DC : Architect of Vengeance

Crawford's hand trembled slightly as he drew his service weapon, the familiar weight of the Glock 22 doing little to calm his nerves. The silence was thick and suffocating, broken only by the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant tick of the grandfather clock in the living room.

"Rex?" he called again, his voice echoing through the empty hallway. "Come here, boy."

Nothing.

Crawford stepped forward cautiously with his weapon raised in a standard two-handed grip. Long years of federal service had taught him to trust his instincts, and every fiber of his being was screaming that something was wrong.

Rex had never, in the three years Crawford had owned him, simply stopped barking mid-alert. The dog was trained, disciplined and reliable.

The hardwood floor creaked under his feet as he moved toward the living room. Everything appeared normal—his leather sofa sat undisturbed, the coffee table still held yesterday's newspaper, and the large-screen television reflected the hallway light like a dark mirror.

But everything somehow felt artificial, like a stage set waiting for the actors to take their positions.

Crawford cleared the living room methodically, checking behind the sofa and scanning the corners where shadows gathered. His training kicked in automatically—never assume a room is clear until you've verified every angle, every hiding spot.

The dining room was next, then his home office. Each space appeared untouched, but the oppressive feeling of being watched grew stronger with each step.

As he approached the staircase leading to the second floor, the lights flickered.

Crawford froze, his eyes darting upward to the ceiling fixture. The bulbs pulsed once, twice, then steadied. Probably just a power surge from the neighborhood grid.

He climbed the stairs slowly, testing each step before putting his full weight down. The wooden steps that usually announced his arrival with familiar creaks now seemed to betray his presence to whatever might be waiting above.

The upstairs hallway stretched before him, lined with family photos and awards from his federal career. His bedroom door stood slightly ajar, and he could see a slice of his unmade bed through the gap.

The guest bedroom was empty. His home office, the same. The master bedroom revealed nothing more threatening than dirty laundry and an unmade bed.

Crawford began to feel foolish for his paranoia. Maybe Rex had somehow gotten outside, or perhaps there had been a gas leak that affected the dog's behavior before dissipating.

As he descended the stairs, the lights flickered again. This time they dimmed significantly before returning to full brightness, and Crawford could swear he heard something—a soft scratching sound, like claws on floor.

The sound had come from the kitchen.

Crawford moved through the dining room toward the kitchen entrance, his weapon still drawn.

The scratching sound continued. It could be Rex, he told himself. Maybe the dog had somehow gotten trapped in the pantry or behind the refrigerator.

"Rex?" he called softly as he approached the kitchen doorway. "Is that you, boy?"

The scratching stopped.

Crawford peered around the corner into the kitchen, and his heart nearly stopped. There, silhouetted against the pale light from the window above the sink, was a familiar shape. Rex sat with his back turned in the center of the tiled floor.

"There you are," Crawford breathed, relief flooding through him. "You scared the hell out of me, buddy. What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

Rex didn't move. He didn't seem to hear his voice at all.

Crawford stepped into the kitchen, lowering his weapon slightly. "Rex? Come here, boy."

Still nothing. The dog remained motionless like a statue.

The overhead lights flickered again, and this time they didn't recover. The kitchen plunged into darkness, leaving only the faint ambient light from the window and the soft glow from the hallway behind him.

Crawford's training reasserted itself, and he raised his weapon again while reaching for the small LED flashlight clipped to his belt. The narrow beam cut through the darkness, illuminating Rex's form in stark detail.

Something was wrong with the silhouette. The proportions seemed... off somehow.

"Rex?" Crawford whispered, his voice barely audible even to himself.

Slowly, impossibly slowly, Rex began to turn around.

The flashlight beam trembled in Crawford's grip as his dog came into view, and what he saw defied every rational explanation his mind could construct. Rex's familiar brown and black German Shepherd coat was there, but underneath, everything had been fundamentally altered.

The dog's skull had elongated grotesquely, stretching forward into a long snout filled with rows of needle-like teeth that protruded beyond the lips. The eyes had sunken deep into the skull, becoming small black pits.

But it was the tongue that made Crawford's stomach twist—a massive, muscular appendage that hung from the creature's mouth like a pink serpent, easily three feet long and covered in barbed ridges.

Rex's body had been similarly transformed. The shoulders and hindquarters bulged with unnatural muscle mass, and the paws had elongated into clawed limbs that scraped against the tile floor. His spine arched into an S-shape, locking him in a crouch like a predator ready to spring.

But the most horrifying detail was the exposed brain tissue visible through gaps in the skull.

This thing looking like Rex was no longer his faithful companion. It was something out of a nightmare, a biological impossibility that violated every shred of common sense Crawford had.

The creature's head tilted to one side with a wet, crackling sound, studying him with those terrible sunken eyes. Then it opened its mouth wider, and that long tongue unfurled completely, tasting the air like a snake sampling its environment.

Crawford's finger found the trigger as pure survival instinct overrode his shock. "Jesus Christ," he whispered, and began to squeeze.

The Glock never fired.

An invisible force wrenched the weapon from his grip with such sudden violence that it nearly dislocated his shoulder. The gun flew across the kitchen and clattered into the far corner, spinning across the tile until it came to rest beneath the breakfast table.

Crawford stared at his empty hands in disbelief, then at the creature that had been Rex.

The Rex-thing's tongue flicked out again, and Crawford could swear he saw intelligence in those sunken eyes.

Crawford backed toward the kitchen doorway, the flashlight beam wavering as his hands shook. "Stay back," he warned, though he knew the words were meaningless. "Whatever you are, just stay back."

The creature rose from its crouch and slowly moved towards Crawford. The claws clicked against the tile in a rhythm that sounded almost like Morse code.

Crawford reached the doorway and spun around, running for the front door. Behind him came the rapid click of claws on tile—and a wet slithering sound that had to be that massive tongue dragging across the floor.

The hallway seemed longer than before, stretching endlessly toward the front door. Crawford's flashlight beam bounced wildly as he ran, creating a strobe effect that made his own shadow dance on the walls.

He reached for the front door handle and twisted. Locked. The deadbolt was engaged, though he was certain he hadn't locked it when he came in.

Behind him, the clicking sounds grew closer.

Crawford fumbled for his keys, his fingers slipping on the metal as panic set in. The creature was almost upon him—he could hear its labored breathing, a wet sound that made his skin crawl.

The keys slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

Crawford dropped to his knees, the flashlight beam sweeping frantically across the hardwood as he searched for his keys. There—a glint of metal near the baseboards. He lunged for them just as something hot and wet wrapped around his ankle.

The tongue. The thing's massive, barbed tongue had coiled around his leg like a python, and the sensation was indescribably revolting. He could feel the ridge-like barbs catching on his pants fabric, and the strength of the appendage was incredible.

Crawford screamed and kicked with his free leg, trying to dislodge the creature's grip. His flashlight fell and rolled across the floor, its beam spinning wildly in the dark.

The Rex-thing hauled him backward with surprising strength, dragging him across the hardwood floor toward the kitchen. Crawford clawed at the floor, his fingernails scraping against the wood as he tried to find something to hold on.

"Help!" Crawford screamed, though he knew none of his neighbors were close enough to hear. "Somebody help me!"

His fingers found the edge of the coffee table in the living room, and he wrapped both hands around the wooden leg, holding on desperately. For a moment, the forward motion stopped as creature and man engaged in a tug-of-war using Crawford's body as the rope.

Then the coffee table simply lifted into the air.

Crawford watched in terror as the table floated upward, defying gravity like his gun before. The table drifted sideways and gently settled against the far wall, leaving Crawford with nothing to hold onto.

The Rex-thing resumed dragging him toward the kitchen, and Crawford could see his fate approaching in the form of those needle-sharp teeth and that brain-exposed skull. Whatever this creature wanted, it wasn't going to be quick or painless.

In desperation, Crawford rolled onto his back and tried to kick at the creature's head with his free leg. His boot connected with the elongated snout, and the thing released an inhuman shriek that sounded like steam escaping from a boiler. But instead of releasing him, the tongue tightened its grip, and he could feel the barbs starting to puncture his skin.

They were back in the kitchen now. The Rex-thing positioned itself over him, that terrible tongue still wrapped around his ankle, and lowered its head until those sunken eyes were only inches from his face.

The smell hit him then—a combination of wet dog, rotting meat, and something chemical that burned his nostrils. This close, he could see details he wished he couldn't: the way the exposed brain tissue pulsed with veins that weren't quite the right color, the saliva that dripped constantly from those protruding teeth, and worst of all, some vestige of Rex's original brown eyes still visible in the depths of those dark sockets.

Part of his dog was still in there, trapped inside this biological nightmare.

The creature opened its mouth wider, revealing more rows of teeth that seemed to go back impossibly far into its throat. The tongue began to retract, pulling Crawford closer to that gaping maw.

Crawford grabbed desperately at the kitchen cabinets, the refrigerator, anything within reach, but his hands found nothing this time.

"Please," he whispered, though he didn't know who he was talking to. The creature? The unseen presence? God? "Please, I have information. I can help. I can—"

The Rex-thing's muscles coiled like springs, and Crawford had just enough time to see those terrible jaws opening wide before the creature launched itself forward.

The last thing Agent Jim Crawford saw was a flash of teeth and tongue, and the last thing he heard was his own scream echoing through the empty house before it was cut brutally short.

In the sudden silence that followed, only the grandfather clock continued its steady ticking sound.

The kitchen lights flickered once more, then went out completely, leaving only darkness and the soft sound of something wet moving across the tile floor.

Notes :

Sorry guys, this is one of the longest arcs I've written so far, so I didn't spend extra chapters on Crawford's death. I also noticed some people were disappointed that the dog was harmed. I can only apologize for that, because I'm planning to use dogs later to integrate Hunters from Prototype and Lickers from Resident Evil into the novel. Fair warning : This won't be the last time the mutated dogs appear.

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DC : Architect of Vengeance

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