by T L Barrett
“I don’t think so. I think I got the whole thing.”
“You left some in there! I can feel it, goddamned it! It’s in my fucking body!”
“Maybe, it’s sort of like when you swallow too big of a bite, you know,” Barry babbled. “Afterward it still feels like something is still in your throat…”
“Oh, Jesus,” Damien wept. “Dirty fucking stick! Get it out, oh please, God, get it out!” Barry moved to help.
“Don’t you touch me!” Damien said and got up. “You are not a doctor. You are a psycho!”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
Damien grunted and started walking back the way they had come.
“Wait, what about the kid? He was right here. He’s lost in the woods and naked,” Barry said.
“Fuck the stupid naked kid. Who gives a fuck? I’ve been impaled by a fucking log. I need to get to a hospital. I hope the kid gets stung in his naked ass,” Damien said. Distantly, Barry realized that with each curse word that Damien spouted, he stood straighter, seemed to be recovering both from his shock and his wound.
This could be a breakthrough in homeopathic medicine, Barry thought, and giggled.
“Fuck you, Trudeau, fuck you, to hell!” Damien muttered.
“Yea, he is healed by the power of the word!”
Barry looked back toward where the kid had disappeared. He looked at Damien’s back as the other man trudged his way through the trees. He looked up and stopped. His first thought was that a baby bear was in the tree practically over the head of Damien.
“Damien, stop right now! Don’t move!” Barry said.
“I swear if you come near me, Trudeau, I will fucking kill you!”
“Damien, I’m not kidding! Stop and look up. There’s something in the tree,” Barry pleaded. Damien stopped and slowly looked up.
“Jesus, it’s a monkey,” Damien said.
Barry knew that monkeys were not native to North America, but that was it looked like to him, now, too. A large monkey, maybe a chimpanzee, crouched on a branch and glared down at the two of them.
The creature in the tree branches growled at them. Damien began to back toward Barry.
“What is that thing?” Damien said in a voice that was winding upward toward hysterical territory. Barry wasn’t sure what it was, it was awful, that was sure. Right now it looked like a very hairy dog boy with vicious bared fangs and claws.
The creature leapt. It was as it fell toward them that Barry knew what the thing was. This was the boy he had seen, but not a boy. It was a werewolf. Barry watched as the werewolf landed upon Damien’s chest and knocked him backward, off his feet.
Damien managed to get his hand up and pushed against the lower jaw of the creature as it struggled to claw him. Damien screamed.
“Help me!”
Barry’s mind struggled with the desire to run and let the creature have Damien. “How do you kill a werewolf?” He wracked his memory. Silver? Silver.
His hand went to his pocket and brought out the gift from his Auntie. For a moment the silver pen shone in a ray of sunlight as it broke through the foliage above.
Barry took two steps around the struggling pair and lifted the pen high to stab.
He brought the pen down hard over where he judged the werewolf’s heart would be. The creature jolted as the pen entered the creature’s back. It gave out a canine yelp of pain and twisted its head.
Barry put the heel of his palm against the end of the pen, fell against it and drove it deep into the werewolf’s chest cavity. The creature let out a high pitched boy’s scream of pain. It scrabbled and jerked for a moment or two, then fell against Damien. Damien swore and pushed it off of him.
“Jesus, look at me!” Damien said. His shirt was torn and bloody. One of his cheeks was ragged with a wound. “What the fuck was it?” he asked.
“A werewolf, I think,” Barry said.
“A werewolf? Oh, my God! Does that mean I’m going to be turning into one?” Damien asked.
“I don’t know. Did it bite you? I think they have to bite you.”
“No…no, it didn’t. It tried but I wouldn’t let him. You killed it!” Damien looked at Barry with what might have been continued shock or a touch of awe.
“I hope I did,” Barry said and took a step toward where the creature lay on the forest floor.
A dead naked boy lay upon the ground with the end of a silver pen sticking out of his back.
“Oh, my God; you killed him,” Damien said. Barry’s mind whirled. Had he buried his Auntie’s pen into the back of an eight year old boy?
“You saw that thing!” Barry said defensively.
“Yeah, I saw it all right, but who’s going to believe us? A couple of queers in the woods kill a naked kid. This doesn’t look so good,” Damien said.
“I’m not a queer! I am so damned sick of everybody jumping to the wrong conclusions!” Barry realized that he was about to cry.
“I think that’s really the least of our problems right now,” Damien said.
“I would have to agree with your boyfriend there,” a strange voice said. Barry turned around and looked into the stare of a round bellied police officer in his fifties with mutton chop side burns. The stare looked deadly. When Barry pried his eyes away from it, he saw that at least five others had gathered about among the trees. How could Barry not have noticed their approach?
“My baby boy!” Heather Punt screamed as came forward and fell to her knees.
“Heyah! You stay, bitch,” her husband Ronnie shouted, and grabbed her by the back of her shirt. The shirt tore, and Heather crawled forward on her hands and knees and keened and whined and sniffed around her son’s corpse.
“The boy was a monster!” Barry said. “I swear, he was a werewolf. I mean…he was in the trees, and he had furs and claws and—”
“I guess, he wasn’t monster enough to fend off a couple of perverts like yourselves, was he?” the sheriff asked.
“Look, I need to see a doctor and a lawyer. I demand to see a—” Damien began.
“Right, you cornholers are coming with me into the village. A couple of you others help the Punts with their boy,” the sheriff ordered. He did not draw a gun, nor did he appear to have one on his person. This fact frightened Barry the most.
“Move it!” the man said and motioned for Barry and Damien to walk westward.
“I’ve lost a lot of blood here,” Damien complained.
“Another word from you, pansy, and that’s not all you’re going to lose,” the sheriff said and shoved Damien forward.
Barry and Damien walked in silence with the sheriff behind them for what seemed like a couple of miles. Barry tried to imagine what was going to happen to them. He couldn’t believe that he would be tried in a court of law. There just wasn’t something right about this whole thing.
Eventually, they saw the shape of houses through the trees. They crossed a little brook and came out on a dirt road that bent around a village common. Old, weathered houses surrounded the ring of dirt road. In the common a few dozen people had gathered for a community picnic. Children played and old people chatted with each other. A banner strung between two poles read in red letters:
Hezekiah’s First Hunt!
“What the hell is this?” Damien asked. Barry said nothing, things were becoming too clear. Every moment he gauged how he could try to run for it. Something told him how futile that would be. The sheriff shoved Damien forward and they went across the road and onto the green.
The festivities quieted when people took notice of their presence. A profound silence descended as the old people eyed the two young men suspiciously. The sheriff stepped forward and took off his hat. He looked down and played with the visor of his hat.
“I’m afraid Hezekiah is no longer with us,” the sheriff said in a quiet voice that carried across the common.
Sounds of lamentation rose up among the people. An old lady, probably Hezekiah’s grandmother, sobbed loudly. People went to her then to comfort. Chi
ldren—Hezekiah’s cousins?—threw themselves on the ground and wept. Everywhere people cried. Damien and Barry looked at each other and then down at the ground.
After an interminable time, the silence returned, except for the sniffling children and the quietly weeping old women. Barry looked up and could see that everyone stared at the two interlopers, the murderers of wonderful little Hezekiah.
“I’m sorry?” Barry asked feebly. The sheriff gave him a black look.
“We must follow the letter of the law in these cases, people,” the sheriff proclaimed turning back to the people. “There will be a council meeting in the grange hall in half an hour.”
The sheriff turned back to Barry and Damien. “Let’s go.” He led them to a bench outside of a big grange hall and told them to sit and wait.
“Let’s go, we have to get the fuck out of here!” Damien whispered to Barry. His cheek looked bad. Barry shook his head and motioned toward a group of old timers that watched them from across the dirt road.
“We’re just going to sit here and wait?” Damien asked.
“I just don’t think we’d get that far,” Barry said with a shrug.
“Look, it’s just those old guys,” Damien hissed. “They couldn’t catch their own dicks.” Barry motioned to hush Damien. “Give me a break. They can’t even hear us way over there,” Damien whispered.
From across the street four of the old men held up their middle fingers at Damien and Barry.
Barry tried to imagine what he would be doing if he had been back on campus. Most likely he would be either getting high with his friends or masturbating in his room. He tried to imagine what his friends were doing at that moment, unaware of the terror their friend was experiencing. They were probably getting high or masturbating, he decided. “I never really ever took the time to truly enjoy masturbating,” Barry realized, “at least not since I was, like thirteen.” Suddenly, he realized that he knew he would probably not be leaving this strange village again, not alive anyway.
A few minutes later, villagers began filing into the grange hall. No one took any notice of Barry and Damien as they chatted with each other or walked in with somber faces. Barry felt decidedly guilty and awkward sitting on the bench where they filed in to take part in their council meeting (whatever that was).
Finally, the sheriff with the ambitious side burns stood in front of them. Quietly he told them to get up and enter the grange hall. With queasy stomachs and trembling legs the two complied.
At first, in the dim light of the grange hall, Barry could only see innumerable people stuffed onto bench seats and folding chairs. His eyes focused and then wished they hadn’t.
Every member of the town council ahead, as well as the spectators sitting all around, sported a thick growth of hair on their faces, necks and clawed hands. Their eyes caught the lantern light from the town council table and seemed to glow with their own predatory hunger.
Beside him, Damien made a strange strangled cry, and turned to leave. The sheriff behind them growled and took Damien in an iron and hirsute grip.
Barry felt his bladder let go, and warm urine coursed down his pant legs.
Damien was pushed back beside Barry and made a little hysterical sigh. Barry looked over and wondered if the other young man was going to be able to remain standing by the pallor of his wounded face. There was the sound of urine trickling on the floor. Damien now matched Barry.
The werewolves growled as Barry and Damien were forced forward to stand before the council table. A bespectacled werewolf looked over a dusty ledger and then up at Damien and Barry.
“These are the ones that have killed the Punt boy?” the werewolf asked.
“Yes, chairman, these are the ones,” the sheriff said from behind them. Damien jumped with a yelp and ended up against the edge of the council table. An old werewolf spinster growled and drooled on the table. Damien yelped again and fell against Barry. Damien wrapped his arms around Barry and pressed his urine-soaked legs against him.
“This is most irregular, sheriff,” the chairman said.
“You’re telling me, Chief!” the sheriff said. “I wouldn’t have put two pennies down on these sodomites.”
Something in Barry’s mind clicked into place. He was through with the whole thing; all the insinuations, the unfounded prejudice. He realized he had been here in front of this table his entire life, being judged by beasts and monsters. He had even been tricked into feeling guilty and wetting his own pants.
He wouldn’t be doing that anymore. He patted Damien’s back as the other man sniffled into Barry’s chest.
“That little monster attacked us first. We were just defending ourselves. You have no right to keep us here,” Barry said. Somewhere in his head, Barry sat back amazed to hear the forthright tone to his words.
“Well, mister, we follow a very old tradition here,” the chairman stated and looked upon Barry with new appraisal. “I expect you have no concept of what it means to respect tradition.” He turned to look at the sheriff.
“How did these men manage to kill the Punt boy?”
“With a silver pen, sir,” the sheriff answered. The chairman’s eyes widened. Werewolves whispered to each other everywhere.
“A silver pen? Most irregular,” the chairman licked his hairy lips. “Could they have foreknowledge of our little community to come so fore-armed? Is this some edge of some conspiracy that now threatens us?”
“No,” Barry said. “I didn’t know anything like you existed before. I am hoping that I will wake up soon, actually.” Barry’s eyes misted up. “I really want to wake up right now.”
The chairman studied Barry’s face intently for a long moment.
“I can have them tortured, sir, if you think it would help,” the sheriff offered.
“No, I believe this one. He strikes me as honest.” The chairman cleared his throat. “Our traditions dictate that someone must answer to the death of the cub. The code of the pact dictates it.” Damien lifted his face from Barry’s chest.
“Which one of you was responsible for killing the cub?” the chairman asked. In the silence that followed, Barry felt a chill course over his body.
“He did it!” Damien shouted and stepped away from Barry. “He did it! I’m innocent. I didn’t kill. He did!” Barry looked at Damien and felt all of his resolve that he had felt a moment before melt.
The chairman nodded and continued to study Barry’s face. “That’s fine. He will answer for the pack’s loss.” Barry looked away from Damien’s insane look of accusatory terror. He tried to make sense of the thought that he was about to end. His mortality had never really ever paid such a visit to his thoughts before. He felt a huge wall of black approaching like a great wave.
“So, all right, all right. I’ll just go,” Damien muttered to himself. “Excuse me,” he said and walked around the sheriff, hands up, palms out, as if maneuvering around a leper victim.
Werewolves growled as Damien side-stepped through the crowd toward the grange hall door. The chairman nodded his head.
The werewolves leapt. Damien screamed in terror. He protested:
“Fuck no! Fuck, no! Please!”
Barry turned and saw a werewolf bite off Damien’s left hand. Barry turned away. He started to cry. Somehow he managed to find some more urine inside of him. The warmth of it comforted him.
The werewolves let Damien scream until a crunching sound silenced him. A few werewolves growled at each other over scraps of the young man. The chairman frowned and beat a gavel against the council table.
“Order,” the chairman shouted. Instantly, the clamor behind Barry died down.
“This one has soiled himself,” the chairman said, wrinkling his pronounced and darkened nose. “He will need to be cleansed before the ritual of continuance can commence.” He motioned with a hairy paw.
As werewolves came toward him from all sides, Barry closed his eyes. The werewolves cut Barry’s clothes away with careful claws. Despite the stifling heat of the
grange hall, Barry shook and trembled in the grasp of the beasts. Barry waited for the pain which would begin at any moment. He shrieked when someone pressed wet cloth against him and scrubbed his legs and groin.
When he stood alone again, Barry slowly opened one eye. He stood naked before the council table. A werewolf stared intently at Barry’s genitalia and licked its own salivating chops. Barry covered himself with his hands.
“The oldest must carry on this oldest of traditions,” the chairman announced. The crowd parted and a bent and grizzled old wolf woman was aided to the front on the arm of a middle-aged werewolf woman with a bee-hive haircut. A chair was brought out and placed facing Barry. They helped the old lady to the seat and she lowered herself with a grunt. After she settled herself, her wrinkled maw opened revealing yellowed fangs.
“Well, hello, sweet, sweet honey,” the old were-wolf crooned. “Come closer,” she beckoned with one arthritic claw. Barry swallowed and baby-stepped toward her.
“Just look at you!” the old lady said, and stroked Barry’s hip with her padded finger tips. Someone grabbed Barry and swung him around to face the front of the Grange Hall. A pile of gristle and bones had already collected there. A couple of young werewolves alternately licked the floor and looked up in hopes that the older ones would drop bits of Damien.
“You remember what to do, mother,” the werewolf with the beehive said. The old woman began rubbing her hands over Barry’s bottom. She moaned with pleasure and slipped a gnarled finger into the crack of his ass.
The woman with the beehive slapped her mother’s hand.
“Stop it, mother. You’re embarrassing yourself,” she reprimanded. The old werewolf growled.
“I should have aborted you, damn it!” the old woman sneered.
“Mrs. Horrell, it is time,” the chairman prodded.
The old woman leaned forward and licked Barry’s back side with a long tongue. She did it again, closer to Barry’s asshole.
“Mother,” the imperious daughter shouted.
The old werewolf bit into Barry’s left buttock. Pain seared through his being. Barry let out a long howling scream, and danced away from the old woman. As if invited by Barry’s howl of pain, the other werewolves raised their heads and howled in litany. Without thought Barry dashed through the werewolves and toward the door.