by Mark Tufo
It looked like it was going to work, too, until the werewolves devised a new tactic and were using the backs of their brethren to propel themselves up and over the horse riders, where they could now attack from behind. The V became a tight O, as the edges collapsed in to protect their flanks. It was all over now except for the bloodshed. My mind would surely snap if I had to watch Azile die; the only good that could possibly come out of it would be that Lunos would see no reason to keep me around. My end would immediately follow hers.
“Just go back,” I said breathlessly. They were as doomed as I was. So much loss; even if I was saved, how could the scales ever be balanced? How many parentless children would look at me and wonder why my life was more valuable than their mother’s or father’s? I don’t know who had the crazy idea for what happened next but it was genius—to a point. The only way I can describe it is that a wooden tank came out of that gate. The timber had to be six inches thick if they hoped to repel the attack of the werewolves. Large wooden wheels were mostly hidden inside the structure; there was about eight inches of ground clearance where I saw the many feet enabling the locomotion. Looked like something straight out of the Flintstones. Nobody who reads this is going to know who they were. Suffice it to say they were a family that lived before the advent of the combustible engine and thus used their feet and legs to propel their machinery.
Unlike a tank, this had no turret. It was quite literally a wooden box with a flat top. Rifle barrels were pointed out of ports spaced about a foot apart, which ran around the entire structure. It was making decent time to where Azile was stranded, though the terrain was doing its best to bog them down. I can’t even imagine how much the thing must have weighed; probably more than a standard car. I could see wisps of smoke as the battle box began to engage the enemy, who as of yet, were still largely ignoring the gigantic charging container in the room. That quickly changed when they realized it was killing some of them. A great many peeled off from contact with Azile to attack the new enemy. Those that got close enough dug thick grooves into the wood, though they never seemed to get a second swipe as they were riddled with projectiles.
The tank’s downfall was going to be its lack of maneuverability. The werewolves were crowding around it, doing their best to shred it apart. Even those that died in vain were going to make progress difficult for the men inside, as they choked up the pathway. Two werewolves had jumped on top and were digging like dogs hiding a bone. Chips sprayed everywhere, looked like an industrial wood chipper. Seems the makers had thought of this contingency and were now using holes bored into the top to shake loose the fleas that had attached themselves. Behind the tank, came a line of men with Lana leading them, sweeping clear those that tried to bog the tank down. By now, Azile had what looked like fireworks erupting from her circle. Flares of death-dealing pyrotechnics lodged into werewolf chests like missiles. I looked long and hard for Mathieu, I knew without a shadow of a doubt if he were not seriously injured or dead he would be in that charge; it hurt to just think about it. Ultimately, I refused to.
For the first time in a very long time, mankind was pushing the larger werewolf force back. I don’t know what the turning point had been. Maybe it was pure frustration, maybe it was starvation, or maybe they were just fucking sick of being scared, but townsfolk poured from the gate by the score. Most had some form of a weapon; some held nothing more than a sickle or hammer, but they all were out for some small measure of payback for what they’d been through and what they’d lost. I understood that feeling. I lived a fair majority of my life rife with the desire to exact justice, rather than worrying about my personal safety. The battle was still intense. The werewolves had not given up their fight, only ground, and that in the measure of inches.
I let that slippery fuck, hope, slide into my mind. Just the mere thought of being able to rub my wrists, to swing my arms…it was indescribable. At some point, when I regained my strength, I was going to hunt Lunos down and deliver some cruelty in the worst way imaginable. I had yet to come up with the specifics, but just thinking about it made my eyes squint and I wanted to laugh like an arch villain in one of my kids’ cartoons. Azile’s formation had been able to re-form into a wedge and was making progress as the wooden tank covered their rear. Lana’s men flanked the sides, sweeping everything away like garbage at the end of a music festival. The townsfolk were making quick work of any of the werewolves that were laying hurt in the field. They would descend upon the beast and in a flurry of pitchfork stabs or club strikes, finish off what had already been started.
“I’m going to be saved.” I hadn’t finished that last word when I felt a claw rip through my side. Had to have been six inches deep. No telling how many internal organs had been lacerated. I was half human and half vampire; I wasn’t sure if it took a beheading or a burning to ultimately kill me. I honestly didn’t think so, though. I was dying right here and right now. Even Ganlin had told Lunos he was killing me, and they hadn’t been lighting any fires or sharpening guillotines, so I had to assume it was possible to just torment me to death. Sure, I had great recuperative powers, but I’d been drained dry and had already been on reserves for a while. Dehydration, torture, starvation, infection, a damaged spinal column, and now a torn open liver; it was safe to say I was on my final countdown.
“Lunos sends his regards.” Another strike. By the sound of it, he dislocated my hip and probably took a fair amount of muscle. This might be the only time I’ll say I was happy my back was broken. Didn’t feel a damn thing. I don’t know if he thought I was being stoic or some shit, but my lack of response seemed to piss him off to no end. He came around to the front. “I am going to rip your face off.” With his arm outstretched, he poised to strike. The round that struck him in the ribcage blew right through and into my tortured shoulders. Up to this point, I didn’t think I could experience any higher threshold of pain. It sometimes amazes me how many times I can be wrong.
Well, if my screaming had irked him, that bullet sent him over the edge. He spun fast and bounded to get at the aggressor, I could barely register the fact that I still had my mug attached. Blood poured out of me like it was in a rush to fertilize the ground, though I felt this would be barren ground for quite some time, if just from the ghosts that would haunt the place. Azile and company were within fifty yards; didn’t matter, could have been fifty miles. My soul had already packed its bags, warmed up, and was in a full-throated warble for its swan song. It was time. A warm feeling started in my chest and began to slowly expand outwards; my life’s hourglass losing sand. But instead of my time being up when the last grain dropped through the neck, it would be when that spreading warmth touched the very tips of my fingers.
I got a wry smile on my lips when I thought about how awkward heaven was going to be when my new family showed up. I wondered how Thanksgiving would go. They say you unite with your loved ones when you die, but doesn’t that get mighty crowded? I’d like to think Tracy never loved anyone before me, but that’s asinine thinking. So how does that work out? Does everybody we ever loved show up? I mean, eventually if you go down the entire line of connection, that would theoretically include everyone, wouldn’t it?
“Well, that’s cool. I always wanted to meet Kevin Bacon.” The heat had made it to the tops of my arms and at least the top of my hips. There all feeling ceased. I looked over to Azile; she still wasn’t aware of just how close to passing over I was. Bailey, though, she saw. I could see the alarm in her face from twenty-five yards away. I wanted to tell her to not worry about it, that it was okay. That I was ready. There were two werewolves between her and myself. The one she had wounded was not of a mind to share in his kill as he elbowed the other out of his way. Bailey put two more rounds in him—one through his forearm, which was now hanging down at a freakish angle, and the other struck the side of his neck.
He was bleeding at a clip to match my own, but he was far from gone. With his undamaged hand, he swiped at Bailey, throwing her clear from her horse. She cried out
in pain as she clutched at her stomach. I was rapidly losing my ability to comprehend what was happening all around me. All I cared about was the all-embracing warmth which had slid to my elbows. Another had put a lance straight through the werewolf, ending his rampage of destruction. Bailey had slowly risen and was coming toward me. Both of her hands were clutched over a wound in her midsection, but to call what she had a wound was like calling the Grand Canyon a hole in the ground. She would be joining me soon. I thought perhaps we could travel together, divvy up some of the expenses.
“I would like that,” I told her as my wrists heated up. “It will be nice to not be so lonely.” I smiled at her. A look of pain and confusion was on her face. She stood before me, as regal as the day I had met her. I loved her and always would.
“Do not let me die in vain, Michael Talbot.”
“Never. Are you coming with me, Bailey?” I hoped she would. I was scared. For all the time I’d been waiting for this, I was truly scared for myself; but more so for those I was leaving behind.
“Where I go, I must go alone,” she told me.
“I…I don’t understand.” For as warm as my body felt, there was a cold chill passing around me.
She shushed me with a blood coated hand. “Drink…you must drink.”
The taste of the salty solution on my tongue was almost more than I could handle as a baser part of me took over and screamed for survival. Demanded it! Get that the fuck away from me! Get that the fuck closer!
She placed her forearm into my mouth; my canines as much under my power as a fourteen-year-old boy’s rigidity. They elongated. She winced as she dragged her arm back and forth, tearing through her velvety skin. Blood began to pool in my mouth, yet I would not, I could not. It was my time to die and I would not take her with me.
She let go the hand against her stomach. The wound was over a foot long and half that deep. I could see the shine of her internal organs as they pulsed. She took her free hand and rubbed the side of my face.
“I am not long for this world, Michael Talbot. I count it as a blessing that I got to fight by your side. I will tell my great grandfather of your deeds. He will be so proud.”
I had turned my head. “Please don’t, Bailey.” I was crying.
She looked down to her laceration. “I do not believe even your doctors could have saved me. Grant me my dying wish, Michael. You must live…to right these wrongs, to keep the Red Witch in line. To raise your children. There are still so many things you need to do.”
“I’m long overdue; there are those who are waiting for me.”
“Just a little while longer.” She coughed and sagged. “Please do this for me. I can die well knowing I have done this deed for the world.”
She gasped when I sunk my teeth into her arm. I drank hungrily, I drank greedily, all extraneous thought pushed from my mind. She slowly sank to the ground, her arm lodged in my mouth kept her from falling over. The death march had begun to recede within me but had taken up its cause with Bailey. When she finally slumped over dead, I released my grip on her. Tears flowed from me and fell upon her prone body in large quantities. For good or bad I would live another day. It wasn’t like Popeye getting ahold of a can of spinach strong, but I could feel my body working to regenerate all the ills that had befallen it. My head slumped forward; a battle raged all around me but I slept. Win or lose, I was out of this fight.
Chapter 21
MIKE JOURNAL ENTRY 18
*
I REMEMBER HANDS on me at some point, another warmth spreading through me…though this one was vastly more comforting than the last. There was crying, yelling, it was all a haze; my eyes were open for none of it. There was the jostle of being placed over a saddle. Two days later, according to Mathieu, I awoke inside Denarth’s equivalent of a hospital. Five feet away was my friend. I opened my eyes and turned my head to see that he was reading something.
“Playboy?” I asked groggily.
“Socrates,” he answered.
“Of course it is,” I said hoarsely. “I’m thinking nudey magazine and you’re reading up on ancient Western battle ethics.”
“I wonder which of us is more the animal.” He was joking. His tone became sober as he put the book down. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m alive.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“Mathieu…I do not have words for what I am feeling right now. Why are you here? Did you just want to sleep next to me? Is there something you need to tell Lana before the wedding?” I deftly and completely deflected the conversation from myself. It could be years; it could be forever—or never, before I could sift through the tangle of emotions I was feeling. What dominated, and was easily the most destructive, was the hunger for revenge, retribution. As soon as I could move under my own power, I would take a horse and a rifle and hunt the werewolves and their leader into oblivion. Mathieu had shifted to show me his leg, or rather his lack of. My heart sank. Another casualty of this stupid war.
“It is okay, Michael, it is not as bad as it seems.”
“You lost your leg Mathieu, for me.”
“It’s just a flesh wound,” he said. I smiled at his attempt to lighten the mood. “Anyway, it wasn’t just for you Michael. I would sacrifice more than this to defend Denarth, to save the life of the ones I love. Not every battle we face must include you. All the ills in the world cannot be laid at your feet. Though you think you must, you do not need to bend down and hoist them onto your shoulders.” I moved to interrupt, but he held up his hand to silence me. I fell back on my pillow; my friends had been alright without me.
“I have been victorious in my own, personal war,” he continued. “Azile has promised me a prosthetic that she said will only leave me with a slight limp. I am alive. I am to be married to the woman I love. The werewolves have been driven from this place; our place. There are many things to be happy for.”
“Bailey?” His eyes told me all I needed to know.
“There are also many things to be sad for. We mourn, Michael, but we must still live, and it is best to live on with light in our hearts; a light our loved ones can follow wherever they are. We can find beauty, comfort and happiness in all that is around us; if we seek it. I see the darkness in the path you would go down. I am telling you that it will consume you if you allow it to; then you will truly be lost to us.”
“Are you on drugs?”
“Why yes, I am on a variety of painkillers including poppy and cannabis.”
“I thought so. Didn’t occur to you to share, did it? Or are you hoarding it all for yourself?”
“The cabinet is over there.” He pointed to a white bureau.
“Really? It’s that easy?” I moved the blanket off of my legs. As Mathieu spoke, I had consciously avoided looking at myself. I had not been ready to see the aftermath of the torture so readily available for viewing. My legs were a mottled yellow and purple, hundreds, if not thousands of red bumps covered every part of me. I looked more like some alien life form come to visit than any earth-man. “My face look like this too?” I asked, pointing to my legs.
“Very much so. If not for the narcotics, I do not believe I would be capable of glancing upon you without retching.” He was joking. At least, I think he was joking. I placed my feet on the ground—I had not been expecting the pain that rocketed up from the contact. Thick yellow liquid shot out from around my foot like I’d stepped on an old sponge filled with custard. “That’s just gross.”
I had a difficult time unfurling; in fact, I couldn’t completely stand. I looked very much like Quasimodo of Notre Dame. I shuffled along, bent and leaking, the yellow custardy mixture giving way to a clearer fluid which took on a pinkish hue before going to blood red. My feet had split and were now leaving a trail of evidence. It was going to be kind of difficult to say that it wasn’t me that had raided the medicine cabinet. I had one hand on the knob about to pull the drawer open; it would be worth getting caught if I could dull the internal and external pain I was
feeling.
“What are you doing?” It was Azile, she was standing by the bed I had moments ago vacated.
“Mathieu said they kept the magazines in here.”
“You have enough morphine in you to tranquilize a baby elephant. Perhaps you should come and lie down. Shame on you, Mathieu!” He, all of a sudden, got much more interested in the book he’d set aside.
I held longingly on to that knob, not quite ready to give up what I had fought so valiantly to reach.
“So close…I’ll be back,” I promised before I let go. I could nearly glide upon the layer of slime I’d laid down previously.
“How are you?” she asked tenderly, as she helped me back into bed.
“Bailey’s dead,” I sobbed. I had tried to hold it in, but here was the most comforting presence in my life, and everything was released. It was one thing to cry in front of Azile, quite another in front of Mathieu. I was of the old guard–one never showed weakness to a friend. But here was my heart; I had long moved past the point of caring who saw, and I could not stop the flood of emotions that poured forth. Bailey represented one more unfathomable loss in a deluge of them. One would think it would get easier to accept them as they began to pile up. If anything, it somehow got worse. To acknowledge the accumulation was oftentimes too difficult to bear.
“She is.” Azile had wrapped her arms around my head as I sobbed into her chest. “These are merely words, my love, and will not ease your heart right now, but at some point, you will be able to take some small measure of comfort from them. She died to save you. She is a heroine to her people. She knew she could not die a more meaningful death.”
She was right, but the only word I really heard was “death”. It all boiled down to the fact that she was no longer here. Dying well, dying bad, dying with dignity, dying with disgrace…none of it fucking mattered. That person was gone.
