Plasma Frequency Magazine: Issue 13 (10 page)

It was more than close enough to finish her silently, but he was in no hurry.  Another half-step closer allowed him to hear her breathing.  Soft, steady, unhurried.  If only she’d known.

The bristles on his chest were touched her dress.  He reached up slowly and felt her tense, sensing that something wasn’t right.

By then it was much too late.  It took only s slight, lightning-fast movement on his part to clamp his jaws around her tiny throat, crushing her windpipe, cutting off the incipient scream before it was much more than a yelp.  He wrestled her to the ground.

Even before the heart in her chest had stopped beating, before asphyxiation had done its work, Jason began to feed.  He started by tearing into a thigh, one of the meatiest and juiciest parts of any animal, and savored the feel of soft, tender meat.  The girl strained with the pain, but it was no matter: he had her pinned, and she would be dead in a few moments.

Something inside his mind screamed and screamed at him, some strange part of him that didn’t understand the way of the predator.

He ignored it.  The night was his, and his alone.

Pain woke him again.

Carmen was leaning on top of him, looking into his eyes.  Any anger she’d felt had been temporarily forgotten: her look of concern was genuine and deep.  “I brought you some food,” she told him.

The feeling of warm blood playing over his tongue made him shudder, but he forced the feeling down.  “What is it?”

“Soup.”

Relief flooded him, and he relaxed.  He hadn’t even been aware of how tense he was until it left him.  “Thank you.”

He wanted to beg her to be patient with him, tell her that he would explain in due course.  Hell, he wanted to come clean right then, but he knew how it would go.  At first she would think he was crazy, or some kind of pervert.  Then, when he insisted, she would get angry with him, think he was playing her for a fool.  The very worst thing that could happen would be that she would believe him, because then she’d ask if he’d killed anyone.  He would probably be able to hide the truth from her, but what if he couldn’t?  He could already see the horror in her eyes, the disgust, the sense that she would never want to see him again. 

He sat up straighter, to talk to her, but she put her hand on his chest.  He should have explained that his scratches hurt more than his head, but now it was too late.  “Don’t say anything.  You need to rest.  You can explain everything,” – and was there the slightest emphasis on this last word, a promise of unpleasant repercussions if she didn’t like the explanation? – “later.”

He obeyed, glad to be off the hook, if only momentarily, and pretended to sleep.  He’d been drifting off all afternoon, and he wasn’t tired, but she didn’t know it.  If he closed his eyes, she would be satisfied that he was resting, healing.  He wondered why she hadn’t called a doctor in yet.  He let his mind wander, daydreaming as the hours passed, hoping she didn’t notice that he was still awake, trying to control his breathing, making it slow, imitating the sound of sleep…

…He’d exulted at the taste of human flesh, the sweetest of all.  Why had it been so long since he’d been able to feed as he was meant to?  He knew there was a reason, but vowed never to allow that length of time to pass again.  Even the moon, up ahead on this cloudless night seemed to send down wave after wave of approval which he could feel on his skin. 

Blood seemed to course faster through his veins, and he felt the power of his body, the rippling of steel-cord muscle under the fur.  He didn’t know why it surprised him, but the power there seemed incredible.  He was master of all he surveyed.

Jason’s neck stretched, seemingly of its own accord, to move his head into the traditional salute position.  He needed to tell the moon what he felt, thank her for this feeling, for the power, for her warmth, for this fresh meat.  The moon needed to know that she was still his only mistress, that he was its most faithful servant.

He took a deep breath.

Jaws like an iron vice clamped onto his throat, cutting off the howl and sending him sprawling.  The strike would have killed a lesser creature, left it to slowly choke on the floor like the puny human that he was eating.  It was such a strong blow that he felt the teeth go through his fur before he managed to shake his attacker off.  He would be sore and bruised for many days.

But it hadn’t killed him, and whatever creature had had the bad idea of assaulting him was now going to pay the price in full.  He turned, expecting a large dog of some sort, driven by the misguided loyalty that those imbecilic creatures feel for humans.

What he saw instead nearly made him wet himself without lifting his leg.

Or rather, what he couldn’t quite see…  There was definitely a figure there, something larger than he was, with a pelt not quite black, but sprinkled with silver hair which made it nearly impossible to see in the moon-cast shadows of the alley.  It moved with purpose, but infinitely slowly, as if watching to see what Jason would do, while shifting its weight in order to tear him apart when he did.

Only the smell told him what he was facing.  It was a dominant smell, of musk and earth and wild wolves, but there was some human in it, too.  The smell told him what it wanted: it wanted the smaller wolf, the newcomer, the interloper, to surrender, to expose his neck to the mercy of the silverback’s teeth.  Perhaps, if the other decided to let him live, Jason could then have a few scraps of the little girl he’d killed.

But Jason knew that there would be no mercy in those teeth.  He would die there if he backed down.  The sheer strength, the maleness of the other’s scent made it abundantly clear that this was an animal that would never tolerate the presence of a competitor.

Before the other could smell the change, Jason launched himself at the wolve’s throat.

Surprise served him well.  Even as he flew through the air, the alpha male attacked, a move that couldn’t have been in response to Jason’s own strike, but must have been premeditated.  Instead of dying where he’d stood, Jason found himself, after the collision, in a running retreat, a fright to keep the other out of striking distance.

He charged across rooftops, changed direction suddenly, struck blindly when he felt the other closing too quickly.  He owed his life to his wits, his speed, his smaller size and, too often, to his luck.  But luck would not last forever.  Already, the chase and the fighting were taking their toll.  He was dripping blood from wounds too numerous to count, scratches covered his chest and forelegs, and his left side was one continuous bruise after he’d been pushed off a rooftop. His enemy was implacable, and Jason wouldn’t – couldn’t – last much longer.

He was at ground level now, and turned full speed into an alley, the enormous beast breathing down his neck.  He was glad for speed and agility that the other simply couldn’t match.  He opened a slight lead and turned again.

His heart broke.  Less than ten paces ahead, the alley ended in a cul-de-sac, walls too high to jump, and with no footholds to climb.  He would have to make his stand right there.

Jason turned at bay, preparing himself for the pain, the rending that was certain to come.  He didn’t want to face the beast, but facing it at least gave him a chance, a chance that he wouldn’t have if he gave in.  He growled, feeling his hackles rise.

His pursuer seemed unimpressed by the challenge.  The big wolf – and now that he was fully out in the open, Jason could see that the other beast’s size was simply stunning – advanced slowly but with no trace of fear on its scent or in its movements.  One paw at a time, making certain to leave its prey nowhere to run.

Just as Jason was preparing to leap, the big wolf looked up, paused to growl at him a final time and padded off.  Minutes later, he felt the change reversing itself as the moon came down, felt the thick hair shedding, and then he forgot who he was, as strange thoughts and stranger fears took over his head.  The last thing he knew, an urge to find his clothes before daylight was pushing him forward.

Daylight.  He’d never seen daylight.  Was it like the moon?

Daylight.

A sharp pain in his eyes woke him.  As his vision cleared, he found himself looking into the face of a man with a moustache in a white lab coat, tiny penlight in his hand.  The doctor spoke to Carmen in Spanish, refused the money he was offered and walked to the door, stopping only to pick up a bag on the way.

“He says you don’t have a concussion.”

“That’s a relief,” Jason replied, trying to smile.

“I wish you could remember what happened last night,” she said,

And suddenly, he did.  Or at least he remembered the important part, which was that, if he transformed that night and walked the streets, there would be something waiting for him, something that would rip out his throat as soon as the moon came up, that wouldn’t let him escape a second time. 

It was a crushing realization.  He’d always thought that he was the only one, the most faithful servant of the moon.  But now he knew that he wasn’t, that there were others, and some of them were lords.  He, who’d thought himself such a monster, was just the runt of a litter, alive only because his pack was spread so thin.

Last night he’d wandered into the domain of one of the dominant males, a lord of werewolves.  His only chance was to get as far away from the city as he could.

But, looking out the window, he saw that the chance had passed.  No sunlight greeted him there, just a cool breeze and a few stars in the inky night that was pale only where the full moon would soon be rising. He’d slept the day, and his chance of living, away.

In fact, now that he thought about it, he could feel the bristles against the sheets, pushing to get free, yearning for the touch of silver light that would turn them into fur.  Jason couldn’t resist that yearning, had never been able to.

The only relief he felt as he left the room and the building, shedding clothes and saying nothing, was that he wouldn’t have to explain his absence to Carmen. If he survived the night, he would spend the rest of his vacation out on a mountain somewhere, far from men and wolves.

But he didn’t think he would live.  He could already smell the scent of the hunter on the breeze, calling for him to submit when he knew he should run. 

He ran, and the chase began anew.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gustavo Bondoni is an Argentine writer with over a hundred stories published in ten countries.  His first two books were published in 2010: a collection of Gustavo's previously published stories, Tenth Orbit and Other Faraway Places was released in October, and his short novel The Curse of El Bastardo in November.  His third book, Virtuoso and Other Stories was published in 2011. He can be found on his website at www.gustavobondoni.com.ar, and his blog, located at http://bondo-ba.livejournal.com/

Day of Reckoning

By Brian K. Lowe

Knowing this day would come didn’t make it any easier. Fate decrees an end to every pauper or prince, secretary or superhero, but he’d rather have been facing the Solar Gang and the Destructive Collective combined. This day had been predicted exactly one year past, and every development, every event that had been described as leading inexorably to Captain Galaxy’s last day as had come true.

Fate, Captain Galaxy mused as he surveyed New York City from the roof of the Empire State Building, was more powerful than super-strength.

As a gesture of respect, the roof had been cleared, but his solitude would not last. Had he been allowed to meet his Maker alone, face his last moments privately, he might be looking at things differently. When he had embarked on this career, the favored child of the same Fate that now forced him to his day of reckoning, he had reveled in the drama, the excitement, the adoration—but now, at the end, he wished nothing more than to leave quietly, shuffling off to whatever new existence might await without the glare of the cameras and the cynical afterthoughts of the bloggers who thought his destiny should have been theirs.

His destiny, yes. He wondered how many of them craved his destiny now. In his waning hours, would any of them want to be him, live his life, face his future, knowing what awaited?

“Would you want them to?”

Captain Galaxy whirled, dust and debris scattering from the force of his movement. Standing scant yards away stood a tall, thin man in a yellow skintight suit. His forehead seemed to bulge slightly forward, as it always did in person, although pictures showed him to appear quite normal. Although the great hero was used to seeing him either sneering or snarling, depending on their relative positions, today his face was soft, thoughtful.

“Thought Master…” Captain Galaxy said in surprise. He took a quick look about but saw no one else. But then, Thought Master was enough. Ruthless, powerful, and the only super-villain who had never spent a day behind bars. “I would have thought you’d be drinking a toast to tonight with some of your friends. Isn’t today a super-villains’ holiday?”

The Thought Master sighed. “That would be your first guess, but I don’t hang around with Monster Master or the Solar Gang or any of those people. You may think you know them from foiling their plans for world domination on a weekly basis, but believe me, you have no idea what’s in their heads.” He shuddered. “Barbarians. Besides, whatever happens to you tonight, it doesn’t matter. Another superhero will come along after you, and we’ll fight him, too—and probably lose, as usual.”

Captain Galaxy’s eyes were still darting side to side, waiting for the inevitable trap to spring, but something else was bothering him.

“You were reading my mind when you got here. You’ve never been able to do that to me before.”

Thought Master shrugged. “You were distracted, you let your guard down. I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m sure you won’t let it happen again.”

The Captain chuckled without humor. “No, I guess I can hold on for another two hours or so.”

“Is that when it’s supposed to happen? I knew it was today but I didn’t pay that much attention.”

“Really. Then what are you doing here?”

“Wasting time I don’t have, apparently. If I don’t get a move on, you’ll be off on your last mission and I won’t ever get a chance to say what I came here to say.”

“And what was that?” The Thought Master had made no offensive moves, but he had never been physically dangerous, so that did not matter. Captain Galaxy had strengthened his mental shields, but what if his foe had already subverted them?

“I wanted to tell you,” Thought Master said, and Captain Galaxy tensed, “that I want to surrender.”

“Excuse me?”

Thought Master bit his lip, as though he had rehearsed his speech but was now rewriting it on the fly.

“Look, CG—can I call you CG?—I’ve crossed swords with pretty much every superhero who’s come down the street: Dynamo, Sun Kid, Blacklight, the Tiger, the Leopard, even Danger Kitty, for heaven’s sake, you name them, I’ve fought them. But you’re the best. Not just because you’re Captain Galaxy, possessed of the Power of the Firmament or whatever it is the papers say you have, but because you’ve got class. Those other guys, they had to go all out to catch up to me, and when they finally did, they fully intended kick my sorry ass from here to Trenton. You know why I’ve never been captured? Because I’m afraid of those people. They’re animals. I mean, Danger Kitty? You really don’t want to know what goes on in her head.

“But you, you could’ve ripped off my arms and fed them to me. You could’ve fried my bones with your laser eyes and gone off whistling. But you didn’t. You treated me with respect. You might tie me up with a bridge girder, but you never hit me harder than you had to. I escaped you because I didn’t want to go to jail, but it was never personal.

“You were a superhero and a gentleman. And that’s why I want to surrender to you. So that whatever happens tonight, whatever Fate has in store for you, people will say you never quit. You fought to the end, and the last thing you ever did was you finally brought the Thought Master to justice. That’s not a bad way to go out.”

Captain Galaxy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “And what about you? Are you really willing to go to prison just to make me look good for old times’ sake?”

Thought Master smiled slightly. “For a couple of days. In a week or so, I’ll escape, but I’ll stay long enough to make sure your legacy is secure.”

After a moment, The World’s Greatest Hero stepped forward, and there, at the top of the Empire State Building, Captain Galaxy and the Thought Master shook hands for the first and last time.

~

Although they could do nothing to alter what was to come, the President and the governor had sent their best wishes. The mayor clapped his hand on the hero’s shoulder and stepped away. Captain Galaxy, alone, stepped through the curtain as his destiny demanded. The row of judges was arrayed before him.

“And here he is, fresh from his heroic capture of the diabolical Thought Master—
Captain Galaxy
!” Straining to be heard over the standing ovation, the announcer continued, “It has been an amazing year for Captain Galaxy, but now the time has come to surrender his title—and his powers–to this year’s winner of the Mr. Super contest, Neutron Man. So please, one last round of applause for our 2014 Superhero of the Year, Captain Galaxy!”

And Captain Galaxy, fulfilling the rules laid down on his ascension to the title exactly a year ago, walked the runway one last time.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Brian K. Lowe is a humble and unassuming UCLA graduate who spends the frigid Southern California winters huddled before a miserly fire in his tiny garrett on land once belonging to a Hollywood superstar. His work has appeared in IGMS, Daily Science Fiction, Buzzy Mag, and a jumble of other periodicals kind enough to support him. You can learn more about him at brianklowe.wordpress.com.