Pocket Apocalypse
Page 55
I frowned. “So are you saying that any thinking cryptid that doesn’t ‘control themselves’ into acting like a human being may as well be a monster?”
Riley shrugged, massive shoulders rolling under his shirtsleeves until I was afraid he was going to bust a seam. “You said it, not me,” he said. “Raina, Shelly, you’re with me. We need to set a line around the flock. Gabby, you stay here with your mum. Keep an eye on our ‘guest.’” He turned and went tromping back down the hill. Shelby cast me an apologetic glance as she followed him. Raina didn’t even do that.
“That could have gone better,” I muttered, watching them go.
“That isn’t likely,” said Charlotte brightly. “Have you got a weapon?”
I turned to give her a blank look before reaching into my jacket and producing my backup handgun. It was small and compact enough that it didn’t change the line of my clothing, which was important when there was a chance I’d be interacting with noncombatants, and it was loaded with silver bullets. “I’m sorry, I thought you knew,” I said. “Shelby and I were discussing ammunition in the car.”
“I wasn’t sure whether that meant you were borrowing one of her guns, or whether you had one of your own,” she said, not missing a beat. “Sometimes Gabby forgets to pack a pistol when she doesn’t really want to be coming along on a hunt.”
“Mum!” protested Gabby.
“It’s true,” said Charlotte. She turned to survey the flock, and the rest of her family. Riley was moving Raina and Shelby into position on the far side of the massed sheep. Either there wasn’t a sheepdog working the field, or the Tanners were a familiar enough sight that the dog wasn’t going on alert. Jett was a black speck bouncing along at Raina’s heels. “Looks like we’re good to move. Are you both clear on your orders?”
“Yes,” said Gabby.
“No,” I said.
“Good,” said Charlotte. “Move out.” She started loping down the side of the hill, moving with a speed and grace that spoke of absolute familiarity with the terrain. The sun, having dipped down to taste the horizon and found it good, was now descending almost as fast as Charlotte Tanner, dropping the visibility on the field more with every second. I exchanged a glance with Gabby. Then, without another word spoken, the two of us took off after Charlotte.
Gabby, like her mother, was graceful and gliding on the uneven ground, even though she never quite approached Charlotte’s speed. Charlotte ran like a six year old, or an Olympian in training, and somehow managed to do both at the same time: every leap was perfectly planned and executed, every step found solid ground. I, on the other hand, fumbled along behind them like the tourist I was. The quality of the soil was unfamiliar to me, turning every footfall into something potentially treacherous. Only the mild but constant fear of the things that lurked among the Australian underbrush kept me from taking a header into the grass.
It says something when you’re more afraid of falling down and maybe meeting a spider than you are of breaking an ankle, providing that broken ankle doesn’t dump you on your ass.
The sheep were agitated when we reached the bottom of the ridge. They danced from one foot to another, heads up, ears flat, bleating into the twilight. Riley was a hulking shape on the other side of the flock, and I allowed myself a moment to wonder whether he might not be the problem. Sheep may be stupid, but they can sense hostility, and Riley had hostility to spare.
Then one of the rams reared up onto its hind legs, gave a low, bleating moan, like an animal in excruciating pain, and turned inside out.
“Oh, fuck,” I said, and started shooting.
The most common comparison for the lycanthropy family of viruses is rabies. They cause a lot of similar symptoms in the people they infect, which is why we go back to rabies again and again when talking about anyone infected with lycanthropy. The uninformed might even start to think that a werewolf was just a person with a bad case of rabies, someone who turned almost animalistic in their rages. There’s a reason we explain it like that. It’s easier on everyone if we never couch things in more honest terms.
The ram—a big boy, maybe three hundred pounds of mutton on the hoof—shrieked as its skin warped and twisted, woolly coat being expelled from the skin with a speed that left it raw and bleeding, hence the appearance of having been turned inside out. The bones were distending and transforming so fast that I could hear them crackle and snap inside its body. Its flesh was changing too, shifting composition from marbled, fatty softness to rock-hard, combat-ready muscle. The ram bellowed again as our bullets bit into its midsection. This time, it sounded less like a bleat, and more like a howl of protest against the world. How dare this reality exist? How dare we shoot at the ram, which was meant to be king of the newly born night?
I stopped firing wildly, forcing myself to take a breath and steady my hands. Then, barely pausing to aim, I raised my gun again and fired at the werewolf, which showed virtually no signs of its ovine origins.
A hole appeared at the center of its face. It blinked yellow, lupine eyes dumbly, a bit of its original sheepish dullness creeping back in before those eyes went completely blank, and the werewolf collapsed. The untransformed members of the flock scattered, bleating. I let out a slow breath.
“All right,” I began. “That takes care of—”
Something screamed. I turned, as did the Tanners. Five more of the sheep had stopped in their tracks—four ewes, and a second, juvenile ram—and were staring at us with yellowing eyes.
“Well, fuck,” I said, shoulders slumping as my brief-lived hope died. “There’s more than one.”
Of the six werewolves among the flock, the old ram had been infected the longest: that was the only explanation for why he’d transformed so quickly, and so completely. The five that were now advancing toward us, stiff-legged and snarling, were still essentially sheep. Their eyes were yellow, and one of the ewes was starting to shed her fleece in huge, bloody clumps, but they still looked like barnyard animals, more suited to a petting zoo than to a horror movie. I took advantage of their slow approach, checking to see how many bullets I had left. Two more. It had taken four, plus however many the Tanners used, to take down a single werewolf that wasn’t yet prepared to attack.
“Riley?” I began reloading as quickly as I could, jamming the bullets into place with my thumb. I had half a box of replacement ammunition with me. That didn’t feel like it was going to be enough. “Was there a plan here, apart from ‘let’s all go to the meadow and get turned into confetti by the sheep’?”
Riley shrugged, massive shoulders rolling under his shirtsleeves until I was afraid he was going to bust a seam. “You said it, not me,” he said. “Raina, Shelly, you’re with me. We need to set a line around the flock. Gabby, you stay here with your mum. Keep an eye on our ‘guest.’” He turned and went tromping back down the hill. Shelby cast me an apologetic glance as she followed him. Raina didn’t even do that.
“That could have gone better,” I muttered, watching them go.
“That isn’t likely,” said Charlotte brightly. “Have you got a weapon?”
I turned to give her a blank look before reaching into my jacket and producing my backup handgun. It was small and compact enough that it didn’t change the line of my clothing, which was important when there was a chance I’d be interacting with noncombatants, and it was loaded with silver bullets. “I’m sorry, I thought you knew,” I said. “Shelby and I were discussing ammunition in the car.”
“I wasn’t sure whether that meant you were borrowing one of her guns, or whether you had one of your own,” she said, not missing a beat. “Sometimes Gabby forgets to pack a pistol when she doesn’t really want to be coming along on a hunt.”
“Mum!” protested Gabby.
“It’s true,” said Charlotte. She turned to survey the flock, and the rest of her family. Riley was moving Raina and Shelby into position on the far side of the massed sheep. Either there wasn’t a sheepdog working the field, or the Tanners were a familiar enough sight that the dog wasn’t going on alert. Jett was a black speck bouncing along at Raina’s heels. “Looks like we’re good to move. Are you both clear on your orders?”
“Yes,” said Gabby.
“No,” I said.
“Good,” said Charlotte. “Move out.” She started loping down the side of the hill, moving with a speed and grace that spoke of absolute familiarity with the terrain. The sun, having dipped down to taste the horizon and found it good, was now descending almost as fast as Charlotte Tanner, dropping the visibility on the field more with every second. I exchanged a glance with Gabby. Then, without another word spoken, the two of us took off after Charlotte.
Gabby, like her mother, was graceful and gliding on the uneven ground, even though she never quite approached Charlotte’s speed. Charlotte ran like a six year old, or an Olympian in training, and somehow managed to do both at the same time: every leap was perfectly planned and executed, every step found solid ground. I, on the other hand, fumbled along behind them like the tourist I was. The quality of the soil was unfamiliar to me, turning every footfall into something potentially treacherous. Only the mild but constant fear of the things that lurked among the Australian underbrush kept me from taking a header into the grass.
It says something when you’re more afraid of falling down and maybe meeting a spider than you are of breaking an ankle, providing that broken ankle doesn’t dump you on your ass.
The sheep were agitated when we reached the bottom of the ridge. They danced from one foot to another, heads up, ears flat, bleating into the twilight. Riley was a hulking shape on the other side of the flock, and I allowed myself a moment to wonder whether he might not be the problem. Sheep may be stupid, but they can sense hostility, and Riley had hostility to spare.
Then one of the rams reared up onto its hind legs, gave a low, bleating moan, like an animal in excruciating pain, and turned inside out.
“Oh, fuck,” I said, and started shooting.
The most common comparison for the lycanthropy family of viruses is rabies. They cause a lot of similar symptoms in the people they infect, which is why we go back to rabies again and again when talking about anyone infected with lycanthropy. The uninformed might even start to think that a werewolf was just a person with a bad case of rabies, someone who turned almost animalistic in their rages. There’s a reason we explain it like that. It’s easier on everyone if we never couch things in more honest terms.
The ram—a big boy, maybe three hundred pounds of mutton on the hoof—shrieked as its skin warped and twisted, woolly coat being expelled from the skin with a speed that left it raw and bleeding, hence the appearance of having been turned inside out. The bones were distending and transforming so fast that I could hear them crackle and snap inside its body. Its flesh was changing too, shifting composition from marbled, fatty softness to rock-hard, combat-ready muscle. The ram bellowed again as our bullets bit into its midsection. This time, it sounded less like a bleat, and more like a howl of protest against the world. How dare this reality exist? How dare we shoot at the ram, which was meant to be king of the newly born night?
I stopped firing wildly, forcing myself to take a breath and steady my hands. Then, barely pausing to aim, I raised my gun again and fired at the werewolf, which showed virtually no signs of its ovine origins.
A hole appeared at the center of its face. It blinked yellow, lupine eyes dumbly, a bit of its original sheepish dullness creeping back in before those eyes went completely blank, and the werewolf collapsed. The untransformed members of the flock scattered, bleating. I let out a slow breath.
“All right,” I began. “That takes care of—”
Something screamed. I turned, as did the Tanners. Five more of the sheep had stopped in their tracks—four ewes, and a second, juvenile ram—and were staring at us with yellowing eyes.
“Well, fuck,” I said, shoulders slumping as my brief-lived hope died. “There’s more than one.”
Of the six werewolves among the flock, the old ram had been infected the longest: that was the only explanation for why he’d transformed so quickly, and so completely. The five that were now advancing toward us, stiff-legged and snarling, were still essentially sheep. Their eyes were yellow, and one of the ewes was starting to shed her fleece in huge, bloody clumps, but they still looked like barnyard animals, more suited to a petting zoo than to a horror movie. I took advantage of their slow approach, checking to see how many bullets I had left. Two more. It had taken four, plus however many the Tanners used, to take down a single werewolf that wasn’t yet prepared to attack.
“Riley?” I began reloading as quickly as I could, jamming the bullets into place with my thumb. I had half a box of replacement ammunition with me. That didn’t feel like it was going to be enough. “Was there a plan here, apart from ‘let’s all go to the meadow and get turned into confetti by the sheep’?”
