Werewolf

NOTE ~ The original version of this story was titled with a word that is currently frowned upon when used by non-native writers. As such, I have replaced the title and its occurance in the story with a more suitable word.

Also, I should remind people that I am not a veteran. Please remember this is born from a youth’s imagination, a means of experimenting with trauma expression rather than any commentary or attempt at accurate representation. This is not a story of a veteran, it’s a story of a depressed twenty-ish-year-old.

Screams and fire. A blinding heat that soothed the icy blood. Through all of it, a cackling laugh that was barely recognizable. Crackling wood and snapping stone punctuated the charnel house that filled the world, as the Pack hunted for fresh meat.

We’ll fight ’till we drop.

The bumper sticker sat proudly on the bumper of the car across the street, it’s bright yellow lettering glowing against the deep purple background. The car looked brand new, daring the viewer to believe that it had even been driven off the lot. The silver chrome glittered brightly in the shining sun, hurting Logan “Sparks” Serminski’s good eye. He took a sip from his beer as he sat in his chair, waiting for the coals to heat. The sounds of the summer filtered through the haze of his cloudy mind: children playing in the yard, his cousins chatting about work, his wife rushing about with drinks and small talk. Even his brother was here, swallowing his elitist pride and deigning to allow himself to be seen with his youngest sibling.

Logan took another drink. He didn’t know what he had done, at first. The de-conditioning had done its work quite well. He still had the dreams, but he could never remember their endings. His nephews ran past him, playing war in the grass, waving sticks and tossing pine-cones at each other when their parents weren’t looking. The eldest held the large stick he had found like a flag, pointing and shouting whenever he saw one of his cousins. The younger children ducked and weaved, calling each other friends and allies when they shared shelter, and firing wildly at everyone they saw once they broke cover. Complaints about rules and surviving hits broke up protracted chases and loud shouts as they mimicked the sounds of combat. Every once in a while, Logan heard his youngest nephew shout that it wasn’t fair.

“Everything okay?”

Logan looked up into the smiling face of his brother, Rory. He nodded, and took another swig from his beer. Rory slowly gripped Logan’s shoulder and sat down on a nearby chair, his other hand clutching a glass of lemonade. For a moment neither of them spoke as they sipped at their drinks, trying to think of something to say.

“Your car running alright?” Rory finally said. Logan turned his body so his good eye could look at his old truck. What the bumper-sticker professed across the street, Logan’s truck embodied. It looked like it would fall apart any second in a pile of rusted metal and string. One door was missing — torn off in an accident — and dents covered the chassis like craters on the moon. Logan was proud of his truck. He had worked on it almost since he could drive, and he would trust that truck to survive a collision with a train. He turned back to his brother.

“Running fine, thanks.” he said, trying to smile. Rory nodded.

“You know, the restaurant has been doing very well, Sarah and I would love to buy you and Jane a new car. Your choice, too. We could take you out shopping, if you’d like.” Logan looked down at his hands. They looked old in the light. Every wrinkle cast a shadow, making his hands look withered and decrepit. They had told him he was one of the reserves. That his platoon had never even mobilized beyond some basic police actions. They said his gun had only been fired once, and it saved the life of one of his mates.

“Thanks, but no need,” another swig. “She’s driving just like I like her.”

His brother didn’t say anything for a moment, and then sat forward, leaning closer.

“Have you spoken with Mom recently?”

“No.”

“She’s asked after you.”

“I know.”

“Okay then.”

The droning hum of summer drifted over the two of them as they watched the children playing.

It’s skin was gray and ashen, stretched tightly over the bones like a drum. The eyes were sunken and hollow, rolling wildly about like an animal. A stench of death and decay spilled from the thing, as it’s limbs shook and quivered in the darkness, a low mournful howl leaking from sharp and rotten teeth.

“And for the vegetarian,” a plate of grilled peppers and onions with lettuce was handed to Logan. He thanked his wife, and sat down at the table between two of his cousins, Judy and Bob. Judy was talking animatedly with Vince across the table, both of them laughing loudly. Bob just smiled at Logan, his nose already beginning to redden from the beer. Bob picked up a large bratwurst, and bit into it, juices leaking around the corners of his mouth, and dripping into his ragged beard. He wiped his mouth with his arm, and grinned as he chewed.

“How are you then, pal?” he asked, shoving the sausage to one side of his mouth as he spoke. Logan shrugged, picking aimlessly at his plate.

“Not too bad,” he said, nibbling at a green pepper. Bob nodded eagerly, returning his gaze to his meal.

“Jane’s looking good! You got her on something new?”

Logan looked at his wife, talking calmly with Sarah, his sister-in-law. Her left hand was gripping her right bicep tightly, and the veins stood out faintly in her neck.

“No, just adjusted the dosage.” he said, popping an onion in his mouth.

“Good! She seems happy!”

“She does.”

“So all that’s behind you both now, then, right?”

“That’s what the doctors say.”

“So how does it feel?”

Logan turned his good eye to Bob. His eyebrow was raised quizzically, and his mouth had a lopsided grin that looked like he had performed a master stroke of conversation. Bob had never been very conversational, much less with Logan. He was a small-time real-estate agent, operating out of a small storefront downtown. He was blunt, brusque, and very self-assured. Logan liked him.

“What do you mean?” Logan asked, genuinely confused. Bob grinned wider.

“The brain-wiping. What does it feel like? Do you remember anything?”

“No, I just have weird dreams.”

Bob nodded, shoving another mouthful of red meat onto his teeth, chewing noisily.

“You were in the south, right?”

“Louisiana, third reserve. We never saw the action.” Logan took a drink of beer as Bob followed suit.

“Huh. I can’t imagine being one of the front-liners, can you? Imagine coming out of the army and seeing the news — seeing what you did. I bet you’d go crazy, wouldn’t you? They’d never let that happen. You think there’s anyone from the front lines who could come back to society knowing what they did?”

“I don’t know the medical details,” Logan picked up a slice of onion. He chewed thoughtfully for a few moments. “I’d imagine not,” he finally admitted. Bob shook his head, drops of juice dripping from his beard onto his shirt.

“Poor sods. I bet they got de-conditioned, were awarded their medals, and sent home to see the news with their families. They probably lose it right there, in front of their kids. I bet the conditioning breaks through — you don’t get someone to do things like that and then shut everything away again. Its still in you somewhere, and I bet - "

“Shut up, shut up!”

It was a scream. The family fell silent as everyone turned to look at Jane. She was clutching her biceps with her hands, her fingers digging into her sleeves. Her eyes were wild and bloodshot as she glared at Bob, breathing heavily. She looked ready to run over to him and throw him across the lawn. Slowly, the blood in her eyes faded, and Logan saw her hands unclench. She stood alone, the family watching, as her chest tried to crumple in upon itself. Rory placed a hand on her shoulder, and carefully led her back to the house.

The de-conditioning did go wrong, sometimes. They’d all heard stories — servicemen and women who came back from the wars still as soldiers instead of humans. Judy’s uncle had died three months after he came back, because the conditioning resurfaced in the night. Her aunt had thought he was just sleeping in, and was glad to let him; it had been so long since he had slept a full night without the dreams waking him. It wasn’t until almost three in the evening that she checked on him, and found he had choked himself on his own tongue. The military said they were trained to do that if caught by the enemy, so they don’t reveal any military secrets.

But how could he think he was captured, she had asked. He was home. Was it a flashback of some kind? No, the Military had replied. We condition them to recognize their emblem. All the barracks, drop-ships, and field tents have their emblem prominently displayed. They only time they wake up in a room that doesn’t have their emblem is when they’re captured by the enemy. Jane had insisted on hanging the emblem on the wall next to the bed. Logan didn’t argue.

The Werewolf laughed as warm life spewed from the gaping hole in front of it, caking its vision in red. Its prey’s mouth flapped uselessly as breath tried to fill lungs that no longer were there. The Werewolf slowly turned, spraying fire over the room, delighting in the screams and cries for mercy. The bodies burned brightly, sending black smoke spilling into the air like flowers.

“She’s fine, she’s sleeping.” Rory closed the bedroom door. Logan scratched his neck, and sighed while Rory continued. “Seriously, Logan. Talking about that stuff in front of her — that wasn’t very nice. Are you trying to panic her?”

Logan shook his head as Rory brushed past him. Logan followed as they both headed to the large double doors that led to the backyard.

The sun was sinking in the sky, bathing the world in a deep crimson. Logan stood, feeling the cool breeze blow across his face. Everything seemed so unimportant, somehow. He knew Jane was having trouble - she was distant from him, faded and indistinct. Logan cherished her distance - it mirrored his own. It was odd, but her distraction made him feel closer to her than to anyone else.

The sky began to fog as rolls of boiling smoke blew in from the corner of his vision. Terrified Logan slowly turned to see Rory standing next to him, smoking a cigarette. For a few moments, neither of them spoke while Logan calmed his breathing.

“What do you remember?” Rory asked, suddenly. Logan sighed, closing his eyes.

“Nothing,” he lied, shrugging. “Sometimes I feel scared, or angry, and I don’t remember why. Nothing unusual.”

Rory nodded, inhaling deeply on his cigarette, and blowing the black smoke into the air. Logan was sure he smelled something familiar, but he couldn’t place it. He could never place it. It felt like his brain had been cut in half. It was smoke and ice, covering a part of himself he could no longer feel. Part of him was gone.

“I know this has been hard on you both,” Rory was saying, “but this is the sort of thing you can’t do alone. Here.” A small slip of paper was pressed into Logan’s hand. “I wanted to give this to you before I left. I’ve taken the liberty of writing down a few names. They can help you both get everything back together again.”

Logan felt the rough paper in his hands. He wanted to talk with Rory, explain exactly what was going on, and why, but he couldn’t. It was like a wall separated them — one he probably could have cleared easily in basic training. Now, staring at his brother, who had always seemed to know exactly what was going on, he wanted to yell and tear his hair out. He wanted to grip his brother by the shoulders and shake him until his bones fell out. He wanted to scream a scream that would last for days, echoing through their little suburb town, reverberating through the plaster and brick that held them all so tightly. He knew they’d all cover their ears, but the scream would be too strong, and they would feel it, causing their muscles to spasm and bones to vibrate like tuning forks. He wanted everyone to cry, and vomit, and clutch themselves at night, writhing in sorrow and self-pity.

He felt cold.

Instead of screaming, he thanked his brother, and hugged him goodbye. Everyone left soon after — the evening was too uncomfortable now. Bob offered to stick around to make sure everything was okay, hoping to assuage some measure of guilt that he must have felt, but Logan declined. Soon, the house was empty and quiet again.

Bones and sinew snapped in the Werewolf’s teeth, free from thought and guidance, there was just the one clear and simple purpose. Death. Hunt. Kill. Rape. Pillage. There was no home to return to, no family to miss, no love to pine for, just the flames, and the freezing blood that poured like ice through the veins. There was an awareness — a small sadness somewhere in the back of the skull — that knew the purpose could not last forever. Eventually, after the world was covered in flame and warm blood, the flames would die and the blood would cool, and then the Werewolf would be alone and cold again. This frightful knowledge made the hunt intoxicating, and all the more pleasant to know the bliss could not last.