The Witch and the Werewolf Page 2

  The thing howled in the night when it saw her mother, licking its chops.

  “Get in the van and drive,” her mother ordered, pushing her aside . “And whatever you do, don’t look at the comet. Do not wait for me.”

  Her mother pushed her towards the van and then stepped back, drawing the two silver swords from the scabbards beneath her long coat. She looked like an avenging angel in the nuclear light of Worm Wood, a warrior queen.

  “Wolf,” she said simply, her voice untouched by fear. “Begone this night.”

  The wolf laughed at her and watched as Cassandra pulled Brad towards the van. “She smells like you, Eleanor. Does she taste like you?”

  “You will not find out this night,” her mother said as she, amazingly, leapt into the air, blades pointed in front of her. She cleared the thirty feet between she and the wolf in a single bound and Cassandra was sure the two blades were going to, at any second, impale the wolf. It moved in a flash, though, and she came down on grass.

  The thing laughed at her. “You are slowing in your old age, Eleanor. You used to be much quicker.”

  Her mother turned and threw one of the swords at the wolf. It arched across the expanse of grass like a silver arrow and cut the wolf’s arm as the beast stepped out the way. It howled in pain as the wound smoked and blood gushed out.

  “Bitch,” it growled. “I will enjoy consuming you.”

  Her mother was in the air again, this time raining fire down around the werewolf. Fire? How did her mother do that? Who was that woman? It was obvious she didn’t know all there was to know about Eleanor Kent. The fire singed the wolf as it darted out of the circle, again howling in pain. Her mother came down inches from where the thrown silver blade had stuck in the ground, yanked it free, and came up in a crouch.

  The wolf yanked a small tree from the ground, roots and all, and hurled it at her. Eleanor raised her hand, palm up, and a wall of bramble thorns sprang into existence between her and the flying tree. The tree crashed through in a shower of sparks, but the wolf was already leaping over it, coming down on top of her mother, knocking her to the ground and sending her blades flying.

  “Mom!” Cassandra screamed, still struggling to get Brad to the van. The boy was crying, hands locked to his face.

  “Don’t worry, little one,” the thing growled at her. “You’ll get your chance.”

  “Run, Cassandra! Get in the van and run,” her mother screamed, pushing uselessly against the massive weight crouched on her chest. “You have to run!”

  Cassandra was locked in place as the thing howled and then bit into her mother’s shoulder. Eleanor Kent cried out in agony, unable to struggle away from the werewolf. She wanted to rush to her mother, to help her somehow, but couldn’t move. Brad sobbed next to her, sinking to the dirt once more.

  “What’s going on, Cass? What’s happening?”

  The wolf bit into her mother again, blood and bone flying. It turned and looked at her, the long snout forming a grin. “Your turn, little bitch.”

  The thing leapt into the air, towards her, and came down next to Brad. It slapped Brad away as if he was nothing but a child’s toy and he landed ten feet away, his neck in an unnatural position. Cassandra glanced at her erstwhile lover and was sure he was dead. The wolf turned to her, snout inches from her cheek, sniffing.

  “You smell so sweet, little bitch. Like your mother a hundred years ago.”

  Something clicked in Cassandra. Suddenly she didn’t want to die. The world might be ending, she thought, but if these things were out there, in the coming night, she’d be there to stop them. She didn’t know what her mother was, didn’t know what she was, but she knew she wanted to live long enough to hunt every one of the werewolves down and put them out of her misery. Inaction turned to action and she felt something building deep within her. It was like a fire, burning in the pit of her stomach. As the wolf put its clawed hands on her the fire leapt out, through her hands, and set the wolf’s fur alight, flinging him back across the park in an explosion that sent shock waves through the trees.

  “What the hell?” she muttered, staring at the smoking palms of her hands. “What did I do?”

  She ran to her mother’s side, scooping the woman’s bloody carcass into her lap. The woman breathed laboriously and Cassandra knew she was dying.

  “Mom…”

  “It’s okay, Cassandra. I’m… it’s too late for me. You have to go on. You have to carry on the fight.” She coughed up a chunk of blood. “You have to find the alpha wolf and kill him. The first one, Cassandra. Find him and kill him and this will all end. Take the pack from them.”

  She has so many questions. She regretted leaving her mother and chasing her own silly, childish desires.

  “I’m sorry, Mother. I’m so sorry.”

  “Take these,” the woman said, forcing the short silver swords into her hand. “And run. When you’re ready, hunt him down and kill him. They will consume the human race now, if you don’t. There is nothing to keep them in check anymore. Find the priest. Find the Church of the Dead Wolf. He will help you.”

  Tears flowed down her cheeks as her mother, suddenly a mystery, died in her hands. She watched the woman’s life energy flow from her like water, seeping into the ground. No matter how much she’d hated what the woman had kept from her, she loved her. Her mother had been, until Worm Fall, her entire world.

  Cassandra took the two swords. They were heavy in her hands. The wolf that she had, somehow, managed to stun was getting to his feet.

  “You are your mother’s daughter, wench,” the thing growled at her, its fur smoking in places. “I will eat you as well.”

  She started towards the beast, swords bared, anger filling her heart. She had no idea if she could muster that power again but the beast would pay and pay dearly for what it had done to her mother. But then she saw the dozens of burning yellow eyes peering at her from the darkness. She could feel them then, feel them just as her mother had. There were a half of dozen of the creatures there and she knew, without a doubt, that she couldn’t fight them all, even if she could somehow summon that magic her mother had. And that’s what it was, wasn’t it? Magic. Her mother had done magic while fighting the beast and it would take her a very long time to accept that. She watched as her mother’s back arched in a dying spasm, her body shuddering.

  Along with the wolves staring from the bushes and the smoking one in the playground, she felt another, even more powerful wolf somewhere in the night to the west. The thing in the city floated in the back of her mind, clawing at her. She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts.

  Cassandra heard the howls as she got in her mother’s van and started the engine. The blinding missiles continued to slam into the asteroid but she would not look up. She put it in drive and headed out of the park, everything she’d ever known dying behind her under the nuclear explosions in the sky.

  The old world had ended, she knew. But hers was just beginning.

  Houston, Texas, was awash with life in anticipation of its coming death.

  The streets were filled with revelers, partying in a last stoic act of rebellion, sticking up a collective middle finger to the cosmic doom that was fast approaching like the angel of death. Extinction was coming for the human race, yet those in the streets that night either didn’t care or they chose to hide that fear behind the warm beer, drugs, and music loud enough to make them forget. For the partiers filling the streets of downtown Houston, God had written them off. The only thing left to do was go out with a bang.

  For others it was a time of quiet self-reflection and conversation with their Lord. Locked away in churches, mosques, and synagogues, they begged their various deities to spare the world the fate he or she or it had seen fit to inflict on the godless masses. They promised to convert and have the sinners repent. They begged for mercy. They called comet AGT-1475, a ball of iron the size of Texas barreling through space towards the Earth, by its entirely biblical name. Worm Wood. The name, over the previous
three years since the comet’s discovery, had stuck, and even the media had taken to calling the night of the comet’s impact Worm Fall.

  Still others locked themselves in their basements and storm shelters, confident that the ten cases of SPAM, two hundred gallons of water, and thousand rounds of 9mm would suffice them till the smoke cleared and they could rise up, masters of the wastelands. They conversed on their array of short wave radios, the internet, and by phone, plotting their rise from the ashes. Their world would be a new world and those who hadn’t listened before, those who hadn’t prepared, would be gone. They’d be a world of self-sufficient supermen, flush with beans and bullets.

  Some even tried to go on and act like all was normal, going to deserted workplaces and pretending to shop at long looted out stores. They hoped against hope that the governments of the world were correct and that the best outcome of their combined response would work, despite the fact that the brightest minds of the world, having worked on the problem for three years, said it would change nothing. Those bright minds were either partying in the streets, praying to their saviors, or locked in basements with their guns and SPAM.

  David James Jackson, Dutch to those few who he called friends, was one of those pretenders, going on about his life as if the world was not about to come to a screeching halt and mankind was about to take a long walk over the dark side. Though his job in life would have never been considered quite normal, his current mission was doubly odd. Dutch had no illusions that the UN and their coalition of countries with their nukes screaming into space would actually be able to save anyone. And though mankind’s end was apparently imminent, he still had to work to do. What else was there if you didn’t have work?

  Dutch did not think the coming catastrophe, or Extinction Level Event as the news media had called it, borrowing a line from an old and now seemingly prophetic movie, was the act of an all knowing, all powerful, and vengeful god. Quite the contrary, he believed shit happened and the universe, with its infinite sense of humor, was chunking a rock the size of Texas at them for shits and giggles. But despite that fact there was work to be done and, if he didn’t survive the night, at least he’d go out doing what he did best.

  Nor did he believe all life would end. Mother Nature was indeed a cruel bitch, but mankind had a virus-like tenacity to hang on through almost any catastrophe. Man had survived much and would continue to do so. But a change was coming, he knew, and the balance would be tipped. Though he was sure man would survive, they’d be bounced down the food chain a few notches. He was pretty sure mankind was no longer to be the dominant species on the planet.

  So Dutch continued to work. Bad guys still needing killing and, according to Father O’Leary, his current employer, errant werewolves still needed capturing. Not that he believed in werewolves. Who believed in werewolves? He was happy to take the priest’s money and silver ammunition. Work was work and the world was ending, after all. It never hurt to have too much .45 ACP, even if it was silver.

  Work, at present, consisted of tailing a limo down Main Street in downtown Houston while navigating the thousands of people who’d come out to watch Wormwood and the expected fireworks as one hundred twenty-eight separate nuclear warheads streaked towards the comet. The streets were filled with drunks and partiers. Music of all types and flavors blasted from car stereos mixing with the wail of horns and gunshots booming into the air. Dutch’s target, one David Alexander Wilbanks, stood up through the limo’s sun roof, a buxom blonde babe on his right arm, and a glass of champagne in his right hand, celebrating right along with the heathens that had come out to see the supposed destruction of Wormwood. There, under the looming cosmic death, they were one people. Rich or poor, it didn’t matter. Money couldn’t buy you salvation.

  But maybe, just maybe, he thought, this job can buy me a night or two in a well-stocked shelter under one certain church. No matter if the church was run by a crazy man. He’d deal with that later.

  People surged forward, surrounding the limo and the driver, the civilized world not yet having collapsed to the point that anarchy ruled, stopped in fear of running someone over. Wilbanks surged forward and spilt his glass, champagne spilling off the top of the limo like sparkling blood. He righted himself, laughed, and slid back into the compartment only to emerge seconds later with the entire bottle. Dutch’s car, a recently stolen 2005 Cadillac, was surrounded by the same throng of people who seemed content to sip at their drinks and smoke their weed while staring at the approaching comet that already filled the sky to the point it looked like a second Moon. While Dutch was not opposed to running folk over in the pursuit of the greater good, he figured chasing an imaginary werewolf for a crazy old preacher probably didn’t qualify as the greater good. He put the car in park and checked his gear one last time.

  The shotgun was an off the shelf Mossberg from Academy. The Persuader 500A was sleek and black and, more importantly to Dutch, simple to work on. The shotgun wasn’t nearly as important as the ammunition it fired, a gift from the priest, and the silver filled buckshot rounds were worth more than the car he’d stolen. A bandolier of the pricey shotgun shells was draped over his shoulder, left to right, and ended in a leather sheath concealing the silver infused steel kurki at his hip. There were half a dozen silver throwing blades stuffed in various hidden locations in the black leather overcoat he wore, as well as two foot-long Kabar combat knives sheathed in each of the high black combat boots. Dutch bit down a laugh when the priest insisted on all the silver gear and said nothing. It would still kill, he was sure. He just wasn’t sure he’d be killing or capturing any werewolves that night. Looking at the guy in the limo, drinking from the bottle and hooting with the rest of the heathens in the street, Dutch was sure he wasn’t going to have to use any of the stuff in the first place.

  This is stupid, he thought. What the hell am I doing? He felt like he ought to be hanging out with the rest of the partiers, waiting for the end. The priest’s offer, and the job, symbolized a dangerous little bit of hope.

  Hell, he thought. It’s the end of the world, maybe I can survive the night if I pull this off.

  The priest had been explicit in his instructions. No werewolf, no night in the shelter. He had to get the guy if he wanted access. That werewolves didn’t exist and he’d be kidnapping an innocent man for no good reason didn’t mean much to him. At least he’d survive the night.

  He felt the padded case inside his left inside pocket once more, content that the vials of potions the good Father had given him were still there. That a presumably Catholic priest was dabbling in magic made him laugh. That he’d gone along with it, in the name of actually having a gig the last night of the world, made him laugh even more. He removed one and kept it safely in his fist. Nope, no such thing as werewolves, but he kept the vial in his hand nevertheless.

  The sounds and smells were even louder outside the enclosed confines of the luxury car. The odor of pot was thick in the air, mixing with the stink of sweat and the gallons of vomit that were appearing as folks gorged themselves on wine, women, and song. For a moment he wanted to fade into the crowd and lose himself in the moment. The crowd surged around him and he knew it wouldn’t be hard to do.

  “Hey bud,” a young man he was sure was just barely out of high school began drunkenly, holding out a bong. “How about a hit?”

  “No,” Dutch said, trying to push past the boy. He was insistent, though.

  “Come on man, it’s the end of the world,” the boy told him. “And I want to get fucking high. You look like you could use a hit. You look like you need to get high.”

  “Please get out of my way.” That the boy was staring him down was also funny. Dutch came in at just over six feet tall and weighed a solid one ninety. He was big and, in most cases, intimidating. The kid wasn’t intimidated, though. He was stoned out of his gourd.

  “Come on, bro. Just a couple of hits. We’ll get high, we’ll laugh, we’ll cry…”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Fucking a
sshole. What the hell else do you have to do?”

  Dutch didn’t have time to mess with the boy anymore. He brought the pistol grip of the shotgun up underneath his chin, cracking bone and teeth. The boy stumbled backwards, gripping his bloody face.

  “You fucking asshole,” he screamed. But instead of retaliating he turned and fled at the sight of the shotgun. “You broke my goddamn nose,” the boy muttered, bleeding back into the crowd.

  Dutch shrugged the encounter off and pushed through the revelers to the limo. He stepped on the bumper and then the up to the trunk, without Wilbanks even turning around. Shotgun forward he popped the blonde in the back of the head, nailing her in the noggin with the barrel. Both of them turned around and confusion reigned on the man’s face.

  “What the hell?” the man asked simply, reaching into his waistband.

  Dutch, though not as quick as he once was, was quicker, kicking away the big revolver and then popping the man in the face with the butt of the shotgun. He fell down into the interior of the limo, his face a bloody mess. Dutch turned to the blonde, barrel pointed at her head.

  “Inside missy,” he told her, and then, when she hesitated. “Now.”

  He followed the girl down. They’d been in the limo quite a while judging by the amount of empty bottles, food containers, and various drug paraphernalia. That wasn’t unusual. Downtown Houston had been packed for days with revelers all waiting for the end of the world.

  The blonde was flabbergasted. “Why would you want to rob someone on the night the world ends? Isn’t there are party you could be at, or something?”