“Yeah, and we don’t know how long he will be, either. We’ve got a window here, okay? I just want to get it done.”
With a sigh, Red gripped the strap on his rifle and moved off, staying low as he headed back through the woods.
Hugo glanced up at the grey sky. “Think it’s gonna rain?”
Nash’s eyes were on the house. “I think we have more important things to worry about.”
The barn looked even more rickety close up. There was no rear entrance, but Red managed to find a side door hanging halfway off its rusted iron hinges. He moved fast and low along the side of the barn to reach it, like a mouse hugging a skirting board, and grimaced at the tortured creak as he opened the door.
It was gloomy inside, but the roof and walls were so rotted and filled with gaps that there was plenty of daylight seeping through. The barn obviously hadn’t seen regular use from anyone but wild animals for some time, many of which had left evidence of their habitation amongst the detritus of the humans who’d once lived here. Even now birds were roosting in the half-collapsed roof, and something that might have been a possum scampered across a high beam as the intruder entered.
The first thing Red noticed was the van. It was an old red Dodge, covered with road dust, but not so old that it look like it belonged in this relic of a barn. He moved slowly towards it, peering into the dusty windows. It was empty.
There was a ladder near the back of the barn, leading to a high landing running around the walls. Looking back at the broad wooden doors, Red began to make his way up, tentatively putting his weight on the bottom rung.
He was halfway up before one of the rungs broke under his weight, sending his foot bouncing off the one beneath it and off into thin air. He caught himself with one hand, letting out a sharp hiss as the other scraped over the rough edge of the ladder frame. He managed to stop the rifle as it slipped from his shoulder, catching the strap in the crook of his arm. Righting himself, he dragged himself the rest of the way up and over the edge of the platform.
Checking his stinging hand, he found a nasty three-inch gash along the lower edge of his left hand. Blood was trickling down his wrist and into his sleeve. Cursing under his breath, he held his arm up and rummaged one-handed in his backpack to find the paper napkins he’d stolen from the roadside cafe. Peering down at the ladder, he saw blood dripping down the frame. There must have been an old nail sticking out of the wood.
“Nice,” he snarled. “Fuckin’ tetanus on top of everything else, that’s all I fuckin’ need…”
Holding a napkin over the wound, he made his way gingerly around the landing to the front of the barn, above the main doors. There was a pair of wooden shutters in front of him, which he carefully eased open.
Perfect. From here he had a clear view of the front and south side of the farmhouse, as well as the surrounding field and the treeline to the west. He peered across at the upstairs windows, looking for any movement, but couldn’t see anything.
Leaning his rifle against the wall, he started looking for his first aid kit.
“Red?” Nash adjusted his headset. “Red. You there?”
He looked back at Hugo, who switched his own headset on. “Oh, Redford? I bet he’s playing with himself up there. Red!”
“Quiet,” Nash hissed.
With a loud crackle, Red’s voice came through. “I’m here.”
“Where the hell were you?”
“Cut my hand climbing that ladder. Had to patch it up.”
“Hope it wasn’t your wanking hand,” said Hugo.
Red snorted through the mike. “Wasn’t my shooting hand either, motherfucker.”
“Knock it off,” said Nash. “You got us covered?”
They heard a rustling sound as Red settled himself behind the scope. “You’re covered. Go careful, I found a van parked in the barn. Somebody’s definitely here.”
“Okay, here we go.”
They broke cover, darting from the treeline and running fast and low for the house. Hugo heard Red chuckling through the headset. “Out of shape there, big boy? You’re huffing and puffing.”
“Yeah… gonna blow this… bitch down,” Hugo managed.
They reached the house, dropping into a crouch next to the porch. On Nash’s signal they moved to the corner, staying low to avoid being seen through the windows. Finally they slipped around to the east side of the house, out of Red’s line of sight.
“You’re on your own now, boss.”
“Just keep your eyes open,” said Nash.
The kitchen door was near the northwest corner. It was slightly ajar, the frame broken. Moving lightly across the porch, Nash put his back against the wall on one side and drew his Smith & Wesson. Hugo took up a position on the opposite side, holding the shotgun against his chest. Taking a breath, Nash gently pushed the door open.
The kitchen was a long, wide room that ran the width of the house. A long-disused fireplace stood at one end; a rusted old wood-burning stove at the other. Two doorways led out of the room to the west—one to a large disused pantry, the other a broad archway leading to a corridor. There was no furniture, the floorboards broken and rotting. There was, however, some evidence of recent use.
Nash smelled the coppery tang of blood before he saw the body. It was lying to one side of the old stove, the floorboards around it covered with dark red stains. Keeping one eye on the doors, Nash moved towards it, Hugo covering him with the shotgun.
The corpse was in bad shape. It was a young man of about twenty, with blond hair and a thin face, most of it now missing. Whatever shirt he’d worn was long gone, and his torso was ripped open like a burst sausage. At least some of his insides were still present, if not in their correct anatomical location.
“Fuck,” Hugo cursed, taking a step back.
“Keep it together,” warned Nash. “Red, stay awake up there. There’s definitely a werewolf in this house.”
He stepped away from the body, looking towards the corridor. “Okay, Hugo. We need to go slow and careful, and-”
He froze, handgun half-raised. His ears picked up the sound of boots on old floorboards, and he moved. Urgently waving Hugo to follow him, he darted back to the south end of the kitchen and slipped through the pantry door.
A man entered the kitchen through the archway, moving stiffly on a bad leg. He was in his sixties, with a ragged beard and grey hair hanging to his collar in greasy strands. He was stripped to the waist, his barrel-like torso a mess of tattoos and old scars. Some of the scars were from wounds that looked as if they should have put him down for good. His beard and chin were stained with drying blood, his tattooed arms gory to the elbows.
The two men shrank further back into the pantry as he passed the door, shuffling across to the body on the floor. With a soft grunt, the man lowered himself onto one knee, his bad leg extended beside him, and dragged the mutilated corpse a little closer.
Just inside the pantry door, Nash took the safety off his handgun.
The man was beginning to dig into the mangled torso, pulling at the remaining innards, when a loud voice cut through the musty gloom of the house.
“Moses!”
The man on the floor looked around, his eyes gleaming yellow in the dim light.
“Moses! Get in here!”
Lowering his head, the man emitted a low, guttural growl. Pushing himself up with some difficulty, he turned and limped back out the way he’d come.
Letting out a long, slow breath, Nash moved silently through the pantry door and back out into the kitchen, moving to follow the man towards the front of the house. A moment later, a little reluctantly, Hugo followed.
Red felt the rain coming before it started. The sky was growing steadily darker, the air thicker and colder, until finally the first heavy droplets began to patter the roof of the barn. It took only a couple of minutes for the rain to really kick in, sweeping across the farm like a murky grey blanket. The water began to pour through the holes in the roof, trickling down over the man cro
uched in the loft.
“Goddamn it,” Red whispered, pulling up his hood and trying to cover his headset. “Fuckin’ better be a werewolf in there…”
“Moses! Where are you?”
The old man made his way through the dilapidated front room, deliberately taking his time. An old staircase ran around one side of the room, leading to an open landing above. The old man began to climb it, slowed down both by his leg and by stubborn impudence. Samson was becoming more impossible by the day.
At least she’s stopped screaming, he thought, as he neared the landing. The boy at the crossroads had been a quick kill, put down more out of convenience than anything else, and to give old Moses something to eat. But Samson had dragged the girl upstairs to one of the bedrooms, and she’d screamed and cried and begged for an awful long time. Samson had always liked to play with his food, but he’d taken a particularly long time about finishing this one off. It was understandable, he had a lot to be angry about and no one to take it out on, but Moses had no stomach for it.
“Moses!”
He paused, one foot on the top step. Maybe he should just go. Walk back down the stairs and out to the barn, take the van and get clear. He could go…
Where? A crippled old dog like him, so busted up he could hardly walk, let alone hunt? Where could he go, on his old leg ripped up by silver shot? He’d have been dead a long time ago if not for Samson, cast out or put down by the pack, stabbed in the back by that bitch Sheila. It was Samson who’d kept him alive, kept him fed and protected, valuing his loyalty and his counsel. He’d stood by his Alpha when the mutiny came, and followed him without question when he’d had to run.
No, he wasn’t going anywhere. Samson needed Moses, and Moses needed Samson. That was how it was.
Stepping up to the landing, he moved to the nearest door. He paused, one hand resting on the handle. He could smell the blood inside the room. With a weary sigh, he stepped inside.
Two figures slipped out of the hallway below and moved across the front room to the stairs. Nash came first, taking the stairs as quickly as he dared, Hugo watching his back. They heard voices before they reached the landing—two of them, low and ragged, coming from the room nearest the stairs. Hugo motioned towards it with his shotgun, but Nash shook his head. He moved back along the landing, keeping his gun trained on the door, motioning the big man to follow him. Coming to the door at the far end, he slowly pushed it open, scanning the room behind it. Satisfied that it was clear, he moved inside.
They were in a small bathroom, or what was left of one. A large iron bathtub stood by one wall, while a broken wooden cistern and a pipe sticking out of the floor was all that remained of the toilet. Raindrops were pelting against the grimy glass left in the window. Nash pushed the door closed, and sank to one knee.
“Okay,” he whispered. “We’ve got a good vantage point on that door from here. Looks like there’s just the two of ’em, like Weir said. We wait until they walk out of that room, then we go in hard and give ’em the silver. You good?”
Hugo took a deep breath, gripping the shotgun. “I’m good.”
Red had moved away from the shutters to find a dry spot, but moved back to scan the house every minute or so. There didn’t seem to be much going on.
He leaned out to look up at the sky. The rain was getting heavier, and colder too. It was a little after four, but the heavy rainclouds had brought an early dusk. He looked back at the house, then ran his gaze back to the trees to the west, and something moved.
Red froze.
He kept his eyes on the trees, watching for the same movement. He hoped it had been a bird, or an illusion caused by the rain, or…
There it was again. Something moving along the treeline, a heavy dark shape against the undergrowth. It was crouched low to the ground, moving slowly on all fours.
Very carefully, Red lifted the Remington to his shoulder and peered through the scope. “Aw, no…”
Another shape came into view, further along the treeline. It moved out into the open, just for a moment, then began to circle around to the right. A third came behind it. Red’s eyes scanned the trees, watching for the moving shapes, counting them off in his head.
“Aaaww, no no no…”
Dropping into a crouch, he fumbled for his headset.
“Nash!”
Nash turned from the bathroom door as Red’s voice crackled through his headphones. “What?”
“I’ve got wolves out here.”
Nash looked at Hugo. “Excuse me?”
“They’re coming from the woods to the west. At least five that I can see, maybe six.” Red sounded frightened. “You better get out of there.”
“What the fuck’s he saying?” Hugo spat.
“What the fuck are you saying?” Nash growled into the microphone.
“I’m saying,” Red replied, in a low rasp, “there’s a pack of fucking lycanthropes moving in on that house. Get out.”
“That’s not right,” Nash protested. “Weir said—”
“Fuck Weir!” Red snapped, in a desperate whisper. “Weir’s all the way up in Coppertown! I’m sitting in this barn looking at half a dozen werewolves closing in on your position! You want to sit there and argue about it?”
“But…” Hugo was moving to the window. “It’s daylight, I mean… they need the moon, right?”
“Jesus Christ, Hugo!” Red hissed. “Do you ever read my notes? Mongrels need the moon. Purebreeds can change whenever the mood hits ’em. How do you go hunting werewolves without—?”
“Fuck man, he’s right,” Hugo gasped, staring out the window. “I can see ’em, they’re coming out of the trees…”
“Shit!” Nash rose to his feet. “Let’s move.”
Turning back to the door, he dragged it open, stepped out onto the landing, and came face to face with Moses.
“Nash?” Red stared down the scope, moving the cross-hairs from wolf to stalking wolf. “They’re moving in right now, heading for the front of the house. Go out the way you came, make a run back to the woods. I’ll cover…”
He stopped, turning his head. Below him, under the platform, the front doors of the barn were creaking open.
Red slid into a crouch, crawling to the edge of the platform. A huge, bulky shape came into view, stalking across the dank dirt floor below. It was vaguely man-shaped, covered with bristling grey fur matted down from the rain, with the shaggy bull neck and misshapen head of a beast. It moved on all fours, sniffing around the front wheels of the van.
Red’s breath was trapped in his chest. He’d never seen a purebreed before, not in the flesh. Some small, mad part of his brain told him he ought to be taking photos.
He watched breathlessly as the wolf crawled around the side of the van. It lifted itself up onto its hind legs, looking through the windows. Then it padded away, moving towards the ladder.
Red’s eyes shifted to the bandage on his hand.
The werewolf came up close to the ladder, head held forward, snout wrinkling as it snuffled at the bloodstained wood. It lifted its face, fierce yellow eyes looking towards the top of the ladder, sniffing at the air.
For a moment, Nash didn’t react. The hesitation might have gotten him killed if Moses had been faster, and not as surprised as he was.
Nash swung his gun around, striking the old man across the temple. As Moses reeled from the blow, the hunter managed to grab him by his greasy hair and shove him towards the bathroom door, kicking him through it and onto the floor. He quickly followed, gun trained on the fallen man, as Hugo fumbled to bring his shotgun to bear.
“Cover him, cover him,” Nash hissed, gun shaking in his hand. “Jesus.” He ducked his head out the door, staring down the landing at the other room. The door was closed, and there was no movement.
Moving back into the bathroom, he carefully closed the door behind him. Moses was sitting up, blood seeping down one side of his face. His yellow eyes flashed in the dim light.
Nash adjusted his grip on the
gun. “You’re the cripple, right? Samson’s Beta?”
Moses glowered up at him. “Who wants to know?” he rumbled.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Nash replied. “I’m Mister Smith. This is my associate Mister Wesson. We’re looking for Samson Clint. He’s here, right?” He nodded towards the landing. “Down in that room?”
Moses drew his feet up.
“Keep still, dogbreath,” Hugo warned, a faint quaver to his voice even as he levelled the shotgun at the old man’s head. “I got five shells in this motherfucker, all of ’em loaded up with shiny silver, and I will empty them into your ass if you move.”
Moses looked up, his gaze moving from the shotgun muzzle to rest on Hugo’s face. “Really?” he sneered. “That why you look so scared, boy?”
“Shut up,” Nash growled. “Those wolves outside. They yours?”
Moses’ eyes moved, confusion creeping onto his face. “Outside?”
“Don’t play dumb.” Hugo pumped the shotgun to add weight to his words, and an unused shell popped out of the ejection port and bounced to the floor.
Moses smiled. “Four shells now, kid.”
“Answer the fucking question,” said Nash. “Those werewolves outside. Are they here to protect Samson?”
Moses sighed. “No, I’d say their loyalties lie elsewhere.”
“What?”
“If there are wolves outside this house,” Moses growled, “then Sheila sent them. And they won’t be here to protect Samson.” He looked towards the window, his lip curling back over an elongated canine. “They’re here to finish him off.”
Red pulled his rifle up, keeping as quiet as he could, trying to get the stock under his arm. Beneath him, the werewolf stepped back from the ladder. Its big ugly head moved left and right, trying to find the scent.
Red’s finger found the trigger just as something big and heavy landed in the open window behind him. He heard claws scraping on old wood, and a deep ravenous growl.
He came up fast, rising to one knee and wrenching his body around. A second werewolf was perched on the sill between the shutters, five feet away from him. It lowered its head and snarled, preparing to jump, and Red swung the rifle up and yanked on the trigger.
Use Enough Gun (Legends of the Monster Hunter Book 3) Page 22
