Author’s Note: Not much in the way of notes, other than to say this, flashbacks are indicated as //such// while the radio chatter contained within is noted by this #symbol#; italics represent an emphasized word.
[Written between December 21st of 2002 to January 9th of 2003]
[Last edited July 5th of 2004]
Disclaimer: Matoh Sanami once again holds all rights to FAKE. However, all original characters contained within belong to me (not that it matters much in the end)
-------------------------------
"Mad Season"
Chapter Three: Trigger Happy
Another white cylinder joined its kin amongst the gray-colored ashtray on the kitchen table, the cigarettes nearly overflowing in the dish, as Dee crushed the cancer stick against the thick plate of glass, gaze focused on a nonexistent spot of air nearby. His mind was frenzied, full with words and images that he couldn’t yet begin to decipher, and hadn’t the heart to commence starting.
The pain of his shoulder had faded, lost in a wave of intense confusion and utter dismissal. Words slipped out his mouth unwittingly as his fingers plucked yet another cigarette from the nearly desolate carton, and drew it to his mouth, brow narrowed in concentration on the events that had taken place in the very room he was currently situated in not two hours ago.
“Damn you, Ryo…” The scarred man had been anything but courteous, compliant, kind, gentle with his words, laying echelon upon echelon of information as if it was the mere history of a person, and not the origin and chronicle of werewolves. Werewolf, berwerker, guerulfus, vargulf, ulfhedhnar, barenhauter, loup-garou, lobarraz, upo-manaro, brukolakas, whichever nonsense name that man had uttered to describe the creature that he had happened upon while in Central Park last evening.
//"Whatever takes place during the next few days, until you prove yourself to be indeed harmless, you are not leaving this apartment. Do not attempt to try and escape, as you will not like the consequences. I hold no qualms about breaking a few limbs when necessary; you’d do best to commit that to memory, Dee." //
The scarred man was fucking insane, delusional, anything word associated with crazy fit Ryo to a “t.” He could swallow the history Ryo had provided well enough, but to even imply that his wound might become infected, and his body mutate into one of those creatures was beyond impossible, what strained the element of believability was that the blonde woman, Diana, had nodded her little head each time Dee’s gaze swung upon her, agreeing with every word Ryo had said, committed.
//"There are two types of werkers in existence. The one you encountered tonight is what we call a corporeal, or corpo for short, the physical manifestation of a werewolf. Their nests are relatively easy to locate but to bring harm on them is extremely difficult. They may have the body of a beast, but their minds are human, intelligence isn’t unknown to them, and quite common. Locating a single werker is nearly impractical, as they blend into human society so completely, comparing the work to finding a needle is a haystack is too close for comfort.
The second type is of the psychological sort, you’ll find them among the ill minded, rapists, criminals, any category of persons with diseased intents and such. They have not the ability to literally mutate into a beast but their minds closely resemble said creature. Examples of these werkers are Zodiac, Richard Speck, Thierry Paulin, Michael Lupo, Henry Lee Lucas, Fritz Haarmann, Albert Fish, Elizabeth Bathory, Sgt. Francois Bertrand…If you’ve not recognized any of these people, do Jack the Ripper, William Brodie Deacon, or Marquis de Sade (1) ring a bell?
Adolf Hitler himself was a victim of manic lycanthropic states, though history has done its work, and these facts have been turned into widespread stories that many historians believe is now fiction. Human society has stumbled upon this type of monster eons ago, and as such, werkers have been punished, executed, subdued in countless ways." //
“And how will you subdue me?” Dee muttered to himself, as he reclined in the kitchen chair, lit cigarette tittering dangerously on his lips, arms outstretched as far as pained shoulder would allow, and head thrown back, resting on the hard wood of the frame of the chair comfortably. His features were set in a deep scowl, brow messed and disturbed, troubled eyes darkened with shadows, a near match to the darkness of the room he passively sat in.
//"The creature you happened upon earlier this evening was a werker, exhausted and wounded, but one nonetheless. I do not know why it did not strike out at you when it first approached you, but when we arrived on the scene, it struck you across the chest and skull, therefore marking you, infecting you with the virus we call lycanthropy. Whether the infection takes root in your system or not, I don’t know. Each individual’s body is different in many ways, sometimes defeating an alien contagion, or succumbing to the invasion, but do heed this warning, Dee, if you begin to display any signs of the change, I will take your life before you can become a threat to the Resistance and me. //
“I do not need to ask what lingers on your mind, for it is plainly etched in your expression. Let me guess, Randy dropped the bombshell and left you to find your answers about the werkers and your injury."
Dee turned his gaze to the darkened doorway, taking in the young man who leaned his hip onto the wooden frame, arms crossed against his chest and an expression akin to amusement playing about on his face. A bit shorter than Dee’s own height, with a medium built but he looked no less capable of taking care of himself in a moment of chaos. As Dee’s eyes raked across a mane of cropped dark hair, the stranger moved into the kitchen and took hold of one of kitchen chairs, turning the seat around and straddling the back frame of the piece of furniture. Light toned eyes blinked before a hand was held out across the table, and a smile spread across the man’s lips.
“Jeremy Adams, otherwise known as J.J., a rather active member of the Resistance. I am to understand you’re the man we found wounded in the park. How are you enjoying our hospitality so far, Mr. Laytner?”
Said man stared sullenly at Jeremy, pointedly ignoring the outstretched hand before him, off-handedly flicking a bit of gray ash off the end of his cigarette into the ashtray on the surface of the table before chuckling to himself, the bitter tone of angst clear in the throated sound. “How am I enjoying it? I’ve been put under fucking house arrest, and been told the world has, and is inhabited by werewolves, one of which could have infected me with lycanthropy, and threatened more times than I can count by the leader of your organization, Ryo. Not exactly the kind of treatment I’m fond of, J.J.”
A slight narrowing of eyes, perhaps in anger or irritation was the only response J.J. gave, the only signal he’d absorbed Dee’s words, and indeed understood them. Then the younger man sighed, long, and heavy before speaking, “Randy doesn’t mean to be intentionally cruel, Dee. But in this line of work, he has to be calculating, knowledgeable, unrelenting and practical.”
“Practical is just another word for heartless,” Dee commented shortly, crushing the butt of his cigarette against the ashtray, and pressing his back more firmly against the kitchen chair. His shoulder had begun to burn once again, drawing him from the peaceful recesses of his mind, and generating focus on his injury, which he’d been pointedly disregarding just fine until this moment.
“Until you know the whole of a man’s history, don’t draw judgment upon him. Neither me or any members of the Resistance know how the scars on his face came about, and he hasn’t volunteered the information, merely stays calm and collected in that shell of his, brooding. Besides, if he hadn’t wrought this organization into existence, lives would have suffered needlessly, even more so if any of the people became infected with lycanthropy.”
“Why do you fight alongside him?” J.J.’s eyes became haunted, clouded with some darkness he’d rather not recall, or voice out loud to the wounded stranger across from him. The arms, which he’d been leaning carelessly against the top of the chair, dropped, and his gaze turned a small distance from Dee’s own curious one, before he answered the man’s inquiry. “Everyone has their reasons. The event that spurred my induction into the Resistance was bit more horrific than most…"
J.J. paused for a moment then after a brief nod to himself, continued in a clear, forced emotionless tone, one that comes when someone has evoked a memory more times than he’d care for. “My lover came home one evening, sporting a rather large claw mark on his leg that I tended to immediately, asking no questions as to how it had come about. Sean had been a bit of a loner before I had come along, speaking with actions rather than words, so I’d adapted as best as I could, asking no unneeded questions.
“Everything seemed fine until he’d begun acting a bit abnormal no more than a week later, sweating profusely in his sleep, becoming transfixed upon viewing crimson items, a little rougher than normal during intercourse. But it was Sean’s dreams that were the worse, the whimpering, whining, yells, almost like he was battling against an enemy, and losing more every day.
“What clinched it though was- it’s rather hard to talk about even after two years’ time. Sean had initiated sex, which wasn’t a rare thing in itself, but halfway through, he had begun convulsing, forming at the mouth. To make a long story short, he transformed in our very bedroom. My reaction, of course, was a bit on the panic-stricken side, frozen motionless as he crept away quietly yet swiftly into the darkness of the night. Sean hadn’t vanished without leaving evidence of his change though, as he had broken my leg and a few other select bones whilst making the change on top of me.
"Not a week later, while I was recovering in the hospital, Randy approached me, offering me the chance to end my lover’s misery, by doing away with his life, and I did not hesitate in my decision. After exterminating my first werker, formerly my lover, I continued in the line of work because I was making a difference, no matter how meager. And that was how I became introduced to this life.”
"Shit."
“Indeed,” J.J. replied coming to his feet, and placing the chair, he’d been occupying back to its former position. Briefly, he squeezed Dee’s good shoulder and then exited the room leaving the wounded man to his thoughts, however disturbed they had become after hearing of his first experience.
----------------------------
The sewer system of New York City was everything they’d expected it to be, grimy, dirty, the ramparts encased in a fluid Randy was hesitant to call slime, but by the discolored tint of the substance and slippery texture, he was about to concede. As his hand slipped over the tunnel wall they were currently traveling in; they being himself, Berkeley, Drake, and J.J, he suppressed a grimace, very much wishing this nest of werkers they’d targeted hadn’t decided to call one of these many tunnels their home. Tapping the radio headset he wore, he spoke into the small microphone not two inches from his mouth, informing the group of hunters the direction in which they would continue next.
After a moment of sharp radio feedback, his voice came out clear, if a bit muffled, #If I’m correct, we’re to go left at the next corner. Then we continue ahead for a short span before hitting the area the werkers are supposed to be situated in. Does everyone copy that? #
Berkeley Rose’s smooth baritone replied first, #Roger. I’m on alert. Who’s going to take the front position? # If within the Resistance, there was a second in command, the older man took the rank suitably enough as he often took charge when Randy was occupied or no longer able to take proper responsibility of the organization.
He stood a few inches above Randy’s own frame, broad-shouldered and very capable of defending himself against harm, if the light of the sewers weren’t so severe and the night vision goggles they were currently equitted with limiting, one could see the short dishwater blonde hair upon the crown of his head and dark blue eyes that always looked into the distance, spotting familiar shapes when no one else’s gaze could pierce so far.
J.J., who’d put some distance between the rest of the group and his person, tore his gaze from the sewer corner ahead, readjusting the large weapon positioned against his shoulder and chest, to look back, taking note of the three human shaped forms that trailed behind him. The cold dirtied water continued to rush just above his knees, no doubt soaking the jeans he’d worn to the very fiber with substances unknown. #I’ll take it; I’m far enough ahead anyway. The corner just coming up, are we to go left, or right? #
The man just one foot behind him sighed heavily, briefly rolling his eyes before inputting his words in a teasing tone over the radio headset, #Left, J.J. Or did you leave your brain behind at Randy’s apartment again? # Drake Parker was one of newest recruits among the Resistance, though he and J.J. had become considerably close, forming a bond that normally took weeks to generate, which also put him in Randy’s good graces, as the leader of their organization had a tendency to be a bit of a icy bastard to those who hadn’t yet proved their worth.
He stood just an inch above J.J., his frame built a bit more broadly, with dark brown hair cut just below his ears, and light blue eyes which were currently scanning every inch of the area ahead of them for any lurking shapes, ever aware the creatures they were putting themselves against were considerably stronger and swifter.
#Oh, ha ha, very funny. Don't make me give in to temptation, and leave you at werkers' mercy. #
#Like they’d listen to you in the first place, o’ wise one; it’s amazing that you can function on so few brain cells as it is. #
Berkeley threw a glance over his shoulder; curious look landing upon the face of Randy who was frowning profusely, most likely a bit peeved Drake and J.J. had abandoned their subdued manner, and reverted back to normal behavior.
Smiling lightly, Berkeley cleared his throat, pressing the small mouthpiece against his Adam’s apple as he did so, making certain the sound carried into the radio and captured his fellow Resistance members’ attention. #Oh, boys, father’s getting angry at his sons’ immature behavior. Rein in the witty repartee and concentrate on the task ahead of us before he gets even more bad-tempered than usual. #
A light nervous chuckle carried over the wavelength, before J.J. visibly jumped, pressing his lean frame against the slime-encased rampart as he closed his eyes, and put trust into his excellent hearing rather than his eyes which weren’t of much use in darkness such as this, even with night vision goggles.
Two odd sound patterns that most definitely weren’t human were slowly weaving in their direction, one of which sounded a bit ragged and run down. Excellent. Perhaps the two werkers wouldn’t put up much of a struggle, as others of their kind generally had a habit of doing, employing every tactic and muscle they could make use of. #Two coming from the north, they’ll probably be here in less than five minutes. What’s the plan? #
#Drake, be ready to turn on the floodlight you’ve been lugging all this way when I say so, then waste no time in putting some distance between you and the werkers, they will go after the source of light so put those nimble legs of yours to good use, understood? # Randy instructed curtly, limbs begin to tire swiftly as he hurried ahead in haste to provide J.J. with some much-needed back up, and formulating a strategy all the while in the back of his mind.
#Berkeley, J.J., and I will fire a rain of bullets upon the targets, which will hopefully take out all the fight in one fell swoop, as even two werkers can’t stand against the force of three fully loaded AR-15 rifles. #
Without another spoken word, the men assembled before the tunnel opening, Randy and J.J. taking the front while Berkeley and Drake stood at their right and left two feet behind them, what few fire arms they had on their person aimed as stable as possible. They maintained the illusion of calm anticipation while on the inside of each, a war of chaos reigned, differing between excitement and dread, and in the middle of all the disorder lay a faint string of concealed hope that no tragedies befell them on this night.
------------------------------------
Dee pressed himself farther against the wintry pane of glass behind him, suppressing a shudder when the surface made contact with his flesh, immediately drawing goose bumps upon his flesh, and a soft gasp from his mouth. The blonde woman who was currently stripping off the worn bandages situated on his shoulder and chest stifled a chuckle, already having drawn the conclusion the man wasn’t one for having belittling comments thrown his way; however, her eyes glittered with amusement, and while her hands continued to move across Dee’s person, she smirked to herself, as she began to reach for some antiseptic, and the fresh roll of bandages sitting nearby on the toilet lid next to the pair.
The wounded man had fervently denied assistance with the redressing of his injuries until a sharp yelp of pain had fallen through the bathroom door, and Diana, curiosity winning out over caution, had investigated the noise to find Dee sitting miserably on the bathroom counter, tape twisted about his torso and a stack of gauze held between his teeth. After her brief fit of laughter, Diana had taken over the task, ignoring the sullen looks, and discontented body language of the man, focused intently on redressing his wounds without causing him much pain. “Where did the rest of them go off to?”
Diana shifted her head, gauging Dee’s sincerity and the harsh tone in which the question had been spoken in, as she was well aware he wasn’t happy to be put under horse arrest, but considering the situation, and the possible consequences if they didn’t act accordingly, they hadn’t much choice but to take that course of action.
As she drew the last piece of needed medical tape, she spoke, “Hunting. The werker who managed to wound you was just one of a nest, located little over a mile underground, in New York City’s very own sewage system. We’ve been tracking them for over a month, just coming about the nest a week ago, entirely by accident. The Resistance keeps a constant tab on the sewers, as they’re the ideal place for berwerkers to flee if wounded or just running scared.”
Finished placing the tape, the blonde woman stepped back; allowing Dee room to maneuver when he had began to shift uncomfortably. “One of the Resistance’s members followed one of the beasts’ trail after a failed hunt, and discovered it, reporting the incident the next day and therefore providing our next target. While New York City is one of the biggest cities in the world, there are other places with much more werker activity than this one.”
Dee moved stiffly, and leisurely, teeth gritted as he reached for the black flannel shirt Randy had been gracious enough to let the man borrow, and shoved his arms into the piece of material, paying no heed to the ache that seized his chest when his fingers began to travel up the line of buttons. “Do you mind letting me in on your operations so I at least have some idea how your little organization works? Ryo wasn’t exactly willing to divulge information on it.”
"I'm not sure that's a very good idea, Dee. If your condition worsens instead of…"
Dee scoffed angrily as he shoved past the half-open bathroom door, knocking aside a few towels from the steel bar lying near the bathroom wall and paying no heed as they tumbled to the tiled floor. His face was shadowed with intense agitation, with a thread of weariness buried beneath the stoic expression.
Before he could repress the action, common sense was smashed to mere shivers, and he practically snarled out the words, unhappiness and loathing an almost living creature in his tone, “You’re all on the same goddamn proverbial script! Can you speak just once without reminding me that I might turn into one of miserable beasts? My mind’s been haunted by nothing but remnants of Ryo’s lecture all day as it is. If I’d only been located elsewhere when all this shit began happening, I would never have had to suffer through this ordeal at all. Why the hell did I enter that damn park anyway? It’s no-”
His voice dropped off abruptly as the wounded man crumpled to the floor, muscled arms grasped tightly around his nearby knees, and face buried in the denim material that bound his lower torso.
Diana was hesitant to make any motion, as his outburst had been unexpected, and while she pitied the man, if she allowed her heart to overcome her psyche, she would suffer as well as Dee, if he had indeed been infected with lycanthrony. However, her body acted of it’s own will when a soft sound, muffled futilely by Dee, echoed through the living room, and as her arms came to gather around his sullen figure, she belatedly deduced the noise had sounded suspiciously like a sob.
She already knew her heart had overridden her common sense, holding the man ever closer to her as he surrendered to one of humanity’s baser desires, the ability to project sadness, salty wetness trailing down his face as the meager pieces of Dee’s world broken earlier only one night ago were compacted repeatedly, the lingering shivers grinded into a fine translucent dust that would no doubt be swept away when the breeze rode high enough.
“I'm sorry,” Diana muttered, more to herself than the man clutching desperately at her person, words sounding hollow even to her own ears. “I’m so sorry…”
To Be Continued…
Onto Chapter Four?
(1) Regarding this and any other names mentioned, they're all killers, rapists, or any sort of individual involved in acts described as gruesome in the pages of history. William Brodie Deacon might be pushing it a little since he was the inspiration behind Robert Louis Stevenson's novel "The Strange Case of Dr. Jerkyll and Mr. Hyde."