by Chris Fox
He’d driven the machine from the field of battle, which left four warriors to deal with. That and the cleansing of the Ka-Dun’s she. That she would join the great pack was unlikely, but nothing was lost in the attempt. It must be done quickly, yet doing so would leave him vulnerable. These warriors were skilled, and while he didn’t fear their weapons, he was aware of the cost of the wounds they might inflict. Conservation of energy was critical with the sun so early in the cycle.
He sank into a crouch, testing the cool air in the alley with powerful nostrils. The troops were approaching slowly. They smelled wary. He cocked an ear, waiting for them to betray their presence. There. A boot crunched on a piece of adobe blown loose during the battle. He glanced at the building next to him, a crude structure long exposed to the elements.
A pair of wooden shutters stood open, revealing the shadowed interior. It was nearly devoid of furniture, save for a single rickety table and a set of plastic chairs around it. Interesting. He probed memories until he understood plastic. A superb material.
“Does anyone have a visual?” a voice crackled from around the corner, next to the inner wall of the house. It came through the communication device used by the warriors. Radios. Useful, but such a dangerous folly to play so ignorantly with signals.
“Negative,” another voice crackled back. All but one had been male so far. Strange, but fortunate. She’s were the fiercest, cunning and deadly.
The beast gathered on its haunches, leaping over the lip of the window and rolling to its feet on the dirt floor inside. Its eyes adjusted instantly to the dim light, and it cocked its ears as it prowled toward the wall. Crunch. A boot fell just on the other side of the wall. The warrior’s body was pressed against it. A fatal mistake.
It lunged forward with all its considerable strength, punching a hole that belched a cloud of plaster into the hapless warrior’s face. Before the man could recover, the beast's hand closed around his helmet, wrenching him back through the hole the creature had created. The violent motion widened the hole, ripping away much of the wall as the warrior thrashed in the beast's grip. The effort was futile.
The beast clenched its fist, crushing both the black helmet and the skull beneath. The twitching stopped. It seized the corpse with both hands, ripping loose a hunk of flesh from the neck and shoulder. It lacked the time to feed properly, but even small morsels would fuel its strength.
The beast was already moving before the corpse tumbled to the floor, gliding soundlessly through the front door onto the muddy track outside. Even the Ka-Dun didn’t consider this a proper road, though his memories showed many places in the world where such a primitive way of life held sway. The world had changed much. Lost much.
The beast darted across the mouth of the alley, making it to the ruined face of the clinic without incident. The other three warriors would be cautious, and that would give it the time to cleanse the Ka-Dun’s she. It ducked through the gaping hole in the front of the clinic, rolling over debris and landing near the she’s limp form.
She was covered in blood and plaster, the life having already fled from her. Time was fast vanishing. The beast knelt next to her body, gently exposing her shattered neck. Bone jutted from ruined skin. The wounds were hideous. No matter.
The beast fed. Even if the she did not rise, her flesh would provide sustenance.
“Target acquired,” a voice crackled at the edge of its hearing. The beast rose, but it was too late.
Bullets punched through the walls, tearing into its thigh and shoulder. The wounds throbbed, but the pain sharpened its senses. It rolled backward, dropping prone amidst the dirt and debris. Energy flowed to the wounded area. Within moments both bullets were expelled from its flesh, falling to the ground with tiny clinks. The wounds sealed, and the beast was whole.
“Is there movement?” another voice crackled, closer than the one before. They were approaching. It would show them movement.
The beast leapt straight up, through the hole it had created earlier. It landed lightly atop the corner of the structure, wooden beam groaning under its considerable weight. The three warriors were in a triangular formation, already bringing their weapons to bear.
It leapt toward the closest, clawed feet punching through the man’s chest. The beast bore the warrior to the ground, crushing the fool before he could cry out. The other two warriors spun to face it, one quickly enough to align his weapon. The black rifle expelled a hail of slugs, ripping into the beast's midsection and sending it staggering backward.
The beast roared its pain and anger, leaping nearly a dozen feet into the air. It landed behind the warrior who’d attacked, raking him across the throat with razor-sharp claws as the man spun to face it. The warrior was flung violently backward in a fountain of his own blood, limp body rolling across the ground to land at the feet of his companion.
The final warrior stared, trembling. His will was broken. He turned and ran. It would not save him.
Chapter 24- Need a Drink
Blair heaved another body into the pit, already brimming with butchered villagers. He leaned against a stunted poplar tree, but not because he was winded. It was the weight of all those deaths. Neither the frigid wind nor the rapidly sinking sun accounted for the deep chill that coursed through him.
Those people had been slaughtered by the strange consciousness imparted by the statue; he was convinced of it. He stared down at them, the ragged remains of living, the once vibrant natives. Dozens of them. The pile now included eight soldiers, all with the gray and green triangle emblazoned on the shoulder of their rumpled black uniforms. The same uniform Jordan had worn. Mohn Corp. It gave Blair something to hate. A target. The resulting rage was the only thing keeping him moving. It smoldered within him, warm and vigilant.
He dropped the last of the soldiers into the pit, surprised at how little exertion it took, especially because he’d been at this for hours. That seemed a solid estimate based on sun’s position just over the western peaks. He was stronger now. Tougher. Both were tied to the thing inside him, though he couldn’t begin to understand how or why. It shouldn’t be scientifically possible, not based on his admittedly limited understanding of genetics.
He needed room to think, to study this and get his mind around it. Unfortunately, he still had work to do. One body remained, one that he hadn’t been able to force himself to move. Liz. Despite giving its word to save the pretty young doctor, the beast had savagely murdered her and then fed upon her corpse. Just like it had every other person it encountered. He’d been a fool to trust it, but there had been no other option. What could he have done against trained soldiers armed with state-of-the-art weaponry?
You accuse me unjustly, Ka-Dun.
Blair froze. He’d heard the same voice just before the chaos of combat. He’d been too busy to really think about it then, but now he had nothing but time.
“What are you?” he asked, studying the pile he’d assembled next to the pit. There were eight matte-black rifles with thick stocks and short muzzles. He had no idea what they were called or what sort of bullet they fired, though he was confident he could learn to use one if he had to. Next to them was a smaller pile of pistols, also matte black. They were metal, as he’d imagined, but lighter than expected.
I am a part of you, Ka-Dun. Imparted by the Mother’s blessing when you accepted the Mantle of Champion.
Blair’s lip curled up at the irony. “Champion? You murdered an entire village, and you used my body to do it.”
Necessary work, Ka-Dun. We must prepare for what is to come.
“You said you were going to save her,” Blair hissed, a single tear sliding down his cheek. It was the first he’d shed since the day he’d found out about Bridget and Steve.
I have honored our accord, Ka-Dun.
“Get out of my head,” Blair snarled. “If you can’t do that, then at least be silent.”
As you wish, Ka-Dun.
Blair wasn’t sure how he knew, but something told him the beast had
retreated. He was left in awful solitude, alone to contemplate the horror before him. He needed to add Liz’s body to the pile, but how could he face those lifeless eyes? Knowing he was responsible for her death made that unbearable. He knew almost nothing about her, save that she was American and had come here to investigate the grisly murders he was inadvertently responsible for. Where had she come from? Would her people send someone to look for her and the men she’d been with? What would they do when they arrived? He shouldn’t be here when that happened. Otherwise, those people would probably die too.
Blair turned from the pit, already under assault by an endless army of buzzing black flies. There was probably more he could or should be doing, like planning his escape from the area. Maybe gathering supplies or looking at a map. Right now he just needed a drink. Surely there must be a bar in this little town, assuming it had survived the chaos and blood of the past day.
He picked a path through the debris, back to the dirt track masquerading as a street. His hands were tucked in the pockets of the tattered gray overalls he’d found after he’d awoken. They were too large, as was the bright red shirt. He felt like a scarecrow in them, especially with the length of cord he’d used as a makeshift belt. The clothing was far baggier than it would have been the day before, except in the arms and chest, where it was tighter than it had a right to be. That shouldn’t be possible, but then neither was being turned into a werewolf after opening a pyramid from the Mesolithic. Mummy curse, eat your heart out.
The sun sank behind the jagged western peaks, painting the sky with reds and golds. He wondered if Liz would have thought it beautiful. A particularly morbid thought.
“God, but I need a drink,” he muttered, casting the woman from his mind as diligently as he’d done with Bridget. It was becoming a habit.
Blair stood in the middle of the road, studying the cluster of buildings around him. The trouble with Peruvian villages was that they didn’t label buildings properly. He was used to homes and shops being clearly defined, but these people didn’t seem to differentiate. They were just as likely to sell corn cakes out a side window as they were to have dinner in the same building. They didn’t distill alcohol that he knew of, but where there were people, there was booze. He’d just need to find it.
He scanned the row of ramshackle houses, looking for anything that stood out. A squat building was wider than most of the others. Its shutters had been repaired recently. Some of the slats were lighter in color, as if they had just been added. Maybe the owners had a bit more money than their neighbors, and if that was the case, there might be something to drink inside. If not, maybe he could scrounge some food. That was probably important too, though he felt strangely satiated despite not having eaten since the previous morning. He refused to consider the reason why.
Blair picked his way up the path to the doorway, a simple set-up covered by a gray blanket with embroidered red edges. It, too, was new, probably a recent and treasured addition. He pushed it aside and ducked into a single large room. Nearly a dozen chairs were arrayed in a horseshoe around a ring of stones used as a fire pit. A metal spit charred black by repeated use straddled the stones.
Long shelves lined opposite walls. They were made from older wood, bowed in the middle from crockery, bottles, and a wide assortment of kitchen tools. One of the shelves had a half-dozen dark bottles. The unlabeled glass wasn’t familiar, but the wax-sealed corks certainly were. Someone had a taste for wine, quite surprising in this part of the world. He’d expected beer or perhaps stronger liquor, but certainly not wine. It had probably travelled a long way to end up here. That didn’t matter. Whatever it was would do nicely.
Blair shuffled across the dirt floor to the shelf, hefting one of the bottles. Dark liquid sloshed inside. Red of some form. He preferred that to white at the best of times, and given the circumstances, its resemblance to blood seemed fitting.
“Now to open you,” he muttered, scanning the gloom for a corkscrew. It stood to reason there would be one. How else would they open their wine?
His search revealed a pitted iron corkscrew on the bottom shelf, just under the wine. It was stamped with a JR, probably a long-dead maker’s mark from when the thing had been cast decades ago. The tip was stained, a battle scar from opening hundreds of bottles.
Blair sagged into one of the chairs, strength flowing from him as the weight of events pressed down on his shoulders. How the hell had he ended up here? Where was here, exactly? And where was he supposed to go now? How could he even begin to quantify what had happened to him?
He set the bottle between his legs and began twisting the corkscrew. It bit eagerly into the cork, which pulled free with almost no effort. That was going to take some getting used to. He’d never been strong, but now that he was, he rather liked it.
Blair lifted the bottle and savored a mouthful of the dark liquid. It was harsh. Not quite ready to be consumed, probably a Cab or some similar cousin. It didn’t matter, though. He gulped it down like it was water after a trek through the Sahara. It washed down his chin and neck, staining his newly acquired clothing. Again, he didn’t care. All that mattered now was obliterating his consciousness, even if only for a few hours.
“Arrrrrroooooooooo!” The otherworldly howl tore through the twilight. The bottle tumbled to the earthen floor, forgotten.
The cry was close. Terrifyingly close. He recognized it instantly, though it had been years since he’d gone to Canada. He and Bridget had gone to hear the wolves, and their song had been amazing. This was a deeper, more primal version of that same song, as if it had been born in the throat of a much larger animal. There was only one thing he could think of that might make such a sound. It was a werewolf. But if he’d just heard the howl, then that meant he couldn’t be the werewolf, didn’t it? Maybe he wasn’t responsible for all these murders.
Sudden relief washed over him, lessening the guilt he’d been wrestling with. If he wasn’t the werewolf, someone or something else was. Then it hit him. That something would be hunting for the closest prey it could find. Him. The wine was already fogging his mind, making him sluggish.
Should he hide? Would it even matter? Wolves could track by scent. That meant the beast could find him if he remained here. But was running a better option? If he fled, the beast would hear him. It would be on him within moments if he left the safety of the house. No, remaining was his only option. The beast might find him if he remained. It would definitely find him if he fled.
Blair crept to the shutters facing the street. He held his breath as he gently pushed a slat, moving it just enough to peer into the gloom. Night had not truly fallen, but the mountains denied the village the last of the sun. Anything could be moving out there, and he’d never know it. Was the beast listening to his heartbeat even now? After experiencing the things he’d experienced, he knew that was possible.
Wait. Maybe he could tap into that now. Part of him resisted, for acknowledging the changes meant accepting what he’d become, accepting that he was the monster that had brought these people to their end. But if there was another werewolf, didn’t that mean it might be responsible? That triggered more questions. Where had it come from? Had it been unleashed in the pyramid somehow?
Thump, thump. Thump, thump. He could hear the beast’s heartbeat now, low and heavy. Slower than he’d have expected but also terrifyingly powerful. It was approaching.
Chapter 25- Your She
Blair froze. The creature was out there in the gathering darkness, hunting him. He could feel it, somehow. There was more than just the heartbeat. There was a scent. Powerful. Earthy. Feminine in some bizarre way, though why that would matter he couldn’t possibly imagine. Just the ramblings of a mind desperately seeking escape from a situation over which it had no control. What the hell was he going to do?
He peered through the slats in the door, out at the road, the squat houses now nothing more than looming shapes. The sun had fully surrendered, leaving fading scarlet in its wake to the west. The moon wouldn
’t rise for hours. That too, he could feel. It was an itch between his shoulder blades. He could point to the exact spot the moon would rise over the jagged peaks to the northeast, though such knowledge didn’t help his immediate situation.
Something moved in the street, not more than a dozen paces away. It was large. Taller than a man and far, far broader. Blair silently cursed the darkness. This creature might mean the end of him, but if that were the case he wanted to at least see the architect of that end. He wanted to know what he could about it before it tore him apart and feasted on his corpse.
Blair stared through the wooden slats, unable to look away from the figure. Something glittered in the darkness. Eyes, pale and yellow, like tiny reflections of the moon. There was no source of light to reflect, no illumination of any kind, yet they glowed with their own amber malevolence. Another mystery he wouldn’t live to solve.
“Arrrrrooooooooo,” the beast howled a second time, raising its head skyward and unleashing an eerie song that was at once beautiful and terrible. It called to him in a way he didn’t understand, and for an eternal instant he longed to join it, adding his voice in a terrible choir.
Somewhere in the distance another howl answered. Then another. Then a third. They mingled and flowed, a melodic choir that froze his blood and quickened his heart. It was powerful. Mesmerizing. Yet it didn’t quiet the sudden terror. How many of these things were there? Where had they come from? Had they been trapped in the pyramid, freed when he touched the statue? No, some part of him sensed that wasn’t the answer. So where did they come from?