City of Wolves: Alphas on Motorcycles

4 | Contempt

Celeste

The ambulance becomes a glowing, flaming orange ball, illuminating the street around it and air above it. There's barely enough time to recover from the awe of the first explosion before the next bomb detonates, then the next one, and all along the line of succession until all the bombs have been detonated. The street is aflame—gray smoke billowing like napalm, red flames crawling along the utility poles and buildings like a hot plague, sparks blowing around like evil little spirits. The c*****e is horrible but beautiful. The heat, mirroring the air into a mirage, presses against my face and the faces of my accomplices. We are all stunned by the perfection of the destruction. My shop is completely engulfed with flames. The wooden skeletons of these buildings will cause them to burn fast and the fire to spread even faster.

"We gotta' run," Jasmine says, taking my forearm in her hand. Her nostrils are pooled with fresh but clotting blood. "I truly, truly hope from the bottom of my heart that our paths will cross again...but hopefully under better circumstances."

"Do you and your entourage want to take refuge in our place? We live in that skyscraper over there," Matthew offers, pointing to our apartment building which waves to us in the heat. My heartrate spikes at his offer. I guess there is no time for private deliberation under such circumstances...but truth be told I wish he might have indicated something to me first. "We'll make room for you. You can hide out for a while—"

"No no. I can guarantee our hiding spot is much better than yours," Jasmine smiles, releasing my arm, turning her attention back to me. When she looks at me I feel more than seen; I feel psychoanalyzed. Accurately. Our gifts are somewhat complementary. "Get home safe."

When she takes off in the opposite direction, all of the men she came with run after her. To apply political hierarchy vocabulary, she is the Alpha of her little group; they have accepted her as their leader or at least as a guiding figure. When Matthew takes my hand to start leading us back toward our apartment building, I realize how powerless I am against conceding to his reckless albeit righteous whims. Regardless, as we start to run through the streets, I consider that this protest in one of the largest cities in the eastern region has definitely not made a good impression on the new eastern Alpha and will likely only confirm his inclination towards oppression and suppression of dissent. Then again, inaction wouldn't have swung him towards mercy either.

The smoke, due to the wind, obstructs visibility. The streets are almost bare, people smartly running away from the explosion rather than toward it, but we can hear noise closing in from all around us—howls, shouts, and motorcycles. We seem to be running directly into the direction of the wind-carried smoke, finding ourselves in a cloud so dense that our breaths turn to coughs and we sink to our knees. My vision is of no aid in a cloud this buttressed with ash. Flakes of it drop around us. At this pace it seems as if the entire city will be consumed.

"Celeste," Matthew sputters. "Can you see anything?"

Eyes stinging and watering, I open them and try to look around. I can make out the edges of buildings and orbs of light, which I guess is good enough. When I look up into the sky, however, I can see flames penetrating the grayness, taller than the structures they have consumed, reaching into the unviewable blackness. Matthew repeats his question but before I can answer there is a choir of screams from not far behind us, piercing the smoke, which prompts me to take Matthew's hand and begin running away from the mob that will certainly be coming soon. We will find a way. We will find our way home.

The screams are gaining on us, getting closer, and I realize we are going to be trampled if we don't move out of the way. We take a quick detour into what looks like an alleyway, pressing ourselves tightly against the brick wall. Sure enough, a group of fleeing protestors run through the smoke, making it spiral and twist and dance. The battle cry of howls and motorcycles pursue the protestors, Lycans and werewolves running behind and alongside the crowd, cleverly corralling them like a herd of sheep. Matthew asks me what's happening and I inform him against my better judgement, knowing he will want to do something to stop it.

I know Matthew well. The smoke is patchy from the runners and cyclists, making it visible enough that Matthew can see through the haze. He tells me that we are running after the scene, a couple of vultures chasing the next headline. It isn't hard to tell where the headline is. The running and engines have stopped while the screams and howls have increased. A brawl has broken out. The pitch of death is a distinct and unmistakable one.

The scene is a writhing tumor of flesh and fabric ripping at each outburst of movement. The smoke continues to billow. There are more sirens—not ambulance sirens but firetruck sirens by the way they intonate. I have a temporary moment of relief. Firefighters cannot put out the flames of resistance, but at least they can put out the fires that resistance has started. The message has been sent and received—it will now be archived. The distant hissing of water hoses adds another layer to all the chaos and madness. My head is beginning to throb.

Matthew and I leap over several motorcycles before we cease running. I want to take Matthew's arm and prevent him from running into the writhing tumor of violence but I am so disturbed that I have completely frozen over, eyes wide and jaw dropped. I have suddenly forgotten how to breathe, not that the smoke has made it an easy thing to do anyway. When Matthew moves to take a step forward, I finally unfreeze and grab his wrist.

"Please don't," I beg.

"Trust me on this, Celeste."

He rips his arm aggressively from my hand, walking toward the mass with absolutely no fear weighing him down. My chest heaves. He stops a foot from the c*****e as if waiting to catch the notice of one individual who can put an end to it all, or as if waiting for the tumor of bodies to expand and swallow him. He gets his wish of individual notice, but this individual appears from the smoke, as if born from it, and tries to sneak up on him. I call out Matthew's name but all that comes out is a wheeze, the smoke having completely stolen any chance of raising my voice. Just as I prepare to run to Matthew, he pivots on his heel and faces the man directly. Now I am completely stunned into place.

Matthew stares at the man who, advancing, suddenly halts. Matthew says something to him and the man nods, craning his head back and howling into the air. Definitely a Lycan—their howls are just as powerful whether they are in wolf or human form. The howl is so shrill I cover my ears and wince until it is over. Nonetheless, the tumor ceases writhing on account of the canines responding to the call of the one who beckons them. What I never expected was to hear him beckon them to retreat.

Those who take command from him appear just as confused as I am—wolves tilt their heads to the side, tails tucked between their legs; Lycans in human form furrow their brows and throw their arms up in frsutration. They are winning so they see no reason to cease the fighting and they argue as much. The Lycan that Matthew is talking to shakes his head.

"These are small fish. We have bigger fish to fry. We've killed a dozen already. The survivors will be arrested tomorrow."

Another Lycan, one covered in blood, says earnestly: "I agree. Men, we have to assist in putting out the flames. The firefighters are overwhelmed. The flames are growing."

The one Matthew talking to shouts: "Now! Otherwise you are in contempt! I will see to it personally!"

He launches off in a sprint, disappearing into the smoke, and the second advocate follows him, swallowed into the gray. A third advocate pledges his loyalty to the firefighting cause and also disappears. One by one, hesitantly, out of instinctive loyalty, the rest of the authorities follow him, some Lycans shifting as they run, feeling they would be of better service if they had four paws and were covered in fur. If I was at least half werewolf, I'd be in my wolf form right now. The thought chills me as I realize that most of the wolves out tonight are actually high-echelon werewolves. I get a strange epiphany of being betrayed by own brethren just as the surviving protestors scatter.

"Matthew—" the next words I have catch in my throat. I am unable to speak as Matthew approaches me through the whirling veil of smoke, overcome by what I can only describe as a sudden onset of crippling shock. I want to ask him so many questions but they are swallowed down like bolus. He is ominous, shadowy as he closes the gap between us; his eyes are intense, pupils dilated. I can't believe everything that has happened. I can't believe I agreed to this. I don't understand what to think.

My body feels off. It tingles. Is this shock...or something more intentional? Something more sinister? Something more worrisome?

Matthew gently takes my hand, kisses me, and tells me it's time for us to go home. My legs are wooden as we walk calmly away from the continuing bedlam behind us. When we turn the corner, we pick up the pace. Even though Matthew runs a pace ahead of me I am somehow the one leading us.

Full speed ahead.