by Michael Dunn
The cigarette in Ralph’s mouth was supposed to calm his nerves, but was doing a miserable job. He couldn’t light another one without help since he was shaking so badly. He was just as scared at that moment as he had been when his platoon landed on Omaha Beach on D-Day, but he had only been a kid back then and didn’t know what fear was until that day. More than two decades later, that same anticipated fear returned and burned in the back of his throat making him want to vomit. Thankfully, the drinks helped keep the bile down.
The Styrofoam peanut factory manager glanced at each of his friends, noticing all of them were just as nervous as he. Even Tank, their esteemed sergeant, was visibly shaking, which brought little comfort. Lowering his head a touch, he stared into the burnt amber liquid in his glass, took a sip, and thought, This was a bad idea, no two ways about it. A mistake. A fool’s plan.
However, it had been his plan, and now he wished he hadn’t thought of it.
He had trouble lifting the glass to his lips, it took a conscious effort to keep his hand steady. He held the glass there for a moment as his eyes closed, pondering that he should be on the camping trip with Albert they had planned for weeks. That camping trip sounded fun right now.
Time was running out for their father and son outings before the boy grew up and moved away. A sigh left his lips as he looked into his half-drained glass blankly, thinking, children always seemed to have a way of growing up too fast.
The corner of his mouth twitched for just a moment before thinking, You old fool, this is no time to go soft.
This expedition into the deep dark woods outside Bestiavir was far more important, and even though Ralph suspected it was possible he might not come back from the hunt, he knew the people of Bestiavir would no longer have to fear of the legendary monster in the woods. This was their duty, their calling, and their obligation before God to rid their town of this monstrosity.
He thought, hell with it, and downed the rest of his drink.
Ralph held out his empty glass, and coughed out, “Hey Elmer, get me another.”
2
Elmer Geitz, forty-six, small framed, thickly bespectacled, and quickly balding, took Mullins’ empty glass, and gratefully made him a new drink. It gave him something to do besides wait and think about the predicament he found himself. Elmer hid behind the bar so the other vets couldn’t see him shaking, but making Ralph another drink proved more difficult than he thought, since he spilled more than a little of the scotch and soda. When the drink was made, a new challenge arose since Elmer had to walk over and hand Ralph the drink without spilling. It was like walking on a tight rope. He was trembling once he stumbled from behind the bar, keeping his eyes low so as not to make a fool of himself. It became painfully obvious to him all the other men were watching him like hungry wolves eyeing a deer.
Extending the hand holding the drink, Elmer forced a weak smile.
“Here you g-go.”
Even as he spoke that last word and heard his own stutter, the quiet little man bit his tongue, closed his eyes tightly, and silently cursed.
As he handed Ralph his glass, Elmer saw his personal hero since grade school was also shaking, which brought a modicum of relief. Pencil pusher Elmer didn’t want to be there, less so than any of the other guys.
He had tried to back out, but that old, self-righteous Ralph Mullins made some cornball, Patton-esque speech about how the old veterans had to stick together, that this was their second stand for God, country, and fellow man, the first was against the Germans. It was bullshit, but it was eloquent bullshit. All the same, Elmer wasn’t keen on participating in the name of Christ, or anybody else for that matter.
Elmer turned away from his old classmate, his arms hanging loosely by his sides. His steps were slower than they had been as he neared the bar again, measuring each step as he thought what his mother would say if she could see them now, God rest her soul. He could almost hear her voice scolding him again for letting them walk all over him and for being afraid. Elmer thought he shouldn’t be here. These were better men than he. He had never seen combat. His large, overbearing mother had browbeaten some weak-willed doctor into trumping up some false claims of asthmatic ailments. His military duty had been served behind a desk, shuffling papers for the War Department.
Once Elmer reached the bar, his left hand gripped the edge of the counter. The thought of leaving had crossed his mind, to go home, and collapse in the comfortable armchair in front of the TV, content and safe in his own home. He wanted to say, “To hell with you Ralph Mullins and your damn delusions of grandeur. Go home to your wife and kids!” But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Those lodge meetings every Thursday night made his life worth living, but this was something completely different.
Swallowing hard, Elmer reached down and picked up his hunting rifle and the magazines of silver bullets he had bought from Tank about an hour ago. He leaned against the wall for much needed support. The gun felt heavy in his hand, awkward, and out of place. This sounded dangerous, unnecessary, and stupid. Why tonight? Elmer wanted to know. Shaking his head, the man leaned back against the wall. Everyone who had grown up in and around Bestiavir knew the stories of what lurked in those woods.
3
When Terrance Bolin coughed in the rigidly silent VFW, it sounded like a foghorn. The large Bolin, nicknamed “Tank,” leaned on the jukebox on the South wall, ready, willing, and armed to the teeth. He carried three .45 caliber pistols on his body while sporting a shiny new M-16 propped on his shoulder. Each was loaded with real silver bullets, like the ones the Lone Ranger used in those old radio shows and later on TV, and not the half-silver, half-powder shells he had made for Ralph and the other guys.
Bolin missed the excitement of battle. After all these years, the forty-seven-year-old still believed the worst thing he ever did was leave the army. Stateside, he had returned home to a young wife and a three-year-old boy he had never met and felt obligated to become domesticated, as society dictated, to fill the shoes of dutiful father, loving husband, and provider. He hated every minute of it.
In the army, he was Master Sergeant Terrance “the Tank” Bolin, respected by brass, revered by his men. He fought at Normandy, Bastogne, and several other minor skirmishes on African, French, and German soil. In Bestiavir, New Mexico, he was Terry Bolin, local gunsmith and gun dealer, pantomiming his way through life, impatiently waiting for Moose Lodge meetings every Thursday night.
When Bruce Rivetts came to the lodge a couple months ago, barking on about chasing a “wolf-thing-who-walked-on-two-feet” to that rundown Paradise Trailer Park, Sergeant Terrance Bolin felt hot blood pump through his body. He felt alive again.
Excitement flowed through his muscles, which had been sedentary for far too long, while every fiber of his being was primed thanks to the adrenaline that rushed through him. His senses were sharp and strong again, making him feel like a young warrior again instead of the lame dog he had become.
Terry went for this expedition with all his heart, soul, and pocket book. Making those silver bullets was not cheap, and neither was his new pride and joy: a brand new M-16 that had just come in the mail. He nearly depleted all of his savings and even dipped a little into his retirement cushion as well as a little in his boys’ college funds, but it didn’t matter. He was alive again and ready as ever, yearning for battle. Tank hoped their little stand in the name of God would be a glorious victory.
Reaching into his pocket, Tank removed a long leather case that held a Montecristo number four Cuban cigar, pre-cut for his leisure that night. Drawing the cigar under his nose, Tank inhaled deeply, enjoying the scent while the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, remembering how he crawled up the shores of France to face the awaiting Germans.
His eyes opened slightly as he fished out the waterproof, wooden matches with his spare hand.
Tank flicked his thumbnail along the match head, which caught on his first attempt.
He lit and puffed twice on the cigar. He shook the match
out, moving the cigar from his lips to exhale. Tonight was made for men like him. He puffed twice before inhaling.
4
Bruce Rivetts poured himself a fifth shot of tequila from a bottle Elmer graciously left on the bar. If there ever was a drink that provided instant courage, much the same way spinach provided instant strength for Popeye, tequila was it. Bruce needed it because, unlike the others, he had actually seen the fabled ‘Beast of Bestiavir’ and the nightmares kept him from a peaceful night’s rest. For more than a week afterward, he awoke violently in the night, screaming and thrashing, believing the monster had him like he was a ten-year-old boy again and afraid of the dark.
Two months ago, Bruce had been camping alone, something he did every now and again to escape from everyone and everything. He looked forward to those nights of peace and solitude and not having to put up with every goddamned idjit surrounding him. He did a little fishing during the day, a little hunting at night, and a lot of drinking in between.
Like many others, Bruce had come back from the war disillusioned. He went from being a bright young boy who was made into a killing machine, and then was told to forget how to be a killing machine when he came back home. It was like re-teaching an old dog old tricks. When Bruce returned to Bestiavir after his stint in Korea, he was invited to join the VFW/Moose Lodge and accepted immediately. In school, he looked up to Ralph and Tank, who were a few years older. They had been the popular kids in school, who became even more popular when they left high school to fight the Germans. Bruce was honored to be part of their gang even though high school was over.
His cheeks were already tinted to a deep shade of burgundy reminiscent of the bums lining the streets of major cities. He tilted his shot-glass back thinking, If I’m going to meet my maker tonight, I sure as hell ain’t gonna do it sober.
He needed to escape from himself and most days he did it with a bottle. In his mind, his life was a failure, a failure as both a father and a husband. In fact, the last time the entire family smiled together was when their Christmas portrait taken at Sears. To Bruce, his family was very much like the family portrait. They were smiling only for the public and their happiness was only as deep as the picture. His wife couldn’t stand the sight of him (and was secretly having an affair with Tank) and his kids hated him like he had hated his own father in turn. It was no surprise to him when his marriage had devolved into habit and changing into something grotesque over time as the alcohol became his demon lover.
It had been a clear, beautiful night when Bruce saw the beast. The bright yellow moon shined down on the vibrant red canyons and verdant green woods made it almost daylight. Bruce was sitting by his campfire, drinking, and watching a rabbit scamper through the brush. He grabbed his .22 Winchester hunting rifle, laid on the ground, getting the rabbit in his sights.
“Heh-wo, Mistah Wabbit,” Bruce whispered to himself in an Elmer Fudd imitation, and then chuckled like the cartoon character.
For a few moments, Bruce was the nineteen-year-old sniper again, his right forefinger curled around the trigger as he narrowed his eyes, peering down the attached scope. The man’s sniper training came back to him, even twenty years later. Pressing his lips into a thin line, the middle-aged vet fixed his gaze on the jackrabbit gnawing on the foliage.
Taking a slow breath, the sniper aligned the barrel of his gun, his muscles taut. A single shot was all it would take. The cross hairs from the scope lined up just behind the rodent’s eye. It wouldn’t feel a thing — or so he had been told. No one had ever survived to prove the theory, especially with Bruce at the trigger. Exhaling slowly, the sniper’s lips pulled into a lazy smile as the hare’s ears perked, noticing for the first time perhaps the danger it was in a moment too late. Goodnight.
Just as he was about to squeeze the trigger, he watched in paralyzed awe as a large shaggy creature snatched the rabbit, and then bit the rabbit in half with its powerful jaws. Bruce heard the rabbit’s bones snap like dry twigs. The round from his Model 77 went into a tree behind where the rabbit had been.
Bruce quivered with fear, but did his best to hold steady, because any sudden movement might alert that thing, whatever it was, to his presence. He lay frozen, with his fingers dug into the dirt, like he was trying to hold on to the world and his sanity at the same time. Whatever it was, he had just seen and watched something he was damn sure should not exist in the real world.
Bruce thought, This was it. This was the Beast of Bestiavir.
Standing erect, the bipedal beast had to stand nearly eight feet tall by Bruce’s guess. Sweat beaded across the hunter’s brow as his eyes traced the defined muscles of the beast beneath the thick black fur, the color of a moonless night. Bruce was willing to bet if that night hadn’t been on the full moon, he would have never spotted it.
The beast’s yellow eyes glowed like a dog’s eyes… no, like a wolf’s. Its shadowy mane fell from behind its pulled, spike-like ears, which flattened, the front of its head pulled into a long snout.
What the fuck was that thing? Bruce thought. Yes, it was the Beast of Bestiavir, but what was the Beast of Bestiavir? Bruce picked up his Winchester and decided to do some real hunting.
The creature ran toward the horizon with its fresh kill in its claw, and Bruce, rifle in hand, pursuing it, feeling like a young man once again. Part of him was terrified, but the adrenaline pumping through his body made this chase fun.
Although Bruce could barely see the creature in the distance, despite the full moon, he kept racing toward it, running over two miles. His middle-aged body was not used to such strain or excitement, and he was out of breath and panting. He would feel the strain the following day.
The chase brought him to the Paradise Trailer Park, a small trailer park of thirty or so trailers outside Bestiavir that was known to house the lower class undesirables, the ‘white trash of New Mexico’ as Bruce and everyone else in Bestiavir believed.
Bruce had never been this close to the trailer park and never really wanted to for that matter. However, the trailer park wasn’t as dilapidated as he had heard. Only the rotted, gutted, and abandoned trailers could be seen from the highway. The other trailers were neatly kept. It wasn’t Shangri-la, but it wasn’t a landfill either.
Why would they do that? Bruce wondered, but only for a moment.
The trailer park was elliptical in design with a bright street light in the middle where a basketball hoop hung a few feet below the light. A large gas tank was planted behind the streetlight. A paved circular road surrounded the street light and every trailer was seated around the road.
From the streetlight, there was a half mile gravel road that led to Bray Road. Turning left brought you to Bestiavir. Turning right brought you toward Los Lunas and eventually to Albuquerque.
Beyond the trailers to the south was a large wooded area surrounding three sides of the residential area as if the trailer park was the gate to the supposedly haunted and cursed woods where the legendary Beast of Bestiavir was said to live.
When Bruce arrived in the trailer park, he found no trace of the monster or anybody else for that matter. Nonetheless, he held tightly to his gun and slowly backed out of the park.
The place seemed deserted. The lights in the trailers were on, but no one seemed to be home. No silhouettes passed behind closed windows. There were no sounds, other than the TVs emanating from the mobile homes, the chirping of the crickets in the woods, and Bruce’s own heart pounding against his rib cage. The hair along the back of his neck prickled despite the mild temperature, a shiver running along his spine.
He stopped walking when he felt that - he was being watched. He stood still for a moment under a streetlight in the trailer park listening for anything unusual before realizing under the streetlight was a very bad place to be. As a former sniper, he knew it was the equivalent to wearing a flashing bulls-eye on his chest.
“I’m hallucinating.” he told himself, a tremor in his voice. This was all too real for him to believe. He sighed, feeling l
ike an idiot, took another step back, and unknowingly whispered aloud, “I need another drink.”
After he had left the grounds of the trailer park, he heard a wolf baying at the full moon, followed by another.
Then another.
And another.
And another.
And another, until he could not count how many wolves were howling. Turning on his heels, the war veteran ran as fast as he could until he reached his camp. Gripping the hilt of his .22, he dove for his base, the flap of his tent thankfully open and there was enough light for him to check his watch. Half past midnight. Hopefully, the sun would rise before they found him.
The next day, Bruce told the guys at the VFW what he had seen, who expectedly, laughed at him, suggesting he lay off the hooch for a while. Although Bruce thought that was some good advice, he knew what he had seen.
He had goaded each one of the laughing ‘Mooseketeers’ to go with him the next night to search for that large bipedal wolf, almost double daring them like they never left the playground.
Two days after Bruce Rivetts saw the big wolf-like creature, the local newspaper reported two outlaw bikers were found mutilated and partially eaten not far from Bestiavir, blaming a suspected out-break of rabies on a pack of wild dogs, but the residents of the town knew better.
When Ty Anderson, the deputy sheriff, examined the pictures and Coroner Clyde Townsend dressed the bodies, both members of the local ‘Mooseketeers’ had come to the same conclusion. Judging from the size of the bite marks, there was no way those wounds could have been inflicted by any of the wildlife in the area, a fact both men had grudgingly admitted to, and that changed the minds of his friends at the lodge to follow Bruce on a hunting expedition in April.
