Shifting Again

by Shifting Again (ant

  "Wouldn't they just change their skins?" Vonne pointed out, but Deklin shrugged and spit.

  "Probably reminds 'em too much of who the real men are."

  Vonne scowled. "You don't have a fucking clue what you're talking about, do you?"

  "I think I do, but maybe you don't."

  But they had only gone ten minutes more when it became obvious to him that they'd got something's attention. Whichever it was, human or Primitive, was choosing haste over caution. He could hear the rustle of it moving behind them, taking no care to cover the sounds of its passage.

  He caught Deklin's eye, put a question in his look. Deklin looked slightly panicky, whites showing all the way around his irises. He was sweating. Vonne was surprised he could smell the reek of the other man amidst the myriad smells of the forest around them. Sneaking and camouflage wasn't all that much good with Primitives when you forgot to cover your damn smell like Deklin obviously had. He scowled and tried to find his spray while he led them ahead faster. Fingers closed on the canister twice, but his hands were so sweaty he lost it in the pack a moment later.

  And then a stupid, hopeful thought: what if it was Hewitt?

  It was followed immediately by the memory of Curtis, and more irritatingly, Deklin's stupid story about his friend Joptur.

  "Mission success," he muttered.

  "Jesus H., stop talking to yourself, they'll hear you!" Deklin hissed.

  Funny coming from the man who couldn't stop yammering earlier, Vonne thought blackly. He gave his feet free rein, pushed himself as fast as he dared without going so fast he'd waste his energy. The rustling behind them quickened. Vonne was reckless now, not careful where his feet fell. They sounded like a pair of bulls crashing through the underbrush.

  "It's on us. Ooh, Jesus God, it's on us," Deklin was gasping. Vonne felt Deklin's elbow catch him in the side, intentionally or unintentionally he didn't know. It knocked him off his pace just enough to send him careening into a stump, his knee bending the wrong way too far, so that he twisted and fell to the ground, screaming. He got his head back quick, pulling his gun forward, feeling and taking count of his various other knives and small pistols, making sure none were lost. He took the safety off his gun and checked it, glad to see he had most of a clip.

  "Deklin, you asshole!" he muttered under his breath, keeping still and waiting, wondering if he might be lucky and their pursuer would pass him by. He listened for it, for the rustling, for some sound of its breathing; but even holding his breath it seemed too quiet.

  That was when he noticed the eyes, green-gold like a cat's, watching him through a concealing lattice of leaves and branches. It was above him--the fucking thing had climbed above him. The Primitive. No human eyes, those. He slowly raised the muzzle of his gun, tightened his finger on the trigger.

  "Hewitt?" he said, but just voicing his hope out loud made it ridiculous.

  He moved to pull the trigger--

  The Primitive was quicker than he imagined, on him in a second, swiping the gun from his hands. He shouted again as the metal tangled with his fingers and bent them backwards, slamming his hand full into the ground with it. It was impossible to know if the thing was just going to bite him or kill him; it was impossible for him not to fight for his life. He fumbled for one of his knives, slashing at the thick hide of the monster, but his attacks seemed to do no good. It pried the knife from him and then stabbed him through the palm, effectively pinning him to the ground. The pain made him scream again and he cursed himself for being such a goddamn pansy. But caught like he was there was not much to do but scream; the monster straddled his chest, crushing weight holding him down as much as the knife through his flesh and bone, musky smell surrounding him.

  The soldiers might have nicknamed the Primitives "apes" but every time he saw one of these damn things up close he remembered how much they weren't apes. None of them seemed to look quite the same. This one had a thickened brow-ridge like an ape, but its muzzle was longer, the teeth were cartoonishly big, something wolfish about the way the canines set together. The ears were set too far back and too high, could swivel, were vaguely catlike. The muzzle was scavenger-naked, but there was downy fur over its cheeks and brow that thickened over the skull and neck, covered the rest of the body. The hands were too slender, too agile, on the ends of powerful arms and tipped with short claws for gutting and killing. It wore no clothing; the massive cock and low hanging sac draped shamelessly over Vonne's chest and belly as it crouched over him.

  "You nasty motherfucker," he muttered, gritting his teeth and yanking at his pinned hand, doing his best to ignore the pain.

  The throwback showed his teeth, and then emitted eerily human laughter. Vonne wondered how he could have ever thought this monster might have been Hewitt. The Primitive reached over and gave the knife a cruel twist. Vonne had to bite his lip to keep from shouting. When he made no sound it pulled the knife free and stood, watching him with its yellow-green eyes. For a moment Vonne was stunned, and then he was lunging away, scrabbling on his belly. The Primitive let him get three meters off, and then leapt on him, grabbing his shoulder in its oversized teeth and tossing him off like a cat playing with a mouse. The bite didn't penetrate all the way through Vonne's newly issued ill-fitting army jacket, but tore ragged holes in the outer fabric.

  Vonne rolled over and crawled, then ran as soon as he could get his hands and feet under him. Pain radiated from his bruised shoulder--from every bit of him, really. He felt and heard the Primitive land hard just behind him, lashing out with one hand and pounding him back into the roots and undergrowth and dirt. The ragged pseudo-claws had opened up lacerations even through his thick jacket and breathing became agony. He was certain he was going to die; the creature must know what he was carrying, was going to simply rend him limb from limb rather than infect him.

  "Deklin, you asshole!" he mouthed, but he was unable to make much more than a ragged wheeze come through all the pain. "You goddamn asshole, get my back, goddammit, someone get my back. Ooh fuck, get my goddamn back!"

  "I got your back," the Primitive growled, and the words made Vonne's blood go cold, because they were said so clearly, so humanly, not words that should have come out of the mouth of a B-movie monster. It picked him up by his neck in those huge jaws and he closed his eyes and sucked in a breath, waiting for it to shake his spine in pieces, put him out of his misery. But instead there was only a slow breaking of skin, a delicate prick of teeth and then the dull throb of puncture wound; Vonne moaned as he realized what the thing was doing--not killing him but recruiting him, and savoring every moment of it. This had been what he was after, wasn't it? But the loathing crawled up in him, the urge to thrash, lethally impale himself; he had to force himself to keep still.

  He dangled from the throwback's mouth like a kitten grabbed up by the scruff of its neck. At last it dropped him; and then it licked his wounded neck with one long, sensual sweep of its tongue, smacking its lips after it tasted his blood.

  As he collapsed, exhausted, he was aware of gunfire, of Deklin's voice. He tried to find the voice to tell Deklin he was alive, but somehow the words didn't come. What came out was in a wheeze so low it was obliterated by the sound of gunfire anyway: "Don't kill me."

  ***

  Dully, he was aware of Deklin kicking him over, booted foot inconsiderately rough. Without thinking he held his breath, tried not to twitch. Deklin was too stupid or lazy to feel for a pulse, and eventually Vonne heard his footsteps moving away. Still, he held his breath until his lungs felt fit to burst, and then he exhaled.

  As he relaxed, blackness swallowed him. Dreams mixed with what reality he could still pick up. He was--

  --walking. He sometimes had the sensation of being clothed in layers of thick, scraped hides and furs, but when he reached up and touched his chest he only felt his familiar t-shirt and the dog tags around his neck. His vision seemed tunneled some how; he sensed more than saw the thing walking beside him, padding on soft, leathery feet. When he caught
glimpses out of his eye, straining like he couldn't turn his head, he only got impressions--lion, tiger, wolf, dog, bear, ape. Man. Primitive.

  A nameless feeling welled up in him, made him blow air through his clenched teeth. He tried, as all men do, to name it. Fear. Awe. Wonder. Arousal. Joy. Terror. But words didn't do it justice. He fisted his hands at his sides and fought to control it. Tendons and muscles stood sharply defined in his forearms from the effort. The bite on the back of his neck burned.

  (Let me in,) the beast walking with him said, and this time it was an animal walking on its hind legs, a man crouched on all fours. The words made him shudder, but the sense of arousal, of hunger, doubled inside of him. His stomach rumbled and his cock grew hard and his blood heated. He rubbed his arms as if he was cold and his skin seemed to burn under his hands. Vonne walked forward faster, almost breaking into a run, heart pounding in his ears. The beast seemed to fall behind; but then he could feel its presence on his heels, the sheathed claws brushing his calves.

  (Let me in,) it said again, gentle but firm. And then its weight was on him, crushing him down, and he could feel its unsheathed sex press against his back. The scent of it, wild and musky and somehow delicious, settled down over him like a cloud. It was potent, familiar. Vonne groaned with the need that ignited through him, crouching under the beast with his chest against his knees. As only in dreams he simultaneously felt and saw it on him, lean and lithe and powerful, at once tiger and man, beast ghosting behind the man-shape and vice versa. Teeth scraped against his neck, at once flat man teeth and long sabre fangs nearly half a meter long. It pressed its rampant phallus into the small of his back and he hissed air between his teeth, feeling his cock pulse against his belly. He tipped his hips so that his ass was in the air almost against his will.

  (Let me in,) it said a third time, and he wondered how he could be any more compliant, open himself up to it any more. He wanted to be fucked more desperately than he could ever remember having wanted. His fingers dug into whatever soft ground he had been walking in; grass? No... handfuls of fur.

  "Fuck," he groaned, "I'm trying."

  (Let go your shape,) the beast beckoned, humping against his back now, as if teasing him. But he didn't know how; his cock ached so bad he reached between his legs and began jerking himself off, but it didn't seem to help.

  (Let go.) The beast was riding him now, clinging to his back. He was no longer crouched, though his cock was still hard and pulsing and needy; he was running instead, a knife in his hand, a fleeing shape before him. A rabbit, an elk, a deer--he felt his mouth water and his stomach rumble. His feet caught on something tangled and he fell, cursing in frustration as his body screamed for food. Against his naked thighs, the beast's tail lashed.

  "I can't," he heard himself say. "You're too heavy."

  (Let me help you.)

  But all he could feel was the crushing weight of the beast on him, and the thought that he had to get free of it. The warmth and need for it of moments earlier dried up; now the fear was dominant, real, tangible. He screamed as he felt the beast raise up to kill him at last, but instead it opened its mouth and consumed him--

  --He opened his eyes, slamming into reality as hard as he slammed into the ground. Twigs and unforgiving bits of ground raked greedily into any exposed bit of him. "Motherfucker!" he swore, scrambling to his feet. He'd been running without the benefit of consciousness. Now that he was awake, he got to his feet and kept right on running without the benefit of understanding why.

  His boots felt like rocks tied to his feet--without thinking and almost without breaking stride he reached down and unlaced them, kicking them off and leaving them behind him. His socks went next; the forest floor wasn't kind on soft human feet, but somehow to the stings and the tears and the pain only made him feel more alive. He slowed. Something just wasn't right. Was this what it was, to become one of those things, become a throwback? He felt like he could smell everything, see everything, hear everything. He knew his heart was pounding and his temperature was too high and he was feverish and delirious, but he couldn't stop. Like he could just let go of the ground and fucking fly--

  The echo of the dream-thing's words was like a slap in the face, throwing off his pace entirely. His foot snagged a third time and sent him face first into a tangle of low, thorny plants hidden in the waist-high green. As he struck the ground he felt every little ache and throb and stinging cut on his body. He rolled over and a wicked pain lanced up his legs. How long had he been running? What was he running from, anyway? Or running toward? His body ached like it had been hours. Shit, that was a joke. He'd never been able to keep up a hard run more than a few minutes, never mind an hour.

  He struggled to his feet but his thighs felt like masses of fire. He had to ignore it, go above it. If he was gonna turn into a goddamn Primitive he might as well let some of their more sensible ideas apply--he closed his eyes, counted to three, tried to go beyond his physical being.

  "Not letting go," he muttered to himself. "Just getting over it."

  He took a deep breath.

  And then he heard it.

  "Vonne." Low, almost a whisper, the sound seemed to come from everywhere around him at once, not just behind him. "Yvon." His skin crawled, not just at the sound of his real name, but at the sound of the voice that said it. He spun, straining to see anything in the dim play of shadow and light in the forest.

  "Fuck you!" he shouted, as if he could drive it away by pissing it off. "Goddamn apes, learn to fight like goddamn men!"

  He saw it at last, then, a hulking shadow blended among the shapes of the tree trunks. He squinted, trying to make out some detail of it; sweat trickled in his eyes and he mopped at it and cursed.

  Without thinking, he took a step toward it.

  "Don't," the thing said, and he was amazed again at the sheer normalcy of its voice. "Don't."

  In his throat he formed a name, but he couldn't seem to make it come out.

  Soft, familiar laughter that began to breach the dam he'd built up against his grief. He wavered, his foot half-lifting before he stopped himself.

  "Don't," the thing said again.

  Vonne's hands found his gun, started to raise it. The fever heat was crawling under his skin, writhing in his stomach, burning his eyes. "Fuck's sake, say what you mean!"

  "Don't run," it finished, and it stepped toward him, and into the light.

  It was horrible, and fucking beautiful. His heart hammered in his chest as the smell and sight of it struck him: the vicious teeth and the slavering muzzle, the swiveling ears, the too-human eyes. The strong, long-fingered hand that stretched toward him, wicked claw crowning the opposable thumb.

  "Oh fuck," he said, "Oh Jesus, shit, fuck."

  The horror melted away like an illusion broken. He saw it was Hewitt standing there, arm stretched out, calling him, naked as the day he was born. Vonne could see the light dusting of red-gold hair on his arms and down the narrow line of his breastbone. His defenses broke and Vonne stumbled toward his old friend, knowing he was probably down the monster's gullet and not really caring. He knew he shouldn't go, but jesusgodchristalmighty it was Hewitt it was goddamn Hewitt! The bite in the back of his neck began burning--fuck, his whole body was burning and he was already fucking delirious anyway, what was one more insane idiot action? Maybe this was all just that, all just delusion while his body overheated trying valiantly to drive out the superior Primitive infection. Maybe he was still lying on the ground. Maybe he was dying. Maybe--

  --Their hands touched, and it was like touching a live electrical wire. Vonne felt and saw and smelled and then

  he let go

  their hands came apart and Hewitt smiled at him and everything was fucking grand, oh yeah he

  he shed it all

  "Vonne. Yvon."

  Vonne coughed, hard, feeling the sweat all over him, tasting blood on his tongue. "Fuck--was dreaming," he said, as someone propped him up and held a canteen to his lips. He drank greedily, allowed his h
ands to be guided up to take hold of the bottle himself. When he had taken four deep swallows, he gave it a second look. "Hold on, this is--"

  "Yours."

  It was too dark to see, but he knew Hewitt's voice. His nostrils flared, and there it was again--musky, cinnamon, wild smell. The smell of the beast in his dream, the smell from the cave where Hewitt had been dying. He started to turn, to try and squint out Hewitt's face, but strong fingers stopped him.

  "Don't look at me. Not yet."

  The smell grew stronger, and then suddenly weakened to almost nothing. Vonne couldn't help himself; he twisted to look again.

  "It's really you," he said at long last, reaching out to clasp Hewitt's hand. "Thought I was dreaming. You even got your hat back." He flicked his fingers along the brim. "Only it ain't you, is it?"

  Hewitt didn't reply, only helped Vonne to sit up.

  "Deklin said the animal brain takes over," Vonne said. "But you don't seem crazy animal to me."