“I know you’re there, and I know what you’ve done.” I call out. “What do you want with me?” I project as best I can, but my voice falls flat in the fog, as if I spoke into a sound-dampened chamber.

“I ain’t done, shee-it...” the homeless woman slurs behind me, “...lil’ fuggin’...ooouuhh...”

I ignore her and continue scanning my surroundings. Garnering no response besides the drunken mumbling of the vagrant, I wait several long moments before my worn patience gives out. I open my mouth to speak, but a rolling, sandpaper moan of a voice breaks the silence first.

“You.” I spin round, sure I heard it behind directly me, but see nothing. “We are victims. Peeled apart from what we were. Puppeteer-puppets, enslaved to old, distorted reflections.” The speaker seems to choke on its words, periodically, as if it’s struggling to breathe. I turn back to the end of the alley, where I finally spot motion. From the corner of a roof’s edge, something darts into view. The dark object is soon followed by something larger. As more of the thing comes forth, I recognize the shape of a man, slithering over the lip of the roof. It drags itself further still, seeming to disregard gravity altogether as it crawls over the wall of the alley, perpendicular to the ground. As I notice the thing’s body terminate just above where its hips should have been, I feel that familiar tingling in my skull that seems to have replaced the sensation of curdling blood. “It did this to us. It perverts, trans-changes. Wants tools.”

“What are you talking about?” I say. The thing crawls nearer to the ground, just to the side of the vagrant’s sleeping pile.

“Foreign, unholy divine. Progenitor. Violator.” I watch as it finally touches down to the alley floor, its half-body rasping against the concrete with every fitful dragging motion toward the sleeping woman. It closes in on her and I step forward.

“Leave her alone!” I command, but the uncertainty and lack of confidence in my voice is plainly audible.

“Need her.” The thing replies, as if it spoke a statement of fact that should be as obvious as simple mathematics. From this distance, I can see its dark, withered flesh between gaps in the pale, lacy strips of cloth that enwrap its every surface.

“Back away. Now.” It doesn’t respond, only continuing to hover over her prone form. I take the first step of what I intend to be a sprint, but as I bring my second foot forward, it travels only a fraction of the distance needed. Similarly, my other limbs seem to be affected by a force that causes them to move as if I’m trapped in clay. Before I can utter a word of confusion the half-corpse speaks, but my attention is drawn to the hand it holds out in my direction, palm forward like a traffic cop.

“This death is set, engraved, unmoveable. Collapsed already. Watch, Gyre Strand.” At the sound of my name, I cease struggling against the unseen forces holding me back. I study the half-corpse further as it turns empty sockets toward me, their hollow depths deeper than a catacomb. Unable to bear its graveyard gaze for long, my eyes turn to the woman. For a moment, she continues to lie there, unaware of the horror beside her, chest rising and falling in content breaths. At once, her exhalation hitches as if she were resisting a cough and the hand at her side wraps around the edge of a stiff plastic sheet that slices into her fingers. I smell the blood before I see it leaking from the hand that relaxes as suddenly as it clenched. Now, she lies still, static as the cold, brick walls around us.

No words are spoken as I stare at the woman, refusing to believe she could be dead. The half-corpse only continues to regard me, uncannily still, with hand outstretched in my direction.

The silence swells between us and I’m unaware of time, for a period. When I return to conscious thought, I realize I had been waiting for something. Not for the half-corpse to speak or move or for the woman to suddenly take another breath, but, with a grim shock, I come to understand I was waiting to feel something. Waiting for the stir of sympathy or anger or anything other than the rattle of self-preservative urges. Waiting for the correct, human response to what I’ve just seen.

There has been so much death tonight, some by my hand, and all of it at my feet. I used to think that watching my father die would prepare me for the brutality and inevitability of death, but all I feel is confused. Should I be happy for the homeless woman, that she was able to exit stage left on this grand, cruel performance, whose absinthian climax looms on the near horizon? Should I lament her passing and the deprivation of all those brilliant, inspiring moments she could have had, in spite of the harsh hand of capitalism? If I cared, would it matter?

“Why?” I say, my voice hollow and distant, even to myself. “What did she do to deserve this?”

“I can give you the cause, but not the purpose. The word, I think, was...aneurysm.” It places a hand across the body’s forehead. After a moment, it convulses. I watch, in morbid fascination, as it lurches to a sit, glassy, unfocused eyes wide open. “There’s so much we need to discuss.”

“What in Tartarus do you want?”

“Freedom.” It rasps. “For my family. Steal back their death. Deprive the Progenitor of its violations against us. For that, I need you, Gyre Strand.”

I flinch this time as my name pours from its mouth like desert sand. It comes out with a reverence that would raise goosebumps on my skin, were I still human.

“What do I have to do with anything going on? I’m a victim as much as that woman or—”

“The wolf.”

“No.” I spit, “The werewolf is a monster. I was going to mention her victims.” The half-corpse’s mouth hangs open for a moment before it speaks again.

“No!” it shouts back, bringing a bony fist down with a pitiful thump. Its exclamation wasn’t an angry sound, but a desperate one. “Your lines are entangled for light years, for fathomless bifurcations. Man, and everything it could become, is cradled in the braid of your paired destinies.”

“Are you saying you can see the future?” I ask, doubtfully. It drops the hand it held up and crawls a few feet nearer.

“Can’t remember everything at once. Only glimpses that pass by the sliver. But I have seen so many. The pressure of chance foregoes comprehension.” The half-corpse’s head falls to the concrete and its hands form claws that clutch at the back of its skull. “There were—are so few for us.” Its head snaps back up, meeting my eyes again with its twin pits of shadow. “I know what you want. More than anything else. One way or another, you will have it. You always do. Won’t last—flickers and fades in time.” It crawls even closer, only a yard away. I step back, reflexively. “I can shelter it, I can make it last forever, burn brighter. Help me, and you will have everything back. And more. And my family can be together.”

“H-help you...how?” I ask, and regret it immediately. The grin that splits the dry, dark face beneath the strangely ornate wrappings literally splits its face. Ashen flakes fall and too many blackened teeth are revealed in places I shouldn’t be able to see them.

“Vacancies. Need more. Too few, too scarce—slow to generate. Make me more. It will be okay. In the end, it will all be okay again.” its voice cracks and chokes, more than before.

“Corpses? You want me to bring you dead bodies?” I step back again. “What for?”

“Guardians. Inviolable soldiers. May not have enough in time, without help.”

“How many…?” I ask, morbid curiosity getting the better of me.

“Many. More than I can bear to name. More than is fair. Only what is necessary.” Here, it takes a shuddering breath and in the vortex hollows of the skull that seem as deep and voracious as a singularity, something almost human seems to reach out from within. A pleading, hopeful desperation, overgrown with the mold of madness. “Canterlot.”

The half-corpse says nothing else, staring up at me from the filthy alley floor. Presently, the absence of words becomes pregnant with more than just the welling of mortal consternation. A distinct, bassy rhythm cuts through the muffling fog.

“You want me to help you kill an entire city.”

“Freedom begs a price, Gyre Strand. You understand this already, I know.”

“If you know so much about me, what makes you think I’d ever agree to something like this?”

“Your strength convinces me. You deny it, struggle against yourself, as you have been taught. But you see ends before means. Difficult decisions crumble in your hands. Where you walk, hardships cower like rats. Others would fall under pressure, guilt, bloodlust.”

“You’re saying I’m a psychopath.” I growl.

“What we are can’t be summed in a word, only actions. Act, Gyre Strand, and be the savior of everything you’ve ever loved or wanted. Be a hero, just like your father.”

I stare down at the withered, pleading thing and wonder who it could have been, before all of this started. Who misses him? Do they even know what he’s become?

“Who are you?” I say, quickly scanning the rooftops. “What do you know about my dad?”

“I am. That’s all that matters. Come with me and we can make all of this blood and death worth the pain.”

“I think you already know my answer.” A dark outline forms in the fog where the half-corpse first appeared, growing sharper.

“I won’t force you, Gyre Strand. But you will stand in my way at your own risk.”

“I’ll roll those dice.” I say, lunging forward. As expected, the half-corpse brings its left hand forward, halting me in mid air. I look back to the roof, but the shadow is gone, leaving behind tendrils of fog that swirl violently upward. In a split second, the shape of the werewolf comes hurtling from the darkness, just above the half-corpse. She descends with claws outstretched and a silent, vicious snarl. Just before she lands, the half-corpse’s right hand snaps upward, and the werewolf halts in the air. I look on in wonder as the the half-corpse hovers slightly, without arms to support it on the ground. I feel some of the invisible force weaken around me and take a painfully slow, difficult step forward as it looks to the growling werewolf.

“No...no! Not yet! Not you!” It rasps. I take another step forward, but the invisible force intensifies, for moment, before the half-corpse makes a violent gesture at the mouth of the alley with both hands. The world spins and I find myself tumbling backward through the air at speed. Something huge and heavy slams into me, pressing the front of my body to the concrete and causing more flares of pain as I experience a second serving of road burns for the evening. Together, we bounce and another impact is absorbed by the furry body I’m pressed against. The deafening sound of crunching glass and metal tear through the night and a male voice yelps in terror. We hit the asphalt in a heap, but the werewolf is on her feet in a flash, charging back into the alley. I raise my head and look around, noticing, with a pang of annoyance, that we were thrown into the driver door of a squad car. I leap to my feet and peer in through the window frame. The door is bent almost completely inward and the officer slumped inside bleeds from a deep gash on the side of his head. Somehow, he’s still conscious, eyes rolling in their sockets.

The sound of rushing air from behind sends a blast of an impulse through me and I find myself skidding to a stop a few feet to the left of where I stood, just in time to watch the werewolf make a second impact into the side of the vehicle, a canine whimper of pain escaping her, this time. She slides to the ground, upside-down, the weight of her considerable body resting on her neck and shoulders. She tries to rise again, succeeding at a much slower pace than before.

“I don’t think you’re getting near that thing.” I say.

“No shit, Count Obvious.” She replies, with a terrifyingly pointed grin. She rolls onto her feet and glares into the alley. “Son of a bitch flew away with that zombie lady.”

I study the dazed officer in the car. He probably has a concussion, but doesn’t appear to be a concern.

“F-Freeze!”

Jinxed it.

I spin around to see a second officer pointing a shaking pistol at us. Donuts spill out of a small bag several feet behind him. He looks much younger than his stunned partner and only inches away from fainting. I hear a low rumbling beside me as the werewolf crawls forward.

“Don’t,” I snap, “...even think about it. I got this. Probably.”

“Oh? Let’s see what you got, bat-boy.” I roll my eyes and step forward, raising my palms to either side.

“Alright, officer, you caught me. Talking dogs are illegal, I know.” I reluctantly take a deep breath as the werewolf growls behind me.

“Hands up!” The cop shouts, meekly. I wave both hands a little as I close on him, feeling the red mist forming inside. “Uh, right...uh. Oh gods. Okay.” He shuffles his feet into what I assume is a by-the-book shooter’s stance. “Stay right there, sir.” Keeping his eyes trained on the werewolf, the officer reaches to his belt with one hand and unhooks a set of steel handcuffs, apparently missing the fact that I already have a pair locked onto my left arm. His heart hammers in his chest as he takes one step too close and I let loose the red mist. It washes over his face, and he begins an intense, ragged coughing fit that leaves him doubled over. I lower my hands and step away.

Forget everything strange or scary that you see, or have seen, tonight.

He tries to speak between coughs, but can’t finish a word. He doesn’t scream and fall, so I turn to walk back to the werewolf. A series of bangs ring my head like a bell and I turn back to the officer to see him swaying on his feet, gun pointed high into the air above him. He kneels, then slumps to a sit on the street, eyes glazing over and dropping his gun. Almost immediately, a siren blares into life further down the street, past the werewolf. We whip around to see red and blue lights blink on in the thinning fog.

“Well done, bat-boy.”

“Fuck you.”

“Gratuitous sex joke with thinly veiled, but sincere proposition.”

“Ugh. Let’s just get the Tar’ outta here.” I turn and sprint away from the approaching squad car. In a few bounds, the werewolf is yards ahead of me, ready to round the corner onto the next city block.

“Come on, I know where we can lose ‘em and lay low.” She leaps forward and disappears around the corner. As I do the same, I’m greeted by the sight of her skidding to a stop as another two sets of squad car lights rush toward us from the gloom. “Through here!” she points to the darkened glass front of a closed, upscale pawn shop, shielded with a metal grate.

“Through whe—” I watch as she lunges and hooks clawed hands into the metal bars. In a second, a large section of the thick metal grid is torn from the framework. A bolt must have sprung free and shattered the glass because it disintegrates into a million sparkling pebbles as she tosses the warped grate into the street. I’m having second, third, and fourth thoughts about following her.

A bang and the ricochet of a metal slug change my mind. The werewolf dives through the glassless window frame and rolls into a forward lunge. I clamber after her, feeling lame, even as two more bullets whizz through the air around me. We race to the rear of the narrow interior, leaving a trail of broken glass and displaced miscellania in our wake. Just as I’m about to ask how we’re supposed to get through the reinforced metal door on the back wall, she kong vaults over the checkout counter and, in the same motion, lands a devastating drop kick that breaks the door off two hinges and sends it swinging into the hall beyond. She hits the floor and rolls back upright, facing me.

“Ow. You’re getting the next one.”

“Fair enough, but I’m checking to see if it’s open, first.”

Tires screech, car doors slam, and a bullhorn screams orders at us. Together, we move through the corridor as if the building is on fire and push more reasonably through the back exit. My furry accomplice has to duck her head and turn sideways to fit through. We hop over some rails and find ourselves at the crook of an L-shaped alleyway. The werewolf tears off down the left-hand path, toward a parked box truck that partially blocks the entrance. More police lights flash past the mouth in the other direction, one coming to a halt. Sirens wail from everywhere at once, every single one of them either keeping pace or growing louder. I spring after the werewolf.

“Keep up, bat-boy!” she calls back. I push harder, finding a little more speed that results in ungainly, bounding steps. More police lights flood the end of the alley and two squad cars pull up. One blocks the remainder of the path that had been left open. “Almost there! Don’t be a wuss—we’re going through!”

“What? Are you crazy?”

“Shut up and run and you won’t get shot!”

I curse and focus only on planting one foot in front of the other, pushing off with as much force as I’m confident I can handle. The first of the officers steps out of the vehicle blocking our path and brings a shotgun to bear. I glimpse her wide-eyed, panicked expression as she registers the huge beast barrelling at her from the darkness. The werewolf makes a feint to her right, then darts left, scrabbling across the wall like a giant gecko for several yards and passing the parked car. I register the nature of her maneuver too late, already travelling through the air with my latest step and unable to brake.

I see the light and fire blossom from the muzzle of the shotgun, but the blast is unexpectedly dull and protracted. It takes me a moment to understand why, but by then, I find myself stumbling into the center of the street, illuminated by three pairs of headlights and quite unaware of how I got there. Something flashes past me from behind, whipping the air into a frenzy above my head. The werewolf? How did I get ahead of her? She lands on the other side of an iron security fence, facing me as she brakes, claws scraping lines into the concrete between two rows of public storage garages. The officers nearest her spin in place. One screams and backs up against his vehicle, while the other pokes the barrel of her gun through the black bars and fires off three rounds that go wide as the werewolf ducks and weaves with preternatural speed. I start moving, hoping to take advantage of the distraction.

A burning sensation flares in my right thigh before I take a second step. Reflexively gripping the place where a bullet found its new home, I stop and curse again. All around, the business ends of several firearms are pointed at me by officers that all look even more confused and terrified than I feel.

“Walk it off! Let’s go!” The werewolf shouts, dodging fire as she retreats into the darkness. I crouch and push off from the ground, using every scrap of will remaining in me to ignore the searing pain in my leg. I soar over the officers gazing past the fence, no doubt bringing everyone’s focus with me. I land on my side and try to roll into a stand, but the backpack spoils the maneuver. I feel like a fish out of water.

Officers gather at the fence, guns drawn. Two are already trying to climb over the black bars. I push myself upright as one officer steps forth, demanding surrender. I make a move to crawl backward, but he fires a warning shot into the concrete near my hand.

“I’m not gonna ask again.” His tone is almost level, but shock and trepidation texture the surface of his words. “Lay down with your hands behind your—oh, shit!” A chorus of similarly horrified cries erupt from the other officers just before the metallic crash of an industrial dumpster, trailing bags and bits of refuse, crashes into the fence, warping and embedding itself into the metalwork. Someone’s gun falls to the ground and both climbers drop, looking thoroughly discouraged.

“Last chance, bat-boy!” The werewolf’s call echoes from the end of the alley. I leap to my feet, shrugging off the bag and hugging it in front of me as I dash to the end of the lane. Halfway there, gunfire erupts and I catch another bullet somewhere near a kidney. I drop to one knee, the pain sending my mind into a fog. Another bullet buries itself in my shoulder and my senses start to fill with a grey static. I can feel myself losing control, each limb going limp in turn.

Someone used to say something to me that was almost always a source of vigor and defiance in the face of despair. I try to recall it, but my thoughts are dim, feeble sparks against the glare of white hot agony that grows brighter still. At once, the incandescence of the pain is cloaked in a shadow from which I instinctively recoil, but cannot escape. It washes over nearly everything and I suspect unconsciousness has claimed me before I recognize the tenebrous fire of rage. It swallows the pain, claims it, and stokes the engines of my limbs. I launch myself to a stand with a coarse growl. When my vision clears, I can see the werewolf is gone from her previous position. It’s the warmth at my back and the thump of that distinct heartbeat that draws my attention behind me again. I look back to see the werewolf crouched between me and the officers at the fence, a heat baking off her fur like that of an open oven. Sporadic gunfire sounds off and, with every bang, I see her eyes quiver. Her jaws are clenched with such intensity, I can hear their fangs scraping together and see blood oozing from her gums.

“Go. Idiot.” With a red-stained arm, she points to the building presiding over the storage lot, a squat, two-story brutalist slab. “Around back..”

I nod and begin moving that way. She keeps pace as we run, shielding me from further harm. Some of the officers try following us from the outside of the fence, but their path is far longer than ours. I hear the impact of at least three more bullets and a subvocal whine from the werewolf at each before we break line of sight. She moves with less grace than before, but all the same speed, as we come upon the main building. We round the corner onto a smooth, wide, asphalt slope that curves right, into an enclosed tunnel. The werewolf bounds over to a double-wide storm drain, hooks her claws into the waffle grate bars, and lifts the metal piece. She tosses it to the side with an obnoxious clatter and dives onto the slope. Confused, I follow her down. We pass through a checkpoint, at which a security booth stands empty, with the striped bar for blocking the passage of vehicles lowered. Further in, a swathe of parking spaces takes up room equivalent to at least three times my school’s gymnasium, almost as much as the library. The werewolf hobbles over to a row of elevator doors and begins prying one open. Before I can offer to help, the doors are spread open enough for her to pass through. She does so, leaping onto one of two wall-mounted ladders as yellow light blink on inside.

She looks back at me. “Come on.”

Outside, I can hear voices that reveal the purpose of moving the grate as officers argue over who’s going to pursue us through the sewers. Clever girl. But…

“Where does all this ‘Daring Do’ shit lead? They’re gonna search down here, eventually. Besides...” I gesture behind us before looking back to see that the trail of blood I had expected is absent. “...uhm—nevermind.”

“Come on.” The werewolf’s already monstrously distorted voice grows blades as she bites off the words and beckons me to join her. I feel the tingling at the base of my skull, but step over to the open door anyway, desperate fool that I am.

I peer over the edge and observe the elevator car sitting at the alarmingly distant bottom. Dramatic shadows are cast in geometric shapes against the walls and mechanisms, making it difficult to gauge distance.

“There’s a maintenance stage behind the car, down there. The floor of it is actually a hatch. I need your cute, scrawny ass to squeeze between the wall and the car so you can get back there. Big red button on the wall lowers the car into the floor. I’ll be able to fit back there and unlock the hatch for us once you press it.”

“And where does that—?”

She reaches into the doorframe before I can react and grabs me by the throat, lifting me into the air over the pit. I don’t even bother trying to break her grip. Instead, I let go of my pack of blood bags and reach for the other ladder, but swipe at empty air as she lets go. I plummet to the bottom, flailing just to touch something. I begin tumbling and fear surges through my mind, scattering my thoughts. I close my eyes and brace for the impact that never comes. It takes several long moments to realize the air rushing through my ears sounds far bassier than it did a moment ago. I open my eyes again and it feels strange on my eyelids. I’m still in the air, looking up at the werewolf’s oddly still form. No, not still. Moving, extremely slow.

Oh. Right.

As I come to understand what’s happening, I also become conscious of how uncomfortably warm and tight my head feels.

With heightened reflexes, I reach out for the central cable, struggling to account for the inertial forces, but manage to wrap a hand around it. At the last subjective second, I think to control my grip so as not to risk warping the cable with too much strength. Presently, the effect ends and I find myself swinging in wild circles, connected only by my right hand. In a moment, I stabilize by drawing myself to it and wrapping my other limbs about its length. I reach the bottom at a smooth glide and hop onto the nearest flat surface among the machinery crowning the car.

“Fucking bitch.” I mutter under my breath as I study the sharp angles and brutal structures I might have crashed into, had I not saved myself.

“Talk dirty to me later.” My sensitive ears catch the murmured response and I have to force myself not to bring a hand to my forehead. Gods damn everything.

My vision swims and darkens for a moment as I step over to the aforementioned gap. I stop and steady myself before climbing through. Indeed, the werewolf would not have been able to fit without breaking several bones in the process. I drop onto a textured metal panel that rings incessantly with every step. Mounted on the far wall of a space no larger than a generous walk-in closet, is a very large and obvious red button. The sign beside it describes its use and every single obnoxious safety precaution demanded of the operator. In defiance of at least three bullet points, I punch the button. Through the screech and racket of the machines, I hear the steady climbing of the werewolf as she descends the ladder. The car takes more than a minute to drop enough for my companion to join me and even longer for it to stop. We stand in the dim yellow light for nearly five minutes, holding clawed hands over our ears to take the edge off the acutely unpleasant din. When the machinery finally comes to a hissing rest, I lower my hands and give the werewolf an expectant stare.

“Well, I can’t get the thing open if you’re standing on it, doofus.” She says. I give her a middle finger and step onto the car beside her, retrieving my bag. She flicks the bottom of my chin with a claw that leaves a short-lived line of pain. “You’re such a badboy, bat-boy. So cute.”

I grit my teeth. “Just open it.”

She hooks her claws into a set of indentations in the near edge of the slab and lifts it up on hidden hinges. The slab is revealed to be almost an inch and a half thick and appears solid. How anyone is supposed to move it without obscene strength or some kind of machinery, I can’t fathom.

“There we are. Hop in.”

The opening is just wide enough for the werewolf, but at least three of me could jump through at once. Even with my preternatural vision I see nothing resembling an end to the rough, but regularly-shaped shaft. A stone track of some kind is carved into the living rock of the wall, but no signs of modern construction are apparent.

Staring into the stygian pit, I almost don’t detect my vision dimming again, but as I try to pull away, my backpack tumbles forward, into the dark. My useless arms dangle before me and the pit swallows my entire field of view. Before the world becomes a rushing black void, a few words make it to my ears.

“I said hop, not drop! Oh...shit…”

Walk in the Wild - RIVVRS

Ready. Steady. ACTION.

How deep does this rabbit hole go...?