CLAN
By
Harry Shannon
Author's preferred version, revised 2011
CLAN © 2011 by Harry Shannon
Originally Published as Night of the Werewolf © 2003 Harry Shannon
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.
All Rights Reserved.
Cover Art and Cover Design © 2011 by Yossi Sasson
Interior Design, www.GeniusBookServices.com
Editor, Norman L. Rubenstein
Published by SEP IRA Songs
Visit Harry at www.HarryShannon.com
Table of Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part Two
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Part Three
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Afterword
About the Author
Preview of The Hungry, A Novel of the Inevitable Zombie Apocalypse by Steven W. Booth and Harry Shannon
DEDICATION
This novel is for the small press, and the loyal fans who support it.
...Oh, and one more thing. The author must also thank his two new feral cats, Alice and Samson, for playing like hell all over the desk and keyboard; fighting, purring, crawling under and over handwritten notes, reference papers and loose pages, providing endless hours of much needed amusement since my wife and daughter were on vacation and I was stuck here working. I should have called this version of the book Kittens.
Srendi Vashtar went forth,
His thoughts were red thoughts and his teeth
Were white.
His enemies called for peace, but he brought
Them death.
Srendi Vashtar the Beautiful
—H.H. Munro ("Saki") 1870-1916
PROLOGUE
Near Jackrabbit Gulch, Wyoming
Winter, 1881
Bear witness to this event, forever lost in time. The world is a rolling wave of achingly beautiful, sparkling white snow that is hushed as the satin in a coffin. Nightfall approaches softly, on the paws of a black cat. A full blood moon hangs in the speckled firmament like a sphere of pocked stone…
"Come on, ya sorry bastards!"
The oppressive silence is broken by a loud whistle and a snapping. The large, bearded man driving the splintering wagon cracks his whip, not without kindness. In fact, he places the arc high above the backs of a mangy team of mules so as not to cause them bodily harm. The half-frozen beasts bray in protest and resume their stumbling procession down the drift-laden trail.
The trapper the Indian tribes call Tall Bear, whose given name is John Gilbert Whitley, knows that to stop here is to die here. It is that cold. He tugs a fox-fur cap down over his throbbing ears and hunches forward on the wooden slats. The light, icy powder has been trickling down for several hours now, making travel ever more difficult. Whitley and his team will be in mortal danger soon. They must make higher ground and build a fire before the bitter middle of the night. Wheels squeak, wood groans.
Whitley brushes snowflakes from his filthy beard and rubs his eyes. He squints to focus on the far horizon. There, among the rocks at the end of the craggy gulch, perhaps a hundred yards hence, he spots the amiable twinkling of a campfire. Whitley grins. Salvation is at hand. Here is someone to jaw at, share a bit of tobacco and jerky with. It has been nearly a month since Whitley has spoken to another man or tasted a cup of hot, steaming coffee.
ArrOOOO! OOoooWHOOOOooooo!
Whitley feels the hair on the back of his neck quiver. He is seized with an atavistic dread. The mules begin to stumble and fight the traces, nostrils flaring in alarm. The weird howling has come from behind them and a bit south. Long years of wilderness experience tell Whitley the large wolf pack is less than a half-mile away and closing fast.
"Yaw, boys!"
Whitley lays the whip lower than before and allows the nasty black snake to slap against the buttocks of the exhausted lead animals. He sees this sudden cruelty as by far the lesser of two evils.
OOOOooooooOOOOOOoooO!
The mules bolt as one, and the wagon leaps forward. Whitley is nearly thrown off into the freezing, waist-deep snow. He clings to the bench with his left hand and shakes the reins with his right, all the while listening carefully for the proximity of that ominous chorus of keening wails. His long rifle is clenched between his powerful thighs. It is loaded. So is the Colt Single Action Army revolver tucked into his leather belt.
Their progress is painfully slow. Whitley can hear the wolves closing in on his right flank and realizes they must be running along the low ridge at the outer lip of Jackrabbit Gulch. They'd likely make better time on a small trail of pointed rocks that don't hold the bulk of the snowfall.
…The creaking and squeaking of the wagon and the huffing and chuffing of the panicked mules. The campfire up ahead, so tantalizingly near, and that eerie, erotically charged moan of the starving wolf pack…
Whitley treasures the phallic tension of the rifle gripped tightly between his quivering, adrenaline-charged thigh muscles. He hears heavy breathing closing fast and realizes that the Alpha has broken away from the pack. He is moving up on the right side of the wagon, dead set on bringing down one of the mules so as to stop them from making the safety of the campfire and the company of humans.
Whitley draws his Colt and lets instinct take over. The second he sees the long, sleek form of the predator snapping at the rear legs of the mule closest to the wagon he fires. Twice. The alpha spins in a circle, snapping at the flowering red wound in his own flank; the animal voice elevates from a snarl to a high, vulnerable squeal. Shock will set in quickly. The others, smelling the blood, will be on him within a few seconds; ripping away chunks of flesh and fighting over the steaming pile of remains.
Buying Whitley and his mules some precious time.
The mules are exhausted, panting like bellows, sending twirling dragons of mist up into the frigid air. The campfire is twenty yards away, then ten. Behind them the wolves are marshaling their forces, automatically selecting a new leader. They will be back in the hunt within minutes.
Whitley eyes the campsite with approval. The man has selected a perfect spot, a semi-enclosed cave pocket in the rock face that has only one way in or out. He has built his huge fire smack in the middle of the entrance, an effective defense against predators.
"Hello, the fire!"
The shots will have been clearly heard, as will that church choir of hungry wolves. Tall Bear Whitley has no expectation of surprising anyone; he just doesn't wish to g
et himself killed by mistake.
A narrow passageway curls like a question mark around and behind the towering yellow blaze. Whitley unhooks his mules, making damned sure to be loud and obvious about it. He casts a nervous eye back over his shoulder. The pack has fallen ominously silent, which likely means they are stalking again, slipping ever closer.
"Get!"
Whitley slaps the rump of the lead mule and it stumbles forward, despite some anxiety about the presence of the fire, and enters the large cave. Nobody shoots the mule. Emboldened, Whitley frees another and another.
OOOOOOhhhhhhh…
The starving pack is closing fast.
Whitley grabs the large tongue of the wagon. His face reddens with effort as he lifts and turns the vehicle to one side, effectively blocking the narrow cave entrance with one large wheel. The wolves will be able to get around the barrier, but only one at a time, which should make them easy pickings. The huge trapper grabs his vittles and a few exposed animal skins that still have some meat and gristle on them. Eyes on the fevered white horizon, he drags these behind him. This forces him to turn his back on the cave as he enters it, a fact which makes him abundantly uncomfortable, but there's no better option.
The fire singes his head and the left side of his beard. The pack of uncured skins catches fire, and his nostrils fill with the stench of scorched hair. As casually as possible, Whitley stomps the blaze out. Hands in plain sight and slightly raised he turns to face the occupants of the cave.
And sees several shadows all hunched in a row.
"I brought tobacco and some jerky," Whitley offers. "I'd be obliged if I might join ye for the night."
Something about the row of silent figures makes him uneasy, though he doesn't know why. Their exceptional stillness, perhaps; the way their clothing hangs almost shapeless in the flickering yellow light. One large U.S. Army blanket lays spread out before them upon the hard-packed ground. Some hard tack, cured beef and a canteen are visible. A pot of hot coffee sits nearer the fire.
The mules have all huddled together for warmth on the south side of the rock face. Their eyes are still rolling in terror.
"Set you some."
The reply finally comes in a scratchy, air-laden baritone. The accent is clearly foreign. A slight sibilance suggests European, perhaps even German. Whitley knows this because of his brief summer trapping with a hard-drinking, quiet Berliner named Klaus Hauser and his enormously fat wife Anna.
"I'm beholden."
Whitley unpacks some of his rations and throws them over onto the blanket. After a moment's deliberation he also opts to share a large pinch of his precious sugar. For a brief moment a strange stench—strong enough to register despite his own body odor and the reek of the skins and the mules—tickles his nose and is gone.
Behind him, out in the tundra of the night, the wolves resume howling.
"My white name is Whitley. I thankee."
"No need."
"Thought I was a goner."
One hand extends itself from the thick pile of clothing and takes a rigid tongue of jerky. The hair on the arm is white and the flesh clearly aged. The response is muffled by chewing.
"Expect you nearly was. They be hungry as hell, stranger. It has been a long winter."
"It has indeed, sir."
WHHHooooooooOOOOOooooo.
Whitley shivers, despite the warmth of the fire. He pours himself some coffee and adds a pinch of sugar. "That sound never fails to turn a man's bowels to mud."
The stranger does not answer, nor does he reach for the sugar. The odor comes again, tickling his memory. Whitley shrugs and sips some coffee. It is blisteringly hot, obscenely strong and he is grateful to the Lord for its flavor. He absently counts the piles of clothing. Two large and a small.
"There are the three of you, then?"
"There was," the stranger mutters.
"Sir?"
"The boy took sick first and there weren't nothing we could do. I swear to Christ the squaw went of a broken heart."
Whitley eyes the lumps of rags. "They are…dead?"
"Dead as Abe Lincoln's nuts." More chewing. "This did present me with a difficulty. See, Mr. Whitley, the ground in here it's so damned hard an old man like me cain't dig a decent Christian grave."
Wind moans down through a crack in the wall.
Whitley forces himself to keep a pleasant expression. He has nowhere else to go tonight. "I have a pick and shovel in my wagon," he offers. "Perhaps I can help you out come morning."
"I'd be grateful, mister. 'Cause hell, it surely don't seem right to throw them two to the animals, even though they only be Injuns."
"How long ago did…?" Whitley trails off, unwilling to finish the sentence for fear of the answer. He has finally comprehended that the lush, sickly-sweet odor assailing his jaded nostrils comes from rotting human flesh.
The other mountain man shrugs. "Aw, I been here maybe two days pondering on what to do."
Whitley covers his consternation by sipping more coffee. He feels his lower lip recoil and begin to blister.
Something moves at the mouth of the cave.
The old man produces a long knife from thin air and comes up into a crouch. Whitley drops the nearly empty metal cup. He whirls around low, the Colt cocked and ready, his mind instantly regretting that he only has three bullets left.
Whitley: "Who goes there?"
"A man in need of shelter."
"Show yourself and let us also see your hands."
The hands do indeed come first. They are gloved in rabbit fur tied with strips of skin, and followed by the arms and jacket of a short and stocky man in a beaver coat. His eyes look impossibly black in the dancing shadows and his shoulder-length hair is thick and brown, the snow in it already melting. His face is surprisingly clean-shaven and a woman would surely think him presentable. He locks gaze with Whitley and does not smile. A ragged silence follows.
The old trapper speaks first. "My name is Samuel Johnson. This big fellow is called Whitley. Who be ye?"
The dark man lowers his gaze to the revolver gripped in Whitley's right hand. When it has been lowered and tucked away, he answers. "My Christian name is Cain, sir. May I join you gentlemen for a time?"
"Join us or die," Johnson cackles. "Have ye provisions to share?"
Cain shrugs. "None, but I won't trouble you for yours. I've eaten recent."
"Set some, then."
Cain removes his long coat and strips away his gloves. He has thick, muscled arms and the upper body of a man used to hard labor. He squats like a man relieving his bowels and rubs his scarred hands together, then wrinkles his nose and cocks his head, indicating the two bodies.
"They are getting ripe."
Old Johnson cackles. "That they are, friend. But being as how our choices are limited we may have to abide them for the night."
Cain raises one arm, extends a finger, gives a wry smile. "No offense, stranger, but they are only meat. If our friends outside had their appetites satisfied perhaps they would choose to leave us be."
The wind, the howling beyond the rock walls. Whitley trembles and his fingers inch back toward the handle of the long-barreled Colt. Cain turns at once and grabs his wrist in a powerful grip.
"I don't take kindly to folks aiming weapons my way."
Whitley is the bigger man by far and he struggles against that grip, but is unable to move his arm. An oppressive sense of dread washes over him as he gazes into those black, obsidian eyes. Quick as a cat, he tries to cross-draw the Colt, but Cain flexes those biceps and turns his imprisoned arm. Whitley gasps in pain just as his ears register the audible SNAP of the bones in his wrist. Cain relieves him of the sidearm.
"Johnson, he has wounded me! Stop him!"
The old mountain man is upon his knees again, the enormous blade of his wicked skinning knife gleaming in the firelight. Cain grabs Whitley by the hair and pulls him down and away. The old man shakes free of his blankets of animal skin and closes the gap.
&nbs
p; The mules begin to honk, screech and kick in terror.
Whitley, his ears roaring with blood and pain shrieking up his arm cannot believe what he is experiencing. This is madness. The man called Cain is laughing; that coldly handsome mouth is snarling, upper lip curling back.
The long hunting knife appears in the corner of Whitley's vision. The old trapper has moved close enough. He is now standing right behind Cain. Whitley feels relief wash over him. Johnson will soon draw the blade across Cain's neck.
"Send him to hell!" Whitley calls. He gathers himself to struggle.
"Took you long enough, Cain," old man Johnson says. "I was thinking I'd have to do this myself."
Whitley grunts in alarm as Cain's fingers close around his neck. The trapper fights back with everything he has. His size gives him a few seconds. He twists his torso and forces Cain backwards, but Whitley is off balance and at a substantial disadvantage. Besides, there are two of them confronting him now. And ultimately the knife stabs down into the thick meat of his shoulder. Whitley screams in pain and begins to babble to God.
"Help me, I am murdered!"
…Cain is sawing with the knife while grinding his teeth like a man set on hacking up a Christmas bird for the family…
…Old man Johnson circling, clumsily dancing, looking for a way to use his own knife again. Enraged, Whitley kicks out and trips the old man, who falls backwards into the fire and grunts. He rolls around on the floor, slapping at his clothing. Sparks float in the rank smoke like fireflies.
Startled, Cain releases Whitley's shoulder. Whitley crawls on hands and knees, desperate to make it outside to the wagon to reach his extra rifle.
No. This cannot be.
…Many shapes surround him, half-covered in crystal-white snow. They are breathing heavily and crying out with high, excited voices. Perhaps a dozen have entered the cave space, ignoring the fire. One of them licks at the fresh blood at his neck. Another screams in rage and drives the interloper back. Whitley feels his mind begin to slip. From somewhere far away he can hear his own voice repeating a long-forgotten prayer about walking through the valley of the shadow of death.
CLAN Page 1
