Urban Witchcasters

Attack on Frogs

As he raced down the hall, Miss Violet's screams echoing behind him, he knew there wasn't much time to waste.

It was fine if Redrick didn't understand—it was fine if no-one understood—as long as he could keep them safe and kill those spawns of Satan all in one swoop, he didn't care what happened.

He ran down the hall, past the janitor, and out the front door, bolting towards the school fence, scaling it in two breaths.

Landing on his feet on the outside, he ignored the yells of the security guard and bolted in the direction of the frog's scent.

Its trail was faint now, barely a thread, and each step he sprinted drew the scent thinner and thinner. He was losing its track. But he didn't panic.

Normally, he'd have given up any and all hope on locating the thing, given all the time wasted convincing Redrick.

But this was a Loveland frog.

A creature whose behaviour he knew all too well.

They nested in alleyways—small, tight, rigid spaces where they couldn't be easily spotted (the tighter the better). And they were only a handful of alleyways close to his school.

They didn't have much stamina either. At least not more than an athletic human. It was most likely due to their small size, but that didn't really matter. Because whether or not Marcus was on the inevitable path to flunking, he never skipped leg day.

He took a shortcut to one of the closest alleyways, running into oncoming traffic and ignoring the angry screams of the drivers who barely hit their brakes.

Sliding off their bonnets, he took a sharp left and headed straight into an alleyway. A green blur leapt onto a dumpster and out the other end.

He took one step when pain slammed into him like a speeding truck.

“Shit!“

Marcus keeled over, clutching his stomach with both hands as he grinded his teeth. Every part of him wanted to scream. It felt like needles stabbed him all over his body. But nothing was compared to the pain he felt in his stomach.

He grinded his teeth more, trying to swallow the pain and keep moving. It felt like something was clawing against the walls of his stomach; like it was trapped and trying to escape.

The agonizing pain continued for two more seconds and then faded.

That was the first wave. He had roughly four hours before the second wave would hit. After that they'd become more and more frequent until he'd be in constant pain.

He needed to eat. It's scent was still there.

Picking himself up, Marcus followed right behind it, dashing onto the streets, not caring about any oncoming traffic. He didn't hear any angry screams this time.

There was only one alleyway close to the one they'd just left. He took a shortcut, turning two more rights and running straight into another alleyway.

There was no sight of the frog… yet. It was definitely headed here; his shortcut simply gave him a headstart. He had fifteen seconds.

Running to the wall at the end, he threw his bag open, pulled out leather gloves and hiking boots, and put them on.

Next he took out barbed wire and turned to a well-placed pile of trash, tossing away the empty cans and tote bags that covered the emergency weapon he kept in every alleyway his budget would allow him. A baseball bat.

With five seconds left before the frog caught up to him, he began wrapping the baseball bat with the barbed wire—walking dead style.

He could see the slimy bastard heading straight for him. He wrapped the wire faster.

The frog leaped into the alleyway. It was close, but not as close as Marcus wanted. One more leap was all it needed to close the superficial gap between them.

He finished wrapping the barbed wire; Lucile was all set. And right in time too. The creature took one massive leap, landing right in front of Marcus.

The smell of its sewer-laced oily skin invaded his lungs. Its bulbous green eyes swung in different directions as it slowly tilted its head. Marcus kept his breath steady.

Holding his bat, he backed up slowly, observing the creature. Sure, he wanted to murder its guts, but it was still a wild man-eating animal nonetheless. Any surprises, mistakes, or accidents he couldn't avoid could be the difference between victory, injury, and death.

The slimy creature stared straight at Marcus, like a predator hunting its prey. As close as it was, standing on its two hind legs, it reminded him of just how putrid this beast was.

Its clawed, stout forelimbs rested on either side, barely half the length of human arms; its greasy, grotesque skin held stains of all kinds. Equally damp, greasy hair that ran from the top of its head and down it's back like a horse's mane. Those dark, dark eyes reflected Marcus's hatred back at him.

Just looking at it, he could hear the microbes wriggling in the putrid swill that ran down its skin.

It was disgusting.

Despite the foul stench, he didn't gag. Any opening he showed now would mean serious injury or death. Not even the trash around him or the piss and feces smothered on the walls reeked as bad as the four-foot frog in front of him.

He took more steps backward, gauging the distance between them. Striking the creature wasn't going to be easy, even with over seven years of monster-hunting experience. But he was prepared. Tightening his grip around the wooden, slightly uneven texture of the bat's handle, he backed up even slower.

The frog hadn't moved since closing the distance between them. It simply watched him, nearly identical to how he watched it—like they were in a staring contest.

“Just a little more,” Marcus thought as the sound of his beating heart grew louder and faster.

He took one more step back and felt his back press against the wall. This was the most risky part of this entire plan.

The Loveland frog hunted by one primary and predictable method: waiting for their prey to look away and then leaping straight at them with those blade-like claws.

Marcus swallowed; a bead of sweat running down his face and piling at his chin. His heart beat faster. He broke the deadlock for a second, looking away and ducking immediately.

A thud rebounded above him as the frog crashed into the wall above him.

It was all a blur—he didn't even see it swing its claw—yet he felt a stinging pain in his ear.

“No time” he thought as he tumbled to the side, leaving the frog to fall to the ground. Without looking back, he picked himself up and began sprinting out the alleyway.

Whatever god made them didn't give them the long retractable tongue normal frogs had. Which meant hunting with their claws was the only way to kill and eat their unfortunate diet of God's greatest creation.

Accounting for its recovery time, since it so graciously slammed its head into a concrete wall, by his unreliable calculations—and reliable instincts—the frog should be launching at him a second time, right about…

“Now!“ Marcus turned and swung as hard as he could without looking. The front of the bat crashed into the frog's skull with an irritating squelch; the barbed wire dug into its flesh; keeping its swung claw shy of Marcus's throat.

He dug a back heel to keep himself from falling, but the weight of the creature—or rather, the force it carried—proved more than Marcus was prepared for. The two fell to the ground, the frog landing on top of him. This was bad.

The barbed wire was still firmly dug into its skull; its claws dangerously close to Marcus's sides.

He needed to be careful, but he wanted to hurt the frog as much as possible. He twisted the bat, not minding its bacteria-covered skin rubbing against his body.

The creature screeched as it kicked its hind legs, trying to leap away, but striking him in his midsection instead.

All the breath left his lungs as he skid across the concrete. His grip on the bat remained, but loosened.

It felt like a truck just slammed into him—those slippery legs hit harder than they led on. Excruciating pain rose inside him as his senses dulled for a moment. He didn't need a doctor to know he'd broken a rib or three.

Marcus swallowed the blood in his mouth and gritted his teeth. That vain attempt at escape managed to get the bat out of the creature's skull. The frog was off of him, but if he couldn't get up in a few seconds, he'd be dead by sundown—probably, depending on if one athletic teen was below its daily calorie requirements.

He groggily got up, refusing to let go of the barbed bat. His eyes immediately began searching for the creature.

This wasn't over.

The moment he laid eyes on it, it was already flying at him.