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 ^{(it's beta!)}

One: Of Men and Unmen

A few houses still stood in what had once been an industrial town.

Everything that could move had gone; the skeletons of houses—big, ramshackle houses that had once been respectable, if not grand—stood like wounded sentinels, guarding the remains of the town. The ruins of what had once been a school lay in the center, a shell of concrete, like a skull; the patches of darkness were the sockets and nose and gaping mouth, wide, trapped in a final gasp, the wires, long dead, were strands of hair, still clinging in fitful patches. The houses, abandoned, neglected, stood around it in a ring like stricken mourners at the side of a body; they had been broken down and ravaged—not by time, but by the blindly-seeking hands of men. Boards had been torn from walls, shingles from roofs, holes at the foundation were left as broken, gaping cellars; things were taken as they were needed.

The houses that were still inhabited were scattered indiscriminately through the rubble; the smoke that rose from their chimneys was thin and gray, coiling into the pale sky, serving as the only sign of life.

The town was utterly silent; it had been for a long time.

Two men were walking carefully and quietly down what had been the main street; one swore beneath his breath when the other’s boot crushed a leaf with a muffled crunch. The unfamiliar sound rang through the empty streets like the tolling of a bell.

August Cray put a hand on the other man’s broad shoulder, his voice tight and controlled.

“They’re human, John.”

John Rand jerked his shoulder away irritably, his eyes flickering from one side of the street to the other. “You don’t know that.”

“What do you think Rhinehardt’s boys would be doing if they were here?”

John knew the boy had a point; he stayed silent, unwilling to acknowledge it.

“Plus, Carl said—”

“Fuck what Carl Fulton said,” John cut in; he lowered his voice, but none of the sudden, sharp anger left it. “Start looking.”

“I’ll take this side,” August said finally, his voice subdued, quiet; John felt bad almost immediately—August simply had that effect on people.

The older man stepped across the road, moving with an easy, loping grace; he paused at every window, and August followed his lead.

And then, suddenly, the grace had changed to the abrupt tension of savages, ready to strike, kill, flee—vanish at the sight of danger—

“August.”

The younger man’s head jerked up from the glassless window of a long-abandoned shop and he jogged over, concern scrawled on his thin face.

John turned away from the window and August drew closer, his thick eyebrows closing together, bottom lip between his teeth.

“What?”

John jerked his thumb back and August could see him swallow.

“In there,” he said, his voice oddly quiet, tense.

August stepped closer, his footsteps now quiet, his movements wary.

The sudden darkness of the inside of the house—if that was what it had been—made him blink; it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust.

The scene in the house struck him as a physical blow and he almost wished that his eyes had never adjusted—that he had remained blind, unseeing—

He turned, away from the window, away from John, and said quietly, “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“Go ahead. I won’t watch.”

August dropped to his knees and retched until his stomach was empty even of acid and his throat was sore and burning. He rose finally, shaking, suddenly wary eyes on John; the older man stood facing away from the window and away from him, huge hands clasped together behind his back. August knew instinctively that John hadn’t watched and wad glad; the older man was probably one of the only people that would know that he’d have a problem with someone watching him at a weak point.

“I was a cop,” he said quietly, seemingly realizing that August was watching him. “Before. I’ve seen worse.”

Before. The word was so simple, and before it would’ve meant nothing—but August knew what he meant.

“I can’t think of much worse than that,” August said quietly.

John turned, his long fingers curling around the wooden bottom of the windowsill. “Human beings are the most savage animals on the planet. Sure, a cheetah can tear out a gazelle’s throat, but the damn cat’s gotta eat, right? I’ve seen human faces carved up like fuckin’ jack-o-lanterns.”

He laughed, low and humorless, and August tensed slightly.

“I promise, a cheetah didn’t do that.”

August joined John for a moment before turning away; the images, he knew now, weren’t going to leave.

There were four people that he could see; none of them had a defined gender. Only one—it looked like a woman—was older than... sixteen, seventeen maybe. The other three were small; decomposition had been slowed by autumn’s coming coolness, but it still rendered them sexless, ageless, faceless.

“He cut their throats.”

“He?”

“Rhinehardt.”

“How do you figure?” John’s voice was sharp, angry.

“Think about it for a second. You think there’s anybody else that’s going to hack someone’s throat open and not leave any blood?”

John didn’t realize what August was doing until the younger man was inside the house.

“Goddamnit, August—”

August stepped carefully around the bodies, the worn-down heels of his boots disturbing the thick dust on the floor.

John swore under his breath and followed; August glanced up from his position next to one of the women, kneeling, examining the gash across her pale throat.

“Get away from them,” John snapped; and for a few seconds he was back in Queens and the man in front of him wasn’t eighteen-year-old August Cray in the middle of a field in Pennsylvania—he was twenty-year-old Padraig O’Riordan, a fresh officer, kneeling on the floor in a grimy crime-scene apartment; but Padraig O’Riordan wasn’t Padraig anymore, but he was dead or worse—

“John.”

August’s soft, controlled voice broke through the sudden flow of memories.

“What?”

“You’re not him anymore.”

John’s clear blue eyes narrowed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

August stood, but didn’t move after that; his long arms hung by his sides, his body relaxed—but there was some form of tension inside that long, skinny body, coiled and restless, almost bracing, like he expected a blow in exchange for his words.

“You’re not Sergeant John Rand of the New York PD. You’re not the same man that solved crimes for eighteen years, alright? He’s gone.”

“I—”

“You’re not,” August pressed, his voice strained and tight, earnest. “You’ve changed. Face it.”

John felt a sudden anger spark in his gut and crossed his arms over his broad chest, his eyes never leaving the other man’s face.

There was a silence between them for almost a minute; August was still silent, his dark eyes never rising from the thin layer of dust on the toes of his boots and the hem of his worn jeans.

“Let’s go back,” John said abruptly. “There’s nothing here.”

August didn’t say anything but followed John out, his hands jammed in his pockets.

“It’s not a bad thing,” he said finally, after they’d been walking for a few minutes.

“What?”

“That you changed. We all have.”

“I haven’t.”

August finally looked up, his eyes meeting John’s; the gentleness in his voice was as subtle as the smile at the edges of his mouth.

“John... if you hadn’t changed, we’d all be dead.”