Peter winced as the door slammed. He looked to Mike, who gave him a small nod; Peter turned and ran up the stairs after her.
“What was that about?” Micky asked.
Mike crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “He really likes her.”
“Well we can see that, Mike,” Davy said. “She just doesn’t seem like his type.”
“I know. I hope he knows what he’s doin’.”
Davy reached up and scratched the back of his neck. “Listen, Mike, I’m going to go to the bathroom and wash up a bit. I’ll be right back, okay?”
“Okay, Davy. Be careful, man. I still don’t trust this house.”
“Relax, Mike,” Micky said as Davy departed. “Now that Dr. Mendoza’s gone what could happen?”
Mike was about to reply when something hard struck him in the back, numbing his legs and spilling him onto the floor. He rolled onto his back, staring up at a strange man—tall, with short, dark blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His clothes were dark and nondescript, and he clutched a long section of pipe in his powerful hands.
“Mike!” Micky shouted, lunging forward. The man caught the drummer by the front of the shirt and hurled him to the floor. Micky’s head hit the concrete wall with a dull thud; his eyes rolled up into his head as he slumped into unconsciousness.
Mike snarled as he dodged to his feet. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
The man responded by swinging the pipe in a high arc that missed Mike’s head by inches. Mike turned in the direction of the stairs, his only thought to escape and get help. A rough hand seized the back of his shirt seconds before something struck him on the back of the head.
~*~
When Mike awoke the first thing he saw was blackness. Strange, goin’ from blackness to blackness, he thought randomly. A piece of rough fabric was tied around his eyes; another piece was tied painfully tight around his mouth. He was lying on a very cold floor, his wrists and ankles bound so tight that his hands and feet were starting to go numb.
He cursed from behind the gag as previous events came rushing back to him. I shoulda known this was too easy! I just hope Peter and Davy and Ella are okay . . .
A groan brought his attention back to the present. From the pitch of the voice Mike could tell that it was Micky. “Micky?” he tried to say; through the gag the word came out as in unintelligible murmur.
“Ike? Sat oo?” came the reply.
“Ah,” Mike replied. “Oo okah?”
“Eah,” Micky said. Mike could hear scraping noises as—he presumed—Micky struggled. Except for Micky’s quiet grunts and heavy breathing, everything was still for several long minutes until Mike felt something brush the back of his head. The blindfold slipped away and a few moments later the gag followed. He blinked a few times in the harsh light from the naked bulb overhead—positioned in the ceiling of the small utility room into which they’d been locked.
“Micky?” he said hoarsely, touching the tender corners of his mouth with his tongue.
“Yeah, Mike,” Micky said as he started to work on the ropes binding Mike’s wrists.
“How’d you—”
“Oh, that! I braced my legs on the wall and slipped my arms around my legs.” As Mike looked over his shoulder Micky held up his still-tied wrists. “Just relax, Mike. I’ll have you out of these in a minute.”
He had worked the first knot free and was starting in on the second when the door swung open. Their captor entered, still brandishing the long pipe.
“Get away from him,” he ordered. He placed the tip of the pipe on Micky’s chest and shoved him backwards.
“Hey, leave him alone!” Mike snarled. “Who are you and what do you want?”
The man glared coldly. “My name is Ivan Dumkoff.”
“‘Dumkoff’?” Micky said incredulously. Despite the situation he started to giggle uncontrollably, burying his face in the crook of his arm to stifle his laughter.
“Why does everyone laugh when I say that?” Ivan demanded. “It is a perfectly normal name!”
“Maybe where you’re from—around here it’s just plumb weird,” Mike said.
“Enough!” Ivan snapped angrily. He pulled two syringes from his pocket. “This will change your tune, I think.”
“Whoa! Wait a minute! What is that?” Mike demanded as Ivan pinned him to the floor and uncapped one of the needles.
Ivan held up the needle, tapping it lightly with his middle finger. “This is some of the DNA from Dr. Mendoza’s last creation.”
“DNA?” Micky asked, watching with horrified fascination.
“Genetic material—living cells,” Ivan said between clenched teeth. “Not too bright, are you?”
“But I thought that thing was a machine!”
Ivan speared him with a cold glare. “Yes, but like most cybernetics it also had biological components. This is all that remains of that magnificent creation. Soon it will take over your bodies, and I will have a pair of monsters of my own.”
Mike felt the needle pierce his arm; there was a sharp pain and then mercifully Ivan released him. He rolled onto his side, watching numbly as Ivan approached Micky, who tried in vain to get to his feet. The ropes binding his wrists made moving quickly impossible, and Ivan pinned him to the floor. Micky let out a sharp cry as Ivan injected him.
“And now, boys, I leave you to your transformation,” Ivan said as he slipped quietly out of the room and bolted the door behind him.
“Mick? Mick? You okay?” Mike hissed.
“Yeah, man, except my arm hurts. That guy has a really lousy bedside manner!”
Mike breathed a silent sigh of relief. If Micky was cracking jokes it meant that he wasn’t hurt too badly . . . yet. “Hey, man, can you come over here and untie me before . . . you know . . . you turn into a werewolf?”
“Oh ha ha,” Micky grunted as he crawled across the floor to Mike’s side. “If I do you’re gonna be the first one I bite.” His lips pursed into a thin line as he worked the ropes free. Mike sat up, rubbing his wrists to restore circulation.
“You think he really injected us with monster . . . stuff?” Mike asked as he untied Micky’s hands.
“I don’t know,” Micky replied, massaging his arm where he’d gotten the shot. “I don’t feel any different.”
“Yeah, well . . . give it time,” Mike said darkly.
“Hey Mike?” Micky said softly, his eyes focused on the floor. “I’m scared.”
“I know, man. I am too.”
~*~
Ten minutes later Ivan listened with satisfaction to the screams that emanated from the small room. He could already distinguish between the low growling of the woolhatted one and the piercing howls of the other; the agonized sounds were music to his ears.
He sat in a dark corner of the lab, waiting patiently for the short English one to return. Once he was out of the way, it was a simple matter to get Ella and her blond friend . . .
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