by Mark Tufo
“I’ve been meaning to ask, Breealla. How did you manage to escape?”
“It was my uncle.” Now tears were freely falling down her face. “He told me to count to ten and when I got there to take my brother and run. Then he ran right at the Lycan, screaming. He’d found a knife somewhere. He had no chance—they were three times his size if not bigger. I heard his screams of pain as Nemmon and I entered into the woods. He kept crying for mom, and I had to keep putting my fingers to his mouth to quiet him.”
“What happened to your uncle?”
“I...I don’t know. I heard a loud crack, and him crying out in pain, but only once. We kept running until we couldn’t hear anymore. Then we ran some more. We ran so far I could not have found the way back even if I wanted to.”
“Your uncle was very brave in his sacrifice.” Bailey stroked the girl’s long hair. “And you were very brave keeping the both of you alive out on your own.”
“I didn’t have a choice. I had to be strong for my brother. Bailey, will you really do what that man said?”
“Michael? Let’s not think upon those things. Let us enjoy this time we are in right now.” Bailey noted it was much easier to say those words than to live by them. Every thought she had revolved on what she would do when that full moon came up. She second and triple guessed herself constantly. For all Mike’s doubts about having a soul, or the conscience that went with it, she was able to prod him into a quest with a high risk and low reward. Yes, they were children, but they were two versus a civilization, should he fall. Azile had told Bailey that Mike was somehow the key that unlocked the answer; and the responsibility to keep him from doing anything rash was to fall on her shoulders now that Tommy was dead. Yet, the first thing she did was push him into something he did not want to do, and without any backup as well.
“I am a fool,” she admonished herself.
“What?” Breealla asked.
“Sorry, I did not realize I was speaking aloud. Apparently, I have already spent more time with Michael than is wise.”
“What is he like, Bailey? Will he really be able to save us?”
“He is certainly your best chance. I can only hope it is enough. When one loses as much as he has, they often have a hard time finding the will to fight for themselves, much less for others.”
“Is it true that he is an Old One like you say?”
“It is.”
“My mother used to tell me stories about them, although not to Nemmon. She thought he was too young. According to her, they were taller and blue, with claws for hands and hardly any nose. Michael looked very much like an ordinary man.”
“That is what happens to stories that are passed down through the ages, they are changed or embellished upon.”
“Embellished?”
“More description is added to exaggerate or make something more interesting, in this case, to make vampires appear scarier than they are, even though the reality of them is just as scary as anything that could be made up.”
“Are you afraid of him?”
“Afraid?” Bailey pondered. “Concerned would be a better word, and not so much for myself as for others. We have an…umm…certain history, I guess.”
“I am frightened, Bailey. I do not wish to become a werewolf. What if I attack Nemmon?”
“We won’t let that happen,” Bailey told her.
Breealla knew what that meant and did not ask for further clarification.
“Come on, Michael,” Bailey said as she looked up to the moon, which looked like an expectant mother getting ready to deliver. Tomorrow it would be full, and there was a strong possibility she would discover the depth of her resolve. “I don’t want to have to murder children.”
The next morning, even the rambunctious Nemmon was sullen and downtrodden. Breealla never wandered far from the fire. It was almost as if she believed that the heat of it could burn out the virus housed within her. Bailey made sure to keep them in sight the entire day. She was afraid they might make a run for it and she would not have very long before the situation went from her hunting them, to them hunting her.
As dusk began to settle Nemmon sat down next to Breealla. Bailey could not help but notice their furtive glances at one another. Bree reached her hand out and grabbed her brother’s. Bailey wondered what she would do if they made a break for it. She came to the decision that she would be forced to tie them up. She just wouldn’t have an option.
“Bailey!” Breealla was pointing behind Bailey where the leading edge of the moon was coming up over the horizon.
“How do you feel?” Bailey asked with trepidation.
“Scared, but alright,” Bree answered.
“Nemmon?” Bailey asked, moving her gaze to the young boy. His eyes had glassed over as he peered at the oncoming moon.
“Don’t be rude, Nemmon. Answer her.” Bree had shaken her brother’s arm, hoping to remove the trance-like state he was in.
“Move away from him, Breealla.”
“He is my brother, Bailey. I will not.”
Bailey watched as horrifyingly thick, red veins began to radiate out from Nemmon’s irises, nearly blotting out all of the white. “He will kill you, Breealla! Move away!” she said forcefully. With one hand, she reached out, grabbed Bree’s sleeve and pulled her to the side. Bree’s grip was ripped from her brother’s, even though he had already let go. His hands lay down by his side as he stared slack-jawed at the moon.
“What are you doing?!” Bree screamed. It could have been to Bailey who was reaching for her bayonet; or her brother, whom would not react to anyone around him.
Hair began to sprout from random places along Nemmon’s arms and face.
“No, no, no,” Bailey repeated. She would not strike until she was absolutely sure it was not her mind playing tricks on her, although she was already positive that was not the case. She was grasping at the wind in hopes she would not have to do what needed to be done.
Nemmon’s nose began to flatten as his jaw line simultaneously began to elongate. His mouth opened up in a wordless scream. It was happening so fast that Bailey couldn’t even take in all the changes. Nemmon’s features were rapidly losing definition as those of the werewolf came to the fore. Bailey would vacillate between wanting to move forward and wanting to grab Breealla and run. Her opportunity to end this without her blood being shed was rapidly coming to a close. Her bayonet was out and she took the two steps necessary to get within striking distance. Nemmon’s hands had doubled in size—large black claws forming where his fingernails were. If he were to swing, he would lay Bailey open like a slaughtered lamb.
Bailey raised the weapon up to the side of her head and was on the downward arc of her strike when she was hit from the side. The blade scraped down Nemmon’s shoulder and biceps, the muscle glistening as it lay open in the moonlight. She was hit with enough force that she stumbled and fell over. Breealla fell over on top of her, her fists hitting Bailey’s chest.
“You can’t kill him!” Breealla was sobbing now, her punches ineffectual.
“Stupid girl!” Bailey was doing her best to get untangled from Breealla. “He will kill us both!”
Breealla let go of Bailey as she heard the unearthly howl her brother let loose. She rolled over to see that there was no vestige of her brother left. His cruel, black eyes now rolled down to look on the meal before him. Bailey grabbed Breealla by the back of her shirt and pulled her off, sending her sprawling away. Nemmon watched his sister skid away, a fierce growl pulling his lips back and exposing impossibly large canines. His gaze immediately came back to Bailey. He sprung even as she was rolling over to get up. He used his injured arm to rake at Bailey, but was not able to get a full swing in. It was still enough to rip through her clothes and into her skin. She shouted out in pain as he left a trail of agony where he’d made contact.
“I’m sorry!” Breealla wailed, and again Bailey did not know if it was directed at her for interrupting her actions, or to her brother for allowing this to happen.
Bailey pushed up, her bayonet at the ready as she did so. Nemmon in his transformed state did not come up much past Bailey’s chest, but what he lacked in size he made up for in ferocity and speed. He was wary as well, something Bailey had not seen before in werewolves, and she wondered if it could be attributed to his age. It was something she would think on later if she made it through this encounter. He would dart in and strike out, sometimes missing, other times hitting his mark. Bailey was doing her best to parry his paws, making sure he could not get in a lethal blow or bite. Bailey had backed up and was circling the fire, trying to keep that one small piece of defense between her and her adversary.
Nemmon leaped over the flames, his arms outstretched, his mouth open, saliva hanging in thick ropes in hopes that he would soon be eating. He jumped past the point of the blade, and Bailey twisted the rifle quickly, landing the thick butt stock against his sensitive snout. He barked out in protest and reeled back, his foot landing in the small fire. The resultant scream was ear-splitting. Bailey had lost her footing and Nemmon had recovered much quicker than she. Had not Oggie interjected himself in between the two, Nemmon would have ripped her throat out. The dog and the werewolf were nearly the same size. This was a side of Oggie that Bailey had a tough time reconciling; he was usually so easy going and fun-loving. The loyal dog was now all bristle and teeth.
Nemmon’s attention shifted to the dog. Oggie would sidestep each massive paw swipe. He seemed to be cognizant of the fact that he was leading Nemmon further and further away from Bailey, who had since stood back up. She was looking for a way to get back into the fight and not get meshed between fang and claw. When she saw her opening, she drove the point of her blade deep into Nemmon’s throat as he howled. The cry was choked off and cloaked in liquid as blood ran down, filling his lungs. He clawed at the blade at first then he began to claw at his own chest in hopes of opening it up to allow the suffocating fluid out. He fell backwards as Oggie lunged, his front paws slamming into Nemmon’s chest, the blade falling free. Nemmon was breathing fast, shallow breaths, a look of sheer panic and terror pulling his eyes open wide.
Oggie moved off Nemmon’s chest, his features beginning to soften as he reverted back to his true form. He was dying. Breealla sobbed as she ran towards him, not caring in the least that he was still in the midst of his transformation. For the smallest of moments, his eyes took on a predatory stare and then switched back to those of a young boy on the verge of death. Bree’s tears rolled off her cheeks and onto Nemmon’s as he took one final intake of air. His eyes froze open as his head fell to the side.
“You killed him!” Bree railed at Bailey.
Bailey stepped away. There was nothing she could do or say that would ease the grief and pain Breealla was feeling. She had her own worries and problems to deal with as well. She stripped off her jacket to see an angry set of scrapes that started from below her breast and trailed off on her ribcage. Not life-threatening—at least not now. If she didn’t clean them out properly, they could eventually pose a problem. She had more punctures in her skin than she could dare to count; the cold water of the pond was all-too-happy to point all of them out as she removed her clothing and waded in. She dipped down, letting her head submerge. When she came up, she wished her problems could be as easily removed from her head as the water when she ran her hands back through her hair.
Michael is surely dead, she thought. I hope you have found the peace in death that eluded you in life. Her flesh goosed as she walked out of the water. She applied some salve to the myriad of wounds and waited until she was mostly dry before donning her clothes. In the morning, she would bury Nemmon and take Breealla back to her village where they would prepare and wait for the inevitable attack of werewolves and Lycan.
With what little time she was being afforded, she hoped it would be enough to wipe the dirty blotch of this night free from her. She held little hope in that regard.
Midday was rapidly approaching when Bailey finished laying dirt atop Nemmon. She’d physically had to remove Breealla from her brother and then she’d had to carry her away from the gravesite. It was when her arms finally gave out that she felt comfortable enough to let the girl down without her running back to the clearing and her brother’s final resting spot. The girl had not said anything to Bailey since her outburst the previous evening. It wasn’t until they stopped for the evening that Breealla spoke.
“I wished he’d killed you,” she said as Bailey started a fire.
Bailey said nothing as the words cut deeper than her physical wounds had. She knew it was with the twisting fates of the world that the girl was most angry. It just so happened Bailey was the only one within earshot to catch those heated words.
“It should be him I’m with today, not you.”
Bailey looked up from the growing flame. “He would have killed you as well, and now he would be sitting in that clearing wondering if what happened the night before was some distorted dream. Then he’d find your bones picked clean and realize what he’d done. Is that what you would rather have? He’d be alone, scared, confused, and disgusted with himself for what he’d done.”
“If he were alive and I were dead, at least I would no longer feel the pain I do now.”
“You are still looking out for your brother, Breealla, just in another way. His death has spared him the pain of knowing he killed you. It is the best gift you could have afforded him. You are shouldering the pain and guilt he would have worn for the rest of his life.”
“It hurts so much, Bailey.” Breealla’s head was down. Her body hitched from her silent cries. Tears could not be squeezed from her dried-up ducts.
Bailey grabbed her and held her close, rocking her back and forth in as comforting of a manner as she could. Breealla clutched tight, if she could have, she would have crawled up into Bailey’s lap.
Chapter Nine – Mike Journal Entry 6
“Is that you, Tommy?”
I had pulled myself to a small outcropping of rock and was in a reasonable facsimile of a sitting position. My leg had nearly been chewed through, I’d lost a lot of blood, and a battalion of flies were doing their best to lay their offspring in my wounds. I was thirstier than I could ever remember being in my entire life. I was fairly certain as a half-vamp I wasn’t supposed to get sick, but there was no doubt in my mind I was burning with fever. My forehead was coated in a thick sheen of sweat. I alternated between bone-shivering shakes and heat flashes. Each minor contraction sent jolts of pain through my entire body, the soaring of my internal body temperature bringing me dangerously closer to dehydration, shock and death. Was that even possible? I’d completely forgotten about my “visitor” until he spoke. I was having difficulty keeping my eyes open, and even when they weren’t shut, it was difficult to keep them focused.
“What do you think, Mr. T?” Tommy asked, a look of concern on his face.
“Well, it’s possible I’ve conjured you up in my fugue state, but I think I would have done a better job, like maybe you would be carrying a cold pitcher of Kool-Aid, and you sure as shit wouldn’t have on that super serious look of concern on your face.”
“You’ve got to move away from here, Mr. T.”
“And just how do you propose I do that, Tommy?” His face was blurring and doubling, and sometimes more alarmingly, began to look as if I was viewing it through a pinhole.
“Lycan will come this way. Where is Oggie?” Tommy looked around.
“Wouldn’t my ‘vision’ know Oggie was with Bailey? This is weird.”
“Focus, Mr. T.”
“Easier said than done; I feel like I’ve been hanging with Trip all day.” Trip was a friend from long ago who had taken the term “recreational drug use” to a whole new level. Pretty much made a career out of it you might say. “How is it up there by the way?” I tried to point upwards, just the thought of the superfluous action seemed beyond my capabilities at this moment.
“You above all others should know I have not and cannot make the asc
ension.”
“Can’t you throw me a bone? Maybe tell me a bedtime story before I go to sleep?”
“You cannot rest, Mr. T. You must leave this place.”
“How about you leave me the fuck alone? How about that? You’re the one that went and got yourself killed. Now, when I need you most, you’re dead.”
“I’m here now, Mr. T.”
“Come on, Tommy, I’ve done enough drugs in my time to know a hallucination. I mean, it’s a good one and all, but you’re no more real than—” I coughed, a rib-rattling expulsion of air. I’d been meaning to laugh, but it had devolved into a choking sob.
“No more real than?”
“I almost said zombies. How rich is that?”
“Not very.”
“I guess you’re right. Hard to be funny when you’re on death’s door step.”
“You are not merely on the doorstep. There are Watchers here.”
“Watchers?” We’d first noticed them right before Harbor’s Town was destroyed. They somehow precluded death. Maybe they received a program and knew how things were going to play out and wanted to see for themselves. I guess harbingers would have been a better term. I asked Tommy that last part.
“They are not quite as benign as we first thought. They also have the ability to manipulate events to a certain extent, and the thoughts of watching a Shade or an Old One, such as yourself, die has them working overtime.”
I could just make out small, black figures on the periphery of my vision. I would have been more inclined to believe it was my vision fading than anything of substance.
“I love today,” I said as sarcastically as I could manage.
“It’s tomorrow you should be concerned with.”
“A pragmatist specter. Who would have thought?”
“There is a patrol of Lycan looking for these three. They are miles away, but they will be swayed in the most subtle of exploitations to move in an easterly direction as opposed to the northerly route they were on.”