Wolf Land

by Jonathan Janz

  Then something drew its gaze. It remained hulking over Savannah, its great body heaving with exertion and what might have been frustration. Duane kept moving toward them, but he too saw what had arrested the blond beast’s attention.

  The brown werewolf.

  It climbed out of the bay, its eyes like glittering amber diamonds. It was glaring not at the men who’d been trying to shoot it—Duane discovered that Colton Crane and Randy Murray had survived the blast, though both men were struggling to stand—but at the blond beast hunched over Savannah.

  Duane realized he’d stopped, had been standing there like an idiot while Savannah’s life hung in the balance. He pushed forward again, and though he felt worse than ever—had he sustained a concussion when he was hurled backward by the blast?—he knew this was it, this was the endgame. If he failed now, Savannah would die, and he would almost certainly be killed as well.

  Limping toward the strange tableau, he made a cursory scan of the ground between him and the blond werewolf, but if there was anything of use there, it was shrouded by the veil of white smoke.

  Only ten yards away now.

  He had just about resolved to drop-kick the yellow werewolf in the face like some flabby Caucasian Bruce Lee when the beast suddenly bounded forward, abandoning Savannah and roaring loudly enough to turn Duane’s blood to ice water.

  He’d just reached Savannah when the brown wolf rocketed forward too.

  “Duane?” a croaky voice said.

  He looked down at Savannah, saw her sweaty, blood-streaked face peering up at him. He dropped to his knees, cradled her head, but had to stifle a gasp of horror at how ravaged her scalp was, how mangled her right elbow.

  “Hey, just take it easy,” he said, gathering her closer. “Don’t worry about any—”

  But the rest was cut off by a howl of agony.

  When she emerged from the water and spotted the bitch towering over Savannah Summers, Melody’s body was gripped with a pulsing black hatred.

  This creature, Melody thought as she rose to her full height, was the cause of untold suffering, of bloodshed and heartbreak and families torn asunder. Babies had died because of the yellow menace. Sucklings ripped forcibly from the teat, the unborn savagely torn from their mothers’ wombs. The young, the elderly. Writ on the yellow wolf’s face were the epitaphs of a thousand innocent victims, the life-shattering laments of mothers and fathers.

  It would end tonight.

  The yellow wolf darted toward her, but Melody was ready for the charge. Melody lowered to all fours, but just before their heads came together like rival rams in some rural pasture, the yellow wolf veered to the side, back talons flashing.

  Pain as cold as hoarfrost erupted along Melody’s shoulder, and she made the mistake of turning her head to mark the yellow wolf’s passing.

  For the creature’s preternatural agility had allowed it to plant, to reverse its progress even as Melody was registering the pain in her shoulder. The yellow wolf sprang upon Melody, its heavily muscled body crashing down on her back, and the killing fangs sank into her shoulders. The forepaws slashed down the length of her arms, ribboning the furry flesh, exposing tendon and sinew. Yelping, Melody flopped down to dislodge the snarling queen, but she realized her error immediately, understood that this was what the queen had wanted, to prostrate her so she could reach the tender throat. The queen lunged, but before the jaws could close on her neck, Melody thrust up an arm, felt the horrible teeth sink in. The fangs scraped bone, began to crunch through, and before Melody lost the use of her limb completely, she clawed at the queen with her free hand, exulted at the scarlet furrows she opened on the side of her face. The queen roared, relinquished her hold on Melody’s forearm.

  For an instant, their eyes met. One of the queen’s eyes, Melody saw, was clotted with gore. It still glared at Melody, but the gaze was compromised, the yellow crusted by a dark maroon cataract.

  The queen’s good eye blazed down at Melody, hypnotizing her.

  You’re mine, the eye said. Like all the others, like the many wolves who have served and died, you belong to me.

  With a sickening jolt, Melody realized the queen was grinning.

  In that grin she discerned traces of Father Bridwell, of Donny and John and Robbie. The black wolf, the one Melody had faced—and slain—at the entrance of the park…it had stared at her in the same mocking way. It was the way everyone looked at her. Her family. Her classmates. The men who leered at her around town.

  The yellow face darted for her throat, but this time Melody brought her head up, smashed her forehead into the queen’s nose. The queen’s body jolted with shock, and in that brief instant Melody realized the queen’s good eye had gone foggy with pain.

  And in that moment Melody struck. Her long, scythelike teeth sank into the queen’s throat, the queen’s lifeblood flooding Melody’s mouth, spraying her tongue and pooling in the back of her mouth. Melody swallowed, tore, and as the huge gobbet of neck meat slapped down on the concrete beside them, Melody plunged her maw deeper into the gaping red cavity in the queen’s throat. Melody burrowed inside the queen, her four limbs wrapped tightly around her prey, their bodies mashed together like passionate lovers, and around Melody the queen’s ancient limbs danced in a mindless paroxysm of horror, the unthinkable occurring, this newborn progeny ending her reign and claiming her throne.

  Melody champed and tore until only a few strands of skin and gristle connected the great head to the giant body. And then she heaved the body over, keeping hold of the head, and when the head came free, she flung it aside disdainfully.

  Melody’s chest burned with fury and exaltation. She stood on her hind legs and bayed into the night.

  And squalled as the bullets pierced her body.

  “NO!” Duane bellowed.

  But the idiots were already opening up again, Colton Crane firing a big black handgun and Randy Murray squeezing the trigger of a revolver that looked like something out of a Clint Eastwood western. The first barrage had cut off the victorious werewolf’s howl and spun it around to face its new attackers; the second flurry of shots had knocked the werewolf down and sent it into a series of shrill, doglike wails.

  Duane started forward, but Savannah seized him by the shirt.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  He shook his head. “Don’t know.”

  But he did know. Because even before the two werewolves had slammed together like snarling tides, he’d glimpsed the person behind the brown wolf’s feral countenance.

  Melody Bridwell. He knew it was Melody.

  Despite the corona of wiry hair reefing its face, despite the fact that this beast was far taller than Melody and weighed easily twice as much, despite the yellow jack–o’–lantern eyes and the oversize white rapiers gleaming from its mouth…

  Beneath all of it he detected the suffering.

  The werewolf writhed on the pavement, its wounds spurting blood.

  Melody.

  Colton Crane and Randy Murray were advancing, Colton with his black gun still extended, Randy fumbling in his pockets for more bullets.

  In the distance, Duane heard voices. The wail of sirens.

  Though Duane and Savannah were equidistant from the shooters and the werewolf, it was toward the werewolf that Duane sprinted. Behind him Savannah shouted his name, but all Duane could see was the spreading pool of blood, the glaze of manic glee in the shooters’ eyes. Randy was reloading now, Colton lowering his weapon toward the werewolf’s head, apparently meaning to shoot it at close range.

  “Stop!” Duane shouted. He was almost there, but Colton’s gaze was fixed on the werewolf’s face.

  “Don’t shoot her,” Duane yelled, nearing them. “It’s Melody.”

  The words must have broken through the shell of bloodlust encasing the two men. Randy blinked at Duane.

  But Colton r
aised his eyebrows and said, “What in the blue fuck are you talking about?”

  The chorus of sirens drew nearer. Several voices called out.

  “Melody Bridwell,” Duane panted as he moved up next to the prone figure.

  Colton shook his head dismissively. “You’re a moron, Duane.” He aimed the gun.

  “Wait a second,” Randy said.

  “Wait for what?” Colton answered. His finger on the trigger.

  “Please don’t shoot,” Duane said.

  Melody’s eyes were closed, her movements weakening. Duane felt a dull throb at his temples, a sick roiling in his gut.

  “It is her,” Randy said in a hushed voice.

  “Is who?”

  “Melody.”

  Colton glared at Randy, then shifted his gaze to Duane.

  “Look at her face,” Duane said.

  Colton did.

  Randy nodded slowly. “Uh-huh. I’d recognize that whore anywhere.”

  Melody’s eyes shot open.

  “Holy sh—” Colton began, but her hand shot out, snagged his pant leg. She yanked him off his feet, and the gun went off. Sparks flew off the pavement to Duane’s immediate left, and he backpedaled instinctively.

  Randy raised his gun, but it trembled, and then Melody was launching herself toward him, removing his face with a well-aimed swipe. Her talons flashed again, again, and then Randy’s head was skidding across the smoky walkway.

  Colton got up, took a couple ungainly strides toward Turtle Cove, but Melody hurtled toward him, rode him down, attacked the back of his neck, her face a blurring snarl, and then he too lay in pieces, his body on its stomach, his head facing Duane.

  Melody rose, faced Duane.

  “Oh shit,” he whispered.

  He heard Savannah shout something, the slaps of her footsteps approaching from behind. Her head down, her yellow eyes blazing, Melody charged at him, a nightmarish brown wraith cleaving through the cloud of smoke. Melody leaped, her dark form arcing gracefully.

  Then Melody came down, pinning Duane with one hand and Savannah with the other.

  Melody’s lips writhed, her teeth flecked with blood. Slaver drooled out of her mouth, collected on Duane’s trembling lips. No, he thought. Melody twitched her head toward Savannah, and more saliva pooled over Savannah’s face. Duane heard a growl deep in Melody’s throat.

  He swallowed, waited for the end.

  Melody’s eyes fixed on his. She stared at him for a long time.

  Then her eyes widened, the change almost undetectable.

  But he’d seen it.

  Duane stared up at her.

  Voices sounded from behind them, demanding any survivors to show themselves. The warbling scream of sirens filled the night air.

  Melody watched Duane, her yellow eyes unblinking.

  Without warning, Melody wheeled and bounded away, her lithe form disappearing into the smoke. Duane gaped after her, listened for gunshots. He heard none, but a moment later there was a splashing sound, something large hitting the water of the bay.

  Beside him, Savannah was coughing.

  “Come on,” he said. He helped her to her feet, led her toward the boardwalk. Here the smoke was only a faint haze, but his throat still burned with it. As they moved down the boardwalk, Savannah helped support him.

  “Where are we going?”

  He coughed, ground a palm into his watering eyes. “My truck.”

  Savannah glanced back toward the burning castle. “Shouldn’t we—”

  “Risk getting shot?” he said.

  They continued on. When they neared the suspension bridge, she asked, “Won’t there be police here too?”

  “Police I’m not worried about,” he said, limping up the ramp. “It’s the assholes like Colton and Randy that scare me.”

  They reached the suspension bridge, distinguished six or seven shell-shocked faces staring out over the water. Farther away but coming toward them fast were firemen, paramedics. Another cop, this one a woman of maybe forty.

  “Keep moving,” he said. “They’ve got too much on their minds to worry about us.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” she said, eyeing the approaching figures. “If we get hung up here, it’ll take longer to get to Jake.”

  The firemen and others dashed past them with hardly a glance. As they neared the end of the suspension bridge, Savannah said, “What if that…what if Melody is still around?”

  Duane cast a glance at the bay, the water even darker than the inky night sky. He shook his head. “We’ve got nothing to fear from her.”

  Savannah grunted. “Tell that to Colton and Randy.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Duane drove them toward town, acutely aware of how silent the countryside was. He was surprised they made it past all the ambulances and fire trucks, but then again, those weren’t the same as police cars, were they? And most of the police force from Lakeview, from the county, from the nearby state police post had been slaughtered by the werewolves.

  He frowned. What if they weren’t safe yet? What if they were making a mistake?

  Duane thought of Melody, her bristling brown hair, her fierce expression.

  There’d been a moment when he was sure she’d kill him.

  But she hadn’t. And wouldn’t. He didn’t know why he was certain of this, but he was. They had nothing left to fear. At least, Savannah didn’t.

  As for Duane…

  He shoved the thought away, concentrated on the road. They were maybe two minutes from town.

  “So how did you get it?” Savannah asked.

  Duane glanced at her.

  “The nickname,” she explained.

  “Ah,” he said. “That.”

  She watched him.

  He shifted in his seat, made to put his right hand on the wheel, but winced when he remembered how it had been maimed. He caught a brief glimpse at the stumps where his middle three fingers had been severed and quickly looked away, his heart slamming.

  With his left hand on the wheel, he said, “It’ll be pretty anticlimactic.”

  She shrugged. “Most of life is.”

  He glanced out over the countryside, saw hints of Savannah’s subdivision beyond the cornfield. He felt a pang of longing in his chest and forced himself to ignore it.

  “We took a road trip one summer. Glenn, Weezer and I.”

  “The one to Virginia Beach?”

  He grunted. “It was supposed to be. We planned on spending a week on the coast, but we only ended up getting as far as Williamsburg.”

  “Run out of money?”

  “Weezer was broke halfway through Ohio. We were only eighteen, but we somehow got into a titty bar. Weezer emptied his checking account at the ATM and spent all his cash getting lap dances.”

  “Sounds like Weezer.”

  Duane scowled, feeling no fondness for his friend’s memory. None at all. “On the way to Virginia, we came across a bunch of weird town names. Stubbville. Camp Slaughter. Roscoe—”

  “And Short Pump.”

  Smiling ruefully, he nodded.

  Savannah watched him. “But why did the name go to you? Why not Weezer or Glenn?”

  “Well, Weezer already had a nickname, didn’t he? And Glenn…well, Glenn wasn’t really the type for a nickname.”

  “No,” Savannah said. “He wasn’t.”

  “You gonna tell Jake?” Duane heard himself asking.

  Savannah looked away. “Tell him what? That his dad was a high school classmate with whom I had a one-night stand and that I didn’t tell the guy about his son until he was a werewolf? That he might’ve died not knowing he was Jake’s father?”

  Duane stared moodily through the windshield. “I guess you’re right.”

  The glow from Lakeview intensified. Thirty second
s from town now. Another minute to the police chief’s office. Duane experienced a swelling in his throat.

  “Duane?”

  “What?” he answered, his eyes straight ahead.

  They passed under the flashing yellow light, the Dairy Queen on the left. The one he and Savannah had often visited years ago. When she was struggling to get over Mike.

  “You know what,” she said.

  He went to rub his hand over his mouth, but when his finger stumps brushed his lips, he jerked his hand away, gritted his teeth. The turn onto Washington Street was coming up.

  Gingerly, he slid his right hand into his pocket.

  “You can move in with us,” she said. “Tomorrow, if you want.”

  “Move in with you,” he repeated tonelessly.

  He could hear a quaver in her voice. “And we’ll see how it goes.”

  He didn’t speak. Instead activated his turn signal.

  “Duane?”

  He turned left, hearing approaching sirens in the distance. Coming from Highway 24. There was another state police post about thirty miles down the highway.

  “Please answer me,” she said.

  His chest was burning, a sick lump clogging his throat. “What do you want me to say?”

  “Yes? That you’d love to come live with us? That you’d be what Jake has never had before?”

  “A plump, lovable nanny?”

  She swatted him in the arm. “Goddammit, Duane, what do you want me to say? I’m sorry for the way I treated you, all right?”

  “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.”

  “Stop the passive-aggressive bullshit.”

  The turn onto Illinois Street neared. Two blocks to the police station.

  “I mean it, Savannah,” he said, his tone subdued. “You feel how you feel. It’s not a bad thing or a good thing. It’s just—”

  “It is what it is,” she said. “I hate that fucking saying.”