Wtf

by Greg Krojac

  “I really am a monster.”

  There was no way that Trevor could disagree.

  “I’m sorry, Arnold. I didn’t realise that I was a carrier of the werewolf gene. I’ve never even felt a hint of werewolfism about me.”

  Trever didn’t know if the word werewolfism was a thing or not, but it seemed to portray what he wanted to say. Arnold felt like his world was collapsing.

  “So you not only made me a vampire but a werewolf too. Thanks a bunch.”

  Trevor knew that he was the cause of most of Arnold’s problems, but he wasn’t responsible for all of them.

  “To be fair, Arnold. You were dead before I even met you.”

  Arnold couldn’t argue with that.

  “So what now?”

  “Now we – I – try to sweet talk one of our donors into allowing you to feed when the time comes.”

  22

  Just as Trevor had expected, it wasn’t an easy task finding someone willing to let Arnold feed. Adrienne had been a well-loved member of the group and nobody was in the mood to forgive Arnold for killing her. That was fine by Arnold – he couldn’t forgive himself and didn’t expect forgiveness from anyone else, but to deny him the two feeds needed before the next full moon would put everybody in the village at risk.

  Trevor’s first port of call was Tom and Edna’s house. He’d hoped that being medical professionals, they’d be able to see the bigger picture and help Arnold out, but they had always thought of Adrienne as the daughter they never had and couldn’t bear the thought of letting her killer feed on their blood.

  Jared, the professional skateboarder, refused point-blank. He’d always fancied Adrienne but each time he’d asked her out she bounced him right back into the friend zone – he just wasn’t her type. And now he’d never be rejected by her again.

  Miss Filchett, the librarian, had never been able to look Arnold in the face even before he had become a werewolf, so it seemed pretty pointless to ask her. But he did. And she said no.

  Father Pickles, the Catholic Priest, said that Arnold was an abomination and he would not suckle the evil demon. Trevor wondered what that made him and Tracey then – the priest seemed to have no problem accepting their stipend every month.

  Trevor was feeling less than confident when he knocked on the next door. The door opened quickly and Howard and Hilda stood side by side. They spoke in unison, as they often did.

  “Where is he?”

  Trevor knew who they were referring to, but pretended he didn’t.

  “Where’s who?”

  The couple answered.

  “The werewolf.”

  Trevor looked back to where his car was parked on the road.

  “He’s in the car.”

  Howard spoke on his own.

  “We know why you’re here. The others phoned and told us.”

  Trevor was relieved. It looked like he wouldn’t have to go through his spiel again. He was about to say something when Hilda spoke.

  “We have one question.”

  “What’s that.”

  “You’re going to kill him when the time’s right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not going to bottle out?”

  “No. Arnold wants to die. He doesn’t remember anything about what he did. And I’ll need everybody’s help to kill him too.”

  Harold looked at Hilda. Hilda looked at Harold and spoke for the two of them.

  “OK. We’ll do it. There are two feeds before the next full moon. Harold will do the first feed and I’ll do the second one.”

  “Thank you so much, you two. You don’t know how much this means to Arnold and me.”

  Hilda scowled.

  “We’re not doing it for you. Or the zombie. We’re doing it for the poor men, women, or children that would be at risk if we didn’t.”

  Trevor jumped back into his car where Arnold was anticipating yet another negative response. The vampire didn’t even give the zombie a chance to ask how it went before he told him what the couple had said.

  “They said yes. They’ll do it. So now all we have to do is to convince Tracey to let you stay at our place until the next full moon.”

  Finding donors was half the battle; now they just needed to get Tracey on board.

  Trevor rang his own doorbell for the second time that day. The door opened and Tracey’s face still looked like thunder.

  “Well?”

  “Harold and Hilda have volunteered to be Arnold’s source.”

  Tracey didn’t seem very interested.

  “Good for them.”

  “So, if it’s alright, can we come back?”

  “If you do, I’m not feeding it.”

  “Arnold doesn’t eat. You know that.”

  “Well, I’m not doing anything to help it. It can stay in the room until the next full moon. Then I want it out.”

  “With the help of the rest of the group, I’ll kill it next full moon.”

  “How?”

  “How what?”

  “How will you kill it? You said it’s not easy. I want to know that you’ve got everything planned.”

  “It’s an old Norse ritual. The Vikings used it as a form of execution for their enemies and also found it was an effective way of killing werewolves. There were a lot more of them around in the old days. In fact, it’s the only way to kill a werewolf.”

  Tracey thought for a moment.

  “5 pm. I’ll be out. I don’t want to see it.”

  23

  Arnold’s first feed was taken in his room at Trevor and Tracey’s house. Howard arrived just after three in the afternoon and passed Tracey in the hallway. She wasn’t going to stay around whilst Arnold fed. She hadn’t even seen him since he’d been back at the house and that suited her just fine. As far as she was concerned, he didn’t exist. And in about three more weeks he would no longer exist; that would do for her.

  Howard sat in the middle of the room, on a kitchen chair that Trevor had taken upstairs specifically for the feeding ritual. Looking straight ahead at the wall, he offered his neck up to the zombie who marked his target and plunged his fangs into the man’s neck. Howard didn’t say a word. He was doing what he considered his duty in order to protect the innocent. He had no interest in chit-chat.

  Trevor stood on the far side of the room; he and Tracey – who were gradually becoming friends again – would feed in the evening, at Tom and Edna’s house. That way, Tracey could continue to avoid Arnold completely.

  Once the feeding was completed, Harold bade Trevor goodbye and left without saying a word to Arnold. Trevor felt sorry for his zombie friend – he understood better than anyone that Arnold would never have hurt a hair on Adrienne’s head if he hadn’t been taken over by the werewolf psyche. He knew that Arnold had probably loved Adrienne but he also understood other people’s reactions. If he had been less informed about werewolf lore he would almost certainly have reacted the same way. But he’d watched his father’s tears mingle with his mother’s blood as her life was literally ripped out of her in the most grotesquely horrific way imaginable. His mother couldn’t bear to live with the guilt of what she had done to friends and neighbours and had begged her husband to kill her, much as Arnold had begged Trevor to kill him. The killing of the werewolf would be more an act of mercy than an act of attrition.

  24

  Three weeks later, the sun set, the moon rose, and nightfall drifted across the landscape. The only sound was the ticking over of car, pickup, and motorcycle engines as the donor group waited for darkness to set in.

  Tracey knew what was going to happen that night but didn’t feel that she could take part in the killing. For her, it would have been an act of retribution, not mercy, and she didn’t know if she had the inner strength to cope with the aftermath. Trevor had enough helpers – twenty or so – and whether she was there or not wouldn’t make any difference to the outcome. She’d spend the evening at a friend’s house, eating popcorn and watching movies on Netflix.

/>   Jared and Trevor were sitting in the lead vehicle when Arnold’s bedroom window slid open. Arnold stood looking out of the window, as if he was trying to absorb the full moon into his body, before disappearing from view again. Something didn’t make sense to Jared.

  “This may sound a stupid question, Trev, but why didn’t you just chain him up in his room, let him change, and then kill him when he changes back?”

  The vampire looked at the skateboarder.

  “Do you know how strong a werewolf is?”

  “No.”

  “A German Shepherd dog can easily maul a human to death. A regular wolf is about one and a half times the size of a German Shepherd. And a werewolf is about ten times as strong as a regular wolf. Add the killer instinct to that mix and you’ve got a terrifying killing machine.”

  Jared glanced towards the cottage.

  “But still –”

  “Look, the truth is that Tracey wouldn’t let me. She said she’s just got the house how she likes it and she’s not going to risk it getting smashed up.”

  Jared pointed at the window where he could see Arnold’s shadow apparently tidying up.

  “Dude, what’s he doing?”

  Trevor shook his head, knowing that what he was about to say would sound crazy.

  “He’s taking off his clothes, folding them neatly, and putting them on the bed. He’s still human – well zombie – at the moment, although the werewolf in him is beginning to take him over. In a couple of minutes, any vestige of what he was will be gone.”

  Sure enough, about two minutes later, the group’s communal jaw dropped as a large semi-decomposed wolf leapt out of the bedroom window and onto the neatly trimmed lawn.

  Clutches were dropped, and engines roared as the vehicles raced off in pursuit of the fleeing beast, which zigzagged along the road, leaping over hedges and low fences, and cutting through gardens making it difficult for the cars to keep up with him. This is where the motorcycles came to the fore; they were far more agile than the cars and kept the animal in sight, relaying any changes in direction to the rest of the pursuers.

  A message came through from one of the motorcyclists, as he drilled through a bed of early flowering daffodils.

  “It looks like he’s heading towards The Green.”

  Trevor knew who Arnold’s next target was.

  “It’s almost as if he has a sliver of human memory that’s guiding him to targets. I don’t know what importance the Great Oak had in his life, but he went to Adrienne’s house and now he’s heading in the direction of The Green.”

  Jared couldn’t see the significance.

  “What’s at The Green?”

  “That’s where he used to live. And that’s where his wife and daughter live.”

  Only one word was needed to express the thought that was going through both men’s minds.

  “Shit.”

  Trevor issued an order.

  “Try to head him off before he gets to The Green. He’s going after his wife and daughter.”

  One of the motorcycles accelerated away before Trevor had even completed his sentence, edging closer and closer to the wolf. The wolf was fast but even he couldn’t outrun a dirt bike, especially when it was being driven by the county cross-country champion, Tyrone Billings. Weaving in and out of parked cars, changing the direction of the bike effortlessly, he began to gain on the animal.

  But the wolf was not to be diverted. It couldn’t see who was chasing it but it knew that it was being pursued by something, so it suddenly veered to the left and sprinted towards a tall chain-link fence, maybe fifteen foot high. Tyrone, fueled by adrenaline and bravado, knew that he had the animal cornered – there was no way that the animal was going to get over that fence.

  The wolf stared at the motorcyclist, the stare from its good eye piercing Tyrone’s crash helmet. The rest of the vehicles pulled up behind the motorcycle, and the occupants got out and ducked behind car doors for protection.

  Nobody knew what to do. In the USA, the beast would probably have had half a dozen high powered rifles trained on it, but this was rural Britain and the only weapon available was a shotgun belonging to one of the local farmers, Bill Selby. It was loaded with rock salt and might be good for scaring the odd fox, badger, or feral dog away from chicken coops, but would have as much impact on a super-strong wolf as beating the animal with a feather duster.

  Common sense suddenly took over Tyrone. The chase had been fun, but he certainly didn’t fancy a standoff with a giant wolf. He let his bike drop to the ground and backed away towards the safety of the cars.

  Suddenly the wolf lunged towards him.

  All thoughts of a slow and controlled retreat were thrown to the wind as he turned and ran towards the cars as if his life depended upon it.

  When it reached the fallen bike, the wolf turned around and ran as fast as it could back to the fence. Not breaking step it threw itself into the air, latching on to the wire mesh at a height of around nine feet, hauling itself up to the top of the fence before allowing itself to drop down on the other side.

  Tyrone was bundled inside one of the cars, car doors were slammed shut, and stone chips were thrown into the air as wheels spun on the loose gravel.

  The posse arrived at The Green, a normally tranquil cul-de-sac containing twenty-six pleasant modern cottages, in time to see the wolf approaching number eleven. The animal prowled up and down the façade for a few seconds before hurling itself through the glass of the front room window and landing in the middle of the living room he’d shared with his wife for fifteen happy years.

  Gillian was upstairs with Keira watching a movie on the girl’s TV. Arnold hadn’t been in favour of his daughter having her own television, believing that it would be too much of a distraction from her school homework, but Gillian had persuaded him to relent. The crash of breaking glass downstairs shocked the two out of their quiet evening’s entertainment and Gilliam leapt to her feet.

  “What was that?”

  She turned to her daughter.

  “You stay here. Don’t come downstairs whatever happens.”

  Keira nodded.

  “Yes, mum.”

  Tip-toeing downstairs, Gillian could hear the snarling of some kind of animal. Of course, she’d seen the reports of the animal killings but it didn’t enter her head that the perpetrator of these murders might be in her own front room. She looked through the bannister into the front room and saw what looked like a giant wolf sniffing around her furniture. What the hell was going on? It was as if she was in a child’s fairy story – except that this wolf was very, very real.

  She tried to remain quiet but her heart was beating in her chest like a big bass drum. Her first instinct was to run back upstairs and barricade her daughter’s bedroom door but she didn’t want to give the animal any reason to go upstairs – protecting her daughter was the most important thing. She opened WhatsApp on her phone and sent a message.

  Don’t come downstairs, WHATEVER YOU DO! Climb out of the window and jump to the tree outside. Then run away as fast as you can.

  Gillian wished that her daughter would just do as she said, but Keira was twelve years old. There was no way she wasn’t going to question the order. She added another message.

  There’s a big dog in the house. I’ll join you in a minute. Mummy’s going to be ok. Don’t worry.

  Upstairs, Keira was torn as to what she should do. She wanted to be with her mum, perhaps help her mum, but she knew that if she didn’t do as she was told, her mum would kill her later on – figuratively speaking, of course.

  Gillian stayed where she was, halfway up the stairs, until she saw her daughter through the frosted glass window of the door, running across the lawn. At least, she didn’t have to worry about Keira anymore.

  She began to creep backwards up the stairs but suddenly the wolf’s ears pricked up. What had he heard? Was she breathing too loudly? Had she coughed? She was sure that she hadn’t made a noise. She moved up the stairs one more step
and the wooden tread groaned under her weight. That’s what it had heard.

  The wolf looked in her direction.

  It knew she was there. What should she do? Make a run for her bedroom? Or Keira’s?

  She turned and leapt up the steps, diving into her bedroom and slamming the door shut. She’d never been so grateful for Arnold’s insistence on having a lock on their door, as she turned the key.

  But she was still too vulnerable.

  She wondered if she should lock herself in the ensuite bathroom. The sound of the animal throwing itself at the bedroom door made the decision easy – the door wouldn’t hold up for much longer.

  Just as she closed and bolted the bathroom door, she heard the splintering of wood and the bedroom door gave way.

  Terrified, she listened to the creature pacing around the room, sniffing her bedclothes and furniture.

  She needed to call for help. Where was her phone? She’d had it with her earlier. She’d used it to message Keira.

  Suddenly she felt very lonely. Her phone was the only way she stood a chance of getting out of this alive. She needed to call the police. Without it, she would be dead meat.

  She double-checked her pockets; it must have fallen out when she ran upstairs.

  Now she knew she was going to die – there was no way to escape.

  In the bedroom, the wolf was pacing from side to side, psyching itself up for an assault on the bathroom door.

  Suddenly it realised that it was no longer alone. Trevor had managed to sneak unseen into the room along with Jared, Tyrone, and Father Pickles. Two more of the posse managed to squeeze in, but the room wasn’t designed to cater for six adult males and a werewolf so they stood near the doorway in case the wolf made a run for it. Each man was equipped with a couple of high tensile chains with padlocks, and was armed for bloody battle with the beast.

  Trevor whispered to Father Pickles.

  “I don’t know why you’re wearing your cassock, Father. Religious stuff can’t harm me, and I’m damned sure it won’t have an effect on a werewolf.”