Stan Springs stalked the night in bestial form. He thought of the first set of kills this summer. Of those, the man in the car was pretty fun, but shutting up that old drunk in the park thrilled him to the core. Before the start of this killing season, it felt like an eternity since the beast had been at full strength and able to hunt humans. Even when it had last attacked, over seven years ago, the kills had never been as exhilarating as these.
The beast felt stronger, smarter, better at perpetrating its acts of violence. It stopped and howled at the full moon as it appeared, disappeared then reappeared from behind the clouds above. This night had only gotten started.
It wondered how its neophyte was fairing? Becoming the beast had filled Stan Springs with anxiety and shame, but its lust for blood was insatiable and far too strong to be ignored. Perhaps they would meet tonight.
The beast’s priorities turned to Mel Murdock and Sheriff Fischer. It howled into the fierce wind blowing against its thick fur. The werewolf crouched back down on all fours and continued on to its next destination—the home of Sheriff Joe Fischer.
Shelly Glescoe rubbed Sonya Fischer’s arm in a feeble attempt to comfort the poor girl who had just witnessed the brutal death of her boyfriend. She appeared to be asleep.
Probably the mind’s way of saving itself from going completely off the deep end.
Even as she tried to pass on some compassion to the fractured girl, her thoughts were of her own boyfriend and his safety. At this very moment, Dwayne was heading into the dark forest, pursuing the beast responsible for all of this.
“Please, God, watch over Dwayne and Joe and help them destroy this creature. Don’t let us lose anyone else,” she said.
Shelly didn’t pray very often—mostly as a last resort against impossible odds—but as she turned off Old Gilson Creek Road and onto Park Street, she was praying harder than she ever had before. She feared the horrors of this night were far from over.
She hoped and prayed that she was wrong.
The rain began to fall again. Dwayne Clarke heard its pitter-patter as the heavy droplets hit the canopy of leaves above his head. He and the sheriff made their way through the black forest, one soft step at a time.
“I can’t see a fucking thing,” Dwayne whispered. He was ready to have a panic attack.
Who is actually crazy enough to go looking for something like this?
You, dumb ass, that’s who.
Joe’s arm halted his forward progress. The sheriff put a finger to his lips and forced him to crouch to the ground.
Dwayne strained to focus his eyes. A large shape came into view. It was less than twenty feet from them.
If it could have attacked them, it would have by now. Surely the monster would catch their scent on the air before they were able to find it. It lay slouched against a pine and did not move.
Joe reached for the Maglite on his belt, aimed it toward the beast and flicked it on. He watched the rise and fall of the beast’s massive chest. Then he reached for his Glock G22, unholstered the weapon, drew it up and aimed it directly at the beast’s head.
Deputy Dwayne Clarke saw the thing that should not be lying in front of him. It was massive, covered with a thick black fur. It was lying on its back as the rain poured down upon it. The sheriff had his gun aimed at the creature. Clarke raised the shotgun he’d carried out with him, moving into position next to Joe.
“Is it—”
“I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway.”
Together, they began to creep forward. They stopped ten feet from the thing.
Dwayne couldn’t believe his eyes. This was something from a Stephen King novel. Yet there it was, fighting for breath, dying before them—a werewolf. A real, honest-to-God, fucking werewolf.
“It’s dead, Sheriff.”
Joe aimed his gun between the creature’s closed eyes.
Dwayne looked at him. “I think it’s dead, Sheriff.” He reached out with his right leg to kick the massive body.
“Get back, Dwayne.”
Despite Joe’s direct order, Dwayne stepped forward and kicked the beast. “See, it’s dead.”
The beast clutched on to his calf.
Dwayne screeched.
Joe stepped past his deputy, placed the gun directly to the monster’s forehead—its yellow eyes opening as he did so—and pulled the trigger. He emptied all ten rounds of .40-caliber silver bullets into the head of the beast.
The loud explosions barked then died against the soundtrack of the storm raging against the forest. Deputy Dwayne Clarke lay on the ground curled into a fetal position, his hands over his ears.
Joe’s normally steady hand trembled. There were a series of clicks as he kept pulling the trigger of the empty weapon. He couldn’t believe he had killed this wicked thing again.
His thoughts were interrupted by the voice of Barlow Olson, “You can’t just shoot these things. The silver will fuck the shit out of ’em. Drop ’em out of commission for a long-ass time, but it’s not enough..” Joe’s authentic Masahiro Yanagi Katana sword was laying in the backseat of his truck.
He looked down at Deputy Clarke, who was only now uncurling himself. Joe waited until the Deputy got back to his feet and handed him his keys. “Go to my truck. In the backseat is a duffle bag. Inside the bag is a samurai sword. I need you to grab it and bring it back here as quick as possible.”
Dwayne was looking at the crimson-splattered area the creature’s face had once occupied. It was like looking down at a mess of bloody hamburger.
“Dwayne. Go. Now.”
Dwayne pulled his eyes from the gory sight. “Right. A sword. In your truck? I can do that.”
“Well, stop fucking staring at this pile of shit and go.”
“Yes sir, Sheriff. Are you sure you want to stay out here…alone?”
“I’ll be fine as long as you get your ass in gear.”
“Yes, sir.”
Joe stared down at the body of the werewolf. It seemed an odd thought, but for some reason, as big as this thing was, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it had been even bigger before. He guessed it could have been altered in its rejuvenation period, between when he buried it and when it rose from the dirt grave, but that didn’t feel right. It wasn’t possible that this could be a different werewolf…was it?
A deep cold spiraled through his soul and spun a knot in his ulcer-ridden stomach.
Deputy Shelly Glescoe pulled into the sheriff’s driveway and she caught sight of something out of the corner of her eye. Some kind of large animal disappeared around the corner of the house. She thought of the werewolf. Her hands shook as she reached for the radio.
“Sheriff? Dwayne?”
“Shelly?”
It was Dwayne. She tried to keep her voice low and steady. “Dwayne, I think it’s here.”
“What’s there? Where are you?”
“I’m sitting in the sheriff’s driveway. Something huge just darted behind the house. I think it’s the werewolf.”
“Uh, I don’t think so. I just watched Joe blow its head into oblivion. We found it half-dead, laying a little ways in the woods here. You probably just saw a dog. I think Joe’s neighbor has a—”
“Listen to me, Dwayne Steven Clarke. I know what I just saw go behind this house was too fucking big to be a Goddamned dog. Hell, it was too big to be a fucking bear. The werewolf is here. It’s here. What the fuck do I do, Dwayne?”
“Back the fuck out of there and go wait for us at the end of Park. Just get yourself and Sonya out of there. I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but just get out.”
“But Mel…Mel is in there, alone.”
“Get Sonya out of there, and then go back for Mel…or wait…fuck…just get Sonya out of there. I’m on my way.”
Shelly put the car in Reverse as the guilt of leaving Mel in the house alone nibbled at her guts. She sped down Hilton Street backward, stopping at the end of the block. Sonya was out cold. She grabbed her shotgun from the floor by Sonya’s legs, got out of the cruiser, locked the doors and started back to the sheriff’s—back toward the werewolf.
“Sheriff!”
Joe heard Deputy Clarke yell. Another chill swept over him. “What is it?”
“Shelly just radioed. She says the werewolf is behind your house. I’ve got to go. You’ll have to come get your sword.”
“Dwayne?”
“Sorry, Joe, it’s Shelly. I have to go…” His voice trailed away.
Joe knew there was another one. That’s why this one looked different—it was.
He knew he should finish the job with the one lying at his feet, knew that if he didn’t he ran the risk of it not being here when he returned, but the overwhelming fear for his daughter’s safety overrode every sensible thought on the subject. He broke into a run. He’d have to hope blowing half of the damn thing’s head off would do the trick.
Less than a minute later, he was burning down the wet road after Deputy Clarke, racing to protect his daughter from a real-life monster. It would take him at least ten minutes to get to his house from here. He hoped that wouldn’t be too long.