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Adventures In Living With The Mythical |
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A military veteran is adopted by a werewolf and brought into his pack. Insanity ensues. About "Life With A Werewolf" Life with a werewolf is a dramatic blog. As such the characters in this blog are not real but maybe loosely based on real people. The situations represented are not real but maybe loosely based on real things that have happened in my life. There are a multitude of ways to view life, this is simply one of the ways I have chosen to view mine. Updated Every Friday unless I can't or don't want to. If this is your first time reading this...start here: https://www.writing.com/main/books/entry_id/1040400-Welcome-To-The-Pack The first year is available as a compilation on Amazon Kindle: https://a.co/d/gBLLL7E Audio and print versions will be available in the future. My book, "Dreamers of The Sea" is available now on Amazon: https://a.co/d/0uz7xa3 |
| Hey everyone, it's Zack. Jason is forcing me to write this. He says if I want him to ever forgive me, then I have to do the update. I feel a bit like Gordon Freeman in Half Life, but I understand in a way. I do owe it to everyone to explain what happened. Mainly cause it's kind of my fault why this update has taken so long to get out. When Milton's men jumped me, I'd nearly died. I had just left my shift when it had happened. I still remember looking up at the sky completely exhausted, rubbing the back of my neck. Then something solid hitting me in the gut. I hit the cement as blows rained down on me, that bastard's mocking laugh in the background. When I awoke in so much pain in that parking lot, without any idea of my friends had lived or died, I vowed then that I'd get my vengeance. Normally, I'm a pretty easy going person. I try not to get in anyone's way, and it takes a lot for me to make a vow like that. If I make a vow, like I did that day, I'll do everything in my power to keep it. But, I didn't get the chance. Jason and Crash, like usual, handled everything. And this time, I really wished they hadn't. My goal in life is to get through life. When you grow up like I did, with the insane family that I had, you learn to keep your head down, get your chores done, and just try and get through with whatever escape you can find. Escapes like video games, for instance. They're a way for me to lose myself into something else for a while, to not worry about the world and it's troubles for a few hours. But this time, video games wasn't working anymore. I'd play a game and get frustrated as something reminded me of that day. Of those blows raining down on me. Of his mocking laughter. Jason must have seen right through me from the start. Wanting to go to the range with him, to learn how to shoot, to, well, everything. He had such trouble wrangling the zombies it was easy for me to sneak the pistol out of the house on occasion for some additional practice. He keeps a close eye on that pistol, but he's not perfect. I was careful. Well, I thought I was being careful. To be honest, it's a wonder I didn't kill anyone. And despite whatever mojo working that keeps the zombies and the werewolves and things away from regular public's knowledge, they still know a gunshot when they hear one. Whenever I took a practice shot at a zombie, there wasn't anyone behind the it; nothing back there but trees. We were outside of town, there was no housing near us. It's not like anyone is going to go hunting or anything in the middle of the week, right? Besides, there was literally no one for miles around other than a couple of zombies doing their dead man shuffle towards whatever thing they constantly do on Halloween that Jason has to get drunk for. They're just dead meat anyway, who cares if they go back to the grave with a few extra holes in them? Not like anyone was going to dig the corpse up and check, right? I considered it live fire target practice. The corpse shuffled, slowly along, almost ignoring me. It turned to me once, gave a smile, then kept moving, it's expensive and rotted coat flapping in the cold breeze. I pretended it was call of duty, closed my eyes, and pulled the trigger. The report was as loud as I remembered it in the range. I opened my eyes, and a zombie was glaring at me. There was an extra oozing hole in his arm from where I'd hit him. He gave me the finger, and kept shuffling forward, going where ever zombies go to do whatever they do. That wasn't the only Zombie I shot that day. There was others. An old woman in a gown shuffling towards a graveyard. An old man that looked as if he'd been the victim of a fire. I was stalking this teenage zombie that must have died in a car accident before Crash grabbed me by the collar and dragged me home. He didn't say anything nearly the entire time. When we got home, he half shoved, half tossed me through the front door, then glared at me in that manner in his human form that makes me think of his werewolf side. A chill ran through me from that glare. I think I'm more afraid of that human glare than I am his werewolf snarl. Call it a product of my upbringing. Jason was waiting for me when I got home. He can yell when he wants to. He's got his normal "I'm mad at this game, or this or that" volume, then he's got this whole other volume that he calls his "military mode". That second one is what I was hearing when I curled up on the edge of the sofa. Their words washed over me as I made little fists and glared at the television. When I was younger, I'd retreat into a video game fantasy, or think about a new level, character, a new product coming out. But, right then? All I could think of was blowing that meth headed vampire's head off. If Crash already killed him, I was going to settle for the damn corpse, regardless of what they said. Jason's actions broke me out of my fantasy when he waved the butt of the pistol in my face. "I should beat you to fucking death with this! Are you even listening to me?! Do you know how fucking reckless that was!?" I looked up at him. I didn't answer him then. I just glared at him. "He's not listening," Crash grumbled. I still didn't answer. They both stormed off after that. Then Jason changed the hiding spot for his pistol and Crash effectively told me if I touched a gun again without his permission, he'd use my gaming console for a chew toy. I threw up my hands after that. "Alright, alright. I won't go shooting any other zombies. I promise." Any other except for Milton's corpse of course. That meth headed rotting bastard of a vampire's corpse. Of course, when Halloween came, and the zombies picked Jason up, I broke that promise. I didn't know what he was thinking at the time, but I suppose I was so angry I wasn't thinking clearly. The hiding spot Jason had chosen was easy to figure out, and he never uses a trigger lock on his weapon. And of course he keeps it loaded, cause according to Jason, "a loaded hand gun is treated with respect. An unloaded hand gun you treat as loaded? You forget sometimes. Accidents happen." So, I didn't bother checking the ammunition inside. It felt full, at least what I thought full feels like in a pistol. I followed them at a distance, being careful not to approach Jason and his rotting entourage too closely. I stayed out of sight as the zombies walked with Jason, shuffling along after the trick-or-treaters had gone home. Bile rose in my throat at the thought of him, that mouth full of rotten meth teeth to go along with his rotten face. I swallowed it down with a helping of bitter anger, the weight of the pistol in my hand comforting me. We passed the darkened houses, porch lights going out as candy runs dry or as families go to bed, leaving the night to the wild and the dead. We left town, pressed on towards a familiar place. It was a local cemetery. It was the one Crash had found Jason in the first year he moved in. Very close to our house. Close to town and populated centers. Not that I cared in that moment. It was also where he was buried. And where he was currently wandering around, holding his head in his hands, literally. The world grew blurry. When did the world get so damn blurry? I was holding the pistol, my hand shaking. My breath was catching in my throat. It shook as I aimed, gritting my teeth hard. I'd hit two zombies along with him, and God only knew what else behind him. None of that mattered in that moment. "I was wondering when you'd get here," Jason slurred. I snarled and whirled on him. "Don't stand in my way. He's dead, he can't feel this." I raised the pistol again. "How about the folks behind him? The innocent people beyond those trees over there? You think they'll feel it," he asked. "I....I...." I began. I didn't give a shit at that moment. All that mattered was vengeance. All that mattered was the liquid magma in my veins that was my own pain. It pulled the trigger on the pistol before I could think or say anything else. The pistol barked loud fire, the shell was throlwn out the side. That bastard had been in my sights! And...nothing. He didn't go down. He didn't react. There wasn't even a new hole in his body. I looked at the gun, stunned. "Blanks," Jason said. "I figured you'd try this." I cried in anger, wheeling the gun back on him. He shouted at me, and knocked the pistol out of my hands. "What the hell you doing!? Just because it's a blank don't mean it can't hurt, ya bastard! They still throw out particles and shit for a few feet. You trying to blind me or somethin?!" "You fucking bastard! You can't even let me have this?!" I punched him as hard as I could in his bad hip. He cried out and collapsed, grabbing it. I kicked him in his back for good measure. It felt good at the time. "You asshole," he screamed out in pain. The zombies crowded around me. They were giving that low moan / growl thing they always did. Zombies creep me out. They always had. I backed up, unsure of what was going to happen. Then I felt it: the cold flesh of a dead head pressing me in the back. I whirled around and faced him. I'd never gotten the chance to see what had happened. Crash mauled his head, literally biting and ripping it off. muscle tissue and neck bone stood up out of the wound. Maggots fed in the open socket. I cried out, the fight leaving me. I was surrounded! There was no escape. Jason was no help. He was still moaning on the ground, calling me a cheap shot bastard. The circle of zombies got closer. They're growls and moans grew louder. I stood tall, though my pulse was pounding in my ears. I gave two dry swallows, and said. "You're gonna kill me now? Fine. Go ahead, you asshole, finish the job you started two months ago." I closed my eyes, and waited. Then I felt dead, cold arms wrap around me. The head was pressed against my back, and his body pressed against my front. Inward, I was giving a full body revulsion. Outward, I kept a stone face. Then he let me go. Stepped back and looked at me, almost head tilting. I wanted to scream. I wanted to kick his head a thousand miles and make him go searching for it. I wanted to burn the entire cemetery down with every zombie in it. "It's his apology, you asshole," Jason said. He was seated on the ground somewhere behind me, that much I could hear. I heard him take two large gulps from something, and he grumbled, "you expect him to jump in a time machine and go back, undo everything? re-write the past like some giant fucking editor of life? No, he can't do that. It's not even really Milton anyway. He's burning in hell, or reborn as an ant or whatever happens to assholes when they die. That's only his fucking corpse. The flesh can only mourn what the spirit has done." I didn't know what to say. I closed my eyes then. Part of me wished that my parents had visited after they'd gone. That they had tried to hold me the way that Milton's corpse did. That they had apologized for the neglect, the shouting, the tricks and schemes. I didn't get any of that. All I had was Milton's corpse, looking at me in that confused manner that zombies usually have on their rotting faces. "I can accept, I guess," I said. "If you can forgive me for trying to kill you again." Milton's corpse held his head up to me. The face was smiling. The zombies opened the circle, letting me leave. I'd walked over to Jason, but they stepped in front of me again. "I don't want to fucking talk to you, right now," Jason said. He was taking another long pull from a dusty and cobwebbed bottle of booze. Someone had been buried with it, it seemed. It explained where the zombies kept getting liquor from. What else, could I do? I went home. I showered, feeling the weight of a thousand mistakes upon me. I'd done the thing I'd swore I'd never do. I took advantage of someone's friendship. I even literally kicked them when they were down. After I got out of the shower, I looked myself in the mirror, and said, "I guess you are your father's son." I didn't know what else to do. When Jason was up, I tried to not be. It seemed like a good idea to simply just not be there when he was around. It's how everything was handled in my family growing up. Life was a giant game of "hide the evidence and pretend this never happened". When you spend four days trying to avoid someone, they tend to notice. I spent the days going from work, showering, eating something, then straight to my bedroom. I couldn't look him in the eye in the rare occasions that we did happen to be in the same room. During those times, I did my best to just get the hell out of the area as quick as I could. He threw the door open on my room one night, growled at me, "get your ass up so you can apologize, asshole." "What the actual fuck," was what I said, or something to that effect. "Look, be an adult, apologize for attacking me." I sighed. I looked at the floor at his feet as I rubbed my neck. I muttered, "I"m sorry. For hitting you. And kicking you. And using you, and trying to shoot someone with your pistol without your permission and, well, everything." "Good," Jason grumbled. "You write the end of this damn blog then. If you want my forgiveness, you have to confess to everyone. You do that, we're square." And that was that. Things are kind of returning to normal. Though, Jason has found these candy bars somewhere that are in the shape of zombies. I don't know where he got them from, probably Amazon. He cuts the heads off them, then leaves them, head on top of the body, on a plate near my controller in the living room during the day. I suppose I have it coming. I'll have to figure a way to get him back. Maybe I'll plaster his car with Minecraft stickers? |
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