The military in control of the situation of the Desolated Lands in Europe’s borders, Gustav Boskonovich, found himself in a situation that he did not expect to face since he left the platoons through his promotions for competence, leadership, services rendered and progress in the containment of the growing mutant menace. Running away wasn't something he expected to do on his sixty-year-old age, after a cowardly fit from a stranger who had appeared out of nowhere at the bar where he was with some coworkers. A strange gas-spreading grenade burned the nostrils, lungs and eyes of everyone there. The stranger ignored everyone else, went straight after Boskonovich, who found himself forced to throw tables at the wannabe “monster hunter”, buying enough time to run out the back door and flee. He wouldn't be able to fight on his deplorable state, let alone help the others at the bar, since the assassin was coming after him.
Gustav Boskonovich was not human. The gas that wounded his internal organs had silver dust in the smoke, which was slightly poisonous to any therianthropes who lived free, or had conflicts with humans more occasionally than the night’s occurrence. But for werewolves, it was lethal. The gas forced Boskonovich to nearly cough out his lungs to rid himself of the hideous poison, and his run was painful as he felt his body seethe and burn, struggling to keep up with his ragged breath and blurred vision. The healing power that gave werewolves fighting vigor didn't help him at that moment. All he could do was run.
For decades a damn monster hunter (after all, the killer in black clothes could be nothing but that) hasn't appeared, not without reason, since humans and monsters lived in such relative peace since the end of socio-political conflicts after the Cold War. The monsters even made commercial deals with human companies, the ones most willing to make positive advances for their own societies, in their territories with their people. But there would always be extremists, driven by a blind, unhealthy faith willing to give up everything to feel strong, important, and one of those individuals had been carrying out a series of attacks on important people around Howlingtown. Boskonovich feared that this was the same killer, and that he was just another number in the dead count. That, of course, if the assassin caught him first, which the old soldier had no intention of letting happen at all.
And, for his life to continue, he forced himself to keep running.
In his escape, he wondered if the bar's security hadn't taken care of him at this point. Maybe someone from the police was on the way, because he couldn't notify anyone himself, he'd lost his cell phone in the whole mess, and he had to weave through alleys and neighborhoods, even going through the Lower Zone of the city and dodging the droppings of huge insectoids. "Take your time with these insectoid freaks, damn bastard", thought the old werewolf as he ran.
Unfortunately for him, a single backward glance revealed that the assassin was still following him. He ran and jumped between the ceilings and wooden frames between alleys, dodged any obstacles thrown by Boskonovich, slashed the myrmekos that got in his way with long knives. He didn't seem to want to catch up right away, and the thought of being hunted infuriated Boskonovich. The bastard treated it like it was a safari, he might have been laughing at the old werewolf’s flee attempt. A coward, that was what the killer really was, if he needed to weaken a predator before killing it just to brag to whoever would appreciate his hideous trophy.
“I’ll recover, I swear to the gods, I will heal my body and I’ll kill that filthy whoreson that hunts me, I will ruin every organ on his damn body!”, Boskonovich felt comforted by thinking that way. He felt that his healing power was in trouble, and he didn't understand why, because the effects of the silver must have passed, he'd been running away for a full hour and still felt his body burn as if he had swallowed burning coal. He looked back in hopes of finding any clues to the position of the killer, and noticed something unusual: he could barely see the pursuer's physical form through the shadows, were it not for the knives he held and the reflection of his mask's visor. Anything else on his body, his clothes, was just darkness, an emptiness that didn't exist and mingled with the shadows of the buildings. Where did he get equipment like that?
Boskonovich realized that, in his mad dash, he ended up reaching the limits of the neighborhoods, passed through the entire Low Zone, and arrived at a grassy field where a huge abandoned factory stood. A frantic thought hit him as he jumped over the fence: “what the hell is the point of helping workers if the damn place where they work ends up like this?!”. Furious as he was with his condition, he couldn't think of anything else, running through the large field to get to the factory was his hope, maybe he could hide while his body healed?
His lungs still burned, but he couldn't stop. He looked back a few times and found no sign of the bastard. Good or bad, the werewolf couldn't tell if he'd given up, if the myrmekos had caught him, or if he was hiding. Boskonovih’s only way out was the factory. He reached the front doors, used all the strength he had left, ripped the metal door off its hinges, and carried the object with him. Surely, he could use it as a shield and beat the assassin.
The factory, large and spacious, had all the machinery that, from what Boskonovich saw at a glance while delirious about how he would get out of that revolting situation, was for the production of fabrics. Some rusted, others with visible signs of being broken beyond repair, whatever had happened there must have been more than simply the incompetence of the owner or an accident of one or two employees. An accident, perhaps, something that had forced everyone out of there and out of work, a tragedy that had perhaps scarred some lives more than it should have. Gustav Boskonovich was reminded of the very marks he earned while working in the Desolated Lands. Those damn freaks were always faster, more numerous, always more violent, no matter how much they shot them, how much they burned them, they always came back, over and over and over. And not even the wise warrior Uther the Incandescent was able to resist those hideous beasts. In the end, like so many other soldiers, like so many other commanders and researchers, he fell. But fell like a hero. This memory brought the moribund werewolf some hope.
Boskonovich found a large room where he could rest, catch all the breath spent in the race for his escape, but his peace was short-lived. The echo of the great factory amplified all the sounds that went on inside, and his keen hearing picked up the softest of footsteps in the distance, a quick movement of leaps, more footsteps. The killer had finally found him, or maybe he was just playing with his victim. This was outrageous, soldier Gustov Boskonovich being treated like a wild pig by an arrogant hunter. He didn't want to know about hiding anymore, it was better to fight and try to kill the damn assassin. Teeth, claws, and steel door, he had what he needed and would fight for his life. Gustav accessed his transformation as best he could, thick sideburns and bigger muscles, sharp teeth and long claws, his hair longer and spiky as he growled furiously. It was time to fight.
Gustav waited, listened carefully and felt the assassin approach the room where he was. The perfect opportunity. He smashed through the wall just as he heard the killer walk by, throwing debris everywhere and using the door like a huge flat, metal club. Two blows, moving the door up and down, was enough to ward off the cretin, who responded by shooting. Gustav used the door to protect himself, the punch of the bullets knocking him back. The impact was heavy, but he endured it. He had no doubt that if those bullets hit him, his flesh would burn with silver, of course he was using silver bullets. Boskonovich had to change his strategy if he wanted to win. In a sudden movement, the military werewolf slammed the base of the door into the ground to make it stand, and then kicked it with all its might. The improvised projectile ignored all air resistance and flew towards the assassin, forcing him to dodge, and fell into Boskonovich's trap: he ran in the direction the hunter had run and hit him with a heavy punch in the face, breaking the visor of his mask and revealing a bright blue eye.
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But that was just a stroke of luck for the weakened werewolf. His tormentor regained his balance and returned to the fight, shooting to the ground and forcing Gustav to retreat, dodging his feet, opening his guard to the silver knife cuts that caught him in the arms, chest and face. They stayed in that knife, claw, and gun dance for a few moments, until the killer gained the upper hand. He forced Boskonovich to retreat and take cover, the defense being broken by knives, kicks, shots that grazed him and ripped chunks of his flesh and left his wounds burning because of the silver. Gustav already felt his body fail, and it only took a kick to his chest to make him fall on his back, breathing hard.
The werewolf had time to kneel down before suffering another attack. His eyes were filled with fury, his voice hoarse from the weakness of his decaying and injured body. But still, he spoke.
– Tell me... – Gustav gasped, almost breathlessly – Tell me, you bastard... Why...?
The stranger looked at him, silent for a few moments. Gustav was able to get a good look at his enemy's "face": a tactical combat mask, with infrared goggles protruding like fly eyes (except for the side destroyed by his punch that revealed his eye), his visible mouth and jaw were pale and pale. they looked covered in black lines under the skin, and there was only one reason to have his mouth exposed at that moment. He moved his lips in a sneer, and then grinned, spitting in the old werewolf's face.
– Why? Now, what a strange question... Because I, we, can and must do this. And you are not the first, nor the last... You all will go back to your filthy holes, soon enough...
That voice sounded weird, the werewolf guessed. Her sound was wheezing as if he had some breathing problem, and the stranger barely moved his lips. Only Gustav wouldn't let such insults go cheap.
– Now, come and lick my hairy ballsack, you bastard son of a… – his voice was interrupted, by a deep cut in his throat, making him gurgle with his own blood while he drowned with blood and bile and died.
Late at night, perhaps early in the morning, the police were alerted of a corpse exposed in the town's central square. The blemish on the memorial statue of Uther Fenrirsson, the fallen alpha of the greatest werewolf tribe, smeared with blood from a body bound to it by barbed wire made of silver.
Police vehicles surrounded the place, preventing the curious civilians from approaching. Dexter Panjarabe, the chief of police department, and Roy Terrence, the chief official of the central department, checked what information they could get with the officers who were investigating the situation. They removed the body from the statue, laid it on the ground for the coroner, who was slowly approaching with his two strange assistants.
Jonathan "John" Loyd Watson, infamous member of the Silver Owls tribe for his precision of work, argumentative coldness, whose past was a mess few knew about, was one of the most feared werewolves within the police world. Always tailored in black, he was a huge contrast to his two blond-haired, calm-faced, uniformed assistants. Michael and Alejandro, of rare blood and always silent, rarely spoke if no one spoke with them.
Loyd greeted the orc and the vanara, they both nodded in the werewolf's direction, and he bowed before the corpse of Gustav Boskonovich. He looked around strangely, no one understood why he did that whenever he found a corpse. He removed a packet of candy from his pocket, put the candy in his mouth, and tasted it.
– That's... Disturbing, to say the least about it, that is – John said in a low voice, suddenly surprising his co-workers with his conclusion – Several knife cuts, some tiny punctures in the skin... Silver residues scattered over the skin...
– Silver? Are you sure about this? – the deputy asked, curious – Who in their right mind would do such a thing?
– I agree with him – Roy said, entering the small debate – We are in the twenty-first century, nobody with love for their internal organs would commit such a crime... Using silver, unless it is in extreme cases like uncontrolled fury, is a crime.
– I agree with both, Dexter, Roy. But, however, you fail to see… – John replied, calmly, despite the fear in his eyes – The marks of cuts and wounds present a burn state impossible to be made by any other means, I have seen several like these before...
– You talking about the radical religious freaks who still hunt monsters? – Roy asked.
– Precisely, Roy, but I was thinking about my time as a headhunter. The brutality of the wounds, this doesn’t seem like something from a disorderly and crazy group, like the antifa of humans or other terrorist groups… No, this look like a calculated elimination.
– Are you suggesting that there may be a link to the assassination of Maximilliam De Laroux that happened five months ago? – Dexter asked, now really interested.
– So it seems. I cannot assume anything about that case, I was not involved. But I'm going to inspect the corpse, or what's left of it. How did the vampire die?
– A horrible thing, I'm saying: someone used a nail gun, costumized with oak nails, then used a garlic bomb, I read the necropsy reports. Then, to end the death, the poor man was drowned in the "holy water" – Dexter replied, making strange faces. Maybe it was disgust or surprise, hard to say. In his 30-year career, he has never seen anything like this before, despite the constant cruelty of previous cases he has personally faced.
– Scary stuff… – Roy shook his head, disconsolate – So, here we are, analyzing a corpse of a werewolf, who, according to a detailed analysis, was the militaristic minister of national and international conflicts, Gustav Boskonovich, 65, and that this murder it is related to that of the 300 year old vampire Maximillain De Laroux, a rich and influential perfume exporter. Why?
– That's, Roy, what I intend to find out – John said, with a certainty that he encouraged his co-workers.
At that moment, the young policemen returned, bringing a strange piece of paper, very folded. And Alejandro said:
– We found this, here, at the well – Alejandro said.
– It was attached to one of the wires that held the body together – Michael said next.
Grateful, John took the paper and, understanding that as a note, unfolded it over and over again, until he came face to face with a letter, a warning, written in a poetic and sickly format, with the blood of the deceased werewolf:
“Roses they are red
The violets will be blackened
The impurity of your filth will be purged
The unholy beasts shall be cast away to the dark
And the children of the Lord will once more rule
Deaths worse than of those who did not enter the ark”
Roy took a deep breath when he read that, after John handed him the paper. Really scary, but they couldn't do anything else. And unfortunately, while they were investigating, the media “vultures” were already circling everything, flying here and there, with cameras, high-range flashlights, filming everything. “By this time, his family already knows what happened, and the upper echelons of the government, too…”, Roy pondered, annoyed. He hated being exposed, especially by sensational journalists, but he couldn't do much. As he looked up, he only noticed John's unease when he leaned on his shoulder, dizzy.
– By the gods, man! The hell is wrong with you now? – he asked, concerned.
– There is another smell, very faint, but strong enough to make me feel bad for being exposed to it for so long... – John replied, wheezing and looking like he was going to vomit.
– Come on, you guys, let's get John out of here and wait for the morgue truck to arrive. Michael, call his family, they will need to be strong, to organize the funeral…
Michael acquiesced, and Roy and Dexter took their weakened colleague away. Little did they know that that old military werewolf's body would still be just one of many. Only they couldn't do anything, not now. With one last look at the statue of Uther Fenrirsson, John took a deep breath and let himself be led away from that poisonous smell. It would be a long night of work.