his shoulder, but just in time for it to do a strange little skip-jump backwards, trying to get him into a range where the deadly talons could come into play. Peter ducked aside, trusting to his greater speed and whatever strange instincts for combat he'd picked up from Cletus. His punches had been more precise... better... since his wild flailing from the night before.

The thing tried to take off once more, it's broken wing trailing behind as it took to the air, but slowly... clumsily. It was obvious in hindsight. The thing's wings, broad as they were, couldn't possibly be used to support anything even remotely its size. The red haze probably had something to do with it, but it wouldn't matter at all if it got away.

He could barely lift his arm. It had taken a chunk out of him, but it would heal... he hoped.

Shots struck at it as it continued to rise, but Peter was after it before it could get too far.

He ran at the wall of the deli. It was bare, untreated brick. His bare feet caught what purchase they could on the material and allowed him to run up for a short distance... just far enough for him to catch hold of the unretracted awning.

With one wing gone the vulture's flight was slow... ungainly. Peter's wall run had actually gotten him just enough height to catch up.

He leaped and slammed into it for a second time.

This time, though they were forty feet off the ground. He wasn't taking chances now. His hand closed on the other wing, flailing and trying to slam into him and with surprising ease, Peter crushed the bones in it's upper arm. It screamed now. A human sound. High and keening. Not like it's animalistic shrieks.

It lashed out, catching him across the chest and on the thigh with it's talons. The cuts burned and bled freely. He was going to end this.

He realized a light beginning to dawn behind those glowing red eyes, but it was too late. The red haze was keeping them aloft. Drifting like an errant leaf on the wind. Peter shifted his weight, bringing the strange and weightless vulture beneath him as he got his feet under him, onto the creature's chest. He straightened his body suddenly, using his feet to drive the vulture into the ground. It smashed hard into the broken glass on the sidewalk. It moaned and twitched weakly, but the men in yellow began shooting at it.

Peter drifted on the air for a moment before the red haze dissipated around him and he allowed his entire two-hundred pounds to drop hard onto the thing's chest, snapping it's exposed sternum like a dry twig.

That stopped it's movement. It also stopped the shooting.

Peter stepped off.

Weapons snapped up, no longer aimed at the now unmoving vulture.

It was amazing how hostile a beekeeper mask could look.

The Sarge stepped forward. He kept his weapon trained on Peter who held his hands up.

"You Kassidy?" The man's voice was studiedly neutral.

"Yep." Peter drawled. He'd heard the voice often enough in his own head, it wasn't too difficult to manage. He was glad Cletus' blank tumor-ridden face wasn't capable of much expression.

"Where the hell have you been? Your handlers reported you were dead." The voice had gotten a bit more hostile,

Not sure what else to say, he decided to try his luck. He licked... well... where his lips would have been if Cletus had lips. "Those two jackasses left me when the cops showed up. I couldn't exactly catch a cab looking like this. I've been hanging around the neighborhood waiting for somebody to pick me up."

"What happened to the original Runner? Where's Ed Whelan?"

"Dunno." He shrugged and congratulated himself on his inventiveness. "All I know is I was about to tell 'em that it weren't either of the people in the house when Smith shot the old man." Peter grit his teeth. Sorry, Uncle Ben.

Sarge shook his head, "So Whelan's still out there?"

"Dunno." He shrugged again. "Trail led to the house, but then stopped. If I hadda guess, Ed prolly died. Bet there's traces of him somewhere in the house."

"I guess that makes sense. We haven't had any other breakout events since last night." Sarge lowered his rifle and signalled to the rest of his men to do the same.

"What now?"

The Sarge pulled a pistol from a belt holster. "You've had a good run, Cletus. Sixteen years, One of our best trackers."

"Right kind of you to say so." Peter drawled, eyeing the pistol warily.

"Shame."

"Bout what?"

"You have a reasonably stable strain of Smerdyakov." His gaze swept meaningfully to the bite on Peter's shoulder. "Whelan had a nasty variant strain of Hydra. We've had a couple of previously stable trackers suddenly go feral or worse on us since last night."

"Hey, now!" Peter said hurriedly, "No need to be has--" He was about to reach out to wrestle the pistol from the Sargeant's hand when he realized that he felt someone behind him.

He heard the gunshot.

Then there was blackness.

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