Instead, the loping figure raised an arm, an arm which the night somehow seemed to distort, to elongate, and brought it crashing down across the man confronting him. Garcia’s gun tumbled aside, there was a brief scream, then Carlyon was running down the slope again, this time moving more quickly.
Grainger and the big man broke into a trot, more concerned about Garcia than the runaway. They came upon him in moments and were staggered to find him floundering about like a man in a pool, one hand at his throat, the other beating pathetically at the grass in a desperate bid for help. His chest was wet.
Hayes bent down and gently pulled at the fingers, but he gasped. “How the hell did he do this?” The throat was ripped open, the top of Garcia’s chest also torn.
“Ed did that?” said Grainger, gazing in stupefaction at the figure in the distance. As he looked, it leapt over a wire fence at the bottom of the park and was lost to sight down the slope beyond. Almost mesmerised, as if he had been watching a phantom, Grainger was suddenly aware of Hayes beside him, shaking him.
“He’s dead. Dead, for Chrissake!” the huge man was shouting, his whole body shuddering with anger, fear, confusion. “Tony’s dead!”
Grainger snapped out of his own confusion, staring at the inert form of Garcia. “Al, you want to take care of him? Get the police or something?”
“What are you going to do?”
“One of us has got to track Ed Carlyon, or whatever the hell it is we saw. If he gets away tonight, chances are we’ll lose him. I’m going down there.”
Terror twisted the big man’s face. He looked as if he wanted to cry. “I’ll get help.”
“Do it.” Grainger raced off across the park without looking back. Another moment and he would have gone with Hayes, back to safety, to sanity. But he had to finish this.
It had been much easier than he had thought. Beyond the park, standing on the slope that led to the waste region of the breaker’s yard, he had felt the stirring of an animal reaction. The hunt. The potential kill. Ed Carlyon, or whatever he had become, was fair game. He had killed. The law was with Grainger.
Silently he prowled along the upper slope, watching the huge mounds of scrap metal and wasted automobiles below. Heaped and packed, they offered no immediate bolt hole. Carlyon would have had to burrow through a solid wall to hide. He must have traversed the perimeter of the yard, at least for a while.
Then Grainger saw it, and knew he had found the place. A huge shed, a patchwork of corrugated iron sheeting, fused into the landscape. One of its twin doors hung askew, hinges torn, to reveal a black maw. A burnt-out engine sprawled half in, half out of the shadows of the doorway, a collapsed robot, congealing in its rust shroud.
He was in there. Grainger knew it for sure. He could almost feel Carlyon’s eyes on him, as he had done across the street when he first saw him. And the terror surged.
He began the descent.
Standing beside the rotting engine, Grainger stared into the darkness ahead of him, shotgun lifted, finger tensing on the trigger. Too dark to go in.
“Ed,” he whispered, but it was a croak, smothered by fear. He called again, louder, but there was no response. The silence was supernatural, nothing stirring. He heard his own breathing, felt his whole system shaking. As he reached for the leaning door, something sputtered inside the vast shed.
A pool of light leaked towards him. But it revealed little of the interior.
“Ed, I know you’re in there.” Dumb words, but he needed the sound of his own voice. He edged forward, just through the line of the doors. Squinting, he saw an old oil lamp burning several yards ahead of him. It sat on a workbench that hadn’t been used in years. Redundant machinery filled the shed, chains hanging from overhead, wrapped in thick cobweb nets. Parts of engines and discarded tools littered the dusty floor.
Grainger’s eyes were getting used to the light; his circle of vision widened. But there was no sign of an occupant, other than the lamp. But Ed must have lit it.
“You don’t have to be scared, Ed. It’s Grainger.” He tried to take a degree of comfort from the words, but his heart lurched as he caught movement near the shell of an old auto. He swung the gun a round. Beyond its snout he saw the figure. It was motionless and for a moment he thought it was no more than an old suit hanging up. But then the light mapped the face, danced in the wild eyes.
It was Ed Carlyon, but he was a sick man. Crazy, maybe.
“Ed. What the hell happened to you?”
“He doesn’t understand you.” The voice was a whisper, emanating from the shadows behind the lamp glow.
Grainger swung to face it, but saw nothing clearly. “Who are you? What’s happening here?” The sound had come as such a shock that he had almost emptied the shotgun in its direction.
“Put down the gun. You won’t need it.” The voice was remarkably calm, incongruously so for the situation.
“Get into the light where I can see you,” snapped Grainger, aiming the gun deliberately.
“Very well.” As the shadow began to coalesce, Grainger heard a heavy tread behind him and swivelled at once. He wasn’t going to fall for that old trick—
But he gaped, almost dropping the gun. In the doorway, hunched over and clutching at the frame for support was Garcia. Al Hayes had been wrong about him: he hadn’t been dead at all.
“Tony—” said Grainger, stepping forward, but realized his error at once. Garcia looked up and the light from the lamp gleamed on the open neck wound, the sheen of blood across his chest. No one could have sustained such a wound and walked here.
A low rumble, animal-like, frothed on Garcia’s lips. And his eyes were wild, wild like Ed Carlyon’s. Beast eyes. Again, Grainger stumbled back. His muscles locked, prisoners finally of the terror. Something brushed past him, a dark shape, and faced Garcia. The latter looked as though he would spring, regardless of the horrific injury, but instead the wild eyes drooped, like the eyes of someone who’d been drugged. He leaned against the door stiffly, all fight gone out of him.
The man turned and Grainger saw him for the first time. He was tall, his pale face marked with a kind of cold arrogance, almost disdain. His overcoat was cut from a heavy, expensive, dark material, the lapels pulled up tight to the man’s neck. In spite of the mildness of the night, he wore thin gloves.
“I am here to help you,” he said and Grainger now noticed the voice had no accent, at least not one he recognized.
“What’s happening? Tony needs help. So does Ed.” He swung around, but Carlyon had not moved, frozen like a dummy, except for the eyes. They were filled with something alien, hellish.
“You’ve seen what your friends have become. You call them werewolves.”
Grainger’s face twisted in a grimace. “Don’t take me for a fool—”
“All right. Call it what you like. But they are no longer what they were. None of them.”
“The others are the same?”
The stranger nodded calmly, as though it made no difference to him. “Six of them now. All here.”
“You said you want to help. How?”
“You have formed a group of vigilantes. You guessed that your friends had been hunted. You were right. But you have no idea what hunted them.”
Grainger was conscious that he had raised his shotgun. Its mouth was no more than a few inches from the stranger’s chest, but the man ignored it. “You trying to tell me they were hunted by a werewolf? That it did this to them – changed them?”
“I am. And you need help to destroy it. The gun is useless. All your powers are useless, your technology inadequate.”
“But you can help?”
“I can. I have powers that your people don’t have—”
“My people? What do you mean, my people? Who the hell are your people?”
“We don’t belong here. The other, the werewolf, he fled here from the purges. My race seeks their extinction. He intends to contaminate enough of you to serve him, to make a sanctuary of your world. You can se
e he has already begun.”
Grainger flashed a look at Garcia, another at Carlyon. “You’re controlling them, is that it? Stopping them from attacking?”
“Yes. Their master has gone to ground. Before we begin the hunt, there is work to be done here. Unpleasant work.”
Grainger was very still. This guy was completely nuts. Maybe he was some kind of mesmerist: he’d hypnotized Ed and Tony, that had to be it. There must be some kind of logical explanation.
Outside, there came a sudden distant howl. Grainger almost cried out in fear, his gut freezing up on him. The stranger merely turned, going to the door. He ignored Garcia and looked up the slope beyond the fence to the park.
“You doubt me. I expected that,” he said. “Stay in the shadows and take notice.” He moved back inside, waiting.
Presently there was another howl, much closer. Grainger realized that it was a dog of some kind, probably a police dog, put on the scent by the cops that Al Hayes must have contacted. Its feet scratched in the dirt outside the shed, its snuffling loud in the night. In another moment Grainger saw its black snout questing through the ope doors, saliva dripping from the gums as if the beast was eager to attack.
As it padded into the shed, ignoring Garcia, the stranger gently pushed the door to, shutting out the night. In the lamplight, Grainger could see that the black hound was huge. It faced him, barring its fangs, its intent clear. But before it could spring, the stranger called something aloud and at once the dog turned, snarling. It began to turn around and around, rolling over, twisting and convulsing, spittle flying from it in streamers.
Grainger’s eyes bulged: the dog was changing shape.
It was true. In minutes its legs had stretched and thickened. Its neck was twice as large, the face pulled forward into a monstrous, vulpine snout, yellow fangs like sabres. And it dragged itself up on to its hind legs, front claws pulled up to its chest. Its scarlet eyes turned to the stranger, awaiting instruction.
“I have powers your people do not have,” said the stranger. “So does the one I hunt.”
Grainger could hardly stand, the shotgun hanging uselessly at his side. “Okay,” he breathed. “So you have powers. Jeeze, but what do you want with us?”
“Will you trust me? Will you employ me?”
“Employ you?”
“I ask only one thing. The heart of the beast you seek. I must be certain that it dies. Your race are slaves to curiosity. They would capture it. I want its heart. I want to be sure of my kill.”
Grainger nodded. “Far as I’m concerned, you can have what you like.” His eyes were still fixed on the upright hound.
The stranger said something to it and it dropped on all fours and slunk into the shadows, out of sight.
“My friends,” said Grainger uneasily, looking at them. “Can they be – helped? Changed back to what they were.”
The stranger’s face was unreadable, but he shook his head. “Once contaminated, the damage is permanent. I can keep them in check, but that is all.”
“So what happens to them, for Chrissakes! They can’t be left like this—”
“You have no choice. You cannot let them go back to their families. Or would you do that?”
“There must be something! Surely a hospital—”
“There’s no hope for them. If you return them to your kind, you run the risk of contaminating others.”
Grainger looked at Garcia. He had seen how quickly he had been transformed. Could that go on happening, spreading like a virulent disease?
“There is only one thing you can do,” said the stranger. He indicated the oil lamp.
“Burn them? You’re out of your mind—”
There were more sounds from the embankment outside, voices mingled with fresh barking.
“The pursuit. I have to lead them away, take them off the scent. You must destroy your former friends, using fire. There is a brand behind you. And the other four men are there.”
Grainger watched, utterly confused, as the stranger snapped his fingers at where the dog had been stretched out. At once it rose and came into the light, mercifully restored. Had its shape-changing been an illusion? But no, Grainger could not stomach the thought of seeing it again.
The man eased the door open and spoke softly to the dog. It bolted silently into the night. The stranger turned.
“You must do it. I will lead the hunt far away. In the morning, the police will find this place, the bodies. They won’t know what really happened. I will call you. Talk to your friends. Tell them I can help. Remember the price I ask.” His eyes held Grainger’s for a moment, but Grainger wasn’t conscious of anything probing his mind, controlling it.
Then the man was gone. Outside there were brief shouts, but they began to fade quickly, as did the last of the howls of the dogs eager to give chase.
Grainger was torn. Should he go out to his friends, call the police? But what if the stranger had been right? He couldn’t let Garcia and the others be found, not like this.
He picked up the oil lamp by its curved handle. It daubed Carlyon in an eerie glow, igniting the eyes, so filled with hatred, hatred that could not have been human. Grainger wondered about the stranger. Had it been him? Had he, after all, been the one who had contaminated the men? But if so, why show himself?
I have to do this, Grainger told himself. These men have to die.
He walked a little way into the shed, lifting the lamp. By its wavering glow he saw the others, the four missing men. Like Carlyon and Garcia, they were wretched, hunched, animals restrained by an invisible barrier. Grainger found the brand, made from an oil-soaked cloth wrapped tightly around a metal spar. He picked it up and ignited it: it flamed instantly, the heat dazzling him.
At once the four men began to snarl, hands held up like talons, their faces horribly changed. Grainger turned to see Carlyon and Garcia staggering forward, standing beside their companions.
And Grainger knew that once the light went out, they would leap forward, unrestrained. Only the threat of fire held them back now. He really did have no choice but to kill them.
The irrational drive to survive spurred him in his awful work.
He reached out and thrust his brand at the chest of the first of the creatures. Flames belched, fire catching as if the man were made of dry tinder, a scarecrow. The mouth opened to scream, but only a cloud of smoke emerged.
Now that he had begun, Grainger gritted his teeth and torched another two. They fell back, more flames erupting. Arms waved frantically, uselessly. Grainger stepped away, sensed someone closing with him. He twisted, bringing the still flaming brand down across the shoulder of the mutilated Garcia. The result was just as immediate.
Grainger was backing towards the door. Only Ed Carlyon remained on his feet. He lumbered forward, and for an instant Grainger paused, the memories flashing, but Carlyon’s fangs gleamed in the torchlight. Grainger struck and the beast toppled backwards, enveloped.
It was over. Grainger turned to leave, but a shadow moved into the light by the door. There was one left to destroy. In his haste he had miscounted. He raised the brand he had been about to toss aside. And almost dropped it in horror.
The figure illuminated by the flames was a mirror image.
It held out its hand for the torch. “You’ve done enough,” said a voice he recognized all too clearly as his own.
He wasn’t fast enough to react, to understand. The creature before him took the torch easily. Grainger moved at last, stepping forward, mouth open to speak, but the torch jabbed at him, once, twice, and the flames caught hold quickly. Grainger burst through the doors, but his shins smacked into the discarded engine. He crashed over it, locked in a parody of an embrace, the flames leaping.
The figure tossed the torch into the shed, adding to the fires that were already threatening to turn it into an inferno.
The voice on the end of the phone said, “Is that Grainger?”
“Yes.”
“You know who I am?”
It was impossible to mistake the voice with no accent. “Yes.”
“You’ve heard the radio?”
“About the fire? Yes.”
“You did well. The police found enough to assume that your missing friends had been recovered. Of course, they’ll want to question you.”
“That’s okay, I think I can handle it.”
“Once they leave you alone, I’ll contact you again. This isn’t over yet.”
“I’ll be waiting.” The creature that called itself Grainger put down the phone. And I’ll be ready for you. Oh, yes, more than ready.
On the sketch pad by the phone there was a single, idle doodle, the shape of an innocuous valentine heart.
Les Daniels
WEREMAN
In 1968, Les Daniels graduated with honours in English literature from Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island. Since then he has been a freelance writer, composer, film buff and musician. He has performed with such groups as Soop, Snake and The Snatch; The Swamp Steppers, and The Local Yokels.
His first book was Comix: A History of Comic Books in America (1971), since when he has written a number of non-fiction studies, including Living in Fear: A History of Horror in the Mass Media, Marvel: Five Fabulous Decades of the World’s Greatest Comics and DC Comics: Sixty Years of the World’s Favorite Comic Book Heroes. He also edited the oversized anthology Dying of Fright: Masterpieces of the Macabre, illustrated by Lee Brown Coye. Daniels’ debut novel, The Black Castle, was published in 1978 and introduced readers to enigmatic vampire-hero Don Sebastian de Villanueva. It was followed by The Silver Skull, Citizen Vampire, Yellow Fog, No Blood Spilled and White Demon.
Although I’ve read a number of werewolf tales that used the same basic inversion of the myth as the following story, I think Daniels handles the theme better than almost anybody else . . .
The Mammoth Book of Wolf Men Page 41
