Bestial

by William D. Carl

  “By screwing our son?” Saying the words aloud gave them flesh, rescued them from the mists of rumor. She realized she sounded shrill, like her mother, the shrewish wife she had never wanted to become. Lowering her volume a bit, she said, “You really did it, didn’t you?”

  “I had needs.” He shrugged.

  “Needs? Jesus Christ, you raped your own child.”

  “Oh, Cathy … it was sometimes worse than that.”

  “You bastard.”

  “Hey, I admit it—I was a fucker.”

  “I want you to go away.” She closed her eyes and turned her back to him.

  Karl touched her shoulder, and his fingers burned her skin, frostbite from his caress infecting her. “Like you want all problems to go away, Cathy? Like you wanted my problem to go away?”

  “Shut up,” she said. It was a feeble, impotent protestation.

  “You ignored it, and it didn’t vanish. At least, not until Christian ran away. Not until we lost our boy forever. You know you had your chance to confront me. You didn’t take advantage at the time, and he’s gone now, isn’t he? Out there someplace. Do you ever wonder if he’s even alive?”

  “Please … please shut up.” The first tear fell from her eye.

  “Has he survived through this cataclysm? Did he find refuge somewhere? Tell me, Cathy, do you ever think about him?”

  She focused on the moonlight that spilled into the room from the window, immersing herself in its blue security.

  “I always think about Christian. He was a good boy.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

  “You’re tellin’ me.”

  “Please,” she begged, and he was silent. “I didn’t want to believe that you could do such a thing. Even when all the evidence pointed in that direction … I couldn’t allow myself to think that you were abusing our son, that you preferred our boy to me. It was the wrong thing to do, but I closed my eyes to it. If I didn’t take notice of it, if I never actually acknowledged the sin, then it didn’t exist. Did it? Did it?”

  “Oh, my dear, it existed. I was there.”

  “Now … Christian … out there … someplace …”

  She buried her face in the makeshift pillow as sobs wracked her body. No longer concerned with appearances, with what the neighbors might think, she wept for the loss of her son, for her inability to confront her husband and stop the abuse.

  “I’ve … I’ve lost him,” she admitted, saying the words aloud for the first time. “I’ve lost my son.”

  The cold hand that was stroking her back evaporated into a cool mist. “You can still find him,” Karl said, wispy and far away. “It isn’t too late, because Christian’s still alive.”

  The condensation on her back dried, and she turned over. Karl had disappeared. He left a cold space where he had lain. Through the window, she could see the first orange reconnaissance of the sun as it began to rise.

  Was it a dream? she wondered. Or did he really visit me?

  Standing and stretching, she moved to the window. Bodies dotted the perfectly gardened and trimmed landscaping of the nearby houses. Several floated facedown in the man-made lake, which reflected the sunrise in all of its Van Gogh glory.

  Cathy decided it didn’t matter whether he was a ghost, or just some figment of her subconscious. The words he had spoken were true.

  Her son was alive. She knew it with that unswerving, maternal certainty that came to her sometimes … that materialized within all mothers in times of strife.

  Christian was alive. Out there.

  And she was going to have to find him.

  Somehow.

  31

  SEPTEMBER 18, 5:30 A.M.

  Christian awoke with a start, and it took him several moments of panic before he realized where he’d been sleeping. The world seemed topsy-turvy, on its side, and there were others here, snoring away their own bad dreams. Dawn was breaking outside the Brink’s truck, and tepid sunlight streamed in through the gunports in the sides of the truck where men had once upon a time held shotguns … modern-day turrets.

  He shifted, trying to lean against the back of the vehicle. (Or was it the bottom?) He moved slowly, quietly, so as not to wake the others. Peering through the murkiness, he could see they were spooning, as though they were lovers. The man had his arm draped casually over the woman, and she had the faintest of smiles on her lips.

  He wondered if these people, who had also resisted the change into monsters, were to become his companions. He’d tried not to warm to them last night, but there was something about being with your own kind. He felt safe with them, almost comfortable, in a way he hadn’t felt since his father had taken those first dreadful steps into his room at night.

  Thinking of his father again, he sensed the tears building in his eyes. Long ago, he’d taught himself that to cry was to display weakness, and any show of vulnerability on the street was a flashing sign, evidence for the stronger to pounce and prove their dominance. It was a form of street Darwinism. The strong certainly did prevail over the weak. But if they didn’t realize you were fragile, they tended to leave you alone until they could be certain. Therefore, tears, like any exhibition of a troubled mind, were forbidden.

  They were flowing pretty freely now, though. He cried silently, using his sleeve to wipe his nose.

  In the safety of the Brink’s truck, he could let himself go, could think about all the things he hadn’t allowed himself to consider since he had run away.

  Like whether his mother was still alive … or whether his father was.

  Christian found himself hoping his mother had survived. Even though she had ignored his accusations against Karl, she hadn’t willingly contributed to the abuse.

  They had been so close as he had grown up, especially during his early teen years. He had been able to speak with her about subjects that he’d never dare to broach with his father. Often, he’d share a bowl of popcorn with her, lean up against her warm side, and watch an old movie on the late show. She’d seemed to welcome the intimacy, sometimes kissing the top of his head, often mussing his hair with a laugh. She had always enjoyed the classic romantic comedies, costarring Hepburn and Tracy or Doris Day and Rock Hudson. Christian had also taken pleasure in the frivolous films, laughing at the jokes and feeling as though he was peering through a keyhole at a lost time.

  As he rested in the Brink’s truck, he thought that perhaps his mother had enjoyed the films for a different reason; maybe she was searching for some proof of happily ever after. He had noticed the chasm that was opening between his parents, had always sensed its cold wind blowing in their chilly conversations. It had remained on the periphery of his adolescent attention, always just out of sight.

  But she had allowed the abuse to continue. She had ignored the signs.

  She was his mother, and there was a special bond between a boy and his mother, no matter what form her inactions took. She was a human being, and, as such, was fallible. People made mistakes.

  And they often paid dearly for them.

  He wondered if Cathy had paid for her neglect, or if she had continued to play the part of the loving wife, social butterfly, and charity-event organizer.

  “Morning.”

  Startled, Christian glanced over at the couple across the truck. Chesya was peering at him, squinting in the feeble morning light. As she spoke, Rick swiftly removed his arm from her side, acting like a boy caught with a girlfriend on the family sofa. He tried to cover up his move by yawning and stretching his arms as far as he could. Then he scratched his head and leaned away from the woman. Chesya, seeming more relaxed than Rick, lay on her side, cupping the plump curve of her face in her open palm. She watched Christian with wide, slightly yellow eyes.

  “Hey,” Christian said, his eyes flicking back to the window.

  “Any action out there?” Rick asked, edging closer to the glass.

  “No, seems pretty quiet. I can just about see the dawn starting.”

  “You have an important meetin
g to go to?” Rick asked. “You’ve been watching for the sunlight for a long time now. I saw you.”

  “I want to get that journal and get back to the Bio-Gen building. I’m positive there are more answers in Jean’s writings.”

  “You know where it is, right?” Chesya asked.

  He shrugged. “Pretty much. I just hope it’s still there. I was just getting to the part where he was studying werewolves in Siberia.”

  “See, Chesya,” Rick said with a grin. “Told you they were werewolves. The old Rickster comes through again.”

  “Look!” Christian shouted, pointing toward a small group of beast-men.

  They fell to the ground, writhing in pain, transforming back into humans. Their bodies convulsed, jerked as if in a movie that had been sped up. The hair covering their bodies pulled back into their skin, and they scratched at themselves.

  “No better time to go get that book,” Rick said. “They’re powerless, can’t attack us. Let’s go see if it’s still where you lost it.”

  Chesya nodded, and Rick unlocked the truck door, pushed his way out of the vehicle.

  “I hope we’re doing the right thing,” she said, stepping into the dim light of the dawn.

  “This way,” Christian declared. They rushed through the street, stepping around the prone, quivering bodies of the beasts, whose mouths opened and closed, exposing various versions of teeth, human and werewolf momentarily coexisting. They didn’t bother the three humans hurrying through their midst. They were far too busy becoming people again.

  The monsters shook like a woman Chesya had often seen in church, as if they were possessed by the Holy Spirit. But these poor sufferers weren’t infused with anything holy. Their minds were probably a thick mélange of human despair and confusion and beastly blood lust.

  It was Chesya’s and Rick’s first good look at the streets since the Marriott had collapsed, and it made her want to stand in awe and take in the utter destruction. She grasped Rick’s hand in hers, and he squeezed it once. She felt the calluses on his fingers.

  “I turned here,” Christian said.

  As they progressed through the rubble, the monsters, nearly human, began to stand on awkward legs, balancing themselves against cars or piles of concrete. A fang would sometimes emerge from a lip, or a set of eyes would shine, flecked with gold. Many of them sniffed the air, as though still graced with a wolf’s superior sense of smell.

  “This is the alley where I dropped it,” Christian said, identifying the dark passageway between buildings. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure.”

  “It’s pretty dark in there still,” Chesya noted. “Maybe we should wait for the sun to get higher.”

  “Hell with that,” Christian said. “I’m not waiting to see just how crazy these bastards get today. You see them yesterday? Some of them actually looked like they could attack me.”

  “I think it’s hard for a lot of people to stay sane after what they’ve done,” Chesya explained. “They chose the path of least resistance.”

  “The path of crazy,” Christian said, entering the mouth of the alley. Chesya and Rick, still holding hands, followed him. Rick turned every few steps to check their backs.

  Even though the surrounding establishments were still intact, the alley was a mess. Shadows obscured half of everything. Huge Dumpsters had been overturned and rooted through, and garbage was strewn all over the place. Dead men and women lay on the ground, naked, their newly human bodies torn and twisted. Blood pooled around the corpses.

  “You sure this is the right place?” Rick asked. “I don’t see a journal anywhere.”

  “I’m sure. God, I hope it’s still here,” Christian said, wandering a little farther into the gloom.

  Something moved from a pile of garbage, and the three of them turned; a rat wriggled from a hole in a plastic bag. They sighed, glad it wasn’t something bigger, something dangerous.

  In the brief silence, they heard other sounds, little, soft noises like something—or some things—trying not to be overheard. Chesya edged closer to Rick. The three of them stopped breathing as one, scanning the murky alley.

  “There’s the book!” Christian cried, rushing forward.

  The corner of the leather binding peeked out from beneath the leg of a woman in her mid-fifties. She was naked and her throat had been torn out, exposing glistening cartilage and severed tubes. Other bites had been taken from various places on her body, but the blood had seeped in the opposite direction of the journal.

  “Be careful, Christian,” Chesya warned. “Those sounds …”

  He grasped the leather and pulled it from beneath the corpse. Thankfully, the book hadn’t been ripped to shreds or stained by the woman’s bodily fluids. Christian held it up so Rick and Chesya could see it, could verify it was real.

  A hand lashed out from a pile of black garbage bags, grabbing Christian’s ankle and yanking him off balance. He fell forward, scratching his palms on the blacktop as he hit. Jean’s journal fell to his left.

  “What have we here?” came a rasping voice from the piles of rotten food and paper. “Breakfast for Mommy?”

  As the detritus fell away, a pale, obese woman stood nude from her hiding place. Her dimpled body was covered in old grease and coffee grounds, and her lips were stained with blood. From her eyes, still dappled with the golden eyeshine, insanity leaked out like tears.

  She pulled Christian closer to her, and he struggled, kicking up at her face; she was stronger than he suspected. In a moment, she had the screaming boy in her arms, enveloping him in her folds.

  Rick raised his gun, but Chesya pushed it away, glaring at him.

  “Save the bullets for the creatures,” she said, stepping forward and picking up a brick. Realizing she was right, Rick grabbed a long metal pipe.

  The woman licked Christian’s cheek and smeared him with the filth on her skin. He got an arm free and struck her in the face.

  “Breakfast needs to be still,” she said, and she squeezed him in her surprisingly muscular arms. The breath left his lungs in a whoosh.

  Chesya threw the brick, and it glanced off the woman’s temple, opening a small gash that erupted in blood. The crazy howled, but she maintained her grip on Christian, squeezing even tighter, constricting his chest like a python.

  She bit his shoulder and shook her head like a dog, trying to tear through the jacket and the shirt to get at the soft skin.

  Christian attempted to shriek, but it came out as little more than a whistle.

  Rick struck the woman across the back of the head with his pipe. There was a loud crunching noise, and the woman finally let go of Christian. The boy fell to the ground, breathing heavily. Chesya retrieved her brick.

  Farther back in the alley, something groaned and hissed, shuffling through the trash.

  The fat woman fell to her knees, and Rick hit her again in the same spot. Her skull caved in, spilling brains and gore across her shoulders and her lanky, brown hair. She collapsed in a heap close to Christian, who shuffled backward, crab-style, to the other end of the alley.

  “They’re getting crazier,” Chesya said. “Two nights of changing has made them even worse.”

  “Worse?” Rick asked.

  “They saw a lot more last night,” Chesya said. “More than people should see. I think a lot of people would go crazy if they didn’t have anyone to talk to, anyone to lean on in the night. They just … attack and kill.”

  “I bet a lot of them murdered their own families … their friends,” Christian whispered.

  The silence was broken by a maniacal giggle that was too close for comfort.

  Something in the dark end of the alley grabbed one of the corpses and dragged it into the shadows.

  “What the hell was that?” Rick asked.

  Moist tearing sounds emerged from the darkness where the body had disappeared.

  “There’s more of them,” Chesya answered. “I thought I heard something back there, but …”

  “Let’s get som
eplace safe,” Rick said. “Now.”

  Christian nodded and scooped up the journal. He clutched it to his chest and motioned with his head. “This is the Bio-Gen building,” he said. “The Siberian guy … the one I told you about … he’s upstairs.”

  “Is it safe in there?”

  “Safe as anyplace, probably.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?”

  They exited the alley and Christian led them to the front door; on the wall next to the entrance hung a little brass plaque engraved with the company’s name.

  “This is it?” Rick asked, looking up at the building. “Somehow, I thought it’d be bigger.”

  Chesya nodded. “Yeah. Something that causes this much heartache, hurts this many people … you’d think it would come from some huge corporation, some international conglomerate.”

  Inside, the front foyer was in even worse shape than when Christian had entered it yesterday. Claw marks gouged the walls, and several pieces of furniture and vases were scattered across the parquet floor. Decorative plants had been pulled up by their roots and tossed around the room.

  They spent some time blocking the front door before taking seats in the lobby.

  “I want to finish reading this thing,” Christian said, holding up the journal. “I’m sure there are clues in it, and I don’t want to face Andrei again before I actually know what’s happening. I think he knows, but I don’t trust him.”

  “Read it aloud,” Chesya said.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I think we should all know.”

  Christian turned to the words on the page, the neat scrawl of the old man, and he began to read.

  32

  SEPTEMBER 18, 6:30 A.M.

  Jean Cowell had traveled to Kirskania, a remote village in Siberia, from which the multigenerational rumors of a shape-shifter had emerged. His initial goal had been to interview the inhabitants of the village. If he could find a person who had lived in the vicinity for the right amount of years, he would have his lycanthrope.