by Jon F. Merz
The second comes at me with more caution, but His flow is compromised by His hesitancy. I make a sudden movement and He reacts, giving me the unbalance I need to move into Him, absorbing His energy, overwhelming Him with my own and splitting Him in two. He falls hard to the ground, cracking several times before lying still.
The man They attacked, the confused victim, is trying to get off the sidewalk. He’s bleeding badly but his eyes still gleam with the essence of life. He’ll be all right.
He watches me, wondering what to do. I offer him a swatch of gauze from my pocket. Lately, it seems, I have not been fast enough.
“Thank you,” he says finally.
I smile once and then walk away. Already, the shouting resumes in my head. The anger swells within me, but it is not mine.
I am a vast receptacle of emotion.
In the darkness, the Evil roars.
In the shadows, They wait.
And I alone, am the only defense for you...
But lately, I am less sure. Lately, I am less skilled. Lately, I am beginning to wonder when I will receive the sign to come home.
And now, more than ever before, I wonder...
What price salvation?
Hunting Season
Another tale published by “SCROOMTimes,” this was one of the first stories where I played with a lot of characterization through dialog and inner monologue. It also shows my fondness for using monsters in stories and trying to go at it in a different sort of way.
“Whaddya think?”
I looked at the corpse. “Yep, I’d have to agree with you.”
“So it was a wolf?”
I nodded. “Uh, huh. Big one.” The throat had been ripped out. Massive blood and tissue loss.
The fat sheriff hadn’t seen anything like this before and as much as said so. “What would make ‘em do this?”
“Could be rabies.”
“A rabid wolf?”
“Could be.” He chose to let that go and looked at me. Regarded my unkempt beard, long hair and dirty jeans. He wasn’t happy.
“Can you...y’know, take care of it?”
I looked at him. Scared. A donut eater coming face to face with a big wolf. This kind of thing wasn’t in his plans when he took the job. Today he was lucky. “Yep.”
***
I’m a hunter by trade. It’s what I do. Trying to explain why would be like asking a fish what’s so special about water. So, I won’t even try.
But I’m one of the best.
I’d been trekking cross-country like I always do this time of year. Autumn. Hunting season. Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine, I love the Northeast woods. It’s wide open wilderness up there and if you weren’t careful you’d get so damned lost you’d better know how to eat pine bark.
The town had a problem. I stumbled into it pretty much by accident, picking up some new ammunition for the Remmington I carried. I stayed a day and had lunch at the diner. One of those old ones, looks like it was dumped there by some strange time warp. Good cherry pie.
Talk runs cheap in diners like that and I’d pretty much overheard the entire story by the time my second cup of coffee arrived. I finished, paid up from the small amount of cash I carried and strolled down a side street to visit the sheriff.
Like I said, he wasn’t happy. I told him I could help. He asked for credentials. I showed him the Remmington.
We walked to the body holding area at the local graveyard. Most of the cemeteries have them up here, but don’t use ‘em that much anymore. Ground gets so cold during the winter months they used to have to stow the bodies until the soil thawed out and they could be buried.
The deputy was definitely dead. Probably took less than twenty seconds for him to die. Having your throat ripped out isn’t pleasant.
The two man police force had just been halved and Sheriff Cruller Boy wasn’t looking forward to running the place alone. He hadn’t had many volunteers for deputiztion either. He looked me up and down again. I hoped this wouldn’t take too long. He grinned that nervous smile that people who live and die doing everything by the book smile when they realize they’re about to step off a page.
“Good luck.”
I nodded and left the town.
***
Octobers in Maine get damned chilly at night. I was in the woods, pretty sure of what I’d be facing. Wolves are magnificent animals and supreme hunters. I respect them and keep my distance. They don’t like people and would rather leave them alone. A rabid one changes things. Poor creature’ll be out of his skull with madness, doesn’t know which way is home and he’ll be driven to kill over and over again until he dies. That could take a long time.
There are parts of Maine where the trees grow so thick and close together you’d sure as hell better not be claustrophobic. Balsam firs and cedars and pines hedge you in everywhere you turn. It’s not easy hiking. If you’re not careful the damned forest’ll swallow you whole and spit you sideways when she’s done.
My moccasin boots gripped the ground. They were made from deer skin and cow hide. Durable and quiet, they left very little in the way of tracks.
It was damp this time of year from the rain that precede the snows. It was soft from the sea of pine needles that cushioned the forest floor. Sounds get muffled. Everything is closer than it appears to be. Good if you’re hunting, like I was. Bad if you were hunted, like the deputy.
The lake was the only source of water in the area, save for some decrepit, muddy puddles. That wolf will need water.
I set my back against the heavy pine and waited. It was cloudy. The moon was a dull glow behind a cloud, climbing higher in the sky as time marched on. The wolf didn’t show. Around two I fell asleep, let the Remmington meander into my lap and shut out everything but sound.
***
I woke up wet. I was lying in the lake with four inches of water around me. I must have rolled from my perch into the water. I was soaked.
Getting a fire started wasn’t easy but the waterproof matches helped and soon I was pretty warm. I collected some water from the lake, boiled it, strained it, and boiled it again and then added some pine needles. The tea warmed me and gave me some vitamin-C.
After I scattered the fire, I checked the shoreline for tracks. I came upon them right away. Big ones. By the depth and clarity, they’d been made last night. While I was asleep. That wouldn’t happen again.
I followed the tracks with the Remmington slung across my back. They circled lazily around the lake and my perch. Damn thing knew I was there. The tracks took off and headed deep into the woods and then emerged by the edge of a small farm. Sheriff Cruller Boy’s car was parked out front, sideways, TV cop style with the lights flashing. The wolf had killed again last night.
The tracks went across the field but I didn’t follow them. I didn’t need to. I knew what had happened here. What was important was for me to figure out where it was bedding down during the day. I searched the perimeter of the field for returning tracks and found none.
***
That night the sky was pretty clear. The lake was well lit by the moon and I felt pretty confident that my wolf’d be back to drink again. If he hadn’t lost his mind entirely, he might be playing with me. After all, he’d run circles around my hide last night. He could easily have scented me.
The Remmington nosed through the grass by the shore and waited patiently. I figured it would approach from the West, which was where the farm was. His tracks hadn’t returned and if he was bedding down by his kills then he’d be back this way soon.
I snuggled down again and waited.
***
I don’t know what time it was when I woke up. It was mid morning at least. I was tired and groggy and the Remmington was gone. The lake was numbingly cold. I was lying in it again. A fine gray mist had settled over the area. I brewed another batch of tea and warmed myself as best I could by the fire.
Something was bothering me about the lake. There was a definitive lack of animal life. There were
a ton of new tracks pressed into the mud, but they all belonged to my wolf. There was nothing else. No raccoon, no deer, and especially no squirrels. A few birds lingered in song here and there but they were scattered aways south from the lake.
I felt no need to eat. I really didn’t need to. I’d gone for days without eating when I’d hunted before like this. I’d pork out when I got back. For now the teas I brewed from the local plants were enough.
I was tired again, and I wanted to know where the Remmington was. I had a bad feeling it was somewhere in the lake. How it got there, I had no idea.
***
Another night by this damned lake. I’m beginning to experience a type of deja vu. I don’t like it. Every night starts out like this, although tonight I have no rifle with me, just the hand-made bowie knife I got from a tracker in Texas.
The blade catches the moonlight and glistens. The lake is bright under a canopy of stars and the full moon, which outshines everything close to it in the sky.
I’ve slept for most of the day. I’m so fatigued I don’t understand it. It’s only been two, maybe three days since the cherry pie at the diner. Boy that was good. Definitely going back there when I find this wolf.
Damned wolf! Where the hell is it. I’m staying awake tonight. I’ll kill the damned thing with my knife and hands if I have to but I’m staying awake tonight. Why am I so tired? My eyelids drop once and then I drag the bowie across my palm to stay awake.
The blood flows freely. Blade was sharp as a bastard. In the crisp air the copper smell lingers around me. Cautiously I lick the blood from the cut. I don’t want it falling to the ground and having the wolf go crazy to get it. The copper stings my throat and my eyes water. I hesitate and then ease forward to lap a bit of water from the lake. Stupid I know. There’s a lot of organisms in the water that’ll have me squatting for days. But I needed something to wash down the blood.
The moon’s so damned bright. Feels like the sun. Nice and warm. Hot even. I glance around and make sure the wolf isn’t here and then remove my green and black flannel shirt, lay it down carefully by the tree. Moonsunlightshine warmer warmer warmer. Sweating now. Jesus, what did that blood do to me? My camouflage pants come off with my moccasins so I can squat in the lake to cool off.
The water touches me and I shiver once before I begin sweating again. What the hell is going on here? Ouch! What was that? Itch. Need to scratch my back. I drop the knife and reach behind to scratch my shoulder. Damned hairy back’s what I’ve got. Blame my mother and father for that. It’s a genetic thing.
More itches make me scratch at every pore of my body, I look around for the poison ivy I must be sitting in, but there’s none around. Damn, I’m going to need a haircut pretty soon, for my body. I didn’t realize I had this much.
For a moment I can’t see, and then at once my vision is restored, but different. I see things now. I hear things too. I smell more blood. My hand is caked with it. I sniff at it curiously. My tongue scrapes across the leathery skin of my palm and my saliva swells with the taste of my own blood.
I need more of it. Now. I move, easily, nonchalantly through the woods, sniffing, listening, tasting the air. My moccasins are gone, replaced by my paws. My fur clings to branches as I pass.
I’m acutely aware of this kind of rhythm that flows in the woods. The rhythm of life. It runs parallel to me and I can leap into that rhythm at any time to disrupt it, take from it. Whenever I do, it closes up behind me and I’m left with my kill, my meal.
But for now, I have nothing. And now I hunt. I told you I was the best. Maybe I’ll wander around Sheriff Cruller Boy’s way and see if he’s convinced.
A cycle of twenty eight days and a full moon is all it takes to make me complete. It feels good to remember again.
The Mortal Makers
An early attempt at combining horror elements with the espionage novels I loved so much. This one never saw publication, but it’s not a bad piece – if only for the somewhat twist ending.
Jake listened as the radio inside the sleek ebony Mercedes crackled once and spit out the minute transmission.
"Target departing."
The man next to him in the car exhaled a thin stream of unfiltered cigarette smoke into the already hazy interior and glanced at Jake. "Show time."
Jake nodded. "Nothing fancy. I'll be quick."
"Just make sure it gets done," said the man turning his attention to the exterior. "No screw-ups."
Jake frowned. "Jesus, Hank, you have to keep bringing the past up? It was one time."
"One time too many," said Hank. "Just get it done."
Jake sighed and opened the door. Outside, the Boston night was already enveloping the city in a blanket of fog and shadow. Jake sniffed once and caught a fresh gust of sea breeze, the salty brine tickling his nostrils as he exhaled once, long and slow.
The ear piece crackled. "Test."
Jake flexed his jaw muscle. "All clear."
There was another transmission on the net, to the other people watching and listening. "Delta's foxtrot." That meant Jake had just exited the car and was proceeding on foot.
They were down by the financial district. Devonshire Street to be precise. Jake glanced at the entrance to one of the older buildings on his left and saw the numerous security cameras watching the street for problems. But all they saw was Jake. Mild-mannered Jake, wearing a black cotton windbreaker over a navy turtleneck and dark jeans with canvas sneakers on five feet ten inches and one hundred and fifty-five pounds. Mister Gray.
"Target approaching Water Street."
That would have been the spotter on the rooftop. They'd be watching for when Jake would intercept his target, giving clear cut directions so Jake could make the interaction as seamless as humanly possible.
"Delta has that," he said. Ahead of him Water Street intersected Devonshire and he could make out a lone figure walking briskly through the darkness.
Jake increased his speed, closing the distance to roughly two hundred feet. It had to be quiet. Surprise was absolutely essential.
But Jake was a professional. After all, hadn't he spent two years in the isolation tanks down in Virginia learning all manner of tradecraft? And the stealth training had been of paramount importance to him. All those hours of practice walking on damp rice paper until no wrinkles, no rips or tears showed in the wake of his passage. Jake harmonized his breathing and movement until he simply slipped through the air, scarcely disturbing air molecules as he moved.
Who'd have thought a high-school dropout from Queens could have ended up like this? He grinned in spite of himself.
"Target approaching Federal Street."
Jake increased his speed again. The distance was down to one hundred feet now. Still the form in front of him showed no signs of detecting him.
Jake stayed out of the lights as he moved. It was the most difficult part, weaving in and out of the circles of light that tore holes out of the blanket of night. Jake had to compensate for them and still keep his rate of speed fast enough to catch up to his target.
No problem.
There had only been once. Last year in Berlin. Jake was within two feet before his target caught wind of him and beat a hasty retreat. Jake could have pursued, but it was called off by the agent-in-charge. Jake had had to endure a humiliating debrief back at headquarters.
And Hank was still fond of dredging it up before every subsequent mission, much to Jake's constant annoyance. Of course, Hank was still bitter about Jake's upstaging him on the recertification tests. Jake had beaten Hank's previous record by a full two minutes. Hank, at forty-five, was simply losing that youthful edge. And the folks at headquarters knew it. They slapped Jake out on the tip of the spear and kept Hank in reserve. After all, Hank had years of wisdom and field experience he could still pass on.
Honestly, Jake liked Hank. He was fond of listening to the elder man recount stories of work during the Cold War. Before Jake's time.
At twenty-two, Jake was still young in te
rms of field operatives. Not that anyone seemed to care. As long as he got the job done, he could have been a twelve year old with a retainer and it wouldn't have mattered.
As long as he got his target.
"Target passing Milk Street."
Jake narrowed it down to fifty feet and still his sneakered feet let no sound escape his footfalls.
The dress was personal choice, although dark colors were strongly suggested. Hell, you had to be crazy to wear anything else. Muted darks broke up the body better and made it tough to determine distance, depth, and angle of the attack. All favorable points in any degree of close-combat.
And with an enemy like this, every point counted. Heavily.
Twenty-five feet.
It got hairy here, because Jake had to now avert his eyes from staring directly at his target. They could sense it, they could. That intention. Picked it up like radar and it made surprising them especially hard. Jake concentrated on the details of last night's Patriot's game as he closed to ten feet.
There'd be no communication on the net now. No one took the chance that a snatch of conversation might float out of the ear piece Jake was wearing a little too loudly and alert the target.
Five feet.
Jake withdrew his right hand now and steeled his will. It all came down to this. A single moment of decisive action. The adrenaline streamed into his bloodstream, galvanizing his thoughts, body, and spirit into one single vessel of action.