After waiting for the body to stop convulsing, the large man walked back to the kettle and filled another mug with the coffee. He savored the smell again before sipping. He drank it while watching the doorway, surveying the surrounding woods. It remained quiet. A ghoul’s erratic steps crunching on grass and twigs tended to be a dead giveaway, but this one managed to slip in carefully, though it still couldn’t mask its scent.
He kept his eyes on the tree line, still expecting more visitors, daring them to come near.
When he finished that cup of coffee, he dragged the ghoul’s body off his porch, still carrying his axe, resting over his shoulder. He could carry the body, but he’d rather not get all its messy insides all over him. He continued dragging it, with the bottom half of its head still on the body, around to the back of the cabin. The residue from the ghoul stained the grass, but the rain would wash it away. The smell also kept away nasty predators. Bears would not go near the scent of a ghoul. Scavengers they may be when desperate for food, but something about the unnatural death scent of a ghoul kept them at bay.
He dropped the axe to the ground, blade first into the dirt so the grip pointed toward the sky for easy reach, and then hurled the ghoul like a shot-put into a huge man-made hole. The hole was originally dug for a swimming pool, but the project had been abandoned. Not by him, but by the previous owners just before Rutger Bronson bought it from them years ago. He never felt the passion either to fill or finish the job.
The ghoul landed into the dirt hole on top of a pile of other ghoul corpses. Underneath the corpses was a layer of ash, covering a previous layer of ghouls. He figured one more, and he could start another bonfire. If it didn’t rain tomorrow, he might just do it anyway. The smell was getting ripe, and he could only tolerate so much of it.
After isolating himself in retirement, Rutger was not used to having strangers visiting. Fiya visited on occasion when she was in the area, and he kept track of the many faces of rotating postmen who delivered his mail. Anyone else was seen as an intruder. Normally he would act rude to them, to keep them at a distance, but other times when he knew they weren’t human, he slayed them on sight.
More ghouls just seemed to keep coming, and he grew more suspicious as another ghoul would come by. If he saw another the next day, he planned on finally getting into his Jeep and driving down to the Immortuos Venandi offices to find out just what the hell was going on. There shouldn’t be this high level of ghoul activity going on in the first place, especially with so many seeming bent on finding their way to his home. The first came as a flower-delivery man who walked the entire dirt road from the highway to his cabin, without a delivery van in sight. The flowers were plastic, a smart move from the sender so they wouldn’t rot in the ghoul’s grip. Rutger easily dispatched and buried it deep in the woods under a pile of rocks, considering it a fluke. Then, they just kept coming, increasing in numbers over the past week alone. He thought ─ hoped ─ the cause would have been under control by now; perhaps the younger generation of hunters needed some consulting.
His instincts typically hadn’t failed him before, except when it came to women: many lovers in his lifetime. Still, none lasted for any significant amount of time. One had an abortion without telling him after misreading his stoic facial expression when the topic of children came up, and he couldn’t handle being around her anymore. Sure, he believed in the decision being her choice, but he still would’ve liked to have known about it. Not that he felt he could have talked her out of it, but the betrayal of not knowing seemed to have worsened the sting.
Others came and went, but they barely registered as footnotes. And then one day, on a Southwest run, answering a distress call of a potential Ghoul Fever carrier in Texas, he found Fiya. He knew she needed to be taken care of after that mess, and he felt a void filled that he never fully realized: he really wanted to be a father. Soon, all his attention went to the poor girl.
He tugged on his axe, slung it over his shoulder, and walked back around to the front of the cabin. Before he would reach his door, he heard the grinding of rock and dirt under tires creeping up the pathway. He turned to watch and didn’t recognize the car approaching, a deep wine-red Dodge Challenger, but as soon as he could see the driver, he smiled and raised a hand to wave.
In the heart of downtown Seattle, an apartment with a view of the Puget Sound, which wasn’t cheap, was lit with the glow of a flickering television. The sun blasted fiery orange on the water, announcing it was ready to tap out for the day.
In the apartment with the TV glow jittering about like a strobe light, Paul DeMatto sat dressed in a white undershirt and tacky red-and- blue flannel pajama bottoms. A bottle of Verevolk beer hung from his fingertips with a splash of beer left. The box of Verevolk sat next to his recliner, with a single unopened bottle remaining. The light of the television washed over him as he stared at the screen with a vague expression, not too unlike many of the zombies he’d taken care of in his career.
A female voice from the TV spoke as monotone as possible. “Authorities are saying it was a drill gone horribly wrong. The fire damage was contained early this morning, and they stress there is no cause for alarm anymore for the Lake Chelan area.”
Paul snorted with a sly grin and then resumed his zombie trance.
“Some locals say ‘good riddance’ because the facility was the center of some allegedly spooky sightings. These urban legends are yet to be confirmed.” The woman on the TV almost broke from her straight face, while some giggling could be heard off-camera.
“I’ll say,” Paul added, smiling again.
“Other sources say it’s a disappointment because it was a lab working on the cure for what officials are calling Ghoul Fever, a new virus that’s been spreading fast over the last 72 hours.” After the TV finished displaying various shots of the smoking crater that Paul once called his office, the network cut back to the beautiful buxom blonde with perhaps too much makeup for Paul’s liking. He noticed she seemed to be trying hard to bring shoulder pads back into style. “It is in this reporter’s opinion that the latter is more likely to be true because it is awfully convenient this building burned … No John, I’m saying it right now ─ I don’t care ─ it is my opinion that the epidemic has gotten worse ever since someone ─ yeah, I’m saying it ─ someone torched it … I know this is live. The people have a right to know!”
After clearing his throat, Paul replied as if the news anchor could hear him. “Could be someone torched it, I guess. They had to get rid of the Ghoul Fever somehow.” He shrugged and swirled the now-flat remainder of the Verevolk beer.
The reporter continued. “According to the CDC, patients with heavy flu-like symptoms should go to their doctors as soon as possible. Incubation period has a range from minutes to 24 hours … For a bug so new, they know an awful lot already …”
“It’s not new, honey,” Paul snorted. With the recent outbreaks that couldn’t remain hidden, the Order of the Immortuos Venandi gave the CDC all the information they needed, as Paul assumed they would.
She raised an eyebrow and smirked at the camera. After a deep breath, she read from the teleprompter. “In addition to the basic flu-like symptoms of a high fever, chills, aches and pains, congestion, you also could suffer from stiff joints, numbness in the toes and/or fingertips and a coppery taste in the mouth. Sudden migraines could also be an indicator.” She stopped to simper. “Isn’t getting bitten by one of those infected the biggest giveaway? Come on, guys.” She tossed her hands in the air, frustrated.
Paul giggled to himself, a little bit drunker. “Yeah, you’d think, honey. It really is the best indicator.”
She paused, listening to someone in her earpiece, and recalibrated her monotone voice. “Authorities recommend that you steer clear of anyone you know who may have these symptoms. Avoid interacting with strangers, and if possible, stay in your homes.” She wrinkled her nose and looked at someone off-set. “Stay in your home? Isn’t that a bit excessive? People have to work. Rent’
s not going to pay itself.”
Off-camera, a stern male voice could be heard replying, “Stick to the script, please, Debra.”
Debra smiled, flashing the pearly whites at the camera, mockingly, “For more information, you can follow the web address on the screen below ... Now, how about that incident at Pike Place Market earlier today, Brad?”
The camera cut to a man with a clean-shaven, chiseled jaw that could crack walnuts, with dark blond hair so shiny that it had to be laminated. His blue eyes twinkled at the camera in front of him. “Seattle PD has the area quarantined for now, Debra: 82 dead and 34 survivors currently on close watch at King Memorial Hospital. Patient Zero has not been identified in this incident, but they are still investigating.”
Off camera, Debra asked, “By close watch, do you mean …?”
Brad turned to his co-anchor, not breaking his shit-eating grin face. “Yes, Debra, police are fully armed with assault rifles. They aren’t taking any chances if the survivors do turn out to be infected, too.” Brad restacked the pile of paper in front of him, even though the high-definition TV could pick up that they were blank. “Donations can be made to the victims at the website below.”
The camera cut to a shot of both Debra and Brad behind their desks, smiling wide as if they were auditioning for a dental commercial. “I’m doing my part, Brad.”
“Me, too, Debra. Me, too.”
The camera cut to a shot of Debra: “Up next, could eating red meat be next on the chopping block for the country-wide ban? Find out in a few minutes right back after the break.”
Paul didn’t flinch when they cut to commercials about dog food. He also didn’t notice the immense figure enter his apartment and stand behind him. The imposing figure placed a clawed hand on his shoulder, and Paul jumped, dropping the bottle.
It clanked and rolled on the hardwood floor halfway across the living room. The clawed hand held a firm grip, keeping Paul in the recliner. “How you doin’, Pauly?” a gritty voice asked.
Paul recognized the voice, and he turned to look, confirming it was Kael. His eyes had turned into a venomous green, and his canines had grown sharp. Paul knew the look wasn’t meant for welcoming hugs and whimpered, “What are you doing here?”
Kael sighed. “Skipping the foreplay? Okay, I’ll get right to it.” He squeezed hard on Paul’s shoulder, the tips of his claws on the verge of breaking skin. Paul tried his hardest not to cry at the pain, but his lips trembled anyway. Kael continued, “This will be quick if you cooperate. And I can smell if you’re lying. Who’s the girl?”
“What girl?”
Kael’s claws tightened. The first layer of skin broke, and little pinhead-sized spots of red appeared on Paul’s shirt. “Little thing, couldn’t be taller than five-and-a-half feet. Has a wardrobe similar to biker gear with a neon-pink mask and swings a sword like she’s in one of those Hobbit movies. Takes out werewolves with uncomfortable ease. I detected a hint of Cuban, or perhaps Puerto Rican, in her ─ I can’t quite pinpoint which ─ and smells like coconut. Probably her shampoo or deodorant.”
Still whimpering, but attempting to deviate the conversation, Paul replied, “Jesus Christ, your sense of smell is frightening, sometimes, you know that?”
Kael let out a grunting laugh of flattery, and then asked, “Who is she?”
Paul winced as Kael pierced another layer of flesh. The pinpoints of blood spread into blotches. “Sh-she’s on the list I gave! I swear I didn’t leave anyone off!” He tried to move his shoulder away from Kael’s grip but couldn’t budge. “Please ease up, man. It’s hard to concentrate.”
Kael ceased the reign of terror on Paul’s shoulder but kept his hand in place, ready to clasp shut like a bear-trap at an unsatisfactory answer.
“Her name’s Fiya Diaz. They have her address, but I just found out that she was out of state on a job and just got back this morning. She probably hasn’t even been home yet, so the goons probably missed her.”
Kael removed his claws from Paul’s shoulder, much to Paul’s much-desired relief. “Oh, thank God,” Paul whispered to himself.
“I’ll need to know who she knows,” Kael said as he took a tour of Paul’s apartment. Paul attempted to get out of the recliner when Kael barked, “Stay!”
Paul froze.
The apartment was a single bedroom, and by Kael’s estimation, couldn’t be more than 600 square feet. Not terribly clean, but he could smell that Paul did try. In fact, Paul was a very generous user of Simple Green. Near the bathroom, along the wall, Kael spotted a stack of toilet paper in a cube that would’ve come up to his waist. There could be near 200 rolls by his estimation. Next to it were stacks of bottled water.
He turned away and saw a framed classic centerfold picture of Anna Nicole Smith hanging on a wall near a window so no one could look in and complain about a naked woman being visible from the street. Never mind that his apartment was six floors up, away from the casual pedestrian looking in. Kael spotted Anna’s autograph in the lower corner, written in silver ink, and nodded in appreciation.
Then Kael wondered if Violess transferred the money to Paul yet because he himself certainly wouldn’t be dwelling here with that kind of money. Personally, if he lived in an overpriced mediocre apartment like this, he’d have left town by now. The view wasn’t that nice.
“Did you want a beer?” Paul asked nervously, clutching his swelling shoulder. He was sure there would be a quarter-sized bruise for each claw mark by morning, complete with a dried blood-dot center.
Kael helped himself to Paul’s fridge, and after being disappointed, he shut it. Nothing but bologna and condiments. “Who does the girl know? Family. Friends. Lovers.”
“Why’s she so important?” Paul twisted in his chair to keep Kael in view.
“She’s already gotten in the way. She helped two witnesses get away. Two sheep from the herd. I’m assigned to get rid of her and retrieve the lost part of the flock.” Kael’s boots pounded the floor like a bass drum, slow and steady, as he moved back towards Paul. Paul’s heartbeat throttled at least four times its normal rate. Then Kael insisted, “Alive.” His eyes appeared to flicker as he blinked. Kael lifted Paul from his seat, like he weighed nothing, and brought him to eye-level with one arm.
At that moment, Paul realized he had never been that close to an alpha werewolf before. He could smell Kael’s hot breath on him. A musky mix of whiskey, steak, and possibly seasoning salt. At least, he hoped it was steak. Oh, God, how he hoped it was steak. Then it dawned on him that he could be the next seasoned steak, and he should start spilling information before it got worse. “Oh! Right. Her acquaintances and stuff. Gotcha. I don’t know much about friends or lovers, but she does have a mentor, another hunter, Rutger … Rutger Bronson. He’s retired.”
Kael’s eyes narrowed. “Rutger Bronson is still alive?” he growled. Kael detected a hint of urine: Paul had let a few drops squeeze out. “He must be almost 70 by now. These hunters usually don’t live this long.”
“I don’t know for sure, but he’s been retired for a while now. Living up north. His location was on the list, too, so for all we know, he may be dead if they got to him.”
“Hmmm,” Kael grunted as his claws pushed forward into deadly curved daggers. “Impressive, I didn’t think any of you actually did retire; just kept going until one of us winds up putting you in the ground. We’ll have to check that out. For now, I’m not taking any chances.”
Paul smiled nervously while Kael still had him off the ground. “That’s good! Real good! Especially with what she had planned and all, don’t wanna leave any stone unturned. Dot every i and cross every t. Say, you want a beer? It’s my last —“
Before Paul could finish his sentence, Kael pried his middle and index claws into Paul’s eye sockets, popping his eyeballs like ripe grapes. Paul screamed like he just came out of the womb, and a doctor spanked him, his voice spiraling higher with each desperate huff of air. Kael didn’t flinch as Paul flailed about, blood flooding down his
face, into his mouth, gargling his screams. Kael stirred the sockets until his claws scratched the back of Paul’s skull.
Soon, Paul’s body came to a stop, dangling in Kael’s grip. Kael watched the blood drip and pool onto a fake Persian rug.
Then he looked over his shoulder at the front door, which he had left wide open. No one was there, not that there was anything anyone could do about him if they saw anything. Kael would just hunt them down, too, before they could reach their phones. No, Kael knew things were going to go mad very soon; the masses will be succumbing to the Ghoul Fever, and for what? A distraction. A damn good distraction. The media will be pointing their cameras at the Seattle area eating itself, while on the other side of the mountains, an even bigger threat would rise, unimpeded. Kael really wanted to see this happen now.
He turned his attention back to Paul, and with a thin smile, pulled his claws out of his head, dropping Paul’s limp body to the floor like a sock puppet.
With the front door still wide open, Kael took the time to wash his hands in the kitchen sink. Blood was tasty and all, but he didn’t like the smell of Paul’s. He made sure he got every bit of red out of the wrinkles in his knuckles. His hands returned to their human shape once they were clean.
As he was ready to leave, he glanced at the Anna Nicole Smith picture and winked. He took it off the wall, tucking the frame under his arm. Then he noticed a box of Verevolk Beer near Paul’s chair with the single bottle left. He grinned, grabbed it, and walked out the front door. “Don’t mind if I do.”
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