Wolf Land

by Jonathan Janz

He was also sure he’d heard Weezer last night. Not his voice, but the sound of his breathing through the closed door. On top of that there’d been another sound, a subtler sound, and once Glenn had honed in on it, there’d been no mistaking it. The problem was, he knew it couldn’t be what he thought it was.

  It wasn’t possible to hear someone’s heartbeat, was it? Through a locked door? If it hadn’t spooked Glenn so much, he would have chuckled at how much it was like that old Edgar Allan Poe tale.

  But Glenn wasn’t laughing. Not at Weezer’s apartment, and certainly not on the way home. He judged he’d been about a mile outside town when the ’Vette ran down a possum. He had been imagining Savannah, naked. But rather than Savannah as she really was, this had been an alternate version of Savannah. A bushy-haired, long-toothed Savannah. Like a Savannah from the left side of the evolution chart. But in his vision, the musk emanating from her crotch had been so intoxicating that he’d run down the possum without even realizing what he’d hit. It was only on performing a U-turn that he identified the animal.

  By that time it was dead.

  Furthermore, it was split wide open, its intestines strung out all over County Road 400. Glenn knew he should have been appalled by this gruesome sight, but for reasons beyond his understanding, the glistening entrails made him salivate with hunger. Impulsively, he’d scooped up the intestine string and bitten into it. There was shit inside it, but there was blood too, which drove him crazy. Before Glenn knew what was happening, he was ripping open the possum’s belly and burying his face in the pinkish-red innards.

  It had been incredible, the thrill even more sexual than his autoerotic behavior in the backyard.

  Yet when he’d returned to the ’Vette, slathered in possum blood and chunks of fur, and beheld his face in the mirror, he had looked like…

  Himself. Whatever the internal changes were, he looked the same as he always had. He wasn’t changing into anything.

  So he could eliminate all the full moon horror movie bullshit from the list of possibilities. Yes, he was acting like a wild animal, but he was decidedly not a wild animal. He might be a carnivorous, masturbating possum eater, but he was still Glenn Kershaw.

  But he sure as hell would not be going into the machine shop tonight. Let his coworkers pull their weight for a change. Glenn needed to get some sleep. He needed to get his head on straight. He also needed to see Weezer. Whatever was wrong with Glenn, he had the unshakable feeling that something much more troubling was occurring in that squalid second-story apartment.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After two days of being interviewed by the police, and after making the difficult decision to avoid the funerals of their classmates later that week, Duane decided that what he and Savannah needed was a diversion. Though it was Wednesday morning and the wounded survivors had all been released from Lakeview Memorial, neither Glenn nor Weezer would respond to Duane’s texts. It nagged at him, but he figured they were also trying to put the experience behind them and dealing with the trauma in their own ways.

  Duane was sure as hell traumatized.

  But very few towns this size, Duane reasoned, contained their own amusement parks, so they might as well use it. Though Beach Land was closer to a traveling carnival than a major theme park, it was nonetheless a diverting way to spend a day. The boardwalk, which fronted the lake, was maybe three hundred yards long and crammed with shops, food stands, and games engineered to steal your money. Inland, the park encroached another hundred-and-fifty yards, with a deep bay eating into the southern end. Beach Land had five decent roller coasters, another dozen rides, and one of the best haunted houses Duane had ever seen. The northern end of Beach Land boasted a respectable water park, with four tortuous water slides, the Lazy River, a kiddie area, and, of course, a sandy beach. Adjacent to the water park were the arcade, numerous food stands and restaurants, and an open-air bar called The Roof where famous rock bands used to play.

  Not bad, Duane thought, for a town of only ten thousand people.

  So when he’d asked Savannah to spend the day at Beach Land, Duane had counted on it being the three of them—him, Savannah and her boy. But when Savannah had invited Joyce along, he found it difficult not to let on how disappointed he was, how psyched up he’d been to show her the way things could be.

  See, Savannah? he’d been thinking. Just because you’re not married yet, that doesn’t mean you and Jake can’t enjoy all the benefits and security of a loving nuclear family. I might not look like the traditional leading man, but I’m smart and I’m steady and I care a lot about both of you. Granted, Jake doesn’t know me that well, but when he does, he’ll take a shine to me. I can just about guarantee it.

  Except Jake scarcely made eye contact with him. From the moment they entered the park, Jake had been grafted to Savannah like a full-leg tattoo, the boy so clingy with his mom that Duane and Joyce might as well not have been present.

  Which left Duane to make small talk to Joyce.

  Not that he disliked her, of course, and not that he held her presence against her. How could she know the whole day was part of Duane’s elaborate plot to marry Savannah? But not only was Joyce not the woman around whom his plans revolved, she was also far less engaged than she ordinarily was.

  At the merry-go-round in Turtle Cove, the area for younger children:

  “Hey, you look great, Joyce. You must be a quick healer.”

  Joyce going pale.

  Duane shifting from foot to foot. “Not that you looked bad before.”

  In line for the Ferris wheel:

  “How are things at the library? People checking out more werewolf books this week?”

  Joyce arching an eyebrow at him.

  “Yeah,” he said, scuffing the pavement. “It’s probably too soon to joke about it.”

  While they dropped popcorn into the teeming swarms of giant carp that congregated around a bend in the boardwalk, a foul, stagnant area so crammed with the giant brown fish that Duane felt as though he were watching a nature show about the Amazon River basin:

  “Jeez. I’d hate to be the guy that slipped and fell into that.”

  Joyce eating her popcorn, her eyes glazed and unseeing.

  Duane glancing at Savannah and Jake about ten feet down the boardwalk, Savannah holding the bag of popcorn, Jake tossing individual puffs into the water. Jake leaning out between the rails a bit too far for Duane’s liking. “I hope Savannah’s got quick reflexes,” he murmured.

  Joyce still saying nothing.

  Duane, testing her: “I think I’ll strip naked and dangle my private parts for the carp to nibble.”

  Joyce, without looking up: “The popcorn would probably make more of a meal.”

  Duane thinking, At least she still has a sense of humor.

  After they’d grabbed lunch, Jake wanted to ride the merry-go-round again. Duane couldn’t blame him; the carousel was surprisingly large and ornate, given the relatively pitiful scale and drabness of the rest of the park.

  Savannah started to nod and take Jake’s hand, but Duane said, “Maybe Joyce can go with him, and you and I can check out the Devil’s Lair.”

  Savannah eyed him. “You joking?”

  Duane smiled. “Why not? I haven’t been inside since we were teenagers.”

  Jake had wandered over to inspect a blown-glass display in one of the many shop windows.

  Savannah turned and eyed the upper reaches of the Devil’s Lair. “Haunted houses creep me out.”

  Duane shrugged. “I’ll be with you.”

  He knew he was in danger of overplaying his hand. Savannah might take his desire to split up the wrong way—Why are you trying to get rid of Jake? Worse, the kid might look at Duane as the guy attempting to steal his mom. Duane knew Jake was perceptive, and he knew the bond between a single mother and her child could be fierce. What if his Devil’s Lair request had alienat
ed both mother and child in one fell swoop?

  He glanced at Joyce, hoping she’d help him out a little, but she still appeared lost in her own world.

  “…not sure,” Savannah was saying. She turned to Joyce. “What do you think? Do you mind looking after Jake for a little while?”

  Joyce gave a faint nod. “Be happy to.” She extended a hand, moved toward Jake. “Come on, pal.”

  His eyes still on a glass swan, Jake nodded and permitted Joyce to lead him away.

  Watching them go, Savannah said, “You think they’ll be okay? She’s a zombie today.”

  “Glad you noticed it too,” Duane said. “I assumed I’d offended her.”

  Savannah ambled toward the Devil’s Lair. “You have said some pretty dumb things today.”

  “It’s her silence,” he said, struggling to keep the plaintive note out of his voice. “I get nervous when people don’t talk.”

  “What’s wrong with silence?” Savannah said. “It’s not a bad thing to be content sometimes.”

  He shot her a look as they drifted into the shadows beneath the overhang. To their left was an Old West shooting gallery inset on the eastern side of the Devil’s Lair. To their right was the ticket booth.

  “I’m not content,” he heard himself saying.

  She glanced up at him. “Meaning?”

  He colored, grateful for the shadows enshrouding them. Because, though he knew exactly what he meant, he wasn’t remotely comfortable verbalizing the rest to her.

  See, Savannah, I used to be content—no, that’s not the right word. I used to be resigned. Yes, resigned to my lot in life: An overqualified technology director for a rural school system. Overweight. Single. Definitely on the geeky side when it comes to my taste in movies and books. Clothes not very stylish. I was resigned to remaining single.

  But I’m not resigned anymore. Not since the bonfire. Not since both of us almost died.

  “Duane?” Savannah said, an edge to her voice.

  He started, realized she’d said his name a couple times already.

  “Sorry?” he said.

  She smiled, nodded at an older lady with gray hair and a puckered mouth who eyed them from the ticket booth. “She needs ten dollars. I spent my last cash on popcorn.”

  Duane extricated his wallet from his back pocket. “Isn’t this covered by our wristbands?”

  “The Devil’s Lair is not a pay-one-price attraction,” the gray-haired lady said in a brittle monotone.

  Duane opened his wallet. “Can you break a fifty?”

  “No,” the lady answered.

  He sighed, began counting out bills. “I hope you don’t mind a bunch of ones.”

  The lady didn’t answer.

  When he’d counted out enough bills and exchanged them for a pair of hand stamps, he said, “I guess I won’t be going to the strip clubs tonight.”

  Walking toward the holding area, a space about twenty feet by fifteen, Savannah said, “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

  “Do what?”

  “Make bad jokes to impress me.”

  Stung, he stopped next to her and glanced about the semidarkness of the holding area. There was fluorescent yellow paint scrawled on the black walls. The messages ranged from the hokey—Abandon hope all ye who enter here—to the disquieting—Guests with pacemakers and/or heart conditions should exit immediately. The exit was marked with glowing red letters.

  Loud voices sounded from their left, more people entering the Devil’s Lair. Duane sighed.

  “Disappointed?” Savannah asked.

  “It’s scarier when there’s no one else around.”

  “I figured you wanted to put the moves on me.”

  Duane’s throat went dry. In truth, the idea hadn’t occurred to him.

  He glanced beyond her and saw the group of college-age kids headed their way. And since Savannah was looking that way too, Duane decided to study the part of her face he could see. The skin of her neck. The hint of cleavage showing above her blue shirt.

  What if I do put the moves on you? he wondered. What if I show you just how much the bonfire changed me? Because I’m tired of being resigned. The bonfire was a wake-up call. A smack in the face reminding me that life is short and I’m wasting mine. So maybe I will put the moves on you, Savannah. Maybe I’ll even do it with these giggling idiots right beside us. And if you slap me, you slap me. At least I’ll know I tried.

  There were four guys and two girls. All the guys—even the one with his arm around a girl’s waist—had noticed Savannah. But one in particular was leering at her.

  “Hey, sweetie,” he said to Savannah. Like Duane wasn’t standing there.

  “She’s with me,” Duane said.

  The guy squinted at him. “You her uncle?”

  Duane rummaged through a dozen withering retorts. The guy was probably twenty-two or twenty-three and was attired in a yellow Stephen Curry basketball jersey and jeans hanging so low that a good bit of his plaid boxer shorts showed over the waistband. The guy’s head was blond and close-shaved, and his arms were banded with muscle.

  “I’m her friend,” was the only thing Duane could think to say.

  The blond guy grinned. “Friend.”

  “Boyfriend,” Savannah corrected.

  Without ceremony, she threaded her fingers through Duane’s and stared at the closed elevator doors. The jerk subsided, muttering something unintelligible.

  Without turning, she whispered, “Bet you didn’t think I’d be putting the moves on you, did you?”

  Duane tried not to fall to his knees and give praise.

  The elevator doors opened. She gave his hand a squeeze, and they went inside. The college-age kids crowded in after them.

  Duane barely noticed the middle-aged man who entered the elevator last.

  The top floor was more about the buildup than the payoff. Kind of like Duane’s sex life.

  He’d experienced an electrifying thrill at the touch of Savannah’s hand in the holding room, but he’d begun to worry about his palms sweating as the elevator made its slow climb to the fifth floor. Savannah spared him the worry after they exited the elevator, perhaps figuring it was unnecessary to keep up the boyfriend ruse in the lightless corridor.

  Because they’d entered the elevator first, they exited last, which meant they should have been the rear members of their group. But somehow, the middle-aged guy had ended up behind them.

  And that totally screwed up Duane’s plan.

  Of course, he didn’t really believe he’d be able to do anything meaningful with Savannah in the haunted house, not with her son in the same amusement park, not with people constantly passing through. And, of course, there was the small fact that she’d demonstrated zero physical attraction to him.

  But he thought maybe, if the conditions were perfect, and if she found herself in a magnanimous mood, and if her earlier show of good will had involved something more than a desire to tell off the blond-haired jerk, he’d thought maybe he could steal a kiss.

  But not with the bespectacled man behind them.

  How the guy had ended up back there, Duane had no idea. One moment the elevator doors were opening into darkness, the next the group of college-age kids were spilling out and making enough racket to disturb even the old hag down in the ticket booth. Duane hadn’t noticed the other man at all, but he must have slipped sideways out the elevator doors, waited for Duane and Savannah to pass, then emerged from his hiding place to follow them. From overhead speakers Duane heard spooky organ music, the occasional chortle of some fiendish madman.

  Duane glanced back and beheld the figure moving slowly through the weak greenish light.

  Goose bumps rose on Duane’s arms.

  He couldn’t help thinking of the bonfire.

  “Look,” Savannah said, crowding closer
to him. He glanced ahead and saw, illuminated by a flickering orange sconce, a pair of hands protruding from the wall. The sextet ahead of them had just reached the protruding hands. The blond guy said something to a shaggy-haired friend, apparently egging him on. The shaggy-haired guy took one of the hands as if to shake it, but at that moment both arms shot toward him, driving him back against the girls.

  “What the hell?” the shaggy-haired guy shouted, and his companions all laughed uproariously. All except the girl he’d slammed into. She was slapping him on the arm and muttering curses.

  Duane and Savannah waited until the group was far ahead of them, then sidled around the groping arms, which had begun to recede into the wall. Ahead, the hallway angled left, and just before they made the turn, Duane glanced back to see if the groping hands had claimed the middle-aged man.

  But there was no sign of him.

  “He still back there?” Savannah asked.

  Duane shook his head. “No clue.”

  She chewed her bottom lip. “He didn’t look dangerous.”

  “Looked like a serial killer.”

  She smacked him on the chest. “Short Pump!”

  “Well, that’s how they all look, isn’t it? Gacy? The BTK Killer? Ted Bundy? They looked like regular guys. Like insurance salesmen or English teachers.”

  “Bundy was handsome.”

  “That’s a weird thing to say.”

  “It’s true,” she said. “Just because he killed people—”

  “And ate them.”

  “—doesn’t mean he wasn’t good-looking.”

  They were quiet a moment, staring into the pooled darkness behind them.

  Duane whispered, “Where the hell did he go?”

  “To get his silverware?”

  He grunted breathless laughter. “Jesus, Savannah.”

  “You love it,” she said.

  Their faces were eighteen inches apart, the dim orange glow glinting in her blue eyes. There was no movement in the corridor. He could smell her perfume, though he had no idea what the scent was called.

  Duane found it difficult to breathe.

  She searched his face, smiled—a little sadly?—and said, “Let’s get moving.”