Also by Justin M. Woodward:
The Variant
Candy
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Before I show my appreciation for all the help I have received since the completion of The Variant and the completion of the book you’re about to begin, I feel compelled to ask you, the reader, to do yourself a favor (if you haven’t already) and read The Variant first. I can’t tell you why, but you’ll be glad you did by the end of this book.
Now, where to begin? Of course, there are some people I’d like to thank for specific reasons which I can’t list without spoilers, and so, those people will be thanked after the main story in the ‘From the Author’ section. For now, however, I have plenty of others to thank.
Thank you to my amazing wife, Alison, for putting eyes on the first draft and offering your opinions and suggestions.
Thank you to Judy Haigh, Melissa Lucas, and Christina Arico for being my beta-readers on this one, trust me when I say your feedback means the world to me.
Thank you, James Newman for taking the time to write a foreword for this book, you’re amazing. Thank you to fellow author, Duncan Ralston, for the kind words, and to fellow author, J. Z. Foster, for taking a hard look at the book and offering what I consider to be invaluable advice and perspective.
Thank you to the band Other Lives, who I borrowed the name Tamer Animals from, and who graciously gave me permission to borrow the name. I highly recommend their album of the same name.
Thank you, François Vaillancourt, for coming through with some absolutely gorgeous cover art, you nailed it. Thank you to Pete Kahle, and Bloodshot Books for working with me from start to finish during this process. I’m very grateful for everything.
And thank you, for buying this book. I hope it speaks to you in one way or another.
- Justin
TAMER
ANIMALS
By Justin M. Woodward
Copyright © 2018 by Justin M. Woodward and Bloodshot Books
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without the author’s written consent, except for the purposes of review
Cover Design © 2018 by François Vaillancourt
ISBN-13: 978-1-947522-11-4
ISBN-10: 1-947522-11-6
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s fertile imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
READ UNTIL YOU BLEED!
For Alison,
for taking the journey with me.
FOREWORD
So, apparently I have become the go-to guy for blurbing and writing Forewords (yeah, I know the former isn’t a word, I just made that up, but it works so we’ll go with it) for tales that fall within the “coming-of-age” genre. I have written a few of coming-of-age books of my own – starting with my first novel, Midnight Rain, and followed since by Odd Man Out and the just-released Dog Days o’ Summer (co-written with Mark Allan Gunnells) – and from what I can tell readers dig them quite a bit. In fact, the consensus seems to be that this makes me some kind of expert on this thing called “coming-of-age.”
Whatever. I’ll be the first to tell you that I’m not an expert on ANYTHING. Okay, maybe I’ve got a real talent for picking my nose when no one’s looking, or wasting time on Facebook when I should be writing (just ask my wife), and I swear to God I can carry a tune if I’m alone in my car with the windows rolled up . . . but that’s about it.
Here’s the thing, though: I do know good writing. And I know what makes a story work so well that readers are unable to put it down, no matter what genre it might fall into.
I know when I’ve read something that makes me not only proud to endorse it, but excited to tell everyone I know that they should read it too, as soon as possible.
The book you hold in your hands, it’s that kind of gem.
It’s the kind of book that made me happy to tell its author “Hell, yeah, I’ll write a foreword for ya” almost before he had finished asking the question.
I’m ashamed to admit that I haven’t read anything else by Justin, despite the fact that this young writer has several published works to his name. Tamer Animals was the first, but it definitely won’t be the last.
When Justin contacted me about this, and told me a bit about his upcoming novel, he barely had to say anything more than “it’s like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre meets Stand By Me.” I was instantly sold with that pitch. Tamer Animals sounded like the greatest thing ever!
Turns out this comparison wasn’t at all off-base.
Tamer Animals stands toe-to-toe with many of my favorite coming-of-age books and movies. It’s about the wonders of growing up as well as the fears that come with it; it’s about the thrill that comes from doing stuff we’re not supposed to do, and of the consequences that come from too much of a good thing. It’s about all of that, sure. It is indeed another great coming-of-age tale that will satisfy fans of the genre, without a doubt. If you dug Robert McCammon’s Boy’s Life or Lansdale’s The Bottoms or any of my own titles that I so shamelessly plugged above, you’re gonna love Tamer Animals. If a beautifully-crafted coming-of-age tale is what you want, you’re gonna get it. But, while I don’t want to speak for Justin here, this one also feels like a love letter to the great horror flicks that were a part of the writer’s own childhood. Tamer Animals isn’t afraid to get gruesome once things start rockin’ and rollin’, and ultimately Justin’s novel earns its place at the table among the twisted “family” of films and literature that many genre fans the same age as yours truly adored during their seminal years – flicks like the aforementioned Chainsaw, Motel Hell, and others of their era that adorned the covers of our beloved Fangoria magazines once upon a time. For yours truly, Tamer Animals brought to mind Jack Ketchum’s classic novel Off Season as well, not to mention the work of Richard Laymon. I can’t think of a better compliment to give a kick-ass writer who’s only going to get more and more kick-ass as the years go by.
Justin Woodward’s gonna be running with the big boys soon, if this keeps up.
You’ll want to follow him wherever he takes you, I guarantee it.
Just be sure to watch out for what might be lurking in the woods . . . because the Goat Man, he’s still out there.
James Newman
April 29, 2018
“Coheelee Creek Covered Bridge” by Tim Godwin
Artwork contributed by Gary Harbert
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
FOREWORD
STANTON
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO FROM BLOODSHOT BOOKS
&
nbsp; “We’re all of us haunted and haunting.”
- Chuck Palahniuk
“Sometimes quiet is violent.”
TWENTY ØNE PILØTS
STANTON
It's dangerous business walking out your front door. I've heard that said before, I'm sure of it, but I never quite understood how true it was until the summer of 2005. I find it hard to believe it's been twelve years already, but it has. Even though I'm a man of almost sixty now, there's a part of me that is only twelve years old. In a sense, a part of me was reborn that summer. I ain't talkin' about in a good Christian sense either. No, it ain't like that at all. I reckon there's just some things you can't witness and go on livin' the same way you did before. I know I couldn't.
Sometimes I wake up in the night and try to take off running across the house. No reason. Of course, I can't run. Can't walk hardly. On a couple of occasions, I actually hurt my wife, Kay. It was an accident each time, and she's since learned to get far away from me when I'm having one of my night fits. It being an accident don't make me feel any better about it though.
Most days I find it hard to find any kind of happiness. I'm not angry, not anymore. Defeated, maybe. I guess it's safe to say that I'm just not interested in sticking around this earth much longer. I turned on the TV the other day and I saw where this boy from Alabama set a tortoise on fire and filmed the whole thing. He put it on the internet. They say he was laughing while he did it. The worst part? There are thousands of people protesting because he got arrested. No one is held accountable anymore. I guess my point, if I had one, is that the world has gone to shit.
I got a letter the other day, and it said 'Dear Mr. Stanton, we want to have you on Good Morning America so we can talk to you about what happened and how it changed your life.' So, Kay says well, Paul, are you gonna do it? I told her I wasn't sure just yet. I said I didn't know what good it would do. Nobody wants to hear what I have to say.
CHAPTER ONE
Summer 2005
Dothan, Alabama
Patrick Hall rolled out of bed on the last day of his sophomore year of high school with a feeling of anticipation so strong he was almost sick with it. It hadn't been a bad year, but it hadn't been a great one either. It was the kind of year he could easily forget, like a movie that didn't quite leave enough of an impression for you to recall specific details a month later. The anticipation he felt wasn't so much for the last day of school as it was for what was coming after. He and his three best friends were planning a camping trip to Blakely, Georgia. They were going to stay at the campgrounds near the Coheelee Creek Covered Bridge. The only problem was that none of their parents would ever let them go if they really knew that was where they were going. The place had a reputation for being the place where people go when they want to do drugs and have sex, but Patrick and his friends were interested in the area for other reasons. Coheelee Creek was where you went if you wanted to see a ghost, and all the kids knew it.
Patrick shuffled across the room and stared into the mirror. His hair was a mop of brown, half-splattered to the side of his face. He contemplated whether he wanted to take a shower or not. Finally, he decided that he might as well get one. After brushing his teeth, he closed the bathroom door and pushed in the locking button. He removed his gym shorts and threw them into the hamper. Staring into the mirror, he saw that he was gaining some weight. Need to lay off the Doritos or you may never see your dick again, he thought.
He turned on the water and ran his fingers under the stream, testing the temperature. Once it was comfortable, he slid into the shower. He stood there, swaying back and forth the slightest bit. His eyes threatened to close and he forced out a yawn; mornings weren't his specialty. He was startled when he heard knuckles rapping loudly on the bathroom door. His mom mumbled something about hurrying, that he had to take his little brother to school too. Sighing, he turned off the water and reached for a towel.
When he returned to his room, he checked his phone and saw that he had a text message from John Queen. He flipped open his phone and read the message: Still haven't got it, may need you to talk to Wolf for me. He rolled his eyes. Wolf was the guy who could get it, but he was also the kind of guy who wanted you to enjoy it with him when you got it. Unfortunately for Patrick, he knew Wolf better than anyone else in their group. He debated on texting John back before finally sending back a single letter — K.
John Queen was one of his best friends, and he was also coming on the camping trip. Aside from Patrick himself, John was the most organized person in their little group of friends. Most of the guys just went day to day without much thought on the future. They were the kind of guys who would go camping with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. People like that forced people like them—who actually prepared for things—to pick up the slack for them. They were always having to remind the others of everything they may not have thought of.
Patrick heard feet shuffling into his room. He looked over and saw his younger brother, Sam.
“I told you about dragging your feet,” he said. Sam looked up at him and frowned. “I know,” he said, breaking his gaze and staring at the floor.
“It's okay. It's just that middle school kids can be brutal. Don't want them having something to poke at you about, ya know?”
“Yeah.”
The truth was that the sixth grade had been very hard on Sam, and Patrick knew it. He also knew that it didn't get any better; he had just gone through the same thing a few years back. He felt it was his responsibility and brotherly duty to give him a bit of a heads up—a crash course of sorts. It was only since starting middle school that Sam had developed the feet-dragging habit. It was as if his feet were too drunk to catch up with his legs. He did it without even realizing it; he would just shuffle around constantly, his feet dragging the ground like broken roller-skates. Their mother, Phyllis, had taken Sam for tests, afraid that it might be something wrong with him physically, but all the tests had come back negative. There were no muscle, bone, or nerve abnormalities, the doctor had said, no brain damage.
They were referred to a child psychologist named Doctor Roffsten, and against their father's many protests that Sam was just being a kid, Phyllis had scheduled an appointment.
On the day of the appointment, he had to drive Sam to the doctor's office, because it was scheduled just after school and their mother would be a few minutes late. He had planned to leave as soon as his mother arrived, but when she got there she told him that he needed to stay because she had to go back to work and he needed to take Sam home afterwards. So, he had been stuck staring at the aquarium in the waiting room and wondering if the bigger fish could eat the smaller one.
When they returned to the waiting room an hour and fifteen minutes (and a pile of money) later, his mother’s face was all scrunched up as if in pain, tears silently streaked down the side of her cheeks. Sam was just following behind her, wide-eyed, as if he had just witnessed a monkey sing the Star-Spangled-Banner. She hadn't looked in his direction. She had just walked straight for the door, head lowered as if she were a ram. Pushing the door open, she went outside, both boys slowly following behind her.
Once they were outside, Phyllis hugged Sam and he climbed into his brother's car. As soon as the passenger door was closed, she turned on Patrick.
“Which… one… is Isaac Matthews? One of your friends?” She looked as if her spin on Wheel of Fortune had just landed her on the 'bankrupt' slot.
“What do you mean, which one?”
“I mean who the fuck is he?”
“He's a guy I know, he's younger than me though.”
“But you're friends?” Her eyes twitched.
“No… I know his older brother alright, but not him. What's the deal?” He was getting frustrated. What could have happened in there to warrant him getting talked to like this?
“What's the deal, is that that sick little shit has been touching your brother!”
Patrick side-eyed the passenger seat of his car and saw that Sa
m had turned away from them and buried his face into his elbow.
“Seriously?” he asked. “Touching him… how?”
“I have to get back to work,” she said, her voice wavering. “You need to talk to him, and you might want to warn your friend that his little brother will be hearing from the police.” She reached for her car door and opened it, swinging her body inside and slamming the door shut. She rolled the window down about half-way and added, “That is, if your father hasn't already killed the fucker.”
On the drive home, Patrick and Sam didn't speak. He dared a glance in his brother’s direction at one point during the drive, saw Sam crying, and looked back at the road. What the hell do you say when you find out your little brother has been molested anyway? Sorry someone touched your thing, here's five dollars? It just wasn't something they could talk about, not yet.
They got home, and Sam said that he had a lot of homework to do and retreated to his room. Patrick walked into the kitchen and looked around. He wasn't sure what he wanted in there. Was it food? He eyed the counter where the cookies, chips, and sandwich bread sat. No, he thought, I'm not hungry at all, not one bit.
He walked over to where the counters made a right angle and knelt, opening the cabinet where his father stored the liquor. He began pulling out a dark bottle, and the glass clanked loudly against the other bottles. When he had it out of the cabinet, he stood up and turned the bottle over in his hands. The label read: JIM BEAM, and it was three-quarters full. Without thinking about it too long, he twisted the cap off and turned the bottle up, chugging the bitter stuff like a bum who had found a Gatorade in the street. He had never drunk alcohol in his life to that point, but he still wasn't dumb enough to think that this wasn’t a terrible idea.
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