AnimeCon Harem 16: Epilogue pt R (Patreon)

“How are we doing?” Rebecca couldn’t even spare a glance towards the figure bundled in blankets occupying the passenger’s seat. “Are we okay?”

“Bad,” Christine sounded hoarse now. “Bad. Bad. Not good.”

Just a little past the halfway point to her uncle’s cabin, Christine vomited out an obscene amount of the pedia-lite hydration formula she had been forcing down. Rebecca’s grandmother’s blanket was soaked, and then of course Christine had a small breakdown trying to extricate herself and then scrambling to cover herself with it again in a panic when scattered sunlight landed across her fair skin. The interior of her car was now filled with the rather stomach-turning smell of strawberry-flavored bile.

The situation deteriorated rapidly after that.

“Almost there,” Rebecca promised. “Almost there.”

She’d made a single attempt to encourage Christine to drink more formula, but Christine immediately gagged, retching up even more, and then began sobbing within her nest of blankets soiled with puked up water. They had long since left main roads behind and travel became bumpy on this old back road, occasional gravel kicking up to ping across the undercarriage as swathes of forest raced by them on either side.

Emily would just be so proud of how fast I’m driving! Rebecca thought to herself with a wincing smile.

Her entire body was tense; Rebecca’s eyes were straining as she watched the contours of aging pavement rush beneath the vehicle in a blur. She’d never pushed her little hatchback to its limits like this before, and because the old country road curved and winded around everything her full attention needed to be on her driving, only making allowances to scan the treeline ahead for deer that might attempt to cross in front of her.

The speed limit posted here is fifty-five miles per hour, Rebecca felt her jaw start to ache from how hard she was gritting her teeth. I normally take this section at about thirty, though? I am currently doing… eighty-three miles per hour, somehow? I’m not sure it’s physically possible to drive faster, way out here. Not without longer straightaways.

Rebecca loved to drive, but she had never enjoyed driving fast. A sedate, relaxing pace was best, it made her feel completely in control, it made her know she was going to be safe, because she was a great driver. She did not feel safe right now, but as her foot pressed the gas pedal with urgency she knew that the feeling wasn’t quite because of how fast she was going.

It wasn’t safe because Christine was likely going to try to lunge over at her soon.

Some primal Mara part of herself felt nothing but growing danger beside her. Her long-legged brunette friend was wrapped in vomit-water blankets and had been crying pitifully and even muffled at least one actual scream. But, as the station wagon all but hurtled down the winding rural roads towards her uncle’s hunting camp… Christine grew quiet. The silence was much more alarming than the sniffled sobs had been, because Rebecca was increasingly sure that her passenger was transitioning into a threat.

I’m not even sure why! Rebecca grimaced. Maybe it’s just my nerves? Or, is it INSTINCT? I feel like as each minute goes by, she’s more and more dangerous—I can feel all the little hairs standing up, I’ve got goosebumps, my entire body feels like it’s priming up for a fight or flight response. I don’t even get that sort of reaction from big field battles that often, anymore!

“Almost there!” Rebecca said again with forced cheer. “Just around this bend and the next and then one after that, and we’ll have to park.”

“Rebecca HURRY,” Christine wailed.

“Almost there!” Rebecca repeated. “We’re gonna be okay! Now um—now the driveway up the hill to his little hunting lodge isn’t paved, so we’ll—okay, look! Here we are! See? That wasn’t so bad! We’re already here! We’re here!”

The seatbelt was unbuckled, her door was opened, and Rebecca was jumping out even as her station wagon was still skidding to a stop along the leaves and gravel beside the road. The trees here were thick, and the greenery was such that she couldn’t see her uncle’s cabin up the hill; just a steep path through the woods marked by twin tire ruts, already choked with the growth of new ferns. Her uncle’s truck could manage up the incline to park up by the actual lodge itself; Rebecca’s vehicle could not.

Sense of imminent disaster throbbing through her on wings of adrenaline, Rebecca rushed around and opened up Christine’s door, allowing folds of excess blanket to spill out onto the ground.

“Chloe? Christine?” Rebecca asked. “I’m going to need to guide you on up, so—so, if you can give me your hand through the blanket, we’ll—”

The quilted blanket distended outwards from within as a hand pressed out, and Rebecca grabbed it.

The pain was immediate and intense as Christine gripped, an inhuman vice crushing back in response that made Rebecca freeze up.

“Gently, please,” Rebecca choked out an admonishment. “Please? Chloe, Chloe you’re—”

To her relief Christine relented, and despite definitely needing to check on fingers searing with pain as soon as they got up the hill, Rebecca managed to hold Christine’s hand in an awkward clasp of her palm and her thumb and lead her to step out of the vehicle. She caught a glimpse of a rather dainty bare foot—apparently Christine had taken off her shoes at some point during the trip—and then the blanket hung down and covered everything. Despite being smothered in all of that, it was very clear to Rebecca that Christine had no trouble keeping her balance as she stood. There was no awkward clumsiness, no hesitation, there didn’t even seem to be a chance of Christine tripping on the blanket as she began to follow Rebecca’s guidance.

All of these observations made Rebecca more and more certain that the Christine of right now was extremely dangerous.

It made the trek up the hill to the cabin disarmingly easy. There was no bumbling about despite Christine’s apparent blindness, there were no pauses, and despite the sharp upward grade there was not a single instance of the walking blanket bundle behind her losing her footing.

The cabin Rebecca’s uncle built was as she remembered it, more or less. Perhaps with a bit more green moss growing across the boards. It was a simple seven foot by fifteen foot structure of leftover odds and ends. A few railroad ties, several long two by fours from old construction, actual downed logs from this property made up part of the far wall, and then most of the rest was filled in with sheets of plywood and wooden boards from pallets. The door was actually the old porch door from when her grandfather had replaced his porch door.

“Now, um, it’s a little bit rustic,” Rebecca said as she nudged over the cinderblock placed beside the door to reveal a key. “But, there’s lights on a battery, there’s a fan, he keeps all kinds of bottled water here—”

Not letting go of Christine, she stooped down to grab the key, unlocked the door, lifted the door slightly as she turned the knob, because otherwise the darn thing would remain jammed shut, and smashed her shoulder into it. With a groan it swung open to reveal—well, not much of anything.

“Aw, shoot,” Rebecca pursed her lips as she pulled Christine inside. “Well. There’s still big packs of water, but I guess he did take the fan with him last time.”

She was used to visiting while he was here, so at those times the rather spartan dwelling would be furnished with a pair of his metal framed army cots, the wood-burning stove would be set up beneath the chimney pipe, and a folding table would be placed to put all of their things on. Right now, there was nothing; the cots weren’t present, nor was the table, and even the metal tube that was their chimney hung down over an empty corner with no stove. Dust covered everything inside, but regardless Rebecca closed the door behind them and flicked on the lights.

Those worked, at least, and in the yellow glare of a naked incandescent bulb overhead, Christine fought her way free of her covering.

“Oh shoot,” Rebecca swore again, stepping back.

Her friend’s eyes were glassy and strange, her hair was wild, she was covered in sweat and feverishly pale. Christine looked ill in the way a junkie or an addict might look, and although her figure was frail, strings of muscle were cording and uncording along her neck, bare shoulders and arms as if she was engaging in some impossible feat of strength. That pall of immediate, life-threatening danger all but stunned the Rebecca out of Mara, and on reflex Mara found herself lowering her center of gravity and holding up her arms as if to prepare for an animal attack.

“Christine?” Mara asked in a warning tone. “Chloe? Christine?”

“What?” Christine snapped, jerking to face her with unnatural speed.

“Okay… okay,” Mara said. “Just checking. You’re alright?”

“No I’m not fucking alright!” Christine hissed out, tears running down her face. “I’m—I’m—I—this isn’t a fucking cabin!”

“It’s the cabin my uncle uses during hunting season,” Mara reasoned. “Now… I know that it doesn’t look like much, but—”

“Rebecca,” Christine snarled. “This is a fucking hobo shack, I can—I can take the whole thing down like a house of cards. Look. Fucking watch.”

Christine reached for the grimy, uneven boards that made up the nearest wall, and Mara pounced forward to restrain that slender hand.

“No! No, none of that,” Mara admonished, struggling to inject some of her well-practiced grandmotherly levity in. “I could take the place down too, you’re not impressing anyone. And, what would it accomplish? Then, we’d be dealing with deerflies and mosquitos overnight. Is that what you want? Deerflies and ‘squitos? You want to find out who the real bloodsuckers are?”

“That’s not funny!” Christine shrugged off Mara’s hands with an alarmingly fast flick of her arm that almost had Mara stumbling off balance and to the floor of the cabin. “That’s not—this isn’t fucking funny, Rebecca. This pile of boards is not going to contain me when I—when I—”

“We’re working on that,” Mara said. “Give me a minute. I’m going to run down to the car and carry everything up. Okay? You’re alright? You’re not feeling any sunlight? You’re still okay with control?”

“I’m—” Christine scrunched her eyes shut and took several deep breaths. “Just fucking hurry Rebecca, please. Hurry.”

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/// For real though, deerflies are no fucking joke.