James’s Note: As we join Daniel after his apocalyptic car crash, we found out how a Witcher Man faces a monster strait out of a werewolf’s nightmare.
The next few moments got a bit hazy, but my next clear memory is of having crawled halfway out of my capsized car, dragging my messenger bag with me, blood pouring from what used to be my nose. I was trying to get my bearings when a deafening roar shattered the humid air. It sounded like a T-rex crossed with a jet engine and it was coming from the walking nightmare standing over me and my poor wrecked mini.
“I really hate being right”, I muttered to myself as the monster slashed down with claws like a hand full of sickles. I had to slither and roll to simultaneously extricate myself from the mini and evade the descending talon of death. I didn’t quite manage it as the talon sliced through the back of my leather jacket.
The monster that was currently trying to murder me was exactly what the magical test I ran had indicated. I had been returning to the scene of the crime to confirm the results. What I hadn’t counted on was the culprit returning to the scene of the crime as well. I guess I should have paid more attention to my Agitha Christie crime novels.
My angry new friend was technically a werewolf. However, as impressive as the common werewolf is, this thing was to them what a sabertooth tiger is to a housecat. He stood 9 feet tall with the head of an enormous wolf, long apelike arms that terminated in the aforementioned talons, and a thick black pelt that was almost as tough as kevlar.
I had to dodge again, this time to narrowly miss it’s snapping jaws. I dove over the wreckage of my poor mini, drew my revolver, and opened fire at point blank range. If this had been a normal werewolf, the four rounds I delivered rapidly to it’s neck and head would have caused a satisfyingly gorey explosion and been the beginning of a horrible, black, agonizing death. This guy, however, shook his head and jerked back like I had swatted him with a newspaper. I could see the holes in its face closing before my eyes. I had a split second to make a tactical decision. I could either reload my revolver and try to empty another six ineffective rounds into the slobbering death machine, or I could try something that might actually have an effect. Since doing the same thing over and over would be a stupid idea, I opted to try out an entirely different stupid idea.
I reached into my messenger bag and by what can only be described as a miracle, my hand closed around the bottle I was looking for. It was made of a glass so red it was almost black and filled with a liquid to match. The contents were one of my more ill advised alchemical experiments. I chugged the whole bottle in one go just as the werewolf sneezed, a bloody .357 slug landing beside me. As I was thinking how that might in the running for the grossest thing I’d ever seen, the wolf, regaining its composure, reared back for another strike.
That was also the exact moment the potion took hold. My eyes turned a fierce crimson and my veins started glowing beneath my skin like magma. I reared back, it’s jaws snapping shut an inch from my face with the force of a piece of construction equipment. I laid a staggering palm strike against its face, sending it reeling to the right. I took a deep breath and exhaled a torrent of fire like hell’s own flamethrower. The sound that escaped with the flames put the werewolf’s previous roar to shame. It was something like the last thing the residents of Pompeii would have heard. My furry new friend screamed in agony as it’s fur burned and its skin charred and roasted. It’s homicidal rage melted away, replaced by primal terror. Its clawed feet scrabbled against the concrete as it wheeled about on all fours and ran for it’s life, still wreathed in flames.
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Gray Matters: The Works of Sharon and James Gray 