by Bones Monroe
Oliver answered, “Nothing much, just a little misunderstanding, right gentlemen?”
"Captain…Bob? Is it?" Ben said rubbing his neck, trying to get the circulation back. "I thought chokeholds were against the law?"
Captain Bob shrugged. "Chokehold? I didn't see any chokehold."
Ben glanced at Oliver, imploring him to corroborate. Oliver was suddenly busy picking at a very tenacious hangnail on his left index finger.
Agent Swent shrugged, “We never use chokeholds.”
Ben sighed. "If no one saw a chokehold then it didn't happen, did it?" Ben had enough experience with street justice to know what was up.
"You don't worry about who or what I know. If I were you, I would be more worried about what my newly deceased daughter is up to. Now that the doting father knows that she's a vampire, that is."
“Can you forget about this…indiscretion, Bob?” Oliver asked. “As a favor? I’ll make sure he stays out of trouble.”
“I don’t take lightly to being attacked. He needs to go to jail over this,” Captain Bob said, glaring at Ben.
“That’s not the answer I wanted to hear,” Oliver said with an edge in his voice. His fangs protruded in anger. “C’mon, Captain, let’s have a little chat in private,” Oliver said with a tone that was a command, not a request.
Much to Ben’s surprise, the Captain followed Oliver with no protest until they were out of earshot.
That’s interesting, Ben thought, watching them engage in an intense whispered discussion.
“Entertainment? I’ll give you entertainment,” Ben muttered angrily.
While the two were in a heated discussion, Ben attacked Agent Swent. “FOR THE UNDEEEEAAADDD” and slammed into him. Again.
They tumbled to the floor. Ben swung wildly at anything within reach. He hit something warm and yielding. He smiled enjoying the sensation of getting in a free lick.
Ben had concluded that this was the only way to exert any free will. Do the unexpected. Predestination be damned!
Then Ben felt someone grab him by the back of his neck in a powerful viselike grip, making him wince in agony. The Swent got in a free elbow to Ben’s ribs and threw him crashing headfirst into the wall. Ben crumpled to the floor in a heap. Unbeknownst to him, his stomach made a backroom deal with his inner ear. You don’t let the room spin out of control and I’ll keep lunch where it belongs. They shook on it and went about their business.
Ben’s stomach rumbled but he kept his lunch down. He steadied himself, trying to keep the room from spinning out of control.
He watched Oliver briefly shake his head in a mixture of annoyance and sorrow. He punched Swent in the face with all his might.
Oliver's undeadly, powerful fist smashed into the poor agent’s nose and kept traveling, breaking the nasal bridge, pushing it aside like one would push away an annoying child that wants you sell way overpriced chocolates when the only thing you want is to leave the damn supermarket and get home to dinner before your favorite show starts. Once Oliver’s fist handled that, it kept on truckin.’ Breaking the septum, collapsing into the nasal cavity and knocking on the inside of the back of his head.
This did not happen silently. An orchestra of popping bones accompanied it, crunching cartilages, a half-scream that ended with a coda of unpleasant gurgles bubbling from the deep pool of blood that was coalescing in the agent’s newly reconfigured facial structure.
Ben was horrified at the spectacle and proud of himself for not throwing up in disgust at the sight of blood. He was always very squeamish with anything having to do with blood. This was quite an achievement for him.
While Swent wheezed through his bloody collapsed face and pawed at the wall trying to crawl away, Oliver turned to Ben. “Don’t you even think of moving,” he warned pointing a bloody finger at Ben.
Oliver disappeared into his apartment and reappeared with a baseball bat.
“I tried to help you out, but you are one crazy bastard, aren’t you? Attacking two CURE agents? Then that nonsense about entertainment? I’m not sure what is going on in that head of yours,” he said while rubbing the blood off his dirty hand on the baseball bat before covering it in Swent’s blood. He took one more swing at the agent, hitting him square in the knee. The agent screamed-wheezed-coughed and ended the symphony with a few whimpers thrown in for good measure.
“I mean, killing a CURE officer?” Oliver said, giving Ben a cocked eyebrow look of disbelief. “You can claim temporary insanity due to your daughter’s recent death and subsequent reanimation, but that defense hasn’t held up in court in recent years. Well, at least you’ll finally be out of this godforsaken place like you wanted, right?” Oliver said as he stepped on the agent’s neck, finally squeezing the life out of him. “I’m sure you’ll be put away for a long time.”
Ben’s stomach thought this was more than fair. His deal with the inner ear covered room-spinning for calm innards. The room was no longer spinning, therefore, stomach had no consideration in the deal. The deal was fulfilled.
Ben threw up and passed out.
What the Hell is wrong with you? She’s dead. Do you understand that? DEAD. My daughter is DEAD! Why have you forsaken me? I mean, what have I done to you? Nothing. Nothing. I’m just here trying to live my life, and then this stupid ritual let me feel you watching my every movement. Now what? I know you’re there, but you won’t intervene. Like I’m a character in a book or something. Well, news flash, I’m not! I’m a real human being going through some terrible stuff, and you just sit back and watch.
Are you laughing?
I hope you get a good long laugh at the misery of others.
Well, I hope you're happy. She’s dead. You killed off the only thing that was worth anything to me. You have snuffed the light of my life out and replaced with an identical, cold doppelganger.
Yeah, yeah, undead have rights, I’ve heard it all before. Whatever. Her heart is not beating anymore. I touched her. She’s room temperature now. There is no life in her. Do you have any idea how heartbreaking it is to feel your cool, lifeless daughter in your arms? And then she walks away as if it’s the most normal thing in the world? It ain’t right. It’s an abomination I tell you.
So now, just so you know, I’ll never be a grandfather. Did you realize that? Can you also see inside my head? Or are my thoughts my own? Can I have something you aren’t privy to? Now, I can’t see my baby have one of her own. I can’t dote on the little thing and spoil it rotten. That Author dude took her away. Yeah, I know it wasn’t you. You watch and enjoy my misery, but the other guy is pulling the strings.
Well, the Author might not be pulling all the strings as much as he thinks. I don’t think he expected me to punch out the Captain. I mean, who does that? I told you I’d give you entertainment; you got it.
Don’t look at me like that. I know it was self-destructive behavior, but you know what? I don’t care. This is the only way I have to get back at The Author. Do stuff he doesn’t expect. Mess up his ‘master plan.’
Heh heh. Now I’m in CURE prison, I wonder if that gave him a conniption? Whatever he had planned for me, I must have totally messed it up for him. I can’t get out. Fine, I have tons of bruises from the beatings, but it was worth it.
Grace. My poor dearly departed Grace. I had such high hopes for her. I wanted her to do everything I couldn’t do. I wanted her to be so much better than me. She had her whole life ahead of her. And now? Nothing. Now she’s stuck with an entire unlife of wearing sunblock, drinking blood, sleeping in a coffin. No, I think that’s an urban legend. My baby didn’t sleep in a coffin. That I would have noticed.
I can’t believe she’s gone. She had such a warm, loving personality. Now, now she’s just an unholy concoction of bones and gristle that needs to drink blood to stay alive.
I know The Author did this. Everything was going okay for us until I lost my job and then this downward spiral started and ended here. I’m in prison and my daughter is a monster.
I hope
you, Reader, had a good laugh. But Author, wherever he is, I will make things hard for him.
Yeah, I’m bitter. Sometimes not knowing is a blessing. I was much better off not knowing you pan-dimensional dudes weren’t around. Watching, looking at us, making us do things, using us for your entertainment.
Grrrrrr … I hope, I really hope that someday you feel like I’m feeling now. Used, abused, manipulated. Think of this, though. If I’m your plaything, then whose plaything are you, dear Reader? You ever think of that, huh? There’s always someone bigger than you. Are you sure that you have free will? Or are you also being manipulated?
Yeah, I thought so. Go ahead and think on that.
I will try to take a nap before they bring me the slop they call dinner around these parts. Supposedly, I will see a judge tomorrow. They are writing up the charges now. Murder probably. Should be interesting to see how Author deals with me being imprisoned or executed. Serves him right for playing God.
Chapter 19
The inhumans hastily converted the school’s indoor baseball field into a makeshift training area and grouped the neighbors according to ability. Wererats in one column, werewolves in the corner, werecats as far away as possible from the wererats (the cats couldn’t control themselves when in cat form. You can imagine the scene.).
Though many made sincere attempts at synchronization, none of the drills resembled military precision. Part of the unfortunate price the undead paid upon ceasing living was the loss of rhythm and timing. It confounded science, but the latest hypothesis revolved around rhythm being intrinsically tied to a heartbeat.
The shifters had rhythm; the undead had style. This caused resentment on both sides. The teams on the field tried but couldn’t really coalesce as a crack fighting force.
Valfred had stepped forward as overseer. He ran back and forth to make sure the teams performed the drills to the best of their abilities.
“C’mon people, we have to get ready,” he boomed in his most authoritarian voice. “Stop messin’ around. You know CURE agents have the upper hand. We have to take them by surprise if we want to have a fighting chance.” He paced in front of a team of wererat shifters slated to infiltrate the CURE compound ahead of the others.
“How are my SEALS doing?” he said in a bright tone to encourage them.
“We’re rats,” a large, slightly bucktoothed man said before shifting into his animal form.
“No, that’s not what I meant. The SEALS are … ohh never mind,” Valfred said as the small brown nose twitched in confusion. “Carry on!”
“Valfred!” A panicked shout came from the far side of the field. A man ran in his direction at full speed.
“I—I,” the man panted.
“Ok, take a minute, catch your breath,” Valfred said.
The commotion drew the attention of the troops. It was common knowledge that once you pass into the afterlife, without the inevitable hammer of Death looming over you, the best way to keep yourself entertained for eternity was gossip. Those nearby stopped training and looked over, hoping, from the drool accumulating around their mouths, that whatever was going down was juicy.
“More news,” the man said to Valfred between noisy gulps of air. “The new family, Coleman. The humans. CURE came in and took them. They beat the father. They shackled the girl.”
“They WHAT?” Valfred shrieked. “Damn, I have no love for those two humans, but they’re part of our community. If they take humans, their own, then they—”
“No, someone turned the girl. She’s not human anymore. She’s a vampire. I saw her shackled with the CURE pendant to keep her weak,” the man said.
Valfred grabbed him by both shoulders. “Say again? Slowly.”
“I saw the CURE agents lead the girl away. She had the vampire vest and that garlic and holy water pendant on her. They beat up her father and dragged him after her.”
Valfred’s wife Vionica had been talking to him, slowly changing his mind about Ben and Grace. She knew the way to get him to buy into an idea was to let him stew on it until he believed it was his own. At first, he refused to entertain that humans, any humans, were worthy of his concern. But she was persuasive, dropping subtle comments here and there. Her gentle persistence wore down Valfred
Valfred was almost at that point but now, knowing Grace was one of them changed things considerably.
“There’s more,” the man said.
“What’s that?” Valfred said distractedly, thinking of the CURE raid and how unprepared the inhumans were.
“Valfred. It’s Vionica,” the man said with obvious discomfort.
“What about her?” Valfred asked, his hackles rising.
“She’s sick. Very sick. She wants you to go to her.”
“WHAT? Why didn’t you tell me this the second you got here!” he shouted, sticking his face mere inches away from the man’s nose and spraying him with spittle.
“She told me to tell you about the others first! She made me promise,” the man said putting his hands up to ward off Valfred’s shower of saliva.
“Grrrrrrr.” Valfred’s anger took over. His bones moved in unnatural patterns under his skin, making him undulate as if he were doing a ritualistic dance. His snout extended. He lunged at the man but snapped at thin air.
A tiny, angry squeak drew the now fully shifted Valfred’s attention. A small fruit bat flew around the head of the wolf. Valfred lunged up, but the bat darted out of reach.
Valfred raced after the bat, squeaking madly now and flying too high for a surprise attack by a petulant and unpredictable angry werewolf.
***
Vionica lay on a makeshift cot. The ladies attending her filled Valfred in on what had happened. In the middle of teaching them how to make human booby-traps – her previous experience as an engineer made her perfect for the task – Vionica complained of fatigue and sat down. Then she just collapsed. The ladies rushed to her, carried her to the bed and called for help.
Valfred rushed to her side. “Vionica? I’m here. I’m here,” he said on his knees at her side.
Vionica’s eyes fluttered open. “Hi, honey. You made it,” she said. She weakly placed her hand on his forearm. After all these years, her touch still sent shivers down Valfred’s spine.
“Yes. I’m here. What’s wrong?” he asked.
She gave him a wan smile. To him, it lit up the room. “I’ve been feeling sick these last few days, but we’ve been so busy I brushed it off as a cold. Then today I got so tired suddenly. Before I knew it, I was in bed.”
“You’ve been sick for a few days and you didn’t tell me?”
Vionica shrugged. “You were always out and about, getting things ready. Talking to people, inspiring them, making plans. Then I found out about the CURE raids. I knew things would be moving fast, so I let you work with no distractions.”
“You know better than that, honey. I would have done something, anything.”
“Val, I’m just one person. You are now the unofficial leader of this neighborhood. We must expect violence. They need you.”
“No, that’s not how this works—”
Vionica had a coughing fit. When she finished, she asked Valfred to get her some water with lemon in it, the way she liked it.
When he left the room, she waved to her students.
“I feel it. It’s time. Valfred will lose his mind, leave now,” she said as another coughing fit took over her.
The ladies burst into tears but followed Vionica’s wishes and quickly slipped out of the house.
When Valfred returned to the room, he smelled it as soon as his foot crossed the threshold. He didn’t even need to check. He knew.
They could hear his howls of anguish for miles.
Squatch, in bat form, perched nervously under the ceiling lamp in the kitchen. He thought it prudent to wait until Valfred stopped his incessant howling. Squatch would have loved, absolutely loved, to leave immediately after hearing Valfred’s first howl, but he had more information for him. Alt
hough he tried telling him as soon as they arrived, Valfred brushed him off and rushed in to tend to his wife.
He wasn’t sure how Valfred would react to this new information, so he flew over closer to the window. A quick exit would be most prudent if a grieving werewolf lunged at him.
Eventually, the howling subsided. The door to the bedroom opened. Squatch held his breath in suspense (Which is a clear sign that an undead is tense, since they need not breathe … old habits die hard).
Valfred, still in wolf form, shouldered the door open and slunk out of the room with his head hung low. He sniffed a few times, sampling the air and glared up directly at Squatch.
Squatch trembled in fear.
Valfred continued glaring. He sat on his haunches, never breaking eye contact.
Maybe, just maybe if I turn into human form, he will also, Squatch thought.
Squatch transformed back into human form. Valfred did not.
This would be awkward. Squatch always choked when he had to speak to canines as a human. He’d been chased by stray dogs when he was younger and that fear never left him.
“Valfred?” Squatch’s voice quavered as usual. “I have good news,” he stuttered.
Squatch’s eyes widened in fear as Valfred shifted and placed both paw-hands on either side of the doorway. When the wolf’s vocal cords had changed enough to allow for speech, he seethed, “My wife. The lifetime mate I chose for my pack is now dead. And you tell me you have good news?”
“I—I was told by, uhhhh, Vionica to tell you something else, but we were running,” Squatch stammered.
Squatch knew of the deep, lifetime ties that shifters, especially wolven, form with their mates. They mated for life and losing a mate was a big blow to the wolven and their pack.
“She knew,” Valfred said. “She knew she was at the end. She wasn’t sure she would last long enough to tell me herself. She gave you her last words.”
Squatch had not realized the truth of that until now. The weight of his unwitting participation in her last moments fell on him like a ton of bricks.