Feral

by Serafini, Matt

  Considering the day's events, it was easy to accept this as truth. It would've prompted a cynic's scoff just a few days earlier, but now it frightened him to his core. The monsters were all around them.

  "What happened?" He was almost afraid to hear the rest of it.

  "In the morning, someone, an older daughter, I think, dropped by with the key for the shackles. I was waiting. Forced her into the basement and prodded them for information. They feigned ignorance and..."

  She seemed reluctant to continue.

  Jack guessed why, urging her to finish it. When she talked, he had something to focus on aside from the splitting pain.

  "Yeah, I killed them. Shot the mother first, thinking it'd get them talking. They flew into frenzy, and the free daughter begun changing next. Had to put her down, and asked again what they had intended to do with the little girl, had they been able to take delivery of her. When the father was the only one left alive, he told me that he intended to raise her like he did all the girls. 'New huntresses' is all he would say."

  The skin between Amanda's eyebrows wrinkled into the shape of an '11' as she swallowed. She didn't appear distraught; her face was blank, even when it tried being expressive.

  "They had to die," she said.

  "What are they?"

  "You know what they are. Congratulations, man, now you're in on the secret. You'll spend the rest of your life wishing you could un-ring this bell."

  "They can't..."

  "You wanna cling to that argument? After what you saw today?"

  "But they can't possibly exist..."

  "They do. You know how all stereotypes come from somewhere? It's equally true of legends. We're supposedly living in more enlightened times, right? It's easy to doubt God, miracles, and all that because there's tangible science to worship instead. Know what I wish? I wish I were a comfortable skeptic...the kind of asshole who can shrug off questions of theology with smug certainty because she doesn't have to see the things we've seen. But when you see a person's eyes become a window into hell, it's hard...it keeps you up at night, worrying."

  "How many of them are out there?"

  "I have no idea." Amanda peeked beneath the curtained windows, the Glock in her fist. "If you've heard their cries at night then you know there's more than a few. I followed some trails around town but everything took me in circles. There's a big house on the outskirts of town that catches a lot of flow, so much that I think it's a hub for their activity, but I can't get near it. And nothing else made sense to me. Until you."

  "How did you know that Elisabeth was a werewolf?"

  Amanda reached into a duffle bag at the foot of the bed and threw a photograph onto the comforter. It was a grainy surveillance photo taken from a bank parking lot. The woman in the picture had long dark hair and large glasses that masked part of her face; her low-cut attire revealed one identifying shred of evidence: a creepy tooth necklace hanging off her neck and shoulders.

  "My employer has been looking for her for a very long time. When you told me about your friend, your description of her fit the bill. I picked up her trail seven months back. She was living in rural California, working as an artist in some unincorporated village...selling paintings and sketches. A rash of animal attacks cropped up within an eight mile radius of her village."

  "Jesus, she's the source?"

  "Can't be the source, but she's a killer. It was like she knew I was coming, because her place was cleaned out before I got there. Chased her across the state, catching only the faintest hint of her trail at each stop...mangled body here, a shred of clothing there. Followed her as far as Seattle and lost her at a nightclub, of all places. At the same time, a couple of punks...wannabe New Wavers, like from 1984, complete with streaked make-up, skinny ties, glowing shoulder pads...were leaving with two very underage boys, taking them to a nearby warehouse to drain them dry. I killed one before they could hurt their would-be prey, and the other got away. One thing about them...back 'em into a corner, show them you've got the means to kill them, and they run. Long story short...I followed him and an acquaintance all the way here. From one coast to the other. C'mon, get up."

  She helped him to his feet.

  "Walk to the bathroom. I need to make sure your motor skills are functioning."

  Jack felt an unseen weight pressing heavy beneath his skull.

  "Get in the tub...I'll clean you up."

  "I'm not getting naked in front of you..."

  "No time for modesty, idiot. I'm doing this to keep you mobile. We're still parting ways, but I can’t do that until I'm sure you've got a fighting chance."

  Jack stripped off his sticky clothes and dropped them onto the dirty linoleum.

  "I don't have anywhere to go," he said, easing a foot into the cool tubful of water.

  Amanda didn't respond; her attention was fixed on wetting a face cloth in the sink.

  He knew full well that he'd blown it this afternoon. Leading her to Allen had been done in a moment of weakened confusion, but with the purest of intentions. She had executed Elisabeth without a second thought, leaving Jack to witness the murder of a woman whom he'd been out to dinner with a few days earlier. He knew something had been wrong with her and this whole town, but he didn't believe in monsters. Even after today, he felt that he shouldn't. Twenty-seven years of conditioning against things like werewolves and vampires couldn't be undone with the flick of a wrist.

  "Give me one more chance." Jack shivered beneath the icy water.

  "Absolutely not. Even if you knew how to take care of yourself it would still be out of the question."

  "I know I messed up. It was a shock for me. I mean, you killed that woman. You were going to execute my friend. You told me we were just going to talk."

  "Yeah, the fact that I fucked up too is not lost on me." She patted the rivet of crusted blood between his eyes. "It's not. But that doesn't change the fact that I did what I needed to do. And it definitely doesn't change the fact that you almost got me killed today."

  "I need to find Lucy, though."

  "And you want me to help you? So what happens when we find her and she's one, too? You want to go round two with me?"

  "I get it now. You said it earlier...that thing back there wasn't my friend. He stopped existing once Allen became that thing. A werewolf."

  The word rang strange in the air. As weightless as a pothead saying unicorn, although he figured he'd better get used to it.

  "If you understood that earlier he'd be dead too."

  "I won't get in your way. If I can’t go with you, I'm as good as dead. You said it. They know who I am. Where I live. And that I know. You saved me and I'm grateful, but I'm not leaving here without finding Lucy."

  "I think there's more happening in this town than anyone knows." After much silence she added, "Are you prepared to deal with that?"

  "As much as you are," he said.

  She laughed.

  "That's what scares me."

  Eight

  Rory didn't like being home. Hated it, in fact.

  Everything in life had recently been amplified. New sensations. Heightened awareness. Forbidden pleasures. Things had never been this exciting, and that made a quiet night with the wife such a banal waste of time.

  Rachel's name vibrated on his cell phone. He opted to ignore the call, lost in the vision that was his daughter's nude and glistening body. His temptation was fevered, but he decided that waiting just a bit longer would heighten the experience—like letting Thanksgiving turkey stir in its juices just a little bit longer.

  So was the way he wanted to enjoy her. By waiting until the slut would consent. Once the animal had taken her over, she'd surrender to the most repressed desire of all.

  His cock got hard just thinking about that day.

  When the old bag called back a second later, he begrudgingly answered, slipping inside the bathroom and closing the door.

  "Lucy isn't home yet and I can't get in touch with her. One of her friends came by the stor
e looking for her last night, do you know where she is, Rory?"

  "Running a few errands for me," he said. "Then she's going off with some of her friends tonight. Those kids up from Leominster."

  "That's who dropped by. He hadn't heard from her in a few days."

  "I'm not her biographer. I only know what she told me."

  "Are you coming home? We haven't seen each other in a while."

  "I can do that," he said. "Give me forty minutes."

  Might be worth tiding Rachel over with one halfway pleasant afternoon. Everything else was going too well to spark her suspicion, and Lucy wouldn’t be ready for another day or two.

  She'd be okay in the Big East's hotel room. He dialed down to Davies and told him to send someone up to watch over her. "And if they touch her, I'll know."

  "Absolutely not, Mr. Eastman. Please do not burden your mind with that worry. I will send Missy up to do it."

  Things were tense at home before he even walked through the door. No surprise when they’d been this way for months. Didn't even have the desire to look at her, let alone sleep in the same bed. This relationship and their marriage, both were over. It had been a façade but it wasn't even that now. And their union wasn't benefitting anyone—certainly not the children.

  He had his favorite chained up in the honeymoon suite, and the little fucker was off at camp somewhere. Didn't care if he ever saw that one again.

  Navigating a 'romantic' afternoon with the bitch called wife required full concentration and a thespian's performance.

  She was cooking when he came in the kitchen door. "Is that tenderloin I smell?"

  "That's what it is. You always get this when we go out. I thought I'd bring it to you for a change. Got a recipe that's supposed to be amazing."

  "You don't like it, though."

  She approached Rory with a wiggle in her hips and a come-hither look in her eyes. Slender arms wrapped around his pudgy neck and her tongue slithered around the inside of his mouth. He sucked it back, admiring the unexpected surprise. More passion here than in the last few years of marriage.

  But it was nothing to him now—a wasted effort in the 11th hour. He could have this kind of fun anywhere. And it was always more exciting with strangers, anyway. Younger girls he wouldn't have dared to look at before the gift were his whenever he wanted. He'd made an unsuccessful play for Fane's whore, that white-haired cunt, and she'd rejected him with a blunt chuckle that had eviscerated most of his confidence.

  He hoped he could find a way to pay her back one day without Fane knowing.

  "Should I break a bottle of wine? I've got a few nice reds that should complement the tenderloin."

  Rachel broke her mouth away from his neck.

  "I was thinking the same thing, honey. If you get it I'll set the table."

  "My pleasure."

  Rory trotted down into the cellar, to the sparse wine rack tucked away in the furthest corner. He couldn't remember the last time he'd stocked the thing. It used to be for quiet little evenings with Rachel, but as those became less and less frequent, the wine collection dwindled.

  He was faced with a much smaller choice than he'd hoped.

  The 1986 Bollinger would do.

  When he returned to the dining room, Rachel had set the table and was dishing the cut of beef.

  "Sit down," she said. "I'm just going to get the rice and we'll be in business."

  Rachel could cook. The meat was tender, broiled just north of rare and having retained more flavor than expected. The juices saturated his tongue as he chewed; reminding him of the familiar taste he'd savored last night. He wondered if he'd sneak out later, after Rachel was asleep, looking for another way to feed.

  "How'd it come out?" she asked.

  "Perfectly," he said. "Better than the one I had in the city the other day. Really."

  She smiled at the compliment and continued eating.

  There was something in his wife, a characteristic he'd never seen before. With a piece of steak in his mouth, he eyed her with suspicion, hoping to put his finger on what bothered him.

  He did.

  Where did this great dinner come from? Rachel didn't cook much these days and, when she did, it wasn't such an elaborate menu. What was there to gain by undertaking this admittedly impressive effort?

  She either wants to ask me something, or she’s feeling guilty.

  Perhaps both.

  Intuition was too strong. Rory hadn't gotten this far in his career by assuming that people were basically good. They weren't. He was living proof of that, although he wasn't sure he counted as a person anymore.

  They ate and drank; idle chitchats came and went. Even when their talk turned to possible vacation plans in August, neither could muster up enough excitement to make it a conversation worth having. The reality of it was that the marriage had fizzled, and they didn't care anymore.

  Once his plate was clean, he sat back and patted his rotund belly.

  "My compliments go out to the chef." He winked.

  She was a faster eater than he was; having been finished for a few minutes, she came to collect his plate. It was when she neared him that he smelt it.

  She grabbed the dish and began to amble away. Rory took her arm softly and guided her back in his direction.

  "Where are you going so quickly? I want to thank you for one of the best meals I've had in some time." He led her hands back down to the table and she let go of the plates. He pulled her close and she took a seat atop his lap where he caressed her leg.

  "You're a sweet man...when you want to be."

  "Don't you forget that."

  Now that she was closer, the scent was more pronounced. The smell of passion, of sweaty, hot lovemaking. It lingered between her legs. Another man's musk stained his wife's mouth, her breasts, her stomach—all over.

  An unexpected and maddening betrayal!

  Rachel rose and collected the dishes.

  Rory watched her hips sway as she retreated. The embarrassing swell of infidelity settled in his stomach like a bag of cement. Who was her choice of lover? A younger man? She'd always been a filthy whore so this wasn’t surprising. Sometimes the high school slam pigs allowed themselves to become domesticated, growing up to realize the importance of family. He thought this true of Rachel, but what a fool he'd been.

  She returned to clean off the table. Normally he'd be compelled to help but, in the light of these developments, it was best to let her do the heavy lifting.

  He would sit in a puree of his own venom and disgust, wondering whether or not his wife enjoyed her sordid nights out. What was the rendezvous like? Casual? Secretive? Did they go to his place? A hotel, perhaps?

  He pictured her on all fours; that tight ass poised upward, allowing and begging for full access. He thought about her lover, a faceless young stud, pounding away, her ass cheeks heaving with every thrust.

  I bet she loves it.

  All the moaning, screaming, talking like the filthiest of porn stars.

  Rory followed her into the kitchen, motivated by the pressing bulge against his denim. Rachel was running dishes under hot water when he snatched her from behind, pressing hard against her.

  She turned around with a startled moan as he threw himself on her.

  Even if she'd been all tuckered out from an earlier fuck, she knew how to give one hell of a performance that convinced him otherwise.

  She wrapped an arm around his neck and slid her body up against his own.

  He was disgusted with this whore, but aroused by her promiscuity all the same. There'd be plenty of time to deal with her later. Right now, he wanted to taste his wife while fantasizing about her with other men.

  Her kisses were wet and sloppy—just how he liked them.

  He closed his eyes, allowing her tongue to run rampant. The way she kissed, and felt, reminded him of their daughter, whose tasty body he'd been licking not ninety minutes ago. The juiciest fruit he'd ever hungered for.

  His hands grabbed for her breasts,
squeezing them.

  "I love you," she whispered in his ear.

  He said nothing. And while they professed their love in physical expression, Rory's mind was nowhere near his body.

  He thought long and hard about the ways in which he would punish his wife. And once his mind settled on the most gratifying of ways, he smiled and said, "I love you, too."

  ***

  She bolted up like a springboard, a startling scream so violent that Allen's heart damn near exploded in fright.

  "Elisabeth..."

  He scampered across the floor to her side, wiping the moisture from her eyes while attempting to subdue her seizure. She slipped from his arms, her head smacking up and down as she contracted.

  Allen watched in horror, his efforts to pull her close were pointless; flailing limbs kept him at bay. He hadn't yet been able to comprehend his own existence, and Elisabeth's resurrection was lost entirely on him.

  No way of telling how long he'd been sitting here in mourning. He'd passed most of the time stroking her lifeless head in disbelief. No motivation, only defeat.

  And now this.

  Elisabeth moved on the palms of her hands, staggering backwards while kicking at the floor with thrashing legs. She scurried up against the wall, her hand slapping repeatedly against her forehead until her finger closed in on the serrated puncture above her temple, just beneath the hairline.

  Allen crawled to her side, arms outstretched in a literal display of uncertainty.

  She fingered the bullet hole as her face morphed into expressions of pain and discomfort. Her beautiful blue eyes were in hiding, rolled back beneath her brain and replaced by wide and empty white balls. They looked through him while her screams cut into his head.

  This was Elisabeth, but it wasn't.

  Allen dug through his pockets, wondering where the hell he'd seen his cell phone last.