Page 43 of Curiosity Killed The Vampire

He turned toward the stairs, blade still in his hand, the light glinting off the curve of steel. “We will,” he said. “But first, we end this place.”

CHAPTER 13

Con didn’t waste time. He grabbed several folders of research and slipped them under his jacket, along with a flash drive he shoved into his pocket.

He moved through the lab like a man executing an order he’d already given himself. His movements were fluid, efficient—one hand sweeping clear the clutter on a counter while the other reached for the nearest shelf. He found the jug of lighter fluid almost immediately—half-empty, labeled in permanent marker—and gave it a quick shake. The liquid sloshed thickly inside.

“Stand back,” he said.

The scent of petroleum filled the room as he began to pour, splashing the clear fluid across the papers and old lab benches. It glistened in the low light, spreading quickly over the tile. I followed his lead, grabbing another canister and moving along the opposite side of the room. Each pour left dark trails that soaked into scattered notes, the vials, the edges of the cot. The sharp chemical tang mixed with the metallic scent of blood and the cold, sterile reek of antiseptic.

The fire would erase everything.

All the data, all the evidence—every trace of what had been done here.

I looked once more at the whiteboard. The words Integration Protocol were still visible through the streaks of fluid we’d splashed across it, the ink running into warped lines. My throat tightened, but I didn’t hesitate. I tipped the can, watching the liquid sheet across the floor beneath it until it dripped from the bottom edge.

Con pulled a matchbook from his jacket and struck it. The spark snapped loud in the silence, a tiny sound swallowed by the enormity of what we were about to do.

He met my eyes once, a silent question in his look—Ready?

I nodded.

He dropped the match.

The fire bloomed instantly—an eager, hungry roar that raced along the fuel, curling up the table legs and devouring the stacks of paper. In seconds, the room transformed. The sterile light was gone, replaced by the flickering gold and orange of flame that cast monstrous shadows against the walls. Glass cracked. The first vial popped with a hiss, releasing a plume of acrid smoke that smelled of burnt sugar and rot.

“Go,” Con said, his voice low but urgent.

We turned toward the stairs, the fire spreading behind us like a living thing, tongues of flame licking up the shelves and climbing toward the ceiling. The heat pressed against my back as we climbed, the roar of combustion chasing us upward.

By the time we reached the main warehouse floor, smoke was already curling through the cracks in the door, thick and black. Con kicked it open, and we stepped out into the open bay, lungs heaving from the climb and the fumes.

The warehouse stretched before us, dark and cavernous—but no longer empty.

Shapes moved between the crates and machinery. Dozens of them.

The low hum of augmented servos filled the air—a sound like distant thunder wrapped in static. The firelight behind us threw the newcomers into stark relief—men and women in combat armor, faces obscured by tactical visors, skin gleaming where metal met flesh. Their movements were precise, synchronized. Their eyes—those that weren’t hidden—glowed red in the dim light.

Enhanced humans.

Not a handful this time. A small army.

They fanned out in perfect formation, closing the distance with quiet confidence. Some carried rifles, others short blades, all augmented with tech that pulsed under the surface of their armor. Behind them, near the central loading dock, I could see the glimmer of an armored vehicle—black, matte, silent.

Con stepped slightly in front of me, his body angled toward them, blade sliding free of its sheath with a soft hiss. The firelight caught along the curved steel, casting a pale shimmer that made the air around him hum.

“Looks like someone doesn’t want us to leave,” he said, voice low, calm.

I tightened my grip on the artifact’s satchel, the heat of its pulse seeping through the leather. “They must have been stationed nearby. Guarding this place.”

“Or waiting for us to destroy it,” Con muttered.

The line of soldiers stopped twenty feet away, their leader stepping forward. He was taller than the rest, his armor sleeker, his face uncovered. Beneath the sheen of cybernetic plating at his temples, his expression was almost human—cool, detached, confident.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said, his voice distorted slightly by the augment in his throat. “You are obsolete in our war.”

“Your war?” I repeated, bitterness in my tone. “You’re manufacturing monsters out of what’s left of humanity. You call that war?”