It’d been a waste of time coming back out to look for fingerprints. There weren’t any. Nor would it do any good to look for footprints, because the ground was too torn up to make out individual tracks.
Closing the crime lab kit, Skip decided to walk around the outer perimeter of the field. He didn’t expect to find anything, but he’d been at it for hours and wanted to get away from the rancid smell of blood and death.
The farther he walked, the fresher the air became. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to take a breath and not smell the stench of raw meat. He walked three hundred yards or better before stopping. Lighting a cigarette, he turned to survey the area.
From where he stood the crime scene looked like an oasis of light in a valley of shadows. Within that circle was Philip Scriber, the county veterinarian; five deputies; half a dozen public officials and two newspaper reporters. Skip felt detached from the activity taking place inside the circle of lights. Alone. He knew his detachment wouldn’t last forever--there was still a lot of work to be done--but he was damn well going to enjoy his brief moment of solitude while it lasted.
Exhaling slowly, he gazed up at the sky. The muscles in his neck hurt; so did the ones in his lower back. He wasn’t getting any younger. It wouldn’t be too many more years before he started thinking about retiring. He laughed aloud. If he didn’t come up with a suspect soon, he’d be retiring sooner than planned.
Rubbing the knotted muscles in his neck, he thought about Katie and Billy. They were probably sitting down to supper right then--TV dinners, most likely. Katie didn’t like to cook when it was just the two of them. Billy didn’t mind, to him a frozen dinner was just as good as a steak anytime.
“Shit...back to work.”
Crushing the cigarette butt in the ground, he started back. It was already dark enough that he had to strain to see where he was walking. The last thing he needed was to step in cowshit. But getting a little manure on his boots was the least of his troubles.
Crouching in a dry creek bed, the Crota could barely contain his excitement as he watched Skip cross the field. The thought of killing another human delighted him. There wasn’t much of a challenge in it, but he was still charged up from the previous evening’s slaughter and felt an insatiable desire to kill again. His muscles tensed in preparation for the attack. He licked his lips in cool anticipation.
Skip suddenly looked up. Odd, but he had a peculiar feeling he was no longer alone.
He looked around but saw nothing to make him suspicious. Probably just a case of the jitters. Jitters or not, he found himself wishing he hadn’t strayed so far from the others. The island of light in the distance looked comforting, safe.
The sheriff quickened his pace. He’d taken only five steps when a wave of intense nervousness halted him mid-stride.
“Damn it, you bloody idiot,” he told himself. “There’s nothing out here--only darkness, trees and cowshit.”
His words of reassurance didn’t help. His nervousness increased. Loosening his .357 Magnum in its holster, he listened carefully to the sounds around him. Everything was quiet. That, more than anything, convinced him something was wrong. Where were the night birds? Why had the crickets, so boisterous earlier, stopped their chirping?
Curious, he turned away from the direction of the crime scene. His eyes swept quickly left, then right, as he searched for the source of his uneasiness. Off to his right, the ground was broken by the jagged black scar of a dry creek bed. Just beyond it was the rusted barbed-wire fence marking the end of the pasture and the edge of the Owens property. The creek bed ran parallel to the fence for about thirty yards before making a sharp turn and passing beneath the wire strands, continuing on in the wooded countryside beyond.
Skip was suddenly intrigued by the creek bed. He’d noticed it earlier but hadn’t paid much attention to it. Could the killer have used it to gain entrance to the pasture? Perhaps it had served as an escape route. He would have to have it searched for clues come morning.
He took another step forward...and froze. There was something lurking in the creek bed; he was certain of it. Something crouched in the darkness, watching him. Had the killer returned to the scene of the crime? Without giving it a second thought, he drew and cocked his pistol. Lucky he did.
With a roar, the Crota lunged.
What the fuck is that?
Skip dove to his left, leaving only empty air for razor-sharp claws to slice. He hit the ground rolling, turned, got his feet under him and jumped back up.
Jesus Christ... It’s big...fast. Not a man. Not a bear. A monster!
He braced his right foot, steadied the pistol in both hands and fired four times at the hideous creature. The Magnum echoed like a cannon across the field.
Bullets slammed into the monster’s scaly brown chest. Blood flowed. The creature shook its head and howled in rage. Moonlight flashed off murderous fangs.
The slugs should have dropped it, but they didn’t. Skip was in trouble and he knew it. Before he could flee, the Crota charged.
He held his breath and fired two more shots, but the bullets didn’t stop the monster, didn’t even slow it down.
I’m dead!
A massive hand lashed out, black claws splitting the air. He tried to duck out of the way, but a glancing blow caught him across the left side of his head. Pain rocketed white-hot down his body, and blood trickled where claws had split his scalp.
Everything went a dizzy gray as Skip was knocked to the ground. He landed on his back, staring up at a spinning sky, listening to the footsteps of death approaching.
“This way!...Someone grab a light!”
He heard the shouts of others racing to his aid, but he knew they were too far away to reach him in time. If only he could stay alive for a few more seconds. The pain...
Skip closed his right hand; it was empty. His gun lay lost somewhere in the weeds, empty. Movement from his left drew his attention. The Crota came into view.
Sweet Jesus.
Fred Granger was right: the killer was big, real big--twice the size of any bear Skip had ever seen. Yellow eyes glowed like candle flames above a wrinkled snout. But even though the eyes glowed, they were cold, deadly, like those of a rattlesnake. Saliva dripped off gleaming fangs, licked away from the lips by a round, gray tongue. The creature’s front paws slowly clenched and unclenched, its black claws clicking together like bones.
The Crota stared down at him, above him now, then threw its head back and laughed. The laugh, like that of a hyena, was so frightfully hideous it caused Skip’s bowels to loosen. And it was the laugh, more than anything else, that filled him with an intense desire to live, and stirred him to action.
Ignoring the pain, he slipped his right hand deep into his pants pockets, frantically searching for something--anything--to defend himself with. His fingers almost numb, he fumbled over keys, coins and a roll of Life Savers, finally coming into contact with the metallic smoothness of his bathing-beauty lighter.
Above him, the face of the Crota leaned closer, blocking out the pale moonlight. The creature’s foul breath filled his nostrils, gagged him. Its eyes bore into him.
Skip fought back the nausea, fought back the dizziness. He tore the lighter from his pocket, spinning the striker wheel with his thumb, thrusting his hand straight into the eye of the beast and screaming a cry of defiance. A five-inch flame rose from Skip’s hand, lighting the face of the creature.
The Crota hesitated, taken aback. Curiously, he studied the flame, raised a hand to swipe it away. But something stopped it, something caused its eyes to widen, something made it afraid.
Skip was still screaming, his eyes burning into the creature’s, when the creature shrieked and jumped backwards, roaring and shaking its head from side to side, its red mane billowing. A taloned foot lashed out, missed Skip by inches. He rolled clear, but the pain made his vision blur. The Crota lashed out again...and again. Shots rang out in the distance.
Skip managed to roll a few more feet before
unconsciousness engulfed him.
“Daddy, are you okay?”
His eyes flickered open. He must have dozed off. Funny, he didn’t remember going to sleep.
“Daddy, can we play now?” Billy stood looking down at him, casually tossing a baseball in the air and catching it in his old pitcher’s mitt.
Skip blinked. He sat up and looked around. Behind the child stretched a blighted field of thorny gray weeds. He turned his head. The field of thorns stretched endlessly in all directions.
What time was it? He wasn’t wearing his watch, and when he tried to look up at the sun he found he couldn’t. He must have pulled a muscle in his neck. He should be more careful; he wasn’t a young man anymore.
“Can we, Daddy? Can we?” Billy’s voice was almost a whine.
“Okay, okay,” Skip answered. “Just give me a minute to get my socks and shoes on...”
Odd, why wasn’t he wearing socks and shoes? He rarely went barefoot. Maybe he’d left them back at the house. But surely he hadn’t walked across the field without them.
He wiggled his toes. He’d better find his shoes before his feet got cold. The one thing he couldn’t stand was cold feet. Billy continued to toss the ball into the air.
Skip started to look for his missing shoes, but he could no longer turn his head to the left or right. How strange. He would have scratched his chin in puzzlement, but his arms wouldn’t move either. Very strange indeed.
“Billy, do you know where Daddy’s shoes are?”
Billy didn’t answer him--couldn’t answer him--because he was unable to talk. That was also strange; Billy hadn’t spoken a word since he’d lost his hearing. So how could he have spoken only moments before?
“Billy, didn’t you just--”
Skip meant to ask his son about his sudden ability to speak. Instead he fell silent as Billy took a bite out of the baseball, his teeth tearing through the tough fabric covering as though it were made of marshmallow. Blood spurted from the ball, splattering the boy’s shirt and pants. Skip watched in awe as a long gray tongue snaked from Billy’s mouth to lick the crimson from his chin.
Billy popped the rest of the baseball into his mouth, chewed it and swallowed. He licked his fingers, looked down at his father and smiled. A double row of gleaming fangs crowded the tiny mouth.
As he watched, Billy’s eyes changed, the pupils going from soft brown to black slits. The irises, no longer white, glowed yellow.
Skip tried to move, but he couldn’t. He was completely paralyzed.
Billy’s flesh rippled like waves on an ocean as something tore at it from inside, struggling to be free. His face stretched, split and fell apart. His head swelled and burst in a shower of crimson from the strain. His body grew to four times its normal size, shuddered and broke apart like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, leaving a monster to stand where a boy once was.
The towering creature stood upright on its hind legs, its taut muscles covered with brown scaly skin and patches of red hair. Its broad, snouted face was framed by a flowing red mane, similar to a male lion’s, while its glowing eyes were underlined with a wide mouth of fangs and heavy black lips. Its ears, if it had any, were hidden beneath the mane. The creature was a male, its penis also framed by coarse red hair. Menacing black claws protruded from the four long fingers of each hand, as well as from the four toes on each foot.
The monster seemed to block the sun as it stood before Skip, still holding Billy’s baseball glove. Looking down, it asked with a growl, “Baseball, anyone?”
Skip glanced down. His shoes glided effortlessly over the path. “That’s funny, I could have sworn I was barefoot.”
“What was that, dear?”
He was startled by the voice.
Katie walked beside him, her hand in his. She wore a blue, backless summer dress--the same dress she’d worn on their first date--her hair tied up with a matching ribbon.
“What did you say?” she asked again.
“Oh, nothing. I was just talking to myself.”
She squeezed his hand and smiled. Skip caught a whiff of perfume. The fragrance was enticing, started to give him an erection. Katie must have noticed, for without another word she veered from the path, leading him to a small clearing.
With a sultry, graceful movement, she let the straps of her dress slip slowly off her shoulders. She wiggled slightly, and the dress fell away. She wore nothing underneath.
Skip’s excitement grew. He fumbled at the buttons of his shirt and his belt buckle. His shoes and socks were already off, though he didn’t remember removing them. Finally, the last of his clothing slipped away and he stood naked before his wife.
She looked down, smiled and removed the blue ribbon, letting her hair fall about her shoulders. Skip stepped forward and gently lowered her to the ground.
His hands caressed and groped as his mouth slid hungrily over her breasts. Her nipples stiffened from the touch of his tongue. She moaned softly.
Arching her hips, she guided him into her in one smooth movement. She was warm, very warm. Skip gasped with pleasure. She thrust against him, her fingernails digging tiny furrows into his buttocks.
“Faster...faster,” she whispered, her breath heavy with desire. Her eyes went dreamy...closed. When they opened again they were no longer soft and brown; they were big and yellow.
Skip went limp instantly. He tried to pull away, but he was held in an embrace like a vise. The thing that was his wife smiled at his futile struggles. Her smile grew wider and wider, stretching until the flesh at the corners of her mouth ripped open. Blood trickled over her lips and down her chin.
He could feel the body beneath him changing, growing in size, becoming hard. Smooth legs became scaly and rough. The fragrance of perfume became the odor of raw meat. Fingernails dug deeper into his backside. Blood flowed wet and warm between his legs. His wife’s hair was no longer brown and silky but coarse and red.
Her head moved forward, mouth opening to reveal fangs. The fangs bit deep into Skip’s left cheek, tearing flesh and crushing bone. He screamed from the pain. The pain...
The pain was a thunderous throbbing, an echoed roaring with no beginning or end, interlaced with fiery twinges that burned like great lightning bolts through his brain. Splotches of pastel hues and streamers of scarlet drifted across his mind like surrealistic cloud formations. With great effort, Skip forced his eyes to open, then quickly shut them as a sea of blinding light flooded in.
“I think he’s waking up. Get the doctor.”
The words sounded as if they came from the other end of a long tunnel. They were barely audible above the roaring in his ears. He opened his eyes again. The room spun before him, nausea gripping his stomach and throat. Slowly, gradually, everything settled into place.
He was in a hospital. There was no mistaking the scrubbed white walls, or the portable TV suspended from the ceiling. A white curtain was pulled halfway around his bed, blocking off the view of the rest of the room. Through an open doorway beyond the curtain, he could hear the chatter of two nurses making the rounds.
A young man wearing a green surgeon’s gown and a gold Rolex watch stepped into view.
Dr. Livingstone, I presume.
“Welcome back to the world of the living, Mr. Harding. I’m Dr. Richards. How are you feeling?”
Skip started to reply, winced from the pain and decided to remain silent. Gently he touched a fingertip to the left side of his head and felt bandages.
The doctor picked up a clipboard hanging at the foot of Skip’s bed and read the paper clipped to it. “You’ll probably be spending a couple of days with us. You have a mild concussion. Nothing to be overly alarmed about, but I do want to keep you under observation. You also have a fairly good-sized cut that required forty-seven stitches to close up, so you’ll be parting your hair from the right side for a while.”
Skip wasn't sure if he liked the doctor’s bedside manner or not.
“Feel up to seeing your wife? She’s been practically living a
t the hospital.” The doctor saw Skip’s eyebrows rise in question. “It’s five-thirty, Tuesday afternoon. You were brought in to the emergency room around eight o’clock last night.”
Skip nodded slowly. It was all he could do to concentrate on what the doctor was saying.
“Okay, I’ll send her in, but only for a minute. I don’t want you overdoing things. No sense pushing your luck any more than you have already.” The doctor hung the chart back at the foot of the bed, patted him on the leg and left. A few seconds later Katie entered.
She was wearing a tan skirt with a white blouse, not the blue summer dress in the hallucination. Her outfit was wrinkled; she’d probably slept in it. She looked pale, and there were dark shadows under her eyes that yesterday’s makeup didn’t hide.
“Bill...honey.” She grabbed his hand and sat lightly on the edge of his bed. Katie called him Bill only when she was upset. “How do you feel?” Her expression told him how he looked.
“Billy?” he whispered, flinching from the stiffness in his jaw.
“He’s staying at Evelyn’s. He wanted to be here with you, but I...”
Skip nodded. He understood. It was upsetting enough for her to see him like this; no sense terrifying the boy.
She leaned forward, resting her head on his chest. “Dear God, I’m so glad you’re all right. You don’t know how scared I’ve been.”
Skip reached down and gently stroked his wife’s hair. Scared? Could she possibly know the meaning of the word?
Chapter 11
Wednesday dawned cold and gloomy, the sky a lonely gray. Leafless trees stretched brown, skeletal fingers toward the heavens as if attempting to tear away the gray to reveal the bright blue of a summer afternoon. But summer was over, and such a melancholy day served as reminder that winter was on its way.
Crota Page 9
