World of Darkness World of Darkness: Attrition - Roads Less Travelled [Fin]

[Sarah Dead-Wolf]

[night of 27 Jul 2008]

"Come to Los Angeles. The sun shines bright, the beaches are wide and inviting, and the orange groves stretch as far as the eye can see. There are jobs aplenty and land is cheap. Every working man can have his own house, and inside every house, a happy all-American family. You can have all this, and who knows, you can even be discovered, become a movie star, or at least see one. Life is good in Los Angeles. It's paradise on earth. That's what they tell you anyway, because they're selling an image. They're selling it through movies, radio and television. ...The L.A. cops walk on water, as they keep the city clean of crooks. Yup, you'd think this place was the Garden of Eden. But there's trouble in paradise."

~ Sid, L.A. Confidential

Well-worn boots crunched on the gravel surface of a dirt fire road, one of the many that ran through switchbacks and a crazy quilt of junctions up and down tinder-dry hills and steep canyons. As routes went, it was anything but the most direct of paths... but sometimes, there were more important things than directness. Like staying out of the way of anyone watching Route 210 or I-10 or any of the other beaten paths into this hyped-up slice of hell.

The thought fluttered through the mind of a person who wasn't exactly a person anymore. Hadn't been, in fact, since she died alongside a road three years and three hundred miles away. A road that, while paved, was every bit if not more desolate and deserted than the steep dirt track that tireless legs climbed now. And I changed for the better. Some part of the creature actually believed the lie, convinced herself that this was somehow better than drawing sweet breath, than feeling the sun on her skin. Every night, she convinced herself once more that this was better than living.

To say that she saw the glow before cresting the hilltop would be an understatement; the glow, a sort of sickly yellow-green entity that seemed to waver and flow with a life of its own, had been growing on the horizon for the past two nights. Still, it was nearly bright enough to cast shadows, even here on the north facing of this last in a long series of ridges, well before a final few steps brought her eye to eye with the sprawling mass in all it's wonder.

"If this is the City of Angels, I'd hate to see the City of Demons."

The words, even murmured low, used the first breath she had drawn that night, just for the purpose if only subconsciously so. But the intent was as strong as if shouted to echo throughout the vast bowl below. Even from up here on the aptly named Mount Disappointment, the belching fumes of countless cars - a toxic stew that had baked under a blistering summer sun for fourteen hours - could be seen as a haze in the sea of neon below. The sheer noise of the place, of engines and horns, millions of radios on hundreds of stations, formed a din that reminded her of sci-fi space novels, how the thrum of a ship's engines was ever present. That's really what this place is. A spaceship. A monstrous spaceship that holds in all the noise and gas and madness of people who have long since lost any real touch with whatever is beyond the hull. My cousin is one of them now, somewhere down there in this beast. She sighed, her second use of long-dead lungs for the night. And in a few more steps, so will I.

Hesitating only a moment longer, the late Sarah O'Neally shook her head in resignation and started down the hillside into Los Angeles.

[Sarah Dead-Wolf]

Climbing down from Mount Disappointment to the world where mortals roamed wasn't a rapid or easy feat. It was, in fact, an arduous chore that used up most of the night. The fire roads and other rough trails, such as they were, were a tangle of hairpin turns and zig-zags and all-too common washouts, but still were a necessary alternative to the real terrain. Whether thrust up by mocking gods or imbued with defiant spirits of stone, the mighty mountains to the northeast of the city were so inhospitable that even the unstoppable California cockroach - the land developer - had failed to make meaningful inroads; suburban hell lapped up against the feet of these giants like a sea against an island, the seemingly endless network of ridges and canyons left to the wild things that still dared to call the place their own.

One of those wild things made the final descent into Oak Grove Park a scant hour before sunrise; by the time that smog-filtered rays broke over the same ridges, Sarah had welcomed the embrace of Mother Earth, just as she had for over a thousand nights before. Within the soil, unknown to the blind herd that played above, she slumbered, waiting for the weight of the sun to lift from her once more....

[Sarah Dead-Wolf]

[night of 28 Jul 2008]

This sure isn't home. As a last trickle of blood burned down her throat, Sarah looked with a touch of remorse at the rottweiler lying dead at her feet. But remorse was a fragile thing, and it didn't stand a chance against hunger. In the wastelands of suburbia that sprawled against the foothills, the choice of prey was limited: either waste hours going back into the hills in hope of something with some size to it, or take the sweet elixir of life drop by precious drop from a succession of stray pets. Mortal prey - the meal of choice - was simply out of the question; amid million-dollar homes, the streets were well-lit and the fences were well-built. Fluffy and Rover would have to comprise the menu, at least for tonight.

Distant bright lights - the mighty hub of L.A. - stayed constant to her left as Sarah made her quiet way out onto the darkened grounds of the Annandale Golf Club. The feeding would be much better in the downtown, she knew... but the odds of finding a pack there was slim. The last word she had, that of a tiny little three-wolf trio in Barstow calling itself Lawson's Pride, had mentioned territory held by a pack somewhere near the lush grounds of UCLA. Several scrounged coins and a gas station map later, and their dead cousin had at least a rough plan. Make contact with a local pack, make myself useful, and see if they can get some insight from the spirits.

The old anger roiled up in her at the last bit, even as she poked her quiet way past water hazards and sand traps, a shadow moving unseen from one patch of trees to another. Spirits were a touchy point with her, and likely always would be. "The werewolves," old Juan had told her, "can see and talk to them. It's how they live, half in and half out of their world. But me and you, we exist only here. Si, you can help our twin-soul brothers to appease their spirit-totems, but that is all. If you want something from a spirit, you must bargain with the living to do so."

Those bargains had varied from place to place, but over the course of three years they had gotten her this far. Through intermediaries, the unknowable creatures that lived in the shadow-realm had finally revealed that one of the blood known as Amber was in the City of Angels. And if she wanted a snowball's chance in Dodgers' Stadium of finding her in this festering sea of humanity, Sarah would have to swallow her pride yet again and go with hat in hand to yet another pack of those for whom all this came as naturally as breathing. As if that's even natural for me anymore, she considered with a joyless grin.

Finally clear of the golf course, the undead creature crossed under the Ventura Freeway at Scholl Canyon Road and continued on her cautious but relentless journey westward.

[Sarah Dead-Wolf]

[night of 29 Jul 2008]

Calling the tepid shallow slime that surrounded the north and west sides of Griffith Park a river was an insult to running water everywhere. The reality of the thing was a concrete-sided moat with thick green sludge lining the bottom. All in all, it looked as though it was dissolving the rusting bikes and shopping carts that had found their end within its confines over time, and might very well do the same to anything else that was so unfortunate as to tumble down the walls.

And that's why I'm up here, Sarah told herself for the fifth time, hugging tight to the concrete j-rail as two-ton killing machines screamed past less than a foot away, the occasional horn blaring as if there were really any options other than jumping over the side for a fifty-foot plummet into the muck. Few things made her happier than to reach the far end of the bridge - itself just an offramp of the mighty Ventura Freeway that she'd been crossing and recrossing for the past night. Hustling out of view of the headlights, she ran down the embankment, then pulled around sharply to get under the bridge... where she paused to get her night sight back.

Once the world returned to a sort of twilight focus, the vampire continued under the bridge and made her way across an empty parking lot to tonight's destination. For a moment, a newspaper amid the standard clutter caught her eyes - 5.8 Trembler Hits City - and she had to chuckle. "Never felt a thing; sound sleeper these days." Leaving the day's news behind, she continued treking toward the buildings ahead.

The gates were, of course, closed and locked, but for a determined girl without the need for air, that wasn't really a problem; a careful climb, a chilly plunge and a swim through the "Sea-Side Cliffs" later, and Sarah was stalking through the Los Angeles Zoo.

"Now this," she whispered to herself, listening to the cacophony of calls and smelling the vast array of prey on the wind, "is more like it." Checking the large posted map, Sarah looked it over much like a restaurant patron might view a menu. A smile crossed dead lips and she muttered, "that will do nicely. Hope my fangs can get through the thing." With no further hesitation, she ran off in near silence toward the elephant enclosure.

She never did get to see a pachyderm. The undead creature had, as always, been keeping a sharp eye out for mortals - security guards and zookeepers, in this case - but when she rounded a corner between the aviary and alligator pond, she damned near tripped over something... else? For a moment, she figured that something had gotten out of its pen. Another look, though, told her that if this thing was an actual exhibit, it would have made every headline in the country.

For all the world, the pungent beast before her looked like Dr. Moreau had tired of messing with humans and just decided to play mix-and-match with his animal collection. When a razorback and a gorilla love each other very, very much... she thought in shock and dismay at the thing... and then the filthy thing turned and looked at her with eyes the color of overcooked egg yolk. It opened it's snout/maw to reveal tangled teeth and tusks in a shade that wasn't far off from the eyes, let out a horrific squeal that echoed off the nearby buildings, and rushed in.

Instinct took over, and precious stolen life pooled in Sarah's lifeless fingers. Gleaming black claws burst bloodlessly from her fingertips, and with practiced ease slashed at the thing's throat.

Five shining claws whistled as they swept through air where a throat had been only a moment before.

[Dave ST]

The menacing beast, known as a Skull Pig by its creators for the way its eyes sunk back in their sockets, was surprisingly agile. Instinct swept the foul creature's body to Sara's flank in a heartbeat and it clamped its gnarly, filth ridden jaws, down upon her forearm.

The undead's muscles and tendons tore as the razorback abomination gored into her flesh striking bone. The crack sent pain searing through Sara's arm.

It swept its head back, spun around once, all with Sara in tow, and released her into the air where she smashed into a lamp post.

It squealed like a wolf baying at the moon as the vitae dripped from its jaws. The blood was already starting work... Sara soon realized she suddenly had another problem to deal with.

[Sarah Dead-Wolf]

It was painfully obvious that ol' Pig-Ape was going to charge and gore her against the lamp post. Agile and strong it may be, but they do make them smarter.

Sarah was one of those who was made smarter. Even as she popped her torn shoulder back into it's socket with a sickly sound, her muscles surged with vitae-backed strength and tensed. Sure enough, the squealing mass of teeth and quill-covered hide made it's charge... and then, like steel springs, pulled her out of the way to let the thing smash head first into the iron post.

"That was the insult; have some injury to go with it!" A heavily booted foot snapped up into the creature's ribs... and it became quickly apparent why the toes of said boots had a series of parallel cuts, as wicked claws tore through hide and tendons and bone like a sharp knife through veal.

[Dave ST]

Squealing in agony, Sara's porcine assailant threw its head from side to side as black ichor spewed from the deep lacerations. Chunks of torn flesh littered the ground and dangled painfully from its open wounds.

The beast's throat swelled as the flesh bubbled out like a frog's croak. Before Sara could dodge a black viscous glop hit the pavement and spread outward like tar, coating her lower legs and feet.

Sara was glued to the spot, and the beast lowered its head and prepared to charge.

[Sarah Dead-Wolf]

It was hard to say what was worse: being effectively nailed in place in front of a charging monster, or the sheer stench of the putrid glue that did the nailing. Either way, Sarah had had quite enough; as her beast threatened to flare, she held tight control as she funnelled yet more precious blood to dead muscle. Impossibly, she tore free from the black bile and tumbled out of the way as the abomination barrelled in for what it thought would be an easy kill...

[Dave ST]

... until Sara lunged forward and used the forward momentum to thrust her back into the creature like a battering ram. It squealed as air left its lungs. The monster's head appeared over Sara's shoulder and into her field of vision.

She grinned.

Grabbing its foul tusks Sara braced herself and pulled the Skull Pig over her shoulder, flipping all three hundred pounds of it to the concrete with a thunderous landing.

She batted its humanoid arm aside as it flailed for control. Sara tore an "X" up its body. Blood and organs sprayed as Sara's Beast cried out... it was getting harder to keep it in check.

A mighty fist slammed into her head, and sent the Dead Wolf tumbling to the ground several feet away.

[Sarah Dead-Wolf]

As Sarah rolled with the blow and came up in a crouch, she knew two things:

The pig-ape was going to die.

She was going to lose herself in the process.

As if in answer to both certainties, a swirling haze began filling her sight, and the world went red.

It wasn't Sarah that leapt like a wolf, coming down on the hapless mutated thing with claws leading the way. It wasn't Sarah that raked with inhuman strength, the talons on her feet shredding the poisoned creature with efficiency that would have horrified her if she was still running the show. It wasn't Sarah that finished it off with a sweeping slash that severed the spine cleanly in four places. It was that which she fought nightly to control, a primal beast that sought escape from the fetters of rationality to run free, to hunt, to kill, to sleep and do it all over again.

Tonight, the beast got it's way.

For a moment, not-Sarah sniffed at the dead monstrosity. Very little vitae was left in the vampire, and it needed to feed badly. But one quick whiff was enough to make clear that whatever this thing was, it wasn't prey. Nothing that could be fed upon smelled like the foul toxic stew that leaked, hissing and black, from torn and tattered veins. Giving the fallen foe no more consideration, not-Sarah sprinted off....

Hours later, security staff would find a black mess on one of the main trails through the zoo. Not far away, animal handlers would find a harbor seal torn nearly in two, the water of it's pool covered with a shimmering film swirling with crimson and black. And at the north end of the zoo, both would find a chainlink fence cut to shreds. But every predator on the lists would be exactly where it should be, without exception.

Sarah, when she finally regained something resembling her senses, remembered only glimpses of red. Tired, hurt, still hungry, and feeling defeated even in victory, she made her painful way along the stinking algae-choked mess of the Los Angeles River, giving Griffith Park and the horrors within a wide berth as she continued west.

[Sarah Dead-Wolf]

[night of 30 Jul 2008]

She hadn't been exactly choosy about where to go to ground when the sky started getting pink; all things considered, she was happy enough just to find a good spot to clamber up out of the increasingly waterless trench and an unobserved spot to sink into the earth. When the daystar had completed its annoyingly long transit and she emerged once more from the loam, she had to chuckle for the serendipity of her choice. Without wasting another moment, the vampire - which looked and smelled like the Creature from the Septic Tank - tromped off toward the car wash.

Many people, when thinking "car wash", picture a sort of conveyer belt with dozens of oversized whirling brushes and jets of soap, water and wax that pummel the windshield in turns until they're summarily pooped out the end of the ride, dripping and shiny without having ever left the vehicle. That wouldn't have been a whole lot of use to Sarah; those brushes do fine on metal and paint, but aren't so kind to cotton and denim and skin (living or dead). No, what perked up her mood was an establishment of the manual sort, the kind of place where one parked the car and went to work with high-pressure soap and water. It was out of the way, pretty much alone in the back corner of a parking lot cut into the hillside, with the interior bays well out of sight. It was also the kind of place that didn't see much business after dark, even though the owners would keep the lights on in hope of the occasional oddball. Sarah was pretty certainly not what they had been thinking of, but her money in the coin box would look just as good as anyone's at the end of the week.

As she stepped up into one of the bays, Sarah took quick stock of what she was dealing with. The clothes were a mess, with the jacket pretty much a lost cause; ol' Pig-Ape had all but torn one sleeve completely off. Still, the jeans might be salvageable with a lot of work, the T-shirt wasn't completely shot, and thank Luna for good solid boots. Stripping down, what she could see of the body beneath wasn't anywhere near as banged-up as it should be. Even after three years of unlife, she was amazed at the flesh's ability to "heal" by way of stolen blood; once more, she wondered where her beast had gotten last night's meal. With a sigh of resignation, she grabbed the soap wand, plunked half of her hard-scrounged quarters into the coin slot, and went to work.

The body was actually the easy part. Turn the wand on self, squeeze the trigger as if she was trying to blow herself away, and presto! The high-pressure soap would have stung like hell and maybe even left some caustic burns had she been alive, but now it did a great job of scrubbing dead flesh of the stink and scum of the previous night. Clothes were a bit trickier; eventually, the best solution found was to tie them onto a pipe and blast them clean like flags in a hurricane. The jacket suffered from the harsh treatment, the torn arm coming completely off and shooting across the bay as Sarah swore up a blue storm in its wake. But the rest of the gear didn't look entirely bad, as she switch from soap to high-pressure water.

There was no warmth to the spray; it was ice cold as she sprayed down first herself and then the tatters of her clothes. But cold or not, it did the job, and she concentrated on the task. Concentrated, in fact, to the point where she didn't see the guy until his hands were on her waist.

Who or where he was from, she never bothered to determine. But it was pretty obvious that the guy had to have been on foot - maybe a bum, maybe a wanderer like herself (no, sure as hell not like me) - as no headlights had flashed up toward the bays while she worked. Nor were his intentions at question; when he pulled her naked body toward him, he half-whispered in her ear with breath that stank of beer, "So cold, babe... lemme warm you up." She didn't wait to banter.

With a lot more strength than she had any right to possess, her elbow planted like lightning into the would-be rapist's solar plexus; even as he began to fold in on himself, she grabbed a handful of greasy hair and brought his head down hard, introducing his face to her rock-hard knee. He got time for a scream - one only - before she slammed his head against the concrete... and then, he went rag-doll limp, his nose bleeding on the smooth, wet floor.

A quick check confirmed that he wasn't dead. Out for the count and facing a very painful wakeup call for certain, but not dead or at risk of dying anytime soon. Sarah sighed with a measure of relief; whatever else she may have become, she wasn't a murderer. But what about Pig-Ape, her beast mocked at her. Didn't you murder him? "Shut up," was her resolute response, echoing through the cavernous car wash. Whatever it was that she had killed the night before, she wasn't going to enter into a debate of the ethical qualms thereof... least of all with what amounted to her darker half.

Donning her still wet clothes - and pitching the ruined jacket in a trash barrel - Sarah took one last look around before leaving... and her eyes fell on the unconscious bastard once more. Something that wasn't quite a stomach rumbled within her, and a familiar reflex brought gleaming white points to her smile. "No point in wasting a good meal," she muttered to nobody as she moved in. "Or a good jacket," she added with a chuckle as she pulled the bastard free of his denim before sinking teeth into his neck.

Leaving behind a significantly paler - but still breathing - victimizer-become-victim, Sarah whistled contentedly to herself in her new denim jacket as she tromped off toward a signpost she had spotted just before hitting the car wash: "Mulholland Drive."

[Sarah Dead-Wolf]

[night of 31 Jul 2008]

The shortest distance between two points is defined as a straight line. If there is an antithesis to that, it would be defined as Mulholland Drive. The tattered and torn map that Sarah looked at for the hundredth time tonight and the night before, peering with the faint aid of the last sliver of a moon and what starlight could survive the Orange County atmosphere, did absolutely no justice to the winding highway along which she had plodded for endless hours.

The view, however, was worth every last footstep.

Despite the tenuous subdivisions that clung to the mountainside, Mulholland Drive provided a view like no other in Los Angeles. From up here atop the Santa Monica ridgeline, two panoramic city scenes could be seen. To the north, a string of suburbs played out; Studio City, Van Nuys, North Hollywood... the San Fernando Valley was filled to the brim with a grid map marked out in street lights all the way up to Oat and Magic Mountains.

But to the south... now that's where the real magic lay. It was Sarah's first view of the mighty Pacific, an endless expanse of water under her favored crescent moon. As if in answer to her "auspice" (as her truly wolf-blooded cousins would call it), the ocean formed a gentle crescent of shore that swept from Rancho Palos Verdes all the way up to and along the Santa Monicas themselves, out past Malibu to disappear from sight around the point.

On shore, the tangled streets of the older neighborhoods of Los Angeles shown in a jumble of streetlights and the never-ending march of headlights, from Marina Del Ray at the shore all the way to the towers that marked the heart of L.A. to the east. Closer in, West Hollywood and Beverly Hills stood in all their opulence and decadent glory. And nearly at her feet, neatly laid out almost like a map, was the neatly arranged campus of the University of California at Los Angeles. With her goal in sight, Sarah turned onto Beverly Glen Boulevard and set out with a new kick in her stride toward UCLA.