Prey to the Aswang
Joshua Cox-Steib
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Joshua Cox-Steib
Prey to the Aswang
Gareth ran. The footsteps followed. No matter how fast he went, the footsteps were always there. Right behind him. Never hurrying. Never changing their slow, methodical pace; never getting any closer, or any farther. Tap tap. Tap tap. Tap tap. Ignoring the falling sleet he bounded down the slick Chicago sidewalks at breakneck speeds. His feet never faltered, managing to land each stride just right to keep his skinny frame from sliding into the hard exterior of buildings that loomed overhead.
Gareth was a first rate shaman, and he knew how to keep his footing. What he didn't know was what wore the feet behind him, or how to shake it. Three blocks, and half his potions it'd been following him, and yet he still hadn't caught more than a glimpse of it. Just the incessant sound of predatory pursuit, and the icy chill in his spine that the magically inclined knew as death's gaze. Whatever was after him, it would kill him if it caught him. Of this he had no doubt. And he was growing increasingly certain that it could have caught him at any time. His potions of speed, dexterity, and obfuscation seemed no obstacle to what came behind. They were simply adding more sport to the chase.
Rounding another corner, and catching a pause in the pattern of pursuit Gareth risked a glance over one shoulder. What he saw made him wish he hadn't. His brain screamed the incoherent gibberish of terror, and his body tried to lock up with fright. The creature would have been best left at a glimpse, and Gareth tried to mentally scrub it's freshly emblazoned imaged from his mind, but he couldn't. For just a moment it had looked like a man, but that illusion was shattered like the glass of a storefront window when met with the force of a motor vehicle.
The creature was wearing outdated wingtip shoes of tan leather, topped with elegant black dress pants. After that the horror started. Its midriff was elevated from its pelvis upon a writhing pile of long tentacles that could only be its intestines. The torso wavered to and fro upon this horrendous mass of grasping entrails. There was a naked and scarred chest, the skin of its face was pitted like old asphalt, and its teeth were the pointed things of nightmare. What little hair the blotched scalp retained was long and whip like, and moved to a wind of its own making. And yet the eyes were the worst part. Deep pits, that were neither eyes, nor empty sockets, but something horribly in-between. Endless depths that sucked the light and life from all they gazed upon, and instilled unwavering certainty of death in any foolish enough to gaze upon them. Gareth felt that certainty.
He took that certainty, and the panic that coursed through his body, and with the greatest of efforts he forced it into his muscles for a last burst of strength, pushing his body far beyond what its merely human components were capable of. If not for the bolstering of his shamanic potions this effort would have crushed his bones. Even so, the pain of his magically enhanced flight nearly stole all consciousness from his mind. Gareth gritted his teeth, and pushed through the pain. He had no hope, but he couldn't give up. He couldn't give in to the fear. He wouldn't lay down to die just because the worst was clearly coming to pass. He might not die fighting, but he could at least die running. Eking out every precious last second of life.
And just like that the footsteps stopped. There was a blinding light that cast Gareth's shadow forward in the sudden brightness of the night, and he heard words of arcane power spoken in the calm and precise manner of wizardry. As the incantation ended a shrieking began, and with it the stomach churning sound of tearing flesh, and the sickeningly sweet smell of burnt meat.
Gareth's body flooded with understanding, and overwhelming relief. He barely had the energy to stop his own momentum. When he did his body collapsed to the icy pavement, and his head lolled, his eyes rolling to the sight behind. Where the monster of the night had been there was now little more than a steaming puddle of liquefied flesh. An elderly man stood over it.
The man had a smartly trimmed goatee of dark grey, delicate half-moon spectacles, and a suede fedora resting atop his short mane of curly white hair. Little could be seen of his outfit given the thick brown trench coat that he wore. In his hands rested a mahogany cane, just slightly too long to make sense for his height, and at its top was a jade handle that still glowed with the fiery afterimage of spellcraft. Green eyes watched Gareth through the glasses.
"I hadn't planned you for it, but you made excellent bait. What is your name, shaman?" The voice carried accents of England, or perhaps Australia. Gareth had never spent any time out of the states, and had a history of trouble with accents. His entrance into the magical side of the world had only made things worse. The United States was absolutely awash with creatures from all over the globe, both from present day cultures, and from many thought long dead.
Gareth stared at his savior speechlessly, his mind and body spent beyond what even his potions could motivate. He didn't know this man, but he recognized wizardry when he heard it. It certainly didn't mean this guy was a saint, but he was a hell of lot better than the company he'd replaced. With a small, but grateful smile for that fact Gareth quit struggling and let himself slip into the deep healing sleep of true exhaustion.