by C M Muller
As Gary shambled through the house he noticed that his vision was pretty good, adjusting to the dimness with crisp swiftness.
The bleeding had stopped, a smear of dark, resin-like liquid crusted over the wound; but, for the moment, Gary could not allow himself to focus on the teeth marks, what they meant. Human teeth. He was worried about infection. Unbidden, the word further spasmed through his mind. Better be worried about further infection, my friend.
Earlier, back at the school, he’d woken disoriented, sprawled on the asphalt. The first wave of flies had mingled around Gamble, and Gary batted them away. He ripped open several garbage bags, spreading out a piecemeal tarp in the trunk, gently lowering the dog into the space. With his hand lifted to the trunk’s lid, Gary paused for a moment, reverentially considering the animal. No matter what he would tell Courtney, this physical thing that had linked them was now gone.
Now, he teetered toward the bathroom, taking a swipe at the light and instantly regretting it. The figure reflected in the bathroom mirror was a double-exposed version of Gary Mountjoy—tall, lean, but the exterior had frayed. Gaunt—his skin was ashen, if not downright gray, and was pulled tightly over his eye sockets, cheekbones. Facial stubble had grown to several-days-worth, and his damp bangs hung in a coarse curtain over his brow.
His eyes skittered to his forearm, but before he could remove the knotted portion of t-shirt, he wondered at the coarse, whisker-thick hairs coating his muscle-corded forearms. He brought his dark-nailed fingers up and unwound the piece of blood-crusted fabric. That was when Gary noticed his fingernails, rimmed with dark tints, as if stained with mulberry juice. And they’d elongated as well, converging to sharp points.
The bite marks were livid, each puncture haloed by a dark network of tendril-like bruises; and though the punctures had ceased bleeding, the dots where his skin had been broken looked to now be surfaced by a thin layer of tissue, as if the wound itself had sunken a few centimeters deeper into his arm. A hematoma tattoo. Gary barked a laugh aloud, his lips drawing back—again he caught sight of himself in the mirror: teeth: his upper and lower canines had lengthened, like slender tusks, curving toward each other.
Gary reached over and swiped off the light, pitching back into the hallway in a half-crouch.
Gamble. He had to do something. Priorities, pal. A good suburban soldier had priorities.
He grabbed an old comforter from the closet, opened the garage door and backed the car in.
He had the decency to wait for the sun to disappear.
Burying the dog was a series of stuttery, strobe-light stills. In the woods out back, Gary eventually discarded the shovel, digging Gamble’s grave with long-nailed hands. The growls grew louder as the pit got deeper.
Back in the house, he was coated in a fine film of dirt. He felt as though his fever was beginning to abate, but the pockets of ache remained, particularly along his sternum and spine.
His ears popped, as if from a pressure change, just before he felt another shift as something popped along his jawline. Breathing heavy, Gary clenched his teeth and found they didn’t line up quite right.
He tried to rise to full height and failed, discovering that remaining hunkered over slightly elicited less postural pain.
Keys. Gary staggered into the garage, fell into the driver’s seat and jammed the car keys into the ignition with a jittery-clawed hand.
Of course, during the months of obsessive questioning—of both his wife’s infidelity and his own self-worth—Gary had discovered where Ryan Puckett lived, had even driven by the house once or twice, juxtaposing his life with that of the guy compromising his wife, a self-flagellating exercise which did everything to confirm the young man’s vulgar display of income.
Gary would just go over and talk to this fellow. This guy had fucked Gary’s wife, apparently. Having a civil, man-to-man discussion was not out of the question. After all, Gary wasn’t a total animal.
He parked the car down the street from Ryan Puckett’s house.
He had no plan, didn’t even begin thinking about what he’d do until he was out of the car and shuffling up the sidewalk. A gray Lexus sat in the driveway, its engine still ticking as it settled from some recent outing.
Gary scanned the front of the house—the meticulously manicured lawn, fussy landscaping, precious accent lighting warming the unblemished structure. Gary had a flash of regret, wishing that when he’d been in college studying to be a common, parochial teacher, he would have known he’d never be able to afford such an opulent property. Which also reminded him that he would certainly be calling in sick again tomorrow.
Mustering what dignity he could—his filthy flannel shirt smudged with soil—Gary skulked up the driveway. Stepping into the light of the front porch threw Gary’s slouched shadow against white brick—the silhouette resembled something like an upright hyena…the sharp nails flexing, as if each were competing for his attention.
Through cloudy glass, light shone in a distant room. Thoughts fluttered into his mind like agitated bats: Courtney’s in there—she’s lied about going to visit her family—her car’s in the garage—they’re in there right now—in the bedroom—in the dark—in her…
A gray, hairy, knob-knuckled hand extended toward the doorbell, a black claw touching the amber button.
A sing-songy tune sounded from within, the cheerful melody triggering a wave of pain, this one coursing across his ribs, sending him reeling. With a pain-lashed squint, Gary sneered and threw his shoulder against the door, producing a brilliant crack, a noise he enjoyed. This time—in her—heaving heavily, Gary backed up a few paces before throwing his entire weight into the act: hinges splinter-ripped away from the frame, the force of his momentum causing him to follow through, spilling onto the entryway’s laminate floor.
A scream was just beginning to die away, and Gary glimpsed a figure—female—retreating toward the inner light of the house. His molars fused, he clawed at the hardwood and broken glass as he hunkered down and pursued.
He made one rushing leap, stretching out through midair, and took a swipe at her, missing her leg by an inch before landing on his side. Gary scrambled to his feet, rounding the corner of the great room at the same moment that Ryan Puckett—mouth ajar, eyes bugged, chest hitching—stopped short by the arm of the couch.
A very large TV was playing some evening game show. Gary could smell the savory scents of dinner, synthetic air freshener—the “normal” aromas accented just how bad he smelled: fever-soured, mangy, dense. He didn’t belong here, which was even more reason for him to stay.
Still stooped, Gary managed to raise up a bit, feeling cords and connective tissues yawn, joints pop. Felt good. He flexed and wriggled his claw-bayonetted fingers, showed Puckett a double row of deadly teeth and took a step toward.
Puckett’s mouth was working to say something, but all he could manage was a sort of preface to a question—“Whu…whua…wha…”
He tried to make an evasive move but collided with the end table, a lamp pitched over, light and shadows swirling as it hit the floor.
Gary clutched Puckett by the nape of the neck, nails snagging on Puckett’s dress shirt, and shoved him over the couch. Gary rounded the side of the couch and loomed over Puckett, who now, with an outstretched hand, was working on a word: Guh-Guh. Gary raised a claw and took a swipe at the raised hand, the long nails connecting with flesh, leaving a four-lined laceration along the man’s hand. The financial advisor cried out.
Gary didn’t hesitate—his claw-splayed hand shot down toward Puckett’s chest, grounding him into the thick carpet while the other hand rose over his head in a contracting, nail-hooked fist, and prepared to bring it down somewhere along his face to mar the—somehow even in terror—magazine-handsome features.
Only then did it occur to him that the screaming had continued this entire time. Over on the far side of the room next to the fireplace. Gary spared a glance and paused.
He saw the woman’s face first, thin fingers draw
n over her open mouth as she whimpered in short bursts. A blonde, willowy, faked-tanned thing. Not Courtney.
On some rational plane, Gary registered that Courtney had mentioned this during one of his domestic inquisitions—Puckett had a wife; it’s just that Gary never devoted much care to the detail. But now, a rabid-ruthless thought emerged—How would you like it if it happened to your wife, Puckett? Fair’s fair, friend…
Kids. Two of them. A boy and a girl. Both huddled at the waist of their shrieking mother, who clearly intended to place her body in between the children and the hyena-shaped thing in the living room.
The little girl’s face was slicked with tears. The boy’s expression was nearly impassive—something idling in the gears of terror, anger, and awe. The game show continued its inane banter as a soundtrack to the wife’s shriektrack.
There were a pair of patio doors on the opposite side of the room. The glass there—Gary, with the lamplight distorting the shadow angles in the room, caught sight of his reflection. His upper body had taken on a hunched slope, his arms, which terminated in those black talons, appeared too long for his body. The angles of his face, particularly his nose and jaw, were out of proportion. His gray skin was barely visible under patches of excessive hair.
Gary shivered, his lemon-formaldehyde eyes skimming the room—the abrupt, preparatory movement caused the room to go quiet, the whimpering and crying ceasing for a moment. All those glittering, helpless eyes were set on the tall thing in the center of the room. From within his aching ribcage, Gary produced a guttural noise that slowly climbed to a long, grating growl. Gary raised his face and let loose a wall-quaking scream.
He stopped and looked down at Puckett, who had been an inch away, his bleeding hand still extended as a pathetic sort of defense. The woman had pulled the kids in tighter behind her, almost sitting on them now. Gary’s upper lip twitched back from his sharp teeth, as he reached down and grasped the overturned tablelamp, flinging it across the room and into the massive television—a thousand sparklers ignited and faded, the room dimmed to darkness.
Gary’s chest rose and fell in furious bursts as he twisted and lumbered out of the family room, out of the home. He left them, crying together in the dark.
The car was nearly impossible to drive. Not because Gary was incapable—he still felt as though most, most, of his faculty remained intact—but because his body wasn’t fitting right, his knees awkwardly raised on either side of the steering wheel…his curved spine—which continued to give the occasional achy pop—felt uncomfortable against the seat. He dismissed the seatbelt, entertaining himself with the notion that it was no better than a leash. Human leash, he mused. Leash. Collar. ID badge. The transient standing in the window, standing there holding the dog collar with a lunatic triumph, the silver disc of the ID badge catching some of the sunlight.
Gary swerved a bit as a nagging revelation gained clarity.
In his mind, he summoned the scene from earlier—the man standing at the window with the dog collar raised; but now his imagination tightened in on the ID badge itself, the silver disc containing the engraving of Gary’s phone number…their home address. Courtney.
There was still a portion of Gary that recognized what was going on. He was sick, an illness incrementally braising his brain. When he tried to articulate a cogent narrative for what had happened and what he needed to do, his left-brain impulses folded over themselves, replaced by a smoldering sensation that everything was being transformed into a sort of fuel. His ribcage connected to his spinal cord like piston headers feeding some deep, growling combustion.
No matter what, there was no returning from tonight. Puckett had, of course, recognized him. He could drive until he ran out of gas—he’d been driving for a while as it was, and he was now back on narrow, country roads—but then what? The flickering portion of his rational mind followed that the deterioration would continue.
Maybe she was telling the truth. Maybe it was a mistake—a one-time thing with Puckett. Maybe she was sorry. Maybe.
Thinking about the two of them together again conjured a new image: of mauling them, of tearing them down to puzzle-size pieces.
A violent surge of pain swept through him, his body contorted and he lost control of the car, which swerved once before careening to the left, carving two deep furrows in the soil before canting into a deep ditch and jouncing up, colliding with an anemic tree.
With steam hissing from the hood, Gary waited for the pain to die down. He should have worn a seatbelt. Again, a yipping, jackal laughter.
But when that settled, Gary was still left with one of the last, cogent thoughts—Courtney. If the feral man has the ID badge, he could find us. Gary automatically corrected himself. He could find her.
Gary sneered and lashed out, kicking at the glass of the passenger-side window which shattered. Gary crawled out of the car, his flannel shirt catching on some of the broken glass and shredding the material. Gary clawed at it, ripping the shirt away from his deformed—newformed—body.
He came down on all fours and began loping across field-lined countryside. Nashton was only a few miles away.
Gary used his sprinting momentum to crash through the front door of the house—the decrepit panel exploding in a burst of tinder splinters.
The staircase corridor was up ahead. He could smell him up there. Gary rounded the corner, placing his long forearms on the risers. The feral was standing up at the top, a black shape etched in deeper darkness. The figure emitted a warning sort of mewl, but Gary was already pounding up the stairs.
He burst through the threshold, colliding with the feral, the two spilling into the hallway. Gary got his claws up under the man’s armpits and thrust him against the wall, plaster cracking behind the feral, who was snarling, taking swipes with his own claws.
Gary shifted, flinging the man to the floor, his body skidding into an open area between the rooms. It took him a moment, but the feral got to a crouching, defensive position. Gary was slung low, his back curved high; as he rose with his forelimbs spread, the feral man dodged, simultaneously slashing at Gary’s midsection. Gary yowled, his claws going to the searing laceration beneath his ribs.
Instead of following up, the feral attempted to make a retreat, scrambling for the hallway and the stairwell. But Gary pivoted, leaping, smashing down against him, squashing his body to the floor. Something jingled in the feral’s back pocket. Tamping down his squirming body with one claw-splayed hand, Gary picked at the back pocket of the filthy jeans, withdrawing Gamble’s red collar, the silver disc of the ID tag.
The feral man was trying to twist around—when he tried speaking his voice was a husky rasp: “Hunters,” said the feral, “hunters…”
Gary thought there might be a fraternal sort of plea in his tone, the consideration followed by a surge of fury as Gary opened his mouth and brought his face down to the nape of the feral’s neck, his long canines piercing flesh and muscle. A high-pitched yelp tore out of the feral man. Jaw still set, Gary pressed down and pulled his face away, ripping a belt of trapezium tissue with him. Gary spit it out, sneered, and went to work again.
Some time later, Gary staggered to the broken, second-floor window, clutching the dog collar in his gore-streaked claw.
The window gave directly on to a wide portion of roof which looked over the scrub-covered gully and the railroad tracks. Gary, his side still searing from the wound, gingerly gripped the sill and crawled out onto the shingled overhang.
He found a comfortable spot with his back against the siding. Light from the moon, which came in patches, occasionally touching the tangled-lattice treetops.
When he’d caught his breath he looked down at the object in his blood-glistening hand. The collar and ID badge. Gary rubbed the silver disc with what used to be his thumb. Gamble’s name. His address. Their address. Relief—like black water stilling in a deep well—settled in him. Relief—as he imagined the feral inspired to track him down, to search him out and find the house…to find C
ourtney—braided itself with regret, for not having done more…as a husband, as a teacher.
Gary clutched the leash and tag, easing the back of his vulpine head against the house.
Time glided sideways with the phantom-cowled clouds. He shot up suddenly, fully conscious, ears perked to the eerie echo of the train whistle. He scanned the horizon. In the distance, a single light—like a phantom lantern gliding through knotted vines—stuttered behind the stands of trees lining the gullied tracks.
His yellow eyes traced the tracks north, those lines stitching through stretches of flat farmland in northern Indiana, cutting through affluent suburbs before terminating in an industrial region just outside Chicago. She was up there with her family. Maybe Courtney was really sincere about the things she’d said—about the desire to make things right. Gary still thought he should have taken a bite out of Puckett.
He looked down at the yard, his yellow eyes gauging the distance between the house and the tracks. He stood as best he could in his newly accustomed hyena posture and started huffing in both anticipation and an aching call to mobilization.
Staggering at first he began trotting across the flimsy roof, gaining momentum. He growled, baring sharp teeth as he reached the edge and sprang, arcing over the yard, descending toward the gully-shouldered tracks.
As he fell Gary caught a glimpse of the moon, unobscured now as the coal-smoke clouds had drifted away. He kept his animal eyes trained on it—sneering at that bone-colored disc even as he hit the tracks, his brindle-furred body collapsing in a heap, the train’s whistle banshee blaring, the locomotive’s quaking light rushing on, eclipsing the moon.
Tooth, Tongue, and Claw
Damien Angelica Walters
Once upon a time there was a monster. This is how they tell you the story starts. This is a lie.