by Gregory Kay
“I’ll bet the nightlife here is just wild!” she muttered sarcastically. Her ears picked up what sounded like an approaching boat engine in the distance, and she vaguely recalled that the town sat at the junction of two rivers, although right now, she was too tired and stressed-out to bother trying to recall which ones they were. There’ll be plenty of time to worry about rivers and monsters and everything else about this one-horse town in the morning! Taking a firm grip on her bags, she started to turn toward the hotel’s front doors, when she realized with a jolt she wasn’t alone.
The searchlight from the passing boat shone along the banks and swept through the opening in the town’s concrete flood wall, past the corner of the hotel and across the street, where it picked out a tall, winged, man-like figure with enormous glowing red eyes.
The light only stayed on it for a split second, but it was enough to make both her jaw and her suitcase drop. As the towboat rumbled on by unknowing, it took her a moment to see by the streetlights that the figure was not only unmoving, but was not even alive.
Fiona was a New Yorker, so she picked up her bags by instinct rather than leaving them on the sidewalk, and lugged them with her across Main Street to get a better look.
What in the hell?
The statue stood at the end of a little park built on a median strip separating the two lanes of 4th Street for exactly one block, from Main to its junction with the town’s main drag, Viand Street; she could see the shadows of carefully-trimmed trees and shrubs, and the dim trails of artistically winding sidewalks meandering through beds of fall mums, but those didn’t matter at the moment. What held her attention was the statue.
It was bright silver and made of metal, apparently stainless steel; she reached up and tapped its cold foot to make sure. It stood, or rather, crouched, on a short, tapered, almost pyramidal pedestal. Her lip curled back as she looked it over; it looked like a man crossed with a bug crossed with God only knew what else. Feet like bird claws, a head somewhere between insect and avian with an owl’s beak full of sharp fangs, and on its back, a pair of what appeared to be tattered, ragged butterfly wings...but the eyes!
Fiona had seen a lot of statues, from classical to art so modern it had to be explained before you even had a clue, but this was the first time she had seen one with reflective red eyes.
“You’re one ugly SOB,” she whispered, “and tacky too! Tacky-tacky-tacky! What in the world are you supposed to be?” Noticing a cast plaque on the pedestal, she took out her cell phone and turned it on to shine enough light to read the raised letters by, and her eyes narrowed as she read.
“Legend of the Mothman”
The plaque went on to describe the bare-bones details of the previous encounters from the 1960s, accounts she had skimmed over during the brief few minutes she had time to research, and it ended with the phrase, “It still sparks the world’s curiosity – the legend behind Point Pleasant, West Virginia’s MOTHMAN.” She didn’t miss the fact the last word was fully capitalized for emphasis, and it didn’t take her long to realize what it must mean.
Switching her phone to “Record,” she began while the thought was still fresh in her mind.
“It’s a damned tourist attraction, this whole thing! This isn’t something they’ve put up for Halloween; this statue has been here for awhile. This is just another little two-bit town with a two-bit income, looking for publicity to generate a little more money by retooling some old legend. And they dragged me all the way down here for this!” She felt her teeth grinding together again and made herself stop, but her anger didn’t abate. Still holding the phone, she turned three-hundred-sixty degrees, glaring at the silent buildings around her.
“Alright; you want publicity, I’ll give you some publicity! I’ll expose you for the frauds you are, and then we’ll see just how much tourism you get!” Thinking of her battered Jag, she added, “It’s the least I can do!”
And with that pleasant thought in mind, she picked up her bags once more and trudged back across the street to the hotel. She hesitated once, having the distinct feeling of being stared at and stared at hard, like eyes burning a hole between her shoulder blades. Glancing back over her shoulder as she reached the entrance, however, she could see nothing but the steel sculpture, so she shrugged, or at least tried to, the motion held back by the weight of the bags in her hands.
It’s probably that damn, ugly-ass statue. Who the hell puts red eyes on a statue?
Unseen behind her, in the shadows of the storefront on the opposite side of 4th Street, a man stepped out and watched her as she went inside. In his dark suit with a fedora pulled low over his eyes, he was no more than a shadow, and, after the hotel’s glass doors closed behind her, he faded back into the darkness.
The herd of dairy cattle were quietly resting in their pasture, asleep with their legs folded beneath their black and white bodies. It was a warm night, and the herd, as if by common consent, hadn’t returned to the barn, but simply lay down where they were, in a loose group.
They didn’t notice the three creatures approaching them from downwind. The things were not large, no bigger than a large child or a small woman. Crawling flat on their bellies through the pasture, they were no more than thick shadows, while the forest of thin, needle-sharp spines on their backs could have been stray tufts of grass, waving in the faint breeze. Their huge, owl-like eyes were wide-open, sucking in every bit of the available light from the moon and stars, turning their night into twilight. Deep within the specialized brains housed in their round, cat-like skulls, their vision mixed with the sounds of their target chewing its cud in its sleep and the rumble of the fermenting grass digesting in its stomach, with the thick, bovine smell, and with the heat signature picked up by the V-shaped lines of tiny sensor pores on their foreheads, processing and translating it all into a single combination sense, unique only to them, and to other creatures like them.
Other predators like them.
They had never seen an animal like the black and white Holstein in front of them before, but then they didn’t have to; they knew prey when they sensed it.
Drool strung from their sharp-toothed mouths to puddle in the grass, only inches away in their prone position, and the claws on their hind feet and unnaturally long arms twitched involuntarily in anticipation.
A few yards from the unaware cow, the trio spread out gradually, quietly moving apart, each of them knowing which way to go; they had done this before with other things, in other places.
The one at the head made its attack first, with the others moved in close behind. Before the cow could awaken, both her eyes were gone, and the sudden weight dug in and swinging from her mutilated face unbalanced her and prevented her from getting her frantically scrambling hooves beneath her again. All she could do was thrash helplessly and bawl in agony while the others attacked her softest parts and began eating her alive, ripping at her flesh and gulping down her hot, pumping blood. In their single-minded hunger, they ignored the rest of the herd that lunged to their feet and fled in noisy panic, trampling and bellowing in fear.
With their hunger and the noise of the other prey’s departure, the predators failed to notice the arrival of yet a fourth predator even more dangerous than they were.
This predator wore a black suit and tie, carried a large, stocked weapon, and smiled in anticipation as he brought it to his shoulder and lined his eye up with the light-enhancing scope. His index finger pressed the firing stud, and an actinic lightening bolt connected the weapon to the torso of the spiny predator gnawing beneath the cow’s tail, causing its own body’s internal fluids to flash instantly to steam, blowing it in half.
He had planned, and knew just how they would move; after all, like them, he had done this before.
Shifting his aim, his scope’s marking dot intersected the grotesque head that popped up in alarm over the Holstein’s middle, there was another flash, and the target blasted apart, sending the smoking pieces flying.
The third creature – t
he first one to attack – had to overcome its pack hunting instinct and release the restraining grip on its prey’s head in order to flee; the decision to do so took almost half-a-second, which was far too long. The lightening strobed again, lighting up the whole field and blowing its right hind leg off at the hip, and sending it rolling, snarling and snapping its teeth at its own pain.
The newcomer lowered the weapon gently to the ground, and moved in, smiling and flexing his hands.
Whenever possible, he preferred the personal touch.
“Are you done yet?”
“Yes sir,” Sergeant Jacobs, the unit medic, affirmed, tossing the last piece of flesh into a contractor-grade plastic garbage bag for disposal. The bag was plain and black, with none of the bio-hazard markings one might expect; they were professionals, and knew not to reach into it. His scalpel went into a cheap plastic box and followed the bloody meat into the bag, but he kept his gloves on; he’d need them to load up.
“It’s done; the affected areas on the face, abdomen and rear have been excised and bagged, and she’s ready to go.”
“Good job, Sergeant; that was record time.”
Jacobs nodded solemnly at the praise, the night vision goggles he and all the rest of them wore making him look freakish, part man and part machine.
“I’ve been getting plenty of practice lately, sir.”
Lieutenant Barnes had no trouble picking out the stress in the medic’s voice; the strain of this operation was affecting them all.
It’s worse than Afghanistan ever was!
“Well, just be glad we don’t have to do the small stuff too; unlike this cow, it’ll fit through.”
“Yes sir.”
“Hogan,” the Lieutenant called out softly, keeping his voice low by learned combat instinct more than intellect – if nobody heard all the noise this poor cow must have made, they’re not going to hear us talking – “You done?”
“Yes sir; all bagged up.” As if to emphasize his words, he placed a third plastic sack beside the two others he’d already put down. “The site is ready for vac and evac.”
“Make it happen.”
“Yes sir.” Pulling the rubber glove off his right hand and holding it in his left, he pressed the button on the radio hanging from his field gear.
“Charlie 2, we’re ready for preliminary pickup.”
“Charlie 1, this is Charlie 2; we’ll be right there.”
In less than five minutes, the Blackhawk chopper, painted like its namesake in flat, non-reflective ebony, made the trip from the local National Guard base where it had been warming up, and was settling in the pasture beside the dead cow, its rotor wash making the grass wave and throwing dried cow shit in all directions. A soldier inside jumped out, and began dragging a series of ropes and a quick-release harness out of the machine’s side door before passing a battery-powered wet-dry shop vacuum to Hogan, who set it aside long enough to help rig up the cow.
While they were wrapping straps the beast, Barnes approached, and the pilot nodded at him. There was little need for conversation; even though he wasn’t technically part of their unit, the pilot was on continuous call, because he had done this sort of work before.
“Where do you want her, sir?”
“Just dump her somewhere a field over; as long as she’s not connected with this spot, it should be fine.” The Lieutenant knew that such a connection was unlikely; having finished adjusting the harness around the carcass, Hogan had already fired up the shop vac and, with the aid of an ultraviolet light, was busily finding and sucking up any large visible patches of blood or stray bits of meat. By the time he was finished, there would be a disturbed area, but nothing more, and certainly nothing noticeable in a field where cattle were tromping around. He didn’t believe in taking unnecessary chances, however, so moving the dead animal away from the killing zone would also move any special attention away. It was standard operating procedure.
The soldier who had arrived with the helicopter climbed back inside, and the pilot nodded.
“We’re ready. Anything else we need to take?”
“That’s it,” Barnes assured him, “We’ll get rid of the rest.” He backed away, and the machine took to the air once more, turning east with the limp cow dangling below it.
CHAPTER 7
The incessant, regular noise dug into Fiona’s mind like a dull serrated-edge knife, twisting cruelly in a wound. She tried to ignore it, but it wouldn’t quit; just kept going and going and going. Finally, she somehow managed to pry her eyes open at about the same time she recognized it as the ringing of the hotel phone on the stand beside her bed.
She knocked over the lamp before clutching the receiver on the third try.
“‘lo?” she groaned, inadvertently leaving off the first syllable that very accurately described the way she felt and how angry she was getting at the interruption.
“Fiona; Sidney here. I just thought I’d call to see if you’d found out anything yet.”
“Damn it, Sidney!” Fiona snarled into the phone, sitting up and swinging her legs off the edge of the bed. She was wearing nothing but her panties, and she instinctively covered her breasts at the thought of who was on the other end of the line. “How in the hell am I going to find anything out? I just got here!”
“Just got there? You left New York yesterday afternoon!”
“Yeah I did, and I got here after three-o’clock in the morning in a freaking tow truck after I wrecked my car and got a speeding ticket!”
“But you’re okay, right?”
She had to force herself to stop gritting her teeth again at her boss’ words. As if you really give a shit!
“I didn’t kill myself or have to go to the hospital, if that’s what you mean.”
“Oh, okay; so it’s alright then. You sound like you were asleep.”
“Of course I was asleep! What part of getting here at three in the morning don’t you understand?”
“I’m not trying to be a hard-ass, but what time you got in is your problem, not ours. We’re paying you just like you were here, and here you would have already been in the office by now. I expect the same thing there.”
“So I have to punch a time clock now? What the hell, Sidney?”
“I’ll tell you what the hell: you’re late for work, and you’re being written up for it. It’s going in your record. You can sign your reprimand in HR when you get back. Now get that tiny little ass of yours up out of bed and get with the program. I’ll be calling regularly, and I expect to see daily progress reports in my inbox every morning when I arrive at the office.”
“But – “
“No buts; miss one, and don’t bother coming back; we’ll mail you your last check. It boils down to this; you wanted to be a real reporter, and I’ve been good enough to give you that chance, so don’t blow it.”
There was a distinct click and Fiona was left seething and listening to dead air.
“You son of a bitch!” she said, gripping the phone as if attempting to strangle it with her bare hands, “You dirty rotten slimy puke son of a bitch!”
Fiona desperately wanted to throw something, and she was sorely tempted to go back to bed despite her boss’s warning, but she knew, with both herself and her temper fully awake now, there’d be no point; she’d never get back to sleep. So she grabbed her overnight bag and stomped off to the bathroom and the shower, and God help whoever was at the front desk if the water wasn’t hot!
Thankfully the water was steaming, and the desk clerk was friendly and helpful; she was also more than willing to chat, but the only thing Fiona wanted right now was breakfast within walking distance. To her surprise, it turned out there were a four local restaurants and a coffee shop all within a couple of blocks, but, with the leftover stress and the lack of sleep, she didn’t want to risk that at the moment – All I need is to get laid up with food poisoning! What would they call that here in West Virginia? Jethro’s revenge? – and instead opted for something a bit more familiar. So she’
d walked the extra distance to 6th and Viand, and now sat at the town’s only McDonald’s, eating a cinnamon roll and nursing the biggest cup of coffee they had, with her laptop open beside it. Tapping at her keys, she started with her general impressions.
It’s a slightly shabby little town; most of the buildings are old, a lot of them are empty, and, to be honest, most of them have seen better days. Still, the streets and sidewalks are clean, even if they are a little cracked and potholed here and there.
She was at a small, two-person table along a south-facing picture window, and looking west from that angle, it gave her a view of most of the commercial downtown, all of three blocks wide and six long.
Behind her, to the east, the wooded hills and cliffs marked the back edge of town, almost closing in on it she typed, like it’s threatening to push it into the river. She paused, then amended, the Ohio River, as the helpful desk clerk informed me; the Kanawha is the smaller one six blocks south.
Also to the south, just across 6th Street, in fact, was the library she needed: small by New York standards, of course, but much bigger than she’d expected in a small West Virginia town.
I never knew that many people down here could read; like Mom said, I’m surprised they even wear shoes!
Frowning, Fiona went back and deleted that line; it was untrue, she knew, as well as unfair. She was finally awake enough to know the state wasn’t to blame for her unhappiness...although, if what she suspected was true, this town might be, or at least some of the people in it.
Not all; most of the ones she’d met so far were nice to a fault. The staff at the restaurant was as friendly as the hotel clerk had been, and a few of the other customers smiled and nodded to her for no apparent reason other than she’d happened to look their way. The five old men holding court in the corner booth behind her over breakfast had been a particular treat. One of them had called to her as she was taking her food to her table.