Beneath a Winter Moon

by Shawson M Hebert

  “How did you learn all of this?” Snow finally asked.

  “Some of it we learned from captured subjects.” A wicked smile crossed his face. “And some of it was learned by testing the bastards ourselves.” He saw Snow’s disapproving look. “Well, if it helps you to not think less of me, I’ve never tested the bastards for anything. I’ve only caught or killed them. I’m not that type of guy, lieutenant. I don’t get my rocks off on that sort of thing, nor do I want to be a part of it for any reason. I’m a soldier, mostly. My team and me—well, we do as we are ordered just like good soldiers always do. And the upper echelons, idiotic as they are, do know our limitations. If they were to order me to play with one of these…these cursed demons from hell, I’d probably shoot the men who gave the order.”

  “So, do your weapons have silver bullets?”

  Deluth nodded. “Even the minigun in that helicopter, lieutenant. Every weapon here is loaded with silver.” He motioned to the long knife sheathed on his hip. “That’s silver-bladed, too. The men…” He motioned to his team. “…they all have the same.” He smiled at Snow. “The weapons we hand to you will also be loaded with silver, don’t worry.”

  Snow chuckled. “Don’t worry,” he said, mocking Deluth.

  Deluth laughed.

  As the night lowered its veil of darkness across the land, Joe Archambault fought to keep the heavy van on the ice-covered roadway. With about three hours left to travel, nervousness began to settle in. These roads were hellish when they were iced over, never mind in a heavy snowstorm and never mind in the dark. The headlamps tended to accentuate the thick snowfall rather than make the distant roadway any easier to see. He listened to the rumble of the tire chains and inwardly cursed that he had to put them on in the first place. The chains slowed them down.

  Joe also silently cursed this assignment. Delivery boy for the strange upper echelon power brokers within the government hierarchy. He understood what the cargo was, and he had delivered them before—but that was long ago. In the years since the last time he was called to take part in this type of an operation, he had been promoted to a nice position that took him completely out of the field and settled him comfortably in a heated office building within the capital. None of that mattered to the brass. His name came up, so he was called up.

  Assholes, he thought. Not a damned one of them has any fucking idea how risky this is. Joe knew that the only smart play was to keep Alan on site and locked down until he could be air-lifted out. Their zeal just might get us all killed, he thought. The agent sitting beside him could see the permanent scowl, and he shifted in his seat, but said nothing. Joe caught the look and asked, “What are you looking at, soldier? You need to keep your eyes to the front or you can get into the back with your buddies.”

  The man nodded. “Roger that, sir.”

  Joe scoffed. He was with a team of young assholes who’d never experienced what could happen when dealing with a subject like Alan. No fucking clue, he thought.

  Joe drove, and the snow fell, and a few hours later the odds changed in favor of the subject, Alan Tucker. They had traveled up a long and slow incline with cliffs and embankments high on the passenger side, then finally completed the ascent and began to move down the other side. The van picked up speed, and Joe concentrated on keeping the van in a lower gear while being mindful of the brakes. Just as he reached down to manipulate the rear braking apparatus, which affected only the rear wheels and prevented the van from spinning, he saw the remains of a rockslide up ahead. The boulders completely covered the road and were piled high.

  Joe was faced with two choices. One, was to hit the brakes and run the truck into the high embankments on the right, which would result in flipping the van, or he could hit the brakes and veer to the left, missing the boulders but careening the van off of the road and down the opposite side, flipping the van numerous times. All of this ran through Joe’s mind, and he knew either way that their trip was over, and that a nightmare was to take its place.

  He made his decision and pulled the rear braking system all the way, and made an effort to steer the van up into the high embankment to the right, so as to lessen the impact and to possibly maneuver all the way around the boulders. The van obeyed his commands for a moment, but as the van went up the right embankment, it rolled over much sooner and with much more force than Joe had anticipated. The van passed high and to the right of the blockage as it flipped, and then it was back on the road, on its side, and still rotating. The complete rotation sent the van across the road and plunging down the almost vertical hillside. It flipped twice more, and then slid a few hundred feet until it crashed into a group of large trees, settling on the driver’s side.

  They all screamed when it happened. The men in the back had not strapped themselves in, opting for freedom of movement if the subject somehow burst free of his chains, and they were slammed again and again against the sides, ceiling, benches, and equipment inside the van. Joe’s curses had been cut short as his head smacked into the heavy glass of the driver’s side window, rendering him unconscious. The soldier who had been seated next to him was thrown out of the van when the passenger door was ripped off. He too, had opted for freedom of movement rather than the confines of the safety belts. He lay sprawled in the snow, killed instantly when his head impacted with a small tree, breaking his neck.

  Joe awoke to total darkness. His head ached and he thought that he heard a distant banging sound. He lifted his head from the cracked driver’s side window pane, and then yelled in agony as pain shot through his neck and spine. He forced himself to slow his thoughts and assess the situation. The van was wrecked, he knew. He had hit his head. Easy, easy, he thought. What’s broken and what’s working? He moved his head more slowly, trying to turn it this time rather than lifting. The pain was still there, but not as bad. He painstakingly worked his way down his body, moving arms, hands, fingers, legs, toes…until he was sure that his only possible broken bones were in his neck. He saw that he was half covered in snow, and the realization was accompanied by the freezing cold temperatures that his mind had blocked until that instant. He had no idea how long he had been out. With the shock of the cold, he began to shake.

  Bang…bang….bang.

  The sound came from the back. Joe wanted to call out to the men who had been back there, but he thought better of it. Instead, he quieted his breathing and remained still. The subject could not possibly be loose, but he would be cautious and let these next minutes reveal the entire situation.

  Bang…bang….bang.

  They must be stuck in the back. The doors must be jammed. He thought about the shield behind his head. This van was equipped with a special, quarter-inch thick steel separator that could be slid down so the driver could have emergency access to the back of the van.

  Bang…bang—and then it stopped.

  Joe listened for voices, but heard none. He realized that, with each bang, he had felt the van tremble slightly. Yes, he thought. The men are trying to get out. He gritted his teeth and dealt with the pain as he felt behind him for the handle to the shield. He had to unbuckle his seatbelt so that he could maneuver far enough to reach the latch.

  Bang….bang…bang—the noise started again.

  “Damnit,” he whispered. The latch would not move. He slowly, silently returned to his position, his body laying against the door, which was now the bottom of the van, as it lay on its driver’s side. He quietly brushed snow off of his face and right shoulder, and looked up. The soldier was gone, and so was the door. Snow was gently falling into the van and slowly covering his body. There would be no choice. He would have to get out. He would freeze to death if he did not.

  He shifted so that he could try to get to his knees and climb out the passenger’s side of the van. He wished the windshield were gone. It would make things easier. As he shifted around and started to get to his knees, he noticed the large, driver’s side mirror. It had been nearly torn completely free of the side of the van, and only one bolt remain
ed attached to the fender. The mirror was skewed and standing up like a camera tripod, its legs bent wild, but the mirror was intact. He saw movement in that mirror that he could not see from his previous position.

  The banging suddenly stopped. He looked closer but froze in place, perfectly still. Something moved, and then another loud bang, caused the van to tremble. As he focused in on what he saw, it was all that he could do to remain conscious, much less prevent a scream from escaping his throat. Oh God, no, he thought. Please God, no.

  Outside, near the top of the van as it lay on its side, three bodies lay in the snow. Standing among the bodies was Alan Tucker—or more precisely, the creature that Alan Tucker had transformed into. The werewolf held the body of one of the men at its waist and was methodically banging what remained of the man’s head onto the dented and blood covered van. The werewolf swung the body like someone would swing a bat, low and effortlessly. The trailing and parking lights of the van illuminated the scene, bathing it in a warm, orange glow. Even then, Joe could make out the oily, jet-black fur and the glowing yellow eyes.

  The werewolf stared at the body it held, as if unsure of exactly what was supposed to happen next. Then, slowly, the beast leaned in and took a massive bite from the neck of the lifeless body, sucking and chewing, tearing flesh away while throwing his head back to swallow. He shook with ecstasy. After a moment, the creature dropped the corpse and picked up another.

  Bang…bang…bang.

  “Oh Jesus,” Joe whispered. He made himself look away, and felt for the Glock that he had holstered on his side. Thank God. Thank you, God, he thought. The banging stopped. Joe clicked the leather safety strap away from the weapon. Silver, he thought. I’ll be okay. Everything will be okay.

  The banging stopped, but Joe still felt the van tremble. He slowly, carefully began to slide the weapon from its holster. He felt another tremble, and this time, a clump of snow fell from the opening above him that had been the passenger door.

  He pulled the Glock free and relief flooded his mind now that the weapon was in his hand. It was at that moment the werewolf fell upon him from its perch above, and in one nightmarish slash, tore open Joe’s throat. The beast grabbed the half-extended arm that held the Glock, and pulled skyward, satisfaction rushing through the werewolf's brain as the limb came free of its socket. He felt even more excitement as Joe’s warm, fresh blood saturated his demonic, black face.

  For the first time, the werewolf howled. With the howl came a feeling of fulfillment, and so he howled again and again, stopping only to rip something new from Joe Archambault’s body as it twitched beneath him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The sun was almost down when Thomas hoisted the big Husky up into the waist-high opening. He moved the slacked leash out of the way and then climbed in behind him. The two men had agreed to move in the darkness—strictly by touch, as they did not want to take chances that Alastair or his alter ego would find the tunnel so quickly. Once inside, Delmar turned and took a minute to pile some of the stiff, rotted animal carcasses against the entrance. With any luck, the beast would miss the tunnel—its opening masked by the cavern’s rotten sent and that of the carcasses at the entrance.

  “Done,” the big man said. “And I stink now. Thanks a lot.”

  “It’ll wear off,” Thomas answered as he began to crawl behind Jack, who was already tugging at the leash, anxious to explore the new and better smelling territory. Thomas soon realized that making their way through the tunnel was going to be much harder without the use of their flashlights. The darkness was thick and the tunnel so completely devoid of light that Thomas doubted even Jack could see through it. A small stream of water trickled forward on the floor of the tunnel, ensuring that their knees, hands and elbows stayed drenched. The flow of water meant that the companions were moving at a slight downward angle, which was fine with both men—anything that carried them away from that cavern.

  The only way to carry their main rifles in the cramped tunnel was to grasp the sling where it attached to the barrel, (keeping the barrel across the top of the wrist), and drag. It was worse for Thomas, as he also had to contend with Jack, whose mood could quickly change from pulling forward through the tunnel to an urge to turn around and go back in the direction of the cavern. Thomas had his Springfield 30.06 slung upside down across his back. He had to tighten the sling to an extreme so that the rifle stayed across his back rather than sliding down to rap painfully on his right elbow. Delmar did not take a second rifle, opting to take the Nagant, which he drug beside him, and Alastair’s pistol, holstered around his waist.

  The two men were ecstatic when they learned that the tunnel did not end after a a few hundred feet, but turned sharply to the east. With the turn, the tunnel began to slant even farther downward. They were not ready to use their flashlights yet, wanting to be sure that the light would not expose the tunnel to Alastair, who by now had undoubtedly transformed into the werewolf. After another hard turn to the right, and a slight turn to the left Thomas decided to use his Mag-Light. They had traveled at least three hundred meters by his calculations, and combined with the turns, there was no way the light would reach the cavern. He felt for his small roll of black electricians tape, removed it and taped the light to his wrist. He clicked it on, and breathed a sigh of relief. The tunnel continued for as far as he could see.

  “Fantastic,” he whispered.

  Delmar grunted in reply.

  They kept moving.

  * * * * *

  Alastair watched in breathless anticipation as the sun dipped completely below the horizon. Snow was falling around his now-naked form as he stood on a boulder perhaps six feet in height. He had a better view of the interior of his ‘lair’ and also of the dying sun.

  No, Alastair did not fear the cold, nor did he fear the two men he believed to be trapped inside the cavern—and he felt that he did not fear death. However, he did fear a life of discomfort. Alastair liked to think he was not materialistic. In fact, he believed that he had given up so much in his life—family, the great American dream and all its trimmings—so that he could best protect the rest of the world from his own curse. For that, he believed, he deserved so much more than he would ever have. But, all he wanted was a roof over his head, a warm fire, books, and the occasional newspaper. No crowded streets, no life in the fast lane, no televisions, no fancy cars—not even a woman.

  That had been his life here in these mountains…and now it was all being taken away. The damned poachers had dared to visit him, bringing him news of the land-grabbing legislation that would open up all but a tiny section of this land to hunters. Having hunters on these lands through the nights would bring about destruction for all. His decision to allow that damned poaching bastard a chance at immortality—like a son he could never have, had led to his running like a damned fool instead of taking his leave when he wanted and on his own terms.

  Now, he had to kill these two men, something he had wanted to avoid but now salivated over—and that was something different, too. Alastair knew he had changed after killing Daniel. He didn’t know why, but it was as if the wolf almost owned him now, and all of the self-control he had learned over the past century was very much gone. So, he would kill them and move on. He would get to his banks and then he would hop over to the Bahamas and make his next moves from there…a new identity, a new home somewhere secluded. He’d sort himself out.

  Alastair felt the heat begin to take over his body. Despite the cold, the snow, and the horrible shaking of his body, he felt as though he were on fire. This was usually the worst part of the change, but he welcomed it now. By the time he fell to the ground, his bones snapping and popping, muscles tearing, healing, reforming—and by the time he groaned and growled, the pain was no more…and Alastair was no more.

  The werewolf rolled over and stood up. He looked to the night sky for the orb that he so yearned for, but it was not there. He felt something for a moment—loss, perhaps. Sadness, maybe—but he was beyond the abili
ty to contemplate such things. The odd emotions came and went, quickly replaced by the instinct to hunt and kill. Humans—he could never place them, see them in his mind until there was one actually in front of him, but the scent was there and he knew what it meant. Had the beast been able to parse memories and feelings, he would have known that the rage building inside him, the need for the hunt—was much more forceful than ever before.

  He raised his blackened snout, huffing for the scent again, and then he howled.

  Thomas froze. Delmar didn’t sense it until his chin ran into his friend’s boot heel. “Shit, Thomas,” He said softly.

  “You didn’t hear that?”

  Delmar hesitated. “Damn…I did...I guess I’m not surprised, is all.” In truth it worried him that he had not reacted to the far away howl.

  “I don’t think he is anywhere near the tunnel. Maybe he won’t even find it.” Thomas paused. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine, Hero. No hairs growing on my palms yet. I don’t feel any different.”

  Thomas repressed the sigh of relief. He knew it had to be dark out, but here in the tunnel there was no sense of it. And there was nothing Thomas could do to save himself if Delmar did transform—unless Thomas could get the 10-guage aimed in time. The one thing that he could do was release Jack, giving the Husky a chance to get away. Thomas fought the sadness that came when he felt the dog was in danger. After all, he might find a way out of the tunnel. Dogs were amazing when it came to finding their way out of places.

  They continued on. There knees and elbows were bruised, their Gore-Tex leggings torn, allowing the cold water that saturated the tunnel floor onto their legs. Thomas decided that it would be best if he only turned on the flashlight periodically, hoping to see an exit or a larger tunnel. Within minutes of making that decision, his left hand hit nothing where there should have been the edge of the tunnel wall at his side. He flicked on the light.