Vyrmin

by Gene Lazuta

  “And you know what else?” Conway said after Mr. Green took a seat in a booth near the back of the bar. “There weren’t no animal prints ‘round that body. There was half a horse layin’ out in a field, but I didn’t see one set of dog tracks, or bird marks, or nothing. Scavengers don’t leave meat alone like that…not in November. Not ever.”

  Emil laid down his fork and smiled. “Well, if it’s a mystery that needs solvin’, you got the right man on the job.”

  He was about to stand when Conway put his hand out and placed it on his arm.

  “I want you to be extra careful out at Lefty’s,” he nearly whispered. “I didn’t tell you the rest of what was done to that horse ‘cause you were eatin’. But what we got here’s a real situation.”

  “What you talkin’ ‘bout?” Emil asked, his eyes narrowed.

  “I don’t know, for sure. But whoever killed that horse not only cut it in half, they took a tree branch—I’m talkin’ a good five foot long, thick as your wrist—and shoved it up that animal’s ass.”

  Emil frowned.

  Conway nodded.

  “We’re got us some sicko bastards here, son. So I want you to be extra careful. Keep all this under your hat until we can figure out what’s goin’ on. And while you’re doin’ it, you watch your own ass too.”

  Emil promised that he would.

  And Conway followed him out of the bar, ignoring Mr. Green’s sticky-sweet smirk of greeting, which was the same expression he always seemed to wear. It was an infuriating look…one filled with secret knowledge that left a person feeling that the man making it was just waiting for something to happen that only he knew was coming.

  3.

  “Hello?” Emil called as he pushed open the gate and stepped onto the Zimmer farm. “Lefty? You home?”

  Absolutely nothing moved anywhere he could see. The sky had gone heavy with an even wash of battleship grey that made it appear solid, and ominously dark. A chilling mist that wasn’t exactly rain because it didn’t seem to fall so much as hang, thickened the air. And there were no lights on up at the house.

  The place felt dead.

  The big deputy sighed.

  He’d half expected Lefty to be waiting for him at the fence, but he should have known better. Folks always treated Sheriff Conway like some kind of dignitary: shaking his hand, offering him pie and big, dopey smiles, inviting him over for dinner and thanking him up and down for any little thing he did as if doing things for people wasn’t a part of his job.

  But Emil…he was another story.

  How many times had he answered the station phone only to have some yahoo say that he’d call back when the sheriff was in? As if the deputy couldn’t handle such complicated questions as, “What time’s the Lion’s Club meeting tonight?” or, “Does my boy’s learner’s permit mean I gotta ride on the back of his motorcycle too?” The sheriff had said a thousand times that folks wanted to talk to him personally because they were his friends. But Emil knew the truth: everybody still saw him as that “dumb ox who couldn’t cut it up at the college,” the same way they would, probably, for the rest of his life.

  So, since there was no sheriff in the truck, there was no Lefty at the gate, and Emil shrugged, thinking, “Fuck him,” as he opened the Hop-Cap on his little Isuzu.

  Inside stood Rachel, Marge and Buster, three of his best bloodhounds. They were perfect animals, so dark a shade of saddle tan as to almost appear as if they had each been carved from an enormous block of aged mahogany. Any one of them could have taken Best in Show at any contest Emil might have chosen to enter. But in his mind, dog shows were bullshit and his hounds were the best because they knew how to hunt, not because they were pretty, even though they were—the prettiest goddamn dogs in the world. Six intelligent eyes gleamed in the dark, and three black shapes waited for their master to say that it was okay for them to get out.

  “Come on,” Emil said.

  And the dogs came.

  But they didn’t come right.

  Usually they bounded out, barking and prancing around his legs in excited circles that would have instantly wrapped him in leashes, if he believed in tying his dogs, which he didn’t. But today they climbed down as slowly as cats, their tails limp and their eyes wide as they looked over the flat, grey land and moved in close to Emil’s side.

  “Kinda creepy, huh?” he asked, snapping his fingers and heading for the gate.

  Ruefully, the hounds fell in at his heels.

  “Let’s do what we gotta do and get you back in the truck ‘fore this rain gives you the rheumatism,” he added, unsnapping the flap on his holster.

  But when they reached the horse’s remains, he had to coax the hounds toward it. After five minutes of prodding, the male, Buster—the biggest and most aggressive of the three—still wouldn’t go near the body. And Marge and Rachel sniffed at it halfheartedly before they looked up as if to ask, “Now what?”

  Emil, feeling a little sick to his stomach, simply said, “Go find it!”

  And his dogs sat down.

  A cold breeze whipped up from the Valley with a moan, driving a sheet of real rain across the field with a rustle like wings.

  The deputy drew his gun.

  The figure was probably twenty-five or thirty yards away, but it still sent chills running up and down his spine. It was just standing there, at the tree line, or maybe back a few paces into the woods.

  And it was watching him.

  The dogs didn’t bark, or whine, or move. Emil glanced at them and they were sitting, side-by-side, staring into the woods, their bodies rigid, their hair prickling like quills. They were simply petrified. He’d never seen anything like it in his life. They were too terrified to move, and suddenly he realized that their fear was contagious.

  When he glanced back at the trees, the figure was closer. He hadn’t seen it move. It just was…

  Closer.

  About thirty feet away.

  And then he heard the first snarl.

  Low.

  And mean.

  He’d have recognized Buster’s voice anywhere. The big hound had a particularly deep, bassy sound to his bark that resonated in his chest and throat. When he growled, which was so rare as to be next to never, the tone he produced was dark, smooth, and blood-chilling.

  Emil’s first reaction was pride in his animal’s coming to his master’s defense.

  And then he realized that Buster was growling at him.

  The incongruity of it—the gut-twisting absurdity of Buster turning even a lick of anger his way—tore his attention to the animal’s eyes. What he saw there, in a face that was normally sad, expressive, and full of affection, was a terrible rage that seemed to seethe up from the great dog’s soul. Buster’s eyes were red, hot and staring; his body was lifted into a crouch that trembled like a rattrap ready to strike; his lips were curled back over curved, wicked teeth that dripped with oily, bubbling spit.

  “Buster!” Emil snapped, using his command voice, to which Marge responded by following the big male’s lead and growling in her place.

  Between the two snarling dogs, Rachel, the smallest and arguably most intelligent of the three, sat still, staring blankly, her entire body atremble and her brows working thickly over her eyes. She seemed at odds with herself, as if some internal struggles were tearing at her mind.

  “You did this!” Emil shouted, throwing out his hand and aiming his gun at the figure he’d seen come from the trees. He almost expected the man to be closer again…maybe right on top of him. But he was still thirty feet away, and Emil got his first, really good look.

  Which sent him running.

  “No!” his mind roared as the world reeled, the tree line tilted in a dizzying rush, and Buster exploded into a snarling, insane lunge that sent him tearing at the deputy’s throat.

  Through it all were imprinted the details of a face on Emil’s mind…a face of such portent that even as Marge leapt to join Buster in his traitorous attack, and Rachel—sweet, sweet Rache
l—snapped out of her lethargy and threw herself into Buster, knocking him into a furious, struggling ball, the only thing that seemed important, the only thing that seemed real, was the haunting, timeless features of a being that laughed with delight when dogs turn on their master.

  He was as old as the sky, Emil knew in that instant. He was as old as the moon, and understood the dogs better than the dogs understood themselves. His flesh was an almost silver pale, and so deeply etched with leathery folds that his eyes were nearly lost when he smiled. His teeth were long, perfect, and sharp…

  “He has teeth like a dog!” a voice said in the deputy’s mind, God knew why.

  And there was thick grey hair everywhere, hanging in a tangled mat that was his beard, cascading over his shoulders in ragged sweeps, sprouting in bristling patches over his black, black eyes.

  There were bones in that hair…tiny bones, wrapped in hair, thousands and thousands of bones.

  Somewhere, Buster was screaming.

  Not barking, or snarling, or whining…he was screaming, and in a blur of rusty amber, Rachel moved from his rolling body and Emil saw that her jaws were slick with foaming blood.

  Marge leapt to meet her, and the sound of their struggles was horrible as they entwined like two squid in a fast, liver-colored tangle.

  Emil fell forward.

  He had wanted to run but his legs were rubbery and his spine weak. There was something in his way…something in his eyes…and something in his mind that made it hard for him to think.

  When Marge limped into view there were things hanging from her belly.

  “Such wonders!” the man from the woods said with uplifted arms in words that resounded over the Valley.

  And Emil started crawling toward the barn.

  He didn’t know why he was doing it, but at least he was doing something. All he knew was that he had to get away from this…had to escape. He was an outsider here…because he was a man. A man didn’t belong where the dogs lost their senses. A man didn’t belong where he raised his arms and made wonders appear. A man didn’t belong…a man would die…a man always died when he came from the woods and the dogs started fighting.

  The sound of screaming echoed through his skull; the barn was far away, and something with bones in its hair was laughing and filling the air with rain.

  He wished to God he knew why he wanted to get up and dance.

  A part of him wanted to do that.

  Not all of him.

  Just a part.

  A small part…

  So he didn’t do it.

  But a part of him wanted to…

  And then the barn door swung open, and it was Emil who was screaming in the rain.

  4.

  “It was his eyes that done it,” he said later from the gloom in a corner of Lester Ruggle’s bar. “He come right outta the woods with eyes so black that they made Lefty and my dogs go crazy. They almost made me go crazy too. But I guess I’m not of the Blood, so I’ll be among those to die when they come again…like they will…like they always do. World without end, amen. That’s what my grandma used to say, and she was right…dead or not.”

  He paused, took a deep draft of beer from his glass, and lit a cigarette.

  Sheriff Conway leaned to the man next to him and whispered, “I’ve read about shit like this. But I never thought I’d see it.”

  And the rest of the crowd huddled near Emil’s table waited for more.

  At noon the day after he went out to Lefty’s farm, Emil stumbled back into town, dazed and bloody. He’d walked all the way back—walked—after leaving his truck in Lefty’s driveway. His clothes were smeared with mud, one of his shoes was missing, and he had his gun in his hand.

  God only knew where he had spent the night.

  Behind him a dozen children followed, grinning and twirling their fingers near their temples until adults pulled them off the sidewalk. The big deputy didn’t acknowledge any of the nervous greetings offered as he worked his way to Ruggle’s bar, but stared straight ahead, his eyes glassy and his mouth hanging open. Moving directly to a table in the corner farthest from the door, he leaned his back to the wall, ordered a pitcher of beer, drank it, ordered another, and started talking…first to the empty air. And then to a small knot of curious men. And finally to a steady stream of folks drawn into the bar as news of his condition spread.

  Conway had spent the night at the Zimmer farm, watching the volunteers put out the fire that had consumed the house, barn and toolshed. The fire had been set, that much was obvious—even in the stiff breeze blowing up from the Valley the smell of gasoline was everywhere. Emil’s truck sat by the fence, the charred remains of three dogs lay blackened in the field, and one of the deputy’s shoes was found by the barn. Lefty Zimmer’s burned corpse lay near that shoe, but there was no sign of the big man anywhere, and Conway hadn’t slept, wondering what the hell had happened that would make him kill an old drunk and burn down his farm.

  When he heard that Emil had reappeared, he rushed straight over to Ruggle’s and found a crowd at the door. Men and women were waiting patiently in line, and others were silently emerging into the street, eyes cast down, faces grim. Emil’s story was already spreading through town, and, after listening to it once, the sheriff decided, right then, to call the Division of Behavioral Comparison—the “Church”—for help.

  He’d gotten the number the previous day from a friend who was the sheriff up in Rogers County. He’d called the man for some advice, describing Ginger’s carcass and the tree branch—which was really the kicker as far as he was concerned—finishing up by saying that he suspected that a cult of some kind might have “violated” the animal.

  “Satanists?” the Rogers County sheriff cried. “Like on Geraldo? Hot damn! Then you oughta call the Church. I used ‘em a couple of months back on that Fenner thing, and they sure got the market cornered on weird shit, far as I can tell.”

  Calling the DBC had been one of the hardest things Conway had ever done; but he couldn’t think of a better place to call than the Church when you wanted to beat the devil.

  So Detective Michael (call me Mike) Cooper arrived at a little after three that afternoon, and Conway took him straight to Ruggle’s.

  “Read about shit like what?” the detective asked during the silence through which Emil studied his cigarette.

  “This,” Conway whispered, motioning forward with his head. “The crowd. Quiet and hypnotized while the ‘witness’ tells a story that they’ve all gotta hear for themselves. It’s exactly how the history books say it used to happen in the Middle Ages: the whole village would come, and the witness would tell his story over and over, for as long as it took for everyone to hear it directly from his lips. When he comes, that person who sees him first is supposed to look just like Emil does now: shell-shocked and empty…like his life’s been sucked dry.”

  “When who comes?” Cooper asked, a bit too loudly.

  And Emil raised his head, parting the crowd so that a corridor was formed between the table and the spot where the detective was standing.

  “The Man in the Woods,” he said with low, sincere emotion and red-rimmed, haunted eyes. “When the Man in the Woods appears to a mortal witness, it’s a sign that the moon will soon be filled with its killing glow.”

  Cooper frowned.

  The crowd seemed to hold its breath.

  And Emil related his tale…again, for probably the hundredth time, as he had repeated it in his monotonous, broken-record way all day.

  “There’s wolves in the woods!” he said, moving his eyes appraisingly across the group.

  A red and white neon Budweiser sign shaped like an electric guitar glowed fuzzily on the dark wall over his head.

  “There’s wolves in the woods…and in the house! Right here, right in this room. We just don’t know who they are yet, so take care…and watch your neighbor. Take care, and watch your mirror!”

  Slowly, he lifted himself to his feet, and when he did his voice grew a little
louder.

  “Lefty was one…and the Man in the Woods showed him how to make the belt. Lefty had it on when I saw him. Two o’ my dogs went crazy, but the third, Rachel, she stayed true. She tore the throat outta one and ripped the guts out the other before I knew what was happening. But I still had to shoot her ‘cause they tore out her eye and she was dyin’.

  “Nearly killed me, havin’ to shoot that dog.

  “Nearly killed me…but that come later.

  “When the Man in the Woods appeared, he made my whole world turn upside down. While my dogs was fightin’ I tried to crawl away, but the barn door opened, and Lefty come out…naked. Painted up a bunch’s colors. With blood runnin’ down his legs.

  “He made the belt from his wife. I found her in the basement. He took the skin off her back in three strips ant braided ‘em around his waist so’s the blood would drip down his legs. His arms were singed black up to the elbows from the fire. And his face…oh, sweet Jesus, his face. He had nails punched through his skin, runnin’ all along the line of his upper lip. The heads made a row under his nose, and the points all stuck through so that when he opened his mouth to growl or bark, they pointed down, like fangs.

  “The paint come from some cans in the barn—he’d drawn circles and crosses all over himself.

  “And there was something riding on his back. Something little…with real long arms that pointed things out to him.

  “When I saw him, I was on my hands and knees and the ground was rolling beneath me. That face on his back was gibberin’ and clatterin’ its jaws while it pointed my way…lookin’ like a black monkey…but with wings.”