by Simon Wood
“Why didn’t they finish it last night?” I asked.
“Perhaps because you scared them away with your car,” he said.
We parked up the road from the carcass. Müller donned a head lamp and handed me one as well, instructing me to turn the nob to determine if it worked, then to turn it off. I did so. He also handed me an army green poncho, though not the tourist kind that tore with the slightest pressure. These were thick plastic canvass he said would also help to camouflage us while we knelt in the grass.
I put mine over my head, adjusted the headlamp and proclaimed myself ready to go. For the moment, at least, it was not raining, though the angry clouds overhead made that a certainty at some point during our evening. Müller grabbed a shotgun from the trunk of his car, along with a box of bullets he shoved in the poncho pocket, and we set out.
We found the calf, which didn’t appear to have been fed on any more than when we’d seen the carcass that morning. Müller, after several minutes considering the trees for the direction of the wind, found a spot downwind of the carcass so as not to give away our scent when the wolves returned to feast.
“Wolves are very bright,” he whispered. “If they smell us, they will not come.”
We found a spot in the grass and hunkered down, remaining quiet for what I hoped would not be a long evening. I hoped to get back to the inn in time to see Mila.
I don’t know how long we waited, but sometime after the darkness descended over the Black Forest I said, “I can’t see my hand in front of my face.”
Müller looked up at the sky, which continued to cooperate. “A full moon,” he said. “Though the clouds make it difficult to know this.”
“Then how do you know it?” I asked.
“Because it is April the 19th. Last night and tonight the moon is full.”
I gave that some thought and it triggered another thought, something Müller had said earlier. “You said that the farmer lost livestock once a month?”
“This is true.”
“Why would that be the case? Why wouldn’t the wolves hunt more than once a month?”
From the look Müller gave me it was apparent that he had not considered this. “I do not know.”
Before I could question him further he raised a hand to shush me and in the silence I heard the low, guttural growl. Müller heard it also, turning his head and looking to me for confirmation.
I nodded.
Müller raised up, but only until his head was above the tips of the grass. I mimicked the move but saw nothing. The growl, however, was unmistakable—coming from the near distance, perhaps twenty yards. I squinted against the darkness and saw the blades of grass falling forward, as if trampled under the approach of an invisible snake.
Müller dropped back down and I heard a click as he released the safety on his shotgun. Using hand signals, he told me to wait where I was, which really wasn’t an issue, since I had no intention of following him. Müller dropped low and duck-walked forward until he’d disappeared into the grass.
I waited for the sound of the shotgun discharging. Seconds passed. Then a minute. And another. Beneath the poncho I felt my body sweating profusely. Lightening crackled, followed by the low rumble of approaching thunder. I looked back to where the grass had swallowed Müller, waiting for the sound of the rifle discharging.
Another bolt of lightning illuminated the sky, crackling just before the thunder detonated, loud and intense. I felt the first drops of rain, a pattering on the blades of grass and the leaves of the trees. It quickly intensified, as it had the night before.
What the hell was Müller doing?
I was about to stand when thunder again exploded, but this time I thought I’d heard the discharge of the shotgun. The discharge was followed by a horrific howling, a noise unlike any I have ever heard before or since. It sounded almost human. That sound was followed by an even more intense, and clearly human sound of a man screaming.
Müller.
My heart pounded. I felt my knees go weak as I lifted up. In the darkness I saw a hooded figure, Müller I presumed, running toward me through the grass. Behind him, the blades flattened, as they had the night before and as with the night before, this predator was not running away from Müller. It was pursuing.
The blades of grass parted and Müller stepped from the grass with a look of horror, but just as quickly stopped running, as if he’d suddenly frozen in mid-step. He stood there, for what seemed like seconds but was surely only an instant, before being jerked violently backward, as if by a string, and swallowed by the grass.
Something fell from Müeller’s outstretched hand just before he disappeared. The shotgun.
The screaming was horrific, this time mixed with the guttural growling—the sounds of something feasting, tearing at flesh.
I rushed forward, dropping to the grass blind in the darkness. I felt the stock and picked up the gun. I cracked open the barrel. I’d heard only a single shot. One remained.
I snapped the shotgun closed and moved forward, into the grass, following the sound of the growling—the screaming had been silenced. The rain—coming now in pellets, nearly blinded me. As I stepped from the grass, I realized I’d reached the bed where we’d found the carcass. In it, I saw a single, large shape, an animal of some kind, but certainly not a wolf. This animal stood on its back legs, like a bear.
It heard or smelled me and turned its head, revealing two luminous red eyes each as large as saucers. Then it threw back its head and howled something inhuman and awful.
Panicked, I froze, uncertain what to do. The animal dropped to all fours and bounded toward me in two long strides. Instinct kicked in. I managed to lower the barrel and pull the trigger. The stock of the shotgun kicked at my shoulder, nearly knocking me down, and the violent recoil of the barrel caused me to drop the weapon.
The beast whined and howled. The pellets had found their mark. I retreated, turning to run when I felt the tug on the canvas poncho and heard the fabric tearing. The beast had managed to grab the material with an outstretched paw. A burning sensation seared across my forearm but I managed to wiggle free from the poncho and stumble backward. I turned and ran for the road, willing myself not to look back for fear I’d lose my balance and fall.
After a brief reprieve, I heard the growling behind me, getting closer, as well as labored breathing. I’d hit the animal. I was certain I had wounded it. How badly, I did not know, though not badly enough to keep it from pursuing.
I could see the black outline of the road ten yards ahead. Fear pushed my legs to run faster. I burst from the lawn, stumbled on the uneven surface but kept my balance, righted and resumed running for Müller’s BMW. I heard something come out of the grass behind me and this time I could not resist the temptation to look back. The red eyes glowed, though they appeared to be falling behind. Then, just as suddenly, they disappeared altogether.
I turned forward and saw Müller’s BMW along the side of the road, my refuge.
I focused on it, hoping the car would be unlocked. As I neared, I again looked behind me. I did not see the red eyes and I did not hear the animal’s pursuit. When I looked back, just ten feet from the BMW, I caught a glimpse of darkness in my peripheral vision just before something hit me. I’d played football in high school and this felt very much like the worst that sport had to offer. The blow drove me backward several feet. I hit the ground along the side of the road and landed on my back.
The beast had pinned me to the ground. It rose up and howled that same inhuman, horrible howl then it lowered its head. It smelled horrible, a smell I also could not place. I felt the heat of its breath, spittle dripping from its jaws onto my face. It lowered its head until its nose was just inches from my face. I forced myself to open my eyes. It peered down at me, as if considering me, rotating its head to the left and slowly back to the right, sniffing much the way a dog would.
Headlights rounded the bend in the road. The beast rose up on its back
legs and turned its head toward the approaching lights. It opened its jaws and howled, an echoing reverberation. Then it leapt from my chest, disappearing into the woods.
The pub remained full. I sat at one of the tables, a bandage around my forearm where the animal’s claws had broken the skin, and a blanket around my shoulders. I stared into my mug of dark coffee on the table, only vaguely aware of the others in the room and of their whispered German.
I couldn’t speak, could hardly move. My body shook uncontrollably, as if chilled to the very bone. Sensing the approach of someone, I raised my gaze from my cup of coffee. Heinrich stood with Emma and Ernst. They took seats on the bench across the table. “Do you have any recollection of what happened?”
Sensing the answer they wanted to hear, I shook my head. They turned and glanced at one another, before returning their attention to me.
“Nothing?” Heinrich said.
I lowered my eyes. “No,” I managed, the word barely audible.
“Tomorrow your car will be ready,” Heinrich said. “It would be best then for you to go.”
I nodded.
“Until then, you will stay in the room upstairs.”
Again I nodded.
“Do you need help getting up the stairs?” Emma asked.
“No,” I said. I looked across the table at each of them, knowing that their eyes held more information about what I had witnessed, but that they would never reveal it.
With effort, I rose from the table. I looked at the faces of the others seated at the tables, all of them silent. I headed up the stairs exhausted but certain I would not sleep.
In the morning someone knocked on my door. I rose from the chair in which I had sat and opened it. Heinrich held the keys to my rental car. “It is downstairs. Do you need help with your things?”
“No,” I said.
He nodded once, turned and left.
I grabbed my bag from the floor and made my way downstairs. The pub had emptied. Emma and Heinrich stood near the door. I paused when I reached it.
“What do I owe you?” I asked.
They shook their heads.
I nodded and I walked outside. The rain had stopped, though the morning remained a blustery gray landscape. I threw my bag in the back seat and pulled open the driver’s side door. As I did, I looked across the hood. Mila emerged from the woods as she had the prior morning, walking slowly across the grass field. She stopped and looked at me, as if appraising someone she had never met. Then, slowly, she tilted her head to the left and back to the right. I felt a chill run through me.
I drove the four hours back to the Frankfurt Airport, this time careful to remain on the main road. I no longer felt like continuing with my aborted honeymoon. I wanted only to get home. I passed through security and customs and made my way toward my gate, finding a chair, collapsing into it, and waiting for my flight.
I heard a phone ring and looked about, but no one sat near me. I realized the ringing was coming from inside my bag. I unzipped and opened it. Inside, atop my folded clothes, was my cell phone. The case protecting it was nicked and the plastic covering it scratched and chipped. I pulled it from the bag and considered the name on the screen.
Anna.
I sighed and, for a brief moment, I contemplated taking her call then decided I wasn’t up to it, not at that moment, maybe never. I clicked the button and silenced the ringer, contemplating whether I would call her back, whether I would give her another chance.
I probably would, I decided. I probably would give her the chance to explain what happened, or at least to apologize.
As I thought of her, I felt a discomfort beneath the bandages of my arm where the animal had torn my flesh. The wound burned, then began to itch, a good sign, I hoped, that the injury was healing.
I sat back and felt something else, something I had not felt in several days.
I was hungry, very, very hungry.
Back to TOC
ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
STEVE BREWER writes books about crooks. His latest crime novel, Cold Cuts, is his 31st published book. His first novel, Lonely Street, was made into a 2009 movie, and Bank Job is currently in development in Hollywood. A former journalist, Brewer teaches part-time at the University of New Mexico. He and his family own Organic Books in Albuquerque, NM.
SUSANNA CALKINS writes the award-winning Lucy Campion historical mysteries set in 17th century London and the Speakeasy Murders set in 1920s Chicago (Minotaur/St. Martin’s). Her fiction has been nominated for the Mary Higgins Clark Award, the Agatha, the Bruce Alexander Historical Mystery (Lefty) and the Anthony, and was awarded a Sue Feder Historical Mystery Award (the Macavity). Born and raised in Philadelphia, she lives in the Chicago area now, with her husband and two sons. Check out her website at SusannaCalkins.com.
Ex Army, retired cop and former Scenes of Crime Officer COLIN CAMPBELL is the author of British crime novels, Blue Knight White Cross, and Northern Ex, and US thrillers Jamaica Plain, Montecito Heights, Adobe Flats, Snake Pass, Beacon Hill and Shelter Cove. His Jim Grant thrillers bring a rogue Yorkshire cop to America where culture clash and violence ensue. For more info visit CampbellFiction.com.
ANGEL LUIS COLÓN is the Derringer and Anthony Award shortlisted author of Hell Chose Me, the Blacky Jaguar novella series, the Fantine Park novella series, and dozens of short stories that have appeared in web and print publications like Thuglit, Literary Orphans, and Great Jones Street. He also hosts the podcast, the bastard title.
ROBERT DUGONI is the critically acclaimed New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and Amazon bestselling author of the Tracy Crosswhite Series, which has sold more than 4 million books worldwide. He is also the author of the bestselling David Sloane Series; the stand-alone novels The 7th Canon, Damage Control, and The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell, for which he won an AudioFile Earphones Award for the narration; and the nonfiction exposé The Cyanide Canary, a Washington Post Best Book of the Year. He is the recipient of the Nancy Pearl Award for Fiction and the Friends of Mystery Spotted Owl Award for best novel set in the Pacific Northwest. He is a two-time finalist for the International Thriller Award, the Harper Lee Prize for Legal Fiction, the Silver Falchion Award for mystery, and the Mystery Writers of America Edgar Award. His books are sold in more than twenty-five countries and have been translated into more than two dozen languages. Visit his website at RobertDugoni.com.
PAUL FINCH is a former cop and journalist now turned bestselling crime and thriller writer, and is the author of the very popular DS Mark ‘Heck’ Heckenburg and DC Lucy Clayburn novels. Paul first cut his literary teeth penning episodes of the British TV crime drama, The Bill, and has written extensively in horror, fantasy and science-fiction, including for Dr Who. However, he is probably best known for his crime/thriller novels, specifically the Heckenburg police-actioners, of which there are seven to date, and the Clayburn procedurals, of which there are two. The first three books in the Heck line achieved official bestseller status, the second being the fastest pre-ordered title in HarperCollins history, while the first Lucy Clayburn novel made the Sunday Times Top 10 list. The Heck series alone has accrued over 2,000 5-star reviews on Amazon. Paul is a native of Wigan, Lancashire (UK), where he still lives with his wife and business partner, Cathy.
CATRIONA MCPHERSON was born in Scotland and lived there until immigrating to the US in 2010. She is the multi-award-winning and best-selling author of historical detective novels, set in Scotland in the 1930s, and contemporary psychological thrillers, including the Edgar finalist The Day She Died. After eight years in northern California she wrote Scot-Free, opening the Last Ditch trilogy of comic mysteries that take a wry look at her new home. Catriona is a member of MWA and CWA and is a former national president of Sisters in Crime. CatrionaMcPherson.com.
TRAVIS RICHARDSON has been a finalist and nominee for the Macavity, Anthony, and Derringer short story awards. He has two novellas, Lost in Clover and Keeping the Record. His short stor
y collection, Bloodshot and Bruised, came out in late 2018. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and daughter. Find more at TSRichardson.com.
JOHNNY SHAW is the author of six novels, including the three books in the Jimmy Veeder Fiasco series and the Anthony Award-winning Big Maria.
JAY STRINGER was born in 1980, and he’s not dead yet. He’s English by birth and Scottish by choice. His work has been nominated for multiple awards, included two Anthonys, a Derringer, and the McIlvanney prize. His stand-up comedy has made at least three people laugh. Jay is dyslexic, and came to the written word as a second language, via comic books, music, and comedy. He writes dark comedies, crime fiction, and adventure stories. Jay won a gold medal in the Antwerp Olympics of 1920. He did not compete in the Helsinki Olympics of 1952, that was some other guy.
SAM WIEBE is the author of the Vancouver crime novels Cut You Down, Invisible Dead, and Last of the Independents, and the editor of the anthology Vancouver Noir. Wiebe’s work has won an Arthur Ellis award and the Kobo Emerging Writers Prize, and been shortlisted for the Shamus Award and the City of Vancouver Book Award. His short stories have appeared in Thuglit, Spinetingler, and subTerrain, and he was the 2016 Vancouver Public Library Writer in Residence. Visit SamWiebe.com.
Back to TOC
Here is a preview from The Dead Don’t Sleep, a thriller by Steven Max Russo.
Click here for a complete catalog of titles available from Down & Out Books and its divisions and imprints.
PROLOGUE
