Wolf Land

by Jonathan Janz

  He entered the living room and discovered the three of them, Weezer, Rebecca and Mya, grinding in the middle of the room. The girls had Weezer sandwiched, their fingers roving over his body like he was some kind of rock star. Hell, shirtless and sweating, he even looked like a rock star now.

  On Glenn’s stereo, Motley Crüe’s “Wild Side” had begun to blare. The song was ordinarily one of Glenn’s favorites, but now it sounded obscene, distasteful, the sinister lyrics a bitter counterpoint to Glenn’s remorse.

  Weezer spotted him. “Hey, man,” Weezer said as the girls’ hands caressed his sides, his hips, “come party with us.”

  Mya had her back to Glenn, but Rebecca’s eyes flicked toward him, then to the back of Weezer’s neck. Had there been a hint of come-hither in Rebecca’s gaze? Or was her naughty mood confined to Weezer, the guy who before tonight had never impressed a woman in his life?

  Glenn tried to muster what confidence he could, strode casually over to the trio, but they were grouped too tightly, their twining limbs reminding him of the Hindu goddess Durga. The thought rooted him in place. What had Durga stood for? Obviously a feminine deity, she was a mother goddess of sorts…and what else?

  Destruction, he now remembered.

  He watched with dim revulsion as one of Rebecca’s arms snaked around Weezer’s waist and cupped his package, the fingers kneading him through his jeans. On the stereo, Vince Neil sang of murder and rape. Mya leaned over Weezer’s shoulder, tongued Rebecca, who lapped at Mya’s lips greedily. Weezer thrust his midsection against Mya, her tight butt tremoring from the force.

  Sickened, Glenn slid past them and into the kitchen. He couldn’t bear it anymore. Glenn had taken on two women at once on several occasions, but the act now taking place in his living room made him want to run screaming from the house.

  Jealous, the dark voice teased.

  But that wasn’t it, Glenn decided. Not entirely. Sure, he’d been jealous earlier. He’d been stung by Rebecca’s interest in Weezer. But very little of what he was feeling now boiled down to jealousy.

  He went to the fridge, fetched himself a cold bottle of Budweiser. He pressed the bottle to his temple, the icy condensation soothing him. He exhaled. This was what he needed. It was maybe eighty degrees in the house, perhaps more. He’d been sweating without realizing it. Glenn twisted off the bottle cap, chucked it onto the counter and took a swig.

  And nearly choked on it when he heard the squeal from the living room.

  His heart thundering, Glenn hurried in to find Rebecca sitting on the couch and Mya standing a few feet from Weezer, a hand covering her mouth, her eyes stitched with pain.

  No, Glenn realized after a moment’s study. Mya looked more surprised than injured. And Rebecca wasn’t sitting on the couch, she was sprawled there. Almost liked she’d been thrown.

  Frowning, Glenn pushed the Off button and silenced Motley Crüe.

  Weezer groaned. “Man, the guitar solo was coming up.”

  Glenn looked at the girls, then at his friend. “Weezer, what the hell is going on?”

  “He bit me,” Mya said, though her speech was garbled. Half, Glenn thought, because of the blood on her lips, and half because of the alcohol she’d been guzzling. Seven or eight beer bottles were already strewn about the living room.

  “You hurt too?” Glenn asked Rebecca.

  She gestured at Weezer. “This asshole threw me.”

  Weezer was staring at Mya, who kept fingering her lips and examining the dollops of blood she found.

  “Hey Weezer?” Glenn said. “What exactly is happening here?”

  Weezer gazed steadily back at him. “I suppose I should treat others as kindly as you have tonight.”

  Glenn swallowed. “You need to apologize to—”

  “Of course,” Weezer said, moving toward Mya. “I wasn’t very gentlemanly, was I?”

  She eyed him apprehensively. Not buying his contrition exactly, but not opposed to a reconciliation either.

  “You fucking hurt me is what you did,” Mya said.

  Weezer reached out, placed a hand on her waist. “I simply got carried away. The way you were grinding on me, I guess I just lost control.”

  She allowed him to draw her closer. “Well, it hurt.”

  “I know,” he said. “Let me make it better.” And he leaned in to kiss her.

  Glenn felt a little queasy, watching their lips come together. Rebecca too seemed disgusted that her friend would forgive a guy who’d just bitten her.

  Mya’s eyes widened.

  Glenn heard a low growl.

  The growl swelled exponentially, and then Weezer’s face wrenched away from Mya’s, and in the split second before Mya’s hands flew to her mouth, Glenn beheld her exposed bottom teeth, her gums beading with blood.

  Weezer turned his head and spat out Mya’s bottom lip.

  Rebecca screamed, her hands framing her pretty face. Mya staggered toward the hall. As her horrified eyes were swallowed by the shadows, Glenn glimpsed the blood coursing down her knuckles, reddening the throat of her white top like a crimson cravat.

  Rebecca shrieked again, and Glenn followed her gaze to Weezer, whose back muscles were expanding, whose jeans were sprouting slits, whose growl was coarsening to something feral. He noted how tall Weezer had grown.

  Weezer took a step toward Mya, another. Then he catapulted toward her. She spun and took a couple of shambling strides toward the bedroom. Then Weezer’s body crashed down on hers, pinned her to the floor, and Rebecca was trembling at Glenn’s side, watching the slaughter from twenty feet away, neither of them saying a word, lifting a finger, and Glenn thought, This is worse than before. Even though I’m not doing the killing, this is infinitely worse. Because I am in control now, I can do something. I’m just not.

  Blood sprayed everywhere, thick rills of it splashing the walls like a Jackson Pollock painting.

  Glenn stared.

  Weezer’s hands ripped, tore.

  Beside him, Rebecca’s mouth hinged open in a voiceless scream.

  Glenn watched, unable to look away.

  Part of Mya’s breast plopped down in the middle of the living room.

  Rebecca shook her head in mute denial.

  Mya’s flesh came away in glabrous sheets. Weezer plunged his head into her belly, seized hold of what lay within.

  That’s you, Glenn thought. That’s what you are now.

  “Please help me,” Rebecca whispered.

  Glenn nodded. Nodded but didn’t do anything. Not until Weezer turned and regarded them with a grin that was more than bloody, that was far worse than cruel.

  Weezer’s face was accursed.

  More human than animal, the wolflike countenance was tufted with hair, the eyes vast and yellow, the eyebrows thick and arched, the teeth grossly elongated and splotched with bloody tissue.

  “Save her, Glenn,” the Weezer-thing rumbled.

  But it was Rebecca who seized Glenn by the arm and towed him toward the kitchen. Once away from the Weezer-thing’s malefic stare, Glenn was able to move his legs, was able to trail after Rebecca, who thrust open the side door with enough force for Glenn to slip through before the thing banged shut.

  Rebecca swerved toward the driveway, fell, scuttled forward like a blind crab, reminding Glenn how drunk she was.

  Rebecca finally gained her feet but again veered off course, reminding him of a participant in one of those silly kids’ games, the one where you stood a baseball bat on end, put your forehead on it, and ran in circles until you got good and dizzy. Then you stood up and promptly sprinted into a nearby rosebush, really fucking funny, but this wasn’t funny at all. Rebecca was struggling to make it to Mya’s car, but her feet got tangled and she went lunging forward, headfirst into the door. Glenn heard a thud as her head dented metal, and Rebecca flopped down, weeping and grasping her bru
ised forehead.

  Glenn hustled over to her, feeling weightless, insubstantial. He shot glances at the glowing windows of the front room, expecting any moment to see Weezer. Or what Weezer had become.

  Say it, Glenn.

  No, he thought. He bent and reached for Rebecca.

  Say it now, you pussy!

  No! He hauled Rebecca to her feet, pawed at the door handle, sure the thing would be locked.

  Werewolf.

  Glenn whimpered, made his hand grip the handle.

  Were-wolf, it repeated. Say it.

  Glenn tugged on the handle. The door swung open.

  Say it!

  Glenn nudged Rebecca toward the passenger seat, started to shut the door, then stopped when he noticed her right leg was still poking out of the car. He tucked her foot under the dash, slammed the door home, then circled the car, his eyes never leaving the glowing orange windows of his front room.

  Icy fingers caressed Glenn’s neck. Had he seen something moving within? A shifting of shadows?

  Or a shape-shifter? the voice teased. Admit it, Glenn. You two are werewolves, only Weezer is the bigger and scarier one.

  I’m not a…

  The thought died before it could finish.

  Glenn opened the driver’s door, slid into the seat. He shut his door, groped for the ignition.

  Empty.

  His eyes flitted to the front windows. Still orange. Still vacant.

  Glenn held out his palm to Rebecca. “Keys,” he demanded.

  She looked at him, horror-stricken. “I don’t have them.”

  He stared at her. “Where are they?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “I don’t know. Mya’s purse?”

  Glenn’s eyes went to the house again. He could go back in and get the keys. He could also remove his nipples with a hacksaw.

  There was Weezer’s truck. Would the keys be inside? Or the Corvette? If speed was the main concern, they should take Glenn’s car. He shot a look at Rebecca, noticed how she’d leaned forward, doubled up. Weeping. Awaiting death.

  Glenn put a comforting hand on her back, let his gaze linger on the side door of the house. Any moment, Weezer would burst through it. But they couldn’t just wait here.

  He took a steadying breath. He’d get out, check the ’Vette and the Ranger for keys. Whichever one had them, he’d fire up. When he drew even with Mya’s car, he’d transfer Rebecca to the running vehicle.

  Or you’ll keep on driving and leave her here to die.

  No! he thought, grinding his teeth. He wouldn’t do that.

  Glenn took one last look at the house, reached for the handle—

  And bellowed in terror as the living room window exploded in a mass of snarling muscle.

  Rebecca shrieked, climbed over the console toward him. Glenn huddled against the door, but it was a desperate, futile measure. Weezer had landed on the lawn, the jagged shards of glass twinkling around him like sinister rhinestones. Then the Weezer-thing was barreling toward them, its head down, but not enough to conceal its snarling teeth, its maniacal yellow eyes. Rebecca scrambled over Glenn, shoved open the door, and spilled out onto the gravel like quivering afterbirth. Glenn watched her, saw her gain her feet, take a few shambling strides toward the cornfield that bordered his yard. The growling huff of the beast brought Glenn’s gaze around as Weezer bore down on the side of the car. Glenn whimpered, braced himself for the impact, but then the Weezer-thing was launching itself over the roof, rising, disappearing, then reappearing on the opposite side of the car, and Rebecca had fallen, had turned to see the beast sailing toward her. She scuttled backward on her elbows, and she was pleading with Weezer to “Stop it! Stop it!” and then the Weezer-thing was on her, its talons ripping her cheeks like old curtains, the blood black and gushing in the moonlight. The Weezer-thing mauled her, ate her nose, her brow, her face becoming a featureless ruin.

  Glenn closed his eyes. Trying to unsee what he had seen. But the images remained vivid, remained just as gruesome, as at the edge of the cornfield the macabre soundtrack of the feast continued to blare.

  Part Three

  Shadow Side

  Chapter Nineteen

  The thunking sound reminded Duane of the big picture window in the front room of his house growing up. The view had been pretty and everything, but at least once a month there’d come a dull, sickening thump from the front room, and it always meant the same thing: another bird had died. Ordinarily they were sparrows, but sometimes they were bigger. Robins. Cardinals. The occasional blue jay. But whatever the species, it all boiled down to the same thing.

  Death.

  They’d usually twitch a lot, their wings broken and folded at unnatural angles. There’d be blood trickling from their beaks, though not a lot of it. Just enough to ram home the indelible fact that these birds were not getting better. They’d rustle and spasm and convulse for a few seconds, but they sure as hell wouldn’t get up again.

  So Duane had painted the outside of the window white. A big, graceful robin had dive-bombed the window while Duane was sitting there playing Legos. Duane had actually seen the poor thing coming, the bird having just vacated a branch on the oak tree that stood sentry outside their house. The robin fluttered out of the tree in the direction of the road, changed course as if it had forgotten some important item and hurtled right at the window. Duane had watched the robin approach with numb dread, fully aware that even if he did leap to his feet and flap his arms like a madman, the sun glare on the window would prevent the robin from seeing him.

  Blood had actually splurted from the robin’s beak upon impact, a testament to its speed and obliviousness. Looking back, Duane was amazed the window hadn’t shattered, or at least spiderwebbed. But it had held, and the robin had landed in the mulch bed like a plump acorn. When Duane rushed out to examine it, the desperate reassurances already strobing through his mind—It’s only stunned…Its wings will mend…It’s just a fractured beak—he was aghast to find it flopping around in a pile of its own guts. The force of the collision so violent its entrails had blown out of its ass.

  And so great had been Duane’s sense of injustice that he’d marched down to the basement and found the paint his mom used to touch up the trim around their house. He was only seven at the time, but his thinking was very clear, very pragmatic. The window kept claiming innocent creatures. The birds didn’t have a chance against the lurking illusion. If Duane took away the window’s reflective properties, he would save untold avian lives.

  From there it was easy. Stepladder, paintbrush. A half hour of sloppily drawn swaths of Dover white. He’d been standing back from the vast snowy rectangle when his parents returned from the hardware store. They often left Duane and his older brothers alone while they ran errands, and though Duane’s brothers were supposed to watch him, most of the time they ran around the neighborhood with friends and left Duane to his own devices.

  His parents hadn’t been pleased.

  His dad spanked the hell out of him when they saw what he’d done to the window. For months afterward the house had reeked of paint thinner, and for years afterward there’d remained a ghostly pale film on the glass that never completely washed away.

  But the birds didn’t crash into it quite as frequently, and Duane felt it had been worth it.

  The thunking came again, and he remembered where he was. Not in his front room playing Legos.

  In the front seat of his truck, sleeping in Savannah’s driveway.

  He opened his eyes and saw Savannah watching him through the driver’s window. Duane stared blearily up at her pinched face.

  “What are you doing out here?” she asked, her pretty mouth forming each syllable with either annoyance or concern. With the sunlight punishing his eyeballs, it was difficult to tell.

  Savannah rapped the window, squinted at him.

  Opening and shutt
ing his lips, Duane reached over, turned the ignition key halfway, and thumbed down the automatic window.

  “The front seat of your truck more comfortable than your bed?” Savannah asked.

  Duane leaned away from her so she wouldn’t scent his sewer breath. “I was worried about you.”

  The furrows in her brow deepened. “Why would you be worried about me?”

  Duane sighed. “I’ll tell you. On two conditions.”

  “I don’t like conditions, Short Pump.”

  “One, you don’t have me committed. I’m having trouble believing it myself.”

  “And the other?”

  “Loan me a toothbrush. I feel like I gargled with cat litter.”

  Savannah was waiting for him at the kitchen table when he emerged from the bathroom. Thankful she had a spare toothbrush on hand, he took a chair across from her. He was about to tell her about the werewolf CPA when she sat forward and said, “Duane?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I need to say something.”

  “Is Jake still asleep?”

  “Are you nuts? He’s up at six thirty every morning.”

  “Then where—”

  “My bedroom,” she said. “Watching Thomas the Train.”

  “Ah.”

  “Now shut up and let me say this before my thoughts get out of order. I didn’t sleep at all last night, and I’m having trouble putting together a coherent sentence.”

  Join the club, Duane thought. He’d remained awake and watchful until four in the morning.

  “Savannah,” he said. “I’m not devaluing what you’re going to say, but I’m pretty sure what I have to tell you is more important.”

  “‘Devaluing’? Where’d you get that, Short Pump? Daytime talk shows?”

  Duane spread his palms. “I merely wanted you to know that I respected your—”

  “Oh, shut up for a second, would you? You’re either staring at my tits or treating me like I’m the queen of England. Just treat me like a person for once.”

  He fell silent.

  Savannah squeezed her eyes shut, sat forward and massaged her forehead. “I thought about you all night, Short Pump, and I finally figured everything out. And not just you, either. I figured out every guy I’ve ever known.”