John Gale

John sucked in a deep breath as he stood and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. He didn't take a second glance at his now red wrist, but surveyed the carnage around him. He smiled.

~

John Gale, civil war hero, strolled along the deserted back allies of Las Vegas. In the distance, the Strip was alive with lights, sounds, happiness. But not here. Here - here, he liked it.

His Union coat was replaced by a leather jacket. His combat boots replaced by converse, his war pants replaced with jeans. The civil war was long over, but world peace was still a long way off. Hell - domestic peace was still a long way off.

In the shadows, of the alley, his eyesight was perfect. He couldn't feel the chill of the night air on his skin. He could smell the dirt and the filth, and as much as it repulsed him, it drew him in as well.

He was thirsty.

The first person he came across was huddled in a moth-bitten blanket, shivering. John passed it without a second glance. Food like that was no fun, and he preferred to toy with his meal. After a short while, he came upon what looked like a gang fight right before the first punch was thrown. Eight boys, about his age. Easy.

John didn't quicken his pace, make himself known, or change anything about his gait at all. As he approached the group, he noticed one was carrying a wooden shank. Maybe this would be a little entertaining after all.

He came up behind the first kid and broke his neck effortlessly. As the boy fell limp at his feet, he said, "Hey, guys!"

Wound up and ready for a fight, the rest attacked. The first two ended up with bloodied heads by result of a collision with each other. The next three received assorted fists to their faces and elbows in their guts, then learned what a round-house kick felt like. The next two ended up on the ground, either dead or bleeding profusely. All that faced him now was the boy with the wooden shank.

John smiled to let the moonlight glint off of his sharp incisors. "Now for the fun part," he growled, still smiling.

There was no change in the boy's expression, so John figured he didn't get the message across. "Do you know what I am, boy?" he suddenly shouted, frustrated by the boy's indifference - he looked no more scared now than he had been a few minutes ago.

John watched as something in the boy's eyes suddenly hardened. He stepped closer and lowered his voice to a menacing whisper. "Do you know what I am, boy?"

The boy didn't answer. Nor move an inch. But suddenly, he swung the wooden shank. John dodged easily and chuckled lightheartedly. In his dodge, he had stepped backward, and the boy stepped forward to fill the empty space. He lunged again with the wooden shank, but this time, John caught the piece of wood.

A searing pain raced up his arm. He had meant to grab and break the boy's wrist, avoiding the wood entirely.

Now he was angry.

He tried to attack, and lunged, his teeth aimed directly at the boy's jugular. But his balance was off. His entire left arm was useless. The boy was given time to avoid the attack.

John mentally cursed wood and everything wooden he could think of before lashing out with his right hand an grabbing his prey by the neck.

The boy twisted and kicked in his grip. Because of his irregular movements, when the boy thrust the wooden shank, it pierced John's shoulder instead of the heart the boy had been aiming for. But still, John was forced to drop the boy.

The veteran doubled over in pain, pressing his left hand to his right shoulder involuntarily.

The boy scrambled backward, but John made no move to follow him. All of his attention was focused on his wound.

Suddenly, his eyes shot up to meet the boy's. What he saw was pure terror, but what the boy saw was pure malice.

And without a word, he was gone.

The boy - Nick Gale - pulled himself to the wall of a nearby building. He clutched his chest. His heart ached from beating so fast. He dropped the bloody shank.

And then he began to sob.