by Amy Cross
"So how'd you manage this little magic trick?" Cushing continues, grabbing my shoulder and turning me to face him. His broad, stubbly old face stares down at me as one of the other men pulls my shirt up to reveal my uninjured torso. Cushing reaches down and runs his wrinkled old hand across my belly. "I saw you," he says quietly. "I saw you bleeding and dying." He flicks my skin. "This is not possible."
The other men chatter among themselves.
"I'm full of surprises," I mutter.
"You wanna explain this?" Cushing asks, leaning closer to me. "You wanna explain how you managed to leave a five-mile trail of blood across the desert, and how you managed to have half your fucking side blown apart, and how you're suddenly sitting here looking like nothing happened?" He pauses. "What should I tell my men? That you're a ghost? That you're indestructible?"
"Tell them what you like," I reply. "Why don't you part your ass cheeks and tell them to form an orderly queue?"
As expected, he turns his rifle and cracks the butt against my face. I feel my cheekbone shatter, but the pain is good. I want pain. I need pain. I want to make Cushing so angry that he ends up killing me quickly. If he stays calm, he'll drag my death out for hours, maybe even days.
"My boss is not gonna like this," Cushing says eventually. "When he sends me to kill a man, he expects to see that man's corpse within twenty-four hours. You've already taken too long to kill, Mr. Neale, and now you're just being stubborn."
I take a deep breath. This whole situation makes no sense. Cushing's right: I was hurt, and I did leave a trail of blood as I ran. So how is it, then, that I seem to be completely okay right now? How is it that, far from feeling sick or ill, I feel better than I've ever felt in my life? Over the years, I've drunk too much and eaten too much dodgy food, and I've taken enough punches to break a few bones. I'm used to feeling like crap, but right now I feel as if I could run a marathon. There's so much more energy and vitality in my body. I swear to God, none of this makes sense.
"You know what?" Cushing asks, pointing his rifle straight at my face. "I don't give a shit. So you survived the grenade. Who cares? You won't survive this. We're gonna finish you off, and then we're gonna drag your body back to the city, so Mr. Stabbs himself can see that you're out of the way. You understand, right? You've already cheated death once today, and I can't really take any more risks."
"Wouldn't want to make your boss angry," I mutter, glancing over my shoulder and seeing that I'm completely surrounded. There's no way I can outrun these guys, and there's no way I can count on all six of them missing if they open fire. Still, at least I'll die this time. At least it'll be over.
"In a way," Cushing says, pressing his gun against the side of my head, "I envy you, Mr. Neale. I don't know how you managed to get so far, and I don't know how you managed to survive a grenade to the gut, but you're clearly a formidable adversary. In normal circumstances, I'd be happy to let you live. Right now, however, I'm only interested in the million dollar paycheck that's waiting for us if we drag your corpse back home. You understand, right?" He pauses. "Surely you, of all people, should understand why I have to do this. After all, we're all mercenaries here. Even you."
Looking down at the ground, I see the shadow of my own head, with the shadow of Cushing's gun right next to it.
"Any last words?" Cushing asks.
"Just that she was beautiful," I reply, thinking back to the wolf who sat with me during the night. I've never been close to a wolf before, but she was the most amazing creature I've ever seen. So noble and proud, with such intelligent eyes. Maybe she saved me. Maybe she was able to bring me back to life. Taking a deep breath, I realize that this is just superstitious crap. I'd have preferred to have died last night with the wolf, rather than this morning with Cushing and his men, but I guess beggars can't be choosers.
"Who was beautiful?" Cushing asks. "Some whore back in New Delhi?"
"No," I say sadly, still watching the shadow of my own head. "Not some whore back in New Delhi."
"Whatever," Cushing says, and I hear the click of the rifle as he pulls the trigger. There's a loud bang in my ear. As everything goes black, the last thing I see is the shadow of my head jolting to one side as half my skull is blown away.
Jess
The edge of the city is dangerous. Many years ago, Duncan told me about the ecotone, where the human and wolf worlds meet. This is the point where the scavengers of two worlds collide, hunting among the detritus of civilization for things that can sustain life. For the local kids, it's a chance to pick up the discarded junk tossed aside by the wealthy few who live in the heart of the city; for me, it's a place where I can find discarded food. Since I first came to this part of the world, I've learned to value the ecotone, and to see it as a vital hunting ground. Still, this is as close as I want to get to the human world. The thought of going any further into the city is sickening.
Today, the rubbish dump is particularly noisy. Human children are playing in the streets of the nearby shanty town, while cars flash past on the main arterial road that leads to the gleaming metal spires of the city center, several miles to the west. Around here, it's gangs rather than governments that control the streets. Armed men keep the peace, occasionally rounding up trouble-makers and hanging them from lampposts. It's not a nice place to be, and it serves as a perfect reminder of why I left the human world behind. There's so much violence, and so little respect for human life. I just want some scraps of food, and then I'll be out of here.
Fortunately, the humans have placed a massive rubbish dump in this part of the ecotone. Trash from the city center is driven out here and abandoned every day, which means that there's always plenty of food to be found. Some of the local children climb across the vast mountains of discarded waste, but they're generally more interested in piece of scrap metal; I want the food, and I can usually find enough despite having to stick to the very margins. The last thing I want to do is draw attention to myself.
Pushing some old cardboard out of the way with my snout, I quickly find a small bag of trash from the city parks. These are the best bags, because they usually contain half-eaten snacks. It only takes me a couple of minutes to find part of an ice-cream cone and some pieces of bread, which isn't a bad haul. I barely even chew as I gulp the food down. If I was a real wolf, I'd be able to live off the land, hunting my meals instead of having to make these pathetic trips to the edge of the city. I've been in this part of the world for a while now, and I'm starting to think that it's time to move on. I've always fancied visiting Japan and Hong Kong, and then maybe I can find some way across the Pacific so I can go to America and then on to London. One day, I might even -
Suddenly I see something flash past my face, and seconds later I feel rope against my neck. Panicking, I turn to see that there's a young human standing behind me. He's barely ten years old, and he's got a rope in one of his hands. It takes me a moment to realize that, lost in thought, I allowed him to sneak up behind me and slip a loop around my neck. Damn it, a real wolf would never be so stupid. Instinctively, I pull back, but the loop tightens and I realize that the boy has managed to get me on a leash.
Smiling, the boy says something that I don't understand. I guess he thinks he's got himself a pet; he probably imagines himself taking me home and presenting me proudly to his friends.
I pull away, but the boy keeps hold of the rope.
Pausing for a moment, I decide that there's only one way to end this impasse. I step toward the boy and start snarling, baring my teeth. At first he stands his ground, but I can see the fear in his eyes. As I get closer, he finally decides that he's had enough, and he drops the rope and starts running. Finally alone again, it takes me just a couple of minutes to get the loop off my head.
I look up as I hear gunfire nearby. My instinct is to run, but first I need to make sure I won't be spotted. Stepping around a pile of trash, I see a group of local children running for their lives; moments later, a jeep races after them, and I watch as a gunman fires a machi
ne gun, mowing the children down. At times, the barbarity of these people seems to know no bounds. I could chase after the jeep, of course, and teach those bastards a lesson, but I don't want to get involved. The perils of the human world are nothing to do with me these days, so I simply watch as the jeep keeps going, leaving half a dozen dead children scattered in his wake. The whole scene seems to casual, as if the men in the jeep feel no need to hide what they're doing. I guess they're in charge here, and they're probably sending a message to the rest of the community.
Still, who would do such a thing. And why?
Once I'm certain that the coast is clear, I make my way back out into the wilderness. I've had more than enough of the human world for one day, especially after I saw those children getting killed. It's moments like this that remind me why I never, ever want to revert to my human form. I can only hope that if I spend long enough as a wolf, I'll eventually lose my human side completely. Perhaps one day, far in the future, I'll want to go back to being the old Jess, and I'll find that I can't. All I want is for my old life to fade away; hopefully, one day, I won't remember my family, and I won't remember Duncan, and I won't even remember my own name. Until then, I just need to stay strong and embrace my new lifestyle. I'm a wolf, and the human world has nothing that interests me. It's just violence and pain back there.
Jonathan Neale
This time, I'm woken by the relentless rocking of the jeep.
Opening my eyes, I find myself face to face with a bright white piece of fabric, and I quickly realize that I've been tied up in a cloth sack. I've seen Stabbs' men do this countless times to their victims. They drag corpses back to their boss, hoping to get a few extra dollars for their troubles. I guess they see me as some kind of trophy, and they'll undoubtedly brag about how they spent the best part of a week trying to track me down. They're used to killing local bandits and lone thieves, so they must have found me to be quite a challenge.
I take a deep breath, trying to work out what happened, and then I remember the moment when Cushing shot me in the head. I have a distinct memory of seeing my own shadow as one side of my skull was blown away. In the flash before I lost consciousness, I saw the shadow of my head been blasted apart, and I remember the feeling of the bullet smashing into my brain. Still, I seem to be in a decidedly good state right now, which is something of a surprise. It's one thing to survive a grenade to the chest; it's quite another to survive a bullet to the brain. I don't even have a headache.
I can hear voices nearby. Cushing's men are chatting as, I assume, the jeep makes its way back to the city. Unable to understand what they're saying, I listen instead to the tone of their voices; they sound like they're making jokes and just generally relaxing, having a little fun after spending so long chasing me down across the plains. I guess they live in the constant shadow of death, so they're probably letting off steam now that they think they've bagged their target. To be fair to them, there's no reason why they should even consider the possibility that I'm still alive. I should be dead; I have to be dead. I remember dying, twice: I remember the wolf sitting next to me as I bled to death, and I remember the feeling of Cushing's bullet blasting into my brain and blowing away the side of my skull. And yet here I am, waking up again and finding that I've survived. Something strange is happening, but I figure there's time to work it out later. Right now, I need to get away from these goons. After all, I don't want to test my luck for a third time.
Reaching up and tearing a hole in the side of the sack, I look out and see that I've been dumped on the very back of the jeep, while Cushing and his men are further forward. They're facing the other way, so I should be able to get out of here without being seen. After all, who guards a corpse? I quickly tear a larger hole in the cloth, and finally I'm able to wriggle out without being seen. The back of the jeep has a large metal restraint, but it shouldn't be too much trouble to get over that; the bigger problem is that the jeep is racing along at high speed, which means I'll have to jump out and take my chances. I reach up and feel the side of my head, but there's no sign of any wound. Is it really possible that Cushing could have somehow missed when he fired at me? Whatever's going on here, I seem to have an almost supernatural ability to cheat death right now, so I guess I need to hope my luck holds out a little longer.
Realizing that I don't have any time to waste, I pull myself up over the side of the jeep and let myself drop over the edge. I fall for a moment before slamming down onto the desert road, bouncing across the rocks until I come to a halt in a cloud of dust. Miraculously, I seem to have survived relatively unscathed, with not so much as a broken bone or even a torn patch of skin. Getting to my feet, I can already hear the cries of Cushing's men, and I turn to see that the jeep has stopped a few hundred yards away.
One of the men is already out of the jeep, racing in my direction with a pistol pointed straight at me. I turn to run, but a shot rings out and I drop to the ground with a searing pain in my leg. As I try to get up, another shot is fired, hitting me in the shoulder. I collapse to my hands and knees, feeling the pain throbbing through my body. As the first of the men reaches me, I can hear the distant shouts of his colleagues, undoubtedly urging him to finish me off.
And that's when it happens.
With no forethought, I suddenly turn and launch myself at the guy, knocking him to the ground and landing straight on top of him. He stares up at me with terrified eyes, but I barely even pause before reaching down and biting a huge chunk from his neck. Even as I feel his blood spray into my throat, I feel as if my mind has been divided into two distinct sides: there's a part of me that's desperate to rip this bastard's body apart, to taste his blood and to crunch his bones, and there's another part of me that's horrified by the whole thing and just wants to stop. Right now, though, I can't hold back from tearing into the man's body, pressing my face deeper and deeper into his flesh as I rip his head from his shoulders. Soon I've pulled his head all the way off, and I'm pushing myself into the stumpy remains of his neck. It's almost as if I crave the taste of his blood in my mouth.
Hearing the sound of other men running toward me, I turn just in time to see them open fire. Bullets rip into my body, but instead of felling me they just make me angrier. With blood dripping from my face, I launch myself against the other men, landing on one of them and pushing him to the ground. With one perfect bite, I smash the front of his skull, before turning and launching myself at one of the others; this time, I get the man by the shoulder and despite his best efforts to fight me off, there's nothing he can do to keep me from tearing a huge chunk out of his body. By this point, the other men are racing back to the jeep, and within seconds the vehicle is tearing away. It's as if they're filled with blind panic, and they've lost all hope of trying to fight me. They have guns and grenades, and I have nothing, yet they're running from me...
Without even thinking about it, I start to run. It's almost as if there's a second mind in my body, pushing me on to confront these bastards. Filled with a new-found sense of strength, and with the strange sensation of running on all fours, I feel myself getting faster and faster. It seems incredible that I could possibly hope to catch up to the speeding vehicle, but I'm getting closer and closer. Finally, with a giant leap that I never believed possible, I land in the back of the jeep and immediately start attacking the other men. With no plan, and not even understanding what's happening, I just lash out at them, using my teeth and hands to shred their bodies. The first two are easily dispatched, before I throw all my weight against one of the others and knock him over the side. Turning to look at the final man left in the vehicle, I see that it's just me and Cushing now, and as he keeps his hands on the steering wheel, he turns back to look at me and I see absolute horror in his eyes.
"Whatever you want," he shouts at me, "just take it!"
I pause for a moment, but then I see that he's started reaching for a hunting knife on the dashboard. In the blink of an eye, I leap into the front seat and push the knife away, before turning to Cushi
ng and staring straight into his face. For a fraction of a second, I'm shocked to see not my face reflected in his eyes, but the face of an angry, snarling wolf. Figuring that there must be some mistake, I open my jaws and lash out at the man, crunching his skull and biting directly into his brain. As I do so, he loses control of the steering wheel, and the jeep swerves first one way and then the next, before broadsiding a large rock. The whole vehicle flips and starts to roll, throwing me clear. The last thing I remember is slamming into the ground and feeling the weight of the jeep crashing down onto my head, at which point everything goes black.
COMING SOON
Into Hell
(Vampire Asylum 1.1)
When she visits a blood-dealer for her latest supply, Abby is shocked to learn the story of the man's daughter, who many years ago was dragged away to a horrific asylum run by, and for, vampires. When she learns the legend of the beast that is said to be chained up beneath the asylum, Abby decides that she has to find out for certain whether or not that beast is the person she thinks and hopes it might be. Since visits to the asylum's patients are out of the question, however, she realizes that she has only one option if she wants to find out what's really happening.
The Letting
(The Devil's Photographer 1.3)
Recovering from the terrifying incident at the church, Kate is keen to get her hands on the camera she dropped. John Dagwood, meanwhile, is being strangely elusive, as if he's unwilling to let Kate's work progress too far. Soon, Kate starts to learn more about Dagwood, including his interests in medieval medicine and his involvement with a strange group that has strong links to the events that recently took place at St. Abraham's. Evil is rising across the city, but Kate isn't quite ready to believe that the Devil is in town... until a horrifying image makes her question everything she thought she knew about the world and pushes her to the brink of madness.
