ONC 2022 shortlisted: The Emergence of a more virulent lycanthrope virus decimated civilisation. As a street scavenger, Gulliver Chase risks his life in his home city's derelict streets hunting for resources for his fellow survivors. But it isn't fo...
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Pain like a jackhammer—head to spine. Voices fading in and out beyond hard heartbeats, then the crack of a gunshot.
Gull groaned and forced open his eyes. Firelight and darkness reeled, thick with smoke and decay. Cold concrete kissed his back, and rusted metal loomed: the doorless frame of a derelict car behind his head. He was still in the underground car park—the lycan den.
Barely able to grasp that fact, he shut his eyes and gave serious consideration to throwing up.
The scrape of movement beside him. Cool fingers touched his brow, a distraction that delayed his intestinal rebellion. "Aww." A soft sound of sympathy that was ninety-nine per cent amusement. "Poor puppy. Burning the virus out of your system sucks total arse, don't it?"
That voice... He lifted eyelids; found a reflective stare aimed at him from within a tangle of black hair. Zera covered in gore. The business shirt she'd accessorised with ammo belts and grenades hung ragged at one shoulder, exposing raw, partially healed flesh—skin ripped open by lycan fangs.
Horror washed through him as fragments of memory returned. Zera had infiltrated the lycan den, played chase with multiple mutts, and been bitten—almost killed. And she hadn't been alone. Others had come to recover those taken.
Gull fought to sit upright, ignoring protesting muscles. "Westie, Hashi—" Their fear-filled faces swam through nightmarish recollections of hunger. They'd been in the den. His teeth had been at their throats.
Zera slapped a hand to his chest and pushed him back down. "They're fine. A little knocked about, but fine. Hashi's slinging orders outside somewhere, limping about on a busted ankle, and any shots you hear are Hardcase and her crew dealing with anything not dead enough for her liking. She had herself a dislocated shoulder. Bumping it back into place made my day. Your sister's got herself a vocabulary."
Gull slumped boneless on the floor; tried to grasp the fact the people he loved were alive. But horrific memories and the ripe smell of death wouldn't let him rest. He struggled half upright; collapsed against the wreck behind him as wrenched muscles shrieked. The den's gloom revolved a hellish minute before he got back focus. His gaze went straight to torn flesh. "Stroya bit you."
Zera glanced to her shoulder, then shrugged, proving the bloody mess still worked. "Don't worry, Red, I'm not feeling a renewed urge to howl at the moon. And I still heal fast—for now, at least. The rate your specialty 'dewormer' seems to strip mutts of their evil juju, I'll be a fairy princess by the weekend."
He almost smiled, but the dance of shadows around him swallowed the spark of humour. Wet things glistened: dead eyes and mangled flesh. A corpse nearby, sprawled over a pile of tyres, wore padded armour. A Colony soldier who'd geared up to face lycan teeth, but had ultimately lost his throat to them.
Other corpses lay naked in twisted heaps: lycans, their skulls broken ruins.
Gull thought of what he'd almost become. The only thing that stopped him throwing up was the bright wolf eyes locked on him. "Stop staring."
