Night
One leaves the shelter by the water. It will see what the seeder has seen tonight. It is pleased each night it is still there and alive. The unshriven have curious attachments.
The breeder and cub are left behind. Shriving is long work, but the cub responds well. The breeder less so, but they now see One as the friend and the mottled ones as foes. Betterment will take many, many nights.
One takes the route between water and woods swiftly. As it nears the place of two waters it slows and creeps. Senses reach out. There is the numb sleeping of the seeder, asleep. Careful motion through the woods senses out in a net. And there is something else that should not be there.
Five more quicksilver minds, watching, waiting. Dim? One stops.
Yes, it is hard to localize, but there they are. Beyond the stone road and shelters in the wood edge. They take a good place to watch One's tool. Oh, delicious anticipation!
One withdraws. Back track to where the land folds. No watchers here. Cross the stone road and take a long circle behind. Slow creep in crisp air.
The prey seeks to hunt. They lie in ambush under slippery hides and snow with their weapons, one to the south of the seeder's shelter. The others lie in an arc to the north. The southern hunter is isolated. He will be first. One reaches out.
Strange. The quicksilver thoughts lie just beyond One's reach. It is as if they lay behind the metal grids the builders are so fond of. The claws of One's thought can reach and just touch, but cannot grasp. It can dip, but not shape. This is wrong.
Whisper on the radio earbud. "Leo to team, I've got a headache."
One drops to a squat. Rests back against a tree. A different approach is warrented. Quicksilver is quick to twist. There are other ways. This prey is no different. Base impulses; eat, sleep, fuck, swirl around and above quicksilver thoughts. Rising above this net. They are primal, but diffuse; weep, fight, flight. Like grasping mud, they squish away. So much easier with the shriven, quicksilver beaten down, no doubts about the properness of them. They just respond.
"Feeling tired. Trying to shake it off."
One feels pushback. Like night fogs the base looks solid, but slides away. This prey cannot be reached. There are others.
"It passed. Stay alert."
"Check-in."
"Leo, here."
"Doc. Here."
"Root, check."
Four in an arc. Two close together; fundamentally different. The first is dim, but quicksilver swims beneath. The other, small and tightly drawn, One sees gleams of quicksliver deep down. This is a stalker, hunter, killer, much like One. There isn't enough for it to be One. It is a symbiont to the prey. How do they tame a killer? Time for thoughts later.
Lightly One casts a net over the large prey. Concentrating on tightness One feels the mud gathering together.
"Kat." Yawn. "Feeling it."
The small hunter stirs beside the large prey. One feels it test the net. It moves beneath the hides. The prey turns with it. Together they look with their night weak eyes at One.
"Rex is reacting. I can't see it. Must be back in the woods."
Leo, "We're both made. Let's go out and get it."
"I agree. Form on me."
The prey throw back their hides. Stand with their loud, far reaching claws held ready. The little hunter squalls in the night, stalking forward. One explodes into motion.
Rex leads us right to where it was. Tracks, widely separated, show it moved off fast. Broken branches show it wasn't that tall, just heavy. They're plain and easy to follow.
The burst takes One far from the hunting prey, but it cannot last. One is made for stalk, sprint, and ambush, not for long chases through cold winter air. Waste stench strong around it One slows to a walk. Back One goes, back to the shelter by the water and weaker minds. The hunting prey will follow. They can kill their own while One retreats under. If they follow One will lose them in the damp mazes.
The thing made a quarter mile before slowing. The steps come close together as that point and stagger a bit. It is still moving away in a straight line. Dead reckoning leaves us thinking it might be headed towards the Dyckman Street Marina. Irony that our first landing in Manhattan will be it's last.
One clambers over the fence makes straight away for the main building. Breeder and cub, numb and cold, wait for it. Silent screams force orders into their minds. They arm themselves. One watches and waits.
There, dark shapes stealth against the snow. They are far outside prey-eyes, but show well to One. They circle the shelter. One sends breeder and cub to ambush. Down it will go. Let the prey kill one another.
In the basement One moves to the inspection hatch set in the floor. It pulls the grate aside and slips in. There One pauses, net thrown wide. It anticipates the burst of pain and suffering to come. It will do much to assuage the chagrin it feels from fleeing from prey.
The cub falls upon them first. The pain of impact and then being hurdled away. Cub comes up with a knife in hand. Fear and rage send it charging at the monsters that would threaten breeder. Sudden eruption of blinding pain in the gut. Cub falls away.
Breeder screeches in rage. Club swinging at the leader who hurt her cub. The prey blocks her strike. Shouts incomprehensibly at her.
"Eileen, stop, Tom sent us!"
Breeder strikes again. A mighty two handed overhead swing that ends at the top of the doorway. Pain runs down her arms. Numb hands drop her club. There is impact as breeder is tackled. She fights on.
"Leo, help me!"
"Pin her, I've got the kid!"
Outside the basement window the small hunter yowls. One of the prey, led by it, send far claws barking through the pane. Stung, but not struck, One drops into the access way.
"Doc here. It went underground!"
The stone ways are narrow and cramped this near the water. They lead only one way. Hands and feet scrabble against the either side of the access as One bursts the second time this night.
We're hunched double in the sewer line.
"Fuck, look at the sides."
Clear marks from scrabbling clawed hands and feet mark the sides a quarter to halfway up the tunnel.
"It's moving now, it'll stop soon. Watch for an ambush."
Burst over, One has raced past two tunnel enlargements. Here, the vault arches high above it. There is enough of a lip for it to hide. Far back One hears the angry prey. No more strength to run. One climbs above the entrance passage and waits. Strength enough to fight and if not win then bleed the foe.
Leo signals halt. Ahead, no more than five feet, the tunnel opens up. He signs, "Ambush ahead." It is a good spot. Beside him Rex thrumms a silent song of rage. Leo has one restraining hand on him. Before Rex can move on Leo grasps him with both hands and lofts him through the widening arch to land, angry and soaked, in the chilly water.
Small killer flies under One. A trembling claw almost lashes out. No, freeze, they suspect.
Leo grins in the dark. The others know enough to keep silent. He knows it is there. It has to be. He unclips his flash. Click it and toss.
Harsh light strobes over One. The pain from assaulted eyes is kept bottled in. Instinct sends it scrambling from the ambush site to a dark corner. Hide.
"Flash" Leo whispers. Patterson slaps one into his hand. Back against the wall he pans the bright light around the opposite edge towards the faint sounds he's heard. Rex squalls as he crawls from the water. "I see you."
Huddled in the corner, eyes blinded, One turns other senses outward. Pinned they come for it. Death comes. The light bearer makes room for another to pass. The far claws swing towards him.
"You're one ugly fuck."
One explodes for the last time springing inside the radius of the claw. Deafening barks sound beside it as One drives into the prey, ripping and tearing into the soft organs. The claws deliver punishing impacts, but don't penetrate the mottled skins. Prey cheats.
Prey reverses the far claw and strikes. One falls under the blows. Other prey's far claws bark in anger. Pain. Pain. Plead.
It huddles against the inspection-way. Dark blood drips. It fills the M60 site. Through my head flashes a parade of pleading faces. "No, please, no!" I glimpse one of my men.
"Yes."
One's final screams are overridden by the far claws triumphant growl. The deafening chatter echoes down the sewers. Another scream, unheard by the prey, reverberates much further.
Kilpatrick, woken from a sound sleep, meets Jones in the corridor.
"You heard?" Jones strikes first.
"And saw. Your Major is a busy bint."
"So?"
"You'll have the men you need."
"Thank you, sir."
"Shut-up and fix this mess. The bloodkin will not be pleased."
Elsewhere other One's turn to the north.
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