Into the silence, Baker said. "Doesn't get much worse than death, does it?" He tried out a soft chuckle, but it sounded like a nervous cough.
Nobody at the booth said anything, but Underhill and Faux shared a long look. Underhill looked over at Teague and said. "This is a man you can trust, I think, Derek. He may doubt what you tell him, but he won’t break when he sees the truth for himself."
"The truth about what?" Faux said, looking at all three men in turn.
"The truth about all the weird shit that seems to keep happening in Matheson." Teague said with a resolved sigh. He drank some tea to wash away the sudden taste of ash in his mouth and continued. "As a kid, my friends and I saw things in Matheson that none of us could explain. Even now, I have to question the things we saw and did? Rationally, I know such things can't exist, not in the real world, but the memories are there, real or not."
Faux didn't say anything. He watched the people around the diner, eating their evening meals, living their real world lives, and he could almost sense what Teague was talking about. That same sense of underlying wrongness that he felt in his motel room earlier. Something wasn't right in Matheson. Something unnatural. He said. "I've got an open mind, guys. More open then most. But if you're talking about ghosts and ghouls and monsters in the closet, I might need a little convincing before I join the tin hat squad. No offense."
Underhill's harsh laugh held real mirth. He narrowed his good eye at Faux and said. "If you stay long in Matheson, Agent Faux, you'll have your tin hat. I promise you that."
Everybody at the booth laughed, but it was forced laughter. They each spent a moment rearranging their food and sipping at their drinks as they thought on what they might be facing in Matheson. It was Teague that broke the silence. He said. "I don't know what exactly we're dealing with here, but I doubt very seriously that it's human. Bear attack, maybe?"
"No bear did the butcher's work we saw out at the mill." Baker said, peering into his drink. "No animal that I've ever seen."
"I've seen a wood chipper do something similar." Faux said, his voice low. Everybody looked at him, going quiet. He shook his head. "It was too savage for that though. I agree with Derek. It has to be some kind of animal, something we haven't thought of?"
Underhill cleared his throat. "I may be able to add something, gentlemen. I was able to visit with the brother of the boy who went missing, before he left the hospital. Bobby was a mess, having witnessed his brother's death, but he was coherent. And what he described to me was something that wasn't entirely human or animal. Something in between."
"What are you saying?" Faux leaned back and stared at the other man. "Some sort of mutant? An escaped lab experiment?"
Underhill shrugged, slurping his coffee. He said. "The boy was in shock, but lucid enough to describe the thing that killed his brother. A cross between a fox and a person, those were his exact words."
"Those kids were all smoking and drinking God only knows what, Al." Teague said, dubious. "I don't think we can rely on what that kid says he saw."
"And what about Emily?" Underhill asked. He looked at each man in turn, taking their measure. "She described the same thing. A fox, wearing clothes and using a knife. It killed Bobby's brother Jack with a weapon, not its teeth. This thing was seen by two of my students. Two kids that wouldn't even halfway know how to lie to me, not without giving themselves away. And I believe them. That they saw what they described."
Faux said. "I still say we get the media involved. Call in outside help. The National Guard, maybe? We need more men if we're really going back into those woods."
Again, Teague went silent and looked at the others. But instead of being evasive and changing the subject, he shook his head. He said. "I'm going to be up front with you guys. There's no way any of this is going to end up in an official report. If we call the media, we'll get shut down before the first TV van gets to town. I've seen how the council deals with this kind of thing, from both sides of the law, and it's never pretty."
Baker and Underhill just nodded, but Faux was shaking his head. "What does that even mean? We're talking about missing kids and a missing police force here. There's no shoving that under the carpet. I don't care how powerful this city council of yours is."
"Don't underestimate Matheson, Mr. Faux." Underhill said, his tone deadly serious. "There are interests here that can crush the stoutest soul. Dark currents run just beneath the surface of our idyllic streets, currents strong enough to pull down even a strong swimmer such as yourself. I've lost old and dear friends to those dark interests. As has Derek."
"So what do we do then?" Faux didn't like the sound of defeat in his voice. He looked at the other men, seeing his own doubt and frustration mirrored in their eyes. "What can we do?"
"We fight." Teague said, eyeing each man to gauge their resolve. Leaning back, his hawklike gaze might have softened, but not by much. His voice was hard. "We hunt down these things, whatever they are, and we put them down. We stop this, whatever it takes. We won't get any thanks from the town, that's for damn sure. And if we die, nobody we know will ever learn the truth of it."
"Jesus." Baker shook his head and barked a laugh. "You're one cheery bastard, you know that, Derek?"
Everyone laughed, too long and too hard, and the humor sounded false to all of them. They sank into an uneasy silence as they finished the meal, each man lost inside his own dark thoughts.
A cold wind snapped out of the mountains surrounding Highgarden, whipping through the trees of the Briar Woods like a banshee's wail, and kicking up the loose pine needles at the feet of Jock Aaron as he walked through the deepening gloom. The sun was long down and the last of the evening light had leached from the world, leaving a cloudy night sky that was devoid of moon and stars. Jock stopped walking as the icy wind breathed across the back of his neck, causing goose bumps to crawl up the backs of his arms and legs, and pulled out his cell phone. Opening it, he held it out to throw some light on the path. He didn't bother checking to see if he had bars. The Briar Woods was a dead zone, more so than the rest of Matheson. Besides, who was he going to call? His old lady? Not goddamn likely. She was out, hustling ass for a smack dealer that Jock owed money to.
Jock owed money to a lot of people. He found that easy access to willing ass kept hard feelings to a minimum if he missed a payment or two. Of course, after tonight, he wouldn't owe shit to anybody. Not if Bryan was able to get everything set up like he figured. Jock didn't give Bryan credit for much, most of the time the guy was barely better than a functioning moron, but he definitely knew his chemistry.
Walking through the dark, Jock caught himself wishing, once again, that he had let that prick Bryan talk him into coming up here together, instead of separately. He squashed the thought quickly though, with an inner sneer of disgust at himself. Sure, it was dark and cold, but he'd walked this narrow trail many times. And on darker nights.
Jock was still tweaking from the bump he snorted before leaving the duplex he and his old lady shared with her sister. It was the last of a pop bottle cook from a week or so back that he helped Bryan with. It was the best out of three attempts. The first two cooks didn't turn out so well. Jock still felt bad about that day care burning down. But at least it was after hours and no little kids got killed.
That would've been a bummer.
"Shit." Jock stumbled over an upturned rock and nearly dropped his phone. He stopped walking and peered around himself, squinting into the dark forest surrounding him. The shadows were thick, though pale light filtering through the tangled limbs overhead kept the woods from being pitch black. Again, he squashed that wriggling worm of fear that kept suggesting he should've come up with Bryan earlier that afternoon. He pulled the pistol from the sagging waistband of his jeans and held it against his leg. It was a Glock, traded to him for dope, and he'd fired it enough times to now that it worked just fine, despite its second hand appearance.
Having the gun in hand eased his nervousness somewhat. Jock silently dared anyt
hing to fuck with him while he had his gun in his hand and kept walking. His mama always told him to be careful what he wished for or it might come true, a saying that never made much sense to him as a kid. But she also told him to say no to drugs and he didn't listen then either. Gun in one hand, phone in the other, Jock moved deeper into the woods and ignored the crawling sensation that told him somebody was watching him. The dope was making him paranoid.
Thinking of dope made him think of Bryan and he shook his head. For a dumbass, the guy could have a good idea every once and awhile. Sure, he got the idea from a fucking TV show, but that didn't stop it from being a goddamn great idea. He even had a camper trailer handy. A piece of shit camper shell that his dad gave him when he finally got tired of putting up with all of Bryan's thieving and strung out temper tantrums and kicked him out of the house.
It took some doing to get the camper out to their secluded little hunting spot. But once they got it all set up, with camo netting and a good gas generator lifted from Jock's asshole neighbors, it was just about the nicest little ole meth lab you ever did see. Jock had even brought a couple of high school girls out there and broke it in like only high school girls knew how to do.
Now, he just had to find the fucking thing.
Just when he was beginning to think he really was lost, Jock caught a flicker of golden light up ahead and off the path.
"There you are, bitch." He said out loud, veering off the old deer trail and moving toward the light. As he neared the decrepit camper, he called out. "Hey, Bryan, you worthless pecker gnat! You better have the burners going, yo! It's a cold ass bitch out here!"
He could hear music playing when he reached the narrow place in the woods where they had crammed the camper. The light and music was coming from the camper's half open door. The windows were all blacked out.
Music and light weren't the only things escaping from the open door. Blood dripped in a steady stream, making a black puddle in the dying grass beneath the camper. A lot of blood.
Jock raised his gun, pointing it at the door, and called out. "Come on out, yo! I got something for you!" His voice was low and quivered slightly. From nervous energy, not fear. There was no fear in Jock when all his cylinders were firing. The gun was rock steady in his fist. Not waiting for a response from whatever might've been waiting in the camper, he rushed forward. Snapping the metal door the rest of the way open, he meant to charge head first into the camper and empty the gun, but that wasn't quite how it went down.
When his heel hit the blood covered linoleum, his leg shot out from under him and he crashed onto his back, hanging half out of the camper. His teeth clacked together, biting through the tip of his tongue and filling his mouth with blood.
Blood.
Blood everywhere.
It took a moment for what his eyes and nose were telling him to register in his drug addled brain. The interior of the camper was covered in blood and meat. Broken glass and spilled chemicals mixed into a brackish poison all over the floor. Long ragged strips of skin and muscle and half chewed organs were strung about the place. On a wide flap of skin, flattened on one of the blacked out windows, part of a tattoo was visible. A skull with wings of flame.
"Jesus, Bryan." Jock whispered, his high as gone as if he'd never held a pipe in his life. His lips were numb and one of the muscles in his left cheek kept twitching. Everything was destroyed. The lab. The camper. Fuck, even Bryan. There was nothing left. Nothing but the stink of blood and exploded bowels.
Before he could let loose the scream threatening to tear its way out of his soul, something growled outside the camper. Something close. Twisting around, his stomach squelching against blood and god knows what else on the floor, Jock bit back a scream.
The creature lurching out of the darkness into the light from the open camper door was a living nightmare. It resembled a bear more than anything else, with its shaggy hair and big upper body, but that was only superficial. No bear ever dressed itself in rough leather armor and wore heavy black boots on its feet. Or carried such a wicked looking axe.
Jock was pulling the gun's trigger before he even realized that it was still in his hand. The thing stumbled backwards and roared at the night, frothy spittle flying everywhere, but didn't fall down. Still screaming, Jock pushed himself back into the camper and yanked the metal door closed. He twisted the pitiful little latch and slip crawled through the gore and various bits of his former friend and business partner. His shoulder hurt like hell from the fall and he was having trouble focusing with his left eye. Jock had no way of knowing that he'd suffered a micro stroke when he saw the bear thing coming for him.
With a roar, the bear crashed into the side of the camper and the whole place shook, rocking on the cinder block foundation. It hit it again, the booming blows making Jock's world spin. Jock was screaming gibberish, though to him it sounded like he was saying. "Just you try to come in here, bitch! Just you try!"
Whatever he was saying, the bear seemed to understand him just fine. Because come for him, it did. A single blow of its axe tore through the cheap aluminum door, ripping it off its hinges, and the bear pulled itself halfway through the doorway before getting stuck. Its bulk wedged tight in the narrow opening. It had one huge arm inside. The axe was trapped outside the camper, otherwise Jock would've died right there. The bear glared at Jock with beady eyes glimmering with anger and something like intelligence. Roaring, it lashed out at him with its fearsome claws, falling short of where Jock lay.
The inside of the camper was a horror show. Jock soiled himself, bellowing at the top of his lungs and holding his bloody free hand against his ear. Blinking through sweat, blood, and tears, he couldn't even see to aim. He pulled the trigger once. Twice. Three times before the slide kicked back and the gun was empty. The first round punched into the wall, ploughing up into the ceiling. The second and third rounds hit the bear in the face. One in the cheek that kicked its head to the side, splashing the low ceiling with black blood to mix with what was left of Bryan. The second slug popped its left eye and killed the thing dead.
It collapsed in a heap, its ear splitting roar cut off with a short bark, and the only sound in the camper was Jock's own hoarse screaming. Jock fell silent and lay on his side, breathing hard and staring at the dead monster blocking his only exit. He let the empty gun drag his arm down until it was on the floor.
The silence was maddening.
But it didn't last.
The first sound was a snuffling snort from just outside the camper, then a furtive step. A snout appeared, testing the air around the massive dead bear's shoulders, followed by a shaggy mane of ratty fur as the wolf climbed up onto the bear's back and leered at Jock. It was dressed in armor as well. A rusty shirt of steel links with a heavy belt cinched tight around its waist.
It held a long curved knife in one of its twisted hands.
In the other hand it held a bloody handful of what looked like rags. It tossed the wad onto the floor where it hit with a splat, just in front of Jock. The creature made an undeniably human gesture with its gore covered hand. And it WAS a hand, albeit a misshapen one, with a sharp nailed thumb and three long fingers.
The gesture was unmistakable. It said, this is yours. Take a look, brother.
But Jock didn't want to look. Oh no, he didn't. He just wanted to go home. All thoughts of meth and the things he could buy with that precious poison were blasted from what remained of his ruined mind. "Please." It came out "Pweesh", through what felt like a mouthful of mush. A film over his left eye made the world look pinkish and blurry.
The wolf grinned, its pink tongue lolling from a mouth full of jagged teeth. Its bright human eyes never left Jock's and it gestured again. It chuffed at him, a bark that sounded far too much like a word to Jock's damaged brain. "Look." It seemed to say.
Jock tried not to look, to keep his gaze locked onto the too intelligent eyes of the wolf, but against his will his eyes dropped to the wad on the floor before him. He tried to convince himself that
it was what he originally identified it as. Just a wad of bloodstained cloth.
But that wasn't what his eyes were showing him. Because there was an ear attached to it. And were those nostrils? There was no name for the sound that tore loose from Jock's throat when he realized what he was looking at. Scream wasn't right, didn't halfway describe the madness that escaped his bloodied lips.
A rough chuckle pulled his gaze from what remained of Bryan's face to find that the wolf was no longer alone. It had moved further into the camper, only a few steps from him now, and another wolf had joined it. Both looked at him with eyes glazed with hunger and a monstrous hilarity, before falling upon him and silencing his terror forever.
CHAPTER 5
"So, have you and Claire done it yet?" Albert asked suddenly, looking up from the CD in his hand. The two of them were in VINYL GODS, Matheson's solitary music store, killing time before they each headed home from school.
Brandon was so taken aback by the question that he could only look at the smaller boy, the Pink Floyd album forgotten in his hand. Albert looked at him for a moment, then he seemed to replay what he just said in his mind and his face went scarlet from his hairline to his neck. He blurted. "Not that!" The words tumbled in a rush. "I meant kissed!" The boy turned an even brighter shade of red. "I don't have any experience with girls and I just wondered?"
Brandon shook his head and smiled, saying. "Sure, we've kissed." He laughed softly. Sometimes Albert seemed younger than his sixteen years, like a little kid. That was probably why he got picked on so much. And also why Brandon felt protective of him. Sort of like an older brother to the smaller boy. Brandon said. "I really like Claire, Albert. When you really like somebody, it's enough just being around them. If we ever do more than kiss, I want it to be special. Not something we had to sneak around to do in the back seat of a car or under the bleachers."
Albert was still blushing like crazy, but he ducked his head in a nod and said. "Sorry if I made you mad, Bran. Seriously, Claire's awesome! Just about the coolest girl in school!"
Fire And Steel (The Merryweather Chronicles Book 2) Page 4
