The Empty (35 page)

Leaving Donald’s left wrist strapped, the human male rose to his feet, fumbled in his right pants pocket, and then withdrew a small handgun. “Stop right there. I will shoot.”

Donald tilted his head so that he could see the scene before him. Two reyaqc had noticed the activity upon the rise and had come to investigate. Below, Noavor straddled Tresset’s bloodied form, his jaws clamped upon the chieftain’s neck as Tresset thrashed about in pain and terror. “Julia, untie my hand—quickly!”

The woman placed the infant on the ground and began working on the thick leather strap that bound Donald to the board.

“Quickly!”

He felt a tug, a pull, a tug in another direction and then his arm was free.

He was to his feet. His muscles burned, his throat was raw, and he could barely stand upright for the pain, but these things were inconsequential. As he stumbled down the slope, Tresset lifted his right arm as if to pull Noavor’s jaw from his neck. His head rolled in Donald’s direction. Their eyes met. “Dolnaraq,” gasped Tresset. “He is worse…” There was an exhalation of breath. Tresset’s arm jerked and then fell limp. Donald closed his eyes. His emotions swirled—his duty, his promises, his life’s work—his rage. He knew what Tresset had wanted of him. He knew how he would respond.

“Noavor!” screamed Donald, seeing the young chieftain rise, his hands held high in victory and Tresset’s limp and lifeless form at his feet. He raced forward heedless of all. One molt made to intercept Donald, but the human male warned him off with the gun.

The young chieftain turned, muzzle bloodied with Tresset’s life fluid. He grinned a broad, self-satisfied grin. “He’s dead, Dolnaraq. Too bad for you.”

Donald knew rage as he had not known in a century’s time.

Blinding rage.

All-consuming rage.

He welcomed it.

Beckoned it.

Embraced it.

No longer did he hold it in check.

No longer did he quash that which cried to be free.

The self-assured Noavor didn’t realize he was under attack until Donald fell upon him. Every ache was dismissed, every injury forgotten. Philosophy evaporated. A lifetime of learning and hope crumbled away as dust, and Donald knew nothing but murderous rage. Though he had no fangs, he clamped his jaw on Noavor’s neck while simultaneously clawing his eyes with his fingernails.

He tasted flesh. Thick salty flesh.

He tasted blood. Copper and iron. Sweet, sticky, flowing.

He bit harder, tearing, grunting, ripping the surface tissue free, and then burying his face in the musculature beneath.

He lunged again.

Again.

Again.

Noavor’s eyes went glassy, his limbs limp, but still Donald ripped and tore and chomped.

Then, suddenly, with no apparent reason or prompting, Donald came to himself. His vision cleared. His mind swept away the low-hanging clouds of rage. There was flesh still caught between his teeth. Moist spongy matter obstructed his nostrils. He sensed the injuries inflicted upon him by the struggling Noavor’s claws. He saw the jagged chunk bitten out of his left forearm, perhaps two inches in diameter and nearly an inch in depth. Had he even felt Noavor bite him? Looking down at the ravaged form of the young molt, he felt his abdomen tighten and turn. Donald tumbled off of the lifeless form as his stomach gave up its bloody contents on the hot stony ground.

EPILOGUE

Donald was a chieftain. It was not a position to which he’d aspired. Nor was it a position he desired. But it had been thrust upon him by his own irrational actions. By reyaqc tradition, the one who slew the chieftain assumed the role. Bytneht Noavor had slain Tresset, and thus earned the position over the two packs. Donald had likewise slain Noavor and so the burden of leadership now rested with him. He knew this was what Tresset had wanted, knew that in the end, Tresset realized that should Noavor attain dominance, that he would perpetuate only savagery, that the reyaqc would never ascend to their true potential.

Or had Donald simply inserted his own fears into the emotion of the moment? He supposed he would never know. But truly, his greater concern was the pack, these molts, these reyaqc. They looked to him for guidance, direction. What was he to tell them? He abhorred their lifestyle. Was it possible to educate them—all of them—to such an extent as they could enter society? What of the molts? What if he could not convince them to give up their beastly essence? What if they preferred to live a wild, unhindered existence? Or, what if, like Treleq, the Las Vegas rogue, they sought to divorce themselves of animal essence, and then went insane for their efforts? Not every molt handled this transition without complication. He had nothing to offer these reyaqc, for he understood so little of their needs and motivations.

And credibility.

Donald had succumbed to rage, had murdered Noavor in a savage haze of blood. How could he then stand before the reyaqc and proclaim civilized behavior and education as their true salvation? Perhaps he was the fool Noavor had thought him to be. He’d spent a lifetime studying the reyaqc, but though he’d uncovered volumes worth of facts, could it be that he’d never touched the soul of his own race?

Donald closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and then stared at the small patch of reddish orange fur on the back of his left hand. Did he even know his own soul? He had sworn, a century ago, that he would never behave as a beast again, that he would be an example of a refined, well-educated, civilized reyaqc. But when he had seen Tresset lying dead in the dirt, when he’d seen Noavor’s haughty grin and heard his smarmy gloats, all that Donald had sought to be, all he had claimed of himself, had been swept aside in a rush of animalistic rage. He was once again the savage molt who had loped about the edges of civilization, naked and wild.

Who was he really? Which was the true Dolnaraq?

Footsteps approached from behind. Donald turned to see Julia. She wore blue jeans and a green pullover blouse. A wide-brimmed straw hat shaded her face and neck from the brutal Nevada sun. She cradled the bundled infant in her arms, three weeks old now and already alert. She’d allowed the child to infuse from her on two occasions. The child was healthy and Julia had shown little signs of distress after each drawing of essence. An infant’s need was much less than that of an adult.

“The rebuilding goes well,” she said as she stepped to along side him.

Donald nodded. “Tresset was a capable leader, but he focused too strongly on ambitious strategies for battle—both against human and reyaqc. Most of the burned structures should have been leveled and rebuilt soon after I purchased this old mine.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. You own the mine.”

“I and two other financially secure reyaqc.”

“But, you don’t support the existence of packs. You think the idea outdated, that it hinders the intellectual and emotional growth of the reyaqc.”

Donald attempted a grin, though he knew this gesture irritated the woman. “Sometimes in the interest of a greater good, we are party to things we find adverse to our sympathies.” He paused. “Have you heard news from Charles?”

Julia kissed her child on the forehead and then responded. “Yes. Your connections at the state level were a great help. He had the rogue declared mentally unstable and unfit to stand trial. He’ll be transferred to a mental facility within forty-eight hours.”

“Very good. We’ll have better access to him this way. Perhaps we can even affect an escape before his true nature is realized.”

“Charles was reluctant to become involved.” Julia smiled as the baby burped and then cooed.

“He had already involved himself prior to my making his acquaintance. But by maintaining his pretext as the rogue’s attorney, he was able to avoid inevitable disciplinary action, possibly even disbarment.”

“He became involved in order to rescue me—from you.” She added the last with a broad grin.

“And, I suppose his continued involvement is meant to win your favor.”

Julia’s grin faded. She dropped her gaze, now stroking the child’s head.

“I won’t pry,” said Donald.

Julia expelled breath in a long sigh. “Maybe I’d feel better if someone did pry. It seems everyone’s afraid to touch the subject—except Charles, of course.”

“And?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got a child now. A child that has very specific and specialized needs. One of the reasons Charles left was because he was tired of waiting for me to decide to have children. But this isn’t the type of child he wanted. He’s still very cautious about the reyaqc.”

“Of course. And how do you now feel about the reyaqc?”

Julia chuckled. “I’m the adoptive mother of one. What choice do I have?”

“You could give the child to a reyaqc female. She would be raised with care.”

Julia shook her head. “No. Not an option.”

“Your promise to the birth mother?”

“Yes… No. More than that.” She gazed at the child with a tenderness that went beyond words.

“You love the child,” offered Donald. “And in doing so, you’ve decided to remain here among the reyaqc, regardless of the consequences to your personal and professional life.”

Julia nodded. “I suppose I’ll figure it all out as I go along.” She readjusted the child, resting the infant’s head on her left shoulder. “It will either work out with Charles or it won’t. I guess he’ll always be a part of my life, but I’m in the process of change. Maybe the change will draw us back together, maybe not.” She turned her full attention to Donald and he knew she had something on her mind. “I’m not the only one facing change,” she said.

“No. I suppose not.”

“You took a sabbatical from the university, but you’re not comfortable here, not as a chieftain.”

Donald gazed out upon the devastated community below. “Like you, I’ve had responsibility thrust upon me. And like you, I refuse to run from it.”

“But?”

Donald hesitated before speaking. Did he really wish to share his inner struggles with this young woman? Was he comfortable with that level of honesty? Yes, he decided. He supposed it best that he did. His wife was still in Boston and would not be joining him to live within the pack. He was chieftain here. Chieftains didn’t share their problems with their followers. It caused concern among the ranks, lack of confidence. Julia wouldn’t harbor such notions. Turning to face her directly, he said, “Through my writings, through my research, I’ve tried to offer the reyaqc something better, something more in keeping with the true greatness that I know lies within. There are many reyaqc who live as I have among human society. But many more are savage. They have no desire to learn, to grow. With our numbers so few, and with human population growing and technologies advancing, it’s only a matter of time before we are discovered by society as a whole. I feel the burden of our survival as a species.”

Julia paused for several seconds before responding. “Donald, a leader can’t save his people. Though, God knows if you listen to campaign speeches, they all seem to think they can. But in reality, the best they can do is to offer structure and direction. In the end, each of us, either reyaqc or human, is responsible for our own destiny.”

Donald smiled, a true smile, not one fabricated to mimic that of a human. “You’re trying to free me of my burden.”

“It’s not your burden, Donald. It never was.”

ABOUT AUTHOR THOM REESE

Thom Reese is the author of the novels,
The Empty, The Demon Baqash, Dead Man’s Fire,
and
Chasing Kelvin,
along with the short story collection,
13 Bodies: Seven Tales of Murder & Madness.
Thom was the sole writer and co-producer of the weekly audio drama radio program,
21st Century Audio Theatre.
Fourteen of these dramas have since been published in four collections. A native of the Chicago area, Thom currently makes his home in Las Vegas.