Lycan Fallout (Book 2): Fall of Man (6 page)

“I must kill you,” he said as we faced each other again.

“Is this an honor thing? Because really, I won’t tell anyone.”

He wasn’t much into quipping as he pressed the attack again. I knew enough to not allow him the chance to drive me to the ground. But just because I knew something didn’t necessarily mean I could do much about it. It’s kind of like saying, “I know the engine is going to fall off the jet, yet I am only a passenger at forty thousand feet.” Really not much chance of me keeping that plane part in place. Best I could really hope to do was get incredibly drunk before we plummeted to the ground. With Panthros, it was all I could do to move slightly askew to him in an effort to bring the blade down onto some part of him, preferably a place that would kill him but I wouldn’t discriminate. A huge claw ripped across my cheek and the side of my neck. If the pain was any indication I was certain I could have stuck my tongue through the side of my face, although I sure as shit wasn’t going to try it. Luckily, my face took the brunt of the hit or he would have lopped my head off.

Well, there goes my modeling career
, was my thought. I would have said it if I didn’t think the movement would have separated the flesh more. I got in a heavy-handed blow to his shoulder blade. Almost lost the axe when it became lodged in the thick bone. Panthros cried out and moved quickly past me to get away from the stinging weapon. It was nice to see him breathing heavy. Was it considered “panting” in a Lycan?

“Had enough?” I asked him, the movement of my mouth was just about unbearable. The side of my face felt like it had been coated in napalm and lit ablaze. Blood was falling to the ground in rivulets, my chest and shoulders rising and falling with each deep intake of air.

“Are you dead?” he asked in return. He did not wait for a response before once again coming at me. I was wounded and tired and had no likely reprieve in the form of help. Bailey would not be riding in on a white horse any time soon. And speaking of time, that was also not on my side. With the werewolves, I’d known in the back of my head that all we’d needed to do was make it until the moon went down. The Lycan, and this one in particular, were not bound by those same rules. We could fight until Anna died of old age if we wanted to. I mean most likely we’d stop for significant holidays and bathroom breaks but otherwise with our preternaturally long lives this could go on for some time.

Panthros’ forearm rocked into my shoulder. There was a good chance he’d dislocated it as I spun in the air, his muzzle shooting droplets of saliva on my forehead as I twisted past him. I made a jarring contact with the ground that was nothing in comparison to the eruption of pain I was about to feel. Jabbing a high voltage line into my abdomen would have hurt less than what I was feeling on the back of my thigh. It was possible I’d done a complete flip in the air. Didn’t matter much how I’d gotten into the position, all I knew, all I could know, was that Panthros’ teeth were sinking deep into the tissue on the back of my left leg. I cried out in pain and misery. I’d had all sorts of atrocities performed on my body, including being shot with various types of weaponry, and combined I don’t think they’d inflicted as much pain as the bite Panthros was delivering.

His teeth would be touching soon, and if he shook his head, he would rip my thigh muscle clean from my body, much like a bar patron pulls meat from a chicken wing. My canines had elongated in response to his attack. I did all that I could instinctively think to do; I twisted to the side and plunged my teeth into his exposed side. If this did anything, I think it was only to infuriate him. My bite did not have the pure, unadulterated savagery his did, and I could only do what they were designed to do. I drank from him as quickly and as deeply as half-humanly possible. My jaws clamped down harder, more as a reflex, as I heard the snap of my femur. I was dangerously close to passing out, Panthros’ blood was the only thing keeping me going. Blood was spilling into and around my mouth as the natural anti-coagulant I shot into the bite did its job.

How much of him would I need to drink in before it did him some harm? My leg was clearly broken, and his teeth were sawing through my muscle. If he swung his head back and forth a few times he’d take my leg with him. At that point, I could guarantee I would bleed out before he did. He was alternating between tearing into me and raining blows down atop my head. In comparison to the bite those were meaningless, as I didn’t have any room in my nerve center to accommodate any further abuse.

There was a point where there was a crescendo, as the hits came harder and faster to my head; the mauling becoming fiercer. Then, by incremental bits, it began to wane. At first, it was at a pace a crippled snail could have kept up with, then it came faster and faster as I drew more lifeblood from him. The ground was flooded with it, with half of my face nearly an inch thick in the fluid. Anymore and I could be in danger of drowning in it. He was getting to the point where he was resting his paw against my head. I could feel his muscles twitching in a desperate bid to raise his arm up; he just didn’t have the ways and means to do it. His mouth had relaxed on my leg, and yet I kept drawing from him, not even taking in the possibility of what harvesting his blood may or may not be doing to me. I kept pulling blood even when his hand fell off of me. I kept pulling blood when his head hit the ground. I kept pulling blood until I got the wet, slurping sounds one does when they’ve finished a milk shake. Blood sloshed in my belly as I pushed away. I was as close to being in shock as one can be and still realize it.

It was impossible to tell where the pool of my blood ended and Panthros’ began as they had long ago merged like the parted Red Sea had after Moses was through. I dragged myself a few feet away, crying out with every movement. My leg was holding on by force of habit, or maybe it was muscle memory. I grimaced at my poor word choice for humor. There was a small rock I was able to rest my head on. Looking into the night sky, I wondered if the Lycan blood would help to heal me or speed up my death. I did my best to send my mind away, but it just kept rocketing back to the mind numbing agony. Passing out would have been a blessing. For having drank somewhere in the neighborhood of a couple of gallons of blood I was incredibly thirsty. I moved my head a few inches so I could get a look at Anna. I was going to ask her for water if I could get the words to escape my throat.

She was standing not more than five feet away from me, not with a pitcher of water, but rather a small knife. I could see if she sought a sort of revenge and stabbed Panthros a few times; that I understood, but she was looking at me. Well as much as cold, vacant eyes can stare at anything. I would have asked her what the fuck she was doing but it was obvious she wanted to sink that thing into me. She wanted revenge all right and she didn’t give a shit who paid back the debt she felt was owed to her. She dropped to her knees, the impact as they hit my side almost fading me out to black. My sight darkened around the edges and began to constrict to not much more than the size of a dime before expanding back out where I was able to see her raise the knife above her head.

I had to figure she was going for the center of my chest. If she went more than a foot in any other direction I wouldn’t have it in me to catch her. The tip of the blade broke skin as she thrust downwards. I was able to get my right hand on her wrist to keep her from going any deeper. Want to know the scary thing about crazy people? They are stronger than they have a right to be. There was no mask of fury on her face. She did not cry out in attack. She actually made no sound whatsoever as she tried to drive that blade deep into me. Maybe a grunt or two but it was involuntary at best. We were locked in a silent, mortal combat. I was too exhausted and racked with pain to emit a sound and…well…she was just fucking nuts; so who knows why she was quiet.

Anna didn’t know it right then but she was about to play a pivotal role in my recovery. When she realized she wasn’t going to be able to force the blade down she pulled up forcibly, I would think so she could find a softer spot to lodge it into my body. She’d used way more force pulling up than she’d needed to, a baby trying to wrench its milk bottle away from me would have been able to do so with a fraction of the thrust she’d used. When her arm came free, the momentum forced her backwards and she rocked on her knees, falling to the side. Her neck was by my mouth and I ripped into it like a starving man would a lamb chop. In a belly already overwrought with fluid I topped it off. Unlike Panthros, she gave up almost immediately, as if this were the outcome she’d been hoping for all along. Much like I had done to Panthros out of necessity, I sucked Anna dry within minutes; her blood being the healing balm I so desperately needed. Now, if only she’d taken a handful of opiates beforehand, I’d be all set.

If anything bigger than a pissed off chipmunk were to show up and seek restitution for some previous misdeed I would succumb without much of a challenge. My eyes closed. It was still up for grabs if they would ever open back up.

Chapter Eight – Bailey

Bailey had to hold on to Oggie for almost an hour and keep a vigilant eye on the dog for another full day. More than once she’d caught him walking up the outcropping.

“He’ll be back,” she’d soothed. He’d whined in response.

Bailey attempted to keep as much emotional distance from herself and the children as she possibly could. She would have no choice but to kill them should the full moon rise and they begin to transform, otherwise they would rip her apart and be free to rampage wherever they chose. Breealla appreciated the gravity of the situation and how tenuous her hold on life was. Her fate lay in the hands of two complete strangers. Nemmon, once fed, could not have been concerned any less. He ran around the camp playing and chasing Oggie. He would go down to the small pond and swim, yelling and splashing around without a care in the world.

“He doesn’t understand what is going on,” Breealla had said to Bailey as they watched the boy swimming about. “My mother hid us when the Lycan came and killed our father. After they found us, I sang to him every time they killed another, always covering his head with my arms. Even when the wolf bit us I told him it was all in play.” She was close to tears.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, Breealla. How did you manage to escape?”

“It was my uncle.” Now tears were freely falling down her face. “He told me to count to ten and when I got there to take my brother and run. Then he ran right at the Lycan, screaming. He’d found a knife somewhere. He had no chance—they were three times his size if not bigger. I heard his screams of pain as Nemmon and I entered into the woods. He kept crying for mom, and I had to keep putting my fingers to his mouth to quiet him.”

“What happened to your uncle?”

“I...I don’t know. I heard a loud crack, and him crying out in pain, but only once. We kept running until we couldn’t hear anymore. Then we ran some more. We ran so far I could not have found the way back even if I wanted to.”

“Your uncle was very brave in his sacrifice.” Bailey stroked the girl’s long hair. “And you were very brave keeping the both of you alive out on your own.”

“I didn’t have a choice. I had to be strong for my brother. Bailey, will you really do what that man said?”

“Michael? Let’s not think upon those things. Let us enjoy this time we are in right now.” Bailey noted it was much easier to say those words than to live by them. Every thought she had revolved on what she would do when that full moon came up. She second and triple guessed herself constantly. For all Mike’s doubts about having a soul, or the conscience that went with it, she was able to prod him into a quest with a high risk and low reward. Yes, they were children, but they were two versus a civilization, should he fall. Azile had told Bailey that Mike was somehow the key that unlocked the answer; and the responsibility to keep him from doing anything rash was to fall on her shoulders now that Tommy was dead. Yet, the first thing she did was push him into something he did not want to do, and without any backup as well.

“I am a fool,” she admonished herself.

“What?” Breealla asked.

“Sorry, I did not realize I was speaking aloud. Apparently, I have already spent more time with Michael than is wise.”

“What is he like, Bailey? Will he really be able to save us?”

“He is certainly your best chance. I can only hope it is enough. When one loses as much as he has, they often have a hard time finding the will to fight for themselves, much less for others.”

“Is it true that he is an Old One like you say?”

“It is.”

“My mother used to tell me stories about them, although not to Nemmon. She thought he was too young. According to her, they were taller and blue, with claws for hands and hardly any nose. Michael looked very much like an ordinary man.”

“That is what happens to stories that are passed down through the ages, they are changed or embellished upon.”

“Embellished?”

“More description is added to exaggerate or make something more interesting, in this case, to make vampires appear scarier than they are, even though the reality of them is just as scary as anything that could be made up.”

“Are you afraid of him?”

“Afraid?” Bailey pondered. “
Concerned
would be a better word, and not so much for myself as for others. We have an…umm…certain history, I guess.”

“I am frightened, Bailey. I do not wish to become a werewolf. What if I attack Nemmon?”

“We won’t let that happen,” Bailey told her.

Breealla knew what that meant and did not ask for further clarification.

“Come on, Michael,” Bailey said as she looked up to the moon, which looked like an expectant mother getting ready to deliver. Tomorrow it would be full, and there was a strong possibility she would discover the depth of her resolve. “I don’t want to have to murder children.”

The next morning, even the rambunctious Nemmon was sullen and downtrodden. Breealla never wandered far from the fire. It was almost as if she believed that the heat of it could burn out the virus housed within her. Bailey made sure to keep them in sight the entire day. She was afraid they might make a run for it and she would not have very long before the situation went from her hunting them, to them hunting her.

As dusk began to settle Nemmon sat down next to Breealla. Bailey could not help but notice their furtive glances at one another. Bree reached her hand out and grabbed her brother’s. Bailey wondered what she would do if they made a break for it. She came to the decision that she would be forced to tie them up. She just wouldn’t have an option.

“Bailey!” Breealla was pointing behind Bailey where the leading edge of the moon was coming up over the horizon.

“How do you feel?” Bailey asked with trepidation.

“Scared, but alright,” Bree answered.

“Nemmon?” Bailey asked, moving her gaze to the young boy. His eyes had glassed over as he peered at the oncoming moon.

“Don’t be rude, Nemmon. Answer her.” Bree had shaken her brother’s arm, hoping to remove the trance-like state he was in.

“Move away from him, Breealla.”

“He is my brother, Bailey. I will not.”

Bailey watched as horrifyingly thick, red veins began to radiate out from Nemmon’s irises, nearly blotting out all of the white. “He will kill you, Breealla! Move away!” she said forcefully. With one hand, she reached out, grabbed Bree’s sleeve and pulled her to the side. Bree’s grip was ripped from her brother’s, even though he had already let go. His hands lay down by his side as he stared slack-jawed at the moon.

“What are you doing?!” Bree screamed. It could have been to Bailey who was reaching for her bayonet; or her brother, whom would not react to anyone around him.

Hair began to sprout from random places along Nemmon’s arms and face.

“No, no, no,” Bailey repeated. She would not strike until she was absolutely sure it was not her mind playing tricks on her, although she was already positive that was not the case. She was grasping at the wind in hopes she would not have to do what needed to be done.

Nemmon’s nose began to flatten as his jaw line simultaneously began to elongate. His mouth opened up in a wordless scream. It was happening so fast that Bailey couldn’t even take in all the changes. Nemmon’s features were rapidly losing definition as those of the werewolf came to the fore. Bailey would vacillate between wanting to move forward and wanting to grab Breealla and run. Her opportunity to end this without her blood being shed was rapidly coming to a close. Her bayonet was out and she took the two steps necessary to get within striking distance. Nemmon’s hands had doubled in size—large black claws forming where his fingernails were. If he were to swing, he would lay Bailey open like a slaughtered lamb.

Bailey raised the weapon up to the side of her head and was on the downward arc of her strike when she was hit from the side. The blade scraped down Nemmon’s shoulder and biceps, the muscle glistening as it lay open in the moonlight. She was hit with enough force that she stumbled and fell over. Breealla fell over on top of her, her fists hitting Bailey’s chest.

“You can’t kill him!” Breealla was sobbing now, her punches ineffectual.

“Stupid girl!” Bailey was doing her best to get untangled from Breealla. “He will kill us both!”

Breealla let go of Bailey as she heard the unearthly howl her brother let loose. She rolled over to see that there was no vestige of her brother left. His cruel, black eyes now rolled down to look on the meal before him. Bailey grabbed Breealla by the back of her shirt and pulled her off, sending her sprawling away. Nemmon watched his sister skid away, a fierce growl pulling his lips back and exposing impossibly large canines. His gaze immediately came back to Bailey. He sprung even as she was rolling over to get up. He used his injured arm to rake at Bailey, but was not able to get a full swing in. It was still enough to rip through her clothes and into her skin. She shouted out in pain as he left a trail of agony where he’d made contact.

“I’m sorry!” Breealla wailed, and again Bailey did not know if it was directed at her for interrupting her actions, or to her brother for allowing this to happen. 

Bailey pushed up, her bayonet at the ready as she did so. Nemmon in his transformed state did not come up much past Bailey’s chest, but what he lacked in size he made up for in ferocity and speed. He was wary as well, something Bailey had not seen before in werewolves, and she wondered if it could be attributed to his age. It was something she would think on later if she made it through this encounter. He would dart in and strike out, sometimes missing, other times hitting his mark. Bailey was doing her best to parry his paws, making sure he could not get in a lethal blow or bite. Bailey had backed up and was circling the fire, trying to keep that one small piece of defense between her and her adversary.

Nemmon leaped over the flames, his arms outstretched, his mouth open, saliva hanging in thick ropes in hopes that he would soon be eating. He jumped past the point of the blade, and Bailey twisted the rifle quickly, landing the thick butt stock against his sensitive snout. He barked out in protest and reeled back, his foot landing in the small fire. The resultant scream was ear-splitting. Bailey had lost her footing and Nemmon had recovered much quicker than she. Had not Oggie interjected himself in between the two, Nemmon would have ripped her throat out. The dog and the werewolf were nearly the same size. This was a side of Oggie that Bailey had a tough time reconciling; he was usually so easy going and fun-loving. The loyal dog was now all bristle and teeth.

Nemmon’s attention shifted to the dog. Oggie would sidestep each massive paw swipe. He seemed to be cognizant of the fact that he was leading Nemmon further and further away from Bailey, who had since stood back up. She was looking for a way to get back into the fight and not get meshed between fang and claw. When she saw her opening, she drove the point of her blade deep into Nemmon’s throat as he howled. The cry was choked off and cloaked in liquid as blood ran down, filling his lungs. He clawed at the blade at first then he began to claw at his own chest in hopes of opening it up to allow the suffocating fluid out. He fell backwards as Oggie lunged, his front paws slamming into Nemmon’s chest, the blade falling free. Nemmon was breathing fast, shallow breaths, a look of sheer panic and terror pulling his eyes open wide.

Oggie moved off Nemmon’s chest, his features beginning to soften as he reverted back to his true form. He was dying. Breealla sobbed as she ran towards him, not caring in the least that he was still in the midst of his transformation. For the smallest of moments, his eyes took on a predatory stare and then switched back to those of a young boy on the verge of death. Bree’s tears rolled off her cheeks and onto Nemmon’s as he took one final intake of air. His eyes froze open as his head fell to the side.

“You killed him!” Bree railed at Bailey.

Bailey stepped away. There was nothing she could do or say that would ease the grief and pain Breealla was feeling. She had her own worries and problems to deal with as well. She stripped off her jacket to see an angry set of scrapes that started from below her breast and trailed off on her ribcage. Not life-threatening—at least not now. If she didn’t clean them out properly, they could eventually pose a problem. She had more punctures in her skin than she could dare to count; the cold water of the pond was all-too-happy to point all of them out as she removed her clothing and waded in. She dipped down, letting her head submerge. When she came up, she wished her problems could be as easily removed from her head as the water when she ran her hands back through her hair.