He squints at me, clear distrust in his eyes, but eventually hands a bullet over anyway. After that he quizzes us on social nuances and mathematics. Hawk and I both start to stumble through answers and we’re assigned more paper. When Jefferson asks a slew of questions about physics, chemistry, and ordinary household objects, I get flustered and shout “Idaho!” for responses because I don’t have a clue.
“Okay,” Jefferson says and stows his remaining bullets into his jacket pocket. “It’s obvious you know the legendary world but don’t know a pickle from a slug when it comes to our world. Come on. Might as well use those bullets before you forget what they’re for. Meet me out back.”
He disappears into his room and I can hear the lock on the gun safe click. I cup my green wrap full of bullets to my chest and follow Hawk out into the cold air outside. There’s a breeze that ruffles the lifeless brown and yellow leaves tumbling across the dry grass. It’s nearing the end of October and I can feel it. The fresh air rejuvenates me and Hawk sniffs towards the sky like a dog on a scent.
“Anything good?” I ask him off hand and walk back towards the barn.
“I don’t know,” Hawk says, his voice distant and detached. “There’s just something that smells . . . familiar about this place.”
“Hmm.” Standing beside the barn I get a better look at the range I saw when we first got here. There’s a system of wires and pulleys up and down the length of the open field behind the cabin. I pull on the closest one and a piece of cardboard holding a red target starts to squeak towards me from the opposite end. None of the parts look like they belong together. Some are shiny and clearly newer while other pulleys or metal rods are rusted or patched with duct tape.
Jefferson comes around the side of the cabin holding two rifles with a handgun strapped to his waist. Hanging off his left arm are three bulky things that look like headphones from fifty years ago.
I point to the elaborate pulley system. “Did you make all this yourself?”
He nods and begins unloading what’s in his arms onto a rusty metal platform that I suspect may have once been a barbeque grill in its former life. Jefferson gestures us over to the makeshift stand and rests a hand lovingly on one of the rifles.
“Have either of you ever shot one of these before?” he asks.
I bite my lip and lean back. I’d like to say I have but the closest I’ve ever gotten to human-designed guns is looking at them on a projection screen.
Hawk pats the end of the rifle and nods slowly. “Ah, yes. The old rifle. Shoots straight and true long distance. Would this one be, ah, considered a . . . long barrel? Since it’s so long?”
The look Jefferson gives him could have frozen a giant mid-charge. “You’ve never held a real gun before, have you?”
“Not even once!” Hawk says cheerfully.
I grimace on my brother’s behalf. “We’ve only handled dragon tech. Don’t you have any bio-mech guns here?”
“If you haven’t noticed, the Moose Lake Field Office isn’t exactly swimming in funds and sophisticated technology,” he growls. “You have to make do with what you’re given and use it for as long as possible until it just can’t be fixed anymore.”
“Hence the duct tape everywhere,” I say, glancing at the pulley system.
“Duct tape is God’s Band-Aid. Now pay attention.”
Jefferson spends the next twenty minutes explaining the different parts of the guns he’s brought out, where the safety is on each, how to load a clip, and sighting in a target. The point and shoot part certainly comes the easiest. That was basically it for handling a bio-mech gun. He gives us the dorky looking headphones and has us put them on. Once they’re snug on our ears, effectively blocking out most sound, Jefferson pins up a new target on the line and reels it out using his pulleys. Once it’s out thirty feet, he draws his sidearm, loads it faster than I can see what he’s doing, and begins unloading the clip.
I clamp my hands on the headphones and press them down because they certainly can’t drown out the explosive sound of each shot. It rattles through me and adrenaline makes me shaky in a matter of seconds. The movies don’t do live fire justice in its volume and intensity. The bio-mech guns make a faint pulse sound when they discharge—the difference between it and a human gun is like a kitten purring and a dragon roaring. My ears have a faint ring in them once Jefferson finally stops and starts reeling the target back in.
I claw my headphones off. “How on earth does anyone stand that?”
Jefferson actually laughs. “Don’t worry, princess. The .22s I’m going to let you shoot are a lot quieter.”
He looks past my shoulder and pauses. I turn around and see Hawk shell-shocked, staring at the target. I look too and see the holes shredded through the very center, ripping the target apart.
“I thought you said you just regulate the werewolves,” Hawk says in a deadly quiet tone.
The October air seems to drop a few degrees and I shiver. Now I can’t stop staring at the precise, gaping holes in the target that Jefferson took apart so easily. The movies don’t do justice to this kind of feeling either, of something being so real and dangerous.
“These aren’t for werewolves,” Jefferson says. He digs into his thick, brown jacket and pulls out what looks like a small needle attached to a glass tube. “These are for werewolves—the ones that try attacking, anyway. Don’t worry. They aren’t poison. They’re tranquilizers.”
“Do you ever use them?” Hawk’s tone doesn’t soften at all.
“Only on the ones that try to rip my face off. Are you done?” Jefferson raises his eyebrows and starts loading one of the rifles.
Hawk exhales sharply and stalks away to lean against the side of the barn. I remain where I am, clutching at the headphones sitting around my neck. There are times I know I should comfort my brother but there are no words that come to mind. I can understand why this would upset him so much, that werewolves are treated more like animals than humans suffering a disease, that they should be put down like dogs instead of helped. It makes me angry too.
“Hey.” Jefferson nudges me with the end of the rifle. “Is he going to come back over here?” I shake my head. He sighs. “All right, fine. He can wear his fussy-britches all he wants. Here, take this.”
I do as I’m told and Jefferson instructs me on how to hold the rifle properly. He readjusts my grip and makes sure the stock is tucked snug into my shoulder. He stands directly beside me and shows me how to look through the sights and aim. I nod that I understand, but he asks me again to make sure before he has me put my muffs back on. He reels out another target and backs away to give me room.
“Whenever you’re ready!” he shouts since we both have our shooter muffs on.
My hands are still shaking from earlier. I take a deep breath and try to relax, my cheek against the stock, my eyes focused through the scope at the center of the target. I pop the safety and squeeze down on the trigger. Jefferson is right—it’s a lot quieter than his handgun but the sound and the kickback into my shoulder is enough to make me jump. Even though I saw how much Jefferson’s hands jerked when he fired his gun, I’m still not expecting it.
“Pixies!” I shriek. “It kicked! Is it supposed to do that? Is that normal?”
I can see Jefferson fighting back laughter, his mouth twisting and pursing, his eyes flashing. Heat crawls up my face and neck.
“Yes, it’s supposed to do that,” he shouts over the muffs. “Keep going!”
Shaking some more, I focus back on the target. After nine more shots I start to get a feel for the rifle and discover something unexpected—this is fun. Jefferson has me make sure the chamber is clear then has me load another clip, snap it in place, pull back the bolt, and slip a bullet into the chamber. I fire ten more times until my clip is empty. When I hold out my hand for more bullets, Jefferson shakes his head.
“You used up your quota. Why don’t you get your pansy brother over here? And grab another target while you’re at it. They’re leaning
against the other side of the barn.”
“He’s not a pansy,” I growl but do as he says.
I jog to Hawk carrying the rifle, appreciating the weight in my hands now. He doesn’t look so angry but he’s still touchy. After I describe the feel and power of the gun, explosions kicking back into your shoulder and all, Hawk finally agrees to give it a try. I know how much he likes explosions. He shuffles up to Jefferson, head bowed, and takes up the other rifle. I fight back a smile and run around the side of the barn looking for more targets.
I find a cardboard box covered by a weatherworn tarp. The targets are there, a whole stack of them. I grab a handful when the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I deliberately put the targets on the ground, stand straight, and then wheel about with the rifle still in my hands.
Standing on the edge of the trees not thirty feet away is an enormous black wolf. Its yellow eyes cut through me. Normally when I see werewolves I don’t feel afraid. I’ve been living with one long enough that the sight of one doesn’t make me jump, but this one makes me want to crawl right out of my skin. There’s something darker about it than its black fur or sinister eyes. It stands perfectly still apart from those deeply intelligent, horrible eyes looking me up and down, studying me.
I draw up the rifle, forgetting that it’s empty, and aim. The werewolf doesn’t even flinch. My breath catches in my throat and for the first time in a long time I feel truly afraid. I want to call out but I’m afraid what it will do if I shout for my brother. So, instead we have a stare down. Eventually it lowers its head and its lips pull back exposing red-stained fangs.
Well, it clearly isn’t friendly. If I run for the others, I’ll leave my back exposed and this werewolf will easily reach me before I reach help. There’s nothing else for it.
“Hawk!” I scream and start backpedaling as fast as I can. The wolf takes a step forward. I’m moving backwards blind so I end up clipping the side of the barn and stumble to the side, falling to my knees. The rifle slips from my hands. Heavy footsteps thunder towards me. My hands slide on the grass as I try to crawl and my face meets the cold, hard ground, the rifle under me. I grab the gun, flip onto my back, bring up the barrel—a pointless gesture—and aim.
The werewolf is gone.
Chapter 6
Hawk skids to a stop on the ground beside me. Jefferson moves around the side of the barn with his handgun raised, eyes darting to the woods then me. I’m panting hard and I can taste dirt in my mouth. My brother grasps me under the arm and hauls me to my feet, taking the rifle out of my hands that I’ve refused to let go of.
“What happened?” he asks, roughly scrubbing dirt off my forehead with the edge of his sleeve. “Are you okay?”
“There was a—a—” I gesture wildly to the trees. “A huge black werewolf.”
“Are you sure it was a werewolf?” Jefferson asks, his handgun still trained on the woods.
I nod and brush the rest of the dirt off my face and clothes. “Yeah, I’m positive. And there was something . . . off about it. Something dangerous. I don’t know.”
“Did it do anything?” he asks, an edge to his voice.
“It just stood there eyeing me.” I run my hands over the top of my head and smooth my hair back into place.
Hawk grips my shoulder much too tight. “You never freak out like this. You faced that berserker down without blinking an eye.”
“I know that,” I snap at him and brush his hand off. My rush of anger isn’t really directed at him, but he points out what’s bugging me, too—I’m overreacting. Maybe it’s the adrenaline left over from shooting. Some primal instinct is forcing fear down my throat and that makes me irritated.
The breeze rustles our jackets and Hawk sniffs the air, slowly walking forward until he’s at the tree line. He bends down and brushes his hand over the dirt. “Wolf prints. Big ones.”
Jefferson inspects them too but I stay where I am. After a moment of keenly staring at the ground, Jefferson straightens and makes shooing motions at Hawk and me. “Okay, fun’s over. You two go back to the cabin and keep working on that paper.”
“You aren’t going out there, are you?” I ask, my pitch higher than usual.
He shakes his head. “I’m going to put the guns away. Go on you two.”
The wind picks up and we turn our backs against it on our way to the cabin. Once inside I feel like I have a fever. I’m itchy and need to do something.
“That was weird,” Hawk says and stares out the kitchen window.
“You’re telling me.”
“No, I mean I couldn’t pick up a scent at all on that werewolf. I can usually smell something but there was nothing.”
Well, that’s not comforting in the least. I hastily return to the mounds of paper and start going through them like they have all of life’s answers.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Hawk asks and helps me shuffle through the stacks.
“It’s got to be in here somewhere,” I mutter and scoop stacks towards me. Flipping over a piece of junk mail and snatching up a loose pen, I start drawing a table so I can categorize what we have.
“What are we talking about?”
“That werewolf,” I say and jab the end of the pen at the window. “There’s so much here that there has to be something about who that was.”
Hawk places a hand on my arm. “Well, you’re starting to freak me out, so . . .”
“We have to organize this anyway. Just help me.”
He falls silent and his motions sync with mine. I read a page, scribble down notes in my table about what it is, and pass it on to Hawk who files it into one of the empty boxes Jefferson gave us. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for, or how I’ll know it when I see it, but I go at it like a three-headed dog on a steak. By the time lunch rolls around, Jefferson hasn’t returned from “putting the guns away.” I start to worry he went into the woods looking for the black werewolf and was attacked. A shudder ripples through me and I try to focus on the medical records in my hand.
My obsession keeps my focus but eventually Hawk starts poking around at other things in the cabin. He finds an old radio somewhere and tunes it to a self-proclaimed oldies station. It’s white noise to me in the background as I tick through record after record. The floorboards creak as Hawk dances behind me but I’m determined not to be distracted.
It grows dark, supper passes, and I’m still in a funk. Hawk goes to bed but I stay awake. I’m trying to reason with myself now. So what if it was a werewolf? Jefferson said himself that there’s been a population explosion. It could have been a teenager standing there. For whatever reason I feel like there’s something I’m missing and it’s in the back of my mind but I can’t find it.
I pull out my cell phone now and then to check the time. It’s nearly midnight. My energy starts to wind down but my mind is still wide awake. At least I’ve made significant headway. I’ve filled the empty boxes with orderly medical records and have moved on to miscellaneous items. I’m scanning through old police reports when the front door creaks open. I’m instantly hit with a flood of adrenaline and am halfway out of my seat when I realize it’s only Jefferson.
He looks tired—I don’t know why that surprises me considering the time. He’s got shadows painted on his face and his eyes are bloodshot. When he spots me at the table, he manages to look even older and the shadows on his face darken like he’s haunted by some deep sadness. He stops at the fridge and pulls out a bottle of beer, pauses, then grabs another. With both bottles in hand he skulks into his room and locks the door behind him.
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to make of that but his unexpected appearance managed to wake me up all over again. I start to feel twitchy and glance to the window more than once like I might find someone watching me. It’s unnerving and significantly slows my progress. The feeling might just be from the police report I have in my hands. It’s dated nearly fourteen years ago. Police and first responders were dispatched to a residence in the middle of the night.
The unidentified father said a rabid wolf had burst into their house. By the time the police got there the wolf was gone, a little girl was bitten, and the mother was dead. The father—
The rest of the page is blotched over with a coffee stain that smears the ink into an illegible mess. I flip it over but the back is blank. I dig around some more but can’t find the rest of the report. Deciding I should probably call it a night before I go completely mad and paranoid, I leave the report where it is on the desk and head for bed. Hawk is sound asleep on his bunk. I lay a hand on his forehead for a second, reminding myself that I’m not alone and there’s nothing to be afraid of, before climbing into my own bed.
Sleep doesn’t come easy. I dream I’m in a police squad riding with first responders to the call of a wolf attack. When we get there I’m standing outside a white house with green shutters. There’s an oak tree in the front yard and a swing hangs from one of its thick branches creaking in the breeze. Police officers swarm forward into the house and I chase after them. Inside there are claw marks on the walls and drops of blood. I look for the little bitten girl but instead I find two children huddled together under the kitchen table, a boy and girl. The boy is crying and clutching at his side. The girl holds him in her arms, silent as a graveyard, and stares up at me with big, round eyes.
I flick on the flashlight in my hand and hold it over them. Their red hair stands out like fire in the beam’s light.
The whole bunk bed shakes as I fly awake with a gasp. I clamp a hand to my forehead and come away with cold sweat. Below me I hear Hawk muttering in his sleep—something about giants throwing boulders. I stare straight ahead and listen to him rattle away in his sleep. It’s still dark out and a quick check of my phone tells me it’s 3:00 a.m. Pixies. Freakin’ nightmares.
A faint glow outside the window catches my attention. I lean forward and realize it’s coming from the barn. It’s either Jefferson out there or . . . someone else.
The Curse of Moose Lake (International Monster Slayers Book 1) Page 7