by Gene Lazuta
It was like a revelation. Like breaking the surface of the water and breathing for the first time after nearly drowning.
He was the Dog!
He was meant to do this!
He was born to do this!
He was made only to do this!
He was the Dog that would save his Flock!
“Watch me now, you son of a bitch!” he spit, transferring his ax to his left hand and grabbing a torch from one of the men standing at his side.
“You thought you’d leave me to die,” he continued, stepping up to where Cooper lay, twisting on the ground. “Well, it’s not over yet.”
Even though he was only half-conscious, Cooper screamed when the sheriff thrust the burning torch into the stump of his right shoulder. He tried to roll, shrieked, bit bloody dirt with this teeth, and then passed out, without ever once looking into the sheriff’s eyes.
Had he looked into those eyes, he would have found nothing that even resembled mercy. It was probably best that he didn’t see what was in there, at that moment, as the flames of the burning ash and kerosene-soaked rags cauterized his pumping arteries and scorched the raw flesh of his wound closed. For had he seen the depth of hatred, anger, and power imbued in the sheriff’s eyes at that instant, he very well might have died of sheer terror. For Conway’s single purpose in life had come clear to him in that instant, and he would never again sway from it for as long as he lived…
He would never falter…
He would never fail…
He would never be without his ax!
With calculated precision, he moved the torch from one bleeding wound to another, until the torso lying on the ground was charred and motionless.
Then he looked back up at the sky, smiled grimly, and turned to watch the rest of the Vyrmin and their masters die in an orgy of bloodletting and an explosion of the Flock’s collective power.
It went on all night.
And in the morning, they lit the fires.
EPILOGUE
The guy was a pain in the ass, but he was from Cleveland, had a badge, and was holding a photograph of Detective Michael Cooper, who had come down to Harpersville a week before and had not come back. So Conway listened sympathetically while he asked his questions, and waited for a full thirty seconds, thoughtfully studying Cooper’s picture before handing it back.
“Are you sure, Sheriff?” the man asked, knitting his brow. “I’ve been all over the area, and this is where he said that he was heading. We would really appreciate anything you can do to help us.”
Conway glanced at the man from Cleveland and made a show of reexamining the photograph before saying, “I’m sorry. He just don’t ring no bells.”
The man looked thoroughly disappointed. But without further protest, he packed up his briefcase and went away.
As his office door slammed—and the thin swirl of snowy air died before chilling the room—Conway didn’t move from his seat behind his desk. Instead, he watched the detective from Cleveland stomp through the deep snow and climb into a running Ford Fairlane, where another man was waiting. The second man shook his head, and soon the Ford was heading out of Harpersville, probably headed to the next town along the State Route.
They’d been looking for Michael Cooper for nearly the whole time since that night at the burial grounds.
But they wouldn’t find him.
No one would.
After the Ford was gone, Conway glanced down at the great, black volume upon which his bandaged right hand was resting. The stump of his finger didn’t ache that badly right now, but it would tonight, when he was lying in bed, alone with himself and his wound. The book was as thick as a Bible, and in a way, that’s exactly what it was: Conway’s Bible. It was the black book Dr. Datch had kept of his sessions with young Robert Norris, twenty-five years ago. In it were all the details of everything that was to come, spelled out as a little boy’s nightmares. Dr. Datch couldn’t be blamed for not believing that Bobby was the Blood Prince that he claimed to be under hypnosis. He couldn’t be blamed for taking such statements as “Woodie will try. But I will prevail. For the time of the beast has passed, and the time of the great struggle is yet to come. Only a new way can save the Wild from extinction, and I will be that way!” as examples of his stepson’s mental problems and not the very accurate predictions of the course of the child’s life that they actually were.
No, Dr. Datch couldn’t be blamed for missing the signals or, more accurately, interpreting them in a more traditional manner.
But the good doctor did blame himself, and Conway was glad that he did.
On his way downstairs, the sheriff turned on every light in the dingy, concrete-block stairwell. The steps were loud and creaked under his weight. There were spider webs in every corner.
They had killed twenty of the descendants of the First—which left four alive out there somewhere. They had also killed eleven of the twelve Vyrmin wolves that night. And Conway had been the overseer of the slaughter. Sixty humans had either been killed on the spot or had died in the days that followed, but the losses were small when you considered just what the people of Harpersville had been up against.
The people of Harpersville…
Conway felt a lump of pride in his throat every time he thought of them.
Every damned man, woman and ambulatory child had answered the witness’ call that night. Every one. They’d all come, en masse—a solid ring of flesh and blood, armed and ready to fight for their world, their life, and their future.
And they had done what they needed to do.
When the killing was over, the chain saws roared over the Valley, and the bonfires blazed. All the charred bones that were later collected had been buried in the magic way, all around town, in a continuous circle of power. Theoretically, Harpersville was now werewolf proof. Conway hadn’t said anything to dispel the people’s confidence in their own safety. They’d earned a little peace of mind…
Even if it was unfounded.
The cellar door opened with a prolonged squeal, drawing the attention of one of the men in the damp room. From where he sat, an elderly gentleman in a grey suit and a red tie lifted his head and peered at Conway over the tops of his half-rimmed reading glasses. His grey hair was wispy and cropped short. His middle displayed a pronounced paunch that he had carried almost all his life. And his features were knotted with concentration.
“Well?” Dr. Datch inquired, without rising from his seat.
For a moment, Conway ignored the question, his attention focused as it was every time he entered this buried room of dripping sounds and ill-lit, dancing shadows, on the figure in the wheelchair. Dr. Datch had made this man his personal prisoner and had taken to spending almost every waking minute with him, studying him, watching him, talking to him, and listening on those rare occasions when the man chose to speak.
“That’s the second one in the last two days,” Conway said, without taking his eyes from Detective Cooper’s face. “Things are getting pretty hot out there.”
“But are there any indications that we can start?” Dr. Datch asked, placing the copy of Woodie’s diary he was reading on an empty beer case next to the recliner a couple of deputies had lugged down to the cellar for him, and standing up. It was against that recliner that the sheriff’s ax leaned, close at hand should the doctor need it.
“Yeah,” Conway nodded. “This time there are.”
If he didn’t have to, Conway would have never come down to this room at all. But he felt that he needed to do it…needed to subject himself to it, just to keep it all fresh in his mind, just to keep it focused.
Datch was saying something, but the sheriff wasn’t listening.
He was looking into Detective Cooper’s eyes.
Cooper was strapped to the wheelchair with leather belts. He shit through a hole in the seat and pissed through a tube. Without any arms or legs he couldn’t move, but that didn’t stop his captors from securing his head with a neck brace, because he could bite, an
d he had proven it by trying several times. He was wrapped in a blanket against the cold, but underneath he was nude. His hair was tangled and dirty—they hosed him off a couple of times a week—and he had lost a great deal of body fat because they didn’t feed him anything solid anymore…
Too risky.
They had IVs running into arteries in his neck and there was a tube that they were considering ramming down his throat to his stomach...though they hadn’t worked up the nerve to try that yet…
If they ever would.
Cooper was staring into Conway’s eyes with sheer, unblinking hatred in his gaze.
“Sheriff?” Dr. Datch asked, startling Conway by placing a hand on his shoulder. The sheriff had not heard him approach.
“What happened that makes you say that we can begin?” he asked, gently.
Conway blinked, and moved his attention to the doctor. He regarded him for a moment, pushed Detective Cooper’s look out of his mind, and said, “This last detective was from the Church itself.”
At that, Cooper snorted in his chair and tried to squirm. The belts holding him didn’t allow so much as a flicker.
“He was really scared,” Conway continued, moving Dr. Datch closer to the stairs, as if a few steps’ distance from the wheelchair would make him feel better.
“The increase in random-pattern violence in the past five days has been incredible,” he said, his voice low. “They’ve got FBI agents coming now, and they’ve been turning the whole lower half of the state upside down looking for him.” He nodded toward Cooper. “The coincidence of his asking questions about the Institute of Metaphysical Research and my calling him down here on an animal-killing case makes the Church think that he’s tied up with something big. Animal killing are their number one priority right now. But there’s more going on too.”
Dr. Datch looked interested. “What does a Church representative asking questions about the Institute have to do with animal killings?” he asked.
Conway looked grim. “They found a lot of bodies in the building’s basement last week,” he answered, softly. “The smell’s what did it. It got to the bums living in an alley behind the place, if you can imagine. There were a lot of things in that building that’s got them thinking that they might have a connected case of some kind of cannibal worship, if they can just find Cooper.
“Also…and this is the big one. They want to find him fast, because there’s been reports of cannibal killings in Michigan.”
“North,” Dr. Datch said.
“Uh-huh,” Conway agreed with a nod.
“It’s the first indication we’ve had that one of them has made a move,” Datch mused aloud. “It’s not necessarily Robert.” He still called his stepson Robert, even after everything that had happened. “In all likelihood, it’s one of the others following the draw of his energy. But at least it is a direction.”
“North,” Conway said again. “There’s a lot of woods up that way.”
Datch frowned.
And both men shared a brief mental image of the great white north of Canada, looming over the United States.
“He’s probably already up there,” Datch finally said.
Conway sighed. “That’s what I’ve been thinking,” he agreed, heading for the stairs. “He’s been saying that he went up into the sky since he was a kid. I read it in your book, and then I saw him do it with my own eyes. Said that something ‘big’ was waiting for him. If I was him, and I wanted a little time to get myself together, north’s the way I’d head. And if I could fly, I’d be wherever it was that I was going by now.”
Dr. Datch put out his hand and touched the sheriff’s sleeve, halting the man on the third step up the stairs.
“When can we be on our way?” he asked, looking up into the man’s eyes from below.
Conway looked at the doctor for a long time, and then glanced at the wheelchair over the man’s shoulder. Cooper was watching him coldly, and his mouth was twitching around the corners, as if he were about to grin, but was trying to keep himself from doing it. Finally, the detective said in a voice like that of a horror movie demon, “Yeah, Fido. When do we go to the park?”
Conway looked back at the doctor. “It’s gonna be a bitch,” he said unnecessarily. “If there was some other way than taking him along.”
“We need him,” Datch returned. “The closer we get to Robert—to the Blood Prince—the more symptoms he’ll exhibit. He’ll be like a human divining rod, pointing us to the right path. It’ll be hard. But it will be worth it in the end.”
“The end,” Conway said, admiring the determination in the old man’s eyes. He didn’t really think that they were anywhere near the end. “Tomorrow,” he said, finally, turning and heading back up the stairs. “Ready or not, for better or for worse, we’ll begin our Hunt tomorrow.”
And below him, Detective Cooper was softly laughing, expressing his delight at the promise of the new day’s dawn.
THE
END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A native of Cleveland, Ohio, Gene Lazuta was introduced to dark stories of fear and the supernatural by his grandmother, who cultivated his taste for fright and fascination with a never-ending stream of folk tales from her native Slovakia. Following college, where he studied literature and psychology, he worked as an undertaker for nearly thirteen years before finding a professional home as a communication specialist at one of the nation’s most recognized and respected healthcare organizations.
He is the author of ten novels (six horror-based and four murder mysteries), numerous journal and trade publication articles, and a new non-fiction collaboration. Following the release of the Bloodshot Books edition of Vyrmin, he is returning to the supernatural genre by starting work on a story that carries the mythology that Vyrmin introduces in a wider, more ominous direction.
Gene lives in Berea, Ohio, with his wife of over thirty years, Sue, his inspiration, his motivation, and the woman to whom every book he has ever written and will ever write is dedicated.
ALSO FROM
BLOODSHOT BOOKS
The Specimen (The Riders Saga – Book 1)
From a crater lake on an island off the coast of Bronze Age Estonia...
To a crippled Viking warrior's conquest of England ...
To the bloody temple of an Aztec god of death and resurrection...
Their presence has shaped our world. They are the Riders.
One month ago, an urban explorer was drawn to an abandoned asylum in the mountains of northern Massachusetts. There he discovered a large specimen jar, containing something organic, unnatural and possibly alive.
Now, he and a group of unsuspecting individuals have discovered one of history's most horrific secrets. Whether they want to or not, they are caught in the middle of a millennia-old war and the latest battle is about to begin.
Available in paperback or Kindle on Amazon.com
ISBN-13: 978-1495230004
NO VAMPIRES . . . NO WEREWOLVES . . .
NO ZOMBIES . . . BEEN THERE. DONE THAT.
You’ve heard their stories before and you’re screaming for a different breed of horror. Say “Hello” to the ones that are still hidden by the shadows. The ones that peer from behind the gravestones with multi-faceted eyes and crawl from the sewers on slime-covered tentacles. The ones that stain the pages within this tome with the blood of their victims . . .
NOT YOUR AVERAGE MONSTER:
A BESTIARY OF HORRORS
THIS AIN’T YOUR DADDY’S NIGHTMARE!
Available in paperback or Kindle on Amazon.com
ISBN-13: 978-0692567937
JUST WHEN YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD
VENTURE OUT OF YOUR HIDING PLACES,
HERE COMES ANOTHER HORDE OF HORRORS
Slithering, wriggling, lurking, and creeping. Leaving slick trails of pustulent slime behind them. These aren’t your run-of-the-mill monsters populating the pages of this tome. No, these critters feed on the fear that bubbles up inside you when all appears lost
and the scent of blood is on the wind. Now is the time to face these demons and read on . . .
NOT YOUR AVERAGE MONSTER, VOL. 2:
A MENAGERIE OF VILE BEASTS
THIS NIGHTMARE HAS JUST BEGUN!
Available in paperback or Kindle on Amazon.com
ISBN-13: 978-0692644737
Welcome to the small Midwestern town of Belford, Ohio. It’s summer vacation and fourteen-year-old Toby Fairchild is looking forward to spending a lazy, carefree summer playing basketball, staying up late watching monster movies, and camping out in his backyard with his best friend, Frankie.
But then tragedy strikes. And out of this tragedy an unlikely friendship develops between Toby and the local bogeyman, a strange old man across the street named Mr. Joseph. Over the course of a tumultuous summer, Toby will be faced with pain and death, the excitement of his first love, and the underlying racism of the townsfolk, all while learning about the value of freedom at the hands of a kind but cursed old man.
Every town has a dark side. And in Belford, the local bogeyman has a story to tell.
Available in paperback or Kindle on Amazon.com
ISBN-13: 978-0692730980
ON THE HORIZON FROM BLOODSHOT BOOKS
2016
The Frighteners – Stephen Laws
Blood Mother: A Novel of Terror – Pete Kahle
Tunnelvision – R. Patrick Gates
Odd Man Out – James Newman
2017*
Eternal Darkness – Tom Deady
Shadow Child – Joseph A. Citro