I was more than mildly displeased when Grifter was assigned to our Pack, I have voiced my contempt for the instability of the Rogues on more than one occasion, but accepted the order as I always do. When he came crawling back to us, I knew right away that he had screwed up yet again. Perhaps it was the worried look on his face, the distinct absence of the Bratovich brothers that were supposed to serve as laborers to carry the stockpile of munitions into the hiding place that Grifter had found, or maybe it was the fact that he was covered in burns that tipped me off.

I will spare you the details of his groveling and incompetence, I do not think I could stomach it a second time, needless to say, he lost two of Acid’s prized pets, a sizable stockpile of armaments, and let slip during his emotional outburst that he had been ‘exploring’ the tunnels because he thought that we could use them to get into the city undetected. Of course what he meant was, he was trying to be an attention whore, as always, and gain some glory and renown for himself by circumventing protocol. If he had simply followed orders, his mistake might have been overlooked, as it stands however, his inexcusable behavior must meet with atonement. He will learn to be a functional member of this Pack and not a hot-shot maverick endangering the rest of us, or he will perish. Either is acceptable, though I would surmise that the latter is more imminent.

When I took Grifter before the Priest to explain what had happened, Acid did not miss a beat. Although visibly… perturbed, It immediately chose the most logical and yet strangely poetic course of action. Its decree was that Grifter must ‘Unchain the Beast’ to have redemption. So, here we stand, at the site of the rally. We file out of the cramped van, all but Grifter, searching in tandem for a suitable candidate. It is Dust who finds one quickly and efficiently, clever girl. My senses are better than any living thing could hope for, but nothing compared to her bloodright. As the others gather around the mound of earth, I return to the van to retrieve the guest of honor, and a proper digging instrument.

It is a tried and true tactic, creating shovelheads. You just round up a bunch of juicebags, torment and torture them, do whatever it takes to drive them completely insane. The Ravnos, like our friend here, are invaluable for this task with their ability to craft illusions and shades, so they are frequently assigned to packs who utilize such tactics. Our pack does no such thing. Once they are quite thoroughly certifiable, you drain them dry and give them just enough blood to encourage the change. Then you bash them over the head with a shovel, kick them into an open grave and wait a few days for them to dig their way out, When they do, they are starving and Frenzied and will attack anything, including friends and loved ones from their former life, which just so happen to be bound and waiting for them when they emerge. Sometimes, they don’t manage to get out, in which case they have proven themselves useless for the impending siege, you leave them in the ground to rot and noting is lost.

Most Zombie-masters as we call them, the ones who create shovelheads,  have been taken in by the portrayal of gravediggers in the popular media, they have romantic notions of digging a hole by lantern-light in the wee hours with a common garden shovel. Having spent a few years as a gravedigger before my evolution, I know that there is nothing to be nostalgic about, and that the type of shovel that you always see them with on the idiot-box is meant for planting flowers, not corpses. It is a matter of efficiency, one must have a fourteen-inch spade, sharpened to a chisel-blade at the end. The entire head must be covered in oil, to prevent the lower levels of moistened soil from clinging to the steel and rendering the tool useless. The grave is measured off and ‘cut’ on the surface then the earth is removed in layers, fourteen inches at a time, four and a half layers in all. Six feet deep is another myth. It takes one man who knows what he is doing about five hours to dig a grave.

Of course, Grifter does not know what he is doing, and perhaps if he had been given a garden-shovel he might actually be making some headway, but as it is, he is inefficiently hacking at the ground, tired, scared, hungry and injured. Worthless. None of us makes any motion to help him. This is his test, his chance to prove to the rest of us that he is worthy to stand among us and that his lapses in judgement will not further weaken our ranks. As he digs, flinging dirt carelessly like a hedgehog, he pauses occasionally to look over his shoulder at the rest of us, as if he expects us to tell him that this was all a joke at his expense.

This ultimately proves to be his undoing. I can hear the crazed beast stir as he nears it, even if he cannot, the wicked grin on Dust’s face tells me that she can as well. He turns to look at us one last time, as though he wishes to say something, but if he does, it is drowned out by the brainsick screams of the Shovelhead as it bursts from its earthen womb, attaching itself to the back of Grifters head like a lamprey. A Nosferatu by the looks of it, and though it was apparently not strong enough to dig itself out, it proves to be stronger than the ignorant vagabond with the shovel. His skull finally caves in under the pressure of the beast’s jaws and he slumps to the ground, though it continues to pummel and bite at Grifter’s quickly decaying corpse, howling and screaming and drawing attention to our position. This will not do.

“Be silent.” I tell the creature. It freezes for a moment, only now becoming aware of our presence. Walking calmly towards it, I tell the thing “You have served your purpose, but unfortunately we cannot allow your” It begins screaming again, drowning out my voice “Be silent.” I say again. It lunges toward me in response, still trying to slake its thirst.  I can hear the rest of the Pack instantly shift to take the offensive, but I hold up a clenched fist, signaling them to hold their positions. I stand, waiting for the animal to close the distance, willing the blood into my hands, forming cruel talons, still it bellows “Be silent.” I say, louder but still without a hint of emotion.

When it is an arm’s length away, I force the blood to enhance my nervous system and time seems to slow down around me, the graveborn’s cries and movement’s slow to a crawl. I forcefully shove the fingers of my left hand into it’s open mouth, back into its throat, hooking them down its trachea and pulling back, removing its lower jaw and throat in one deft motion, as it lurches forward, off-balance, the claws of my other hand slash upward, passing through what is left of its neck and removing the head entirely with the follow-through. Unable to slow the momentum of my spin, though it is clearly destroyed, my leading hand rakes across the corpse’s torso as it falls behind me.

There is a faint, gurgling hiss as the last of its scream leaks out of the hole between its shoulders. “That’s better. Thank you.” I say to the heap of flesh at my back. Turning sidelong to the others, I say to them “I suppose that we should be moving along before every two-bit do-gooder in these woods makes their way to us after all that noise. What say you?”

Speaking more to himself than the others, Sawney mumbles "Well I sure as hell ain't eatin' either uh them now. They's all spoilt." Glancing around at the others, he pushes his cowboy hat to the back of his head, shoves the two bodies down into the hole and proceeds to stomp on them with his boots with extremely forceful blows until they fit. He then picks up the spade and uses the blade of it sideways like a bulldozer to heap dirt into the hole with stunning efficiency for such a small, frail-looking man.

Pulling a red rag from his pocket, he wipes down the shovel and walks it to the van, mumbling as he passes the group "Spose Ah'll git the van ready so's we kan skedattle, be nice tuh have the extra legroom in the back."

Dust, off behind her ductus will be in the perfect position to catch the dejawed, disembodied head like a soccer ball. She lets out a shrill whistle, holding the head so she can see the life flash from its eyes...

She would keep it for a while normally. But its really not even trophy worthy... it was just a shovel head. So instead she will drop it, and slowly crush whatever is left inside the skull out onto the dirt with one of her heavy boots, and leave it for the ghoul to clean up...

 Standing in an approving manner, Pathos has met the situation perfectly. Grifter was weak, the gypsy blood most likely. Inferior blood breeds inferior creatures, weak and mortal. "A servent in Caine's army knows their place, Grifter shall trouble us no further. It is regrettable that the brothers were killed, they were well bred and it will take a few generations to breed their traits back into the line" with a callousness that is mind numbing. "We must all learn from his lesson" though it gives no idea what that lesson is or what its interpretation might be.

 "I dislike having to clean a lesser cainites mess, we shall have to be thorough. Let us hope the lesser pack met their fate. I detest failure" as it turns back toward the van, climbing in the back.

 I step back toward the van, thinking about the brazen stupidity of the Rogue. Should you choose to disobey, you deserve to meet your fate. Had the shovelhead not done it, I would have.

 The code of Milan is specific, failure brings death. I will not let myself and the code down, death before dishonor. I shall be the burning brand in which to cleanse the Infidel from the land and bring low those that would devour us. We were once nothing, now we are organized, our blinders removed.

 To Pathos I say" You are our Ductis, wherever you lead us I shall follow." I follow Acid into the van, it takes its seat and I opposite it.

Dust smears a bit of coagulating blood from the shovelhead onto her ragged pants as she listens to their priest.

This is what she has been wating for. To finally get out of the woods and back into the city where her talents are much more useful...

She echoes Enochs sentiment as she gets into the van with the others.

'Our strength is yours ductus, lead us..'

I watch as they all file into the Van, noting the immediate change in the others. With the destruction of the weak-link, the Pack is strong once again. Looking down, I consider walking over to inform Sawney that he forgot something, but this would just waste more time that we do not have. I am nearer and we must be away. I quickly dig another shallow hole next to the splattered head with my talons, scoop the flattened gourd into it and cover it up. Neither of these graves will stand up to scrutiny, but there are enough others in the Vicinity that they should not be noticed immediately either.

Walking back to the van, I catch Sawney's gaze in the side-mirror and give him the signal to roll-out. This is not his first rodeo, as he would say, he knows what we need and where to find it. Acid sent him into town a few days ago to find the chamber of commerce and pick up a new-resident packet, complete with a map of the city and it's attractions. We collectively decided to focus on a remote section of the suburban sprawl where there is currently little residential activity and a great deal of development.

Sawney also managed to swap-out the license plates on the van with one of a similar make, model and color, and swiped some of those magnetic company-truck logos for something called 'Consolidated Supply Co. of Sanfield Rock' that should more than suffice as camouflage for the vehicle.