"Get in, folks."
They rode into town in silence, bouncing along as the road got rougher. Case looked around. The truck cab was filled with Styrofoam cups, dirty rags, paperback books and old magazines on weightlifting. Kelly waved her hand and almost sneezed from the dust. A few minutes later, Luke pulled up in front of a weathered building with one large outside light. The sign said SALT LICK MOTEL.
"You get yourself a room here, folks. My garage is right down the road."
"How will we reach you?"
"I'll look the car over and call your rental agency tomorrow, see what they want to do. Shouldn't take long, I've dealt with them a time or two before."
"Okay, Luke. Golly, thanks a bunch." Case got out, grabbed their suitcases and helped Kelly step down out of the raised cab. He slammed the door and forced another bright, slow-witted smile. Luke drove away.
"That act," Kelly whispered, "is really beginning to wear thin."
Case acted hurt. "I thought you'd think it was sexy."
She looked up and away without smiling. He'd made her uncomfortable. Case felt ashamed for having made the joke, although he wasn't sure why. Kelly waited for him to pick up the suitcases and lead the way. Case took them up the steps, painfully aware that the task required far more effort from him than it had for Luke. He went inside, dropped the cases with relief and tapped on the bell.
A young woman with purple hair and body piercings emerged from the back room. She wore jeans and a tank top, despite the night air. "Evening, folks," she said, pleasantly. "My name is Jennifer. Can I help you?"
"Our car broke down," Case said. "So, I guess we need a room."
11
Near Redman, Utah
August 14th, 1912
The hunter crouches low in the sage, face streaming sweat, breath fetid from churning stomach acid. He is literally starving. He watches as the humans talk and laugh and marvels at their endless foolishness. He thinks of them as meat…
The barn raising is over, and they have been eating and visiting for hours now. Some of the children have already fallen asleep. The hunter almost took one baby from its mother, but she changed position on her blanket just in time. He then considered taking them both, but a man with a rifle appeared in the doorway and called for the woman to come inside.
One of the meat will start the Model-T car soon. The hunter does not like that noise or the nostril-scorching stink of gasoline. He wrinkles his long nose and flattens himself into the brush with a tiny whine. His tail thumps and swishes and a long string of drool slides between two sharp teeth.
He is very, very hungry.
His sensitive ears find the musical sounds and rhythmic thumping of booted feet disturbing. Even without the change, the hunter does not enjoy or appreciate loud music, regardless of his form. He shifts position in the shallow sand. A small gust of wind lifts a clump of dried sage and rolls it down the rocky slope, leaving his hind legs exposed. Resisting the urge to move too rapidly and attract attention, the hunter merely edges his hindquarters back down the slope until they are again hidden from view.
"Cora Lee, you out here?"
A meat in overalls and a straw cowboy hat walks out onto the porch. He holds a brown jug in one hand, stands swaying slightly in the breeze. The hunter can smell the alcohol on his breath; can sniff the sweaty body odor from forty feet away and upwind. That sense of smell is a marvel, and the human in him treasures it. Although his brainpower has dimmed somewhat, making him more intelligent than the average animal yet not as smart as a man, the hunter knows this meat is inebriated and also what that means. His reflexes will be slower than usual, his vision blurred.
The hunter whines low, the sound almost imperceptible, and edges down the sand. He lopes down the long gulley to a spot his instincts tell him is precisely opposite the meat and considerably closer, then flattens and wiggles his way back to the line of dried brush.
The human scratches his crotch and belches, then sits down on the porch to drink from the jug. He looks up at the sky as if enjoying the view. The hunter can see and feel and sense the pulse of hot, sticky blood in that throat and his stomach rumbles. He gathers his hind legs and braces himself to charge. He knows he can cross the distance before the meat can react, sever the carotid artery and drag the meat back into hiding before those inside will have had time to think.
He prepares to spring.
The gulley floods with light and sound. The hunter freezes in place, yellowish eyes roaming the porch. Another man steps outside. He is clearly looking for the first. They say something loud and rude in their awkward language. The prey struggles to his feet, leans against the wood-slatted cabin walls and allows the other human to lead him back inside, into the party.
The hunter snarls in frustration. He considers drifting further south to try to pick off some sheep from the next ranch. He has already discovered how to burrow his way under the protective barriers and the meat there is likely to either be asleep or attending this gathering. But his mouth is filled with the imagined flavor of human blood, human flesh. Unlike others of his kind, the hunter has always found it difficult to make do with animals as food. The hunt is less rewarding and the kill less tasty.
Still, the sheep will be quick and easy.
There would be more time to mate.
Conflicting urges confuse him. His ears twitch as he listens for others of his kind, others out and about on the hunt. To his remarkable hearing, the hissing wind is loud as a waterfall; the gentle HOO of an owl a foghorn. He listens. Any sudden silence in an area of the neighboring farmland generally indicates the presence of one of his kind. The creatures of the night grow mute with terror when the Man-Wolf is about.
Nearly a mile to the west, he hears such a silence…he waits patiently in the scrunched brush and the loose sand, listening to that quietus—and then comes the echo of some pack mules, braying in terror. Their death screams are the only music he enjoys. The screeching, coughing noise is entirely too faint for human ears to notice. One of the farmers will return home to a scene of complete carnage.
If the hunter could smile, he would.
He sniffs the air again. Someone has come outside. The hunter whimpers. He slithers forward, disturbing a tiny amount of sand. The man leans against the porch railing and the hunter hears the scratch of a zipper opening, water splattering the ground. The stench of urine wrinkles his nostrils. The zipper, footsteps; the door opening, noise increasing, the door closing with a BANG and more relative silence.
He waits, patiently. The party winds down and groups of meat exit the building. They mount their horses—some of whom are skittish because they sense the presence of the Man-Wolf—and climb into their buckboards to be off; the humans who drove up in the loud, smelly Model T car—a man, woman and child—have not yet emerged. The hunter has decided to pursue them, despite his natural aversion to the noise and stench of the automobile. His instincts tell him that the car will not smell him or alert the meat to his whereabouts. The horses might.
The door…
"I shall see you in church come Sunday?"
The male meat steps out onto the porch. He is a tall, skinny man dressed entirely in black except for a white dress shirt and a red string tie. Unlike his lower brethren the Man-Wolf can see colors, not just black and white. His night vision is exceptional, although the colors tend to wash out in poor light.
"Now, Jonathan, do not nag." The female. The hunter sniffs her perfume, her sweat and the odor of her genitalia. His tail twitches. She moves out onto the wooden porch, her heavy shoes like drum beats to his ears. "Come, Samantha!"
"In a moment, Mother!"
"Now, please!"
The child is still inside, playing with other children, reluctant to leave. The adults continue conversing. The door is partway open. The hunter can see into the building; see the five children playing.
"Sam!"
An exasperated, dramatic sigh. "Coming."
The little girl; lace and pinafore, blonde h
air in braids. She comes out onto the porch and dances in a circle. Her scent is intoxicating.
In a flash, the hunter has focused everything on the child. None of the adults are armed. The hunter slides a bit to the right and gathers himself. He is seriously considering running down the slope to capture the child in his jaws, then escaping across the dunes and into the low foothills. He can rip the adults to pieces first, of course—but there are others still inside the building, and some may be armed. The hunter knows his limitations. Bullets do hurt and he can be killed, although his dead body would immediately revert to human form.
The little girl begins to whine. "If we are not leaving Mother, can I please go back in and play with my friends? Please?"
The male, sonorous voice. "We are leaving, child. Take my hand."
"Good night Reverend. We thank you."
"Good night."
The child runs down the steps and a few feet into the dusty yard. The adults have walked ahead of her, holding hands. The moment is perfect. The hunter dispels trapped air and prepares…
…and the little girl runs back up the steps just as the adults turn to look for her. She wedges her tasty little body between them and the family becomes a tight-knit group. The child is protected by the two adults. The hunter grunts in frustration. They step down into the dark. The hunter trots along the slope and peeks his head around a pile of rocks. He is so hungry, so frustrated at this point that he has decided to kill all three and take the child for food.
"Good night, Reverend!"
Another human, a smallish and balding man in work clothes. Killing two adults in relative silence will be difficult; three adults impossible. Besides, although the meat is small in stature he carries a long shotgun over the crook of his arm. The hunter whines and his tail thwacks the ground.
The small man mounts the last of the horses and kicks her flanks. She makes a few half-hearted attempts to obey orders and then whinnies and hops sideways, yanking at the bit.
She smells him. She knows the Man-Wolf is in hiding.
The meat kicks her again. The mare trembles and coughs her anxiety. The man, puzzled, stands up in the stirrups and looks around. His eyes will see nothing but the lunar landscape that is the high desert; rocks and shadows and sage. He sits down again and pats her neck.
"Something out there, huh girl? What is it, a snake? Okay, okay…you can take us home, then."
He relaxes the reigns and gives her freedom to choose. The mare jumps forward and carries him north, making a wide half-circle away from the predator's hiding place. The Man-Wolf snarls silently, almost as if he is amused.
The male meat cranks the Model T. Nothing. He cranks again and again. The engine is cold. He takes off his jacket and hands it to his wife. His back is to the hunter, who again considers a short charge; the ripping of the throat and then the woman. He knows he can be gone with the child within seconds.
WRRRRROOOOOM!
The engine catches and fires. The beast flinches, in spite of himself. The noise is unnatural and the odor of sparked gasoline offensive. His body fills with adrenaline and he instantly converts that into rage, far more efficiently than any other creature could manage. He stands up on all four legs, his massive chest heaving from excitement, and waits until the Model T starts bumping down the road. He watches the other human go back into the building and shut the door and then he lopes down the gulley, beside the man-made road, following the family as it drives home.
The predator moves faster, trying to stay a bit ahead of the noxious exhaust fumes. This increases the possibility he will be seen, but the odor annoys him. His long tongue lolls from the right side of his mouth, cradled on mighty fangs. He runs like a man yet has nearly the speed of a wolf. Others of his kind run on four paws alone.
The beast paces the car easily. He can run for hours. He would prefer to be with a pack, and to overwhelm all three humans simultaneously, but elders of The Clan know the risks involved. The leadership has instructed him to hunt alone. Scenes of mass carnage would bring a mass response; the Army with machine guns and more vehicles. To survive, The Clan must adapt.
After nearly thirty minutes the Model T Ford turns off the main road, such as it is, and thumps and bumps up the drive toward the family's two-room dwelling. The hunter slides downwind and trails the vehicle by slinking along behind a long row of vegetables and into a flowerbed near the house. The vehicle slows. Oddly the man turns the ignition off first, then allows the car to come to a stop.
The sudden quiet is delightful. The hunter praises Ohenan in his mind.
The man jumps down from the car and reaches out for the little girl. She has fallen asleep. The mother holds a finger to her lips. The man takes the child into his arms. He is going to carry her inside. The woman exits the other side of the vehicle, placing it between her and the predator.
The Man-Wolf growls.
The male human stops, the child in his arms. His fear is palpable; he has heard the noise and is searching the garden for its source. The beast can feel his confusion; should he run for the house? Try to find a weapon? Put the child back in the vehicle?
"Go inside, dear," the man says, as calmly as possible. The woman has heard the animal sound, too—her eyes are wide and wild with terror. She swivels her head back and forth. The predator hears her breathing become panicked. Her fear inflames his lust for blood.
The Man-Wolf inches forward. He knows he can stop them from making it to the house. He has seen no weapon in this human's possession. The situation is completely under his control. Why not make things as entertaining as possible? He considers briefly and then stands, allowing himself to be seen in all his glory. He spreads his mighty arms and howls.
The woman screams.
The man cries: "Oh sweet merciful God."
Their child is the last to die.
12
The couch was lumpy, and one spring dug into his spine like a talon. From the look on Kelly's puffy face as she stumbled toward the bathroom, the twin bed hadn't been very comfortable either. Case had checked on her during the night, convincing himself it was for security reasons, and not just to have a look at her figure under the sheets. She'd slept restlessly as well. Their funky room had a midget of a coffee pot, packets of freeze-dried instant coffee and a jar of powdered creamer. Case groaned, stretched and slipped into his jeans. The floor was cold and it squealed when he walked over to the counter to heat some water. Case heard the toilet flush. Then Kelly, who had apparently looked at herself in the mirror, groaned out loud.
Case sat on the floor, stretched and popped his back. He looked down at the ugly scars on his stomach and then went and got a plain black t-shirt to cover them up. He was back on the floor stretching when Kelly exited the bathroom.
"Morning."
Kelly sat down on the couch and winced. She got up and came over to where he was waiting. They stood there in weary silence, red-eyed; watching the boiled water dripping as if it were an Oscar telecast.
"What's on the agenda?"
"We see how long the car is going to take. My guess is long enough for us to walk around and meet some of the townspeople. Let's just be cool about asking questions. Someone is bound to have seen Bobby and your friend."
Kelly frowned. "She's not my friend by any stretch of the imagination. And what if they just checked in here, for God's sake? Why didn't you ask the girl last night?"
"It's in my nature to be cautious," Case replied. "Look, I'd rather get a feel for things before anyone else knows why we're here."
"Is this a cop thing, or what?"
"Indulge me."
Kelly turned back to the coffee pot. She stretched. Case found his eyes straying to the outline of her breasts beneath the rather prim nightgown. She lowered her arms as if she'd read his mind. Sometimes life gives you a good thing with very bad timing.
"I'll go shower," she said. "I like it strong."
"Real strong?"
"Case, make me a cup you could lube your car with."<
br />
Case remembered mornings this far up into the high desert, the fishing trips he'd taken. The air was cold enough to be numbing, but the second the sun crept over the mountains the area began to thaw. Steam rose from dew-dampened pine trees and wildflowers. He stepped out onto the porch with his coffee and took in the view. The little motel compound had a nice feel to it in daylight, though the cabins themselves were worn and badly in need of a fresh coat of paint. He heard Kelly go into the kitchen.
"Whoa, hot damn!"
Case grinned. "You said strong."
"No," she said, "I love it. It's perfect."
When their blood was moving and the morning sun had brought the temperature up into the seventies they walked down the main road toward Salt Lick.
The motel, which consisted of several units scattered in the trees, lay at the far eastern edge of the little town. As Case and Kelly walked west, they saw a small coffee shop with a wooden porch and railing. That building was the first of five 'storefronts' that had once held businesses; now, most of them seemed empty. Because of that row Salt Lick immediately divided into two sections, on the north and on the south. The north side had some kind of metal garage, and a shack that seemed to hold an old fishing and hunting store that still showed signs of life. Case noticed the squad car parked before a fairly large dwelling at the end of the street, and took that to be Sheriff Whitley's office.
"Let's walk down there and then double back," Case said. He smiled at Kelly. "And try to remember to look like my loving wife, okay?"
Kelly smiled broadly. Then, between her clenched teeth: "Screw you."
They turned right at the Sheriff's Office, passed a half-shuttered tourist shop, a building that said MEDICAL in the window, and beneath that DOC DAVIS, PEOPLE & CRITTERS. A nondescript cabin with boarded-up windows ended that row, and when Case and Kelly doubled back they saw a grocery store.
CLAN Page 9