Best New Werewolf Tales (Vol. 1)

by Wilson, David Niall; Lamio, Michael; Newman, James; Maberry, Jonathan; Everson, John; Daley, James Roy

  She positioned him so he could stare out the window that overlooked the swamp, much as he had been in the bar, and she returned to the door, gazing back at him fondly. She would have liked to have stayed, just to spend time with him and talk––to tell him stories. The memory of how he had been, the fierce light that had lit his eyes and the grace of his movements, all of it was emblazoned brightly in her memory. Her love had not faded with his injury, only becoming deeper and bittersweet.

  She turned to the door and reached again for the keys, hurrying to place the first in its sheath of metal. As she turned it, feeling the bolt slide home with a dull thunk, strong hands grabbed her from behind, one covering her mouth, and dragged her away.

  She fought wildly, trying to bite the hand and loosen it so she could scream, but a sudden hard slap from her assailant’s other hand sent her senses reeling, and she felt her concentration slipping. The world warped, everything fuzzing around her. She squirmed and kicked with every ounce of energy she possessed, fighting to be free, but it was no use.

  Paul, she screamed mentally, Oh my God, no!

  She could smell the odors of beer, faded denim, and leather as she was dragged toward the tree line, combined with the slightly sour smell of his breath. She knew it was the man Juice, the man with snake’s eyes. Where his hands groped at her flesh, she cringed and pulled back into herself, but it was not enough. He was strong, and she had been stupid. Blind and stupid.

  She stumbled along, remaining upright only by the strongest of efforts. Every few steps, Juice slapped her again, or twisted her head by a handful of her long, dark hair. She couldn’t muster the breath for the scream she longed to release, even when his hand was free of her mouth, and in any case she knew it would matter very little. The hanging moss on the trees surrounding them could dampen sound like a wet blanket, and they were moving in deeper by the second.

  Finally, with a grunt, Juice stopped, spinning her roughly against him and planting his mouth firmly over hers, sliding his hand around to hold her tightly by a handful of hair. His other hand was working feverishly, tearing at her dress, shredding the fabric with ease. She fought determinedly, but every effort seemed, somehow, to aid him, and her clothing soon lay in tatters at her feet as he fumbled with his own belt.

  She screamed then, a lost, lonely scream, her head tilted back so that the light of the full moon fell brightly on her face. Something inside clicked, something almost forgotten in the whirlwind of events that had swept her up. Her body went suddenly rigid, and her eyes widened. “Paul!” She screamed. “Oh, my God! Paul!”

  “That cripple don’t hear you, honey,” Juice whispered harshly, lifting her body and pressing her into the damp ground. He pushed himself easily between her flailing legs, moving his hands over her body and pulling her toward him. She scratched and tried to bite, swinging at him with whatever limb was momentarily free, but to no avail.

  “You need a real man, prob’ly needed one for a long time. I’m doin’ you a favor.” His grin was wild, maniacal, and the moonlight glinted off of a silver cap that covered one of his two front teeth.

  Jeanette felt her mind spiraling downward, away from it, away from the night. Her thoughts caromed about inside her brain, repeating a single word––”Paul”.

  * * *

  The moonlight seeped over the window sill slowly, moving like a spill of corn syrup over hot-cakes. It slid down the wall, eating away the shadows, moving relentlessly toward Paul’s inert form. Deep within, beyond the immobile strings that once animated his body, beyond the rotting, worthless husk that had been a strong, virile man, anger boiled. It raged, barely checked, bubbling over the walls of reason.

  His eyes did not move, but he saw. His ears conveyed even slight sounds to his brain, but his mouth refused to acknowledge them. He was trapped, helpless, as alone in a crowd as in a locked room, and he gnashed mental teeth, reaching even farther inward, reaching for something long gone. He had heard the screams. He knew what was happening, knew he was trapped -- doubly, the deadened nerves of his body and the solid steel of the dead bolts. Still he reached, and when the moonlight slipped across the floor like an obsequious servant to lick at his feet, his will was answered.

  The first sensation to return was pain, excruciating, mind numbing pain. He used it, concentrated on it, funneling it into his anger. He must be free. Jeanette was out there, and another. He must go to them, go before it was too late.

  The tendons and muscles spasmed in his arms, his neck, his torso, knotted and contracted, stretched and molded, changing. There was the snap of joints being rearranged, the popping of skin too-tight for it’s host body. Then he moved. He raised his head, threw it back in a combination of rage and pain beyond description, and he screamed.

  Leaping from the chair, flexing long idle muscles and re-orienting his eyesight and balance, he turned to the door, eyes smoldering. A fleeting memory returned. Sounds. Only one key. Only one key had turned before Jeanette’s muffled cry, and one lock would not hold. Not nearly.

  He charged. There was no thought in the movement, no planning. He lowered a shoulder, now deeply muscled, covered in dark gray fur, and with a roar he pitted his strength, his pain, his anger, and his soul against the treated wood and metal reinforcements of the door. There was a meeting, wood and flesh, will and strength. With a splintering explosion the dead bolt ripped free of the wall and he was through, sprawling, rolling rising to a stooped four legged stance and running. The swamp beckoned, and he heard a faint scream––his name. Then the rage took him beyond thought, and, howling his fury, he plunged into the trees.

  * * *

  Jeanette didn’t immediately register the crashing sounds as they approached. She was concentrating on not hearing, not seeing. Not being. She felt the weight of the man pounding against her, felt the bruises and the small knots of pain, the razor-wire ball clenched in her gut, but she refused to acknowledge what was happening. All that mattered was that she get away, back to Paul. The keys. Something about the keys.

  Juice was oblivious. His mind was lost in a swirl of lust and alcohol, enhanced by two Seconal he’d dropped an hour before hitting the bar. When the trees parted at his back and the scream of rage split the muggy, dampened air, it took a long moment to register on his mind at all. He turned his head slowly, not really aware of danger yet, only confused and annoyed at the interruption. It took entirely too long.

  Jeanette felt a sudden release of pressure. One second Juice was pressing his foul-smelling, repulsive flesh against her in a relentless, mind-numbing rhythm, and the next he was just gone. Not there. She opened her eyes slowly, willing herself to move while there was a chance, to roll to the side, anything, but her body wouldn’t respond. Only her eyes moved, in the end, and the sight that met them was nearly enough to send her back to oblivion.

  Juice was dangling about two feet above her, his eyes wide and his mouth constricted into a rictus of horror. He was held tightly at the neck by a gnarled, impossibly-large clawed hand. Long and covered with coarse gray fur, veined and rippling with barely contained strength.

  She followed the arm back up it’s length, unable to stop herself from looking, though she knew what she would find. The werewolf was huge—overpowering. His frame, though bent, towered over her, handling the body of her attacker as if it were an insignificant plaything. She was snared instantly by the eyes. They were focused on Juice, and they were on fire with a raging hatred that was nearly palpable.

  “Paul” she squeaked, unable to fully control her breath––her voice––”Paul, don’t—”

  She spoke to the air, to the wind. He did not hear her, of if he did, he was beyond listening. The wolfman reached out with his other hand, clamped it over Juice’s mouth and began to squeeze. Awash in terror, and finally comprehending the imminence of his death, Juice clamped down himself, biting into the hand with all the strength he could put behind his jaws. There was an incredible roar of pain and anger, and the hand fell away.

  Wher
e Juice’s teeth had broken the werewolf’s skin, steam rose, and the skin seemed to blacken and pull away from the bone. As the man’s jaws released, the moonlight glittered off the silver capped tooth once more, flashing brightly. Then the other hand had released as well, and Juice fell, hitting the ground with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs. He lay there, rolling over and over and bent double, trying to regain enough strength and composure to run.

  Jeanette saw all of this as if from a distance––detached. It couldn’t really be happening. Paul was frothing at the mouth, eyes wilder than before, sweeping the clearing as if confused. It only took him a moment to find what he sought, but that was enough time for Juice to reach his feet, still doubled over but very determined.

  The two stood facing one another for a long second, then Juice broke for the trees, screaming at the top of his lungs and slapping through the brush and brambles without thought. Holding his injured hand limply in front of him, Paul leaped after him, head thrown back and a wild cry of rage and pain shooting skyward, aimed at the heart of the moon.

  Moments later, when she was alone, Jeanette stumbled to her feet. Juice had no chance, she could already hear his screams changing in pitch, rising and falling away. She had to get back, to find a way to stop what her own foolishness had begun. She wrapped the remnants of her dress about her as best she could and staggered off through the brush, praying that her senses were correct and that she was going the right way. If she were lost in the swamp, there was little hope of lasting the night. Not now. Not with Paul loose.

  She knew he would not harm her, not if he were himself, but this was only part her husband, this creature of darkness and pain, and she didn’t know, if it came to an inner struggle, who would win, man or beast. That he would kill others was not even a question.

  She kept moving, concentrating on her footing, and it wasn’t long before the trees thinned out and she could see the shattered door of the cabin ahead. With a tiny gasp of gratitude to a God she was no longer certain she believed in, she stumbled forward, screaming again when a short squat shape melted from the surrounding shadows. It was Mama Duvalier. Sobbing, Jeanette stumbled forward into her arms.

  “Where is he,” the old woman hissed, pulling away sharply. Jeanette felt a momentary pang of rejection, then realized Mama was right. There was no time for comfort. Maybe there was no time at all.

  “He is in the swamp,” she said, trying to control her sobs long enough to be coherent. “He is after the man, the—”

  She lost the battle with her emotions, then, but it was enough. Nodding curtly, Mama grabbed her by her arm and led her back into the cabin and over to the wheelchair.

  “He will be back for you,” the old woman said quietly. “You know he will come. There are three locks remaining—it might be enough. You must wait for him here.”

  Jeanette’s eyes widened with fear, but Mama’s own gaze held no compassion. Perhaps it was there, buried deeply, but on her face was the still-mask of icy determination. “But, he will kill me, I—”

  “Do you love him, girl?” The words were sudden and sunk in like daggers.

  “You know I do. He is my life, even now.”

  “Then you must wait. I will do what I can, and, gods willing, we will still have something to say in this, eh?”

  Jeanette nodded dumbly, not trusting herself to speak. She had been frightened in the swamp, horrified by what was happening, the shame and degradation, the pain, but this was worse. Terror was a cold liquid, flowing through her veins, and in the swamp, she heard again the blood-curdling cry of her destiny.

  “Here,” Mama said quickly. “Keep this with you, and, if he comes at you, you must thrust it at him without fear. If you do this, perhaps you see the sun again, eh? Now, give me the keys. I must be ready with the locks.” She was holding forth a small pouch, tied about carefully with the thorny stem and blooming bud of a single red rose. Jeanette took it, passing over the ring of keys.

  Then the old woman was gone, a fading vapor-vision in the darkness, and Jeanette was alone. She could see the tree-line of the swamp clearly in the brightness of the moonlight, and she waited, rocking slowly back and forth in the wheelchair and listening to its soft scratching at the floor. It seemed that her heart was a great drum, pounding louder and faster as the moments passed. Again the beast howled.

  * * *

  Trees and shrubs split and passed away in surreal blurs. The taste of the blood was at his lips and the moonlight glistened off the droplets that had spattered his silver-gray fur. It had been long years, since he’d tasted the blood, and it was robbing him of his thoughts, stealing his focus.

  Behind him, decaying to join the peat and the mire, already feeding the beasts and the heart of the swamp, the man-thing lay dead. With his death had come the blood, with the blood had fled his sense of purpose. He knew who he sought. He knew her scent, the temperature of her warm, flowing blood. He knew her eyes—last seen masked in terror. He did not know why he must seek her. Thought was fading. Man was falling to beast, will to instinct, and the search had melted to hunt in a bloody haze of lust and insatiable hunger.

  The scent led him to the edge of the trees, and from there he could see the silhouette through the bars of the window. There was a familiarity to the scene, the face, the pulsing sound of the heartbeat he could just make out over the din of the night birds and the chirping of crickets. He moved like a shadow from the line of trees, squatting further into the four-legged gait that was becoming more and more familiar.

  He saw the woman draw back from the window, heard her gasp and rise, as if to move for the door, but he was too quick. He noted, in passing, that a third presence lurked near the door, but the blood there was older––less appealing and flowing with a stagnant, over-ripe consistency. He focused on the doorway, the woman, and when he reached the opening, he leaped inside with a snarl.

  As if from far away, he heard the woman’s screams, her words. He heard names, wails, things he should know and did not, and it infuriated him further. All he could see was the vessel that flowed with the blood he craved, the clean, pure blood. He launched himself forward, jaws gaping.

  Jeanette, realizing that he was not listening, that he would kill her, thrust the bag that Mama had given her forward, tossing it in terror at his approaching jaws and flinging her arms over her eyes to remove the sight of her fate. She prayed that it would not linger, that it would be swift and sudden, and final.

  She felt his clawed arms reach for her, felt the impact as the huge, furred body slammed into her and smashed her into the chair and the wall, knocking her half-senseless and re-animating the pain of her earlier bruises. She closed her eyes and silently awaited the closing of those massive jaws on her throat, the final moment of release. It never came. There was the one crash, the one impact, a soft moan, and then nothing. No sound. No movement. No death.

  Finally, when her heartbeat and breathing had slowed to where she could move, she opened her eyes. There was a horrible snapping, grinding sound, and she flinched, but nothing touched her, and she sat up quickly, looking over at Paul’s suddenly inert body.

  The bag had scored a direct hit on his gaping maw. Whatever had been in it, it had been effective, and sudden. The rose dangled from the closed jaws, dripping with saliva and blood, and his face was rippling—his whole form was—shrinking, warping, reforming. The wet snapping sounds nauseated her, and she turned her head to retch, half fearing those feral eyes would snap open again and spear her through the heart. They did not.

  It was over in moments. She stood and looked down at the inert form of her husband, unmoving except for the regular rise and fall of his chest. The eyes were vacant, and the blood was now mixed with a thin trail of drool that ran down from the corner of his mouth and onto the floor.

  She turned and noted that Mama Duvalier had done her part. The three dead bolts were locked tight, and she knew they would remain so until morning. It did not matter. She moved across the floor, stumbling a
s the pain shot through her legs and her abdomen, until she reached her husband. Kneeling, she raised his head softly and sat back, laying it gently in her lap.

  She wiped away the blood from the corners of his mouth, but she dared not remove the rose. Leaning back against the wall, she softly caressed his hair and allowed her eyes to close once more. She searched deep, searching for memories of an older time, a better time, and the night melted away to darkness. As she drowsed, she leaned forward, kissing him once on the lips. She slept with a bittersweet taste on her tongue, the taste of blood and roses.

  UNDER A CIVIL MOON

  JOHN GROVER

  Emily’s dream haunted her again last night. The men finally came for her with their knives and guns—guns that cracked like thunder through the forest. She ran through the trees and the mud, chest heaving, gulping pockets of air. Emily ran on all fours and sprang through the treetops desperate for escape.

  In the end she always woke with them on her heels, blue uniforms, the whites of their eyes, hungering for her flesh and soul. Emily woke in the dead of night, bathed in sweat. She breathed a sigh of relief and rose out of bed.

  A cool breeze swept into her bedroom through an open window. Emily went to it and gazed up at the full moon glowing gold across the shadowed horizon. A solitary howl filled the night. Emily sensed the melancholy in it. It was a lonely howl. Somehow she figured the wolf spoke to her. It understood her and she it. Both knew the men would some day catch them.

  Not tonight.

  Emily closed the shutters and walked slowly away from the window. In the back of the room the fireplace crackled with flames. In the fire she watched the last of the dark blue uniform burn.