Best New Werewolf Tales (Vol. 1)
Page 18
Ray nodded. Being a literate member of the computer age, he’d known of such websites for some time. Good for getting rid of things. Good for finding what you need cheap. And good for finding what you don’t want anyone else to know you’re looking for.
The tall man pointed to the woods.
“The enclosure is just through there, back a bit in the forest.”
The tall man lead and Ray followed. It was seven o’clock and sunny despite being a cool September evening. Once they moved under the canopy of oak and maple, Ray felt like someone had dimmed the lights, if not shut them of completely. He felt out of place. The tall man sensed it, and pointed to the flashlight in his hand to ease Ray’s mind.
“City fella, eh?”
Ray nodded.
“Got any kids?”
Ray shook his head, no.
“Well, that might be good enough. See he’s a big fella, so he’s not likely to prefer a city apartment. But I gotta tell ya; he sure hates kids. Gets mighty possessive, a one-person kind of animal,” the tall man saw Ray tense, “Oh, he’s great for me though. I’ll just turn over the reins to you if it’s a match,” he grinned, but it was a sad grin.
This man does not really want to give him up, thought Ray.
“You know––
“You go out and get one cause your son wants it. You end up feeding it, cleaning up after it, giving it attention, and YOU become the most attached to the damn thing,” he wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.
“But, safety first, and this ‘ole fella is a mano-y-mano situation, you know?”
Ray nodded and the tall man grinned.
“I gotta feeling he’s gonna like you. Still, breaks my heart to see
him go though.”
They walked on a narrow and winding path, through thickets and uprooted trees. Trees that looked so old, they may have dropped some 20 years ago when Gloria whipped up the New England coast. The trunks were rotting into the ground, but the mud caked roots stood like ruins sprinkled among the seasoned foliage.
The tall man broke the silence.
“You know you aren’t the first to come by and check him out,” he said. The tall man crunched through the forest wiping spider webs from his face as he flicked on the flashlight.
Ray was relieved. Though they’d only been walking for 10 minutes, it felt like a claustrophobic midnight in the woods.
“Yep, not more than a couple months ago I posted the first ad.
It was right about the time we moved him out here—
“By-the-way, you’ll love the enclosure I built for him. Right on the edge of this beautiful clearing, and the moon just looks like a painting when it passes over.”
It seemed the tall man began to realize Ray was becoming impatient, but he hoped the tall man didn’t notice the fear. Ray was tough, or at least he wanted to be. Which was why he was here in the first place.
”Anyway, the guy shows up and starts in as soon as he sees him. Lucky was too hairy, too big, too wild. Not at all like the photo or description, blah, blah, blah,” the tall man waved his hand as if to dismiss such notions.
“Then the guy starts getting rude. Says I’m wasting his time. Well, it just made me want the mutt all the more, you know? But, that’s why the ad you answered was pretty basic. I didn’t want to give the wrong impression, so I figured you could come and see for yourself. They say less is more in writing. So, that’s what I went with.”
Ray nodded in agreement and started to break a little sweat. They were getting deeper into the woods and about to meet a ferocious dog on his own turf. Ray had only seen such a beast among the pits built haphazard in the basements below the city. The adrenaline rush of seeing them mutilate one another made the otherwise mousy paralegal feel like a man. He thought having one around the house would make him feel that way all the time. The mouse was starting to creep back into his mind the further they moved from iron, steel and pavement. Ray now realized he was a novice, in the pits and in the forest, and that maybe he should bolt for home. Now.
“Besides,” said the tall man interrupting Ray’s thoughts. “I read in the papers that the fella went missing a few weeks later. So, turns out Lucky had a bit of LUCK on his side after all,” the tall man laughed at his own joke and clapped his hand on Ray’s shoulder. The move startled him and set off another round of laughter from the tall man.
“Not to worry friend. I know you city folks aren’t much for roughing it. But I’ll take care of you,” and he gave Ray’s shoulder another squeeze before moving on up the path.
“You know I even got Lucky off of Craigslist. Yep, my son helped me get rid of some tools initially. Then one day I was just poking around when I came across PUPPIES FOR SALE—1/2 SHEPHERD, 1/2 WILD MOUNTAIN DOG.
“Sounded like a damn side show and figured visiting the pups with my boy was better than doing nothing on a Sunday afternoon. Course, we get there and Charlie falls in love with Lucky. I’m a sucker for seeing my kid smile and the rest is history.”
The tall man shook his head but remained silent for a few moments. Ray assumed he was replaying the day in his head and felt validated when the man spoke again.
“Biggest damn puppy I ever seen. Now, I can see the shepherd but I don’t know about the wild mountain dog. I mean what is that anyway? Wolf? Coyote? Doubt it. No, I figure mastiff or greyhound most likely. Either way, he’s a big boy.”
The tall man turned and gave Ray a buddy punch to the biceps.
Ray did not respond.
“You are a serious man, sir. Maybe having a pet will loosen you up some.”
“Just a bit further. We had to move him out here ‘cause of the howling, man was he incessant. The older he got, the louder it got. I own 10 acres straight back,” he made an arm motion with the flashlight like a traffic controller on the tarmac at Logan. “So no one can hear him out here anymore—”
“Ah, here we are.”
They had come upon the clearing. The sun was gone and the leafy canopy gave way to a moth eaten blanket of midnight blue. Despite the darkness Ray was thankful for the clear sky and starlit night. He felt like he could breathe again, and momentarily feared the walk back. The fear was quickly replaced by wonder as he searched the lot for the hand-made shack.
Ray spotted it about 100 yards away, past a sea of thigh-high ferns softly lit by a fleet of fireflies dancing about like cargo ships at sea, bobbing atop the waves.
“Shall we?” said the tall man. The interruption made Ray jump. He nodded his head and waded into the ocean of fern as the moon made its first appearance peeking over the tree line.
“I should probably tell you he’s a damn picky eater,” said the tall man. Ray was beginning to realize that this guy had no intention of keeping quiet for long.
“We tried all the store brands and he’d barely sniff at them. Lucky’d wait till we let him out and tear off after some squirrel or rabbit.
“I got a friend that does the butchering down at Stop&Shop. I stop in there once a week and he hooks me up with the scraps. If you decide to take the mutt I’ll pass you his number.”
Ray nodded his thanks, but he was pretty sure he did not want to take a ride on the Lucky bus anymore. The adrenaline he had felt before was now turning to nausea, and he got the feeling the tall man knew it. Ray figured it was best to stay the course for now.
They were just a few feet from the shack and Ray thought it strange that not a sound was coming from it. No rustling, growling, nothing. It must be asleep. Not much of a watchdog, thought Ray.
“I gotta tell you Ray, you seem like a nice enough guy, but I don’t get the feeling this is going to be a good match.”
Ray shrugged and nodded in agreement, happy to not be the bearer of such news. The tall man, as he’d done so many times in the last half hour, smiled.
“S’ok. Like I said, I’m pretty attached to the bugger anyway. So, it’s no skin off my nose. As long as I keep trying to get rid of him the wife’ll stay off my case,” he r
oared with laughter and slapped Ray on the back, nearly knocking him over. Ray shuddered under the weight, but managed to deliver a meek smile to his host.
“Tell you what though, you came all this way to see a hell of a dog. And you ain’t seen a sonovabitch like Lucky. Go ahead and take a peek at him.”
Ray looked apprehensive. He thought he’d gotten out of this one, but the tall man reassured him, “Go ahead city boy. I got your back. Sounds like he’s asleep anyway.”
It was clear that the tall man was not going to take no for an answer. And besides, paralegal or not, I’m a tough guy now, right? What the hell, the dog’s asleep anyway.
Ray stepped up to the door and opened it slowly. The tall man shined the flashlight over Ray’s shoulder into the shack.
A loud, ominous howl rang through the trees about the same time Ray realized the shack was empty. His first thought was that Lucky had gotten loose. He was half right.
Ray turned to the tall man and was met by red, beady eyes, and a set of steak knife teeth dressed in overalls. The tall, hairy beast licked its lips,
“I told you ‘ole Lucky was a sight.” Said the tall man in a throaty voice that had changed in step with his appearance.
With a movement faster than light, Ray felt the teeth sink into the side of his neck. The pressure sliced veins, cracked bones and caused his head to involuntarily snap back so his eyes faced the sky.
Ray stared, stunned in shock and awe, at the beauty of the stars. The moon, full in view, had cleared the treetops and hung over the clearing like a spotlight on the macabre scene.
“Fuck––me––,” Ray wheezed through his nearly collapsed vocal chords.
Everything went black.
A TASTE OF BLOOD AND ROSES
DAVID NIALL WILSON
The wheelchair sat directly in front of one of the small windows that lined the side of the bar and faced out over the swamp. The light of day was fading, and the evening crowd was just starting to filter in. The chair’s occupant paid no attention to them. His stare was icy, empty. A thin string of drool had run down his chin, joining the tip of his chin to the heavy flannel shirt he wore. He leaned forward at what would have been a painful angle, were it not for the unnatural, twisted curve of his spine. Over his flannel shirt, he wore a faded fatigue jacket with the letters USMC emblazoned across the pocket front. On his shoulder rode the insignia of a Gunnery Sgt., two medals dangled from the pocket opposite his name; The Purple heart, and The Silver Star.
Jeanette glanced over at him from time to time, concern knotting her brow. When she thought nobody was looking, she walked over hurriedly and wiped the saliva almost tenderly from his face, then scurried off about her work. He did not move to thank her, nor to watch her. He stared out over the swamp, and the swamp stared back.
At the bar, Mama Duvalier was serving a tall, leather-clad youth with long tangled black hair. “Hey, Ace,” the young man’s friend slurred drunkenly, “hurry up with them Dixie’s.” Jeanette felt a sudden weight on her heart, and knew the man’s head must have swiveled to her. “Hey, better’n that,” the voice rang out again, “have that pretty little thing over there bring ‘em to us.”
“But Juice,” the youth at the bar fairly whined, “I already got ‘em.”
“You heard me,” the voice returned, and Jeanette looked up to meet the eyes behind it, to put an image to the sound. They were dark, deep, and void of emotion. Snake’s eyes. She felt a shiver transit her spine, and turned toward the bar, hurrying her steps.
The beer waited on the edge of the bar. Mama Duvalier had a hand resting on each, and her eyes leaked poison. “You be careful, girl,” she hissed, handing over the tray. “You don’ want trouble wit dat one. You get them this beer, you get away, eh?”
Jeanette shivered again, but she nodded, picking up the tray and turning, fighting to place a smile on her face that would not crack from her fear. She had dealt with snakes before, and it was a mistake to let them know you were afraid.
“That’s right,” the man called Juice crooned. “You bring those over here real nice like, missy. Me and Ace here, we rode a long way to drink this beer. We’re right thirsty.”
His eyes slid over her like swamp slime, and small patches of moisture formed on the underarms of her cotton blouse, but she held her gaze steady. Moving forward as quickly as possible, she set a bottle in front of each of them and stood a bit off to one side, quietly waiting for them to pay.
Juice was in no hurry. “What’s your name, girl?” he asked, his voice becoming sickeningly sweet, like rotted honey.
“Jeanette,” she answered politely, offering no more than was required.
Well, Jeaneatte,” he said, hesitating to let his gaze slide down her body once again, “you are one fine lookin’ little lady. Anyone ever tell you that?”
She shook her head no in a short, nervous motion. The more he stared at her, the more she got the feeling of worms crawling about beneath her skin.
“Jeanette!” Mama Duvalier’s voice cut through the gloomy, smoke-filled room like a knife, slicing the oily threads of the man’s concentration on her with a sudden snap. “You move faster, girl, or I’ll hang your hide out for the gators, eh? You get that money, you get busy.”
Juice was obviously not pleased by the interruption, but he fished a couple of greasy bills from his pocket and handed them over, letting his fingers trail slowly down her palm as he placed the money in her hand. He made a last attempt to snare her with his eyes, but she took the money and nearly fled across the room, casting a look of gratitude to Mama behind the bar.
The old woman did not notice. She was staring fixedly at the back of the young man’s head. Her eyes were nearly closed, and she seemed to be mumbling. Suddenly her eyes snapped open and she spit three quick times into her palms, rubbing them together and slapping them twice. Jeanette wasn’t sure if Mama’s curses ever worked, but there were certainly those who feared them.
Not these two strangers, of course. They had the look and feel of the city on them. Empty souls. She had seen many like them traveling through, heading for New Orleans. Some sought magic, others an endless party, still others ran from something or someone they thought to lose in the tangles streets and ancient, moldering cemeteries. They would know nothing of curses.
The sun was almost down, and Mama gestured to her urgently, nodding her head toward the wheelchair and it’s silent occupant. Jeanette knew what was expected. It was almost nightfall, and Paul must be safely away for the night. It was her job––her destiny. She felt her heart melt at the thought of a few moments alone with him. Drying her hands on her apron, she moved to the window and grabbed the handles of the wheelchair, releasing the brakes with a quick kick.
As she wheeled him toward the side door, she heard the man Juice’s voice ring out again, and it stopped her cold. “Hey, Jenny, who’s the crip?”
She half spun, her eyes lighting with sudden fire, barely catching herself in time to check her tongue. They had no right, no idea––she turned back toward the door, but it was too late. Juice had risen, standing over six feet tall on wobbly, drunken legs. He moved toward her, kicking aside several chairs and lurching into one of the tables as he came, not once dropping the ice-laden gaze of his snake eyes from her quivering form.
“I asked you a question, Jenny,” he said, voice low and suddenly more dangerous.
“My name is Jeanette,” she mumbled, instantly wishing she hadn’t spoken at all.
“What?”
“Please,” she said, “he must go to his room now. I—”
“His room? He lives here?” the man said, frowning dubiously. His eyes slipped in and out of focus deceptively. One moment he seemed coherent and merely drunk, the next out of focus and––evil.
“He lives in the cabin out back,” she said, again regretting her response, though she didn’t know why. “I must get him to his room and his bed. He was injured––the war.”
Juice’s eyes strayed down to Paul’s chest
, and the medals he wore. He reached out as if to grab at one of them, but Jeanette pulled back on the chair and he missed.
“Leave him alone,” she hissed, and there was no more fear in her eyes, only anger. “Keep your filthy hands off of him.”
Juice stood stock still for a moment, his alcohol-fogged mind working overtime to process what had just happened, and for a second Jeanette was certain he would slap her. Then he smiled, a dark, evil smile and pulled his hand back.
“I like a girl with spirit,” he said. “What is he, your brother?”
She turned her back on him, kicking the door open and exiting without looking back. “He’s my husband,” she choked, barely containing her emotions, forcing the words through a throat suddenly too tight and too dry for speech. The door slammed shut behind her. As she was walking toward the cabins, the cool evening breeze soothing her nerves and the sounds of insects and birds ushering her into the world of night.
Paul’s cabin was the very last one in the line, right on the edge of the tree-line that bordered the swamp. There were reasons for this, not the least of which was privacy. She parked his chair beside the door and reached into her pocket for the key ring. She hated the locks, the idea of closing him away with no choice, no freedom, but things were as they had to be. The alternatives were much less appealing.
She turned the first key, then the second, and the third. She could feel the large metal bars sliding from their deeply imbedded sockets, the scrape of metal on metal. Finally all that remained was the knob, and she twisted it, reaching inside to turn on the light. She hurried a bit quicker as, glancing over her shoulder, she noticed that the final rays of sunlight were seeping over the edge of the hills beyond the road. The moon would be high in the sky in only a few short moments, full and bright.
She slipped inside, pushing Paul in front of her, and moved him over to the window on one side of the one-room shelter. There was no bed. There were no chairs, no table. All that the room contained was a faded rug and the two windows, barred with metal rods that were sunken into both floor and ceiling and sealed with heavy mortar.