Wolf Land

by Jonathan Janz

  A ghastly thought occurred to her.

  What if the creature had already extricated the shepherd’s hook?

  What if Garner was going for Jake?

  With a moan, Barb jammed her fingers under the mat, located the cold, hard shape of the key. She sat up, fitted the key into the ignition, and fired up the Outback. When she twisted on her headlamps and the spill of amber illuminated the side yard, she saw the werewolf had made it to one knee, was sliding the steel tines out of its chest.

  Barb thrust the Outback into gear, stomped on the accelerator. The vehicle grabbed the driveway immediately. The werewolf rose, the shepherd’s hook held aloft like a trident, but the Outback was rocketing forward, bearing down on the beast. Barb worried the werewolf might leap into the air, perform some otherworldly feat of gymnastics, but then her bumper was slamming the beast into the house, where the brick fireplace protruded from the white aluminum façade. She was doing maybe twenty-five when she slammed the beast, and when her front end blasted the siding and the brick, Barb was whipsawed straight into the steering column. The airbag didn’t go off—fucking thing—so her forehead struck the windshield. The glass there spiderwebbed and the Outback rebounded a few feet.

  Blood from her forehead dribbled into her eyes, but she could still make out the werewolf slumped against the house. The Outback had badly damaged the creature—its front was slicked with blood—but the slight shelter provided by the alcove where the chimney jutted from the siding had perhaps spared it from being crushed to death.

  Barb’s engine stalled, a curling ribbon of smoke oozing from beneath the hood. She reached down, twisted the key. Reluctantly, almost as though it were angry at her for treating it so roughly, the Outback grumbled to life.

  The beast looked up at her. In the bloody, leathery countenance she detected no sign of Dave Garner.

  Barb stood on the accelerator. The Outback lurched forward and crashed into the werewolf’s bulging thighs. The impact brought its head whipping down at the hood, where it bowed the thin metal and shot a bright splatter of blood over the windshield. Barb kept the accelerator down, the Outback’s tires grinding her lawn but grabbing enough purchase to keep the werewolf pinned. The beast writhed against her, growling and scoring the hood with its razor talons. An intermittent tap broke through the revving of the engine, and when Barb armed enough blood out of her eyes to see better she realized it was the shepherd’s hook, still clutched in the werewolf’s right hand. She had just noticed it when the beast reared back, face contorted in a rictus of rage, and thrust the shepherd’s hook at her. The steel tines punctured the windshield easily, and before Barb could raise her arms to defend herself, the spikes stabbed her in the chest.

  The pain was overwhelming. She didn’t know precisely where the tines had pierced her flesh, but she had an idea the wounds were on the right side of her body rather than the left. Not fatal, hopefully, but damned painful.

  She shot a look over the hood at the werewolf, which was baring its teeth in a taunt. The werewolf sank both sets of talons into the hood metal and began to hoist itself out. Grimacing, Barb slid the tines out of her chest. The spikes jerked free of her body, but the sound of blood slopping into her lap reminded her of someone who’s knocked over a water bottle and allowed its contents to dribble all over the floor. With a last shove, Barb expelled the shepherd’s hook from the mangled windshield. It clattered on the hood next to the werewolf.

  The beast didn’t appear to notice. With a convulsive lurch, it yanked itself up six or eight inches, bringing its killing hands closer to her windshield. The car continued to rev against the side of the house, but the beast was squirming out of its trap. It sank its talons into the hood just below the windshield wipers and dragged itself forward. Barb could see its bloodied midsection and thighs hemorrhaging over the savaged blue steel of the hood, but the creature didn’t seem fazed at all. If anything, it seemed to be growing stronger. Barb, meanwhile, had a pair of goddamned holes in her chest and felt like screaming hell. If she didn’t do something soon, the beast would climb right into the car with her, and then there’d be no one to protect Jake.

  It was this prospect that galvanized her, demanded she take control of the situation. Wincing, Barb yanked back on the gearshift, reversed into the yard. The lawn seemed smooth whenever she walked on it, but her Outback bounced like a moon rover as she retreated from the beast. For a moment she was sure the werewolf would follow her into the yard. She even toyed with the notion of driving toward the main road in an attempt to draw it away from Jake. But after a moment’s hesitation, the creature crawled toward the shattered living room window.

  She wondered briefly if her neighbors were hearing any of this. Sure, she lived on ten acres down a dead-end lane, but it wasn’t like this was Siberia. Surely someone had heard the Outback crashing into the house or the werewolf’s roars. Barb reversed another twenty yards and brought the Outback to a halt. The distance between the chimney and the window was only about fifteen feet, but the werewolf’s entire lower half had been torn and crushed by the Outback. Barb figured she had time. If she made her move now.

  Barb slid the gearshift into drive, nudged the Outback forward, and rapidly picked up speed. The creature was maybe eight feet from where it had started. But not yet to the window. She wouldn’t let it make it there. Though it hurt like hell to do so, Barb reached back, snagged the seatbelt. She clicked it into place and barreled straight at the beast, which had ceased crawling and was attempting to rise. Barb had a horrible vision of smashing right through the side of the house and injuring little Jake in the resulting spray of wood and sheetrock, but it was too late to worry about that now. She was doing more than thirty when the Outback crashed into the house, but even as she was catapulted forward, the seatbelt slicing into her flesh but the stupid airbag still not deploying, she knew something had gone wrong. The beast had gotten as low as it could before she crashed into it. As the Outback rebounded, Barb strained to see the base of the house. There was a great deal of dust. Chunks of masonry and several strips of mangled white siding. But no werewolf. Oh my God, she thought. It’s gone for Jake! It somehow made it to the broken window and pulled itself inside. She was disengaging the seatbelt when she became aware of the scratching sound.

  It came from beneath the car.

  Barb swallowed, new fear dousing her like a cold March rain. The thing had managed to climb under the Outback and was clawing at the chassis to get at her.

  She turned the key, but the Outback wouldn’t start. The steam rising from the engine seeped through the ruined windshield. Barb’s eyes watered, and she began to cough. She’d have to get out of the car, but she couldn’t take any chances. She needed a weapon.

  No, two weapons.

  Like every driver in the western hemisphere with half a brain, she kept a crowbar in case of a flat. Additionally, she kept a hunting knife—her dad’s hunting knife—in the glove box in case she got into a tight scrape.

  Something told her that if this scrape got any tighter, a knife would be only marginally more useful than an overripe banana. Those claws were lethal.

  The scratching got louder. Was the Garner-thing stuck?

  If so, maybe she really could get her and Jake out of here alive. She had the four-wheeler.

  As Barb retrieved the buck knife and the crowbar, the scratching grew more pronounced. Could the werewolf rip through the underbelly of the Outback?

  Barb straightened in her seat, and a wave of dizziness drowsed over her. She jerked her head, heart hammering. Of all the options available to her, fainting was the least appealing. Fainting meant death for her and Jake.

  Swallowing the sick lump of fear in her throat, Barb opened the door. She scooted over to the left edge of the seat, thinking she could avoid the creature’s grasping talons if she stepped out far enough from the car, and that’s when the hairy arm shot out and seized her ankle. Barb gasped, pawed
at the steering wheel to anchor herself, but the beast simply yanked her straight out the door. Barb flopped down face-first, the crowbar pinned beneath her and the buck knife tumbling into the grass. She made a grab for the knife, got her fingers on the handle, but lost her grip as the werewolf dragged her under the car. Its talons sank deep into her ankle. Though the light beneath the car was poor, she could see well enough how the thing’s right arm had gotten wedged between the muffler and the chassis, how if she’d gotten out on the passenger’s side she might have avoided its grasp.

  Most of all she noticed the hatred in the werewolf’s eyes, the insatiable desire for revenge.

  The werewolf dragged her nearer. The pain in her ankle was beyond anything she could have imagined. Mind-destroying pain.

  Her twitching foot neared the werewolf’s mouth.

  Barb grasped the crowbar with both hands, bent at the waist, and jabbed its chiseled end at the beast’s hand. The chisel point sank in, the werewolf roaring with pain. Straining, Barb worked the chisel point around, digging into the creature’s tendons.

  Its fingers came loose, and Barb jerked away. She clambered toward the moonlight, acutely aware of the werewolf behind her, sure at any moment it would seize her ankle again. It grabbed the cuff of her jeans, but she pulled free. She writhed forward on elbows and knees, her bloody leg trailing behind her. She shot a look back and saw the werewolf thrashing wildly, the ugly bastard’s movements so vigorous that the muffler pipe was coming loose.

  So was the werewolf’s arm.

  Barb had just cleared the underside of the Outback when she heard the beast thump down, detached from the car.

  Barb pushed up on her good leg, dove forward, and seized the buck knife’s handle. Before she could even roll over with it, the beast was hurtling from beneath the car, its hungry talons outstretched. Barb jerked the buck knife up, slashed at the wolf’s hands, and felt the fine blade zip through two of the beast’s fingers. Screeching in pain, it crashed down on her, but Barb immediately shot up a knee, nailed it in the testicles, and heaved it over her head with her hands and knees. The beast did a tilting somersault, spun and snarled at her on all fours, but Barb was already on her knees, the buck knife swinging in a tight strike at its mouth. The eight-inch blade ripped through each side of the creature’s mouth, twin spurts of blood drenching the front of her body. The thing’s eyes squeezed tight and it let loose with an almost human bray of agony. It was holding its mangled fingers to its mangled mouth, and that exposed its throat. Barb sank the knife there, driving the large blade to the hilt, and jerked down. The knife snicked all the way to the thing’s breastbone, and blood gushed out like a scarlet spillway. The hot blood sprayed over Barb’s knuckles. The beast sank its talons into her shoulders, made to push her away, but Barb dug in with the toes of her sneakers, twisted the buck knife, and started sawing with it in the direction of the creature’s heart. She was astounded at how much blood was gushing from the creature’s chest. Her arms were red to the shoulders, her shoulders bloody from the thing’s claws. The beast’s blood painted her face and coated the inside of her mouth. In the back of her mind, she wondered about infection. But that was assuming a lot, assuming most of all she would live, which was very much in doubt.

  She had to end this.

  The beast was still fighting her off. Its swipes were weak now, drastically less effective than they’d been a few minutes ago, but it was still digging at her flesh with its scythe-like talons, still striping her skin and allowing more avenues for her blood to leave her body. With a cry, Barb wrenched the knife out of the beast’s torso, reared back, and jabbed the blade into its remaining eye. The buck knife didn’t sink in to the hilt, but it came close. The beast forgot all about its other wounds and tumbled back, squalling. Barb clambered through the grass, scrabbled in the darkness for the crowbar. If werewolves really regenerated—and all the evidence pointed toward that very phenomenon—she might not have time to retrieve her .44 from the gun safe.

  She heard Jake call out to her, but she gave no answer, didn’t want him to think he could venture outside. Besides, it was all she could do to stay conscious. She didn’t trust herself to form an intelligible response.

  Her fingers happened on the cold, slick crowbar. She plucked it from the ground, rose, saw the werewolf had extricated the buck knife. But rather than coming for her, it had cast the knife aside, was attempting to crawl away.

  Bastard, Barb thought.

  She raised a knee and dropped onto the small of the creature’s back. It went down, made to roll over, but before it could she drove the chisel point into its back, straight at its heart.

  Her aim was true. The chisel point skewered the beast’s heart and punctured the flesh of its chest. The thing’s arms and legs splayed out, its torso convulsing, its head thrashing in the bloody grass as if it could escape death.

  Barb felt her expression twitch into a savage smile. She stepped over, retrieved the buck knife, sat down on the creature’s back, and fitted the blade under its larynx. With one hand she yanked back the beast’s wiry black hair, and with the other she began sawing back and forth through the beast’s skin and the tissue beneath. She heard the whistle of its breath now, the windpipe ruptured. Soon she was hacking through its spinal cord. The stench was awful, the yard drenched with gore. When the head came free, she staggered to her feet, lurched toward the garage. The main thing, she decided, was to remain conscious. If she could get Jake to safety, she’d be able to convince everybody. But to do that she had to finish this the right way.

  She moved through the side garage door and shuffled through the darkness toward the workbench. What she needed was under there. Once she’d gotten what she was looking for, she moved to the front corner of the garage and activated the overhead door. Moonlight spilled through the gap, the whole front of the garage’s interior now aglow. She moved to the four-wheeler, arranged her parcel on the back with the bungee cords she kept there. After a moment’s debate, she snatched her machete from the workbench and eased it down the back of her waistband. She guided the four-wheeler out of the garage and over to the front porch, where Jake now stood. She let the front tires bump the bottom step and cut the engine.

  “Is that you, Aunt Barb?”

  She chuckled, but it hurt like hell. Drenched with blood and badly injured, she imagined she looked pretty wretched.

  “Hold on a second,” she said. She bent at the waist, hands on knees, and rode out another wave of lightheadedness.

  Jake waited, his eyes huge, his red Spiderman pajamas making him look even younger than his five years.

  “You know where bedroom closet is?” she asked.

  Jake shook his head.

  “I need you to support me while I get some stuff out of there.”

  Jake didn’t answer. She realized his eyes were fixed on something beyond her. She didn’t need to turn around to know he was staring at the headless body.

  “Look at me, honey,” she said.

  Jake continued to stare, his face whiter than her aluminum siding.

  “Look at me,” she snapped, then felt a rush of guilt at the way he shrank from her.

  She swallowed. Man, she was precariously close to passing out. “Jake, that thing I killed…the thing in the yard. There are more of them. They’re going to—”

  She stopped, debated how to phrase it, then decided bluntness was best, even if it scared the shit out of the child. Better for him to know how serious this was.

  “They’re going after your mom—” Jake began to whimper, but she pressed on, “—and we have to stop them.”

  Jake made to move down the steps.

  “Hold it,” she said. “I need you to do something first.”

  “Aunt Barb?” he asked.

  “Help me up the steps.”

  “Where is its head?”

  “Never mind that. Are you listening to me?�
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  He nodded.

  “Here,” she said. “Take my arm.”

  He did. They moved up the steps, through the house and into the bedroom. It took forever, and a couple times she snapped at him for getting distracted. She felt bad for being so brusque with him, but dammit, those creatures—the Three, Garner had called them—might already be at the Roof.

  Eventually, she retrieved her .38 Smith & Wesson and her shotgun. Not trusting Jake to carry either, she instructed him to walk behind her while she hobbled her way back through the house and to the four-wheeler.

  “Here,” Barb said, hauling Jake up with one arm so he could sit in front of her. “We’re getting you to a safe place.”

  “Are we getting help?” Jake asked.

  She nodded. “The police.”

  “For Mommy?”

  She nodded. “And Short Pump.”

  As Barb fired up the four-wheeler and they began to roll onto the lane, Jake said, “He likes to be called Duane.”

  “Is that right?” she said, picking up speed. “We’ll call him Duane then.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Duane had never felt more like getting drunk. He knew this was the worst possible time to do so, and of course he wasn’t going to drink too much, but the need for something to relax him, the need for something to take the shake out of his hands…God, he could use a couple shots of whiskey and a good tall glass of beer.

  Savannah was faring little better. Oh, she was smiling and chatting with their old classmates, and to them she probably looked the same as she always did. Amiable. Confident. Unhurried and graceful in every gesture. But Duane could tell by the tightness of her smile, the robotic way she nodded. Even the way she stood there was different. Like at any moment someone would seize her from behind.

  A girl he hadn’t seen in a while, Adriana Carlino, approached them. One of their classmates, the girlfriend of Robbie Bridwell, Adriana reminded Duane of that bald eagle on The Muppet Show. Known for getting into several fistfights in high school, her face a perpetual scowl, if Adriana had ever been in a good mood, Duane sure as hell had never witnessed it. But for reasons he couldn’t at first identify, the sight of her this evening filled him with foreboding. Then she opened her mouth, and he understood why.