The Last of Her Kind Ch. 03

"What's the matter, soldier boy? Did I hurt your feelings?"

"Just contemplating how someone dressed a turd up in human clothes and taught it how to talk."

The reaction was immediate, the stranger launching out of his seat. Darren brought his hands up and blocked the first punch thrown his way, amazed at the strength of impact. The drunk took on a boxer's stance and threw out a couple of feeble jabs, but Darren wasn't falling for it.

Walters, however, did. He came up from behind and tried to grab the drunk's wrist, but the man spun around and backhanded the sheriff hard enough that he fell to the ground, his hat sailing across the bar. Walters got his hands up in time to block a kick to his face, but just barely.

Darren put his foot in the back of the man's knee, dropping him low enough to be put in a chokehold. He grabbed the drunk and yanked him away from the sheriff, noticing right away that the man wasn't bothering to struggle. He twisted the man to the side just as the drunk spun in place and nearly caught Darren in the knee with a return low kick, popping free of the hold.

"Ooh, you're fast soldier boy." The drunk's face had hardened into a sneering mask of rage, and he took a casual swing that Darren barely side-stepped. This wasn't some ordinary drunk, this was a man who knew how to fight, and perhaps even how to kill. "Fast enough to run away from Vietnam?"

"I did my time." Darren circled, remembering to keep his hands up. That was a hard lesson he had learned in high school, and an even harder one in the jungle. He could hear Little Mike's voice in his head, reminding him to keep his elbows in. This time, when the drunk swung, Darren countered, smashing his knuckles straight into the man's face.

It was like punching concrete. All of his knuckles popped, pain shooting up his wrist, but he kept his ground.

The drunk stumbled back a step and plugged one nostril to fire blood out of the other. He touched the crimson streak on his lip and held his fingers out to contemplate them.

"That wasn't half bad, soldier boy." The drunk grinned and then moved so fast that Darren couldn't track him. A hard blow to his shoulder spun him around and then he was kicked in the gut, tumbling back into a table.

Darren held his stomach, grunting in pain as he stood. The drunk stood over him now, one hand on Darren's collar and the other raised to knock him out.

"Jeffrey, enough!" This voice came from a man with in a pale grey duster jacket. He stood in the door of the bar, surveying the scene with a calm but concerned expression.

"I'm just having a drink, Cyrus. Fuckers stopped serving me." Jeffrey let go of Darren, allowing him to slide to the floor.

"As they should. We need to go. Now." Cyrus's eyes lingered on Darren and then moved to Walters. "Sheriff, I apologize for my friend here. He just lost a friend in the war and he really isn't himself."

Walters stood up, pain on his face. "Losing a loved one can be hard, but apologies won't fix this place up."

"But money will." Cyrus slapped down a small roll of cash on a nearby table. "And we are leaving now, if he isn't under arrest."

A range of emotions crossed Walters' face, and he finally sighed, his shoulders drooping. He walked over to Cyrus and picked up the roll of cash and tossed it to the bartender. "You reckon that will cover it, Al?"

Al's eyes went wide as he unrolled the cash, adding numbers in his head. "It sure will, Sheriff. Plus some."

"You want to press charges?"

"No, sir." Al stuffed the cash in his pocket and knelt behind the bar. He came back holding an unopened bottle of bourbon and tossed it to Jeffrey, who caught it. "I'm sorry to hear about your friend. Here's one for the road."

Jeffrey gave Darren a mock salute and walked out the door, cracking into the bottle. Cyrus just shook his head and walked across the bar to help Darren up.

"He's not a bad guy, really." Their gazes locked for several seconds and Cyrus nodded. "And I reckon you understand him a bit. It isn't personal."

Darren nodded, but remained silent. He knew exactly how Jeffrey had felt, but something felt off about the whole situation. If Jeffrey hadn't been drinking and Darren had, their fight would have made more sense. What kind of man could get so intoxicated but still be able to toss around two grown men like they were nothing?

Cyrus ducked out the door and Walters followed, standing in the frame. Darren joined him, and they watched as the two strangers got into a white pickup truck and pulled out of the lot.

"Son of a bitch," Walters muttered. "I recognize those guys. They came into town same day you did. Said they were looking for some land to buy."

"Hopefully they decide to move on." Darren got a chill watching their tail lights disappear over the hill. "I get a bad feeling off of them."

"You and me both."

"So why didn't you arrest him?"

Walters shrugged. "Sometimes it's better to let trouble pass you by. He's just a drunk. We get them out here from time to time. Honestly was just planning on letting him sleep it off in a cell, but his friend seems to have his head on straight. Maybe I book him for assault, but unless you want to press charges, I'm fine seeing the back of them."

"Your call," Darren said, looking at where the tail lights had disappeared. Hopefully that really was the last of them. The way that Cyrus had casually thrown down some cash told him this wasn't the first time that he had been forced to bail Jeffrey out.

"You're right, it is. Thanks for coming along. Didn't get hurt too bad?"

"No." He rubbed his stomach. "Just got the wind knocked out of me." He didn't mention how bad his hand hurt. There was a right way and a wrong way to land a punch, and he figured he had simply hit at a bad angle.

"C'mon, son. Let's get you home." Walters led the way to his car, and they both got in.

Headed back into town, Walters made plenty of small talk. Darren made sure the talk stayed small, his mind drifting back to the moment he had smashed his fist into Jeffrey. His knuckles were throbbing with pain now, and he made sure to keep his hand hidden from the sheriff.

Once home, he waved farewell with his left hand and went inside the house. There was no sign of Ana, and her door was closed, the light off. He pulled some ice out of the freezer and wrapped it in a towel before placing it over his hand. Wincing, he examined the damage.

It hadn't hurt at first, but now his whole fist was swollen. Grateful he could still bend his fingers, he figured it was a hairline fracture at worst, and maybe also a couple of sprains across his fingers. There wasn't much to be done for it except to take some aspirin and hope the swelling went down in the morning.

He ate a quick can of soup. He wasn't particularly hungry and thought about getting up earlier than normal for a run. There was something about how peaceful the world seemed first thing in the morning, but even more so after a good rain.

He opened the door to his bedroom and frowned. The humidity from the storm had gotten trapped inside, making it feel hotter than it should. He left his bedroom door open just a crack and took off his boots, leaving them upright next to his nightstand. Taking a deep breath, his shirt came off next, and he turned off the light, his eyes on the dark ceiling.

When the shadows moved in to hover over him, he already had his eyes squeezed tight, his fingers clutching his dog tags like a talisman against the dark.

Between the rain and the lack of adequate lighting, Ana could have easily walked across the road to the library and not been spotted. However, she erred on the side of caution and crossed in her wheelchair, using her key to let herself in.

The inside of the library was like a tomb at night. The only sounds she could hear were the distant rumbling of thunder and the soft pitter patter of rain on the roof. However, when she allowed her senses to expand, she could now hear the steady dripping of a water leak somewhere on the roof, and even the rush of air through a loose pane of glass somewhere in the library proper.

She could also hear the delicate scratching of nails on concrete. She cocked her head sideways to hear better, then locked the door behind her. When her wheel squeaked, she heard the scratching stop.

Something much bigger than a mouse was in the library.

Pulling herself free of her chair, she moved silently along the stone wall. Long ago, she had learned to tell the difference between actual brick work and a facade. Primarily, the difference was that a facade would rip itself free trying to support her weight, and she had sported a pretty nasty bruise for weeks as a reminder of that particular lesson.

The scratching resumed, and now she could hear the sound of a tongue licking something, the rich smell of peanut butter in the air. The door to the storage room was just ahead, but she pushed up on one of the ceiling tiles in the dropped ceiling and moved across the space above the door.

Climbing even higher through a narrow gap, she was now on the rafters above the second floor. Moving from beam to beam, she positioned herself to look down on the entire room. There was the damp smell of water and fur down below, and she could smell the creature's breath.

Just beneath the table, a very wet raccoon was picking its way through pieces of broken glass, greedily gobbling up the peanut butter on the floor. Apparently Darren had left the jar there, and her best guess was that the raccoon had let himself in to avoid the storm.

Surveying the room, it didn't take long to determine by the air currents that the raccoon had come in through a loose air vent on the floor level. Smiling to herself, she quietly descended, careful to avoid touching the surrounding shelves. Once by the floor, she quietly pulled the vent off and started building a funnel inside of the duct. The raccoon happily slurped up its snack while she tucked the web into place.

Satisfied with her handiwork, she maneuvered around toward the other side of the room, carefully watching the creature below. Satisfied that there were no other exits, she tumbled free of the ceiling and landed on all eight legs.

The raccoon stood up and hissed, holding a gob of peanut butter in its hand. However, once it saw Ana, the stench of fear flooded the room and the raccoon bolted.

Truthfully, she could probably catch it, but didn't feel like getting bitten and scratched. She maneuvered herself around the room, and it predictably moved toward the vent. Once it was close, she made a series of hissing noises to scare it farther. In its haste, it didn't notice the webs in the vent until it was too late.

It thumped around, trying to free itself of the webbing when she grabbed it by the tail and dragged it back out. It bared its teeth at her, but its legs and hands were trapped against its body. She started the process of wrapping it, finding a couple of good places to bite it and let her poison go to work. Once it had gone still, she hastily bundled it up, sticking it to her backside. A thorough cleaning of any leftover webbing in the vent erased any trace of her presence, and she walked out the door and back to her chair.

The trip back home was uneventful, and she made haste for her haven above the church. The raccoon was the first proper meal she would eat in days, and she struggled with waiting for the enzymes to take effect. When she had bitten the raccoon, she had injected it with a special blend that would still take a couple of hours to properly kick in.

She busied herself by checking the traps in the belfry, just in case. The storm had sent a few birds scrambling for shelter, but none of them would make quite the meal that the raccoon would. Still, she set to work bundling them up and storing them away for consumption later.

Down below, she could hear Darren shifting in his bed. He was saying something in his sleep that was lost to the walls of his room. Hovering silently in her web, she watched the cocoon carefully, touching it every few minutes to see if it was ready. Too early and most of the meat would go to waste.

Patience had long been one of her strengths, but she was just so fucking hungry right now. Her mouth was full of saliva, and she tried to distract herself for just a bit longer by unspooling a bit of webbing and making different patterns from it. It was a game some children had taught her, but she had no idea the what purpose it served. After manipulating the patterns for a while, she tried her own variation on the game and deftly tied a few knots while flipping the webbing around.

It was a primitive picture when she was done, but it clearly looked like a butterfly. Or maybe even a moth. The scent of the raccoon drifted across her nose and she dropped her toy and licked her lips. The smell was unmistakable, and she knew her meal was ready to eat.

Her fangs popped out again and she bit through the tough webbing and savored the sweet taste of fresh food. Taking her time to savor it, she squeezed the bottom of the cocoon upward, drinking as she went.

By the time she was done, her stomach bulged out slightly and the various cramps across her body had disappeared. Picking a spot near the belfry, she hung upside down from a thick thread. The wind from the storm caused her to rock from side to side, and she wanted nothing more than to let it lull her to sleep. However, it now sounded like Darren was having a conversation with somebody, and the last thing she wanted to do was doze off with someone else in her house.

The storm outside had mostly passed, but a light drizzle continued to fall. Using a cup she kept in the belfry, she extended it out into the rain and let it fill. Drinking fresh rainwater made her long for simpler times and sleeping in trees. Being unable to hunt made it hard to nourish her body, but being able to extend her legs and roam the forest made it hard to nourish her soul.

Sighing, she put the empty cup back and stashed away the raccoon carcass. Once the hunters left, she could have those things once again. Without any way of knowing when they left, she would have to be extremely careful for the foreseeable future.

Her hunger satiated, she crawled down from the belfry and back into her room. Darren's voice was coming through his wall, but so was another. Freaked out, she squeezed back into her chair and opened the door, wheeling out into the hall.

"Darren?" she asked, looking at the door to his room. It was open, so she approached, her wheel squeaking again. When a cry came from the doorway, she stopped, holding perfectly still for several seconds.

Another cry came from him, and she pushed the door open.

"Darren?" she asked.

He was on his bed, sweating profusely. Occasionally he would flinch, muttering angrily into the dark room. Ana remembered that Darren had told her he slept poorly and wondered what manner of thoughts were currently haunting him. When he spoke, his voice would alternate back and forth between normal and a tense, growling version of himself. He was having a conversation with someone in his dreams and, apparently, it sounded like he wasn't winning.

Suddenly, the smell hit her. She couldn't help but suck it in and feel it permeate her being, a sudden compulsion that caused a tingling sensation to spread throughout her legs. They twitched in their confined space, causing her wheelchair to shake.

"Ah shit," she whispered, her brain no longer in control of her body. The wheel of her chair squeaked when she approached his bed, her hearts pounding. Darren muttered something about a pit, then turned his head away from her.

She wanted to leave, but every fiber in her body screamed one word.

Breed! He was right in front of her and easy prey. If she wanted, she could bite him to get him hard and fuck him until he blew his load inside of her, then eat him later as her eggs developed.

"No!" Darren's shout startled her, and she backed away, shaking her head.

"I refuse," she whispered, her hands moving to the front of his pants. Her arms hovered over his body, but her fingers trembled. She wouldn't eat him, she couldn't. It wasn't right!

She took his hand instead. Almost immediately, he went silent, his mouth opening wide to breathe in the night air. He muttered a few more times, then tilted his head back toward her.

He was in perfect shape. For whatever reason, he slept without a shirt on tonight, and her fingers traced the tight bands of muscle in his arm. Stealing across his shoulder, she was now touching his pecs, and then his stomach. Turning his head once more, a pair of dog tags rustled beneath him, then went silent once more.

"I should go." The words held no power over her body, and she suddenly realized that this was the first time she had ever touched a man's bare midriff before. A strange budding sensation filled her stomach, and her hands traveled even lower to squeeze his legs through the fabric of his pants.

She willed him to wake up, to chase her out of his room, but she also wanted him to stay asleep, to let her explore. What harm was another few seconds, or even minutes, in the grand scheme of things? Moving her hands along his upper thigh, she squeezed something else.

Oh god. His mutterings had ceased, and now she couldn't take her hand off of the soft cock she had just discovered. It had cast a spell on her, and try as she might, her hand would not let go.

She squeezed it a couple of times and could sense the sudden flow of blood to his member. It grew stiff beneath the fabric of his pants, filling the space in her palms. It was thick, and very long, or at least she assumed so. That rational part of her reminded her that she had no frame of reference.

"I really should go." These words did her no good either, and she almost cried out when her hands betrayed her by undoing the top of his pants and carefully sliding them down. She could see the thick nest of his pubes first, the sweet aroma of his arousal making her mouth water in anticipation. The fangs that hid behind her human teeth extended, but she forced them away. There would be no venom, no paralysis. She would tuck him away and leave.

But she couldn't. Every second she held onto his meaty cock, the hypnotic effect became worse. The world faded away, gobbled up by the darkness in the corners of her vision. Beneath her thumb, she could feel his heartbeat, every pulse drawing her in.

She gave it a couple of strokes, promising herself that she would stop. The heat of it radiated through her body, her stomach fluttering wildly. A throbbing in her abdomen matched tempos with Darren's heartbeat, and she let out a little whimper when a tiny drop of pre-cum dribbled across the head of his cock.

Panting, she lowered her head, the rational part of her brain screaming to stop and walk away before he woke up. Instinct had the upper hand, however, and she just had to know how it tasted.

Her tongue flicked out and licked up that solitary drop, and blood rushed to her loins. Her spinnerets were frantically producing webbing on their own, her body ready to tie him down and take what was rightfully hers. However, she remained in her wheelchair, focusing instead on the bouquet of flavors that now danced across her tongue.

He tasted of sunshine with just a hint of spice. With another lick, she somehow knew that their offspring wouldn't just be strong, but smart as well. A flood of information overtook her, and she needed to know more, to feel more.

This time, her lips stretched wide to accommodate the head of his dick. Her lower half trembled, the wheel on her chair squeaking in response. She convinced herself that they couldn't mate yet, she needed to know more, to feel more. He took up so much space in her mouth that she now pumped him slowly, hoping to squeeze out a few more drops.