Wolf Land

by Jonathan Janz

  Duane’s body tilted, his feet swinging over and his eyes coming up to face the sky. He landed on something that gave a little despite the sharp pain it caused.

  With an effort, he swiveled his head left and right and realized he’d landed on a car roof. Duane had no idea of the car’s make or model, but he knew he weighed over two hundred and seventy pounds, and he doubted the driver would be taking the car out for a spin anytime soon.

  He also doubted he’d be walking anytime soon.

  Unless you’re becoming one of them.

  The thought jolted him, made the pain momentarily dim. How long did it take? He couldn’t imagine his fingers regenerating, but the agony in his back, all the other bruises and cuts he’d sustained…what if those simply went away after a few hours?

  What if you don’t live for a few more hours?

  Surprisingly, the prospect didn’t scare him much. Maybe because he was distracted by the other side of this, the notion that he was stronger than he realized. Was it possible the change happened so rapidly?

  He swallowed. No time to worry about that now. Weezer was coming. Duane pushed up on an elbow, turned and saw Weezer leaping over the railing, his gigantic, agile frame landing as lightly as a tomcat on the pavement below.

  Could Duane move like that?

  He started to sit up and froze when a lightning bolt of pain sizzled through the middle of his back.

  Okay, he thought. Maybe he hadn’t been bitten after all.

  Or maybe you’re a pussy and you need to fight through this.

  He heard Weezer’s almost-silent footfalls approach the car. Grimacing, Duane tried to sit up again, and though yes, it did hurt like a son of a bitch, it was maybe a trifle more bearable than he’d at first thought. He saw Weezer stalking toward him in his left periphery, and Duane threw all his weight to the right. He tumbled off the pulverized car roof—he saw it was a Buick LeSabre when he hit the ground—and pushed onto all fours. From above him came a thump, and he knew Weezer had leaped onto the crushed roof.

  Show-off, he thought.

  Duane started to rise, and though he did feel healthier than he had any right to feel, he knew he’d never be quick enough to stop Weezer from attacking him again. And this time, he doubted there’d be a respite from death. In his new wolf form, Weezer was either smarter than he used to be, or he was simply more cunning. Either way…

  Duane froze at the sound of a guttural snarl.

  Oh hell, he thought. He knew what he’d see even before he turned and beheld the blond werewolf’s hulking form only ten yards behind him. But she wasn’t looking at Duane or Weezer. She was looking at something behind Weezer, something in the direction of Turtle Cove. Weezer turned and looked that way too.

  Duane rubbed his eyes, his vision adjusting, and discovered what they were staring at.

  Oh no, he thought. Oh God.

  There was a shelter between the merry-go-round and a ride featuring flying fish—Duane always assumed they were salmon, but what the hell did he know? Out of that shelter were emerging several tiny bodies, which were apparently being shepherded to safety by an adult. Only the adult was a moron because the werewolves had spotted the exodus, were even now bristling and panting at the sight of all the fresh young meat. Duane felt a desolation gust through his belly, recalled the many times he’d caught Weezer leering at a girl far too young to warrant that kind of attention. And just like everybody else, Duane had dismissed it, had convinced himself there was really no problem there at all. It had been his imagination. His friend certainly wasn’t a latent pedophile.

  Enabler. The word imprinted itself in his mind’s eye. You’re an enabler. You’re part of the problem, one of the reasons why scum like Weezer end up victimizing innocent kids.

  Gunshots in the distance. The werewolves turned that way, as did Duane. They came from the direction of the parking lot, back where Barb had been killed. Which meant the cops had finally shown up, or at least more of them had. And thinking of the park entrance reminded him of Savannah. Where was she? The last he’d seen of her, she’d been slipping through the doors of the dressing room. Was she still in there? Would Weezer simply head back upstairs and murder her when he was done with Duane?

  Focus! he told himself. Deal with this situation!

  Sure, he thought. It’s a simple matter of besting two foes more ferocious than you’d find in a horror movie. I’ll get right on that.

  The blond wolf and Weezer exchanged a glance, and some sort of communication seemed to pass between them. The blond werewolf abruptly turned and dashed past Duane, the immense body moving with a grace so fluid and effortless that Duane would have been captivated were it not for the fact that the body in question belonged to a monster.

  Was the blond werewolf going after Savannah?

  Weezer turned to Duane. Weezer’s bestial mouth writhed into a grin. Then he spun and leaped, clearing a car next to the one Duane had landed on. Duane watched with dawning horror as Weezer loped on all fours toward Turtle Cove.

  Toward the tiny figures emerging from the shelter.

  No, Duane thought. Please, God, no.

  You have to do something, a voice demanded. Now. You have to do something now.

  Duane took a deep breath, reached back and slid out the machete.

  Grasping it, he set off after Weezer.

  Melody heard the sirens long before their irritating red-and-blue lights began to strobe over the inns and hotels lining the entrance road. Melody had been gorging on the black wolf—the meat wasn’t as succulent as her brothers’ flesh had been—but perhaps that was owing to the black wolf’s age, which Melody estimated at several hundred years.

  And how many innocents had the black wolf preyed on in that lifespan? How many good men and women, how many little kids had she and her sisters slaughtered?

  The police cars neared, their wailing like scalpels on Melody’s sensitive eardrums.

  The growl started deep in the base of her throat. She had prowled forward several paces before she regained her senses, realized how she must look to them. She was also crouched on all fours, and goddammit, no more of that. Melody rose up on her hind legs, watched the police cars approach.

  A shot sounded before the first cop emerged from his car.

  It missed her, but not by much. Then another shot sounded from a different gun, and this one did not miss. The slug tore through the meat above her knee, grazing her but hurting her all the same. The cops were racing to the fence, the cowards lining up behind the sheltering metal wire, but didn’t they see how easily she could kill them, how effortlessly she could rend the chain link fencing and turn their throats to hot red slush?

  Two more slugs tore into her in rapid succession, the first one merely skimming the top of her foot, but the second catching her flush in the side, right where she believed her kidney was located. Damn, the pain was bad.

  And the rage. As they opened fire on her—eight different shooters at least—Melody’s vision was tinged with a blazing orange light, a shuddery, electrifying rage. She knew she had to move. Had to move now. As the guns erupted in a fusillade of crashing thunder, she launched herself into the air, rising, rising, surprising even herself with the agility of her leap. She caught a glimpse of the cops below, their faces shocked moons, and their shooting had left off, all but one of them. This one, she saw, was grim-faced, younger than the rest. He had a crew cut and a square jaw, and as she neared the ground, she saw in his eyes the cold sadism of her brother John, the same unfeeling emptiness in his eyes, the absence of empathy, the only urge to inflict pain, to oppress.

  Melody hit the ground, roared, and the son of a bitch fired again, and though he missed again—he was neither intelligent nor skillful—his raw hatred of her enflamed her, sent her catapulting forward, bouncing off her tensile toes and crashing against the fence, punching through the pitiful wires, grasping h
is bicep. As her powerful new body rebounded from the fence, she tore his arm off at the shoulder. His eyes went vast and horrorstruck and he staggered backward, the pumping jet of blood splashing over one of his fellow officers. Then the rest of the policemen were awash with terror, some of them standing mutely, others turning and dashing back to their cruisers.

  One, though, was licking his lips as if to gather himself, and in his face she detected neither sadism nor greed. No, this one had just witnessed a murder and probably knew that his dying comrade was a piece of trash, but that it was still his duty to bring down his comrade’s killer.

  Melody decided she would not murder this policeman.

  She vaulted sideways as the policeman fired, and she scrambled away toward the cottages, making sure to jag unpredictably as she did so. Other guns joined in the booming chorus, but none of the bullets found their mark. She was wounded, she knew. The slug that had pierced her kidney plagued her most of all. But she was alive and mostly unfettered by pain. A bullet whizzed by her face as she hurried toward the cottages. When she drew even with a porch, a slug slammed into a wooden pillar, and then she was safely hidden and racing toward the amusement park.

  Racing toward the yellow wolf.

  “Hold still, dammit,” Savannah grunted. She understood why Joyce was moving around so much—the carp were making her antsy too—but it was rendering an already difficult job well-nigh impossible. The change had mostly reversed itself, which made Savannah even more frantic to save her friend’s life.

  “Just kill me,” Joyce moaned.

  Savannah grasped the pole jutting out of Joyce’s back, but her fingers kept slipping off, the damned thing so wedged into Joyce’s and Glenn’s bodies that it wouldn’t even budge. To make matters worse, there was the fact that Savannah only had one good hand—her right arm was shattered, the bones of her elbow a shrieking horror—and there was blood and lake water and perspiration slicking the steel.

  “Kill me,” Joyce repeated.

  “I can’t,” she said.

  “You have to!” Joyce snapped back.

  Around them, the carp rolled over, flopped.

  Savannah wrapped her sodden, torn sundress around the rod, grasped it, and strained to yank it free, but it was no good. The thing stayed firmly embedded in Joyce’s stomach.

  Savannah was straining to remove the bar when Joyce’s eyes shot up to something behind Savannah. She whirled in time to see the blond beast leap at them, the giant werewolf’s eyes gleaming a hellish amber. Savannah did the only thing instinct would allow—she dove sideways. The blond werewolf came down on Joyce.

  Savannah glanced around, casting about for anything that would deter the blond werewolf. Her gaze landed on a clump of concrete just under the water’s surface. She hefted it—the object had to weigh ten pounds—but she managed to carry it. She strode over to the trio, the blond werewolf reaching down to grasp Joyce’s head. Savannah raised the concrete rock.

  And brayed in horror as the werewolf ripped Joyce’s head from her body.

  Joyce’s headless body slithered down the rod on top of Glenn.

  Savannah continued to scream, but she brought the rock down as hard as she could on the base of the blond wolf’s skull. The giant werewolf crumpled, landed beside Joyce’s corpse.

  Weeping, Savannah turned and sloshed through the water toward the boardwalk. She pushed off as hard as she could, her bare feet squelching as they left the sucking, muddy lake bottom, and swung her lower body up under the railing. She rolled over onto her stomach, her shattered right elbow protesting horribly as her weight shifted over it, and chanced a look back toward the shallow water.

  Where the blond werewolf was already rising.

  Savannah gained her feet, began running as fast as her weary body would allow in the direction of the southern exit, the suspension bridge. Technically, it was farther away than the main exit, but the last time she’d glimpsed the main exit, there were werewolves in its vicinity. There were no guarantees the suspension bridge was clear, but she could think of nowhere else to go.

  “Hey!” a voice shouted.

  Savannah gasped, jerked her head to the right, and spotted a trio of cops with their weapons drawn. They were moving toward her from the wide walkway that divided the Viking ship from the Devil’s Lair.

  She ran toward them.

  The one on the left took aim at her.

  Savannah realized how she must look to him. Bloody, bedraggled. But did he actually think she was one of the monsters?

  “Jesus, Mick!” an officer gasped and slapped his partner’s gun down. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Mick’s eyes seemed to clear, and he gave a quick shake of his head. “Sorry. It’s just…” He shrugged lamely.

  The cop who had prevented Mick from shooting her stepped forward, his free hand extended. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

  Tears brimming in her eyes, she jogged toward him.

  “Uh…Brant?” Mick said. “Here it comes.”

  The helpful cop—Brant, apparently—glanced beyond her, and his eyes widened. “Shit,” he muttered.

  When Savannah drew even with the three cops—Brant appeared to be the leader, though they all looked like they were in their late thirties or early forties—she turned and saw the blond wolf moving toward them up the boardwalk.

  The giant werewolf carried a head in each hand, grasping them by the hair.

  Joyce and Glenn.

  “Get behind us,” Brant said, raising his weapon.

  “Let’s get out of here,” said the one to their left, a heavyset man with a brown mustache.

  “Shoot it, Brant,” Mick said.

  “We all shoot,” Brant said, and though his voice was steady, Savannah could see how his hands were trembling.

  “When?” the mustachioed cop asked, but he needn’t have. Because at that moment, Brant opened fire.

  The first slug opened a red oval on the side of the blond werewolf’s neck. Mick and Mustache began to fire too, though their aim wasn’t as accurate as Brant’s. Brant fired again, and this one nailed the werewolf in the center of the chest. Fifty feet from them now, the werewolf roared, half-turned, then pivoted and heaved Glenn’s head at them. It drizzled blood as it tumbled through the air and hit the pavement between Mick and Brant, bounced a few times, and came to rest about ten feet behind Savannah. She turned away from Glenn’s staring, dead eyes.

  And saw Joyce’s head hurtling through the air, this one blazing straight at them. It smashed into Mustache’s face, propelling him backward. Brant fired, caught the blond werewolf again, but the monster appeared unfazed, began chugging forward, its face grim, its ferocious teeth bared.

  “Brant?” Mick asked in a choked whisper.

  “Come on,” Brant muttered. He took Savannah by the arm and led her toward the Devil’s Lair.

  Mick remained fixed in place, a cardboard cutout come to life.

  “Mick!” Brant yelled.

  But Mick didn’t budge, only squeezed the trigger, once, twice, three times, a couple of the bullets finding their mark, but doing little to slow the beast down. It overtook him as Savannah and Brant reached the Devil’s Lair. As they disappeared under the overhanging archway, Savannah saw the blond werewolf take Mick down, its claws whirring the cop’s chest into bloody hamburger. Holy God, Savannah thought as the darkness swallowed them. How many people had the beasts slaughtered tonight? Fifty? A hundred? And how many more would they kill?

  She was certain Duane was dead. And it was only a matter of time before she and this brave cop joined the ranks of corpses littering Beach Land.

  “This way,” Brant said, shuttling her past the barred ticket booth into the holding area. As they moved into the holding area, Savannah distinguished movement within the booth, someone no doubt having taken refuge in there from the we
rewolves.

  Still grasping her arm, Brant led her past the closed elevator doors and toward a door marked with an illuminated red EXIT sign.

  He reached out, grasped the doorknob. As he did, she noticed a pool of some sludgy substance leaking out from under the exit door. Brant opened the door and a tide of body parts spilled out.

  Gagging, he stumbled back. He’d shoved a forearm against his mouth, was coughing and swaying toward the elevator doors. Savannah pushed the button, and the elevator wheezed open. She lurched inside. Brant made to follow, then froze, his eyes going huge in the dimness.

  The blond werewolf took him down. The holding area filled with his strident screams. Savannah jammed her index finger against the button that would close the doors, but the doors remained open. Brant’s screams cut off, the sounds becoming pulpy and wet. The fresh coppery scent of blood drifted into the elevator.

  The werewolf snarled, champed, and Savannah jabbed the button again and again, and as the beast rose, its front a slick red horror, the doors began to close. It stared at her, its wicked lips curving into a grin, as the doors cinched shut.

  As the elevator started to rise, she realized the blond werewolf had allowed her this momentary respite.

  It was enjoying itself too much to kill her now.

  It wanted her to cower. It wanted her to suffer.

  It wanted to hunt.

  Savannah choked back a sob as the elevator continued to rise.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Duane was maybe fifty feet behind Weezer, both of them moving stealthily, Weezer no doubt to make sure he could take his young quarry by surprise, Duane because he knew he’d only get one chance to ambush Weezer.

  The adult leading the children out of the shelter turned out to be a short middle-aged woman with a tight ball of curly brown hair and a butt like two globes crammed inside a pair of khaki pants. She looked vaguely familiar.