Werewolf Chronicles Chapter 5

Werewolf Chronicles

Chapter 5

         The operating theater was expensively outfitted, large refrigerators along each of the walls and cameras covering nearly every angle of the room.  Sophisticated lab was placed neatly around the room, all of it in perfect condition and completely stocked with supplies.  In the center of the room was a damaged operating table, ragged straps hanging off its edges.  The double doors leading into the room had been tossed from their hinges, scorch marks across the entryway.  Bullet holes had peppered the machinery and floor, shattering equipment and walls.
         James stood in the middle of the room, a red bag handing over his shoulder and blood coated across his jaws and arms.  Dark silver and white streaks ran through his fur, starting at the top of his head and running down to his lower back.  Dark red fur was at his shoulders, running unevenly down to his arms, where they crisscrossed the back of his hands.  James reached down, picking up a fallen shotgun and sprinted out the destroyed doors.
- - - -
         Two Days Earlier

         James scanned the base’s perimeter with a pair of binoculars, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips.  He scribbled on a notepad in front of him, writing down anything that he could see.
         “Do we have to be here?” Elisa grumbled beside him.
         “Yeah, I want to get what I can out of our apartment.  We’ll probably never be back there again.”
         “It . . . just doesn’t seem like a good idea.”
         James stuffed the binoculars behind his seat.  “Yeah, but we could use the money I have there.  You know where to wait for me if something goes wrong, right?”
         “Yeah, but James . . . “
         “Huh?”
         “Just be careful,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.
         “I will.”
- - - -
         James sprinted through the forest in his werewolf form, the half moon barely illuminating the ground in front of him.  His new eyesight allowed him to easily pick his way around the tree roots and under the branches.  The small backpack on his back thumped against his fur as he moved, creating a rhythm to his sprint.  The muscles in his legs were barely starting to get warm when he reached the end of the wood line, his old apartment visible from the concealment of the tree.  James stopped, concentrating on his rapid breathing, slowing it down until he gently returned to his human form.  The transformation was still disorienting, but he was getting used to it frighteningly fast.  He pulled open the bag, quickly dressing in warmer clothes and slowly leaving the wood line.
         It took all his concentration to walk slowly up to his apartment, his eyes scanning the nearly deserted street for any movement.  His street was usually pretty quiet, especially during the week; most people wouldn’t stay up this late.  James walked slowly around the apartments, turning off all the exterior lights he could find before making his way up the stairs and to his door.  Bright yellow police tape was draped across the door, with several pamphlets sticking to the knob.  James tried his keys in the deadbolt, but it looked like a brand new lock had been installed since the attack.  “Fuck,” he grunted, digging out a small crowbar from his bag.
         He threw the tool into the door jam, the thin wood splintering outward at the impact.  It took him several tries before he was able to get the crowbar to stick enough for him to push the door open.  The door protested the attack at first, but eventually the wood gave enough for him to shoulder the door open and slide inside.  The destruction of the apartment caught him by surprise at first, he didn’t remember it being this bad.  One entire wall was missing, and much of his furniture had burnt into small piles.  The grenade must have started a fire, he thought, grunting as he made his way to the kitchen.  Kneeling, he reached beneath the sink, pushing past several old boxes of detergent and retrieving a small lockbox.  Setting it on the counter, he popped the weak lock open.
         The attack came from behind, a thickly muscled arm wrapped around his throat, another grabbing his right arm and pulling it behind his back.  He lashed out with his left arm, trying to hit his unseen attacker, but all he managed to do was knock over the remaining dishes on the counter.  James twisted towards his attacker, his right arm exploding in pain as the pressure increased.  He knew what the hold was, knew that if he kept turning his shoulder would pop out, and his rotator cup would be torn; he also knew that his new healing power might save him.  “Fuck this,” he grunted.  Searing pain shot up his shoulder and down his arm as his muscles tore and he brought his left hand around, gripping a cheap metal skillet.  The skillet impacted against his attacker’s temple, knocking him onto his back and into the hallway.
         James growled, scooping the crowbar off the floor, and raising it high above his head; his injured shoulder screamed in pain as he brought the hooked end down.  The attacker rolled to the side, the crowbar half burying itself in the floorboards in a shower of splinters.  They both stopped in mid strike as their eyes locked on one another.
“Sergeant Reeves?” James muttered, reaching his hand down.
         The man in front of him stood several inches taller than himself, and was thickly muscled, though it wasn’t visible to the normal person.  His hair was shortly cropped against his head, but left enough there to still be manageable.  Staff Sergeant Michael Reeves had been James’ supervisor in the army, before he had been attacked in his home and forced to flee.  “Ross, where have you been?”
         He chuckled to himself.  “You wouldn’t fuckin’ believe me.  I was hoping everyone thought I was dead.”
         Reeves was quiet for a long time, crossing his arms, pacing back and forth.  “Haven’t I always told you guys that you can always come to me with a problem?  Especially something like this,” he raised his voice, waving his arm at the room’s destruction.
         “Remember that lady who bite me, when I was working a few months ago?”
         “Uh-huh.”
         “She’s dead now, so is her husband, and those people have been trying to kill me.  Take a look at this,” James pulled his sweater off, exposing the ragged new scars covering his body.
         “Shit, are those bullet wounds?”
         “Yeah, look sergeant, I just came back here for cash and some stuff.  I can’t stay here long.”
         “Let me see what I can do . . .”
         “No, these people are too dangerous, they’ve already . . .”
         The front door exploded open, banging loudly onto the floor as black suited commandos rushed inside.  Without realizing it, James identified these people as the Special Reaction Team, the army’s version of SWAT.  Even with the realization, he still wasn’t fast enough to avoid the nearly half dozen electrodes that shot into his chest.  Electricity arced through his body, causing it to convulse and all his muscles contracted and he fell to the floor.  Even as his vision started to fade out, he could hear angry shouting all around him.
- - - -
         James woke with a sudden jolt, eyes darting back and forth, trying to figure out where he was.  His right arm was handcuffed to the edge of a bench, which sat in the middle of a long hallway.  He recognized the hallway and the bench; he was in the MP station on base.  Beside him was a woman about his age, with waist length orange hair; she looked half asleep, leaning her head against the wall.  Soldiers hurried past him, some he recognize, but most wouldn’t make eye contact with him.  Reeves’ voice could be heard echoing down the hallway, and James thought he sounded angry.  He started to say something to one of the passing soldiers when a scent grabbed his nose.  It smelled familiar, yet at the same time completely different than anything he had smelled before.  More confusing, it seemed to be coming from the woman sitting beside him.  Impulsively he moved towards the woman, sniffing her more and more deeply.
         “Can I help you?” she asked, her eyes looking down at him.
         James straightened up, embarrassed at the display.  “You’re a werewolf.”
         “Werefox actually, but,” she sniffed deeply, “you are.  I didn’t know there were any packs down here.”
         “Don’t look at me, I’m still new to all this.  What are you here for?”
         “Speeding, but apparently there’s a warrant out for my arrest.  Sounds like a setup to me.”
         He started to respond, but Reeves burst out of one of the side offices, walking hurriedly up to James.  “I tried, but there’s a federal warrant out for your arrest.  No phone calls or lawyers until you reach DC, sorry Ross.”
         “Yeah, I knew I was gonna get fucked, guess I’ll . . .”
         Three men each dressed in charcoal business suits and with faces that looked all business walked down the hall towards them.  The lead man pulled a small tab of metal out of his pocket, pressing it against James’ exposed skin, then the woman’s.  Both of them yelled out in pain, James pulling so hard against the restraints that the bench cracked.  The man pressed the tab against Reeve’s hand as he forced a handshake, surprised when nothing happened.  He turned to his two companions; “Take these two, make sure to restrain them both.”
         James swore loudly as leather and silver restraints replaced the handcuffs.  They didn’t hurt until he tried to pull his hands apart, when sharp silver spikes would dig into his skin.  “What the hell man!?”
         “Get the fuck off of me!” the woman screamed as they were both dragged down the hallway.
         “Where are you taking them?” Reeves demanded, following them out to a waiting, armored van.
         The men didn’t respond, instead strapping their two prisoners into prisoner transport chairs.  The nylon straps ran up their entire arms, across their waists and chests as well as from their ankles, up to their thighs.  Finally they wrapped nylon muzzles across their face, securing them behind their heads.  A pair of well armed commandos helped to pull the chairs into the truck, securing them to the floor.
         Reeves’ grabbed their leader’s shoulder, turning him around.  “Where are you taking my soldier?”
         “He’s property of the U.S. Government now Mr. Reeves, he’s not your soldier anymore.”
         “That’s bullshit!”
         “Have it your way then.”
         The two commandos rushed out of the armored van, their submachine guns leveled squarely at Reeves’ chest.  “Sir, could you please step inside.”
         He quietly stepped inside, taking a seat across from James.  “What did you do to piss these guys off?”
- - - -
         James hadn’t realized he was asleep until the truck bumped hard over several bumps and he woke up with a snort.  He looked back and forth, unsure how long he had been asleep, but knowing it had been a decent amount of time.  The sun was shining through the armored windows, and looked to be near the afternoon or evening.
         “Morning sunshine,” the woman said, smirking at him.
         “Hell, any idea where we are?” he grunted.
         “No.  I’m Vivian, Vivian Willcox, by the way.”
         “James Ross.”
         Reeves tapped James on the shoulder.  “Ross, who are these people?”
         “I’d guess Aperture Science, but I’m not sure.”
         The van ground to a rough stop, jerking all of them forward in their seats.  The two suited men exited first, holding the doors open as the commandos wheeled the two lycanthropes into the sunlight.  Ahead of them was a concrete building several stories tall, with narrow window slits along its length at regular intervals.  Around its perimeter was a ten foot high concrete wall, ringed with razor wire, spotlights and guard towers.  They were rolled down a cargo ramp, towards a pair of thick, steel blast doors.  On either side of the double doors stood more armed commandos, each keeping their weapons trained on the group as they moved down the ramp.
         The doors slid quietly open, following smoothly on their tracks.  Ahead of them was a wide corridor, easily large enough for a semi-truck to move comfortably through.  His eyes automatically adjusted as the outer doors shut, illuminating the concrete walls around them.  There was a parking garage just inside, filled with several different kinds of armored vehicles, cars and trucks.
         The leader stopped behind, staring at his PDA.  “Take them to Echo containment, and make sure you inject those two with the regression serum.”
- - - -
         Their cell consisted of four concrete walls, with a narrow barred window near the ceiling.  Two bunk beds were inside, one on either side of the room, and covered with a thick layer of dust.  In one corner was a small bathing area, with a waist high wall that shielded the toilet and a cheap plastic shower stall.  Michael and James walked around the cell’s perimeter, scanning the walls and bunk.  Vivian investigated the bathing area, grunting with disgust.
         “Lived in worse,” James said, leaning back against one of the walls, digging out his cigarettes.  “At least they left these.”
         Reeves marched angrily over to James.  “Ross, what is going on?  Who are these people?”
         “Not Aperture Science, has to be a government agency,” James responded, staring down at the floor, thinking.
         “I’ve heard of them, I guess that’s good, right?” Vivian asked.
         Reeves stood in front of James, crossing his arms.  “How can you tell?”
         “No logos, Aperture Science has logos on their stuff.  No vampires either,” he grunted, half laughing.
         “What?”
         “Aperture Science, experiments on our kind,” Vivian started, sitting on the bed and wrapping her arms around herself, “guts us, mutilates us, I don’t know anyone who’s survived them.”
         “I have, twice and plan on doing it again,” James said, moving to the door.  “My wife’s waiting on me.”
- - - -
         Vivian was the first one removed from the cell, three armed guards arriving at the door along with a white coated technician.  The white coat injected her again, while the guards placed shackles around her wrists and ankles, all while one of them kept their weapons on James and Michael.  Once they left, Reeves turned towards James.  “What are you?  I tore your rotator cup, or at least dislocated your arm, and you’re fine now.”
         James chewed on his lower lip, unsure how to respond.  “You wouldn’t believe me, it sounds insane.”
         “Try me.”
         The door opened again, more guards arriving along with another technician, motioning at James with their weapons.  The technician drove a thick needle into his arm, the serum burning as it worked its way through his blood stream.  The guards placed similar shackles onto his wrists and ankles, escorting him out of the cell and down the narrow corridor.  He wasn’t sure where in the facility he was, but he knew they were somewhere just below ground level, and the structure had to be built very tough.
         “So who are you guys?” James asked as they ushered him into an elevator and it began to slide down.  “I don’t think you’re Aperture Science, government maybe?  Another group of hunters? Of course you haven’t tried to kill me yet, but that doesn’t really mean anything.”
         The group stopped in front of a thick steel door, pushing him into an interrogation room.  The furniture was bare, utilitarian, made of cheap steel.  A reflective glass window occupied one entire wall, while only a bare table and two chairs were inside.  The guards forced him into one of the chairs, locking his ankle restraints into an eye-bolt on the floor and leaving through the same door.
         “Not much for conversation,” he grunted.
         “I’ll talk to you,” the main said as he entered the room.  He was several years older than James, with neatly cut black hair and deceitful green eyes.  The man was wearing a nicely tailored charcoal gray suit, with a bland looking tie.  He sat down across from James, crossing his hands and looking at him.  “I’d like to talk about your new friends.”
         “Me?  I don’t have any friends, I’m too much of an asshole.”
         The man pulled out a small silver tab of metal, pushing it against James’ hand.  Pain burned through the skin, and he swore loudly, jerking away.  “What the fuck man?”
         “I am not in the mood to play games, answer my questions or I will find a way to get the answers.”  To exaggerate his point, he pulled James’ deformed wedding band from his pocket, and sat it on the table.
         James took the necklace, sliding it over his head.  “Don’t threaten my family again asshole, I’ll make sure you pay.”
         “Don’t threaten me puppy, I know more about you than even you know.  If you answer my simple questions, I’ll let you and your friends go free.”
         “Don’t give me that bullshit, I’m not that stupid.”
         “If you don’t cooperate, I will personally kill your wife, and I’ll . . .”
         James transformed in a flash, the restraints popping off like cheap toys and banging against the floor.  The door burst open, several commandos storming inside, their weapons raised; he grabbed the table, throwing it into the group and tossing them back into the hallway.  Kicking out, he caught the interrogator across the chest, throwing the man through the air and crashing into the reflective window.  The people on the other side were scrambling for the door, trying to open it before the ravaging beast reached them.  Some of them were fast enough, but James grabbed two of them by the throat, slamming their bodies against the wall.  He kept throwing their bodies against the plaster walls, until they resembled two handfuls of hamburger meat.  James let the bodies fall, kicking the door open with enough force to slam it against the other side of the corridor.
         Two groups of guards were waiting for him in the corridor, one on either side of the door.  Electrodes shot out from both sides, digging into his fur with sharp burning pains; he grabbed at the darts, pulling them out and tossing them onto the floor.  Burning pain coursed through his body, his muscles contracting painfully as he dropped onto the floor.  His roar echoed down the corridor as his vision faded around him.
- - - -
         He awoke with a roar so loud his chest felt like it was going to burst; the howl lasted until his voice was hoarse, and nothing else refused to come out.  As the anger faded away, he began to scan his surroundings; he was on another operating table, strapped down with thick Velcro restraints. The operating room had video cameras around the perimeter, with several more set at each end of the table.  Expensive looking equipment was neatly arranged around the room, large refrigerators and cooling tanks beside them.  A pair of double doors opened and three technicians entered, along with a neatly groomed older man.  The man was wearing a military uniform, though his unit patch and name had been removed; the only thing remaining was his Lieutenant General rank.
         The General walked over to James, leaning over him.  “You killed one of my best officers.”
         “I thought I killed three of your people.  That prick interrogator, and those two I turned into mush.”
         The officer chewed on his lip, looking down at him.  “Apparently the regression serum doesn’t work on you, that makes you unique.  And a good test subject.”
         The technicians approached as the General walked away, one removing several vials from the refrigerator while the other two began sticking IV tubes into James’ protesting arms.  They ignored his growls and snarls, dodging his powerful jaws and continuing with their work.  He watched as a dull white liquid was injected into the IV line, and searing pain began to burn through his veins.  The pain steadily increased as the technicians injected more of the chemical into his veins.  It felt like his skin was on fire, like it was being rubbed against crushed glass and doused in salt.  James roared against the pain, pulling at the restraints with as much strength as he could find.
         “Sir, the new serum isn’t working,” one of the technicians said into a small intercom.
         “Increase the dosage!” the General responded angrily.
         The technician reached for another syringe, as James’ powerful jaws snapped shut on his forearm, severing his hand from the rest of his body.  He screamed shrilly, dropping to the ground and clutching at the bleeding stump.  The other two technicians rushed towards him as he ripped the straps off with his teeth, rolling off the table and running towards the door.  Grabbing an IV stand on his way, he shoved it through the handles, wrapping the metal around the handle and turning towards the men.  The first one was met with a tough fist, his neck cracking back at an odd angle.  James grabbed the next one’s chest, slamming him against the wall.
         “Antidote, where is it?” he growled.
         “T-there i-i-isn’t one.”
         James grabbed one of the man’s fingers, bending it backwards until it snapped.  “Tell me before I run out of fingers.”
         “I can’t . . .”
         He grabbed two more fingers, twisting them together and eliciting another scream from the man.  “TELL ME!”
         “T-that fridge, top shelf,” he said, pointing with a trembling finger.
         “Thanks.”  James slammed the man headfirst into the wall, stalking up to the refrigerator and pulling it open.  It was filled from top to bottom with labeled drug vials, most with vague, handwritten names.  James grabbed a first-aid bag from off the wall, tossing several vials from each shelf into it, along with several packages of syringes.  Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he moved towards the door, careful to avoid the crying technician on the ground.
         The explosion threw the doors inward, crashing into James and knocking him onto his back.  Guards stormed inside, their electrodes sinking deep into his flesh, and sending pain deep into his bones, but it was different this time.  It didn’t seem to stop him, his muscles weren’t contracting and he wasn’t falling to the floor.  He kicked the door off of him, the heavy metal cutting into two of the guards, snapping their knees backwards.  Ripping the electrodes out of his skin, he pulled them hard, yanking the weapons out of their hands.  With a roar, he leapt forward and into the middle of the group of guards.
         James lost himself in a rage, sound and vision blurring together as he ripped into the men, tossing them into walls and equipment.  He eviscerated one man, tearing another’s jaw off in his claw, and throwing a third into one of the refrigerators.  Gunshots boomed around him, echoing in his ears and burning as the silver bullets drove deep into his skin.  One of the remaining guards drove a combat knife into James’ thigh, another attempting to hurriedly reload his weapon.  Backhanding the knife wielding guard, he ripped the knife out of his thigh, driving it completely through the last remaining combatant.  Breathing hard, and surveying the carnage he roared loudly, letting his anger leak out of him.
         He walked slowly across the room, stepping on the injured, and still screaming technician.  “Shut the fuck up.”  James stopped as he caught his reflection in one of the refrigerators stainless steel doors.  “What the hell!?”  The fur on his back had turned a vibrant silver, stark white streaks mixed in with the brown fur; dark red streaks ran down his arms, creating an almost glove pattern across his claws.  “What the hell did they do to me?”
- - - -
         Vivian screamed as the interrogator pressed the silver tab against her neck; she had lost count of how many times he had injured her.  He could always find the tender spots on her body; the tender flesh of her arms, her inner thigh, her eyelids, anywhere.  Tears were streaming down her face now, streaking her mascara and turning her face into a grotesque mask.
         “Where is your pack?” he asked, pushing the silver tab against her forehead.
         She screamed again loudly.  “I don’t have a pack, just stop hurting me!”
         The reflective mirror exploded inward as one of the technicians was hurtled forward, crashing against far wall.  James roared, leaping forward and grabbing the interrogator; he lifted the man up, crushing him against the ceiling.  He looked at Vivian, then back at the interrogator.  “Did you hurt her?”
         “Bite me, you freak!” the interrogator said, throwing a thick wad of spit into his face.
         James threw the man headfirst into the door, his skull crushing in a dull mush as the door broke open.  Growling at the dead man, he bent over, ripping the thick chains restraining Vivian and opening the first aid bag.  “Antidote’s in there, that bottle,” he said, pointing at the bottles with one of his claws.
         “Uh, I . . . can’t,” Vivian moaned, trying to grasp the needles, but she couldn’t focus enough hold them steady.
         “Shit,” he grunted, picking up the half conscious woman, “let’s go.”
- - - -
         Reeves paced back and forth in the cell, staring angrily at the barred door.  He thought he had heard gunshots and explosions earlier, but pounding on the door for nearly an hour had resulted in nothing.  Sitting down on the bed, he clenched his hands together, trying to figure out what was happening outside.  The door echoed loudly, rattling against its frame; another slam dented the center of the door, and it fell inward with a loud bang.  On the other side was a seven foot tall beast, covered in blood and debris, carrying Vivian in its arms.
         “What the fuck!?” he yelled, backing up against the far wall.
         “Shit,” James grunted, rubbing one bloody paw across his snout, leaving a bloody mess in his fur.  “Reeves it’s me, Ross.  We need to get out of here, now.”
         Michael stood there for a long moment, too stunned at the normal sentence coming from the beast to react.  He shook his head back and forth, rubbing his temples.  “What about the guards outside?”
         “Don’t know if it’ll work, but I got an idea.”
- - - -
         The armored van rolled slowly down the corridor, stopping at the massive blast doors at the end.  Reeves was in the driver’s seat, dressed in one of the guards’ uniforms, while Vivian was beside him, dressed as a technician.  James roared occasionally from the back, slamming his fists against the side as the guards approached the gate.
         “What ‘ya got back there?” the gate guard asked, trying to peer in through the small armored windows.
         “He just killed a dozen people, we’re taking him to Washington,” Reeves said, gripping the steering wheel tightly.
         To add emphasis, James threw his body against the van, rocking it against the suspension.  The guard stepped back, staring at the van.  “Get it out of here man, I don’t want to deal with it.”
         “Thanks,” Reeves mumbled, driving the van up the inclined road and out of the compound.
         “That was too easy,” James grumbled from the back of the armored van.  “Where are we going?”
         Reeves didn’t say anything for the next thirty minutes, keeping his eyes staring down the center of the road.  Once he was sure they were safe, he pulled the van into a small park, shutting down the engine.  “Here.”  He pushed the door open, walking around and opening the door for James.
         James was back in his human form, holding his tattered pants up with one hand, the other carrying the first aid pouch.  Matching white and silver streaks ran through his hair, giving him a nearly crazy look as he sat down on the van’s edge.  “I need to get back to Elisa.  Where are we?”
         “Ross, you need to tell me what’s going on, now!”
         “No, I need to find my wife, where are we?”
         Grumbling, Reeves reached into the van’s cabin, handing James a map and stabbing a finger at it.  “Right here, we’re about sixty minutes away from post.”
         “Then we’d better hurry,  huh?”
- - - -
         James watched his truck roll into the small park; the park was on the side of the road, several minutes over the Texas border.  He was hidden behind a large growth of bushes, scanning the surroundings and watching the truck closely.  Elisa and James had planned to meet here, just in case something had happened.  Pushing through the foliage, he started running towards the truck, a smile beginning to spread across his face.  The figure in the driver’s seat turned toward him, raising a hand.
         His truck disappeared in a ball of flames, the windows blowing out, the hood flipping up into the air and breaking the vehicle in half.  The explosion threw him backwards, his head cracking against the pavement.  Debris rained down across his chest and crashed against the pavement in loud bangs.  “Elisa!” he screamed, pushing up and running at the truck’s cabin.  Vivian slammed into him from the side, tackling him onto the pavement, where they tumbled end over end, stopping with James face down, and Vivian on top of him.  “Let me up, I have to save her!”
         “You can’t, she’s . . .”  The fire caught the fuel tank, turning it into a massive ball of flames.  Vivian and James were tossed backwards, the flames scorching their clothing and hair.
         “Nooo!!” he screamed against the pavement, not trying to fight out from beneath Vivian anymore.  “No . . . goddamn it no.”  James threw his fist into the ground, the brittle bones in his knuckles cracking at the impact.  “Who the hell?  Who the hell did that?  Fuck!”
- - - -
         James sifted through the wreckage of the truck, avoiding the burnt remains sitting in the driver’s seat.  The vehicle had burned completely down to its frame, the body crumbling like a paper cut; the carpet made sticky pools on the ground, grabbing at James’ feet as he walked.  Vivian and Reeves stood watching him, neither one of them sure what to say to the hurting man.  He reached down, spreading apart the melted remains of Elisa’s purse and began digging through its contents.  The pictures inside were completely melted, but he still shoved them into his pocket, continuing to poke through the remains.  James nearly choked as he came upon a small golden pendant, a gift he had given her a few years ago; inside were two melted pictures, completely beyond recognition.
         “I’m sorry Ross,” Reeves said, walking up behind him.
         He didn’t say anything, just turned towards his burnt wife.  James swallowed several times before his hand would stop shaking, and he was able to slowly remove the wedding ring.  It had been made of white gold, but now it was deeply blackened from the fire; he unhooked his necklace, sliding it on next to his wedding band.
         “It’ll be okay,” Vivian said weakly.
         “No it won’t,” James growled, standing up and turning slowly to face Reeves.  “Reeves, you need to get out of here.”
         “Ross, I know it looks bad, but let me help you,” Reeves said, anger hiding at the edge of his voice.
         “No, what I’m going to do, you don’t need to be a part of.  Get out of here, go make up a story or something,” James dropped onto the ground, staring at the melted lump.  “Without her, I may as well be dead anyway.”
- - - -
         James sat on the floor, leaning against the bed, taking deep gulps from a cheap bottle of vodka nestled between his feet.  He stared at the hotel room’s wall, holding the deformed wedding ring, rolling it over in his hand and growling deeply.  Reeves had left the previous night, but James had barely noticed; nothing mattered to him now, just drinking.  Vivian watched James take drink after drink, she had tried to take the bottle away, once, but the growl that had come from his throat terrified her.
         She kneeled down in front of him, carefully easing the bottle away from his lips.  “What are we going to do?”
         Guiding the bottle around Vivian’s hand, he gulped the remaining liquid down.  “Why did you even follow me?  You should get away from me.”
         I don’t have anywhere else to go, she thought.  “You need to stop drinking, they’ll be after us soon.”
         He growled angrily, tossing the bottle across the room; it shattered against the wall, showering droplets onto the floor.  “No . . . what I need . . . is more beer,” James slurred out, trying to stand up, but he stumbled forward.
         Vivian caught him, helping him to the small office chair.  “They’ll be coming soon, I can’t fight them, please.”
         “No, they won’t be coming for you,” he talked without looking at her, staring angrily out the window.
         “Uh, why not?”
         “Because I’m going to kill them.”
         “Who?” the cold look in his eyes sent a deep shiver down her spine, it was a pure, animalistic anger.
         “Everyone.  Every hunter, every scientist, every damn person out there, after our kind.  They’re all dead.”