by Hunter Blain
“Jose?” Hector repeated more to himself than in question. Jaime understood this and didn’t respond as the boss considered the information. “Good. He was a cowardly traitor that fled his post and stole one of my trucks. May he rot in Hell.”
“Well,” Jaime started, choosing his words carefully. He hadn’t gotten to where he was by having a loose filter between his mind and mouth. “The only bodies that were recovered were that of his family. If my contact’s information is accurate, and it usually is, Jose . . . is . . . the wolf, jefe.”
Jaime admired the way in which his leader always took information, no matter how outlandish. Hector simply brought his hand up to his chin and stroked it while processing the new development.
“Two wolves?” Hector asked.
“Yes, jefe,” Jaime responded.
“Last known location?”
“The big one is still on course for us. Jose was seen heading in this general direction at sunset.”
“General direction?” Hector repeated. “Where was he at?”
“He was at a prison being processed before he, ah, transformed, I guess you would say, and killed almost every employee. The only person left in the wing he escaped from was an administrative assistant who rambled on about a demon. Apparently, no one believed her until the security footage was reviewed. Now the government is involved.”
“Which branch?”
“Jefe?” Jaime asked, searching for clarification.
“Which branch of the government—” Hector turned his head slowly to Jaime, who was beginning to annoy him, “—is involved?”
“Military, jefe.”
“Hmm. That is an odd response indeed. They must know something that we don’t. Either way, this might present a problem for us. Ready the troops. We need to be out of the city within the hou—”
Hector was cut off by a muffled cry from outside followed quickly by the panicked gunfire from someone squeezing a trigger, expending an entire magazine in a few seconds.
The surprised yell hideously mutated into a shrill shriek before being cut off, like someone pushing the mute button.
Eyes, which had been roaming between one another, landed on Hector, who shook his head almost in agitation.
“Three-second bursts. How many times do we have to train them on three . . . second . . . bursts?”
In answer, two more rifles began barking in controlled patterns before one went silent. Cries of, “No!” were heard as the remaining gun went empty and the gunman met his death.
Hector turned to Jaime, who was in charge of ammunition, and arched an eyebrow.
“The only silver rounds we,” Jaime cleared his throat as a hand went up to pull at his collar, fully aware of his misstep, “could make or find, are there.” He gestured to a table with enough chrome-plated AK-47s for everyone in the room; all except for Hector, who had a gold-plated one. Next to each of the fully auto machine guns were two magazines, with all but one of the weapons having a set.
“I will take the last mag. I want everyone else to have two,” Hector declared.
Eyes once again began searching, unsure of the jefe’s intentions. All of these men were in managerial positions and had long since passed their fighting days.
“There are eight of you with fully automatic rifles containing .308 rounds. You have thirty rounds per mag, and two mags each. That fucking wolf had better not make it to me. Am I clear?”
In unison, the room muttered, “Yes, jefe.”
“AM I FUCKING CLEAR?!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.
“YES, JEFE!” the room answered with more effort and bravado.
“Good. Now set up four two-man teams throughout the house. Make goddamn sure you don’t hit one another in the cross fire. I will be in the panic room, watching you from the cameras. Do not disappoint me.” His tone suggested the men should have more to fear from him than from some damn dog.
The men each picked up a chrome-plated rifle, clumsily slapped in a magazine of silver rounds, and stuck the other somewhere on their person. Hands that had forgotten combat trembled as charging handles were yanked, chambering a round. Perspiring brows were wiped with the sleeves of expensive, custom dress shirts. Each of the men looked like they belonged on the board of a successful corporation rather than a cartel. All except Miguel, who was the newest amongst the ranks. His hands moved with practiced precision, all too familiar with war.
Miguel — whom the other generals had commonly mocked for being the “new guy” — looked around at eyes full of fear, and got angry.
He pointed at the first man and then to the one next to him before saying, “Team One.” His finger went to the third and fourth men. “Team Two.” Five and six were next. “Team Three, which leaves you with me,” he commanded as he placed a firm hand on the shoulder of the fat man closest to him. Everyone stared at him like deer in headlights.
“Team One, by the front door so you can cover the garage entrance. Stay within arm’s length. Man in front, crouch down.” Miguel turned to the next set of men. “Team Two, cover the back door. Use the kitchen island as cover. Three, I want you outside of this door watching the stairs. Keep your guns trained there so you don’t hit Team One. I’ll stay in this room and make sure nothing gets to Hector.” It was unheard of for someone as new as Miguel to refer to Hector as anything but jefe. Hell, even Jaime knew when to show respect.
“Make fucking sure your safeties are disengaged and your fingers are off the triggers until you get into position. If you’ve forgotten how to operate a firearm, use single-round fire for control. If you go full auto, you can empty an entire mag in a few seconds and hit nothing but the ceiling from recoil. If you are comfortable, use burst fire. Now, weapons are hot; get into your positions.”
The men exchanged worried glances before Miguel screamed, “What are you waiting for? A fucking invitation from the damn thing? Go!” The generals scurried out the door, with Teams One and Two descending the stairs.
“Stand there,” Miguel told his rotund teammate, pointing to the middle of the room.
“Wh-why?”
“Because I told you to,” Miguel answered while squaring his body toward the man. His index finger, which had been resting just over the guard, slid into place, resting ever so lightly on the trigger.
The man, whose name Miguel didn’t know or needed to know, shut his mouth and shook his head as he stood where instructed. After grabbing the TV remote, Miguel moved to the corner of the room that provided the best line of sight to the door while still offering what’s-his-name up as a tasty morsel, if needed. If the fools downstairs shoot themselves and the monster made it up, Miguel might even let it get his fat meat-shield before he ended its unnatural life.
Pointing the remote at the LED screen that had to easily measure over ninety inches — maybe even a hundred — Miguel pressed the source button. The image changed from a sports game that had been paused all day to the security footage.
Eight cameras lined the outside of the house, covering every possible angle of approach, while four more were inside. The first covered the front door, and Miguel gritted his teeth at seeing that the men were on opposite sides of the door with their guns pointed at one another.
“Fucking imbeciles,” Miguel muttered as he looked at the camera that covered the back door. He couldn’t see the men in the kitchen.
Another camera was positioned above the door to the room Miguel occupied. He was somewhat comforted to see that both men stood on opposite sides of the camera with their muzzles pointed downrange.
The last camera showed a large three-car garage that had Hector’s personal, modified Escalade. A man burst into the scene, desperately running from something off-screen with windmilling arms. Miguel’s face never changed as he registered what was happening, whereas his fat meat-shield gasped and shot a hand up to his glistening face.
Miguel squinted at the fat man with disgust before returning his calculating gaze to the screen. An enormous wolf with thick slabs
of muscle pounced, crumpling the man like a Great Dane tackling a small child. He knew this wasn’t the bipedal wolf from the first attacks.
Though the cameras did not have audio, Miguel could hear the whisper of the scream coming from the other side of the house.
The fat man turned with quivering wide eyes and squeaked out, “What do we do?”
“Shut up,” Miguel instructed tersely without taking his eyes off the wolf as it devoured the idiot in the garage. If it came time for Miguel to die, he wouldn’t run like a coward.
The wolf stopped midmeal and perked his ears as he turned and faced toward the house. Miguel’s brow furrowed right as an explosion rocked the entire house.
Miguel’s eyes shot to one of the squares on the massive TV and set his jaw right as the camera was knocked from the ten-foot-tall ceiling, leaving behind a black section of the screen that read, “No Signal.”
“Wha-wha-what was that?” the meat-shield stammered.
“I said shut up,” Miguel repeated more harshly as his mind assessed the developing situation. He pulled a toothpick from his pocket and placed it between his upper and lower molars right as a volley of gunfire was cut off prematurely. A distorted train horn pierced the house, vibrating the floor underneath the carpet.
As the rotund man dropped his gun to shield his ears, Miguel’s eyes flicked to the screen and watched as the four-legged wolf broke through the garage door and into the house. The men who had been positioned by the front door began to scream as they wildly shot at the approaching beast. The man closest tried to move and put distance between the wolf and himself, only to be cut down by his teammate’s uncontrolled gunfire.
Miguel could feel a vein bulging in his temple, not from fear or excitement but from furious anger at the ineptitude of the other men who dared call themselves generals.
The wolf cleared the distance to the remaining man in a fraction of a second and began tearing into him.
Miguel’s eyes went to the team standing just outside the door and was surprised when the floor crumbled beneath them as something swiped upward from the ground floor.
“Pick up your fucking gun,” Miguel demanded in a hushed, agitated whisper.
The man did as commanded by kneeling on one knee to pick up the fallen weapon because he was too fucking fat to bend over at the waist. God, how does the piece of shit put on his own fucking socks or wipe his ass? Miguel thought to himself as he quietly pressed himself further into the corner and brought his rifle up. The muzzle was pointed somewhere between the floor a few feet in front of him and the door.
Eyes flicked to the screen, and what Miguel saw made his mouth gape and toothpick almost fall from his mouth. He quickly closed his lips while staring with determined eyes at the screen.
The wolf was in the living room by the stairs and was barking up a storm at something off-screen, but wasn’t attacking. Without even having to think about it, he knew that the larger wolf they had first been brought in for was the thing the Jose-dog was barking at.
The four-legged wolf lunged and something blurred, smacking Jose away to land somewhere off camera.
Miguel wanted to call out to his teammate to get ready, but a better idea came to mind after weighing his options for optimal survival.
A knife slid from the small of Miguel’s back and was expertly thrown into the meaty thigh of the fat man with a thump. As expected, the meat slab wailed and dropped his gun as sweaty hands shot to the oozing blood.
Two massive humanoid hands the size of freaking cinder blocks breached through the floor; it looked like the videos Miguel had seen of great white sharks hunting seals. Insanely long fingers tipped with raptor claws wrapped around the shrieking, useless man and started pulling him down.
Miguel leaped forward to the edge of the hole and began sending quick bursts of silver rounds below. A few of the bullets found their intended target as blood spattered across Miguel’s hands and face before the massive black mass moved away, leaving behind half of the fat man. Wide eyes stared at Miguel as intestines uncoiled. The man struggled to lift his head to see what was spilling out of him, and with trembling hands tried futilely to put his insides back in their original configuration. Wide eyes relaxed as heaving gasps subsided, and the man’s gaze went unfocused. Blood continued to pour out of him like an overly filled bucket being tipped over. With a light nudge, Miguel kicked the rest of the man — who was much lighter all of a sudden — through the hole. He spit out his toothpick to land on the cheek of the pale fat man.
Something blurred on the screen and Miguel looked up right as the door to the room burst inward, sending wooden shrapnel toward Miguel, who was bringing his weapon up as his finger began squeezing the trigger.
As debris slammed into his face, Miguel clenched his eyes shut as he turned his head while continuing to fire downrange to where he thought the monster was.
There was a split second of a shriek before something crashed into Miguel and threw him back far enough to slam his head into the bookcase on the far wall. Several thick first-edition books tumbled to the ground all around him, with a few hitting his shoulders and already reeling head.
Something was whimpering as Miguel regained his senses. A woozy gaze roamed around where he lay, seeking his weapon. It was a few feet away from him, a book lying on top of the chrome-plated body.
With a groan of effort, he began to lean over before someone threw what must have been boiling water over his lower back and down one of his legs. Miguel had been reaching for the weapon when his body had informed him of this new and intense damage, and he dropped face-first into the floor. He knew immediately that he had ruptured a disc. It wasn’t the first time, but it was definitely the worst.
The whimpering turned into a growl, and Miguel dared one eye to open, seeing the wolf getting to his feet. His fur was matted in a few spots along his flank, and Miguel knew he had hit him.
With renewed vigor, he pushed himself up onto his elbows and reached for his AK again, doing his best to ignore the lightning of pain shooting from his lower back and legs.
The floor under the weapon vanished with the blurring swipe of an unnaturally massive hand. Twin yellow orbs scowled back from plumes of dust, prompting Miguel to gasp in surprise and push along the bookcase until he was in a seated position.
Looking to his side, he saw the closed window and began crawling on his hands and knees, wincing with every movement.
Oh God, will I have to live the rest of my life with this pain?
Miguel didn’t know it at the time, but the answer had two parts, one being, “Yes,” and the other being, “I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Once he reached the windowsill, Miguel lifted himself up and heard as much as felt his vertebrae pop. There was a flash of white across his vision that was replaced by black swirls, like ants over a carcass, as it eased back into normality. He knew then his back was broken instead of simply having ruptured discs. He wished he had only ruptured them.
Lifting bloody, trembling hands, Miguel undid the first latch of the window lock before moving toward the other.
Books were moved behind him, and Miguel looked at the reflection of the window to see the Jose-wolf was right behind him.
A hand that was trying its best to follow directions and open the window undid the last latch before its fingers slid under the frame and lifted the glass. It opened smoothly, and for the briefest of moments, Miguel thought he was going to be okay. His mind even formulated a plan for how he was going to get to the hospital for his back. He would have to take an AK from one of the bodies downstairs and use it to press on the gas pedal. Easy, no problemo.
The warmth from outside smacked him in the face, and the smell of the city flooded his nostrils as moonlight lit the way for his escape.
With a body that seemed to weigh a thousand kilos, Miguel began pulling his torso out the window, only to have his breath taken away as electricity arced from his calf and up his body.
Oh, well, maybe I didn’t f
ully break it. That means I won’t need the AK and can use my feet, he told himself as his brain promised he would be okay.
There was a crunch that Miguel could feel in his teeth as something tried to yank him back inside. It must have only gotten his jeans because after a tearing sound, the pressure on him was let up. Miguel saw this as his opportunity and began clawing at the roof shingles with renewed hope.
The wolf tried for his other leg and fire erupted from his remaining calf as there was another yank and tearing sound. Miguel knew he was probably fine because it didn’t hurt anymore, though his vision was getting dark around the edges.
He lifted his leg to push at the bookcase, but apparently had misjudged his position because he couldn’t get a foothold. Hadn’t the bookshelf been right next to the window?
Miguel ignored his screaming brain’s orders to keep going and lifted his head while craning his neck to look back inside. His world began to tumble as sheets of meat and gore hung off the end of Miguel’s knee, spurting blood and covering the first-edition books.
Hector isn’t going to like that, Miguel thought to himself before the wolf lifted his gore-covered muzzle and swallowed a mouthful of meat, bone, and even an expensive shoe comprised of 100% authentic Italian leather. The wolf took one step forward and opened his dripping jaws, enveloping all of Miguel’s waist between his legs. Teeth clamped down on his pubic bone and the small of his back, prompting Miguel to screech in both pain and terror before he was yanked back inside.
With Miguel on the ground, the wolf’s jaws closed together as his huge paw pressed into the middle of Miguel’s back and pulled at all the flesh and bone between his teeth. Miguel was momentarily confused as to why the base of his neck and even his eyebrows seemed to hurt from the wolf yanking at his hips.
Oh Mother Mary, help me . . . it’s my skin!
“HELP MEEEEE!” Miguel shrieked as the skin around his eyebrows was pulled down in the direction of his lips. From where Hector was, all he could hear was an unintelligible cry of vowels followed by a crunching sound. The screaming stopped, replaced by barely audible gasps. Hector leaned in and placed his ear against the steel door of his panic room.
