Blood and Rain Page 6

  Days and weeks went by. Joe concluded that none of his townspeople could be the beast. He hadn’t seen anything that pointed to one of them, and started to wonder if maybe it could be someone from either of the neighboring towns, Hollis Oaks or Jackson.

  He called Police Chief Tom Healy over in Hollis Oaks and Sheriff Paul Dumas over in Henderson County (who patrolled the town of Jackson) to confer with them about any out-of-the-ordinary accidents or incidents within the last year that either town might have had. But neither had anything for him. It seemed to be only Gilson Creek being targeted and threatened by this evil they were dealing with.

  Joe decided to keep the details of the crimes vague. He simply left “animal attack” as the probable cause in the case of the three slain high school students and issued a town curfew of 9:00 p.m.

  He felt tense, nervous, scared and guilty about the whole situation. He never felt quite right about not opening up to the public that there was a murderer amongst them. Whether it was watching from the woods or from the barstool next to him, he had no way of knowing. He would have to wait and keep an eye open.

  Two days before the night of the full moon, Stan Springs called Joe to inform him that he could no longer discuss the deaths or the werewolf or, frankly, anything else. He told Joe that one of the nurses had stumbled across his books and notebook, and forced him to turn them over to his doctor.

  Joe found it hard to believe and in his gut thought Stan might have just reached the last frayed end of his sanity, and wanted out before he fell too far to come back. Either way, Joe had not felt that sense of abandonment or loss since Lucy’s passing.

  He wanted to pack up Sonya and leave Gilson Creek right then and there. He thought about moving to New York City, where at least the murderers had human faces and were only monsters on the inside. That made sense, this did not.

  The night fell without as much as a shouting match near Gil’s Tavern. He had all of his deputies on duty, for the first time in Gilson Creek history. Randy Hines, Patrick Somers, Lyle Paulson and rookie part-timer, Brett Curry, were all out on patrol. Somers and Paulson rode together. Curry was with Hines. Joe flew solo while Rita manned dispatch.

  No one, not even the rookie, questioned the sheriff earlier in the day as he handed out the silver bullets. Neither Joe nor Deputy Hines had shared the idea of a werewolf with any of the other men, but small towns tended to have big superstitions. The young group of officers took and loaded the ammunition on the spot. Joe informed them that they were looking for some kind of large mammal and ordered them to shoot to kill on sight. Somers and Paulson patrolled Main Street and Brighton Circle. Hines and Curry were covering from Nelson Street to Arcade Lane, where about half of the town lived. Joe was cruising back and forth from Park Street to Old Gilson Creek Road.

  At just after midnight, Somers and Paulson got the obligatory call to Gil’s Tavern. Allan Buck was three sheets to the wind and swinging his big mitts at any man within his long reach.

  It turned out Allan’s best friend, Tom Frost, had been sleeping with Allan’s live-in girlfriend, Charlene Deaton. Allan, who was normally a very timid, quiet guy despite his six foot five, 325-pound frame, had left the best friend and girlfriend, after walking in on them having sex on his bed, and headed into town on foot. Once he had drunk himself sideways, the anger and betrayal set in. That’s when he reportedly started grumbling at everyone in the bar, just before bashing Keith Jones’s head into the face of his girlfriend, Janet Lilly.

  Chaos ensued as the other patrons tried to stop the giant of a man from hurting anyone else. Unfortunately for Janet, they weren’t successful until after he had broken her left eye orbit, nose, and knocked two of her front teeth down her throat. All while using her boyfriend’s head as his weapon. It was sudden, brutal and totally out of character for Allan Buck.

  Somers and Paulson walked in, cleared out the area and from ten feet away Tasered the large man without a moment’s hesitation. Buck shivered and convulsed before dropping to his knees and falling face-first to the dirt-covered wooden floor. They dragged his enormous girth out through the front doors, loaded him into the back of the squad car and locked him up down at the station. Paperwork would have to wait until dawn, per Sheriff’s orders. They were back out on patrol within minutes.

  On the outskirts of town, deep out on Old Gilson Creek Road, Joe Fischer was moving thirty miles per hour, as opposed to the posted speed limit of forty-five. His hands were white-knuckle tight on the steering wheel. He had given up cigarettes the day Lucy was diagnosed with cancer, but had purchased a pack at Gary’s General Store after prepping his men for the night’s watch.

  He’d already gone through half a pack in the four and a half hours since. His mouth tasted like ash, his throat hurt, and his tired eyes stung. The cigarettes hadn’t done shit for his anxiety, either. If anything, they’d just made him feel sick on top of everything else. He let go of the steering wheel with his right hand, reached over for the pack of Camel Lights and threw them out the driver-side window. That’s when he saw it.

  Against the screaming voice in his head telling him to floor it and not look back, against every sensible emotion asking him to ignore the nothing that he thought he’d just seen staring out at him from just beyond the tree line, he stamped his foot on the Range Rover’s brakes and brought the vehicle to a screeching halt. His heart beat out of control and his hands were soaked with perspiration, but the law in him had turned the switch and had taken over for his weaker sensibilities.

  He eased the truck around and pointed its bright-white headlights into the thick black forest lining the desolate back road. His eyes darted back and forth along the skeletal-looking branches and he could feel the pulse in his neck as he scanned the enveloping darkness.

  Nothing.

  He set down his Magnum revolver, not realizing he had already unholstered the massive weapon, and rubbed his worn-out eyes. There was a snap from off to his left. Something was out there with him. He grabbed the gun and the Maglite off the seat, then stepped out of the vehicle and into the dark night. Within seconds of the move, he decided better of it, climbed back into the cab and picked up the radio.

  “Somers, Hines. I think I’ve got something out on Old Gilson Creek Road, almost to the Hollis Oaks town line. Hines, you should be closer—get your ass out here. Somers, patrol sectors one and two, unless I get back to you, over?”

  “Hines, Curry, on our way.”

  “Gotcha, Sheriff,” answered Paulson. “Keep us posted.”

  Joe Fischer dropped the radio, picked the flashlight back up and exited the vehicle for the second time. He lit up the spot directly off to his left where he had seen the movement moments before, but the sweeping light caught nothing.

  Then, there was another snap, followed by a growl.

  Joe stood paralyzed. He thought of Sonya, of Lucy and of Jack and Kelly McKinney. Ashamed of his flash of cowardice, he shone the light near where the growl had emanated. The night—black and silent—echoed with the sounds of crisp-snapping twigs and branches. He could hear the creature staying close to the road, just out of sight. Almost as if it were taunting him as it started toward town.

  He pursued it on foot, choosing to stay on the blacktop and follow the creature from the road. He quickened his pace until his feet were pounding the pavement. The creature was distancing itself from him. Joe turned back around, ran to his vehicle, jumped into the Range Rover, and threw the vehicle into Drive.

  Watching the road before him, and the trees off to his right in his peripheral vision, he caught sight of a large shape just up ahead. An enormous dark mass moved in the blackness beyond the reach of his headlamps. He shouldn’t be able to see it, but there it was—up ahead, running quickly along in the shadows of the pines.

  Lights and sirens came from up the road. Joe grabbed the radio. “It’s coming your way, on your left, just in front of the trees. It’s big, and
it’s fast.”

  He saw the deputy suddenly slam on his brakes. Both Hines and the rookie, Curry, stepped out of the car, taking aim at the woods. Between the deputies and himself, Joe saw what he couldn’t believe.

  There it stood—the beast’s monstrous form perfectly silhouetted in the moonlight. Joe stopped short of where the beast reared. He climbed out of the Range Rover and went for his revolver, ready to aim. The monster made its move without hesitation.

  Curry stared in shock and awe as the creature launched itself in the air and crashed down on Hines’s cruiser. The weight of the large beast’s impact smashed out the car’s side windows and crumpled the roof.

  Hines stepped away from the vehicle and tripped over his own feet before falling in the middle of the road.

  Curry squeezed his eyes shut and pissed his pants, also blindly discharging his weapon. He completely missed the beast as it slashed its elongated, fur-covered arm across his face, neck and chest. One of its large claws caught his jugular, leaving the twenty-two-year-old rookie dead in seconds.

  Joe fired once, twice, then three times, nailing the beast directly in its wide, muscular back. The beast shook with each shot and dropped forward, falling out of Joe’s sight as it crawled down the cruiser’s trunk and dropped behind the car.

  Hines froze. He was laid out flat on his back in the middle of the road, staring wide-eyed at the abomination.

  Joe wanted to yell to him, to ask him what he could see, but then thought better of it. Randy Hines had not moved since falling down and was probably in shock. Yelling to him might only draw the attention he was sure that he himself owned since he had shot the thing, back to his other deputy and unnecessarily put the man in mortal danger. It was best to move slow and cool.

  Joe wasn’t even halfway around the side of the car, where the body of rookie Brett Curry lay dead in a pool of blood, when the beast arose as best as it could.

  The monster growled, sounding more like a wounded dog than a massive creature. Joe stared up into a dark pair of flickering eyes and caught a glimpse of something familiar. It let out a howl that instantly turned his blood cold.

  He fired the last three silver bullets from his revolver, burying them into the chest of the beast. The howl died in its throat. Its bulk dropped backwards. The eyes closed, it lay there motionless.

  Joe wasted no time reloading the silver bullets from his belt clip into the gun. He moved past the body of Curry and stood before the monster. His mind half expected the thing to lunge back up instantly and rip his head off. Without a second thought, he emptied the weapon into the chest and head of the creature lying before him.

  Joe pulled a silver flask of Jameson from his coat pocket. He took a swig and reveled in the burn trickling down his throat. He would need to man up and pay his former mentor a visit. Stan had helped him before and would prove most resourceful if this situation blossomed into what he thought it would. Another full moon bloodbath was not on his list of things to do this summer.

  Chapter Ten

  Stan Springs dreamt of the old night watchman at the Augusta mental health facility, Harold Barnes. He watched Harold’s eyes strain as he gazed through the bright ray reaching from his flashlight.

  Stan had had this dream before. Harold had passed away the year Stan left the psychiatric hospital, but lived on to die over and over again in Stan’s dreams.

  This time Harold walked right over to Stan’s hiding place just behind the pond. The dumb bastard normally had the sense to flee. Stan would give chase, but usually Harold’s old legs carried him quick enough to survive another nightmare. Since falling off the wagon, Stan’s dreams had not been so kind to Mr. Barnes.

  “Whoever you are, you’re on state property and I’ve got every right to drop you on sight.”

  Stan shuffled left, hidden behind the large stone at the edge of the pond. The forest at his back held its breath as the beast in him prepared to introduce itself to the unsuspecting night watchman. Saliva pooled above the fingers he had firmly planted in the lawn. The change was swift, faster than it was in real life.

  “Oh…my…God…” The light dropped from Harold’s trembling hand and rolled down into the black pond.

  Owooooooo

  The beast rose to its feet. It was a hulk in the darkness. Harold’s lips moved, but no words came out.

  The beast jumped the man-made pond and reared back a clawed hand.

  “No, Stanley, no.”

  The monster ripped out Harold’s throat in one swipe, nearly decapitating the man. Harold’s body dropped to its knees, falling forward.

  The beast roared up at the heavens before descending upon its kill.

  Stan Springs awoke. His bedsheets clung to his naked form. He wiped at his mouth. Harold’s blood was not there. The dreams—he no longer considered them nightmares—were so vivid he could hardly tell them apart from the nights he surrendered to the monster within.

  He stretched, then swiveled his feet to the hardwood floor. At his age joints should pop, bones should creak, and his muscles should ache after the kind of night he’d had. His secret held those problems at bay. Secret. The dark, dirty, not-so-little secret secured him from the degenerating effects brought on by old age. It also left him alone and fucking hostile.

  For years he’d held the rage in check, managing to drown the beast in a concoction of Klonopin and other similar drugs that kept him next to dead on the nights of a full moon. The true surprise came after he left the facility sans drugs. He came home to Gilson Creek, ready for whatever fate awaited him. Should the beast return, he was confident Sheriff Fischer would put him down for good.

  The full moon came and went. The change, MIA. He’d read about a cursed Lithuanian priest who claimed a similar dormant state, but Stan had just swiped the story aside with the plethora of false myths he’d studied. The priest was said to have died alone in the mountains.

  Despite returning home, Stan adopted the priest’s solitary lifestyle. He spoke to no one. And they returned the favor. Even Fischer, whom he thought would engage him, seemed to sense that something wasn’t right. As if he gave off a certain scent. A distinct pheromone. And maybe he did.

  Whatever the case, Stan had managed to hide away from the monster and the town. Until last night.

  A storm had raged outside and within. This time he relished the curse. He’d grown nasty in the years since he returned home. In a way, he’d hoped for the beast’s return. The dirty looks from the people in his community, the way the punk kids giggled and mocked him as if he were no better than that dead fuck, Old Mike. While he’d initially been relieved by the sheriff’s distance, there came a time when you acknowledged old friends, out of respect, if nothing else.

  No, this town had grown putrid. It was the town that was cursed. It was his job to deliver the dark enchantment’s promise. It was his job to bring Gilson Creek to death’s gate.

  “You gonna knock?” Wes nudged Joel in the back.

  “All right, man, but if his mom doesn’t answer because there’s a strange dude with a Mohawk at her door, that ain’t on me.”

  “I’m pretty sure she knows what kind of bizarre shit her twenty-nine-year-old son is in to.”

  “Fuck yeah, good point.” Joel knocked.

  A short, dark-haired woman with glasses and her hair pulled back in a tight bun answered.

  “Hey, is this the Bruce residence?” Joel said.

  “It’s actually the Hersom residence; Bruce is my ex-husband’s name. Are you boys looking for Nick?”

  Wes stepped up next to Joel. “Ah, yes, ma’am. Is he in?”

  “He’s here.” She nodded for them to follow.

  Joel looked to Wes and shrugged.

  “He’s been in his room since I got home this morning. Says he doesn’t feel good.”

  She led them past a bathroom and down a short hallway that stunk like c
at piss and was taken up mostly by a washer and dryer. She rapped on the door. “Nick? You got visitors.”

  There was no answer.

  “Nick?” She turned back to them. “If he don’t answer, feel free to walk on in. I gotta go get ready.”

  Another shrug from Joel. Wes put his hand on the doorknob and turned.

  “Nick?”

  He was on the floor, tangled up in a faded blue sheet and sweating like a pig. Wes walked over to him. “Hey, Nick. You okay?”

  “Huh…uhh…”

  “It’s Joel and Wes, man,” Joel said.

  Wes watched Nick’s eyes open. They rolled back in his head almost instantly. He moaned and clutched at his stomach.

  “Shit, Wes. I think he’s gonna throw up.”

  “I saw the bathroom at the start of the hall. Help me get him up.”

  “Look at this. Man, it smells too.” Joel held his head back from the bandaged wound on Nick’s arm.

  “Hurry up,” Wes said.

  They got him down the hall and into the bathroom just in time. Nick flung himself at the toilet and hurled.

  “I can’t watch this, dude. I’ll blow too.” Joel squeezed past Wes.

  Wes heard the front door open and close.

  Once Nick stopped puking, Wes spoke up, “Hey, Nick, you want us to come back tomorrow?”

  Nick moaned and belched in response. The burp brought forth another round of vomiting.

  “All right, Nick. We’re staying at the Motel 6 in Hollis Oaks.” Wes pulled a business card and a pen from his pocket and scratched down the phone number and their room number. “This is where we’ll be. Call me tomorrow when you’re up and feeling better.” Wes stepped toward the door. “Do you need help back to your room?”

  Nick didn’t answer.