Metastasis

Chapter 1.a

As of 2/27/2018, chapter 1 has been split into two parts: 1.a and 1.b. All other chapters remain unaffected.

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Lowry's long fingers glide over the dusted metal surface of the metal wolf mask. It's flat metal and sharp edges, giving it a robotic appearance. On first glance it looked heavy, placed as a bookend on a wall of filled shelves. But when he picked it up it had heft of density, but it wasn't heavy. Not light enough to be aluminum, but not heavy enough to be steal.

Despite its ornamental placement, soft leather straps dangle from the edges of the wolf's face, indicating its purpose as a mask. The leather is smooth and clean, indicating it's never been worn or even tried on.

Now though... Now Lowry takes it and walks over to the large, decorative mirror hanging over the abandoned house's fireplace.

The face that stares back at him is recognizably different. It's only been a little more than two weeks since he last received treatment, but he's changed. His cheeks are visibly more hollow, his skin more sallow. It's not all because of the cancer left loose to run rampant through his body though. The three jagged gouges running down the right side of his face, scabbed over and slowly scarring over, aren't from cancer. They--

Lowry shudders and presses the wolf mask over his face as he shoves memories of his mom back into the far reaches of his mind where he tries to keep them at bay.

Surprisingly, the mask doesn't look ridiculous. It's a good fit, is comfortable over his face and doesn't make his face look stupidly small or his head cartoonishly large. The metal edges poke out like bristled fur, hiding his short brown hair and the straps leading back over his skull, adding to the illusion of having a fully robotic wolf head. He looks a little like a metal version of Anubis or an extra for a Mad Max movie: a little bit crazy and a little bit badass.

The metal around the eyeholes has been bent and curved in a way that provides him with an unexpected range of peripheral vision, and a cluster of small holes drilled into the bottom of the muzzle allow fresh, cool air to filter in with each breath.

It makes him feel secure. Not safe, he hasn't felt safe in weeks, but secure.

Lowry keeps it on as he goes through the rest of the house with precise efficiency. In just two weeks he's become accustomed to pillaging empty houses, to gritting his teeth against the chilling, childish fear that creeps through him when approaching dim hallways and rooms that might not be empty. At first he approached houses hoping to find others, people who had stayed behind like him, who had holed up and decided to weather out the biological storm.

There was nobody, and the longer he searched the stupider he'd felt for it.

Evacuations had started in California back in mid October. Hell, the state was officially declared a lost cause only days after he and his mom fled the San Francisco Cancer Center and went back home to Avery. Tucked away in the Sierra Nevada mountains, in their tiny little town, they felt safe, untouched.

That hadn't lasted long.

Goosebumps prickle over Lowry's forearms as more memories--violent, bloody memories--threaten to crawl out from the dark reaches of his mind where he's been suppressing them. Stopping at the bottom of the home's staircase, he takes a slow breath. He doesn't want to remember what happened after coming back to Avery.

Hell, he doesn't want to remember anything from the past two weeks. And right now, he can't afford to be distracted. He needs to clear the house completely before he can take time to look through the kitchen, and then maybe he'll take a nap.