He needed to feed, and soon. It was past midnight, yet still the change had not come.
He dragged his eyes from the woman and looked up, hoping for a glimpse of the moon. The pale milky orb was appearing at the very zenith of the sky, struggling to break free of the clouds that concealed it. Robert willed them to vanish.
The clouds thinned as he watched, their sparse trails creeping away in retreat. Already a shimmer of light peeked out through the almost transparent haze.
But it was not enough. Still the change did not come.
Suddenly, Virginia gripped his arm. “Robert, look over there.”
He looked in confusion where Virginia was pointing. Instead of up at the moon, Virginia pointed to his right, further along the river bank.
“They’re coming toward us,” Virginia said.
At first Robert didn’t understand what Virginia had seen. People were everywhere, standing and walking, singing and shouting. Over their heads, fireworks exploded in a gaudy wall of red and green against the night sky. And there were constables, walking through the crowds toward them. He had seen all that before.
Then, in a flash of understanding, he realized the danger. Those were not regular constables, but the new elite force of constables, dressed in their protective suits and helmets, carbines with small tanks on their uppers at their sides. He counted four, but they worked in teams and more would be there, hidden by the crowd. If Robert and Virginia changed, they would become easy targets.
Robert looked up. “It’s too late,” he said.
The last threads of cloud slipped away, revealing the cold, clear stare of the moon. The moonlight struck his face, its silver beams caressing his skin and working their magic. It was too late to run, too late to hide. The change was already happening.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
St. Bernard Avenue, Seventh Ward, New Year morning, full moon.
The riot spread like wildfire, but the Axeman looked on impassively. It was not his fight. He had not come for it.
Debris lay all around him. Smoke rose from fires started in the street or in buildings along the road, and alarms and sirens rang out in agitation. People shouted at each other. None of it mattered. It was all just noise.
“Spread out, Brothers,” he commanded. “Take your positions.”
Frog climbed onto a nearby carriage to get a better view of the unfolding violence, his oxblood leather jacket, dark glasses and red beard unmistakable among the chaos. Some guy ran up onto the carriage to join him. Frog hurled him to the ground, where he lay on his back like a broken doll.
The crowds surged along the street, breaking against the parked and stranded cars like crashing waves. Among them went rioters, constables, fleeing party-goers, children. They were all the same to the Axeman. He watched without interest as they passed him by.
An omnibus made its way slowly through the crowds as if it was any regular Saturday night and everything would turn out all right. It wouldn’t. The bus driver realized that eventually and tried to turn his vehicle in the middle of the road. It was too narrow for that, however. On board, the passengers stared out fearfully through the glass, or huddled in their seats. The Axeman marked them out for attention. When the change came, they would be easy meat. That bus would be their tomb.
A shout from Frog caught his attention.
Frog had turned his gaze toward the sky and the Axeman looked up, too. A constables’ airship drifted overhead, training a blinding aether searchlight on the anarchy below. The Axeman turned his hyper-sensitized eyes from the painful beam of light. But the airship passed over in vain. The constables could do little to contain the violence and it would surely only get worse.
The dirigible flew away and the Axeman saw something else. Where previously a thick blanket of gray had hidden the night sky, more and more stars were appearing in his enhanced night vision. They twinkled brightly against the velvet blackness. The clouds retreated swiftly, a strong wind sweeping them away like curtains being drawn aside to reveal the eternal majesty of the heavens above.
Suddenly, as promised, the full moon emerged in all its majesty.
The Axeman felt the intense light of the moonbeams burn his face and hands. He threw off his leather jacket and peeled away the shirt beneath to bathe fully in the blazing moonlight. He tore off the wrap covering his small, still perky breasts. He didn’t care that people saw them. He was beyond caring what humans wanted to classify him as. His skin writhed as heat broke over him in a lightning surge. Power coursed through his veins and course black hairs erupted from his arms, chest and face, matting quickly together into a protective coat of thick fur.
A delicious agony rippled through him as his body remade itself from the inside out. His muscles, already strong, bulged larger still, his thighs and triceps pulling taut as the sinews, ligaments and tendons bound themselves like knots. He could feel his very bones growing thicker and pulling like steel rods. His fingers and toes ignited with pain as nails thickened to claws and sharpened into talons. His gums bled as new teeth twisted through, sharp as knives, ready to slice flesh. He swallowed a mouthful of his own blood with pleasure, his tongue drooling with anticipation.
The agony coursed back and forth through every cell of his body, purging weakness, building strength, until all vulnerability had burned to oblivion.
The Axeman clawed the ground, feeling the energy that his rat heart pumped through widened arteries. Power surged through his body. He would explode if he didn’t vent it immediately. Rising onto his hind legs, he released it in a screech of ecstasy, saluting the moon that had given him the gift. He would repay that debt with a blood sacrifice to the Maiden, the Mother and the Crone—the Triple Goddess of the Moon.
The constables’ airship returned, training its searchlight on the rats. It did not matter. The Templeton Brothers no longer shunned bright light. Now that they had changed they need not fear light again.
All around him, people had paused in their actions to look. Constables, looters and panicked bystanders, they were all just prey, and seemed to know it. The Axeman padded into the middle of the street, picking out the weakest. More of the Brothers joined him, pacing in his wake.
A huge red rat leapt down from the car where Frog had stood. Its fiery hackles rose along its back and shoulders like the flames that engulfed the nearby electronics store. The rat that had been Frog rose onto its hind legs and hissed at the moon. Fully stretched, the beast stood eight feet tall.
The other Brothers lent their voices to the chorus as well—Rotgut, Slap Happy, Pig Knuckles and the rest. They wore coats of every color, from the palest white fur to the inkiest black. Now all had changed. The hunt could begin.
The Axeman studied the people closest to him—a young white guy in a green mask and green wool suit and the constable the teen was about to hurl a bottle at. The terror they radiated was like a drug. He bathed in it luxuriously for a moment. Then he leapt.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Bank of the Mississippi River, Seventh Ward, New Year morning, full moon.
The skin along Robert’s arms began to itch. Scales erupted outward, thickening and into black armor. His gums tingled as sharp teeth pushed through. But as Virginia had said, the second change was different.
The first time had felt like a revelation. He had been born again, a new kind of being. The change had gone deep, transforming him from the inside out. He knew exactly what he had experienced that time—resurrection. It was the rapture promised in the New Testament.
Now, he was returning to a familiar state, a condition that was as much a part of him as his human aspect. The deep change had already taken place and did not need to be repeated. The crocodile within him was no longer a stranger. Instead, he realized just how much he had missed it. The armored scales, the enhanced sensory experience, the raw power that surged inside—he craved it as much as he lusted for human flesh and blood.
He turned to the white woman he had been drooling over. She saw him, but like a f
ool stood still as a statue, her eyes wide. Fear had claimed her, and it would be her undoing. He lunged at her and ripped out her throat. She didn’t even have time to scream. Instead, the last sound she made was the gurgle of blood flowing from her open neck.
He ripped at her clothes with his claws and took a bite from her soft flesh. The meat tasted as delectable as he had imagined. He chewed and swallowed it down.
Before he could take another bite, Virginia’s rat face appeared next to his. “Run, Robert. They have guns.”
The constables. In his rush to feed, Robert had all but forgotten them.
Virginia leapt forward through the scattering crowd and dashed off on all fours, heading away from the river and the constables.
Robert turned to see the crowd fleeing in panic in all directions away from him. The sight gave him an undeniable thrill. An urge to chase after them flooded his senses. But through the rush of people, the constables advanced steadily, carbines held at the ready.
Above him came the sudden whirring of the engine of the constables’ steam-powered dirigible. The bright beam of an aether-powered searchlight swept along the ground toward him. If it picked him out, he would surely die.
With a last snarl at the constables, Robert fled.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
St. Bernard Avenue, Seventh Ward, South West New Orleans, New Year morning, full moon.
The oil bomb missed Ida but exploded beneath the steam car, spreading a sheet of fire across the street. She felt it scorch her legs, and stomped at her clothing, dampening the flames before they took hold. Some of her colleagues were not so fortunate. Fire engulfed the two constables standing closest to the car. Yellow flames clung to them like serpents, slithering up their legs to dance across their backs and shoulders. The officer closest to Ida ducked down, clutching his head as the fire raced across his body, turning him into a human torch.
Inside the car, the men and women looked on in horror. A curtain of flame surrounded their vehicle like a fireball.
Ida froze, torn between her colleagues and the people in the steam car. Flames raged in all directions. The heat and light from the fire had fuelled a primitive fear inside her. She experienced again the terror of being trapped in the burning building with Wilguens, flames closing in on all sides with no way out. Her eyes burned, as much from the bright light of the fire as from its heat. She curled up close to the ground, cowering behind her shield, unable to move forward or back, held captive by fear.
A shout from Dabney brought her to her senses. “Ida!” She felt his strong arms gripping her under the shoulders, hauling her to her feet. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”
Up ahead, the rioters advanced again, encouraged by the oil bomb attack. Teens in homburgs, scarves and masks goaded each other on. Their fists held an assortment of clubs, knives and broken bottles.
Ida snapped out of the terror that had held her in its grip. “No. Get these men to safety,” she said to Dabney, indicating the two officers who had been set ablaze. “I’ll get the people out of the car.”
She didn’t pause for a response, but ran to the circle of fire that engulfed the car, searching for a way through the flames. The rear passenger door was clear and she went to it, tugging at the door handle. It held fast. “Open it!” she shouted at the occupants.
The woman in the rear seat pulled helplessly at the locking mechanism of the door. The door remained sealed.
Black smoke billowed around Ida and hot flames reached out from beneath the car, threatening to catch at her. “Cover your face,” she shouted at the woman in the car. She took a step back and aimed a blow at the car window with the heavy shield. The window caved inward in a shower of glass. The woman inside cowered backward.
Ida reached her arm inside and took the woman’s hand. “Climb out!” she yelled over the roar of the fire. “I’ll pull you clear.”
The woman hesitated then leaned through the gap, pushing herself out of the car with Ida’s help. Ida dragged her clear and lowered the woman to her feet.
A hail of stones and bottles fell on them as the rioters pushed forward again. “Run!” Ida shouted. “Run to the constables’ line. They’ll help you.”
The woman ran as she was told, and Ida turned her attention back to the burning car.
The second passenger in the back, a man, was struggling to push himself through the broken window. “Help me!” he called. Ida pulled him through and sent him after the woman. The driver and the other passenger remained trapped inside.
Fire had overwhelmed the front of the car, blocking the driver’s door with its fiery hand. Ida stuck her head through the broken window of the rear door. “Grab my hands,” she shouted to the woman in the front passenger seat. “I’ll pull you out.”
The woman had curled up into a ball, hugging her knees, her eyes fixed on the flames that arced across the car’s windscreen. “Come on!” Ida shouted again. Already the flames were reaching around the back of the car. Her eyes stung from the smoke and heat.
The woman turned in her seat and struggled into the back of the car. She reached out and clutched Ida’s hands tightly.
Ida heaved with all her might, dragging the woman through the car window. She stumbled as the woman came out, and crashed to the ground. The woman fell on top of her. Flames leapt around them on every side. Ida pushed herself back onto her knees and hauled the woman to her feet. “Go!” she shouted. The woman nodded mutely and ran toward safety.
Only the driver remained in the car, but as Ida stood up, a wall of flames rushed toward her, forcing her away from the broken window. Fire engulfed the whole vehicle and she leapt back from the intense heat.
Inside, the driver screamed for help.
A rock struck Ida on the side of her helmet, knocking her off balance again. The rioters were running toward her, emboldened by the fire. Only Ida’s helmet had saved her from serious injury. She looked around for help, but the other officers were engaged in running battles with rioters, or helping wounded colleagues back to the constables’ line.
Ida ran to the back of the car and raised her cylinder high. The filament extended from it and a moment later, Ida held the blade of glowing black light in her hands. She slashed downward onto the rear windscreen. The glass shattered, making a crawl space just large enough for a man to fit through. She turned off the black-light blade then leaned into the car. Two hands clasped hold of hers. With all her strength, she heaved the last man from the car, dragging him from the flames and smoke that filled the vehicle. She dragged him to the ground and rolled him over to smother the flames.
The man was barely conscious. He murmured unintelligibly as Ida lifted him up and staggered toward the constables’ line, the man sprawled in her arms as she carried him.
As Ida half-walked, half-ran up the street, she felt a hand grab her shoulder and yank her back. She spun round and came face to face with a teen wearing a homburg and wielding a cudgel.
“Nice try,” the teen said. “But you were too slow.” A black-and-white checkered colombina mask hid his face, but there was no mistaking his intentions. The cudgel slammed into Ida’s side, and she reeled backward, still clutching the driver tightly to her chest.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
The Axeman leapt at his nearest victim, a white teen in a black colombina mask, and tore out his throat with his incisors, swallowing the blood and gore in a single gulp.
His prey flopped to the ground.
The Axeman stepped over him to lunge at his next victim.
At his right flank, Frog attacked the constable the teen had been fighting. The officer raised his riot shield but Frog yanked it out of his hands with his claws. The man turned to flee. Frog dragged him to the ground, spearing both sides of his neck with his top and bottom incisors.
The Axeman and Frog ran on together, making for the trapped omnibus. The doors of the bus were shut, but that was no obstacle to the Axeman. He gripped the doors with his sharp talons and tore them apart, twisting the me
tal and shattering the glass.
The driver of the omnibus cried out.
The Axeman paced slowly up the steps of the bus, savoring the reactions of the driver and his passengers. The smell of fear inside the bus was delicious. He brought his nose up close to the driver’s face and sniffed.
The man was food, nothing more. But the Axeman could still play a game with him. “Do you want to live?” the Axeman asked.
The man gawked at him in speechless terror.
“I asked you a question,” the Axeman hissed.
The driver nodded.
“Good,” the Axeman said, letting the man have a good look at his teeth. “All you have to do is make a choice. Can you do that?”
The man nodded again.
The Axeman licked his lips. “Here’s the choice. If you choose to live, then all these people die.” The Axeman indicated the passengers with a jerk of his head. There were about twenty on board the bus, the Axeman guessed. “Or, if you choose to die, these people can walk free. Which is it?”
The man gazed first at the Axeman, then at the passengers. He still said nothing. The Axeman wondered if he’d lost the power of speech. “Me,” the man said at last, weakly. “Let me live, please.”
The people on the bus gasped, or shouted abuses at the man, or just whimpered quietly.
The Axeman grinned. Humans were weak, just as Mary had said. And stupid, too. They didn’t deserve to live. “Okay, then,” the Axeman said. “Out you go.”
The man stared in disbelief at the open door of the bus, then back at the Axeman. Hesitatingly, he made his way out of the bus, keeping as far from the Axeman as he could. The Axeman watched him go.
The man stepped outside and there was a flash of red fur. Frog took him down, jaws locked around the man’s neck. His scream died with him in an instant.
Gunsmoke Blues Page 25
