Tamed

by Douglas R. Brown

  She started crying. “I told them I didn’t know what they were talking about. What did you want me to say?”

  “You shouldn’t have answered the phone. Did they say anything else?”

  “They said they were sending a camera crew over to speak with you. They asked me when you’d be home.”

  “And?”

  “I said I didn’t know.”

  Max’s father took a deep breath. His voice calmed. “Okay,” he finally said. “You did good, honey. I’m sorry for scaring you. Come here.”

  Max started down the stairs. When he was at the foyer, he heard his father say from the kitchen, “You are too good for me, LeAnna. You may hear some ugly things about me and the company in the next few days that will be painful. You don’t deserve any of this.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  Max reached for the kitchen door, but new sounds, strange and disturbing, stopped him before he could pass through. His mother grunted. The kitchen table overturned. Max trembled behind the door, paralyzed with fear. His mother’s grunts faded and she stopped struggling. The kitchen fell silent. He built up the courage to nudge open the kitchen door.

  His father was sitting on the floor, his mother lying beside him with her head resting in his lap. His father was winded. Max looked closer at his mother. A toaster rested on the floor with its cord digging into her neck. She was pale and lifeless.

  “Dad?” Max whispered.

  Bernard looked up at his son. His face didn’t appear angry or sad, just blank and emotionless.

  “What’s wrong with Mom?” Max asked.

  Bernard gently lowered her head to the floor. “Max, come here.” Max wanted to go to him, but he was scared and backed out of the doorway. His father grunted as he struggled to get off the floor. His voice turned angry when he said, “Come ‘ere, boy.”

  Max shook his head. He had never disobeyed his father before, but something told him to now. Max backed all the way to the front door as his father hobbled through the kitchen door on his old, worn-out knees.

  “Wait, Max,” his father said. “I’m too old to chase you.”

  Max grabbed the handle, threw the door open, and ran outside to the front lawn. His father’s chauffeur climbed from the stretched Hummer and called out Max’s name, but Max didn’t stop.

  Max’s father shouted from the front door, “Max. Wait.”

  Max didn’t turn back. He ran as fast and as far as he could. He didn’t stop in the Johnson’s backyard, or the Ghiloni’s, but continued running until he had no more breath to run. He sat down in a backyard he didn’t recognize, put his hands over his eyes, and cried.

  32

  UNLEASHED

  BERNARD climbed into his limo and had his driver take him to the WereHouse. The company grounds were quiet for the most part, which wasn’t unusual for such a late hour. Bernard ordered his driver to drop him off at the gate.

  “I don’t want you here,” he said. Then he paused and added, “But stay close.”

  “What’s going on tonight, boss?”

  Bernard shrugged and climbed out. He leaned back in. “Things are changing, my friend. Tomorrow will be a new chapter for the WereHouse. You with me?”

  “No matter what, sir.”

  “I’ll explain everything soon. For now, just get away from here and wait for my call.” He closed the door. His driver pulled away.

  Bernard waved to the two guards at the gate.

  “Late night, sir?”

  Bernard kept walking.

  He hurried to his private quarters and grabbed a flashlight and a trash bag from behind the bar. He gathered the hospital gown that Christine had worn and stuffed it into the bag.

  Then he headed to the basement of the WereHouse’s main building.

  He hadn’t set foot in the dungeon since before the first werg had come there to live. His flashlight did little to illuminate the dank blackness and he faltered with each step. For the first time since he started the WereHouse, he felt what his many victims must have felt and it wasn’t pleasant. His hands shook, bouncing his flashlight’s beam along the floor and causing the garbage bag to rustle in his other hand. His nostrils burned with the heavy smells of ammonia, feces and wet dog.

  Though he vaguely remembered the layout of the room from years before, the darkness stole any confidence he might have had. He realized he had no idea how deep within the dungeon he had travelled, and it wasn’t lost upon him how fatal such a mistake could become. But he needed to do this—he had no other choice.

  If not for the grunting breaths ahead of him, he would have no way to gauge his position. The excited snorts moved from side-to-side, causing the chained restraints to clang along the cobblestone floor.

  The dungeon’s occupant knew Bernard was there long before he ever entered the cell. But like a skilled hunter, he also knew his limitations and had enough patience to let his prey wander closer. Bernard paused in what he hoped was the center of the room.

  And then he took three steps backward.

  The staccato growl from the werg he had always called The First crept toward him. Bernard lifted the flashlight’s beam onto the creature’s blood-encrusted snout. The First sniffed the air as his chains jingled along the ground.

  Bernard held his ground, his hands and legs trembling. He wondered if the beast could possibly remember his scent from the jungle so many years before.

  When Bernard spoke, his voice lacked its usual dominating strength. “Easy, boy. I don’t know if you can understand me, but if you can, I want you to know that I’m the one freeing you.”

  The First groaned.

  “I have a treat for you.” He opened the garbage bag. The First’s breathing quickened. Bernard reached in and removed the balled-up hospital gown.

  The First grunted and tilted his head.

  Bernard whispered, “That’s it. This is for you.”

  The creature dug at the ground with his front claws. Bernard lowered the garment to the stone floor and backed out of the room.

  He left the dungeon door open and climbed the stairs from the basement, up past the first floor, and into the hallway of the second floor. At the end of the hall was the control room, jammed full of computers and monitors that were stacked from floor to ceiling. The room was protected by a steel vault door which he slammed closed behind him. At the far end of the computer room was another vault door leading into an impenetrable panic room full of more computer monitors.

  He went straight to the panic room and flipped on the breaker, bringing the lights, computers, and monitors to life. He locked the massive door behind him.

  Monitor one showed the stables were quiet as the inventory of wergs slept away the boredom of their confinement. On monitor two, the only movement at the front gate was from his two complacent guards. Monitor three showed nothing but darkness until he switched on the spotlight in the dungeon-like room. The First looked up from his gift to the light and camera before shoving his snout back into the fabric. The other monitors focused on random views of the property and the perimeter.

  Bernard crossed himself before pressing a button on the console. “Forgive me for what I’m about to do,” he whispered. He stared at the image of The First on monitor three. With a press of a button, the creature’s chains dropped to the floor. The beast looked around, leery of a trap. He roared. Bernard heard his roar through the intercom system even though the creature was nowhere near an open mic.

  The First crouched briefly, and then shot through the entrance, his chains dragging behind him. Within seconds, the beast was at the top of the stairs outside the control room door, clawing and slamming against it in a blind rage.

  Even though he knew he was safe behind several feet of steel, a fearful part of him wasn’t convinced the doors would withstand The First’s fury. He stood frozen in place, sick to his stomach at the thought of being mauled. For more than ten minutes, the clawing and banging against the door continued. Each dull thump sent jolts up Bernard
’s spine.

  Eventually, The First gave up and the noises ceased. With a sigh, Bernard plopped down into an office chair. After taking a moment to collect himself, he swiveled to the desk and flipped on switch after switch until all of the werewolves in the stables were free.

  None of the wergs dared to leave their cages at first. Then, after several minutes, one of the docile creatures gathered enough courage and curiosity to creep into the open corral. Another werg followed, and then another. Within a few minutes, all of the wergs ventured into the open.

  There was no turning back now. “If nothing else,” Bernard said to himself, “I’ve unleashed a new human experience into the world.” He smirked at his own attempt at humor. “I wonder if the authorities will see it the same way.” He found himself laughing out loud at the absurdity of his rationale.

  33

  RECALL

  BERNARD sent out a group text to the cell phones of each WereHouse board member, informing them they should turn on their computers and link to the WereHouse. Then he fired up another computer with a built-in webcam. He set the video feed to broadcast to the WereHouse network and to several major news outlets as well. He knew from past news releases that his word would spread in seconds. With his webcam software activated, he began an impromptu address.

  “Good evening,” he began. “I am Bernard Henderson, founder and CEO of the WereHouse. I have an important statement to make. Since our inception, we have prided ourselves on our safety record as an organization, which is why it pains me to give you this information now.

  “First and foremost, I need to make it clear that there is no need to panic. If you have a werepet, he should not be affected in the near term, but he will need to be recalled within the next six months. It seems another company has attempted to duplicate our success and has released an untamed, unhealthy werg into the population. We believe this werg carries a rare and dangerous strain of rabies and has infected some of our werepets. We can no longer guarantee your safety if you come into contact with one of the infected creatures. We as a company feel terrible remorse over what has happened and will make things right in the future.”

  As he spoke, a light on a red company phone along the back wall flashed and vibrated, as did the cell phone in his pocket, but he didn’t answer. He had no doubt the callers were the board members, but now was the time for every man to take care of himself.

  He continued his address, ignoring the constant ringing. “We are asking you all to keep your werepets inside your homes. Do not approach any that may be wandering the streets. Do not try to return your werepets at this time. We will notify you of the recall instructions in the future. Again, we are sorry for the inconvenience and want to assure you that our company will always take care of our loyal customers. Thank you for your patience and understanding.”

  He shut off the webcam and sat back in his chair with a sigh. A glance at the monitors showed the corral was full of confused wergs, some tamed, some not so much. As he watched the monitors, unsure of how to proceed next, a familiar werg appeared in the corral.

  In quiet amazement, he watched The First tear into each werg that wandered within his reach, ripping out their throats with murderous rage. The wergs who had more sense retreated from his onslaught. The First headed through the corral and toward the front gates.

  Bernard turned to monitor two, hoping The First would leave the compound so he could then flee. The two guards stood next to the entrance, oblivious to their impending doom. He considered warning them via the intercom system, but his curiosity got the better of him. He didn’t have to wait long. The guards saw The First before the camera did as evidenced by their terrified faces. They fumbled with their weapons.

  The First leaped into camera view and downed both of the guards before they could get a single shot off. As they lay bleeding to death in the drive, Bernard rose to his feet. He looked around the room one last time. “Well,” he whispered to himself. “It was a damn good run.”

  He pressed the monitor power button and backed to the panic room door. With a one-finger salute to his crumbling life’s work, he turned his back and opened the door. On some level, he had always known this day would come.

  From the panic room, Bernard passed through the next room and into the hall. An old metal locker with a rusty combination lock stood against the wall. He spun the lock to his son’s birthday and opened the locker. At its bottom sat a red gas can and a box of flares. He carried the gas can and two of the flares back into the control room.

  With the computers drenched in gasoline he lit the flare. As the room burst into flames, he stood and watched without emotion until the heat became unbearable. He made his way through the hallway and down the stairs to the front entrance of the building. A sense of closure washed through him and he felt strangely calm as he left.

  Bernard thought about his son and wished he could have handled things a bit differently. He remembered back to a Harlem Globetrotters game that he had taken Max to a few weeks ago and found himself whistling Sweet Georgia Brown.

  He passed into the cool night air where he could once again see the entrance gate. Something moved in the shadows next to the slaughtered guards and his whistle faded from his lips. His heart skipped. Crouching next to the front gate, apparently waiting for him, was the one thing in the world he feared most.

  “No,” he said in disbelief. “Why did you turn back? Why didn’t you go for her?”

  The First crawled out of the shadows.

  The thought that his wergs might be crafty had never entered Bernard’s mind, and he especially was not expecting it of The First, who had been holed up in a dungeon for nearly thirty years. But with the beast standing at the gates and preparing to pounce, he understood how truly formidable they were once they had a purpose. And he had little doubt that this one’s purpose was revenge.

  Bernard glanced over his shoulder at the smoke pouring into the stairwell; retreating to his panic room was not an option. Fighting The First without a weapon would be equally futile. His legs trembled and one of his sore knees nearly gave out. The terror he felt almost thirty years ago when he had cowered beneath this very creature in that Sandalio forest rushed back to him.

  The First growled as he stalked to the side. Though there was distance between them, Bernard knew how quickly the creature would close that distance if he ran.

  “Eeeaasy,” Bernard said. “Remember, boy, I’m the one who freed you.”

  The First tilted his head, blood still dripping from his fangs and claws. One of the bleeding guards on the ground moaned. The First reached down, dug his claw into the guard’s back, and ripped his spine free.

  Bernard took a backward step.

  The First grunted and then pounced, covering the distance between them in a flash. Bernard backed against the door frame. The First lunged. Bernard dove to the side. The First slammed against the door frame, but not before taking a swipe at him. Pain exploded in Bernard’s left shoulder. Beneath his now shredded shirt were three parallel lacerations in his flesh. Blood welled up from the deep gashes.

  The First righted himself and lunged again. Bernard rolled to his back with his eyes closed. The First landed at his feet.

  Bernard’s left leg erupted in flesh-tearing agony. The pain forced him to open his eyes and see what the creature had done, even as his brain ordered him not to look. The First rose up, meat and blood from Bernard’s thigh dangling from his claw.

  As horrible as this torture was, it was the realization of what the beast had just done that fueled Bernard’s fears more than anything. The First’s assault to his leg wasn’t intended to inflict a mortal wound. Instead, it was to lessen his chances of a quick escape.

  Bernard pressed his hands to the gaping wound on his thigh. His stomach turned and he rolled to his side on the chance he might vomit. He didn’t.

  The First crawled over him, straddling him just like in his memories and nightmares. Blood and hot spittle dripped onto Bernard’s cheek and fore
head. Bernard scrambled to free himself from beneath the killer, but the beast pinned him with a claw against his wounded shoulder. Bernard cried out. It was as if The First wanted him to relive every terrifying moment of their first encounter.

  The beast roared inches from his face, just as it had thirty years before. His breath smelled like rotten meat and death. Just do it, he silently prayed. Enough with the torture.

  But as The First prepared to deal his death blow, he hesitated. Did the creature remember the tranquilizer darts from years ago? Instead of simply reenacting that first day, was he actually reliving it, expecting another threat from behind?

  The First sniffed the air and then leaped from Bernard’s chest. Bernard scrambled against the building wall. The First disappeared into the shadows again.

  Thick, black smoke rolled toward the sky from the popping and shattering windows of the second floor. Bernard shoved his hand against his wounded leg. The heat from the fire radiated against his back with painful intensity.

  He struggled to his good leg as window glass rained down on his shoulders and head. With his hand on his mangled thigh, he scanned the darkness for The First. Instead of seeing the beast, he saw the beam of a flashlight bounce through the front gates. He had his answer as to why he had been momentarily spared. Despite his pain, he smiled.

  34

  TRAPPED

  THICK smoke poured from the second floor of the main WereHouse building. Christine walked along the outside of the fence to the entrance of the compound. Aiden grabbed a flashlight from the medic and joined her at the gate, leaving the headlights on to illuminate the entrance.

  “We don’t have much time,” Christine said. “The fire will bring everyone.”

  Aiden switched on his flashlight. “No use trying to hide now. Let’s find Bernard and free his victims before this whole place goes up.” He slipped past her through the open gate. Christine followed and pulled the gate closed behind her.