Wolf Land

by Jonathan Janz

  Savannah grunted. “Excuse me?”

  Barb glanced at Duane. “You can move in too, as long as you promise not to skulk around trying to catch glimpses of Savannah in her birthday suit.”

  Savannah was shaking her head. “Barb, this is crazy.”

  “And I don’t skulk,” Duane said.

  “Jake and I can stay where we are,” Savannah said. “And Short Pump can take care of himself.”

  “Short Pump is about as imposing as a neutered wiener dog.”

  Duane cleared his throat. “Listen, Miss Callahan, we appreciate your help, but we—”

  “—would rather get killed than listen to good advice,” Barb finished. She directed her gaze at Savannah. “If it were just the two of you, I’d say piss off and let you get ripped apart like the rest of the town.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “But there’s a child back there who needs protecting, and if his mother and the guy who wants to get in her pants—”

  “Hey!” Duane said.

  “—aren’t intelligent enough to take precautions, I’m going to have to pull rank.”

  Savannah gawked at her. “‘Pull rank’?”

  “That’s right,” Barb said. “A person with brain cells can pull rank on two people without them.” She nodded to her left, in the direction of the lake. “My house is down that lane, Short Pump. I suggest you pack what you need and get there before sundown.”

  Duane forced a smile. “Why before sundown? Are you worried about the full moon?”

  “This is Thursday, and the full moon’s not until next week,” Barb answered. “But it’s easier to kill someone and get away with it at night.” She gave them a wry look. “In case you two haven’t noticed.”

  Duane glanced at Savannah, who regarded him with large eyes.

  “I guess we’re staying with you,” Duane said.

  Barb said, “Go get Jake. It’s almost suppertime.”

  Savannah went around the counter and disappeared through the office door. Duane made to rise, but Barb reached across the counter, shoved him back down.

  “What I said about seeing her in her birthday suit.”

  Duane held up his hands. “Hey, I don’t know why you think—”

  “I think you’re a man,” Barb said. “You might be better than the average wolf, but you’re still a man, and you still think with your pecker.”

  “Why do you care so much about Savannah?” he challenged. “Are you as smitten with her as I am?”

  For the first time since he’d met her, Barb appeared hurt. She looked like she might fire back at him, but then seemed to collect herself. “After a comment like that, you don’t deserve an explanation, but since you’re going to be staying with me until this shit storm has passed, I’m going to give you one anyway. Savannah came to work for me when she was thirteen.”

  Duane shrugged. “Sure, I remember. She needed a job, so she applied—”

  “Are you biologically capable of shutting your piehole?”

  Duane did.

  “Savannah worked for me for nine summers, including the ones when she was home from college. And in all that time, she was hardworking and sincere.” Barb nodded. “You know what a rare trait that is? Sincerity?”

  Duane gave a small, grudging nod. “Savannah’s a great girl. I could’ve told you that.”

  “She might be a trifle naïve sometimes,” Barb said, “but she’s got a wonderful heart. She’s a good mother to Jake, and if things go well, he’ll be a good person too. Better than most men, at the very least.”

  Duane peered closely at her. “What makes you so sour on men? We’re not all bad.”

  What emotion had shown in Barb’s face died out. “Don’t worry about it.”

  A moment later, Savannah came through the office door, leading Jake by the hand. His mouth was wet with slobber and streaks of blue, yellow and orange.

  “He found your stash of saltwater taffy,” Savannah explained. “I’ll reimburse you.”

  Barb ignored her, bent toward Jake. “Was it tasty?”

  Jake smiled at her. “Uh-huh.”

  “Good,” she said. “I’ll bring you some more tonight.”

  Savannah and Jake made their way toward the exit. Duane did too, but before he went out, he glanced back at Barb.

  “Something on your mind?” Barb asked.

  Duane picked up a ceramic toad, studied it. “What I wondered,” Duane said, frowning. “Not that it’s any of my business, but…do you like guys?”

  Barb glared at him. “You’re right, it isn’t any of your business. Dumbass.”

  Duane cringed.

  At length, Barb said, “Yes, I like men.”

  “So why didn’t you ever get married?”

  “I was married.”

  “What happened?” Duane asked.

  “Six miscarriages,” Barb answered. “Then he married someone who could carry a baby to term.”

  Duane’s stomach sank.

  “You’re only the second person I’ve told that to, and the first was Savannah.”

  Duane caressed the ceramic toad. “I won’t tell anybody.”

  “You’re right, you won’t. And if you do, I’ll cram that toad so far up your ass, you’ll gag on it.”

  Duane placed the toad on the shelf and exited the shop as briskly as he could.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It was just after nine o’clock on Thursday night. Glenn slumped forward in one of the aged cedar chairs, his head hanging nearly on a level with his spread knees. Joyce sat on the back deck with him, a couple feet away. The backyard spread out before them, reminding her of a state park gone to seed. There were tall trees back here, aspens and willows, oaks and sycamores. The grass and weeds weren’t dense, but she could tell he hadn’t mown for a couple of weeks. Behind them, a couple of Glenn’s windows spilled a dull orange glow, but the night was almost suffocatingly dark, the patches of sky stitching the trees moonless and black.

  “There has to be more,” she said.

  He sighed. “We’ve been through it.”

  “Again,” Joyce said.

  Without looking up, he said, “Give me one good reason why.”

  “Because our lives depend on it.”

  He rocked back in his chair like a surly adolescent. “You’re attempting to attach meaning to something that makes no earthly sense. We’re talking about werewolves here. Why treat it like it’s natural science? It’s like trying to study the mating habits of unicorns.”

  “Except unicorns,” she pointed out, “don’t exist.”

  Glenn looked away.

  “And werewolves do,” she added. “I’m looking at one right now.”

  He shoved to his feet, the chairback banging against the white siding of the house.

  “Two days,” he muttered, stalking down the steps. “Two days of what? Interrogation. Cross-examination. Studying that fucking book?

  “Lycanthropology has been right about a lot of things.”

  “Sure, like those crazy Russian sisters?” He shook his head. “I should be at work anyway.”

  She followed him. “This is more important.”

  He whirled on her. “More important than not looking guilty? Than not looking like I’ve got something to hide? What if people start asking questions? You think the guys at the machine shop are going to cover for me? ‘No, Officer, we haven’t seen him at all. But he sounded strange on the phone.’ The cops will be here in five minutes.”

  “They haven’t come yet.”

  He stepped closer. “You don’t know how it feels. You don’t know what’s it’s like to kill someone. The guilt—” He cut off, sounding like he was about to lose it.

  She grasped his arm before he could turn away. His bicep was hard, thrumming with energy. Was the change upon him? And if it was, woul
d that support or refute her theory?

  “I don’t know what’s it’s like to change,” she said. “But it’s only a matter of time. Four of us were bitten, and we know that you and Weezer both transformed.”

  He glanced at her. “No word from—”

  “Nobody answers at Melody’s house, not the phone or the front door. I might try to break in later.”

  “That’s a clever idea,” he said. “Those hillbillies will shoot you for sport.”

  “What we need to do is draw a parallel between your change and Weezer’s.”

  “There is no parallel.”

  “Not yet,” she said. “But there has to be a connection.”

  He sighed, his muscles relaxing beneath her touch. “It was night during both attacks.”

  “Night is one commonality, though the moon wasn’t full.”

  “That’s just superstition.”

  She smiled. “You aren’t allergic to silver.”

  “How do you—”

  “We ate supper with silver utensils. My grandma’s.”

  “Thanks a lot,” he said. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want there to be any psychosomatic bias.”

  He studied her in silence. “Do you ever date?” he asked.

  “Rarely,” she answered. She thought about it. “Rarely to never.”

  “Why do you suppose that is?”

  “We’re going to analyze me now?”

  His gaze didn’t waver. “Change of pace.”

  “I last had a date in February.”

  “This February?”

  “No, February of 1987. Of course this February.” She gave him a little shove.

  Laughing, he said, “Just the one date?”

  “With that gentleman, yes.”

  “Why only one?”

  She drew herself up. “We weren’t compatible.”

  Glenn’s grin darkened. “He wanted sex on the first date.”

  Joyce opened her mouth to tell him how accurate his guess was. Maybe even share the whole story, how the man—who later proved to be married—had tried to force himself on her, how his bad breath had nearly made her vomit. How she’d begun to fear for her safety before he finally relented and drove her back to her house in silence.

  But something in Glenn’s eyes made her stop. It was the darkness in them, the perverse hunger. Shadowed by the night and the trees, his eyes reminded her very much of a shark’s.

  She stepped past him and moved closer to the overhanging boughs of a maple tree so he wouldn’t see her face. She’d always been an abysmal liar. “I was the aggressor.”

  Glenn snorted. “You?”

  “Is that so difficult to imagine?” She became aware of the movements of her limbs, how lithe her body felt. God, the night air was crisp and warm. Joyce could smell pinesap and jasmine. She looked at him, her voice descending into a sultry purr. “I was aroused by him. What’s wrong with that?”

  Glenn’s smile went away like dust motes whipped by a gale. He advanced toward her. She could see his broad chest heaving. “Who was it?”

  But Joyce sidestepped a narrow birch tree, reached out, let her fingertips rove over the ghostly curls of bark. She imagined herself from his perspective. Bare shoulder blades in the crimson top. Decent enough rear end under the white tennis skirt. Nice legs, browner than usual. Whatever imperfections he might find in her figure would be concealed by the caul of darkness surrounding them.

  “He was very handsome,” she said. “I wanted him. He drove me out to some land he owned. He claimed he used it for hunting.”

  “Give me his name, Joyce.”

  To her left, some small animal scampered away, as if affrighted by Glenn’s bridled rage.

  “You don’t get his name,” she said, “but I’ll tell you what happened between us.”

  What’s wrong with you? a voice in her head screamed. Don’t tease him!

  But that wasn’t what she was doing, was it? She was experimenting. And if she planted the seed that a man had found her attractive, what harm was there in that? It was time for Glenn to see her for what she was. A young, fairly attractive woman. No Savannah, of course, but it was time he let go of that obsession.

  A firefly flashed a warning from several feet away.

  She progressed through the yard, let the tip of a forefinger whisper over the prickling needles of a spruce. “He parked in the woods. We didn’t get out because it was so cold. There was a chill under the torrid air blowing from his vents, but that only made it more exciting.” She paused, the bite of the spruce needles poking her flesh. “My nipples were hard.”

  “Joyce, I don’t want to—”

  “He reached over and cupped one of my breasts.” That much was true. The man had groped her first thing after parking, and though she’d warned him she had no interest in a one-night fling, his hand hadn’t moved until she’d slapped his leering face.

  But Glenn didn’t need to know that.

  “I reciprocated,” she said. “I placed a hand on the crotch of his jeans. He was already erect.”

  “Joyce—”

  “I longed to feel him inside of me.” She closed her eyes, abandoning herself to the fantasy. “I lunged across the console and put my mouth on his. I slung a leg over, straddled him—”

  “You need to—”

  “—and began grinding. The heat between my legs was unbearable, and when the friction between us increased, I thought I was going to—”

  “NO!” Glenn roared.

  Gasping, she spun and saw him staggering back. Despite the gloom of the backyard, she could already see the hair sprouting in tufts from his cheeks, his throat, and now the fact of what was happening was driven home to her like a spike through her brain. She’d suspected what Glenn’s trigger was. Perhaps it was her pride at taking Clark Lombardo Coulter PhD’s research and applying it that had made her so careless, but she was here now. Alone in the forest with a man transforming into a monster.

  Glenn flailed a hand at her—a clawed, pulsing hand—and stumbled away, the last vestiges of humanity fleeing before the change. She knew she had only moments before her fate was sealed as surely as those men at the drive-in restroom, before her skin flew in ribbons and the grass and weeds around her were doused with the wine of her veins. She had to go. Yet the house was at least thirty yards away, her car twenty more.

  Glenn roared in agony. Joyce watched, transfixed.

  He was not only getting hairier, but his facial bones were shifting, widening, his legs were cracking, the heels notching upward, the clothes splitting on his expanding frame. His eyes were squeezed shut, and it was the idea of them, the glaring wolflike eyes, that got her moving. If those eyes riveted on hers, she’d be unable to look away. She’d be rooted to the spot, a slab of hot meat, and the thing that was no longer Glenn would revel in her evisceration. She wove toward a stand of pines, hearing behind her a different sort of roar. There was agony in it, but she heard confusion there too.

  And rage.

  Joyce bolted away, hoping she’d judged the direction of her car correctly.

  A howl rent the night. Joyce nearly stumbled in terror.

  She skirted a vast oak tree, crested a small rise, and spotted the detached garage ahead of her.

  The howling ceased, but the silence that replaced it frightened her even more.

  Joyce sprinted for her car.

  Had she left the keys in the console? She couldn’t remember. She sometimes did and sometimes didn’t, and what a fool she’d been to bring on the transformation, what a simpering, stupid fool. She fled past the garage, slapping at her hip pockets until she remembered she didn’t keep her keys in her pockets. They were in her purse or in the car, and the difference, God help her, could mean the difference between life or death.

 
From behind her came a bloodcurdling roar, the voice containing no semblance of humanity.

  Glenn was fully transformed.

  Moaning, she scampered around the front of the Corolla and lunged toward the driver’s door. She’d been so stupid. Treating this as if it were an academic exercise rather than a situation that could end in death.

  She ripped open the door, plunged her hand inside the console for the keys, but her fingers only encountered lip gloss containers, crumpled receipts. She bent over the compartment, peered into the darkness within, but all she could make out were more papers, a napkin or two. Something that looked like a ruptured pack of breath mints. Dammit! Where were the—

  A banging noise whipped her head up. She stared wide-eyed at the open garage doors.

  No one there. She glanced to her right and detected no movement from the house.

  Which meant Glenn was out here. Prowling, lurking. Glenn would find her any moment and rip her—

  She’d left her car door open! With a hissing sound, she jerked her shoes inside the Corolla, snagged the door handle, and yanked the door shut.

  Movement near the garage brought her eyes up. To the left of the garage, where the yard gave way to the cornfield. Was Glenn there? Or was he about to pounce on her hood, punch through the windshield, slash her throat open? Or maybe he was—

  With a gasp she turned and stared through the driver’s side window.

  Nothing.

  But at any moment he could appear, snarling, yellow eyes glowing like sinister lanterns, and…

  She remembered where the keys were.

  Under the seat. Her hand darted, plucked them from the floor, and then she was guiding the key toward the ignition, though her hand shook so much she kept stabbing the hard plastic sheath around the steering column. It occurred to her she hadn’t locked the doors, but all her will was currently focused on fitting the key in the ignition. And locking the door really wouldn’t do much anyway. Did werewolves know how to operate a door handle? With that kind of strength, did they need to?

  An earsplitting howl rent the night. Joyce squirted urine into her underwear.

  The howl dwindled to a low, mournful bay, but the sound still sent chills scurrying up and down her bare arms. It came from the cornfield.