The Breaking

The Breaking - By Marcus Pelegrimas

Prologue


Smoky Hill River, Kansas

Fifteen miles west of Cedar Bluff State Park

It had been just over three weeks since the Nymar declared war on all Skinners. They’d targeted the hunters they knew, burnt them from their homes and coaxed them into open combat. Apart from thinning the Skinner ranks, they’d introduced the Shadow Spore into the modern world and blamed the Skinners for the deaths of dozens of police officers in a crossfire spanning most of the United States. Things settled down a bit after authorities stumbled upon a Skinner raid in Denver and arrested a man believed to be one of the main perpetrators in all of those cop killings. That man was Cole Warnecki, and ever since he was put behind bars, a spokesman for the police had shown up in several random interviews declaring the carnage over.

That spokesman’s narrow, smiling face had been broadcast on every major network, assuring the country that blood was no longer being spilled and the authorities had everything well in hand. Even the few humans who recognized Kawosa’s face were unable to resist being drawn in by the calming words spoken by one known as the First Deceiver. Some Skinners, however, couldn’t be pacified like the rest of the viewing public. For them, just keeping their heads above water was a struggle. Even if they knew Cole Warnecki had been framed by the Nymar, the hunt never stopped.

The stomping grounds of the Skinner known as Jessup were in the mountain ranges of Montana, but the territory he protected branched out to cover several states in each direction. The last year had been filled with commotion that put too many Skinners into the ground. Since then he’d done his part to pick up the slack by hitting the road and keeping his eyes open for anything that might need killing. Upon arriving in Ness City, Jessup only had to spark a conversation in a few local diners to hear stories about a pack of wolves that were known to fly, bark at the moon, run like the wind, and bite through solid steel. Even after making allowances for excited exaggeration, Jessup was confident he’d found something worth his time. At the very least, he could add a few Half Breed pelts and teeth to his collection. Most of the attacks supposedly happened north of town in the flatlands on either side of the Smoky Hill River, so the Skinner tipped his hat to the ones who’d told the stories, paid for his meat loaf, climbed into his Ford F150 and headed north.

The scars on his hands started to burn after less than an hour of driving. Three miles down the road, when the trail started to cool, Jessup pulled to a stop and climbed down from the driver’s seat before he lost it completely. Most werewolves didn’t bother with roads, and he knew that chasing after the things on four wheels didn’t do a lick of good anyway. A pack of werewolves could outrun, outmaneuver, and overturn any vehicle falling short of a tank. More than likely they’d already sniffed him out anyway, and were circling in close enough to take their first run at him.

As soon as his boots touched the ground, Jessup walked around the truck and pulled down the tailgate. His field kit was kept in a green canvas duffel bag covered in stenciled lettering and dirt picked up from opposite ends of the globe. Pockets were stitched into the inside walls to carry items he’d either need quickly or didn’t want to mix with the rest of his supplies. He pulled out an old mayonnaise jar filled with a thick black jelly that became even murkier when he shook it up. After filling his lungs with a generous portion of air that smelled of burnt leaves, he held his breath and twisted open the jar. Even after bracing himself for the stench, Jessup had to force back his gag reflex once the pungent aroma of blood, spoiled meat, and shapeshifter pheromones drifted into his nostrils.

Although the basic ingredients were the same, every Skinner had their own twist on the recipe for werewolf bait. Jessup’s included a few additions to hit the creatures’ sense of hunger as well as their instinctual attraction to certain substances. Not wasting time with cleanliness, he dipped his fingers into the jar and spattered the potent concoction on the tall grass around him while walking slowly away from the road and whistling to himself.

After all the bickering and haggling he’d been forced to endure with other Skinners who squabbled about how to fight the same battle, Jessup was now on his own, savoring the simple pleasures of the hunt. Old man Lancroft might have been crazy, but as far as Jessup was concerned, he did have a point when he’d written about Skinners losing their way. Nobody was sure who’d sent out the journals to everyone on MEG’s e-mail list, but Lancroft’s words made Jessup eager to strike out on his own and make whatever difference he could. On a more basic level, it just felt good to have the sun on his face, a weapon in his hands, and less bitching in his ears.

Before long a keening howl drifted through the air. He placed a hand on the brim of his beaten cowboy hat, shifted it toward the back of his head and waited.

The howl came again. This time it was joined by other animal voices that were just a bit too high-pitched to be the ones he was after. Another clearer, almost musical howl rolled in from the east. Once it made itself known, the others stopped quicker than steam choked off by a closed valve. Jessup remained still. His six-foot-four-inch frame blended in with its surroundings like another tree trunk that had been halved by a tornado from a rough summer. His eyes narrowed and a barely audible breath passed from between chapped lips. The only other sound he created came from the clatter of long, gnarled fangs fastened to thin cords dangling from his beaten leather vest. Slowly, he bent down to slip a hand into one of the pockets of his Army surplus fatigues. Digging out a tube of pepper spray from the pants pocket, he set it on the ground and marked the spot with a knife that he flung into the dirt.

The first set of howls had come from the northwest and weren’t made by Half Breeds. Whatever they were, more of the shaggy figures had circled around him to the south and southeast. The more musical howl was silent now, but he couldn’t worry about that one at the moment. The burning in his scars remained at a simmer as several animals stalked toward him. They were bigger than dogs or wolves, yet too narrow at the shoulders to be small bears or even wild pigs. In his years of hunting, Jessup had been fooled by both kinds of animals, and that wasn’t going to change now. The reaction in his scars hadn’t worsened, because they weren’t shapeshifters. That was the final piece to solve the identity of his mystery guests.

“Damn Shunkaws,” he muttered. “Ain’t seen these things for a good long time. Fits the bill from those stories, though. Should’ve guessed it.”

As he grumbled to himself, Jessup reached for the stainless steel .45 caliber pistol holstered beneath his vest. The handgun had been put together using pieces of other weapons he’d bought or confiscated throughout the years. “First the Chupes spring up near every damn lake I find, and now a pack of Shunkaws roaming the plains. What’s next? The lizard men gonna march on Tallahassee?”

Jessup spotted five of the creatures fanning out to flank him. Their arched backs were marked by a distinctive ridge of bone protruding from a patchy coat of hardened fur that moved like a single piece of armor. He patted his pockets, touching three extra magazines for the .45 and a holdout revolver loaded with five .48 caliber rounds that he’d packed himself. Each of those rounds could punch a hole through a car. Shunkaws weren’t that tough to put down, but he was more concerned with the beast that sent a wave of heat through his scars along with a wailing howl to stop the pack cold.

It took some mental gymnastics, but Jessup managed to think back to what might attract the Shunkaws even better than the mixture he carried for Half Breeds. Their noses picked up sweet scents more than anything else, which was partially why they were drawn to children or anyone else who frequently had ice cream, chocolate, or jelly smeared on them. Fortunately, he’d picked up some Peanut M&Ms along with a spicy beef stick at the last gas station. He tore open the bag of candy, emptied it into his mouth and chewed them. It took a great amount of restraint to keep from swallowing the glob of chocolaty goodness before spitting it out in smaller, marble-sized chunks into the grass.

A chorus of scratchy, panting breaths drifted through the air, followed by the crunching of large paws against dried earth. As the pack drew closer, Jessup backed away and prepared to meet it. Soon he would see the faces of the beasts at the front of the group. Squat, long heads were accented by wide brows that looked like shelves made of bark. Their eyes were disturbingly human, with uniformly dark green pupils on fields of white. But what set them apart from any other canine were their short snouts and peculiar teeth. Although there were several smaller molars set along the backs of their jaws, most of the damage was done by two large teeth: one on the upper jaw and another on the lower, angled into a point and curved toward their throats. The shape added a grating sound to their breaths and a rasp to their howl, which Jessup heard when he caught the eye of the pack’s leader.

The wailing howl of the thing that had set his scars to burning snaked across the plains like smoke on a breeze. It was definitely closer.

“Come on,” Jessup said. “Come to me, you ugly bastards.”

There was some debate as to whether Shunkaws could understand human language. Right now, Jessup simply wanted to catch the creatures’ attention before he had an even bigger threat to worry about. When the leader of the closer group of animals nodded toward his followers to get them to back away, Jessup fired a round from his .45 that caught the Shunkaw squarely in the face. Its head snapped to one side as a small amount of blood and flecks of bone sprayed from the wound. Its skeletal structure was too dense to be punctured so easily, but the alpha was definitely put off his game as the others swarmed the Skinner to extract some payback.

The gun in Jessup’s right hand barked again and again while he reached for a finely tooled shoulder harness with his left. A hatchet hung there from a loop of braided leather where it could be drawn with a quick forward swipe. Slightly larger than a tomahawk, the weapon was carved from one piece of wood, stained with several layers of varnish mixed from an old Skinner formula, and adorned with teeth of various sizes that had been embedded into the wood like an insect that had been absorbed into amber. Thorns in its handle bit into Jessup’s palms, starting a trickle of blood that awakened the bond between the weapon and the man who wielded it.

When the next beast reached him, Jessup snarled, “That’s it! Soup’s on.” Sidestepping half a second before the first Shunkaw got a chance to clamp its jaws around his leg, he fired a round into the top of its head that drove its chin into the dirt. He followed that up by burying the hatchet blade into its skull. Crafted from supernatural materials, the hatchet cut a lot deeper than the .45’s bullets. The Shunkaw clawed at the ground and let out a shuddering gasp. Jessup willed the hatchet blade to become thinner so he could more easily pull it from where it had been lodged and swing at the next incoming beast.

One Shunkaw charged at him just ahead of another. Both creatures set their wide, vacant eyes upon him and opened their mouths in preparation for their meal. The first one ducked beneath Jessup’s swing and the second caught three bullets from the .45 in its head and neck. Its head wobbled from the impact of rounds that thumped against dense bone and became lodged in thick, leathery muscle. Even as Jessup kicked at the yelping Shunkaw, he looked around for the other one. Only four of the five were accounted for, which meant the last one could be sneaking around to bring him down from whatever open angle it could find. He fired more shots at the alpha, willed his hatchet blade to form something closer to a pickaxe and then buried it into the chest of the first creature to spring forward in an attempt to bring him down.

Something moved near his leg, and as Jessup turned toward it, he found a Shunkaw with its belly pressed against the ground so it could scurry forward to snap at his ankle. The Skinner was barely quick enough to kick the Shunkaw’s chin before its two angled front teeth were introduced to his flesh. The alpha collected himself enough then to let out a grating snarl that was quickly mimicked by the surviving members of the pack. The fifth Shunkaw had done its job and flanked him, so Jessup crouched down as he spun around to swing his weapon at the creature. But instead of another narrow, buck-toothed canine face, he found the sleek visage of a Full Blood.

There was no mistaking it. The burning in his scars had flared up so badly that he felt as if his hands were pressed against the glowing surface of a stove. Thickly matted fur lay flat against the creature’s trim body. Large pointed ears extended straight back as if it was running with enough power to generate a breeze. One glance at its markings and coat told Jessup it wasn’t any of the Full Bloods from the area. The teeth it showed while curling back its lips were bony icicles glistening with saliva flowing from torn, bloody gums. Curved claws dug into the soil as crystalline hazel eyes silently challenged the Skinner to make his next move.

The Shunkaw that had gotten behind Jessup lay on its side, half of its chest peeled open and its eyes fixed upon the oblivion to which it had been sent. Although Jessup had seen plenty of wounds in his days, he was astounded by the one that had opened up that creature. It was so clean and wide that it could very well have been made by a helicopter rotor.

“Easy, now,” he said while reaching under his vest for the holdout pistol. Despite the high caliber weapon and body armor sewn into the vest he wore, he couldn’t help but feel exposed. The .48 would only piss a Full Blood off, and no amount of tanned Half Breed skins could withstand the frenzied assault that would follow.

The alpha Shunkaw growled at his last remaining follower, prompting that one to lunge at the Full Blood in a flurry of teeth and claws. It was all Jessup could do to clear a path, which played directly into the alpha’s plan. The wounded Shunkaw hopped to one side, waited for the Skinner to stop moving, then clamped down on his left shin.

Jessup cried out in pain as the creature’s two large teeth pierced his skin, dug through the meat below it and hit bone. From there, the Shunkaw used his teeth to their full potential and dragged its head down along Jessup’s leg to try and strip the meat from his bone like cheese being cut away from a block. Before that could happen, Jessup unleashed a flurry of attacks. The pain had already been washed away by numbness that claimed his leg below the knee, but he still dropped to one knee. When his hatchet made contact with the Shunkaw’s neck, its head was nearly removed from its shoulders. Jessup grabbed it by one ear, pulled so its teeth came up and out of him, and then finished the job he’d started with another hacking blow from his weapon. The Shunkaw’s head dangled from his fist when Jessup rolled over to face not one, but two Full Bloods.

The one he’d already spotted had ripped apart the last of the Shunkaws and had its snout buried inside the ravaged chest cavity. Blood poured from its mouth to spatter upon its silver fur. The second Full Blood stood just behind that one. Its dark brown coat bristled and the corner of one crystalline blue-gray eye twitched as a powerful wind swept across the grassy plain. It stalked forward, keeping the other werewolf in check with a warning growl emanating from the back of his throat.

Jessup tried standing up. He couldn’t even make it halfway before a fresh wave of agony took his breath away. He didn’t want to look at his leg. The wound was bad, and knowing more than that wouldn’t do him any good. Acting on nothing more than primitive instinct, he lifted the Shunkaw’s severed head and tossed it at the werewolf’s feet.

The Full Blood with the brown coat was nearly double the size of the silver one. Scars lay just beneath the fur of its shoulder and cut a nasty groove down one cheek like cracks hewn into the side of a mountain. Its lips quivered while its nose twitched to pull in Jessup’s scent.

“I heard of you,” Jessup said. “Burkis, ain’t it?”

Expelling its breath with a powerful snuff, the Full Blood furrowed its brow and examined him with renewed interest.

“That’s right,” Jessup said. “Ain’t no place you can hide from us no more. Did that friend of yours set these things loose? Just like he sicced them Half Breeds on Kansas City?” Since that didn’t get a reaction from the Full Blood, he tightened his grip on the holdout pistol. “It don’t matter how many Half Breeds you make or how many other beasties you dig up. We’ll find them and bury them just like I found these child-stealing bastards!”

The smaller Full Blood looked at the larger one expectantly.

One second, Burkis was on four legs, and the next he’d stretched into a form with a slender torso and limbs that grew into fully realized arms and legs. Front paws became hands, one of which slapped the gun from Jessup’s hand. “You didn’t find us, Skinner,” the Full Blood snarled. “We found you.”

“Okay. So, now what?”

“Now, you’ll keep an eye on this one,” Burkis said as he pointed a clawed finger at the other Full Blood.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me,” the werewolf snarled in a voice that caused birds to scatter from trees a mile away. “Keep her alive and keep her away from the others of my kind.”

“Why would I do that?”

Burkis lowered his head to glare at Jessup in a way that made the Skinner clench. “The Breaking is coming, and her life could make the difference between only some of you feeling its wrath or your entire species being lost amid a torrent of snapping bones.”