Bad Wolf Chronicles, Books 1-3

by McGregor, Tim

  The husky, silent until now, jerked forward. Snapping its teeth in a guttural rumble. Lara held it back.

  “Do you really want to live like this?” he said. “We’re not solitary animals. But you can’t go back to your people. That’s over. Join the pack, be one of us. It’s so much better than you can imagine. You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

  She stumbled back but her legs felt sluggish. She didn’t want to be alone anymore. It was too hard. She was doomed anyway. How bad would it be to give in and become part of his world? What exactly was she clinging to? Her old life?

  Please...

  Her indecision writ large in her eyes. Grissom reached out his hand. “Come.”

  Lara flinched. Like sticking a wet finger into a socket. No. She pulled back.

  He wouldn’t let go. “Come.” A growl to underscore the command.

  She slammed her fists into him, enough force to break his ribcage. All she had to do was lock her grip round his throat and squeeze--

  He knocked her back with the force of a bulldozer. She hurtled away, tumbling over the snow.

  Her vision blurred. The gauzy form of the husky leapt at Grissom and was knocked back. It yelped, rolling away. When she looked up again, Grissom had vanished into the fog.

  An unmistakable roar thundered overhead, heavy enough to rattle her insides. The dog withered, cowering under. Grissom had become the wolf. And it was going to kill her for refusing it.

  She could change too. All she had to do was let go and release the pale wolf. At least then she’d have a fighting chance. The husky trembled under her.

  No. She wasn’t going to give in. But she could let go a tiny bit, enough to open her ears and smell the air the way the wolf does. She whispered into the Siberian’s ear to shush it and held her breath to listen. Picking out the smallest scratch of sound, something big padded the snow to the west of her. How far away, she couldn’t tell.

  Taking the air, she filtered through the smells for the acrid tang of woodsmoke and ash. The shack. South, maybe southeast.

  She tugged the dog up and bolted for shelter. Sprinting over the snow, pulling the dog along, she hoped she’d see the shack before running smack into it.

  Another roar, unnatural and deafening. The sound of it thundering over the ground, haring after her in the fog.

  The shack rose up from the haze like a ghost and she sprinted for it, the monster at her heels. The husky outpaced her and vanished inside the door and she hated it for being safe. Teeth chomped behind her, snapping her hair. She leapt for the open door.

  The floor was hard as she rolled and tumbled inside. The wolf crashed into the doorframe, too big to fit, and the entire structure tilted off its flimsy foundations. Beams and studs snapped around her.

  The monster popped its enormous teeth, pushing through the frame. The dog gnashed its teeth and looked for an exit that wasn’t there.

  She clawed out the loose floorboard and plunged a hand into the hidden recess. The wolf forced its way inside, snapping apart the door frame.

  Lara swung up with the Glock in both hands and blasted a round into the thing’s face.

  EIGHTEEN

  THE FOG VAPORED over the road, forcing Gallagher to a crawl to find the unmarked logging trail. Mist congealed to soup as he turned onto the trail, barely able to see the pathway at all. Maddeningly slow until he found the spot where he’d left the truck the night before.

  Gathering up his supplies, he left the Cherokee behind and stalked into the trees. Head down, following his footprints. The snow was melting and, had he been any later, they would have disappeared altogether, leaving him to grope blind through the fog. As it was, he lost the track a few times, stumbling around until he found it again.

  He called out for the dog. What answered wasn’t the husky. An unnatural roar rippled out of the fog on all sides. An malevolent sound he had heard before and prayed he’d never hear again.

  The wolf.

  His knees locked, ice in his joints. He was too late. Lara had changed and was loose out here in this godforsaken fog. Dropping the bag to the snow, he unholstered the big handgun. A click and the magazine slid out of the grip and he stuffed it into a pocket. From another pocket he produced the magazine of rounds he had had specially made and slapped it home. The moisture in the air made the grip slick. Taking up the supplies again, he willed his legs to move.

  Ears cocked for any sound but all he could hear was the crunch of his own boots. When the trees disappeared he knew he was in the clearing. He could just make out the picnic table out front but the shack wasn’t there. Like it had vanished.

  Three paces on and he saw that it hadn’t disappeared; it was flattened. Knocked completely on its side, the roof had snapped and the walls broke apart and splayed in the snow. A wisp of smoke snaked from the upended woodstove.

  No Lara. No dog. Nothing.

  He hadn’t planned for this. Hell, he hadn’t planned at all, just blundering in here thinking he’d find her and walk out. How stupid could he be? Had she killed the dog, the same way she had killed the local man? The livestock?

  He dropped the bag at his feet and locked the gun with both hands. If Lara was too far gone, he’d put her down with silver capped 50. calibre rounds. If he was injured in the fray, meaning bitten by the goddamn thing and thus cursed the way she was, well, he’d save one round for himself and stick the barrel in his mouth. Simple, neat.

  Amy would be confused, not understanding why her father had driven two hundred miles into the Oregon forest to simply put a bullet in his brain. But she already suspected his mind was crumbling. She’d rationalize some kind of explanation. Everyone does. Didn’t matter. As long as she was safe.

  He called out her name, bellowing into that white haze.

  Nothing. Just the thrum of his own heartbeat in his eardrums. What if it was gone, tearing across the valley towards town? Out of earshot and him standing here like a fool, hollering to the trees.

  A sound. Heavy pads drumming hard across the ground, pounding the snow towards him. He brought the gun up, his elbows locked and drew aim at the sound crashing towards him in the opaque wall. He could already see its form. Too small, too lithe--

  The dog. Bounding breakneck with its tongue flapping loose, it banged into his knees and whined, its rear end wagging. Terrified. Whether she had spared it or it had simply gotten away, he didn’t know. It didn’t matter.

  He dug his fingers into the nap of its fur. “Where is she? Show me.”

  The abominable sound came again, a guttural roar that rumbled his breastplate. Coming hard on his leeside, its weight shuddering the ground under his feet. A dim form emerged, dark against the haze. Good God... it was enormous.

  Correcting his aim, he locked his elbows and squeezed down on the trigger. Held off, something not right. This lobo was dark, with a grey razorback pelage. He had only seen Lara change once, a frantic exchange all those nights ago, but her lobo was pale. White as birch. Had she changed coats? Was that possible?

  The alternate answer was almost worse. This dark monster was some other lobo.

  A crack of gunfire settled the matter. The wolf recoiled from the impact and spun around and roared like the sound of hell grinding open. Gallagher lowered his weapon with the round still in the chamber. The shot came from elsewhere.

  Lara.

  The thing skulked back into the fog like a bad dream. Gallagher hollered at the void. “Lara! Where are you?”

  Another blast from a barrel, the shot cracking through the pine branches. He ran at the sound, calling out her name.

  “Gallagher!”

  Her voice filtered from the void. Disembodied, drawing him in like a sonar ping. She was on her knees in the snow and swung her firearm his way when we crashed towards her. Her face was bloodless and she was heaving like an asthmatic.

  He tumbled to her side. “Where the hell did that thing come from?”

  “Long story.” Her breath staccato and gasping.

  “
Jesus. I thought it was you.”

  Her hand clutched his arm to stop herself from keeling over. Her grip so strong it made him wince. “Don’t count that out just yet,” she gaped.

  How far gone was she? He searched her eyes for that telltale glow he had seen before. A red flag that preceded the shitstorm of transfiguration.

  “Where’s the truck?”

  He looked east then west. All the same, a curtain of cotton mist. “I can’t tell which way is up in this soup.”

  The thing roared, everywhere and nowhere at the same time. The husky bristled at the sound, ears rotating to all points of the compass.

  He looked at her. “Can you find it?”

  “What?”

  “The smell of exhaust or gas or whatever.”

  She scowled and he knew she hated him for asking that. What other option did they have? All the same, he saw her nose wrinkle.

  “This way.” She clenched his arm, leading the way. The dog followed at their heels.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, tripping after her. “I know you hate that but--“

  “Shut up.”

  He shut his mouth, following as Lara threaded her way through the trees. She pulled ahead and he struggled to keep up, watching her bound effortlessly over deadfall and dart through the underbrush with lupine grace.

  Lara stopped and turned back. “There,” she said, pointing the way ahead. The hazed hulk of the Cherokee took shape before them. He pressed on, the dog trotting ahead and then the roar echoed around him. The wolf, coming back.

  She barked at him to run and he saw the terror in her eyes. The thing was right behind him. She raised her gun at him and he ducked and she fired. He caught a glimpse of the monster crashing away into the foggy trees.

  They scrambled into the truck and Gallagher fired it up, cranking the wheel hard to turn the Cherokee around on the narrow pathway. The front end mowed down saplings and the rear wheels spun in the snow. The spindly fingers of dry branches scraped down the windows, clawing at them to stay. Lara leaned over the seat and looked back.

  “Move.”

  He clocked it in the rearview mirror, the wolf breaking towards them. Gallagher slammed the brakes and the monstrous lobo glowed red in the taillights. Slamming into reverse, he punched the gas and barreled backwards. The wolf had no time to react and the impact was loud. The rear window cracked and metal crunched with a dead thud. Gallagher floored the accelerator, pushing the damn thing back along the road.

  He geared up and gunned forward, fishtailing through the bends in the pathway. With visibility poor, the truck hammered through brush and sideswiped the trees. The mirror on the passenger side sheared off and tumbled away behind them. Lara leaned over the seat with the pistol in her hand, eyes peeled for any sign of the thing.

  The thicket of trees gave way and Gallagher allowed himself to breathe as the logging trail opened up onto the main road. He spun the truck out but immediately hit the brakes to avoid careening into the object before them.

  A green pickup truck blocked the entrance to the road. Headlights burning up at them, two darker figures standing sentry on either side of the vehicle. Rifles in their hands.

  Gallagher’s Cherokee skidded sideways and thunked loud as the tail end took out a sapling. Gallagher swung out of the door and bellowed. “Move that damn thing! Now!”

  The two men raised their rifle barrels at his face. Both looked familiar. The hunters he had scuffled with in town. The one named Jigsaw spoke. “Turn it off.”

  “What the hell?” Lara climbed out, eyes wide at the raised weapons. “Put the rifles down! And move the pickup.”

  McClusky arced his rifle to meet her. “Step outta the truck,” he said. “Over here.”

  Gallagher marched on Jigsaw, walking straight down the barrel. A vein throbbed on his brow. “Listen dumbass, the thing that killed your friend is hauling ass right for us.”

  Jigsaw’s eye was swollen but the venom folded in that purpled flesh was unmistakeable. Pure murder. “Get on your knees, asshole. Do it!”

  Gallagher glanced at Lara. “It’s coming,” she said.

  They all heard it. The sheer weight of the thing quaking the earth, crashing and tearing through the trees towards them. McClusky eyed his friend, wary and alert. “What the hell is that?”

  As if in answer, an inhuman roar washed over them. McClusky and Jigsaw knew the sound, that same goddawful noise from the night Roy was killed.

  With the paramilitaries distracted, Lara hollered at Gallagher to cut and run. He didn’t need to be told twice. Shifting into gear, he barrelled the Cherokee forward, clipping the rear end of the other truck, pushing it out of the way. Jigsaw cursed at him, swinging the rifle his way. Gallagher floored the pedal but his rear wheels spun in the snow. He backed up to take a run at it.

  “Oh God...” McClusky said.

  It came on straight down the trail, charging in like a toro and simply swallowed McClusky. Frozen at the sight, Jigsaw watched the monster whip its maw back and forth violently. The man shrieked as he was rent apart. The snow spackled red.

  Gallagher bellowed at the other man to run and gunned the vehicle forward. The front end crumpled into the pickup, knocking it back a foot and Gallagher kept flooring it, spraying slush and gravel out the rear wheels.

  Lara looked back out the cracked glass of the rear window. The lobo dropped the dead man, swung its foul snout up in their direction and leapt. Its mass filled the window, slamming the vehicle like a wrecking ball. Lara aimed her weapon and fired but the gun clicked on an emptied magazine.

  “Here!” Gallagher thrust something at her. A big handled automatic. She took it and swung it up in both hands as the lobo came on again for a second assault. The gun kicked hard in her hand, the boom deafening inside the cab. The window exploded. The monster backed off as if on fire and howled in pain. Gallagher stomped the pedal. Lara watched the thing flop around and swing its massive head in agony. Maybe its death throes.

  The engine groaned as Gallagher pushed it hard and didn’t let up until he had put four miles between them and that thing on the road. Maybe the other man made it out, maybe he didn’t. In the moment, he didn’t care either way.

  Lara leaned back against the dashboard, eyes still scanning the road behind them for any sign of the wolf. She looked at the gun in her hand. “What is this, fifty caliber?”

  “Yeah.” Cold air blew around them from the shattered window. “Capped with silver.”

  NINETEEN

  GALLAGHER JUST KEPT driving, rolling through town and catching a few odd looks at his dented bumper and shot-out rear window. The main drag gave way to the highway and he sped up without a glance back at the Podunk village. Goodbye Weepers. They drove for an hour without saying anything. The Siberian curled up on the backseat and went to sleep. When Gallagher spoke, it was only to ask that she fish out the map from the door pocket and check their route.

  Night fell and they drove on before he pulled off the road at a dingy roadhouse whose neon had all burnt out. He asked her to order for both of them while he fed and watered the dog. The food was tasteless but it filled the gap and they both ordered more coffee when the plates were cleared away.

  Lara spooned sugar into her cup. A luxury after all this time on the run. “Do you want me to drive for a while?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “No. I just can’t sit in the passenger bucket of my own truck.”

  They watched the other patrons eat and then Gallagher set his cup on the formica top and looked at her. “Where did that thing come from?”

  Lara warmed her hands around the steaming mug. “He said his name was Grissom. He showed up day before you did.”

  “And he’s a... you-know-what?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he want?”

  She kept it brief, about how Grissom told her she was doomed unless she joined him. How rogue wolves don’t survive. How the change, according to Grissom, was a gr
adual descent into full wolf. Into madness.

  He pushed his cup away. “Do you believe that?”

  “Sounds plausible but, considering the source, who knows?”

  “What did he want with you?”

  “He wanted me to go with him. Join his pack.”

  “There’s more of them?”

  “He claims there is.” She rubbed her eyes, looking exhausted. “Where did you get silver rounds for that cannon?”

  “Had them specially made. The gunsmith thought I was crazy.”

  “What did you say they were for?”

  “Hunting werewolves.”

  A tiny smile broke over his face and rebounded in her eyes. It faded quickly. “Do you think it’s dead?”

  She shrugged. “Let’s hope so. You ready to go?”

  They settled up and went outside to rout the dog back into the vehicle.

  Amy knew this was a bad idea. Every scheme Gabby dreamed up always turned out to be a clusterfutz waiting to happen. Sneaking out of the house after dark, jimmying the lock on Gabby’s parent’s booze cabinet, skipping last period to smoke cigarettes with boys. All of it went spectacularly south and dropped them both into a world of trouble. Gabby never learned, plunging ahead with yet another mental-case plan, oblivious to common sense and past results.

  Apparently, Amy concluded, she herself was no better. Gabby assured that a small, impromptu party would be a snap without the risk of crashers getting wind and blowing down the door. A small affair, no more than a handful of people to celebrate the holidays. Born with the bloodhunting instincts of a salesperson, Gabby appealed to Amy’s need to get into the Christmas spirit and decorate the house even further. “We’ve already put up the tree,” she derided, “and there’s no one here to appreciate. We can make appetizers and sweets, all Christmas stuff. Like a grown up party.”

  It cut straight to Amy’s beating heart but when she demurred further, Gabby closed the deal by stating that they would just have people over to watch a movie and hang. She’d even let Amy pick the movie.

  It all sounded so innocent and tinsel-draped, how could she resist? There were six guests in all. Maggie, Bridgette and Walty from their mutual clutch of friends. Their oddball pal Griffin Dunne and Alex, a senior with a pallor like death and attitude to match. The last guest was Gabby’s coup de grace; Date-Rape Dan Raylan. That bit was a surprise. “Oops,” Gabby feigned, “didn’t I tell you he was coming?”