Tales from the Wolf Den
vol. IV Fall 2024 edition
Silver Ink Publishing
Heavy Is the Crown Thomas Kupec
“You’re a fool!”
“I am your King!”
“And you’re no less the fool for it!”
War, I thought, brings out the worst in people.
My lips twitched upwards. What a shame that the King’s misdeeds would come to light now of all times.
The royal guards tensed in preparation. The court –twenty-three of the wealthiest merchants, oldest families, or otherwise self-important imbeciles– stood stricken on each side of the room. Insulting a King? This King? Treason that ended with the blasphemer’s head on a pike. But the King’s son? That was complicated.
“You have no right to say that!”
“I have every right to say that! Have you seen what you’ve done?”
“I know exactly what I’ve done! I’ve protected us, our people–”
“Our people are starving! War comes to our doorstep and our people starve! What are you going to do about that! What are you going to do about the enemy that comes to rape, pillage, and take!”
I missed the King’s blundering response as I shifted my way through the crowd and towards the exit that would lead me to my quarters.
Steel scraping leather made me pause, and I listened carefully to the Prince’s response.
“Long live the King.”
Heartaches by the Numbers
Kain Brandenburg
Wind blows through the broken and desolate town as a middle-aged man stares out to nowhere while he sits next to a pet carrier with a dark grey cat laying inside munching on canned tuna. “Sorry buddy, I didn’t get anything fresh. Gonna be a lot of cans for a while,” the man says as his Mycenaean knees creaked as he stood. Once the cat is done eating the man tosses the can, picks up the carrier, large rucksack, a wood pallets worth of rusted metal, and starts walking.
The duo walks past ruined shops, houses, potholes, and scorched craters, all the way into the woods. The only sign of life is a dead leaf that blows past along the train tracks. By the time the sun is hitting the horizon, the man and his tired companion enter a surprisingly intact radio station. “Let’s see if there’s anyone out there tomorrow, bud,” the man says as he opens the rusty door into the pitch black station. Pulling a flashlight from his backpack, rather than holding it high he puts it next to his holster.
Room by room, the man searches through the station, each room luckily devoid of life, until he finds the studio. There he rushes in, tosses off his pack, and barricades the door and windows. The cat is still and silent but wide-eyed with fur standing on end. As the man unfolds the contraption into a tent of sorts, the sound of distant howling radiated like a siren. Unlike his previous kindness to the creature, the man tosses the cat into the tent-like contraption with little protest from the poor beast. The duo stay sealed in the dark, heavily padded shelter, with the cat's laboured breathing as ambiance for the two as they fall to sleep.
Time passes, as it cruelly always does, and the man awakes to silence--that blessed yet horrifying state of existence. Freeing himself, he turns the flashlight back on, sweeping the beam of light around the room, revealing the antiquity of the room. Cans around the room and cords weaving around the entire space lead to a control panel and generator.
The man turns the power generator on and walks over to the control panel, flipping switches and pushing buttons with decades of experience. Once live, he starts with his old tried and trusted broadcast, “Good morning! Good morning! If anyone is out there, go to the lake off of Huntington road.
I’ll be by at noon with supplies” he pauses and in a maddened tone curses, “fucking hell, if anyone’s out there, please show me something. Anything! ... signing off.”
With that, he takes a knife from his left side and plunges it into the console, turning it off one final time. Walking over to his abused old friend, he starts petting till the crone nips at him, “Please never change, you ancient rat.” Picking everything up, including the mess made by the cat eating, the man undoes the shoddy barricade and leaves with his companion.
“Feels that it gets brighter every day,” the man remarks. With the sun as his guide, the man travels north into the woods. Where he walks like a mad old codger with no end goal. At the designated time, somehow, he reaches the lake. As always, no one is there.
“Folks must not like my voice, I guess.” He quips for the umpteenth time. And like always, he starts his travels up again, only stopping to feed his only friend as the thing wobbles out of its safe enclosure to eat. “It won’t be long now, bud,” he coos. Once the cat is done the two begin walking again.
Past the hills and dells, did the man walk before he stood in front of a shack that is more held together than the houses from the new dust bowls. What is left of a door clings onto dangling hinges. “Mom, Ellie, I’m home! Wow, that smells delicious, what are you cooking?” the man bellows.
The only response is silence and the smell of old wood and dust. As he walks into the shack, he looks at a corner and quips, “You better haven’t given mom any trouble now, Ellie.”
“Really!? She did what now, mom?”
“Can you believe it, bud?” The man says.
He walks over to a torn-up leather chair and places his friend down upon it. His friend’s eyes have been closed, but his breathing is still there. “Hey come on. What’s wrong?”
“Where’s that little demon who zipped around the house like lightning?”
“Please. Please. Please stay with me, buddy. Just one more day, that’s all I ask of you, Louis. You’ve been with me for all these years --”
“Sleep well, old friend.”
Eons pass, the full moon shines through cracks in the roof onto the man's dried tear track adorned wrinkled and worn face as he sits adjacent to his old friend. In his hand is the rusty big iron from his holster. Then comes the damnable usual howl. This time so damn close it almost makes the man deaf. When the ringing dissipates, he hears taps at the doorway. The man turns to see the familiar silhouette of a ghoulish mockery of a human in the doorway. “Hey, old man,” the man says with the dusty end of the revolver in his mouth. The monster leaps–
Click.
The Anniversary
Vincent Rodriguez
The sizzling bacon and the boiling pots of water fill the husband’s ears like the euphoric music he and his lovely wife slow dance to. The porky strips’ aroma almost drives him mad with desire and longing like it was lust. While he cooks, the husband hums a tune that he has grown to love since he met his lovely wife during their high school years. The instrumental of ‘Heaven’ by Bryan Adams. A song that he has spent every long road trip hearing her sing at least once as he drove with his car windows down. The howling gusts of wind were non-existent as she sang the lyrics from their radio. Truly some beautiful music to his ears.
“She is gonna love this. Especially with her present...” He rejoices, grabbing a container next to a hospital letter addressed to him, Grant Cummings. He fills the container with cold water to take out the boiled eggs and end their cooking process. He also grabs one of his white ceramic plates and puts four sheets of paper towels on them to soak in the bacon grease like a sponge as he takes them off the sizzling skillet, strip by strip.
Grant grabs his plastic spoon next to the fridge to stir the oatmeal. The fridge has a magnetic whiteboard that he and his wife use to list necessities. On that list simply displays a writing in blue dryerase ink, ‘Tamoxifen.’ Grant’s gaze lingers on the whiteboard before grabbing a glossy ceramic bowl from one of the nearby cabinets. After mixing up the oatmeal, he scoops it all into the bowl. The freshly cooked oats steam into the air as the happy husband grabs a cutting board and some previously washed strawberries before chopping them up with his kitchen knife. Grant’s wife always loved her oatmeal with tons of strawberry chunks mixed in there. It is the perfect mixture of sweet and healthy.
Grant finishes up her presentable meal like he is Gordon Ramsey. He places the boiled eggs in a circle before slicing one more of the strawberries and putting four slices on top of the mixed oatmeal. He also prepares his plate with some bacon and scrambled eggs, nothing noteworthy. He sets both meals on the coffee table next to the over-the-top bouquet of white lilies that rest in a vase next to a red box with a letter on top of the folds that form the shape of the heart when the box is closed.
He looks down at the box with a smile as tearful as the smile he gave to his wife on this very day ten years ago. Turning away from the bouquet, he opens the box up and takes out an apple-shaped case with a tiny drawer on it, looking back on this very day when he and his wife both said, ‘I do...’
Grant sets his wife’s breakfast from the coffee table onto a nearby bed tray and holds it in his hands before arriving at the master bedroom. It was a very cozy abode adorning pictures of him and his wife as well as their respective families including a small drawn crayon picture of her made from Grant’s niece with the words ‘Happy Birthday, Carol!’ written on it by him. When he walks through the door, Grant sees Carol smile at him as he sets the tray of food over her lap. He leans in to kiss his wife. The feeling of her lips caressing his is like a fluffy pillow. “Morning, baby,” he purrs happily while looking at her with the red apple-shaped case in hand and his eyes sparkling. “I made your favorite, don’t worry I didn’t forget the strawberries. Oh, and I have a very special present for you.”
He slowly opens the case, revealing a vibrant and beautiful rosebud encased in a clear lid that displays it like an exhibition in a museum.
He also pulls the tiny drawer to reveal an intricate necklace with Carol’s favorite gemstone on the pendant, an amethyst. His eyes see Carol reacting excitedly to the gift, unable to form words at the sheer beauty of the rose display and the thoughtfulness of his loving act. Then there was his letter. He pulls the wax seal off of the envelope to reveal a small piece of text just for Carol and, with tears flowing down his face, he reads it aloud.
“My darling Carol, When I first met you, I felt like nothing else mattered. I was on the edge of life and death until I bumped into you in that hallway at Rosebush High School. That day, I found my lifeline during my darkest time.
Now, ten years after we first made our vows, you still light up my world like a flame. Your smile is branded into my retinas and your laughter echoes in my ears. And through all of life’s struggles, I treasure you more than anything. You're not just my wife, you're my everything. I’m beyond happy to celebrate our tenth anniversary and look forward to a hundred more with you by my side. I love you so much, Carol Anderson. Happy Anniversary. Love, Grant.”
Carol’s heart melts at the words Grant had just read to her. She always knew she had fallen for a shining knight but every time, he still manages to make her happier than she ever has been. He leans in for another soft kiss, cupping her soft face with his hand. “Happy anniversary, Carol,” he whispers while snuggling beside her and getting ready to watch the film, “Decoding Annie Parker” with her before setting the rose display case on the nightstand right next to what looks to be a white pamphlet with Carol’s portrait centered on the front page framed with gold.
Above the picture, there are six words typed in a bold and gold cursive font, ‘In Loving Memory of Carol Anderson...’
Safe?
Emma Baxley
The black and gold shrine used to be a place of comfort; that was until she got her head blown off. Crimson drips down the once pristine whiteboard, used to erase and rewrite lessons as her blood pools into the fraying navy blue striped carpet.
They could come in if they really wanted to That window isn’t secure They could take the door off the hinges What do we do if they get in?
Why would anyone want to hurt us?
“Everyone, please get out a piece of paper...” The door hammers back into place, it’s just one of the boys.
My heart beats like a drum, and I know they are here. The air burns as my shoes slap against the freckled tiled floor towards the vestibule of double-encased glass doors leading outside. My sandal flips the rubber lip of the navy blue rug before I’m snapped back, the glass doors and rubber rug back in their respectful places stretching down the hallway.
He passes me a note as she reads us a story, and we all pick or add new things to the already fraying navy blue striped carpet. The boy quickly glances at me before sliding the yellow number two pencil underneath the desk. His hand is warm and slimy as I grab it before she notices. I think UR cute :) Giggles try and fight their way out of my mouth before I slap them back in.
“Is everything alright back there?” Peering over from her rocking chair, she glances back and forth from the note in my hand to the boy before picking up where she left off, a sly grin dancing across her face. I pass the note back as the door opens, it’s just one of the boys, the door hammers back into place.
There are two doors to enter into our classroom
We shouldn’t leave through the front doors, they probably came from there
Will they still come in if we hide in our cubbies?
Why do we wait like sheep for them to come to our door?
Why would anyone want to hurt us?
Heads bent, I stare at the littered whiteboard instructions. Soft feet approach me and a warm hand on my shoulder marks her. “Could you come with me please?” she asks.
“Do you feel safe here at school?”
No.
But the answer lay in the way she leans over the table onto her elbows across from me, and her furrowed brows.
“Sometimes,” I reply.
“Why don’t you feel safe?”
Is she going to call my mom and dad?
“No, I do feel safe, I’m sorry.” She sends me back to my seat.
They are back again. I know what they look like and what they wear, but I never get to meet them. I only feel their presence and know I am not safe as I start my descent back down the hallway.
“If you can’t stop it, change it,” Mom says groggily, stroking my hair and sending me back to bed.
But what if I can’t change it?
Are we really safe?
Am I crazy?
Why would anyone want to hurt us?
Tick Tock
Ben Dunn
Tick tock.
The consistent purring of the central grandfather clock echoes throughout the whole manor. A gentle rain decides to join the clock's song and the symphony grows in grandeur with the crackle of a nearby lightning strike.
I stare outside blankly. I couldn't care less, but for some reason today feels off.
Tick Tock.
I mustn't concern myself with such unimportant matters, I have work to do. I begin my journey to the library limping all the way. If only these old bones had been impacted by the ritual. These halls are just as dark and depressing as always, only traversable at night because of
the blood red carpet. The door is open for me as I stagger into the biggest room in the house, my ancient library.
The grandfather clock greets me, but I do not care to look.
Tick Tock.
My library is the prize of the manor, and the most important asset in my cynical profession. In the center of it rests my personal desk and on all sides of the pentagonal walls are bookshelves about fifty feet tall on each side. That is except for one barren side with only a framed picture protruding out from the cold stone surface.
The eyes in the portrait stare back at me.
Tick Tock.
I unhook the picture and hold it in my hands. There in it stands a young man
engulfed by flames with a golden plaque at the bottom which reads; James, beloved comrade in the fight against evil. A tear rolls down my wrinkly face.
“James I know you'll never understand, but it was the only way, it was for the betterment of humanity for crying out loud. But why do I feel this way, and why now.” My eyes can’t take the sight of his face anymore.
Tick Tock.
I set the picture back on the wall as I pushed one of the stones into the wall. Ca-Clank! A facade in the wall opens up and thick red fog oozes out.
I try not to look at it, I swear the more I stare into it the more I see his face. I reach in and grab the massive wrinkled leather book titled “The Secrets and Truth of the Demonic” by the Prince of Lies. I slam the slightly charred slab of knowledge onto my desk next to a tube of water and my notebook.
Tick Tock.
I flip the fleshy pages of the unknown to a new chapter I haven't read yet and begin my journaling: The science of demonic exorcism and how to replicate it regardless of one's background. Day number 10,396. My paranormal research has arguably changed the world, yet my biggest task still remains. In all my years as a professional scientist first, and demonic exorcist second, I still cannot wrap my head around how there are an ever increasing amount of demonic sightings and possessions. According to my book, Lucifer himself only has one third of the fallen angels to work with, he can't be increasing this, so I just cannot understand how this is happening. I've invented and perfected the method of scientifically banishing these beasts in the name of science and yet once I get a bad hip everything goes up in flames. TickTock.
Flames, that word, why did I write that, I can't stop thinking about it, the fateful night. I don't think I had ever seen a man's skin burned off before. His screams, like that of a tortured banshee, still haunt me. Was it even worth it? It was to save humanity, so of course, why would I feel bad. I need to step out and get some fresh air.
Tick Tock.
I look up to see the clock has been smashed in, rendered incapable of sound, yet the noise persists. Where's the sound coming from! How long has my only clock been broken! Who could have done this! How could anyone get inside? I have cast a barrier of protection over this manor. I'm sweating. It feels like the house has been turned into a sauna. I look back at my desk to see the water bubbling over onto my research, but the forbidden book isn't there!
I fear that I am not alone!
Tick Tock.
The sound came from right behind me! I run, like a fox being hunted, but it's no use, my feet are just sloshing on the ground.
I blink and there appears an abominable man with burnt muscle for a face, and a pitch black robe on. He has a pocket watch in his hand.
“Tick Tock, old friend, did my burnt skin make a good covering for that deceitful scripture you swear by. Tell me, did my bubbling flesh make excellent pages for you, Vicktor, my beloved comrade? I still cannot believe you sold my soul for it.”
“James, is that really you?” I can feel the floor begin to steam.
“Vicktor, I won't forgive your betrayal, old friend, but I will say Lucifer is so
pleased with your choices. You did so much for him in your life after all.”
“What on Earth are you talking about James, I've done nothing but fight the devil my whole life. And if you are here for revenge I'll just say--”
James continued unprompted.
“You foolish man, I begged you not to go through with the ritual, and look at you now. The spells you created, the exorcisms you've done, they are nothing but smoke in the wind. In fact you've done nothing but strengthen the beasts, and all without you knowing. I mean come on, your life goal was to try and fight Satan without God, where did you think you'd end up?”
“Stay back in the name of science and all its advancements, I command you--” I am interrupted by boiling hot blood bubbling out of the walls and filling the hallway like an overflowing sink.
Tick Tock.
I can't move! No! No! No! This is exactly what I had to do to James, anything but this! I can smell the flesh boiling off of my legs.
“Please have mercy on me!” I cry out in anguish as unfathomable pain overwhelms every fiber of my decrepit body.
“Don't worry old pal, I'm bringing you home the very same way that you cast me down exactly 30 years ago. You’ll finally be right where you belong, next to the devil himself, and I'm sure you two will get along just splendidly.”
This is the price of knowledge then.
Tick Tock.
Tomorrow Never Comes
Robin Harger
The sun comes up to start another day. Wearing my bed clothes, I move to the living room and turn on the light switch, which triggers the paper shredder to cycle. It growls, and I respond, “Good morning.” Although it isn’t.
Physically and emotionally paralyzed, I start my day. Emotional pain and confusion are present, and I turn on the tv to escape. Figuring out how to move forward, I sit like a zombie, not interested I what I’m watching. My house is quiet, but the noise of the tv and the paper shredder makes the silence bearable.
Nothing can change the mood; having to wear a mask of normalcy becomes tough. Stress at a peak makes it painful to even shower; water feels like hot pebbles bringing physical pain. Finding something to do physically is a challenge, and this is where things turn dark.
Scouting has taught me many things, namely to tie knots, although they didn’t teach how to make a hangman’s noose or how to oil the rope so it moves freely. I had to learn that on my own.
The day, full of thoughts more than action, is coming to a close, and the sun retreats to the western horizon and fades on the landscape. I unload and return my pistol and return it to its case, I return to bed unshowered and curl up in a ball.
I fall asleep knowing tomorrow brings another day.
The Massacre Ephram Newland
Vai’s eyes were two sparkling ponds of beauty. Or at least that’s what Kiya would always say. Even after being married to her for two years, he still would say things like that from time to time. He’d compare her beauty to the beauty of the land. The land that they’d always called home. Yet that land wouldn’t last. That same land they’d built a life together on wouldn’t be in their lives forever... and they knew that.
The town of Himiysa sat on a carvedout ledge of a mountain, overlooking a lush purple and green forest. The town itself was divided into rows of minka, with thin purple sliding doors and dark red roofs. A dirt road led to the back of the town with a sparkling waterfall. It flowed from an outcropping above the village into a small pond, adding a light peaceful sound to the small village. The front of Himiysa faced a large outcropping of rock that hung over the land below, with a drop that seemed to go down forever. The sun was beginning to set in the distance, which meant everyone but the night watch were heading to bed for the night, just like any other sunset. The calm before a storm.
“They’re here! I detected their Gormaengine signatures in the upper atmosphere!” someone cried out, running down the main road frantically from a tall wooden tower, his red robes covered in dirt. At the look-out’s words, the town sprung to life. Soldiers dressed in red war kilts quickly armed themselves with spears and small guns that appeared as purple glowing tubes. Villagers in similar red robes ran for their homes, though Vai and Kiya were already safe in theirs. Kiya laid a land on Vai’s stomach, a look of worry on his face.
“How did they find us? We were so careful... we left nothing, no trail,” he said in a soft, but scared voice. Vai gently held his hand, shaking her head.
“You know as well as I do that my brother won’t stop until he finds me. He needs my blood.” Her long pink hair was braided with yellow flowers, and she wore a flowing white dress. Kiya wasn’t wearing any robes, instead he wore thin gray pants and a tan long-sleeved shirt, slightly torn.
“This was never going to last forever... was it,” Kiya said while giving her hand a squeeze. She shook her head softly in response. Kiya grit his teeth, suddenly letting go of her hand and turning away.
“I refuse to accept it. This is our home, and I’m going to protect it. I’m going to
protect you,” Kiya replied, grabbing a spear off the wall and walking to the door. He looked towards the mantle where an object wrapped in a white cloth sat. No... not yet. Not without her permission. He turned away from it, facing the door.
“Please don’t... you know you can’t fight them all,” Vai tried to protest but Kiya didn’t listen, sliding the door open and stepping out into the street. There was the sudden roar of engines as two dots appeared in the distance. As they came closer, the Gorma Fighter-Class ships became more visible, heading straight for the small village. When the bird-shaped fighters came closer, the sleek black metal reflected the sunlight, forcing several soldiers to shield their eyes. Four slanted metal pikes extended from the bottom of the two vehicles, sticking into the ground. Each ship was about ten feet away from the rock and dirt.
Kiya clenched the spear tightly as he fixed his cold gaze upon the spacecrafts. Even asthe ramps lowered, he still kept that deathly grip on the wooden shaft. Multiple soldiers poured out, all with sleek gray rifles with triangle-shaped barrels. Their armor had a Bela Lugosistyle collar, with a round helmet. The soldiers lined up in front of the village with their rifles raised, while one last figure strolled down to the field. He wore a suit and tie, and had pale white skin. His lips were curled into a fanged smirk, and his eyes instantly fixed upon Kiya.
“So you’re the guy she ran off with... I gotta say, you aren’t much to look at. She must’ve had low standards. I’ve killed so many pathetic humans, you’ll be no different,” the vampire commented. Kiya’s eyes narrowed, and he raised his spear without a word. The newcomer sighed and shook his head.
“Kill them all.” Every soldier in the line began firing, green lasers flying towards the villagers. Dust and debris created a small cloud where the army had stood, their spears laying broken off to the side.
“Now to find my... wait a moment. What’s this?” As the dust cleared, the army still stood, but they were just as shocked as the opposing force. Standing in front of them, about six feet tall, was someone new. Their helmet was in the shape of a wolf’s head, and a purple visor covered their eyes. The metal plating on their armor was smudged, but the most noticeable feature was their sword. They had it out in front of them, holding it sideways. It had a slight purple glow to it, but besides that it seemed like an average steel blade.
“A sword? Well... that is most impressive. Unfortunately, you’re not the only one with blade skills.” The attacker then nodded to his men, whose rifles suddenly started to change, different pieces clicking together as their guns fully transformed into blades. The unknown swordsman seemed unfazed, crouching a little as they got ready to fight. Kiya watched in complete disbelief, not knowing if he should run or help. When the enemy surged forwards, Kiya found himself backing away.
With one slash, the figure decapitated one, sending their head flying. Their next strike removed another’s arm, staining the purple blade with blue blood. They swung their foot around, slamming it into another’s ribs, shattering them. The vampire watched in mild surprise as his whole army was cut down. The figure moved so quickly, their movements were almost impossible to follow. Right when someone thought they had them, the attacker quickly found themselves on the brink of death from a devastating blow.
“You killed all of them...” the vampire said in a mixture of awe and surprise. That dazed look in his eyes quickly disappeared.
“Well, no matter. I suppose I’ll just deal with you myself,” the vampire said, regaining his composure. The figure stood there, splatters of blue blood all over their armor and mask, waiting for the vampire to strike first. That was a mistake. The vampire vanished before appearing right in front of the masked individual, slamming a fist into their gut. The swordsman was sent flying like a ragdoll, smashing through three homes.
“What a letdown. Now... where’s my darling sister, hm?” the vampire asked, appearing in front of Kiya with a smirk.
“You... you will never have her, Malcom,” Kiya managed to say, but his heart was beating in his chest, and his legs were screaming at him to run. Malcom shrugged before raising his hand, his fingernails sharpening into deadly daggers. He froze. Slowly, a drop of blue blood fell from his cheek. A cut. Slowly, Malcom looked over to see the figure from before, standing just ten feet away. Their armor was dented and cracked, and half of their mask was gone, revealing a purple wolf face with scarlet eyes. They had blood running down their cheek, but their resolve had not faded.
“Leave him be. Your fight is with me, you demon.” When the wolf spoke, it was in a cold tone that didn’t waver. Slowly, Malcom began to chuckle, which soon turned into bone curdling laughter.
“What have I been doing? I wanted to consume my sister's blood since it was rare and powerful... but you would be an even better treat! Oh I know! I’ll kill and devour both of you! And I’ll make her sad excuse for a husband watch!” Malcom cried in delight. The swordsman said nothing, instead they leapt towards Malcom, swinging a quick slash for the neck. With a quick duck, Malcom avoided it and attempted to stab his fingers into his opponent’s ribs. The swordsman barely managed to dodge the strike, leaping back. Kiya could hardly follow their movements, but he didn’t want to leave, unlike the other soldiers who were already fleeing.
“Is it me or are you slowing down?” Malcom smugly asked, delivering a hard kick to the swordsman’s side, sending them smashing through a tree. But Malcom’s grin disappeared as he suddenly coughed up blood, looking down to see a slash across his stomach.
“And you’re becoming sloppier,” the figure replied, standing up again.
Letting themselves be struck to deliver the slash seemed like the best strategy to wound Malcom, but they knew they couldn’t do that again. Another hit like that would likely dislocate their shoulder or shatter their arm. The only reason these powerful blows hadn’t killed them yet was because of their body’s increased durability. They didn’t have much time to ponder how they’d get another hit in as Malcom was suddenly in their face again, delivering strike after strike.
Kiya ran back towards his home, his fists clenched. I have to find her... maybe we can take a ship and get out of here! He quickly found Vai, who was against the wall, sweat beading on her forehead while her body trembled.
“Vai... you were right, we can’t fight him. But we can escape... we can get out of here.” Kiya explained. The house shook as the battle outside continued.
“What’s going on out there my love?”
Vai asked gently, placing a hand on Kiya’s cheek.
Kiya looked back at her, his hands trembling. “There’s this guy fighting Malcom. But Malcom is distracted so–” Kiya began but Vai moved her hand to his mouth to quiet him.
“There’s someone else out there fighting for us. We can’t leave them here to fight our battles for us, it isn’t right. At the same time, I can’t risk the life of our child... but there is something I can do.”
Vai released Kiya then grabbed something wrapped in a tattered white cloth, placing it in Kiya’s hands.
“You know what to do,” she said softly. Kiya already knew what the cloth concealed but gave a concerned look.
“Are you sure?” he asked worriedly. Vai looked down, her eyes deep wells of regret and sadness.
“We have no choice. He’s always had a fixation on my blood because its rare properties that can grant incredible power. However... Despite that I’ve never wanted to harm him. But now, I can’t risk our child suffering for my softness. Do it my love... end this once and for all.”
“I won’t let you down,” Kiya replied, holding the covered object tightly. He then turned and quickly left the house, sweat beading on his forehead. The wolf was busy blocking Malcom’s strikes, their arms reduced to a blur. They had several cuts, and their armor was falling apart. Slowly, the wolf was losing ground, falling back farther and farther. Malcom didn’t even glance in Kiya’s direction, which
gave Kiya a bit of confidence. Malcom saw everyone around him as inferior, so he didn’t even bother acknowledging Kiya as a threat to him.
Kiya ran towards Malcom, clutching the cloth tightly. Vai is right... I have to be the one... the one to end this. Once and for all. He jumped towards Malcom, his eyes narrowed in anger.
“Malcom! You’re finished!” he cried out, but was met with a devastating strike. Malcom stabbed his fingers up through Kiya’s chin, leaving a gaping wound. Kiya’s eyes went wide, and he stumbled back before collapsing on the ground. The wolf lost focus, and was speared through the stomach, joining Kiya on the cold dirt. Malcom looked between the two, before he began to laugh, giggling with glee as he watched the two bleed out. What have I done? I thought I was helping... I thought I could win. Kiya watched as Malcom approached him, coughing a bit.
“When you ran at me like that, I could see the hatred, you know. For a moment, you looked just like one of us,” Malcom said with a chuckle, crouching down. Kiya curled his fingers into a fist, raising it slowly.
“Curse you... you bastard! Curse you all!” he cried out in anger, but with a quick move and a sickening crack, Malcom broke Kiya’s wrist. Kiya let out a cry of pain, tears forming in the corners of his eyes.
“I’m sorry, what was that? You’re nothing... you don’t hold a candle to my strength. You can’t protect Vai, or even your village. You wanna know why? You are nothing more than a pathetic human. That’s why you’re such easy prey for us vampires. Now where’s that object you had? I’m sure it was something as equally useless as you,” Malcom said with glee, but Kiya smiled, slowly lifting his head while blood dripped from his chin.
“You’re right... I’m not nearly as powerful as you. Which is why I passed it to someone who could do it. Someone who could kill you.” Malcom looked confused, but slowly realization struck. His eyes widened with absolute terror, and his body tried to react. His head slowly turning, but much too late. Because there, in front of the vampire, was the wolf. Their mask and armor was utterly destroyed, and their body was gravely wounded, but they hadn’t given up. In their two purple bloodied hands
they held the object that was once concealed by the cloth. A purple wooden stake.
They drove it down into Malcom’s chest with a mighty roar, baring their teeth in a display of pure ferocity. The stake was driven deep into Malcom’s chest before the wolf fell to the side, panting and coughing blood.
Dumbstruck, Malcom’s eyes slowly started to look down, almost as if he couldn’t quite believe what had just transpired. Blue blood soaked his shirt, dripping off of the wooden stake. He then looked back at the wolf. How weak they seemed. Weak... but victorious. Malcom collapsed, his body beginning to turn to dust.
“Vai held onto that stake, made from the last trees on Earth. The only thing that can slay a pure-blood vampire. She knew she’d have to take your life someday, but wanted to give you chance to change. Even after you chased her to the far reaches of the galaxy, Vai wanted you to live. I may have hated you... but she loved you,” Kiya explained, looking down at Malcom with a hint of pity. Malcom said nothing. There was nothing to say. Instead, he withered away in silence. Kiya still stared at the ground Malcom had been on before he’d withered away. A fitting end to a man so evil... yet I feel slightly regretful. The wolf slowly stood, using a small flame from a tube to sear their wound closed. Despite this, not a single sound of pain left their muzzle.
“Sir... why did you protect us? And... who are you?” Kiya asked the figure.
“Those who choose to hunt others deserve to be hunted themselves. That’s who I am...The Hunter,” The Hunter replied, turning and beginning to walk towards the path off to the side that led back into the forest. Kiya blinked before he slowly looked around, noticing the gruesome destruction and death. That’s when the reality of what happened hit him. He realized at that moment he and
the village weren't saved, only spared. There had been no heroic acts committed in the village. The smell that hung in the air, the vampire corpses, all of it was evidence of A Massacre.
Palatable Mask
Philip Gutierrez
The corners of the porcelain face's lips spread and cracked the mask, extending across the vaguely human features to reveal scraps of bone. The tainted crunches of keratin stabbed into its gray, rotted gums in a poor imitation of teeth.
"Welcome home, Moulde!'' Spoke his kindred soul, as the frothing form of her black tendrils sloshed to Moulde. Her shape vibrated in an excited bounce as the mass of muscle pushed against the porcelain mask, breaking through the veneer of anything familiar to man and leaving only the writhing mess of organic matter, constantly swirling within itself.
"Have the humans treated you well today?"
The creature spoke. Moulde similarly grabbed at his face and tried to pull it off.
"Grab." Yet the permanently embedded skinsuit taunted him; stretching like it was on the verge of coming off. Though the damned collagen fibers kept the costume together. Moulde gave up and let out a rehearsed breath to properly express his annoyance at this suffocating costume. His arms came back down in their usual curl, reminiscent of a T-rex's arms.
"Annoyed." Was all he said.
The mass of tendrils curved down at the sides forming slopes like eyebrows as a thick, pale yellow substance bubbled from the middle orifice. It cooed with sympathy.
"Oh Moulde... If only I had something to fix that... Maybe then, I'd have something convincing." The mass of tendrils slowed their swirling, all facing Moulde's body and lurching with anticipation.
"Startled. Please do not, Sally." Moulde lightly stepped back. "It helps me blend in. In fact, it helped me obtain a successful interaction today."
"Successful?" Two tendrils protruded from the top of Sally's organic mass to imitate raised, excited eyebrows.
"Excitement. He was still put off by my lack of expression, but I wasn't met with scorn."
"Pff." Sally let out a breath of pale yellow gas through the gaps between its tendrils in a sigh. "Expression, expression ... Who needs expression? All just arbitrary social rules designed for only the majority to thrive on." Sally's tendrils curved into an imitation of hands, flopping its wrist dismissively.
Moulde knew she didn't mean that. Whenever he came down to the basement, he would occasionally catch her making a porcelain mask in the image of whatever painting she found in a book. For a while, she wore a mask imitating The Screamer by Edvard Munch. She'd tell Moulde that the gaping mouth represented how hungry she was.
For a while, she also wore a porcelain mask based on a painting from the Italian Futurism era depicting a young man overlooking an industrialized riverbank. The painting doesn't show the man's face, but Sally created furrowed brows, gritted teeth, and veins popping with reddened features. In her words, the expression represented a nostalgic longing.
Most importantly, one day she made a porcelain mask based on Moulde's face. In complete contrast to what his surface face shows, the mask displayed a soft, sensitive look in his eyes. The mask smiled, in the sort of way a friend would in comforting another. This one with the most confidence she said represented solace in an unwelcoming world. He remembered it being the first mask she made after he found her and let her hide in his basement.
"And what for? You know you don't like it. We'll still be the only ones who aren't repulsed by each other at the end of the day, no matter how you blend in." Sally continued.
"We'll both get what we want out of this. So... Please?"
Moulde's eyes trailed to a small stack of books in the far corner of the basement. It was a series of books that Moulde had followed since his youth depicting a mundane slice of life. Perhaps something bland to the ordinary person, but a collection of idealized human experiences to Moulde. An ideal of social norms and expectations that seemed to be enforced by everyone with the narrative of a happy life in return.
Experiences far removed from what Moulde has known.
Though in this decrepit basement surrounded by blackened concrete walls and dripping cobwebs, Moulde found a strange freedom in this thick pocket of reality locked away from the majority's world.
"Do you plan to take my skin? Head turn."
Moulde's head slowly turned to look at Sally, his tone as blank as it always was.
Sally flinched. For once the constant swirling of her form came to a complete halt, leaving a tangle of fleshy mass. "What would make you think that?"
"The skin would help you blend in, like you've always wanted." Moulde replied.
The tops of Sally's form sloped down in her rehearsed eyebrow expression again as her form contracted into itself, tightening. Though, the creature's form loosened into a near puddle, letting out a breath of pale yellow gas.
"I considered it but... what'd be the point? Even with your skin you don't blend in. No matter what we look like, no matter how well we memorize our lines, no matter how well we've rehearsed our blocking, we'll never fool them or ourselves enough to be truly part of them.
Moulde... You're not happy trying so hard to be one of them, are you?“
For a while Moulde didn't say a word, only staring at her with his blank face. "Dejection. What do I do, then?"
Part of Sally's organic mass gathered into the vague shape of a head, lowering in sadness as she sighed. Tentacles reached from the creature and gently wrapped around Moulde's hands.
"I... I don't know... But we have each other. We'll find our way... "
In that moment, any trace of the outerworld faded away. The cold and empty light that broke through the open door and intruded into the basement dimmed as for once, it didn't persist its view into Moulde's and Sally's eyes. In their world of warm, caressing darkness enveloping them like a hug they could no longer feel the outer world pulling them like moths to light traps. A warm darkness, though one that most people feared. A comforting darkness that no one but Moulde and his best friend could see through and understand. A darkness that's been denied for far too long.
Moulde leaned his head onto Sally's.
"Freedom."