by Glenn Rolfe
And it wasn’t just the two pseudoreporters. Their articles had stirred up a handful of his most level-headed townspeople. Pug Gettis, a God-fearing, every-Sunday front-rower at Saving Grace Baptist, had inherited Old Mike’s role as wolfman alarmist. Christine Morris and Tina Bazinet had called the station at least every other night reporting anything that moved in the dark. Deputy Clarke had broken up more than one beach party of local teens down at Emerson Lake after curfew. The last party, he reported two nights ago, had a wolfman theme. Two of the boys, Troy Butler and Brad Bennington, had been escorted home dressed up like it was Halloween and howling in the cruiser, drunk as a couple of Gil’s best customers. The Crypto Insider was doing him no good.
Even with all of this madness, Joe managed to prepare, hopefully better than seven years ago, for whatever would unleash itself on his town this weekend. Today, a trip to Barlow Olson’s gun shop was in order.
He arrived at Olson’s at 3:00 p.m. A Closed sign hung in the front door.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Then he noticed movement inside of the shop. From behind the counter, a large, bearded man waved him in. Joe shut the truck engine off and left it parked at the curb. He got out and met Olson at the door.
The man was the size of an NBA center. He stood at least six foot seven, probably about 280, maybe 290, pounds. He was dressed in a pair of green work pants and a black T-shirt bearing a blood-spattered skull with a knife sticking through it—Kill ’Em All, Let God Sort ’Em Out scrawled across the top in blood. He wore his mane of gray hair, pulled back in a ponytail. His beard, which had been dark brown the last time Joe stopped by to visit him, had also gone the way of silver. He looked much older than his fifty-two years.
He shook Joe’s hand—he certainly hadn’t lost an ounce of strength—and welcomed him into the shop.
“My apologies about the sign, Sheriff. You just sounded like you had something heavy on your mind. I figured we might need the privacy.” Olson meandered back toward his regular perch behind the glass counter at the center of his little shop.
The place looked much the same as it always had. Guns of all shapes and sizes were proudly displayed on racks and hooks on the wall behind the long glass case containing every kind of knife you could imagine. A line of shotguns followed a row of rifles. Beside them was an arrangement of handguns displayed in the shape of a heart.
Barlow Olson was an odd duck. That was never in doubt.
There was a fancy-looking new banner above the guns that read Convert Threats to Carpet Stains.
“Nice banner,” Joe muttered as he fiddled with an unlit cigarette.
“Thanks, my friend Paul came up with that. Catchy, huh?” Olson glanced at the sleeping smoke Joe twirled between his thumb and index finger.
“It’s…an interesting slogan,” Joe replied. He tried on a smile, but in his current state, could only muster a weak smirk.
Olson turned around, appearing to admire the flashy black-and-yellow banner, and then smiled back at Joe. “I like it.”
Joe gave a small laugh. “Well, it’s definitely you.”
He followed Olson’s gaze as it returned to the unlit cigarette in his hand. “What can I do for you today, Sheriff?”
Joe wasn’t sure how or where to start. He decided to be straightforward with his old friend. “Barlow, it would appear Gilson Creek has a…a werewolf problem.”
“No shit, Sheriff. What can I do to help?”
Ted McKinney managed to secure himself a gun—a Glock just like Dwayne’s. The bastard at the gun shop denied ever having sold silver bullets. Told Ted he watched too many monster movies. Fucking asshole.
A little research after the fact led Ted to SBBulletForgers.com, an online company in the Southwest that made and sold real silver bullets. Wolf killers is what they called them. The tracking said his package was due tomorrow. He hoped it wasn’t a scam. He’d spent two hundred dollars on the box of ammo. The bullets had used the last of the tour money he’d saved. His time at the Lobster Motorway Inn was over.
In his time at the Lobster, he’d learned more than where to buy wolf killers. He’d entered chat room after chat room on different sites: WolfenAround.com, WerewolvesandVampires.net, unrealreality.net and, the most useful, Monstersamongus.com.
The Monsters Among Us site focused on myths and folklore in the States. Areas like New Mexico and South Texas where chupacabra sightings were heavy. Also, they talked a lot about a valley of the undead in Alaska, where a clan of vampires supposedly lived. There were also the Mothman myths of the Southeast, and Helltown in Ohio. It all sounded like the work of some very creative minds, but the werewolf story he found reported in Northern Maine from 1996 was too close to home to ignore.
In early 1996 a Jackman resident, Norman Megill, an avid black-bear hunter, disappeared while hunting in the town of Allagash. Friends reported finding him at his home several weeks later. They said he was aggressive, not his normal hearty self. His cousin, Jason Collins, reported that Norman confessed to being attacked and bitten by a monster wolf that walked upright like a man. Said that it happened while he waited out the bear he’d been tracking. Collins claimed Megill bore no wounds or scars consistent with his supposed attack and grew hostile when asked about the missing marks. A year later, a series of deaths in and around Jackman were reported. Collins and Megill both went missing shortly afterwards.
Ted found that the mutilations described in the bodies they found matched both what he’d seen in the Crypto Insider picture taken by Nick Bruce in ’97 and what he’d seen left of Old Mike in Paulson Park. The only difference, as far as Ted was concerned, was that a large animal attack in that part of the state was much more plausible. Still, locals reported all sorts of “wolfman-like” activities. No more bodies were found past the first set, but the number of missing persons increased. The site reported that the disappearances coincided with the full moons.
At the bottom of the Jackman stories, there was a list of misconceptions about werewolves. There was no name attached to this list, but Ted copied it all down anyway. The one that caught his eye was that silver bullets caused serious damage, but acted more like a poison. In order to kill the beast you must behead the monster. The last one on the list scared him the most—the werewolf could change into its bestial form at any time during a full moon, whether the moon was high in the sky, shining bright, or still waiting for the sun to give way. Pretty much, the monster could stalk its prey in the light of day just as easily as it could at night. Ted hadn’t heard any of this before, but that’s what made them stand out. And he wasn’t about to take any chances. He’d grab a whole box of ammo and the nice shiny ax he had at home. If you’re going to do a job right, you better have all the right tools.
Nick Bruce walked through the aisles of Jenner’s Grocery picking up vegetables and side items he had no intention of consuming. The main course was what it was all about. He’d always been a steak guy, but in recent days he’d taken the love for red meat to the next level. His latest self-prepared meals had mostly consisted of warmed-up hamburgers. A slight brown to the outside, pink throughout. But they didn’t suit his craving.
Two days ago, his mother purchased two nice big steaks from Nelson’s Meat Market for her and Jerry’s one-year anniversary dinner. She left to visit one of her old high school friends that afternoon. Nick stumbled upon the juicy treats in the fridge. A pull, like a recovering alcoholic left alone with a bottle of whiskey, overcame him. He took the plate to his room and devoured the raw meat.
When his mom got home and found the steaks missing, she came to his door, but not one foot closer. She hadn’t dared to tell him what to do since that day in the kitchen. She cried.
That night, he woke from another fever dream of black death and torn flesh. He was nearly crippled by the pains that racked his body. He’d vomited blood before, but this was darker, like something out of his dreams.
Since then, he’d been consuming nothing but steak and raw hamburger. The sickness hit him each and every night, but the pull was too strong to deny.
“Picking up some more steaks?” Alan Cormier said.
“Yeah, three of the fattest and freshest you’ve got.”
“Man, you’re eating like a king. What have you been doing for work? I’ve seen that Full Moon shit in the Insider. You working that old scene again?”
“Sure,” he lied.
“You must be making bank. That shit is hot right now. Tomorrow night’s the big one, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Hold up, I’ll get you some cuts from the back.”
“Eating like a man, huh?”
The gruff voice startled him. The hulking form of Gilson Creek’s former loony-bin sheriff, Stan Springs, stood like a mountain at his side.
“Yeah, they’re for my mom and her boyfriend’s anniversary.” He didn’t know why he offered up an excuse, but like the draw to the meat, he just felt the need.
“How’s your arm these days?”
“My arm?”
“Sorry. I saw you a couple weeks ago with it bandaged up.”
“Oh that. I…”
“Here you go, Nick. Three of my best,” Alan said. “Oh, hey. What can I get for you, sir?”
Nick grabbed the white packages from Alan’s hand.
“Nothing for me. I was just looking.” Springs nodded to Alan. “I’ve got to leave some room in these old guts.” He turned his head to Nick. “Preparing for a feast this weekend.”
The former sheriff walked away. Alan shrugged at Nick.
A hunger pain struck his insides. Without a word, Nick strolled to the front of the store. He tucked the meat packages into his waistband, paid for his other groceries and hurried around to the back of the store. He tossed the carrots and the box of rice to the ground and ripped out one of the stolen steaks…
As he tore through the blood-drenched delicacy, he couldn’t help but feel like he was being watched.
Stan stood behind the trees, with a clear view of the young man eating meat behind the grocery store. He could smell the raw sustenance. His stomach growled. He’d been keeping tabs on Bruce since the guy had come out of his house a couple weeks back, but hadn’t decided whether or not to have a real talk with him. Stan wanted to see what kind of monster he would make.
Joe was semi-stunned by Olson’s response. Olson must have seen it on his face.
“Sheriff, I’ve been around these parts for a long time. I worked this shop when I was sixteen. I stood right here next to my daddy back when it was his. There was one thing my father used to always say. ‘Barlow, my boy, there ain’t nothin’ impossible.’ A lot of parents say that to encourage their children, give ’em a little boost, but my daddy was talkin’ about something else.”
“Is that right?” Joe placed the cigarette between his lips.
“Why don’t you come out back with me? I’ll join you for one of those.”
Joe pulled the pack from his front pocket and drew one out for Olson.
“Come on.” Olson accepted the cigarette, stepped out from behind the counter and nodded toward the back of the store.
Joe followed the mountain past a wall of swords straight out of a samurai movie. The big man pushed open the back door. Natural light spilled warmth into the room.
Olson slapped a Zippo against his thigh and lit his cigarette. He straightened his arm and sparked Joe’s.
Joe took a drag and exhaled. “You were saying about your daddy?”
“My daddy was friends with a hunter by the name of Silas Wyatt. Big game, mostly. Black bears, moose. One day Silas comes into the shop, stone-cold sober, and says, ‘Olson, I need you to do me a favor.’ Daddy says, ‘What’s that?’ Silas says, ‘Need me some silver bullets.’ Daddy turns to me and asks me to get him some aspirins from out back.”
Olson takes a couple of puffs from his cigarette and continues, “I stop at the curtain that used to divide the back area from the front of the shop and listen. Daddy says, ‘Only one thing needs silver bullets.’ Silas says, ‘I know. That’s why I’m comin’ to you.’”
Olson takes another drag and stares up at the sun burning bright above the trees to the east. For such an intimidating presence, the man has the softest green eyes Joe’s ever seen. Warm, welcoming.
“My daddy knew about ’em even then. Not that I had a clue about any of it. Them bullets I gave you back in ’97? Leftovers from a previous order.”
Joe dropped his butt to the tar and crushed it beneath his boot. “That so? From what?”
“You ever hear of them slayings up in Jackman? Was the year before your troubles.”
“Don’t think so. Jackman’s a heck of a way up there. What’s the connection?”
“A boy comes down. Says his cousin sent him. Cousin’s name is Megill, I know the name. Old Silas married a Nancy Megill from Allagash. So the boy asks for the silver slugs, same as you. I got ’em for him. After giving the rest to you I decided to follow up on the area I know Megill’s from, and uncover all of these stories of mutilated bodies and such.”
“Same as me..”
“Same as you.”
“We got anything left in the old silver line?”
“Funny you should ask.” Olson opens the back door and gestures for Joe to head in.
Back at the counter, Olson pulls out a big yellow box.
“You ain’t the first one to come in here this week asking for these.”
Joe tipped his Stetson up and raised his brow. “Anyone you know?”
“Nope. He was a real nervous fella. About six one, black hair, kind of grown out a bit, and sideburns. Real intense looking.”
“Give you a name?”
“Yep.” Olson heads out back and returns with a pink sheet of paper in hand.
“Ted McKinney.”
“And when was this?”
“Few days ago. Sold him a piece.
Great, just what I need.
“Told him I didn’t have the bullets though. Told him he watched too many movies. Didn’t know him from Adam, y’know. Least you came with a reference.”
Joe thought of Stan.
“Another guy called on the phone. Didn’t give me a name. Said ‘dude’ a couple of times. I just figured it was some kids caught up in that cartoon monster you got people writing about.”
Couple of annoying punks from New Hampshire. “Yep, probably just a couple of dumb kids.
“Listen, Barlow, I need to know more. Obviously, after last time, I didn’t expect to be back here under these circumstances. Your father ever pass down anything you might think can help make sure I’m not back in a couple years?”
“You filled it with the bullets I gave ya last time?”
“Yep. Every last one.”
Olson leaned back and scratched his beard. “Daddy never involved himself any further than stocking and selling the bullets. Said knowing something was out there and doing his part to aid in its demise was good enough. Me, I ran the same way, until it hit so close to home.”
Olson bent down and came back with a black sheath featuring three gold inlays. He held it out to Joe.
Joe took the weapon in his hands.
“Is this what I think it is?”
“You can’t just shoot these things. The silver will fuck the shit out of ’em. Drop ’em out of commission for a long-ass time, but it’s not enough.”
Joe unsheathed the blade. The steel came free with a quiet sssss.
“That there is a Masahiro Yanagi Katana blade.”
Joe set the sheath down on the counter and held the beautiful sword in his hands. He felt both in awe and out of place holding the weapon. He placed a finger to the sharp side of the blade. When he pulled his finger away, he notice
d the thin red line where he had made contact. “And this should work?”
Barlow leaned back and stroked his beard. “I’ve done a little more research since checking on the Jackman stories. According to what I found, only way to keep a werewolf down for good is to take off its goddamn head.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Back in Bumfuck, Maine—hell yes,” Joel said. “Where are we staying this time?”
“Motel 6 again. It’s cheap and we can smoke our brains out.”
“Damn, I wanted to stay at the Bruton Inn. That place has some old ghost stories, man.”
Wes was sketching pictures of hairy men with pointed ears and sharp teeth. “We’re not here for ghosts. We’ve come to cover the Full Moon Monster, and don’t you forget it.”
“Nah, I know, man. But we gotta take a trip just to explore that next time. I freaking love ghosts.”
“You’ve never seen a ghost and you know it.”
“But if I did, I’d be fuckin’ stoked.”
Wes held up his finished masterpiece. “What do you think?”
“Dude, that’s awful. Have you not drawn since fifth grade art class?”
“Fuck you. Our exit’s coming up. Junction to Route 5.”
“I’m just fucking with you. It looks cute.”
“You’re a dick.”
They both laughed as Joel careened the vehicle off to the exit on their right.
The drive up Route 5 to Hollis Oaks was spent cranking the Specials and the Misfits. Joel pulled into the Motel 6 parking lot. “Home, sweet home.”
“I’ll go see if I can check us in early,” Wes said. “You grab the gear.”
“What the fuck is all this shit anyway?”
“Stuff I got from Harry Pierce. He owed me a favor.”
Wes got their keys and helped Joel lug in the cameras and sensory devices he’d borrowed from his old roommate Harry. They got the equipment inside and cracked the six-pack of PBR Tall Boys.
“So tell me, what’s the plan?” Joel lit a smoke and offered one to Wes.
He eyed the equipment on the bed. “We really shouldn’t be smoking around Harry’s shit, but what the fuck.” He grabbed the proffered smoke and lit up. “From what I gather, we have a couple of hot spots. Paulson Park is obvious, but I’m thinking somewhere around Old Gilson Creek Road seems perfect too.”
