by John Conroe
I searched around the little campsite, my nose helping me avoid his latrine. One of his twisty little trails led around the hill to the north side. That’s where I found his clothes, the ones he had been wearing today. The scent was fresh.
The sun was lower, and it occurred to me that in these mountains, it would be dark quicker than I had thought. My senses were hyper alert, picking out all the birdsong, insect sound and scents of the Vermont forest. I had forgotten how alive the woods make me feel, the thin skin of civilization sliding away just a bit. The moon would begin its chase of the sun soon, rising in the east as the sun set fully in the west. I could feel it, pulling on me. George must be half mad with it already.
His trail led north along the saddle of the hill, following the terrain to the next hill over, Hager Hill. His scent was everywhere, stinky body odor mixed with an unsettling odour of wet dog.
His trail was meandering and I remembered that I was currently hunting a moon drunk, a naked moon drunk at that.
I climbed logs, jumped boulders, splashed through streams. I was really starting to feel the hunt, the blackness in my gut pulsing with anticipation. It was a gradual kind of thing, the sort of feeling that sneaks up on you and suddenly robs you of your wits. I found myself sniffing the ground, tree trunks, moss-covered rocks.
The night was coming on fast, but I hadn’t noticed, as the change in light slides right by you when you have night vision like mine. Then I felt the moon, just starting to edge over the horizon, and almost at the same time I heard him change. I was above him, high on Hager Hill, and his screams of pain echoed from below. The pitch started to change, lowering and deepening until it became a snarling growl of rage.
The sound tripped the hairs on the back of my neck, stirred my very cells with the inherited memories of my prehistoric ancestors. At the same time it triggered a powerful instinct to hunt the predator that was below me. The human part of me was a little scared, the virus parts excited and the deep black rage in me was hungry to prove who was the top predator in this forest.
I doubled my speed downhill, bounding over gullies and fallen trees with abandon, slowing only when I reached a part of the forest that was already silent.
Chapter 12
“I feel it deep within, just beneath the skin. I must confess that I feel like a monster.” – Skillet
All the night-time inhabitants had gone dead quiet in this part of the forest, frightened by a large unnatural predator. My ears could tell the size of the silent zone, my hearing acute enough to pick up the beginnings of crickets and spring peepers fifty yards away on either side of me.
I started to follow the tunnel of silence, my brain forming an image of the path the newly made monster had taken by the vacuum of sound it had created.
I was moving slower now, all my senses quivering like antennae. The path led further downhill, toward the sounds of cars on Route 9 below me. To my right I could hear the early evening sounds of a small development built on the south base of Hager Hill. The monster I chased steered around it, and I wondered at its avoidance of such easy prey.
The road appeared in front of me, the trails of scent crossing and heading south. I jumped the road in one leap, landing in a tree forty feet off the ground (forty-three-point-two actually, but my ability to gauge distance had gotten so creepy over the last few months that I started to annoy myself with the precision of it, so now I round).
He was headed over the next hill, the one named Prospect on the map in my head. If I remembered right (and I did), there was a state campground on the other side. It should be too early in the season for campers, but one never knew, so I hurried, leaping from my tree to the ground and accelerating up the hill.
Cresting the hill, I heard him, less than a quarter mile ahead, grunting and growling softly. The campground was laid out before me, wrapped around a small body of water. Lassiter’s path headed straight for the rows of empty tent sites and I suddenly heard voices, laughing and giggling in the dark. One was deep, the other high and wind-chime clear.
I raced forward, bounding in twenty- and thirty-foot jumps, the voices growing closer and louder, the monster just ahead.
The trees thinned and I saw a tent – a small two person dome, glowing with the meager light of an iPod or cell phone that might as well have been a Colemen lantern to my eyes. A fire burned in the little firepit and an older model Chevy Blazer was parked nearby. Lassiter’s outline blocked the light of the tent as he charged toward his prey.
A number of things happened in rapid sequence. The girl’s voice changed pitch as she heard something in the dark, then the beast that had been George Lassiter tore the tent like tissue paper. The figure of a half-naked male jumped up and turned to run, slamming headfirst into the tree on the other side of the tent and falling unmoving to the ground. The girl screamed, scooting backward as the malformed monster’s teeth touched her leg, and then I landed behind old woolly George. He finally sensed me, starting to turn, but I Posted my body in position, grabbed his hind leg and twisted, throwing the three-hundred pound creature against a tree fifteen feet away.
Enraged, the were leaped to its feet, giving me my first clear look at poor George. Experienced weres generally turn into perfect examples of their animal, albeit very large ones. They can, over time, learn to stop the transformation half-way into a wolf-man, bear-man or what have you. George Lassiter hadn’t been able to make a full transformation. But his beast form was misshapen and wrong to the eye. One arm too long, one leg slightly twisted. His head looked partially melted, the fur not fully formed on one side. He was a mess, an insane, superhumanly strong, enraged mess. His teeth and claws had turned out well, though.
Observer-me noticed all this, as the black rage was in full control of my fight brain. Here was an opponent to give me a real fight. Not some poor gang members in a city park, but a real monster of tooth and claw.
Were-George charged me, missing when I dodged to the right, grunting when my left fist impacted his ribs, snarling when my right hammer fist slammed into his back, shattering the vertebrae.
He started to pull himself forward with his massive arms, his broken back already mending itself with audible snaps and crunches of bone. Poor George! He shouldn’t have to work so hard to get to me, a dark part of me thought, so I went to him.
His bear-trap jaws snapped in rapid fire, his baleful eyes almost popping out of his head with rage. I offered an arm for him to bite, but snatched it away, slamming his head with my other fist, pounding it into the ground with a crunch. He rolled to one side and swiped me with a huge paw-hand, his claws shredding my nylon vest as I was thrown backward. I back flipped over, landing lightly on my feet, a dark chuckle forcing its way from my mouth. The blackness was amused.
Weres and vamps are tough to damage with regular weapons, only silver makes a real impression. But physical injuries from hand-to-hand combat are different somehow. It’s far more damaging and can be ultimately lethal. George was healing but slower than a steel knife wound or gunshot with lead. He was a brand new were and his instincts were skewed, mixed as they were with human ones. Up until this point he had fought as confident predator, but now some part of him was realizing he was losing this fight, and badly.
His spine re-grown, he shot from the ground, charging me head on. At three hundred pounds and almost seven feet tall he was not something to go-toe-to toe with. So, of course, I did, and I laughed.
Holding his throat to keep those deadly jaws at bay, I took the beating of his claws on my torso, my ribs and skin Hardened. With my free right hand I uppercut, hard, fast. Like a jackhammer. My vest was shredded, my skin cut, healed, and cut again. He, however was beginning to fade. My blows were crushing and recrushing his ribs, sternum, bursting organs and blasting bone fragments throughout his torso.
It’s a fact of life that older weres and vamps heal faster than newbies. George couldn’t keep up.
His blows grew feeble and finally, I threw him down in disgust. Now he lay on his
side, panting, and instead of a growl, he let out a whimper. A whimper! Like a lost puppy, hit by a car.
That whimper cut through the blackness like a razor, cut straight to observer-me. Cut me to the core.
I was back in control, the rage snuffed and shoved away, locked down by my self-disgust. My job was to put down a rogue. That’s it. Clean, precise, merciful. This was nothing like merciful. I had never even grabbed silver. No, my intent, it seems, had been to beat the poor, insane, desperate, man-creature in front of me to death with my hands.
The yellow light of insanity dimmed in his eyes, leaving a very human-looking pupil in an oversized socket. That eye, light blue in color, begged for release. Release from the pain, release from the madness, release before he could murder.
The silver dart found its way into my hand without thought, and I approached him with my side turned away to hide it. He focused on me, his eye hopeful, and when I slid the needle through the back of his skull, he didn’t seem to feel it. But as the light faded from his gigantic eye, the look changed from begging for release, to pity. Pity for me.
I turned my head and puked.
Chapter 13
“My secret side I keep hid under lock and key. I keep it caged, but I can’t control it, ‘cause if I let him out, he’ll tear me up, break me down…”- Skillet
I returned to the campsite, unsure of what I would find or not find. The young guy was still lying on the ground, hopefully just knocked out. The girl had found a flashlight and was shining it about, trying to find the monsters in the dark. It suddenly struck me that she had had to listen to unholy combat, completely unable to see what was happening. Her heart was beating as fast as a scared rabbit, but she wasn't panicking and when she pinned me with the bright beam of her light, I decided she wasn't very rabbit-like.
“Do you mind? The light?” I asked, keeping my voice low and quiet.
She dropped the beam to my chest and legs, giving me a chance to get my first good look at her. It was quite a look. She was naked except for a pink thong, and not especially aware of it.
Some people will run out of a burning house with nothing on and not be aware of it for a while. This was different. She wasn't so much unaware of her lack of clothes as she was unconcerned. Her eyes were wide and green, alert and nervous, but not blank with shock or catatonic with fear the way most people would be after an experience like that.
Her hair was platinum blond, as were her eyebrows and it looked to be her natural color. Her face was beautiful, with the smooth perfection of the young. I put her age at seventeen or eighteen. Pixie-like features. Her body, well, her body was a problem in and of itself.
Very few people should go naked. I'm sorry, but that's just how it is. All that crap about the body is a beautiful thing in all its shapes, forms and ages is just that – crap! Now, of course, if you're gonna seek out people who look good naked, girls in her age range are prime candidates. But this girl was another level or three altogether. Let me put it this way: if the United States had an Olympic naked team, this girl would be a captain.
In addition to her naked beauty, she also had a bleeding wound on her left calf, with a werewolf-sized tooth puncture right in the middle. My focus, which had been decidedly distracted, suddenly snapped back to a sharp point. I re-looked at her wound with my Sight, and found it crawling with green. The LV virus liked her, no, scratch that, it adored her.
Immediately, a dozen things ran through my head. Primary was the image of this girl in a cage, deep in an underground government lab, mad as a hatter. If Briana Duclair discovered Miss Soon-to-be Teenaged Werewolf, the girl's life was over.
I looked her in the eyes.
“What's your name?” I asked, softly.
She licked her lips to wet them, then answered with only the slightest tremble in her voice.
“S-stacia. Stacia Reynolds,” she said. “What's your's?”
She wasn't the stereotypical blond cheerleader type; this girl had cojones.
“I'm Chris. Listen Stacia, we don't have a whole lot of time before others arrive. I have a lot to tell you and no time to be delicate about it,” I said. I took out my own light and lit up the body of poor Mr. Lassiter, who was as he died, still a werewolf.
“That is a werewolf. A rogue. It bit you and in one month you'll be a werewolf too.”
“Like that! I'll be like that!” she hissed, her eyes glistening with moisture and one little tear leaking down her tan cheek.
I shook my head. “No, not like that. I guarantee it. He didn’t have anyone to guide him. You will have the best of help, you'll be guided through it and you'll be fine!”
I realized that I meant every word of it. If I had to move the planet, I would get this girl the help of the most powerful weres in this part of the world. And she would make a great wolf, because the virus fit her like a glove. I had screwed things up enough, this I would make this right.
I explained how I would get her help, and what would happen when the feds arrived. That she couldn't let them know she had been bit and not to trust them. As I spoke I looked at her wound, almost in a panic about how to hide it, but then the knowledge came to me. It was like something unfolded in my head, sort of unpacked itself, and then I was reaching for her calf with both hands. I put my right palm over her wound, my left at the other side and I poured clean violet power through her leg, telling her cells what I expected of them.
She jumped a little as I did it, and when I pulled my hand away, the wound was gone, just pink skin. I wiped off the blood, both hers and mine where it had dripped down my arms from my own now healed wounds, using an antiseptic towelet from my vest.
“Now, I need your help with two things,” I said, swiping my hair with a shaky hand. “First, I need you to get dressed, ‘cause you’re distracting as hell, and second, where are those hot dogs I smell?”
* * *
The others arrived fifteen minutes later, the result of my radio call to Gina. The Blackhawk swooped in low overhead and five ropes dropped, followed by five bodies fast-roping down. It would have been an impressive display, but it's hard to be impressed when you, yourself can just jump the twenty feet to the ground.
The five strike team members fanned out, rifle lights lit and shining in every direction, looking for threats.
The black SUVs roared up thirty seconds later, followed by the state trooper cars, and another fifteen or so agents, weapons at the ready.
I was kneeling by the fire, roasting the last two hot dogs. Stacia and her boyfriend, whose name was Dan, were sitting on the remains of the tent a few feet away. Dan had some cooler ice in a towel and was holding it to the egg-sized knot on his forehead. Stacia was sitting a little apart from him, her watchful gaze finally lifted from me and now on the dog and pony show.
Agent Duclair stormed up in federal fury, planting herself, hands on hips, on the other side of the fire from me. Gina was moving more sedately behind her. Adler went straight for Lassiter's remains, a half dozen CSI types on his heels.
“Explain!” Duclair demanded.
“Well, the hotdog rolls are all gone and these are the last of the franks. Why do they always give you eight rolls and ten hotdogs? It's criminal, really,” I said.
She froze, unable to work up words, just this side of a really decent sputter.
The girl, Stacia, answered my question.
“It's economics. If you never have the same amount of rolls or dogs, you'll have to keep buying one or the other. Unless you buy five packs of rolls and four packs of hotdogs, then you'll be even,” she said.
I glanced at her, surprised. My contact information as well as Afina's, were in the girl's back jeans pocket. The cell reception at this campground was adequate and I had called in every favor I had with the Pack. Stacia had even spoken a bit with Afina , and the Pack would do absolutely everything in its considerable power to make her transition to her new life smooth. But it was her calm, almost eager acceptance of this major life change that was unnerving. Perh
aps it was the invitation from Afina to come to the Big Apple and work directly for the Pack while she learned their ways. Aside from her beauty, clear head and obvious intelligence, Stacia Reynolds did not appear to have much in the way of material things. Her clothes were clean, but worn and not the latest fashion or even last year’s fashion. I don't think her family had much money, but we hadn't gotten to that.
* * *
Duclair could finally form sentences.
“What happened to the wer...bear?” she hissed, glancing at the teenagers as she covered her slip.
“It died,” I said with a shrug.
“HOW did it die?” she asked, her eyes bugging out a bit.
“Well, I encouraged it to.” I answered, pulling a greasy dog off the stick and eating it in two bites, while I watched her.
Gina had moved up and was studying me carefully and I felt surprisingly uncomfortable under her gaze. She always stared at me, it was her job. But I was feeling soul sick and lower than pond scum.
Duclair was just about to rip into me at the loss of her hoped for lab project, when Adler moved up to her and whispered in her ear. Didn't matter, I could still hear him.
“Ma'am, before you go…ah…expressing your opinion of him, you should maybe consider this: he just ran down and beat a werewolf to death with his bare hands.”
Her eyes widened as she took that in and she turned to him.
“You sure?”
“That's how it appears to the techs, Ma'am. And I agree.”