by Lorne Dixon
The church doors shook. Flinn motioned for Chev to step farther inside, away from the entrance. He didn’t hesitate to obey. “Some of the men from town went into the woods with hunting rifles and killed some of their young. From then on it wasn’t just a school child or two that disappeared. Entire families were slaughtered in their homes. I knew it had to stop.
“I met Lew Daudelin at the crossroad of Mill’s Tuck and River Road and we signed the pact. They wouldn’t hunt the town and we wouldn’t interfere in their affairs. It kept the peace for fifty-six years. Until tonight.”
Flinn lead him down the aisle. “Lew kept the old Brothers in line, didn’t let any of them threaten the pact. I did the same on my end. But we both had our failures. Mine was Devil Ayers, Marek Ruggs was his.”
The pounding on the front door grew louder. Chev glanced at the stained glass on either side of the pews and remembered the supermarket windows. “They’ll get in here.”
“Yes,” the priest said, “they will. And when they do we will fight. And men and beasts will die. That can’t be stopped anymore, it’s not preventable. But this isn’t your fight.”
Flinn rounded the pulpit and pointed to a hidden side door. “This will take you outside through a storage shed. I don’t see how they would know it exists.”
Chev turned as the sound of splintering wood echoed throughout the church. The front doors began to bulge inward and split open. He guessed that they might hold for another minute.
“Just one more thing.” Flinn put a hand on Chev’s shoulder. “A little story passed down from antiquity. Something that shouldn’t be lost if no one who knows it survives tonight.”
Chev nodded but kept his eyes on the doors. The congregation were ducking down behind the pews, guns aimed, waiting for the beasts to start breaking through. “The short version?”
“When Lucifer was cast out of heaven, first he fell to Earth. His broken, burnt body landed near a wolf’s den in the forest. A famine had plagued the land and all of the animals were starving. The mother wolf and her cubs found the devil’s body. The cubs wanted to feast but the mother wouldn’t let them. Men came along and also wanted to feed on the fallen angel’s flesh. The mother wolf fought them and drove them away, but while she fought some of the humans snuck up and snatched away her cubs. After it was over, the mother wolf cried for her devoured young and Lucifer heard her anguish. For her sacrifice, the devil gave the wolf the gift of shape shifting and instructed her to hunt the humans forever. That is the story of Mother Lupe, the first werewolf.”
Chev remembered stories about the devil from Sunday school, mostly stories of temptation, but nothing about werewolves.
Lumber split. A set of black teeth tore at the cracked wooden panels. The congregation held their fire, a few turning to Flinn, waiting for his instructions.
“Go. Now,” he said before turning to his people.
Chev opened the hidden door. He was greeted only with darkness. From inside the church he heard Flinn began to recite Isaiah 11:6, “The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf and the young lion and—”
It sounded like an earthquake. The doors collapsed, dozens of beasts burst through, a chorus of gunfire, screams, howls—
Chev rushed through the door and closed it behind him. He felt his way along the shed’s wall, brushing his hands across brooms, shovels and gardening tools. When an old wooden knob slid into his palm he turned it, threw open the door, and hurried into the night.
The moonlight overhead seemed unusually bright after his stumble through the pitch black shed. The tilting headstones around him might as well have been lit by a midday sun. He ran through the cemetery, watching for movement among the tombstones and monuments.
A battered American flag fluttered overhead.
Catching motion out of the corner of his eye, Chev turned his head to the tree line on the edge of the cemetery. The Elders snaked out through the brush, some standing, others on all fours, a dozen naked old men with white beards and wiry body hair. They stood motionless at the edge of the lawn, silvery eyes reflecting the moonlight, watching him flee.
He darted out of the cemetery through a gap in a hedge wall. His feet touched down on bloodstained sidewalk concrete. He slid and stumbled into the street.
Balancing himself and catching his breath, Chev stared at his feet; his elongated shadow grew shorter. Swinging his head, he squinted into the headlights of an oncoming truck.
Devil Ayer’s truck.
Spinning, Chev ran down the roadway, his shadow shrinking as the massive truck closed in. The roar of the truck’s engine buried the other sounds floating through the night, silencing the gunshots and screams echoing from the church.
Then Chev stopped.
He stopped running.
He was finished running.
The truck’s angry rumble vibrated in his skull. He felt the heat of its grill on his back. As the behemoth vehicle bore down on him, Chev leaped to the side of the road. Brakes squealed and the smell of scalded rubber filled the air. The truck slid to a stop. Chev pushed himself off the blacktop, ran to the truck and jumped onto its bed.
He scrambled to locate the shovel then snatched it up.
Gabryel turned and stared out the cab’s back window. His mouth opened in surprise as he seemed to realize what Chev meant to do.
Chev rammed the spade through the window. It sliced through the back of Gabryel’s neck, cutting through skin and muscle, cracking through cartilage and vertebra. His head landed on the dashboard and spun around. Their eyes met.
Gabryel’s spraying body slumped into the passenger side of the bench seat and twitched. Chev crawled through the broken window and settled down into the blood-slicked driver’s seat. In the rear view mirror the Elders stood in the street, staring in disbelief. He rolled down the driver’s side window and tossed out Gabryel’s head like cigarette butt.
Chev floored the accelerator.
Chapter Eighteen
Without power steering, piloting the driving wheel of Dev’s pickup felt like holding on to the shaking safety bar of a descending rollercoaster. The truck fought Chev through the curves and dared him to jut off road. He kept the gas pedal flat to the floor boards as the screaming, burning town disappeared in the rear view mirror.
He glanced at Gabryel’s headless body next to him on the bench seat and watched it shiver and blur, changing shapes between man and beast.
A roadside sign read you are now leaving easter glen.
Chev smiled and thought, Yes, yes I am.
Headlight bulbs burst to life at the opposite end of the single lane road. Chev let up on the accelerator. The silhouette of a smaller pickup truck emerged, a driver and a single passenger in the cab. The truck’s tires spun on loose gravel, then found purchase on the asphalt and sped up the lane.
Chev hit the brakes. Dev’s truck bucked to a stop— and stalled.
The smaller pickup accelerated, aimed with a bullet-straight trajectory at Chev’s grill.
Chev turned the key. The engine sputtered.
Headlight glare flashed across the windshield, burning white light into his retinas, blinding him. He wrenched back on the key and turned again. The engine caught. There was no time to switch gears into reverse or to crank the wheel for a hard left.
The glare retreated in the split second before the crash and he recognized the faces in the cab—Bella’s father and Mr. Aldridge, the Food Cabinet’s manager.
Chev scrambled out of his seat, pulling himself up towards the rear window. Glass shards sliced into his hands.
With an explosion of metal-on-metal and shattering glass, Chev’s body was tossed through the window frame. Hot steel scraped across his shoulder blades and his backbone cracked as he landed in the truck’s bed. Heat and pain spread through his body as gravity failed and the truck lurched off the ground, threatening to overturn, before crashing back down to the roadway, shock absorbers shrieking.
&n
bsp; And then quiet.
Lying flat in the truck’s distorted bed, Chev reached up to his brow and wiped a fresh stream of blood from his face. Through blurry vision, he saw his fingers dipped in red silk, so rich it was nearly black.
That can’t be good, he thought.
Then his eyes rolled and the world turned as dark as his blood.
Chapter Nineteen
The harsh, biting stench of scorched motor oil woke Chev. A snowflake hit his right eyelid. His eyes opened, adjusted to the dark and focused on the round moon overhead. He pulled himself out of the truck’s bed, wobbling, sparks of pain marking every movement. Stumbling on his heels, he surveyed the wreck. The two trucks had crushed together, fusing their rumpled accordion bodies into one massive, steaming machine.
His left eye was swollen shut.
Stepping over a shredded coil of sheet metal, Chev made his way over to the smaller truck’s crushed cab. Aldridge was dead, slumped halfway through the destroyed windshield, his forehead resting on Dev’s truck’s steering wheel. Beyond him, sandwiched into the pancaked driver’s side, Bella’s father was sprawled face up, head back, mouth open. He was doing a better job of bleeding than breathing.
Chev swung open the passenger side door and let it fall to the road. He reached inside and pulled Aldridge through the windshield and out onto the road. A cell phone slid out from the man’s vest. Chev scooped it up before sliding into the cramped cab.
He shook Bella’s father.
The man coughed up blood, rolled his head and stared into Chev’s face. One eye had gone completely red, every blood vessel burst, blood running down like tears. The dying man sputtered, “You … did this … you … broke the pact.”
“You made a deal with monsters,” Chev whispered into his ear. “How did you think it would end?”
Bella’s father shrugged and something in his neck cracked. ”Doesn’t matter … not now … . Now everyone dies …”
He closed his eyes.
“Is there anything—”
One eye cracked back open. “You … can get … out of … my face … and let … me … die.”
The eye didn’t make it all the way closed before his breathing stopped.
Chev slid back out of the cab.
The wind changed direction and a cloud of black smoke engulfed him. The cloud carried the strong scents of melting tires and spilled gasoline. He stepped away from the crash.
The sound of motorcycles revving drew his attention towards the bend in the road. Three headlights blasted him as the bikes rounded the curve. Chev pocketed the cell phone and patted himself down, searching for the Baretta. Coming up empty, he took a quick step towards the remains of Dev’s truck. Flames burst out from under the chassis, forcing him to retreat.
The bikes circled the wreck, riders laughing and barking, evenly spaced to prevent him from escaping. As they circled, Chev’s eyes locked onto Marek’s grinning face. It only took another second for him to recognize the other two—Jiri and Josef.
He glanced back at the wreck and imaged the Baretta lying on the floorboards, tossed out of his waistband by the force of the crash.
Marek and Josef’s bikes skidded to a halt at the far edge of Bella’s father’s truck. Marek reached into his shirt pocket, withdrew Chev’s license and flashed it. Josef burst into insane laughter, black teeth chattering, beads of spit flying. They revved their bikes and took off, disappearing into the wafting smoke.
Jiri’s bike rolled to a stop. The huge biker released the kickstand, killed the engine, and dismounted. He limped slightly as he approached. Chev considered running but even with Jiri’s wounded foot, he was in worse shape and the beast could easily outpace him. Instead he reached down, wrestled up a length of twisted metal, and swung it over his head like a baseball bat.
“Foot hurts like a Monday hangover. Had to take two toes off.” Jiri snickered, long hair wagging from side to side. “I’m gonna make this slow, gonna hurt you real bad, but let you live for a long time, long enough for you to know that Marek and Josef got all the way to New York and spent some quality time with your wife and kids.”
Jiri took another limping step and Chev swung. Jiri stopped, leaning out of range, and cackled. “Whoa, slugger, watch yourself with that thing. It’s heavy. You could hurt yourself.”
The fire spread from underneath, engulfing the two trucks in a fireball. The gun was lost. He wondered how long a gas tank could be exposed to open flame before it exploded.
Jiri unlatched the first button on his shirt. A wry, sardonic smile crept onto his face as he undid the second and third, revealing a smooth chest pockmarked by healed bullet holes and knife scars. Chev wondered how many of the wounds had been Devil Ayer’s handiwork.
Running his tongue over his top lip, Jiri snarled. “I like this shirt. Don’t want to rip it, or get any stains.”
Tossing the shirt aside, Jiri leaned in and took one giant step forward. His flesh rippled. His body lost shape, shuddering, reforming itself in a blur of motion into a beast. Still standing upright, Jiri’s face remained human but his grin cut back farther into his face, the insane smile of a grease-painted clown.
Chev swung the metal cudgel. Jiri’s clawed hand intercepted the blow and knocked the weapon out of his grasp and into the flaming wreckage. The beast launched himself at Chev, leaping off the asphalt, claws whistling as they sliced through the air.
Dropping to the road, Chev rolled.
Jiri landed at the edge of the wreck, close enough to singe his hair. He turned his head, face now completely wolf, and roared in anger.
Chev crouched, hands on blacktop, staring up at the beast. He scurried on his hands and knees like a crab, retreating to the edge of the road.
Jiri spun and leaned back on his haunches, ready to pounce.
Chev’s fingers felt smooth metal as he scrambled onto the grass embankment at the road’s edge. He lifted the Baretta and aimed.
Jiri leaped.
Chev squeezed off the entire clip.
Two bullets tunneled through Jiri’s chest, killing his momentum and driving him back. A third punched his muzzle, sending his shattered skull flying backward. His body collapsed into the expanding ring of fire.
Chev pulled the trigger twice more. Dry clicks.
He tossed the gun away and struggled to his feet. His left ankle was sprained, possibly worse, and he almost toppled over in pain. Steadying his wounded leg with one hand on his knee, he reached into his pocket and fished out the cell phone.
He dialed home.
What would he tell them? Two motorcyclist werewolf thugs were on the way and they should pack up and run? He didn’t know what he would say, just knew he had to warn them, had to get them out of the—
On the first ring, “Yeah.”
It was a man’s voice. Was he too late? Had Marek already sent a Brother to his home? No, this wasn’t a small town voice full of drawl and rumble; it was a gruff, grizzled urban voice with a Long Island accent.
“Who’s this?” Chev said, panting.
“Is this Chevalier Worke,” the voice asked.
His mind reeling, Chev nearly dropped the phone. “Yes.”
“Your friends call you Chev, isn’t that it? Well, Chev, you have something that belongs to us. A briefcase. And we have something that belongs to you—your family.”
“A briefcase?”
“What, did you just sell the whole trailer and not even open the doors to peek inside? Now, I don’t believe that for a second. You seem like an intelligent guy, and I know that I’m a smart cookie, so let’s talk like grown-ups here. You bring me the briefcase, you get your family back in one piece. You keep the briefcase, more than a few pieces and then we hunt you down and put some lead in your diet. You get me?”
Chev’s hand trembled. “Don’t hurt them. I’ll get your briefcase.”
“You will. By tomorrow night. Your place.”
The line went dead.
Chev bit down on his bottom lip, ignored the p
ain, and ran to Jiri’s bike. He swung onto the saddle, keyed the ignition and pulled up the kickstand with his heel.
Chev rode.
Chapter Twenty
It started as a tingle in Chev’s chest, then tightened into a churning knot. Something was wrong, possibly a muscle pulled, or worse, something with his heart. His breathing became difficult, each pull of breath producing a grimace of anguish. He concentrated on keeping the bike balanced. He strained to keep his eyes focused on the road ahead.
Slumping forward, he shifted his weight to the handlebars and gnashed his teeth. Rising against its stream, the wind and snow buffeted him. His jacket flapped behind him like a cape. Heat joined the pain in his chest, spreading outward in waves.
He screamed but couldn’t hear himself over the grind of tire against asphalt and the rumble of the bike’s engine.
Overhead, the peaks of a long line of oak and spruce trees blocked out the moon and curtained the roadway into darkness. The bike’s headlight burned a single finger of light down the broken yellow center line.
As the bike’s speed peaked and the engine screamed, he locked the bike’s cruise control bar and held on.
A pang of pain struck his chest like a lightning strike and his balance failed. The bike dipped to its right, the front wheel turning, the weight of the machine threatening to tip it over. Chev groaned, clenched his teeth, and pulled it back upright.
In the distance, he caught sight of a pair of headlights and taillights. Leaning forward, willing the bike to go faster, Chev growled, “All right, now, come on.”
Another burst of pain struck, strong enough to force one hand off the handlebar to clutch his chest. Tears bubbled up in the corners of his eyes.
Gaining ground on the bikes, Chev winced as the pangs in his chest came faster, joining the beat of his heart. The bike wobbled. His vision blurred.
Up the road, the bikes stopped and circled back.
Facing the oncoming headlights, Chev fought to race his bike down the center lane, putting all of his strength into keeping the handlebars level.
