The werewolf backed off, clutching at its throat and half growling, half whining. George moved forward again, determined to push his advantage over the unnatural monstrosity.
The weight that hit him from behind slammed him into the road with enough force to knock the wind out of him and to crack a couple of ribs. George grunted and tried to breathe again as the pressure increased.
“Get the fuck offa me!”
The one he’d struck in the throat fell to all fours in front of him and vomited a stream of blood. It looked at him with both eyes, one still red and swollen looking, and then loped forward until it was staring him in the face.
All the anger left his body even as he managed to draw in a decent breath. Out with the bad air, in with the fear. He’d hurt it, but the snarling thing staring into his eyes was far from out of the fight and another one was sitting on top of him, pinning him in place as it huffed warm breaths on the back of his neck.
As he lay there, waiting for the creature to kill him, the others came closer. Apparently they had finished their murderous appetizers and were now ready for the main course.
* * *
Mark Loman panted heavily in the deepening cold. The run wasn’t that long, only ten miles, but still he was exhausted and the arctic air was scouring his lungs with every gulp of oxygen he took in.
Not surprisingly he reflected back on the night he helped murder an innocent woman as he kept moving.
He’d thought Cullie was joking at first, and had said he’d take the head. It seemed like a good joke right up until the time Cullie started cutting.
He should have been disgusted. He should have knocked his friend on his ass and been done with it, but once the animal’s cries started, he found himself fascinated.
Mark had been a hunter since he was very young and he’d never once felt any regrets for his actions or pity for the creatures he killed. He’d been raised to believe that man was the ruler of the world by God’s decree; everything else was here for man’s use. His family had owned only a few pets, and in all cases they were servants as well. Hunting dogs. He’d never gotten close to any of the animals because his father had always believed that the dogs were tools, not toys.
So, no, there had never been any guilt, but he’d also always made it a point to make sure he had a clean kill. The animals were here for man to use, but not for man to misuse. None of God’s creatures were meant to suffer if it could be helped.
Until that night. Watching Cullie cut and abuse the animal hadn’t been as exciting as it had been fascinating. Okay, he was a little freaked out when he realized his friend was, well, getting into the torture a bit much, but Cullie had always been weird. That didn’t really mean much as long as he kept it to himself. He’d even decided to talk to Cullie about it later.
When George started puking his sad guts out, Mark turned to make sure he was all right. He only saw the transformation out of the corner of his eye, but seeing the mangled, wretched animal turn into a wounded woman threw him for a loop. Okay, to be honest, he’d freaked out. It was one thing to torture a dying animal, but something else entirely to hurt another human being. He screamed, and he staggered back, horrified by what he saw. He was just as horrified when he saw Cullie grab the — and here his mind tried to make the memory a lie and show him a wolf being maimed beyond all repair: he did not allow himself that luxury — woman’s bleeding arms and rip back with all of his strength. For one brief second it looked like Cullie was peeling away a shirt, and then the blood came, spilling from the bared muscles and tendons, the lacerated underlying layer of tissue that separated skin and the body beneath.
The woman (wolf, his mind insisted) had let loose a scream that still haunted him on nights when he went to bed sober. She’d sat up, for the love of God, and the sounds she made sent fever chills through Mark’s entire body. Her face was unmarred, and her wide blue eyes stood as far open as they could get as her mouth strained against the sounds escaping her.
For one heartbeat his entire world became terrifyingly clear. He heard the poor girl screaming, and under that he heard the sounds of Cullie grunting and whining in pleasure. In the distance, almost sublimated by those overwhelming noises, he heard George crying, sobbing into his own hands and then getting ill again.
He saw Cullie’s hands holding that flesh shirt, saw his friend keep pulling, separating the skin garment from the body it belonged to, and saw the way his friend trembled. He looked into the girl’s eyes, and all but felt the pain coming from her in waves.
Worst of all, he knew that Cullie meant to keep cutting and skinning until the girl died. He knew the kid he’d all but grown up with meant to make her suffer for as long as he could.
He moved forward and knocked Cullie aside even as he was reaching for his own hunting knife. He drove the blade in with all of his weight behind the strike and felt muscles part, hot blood wash his hands and finally, the sickening crunch of bones breaking from the force of the attack. Mark held his breath as he kept sawing at the open wound he’d made, using more strength than he actually knew he had to stop the scream still echoing through his mind. She kept screaming long after he’d removed her head. The sound slowly faded, but still seemed deafening even after they’d buried her body.
As for the burial itself, he barely remembered a damned thing except panicking. All he clearly recalled was digging and then George trying to get the rental car back on the road and running into a tree and finally, Cullie calling the other guys back to haul them out of the ditch.
Mark pushed the rest of it away. He was close to where he needed to be, and he wanted to concentrate.
He was pretty sure the landmark he was looking for was almost his. All he knew for sure was that it had a cross as a symbol. Maybe it was a church or maybe it was a tree, he had no idea for sure.
As he finished scrabbling up a steep slope of jagged stone he saw what he’d been questing for. It was a church; or rather it had been a church once. Now there was little to see save the burnt remains that sat under a sheath of ice from the growing storm. The wood was old and water-soaked, but even in the darkness he could make out the shape of fallen pews through the holes in the front of the building and the slightly bent cross that still perched on the roof. A narrow dirt trail stood in front of the place but it was overgrown now and obviously no longer in use.
He almost sobbed as he staggered forward, his body shaking with cold and exhaustion.
He did sob when he saw the golden mane of the werewolf. It stepped around the side of the building, looking directly at him and grinning. The thing towered over him, close to eight feet in height on its back legs, and moved closer with slow, predatory steps.
He almost pissed himself when it spoke. “She’d have lived if you hadn’t cut off her head.” The words were clear enough to understand, but only barely.
He looked at it for several seconds and it, in turn, waited for a response. “I have no excuse for you. I was wrong.”
Instead of speaking, it merely nodded.
“Will… Are my kids going to be okay?”
It nodded again.
“Then I guess let’s get this over with.”
The werewolf didn’t tear him apart. Instead it moved forward and struck him with a backhand that sent him sailing five feet backward.
“You’ve got a knife, Loman. Use it.”
Mark crawled back to his hands and knees and looked at it for a moment, surprised.
The thing came closer, dropping to all fours. “I said use it.”
He nodded and reached for the sheathed weapon. It waited patiently until he was up and standing, ready to defend himself, and then it charged, roaring a challenge.
Mark stepped to the side and swung the blade in a low, fast arc, hacking through fur and muscle across the creature’s back. It let out an almost human yelp and spun around, glaring hatred in his direction.
Before he could even think about how lucky he’d just gotten, the creature lashed with one forepaw and cut
four trenches down his face. Mark fell to his knees from the pain and the force of the blow, the knife forgotten and all the fight taken from him.
“Pick up your knife and try again.” The voice was infuriating. “I wouldn’t want you thinking you didn’t get a fair shake out of this.”
He spoke as carefully as he could through the heavy lacerations on his mouth. “You’re going to kill me either way, right?”
“Oh, yes.” The monstrous face nodded, the blue eyes burned with the desire to rip him apart.
Mark reached down and grabbed the knife. He didn’t want to die; it was as simple as that. If he could at least incapacitate the thing, he might have a chance.
His face felt like it was on fire and the rain and snow that struck it only made matters worse, but his adrenaline levels were climbing now and the cold seemed to have left him. Mark shook the blood that threatened to spill into his eyes away and lowered himself closer to the ground, covering his most vulnerable areas as best he could.
He was a hunter, too, and he knew what the werewolf would try for. The same places he knew he would be trying for.
The werewolf moved, stalking closer. Mark faced it, his hands and knees shaking with adrenaline and exhaustion.
It was time now.
Man and wolf-man both charged, both growled as they met, and Mark ducked under the monster’s body and slammed the knife he carried into the heavily muscled stomach of the creature, not trying to hack in and pull out, but instead sinking the blade in deeply and then forcing the edge to run up from just above the creature’s navel all the way to the hard sternum. Thick hot fluids ran from the gaping wound and the werewolf let out a shriek of pain. The claws of the beast raked across his back, tearing through waterlogged clothes and grazing his ribs on both sides.
Mark let out a scream of his own and pulled the weapon free, stabbing again, this time into the heaving tender spot under the thing’s arm, slamming the blade through muscles and blood vessels and once again dragging the weapon as far as the bones would permit to open another long gash. The werewolf clubbed him with its elbow, trying to break free, but Mark knew better than to let it. He pulled the knife away and lowered his aim, cutting into the meat and organs just above the werewolf’s pelvis, trying to saw through as many vital organs as possible, to inflict as much pain as possible, anything he could do to stop the animal in its tracks.
The hind claw of the thing left the ground and caught his leg just below the knee, ripping flesh and clothing away in a downward stroke that took most of the meat from Mark’s shin in the process.
Mark screamed and kept stabbing, hoping he could stop this insanity, praying he would live through it.
The werewolf pushed away from him, thick trails of blood falling from every open wound he’d made.
Mark groaned, feeling the hot run of blood coursing over his face and over his leg. Aside from that unexpected heat, he felt almost nothing. Shock was surely setting in.
The beast stood still, panting heavily and looked at him. Its unsettlingly human eyes stared a little glassily. There was a part of Mark Loman that had always been a hunter and always would be. That primal aspect of his soul wanted to roar in victory. He kept staring back, and that predatory piece of him suddenly shivered.
The werewolf was standing back, not attacking, because it wanted him to understand what he faced. Its fingers parted the fur around the worst of the wounds he’d given it, displaying the massive gash that ran from chest down nearly to the groin. Mark stared, stunned as the flesh there began to heal.
He watched, too shocked to consider running or fighting, as the flesh and organs exposed by the deep cut pulled back together. Blood stopped flowing, and then the heart he’d nicked mended itself, the muscles bunched and twisted until they were once again whole and the skin practically zipped itself shut.
The other wounds mended as well, and the beast stared at him, the glazed look gone from the cold blue eyes.
“That was to let you know, to make you understand.” The voice seemed more human now, or maybe he was just adjusting. “She would have healed even from the skinning your friend gave her, Loman. She would have recovered given time.”
The thing stepped forward again, lowering its head until they were almost at the same height. Mark’s eyes looked at the same spot where he’d seen the wounds vanish. There wasn’t even a serious scar left to show that he’d almost killed the thing.
“Landers did the maiming, you son of a bitch. But you killed my baby girl.”
The werewolf hit him hard with a closed fist and Mark heard something inside of his chest break under the impact. After that he felt nothing at all.
* * *
Roland Weilland looked down at the unconscious wreck of a man and stared. The pain from his wounds was little more than a memory now, and he lifted his head to the sky and called out to his brethren. His voice clear and pure, echoed off the trees and hills and carried longer than most would have thought possible.
He looked at the still breathing man on the ground and shook his head. He knew this was the part where it would get tricky. Now it would not be his decision alone, but John’s as well.
The snow fell heavier now than it had before, and Roland sat, saving body heat while he waited.
Eventually they came to him. The rest of his pack moved with the sort of grace that all of their kind had, and all of them carried their burdens.
Two dead police officers — both of whom Roland knew, and a faceless woman were included in the bodies brought along. John came forward carrying Cullie Lander’s skinned body and wearing the flesh he’d peeled away as if it were a cloak.
All three of the men they’d hunted were still alive, though none of them would be for much longer and the odds were good that if they’d been conscious they would have been begging for death’s release.
“It is the time of judgment. What say you about the offenders?” His voice was calm and solemn.
John would decide their fates as his wife was the one they had killed.
John called to hear how each had fought and listened to the stories told.
He listened well, and as the storm raged around them he thought over the options and made his decisions.
* * *
The diner had attracted a new crowd of customers and Scott watched them all as they came past, wondering if any of them might be shape changers, or how they would react if their entire world were thrown into chaos.
“If I don’t get to see Allison soon, I swear I’ll go crazy.”
Eric simply nodded, his back ramrod straight and his eyebrows drawn together. Scott remembered the same expression from when his friend was still in high school, but that was before he’d gone into the military and become a walking brick wall. Of all the people he kept in touch with from back then, Eric was the most changed and, ironically the most the same. He was different in appearance and in the way he carried himself, but he was still, deep inside, a decent human being. That was really what bothered him the most about the situation they were in. The others had pulled the wool over his eyes and he’d let them. He hadn’t wanted to know that they had changed and so he’d let himself be blinded.
But looking back over the last decade, he could see where the signs were all there. George had been the original Angry Young Man, and somehow he’d gotten past that and become a wimp. Cullie had gone from being a loud and obnoxious creep to being just a creep. Only, really, he’d probably just learned to keep his opinions to himself instead of advertising. He couldn’t for the life of him remember why they hung around with Cullie back then or why they’d continued doing so after high school. And Mark? Well, Mark didn’t seem to have changed, not on the surface, but he could still remember a few times when Cullie and Mark had cornered one kid or another for a little fun and games. They’d never beaten the crap out of the underclassmen; they’d just tormented them enough to make the younger students leery of getting too close.
Eric looked at him and shook his head. “I th
ink if I get out of this with Sarah and the boys, that’ll be enough to make me happy.”
Scott nodded.
“And if anything has happened to them, I’ll be coming back around here and taking care of business.” Scott didn’t need to ask for clarification, he knew exactly what Eric meant and he felt the same way.
Scott’s stomach twisted and roiled inside his body at the thought of what Allison was going through and what condition the baby was in.
“I’m trying hard to understand all of this, Scott. You know what I mean?”
Scott nodded. “Oh yeah. You better believe it.” He took a sip of his coffee and leaned back in his seat. “I never would have thought in a million years that we’d ever be sitting here and having a discussion like this one, you know?”
Before Eric could answer him the door leading into the diner opened and the six men who had sat with them earlier re-entered the place. All of the men looked solemn, as well they should.
Neither Eric nor Scott stood, but at least in Scott’s case it took effort to remain relatively calm. The men walked over to the booth where they were sitting and stood looking down at them.
Eric was the one who spoke first. “Have you finished your vendetta?”
“We’re done.” It was the big man who spoke. “The weather’s a bitch out there, but I’m guessing you gentlemen would like to be with your families.”
Eric nodded and stood and Scott followed his lead.
A few moments later they were all outside and the truth of the Viking’s words was made painfully clear. Scott had barely bothered to look out the window; he’d been too busy worrying about Allison. While they’d been waiting, a full inch or more of new snow had accumulated and the temperature had dropped by what felt like at least ten degrees.
The leader looked at the two of them for a moment and then spoke calmly. “We’re going to blindfold you gentlemen, and then we’re going to take you to see your wives and children. The house where they’re staying isn’t far away and this won’t take long.”
Neither of them resisted as they had their eyes covered and were led into an oversized van. The men who handled them were gentle, and spoke only as much as was required to let them know what they had to do.
SNAFU: Wolves at the Door: An Anthology of Military Horror Page 23