The Craving

by Jason Starr

  Moments later, she was back, fantasizing about Ramon. The flashes seemed so real, it was as if she were practically there. She tried to rid the images from her mind, but, really, what was the point?

  She knew she had no choice; this was the new her. She was going to keep obsessing about Ramon, maybe forever, but she decided to just go with it.

  The human scent was getting stronger; maybe the man was afraid, or maybe because Simon was just so tuned in to it. The scent was everywhere—it seemed to fill up the entire brewery—and Simon sensed that the man, whoever he was, was an enemy and was out to get him. Could it be a police officer? If so, it wasn’t Detective Rodriguez, because Simon had no doubt the scent belonged to a man.

  Then Simon heard the attack. A werewolf was growling ravenously, relentlessly, but how was this possible? Werewolves—or at least all the werewolves Simon had encountered—had strong, definitive scents, but the only scent Simon could detect was the scent of a human body, and now of his blood as well. Then there were a couple of faint, agonizing wails of a man being mauled to death.

  In an instant—or it seemed—Simon had descended the flight of stairs. In the pitch-darkness, he knew exactly where to go and he was trying to free the man from the werewolf’s grasp, but the werewolf whipped its arm back at Simon with tremendous force, and he slammed against something. Perhaps the impact ignited something in him, triggered a fight-or-flight mechanism, or his own anger was the impetus, but he was suddenly transforming. He felt the now-familiar pains in his face and extremities, but unlike the other times when it seemed to take about a minute to go from human to werewolf, this time it happened within seconds. Several yards away from him, the attack on the man was still taking place and was more ferocious. The growling was louder and more violent, and the scent of blood much stronger and more prominent.

  Simon leaped onto the werewolf, digging his claws into its hairy back. He wanted to attack it, kill it, but then the scent of the human blood ignited something else in him. The potential meal was so close, and the thought of indulging was more enticing and alluring than a juicy steak dinner. He didn’t just want to devour that body and taste the blood, he had to do it, and then, without giving it any more thought, he sank his fangs into the man’s side, biting off a chunk of salty flesh. But it wasn’t enough—he wanted more, he needed more, he had to fill his body up. He felt as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks, and he wouldn’t eat in weeks, and for all he knew this was the last food he’d ever have. But the other werewolf was ravenous as well, and, like two seagulls attacking a fish that had washed up on a beach, they competed for the meal. Simon took another bite of the man’s side, and then another. Then he worked on the arms, found some tasty meat there, then worked up to the neck and face. The other werewolf was lower, biting through the man’s jeans, over his crotch. Simon was swallowing faster than he could chew, digging his fangs into the flesh, spitting out bits of bone, tearing the body apart, knowing, as he devoured the man, that this meal alone wouldn’t be enough. It could never be enough.

  SIXTEEN

  Simon opened his eyes, but he was still in the dark. He prayed that what he’d just experienced had been a nightmare, that he had never returned to Michael’s brewery, but this hope faded fast, as the scent of human blood was everywhere and he could tell by other scents that he was still in the room with the brewery equipment.

  He got up slowly on his feet—his human feet—and went to the light switches he’d found earlier and two of the large chandeliers went on. Then, near the exit to the stairwell, he saw the remnants of the man he and the other werewolf had eaten. He gagged a few times, horrified by what he’d done, about what was inside him now, but he didn’t throw up. He knew that whoever had done this, and whatever horror was inside him now, didn’t belong to him. A craving for flesh and blood had caused this, a craving he couldn’t control. But Simon Burns didn’t have the craving, Simon didn’t do this, Simon Burns wasn’t responsible. Something else, a visitor in Simon Burns’s body, was the psychopath, and that person would be leaving soon.

  The victim didn’t look human anymore. The remains were an accumulation of torn-apart, chewed-on bones with little bits of meat and fat on them, like a leftover T-bone, that could have belonged to any random mammal. Some of the skeleton was intact, but most of it wasn’t. The body looked like it had been attacked by wild animals, which, in a way, it had. The head was still attached to the body—well, the bones of the head, anyway—but most of the flesh and even the eyes and brain were gone.

  The salty taste in Simon’s mouth made him gag a few more times. Then Simon reminded himself that he didn’t kill the man, that the man had been dead already. Yeah, as if that made it any better.

  Staring at the remainder of the head, Simon had a flashback to digging his fangs into it while head-butting the other werewolf out of the way as they competed for the tastiest flesh.

  The other werewolf. Where was he?

  Simon looked around frantically, and looked up—Volker had been in a tree, hadn’t he?—but he didn’t see it anywhere. It could be hiding somewhere, so he called, “Hey!” His voice was hoarse and gravelly. He swallowed a couple of times to clear his throat, but the taste of blood in his mouth sickened him, and this time no amount of rationalization could prevent him from throwing up. When he saw the chunky red and gray product of his vomiting on the floor in front of him, thinking about what it contained, it made him throw up again, more violently.

  When he was through, it set in that remaining here, at the scene of a grotesque murder, was stupid and dangerous. At any moment, the police could arrive, and he’d spend the rest of his life in prison, probably on death row. But he didn’t care about dying so much as about what it would do to his family. His marriage was on life support already, but getting arrested for cannibalism would have to be the final bullet. But most of all he was terrified about the effect it would have on Jeremy. Having a cannibalistic werewolf father was bound to give a kid serious psychological problems. Oh, God, he just wanted to be back with Jeremy, having a normal day like they used to have together. He’d push him around in his stroller, go to the playground, kick a soccer ball around, and go to the Discovery Room at the Museum of Natural History. He wanted to go back to one of those simple days and live it over and over again forever.

  “You’re awake.”

  Michael’s weird Germanic voice jolted Simon from his fantasy. Simon saw Michael, on the other side of the remains, near the stairwell. He looked clean, dapper. His gray hair was perfect and appeared blown dry, and he was in stylish black pants, a pressed black shirt, and an expensive black sport jacket. There was no evidence at all that his werewolf self had recently slaughtered and helped consume a man.

  “So it was you,” Simon said.

  “You enjoyed your meal,” Michael said.

  Simon had to be careful—as much as he hated Michael, the fact remained that he needed him.

  “Yes, I did,” Simon said. It was easy to lie when he wasn’t actually lying. After all, a part of him had enjoyed devouring the man; he couldn’t deny this was true. He added, “But how did you do it? You didn’t have any scent. It was like you weren’t even here.”

  Michael didn’t answer; what a surprise. Though his expression was blank, Simon sensed that he was trying to figure out—was Simon with him or not?

  Simon said, “Well, I guess you’ll reveal your trick whenever you want to reveal it. In the meantime, we have a much bigger problem. I think this guy followed me here.”

  “He’s dead now,” Michael said.

  “Really?” Simon said. “You think?”

  “He isn’t your concern anymore,” Michael said.

  “Okay, look,” Simon said. “I get that there’s an animal side to us that we can’t control, that’s abundantly clear right now. I also get that there’re no rules or laws or boundaries, but when we’re human that’s not the case. There’re police and DNA and prisons, and even if we get rid of this body there’ll be bits of blood, hair, and wh
atever else here. And we don’t even know who this guy is or what he wanted. What if he was a cop? What if we just ate a cop?”

  Simon realized the absurdity of what he was saying, but he didn’t find it at all amusing.

  “My father sent you,” Michael said.

  “What?” Simon was trying to sound shocked, but he was actually worried. Had he said something to slip up?

  “You came here to find something,” Michael said.

  Did Michael know that Simon was looking for the remedy beer?

  “What do you mean?” Simon said. “What’re you—?”

  “His scent was on you at the playground,” Michael said. “I knew you had been with him.”

  Michael sounded like a wife accusing a husband of an affair. But Simon knew he couldn’t deny it. He had to try another tack.

  “Look, it’s true I talked to your father, but he just made me realize I couldn’t survive without a pack. That’s why I came to the playground this morning, so you could teach me how to control this, so I can assimilate better. But you wouldn’t tell me what to do, so I came here to see if I could figure it out on my own.” Simon said all this with conviction; he thought he sounded convincing. He added, “You saw what I just did with you. You think I would’ve done that if I wasn’t with you?”

  Simon had no idea if this appeased Michael or not. The guy was unreadable.

  “Trust me, you don’t have to worry about that,” Simon said. “You have to worry about whoever sent this guy here. What if people know he was here? You don’t think they’ll come looking for him?” Then Simon spotted something off to the right. “What’s that?” From a distance it looked like torn-up rags, but as he got closer he saw it was the remnants of bloody clothing. He squatted near it—being close to the blood, Simon felt the craving; he was already getting hungry again. He lifted part of what used to be the guy’s jeans and saw a bloodied wallet. He opened it and saw the driver’s license in the window: Stephen Tyler. Struck by a horrific thought, he said, “Oh God, it can’t be. We didn’t just eat the lead singer of Aerosmith, did we?”

  Michael didn’t seem concerned. The lunatic would probably maul Steven Tyler and the rest of the band to death if he had the chance.

  Simon searched frantically through the wallet. He found a credit card, then said, “Wait, it’s spelled differently, with a ph. It’s not the actual Steven Tyler. Thank God.” Then he found a business card: STEPHEN TYLER, LICENSED PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR. He said, “He’s a PI. See, it’s just like I thought. I don’t think you understand what kind of danger we’re in. Someone was suspicious of you, of this place. See, you’re not immune to the threats. The police won’t just magically avoid finding you.”

  “I have no fear,” Michael said.

  “Well, you should have fear,” Simon said. “Someone else might show up here, his partner or whoever hired him. Maybe a relative of one of your victims hired him. Maybe it was my ex-boss’s wife from New Jersey, or how about Diane, the woman who was killed in Michigan? Maybe her parents hired a PI. Wait, is that his phone?” Under another piece of his jeans there was a corner of something shiny and black—yep, it was a smartphone. Simon picked it up, woke up the screen, and saw:

  ALISON TANG:

  I did what you told me to, ignored texts and calls. Please call with update as soon as u can. Thnx!!

  Alison Tang? At first Simon didn’t think the message had any relevance, but then he read it a couple of more times and wondered if Alison could be his Alison. It had the right spelling, with one l, but he still had no idea what Tang meant. He clicked on the message, then checked the contact info, and sure enough saw Alison’s number pop up.

  “You have fear.” Michael’s nostrils flared.

  “Yeah, I have fear,” Simon said. “My wife hired a PI.” Simon looked at the driver’s license again, at the photo. “I recognize him now. He was at the bar at Grand Central. That was why she didn’t show up to meet me before.”

  Simon didn’t know why he was wasting his breath, because it was obvious that Michael wasn’t listening, or he didn’t care; did it really matter which? Simon didn’t know how he’d let this happen, how he’d managed to let himself get sucked back in, deeper than before. After the killing of Olivia, Simon had promised himself that he’d never get involved in any way with Michael again, but here it was, only a month later, and it was worse than last time—much worse. After all, there was a big difference between a self-defense killing and eating a PI.

  “Come with me,” Michael said.

  Maybe Simon had seen too many Mafia movies, but he couldn’t help wondering, was this a hit? Was Michael going to take him away to whack him somewhere? Was he Michael’s next meal?

  “Where to?” Simon asked.

  “Come with me.” Michael’s tone allowed for no argument.

  Simon knew he didn’t have a choice. He had to go, to continue to show his loyalty to Michael.

  So he followed Michael up the stairs to the top floor of the brewery. This was the area Simon had been to before, and it brought up some disturbing memories. The first time he had gone here, Michael had had him drink the “family beer” that had started the nightmare, and the last time was the night Simon had killed a werewolf. What would happen this time?

  The top floor looked nothing like the rest of the building, mainly in that it was immaculate with high ceilings, art deco décor, and floor-to-ceiling windows with an amazing view of the lower Manhattan skyline. Simon followed Michael down a hallway to a room with a pool table that he’d been in before as well, and then through a door into a long corridor to a part of the brewery where Simon had never been. Simon was starting to get seriously anxious, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, he told himself, because maybe if he felt threatened or attacked he’d transform and have a chance to defend himself. He had to hope so, anyway.

  At the end of the hallway Michael stopped in front of a large stainless steel door that looked more like the door of an industrial-size refrigerator than the door to a room.

  “You enter first,” Michael said.

  Simon felt uncomfortable having his back to Michael, but he did as he was told.

  The room was large, clean, well lit, and completely empty. Michael entered behind Simon and the door slammed shut.

  “Get naked,” Michael said.

  “Ex-excuse me?” Simon said.

  “Get naked,” Michael said.

  Panic was setting in big-time, but the werewolf transformation was nowhere in sight.

  Then Michael pushed a button on the wall near the door, and a door to the right opened, revealing a large shower.

  “You will get in the shower,” Michael said.

  “Oh, okay.” Simon was relieved. “So you just want me to clean up. That makes sense.”

  Michael pressed another button, and a door to the left opened to a room that had racks and racks of clothing. It looked like the warehouse of a fashion showroom.

  “You will choose clothes to wear,” Michael said.

  “Wow,” Simon said. “You’re prepared for this, aren’t you?”

  “Get naked,” Michael said.

  If there was one thing Michael lacked, it was a sense of humor. Or maybe he was laughing his ass off inside and the big joke was on everybody else.

  Simon started to undress, and Michael held open a large Hefty bag and said, “Clothes here.”

  When Simon was naked—holding just his wallet, keys, and cell phone—Michael left the room. Simon, eager to get clean and dressed, went into the shower but hesitated before he turned it on as he thought, Wait, a shower? How did Simon know gas wouldn’t come out instead of water? He turned the handle slowly—there was a hissing sound, and then, thank God, water sprayed down.

  After showering, Simon dried himself with a big clean white towel Michael had left, and then on the sink Michael had left a new toothbrush and toothpaste. So downstairs the place was an abandoned dump and upstairs it was like a hotel with amenities.

  After he brushed hi
s teeth, he went to the clothing racks to choose an outfit. Though he wasn’t exactly a style maven, he could tell the clothes were stylish and hip and were major labels—Ralph Lauren, Burberry, Armani. Weirdest of all, there were multiple sizes of everything. A fashion warehouse at a defunct brewery? What the hell?

  Simon dressed and looked at himself in a full-length mirror. He had to admit, he looked damn good for a guy who’d just been a werewolf and helped consume a man. The memory of what he’d done brought up another wave of nausea that he had to fight off by telling himself, That wasn’t you. That wasn’t you. He felt a little better—at least he didn’t feel like he was going to throw up anymore—but he knew he couldn’t take much more of this.

  Then he saw the door near the mirror. He had no idea where it led, but he realized that this could be his best chance to explore this part of the brewery. Was it possible Michael had the remedy stored up here?