Wolfwraith

by John Bushore

  The farther he traveled, the more he began to appreciate the Terra-Gator. When it looked like a particularly large breaker was going to send high water beneath him, he would drive on a slant up the side of the dune. The wide space between the tires gave the truck such stability that it would take an incredible lean to roll it over, he noticed.

  He wondered what he was letting himself in for. Even though Frank had said he hadn’t done the earlier killings, there was no doubt who had murdered the F.B.I. man. That unfortunate agent now had an empty holster, which led Shadow to the regrettable conclusion that Frank, the crazy son of a bitch, had at least three handguns.

  Soon he saw the Barbour Hill crossing on his right. That put him even with the park’s contact station, past the southern border of the wildlife refuge. The flagpole marking the crossing was bent by the wind he noticed, and the small flag had been reduced to tattered threads standing straight out in the gale. He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed the winds had picked up since he’d left the refuge headquarters.

  Briefly, he considered pulling in and looking for a weapon. There were no guns stored at the contact station, but he knew Mark Wilson kept guns in his trailer home. They were in a locked cabinet, however, and Shadow didn’t have the key. It would take too long to cross over to the bay and break in. He continued on.

  False Cape crossing lay a couple of miles ahead, then Wash Woods a mile beyond. He was over halfway there, without mishap.

  His hand felt better now, tingling instead of burning, which was a good thing because he had to grip the wheel tightly as the incredibly high waves washed under the tires.

  Soon he passed the False Cape flag, also in rags, and thought about turning in there. But he decided, since the road into Sandbridge was already blocked, the park’s interior road was probably so badly devastated not even the Terra-Gator could get through.

  Suddenly he noticed a huge breaker coming in from his left. It was almost upon him! Distracted as he considered his options, he’d let his attention wander.

  He raced for the safety of the side of the dune, which must have been washed out by other high waves for it was nearly a sheer wall. Would the Terra-Gator be able to climb it at such a steep angle?

  He never found out.

  The roller swooshed in beneath him, much of its strength spent by traveling up the shore. It was almost a gentle wash as it caressed the edge of the dune, but it quickly rose until it grew several feet high. The deepening water lifted the air-filled tires and the Terra-Gator was abruptly afloat.

  Shadow had been in enough small craft to know the feeling of being caught in a strong current. The truck’s motion toward the dune was quickly canceled and replaced by a sideways drift, away from the dunes. He was going to be carried out into the surf.

  Instinctively, he mashed down the accelerator. Since the Terra-Gator was an all-wheel drive vehicle, each of the four wheels spun in the seawater, throwing up plumes of water like those of a racing boat. The tires had large, protruding treads—much like a farm tractor—and were acting like four paddlewheels but the out-flowing current was too strong to overcome and Shadow could see another large breaker coming in. He was about to be tossed from one swell to the next, pulled inexorably outward. With his foot still jammed down on the gas pedal, he began tugging at the door handle, intending to jump and attempt wading to the dunes when the truck suddenly lurched violently, throwing him back in the seat. The front tires had made contact with the sand and he shot forward like a hot rod burning rubber. Then the back tires grabbed the sand too. He was on solid ground once more and the truck ran toward high ground just ahead of the next onrush of water.

  The wave had carried him north, past the steep-walled dune, and he went up a gentle slope. He kept the pedal down and bounced up the hill like an out-of-control amusement park ride.

  When he reached the top, he came to a halt and put in the clutch. Looking south, he could see he’d nearly driven into disaster. For some reason—maybe the beach was lower or perhaps some bottom structure offshore channeled the worst breakers into this area—the dunes below False Cape were taking a terrible beating. Wave after wave of storm driven water surged in, gobbling up the sand and taking huge chunks of the dunes back out to sea. Many of the sand hills’ seaward sides were now sheer cliffs, being undercut by the raging surf, which pummeled the land like the pounding of a massive jackhammer.

  Farther south, the beach was gone.

  So this was a storm surge. He glanced at the clock. Six minutes past six.

  Cursing, but realizing he couldn’t get through the woods between him and the interior road, he turned back. Following the dune line, the truck swaying as gusts slammed into its square side, he drove back to False Cape and followed the crossing inland. He’d have to take his chances with the tree-lined interior road.

  As soon as he turned south on the road, a fallen pine blocked the way. There was no way to reach Wash Woods, except on foot. He’d never make it in time. The only other route south was the bay and he didn’t have a boat. Or did he? Remembering how the amphibious Terra-Gator had nearly floated away, he reversed back up the road until he reached the meadow and then raced for the False Cape Dock.

  The wide Terra-Gator smashed underbrush and small trees down on either side as it went down the narrow lane to the bay. When he reached the pier, the water lapped at the pilings, reaching farther up than a normal high tide. The surface was choppy and roiled.

  Shadow hesitated, realizing how foolhardy his plan was, then eased the Terra-Gator into the marsh grass and turned south. The huge tires settled into the mud a foot or so, but continued to turn. Leaving two huge furrows behind, it rolled steadily southward like a great lumbering beast.

  As the vehicle kept on, Shadow decided his earlier dislike of the Terra-Gator had been unfounded. The engineers who designed this behemoth had created a true mechanical amphibian. If he survived this, he was going to send them a letter—letter, hell, a case of champagne.

  Gaining confidence as time passed, he pushed on faster, following the shoreline around every point and cove. It was adding miles and miles to his journey, but he knew crossing even a small stretch of open water was out of the question, even though the Gator floated. If the wind should take it, it would be like sailing a cardboard box. He’d be at the mercy of the wind and waves, driven to the far shore if he didn’t capsize first.

  The force of the hurricane didn’t seem as strong here, behind the trees, but it gusted in every direction. Many trees were leaning and every now and then one toppled into the water. The crosswinds forced to him to fight the wheel furiously to stay in shallow water. A couple of times the Terra-Gator lifted free of the muck, but luckily encountered shallower water within a few seconds and regained traction.

  Looking to his left, he saw the woods now stood in water, except for a few hummocks. Apparently the sea had gotten past the dunes and was washing over the cape. The water was rising. If he didn’t make it to the higher ground of Wash Woods soon, he might not make it at all. If the water came up too high, he’d simply float away.

  Then he saw his house, looking like Noah’s Ark on the waters. Floodwaters had submerged it to the bottom of the window frames.

  Turning inland, he followed the road, guided by the trees on either side. He passed his own house, then Jenny’s, amazed that her cottage had floated from the foundation with the rising sea. It was drifting off, toward the Taj Mahal, which was tied down with hurricane straps, installed decades ago.

  Passing the E.E.C., Shadow saw his own truck parked near the dock, where Frank had abandoned it. He must have left it here and walked. It only reinforced Shadow’s belief the killer would be found at the steeple; Frank would not have parked the vehicle near where he’d be hiding out.

  Once again, Shadow turned south, this time taking the abandoned road leading toward North Carolina. The clock showed six-fifty-two.

  The water became shallower as he approached the grove of live oaks surrounding the cemetery, for the original
church had stood on a small knoll. This was the end of the line for the Terra-Gator; the trees were too close together for it to pass.

  Turning off the ignition, he flexed his fingers. They were still stiff and unfeeling, but the pain of renewed blood flow had finally worn off. Although he was still thoroughly soaked, the warmth of the truck’s cab had seeped into him, reinvigorating the muscles he had stretched and abused over the long night. Amazingly, other than his hand, he felt fine despite having had no sleep and nothing to eat since the sandwiches nearly a day ago. He’d have killed for a cup of coffee, though.

  He opened the Terra-Gator’s door with both hands, but it got away anyway, slamming into the side of the cab. He didn’t bother trying to close it. Grabbing the lug wrench he’d gotten from the garage, he climbed down, careful not to slip on the wet metal ladder. The big tires protected him from the wind, somewhat.

  When he stepped away, however, he could barely remain upright against the ferocious wind, which pushed him from behind. Although he was near the highest ground in the area, the water stood above his ankles. He crouched to avoid the worst blows of the gale and slogged into the trees.

  The high winds had stripped the oaks of their leaves and branches whipped around as though the trees were dancing to a deliriously fast melody. A loud crack sounded above the wind as a nearby tree branch snapped off.

  Shadow didn’t try to hide his approach; he figured Frank would be holed up, sure of his isolation because of the storm. Who in his right mind would be out in the full force of a hurricane?

  He was counting on Frank being in the steeple, the highest ground in the park, not counting the dunes, if they still existed. Since the park was deserted, the man could as easily have ridden out the storm in the E.E.C. building, the boathouse, or any of the buildings. But Shadow knew humans—like all animals—to be creatures of habit and so Frank would feel secure in the steeple. He was probably safe enough too, for there was no way for the wind to get beneath the steeple to lift it and the cone shape would allow the storm to whip around without blowing the structure over. The trees also protected it from the worst winds.

  When Shadow caught sight of it, the steeple showed no signs of occupation, but then it never did. How could he find out if Lorene was crammed together with a killer—or two killers—in that small space?

  He slowed as he drew closer, even though there was no danger of anyone hearing his approach above the howling wind. Remembering the peephole, though, he approached from an angle where he could not be seen.

  When he stepped over the foundation, he felt a powerful surge of the same malevolent force, even stronger than when he’d found the first body. Why is it so much stronger now, he wondered, than in this same spot yesterday? The aura didn’t come from False Cape Frank or Shadow would have felt it when the old man hid in the back of his truck. Shadow was sure, however, the evil was somehow connected to Frank.

  A small branch had been blown up against the base of the steeple. Shadow stooped and picked it up. What if Frank thought some animal was attempting to get inside the steeple in order to escape the storm? Or maybe a tree branch had blown against the door. Would Frank investigate? It was worth a try.

  He broke the smaller twigs off the branch and positioned himself on the left, a couple of feet from the door, so close to the shingled roof he couldn’t be seen from the peephole. Then, he reached out with the branch in his left hand and scratched at the bottom of the hidden door. He waited several seconds and then repeated the scratching.

  Shadow guessed the wind would probably rip the door from Frank’s grip, surprising him. It might be the break Shadow needed to bring his right hand, holding the lug wrench, into play. At least, that was his hope.

  Chapter Thirty

  Frank?

  Shadow hardened his resolve to deliver a sucker punch, even though it was against his nature. He thought of the cop in the sedan with a hole in his head, and remembered an animal-ravaged arm sticking from the sand, and the slack face of a once-pretty girl with her throat ripped out. Maybe the old man hadn’t killed the girls as he claimed, but he’d had something to do with it. Shadow had to stop him before Lorene joined the other victims. Since Frank was armed, Shadow knew he’d only get one chance and had better make good on it.

  Was that movement or a muffled voice from inside?

  He couldn’t be sure over the storm noises. The door moved slightly. He raised the lug wrench above his head.

  The door opened slowly, a bony hand pushing it. After a few inches of movement, the howling wind caught the door, which whirled around on its hinges and slammed into the steeple wall. He heard a tearing sound as screws ripped loose from the old wood and the door sailed away. Stepping forward, he swung the tire iron down toward where he expected Frank’s head to be.

  Instead he saw the face of a wolf, its teeth exposed in a snarl, glaring at him with cold yellow eyes.

  Something flashed up at Shadow and he felt a jolt of pain as something tore into his arm, which was speeding down with the lug wrench. His already aching fingers let go of the wrench. It splashed ineffectively into the water.

  His right arm enveloped in pain, Shadow stepped back as an impossible creature emerged from the opening. The thing had the body of a man, wearing clothing, False Cape Frank’s clothing, including the man’s preferred short khaki pants, exposing his scrawny legs. The head was not a wolf’s head as he’d originally thought, but a hybrid. Instead of a muzzle, the hairy face showed a human nose and snarling lips revealing a black mouth and the dirty yellow fangs of a canine. The hairy ears were still at the side, human-like but pointed like a dog’s.

  The wolfman’s head glared at Shadow with the expression of a carnivore regarding his prey. Shadow knew immediately he’d found the unearthly source of the malice he’d felt all along. Its narrow eyes were neither man nor wolf, but yellow, glowing as if the lights of hell shone out from within. Despite the radiance, the eyes seemed dead. The pupils were vertical black slits, like those of an alligator or snake.

  Shadow looked down quickly and saw red seeping onto his sleeve. The cloth was torn and he saw a deep gash in his upper arm.

  The wolfman took a step forward through the water. There was a knife in its hand. Shadow backed away.

  As he backpedaled, he sensed evil flowing from the beast like a tide of malice. He had often felt such magic in his youth—though nothing nearly so malevolent—when his grandmother called spirits. Similarly, someone must have summoned this being, this wraith of a long dead wolf who had taken over Frank’s body and mind. It had to have been a person with power like that of Shadow’s grandmother. Frank? Not likely a white man could do it, but Jonesy had said Mamie Bunch lived with a half-blood Indian, and if Frank was descended from her...

  The wolfwraith came nearer and Shadow put up his fist and claw, boxing style. He’d done some boxing, years ago, and he’d been pretty good at it back when he’d had two hands. He knew he couldn’t throw a hard punch with his injured right arm, and the lightweight plastic claw wouldn’t pack much of a wallop. Too bad he didn’t know any of the oriental martial arts. He didn’t have a prayer against those jaws, not to mention the knife.

  As his opponent began to circle, Shadow glimpsed Lorene, squirming around inside the steeple. She had been gagged and bound, hand and foot.

  Shadow continued to retreat, sloshing through the rapidly rising storm surge. He didn’t want to tangle with the wolfwraith until he could come up with some strategy.

  The storm surge must have hit the coast then, because a thigh-high wave of water slammed into Shadow. He fell backward with a splash. He scrambled to his feet, afraid the wolfwraith would be on him before he could rise, but his opponent came on as though it had all the time in the world, the wind whipping froth from its slavering tongue.

  Rain stinging his face, obscuring his vision, Shadow continued to back away until his heels came up against the bricks of the low foundation, now nearly underwater. He could have easily stepped over them but, som
ehow, he felt safer within the confines of the old church. He moved to his left, trying to stay away from the wraith, who moved with an easy grace.

  The killer came calmly after him, plodding through the water. For some reason the wraith appeared to be focused on Shadow’s throat. Shadow had only a moment to wonder if that had something to do with a wolf’s preferred method of killing, when his adversary unpredictably lunged forward. The creature’s onslaught was slowed just enough by the water’s drag for Shadow to fall backward. The sharp teeth of the thing snapped shut, close to his face. It hissed loudly in frustration and anger. He splashed into the water and spun himself over, crawling away for his life. Heaving himself to his feet, he staggered away through the water.

  Yes, it’s going for my neck—my throat—Shadow thought, while he regained his feet. Damn, it’s fast!

  As he spun around to face the wolfwraith again, he risked a quick look at the steeple. Lorene had crawled partially out the doorway and was sitting so her head stayed clear of the rising water, watching helplessly. The water was up to Shadow’s knees now, with occasional waves up to his waist, and he wondered if his body would wash away after his opponent killed him.

  The wraith came forward again, on the attack. Shadow backpedaled quickly enough to save his life, but not so fast he lost his footing. When the creature lunged, Shadow ducked beneath the jaws and slammed the claw into the indistinct torso of the beast. It grunted, but spun around on him faster than seemed possible. He had no chance to retreat. The jaws came at his throat again. Shadow was too close to retreat this time. Instead he ducked, seeing the fangs go above him. Then came a ripping at the back of his head as teeth scraped his skull. He slammed into his foe’s waist, grabbing him with both arms. They went down into the water. He desperately grappled with the wolfwraith, pinning the arms, trying to stay so close that the creature would be unable to turn its head and bite him.