The Other Kind (The Progeny of Evolution Series)

by Arsuaga, Mike

  Ed stood and opened the meeting. “Hi, my name is Ed and I’m a Blooder.”

  “Hi Ed,” the group replied dutifully in unison.

  Ed launched into his story of addiction, how it brought him down, and when he hit his bottom. We all heard it with minor variations at least a dozen times before, but part of recovery required remembering where you were and how far you’d come. It’s true whether the addiction was alcohol, narcotics, food, or gambling and it was essential we supported each other even if we were bored to tears.

  Halfway through the presentation, Cynthia began to fidget. She squirmed, crossing and uncrossing her legs impatiently with loud clunky noises when a foot hit the floor. The scent of her emerging sexuality got the attention of the males, even though a deluge of cheap teenage perfume covered it. Soon she would learn the dozen scents she exuded combined into a nearly infinite number of combinations to reflect with razor precision her mood, health, or readiness for sex. Later she’d wear the human made deodorants and fragrances more lightly, sufficient to satisfy cultural norms, but not enough to overwhelm her natural scents which the only beings who counted—her own kind—could detect.

  Even poor Ed, who only since joining the group learned how to tell lycans from humans by scent, lost his train of thought and stared frankly at her. Cynthia slouched in her chair, unconcerned the dress hem rode up almost to her crotch. A bored pouty expression covered her pale face.

  “Cynthia,” Sam said pleasantly from the far end of the group, “that will be quite enough. Please sit up straight and listen properly. This is important to Ed.”

  “I wasn’t doing anything,” the youngster answered.

  In a flash Sam sprung to her feet. “This is not your mother you’re talking to, young lady!” she snarled; actually snarled, along with a partial morph. I glanced around in panic, making sure all the doors were still closed. It wouldn’t do for a custodian to wander in right then.

  For a second the two female lycans faced off. Cynthia responded to Sam’s ferocious stare with a vague frown and downcast eyes.

  “We have gone through this before,” Sam continued in a tense and measured voice. “Remember what happened last time. Remember who Alpha is.”

  Cynthia growled under her breath and straightened in her chair, knees together and legs primly crossed at the ankles. “Sorry guys,” she said quietly, but with an undercurrent of resentment, like a whipped dog. “Sorry Ed.”

  “Well,” chirped Sam, “Now that’s settled, Ed, please continue.”

  Ed told the story about how he joined the group. The night he arrived, the rest of the members had other commitments, and only Sam and I attended. Straightening his gnarled body as much as his stressed skeleton allowed, he stared around the room settling his blank gaze on us.

  Warmly, I remembered how Sam, recognizing his vampire nature, coolly invited him to sit with us. He hadn’t fed in over a week. After the meeting we brought him to my apartment where I shared my kill and let him stay until he found work and a place of his own.

  We clapped politely as Ed finished and sheepishly took his seat. When the group quieted, Sam, the facilitator for the session, said, “An excellent and informative story, Ed. I don’t know about the rest of you, but each time I hear you tell it, I learn something new.”

  Cynthia turned toward Jethro and me. She made a sarcastic face and put a long black-nailed finger down her throat. Jethro smirked. Sam suspected something untoward transpired and said, “We haven’t heard from you tonight Cynthia. Would you like to share?”

  “What do I have to say anybody cares about?” she answered. “I haven’t even emerged yet.”

  “Which makes your experience even more valuable. You know better than any of us about life as a pre-emergent.” Sam said, urging Cynthia to her feet with a wink and little shooing motions.

  Cynthia slowly stood. Her gaze passed slowly over each of us. I watched the dark eyes, gleaming from the shaded, seemingly bottomless sockets and the white face with the skin pulled tightly across the cheeks and jaw, supported by a lanky human contraption with awkward movements and a tendency to bump into things. “Uh,” she began self-consciously and stopped to remove a wad of gum from her mouth. She wrapped it in a tissue Sam passed to her. “My name is Cynthia,” she resumed, “I don’t have any addictions. At least not like Ed, anyway.” She jerked her head toward Sam, stamped her foot and whined, “Do I have to do this? You know I hate it.”

  “Cynthia, sharing is good.” Sam replied pleasantly. “It is good for us because each time we listen to one another we learn new things, but just as important, each time we tell our story we learn more about ourselves.” She turned to Ed. “Care to tell us what new thing you learned tonight?”

  Ed stayed seated, lifting a gaunt head with sad old eyes. “I did learn something tonight,” he said quietly. “I realized humans are lucky. They live only a third as long as we do, but when they die they have children and families to remember them. I have lived two hundred and eighteen years, but I’d trade it all for twenty years of love and a family to remember me when I died. He grimaced, showing long yellow teeth. “Tonight I realized to die alone and unremembered is the greatest tragedy of our kind.”

  Ed sat down. Sam picked up the conversation thread. “I understand your feelings. From the minute I learned of our nature and barrenness, I have wanted children of my own. As you know, I have a way with them,” she paused, her expression introspective. “I don’t see it as a Fate-of-Our-Kind sort of thing like Ed and Jim do. To me it is more personal. It is simply the desire to be a mother.”

  For a minute or so we sat in an uneasy silence. Sam and Ed directed us toward thoughts regarding our mortality. Unable to reproduce, we possessed no future. After the mutation ran its course, humans, inferior to us in every way save one, would continue to proliferate. If we were lucky a few specimens of our kind might find their way to a museum or exhibit to sit. alongside the Passenger Pigeon and the Dodo Bird they might evoke mild curiosity from a passerby.

  Cynthia spoke first. She brushed aside a part of the stringy black mess of hair from her face and stared at Ed. “That’s deep, my man. But I think we should not give up. I’m young and don’t know much. Hell, I’m not even one of you yet. At least not technically, I’m not. But I learned this. Life is a struggle. A lot of times it’s unfair. No matter how good you are, or how well you prepare, you still sometimes fail. All you can do is your best. Never give up because what you want might be only another step ahead or a second away.”

  She hesitated. “Go on, dear,” Sam said. “You are making a lot of sense.”

  Cynthia smiled and resumed with more confidence in her tone. “Like the rest of you I didn’t walk until I was three. I said my first word when I should have been in Kindergarten learning to read. I didn’t develop like the other kids. My parents saw ’retarded’ written across my forehead. Look at me. I’m nineteen and still with the body of a twelve year old. Last month I finally had my first period. Sam tells me I’ll catch up after I emerge. I can’t wait. All my life I wanted to be like everybody else. I did anything I could to get accepted. I even let my younger brother’s friends feel me up.”

  Cynthia paused to catch her breath.

  “Anyway my point is this: We all have problems to face. If we give in to them, that’s how we become dead and forgotten. And you know where I learned this? Not from my parents, dorky little brother, or even from my teachers. No, I learned it from that woman there.” She pointed at Sam, paused for the statement to sink in, and continued, “We have had our tough times, Sam and I, but she stuck by me through it all. I love you, girl.”

  Sam teared up from across the table. I tried to resolve this scene with the one from a few minutes earlier when they were at each other’s throats.

  “Wait, I have one more thing to say,” Cynthia resumed. “All of us have told our story. Even Doctor Jim is into summer reruns. When are we going to hear from Sam?”

  The others, except for me, chimed in agreement
. Secretly, I wanted her to share as much as the rest. I knew almost nothing of Sam’s past. She rarely and only vaguely spoke of it. In particular, I wanted to know more regarding the other love that held her in his grip through time and space. She still thought of him. Occasionally, I came home unexpectedly to find her musing over papers she kept in a locked drawer along with the cutlery, and the autographed ball. Usually tears glistened in her eyes. Noticing my entry, she promptly returned the items, took a moment to regain composure, and greeted me as if I’d come upon an inconsequential activity such as reading a recipe book or newspaper.

  Sam begged off. She waited for the noise to die down and said, “I am not ready to share yet.”

  “Come on,” urged Cynthia, returning to a petulant whine. “You made me do it.”

  I stood and said, “Cynthia, our group rules do not force anyone to share. Please try to remember Sam is a mature lycan while you’re still emerging. What she asks you to do is for your own good, based on lessons learned from her own life’s experience. I think, under the circumstance, and I’m sure you’ll agree, she deserves a little privilege in this.”

  Cynthia’s jaws worked furiously on a new piece of gum while she thought over what I said. After a few seconds she faced me with innocent eyes. “Whatever you say Doctor Jim.” Her sweet tone of apparent acceptance sarcastically suggested exactly the opposite, as she plopped heavily into her seat.

  Deliver me from teenage brats! I liked the classroom arrangement better when I was in charge. My word was law. They stayed right where I wanted them, at an arm’s length and a little afraid. There was no familiarity. If one of them developed a crush I never knew, and it remained safely unrequited. They never dreamed of telling me to “loosen up” or to “get with the program.”

  “I can tell you this about my past,” Sam said. “While living in New York I dabbled in politics, not as a candidate but as a volunteer. In 1952, General Dwight Eisenhower became the Republican nominee. I admired him for his compassion in World War Two, a quality the leaders of the first one lacked. I enjoyed the work so much I forgot the danger it presented. I guess I was pretty good at it because the party officers began to speak of a promising future in politics. The idea tempted me, but it couldn’t be. How would I explain not aging? Staying in one job or location or with one person too long eventually presented the same problem.” She stopped with a faraway expression, apparently remembering an experience precious to her. “Only once did it work out.” She added wistfully.

  Cynthia opened her mouth, presumably to press for more details, but before she could, the cafeteria door flung open with an abrupt clang of metal latches. In strode a bold young woman with dirty blonde hair, cut in a pageboy, wearing a dark pantsuit pulled tightly at the waist with a purple sash. Either she had big hips or the cut of the pantsuit did her no favors. Two men accompanied her. She stepped ahead of them with a determined gait while they meandered and took in the room. As the Alpha female, the two males docilely bent to her authority, conditioned to do the human equivalent of rolling over in submission when she growled and offering their vulnerable bellies and genitals. I wondered if Sam noticed the similarity between lycans and this small pack of humans.

  With a clean fluid movement the woman displayed a gold police badge contained in a black leather wallet. “My name is Detective Charleze Borden of Missing Persons. Are you Doctor James White?” Before I said anything, she shifted her attention to Sam.

  “I am,” I answered to the back of her head. Police, under any circumstances, made me and our kind nervous.

  “Can we go somewhere to talk privately?” She spoke with crisp authority, from over her shoulder. Her eyes never left Sam.

  “Yes, let me dismiss the group.”

  “Are you Samantha Johnson?” When Sam nodded, Detective Borden told her to stay, too.

  The others cleared out. I sensed a small competition among them to be the first to leave. The five of us sat back down around the table. Once settled Sam and I read her scent. Emotional neutrality without sexual interest greeted our inquiries. Detective Borden scrutinized Sam and me with intense and probing hazel eyes set in a square face. She placed a photograph on the table and slid it across to us. “Do either of you recognize this man?”

  I made a show of re-orienting it right side up from our perspective.

  I gazed at a younger, well groomed, and better dressed picture of the man from the laundry, most likely a high school portrait. I pretended to search my memory, but Sam let out an involuntary gasp at seeing the picture.

  Attempting to cover for her I said, “I don’t believe I have. He might be a student at my university…”

  But Detective Borden didn’t miss Sam’s first reaction and focused on her. “How about you ma’am, do you recognize him?”

  “Sorry, for a moment he reminded me of a young man I used to know.” Sam shifted her attention from the picture to the detective. “Why? Did he kill somebody or something?”

  Despite Sam’s adroit recovery, scents of skepticism and suspicion emanated from Detective Borden. Her eyes slowly worked each of us over. After a minute, she said. “He has been missing for nearly two months. We have information you may have seen him the night he disappeared.”

  “Oh…and when was that?” Sam asked innocently.

  She told us the date. Then her eyes narrowed. “Do you wash clothes at Ritz’s coin laundry?”

  “Yes, we do. Well, I do.” Sam answered.

  “How often do you go?”

  “Every other week or so, I guess. I don’t keep track.”

  Detective Borden’s demeanor relaxed, but the scents Sam and I expected to accompany the change didn’t materialize. Her wide grin reeked of insincerity as she reached a hand across the table. “This isn’t an interrogation and you aren’t under arrest. I am trying to bring closure to a worried family. I tell you what. We’re all friends here. You call me CB and I’ll call you Sam and Jim. How does that sound?”

  We went along with her and, partly to test the new conviviality, Sam asked. “Well CB, who was he?”

  At Sam’s statement the detective perked up. “Who was he? I never said he was dead.”

  Again, Sam recovered deftly. “I’m sorry.” She attempted to appear casual and relaxed as she brushed an errant red strand of hair behind an ear. “I thought you did. Anyway, who is he?”

  “His name is Leon Brown. He’s the son of a local state representative. He is a disturbed young man.” She leaned forward, attempting to augment the illusion of taking us into her confidence. “Manic depressive, if you know what I mean.” She whispered confidentially before continuing in a normal voice. “He moved out of his parent’s home around the first of the year and went off his medications. Since early April no one has heard from him. As I said, we are trying to help his family.”

  “His family” Detective Borden so innocently referred to belonged to State Senator Aubrey Brown, Chairman of the Law Enforcement Budget Committee, as I found out later when I searched for him on the Internet.

  “Even though we used the same laundry I don’t ever recall him.” Sam said. “And I do the wash most of the time.”

  “His face doesn’t register with me either,” I added.

  “Well, I guess that’s all for now.” Detective Borden slid the photograph into a manila envelope and handed each of us a business card. “If you can think of anything my number is there.” She said, preparing to leave.

  She had taken about three steps with her companions in tow when she turned and asked, “By the way, what kind of support group is Critters of the Night?”

  “We are all students of the occult,” Sam answered. “I am finishing my masters in it this June while Jim is a talented amateur. The others have differing levels of interest.”

  Detective Borden leaned slightly toward us. “So you’re not really a coven of werewolves and vampires.” She threw a knowing wink our way. It made the blood freeze in my veins. She gave a haughty laugh at her own attempt at wit, turned on
the balls of her feet, and left.

  “She knows something,” Sam said, a tremble of apprehension in her voice.

  “No,” I answered. “If she had proof we’d be at the police station now. Let’s go home and give the apartment another good cleaning. We’ll use bleach this time.”

  “What about what’s in the freezer? It’s the guy they’re looking for, remember?”

  Yes, I remembered the corrupted face. His naked and odiferous body standing behind a helpless and bound Sam, and later his face twisted in terror at the sight of her morph. His eyes begged for mercy, but there would be none from either of us. The little bastard nearly put my Sam, my beloved Sam, into a dark place she might never have left.

  I thought of these things, but to Sam I offered a loving gaze, trapping her small shoulders between my hands. After kissing her forehead, I said, “Don’t worry. We’ll keep him at my place, sterilize the freezer, and get another kill. Like you once told me: A girl’s gotta eat.”

  * * * *

  The next evening at home, I asked Sam to explain the back story on the face-off between her and Cynthia at the support group meeting.

  She smirked. “It’s nothing really. I reminded her I was the Alpha female. She’s on the edge of emerging and might be full of raging hormones, but it’s no excuse for behaving disrespectfully.”

  “How did you become her—uh—Alpha?”

  “Remember when we first met I described her as headstrong? Back then she and I met only once a month. One time she flew into a rage and declared she wanted to quit the group. With her attitude and all she couldn’t last long on her own, so I morphed and beat the daylights out of her and told her I’d kill her if she stopped coming to the group meetings.” To address the incredulity crossing my face she added, “I had to do it, Jim. It’s for her good.”

  “How did she explain this to her parents?”