Ravenous

by Ray Garton

  The eyes opened and looked up at Hurley through glimmering tears.

  “Jason, did you rape my wife?”

  “Nuh-nuh ... nuh-nuh ... “ Frustrated with speech, Jason slowly turned his head back and forth negatively.

  Hurley fought to gather his thoughts. He knew this was some kind of opportunity, but after the events of the last few minutes—Ella’s phone call, finding her in the bedroom upstairs, seeing her like that, knowing what had been done to her, then being attacked himself—his thoughts were scattered and bleary. He remembered Fargo saying something about a den ... the need to find out where the werewolves gathered.

  Fluids ran from Jason’s glistening wounds as his bones and muscles snapped and bunched and released beneath his skin.

  Hurley clenched his teeth and closed his eyes a moment, trying to push aside the severe pain in his wounded shoulder, the burning image of Ella’s wounded eyes. When he opened his eyes again, he said, “Jason, where are they? The other werewolves, the alpha male—where are they?”

  Jason’s eyes lost their focus for a moment and seemed to look through Hurley, then rolled upward to reveal the whites.

  “Jason!” Hurley shouted, leaning closer to him. “Where are the others?”

  His eyes opened again as his face melted, reshaped, then reshaped again. “Luh ... Luh ... “ His body stiffened and he cried out in pain. Still looking up at Hurley, he tried again: “Lara ... meeee!” he cried.

  Hurley frowned. “What?”

  Voice trembling, words interrupted by grunts and cries of pain, Jason said, “Huh-huh—house! Luh-Luh-Lara—meeee—huh-house!”

  It did not make sense at first. Hurley had to run it through his mind a few times. Then it clicked.

  The Laramie house, he thought, his eyes widening with sudden understanding.

  Hurley stood and holstered his weapon. He searched the floor until he found the keys he’d dropped earlier, then picked them up. He turned to Fredricks and grabbed his elbow, leading him out of the house.

  “Your wife—” Fredricks started to say.

  “How many are hurt?” Hurley said as he limped down the porch steps, wincing with pain. He saw a couple deputies lying on the lawn, and a third deputy was tending to one of them.

  “We might’ve lost Hewitt,” Fredricks said. “But Jackson and Boyd are still alive. They’re hurt bad, but alive. That thing dropped down and—”

  “Get a bus over here for them right away, Fredricks. Get a couple buses over here, one for my wife.”

  “Your wife? Is she—”

  “She’s upstairs. She’s been ... hurt. She needs help. So get a couple buses right away. Stay and hold things down here. I’ve got to go.”

  Hurley let go of the deputy’s elbow and headed down the front walk.

  “But what about these ... things?” Fredricks said.

  “Don’t worry about them,” Hurley called back. “They’re dying.” Moving as fast as he could, given the pain he was in, Hurley went to the SUV and got in. He started the engine, then got on the radio and put out a call for everyone to head for the Laramie House.

  He kept seeing Ella ... her eyes ... the deadly fluid glimmering between her legs. He forced himself to shove the hurtful images from his mind. For the time being, he had to struggle through the smothering pain that threatened to overwhelm him. He would have to fall apart later.

  * * * *

  Pain consumed Jason.

  It began deep inside, then worked itself out to the surface of his skin until it was no longer inside him—he was inside it.

  A small voice somewhere far in the back of Jason’s mind said, How? How did this happen to me? To Andrea? How did we ... become ... these things?

  As the pain grew worse and surpassed anything he could have imagined, and even anything he was capable of properly registering in his mind, Andrea’s face materialized. First she appeared in his mind, but then, in the shimmering refractions of his tears, her face wavered and glistened into being. She did not replace his agony, but for those final moments, she diverted his attention away from it somewhat, held his eyes, and even made his lips twitch a little into an attempted smile.

  The vision of Andrea did not speak. She simply smiled at him.

  In his pain and misery, Jason tried to say her name, but only made a gurgling, rasping sound. It was the last sound he made. But he was given some comfort by it, by Andrea’s beautiful face, which was the last thing he ever saw—even if it was only in his mind’s eye.

  44

  At the Laramie House

  The black night shimmered with the rainfall that slashed through it. When Hurley got out of his SUV, the first thing he heard was a high, lingering howl in the distance. He stood in the rain and looked around.

  Some cruisers had already arrived. Others were driving up and stopping. As he walked away from the SUV, Hurley saw Fargo approaching him under an umbrella.

  “Even if this is the den, Sheriff,” Fargo said, “chances are it’s empty right now. They’re out hunting and feeding. But tell me—what makes you think this is the den?”

  “One of the werewolves told me.” Hurley frowned up at the house and his chest became tight, his throat constricted slightly.

  I’m going to have to go in there, he thought with dread.

  Fargo stepped closer to him. “You ... you talked to one of the werewolves?”

  “Remember Jason Sutherland? The boy who came into my office with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Him. He came to my house. Tried to kill me. I shot him. While he was dying, he told me the den was here.”

  Fargo looked away a moment, his eyes narrowing. “That poor boy.”

  “Sheriff.”

  Hurley turned around to face Deputy Gwen Parma. She was tall and slender, her blonde hair cut short beneath her rain-protected cap.

  “What is it, Deputy?”

  “There’s a car across the street. Looks like a recent accident. It hit a tree. Someone went through the windshield, a woman. She’s lying dead a few yards away.”

  “Okay. Why don’t you take care of that while we deal with the house.”

  “It seems she was the passenger, though,” Deputy Parma said. “We can’t find the driver.”

  “Hm. All right, it’s all yours, Parma.”

  She turned and walked away.

  Hurley turned to Fargo again. “So, you’re pretty sure they’re not in there?”

  “Not right now,” Fargo said. “They’re nocturnal, Sheriff. They’re on the hunt. And when they’re done hunting and feeding for the night, there’s no guarantee they’ll come back here. They have homes to go back to, human lives to return to during the day. The only assurance we have is that the alpha male will return here—if this is his den.”

  Hurley sighed. “Then we’ll wait for him.” He turned to Fargo and said, “I can’t let you get involved in this.”

  “I’m not asking you,” Fargo said. “I’m insisting.”

  “I’ve already endangered you enough tonight, Mr. Fargo. I’ll have a deputy take you back to your car.” He added firmly, “Whether you want to go or not. This isn’t up to you. This is dangerous, and you’re not a member of this department.”

  “Then deputize me.”

  Hurley chuckled. “This isn’t a western.”

  “Sheriff, this man helped kill my family. I’ve spent years searching for him. I’ve crossed the country to your little town to find him and—”

  “And now you’ll let me deal with him. You’re the one who came to me, remember? Now I’m going to do my job. We’re going to handle this my way.”

  Fargo opened his mouth to speak again, but said nothing. His chin worked back and forth as rain pattered on his umbrella. He did not move.

  “You have no idea what I’ve been through tonight, Mr. Fargo,” Hurley said, his voice trembling slightly. “Don’t push me. I’m not in the mood for it.” He called Deputy Mark Selwyn over. “Take Mr. Fargo back to his car at the station. Then I want you
to follow him back to his hotel. Once he’s situated, you can come back here.”

  The deputy nodded, then turned to Fargo.

  “I’ll come back, Sheriff,” Fargo said. “On my own.”

  “And I’ll have you arrested.” When Hurley spoke again, it was through clenched teeth. “Don’t fuck with me, Fargo, not now, not tonight. I’m serious. Go back to your hotel. I’ll call you when it’s all over.”

  “What if you don’t call? What if you can’t?”

  Hurley shrugged. “Then you’ll know something went wrong. Go on, now. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Reluctantly, Fargo followed the deputy through the rain to a cruiser.

  Within the next minutes, Hurley instructed the team of deputies to surround the house and remain as concealed as possible. Only if the werewolves, or anyone else, approached were they to use their radios. Hurley contacted Shelly back at the station and instructed her to maintain radio silence until further notice—any incoming calls were to be handled by the team of deputies remaining at the station. He chose three deputies—Kopechne, Walt Lucas, and T.J. Sanford—to go inside the house with him.

  He knew there was no way to hide all the cruisers parked in front of the house—upon arriving, he’d instructed his deputies to turn off all the roof lights and kill the engines and headlights, but the cars themselves were plainly visible. It bothered him, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He had to hope that any werewolves approaching the house would be confident and arrogant enough to see no threat in the presence of police.

  Again, Hurley looked at the house. A heavy, slightly nauseating feeling of dread moved through his insides. Images and feelings from his boyhood experience with the house crept through his mind like thieves.

  He clenched his teeth and pushed the thoughts away. He had no choice. He would have to go in.

  * * * *

  As Deputy Selwyn drove away, Fargo’s eyes stayed on the big run-down old house, at its black, empty windows. He turned his head to watch it through the rain as Selwyn drove by, then looked over his shoulder to peer through the metal mesh divider separating the front and back of the cruiser and out the back window as the house grew smaller in the distance.

  He felt helpless. He had no evidence other than Hurley’s assurance that the house was indeed the den of the alpha male. Hurley had a lot of deputies with him, but Fargo knew how little that mattered if the alpha male returned with the pack, or even merely a segment of the pack. He could not shake a feeling of urgency, a sense that he should do something—but Hurley would not allow it.

  “What hotel you staying in?” the deputy said.

  “It appears there are no hotels in Big Rock,” Fargo said, distracted. “I’m staying at the Beachcomber Motor Lodge.” Lost in his thoughts, Fargo barely heard the deputy’s next question. Finally, he turned and said, “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  “I said, is it nice?” Deputy Selwyn said.

  Fargo nodded silently, and a moment later, he muttered, “Yes, sure.”

  As the deputy drove them back to the station, Fargo chewed on his lower lip, frowning and worrying about Sheriff Hurley, the large team of deputies, and everyone in the town of Big Rock.

  * * * *

  “Sheriff, look at this.”

  Hurley stepped up onto the creaky porch in front of the house and looked down at the spot where Deputy Kopechne was shining his flashlight. The porch roof had kept the wooden porch mostly dry, but there was a dark puddle in front of the door, surrounded by other dark spots. Hurley moved his flashlight and looked beyond the dark spots.

  “Prints,” Hurley said quietly. “In what appears to be blood.”

  “Prints?” Kopechne said, frowning. “You’re sure?”

  “Yep. Footprints. Not human, but definitely footprints. Everybody be careful—don’t step in this blood.”

  Hurley moved around the blood and went to the front door ahead of the deputies. It had not been completely closed and stood open an inch or so. He thought of the last time he’d stood before the door. It had seemed so much bigger back then—Hurley had been only a boy, so everything was bigger then. Now, the door was old and rotting and not at all threatening. But it did not calm the anxiety he felt in his chest.

  “I know nobody lives here,” Kopechne said, “but, uh ... what about a warrant, Sheriff?”

  Hurley said, “Which judge do you think will most likely be willing to sign a warrant allowing us to come in here and search for werewolves?”

  Kopechne nodded. “You’ve got a point.”

  “Don’t worry,” Hurley said, “I’ll take full responsibility for this.” He put the flashlight in his left hand and drew his gun. The deputies did the same. The beam of the sheriff’s flashlight preceded them into the dark house.

  Hurley expected to encounter the smell of mold and decay that he remembered from his first visit to the house. Instead, he curled his nose at the same rank, gamey odor he’d smelled in his own bedroom earlier, where he’d found Ella.

  Oh, Jesus, he thought, Ella, poor Ella, what am I going to do with Ella, what am I going to—

  There was another smell in the house, too, also familiar—blood.

  “Stinks in here,” Sanford muttered.

  Their feet crunched over grit and broken glass, and the wooden floor creaked and popped as they slowly moved forward and spread out. The constant whisper of rainfall came from outside. From somewhere in the house came the steady plinking of dripping water.

  “Oh, shit,” Lucas said, his voice breaking. “Sheriff.”

  Hurley turned and his flashlight beam fell on a lumpy, jagged hump that glistened with moisture on the floor. It took a moment to understand what he was seeing—the remains of a human being. Tattered clothes, ripped flesh, jagged fractured bones that jutted upward from the torn, broken mass, all surrounded by puddled and spattered blood. A foot away lay a roundish object in another puddle of blood—the victim’s head, its mouth yawning open. The ravaging of the victim had taken place recently—the blood had just begun to grow thick and tacky.

  The odor, the blood on the porch, now this, Hurley thought. Jason was right—this is the den.

  Hurley moved deeper into the house, sweeping his light back and forth until it fell on the old rotted couch. He came to a stop and stared silently at it. It had collapsed in the middle. It was hidden beneath a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. There at the left end of the couch sat what remained of the figure that had haunted so many of his nightmares, that had stirred such terror in him as a boy. It hardly appeared to have been human now—a crumbling pile of old clothes and bones, its head having fallen into what once had been its lap.

  “What the hell is that?” Lucas said.

  Hurley stared at it silently for awhile, then sighed. “It’s been here a long time. I’ve seen it before. Once, when I was a little boy and came in here on a dare. Probably a transient. Some bum who came in here for shelter a long time ago and died, maybe. I don’t know.” Seeing it now was somehow calming. The boogeyman was not so menacing after all—little more than a pile of sticks and the remains of rotten fabric. He turned away from it and faced his deputies. “Let’s move through the house,” he said quietly. “Kopechne, come upstairs with me. You guys look around down here. Be careful, and keep your eyes and ears open. Anything happens, don’t hesitate to shout. Or shoot.”

  The stairs were rickety, and Hurley and Kopechne kept their flashlight beams on the steps ahead of them to avoid any that were broken. At the top were two hallways—one straight ahead, and a shorter one to the right. Hurley nodded his head to direct Kopechne to the right, while he went on ahead.

  Other than the rainfall, the dripping, and the creaking floors, the house was silent.

  The upstairs rooms held only a few dusty, rotten pieces of furniture. In one room there was a filthy mattress on the floor, some blood-stained bones that looked human, and fresh. Was this where Irving Taggart had been staying? Had he brought back some food from the hunt? Something
to snack on? If so, Taggart was not in the house now. As Fargo had said, he was out hunting with the others, feeding.

  That means people are dying, Hurley thought. And I’m here doing nothing about it.

  He left the room and headed back toward the stairs. Kopechne appeared ahead of him and said, “This place is empty.”

  Hurley nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I expected. They’ve—”

  An agonized scream cut through the rainfall outside, followed by a gunshot. Then more screams, more gunfire.

  For a moment, Hurley and Kopechne were paralyzed where they stood.

  A deep, animal roar sounded out there, followed by another.

  Then a howl.

  The night outside erupted in a cacophony of screams and cries and gunfire.

  Hurley threw himself forward and skipped steps on the way down the stairs. On the ground floor, Sanford and Lucas were already headed for the front door.

  Outside, the sounds of pain and fear—and the menacing growls of the werewolves—came from every direction, all around the house. Hurley did not know where to go first.

  No one had transmitted a warning on the radio—whatever had happened had happened suddenly, unexpectedly.

  Hurley stumbled to a halt at the foot of the front porch steps.

  Just beyond the cruisers parked at the edge of the road, touched by the glow of a streetlight a short distance to the right down the road, tall figures moved forward steadily—very tall, hulking, casting long shadows over the glimmering wet pavement. They came from the woods across the street.

  Hurley raised his gun and fired once, twice, a third time—but the figures that had been there were gone in a heartbeat. They were no longer straight ahead of him, but coming in from the right and left.

  The shrieks and cries of his deputies surrounded the house.

  Hurley darted to the right, rushed around the corner of the house, and nearly ran into a deputy kneeling on the ground. Hurley could not tell who it was at first—in the beam of his flashlight, the face was dark with blood, and a flap of skin dangled from the right cheek. Then the sheriff recognized Deputy Alan Stark.