SNAFU: Wolves at the Door: An Anthology of Military Horror

by James A. Moore

  He didn’t wait around to talk to anyone, but turned around and headed back into the blizzard. There were still things that had to be taken care of, still dangers left for him and his to deal with.

  They had only run a portion of the distance back to the house when John veered away from them and toward the woods where they had left the men.

  Whatever he did, it was John’s decision to make.

  They’d discussed that earlier.

  Roland had made his proclamation and John had given a great deal of thought to what to do. Both Loman and Heatherly had fought well and done all they could to survive. As Landers had handled the worst of the crimes, John decided to let them have another chance at living. In the end, he’d left them at the church.

  “I told Landers if he lived through it, I would let him go.” He said the words softly.

  “What do you think his chances are?”

  “I bit him and let him live.”

  “Will you keep your word to the man who killed your wife?” Dave had been the one to speak up. Dave, who was loyal to a fault and always willing to state his opinion; He also happened to be the police chief these days.

  “I don’t know,” John had answered truthfully. “It might be dangerous to let one like that become one of our kind.”

  Roland laughed when he heard those words. “Might be? It is dangerous. Don’t be foolish.”

  “You said it was my call, Roland!” He wasn’t quite challenging, but he was getting closer to it.

  “It is your choice.” Roland had leaned in closer and snarled, and John had wisely backed down. “But your promise to let him live doesn’t mean we let him into our community or stand by if he goes too far.”

  Now Roland was heading back to deal with Lassiter and Fulford. That was his place. John would have to handle whatever happened in the woods. That was his place.

  Everything would work out. He promised himself that much. Everything would work out because it had to work out.

  They moved through the storm, he and his two remaining companions, ready to deal with the issues that remained.

  * * *

  Eric wanted to leave, and had intentions of doing so as soon as it was possible, but first he had to deal with Scott, who was practically wearing a hole in the carpeting.

  It was one of the women in the room who came up to them next. She was attractive, with dark hair shot through with gray, and could have been anywhere between her late twenties into her forties. She had a weathered look to her skin, but had not developed any of the physical signs that he associated with middle age.

  There was nothing demure or shy about her attitude. She stepped forward and looked directly at Scott. “You want to go to your woman?”

  Scott couldn’t have said, “yes” faster if his life depended on it.

  Without a single word beyond that, she did exactly as the men had done and began taking off the majority of her clothes. Unlike the men, however, she grabbed a bag and shoved her skirt and blouse into it.

  One of the remaining strangers, a man, stepped toward her and whispered something softly into her ear. The expression on his face made it clear he wasn’t trying to get romantic.

  Her body was in nearly perfect shape. Her breasts were full, but gravity had taken its toll on them. Aside from this one admission to age, the rest of her figure belonged to an athlete. She nodded her head at the man’s comment and handed him the bag to hold for a moment. Then she changed with the same violent abruptness as the males of her kind, literally ripping out of her skin to reveal a dark gray form covered in thick fur.

  Eric looked her over, too shocked to speak for the moment. Her height was close to seven feet; her body was still hard muscle, her breasts were still there, though buried in the thick fur that trailed down her belly to join with growth of fur near her pubic region.

  Without preamble she grabbed her sack of clothing and then draped it around her neck. “Come with me, Mr Lassiter. We’ll find her.”

  Scott stared at her for a moment, just as shocked as Eric, and then headed for the door. She shook her head and dropped to all fours behind him, then brushed past him in the hallway. Three times she blocked his path and three times he tried to move around her before the man who had spoken to her explained.

  “The storm is worse now than it was a while ago. The roads are impassable. If you want to see your wife, you’ll have to ride her like a horse or you aren’t going anywhere.” He spoke calmly enough, but had an amused expression on his face.

  Scott shook his head and after a moment of wondering how he was supposed to handle the change in plans, slung a leg over the monster’s waist and then leaned forward until his arms were around her neck. If carrying a 180-pound man caused the creature any difficulty, she hid it well. A moment after that they were out the door and lost in the flurry of white that fell from the skies.

  Eric shook his head, still trying to convince himself that every thing going on around him was real.

  Sarah brought him back to reality when she came over to put her head on his shoulder. He looked back the way she had come and saw his boys had fallen asleep.

  And exhaustion reared its head and reminded him that he’d been riding on caffeine for the last two days. All of his worries about his friends paled next to the siren call of sleep.

  Eric and Sarah moved over to the couch near where the boys were sleeping, and his wife, already as close to a perfect person as he had ever met, slid the cushions aside to reveal a fold out bed.

  The strangers in the house with them saw what was going on and moved away, leaving them in peace.

  After they were both in the bed Eric looked at Sarah and smiled. “We’re almost out of here, Sarah. We’re going home soon.”

  “I hope you’re right. I miss that stupid house.”

  In response he pulled her closer and rested his head so that their faces touched. He was asleep in minutes. His dreams were all nightmares, but he didn’t remember a one of them when he woke the next morning.

  * * *

  They did their best to sleep, still shivering whenever a breeze pushed through the broken down walls of the church and slithered to their corner where the fire crackled and glowed.

  Mark had more trouble with the idea than George, who was now curled up and snoring softly to himself. Cullie continued to hang on, whimpering occasionally and from time to time trying to turn over in his fevered rest. Mark couldn’t understand how the man could do anything at all except scream in pain.

  He drifted for a while, not quite asleep and not fully aware either. He might have actually been taken by dreams if it hadn’t been for Cullie’s sudden screams.

  Mark sat up, blinking sleep from his eyes, and looked over at the pew where Cullie had been resting in relative peace. Cullie was still there, but hardly resting. The man’s body was contorted, and his mouth was wide open as he gulped in air and started yelling again. With no idea what was going on, Mark stood and rushed to his friend’s side.

  And stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the bones in Cullie’s body stretching. It wasn’t one to two random bones, but damned near all of them at the same time. Cullie’s hands and feet pounded at the pew, beating a furious tattoo. His eyes were rolled back into his head and showed only whites. His chest was expanding in a series of uneven twists that looked painful and had to feel even worse.

  Mark had been unfortunate enough to suffer from several growth spurts in high school. He remembered them well because they hurt almost constantly. He’d been taken to three different doctors when he complained of pain in his legs before his parents accepted that the aches and pains he felt were nothing but the usual discomfort associated with growing bones. He was just sensitive enough to feel it more than a lot of others because his growth spurts were always extreme.

  Whatever he’d felt couldn’t hold a candle to what Cullie was going through. Mark could see the bones in his rib cage changing, growing and stretching in ways that must surely feel like the Holy Inquisition h
ad chosen him for a year’s worth of confessions.

  “Cullie?”

  Cullie groaned, the sound coming from deep inside his chest and accompanied by the sound of bones creaking, flesh stretching. It was when Cullie opened his mouth again that reality sank through the numb surprise. Cullie’d grown fangs, and it looked like his face was starting to change shape.

  “Oh, fuck me, Freddie.” Mark stumbled backward; shaking his head in denial of what he knew was happening. Cullie was his friend, true enough, but his mind looked past the ruined form in front of him and pushed images of what he’d done to the girl that had been a wolf on the that dreadful night. More importantly, his memories insisted on reminding him that his friend had orgasmed when he’d torn the flesh from the screaming wolf-woman. He’d moaned deep in his chest and messed his pants at the thought of what he’d done.

  Mark kept thinking about that, too, as Cullie kept changing. This wasn’t the seamless, sudden transformation of the other werewolf he’d seen change. No, this was a slow and almost random thing. Cullie’s body was trying to recover from heavy trauma at the same time, and the changes seemed less organic than with the others. Maybe his body had to get used to the idea of becoming something inhuman before things went smoothly.

  And all Mark could think about was the physical pleasure Cullie’d received when he tortured the pregnant woman. He kept going back to that no matter how much he didn’t want to think about it. Because, really, he was starting to realize why he’d been left here with George and with what should have been their dead mutual friend but was instead their changing mutual friend.

  “George. George?” Mark almost stepped into the fire as he kept backing up and finally tore his eyes away from Cullie’s agonized transformation. Sweet Jesus, he’s growing skin again. He’s healing and when he’s done, what’s to stop him from getting off that fucking pew and tearing us both apart? He knew the answer of course. Not a damned thing would stop Cullie. If he got good at the whole shape changer thing, he’d be nearly unstoppable, and he’d start killing whenever the mood struck him. Cullie, who’d always been a little weird, always been the one to talk about what he’d like to do to this girl that made him hot or that guy that pissed him off, Cullie who’d blown a fucking wad while he had torn the skin from a pregnant woman, would heal faster than ever, be stronger than ever, and never leave a single bit of evidence that proved a human being had been involved in a murder.

  Werewolf? Fuck that! Can you say serial killer with claws?

  “George! Wake the fuck up!” His voice cracked as he screamed and George finally came out of his slumber, waking instantly.

  Mark didn’t try to explain, he just pointed a finger. He saw the same realizations going through George’s mind that had gone through his and when he thought the troubles had cemented themselves, he asked, “What are we going to do here, George?”

  George stared at Cullie for all of ten seconds, and then stepped toward the still growing beast on the pew and grabbed the closest limb, in this case the left foot, which had started sprouting fur.

  George was not a small man. He was out of shape, but he was also big enough to make most people think twice about screwing with him. Mark stared with his mouth hanging open as George put his weight into it and practically hurled Cullie onto the fire.

  Flames leaped and danced around Cullie as he hit the blazing collection of wood, and Cullie did more than scream now. He rose from the burning flames and roared, as the changes in his body accelerated.

  Mark swallowed hard and shook his head, refusing to believe what his world had come to. The damned thing kept changing even as it burned, growing larger and more ferocious. The sounds coming from it were undiluted rage and pain and loud enough to leave him half deafened.

  George didn’t stand by and wait for Cullie to die. He grabbed a board from near the fire and swung it as hard as he could, landing a savage blow across the side of its still burning head. The board shattered, and so did the back of Cullie’s misshapen skull. Cullie fell back into the flames, screeching as his hands were buried in the coals, and the flames licked across raw parts of his body that had not yet re-grown flesh.

  George was screaming now, too, as he took the remaining length of wood and drove the edge into the monster’s back, pushing as hard as he could, ignoring the flames that threatened to ignite his clothing. The edge of the broken board was jagged and disappeared at least a couple of inches into the raw meat on the Cullie-thing’s back.

  Cullie fell into the fire completely, his face buried in the ashes at the center of the blaze, and still George held him down, pushing with trembling arms. The sounds the half formed werewolf made would haunt Mark for the rest of his life; he knew they would.

  Cullie pushed and fought back, but despite his changes, he was still too damaged to hold his own. One hand slid out of the pyre, scattering coals across the ground, and trying to reach George, but he was quick enough to step aside. Mark watched the fingers lengthening, watched the nails grow thicker, even as the heat started cooking the meat away from the bones.

  George’s boots were smoldering, the laces on one of them already burning before he stepped back and left the board behind, sticking out of the spot where it had pushed through the muscles and possibly even through a couple of ribs.

  George stared at Cullie and panted, his face smudged with ashes and seared to a light pink. He stomped his feet impatiently before he finally managed to put out the flames licking at his laces.

  “You killed Cullie.” Mark shook his head, numbed to the point where he didn’t stop himself from opening his mouth.

  George turned sharply on one heel and pivoted a scorched fist into his face, splitting his lip and snapping his head backwards with the force of the blow. Before Mark could recover, George bulldozed forward and hit him again, a third time and a fourth.

  Mark fell back and crashed into the broken pews, once again completely unsettled by the events around him. He ignored the edge of wood that pressed into his back as he saw George stumbling around like a drunk.

  Finally George settled himself against the far wall and drew into a nearly fetal position. Mark watched as the man he thought he’d known well enough to call a brother started crying, his head resting against his drawn up knees.

  He had no anger left in him. There was nothing but a hollowed-out feeling and the pain of the scrapes that George’s fists had reopened. Mark eventually rose and limped to the closest opening in the side of the church before he dry retched a few times. The smell of cooking meat was overpowering inside the building. Even though the air outside was cold, it was purer, sweeter than the stench inside.

  * * *

  They did not speak as they walked through the deep snow. They merely kept moving. Mark’s feet were wrapped in the inner lining from his jacket to keep his feet warmer. Even that wouldn’t have happened if George hadn’t done it for him.

  Mark was physically there, but nobody was home. That was just as well, because if he’d said the wrong thing, George might have killed him.

  George didn’t much care about anyone or anything anymore; he couldn’t afford that luxury. He wanted to get out of this alive and he wanted to get back to his house and the world he’d left behind.

  The blizzard had blown itself out during the long night, but not before dumping close to two feet of snow over the entire area. The map was almost useless, but after close to an hour he’d managed to find the stream again and begun moving in the opposite direction, using the runoff as his marker. A little after noon he found the bridge where everything had gone down the night before. There was no sign of a police car, or of the vehicle that had pushed partially through the guard railing.

  It was close to four in the afternoon before they made it back to the place where they’d initially been dropped off. George saw the SUV idling at the edge of the snow covered road and openly sobbed.

  The vehicle was running, and he increased his pace, stumbling several times but never quite falling. He made
it to the curb next to the Ford and stared at the driver for several seconds, almost afraid to believe his eyes.

  Eric Fulford looked so beautiful in that moment that he would have gleefully kissed him. It was only Eric who stepped out of the idling vehicle. Scott was not with him, and neither were any of his family members. He stood ramrod straight and did nothing to help either of them as they came forward. But when they were close, his hard features softened and he hugged George briefly before moving to help Mark into the back seat.

  The road conditions were still hellish; though it was obvious the area had been plowed.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Local hospital.” Eric kept his eyes on the road, and they crawled slowly through the frozen wasteland. “Scott’s already there. Allison is in labor, or she was the last time I checked in.”

  “Is your... Are Sarah and the boys all right?”

  “Yeah.” Eric slowed down to a standstill and looked at George for several seconds. “I don’t know about Cheryl or Mark’s little ones. I haven’t seen them yet.”

  “How did you know where to find us?”

  “You had a visitor last night. John.” Eric’s face turned to stone again, a sure sign that he was trying not to let his anger get the best of him. Long before he’d signed up for the military Eric Fulford had been the sort to bottle up his negative feelings.

  “John…” George knew what Eric was thinking. He didn’t have to say the man whose wife you let get murdered, for George to know that was what he was holding inside.

  “Way I understand it, he’s the one that decided you got to live. He went back to where you were last night and watched over all of you. He told me what happened with Cullie.”

  George tried to catch his breath, but it didn’t seem possible. Even thinking of the nightmare from earlier was enough to put a crushing pressure on his rib cage.

  “I can’t talk about that.” George barely recognized his own voice.

  “Fair enough.” He accelerated, but carefully. Eric was always a careful man. He seldom let his emotions get the better of him. George had always admired that about him.