Zero Logic: The Hunter Gambits

Chapter 03. The Toothless Predator

"You have two choices, Miss Saw-Tooth," Oliver said. His voice was steady, but his breath was shallow, sounding like an asthmatic at the end of a marathon. He gripped the TV remote as if it were a live grenade. "You bite me now and I make sure we both die a pathetic death, or you back off and let me breathe."

Bella, or whatever creature was wearing the skin of the nurse named Bella, chuckled. The sound creaked like a rusted door hinge. She straightened her posture, but her murky yellow eyes never strayed from Oliver’s throat.

"Empty threats from a man who can’t even lift a glass of water," Bella sneered. "What are you going to do? Throw that remote at me? Oh, I’m terrified."

"It’s not the remote, idiot," Oliver hissed. "It’s this cable."

Oliver’s trembling left hand was not holding the IV line. Instead, it gripped the power cable of the EKG monitor beside him. The monitor was linked directly to the hospital’s central alarm system.

"You said you’re a 'Low-Level Ghoul,' right? I mean, the System in my head said it," Oliver continued, his voice heavy with provocation. "I’m assuming you’re posing as a nurse because you’re afraid of being caught by a real Hunter, or perhaps by the human police. If I pull this plug, a Code Blue will trigger. In thirty seconds, this room will be swarming with doctors and security guards."

Bella narrowed her eyes. Her long, forked tongue flicked out to lick her dry lips. She hesitated. Her predatory instincts screamed for her to strike, but her survival instincts held her back.

"You think they can stop me?"

"No," Oliver answered quickly. "They’re just meat to you. But the commotion will bring the others. Are you really willing to take that risk just to eat one tough old corpse like me?"

Silence fell, filled only by the rhythmic beeping of the monitor.

Bella snorted harshly. Her face slowly returned to normal. Her eyes faded back to blue, and her skin smoothed over. Her human mask was perfectly back in place.

"You’re clever, old man. But you’re wrong about one thing," Bella whispered, smoothing out her uniform. "I’m not afraid of being caught. I just don't like to rush my meals. Dinner should be savored."

She backed away toward the door. "I’ll be waiting. You have to leave this place sooner or later. That scent of death on you... it’s like perfume to me. I can smell you from five kilometers away."

Bella winked and stepped out of the room as if nothing had happened.

"Damn it." Oliver released the EKG cable. His body slumped into the pillows immediately. Cold sweat drenched his back.

[118:55:10]

The numbers continued to mock him.

"System," Oliver called out internally. "Did you see that? That was my best bluff of the year. Where’s my reward?"

[There are no rewards for cowardice, Host Oliver. The target remains alive. No time has been added.]

"Shut up," Oliver cursed. "I need a weapon. I need to get out of here."

An hour later, Oliver Warner did something no critical patient at St. Jude Medical Center had ever done. He discharged himself against medical advice with staggering arrogance.

"Mr. Warner, this is suicide!" Dr. Sterling blocked Oliver’s path in the lobby. "Your organs could fail at any moment! You need life support!"

Oliver, now dressed in an expensive suit that hung loosely on his shrunken frame, stared at the doctor with a cold gaze. He stood supported by a walking cane he had stolen from the patient in the next room.

"Doc, listen to me," Oliver said, his hand trembling as he signed the refusal of treatment forms. "I’d rather die in my penthouse drinking Scotch than die in here smelling floor wax and listening to your bullshit."

"But—"

"Move. Or I’ll buy this hospital and turn it into a parking lot."

Oliver tossed the pen at Sterling’s chest and limped toward the exit. His private driver, Frank, was already waiting with the black Rolls Royce in front of the lobby.

As the car door closed and the cool AC hit his face, Oliver felt no relief. He felt watched. He looked out the tinted window. Across the street, hidden among the shadows of the trees, he saw a pair of yellow eyes glow for a moment before vanishing.

"Drive, Frank," Oliver ordered. "Fast."

"Where to, Boss? Home?"

"To my old warehouse downtown. I need to pick up some toys."

Oliver’s penthouse on the 40th floor of The Aurora Tower was usually a sanctuary. It was the place where he felt like the king of the world, looking down at the glittering lights of Las Vegas. Tonight, however, it felt like a very expensive glass coffin.

Oliver sat on his Italian leather sofa. On the marble coffee table before him lay a custom Colt M1911 with ivory grips. It was his favorite weapon.

"Okay," Oliver muttered. "Let’s see just how bad it is."

He reached out to take the pistol.

Heavy. It was so heavy.

The weapon that once felt light and perfect in his hand now felt like a block of solid concrete. Oliver’s hand shook violently as he tried to raise it to eye level to aim at a flower vase across the room.

The muscles in his arm screamed in protest. The veins in his neck bulged. He tried to hold his breath to steady his aim.

Bang!

The gunshot shattered the silence. The vase didn't break. It wasn't even grazed. The bullet slammed into the wall three feet to the left of the target, ruining a ten-thousand-dollar abstract painting.

The pistol slipped from his grip due to a recoil he could no longer manage. It hit the carpet with a dull thud. Oliver stared at his hand, which now throbbed and bruised from firing a single shot.

"Pathetic," he said hollowly. "I really am toothless."

[Analysis: Host’s muscle mass reduced by 60%. Motor nerve coordination decreased by 40%. Probability of hitting a target with a large-caliber firearm: 12%.]

"You don't need to read me my failure statistics, you stupid robot," Oliver snapped, pouring whiskey into a glass. He needed the alcohol to dull the pain radiating through his body, even if he knew it might hasten his end.

Oliver downed the whiskey. It tasted like nothing. His tongue was losing its sensitivity.

"So," Oliver spoke to his reflection in the glass window. "I can’t run, I can’t fight, and I can’t even shoot straight. And there’s a hungry monster on her way here to turn me into a kebab."

He closed his eyes, letting his gambler’s brain take over. In poker, if you’re dealt trash—like a 2 and a 7 of different suits—you don't play a game of strength. You play a game of traps. You play the psychology. You make the opponent think they’re in control until they realize they’re sitting in an electric chair.

"System," Oliver called out. "That Ghoul. She’s tracking me by scent, isn't she?"

[Affirmative. Ghouls possess olfactory receptors that are highly sensitive to the necrotic pheromones emitted by the Host’s body.]

"Good." Oliver gave a thin smirk. The smile looked ghoulish on his gaunt face. "That means I’m not just prey. I’m bait."

Oliver stood up with great effort. He grabbed his phone and opened a property layout app. He searched for a specific location. Somewhere cramped, noisy, and where he could control the environmental variables since he couldn't rely on his physicality.

His eyes landed on a point on the Las Vegas map.

Abandoned Subway Station, Line 4.

It was a failed project he had funded five years ago. An unfinished underground tunnel filled with construction equipment, scrap metal, and terrible acoustics.

"Frank!" Oliver shouted into the intercom. "Get the car ready again. We’re moving."

"But Boss, you've only been resting for five minutes."

"I can rest when I’m dead, Frank! Now take me to a music supply store. I need a lot of piano wire."

LOCATION: SUBWAY STATION LINE 4 (ABANDONED)

TIME: 02:00 AM

TIME REMAINING: 116 HOURS 15 MINUTES

The place was dark, damp, and smelled of machine oil. The only light came from flickering yellow emergency lamps, casting long, dancing shadows against the concrete walls.

Oliver sat on a folding chair he had brought, positioned right in the middle of an unfinished platform. Before him lay empty tracks. Behind him, the darkness of the tunnel yawned like the mouth of a beast.

He was alone. He had sent Frank home.

Oliver looked fragile. He wore a heavy overcoat to hide his thin frame, but he was shivering from the cold. In his lap sat no pistol, but a gold Zippo lighter that he flipped open and shut.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

The sound echoed through the silent corridor.

"I know you’re there, Bella," Oliver said. His voice was hoarse, but it carried clearly thanks to the tunnel’s acoustics. "Why hide? I’m tired of running. I’m ready to be dinner."

There was no answer. Only the sound of water dripping from a leaky pipe in the distance. But Oliver didn't need a verbal response. The System in his eyes was already flashing red notifications.

[WARNING: ENEMY APPROACHING]

[DISTANCE: 50 METERS]

[DIRECTION: 6 O'CLOCK]

From the darkness behind him came the sound of footsteps. Not the sound of shoes, but the sound of claws scraping against concrete. Scritch. Scritch.

"You chose your own grave, didn't you?" Bella’s voice emerged, this time without the sweet mask. Her voice was heavy, hungry, and full of murderous intent. "How romantic."

Oliver didn't turn around. He kept playing with his lighter. Click. Clack.

"I actually chose this place because the acoustics are great," Oliver replied casually. "And because there aren't any witnesses if I have to get my hands dirty."

Bella stepped into the circle of light from the emergency lamp. Her form had completely transformed. Her nurse’s uniform was shredded where her muscles had expanded. Her skin was a pale gray, her eyes glowed yellow, and her mouth stretched back to her ears, revealing teeth as sharp as razors. Her fingers had lengthened into four-inch claws.

She was no longer a beautiful woman. She was a starving undead thing.

"You’re awfully cocky for a piece of minced meat," Bella growled. She crouched low, preparing to spring. They were ten meters apart. For a Ghoul, that distance could be closed in a single second.

Oliver looked at the probability numbers the System displayed above Bella’s head.

[PROBABILITY OF OLIVER WINNING (PHYSICAL COMBAT): 0%]

[PROBABILITY OF OLIVER ESCAPING: 0%]

"Zero percent," Oliver whispered. "Perfect. That means I don't have to bother thinking about running."

"Say goodbye, old man!"

Bella howled, a deafening sound, and then lunged. She moved as fast as a bullet, her claws aimed straight for Oliver’s heart.

Oliver didn't move. He didn't even flinch. He simply flicked his lighter to life and dropped it onto the floor.

It didn't hit ordinary concrete. It hit a floor he had drenched in a thin layer of transparent lubricant stolen from the construction warehouse. And more importantly, he dropped it right over a strand of super-thin piano wire stretched across Bella’s path. The wire was nearly invisible to the eye, but incredibly strong.

"One," Oliver counted softly.

Bella, mid-air, realized there was a flash of light beneath her. She tried to adjust her trajectory, but her momentum was too great. Her legs hit the wire.

Snip!

The sound of slicing flesh followed. Bella’s scream echoed, not of hunger, but of shock and agony. Her balance vanished. She slammed into the slick, oily concrete floor.

She slid violently like a hockey player out of control, flying past Oliver’s chair toward the edge of the platform.

Down below, on the dark tracks, Oliver had prepared another surprise.

"Welcome to my game, lady," Oliver whispered as he watched the monster’s body slide uncontrollably into the darkness.