Beneath a Winter Moon

by Shawson M Hebert

  Snow nodded. “In the bathroom closet, hanging up.”

  “Who gets the bullshit paperwork?”

  “I’m to take it to the police station.” He hesitated. “After your plane is wheels-up.”

  Thomas laughed at that. “Man, I struck a nerve, didn’t I?” He sucked in a breath as he stood upright

  “You have five fractured ribs, but they are already healing. They weren’t bad, the doc said…but you are supposed to leave that brace on for a week.”

  Thomas looked down at the white, cloth corset. He rubbed his right side, thinking that it hurt now more than it did when he was out in the forest. He looked back to Snow. “They really are fools, you know? They claim they are here to protect us, yet at the same time, they want to play scientist with the damned beasts—study them…probably to see if they can use them somehow.” He shook his head and scowled as he stepped past Snow. “How can they not see the danger…especially after the kid broke free once already?” He waived off Snow’s reply. “Nevermind.”

  He was shocked at the bruises on his face. One day, he thought, I’ll return the favor to that bastard. He dressed slowly, as it was more difficult than he would have thought. Both his left and right sides ached from the cracked and bruised ribs, and he hurt everywhere else as well. He knees were sore from crawling through the tunnels, and his hands and elbows were bruised and scratched horribly. He almost laughed. He hadn’t felt this bad after the horrible parachute accident he had while in the Army. Civilian life could be dangerous,too.

  He finished getting dressed and stared into the mirror once more. His eyes welled up with tears as he thought of Daniel and Delmar…of all the horrible events. Survivor’s guilt immediately set in, and he silently asked God why he had survived once more, where other good men had died…and died so horribly.

  Checking out of the hospital was easy. The nurse at the checkout station merely shook her head when he asked if there were prescriptions to fill or charges that he needed to pay. He stared at her for a moment, and then understood…this had been fixed by LeDuc as well. In all likelihood, whatever records did exist would be switched for records that fit the incident more readily.

  Thomas and Snow slowly walked down the steps outside the hospital. Thomas waited on a bench while Snow brought his truck around. Thomas chuckled, seeing that the vehicle was an antique and not in great shape. “You came in that thing?” Thomas asked as he climbed in. “You are a brave man, Lieutenant Snow Eagle.”

  Snow raised an eyebrow and then ground the gear shift until the transmission clicked into first gear. “Let’s go and see your dog.”

  Epilogue

  Alan knew he had to do it…but he was so young and had barely begun to live. He shook his head as he stepped into the trailer…he could not live knowing he was a monster…a murderer who would eventually kill those that he loved. This had to be done…and he would do it…alone.

  After tidying up the trailer, which had remained untouched after the authorities ransacked it, Alan laid out his most personal things…things that he felt his family would want, and then took out a sheet of paper from his printer and wrote a letter in the best hand he could muster. It took him half an hour to get through it and there were moments when he wanted to stop and reconsider what he was about to do—but he steeled himself. He would not allow himself to live as a monster.

  He folded the note in half and yelped out loud, cutting his finger on the paper’s edge. Cursing, he sucked on the finger so as not to get blood on the paper…that would be a bit much. He set the note down on the couch on top of the file-box full of personal items, then went to the kitchen for a band-aide. He went through drawers and cabinets and finally found a box on top of the fridge. He opened it and took out a band-aide, keeping his finger curled so the blood would not get on the wrapper…and then he noticed that the cut was no longer there. He stared at the finger, knowing what had happened. Not the slightest trace of the wound remained…no little scar etched in its place—nothing. The cut was gone. I’m healing even faster, he thought. I have to do this—now.

  He moaned and headed for the door. It had to be now. On the way out, he turned and took one last glance at all he had ever owned…and his chin trembled at the realization of how little he possessed.

  The clock on the dash flashed 11:50a.m as Alan pulled the jeep into the airfield parking lot and hopped out. It was a sunny day. The ground was still covered in snow, but the temperature was above freezing, and the sun was bright in the sky. He tossed the keys onto the seat and shut the door. He pulled his hood down low over his face and saw a couple of maintenance crewmen looking his way. Rather than try to ignore them, he kept his face covered and waived. They seemed hesitant, but finally waived back. Alan thought that it might be a bit much for them to see a dead man walking down the tarmac.

  He reached his aircraft and smiled. He ran his hands along a wing and then patted the fuselage. “One more time,” he whispered.

  He went through the preliminary checks. As he did so, he saw the maintenance men talking and glancing over at him. One broke away and walked toward the small airport tower. Time to go. Alan grabbed the ropes holding the chocks against the wheels and tossed them aside. No need to put them in the aircraft for safekeeping…he wouldn’t need them again. He hopped in to the pilot’s seat and began preflight

  By the time he was taxing to the airport’s runway, one of only two, the radio was blasting with calls…from his father, no-less. The old man was blabbing about not being cleared for take-off, no flight-plan being submitted, and generally cursing at whomever was in his son’s plane to get the hell back, because the law was on the way.

  Alan turned off the radio. As he settled the Cessna onto the runway, he could not resist unzipping the window on the pilot door and leaning an arm out. He flipped the bird at the tower. Well, not really so much as at the tower as at his father. He knew the no-good sonofabitch would be watching closely through the large set of binoculars he kept at the tower desk. So long, Dad, you sorry old piece of shit. Samuel looked through the binoculars in bewilderment...not the least bit of hope or happiness crossed his face. It was his son. His sorry murdering son was not dead after all.

  Alan pondered the past day’s events as he piloted the Cessna—how he had woken up in the forest merely a few miles from Hope. He hadn’t known what happened, but recalled images—mere snapshots of what had occurred. Somehow, while transformed, he had broken free and killed many men in the process. He didn’t know why the beast had ran for home…or how far away he had been…just that he woke up a bloody mess outside of Hope.

  LeDuc and his men had been his captors, but they had handed him over to another, even more violent and sadistic group of men and women who seemed to enjoy Alan’s agony. He shuddered at the thought of what they had done to him. Testing his levels of pain of all kinds, observing and timing his ability to heal various types of wounds, most being hideous, such as fire, gunshots, and the exposure to silver.

  Alan had been their best test subject, they said. He had the highest IQ and had more strength than any other while transformed…which was why he had been able to escape so easily while being transported that first time. They said he was an unusual and fascinating specimen…and they continuously reminded him that he was no longer human, and no longer subject to human, (or even animal), rights and compassions. Alan had fallen into an unimaginable despair. He had given up, completely. Apparently, however, his alter ego—the beast within—had only grown stronger in his resolve to escape.

  As Alan flew the small aircraft out over the lake, he marveled at the beauty. He had been so lucky to grow up here. What a wonderful and beautiful place. He pulled the Cessna to a climb. Soon, when he feared reaching the point of a stall, he nosed the plane down. Back below the sketchy cloud cover, he kept his eyes on his target. Below him, just a dot right now, was a two hundred feet high sheer granite wall. He hoped no climbers were on it this day. When the plane reached the right level for his maneuver, he throttled th
e engine as hard as he could without taking it into a stall. The rock wall approached, closer and closer, larger and larger.

  There was a point, perhaps a few seconds before impact when the beast inside him cried out with more strength than ever...but it was far too late. Alan had defeated his alter-ego’s fight for survival and perhaps...just perhaps...for a moment, Alan regretted his decision. But then, that was the reason he had chosen this method. This way, he had thought, I probably won’t be able to back out…and there won’t be anything left of me to survive…semi-immortal werewolf or not. The only thing that he knew for certain about his death was that his body would need to be utterly destroyed in order to keep from ‘coming back.’ Alan’s split-second of regret transformed into sheer terror as he let go of the controls and shut his eyes.

  The fireball that ensued could be seen for miles away. People ice fishing on the lake swore that they could feel a delicate tremble on the icy surface, generated by the concussion off of the granite wall just before they saw and heard the crash.

  * * * * *

  Thomas sat behind the big table, facing a mountain of books on his left and right. Jack sat beside him, enjoying the smell of the rug on which he lay. The bookstore insisted that Jack be on a leash, (for safety reasons, of course), and Thomas reluctantly complied. For a moment, the horrible events of the mountain came back to him, as though he had never recovered...as though he had just come back home.

  Three years earlier, after a short rest at his sister’s home, Thomas had visited Delmar’s father, telling the best lies that he could muster about the death of his son. The elderly man had changed the subject in the middle of Thomas’s words, and Thomas understood Delmar’s frustration with his father.

  Visiting Daniel’s family had been a very strange and disturbing experience.

  Daniel’s closest friend on the Indian reservation had been a cousin named Strong. Strong seemed to know a lot about Daniel’s death and the circumstances surrounding it. Indeed, Thomas could see that the man had somehow learned the truth. Perhaps not all of it, but enough...and he believed it all.

  The story he had conveyed to Thomas about Daniel’s supposed broken oath and his subsequent ostracizing made his skin crawl. The story went a long way toward making Thomas believe in the idea that there are no coincidences.

  The bookstore was located in a small town in Maine. Thomas was promoting his first book in its third week of release. It was number twenty-one of the bestseller’s list, and holding steadily to number fourteenth overall in retail sales.

  His publishing contract netted him one third of the hardcover sales, and then half of whatever the rights to the paperback would sell for. The paperback publication deal was being negotiated right now, probably for a release next year. Thomas was nervous. Though he’d been to several interviews and one other book signing, today was to begin a two-week book signing that would take him all the way across the US.

  Thomas had even traveled to the UK for his research once he’d decided to actually turn his writing into a book…and what he had found had stunned him.

  So many of the murders in the UK could easily have been attributed to a being (a word used quite often in his book) like a werewolf that he had to drop that small portion of his research. He had not intended to use that type of detail in his book, but after seeing so many cases where the cause of death was similar and where DNA and other forensic evidence came back with no match or a match of ‘unknown,’ he had to make note of it.

  His sister helped him send out the manuscript when it was finished, and astonishingly, he’d been offered three publishing deals in a matter of months. He hired a true agent then, and after some negotiating, had his first promise for publication.

  Some editing was required, some pieces of the book were moved, chapters rearranged, but the book was met with enthusiasm. That enthusiasm paid off on the release date. A month before its release, the numbers of pre-orders online climbed to a number that was higher that Thomas ever imagined he’d see. ‘Monsters, Myths, and Reality’ was selling well, and Thomas actually felt good about it.

  He carried a licensed handgun loaded with silver bullets…bullets that had been blessed by a flustered, but generous priest—and hidden on his side he carried Alastair’s dagger. If the public ever found out, he’d likely never sell anything again...which would probably make certain authorities across North America and the United Kingdom very happy.

  The proverbial ‘they’ had paid a visit to Thomas just after he signed the deal to have his book published. They explained to him that if he crossed the line even in the slightest, bad things would happen. Thomas understood that bad likely as not meant that Thomas might disappear in the night, never to be seen again…and so he had assured his unwanted guests that the events in those mountains would stay forever buried, never to reveal themselves in the light of day in any way, much less in a book.

  One of the men had lead Thomas to believe that his book might actually be good for business. Most often people’s sightings of werewolves would go unreported because the witness didn’t want to appear insane, he had said to Thomas, then shrugged when Thomas explained that those very facts were in his book. “Books like yours help us out. People read those kinds of books and it makes them more likely to go to the local sheriff and give him an accurate enough description so that it sends up a red flag to us…rather than not reporting anything or worse, just reporting it was some guy.”

  The men had left Thomas unmolested and allowed him to publish his book.

  Thomas tried to maintain a smile as the doors opened and people began coming over to his table. Soon there was a small line at the table and Thomas could not fully hide his pride and his embarrassment. Signing his book always gave him the goose bumps, as if he were doing something wrong, or perhaps desecrating the memories of his friends by making a profit off the very subject that led them to their demise. He did his best to quash the uneasiness, and to be pleasant with each and every person. During lunch hour, he read a short excerpt from the book and took questions. The local news even showed up to do a short segment on the new book.

  Jack turned out to be a huge attraction as well, especially to women and their kids. The book outlined many lighthearted adventures with Jack during Thomas’s research and people apparently loved the Siberian Husky, and as local word went out that the dog was with Thomas, more and more people came in to see him. Jack loved it. He was more than willing to lick the face of a little girl or nuzzle against a woman’s leg as she made cooing noises and rubbed his head. Jack liked girls the best. He had always favored them. Thomas was happy to see the dog so enthused.

  Around 8p.m as Thomas was boxing up some of the unsold books and preparing to call it a night, a couple entered the bookstore. Thomas noticed them because the store’s owner had been trying to lock up, but had allowed the latecomers inside. The man was fairly young, younger than Thomas, and reminded him of that actor...Nicholas Cage. Not handsome, maybe, but the man did look like the actor. The woman at his side was tall and beautiful with flowing black hair down to her waist. Not many women could pull off that look, Thomas thought...not to mention that she wore a dress that seemed out of place in small-town Maine. The woman laughed and tugged at her escort’s coat and pointed to Thomas.

  The man nodded and walked over to the table.

  Jack growled. It was something the dog had not done since…

  “Mr. Devereux So glad I caught you before you left for the day. Huge fan…huge fan of your book.” The ‘your book’ came out thickly, and sounded like ‘yer boook.’ The Scottish accent was more than obvious.

  Thomas tried to smile, but something about this man made his skin crawl. The anxiety was of a sort that he had not felt since…the mountains. Instead of smiling, Thomas turned away to soothe Jack as the man continued. “If I could get a signed copy…well that would indeed make my day, sir.”

  Thomas could not ignore that, and so he forced himself to look at the man. The eerie smile and strange exp
ression on the man’s face seemed to indicate both arrogance and danger. Thomas removed a book from the box and set it in front of him as he looked directly into the man’s shockingly blue eyes. “Sure. Who do I make it out to?”

  “Do you believe what you’ve written in your book, Mr. Devereaux? I find it most interesting that you’ve written this particular piece as your first work. I mean…after what happened in Canada those years ago. Is there a connection? I’ve supposed that there may be.”

  Ah, Thomas thought. There it is. This person was not the first to find out about the strange deaths on the mountain and the subsequent rumors of a government cover-up. Alan Tucker’s suicide after having already been killed provided the perfect fodder for anyone interested enough to take a deeper look. Captain Russeux had fanned the flames after Alan’s supposed second death, shouting outlandish, (yet detailed), claims before dying in a mysterious car accident. He had mentioned Thomas in those claims, even though they had never met. He tied the deaths at Steven’s cabin with the deaths from the supposed helicopter crash but fell short on exactly how they were connected.

  He’s a reporter, Thomas thought, though the man didn’t look the part.

  “I’d rather not talk about that…but I am happy to sign this for you.”

  “Of course, Mister Devereux. My curiosity is stemmed from one of the victims of that most unfortunate series of events. I had been looking for him for...well...many years.”

  Thomas froze, trying to hide the shock and the fear that coursed through him like cold electricity. He straightened. “What was his name, this friend of yours?”

  The man chuckled. “Och...well..I don’t think it would be fair to name him. It is not a good idea to name the dead. I’m sorry to trouble you. I’ll speak no more of it.”