The GPS directed me to a run-down farmhouse matching that of Amadeo’s directions. I pulled over to the side of the road and let the truck sit idle before I killed the engine. The lights dimming, then going off, my nerves escalating to a fever pitch, I scoured the landscape for any sign of trouble and reached into the console to retrieve the revolver with the silver bullets. Second nature drove me to ensure it was loaded and that the safety was on.
This was it.
In less than a few moments, I would be entering the dilapidated property and descending into the Howler lair.
I’d never been more scared in my life.
Dirt crunched beneath my shoes as I jumped out of the truck and rounded the vehicle. Key in hand, its jagged edge a sharp countenance of extra defense, I opened the passenger door and fumbled through the ammo caches until I pulled free seven cylinders.
Thirty-five bullets, not counting the five already in the revolver.
Hopefully I was still the decent shot I’d been in my teens.
The woods whispered about me as I stood there considering my plan, rustling about the underbrush and flickering through the high branches. Few birds could be heard, save the hoot of an owl and the low mourn of a dove, and the few animals were insignificant to the point where their noise was little distraction. I caught sight of an ugly creature’s eyes as I swept my flashlight along the line of trees, but disregarded the hiss the opossum offered.
There were animals here.
I was safe.
Training the light on the ground, I followed the directions Amadeo had offered by tune of a compass inlaid into the Swiss Army Knife and headed into the wooded area. So close to ranching the property, and even closer to ranchers who would have no hesitation shooting trespassers, I kept as quiet as possible, knowing well that any unwanted attention would surely result in the police being called.
The bitter humidity was staunching.
Sweat beaded down my neck and slid into my shirt.
I licked a droplet from my lips and tasted salt.
It was at that moment that I realized I’d just become even more vulnerable.
If there were any Howlers downwind—if they were anywhere near me—
I froze.
The dove, the owl—they’d stopped calling.
A rustle in the bushes spun me around faster than I thought possible.
The safety went off.
The gun barked and muzzle fire flashed in the night.
The figure—only briefly illuminated as a man—went down instantly.
Lowering the smoking gun, I centered the barrel on the unmoving body and waited for any further movement.
Steam sizzled from the gap beneath his arm.
Howler.
I turned my head and swallowed a lump in my throat.
So—I’d already been approached.
Directly around a bend in the animal-trodden path was the dilapidated farmhouse Amadeo had spoken of—desecrated with age, ruined by weather, and gnarled by human abandonment.
It had no roof to speak of.
The front door and a portion of windows were completely missing.
I exhaled the breath that had been trapped within my chest and fumbled through my pocket for the cylinders, my thumb flicking over the bullet’s tipped surface before sliding it into the weapon.
I didn’t want to go in with only a few bullets.
Bracing myself for whatever was to come, I started up the path.
The trees provided ample cover for myself and anyone who might be watching me. The snarl of gunfire had momentarily silenced the night, to the point where only bugs chirruped or whistled in the early-morning dark. Guided only by the flashlight and the moonlight that illuminated the house, it took little to realize how much of a target I was.
I’d killed one of their own.
I’d broken the pact.
Humans had entered their territory.
All those hikers, all those travelers—gone, missing, ripped to pieces by what the authorities had considered accidental causes and then by the feeding of animals—
I was in their territory now.
The game was on.
I mounted the incline where the stairs leading up to the house used to be and directed the flashlight around the area, cutting a beam of light through the broken windows and the open front door. Free of graffiti and bearing only the casual semblance of animal activity, it appeared nothing more than an abandoned house—a place where some lowly farmer or widow had lived in ages past.
With trepidation I’d never experienced in my life, I stepped into the house.
Old glass crunched under my feet.
The hairs on my neck shot upright.
The one thing Amadeo had not been able to tell me was where the entrance was.
It’ll probably be a hideaway, he’d said. Look where a basement would be.
And I did. What little space there was to search offered nothing in regard to secret entrances that would lead to some underground bunker.
I paused, in the middle of the room, and directed my attention toward the kitchen.
Most of it lay in ruins.
The one thing that didn’t was the pantry door.
Lifting my gun, I edged forward.
It took only a second for me to lash out, grab the handle, and rip the door open.
A hatchway—leading directly to what I could only assume was the Howler compound—was revealed.
I only had one way to go from here.
Reaching back, I guided the pantry door closed behind me, then flipped the porthole open.
A ladder descended into darkness. A quick sweep with the flashlight showed nothing but solid, concrete ground at the bottom.
Slapping the flashlight into the space between my belt and waist, I balanced its outer rim alongside my pocket before I crouched down and took hold of the rungs.
It was there that I began to descend.