The Lot

by Snyder, Clayton

  Back then, his name had been Carl Lupo. He had been convicted of several petty crimes back in the States, and as a last resort, had fled to France to join the Legion. He walked alongside the other men of his platoon, stepping more carefully (he hoped) than they seemed to care to. He had no desire to draw attention to himself, either for the sights of a German sniper, or the brunt of an officer's displeasure.

  His assignment had been an easy one to choose. It was either here, or the Somme, and Carl was betting on the forest being less heavily populated by Germans. Germans with rifles and mortars and bayonets. Germans with only the urge to kill and kill, an irony he saw, but tried to escape.

  He was pulled from his reflection by the sudden quiet on all sides. He looked up and saw the lieutenant had signaled a halt. Others in the line were crouching or going prone, waiting. Carl followed suit, laying down amid the shadow-damp leaves and long grasses. He sighted down his rifle, and waited.

  The first of the Germans came out of the trees ahead, relaxed and talking among themselves. Their rifles were slung over their shoulders, and a few of them were smoking, as though it were a leisurely stroll through the woods, and not a war. Carl glanced toward his lieutenant, and saw the man make a fist. He looked back down the sights, and slipped his finger onto the trigger.

  The first shot rang out loud and angry in the near-quiet, stopping the German's chatter. It took the lead man high in the forehead, ripping the top of his head off. He collapsed in a spray of blood and bone and brain. After that, more shots came, tearing into the ranks of the Germans, felling them like trees.

  Carl pulled the trigger again and again, wounding or killing each time. The German line was chaos for a moment, and then the men began to take shelter, behind trees and giant gnarled roots, and the occasional boulder. Before long, more Germans came, and Carl saw that the intelligence had been wrong. This was a large force, larger than they had anticipated, and the Legion was going to die, to a man.

  He rolled from his position, taking shelter behind a tree. As he did so, he could see others following suit from the corner of his eye. Fear gripped him, and he ran. He rolled again, or sprinted in a crouch, or dove for the next tree, and the next, until he was out of sight of his platoon. The Beast in his head was howling for blood, and if he might die, he saw no reason to not let it happen.

  Behind a large boulder, he pulled his rucksack and clothing off, and let the change take him. Skin to fur, teeth to fangs. Then he was off, running on all fours, the smells of blood and cordite alive in his nose. The forest blurred by on all sides, green and brown, dotted with the pink of men.

  The first German was easy, a man hiding behind a tree some ways from his comrades. Carl took his hamstring, and then his throat in a matter of seconds. Hot blood laced with confusion and fear sprayed his muzzle, and he shook it clean, red droplets spraying the greenery.

  Even as the first man fell, he was on to the next, and the next. Some tried to run. Others turned their rifles on him, though he no more felt that than a dog feels a fly. It went on for almost an hour, the red mist that seeped into his vision. He killed and killed, a joy so primal it seemed to make him stronger, more cunning, and deadlier, filling him.

  When it was done, the sounds of gunfire fading into the leaves and branches, and the smoke from the battle drifting upward through the trees, he looked around, with eyes sharper than a man's, and saw only corpses, bodies on both sides. He had been too late.

  A rage took him, sharp and ragged, and pulled him deeper into the wolf, and for a while, he ran.

  *

  When he came to, it was in a shallow cave somewhere deep in the forest. A fire was crackling in the center, and a man sat beside it, his once-fine clothing ragged. He looked over at Carl as he woke. His face was a patchwork of skin tone and faint scars, and as he turned his head, bolts protruding from his neck showed from under his collar. When he spoke, his voice was deep and mellifluous, tinged with an Austrian accent.

  "Why are you here?"

  It didn't go like this, I thought.

  Carl shook his head, and the man repeated his question.

  "Why are you here?"

  Carl turned his head, and saw the night was growing blacker, hiding the trees, swallowing the brush. He tried to push himself deeper into the cave, but the big man was blocking his way.

  "Why are you here?" The question came again, with another. "What have you done?"

  The black from outside crept in on thick tendrils, seeking, sniffing him out. He watched them curl toward the light of the fire and dim its brightness. Carl shoved himself back, but it was too late. One of the tendrils had grabbed him by the ankle, and had begun pulling.

  "What have you done?"

  The question echoed in the cave behind him even as he was pulled into the dark. He fought and struggled, and tried to find the Beast to break free, but he was too weak, too tired. The tendril had become an arm, and the arm pulled him into the dark, and as it closed around him, he heard the question one last time.

  "What have you done?"

  Chapter Sixteen

  Some days, you're the Woodsman, some days you're Red Riding Hood, and some days, you're the guy with the biggest teeth. When I woke, I felt distinctly Riding Hood like. I rolled over, every muscle and bone seeming to protest. A groan escaped me. Where my ribs had been broken, pain throbbed in bright pinpoints of agony for a moment before quieting to the dull throbs of healing bone.

  I lay on my back in the early half-light for a while, trying to collect my thoughts. The dream had left me shaken. It was a memory of things long dead, but in the wrong order. I hadn't been stalked by a creeping darkness. I wasn't confronted by Adam when we first met. A part of me knew it was the guilt of killing Manny that had crept into my sleep, but that didn't make it better.

  I wondered how I would tell my friends, and how they would react. I wondered what would happen when that news slipped from my friends to those I wasn't so close with, or even to the Church. I wondered if I would be cast out, or maybe tried and executed, in house. I wondered if there was still room for understanding and forgiveness in the hearts of those who had shared the title of 'monster' with me not so long ago.

  Depression tried to crash into me, to push me down. In my head, the Beast whispered, wandered the halls of my mind, still free from his cage. I hadn't had time to constrain him again, to bring him under control, and he tried tempting me now. Whispers of freedom from guilt, of a life lived on instinct and passion slid through my mind, telling me it would all be okay if I just gave over, quit living the lie of humanity.

  I forced myself to sit up, and put my feet on the ground. The floorboards were cool beneath the soles of my feet, and I closed my eyes. Bar by bar, I started to build the cage in my mind for the Beast. It was a slow process, painstaking in detail where I imagined every inch of cold steel and rivet. When it was done, I sought him out in the corners of my mind, the feral presence that even now was telling me to strip down and let the Change take me.

  I listened for a moment, and then discarded the thoughts. I imagined the Beast as a thing half-man and half-wolf, on two legs, and then I wrapped it in chains. A howl echoed in my mind as I imagined those chains dragging the thing into its cage inch by inch. It thrashed and fought, and for a moment, I could feel my blood quicken, felt my teeth sharpen and my fingers start to grow claws as it defied me. With a final push and a howl, I slammed it into its prison and shut the door, imagining no lock, only seamless steel.

  When it was done, I could feel signs of the Change slipping from me, and a cool calm descended once again. I opened my eyes, and with an energy I didn't truly feel (locking the thing up hadn't lifted my depression), I went into the kitchen to make breakfast and decide my next move.

  Halfway to the kitchen, there was a knock at my front door. It was firm, but polite, if you can measure knocks that way. I stopped where I was, and listened. The boards of the porch creaked once, as though someone were shifting their weight. I took a deep breath, and c
aught a whiff of tobacco. Cora?

  I went to the door, and opened it, my body tensing up involuntarily. The past week had put me through the wringer, and a part of me, the wild, feral, and sometimes despite myself, smarter part, slipped into a low state of alert. A small woman stood on the stoop, strands of her dark hair acting with a mind of their own as a breeze blew.

  She looked up when I opened the door, her thumbnail in her mouth. She pulled it away and smiled.

  "Mr. Peckinpah."

  I waved the formality away. "Peck's fine. How are you, Cora?"

  She looked over her shoulder. "Better if I can come inside. If anyone saw me out here, I'd be in trouble. I'm not considered high and mighty enough to hobnob just yet."

  I invited her in, and glanced out at the empty street as she passed me. Broken sidewalk, long grass, silent trees, and empty homes returned my gaze. I didn't see anyone slinking about, didn't smell a threat, so I closed the door. When I turned around, she had already closed the curtains over the sliding glass doors to the back yard and sat at the kitchen table.

  "You want anything? Breakfast?"

  She shook her head. "Thanks, I ate before I left. Also, it's four in the afternoon."

  I ignored that last part. It had been a rough night. I sat at the table with her. She was chewing on her thumb again. When she saw me watching, she let it fall away, and blew out a breath.

  "I got you a meeting." She said. She handed me a scrap of paper. I opened it, and written on the inside in a small neat script were the words 'Brother Timothy, Thursday 17th, 8pm'. I folded it back up and laid it on the kitchen table.

  "Thanks. So, how are you?"

  She shrugged. "Better than the street, not as well as I'd hoped. I think they're going to boot me pretty soon. Which is why I came to see you, rather than just tack the note to your door."

  My stomach sank. On top of everything else, this now. A part of me had known it was coming, another part of me, the stupid part, had filed it away under: 'for Future Peck'.

  "What can I do?" I said. They were a hard four words. Don't get me wrong. I didn't want to renege on my promise; I just wished the timing was better.

  She lifted her thumb to her mouth for a second, then seemed to think better of it, and dropped it again. She followed the action with a deep breath. I knew this wasn't easy for her either. I had the feeling she valued her pride.

  "Need a roommate?" She worked up a half-smile as she asked it. She placed one hand on top of the other on the table, though I caught the small tremor of nerves as she did so.

  I stood and walked to the fridge. I opened the door, and stuck my head inside, as though I were looking for something. Behind me, she was still and quiet and I knew I would have to say something. I grabbed two Cokes from the shelf, and closed the fridge, and passed one to her before sitting down again. She was looking at me with eyes the color of sea foam, wide and hopeful. I knew I was fucked, and cleared my throat, and tired to salvage what I could.

  "Rules." I said. She opened her Coke and took a drink to hide the smile that had tried to slip onto her face. I did the same to wet my suddenly dry throat.

  "You know what I am?"

  She nodded. "There are documents on you guys. Video."

  That stopped me in my tracks. "Holy shit. Really?"

  She nodded again. "They're very diligent about their research, their faith. They treat that stuff like they're holy relics. If it's any consolation, they're pretty zealous about keeping it in-house."

  Made sense, considering their beliefs. I filed the fact away. If Timothy was behind this, or even he wasn't, it was another thing to have to deal with. The Lot couldn't afford proof like that getting out.

  "Okay, so you know what we are. That said, once a month, you need to be somewhere else. For the most part, I have my...problem under control, but I won't risk it."

  "Fair enough. Same goes for you."

  I frowned. What the hell did that mea-oh.

  I grinned at her. "Okay, smartass."

  "You said 'rules'." She said.

  "Yeah. Can you work?"

  She nodded again. "I was an admin assistant once upon a time."

  "Good. You can make sense of my notes when I'm on a case, then."

  I reached across the table and offered her my hand.

  "That's it?" She asked.

  "That's it."

  She took my hand and shook it, and just like that, I had a roommate. I only hoped I didn't get her killed.

  *

  We ate breakfast - eggs and bacon and toast and coffee - rather, I ate, and she nibbled on my toast, and talked about our next moves. Her plan was to just not go back. She had stashed everything she needed a block away from my house, having moved it out of the Church a bit at a time so as not to attract too much notice. She wasn't worried about disappearing though. According to her, neophytes and acolytes left all the time, the life either too rigid or too crazy despite the promises of food and shelter.

  As for myself, I would meet Brother Timothy in twenty-four hours. That gave me time to get my thoughts together, and settle Cora. I was worried about extending my protection to her, but what the Church didn't know couldn't hurt them - or her. In the meantime, I thought I might take a second look at the theater by the Church. Something about the place made my hackles raise, and I wasn't comfortable just letting it fester.

  We finished breakfast, and Cora helped me clean the table, and then dried while I did the dishes. When we were finished, she slipped out the front door, to gather her things, and I went to clean my pistol.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I cleaned my gun. It hadn't been fired in a while, but it didn't matter. It wasn't really about cleaning the thing, anyway. It was about giving myself a simple task that I could zone out on. I used the time to take a mental inventory, and to think through everything I knew so far. It wasn't much.

  The kit I used was on the table, next to the remains of my Coke. I had the revolver open, the cylinder snapped open and to the side, and I methodically ran a brush through the barrel and the openings. I would scrub, check the hole, and then scrub some more, before moving on to the next. Like I said, mindless, and relaxing.

  I took an inventory of what I knew. I'd been attacked three times, once by Manny, who I ended up putting down. My stomach fluttered, and the thought tried to get away from me. I clamped down on it with some difficulty, and filed it away in the mental cabinet I'd marked 'Future Problems'. I took a deep breath, steadied myself, and tried to connect the attacks. The only thing that seemed common was the red goop I'd found on each of them. The same red goop I'd found leading away from the lake to the drainage access. The same stuff Jekyll had marked as a controller once someone was infected, for lack of a better word.

  I tried to think of whom, or what could put that kind of whammy on someone. Vlad, sure. But I'd never seen him fill someone's head with red jelly to control them. He had that whole hypnotic eye thing going on. Maybe Henry, but that seemed unlikely, too. A guy that vested in right and wrong probably wasn't big into mind control and mayhem, though. Adam was right out. Don't get me wrong, he's not a stupid guy - just more of a rip your arms out and club you with them kind of guy. Maybe Hyde, but my gut told me he was more surprised and excited to find that red goop than anything else. That left the Church.

  What I knew about the Church fit into a thimble. Crazy, organized, and generally harmless, I thought it would take a special kind of ambitious crazy to pull this off. The Church was more 'worship from afar' than 'jump in with both feet'. I thought Brother Timothy might be the key to all of it, if I could just pin the man down. Something, a nagging in my gut, told me it was the right direction. If someone like Cora - desperate and out of options, but smart, and obviously independent - thought they were a viable option, it made me wonder how many others were being used.

  I finished cleaning the gun and oiled it down, rubbing it into the steel with a soft cloth. When I was done, I checked the action on the hammer and the cylinder, loaded it, and
slipped it into its holster, then put that on. I looked through the sliding glass doors, at the trees swaying in the breeze outside. It was still light, which made it a good time to check out the theater. I stood with a sigh, finished the Coke, and left. I shut the door behind me, but left it unlocked for Cora. Then I headed up the street to the theater.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I made my way downtown. The theater was an old two-story brick building with a marquee that ran across the front, jutting out over the sidewalk like a raincloud. The letters and lights had long been stolen or lost to time, and the colors were washed out and faded. It looked a little like a clown that had been caught in a rainstorm. Under the marquee was a set of double doors with big brass bars for pulls, and a ticket window off to one side. The window was empty, though the inside was surprisingly clean.

  I loosed the pistol in its holster, and tried the doors. They rattled in place, but didn't budge. I frowned, and tried again, putting a little more muscle into it. Maybe they were just swollen in their frames. They rattled once more, and once more did their imitation of a pair of mules. I knelt down to peer between the door and the jamb, and could see the locks had been shot into their housings.

  Weird, I thought. Who's locking doors around here? Just then, a voice behind me made me start, and I stood fast enough to nearly knock myself out on the doors' hardware.

  "Excuse me? Do you also go around peering into other people's windows?"

  The voice was rich and deep. I turned, and was greeted by the sight of a man in a brown robe. His hair was cropped close to his head, and he was solid, like a small wall. He stood just a little taller than I did, and had no trouble meeting my gaze with deep grey eyes. In all, he seemed a bit imposing. Not that that really bothers me in any way.

  I shrugged. "Depends on who hires me. I take it you locked them."

  He eyed me for another moment, and a flash of irritation slipped across his face, though he buried it quickly. "Yes. It's going to serve as a new sanctuary for the Church."