I sidle up to the corner of the alley, peering around to study the Bionex as I pull my glove back on. I hear the distinct thump of a car door slamming shut, but I gauge the sound to be somewhere past the bank, perhaps a block away. This is followed by the squeal of rubber on asphalt and the revving of an engine that quickly begins to fade. I cross the street at a sprint and hug the wall to the left of the Bionex’s glass front. A pair of bloody footprints and four thin tracks, make their way out the front door and down the sidewalk toward the other corner of the building, fading quickly. I peek inside, spotting a messy, red blotch in the center of the lobby floor. A ragged piece of bloody plastic lies in the center of it. Someone was in a hurry, just as I should be.

I dash to the door, hopping over the guard’s corpse, and push my way into the building. The immediate interior is a sleek and modern open lobby and waiting area, lit with typical fluorescent ceiling lights, and accented with that medical shade of slate green, like surgeon’s scrubs. Beyond the semi-circular front desk, the unlit left side of the building is filled with a series of frosted glass cubicles, housing identical phlebotomy stations. The right side is a large section, enclosed in painted cinder block walls that sports a single reinforced metal door, mounted with a card reader. The door is wide open, propped against the wall by an empty cart. A low, rapid thumping emanates from the other side of the front desk. A heartbeat.

“Hello?” I call out. Someone whimpers in response and I can hear the rattle of something metal or plastic. I crouch, edging around the side of the desk and peek in to see a thin, middle-aged woman fumbling with a stun gun, identical to the dead guard’s. The flachetes on the currently loaded cartridge have already been ejected, dangling from a wooden panel on the interior of the desk. She manages to pop the spent cartridge loose and is reaching for the handle-mounted reload when I dash over to her and slap the pistol from her trembling fingers. “It’s okay, I’m not—” The woman looks to me for only a moment before her eyes roll back and she slumps to the floor. “—gonna...hurt you. That’ll do, I guess.” I kick the weapon further away as the sirens grow louder.

I jog over to the open storage room door and stick my head into the entryway. Jackpot. The far wall is made of a series of shelved industrial refrigeration units. Two of them stand open, one entirely barren, and another more than halfway emptied. Greedy bastard. I remove and unzip my backpack as I hustle to the units. I skim through the labels on the shelves, looking for the common, and only mildly valuable, A-positive donations. My intention to avoid looting the O-negative donations draws my attention to the fact that it seems to be the only blood type whose shelves have been emptied. O-negative is valuable for its ability to be universally donated and fairly uncommon, while A-positive is common and not nearly as versatile. So my predecessor is greedy and inconsiderate.

The sirens grow alarmingly loud as I begin to fill the backpack. Inside, is a soft, thermally insulated lunchbox surrounded by thawing, but still-frozen ice packs. One, two, four, seven bags and the cuboid pack is at capacity. I zip it and my backpack closed, then don the straps as I step back to the door. I peek around the doorway and snap my head back inside.

“Shit!” Red and blue flashes illuminate the world outside. After a few seconds, I hear the screech of tires on asphalt. “Son of a bitch.”

What are my options? Face the police outside and get shot. Doesn’t make for a very subtle escape and I’m still not that curious about how durable I am. Engage them as they enter? I’m sure they’re more tactically inclined than I am, so I’d probably still get shot. Make a run for the rear exit? I didn’t see the door, but I can guess at its location. The sound of at least three pairs of booted heels tromping through the lobby spur me to a decision. I duck and make a dash at the frosted cubicles.

Okay, Gyre, you got this. Just run and don’t look back, no matter what. You’ve seen the movies, just run and don’t be an idiot.

“Freeze!” Someone yells. I flinch, but continue moving. Now would be a great time for that super speed to kick in, I think at my legs, but nothing extraordinary happens. I’m about to round the corner into an aisle between cubicles when another command reverberates through the building. “I said freeze, mother fucker!” The same officer shouts with more force. A warning shot burrows into the foam ceiling tiles and white crumbs rain down in front of me. I hesitate for only a second before rounding the corner anyway. Glass explodes on my right as a bullet ricochets through several stations. The deafening sounds, amplified through my heightened senses, cause me to lose focus on my feet and trip, landing on my side. The sound of boots approaching from behind brings me back around and I scramble upright, eyes on the exit at the end of the aisle.

“Perp’s headed out the back.” says a new voice, followed by the crackle of a radio.

“Not gonna ask again! Freeze or I shoot!”

Damn. I clench my jaw as thoughts race through my head. One way or another, I know I can get away. The only question is: will I have to hurt anyone? Perhaps not. I take a deep breath.

“Alright, amigo, let’s see those hands.” the first officer calls out, her tone level, but barbed. I raise my hands above my head and turn around. Both officers are somewhat portly women, though the arms that hold guns out before them are impressive, to say the least. I feel the red mist beginning to fill my lungs

“Holy shit, is that blood on his mouth?” the other officer says.

I’ll have to remember to pack napkins next time.

The first officer had begun a cautious approach, but hesitates for a second before continuing more slowly.

“Take off that mask and don’t do anything stupid.” she says stopping about ten feet in front of me. I shake my head slowly and keep my hands high.

Hurry up and come closer before this shit in my chest turns into face-remover!

“You can take it off or we can take it off when you’re face-down on the floor. Your choice.”

I shake my head again and watch the first officer’s face harden. She steps a couple feet nearer and jabs her pistol in my direction.

“Now, asshole!”

Once more, I shake my head, but add two middle fingers, hoping to entice her to approach.

“Alright, have it your way. Cover him, Blues.” She finally steps within range and I begin exhaling the thinnest jet I can manage to squeeze between my lips. The vapors are mercifully red and dissipate in that fast-forwarded motion, as before. I seem to be the only one able to see it, in the dim ambience. The first officer, whose name tag reads ‘Wall’, hitches a breath and coughs, but doesn’t react. Perhaps it doesn’t have a smell. I can hear her heart racing as she approaches, gun still trained on my chest. Officer Wall steps within a few feet and snaps forward to take one of my arms, pulling it around my back as she rotates there. I let her remove my backpack and secure my other arm. At the sound of a pair of metal cuffs being drawn from her belt, I give my command.

Place the key for your cuffs into my hand and forget that you did.

I have no idea if the latter half of that command will work, but if it keeps her from developing a drinking problem, it’s worth a shot. I feel a small piece of metal press into my palm and close my fist around it after giving it a tactile inspection.

Do not remove my mask, but proceed as normal.

Officer Wall frisks me and removes my phone, the only other item on my possession. Damn, I forgot about that. At least I thought to remove the distinctive case first. I spy her sliding it into a vest pocket before continuing the pat-down.

“Aren’t you gonna take off the mask?” Blues says. Wall hums thoughtfully, as if straining to come up with an answer.

“Let’s let the mystery ride for a bit, you know? Here, check his bag.” At this, Wall shoves me forward.

“Yeah, no.” Blues deadpans. “If he gets away without a positive ID, it’s my ass, too. I’ll take it off, if you won’t.” She says, power walking at me, gun pointed my way.

Goody two-shoes. Draw your gun, point it at the front of the building and pretend you saw someone else dressed like me, then order your partner to pursue them.

I hear Wall grunt behind me and turn to see her clutching at her head. Was that too complex?

“The Tar’s the matter with you?” Blues says, halting her approach. “What did you do, you little freak?” She says, turning to me. When I don’t answer, she jabs the barrel of her gun at me and shouts. “What did you do?” I shrug and step away from Wall.

Wall lets loose a scream of anguish and falls to her knees, gun clattering to the floor beside her. Blues finally lowers her gun and moves to her partner.

“What’s going on? Talk to me, if you can. Talk to me, dammit!” She presses the sides of her radio and issues a very familiar command. “This is Officer Blues! Ten-thirty-three, I repeat, Ten-thirty-three on the crime scene, send assistance for Officer Wall, one suspect in custody—over!” I continue to watch as Wall screams again. Her voice is now weaker and ragged, almost gurgling. I being fumbling to unlock the cuffs at my back, taking a surreptitious step closer to my backpack. “Stay right the fuck there, asshole!” Blues says, snapping around from checking on her partner and thrusting her pistol at me again. Her face is steady, but the rhythm of her heartbeat betrays her state of mind. I freeze in place, close enough to my cargo, anyway. I fit the key in the cuffs, turning it until I feel a slight tension. Wall makes a haunting sound somewhere between a moan and a shriek, throws her head back and collapses onto her back. Blues, now outwardly stricken with panic and rage, throws her arms around her partner to keep her from injuring her head as she falls. In the midst of this, I unlock the right-hand cuff and clip it over my left wrist, sliding the key into a back pocket as Wall begins convulsing. Blues doesn’t seem to notice the sounds of the cuffs over her partner’s degenerating health.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. What was I thinking, using something I barely understand against these people? I know it’s dangerous and I did it anyway. I should have just run. If I got shot, at least it would have been justified or possibly ended this Tartarus my life has become.

The sound of more sirens grows in the distance. I can’t dwell right now. I need to leave and this whole fisco can’t be a complete bust. Without the blood I came for, my next victim could be someone I actually care about, instead of a nameless rapist or a stranger.

Even with her arms around her partner, Blues’ gun is still pointed in my general direction and she glances back me, every few seconds. With backup on the way and the dawning realization that she can’t do anything to help Wall, she’ll focus on me soon, closing every window of opportunity I’ll have to make a move. Just as her eyes slide off me, I pounce, diving at her gun hand. The jangle of the cuffs ruins most of the element of surprise as Blues’ head snaps back in time to see me. She tries to pull away, but I catch her hand, instead of her wrist. I feel something give inside and realize I used too much strength. She cries out in shock and pain, letting the gun go. I tumble to the floor, but manage to take up the gun and hurl it over the cubicles. It hits something and discharges a round, shattering more glass. We both flinch and meet each other’s gaze for a strange moment as we both seem to struggle to decide on our next actions. We both begin rising to our feet at the same time, but she gets up first, charging me. Only halfway to my feet, I dive forward, to her left, hoping to throw her off. It works, barely, as her arm slides off the top of my head, displacing the mask and partially blinding me as I lay on my stomach. I can see the backpack in my periphery and instinctively reach out to grab it with my left hand. Just as my fingers curl through the nylon handle on the top of the bag, a foot comes down on my forearm. Pain explodes there and, for a moment, I’m sure it’s broken. Before I can stop it, I register my right fist tracing a savage arc through the air, moving at that impossible speed. Pain blossoms in my palm as my claws slide into flesh on impact with the officer’s knee. I hear the muffled shattering of bone as her leg bends, perpendicular to what is natural.

Without a single utterance, she falls, her heavy body landing over my lower back and rear. I hear her stunned, shuddering breaths as I extract myself from below her. I adjust my mask and take a moment to study the scene. Wall is still in the violent throes of a seizure whilst Blues’ eyes have begun trailing down her body to the gruesome injury I’ve inflicted.

“Fu-u-u-uck,” I murmur.

I shouldn’t leave Wall like this. My supernatural strength makes it easy to drag her over to a cubicle and lean her against a metal cabinet, on her side. I retrieve my phone from her vest pocket and slide another cabinet over, holding her firmly in place on her side. At least she won’t choke on her own tongue this way. Blues still seems to be processing what happened, taking whimpering, shaky breaths as she stares down her leg.

I suddenly realize how loud the sirens have become, shocking me back to a state of readiness. I spin and dash toward the front doors, snatching up the backpack as I pass. I see the red and blue flashes of even more squad cars as the cavalry arrives.

Well, my choices are clear now: run past them and their inevitable hail of gunfire or try the emergency exit, where there’s likely already someone waiting for me. Front doors it is. I hug the backpack before me and shoulder through the entrance. Two squad cars screech to a halt several meters to either side of me, having approached from opposite ends of the street. One steps out and points a gun my way, using his door as a barrier. The driver of the other car blasts commands at me from his bullhorn. I rotate the backpack to my left, opposite the gunman, and begin a sprint, aiming for the nearest alley that doesn’t contain one and a half corpses. Bullets ricochet off the asphalt as I run, kicking up tiny sprays of black pebbles, and every pop crashes through my head as if I were standing beside the shooter. Ears ringing from the constant abuse, I focus on simply getting the Tar’ out of there. Just as I near the mouth of the alley, another set of pops sounds off from somewhere else, as if the other officer exited his car and joined the first shooter. I hold the bag in front again and push harder, begging my legs to carry me faster, farther as I weave side to side. Brief sparks and more gravel spray up in front of me and I close my eyes against it, peeking only to be sure I’m not going to trip over something or crash into a wall. A bullet whines past my ear and I feel a surge of electricity in my limbs. At once, every sound seems to deepen and elongate, taking on a subtle echoing quality. The shots come slower and I think I can hear the hammer striking brass before the fizzle and bang of a discharged round.

Is the voice back? I haven’t been stricken with that horrible sense of hopelessness and spacetime feels generally normal. I kick off from the ground with my next step and find myself gliding through the air, half a foot above the ground. The leg I bring forward feels like it has far more momentum than I expect and snaps ahead of me before I realize I’ve lost control of it. Somehow, I manage to land on my heel and push forward with another step before coming down might have resulted in my knee bending in as unnatural a direction as Officer Blues’. This must be that supernatural acceleration I so desperately asked for before. Of course, I never stopped to think about what it’s like to deal with forces of inertia while moving this fast. Good thing it didn’t activate before, I might have pancaked myself on the steel fire escape door instead of just pushing it open.

White hot anguish blooms on my right shoulder and I feel the impact of a bullet attempting to spin me in place. I stumble forward, tipping over and tumbling across the ground like a rock skipping water. I might have been stunned by the pain, if my first minutes spent as a vampire hadn’t been a bracing experience of agony on a wholly different level. This is a minor series of bumps in comparison. I hug the bag and try not to squeeze too tightly as I suffer the impacts. When I finally roll to a painful stop, the world has resumed its normal pace and sounds. I land with my head turned to the alley, watching the two cops make a cautious advance down the long, dark strip of concrete. I try to rise, thankful the minor injuries from my last spill have already healed. My limbs respond well, but the sting of a dozen road burns is excruciating. Gods, isn’t adrenaline supposed to suppress some of this pain? I turn my head away from the cops as I fully regain my feet, certain my eyes have begun to glow again. With effort, I force my legs back into action just as more red and blue lights appear at the end of the block. One of the officers takes a last, wide shot at me before I put a corner of another building between us.

As much as I need the speed, I clearly can’t control my body well enough to risk it again. I’ll just have to outmaneuver the cops. Not likely. Perhaps I can go somewhere they can’t. Where to, though? I pass another alley and regret not taking it when I hear the squeal of the pursuing squad car as it rounds the corner. A man across the street watches the chase with a dumbfounded expression. He stumbles about, as if drunk. Ahead, the street lights seem to be blooming and blurring. Fog. That wasn’t in the forecast. I sprint toward it, using only the enhanced strength of my body to lengthen each stride. The police bullhorn crackles into life behind me.

“HALT, AND PLACE YOUR HANDS OVER YOUR HEAD!”

“Hard pass, officer.” I grumble. As I near, the fog seems to get even thicker and I can see it swirling as it billows from somewhere out of view. Something about the way it moves seems as natural as corn syrup. Whatever it is, it’s the only hope I have to lose these guys. As I cross an intersection, the police open fire from within their vehicle with an automatic weapon. Whatever they’re shooting doesn’t have the same pinging sound as before and no craters form in the walls and sidewalk around me. I have to commend their consideration for the public, at least. Before entering the fog, a couple rounds make their way into my back, but I hardly feel it. As soon as I’m enveloped in the thickest tendrils of fog, I sense something wrong. I can still hear the sirens, but the sound seems to be echoing from all around, with only a vague focus in one broad direction. I travel further in and almost trip over my own feet as I skid to a halt. I don’t know when it happened, but the fog has gotten so thick, I can hardly see more than five feet in any direction. Even the light from the overhead lamp posts is mostly smothered in a thick blanket of swirling mists.

The distant screech of rubber and a metallic crunch drifts to me from somewhere. A moment after, I catch a faint shout of either shock or pain, I can’t tell which. I jog down the sidewalk, wary of the uncanny silence that seems to have descended. Reaching a corner, I find I can’t even see the street signs above the traffic signals clearly enough to read them. My attention is grabbed by the sound of shuffling feet somewhere nearby. I spin, glaring all around me as I try to locate to source. In time, it nears and I’m finally able to see what’s moving toward me. A dirty, elderly-looking man, moving much like the drunkard from before, shambles toward the corner on which I stand. His eyes are opened wide and glazed, rolling in his head without settling on any one thing and his unstable gait causes his head to loll about on his slumped shoulders. My perception of his corpse-like features becomes uncomfortably accurate when I notice the bruised-looking flesh covering one side of his head and neck, as if blood has pooled there. Only now do I think to listen for his heartbeat, taken aback when the only sounds emanating from him are the creak of old bones and the slosh of some loose, internal fluid.

I back away, raising my open hands before me in an unintentional imitation of the eastern warrior monk , but he doesn’t react. He only continues to shuffle along the sidewalk, eventually moving past me as I circle around him. Curious, I begin to follow, but the echo of yet more sirens snaps me from the impulse. In the opposite direction, distant lights brighten the fog without truly piercing it. Though they’re only ordinary, white headlights.

Street after street, I speed through the fog, stopping to take cover within an alcove of baroque masonry when my path crosses a flashing squad car. It lingers at the intersection and I can see the beams of intense flashlights sweeping the fog. I keep my head down, resisting the urge to peek around the corner. It’s the distorted sound of wheels grinding over asphalt as it pulls away, that first alerts me to the symptoms of the voice. The sky, walls, and streets begin unfolding in imperceptible directions as the first discordant notes of some unfathomable, cyclopean sound ring through me. My knees strike concrete and my hands come into view somewhere over me, though how I’m able to gauge up and down, is a mystery. Just as my wrists come together, the voice blares true.

REVENANT LIVES...HUNT OR DIE

The message seems to ring my entire body like a bell, and as the phantasmal reverberations fade, I sense something of their nature. I don’t think they’re sounds, nor even words implanted into my head, but the concept of a will’s desire, filtered down from some higher, abstract method of communication. What in all gods’ names is speaking to me and that horny werewolf…?

I slowly realize I have control of my body again, lowering myself back onto my elbows as I recover. There’s something exhausting about hearing that voice. I’ve never been a spiritual person, but the fatigue I feel after hearing it can only be attributed to a depression on something of that metaphysical level.

“Go fuck yourself, Hades wannabe.” I mutter as I dust myself off. “Not my problem, asshole.”

I scan the fog for more flashes of red or blue before leaving my hiding spot. Seeing none, I creep to my feet and begin moving again. By degrees, the fog thins until I find I can read the street signs. I come across a familiar road name and follow the building numbers in the direction of the planned route I had taken to get to the Bionex. Soon, I rejoin the path I spent an hour memorizing. Thankfully, the thick fog still blankets the city proper and I use it to avoid the eyes of late night drivers and ever-increasing patrols. This late at night, it’s not very difficult, even for the inexperienced. I creep past more than a few scenes of light poles, mailboxes, or hydrants, devastated by a vehicular impacts, car owners standing sullenly beside the wreckage.

The longer I stalk through the hoary night, the more I begin to sense that uncanny pressure of eyes on my back. I take corners with bursts of speed and looping detours at every opportunity, but the feeling never subsides. Whatever follows me won’t be shaken and I don’t think it’s a rainbow-headed athlete this time. I’ll have to confront them. I make a quick mental note of my location on the route, then step off of it, travelling until I find a suitable alley and sweep into it. Upon reaching the end, I’m disappointed to find a pile of plastic sheets and cardboard occupied by an aging homeless woman. She rolls over as I approach, apparently a light sleeper. In the dark, I hope she can’t see the stains on my clothing and the blood smeared across my mouth that I really should clean off soon. Where’s Rarity and her alcohol wipes?

“Hey, how are you ma’am?” I say, as gently as I can.

“Ehng...fugg offv, kid. Thiz ‘z my spot.”

“It’s okay, I’m not here to stay or take anything, I just wanted to let you know that it’s gonna get dangerous around here in a minute. You might want to take a walk. Come back in a little while.” I’d reassure her that it’ll be safe when I’m done, but that didn’t turn out well for Vale.

“Guh ‘way!” She huffs, and throws a brown glass bottle a foot wide of my head. I wish I could say it had been empty, but a spray of some pale, pungent fluid is slung from the mouth of it, landing across my face and falling directly into an eye. As I turn away and resist the urge to ball my hands into fists, I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe a hard sigh, out of habit. I’m going to choose to believe that was only stale beer.

“Have it your way.” I growl and turn back to the mouth of the alley, casting a glance at the roofs. Nothing stirs besides the swirling tendrils of water vapor that curl and sway like hypnotic hand tricks. I lean on my other senses, focusing on listening. The werewolf’s heartbeat had been intense, but steady, even after killing Vale. It was very distinct from everyone else’s. The furtive, lethargic crawling of this sleeping section of the city makes its way into my head, infused with the bustle and wail of heightened police activity. I almost open my mouth to call out to the wolf, but close it again, realizing I only heard the distant thump of club music. The homeless woman begins snoring and murmuring in her sleep, heartbeat perfectly steady. I rub away the crusted blood from my mouth and wait for the scent of it to dissipate.

When it’s mostly gone, I sample the air, immediately repulsed. It isn’t the smell of grease, dirt, and fresh rot that figuratively burns my nostrils, but the intensified bouquet of old, rancid death; the very same noxious death that lingered in the background of the murder scene at my high school.

Boogeyman - Dead Posey

Let's get weird now, ladies and gentlemen.