Chapter 33 : THE RUGARU GAMBIT — PART 2
Jack Montgomery's house was aggressively normal.
Two-story colonial in a suburban development, lawn precisely maintained, SUV in the driveway next to a smaller sedan. The kind of house that appeared in real estate listings with phrases like "perfect for growing families" and "quiet neighborhood."
The kind of house where monsters weren't supposed to exist.
I parked three blocks away and observed through binoculars. Thomas sat beside me, his own enhanced senses cataloging details I might miss.
"He's terrified," Thomas said quietly. "I can smell it from here. The fear-sweat. The hunger he's trying to suppress. He probably hasn't slept properly in weeks."
"How close to turning?"
"Days. Maybe less." Thomas lowered the binoculars. "Once it starts progressing this fast, there's no stopping it. Only managing it."
I checked the Winchester tracking. Their vehicle had been spotted in Des Moines overnight—still a few hours out, but closing the distance. The window was narrow.
"We need him alone," I said. "Away from the wife, away from neighbors, somewhere we can have an honest conversation without witnesses."
"His office?"
"Too public. Too many variables." I pulled up the schedule the System had compiled from social media monitoring and routine analysis. "He takes lunch at the same park every day. Alone. Sits on the same bench for exactly forty-five minutes before returning to work."
"Control ritual," Thomas observed. "When everything's falling apart, you cling to routines. Things you can still predict."
He understood. Of course he did—he'd been Jack Montgomery three months ago.
We waited.
At 11:47 AM, Jack left his office building and walked to Lincoln Park. His gait was wrong—too careful, too controlled, the movement of someone fighting against instincts that wanted him to move faster, hunt harder, feed on anything that triggered his newly awakening senses.
He sat on his usual bench. Unwrapped a sandwich he wouldn't be able to eat. Stared at the bread and meat with the expression of someone trying to remember why he'd ever found such things appetizing.
Thomas and I approached from opposite directions. Casual. Non-threatening. Two strangers who happened to converge on the same general area.
I sat first, leaving space between us. Thomas settled on Jack's other side a moment later.
Jack's whole body went rigid.
"I know what you're becoming," Thomas said quietly. "I was you three months ago."
"I don't—I don't know what you're talking about—"
"The hunger that won't stop. The way raw meat smells better than anything you've ever cooked. The strength that's growing, the senses that won't shut off." Thomas leaned slightly closer. "The fear that one day you'll wake up and won't remember being human anymore."
Jack's sandwich dropped from nerveless fingers.
"How do you—"
"Because I went through it. Every stage. Every nightmare." Thomas held up his hands—grey-tinged, nails that had thickened into something adjacent to claws. "I'm a Rugaru. So are you. And we don't have much time."
The conversation that followed was brutal in its honesty.
Thomas explained the transformation—the genetic curse, the irreversible nature, the choice between feeding and dying. Jack resisted at first, denial battling against evidence he couldn't ignore. His own symptoms. The changes he'd noticed. The hunger that had been building for weeks.
I let Thomas take the lead. This was his language, his experience, his credibility to establish.
My role was the hard part.
"There are hunters coming," I said, when Jack had processed enough to start asking about options. "They'll be here within hours. When they find you, they will kill you. That's not a threat—it's a fact. Hunters don't negotiate with Rugaru. They exterminate."
"But I haven't done anything—"
"They won't care. They'll see what you're becoming and put you down before you have a chance to hurt anyone." I held his terrified gaze. "I'm offering an alternative. Come with us. We can teach you control. Keep you alive. Give you a place among others who understand what you're going through."
"My wife—"
"Can't come." The words were necessary. Cruel, but necessary. "I'm sorry. She's human. She can't know what you are, and she can't follow where you're going. That life is over, Jack. The only question is whether you die with it or live past it."
He stared at me with the devastated expression of someone watching everything they'd built crumble.
"I need..." His voice cracked. "I need to say goodbye. I can't just disappear."
Thomas and I exchanged glances. The timeline was tight—every minute spent on farewells was a minute closer to Winchester arrival.
But I remembered watching Thomas eat his first meal. Remembered the horror in his eyes, the way he'd mourned the man he'd been. Rushing Jack now would save time. It would also break something that might never heal.
"You have one hour," I said. "Make it count. We'll be waiting at this address." I handed him a slip of paper—the motel where we'd established a temporary base. "If you're not there in sixty minutes, we leave without you."
"And if I don't come?"
"Then you take your chances with the hunters. And you probably die." I stood. "I'm not going to force you, Jack. This has to be your choice."
Thomas touched Jack's shoulder—a gesture of solidarity, one monster to another.
"It's worth it," he said quietly. "The pain. The loss. The things you have to give up. Living is worth it. Trust me."
Jack's hand closed around the address slip.
We withdrew to the motel and waited.
Fifty-three minutes passed. I checked the Winchester tracking obsessively—their vehicle had entered Lincoln twenty minutes ago, was moving through the city in a pattern that suggested investigation, interviews, evidence-gathering. The methodical approach of experienced hunters closing in on their target.
At fifty-eight minutes, a knock came at the motel door.
Jack stood in the hallway, red-eyed, clutching a small bag. He'd changed clothes—worn jeans, a dark jacket, nothing that connected him to the man who'd lived in that colonial house.
"She thinks I'm going to a conference," he said. His voice was hollow. "Work thing. Three days. I told her... I told her I'd call."
"You can call," I said. "Once we're clear of the city. But not from any number she can trace."
He nodded mechanically. The shell-shocked response of someone operating on autopilot.
"Let's move."
We loaded into the truck—Jack in the back seat, Thomas beside him offering silent support, me behind the wheel. I pulled out of the motel parking lot and headed for the highway.
[WINCHESTER PROXIMITY ALERT] [DISTANCE: 0.8 MILES] [TRAJECTORY: CONVERGING]
I checked the mirrors. Nothing visible yet. But the System's tracking said they were close—too close for comfort, following a route that would cross our path if we took the direct highway exit.
"Change of plans." I took a sharp turn, heading away from the interstate. "Back roads until we're clear of the city."
Thomas tensed, reading my body language. "Problem?"
"Potential problem. Stay quiet and let me drive."
The next twenty minutes were the longest of my life since transmigration.
I navigated Lincoln's suburban streets using a mental map, avoiding main roads, taking turns that felt random but kept us moving away from the last known Winchester position. Every black car made my heart rate spike. Every pedestrian who looked twice at our truck triggered threat assessment.
[WINCHESTER PROXIMITY: INCREASING] [CURRENT DISTANCE: 3.2 MILES] [THREAT STATUS: DIMINISHING]
We reached the highway without incident.
The city fell away behind us. Jack sat in stunned silence, watching his old life disappear through the rear window. Thomas murmured something to him—comfort, probably, though I couldn't hear the words.
I drove until the Lincoln skyline was a smear on the horizon. Then I pulled over at a rest stop and let myself breathe.
"We made it," Thomas said.
"We made it." I rested my forehead against the steering wheel for a moment. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind the familiar exhaustion of risk successfully navigated. "Jack, welcome to the coalition. The hard part's just beginning."
He didn't respond. Might not have heard me through whatever internal storm was still raging.
But he was alive. He was with us. And somewhere in Lincoln, the Winchester brothers were hunting a Rugaru who'd vanished before they could find him.
One monster saved from forces he couldn't have fought alone.
It wasn't much, in the grand scheme of apocalypse preparation. But it was something. And something, accumulated over enough time, became everything.
I started the engine.
"Long drive home," I said. "Try to rest. Both of you."
The highway stretched toward Montana. Toward the coalition. Toward the impossible task of preparing twenty-four monsters—now twenty-five—for the end of the world.
A thousand days, give or take.
I'd spent three of them on this rescue mission.
Worth it.
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