The Crota hissed in anger. Razor-sharp claws flashed like lightning through the air, ripping bloody furrows in the Hereford’s sensitive nose. Bubba bellowed and twisted violently, trying to shake off his attacker. The Crota hung on. Leaning sideways, he bit off the bull’s right ear, bringing him to the point of madness.
Hearing the commotion, Roy began to run. From the sounds of the fight, he knew it wasn’t any bobcat Bubba was tangling with. Maybe someone was trying to rustle his prize bull.
He reached the edge of the back pasture at the same time the moon slipped out from behind the clouds, giving him a clear view of what was happening. What he saw caused him to doubt his sanity.
“Mother of God!”
Old Bubba was no more than thirty yards away. His body shuddered and shook as his back legs strained, his hooves digging into the soft earth. Foam dripped from the bull’s mouth, and great clouds of white blew from his nostrils.
Standing erect, front legs wrapped around Bubba’s horns, was a creature the likes of which Roy had never seen before. It was as big as a grizzly, maybe bigger, its scaly, reddish-brown hide spotted with tufts of red hair. Framed with a mane like a lion’s, the head was a demented cross between a bear, a boar and a dog. Under a wrinkled snout, a wide, lizardlike mouth opened to reveal pointed teeth. But the most frightening feature was the creature’s eyes--slanted, with black slitlike pupils, glowing luminescent yellow in the moonlight.
Roy was so entranced by the scene before him he forgot about the shotgun cradled in his arms. He watched as Bubba twisted and ducked, seeking a vital spot on the monster. There was a sharp crack as the thing countered the move by breaking off one of Bubba’s horns.
The sight of the creature tearing off Bubba’s horn, like someone pulling the wing from a Sunday chicken, brought Roy back to his senses. Muttering a curse, he raised the shotgun to his shoulder and fired.
The blast of the shotgun was answered by a roar so hideous it made Roy’s legs go rubbery. It must have had the same effect on the cows, for they suddenly quit their bellowing.
With a movement almost too quick for Roy’s eyes to follow, the monster let go of Bubba’s remaining horn and dropped to the ground. The bull, carried forward by his own momentum, passed directly over the creature. As he did the Crota slashed upward and back, deadly claws sinking deep into the bull’s unprotected belly.
A shower of blood sprayed the ground beneath Bubba. Blood gushed from his nostrils. Then, as the bull shook in agony, his guts tumbled to the ground like a nest of steaming snakes. Bubba, the blue-ribbon winner of six county fairs, was killed.
Sweet mother of God, that thing killed Bubba.
With mounting fear, Roy realized that up until the time he shot at it the monster had been toying with the bull, playing with it as a cat would a mouse. He also realized that the monster may have been playing with Bubba, but it wasn’t going to play with him.
Dear God.
Frantic, Roy fumbled for the box of shotgun shells in his pocket. The monster rolled over, got to its feet, turned its head and watched him.
Dear God. Dear God. Dear God.
In his haste to reload the shotgun Roy spilled the box of shells on the ground. He dropped to his knees, trembling fingers snatching madly at the loose shells. The monster roared. Roy had just gotten a shell into the chamber when the thing charged.
Anna Owens stood in the doorway, listening to the sounds coming from the back pasture. She’d been a country girl long enough to know that no bobcat could ever cause that kind of ruckus, nor could a pack of dogs. Something was wrong, very wrong. For the first time in years she wasn’t worried about supper getting cold. She was frightened. If only Roy would hurry up and come back, she’d never again fuss at him about smoking his pipe in the house.
The shotgun blast made her jump, but not nearly as bad as the roar that followed it. The silence after that was but a brief one, broken by a scream that made all the blood drain from her face. It wasn’t the cry of an animal. The scream was human.
Tears clouding her eyes, she grabbed the telephone and dialed the Hobbs County Sheriff’s Office. She didn’t wait to answer any questions; she just gave her name and address, then hung up. There wasn’t time to give any more; she had to hurry. Roy might be hurt.
The thought of her husband lying injured flooded her mind as she raced down the path leading to the back pasture. She hadn’t even bothered to grab her wrap, but the night chill went unnoticed.
Reaching the pasture, she found everything as quiet as...
As quiet as a graveyard.
Why is it so quiet?
“Roy?” There was no answer.
Crossing the field, she headed toward the back fence where the water trough and feeder were located. That’s where the cows usually gathered after dark. Find the cows and she’d find Roy. A third of the way across the field she paused, puzzled.
To her left a small dark mound rose above the weeds. She’d been in the pasture thousands of times, yet she didn’t remember seeing such a mound before. Curious, she left the path and walked toward it.
“Roy?” she called. Still no reply.
Anna was afraid to call again. There was something about the silence that scared her, something far worse than the scream she’d heard only minutes before. A cold feeling of dread settled deep in her stomach.
Halfway to the mound, she tripped over something and went sprawling. Pain flashed up her arm as her left wrist twisted beneath her.
“Ow!”
Sitting up, she vigorously massaged her wrist with her right hand.
Anna stopped rubbing.
The palm of her right hand was wet and sticky. The wetness smeared across her wrist. The palm of her left hand was also wet, as was the grass about her.
How odd.
It was too early for the dew to set in, and it hadn’t rained in days.
Looking about her, she noticed that the grass where she sat looked darker than elsewhere in the field. It obviously wasn’t water that wet her hands and soaked through the back of her dress.
A shudder danced along Anna’s spine. She didn’t want to think about what could be wet, sticky to the touch, and look black in the darkness. She quickly stood up.
Back on her feet, she retraced her path, searching for what she’d tripped over. She’d only taken a few steps when she came across a green John Deere cap lying in the weeds.
Roy’s cap.
Roy never went anywhere without his cap. So what was it doing here? She reached down to retrieve the cap when she realized there was something in it...
“Oh, God! Oh, God! No! No...”
Jamming a fist against her mouth, she stifled the scream trying to tear from her throat. Roy’s severed head stared at her with unblinking eyes, questioning, demanding. His mouth hung open in a silent scream.
The world began to spin slowly sideways. Anna didn’t want to faint. She pushed her fist even tighter against her mouth and bit down. There was a funny taste on her lips. A salty taste.
Horror seized her heart as she realized that the wetness on her hand was now smeared across her mouth. The salty, sticky wetness of blood. Roy’s blood.
Anna staggered back, gasping for breath. She tried to spit the taste of blood from her mouth but it wouldn’t go away. The world around her blurred into dizzying shades of gray. She didn’t know whether she was going to be sick or pass out. Roy’s head peeked at her through the weeds. It looked as though he was standing in a hole.
Suddenly, from her right came a series of sharp cracking sounds, like someone ripping nails from boards. Not really wanting to see what caused them, but knowing she had to, Anna turned and slowly walked in the direction of the sounds. She moved as if in a dream.
Another one of the mysterious mounds lay near the back fence...and another...and another. They were a little smaller than the first mound. As Anna drew closer she discovered that the mounds were the bodies of her cows. But even though she now knew what the mounds were, she didn’t fl
ee. She knew she should, but she couldn’t. Her legs wouldn’t obey her. They refused to allow her to turn around and go in the opposite direction, or to even stop where she was. She could no more escape than could a rabbit after it has heard the piercing cry of a winged hunter. When Anna finally did stop she was standing no more than ten feet from the source of the peculiar cracking noise. The sound was that of bones being splintered and crushed between powerful jaws.
Pausing in the midst of his feeding, the Crota regarded the intruder with open curiosity. He made no move to attack, for he did not feel threatened by the woman standing before him. Instead, he leaned forward and pulled another rib bone from the body of the dead cow. The sound of the bone snapping made him happy. Throwing back his head, he laughed.
Chapter 8
Corporal Randy Murphy turned off of Cemetery Road onto the driveway leading up to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Roy Owens. He drove slowly, angling the cruiser around potholes and using the spotlight to light up the front of the house.
The Owens’s residence was a single-story, white and beige, ranch-style house with a screened-in back porch and adjoining carport. A white Buick was parked in the carport. Beyond it a gray tarpaulin covered a bulky shape which was probably a tractor. Randy pulled around to the rear of the house and parked. The flashing blue lights of his patrol car reflected eerily off the aluminum siding of the house, giving everything a carnivallike atmosphere.
The door separating the back porch from the house stood open, providing a view of an empty hallway. The curtains on the kitchen window were also open, but Randy didn’t see anyone in the kitchen either.
The dispatcher said the woman who called sounded frantic--terrified, even. She’d hung up after giving only her name and address. Randy didn’t like that. It was dangerous responding to a call when you didn’t know the situation. A fellow could get his head blown off. He kept thinking of the previous evening’s murders.
“Well, here goes nothing.”
Grabbing the six-cell flashlight from beside him on the seat, he slid out of the patrol car. He just didn’t like the look of things. His instincts told him something was wrong.
Reaching the porch, Randy unsnapped the safety strap on his holster, freeing his Smith & Wesson 9mm automatic. He knocked loudly on the screen door.
“Hello... Sheriff’s Department. Anybody home?”
Inside sat two wooden straight-backed chairs with a small dropleaf table between them. Metal shelves, crowded with Mason jars of fruits and vegetables, lined one end of the porch while a chest-type freezer took up most of the space at the opposite end. Not getting a response to his knock, he tried the door. It was unlocked.
Randy crossed the porch to the open doorway of the house and peeked in. The narrow hallway ran about ten feet to his right, ending at a closed door behind which was probably a bedroom. To his left the hallway passed a bathroom, another bedroom and a sewing room before opening onto a combination kitchen-dining room. He stepped into the dining room and looked around. Matching cabinets and counters of brown were set off by yellow-flowered wallpaper. The only sound was the soft, steady hum of the refrigerator.
“Hello... anybody home?”
No answer.
Two place settings were arranged on the table, knives, forks and napkins at the ready. A meat loaf sat on a glass serving platter in the center of the stove, flanked by pans of creamed corn and mashed potatoes. He lightly touched a fingertip to the meat loaf. It was cold.
Beyond the dining area was the living room. The color TV opposite the two recliners was still on, but the sound had been turned all the way down. Beyond the living room, a door opened onto the master bedroom. It too was empty.
Retracing his steps, he checked the other rooms but found nothing out of the ordinary in any of them. Everything appeared to be the way it should be. No sign of a disturbance. The only thing missing were the owners.
Randy stepped back outside, glad to be free of the strange quiet inside the house. But it was just as quiet outside. Having been raised on a farm, he found the silence disturbing. Even on the calmest of nights there were sounds: birds, crickets, frogs. And surely someone would have heard his siren when he drove up, even if they were elsewhere on the farm.
Leaning in through the open window of the patrol car, Randy called the station to tell them of the situation. He also let them know he was going to have a look around the area. The dispatcher confirmed the message, advising him that Unit One was in the area if he needed them. He said he didn’t think so, and signed off.
His first stop was the barn. The bright red building sat about three hundred yards from the house. Opening a side door, he was greeted with the musty scents of animals, hay and manure. He was cautious to look where he stepped.
The ground level of the barn was divided into a pen for livestock, and a storage area for feed and...
Whoooo...!
Randy spun around, his right hand going for the handle of his gun.
Who...who...whooooo!
The sound came from above him. He aimed his flashlight at the ceiling. There, perched on a rafter in the back corner, was a pair of barn owls, their snowy white faces twin moons in the darkness. He let out a sigh of relief, annoyed at the way his heart raced.
“Stupid birds,” he muttered.
Whooo!
“You. That’s who,” he said, retracing his steps back outside.
Since no livestock was in the barn, the animals must be in a pasture somewhere. Perhaps, he thought, something had happened to one of them and the owners had gone to administer aid. If so, maybe they were still out in the field and weren’t aware of his arrival. On the back side of the barn he spotted a well-worn path leading into the woods. There were cattle droppings on the path, so maybe it led to a field not visible from the barn or house. It was worth taking a look.
The woods he entered ended about as quickly as they began. The path did indeed lead to another pasture. The grassy field, wet from the first of the evening dew, shone like a multitude of diamonds under the bright moonlight. The scene might have been picturesque if it weren’t for the uneasy quietness cloaking the area. And there was a funny smell carried on the wind. Having worked at a local slaughterhouse, Randy recognized the unpleasant, rusty odor as the stench of blood and raw meat.
Drawing his pistol, he advanced forward, swinging his flashlight to illuminate the area before him. He’d walked about fifty feet when he came across the shredded, bloody remains of a man’s red flannel shirt.
Randy knew better than to touch the shirt. Instead he walked a wide path around it and continued on. A few yards farther on he discovered the owner of the shirt, or at least what was left of him.
“Shit!” he exclaimed, jumping back.
The body was terribly mutilated--the head missing, the right arm torn off at the shoulder. Huge gashes, like wounds caused by a machete, were cut into the chest and stomach at right angles to each other. Spirals of steam rose from these gashes, ghostlike in the night air.
It’s still warm. Couldn’t have been too long since this happened.
He turned and looked around, searching for a piece of machinery--a thrasher or brush hog, perhaps--that the man must have fallen into or been run over by. No such machinery sat in the field. But there had to be. What else could chop up a man in such a way? Randy looked down at the body. It looked like something fished out of a gator pit.
Chewed.
He stepped back. The darkness seemed to close in, suffocating him. The man hadn’t been run over by a piece of farm machinery. He’d been murdered--hacked to death by someone, or something. Maybe the killer was still around, watching.
Randy’s grip tightened on his pistol as a tingle of fear danced along his spine. He hadn’t brought along his portable radio, which meant he would have to return to the patrol car to call for backup. Did he dare? Calling for assistance was standard procedure. But what if the killer was still around? Returning to the car might allow the maniac the chance to slip away unnotice
d. To leave the field could be a mistake. He had to look around first and secure the area.
Turning away from the mutilated body, he walked slowly toward the back fence. Less than a minute later, he came across a second body.
Like a beached whale, the bull lay on its left side, legs sticking straight out. The animal’s eyes were open, but only the white of the irises showed. The tongue protruded gray and limp from the mouth. Next to the body, between the front and back legs, were the bull’s internal organs.
“What the hell is going on here?” he asked aloud. His voice sounded much too loud. The silence made him nervous. Shining his flashlight in the direction of the back fence, he was startled to see someone standing there.
“Sheriff’s Department! Identify yourself!” Randy yelled, his voice cracking. There was no disguising his fear.
The figure near the fence didn’t acknowledge the command or make any attempt to flee. The distance was still too great, and the night too dark, to tell who it was.
“Who’s there?” he called again.
No reply.
If it was the killer, then why didn’t he make a run for it? Was it a trap? Could it be an attempt to lure him closer, bringing him within range of a gun or knife? A string of questions flashed through his mind, any one of which, if answered wrongly, could cost him his life.
Keeping his eyes on the suspect, he circled toward a stand of pine trees on his right. He intended to use the trees for protection in case gunplay erupted.
Halfway to the suspect, the corporal halted. He was suddenly experiencing a feeling of being watched. Never in his life had he felt such a sensation. It was as if some hidden danger had set off a series of tiny warning signals in his head. Was someone else in the area? Did the person by the fence have an accomplice? Was he walking into a trap?
Keeping the unmoving suspect within his peripheral vision, he swept the wooded area near him with the bright beam of his flashlight. The feeling of being watched grew stronger. Holding the light steady, he tried to peer through the underbrush, but it was so thick that visibility ended ten feet into the trees. If someone was there, he could pass right by them and not know it.
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