Instead he had gotten it from an Aryan Nations skin, one of the new leaders of the gang inside the prison. Two days after being sprung from solitary after stabbing Jaime, this skin had come into his cell, flanked by two blond men with crew cuts and multiple tattoos on their arms and shoulders. The skin, Doug Simpson, had grinned and his beady little eyes had gleamed with a hollow stupidity. "Didn't know you liked to butt-fuck little girls, Bernard. If we had known that fourteen years ago, your ass would have been dead a long time ago."
The beating that he'd received in his cell was almost fatal. One of the cronies Doug had brought with him had had a piece of lead pipe in his fist, and that was what had fractured his skull and crushed his nose-he still had nasal problems because of it. He'd also received two broken ribs, a ruptured spleen which was removed in surgery, a shattered right eardrum which had led to complete deafness in that ear, and a massive concussion. Oh, yeah, and he had also had to rely on a colostomy bag for doing his business, too. It seemed that Doug Simpson was hung like a horse-twelve inches long and three inches thick-and they'd stopped beating him just shy of blacking out so Doug could make sure Bernard had felt every inch of that huge cock plow up his nether regions. It had been the worst pain he had ever felt, so bad that he had finally blacked out from the sheer intensity of it.
When he'd come to they were still there, standing over him, grinning. Then they'd beaten him again. The last thing he remembered them saying was "This is what we do to fucking child molesters!"
He'd spent nearly a month in the infirmary.
When he was healed he'd been placed in a different cell block at the request of his lawyer and with much pressure. The cell block he was put in was for prisoners under protective custody. He spent most of his days in his cell reading quietly, or writing in his journal. He also got to use of one of the computers in the prison library, and he surfed the Internet, perusing the various law sites in his never-ending quest to have his sentence overturned. His appeals had gone all the way to the Federal Supreme Court, which had turned him down, refusing to hear the case. Still, he was undaunted. He would persevere.
Now, three years after the vicious beating and rape that had almost taken his life, he was simply trying to get by. At fifty-five years of age he looked ten years older. On cold nights he sometimes got headaches and the joints in his hip sometimes hurt, but he was alive. At least he was alive.
Bernard coughed lightly and began heading toward the southeastern corner of the yard. He walked with a slight limp due to the injury to his rectum-he suppose he would be walking bowlegged for the rest of his life due to that fuck Doug Simpson-but at least he could walk. Despite what he had feared, there was actually no feeling down there at all anymore. He later found out that in addition to being raped by Doug Simpson's monster cock, they had used a piece of lead pipe on him too; that was what had caused the permanent damage to his rectum and the sphincter damage. The nerves had been damaged during surgery to remove his rectum and lower colon, so Bernard could sit down quite normally and not feel any pain. He just couldn't take a dump like a normal man anymore.
It was a cool, crisp afternoon and the leaves beyond the high, chain-link fence of the yard were turning brown on the trees. It was late October and it was already cooling down, with a cold wind blow ing briskly. Bernard had always liked the fall the best, in fact-
"Bernard."
The voice was a whisper, but he heard it loud and clear. It was behind him and he whirled around. Standing in front of him was a naked man who appeared to be in his late sixties or early seventies, his belly a paunch, his gray hair longish and wispy around his head. He had a small goatee and he smiled. "Don't you recognize me, Bernard? It's your old boardroom buddy. George Fielding."
Bernard blinked, recognition setting in. It was George Fielding. Nine years older, and looking it, too. But what the fuck was he doing naked here in the yard? And how the fuck had he gotten over the fence and inside the yard for that matter?
Bernard opened his mouth to say something: What the hell are you doing here? would have been appropriate. George Fielding stopped him by putting his finger to his lips, silencing him. He grinned. Bernard blinked again, not really believing this was happening. The guards would have noticed an elderly, naked man trying to get over the fence in a heartbeat, they would have been rushing him before he even got to the fence, they would have fucking shot him, for Chrissakes! Bernard glanced quickly at the guard tower-the one guard was looking out over the north side of the yard, away from him. Either he hasn't noticed or this is a setup, this is a fucking setup and-
"Can you keep a secret, Bernard?" George asked, moving forward like smoke billowing from a fire. "You aren't going to believe what happened to me. You aren't going to believe what you have inadvertently done to me, you son-of-a-bitch."
Bernard took another involuntary step back. "What?" It came out as a strangled croak.
"This." George grinned and the change was so immediate that for a moment Bernard thought he was hallucinating. It was like watching one of those action-adventure movies they let them watch in the entertainment room inside, the way motion-picture special effects had graduated to improve computermorphing of people into monsters. That was what was happening with George; he was morphing seamlessly into something bigger, something hideous and animal-like and monstrous and-
The change fully complete, the wolf-creature opened its mouth, seeming to grin a mouthful of fanged teeth. The implication of what George had said hit Bernard fully now as he took another fumbling step back, his throat trying to unlock so he could scream. Oh God, why didn't I think of that before, George Fielding lived through the attack, he lived through the attack of a fucking werewolf and what was one of the ways you become a werewolf, you had to survive a werewolf's bite, holy shit-
George Fielding interrupted Bernard's thoughts by lunging quickly and silently at him, his elongated, wolfish snout snaking in and ripping Bernard's throat out with one vicious rip. Blood flew outward in an arterial spray, drenching George's grayish coat and the grass.
George gulped down the bloody mass of Bernard's throat and stood back, his brown eyes narrowed in canine slits as he watched Bernard wobble on his feet, hands clutching his ruined throat, his head flopping on what remained of his neck, his eyes growing wide as all the color drained out of his face, turning him a pasty gray. He opened his mouth as if to scream and then fell forward, landing on his face on the blood-soaked grass. George stepped back and dropped to all fours; if the guard had turned around, he would have seen what looked to be a large dog or wolf straddling the body of Bernard Roberts. But the guard wouldn't glance this way at all; George had spent the past two weeks watching the movements of the guard. The guard had the same routine every day. And the routine was that he looked out across the Illinois landscape as he stood at the top of the guard tower while Bernard was free to smoke, read, exercise, or jack off. Bernard wouldn't have had the time to make an escape and if he did the sensors along the fence would alert him to it.
It took under twenty seconds for Bernard Roberts to die. When he was dead, George headed toward the corner Bernard had been walking to before George had snuck up on him. He wriggled his way through the trench he had dug under the chain-link fence, his lithe wolf body not even touching the bottom of the fence. Once on the other side he trotted off toward the woods that lined the outer perimeter of the prison.
The guard saw him retreat into the woods and thought to himself that there was nothing more beautiful than seeing a wolf running free in this part of the country again.
From Horror's greatest talents comes
THE NEW 1PcE Of FEM.
Terrifying, sexy, dangerous and deadly.
And they are hunting for Yo U . .
WEREWO LVES
SNAP ESI I K by J. F. GONZALEZ
JANUARY 2008
I I E /'1i (T%AL? `ER by THOMAS TESSIER
FEBRUARY 2008
1 Y E1 / G U S by RAY GA RT O N
APRIL 2008
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To order and to learn more visit www.dorchesterpub.com or call 1-800-481-9191
"Brian Keene is the next Stephen King!"
-The Horror Review
BRIAN KEENE
Something very strange is happening in LeHorn's Hollow. Eerie, piping music is heard late at night, and mysterious fires have been spotted deep in the woods. Women are vanishing without a trace overnight, leaving behind husbands and families. When up-and-coming novelist Adam Senft stumbles upon an unearthly scene, it plunges him and the entire town into an ancient nightmare. Folks say the woods in LeHorn's Hollow are haunted, but what waits there is far worse than any ghost. It has been summoned... and now it demands to be satisfied.
DARK HOLLOW
ISBN 13:978-0-8439-5861-4
To order a book or to request a catalog call:
1-800-481-9191
This book is also available at your local bookstore, or you can check out ourWeb site www.dorchesterpub.com where you can look up your favorite authors, read excerpts, or glance at our discussion forum to see what people have to say about your favorite books.
Table of Contents
Prologue
PART ONE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
PART TWO
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
PART THREE
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Shapeshifter: 1 Page 25