The Pack

Harry didn't know what to do. He couldn't go home. It wouldn't save him. Anyway, he loved his wife and he didn't want to be responsible for a second corpse. The leather of the briefcase under his arm was cold against his sodden shirt, and he clutched it there desperately as if it were some kind of shield that would protect him. It wouldn't.

He moved quickly, but he knew that wouldn't protect him either; he couldn't outrun them. He could only outlast them. Only the golden glimmer of dawn would save him. All he had to do was stay in the center of town. It was a Saturday night, late - or early, for some. It depended how you looked at it - and there were still clubbers moving about in staggered clumps: gaggles of young girls, sweet-smelling and covered in fake beauty, showing off more than their mothers would like them to and looking to give away more than their fathers would approve of. Boisterous lads were never far away, suited and booted, hollering and howling at each other and their prey. It was a joyous hunt, each side enjoying it even if they didn't get any.

Harry's hunt was all one-sided. He wasn't enjoying any of it. They were having all the fun.

It wasn't as if the people Harry hung close to would see anything, or come to his rescue. A shadow might flicker in a very un-shadow-like way, noticeable out the corner of their eye, but when they turned to look the shadow would remain just that.

Wide-eyed, Harry would stick close to these groups, as close as he could before one or more of them said, "Hey, what you doing?" or, "Fuck off, Weirdo." If he could latch onto one group after another, follow each one as they headed to, or from, the widely spaced nightclubs of the city, he might make it. They wouldn't risk it with so many potential witnesses. One body they could get away with, but several would draw too much attention. He hoped there would be witnesses.

Harry swallowed the guilt away like a block of stone as his current saviors raised their arms collectively, their bodies enveloped one by one by the pounding sounds issuing from the doorways of their chosen domain. He never took his wallet to work, so didn't try to get in himself. Besides, it was just as dark and lonely in there. Harry hoped it was just the air throbbing against his ears, and he moved away from the club when the doorman - huge and bald - gave him an unfriendly look and stepped his way.

The street was quiet now save for the non-music pulsing through his brain, the beat of night-life. A car swished past, a taxi, but even as Harry heard its approach and stuck out an arm he knew it wouldn't stop to collect him, to save him. Would it have made a difference anyway? Couldn't they fly? He didn't know.

"Yes, we can," came the sibilant voice of King. Evidently, they can read minds, too.

Harry stumbled over a trash can, and it collapsed with steel shrieks onto the floor. His shin flared as its base scraped away the top layer of skin through his suit's pant leg, but the crazy cackle of Ace stole his attention and he hardly felt a thing.

"You have to ignore my first child," Queen told him, with a too-friendly snicker. "He's always been wild." An icicle arm threaded through his, and suddenly Harry could see her walking beside him. He could see them all if they wanted him to. He tried his best not to acknowledge her, but her perfect face, pale and blemish free, was hauntingly captivating. Her cheeks were round and high, her eyes wide and soulful even though there was no soul beneath their glassy gaze. Her lips were soft and full, and slightly apart. Harry didn't want to think about that. Sometimes, his gaze would drift down and take a walk upon the hills of maturity beneath her neckline, but then he'd catch himself and hurriedly look away, remembering the wife he loved so much. Cathy, Queen would remind him, merrily. Her name was Cathy. Harry shivered. How long had they been following him? Her provocative attire was as intentional as that of the girls in the clubs, he was sure. She wanted to make his face flush. She liked it.

Another impact from the side destabilized Harry enough that he almost fell over completely, but hands covered in ice caught him and hoisted him back upright. "Now, now, Knave," chided King. "Don't hurt him. We don't want to lose any." Laughter flitted around Harry like a flock of bats, and Harry's heartbeat accelerated. He took a deep breath to steady himself, but it didn't work. Swift strokes patted his shoulders, his chest, the front of his thighs. "Soon have you looking like new again," King told him. "Kids, eh?"

Harry looked up into the artificial glow of the streetlight above, the beckons of neon Heaven. He glanced about and hugged his arms closer to his body. The street was empty - when had it got so empty? Had he taken a wrong-

"Turn?" whispered Knave. Or was that Ace?

Something crept up his leg. He could feel his pants leg crinkle at its touch. Another hand stroked his shoulder, and unfamiliar sibilant voices slinked out of the darkness: "Is it time?", "Can we King?", "Please, can it be now?", "Sooo hungry!". Harry had never been so scared.

"I'll scream," he said, knowing how desperate he sounded.

"Please do," was King's dispassionate reply. "Seven and eight like it when they scream."

Harry shut his eyes as Queen's motherly voice glided easily into his brain as he felt the firmness of her body against his. The point of a too-sharp fingernail traced the racing line of hot red liquid. It was comforting, erotic, and terrifying all at the same time. "Don't worry. It won't hurt." She wasn't exactly wrong.

It was like being stabbed by twenty-six needles all at once, a sharp prick and then nothing but a dull dragging sensation. In seconds Harry felt light, like he was flying, and as his arms lifted out like wings he heard the muted flap of his briefcase hitting the floor. He was tired, good God was he tired. His eyelids were so heavy, and although he fought against it he couldn't keep them open. His shoulders flexed as he remembered what was happening and tried to wrestle free, but with his failing strength he couldn't hope to slip away. Just lay down, rest for a minute. Harry wasn't sure if that was his thought, or King's, but he felt himself fall all the same, couldn't resist sliding down into.

The pounding in his ears had gone now. All sound faded away, and Harry felt a wave of peace wash over him. He wondered if this was how it felt to take drugs. His mind conjured up flashes of the things he loved: his wife, his two year old son, his collection of WWII airplane models. Especially the Mustang. That one had a special place in his heart.

A minute later, Harry's heart was empty.