Beneath a Winter Moon (59 page)
Read Beneath a Winter Moon Online
Authors: Shawson M Hebert
He heard the sound and felt the sting at the same moment that his body was jerked sideways and away from Delmar’s body. The beast jumped to his feet, prepared to attack—and realized for the first time that Thomas was not with him anymore. The human was someplace else. The beast took a moment to look upon his surroundings. He had not noticed that he was trapped now, too deep within this pit to leap out, and climbing the slick, vertical walls was not possible. He growled and looked up.
Thomas had fired the 10-gauge at the werewolf when he saw what it was doing to his friend. He’d been blurry-eyed, and in the shadows of the pit he’d missed the head of the beast, hitting it on the top of the right side of its massive shoulder.
Thomas watched as the werewolf howled in rage. He wished he could grow numb to the site of the mythical creature—the horrific beast spawned from the depths of hell—but he felt fear, and then he was sickened. He could barely manage to keep his eyes fixed on the werewolf—every fiber of his being crying out in protest that the beast could not be contained and that it would come up from the pit to eviscerate him.
The werewolf howled and leapt—trying to reach Thomas and the top of the pit. Thomas forced himself to calm down and to watch. He forced himself to become used to the creature and to regard it as a beaten and impotent foe. It could no longer harm him. Thomas was the master now. After observing the beast as it try and try again to climb out of the pit only to slide back down in misery and fury, Thomas could take no more. His hatred for this creature—for Alastair—knew no bounds. Thomas shot the werewolf in the head, and this time it fell to the floor of the pit, unconscious. Chunks of flesh and bone missing from its face and neck.
Thomas looked down on Delmar’s violated corpse and then fell to his knees. He roared in agony for his dead friend. He laid the rifle down and scanned the pit until he could make out Jack’s limp body. The dog lay still on the other side of a tall on the far side of the pit, probably thrown there by the werewolf. There were no
chem-lites
near the Husky, making it difficult for Thomas to see if the dog still lived, though he held no hope.
He took the time to rip one of the last remaining
chem-lites
away from the daypack, snapped and shook it, then tossed it into the pit as close to Jack as he could get it. He still could not determine whether the dog was breathing, but his heart told him that his long-time friend and companion had seen his last day here on earth. Thomas let his tears flow, biting his wrist as he had when he was a child. He let himself sink to the floor of the cavern a few feet from the edge of the pit, his head dropping down and his chest heaving with the sobs.
It was just after four in the morning when he finally got control of himself. The werewolf woke a few minutes later as if it had been sleeping. Thomas was astonished at the rapid rate at which the beast could regenerate. Though half the werewolf’s face had been blasted away, it had healed so well that he could just make out where the massive 10-gauge shell had struck. Thomas had numbed to his fear and to the sadness, and now he looked down at the werewolf and felt nothing more than simple and complete hatred.
The werewolf shook its grotesque head, roared, and tried again to leap out of the pit. Thomas calmly aimed the rifle and fired. The werewolf dropped.
“Head shots are a bitch, aren’t they?” He almost laughed at the beast as it rolled over onto its back…its arms flopping out to its sides.
Jack had not moved at all—and Thomas now assumed that his dog was no more. They had all left him—everyone—and now he must go on. He must be the one to finish this in their stead. There was nothing more to do, really. Nothing but to wait for dawn—
but when it comes
, he thought,
I will have some answers, and I will end Alastair McLeod
.
Thomas timed the werewolf’s recovery from the well-aimed shots to the head. He figured that the last two times averaged out to about 40 minutes…but he had never been so great at math. What mattered now was the coming dawn—within the next hour, the sun would make its slow trip over the horizon, and within two hours, it would be bright outside. The snow had stopped some time ago, and the low whisper of the wind had ceased.
* * * * *
Lieutenant Snow Eagle awaited the dawn in a complete state of fear. He had tried every calming technique that he knew, many were learned from the native peoples that he had grown up with—none worked. He pulled his hand away from his radio time and time again. There had been nothing except for the two or three barrages of weapons fire that must have come from his team. He grunted at that thought. His team? He barely knew the men—had only been with them for hours. Yet it was there. In the short stint as part of the almost unbelievable task force that didn’t even have a designation, Snow had learned to like the men. Now he wondered if there was even the slightest possibility that they were alive. He remembered
Deluth’s
words. Fly out after dawn if you don’t hear anything. He shifted in his seat and stared at the eastern horizon again, praying for the sun.
* * * * *
Thomas had used the time to ponder over the past days events, and to prepare himself for what he had to do next. He had taken his and Delmar’s climbing rope and fastened them into a lowering line and a large net….one that he could use to bring Jack’s body out of the pit. Delmar and Alastair would have to remain where they were for now, but there was no need to leave Jack…faithful, loving Jack…down there with them.
He had made plans, and—unless a rescue team found him before he finished—he would be done by mid afternoon. If he
was
found before he finished—well—he would either be taken to the funny farm or someone would listen and believe him at least enough to look at the evidence.
Delmar and Alastair both had to be beheaded. It was the only way to ensure that they would not regenerate. Once Alastair was dead and the grisly decapitation of both he and Delmar was finished, Thomas would try to retrieve more kerosene from the shack at the remnants of the cabin—to burn the bodies to ash. Thomas prayed he would not be found until he had made certain that this reign of horror was ended.
The last moments of the night passed slower than the rest…but they had come. He had shot the werewolf a third time as it tried to rise, but now dawn was coming, and Thomas had ventured to the cavern’s entrance to watch the yellow orb glow brighter as it rose. He sat staring, watching the now clear, blue horizon light up with the coming of the sun. He heard a cough from behind him, in the pit.
He went to the edge and looked down in fascination as the werewolf dropped to the floor, (having evidently regenerated after the third shot to the head), then
spasmed
and lurched back and forth on its side. The werewolf’s thick, black fur began to glisten in the glow of the
chem-lites
. A thick liquid was oozing from its skin—up through the fur, quickly covering the entire body. The beast raised a hand into the air and spread its fingers, and Thomas could see that the oozing, glistening film was not a liquid at all, but was more like a gel. As the hand opened, the gel clung to its fingers, momentarily making the hand appear to be webbed.
Within moments, the gel covered the whole body. The beast silently thrashed about, and Thomas imagined that if it could have made a sound, it would have been a scream of agony. Its head shook violently, and its arms and legs flung awkwardly in all directions—the gel-like film clinging to them all the while.
The film had slowly formed into what could only be described as a sack in which the werewolf was now trapped. Thomas heard faint cracks and pops, understanding that the creature’s bones were changing shape and size. The thing finally stopped thrashing about and then lay still…but the body still twitched with movement as the last of the bones and muscle changed, the thick fur retracted, and the beast began to transform back into man.
Thomas watched with a morbid fascination. Though the filmy, clear sack covered the body, he could make out the almost-human form within. Where there had been a dark beast under the film just moments ago, resided a smaller, thinner form, lighter in color. The gelled sack began to lose its continuity, and began a quick change into a perfectly clear liquid, which settled on Jeremiah’s naked body and on the ground around it. Thomas stared in amazement as the liquid then disappeared from the ground, as if by magic.
Alastair coughed and his body twisted. He rolled onto his back, grasping at something protruding from his open mouth. He coughed, and reached both hands up to his face to pull at the protrusion as he stood up. Thomas remained fixated on the gory scene as Alastair pulled something long and slender from his throat. The naked man pulled at the ‘thing’ until it was nearly hanging arm’s length from his mouth, and then he suddenly bent over and pulled harder, convulsing as if he were ill. With a sickening ‘pop’, a small, translucent sack, filled with…something…came from his mouth to dangle at the end of the cord to which it was attached.
Alastair coughed again and gasped for breath. He fell to his knees, still gasping. He remained there for a long moment, then slowly raised himself to his knees and stood up, looking around, undoubtedly puzzled. He saw Delmar’s torn corpse only a few feet away, and grimaced, backing away as if repulsed by the site. He looked around the cavern, and then he smiled. He looked at Delmar again, and the smile grew bigger. He ran over to the other side of the pit, looking left and right, seeming to be puzzled.
Ah,
Thomas thought,
he is looking for me
.
He believes he killed us all... but then where is my corpse
? Alastair looked around, grimacing, teeth gritted. Finally, he looked up.
“Dear God,” Alastair said softly as he saw Thomas grinning down at him.
“Which God do you speak to, Alastair? Certainly not my God, because no God of mine would have ever created a creature such as you.”
Alastair stared at Thomas but said nothing, suddenly embarrassed at his nakedness. Thomas was prepared for that, and tossed a pair of neoprene leggings and a neoprene shirt down into the hole. “Put those on.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Snow Eagle, come in. Do you read me?”
Snow almost jumped from his pilot’s seat. He had finally given in and dozed off—the radio jerking him from his slumber. He rubbed his eyes, then smiled when he saw it was light outside. He fumbled for the radio.
“This is Snow, over.”
“This is Deluth. Do not lift off yet. I repeat, do not lift off yet. I am close to the coordinates of the area where the two thermals were located. Stand by.”
“How is the team? I heard weapons fire not long after you left me here.”
After a long silence, Deluth answered, “Just stand by, Lieutenant.”
Snow frowned, knowing that meant things were bad. “Roger, Captain.”
“Deluth out.”
Deluth staggered a bit as he made his way to the coordinates. He checked his GPS again, and was glad to see he was within a hundred meters. Though his body had healed rapidly, he found that he sometimes lost control of his legs. They would jerk and twitch violently.
Spinal damage
, he thought. Not that it mattered. He was a dead man walking. He wished the werewolf had ensured he was dead—or that Kaley had—before leaving him. He hadn’t been, and had regenerated. He was infected. He had two choices now. Either submit to another team and undergo the horrors of the labs and their tests, or kill himself in a manner that he could not regenerate from.
He checked the GPS again, then moved the MP-5 out of his way. The weapon kept falling back over his shoulder. He took a moment to re-sling it across his back so that it was solidly in place. He would not need it now…not in broad daylight. Besides, he had his pistol and it was full of ammo.
He reached the coordinates in a matter of minutes and stood in place, looking all around the snow-covered forest. There were small hills, large boulders, and huge rocky outcroppings. A large cliff facing caught his eye. He looked up the tall sheer wall, then back down—and saw the entrance to a cavern.
That’s why they disappeared
, he thought.
They took shelter inside.
He
unslung
the MP-5. Maybe he might need it after all.
Alastair hesitated, then gave Thomas a half nod and started to put the shirt and leggings on.
“Those were Daniel’s. You can thank him, not your deity.”
After putting them on, Alastair looked back up at Thomas and held out his arms. “Listen, Thomas…I surrender. I won’t resist. You can take me to the authorities.”
Thomas actually chuckled at that. “I know that you don’t think it’s going to be that simple.”
“Well, then, Thomas…what do you plan to do with me? Shoot me? I think you know how well that will work. Do you have the stomach—
or the time
—to tie me up and burn me at the stake?”
Alastair was banking on rescue parties coming to check out the burned cabin, thus sweeping the area and finding them.
“What happens to you depends on
you.”
That puzzled Alastair. He shrugged and then sat down and leaned his back against a large boulder near the center of the pit. He began to rub his bare feet. “My feet are always the worst, you know—well—after the horrible taste goes away. My feet always feel as if someone beat them with a stick. Strange, isn’t it?”
Thomas ignored the comments. “What I need from you are answers. Now, because you know what I need…and want…you have something to bargain with.”
“My only cards on the table are my life.”
Thomas nodded. “You tell me what I need to know, answer my questions and make me believe you are telling the truth…and I leave you in this pit and swear to the Mounties that it was you. I mention nothing about monsters….just that it was you.”
Alastair shook his head. “You are such a horrible liar.”
Thomas grinned and cocked his head sideways. “I haven’t had the years…the decade of practice that you have.”
Alastair quickly popped to his feet and began pacing, a finger in his mouth as if he were chewing a nail. He paced back and forth, never taking more than a few steps in any direction.
“Either you agree to pass some information to me—satisfy my morbid curiosity—or I simply end you. Like you said…I don’t have a lot of time.”
Alastair stopped. “You would never allow me to live.”
“I swear that you will be found by the authorities here in this pit and they can decide your fate. You are then free to do whatever you can.”
“You know I would come after you someday.”
“Oh, I would hope so,” Thomas said.
Alastair chuckled. “You have changed just since yesterday, my boy…”
Thomas reached down and picked up his rifle, taking careful aim. Alastair threw up his hands but he was too late. Thomas fired the rifle and the bullet slammed into Alastair’s left thigh, spraying blood behind the man. Alastair screamed in agony as he fell backward to thud hard on the cold, clammy floor of the pit.
He lay there for a long moment, stunned, and then sat up and placed one hand on the entry point and the other on the exit wound. Thomas had been careful not to hit bone.
“How’s that change working out for you, Alastair?” He asked. He laid the rifle down. “Delmar probably has something to help with the bleeding. His belt, maybe.”
Alastair cursed Thomas, tears in his eyes—but he did reach through the pile of gore that had been Delmar Forsythe, pulling his military-style belt free. Thomas watched him as he tried to stop the bleeding.
“I’m guessing that will keep you down for maybe fifteen minutes—but I am hoping it will end your sour tone and your mockery. I just can’t abide it right now.”
Alastair whimpered, tightening the belt around the wounds. The man was covered in blood, now—the clothing Thomas had given him was bright red with it.
“So,” Thomas said, his voice echoing through the pit, “You tell me the things I want to know, and I leave you here to your fate. But you will have to convince me that you speak the truth…or the deal is off.” He sat down then, cross-legged, and lay the rifle on the ground beside him.
“You let me out, now, and we have a deal.”
Thomas laughed. “You dictate no terms.” He grimaced and bared his teeth. “This is your last chance, monster. It’s now, or you die…and you
don’t
get to come back.”
Alastair was beaten. He knew he was beaten from the moment he saw where he was…and where Thomas was. He had no choice…he had not alternatives. So, he did what any coward would do….he cooperated and hoped that Thomas would keep his word…though he did not believe it.
Thomas learned a lot in the next twenty minutes, and he was convinced that the generalities were all true. Alastair was so conceited and in love with himself that he could not resist actually trying to entertain Thomas—to astound and shock him—and he had succeeded. His ego had forced him to tell the truth and to brag.
Alastair explained his life…from his boyhood in
Scotland
to his Wall Street failures during the Great Depression…to his brief attempts at family, all ending the same way. He explained his research into the curse of the werewolf and the little that he had found that panned out. There had been other werewolves, too…only one that Alastair had not come back to kill later, preventing them from spreading the curse…that one man had set in motion everything here, or so Alastair said. Thomas understood enough to know that Alastair had ruined this cozy part of his life when he became angry enough with the poachers to allow his monster to attack them. No, Alastair would take the blame for nothing. He was a victim, always.
When he had been bitten, it was true, he was the victim…and if the story of his immediate attempt at suicide was believable, and Thomas thought it was, then he had tried to do the right thing. His effort was fleeting, though, and inevitably, the monster had meshed with Alastair, and the two had become one.
Thomas learned that in the beginning it was usually the cycle of the moon that changed the cursed, though there were rare exceptions. Just before the full moon and for a day or so after, there was no control over the change…no possibility of NOT becoming the werewolf. During the other nights, without anger or stress, Alastair could prevent the change. He’d even prevented it a few times by using the tranquilizer on himself just before the moon rose a few days prior to its zenith…but it had only worked the once.
The man tried to act as if he were sorry for the trail of bodies he’d left all over the world, but it was clearly a lie. If anything, the claims were a boast.
He spoke of one detective in
New York
in the mid 1950’s who had found him out and had come after him…even using a silver bullet. Alastair captured the man and bound him in the sewers below the city. The detective had watched helplessly as Alastair had changed into the beast, and then sat defenseless as he was devoured alive.
Through the years Alastair had tried on several occasions to end his life…each being a feeble effort. And on the note of the death of a werewolf, Alastair pointed out that the best thing to do was sever the head and burn the body…and if that wasn’t possible, sever the head and keep it elsewhere….destroy it if nothing else. Silver worked, of course, but if it was removed from the corpse, or fell from the bones when the flesh rotted…the body could rebuild itself. He had recounted how his body quickly returned to life inside the morgue once he stabbed himself with the dagger…the same dagger that Thomas had at his side right now.
Thomas was astonished at how quickly and easily the information came from Alastair. It was almost as if the man had longed to explain it all to someone, but never had the chance.
There was a pause in the conversation when Alastair reached the point of his current wealth, home, and the recent—unpleasantness (what he called the past days events). During that long pause, a movement took Thomas by surprise.
Alastair saw Thomas’s gaze quickly shift to the limp form of the Siberian Husky. The dog lifted its head and whimpered, then rolled and tried to stand. Jack’s legs would not hold him, so he slumped back down. Thomas’s mouth dropped open and his chin shook as he held back tears and tried to think of what to do next. Before Thomas could act, Alastair had limped over to the dog.
Thomas thought at first that Alastair was going to help Jack—but he remembered that the man helped no one but himself. As if on cue, Alastair shouted to Thomas that if he wanted Jack alive, he would throw his weapons into the pit and lower a rope. Thomas saw Delmar’s K-bar knife in Alastair’s hand, and realized that Alastair must have found the knife on Delmar’s body while removing the belt. Alastair held Jack’s head down. Jack struggled furiously, squirming and whimpering, but ran out of energy and went limp, whining softly. Alastair held the knife high in the air, signaling to Thomas that he was ready to strike.
Thomas reacted quickly, and calmly—and probably just as Alastair presumed he would. After all, Alastair never believed Thomas would give him a chance to live. So, the Scot made a last effort to save himself—or perhaps took the opportunity to destroy something else that Thomas loved. With his hand still pressing Jack’s face and snout onto the floor and his knee in the dog’s abdomen, Alastair prepared to thrust the knife downward. Thomas took careful aim, saw the twitch in Alastair’s eyes, and knew the man was indeed going to kill Jack. Thomas fired as the hand began to move.