11 That evening, laughter and conversation drifted from the three-story farmhouse on John’s property as Orion Locke joined his old superior’s family for dinner.
Hannibal sat at the long dining table nearby, devouring thick steaks and roasted turkey with astonishing speed, sometimes rolling up a piece of meat nearly the size of a dinner plate and swallowing it after only a few bites.
At a smaller round table beside them, six children of different ages watched the eight-foot mutant eat with a mixture of fascination and nervousness.
“Easy there, big guy.
Slow down, there’s plenty more,” one of two nearly identical, heavyset middle-aged women said as she piled another serving of meat onto Hannibal’s plate.
The women were twin sisters and both were married to John, something Orion had known about for years.
John’s family belonged to a small fundamentalist Mormon community that still practiced plural marriage, rather than the mainstream LDS Church, and neither woman seemed particularly bothered by sharing a husband or raising their children together.
Compared with stories Orion had heard about much larger fundamentalist families, John having two wives and six children was hardly remarkable within his particular community.
More importantly, both women had been raised to place enormous value on family, children, hospitality, and caring for those they considered unfortunate.
Once John explained Hannibal’s supposed “genetic disorder,” their initial fear of his appearance quickly turned into sympathy.
“Hoo… hoo…” Hannibal continued shoveling food into his mouth before trying to smile gratefully at the women.
Unfortunately, his distorted face, protruding teeth, and piglike grunt transformed the intended smile into something terrifying enough to make both women stiffen.
One of them forced herself to smile back and quietly muttered, “Poor thing.
Even his smile looks scary.” “Blame the government and those corporations,” John said, setting down his beer with his usual irritation.
“Factories dump chemicals wherever they want, regulators look the other way, and then everyone acts shocked when people start being born with genetic problems.
Keep it up long enough and there’ll be more people like Hannibal out there.” Orion took another drink and wisely said nothing, since John’s distrust of government and industry continued providing a convenient explanation without requiring him to invent anything.
About half an hour later, dinner ended and the dishes were cleared away.
John’s wives took the children upstairs to get them ready for bed, leaving Orion and John alone downstairs while Hannibal remained nearby finishing whatever food had been left on the table.
John packed his pipe, leaned back in his chair, and after taking a slow drag, finally shifted the conversation toward the reason he had invited Orion over.
“Orion, I’ve gotten to know a lot of veterans since I retired,” John began.
“You know how it is.
Some guys leave the military after ten or fifteen years and realize the only things they’re genuinely good at are shooting, tracking people, breaking into places, and surviving fights.” He gave a helpless shrug.
“I was lucky.
I inherited this farm, so even if everything else went bad, my family would still have a roof and food.” Orion nodded because he understood exactly what John meant.
Many veterans transitioned into ordinary careers without serious trouble, but others had spent so much of their adult lives in combat roles that civilian employment proved difficult, especially when they lacked degrees or useful professional certifications.
Those struggling with untreated PTSD, addiction, injuries, or broken families could fall through the cracks completely.
“So I pulled together a few guys who live around Monroe and nearby towns,” John continued.
“They’ve got families and they’re all capable, so we formed a small private team and take jobs using the skills we already have.
The work isn’t constant, but when something comes up, the money’s usually pretty damn good.” He looked directly at Orion.
“You interested in joining us?” John knew Orion’s capabilities better than almost anyone still alive.
Years earlier, he had personally trained Orion and watched him develop into something far beyond an ordinary operator, even before knowing about the Black Book.
If Orion joined the group, John believed their small team could immediately take on work they previously wouldn’t have dared touch.
“What kind of jobs?” Orion asked.
“Government contracting?” “The government?” John scoffed.
“I retired so I could stop being somebody else’s attack dog.” He leaned forward and explained, “Most of our jobs are private and local—investigations, protection, finding missing people, recovering kidnapped clients, that kind of thing.
Everyone lives around here and has family, so we avoid disappearing overseas for six months unless there’s an unbelievable reason.” That immediately made the arrangement more attractive to Orion.
Long-term contractor work would interfere with his real objective of searching for abnormal creatures capable of providing Special Energy, but occasional assignments with flexible schedules were different.
John also clarified that members were free to take independent jobs when the team wasn’t active, provided they handled the consequences themselves and didn’t drag everyone else into personal trouble.
“This isn’t New Orleans or Dallas, though, so suitable jobs don’t appear every week,” John admitted.
“Sometimes we only get a few decent contracts in an entire year.
But the people hiring us usually have serious money, and one successful job can cover a family’s expenses for months.” He took another pull from his pipe before adding, “Come meet the others tomorrow night.
We actually had a new client reach out recently.” John waited for Orion’s answer with some uncertainty.
Many career special operators looked down on private mercenaries and security contractors, seeing themselves as disciplined professionals serving a country while contractors supposedly fought only for money.
Certain companies with ugly reputations had made that divide even worse over the years.
“No problem,” Orion replied immediately.
John blinked, then grinned.
Orion had never cared much for romantic ideas about military honor.
Work was work, and money was money; more importantly, joining John’s group could provide access to local contacts, rumors, missing-person reports, and other information that might eventually lead him toward mutants or supernatural creatures.
For Orion, those intelligence channels were potentially more valuable than the pay itself.
The next morning, Orion woke from the same nightmare again.
His expression darkened as he sat upright and stared across the dusty bedroom.
After reaching Life Level 2, his mental processing, nervous-system control, and overall biological condition had improved dramatically, yet the nightmare remained completely unaffected.
Orion was becoming increasingly convinced that what happened every night was not ordinary guilt or psychological trauma.
Someone—or something—might actually be causing it.
Fortunately, his evolved body no longer suffered badly from sleep deprivation.
Even a few minutes of shallow rest seemed sufficient to restore much of his physical and mental energy, allowing him to function normally despite the recurring nightmare.
Orion stood, stretched until several joints cracked, and wondered where he could possibly find reliable information about phenomena that ordinary society didn’t even acknowledge.
He spent most of the day using John’s farm equipment to clear and level the worst sections of his own weed-covered property.
Around ten that night, John arrived in a Dodge Challenger SRT Hellcat and picked Orion up, while Hannibal remained behind at the farm under strict orders not to wander.
They drove into town and eventually approached the Buffalo Bar, the only real nightlife spot in the immediate area.
Even close to midnight, the place was packed.
Drunk locals crowded near the entrance while sex workers approached passing customers and street dealers quietly offered drugs along the darker edges of the parking lot, giving the area a rough reputation that clearly kept ordinary families away after dark.
John didn’t park his Hellcat near the front entrance; instead, he drove around the block and entered a narrow alley behind the building.
Two tough-looking men were already guarding the rear door.
The moment they recognized John’s car, their posture relaxed, and one respectfully opened the way for him.
John climbed out and gestured for Orion to follow.
“This place belongs to me and the other guys,” John explained as he unlocked a reinforced interior gate.
“Think of it as our insurance policy.
If one of us gets killed on a job, the bar keeps earning enough money to make sure his family doesn’t end up broke.” Orion followed him through the back entrance and up the stairs.
The real meeting place was on the second floor.
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