The Jersey Devil

by Hunter Shea

  Ben paced back and forth, thinking. “We need to split up, but stay close to one another. When we find where the Devil’s taken Daryl, it would be better if we can flank it, maybe even take it by surprise.”

  Her father said, “If we do that, you stay with Norm and Boompa. I’ll take your mother and sister.” He tossed him a walkie-talkie. “Keep it low but check in every five minutes.

  “Do you think it . . . it . . .” her mother sputtered.

  Boompa put an arm around her. “No, dear, I think Daryl’s okay. If it wanted to harm him, it would have done it right away, just like it did with those Pineys. It’s smart as hell. It wants us to follow it.”

  April had that same feeling, and it twisted in her guts. Hunting a creature that acted on base instincts was one thing. Trying to track an intelligent animal that seemed to be one step ahead of them the entire time was the definition of a dire situation.

  She gave a knife to her mother, helping affix the sheath to the loop in her jeans. “Just in case,” she said. Her mother nodded, eyes vacant, and kissed the top of her head like she used to when she was a little girl.

  “No more wasting time,” her father said. He shoved three sticks of Big Red gum in his mouth, chewing loudly.

  They separated the moment they entered the pines, Ben leading the way for Boompa and Norm, her father’s enormous bulk making it clear for her and her mother to follow.

  April couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched the entire time. She imagined a tingle in her birthmark, the damned thing sending out a signal to the Jersey Devil that said, “Here we are. See? We’re right where you want us to be.”

  * * *

  Sean was starting to love the day shift. After a year of nights, always straining to see in the dark, his senses as raw as exposed flesh, he was finally able to relax . . . a little bit. At least he was able to see someone coming from a good distance and he wasn’t jumping at every noise. At nights, he would swear Mother Nature was doing her damnedest to give him a heart attack.

  “Yo, Louis, you got any of those beers left?”

  His partner emerged from the small, two-man cabin, scratching at his head. Sean could see his dandruff floating in the shafts of early morning sunlight.

  “Check for yourself,” Louis said. “Are you that fucked up that you gotta start drinking in the morning now?”

  They had an old, metal cooler, a real throwback from the ’70s, beside the cabin. Sean pulled back the metal bar that kept the lid on. The ice had melted to tepid water, but there were still a few cans of Bud floating around like miniature life rafts. He took a swig of warm beer and belched, startling a bird perched in the tree over the cabin.

  “You know what they say?”

  Louis waved him off. “Yeah, yeah, it’s five o’clock somewhere. But that doesn’t make it five o’clock here.”

  “You can blame that damn graveyard shift. This is normally the time I spent relaxing with a few drinks so I could get some sleep. Give me a few more weeks to get my biorhythm back in normal mode.”

  “Biorhythm? You’re full of more shit than a ten-ton horse.” Louis went back into the cabin to lie on the solitary cot. There was no need to have two sets of eyes on the marijuana plants. Not now. A person would have to either be demented or possess a death wish to traipse on in here in the cold light of day, looking to sneak off with a plant or two. This section of the farm had five hundred plants. Talking to some of the other guys hired to guard the farm, Sean had heard there may have been up to ten thousand plants across several plots of hidden land. Bruce Dyson, the big boss, wasn’t about to tell any of them the full scope of the operation. That was fine by Sean. The less he knew the better.

  “Shows how smart you are, dumbass,” Sean said to the retreating Louis. “There’s no such thing as a ten-ton horse.”

  Louis sighed so loudly, it could be heard outside. “I have a feeling you’re going to wear me out real fast. Maybe I’ll ask for the graveyard shift.”

  The cot creaked as he settled in, dropping an open High Society magazine over his face.

  “You can have it,” Sean said. “I’m never going back. If Dyson tries to screw me, I’m outta here.”

  He stepped off the narrow porch, tilting his face to the sun, enjoying the warmth as it spread down to his feet. It’d only been a week, but he’d managed to get a killer tan, though it stopped at his elbows. No matter. He needed all the vitamin D he could get. He heard on the radio that everyone lacked D and it was the reason people were so sick all the time.

  The plants waved back at him as the wind skipped over the farm encased within the ubiquitous pine trees. Word was that Dyson had some men on the take in the local PD, which is why police helicopters somehow never reported the obvious pot farm when they flew overhead. This shit was big business, which was why people like him and Louis were on guard 24/7 with instructions to shoot first and bury later. No questions need be asked. What was the point?

  Opening his eyes, the sun seared its image on his retinas. Wincing, he slammed his eyelids shut. “That was real smart.” Rubbing at his eyes, he said with a chuckle, “I’ve been blinded by the light. Hey, you hear that, Louis? I was blinded by the light!”

  His weary partner didn’t make an effort to respond. Killjoy.

  When he could open his eyes again, he had to wipe away a layer of protective tears. His vision was still blurry.

  What the hell is that?

  He caught a glimpse of something big flying over the eastern section of the farm. It couldn’t be a hawk. It looked more like a helicopter in the distance, but he’d have been able to hear it if it was close enough to see.

  Holy crap! What if it’s one of those military copters? The ones that sneak right up on you and barely make any noise!

  If that was the case, he and Louis would have to make a choice—try to shoot it down with the meager arsenal at their disposal, or run like jackrabbits into the woods. If they chose the latter, he’d stop at his apartment long enough to grab the gym bag where he kept his money and disappear. If the Feds didn’t catch him, Dyson would.

  “Louis, get the hell out here! We may have federales.”

  “I told you not to start drinking so early,” Louis cried out from the cabin. It was obvious he wasn’t moving his lazy ass.

  Sean blinked hard, trying to get his eyes to focus.

  Wait, that couldn’t be a helicopter. Now he saw smaller things flying around it. Maybe it was the humdinger of all hawks with a bunch of birds doing their best to irritate it. He grabbed his rifle and jogged over to get a closer look. He wished he had a scope so he could get a better look and tell for sure what it was. It might have even been balloons twisting in the wind. Some kid was sure going to be upset when she saw her birthday balloons had up and left for good. Poor kid.

  He stepped on a thick twig. The snap was remarkably loud. It must have been dry as ass to crack like that. It had been a while since he’d seen rain.

  Sean froze when he noticed the things in the air had stopped moving. It was as if they had heard it, too, and were now very aware of his presence.

  Stop psyching yourself out, man.

  They started moving in his direction, flying lower. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he strained to see what the hell he was dealing with here.

  All at once, everything came into focus. Sean felt last night’s dinner struggle to make its way out his tail end.

  The small things weren’t birds. At best, they were deformed bats. But it looked like they had tails.

  And the big one, holy Christ. It was carrying a person, some poor guy who looked dead, which was a mercy. The creatures were flying real fast now.

  There was no doubt they were heading right for him!

  Sean raised his rifle, pulling off several shots at the big one. It zigzagged with ease, evading the bullets.

  “Louis! Louis!”

  Sean turned and ran as fast as he could. Now that they were closer, he could hear the steady beating of their lon
g, leathery wings. The cabin was just twenty yards away. He kept shouting for his partner. Any second now, they would be on him.

  Louis walked out rubbing his eyes. “What the hell, man?”

  Sean saw the look of horror on Louis’s face and knew he was done. Something snipped at his ear, taking a chunk out of it. Sean screamed, clamping his hand over his ear.

  It felt like a pair of ice picks stabbed into the front and back of his skull. Suddenly, he was no longer running. No, he was flying, blood pouring into his eyes. He dropped his rifle, swinging at the little serpent things as they nibbled at him, dangling in midair.

  He heard the bone of his skull give way as the pressure built to an agonizing and final crescendo.

  * * *

  Louis saw the creature clamp its jaws around Sean’s head and lift him into the air. The thing was already carrying another guy, his limp body dangling.

  “Shit shit shit!”

  Sean was a goner. He saw his partner’s head cave in. There was nothing he could do to save him.

  Louis ran back into the cabin, slamming the door and jamming the cot against it. He fumbled for his rifle, clutching it to his chest.

  He’d be damned if those things didn’t look just like the Jersey Devil. Being from Baltimore, he hadn’t grown up with the legend, but he knew plenty of locals who believed in the creature whole hog. Now he was sorry he’d doubted them.

  The Devils screeched for a while, their cries fading as they flew away.

  There were no windows in the cabin, so he had no way of knowing where they’d gone or if they were still around, silently circling overhead.

  I’ll just wait them out, he thought. Marv and Craig will be here around four. I can chill the fuck out until then.

  The one thing he did know was that he wasn’t going back out there, not when he was alone. If those Jersey Devils or whatever they were didn’t leave, he’d have a better chance with Marv and Craig around. They were both ex Special Forces and not exactly right in the head. They might even enjoy blasting them out of the sky like it was a duck hunt.

  He’d just have to sit things out. Sure, it was dark as a tomb in here, but it was safe.

  To kill time, he could play Asphalt 8 on his iPhone. Right now, his hands were shaking so bad, he worried that he’d just drop the phone.

  “Just cool it. They got Sean, but you’re okay. You’re okay.”

  The roof exploded downward. Louis was hit in the shoulder by a heavy plank of wood. Something thumped heavily on the floor and made a sound like a watermelon exploding. Harsh light shot through the new skylight in the cabin. Louis fumbled for his rifle.

  He recoiled when he saw Sean’s mangled body twisted within the roof ’s rubble. The white of his fractured skull had split through his scalp. Louis felt something wet on the back of his hand. Looking down, he saw a smear of Sean’s brain.

  Flicking it off violently, he scrabbled to the farthest edge of the cabin.

  A shadow passed over the hole in the ceiling. He fired wildly until he was out of ammo. He was starting to hyperventilate, and the periphery of his vision boiled with inky blackness.

  The smaller creatures dove through the hole.

  “No!” Louis screamed, covering his face with his arms. He felt the Devils pecking at his skin, biting and scratching, each fresh wound seeming to burn with infection.

  Something heavy stomped on the roof. The cabin shook. Bits of dust and dirt rained down on him. The smaller Devils skittered away, jumping up and down all around the cabin.

  “Please, go away!”

  When he saw its satanic face, he knew for sure it was the Jersey Devil. It landed in front of him, its hard hooves clunking on the wood floor. It spread its massive wings, breathing foul vapor in his face. It smelled like the floor of a slaughterhouse. It dropped the man it was holding on the floor. Louis saw the Mets cap on the guy’s head, assuming he was being kept for a snack later.

  Before he could move to try to get out the door, it whipped its tail at him, slashing his throat. His hands went to his neck, desperate to stem the tide of blood that poured over his fingers.

  He couldn’t breathe!

  Louis struggled to stand, fought to draw air, becoming woozy as his life seeped from the wound.

  The little Devils swarmed over him, lapping up his blood. His vision clouded, saving him from watching the Jersey Devil bend forward, its long neck craning down until it buried its face in his stomach, tearing through his flesh and devouring the steaming organs within.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Give them a quick check,” Ben said to his grandfather. They walked as fast as they could in what he believed was the direction the Devil had gone with his brother. It was hard going, the ground being so uneven, the sandy soil so soft, they’d all come close to turning their ankles several times.

  Boompa spoke into the walkie-talkie, “Everyone okay, son?”

  There was a brief crackle of static, then, “We’re good.”

  It was a lie. Seeing Daryl taken by the Devil, none of them was anywhere within the realm of good.

  Unless he meant good and scared.

  Or good and mad.

  Because Ben was madder than he’d ever been in his life. He should have seen the damn thing coming. At the very least, he should have heard it and fragged its ass. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know how to conduct himself in enemy territory. Never let your guard down. Ever. How could he have been so stupid?

  When he found the Jersey Devil, it would pay dearly for this. He’d come here knowing full well that the creature, if they ever found it, had a finite number of days left on this planet.

  Now, when he came face-to-face with it, and he would, he’d savor every moment of its demise.

  He was damned good at finding things. Back when he was stationed in Marjah in Afghanistan, his platoon had been tasked with ferreting out a cadre of Taliban that had the town on lockdown. On their second day, they’d nabbed one of the terrorists, a kid less than twenty, who turned out to be more of a coward than a killer. He’d given them enough intel to take the town back.

  But then he’d disappeared. Tension was heightened, knowing the bastard could give their position away. He had to be found, fast.

  It took Ben with two other men less than an hour to retrieve the informant, cowering under a bed in a house filled with small children. From that point on, Ben was known as the finder of lost souls, sent out to use what some joked was his sixth sense to locate men who’d made a living out of being able to vanish into thin air.

  It was as if they were marked, carrying a beacon only Ben could hear. Just like the red stain on his own side.

  If Daryl was hurt or worse, he’d make the Devil pray for a clean and swift ending—if it could even rationalize, which he was beginning to fear was the case. The beast was obviously intelligent enough to plan and strategize. For the first time since he’d been indoctrinated into the legend, he began to wonder if it was, in fact, partially human.

  “Watch your step,” he said, pointing to a depression. Norm and Boompa gave it a wide berth.

  Ben did his best to keep to a path where the trees weren’t so bunched together. His eyes were constantly looking up for signs of the creatures, and down for potential pitfalls.

  “How do we k-k-know if we’re on the right track?” Norm said, puffing hard.

  “I just know.”

  Ben held up a hand, signaling for them to stop.

  “You hear something?” Norm asked, nearly bumping into him.

  “Shhh.”

  Breathing slowly from his mouth, he listened for his family. Leaves shuffled so faintly, he knew they were veering farther apart from one another.

  “Boompa, tell them to change their course a little more to the north.”

  “Gotcha.”

  It was advantageous to have two groups, but not if they got completely separated.

  “You holding out okay?” he asked his grandfather.

  He clipped the walkie-talkie b
ack to his belt. “Don’t you worry about me. I don’t think God kept me kicking around for eighty years just to have me drop dead from a walk in the woods.”

  Ben didn’t like the look of him. He was as pale as fresh milk and sweating profusely. He’d worked with his grandfather on the farm all his life and knew it wasn’t the heat. Old Boompa was worried to death about Daryl.

  They started walking again.

  “You remember when Daryl was little and said he could tip a cow?” Ben said, his head bobbing up and down, finger on the trigger guard of his rifle.

  Boompa gave a short laugh. “He wasn’t even as high as that heifer’s leg. I never saw someone so determined to do something that wasn’t going to happen.”

  “And I told him he shook her up so much, he’d turned her milk into a milkshake.”

  “That was just so you could get out of milking her. Poor kid had to see for himself before you stole all the milkshake!”

  “Hey, it worked.”

  Ben recalled his brother’s disappointed face when he came back carrying the full pail. Two defeats in one day were more than the little dude could take. When he saw Ben laughing, he’d kicked that pail right over and stormed into the house, screaming how he hated cows and big brothers alike.

  Their father had called Daryl Don Quixote Junior for the rest of that summer. Only the adults understood what it meant at the time.

  Where are you, Daryl? Whatever it’s done to you, keep fighting. Just keep fighting.

  Ben felt heavy thumping coming up from the soles of his boots.

  Something was on the move.

  Something big, and heavy.

  There was a mad flurry of wings flapping overhead. He looked up to see a roiling mass of birds shooting across the sky. What made it strange was that the mass was made of all types of birds, not just, say, a murder of crows or flock of geese.

  The thumping got louder, the ground shaking slightly.

  “Get ready,” Ben said. “Something’s coming this way.”

  Boompa cocked his ear toward the approaching rush. “Sounds like deer. A whole herd of them.”

  “This isn’t the Serengeti,” Norm said. “Wild animals don’t rush around in packs in the Jersey woods.”