Of Hunters and Shadows

Part Two

As usual, we took Darryl's van, an old no longer white movers van he'd probably found in a junkyard somewhere. It was inconspicuous though, and served its job. My two co-workers rode up front while I hopped into the back-the constant flashing of street lights could hurt my eyes, which are unable to dilate properly like a humans can. Daryll and Borin had no such problems, for various reasons, and so they were charged with driving, while I chilled out in the back on the rusting floor of the aging vehicle. Fair, maybe or maybe not, but it was par for course and I looked at the routine as meditative, precious alone time before a Hunt.

Hunting is one of the more important tasks for a Groudling, and it was what I had literally been born for. My father had been a hunter, his father had been one, and so fourth for several generations. Unlike vampires of legends, which mulitplied by spreading themselves amongst humanity like a bad case of herpes, Groudlings are born, same as humans. Except, skin color aside, most humans are exactly the same genetically, while Groudlings can come in very distinctive flavours evolved towards certain tasks over the millennium.

It is why, for example, Darryl and Borin are candidates for the next mob movie while I shopped at stores for the unreasonable tall and skinny. They were a divison of Groudling simply called Guards, while I was a none to originally named Hunter. The moment I was born I was trained to 'Hunt', while they were trained to body gaurd people like me while we did our jobs.

Though, if you asked me, Hunters should really be called Gatherers or something of the sort, as it is hardly as violent or bloodly as the name suggests it is.

I heard a banging on the window to the vans cab, and a second later the vehcile stopped moving beneath me. We had arrived at the stop I had told Darryl to head for when we'd left my house. Sighing, I unfolded from the floor of the van and slouched over to the back door. One of these days, I would bully Darryl into getting the inside handle fix, but for the moment I was forced to wait until someone let me out from the other side. Moments after the van stopped moving, I could make out the sounds of my partners chatting and the back door opened to reveal Borin and a night shrouded park behind him.

Vancouver might be one of the two most popular cities in B.C, but it is still a harbour town at heart. It had more then its share of crime, druggies, and most importantly, run down neighborhoods full of homeless drunkards. Once upon a time, this place had been a nice little neighborhood and a flourishing park where children played. Now most of the homes were boarded up and empty, and the park wasn't safe for anyone not looking to step on needles or end up on one of Fen's news shows.

“Cheery place here, Theron. All we need is some fog and we've got the next site for a horror film.” Borin said as I climbed out of the back to stand on the sidewalk beside him.

“What can I say, I have good taste.” I replied smoothly, looking around. The drive had taken an hour-I only hunted in places at least an hours drive from my home-and while it was still shy of midnight, the locals had all already gone inside for the night.

“If you think this is good taste, I hate to see where you take your dates.” Borin shut the vans back door before echoing my action of taking in the scenery.

“Would you two stop chattering? Some of us want to go home sooner rather then later.” Darryl snapped, somewhere off on the blind side of the van.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes just barely, tugging on a pair of black leather gloves I had tucked into my coat on the way out the door earlier. I'd worn my regular hunting attire, an old pair of loose fitting black jeans, a matching plain black shirt, my favorite pair of work boots, and a black leather duster that had been a gift from Fen's predecessor years before they'd become overly cliche. I knew I looked like either a goth or a stalker, but nobody in the area would notice and I preferred blending in at night over standing out.

“Fine, I'm ready. I'll be in there, you guys just kick around and look beefy.” I nodded in the direction of a small cluster of over grown trees at the parks center. Most of the homeless people would be in there, rather then exposed in the park proper. They didn't want police or teenagers with nothing better to do bothering them. From my few passes over the area in the last few weeks, there was at least two old men hanging around at nights, along with a junkie about Fen's age. He seemed to only come on occasion, but I didn't really care about him anyways.

“Get before I kick your ass, skinny.” Darryl snapped, coming into sight around the vans side, and I gave him a mock salute before slipping into the shadows and crossed the park as swiftly and quietly as I could.

I didn't worry about what Borin and Darryl got up to, once I started moving I was focused on my task and not theirs. The trees were one of the reasons I had picked this spot, as they were useful for coverage. I was silent and light footed no matter where I was, but my baser instincts were appeased by some kind of cover, not to mention I could scale a tree in a flash if I ever needed to get off the ground for any reason.

Then, of course, there were the shadows.

Shadows were my best friends. They protected me from sight, made it easier to move and for me too see, and could be a weapon if used correctly. Being nocturnal had its advantages, or else my people would be dead long before now.

Moving between tree trunks, I came across the elder of the two bums first, only a few meters into the tree line. He was sleeping on a pile of clothes and newspapers, almost blending in due to the condition of his own clothing. I watched him for a moment, listening to his stuttered breathing-laboured as if by a cold or years of smoking. Likely the lattar of the two if the cigarettes littering the ground around him meant anything. Shaking my head, I moved on, keeping a mental map of where I had found him. I passed the junkie next, near the center of the mini forest, muttering to himself and smoking something to fragrant to be tobacco. I didn't give him any attention at the moment. I never made a habit of hunting kids, and even if I wanted to it was frowned upon and almost a crime in Groudling society anyways. Young people usually had someone who would miss them if the disappeared, and the last thing my people want is attention.

The last of the usual crowd was at the far edge of the grove, on an old wooden bench the trees were trying to reclaim as their own. He smelt strongly of cheap whiskey and other filth, though I couldn't see any evidence of alcohol around him. Like the young man, he was awake, but hardly aware. His eyes gazed out blankly at a rotting fence across the back of the park.

While I could debate about the evil or goodness behind Groudlings-behind any type of predator or sentient being-there are some things inherent in us that could be easily defined as demonic. One such thing is the ability to sense death on a human. It is not paranormal in nature, no different then a lions ability to tell which Zebra is old, sick, or injured. I can smell infection yards way, hear slow and labour heart beats, laboured breathing, and see other such signs of the approaching Reaper.

Over the stench of whiskey and dirt, the man on the bench carried the signs of death even more deeply then the bum deeper in the woods with the harsh breathing. I'd hardly call myself an expert, but if I was forced to guess, I would give him a week tops. Sooner if the late spring rain made an unwelcome appearance over the next few days.

I combed the area with my keen night vision to ensure nobody was around, spotting nothing of notice. A skinny cat was slinking around the fence in the distance and I could hear some kind of bird rustling in the trees several meters away, but nobody that could put me in a line up should police ever be involved.

Closing my eyes for a moment, I took a slow breath while reaching into a large pocket inside my coat. I removed the familiar weight of a syringe, glancing down to double check that it was proper one. It was thin and half full of blue, nearly clear liquid, as oppose to the thicker ones I also carried. I bit the safety lid off and spit it into the grass-it would hardly be out of place-and stepped out from the trees and up behind the bench.

One time, millennium ago, Hunters were more like our name suggests then we are now. I've heard some of my fellows compare modern Hunting to gathering, these days. We don't go out and kill people, not anymore at least, and we certainly don't bite anyone. Not only is it messy, but Groudlings don't have fangs. Claws, yes, retractable nails able to slice skin easily as butter, but while our teeth are stronger and sharper then humans, we don't have fangs. Besides, with DNA evidence and CSI these days, biting and leaving corpses everywhere would have the media and cops on our cases fast. Even if it was only bums targeted.

So, over the centuries, we developed various ways to more effectively hunt and collect blood in less obvious and messy ways. The main current means was by collecting what we Hunters like to call Donors.

The dying bum was about to be introduced to the Donor system.

I moved swiftly, training and natural speed helping me, digging the needle into the back of the mans neck and pushing down on the plunger. Despite his drunk and dazed state, the man cried out and tried to sit up. He got maybe an inch off the bench before his eyes rolled back in his head and he flopped back down again.

I don't know what is in the syringe, I'm not a chemist or a doctor, but it works fast. I have seen it knock out a healthy man in under 20 seconds, let alone a sick old drunk. I don't think it is dangerous or overly lethal, no one I know has reported it ever doing more then render a human unconscious, but I'll be damned if I ever try it on myself.

I removed the needle and put it back in my pocket, pointy end down, thankful to my tailor for the double thick lining of the coat. Scowling, I listened to the mans heart beat slow, double checking that the drug hadn't be the last straw for his body. Thankfully, while it became sluggish, his pulse didn't die out. I was caught up in listening that I didn't notice anything was amiss right away. Not until a sudden chill crawled down my spine, sinking into the place my gut would be if I had a stomach. Jacob Pierre, Fen's predecessor and one of my closest Creda's, had gotten chills often, claiming it meant someone was walking over his future crave. Groudling's don't bury the dead, we burn them and scatter the ashes, but I'll give him credit that the type of chill I was experiencing didn't bode well.

Shifting away from the unconscious man, I scanned the area once more, sense on high alert. The forest was silent, quieter then it had been only moments before, and everything appeared darker. The chill increased in intensity, before a long wailing howl broke the stillness, and I snapped my attention back in the direction I'd come. The shadows were thickest there, causing me to squint in attempt to see through it. When I couldn't even make out the trees nearest to me, I realize what I was seeing wasn't a shadow at all. Shadows weren't the same thing to me as a human, humans see them as an absence of light, much as light to me is the lack of darkness. This wasn't just the dark or a lack of light, it was moving, changing shape subtly and getting more and more solid with each second.

And I had a very bad feeling, that somehow, it was watching me.