The Gathering

by Michael Timmins

  Witches?

  If they were, they weren’t like any witches existing today. Those were merely worshippers of natural forces. A religion. They were not practitioners of any actual magic.

  Clarrisa shook her head. What in the world was happening? There were monsters in this world. Women wielding magic. Where had they come from? Had they always been here? Are they just revealing themselves for the first time? Or did something happen to . . . make them? A government experiment? Her reporter senses were reeling.

  It was pointless to wonder, she realized. There was no logical explanation — for any of this. However, the implications of what all this meant in the grander scheme of things, sent her reeling. It left her shaken.

  “We need to get this back to the station.” Malcom words snapped her out of her thoughts, and she smiled at him, sheepishly, as he had apparently been standing there staring at her for some time, waiting.

  “Right. You still have no signal on your phone?”

  Digging her phone out she checked it as well. Still no bars. She didn’t need to see Malcom’s head shake to know he didn’t have any as well. Something jammed their signal. Worse, they hadn’t been able to transmit the feed right to the station, which went by satellite.

  Clarrisa took one last look at the scene to make sure nothing momentous was about to happen. But all she could see of the group was the Tiger who had moved to the new one and squatted down next to him. Her orange and black striped arm wrapped around his shoulders, comforting him, while the big lumberjack man still held the young man in his arms. His earlier wails had now moved to gasping sobs. Yes, these people were monsters, but they were people as well. She would make sure to spin that angle when she reported on this. She would do what she could to delay what she thought was inevitable. The turning of the powers that be on these six, well five, now one lay dead, individuals.

  Malcom had already lowered his camera and made his way back to the van. Since it appeared, for the moment, nothing new would happen, and as much as she would love to approach someone from the remaining group, she, quite honestly, was scared to death of them.

  She would find out who they were, though. She would pursue this and in due course she would talk with one of them. Or all of them! An exclusive interview with this group would almost guarantee she would get the news anchor position she had always wanted.

  Malcom disappeared into the back of the van to secure the camera and lower the satellite tower. Moving to the passenger side of the van, she grabbed the door handle when she thought she heard voices coming from the back. She leaned back slightly, in a futile attempt to see what might be happening at the back of the van. When nothing more seemed to occur, she called out.

  “Malcom?”

  No answer.

  This better not be one of his pranks. After all they had seen tonight, the last thing she needed was one of Malcom’s pranks.

  “Malcom?”

  Still nothing.

  Securing the door, she made her way cautiously to the rear of the van. The doors were still open, and she peered inside. Along one side of the interior of the van lay a bank of consoles they used for on-the-site editing and monitoring live feeds as well as broadcasting a signal. Two swivel chairs were attached to the underside of the desk which lined the van in front of the consoles. On one of these chairs sat Malcom. He was leaning over the desk, head nestled into the crook of one arm, like he was either catching a nap, or hiding the fact he was crying.

  Frowning slightly, she crossed her arms under her breasts.

  “Malcom. Whatever joke you are planning on pulling on me right now, forget about it. This story is too important, and we don’t have time for your games.”

  Malcom didn’t move.

  “Malcom!”

  Still nothing.

  Clarrisa’s frown deepened. With a sigh, she climbed up into the van. Any minute now, Malcom would spring his little joke and she would be laying into him about the appropriate time and place for such antics.

  He still made no move.

  Ah, so I am to get closer, I see. Moving to him, she tapped him on the shoulder. He still didn’t move. She moved to give him a playful shove when the van dipped slightly, and she wheeled around to see a man step up into the van. The door closed behind him.

  Clarrisa tried not to panic.

  The man made no move toward her. Instead, he squatted down at the back and seemed to be examining her, so she took the opportunity to do the same.

  He was a nondescript looking man. If she had seen him in a crowd, her eyes would have passed right over him and not given him a second thought. He wasn’t an attractive man, nor in any way ugly. His brown, almost black hair was cut short, but it was full and came to a point in the middle of his forehead. He had a fleshy face, slightly sagging as if he had lost a considerable amount of weight recently. He dressed in a relaxed outfit— jeans and a black coat, neither expensive nor cheap looking. He wore black gloves long enough to disappear under his coat sleeves.

  He smiled at her humorlessly.

  “Miss Yotes. I wish to apologize for this intrusion, but in light of recent events, I’m afraid I have no other choice.” His voice was soft, yet firm, like a loud whisper.

  Without taking her eyes of this man, she reached back and shoved against Malcom. He gave no indication she had touched him. In fact, there had been no resistance to her nudge either.

  A lump formed in the pit of her stomach.

  “Who are you?”

  “Ah,” he watched her attempts to get Malcom’s attention with a bemused expression.

  “Normally, this is probably the moment where I would tell you all about myself and who I work for, while you look for some means to escape out of this van.”

  Clarrisa heard a soft ‘phhhtt’ sound and felt a sharp pain in her chest. Sometime during the exchange, the man had moved one of his hands to his coat pocket.

  ‘Phhtt.’ And again, a sharp pain in her chest. She opened her mouth and yet no words formed. He had shot her. Twice. She had been shot and now she would die.

  Collapsing back against Malcom, she absently noted he fell out of the chair and landed on the floor, unmoving.

  Dead. He had already been killed — by this man, and she had no idea who he was. The only thing she knew was he would be one of those people that will make the Tiger, and her friends, our enemy. I hate being right, was the last thought she had before darkness took her.

  Eric Moran leaned over the corpse of the reporter and her cameraman.

  “Alas, I have no time for such subtle cat and mouse games.”

  The door to the back of the van opened and Chad stood there looking in, awaiting orders.

  “Clean it. All evidence of what happened here, I want gone. The footage I will want. Everything else — gone.”

  “Of course.”

  Eric turned himself about in the low ceiling van, bent at the waist, then made his way to the back and out of the van. He stood up right next to Chad. The man was a head taller than Eric and wider by almost double.

  He didn’t intimidate Eric in the slightest. Chad understood that Eric knew every facet of his personal life and had contingency plans set if anyone he knew harmed or killed him; everyone that person loved, or ever loved would meet an untimely death. It was the only way to ensure loyalty, as far as Eric was concerned.

  “Did you initiate the wipe?”

  Chad nodded. Now all the phones in a half mile radius had a virus uploaded onto them which would delete all photos and video files on the phone. Eric had already instructed the home team to monitor social media and remove any comments or pictures relating to tonight’s events.

  While they had already blocked all cellphone signals and satellite feeds, they had arrived shortly after everything had started and there was a chance someone had gotten outside their range of influence and uploaded something.

  An effort which would ultimately fail. There was nothing he could do to keep this all away from public knowledge. He could, howev
er, slow it down. No need for the public to panic — yet.

  He had done his best to let those in charge recognize the threat now existing on their shores. Making sure the Director of Homeland Security got those files and the video of the earlier Chicago incident and patient 12 had been a necessary step, though it put his organization at risk.

  Chad motioned to the two other agents who were ghosting the operation on either side to ensure no one approached and they closed in on the van. Chad hopped up inside and the other two moved around to the front and got into the cab.

  In short order, the satellite tower lowered, and the van sped off, never to be seen again. All traces of the van and the two dead people inside would cease to exist.

  Eric surveyed the scene in front of the apartments. It looked like a war zone. Fires burned, vehicles were overturned, and the street had been ripped asunder.

  Ambulances started to arrive and EMTs were running about everywhere trying to deal with the injured and dying. People were stumbling about. Most of the onlookers had already fled earlier during the attacks by the Were-creatures. Yes. That is truly what they were.

  After observing patient 12’s metamorphosis, and the man, Clint’s change to a Werewolf, no other conclusion could one come to. Sometimes, the obvious answer, no matter how out there it seemed to be, must be the answer.

  They were all gone now. He had missed a great opportunity here to somehow track them. But he had been so concerned with containing this and keeping it from the rest of the population, he hadn’t had the manpower to do what needed to be done.

  After all, this hadn’t been what he had expected to find when he and his team came here. In fact, generally, all of this, unpleasantness, would be beneath his paygrade. But he had been here searching for patient 12, and Daniel Mathis, whom he surmised travelled with the girl.

  She had been there. He had seen her flee with the other woman. The other woman who could somehow call down fire and cause the earth to heave. He would love to get ahold of that one.

  Eric smiled. Oh yes. That one. Or the other female. The blonde teen. She also seemed to have the same powers as the woman who fled with patient 12.

  He searched the area in front of the alley next to the apartments. He had learned something new today, though. They could be killed. One of them, the younger Bear had died. Eric had no idea how it had happened. Whatever had happened to the boy, it had happened when he hadn’t been watching.

  The corners of Eric’s lips turned down. A shame he had to destroy all the video and photos taken by all the cellphones here. Perhaps one of them had managed to film what had happened.

  Glancing around, he searched for any CCTVs in the immediate vicinity that might have had a bead on the alley, but he didn’t see any. The death, it would seem, would remain a mystery. For now.

  He wasn’t sure they could be killed.

  With a quick nod to the evidence extraction team, he pointed to the site where the young Werebear died, and to where the main battle between the Weretiger and the Were . . . croc? I guess that’s what we are going to call it, happened.

  His team quickly moved into those locations. The police were not in any state to deal with what they were doing and if any of the police had taken the time to investigate . . . well, there would have to be a few more casualties from tonight’s attack.

  With luck, they would get blood samples and other DNA from the scenes. They needed to better understand these . . . creatures. To find a way to find them, or to use them.

  A sardonic smile crossed Eric’s lips, a slight upturn at the corner of his mouth. To think, they had one of these creatures in their control, and had lost her. Sure, they had no idea what she had been. But they had known she was something.

  There was much to do. Too much. Eric wondered, not for the hundredth time, what the endgame was here. What was this fight truly about? One side had clearly meant these people harm. The other side? Well, he didn’t know if they had moved to protect these people, or to engage their rivals. Like some kind of supernatural gang war.

  Was it time for a face to face meeting with the Director of Homeland Security? Did he bring his organization out into the open? No. Too early. He needed to continue working within the shadows. To act with impunity. Red tape he could do without and entering ‘the game’ of politics and subjecting his group to oversight would only bring it.

  His agents, well-trained, concise and efficient, returned quickly with all the available samples from the scene. They briefly checked in before melting out into the city. They would, as they had been trained, scatter and ghost anyone who might have caught wind they were up to something nefarious. They would ghost them or remove them if ghosting wasn’t an option.

  They were never there. They did not exist. For now. Until this country needed them and then they would step into the spotlight with all the help they could offer. When that happened, the how and why would no longer be relevant. They would be heroes, and their means would be justified by their ends.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ian Kaft stepped out of the cab in front of Samuel’s home, a massive structure of three stories, surrounded by sprawling green hills. The verdant color of the grass was so vibrant it hurt Ian’s eyes.

  The house itself was a medieval looking — a stone edifice, with towers and crenulations. For God’s sake. Crenulations? Who does that? The house seemed in contrast to what he knew of Samuel. He had always been a refined individual, with rich tastes, not eccentric.

  Ian paid the cab and sent him on his way. He had never met Cirrus before, but the man whom Samuel had left to steward the boy would not turn him away. He had a signed letter from Samuel with explicit instructions for the man to house and feed Ian for as long as Ian felt it necessary.

  As he began the walk up to the front door, he shook his head slightly, still surprised Samuel had approached him with this. Ian hadn’t known Samuel had a son. Not that their relationship had ever been one of mutual revelations about their own personal histories. Which was why it had been a shock when Samuel had approached him shortly after landing in Topeka.

  “I need you to do something for me, Ian.” There had been a hesitation in Samuel’s voice Ian had never heard before and so he gave over his full attention.

  “Of course. What do you need?”

  Samuel had stared at him for a long moment. So long, in fact, Ian had started to get nervous. Shifting weight from foot to foot, he kept his gaze directed at Samuel.

  The moment passed, and Samuel stepped past him, reaching out to catch his arm and drag him along as Samuel walked. Ian strode beside him, waiting for the man to speak his peace.

  They walked a short distance from the dark-haired woman and the arrogant doctor they had arrived there with, before Samuel continued.

  “I have a son.”

  Ian faltered a step and caught a slight upturn of Samuel’s lips. Ian recovered quickly.

  “You never mentioned . . .”

  “I didn’t. Nor would I have ever mentioned it if not for my . . . concern as to how he is.”

  Ian didn’t miss the unease Samuel had with expressing the notion of ‘concern’, as if the meaning of the word was something he was unfamiliar with. Perhaps he was.

  “Why don’t you just call him?”

  Samuel glanced at him sideways and Ian immediately felt stupid for suggesting it. Samuel was no idiot. If calling had been an option, or if it had been something already tried, they wouldn’t be having this conversation.

  Samuel decided to not make a point of what he thought of Ian’s suggestion and instead sighed and came to a halt.

  Ian stepped past and turned to face Samuel.

  “My relationship with my son is . . . complicated. For the moment, it is best for me to not interact with him. I hired a gentleman to be a steward over the boy and my estate.

  “I feel that maybe something bad has happened to him. When I last spoke to the steward . . . something didn’t seem right.”

  Samuel glanced back towar
d Kestrel and Gordon, before returning his gaze to Ian.

  “Given everything that is going on. I don’t have time to go and check on him. So,” he paused, “I’m asking you to go in my stead.”

  “What is the boy’s name?”

  “Cirrus. He is almost eighteen and will be reaching the age of maturity and will receive his trust.”

  “And what would you have me tell him?”

  There was no need for Ian to elaborate on what he implied.

  Samuel glanced away for a moment then back.

  “Nothing.” He gave Ian an envelope. “Give this to the steward. His name is Christian. It will explain who you are and what you are doing there. He will let you stay at the home for as long as you feel is necessary.

  “Evaluate the situation. Make sure that Cirrus is fine. Collect any information about him and what he has been doing and what he intends to do and then contact me.”

  Ian nodded. It seemed like a simple enough task. More importantly, it would get him the hell away from whatever Samuel and those other two were intending to do. The farther away he could get from what he had overheard them talking about on the plane, the better.

  “I will leave tonight.”

  Samuel nodded, turned and walked away, leaving Ian to stare after him.

  When he reached the door, he knocked, and waited.

  He knocked again, harder and waited some more.

  Sticking his hands back into his long black coat, he hugged it closer around him. The sun remained absent. Dark gray and dirty white clouds blanketed the sky. The lack of sun made the day chillier than it had a right to be and it cut through regardless of his coat.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the door opened, and a middle-aged man answered the door. He peered out, not fully opening the door so Ian could only see the man’s face. It was a wide, comely face, with a narrow broomlike mustache and a sharp, axe-like nose.

  As the man peered at him, he scrunched his forehead, which made lateral lines high up his face as he was bald down the middle of his head.