REPORTS OF DEMONS IN BAY AREA...

... STRANGE FACES ... VIOLENT ... CAUSES UNKNOWN ...

RELIGIOUS ELEMENT ... SUPERHUMAN FIGURES ...

... APPEAR TO BE VIGILANTES ...

He'd laugh, he thinks, if he weren't seeing the footage.

All night. All night it's been like this. Blurry close-ups of leathery skin, horns protruding out from masks – latex, maybe, fitted seamlessly over faces to distort any and all identifiable features. Shaky-cam and screams framing break-ins, from 7-11s to local bars. Men being thrown onto pool tables, then other figures—some swinging a punch with far too much grace and speed to be baseline human.

One, then another, then another. Tweets, social media, videos. In one, somebody screams for help, only to be saved by a bolt of— lightning? The hell? –from nowhere. In another, one of the masked men snarls something that isn’t English, fiendish and guttural and strange to the ear.

He watches it all from behind Jenny’s desk. Infamous Jenny the co-worker, who’s pregnant and supposed to be at home, nesting and looking up couch cushions on Etsy. Instead, she’s here. Something is happening in San Francisco. Everybody knows that it isn’t just about doing your job.

“What the fuck?”

It takes a moment for either of them to realize they’ve both said it at exactly the same time. Hunter has one arm braced on the back of her chair as he leans in, squinting at the screen; Jenny hits the pause button. They each scrutinize the exact frame the video has landed on.

It’s barely there. Just in the corner of a video that, so far, has been someone quietly breathing, peering out from behind a door of some kind. There’s some kind of figure in the corner of what looks like a dimly lit dentist’s office. Something is hunched over there, making grinding noises—bone on bone.

Then it turns around, frozen mid-frame. The something-figure’s eyes are yellow. Unnatural, strange, eerily bright. Inexplicably, horns protrude out from what might have been skin, erupting out and leaving smears of gore around the forehead. In its mouth are fistfuls of teeth. Raw, fleshy gums slough from its mouth, tinging the corners of its lips.

Eating. It’s been eating teeth.

Abruptly, Jenny tears herself away from the chair, a hand cupped over her face. Murmurs I’m going to be sick and runs towards the bathrooms.

Hunter can’t stop staring. His heart is beating like a fucking furnace in his chest. Ignores the questions like what is this, who is this, where did it come from, where did all those teeth—, or even I should check on Jenny, and presses the play button instead.

The footage shakes. Whoever took the footage breathes heavily. Then the thing lunges, and there’s no heart wrenching scream, no shaky plea. The footage just cuts to black.

Hunter closes his eyes.

There’s always someone, right? In stories like this. Strange, religious events, mass hysteria; some people talking about demonic possession, mediums trying to hawk their New Age crystals by saying something’s different in the air. But people don’t act like this. Normal people don’t act like this.

There’s always going to be someone that mysterious energy bolt couldn’t save.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there. Fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes, frowning at a black screen with an anonymously emailed video that’s long ended. Hunter runs a hand over his jaw. Thinks, and waits, and thinks again.

By now, the cubicles of the Chronicle are sparse. People have gone home, to sleep or eat or form some sort of well-needed sanity break. The late-night crew are staggering in, already glued to their phones for emails and videos and whatever social media can give them. In the middle of it all is Walter, who’s always been the kind of boss who stays in the trenches. He’s lying down on an empty desk, papers shoved onto the floor, smoking a cigarette indoors.

It’s not exactly professional behavior. But then, it’s already been a weird day.

Hunter tears his gaze away from Walter and back to the inky screen. He leans back in his chair, runs a hand over his face, and sighs. Maybe it is time to call it.

“Buchanan!” Walter calls out, grunting with effort as he stands himself up on the desk, peering over low walls and the tops of screens. Hunter raises his arm to call his attention; Walter rolls his eyes, exhales a puff of smoke.

“Go the fuck home, and that’s an order.”

Decision made, looks like.

Jesus, he can’t remember the last time he’s been this tired. Hunter claps the back of Walter as he leaves, murmuring a low G’night as grabs his keys and motorcycle helmet. Steps into the elevator. Swipes his keycard to exit on the first floor, blinking blearily past an empty reception desk and a door one of the late-night staffers opens for him.

“Thanks, Al,” Hunter murmurs. Alan – dark-haired, tall – blinks back at him, smiling blankly.

“No problem, pal.”

Hunter’s only half across the parking lot before he realizes how strange that is. Alan’s not really one for nicknames. He frowns, setting his helmet on the seat of his bike, and turns to look over his shoulder.

Alan’s still there. Staring at him from behind the glass doors, waving slowly.

Hunter blinks. Alan’s eyes glow yellow.

“What the fu—”

He doesn’t even manage to finish the sentence.

“Hey, pal.”

When Hunter turns back around, Al’s suddenly there. Or—Not-Al, with yellow eyes and two dots just below his hairline, spontaneously starting to bleed. Hunter takes a step back, some foreign, sharp awareness slamming into his chest like a freight train, breathing starting to come in faster.

“Aw, buddy, c’mon,” Not-Al says, as the blood begins to pour down from the top of his face. “Cat got your tongue?”

Horns erupt slowly from the top of Not-Al’s head. Hunter inhales, and slowly curls his hands into fists.

Not-Al throws the first punch, but Hunter’s the first to land one. He ducks the swipe of – what, claws? – and lands a blow to Not-Al’s side. The steps that come to him aren’t like a dance, or a song, or a memory. They just… are. It doesn’t require any conscious thought. He blocks another swipe, then throws an elbow; slams the heel of his hand up into Not-Al’s face, then readjusts his own weight and throws another punch. Parry. Block. Duck. Pivot left. A low blow, then lock the arm, throw him off center—even demons have to have two legs, a sense of balance they can’t afford to lose unless they want to land flat on their back.

It only takes a matter of minutes. Hunter finally slams his boot down across prone Not-Al’s face in a short, sideways motion, leaving him breathing heavily, alone in a parking lot, no worse for wear than the scratches he has across his left arm.

He knows, somehow, that Not-Al is unconscious. That he just fought him off like it was nothing, like it was as easy as breathing. Hunter looks down at his knuckles, bloody and raw, and flexes his hands, all the while trying to school his breathing into something less wild and more level.

It’s the adrenaline, he thinks. It’s just the adrenaline. It can’t be anything other than that.

There’s just no other explanation for it.