Beneath a Winter Moon

by Shawson M Hebert

  “At least we have a nice, warm place, now,” Thomas said. “Relatively safe, I’d imagine.”

  “Not to mention well-armed,” Delmar assessed, glancing back to the gun cabinet. “How long do you think that generator will run?”

  “It runs off of propane, and I saw several canisters. We should be good. There’s also at least a dozen containers filled with kerosene, out there.”

  Delmar nodded. “Next on the agenda is a hot meal. We’ve got a choice to make, people,” he said loudly. “I can get this old wooden stove going and try to bake us a cake,” he gestured at the large wood-stove in the corner of the kitchen, then continued, “or, I can use this hot plate,” he pointed to a small portable cooking stove, which had two coiled burners, “to cook us some of the noodles that I have in my backpack.”

  “Cake. Absolutely,” Thomas said, and looked over to Jenny, who laid on the couch with her arm hanging down to stroke Jack’s soft fur as he stretched out on the floor. She just smiled and looked away when he held up his arms as if asking for her to take a stance on the matter.

  “Noodles, it is,” Delmar said dryly.

  Fifteen minutes later, Delmar and Thomas sat across from one another, eating warm noodles from bowls found in the kitchen, and drinking water from their canteen cups. Both men occasionally looked over to the radio to ensure that the power was still on, hoping to hear it squawk to life. Jenny had refused to eat and was sleeping soundly on the couch. Jack was curled up in front of the fireplace taking a nap.

  Thomas heard a noise and looked over toward the foyer to see a tall man leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. He was probably in his mid-forties and had the build of a runner. Tangles of long, reddish hair fell down in all directions to land on his shoulders. His face looked worn and showed at least a day’s worth of stubble. He had very light eyes, which reminded Thomas of a cat. He wore a brown neoprene winter shirt with a high collar that zipped under his chin. Over the shirt was what looked like a faded leather vest. White sprinkles of snow still clung to his wide shoulders. His pants were made of leather and looked like the old buckskin leggings from a cowboy movie, and his leather boots went a long way to completing the image…but it was the rifle that leaned against the wall next to the tall man that did it. Thomas’s first thought after the shock of seeing him standing there, was that if this man tucked his long hair under a coonskin cap, he would have made a better Daniel Boone than Fess Parker had for Walt Disney.

  “And this porridge is juuuuust right, said Goldilocks,” the man said, his Scottish accent obvious, though it was wrapped in sarcasm.

  Delmar stood up, accidentally overturning his bowl and spilling noodles on the table. Thomas stood up as well. Neither of them said anything, feeling as though they had been caught red handed inside the bedroom of the general’s daughter. Jack’s eyes opened and he lifted his head in curiosity.

  Thomas saw the movement and held a hand out toward the dog. “Stay,” he commanded. Jack whimpered, but did not move. Thomas looked back at the man, trying to decide what to say. He saw him stretch his head around the corner to look at Jack, and there was something akin to both hatred and curiosity in his eyes. Then, the man saw Jenny. She had not awakened to the unfamiliar voice or the noise.

  “I suppose I could say you are welcome, but I think in this case, lads, I’ll be needing a thank you first, along with…a bit of an explanation, I think,” the man said.

  “Mr. Johnson?” Thomas asked, nervously.

  “I am. And this is my home…that you’ve settled into so nicely.”

  “Please…forgive us. Our helicopter crashed and we needed shelter. Your door was unlocked.”

  Delmar stepped out from behind the bench and took a step toward the Jeremiah. A hand smoothly dropped to the rifle that leaned against the wall, but Jeremiah did not pick it up. Delmar stopped. “I was only coming over to introduce myself.”

  Jeremiah picked up the rifle and stepped into the kitchen. “Fair enough,” he said, and extended a hand. “I’m Jeremiah.”

  Delmar hesitated, but took the hand and shook it. “I’m Delmar Forsythe, this is Thomas Devereaux.”

  Thomas extended a hand. Jeremiah took it. “That is Jenny Svenson on your couch, and the dog is Jack. He’s mine and he is not dangerous. He loves just about everyone,” Thomas said, continuing where Delmar had left off. “Again, we’re sorry for the intrusion. We hoped that you’d be here but you weren’t…and we had no idea how long you’d be away. We needed to use the radio.

  Jeremiah’s gaze suddenly shifted to the radio and his face changed. The change was only there for an instant, a flash, but Thomas saw it. Anger. “Well, then. I suppose it’s okay. Though I have to admit it was quite a surprise and caught me off guard,” Jeremiah said, smiling.

  “I’d say more on guard than not,” Delmar said.

  “Yes, well…maybe so, maybe so. I heard the jinny running long before I got to the cabin door.” He dusted the last of the snowflakes from his shoulders. “Were you able to call for help, then? A crashed helicopter, you said? Are you all, okay?” The questions popped out quickly and the Scottish accent became even more prominent.

  “We’re all okay…shook up, but…”

  “I can only imagine,” Jeremiah interrupted. “Where did your helicopter crash? You have to tell me all about it.”

  “Well, we crashed about eight kilometers from here, at the edge of some high cliffs.” Thomas felt that it wasn’t really a lie. They might have landed without destroying the helicopter, but it was a crash landing.

  “Which of you is the pilot?”

  Delmar locked eyes with Thomas and shrugged.

  “Jenny there is the copilot. Her husband was the pilot. His name was Steven…he was killed.” Thomas was determined not to throw everything out at once, but Delmar had other ideas.

  “Steven was killed when a monster pushed our helicopter clean off of the cliff. It fell two hundred feet nose-first into a ravine. Last night, not far from here, our friend Daniel was attacked by the same monster. He was taken from us and he’d lost too much blood to have survived.” Delmar’s voice had hardened and had risen. Jenny woke up and slowly sat up, rubbing her eyes and squinting.

  Jeremiah looked back and forth at Thomas and Delmar. He waited a long moment, and then walked toward the living room. As he leaned the rifle against the gun rack, he smiled at Jenny. She smiled back and he took a step toward her, his hand outstretched, but he did not reach her. Jack, who had ignored the man thus far, now stood in front of Jenny, separating her from Jeremiah. He growled furiously, baring his teeth, daring Jeremiah to come closer. Jeremiah jumped back and reached for the rifle. But Delmar was there, holding the rifle firmly in place against the wall, looking into Jeremiah’s eyes while Thomas grabbed Jack and pulled him toward the kitchen.

  Delmar and Jeremiah’s eyes remained locked, their faces stone. “The dog needs to go outside,” Jeremiah said through gritted teeth. “Looks as though he is dangerous, after all.”

  Thomas was already attaching the leach to Jack’s harness, intent on taking him out the door. Delmar glanced over to Thomas, and then focused his gaze on Jeremiah again. Both men still had a hand on the rifle. It was Delmar who spoke through gritted teeth, now, “You didn’t even flinch when I said monster. I said it twice, and you didn’t even blink an eye.”

  Jeremiah released his hold on the rifle. Delmar straightened up. “You didn’t call me crazy, ask what I meant, or even show the slightest interest when I said a monster had taken one of our friends...or that it had pushed a two-ton helicopter over a cliff.” Delmar picked up the rifle. “I think that’s more than just a little strange. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Hmmmm,” Jeremiah said, showing no outward signs of anger at Delmar’s refusal to release the rifle or at his accusatory tone. “You know, I once saw an Asian bear that had a disease causing it to lose all of its fur save that of its face. The damned thing looked like a monster…a beast from hell. On its hind legs it stood o
ver six feet tall. Its ears looked like that of a wolf…and its face…” He scoffed. “Now, its face was pure nightmare.” He looked at Delmar. “Maybe it was a bear that has a disease like that. It might also explain why it would act crazy and even…” he leaned toward Delmar. “…attack a helicopter.”

  Jenny pulled her legs up on the couch and turned inward so that her face was buried in the cushions. She was mumbling something and Delmar guessed that she was whispering the word, “no” as she had sometimes done after the attack at the cavern. Jeremiah turned to stare at her. His face softened and he straightened himself up. “Is she alright?” He asked.

  “She’s fine.” Delmar growled.

  “She doesn’t seem so.”

  “She saw the monster that killed her husband. She watched the same monster as it took our friend, feeding on his body as it dragged him away.”

  Not the same monster, Jeremiah thought. Parker must have attacked them in their helicopter. What a shame.

  “What do you know about the thing that has been attacking us? You do know something, don’t you?” Delmar persisted as he removed the ammunition from the rifle.

  Thomas strode back into the living room, shivering and half covered in snow. He saw that the situation was not as bad as he had expected it to be. While outside he had envisioned Delmar beating this man to a bloody pulp. They had been through so much these last days, such a nightmare, never mind that Delmar had enough to worry about with his illness…it won’t take much for him to lose it.

  “We’re back to square one, out there,” Thomas said. “It’s a whiteout. Sorry about Jack. He’s enjoying the snow, outside and he’s already curled up for a nap.” Thomas had never before seen the Husky growl at anyone, much less in such fury. For a moment, it was as if his playful, I love everyone dog had been replaced by a rabid cur.

  Jeremiah stepped to the side so that he was standing in front of the fireplace. He removed his vest and tossed it onto the pile of wood, then turned to look at both men. He ignored Delmar’s questions and Thomas’s apology. “I’m sorry about your people, and I’m sorry that your friend here has been through so much. As far as what it was that attacked you, I already answered that.” He turned back toward Delmar. “I trust you’ve been able to contact someone with the radio?”

  Thomas took a few steps so that he stood between Jeremiah and Delmar. “Yes, we did. A search and rescue helicopter will be coming to get us all as soon as the weather allows.”

  “All?” Jeremiah asked, incredulously. “They expect me to come, as well?”

  “Yes,” Delmar said. “They described this area as being in some sort of…lockdown is what they said, and that they would lift us all out, including you.”

  Bloody Bastards, Jeremiah thought. I’ve waited a day too long and now the damned idiots have focused on me. Pity.

  “Strange, wouldn’t you agree? I mean…that this whole area is under some sort of mysterious no one allowed order? I mean, we’ve wrecked a helicopter and there are casualties, but that wouldn’t be a reason to evacuate a thousand square miles of territory, would it?” Delmar studied Jeremiah’s face, looking for a reaction.

  “Are all of your questions rhetorical, Mr. Forsythe?” Jeremiah smiled.

  Thomas interrupted, returning the smile, “Most of the time. He’s like that a lot when he’s angry. Of course, I’m angry, myself. Pretty pissed…but, we’ve explained why, already. So, while we’re sorry that we had to trespass and that we surprised you here in your own home, and while we appreciate your kindness…we have to ask that you show us your hospitality for just a little longer.” He paused. “And since we’re all here, together…stuck…well, we really do need to talk about what’s out there, waiting for us.”

  Jeremiah did not answer. He simply stood in front of the fireplace, rubbing his hands together. Thomas tried another tack. “Why don’t we, if it’s okay with you, sit at your table and have some coffee? Maybe, once we’re all settled down, we can talk about everything that has led us,” he gestured to himself, Delmar and Jenny, “here to your home…and why it is that you are being forced to leave.”

  He’s good, Jeremiah said silently to himself. “Okay, Mr. Devereaux. Although I don’t like coffee so much. I prefer tea. I’m sure my accent probably already gave that away, though.” He smiled. “Since the jinny is still running, I’ll boil us a pot. Usually I take the time to build a nice fire in the wood stove, but seeing that we might be leaving soon there’s no need. Well, I’m sure you’ll take to my tea. It’s really very good.”

  “Thank you.” Thomas smiled at Jeremiah and turned to Delmar, who glared at him, thoroughly disgusted with the whole situation. “There’s a noodley mess at the table, Hero.”

  Delmar grunted.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Hell has opened up the gates and loosed these demons on me, Jeremiah thought. Only Hades himself could torture me this way. Not by killing me…no. Not by letting me fall and break my neck out there, frozen alive for a thousand years…no. The evil bastard points these simpletons toward MY land and MY cabin on the very fucking day that my escape would be the easiest.

  Jeremiah worried that things might not go so well if he were arrested…especially if he were held in a jail cell long enough for the moon to rise again. If that happened, unless he managed to kill every living human in the place, (he found that he rather relished that possibility) he would be discovered. Even then, video cameras mounted on walls would likely catch everything…the transformation, the killings, the escape. That is what he feared the most. He must not be discovered.

  Soon, his nifty, steel framework would be revealed. There is no telling what the bastards will think of that, at first. They will think I’m a serial killer who bound poor teenage runaways on the wrack while opening their guts…only after having my nasty way with them. They would quickly find that it was not the case, and they would simply be puzzled. After hearing these buffoons’ stories about a wolf man in shackles, some would begin to believe. Later, the lair would be found, with its gory, rotting history there for all to see. The tracks found there would bring every crazy myth-head in the world down on these mountains, and the publicity would be unimaginable. There would be documentaries, books, television movies…all about the beast of the mountains. The few whose minds were open might even truly begin to believe in the werewolf of the mountain.

  He had always wondered about, and feared, what might happen if the government (of any country) caught him and held conclusive proof in their hands as to what he was. Would they dissect him while he still lived? Would they torture him in all possible manners to see what he could withstand? Would they want to try to tame the werewolf? Use the beast as a tool? Would they try to duplicate his alter-ego by way of genetics or spread his curse by using his blood, with the idea of developing a macabre army of werewolf soldiers, loosed to wreak havoc in the enemy trenches on dark, moonlit nights? Would they wipe all traces of Alastair McLeod, Jeremiah Roberts, Alastair Shaw, and Jeremiah Johnson off the map of human history?

  Would they, perhaps, in the name of protecting private citizens around the globe, publicize his existence, creating a panic and new legions of werewolf hunters that would inevitably commit their own horrific murders all in the name of delivering the world from the evil man-wolf? The cavalry was coming for him. What happened next would be left up to him and the actions that he took now. He knew the only reason a search party was not landing outside at this very moment was the storm. As soon as it subsided, they would come.

  Although Jeremiah had long ago accepted his condition, embraced it even, and wanted very much to survive, he was beginning to feel so tired and so very old. Only during the change did he carry a feeling of joy and strength…and that was no longer enough. Jeremiah had spent years learning all he could about his curse, once even spending time with another like himself. He learned that there was mystical power involved as well as physical. There was the disease…but there were mystical ties as well, such as the overpowering pull to h
ave Daniel. The moon was a part of it, of course, but there was the hint of something more…something magical and ancient. He found that, with the exception of tales that provided instructions for the killing of werewolves …silver, burning, and beheading…the legends were usually wrong…especially the medieval folklore. There was no salve that would change a man into a werewolf. There was no girdle or belt made of wolf skin with the power to transform men into animals. He had found hundreds of legends of shape shifting, specifically with regard to man into wolf form, in countries all over the world. Many involved the change of a man into a four-legged, honest to goodness wolf…but some of the most compelling legends involved beasts like him…half man, half wolf.

  The amount of lore on the subject was staggering. During his time in college in the 1950’s (Jeremiah had gone to college because his nineteenth century education in the field of law was sometimes lacking) he had worried some of his friends as they began to notice that he studied werewolf lore as much as he did the law.

  He most enjoyed a supposedly confirmed story from the Eastern block. The tale was known from Romania all the way into Siberia. A lowly peasant named Micheolev Duman had been suspected of murder and was finally caught early one morning, completely naked, sleeping in a cave. Within the cave were the remains of several children and adults alike. The villagers who found him had noted huge wolf tracks all about the cave and the surrounding area, and more than one eyewitness to the attacks had insisted that the culprit had been a werewolf.

  First, Micheolev was convicted of many murders, but then confessed to lycanthropy and begged for death. He pleaded with the authorities to burn his body after his execution. The authorities and townspeople had no problem with either, but in the end, they failed to grant both of his wishes.

  They hanged Micheolev at dusk on the outskirts of the village, and only then began to prepare a funeral pyre, which took a few hours. They built the pyre in the center of the village, as apparently it was fine to burn the body in the town square, but not to hang him there.