Morbid Metamorphosis

by Lycan Valley Press

  When Whitford had quit screaming, Patrick began fiddling with the remaining piggy toe. “And this little piggy went... went… went…” Beneath the blanket Whitford squirmed in anticipation. Patrick yanked the blanket back exposing the toe. “Wee wee wee all the way home!”

  Whitford bellowed in anguish as his final piggy toe exploded.

  Patrick looked up at Dramos. “I’m gettin’ a wee bit hungry, are you?”

  It was hard to believe that the man could eat after all that. “I could eat,” Dramos said.

  “Up in the wagon there be a cloth wrapped around some hardtack biscuits and a bit of smoked beef. How about getting us some?”

  As Dramos went to the wagon he could hear Patrick behind him, talking to Whitford. “Now you still have five finger’s left on ye right hand. I don’t imagine ye’d be needin’ em, now. Let’s start with ye thumb, shall we?” The Irishman counted them off one by one. Each number was followed by a blood curdling scream from Whitford. Following the number Four and the accompanying scream, Patrick paused. “Well lookit this here ring,” he said, almost softly. “Gold and with a big diamond. I don’t reckon ye’ll be needin’ it anymore, what with your ring finger gone and all. Would ye mind ifin’ I kept this for meself?”

  By the time Dramos returned to Patrick he was twisting Whitford’s final finger under the blanket. “Yer pinky is all that tis left, now. What good is a pinky finger anyway? You don’t point with it, you don’t wear your ring on it, ye can’t even pick a good booger with it. Say goodbye pinky.”

  Patrick pulled the blanket and Dramos watched the finger flash out in white light. Whitford’s scream trailed off to a whimper. “Yer not cryin’ under there, are ye, vampire? No need fer cryin’. You can end this sure as not by tellin’ us what we be needin’ to know.”

  Whitford said nothing.

  Dramos passed the sack to Patrick. “Coffee?” he asked.

  “T’would be a fine idea, indeed,” Patrick said. “With a splash of that whiskey as well.”

  “Of course.”

  When Dramos returned with the coffee and sloshed some whiskey in both cups, Patrick spread the cloth out over the vampire’s mid-section and arranged the biscuits and beef in a fashion that suggested Dramos sit on the other side of the creature. “Tha bastards don’t breathe,” Patrick said. “So he won’t be spillin’ our food.”

  After passing Patrick his cup, Dramos sat down across from him. He picked up a piece of beef and began chewing. “It’s good,” he said, grabbing a biscuit.

  “Thank ya. It’s the end of me supplies, but I reckon this ring,” Patrick held up his hand showing Whitford’s ring now firmly on his own finger, “will keep me in good shape for a while to come.”

  Patrick grabbed a piece of the smoked beef and bit into it. “T’aint nowhere as good as that steak ye bought me last night, but it’ll have to do.”

  “I’ve had worse,” Dramos said around a mouthful of dry biscuit. “As I imagine you have as well.”

  “True it tis,” Patrick said as he raised the blanket halfway into the vampire’s palm. The creature screamed in agony as his hand vanished in a white flash. Seeing a puzzled look on the gunslinger’s face, he explained, “Best not to let ‘em get too comfortable.”

  “It wasn’t that,” the gunslinger said. “I was wondering if the creature would spill our food.”

  Patrick laughed. “Nah, he won’t be movin’. No matter what pit of hell that kind crawled out of, they have no desire to return to it. He knows any movement will bring flesh out from under the blanket, and if that happens to be his head, he’s gone for good.”

  “I don’t understand,” Dramos said. “If all you offer him is death in the end, what makes you believe he’ll answer your questions?”

  “Pain be a great persuader.”

  “He could lie,” Dramos said.

  “He could indeed,” Patrick agreed. “But he’ll only do it once. I be pretty good at tellin’ truth from lies.” He grinned at Dramos. “Another gift.”

  “Tell me how you came to discover this method of,” he paused, searching for the right word, “interrogation.”

  “Remember the vampire that killed me family? The one I found under the bed in a cabin with the windows boarded up? I tore down the boards, filling the room with light. He never even woke. Heavy sleepers, that kind. When I had the room as bright as the path ta heaven, I pulled on his boot, thinkin’ I was going to drag him into the light. I’d always heard vampires couldn’t survive sunlight. Well the boot slipped off and his bare foot was exposed to the light. The damned thing blew up so fast, it set me on me ass. The vampire screamed and yanked his leg back under the bed.

  “It began to hurl curses and threats at me, but I realized it couldn’t come out from under the bed. I reached under and it grabbed at my hand. I just pulled myself backward until I fell back on the floor and the vampire’s hand burnt up in the sunlight.”

  Patrick paused to wet his throat with a sip of the coffee. “It was a long process after that. I had to yank part of his body out, and slit the clothing with me knife. Tedious work, but effective. That’s how I learned to strip ‘em when they were out. Makes it much easier.”

  Without warning Patrick reached under and pulled the vampire’s toeless foot into the sun and burnt it to the ankle. He waited for Whitford’s screams to subside before continuing. “It was about a week later I learned the power of song over them.”

  He paused to munch on a piece of beef before asking Dramos, “You’d be the first I’ve ever met that actually knew of vampires. What can ye tell me about these things that I might be needin’ to know?”

  Dramos shook his head. “I believe I’ve learned from you, friend. Don’t know what to add. You know they burn easy in fire?”

  “Haven’t had the need for that yet,” Patrick said. “They burn easy?”

  “Like paper in fire if they haven’t fed in a while. Their bodies are dry as parchment. If they’ve just fed, they’ll burn, but not as easy. That be the case, they sometimes get the fire out. Leaves them with some ugly scars, but nothing fatal.”

  “I’ll be keepin’ that in mind,” the Irishman said. He tossed down the last of his coffee and looked toward the top of the blanket.

  “You sure you don’t know Pierre Durie?”

  Whitford gave no response.

  “Hey, I be talkin’ to ya, vampire. You ain’t got no manners?” Patrick grabbed the stub of the creature’s hand and pulled it into the sunlight. He continued to ease the blanket back an inch at a time burning the creature’s final arm up to the elbow. Whitford screamed for a long time.

  “Dyin’ an inch at a time,” Patrick said. “Probably a good love song in that title, but I ain’t never been one for love songs.” He crept the blanket up slowly inch by inch until the vampire’s last arm was nothing more than a stub about four inches from his shoulder.

  When his screaming stopped, Whitford said, “I’ll speak to the werewolf.” His voice was ragged from screaming and quivered when he spoke.

  “Speak your piece,” Dramos said, rolling a cigarette.

  “What do you want with Durie?”

  “I want to kill him.”

  Whitford scoffed. “You’ll die trying.”

  “Perhaps,” Dramos said, lighting his smoke. “Perhaps, not.”

  “And if I tell you where he is?”

  “You heard the preacher; you die fast. Otherwise it looks like we could be here all day, maybe longer. You still got a lot of rotten meat to fry in the sunlight, fella.”

  There was silence as Whitford appeared to be considering the offer. Finally, he said. “You’ll find him near Silver Springs.”

  “Say that again, demon,” Patrick said, closing his eyes.

  “I’ve nothing to say to you, human.”

  Dramos put the fire of his cigarette against the blanket where he thought Whitford’s stomach was. He watched as the material smoldered a moment, a small hole burning its way outward from the red tip. Simultaneous
ly he licked his thumb and covered the hole, extinguishing the fire. “Maybe you best answer the man,” Dramos said, pulling his thumb back. The sunlight caught the opening and seared into the soft fleshy part of Whitford’s belly meat. The vampire’s scream was loud, and shrill enough to hurt the gunslinger’s ears. He yanked his hat off and threw it over the tiny hole.

  Patrick looked on, amazed. “I think ye just taught me somethin’, Dramos.” He reached underneath and pinched off the burn hole before removing the gunslinger’s hat.

  “Now where did you say this Durie could be found?” Patrick asked. Before the vampire said a word he opened the hole and slid the material an inch to the side. Whitford screamed in agony again. Before the screams had resided Patrick shifted the hole another inch, causing the vampire to renew is tormented scream. Shifting the hole slightly, he kept Whitford’s screams alive.

  Grinning at Dramos, the Irishman said, “Never thought of this. We could very well turn him into,” he paused looking for the word. “What is that cheese with the holes in it?”

  “I believe it’s called Swiss,” Dramos said, rolling another smoke.

  “That’s it!” Patrick said, moving the hole yet another inch.

  When Whitford’s screams had finally calmed down, he uttered the word, “Sage.”

  “What’s that again?” Patrick asked.

  “Durie is in Sage. Not too far from Deadwood, South Dakota. He has a gold mining outfit there. A vampire named Gillman runs it. It’s the best I have to offer.”

  Patrick looked at Dramos. “He’s telling the truth, I believe.”

  The Gunslinger nodded. Whitford had changed his tune from Silver Springs to Sage without prompting. The Irishman was probably right. “Now what?” he asked.

  “Well,” Patrick said, covering the holes with the gunslinger’s hat once again, “if you’re happy with that answer, we put him out of his misery.”

  Dramos considered this. If he was telling the truth, it seemed cruel to continue. He had no love or pity for the creatures, any more than he did a scorpion in his path. He’d never cut a scorpion up piece by piece just to watch it suffer, but he’d stomp it out of existence under his boot in a minute. “If you’re happy with the answer,” he said. “Your insight has been right so far.”

  Patrick faced the blanket. “Creature, I’m givin’ ya thirty seconds to make yer peace with The Lord. More than ye ever gave anyone. Then I’m gonna pull the blanket and send ye to yer maker.”

  Under the blanket, Whitford’s whimpers could be heard. Patrick pulled out his pocket watch and silently counted off the seconds. When he reached thirty, he yanked the blanket off the vampire. The bright white light flashed for a second and the vampire was gone.

  “What be yer plan now?” Patrick asked.

  “Reckon I’ll get some sleep,” Dramos said, “then I’ll be heading towards Sage. It’s a few days journey at least.”

  “Mind ifin’ I come along?”

  The gunslinger, tilted his head in thought. He’d always worked alone. “You sure about this? Durie ain’t no vampire like you’ve ever seen. You could wind up dead.”

  “Ain’t been no life for me since the bastards killed my family,” Patrick said sadly.

  Dramos took the last drag on his smoke and pitched it away. “I got to warn you; if you stand between me and Durie, you’ll die.”

  “I believe ya.”

  “And if it’s a choice of saving your Irish ass, or killing Durie, you’ll die. This ain’t gonna be tracking an ordinary vampire. Durie is a King, and he’ll have an army. The odds are not in our favor.”

  “I’m in, ifin’ you’ll have me.”

  Dramos considered all this. If it went bad, Patrick wouldn’t be the first innocent to die in his quest. He’d warned him, fair and square.

  “Just so you know Patrick, folks that are around me for long don’t usually fare so well.”

  “Understood.”

  “Well then,” Dramos said, uncorking the whiskey bottle, “if I can’t talk you out of it, I guess I should welcome you into it.” He took a pull from the bottle. “Here’s to killing vampires,” he said, passing the bottle to Patrick.

  “So it be, me new friend, Dramos.”

  THE CATAMOUNT

  Donna Marie West

  I WANT you to take charge of the livestock, Henry,” Pop told me over supper. “Get the chickens in the hen house, the cows and horses in the barn. Close the doors up good for the night. And get your dog in the house before the sun goes down.”

  “Yessir,” I said, shovelling another forkful of Mum’s pork and beans into my mouth. “What’s wrong, Pop? Did the Halls lose another heifer?”

  “They lost two last month,” Pop said, “and the Bouchards lost a sow last night. It was all the talk in town today. Folks think it’s a bloody catamount come down from the north.”

  “We call them cougars at school,” Billy said. Twelve years old, my kid brother thought he knew everything about everything.

  “It don’t matter what you call it,” Pop replied. “It was no ordinary cat. Ripped those heifers plum to—”

  “Ezra Bowen!” Mum interrupted with a shake of her head. “That’s no subject for supper conversation.”

  “I picked them flowers, Pop,” said little Alice the peacemaker, pointing to the vase of purple corn flowers in the middle of the table.

  “I don’t want you wandering out of the yard,” Pop snapped. “You hear me?”

  “Yessir.” Alice’s lower lip quivered as she went back to her supper.

  Pop looked around the table at us. “That goes for all of you. And no being out after sunset.” His tone let on it would do no good to argue with him, but once the dishes were washed and the little ones were put to bed, my big sister Emma tried.

  “You said I could visit the Bouchards tomorrow,” she reminded him with a whine in her voice. “Mrs. Bouchard invited me to dinner and offered to give me some herbs from her garden for Mum’s preserves.”

  I held back a chuckle. Emma and Bobby Bouchard were courting, and I usually took every opportunity to tease her about it. But not tonight.

  Pop pondered this for a full minute. “Take your mare. And be back by supper. Without fault.”

  “I will Pop, I promise. Thank you.”

  Emma left for Bobby’s house Saturday after breakfast on her bay mare. I spent the morning on my lessons and helping Billy and Alice with theirs. Later, Billy and I hoed potatoes in the field with Pop. Alice minded baby Cora while Mum carried baskets of potatoes down to the cellar to store them. It was time to wash up for supper before we knew it – and Emma wasn’t home yet.

  “Henry, get the geldings hitched up,” Pop said to me. “I’m going to look for your sister.”

  “Ah, come on, Pop,” I objected. “Emma just lost track of time. She and Bobby are probably sitting on the porch swing right now, k – i – s—”

  “Henry!”

  “Yessir.”

  I hastily brushed our two black geldings and hitched them to the wagon. I was buckling the last strap when Pop joined me with his shotgun in hand. He used it often for hunting, but he never took it with him to call on neighbours.

  Pop climbed onto the wagon, laid the shotgun at his feet, and picked up the reins.

  I jumped up onto the narrow cushioned seat beside him.

  He gave me a long look with his lips pressed into a thin line. Then he nodded and sent the horses off at a brisk trot.

  I looked backward at our red brick farmhouse. Mum was standing in the doorway with Billy and Alice at her side, and Cora in her arms. She looked worried.

  And that got me to worrying: What if the catamount got Emma?

  We were half an hour from home when the sun dipped below the trees. The full harvest moon had already risen above the eastern horizon. It would be dark in minutes.

  We rounded a turn and came upon Emma leading her mare toward us. Emma was dishevelled, her long blond hair come loose under her bonnet. The mare was wide-eyed, covered i
n drying sweat, and lame in front. Recognizing our geldings, she raised her head, lifting Emma clear off the ground and whinnied loudly.

  I jumped down from the wagon and ran to my sister. “Emma? Are you all right?”

  “Do I look all right?” she snapped.

  Even in the fading light of dusk, I could see enough of her red, puffy eyes to realize she had been crying, although her face had since dried.

  “Darn silly mare,” she lamented as the wagon pulled up beside us. “She was skittish all the way to Bobby’s house. Coming home, she just wouldn’t go down the path through the woods. I had to take the long way round on the road. After a while she got flustered again. Nearly threw herself into a ditch, then she started to limp. I had to get off. I’m sorry, Pop. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

  “That’s all right, Emma,” said Pop, motioning for her to get up in the wagon. “Come on. Henry, lead the mare, will you? I don’t want to tie her to the wagon with that lame leg.”

  I took the mare’s reins and started to lead her down the road, while Pop lent Emma a hand to climb onto the wagon.

  I was some distance ahead as Pop had taken a few minutes getting the wagon turned around. Finding herself alone, the mare grew restless, snorting and snuffling, and prancing despite her sore leg. Suddenly she reared, yanking the reins from my hand, and took off away down the road. I barely had time to register the biggest, shaggiest catamount I ever could have imagined before it snarled and leapt from the edge of the cornfield bordering the road.

  I threw my arms over my face and throat just before it hit me, all claws and fangs and flaming yellow eyes.

  Pain ripped through my shoulders and left forearm as I fell on my backside with the cougar on top of me. The smell of it – a disgusting mix of damp fur and dead meat – filled my nostrils.

  Then a blast from Pop’s shotgun sent the catamount reeling off me. I scrambled to my feet on pure instinct as Pop let off a second shot.

  The cat gave a yowl of pain and bounded off into the field, disappearing in seconds between the rows of corn.