“Ah, Americans. Come to save this world, but instead this night you will leave it,” he said. He was standing there with two dead body guards at his feet and it seemed like bravado. While Granddad pressed his old M14 to the back of Ahfra’s head, Valentine zipped the flex-cuffs on.
“Yeah, looks that way to me too,” I said.
“I want no trouble with Americans, so if you leave now there will be time to forgive this offense,” he said.
I smiled slightly at his confidence but shook my head.
“You do not comprehend your danger.” He smiled broadly, displaying the worst teeth I had ever seen. They were yellow-brown chicklets with wide gaps between them.
As I looked at these horrible teeth one fell out onto the floor. And then another, the faint plink as it bounced off the concrete.
Not actually falling; the teeth were pushed out by thick yellow fangs, erupting up from the gums. His short dreadlocks dropped out in small patches as pale brown hair thrust up from the flesh.
He moaned and doubled over, dropping to his knees. Pulling his arms forward, the plastic cuffs snapped. Granddad stood frozen. Valentine leaned in to help and then stopped, his expression unsure.
“What the hell, Justin yelled. “Captain Rogers?” The pitch of his voice increasing as he watched the scene unfold.
Cracking sounds came from inside Afrah. His distorted body tore through the olive drab shirt.
“Calm down!” I snapped. I had no idea what was happening either.
Afrah’s face stretched out as he flexed and snapped and writhed on the floor. An anguished guttural moan escaped the thrashing mess on the floor.
“Kill it!” Justin yelled.
“John, what’s going on?” Granddad demanded.
In less than a minute Afrah had gone from an unremarkable clan chief to what looked like a hyena.
The sound of its gasping breath filled the room.
The beast stopped moving and when his eyes met mine I could see they glowed with an intelligence that was not the dull look of a beast.
A blur of motion.
The beast ducked under the barrel of Granddad’s M14 and knocked him aside.
Valentine leveled his carbine and popped three individual rounds at the monster. None hit before his throat was ripped out. That fast.
I flicked the selector switch from semi to auto and sent every round in my thirty-round magazine at the monster. I don’t think a single round connected. I pushed down the shock and compartmentalized my emotions. I had a job to do. Beside me Razor and Justin opened fire while I dropped the empty and slapped a fresh magazine into my weapon. Razor went down before I chambered the first round.
Small snicks appeared in it’s hide as a few of my little 5.56 rounds passed through.
The Monster leapt for me. Granddad’s rifle roared to life a few feet away. The large 7.62 mm round left a smoking hole just in front of the shoulder as it knocked the thing aside.
We all stood motionless. The sounds of weapon discharge making my ears buzz, the acrid smoke biting at my eyes.
Granddad crossed to where the monster lay.
“Careful!” I yelled.
The thing twisted, standing up on hind legs. Its mouth opened impossibly wide, and it bit down. The lower teeth came up through the Granddad’s chin while upper teeth came down through the hockey helmet. The sickening sound was like throwing an apple hard onto the concrete.
Granddad’s faceless corpse dropped.
“No!” Justin yelled. He flipped to auto and sprayed bullets at the thing. Another fresh magazine. We would kill it.
Focus, drop back and get stand-off distance. Aim center of mass, squeeze. Too many rounds for it to dodge, the monster crashed through the window and was swallowed by the night.
All I could hear was my heart throbbing. Then I heard a disembodied scream in my earpiece.
“Justin, retrograde,” I said. To my mike I said, “All Rogue elements, be advised there’s a…”
A what? Monster? Hyena?
Granddad, Valentine, and Razor down. Who else?
We turned to the door, find the thing and kill it. Justin turned to me, wide-eyed.
“Go! Now!” I screamed.
In the larger central room, the Sammies prayed. Outside the door, a bloody, lifeless corpse no longer provided security.
Bear’s voice was in my ear. What was happening, should he send the team? Were we clear? No to all.
I sucked air, open-mouthed, huge gulps.
We were professionals. We could handle anything.
“NODs,” I said, turning mine on as I pulled them from the case. I clicked them to the mount on my helmet. It took a few seconds to power up. Seconds were hours. When I was ready Justin clipped his on. A faint green glow under the cut-away faceplate indicated he was ready.
We scanned the perimeter together but found no beast. The breeze picked up the sour smell and raised goose bumps up on my flesh.
Justin fired at at movement. Dead chicken.
We heard staccato automatic fire from the over watch position a hundred meters away. The rounds looked like green flames licking at the sky through the monochromatic night vision goggles.
“Bear, Rogue-six, what’s going on?” I demanded.
“Bear’s down,” someone said. I couldn’t tell who it was. Confusion, obscenities, screams. We sprinted through the gate toward the rest of my team, the gravel crunching under our boots.
Too late, the beast had snuck up on them. Justin and I stood back-to-back intent on killing that monster.
Every sound was amplified. Keep fire discipline and shoot when you’re sure.
We could see the over watch position, a now-silent cluster of shacks.
“Any Rogue elements, acknowledge!”
My order was answered with static.
No movement, we crept forward.
Before we made it to the shacks the beast hit me from the side and bowled me over.
Jaws snapping, I tried to shoot it. The carbine was too long to swing the muzzle to point at the monster, so I used it as a shield to bar it. I reflexively scissored my legs around its mid-section. In military combative training you learned to maintain contact. I needed to keep it anchored to buy Justin time.
I slid the knife from the scabbard. Bone crunched as the thing sank its teeth into my left bicep. The knife dangled loosely.
The pistol was out of reach in the shoulder holster with my hands full. Claws ripped at my my torso. The hole in the beast left by Granddad’s rifle gaped, I dropped my carbine and stabbed my fingers into the wound.
The thing reared back in pain. I held more tightly with my legs, stabbing the fingers deeper.
With my damaged arm almost useless, I stabbed into the beast with the knife. The blade nicked bone and angled into the roof of the mouth. Its blood gushed down my arm and mixed with my own.
I pulled the fingers from the wound and pulled out my forty-five. Pushing the knife, I brought the pistol up beside it and sent round after round up through the throat and into the monster’s brain, stopping only when the receiver locked to rear, empty.
The thunderclaps of the report rang in my ears and I collapsed into the enveloping mist of blood.
Shards of bone and brain fell slowly, like wet confetti as the monster went limp.
Then there was silence, but for my labored breathing and the ringing in my ears. The cold, numb feeling in my limbs told me that I was bleeding out.
Justin called for Medevac and an extraction team.
The beast twitched out its last bit of life on top of me.
To the beating sound of the rotors, the whine of the turbine, flying over that broken landscape, I died too.
I died and something altogether different came into being.
#
I stopped my narrative there. The images were all still so vivid. I rubbed my eyes with a trembling hand.
I looked up to see Capon with his mouth ajar.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry, you s
aid you died?” he asked.
I had? I suppose I had.
“Yes, I was dead for almost five minutes, or so I was told. They were able to get enough blood into me and then jump-started my heart on the aircraft.”
Capon said nothing. Pondering.
“Well, John, that’s quite a story. You were at Walter Reed for almost six months after that.”
“Yes.”
“So, let’s see I’m getting this straight. You were attacked by a werewolf in Africa?”
“No, not a wolf. A hyena.”
“A were-hyena?”
I’ll admit, were-hyena lacks the alliterative allure of werewolf, so I said, “Bouda. It’s something that is neither a man nor an animal. Bent into the shape of one or the other.
The diploma behind the little man reflected the final orange rays of the day’s sun.
“Bouda then. So this Bouda bit you. Does this mean you turn into a monster, like when someone is bitten by a werewolf? The werewolf’s curse?” He didn’t sound like he believed me.
“It’s supposed to be a gift, not a curse. It comes to you through the mother’s blood, when you come into life.”
I paused, but he didn’t appear to get it.
“Usually, during birth, the mother has the gift and as you come into life you get the gift. Through the blood. In my case I was dead and came back into life through the blood. Afrah’s blood was all over me.”
The young psychiatrist didn’t say anything at first. He started and then stopped twice, before finally saying, “And this is why you need your prescription?”
It was admirable how hard he tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice.
“The medication is important to keep the compulsions under control,” I said.
The clock ticked off a few more seconds as the young psychiatrist processed the information.
“So, what exactly are these compulsions like, John? Please just use plain language to describe how you feel.” He leaned back in his chair and neatly placed the gold pen on the desk. He steepled his fingers. Waiting.
“I obsess about transforming into a monster. And the compulsions, well, what do you think a flesh-eating monster would feel compelled to do?”
There was no answer as he nodded. He picked up the gold pen with my chart.
“Ideations of lycanthropy,” he said as he wrote.
I shrugged out a slight sigh.
“So, when the moon comes up?” he asked.
I wasn’t good at telling the difference between smug and condescending, but I knew I didn’t like either.
“No. Wolves need the moon, the Bouda comes out in the dark. When the sun no longer shines,” I said.
“Has anyone discussed schizotypal personality disorders with you yet, John?
I didn’t respond, as I said, I’m no good with psychobabble.
“Magic and unusual perceptual experiences speak toward a schizotypal personality, much more than OCD.”
“Does that get my prescription filled?” I asked.
“What? Oh, no no no. Anti-compulsive medication isn’t the appropriate treatment. I think we have a lot of work to do here, John.” He seemed very excited by the prospect. Perhaps he could even write another paper?
Through the window I could see the bright orb of the sun descending below the horizon. The elm jerked like a spasmodic as the wind gusted.
“We’re done then,” I said as I stood abruptly.
“John?”
I turned and walked to the door.
“Captain Rogers! We are not finished this assessment.” His voice cracked just a little at his attempt at a command voice.
The psychiatric services staff had gone for the day. I couldn’t hear anyone in the rooms beyond. Quiet as the proverbial tomb.
The door had an old-fashioned deadbolt that made a grinding clink as I locked it tight.
Apprehensive creases around the eyes of the spare psychiatrist was the only response o he made.
New shirts cost money and as a disabled vet I was on a fixed income, so I started to unbutton my shirt before I tore through it. My joints burned as I gave way to the transformation.
I’ve never seen myself transform before, but I saw it then in the reflective glasses of the doc. Through my own reflected image, I could see his eyes go wide.
“Now, don’t you think it would have been easier all around, to just refill my prescription?” I growled a little on the last word as I spat out the first of my teeth.
The Long Road to Sanctum
From his vantage atop the broken overpass, Cadmus scanned the dead horizon.
He shifted his grip on the rifle and said, “Wolves.”
The two young caravan guards strained their eyes in the direction the huge man indicated.
Eyes darting back and forth over the sunburned scrub and Domino said, “Are you sure? All’s I see are heat shimmers.” Sweat ran pale rivulets through the boy's dust-covered face. This guard was the taller of the two dark-haired brothers, not bent with a twisted spine like the other.
Cadmus nodded. “Three or four.” He squinted his already hooded dark eyes and then inhaled deeply of the slight breeze. “Males. Probably a raiding party for the pack that ranges south bank Platte. Could be rogues, but I doubt it, being on the edge of claimed lands.”
“They going to attack, maybe?” Checker asked. He was the smaller brother, bent and twisty-backed like so many of the normals born after the world began to die. The young man, boy not more than fourteen really, continued to shift his grip on the old single-barrel shotgun he held by his side.
Cadmus turned his massive head to the boy and laid an eye on him. “If I weren’t here, they’d have tried you last night.”
The two young guards exchanged a look as if contemplating an exclamation of youthful bravado. Cadmus knew it would sound impotent, with real monsters so close and them standing less than two-thirds his height.
He raised his pristine bolt-action rifle and sighted east through the scope for a better look. “Not just my scent boys, I’m sure they smell the silver in my gun.”
“What should we do?” Domino asked. This boy’s shotgun had two barrels, an old over-and-under, but Cadmus knew that neither of the brothers had silver on them.
“Long as they stay wolf and keep low in the swales I can’t get a shot. So, press on toward Sanctum is all we can do. Hope it’s just them and they don’t bring more.”
Cadmus lowered the long rifle and held it in the crook of his arm while he slipped covers back over the scope lenses to protect them from the dust and grit. Then he took a long drink from the water skin Checkers offered him.
“See anything?” the old voice called up from the cracked asphalt below the overpass.
Domino started to call back and Cadmus silenced him with a look. “No need to scream the bad news down and spook the pilgrims, we’ll tell your father up close.”
Cadmus leaned over and rumbled down at the old man at the head of the little caravan in his deep bass voice, “Clear for miles, but no time to lolly and gag!”
Before they started back down, Cadmus stopped the two boys. He pushed aside dead brush with the barrel of his rifle. Empty sockets stared up from a little pyramid of bleached human skulls that reeked of stale urine.
"What is it?" Domino asked.
"Totem. Marks the edge of the pack's lands we're skirting," Cadmus said.
"I'd have never seen if you didn't point it out." Checkers said.
"Wasn't there for you to see. Keeps other wolves out."
As they slid down the side of the embankment, their footfalls made small avalanches of scree and broken concrete, throwing up little clouds of dust. As he half-walked, half-slid down the dry slope to the cracked old highway, Cadmus caught the gaze of the old man and gave a come-here jerk with his chin.
The old man left his wagon and limped over. The vehicle had been an old flatbed Toyota pickup of indeterminate color with road-smoothed rubber tires, now pulled by two skinny oxen. The stain
ed green canvas pulled up over bent aluminum stays hid the old man's mercantile and the special package he transported.
Cadmus could tell the oxen weren't really needed as the engine smelled like it had worked sometime in the last few months.
Joseph was probably middle-aged when the old world died, now he looked ancient. Funny a man that old with two young sons. He had organized this caravan and hired Cadmus to provide added security for the one hundred and something miles from Trade City to within sight of Sanctum. Just to within sight, as Cadmus wouldn¹t be welcomed in with the normals.
Behind the mercantile wagon, three other carts rested in the shade of the broken overpass. Two had been the chassis of cars at one time, now with sun-bleached timbers across the steel frames, piled with junk and pulled by sickly cattle. Five wasted men between them. The last was a light thing; tarp-covered, new-made cart of wood, rubber-less bicycle tires for wheels, being pushed and pulled by a band of five new-religioners. The two old men and three old women, with their shabby cloaks and helix pendants, were pilgrims going to Sanctum.
Cadmus hadn’t seen the girl hidden inside, just her eyes in the shadow of the parted tarp. Her eyes and her promising smell. They thought he didn’t know about her, but he did, and she was called Harmony.
Joseph came up close to Cadmus and his own two boys and quietly asked, “What’d you see? Is it shamblers?”
Cadmus smiled broadly and waved to the raggedly dressed bobble-heads watching from the shade. Most wore the pockmark-scars of Tyson's syndrome. One held a crossbow, one a makeshift spear. A scruffy goat, leashed to a wagon, bleated questioningly as if for the whole crowd. Quietly to Joseph, he said, “Raiding party of wolves. Maybe two miles up ahead.”
Joseph sucked air through his remaining teeth and smacked his straw hat back on his head. Sweat beads, a deep red crease on his forehead and a look of real pain came up as the color rose in his cheeks.
Outside of the Wire Page 4
