Venom

Prologue

All we ever wanted in life was pure serenity. We never intended on condoning bloodshed on our land, and we didn’t want to lose the ones we loved over our kind being detected. We were the superior predators, resting comfortably at the top of the food chain. We had survived as long as we had by flying under the radar, and as far as the world was concerned, we didn’t exist.
My clan’s territory stretched from the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia through the Cumberland Mountains of Kentucky, where hikers never dared to venture off to. The human locals in Appalachia always told stories about the mysterious phenomena and folklore that occurred in the mountain ranges, but as long as we’ve lived here, the only real nightmare we knew of in these woods was us.
Under my dominion, I had laid out deliberate directives for my clan to avoid jeopardizing our safety. We were not to engage with the humans, and it was forbidden to prey on them, for that rival would never be unbroken. This immutable law has kept us alive since the beginning of time. Humans’ fearfulness was dangerous, for what they feared or misunderstood was instantly deemed a threat. If we were unearthed, they would cage, cut, and study us. However, if our backs were against the wall, we carried our built-in biological defense mechanism - our fiercest asset.
At first glance, we were carbon copies of humans, and our wounds bled no differently than theirs. Despite those similarities, we aged rapidly. In approximately a decade after birth, we were left with the appearance of young adults for eternity. While humans grew old and passed on, we kept our youth. But, we were not immortal, and death was a reality we still faced.
In the United States of America, the human government functioned as a democracy. There were elections held every four years for their leader. Their system of punishment lied with a judge and jury. Our clan had its own “government,” an oligarchy of four leaders that we named “the council.” We didn’t hold elections. We fought to the death to earn our places on the council. Law-breaking in my clan ended in public executions. The severity of the consequences resulted in a low crime rate within our community… It used to, anyway…
There were no secrets that could hide without revealing themselves in the end, whether it was days or years down the road… It was only a matter of time before we were to be damned by the actions of our own kind.

Chapter One: Shadow

A flash of lightning lit up the bar and shook the building shortly after. Rain pelted hard against the tin roof as the wind shrieked against the exterior door. For 9:00 p.m. on a Thursday night, The Tin Can was surprisingly packed. The bar sat at the bottom of the mountain in the small town of Hemlock which hid in the hills of Grayson County, Virginia. I was sitting at the bartop drinking my usual; Jack on the Rocks. The bluegrass band was enthusiastically performing on the small stage found in the corner of the room. Their vocalist stamped his cowboy boot to the rhythm of the banjo as my eyes scanned the historic memorabilia that enveloped the walls made up of reclaimed wood. Town folks were talking amongst themselves over the band. One small group of older gentlemen sitting at a round table behind me were discussing finding “new ground.”
“I’m tellin ya, that dirt o’er there ain’t no good!” A bearded man in cover-alls stated, slamming his hand on the tabletop. His two associates looked at him with frustration. One of them wrinkled his nose and snorted.
“You’re just sayin’ that ‘cause you don’t wanna travel that far south you ol’ geezer,” he grumbled, taking a swig from his beer mug. The older man laughed.
“What was that, Joe?” he said, cupping his hand to his ear. “Bad hearin’ ya know.” Joe set his mug on the table. He leaned over the table and raised his voice.
“You’re an old, lazy fart is what ya are, Leroy!” he hollered at the older gentleman. Leroy smirked and leaned in close to Joe. His voice dropped to a whisper.
“In my sixty-five years’ve life, ain’t nobody calledt me lazy.” The youngest one stood up and waved at the bartender.
“Can we get our tab please?!”
“On the way, fellas,” a middle-aged male said, stepping out from behind the bar and walking over to their table. I glanced up at the rows of bottles lined up behind that bar. There was a small television that sat high up on the wall above everyone’s heads that was playing the nightly news on low volume. Whiskey numbed my tongue as it streamed down my throat, spreading warmth through my chest. My hood hung over my head as I stared down at the dark liquor swishing around in my glass. It smells like sweaty balls in here. A female bartender was slaving away behind the bartop, sweat glistening off her face. Her ponytail swayed as she placed my tab down in front of me and gave me a warm grin.
“Where do you belong to?” she asked me with curious eyes.
“I'm just passing through,” I mumbled. “I don't have any family here. Just me.”
“No biggie! Sure hope yer stay here's been treatin' ya right!” She smiled and placed her hand on her chest proudly. “Name’s Bridgette. I have livedt here for my life entire. It's a beautiful place full of wholesome ladies and gentlemen. What's your name, honey?” She grabbed an empty glass and began wiping it down with a white rag.
“Markem. Shadow Markem.”