Chapter Three

Jackson

Captain Jackson Wolfe sat gingerly down on the ancient office chair, afraid that it might collapse under his weight at any moment. It wasn’t that he was particularly heavy. He was actually in the best physical shape of his life, but the chair was so ancient that it looked like it might disintegrate if the sun’s rays hit it too hard.

Luckily, the chair held. It was actually more comfortable than he had expected and it had lasted him the entire week without falling apart so far. He leaned back tentatively, listening for a squeak of hinges that would foretell his doom, but the chair held. He let out a slow sigh, glancing around at the small room.

This “office” in the Records Building of Fort Baskerville was small. The Army had given it to him to work out of while he was here. Truth be told, it wasn’t much more than a glorified broom closet. There was the ancient chair with an equally old wooden desk, an Army cot that looked like it had been made in the 1970’s, and piles of brown boxes full of paperwork for him to work on. There was only a tiny vent of a window letting in the last of the fading light from the sunset. It wasn’t much, but at least he didn’t have to share it. Being in close proximity to another human being was something that he wanted to avoid as much as possible at the moment.

Jackson rolled his shoulders, trying to straighten out the hunch in his back from leaning over old files for hours at a time. In his new job as a Psychological Operations Interrogator, files were a part of his job, and despite the fact that they were boring, for once he was actually glad to have them. He had requested to be sent somewhere stateside and out of the action while they evaluated his case.

His eyes glazed over as he thought of the reasons he was here. He knew that the fire had burned the bodies, but there were still questions. Still investigations. He had stymied them as much as he could without arousing suspicions, but he knew that there was a chance he could be found out.

His superiors sent him to Fort Baskerville to go through files while they cleared him to go back to duty. He hoped he could just stay with the files for the rest of his career. The files gave him a job to do without having to be around humans. Without having to be around people he could hurt.

The fading light shone across a single picture frame sitting on the edge of his desk. It was the only thing he had unpacked since arriving, leaving the rest of his box of personal effects in a corner under as many boxes as he could pile on top of it. The one picture was enough. It was the real reason why he was here.

Wolf Squad. The men in his unit had been the only family he had, ever since his own parents had died years ago. They were nine men that had trusted their lives to him. They had spent two and a half tours in Afghanistan together. They had teased him that being “Wolf Six,” captain of Wolf Squad, was simply fate for the handsome Captain Wolfe. Several of them had even gotten tattoos of a wolf’s head onto their chests or biceps.

The men had loved him and trusted him with their lives. Captain Wolfe’s intel was never wrong. They had such faith in them that they used to say that Jackson was a walking, talking polygraph machine. That he could smell a lie a mile away. His brain shied away from the memory like it was still made of fire. It was his uncanny ability to be able to detect the truth that had destroyed them all.

They were gone now. They were gone and he was here, having to face exactly what their loss had done to him. Had made him. Things were different now and he had no idea how he was going to survive.

***

Jackson's head rested on his arm like a pillow, his face twitching as he fell into the nightmare that always seemed to come as soon as he closed his eyes. He had his hand fell to his side, sending the papers on the desk into a gentle shower to the floor.

***

A high pitched whine of empty sound hummed in Jackson's ear. He watched a bullet whiz by overhead, but all he heard was the ringing of his own head. Everything was made of smoke and sand, and it took him a moment to put himself together. He shook his head, dazed as he struggled from the ground. The sheikh’s house was gone. The Rocket Propelled Grenade had done its work. Sergeant Dearden twitched beside him, and sound came roaring back.

A bullet pinged against what was left of a wall and he felt a strange twinge in his shoulder. Jackson grabbed Dearden's flak-jacket, dragging him behind the thin safety of the wall. A man came screaming toward them, an old rifle in his hand. Wolfe barely had time to raise his rifle before Dearden shot him. The man crumpled to the ground.

"Getting slow, Wolfe," Dearden joked. Jackson's mouth twitched up. He had to get what was left of his squad out of here. "Uh, Cap'n... I think you're bleeding."

Jackson looked down to see blood seeping through the gray uniform on his shoulder like a red flower. Pain blossomed as he realized that had been shot. He turned to look back at Dearden just in time to see a bullet crash through the sergeant’s face.

Red streaks filled his vision. His breath came in small pants and the hair on the back of his neck stood up straight. Rage pumped through his veins, coursing like gasoline and burning through every inch of his being. His body slumped to the ground as the intensity of the pain stole his breath. He twisted and writhed in the sand, smearing blood with dirt and rock.

He started to howl.

***

With a roar, Jackson bolted upright and brought his fists down on the desk. His eyes glowed with a fire from the past and the ancient desk split in two. Splinters of wood littered his office. Panting, struggling to maintain his form and regain control, he sat back in the rickety chair, not even bothering to baby the thing. It stood up to the abuse, letting him slowly recover his senses.

Probably afraid it's going to end up like the desk, he thought, trying to put some humor into his dark mood. He was just glad that no one had been around. What if he had been sleeping next to someone? He could only imagine the disorder his little outburst would have caused if he had been sleeping in the barracks with other soldiers. He could have killed someone.

With a shaky hand, he wiped the sweat from his brow, rising to his feet to inspect the damage. He didn't need to turn on the light. His eyes were as good in the dark as they were in the light. To him, the room was as clear as if it were noon, though he knew he shouldn't be able to see his hand in front of his face. Just one more thing that was taking some getting used to.

The desk was halved completely into two big pieces and a lot of little pieces. Papers scattered across the floor. He gingerly picked up the photograph that had set on the desk, glad to see it wasn't broken in the fall. The picture remained the same. Ten sets of eyes staring out at him, smiles on their trusting faces. He set the picture up on some boxes where it would be safe. The men watched over him from their perch as he bent to pick up the scattered papers and files.

It only took a minute to stack the files into one giant pile. He'd have to go through it tomorrow and duplicate some of the work, but at least it would give him something to do. He was incredibly grateful that the little room was far enough away from the main base that the noise of the cracking table hadn't alerted the guards to come investigate.

The desk was ruined. He wasn't quite sure how he was going to explain how it had split in two, but with its rickety age, he hoped they would believe that he had simply fallen on it. He couldn't see any indentations from his hands, so at least the story would seem plausible. He rubbed his forehead with his hand, feeling the frustration at his condition welling up again. He wished there was someone he could talk to. Someone who could explain what was happening to him and teach him how to live a normal life without worrying about breaking tables in the middle of the night.

Jackson took a deep breath and unlocked the door to his office. He wanted some air. A walk outside along the perimeter of the base was just what he needed. The cold winter air was sure to clear his head. He didn't bother to pick up his jacket; since the transformations had begun, he had found that he didn't get cold.

A hot-blooded monster... He shook his head to clear the thought. That wasn't what he needed to focus on right now. He needed to let the monster inside of him settle from the nightmare and then he could either go back to work or risk sleep again. At least I can’t make the desk worse...