Hereditary (A Holloway Pack Mini) (2 page)

At last, after
seven agonising seconds of us waiting—I know, because I counted—his
eyes opened, a little unfocused, but open nonetheless. “Mum?” His
voice came out a whisper, a little boy seeking comfort.

“Right here,
hon.”

His reprieve
lasted no more than a couple of beats. With groans and retches, and
clutches to his stomach, he flipped back to all fours and threw up
with projectile violence.

“I’m calling an
ambulance,” I said, searching for where the phone had landed.

Gabe shook his
head, gave a barely whispered, “No.”

I located the
phone, pushed the ‘9’ button.

His arm darted
out, his sweat-soaked palm covering my hand with a strength his
trembling limb argued against. As he shook his head, his eyes
beseeched, and for reasons I never did fathom, I did as he asked. I
put the phone down and never made the call.

***

Looking back, I
wondered if he had his suspicions, even then. If he somehow knew it
to be the prelude to so much more. If his instincts were already
present.

Either way, he
wouldn’t let me call for help—not then, nor for any of the
following attacks through which he suffered.

I thought my
son was dying a slow and torturous death and he wouldn’t allow me
to do anything. I’d never been so helpless.

***

The next
occurrence came almost two weeks later, then a week after that, and
again after another week—each one seeming to intensify.

His flesh
‘reacted’ more boldly, his pain appeared to be on the increase, and
the vomiting lasted longer with harsher effects. In between those,
the escalating muscle spasms and cramps refused relief, no matter
how copious his fluid intake.

The fifth one
arrived a mere five days after the fourth—witnessed by my dad.

After Gabe had
writhed around on the floor, his body twisting in ways that
shouldn’t be possible, and he’d been helped to the sofa to recover
from the regurgitation of his dinner, Dad took me to one side in
the kitchen.

“Close the
door, Shelley,” he said.

I nudged it to,
pushing harder until I heard the click of connection when he urged
me to do so.

“What’s going
on?” he asked, once I’d turned to him.

“I don’t know.”
It was the truth. “It’s been going on for weeks now. Each time is
worse.”

“Has he seen
someone for it?”

“He won’t let
me call anyone. Says he doesn’t need to be seen, just keeps telling
me he’ll be all right.”

“He’s a kid.”
He pointed at me. “You’re the adult. For goodness sake, take
responsibility.”

At
five-foot-eight, my dad still managed to be an imposing presence,
and I peered up at him like I used to as a reprimanded child. “What
am I supposed to do—force him?” I asked, going on the
defensive—also just like I used to. “You’ve seen the damn size of
him.”

Dad spun for
the table. “I’m making the call, then.” He took the phone from its
cradle. “I’ll book him in to see someone, and I’ll take him
myself.”

“Leave it,
Granddad,” Gabe called out.

Dad’s head
tilted as he frowned. “How the hell can he hear us?”

“He does that a
lot.” I shrugged, frowning. “Hears things, smells things no one
else can.”

Dad returned
the phone and glanced to the door. “That’s not normal, Shel. You
know that, don’t you?”

The door swung
wide and Gabe’s bulk filled the opening. “I’m fine.” His voice,
coupled with his
take-no-shit
stance, bore no room for
discussion—even Dad stilled as he stared up at his grandchild.

My son no
longer resembled a sixteen year boy. Bigger than most blokes, with
a tenor deeper than that of most I knew, his eyes carried more
wisdom than any man I’d ever dated—like he had a deep understanding
of himself that hadn’t been there before.

I only wished I
understood him, too—because even
Google
didn’t have any
answers on his kind of issues.

“Please,” Gabe
said. “Leave it be.”

We could hardly
drag him to the surgery—Gabe could have lifted the pair of us with
one hand. So, giving a nod and a mumbled ‘Sure’, we complied.

Again.

***

Life, as we’d
come to know it, pretty much continued, with Gabe’s ‘abnormalities’
becoming par for the course—especially as their frequency grew from
the original fortnightly gap, to weekly, to half-weekly and,
finally, to an almost daily occurrence.

The week when
‘the biggie’ happened, he’d already lost three days from school:
Tuesday, Wednesday, and then Thursday. Mia had visited every
afternoon—nothing unusual—and she’d just left for her dinner on
Thursday evening when ‘it’ began.

“Mum?” Another
day, another attack, another pleading of his eyes.

“Is it the
cramps again?”

He shook his
head. “Something’s happening.”

I put aside my
magazine and pushed to my feet. “What is it?”

He stared down
at his hands, twisting and turning them. “It’s everywhere.” A hint
of alarm tinged his voice as he lifted his arms and peered at
those. “Spreading.” He bent and rubbed at his legs, before he
straightened and lifted a bare foot from the carpet, flexing his
toes. “Spreading fast.” Bright blue eyes, full of fear, met
mine.

Heart booming
in my chest, I crossed to him and placed my hands on his shoulders.
“What’s spreading, Gabe?” My calm voice sounded alien. I wasn’t
composed. On the inside, only screams belted the insides of my
head. Because, over the weeks, Gabe seemed to have grown a quiet
acceptance for his ‘condition’, and the glint of panic in his eyes
was a seriously unwelcomed return.

“Tingling. It’s
everywhere.” He shrugged me away and brushed at his skin as though
fighting it off. “Like pins and needles.”

“Tingling? What
kind of tingling, Gabe?”

A sharp gasp
united with the slap of his hand to his neck. Smaller gasps
followed as he kneaded the spot just below his right ear, using his
knuckles like his palms didn’t hold the necessary force. Within
seconds, his left hand did the same on the other side.

Taking hold of
his fingers, I pried them away. Beneath where I lifted them from,
his pulse points throbbed, visible pulsations, as though something
within banged for release. As I tugged his hands out of the way for
a better look, his wrists came into view. The harsh
boom-boom
bounced against his flesh there, too, hastening in
tempo as his breaths increased.

He whipped his
hands from my grasp, rubbed at his thighs. His face twisted as his
complaints evolved into low moans. Tugging up a leg of his shorts
revealed that even his femoral artery had joined in the act.

The static buzz
of anxiety swarmed inside my head until dizziness and tunnel vision
vied for the space in there. “Gabe, please let me call for
help.”

No
response—other than the sweeping crackle of friction from his
rubbing hands and the ragged breaths sending his chest in a manic
up and down dance.

“Gabe, this is
bad.” Discouraging words never helped anyone—but control of my
emotions had taken a hike.

Still, no
answer.

“That’s it!” I
headed for the phone. “I’m calling an ambulance this time. No
argument.”

He grabbed my
arm before I could reach it, his fingertips digging in with the
power of a vice.

Trembling, I
turned back to him.

His eyes shone
bright, his brow had slicked wet, and … something was wrong with
his face—something pulling his expression out of order, stretching
the skin taut across his bones.

A shake of his
head accompanied his, “No!” and I almost stumbled backwards as the
word left him as a ragged, guttural growl.

Despite the
tremors weakening my legs, I reached up for him. The moment I did,
he plummeted.

He hit the
carpet on all fours. His body bucked and thrashed. Retches left his
throat, yet no vomit arrived.

What I
witnessed could never be described with accuracy. Something was
happening to my son, something bad, unnatural, something …
evil.

Bone crunched,
and muscles stretched, distorted.

I took a step
back, followed by another—until the wall faltered my escape, and I
just stared in horror as my son became possessed from the
inside.

Throughout the
deformation, he grew even broader, shoulders expanding, tearing at
the seams of his shirt. Even his shorts ripped as they became
filled to capacity and beyond.

With each
onslaught to his body, my son cried out—agonized screeches,
beseeching shrieks.

Between those,
he called for me, over and over.

My feet refused
to take me nearer.

Vision blurred
and abstracting the scene before me, I left my back slide down the
wall, whilst sobs shuddered my body to the point of convulsion.

I swiped away
tears, and the clearing of my eyes revealed hair—Gabe’s bright
blond—growing, lengthening, sprouting, covering his body in a dense
golden coat.

His shrieks and
cries became yelps and growls.

I reached out a
hand but with no intention of approaching, and more tears arrived,
urged forward by my sobs of despair.

I remained that
way until the room fell silent but for the sound of our
breaths.

At a shuffle to
my left, I brushed away droplets and turned to see Mia.

Standing just
within the room, she fixated on that before her, staring for
seconds before another footstep brushed over the carpet.

How much she’d
seen, I didn’t know.

“Mia?” Her name
blurted from me like a thick mess of sound, but she didn’t
answer.

She seemed
entranced, unable to turn away from what captivated her so.

I turned my
head, followed her gaze.

Gabe was as I
feared—some kind of creature, coated in thick shagginess. He’d yet
to raise his head. Only his deep shuddering breaths announced his
existence.

Another few
steps, and Mia lowered to her knees.

As though
sensing her presence, what used to be my son’s head lifted until
what used to be his face came into view.

That was when I
knew he was still inside there somewhere. There could be no
mistaking the intelligence of his eyes. The blue of them sparkled
as they connected with Mia’s.

Stretching her
fingers toward him, she whispered, “Gabe?”

Breath snorted
from his nostrils.

I studied him
harder. Not just some kind of creature. Not a beast. My son had
become a wolf—a huge freaking wolf.

Mia swung
around to me, accusation in her stare. “Why?”

I frowned.

“Why didn’t you
tell me? Why wasn’t I told?” She spun back to Gabe. “I thought I
meant something to you, Gabe. How could you keep something like
this from me?”

I found my
voice. “We didn’t know.”

Gabe took a
step forward, pushed his muzzle against Mia’s hand.

She whipped it
away. “What the hell is he? What are you, Gabe? What are you, a …
werewolf
?” Her piercing tone penetrated my heart as she
slammed the back of her hand across her mouth like she’d uttered
something she shouldn’t have. “This is insane. They aren’t supposed
to be real.” Her breaths came quicker as her pitch heightened.
“There’s no such
thing
as …. What is this, some kind of sick
joke?”

“Mia, please,
we didn’t know,” I said, my sense seeming to return in a rush.

Pushing to my
feet, I raised my palms in request for her understanding—though,
how could I ask a sixteen year old girl to understand something I
could barely grasp myself?

“No!” she
screeched, shoving to a stand and taking a step back. Her finger
pointed at me. “No, Shelley!”

She stumbled as
she whirled and threw herself to the door she’d come through,
hysterics bubbling into her mumblings that, ‘This isn’t right, you
bloody lied to me, this is all wrong ...’

A howl stabbed
through her words.

Mia halted.

At the long,
deafening, soul-destroying tune, she slapped her hands over her
ears, as I covered my own, and she spun back.

Gabe’s cry
faded away, evaporating into a series of low whimpers. His gaze
seemed to hold Mia steady as he approached her.

She didn’t
move. She didn’t even flinch when he nudged her lowered hand with
his dark nose. As though sensing his need for her, she dropped back
to her knees, whatever apprehension she had vanishing as her arms
embraced his bulk. When her fingers slid into his coat, he gave a
rough purr that vibrated within his chest.

They remained
that way for hours.

***

Now, six months
later, Gabe no longer changes in the house.

The
transformations mostly come fortnightly, but occasionally his body
will dictate they arrive sooner.

Each time, as
tonight, we head to Haughmond Hill.

Mia is with me.
At the weekends, she’s permitted to ‘sleepover’—though, none other
than the three of us know the true reason why.

Gabe has headed
off to the brush, to claim his natural fur blanket, as the two of
us shiver in sleeping bags, leaning against the makeshift support
of a fallen trunk. It’s dark, apart from the moon seeping through
naked overhead limbs. But for the wind’s taunting, icy whisper,
only quiet meets my ears.

A rustle ahead
reveals Gabe’s position as he crosses bracken and leaves decorating
the ground in an autumnal shroud. His eyes glint as he comes into
sight and the air condensates as his breath merges with the
coolness.

A low whimper
is sent our way.

“Go on,” Mia
tells him. “We’re fine.”

A second
whimper and deep inhalations into his upturned nostrils precede a
final step toward us, as though to double check—before he takes off
into the woods.

Watching his
flight, I take a sip of my flask and send Mia a reassuring smile
through the dimness.