JORDAN | Ɣ Werewolf

Jordan had been walking for at least two hours under a blazing sun punishing enough to glue his filthy shirt to his spine when he finally decided to stop.

There was something almost meditative, if not unbearable, about trying to control his breathing and his steps to use as little energy as possible while the only shade around him came from overturned, gutted cars coated in rust and dust older than him, or from the shadow of his dog, trotting loyally at his side.

"I know, buddy, it sucks." He sighed, glancing at his companion, who panted loudly, froth forming at the corner of his open jaws as he sat and watched his master. Jordan unscrewed his water bottle and took a long swig.

Port Fort was his destination. More than five hours' walk south from the eastern edge of Nova Farm. A hell of a trek he clearly would never have undertaken if he hadn't been ordered to.

"Gngngn, Jordy you're such a kid, it's time for you to become a real man." He mimicked his brother, trying to mock his voice before clicking his tongue in irritation. His cane-corso tilted his head, halting his panting for a moment at the young man's antics.

"We need to find 'something', Trump." Jordan crouched in front of the animal, cupping his hand over the cracked stretch of asphalt and letting a thin stream of water flow into his palm, which Trump greedily lapped up. "Yeah, 'something', can you believe that? But hey, I won't give you any more explanation because I'm an asshole. You're gonna walk, yeah, walk for a fucking long time under this blazing fucking sun until you reach a fucking human city, because I probably fucking want you to die."

The monologue cut off with a rumble vibrating through Jordan's chest. He shook the rest of the water bottle in his hand, then capped it. Once his backpack was snug on his shoulders and his rifle adjusted, he resumed setting off again.

Walking for so long wasn't much for someone like him, not human at all, but it was still an inconvenience he would have preferred to avoid and stay on the farm. Living his life as he did every day, caring for the animals and the crops, rather than enduring days of walking through no man's land, risking his life for nothing more than 'finding something' and bringing it back. But orders are orders and since Seti had decided it was time for him to prove whatever masculine bullshit to the pack, here he was.

He had left at dawn to arrive when the sun was at its peak. If it were up to him, he would have walked at night. But humans were suspicious and they couldn't see shit in the dark, so showing up during the day at the patched-up gates of Port Fort wasn't optional.

"Where are you from, kid?"

The question came from a man in his thirties, with a poorly healed scar under his chin, a heavy smell of garlic on his breath and a splinter of wood wedged between his teeth.

"From the Northeast, District 0. The network sent me to place an order."

A lie, of course. Jordan wasn't part of any district; districts were strictly human, and they actively hunted people like him. But if he wanted to get in, he had to pass as one of them. The man squinted at him, a patched-together shotgun lazily held against his arm, and Jordan's hand, almost without thinking, lifted and rested between Trump's ears as the dog sat against his thigh.

"That's a long way, kid." He flicked his toothpick with a single snap of his fingers; it landed a meter from Jordan's boot. "But lucky for you, we've had inquisitors here for two days."

Jordan's hand froze in his dog's fur. That, he knew, wasn't good.

"You can head back with them later. Go ahead, pass."

The guard tilted his chin toward the two barbed gates, just open enough to let him through and Jordan forced a smile. Turning back now would be too suspicious. But if the inquisitors were there, he had to keep a very low profile. They were hunters, not just of the infected, but of Lycans. If they were here, they'd either received an alert or were searching the area. Whatever the reason, none of them were good for him.

He nodded and finally crossed into the town.

Port Fort had little of a port except for the nearly dried-up brown river winding between patched-up houses built well after the infection began, using whatever materials people could scavenge. He kept his head down as he walked along the main street.

There were more humans here than his senses were comfortable with. Too many unfamiliar smells and sounds that stirred the beast inside him, which over the years had come to see humans more as sustenance than kin. But here, they were people and he mustn't touch them. So he kept his head down, avoiding eye contact while his dog trotted close enough for its fur to brush his leg with every step.

He had never been here. But he had memorized the relative layout from maps Kairo had given him. The area shouldn't exist, like many others. Its heart was a gas station doubled as a water tower and a garage, which over the years had evolved into a survivor refuge. Gradually, slums and markets formed around it until it became an almost official checkpoint. Most of the wanderers who ended up at Jordan's farm came from here, unaware that the farm wasn't populated by humans but by monsters far worse than the infected they were fleeing.

Jordan stopped abruptly at a junction that should have led to the central market, only to find a wall of corrugated metal. Someone had built a house here where there had been none on the plans. He swore under his breath and was about to turn back, when voices reached him.

"We're asking if you've seen a wolf, whore. The question is simple, right? Just answer."

"N-no, sorry, n-no wolves among my clients..."

The scent of fear, smooth and familiar, hit Jordan first. His head tilted. The voices came from a stacked house, he could make out a woman's profile at the window; large eyes rimmed with smudged kohl, cheeks wet, a bruise already blooming on one of them.

"Are you certain? She has a silver choker, if she no longer wears it, it may have left a mark here, she may also be accompanied. Are you sure that tells you nothing?"

Another voice, lower, calmer, but equally dangerous. This is the Inquisition. They were looking for a wolf, wait, no, a she-wolf. He squinted, backing slowly. He couldn't stay; it was too dangerous.

But as he was about to turn back, Trump barked. Not a small bark, but a deep, resonant explosion, repeated three times, vibrating the metal around him and silencing the entire alley. The sound was deafening, so sudden and unexpected that Jordan froze like a rabbit caught in car headlights.

Then everything happened too fast. He only had time to hear one inquisitor call; "Hey, you!" before Trump bolted in a direction that led nowhere near the exit. His body moved before his mind: he ran.

Adrenaline kicked under his skin, the beast inside rumbling, urging him to shift, to take control. He pushed it back because if he gave in here, he was dead.

"Trump, stop!" His boots crushed cans, dirt and debris as his dog refused to obey. The massive animal had sensed or seen something and decided nothing else mattered now but reaching it.

Something dangerously close to a whine threatened to escape Jordan's throat as he ran full speed without looking where he went, fleeing the voices booming behind him until his dog plunged through a fence just damaged enough to let him squeeze under, crouching. Jordan swore, ripped off his backpack and rifle, and followed, hitting the ground hard before crawling under the barbed wire that snagged his shirt and threatened to tear his skin. He scrambled with all his might, nails digging into dirt and dust until he emerged on the other side.

He staggers back several meters, eyes fixed on the narrow gap he had passed through as if expecting the entire Inquisition to burst through that pathetic opening. His rifle and pack hung from his clenched hands until he heard his dog behind him, panting loudly and wagging its tail.

He turned, eyes widening as the animal wagged joyfully for a complete stranger. A person he had hunted as if his life depended on it, ran through the entire slum, risking his cover with the Inquisition for.. That. Jordan stared at the stranger, chest rising and falling too fast, adrenaline still coursing through his veins like acid. Dirt smears his knees, cheeks and hands as dark strands of hair stick to his damp forehead.

He slowly lifted his rifle with one hand.

"Who the fuck are you?!"