Primal Nature

by Monique Singleton

  The revelation spiralled me into a deep depression.

  I even tried to kill myself. In human form, I threw myself off a high cliff on to jagged rocks hoping to impale myself and end my suffering. The beast inside had other ideas. Against my conscious will, my body changed mid-fall and I landed on all fours, injured, bleeding and in great pain. I slunk off into the jungle where my body worked its magic and I healed.

  My own death wasn’t an option.

  I had to find a way to come to terms with the inevitable—I had to kill. Whether by choice or not, the beast inside would not be denied its blood.

  My options were limited. Ignoring the need would mean the rage would win. I would be overcome by the bloodlust and kill everyone I could find. Fleeing into the jungle wouldn’t help; that had been proven by my first kill. The urge would send me to the populated areas and God knows what I would do in a village or town. I was immortal. Nothing anyone could do would stop me. It would be an all-out slaughter.

  I had to come up with another option. How could I feed the need and keep myself from another kind of insanity? The kind that refers to me, to my beliefs. What would make me less of a psycho? Make me something I could live with.

  Killing was a given. Who I killed, however, was up to me. That was where I had a choice. What if I killed those who didn’t deserve to live? The dregs of society. People the world wouldn’t miss and would actually be better off without. That way I could counter the blood insanity and possibly even make a difference in my own twisted way. At least then I could live with myself — maybe.

  How to determine who was entitled to live posed another dilemma. Who was I to decide whether someone has the right to live or to die? I would be playing God. M; A killer — frankly a murderer myself. Quite the contradiction.

  Mulling over the alternatives gave me some form of peace. At least I was working on a solution. That made me feel marginally better than I had in the past months. But thinking about it and reconciling myself to the ideas that were forming in my head were two totally different things. I would actively hunt humans again.

  I moved back down to the clearing and dragged the two bodies into the jungle. I buried the peasant and left the soldier to the scavengers.

  I didn’t trust my new resolve yet or feel comfortable with the idea, so I stayed in the caves for another two weeks getting my mind around these strange and frightening developments. The fact that I wasn’t a man-eater was a small comfort but still didn’t sooth my conscience about the killing. The more I debated the issues, the more the final option seemed to gain merit. Not specifically because of its strong points, but because it was the lesser of the evils. At least I had a solution for the time being—until better options presented themselves.

  The main issue now was how to put my newfound strategy into place. How would I determine who would merit termination—the word sounded so much better than murder—and what would the criteria be? Where would I find the next candidate and how long would I be able to fend off the bloodlust until the opportune moment? At the back of my mind I screamed my sorrow and frustration at the road I was forced to choose. But, now it was plain and simple survival, both physically and mentally.

  I was sentenced to eternity. I had to get through it as best I could.

  I changed back to human form and started to pack my few belongings. Human form would make travelling easier and allow for interaction with people. That was a necessity — after all, they were my new prey. I set out for the nearest large town and started working out the details. An identity was needed or at least a name and a history that would appear more or less believable. It didn’t have to be fool proof. I wouldn’t be around long enough to have to pass detailed scrutiny.

  Getting out of the country was also one of my first priorities. I didn’t want to start my new life here. Not while there were people who would recognise my ‘modus operandi’. I hadn’t exactly been inconspicuous in the civil war. I needed the anonymity of a new environment.

  During the next decades, I went steadily north through the Latin countries, New Mexico, Texas, and finally into what was originally Louisiana. On the way, I slowly fell into a kind of rhythm. Initially, the killings needed to be frequent—once every two to three weeks. I managed to extend the period to a comfortable four weeks. More than that clouded my judgement, which was not a good thing in my new line of work. If you extrapolate the number to the decades I roamed, the total is astounding, so I don’t keep count.

  The further I got from my original habitat, the less careful and more brazen I became. Basically, I’m indestructible, so I became complacent. That all came to a halt when some of the General’s old henchmen found and tried to kill me. They didn’t succeed, obviously, but man, it hurt. After getting rid of them, I decided to be more careful. The long reach of the General’s clan had shaken me. Frankly I had forgotten about them and the reminder was bloody and painful.

  How to find the potential targets? I wasn’t in one place long enough to get to know the area and determine who was eligible for termination. Keeping to the shadows again, I rethought how I would continue. Some kind of research on an intended target would lower the exposure and danger for me, but how could I determine who the target should be.

  That was when it hit me. Enlist others to find targets. It sounds easier than it is. Hiring myself out as a hit woman to the highest bidder would clash with my morals, plus it necessitated leaving some kind of a trail, so the right people could find me. I needed to continue to kill those who didn’t deserve to live. I resolved only to take the contracts that met my criteria and God help the client if he or she didn’t.

  So now almost all of my targets are supplied by clients. New clients need to be referred by former employers. I work solely by referrals. It’s almost impossible to find me without them. That’s a necessity. I made a lot of enemies in my line of work.

  Hiring me is a dangerous undertaking anyway. In the initial contact, the client needs to convince me of two things: why the intended target should die and why the potential employer shouldn’t.

  If the client turns out to be on the wrong end of my criteria, he or she ends up dead along with the target. I am very clear in my contracts. The target needs to deserve to die, the client has to deserve to live. Anyone who double crosses me lives just long enough to regret it. I made an example once and it wasn’t pretty. More often than not, I turn down the payment after the actual deed. I have to live, but my needs are few. I find food in the forests and only need weapons as an optical deterrent, as I carry my own built-in arsenal. My real payment lies in the relief I experience.

  Killing never comes naturally, even after all this time.

  It’s not easy to kill someone, not even for me—not even if my sanity depends on it. For me, each kill needs to be validated; needs to be a choice for good, an “ethical” choice. Each contract necessitates ample research into the target and the client. I have to be sure. I have to quell the constant doubt within me. Am I doing the right thing? Is the kill a justified one? Will I be able to live with myself again? Or, am I just kidding myself to bypass the remnants of morals and ethics I have left?

  I like to think it’s justified.

  The last contract brought me to The Big Easy, the city built on the ashes of New Orleans. When the hurricane hit in the early twenty-second century and wiped out the whole city, the survivors built a new home some ninety kilometres inland, away from the gulf coast. They named it after the mother city, using one of its nicknames, “Easy.”

  For most of the inhabitants, it was anything but.

  CHAPTER TWO NATUE OF THE BEAST

  All eyes turned my way when I walked into the dimly lit bar. Even though a dark cloak covered my body and hair, I still managed to attract everyone’s attention, as expected.

  It was a motley bunch of people. As I looked more closely at the clientele, I noticed I was possibly the only female in the building who wasn’t joined at the hip to one of the macho punks or flogging her wares and favou
rs to whomever was interested and could afford them. Moving between the tables towards the back of the room, I pulled an elevated chair away from an empty corner table and sat down with my back to the wall.

  The murmuring and pointing continued for a while. An enormous, heavily tattooed woman of about forty in a much too-skimpy skirt loomed over me.

  ‘What’ll it be?’ she demanded. ‘Drinks are mandatory.’

  ‘Beer,’ I answered without looking up. She turned and repeated the question to the people at the neighbouring table with the same charming and outgoing personality. A few minutes later, she returned and placed a bottle of beer in front of me. I paid without a word and took a sip of the brew. In my long years, I had tasted better, but at least it was cool and wet.

  I had been on the road too long without “work” before getting this contract. The tension was building up inside me again. Travelling had not diminished my anger or any other emotions. As I was moving around in populated areas, I had not been able to change properly for a while. It had not been opportune. All in all, I was spoiling for a fight. This seemed as good a place as any to be in that mood. I was dangerous to others and myself. Well, mainly to others.

  I also needed to eat and drink, so I came to this dark hole in the wall. Finding a place to stay was next on my list. The weather was atrocious and staying outside in this town was not really a good option anyway. Besides, even I need at least a minimum amount of comfort. Other than that, my direct future was not clear. I had no plans on how to work this contract. I was basically winging it.

  Sure enough, after about six or seven minutes of relative peace, three rough looking characters approached my table. The leader had tattoos over most of his face, an intricate pattern of tribal’s, black and red, angry and threatening. There’s no accounting for taste.

  ‘Well now, what do we have here?’ His question was directed at his comrades. He sat uninvited in the chair next to mine. Close—too close for me.

  ‘What brings you to our fine establishment?’ he crooned.

  Raising the bottle, I answered without words.

  ‘Ah, our local brew, the nectar of the Gods.’ Laughing he added. ‘There are other pleasures in this room.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a collection of plastic bags containing multi-coloured pills and spread them out over the table.

  ‘No thanks, I’ll stick to the beer.’

  Stuffing them back, his tattooed visage contorted into a sneer. ‘Maybe you’re looking for other thrills.’ He moved his chair closer, gripped the edge of my cloak and pulled it back off my head, exposing my face and hair to the lustful gazes of his companions. ‘The three of us would definitely be able to rock your boat, lady.’ He appraised what he could see of me with unbridled lust in his eyes. If he got any hornier, he would start drooling.

  I shook his hand off, as I answered. ‘Not interested.’

  Not the answer he expected or wanted. His face contorted, and he pulled back a bit. ‘What are you, some kind of dyke?’

  How original. His voice had an edge you could cut yourself on. One of the other two moved to my left side. ‘We can cure that,’ he said in what I suppose was meant to be a seductive voice. ‘Can’t we, guys? One night with us, and you will be saved. Or maybe we would need two nights if you’re lucky.’ He was definitely drooling.

  Tattoo-face took over again. ‘Let’s leave and retire to a more comfortable…’ He stopped mid-sentence.

  While he was laughing I had moved my right hand under the table and had his balls in my extended claws. The colour slowly drained from his face.

  ‘Like I said,’ I repeated, ‘I’m not interested.’

  ‘Who cares, bitch. We are and you’re the minority.’ The thug next to me was not going to be put off so quickly, mind you, his balls were not in a vice. A very, very sharp vice.

  I looked at Tattoo-face and raised my eyebrow.

  ‘Back off, guys,’ he managed to stammer.

  ‘What? Why? No way, we’re just getting started.’

  Tightening my grip, the claws drew blood. The skin around the threatening tribal tattoos on his face went decidedly pale. ‘I said, back off!’ He shouted.

  Lust was gone, replaced by cold anger and obvious pain. His dirty look convinced his comrades and they backed off. With one last twist, I let him go and retracted my claws. I took another sip of the beer.

  Tattoo-face pushed his chair back and reluctantly—but very painfully—got to his feet. He looked sick. Red blood spots showed on his pants. As he staggered away, he added ‘this isn’t over yet,’ and retreated to the other side of the room where the bar lady was waiting with an ice pack.

  About ten minutes later a fresh bottle of beer appeared on the table in front of me. I looked up but saw no one.

  ‘Down here, beautiful.’

  The voice came from the other side of the table. A little person, with a big smile and his own bottle of beer stood next to the chair Tattoo-face had vacated.

  ‘Ok if I sit?’ he asked. When I didn’t answer, he pulled back the chair and struggled onto it, his short legs dangling. ‘I’ll take that as a yes. They call me Toad.’ He stretched out his hand over the table to shake mine, I left it there. ‘For obvious reasons’ he added, unfazed by my silence and unfriendliness. He pulled back his hand and sipped his own beer. ‘Welcome to our beautiful city. Are you visiting, passing through or planning to stay?’

  Despite my reservations, he intrigued me. ‘What makes you think I’m new to this town?’

  ‘Well, the way you manage to make friends so easily for one.’

  He shrugged his head in the direction of where Tattoo-face was still seething. ‘The guy you alienated back there, old picture-face, he’s one of the head honcho’s main men around here. His boss owns the city and controls it with a hard hand. He kills anyone who gets in his way, slowly. Doesn’t discriminate between men, women and children either. Picture-face over there is his number one enforcer. Well, next to his psycho son. That one’s a real character.’

  He lowered his voice. ‘Not the kind of person you want as an enemy, beautiful.’

  ‘Neither am I.’

  ‘No, I guess you aren’t. Not the way you had him by the balls. You have some nails, lady.’

  I guess his height had put him in an optimal position to observe what had taken place under the table. Dark as it was, he had seen enough to be impressed, and careful. He scrutinised me for a while.

  ‘I believe you can be very dangerous when you put your mind to it.’ I refrained from answering and took another sip instead, I was getting used to the beer.

  ‘So, what brought you here, beautiful?’ he asked again, and when I didn’t answer he started fishing. ‘You piss someone off? Sleep with your best friend’s guy?’

  He was actually amusing, and I was warming to him a bit. While he rambled on, I observed him in more detail. He was quite a character. His face was rugged, his eyes soft, even handsome. If it weren’t for his size, he would be a real woman magnet. Mind you, he may be anyway with his charm and if the rumours are true. I thought I recognised a slight Australian accent but could be mistaken. Anyway, his enthusiasm and friendliness were contagious.

  ‘Nope,’ I answered. ‘None of the above.’

  ‘Ok, let me think.’ He looked at me, his eyes softened even more, and became serious. ‘It was a man, wasn’t it? It always is.’ Once again taking my silence as a yes. ‘Broke your heart, betrayed you, did he?’ He sat back to observe my reaction, or lack of it. ‘You’re young and beautiful, but your eyes are older. You’ve seen too much. He really hurt you. So, what did you do to him?’

  I took another sip, only answering him after I had placed it back on the table. ‘I killed him.’

  ‘Yeah, figures.’ That shut him up—for all of thirty seconds.

  ‘Anyway, you need a new friend and a guide to this hellhole, so how about me?’ he continued. ‘Why our fair town?’

  ‘I’m here on business,’ I tried.

  ‘We
ll, then this meeting was preordained. If you want to know anything about this hellhole, I’m the person to talk to.’ He placed his hand dramatically on his chest to emphasise the fact. ‘What kind of business?’

  Damn, I would have to think of something quickly. This was no fool. He would see through any half-witted stories. I decided to keep up the silent treatment for the moment.

  ‘Ok,’ he continued. ‘We’ll get to that later.’ There was no fazing this guy. ‘Anyway, I expect you will need somewhere to sleep and probably something to eat. I wouldn’t advise that you eat here very often if you value your health, actually not at all would probably be even better. I know some places that are reasonably kosher.’

  Food, now that was an idea. I had been on the road for the past two weeks with sporadic access to food. Three nights ago, I had half changed and hunted out of desperation more than anything else. The small boar that I killed barely managed to scratch the surface of my hunger. That was always the dilemma. I needed to change to hunt for food, but the change cost me dearly in energy and necessitated even more food. The ultimate vicious circle. I had no idea how long it would take before I could do it again. The tension inside was already almost at boiling point, the change relieved it just enough to make it bearable.

  But back to food.

  Should I trust this guy? My gut feeling said “yes” and I trust my instincts. He was momentarily scared stiff of me, even if it wasn’t apparent on the outside. I could smell the fear on him. He camouflaged it well. Even more reason to find out why he sought contact to start off with. I smiled. I like a challenge. Besides, how difficult would it be to overwhelm him if it became necessary? Even the shotgun slung nonchalantly over his back would only temporarily slow me down if that.

  ‘So, where do you eat?’ I asked him.

  ‘Why don’t I show you?’ He smiled that winning smile.

  He struggled down off the chair and led the way out of the establishment, carefully avoiding the corner where Tattoo-face and his comrades were quietly smouldering. From a distance, I smiled sweetly at the pained leader, angering him even more. One of these days I would regret winding people up so much. But it was fun. And besides, I’m invincible. So, what do I need to worry about? A bit of pain? I’m used to that. <<< >