At this point, I find it necessary to explain the world in which these varyingly paranoid and apathetic supernatural beings exist. Vampires and werewolves are no longer the stuff of legend except in the most sheltered communities (like Madeline's university town.) They are the stuff of vague newscasts with blurry photos and fatality approximations. Humans adopt the same opinion of them that the creatures adopt of humans, in other words, mixed emotions. Slayers are not a specific organized group, but a loose worldwide militia intent on destroying the vampires and werewolves for a number of reasons from personal vendetta to religious righteousness. The Living Dead are a small group of anti-human activists, the equal and opposite force of the slayers, though far less in number. They are purist and of the belief that even other vampires are beneath them. They disdain werewolves because they are slightly closer to humans in bodily needs--air, food, etc. Most sensible vampires and werewolves avoid them. They are, to woefully understate the truth, trouble makers. If humans do not invade their territory or cause them harm, they will do so to the humans. The city of Chicago is one of the many battlegrounds for their feuds as the supernatural to human ratio is higher than in more rural areas. This said, we return to the meeting of the "clans," of sorts, though families and loose need-based alliances would be more appropriate titles.
The dispute continued until Matteo raised his weary voice and asked the congregation to get a hold of themselves. "Enough. Murdoch, your report comes to little point. It is the same as last time. There are always injuries, yes, but no mass killings. A war, while up for level-headed consideration, is not in progress. Thank you, Ashley, for your input. Your proposal of peace and pacifist ideals will be put up for equal consideration by the group.
"We still have, though, the issue of location to establish. Shall we stay, or shall we leave for higher ground in the event of a flood of publicity, prying eyes, and potential violence?"
"Who's to say such a flood must come?" Madeline was interested to find this speaker was Leif, from beside her. While the intense gazes of the assembled did not fall directly on her, she felt uneasy and like an intruder of sorts as all of their heads swept in her general direction. Thankfully, most did settle on her werewolf friend. She was surprised, then, to find him looking angry. While his impassive face did not betray it, the way his muscles were tensed and the hair raised, almost stark white-blond like his fur in wolf form as opposed to gold, showed his displeasure. He began to speak again, crouched on the balls of his feet, balanced by one hand's fingertips, firmly grounded, and his meaning intensified by his other hand, gesticulating in the dank air. "This 'flood' of malice is brought on by the wanton violence and destruction of a select group of individuals, high and mighty on their bloody thrones, self-proclaimed princes of this God-forsaken city." The free hand, which had been a fist, reconfigured itself into a harsh, accusatory finger; Leif rose to his full height to stare coldly into the eyes of the glowering Murdoch across the chamber. "Make them leave, and there shall be peace again."
Murdoch and what were supposedly his fellow Living Dead shouted their predictable protests and cries of outrage at the blatant insult. Leif wiped his mouth of the spittle brought on by his great hatred of them and continued to look as though sickened and appalled by something truly gruesome. Madeline had never seen him like this. "He's a spy, he is! We always knew they had an inside man! He's working with the slayers. Attack!" Murdoch was sputtering. Once again, the room's allegiance divided, but this time every werewolf gravitated towards Leif, sick of being treated as second-class-citizens by the firebrand cult.
"Order! Please, people! What do we accomplish by tearing each other apart?" Matteo looked desperate. Madeline wondered who'd thought to put him, a man of obviously weak constitution, in charge.
"Matteo, you heard him! He's a traitor to the cause!" a member of the Living Dead piped up.
"What cause is that, pray tell?" spat a young werewolf. She was lean and muscular and feral-looking. Madeline imagined a powerful cat or timber wolf preparing to take an agitated swipe at the throat of a territorial intruder.
"Purity! Justice! I wouldn't expect you to understand, young pup!" said another. The girl leaped with great agility at the men's jugulars and they leaped in time to meet her halfway. What would have been a scuffle between lesser beings was an all-out death match when there were fangs and claws involved. Matteo lost control of the sides then, if he had ever had it, and werewolves transformed on the spot, unsheathing claws and heading for the members of the LD, who bared their teeth and made rude slurping sounds to instigate the fight. Leif was a wolf, too, now, but did not lunge for the fray. Instead he ran to the side of the wolf mother Elena where he made eye contact with Ashley and they worked together to help her up and to the cellar doors. Presumably pacifistic vampires and wolves alike were rushing for the door as well. Madeline was vaguely aware that Cyprian had his arms around her, as if it would help if a massive wolf or blood-lusting vampire came and attacked them. He was leading her toward the doors, saying something about "insanity" and "what idiots" and "terrible damage to the population count. Shoddy as it is!" He had a panicked look about him, always the sensible one, and occasionally shouted a "come on!" into her ear. She did not listen. Despite his best efforts in the direction of safety, she remained rooted to the floor.
"What are you doing? Come on! It's dangerous in here! You never know with Murdoch! Come on! The doors are just over there!" Madeline was not even looking at him. She was preoccupied with a man in a hockey mask holding what looked to be an AK-47 or other semi-modern machine gun model parting the brawling crowds down the middle with a hot, leaden spray of deadly bullets. He was coming their way and shouting something incomprehensibly through the plastic mask as he was joined by other men and women, likewise armed, from every direction.
"It's locked," she said flatly, in the tone of someone with a reputation, struggling against a hard lump in their throat, trying not to cry. Seconds after she said this, the frantically escaping throng found itself pounding futilely against the only exit, clawing with fingernail and tooth at the unyielding panel of iron that had been shut over the wood as a security precaution. It was, as Madeline had predicted, locked. The last thing she saw was an earthen wall collapsing, a swarm of gun-wielding slayers pouring into the room, and a smoke canister being released into the center of it all. It must have been more than smoke, because she felt Cyprian stop trying to drag her after him, and her consciousness receding as rapidly as the cruel, unrelenting butt of a nearby semi-automatic weapon was rushing towards her temple through the nearly-opaque wall of gas. Everything went black, and then red with pain and neural tranquilizer.
Copyright 2008 C.B. Sanders
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