Beneath a Winter Moon

by Shawson M Hebert

  “Like shit warmed over,” he answered, holding fingers to his head and then checking them for blood. “You hit me.”

  “Well, to be clearer, I knocked you on the head with my rifle. I knew that if I hit you anywhere else, I might actually do some damage. Are you alright now that he is gone?”

  “I heard the shots. It was like I was asleep, but in a tunnel. Did you kill him? You sure look happy and content.”

  Thomas shook his head. “No. He’s alive, probably changing back into himself again…which is why we are about to go hunting.”

  “Fuck. It’s snowing again.”

  “And the winds are picking up. No rescue is flying this morning.”

  “Jesus, Hero—did you mud wrestle the bastard?” He looked Thomas over, amazed. He thought that there couldn’t be a clean spot on his entire body.

  “He snuck up behind me, past the fire—right when I was knocking you out to get you out of my way.”

  “So you tried to bury yourself in the mud?”

  Thomas snickered. “Let’s just say that I threw myself into action.”

  Delmar laughed, and Thomas was happy to see it. How either of them could laugh now…or ever again for that matter, was beyond his understanding—but he was glad to see it. “You ready for some hunting? I figure that, right now he’s out there, changing back. He’ll be naked, cold, and moving slow. Now’s our chance.” He finished wiping down and reloading the 10-gauge, then turned to his friend. “We need to carry light and move with a purpose.”

  “What about my obvious—condition?”

  “What about it? We have to set it aside. I plan on making Alastair talk before I cut off his head. He will tell us what we can do.”

  “So, you understand?”

  “Understand what—that werewolves are real and that my best friend has been bitten? That he might change into a werewolf come nightfall?” He paused, then lowered his head. “I believe it now. I didn’t believe it before you started acting crazy. Your voice changed and it sounded like a growl. That’s when I smacked you.” He looked up into Delmar’s eyes. “Yeah, I understand…and I believe that there has to be an answer. We’ll find it together.”

  Delmar nodded. “I am okay with finding that sonofabitch…but like you said, we need to make him talk, and that could get ugly. If it does, I want it to be by my hand, not yours. I am the one who has as stake in what he knows.”

  “Fair enough. Now, let’s pack up the daypacks and get the hell on the trail.”

  Delmar snickered.

  “What is it,” Thomas asked.

  “We are werewolf-hunters, that’s all. Hell, maybe we could start our own Reality TV series”

  Thomas could not help but smile.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Alan’s mood brightened when he awoke to find the sun barely over the horizon, shining through the half-closed slats covering the window. He was still in bed—still human—no blood or gore anywhere, so he was happy. Maybe the doctors and nurses had been right. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, replacing one horror—having seen murder and been attacked himself by a rogue grizzly—with another horror…one that was just plain crazy. It didn’t make sense to him, but maybe his mind was supposed to have replaced the horrid memories with sunshine and butterflies—but something had happened and for some reason the task had gone way wrong, leaving him with a horrible hallucination in its place. Perhaps because the corporal had said over the radio that it was a werewolf. Maybe—just maybe they were right…his memories were the lie and the reality was much simpler.

  At seven, sharp, the new doctor on shift paid Alan a visit and was impressed with his new state of mind. He said Alan could have a breakfast of solid foods and that he should get up and walk around as soon as he finished eating. He explained to Alan that there would be extensive tests throughout the day, and that later on the authorities would return to question him. The rules for Alan were that he never go anywhere without the guard as an escort, and that he not leave the floor. Visiting hours start at eight, and at nine he was to be taken to x-ray for several films. At eleven, he was to undergo a gastrointestinal examination and then after lunch the authorities would pay him a visit. Alan expressed his gratitude, assured the doctor that he would cooperate with the staff and the police—and that he would not try to leave the floor.

  Kathy showed up at eight, and Alan held her tight for a long time, barely holding back tears. He didn’t want to cry in front of her, but holding her again had triggered a relief unlike any he could have imagined. He felt as if nothing else mattered, now. Everything would be alright.

  Unfortunately, he was not allowed to visit with her in private. The police officer on duty had to remain with him, which limited what he could tell Kathy—his nightmares and the likelihood that he had been hallucinating—the idea that he could become a murderous monster straight from the pages of a Stephen King novel.

  Kathy assured him that everything would be fine. She smiled and stroked his hair and face, her own tears welling up in her eyes. She didn’t even chide him for flying out to the cabin—and that was amazing insofar as Alan was concerned. In fact, Kathy did not berate him at all, nor did she press him for details. She soon confessed, however, that her lack of questioning had more to do with outside intervention than a lack of curiosity. Indeed, the police had already questioned her thoroughly, and afterward had explained that it was in her best interests not to talk with Alan about what might or might not have happened on the mountain. Alan merely nodded as she explained, but inwardly he was angry that the police had bothered her at all. They sat on his bed, side by side, watching television and chatting occasionally, trying not to let the conversation veer onto the subject. Alan could feel that something was wrong. Something was different—but he could not put his finger on what it was.

  Down in the hospital’s lobby, Lieutenant Snow Eagle sat on one of the comfortable high-backed lounge chairs. The lobby was spacious and old, with a high, white ceiling and walls made of a light gray marble. He never got used to the wonderful architecture of the World War II era hospital. Though small, the building’s architecture pointed back to a time when the look and feel of a building mattered as much as practicality. The government buildings of today were ugly—either boringly square, built only for efficiency, or an artist-turned-architect’s twisted idea of modern art.

  He bounced his right knee up and down at an amazingly high rate of speed as he waited nervously for the Federal agents to arrive. He hadn’t wanted to comply with their request—he didn’t want to see young Alan Tucker again. The helicopter ride and subsequent battle to get him settled down was quite enough for Snow. First, the boy rambled on about werewolves, culminating with the declaration that he himself would soon become one of the beasts—then he loses all sense of reality in the name of protecting the citizenry from his soon-to-be wolfish persona.

  The whole thing made Snow cringe. He had been happy to get back into the helicopter that day and leave Alan behind, even happier to continue to fly missions to and from the cabin until the weather took its turn once more. The early winter storms that collided over the mountains during the past week were ones for the books—that was for sure.

  He shifted in his seat. Damn Russeux! I’m going to make him pay for this, Snow thought. It had been Russeux who, upon being relieved as the commanding officer of the investigation, told the feds that Snow had gotten the young man to open up—and even though the results of that conversation were completely insane, the new investigating agency took note, and formally requested that Snow be present during their questioning of Tucker…merely as a friendly face, of course.

  Snow heard a distant clatter coming from behind him, and immediately reconciled the sounds. Patent leather shoes with surface protectors nailed into the fine stacked leather heels. The suits had arrived. Snow had nothing against the Canadian version of the FBI; in fact, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police were integrated into all levels of civilian government, right down to the municipalities
of the far north. However, these men were of an infamous special branch that are known for working serial murders, international crimes, espionage…and the unknown or unexplainable. They were certainly not the X-Files, but neither were they ordinary members of the police force—and their sudden interest worried Snow.

  He stood up and turned to see four plain clothed officers, all removing their heavy down overcoats in unison. Snow thought that perhaps the men had practiced the routine. Each man tucked the coat under their left arm as they approached Snow. Only one man, tall, with a hard face, extended a hand. Snow thought the man’s piercing dark eyes and perfectly styled jet black hair was meant to suggest youth, yet the sculptured lines in the stone face was that of an older man, perhaps in his late forties.

  “Lieutenant—I’m Captain Deluth. Pleased to meet you, sir.”

  Before Snow could reply, Deluth gestured to the men behind him. “This is my team. They will accompany us, but only you and I will speak with the suspect.”

  “Suspect?” Snow asked. “Well—sorry but I believed that he could not have been involved.” He cocked a head to one side and looked at all of them. “Are we not dealing with animal attacks, sir?” He shifted his gaze back to Deluth. “Uhm—people just call me Snow. Lieutenant will do, but Snow would be easier.”

  “Just a formality, Lieutenant—on both counts—my calling him a suspect, and my addressing you by your rank.” He smiled. “Alan Tucker is the only survivor, and he walked away clean while leaving behind a whole passel of mangled bodies—and he was covered in blood and from what I have heard, completely delusional. I believe he claims to have a touch of…” Deluth turned and looked at his three companions “A touch of lycanthropy is it?” The three men behind him chuckled and nodded in unison. “So, you can see how we might not be satisfied with labeling him simply as a witness. Not at this time.” He gestured to his companions once more. “Agents Huth, Sorret, and Kaley.”

  “Nice to meet you all,” Snow said.

  The three men nodded, but said nothing.

  “Have you seen Mister Tucker, today?” Deluth asked.

  Snow shook his head. “I haven’t seen him since we airlifted him here.”

  “Well then, what say you and I go and speak to the man—see what we can see?”

  “Alright.”

  In the elevator, Thomas noticed that officer Huth carried a rather large briefcase—more in keeping with that of a sewing machine or an old reel-to-reel table top tape player than a case full of crime scene paperwork. Huth saw that Snow was looking at the case and shifted deliberately so that he was facing Snow—and began to glower at him. Snow raised his eyebrows and quickly turned away. By the time the elevator door opened up to the third floor, Snow felt that he could have finished War and Peace.

  Something about this group of men made him uneasy—hell, more than uneasy. Snow felt downright intimidated and maybe even a little scared. Just then he noticed that the tallest of the men, the one called Kaley, had a scar that ran down the right side of his face from temple to jaw. Kaley’s size, the bright blonde hair, the square jaw—combined with the nasty scar gave Snow the impression the man was more likely a member of the Russian Spetsnaz than a junior officer of the RCMP—even the special branch.

  Deluth lead the way, walking quickly and with purpose. Snow noticed that he seemed to know his way around, never slowing to read signs or to ask directions. When they reached the nurses station, Deluth held out his badge and informed the floor nurse that he would be visiting with Alan Tucker for a few hours and that they were not to be disturbed by anyone. Snow was taken aback by that. A few hours? That seemed extreme. The nurse immediately objected, citing tests that were scheduled.

  “I apologize for not making myself clear, miss,” Deluth said wryly. “I am here under the direct authority of the Prime Minister. So, all tests are postponed until I say otherwise—are we clear on that?”

  The woman frowned, opened her mouth to say something, but closed it again. She stood up, spun on her heel and walked past them, shuffling quickly down the hallway until she rounded a corner and was out of site.

  Deluth smiled. ”Works like a charm.”

  “Is it true, then?” Snow asked, astounded by Deluth’s assertion.

  “Absolutely,” the captain said. “Let’s go see our suspect, now.” He motioned for them to follow, and again, as if he had been to Alan’s room already, led them right to it. A uniformed police officer sat outside the door, playing solitaire on a tray-table. He stood up quickly and straightened his uniform.

  “Mister Tucker is inside, then?” Deluth asked.

  “Yes sir,” the officer said, nervously. “He is with his fiancé at the moment.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, that won’t do.” He patted the officer on the shoulder. “You are relieved, sir. You can take the rest of the day. It’s yours.”

  “But I have orders to…”

  “You have orders to obey my orders as though they were the words of God himself, sir.” With that, Deluth pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to the frowning guard. “You will notice that it says I have command authority over the police here, and anything less than complete cooperation will result in immediate arrest for obstruction.” He smiled. “Of course is says a lot more, but I wanted to be sure you understood the main points.”

  The bewildered officer handed the paper and the envelope back to Deluth. He gave a half-hearted salute, a rhetorical gesture in Snow’s opinion. “I am to take the day, then?” he asked, then added a strained, “commander?”

  “It’s captain. And yes, take the whole day. Ensure that your immediate supervisor understands that there will be no need for further protection here, and that I have taken complete supervisory authority over the…Mister Tucker. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Alright then.” He turned to look at his team and at Snow. “Please wait here for a moment, while I go in and break up the little reunion.” With that, Deluth opened the room door, (without knocking), and walked inside.

  Snow was absolutely stunned by the sudden turn of events. This team was here under the authority of the Prime Minister, and had been given command over the police force in this area? What the Devil was going on? In Snow’s twelve years as an Air Rescue pilot and commissioned officer in the RCMP, he had never seen such a leap of authority—almost a usurpation.

  A few minutes later Kathy left the room. She glanced at the three men through teary eyes then lowered her head and walked away. Snow watched her go and felt a sting of sympathy. Poor woman, he thought. Her man’s mind is already fragile enough after what he saw, and now he’s going to get a grilling that can only make things worse.

  Deluth stuck his head out the door. “Huth, Sorret? You know what to do. Kaley? You stay right out here and come only when I call for you.”

  The three men nodded.

  “Alright then, let’s crack this nut.” He smiled at his own humor, gesturing for Snow to follow him inside.

  What an ass, Snow thought as he stepped into the room.

  * * * * *

  Thomas and Delmar threw their daypacks over their shoulders and headed toward the wood line. Delmar stopped. “What about Jenny? You saw her since I stacked the wood around her? I did it when you were sleeping—should we do anything else?”

  Thomas shook his head. “No time. She will have to stay as she lay.”

  Delmar nodded reluctantly and the two men cautiously moved forward in the direction of the rising sun…where the werewolf had ran, and where they hoped to find Alastair.

  Delmar ran ahead of Thomas, following the large tracks in the snow. They had wasted half an hour trying to find the correct trail. Although Thomas had seen the general direction of the beast’s retreat, the werewolf had circled and approached so many times that it was difficult to find the right set of tracks. Finally, they had come upon what looked like the freshest of the tracks, the snow around them black with the werewolf’s blood.

  The sun was up, and
though the falling snow and the thick clouds dimmed its rays, they nevertheless felt rejuvenated, even inspired. The day belonged to them—the werewolf could not survive in the light of day, and that thought inspired a hope that the darkness had not allowed. Somewhere out there was a man, where the beast had been. Thomas had sworn that they would find Alastair. He was without a shelter…without proper clothing, and without food and water…though the two men could not help but think that Alastair might have more caches in the forest. The previous day, they had found Alastair pulling supplies from a large, weatherproof cache, and it all made sense now. If Alastair could not control where he awoke after changing back to his human form, he might well face death at the hands of the environment. What better way to give him a leg up than to have caches carefully placed and well hidden throughout the forest?

  Delmar stopped and looked at the tracks. They had gone at least half of a mile, maybe more, into the woods and now the pattern of the tracks changed. The tracks in front of them were all around, and pointing in all directions, almost as if the beast had been dancing with itself in a small circle.

  “Look there,” Thomas said, pointing to a set of tracks leading out from the dance.

  Delmar grunted and walked beside the tracks. “These are different. We haven’t seen blood in a while, and it was walking when it made these—not running.”

  Thomas nodded and gripped the double-barreled 10-gauge tightly, then glanced over his shoulder to ensure that his own rifle still hung there. He knew it was there, of course, but it was habit. He was involuntarily falling back into the old ways, the ways of a soldier—stalking the enemy and keeping a careful eye out for ambush.

  Within a few minutes, deep inside a thicket of dead, brown vines and brambles, they found a strange and bloody site. The snow was beaten down all around them, as if a struggle had taken place. There were patches of snow that had turned either red or black with blood, and in the center of the area were some tufts of oily black fur and what looked like vomit.