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Skin Eater packs are still hunting on the levels above and bel The Variant Squad barely had time to get back on its feet before the screaming started. A murderous Kill Squad sent by an unknown enemy must have followed them underground. And the old myths about the basement are proving true. Something with an appetite for pain is haunting the bunker complex and feeds its hunger through the Biter packs.

It has also poisoned the place with the Varion molecule that causes the lethal new form of the Variant Effect, forcing the squad to remain sealed in their bag-suits. Variant Squad veteran Joe Borland knows that there are forces within the squad that might not want to win the battle underground, and would prefer leaving his bagged-comrades buried with the incriminating evidence they have found. In the meantime he and Beachboy take the squad survivors on a desperate search for a rumored escape tunnel while dark forces gather on all sides, and a secret clock winds down to doomsday and the final Variant Squad protocol of Ziploc, Gas and BURN!

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G. Wells Taylor

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Visit GWellsTaylor. Wells Taylor was born in Oakville, Ontario, Canada in , but spent most of his early life north of there in Owen Sound where he went on to study Design Arts at a local college. Taylor worked as a freelance writer for small market newspapers and later wrote, designed and edited for several Canadian niche magazines. Well, not his hands. He was still looking for those.

So he had to use inferior, stubby fingered hands to place his new feet into the large plastic cooler.

Pinocchio pushed the severed and bagged extremities down into the ice with a plunging action that made a roaring noise—and he froze as goose bumps prickled. Careful now.

The Variant Effect

He closed the lid with a quiet thump , and slipped its hard plastic lock into place with a click. Then he nudged the cooler with the toe of his slipper and slid it across the carpet until it rested beside his backpack by the front door. He unfolded a six-by-six vinyl sheet and set it in place under the window where a dark green garbage bag waited to be filled. The blinds were drawn. No one would see. The man on the bed was looking back at him over the bloodstained gag; his breath was coming in desperate, rapid-fire whistles. His eyes were wide and white with pain and terror. His face was sweaty and pale with blood loss and shock.

He grunted weakly, promising the world. The ropes that fastened his wrists to the headboard had held him in place while Pinocchio worked. Same as those that bound his legs with a series of tight loops just over the knees and in around the bed frame.

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Those knots had served a double purpose. At first Pinocchio had contemplated taking all of the legs. It would have been faster and easier to take them off at the hips or knees, but the large limbs would have been unwieldy to transport. And he had to be careful—he got so excited when he found new parts. He had to be cautious, and a little extra work would keep him safe. So he had decided that it would be worth the effort to strip out the muscle, veins and nerves that belonged to the feet.

They had surprised Pinocchio. Their awkward and ugly design did not go with the feet. Pinocchio had gotten his first look at them earlier on that heat wave day when the man on the bed had taken off his shoes and socks to wade in a Metro park fountain. He had been contemplating a quiet death—just ending it for once and all, when he saw the feet flash across the grass and leap into the spangled water. Their beauty, their movement, caught hold of his spirit and lifted it up. A voice, his conscience perhaps, said: You can still be a real boy.

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You must never give up! The feet were perfect: the toes were short but not stubby, the arches flexible bridges from powerful heel to forefoot, and the skin was smooth ivory. They were just the way Pinocchio had imagined they would be. And there they were, marking a pathway back to optimism, back to life and to his calling. He could be a real boy. His urgency was understandable, but dangerous too. So he reined in his emotions and sat on the bench in the shade to watch the man play with his feet in the water. An hour passed and Pinocchio followed the man on foot through the shimmering heat of the day, curious about his destination, keeping his rising excitement in check—until he found out where the man was going Home was a room at a rundown motor inn.

Pinocchio knew the type, a bachelor apartment rented by week or month and sparsely furnished, accessed by an open stairway running up over the parking lot. There you only had to pass the neighboring units and knock. The location was puzzling. The man was fit and healthy. His hair was cut and clean. So Pinocchio had retrieved his van from the park, gone home to get his equipment and had returned some hours later when the sun had set and the shadows were black.

He had knocked and the man had answered. The fellow took one look at Pinocchio, at the goggles and filter-mask, and he smiled. Is this a joke? Pinocchio gave him a long blast of pepper spray in the eyes and nostrils. The man tried to speak but choked. Pinocchio pushed him back into the room and shut the door behind them. Blind and gasping, the man swung a fist in the air, lost his balance and fell on his face. Vivisection was time-consuming, but time well spent, and it was difficult to pass when the opportunity presented itself.

One learned so much when the stakes were high.