Wolf Land

by Jonathan Janz

  “You know how you like to do it to her,” Father Bridwell said softly.

  Donny’s grin broadened. Melody felt like throwing up. After violating her the traditional way, Donny was fond of penetrating her anally. She’d once needed medical attention, it had been so bad. Amid the bleeding and the crying she’d had to repeat the lie over and over again to the nurses, I don’t know the guys who did it. They just grabbed me in the parking lot and took me into a field. But the nurses, they’d known. She’d been sure of it. They’d known, and even worse, they’d been disgusted by her silence, disgusted by her cowardice, her unwillingness to divulge the truth.

  Melody’s fingers bunched into fists.

  “Get the branch,” her father said to Donny. “Fir’s good for giving splinters.”

  Melody was shaking.

  Her dad’s eyes narrowed. “Why’re you growling, girl?”

  Melody realized she was growling, but it wasn’t her, didn’t sound like her one bit. She glanced down and discovered her forearms were sprouting hair.

  “What the hell are you doing, Mel?” Donny asked.

  And glancing up at her brothers, even John looked scared. Melody felt like something was twisting inside her, ripping her bones and organs apart. She crawled forward, the sweat pattering on the dust, and moving in that fashion was good because it kept her hairy arms concealed by the dust clouds, and even better, it kept her face down. Because her face felt strange.

  Yet moving on all fours was oddly natural. She clambered faster. She reached her brothers, who parted for her, and she crashed into the sheet metal wall down at the bent part, and the base of the wall split, and she shoved through, the flesh of her shoulders sheared by the split metal, and then they were calling after her, but she was accelerating, nearing the bean field, and it was dark enough now she could move faster, and then she was hurrying away from the voices.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Savannah bent over, retrieved the remote control. As she did, the neck of her blue tank top drooped open, and Duane caught a glimpse of the breasts beneath. No bra that he could see. He forced his eyes back to the screen, where the mummy was trying to suck out someone’s soul.

  “You could make it less obvious,” Savannah said.

  Duane glanced at her, face blank. “Huh?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  Duane blushed, fearing he did know what she was talking about. “You don’t like the movie?”

  “At least I’m watching the movie.”

  “Uh…”

  “Yeah,” she snapped. “Uh.”

  He set his beer on the stand beside him. “Hey, Savannah, I didn’t mean to—”

  “The hell you didn’t,” she said, loud enough he worried she might wake her son.

  Duane felt very small all of a sudden, as though his mother had caught him looking at Playboy. “I didn’t mean to…” he trailed off, the force of Savannah’s withering stare robbing him of speech.

  “Didn’t mean to what? Ogle me?”

  “That’s a harsh choice of words.”

  “All you see is tits and ass.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is true. You, Glenn, my boss. You’re all a bunch of pricks.”

  “Take it easy.”

  “No, you take it easy. I got called into Tom Carroll’s office last week and spent twenty minutes with him staring at my hooters.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  She jabbed an index finger at him. “You just did the same thing!”

  He opened his mouth, shut it. Her glare was like a heat lamp. Duane tried to meet it but felt himself shriveling.

  There was a silence.

  Finally, Duane said, “Why’d Carroll call you in?”

  “He warned me for missing so much work.”

  “Have you been?”

  “What do you care?”

  He blinked at her. “I care.”

  Savannah rolled her eyes. “You’re so typical.”

  “Now listen,” he said. “I’m sick and tired of you generalizing.”

  Savannah gave him a challenging look. “Prove I’m wrong.”

  “I have proven it,” he said.

  “Tell me you don’t want to get in my pants.”

  “Of course I want to get in your pants!”

  “See?” she snapped. “You’re—”

  “You want generalizations? How about all the women who shoehorn every man in the world into the same unflattering mold? You don’t even give a guy a chance.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s true. I’ve been good to you, Savannah. I’ve treated you like an honest-to-goodness person.”

  “With big tits.”

  “You know how you’ve been treating me?”

  “This should be good.”

  “It isn’t good,” he said. “It’s horrible and it’s unfair. You’ve been treating me like I’m some sort of wolf who only thinks of sex.”

  “Do you have to use that animal?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” He rose, began pacing. “A walking libido, that’s how you see me. That’s how you see all men. Because that’s the way you’ve been treated.”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “It is my business, Savannah. It’s certainly my business because I’ve been the one who’s treated you with respect. When Mike ditched you for the big leagues—”

  “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “—I was the one who stayed behind, the one who held you while you bawled.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And you did it all out of the kindness of your heart, didn’t you? You didn’t have any ulterior motive.”

  “Yep, I just wanted to screw you. You’re just a life-support system for a vagina to me. Because that’s all any guy wants. No matter what he does, all guys are evil sex maniacs.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You don’t have to say it, Savannah. You live it. When the truth is you’re the superficial one.”

  Her mouth fell open and she uttered a breathless little laugh.

  Duane nodded vigorously. “Blasphemy, isn’t it? How dare I imply that a woman might choose a man based on her sexual desires? Because you’re above that. All of you are.”

  “Who’s generalizing now?”

  “I am, Savannah, and it’s to make a goddamned point.”

  “If there’s a point somewhere in all this yelling, I’m not hearing it.”

  “Because you aren’t listening. Because what I’m saying is so foreign to you that considering it would be akin to considering the possibility that witches and goblins exist.”

  “What in the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about me. And you. And just because I also happen to be attracted to you doesn’t make me a bad person. Both genders can be assholes, Savannah. And both genders can be good people.”

  “And you’re the latter, I assume?”

  “I don’t know what I am, but I do know I’ve been good to you.” Duane snatched up his Cubs cap. “And I’ll keep being good to you no matter how much you shit on me.”

  For the first time, some of Savannah’s hardness seemed to abate. “That’s not fair.”

  “You’re right, it isn’t fair. Your bar for me is impossibly high, you realize that? I can be good to you for years, and then the moment my eyes wander a little, you act like I’m a lecherous monster.”

  “Short Pump—”

  “And in case you hadn’t noticed it, you happen to be smoking hot.”

  She folded her arms. “That makes it okay?”

  “That makes it hard to not look at you, sure.”

  “So we’re back to that old argument,” she said. Her voice went lower, her brow furrowed. “‘I can’t help it, h
oney. I’m a guy, and guys just gotta have it.’”

  “Oh no,” Duane said. “All guys should be monastic and bloodless and never, ever make the mistake of looking at a woman.”

  “Fine,” she said, shivering and pushing her hair back over her ears. “Let’s just watch the rest of the movie, okay?”

  “As a matter of fact, it’s not okay.” Duane jerked on his ball cap. “Have a good night.” He strode toward the door.

  “Short Pump,” she called.

  He let the door slam, moved down the walk toward his pickup.

  The door banged open behind him.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she shouted. “You could have woken Jake.”

  “That’d be fitting,” he said, “since I’m the one who got him to sleep.”

  He turned at his truck door and saw her expression cloud.

  “How’d you do it?” she asked.

  “I read him about a dozen stories,” he said and got into his Silverado. He started the pick-up.

  She frowned. “That’s why you took so long?”

  “What’d you think,” he said, shoving the gearshift into drive, “that I was in there explaining how all women are pieces of meat?”

  “Come on, Short Pump. I didn’t mean—”

  But the rest was lost as he drove away. He told himself not to glance in the rearview mirror as the pickup gained speed, but he did anyway. Savannah was standing by the road, her arms folded. God, she looked beautiful even now, with the moonlight silvering her brown skin and her long hair stirring a little in the breeze.

  Duane detached his eyes from the mirror before he could be mesmerized by her.

  Too late, a voice in his head murmured. You’re permanently mesmerized by her.

  He wanted to argue, but he couldn’t. What he could do was get back some of his self-respect, and if that meant driving away from her, so be it. And anyway, she and Jake would be all right on their own. She’d lock all the doors and make sure the windows were fastened.

  That beast is still out there, a voice reminded him. And it’s sure as hell stronger than any doors or windows.

  “They’re fine,” he muttered, casting another glance in the mirror.

  But his nerves had begun to thrum. The farther he got from Savannah’s, the tinier her house seemed. In the daytime her street was full of kids on bikes, and cars moving ceaselessly up and down. But now, in the darkness of late evening, the houses seemed vulnerable, insignificant. The cornfields surrounding the subdivision swished and undulated, the stalks abnormally high for early June.

  Duane eyed the fields with mounting disquiet. Anything could be hiding in there.

  He swallowed. Thought of the man in the Devil’s Lair today.

  Duane would go home, take a shower and try to read himself to sleep.

  But if sleep wouldn’t come, maybe, just maybe he’d drive by Savannah’s to check on her and Jake.

  Just to be on the safe side.

  Chapter Sixteen

  God, Glenn loved the drive-in.

  He had since he was a kid. First, there were the movies. True, he no longer paid much attention to those, but the mere presence of a film on that big white screen was like occupying the large fenced space with an old friend. Some of Glenn’s favorite movies had been drive-in discoveries. Superhero movies. Big adventure flicks. And horror films. With a friend like Short Pump, there were always horror films.

  It was sort of a relief not to have Short Pump here tonight. Glenn felt uncomfortable about the prospect of hanging out with him, but it wasn’t until today that he’d realized why.

  Glenn understood how anomalous his own behavior had been. The running naked. The masturbating. Even that episode with the possum. Despite the fact that he knew Short Pump knew nothing of his recent weirdness, that still didn’t prevent Glenn from being wary of him.

  Because Short Pump was perceptive. Oh, he might grin and laugh at everyone’s jokes and generally play the part of the harmless buffoon, but underneath all that was a razor-sharp mind. And if he and Short Pump talked long enough, Glenn was sure his friend would figure out all he’d been up to.

  So for now…let the big guy hang out with Savannah. It would give Short Pump something to fantasize about.

  On the other hand, if Short Pump were here, Glenn might not feel so edgy about Weezer.

  But he did. There was no doubt about that.

  Glenn heard Weezer coming before he spotted him. Or his truck rather. He knew Weezer couldn’t afford a new truck, but man, that old Ford Ranger was a babe repellant if ever there was one. If Weezer had a lot more on the ball, maybe the truck wouldn’t have mattered. But a guy like that, he needed all the advantages he could get. And a rusty beat-up truck that wasn’t all that nice to begin with was not helping matters at all.

  Glenn glanced uneasily at Mya and Rebecca, the two tourists he’d picked up this evening. He’d met them, fittingly enough, at the liquor store. And he figured it would take a hell of a lot of liquor to coerce either of them to sleep with Weezer.

  Just as he suspected, the bright-eyed, up-for-anything expressions that had been plastered on the girls’ faces only thirty seconds ago were now shifting into looks of concern and disappointment.

  Weezer’s red Ranger crept down the thoroughfare, drawing the stares of a good many people standing around talking in the twilight. Most of the people gripped red or blue plastic cups, which were no doubt full of mixed drinks, but a few were taking fewer pains to conceal their alcohol consumption. A guy in a White Sox jersey was sipping from a flask, and one of his crew was guzzling from a beer can inside a black huggie.

  “Is that your friend?” Mya asked as Weezer’s pickup turned onto their lane.

  Glenn maintained a neutral expression. “His car’s in the shop. He just keeps the Ranger around for running errands.”

  Mya nodded. Glenn cursed himself. The lie was simple enough, but it was one that could easily come back to haunt him. He’d need to pull Weezer aside, communicate this vital bit of information, and that would require hurting Weezer’s feelings. Shit.

  The one named Rebecca took a step past Glenn. “Is he wearing…is that an eye patch?” she asked.

  Glenn sighed, wishing he’d thought to prepare the girls for this.

  “Is he a pirate or something?” Mya asked.

  Glenn looked from girl to girl and realized his earlier assessment of them had been flawed. Ever since Mya had told him her favorite drink was Jack and Coke back at the liquor store, he’d been sure she would be the one he’d end up boning. Not that Rebecca was hideous or anything, but she seemed more reserved, the tougher nut to crack. Plus, she was a trifle bigger than Mya, and those rare times when Weezer had managed to seal the deal with a girl, the poor victim had invariably been on the hefty side. It made no sense to Glenn—Weezer was so skinny he seemed constructed of pipe cleaners—but the ways of men and women were mysterious, and it was always the porkers who allowed Weezer to get his carrot wet.

  “Is he?” Mya asked as the Ranger crunched to a stop in the space next to the ’Vette.

  “Is he what?” Glenn asked.

  “A pirate?”

  Glenn sat on the urge to tell her to fuck herself. It wasn’t just the repetition of the bad joke that nettled him—it was the self-satisfied smirk Mya wore as she repeated it. Like Glenn and Weezer weren’t friends. Like losing an eye was the funniest thing in the world. Ha ha, you’re right, Mya! Let’s all swab the poop deck and search for buried treasure!

  Fucking bitch.

  “Want another beer?” Rebecca asked.

  Glenn glanced over at her. He’d been wrong to focus on Mya so hastily. Sure, she had that hardbody thing going, the short, punky hair and the perky boobs he enjoyed so much. But Mya knew she had a great body, and that could often contaminate what was between the ears.

  The brain
truly was the largest erogenous zone, and Rebecca was currently stimulating that crucial region. She was cute, for one thing. Not a knockout, but her face was nice, and she had some imperfections he considered quite fetching. One was a tiny gap between her front teeth. He’d always dug women whose teeth didn’t look like they’d come straight out of some toothpaste commercial. Those small imperfections…the teeth slightly crowded, or the canines a little too long…

  Like Patricia Arquette in True Romance. Jesus Christ, she had driven him crazy in that one. The teeth and the cleavage and the wiliness and the vulnerability…man, it made him woozy just thinking about it.

  “Glenn?” Rebecca asked.

  He blinked, realized he’d never answered her. “Sure, I’ll have another.”

  She gave him a wry smile he really liked. “I’ll get it.”

  A couple more things in her favor, he thought. One, her voice was cool—a kind of breathy huskiness that made it seem like she was recovering from laryngitis. He loved voices like that. The kind of voice his favorite noir writers might call smoky.

  Weezer’s truck door opened, but Glenn hardly noticed. He was too busy watching Rebecca’s butt.

  The other thing he liked about her was a small thing, but to Glenn it went a long way: she’d offered him a beer.

  Now, he was all for chivalry. He opened doors for women, paid for dinners, all that stuff. But it did aggravate him when a girl acted like it was her right to always take and to never give. That Rebecca had been considerate enough to offer him a beer…any girl like that was all right by him.

  “Hello, Glenn,” a voice said.

  He turned and saw Weezer.

  Glenn hardly recognized him.

  It wasn’t just the eye patch, which would take some getting used to; it was the drastic change in the rest of Weezer’s appearance that struck Glenn dumb.

  The hair was totally different. Up until now, Weezer had feathered his hair back. Granted, Glenn combed his own hair in a similar style, but that’s because it looked cool on Glenn. On Weezer it had always seemed like what it was—a sad attempt to mimic Glenn.

  Yet now Weezer’s hair was slicked back, the comb marks visible between the glossy ridges. Studying it, Glenn realized where he’d seen the hairstyle before—old movies. Yes, this was how Cary Grant or Jimmy Stewart had worn their hair back in the forties. Where Weezer had gotten the right oil or cream to achieve such a look, Glenn had no idea. And what was even more perplexing was the gnawing suspicion that Weezer had actually pulled the look off.