Authors: Allan Burd
All Hell (4 page)
“Fuck you,” was my brilliant reply.
He came closer, teeth bared, all serious business. “I am aware of your recent loss, Silas Hill. It was not our doing. Go now… before this becomes something
more
.” It didn’t take a genius to get his meaning. He looked ready to pounce the second I said no.
I paused for a moment,
regaining my senses to the point I didn’t feel vengeful or dumb enough to give him that no. But I wasn’t ready to give him a yes either. He knew me. He just didn’t know what an incorrigible prick I could be when I was mad. I decided to educate him. “What should I call you?” I asked.
“You ignorant little fuck,” he growled, his teeth so close to me now I could see the remnants of his last meal stuck between his canines.
“That’s kind of a long name,” I retorted. “How about I call you Joe? Better yet, Silver Joe. You look like a Joe and you’re silver.” I grinned like a wise ass.
His hand immediately grabbed my throat, his claws scratching my skin, a warning of things to come
if he decided to add a little more pressure. I grabbed his outstretched arm but it was useless. He was far too strong. Still, I didn’t give a shit.
“Bring me the asshole that killed my brother or, I fucking swear, I will kill you,” I threatened.
He growled, nearly putting my head in his mouth. “For the last time,
not
us,” he said, his grip tightening, cutting off my air. “And I fucking swear, if you do not leave right now, I will remove your larynx and gut you for my pack.”
His claws caressed my belly with enough pressure
to make his point. My eyes tightened. So did his grip. He drew some of my blood just to emphasize his point.
“Believe me or die,” he snarled.
It was an ultimatum I daren’t refuse. I nodded and he released me, dropping me to the ground.
“Tell your father… tell Jebediah… he owes me one for sparing you.” He howled at the moon, watching me intently as I
left stumbling into the woods, the wolf guards sneering at me as I passed them by. I gave them the finger so they’d remember me. I’m charming that way and I don’t deal well with losing. It took me hours to find my way home, days for the town doc to properly clean my wounds.
That was
years ago when I was nothing more than a backwater hillbilly from this shithole town in the middle of the nowhere, USA. Having Silver Joe get the better of me again isn’t exactly how I envisioned my homecoming.
I come to for long enough a moment to realize that dying isn’t in the cards. I’m in too much freakin’ pain. Around me throaty growls and inhuman voices whir by like a passing train. My eyes reveal only the blurriest of movements. Then I black out again and my freak show continues.
My brother is laid lifeless on a sled, a coat covers his body. My pa had just dragged him from wherever they’ve been to the front steps of our church. Pa was pale, his face a portrait of loss painted with lines of sadness and regret. His eyes blank as if his soul had just been ripped out.
Mom knew immediately. She ran down the street, my father intercepting her, holding her
tight, preventing her from looking too closely at my brother’s body. I never heard exactly what they said to each other—I was too stunned, fixated on my brother’s vacant bloodied face—but Ma was yelling something fierce, as if it were all Pa’s fault. But my brother… whatever killed him was animal-like, but there was something ritualistic about it too. Three parallel gashes lined each of his cheeks, the wounds too symmetrical for him to have been killed by any of the local wildlife. And the way my brother’s eyes stared blankly into the heavens… it was like a dead fish unexpectedly pulled from the water. My brother was terrified before he died, so whatever got him had to be something that surprised him in the worst way, cause my brother knew the woods and everything that lived in it better than anybody. I never thought about it until now, but it was odd that my pa left his eyes open like that instead of simply closing them. An awful smell led me to peek under the coat and I caught a glimpse of my brother’s inner workings before my father yanked me away.
An elder priest I’ve rarely had contact with appeared at the main entrance. It was Father Miguel. His hair was brittle white, but he looked strong as an ox and his eyes were as powerful as God’s. “Bring him around back,” he ordered, soft but firm, as if he had already known what had happened and could provide a measure of comforting support. My father nodded and did as he was told, sending my mother home to grieve alone. I stood there, not sure which parent to follow. After about a minute, I chose to follow my brother.
I gently opened the back door to the church. It was an inner sanctum painted mostly white, sparsely decorated with religious ornaments. My brother was laid out on the bare floor in the exact position my father brought him in on the sled, except his arms were spread wide. “This is exactly how I found him,” I overheard my pa say.
Father Miguel inspec
ted the body. His fingers graced the lacerations on his face, tracing the cut lines. He studied the more severe wound to his belly, carefully inspecting inside my brother with a latex gloved hand. He shook his head, a sorrowful gesture before gently closing my brother’s eyes. Then he drew a cross on his chest while looking upward toward God. When he finished his prayer, a solemn look defining his strong face, he said, “I am familiar with this.”
“
No,” my father cried.
“
You couldn’t have known. It’s not your fault,” replied Miguel, placing his hand on my pa’s shoulder.
“His soul?” my father pleaded.
“Beyond my ability to know. I will pray for it.” Miguel paused. “I will locate the monster that did this.”
“
Impossible,” my father frowned.
Miguel
’s expression was a mix of understanding and disappointment. “They work their evil in many ways. I will do what I can,” he said.
I’m pushed from my memory as warm liquid splashes my face and gets in my mouth. I spit
it out so I don’t choke. I’m conscious, alive… awake. My eyes burn. I wipe them and see the familiar clearing in the woods. I’m once again at the entrance of the wolf’s den. A campfire flickers nearby, giving off light and heat. I smell the urine as my confusion fades.
The black wolf’s rear leg returns to the ground. “The little asshole’s awake now,” he snickers. His piercing orange eyes gaze through me and I recognize him immediately.
It’s déjà vu.
Silver Joe comes into my field of view. He’s standing upright, looking intimidating and strong. His scraggily paw grips me by the hair as he lifts me painfully to my feet. “Welcome back, Silas,” he says with a shit eating grin.
Now I know where I am and how I got here. I can’t wait to find out why they kept me alive.
“You look good, Silas,” says the black one.
I don’t need to look in a mirror to get the sarcasm. I’m still caked in blood, guts, and horseshit and now I’m damp with warm werewolf piss as well. “Bite me,” I retort.
“Later,” he replies with a
sneer.
My attitude doesn’t bother him at all. He’s seen it before. I notice the way he defers to Silver Joe and gather he’s his right hand man. I never gave him a nickname the last time we met. Today, in my head, I call him Sidekick.
I look to Silver Joe and say, “I’m still breathing. Why?”
He stares past me. Now that he’s pummeled me there’s a lot less hate in his eyes. “There are other forces at play,” he states.
I quickly run through all the scenarios in my head. I can’t think of one where what he just said doesn’t make sense. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have any meat left on my bones. “You could’ve told me that before you clocked me.”
Sidekick snorts. “He could have, but I can tell you from experience that punching you in the face is just too much fun.”
Joe hates me because I’ve given him reason to. Sidekick, on the other hand, is just a dick. I ignore him. There’s something larger brewing here. I need to know what it is and what it might have to do with my brother’s murder. I turn to Silver Joe with a look that requests an explanation.
“This is werewolf territory. You should have brought the matter immediately to my attention,” he says, as if the matter wasn’t cold-blooded murder. “Sneaking onto our land was…
disrespectful
.”
I make a mental note that he only mentioned
sneaking
was disrespectful. It was as if he somehow considered it a lesser offense than killing seven of his pack. “I had no way of knowing it wasn’t an isolated incident,” I reply calmly.
“You escalated things,”
answers Joe.
“One of yours crossed the line first,” I point out.
We stare at each other. An invisible mental chess match being played between us. I’m never going to acquiesce to any fault. Joe’s never going to accept anything less than his dominance. But while I admire his thinking and his veneer of calm, Sidekick’s wearing his heart on his sleeve. I can tell he wants to rip off my face just because he can. Silver Joe raises a paw holding him back.
“Not one of ours. An
outsider
. A few months back a wolf with green eyes appeared on our land. He lived among us without truly becoming one of us. He wasn’t interested in making friends. In fact, just the opposite.” Joe tilted his head toward a stocky wolf circling the campfire. It had an unseemly long scar that ran from its rib cage to the base of its skull, an unnatural part in its brown fur. “He carved out a small territory for himself along the outskirts. He was a tough hombre. I saw no need for unnecessary bloodshed. We came to an understanding. If he was content to play the lone wolf, I would allow it, as long as he didn’t cause any trouble. He never officially agreed to it, but he never disagreed with it either, so we let him be.”
Joe paused. I caught a glimmer of anger in his eyes as the flame from the campfire reflected in his pupil. I just couldn’t tell for whom. Joe continued. “But others in our clan did not. Six brother wolves began following his movements. At first
, it was out of curiosity. They studied him. Then they liked what they saw. This lone wolf didn’t bother any of us, but he didn’t follow our rules either. He went wherever he pleased. They respected that. They believed obeying my rules made us weak. Then, a few days ago, they followed him to the graveyard.”
The graveyard
. Just the mention of that place sent a chill up my spine. The graveyard was a hub for some of the nastiest, most vile creatures that ever walked the face of the earth. Long ago, it was dubbed forbidden territory. Even the werewolves didn’t go there. Until now…
“When they returned, they started referring to themselves as Hell Pack. I should’ve killed them all the moment I heard that,” said Joe.
“Seems to me then, that I took care of a problem for you,” I state.
Joe snarls
. “It wasn’t your problem to deal with.”
“I was hoping to avert a war.”
“Still, an outsider killing our kind creates a problem. There are those among us, who, even despite knowing the circumstances, will hunger for payback.”
“Yet, here I sit in the middle of your dinner tab
le. A dish served cold,” I note.
Silver Joe paused, long in thought
. “Follow me, Silas.” He trots into a nearby cave. Sidekick goes in right behind him. I stare down the gauntlet of angry, untrusting glares that eye me with hatred and I follow them both inside.
The surprises ke
ep coming. I expect an empty cave. Instead, inside is a combination family living room and local gun exhibit. Along the stone wall to my right is a rifle rack, its storage capacity maxed out. A quick peruse gives me a count of twenty weapons from at least six different gun manufacturers. Some look over ten years old, worn from use. A Ruger Mini 14 looks cleaner than the rest, almost brand new and stands out like a sore thumb.
Next to the rack was a white clothed-
covered table on top of which is a variety of handguns. I eye the lot of them, eyeing a .44 Magnum, a Sig Sauer, and a Glock 19… then my glance fixates on a second generation Colt single action revolver. It had to be over 60 years old. I pick it up, flip it side to side, give it a close inspection. It’s in excellent condition save for a few grooves that run along the barrel. I comment. “Where’d you get this?”
Silver Joe loo
ks back at me. “Same place we get them all… from those foolish enough to hunt us.”
Sidekick pulls
a rifle from the rack. “Recognize this, asshole?”
I’ll be damned. It was my pa
’s. The one I grabbed when I went off half-cocked after my brother’s death to lay waste to some of these bastards.
He re-racks it. “You can’t have it back. I like to think of it as a trophy of mine.
Finders keepers and all that.” Sidekick grabs a Smith & Wesson SD9 off the table and tosses it to me. “This one you can play with. Ammo for it is in the third draw,” he says, tilting his head toward a beat up wooden cabinet which hugs the left wall of the cave.
“Did the hunters come after you with furniture too?” I crack.