Jack Bloodfist: Freelancer: Heroes of Summervale, #2

Prologue

Sand, older than time, soft and sharp. It stretches as far as I can see in every direction. I trudge through the darkness as all of existence and emptiness spin above me.

Time has no meaning in this place, which is for the best. I have no idea how long I’ve been here. How many days or nights have passed as I push myself through the fine, blade sharp, sand.

I am hungry and cold and tired. And I am hunted.

I’ve killed a few of the monsters that stalk the Plain, but there are too many for me to fight alone. And I’ve lost my axe. Even with my strength, fighting empty handed is difficult.

Nothing much grows on the Plain. Only a dry and brittle grass, and I left all of that behind miles ago. There are no trees or stone to use for weapons. Only the sand with its soft, inner light.

I collapse, not for the first time, overcome with exhaustion. The armor that covers my hands and arms the only thing that stops the sand from ripping my skin open.

Above me the dual skies of my prison turn slowly. It will be night soon. What I’ve come to think of as night. What I’ve come to fear.

One half of the sky holds within its veil, the universe. Every universe. Every sun and planet, galaxy and civilization. All of it. Everything that ever was or can ever hope to be. Everything ever dreamed into existence.

The other is just nothing. Nothing, and more nothing. An emptiness that writhes just beneath the surface. It’s from that nothing that the monsters come.

And it turns to meet me. Balanced on a needle point the universe and its dark twin spin like a top over the Plain.

I’d originally thought that I could choose a direction on the Plain, just walk farther into the side that was lit by the light. But I was never able to escape the turning. There is no time here, but everything still moves as though there were. And, when night comes, the sky writhes and rips open. I have been fast enough to run from what rains down, but nothing can last forever.

I push myself to my feet and hurry on. I hope that soon I will find something. Someone. I know they are here. The Great Plain is the final stop for many like me. For the Dei. I’m sure many of them resent being sent here as much as I do.

I’ve been lead to believe that they all deserve to be here, or chose this exile. But I didn’t choose. I was betrayed. So, I will find them and they will help me get home. Maybe even help me get my revenge.

In the distance I catch sight of a break in the horizon. I strain my eyes and realize that it’s a mountain. A lone peak breaking up through the sand.

I have no real way of telling how far it is, but I angle my path toward it. Maybe I’ll get lucky and find a cave for the night. Somewhere to hide from the creatures that will soon be searching for me.

I’m almost grateful for the sand as it closes itself behind me, leaving no distinguishable trail.

The sky turns and I fall into darkness. The endless silence is broken by a gentle groaning I have come to recognize.

I look up, and directly above me the nothingness of the sky stretches. A fetus in a womb pressing against its prison.

The sky tears open. I can’t see the tear, it is as absent of light on the other side of the veil as it appears on this side, but the distant light of the other sky illuminates the thing that falls toward me.

All claws and tentacles and mouths. I roll through the sand and I’m covered in a shower of the fine substance as the monster hits the ground where I had been standing.

The sand cuts my face, my blood black against its faint glow.

The monster is small. Only ten feet tall.

My orc blood thrills at the thought of battle and I charge toward the writhing mass of death.

I’m too slow and one of the tentacles wraps around my chest and lifts me off the ground, pulling me toward a gaping mouth.

I roar as I wrap my hands around the slimy length of muscle and pull.

The flesh tears and I fall to the ground. I dodge another attempt and jump closer. The sand makes it hard to move quickly, but I manage to get close enough.

I punch a hand inside one of the mouths and grab at one of the two tongues that squirm inside. I pull it out with all my strength and the cries of pain are echoed from a dozen mouths.

It takes longer than it should to kill the thing and it is fully dark by the time I am done.

The white glow from the sand—littered with gore—is my only light.

I hurry toward the mountain in the distance. More than one of these things and I’m dead. I can’t let them catch me. I’m not ready for that. I’ve been through too much to die now.

That’s right. You don’t really know what I’ve been through. I guess I owe you a story. You still don’t know why I’m here. How I was betrayed.

Well, okay. Let’s get back to it.

One

I think it’s vital that I start with the very—very—important fact that it was not my fault. Sometimes shit just happens. It’s just a coincidence that said shit happens around me more than other people.

Sorry, let me back up a bit.

Kirk Brown, the leader of Summervale’s local were-club, had hired me months earlier to act as security guard for the wolf portion of the group’s monthly get-together.

Now, as cliched as it sounds, no one in the club really likes being a member. So, when that time of the month rolls around they all lock themselves up in reinforced concrete cells and wait it out.

My job was to sit in a small room filled with security monitors for the three nights staring at the moving pictures.

Half of the screens monitored the outside of the building. The long, salted driveway—recently repaved to cover up the depressingly large blood stains that had been left after a violent attack by men in armor. The leafless, snow-laded trees—many with bullet holes still visible in the trunks. Even the pretty, man-made lake. There are still two bodies on the bottom. I’m not sure how fast fish can eat, so it’s possible that there’s only rusted armor and bones by now.

The other half of the screens are connected to the cameras inside the cells.

The first time I arrived ready for my shift I had a sick sense of excitement about those screens and what they would display. That excitement died the second the people inside the cells began to scream.

I couldn’t hear them—thank God for sound proof walls—but I could tell. As one, every occupant contorted in pain. Most had already sat down or stretched out on the ground and I felt a little bit like a voyeur, since they were all naked, but I am nothing if not a professional. I made sure to avert my eyes from their naughty bits.

But I couldn’t pull my eyes away when the transformation started.

It starts with the skin crawling, as though there are snakes writhing just beneath the surface. Then the skin bursts open and the thick fur rushes out. Faces split apart and snouts push out of screaming mouths. Arms and legs elongate and grow, and sharp claws push their way out of the pads of fingers.

Every time I saw this my stomach clenched in a fear that I had never known myself capable of feeling. I still wonder how many of my predecessors had left the building and never come back the first time they’d witnessed this.

Even months later I still felt that fear. Even after the novelty had worn off.

This happened three nights every month. The club members would enter their cell and transform. By the third night, they were all too tired to do much until after they were covered in fur and teeth.

I want to take a second to point out that I’d supervised this for months without incident. Just remember that as I tell you the next bit.

Anyway, I never really did get used to watching the transformation, so I’d made it a habit to not be in the security room when the skin started crawling.

I usually spent the few minutes that happened in Kirk’s kitchen stocking up for the night ahead.

I didn’t have free reign in that kitchen. Kirk’s chef ran a tight ship.

John was one of the few goblins in town that I still spoke to. He hadn’t been around for the little mishap earlier that year that had forced me to disown the majority of my goblin cousins. He’d been attending culinary school.

That was a big factor in Kirk hiring him. Very prestigious program, apparently. Though, the main reason is probably because John is a goblin.

I’m told waking up after a night as a wolf is like the worst hangover in the world. And the best thing for that is a big, greasy breakfast.

And, like I always say, if you want food with your grease get a goblin to do the cooking.

So, to avoid watching mounds of disgusting fur break through skin, I’d help John set up the kitchen for the next morning’s meal. John would usually wander upstairs to sleep until it was time to do the actual cooking.

Occasionally I’d visit with some of the family members of the club. The wives, husbands, kids. Whoever had decided to come along for that month’s get-together.

Turnout in that group was better than I’d expected. I guess I’d thought a lot of them would prefer to pretend that nothing was wrong, that monsters didn’t really exist. But there they were, every month. It probably helped that John fed them well, and that the clubhouse is pretty damn swanky.

So I’d visit and help cook. And then I’d spend eight hours staring at monsters that made me reconsider my theory that orcs have no fight or flight response.

That’s how it had gone for the majority of my time on the job, anyway.

After the appropriate amount of time had passed I returned to the security room with a plate of grease John had prepared for me, settled into the leather desk chair and faced the monitors.

I may or may not have spun around in my seat a few times before rolling myself over to stare intently at the screens.

I flipped the switch for the night vision and was greeted by the images of pacing, green monsters.

Occasionally the camera would catch their eyes and I felt like they were staring into my soul.

The cells are only really big enough that the wolves could take a step or two in any direction before turning and trying a different route. The smallest member of the club—pack?—stands about eight feet tall as near as I can tell. The cells are ten by ten. Just big enough to make the brutes restless.

I have a pretty good memory, and I’d memorized which cells each screen monitored, as well as which upstanding member of the community occupied each one.

Kirk, who was by far the biggest, was curled up on the floor of his room, taking up most of the available space. His long tail flicked lazily against the scarred wall, more like a horse’s than a wolf’s.

Every once in a while he would lift his massive head and look around his cell as though he had heard something in the dark before lowering himself back to the cold cement.

I shivered anytime his eyes glanced up at the camera. The glowing green disks always seemed to understand what it was.

In another cell Mrs. Caldwall, the owner of a flower shop in town, was licking herself. If she hadn’t been a towering monster I would have laughed at that.

The only one of the wolves that seemed to be acting a little weird—weirder than usual, anyway—was Officer Mike Jensen.

He was sniffing the door to his cell, tail sticking straight up behind him. As he studied the door he cocked his head to the side in that way dogs do. He opened his mouth and I imagined a bark, though I wasn’t entirely sure what werewolves sounded like.

He stuck a giant paw out toward the door and nudged it. The door swung open. The massive, foot-thick steel, magnet powered, more secure than a bank vault door, swung open.

The bright fluorescent lights that filled the hallway outside the cells lit up the room and the screen went white, the night vision useless.

Oh, fuck. I dropped the steak breakfast burrito that was halfway to my face and jumped to my feet.

I hurriedly checked my gun, an old .38 revolver my father had given me, and made sure I had a few speed loaders in my pocket before rushing out of the room into the clubhouse proper.

The bullets were silver, if you were worried. Kirk had told me once that I should invest in silver. Luckily, I hadn’t had to. One of the perks of the job was that he supplied it.

I rushed through the kitchen and into the main room of the lodge. Several people were milling about, enjoying a nightcap, staring out the large window into the snow covered forest outside, or just sitting by the fireplace.

They all seemed so comfortable. Just spending a few days at the lodge.

None of them failed to notice me barreling into the room waving a gun around.

Jack? someone asked.

I answered the man with a glare that I hoped conveyed the situation.

Mike’s wife, Cecilia, asked the important question. Should we be worried?

I tried to put on a calm, nonchalant exterior. I think it would be a great idea if all of you made your way upstairs. Lock your doors behind you.

I stood in the middle of the room as they all filed upstairs. I was impressed with the lack of a mad dash and trampled bodies. I guess living with a werewolf helps with the mindless fear.

When I heard the last lock click I turned my full attention to the basement door. It was a wooden panel that perfectly blended into the wall. You wouldn’t know it was there without someone pointing it out.

I really hated it down there. I considered that at least this time I would be able to go down there with the lights on. Not that that really made it better. I’d still have to deal with Officer Mike.

I froze in a sudden panic. What if Mike wasn’t the only wolf loose? I’d reacted so quickly. I hadn’t even checked the rest of the monitors.

I felt like I might throw up.

Before I could convince myself to make any sort of move, the panel clicked and the door swung open.

I know I probably don’t need to tell you this, but werewolves are scary as fuck.

I was frozen in place as the massive, fur covered, claw tipped, hand—God, I’d never realized before that they were actually hands, not paws—slowly came through the opening. It was followed by a second, then the large snout. It snuffled loudly as the black, intelligent eyes swept the room.

Watching them on a screen is one thing, but when one of those bastards steps from around a corner and stares you down, you better hope your stomach is empty or your pants are gonna be full.

His fur was caked in the gore and viscera that comes with every change. And the smell, holy shit, the smell.

His muzzle curled back to reveal the row of overly-white, sharp teeth. Claws dug furrows in the hardwood as he approached.

Uh, I said, bravely.

Mike replied with a deep, chest vibrating growl.

Here’s the crazy thing: I liked it. God help me, I liked it. The rush. The knowledge that I might die. It had been months since I’d felt anything like that.

I took a deep breath and slowly leveled my .38. I tried not to move too quickly. I didn’t want to startle him.

His eyes, reflecting red from the fire, darted to my hand and he roared as he pushed himself off the ground toward me.

I now knew what a werewolf sounded like and I didn’t like it anymore.

I roared back as I rolled out of the way.

The wood floor where I’d been standing splintered at the impact of the wolf’s heavy frame.

I spun toward him, gun raised, and froze.

He stood on his back legs, front legs dangling at his side like misshapen arms, and glared down at me.

I swallowed and forced myself to squeeze the trigger. Sorry, Mike, I said as the sound of gunfire mixed with Mike’s angry cry of pain.

The beast that was Mike lumbered forward, blood pouring from his side, and swiped at me with a clawed strike. I managed to dodge the first swipe but was caught by the backhand.

My feet left the floor and my back connected, painfully, with the rough wood of the expensively rustic wall.

My gun slipped from my hands as I bounced off and my face hit the floor.

Now, despite what some might say, there are some real advantages to having an orcish heritage. I apologize if this offends your pride in your species, I’m sure there are perks to being whatever you are, but you probably don’t have the inborn survival and battle instincts that we orcs enjoy.

I also have the added advantage of owning a magic axe, so, that’s pretty cool.

With one arm I pushed myself up and away as the wolf’s claws dug into the wood where my head had been, and with my other hand I pulled Ukufa—my magic axe—from the custom holster I wore on my back.

I slipped as I moved and landed hard on my ass, but I was facing Mike and that was good enough for the moment.

He lunged forward, mouth open and hungry. I moved Ukufa up in front of my face, just in time to catch the too many teeth of the werewolf on the wooden handle.

Mike dropped back down to all four and pushed against the weapon as I shoved it as far back into his mouth as I could. His jaws opened and closed uselessly against the wood of the weapon.

In the six months or so that I’d had Ukufa I hadn’t found anything that could hurt her. And, before you ask, yes, my axe is a girl. Get over it.

Mike narrowed his eyes before shooting one of his front legs up toward me. I rolled away, pulling Ukufa out of his mouth as I did so. I spun her around in my grip and punched the stiletto blade that rested opposite the axe head into the wolf’s temple.

It bounced off the thick skull and cut a long line in the beast’s fur. I moved with the momentum of the punch and pushed the blade in harder as I ran past him. The blade dug deeper as I found less bone to resist.

I pulled the blade out and dove forward just as five angry claws carved through the air behind me.

I landed, luckily enough, right next to my gun. I scooped it up as I rolled over, already sighting down the barrel. I’m not the best shot, but Mike was close enough that it didn’t really matter.

Mike! a woman’s voice.

Both Mike and I looked to the sound. He stood straight and spun toward her.

On the second floor of the clubhouse Cecilia Jensen stood on the landing, hand to chest, eyes wide in fear.

I sighed. I couldn’t kill him now. Not with his wife watching. That’s basically the king of dick moves. Probably for the best. I actually kind of liked Mike.

With him distracted I pushed myself to my feet and rushed toward the werewolf, gun out in front of me.

He spun back at the sound of my approach.

I wound up a pitch, Ukufa back behind my head. With a grunt of effort I threw her. The axe and stiletto blades reflected the firelight dully as they spun through the air before the axe head buried itself between the wolf’s eyes.

Mike reeled backward and grabbed clumsily at the weapon sticking out of his head.

I slid to a stop as close to the wolf as I could and placed my gun on the thigh of his right hind leg.

The cry of pain was louder than the gun. I was sure I’d hit bone, and I really hoped I’d missed any vital arteries. I dodged out of the way of his frantic counterattack and sidestepped to the other leg. Again I placed the barrel on his thigh and fired.

He snarled angrily as he collapsed to the ground and I quickly back stepped away from him. His front legs moved out, claws digging into the wood. He pulled himself—much faster than I was comfortable with—toward me.

His full attention was on me again. He’d completely forgotten about the woman crying on the second floor landing.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to surprise him with a close range shot again, so I took a valuable few seconds and aimed.

My first shot splintered the wood two feet to his right. The next was closer but still missed. I only had one shot left.

That bullet hit him in the left shoulder.

I darted in again as he howled in pain. I didn’t want to waste any more bullets if I could help it. In the back of my mind I was still considering that others may have gotten out. I’d need to deal with them, too.

I pulled Ukufa out of Mike’s skull and jumped back just in time to dodge the swing from his one good arm.

I knew that if the bullets hadn’t been silver the wounds would have healed already. The gash down his side from my axe was already closing up. But I figured some things would take longer to heal, even if they weren’t caused by silver.

I holstered my revolver and held Ukufa like a baseball bat. I didn’t have to wait too long for the pitch.

Mike pulled himself forward with his good arm then took another swipe at me. I swung back.

Cecilia screamed at the sight of her husband’s hand as it landed in the fireplace.

The smell of burning fur and meat filled the room instantly.

He howled and snarled in equal measure as his body writhed, still trying to reach me.

I pulled Ukufa back up again and with