Needed rest.
She was so very tired.
Three weeks passed, and Thera and Frank made several return trips to the subway concourse. During these outings, Thera continued to probe Frank’s subconscious, searching each corner for weakness. Eventually, she found what she was looking for when she learned of Frank’s overwhelming desire for revenge against his brother. How he wished to put a pillow over his brother’s face, smother him, scare him. Only he wouldn’t be content just to render him unconscious.
These probes, though, continued to trouble her. There were nights when she’d pick up nothing at first, as though Frank were an empty vessel. Then, quite abruptly, images would form; his life would unfold. And too often there were the strange bouts of light-headedness and nausea, similar to the one that had attacked her during that first night’s work with Frank.
Tonight, with the moon glowing almost full in a star-lit sky, all of her senses were on edge, as fine-tuned and ready as any weapon. Thera knew there would be pain when the change occurred tomorrow night; there always was. But unlike the days of her youth when she had feared—and misunderstood—her monthly transformation, the pain no longer held dread for her. In fact, she now longed for the change, wished it could happen more often.
Unlike many of her kind, Thera had been born into a large family of werewolves. Born and raised in the backwoods of North Carolina, her family and generations of werewolves before her, had remained safe for many years. As a result, she’d lived a peaceful, uneventful existence for most of her growing years.
Uneventful, that is, until shortly after her seventeenth birthday, when she’d learned of the special powers she possessed—the ability to read another’s mind, the ability to control it. Her mother told Thera many wonderful tales about other wolves in the past who were said to possess these same powers, wolves who grew to do great things in this country. These tales inspired Thera, made her want to see the world, do great things of her own. And her mother also warned her of the dangers associated with such powers. The temptations they presented.
For over three years, Thera remained the toast of the country village she grew up in. But eventually she’d grown bored with the life and people around her. She’d tired of playing mind games with animals or dumb-as-dirt country folk. She’d longed for challenges, a way to really test her power. And she eventually found it in the city of Philadelphia…
Making her way through the clapboard village, having already placed Frank to sleep in a nearby box, the sensation of weakness and disorientation returned to Thera once again. She steadied herself against a wall and rested for a moment. Her thoughts turned back to Frank. Maybe he would prove to be a real challenge after all, she thought. These past few years, everything had been so easy for her and she’d learned to take her powers for granted. For years now she’d brought her valiant protectors to the bowels of humanity, probed for their weaknesses, and magnified them completely out of proportion, driving them past despair into insanity, until they lost all hope and became, themselves, one of the homeless. Thera knew her mother would not have approved, but she no longer cared. It was the ultimate symbol of her power: she controlled all in this, her special world.
Nine of the three dozen or so lost souls down here were solely her doing. Her children. She fed them with an ounce of guilt, a cup of pain, and a morsel of degradation whenever they appeared ready to escape their stupor. And once a month, she would literally devour one, to satiate her other appetite. It had been Sophie who had unwittingly given her the idea. The woman’s words still echoed in Thera’s head: “No one cares about these people. They could disappear one by one and no one would ever notice.”
She had been right.
And now there was the newcomer, Frank Lofton. He was so different from the others, more resilient, more complex—a most welcome challenge.
Her sandwiches exhausted, she scanned the concourse and was alarmed to discover that Frank had awakened and was standing at the other end of the platform, not only alert, but attending to Lamar…one of hers. As she watched, Lamar bellowed in pain, his scream echoing like the chimes of a grandfather clock in the cavernous subway tunnel. She ran to them and saw the once-proud banker writhing on the ground. The man’s stomach was bloated, as if he were pregnant and in the midst of a contraction. His skin was sallow and mucus oozed from his nose in a steady stream.
“What happened?” she asked, as Frank stared benignly at the suffering vagrant.
“He said he was feeling poorly. I gave him some coffee. He complained of cramps and—”
Lamar’s howling cut Frank off in mid-sentence. The screaming man’s eyes flashed wider than Frank thought humanly possible, blinked spasmodically, then froze in place, no longer seeing. The screaming stopped. His body drew very still and an audible wheeze sounded from his mouth, followed by a stench so rancid even Thera fought the urge to gag.
Thera stared in horror. She had never lost one like this before. She’d always taken them when she was ready. She felt robbed, violated. Lamar was one of hers, dammit! He didn’t dare die without her consent!
As Frank consoled her, Thera made plans. Tomorrow Frank would take Lamar’s place in her colony. Tomorrow she would make Frank kill his brother in his mind, and suffer the torment for the rest of his life. Tomorrow he would join the ranks.
As Thera entered the concrete catacombs the next night, her senses were charged with anticipation. Eyes darting, she marveled at the absence of color in the subterranean jungle. Everything was a different shade of gray. With winter winds raging above, these dwellers of the dark were content to remain below ground. Without sunlight their complexions resembled those of mushrooms. The rags and tattered clothing, worn day and night on unwashed flesh, had faded until they, too, seemed devoid of color.
While her own transformation wouldn’t take place for several hours yet, Thera had already undergone various changes. Her sense of smell was more pronounced than before; a fine down covered her body; her already long black hair had grown as well, and she wore it in a bun so as to not attract attention.
Lacking her usual patience, she immediately led Frank to an Allied Van Lines storage box—Lamar’s former home—and began to probe. She employed her utmost concentration—knowing that tonight was the night—but his mind came back an empty shell. Panic rose in her as she searched like a child who couldn’t find a prize in a Cracker Jack box. But no matter what she did, there was nothing to be found.
“Who are you? What are you?” Thera asked, exasperated. She expected no answer and none came. She sat down next to him inside the box, weary beyond belief at the toll her fruitless exploration had taken. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she recalled feeling equally drained the last several times she had probed Frank’s mind. But before she could give the thought full consideration, Frank opened his eyes…
…and smiled at her. In a flash, she felt his mind locking on and surveying hers. She felt his fingers picking at the locks of her brain, seeking to open the vault of her memories, as she had done so often herself.
And then the truth hit her.
“I…I thought I was the only one. But…but, you’re like me, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Like you and then some,” he said, his voice soothing, hardly above, a whisper, yet with a malevolence he made no effort to conceal. “How could you be so arrogant as to think you were the only one of your kind? The only one in this city. In small towns we are hounded, hunted down, and destroyed. But in cities such as this, there is so much abnormality, no one is even aware of our existence.”
She noted that his gray beard was darkening even as he spoke; and he no longer appeared old; the wrinkles had been erased from his skin; and his eyes twinkled with a youthful, almost feverish, exuberance.
“What do you want with me?” she asked, playing for time. “With all the places in this city why do you invade my domain?” She felt him searching, lusting for the key to unlock some dreaded secret that would render her powerless to him. She fel
t herself slipping. Stall him, her mind screamed. Get him out of your head! “Why here? Why them?” she blurted.
“Because they’re yours and what’s yours is mine. You see, I’ve been at this longer than you have, child. I didn’t need this petty subway platform. My domain was once the entire Thirtieth Street Train Station. But the city council spent thousands of their precious dollars to clean the area out. So, quite simply, I’m here to take what I want. That is our nature, too, but you know that, don’t you? We take, even from one another. When all this is mine, later tonight, I will shed the ravages of age and prowl the world above. Like you, I will stalk and have my kill, but I will let the hunger beckon until I can resist no more.
“Imagine how I lust for this night of freedom. An old man whose body betrays him day in and day out, tonight I no longer will be confined to this withering body; no longer servant to the whims of muscles that break instead of bend. It is truly wondrous.” He stopped and a wide grin split his face. “And tonight I not only get my cake, I get to eat it, too.”
“There’s no need to quarrel over this squalor,” Thera begged. “I’m willing to share.” She didn’t mean a word of it. She didn’t know why, but sharing was not in her nature. Survival, though, most definitely was. She would agree to anything, do anything, accept any humiliation to escape his grasp. There’d always be another day, another time, another confrontation, and she’d be better prepared the next time; the element of surprise would be gone then.
“Good try, but no sale. Sharing is not a part of our vocabulary. Conquest. Dominance. Destruction. But sharing? I’m afraid not.”
At that moment, beneath the mattress of her mind, he found her greatest fear; the dread of becoming one of them, one of the controlled. And as he spoke, Thera knew she was doomed.
“You’re one of them, now. Tired, so tired of fighting all the time. This is your home. This is where you belong. You will be safe here…”
Frank left her after a few minutes passed, a surge of happiness swelling in his heart. For the first time, he tended to his flock. A dose of guilt here, a spoonful of pain there, a taste of degradation—something for everyone. A short time later, he was keenly aware of eight figures making their way toward the Allied Van Lines box. The stench of blood hung thick in the air. He stopped his work long enough to watch as they dragged Thera out; hummed to himself as they tore at her with nails and teeth; laughed deep within as they stripped the bloody carcass of its few valuables.
The cycle of life and death in this cardboard cavern reminded him of the deep, dark jungles he had prowled long ago…
…where only the strongest survived.
(written with Barry Hoffman)
THE INTERVIEW
“Good morning, sir. Mr. Thompkins, is that right?”
“Yes, yes, Bernard Thompkins. Come in, come in. Please.”
“My name is Detective Ryan. I’m sorry to disturb you but we’re interviewing everyone in the area.”
“Of course, yes, of course you are. It’s terrible. I can’t believe this has happened.”
“Did you know Brent, Mr. Thompkins?”
“Please, sit down. Right there on the sofa. And call me Bernie.”
“Thank you.”
“Can I offer you something to drink? A snack perhaps?”
“No, nothing for me. I’ve just had my breakfast.”
“Well, let me know if you change your mind, Detective Ryan. I have some wonderful cookies. Homemade chocolate chip. My daughter visited just yesterday.”
“Thank you, I will…now I was asking if you knew Brent Warrick very well.”
“No, I didn’t. Hardly at all, in fact. I knew his parents from passing them on the street; a wave here, a wave there. But we weren’t friends, really. I remember Brent came over sometime in the spring and knocked on the door and asked if he could cut my lawn. But I’d already hired the Parker boy for the summer.”
“So you didn’t speak with him very often?”
“Just that one time. Maybe a hello now and then, just like with his folks. I remember now that his mother sent a very nice card when my Marion passed away last November. I bet I still have it around here somewhere.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Thompkins.”
“Please…it’s Bernie.”
“Bernie it is.”
“And thank you…but Marion was seventy-seven when she passed and not well at all, so it was a blessing really.”
“Yes, I can understand that. It was the same way with my mother. Okay now, Bernie…did you see Brent very often?”
“You mean out in the neighborhood? That sort of thing?”
“Yes.”
“Oh sure, plenty. Saw him playing outside with his friends most days. They played baseball in the park across the way. Tackle football in the autumn. Sometimes I saw them ride their bikes past or run by in their bathing suits dragging wet towels behind them on the sidewalk.”
“Never any trouble with Brent or his friends?”
“No, never. Nothing like that. They were good kids.”
“Ever hear of them getting into any trouble out in the neighborhood?”
“No, nothing I can think of. But I don’t attend the community meetings anymore, so I don’t hear much neighborhood business. Just what I see myself.”
“Have you seen or heard anything suspicious lately? Anything at all out of the ordinary?”
“No, I…I don’t believe so.”
“Are you sure, Bernie? You seemed to think of something for a moment there.”
“It’s nothing, really.”
“Well, you’re probably right but, just in case, why don’t you tell me.”
“Oh, alright. I’ll probably just sound like a senile, old man…but here goes. I don’t sleep well, Detective. I’m almost eighty years old and I’m alone. I have arthritis something terrible in my legs and a bad stomach on top of that. I get maybe three, four hours a night. And a nap after lunch, if I’m lucky. When the weather’s warm, I spend a lot of time sitting out on the front porch. I throw on a sweater and I sit out there in my old chair and watch the stars and the trees and I listen to the wind and the night sounds. Used to smoke my pipe, but the doc put a stop to that a couple months back.”
“And you saw something one of those nights, did you?”
“Like I said, it was probably nothing…”
“Please, go on, continue.”
“Well, the neighborhood pretty well goes to sleep around eleven on most nights. Even a little earlier when the summer months pass. After eleven, the streets are nice and quiet. Hushed is the word I always think of. Of course, you get some kids running around, teenagers out having fun with their friends. Pretty innocent stuff mostly. The worst I’ve ever seen is some firecrackers and a six-pack or two. One night someone broke a bottle across the street out there but it could’ve been an accident for all I know. Sometimes there are couples out walking their dogs, holding hands. A jogger or someone on a bike once in a while. And, of course, there’s always a handful of cars driving past…some of them a little too fast and some of them a little too slow. It’s the slow ones that I always pay special attention to. I’m afraid I have what Marion used to call an ‘active imagination,’ Detective. And so when I notice a car pass by much slower than is necessary, I automatically imagine that the driver is cruising these dark streets to check out houses for potential break-ins. Master thieves at work, you see. And there I sit, hidden on my front porch, neighborhood chief of security.”
“Unfortunately, you’re probably right on target about some of those drivers being up to no good.”
“Well, maybe…but nine times out of ten, I end up recognizing the car as one that belongs to a neighbor down the street and my theory goes right out the window. And the other cars—the ones I don’t recognize—I usually never see them again. I figure they were lost and looking for a familiar landmark, maybe had too much to drink and couldn’t find their way home. But there was one car—a truck actually—and I saw it th
ree nights in the same week. All three times about two or so in the morning. And slow, very slow. Thought that was mighty strange but nothing ever seemed to come of it.”
“When was this?”
“Let’s see…had to be about a month ago. Maybe a little less than that.”
“What can you tell me about the truck? Did you see anyone inside?”
“Driver was alone all three times, I saw that much. But that’s all I can tell you. It’s just too dark out there on the road. Couldn’t say whether he was black or white or yellow. Heck, couldn’t say if it was a he or a she, for that matter.”
“How about the truck?”
“It was an old one. Faded red, I think. And not one of those fancy new ones. Just a plain old pick-up.”
“Didn’t happen to notice any stickers or decals or the license plate?”
“No, sir, I’m sorry, I didn’t.”
“No reason to be sorry, Bernie, this is good. This is very good. Now tell me, what exactly did the truck do?”
“Just came crawling down the road. It didn’t drive along and then slow down, nothing like that. It just maintained its speed like it was in no hurry to get anywhere in particular. Passed by the house and disappeared around the bend. Same thing all three nights.”
“And you say this was about a month ago?”
“Best I can remember, yes. Like I said before, maybe a little less. You think the truck might have something to do with what happened to Brent?”
“It might and it might not. But we have to check out every possibility.”
“Did anyone else in the neighborhood see anything?”
“I’m not sure. You’re my first stop of the morning. I still have the rest of this street and one other. And who knows what the other detectives will come up with.”
“Well, I just hope you find whoever did this. It’s an awful awful thing. Things like this didn’t use to happen when I was growing up. Never even heard of such things. But it was a different time then…a different world.”
A Long December Page 39
