Animals

by Jonn Skipp; Craig Spector

  Reaction to what? he thought to ask, but the words wouldn't come out of his mouth. "Nee'ta . . . laydow . . . " he slurred.

  Steadying him, Nora helped Syd off the porch and into the kitchen. The food smells assaulted him again and he doubled over, body spasming.

  "Hang on, baby," she said. "Hang on."

  Nora steered him back out of the kitchen, heading for the bedroom. By the time they were halfway there he had broken into a full-body sweat, his skin going hot then cold then both at once. His consciousness dislodged and descended, spiraling in his skull.

  When Nora next spoke her voice seemed distorted, a million miles away. His brain couldn't quite make out the words she said.

  But he could've sworn they were oh god, here it comes. . . .

  18

  NORA AND SYD huddled on the bed like a macabre Madonna and child, as the first tremors wracked his flesh.

  Nora cradled his head to her breast: fighting down her panic, rocking him like a baby. In the last half hour his body temperature had plummeted to near hypothermia, then rocketed clear into fever-dream territory. She had scoured the apartment, gathering every sheet and blanket and towel, which were now arranged into a heaping semicircular cocoon on the bed, forming a makeshift sweat lodge. A bucket was positioned within easy reach. A washrag soaked in ice water sat ready and waiting on the bedside table; the bottle of Comfort was uncapped an arm's length away.

  Nora took a slug off the bottle and braced herself, beating back her own fear in the process. The mixing bowl still sat on the kitchen counter, taunting her. She didn't know what to make of the omen, was afraid to even look at it as she broke open the ice trays, raced through the rooms . . .

  . . . but when she closed her eyes she could see herself: huge with child but not ready yet, screaming at Vic as they pulled away from the parking lot of the shithole Texas dive where she'd caught him again, his nose already halfway up some beehive-headed bimbo's crack. She could see herself, screaming at Vic as they roared down the highway, his face contorted with anger and resentment and rage.

  She could hear herself, the horrible dull-knife agony twisting in her guts as the contractions hit, sent her reeling and clutching at the dashboard. She could hear Vic's screams, mingling with her own, as he rocketed off the highway and onto a pitch-black back road.

  She remembered the moon, looming over her through the rear window. As full and cold as she felt, as she pushed and pushed and pushed through a blinding veil of pain. She remembered Vic's halting liquor breath as he cradled her head, remembered the smell of her own sour outpouring, a gushing torrent threaded with red, as she ushered forth the wrongness.

  The wrongness that slid from between her legs.

  Most of all, she remembered the silence. Like a shroud that descended to engulf them, as Vic lifted the tiny misshapen body to the sky. To the night. To distant mother moon.

  A silence broken only by her own wretched sobbing.

  And the feeding sounds that followed. . . .

  Nora stopped: blocking the memories, forbidding any further thought on the subject. That was a long time ago, she told herself. Ancient history, to be forgotten at all costs.

  This was now. And she had work to do.

  Nora took another swig. She was as ready as she'd ever be. And it wasn't like she hadn't done this before. Initiation was one thing: just about anyone with the spark in them could be jump-started, tapping into the root of the beast through the combination of intoxication and manic sex-magick. And she knew how to pick 'em—weeding out the dweebs and lost causes almost at a glance—so it was rare that she didn't get her pick through the first set of hurdles.

  But mastering it . . .

  That was the hard part. There were so many ways to fumble, so many things that could go wrong. The kinds of walls they had built-in to shield them from their nature. The strength and resiliency of their human mind relative to the ferocity of their animal instincts. The sheer force of their imagination . . .

  In the end, there were an infinite number of worst-case variations on blowing it. But only one real way of getting it right. First you had to free the beast. Then you had to learn to ride the fucker. Primal essence was soul nitro, explosively unstable, and tapping into it always meant working without a safety net.

  The price of failure, plain and simple, was death.

  Sometimes they got unruly and she did it in self-defense; sometimes they just couldn't get it up, in which case they were meat. Worse yet were the doomed ones who couldn't weather the inner storm that awakening invariably aroused. And while it was a certainty that life without tapping their true nature meant consignment to the hollow strictures of man-meat, freeing the beast without the necessary mental power to harness it was tantamount to turning a starving tiger loose on a sleeping keeper. Unchained after years, sometimes decades of repression, rabid with appetite, the animal side would literally eat its host alive. It was not pretty.

  "Uh-nuh . . ." Syd twitched and shivered, a clammy chill seeping across his skin. He could barely speak. "N-Nora . . ."

  "I'm here," she whispered, feeling his forehead. He was burning up. His breathing was alternately shallow and gasping; his heart jackhammered inside his rib cage.

  Nora wrung out the cold rag, sponging his brow. She cursed herself for not having seen this coming. He'd breezed past the first hurdles as if he'd been greased, and tricked her into thinking he could take awakening in stride.

  But he was so bound up, and she had so much riding on this, and there wasn't enough time, and . . .

  Stop it, she thought. She reminded herself that she'd expected him to crash hard: men inevitably took it harder. Every man she'd ever met was ultimately a child, and any kind of sickness reduced them to infants.

  But this . . .

  She couldn't kid herself. Syd had not only unlocked the cage, he'd blown it clear off the hinges. There was no way of knowing what he'd do.

  "What's happening to me?" he asked, his hands clutching at her, weak as twigs. His eyes were closed, his whole being seized in the grip of raw mortal terror. Nora gripped his hand, felt him vibrate like a bowstring.

  "You're fine, baby, you're doing fine," she whispered. "Just tell me what you see."

  "N-nothing . . ." he stammered, his teeth chattering like porcelain castanets. ". . . c-c-can't s-see . . ."

  "Yes you can," she told him, trying to guide him. "You've just got to concentrate. Focus your will, look around you, and tell me where you are."

  "L-lost," he murmured, ". . . it's dark . . . I'm s-scared."

  "Don't be, baby, I'm here. . . ."

  "S-so scared . . ."

  Another seizure hit; Syd started to thrash. Nora grabbed the bottle. Liquor lowered the inhibitions, loosened the mortar holding the inner walls together. She took another hit for herself, then fed him some.

  "Here," she whispered.

  "I. . . I . . ." he stuttered. "I c-cannh . . ."

  His eyes were rolling back and forth in their sockets, unable to fix or focus. She chased his mouth with the bottle, made contact, tipped it back until amber rivulets trickled down his chin.

  "Achh," he sputtered, coughing out at least as much as he managed to swallow. He held it down, then suddenly doubled over.

  "Ahuuagh!"

  "Shit!" Nora pressed him toward the bucket as Syd pitched forward and heaved up a quantity of fragrant bile. "It's okay, get it out. Get it all out." She rubbed his back, let him void until she was sure he was empty, then pulled him back into the cocoon and pressed his face to her breast.

  "Here. Suck." Nora offered her nipple to him. Syd's mouth found it and locked on hungrily: drawing it in, filling the vacuum. The contact completed a circuit between them; she took another hit off the bottle, felt her nipple burn as it stiffened in his mouth. As he suckled she began to secrete: transfusing energy. Feeding him.

  Syd sucked hungrily. His cries subsided, as an eerie quiet fell upon the room. Nora kissed his hair, felt the storm inside him stirring in her core
as well, connecting them like a thunderhead moving across some vast inner plane.

  Nora closed her eyes, reached out with her mind. She could see the tiny latticework of veins in her eyelids grow distant as a blood-red sunset, ephemeral as heat lightning, as she descended into blackness. Searching for the plane where all consciousness meets.

  Searching for him.

  "I'm here, baby," she whispered. "Can you feel me?" Syd mumbled, nearly comatose.

  "Can you?" she urged.

  He fought for control. A moment later, thought came back to him, echoing through her mind.

  Yes . . .

  Black static suffused her inner vision, wrapped her in its inky embrace. She delved into the darkness, trying to pierce the veil between them.

  "What are we doing?"

  Rruhn . . . running . . .

  "Where are we running?"

  She hovered over him: listening to his breathing, waiting for his reply. A rumbling started deep in his chest, resonated through his torso, as the blackness gave way.

  And he was in the woods again.

  He was running, a fierce wind raging around him: trees groaning under its sway, vaulted limbs knitting patterns like shattered glass over his head . . .

  Syd fought to hold on to the question, felt his mind fragment into a billion glittering bits of thought. Nora held him, his muscles rippling and writhing, his entire body a disjointed confederation of flesh, cells quivering in sympathetic vibration . . .

  . . . as he tore through night and storm, running from the beast at his back, his feet punctured by jagged stones. Ragged underbrush snagged his flesh, ripping hunks from him that flapped like streamers, as the beast bore down upon him. . . .

  Syd's heart was an out-of-control pile driver in his chest, slamming him mercilessly. His body rocked with spasms, every vein and artery suddenly straining to the bursting point, racing down his arms and across his chest, slithering like angry serpents up his temples. The sound coming out of him mounted in intensity . . .

  . . . as the animal's howl wound around and through him: merging with the storm as it blotted out all thought, all sensation save his awareness that he was there, hurtling inexorably forward, unable to stop as more and more pieces of him stripped off, reducing him to meat to bone to bloody writhing essence. His feet became entangled in clinging vines, his legs unable to keep up with the pace.

  Syd tripped, lost his balance, fell screaming in blackness . . .

  . . . and the scream became a raw keening cadence that went on and on and on, long after his vocal cords had shredded and his lung capacity exhausted itself. It was the sound of revolution: his mind divided, his cells at war, his DNA splintering at the seams.

  Syd's spine went rigid. Nora braced herself.

  And emergence was upon them.

  "AHHHHHHNAHNAHHHURTS IT HURTS IT HURTSSS . . .!!!"

  He broke contact, howling in agony, every muscle and sinew and ligament wrenched to the breaking point. A blood vessel popped in his temple, sent a thin spritz arcing out to spatter the sheets. His limbs stiffened under the covers; his lungs took in one final heaving gasp of air.

  And then—just when it seemed it could go no further, that he would simply explode in a bright red spray of flesh-and-bone confetti—he stopped.

  For Nora it was like watching a burning fuse disappear into a keg of dynamite and not blow up. Moving quickly, she stripped the blankets back to reveal his naked torso, gleaming with sweat and flush with struggle.

  "C'mon, baby," she pleaded, and began massaging his chest. "C'mon . . . "

  His engorged veins receded, like ripples on the surface of a pond. His breathing resumed, shallow and halting. . . .

  He was at the heart of the forest, the eye of the storm twirling madly above. His body was gone: his essence distilled to a Syd/not-Syd awareness that hovered in the air, permeated the space. A preternatural calm enveloped him.

  And the sound of feeding came.

  The great wolf stood in the clearing, its maw buried in the chest of its freshly fallen prey. He watched in horror as its head dipped down, disappeared completely into the glistening breach . . .

  . . . while in the room Syd shuddered, as the plane of flesh just under his rib cage suddenly distorted and ballooned outward . . .

  . . . and as the carcass shifted Syd suddenly realized that it wasn't a deer at all, it was human, naked and gutted and gleaming on the forest floor. The beast dug deeper, jostling the corpse. Its head flopped and tilted toward him, revealing its face.

  "NO!!!" Syd's eyes opened wide, staring blindly up. Nora snapped out of her trance, was back in the room again. She took hold of his face, brought hers close.

  "Oh god," she cried. "Syd!"

  "NO!!!" he screamed.

  "Syd, listen to me!"

  Syd's consciousness reeled as his own eyes stared back at him, dead and caked and opaque. The wolf wrenched and tore a new hunk free, making the cadaver's head bob and nod as if in recognition. . . .

  "OH GOD STOP IT!!" His voice boomed off the bedroom walls, his arms and legs curling inward, going fetal. "MAKE IT STOP!!"

  "Look at it!" Nora told him. "Look in its eyes!"

  "I CAN'T . . . I . . . STOP IT!"

  "Concentrate, Syd! Make it see you!"

  Her voice echoed back to him like a lifeline as the great wolf stopped and withdrew, its snout red and dripping. It turned, revealing a face gone monstrous, distorted: human features stretched over canine skull, a grinning abomination rendered in obscene lupine parody. The wolf licked its chops, and Syd's soul shrieked as he realized . . .

  . . . the beast had his face, too.

  It stood, regarding him with eyes utterly devoid of conscience or pity. They were predator's eyes, and they fixed him mercilessly as the beast started toward him, growing with every step until all he. saw were eyes and teeth and eyes and jaws and bright shiny eyes. . . .

  He could hear its breath, smell the fetid stink of it, feel the deep rumbling in its chest as it advanced. And he found himself drowning in those twin shimmering pools of light.

  As the wolf took another step.

  And was upon him.

  SYD CAME TO: his head nestled in Nora's lap, his mouth loosely gaping. He was staring at the ceiling. A track of dried saliva graced his cheek. Nora was stroking the spot just between his eyes, making tiny little circles. Over and over, over and over. Calming. Centering him. Syd gazed at her with infant eyes, his mind filled with questions he didn't even know how to ask.

  "Now you know," she said.

  His eyes stared a moment longer before fluttering shut. Nora laid his head to her breast, and his mouth found her nipple, settled there. She slumped back, exhausted and drained.

  Syd drifted off, leaving Nora to watch over him. Listening to him breathe. Tracing tiny little circles. Over and over. Over and over. Until, together, they fell into a dark and dreamless sleep.

  19

  HE AWOKE HOURS later, with her nipple still in his mouth.

  The first stirrings were uncolored by words, or names, or memory, as he emerged from the oblivion that had claimed him. The sky outside was dark, the room steeped in shadow. The moon shone pale and high through the windows. The clock said eleven-eleven. He could not remember quite who he was or even what he was, or what had happened. There was only his need and her presence, quietly entwined.

  Syd's lips encircled the swollen rim of the areola, feeling the ripe fullness of her breast. As his tongue touched her nipple, she stirred as well, unconsciously responding.

  And every point of contact expanded his map, sent another sensation to remind him that yes, there was that, too, as her belly pressed into his chest and her hands found his back, traced lazy patterns across its breadth. Their bodies shifted position; she drew him closer and he felt his entire nervous system light up, transmitting desire at the speed of thought.

  And that was when she moaned, a husky rumble that started in her chest, filling his ears with exquisite sound, sending energy pulsi
ng through his body, recharging and revitalizing him. His hands found her hips and her hips were glorious, her hips were the cradle of all creation, her hips held the heart of the mystery.

  And that was when she turned and tipped him on his back, straddling him; as he slipped inside her she leaned forward so that her breasts dangled before his lips.

  "Bite," she whispered.

  Her nipple grazed his lips, raked across his incisors. She moaned, picking up the tempo.

  "Do it harder," she told him.

  Syd obliged, his teeth pulling at the erect flesh. He sucked the point of her breast deep into his mouth; Nora's hair cascaded around his face as her head began to shake from side to side, rocking in counterpoint to her undulating hips.

  "Harder," she urged. He did, felt something stirring at the base of his spine. Her head was whipping wildly back and forth now, as she urged him on.

  Syd bit her harder, until he felt like any second he would saw it off and swallow it. A distant part of his mind told him this wasn't right, this must hurt like hell. But Nora wasn't complaining. Far from it: her rhythm was ecstatic, frenzied, verging on violence. She rode him furiously, impaling herself again and again as he gnawed her breast, felt unyielding incisor meet resilient tissue and strain it to the breaking point. He loved it. Wanted it.

  Wanted more.

  Nora cried out. The feeling inside him began to rise: he rose with it, half-sitting now, lunging and snapping, leaving crescent-shaped welts on her chest. A high whining sound came up and out of her, the sound of a psychic fuse being lit. He answered with a fiercely guttural growl, a voice that came wholly of its own volition.

  Nora flipped her hair back and away from her face. Her eyes rolled up, showing white. Her lips skinned back. She sucked air and hissed, snapping her pelvis in visceral punctuation, each thrust sending another spike of pleasure into and through him.

  He was going to explode. Her torso arched and writhed. She tipped her head back, and Syd saw the open expanse of her throat pulsing inches from his face . . .

  . . . and at that moment he wanted nothing more than to tear into her windpipe and taste the steaming copper spray. It would be so good. It would be the best. Syd rose, his jaws opening wide. . . .