Marcus Pelegrimas - The Breaking

Talons scraped against the side of the helicopter, sounding close enough to all the other scraping for Cole to dismiss it after a quick look through the small square window built into the side door. On his way to the front of the cabin, he gripped the steel posts to maintain his balance while stepping over the bodies. The opening to the cockpit was bent and twisted to the point that even a multijointed Half Breed must have had trouble getting out. All he could see when he looked past that opening was shredded seats, broken equipment, and so much pulpy blood that it was impossible to say how many people had been ripped apart in there. One of the Half Breeds was probably a pilot, but the first could have been another soldier. That still didn’t explain how the Half Breeds had been created or ready to attack so quickly when most of their kind needed time to curl up and recuperate from the Breaking.

The scraping against the door continued. It was the same scraping as before. Same pattern. Same loudness. Same duration.

Not scraping, Cole realized.

Knocking.

He glanced out the scratched and dirty side window to find a lot of torn-up ground and an overturned statue of a Half Breed. There wasn’t a single gargoyle in the sky, which meant nothing for a species that was born to hide damn near anywhere. More than likely, Jessup was already doing his thing to point them toward the center of the nearby commotion.

The knock that tapped against the door nearly made him jump out of his skin. Cole managed to control his frazzled nerves and bladder by gripping the two automatic rifles he’d slung over his shoulders. The knocks that followed came in the same pattern and were made by a very familiar forked shape that cracked against the outside of the window directly in front of him.

It was his own spear.

Cole readied the assault rifle as best he could. He might have fired a few different kinds of guns while researching his work on the Sniper Ranger series, but it hadn’t exactly been under field conditions. Also, those weapons weren’t tricked out as much as the ones stored in the IRD locker. He found the safety and knew which end the bullets came out of, and that would have to be good enough for now.

After opening the door, he thought of several different ways he could be attacked after stepping outside. The barrel of his gun could be grabbed, he could be stabbed from above, or he might be smashed in the face. So, ready for almost anything, he jumped outside with his finger on the rifle’s trigger.

“Heya, Cole.”

Spinning around to face the voice, Cole aimed his rifle at a man who leaned with his back against the helicopter and the spear propped casually against the dented metal beside him.

“What are you doing with my weapon, Rico?”

“You gave it to me back in Denver, remember?”

“Yeah. That was back before I found out what a traitorous piece of shit you are.”

The big man scowled, which did nothing to make his face any uglier than it already was. “You’ve been talkin’ to Paige, huh?”

“Yes I have, which is why I should shoot you right now.”

Rico stepped forward and raised both arms. He wore faded green Army surplus pants, heavy biker books with chains wrapped around the ankles, and a jacket he rarely took off. The tanned leather was made from several layers of Half Breed hide, and the strips of canvas were merely filler until he could collect and treat more dead werewolves.

“What are you doing here?”

In the distance, the chattering of gunfire was washed away by the thudding rhythm of helicopter blades and the inhuman baritone of a Full Blood’s howl. Cole had to strain to hear any of that, however, since his blood was pumping through him in a quickening rush that had to be spurred on by the tendrils squeezing him from the inside.

“Didn’t Paige tell you the part that doesn’t make me sound like a prick?” Rico asked as an ugly smile crawled onto his face. “I joined up with her Army buddies to check ’em out. A group of them picked me up outside of Louisville and hooked up with a unit of gunships and a few truckloads of soldiers. When Bloodhound decides to sell out, at least it’s with some style, huh?”

“What happened in Toronto? I want to hear it from you.”

“You mean the guy I brought along who turned out to be Kawosa?” Rico’s eyes shifted nervously upward as he asked, “You want to hear this story somewhere a little safer? This place seems to have some sorta big bat infestation.”

“We’ll talk about it here. I haven’t quite decided yet if I want to keep you from being petrified and eaten.”

Rico opened his jacket to reveal the Sig Sauer he always carried. “I could have pointed a gun at you too. I didn’t. That’s because we’re partners. I’m working to earn my points back with Paige, but we don’t got that kinda baggage.”

“You know what would have won a lot of points with me?” Cole asked. “Getting me out of prison. Since you left me to rot in there, I don’t see any reason why I should play favorites with you over Paige. At least she had a reason to do what she did.”

“And we got a reason to do what we’re doin’. It’s the same reason we didn’t drop everything to spring you outta that prison.” Rico let his jacket fall shut again. “Tonight, the world as we knew it cracks wide open. It’s been brewing for a long time and we all seen it comin’. On the way over here, we wiped out four packs of Half Breeds. That’s just what we found when flying low in these choppers or driving down an interstate. You and I both know how much worse it is in spots we can’t see. If humans ain’t at the top of the food chain when the smoke clears, we’ll either be slaves or dead. You’ve already made your choice.”

“What about Toronto?”

Rico dropped his arms as if he no longer cared about the gun pointed at him. “What about Denver? When that skinny shapeshifter told you he was Paige, we believed it! I made some calls and that thing’s not like anything we ever faced. He didn’t even have to change into something that looked like Paige. He tells us something and humans believe him. Haven’t you ever heard of trickster myths?”

“I think so. American Indian stuff, right?”

Rico smiled. “That’s right. You do something other than play video games after all. In most of those myths, Coyote is the trickster. Kawosa is the coyote. He may be the closest thing to a god or demon that we’ve ever faced, and if you want to get pissed off because I fell for a trick thrown at me by a fucking god , then that’s your own damn business! He came to me, told me he was an old buddy, and I believed him. He told Paige the same thing and she believed him too.”

“Sounds like she woke up just before you shot her. If you were both under the same spell, how’d that happen?” Cole asked.

“I been wondering about that myself. She’s never really trusted anyone all the way ever since she first laid eyes on a Nymar. Maybe that was enough to give her the edge. All I can tell you is I’m damn glad she did because if I would’ve killed her for no reason, I would’ve eaten my next bullet two seconds later.”

The skies directly above them were still clear. Cole could feel the crackle in his scars that told him the gargoyles were still around, but he figured they must be preoccupied elsewhere. From the sound of it, there was plenty more werewolf meat to be had over the next ridge. As far as Rico was concerned, Cole suddenly realized he was holding the big man at gunpoint simply because he wanted to make someone, anyone, pay for driving Paige into a war zone.

What changed things around was something he had learned to trust more than anything else lately: instinct. Rico was talking sense. He knew the big man. He trusted him. Rico had proven himself when it counted the most and was trying his damnedest to do so again, even with a gun pointed at him and death on all sides. The least he could do was alleviate one of those situations. Cole lowered the gun and asked, “How did you know where to find me?”