Catharsis (Book 1)

by D. Andrew Campbell

  But I've never been a vegetarian either. I have no qualms about eating a delicious hamburger or a juicy steak. How is this any different? I'm still a carnivore. I'm just a carnivore dining on a different part of my prey. As long as I stick to animals then I'll be fine. I can live a perfectly normal life like this.

  The rationalization is a lie, but it works to soothe my conscious enough for me to move on with my evening.

  I can't just leave the rats in the middle of the warehouse floor. I don't like where they cause my mind to go when I look at them, and they'll start to stink soon (Will bodies still stink if there's no blood in them? Not something I've ever had to consider before.) A quick scan of the rooms in the warehouse turn up an old clothing bag that I can stuff the bodies into. From there, it's an easy job to take the bag out back into the overgrown field behind the property and bury them.

  At first I had just planned to dump the lifeless bodies into a pile somewhere in the grass, but it didn't feel right. Knowing these creatures died at my hand, and that I am stronger because of them (And thus owed them something. Or at least owed their spirits.) means I can’t just callously hurl their bodies away. I spend a few minutes digging a hole using an old two-by-four plank and gently stack the bodies in the bottom of it. (Out of sight, out of mind, right?)

  With the bodies buried behind me, I turn toward the massive wall of the warehouse and smile.

  I've been able to run for five or six miles nonstop without even getting winded, climb a brick wall using nothing but my finger strength, smash through a solid wooden door and then jump out a second story window unharmed all while I felt drained, exhausted and mostly dead.

  "Let's see what I can do now that I have some energy!" I say to the emptiness around me, and I begin to run straight at the warehouse wall.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I don't make a specific plan; I just want to see what happens and make it up as I go.

  My run becomes a sprint within seconds, and I can feel the ground tear by beneath me. I have no idea how fast I'm running, but I know it's faster than I've ever run before. My legs feel strong, and I decide to test them. Looking ahead, I see a partially broken second floor window about twenty-five feet up the side of the building. Without hesitation, I decide to leap and smash through it.

  Trying to calculate the power needed for the jump while I’m running is futile, so I give it up, hop a small distance into the air so I can land on both feet and load my muscles for a quick release. The hop lands perfectly, and I push off the ground using the momentum created by the jump.

  No human has ever jumped this high or this far before, I think as I gain height through the air. It's unbelievable!

  But the jump isn't enough. I'm nowhere near high enough to hit the window I realize as my body careens straight for the side of the warehouse. Pulling my body into a ball, I release as much air from my lungs as possible before I smash into the hard concrete and brick.

  I feel the WHUMP of the impact as a dull pain throughout my right side, and then I'm freefalling again as the bricks release their temporary hold on me. Aware of the short distance to the ground, I turn my body and land on my hands and feet before rolling a short distance away.

  "Ouch," I say out loud before realizing it didn't actually hurt. It should have hurt, but after quickly shaking myself off I realize I feel fine.

  Nice, I think. I could get used to this.

  I'm strong and I'm tough and I'm fast, but that jump proved I still have some limitations. Let's see how far those limitations go.

  After a quick jog to the back door (No more jumping through windows for me just yet, thank you!), I look around the empty building for ways to test myself.

  The emptiness limits me at first, and then I decide to use it to my advantage. Backing up until I'm against the closest wall, I mentally map out a straight course from one side of the warehouse to the other. I click my watch (Classic Timex. Anything nicer and I’m sure the street hoodlum from the other night would have tried to take it, too.) to put it into timer mode and hit the button to start it. My opening pace is just a jog, but I dial it up to a run and then a sprint by the time I hit the far wall.

  Noting the time, I reset the watch, start it and take off sprinting this time. I beat the previous run's time by several seconds which strikes me as good. And then I realize I'm not even winded after sprinting the length of the building. Heck, I'm not even breathing hard.

  That's interesting, I think to myself. What will it take to wear me out?

  Resetting the watch a third time, I go into a sprinter's starting stance against the wall and clear my breath for a moment (Even not being winded, some habits are hard to break.). Pushing myself backwards against the wall for a brief second, I load my weight into my feet before springing away from it and clicking the watch timer. As I move, every part of me wants to run faster and be faster and pull every bit of strength I have from my body and feed it into my legs.

  Ten feet from the far wall, I jump into the air and move my body so my feet come into contact with the wall first and allow the strength of my legs to work as brakes and slow my momentum as I get into a crouch about eight feet up on the wall. Remembering to click the stop button on my watch as I fully decelerate into the crouch, I gently push off the wall and land easily on the ground. My muscles feel fine, and I'm still not winded.

  According to my watch, I cut my previous best time almost in half.

  "Not bad,” I say out loud.

  Before I have time to rest, I repeat the exercise aiming for the opposite wall. My new time stays within a second of the previous one, and my body still doesn't feel any negative effects from the strain of the run.

  I repeat the run several more times before getting bored with it. Every run at full speed is within a second or two of my first full sprint, so I believe I've found my top speed. And that speed is ridiculously fast.

  My breathing hasn't changed much, but my leg muscles are finally starting to feel the side effects of so much running. They aren't tired so much as sore. Not using my muscles for running for so long has come back to haunt me, but with practice I believe they'll last longer in the future.

  Sitting down with my back against the wall, I try to think of what to do for my next test. Jumping and acrobatics could be fun, but I think it's best if I give my legs a short rest. Plus I want to see what other abilities I might have.

  Absentmindedly, I pick up a chunk of concrete off the ground and sidearm it at the closest pillar. The concrete hits the pillar hard enough to chip a piece off the linoleum covering it. Picking up another chunk, I whip it at the pillar and hit it in exactly the same place, chipping more linoleum.

  That's interesting, I think and pick up a third hunk. Aiming for the same spot on the pillar, I wind up and release. The concrete makes a satisfying TWHACK as it tears another piece of the pillar away - exactly where I was aiming.

  Scooping up more chunks of rock, I stand and move several paces farther away from the pillar. I whip a rock at my target and nail it dead center. Stepping back after each throw, I continue the practice until I run out of rocks and my back is against the furthest wall. I hit the same spot on the pillar every time (And that part of the pillar is beginning to look pretty ragged. For a moment I worry about it being a load-bearing beam and what its destruction might mean for the building.).

  My aim was consistently tested with the pillar, I think. What about power? Can I hit hard or just aim really well?

  Lofting a solid fist-sized rock in my hand, I pick out a spot on the wall furthest from me. A wall which is about three times farther away than the pillar I’ve been demolishing. It looks far away. Impressively far away. Frighteningly far away.

  I've been on too much of a hot streak, though, to let something like simple impossibility slow me down. After breathing slowly for a moment to try and relax, I let loose with the rock in my best pitcher's release. The throw is impressive, and the rock sails across the empty room. And then hits the ground falling well short
of my intended target.

  "Poop!" I exclaim, although it is also nice to know I’m not perfect. I wanted to push myself to the extremes of what I could do, but at the same time the new limits of what I can do scare me.

  "Well, scaring me and stopping me are two different things," I say to the empty room and pick up another hefty rock.

  Worrying less about aim this time and focusing more on release velocity, I throw the second rock as hard as I can with the intention of hitting the far wall. I succeed this time, although the rock collides with the wall a dozen yards to the left of where I had planned to put it. The impact is only a foot off the ground bringing with it little heat as it TUNKS into its final resting spot.

  Now that I know it's possible, I make it a goal to hit the wall where I'm aiming and do it with as much power as possible. It's a fun diversion, and dozens of rocks later I am improving but I still haven't achieved my goal.

  Pausing to consider the next event in my own personal Olympics, my thoughts are interrupted by my old nagging friend, my stomach. It growls and tightens, and I feel the pangs of hunger strike me again.

  This isn't good, I think. I'm fresh out of rats, and I've been making enough noise in here to scare away most anything sentient.

  Sitting down and crossing my legs, I try to calm the small wave of panic that swells up inside of me. I don't want the hunger I had earlier. It scared me. I can't lose control like that again.

  Breathing deeply through my nose, I do my best to distract myself by sorting out the sounds and smells that I pick up. The immediate warehouse is silent and empty (Aside from the creaking ceramic tiles I can hear detaching themselves from the ruined pillar. Another chunk will fall soon judging by the adhesive I can hear releasing.), so I push my senses to go farther.

  And I smell it. There's a delicious meat smell coming from outside the building. It's meat, and it's big.

  Opening my eyes, I smile. It's time to hunt.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It's not human that I smell, and it isn't the putrid rats I've been consuming. As I silently jog towards the front of the building, I place the smell: it's a dog. It's a large dog. I don't really care as long as it's full of the delicious blood that I'm in need of.

  Approaching the front door, I slow down. I don't want to scare the animal by slamming through the front door and charging towards it. I doubt it will be able to outrun me (In my current amped up state I'm not sure any land creature would have a chance of evading me, let alone outrunning me), but I might as well start practicing some good hunting techniques.

  Opening the door, I make no noise as I press my nose to the dark slit and inhale deeply. The dog isn't far away, and it isn't running from me. In fact, it seems to be slowly padding its way towards me and the front door.

  Easier than expected, I breathe to myself, although I am slightly disappointed. A hunt and a test of my ability to track a living creature would have been exciting. For a minute I consider scaring the beast just to give myself the challenge, and then I dismiss the thought almost as quickly. I'm hungry now, and there's no point looking a gift pup in the mouth (To mix my metaphors...or idioms in this case.).

  The smell emanating from the expansive yard in front of me is wonderful, and my mouth begins to leak a bit as my glands salivate with anticipation. The dog doesn't smell as good as the nurse did (A thought that still revolts me!), but it is leaps above the rats I've been feasting on. This will be a delicious change.

  The dog continues towards me until it is about twenty feet from the cracked front door, and then it stops. I hear a slight shift in movement from my prey, and then it whines at me.

  The noise startles me, and I jump just a little. I hadn't expected it to make a noise, and I frown. This was supposed to be quick and painless. If it makes noise and barks, then that might alert others. I need to finish this quickly. My grip on the door loosens as I pull it open in anticipation of releasing it and jumping towards my dinner.

  Then I get a good look at my dinner, and I falter. The dog is a large, beautiful creature. From a glance it appears to be a mix between a German Shepard and Rottweiler, which is a large, muscular mix of breeds. His head would easily come to my mid-thigh or hips if it was standing. But he isn't. His (I can tell he's a boy just from the strength of the musk in his scent.) haunches and tail are up in the air and his tail is wagging. His head, though, is near the ground over his outstretched paws and sideways and I would swear he's smiling at me. There is no fear in him. I can see that (And smell the lack of it. He's actually ecstatic to see me. The dog-happy pheromones are practically pouring out of him.), and it slows my approach. This isn't the animal I had intended to attack and feast on. This hadn't been my plan at all. I step out into the tall grass and away from the door, and he gives a small, happy yip.

  "Crap," I slowly blow the word through my teeth in frustration. Not what I had planned at all.

  Then the wind picks up and I get a nostril full of the wonderful blood-scent coming from the creature in front of me, and it blocks out all other thoughts. I am going to feed. And I am going to feed now.

  Without another thought, I launch myself through the air and land on top of the startled dog. Before it can react or resist, I bury my face into the soft fur around his neck and feel the warm rush of deliciousness splash into my mouth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Drinking is all I can think about, and I block everything else out of my mind. I don't want to think about anything else. I can't let myself think about anything else. I especially can't think about what I'm currently doing. And who I'm doing it to.

  As his blood courses through me, I calm down and the fever that capitulated my actions earlier eases away. Draining this creature (I'm doing everything I can to not think about him as a dog. Or as a him, actually.) takes much longer than the rats even if they were large. The rats were the equivalent of a kid's juice bag, and this is more like downing a two liter bottle of pop. It is a lot for my stomach to take all at once, and I find myself slowing. As I slow I begin to realize what I'm doing, and I can't block it out anymore. I'm killing a friendly creature. No. I'm killing a dog. A dog that was trusting me and liked me. I'm killing him.

  The impact of that overwhelms me. The rats were easy to ignore as living things. Killing them was barely a blip on my conscious. But if I can kill this dog - a creature that is capable of liking me and trusting me - then how long until I can make an excuse to kill a human. And that is something I will not do. This. Must. Stop.

  With more effort and will than I have ever mustered in my recent life, I pull away from the red nectar of this furry flower and stop what every part of my body is telling me to do. My brain spins from dizziness as I release his throat from the grip of my teeth. But even through the dizziness that pounds me, I sense an odd desire to lick the wound I created. One last taste before releasing my new-found treasure. My tongue laps at the blood around the hole I created (Much smaller than I would have thought, too.) for a few seconds before I'm able to gather the strength to tear myself away from it.

  Falling backwards on to the grass, I hear the dog let out a low whimper. I don't know if that's good or bad. I don't even know if my desperate act of kindness (Whether it was towards him or my own soul, I don’t know yet.) will even be effective. I might have drained too much blood for him to survive.

  An especially entertaining health class years ago had taught me that the human body could lose just over half its blood and still survive. A person would be weak, but they wouldn't die from exsanguination. Are dogs the same? Had I gone too far past the fifty percent mark? Would he live or would it all be for naught?

  Sitting up, I look at the still form in front of me. Except for shallow breathing, the dog isn't moving. I inhale deeply and then relax. There isn't the sad taint of death to the air that I've come to associate with my previous vermin feedings. The relief that sweeps through me is almost tangible.

  It's tempting to just lie on the ground and relish the feeling of the
nourishing red liquid as it courses through my body (It is more exhilarating than I would have thought. I already feel stronger than I did after the rats.), but I resist it. I get to my feet and step over to my four legged savior and gently scoop him off the ground. He feels much lighter than I would have anticipated, but I don't know if that is from blood loss or my renewed strength.

  Carrying him back towards the door of the warehouse, I feel the dog's weight shift in my arms. Looking down I make eye contact with him, and there is no reproach in the wet, brown orbs taking me in. I still sense trust...and happiness...and contentment. The eyes blink slowly as he stares up at me, and I'm dimly aware that he knows what I tried to do. And he's ok with it. That thought scares me more than any other thought could.

  A shake of my head breaks the hold he has over my thoughts. I look up to see I've made it through the back door (when did I cross the threshold? I don't remember stepping inside at all.), and I'm now standing in the empty cavernous room that has been my playground as of late.

  Where to put him down? I wonder. I want him to stay safe. And warm. I need him to be comfortable. And there is only one comforting location in this whole building, so I take him there. To my closet.

  Laying him gently down on the pile of old, soft blankets that I had been using as my bed for the previous few days I step back and take in my new guest. He is gaunt, and I can see matted, tawny fur shrink-wrapped around the bony fingers of his ribs. He must be near starvation. Breathing deeply and concentrating, I can hear his steady, but weak, heart beat and the tinges of desperation to his breathing. He wasn't destined to live much longer before I attacked him, and now that I've weakened him with blood loss and trauma his chances aren't looking really great.

  But I can't let him die, I think. If this dog dies due to my actions, then that will be an event that I -