yellowhorde (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
yellowhorde) wrote2007-12-02 01:25 pm
yellowhorde) wrote2007-12-02 01:25 pm
Entry tags:
(fic) The Hunted - Chapter 1/? - PSoH
Disclaimer: I don’t own Petshop of Horrors and I make no money from this or any other fanfic I write
Pairing: Leon x D
Category: Supernatural/Alternate Universe
Rating: R
Warning: Violence, Language, Sexual Situations, Hermaphrodite!D
Title: The Hunted
Author: yellowhorde
Notes: This was written for NaNoWriMo 2007
October, 1980
Rochester, NY
John Orcot shouldered his rifle and knelt carefully to the ground. Using his peripheral vision, he scanned the earth in front of him for signs of their predator. The overgrown grass of the meadow showed signs of having been disturbed recently by a fairly large creature. Reaching down, he ghosted his fingers over the slight print that had been pressed into the soft earth – a bare footprint, humanoid and rather large, which told him it was most likely male. Since it was a footprint and not a shoeprint, he was willing to bet it belonged to the werewolf they were hunting.
It was a relatively fresh print, too, John was pleased to note, and, judging from the weather and wind conditions, he guessed that the creature that had made this particular print had passed by this location within the last half hour. It was probably close by, maybe even hiding itself in the surrounding woods. It may even be close enough to know that it was being hunted by two humans.
Or maybe it was doing a little hunting of its own.
Lifting his head, John scanned the nearby trees, searching for movement, shape and contour rather than colors. It would have been easier to hunt the creature using the mini flashlights both he and Vesca carried with them, but that would have ruined their night vision. It was better to depend on the light of the full moon, but for the last hour and a half it had been playing hide and seek with the approaching clouds. If they didn’t finish up this hunt soon, there would barely be enough light to find their way, night vision or no night vision.
The freshening breeze sent cool, invisible fingers through his dark, short cropped hair and he shivered almost imperceptibly. The breeze, heavy with the scent of rain, rattled the autumn leaves. Hunching his shoulders against its chill, John tugged restlessly at his black Stetson hat.
John stood as his mentor and partner, Vesca Howell, reached him. With a jerk of his chin, he indicated that the creature’s tracks headed off toward the woods that bordered the field.
“I think it knows we’re here,” he mumbled, “and it’s on the prowl. For us, I mean.”
The younger man had no real proof that the creature was aware of their presence, but he had been hunting werewolves with Vesca for five years and he had learned to listen to his gut instincts. And right now, they were telling him that they would be pretty damned foolish to underestimate this particular monster. After all, a werewolf wasn’t just some wild animal; it was a ferocious killer with the cognitive powers of a human being. Care needed to be taken, good advice for even the most experienced hunter.
“Good work, Orcot,” Vesca said, clapping the other man heartily on the back. Though they had been hunting partners for five years, and friends for even longer, Vesca never called John by his given name. It was always just Orcot. It was probably a left over habit from serving in the Army as a young man. “Let’s bag this son of bitch before we get stuck in that oncoming storm. I don’t want to spend the rest of the night trudging around soaking wet clothes, do you?”
“No, sir, I don’t.”
Guns at the ready, both men moved like wraths through the wind blown grass, every sense straining to catch some indication that their pray was in the surrounding area. The night was completely silent save for the low moan of the wind and the death rattle of the dry leaves still clinging to the swaying tree branches.
During the warm summer months, John rather liked the sound of the wind playing through the leaves – it reminded him of his childhood home near Puget Sound. Some people said that if you wanted to hear the ocean you should hold a seashell to your ear. John’s opinion was that if you really wanted to know the sound of the ocean, without actually going to the sea shore, that is, simply listen to the wind in the leaves. It was the closest thing he’d heard to the real thing and it was a sound that never failed to bring him peace of mind.
Dead leaves in the autumn, though, lent a cold and melancholy air to the world, especially at night. It was a sad and depressing sound, at least as far as John was concerned, a sound that was disturbingly like the rattling of small animal bones – a death rattle. It wasn’t a very scientific analysis, he knew, but it was how he felt and his feelings had never led him wrong, at least, not yet.
There was, admittedly, always a first time.
Their pace slowed somewhat as they entered the dark interior of the woods, still following the faint tracks John had discovered. Here, amongst the towering trees, the light of the full moon, such as it was with the cloud cover, would do them very little good as it failed to penetrate very deeply into what remained of the leafy canopy. They paused for a few moments, guns at the ready, to allow their eyes to adjust to the deepening gloom.
The snapping of a twig somewhere was heard off to their left. Both men swung their shotguns in that direction, fingers tight on the triggers, but judging from the brief, white flashed tail of a retreating deer, it was just a false alarm.
Vesca glanced over at John, who just shrugged. Then they fanned out to cover more ground. Both men were uncharacteristically jumpy and neither could have properly explained why that was exactly. It wasn’t like this was their first hunting expedition, after all. But something was definitely off, which put them on edge. That in of itself could be dangerous, if not to them, than to anyone they may be unfortunate enough to encounter. After all, they were on the publicly accessible park lands, more specifically, Timberline Lake Park, which was approximately twenty minutes by car from the outskirts of Rochester, New York. In fact, it had been one of the park rangers that had reported the werewolf in the first place. He had caught sight of it and had zoomed in from a safe distance using his high powered binoculars.
The ranger, a young, strapping lad with sandy blond hair and a cleft chin, had been understandably nervous, but his description had been amazingly detailed - a ‘strange half-wolf, half man creature with well-defined muscles and large bones with coarse hair covering its body. Its torso tapered to a relatively narrow and low waist.’ He went on to add, “It was a fiercely strong thing, sirs, even the digits on its hands, or claws, I suppose you’d call them, appeared to be muscled.” From that, Vesca and John deduced that they were going to be dealing with a mesomorphic anthropomorphic werewolf.
One reason for their nervousness might be attributed to the fact that although it was almost mid-October and the days were getting increasingly chilly, the park was still open to hikers and campers who fancied spending time in the wild no matter the season. Timberline Lake didn’t shut down for the winter until the fifteenth of October. The rangers’ rough estimation was that there were at least fifteen to twenty families currently using the park’s facilities and although most of them were staying at the RV campsites, there were still a few groups that had pitched tents at various locations unknown.
The wind wound its way through the trees, pushing a strange scent before it. John’s nose wrinkled as he caught the reek of decomposing carcasses and animal feces. It reminded him of the time when he was a teenager and he had taken his old dog, Max, camping along with a few of his friends to a small Wisconsin lake. Max had discovered something rotting under some bushes and had happily rolled around in it, much to their dismay. What a stink that had been! They had been practically gagging all the way home even though they had rolled down all the car windows.
One of his friends had explained that wolves would often roll in decomposing carcasses or the feces of plant eating animals in order to mask their own scent. This tactic enabled them to sneak up on their prey without detection. It could even fool members of the hunted species into accepting the wolf as one of their own. Apparently, this ancient instinct had been carried over to domesticated dogs.
John nervously glanced around him, making out next to nothing in the enclosed darkness. His finger tightened minutely on the trigger of his shotgun. The sound of leaves rustling overhead caught his attention, but the sound was heavier somehow than it had been out in the field. Frowning, his eyes moved up, up, up, into the canopy. Movement caught his eyes then, the glint of faint moonlight outlining a hulking, leaf-shrouded silhouette. There was a dark blur of movement and then the shape, the creature, was hurtling toward the earth, roaring like a hound of Hell.
“Vesca, look out!”
Before the other man had a chance to bring his gun around, the werewolf was upon him, snapping and slobbering. It bowled into Vesca and forced him to the ground – blinding white pain lanced through his head as it came into sharp contact with the trunk of a sturdy oak - but before it could bring its formidable teeth to bear, Vesca slammed the butt of his shotgun into its snout and scrambled to his feet as an explosion of blood and cartilage gushed like a broken water main from the furry snout.
Rearing back with an almost human cry of pain, the werewolf recovered itself enough to sweep its claws forward with deadly precision. Its snarl was one of victory.
Vesca saw the blow coming – moonlight shimmering on razor sharp claws – a fraction of a second before it landed. There was no time to throw his body out of the way, no way to deflect the incoming blow. The creature moved in a blur of inhuman speed, one misshapen hand shooting out and smashing into his face. Pain erupted and blood gushed from his nostrils. His knees buckled and dumped him onto the damp, uneven ground.
“Vesca!” The attack had happened so quickly and John was still too far away to help his mentor. For a moment he thought of shooting the damn thing from where he was, but he dismissed the idea immediately. The creature was too close and if he did pull the trigger, he’d hit both the werewolf and Vesca. That was unacceptable.
Lunging forward, his feet skidded along the thick ground cover of leaves and he almost lost his footing, but he managed to right himself in time to avoid a headlong dive into the hard ground. He was almost there, only a few yards left, but still too far away to make any difference. There was no way he could reach the Vesca in time.
Shaking his head in an attempt to clear his vision, Vesca staggered to his feet and raised his weapon, a shotgun loaded with silver buckshot, the only sure way to kill a lycanthrope. The werewolf smashed the weapon from his hand, for he had misjudged the distance between him and his assailant. A savage kick was delivered to his testacies, doubling him over in pain but not before claws slashed across the tender flesh of his stomach. Screaming, he hit the ground and lay there, rolling helplessly on to his side, curling into a fetal position. He tasted blood in his mouth and the scent of it was heavy in the air.
The monster crashed into him, snarling and slobbering, and bore him to the ground. Its grotesque head reared back but before it could snake down to tear out his throat, there was a loud report of a shotgun followed by a very human scream of pain. Then the werewolf was gone and John Orcot, his friend and partner, was at his side. Vesca tried to pull himself to his feet, tried to tell John he was okay, but he was falling, toppling down like a felled oak, and then John caught him in his arms and they fell together.
“Jesus Christ!” John rolled with the heavy weight of Vesca’s body and lay down his shotgun, a silly rookie mistake Vesca thought but he wasn’t able to form the words in which to reprimand him. He was cold and trembling as his life’s blood was gushing from his wounds in time in a scalding wash that matched the frantic beating of his heart.
“Hang on, just hang on, man! I’ve got you!” John panted as he applied direct pressure on the gaping wound. Hot blood gushed over his hands, and the sickly sweet coppery smell of it filled the world. John threw down his leather pack and shrugged out of his flannel lined hunting jacket. Frantically, he tore strips of cloth from his shirt and used them to bind the wound, but the blood soaked through the makeshift bandages in no time. He continued ripping first his shirt then his thermal tee shirt into strips until he managed to completely cover the other man’s wounds. Finally, the blood seemed to slow to a trickle.
Vesca waved him off feebly. Gasping against the pain, he was finally able to find his voice. It was weak to John’s ears, but still held the mistakable tones of a direct order. “You’ve got to get that son of a bitch, Orcot.” Vesca mumbled. “Now, before he has a chance to hurt anyone else.”
John shook his head and stubbornly continued doctoring the wounds. Finally, unable to do any more, he laid his hunting jacket over the other man’s body for extra warmth and a desperate bid to stave off the effects of shock.
“I can’t do that,” he panted, “I can’t leave you out here all alone. What if that thing comes back?”
With great effort Vesca pulled himself upright, clenching his teeth to keep back a scream of pain. He settled his back against the tree trunk that had bashed his skull open and reached for his shotgun, which had fallen just out of his reach. John followed his groping fingers and reached over and grabbed the weapon and handed it over to him, his expression hidden by the shadows dancing across his face.
“If it comes back, and I don’t think it will, but if it does, this baby will take care of him. And this time,” he added grimly, “I won’t miss.”
“Yeah, okay, I understand.” John nodded his head for he knew that the job had to be finished before that monster struck again. It was an animal after all, and an animal that had been hurt was more likely to turn its rage on anyone unfortunate enough to stumble across its path. “But I’m going to call in some back up,”
Vesca opened his mouth to protest, but he cut him off sharply. “And don’t you argue with me about this. You need medical help.”
The wounded man closed his eyes resignedly and rested his head against the trunk. Thankfully, he didn’t argue.
John reached into the pack dropped carelessly by his feet and pulled out a walkie-talkie radio and prayed that the batteries weren’t dead or that they weren’t too far out to be picked up by Headquarters. With blood soaked hands, he held the unit to his ear and depressed the talk button. He took a deep breath and released it, willing his voice to stay steady.
“Orcot to Base, Orcot to base. Gotta copy?”
There was a burst of static then an agonizingly long stretch of silence.
“I copy, come in,” Came the eventual reply. John recognized the voice as one of the radio dispatchers, but he couldn’t place it to a name of face. It was either Buford Wade or Mike Callaway. “What seems to be the problem, Orcot? Over.”
“Look, I’ve got a man down. Repeat, I’ve got a man down, and he’s in real bad shape. We need immediate medical assistance. Can you send us an ambulance? Over.”
“You mean Vesca’s hurt?” John could hear the incredibility in the dispatcher’s voice. After all, Vesca was practically a legend among supernatural hunters all over the country. “Shit! What’s your ten-twenty? Over.”
That was a good question, John thought. Just where in hell were they, anyway? He mentally pulled up an image of the map he and Vesca had gone over before heading out earlier this evening. Closing his eyes, he charted the course they had taken.
“We’re about five miles east of the main RV campground. Over.”
“That’s a copy, Orcot. Our boys will be there as soon as possible. ETA will be approximately thirty minutes. Over.”
John glanced down at Vesca with barely concealed concern. The other man’s face was waxy and pale, his breathing shallow. He might not be a doctor, but he knew his friend was hurt badly. Even a moron could tell that much. He’d seen the man take a beating before, hell, every hunter managed to get the shit kicked out of him at least once in his career, but this time it was different. For the first time, panic surged through his veins when he thought that Vesca might not make it.
“Better make it sooner than that, guys. Over.”
There was another burst of static but it cleared quickly.
“We’ll do our best. Over and out.”
John quickly stowed the walkie-talkie radio in his pack, zipped it up, and then slung it over his back. He reached down and snatched up his shotgun and examined it carefully to make sure it hadn’t been damaged. Once satisfied that it was functional, he loaded more ammunition into the chambers with fingers that felt numb. Stuffing a few more shells into his front jean pocket for easy access, he laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
Vesca cracked open his eyes with some difficulty. His gaze fixed on some point just past John’s left shoulder.
“The ambulance is on the way, don’t you worry.” He tried to offer a reassuring smile, but it felt stiff and awkward on his face so he gave up the effort. “I’m going to nail that fucker to the wall, Vesca. Nail him right to the fucking wall.”
Vesca gave the barest nod of his head to indicate his understanding. “You do that,” he mumbled, but his words were slow and slurred. The knuckles of the hand gripping the shotgun showed as white half moons under his skin.
Nodding grimly, John Orcot set off following the blood trail left by the werewolf. Anger scorched through his mind, crackling higher and hotter with each step he took. It burned away all thoughts, all feelings until there was nothing left but an all consuming hatred. One way or another, one of them, either him or the werewolf, was going to die tonight.
And, by God, it wasn’t going to be him.
*****
Leon huddled deep in the insulated warmth of his sleeping bag, his thin arms wrapped around his knees, which he had drawn up to his chest. The only sounds he could detect were the soft snores of his mother, somewhere off to his left, and the whispering sounds of the wind as it lightly played around with the flap to the entrance of their tent. His straining ears caught the faint skittering of some leaves being pushed around outside and although he thought the leaves had looked kind of pretty with all their brilliant, reds, oranges and gold colors when he and his mother had been out hiking earlier, now he thought they sounded pretty spooky.
Although he was just seven years old, Leon Anderson was nobody’s coward. He was the bravest of the brave and his mother often told him that he would someday give her a heart attack with all the crazy stunts he pulled. She was probably joking around when she said that, or at least he hoped she was, because everyone knew you couldn’t scare someone into a heart attack. Heart attacks were for really old people who were like thirty years old. And his mom, at twenty-five, was pretty darn old, but not that old… at least, not yet.
Biting his lower lip, he squirmed uncomfortably in his sleeping bag knowing that that there wouldn’t be any falling back asleep now. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly that had woken him in the first place, some loud sound, but he had strained his ears upon waking but it had not been repeated, if indeed it hadn’t been a sleep induce figment of his imagination. His musings on the matter was interrupted as a soft whimpered escaped his throat. But it wasn’t because he was afraid – his bladder was painfully full and he had to pee like nobody’s business.
A soft, answering whine was heard and then something cold and wet was being pushed against his cheek. Guido, his two year old border collie, pawed at him, sensing he was awake and in some sort of distress. He felt her wet tongue first on his ear, then his cheek.
“Quit it, Guido,” Leon whispered, pushing her gently away to stop the collie’s overly zealous licking. “You’re breath smells like shit.”
Suddenly realizing what he had said, he sucked in a quick breath, and clamped his hands over his mouth. He cut a glance into the darkness and the general direction from which he could still hear his mother’s soft, rhythmic snoring. His cheeks puffed out as he breathed an audible sigh of relief. His mother, he had discovered over the years, had super human Mom hearing most of the time, but she was still sleeping and therefore she hadn’t heard him say the s-word. And for that he was heartily thankful. She didn’t like him using that kind of language, but sometimes it just slipped out.
But Guido was not to be deterred for long. Far more agitated than he had ever seen her, she whined and pawed at him. One of her forelegs caught him in low in the stomach, just over his bladder and for one horrible moment he thought he would wet himself like a little baby. He gritted his teeth and tried to unsuccessfully suppress a thin, keening groan.
“Ah, man, I gotta pee!”
He groaned and knew that there was no option in holding it much longer. His bladder was so full it was hurting and that most definitely couldn’t be a good thing. He had gone to the bathroom before bed, such as was his habit, but he had also had several cans of soda earlier that evening before hitting the hay and it had gone through him, well, like water. His mother seldom allowed him to drink soda, so he had happily indulged, but now he wished he had shown a little more restraint.
Squirming restlessly, he tried to guess what time it was. Late, that much was obvious, but what he really wanted to know was how long it would be until the sun started to come out. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the absolute darkness all around him - he had held one of his hands right in front of his face and if it hadn’t been his own hand, he wouldn’t have known it unless it came in contact with his nose – it was just that he had never known it could be so completely and utterly dark out in the wild. It never got so dark at home, not with the street lights spaced along the streets at regular intervals.
Right now he really missed those street lights.
“I gotta go, I gotta go, I gotta go!” Leon hiss-whined urgently under his breath, and, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to put it off for any longer without risking pissing himself like a little baby, he rolled oh so carefully to his feet.
Every movement he made caused his bladder scream in protest but he winced and gritted his teeth, determined to make it outside. Blindly, his hands patted the black emptiness near the foot of his sleeping bag, where he had tossed his shoes before crawling into the tent and curling up in his bad. His mother had always told him that he should never wear his shoes inside the tent and he never did, but the idea of leaving them outside was kind of freaky because who knows what kind of snakes or bugs would crawl into them during the night.
For a few frantic moments his hands encountered only the groundsheet of the tent, but then, just as he was ready to risk running out into the dark in his stocking feet, he found them. He pulled them to him, and, then, standing up on one leg like a wobbly stork, slid on first the left shoe, then the right without bothering to tie the laces.
Just as he was about to head outside, he realized that he would probably need to see his way while walking so he wouldn’t step into the remains of their camp fire or bang into any trees or bushes. He knew they were out there, the outdoors was just plumb full of them, but he hadn’t bothered memorizing their exact locations because he hadn’t counted on having to make any nighttime outdoor excursions.
Mumbling all kinds of obscenities his mother wouldn’t approve of under his breath, he felt his way to the head of his sleeping bag and fumbled around until he found his flashlight. He didn’t dare switch it on while in the tent because he didn’t want to disturb his mother, and he had heard that it would ruin his ‘night vision’, whatever the hell that was, but he gripped it like a life line in one small hand and made his way once more to the tent’s entrance.
Guido whined and bumped up along one of his denim clad legs. He then felt her paws on the back of his legs and then her teeth were grabbing onto the tail flap of his green flannel shirt. She tugged gently, whined again, more urgently this time.
“It’s okay, girl,” he whispered reassuringly. “You can come with me, if you want.”
God knows he would be grateful for her company. A dog’s senses were a zillion times sharper than a human’s and if there were any bears or mountain lions out there in the dark, she’d know about them long before he did, which was a good thing because he had no intentions of being a midnight snack to any critter and that was all there was to that.
He knew that if he was bringing the dog, he should find her leash and hook it to her collar, but his bladder was in critical overload now and he was afraid that if he didn’t go soon, he would burst, literally. It wasn’t as if there was anyone around for her to bark at or any dogs to chase away or anything. They were in the middle of freaking nowhere.
Well, no, that wasn’t exactly true. They were maybe twenty minutes by car away from his home on the outskirts of Rochester, New York. But still, close enough to the middle of nowhere as far as he was concerned. No television, no electricity… and no flushing toilets. Damn. Oh well, that might have been a problem if he were a girl, but he wasn’t and God had designed him, a man’s man by his limited definition, with the necessary equipment for peeing in the woods.
Carefully, he unzipped the tent’s mosquito netting and pushed his way past the tent flap, with Guido at his side. It was a little bit brighter outside than it had been in the tent, but not by much. The moon was supposed to be full, he knew, because he had seen it before heading into the tent for the night, but the approaching clouds he and his mother had seen while eating their dinner of fire crisped hotdogs and pork and beans had completely swallowed it and the night sky. There wasn’t as much as a single star to be seen now, which was a pity because there had been literally hundreds if not thousands of them strewn across the night sky earlier. It had been totally cool.
Shivering, and wishing he had remembered to grab his jacket before leaving the tent, Leon turned on the flashlight and started walking toward the closest stand of trees, his breath puffing out white with every exhalation. He could have easily just unzipped and relieved himself at the campsite, but the very idea of accidentally stepping in it the next morning nixed that idea in a hurry. Sweeping the flashlight’s bright beam in front of him, he made his way over the uneven ground, with Guido at his side.
When he judged he was far enough from the camp, he unzipped and, glancing around him and hoping there weren’t any scary night time predators out there waiting to eat him alive, let loose his stream. The relief was immense. As he shook off and tucked himself away, he made a silent vow never to hold his bladder for so long ever, ever again.
Now that he no longer had to deal with the urgent needs of his bladder, Leon was in no hurry to return to the tent. His shins still ached from hiking with his mother all afternoon, but he figured that while he was awake he might as well do a little night time exploring, just him and his dog, providing that they didn’t wander too far from the camp site, that is. Maybe he’d see a possum or a raccoon or some other nocturnal critter. That would be awesome.
Smiling, he began humming Billy Joel’s You May Be Right under his breath. It was one of his mother’s favorite songs from his Glass Houses album.
Before he was able to take more than a few steps away from the trees, Guido went tense beside him. Leon’s throat constricted and he fell instantly silent. Her ears flattened against her head and her doggy lips pulled away from her teeth. A low but steady growl was building in her throat. Leon knelt beside her and wrapped his arms around her furry body. He stroked her head in an effort to calm her, but the growling only grew louder.
“What is it, girl?”
The flashlight’s beam jerked an unsteady path among the dark silhouettes of the trees as he tried to flash its light everywhere at once, but he couldn’t see anything. He couldn’t hear anything either, no insects, no nothing. Even the wind had apparently died down, holding its breath as if in anticipation.
There came a loud crashing among the trees and Leon almost dropped his flashlight. Suddenly, he didn’t think it was such a good idea to be out here. In fact, the sooner he was back in the tent, the better.
“Let’s get out of here,” he whispered hoarsely and slapped his leg to get Guido’s attention, but the dog’s gaze was fixed firmly on the darkness and the trees. “Guido,” he hissed urgently, “Come on!”
Suddenly Guido’s growling became out and out barking and she tore off into the trees. As she disappeared, Leon heard another, much more frightening sound, a sort of low and rumbling howl unlike anything he had ever heard before in his life. The blood in his veins seemed to turn to ice and he stood there, frozen, his voice lost to fear as the howl rose to an angry roar. Then he heard Guido bark in pain, and, to his horror, the sound was cut off in mid-yelp.
“Guido!” Unmindful of his own safety, Leon hurled himself after the black and white canine. Whatever that thing was, bear or cougar, he couldn’t let it get away with hurting his dog!
Before he was able to take more than a step or two toward the thicket, something large and extremely pissed burst out of the trees, all angry snarls and flashing claws. Its teeth gleamed in the flashlight’s beam. Nausea and terror ripped through Leon’s body as he caught sight of blood – Dear, sweet Jesus! There's so much! – dripping from the creature’s muzzle and teeth. More blood oozed from some sort of wound on its shoulder and he felt a moment of fierce pride that his dog had gotten in at least one good lick before that, that thing had taken her out.
Backpedaling furiously, Leon threw the flashlight at the approaching monster, a scream that was both fear and rage ripping its way past his vocal cords. It bounced off the furry snout and the creature reared its head back and gave a roar of unmistakable, almost human, pain. It didn’t stop it though, and, still screaming, he turned and ran as fast as he could back toward the tent, knowing no other place to go. His feet pounded the uneven ground and his foot twisted under his weight. There was a white flash of pain and he was falling, but he was able to regain his footing and surged ahead, aware that the creature was right behind him.
In the end, his impatience was his undoing. In his desperation to get outside to empty his aching bladder, he had neglected to tie his shoelaces. His mother had often called out to him, “Tie your laces before you trip on them!” but he had never taken her serious. Now, as he ran for his life, he tripped on one of the dangling laces and it in combination to the treacherous ground, brought him to his knees, knocking the breath out of him.
Before he could even begin to scramble to his feet, his right shoulder erupted in titanic pain when the creature sank its claws into his flesh and pulled him, kicking and screaming to his feet. He felt his body turning around so that he was staring up into the hideous, blood-flecked face of an honest to God werewolf. This wasn’t movie magic he was seeing; this wasn’t fake fur or a cheaply made costume complete with poorly concealed zippers. This was really real and it was about to kill him deader than snot.
“Leon? Leon?” As if from a million miles away, he heard his mother’s sleepy, scared voice calling his name. No doubt she had already discovered that he wasn’t in his sleeping bag like he was supposed to be.
He couldn’t stand the idea of the werewolf hurting her like he had hurt – killed, his mind interjected grimly, killed – his beloved dog. And knowing that if he didn’t do something the monster would kill them all, forced him into action. Lacking silver bullets or any other form of weapon, he did the only thing he could think of. His young legs flashed out, coming into solid contact with the monster’s torso at the same time that he brought his fists down on what he correctly surmised as its only vulnerable spot – its nose.
Once more the beast sounded its rage and pain, but instead of letting go of him as Leon had desperately hoped it would do, it snaked its head forward and down. He had a brief and confusing glimpse of rows and rows of very sharp and bloody teeth before the werewolf sank its fangs into his flesh, tearing tissue, crunching bones.
Screaming even as he felt himself losing consciousness, Leon felt himself being literally shaken like a rag dog by the werewolf. The pain was beyond comprehension. As his vision faded into darkness, he thought he saw a man-like creature coming up behind the creature, raising something long and cylinder-like to its eyes. There was a shout that held the unmistakable tone of command. Amazingly, the werewolf released him and he collapsed to the ground, unable to scream as this fresh pain assaulted his body. He saw the creature turned its head, then its body… and then there was a loud thunderous bellow and its head exploded in a geyser of blood, brains and bone fragments.
The world became dark, then darker still, darker than night, colder than the wind blowing through the dead autumn leaves. Leon dimly heard his mother’s understandably panicked screaming mixing with a man’s baritone. Their words were garbled and he couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the urgency was undeniable.
Strong arms wrapped around him, a man’s arms… a father’s arms. He had never felt his father’s warm embrace for he had died in a horrible automobile accident only a few weeks before he had been born. But if ever there was a fatherly embrace, even if it was one of panic, fear, and desperation, then this was it. His mouth parted – he wanted to thank this man who had destroyed the monster, saved his life, and his mother’s, but no words came out, only a terrible choking rattle as he drew in his breath.
He felt no more fear or panic, those and every other emotion had drained away leaving him as empty as an abandoned sea shell. Having never known such pain and he retreated into his own mind in a desperate attempt to leave it behind. His eyes closed, he couldn’t keep them open, they were so heavy, and he knew no more for a very, very long time.
TO BE CONTINUED…
CHAPTER 02
Pairing: Leon x D
Category: Supernatural/Alternate Universe
Rating: R
Warning: Violence, Language, Sexual Situations, Hermaphrodite!D
Title: The Hunted
Author: yellowhorde
Notes: This was written for NaNoWriMo 2007
October, 1980
Rochester, NY
John Orcot shouldered his rifle and knelt carefully to the ground. Using his peripheral vision, he scanned the earth in front of him for signs of their predator. The overgrown grass of the meadow showed signs of having been disturbed recently by a fairly large creature. Reaching down, he ghosted his fingers over the slight print that had been pressed into the soft earth – a bare footprint, humanoid and rather large, which told him it was most likely male. Since it was a footprint and not a shoeprint, he was willing to bet it belonged to the werewolf they were hunting.
It was a relatively fresh print, too, John was pleased to note, and, judging from the weather and wind conditions, he guessed that the creature that had made this particular print had passed by this location within the last half hour. It was probably close by, maybe even hiding itself in the surrounding woods. It may even be close enough to know that it was being hunted by two humans.
Or maybe it was doing a little hunting of its own.
Lifting his head, John scanned the nearby trees, searching for movement, shape and contour rather than colors. It would have been easier to hunt the creature using the mini flashlights both he and Vesca carried with them, but that would have ruined their night vision. It was better to depend on the light of the full moon, but for the last hour and a half it had been playing hide and seek with the approaching clouds. If they didn’t finish up this hunt soon, there would barely be enough light to find their way, night vision or no night vision.
The freshening breeze sent cool, invisible fingers through his dark, short cropped hair and he shivered almost imperceptibly. The breeze, heavy with the scent of rain, rattled the autumn leaves. Hunching his shoulders against its chill, John tugged restlessly at his black Stetson hat.
John stood as his mentor and partner, Vesca Howell, reached him. With a jerk of his chin, he indicated that the creature’s tracks headed off toward the woods that bordered the field.
“I think it knows we’re here,” he mumbled, “and it’s on the prowl. For us, I mean.”
The younger man had no real proof that the creature was aware of their presence, but he had been hunting werewolves with Vesca for five years and he had learned to listen to his gut instincts. And right now, they were telling him that they would be pretty damned foolish to underestimate this particular monster. After all, a werewolf wasn’t just some wild animal; it was a ferocious killer with the cognitive powers of a human being. Care needed to be taken, good advice for even the most experienced hunter.
“Good work, Orcot,” Vesca said, clapping the other man heartily on the back. Though they had been hunting partners for five years, and friends for even longer, Vesca never called John by his given name. It was always just Orcot. It was probably a left over habit from serving in the Army as a young man. “Let’s bag this son of bitch before we get stuck in that oncoming storm. I don’t want to spend the rest of the night trudging around soaking wet clothes, do you?”
“No, sir, I don’t.”
Guns at the ready, both men moved like wraths through the wind blown grass, every sense straining to catch some indication that their pray was in the surrounding area. The night was completely silent save for the low moan of the wind and the death rattle of the dry leaves still clinging to the swaying tree branches.
During the warm summer months, John rather liked the sound of the wind playing through the leaves – it reminded him of his childhood home near Puget Sound. Some people said that if you wanted to hear the ocean you should hold a seashell to your ear. John’s opinion was that if you really wanted to know the sound of the ocean, without actually going to the sea shore, that is, simply listen to the wind in the leaves. It was the closest thing he’d heard to the real thing and it was a sound that never failed to bring him peace of mind.
Dead leaves in the autumn, though, lent a cold and melancholy air to the world, especially at night. It was a sad and depressing sound, at least as far as John was concerned, a sound that was disturbingly like the rattling of small animal bones – a death rattle. It wasn’t a very scientific analysis, he knew, but it was how he felt and his feelings had never led him wrong, at least, not yet.
There was, admittedly, always a first time.
Their pace slowed somewhat as they entered the dark interior of the woods, still following the faint tracks John had discovered. Here, amongst the towering trees, the light of the full moon, such as it was with the cloud cover, would do them very little good as it failed to penetrate very deeply into what remained of the leafy canopy. They paused for a few moments, guns at the ready, to allow their eyes to adjust to the deepening gloom.
The snapping of a twig somewhere was heard off to their left. Both men swung their shotguns in that direction, fingers tight on the triggers, but judging from the brief, white flashed tail of a retreating deer, it was just a false alarm.
Vesca glanced over at John, who just shrugged. Then they fanned out to cover more ground. Both men were uncharacteristically jumpy and neither could have properly explained why that was exactly. It wasn’t like this was their first hunting expedition, after all. But something was definitely off, which put them on edge. That in of itself could be dangerous, if not to them, than to anyone they may be unfortunate enough to encounter. After all, they were on the publicly accessible park lands, more specifically, Timberline Lake Park, which was approximately twenty minutes by car from the outskirts of Rochester, New York. In fact, it had been one of the park rangers that had reported the werewolf in the first place. He had caught sight of it and had zoomed in from a safe distance using his high powered binoculars.
The ranger, a young, strapping lad with sandy blond hair and a cleft chin, had been understandably nervous, but his description had been amazingly detailed - a ‘strange half-wolf, half man creature with well-defined muscles and large bones with coarse hair covering its body. Its torso tapered to a relatively narrow and low waist.’ He went on to add, “It was a fiercely strong thing, sirs, even the digits on its hands, or claws, I suppose you’d call them, appeared to be muscled.” From that, Vesca and John deduced that they were going to be dealing with a mesomorphic anthropomorphic werewolf.
One reason for their nervousness might be attributed to the fact that although it was almost mid-October and the days were getting increasingly chilly, the park was still open to hikers and campers who fancied spending time in the wild no matter the season. Timberline Lake didn’t shut down for the winter until the fifteenth of October. The rangers’ rough estimation was that there were at least fifteen to twenty families currently using the park’s facilities and although most of them were staying at the RV campsites, there were still a few groups that had pitched tents at various locations unknown.
The wind wound its way through the trees, pushing a strange scent before it. John’s nose wrinkled as he caught the reek of decomposing carcasses and animal feces. It reminded him of the time when he was a teenager and he had taken his old dog, Max, camping along with a few of his friends to a small Wisconsin lake. Max had discovered something rotting under some bushes and had happily rolled around in it, much to their dismay. What a stink that had been! They had been practically gagging all the way home even though they had rolled down all the car windows.
One of his friends had explained that wolves would often roll in decomposing carcasses or the feces of plant eating animals in order to mask their own scent. This tactic enabled them to sneak up on their prey without detection. It could even fool members of the hunted species into accepting the wolf as one of their own. Apparently, this ancient instinct had been carried over to domesticated dogs.
John nervously glanced around him, making out next to nothing in the enclosed darkness. His finger tightened minutely on the trigger of his shotgun. The sound of leaves rustling overhead caught his attention, but the sound was heavier somehow than it had been out in the field. Frowning, his eyes moved up, up, up, into the canopy. Movement caught his eyes then, the glint of faint moonlight outlining a hulking, leaf-shrouded silhouette. There was a dark blur of movement and then the shape, the creature, was hurtling toward the earth, roaring like a hound of Hell.
“Vesca, look out!”
Before the other man had a chance to bring his gun around, the werewolf was upon him, snapping and slobbering. It bowled into Vesca and forced him to the ground – blinding white pain lanced through his head as it came into sharp contact with the trunk of a sturdy oak - but before it could bring its formidable teeth to bear, Vesca slammed the butt of his shotgun into its snout and scrambled to his feet as an explosion of blood and cartilage gushed like a broken water main from the furry snout.
Rearing back with an almost human cry of pain, the werewolf recovered itself enough to sweep its claws forward with deadly precision. Its snarl was one of victory.
Vesca saw the blow coming – moonlight shimmering on razor sharp claws – a fraction of a second before it landed. There was no time to throw his body out of the way, no way to deflect the incoming blow. The creature moved in a blur of inhuman speed, one misshapen hand shooting out and smashing into his face. Pain erupted and blood gushed from his nostrils. His knees buckled and dumped him onto the damp, uneven ground.
“Vesca!” The attack had happened so quickly and John was still too far away to help his mentor. For a moment he thought of shooting the damn thing from where he was, but he dismissed the idea immediately. The creature was too close and if he did pull the trigger, he’d hit both the werewolf and Vesca. That was unacceptable.
Lunging forward, his feet skidded along the thick ground cover of leaves and he almost lost his footing, but he managed to right himself in time to avoid a headlong dive into the hard ground. He was almost there, only a few yards left, but still too far away to make any difference. There was no way he could reach the Vesca in time.
Shaking his head in an attempt to clear his vision, Vesca staggered to his feet and raised his weapon, a shotgun loaded with silver buckshot, the only sure way to kill a lycanthrope. The werewolf smashed the weapon from his hand, for he had misjudged the distance between him and his assailant. A savage kick was delivered to his testacies, doubling him over in pain but not before claws slashed across the tender flesh of his stomach. Screaming, he hit the ground and lay there, rolling helplessly on to his side, curling into a fetal position. He tasted blood in his mouth and the scent of it was heavy in the air.
The monster crashed into him, snarling and slobbering, and bore him to the ground. Its grotesque head reared back but before it could snake down to tear out his throat, there was a loud report of a shotgun followed by a very human scream of pain. Then the werewolf was gone and John Orcot, his friend and partner, was at his side. Vesca tried to pull himself to his feet, tried to tell John he was okay, but he was falling, toppling down like a felled oak, and then John caught him in his arms and they fell together.
“Jesus Christ!” John rolled with the heavy weight of Vesca’s body and lay down his shotgun, a silly rookie mistake Vesca thought but he wasn’t able to form the words in which to reprimand him. He was cold and trembling as his life’s blood was gushing from his wounds in time in a scalding wash that matched the frantic beating of his heart.
“Hang on, just hang on, man! I’ve got you!” John panted as he applied direct pressure on the gaping wound. Hot blood gushed over his hands, and the sickly sweet coppery smell of it filled the world. John threw down his leather pack and shrugged out of his flannel lined hunting jacket. Frantically, he tore strips of cloth from his shirt and used them to bind the wound, but the blood soaked through the makeshift bandages in no time. He continued ripping first his shirt then his thermal tee shirt into strips until he managed to completely cover the other man’s wounds. Finally, the blood seemed to slow to a trickle.
Vesca waved him off feebly. Gasping against the pain, he was finally able to find his voice. It was weak to John’s ears, but still held the mistakable tones of a direct order. “You’ve got to get that son of a bitch, Orcot.” Vesca mumbled. “Now, before he has a chance to hurt anyone else.”
John shook his head and stubbornly continued doctoring the wounds. Finally, unable to do any more, he laid his hunting jacket over the other man’s body for extra warmth and a desperate bid to stave off the effects of shock.
“I can’t do that,” he panted, “I can’t leave you out here all alone. What if that thing comes back?”
With great effort Vesca pulled himself upright, clenching his teeth to keep back a scream of pain. He settled his back against the tree trunk that had bashed his skull open and reached for his shotgun, which had fallen just out of his reach. John followed his groping fingers and reached over and grabbed the weapon and handed it over to him, his expression hidden by the shadows dancing across his face.
“If it comes back, and I don’t think it will, but if it does, this baby will take care of him. And this time,” he added grimly, “I won’t miss.”
“Yeah, okay, I understand.” John nodded his head for he knew that the job had to be finished before that monster struck again. It was an animal after all, and an animal that had been hurt was more likely to turn its rage on anyone unfortunate enough to stumble across its path. “But I’m going to call in some back up,”
Vesca opened his mouth to protest, but he cut him off sharply. “And don’t you argue with me about this. You need medical help.”
The wounded man closed his eyes resignedly and rested his head against the trunk. Thankfully, he didn’t argue.
John reached into the pack dropped carelessly by his feet and pulled out a walkie-talkie radio and prayed that the batteries weren’t dead or that they weren’t too far out to be picked up by Headquarters. With blood soaked hands, he held the unit to his ear and depressed the talk button. He took a deep breath and released it, willing his voice to stay steady.
“Orcot to Base, Orcot to base. Gotta copy?”
There was a burst of static then an agonizingly long stretch of silence.
“I copy, come in,” Came the eventual reply. John recognized the voice as one of the radio dispatchers, but he couldn’t place it to a name of face. It was either Buford Wade or Mike Callaway. “What seems to be the problem, Orcot? Over.”
“Look, I’ve got a man down. Repeat, I’ve got a man down, and he’s in real bad shape. We need immediate medical assistance. Can you send us an ambulance? Over.”
“You mean Vesca’s hurt?” John could hear the incredibility in the dispatcher’s voice. After all, Vesca was practically a legend among supernatural hunters all over the country. “Shit! What’s your ten-twenty? Over.”
That was a good question, John thought. Just where in hell were they, anyway? He mentally pulled up an image of the map he and Vesca had gone over before heading out earlier this evening. Closing his eyes, he charted the course they had taken.
“We’re about five miles east of the main RV campground. Over.”
“That’s a copy, Orcot. Our boys will be there as soon as possible. ETA will be approximately thirty minutes. Over.”
John glanced down at Vesca with barely concealed concern. The other man’s face was waxy and pale, his breathing shallow. He might not be a doctor, but he knew his friend was hurt badly. Even a moron could tell that much. He’d seen the man take a beating before, hell, every hunter managed to get the shit kicked out of him at least once in his career, but this time it was different. For the first time, panic surged through his veins when he thought that Vesca might not make it.
“Better make it sooner than that, guys. Over.”
There was another burst of static but it cleared quickly.
“We’ll do our best. Over and out.”
John quickly stowed the walkie-talkie radio in his pack, zipped it up, and then slung it over his back. He reached down and snatched up his shotgun and examined it carefully to make sure it hadn’t been damaged. Once satisfied that it was functional, he loaded more ammunition into the chambers with fingers that felt numb. Stuffing a few more shells into his front jean pocket for easy access, he laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
Vesca cracked open his eyes with some difficulty. His gaze fixed on some point just past John’s left shoulder.
“The ambulance is on the way, don’t you worry.” He tried to offer a reassuring smile, but it felt stiff and awkward on his face so he gave up the effort. “I’m going to nail that fucker to the wall, Vesca. Nail him right to the fucking wall.”
Vesca gave the barest nod of his head to indicate his understanding. “You do that,” he mumbled, but his words were slow and slurred. The knuckles of the hand gripping the shotgun showed as white half moons under his skin.
Nodding grimly, John Orcot set off following the blood trail left by the werewolf. Anger scorched through his mind, crackling higher and hotter with each step he took. It burned away all thoughts, all feelings until there was nothing left but an all consuming hatred. One way or another, one of them, either him or the werewolf, was going to die tonight.
And, by God, it wasn’t going to be him.
*****
Leon huddled deep in the insulated warmth of his sleeping bag, his thin arms wrapped around his knees, which he had drawn up to his chest. The only sounds he could detect were the soft snores of his mother, somewhere off to his left, and the whispering sounds of the wind as it lightly played around with the flap to the entrance of their tent. His straining ears caught the faint skittering of some leaves being pushed around outside and although he thought the leaves had looked kind of pretty with all their brilliant, reds, oranges and gold colors when he and his mother had been out hiking earlier, now he thought they sounded pretty spooky.
Although he was just seven years old, Leon Anderson was nobody’s coward. He was the bravest of the brave and his mother often told him that he would someday give her a heart attack with all the crazy stunts he pulled. She was probably joking around when she said that, or at least he hoped she was, because everyone knew you couldn’t scare someone into a heart attack. Heart attacks were for really old people who were like thirty years old. And his mom, at twenty-five, was pretty darn old, but not that old… at least, not yet.
Biting his lower lip, he squirmed uncomfortably in his sleeping bag knowing that that there wouldn’t be any falling back asleep now. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly that had woken him in the first place, some loud sound, but he had strained his ears upon waking but it had not been repeated, if indeed it hadn’t been a sleep induce figment of his imagination. His musings on the matter was interrupted as a soft whimpered escaped his throat. But it wasn’t because he was afraid – his bladder was painfully full and he had to pee like nobody’s business.
A soft, answering whine was heard and then something cold and wet was being pushed against his cheek. Guido, his two year old border collie, pawed at him, sensing he was awake and in some sort of distress. He felt her wet tongue first on his ear, then his cheek.
“Quit it, Guido,” Leon whispered, pushing her gently away to stop the collie’s overly zealous licking. “You’re breath smells like shit.”
Suddenly realizing what he had said, he sucked in a quick breath, and clamped his hands over his mouth. He cut a glance into the darkness and the general direction from which he could still hear his mother’s soft, rhythmic snoring. His cheeks puffed out as he breathed an audible sigh of relief. His mother, he had discovered over the years, had super human Mom hearing most of the time, but she was still sleeping and therefore she hadn’t heard him say the s-word. And for that he was heartily thankful. She didn’t like him using that kind of language, but sometimes it just slipped out.
But Guido was not to be deterred for long. Far more agitated than he had ever seen her, she whined and pawed at him. One of her forelegs caught him in low in the stomach, just over his bladder and for one horrible moment he thought he would wet himself like a little baby. He gritted his teeth and tried to unsuccessfully suppress a thin, keening groan.
“Ah, man, I gotta pee!”
He groaned and knew that there was no option in holding it much longer. His bladder was so full it was hurting and that most definitely couldn’t be a good thing. He had gone to the bathroom before bed, such as was his habit, but he had also had several cans of soda earlier that evening before hitting the hay and it had gone through him, well, like water. His mother seldom allowed him to drink soda, so he had happily indulged, but now he wished he had shown a little more restraint.
Squirming restlessly, he tried to guess what time it was. Late, that much was obvious, but what he really wanted to know was how long it would be until the sun started to come out. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the absolute darkness all around him - he had held one of his hands right in front of his face and if it hadn’t been his own hand, he wouldn’t have known it unless it came in contact with his nose – it was just that he had never known it could be so completely and utterly dark out in the wild. It never got so dark at home, not with the street lights spaced along the streets at regular intervals.
Right now he really missed those street lights.
“I gotta go, I gotta go, I gotta go!” Leon hiss-whined urgently under his breath, and, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to put it off for any longer without risking pissing himself like a little baby, he rolled oh so carefully to his feet.
Every movement he made caused his bladder scream in protest but he winced and gritted his teeth, determined to make it outside. Blindly, his hands patted the black emptiness near the foot of his sleeping bag, where he had tossed his shoes before crawling into the tent and curling up in his bad. His mother had always told him that he should never wear his shoes inside the tent and he never did, but the idea of leaving them outside was kind of freaky because who knows what kind of snakes or bugs would crawl into them during the night.
For a few frantic moments his hands encountered only the groundsheet of the tent, but then, just as he was ready to risk running out into the dark in his stocking feet, he found them. He pulled them to him, and, then, standing up on one leg like a wobbly stork, slid on first the left shoe, then the right without bothering to tie the laces.
Just as he was about to head outside, he realized that he would probably need to see his way while walking so he wouldn’t step into the remains of their camp fire or bang into any trees or bushes. He knew they were out there, the outdoors was just plumb full of them, but he hadn’t bothered memorizing their exact locations because he hadn’t counted on having to make any nighttime outdoor excursions.
Mumbling all kinds of obscenities his mother wouldn’t approve of under his breath, he felt his way to the head of his sleeping bag and fumbled around until he found his flashlight. He didn’t dare switch it on while in the tent because he didn’t want to disturb his mother, and he had heard that it would ruin his ‘night vision’, whatever the hell that was, but he gripped it like a life line in one small hand and made his way once more to the tent’s entrance.
Guido whined and bumped up along one of his denim clad legs. He then felt her paws on the back of his legs and then her teeth were grabbing onto the tail flap of his green flannel shirt. She tugged gently, whined again, more urgently this time.
“It’s okay, girl,” he whispered reassuringly. “You can come with me, if you want.”
God knows he would be grateful for her company. A dog’s senses were a zillion times sharper than a human’s and if there were any bears or mountain lions out there in the dark, she’d know about them long before he did, which was a good thing because he had no intentions of being a midnight snack to any critter and that was all there was to that.
He knew that if he was bringing the dog, he should find her leash and hook it to her collar, but his bladder was in critical overload now and he was afraid that if he didn’t go soon, he would burst, literally. It wasn’t as if there was anyone around for her to bark at or any dogs to chase away or anything. They were in the middle of freaking nowhere.
Well, no, that wasn’t exactly true. They were maybe twenty minutes by car away from his home on the outskirts of Rochester, New York. But still, close enough to the middle of nowhere as far as he was concerned. No television, no electricity… and no flushing toilets. Damn. Oh well, that might have been a problem if he were a girl, but he wasn’t and God had designed him, a man’s man by his limited definition, with the necessary equipment for peeing in the woods.
Carefully, he unzipped the tent’s mosquito netting and pushed his way past the tent flap, with Guido at his side. It was a little bit brighter outside than it had been in the tent, but not by much. The moon was supposed to be full, he knew, because he had seen it before heading into the tent for the night, but the approaching clouds he and his mother had seen while eating their dinner of fire crisped hotdogs and pork and beans had completely swallowed it and the night sky. There wasn’t as much as a single star to be seen now, which was a pity because there had been literally hundreds if not thousands of them strewn across the night sky earlier. It had been totally cool.
Shivering, and wishing he had remembered to grab his jacket before leaving the tent, Leon turned on the flashlight and started walking toward the closest stand of trees, his breath puffing out white with every exhalation. He could have easily just unzipped and relieved himself at the campsite, but the very idea of accidentally stepping in it the next morning nixed that idea in a hurry. Sweeping the flashlight’s bright beam in front of him, he made his way over the uneven ground, with Guido at his side.
When he judged he was far enough from the camp, he unzipped and, glancing around him and hoping there weren’t any scary night time predators out there waiting to eat him alive, let loose his stream. The relief was immense. As he shook off and tucked himself away, he made a silent vow never to hold his bladder for so long ever, ever again.
Now that he no longer had to deal with the urgent needs of his bladder, Leon was in no hurry to return to the tent. His shins still ached from hiking with his mother all afternoon, but he figured that while he was awake he might as well do a little night time exploring, just him and his dog, providing that they didn’t wander too far from the camp site, that is. Maybe he’d see a possum or a raccoon or some other nocturnal critter. That would be awesome.
Smiling, he began humming Billy Joel’s You May Be Right under his breath. It was one of his mother’s favorite songs from his Glass Houses album.
Before he was able to take more than a few steps away from the trees, Guido went tense beside him. Leon’s throat constricted and he fell instantly silent. Her ears flattened against her head and her doggy lips pulled away from her teeth. A low but steady growl was building in her throat. Leon knelt beside her and wrapped his arms around her furry body. He stroked her head in an effort to calm her, but the growling only grew louder.
“What is it, girl?”
The flashlight’s beam jerked an unsteady path among the dark silhouettes of the trees as he tried to flash its light everywhere at once, but he couldn’t see anything. He couldn’t hear anything either, no insects, no nothing. Even the wind had apparently died down, holding its breath as if in anticipation.
There came a loud crashing among the trees and Leon almost dropped his flashlight. Suddenly, he didn’t think it was such a good idea to be out here. In fact, the sooner he was back in the tent, the better.
“Let’s get out of here,” he whispered hoarsely and slapped his leg to get Guido’s attention, but the dog’s gaze was fixed firmly on the darkness and the trees. “Guido,” he hissed urgently, “Come on!”
Suddenly Guido’s growling became out and out barking and she tore off into the trees. As she disappeared, Leon heard another, much more frightening sound, a sort of low and rumbling howl unlike anything he had ever heard before in his life. The blood in his veins seemed to turn to ice and he stood there, frozen, his voice lost to fear as the howl rose to an angry roar. Then he heard Guido bark in pain, and, to his horror, the sound was cut off in mid-yelp.
“Guido!” Unmindful of his own safety, Leon hurled himself after the black and white canine. Whatever that thing was, bear or cougar, he couldn’t let it get away with hurting his dog!
Before he was able to take more than a step or two toward the thicket, something large and extremely pissed burst out of the trees, all angry snarls and flashing claws. Its teeth gleamed in the flashlight’s beam. Nausea and terror ripped through Leon’s body as he caught sight of blood – Dear, sweet Jesus! There's so much! – dripping from the creature’s muzzle and teeth. More blood oozed from some sort of wound on its shoulder and he felt a moment of fierce pride that his dog had gotten in at least one good lick before that, that thing had taken her out.
Backpedaling furiously, Leon threw the flashlight at the approaching monster, a scream that was both fear and rage ripping its way past his vocal cords. It bounced off the furry snout and the creature reared its head back and gave a roar of unmistakable, almost human, pain. It didn’t stop it though, and, still screaming, he turned and ran as fast as he could back toward the tent, knowing no other place to go. His feet pounded the uneven ground and his foot twisted under his weight. There was a white flash of pain and he was falling, but he was able to regain his footing and surged ahead, aware that the creature was right behind him.
In the end, his impatience was his undoing. In his desperation to get outside to empty his aching bladder, he had neglected to tie his shoelaces. His mother had often called out to him, “Tie your laces before you trip on them!” but he had never taken her serious. Now, as he ran for his life, he tripped on one of the dangling laces and it in combination to the treacherous ground, brought him to his knees, knocking the breath out of him.
Before he could even begin to scramble to his feet, his right shoulder erupted in titanic pain when the creature sank its claws into his flesh and pulled him, kicking and screaming to his feet. He felt his body turning around so that he was staring up into the hideous, blood-flecked face of an honest to God werewolf. This wasn’t movie magic he was seeing; this wasn’t fake fur or a cheaply made costume complete with poorly concealed zippers. This was really real and it was about to kill him deader than snot.
“Leon? Leon?” As if from a million miles away, he heard his mother’s sleepy, scared voice calling his name. No doubt she had already discovered that he wasn’t in his sleeping bag like he was supposed to be.
He couldn’t stand the idea of the werewolf hurting her like he had hurt – killed, his mind interjected grimly, killed – his beloved dog. And knowing that if he didn’t do something the monster would kill them all, forced him into action. Lacking silver bullets or any other form of weapon, he did the only thing he could think of. His young legs flashed out, coming into solid contact with the monster’s torso at the same time that he brought his fists down on what he correctly surmised as its only vulnerable spot – its nose.
Once more the beast sounded its rage and pain, but instead of letting go of him as Leon had desperately hoped it would do, it snaked its head forward and down. He had a brief and confusing glimpse of rows and rows of very sharp and bloody teeth before the werewolf sank its fangs into his flesh, tearing tissue, crunching bones.
Screaming even as he felt himself losing consciousness, Leon felt himself being literally shaken like a rag dog by the werewolf. The pain was beyond comprehension. As his vision faded into darkness, he thought he saw a man-like creature coming up behind the creature, raising something long and cylinder-like to its eyes. There was a shout that held the unmistakable tone of command. Amazingly, the werewolf released him and he collapsed to the ground, unable to scream as this fresh pain assaulted his body. He saw the creature turned its head, then its body… and then there was a loud thunderous bellow and its head exploded in a geyser of blood, brains and bone fragments.
The world became dark, then darker still, darker than night, colder than the wind blowing through the dead autumn leaves. Leon dimly heard his mother’s understandably panicked screaming mixing with a man’s baritone. Their words were garbled and he couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the urgency was undeniable.
Strong arms wrapped around him, a man’s arms… a father’s arms. He had never felt his father’s warm embrace for he had died in a horrible automobile accident only a few weeks before he had been born. But if ever there was a fatherly embrace, even if it was one of panic, fear, and desperation, then this was it. His mouth parted – he wanted to thank this man who had destroyed the monster, saved his life, and his mother’s, but no words came out, only a terrible choking rattle as he drew in his breath.
He felt no more fear or panic, those and every other emotion had drained away leaving him as empty as an abandoned sea shell. Having never known such pain and he retreated into his own mind in a desperate attempt to leave it behind. His eyes closed, he couldn’t keep them open, they were so heavy, and he knew no more for a very, very long time.
TO BE CONTINUED…
CHAPTER 02
Yay!
It makes me sad that there aren't more writers like you for PSoH. I've run out of places to look for quality fanfiction. :(
I hope you post again soon! XD
Re: Yay!
How often will you be posting here?
Probably once a week until I'm caught up and then whenever a new chapter is finished.
I'm glad that you enjoy the story. LJ has a few less restrictions on what can actually be in a fic so I will be including some scenes that I wasn't able to post at FF.Net for rating reasons.
Re: Yay!
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