Back at The Lab

The werewolves had recently made their headquarters in an abandoned multistory library on West 12th Street. There was a community of humans in a couple of buildings around the library, their frailer companions. Radiation had begun devastating New York some months after the bomb struck. The faerie folk were partially resistant to radiation, much more so than humans, who began giving up the ghost left and right. Face coverings were also worn, most of the time to hide the boils or other topical oddities brought on by the radiation fallout. Only those in deep underground hideouts had persevered... for a little while, at least. There was lawlessness, of course, but the faerie folk had instituted a type of order, Darwin's survival of the fittest, and smartest... and wiliest.

With the advent of the revelation of the faerie folk, the few government officials left attempted contact, and were soundly rebuffed. The purely mortal humans remaining were of the same vent towards their governments, and so it was back to the age of urban communalism. But communities grew, and Growl saw that his community's territory was now overlapping that of a notorious gang of vampires known as "La Croque," which in French meant The Bite, a name that itself came from their headquarters.

Growl had called for a community meeting and the majority had decided to offer terms of truce to the bloodthirsty vampires, who could not be trusted but, with contact bound to happen between both communities at some point, it was best to at least try the peaceful approach. For decades the environment had been murky, a sunny day as rare as honest intentions at political rallies. Most days were cloudier than others, which had wreaked havoc on much of Earth's flora, in turn decimating terrestrial fauna. The vampires had proliferated. But so many of them were young and inexperienced and not as powerful as some of their makers, so they had been easy prey for the majority of the werewolf community. A newly turned werewolf was more formidable and more in control of his or her powers than a newly turned vampire.

Likely because they had to die first, Growl pondered, springing up the spiral staircase railing of the library to the top floor in his human form as easily as jogging down the street. Only an Alpha could make it look that easy. Even some of the other werewolves, some very strong and others quite limber, many a combination of both, were no match for Growl's strength, endurance, flexibility and adroitness. The closest werewolf running upstairs behind Growl found him seated at the large series of rectangular floor to ceiling windows facing out into the shrouded rotten Apple. Growl held an open bottle of vodka loosely in hand, making short work of it since his recuperative abilities (a type of "healing factor") would not allow him to get as drunk as he would have liked if he drank slowly. So one liter of vodka was gone in just under seven minutes.

"What's next on the agenda, chief?" said the werewolf in human form standing to his left, putting on his flight jacket that he had kept in his backpack in addition to a sweatsuit. And that was the question. What, indeed, was next? The armed forces of the world were devastated and any extant military base anywhere had to be extremely careful in its outings because of public hate towards anything governmental. The libertarians had finally gotten what they wanted - Princess Rivulet and her alter ego Dutchess Rivulet on Meta was happy - much of Colorado had largely been spared Chinese and Russian bombing, although fallout from nearby States had blown over to Colorado Springs. Growl Alpha thought fondly of Princess Rivulet's dog Piper, a good looking Pitbull bitch. He had interacted with her back when things were normal and so many humans he knew withered and perished while time was kind to him and those of his ilk. But one day, the Reaper would come a-sowing in his field, and the piper would be due. Another thing was that the Internet worked when it wanted to work. Apparently the miles and miles and miles of underwater cables crisscrossing under oceans and seas that were the reason ninety-seven percent of Internet existed had been hugely damaged.

Growl's vision about his role in this new world order was starting to become clearer. He knew what he would have to do but the sheer effort involved was daunting. The next area he would have to find out about and reach out to was mid-Manhattan. But there were some nasty faerie creatures out there, many of which had taken advantage of humanity's stupidity and disastrous expansionist practices to set up their own little "kingdoms" in the City. It was like this all over the world, not just in the United States. More than half of the world's population was gone. Perhaps Bill Gates was somewhere sharing a drink with Prince William and celebrating the successful execution of their depopulation agenda.

"Hell's Kitchen," the Alpha finally responded, thoughts again returning to Jacqueline. How could he even be attracted to an undead being? The thought was repulsive... vaguely, but also, in some way, salacious. Besides, he already had som-

"Hey there, Mr. Man... Uh, or should I say 'Mr. Wolf'?" Growl stood up as the speaker, a middle-age Black woman with dark skin and penetrating hazel eyes sidled up to him. They embraced and kissed deeply of each other before separating, highly conscious of the playful snickers from the other pack mates moving around or lolling about in the background. She looked up at Growl, lambent eyes searching the windows to his soul. "So how did the meeting go?"

Growl put his arm around her and turned to the window. "It went." They stood in quietude for some time, the only noises being music and video game noises in the background as the pack roamed about the library, seeking diversion from ennui. They had found the library outfitted with a large game room where all manner of video games and small sports areas were available to be used. Growl had ordered for some of the arcades to be moved upstairs to this floor, usually a quiet place but sometimes, like now, he permitted others to occupy its confines. "What about you, Nyx? How's the community?" Nyx was the liaison between humans and faerie, predominantly werewolves for the moment, but Growl knew they would encounter other faerie folk and he had asked Nyx to sensitize the people to the existence of what most humans believed to be fairy tales.

"Not bad at all. There were some questions, of course, but at least, very few clashes." The human community around them had some anti-faerie dissidents, who even hated the wolves but knew that without their presence, they would become easy pickings for the "creepy crawlies," as many humans referred to faerie folk, a term with which Growl was fast becoming disenchanted. On the other hand now were the vast majority of faerie supporters, and it was for them, because of them, that Growl Alpha accorded all of them his protection. He would not allow a few bad apples to spoil the bunch. Humans had misjudged each other for thousands of years, xenophobia of one man making him unnecessarily cruel to another, because of a different skin color, or different ethnicity, or a different religion. As a Black male, Growl had experienced racism plentifully, and had dealt with it accordingly: swiftly and remorselessly. But he was not just a Black man. He was also a werewolf, an Alpha, having been turned right after the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation.

*

"Boy, getcher nigger ass over here 'fore I come whoop you," Mr. Worthington said, threatening the hulking young Black man he had encountered at the edge of his property. Something had told Sammy that Jungle Johnny here was trying to hitch a ride out of the plantation and go north, where them damn Yankees had freed the slaves. Sammie was not letting Jungle Johnny go anywhere. Them laws up North was for them nigger lovers. 'Sides, what were they gonna do, knock on everybody's door in the South?

"No, suh, I will not come over there," Jungle Johnny said quietly, his voice at odds with the sheer bulk of his physique. Sammie could only imagine how much profit he would lose if this nigger escaped. He got down from his horse, unrolling the whip at his side and throwing the reins over a low hanging branch. Jungle Johnny looked wary and stepped backed a few paces.

"I said getcher nigger ass OVER HERE!" The whip was swung expertly and would have flayed skin had it landed; however, incredibly, Jungle Johnny caught the whip in a deceptively languid motion. The air in Charleston, South Carolina was abuzz with all forms of various other insect life awakening around both men. Worthington wondered why he had not come along with one of his sons. Well, what was done was done. He refused to let go of the whip and found himself being dragged towards Jungle Johnny by the same. "I'm warnin' you, nigger. This my last warning." The pulling of the whip continued. "Just let go of the whip, nigger, and... I promise we can... go home." He was rambling and before long, Sam Worthington realized his mistake in holding onto the whip. He was now well within reach of any retaliatory strike from Jungle Johnny if he let go of the whip. Inner fear gripped Worthington and he held on to the handle of the whip for dear life. "I been good to you, nigger, ain't I? Fed you, clothed you, gave you a place to sleep. The barn's a great place for a young nigger like yerself to build up yer strength."

After an eternity of being dragged closer to Jungle Johnny, both men were finally face to face, the White man reeking of stale sweat and fear, the Black man as cool as Crocodile Dundee in New York City: "You call that a knife? That's not a knife. This is a knife!"

Jungle Johnny picked up the slaveowner and threw him head over heels against the bole of another nearby tree. Worthington hit the tree with a dull thud and a yelp. As the slaveowner sat up, breathing arduously and bleeding copiously from his nose and from a wound on his forehead he had just incurred, Jungle Johnny raised the whip and began beating Worthington with it; not whipping him, but folding up the whip as if it was a belt and then beating him. In the gloaming there was a deep-throated growl. Jungle Johnny froze, looking around. Then he searched the pockets of his now unconscious "owner," taking off with almost sixty dollars!

Jungle Johnny knew the layout of the land and ran for dear life, because he knew if he was caught, they would flay him, no questions asked. The man's large body was somehow nimble and he navigated skillfully over gnarled roots and bogs waiting to suck him down. And then he was knocked down from behind. He turned right and left frantically, unable to locate his assailant in the growing dark. As he bumped into a pliant but hard body behind him, Jungle Johnny knew he was dead. He put his eyes down and slowly turned around, arms outstretched.

It was the first and last time Jungle Johnny would ever see such a large creature. Obviously it was a wolf, but its sheer size was unprecedented. He still did not look at it in the eyes and slowly began backing away. The wolf was not moving, from what Jungle Johnny could tell of its paws. A few meters away, Jungle Johnny turned and ran. That was the worst, and most propitious, mistake of his life.

*

Oh, how time flew, Growl reflected.