I watched as Tess grinned big as her pajamas tore away and her skin twitched until fur rippled over her twisting, changing body from muzzle to tail. Her pumpkin orange eyes bright with Christmas spirit as her teeth were suddenly bright with something else as she tore into her present.
Mary Francesca’s pin went flying. Wolves were Orthodox. We did only date our own kind. It was too bad. She was cute.
On the couch a buff colored wolf tucked her head under the jaw of a larger black one. Their eyes were brilliant with pride and affection and the spirit of the holiday. Their baby’s first kill. It was always special. I rested my muzzle on my paws and watched as Christmas came back to me.
Mom said Christmas wasn’t in presents and trees, glitter and bows. She said it was in your heart and so was Santa if you want him to be. If I really wanted him, I could find him again.
Mom was right. Christmas was in your heart. And Santa was everywhere.
If you only knew where to look.
When the world ended, the very first thought I had was of my first dance. I didn’t even like dancing—damn, how embarrassing would that be? Yet there it was. That was the memory I flashed back to. That’s where some part of me considered my life starting. A dance. Or maybe it wasn’t the dance. Maybe it was the girl. I’d loved her, not that I remembered her name now. But at the time I thought I loved her. I knew I lusted after her. But isn’t that how love goes? Her skin was dusky and warm, her eyes fields of lavender, her black hair pulled up and then falling, a solemn black sea around her bare shoulders.
Okay, yeah, it was definitely the girl.
The world ended and I was still thinking with the brain between my legs instead of the one in my head. The cock ruled the roost, and I was as much a rooster in a rickety hen house and a clutch of squawking chickens. At least I admitted it. I doubt my partner would. He was all about the manners and shit that hadn’t mattered before and damn sure didn’t matter now. I cut him some slack though, because he could shoot straight, ride for hours on end without bitching too much, could cook over a camp-fire without turning a rabbit into charcoal, and, bottom line, at the end of the world, you made do with what you had.
It had been ten years ago—when it had happened. The sky had turned gray, the sun a sullen distant red and the entire world shook. I looked back now and saw that shaking for what it was: death throes. The world had died that day and since then we were nothing more than scavengers on a corpse.
They had done it…destroyed it all as if it was a toy they’d tired of, didn’t much care about anymore. Broken and tossed under the bed to not be thought of again—the same as a child. If monsters could be children.
Maybe it was partly our fault. We’d forgotten they existed more or less. We weren’t watching for them, weren’t prepared. They were nothing more than stories, legends, nonsense tales to tell little ones to put them to sleep. Long ago when we knew they actually existed, saw them, made trades that never turned out quite right, I think we learned their bite was worse than their bark, no matter how innocent they could make themselves seem. We’d learned playing games with them was the quickest way to get into trouble. So we forgot about them—the reality of them, we made ourselves forget and I think even the stories themselves would’ve disappeared in time.
But we didn’t have time. Without us anymore, they played with themselves, and not in that good way you’re thinking. Well, in the good way I was thinking. While we forgot them, they continued to play their lethal games: one side against another, alliances constantly shifting, greed for power growing, greed for gold, jewels, fruits of the earth, greed for the air itself. For the stark differences they claimed, good versus evil, righteous versus unholy, in the end they were all the same. Vicious, feral creatures who finally turned Paradise into Hell. There were only two good things about that. The first was that they managed to kill nearly all of themselves in the process. The second was we got to kill the ones that were left. Revenge wouldn’t bring back the world, but it was better than nothing. It was a damn sight better than sitting around waiting to die. We spent the final days wiping out the last of those freaks one by one.
It was a hobby. Everyone needed one. Even now. Especially now.
“At the last outpost, the guy slinging the brew said two more riders went crazy and killed themselves. Third crew to eat their guns this month.” I shrugged. “Can’t figure why they’re in such a hurry to get where we’re going anyway. Gutless maggots. Yellow-bellied chicken shits through and through.”