The Nighttime is the Right Time

by Bill Crider

  There are others, of course. There have to be. One of them bit my mother when she was about six months pregnant with me, or so I was told. Mom always cried when she talked about it. You would too, probably, if your kid turned into a wolf the first full moon after he reached puberty. Hell, I cried. I was just as scared as she was. Maybe more.

  Anyway, I got used to it after a while, though Mom never did. I even learned to control it. I don't have to Change, though it's hard to resist. And I don't kill and maim like the werewolves in movies. Give me a little steak tartar, and I'm fine.

  When the first night of the full moon came, I went out into my back yard and waited. There's a seven-foot wooden fence, which is nice, since I was naked as a baby. I set a bundle of clothing on the ground and put Chronister's shirt beside it.

  I could hear the stirring of the birds in the tallow tree. I could hear a rat rustling around in the woodpile near the fence. He'd better be gone before I Changed if he knew what was good for him. Rats are better than steak tartar.

  The smells became stronger and stronger, the damp grass, the smoke from someone's barbecue grill, the exhaust from the cars passing on the street. I tuned them out, concentrating on Chronister's shirt.

  When the moon began to edge into the darkening sky, I could feel my whole body begin to tingle. The hairs stood up on my arms and on the back of my head. I felt a powerful urge, which I withstood, to throw back my head and howl. I didn't want to scare the neighbors.

  And then I Changed.

  It hurts like hell. Trust me. Something happens to your bones, your skull, your hands and feet. Your eyes. Your hair. And all of it hurts. Even the hair.

  But then it's over, and you're in a different world. You can't see quite as well. It's like watching TV with bad reception. But you can smell so that scents are almost like seeing. I could smell the rat now, as well as hear him, and I could smell more than that.

  What I could see most plainly was the moon, and this time it was almost too much, but I didn't give in to the howling this time, either. Instead I grabbed Chronister's shirt and chewed it. For some reason that helped me smell it any better.

  Then I heard a car horn. I got rid of the shirt and grabbed up the clothing bundle. With the clothes in my mouth I ran to the gate in the fence and nosed it open.

  Red's car was parked in the street with the back door swung wide. I ran across the yard and jumped in.

  "My God," she said. "Is that you?"

  I don't know whether she expected me to answer, but I hoped not. Wolves can't talk. Or bark, for that matter. I put the clothing in the seat and made a sort of woofing sound, which is the best a wolf can do, and that seemed to satisfy her. She reached back and closed the door and we were off.

  ~ * ~

  I live in a little town about thirty minutes from downtown Houston, so while we drove I enjoyed myself. I'd never ridden in a car while I was Changed before. I stuck my head out the window and enjoyed the way the wind blew in my mouth and whipped my tongue out to the side.

  "Shouldn't you hide?" Red asked.

  I didn't answer, of course, but I wasn't worried. As I said, I'm sort of a mongrel, as I suppose my spiritual father must have been, and I look enough like a big dog to pass for one.

  When we got near the Elevated, Red stopped the car and opened the door. I jumped out. The idea was that I'd spot Chronister, lope back to the car, Change, get into my clothing, and go after him in my human shape.

  "She saw him right down the block from here," Red told me.

  I woofed and started to trot away.

  "Be careful," Red called.

  I turned and woofed again.

  The smell of the area under the Elevated was almost overpowering. Most of the people under there hadn't bathed for quite a long time, but that odor was almost masked by the pervasive scent of insect sprays of every kind. Whatever anyone had been able to find had been sprayed on with abandon.

  I didn't blame them. Fleas are no picnic. Mosquitoes aren't either.

  There was also the smell of gas and diesel exhaust, of hot concrete that was just now beginning to cool down from the day, of rancid hamburgers and moldy clothing and excrement and wet coffee grounds and beer and wine and cardboard and a million other things.

  I loved it.

  I padded along past a couple of guys talking by a box that had once held a twenty-seven-inch TV set. They didn't pay much attention to me. I have a sort of lean and hungry look; they probably thought I was after a hand out. Neither of them smelled like Chronister.

  I went on down, smelling my way and listening to the hundreds of cars that whirred by on the Elevated above us. No one up there had any idea of what was right below them, little old men with no teeth, black guys wearing stocking caps pulled down over their ears even in the heat, kids just barely out of their teens who hadn't had a job or a decent meal in months, winos who hadn't worked in a lot longer than that and didn't want to, and dozens of others.

  A lot of them watched me out of the corners of their eyes, and I could smell something strange mingled in with all the other scents, a mixture of fear and desire and something else I couldn't name. Anxiety? It was all wrong, and I didn't know why.

  Then I smelled Chronister. He stepped out from behind a refrigerator box, and he was holding a rifle. The rifle was pointed right at me.

  ~ * ~

  I caught on then, of course, just when it was almost too late.

  Almost. That was the key word.

  Instead of panicking or backing up or twisting to the side, which I knew would be hopeless, I charged right at Chronister. When I saw his eyes widen, I jumped.

  He hadn't been expecting that, and when the rifle went off the tranquilizer dart hissed by right under me and hit someone who was following along. I heard a scream, but that was all because I struck Chronister in the middle of the chest and we went down together.

  He hit hard and dropped the rifle, but he was game, I'll give him that. He tried to get a grip on me, but I twisted and thrashed and didn't give him a chance. I nipped his ear and tasted the hot squirt of his blood and then I was gone, around the refrigerator box and up Crawford street.

  The whole howling mob was right behind me. God knows what Chronister had promised them. I just hoped they weren't going to collect.

  It must've made a pretty interesting sight to the few people driving by: A big, skinny dog being pursued by half the homeless population of Houston, and a few that just looked homeless. Those were Chronister's men. And women. Some in rags and some in tags and some in velvet gowns. Well, maybe no one in velvet gowns. Chronister's people would be easy to spot, however; they'd be the ones with the dart guns.

  Horns honked as I cut across the traffic and went past St. Joseph's hospital. I wondered how far we'd have to go before the cops got in on the chase. I hoped it wouldn't be too far. Or I thought I did. Maybe the cops were on Chronister's side, too.

  I hooked a left on Calhoun, looking for an alley to duck into. A dart hissed by my right ear and bounced off a brick wall. I wondered if it would have stopped me if it had hit me. I was more or less impervious to normal weapons; I wasn't so sure about drugs.

  And that was probably why Chronister hadn't tried for me earlier. He didn't know either.

  The whole thing had been a trap from the beginning, I could see that now. No wonder Mrs. Chronister had been afraid. She'd known what I was all along. And no wonder her story was so weak. She'd been ad libbing. I should have tipped sooner. There'd been nothing about Chronister's disappearance in the papers, not that I'd seen. A guy like that doesn't drop out of sight without leaving a ripple or two.

  I didn't have time to worry about it, though. I was too busy zigging and zagging to avoid tranquilizer darts.

  I could easily have outdistanced the whole mob, but I didn't want to. I wanted to put a stop to this before it got ridiculous.

  I could have Changed, I suppose, but that wouldn't have helped. I was too far from Red and my clothing. I had a feeling that any nak
ed man on the streets was going to get a dart, if not something worse. I wouldn't have put it past Chronister to have a few silver bullets just in case of emergency, even though I was sure he wanted me alive, probably for one of his museums or some of his experiments in the preternatural.

  I ran full out for several blocks, all the way to San Jacinto Street, where I cut back for the Elevated. There weren't many cars. Rush hour was long over, and the downtown area isn't the most popular place to be after dark.

  I could hear people yelling, and one voice stood out. Chronister's, probably.

  "Get him, you idiots! I've got to have him!"

  Well, he wasn't going to get me, though maybe he didn't know it yet. He would before long.

  I found the alley I'd been looking for and turned into it. I don't think anyone saw me, so I stopped behind a dumpster and waited.

  Sure enough, everyone rushed right on by, everyone but Chronister, who was straggling along behind pretty much as I'd hoped. He hadn't looked much like a guy who kept in shape, and we'd run a long way.

  When he reached the alley's mouth, I howled. Not a good howl, like I'd wanted to give when the moon came out. Just a little one, just enough to get his attention.

  He stopped and looked down the alley. Meanwhile everyone in front of him kept right on running.

  I whined.

  "Wait a minute!" he yelled over his shoulder.

  I didn't think anyone heard him. I whined again.

  He took a step into the alley. "Who's there?" he asked.

  He sounded a little worried, but he was still carrying his dart gun.

  I scrapped my front foot against a piece of hamburger wrapper that was lying beside the dumpster, then ran down the alley into the darker shadows at the other end.

  He followed, carrying the dart gun pointed in my general direction.

  There was another dumpster. I went behind it and Changed. It hurts just as much going the other way, but I didn't make a sound. In just a few seconds, I was nothing more than a naked man, trembling a little from my efforts.

  Chronister was almost on me. I lay on the warm concrete and whimpered. "Help me. A dog . . . knocked me down."

  "Where did he go?" Chronister asked.

  What a stupid asshole. He didn't even want to know if I was hurt. And it didn't occur to him that I might have Changed.

  While his head was swiveling around, I stood up. I grabbed the barrel of the gun and jerked it toward the sky. Then I hit Chronister as hard as I could on the point of the chin. He dropped like a stone on the concrete.

  The gun came free of his hands and I found myself holding it. Why not? I thought, and shot him.

  ~ * ~

  It's not easy to organize a homeless mob, so things were pretty much breaking up as I made my way back to Red's car. Chronister's people had realized he was gone, and they were in pretty much of a panic. They'd find him sooner or later, though he might still be asleep by the time they did. Or dead. It depended on the dosage in the darts. If he'd overdone it, it wasn't my fault.

  Red didn't recognize me at first. Chronister's clothes didn't fit me very well.

  "What happened?" Red asked when I got in the car. Her eyes were wide with surprise.

  "I'll tell you later. Right now we need to get going."

  She hesitated, watching all the confusion down the block.

  "Start the car," I said.

  There must have been something in my voice. She started the car.

  "Don't go that way," I told her. "Turn around and get on the Gulf Freeway."

  She did as I instructed and soon we were cruising in the direction of Galveston.

  "Why didn't you do it yourself?" I asked finally. I was tired, and my voice cracked.

  She looked straight ahead, her hands at ten and two on the wheel. "Do what?"

  "Shoot me. Were you afraid the dart wouldn't work? That would have been a real mess, wouldn't it? I might have killed you. After all, I'm a werewolf."

  For a minute I thought she wasn't going to answer. Then she said, "It wasn't my idea, you know."

  "But you're the one who told him. It had to be you. You're the only one who knows."

  "I didn't go to him," she said, as if it made a difference. "There was an article in Texas Monthly about famous killers, and he read about the one who tried to murder my grandmother and about what happened that night. It made him think."

  "Always a dangerous thing," I said.

  She ignored me. "He came to me and asked about what happened. He promised me a lot of money."

  "I hope you got some of it in advance."

  She almost smiled. "I did."

  "What did he want with me?"

  "I don't know. He knew all about werewolves, though. He was certain you existed. I think he would have found you without my help if he'd had to."

  "We'll never know, will we," I said.

  "No," she said. "I guess we won't."

  We drove in silence for quite a while. I watched the stream of headlights coming toward us across the divider in the left lanes. I wondered where so many people could be going.

  Finally Red said, "What happened to Chronister?"

  "Nothing much. He should be fine. Just a little taste of his own medicine."

  I looked out my window. We were passing the exit for Gulf Greyhound Park.

  "Pull off on the service road," I said.

  She didn't ask why. She just took the next exit.

  "Stop here."

  She stopped and I opened the door. "This is where I get off."

  "What about me?"

  "You? I've always liked you. I'm not going to rip your throat out or anything."

  "And you?"

  "Time for me to move on," I said.

  It was true. I'd find a place somewhere that I didn't know anyone, a place where I could work and not have to deal with human beings. I'd been right about them all along; they were best avoided. I was a little disappointed, sure, but not surprised.

  "Chronister will be looking for you."

  "He won't find me. He won't have anyone to help him."

  Red looked at me hard. "I'm sorry about that."

  Maybe she even meant it, not that it made any difference.

  "Sure," I said. "See you around."

  I started walking across a field behind a motel. When I reached a thin stand of trees, I started taking off Chronister's clothes. I looked back. Red's car was gone.

  I dropped down on all fours and Changed. The grass was damp and cool. The moon was huge and round and pale. This time, I howled. I wondered if there were any lady schnauzers in the neighborhood. I hoped so.

  An Evening Out With Carl

  And now, as they say, for something completely different. I usually write fairly lighthearted stories, but now and then I take a walk on the dark side. Sometimes with a vengeance. So be warned. Here’s one example.

  The bitch was asking for it, he thought. She was really asking for it.

  He was in one of those dance clubs that were so popular with the kids, the kind where you had to watch you step on the dance floor because if you didn't you might step on a tab of Ecstasy or one of the other hot designer drugs that had popped out of somebody's shirt pocket in the midst of a spectacular Lambada move.

  Now and then you might even crunch down on a vial of crack, though that wasn't nearly so common in these places. The kids didn't go for it. They were too affluent for ghetto shit, wanted designer drugs to go along with their designer jeans. In fact, most of them didn't give a damn if you stepped on their fucking drugs. They were generally too ripped to care. Or know.

  It was the kind of place Carl really liked.

  He had never been to this particular one, of course. He never went twice to the same place. His peculiar inclinations made that impractical. No matter how wired the patrons were, there was always the chance they would remember something about him if he went there more than once.

  Like his appearance.

  He might as well have been there befor
e, however. As far as he could tell, all those places were the same place. It was like they loaded the fucker up on a big truck and just moved it from one location in the city to another.

  There were the same colored lights flashing on and off and running up and down the ceiling, the same music played so loud that it reverberated in your rib cage like someone was beating your heart with a bass drum stick, the same crowd of teenyboppers, yuppies, and middle-aging housewives shaking their asses off with every new dance cut the DJ slapped on the turntable. And the same smoke curling white and gray up there in the lights.

  There was the same dance floor, no bigger than a good-sized dining table, where you had to be on the look-out at all times for flying elbows and flopping heads. It was like the management begrudged taking up valuable floor space that could be used for tables where the drinkers could sit and slurp up the over-priced drinks that contained barely enough alcohol to get a flea drunk if he could afford ten of them.

  So what Carl liked wasn't the atmosphere and the conversation.

  No, what he liked was the feeling of anonymity that he could achieve there. In the grotesque light, faces tended to take on odd planes and angles of shadow that made them difficult to recognize in normal illumination. There were so many people sweating and drinking and dancing and hitting on the unaccompanied women that one more strange face was hardly noticed at all.

  And of course every now and then you came across someone like the bitch who was asking for it.

  It was like she thought she was some vestal virgin. White top, white skirt, white shoes, even a white ribbon in her black, black hair.

  She was no virgin, though. That was abundantly clear. The skirt hit her about mid-thigh, highlighting long, showgirl legs that were brown and seemed almost to glow with promise. The heels were five inches if they were one, and they pumped up the calves of those wonderful legs, not to mention the way they set up the gorgeous ass on which the skin was surely as tight as that on the head of a snare drum. And the white top was stretched over a pair of D-cups that measured forty-two inches at the bare minimum. Emphasis on the bare.