Beneath a Winter Moon

by Shawson M Hebert

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “Did you hear that?” Delmar said, though he knew the answer as it was written all over Thomas’s face. “That was automatic gunfire. Someone besides a rescue unit is out there. Since when do civilian rescue teams, regardless of their area of operation, carry automatic weapons?”

  “They don’t.” Thomas shook his head. “They don’t.”

  “You think we aren’t the only ones who know about our friend, Alastair?”

  “Maybe,” Thomas said. “Maybe they, whoever they are, are killing the bastard right now.”

  “Should we go and help?”

  Thomas waited for a moment. “They’ve stopped. Even if they haven’t, I don’t think we should move. If someone is hunting Alastair, they are probably just as likely to shoot any human moving out here right now.”

  “Figure the fucking odds,” Delmar said. He looked at Thomas and smiled. “That helicopter landed nearby, Hero. And for whatever reason, there were high-speed weapons on-board. They are probably on their way here right now.”

  Thomas nodded, knowing it was wishful thinking. If there was gunfire, there was contact with the werewolf…and it was unlikely that the weapons would do anything other than slow the beast down or maybe force him to back off and regroup. Whatever was happening out there, he and Delmar could not afford to move from their refuge, or abandon their plans to force the werewolf into the pit. “Maybe so, but we can’t count on that, and we can’t move. We have to stay here. With any luck, even if they don’t stop Alastair, maybe they will occupy him until dawn. If they can, he is a dead man.”

  Minutes past and there were no more sounds of weapons fire. Soon, an hour past, and with each passing moment Thomas struggled to stay awake. He shook his head violently, or leaned his head down onto the stalagmite and pressed his forehead hard into the rock until the pain woke him up.

  Delmar struggled as well, once falling completely asleep and slipping downward, but as his knees buckled, they hit the rock formation and he yelped in pain and straightened back up. He had cursed the entire world again, then quieted down and resumed staring toward the entrance.

  “He’s near.” Delmar said, a few minutes later, raising his rifle up to rest it in front of him. “He’s really close, now.”

  “I guess that means those poor souls who came to rescue us are now dead,” Thomas said. “If they were here for us at all.” He sighed and reached down to stroke Jack’s thick fur. The Husky had stood up moments before, as if he sensed the werewolf’s presence or perhaps smelled the beast.

  The werewolf breathed in their scent. The odor was strong and there was dim light coming from up ahead. Though he could not remember the place, the werewolf felt that he had been here before—that he knew this area.

  He cautiously approached the entrance to the cavern. His unbridled fury and the excitement of the earlier kills had pushed him to burst into the cavern at full speed, ripping and tearing—but he sensed the need for caution, and held back. The dank, black fur on his neck rose up as he neared the entrance. He heeded his senses, his mind instinctively recalling the pain caused by the weapons of his last victims. He smelled faint traces of steel and cordite, and proceeded as if he were dealing with dangerous enemies and not his natural prey.

  The beast kept his body low as he stepped in. Immediately the sounds of the winter wind disappeared, replaced by near-silence. The beast knew that the humans were here—and so was the animal they had with them earlier. The werewolf moved to the right side of the cavern, staring in the direction of the two chem-lites. A split second later, he saw the two human faces staring at him from the back of the cavern. He balled up his clawed, deformed hands so tightly that the palms dripped blackish blood onto the cavern floor and then roared, pushing his head out toward the men in defiance.

  “Jesus,” Thomas whispered, then glanced at his friend.

  Delmar saw the look and nodded at Thomas. “I’m fine,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Stick to the plan, then,” Thomas answered.

  Jack let out a menacing growl.

  The beast roared again as it moved closer.

  Thomas held up the dagger in his right hand as if to show it to the werewolf, then laid it in front of him on the rock formation.

  The beast cocked its head to one side, trying to comprehend the sudden burst of emotion that came when he saw the silver weapon. He shook his head and ignored the fear that tried to rise from within. He would ignore the weapon. He growled deeply and bloody saliva from clenched teeth dripped to the floor. He moved forward slowly, looking left and right, to all areas of the cavern, and he saw no danger.

  Thomas held his breath, seeing that the beast was within mere feet of the pit. He prayed silently for the werewolf to step into their trap, then moaned as the creature leapt high, seeming to completely defy gravity as it sailed across the cavern to land across the pit just a couple of meters in front of them. Both men were completely astonished that the beast could leap that far, and their hearts froze for a moment, realizing that the possibility of coaxing the werewolf into their trap was now over.

  Delmar fired his rifle but the werewolf detected his movement and jumped to the right, escaping the round so easily that Delmar might as well have shouted a warning before pulling the trigger. Even so, the beast was jolted backwards as one of the huge 10-guage rounds from Thomas’s rifle slammed into the beast’s upper left shoulder.

  Thomas had jumped at the sound of Delmar’s rifle and fired his own a split second after. The werewolf had moved unbelievably fast but Thomas’s shot had hit the upper shoulder. Thomas fired the second barrel of the 10-gauge. That round hit home as well, slamming into the midsection of the towering creature. The beast stumbled backward and fell against the left wall just as both he and Delmar fired another set of rounds—almost simultaneously. Thomas wasn’t sure if this worked in accordance to their plan of making the beast fall into the pit, but there was no time to analyze it now.

  Jack howled and barked and yanked at his leash, but Thomas was not prepared to let the dog go. Not yet. Two more shots from Delmar’s rifle missed the werewolf as the beast pushed himself off the cavern wall, rolled on the ground and stood up again in front of them, roaring in defiance. Thomas grabbed the pistol and began firing just as he saw Delmar drop his own rifle.

  Delmar had wasted most of his rounds trying to hit the werewolf in the head. He knew a headshot would stop the beast and perhaps the force would knock it backwards into the pit. He dropped the useless rifle; its ammunition spent, then reached for his pistol. He squeezed the trigger, aiming again at the beast’s head, but, just as before, the werewolf somehow managed to dance away from the round. The beast dropped into a crouch and Delmar’s second bullet went high over the werewolf’s head. The beast could not dodge Thomas’s next round, which hit the werewolf in the chest. Thomas had fired for the gut, telling himself to aim low. Always aim low in a closed-quarters firefight, he knew—unless you had nerves of hardened steel and no fear whatsoever.

  The werewolf staggered but did not fall from the bullet to the chest. The beast started backward from the crouch but stopped himself with a hand to the ground. He turned to glare directly into Thomas’s eyes. Thomas saw death in those eyes, a pure, sickening evil from the depths of darkness. The eyes were red, just like the glowing eyes of fictional monsters from a dozen horror movies.

  The beast’s lips pulled upward into a snarl, showing the massive rows of teeth in the jaws. Delmar and Thomas fired—again and again. Thomas fired his last round and knew that they were finished. The werewolf had stood his ground—defiant and barely phased by the bullets. Thomas stared at the beast as he dropped the pistol and reached for the dagger.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw Delmar moving. He saw his friend’s grim expression and gritted teeth as the big man passed him by, leaping out from behind their makeshift stalagmite cover. He’s going to try and push the bastard into the pit, Thomas thought. No, Delmar!

  The werewolf looked at De
lmar in puzzlement. This human was his. While it was the werewolf’s prerogative to let this one live or die, the human should not have been able to attack him so defiantly. They shared a bond, with the werewolf being the leader. The beast knew it should not be happening, yet it was, and Delmar slammed into him with all the force he could muster—but instead of pushing the creature backward, it was as if Delmar had run into a wall.

  The beast caught Delmar and it looked to Thomas as though the werewolf would wrap Delmar up and lift him from the ground, but Delmar suddenly dropped to a crouch, his knees bent, arms up as he and shoved upward—under the werewolf’s grasp.

  Just then, Jack broke free, the leash finally snapping loose at the D-ring on Thomas’s belt. Thomas started to scream at the dog but stopped, thinking Jack was freeing himself so that he could run away from all of the horror. Thomas began to move from behind the cover, determined to help Delmar, but as he ran, he saw Jack leaping through the air—leaping up and onto the werewolf.

  The beast saw the animal coming and changed his stance to meet the dog, ignoring Delmar’s grip and attempts to push him. The werewolf shifted so that he could reach up and catch the puny thing and in doing so, he failed to see the danger. Delmar’s stance was solid, the legs arched one in front and one in back, as if pushing against a mighty force.

  As the werewolf shifted, lifting his massive arms high to catch the Husky in midair, the effect was comparable to the opposing team letting go of the rope in a tug-of-war. The werewolf realized, far too late, that Delmar was now able to push him—with relative ease. The dog hit the werewolf with all its seventy pounds of force and forward motion, giving Delmar the final bit of advantage the he needed—and the beast lost its footing and fell backward. Thomas reached the edge of the pit, his hands reaching out to grasp thin air where his friend had just been standing. The werewolf, Delmar, and Jack had disappeared into the pit.

  Thomas heard a cry from Delmar—not of fear or sorrow, but an unmistakable cry of victory. He had heard that very same shout a thousand times before—with the winning score in a game of soccer or as his friend became the last man standing in a king of the sand pit competition—or when they had turned the enemy away during combat. A split second afterward, Thomas heard a sickening thud, which echoed around the walls of the pit. He heard a horrible cry from Jack and swore he could hear the dog’s body slam into the ground. Thomas roared his own cry of sorrow as he dropped to his knees and tried to peer into the pit. It was too deep. He could hear noises and scuffling, but could see nothing.

  He ran to Delmar’s backpack, dragging it to the edge of the pit. He found the chem-lites and began throwing them down into the darkness though in his heart he knew that there was nothing he could do to save his friends. If they managed to survive the fall, the werewolf would tear them into pieces. Then he heard Delmar scream. The horrible sound drew Thomas back into action. He scrambled back for the 10-guage rifle, found it, cleared the breach and loaded two more rounds into the double barrels.

  He heard growling and horrific sounds of what he envisioned to be flesh and bone being ripped away from Delmar’s body. He heard a loud pop, and then a snarl—and imagined Alastair’s dark alter ego breaking his friend’s bones. Thomas finally forced himself to look over the edge.

  The werewolf was in a blind fury and did not realize he was trapped. The beast’s powerful claws ripped open Delmar’s abdomen while the man was still alive. He knew that this man was like himself, one of his kind, but the instinct to try and nurture this new other was long gone.

  The werewolf looked over to the canine that had attacked him. It was obviously dead, so he ignored it and pushed his face into the human’s chest cavity—digging in with his jaws, ripping and pulling until he came up with his prize. He finally grasped the warm, thickly muscled heart and stared at it for a moment, then, with a grunt of satisfaction, he used his razor-like teeth to devour the organ.

  He heard the sound and felt the sting at the same moment that his body was jerked sideways and away from Delmar’s body. The beast jumped to his feet, prepared to attack—and realized for the first time that Thomas was not with him anymore. The human was someplace else. The beast took a moment to look upon his surroundings. He had not noticed that he was trapped now, too deep within this pit to leap out, and climbing the slick, vertical walls was not possible. He growled and looked up.

  Thomas had fired the 10-gauge at the werewolf when he saw what it was doing to his friend. He’d been blurry-eyed, and in the shadows of the pit he’d missed the head of the beast, hitting it on the top of the right side of its massive shoulder.

  Thomas watched as the werewolf howled in rage. He wished he could grow numb to the site of the mythical creature—the horrific beast spawned from the depths of hell—but he felt fear, and then he was sickened. He could barely manage to keep his eyes fixed on the werewolf—every fiber of his being crying out in protest that the beast could not be contained and that it would come up from the pit to eviscerate him.

  The werewolf howled and leapt—trying to reach Thomas and the top of the pit. Thomas forced himself to calm down and to watch. He forced himself to become used to the creature and to regard it as a beaten and impotent foe. It could no longer harm him. Thomas was the master now. After observing the beast as it try and try again to climb out of the pit only to slide back down in misery and fury, Thomas could take no more. His hatred for this creature—for Alastair—knew no bounds. Thomas shot the werewolf in the head, and this time it fell to the floor of the pit, unconscious. Chunks of flesh and bone missing from its face and neck.

  Thomas looked down on Delmar’s violated corpse and then fell to his knees. He roared in agony for his dead friend. He laid the rifle down and scanned the pit until he could make out Jack’s limp body. The dog lay still on the other side of a tall on the far side of the pit, probably thrown there by the werewolf. There were no chem-lites near the Husky, making it difficult for Thomas to see if the dog still lived, though he held no hope.

  He took the time to rip one of the last remaining chem-lites away from the daypack, snapped and shook it, then tossed it into the pit as close to Jack as he could get it. He still could not determine whether the dog was breathing, but his heart told him that his long-time friend and companion had seen his last day here on earth. Thomas let his tears flow, biting his wrist as he had when he was a child. He let himself sink to the floor of the cavern a few feet from the edge of the pit, his head dropping down and his chest heaving with the sobs.

  It was just after four in the morning when he finally got control of himself. The werewolf woke a few minutes later as if it had been sleeping. Thomas was astonished at the rapid rate at which the beast could regenerate. Though half the werewolf’s face had been blasted away, it had healed so well that he could just make out where the massive 10-gauge shell had struck. Thomas had numbed to his fear and to the sadness, and now he looked down at the werewolf and felt nothing more than simple and complete hatred.

  The werewolf shook its grotesque head, roared, and tried again to leap out of the pit. Thomas calmly aimed the rifle and fired. The werewolf dropped.

  “Head shots are a bitch, aren’t they?” He almost laughed at the beast as it rolled over onto its back…its arms flopping out to its sides.

  Jack had not moved at all—and Thomas now assumed that his dog was no more. They had all left him—everyone—and now he must go on. He must be the one to finish this in their stead. There was nothing more to do, really. Nothing but to wait for dawn—but when it comes, he thought, I will have some answers, and I will end Alastair McLeod.

  Thomas timed the werewolf’s recovery from the well-aimed shots to the head. He figured that the last two times averaged out to about 40 minutes…but he had never been so great at math. What mattered now was the coming dawn—within the next hour, the sun would make its slow trip over the horizon, and within two hours, it would be bright outside. The snow had stopped some time ago, and the low whisper of the wind had ceased.
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  * * * * *

  Lieutenant Snow Eagle awaited the dawn in a complete state of fear. He had tried every calming technique that he knew, many were learned from the native peoples that he had grown up with—none worked. He pulled his hand away from his radio time and time again. There had been nothing except for the two or three barrages of weapons fire that must have come from his team. He grunted at that thought. His team? He barely knew the men—had only been with them for hours. Yet it was there. In the short stint as part of the almost unbelievable task force that didn’t even have a designation, Snow had learned to like the men. Now he wondered if there was even the slightest possibility that they were alive. He remembered Deluth’s words. Fly out after dawn if you don’t hear anything. He shifted in his seat and stared at the eastern horizon again, praying for the sun.

  * * * * *

  Thomas had used the time to ponder over the past days events, and to prepare himself for what he had to do next. He had taken his and Delmar’s climbing rope and fastened them into a lowering line and a large net….one that he could use to bring Jack’s body out of the pit. Delmar and Alastair would have to remain where they were for now, but there was no need to leave Jack…faithful, loving Jack…down there with them.

  He had made plans, and—unless a rescue team found him before he finished—he would be done by mid afternoon. If he was found before he finished—well—he would either be taken to the funny farm or someone would listen and believe him at least enough to look at the evidence.

  Delmar and Alastair both had to be beheaded. It was the only way to ensure that they would not regenerate. Once Alastair was dead and the grisly decapitation of both he and Delmar was finished, Thomas would try to retrieve more kerosene from the shack at the remnants of the cabin—to burn the bodies to ash. Thomas prayed he would not be found until he had made certain that this reign of horror was ended.