Desert Wolves
Hello and thanks for reading! Another horror-pulp/urban fantasy short story for the Spooky Season. It takes place in the same setting as the other “Punk Fiction” stories, but it focuses on the other side as it were. Hope you enjoy. Happy Hallowe’en to all those who celebrate, and may all your pumpkin patches be extremely sincere.
Image of the werewolf in repose: sprawled across the back seat of a Greyhound bus. Black leather jacket, black t-shirt, black jeans, black shoes. Wallet chain on the left hip. Short, straight black hair in artful disarray. Thick, stormy brows. Severe Classical features, a Roman nose. Full lips. Cheeks and chin blue with a permanent five o’clock shadow. The eyes are closed but when the bus comes to a shuddering halt they snap open, revealing chips of ice capable of sizing up anyone in an instant and categorizing them as threat, ally, or prey.
Apollo rises smoothly to his feet and waits patiently for the other passengers to file off before he steps out in the bright New Mexico sunlight. The heat slams into him like a wave, soaking him immediately in his own sweat. Chagrinned slightly, he shrugs out of the jacket, revealing powerfully muscled arms and the flash of a silver watch on his wrist. Strictly mechanical, no electronics.
Apollo folds his jacket over one arm and shoulders his canvas backpack. His pale blue eyes narrow in the sunlight as he surveys the parking lot of the bus depot. The stench of gasoline and asphalt and metal assaults his nostrils, at war with the stink of humanity that swirls around him. Sweat, perfume, deodorant. A human would find the scents distasteful. The werewolf just absorbs information.
Apollo strides across the parking lot. His neck swivels and his nostrils flare, seeking a familiar scent. When he catches it, he smiles tightly and changes direction. Turning left he heads out of the lot and across the street.
At the end of the block sits a rusty Jeep that might once have been red, held together with a combination of twine, duct tape, and pure orneriness. Leaning against the driver’s side door is a tall, thin man with a seamed brown face that looks cast in bronze. A turquoise bandana covers his bald pate, tied low enough to shade his dark eyes. A pair of black sunglasses lay across the bandana. He wears a faded yellow tank, denim, and cowboy boots, with a leather brace around his left wrist and two silver studs in each lobe. He was a big man once, but he is emaciated now, shrunken and weathered, his skin stretched taught around his bones.
“You look like shit,” Apollo says as he approaches.
“Nice to see you too,” the man says in Mexican accented Spanish.
This close now, Apollo scents the disease ravaging the man’s body, the evidence of its extent obvious in the looseness of his clothing and the grayness at the edges of his features. Apollo switches to Spanish himself. “How long, Jefe?”
“A few months, now. S’funny, the white man’s poisons put this disease in my body, and now they want to pump more of their poisons in me to cure it. So stupid. You can’t fight poison with poison.” Jefe coughs, his frame shuddering with the effort. Almost instinctively Apollo steps forward to offer – what? Even he doesn’t know – but Jefe holds up a hand. He spits a wad of brown juice on the street.
“I’ll be going south soon, find myself some real medicine. Nothing these idiots can offer will help. But I have one more thing to do before I go.”
Apollo nods, despite sudden concern and uncertainty. “Your e-mail makes more sense now. Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“Because of that look in your eyes right now. Stuff it, kid. Nothing’s changed. I’m still me. Just a little slower, maybe.” Jefe sighs. “A little weaker. Weak enough that I need your help.”
“It’s yours. Always.”
Jefe grins, but hides it as he opens the door to the Jeep. “Get in. We’ve got some ground to cover.”
*
Albuquerque is an hour behind them when they stop for food at a roadside café. Apollo orders two enchiladas and drowns them in green chile sauce. Jefe opts for a cigarette and a coffee.
“What are we talking about, exactly?” Apollo asks around forkfuls of carnitas.
“An old copper mine. Played out by 1890 or so, long abandoned. About a decade ago, these corporate jackasses swoop in, buy the land, start poking around. New mining techniques, they say. Going to reopen it, strip it all down to the bone. Pfeh. Just more poison, that’s all the white men know what to do. Kill and rape and kill again.”
“You don’t need me to help sabotage a mining operation, Jefe.”
“Damn straight. Not that I do that sort of shit any more. Federales are not the chickenshits they used to be and sadly I am too old for that kind of heat. But I also figured they wouldn’t find much. Its been over a century after all, what else could be in there?
“Took ‘em five years to even get the stupid thing up and running. And at first they didn’t have much to show for the millions they poured into the project. But then they struck some vein or other and started producing again. But they got greedy. Delved too deep.
“They woke something up. Something old, something terrible. Not sorry to see the mine go or the little town around it, in all honesty. Some of those people probably didn’t deserve to die that way, but then do I deserve the cancer eating me alive?”
“What do you mean, something woke up? Something from the Dream? Spirit or god?”
“No, nothing from the other side. Anything that big manifesting in the world would have set off alarms all over the county. No, this thing is material. Its matter. Somebody put it there in the ground hundreds or thousands of years ago. Probably Valusians. Maybe some fool Mictlantecutli leech. Doesn’t matter. We have to deal with it.”
Apollo frowns. He is beginning to remember why talking to Jefe Ortega frustrates him so damn much. Half-words and phrases, all hidden meanings and statements of probable veracity couched in innuendo and supposition. He could never just state something plainly. Apollo had learned from Jefe how to improvise and adapt, but he preferred a good plan.
“And does ‘we’ include anyone besides the two of us?”
Jefe smiles thinly. “My latest… my last pup is waiting for us back at the ranch. Not ashamed to admit it, she ain’t a patch on you kid, but she’s got spirit.”
Apollo sighs. “I have a whole pack back in Seattle. I could have brought them with me.”
Jefe laughs and takes a drag on his cigarette. “Aw, they’d just get in the way, ‘Pollo. It’ll be like old times. You and me fighting monsters.”
Apollo stares at him for a long moment, but Jefe proves impervious to the ice chips. “So you got yourself a family,” Jefe says. “That’s good. Good for you, kid. Did you find your mother?”
Apollo nods. His eyes drop to his mostly empty plate. “She was as interested in me as an adult as she was when I was an infant.” He looks up. “But I discovered a sister. She’s happy to have a brother.”
Jefe smiles, one of the most genuine smiles Apollo has ever seen on that seamed, bronze visage. “I’m happy for you. You deserve some good luck, after what you’ve been through.”
There’s a wistful look in the old man’s eyes that makes Apollo uneasy for his old friend. “I’ve been pretty lucky since you found me, Jefe.” Their eyes lock for a moment and this time its Jefe who looks away, perhaps embarrassed by the expression on Apollo’s face.
“Well, if you’re done shoving food in your face, we can get going. Meg’s been left alone too long as it is.”
They are back on familiar footing, the moment of genuine emotion and appreciation gone but Apollo hopes not forgotten. “Trouble at home?”
Jefe scowls. He crushes his butt in his calloused palm and slips the remains into a back pocket. Out comes the pack of cigarettes and the lighter, another coffin nail lit in seconds. “She’s a little high strung, is all. Let’s go.”
*
The Ortega family home lies a quarter mile down a dusty trail, hidden from the nearest actual road by a screen of cottonwoods and scattered humps of cactus. The trail leads into a slight depression and the rambling, old wooden house lies in the center. An extensive garden lies behind the house, covered in loose netting to keep out the rabbits and other pests, and showing some early growth for the season. A dozen chickens mill about the property, clucking and carrying on, but they seem to be the only occupants.
The heads of other trails lead off into the hills, but aside from a tented enclosure for the jeep, the hutch for the birds, and an old shed where Jefe keeps supplies and tools, there isn’t much here. It is neat and clean, like the master of the house, everything in its place. Except for the chickens, who wander where they may. Late afternoon shadows make pools of darkness here and there.
Apollo can scent her over the familiar smells of the domicile. He catches wind of her even before he alights from the jeep. Jefe marches for the front door of the house, leaving Apollo to gather his bag on his own.
As he lifts the backpack, one of the shadows on the side of the shed detaches itself and glides in his direction. He smells cold metal and gun oil mixed with the scent of werewolf. Apollo turns unconcernedly into the muzzle of a .22 rifle only inches from his head.
At the other end of the gun stands a slight young woman wearing a dark blue hooded sweatshirt and green cargo shorts. She smells of raspberries and poison ivy, beneath which lies the tangy animal musk that marks her as a werewolf. Skinny legs, bare feet, a bangle of river stones around her left ankle. The hood is pulled up, covering much of her head, but curls of red-gold hair are visible. A smattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose make her look younger than she probably is, though her slight frame suggests a girl of sixteen. Her hazel eyes examine him coldly, thick brows narrowed in suspicion.
“Hello,” Apollo says.
The girl lowers the gun and cocks her head, watching him. Her nostrils flare. Wordlessly she circles him, the rifle in the crook of her arm, not threatening, but easily positioned to do so. Apollo waits patiently, trying not to smirk, recalling his own wariness at her age around one of their kind.
“I’m Apollo,” he says.
She stops moving and sets the butt of the gun in the sand, holding the barrel between two fingers. “Jefe says you’re the Big Bad Wolf from the big bad city.”
“That would make you Little Red Riding Hood?”
She frowns, pulls the hood of her sweatshirt down, revealing a shock of unruly red tresses. “You’re funny,” she says flatly. “Jefe didn’t say you were funny.”
“I’m full of surprises,” Apollo says. He attempts a warm smile. “How many of our kind have you met?”
“Two. Including you.”
Apollo nods, having expected such an answer. “Well. I grew up here, same as you. Jefe is family. I owe him my life. And I take my obligations very seriously.”
The hazel eyes scan him head to toe and she seems to come to a decision. The rifle comes up into parade position and she sticks out her right hand. “Megaera Logan. Meg.”
Apollo takes the hand. “Apollo Andromacheus, its an honor to meet you.” She snorts in derision, but a smile starts to form at the corners of her mouth nonetheless.
Jefe calls from the house. “You two done? Get your asses in gear, we got work to do!”
*
Jefe spreads a map of the town on the kitchen table, pushing piles of books and boxes of ammunition out of the way to make room. The map is a dozen sheets of paper taped together. Apollo sees a small desert town, sprawled across too much land. Probably mostly prefab buildings, sandy yards, growing nothing but thorns and rocks. A town too small for a post office, but it boasts three bars, an elementary school, a Dollar General, and a McDonalds. The main drag looks like it may have a few small businesses as well, but there’s nothing on the map to indicate any of the buildings are actually occupied.
There’s a central road running through the heart of town, with most of the residences to the south and east. The mining concern is to the north. Smaller roads wind around the area, into the nearby hills, out to the main roads and highway. Jefe produces a thick black sharpie and begins drawing in the roadblocks.
“They’re claiming an Anthrax scare, quarantining the area. But the feds are spread thin, and there’s gaps in the fence.” He taps the map in a few places with the blunt end of the sharpie.
“How long has the town been boxed up?” Apollo asks. “And what do you call it? I can’t just keep saying ‘the town.’”
Jefe smiles thinly. “They named it ‘Harmony.’ Poor bastards. Three days. They won’t be able to keep the thing contained much longer. You took your sweet time coming south, Apollo. Wish we could have gotten started a couple days ago.”
Apollo nods. “You know its not a good idea to put a werewolf on a plane. The bus was the fastest I could do.” He sighs, scanning the map. “We’ll have to make up for lost time. I assume you have a plan?”
“Sort of,” Jefe says. He looks pointedly at Meg.
“Jefe had me scout around a bit,” she says. “He didn’t want to draw too much attention just yet. There’s a few squads of goons with guns marching around town, stacking bodies and taking stock. I didn’t see the thing at all, but I could smell it everywhere and it creeped me the fuck out.” She looks away, freckled cheeks reddening. “I didn’t stick around. The goons took potshots at me when they spotted me, felt like I overstayed my welcome. I really didn’t see much.”
“Every little bit helps, Meg,” Apollo says, meaning it. He turns to Jefe. “The humans don’t worry me too much. I wish we had a better idea of what we’re looking for. But you have an idea of how to kill it?”
Jefe steps around the table and lifts up a rifle case, setting it down on top of the map. The rickety old table groans under the weight. Jefe flips the latches and opens the cover. Inside, lying upon a bed of green velvet, is an 1874 Sharps rifle in pristine condition. The stock is carved with the image of an eagle perched upon a cactus with a snake in its beak, encircled by a ring of Mexica glyphs. “I got twelve of my special .50 cartridges. Mercury tipped silver bullets, blessed and rune carved to curse unnatural things. Both gun and bullets are infused with spirit energy. I can put this thing down, whatever it might be, don’t worry.”
“You just have to get close enough,” Apollo says.
“It’s a Sharps,” Jefe says. “You two just have to get it into range, I’ll do the rest.”
Apollo wonders if it will be that easy.
*
After the convocation, Jefe heads into his room and collapses on his bed to catch some sleep. Meg putters around the kitchen, cleaning up a little bit from meals taken earlier in the day, but mostly raiding the fridge. She doesn’t offer Apollo anything, but he still feels pleasantly full from the roadside stop. Instead he finds a corner of the house to curl up himself and dozes lightly for an hour or so until Jefe comes to get him. Outside, twilight has fallen.
While they load the Jeep, Jefe pauses at one point to cough and heave, his thin chest shuddering. He spits up a bloody wad into the dust. Eyes tearing from the effort, he digs into his jeans pocket and pulls out the keys. He weighs them a moment, then tosses them to Apollo, who plucks them deftly out of the air.
“You still remember how to drive stick?” Jefe says, his voice weaker than Apollo likes. Meg’s expression is flat but Apollo feels the concern pouring out of her in waves. Both he and Meg can smell the strength of the sickness ravaging Jefe’s body. Apollo wishes he could offer them both some perfect words of wisdom, some insight or glimmer of hope. He remains silent.
Jefe rides shotgun, directing Apollo on the New Mexico highways. Over an hour and half behind the wheel takes them to the vicinity of Harmony. At some predetermined point known only to the older man, Apollo is directed to turn off the main road and kill the lights. Beneath the glow of a half-moon, Apollo navigates the desert hills and gulleys. His eyes are sharper than a human’s would be in this light, seeing the way with little trouble.
The Jeep rattles and protests and the desert throws up rocks and cutaways and heaps of cactus to block their passage, but Jefe knows his way. With Apollo as his eyes and hands, the old man gets them to the top of a rise overlooking the little mining town. Apollo draws up parallel to the slope, kills the engine, and hands the keys to his mentor.
Below them, spread out across the flat plain, lies Harmony. The southern, residential area is the closest to them. A few houses even butt up against the bottom of the slope, cheap fences raised to cordon off human territory and resist the desert’s encroachment. The town is dark, without any streetlights. The wind brings the scent of death to Apollo. Death and something other, something foreign and unnatural. His nose wrinkles involuntarily in disgust.
Meg scrambles out of the back seat and hands Jefe the precious case. They’re both all in black now, like Apollo, but for practical rather than fashionable reasons. But even as Jefe clacks open the case, Meg begins to strip out of her clothes. She kicks off her sandals and whips off the hoodie and the shorts, revealing a skinny naked girl standing unaffectedly at the top of the slope.
Apollo realizes that she doesn’t know the trick of dissolving one’s garments into the Dream, so in deference, he strips as well. Shapeshifters need to be practical about this sort of thing, and even if Apollo knows more tricks, he won’t embarrass Meg by showing off. The sand retains the sun’s warmth, even this late into the evening, but it’s a pleasant warmth against the soles of his feet. Meg gives him an appraising look as he approaches the rim of the slope to stand beside her.
Apollo awakens the wolf spirit slumbering inside him. His outer appearance changes. Flesh and bone flow like wax. Black hair becomes fur, spreading thickly across his body. Legs and arms lengthen, each ending in wicked looking claws. His shoulders expand, his neck broadens, and his jaw lengthens. Ears taper and extend far past his skull. Sharp, bone crushing teeth fill his mouth. In the span of heartbeats, the human form of Apollo is replaced by a massive humanoid wolf that towers almost nine feet in height and weighs nearly a quarter ton. His legs are reticulated, terminating in broad flat paws, and his arms are long enough that he can easily take to all fours. The blue eyes change to gold, glittering in the night.
Beside him, Meg shifts as well. But she retracts into herself, even as the fur grows across her frame and her skull narrows and flattens. Within the same span of time that Apollo effects his change, in the young woman’s place a sleek, powerfully built red wolf stands with ears and tail erect, black snout lifted to the air and scenting. Apollo would prefer she take the werewolf shape as well, but perhaps she’s still not used to it. Jefe said she knew enough to come along. Apollo hopes she won’t turn out to be a liability.
Jefe shoulders the rifle and clambers up onto Apollo’s back. Apollo bends down and uses the powerful muscles in his arms to assist the human. Jefe settles in, holding tightly to the thick mane that lies across the back of Apollo’s neck. There is a slight pinch, but no more than that. They have traveled in this way many times before, when both of them were much younger. And Jefe was much heavier.
With the moon high overhead, the werewolves lope down the slope into Harmony.
*
The sounds of the natural world disappear. Apollo no longer hears any insects, or the rustle of wings, the movements of small mammals, or even the sound of wind sweeping across the desert. It is quiet in town, save for the rustle of bodies in vinyl hazmat suits, radios at hips generating static and the occasional coded phrase in English. The low rumble of Humvee engines, the jingle of harnesses. Boots shuffling on pavement. With them comes scents of gun oil, metal and plastic, diesel, the sour fear of men, and beneath that, the smell of cold black death. Apollo’s nose wrinkles in discomfort.
Golden eyes shine in the darkness. The wolves move silently and swiftly through the deserted streets, avoiding patrols with ease. Apollo identifies by scent and sound sixteen individuals patrolling the streets, with four vehicles containing an unknown number of additional Feds. Of the beast they are hunting, he senses no definite sign. Just the uncomfortable scent that underlies everything and seems to have permeated even the very ground upon which he stands.
Like ghosts they glide through the residential area, passing empty, dark houses. Now Apollo sees the damage that was invisible from the top of the ridge. Fences knocked down, walls in houses caved in, wood splintered and cinderblock shattered. They pass a house nearly flattened by an upside down Volkswagon that has been thrown through the front porch and into the building. Here and there, Apollo sees four parallel lines scraped or burned into the pavement of the road. The death smell is very strong there. Were his human brain in control, he might puzzle at the meaning of them, but his wolf brain instinctively recognizes claw marks.
They pause as they reach the center of town. Cautiously Apollo scurries across the main road, waiting for a pair of trucks to pass in opposite directions before doing so. He lopes across the Dollar General parking lot and scrambles up onto the roof with minimal effort. There Jefe slides off Apollo’s back, landing with a clumsy thump upon the rooftop. Jefe stumbles slightly. A huge paw catches and steadies him. Jefe shoots the werewolf a grateful, chagrinned look, and unlimbers the Sharps rifle. He crouches at the edge of the roof, scanning the surrounding area.
Apollo strides to the back of the building and leaps down, alighting more lightly than a creature his size should. The little red wolf waits there. It’s time to hunt.
Like shadows the wolves move through Harmony, tasting the air and with ears erect listening for any sign of their quarry. Headlights stab the darkness, but there are no street lamps in operation to interrupt the night. Men on the ground slash the air with the beams of flashlights. They are clumsy and loud, easily avoided, even by a creature of Apollo’s bulk. He wonders if the beast is avoiding them in a similar manner, but only briefly. A thing that can throw a car through a house will not fear men and their guns.
Meg growls low, drawing Apollo’s attention. She signals that the death scent is stronger to the northwest and he lifts his muzzle. He agrees. They lope off in that direction. Shortly they come across a long, low building with a field and a playground, encircled by a shoulder height fence. There’s something piled up in the middle of the playground, something that should not be there. It reeks of death.
Meg whines and tucks her tail between her legs, instinctively backing away. Apollo will not force her to investigate. He springs across the street and leaps over the fence in a single bound, landing with barely a sound. He approaches the humped shape cautiously, rounding a jungle gym structure to see it more completely.
He pauses when it comes into full view, illuminated by the moon. It is a pyramid of skulls, each still possessing a jawbone, carefully piled into a massive mound. Empty eye sockets point outward, teeth grin, each skull situated to point face outward, balanced with precise skill. There is disturbed earth around the mound, as though something dug a huge pit here and filled it in.
Apollo’s ears flatten against his own skull and he hunches down on all fours, hackles rising. The stench of death is almost unbearable here, tainted with an eldritch flavor that his wolf soul instinctively hates. His human soul wonders if there were this many people in the town to begin with, and recalls that Meg spoke of the Feds stacking bodies. There is something deeply wrong here, he knows. He begins to back away slowly, uncertain.
The eye sockets of every skull in the pyramid begin to glow. A sickly green light, like the phosphorescence of mushrooms, seeps through the holes of each head. The skulls begin to move, jaws snapping and heads twisting, turning towards Apollo. The ground beneath shudders and explodes in a shower of loose rock and dirt and a huge thing leaps up into the playground.
Apollo stumbles backward, placing the jungle gym between himself and the beast. It is the size of a hippo but built like a lion, with four powerful limbs that end in huge shovel like claws. A long naked tail extends from the haunches. The front third of the thing is made up of that pyramid of skulls, the jaws all snapping together, creating a hellish clatter. The body is likewise covered in hard bony plates, dull ivory in color, armored completely. Big plates cover the shoulders and limbs, but even the joints are covered in tiny scales of armor that articulate cleanly against one another, not impeding its movement in any way.
It rushes Apollo and tears through the steel limbs of the jungle gym with appalling ease. Apollo leaps out of the way, backward and over the fence, sprawling in the middle of the street. The creature, silent save for the clacking jaws, a third of its body glowing obscenely, pivots and plows through the fence.
Apollo scrambles to his hind feet and springs away again, just narrowly missing being disemboweled by those enormous claws. From down the road a pair of headlights turns and aims towards them, casting a yellow glow upon the ivory monstrosity. It spins, kicking out with a back foot that tags Apollo in the side and sends him whirling into a parked car, ribs shattered and flesh torn, gasping and snarling in pain. It’s a glancing blow but almost enough to kill him then and there.
The front end of the beast points at the approaching Humvee and it surges forward like a maddened rhino. The driver slams on the breaks, jams into reverse and peels backward, while small arms fire erupts from the passenger side. The bullets just ping off the beast’s armor.
Meg appears at Apollo’s side. Her body flows into werewolf form, gaining height and mass and power. Apollo’s wound begins to close up. He grunts in pain as ribs reset themselves and flesh knits back together. The wolves watch as the beast slams into the front of the Humvee. Metal crunches and folds, steam erupts from the smashed engine, and the vehicle skids to a halt. The men are shouting, bringing larger weapons to bear. But the beast is relentless. It tears through the engine block with his massive claws and then all Apollo and Meg hear are screams.
Engine sounds in the distance, coming closer. Back-up rushes to provide assistance.
Apollo levers himself to his feet, whole again. “We will flank it and harry it, drive it to the killing ground,” he says in the wolf speech. Meg’s huge wolf head nods, understanding, but clearly she remains distressed, moving almost clumsily in a form designed for power and precision. Nothing to be done about that, Apollo thinks. Either she’s with him or she isn’t, either she can do this or she can’t. Although his chances of surviving the next few minutes increase if she helps, he can’t make that decision for her or make her more capable.
Apollo rushes down the street on all fours. The beast is still tearing into the truck, the front end almost completely bisected as the creature has pulled itself forward into the cab. The eye sockets gleam balefully as the jaws go to work. It can see them, Apollo realizes. It can see all around, in fact, from every conceivable angle. It seems unconcerned as they draw near. When Apollo lunges forward and slashes at a haunch with his claws, he realizes why. His fingers skitter harmlessly off the bony plates, leaving not so much as a mark.
The beast hunches and lurches backward, pulling itself from the wreckage of the Humvee with a squeal of ivory against metal. Splatters of blood decorate the front of the beast. Scraps of flesh and vinyl uniform hang from dozens of skeletal mouths. It twists clumsily, reaching out with a forepaw to slash at Apollo.
But he is already gliding away. Its big and powerful, seemingly invulnerable, but its not particularly agile. Apollo has its measure now, or thinks he does, and he believes he is faster.
A quarter ton of werewolf, red fur bristling, lands on the back of the beast and Meg tries to slash at the thing with her claws. It bucks violently and throws her off, sending her sprawling to the tarmac. Before it can take advantage of her lying there, Apollo darts forward and scrapes his claws ineffectually across its chest, dangerously close to several snapping jaws. Ignoring Meg the beast lurches forward, nearly bowling Apollo over, and he has to reevaluate its speed and reaction time.
He rolls out of the way just in time and the beast slams into a parked car, knocking it up onto the sidewalk and through the front wall of the nearest building. Headlights appear in front and behind them, at least two more of the Humvees arriving together. Sticking out of the rear of the one at the end of the street nearest the school is a woman holding some kind of tube over her shoulder.
Apollo scrambles to his feet and dashes across the street, scooping up Meg in his arms and carrying her up and into the parking lot of the school as the rocket launcher fires. An explosion thunders behind Apollo, engulfing the beast, the parked car, and the front of the building. The car goes up as well. Metal shrapnel, chips of brick, and bits of pavement rain down upon Apollo and Meg from the other side of the street. But nothing that looks like bone.
From the firestorm the beast emerges, eldritch glow brightening, not a scratch upon its ivory hide. Silently, eerily, it tears down the street and barrels into the other Humvee. The woman atop is scrambling to reload her rocket launcher, but the impact of the beast knocks it from her hands and it tumbles into the street. The other truck drives between the flaming wreck and the first, smashed Humvee. Men tumble out, wielding large guns that they lever at the beast and at the werewolves.
Apollo springs forward, crossing twenty feet in a single bound. His claws flash and the nearest Fed lies screaming, blood geysering from the stump where his right arm used to be. The other one turns and aims, but before he pulls the trigger Apollo decapitates him with a single swipe.
Meg appears at his side, shooting him a questioning look with ears flattened before scooping up one of the big guns in her claws. She slips the safety and sights down the barrel, taking aim at the beast. It is momentarily ignoring them, playing with its new toy, which lies broken and cracked open, its occupants torn apart. Meg fires and several sharp staccato bursts erupt from the barrel. The bullets splatter the road and the Humvee but flatten against the beast’s armored hide.
It turns, skulls chattering, and does a little stomping dance as if irritated. Apollo howls at the beast and its dozenss of eyes glow even more brightly. The beast bounds towards them, its heavy bulk thundering with each step. Meg tosses the gun to the ground and both wolves turn to run. The beast nips at their heels.
Apollo and Meg race side by side, using all four limbs to move at a ground eating pace. The ground shakes beneath them as the beast pursues. Apollo feels the death stench emanating from it all around him, a miasmic cloud that penetrates his senses and makes his head swim. The wolves are faster than the beast, not yet running full out, and Apollo believes they can easily escape it. But they don’t want to escape. They want to lead it to Jefe.
Light-headed, Apollo stumbles and almost loses a step. Meg nips his heels, but she is falling back as well, slowing as the beast’s emanations work upon her. Apollo, still running, howls a prayer to the Wolf Spirit. New strength flows into his limbs from the Dream, a gift granted by his patron.
Apollo spins around in mid-run, almost sprawling again, but he times it just right to stay on his feet. He barks at Meg to run harder but does not pause to see if she listens. Instead Apollo launches himself at the beast, claws flashing in the moonlight, jaws agape to expose his wicked canines, and golden eyes glimmering with rage.
The beast checks itself for a split second, pausing in its own careless run, as if surprised at its prey turning to fight. Faster than thought it rears up on hind legs and knocks Apollo out of the air with an almost casual swipe. Pain like fire explodes as Apollo’s jaw shatters and his throat is torn open. When he hits the ground he rolls instinctively, narrowly missing having his spine snapped by a smashing blow. His throat closes up even as he finds his feet and begins to run again, but his broken jaw will take longer to regenerate.
The beast is upon him, skeletal mouths snapping in his wake. Apollo sees Meg pull away, gaining ground, and beyond her hurtling red furred form, the darkened bulk of the Dollar General looms. Apollo hears a sharp crack echo through the night air and he looks back for a split second. He sees one of the skulls in the lower middle part of the pyramid disintegrate in a puff of white dust. For a moment he feels elation and some hope that this terrible beast can actually be put down, and then another skull thrusts itself into the gap from somewhere deep inside the pyramid. The eldritch eyes flicker momentarily before taking on a darker glow.
The beast pivots. Its powerful limbs churning, the creature rushes past Apollo with a burst of speed, checking him with blow from its shoulder that sends him sprawling in the street. The beast gallops past Meg as well, aiming for the Dollar General. Two more sharp cracks echo across the sky, doing no more lasting damage than the first. Then the beast slams into the building. Glass splinters, brick shatters.
More crashing noises as the beast thrashes about inside the building. Meg scampers towards Apollo, who struggles to rise. His wounds are slower to heal now, as he’s been burning a lot of energy. He needs to draw more power from the Dream, but he also needs to lure the beast back out into the open where Jefe can shoot at it. But he also needs to find a vulnerable point somewhere on the thing’s body.
Apollo gestures, sending Meg away. He stretches up and up into his full height and looses a long, mournful howl into the moon-filled sky. The sound is garbled, his jaw still a ruin but healing quickly. More glass splinters in answer as the beast comes tumbling back out into the street, claws scraping on the pavement. The skull-lights glimmer orange now, which unsettles Apollo. He doesn’t know what this means, but doubts his side will profit from the change.
Jefe, crouching on the roof, aims and fires. Apollo sees the muzzle flash, hears the whip crack whine of the bullet in flight, and then the flat smack as it strikes the beast’s flank. Its armored hide is proof against Jefe’s special bullets. Apollo will have to get creative.
Meg darts forward out of the shadows and slashes at the beast’s hip with her claws. It whirls to meet her, dozens of jaws snapping. Meg checks herself, scrabbling for purchase, and spins out of the way, carried by her own momentum. Apollo bounds forward on all fours and tries to snap at it with his weakened jaws. His teeth catch hold of an armored shoulder plate, but he cannot bite. It tastes of death and sorrow, acrid and scalding on his tongue.
Apollo is frozen for a half second and the beast turns, claws extended to rip him open. Meg hurtles into the bigger wolf, knocking him aside, but gets three long furrows torn in her right leg for her trouble. Meg howls in pain, falling beside Apollo. They land in a bundle of tangled limbs. The beast rears up on its hind legs and prepares to charge.
From atop the Dollar General, Jefe fires three shots in rapid succession. As many skulls shatter and the beast pivots. Even as more skulls push their way to the fore to replace those lost, the creature is moving. It springs up onto the side of the building, claws digging into brick, and begins to drag itself upward, like the world’s bulkiest, slowest spider.
Apollo separates himself from Meg as gently as he dares, eliciting moans of pain from the girl. Her wounds heal but her leg twitches in pain and froth drips from her gritted muzzle. Apollo wishes that Annabelle were here to help. His girlfriend is more attuned to the Dream than even he and can repair wounds with a touch.
There is no time to help Meg. There’s never enough time once the battle begins.
Apollo steels himself and rushes for the Dollar General. In two quick bounds he is on the roof, beside the tiny, frail human with the long rifle as the ivory plated beast drags itself over the edge. The skulls glow red, casting a fiery glow across the rooftop.
Apollo makes another prayer to the Wolf Spirit, beseeching it for aid. He needs sharper claws, he needs weapons that can hurt this diabolical thing. His already massive forepaws grow slightly, fingers lengthening, the claws growing out and taking on a silvery sheen as they curve wickedly. Apollo’s golden wolf eyes glow brightly and he launches himself at his prey.
The beast is clumsy and ungainly, not yet fully seated upon the roof, back end hanging off as it pulls itself forward with its powerful forelegs. Apollo slashes and tears a shallow furrow in a chest plate. The ivory blackens as if scored by fire. Red lighting blasts from a dozen skulls and slams into Apollo, searing fur and blackening flesh. He is thrown backward, smoking and stunned.
Jefe stands up, reloading with practiced ease. He doesn’t flinch as the beast bears down upon him. He fires quickly, cleanly, getting off two more ineffectual shots before he disappears in a red mist. The beast hurtles through him and over the side of the roof to clatter on to the ground with a hollow crash.
Apollo drags himself across the rough gravel on the rooftop. He howls in rage and sorrow at the death of his friend, at his own inability to stand against the beast and keep Jefe safe. The Dream works to repair Apollo, but he is in immense pain. An act of will brings him to the roof’s edge. He looks down and sees the beast, unharmed, casually getting to its feet. The skull lights have softened back to orange.
Meg appears on the rooftop beside Apollo. He looks up at her through his remaining good eye and shakes his shaggy head. She growls at him reproachfully. Meg reaches down and finds the Sharps. Jefe’s hand is still attached at the trigger. She whines pitifully and removes it, then shoulders the rifle. Now it is her turn to howl in grief and rage, a sound that echoes through the desert night of this deserted town and makes Apollo’s own heart twist in sympathy.
But there is work yet to do. Apollo finds his feet. He calls on the Wolf Spirit again, new strength stiffening his limbs. Much less than last time, however, and his left eye remains closed. His entire left side is blackened and scorched, his system strained to its limits trying to heal him, keep his claws empowered and give him the strength to stand.
Apollo steps off the roof and lands lightly behind the beast. His left leg does not give out, though it threatens to do so. The beast senses him and shifts, the orange glow washing over Apollo as it turns. He leaps forward and wraps his claws around the shoulder plate jutting from its left foreleg. Apollo’s enhanced claws sink into the ivory armor. He growls low, deep in his chest and pulls with all his might.
The beast’s orange lights darken to red. Apollo holds his ground, digging his claws into the surface of the street beneath him. The beast pulls away as Apollo tugs and with a sick, suppurating sound the plate is wrenched free. A gout of red-black blood sprays but Apollo is tumbling backwards, fighting to keep from falling on his tail. He sees the flesh of the beast revealed, a raw red expanse that writhes and twists as if thousands of maggots lie just beneath the surface of its skin.
The crack of the Sharps echoes in the night. Apollo sees a small puff of red as the bullet enters the exposed flesh. The beast staggers, suddenly three-legged as all strength leaves the struck limb. The skulls chatter. Angry red light illuminates the whole street.
Apollo growls. Death and sickness fill his nostrils. He casts the shoulder plate aside and springs forward, jamming a claw into the exposed shoulder. Apollo’s claws dig in deep and he rips out a hunk of writhing flesh. A dozen skulls flicker above him, ready to unleash the red lighting, but Meg fires again, destroying one of the skulls in the center of the formation. The beast reels backward, scrabbling on three claws, suddenly uncertain.
Apollo rakes his claws across the beast’s flank and dives out of the way. Meg fires a third time, and the bullet buries itself deep inside the torn shoulder. The beast totters. The light falters. Apollo springs forward again and scores its flank in the opposite direction. He digs his claws in, hoping to catch an edge, trying to tear off another plate. The beast flinches and lurches backward. Apollo is rewarded with the separation of ivory and flesh.
Apollo’s claws revert to their normal, monstrous dimensions. He flags, pain and exhaustion taking over. Staggering he limps away from the beast. It weaves away from him as well, seeking to escape in its wounded state. Meg pumps two more shots into its open flank. Black blood pools beneath the creature as it stumbles down the street, fearful at last and not nearly as invulnerable as it seemed.
Meg alights beside Apollo, who is mildly surprised to find he is prone. The wolf recedes as consciousness fades, leaving a blackened and bruised human lying in the street, shards of glass and chips of brick beneath him. The last thing he sees is Meg’s great shaggy head looming over him, gold eyes gleaming, mouth parted in a canine grin.
*
Apollo wakes in the back seat of the Jeep, his clothes piled atop him haphazardly. The Sharps stands in the passenger seat, while Meg greets the rising dawn from a perch atop the front of the car, her hoody pulled up over her head. She turns as Apollo stirs, her face red, her eyes bloodshot, tracks of tears on her cheeks.
“Thought you might be dead,” she says, her voice thick. She coughs to clear her throat and drags a sleeve across her eyes.
Apollo releases an involuntary groan as he sits up. “Not yet.” He thinks of Jefe, so close to death and yet with so much time left to him as well. All of it gone, now. He surveys his left side. His skin is darkened as if sunburnt, and the vision in his left eyes swims a bit. But he will recover, given time. He looks at the rifle and then at Meg. She frowns and turns away, wiping at tears.
Apollo pulls on his pants and surveys their surroundings. They are far from Harmony, somewhere in the desert. “Did you finish it?” he asks.
Her back to him, Meg says, “No. The rest of the Feds began to close in. I grabbed you and headed back to the Jeep, took us away from there before they caught us. It didn’t look like it was going to get far, but it looked lively enough to keep their attention so we could escape.”
Apollo nods. Gingerly he pulls on his t-shirt. “We’ll have to make sure its done.”
“Okay,” she says, barely audible. “Then what?”
“Then… you come with me back to Seattle.”
She turns to look at him finally. “And leave all this beautiful emptiness behind? What about Jefe? What about his home and his mission?”
Apollo sighs and sits quietly for a moment. “I bring Jefe with me everywhere I go. Someone else will have to pick up for him down here. But we are wolves. Our place is on the front lines, not training pups. You’re one of us now. Time to go to work.”