Mythicals

by Dennis Meredith

  “I beg to differ. I am a most imposing guard.”

  “You are fat,” said Gennady.

  “I am substantial, robust.”

  “Please take your substantial, robust self and get food.”

  “I’ll go,” said Jack. “I know the neighborhood.” He began to rise, but Vladimir placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. “But you do not know the enemy like we do.”

  “What’s to know?” asked Jack. “They’re werewolves.”

  “Just let us do our jobs,” said Vladimir.

  Milorad laboriously hauled himself out of the chair and proceeded to carefully unlock the front door and peer cautiously out. He left, and Vladimir locked the door behind him.

  “You need rest,” said Vladimir to Jack. “Go, sleep. We’ll be here.”

  At the vampire’s words, Jack seemed to deflate, burdened by the combined effect of the last few days’ traumas and the alcohol. He wobbled into the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed, falling immediately into a deep, grateful sleep, lulled by the comforting voices of the vampires arguing over the implications of the Pilgrims’ plans for Thera.

  He was in profound, dreamless slumber when the sound of a scream pierced his conscious, bringing him to bolt upright in the bed. Another scream, this one higher than the first, followed by wretched sobs.

  He leaped off the bed and ran into the living room, to find Milorad holding a young boy and girl by the necks, as Radomir slammed his fist into the boy’s face.

  “WHERE ARE THEY?” he bellowed.

  “What are you doing!” exclaimed Jack. “Let them go!”

  “I found them in your hall when I returned with the food,” said Milorad.

  “Please!” begged the girl, who was in her early twenties, with long blond hair. Tears welled in her wide brown eyes. “Please don’t hit him again!”

  “We weren’t doing anything!” declared the boy, who was the same age, with curly brown hair and an acne-scarred face showing frightened eyes.

  Radomir slammed his fist into that face, snapping the boy’s head back. “Where are they?” he asked again.

  “Stop!” commanded Jack. “Do you hear me?”

  Vladimir stepped forward and punched the boy’s chest.

  Jack’s jaw dropped in shock, as the flesh-suits sagged off the boy’s body. Vladimir ripped away the suit to reveal a small werewolf, black blood streaming from his swollen mouth.

  “But he isn’t big?” was all Jack managed to say.

  “No,” said Vladimir coldly regarding the werewolf, who sagged in Milorad’s grip. “He’s an indenture. Normal-sized creatures, not the genetically enhanced soldiers. He, and probably others, were sent here because he is small enough to blend in with Therans when they wear flesh-suits.”

  “What about her?”

  “Please don’t hurt me!” exclaimed the girl. “I’m an Ally. They made me! They’re going to—”

  She was interrupted by simultaneous crashes of shattering glass from the bedroom and kitchen.

  Still standing in the doorway to his bedroom, Jack spun around to see a gang of furred, muscular bodies erupting through the window, showing gleaming eyes and bared fangs.

  • • •

  Sam sat quietly, breathing hard, trying to “go blue,” her body still covered in dried werewolf blood. Around her, the fairies and other Mythicals continued to tend the wounded, as the blood-red eye color marking her rage gradually gave way to her more tranquil sky-blue. To help her recover, the other Mythicals had quickly removed the werewolf bodies and remnant organs. A’eiio had gingerly pried the Alpha werewolf heart from her small hand, handing it to an elf, who with a disgusted squeal, carried it away.

  Mike the ogre staggered into the apartment, green blood oozing from his wounds, helped by Wendy.

  “I’m going to operate,” she said, fetching her medical kit, enlisting the others to lift Mike onto the apartment’s dining table, which creaked under Mike’s weight.

  He looked up at her, screwing his massive bulldog face into an expression of impatience. “I’ve got things to do,” he rumbled. “Hurry it up.”

  She scrutinized the ogre’s wounds, and without looking up, said, “I’ll need different instruments.”

  “I think we may have something,” said E’iouy, hurrying away into the main room of the building. He returned with a toolbox, and Wendy opened it, selecting a large hammer, a chisel, pliers, and a crowbar.

  Placing the chisel on one of the wounds, she lofted the hammer and slammed it down, making a small slice in Mike’s skin. He stared down at the wound with annoyance.

  “Can’t you do better than that?” he asked.

  Wendy scowled at him, and uttered a mellifluous angelic curse, smashing the hammer down seven more times, managing to slice open the wound enough to insinuate the needle-nose pliers. She dug around in the wound for some minutes, finally extracting the bullet and dropping it into a bowl E’iouy had brought.

  “I need to disinfect and seal the wound,” she said. “Thermal-seal.”

  “I’ve seen it done with ogres,” said A’eiio. “I know something that can do it.” She left and returned with a propane torch and lighter.

  Wendy turned on the torch and lit its flame, which hissed to life, glowing a deep blue. She held the torch to the wound, and it began to scorch and smoke, emitting the stench of burning ogre flesh.

  “Ow!” complained Mike. “That stings!”

  “I should think so,” said Wendy, examining the sealed wound as she shut off the torch. “If my experience treating ogres is correct, this should scab over soon. But I’ll make sure it stays closed.”

  Wendy rummaged in the toolbox and came up with a battery-powered nail gun and a roll of steel wire. Grasping the edges of the wound with the pliers, she fired nails through Mike’s flesh to create holes for sutures. Then, using a screwdriver, she pushed the wire through the holes, lacing up the wound, and twisting the wires together with the pliers.

  She repeated the procedure for Mike’s other wounds. The elephantine ogre inspected the results, rolled off the creaking table and lumbered away, muttering about how slow Wendy had been.

  “Wait until you get the bill!” she called after him.

  Wendy, A’eiio, and E’iouy finished treating the other wounded and checked on Sam, who was already showering off the blood, her eyes a delicate azure.

  “Can Sam help?” Wendy asked A’eiio. “You know, by doing what pixies do?”

  “No, not after she’s been red. It takes a while for her therapeutic ability to return.”

  “Too bad,” said Wendy, as they finished bandaging the last wounded elf.

  They left the building, emerging into the scene of the battle, the broad field surrounding the building.

  Where the field met the surrounding woods, four bigfoot were huddled over the fallen body of one of their own. Their rumbling voices resonated with the sound of sobbing. They lifted the body and disappeared into the woods.

  Near the front of the building, four small, red-bearded leprechauns sat in a circle around their fallen comrade. They rifled his pockets, as the dead leprechaun was already decomposing into dust, a characteristic reaction to the atmosphere of the alien planet. Taking mementos of a dead friend was a custom among their species.

  Mike had already joined the trolls and other ogres in pitching the werewolf corpses onto a pile for cremation. An elf drove up on a large front-end loader, which would crush the skulls into dust. There would be no return of their heads to their planet for ritual funerals to honor their sacrifice.

  Other groups were collecting the weapons and piling them beside the building.

  The two fairies and the angel surveyed the scene.

  “We need to report this to the Wardens,” said E’iouy. “This may convince them to renounce the Palliation.”

  “More importantly, we need to ask them to allow us to arm ourselves,” said E’iouy. “This is only the first battle.”

  • • •

  The
young, blond Theran Ally, who gave her name as Meri, was curled up trembling with fright in the corner of Jack’s living room when the police pounded on the door.

  “Hurry! Hurry!” urged Jack, holding his bleeding arm, wounded in the fight, as Radomir quickly finished dressing it.

  “You really need to stay away from werewolves,” said the vampire doctor. “They are definitely not good for your health.”

  Milorad pulled the girl up and took her into the bedroom, warning her to be silent. Jack scanned the apartment, realizing that its shambles would reveal the battle that had taken place. Lamps were knocked over, furniture was smashed, black blood stained the walls, and tufts of werewolf fur littered the floor.

  “Open up!” demanded the voice on the other side of the door. “Police!”

  Vladimir hauled the last of the werewolf bodies into the bedroom, and he and Milorad slammed the bedroom door, leaving Jack with Radomir and Gennady. Jack opened the door, careful to keep his bandaged shoulder concealed behind it, to see two large uniformed patrolmen staring coldly at him.

  “We got reports from the neighbors of a disturbance here,” said one of the cops. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing officer,” said Jack. “Just a party. Were we too loud?”

  “We need to come in.”

  “It was just a party,” said Jack lamely.

  “The report didn’t sound like it. We’re coming in.” The officers both drew their weapons and began to shove their way through the door.

  Gennady stepped forward, holding up his police badge. “Sorry guys. It was a party that got too loud. And we were playing a video game with explosions. We had it turned up, and we were hollering.”

  At the sight of the badge, the two officers holstered their pistols, and one said, “Okay . . . well . . . keep it down.”

  Jack gingerly closed the door, leaning against it for support for the second time. His left arm throbbed from the latest werewolf attack, his right shoulder hurt from the attack in the woods. And, his whole body ached to the bone from the trauma of the last days. But as he stared at the bedroom door, he knew the trauma wasn’t over.

  As Radomir and Gennady went to fetch Meri the Ally to question her about the werewolves’ plans, Jack followed them into the bedroom to see a pile of seven bloody werewolf corpses piled on his bed and lying inert on the floor.

  Vladimir and Milorad were too busy rifling through their uniforms to notice him.

  “What am I supposed to do now?” he demanded. “What am I supposed to do with a room full of corpses?”

  “Nothing,” said Vladimir, straightening up and patting Jack’s good shoulder. “We know how to handle these things.”

  “What? You mean you routinely take care of piles of corpses?” Jack felt a serious case of the shakes overcoming him.

  “Well, not the transport,” said Vladimir, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. “Some of our troll friends have a moving company. I’ve already called them. They’ll be here soon with crates and a truck. It’ll just look like you’re moving some things.”

  “And then?”

  “Remember, I have a meatpacking plant.”

  Jack lurched into the bathroom and threw up.

  At first Meri refused to open the door when Geniato arrived at her apartment.

  “I can’t trust you,” she said, her voice breaking. “You’re an Ally for angels.”

  “But I love you. I want to protect you,” said Geniato. “Please let me in!”

  After more entreaties, he heard the sound of locks unbolting, and she opened the door. Her brown eyes were wide with panic, her face puffy from crying, her hands trembling. He took her in his arms.

  “What happened?” he asked gently. “You wouldn’t tell me on the phone.”

  Meri wouldn’t answer at first, instead asking, “Your mother . . . is she all right?”

  “I took her back home and made sure she had help. Then you called, and I came. Tell me what happened. Please!”

  “You know I am an Ally for the werewolves. They call me an indenture. They make me do things.”

  “What things?”

  “They wanted me to help them kill a man who was going to reveal the bad thing they were planning.”

  “The Palliation. You mean the reporter, Jack March? He could reveal it to the world. And they wanted you to help kill him?”

  “Yes, and his friends stopped them. Vampires. It was horrible. They killed the werewolves who were attacking. They realized I was there against my will, so they let me go.”

  “So you’re safe.” He hugged her closer, kissed her forehead, and helped her to the couch.

  “No, I’m not.” She bowed her head and shook it dismally. “The werewolves have more plans for me. Horrible plans.”

  “Well, I have plans, too. I’m contacting my angel.”

  • • •

  “He was a fool,” declared the new Alpha, who had just emerged from the wormhole into the icy depths of the werewolves’ cavern base. He strode briskly away from the hole, as a new cadre of praetorians began to emerge, moving quickly into formation.

  Flaktuckmetang shivered in the unaccustomed cold, but as they ritually smelled one another, tried his best not to show discomfort. “But there were successes,” he declared, trying to sound dominant.

  “Did you secure the Alpha’s body, at least his head?” The Alpha crossed his arms and glared at the werewolf who was not a praetorian, but only a puny exile.

  “No, I was instructed only to observe and report back. I was in the woods when the Alpha was killed.”

  “As I would have expected,” snarled the Alpha. “One would not expect someone like you to engage an enemy.”

  “It was too late to retrieve the head. Of course, the Mythicals know that we venerate the heads of fallen warriors as monuments to their valor. So, they destroyed them immediately.”

  “Barbarians!” exclaimed the new Alpha with disgust, turning his wrath to the Mythicals. “They have no honor!”

  “Indeed, the desecration was carried out around the globe when praetorians were killed, and their comrades could not retrieve their heads.”

  “How many successes did we have?”

  Flaktuckmetang hesitated, knowing that sometimes bearers of bad news were killed, in the superstitious belief that they also carried a remnant of the curse of that news. He took a deep, tremulous breath. “I’ve been in contact with other exiles who accompanied the raids. There were successes. Many of those who opposed the Palliation were killed.”

  “But the one Ally who could reveal it? Jack March?”

  “We’ve heard nothing from that mission.”

  “Again he was a fool, my predecessor, for dispatching indentures, not to mention a Theran Ally.”

  “It has always been done that way. Indentures attract little attention. And Allies know the Therans and their customs.”

  The new Alpha growled a curse and turned to his lieutenants to plan the next mission.

  The transfer was almost complete, with three hundred praetorians standing at attention in the vast cavern, as their equipment was brought through the hole by indentures.

  “Well, now that I am in command, we will attract much attention.”

  “You’re . . . our . . . orders?” asked Flaktuckmetang.

  “Stop the news of the Palliation from spreading. If not, prepare for its launch.”

  • • •

  “Have you decided to reveal the Palliation?” asked Sam, sitting down beside Jack.

  “Yes,” he said. He lay on his bed, still wearing the same goofy smile produced by Sam’s arrival. He had changed the sheets, given that they had been spattered with black werewolf blood. The vampires slept in the living room, having fallen into their daytime stupor.

  He began to answer, but she interrupted. “You are hurt . . . again.” She touched his bandaged arm, then his shoulder. “I should have helped you in the hospital.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll show
you.” She gently lifted away the bandage on his arm to reveal the nasty slash that had been meted out by an attacking werewolf, before Vladimir had throttled it. Then, she slipped off his shirt and did the same with the bandage on his shoulder, revealing the older wound from the attack in the forest.

  She bent down and began to kiss his shoulder.

  “That’s nice,” he said, feeling an odd tingling in the wound. “I haven’t seen you this affectionate.”

  She paused. “I’m not being affectionate. It’s therapy.”

  “Well, it feels good. But I’m still glad of the antibiotics.”

  She finished kissing his shoulder and moved to his arm. His shoulder continued to tingle strangely, the ache now disappearing.

  “You haven’t heard the phrase ‘healing as a pixie’s kiss’?” she asked between kisses.

  “If that’s a Mythicals saying, I guess I haven’t been around them long enough to hear it.”

  She kissed his arm several times, then straightened up. “Purely medicinal. Pixie saliva is healing. Especially to Therans. We’re not sure why, but we’ve actually saved many Therans from pain, even death.”

  “Oh . . . well . . . I need to tell you something. I’m not Theran.”

  Sam sat up, her expression puzzled. “What else would you be?”

  “I just found out. There are those here who look like Therans . . . exactly like Therans. But they’re . . . we’re . . . from a planet called Earth. We came through a wormhole from there, me as a baby. It’s a dying planet. They ruined it. Now, they want to colonize Thera. Sam, they want the Palliation to go forward. They’ve tried to persuade me not to reveal the Palliation. They said their lives . . . the lives of my people . . . depend on it.”

  “And what would happen to us . . . the Mythicals.”

  Jack merely shook his head.

  Sam stood up, her body stiffening in shock, staring at him with deep anguish. “And what did you say?” Her eyes began to take on a greenish tint.

  Jack recognized the meaning of the change. “You would use your . . . influence . . . on me?”

  “To save billions of Therans? To save Mythicals? Yes, I would.”