Reaper (End of Days)

Chapter Three

The day had been a long one. Mason walked into his room, and shut the door behind him with a quiet click. Still fully clothed he rolled onto the bed, and closed his eyes with a grateful sigh.
He was exhausted. As normal, he’d been up before sunrise to join the work-parties that kept the town running. He should have been exhausted, but sleep was elusive. Ordinarily it was an insistent bed partner, often claiming him before he managed to shrug out of his clothes. Tonight it danced just out of reach. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Andy, the woman from earlier.
He ground his teeth, and squeezed his eyes together until fireworks lit up the back of his eyelids. Correction, she wasn’t a woman. She was a paranormal. Not human, not a woman, no one he should be bothered about. A thing he shouldn’t worry himself about. With those wicked-looking blades strapped crosswise on her back then no doubt she could take care of herself. For someone to carry blades instead of a gun was a statement all in itself.
It said that the carrier was either a) stupid and about to buy the farm or b) they were good enough to get those blades into anything they came up against. To do that they’d have to be faster than a Werewolf, able to hear even a Vampire creeping up, and be able to outwit a shade. She’d looked too human, and way too cute, to be capable of half that.
Mason groaned as images of her lying in the darkness, her skin pale as she bled out, filled his head. His male protective instincts, rusty from inactivity, rushed to the fore. He shouldn’t have let her leave. Unlike other non-humans, she hadn’t offered them any harm. She’d even drawn them a ward…and as soon as he’d looked at it, he’d known she was telling the truth. The thing had hummed with power.
How he knew stuff like that, he had no idea. He just did. Since the war he’d been able to spot all manner of paranormals, and magic users, under their disguises. Not just non-humans either. Souls black with sin…that was the saying. He’d always expected a soul ready for hell to be as black as pitch, rotten through and through. They weren't though. If they were human, they were bright silver. Paranormals, as always, were different. Their souls were a whole rainbow of different colors. Amber for wolves, red for Vampires, black for the undead.
His eyes snapped open as he ran through his memories again. He’d done the usual cursory check to see if he could detect anything hidden behind the pretty face and had come up with nothing. Looked human on the outside, no monster lurking inside to leap out like a freaky jack-in-the-box. Still, Mason’s instincts had warned him there was something not right about her, and now it hit him.
Her soul had been black.
At three forty-five he gave up on sleep, and rolled out of bed, sat on the edge of the narrow cot and rubbed his eyes. They were like piss-holes in the snow—gritty and hot. He cast a baleful glance back at the lumpy mattress. He needed a bottle of whiskey, fourteen hours sleep and a new mattress. Preferably in that order.
The stink of sweat assaulted his nostrils. Mason grimaced and risked a quick sniff at his armpits. Shower time for sure. He walked out of his clothes on his way to the bathroom. Even here, in the safety of his own room, his rifle was the last thing to leave his hand. Propping it up against the wall beside the door Mason switched the water on.
“Jesus f*cking Christ…that’s cold.”
Teeth chattering, he forced himself under the spray of frigid water. This time of morning, he had no chance of it warming up. The town attracted a lot of waifs and strays so they had most occupations, from a former hairdresser to a Hollywood gynecologist, but could they find a damn plumber? Until they did, the ailing boiler was only run for short periods, and carefully baby-sat in case it decided to go critical.
Pity it couldn’t do that with Jed and his pathetic pack of dogs in the room. He shook his head as he scrubbed down quickly with the hard soap produced in town. He still could not believe that animal had had the audacity to send one of his mutts into town, and demand a tithe.
“Five women, old enough to f*ck and not too old to have kids. So we don’t want any dried up old-grandma’s. If the tithe is suitable, your town will be spared our wrath.”
“Spared our wrath.” Mason snorted, washing his sack and crack with quick economical movements. Who did the guy think he was? He didn’t give a flying f*ck about Jed’s wrath. He tried anything in Mason’s town, and he’d end up like every other para that tried it…with Val scraping his brains off the bar’s floor.
Finally he stepped out of the shower and grabbed the thin towel draped over the rail. Like everything else here it showed signs of hard use. He dried off quickly and dropped the towel and his dirty clothes in the washing basket.
The clean ones he put on were nearly identical. He pulled an old T-shirt over his head, covering the multitude of scars that marred his torso, and grabbed his combat pants. Once they’d been black but now they were a faded grey. Clean socks went on next, after he gave his feet a quick check.
They said an army marched on its stomach, which was true. What was also true was that a soldier never neglected his feet or his boots. He laced up quickly and tucked the ends back into the top of the boots. Pulling his pant leg up, he strapped his knife to his calf. A legacy from his army days, it was Mason’s last line of defense. If he ever had to draw it, then the shit had hit the fan in a big way. Shrugging his shoulder holster on, he grabbed his rifle and headed for the door. If he hurried, he might be able to catch the morning hunting party.

An hour later, Mason was walking point. The small group of hunters fanned out behind him. Their faces were grim and professional. A sense of pride filled him. In this, at least, his former life had been of some help. Whenever they left the town to hunt, they took their lives into their hands. Out here, things fell into one of two categories—things that ran away from them, and things to run away from.
He pulled his rifle tighter into his shoulder, steps soundless as the group walked. Concentration wrapped around them so tightly it was like a cloak. Every gaze was alert to the smallest movement. The only major cover for half mile or so, this was where they were likely to find either game or become it.
Tension wound through his frame as he paused, raising his arm with a clenched fist. At the signal the group stopped, and assumed kneeling positions facing outwards from the group. Mason crouched to study the tree line.
All was quiet. There weren’t many birds around these days, anything bigger than a sparrow was an immediate candidate for the stew pot. But this was too quiet, as though nature herself was holding her breath, and watching the scene around the copse unfold.
Way too quiet.
Decision made, he stood and signaled to the group to skirt around. The likelihood of bagging some sort of game within the trees was good, but the risk was too high. They had a few hours left to find something elsewhere. He wouldn’t risk good hunters.
He sighed softly as they moved out. When the scientists had unleashed hell on earth, and changed the fabric of reality, why couldn’t they have created cows the size of trucks? He’d happily trade in Ghouls and wolves for a guaranteed good meal. And steak...he had re-occurring fantasies about a good steak.
“Keep it tight.”
His order was low as James, one of the newest hunters, edged into his line of sight. Not a place he wanted to be when Mason was on patrol. Anything that moved was getting shot on the basis that it was either food, or it was hostile.
The patrol continued in silence as they walked their pre-arranged route. Frustration began to mount in his chest as they walked further and there was still no sign of prey. Pickings were getting increasingly slim. Each hunting team came back in with smaller and smaller catches until recently, when most times they came back with nothing at all.
If they didn't bring something back in today Val was going to have to dip into the canned goods secured in bar’s kitchen. That was something he tried to avoid. Canned goods would last for years. They were his fail-safe in case the whole situation went tits-up and they had to move out of town. On the road, they would be too busy defending themselves to risk hunting for food.
Unease itched in the space between his shoulder blades. It started off a small itch, then grew and grew until his shoulders were tight with tension. Someone...no, something, was watching them. Mason’d bet his last bullet there wasn’t just one of them either.
Before he could alert the team, they were attacked. Hard and fast, everything happened at once. “Contact. Full right, six o’clock,” he yelled, rifle on his shoulder and already squeezing rounds off as the first Werewolf burst out of cover to his left.
“Weres!”
“No shit, Sherlock,” he muttered as his double tap took the first wolf between the eyes and splattered its brains over the one right behind it. The second jumped over the carcass, red eyes fixed on Mason as it snarled. Saliva dripped from its yellowed teeth as it crouched low, stalking him.
He aimed and fired. His bullet ripped through its right front leg, shattering the joint. Squealing in pain it crashed to the ground, and tried to shift to heal the massive damage to its leg.
Mason had seen Weres change before, and it turned his stomach. All that bone snapping and changing, not to mention skin that melted and reformed to the new shape. Bile rose in his throat as he approached the creature where it writhed on the ground.
“Down boy.” He lifted the rifle and put a bullet through its reforming brain.
“Keep in. Controlled bursts, conserve your ammo,” he yelled over the sound of firing as the small group of humans clustered back to back for protection. The wolves circled them, flitting in and out of cover.
They’d already lost Julian. The wolves had gotten to him within seconds of the initial attack. He snorted. The stupid cunt had tried to play the hero, ignoring all orders in favor of doing his own thing like some kind of post-apocalyptic Rambo. These days you didn’t want to be the hero. Playing the hero just got you dead. Fast.
The kid had deserved to suffer for the stunt he’d pulled, but Mason had done the decent thing and put a bullet between his eyes when the wolves had ripped into his stomach. No one deserved to be breathing through something like that.
Julian’s body, or what was left of it, lay off to the left. His abdomen was torn open, his intestines strewn around him like the stuffing out of a battered teddy bear. Steam rose off the slimy red tubes in the cold morning air.
Sausages, Mason thought absently as he rattled off a couple more rounds at a Werewolf that dared to poke its head over the top of an old concrete pipe. He hadn’t had sausages in years. He could still remember how they tasted. Little bites of pure, fatty pleasure that burst on the tongue.
Next to him, Julia kept a sharp eye out as he reloaded. The drill was smoothly executed, and instinctive. It was his last magazine. He didn’t need to ask to know they were all running low on ammunition.
What the f*ck where they going to do when the bullets ran out?
“Single shot,” he ordered. “Make them count. If you can’t get a head shot, blow a leg out. I don’t care how, but I want these f*ckers on the ground. If we’re going down, we’re taking them with us.”
The bushes around them rustled as the wolves closed in. Mason knew they were closing the net. Within minutes, they’d launch their final attack and the humans were screwed six ways to Sunday.
Ahead of him, an ear poked up over one of the concrete tubes the bastards were hiding behind. Mason grinned. It was less an ear, and more a furry suggestion of an ear. Disregarding his own order Mason aimed and squeezed the trigger, and grinned at the squeal of pain and fury that emanated from behind the pipe.
“What was that?” He cupped his ear as though listening hard for something. “Sorry you flea-bitten mutt, you’ll have to come a little closer. I can’t hear you!”
The group behind him chuckled softly. Within seconds, a low rumble overwhelmed the sounds of mirth, a rumble that coalesced into vicious snarling. He centered himself. This was it. They were about to die. He knew that, the men and women with him knew that. Miracles didn’t happen. Not anymore, not for anyone. Mason rolled his shoulders, checked his safety catch was off and waited for furry vengeance.
Today was a good day to die.
“Incoming,” he yelled as the wolves swarmed out of cover. Gunshots sounded around him as battle was joined. He emptied the last of his rounds into the face of a wolf stalking towards him and dropped into a crouch to yank the big blade from the sheath on his calf.
“Come on, you bastard. Come get me.” Mason’s voice was thick with fury as he faced off against a lean, pissed-off-looking wolf with a tattered ear and murder in his amber eyes. Mason grinned, showing all his teeth. “Let’s see if I can’t make that other ear match…”
The wolf curled its lip back, and snarled a low warning of pain and terror to come. As it bunched powerful legs underneath its body, Mason prepared for his last battle. Adrenalin sang in his veins. There was nothing like the imminent threat of death to make a man feel alive. He felt no fear. In fact, he didn’t feel anything at all. Except a small measure of regret about kicking Andy out of town last night without even trying for so much as a kiss.
The wolf lunged at him. Mason was quicker. He sidestepped as the creature rushed him, letting its momentum and weight carry it past him. As it did, he stepped back into its side, easily avoiding the slash of vicious teeth and landed a solid back-fist on the side of its skull. The wolf howled as Mason grimaced in pain. It was like punching bloody granite.
The creature turned, and Mason knew he was done for. The group was scattered, wolves closing in on each of them. Julie, his fire team partner screamed as a wolf tumbled her to the ground, standing over her and slowly licking her face.
“Come on then. Come and get me.” Mason’s lip curled back as he snarled. “I hope I give you the shits.”
The wolf grinned, eyeing him up as though deciding which tasty portion of Mason’s anatomy he was snacking on first. Mason’s grip tightened on the blade in his hand. No matter where the creature struck, his knife was going through its heart.
“Want a hand there, handsome?”
The seductive voice took him by surprise. Andy. He slid a glance sideways, trying to look at her and keep an eye on the wolf too.
“What the hell are you doing here, woman?”
She was already injured. Blood coated one of her arms, soaking through the light material of her T-shirt. The bullet hole at the shoulder and the tattered skin beneath told him the blood was hers. “You’ll get hurt.”
Mason wasn’t quite sure how the events of the next thirty seconds unfolded. As the snarling Werewolf launched itself towards them he tried to shove her out of the way, and protect her with his own body. Only she wasn’t there anymore.