Wolf Land

by Jonathan Janz

  “Where the hell is Melody?” Adriana asked.

  Adriana was a sullen bitch, but there was something in her expression he’d never seen before. Jealousy? Fear?

  “You’d know better than we would,” Savannah said.

  Adriana’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I haven’t seen Robbie either. He hasn’t answered my texts, and nobody answers the door even though their cars are in the driveway.”

  Duane’s throat went dry.

  It doesn’t mean anything, he thought.

  “When’s the last time you heard from Melody?” he asked.

  “Why do you think I’m asking you?” she shot back. “You know her better than I do. Melody’s always talking about how nice you are.”

  Duane tried to hide how surprised he was.

  “Easy, tiger,” Savannah said.

  Duane was amazed to see a trace of jealousy in her expression.

  Adriana rolled her eyes. “Spare me. Anyway, I haven’t seen her since the bonfire.”

  “I hope she’s okay,” Duane said.

  Adriana yawned. “Whatever. You guys seen Jessica yet?”

  “Jessica Clinton?” Savannah asked.

  Adriana stared at her. “How many best friends named Jessica do I have?”

  A numbness had started to seep through him. “What about her?”

  “I texted her all afternoon, and she never responded. We were supposed to ride together.”

  “Did you go by her house?”

  She snorted. “No thanks. She would’ve put me to work babysitting.”

  With that, Adriana walked away.

  Duane and Savannah exchanged a look. Adriana went over and joined a trio of idiots—Billy Kramer, Colton Crane and Randy Murray—and began talking to them. Occasionally, Adriana or one of the guys would glance in Duane and Savannah’s direction, baleful looks on their faces, but Duane wasn’t in any mood to ask them why.

  Duane looked toward the stage, where Dance Naked was struggling to cover Bon Jovi’s “Dead or Alive”. The lead singer kept cracking on the high notes, but the lead guitarist’s harmonies were even weaker. He sounded like a dying tomcat. Duane was about to say something to get a laugh out of Savannah when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Duane turned and there was Weezer.

  Or the person he used to think of as Weezer.

  Because though this guy looked like Weezer, at least in the general details, it was like the difference between a living man and a wax sculpture. The new Weezer looked more at ease in his own skin. And it wasn’t just the clothes—which were far more stylish than Weezer had ever worn before—it was his posture, his smile.

  And the rest of his face, which looked totally unmarred.

  Weezer looked around. “No Glenn yet?”

  Duane glanced at Savannah, saw the dead way she was watching Weezer. To Savannah, at least, there was no doubt who was responsible for the drive-in killings and the disappearances of those two girls.

  Weezer evidently noticed Savannah’s scrutiny. “What’s wrong, sweetie? Not feeling well?”

  “Your face,” she said.

  His smile brightened. “Amazing what a little reconstructive surgery can accomplish, isn’t it?”

  “It was five days ago.”

  He shrugged. “Good doctors.” His smile didn’t waver.

  Duane put a hand on Savannah’s back. “Let’s get a drink.”

  Weezer stepped sideways to block their way. “What kind of treatment is that? I nearly die, and after avoiding me all week, you two act like you don’t know me?”

  Duane studied Weezer’s unscarred face. It was uncanny. If he needed any proof of their conjectures regarding lycanthropy, here it was. “I called you a dozen times, Weezer.”

  Weezer shook his head dolefully. “I never got any calls.”

  “And emailed you half as many.”

  Weezer turned away, favored the crowd with a comprehensive glance. “Lots of faces missing tonight. Glenn. Jessica.” His lips formed a ghastly grin.

  Duane tensed. “What do you know about Jessica?”

  “Pretty girl,” Weezer said softly.

  “What did you do?” Savannah demanded.

  On stage, Dance Naked began to abuse Kiss’s “Lick It Up”.

  “Good song,” Weezer said. “Let me know when Glenn and that librarian bitch show up. I need to talk to them.”

  Weezer made to move through the crowd, but Savannah seized his arm. “Don’t talk that way about Joyce.”

  Weezer eyed the hand clamped over his forearm. When his eyes flicked up to Savannah’s, Duane felt his heart stutter.

  Weezer’s eyes were flecked with yellow.

  “Let him go,” Duane said.

  Leering at Savannah, Weezer said, “I always did want to fuck you. I think I’ll do it tonight.”

  Savannah released his arm. “You son of a bitch.”

  “Why don’t you defend her honor, Duane?”

  Duane tried to swallow, but he had no spit. “Say you’re sorry.”

  “But I’m not,” Weezer said. He stepped closer, his eyes roving up and down Savannah’s body. Lingering on the cleavage showing above her royal-blue sundress. “I think I’ll tear me off a piece of this ass right now.”

  “You’re a filthy little coward,” Savannah said.

  Weezer’s eyes lifted from Savannah’s breasts, and Duane felt his breath congeal in his throat.

  Weezer’s eyes were glowing yellow ovals.

  Duane’s fist moved by itself. One moment it was clenched at his side. The next moment the fist was pistoning at Weezer’s jaw. Duane was certain Weezer would deflect the blow, or maybe even intercept his fist before it reached its target. If their suspicions about what Weezer had become were accurate, he might possess superhuman reflexes.

  But Weezer didn’t do anything, and when Duane’s knuckles collided with Weezer’s underjaw, he heard his friend’s teeth click together, saw the tip of Weezer’s tongue sheared off neatly by his incisors.

  Duane followed through, putting his considerable bulk behind the blow. Then Weezer was sprawling backward, upsetting a couple of people who’d been unlucky enough to position themselves behind him. A man dropped his glass and went stumbling away. A woman was driven to her knees by Weezer’s flailing body, but she avoided spilling her drink.

  Duane was certain that Weezer would spring to his feet to retaliate, but instead Weezer merely flopped over onto his belly, a pool of beer soaking his white shirt. Duane waited for the yellow eyes to batten onto his, waited for Weezer to change into something from a horror movie.

  Yet when Weezer pushed up to his knees and looked up at him, all Duane saw was the same poor kid who used to get picked on in third grade. The only kid in Lakeview Elementary who was bullied more than Duane.

  Weezer’s eyes shone with tears.

  This was no murderer, he realized. Whatever crazy shit had gone on during the past week, it wasn’t because of Weezer. This was his friend. His friend who’d gone through a terrible ordeal. And even if Weezer had spoken offensively to Savannah, at heart he was the same tortured kid he’d always been.

  Weezer got slowly to his feet. He peered down at his sodden clothes, his hands bloodied from the broken glass. Duane’s mouth moved, but he couldn’t speak. He took a step toward Weezer, but his friend was already ducking through the crowd, moving toward the bathroom.

  Duane glanced at Savannah, whose eyes tracked Weezer’s progress.

  Duane indicated his fleeing friend with a thumb. “Maybe we should, you know…”

  “Duane?” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Fuck him.”

  Barb spotted the security guard at the entrance to Beach Land. She couldn’t place him right away but assumed he was one of the Martin boys. At least, he had the narrow face and recessed chin
all the Martin boys had. When he climbed out of his cruiser and saw Barb and Jake, his weak chin began to bob.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Landscaping accident,” she said.

  The Martin boy gaped at her.

  She climbed off the four-wheeler. “You’re to do two things for me.”

  Other than gawking at her blood-slicked body, Martin’s face remained unresponsive.

  Barb slapped him.

  Not hard enough to knock him down, but with enough force to kick-start his brain. He grasped his hand-marked cheek. “Why did you—”

  “Two things,” she said. “Can you handle two things?”

  He gave her a noncommittal shrug.

  “First,” she said, “you will drive this little boy to the police chief’s office. You know Pete Hoffman?”

  He glared sullenly at her. “Course I know Pete Hoffman.”

  “That’s the first thing. Take Jake here to Pete’s office and tell him I need the boy protected. You got that?”

  “Protected from what?”

  “Second thing,” she said, “is tell Pete to get ahold of every officer—city, county, the state police, everyone—and tell them all to come to Beach Land. Everyone, that is, except for whoever Pete assigns to take care of Jake.”

  The Martin boy broke into an incredulous grin. “Why you want everyone to come here? The splash park open tonight?”

  “Three murderers are on the way to the Roof,” she said. “If they’re not here already.”

  “But Sheriff Cartwright’s already up there,” the Martin boy said.

  “Lane won’t make a difference,” she said. “Now are you capable of executing two simple orders, or are people gonna die because of your incompetence?”

  The Martin boy’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t take orders from you. What makes you think I’m gonna put up with your crap?”

  Barb said, “Close your eyes, Jake.”

  She retrieved the burlap sack bungeed to the back of the four-wheeler.

  “What you got there?” Martin said.

  “Your eyes closed?” she asked, glancing at Jake. Hands over his eyes, he nodded.

  She turned to the security guard. “Look at this.” She shoved the sack into Martin’s hands.

  “It’s heavy,” he said, staring down at it. His nose wrinkled in distaste. “It’s wet too. Hey, what the hell—”

  “Open it.”

  He glared at her, but he followed orders this time, and when he did draw the werewolf’s severed head from the burlap sack, his face immediately contorted into a look of such revulsion and horror that Barb feared he’d take off running. He didn’t, though, merely bobbled the head for several moments before tripping over his own feet and landing on his ass. The head fell into his lap. Martin uttered a yodeling scream and scrambled backward, but for a moment Dave Garner’s wolfish head merely rode along in Martin’s lap like an obsessive pet. Then Martin gave a convulsive lurch, and the head tumbled sideways.

  “You believe me now?” Barb asked.

  Martin’s breath came in great, wheezing heaves.

  “Can I open my eyes?” Jake said.

  “Not yet,” Barb said. She bent, retrieved the head, and stuffed it back inside the sack. “Okay, Jake.”

  Martin was on the verge of hyperventilating.

  “Two things,” she reminded him.

  Martin staggered to his feet.

  “What are the two things?” she demanded.

  “Take him—” a nod at Jake, “—to Pete Hoffman.”

  “And?”

  He opened his mouth, closed it. His eyes were fixed on the burlap sack.

  “And?” Barb said.

  “And—and tell Pete to get everyone down to Beach Land.”

  “To the Roof.”

  “To the Roof,” he repeated.

  “That’s good enough,” Barb said.

  “Good en—”

  “Get your ass in gear!” she shouted.

  Martin jumped and made his way over to Jake. Soon they were buckled into Martin’s Ford Taurus and pulling away. Barb mounted the four-wheeler, figuring she could drive it across the bridge. That would help, she decided. Her chest and calf were still bleeding, and she was closer to fainting than ever.

  Her vision wavering, Barb guided the four-wheeler toward the Beach Land entrance.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  When Glenn and Joyce walked in, Glenn had the strongest sense of déjà vu he’d ever experienced. Short Pump used to claim the existence of psychic phenomena, ghosts, all other kinds of weird stuff, but Glenn had never really bought in.

  Then again, the last few days had changed his thinking on all sorts of things.

  Glenn took a moment to scan the crowd. Beside him, he knew Joyce was doing the same. He’d already spotted Short Pump, Savannah and several other classmates among the dense crowd, yet of the nearly five hundred people packed into the Roof tonight, only a tenth or so were members of his graduating class.

  Joyce squeezed his arm. He turned to look at her, surprised at the flush of warmth that tingled his skin, the hot spires of electricity that scurried up his back. She looked lovely, and he knew that was part of it. She smiled, and despite the fact that he’d never even hugged her before, Glenn was steamrolled by an overwhelming urge to throw his arms around her, dip her Rhett Butler-style, and kiss the living hell out of her, the rest of the bar be damned.

  Joyce seemed to pick up on this, because her gaze became rawer, more vulnerable.

  Kiss her, a voice demanded.

  But Glenn couldn’t, not yet.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw a showy, scantily-clad woman saunter past, yet this diversion was easily ignored. As he gazed into Joyce’s childlike, trusting eyes, two more perfect-ten types breezed past them, and though he was aware of the women, though his sharp, comprehensive eyesight registered their curves, their superficial beauty, his lack of interest in them confirmed it.

  He only wanted Joyce.

  He dared not tell her that, for she’d no doubt make some witty but too-incisive joke: Congratulations, Glenn. At age twenty-eight and seven months, you’ve finally reached emotional maturity.

  Joyce’s mouth was forming a smile now, and he had little doubt she knew exactly what he was thinking. For someone with so little experience with the opposite sex, she was pretty damned shrewd. Glenn smiled back at her, again toyed with the notion of kissing her. Then a figure detached itself from the crowd and placed its hands on Joyce’s shoulders.

  Savannah.

  Joyce winked at Glenn and turned to embrace her friend. And what was astounding about it was that, despite the fact that Savannah looked ethereal tonight—the blue sundress bringing out the electrifying cobalt of her eyes, her hair looking like something from a shampoo commercial—Glenn still preferred to look at Joyce.

  Because, gazing at Savannah, Glenn felt very little. He still liked her as a person and wanted her to avoid harm. But the worshipful frustration and hollowed-out bitterness seemed a memory now, which surprised him as much as his growing attachment to Joyce.

  Savannah glanced at him. “Come on over and join us.”

  Joyce asked, “Is Weezer with you?”

  Glenn tightened. He saw Savannah do the same. She shook her head, her brow knitting. “There was a… He went away, I think.”

  Joyce was searching Savannah’s face. “What happened?”

  Savannah glanced in Short Pump’s direction, muttered something about not wanting to talk about it.

  Glenn wanted Joyce to let it go, and she did. Savannah led them through the shifting crowd. Short Pump’s head jutted up above most of the patrons, and when they got to where he stood—about fifteen feet from the bar—he extended his arms toward Glenn.

  Glenn accepted the embrace, both surprised and touc
hed by Short Pump’s gesture. Short Pump often grew effusive after several drinks, but Glenn could see in his friend’s eyes how sober he was, how genuinely happy he was to see him. My God, Glenn thought. Not since the night of the bonfire had they even spoken. Glenn had been too busy. Or too scared. But now, with Short Pump and Savannah smiling at him and Joyce at his side, he felt better than he had in a long time.

  Then Billy Kramer appeared.

  He was a good ways toward drunk already. Glenn could see that by the way he wove through the crowd. Billy was dancing to the discordant tunes of Dance Naked, a sure sign he was getting blitzed.

  Billy leaned into Short Pump. “He locked himself in, man.”

  Short Pump frowned at Billy. “Who locked himself in?”

  “Who the hell you think?” Billy said, his voice a bit slurry. “Weezer.”

  “In the bathroom?” Savannah asked.

  Billy gave her an incredulous look. “Duh. Where else?”

  Joyce’s eyebrows drew inward in a frown. “Savannah? What happened with Weezer? We need to know.”

  “Hey, look,” Billy Kramer said. Glenn followed Kramer’s gaze to the bathroom, where one of the three hotties was knocking on the men’s room door. She was startlingly blond and looked like she might burst out of her lemon-colored halter top. The black miniskirt appeared painted on.

  But why was she knocking on the men’s room door? Was the women’s restroom out of order?

  Yet the blond knocking on the door seemed so…what? Purposeful? Grim? A short way off, Glenn noticed the other two hotties; these two had black hair and red hair and were just as built as the blond.

  His sphincter puckered like a sun-dried tomato.

  They were staring at him.

  They knew.

  It was insane to think so, he realized, but he was certain of it. They knew what he’d done at the drive-in. More importantly, they knew what he was.