Beneath a Winter Moon

by Shawson M Hebert

  Alastair knew that when the moon was full, he would change. After that, he was unsure, but believed he could only change at night. Silver was supposed to be dangerous, and he would heal from most wounds very quickly—he could not die, as could ordinary men. That thought now exhilarated him and he wondered if he would also stop aging. He was forty-two now, and age had not been so kind to him even allowing for the benefits of his station. Would he remain this age? Could he die of old age? Could it be that he was truly immortal? He found excitement at the prospect…even though it came at a high price.

  He refused to allow memories of his wife and son to reach the surface of his mind. If their faces did make it through, he would force them away and focus only on the future. Alastair McLeod, now calling himself Jeremiah Roberts, found a ship to America the next morning and sailed away to leave murder and mayhem behind. He looked into the distant horizon and began planning a new future.

  Present Day, Canada

  The beast breathed in the cold midnight air as he studied the dark surroundings. For a brief moment, he understood time and felt that too much had passed since he was last awake. For another moment, he was self-aware. He looked down at his huge black hands; long razor-sharp claws extended on each finger, and felt power surge through them. While turning the hands over to look closer at them, blurred images…thoughts of daylight and humans entered his thoughts. He struggled to recollect, but the ability was beyond him. Then, as quickly as the awareness came, it was gone—replaced by a gnawing hunger and an instinct to kill. The beast raised his snout high, making his near seven-foot frame even taller. He huffed icy air through his nostrils and caught a scent. It was distant—how far did not matter—if he could smell their scent, he could find them.

  Humans. He could not form the word with his mouth, nor could he summon one of the blurred images that had been at the forefront of his mind only seconds ago...but it did not matter. The urge to track them down was so strong and his abilities so remarkable that the beast did not need images or recollection. The human things were his prey and his instinct was such that nothing else mattered. Not the deep snow on the ground or the freezing temperature. Not the gusting, icy wind or the stinging snow that sailed on it. Not the rocky crags that jutted from the ground, or the mountainous terrain between he and his prey—nor the darkness. Indeed, he thrived on darkness.

  What mattered was that he was awake once again and that he was hunting. The excitement he felt knowing that he was to have a human was almost too much for him to bear. He howled with exhilaration, his black, muscled frame shaking as he threw back his head. However, a jolt of inner alertness let him know he should stop the congratulatory howling as his calls might scare his prey and cause them to move farther away. He stopped and opened his eyes as he held his face to the sky a moment longer—and he was captivated by what he saw. The beast stared with an innate veneration at the shiny globe that floated high in the night sky. His jet black eyes reflected the image of the moon so perfectly, that if one were to look into those dark orbs, they could make out its every detail. The beast felt a tug in his chest and did not understand. It was pain, and yet he enjoyed it. It was also a longing so strong that he choked in reverence. Finally, he looked away, back into the forest and began to move. His senses tingled and his heart thumped heavily with excitement. He was filled with elation. Tonight’s hunt was different. Were the beast able to tap into memory, he would know that the man he had been only hours ago had wanted this hunt. The human side of the beast had welcomed the thought of the human prey and so the instinct to hunt was more powerful and the thrill almost tangible.

  The heavy winds of the snowstorm were at his back pushing him to move even faster. He grunted as he leapt over a fallen tree, landing gracefully a full ten feet the other side of the tangled branches. Huge canine-like paws thudded softly in the deep snow. The beast did not know, but minutes ago, those paws had been human feet. His legs retained some human form but were now massive and strewn with muscle and a black, oily coat of fur. They were long and powerful, effortlessly propelling the dark form through the snow-covered forest. The upper torso of the creature was comprised of an unnaturally thin waist and a thick broad chest with huge and powerful shoulders. His dark, black eyes were set close together and might have been considered wondrous were they not set on a face of pure horror. He was no longer a man but neither was he wholly an animal and so his head was a jumbled mixture of both canine and human features. Tall, pointed ears twitched and turned, catching sounds that had traveled great distances through the trees. The snap of a branch or the soft sound of clumped snow falling from the branches of an Evergreen. Protruding just below and between the dark eyes of the beast were fierce jaws set within a grotesque canine snout—rows of sharp, pointed teeth, waiting for prey.

  The change was complete, and though human features might be recognizable in his monstrous form, nothing of the man remained in the beast’s mind—or in the empty cavity that had once possessed a soul. Driven by instinct, with anticipation and anxiety he picked up the pace, taking longer and fuller strides. Though he was no longer capable of tapping into his human memories, something akin to an image from the past shot through his mind. Synapses fired and a cross between recollection and instinct came together to tell the beast that the huge crag of rock that jutted out of the ground to his left was familiar. He felt this was a place of importance and understood that this was somewhere he was supposed to go—somewhere he had been many times before. Though he could no longer smell his own scent among the rocks, he instinctively knew that this was his place.

  The human sent grew stronger and although bursting with need to kill, he stopped and sniffed at the air. Snow whirled around his massive black form as he heaved in breaths, closing his jaws briefly to pull the scent in off the wind. He was close enough to stalk the humans and now the true hunt would begin. There were two of the humans, though numbers did not matter to the creature. Remarkably, the beast recognized the scent of both of the men and instinctively chose his first victim. The monstrous head snapped back as the beast raised his face to the sky—then checked, realizing he was too close. They would be aware of him. They would be warned--and he did not want them warned. Though the element of surprise was unnecessary, it was his nature to stalk silently, and then come in for the attack when he saw the look of sheer terror on the face of the victim. He shook himself, throwing snow and sweat from his body. He knelt down and placed his deformed hands into the snow. He stared at the ground and then lifted a handful of the white powder and some of the frozen soil to his face and breathed in the scent. He closed his eyes in delirium. He must have them. He wanted them, now. He pushed the urge down and waited. Stalk, reveal himself to the prey, let them take in the horror, and—kill. He shuddered with anticipation.

  The two men sat by a small, waning fire. They were unusually nervous, having heard the unnatural howls only minutes before. One man, the fat one, poked at the embers with a stick, leaning in too close and almost catching his orange, vinyl hunting-vest on fire. He was breathing harder than he should have been, and though most of his body was cold, there were small beads of sweat on his forehead. The thinner, taller man detested his companion. The tracker was here for the money but had begun to think that there was not enough cash in British Columbia to justify being so far removed from civilization, deep in the night in heavy snow with few supplies and a waning fire—and a disgusting, spoiled, fat man. The fat man had convinced him that the hunt would be successful on the first day, and that they could radio in for pickup within forty-eight hours. The opposite had turned out to be true. No game lived in the forest at all, nevermind Grizzly, and after two days and nights, they had found only grief.

  The crazy hermit in that cabin up north had only served to exacerbate the already bad situation, throwing a fit unlike any the fat or thin man had ever seen. There was even a moment—just a brief one—(it had happened when the hermit had growled like a dog), that they both feared the man might just pull his pistol
strapped from its wild-west-like holster and shoot them. The two men barely had time to grab their packs and rifles as the man forcefully shoved them out the cabin door. The shaky hunting guide had had enough, and he would tell the fat, disgusting man that no amount of money would save him from a helicopter ride home tomorrow. There would be no bear, no moose, not even an elk—merely a turbulent flight back to civilization. And the guide would charge him for every minute—oh yes—he would not let the rich, fat cat out of his sight until he had coughed up every penny.

  The guide stood up, moved to the fire and rearranged the logs so that it could breathe, and the flames seemed to appreciate the effort, rising higher and thicker. The fat man grumbled something under his breath and the guide sneered at him in disgust. The fat man turned to look into the forest behind him. He thought he heard something out of the ordinary, especially having heard strange crunching sounds over the wailing winds. He froze. The guide eventually saw the look on the fat man’s face and noticed the man’s unwavering form. Puzzled, he started to ask his motionless companion what the matter was, but he suddenly knew the answer.

  Standing no more than twenty feet away was a tall, thick, black figure. Some snow had settled on the huge shoulders of the creature’s still form, but black fur still shined in the light of the fire. The fat man dribbled. Spittle flew from his lips as he tried to control his shaking jaw long enough to form a scream. The sound that came from him was more of a high-pitched grunt, however, as he stumbled backwards, tripping into the fire and rolling through it to come to a stop in the melting snow. Strange mewling noises came from his throat as he rolled over on his stomach in an effort to stand up. The guide had his own problems with the fear in his gut, but he would not allow it to engulf him entirely. He had faced charging grizzlies at twenty paces, one dropping dead at his feet. Whatever this was, it was not immune to a bullet—he thought.

  He jumped toward the rifle, which leaned against his tent about five feet away, but the thing was in front of him, lifting him high off of the snow as he screamed. He sailed through the air and into two large trees that had stood only a few feet apart. His chest and head slammed into one tree, and his legs into the other. His world went dark.

  The fat man had managed to stand up and he tried to run but his knees shook and his body failed to heed his commands. He felt a warm trickle down his leg and then felt an odd pressure against his right shoulder. The pressure grew, and then changed to a searing pain. He jerked and fell sideways as the beast tore away half his shoulder and a part of his collarbone. The fat man did scream then, and no sooner had the scream escaped his lips than a blood-freezing howl erupted beside him. Blood spurted from the howling beast’s jaws as the fat man made it to his knees. He felt a strange need to look at his attacker, and so he did. The horrifying snarl of the werewolf was the last thing he saw as his heart, mercifully, stopped beating.

  Pain brought the hunting guide to consciousness as he awoke to an almost pure darkness. There was no sky, no snow, and no wind—although he thought he could hear the whirring of the snowstorm. He laid still, wedged deep in a pile of—something. Perhaps broken branches—no—the things around him were stiff, but not hard to the touch. He shook his head and forced himself to focus. A snapping, crunching sound echoed from somewhere to his left…maybe a few yards away, and he had no doubts as to what made the sound. The beast was here. The creature from hell was feasting on the fat man’s body. The pain was excruciating as he struggled to stay calm and as his body’s supply of adrenaline waned. He might survive, but he had to think—he had to plan—and he had to comprehend. He stared toward the sounds, allowing his eyes to adjust to the blackness. After a few long moments, the faintest glow became apparent in the distance. The light came from a large opening that looked natural, made of rock. I’m in a cave. The damned thing has taken me…us…to its lair. He believed that he had but one chance to live through this nightmare. He considered his injuries, which he surmised were two broken legs, the right one much worse than the left. He could slightly wiggle his left foot and felt little pain, but the right leg had shot pain through his entire body when he made the attempt. Biting down on the sleeve of his jacket while trying to be silent, he slowly curled himself into a tight ball. Psychedelic colors flashed behind his eyes as he slowly pulled the mangled legs to his chest, the agony unbearable…but he did not cry out. He buried his head in his arms, and lay still in the twisted fetal position.

  He opened an eye, gazed toward the dim glow of the cave’s entrance, and saw the shadowy form still feeding on what he supposed was the fat man. He lost all sense of time and eventually drifted into unconsciousness. As he drifted away, he thought of his family, and made his peace. When he awoke to see the shadowy form coming for him, he pissed himself, horrified…and he thought he saw the beast smile as the blaze of white fangs lowered down toward his face.

  The guide was cold and numb, and wet with his own blood. Dawn had found him lying in a pile of rotting animal corpses, some complete, some dismembered—many had been there so long they had mummified. The putrid air of the cave might have bothered him but just as the smell had not registered last night, so it mercifully escaped his senses now. His breaths were shallow and ragged and he had no illusions of survival. His body was mangled and torn, now beyond repair. He wanted to escape the cave into the snow where he could lay on his back to watch the morning sky and to feel the fluttering snowflakes land softly on his torn face. He didn’t want to die amongst the gore and rot of the beast’s lair.

  Only his arms worked. He gritted his teeth, mangled lips torn and half-frozen. He was close now, only a few more feet—but a new obstacle had come to stand in his way.

  “You,” he tried to spit at the man, but the word was barely audible. “Bastard.” He had strained himself and the two syllables took so much energy that he almost lost consciousness.

  “Och,” the man standing in the cave’s entrance said, “You poor devil.” He shook his head, and then looked out into the forest. “Tell me then, you poor dumb fool—where is it that you are a’goin?” A knife appeared in the hermit’s hand and he twisted the shiny, silver blade about, as he squatted down in front of the guide. “This is a special knife, you know. I had it made special, in some nice cutlery shop in New York. 1923, it was.” He tapped the blade of the knife on the guide’s head. "Pure silver, made from the holy water bowl from St. James Church on Revere Street." The guide flinched and closed his eyes, but said nothing.

  "I suppose it's just one more offense that might lead me to hell." He sighed, and then chuckled. “What’s funny is that after I had the bowl melted down and fashioned into the beautiful blade that you see before you, I had it blessed by a priest from the same church!” He chuckled again and then frowned. "Two things could happen here, you see. I could turn and walk away right now, and—I know this will be hard for you to believe—you’ll live if I do walk away.” He smiled as the barely conscious hunting guide opened his eyes. The hermit nodded. “That’s right, you poor, poor fool. You’ll be right as rain within…” he paused and tugged at his long beard, “…oh, I’d say ten hours, as bad as you are ripped up. But you’d recover, and you’d be better than before.” The hermit laughed. “I had my appendix removed as a young man—would’ve died for sure had I not been the king’s man in those days—and be damned if the wee thing didn’t come back after my first change. So, I walk away and you come to my cabin when you’re ready…or go back to your own world and see what they think of the new you.”

  The guide stared, not believing a word the man said, but listening just the same. Besides, he could barely move let alone argue with the crazy hermit.

  “Or I could end your misery.” The hermit tapped the man on the head, again. “I wasn’t given a choice, you know. Nay, I never saw my attacker, and was never given the opportunity that I give to you now.” He lowered his face near the guide’s. “I know that you know just what I am.” He paused when he saw the look come over the guide’s mutilated face. “Oh, ye
s. You do know.” He rose back up to stand before the dying man. “You know what I am, and that means you know exactly what I mean. So, we need to get to it. I’ve got things to do…things of my own to prepare for. Could you be what I am, live the life I have, or are you brave enough to face death here and now?”

  The guide wanted to reply. He had to reply…his very soul depended on it…but he could not summon the energy to part his lips. He was so close to death. He was so cold. He cried inwardly, sobbing in terror at death’s slow approach. He wished the beast had finished him.

  “Well lad...seein’ that you can’t or won’t answer, I will just have to go on and make the decision for you.” He gently moved some of the dark strands of hair from the guide’s bloody eyes. “You poor, dumb fool.” The hermit looked at the knife, and then into the dying man’s eyes—and made his decision.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Thomas raised his glass and tapped it against those of his two companions. The pub was especially loud this night, as it was a Friday and the night before the fall hunting trips begin. Three ice-cold mugs clinked together, and Thomas gave a mock-salute before he brought the foamy, brown liquid to his lips. Thomas Devereaux was a man of average height and stature, with sandy brown hair and green eyes. He was in his forties now and his many years in the Army, most spent in the heat of South American sun, had given his face a dark, leathery look. He worked hard to stay healthy and for the most part, he had managed to stay trim and fit. The two men on either side of him were his long-time friends, Delmar Forsythe and Daniel Coahoma.

  Delmar was a tall man, more than a few inches over six feet and sturdily built. He had a deep voice and a booming laugh, which he employed often. Daniel was quiet. He was tall and thin with facial features and dark skin that belied a Native American heritage but he would not say much about his ancestry. Delmar and Thomas had made many attempts to prod Daniel into naming his tribe, but Daniel insisted his only tribe was “American” and that was what mattered. Daniel’s friends knew better. They knew the area of Idaho that Daniel grew up in and that tidbit along with his looks and surname were enough to convince them that he was Native American. In the beginning, Thomas had been frustrated by Daniel’s evasiveness, feeling that it was rude and haughty, but as time passed, he let it go. Thomas and Delmar felt it was a little strange to be friends with someone for so many years without knowing their childhood background and all the accompanying stories, but they let it go.