Variant Strain

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The other scents had been a distraction.

Peter had needed to double back at least twice, once he'd realized that he'd lost the initial scent he'd been tracing and was starting to follow some other one. The more he did it, though, the easier it became.

His mind was still afire with questions. The parts that weren't running down his prey anyway. Why was Manhattan saturated with the fetid carrion smell of Hydra? Forest Hills had two spots of Hydra Taint, his house and the Sandoval Deli. Those had only borne traces of the scent. The 'dead' smell of rotting meat. It had been faint and all but washed out.

If Ed Whelan had been the one spreading it, why had the only other source of Hydra that far East of Manhattan been a flyer? One that seemed to be looking for something specific.

Maybe him? Maybe not. Not enough to know still.

A thought presented itself for inspection. Maybe it couldn't cross the East River. Running water. What else couldn't cross running water, hmm?

That was ridiculous, of course, but the image of the glowing red eyes of the infected he'd consumed rose up and part of him wondered if he was going to have to get an opera cloak and talk in a thick Eastern European accent? Did the red haze count as sparkling? He hoped not.

He'd made his way south down Park Avenue. The scent was actually growing stronger as he closed in on Gramarcy Park. The skyscrapers slipped quietly past on either side of him. He moved briskly, half-jog, half-run. There were pedestrians and cars here and there. Every bank of shadow afforded him an opportunity to run faster, but he was trying not to attract any undue attention, but at the same time, he was in a rush and he took an indifferent view to the streetlights, leaping high across intersecting streets to avoid what traffic was still out at that hour.

A memory rose as he ran. One of running up this street. He'd never done that and he could only imagine it had been one of Ed Whelan's memories of his escape. He was close.

He could feel it.

The scent had closed in around him, shutting out all the other scents of New York. It was practically suffocating him making it almost impossible to pick up where the scent was really coming from, but there was a stronger sense of the reek from his left and he turned sharply onto 26th Street and found himself facing Bellevue Hospital.

The crisscrossing scents of Hydra infections made a horrific tangle in the area. Peter slowed to a halt, past the small park-like area to the south-western corner of the hospital center. There was the gray glass front of the hospital proper, but he also remembered that the office of the New York medical examiner was in the complex. Did the bodies get taken there for an autopsy, maybe?

Were the prisoners-- if any survived-- being held in the hospital? That sort of made sense. Where else do you take a bunch of people with a potentially communicable disease?

He licked suddenly dry lips and groaned. Stuck. Again. Well, there really was no helping it. He had to go in there and look around. Except visiting hours were over. There was the emergency room entrance, of course... but then what?

Peter stood in the shadow of the trees in the little park area, breathing harshly through his mouth. He licked at his lips again. The smell was just... overwhelming. The sense of carrion reek and cloying, sweet decay was worse than the confused tangle from his first entry to New York had ever been. He closed his eyes and tried to push the sense of the scent back... it had gotten him this far, but right now it was rapidly becoming more of a liability than an asset.

He leaned back against the rough bark of a tree and abruptly, the scent muted to something in the background once more. His eyes flew open and he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

"Much better." He murmured softly. Now all he had to do was figure out how to break into a hospital after hours and... he blinked rapidly and pressed the heel of his palm to his head. He was over thinking this again.

He let his heartbeat spike and assumed the drago's blunt big-nosed face, but topped it with Cletus' coarse red hair. He took on Cletus' rangy build and height, then changed his clothes to the medical scrubs he'd worn home from the hospital. The ones he'd left on the floor of the bathroom and eaten accidentally along with the rest of the Walmart purchases from that first day.

Then topped it off with Cletus' hoodie. It wouldn't have made sense to be out in the cold at this time of night without a jacket of some sort.

He simply walked in. He waited for a moment when the guard was distracted by a patient who was complaining loudly and demanding that someone deal with her hemorrhoids. The guard had buzzed him through with barely a glance and a nod. Peter walked through the empty corridor and wondered where to go.

He tried to open his sense for the Hydra, but the carrion stench seemed to be everywhere and he had to shut it down hurriedly. Whether that meant that every inch of the gleamingly clean hospital was crawling with it... or if there was some large something nearby that was heavily infected, he couldn't tell which.

He wandered aimlessly for almost an hour. Muttering curses to himself and wondering if he was going to have to return home empty handed again.

He didn't even get eighty bucks this time around.

He did find the doctor's locker room and consumed a white doctor's coat to give himself some other disguise options. Even with the sense for the Hydra turned down as low as it would go, his sense of smell remained as sharp as ever. The nurses and doctors he did pass by and exchange nods with smelled harried and tired, but clean. Uninfected.

Peter was almost ready to call the night a bust when a different scent caught his attention. A familiar one. Ground in gunpowder, sour-sweat soaked into kevlar. And blood. Familiar blood.

He went up to the door and stared at the name on the little cardboard card that had been slipped into the plexiglass clip next to the door. It was a private room.

Smith, Martin.

Peter closed his eyes for a moment to catch himself. He glanced down and realized that his hands, of their own volition, had closed into fists and his tendrils writhed under his skin. Just begging to be used.

He closed his fingers on the knob, opened the door and slipped quietly into the dark room.

The scent was unmistakeable. The room was small and dominated by the hospital bed. There was a figure tangled up in inadequate sheets on it, one arm in cast. He idly noted an IV with a morphine drip on it that had been set to the bare minimum.

Moving as quietly as he could, Peter took one of the lightweight chairs that had been provided for visitors, aluminum and plastic with the bare minimum of padding. He jammed it under the door knob. It wasn't much... but it might give him a few extra seconds if someone did try to interrupt while he was... occupied.

He stepped closer to the bed, fingers flexing. Intellectually, he knew that Smith hadn't intended to hurt Uncle Ben. In the logical forefront of his mind, he knew that the man had simply pulled his trigger by mistake. It hadn't been intentional. Perhaps things might have happened entirely differently if he hadn't. Perhaps not. But here and now, logic wasn't really in charge.

The red haze was descending on his vision. His heart thundered in his ears.

Uncle Ben was gone. This man was responsible.

Peter hurt.

He wanted to share that hurt.

He stepped next to the bed and found... Smith was young. He had short blonde hair in a brush cut. His jaw was wired up, lending harsh lines to his face in the dim light, but he was also barely in his twenties and sleeping peacefully. He had that slightly heavy athletic build of someone who worked out regularly.

He didn't look like a killer. He looked like someone's kid. He looked like one of the idiot jocks from school that Peter used to have to avoid on a regular basis. The ones Uncle Ben had told him to just avoid.

Someone who barely knew anything.

Someone who shouldn't have been holding a gun on an old man and a teenager in the middle of the night.

He closed his fist so tightly that he could hear his knuckles pop, almost gunshot loud in the enfolding silence. It surprised him. Startled him out of his fury.

Peter reached a hand out and gently laid it on Smith's throat. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. His face had reverted to own. His expression, blank, cold and alien.

His eyes were glowing.

He ran his tongue over his suddenly dry lips and looked down at the man who'd taken Uncle Ben away.

It would be easy. Cletus's whispered to him. We could just... squeeze. A little. Crack. He'd be gone...

But that wouldn't bring Uncle Ben back, would it?

But you'll feel better, Cletus' voice urged. Pay him back, boy. Show him nobody takes what's yours.

Except Uncle Ben would still be gone and this man... this kid... who was barely older than he was would be gone and he'd have gained nothing. Still more questions and an unsatisfying meal.

You remember what your meals remember, Cletus pointed out. Go straight to eating him and you'll know what he knows.

His fingers threatened to close on Smith's neck right then. There would be answers. He'd already killed. Three times, so far. What was one more? What difference did it make?

The difference, his voice replied sharply in his head, Is that you did all of those in the heat of battle. It was kill or be killed. After Cletus it had been to save people. Who are you saving now? This is cold-blooded murder.

He'd be protecting other people from--

No. His voice drawled harshly in his head, You'd be doing it to make yourself feel better. And it won't. What would Uncle Ben say if he were here right now? You've got power this man's life right this moment. What would he tell you?

"With great power, comes great responsibility." He whispered harshly to himself, then shuddered and jerked his hand away from the man's throat. There was still the temptation to do it. The hunger to make this man hurt... to consume him, clawed at Peter's gut. Strong and demanding, but he wasn't going to give in to that.

He was more than a predator. More than an appetite. On the other hand, Uncle Ben probably would've told him to kick the guy's ass. Which was not the same as killing him. Well, he already kicked the guy's ass. He smiled with a tiny bit of inappropriate pride at that.

The man wouldn't die... but he would answer some questions. Peter put his hand at the man's throat once more and slapped him a backhand across the face. Not hard, exactly... but certainly enough to hurt, especially with that broken jaw.

Smith gave a strangled, pained gasp that was almost like music to Peter's ears. Then a moment later he was disgusted with himself for enjoying the man's pain, but there he was. The man was beginning to say something, but Peter gave a slight squeeze at Smith's throat and whatever he would have said was choked off.

Peter leaned over the man, his crimson eyes blazing and he gave Martin Smith a horrible, humorless smile. "Sleep well?"

Martin swallowed nervously, his eyes wide with terror and shock. Peter imagined his mouth would have dropped open comically if his jaw hadn't been wired shut.

"I haven't been sleeping so well myself," Peter whispered almost casually. "Not since you killed my Uncle."

The man whimpered and Peter could feel the noise vibrating in his hand as he held the man's throat. "It was an accident!" He mumbled through his closed jaw.

"Mm-hmm," Peter replied, looming over the man, "Why were you in our house?"

"I told Jones you were the runner. I told him! He just said our tracker Cletus had gone rogue and that we had to run for it before he turned on us." Smith mumbled back hurriedly, but Peter squeezed on his throat once more and he made little gagging sounds.

"What's a runner?" Peter asked.

"The runner was Ed Whelan. We... we were supposed to bring him back or kill him. He was infected. Oh god..."

"Infected with...?" Peter already knew the answer, but wondered what the man would tell him.

"No clue. Some kind of disease. A virus." Smith muttered. "It's really infectious. He was some kind of nurse for Gentek. There's a ward where they keep with a bunch of people who're infected with the stuff. There's a door in the sub-basement under radiology that leads to the access tunnels under the Gentek building! Whelan got infected there. I don't know with what. Jones told me it was above my pay grade. Cletus has the same stuff, but it did things to him. Different things. I didn't ask! We just had to stop him before he made other people sick, but he did... ohgod... he did!"

The man's eyes were terrified and bulging. Peter wondered just how much he had seen of Whelan's other infectees as they chased after him. Did he see the little girl? Did he see that huge rhino man? This wasn't really anything he hadn't figured out for himself, but hearing it confirmed sent more chills up Peter's spine. No wonder he'd been so edgy when he'd come to their house. He'd already seen some of the Hydra's products by then.

"What happened to the people he infected?" He whispered harshly.

"We called in the Thunderbolts. Like protocol says. They're... we're just Gentek security. If things get bad, the Thunderbolts are supposed to clean up. Jones said it wasn't our problem anymore. It killed people or turned those people into things..." He whimpered. "We just had to get Whelan. They were going to clean up! But then you happened! Jones says... he said it was Cletus that went rogue. He didn't see what you were doing! He didn't see you tear Cletus apart and eat him! He thought he was shooting at Cletus who was eating you! How did you survive getting shot?! Cletus couldn't have! He's a monster and he couldn't survive a bullet to the chest!" His voice had gone high and almost hysterical. Tears whether from fear or pain, Peter couldn't tell, were running down either side of the man's face. He looked like he was trying to tear the wiring apart on his jaw just so he could scream. Peter leaned down harder on the man's throat, forcing him to quiet down with little choking sobs.

He was disgusted, not just with this man, not just with the spectacle, but with himself for causing it. Just seeing him in action had reduced this man, who resembled the jocks back in school too much for him to really like him, to abject terror. Meanwhile MJ kept wanting to hug him and touch him because of it.

Now is not the time to be thinking about MJ, his voice chided him.

The man's breathing had gone harsh and fast. His heartbeat and blood pressure on the monitors was rising. He was beginning to flail with his free hand, terrified beyond measure now that his mind had finally consciously remembered what it was that was holding him down. Peter had a moment of disgust as a sharp ammonia smell assaulted him.

Smith had wet himself.

Peter extended his sense of hearing and could hear the nurse in the aid station around the corner at the end of the hall round the corner. Time was almost up. The man's sudden rise in Smith's monitors must have alerted someone. He didn't think he could get any more answers out of the man and reached out with his free hand and cranked his morphine drip up as high as possible.

He bore down as gently as he could at the man's throat, forcing more little choking sounds from Smith. As he did, the man's eyes began to get vague and unfocused. His expression slackened and the struggles ceased. The man was fighting to keep his eyes open.

The nurse's heartbeat was halfway down the hall now.

Peter hoped Smith wrote this off as a dream. He'd been careful not to leave any bruises. A lot of sites on the net were quite clear on how little pressure one actually needed to exert on a person's throat in order to get... results. He was pretty sure no one would believe him. Middle of the night, drugged out of his mind. It would hopefully all be written off as guilty dreams.

This is a mistake, leaving him alive, Cletus' voice whispered into his head, We're gonna get the chair for sure. There was a clamoring, hungry sort of wordless agreement rising up to second the voice. Donna perhaps? Or the Drago? He shuddered again and gently eased the seat out from under the door. He stood behind the door as the nurse opened it and walked briskly into the room.

While she was distracted with checking over Smith, he slipped behind her once she'd passed and stepped out into the empty hallway.

The nurse would help. She didn't see anyone. Obviously Smith had been dreaming. Simplicity.

He was shaking as he shifted himself back to the appearance of a doctor, the white coat making him anonymous as he mixed and matched elements from the Drago's face, Whelan's and Cletus with little regard for the result. His reflection in a window showed his features to be bland and unmemorable. The Drago's features, Cletus's nose, Whelan's hair. He tried to force the nerves down. Now that he'd gone this far, there wasn't any point in being scared, right? He'd just terrified a man into wetting himself and nearly gotten caught while doing it. He'd nearly killed the man in cold blood and just barely stopped himself.

There was a door in the basement with more answers. The ward where Ed Whelan remembered seeing his mother. Could he push his luck some more tonight? He only had a few more hours til daybreak. He still needed time to run back to Queens.

He had to know.

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