Nope this story isn't dead. There will be a total of seven chapters.
Since I'm a French speaker, my English will SURELY be wrong. Don't hesitate to tell me if you see any mistake in the text. :)

Music info: Do you want to dive more into the atmosphere of this chapter? I started writing a summary of this chapter a long time ago, but I finished it while listening to "The Day the World Went Away", from Nine Inch Nails. (the album with the 10 versions – Halo 13).

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FIRE HEART

Ch.2 – A howl in the night

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Heath was staring at the thick wall made of heavy grey stones, partially covered with the same dead ivy and roots he had seen in the mirror reflection a few seconds earlier. How could he have missed that while in the locker room? Had his rage about what had happened to Drew blinded him so much? He turned towards the mirror and froze again.

The mirror was gone. Everything he knew was gone. All he had now in front of him was the same stony wall. Above him, the ceiling had been replaced by a dark sky, lit by millions of stars – more than he had ever seen by night in a city - and a bright bluish full moon.

He lifted the burning torch he had in his left hand in order to better observe his surroundings, realizing suddenly that he didn't know where this torch came from, and how it had arrived in his hand. Looking at his arm, and then at the rest of his body, brought him new information. A few seconds ago – or so it seemed – he was bare chest with his black leather pants wearing silver guitars and flames symbols, black and metallic boots, and black wrist protections.

And now, if he still had wrist protections, their material seemed more like brown leather. He was wearing a long-sleeved flaxen tunic tied at the waist by a riveted dark leather belt. If he still had leather pants, they were now brown, slightly worn out, and laced on the side. And his boots had lost every metallic element, now coming up to just below his knees, with a wrap around front, lacing on the side for closure.

Nothing he had ever worn before.

A moment of panic seized him and he brought a lock of hair in front of his eyes, sighing with relief when he recognized his own golden ginger hair.

At least, something hadn't changed.

He lifted the torch to get a better view of the walls, wondering if it was a dream. Or maybe some candid camera from his coworkers. But this would have implied that they had drugged him at some point, and he wasn't sure - with their holy wellness policy - that this would be their choice of action.

His torch was casting long and dancing shadows on the thick stones, making some of the roots looking like moving serpents. Maybe they were. Some creatures were hustling in the shadows of the crevasses.

Heath started walking. Slowly at first. His right hand was brushing against the stony wall, as if to test the reality of it. It had crossed his mind that it was probably a dream. But the level of details, affecting most of his senses, was going against this simple idea.

"Jinder? Anyone?", he shouted. It was either a dream, or a joke. But the sound of his own voice had some reality quality. He frowned and reached out for the wall again. The cold and humid stone which his fingers brushed was feeling very much real too. Eyes and ears could be deceived in a dream, but the touch? It was one of the senses - with the smell and taste - which was almost never solicited in a dream. One could come out of a dream, remembering things he had seen, heard, said. Sometimes, EVENTUALLY, we could remember some physical sensation, like falling, or an impact, even pain… But the cold and wetness he was feeling right now against the skin of his fingers was far too realistic to be created by his sleeping brain in search of answers.

Suddenly, he froze in his examination of the stones. There was a panting from somewhere on the other side of the wall on his left. A growl.

He crouched, alert, scanning for movements, listening to the slightest sound. His whole body transformed into a single sense of taut probing. In an unknown field, facing a potential danger, one can quickly develop a firm dependence upon all of his senses. And life turns into a hoard of stored perceptions, each one linked only to momentary survival.

Whatever the sound had been, it faded and disappeared. Heath remained silent and still for awhile, until he wasn't sure anymore of what he had heard. Maybe it was his imagination running wild.

Yet, as he resumed his walk, Heath saw a movement at the far end of the corridor. Far movement made less threatening by the distance. He stilled again, forgetting for a moment that the torch he was holding, was turning him into a perfect target in that dark and strange place.

He narrowed his eyes, trying to discern the newcomer with the help of the moonlight above. Despite the animalistic sound he had heard before, the silhouette he could see in the distance seemed rather biped. So he didn't connect the two facts…

… until a rumbling growl echoed against the walls and filled the air. It was deep, menacing, and ancient sound: the predator speaking to its prey.

Heath was paralyzed as he saw the humanoid silhouette far ahead leaping forward and progressing in a quadruped position. Progressing in his direction. The 3MB leader could only watch as the creature flowed with power, a rippled sense of dark sureness in every movement. When it was just at two leaps from him, he came back to his sense: this was perhaps a dream, but it was safest not to test his theory; so he started moving backwards.

His torch fell when his left foot hit a stone and he stumbled on the floor; the creature – caught by its own momentum - leaped over him. Despite its huge shape, it almost landed gracefully on the other side and started to turn. With the torch on the floor, burning between the two of them, Heath got a good look of the animal. Like a huge wolf, but in the same time, far from it.

Too big. With paws too large, and claws at the end of its forepaws which almost looked like hooks. Its limps looked different from any canine he knew of, Heath remembered he had earlier seen this creature in a rather biped position. The moon was making its thick fur appear like a dark silver. As the wolf – it wasn't really a wolf, but Heath had to give it a name in his mind – was turning towards him, its hindquarters were simultaneously bunching and lowering toward the cracked stony ground. Its lips peeled back in a low snarl, revealing long and sharp fangs. Heath was trying not to look at those fangs, not trying to imagine what they would do if the creature caught him. Instead, he tried to focus on the eyes of the animal. Strange eyes, almost human. Eyes reminding him of someone. Eyes almost piercing his soul. Not a wolf. Not at all.

As realization hit the musician, the creature gave a howl of fury; Heath came back to his sense and blinked, crawling away, before jumping on his feet and starting to run. Behind him, he heard the high pitched sound of the creature's claws on the stony ground. He knew that the werewolf or whatever this creature could be, was starting the chase again.

Heath's heart was throbbing in his ears so loudly it was almost all he could hear. Almost. The rapid thud was nearly overpowering the snarls and the sounds of claws scratching stones behind him. It was drowning out the repeating plod of his boots on the ground, the urgent pace of a desperate prey. The thin hair in the back on his neck stood up straight as he felt the beast reducing the distance between them with each leap.

'Another stumble, and I'm lost'. He ran faster. He took in large gulps of air, and the breaths were leaving his mouth in thin trails of steam in the cold night air. He was thankful to the hours of training he was spending every day at work had increase his strength, speed and stamina. But he knew that in the long term, he wouldn't be a match against that perfect hunter of a creature closing in behind him.

Heath saw on his left a narrow and irregular cut in the stony wall and did not hesitate. Time was running too short to wonder how deep the slit could be, and if it meant shelter, or doom. He would never outrun the beast anyway. He dove into it, as deep as he could until darkness engulfed him. Facing the entrance and the faint glow provided by the full moon, he blindly slid his hands against the stones, trying to find a passage to move further away.

For a moment, he thought the beast had given up. That it was a joke, a kind of candid camera with someone wearing a pretty realistic disguise. Maybe he had been drugged, dressed in a medieval style, and tossed in a labyrinth lookalike structure, waiting for the drug to dissipate from his system before the game would start.

Then a fetid breath, moist with the musky smell of the werewolf, assaulted his nostrils. Before he could move any further backwards, a furry arm snatched inside the slit and claws found his elbow. Heath howled like an animal as pain raked from his elbow to his wrist, but managed to free his arm by quickly sliding on the floor.

Holding his left arm against him, he was aware of the deafening growls as well as the sudden wetness on the sleeve of his tunic. The smell of blood almost covered every other odor, and seemed to drive the beast crazy. It frenetically clawed at the gray stones, forcing Heath to make himself even smaller against the end of the slit. Sometimes, his gaze would meet the werewolf's. Its strangely familiar human eyes prying into the crevasse, almost directly into his soul. Through the opaque veil of terror, Heath was trying to remember the old legends Justin had told him about a long time ago.

Was that malediction transmitted by a bite only, or would a simple scratch suffice?

His stressed mind escaped to a conversation that seemed from a lifetime away. When The Corre still existed and they were at some Burger King, having a late meal after a show. As the full moon nights were approaching, the conversation had naturally moved to the werewolf topic.

"Awesome!", the Brit had grumbled. "Tonight, I won't hear every single detail about Zombies, but about Werewolves. What next? Voodoo?"

"Voodoo is real!", Zeke objected.

"Oh, C'mon!", Wade had rolled his eyes before taking his plate and moving to the next empty booth. Justin and Heath had snickered at his always-too-rational attitude. It was so great to let sometimes your mind escape. But for Wade, the only zombies he accepted to acknowledge were his coworkers after a few sleepless nights: pale complexion, dark circles under their eyes, smelling bad, speaking incoherent words, walking and wrestling in auto-pilot mode. But voodoo? Werewolves? Witches? Naaah.

Justin, Zeke and Heath had continued their conversation on their own. Heath knew plenty of information about zombies, different kinds, different origins, different way to destroy them; but he was a novice when it came to the werewolves' legends. What provoked the transformation? Was it an infection like rabies transmitted by the bite – as it worked for zombies? Was it like venom inside the teeth? Or was it the saliva containing a specific virus or bacteria? And if bacteria, aerobic or anaerobic? It was important, in case the werewolf licked his paws earlier to clean them, before later scratching someone. Would the bacteria survive exposure to oxygen during that lapse of time on the claw?

In his blurred memories, Heath remembered that Wade had returned to their table when the discussion had become somehow scientific (that, and the fact Daniel Bryan had sat at his table and was trying to demonstrate him why it was baaad to eat meat). But he couldn't remember the answer to his "saliva on claws" question.

Heath shook his head to come back to his senses. His injured arm was starting to feel numb. If by chance he survived this night, not torn to pieces or bleeding out completely, he would get his answer at the next full moon night. All he had to do was remaining in this shelter until dawn. Then, the werewolf would become human again. And himself would be safe, and free to observe (or run away from) this strange place he had inexplicably arrived in.

Then the animal hunter changed its tactics and started to attack the stones of the wall with both hands, like trying to dislodge them. Heath saw with horror that some of the blocks were getting off under the formidable pulling strength of the beast, and he knew his end was near.

He pushed himself flatter against the opposite wall of the shelter, screaming for help, hoping and praying for a miracle. The beast was getting closer and closer, trying to push itself inside the slit in the wall after each big stone removed, attacking the wall again after every failure. It was just a matter of time before it would reach its prey. Heath's right hand met some slit between two stones, and he felt that one of them was moving slightly. He pushed. With all the strength he had left. The stone moved, horribly slowly at first. Then, as the beast was approaching and Heath could feel its claws touching his boots, he gave everything he had, screaming with a mixture of rage and terror. The stone was dislodged from the wall and fell out of sight. With the deafening howls and snarls from the beast, Heath didn't hear the impact of the stone on the other side, but he couldn't care less.

What was on the other side didn't matter. It could be just a small cave where he would find a cozy shelter, or a gigantic pit at the bottom of which he would break his neck, it didn't matter. Everything was better than being torn alive by the feral beast clawing its way towards him.

He flattened himself on the ground and started crawling his way through the narrow opening. It occurred to him that his muscular frame would be too large for the breach. Even if he tried to ignore the pain of his skin scratched against the cutting material of the stone, he would probably end up stuck there, helpless, perfect prey for the beast behind; spending his last seconds on Earth, completely blind to what was happening to him, but totally aware of the painful sensation of being viciously ripped apart, piece after piece, and eaten alive. He had always imagined he would die in the middle of the ring, after a bad fall, or a finisher a little bit too realistic from his opponent… But not here, trapped in the dark like a rabbit. He extended his hand in the dark hole, trying to feel what was on the other side.

If only the opening was a bit wider. He thought about moving backwards and trying to dislodge the stone next stone when something grabbed his wrist.

He screamed.

Too many bad surprises for the same evening, too much terror. This was it! He was caught by another of these monsters on the other side of the wall. There was no escape. It was over.

At that precise moment, his overactive brain noted the shape of what had seized his wrist. Fingers. Small. A hand. A little one.

Before he could think any further, a voice was heard. Heath was surprised how clearly he could hear it over the chaos made by the werewolf behind him.

"Come with me if you want to live".

It was neutral, almost whispered. In spite of the crisis of the situation, there was no emergency in this voice. Heath pondered on the alternative and did what he was best at: quick decision. He closed his hand around the wrist, noting how strangely thin and fragile it seemed under his touch. But that though vanished when he was pulled with an incredible strength inside the hole. He thought his arm would be torn from the rest of his body if his shoulders or torso remained stuck in the opening and whatever was on the other side kept pulling like that…

But against all odds, his whole body was pulled inside the hole. Maybe it wasn't as narrow as he had initially dreaded. Or maybe himself had magically shrunk to pass through it. Like Alice in Wonderland. Without any sight, he couldn't estimate any distance and, unprepared, violently hit the floor of whatever dark cave he had fell in.

He cringed and coughed, cradling his injured arm against him; his eyes were closed as he was trying to recover from the awful pain he was in, when he saw a light through his eyelids and remembered that someone, or something, had brought him in this cave. He opened his eyes and looked up, bracing himself for the worst. But standing in from of him and holding up a small lantern sending dancing shadows on his face, was a child. A red-haired boy looking down at him with quiet brown eyes.

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TO BE CONTINUED

with Chapter 3

"Through the glass"

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