by Greg Hair
Jamie’s nails extended on his right hand, and he ripped the man’s jeans away. The lighter moved up and down the legs and the torso, the hair crackling and withering away under the flame, the skin’s surface bubbling.
Soon the man passed out from shock. Jamie removed his claw from the pavement and, swiftly, sliced the man’s throat. He stood, walked over to the cat, which had grown tired, and picked it up. He realized that not only had the cat been burned, but its legs broken as well, like its mother’s. Yeah, Jamie thought, they definitely got what they deserved.
The orange and white kitten labored to breathe, and Jamie, wishing he could save the cat, knew there was no hope. He looked into the animal’s yellow eyes, seeming to say he was sorry for its suffering, sorry that he was part of the human race, the species that laid that suffering upon the cat. Then, as fast as he could, he broke the animal’s neck. He carried the carcass to Iroquois Park, a place he knew it was unlikely to be found, and buried it.
Moments later, in werewolf form, he ran through the park, limbs breaking in the rush, clumps of fur left on branches, toward Andrews High School. For a second he caught the fleeting scent of another werewolf that had been in the area—his father. The elder was nowhere near, now.
Arriving at Andrews, Jamie changed and wandered around the outside of the building. He knew where all the security cameras were located, and kept out of their lines of sight.
I hate this damn place, he thought, almost saying it out loud. The students suck; the teachers suck. Always sending me to the office for something I didn’t do. Nicholas never would have put me in a place like this. I’m glad I don’t have any friends. Who wants to hang out with lesser beings, anyway? That’s what he would say if he were here, and he’d be right. They’re not worth my time. And I have to go through it all again, tomorrow.
He remembered what he’d experienced a month after starting school. He’d been placed as a peer tutor in a class for students with special needs. He felt comfortable in that room. To Jamie, there was a kinship he shared with those students, a bond between individuals that lived on the fringes of society, individuals that were often ostracized from the rest of the population. Though he was not in the position they were, he knew what it was like to be different and to be treated as such. He’d grown protective of them, the ones that could not defend themselves. Then, the day arrived when that protective side manifested.
Sitting in the cafeteria, eating lunch alone as he typically did, he watched as three boys strategically placed themselves at a table near the students with disabilities, mimicking some of their physical gestures when teachers weren’t looking.
Jamie focused his trained ears through the loud chatter in the lunchroom on the bullies, his eyes never looking away from them as he subconsciously stirred his mashed potatoes. They whispered about a couple of the individuals wearing pull-ups, not being able to speak clearly, and always smiling even when they were the butt of jokes. Finally, Jamie had heard enough.
Rising from his seat and leaving his tray of food in its spot, he casually crossed the lunchroom to the three boys. They continued looking at the other students, laughing, as he approached.
“Knock it off,” Jamie said, placing his hands on the table, leaning in to the group.
“Knock what off?” said one of the bullies. “We’re not doing anything.”
“I know what you’re doing. Stop it.”
“Hey, it’s not like they understand anything, anyway. Fuck off.” Jamie straightened up as if to leave, only to remain standing there for several seconds, staring at the boys.
“Look, he’s just as stupid as they are,” another of the three said.
Jamie grabbed the most recent speaker by the back of the head, slamming the boy’s forehead into his food tray, spraying the table with mashed potatoes and peas, then flung him backwards onto the floor. The other two jumped up as Jamie backhanded the one on the right, knocking him out, and grabbing the one on the left by the throat.
He suddenly felt half a dozen hands placed on him as the faculty sitting at the front of the cafeteria sprang into action. Jamie released the boy’s throat, offering no resistance to those pulling him away.
Jamie ended up suspended for a week and, upon his return to school, found himself no longer a peer tutor. The one that came to their defense wasn’t allowed near them. That incident had determined his path at Andrews High. He’d been labeled a troublemaker and felt no need to prove anyone wrong.
Standing outside the dark school, flipping the zippo’s silver top open and closed, he turned his nude body, heading toward home, when he suddenly stopped. A voice echoed in his head, like something he’d experienced before, but hadn’t heard in months.
Central Park, it said. Central Park. Jamie shook his head, and took a couple more steps to leave the school’s premises.
He waits, it came again . This time, Jamie spun around, facing the school, seeming to be fully aware of what he needed to do.
He walked, slowly, toward the building, sticking to the shadows, then suddenly picking up speed, from a brisk walk to, finally, a full run, jumping into the light as he transformed to the blond werewolf. The Marlboro lighter fell at the bottom of the front steps. Around the school he went, destroying each security camera, until he came full circle to the front of the building, staring up the fifteen steps at the heavy metal doors guarding the entrance to the lobby.
Seconds later, those same doors exploded into the lobby and down the main hall.
The werewolf headed toward the office, bursting through the glass windows, and landing on the secretary’s desk, collapsing it. Down a small corridor to the principal’s office, knocking the door off its hinges. The principal’s desk would be found hours later in the courtyard below. He continued his destructive spree to the assistant principal’s offices, those that had personally sent him to detention. Jamie never touched the rooms that belonged to anyone he considered innocent, such as the bookkepper, or the principal’s secretary.
Exiting the rubble that once resembled the school’s main office, he reared back in the lobby, underneath the Armadillo mobile, and roared, shattering all the windows around him. He was just getting started.
Jamie trotted down the hallways that led to each of his classrooms, along the way extending his claws out to the lockers that lined the halls, leaving gashes in the storage units. He entered each of his classrooms, destroying the teachers’ and students’ desks, then headed toward the gym.
Inside the gymnasium, he found the large glass cabinets that held all the school’s trophies. Shards of glass, and shiny, colored metal soon littered the gym floor. The polished bodies of the various cheerleaders, basketball and tennis players, lay decapitated across the hardwood.
Next, came the banners hanging from the rafters, those badges of former glory that advertised the school’s past championships. Jamie sprang up toward the high ceiling, grabbing onto one banner and swinging to the next, one after the other, like monkey bars, each previous fabric falling to the floor as he reached following successive one.
Then, just to add insult to injury, the yellow werewolf moved down each and every hallway in the school, marking his territory. The smell alone that school officials would find the next day, would be enough to close the building.
Finally, changing to human shape, Jamie walked down the front steps, retrieved the lighter, and made his way back to the main office. Moments later, his smile shone as brightly as the office as it was lit up by flames. It didn’t take long for the sprinklers to activate throughout the entire building.
Satisfied with his redecoration of the school, Jamie left and headed home. He, like his father, snuck into the house, finding a change of clothes he had stashed in his upstairs room. Then, going downstairs, as quietly as possible, to raid the refrigerator, he found Landon sitting in the kitchen.
“Where you been?” asked Landon. “You’re coming in kinda late on a school night, aren’t you?”
“I was…working on a sch
ool project,” said Jamie.
“A school project? This late on a Sunday?”
“Yeah, I think I left my mark with this one.”
“What’s been going on with you, lately?”
“You mean aside from the normal hatred and contempt of my life, especially you and the hell you continue to put me through? Nothing.”
“Son—“
“I told you not to call me that,” demanded Jamie. “You’re not my father. You’re nothing more than a donor.”
“Fine, Jamie, I know you blame me for what happened with you and your mother, and, to an extent, you’re right, but since we’ve met, you’ve brought all of this on yourself—the old man in the village; Nicholas; taking the twins; Paige. What do you expect?”
“From you? Lies and liquor,” snapped Jamie. “I know that you’ve been drinking and lying about it to me, the twins, Ryker, and LillyAnna. You can’t help me, or Liam and Mara, because you can’t help yourself. You’re no better than—“
“Than what?” interrupted Landon, “the junkie you’ve been hanging out with at Waverly? Yeah, I know about that. What the hell are you into?” Jamie, though surprised, shot back. “Yeah, you sit up on your throne, looking down on everyone around you. In reality, though, you’re just a drunk. A self-righteous drunk that’s lost everything he ever had and, in his mid-thirties, still can’t get his act together. Who are you to judge me? You will never be him.”
“Who’s him?” asked Landon, knowing the answer already, but wanting to hear Jamie say his name.
“Nicholas.”
Landon darted from his kitchen chair, grabbing Jamie by the throat, and shoving him against the wall. His eyes burned red.
“Go ahead,” said Jamie. “Isn’t this what you do? Kill those you don’t deem worthy?”
“You drive me to drink. You won’t cut me any slack, you never let up. All you do is complain about how horrible your life is. You have food, clothes, a bed. I don’t even make you go out and get a job. Yes, you lost your mother, but so have a lot of other people. You grieve and move on. I’ve tried to give you what you need, walk that thin line you’ve drawn for me, and I get nothing in return. I’m tired. I’m tired of fighting with you all the time. And you should have been punished more for killing the old man back at Burghausen. It may have been an accident, but it’s still manslaughter.” Landon suddenly realized his son was struggling for air. He released his grip, and the teen slipped slowly down the wall to the kitchen floor. The father turned to walk out the kitchen.
“I’m going to bed,” said Landon. “You’ve got school in the morning. You’re dropping your brother and sister off at the before-school program, instead of me. I have an early morning call with Ryker.”
“Oh, yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir.”
Landon trudged upstairs to his room, slamming the door shut behind him, leaving Jamie sitting on the floor. The teen wiped his tears away, a cold steel look moving across his eyes like random clouds on a sunny day.
Chapter 3
The following morning, Landon listened from his bedroom as Jamie got up, got dressed, then dressed the twins—Mara in a pink dress with yellow flowers, and Liam in black shorts and a green Incredible Hulk shirt. He gave no indication that anything was wrong. In fact, he seemed to go to great lengths to detour from his normal, angst-ridden behavior.
“Why are you taking us to school today?” asked Liam. “Where’s daddy?”
“He’s still sleeping,” Jamie said, “but he’s got an important phone call to make this morning, so I get to take you. Is that okay?”
“Sure,” said Mara.
“I get to ride up front,” said Liam. “Daddy always lets me ride up front with him.”
“Now, I know that’s not true. Safety first, so you and your sister ride in the back.”
“Yeah,” Mara said. “Daddy never lets you ride up front. Stop trying to pull the sheep over Jamie’s eyes. Kids shouldn’t sit up front.”
“You mean the wool,” laughed Jamie. “Stop trying to pull the wool over my eyes.
Don’t worry, Mara. I’ll make sure you get to our destination safely.” Landon continued listening as all three left the house, Jamie closing the door behind him. Within minutes the car pulled out of the gravel driveway, and sped down the road. Landon closed his eyes, hoping to get a few minutes more sleep before his weekly call with Ryker, when he heard the gravel displaced again by a car coming down the drive. Landon got dressed, and made his way downstairs, to see what it was that either Jamie or one of the twins forgot. Opening the back door that led out of the kitchen to the garage, Landon froze, his mouth gaped open as he stared at the man on his back step in blue jeans and a red and black plaid shirt.
“Hello, son,” said Landon’s father, Allen, white hair having replaced the former red, and seeming shorter than Landon remembered. His eyes were as blue as Landon remembered them. It was obvious, though, that Allen hadn’t been in his werewolf form in a number of years. “It’s good to see you again.”
“You have no right to call me son,” Landon said. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I can see that you’re angry,” said the elder Murphy, a tinge of the Irish brogue still left in him. “And I know I should have called first. Just appearing at your door really isn’t the best way to do things.”
“Isn’t the best way to do things? Angry? Angry? You have no idea how angry I am. You disappeared. Left me; left her. You didn’t watch her die. Get outta here.” Landon moved to slam the door shut when it stopped before its destination, hindered by Allen’s foot.
“Son, if you’ll just give me a chance to--”
“I told you,” began Landon, his voice becoming lower and deeper, his eyes showing a slight hint of red, “not to call me son.” Then, without warning, he threw the door back open and shot toward Allen, both men shooting out the rear door and into the back yard. Allen backed up from his son.
“Landon,” he pleaded, “don’t do this. I know I messed up.” Suddenly, Allen felt the fury of his son as Landon’s right arm exploded from his side and across the face of the father, knocking him to the ground. Allen stood slowly, regaining his composure.
There, in the back yard, in broad daylight, the two men stared each down, circling. There was no one else in sight.
Landon burst forward at his father, both falling to the ground with a resounding thud. Rolling around in the grass, one on top of the other, continually exchanging vantage points, they left deep impressions in the soil. Landon flew off Allen as the latter, lying on his back, summoned all the strength he had in human form, and pushed his son away with his legs. Landon jumped up and ran into the garage. Allen stayed outside. Silence filled the scene.
In an instant, the garage exploded, shrapnel flying in all directions, as Landon, transformed into the beast, burst forth with an unguarded rage. Allen never saw it coming. The son rocketed into his father’s body, creating a trail in the driveway that led to a small crater. From that point on, Landon commanded the fight. Allen never changed.
Landon straddled his father and released decades of pent-up anger and rage.
Blood burst toward the sky then rained back down. Landon grabbed his dad by the ankles and, twisting them, caused the elder to scream in pain. He picked him up and tossed him, like a weightlifter tossing a child, into a nearby tree, sending a fault line straight up the trunk. Allen collapsed and watched the red werewolf fall to its knees, almost remorseful.
“Why are you here? Why didn’t you change?” asked Landon, reverting to human form, the morning sun falling on his naked body.
“I’m tired,” Allen said, wheezing and struggling to stand. “I’m wore out from the chains I carry. I didn’t come here to fight you, but I knew it would happen. I figured I’d let you do what you wanted. I deserve it, and it would be cheap therapy for you. It’s been years since you’ve seen me and I never thought it would happen.”
“Yet here you are.” Landon walked into the house, and moments later
walked back into the kitchen from upstairs, in a white t-shirt and jeans. He brought the same for Allen, offering clean clothes in place of the bloodied and ripped outfit he now word.
Landon walked to a cabinet and pulled out a rocks glass, added one ice cube, and filled it to the top with Jameson Irish Whiskey. Allen appeared through the doorway. “Want some?”
“No. I don’t drink anymore.” He coughed and pulled a red and white, flip-top Marlboro box out of his jeans pocket, lighting a cigarette. “Do you drink a lot?”
“I do now,” Landon said, tipping the drink. The clink of the ice against the glass as it bobbed in the amber liquid was a sound that Allen had tried to steer clear from for so many years.
“You really shouldn’t drink so--”
“So the reformed alcoholic wants to tell me not to drink,” Landon interrupted.
“Yeah, you’re one to give advice, aren’t you? How about some of that other advice?
Like always walk away? You really practiced what you preached there, didn’t you?”
“You’re right,” said Allen. “I drank all the time when you were a kid. Then I just left. I’d say I’m sorry, which I am, but I know that’s not enough, and nothing I do will ever be enough.”
“Why did you leave?” asked Landon, slamming his glass down on the counter, drops of whiskey bursting out, and, turning quickly, centering his cold, blue eyes on Allen. “Where did you go?”
“The truth is that any answer I give you will never be satisfying,” began Allen, taking a seat at the kitchen table. “I was a coward. I blamed myself for passing the gene on to you, and for ruining your life. I drank more and more, taking it out on your mom. I turned cold toward her. I couldn’t handle being around when your first change finally occurred. I always saw myself as a monster, and blamed my father, so finally it came around to history repeating itself. I couldn’t take how you would feel toward me after the first change. All the hatred and resentment you would feel. I felt it toward mine, and I saw no reason why you wouldn’t do the same.”