Gumjaw: In the Pale Moonlight

Author's note: This is the sequel to Gumjaw and as such it is recommended that you read that first. The idea for a sequel came about thanks to the Youtube Comment Section for NaturesTemper's reading of Gumjaw.

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Crestfallen, the ex-monster hunter who was way passed his prime – in both physique and years – tightly gripped his AK. His main means of escape had left, and he was now essentially trapped on a roof with the most vengeful and savage of beasts; a werewolf. Steeling his nerves, Elliot Tuber turned his head back just in time to witness Gumjaw break free of the shingle which had come to snare one of his feet during the scuffle. His immediate instincts urged him to pull the trigger, alas the clip – no, the magazine, he internally chided - had been lost mid-fight. Elliot used what little time he had to change how he held his rifle, repositioning his hold on it as though it were a club.

The emerald-eyed hellion closed the gap between itself and its would-be prey. Without missing a beat, Elliot swung the gun, throwing all of his weight behind it. Gumjaw, however, did miss a beat, or rather the beat. A clawed hand struck the gun free of the human's hands, sending it flying from the roof, while using the other to grab and lift the man by the scruff of the neck. Tubber was raised level with his adversary's face, seeing a chance he swung a fist at the creature's face.

Gumjaw caught the man's swing with its free hand. The move was eerily familiar, one that Gumjaw had bore witness to nearly a century ago in a silver mine in Creede, Colorado. He narrowed his eyes, his overwhelming, beastly rage temporarily sated by curiosity. Gumjaw had much to say, were only he able to speak. The power of speech had long become lost to him, for he had spent too much time in the form of the wolf and was now more beast than man. Still, in his mind, the turn of events was most fortuitous. He'd just have to communicate in another way...

Defiantly, Elliot kicked his captor. Unfortunately, for him, Gumjaw didn't even flinch. Pain or no, Gumjaw retaliated by slamming his captive down into the roof and pinning him by the arms. A knee to the groin greeted the werewolf - a suicidal move if there ever was one – causing the beast's grip to loosen enough to where Elliot was able to free one of his hands. The monster hunter quickly reached into his pocket with his free, shaking hand. Gumjaw's recovery was quick. The monstrosity began to crush the arm in its grasp with vice-like strength and brought the claws on his other hand to bear.

Elliot Tubber grunted in pain under the strain to his arm, unsure as to whether the bones had yet begun to crack, and grimaced as his opponent's claws neared and prepared to tear open his stomach. Blood dripped from Gumjaw's hand, a pocket knife had risen to meet it. The lycanthrope emitted a sound that was a cross between a yelp and a growl as he reflexively recoiled. Droplets of dark, black blood were carelessly splattered about, trailing Gumjaw's momentary retreat, some falling into the monster hunter's open mouth. The sudden impact in his mouth caused him to swallow in surprise; an unwelcome outcome for the man.

The knowledge of the infectious, transformative properties that the blood contained coupled with its bitter taste took Elliot out of the moment for long enough to provide his opponent with an opening. The werewolf shoulder slammed into the washed-up Monster Hunter and slashed the impacted man with a clawed hand. The force of the impact was enough to send Elliot over the edge of the roof, blood squirting as he flew.

Gumjaw didn't bother to spare his fallen foe a glance for he had other prey to pursue. The werewolf soared forth from the rooftop and impacted against the desert sand in a four-legged run. Had he spared a glance, or chose to jump from the opposite side of the roof, he would have noticed Elliot Tubber stirring. Granted, the fall would have killed any but the luckiest of men. However, Elliot Tubber was not a mere man, not anymore.

The moon illuminated the flipped Ford truck as though it were a sinister searchlight. The driver – a bleeding man with torn skin and clothes – crawled out of the smashed out driver's window and onto the Arizonan desert. He supported himself against the overturned truck and rose to his feet while keeping a hold of his freshly dislocated shoulder and turned his gaze back toward Interstate 8. The pickup had hit something on the road at high speed causing one of its tires to blow out and the entire machine to veer off course, but he was unsure of what. Perhaps a wooden or metal material? He'd only caught a glimpse of it for less than a couple of seconds before impact.

He let go of his shoulder, ignoring the heavy weighted feeling and burning pain, and reached into his pocket to pull out his phone. Surely he had enough distance between himself and that... beast to take a moment to call for help. His smashed and useless phone emerged to greet him. With a wary sigh, Frank Gibber chucked it into the sand.

“Fuck you, Elliot,” Frank muttered.

Halfheartedly, he kicked the carcass of the truck, Elliot's truck. Had he not taken it, then he would not be in this mess and would probably have been better off. On second thought, he'd probably still be back in the middle of nowhere staring down a werewolf, so perhaps not.

“Oh well,” he said to himself dismissively as he wandered back onto the Interstate to investigate what he hit.

Each step onto the pavement was overbearing, brazenly drowning out the loud throbbing of his heartbeat. Worry of what might be listening in the dark brought Frank to a standstill. A pause in step was all it took. A quick, single bite into Frank's neck felled him.

A black, gloved hand reached down and plucked the tranquilizer from the fallen man's neck. “I've still got it,” the unseen commented, slinging its quarry over its human-framed shoulder.

Even with Frank Gibber's cumbersome weight, it didn't take long for the figure to retrieve the caltrops off the Interstate and to vanish into the desert with a wide grin splayed along its face.

The pain was throbbing and searing. Elliot Tubber's shoulders bulged, attempting to take on a new, larger shape. His sides contorted beyond the realm of possibility, jaw became maw, and legs rearranged into a more predatory form. The moon bore down upon the wretched creature with the intensity of a furnace that could not be quenched; its gaze most accusatory and unrelenting. Elliot dared to roll over, dared to rise to his knees. Try as he might, he could not rise, but he refused to fall. Once again he dared, he dared to dig his fingers into the soil and flung the dirt behind him in a pain-fueled rage; he dug.

No tangible, physical thing awaited him, of course, he did it out of desperation. The distraction paid off for him. The turmoil within came to an abrupt end and with it the body morphing and the pain. It was inexplicable to him; the beast within had been slain. Once more he dared, and this time he rose – he rose a man.

A deep, dreadful darkness revealed itself when Frank's eyes shot open. Nothing was visible or known to the man other than the fact that he was positioned upright. He struggled to move, but was held in place by invisible bindings. Two rows of radiant white appeared in response to his struggling. Frank gasped as the two rows inched closer to his face and parted, a warmth tinged his skin and a sickly, sweet odor hit his nostrils; and then came the horrifying realization, it was something's mouth.

Against his will, Frank Gibber whimpered. Desperately he wished he could shrink back into or merge into whatever he was bound to and be rid of the place and thing in front of him. An object with a leathery texture, a gloved finger he realized, stroked him across the cheek. Tears and a wail escaped the terrified man as a reply came from the dark, “There there.”

The finger removed itself, disappearing back into the void. Only Frank's shakily worded question dared to follow, “Wh-where the hell am I?"

The seemingly disembodied smile excused itself. “Watch your mouth, you heathen. You're in God's house,” malice and irritation dripped from the voice.

Silence hung in the air until it was drowned out by the powering on of lights. The captive's eyes readjusted quickly. The stone walled, stain-glass window endowed room was empty save for Gibber himself and the wooden cross he was tied to.

The voice snaked into the now well-lit room, “Do you understand, bait? Gumjaw is coming to meet the Lord.”

The room once again became pitch black.

Frank Gibber's screams echoed in the ether, “No! No! No... No...”

Even with his limited understanding of his newly gained abilities, Elliot Tubber was able to quickly trail Gumjaw thanks to its scent. Any doubts he had about where he was headed were erased by the debris left behind by the destroyed Ford. His destination was a derelict, ominous church out in the middle of nowhere. The wooden doors were splintered, only a few chunks hung from the frame. The old hunter boldly peered into the dark building with his gun raised. His stomach churned and even one of his experience couldn't restrain the gasp that built up within his lips as he bore witness to the carnage that desecrated the floor and the few remaining, smashed pews.

The doors to the church strained and buckled under the relentless assault of Gumjaw's fists. Only after shards of the door flew into the room did the figure standing at the lectern on the opposite end of the room bother to look up from the bible. He closed it with the utmost care with an ungloved hand. He cleared his throat as if he had been rudely interrupted while he slid a black glove back over his bare hand.

“Nice of you to finally attend, Gumjaw.”

The werewolf hesitantly stalked forward from the entryway toward the pews, its end goal being in the room behind the man at the lectern.

Smiling the man reached into his vestment, removing four plastic bags and casually tossing them onto the floor beside himself, “What nice teeth you had.”

The creature turned its gaze to the plastic bags on the floor filled with werewolf teeth, Gumjaw's teeth.

Gumjaw let out a guttural snarl.

“Yes, impossible for you to grow those back isn't it?”

The clergyman stepped out from behind the lectern - casually stepping on the teeth while doing so - and slowly stalked toward Gumjaw with his hands clasped behind his back.

The Lycanthrope sprinted in between a couple of the pews, but tripped and face-planted into the ground. The smiling priest dove for the pews in front of himself, shielding his head with his hands. Although Gumjaw quickly ascended to his feet, balls of steel fired from the triggered claymore peppering both the room and Gumjaw. Windows shattered, pews splintered, muscles tore and bones broke. The man in the vestment rose unscathed, once again continuing his walk toward the prone, howling werewolf.

Gumjaw turned its head toward the approaching man, trying to open its eyes, but failing. The clergyman leered down at the beast as he pulled out a sharp-tipped crucifix from within his vestments.

“Silver. Those were balls of silver. The burning you feel now is mere child's play to what awaits, I assure you.”

The crucifix bore down on the beast's head. Gumjaw blindly swatted it away out of desperation; his clawed hand tearing into the man's robes and arm. The once smiling man let out a grunt of pain and frustration as the crucifix skidded across the church floor. Gumjaw's emerald eyes popped open, his rage was given sight. The human laughed as he clutched his bleeding arm. Gumjaw began to grunt and gurgle in pain, for making contact of any sort with crucifix was not without consequence for a werewolf; a beast of devilry.

Gumjaw swatted - or rather attempted, to swat at the man with the hand that had touched the crucifix. It liquefied, dripping into a puddle of ebony onto the floor as it dissolved away, before it could so much as graze its target. The grey creature recoiled, while the priest staggered backwards to the dropped crucifix. Both combatants made their final play. Gumjaw lunged, the clergyman grabbed the crucifix and pivoted.

Swaths of ebony and crimson coated the entire church. Pieces of human and chunks of werewolf. There wasn't enough of both left for either to have survived. Elliot's dinner barely contained itself within his stomach, it was a true test of willpower. At the end of the destroyed room and on the other side of the untouched lectern was a mostly well preserved door. The handle jiggled a couple of times, and then the door slowly opened.

And he emerged. The man in torn vestments emerged with his once bleeding arm wrapped in strips of cloth.

Elliot Tubber quickly surveyed the room once more. Gumjaw had been here, and obviously was the ebony that lined the floor, but he had been so certain that Frank Gibber was here too, after all his scent... The hunter glanced at the crimson pools, catching sight of a wooden cross that was on its side at the edge of the room, then he looked back at the chunks of human meat and then the priest. The priest met Elliot's gaze with a smile.

“I'm impressed that you hid Gumjaw's teeth in the glove box. He never had any idea.”

The hunter raised his pistol and stated in a monotone voice, “You killed him.”

“That's Father Bryant to you. And of course. I was sent here to pick up your slack.”

“What?”

Much to Elliot's surprise the man walked over to the lectern and picked up the bible, repeatedly shaking it at him as he spoke, “I was dispatched to take care of Gumjaw after it became evident that you weren't going to.”

“But-”

“I find it quite peculiar you were able to find us out in the middle of nowhere. But you know, it makes sense when I look at those black bloodstains on the neck of your shirt. You consumed werewolf blood. I sure hope you're ready to meet God.”

Elliot Tubber shot at the priest, managing to nick the shoulder of his robe as the clergyman dared to duck and weave toward the nearest intact pew with the holy book in hand.

“Funny you should preach. You are nothing more than a killer hiding behind the name of God,” Elliot shouted as he paced across the opposite end of the church in the hopes of getting a better angle.

The building's proprietor wasted no time. Quickly he crawled under as many of the pews as he could, closing the distance without giving his target a line of fire. The hunter rapid fired three shots at the fast moving threat, causing it to come to a pause at an intact bench.

“Your pretty free with your shots. I bet that your revolver is modified.”

“Wouldn't you like to know. Why don't you come out so that you can find out?”

“I modify my weapons too,” he coolly replied reaching into the depths of his garb with a free hand, taking hold of the sharp-tipped crucifix. “But yes, let's find out together!”

A quick, slight gasp escaped Elliot Tubber's mouth in reaction to the fierce speed in which the preacher had taken to rising and leaping straight for him from the pew. Two more rounds launched from the revolver striking the air and then the stone wall in the back. The Bible flew from the supposed worshiper's hand disarming the older man. Instinctively, Elliot backed away and kicked into the air as the priest lunged. The kick connected with the pastor's hand causing the crucifix to fly to the opposite side of the room and land near the revolver.

What followed from thereon was a blur of motion, a wanton meeting of punches and kicks, a symphony of dodges. Sometimes the old monster hunter would throw a punch and it would land at the cost of him receiving a kick; sometimes he wouldn't connect at all. The man of the cloth faced the same difficulty for a time until he managed to kick his prey square in the chin which caused him to fall to the ground next to some nearly disintegrated pews. Elliot attempted to rise as he had done so before, but was met with a kick to the ribs. Exhaling in pain, Elliot Tubber fell to the floor stomach down. Again and again the process was repeated.

Eventually, the frequency and ferocity of the kicks ramped up, “Turn! Hide nothing from God in his domain! Turn so that I may kill you like the devilish spawn that you are!”

A pained grunt was all the reply that Elliot could muster, and the assault continued. It continued and eventually reached a crescendo to where Elliot found himself barely conscious, desperately he rested a hand on one of the splintered pews.

Daybreak came. Beautiful rays of light shone through the remaining stain-glass windows of the church. The light enveloped the gun and crucifix on the ground, a message from God to Father Bryant if there ever was one. At least, that was the priest's thought on the matter. Warily, the battered man watched with blurry vision that slowly sharpened as his tormentor limped to the tools of his trade. His grip tightened on the splintered pew in agitation, his death was nigh. The wood broke off into his clenched hand, and then it flew. The strength behind the throw was superhuman, the aim true, and the impact a ferocious surprise to the would-be killer's spine.

Father Bryant fell without any hesitancy, or choice. The weapons lie not far from him, but still beyond reach, if only just. “Damn you,” he cursed. He wanted nothing more than to rise to his feet, grab the gun, and to repeatedly blast his prey in the face. That was no longer a reasonable outcome for he could not feel his legs.

The aged monster hunter forced himself to his feet with the support of the pew and began his labor of a thousand steps. The journey began with a stagger and ended with a swagger as he walked passed the crawling paraplegic, kicked the crucifix further away and grabbed his gun.

Elliot very quickly put two and two together about his adversary's condition. Weakly, the man of the cloth grabbed Tubber's ankle and pathetically looked up at him, “Kill me. Please!”

Elliot Tubber jerked his leg free of the fallen man's grip and glanced down at him, smugness ebbed from his voice, “Sorry, I don't kill people.” And with that, Elliot Tubber left the building.

Father Bryant stared in silence as the finality of it all sunk in. He was alone. He was trapped. Sure, he could crawl out of the church in due time, but a large stretch of desert stood between him and civilization. He let out a sigh of defeat and began to crawl, pausing when another truth struck him. Lifting up a hand, blackened with wet blood, he stared and contemplated.

“Ha ha ha! How cruel! Forsake God or die! Become a mon... No, I was always a monster I just didn't see it. Ha ha ha!”

Howls of laughter echoed throughout the desecrated church.

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Written by Doom Vroom
Content is available under CC BY-SA

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