Please be aware that most of these are freewrites and rough drafts and unlike Evo: A Blog Series, they probably won't be proofread and updated here.
However, any questions, comments, or suggestions, email me at N8Charley@gmail.com
Enjoy!
THE FIRST TIME I SAW A FINLY, I WAS ON MY WAY TO THE JAGUAR. The streets weren’t particularly busy…But I also wasn’t traveling towards center city. I was on my way towards the outskirts. That deserted part of town where slums and neighborhoods of garbage and old buildings, become stark earthy scabs of crimson rock and floating red particles.
The Last World War had done a number on our country. Villages and towns surrounded by lush forests and fields that connected our cities had become barren Scarlands infected with weremange and radiation. Nothing lived out there, in the Scarlands…Nothing but the hopeless, the diseased, and the machine creatures with enough AI to repair themselves called the rebuilt.
I refused to walk by myself through the slums, so I’d hailed a swiftcoach to taxi me from my apartment on the north-east side of town to the north-central side, where a small patch of grassland and trees grew without radioactive effects. To outsiders, the growing section of Orlando Springs was known as Animal City, every settlement had one.
Animal City was a place of natural growth, carefully cultivated gardens with flowers and novelty plants with peculiar leaves, a field of grasses that grew about four feet tall, and the trees—the trees! The trees reached out, branch touching the fingers of other branches, creating a canopy of protection from the Florida sun’s beating rays. There were more trees in this one area than any American hoped to see in their entire lifetime. To locals, Animal City was called the Singing Forest because of the hefty tribe of werefrogs that called the place home—and protected it from the were phobic.
The swift was a centaurlike creature that was supposed to have six legs. Instead, this swift had four and one nub, the sixth limb was completely missing, as if it was born without it and didn’t know any differently, which was the only reason the coach was anywhere near my price range. Swifts were a dying breed, genetically altered creatures of burden, made before the beginning of the Last World War. Many believed the human DNA came from criminals who were sentenced to be grafted with horses, goats, and deer. I’d never seen a deer-swift if ever one did exist—or a goat for that matter.
Most had horse parts, like this one, black fur, four clopping hooves, a thick happy trail of pubes where horse ended and humanoid waist began. Human skin flowed up, taut, muscular, to human shoulders, with weak human arms. The swift was holding two bars of wood that attached to the coach where his master sat holding his reins, which were strapped around his back and over his shoulders in a way that allowed him to feel whether his master was tugging him to veer left or right, or to stop.
It was uncanny, creepy even, to see the swift’s humanoid head and face, with eyes that held no intelligence except that of maybe a very smart dog. The swift’s hair was long, but braided in a tight fashion down his neck, hanging upon his muscular back. Swifts have no nose, except for a series of six to eight vertical slits that opened side to side rather up and down like a mouth. And speaking of mouths—swifts didn’t have them! Instead it was flat flesh, as if a thousand years of sewn shut mouths had evolved them into what they were now. Apparently, somehow, the swifts devoured crushed grasses and city garbage through their hooves.
The slums were predominately quiet, except for the occasional grunt, scream, or gunshot. There were no cars here, no horsedrawn carriages, no police upon swiftback (Orlando Springs’ police station was able to afford three swifts for such a patrol)—just the eery quiet that promised of oncoming trouble, or horror. It all depended on which unfortunates were shambling about.
A tilhton scurried across the street. It was emaciated, holding one of its paws close to its chest. It could have been wolf, or hyena—it was hard to tell in the gloom. White canines could been seen, setting it’s face in a happy sneer. Had I been alone, the creature would have tried to attack me, tried to eat me! But this one stood no chance. It was the stronger ones that posed a problem—they were more abundant in my neighborhood on the southside. Here, this close to the Singing Forest, tilhtons were exterminated on the regular.
As I was drawn closer to the Singing Forest I began to understand why it was called such. I’d never been here before, most non-weremane, or skinbacks as they called us, didn’t come here. I’d promised a friend I’d come. The swift stopped at a traffic light, which was weird to see working so close to all of the natural growth of the Singing Forest. The chorus of chirps and croaks from both wild frogs and werefrogs was everywhere.
“Man, the forest does truly sing.” The coachman said over his shoulder. Apparently he’d never been here either. I didn’t blame him, swifts smelled just enough like human to attract unwanted tilhtons.
The Singing Forest was often thriving with tourists during the day, but at night it was dead of passersby. A creature that looked like a dog, but was much too big to be a dog, sauntered by and disappeared into a throng of bushes. The Singing Forest was too close to the slums for people to just be milling about at this hour.
As the coach came to a stop, I noticed four guards, probably werefrogs, stationed at the cemented entrance to the Singing Forest. They didn’t have any visible weapons like the police—or like any other guards I’d seen before, like in the movies. Definitely werefrogs, I thought. Werefrogs would have no reason for weapons. Their bodies were weapons alone.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said as I handed the coachman a handful of paper and coins. I watched his eyes go wide and then he caught himself. Obviously I’d tipped him more than what he was used to. I figured he made a good living, but judging by his reaction I must have been wrong. It’s true that most people hired swifts to travel between, which could cut a five day journey into a few minutes. This coachman’s swift, with only four legs, couldn’t travel between. He’d be stuck tending to unfortunates with money in the slums or “regulars” from Southside, like myself.
The coachman, with a drunken smile upon his face, replied, “You’re very welcome! Call me anytime!” He flicked his thumb, a small device flipping in the air, in my direction, like a coin. I caught it nonchalantly, “Press the button whenever you need a ride.”
“Sure will,” I said as I examined the button-device. It was old, but reliable, powered by solar energy, like most things in the city. The button would directly contact a beeperlike device undoubtedly clipped to the coachman’s belt.
The swiftcoach pulled away, the strange human-horse creature pulling coach and wheels with a happy glint in its eyes. I turned towards the werefrogs. Only two were left! They stood on either side of an overgrown archway, Dutchman’s pipe hanging in bloom around their heads. They stared straight ahead, but I knew that they were watching me.
I expected them to stop me, but they didn’t seem to want to engage me at all, so I paused for just a moment, waiting for them to study any threats I may pose to the weremane community—hopefully they’d notice that I am an uninfected human, a skinback. Just as I stepped through the threshold a pink tongue pressed my gut, forcing me backwards. I almost fell. The werefrog swallowed his tongue and said, “What is hidden on your back, under your jacket and shirt?”
The werefrog that spoke’s eyes had shifted to a bright red with hyphen-dash pupils. His nose had become less pronounced, with two vertical slits, almost like the swift, but still a bump where his nose had been. I’m sure there were other subtle changes too, the last thing I saw was the slimy skin of his neck. He was in a discrete half-shift, a skill only the strongest weremane could perform.
He knew instantly that I’d forgotten the weapon that I had housed close to my back by my face, “I’m so sorry.” …But he showed no sympathy.”
“You cannot enter with that knife.”
I wouldn’t call it a knife, but I suspected the werefrog was being nice. I’d consider it a short sword, and it was strapped to my back. I never left home without it. You couldn’t live in a post-World War nation and not walk around with some sort of protection. I began immediately unstrapping the blade. “Where should I leave it?”
I pulled the entirety of the weapon from its hidden place beneath my shirt and before I knew it I was on the ground, my back pressed to the concrete, and my ass starting to raise a bruise. I guess I’d moved too fast. But my fast and the werefrog’s fast were on two completely different levels! The werefrog’s face was too close to mine, but it was completely human again, human eyes, brown, protruding nose, “Would you like to explain why you have a regulation weremane slaying blade on you!?”
“I live on the Southside,” I gasped as if that was explanation enough. I was starting to sweat in my armpits and on my forehead.
The werefrog loosened his hold. “Let him be, Franqui. The Southside is infested with tilhtons.”
The werefrog let me get to my feet and he simply returned to his post, letting me pass. I swept off my shirt and lightly touched my ass as I walked by. I was definitely going to have a bruise. The “sane” werefrog guard took my blade. “We’ll have it here for you,” he’d promised.
The blade was regulation length for cutting up weremane. They were impossibly good at recovering even nearly fatal wounds with their shapeshifting. The blades were just long enough to slice through the heart, just short enough to be able to maneuver easily with one hand. The trick was to cut their limbs and strike the heart and brain as fast as you could. If either heart or brain were whole, there was a chance the weremane could shapeshift and heal its wounds.
I was not a poacher, obviously. The weremane would never have left me into the Singing Forest if they thought that I was. Plus, I would have come more armed. I would have had tasers and two regulation weremane blades. It was customary to carry two blades. One meant that you were simply armed for protection. Bullets did shit to weremane, they could heal bullet wounds without even shapeshifting from one form into another.
But it wasn’t weremane that I carried the blade around for. It was tilhtons. Tilhtons were people infected with weremange, but unlike weremane, tilhtons are unable to control their animal sides, most are even unable to shapeshift back to their human selves. They are completely consumed by their animal, their beast…And they have a taste for human flesh! Tilhtons will never be human again, though many scientists in their underground labs in center city believe otherwise.
Weremane resented the tilhtons. They gave every weremane a bad rap, and only caused the skinback population another reason to fear them. Fear and the unknown usually lead to hate…And it had. At least for the weremane community. Just this week there had been twelve deaths. Hate crimes, all of them! It was why I was here. My friend Elijah is infected with weremange, not quite a weremane yet, he didn’t have the ability to shapeshift, but they say it can mature at any full moon. The Jaguar, a dance club in the Singing Forest, owned and operated by weremane, was holding a vigil for the lost. Elijah said it always meant so much for weremane to see skinbacks showing support, and he knew I’d come if he’d asked. I was kind of excited to see a were bar.
There were people all over the paths. It was unnerving to see giant wolves, whom I knew were weremane in their fur form roaming around, all on their way to the Jaguar, which sat upon a grassy hilltop in the Singing Forest. There were wooden signs pointing in all directions, marked with specific landmarks. It wasn’t hard to follow the crowd towards the venue of the vigil, but Elijah had told me to meet him down by the river. He said there was a boat launch and I followed the signs.
The weremane were a hot topic lately across America. The Governing Council of Icons had placed a vote to stop all killing on sight. Of course, Orlando Springs, being one of the most progressive cities in the United Cities of America, had outlawed killing on sight a few years ago, but the habit ran deep. Constantly, weremane were killed in the outskirts. But lately, the massacres had been happening in center city. Terrorists from more ignorant cities or just hateful fucks from other districts in town were coming and shooting up bars or businesses that “sympathized” with the beasts.
I shuttered as a crocodile fell in step beside me. Sweat formed on my forehead, even though I knew it was a weremane. The werecroc looked up at me, and though his entire ten-foot body was prehistoric reptile, there was something so human about his eyes. I nodded at the weremane and felt kind of stupid for doing it, like I was communicating with a crocodile. The weremane then veered off the path into a tangle of low bushes.
The path started to grow darker. I had a tiny feeling that I didn’t want to be down here, alone, even though I was probably in the safest place in town right now, surrounded by all of these weremane. As if on cue a globe of light appeared just above my head. I looked up to find an impossibly large treefrog holding a lantern globe, charged with solar energy. The werefrog clung to the side of the tree with ease…And then there was another, and another, and they leapt through the trees, nearly silently, just sounding like the wind blowing through branches, as they lit my pathway to the bench at the boat launch.
It was something like magic, these glowing orbs leading me, following me. I could see them leap ten and twenty feet to further vantage points. They gripped the lanterns’ handles in long webbed fingers, each ending in large bulbous finger pads. Their intelligent, red eyes all looked down upon me.
I sat on the bench and listened to the frog song. Half of the werefrogs and their lanterns had left, leaving just enough glowing orbs for me to see around me. Just when I was slipping into a daze someone sat next to me, I expected Elijah. “Who are you waiting for?”
Startled I said, “A friend.”
“Weremane?” He asked.
Taken aback, I got sort of defensive, “Does it matter?”
“No, just curious since I can tell that you are skin back.”
“Look, my friend lost some friends. I’m here to support him, if you must know.” I snapped. Who was this guy prying into my business. I was conscious of the werefrogs overhead.
“I don’t mean to come off prying.” He said, and as far as I was concerned he’d nailed it on the head. “I’m here to support too.” He smiled, “My name’s Ethyn…And this here is Turquoinly.”
Turquoinly was sitting on the other side of me and I felt a chill run up my spine. I don’t remember him being there! I was wracking my brain as if I knew something that I’d forgotten. Like a word stuck on the tip of your tongue. “Hello,” was all I could find myself to say. The werefrogs were no longer overhead. At some point they must have disappeared, jumping through the trees like the wind. “What’s going on here!?” I asked. I was standing now.
“Calm down, Atreyu.”
How did he know my name? I didn’t remember telling him my name! “What are you doing to me!?” I imagined this was how people felt when they were date-raped. Everything was confusing, so confusing that I couldn’t believe my own thoughts and memories. Were the werefrogs even real? Had they been there with their lanterns?
“There is nothing happening to you that you haven’t already wished for.”
“Wished for? Who the fuck are you!?” I took steps back now. I could hear the roaring river at my heels. Where was Elijah? Where were all the weremane that had been around earlier on their way to the vigil. Why couldn’t a werecroc show up right now!?
“Merely a messenger.”
“Well,” curiosity captured me, even though my voice wasn’t steady, “What is your message.”
“It’s more a physical gift…From your father.”
“…My father…?”
Before I knew what was happening, the man to my left, the Turquois-whatever, grabbed me and pulled me in, his lips reaching for my own! “What are…!” I scrambled but he was much too strong. Ethyn sat with a devilish smile smeared across his face! Turquoinly opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, resting in the cup he made with his tongue was a strange creature, it wiggled its tail, it looked like a tadpole! I tried to pull away, but Turquoinly was super-strong!
I saw Ethyn being thrown from the bench. Turquoinly retracted his tongue and was met with the butt of a stick or a staff. I sat there confused. I could feel my mind trying to swim to the surface. It felt like mush, like the morning after a lot of drinking.
The figure that saved me was dressed in a long black leather trench coat. She was armed with a giant scythe. A scythe slayer? She, I mean, he, turned towards me after Ethyn and his accomplice escaped into the darkness down by the river. “Are you okay?” The slayer asked.
