Marcus Pelegrimas - The Breaking

“That’s the idea. Give them some live meat and they’ll take it. Gargoyles survive by leaving no witnesses. The more it fights back, the more they’ll try to bring it down, and nothing fights back more than a werewolf.” He started the truck and placed his hands on the wheel. “I don’t know what’s down this road either, but it’s big. We’re in this fight now, so should we sit here and whine about how things are going to hell or should we roll in to lend a hand?”

More than anything, Cole wanted to say something cool to that. Part of his old job had been to come up with catch phrases that fit nicely in the digitized mouths of his video game characters. The only thing to come out of his mouth now, however, was a shaky breath as he nodded his head.

Jessup pulled away from the cemetery. He didn’t gun the engine, take sharp turns, or even get the wipers going to clear a bigger spot on the windshield. He did nothing while driving up Scenic Road that could possibly upset or dislodge the creatures that had attached themselves to his windshield. The road was mostly straight and in good condition. If Cole squinted just enough he could trick himself into thinking he wasn’t moving at all. Apart from a few boxy little houses on one side of the road, all there was to see between the writhing bodies affixed to the glass was tall, dry grass and bushes that were too tough to die in the harsh New Mexican climate. He had almost calmed himself into believing he was looking through a dirty window instead of one covered by layers of squirming, living flesh. Stretched out and clinging with every talon it had, the gargoyle on the passenger window looked in at him with a face that could have been hastily drawn upon a dirt canvas. “What’s going on up there?” he asked.

Jessup leaned forward to look beneath the gargoyle clawing at the top of the windshield. “Don’t know, but it’s more than Full Bloods. Could be some Half Breeds. Just when I feel like I got a good handle on the number of them, they keep changing.”

“You can tell how many there are?”

“When you’ve had the scars for as long as I have, you’ll be able to read them better. Just take my word for it. There’s plenty of them and they weren’t here when we arrived.”

Outside the truck, road and scenery flashed by like a movie being played at the wrong speed. Cole’s brain was filled with plans of how he might deal with whatever was over the next rise, but every last strategy went out the window when a black helicopter crested the rise farther along the road, pivoted in midair and then veered toward the ground.

“Hang on!” Jessup shouted as he slammed his foot against the brake pedal.

Cole’s feet were already bracing against the floor and his free hand slapped against the dash. The truck skidded into a fishtail as its tires lost their grip on the road. All this time the helicopter seemed to hang about thirty feet in the air. When that frozen moment finally passed, the helicopter slapped against the ground in a shower of sparks as metal was torn asunder.

A shock wave rolled through the air, shaking the ground and throwing enough dirt and smoke toward the truck to make it even tougher to see through the windshield. Jessup fought with the steering wheel to keep from skidding off the road or slamming into a tree. Somehow the older man kept his composure long enough to bring the Ford to a stop. “You got that weapon I gave you?” When Cole didn’t answer, Jessup shouted, “You got it or not?”

“I’ve got it,” Cole replied. Since he’d been holding the short wooden blade in the fist that he used to brace against the dash, he wondered if he’d ever be able to pry it from his hand again.

The helicopter’s top rotor was still waggling after the one in the tail section had been brought to a stop by digging into the ground. Its body was shaking as well, but not just from the crash. There was movement inside the helicopter, but it was tough to make out details through the cracked canopy as well as the living stain on the truck’s window.

“When we get outside,” Jessup said, “we need to keep moving or else these gargoyles will take us down. If one gets close, don’t waste time lining up a shot. Just swing. And don’t bother shooting them. Bullets will just give them a little rip and they’re used to that. We just need to point them in the right direction. Once a few of them lock up with a Full Blood, all the others should swarm in to help.”

“How do we get them to leave?”

“They’ll leave when they’re full or dead. If there’s any other way to get them to go somewhere, I don’t know what it is. Take this,” Jessup said while tossing the long fleshy sack he’d extracted from the gargoyle. “I’ll find more out there. You just need to run fast and try to get close to something that needs to be given a dose of Magic Shell.” Jessup loaded both of his pistols and removed a wooden hatchet from a set of loops on the inside of his vest. “You remember that stuff that you poured on ice cream? It hardened into a chocolate shell.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So …I love that stuff.” Without any more parting words, the older Skinner kicked open the truck door and jumped outside.

For a fraction of a second Cole considered taking the sane choice and staying inside the truck. That option was taken away as soon as a gargoyle that had been clinging to the roof dropped down and hooked its talons into the truck’s frame and seat to pull itself inside. From that angle Cole could see a second set of eyes placed on the upper edge of its body. Unlike the ones on its smeared face, those eyes were narrow, unblinking black slits. They were the calmest part of the gargoyle’s entire body, remaining focused intently upon their target.

Cole shoved his door open and nearly fell out of the truck in his haste to get away. He pushed the door shut at the same time the gargoyle inside launched itself at the passenger door. Both things collided, forcing the gargoyle to climb the interior of the cab and press its face against the glass.

From the outside the Ford looked as though it had grown a skin and was in the process of shedding it. Gargoyles clamped onto nearly every available bit of the truck’s surface area, pulling away to look up as if they were being peeled off by an unseen hand. By the time Cole had built up some power in his strides, the gargoyles were flapping the sides of their bodies to create enough of a breeze for liftoff.

“Look for casualties!” Jessup yelled while waving toward the downed helicopter.

Cole’s legs were churning to carry him away from the truck as fast as possible. When he looked back again, he couldn’t see a single gargoyle. Knowing better than to stop moving, he focused on the helicopter. The canopy was cracked and smudged with oil and dirt from the impact. Once the waning sunlight caught the canopy at the right angle, it shone upon the dark red hue and viscous texture of something that coated the inside of the cockpit. After so much time as a Skinner, he’d seen more than enough of it to be certain the substance was blood.

It was a helicopter similar to the one that brought Paige into Denver. During his long sleep in wing G7, he’d dreamt of that chopper plenty of times. It had landed on retractable gear, but this one didn’t have time for a proper touchdown. There were no markings. No weapons. Only a sleek fuselage and a sliding door on one side. Someone inside screamed and kicked at the canopy. As Cole drew closer to the cockpit, one foot smashed through, only to be twisted completely around as the distinctive snarl of a werewolf emerged from the craft. Before Cole reached the side door, someone from within the chopper pulled it open. He was a man cut from military cloth, complete with hardened features and a bulky frame beneath standard issue black and gray fatigues.