by Carrie Jones
Something is wrong, though. Something is really wrong. I can’t tell how I know. I just know. I stand up straight and walk toward the patrol car. Nothing happens. There’s no movement of the head. There’s no “Miss, what are you doing out here?” There’s nothing except a sinking feeling that is spreading through my stomach.
“Sir?” My voice is a whisper. “Officer?”
No answer. I move one more step and peer in. The light from the console illuminates the cab of the patrol car enough for me to see it: his head—a chunk of his head is missing. It’s like someone bit a piece of it.
I turn away and throw up without even thinking about it. For a second I try to think of my options.
I can scream.
I can go back inside, but then I can’t go meet the evil thing that did this to the officer.
I can go on ahead and probably lose half of my own head. But then the officer will just be sitting out here and a fly is already buzzing. And he could be someone’s dad or husband or …
Trying not to look at him, I open the door of the car. He’s actually buckled in, so he doesn’t fall out or anything, which is good. I couldn’t handle that. I reach around and grab the radio. It unclicks from its holder pretty easily. It’s attached to it by a springy cord that reminds me of a Slinky. It grazes the dark fabric of the officer’s uniform, right above his knees. I refuse to look at his head. I refuse to look at his head.… Instead I press the button.
“Um … officer down … you have an officer down at the Jennings residence on the 720 Road,” I say. I swallow hard. The fly buzzes so loudly. It’s like it’s roaring. I unclick the radio.
Static blares back at me. Then a man’s voice comes on. “Unit calling. Did you say ‘man down’?”
“Yes. There’s an officer down at the Jennings property. He’s dead.”
The moment I unclick the radio I hear, “Attention all units. We have a 10–23, possible signal 7 at—”
I back away and run down the street. The meeting spot is a half mile from here. A half mile should take me four minutes at the most to run. Four and a half, maybe. A half mile and my fate will be sealed, I guess. A half mile …
I pause for just a second to look back at Logan’s house. The lights are still on. I can hear Galahad barking. It’s funny. I can recognize his bark. The cruiser’s driver’s-side door hangs open, waiting. I could just go back.
No. It’s just a half mile.
* * *
But I don’t make it that far.
23
LOGAN
“You’re lucky, man,” David says as he explodes the head of a video game zombie.
I club another ghoul in the head while trying to figure out what the heck he means by that. Lucky that my dad is in the hospital and might become a werewolf? I pause the game and look at him. “How?”
David nods toward the stairs. “I’ve barely seen Yesenia at all the last few days. Your girlfriend is living with you. And tonight there are no parents in the house.”
I look at the stairs and remember Chrystal’s bare legs and little shorts as she went up to bed. She is so beautiful, and so nice, and we get along amazingly well. I turn my eyes back to the TV, unpause the game, and release a barrage of bullets at a lurking horde of the undead.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I say, my voice dull.
Now David pauses the game. “What? You’re crazy. You two sure act like boyfriend and girlfriend.”
“When this stuff is over, one way or another, she’ll go back to Maine with her dad. We can’t very well go to a movie or make out through Snapchat or a webcam or whatever. She’ll go home, go back to her school, her friends, forget about me and Oklahoma and all of this craziness, and we’ll never see each other again. Plus, she’s mad at me for telling about her plan.”
I stare at the still screen, at the scowling, hungry, greenish faces of the zombies, at the buildings that make up the setting, at the blood and brains frozen in mid-splatter, like the pattern made by the liquid insides of the guys Mom shot. David is staring at me and I can’t face him. I swallow a lump in my throat, and I’m afraid he heard it.
“Man. That does suck,” he offers. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Yeah. Well, it seems like a waste to get serious about a girl who’ll be almost two thousand miles away before school starts.”
“You like her, though.”
I shrug again. “I don’t know.”
“Man, sometimes you gotta take life by the balls. Live for today. She’s here now,” David says, leaning forward so he’s in my peripheral vision. I turn my head to face him. “You know what I mean? She’s here now and you obviously have feelings for each other. Maybe you admit how you feel, then find out you can’t stand her laugh or that she thinks you should eat more broccoli or something, or maybe she goes home. Anything can happen tomorrow. Take what’s there today.”
I grin at him. “Getting philosophical, ain’t ya?”
“Just being real. I wouldn’t have thought I’d have to tell a poet anything about love,” he says. “Now, are we gonna kill zombies or talk about our feelings some more?”
We blast away for a while longer, but I’m just not into the game anymore. Something about shooting zombies on a television screen just isn’t so much fun when there are real werewolves roaming the woods outside and my dad’s in the hospital and my mom has killed men in front of me in my own living room. The undead horde drags me down and my screen goes red as I die again.
“It’s all yours, man. I’m out.” I drop my controller and leave David blasting away.
Mr. Davis is reclining on our couch, mostly asleep. He snores, and he’s not quite out of it enough to not wake himself up with his snores. So he drifts to sleep, starts to snore, and when a really big snort comes along, it wakes him up. Sleep apnea, I think they call it.
I wander to the window and look out. It appears our guardian deputy is also getting some shut-eye, as he’s sitting with his head back and not moving.
Sleep. I consider it for myself, but I know I’d just lie in bed and toss and turn. So I go over to the table where Mr. Lawson Smith has been working. Is it Mr. Smith, or Mr. Lawson Smith? I’m still not really sure. Chrystal Smith? Chrystal Lawson Smith? I should ask her. I don’t even know her full name, really. Crap. That’s ridiculous. I pull out his chair and sit down, looking over the stuff he’s got spread out on the table.
The microscope he’d been using so much is pushed away now. A thin, ancient-looking book holds the prime spot. It’s opened to a page with a drawing of a man on all fours, a baby hanging from his mouth. Nice. More books and some stapled, photocopied pages are stacked around the corners of the desk. Beside the microscope on one side is the piece of shirt and the hairs Galahad found in the field. On the other side is a newer book, like a college textbook, showing close-ups of hair samples. The microscope is loaded with a slide that has some hair on it, so I put my face to the eyepiece, but it’s all dark. I find an electrical cord going to the microscope, so I figure there’s a switch, and start looking for it.
Before I find the switch, I find a paper, partially covered, but I see Chrystal’s name on it. I pull it from the pile of documents and see that it’s an email conversation between Mr. Lawson Smith and someone named Monty Borgess. The Borgess email address has the university in Tahlequah as its domain name. I scan the part where I saw Chrystal’s name. Her dad had said he was worried about bringing her on the Oklahoma expedition, not only because of her age but “because of her maternal heritage.”
Matt, I understand your concern, but if we are right and this “Bigfoot” our local boy saw really is a werewolf, it’s pretty unlikely any werewolf in the woods of Oklahoma will have any knowledge about your ex-wife’s ancestry. I’m sure your daughter will be safe. Please don’t delay. The next victim might not be a cow.
I start reading it again.
“Did you hear that?” David asks. He pauses the game. The house is way too quiet.
“What?”
I ask.
“I heard a scream.”
“It was the game.”
“No, man, it wasn’t the game.”
Mr. Davis jerks awake on the couch and sits up. “What?” he asks. “What happened?”
Then we all hear it, high and shrill. My name. Chrystal’s voice.
“Logan!”
I don’t even pause to curse. I fly out the front door, grabbing my shotgun as I go. Even before the screen door slams against the house, all three dogs go wild, scrambling from under the porch and rushing toward the police car. The door is open now. The deputy is still inside, but now his head—what’s left of his head—is turned, looking at us.
David runs into my back, knocking me forward. I catch myself on the rail around the porch.
That’s when the werewolf lands on top of the patrol car.
My blood turns to ice and goose bumps run up and down my arms as I face the thing again.
“Holy—” David says.
“Dear God a’mighty,” Mr. Davis says from behind us.
The beast is sort of crouching, but not all the way—it’s more like he’s getting his balance. He’s looking right at us, his face not all wolf, nowhere near all human, with a short snout, black nose, and hate-filled black eyes. Slobber drips from his mouth as he snarls at us.
I don’t hesitate this time. I bring my shotgun to my shoulder, flicking off the safety as I do. The thing’s attention is diverted as Galahad jumps at him. No way Galahad can reach on top of the car. But the thing can reach Galahad. With one swipe of his long, muscular, hairy arm, the monster smacks Galahad across the head and shoulders, sending him flying over the yard.
I take my shot.
The shotgun roars thunder and spits fire.
My 12-gauge slug finds its mark right in the center of the creature’s chest. The impact causes the thing to stagger back a step. Blood runs from his chest.
But he doesn’t fall over.
He doesn’t drop dead.
He roars at me, instead. Challenging me.
I pump my shotgun and fire again.
David opens up with his rifle.
But this is no video game.
It’s so much worse.
I hit the thing three more times in the chest. David’s .30-caliber bullets rip into it. There are exit wounds. I can see blood spraying from the thing’s back. I swear it. But the monster doesn’t go down.
I only have one shot left. I jack my pump, sending the spent shell casing flying to my right. Carefully, I plant the single sight on the thing’s throat while David pops off two more bullets.
“I’m out,” he says.
I pull the trigger.
A big chunk of meat flies away from the monster’s throat. Blood sprays over the white top of the cop car. The werewolf’s howl drowns in a gurgle of blood. He clamps one hand/paw over his throat, and now he’s had enough. He jumps off the far side of the car and runs.
His speed is incredible. He must be moving at thirty-five or forty miles per hour as he cuts across our yard and vanishes into the night.
“Chrystal!” I scream after him. “Shells! I need more shells!”
“I’ll reload you.” Mr. Davis pushes his own shotgun into my hands while jerking mine away from me.
“I’m good,” David says, pushing another bullet into the chamber of his rifle.
We take off after the werewolf. Thunder and Daisy are ahead of us, baying like crazy as they race after the monster.
Police sirens are approaching. That was fast. Too fast.
The werewolf’s trail is easy to follow. The grass is tromped down and there’s a steady trail of blood. Plus, the dogs are picking it up with no problem at all. But about a mile from the house we hear something moving to our right, toward the road. I stop and grab David’s arm to stop him. The dogs are now angling to our left.
Then I hear it again. It’s the sound of a struggle.
Without thinking, I start running. The grass is really tall here, up to our chests, because the ground is low on either side of the road and water stands here for a long time.
“Leave me alone!” It’s Chrystal’s voice. Dead ahead.
I almost trip over her. She’s lying on her back, her wrists and ankles bound with silver duct tape, another strip of tape hanging from her cheek. I stop short just as she pulls her knees back and shoots her feet forward. A man grunts.
It’s the third guy from our home invasion. Chrystal’s feet catch him in the groin and he doubles over.
She yells something again, but I can’t hear her over the sound of sirens. The air is flashing red and blue, red and blue, and the sirens are screaming.
The injured man’s eyes fix on me and David and our guns. I jerk the shotgun to my shoulder and fire, but miss. The man gives Chrystal one hate-filled final look, then runs to our right.
A second later we hear the squeal of brakes and a solid thud, followed by a moan.
“Take care of her!” David yells in my ear, then he jumps over Chrystal and runs toward the road.
“Drop that gun!” a strange voice screams.
I fall to my knees and pull my little lock-blade knife from my pocket to cut the tape holding Chrystal.
“My God, Logan. I can’t believe it’s you. I can’t believe you found me. He lied to me. He—”
As soon as her wrists are free she throws her arms around me and pulls me down on top of her. She has a grip like a boa constrictor, and she’s still talking, almost hysterical, but without tears or sobs, just hot words pushing through the flesh of my neck.
“I knew I was going to die. I was going to die and it was going to be useless because there isn’t an antidote, just lies. He lied to me. I heard the shots. I heard the guns. Did you shoot him, Logan? God, tell me you shot him. Did you?”
She pushes herself away and looks at me. Before I can answer, there are two cops towering over us, shining flashlights at us. One reaches down and grabs the shotgun off the ground where I’d dropped it. David appears beside them.
“That guy we just hit, he’s the one who tied you up?” I recognize the cop as one who was at the house this morning.
Chrystal nods.
“Damn it, girl, didn’t I tell you not to go through with that harebrained plan?” he asks, and his voice is bubbling with fury.
Chrystal hangs her head, and now the tears do flow. “I had to,” she whispers.
“That was you who called about an officer down, wasn’t it?” the deputy asks.
Chrystal nods again.
“Was that a lie? Something to get us back out here in case you needed us?”
She shakes her head, and then looks up, her eyes wet but defiant. “I would never do that,” she says. “The deputy at the house. He’s dead.”
The man curses a long stretch of the best swears, turning away.
I reach down and cut the tape off Chrystal’s ankles, then help her up. We follow the remaining deputy, the one holding Mr. Davis’s shotgun, back to the road. Chrystal is limping a little.
“Are you okay?” I ask her.
“Bruises,” she says. “I made him work to get that tape on me.”
I put my arm around her waist and hug her as we walk on. But she turns towards me and grabs my face. Before I know what’s happening, her lips move against mine and I … I pause for a second, but then I’m kissing her back. She breaks for air, but then I pull her back. I can’t have enough of her, of this. Her hands are clutching my shirt and my arms are all the way around her, moving, and then she’s kissing me even harder, deeper. I feel helpless and strong all at once, but I break away and look down at her quiet, brave face and she’s staring up at me. And this time I start the kiss, soft and then it becomes so intense that I’m shaking and dizzy.
She pulls away this time, shaking her head. “Wow.”
“Wow?”
She bites her lip. “Yeah. Wow.”
I don’t know if it was the adrenalin or the … the panic of everything that’s happened, but I can’
t imagine a kiss could ever be anything like that.
“We should get going,” she says, tugging me forward.
About five feet in front of the patrol car with its flashing red and blue lights is the man who had been in our house. The man who had attacked Chrystal, tied her up, and was going to take her to the werewolf. One of his knees is bent the wrong direction. Blood leaks out of his mouth and nose, glistening in the headlights of the cruiser.
“He’s dead?” I ask.
“Deader’n the devil,” the deputy with Mr. Davis’s gun answers.
“Can we check him?” Chrystal asks. “Just in case there was an antidote that he wouldn’t give me?”
The first cop, the one who got so mad at Chrystal, is inside the car, talking on the radio. The one with Mr. Davis’s shotgun turns and looks at us. He’s older, with a gray mustache and brown eyes. He puts the gun on the hood of the car.
“I should check him for ID, I suppose. We took pictures already, right?” he says, then goes to the body, and checks the pockets of the man’s sleeveless flannel shirt, then the faded jeans. He pulls a ring of keys from the right hip pocket, then reaches under the body to check the back pockets.
Nothing. No wallet. No driver’s license. No bottle of magic medicine that will make my dad all normal again.
“He had a gun,” Chrystal says. “A pistol. A big one. It was in the back of his pants, but he pulled it out when we heard the shooting. He was taking me a different way, but when we heard the dogs coming, he changed direction and started for the road. He slipped, though, and that’s when he dropped me.”
“She kicked him in the nuts,” David adds.
“That thing was at our house,” I tell the cop who is still squatting by the dead man. He looks up at me. “The … monster. Werewolf. Whatever he is. He was on top of the dead cop’s car. We shot him. I mean, we shot the hell out of him, but he just jumped off and ran away.”
“You shot him?” The cop stands up. The other cop is out of the car now, standing with his hands on the open door, listening.
