Carnivores

by Richard Poche

  Hank doubled back and made it to the wooded area of the hills behind the home. He did not have time to reason with the cops.

  He reached a mound on the hill and watched as the police officers led his grandfather into the squad car. One of the officers had his hands on his grandfather's shoulders like a hawk putting his talons into a rabbit.

  Hank could only watch as they drove off.

  Then he heard wolves baying at the moon.

  CHAPTER 20

  Lopez watched Lita's talented wrist do its handiwork. Her hand was small and warm, as intimate as her voice.

  “Do you like it?” she asked in her Mexican lilted accent.

  “Oh God, baby,” he said.

  She kissed his lips then slipped down into his crotch. He shuddered as he felt her silky mouth for the first time. It was then that Lopez found out what Pastor K had become addicted to.

  Lita had vitality in her brown and flawless skin, and the heavy lushness of her black hair. Everything about her seemed unaffected, like she was innocently unaware of the impact her beauty had on Lopez. He realized that by what she did for a living, she had to have had hundreds of different faces for men. And the one she gave him was uniquely his.

  Lopez pulled up his pants, squirming in the car seat. He watched as Lita checked her make up in the rear view mirror. Then he reached into his wallet and gave her another one hundred dollars.

  “You're giving me a tip?” she asked.

  “Maybe go buy something nice?” he said.

  “You're sweet,” she said.

  Lopez looked at her with eyes of love. He stroked her cheek and ran his fingers through her hair.

  “Whenever you want me, just call me. Or go over to the swing set. See there? Come on, I'll show you.”

  Lopez looked across at the swing set in the dark. An unsettling quiet fell over the street. He feared for Lita and didn't know why. She walked these streets alone and clearly could take care of herself. Or at least she thought she could.

  Lita exited the car without saying a word. Lopez could only watch as she walked over to the swings. She sat down on one and began to sway.

  Lopez blinked and squinted hard in the darkness. The swing set stood partially obscured by a tree and bushes. He looked both ways and decided to follow her over there. He trusted her, but he didn't know why.

  As he approached, he could see her smiling at him with the tender warmth of a woman welcoming her returning soldier home.

  He arrived directly in front of her and she stopped in mid-swing, her feet kicking in the dirt.

  “You're so lovely,” he said, stroking her cheek. “You remind me of a girlfriend I once had. Fiancée, actually. Her name was Lourdes. Most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. Big brown eyes like yours. But she cheated on me. I was kind and good and would have done right by her. But it didn't matter. Because girls don't like nice guys. They only like money.”

  “That's not true,” Lita said.

  Above in the trees, something popped and shifted. The branches rustled.

  Lopez looked above and saw a couple of shadow shapes that he couldn't make out in the trees.

  “It's the wind,” Lita said before two gang bangers jumped down from the tree. Javier's boys. Lopez took a step back.

  “You are a sweet one,” one of them hissed.

  “Leave this one alone,” Lita said.

  “You don't get to choose,” the taller one said.

  Lopez watched in shock as the men shape shifted in front of his eyes. Their muscles distorted, skin rippling over taut animal muscle that grew as fur covered it, apex predators coming to life. They bared their fangs as they opened their cavernous jaws, now more monster than wolf.

  Lopez sprinted back to his car.

  Lita blocked one of the wolf's paths.

  “No,” she said. “It has to stop! It has to stop with this one!”

  Lita didn't have time to utter another word. In a violent furry of motion, the wolf's claw raked across her throat.

  Lita dropped to the ground.

  She tried to lift her head but couldn't. Her hand covered her fatal wound.

  Then she began to sob uncontrollably, as if the pent up emotion of five years as a street girl caught up to her.

  Lopez could do nothing. Their eyes met as he continued to run away.

  Lopez ran across the street to his vehicle, nearly being hit by a passing car. He would get his gun.

  He opened the car door and slammed it shut.

  The werewolf rammed into his car and it rocked hard on impact. Lopez could only watch as the claws dug into his driver side window, leaving starred scratches in the glass.

  He slammed on the gas pedal, but one of the beasts stepped in front of the vehicle. The tires smoked and screeched, spun and propelled.

  The beast slammed its claw down into the front window, shattering it. Lopez felt the glass shrapnel hit his face as he reached for his gun.

  He shot up at the wolf, watching as his slugs ripped through the chest and shoulders of the beast, causing nothing more than an ear-splitting howl.

  With his left hand, he hooked the steering wheel left and slammed the gas pedal again. The car careened to the side of the road, its tires squealing like a dying animal.

  He slammed the gas pedal once more and screamed down the road, watching the beast fade from sight in his rear view mirror.

  CHAPTER 21

  Detective Simonds came into the interrogation room with the bag of knives that Vanderhorst and Hank had been working on. The old man sat with his head bowed, staring at the vinyl floor as if watching a movie.

  “I must say, I have never seen a collection of knives like this in my life,” Simonds said. “Some of these are works of art.”

  “Thank you,” the old man raised his head. His eyes were glazed over both from tiredness and anxiety.

  “What were you planning on doing with them?”

  “I planned to give them to you.”

  Simonds sat down and brought one of the knives up to his eye. He flicked a button and the blade sprang out.

  “Silver,” the old man said. “The way they make switchblades nowadays it is more for show. But that one, ah, that one can do some damage.”

  “Yeah,” the detective said. “So why would you give them to us?”

  “They can only be killed with silver. That part of the legend is true. You'll need those knives more than us.”

  “For what exactly?”

  “Regular bullets won't stop them. Lead doesn't work against a werewolf. The force of the projectile may be enough to hold them back it but will have no effect and they'll heal right away.”

  Simonds noted the sincerity in the intonation of the man's voice. He had to admit that this was one of the fringe benefits of his job. You never knew what these schizophrenics would say next.

  “Interesting,” he said, looking at the old man with a queasy sympathy. “I used to watch the old Lon Chaney movies when I was a kid. Even the Abbott and Costello ones scared me.”

  The old man took a deep, sad breath.

  “Only the werewolves didn't scare me. Bela Lugosi did. But not the werewolf,” the detective chuckled while reverting his attention back to the intricate details on the handle of the knife.

  The first scream came from outside the door. Then another. Then a crunching explosion of metal on metal.

  “What the shit?” Simonds said as he opened the interrogation door into a scene of madness.

  Police officers blasted away in retreat, their faces pale.

  Simonds took out his gun and advanced down the hall. He saw a uniformed arm on the floor. Then a decapitated head.

  A flurry of officers came running into his direction.

  But they didn't run fast enough.

  Some fell on the blood-slicked floor. Others were clawed in the back, sending fishnets of blood on the walls.

  Simonds looked across the office and finally saw the cause of all of this mayhem. Their howls reverberated through the hall li
ke thunder.

  He shuddered as he realized that they didn't look like they did in the movies.

  Then the old man picked up the bag of knives.

  And all hell broke loose.

  Spinks had a hunch.

  And he hated when had one of those, because he could never sleep until the hunch had been proven right.

  He recalled that Frias had attended Pastor K's church. There had to have been some connection between the two. Some kind of link between the cops who attended his church and their ultimate demise.

  He came up the driveway of the church and saw a brown GTO parked outside. He recognized the car. It belonged to one of the Lobos.

  Then he saw one of the gang members exit the church, carrying a wolf’s costume.

  He parked the car at a distance and walked up.

  “Dispatch?” he whispered into his walkie-talkie.

  They didn't respond back.

  Seeing opportunity wasted, he sprinted up the hill and made it to the side of the church. The lights were on inside, and he crept along the wall and peeked in.

  Miranda sat at the altar. Kneeling down, she looked to be praying.

  And that's when Spinks heard the snarl behind him.

  He turned around in time to see the yellow of the werewolf's eyes. The sound of the wolf's howl made his heart race.

  And when he saw the werewolf's body, his heart nearly stopped.

  Part man. Part wolf. Part demon.

  It had spindly arms that ended in long, sharp nails. The creature opened its jaws and howled again, saliva sticking to its razor-like fangs. Its furry ears were pinned back as its yellow eyes squinted, feral and intelligent.

  Spinks reached for his gun and began firing. He felt like David fighting off Goliath as the bullets caromed off the giant wolf's fur.

  He thought about his grandmother. About how all of her stories about religion and God and devils were true.

  Only she never talked about devils that looked like this.

  He saw a blur of motion, a brown streak as the claw came down on his throat.

  Spinks fought back. He continued firing until the wolf’s claw sliced down on his arm, bisecting it like a tree branch.

  He fell back and could no longer ignore the pain as he screamed for his life. The wolf bit down on his neck with his crushing jaws, its razor fangs extinguishing whatever courage was left in the man.

  CHAPTER 22

  “I believe you,” were the first words out of Lopez's mouth when Hank opened his apartment door.

  Hank said nothing as he followed Lopez into the squad car and they sped into down town.

  “You hear the howls at night?” Lopez asked.

  Hank nodded, no longer feeling the need to explain himself.

  “My uncle was from this small village in Durango,” Lopez said. “Claimed to be a wolf slayer. Of course, everyone in my family thought he was crazy.”

  “How about you?”

  “I believed both him and you a little too late.”

  They reached 13th Avenue and Broadway. A few protesters skipped through the street, spray painting windows on the storefronts.

  Hank and Lopez exited the vehicle. They heard howls in the distance. Gunfire and sirens.

  Hank no longer felt afraid. He could feel his destiny in the air.

  Born to be a wolf slayer, a chill ran up his spine and sweat furrowed his brow.

  Running to the sound of gunfire, they turned the corner and saw several protesters morphing in to werewolves.

  The wolves attacked the cops with abandon, severing limbs and heads.

  Onlookers screamed and ran for their lives with disbelieving eyes.

  Lopez drew his knife. He sprinted toward a werewolf attacking two officers who had locked themselves in their squad car.

  Lopez stabbed deep into the wolf’s back. The wolf went down in a heap, the painful howl deafening.

  Hank sliced into every hairy body with abandon. Wolves fell at his feet. Some saw him coming and loped away.

  His adrenaline buzzed with delight as he embraced the rush, his nervous system finding the violence soothing. He had never felt more alive in his life.

  Hank let loose with a battle cry and began mowing the wolves down, one by one. The man once afraid of sticking up for himself now made the most vicious wolf-goblins run in fear. His heart raced in tandem with the slice of his knife. He never knew that violence could be so rich, so invigorating, to all of the senses. Hank dug his knife deep into his enemies, feeling their warm blood and damp fur on his hand.

  “Hank!”

  Hank saw that three werewolves had surrounded Lopez. One of the wolves clawed the knife out of the officer's hand.

  Hank jumped on top of one of the squad cars and then leapt down onto the offending wolf. He sliced his knife across the werewolf’s throat, then cut into another werewolf that followed. He felt the fire of the wolf slayer now. A great power that he had inside swelled just under his surface, a powerful wave of energy to which he felt connected.

  Lopez made a leap for his fallen knife. Another wolf caught him in mid-stride then raked his claws across the officer's neck. Another swipe and the wolf split open Lopez's stomach, sending his intestines to the concrete in a bloody heap.

  “No!” Hank screamed as he went into a rage. He sliced upward, into the werewolf’s neck.

  Feeling surrounded, another wolf came out of the darkness and scraped Hank's arm.

  Hank winced but swung his dagger around and sliced down into his enemy’s shoulder blade.

  The wolf howled and rolled onto the pavement.

  Rubbing his shoulder, the beast shifted back into his human form.

  Javier.

  Hank raised his knife and looked to be ready to stab into the man's heart when he felt a small hand grip his wrist.

  “Leave him alone,” Miranda said.

  “No,” Hank said. “It ends now.”

  “I said,” Miranda pushed Hank away, “leave us alone.”

  “Miranda,” Hank said. “What is going on?”

  “Sorry, Hank,” she said. “I tried to turn you on to our cause. I figured you were weak enough to follow me anywhere.”

  She pushed Hank again and he tottered backward. Miranda's demeanor was no longer something Hank recognized. She had a different attitude. A different switch in her step.

  “First, we'll take over this city,” she said. “Then the next. And the next.”

  Javier began morphing back into a wolf. His yellow eyes squinted at the backpedaling Hank. Hank watched as Javier's ears jutted back, becoming furry triangles. His mangy fur sprouted across his back once again.

  “That's my boy,” Miranda said as she watched the transformation.

  Javier's tongue lolled and revealed sharp teeth. He snarled at Hank.

  Hank took a step backward then stood his ground, his hand white-knuckled around his knife.

  “I must admit, I always thought you were a pussy,” Miranda said. “Really surprised that you're fighting back.”

  “What are you doing, Miranda?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Just taking over the world.”

  Javier charged. Hank reacted with a knife strike that missed. Javier backed away and darted in again, scratching Hank across the thigh, sending a chunk of meat into the air.

  “I heard your father was quite the wolf slayer,” Miranda said. “Until he came to America. Then he became soft.”

  Javier darted in again and dug his claws in deep into Hank's arms.

  “You, on the other hand, were born soft,” Miranda said.

  Javier charged in. Hank let out a battle cry.

  The wolf slayer sprinted forward, meeting the wolf halfway. He buried his blade deep into the wolf’s belly, ripping into the exposed flesh. He hacksawed away, cutting through the guts and innards until the blade found its destination.

  The heart of the werewolf.

  A great howl of pain came out of Javier as he collapsed to his knees.

 
Hank withdrew his blade and looked at his tormentor in the eye as they rolled over white, accepting death.

  Victorious, Hank turned to face Miranda.

  Her shape shifting had begun. She looked more fox than wolf or monster. Her hair reddish brown and head turned narrow and lupine.

  Miranda knocked the knife out of his hand with disdain. She walked slowly toward him with a smile on her face.

  She lived for the kill. He could see it in her eyes and finally understood her, but that didn't stop him from wanting the fantasy to live on.

  She swiped at him again and he dodged the blow. Backpedaling, Hank tripped over the dead body of Javier.

  “I love you, Miranda,” he pleaded as he looked up at her. “Please don't do this.”

  Fully transformed, she lifted Hank up off the ground

  He felt her hot breath against his face. Then she licked his neck.

  “I know this is not you,” he said.

  Without warning, Miranda raged. She clawed at Hank's face and chest with such ferocity that all Hank could do was put up his arms. He felt Miranda's nails cutting deep into his hands and shoulders and some got though to his face.

  He dropped to the ground.

  Miranda stood over him, claws bared.

  Then her body jerked and pitched forward, falling limp on top of him.

  He looked up and saw the old man wipe off Miranda's blood from his blade.

  “Grandpa,” he muttered.

  His grandfather stood above him with his shirt torn open. Bites and slashes cut across his chest, the marks of a fresh battle.

  “Like I always told your dad,” he said, “women ain't no good.”

  Hank gently rolled Miranda back over to look her in the eye.

  “I loved you,” he said.

  Miranda snarled at him through fading breaths. Her eyes went from desperate resistance to the acceptance of her fate. Her eyes rolled back empty. She was dead long after she stopped snarling, her soul outlasting her body's demise.

  Hank's grandfather helped him back to his feet.

  “I think we killed the majority of them,” the old man said, nodding to the city street. Numerous police officers, armed with the knives that grandfather and grandson created, ruthlessly mowed down the werewolves.