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Adventures In Living With The Mythical |
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A military veteran is adopted by a werewolf and brought into his pack. Insanity ensues. About "Life With A Werewolf" Life with a werewolf is a dramatic blog. As such the characters in this blog are not real but maybe loosely based on real people. The situations represented are not real but maybe loosely based on real things that have happened in my life. There are a multitude of ways to view life, this is simply one of the ways I have chosen to view mine. Updated Every Friday unless I can't or don't want to. If this is your first time reading this...start here: https://www.writing.com/main/books/entry_id/1040400-Welcome-To-The-Pack The first year is available as a compilation on Amazon Kindle: https://a.co/d/gBLLL7E Audio and print versions will be available in the future. My book, "Dreamers of The Sea" is available now on Amazon: https://a.co/d/0uz7xa3 |
| Crash's groans bordered on screams. I could tell the bullet was burning him alive form the inside out. It was like his body was trying to reject the very vile thing like poison, but just couldn't do it fast enough. For a werewolf, any standard bullet hurt like hell, yes. But it takes a lot more than a 9mm clip to put a werewolf down. One silver bullet though, and he was on the ground, his lips turning blue, his skin turning silver, writhing in pain. I was reminded of my first encounter with The Nobility, when I'd shot the werewolf on top of me. The bullet carved upwards, slicing through his skin and into his forearm. He had to bite his forearm off as some sort of precaution or something. Crash, couldn't exactly bite his shoulder off. The burning seemed to be getting worse, his groaning was changing into gasped whimpers and whines. I applaud Sean. He struggled to a crawling position, favoring an arm that looked broken and his ribs. With a staggered crawl that was half supported by Kris, they laid against Crash, unable to do much more than that. The sirens were growing louder, but I wasn't sure if they'd even get to us in time to save him. And what could they do for a werewolf, anyway? Would they even believe a werewolf existed? I had no idea, but I wasn't about to find out. Kris had earlier mentioned a knife. I didn't waste time looking for it. Reaching into my pocket next to my wallet, I pulled out my father's pocket knife. For this, I was going to have to disregard anything I'd been taught about combat life saving. Gritting my teeth and saying a short prayer to anyone who might be listening, I knelt down and got to work. The wound in Crash's shoulder had already started to close. His body seemed to be going haywire. He was gasping, his heart rate struggling. I knelt down, and told Crash "This is going to hurt." Then I started cutting. He didn't care if I cut into the wound around the bullet hole. But if I cut the bullet hole itself, he cried out, as if I was carving into infected flesh. The sirens were getting closer. The wound kept trying to close around the bullet. I cut deeper, hoping I wasn't doing permanent damage. Crash's breathing was getting shallow. His pale skin was glistening with sweat. He started shivering as if he was losing blood. Gritting my teeth in determination, I snarled "I can't be delicate. I'm sorry." The wound tried to close again. The sirens were blaring. I didn't look up. His breathing got ragged, more shallow, as if he had just seconds left. Like a man preparing to take his last gasp. I slashed with my knife, one way, then the other. Blood splattered in both directions, spraying over Kris and Sean, over the ground, over myself. I reached into the wound, and dug, slashing deeper, not being careful anymore. He cried out, begging in rushed syllables that failed to form words. The sirens had stopped. Reaching in, I felt around. The bullet slipped out of my fingers once. Twice. The hole closed a little more. But it gave me just enough leverage to snatch it out. I pulled the bullet up, gasping, a smile on my face. I looked up and saw three EMTs staring at me, in horrified shock. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" one of them snarled as he shoved me out of the way. I didn't see their faces as much as their uniforms and gurney. I collided with a grunt on the ground again. My leg, and hip was now completely numb. I sat there a moment, trying not to show pain. Crash's breath was shallow. The wound wasn't closing nearly as fast now, it looked more natural. I couldn't tell about his skin color. He whimpered, then whined like a dog. Coughing, he told the nearest EMT "Code silver...code silver..." They all looked at each other. One of them snatched the bullet from my grasp. "Silver." She said. They made a call on the radio after that, using a code word that I agreed to keep out of the blog. They looked at me, and the lead EMT, a tall man with thinning hair, said, "We can't take him in the ambulance. But someone will be along." I watched as they loaded Kris and Sean. The doors was about to swing closed, and they left. I sat there with Crash alone, talking inane banality while we waited for someone to arrive to help him. The wait felt like eternity. But in reality, it was probably less than ten minutes before Crash's boss stepped out of the shadows. As a werebear, whatever they're called, he was massive with brown and black fur, and eyes that looked as if they were ready to kill. "You got names," he snarled at me. He didn't look at Crash. It was like he couldn't. His round ears was folded in anger, a snarl on his face. "I do." He gave me a chuff, and wrinkled his muzzle. "Trust me human, it will be better if I do this. Let me be your justice." I pointed down at Crash. "He's what's left of my pack." I didn't know when I'd formed the tear of anger, when my hands were clenched into fists. Or even when I'd pulled my pistol. But I had done all three. "I'm doing this." His snarl grew. He threw Crash over his shoulder, and gently laid him in the back seat. "This discussion to be continued at your home." He turned and disappeared into the shadows from whence he came. *** The trip home was a long silent one. Every bump made Crash whimper and wince. I tried driving as carefully as possible, a growing rage simmering within me at each whimper and moan Crash made. At the thought of Kris, Sean, and Zack, all attacked for no other reason than existing. Existing near me and Crash. Crash's boss met us at the house. His brown and black fur barely visible under the thin lights of the street lamp. He gingerly picked up Crash, and carried him inside. He was careful to not bump Crash into any of the doorways or furniture, ducking through the small hallway before he gently laid Crash on his bed. "Vic is on his way," the boss said. "You were about to give me names so I didn't tear your head off the slow way." "As much fun as that sounds, I'm not." I crossed my arms, and glared up at him, feeling every bit like a six year old challenging 1980's Mike Tyson to a fist fight. Still, I couldn't back down now. "You can't do that to me. I'm not part of your jurisdiction." He growled, his hand like paws clenching into fists. The muscles beneath his dark fur rippled. "How about I have you hauled away for obstruction of justice, instead?!" "Wouldn't be my first time in jail," I replied. I pulled out my phone. "You want me to dial?" His eyes went wide. But there appeared to be some begrudging respect behind them. We stood there for a heartbeat, staring at each other. Him breathing so hard his entire body was moving, me holding the cell phone out to him, like a child giving a monster a peace offering. "What do you want," he snarled, finally. "I'm going to war," I told him. "I want the authority to do it legally." Again, we stared at each other for several more heartbeats. "You want Crash's job." "They die one way or another." After another long pause, he said, "you know, I've read your file. You were into some heavy shit a few years back." "Then, you know what I'm capable of," I replied. He stepped forward. Put his right paw over my heart. "You're the first human to get this in over a hundred fifty years." He closed his eyes as if trying to remember something, his round ears tilted forward, his face almost looked calm. "Do you swear to move alone by night? To be the sole protector of the innocent who walk in light? To guide our kind and guard your own?" "I do," I said, looking at his face. "This is a promise you've sworn over your very heart. It is now etched upon your soul." He tore away my shirt from my chest with his claws, then scratched my chest where my heart was, drawing blood. "If you betray your promise and betray human or us, if you fail to provide necessary service in course of your duties, your very life will be forfeit. Do you accept?" "I do." He looked down at me, his face getting close to mine. "This is serious human. This promise cannot be revoked. Do you promise to uphold and honor all our laws, as you know them. To protect the innocent and the weak. Do you promise as my deputy, to fulfill your duties or die trying?" "I do." "You start tomorrow night," he told me. "You have one night. Crash should be back and around then. You fail and I really will tear your head off the slow way." I gave him a single nod. "I fail, you'll be notifying my next of kin," I promised him. Then he melted into the shadows of the trees again. I had twenty four hours. Crash was moaning on his bed. Milton was out there somewhere, that meth-headed freak of a vampire was celebrating. I gritted my teeth harder. In situations like this, you have a singular moment to make a decision. To either mourn, or prepare. I'd chosen to mourn later. I was about to give those bastards something they haven't seen yet. I was going to war. |
| At first what Crash had told me didn't register. My entire brain had stopped and started again. Who would want to attack Zack? He's quiet and shy, kind to a fault, and says nothing to anyone. I had to ask Crash to repeat himself. "Yeah, two thugs jumped him outside of the factory. Didn't say a word to him. Several of his co-workers chased them off and called 9-1-1." Pain could wait. I stood, and grabbed my pistol. "What did they look like," I demanded. Crash shook his head. "No. No, Jason. This is for the police. I'm not even allowed to intervene, as much as I'd love to sink my teeth into those bastards, I can't." I wanted to punch the wall. I opted to throw down a pill bottle instead. The blue bottle with the label that promised to stop knee and back pain exploded and white pills scattered across the floor. Crash didn't look at me. He just glared down at the pills like me. He didn't say anything for a minute. He didn't have to. "Damn things don't work anyway," I snarled. His eyes raised up to me then, as if seeing my pain for the first time. "What happened, Jason?" "I was attacked in the store." I explained to Crash then about the greased up guy, about the pistol, the fight. "Damn tweaker," I snarled. "It's on TikTok. Cop watched the entire video, complete with laugh track and smiley faces over the heads." "Wait a minute," Crash said. His eyes were lit up as if he had a sudden revelation. "Tweakers?" My phone rang, interrupting him. When I answered, Kris began shouting frantically before I could even get a word out. It came out in a panicked mumble. It had all the echoes of someone stepping into a battlefield the first time without any experience or training. My own instincts kicked in. I spoke in even measured tones, while motioning to Crash. He leaned in to listen while I put the phone on speaker. "Take a deep breath. I know it's going to be hard, but try to calm down. Start at the beginning. What's going on?" "They're attacking Sean! They're trying to kill him!" "Where are you now?" I could hear the sounds of flesh impacting flesh. Of grunts and snarls that could only come from a violent fight. "Outside of Sean's work. We were gonna do a date night." "Where are you," I asked. "I'm in my car, doors locked." "Good, me and Crash are on the way. Call the cops." I started shuffling to the door while Crash bolted for his car. "are they tweakers?" "I think so, yeah. Skinny, meth mouthed guys." By the time I made it to Crash's car, he already had the engine running. "We're on our way. Keep the doors locked and call the cops." As we moved down the road, I checked my load out. Only magazine I had was the one I kept loaded in it. Was seventeen rounds of silver going to be enough to deal with what was going down over there? How much of an ambush was this? Would my fry grease tweaker be back with reinforcements? Perhaps one guy covered in burger grease and one covered in chocolate syrup? typically, it's about a twenty five minute drive to Sean's work. We made it in twelve. Sean worked in a locally owned T-shirt shop. It was in a prefab metal building with a gravel parking lot on the edge of the largest city nearby. Thick, old trees grew at the edges of the parking lot, hiding a large farmers field on one side. It had highway access on the other. The perfect spot to beat someone to death and then drive away without anyone seeing or stopping you if you weren't all that concerned with modern security cameras. Next to Kris' car was a beat up car of some kind that might have been one of the ones circling the block. But I didn't spend a lot of time, staring at it, I was more concerned with the three guys beating the crap out of Kris and Sean. By the time we got there, Sean was on the ground, covering his face, while two guys repeatedly kicking him. He was bruised and bloody. His face looked like Rocky's after a twelve round fight. Kris, not listening to anything I'd told him, had tried to use a tire iron to help his man, and was being beaten against the building by a third thug. The tire iron sat in the dirt behind the skinny thug, who kept wailing on his gut, while Kris was doubled over, trying to protect himself. They were all meth mouthed, with faces wrinkled and pitted, cheeks sunk in from years of abuse. Their arms thin, one guy was losing his hair, a ring of blond peppered the edges. He looked thirty going on eighty. The guy next to him, kicking the shit out of Sean, had no hair, opting to either shave it or it simply had fallen out from undernourishment and drug abuse. Either could have been true. The third had greasy, short brown hair. All three of the attackers were drug addicts of one kind or another. Pushers and users, with clothing in varying degrees of cleanliness. Blue jeans, battered sneakers and whatever T shirts they found for free or could steal from Goodwill. As Crash's car slid into the gravel parking lot, all three turned to look at us. Crash was out before it had even come to a stop. He zeroed in on the nearest tweaker, the skinny guy with greasy short brown hair that had been attacking Kris, and sprinted over to him in his human form with surprising speed. The guy stepped to Crash as if to box him, but Crash punched brown hair in the face, the gut, then uppercut him in rapid succession. The uppercut was so violent and hard, you could hear the crunch of his nose as his head flew backwards, and his body crashed into the ground. Blood sprayed out like a squashed tomato. The guy cried out, grabbing his face and holding his nose while he rolled on the ground. While that was going on, I stepped towards the two tweakers who had been kicking the shit out of Sean on the ground. There's a magical spot on your knee. If you hit it just right, your football career is over, and all those fancy commercials that you did when your the star running back of the NFL and star outfielder in Major League Baseball dries up faster than a spilled drink in death valley. Just ask Bo, he knows all too well. The balding blondie took a swing, the I side stepped, and I stomped on his knee in this magical spot as hard as I could. It snapped and crunched like someone breaking celery. Screams echoed through the parking lot as he hit the ground, clutching his knee. While the first guy was falling, the second guy got a lucky shot on my side that sent a jolt of pain up through my back. I couldn't do anymore. I was on the ground next to the first guy, staring up at the sky, effectively out of the fight. Crash literally took two steps, grabbed and pushed him. He went flying backwards, sliding several feet into the gravel. "Kris. Where are the cops," I asked, gasping through some of the pain. "I didn't get to call them. One of them pull a knife," he had limped over to Sean and laid down next to him, holding him tight. I looked back skyward, and saw Crash standing over me. "Are you going to cuddle me, too," I asked. He rolled his eyes. "You'll be fine," he snarled as he pulled out his phone, and began calling the fight in. Somewhere in the distance, I heard tires squeal as a car left the parking lot in a hurry. The three tweakers had managed to limp away and make their get away it seemed. Concentrating on the guys, I hadn't had a good look at the vehicle, but it felt vaguely familiar, like one of the vehicles that had been circling our house the entire time. I looked over at Sean, and he had pulled Kris into a hug. I turned my head and pretended to not hear what they whispered to each other through their shared pain as they tried to console each other. "Crash," I said on the ground. "I missed all the signs. I'm sorry. Everything, every one of them..." He knelt down next to me. "It's alright. I wrote them off, too. I think we were supposed to write them off." "Tweakers. I thought Milton was dead. This is our fight now, Crash." He didn't respond, just looked out towards the woods. I recognized that face. Milton soon would be dead. It felt like the police had taken their sweet time to arrive. But really, it was probably just a few minutes. The ambulance sirens were in the distance. Crash had stood, I think to shift and race into the woods. What happened next will forever be burned into my memory. He took a step towards the road. The car, the beat up brown piece of crap car that we had originally saw, sped by. The pistol was out the window and before crash could do anything, the shots rang out. Four shots. Three missed everything but the trees behind us. One struck Crash in the shoulder. There was a puff of blood, then the shot echoed out. Crash yelped then hit the ground, clutching his shoulder. All three of us stared at him stunned as Crash lay on the ground, crying about how much it burned. "Silver..." I whispered. By the time, I sat up and pulled my own pistol, they were gone. Crash had a silver bullet buried in his shoulder. I could hear the ambulance, but not see them. God only knew how far out they were, or if they could get there in time to save him. |
| Watching Valyur and his new love get aquainted was nice. It was a cute sort of sweetness that you only get from the best and cheesiest romantic comedies. The new lawn gnome was quite skittish of us, which I didn't blame her. The crack in her head that ran jagged down from her hair to her face told a story of cruelty she kept unspoken. I wasn't sure if her crack was healing, or if it was a scar, but it seemed rude to ask. We still had the same vehicles that kept rolling through town and kept the local PD busy. A Sentra from twenty or so years ago that looked as if it was more rust than metal. A Buick sedan from about ten years ago, and occasionally, a posh European sports coupe. German engineering at it's finest and most complicated. The kind of vehicle that someone who grew up without money would think was stylish and sporty when they came into money. Whoever they are, whatever drug or weapons deals they may have been involved with never caused us any trouble, so we did our best to ignore and avoid them. True occasionally they'd slow down near our property, but none of them would stop, none would stare too hard. All three vehicles had deeply tinted windows, so they could have been mooning us with sparklers in their butt cracks and we wouldn't have seen it. The Nissan's tint was bubbling badly, but the tint still did it's job. As much as I end up getting roped into trouble, I figured this was a job best left to local police. After all, I'm not a cop, and I was certain they wouldn't appreciate me defending my home from random people driving around it without even violating the speed limit. Having ultra dark window tint doesn't seem like a capital offense. So, you could argue I was ignoring the issues that was sparking up around us. I still feel bad about that. Like I should have been more vigilant in doing my job. Maybe things would have turned out differently had I been doing my job more. Of I had given those riding around with ultra dark window tint warning shots. Perhaps if I'd have been more careful and doing my self-appointed job in protecting this pack, maybe things wouldn't have turned out the way they did. Regrets. They're like ugly family heirlooms. You get them for free. You'd throw them out if you could, but you know you'll never be able to. They sit in the darkest corners, waiting on the right time for you to see them, and despair. But, I kept myself blissfully unaware of the goings on with excuses, an extra helping of "not my job" and a dose of "Crash doesn't seem upset." The first minor clue that I had been ignoring something big was when that snub nosed .38 was shoved in my face. It was in the evening. I was standing in the middle of the local grocery store looking at items for dinner. Our grocery store is the size of a large convenience store in some places. It has room for just about everything you need, but nothing you'd want but don't need. The isles feels crowded when you walk through them alone with your buggy. But apparently there's at least enough space on the floor to wrestle for your life. Over by the frozen burger patties was where everything started going sideways. The silver of the muzzle flashed in the corner of my eye. My next actions was entirely automatic, thanks to hours and hours of drilling and practice when I was in the mlitary.. I ducked, grabbed the guys arm. The next action was going to twist his arm then strike the elbow so he'd drop the weapon. However, that's not what happened. It was when I grabbed his wrist that I noticed something strange. He was a skinny man, wearing a dirty, once white colored wife beater and what I think was blue jeans, but they were so filthy God or the universe only knows what color they were supposed to be. His face as well as his arms were covered with the typical meth scabs, with his cheeks sunken in, his hair greasy, and his skin shiny from head to just about his toes. The shine was from fryer grease. It smelled like he had gone diving in a vat of used oil in the back of one of those fast food places. When I grabbed his wrist and pulled, the damn thing slipped right out. Before he could shove the pistol in my face again, I tackled him. Most of my military training in hand-to-hand combat was nearly foiled cause of how slick the bastard was. Everything I'd grab slipped out of my hand until I, too was covered in the disgusting fryer grease. He tried raising the pistol. I struck his hand with my elbow and punched him as hard as I could in the face. The pistol slid several feet across the floor. I dove for the gun, grabbed it and aimed. It was here that I found out or little ruckus had attracted a crowd. Five different people had started recording our strange encounter, no doubt to put on TikTok, complete with smiley face stickers over faces, stupid music blaring too loud, and cartoon sound effects. I couldn't shoot him for fear of hitting one of them. Not that the loss of a TikToker who thinks it's funny to record a guy fighting for his life would be tremendously devastating. But the law tends to look down on shooting innocent bystanders, no matter how much they deserve it. I sat on the floor, now covered in my own fry grease, waiting. The cameras' didn't go away. So, I gave them a wave. A one fingered salute sort of wave, but a wave. If I had more grease around, say if it was in a puddle, I would have thrown some on the TikTok jerks. Instead, I sat there on the floor until the police arrived. After questioning, and more questioning, after hearing witness statements and watching TikTok videos, one of which already had over 100,000 views, I was allowed to go home. Being the impromptu unwilling star of a TikTok video was strange and not surprising all at the same time. The only thing I really felt from it, was a numbness and tingling down my leg, that radiated itself into my brain and mood. By the time I finally made it home, I was snarling. Limping to the counter, I set the grocery bags on it. Seeing Crash preparing for his night shift routine, I told him, "Put those up please, I'll cook later." Then I stripped my greasy clothing off and laid down in my boxers. Crash stepped into the room with a panicked look on his face. I could tell he was about to force a shift into werewolf mode, which meant a lot more growling in pain, and painful pops emanating from him. "What," I asked. "Could be nothing," Crash said. "But Zack hasn't made it home." Suppressing a painful wince, I rolled up into a sitting position, and began to check my ammunition. "Should we call Rodriguez?" There was a snarl on Crash's face. Then it began to pop as it stretched, and I looked away. He I could hear him suppressing a moan. "No, they'll just start a war and we'll have to get Zack on our own, anyway. When Kris and Sean get home, tell them to stay inside and away from the windows." With a wince of my own, I laid back down, holding my pistol close to me. I rested my sore hip and back as best as I could, knees up to the sky, head staring straight at the ceiling, breathing low and slow through my mouth. I heard the door slam, and knew Crash had disappeared into the woods. My phone rang. It was a strange number. I answered it, then sat upright as quick as I could. Limping to the door, muttering a prayer that Crash hadn't gone so far he couldn't hear me, I shouted into the woods "Hospital!" Less than a minute later, Crash was back in the house, breathing hard, his ears folded back, a snarl on his muzzle. "What?!" "Zack is in the hospital. He got jumped outside of work." |
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