There was no point in fighting.
Reaching down, I shut off the engine, popped the locks, and stepped out of the vehicle.
They were on me within moments.
“GET BACK AGAINST THE TRUCK!” one of them shouted.
“I’m not armed,” I said, pressing my hands to the back of my head and grunting as a man spun me around and slammed me into the vehicle.
“Check him,” the man who appeared to be the leader growled.
Another stepped forward and ran his hands along my body—padding my ribcage, checking my pockets, cupping my balls. He leaned forward and inhaled the stench of sweat along my neck before stepping back. “He’s clean,” he said.
“Is he being followed?” my assailant asked.
“All clear,” the third and final man said, lowering a pair of binoculars from his eyes.
I was about to surrender when I was struck behind the neck, thrown to the ground, then stunned by a knee ramming into my lower back. A short moment later, I was handcuffed.
“You could’ve asked,” I managed I was hauled to my feet.
“Necessary precaution,” the man growled, the hint of a French accent not surprising me. “Leo—go get the car.”
“Yes sir,” the man who’d inhaled my scent said, turning and disappearing around the car.
The spotter—whose attention had been set on the road behind us—turned his head to face us. Handsome Native features spoke of Central-American heritage. “Keys still in the truck?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at me.
“Yeah,” I said, then swallowed and corrected myself by saying, “Sir.”
With a nod, he sheathed the binoculars in a pouch at his chest and stalked toward the vehicle. Though he hopped in, he made no move to start it, and instead turned his attention toward the Frenchman. “Kinda big,” he remarked. “We taking it with us?”
“No place to hide it out here,” he said. “Besides—plates.”
“New Mexican,” the nameless Central-American said.
The Frenchman growled and rammed his knee into my tailbone. I would’ve doubled over had his grip been weaker. “Think you can fuck with us?” he growled, his lips so close to my ear I could feel his hot breath on my skin.
“It wasn’t to fuck with you,” I grumbled.
The sound of a vehicle starting somewhere in the distance drew the Howlers’ attention. Both lifted their heads and watched as, from the largest rock in the near distance, a car appeared, then rounded the many bumps and bruises in the terrain before sliding onto the road.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked, watching the tiny black car approach.
“That’s none of your concern,” the Frenchman said.
He clocked the back of my head.
My vision spun.
My stomach lurched
He grabbed my hair, tugged something over my face, and hit me one last time.
The world went black.
I came to consciousness in the back of a moving vehicle. Blind, nauseous, and feeling like I would throw up at any minute, I lifted my head only for a stabbing sensation to hit my skull.
“Hey,” I heard the Central American say. “Are you awake?”
I didn’t respond—hoping to God neither of them would notice.
“Hey,” the man repeated. “I said—”
“Leave him be,” the Frenchman named Baptiste said. “He’s hurting nothing back there.”
“But he’s the Wendigo. What if he’s able to—” I heard the sound of someone being slapped. “Hey! Fuck you, asshole.”
“Just shut up already. He came to us. Remember?”
The Central American mumbled something under his breath before going quiet completely.
“On the off chance you are awake,” the Frenchman continued, “I just want you to know that Mr. Le Blanc doesn’t expect any funny stuff, so you better be on your best behavior.”
“I,” I started, “will—”
I stream of vomit poured from my mouth and slathered my face. Gasping, I struggled to breathe, but only managed to choke on the mixture of bile and what little regurgitation trapped between the mask.
“Shit,” the Frenchman replied. “Will you do something about that?”
A hand clawed at my throat. Soon after, the mask came free and I was allowed a glorious gasp of air.
“Aww fuck,” the Native groaned.
“Don’t just sit there! Clean him up!”
“But—”
“Pierre will rip your ass if his new leather gets ruined.”
A cloth scraped against my face in the moments that followed. I tried to open my eyes—if only to better gauge my location—but was instantly forced to shut them again when a pair of blinding needles stabbed into my brain.
Rather than try, I submitted to consequence and allowed my captor to clean my face.
“There,” he said, pulling away. “Better?”
“Much,” was my only reply.
I hung my head in an attempt to cut out as much light possible.
“Don’t worry,” came the response from the Frenchman. “We’re almost there. I’m sure Pierre has a nice place already picked out for you.”
He couldn’t have made that sound worse if he’d tried.
An abandoned military bunker was revealed to exist beneath the sands of West Texas. Cleverly concealed beneath sand and a mechanical plate, it opened to reveal a set of massive steel doors that led into a parking compound—which, lit by nothing more than aged fluorescent lights, caused the dark space to flicker with shadows.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked as I was removed from their vehicle.
“A holding cell,” the Frenchman said, tightening his hold on me. “Mr. Le Blanc will decide what to do with you after.”
I forced myself to ignore the pain radiating throughout my skull and did my best to keep pace with my captor as we continued through the parking compound. While his sympathy was nearly nonexistent, he did take note of my difficulty maneuvering through the dark space and slowed down when he realized I wouldn’t be able to keep up without him dragging me.
Within minutes we came to an elevator fit for a doomsday shelter. When it finally arrived after several minutes of waiting, we stepped inside—just the two of us—and began to descend.
“Why underground?” I asked, grimacing as my head reacted to the shift in pressure.
“Security,” the Frenchman said, tightening his grip on my arm.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I mumbled.
While he didn’t reply, he did slacken his grip—revealing, at least in part, the human behind the intimidating sunglasses and unusual hairline tattoo.
The elevator ground to a jarring halt. The only thing that kept me upright when I stumbled was the Frenchman’s sturdy grip.
“Keep your eyes to the floor,” was his only warning.
The elevator opened.
Cold air rushed forth.
I realized, as I was dragged into the Howler underground, that I wouldn’t have been able to keep my head up if I tried.
I felt their eyes were on me instantly.
I didn’t need to see them to know that they were watching me. The tension was thick—palpable to the point where I could’ve sunk my teeth in and tore a chunk out of open air. The primal energy was like a tangible sickness: spreading, from all corners of the room, to assault me with anger and venom and snarling mouths. The hairs on my neck shot to solid points and goosebumps resembling scarred flesh appeared along my arms.
Someone brushed against me.
I shivered.
He laughed.
Then they all did—their cackles the sound of hyenas watching me from the dead of night.
Their catcalls faded the further we progressed. Broken concrete shifted to cold checkerboard linoleum.
Though it seemed like hours, it was likely only minutes before I was escorted into a cold room, then deposited into an iron cell.
I lifted my head for the first time since
entering and watched the Frenchman secure my prison. “You are here of your free will,” the man was quick to remind me. “Do not attempt escape. You will not succeed.”
I nodded, only just managing to swallow the painful lump in my throat.
“Le Blanc will visit you when he sees fit,” the man finished. “Until then, stay quiet and don’t make trouble.”
He left me with the taunt of an open door.
Anyone who wished to enter would be free to do so without question.
Turning, I observed the meager bed supported by chains descending from the wall and the lone toilet in the corner of the room before settling down for what I knew would be a long wait.
My head throbbed.
My heart hammered.
And though Svell Kaldr, I closed my eyes knowing this was the coldest I’d ever felt.
It was the drum of fingers along iron that pulled me from my slumber.
“Ah,” a voice so familiar it sent shivers down my side said. “You’re finally awake.”
How did he know? I hadn’t so much as opened my eyes and yet—somehow, someway—he knew that I’d awakened, regardless of the fact that I still faced the wall.
It was his sudden, unexpected chuckle that caused me to tense up. “There’s no need to fake it,” Pierre Le Blanc said. “I know you’re awake. I can hear your heartbeat.”
“How long have you been waiting there?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Hours, maybe. A few minutes? It’s hard to tell when there’s no clocks to help you keep time.” He tapped his fingers along the bars again, but this time with what had to be his claws. “You know…at first I thought you were trying to fool me. It isn’t uncommon for Kaldr to slow their breathing in order to appear dead.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
“What do I want? I should be asking you, not the other way around.”
I turned to face the man—wholly anticipating the imposing figure I remembered from weeks past—but hadn’t expected to witness his deterioration. His face was gaunt, his cheeks hollow, his eye sockets marred with heavy bags and his corneas scarred with exhaustion. Even his teeth—which, at one point, had bared the feral luminosity of a well-kept individual—had succumbed to a yellow pallor normally indicative of smoking. He looked ten, if not fifteen years older, than he had before, and disheveled to the point where I nearly didn’t recognize him.
Upon realizing my shock, Pierre smirked and leaned forward to grip two bars. “Surprised?” he asked.
“I didn’t—”
“What? Expect this?” Pierre smiled. “You fucked us every which way but loose, Jason—my little Wendigo. After your little stunt, the feds swarmed the compound after some farmers reported gunfire. We lost everything. Our food, our home, our shelter, our dignity.” He leaned forward, his snarl deepening as he succumbed to his anger. “We even lost the drug funds the coke smugglers had been bringing in.”
“You kidnapped him,” I managed. “I had no choice.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Pierre snapped. “You could’ve relented.”
“But I didn’t.”
“And now you’re here,” the Frenchman replied. “Apparently of your own free will, according to Baptiste and the detachment he’d sent out. My only question is…why now? Did the Kaldr finally get sick of you?”
Though I didn’t respond, Pierre’s lips split into a gruesome smile.
“Ah,” he said, a wicked glimmer appearing in his eyes. “I think I understand.”
“You don’t know anything,” I replied.
“What? That you came crawling back with your tail between your legs? That could only mean one of two things: that you’re here to join us,” he started, “or you’re here to kill me.”
I raised my eyes. He met my gaze equally.
“So,” he continued. “Are you here to become part of the pack, or did you honestly believe you could get this far without being caught?”
“I’m here to challenge you,” I said.
“For what?”
“Your throne.”
He blinked, likely taken aback. Slowly, though, his smile returned, and within a moment his disbelief turned into a barking laugh that echoed along the stone walls. “You?” he laughed. “Contest me?”
“What?” I asked. “Afraid of the Wendigo?”
A snarl—guttural and wolf-like—was his response.
“Sir?” the Frenchman I now knew as Baptiste asked. “Is everything—”
“Everything’s fine,” he growled, turning his eyes on the shorter, stockier man. He pried his fingers from the bars and stepped away from the cell. He was just about to walk out the open door before he stopped and said, “Make sure he’s fed before the night’s up.”
“Yes sir,” Baptiste replied.
Pierre Le Blanc stalked off without another word.
Baptiste only offered a frown before following his master in turn.
The food was brought hours later by a man who had either forgotten or just didn’t care. Cold, resembling leftovers that no one wanted to eat, and accompanied by dirty water, I refused to touch it and eventually surrendered to a night of hunger.
Lying there—alone, and without a blanket to keep me warm—I struggled to sleep.
Instead, I listened—waiting for Pierre to appear and end me.
There was nothing.
Not a sound could be heard. Not even a footstep.
That, undoubtedly, was the most unnerving part.
I had to keep telling myself things would be all right. I knew I was safe—at least in part. If Pierre had wanted me dead, he could have done it even before I’d set foot in the compound. The fact that I’d been escorted proved, at least in part, his determination to keep me alive.
But why?
Did he really believe I had come to join them?
It didn’t make sense. Mitchell had explicitly said there was no cure, and the only potential for salvation was an infector’s flesh.
Unless—
I swallowed.
If Pierre didn’t know about Panspermic Infection—and he really, truly believed I was the Wendigo—that could only mean one thing:
He thought I’d betrayed the Kaldr.
He thought I’d come to join them.
Rolling over, I closed my eyes.
Pierre didn’t know I was sick.
And he had no idea that I’d come to kill him.
“Rise and shine,” were the first words I heard the following day.
I opened my eyes just in time to see the Baptiste open the door to my cell. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Taking you out,” he said. “Boss’ orders.”
I had little time to react before he grabbed my arm and hauled me off the cot.
Barefoot, half-awake, and unaware of his intentions, I tried to free myself from his unyielding grasp as he dragged me down the hall, but his stocky build and solid grip ensured that I would not get away. There was no use in fighting. The rational part of my brain told me that. Still, my natural inclination was to pull away—to fight or flee from the bully who was three times bigger than me. So when I reached up to try and pry his hand from my arm, I was met with a slap that nearly knocked me off my feet.
“Stop,” he commanded, jarring us to a halt.
Trembling, I fought to keep my emotions in check. Regardless, something must’ve shown, because soon after Baptiste’s gaze softened. “Look,” he said. “I’m not supposed to hurt you, but I’m not going to have a choice if you keep fighting me.”
“You woke me up, pulled me out of my cell, and dragged me out here without explanation, and you’re telling me I’m fighting?” I attempted to shrug away, but his grip held firm. “Let off. Ok?”
He nodded. “Yeah,” he said, the purse in his lips indicative of at least some understanding. “Ok.”
He waited a moment—as if testing me for further response—before he tightened his grip and continued to lead me down the hall.
The moment
we stepped into the common room, we were greeted by stares.
Men, women; some young, some old; the majority appearing to be of age but a handful resembling young teens—each looked upon me with a trademark ferocity I had come to expect from the Howlers as they examined me as if I were fresh meat. One—whom I immediately identified as a member from Baptiste’s party—bared a fang and offered a wink before grabbing his bulge.
The moment I looked away, I came face-to-face with Pierre.
“Ah,” the man said. “He awakens.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
A pretty Vietnamese woman snarled and bared a row of jagged teeth at me.
“La`nh,” Pierre said, rising. “That’s no way to treat a guest.”
“He disrespected you,” she growled.
“Regardless, that is no way for a civilized person to react.” He placed a hand on her shoulder, which immediately caused her to shrink back. “So…my friends, my family. Though I’ve remained quiet regarding yesterday’s sudden events, I am pleased to announce that our unexpected guest is none other than Jason DePella—the young man whom was infected with the Howler strain and became the Wendigo several weeks ago.”
A few whispers went up, but died down quickly after. It was obvious, by the way the Vietnamese girl had reacted and the manner in which the rest of the Howlers behaved, that Pierre was not to be trifled with.
“What I haven’t revealed,” the Frenchman continued, drawing his gaze back to me, “is that he’s come to usurp me, if what he said was true. Baptiste did hit him pretty hard in the head.”
“For which I apologized profusely,” the other Frenchman said. He loosened his grip on my arm until he all but let go.
“No matter.” Pierre stepped forward until our chests were touching and lifted a nail to tilt my chin up. “Is that what you told me, Jason? That you wanted to kill me?”
“You know what I said.”
“So Baptiste didn’t knock the sense from you,” the man smiled. “Or the fight.”
“Sir,” one of the older men said, taking a step forward. “Forgive me from speaking out of term, but…you’d engage fresh blood?”
“Normally I would not agree either,” Pierre replied, “but given the circumstances—”
His Kiss of Darkness Page 11