Werewolf Chronicles

by Traci Briery

  She raced along the boardwalk for a little bit before heading for the pier. This would be anything but a crowded night, she hoped, and continued her rush for the pier. Everything in between was closed or closing, but shopping was not her concern. Other pedestrians minded their own business until, at the edge, there seemed to be no others about.

  She almost ran over the edge of the pier entirely, but stopped herself in time. She gripped the rails and leaned over to watch the water lapping against the pylons. She caught herself hyperventilating, and shut her eyes before forcing herself to slow down and catch her breath. This so-called panic attack was meaningless. There was no reason to have something like this; why was it starting now?

  After several long minutes Phyllis had succeeded in forcing herself to breathe slowly and deeply. She straightened herself up and zipped up her coat. There had been no reason for this; there had been no reason to be afraid. Afraid of what? The dark? Not anymore. It was probably unwise to be alone where she was, but this did not concern Phyllis for the moment.

  Now that the "attack" was over, Phyllis stuck her hands in her pockets and kicked at some dirt while shuffling aimlessly. Perhaps it was good to be outside and alone for once in order to get in some good thinking. It wasn't easy keeping her thoughts focused on one subject for very long.

  She tried to think about Michael, but those thoughts were interrupted when she glanced up at the full moon, and those thoughts flashed over to Aunt Joanie, followed by her "interview" at the club that morning, and the moon was full, and she remembered her workout from the night before—the moon had been full, then, too—and she remembered feeling "the burn" while working out. Phyllis had been pulling at her shirt a while before realizing that the heat was real. She wasn't working out now, but "the burn" was there.

  Phyllis tried to make herself turn around, but she could only back away from the moon's light, and tripped over some unseen obstacle. She flipped over onto all fours and found herself unable to stand or even crawl away. The "burn" was getting worse. She was remembering more through the pain. There had been pain the night before. There had been heat, and the awful soul-wrenching nausea that was now making her collapse and curl into a tight ball.

  Phyllis wanted to cry out, but could only whimper softly while her body began stretching and compressing itself simultaneously. So much of herself was changing so greatly and so rapidly that she gave up wondering what exactly was doing what. She ripped off her sweat-soaked shirt and was starting on her pants, when the real pain hit. Her shoes burst open from her feet stretching to at least twice their length. Now she was free to scream, but almost split her tongue with her unusually long and sharp teeth.

  Phyllis howled in pain.

  Chapter Twelve

  This sand stuff was great fun to run upon. It was soft and cushioned well, and kicked up high into the air at each leap. Water licked endlessly at the shore and reflected the night sun so wonderfully bright. This was much better than the hills and trees from the night before, even if there were few places to hide here.

  If she could have reached out and taken the moon's light from the water into her hand, she would have, but for now she would have to be content just following it along the water's edge. A few miles of this passed before she realized that catching the dancing light was impossible. She had always been aware of the two-leggers wandering about away from the water. They didn't seem to be aware of her, however, so she found great sport in sprinting into their small groups just as she had before.

  Some saw her approach but appeared to be dumbfounded, and stayed rooted to the spot. Others saw and tried to run away, while still others suspected nothing until she was upon them. The ones who would not move were sent flying as she pushed past them. There were so few two-leggers in sight or smell in this place. She would eat, but not just yet. These two-leggers would never show her any good hunting, unless perhaps they were more of a challenge when alone. She would never find out if she stayed where there were so many. Still, if her hunger grew too great, she might take one down just for its flesh. She stopped at one of the openings that showed her more of the two-leggers' abodes. There were more two-leggers who came near her, but not too near. There were more of those metal creatures from the night before, and plenty of concrete caves. Little seemed to have changed here, save for the water and sand behind her. Those would do for now. She turned quickly and went back to the sand, and ran. If it led to the green hills again, so much the better. If not, then it was sure to turn up equally interesting encounters.

  A great roar and gentle shaking of the ground sent Phyllis sitting bolt upright. She almost cried out, then quieted down some at the sight of the receding waters. The ocean was still a good fifty feet away. Phyllis stayed where she was while taking in her surroundings. There was the ocean, of course, and the beach that she lay upon, but not one that she recognized right away. She couldn't remember if this was Santa Monica or Venice. It had been a long time for both.

  A chill breeze attacked her body, and Phyllis shivered and tried to wrap her clothes tightly about herself, but there were no clothes. There were some remnants of her sweatpants and leg warmers, but nothing else. She had fallen asleep somewhere as equally strange as the Hollywood sign.

  As soon as possible, Phyllis tore off her leg warmers and tried to cover her upper body with them. There were houses in sight here, but some distance away. Phyllis stood up slowly and heard a jangle from what remained of her pants pockets. A quick feel revealed that her car keys were still with her, and her wallet. She breathed a very great sigh of relief.

  Hunched over, Phyllis trotted along the beach close to the road. The sun was about an hour past sunrise, so some people would be awake by now. If they weren't, they would be once she got to the door. She knew that people in cities didn't care; they refused to get involved and help people in trouble. They were going to help somebody now, she decided.

  Phyllis ran up to the first house in sight. She wasn't familiar with these sorts of houses. These houses were more secluded: built on stilts and with fences or gates all over. In fact, there was a lot of climbing to be done before she could get anywhere near the house at all. She got as far as a locked gate but was in little condition to break through it or climb over it, so she rattled and shook it with all her might. This got the attention of two noisy Dobermans who were thankfully still inside. They woofed and barked and carried on until an angry figure appeared at a bay window.

  Phyllis waved to the person to come outside, and he opened the glass door, but only enough to let the dogs out. They bolted for the gate, and Phyllis tensed, but they were safely cut off from her. She waved some more and jumped up and down and called out to the man. He ignored her and went back into the house. In frustration she grabbed the gate and shook it wildly. The dogs jumped up and almost caught one of her fingers. Phyllis flashed one of those fingers to the man inside, then stomped back down the stairs.

  The next house did not seem so fortresslike, so she snuck along the side in order to get to the highway front. Houses on the beach had no "back" side; there was an ocean front, and a highway front, but never a back. This house also required some climbing, but she reached the highway and scampered toward the front door. The front gate, that is. There was a buzzer by the gate, so Phyllis pressed this. Again, her doubts rose about this place being Santa Monica or Venice. But that was where she had parked her car, so what—?

  "Yes?" a voice squawked from the intercom. Phyllis had been caught unawares, and jumped and looked about frantically.

  "Yes?" the voice said impatiently. Phyllis poked one of the buttons cautiously.

  "Um…" she said, "um, hello? Um…"

  "Who is this?" the voice said. A man's voice.

  "I'm—I-I need help," Phyllis shouted, then cleared her throat. "Um—I-I need a phone. It's very important."

  "A phone?" the man said. "Who is this?"

  "Please…" Phyllis said. "I don't know where I am, and—I need to get to a phone."

  "Did yo
ur car break down?"

  "No," she said. "Or… I don't think so. I've been_I've been attacked," she added finally.

  "What?"

  "I was attacked," she yelled. "Somebody attacked me last night. I don't know who it was. I woke up on the beach and—I don't have any clothes on and—"

  "Did you say you don't have any clothes on?"

  "Please, um, um, sir," Phyllis said. "All I need is to use your phone, and call my roommate. I swear to you that somebody attacked me last night. I swear."

  There was a long silence from the intercom. Phyllis thought of ringing the bell again, but the silence was broken.

  "Wait there a minute," the man said.

  "Thank you," Phyllis shouted into the intercom, as people who are not used to such things often did. She shuffled back and forth in place and looked behind herself to see if anyone else was around. Like last morning, she was cold, hungry, alone, and somewhere very unfamiliar.

  She was almost naked, just like last morning.

  And she also had blood on her hands and arms, just like last morning.

  The gate was unlocked, then opened a crack. A man's face peeked out. Phyllis stepped back and tried to cover herself more, and the gate was opened all the way now. The man widened his eyes at the sight of her.

  "Oh my God," she heard him mumble. "You weren't kidding," he said.

  "I'm not," she mumbled. "Do you think… do you think I can use your phone?"

  "Hm? Oh, oh, yes, yes," he said, gesturing her inside. She followed his lead cautiously. The man looked familiar to her; in the back of her mind Phyllis suspected that he might be a movie actor, but she wasted no energy on trying to remember who.

  He ushered her inside the gate quickly and shut it behind them. He had a nice front yard with many hanging plants and a little fish pond. She followed him through the front door and mumbled mostly unintelligible answers to his questions about her condition. Eventually they reached the kitchen, where he gestured to his wall phone.

  "Thank you," Phyllis mumbled as she grabbed the handset. The man left the room momentarily. Phyllis began punching numbers, then stopped at the sight of the dried blood on her hands and arms. She set the phone down quickly and busied herself washing them off in the sink. It took a bit of scrubbing, but she quickly got the stuff off of her. It didn't matter whose or what's it was; that stuff had to go.

  Phyllis grabbed the phone again and redialed. Four rings later the call was answered by a string of girlish giggles.

  "Roxanne!" Phyllis shouted over the din. "Rox—! Come on, it's—!"

  "(Giggle giggle) Hiiiii!" Roxanne's voice said. "(Giggle) we've got a—"

  "Come on, this is serious! Stop—!"

  "—machine, yayyy, yayyy!!" the voice continued. "So please leave a mess—

  "Oh, Jesus," Phyllis mumbled to herself. They'd both wanted—needed—an answering machine for months. Now that they had one, it was already a pain in the ass.

  "Roxanne, for Godssake, pick up the phone if you're there!" Phyllis said once the beep had ended. "Roxanne, it's me! Please pick up the phone! You have to be there! Pick up the phone!"

  After a few more words to that effect, Phyllis hung up the phone in frustration just as her good Samaritan was bringing in a big beach towel. She thanked him and wrapped it around herself tightly.

  "I can't believe she's not home," Phyllis said.

  "Who?"

  "My roommate. She gets up early, but wouldn't—ah, shit," she said. "I forgot that she's trying to jog in the mornings. Hmmm. Either that, or worried sick about me. Do you think she went to the police?"

  "Uh… I…" the man said, shrugging. "But, if somebody attacked you, shouldn't you call the police?"

  "I don't know if I do want to," Phyllis said. "I know that sounds weird, but—there's so much I don't remember. They'll want to talk to me for hours and hours, and I just want to get home."

  "Where is home?"

  "Hollywood. Just off—"

  "Hollywood?" the man said. "Do you know where you are right now?"

  "Um, no," she said. "It looks familiar, but I can't remember where—

  "Whoever attacked you took you all the way to Malibu."

  "This is Malibu?"

  "Malibu Beach," he clarified. "You're a ways from home, miss. I think you'd better call the police."

  Phyllis was silent long enough to take in this new revelation, and to consider his words. After a moment, she nodded slowly and picked up the phone again. 911 got her a dispatcher who agreed to send someone right away.

  "I wondered why it looked kinda familiar," Phyllis said to herself after hanging up. She looked up at her benefactor. "I'm really sorry for bothering you like this," she said. "It's just that—I don't know what's going on.

  I swear I was at the pier last night. Santa Monica Pier, that is, and—and then—"

  "Try not to think about it," the man said.

  "I just want to go home."

  "But the more you can tell the police, the better their chances of catching this—the bastard who did this to you," the man said. "Don't you want him to be caught?"

  "Yeah," Phyllis whispered. "I'm sorry for bugging you like this."

  "It's all right; really," he said. "Thank God I didn't have to work today, or I wouldn't even have been here."

  "What do you do?"

  "I'm an actor," he said.

  "Ohh, I thought you looked familiar," she said, nodding her head but saying nothing more of this. Phyllis had learned long ago of the unwritten rule that "Los Angelinos" are not supposed to react wildly around celebrities. Not everyone followed this rule, but Phyllis always did her best. Nonetheless, the actor seemed somewhat fazed that she made no more of an issue about him.

  By the time the police arrived, the actor had scrounged up some ill-fitting clothes for her. The police stayed long enough to get a brief statement from him, then tried to take Phyllis to the station. Once in the squad car, however, she refused to be taken anywhere but to her car in Santa Monica. Her escorts were hardly pleased by this turn of events, but they could not force her to press charges against someone. Normally Phyllis would be thrilled to help put some creep away, except that she could not shake the doubt that there was any "creep."

  One of the officers tried to make conversation with her, but Phyllis needed this time for reflection. Her dream had been so similar to the one she had had before, yet once again, this could not be a dream. She vaguely remembered hitting something or someone, then ripping into it with her bare hands. Did she eat it/him/her? The taste of blood was there, but her mouth was clean.

  By the time they reached her car, she was no closer to the truth than before. The car also had a ticket on the windshield. One of the officers assured her that she wouldn't have to pay the fine, and rattled off a list of instructions on how to successfully clear it. Phyllis nodded her head often, but would never have passed an instant quiz. She mumbled some thank yous to them and listened to their parting advice, most of which involved coming forward and describing her experience. Because she would not consent to be examined, either, there would be no medical evidence if a suspect were ever found. She was only making things harder for herself, she was told.

  Again, Phyllis thanked them and watched them slowly drive away.

  It was difficult for Phyllis to believe that two days could be so much trouble. She was already sick of reassuring Roxanne that she really was okay, and never mind why she was getting police escorts all of a sudden. She was also tired of Roxanne's continual apologies for not having been home; what was done, was done, and everyone was okay now. Unfortunately, Phyllis wasn't okay, but how to explain this when she didn't know where to begin?

  The new answering machine (a gift from Linda) already yielded messages from Linda, a lot of hang-ups, Roxanne's (and now Phyllis's) agent, and a very agitated Phyllis. She had erased that message long ago. The agent "had something" for both of them the following week. Roxanne had already returned that call and gotten the details. After the morning
's chaos, Phyllis announced her plan to sleep all day, until she remembered having another early shift at the restaurant. Roxanne begged her to call in sick, but Phyllis waved her off and grumbled her way through her morning preparations.

  Few words were exchanged in spite of Roxanne's better attempts at prying information from her roommate. Again, Phyllis promised her a long talk after work, then opened the fridge to force down some leftover meat patties before rushing off to work.

  Roxanne let out a loud sigh after the door shut behind her roommate. She looked down into the sink and stared blankly at the now-empty pan where the meat patties had been. She flipped on the faucet and watched the leftover juice and fat spill out and down the drain. So much for "converting" her friend to a more humanitarian diet. Lately she seemed to be eating more meat, and cooking it less. For all Roxanne knew, this latest batch may not have been cooked at all.

  Upon catching herself at starting to think like her mother, Roxanne quickly shut off the water and stashed the pan away into the dishwasher. She had her own job to go to, so enough dawdling.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "I thought we were going to talk once you got home," Roxanne said.

  "I never said 'once I got home,' I said 'after work," Phyllis replied. "There's a difference."

  "Well, it's 'after work' for both of us," Roxanne said. "We don't get to be alone that often these days, and_She stopped abruptly, then paced the room briefly.

  "If you don't want to talk to me, fine," she finished. "I just thought you wanted to."

  "You wanted me to," Phyllis said. "I know that I should say at least something, considering what's been happening, but—I don't even know what's been happening."

  Roxanne sat down next to her friend. Her voice became soft and concerned.