Skinshift

by Lisa von Biela

  Then came the rain. At first, fat, hard drops slapped him like solid projectiles. The rain soon switched over to hail the size of marbles, pelting and pounding at his bruised, unprotected body. In moments, he was soaked to the skin by the disintegrating chunks of ice. The ground beneath him felt steamy, like a jungle must feel, yet the hail chilled him to his core.

  Dominic’s teeth chattered in his head and his entire body convulsed with shivers. He tried turning and curling in different ways to expose the least amount of surface area to the onslaught, but there was no escape.

  The darkness, cleaved periodically by massive bolts of lightning, the oppressive heat rising up from the ground, and the relentless, freezing downpour of hail on his wounded, shivering body so consumed his senses that he no longer knew where he was, no longer knew the concept of time. He only knew he was walled in on all sides by misery and helplessness.

  6

  Dex cut the engine and clicked the button to close the garage door before they even got out of the Durango. Between the two of them, the bottle of whiskey was history and he was more than happy to call it a day.

  They entered the shabby rental house from the garage and stepped inside the kitchen, where dishes and empty fast-food containers concealed most of the countertops. Marco wobbled a little from the whiskey, so it was just as well they were home. They had enough booze, canned stuff and frozen food to hide out for a while.

  Dex went into the living room and turned on the portable TV. He switched it to a local news station, then parked himself on the threadbare harvest gold couch they’d gotten at a thrift shop last year. Cheap and shitty furnishings suited him fine—it’s not like they entertained royalty. Money could be put to better uses.

  Marco came in and sat down on the edge of the couch, his eyes wide and fixed on the TV screen. He looked pale and a little ill. Dex hoped he wasn’t going to puke up his whiskey.

  They both leaned forward and paid close attention when the local newscast came on. A stern-faced young blonde woman read the story from the teleprompter.

  “This morning at about 10:30, Marlene Jacobs was gunned down, right in front of her five-year-old child, Katie, as well as numerous horrified bystanders. According to preliminary information, Ms. Jacobs was recently divorced, and was in town for a long weekend. The shooting took place in the parking lot of the Hot Slots Casino on Fifth and Taylor. The child has been taken into protective custody until her father can be located and notified. It is believed the family is from Iowa.”

  A photo of the little girl being whisked away in a police car appeared in the top right corner of the screen. The reporter turned to her co-anchor, a short-haired talking head in a suit and tie.

  “Jerome, what else do we know so far on this story? Have the police been able to give a description of the shooter?”

  “Yes, Angela. Little Katie wasn’t able to provide any information, and Ms. Jacobs died at the scene before she could say anything. But there were some bystanders who were able to assist. The shooter is described as a Caucasian male about six feet tall, thin, dark longish hair. Clean shaven. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. I’m afraid that’s all the detail they can provide. There was so much confusion, especially with the hysterical child, that no one actually saw where he went and how he got away, even though this all happened in broad daylight.”

  Angela the anchor cast her eyes downward, shook her head and clucked. “Such a shame, Jerome.” Then she smiled and faced the camera again. “In other news…”

  Dex leaned back on the couch and rubbed his eyes. “Oh, did we ever get lucky. Sounds like they have no idea we were with him, and no one noticed the Durango. What a relief.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “And there’s no way he’s going to survive for long in the desert with no supplies and no phone. He’ll be vulture bait in no time.”

  Marco got up and ran to the bathroom, his hand over his mouth and his face chalk-white.

  7

  Dominic awoke, still curled in a ball with his arms shielding his head. Now he was stiff and sore both from his beating and from sleeping all night in that position on the rock-strewn ground. Mercifully, the storm itself had lasted maybe twenty minutes or so. He didn’t know how much more of that pounding, cold hail he could have taken. As it was, he was grateful—at least for now—for the warming morning sun.

  All the shivering from the cold had sapped his energy, and he was hungry. Very hungry. And he still had no idea how he was going to get food.

  He struggled to a sitting position, squinted against the bright sun, and looked around. He thought he could just make out something behind a clump of Joshua trees not much farther in the direction of the hills.

  Dominic groaned as he rose on stiff, sore legs, already wobbly from lack of food. He stretched his limbs, a little at a time, until he was able to get some flexibility back into them, then set off. Progress was slow, partly due to his weakness and injuries, and partly due to the shifting sand that sucked at his every step.

  By the time he made his way to the other side of the Joshua trees, the sun had already become more direct and assertive than when he first awoke. Soon the heat would be brutal, so he was grateful to find any sort of shelter.

  Before him stood the remains of several small mining cabins. Four of them were pretty much goners, with collapsed roofs and leaning, splintered sides. Only one of them still appeared somewhat serviceable, albeit in rough shape from enduring harsh elements for years. Its wood had bleached to a tired shade of pale gray. Some of the siding boards had split and fallen off, leaving rows of exposed nail heads. The shingles had weathered to a thin and sorry layer that looked on the verge of total failure. The front door was missing entirely, leaving a dark maw of an entrance. He approached the shack and looked into the shadowy interior.

  A rough-textured rectangular wooden table and a single, spindly chair occupied the left side of the dirt-floored shack. The frame and exposed springs of a cot stood on the right side. On the dust-covered table were several items. He drew closer to see them in the gloom. A spill of thick old rusty nails lay on one end of the table. A rusted gallon-sized bucket sat beside them. He picked it up and examined it. The rust had forged some pinholes, but it might still be useful for getting water. Even if it leaked, it had to be better than trying to swill that awful stuff with just his hands. He set the bucket down and looked at the butcher knife that rested on the far end of the table.

  Dominic picked up the knife and examined the blade. It was rough and thick with rust, and bent from hard use. He couldn’t trust such a fragile blade to kill. Angry, he slammed it back onto the table, and the blade’s tip crumbled off. Useless. How was he going to get food—with rusty nails?

  Dizzy with hunger, he carefully lowered himself onto the scarred wooden chair to rest, fearing it would collapse under his weight. Now he had a better way to get water, and he had shelter. But without food, that wouldn’t matter for much longer.

  8

  The young male coyote noticed the morning light through the opening in the rock formation that served as his den. He rose and stretched, grateful for the shelter during the prior night’s violent storm. Blinking against the sun, he emerged and stepped onto the already warming desert sand. He raised his head and sniffed. The storm had cleared the air of particles that muted important scents. Now he could clearly identify what he thought he smelled yesterday.

  A human.

  An opportunity.

  A shiver of anticipation ran down his spine, all the way to the tip of his tail. He stood in the clean morning desert air, breathing deeply and savoring the sensation, his tail twitching. Humans rarely came around here anymore, not since they abandoned the hills they had cut into, exposing the magic that now colored the water.

  The story had been passed down through generations of warm-blooded creatures in the vicinity, and his pack was no exception. The magic brought with it a power that could be used if the conditions were right. He knew what needed to be done to attain the power an
d use it, but he’d never had the opportunity. In fact, it had been so long since humans had come around here that no member of his pack in the past several generations had been able to access the power.

  He shivered again. Even though he’d never encountered the scent of a human in his life, he knew he had now. He turned and sniffed again. The air brought him good news. His pack mates had scattered when the storm broke last night, and he didn’t detect any of them nearby.

  He’d have the opportunity all to himself, and if he succeeded, he’d be the first in many years to gain the power.

  The coyote sniffed again to pinpoint the direction of the human scent, and then set off toward it. He took his time, planning his approach as he went. He couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. This would be his human, his opportunity. He would do what no other living pack member had done, and he would live forever in whatever way he wished.

  9

  Dominic glanced at his wrist and noticed his watch had somehow escaped serious damage during his beating, the relentless heat, even last night’s hailstorm. It was the only personal item left to him by those bastards. He was about to spend his second night in the hell they’d dropped him in, and thanks to his watch, he could count the hours and days of hate and rage.

  He’d had nothing to eat, and only that terrible water to drink. It was probably loaded with toxic mining chemicals, and he wasn’t sure it was doing him all that much good. It had wreaked havoc on his stomach, forcing him to shit out the remaining contents of his abdomen over several hideous episodes. Now he felt hollow and hoped the water had done its worst, else it would dehydrate him faster than just baking in the sun.

  At least he had shelter now, and if one of those storms kicked up again, he wouldn’t have to lie out in it and take its abuse. Dominic sat on the ground, propped up against one side of his shack, and gazed toward the stripped hills in the distance. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, leaving an aura of oranges and pinks.

  Under other circumstances, he might have enjoyed the view. Not now. He hated the dusk because the ensuing darkness rendered him helpless for hours. He hated the day for its oppressive heat and blinding sun. He hated being hungry and thirsty and unable to do anything about it.

  He hated everything about his situation, especially those who put him here.

  He should have known better, if that Mario or Marco or whatever was any indication. A couple of chickenshit amateurs who didn’t have the balls to do what needed to be done. They’d be small-time forever if they were satisfied picking the occasional pocket. If Dominic knew anything, he knew you gotta go big if you want to get anywhere in this world. If they’d let him do it his way, he could have rounded up a group of those dumbass tourist gamblers with their little fanny packs full of cash waiting for the taking.

  They could have hauled in maybe ten times what they did in the single heist, gotten away in the melee and chilled for a bit until the next time. But no, they had to turn and run—and drag him out here.

  Dominic clenched his jaw and smacked his thigh with the flat of his right hand. So stupid he hadn’t seen that coming! He thought they were just going to speed out of there and hide out. Instead, they drove out here, got the advantage on him with a surprise punch to his ear, and then pounded the living shit out of him and took all his stuff—gun, wallet and all. All but his damned watch, anyway.

  He rubbed at his jaw, still sore from the beating. They were either too frightened to finish the job, or too stupid to realize they hadn’t. Pros would have finished him off and hidden the body. He even resented them for being stupid enough to leave him alive.

  Dominic leaned back and stared up at the first stars of the evening. Twilight had arrived, ushering out all but the last remnants of the day’s sun. He wondered how many more days would pass this way, as he became more and more helpless and weak—unable to save himself and unable to make those two pay for what they did to him.

  He didn’t know which he would regret more.

  10

  The coyote waited for the edge of nightfall so he could use his keen night vision to his advantage. He’d located his target earlier in the afternoon and hidden himself in scrub brush, silent and watchful. Demonstrating uncharacteristic patience in pursuing his prize, he forewent food and only allowed himself an occasional drink from the stream as he bided his time.

  He knew he would get no second chance, and so many things could go wrong. His pack mates might show up and try to take the human for themselves. If he lost the element of surprise, his target could be extremely dangerous. Some other creature could show up and interfere. So many things…

  The coyote glanced around and sniffed the air once more. He was still alone with the human. It was time to move.

  Skulking low to the ground, he emerged from the scrub brush and trotted on silent paws around to the back side of the shack. He wanted to close in on the human while still concealed so his final, exposed run would be as short as possible. He stood, readying his nerves, licking his chops, so very close. Muscles tensed, ready to leap, he started to turn the corner.

  *

  A faint, shifting sound broke the silence. Dominic pushed himself up into a crouch, then whipped his head from side to side, eyes forced wide open as if it would help him to see better in the low light. He would have given anything for a massive, powerful flashlight that could double as a weapon.

  He heard it again. It sounded like it was just on the other side of the shack. He tried to decide what to do. Without a weapon, confronting the source of the sound would be futile—unless it was just some stirring of wind and imagination and he could put his mind at ease. And if it were something else, hiding out inside the shack would be just as futile, given the front door had rotted off its hinges long ago.

  The sound again. Closer now. Weak and shaking from hunger and fear, Dominic held his breath and peered around the corner of the shack. The dim greenish glow of two eyes a couple of feet above the ground froze him for just an instant before he was slammed backward.

  The impact forced the air from Dominic’s lungs and stunned him for a moment when his back hit the ground. Teeth ripped at his right forearm as a menacing growl filled his ears. The thing was on top of him, its feet and toenails digging into his chest and stomach. It smelled vile and filthy, its breath carrying the scent of rotted meat.

  Dominic tried punching at it with his free hand, but it kept up a constant predatory dance as it snarled and clamped down even harder. Then he remembered something he’d heard a long time ago. He jammed his right arm hard, back into the animal’s mouth, so it couldn’t yank and tear. Before the creature could react, he pushed himself up with his other arm, rolled and pinned it down with his knee.

  He used the advantage of his size and weight to keep the animal pinned, his arm jammed way back in its jaws, then realized it was weakening, probably from lack of air. He kept the pressure on, pulling his injured arm from the jaws as they relaxed their grip.

  At last, the animal lay completely still, and Dominic could find no pulse. He eased off the carcass and sat back on his heels as he peered at his attacker in the near-darkness. Looked to be a coyote. A dead coyote.

  He held his arm close to his face to inspect the damage. Best he could see in the waning light, it was somewhat chewed with some gouges here and there, but it could have been worse. Much worse. He rubbed it absently, barely cognizant of the pain through his adrenaline rush, as he tried to absorb what had just happened.

  When the adrenaline subsided and reality began to hit him, Dominic dropped to all fours, shaking and panting. Blood seeped from his injured forearm. He gazed at the coyote’s corpse and realized it had tried to kill him. It must have been so hungry it had to take the chance to survive.

  He crept closer to the coyote as he came to another realization. He ran his hand along its body. The ribs and flanks were rail-thin, but the rear legs still had some flesh to them.

  Before he could change his mind, he let his survival instinct take
over. He leaned down and bit into the meatier part of a back leg, tearing the flesh. He ripped it open with trembling fingers, pushing aside the fur and exposing the muscle beneath.

  Dominic bit into the flesh, tore off a chunk, and chewed, tasting salvation as fresh blood dripped down his chin.

  11

  The few miserable mouthfuls of warm, stringy coyote meat only intensified Dominic’s hunger. The need for more meat consumed him, blocking out all other thought. A darkness closed in at the sides of his vision, as if he were about to pass out.

  His consciousness narrowed, and he became aware of something within him transforming. Dominic suddenly felt tauter, more sinewy. Predatory. He relished the feeling, though he didn’t understand its source.

  He sniffed the air, reading it, analyzing it. He found what he wanted, and began to trot in the direction of the scent, his paws easily traversing the sandy ground. His eyes picked up and amplified the faintest of light, enabling him to easily see the way forward. The way to food.

  After he’d trotted intently across the desert sand for a little ways, the scent intensified and he saw movement near some scrub brush up ahead. He paused in the darkness to watch as he salivated in silent expectation.

  A large jackrabbit stood nibbling at the brush, oblivious to his downwind presence. Dominic twitched in anticipation as the rabbit turned and selected a new portion of the brush to gnaw. He forced himself to stand perfectly still as he prepared himself to time his attack.

  Each muscle in his body tightened and ready, Dominic waited for just the right moment. He allowed himself to lick his chops, slowly, silently, as the moments ticked by.

  Unable to contain himself any longer, Dominic charged his prey. He moved so quickly that the rabbit could only turn its frightened eyes toward him as he sailed through the air toward it.