Body of Immorality (17 page)

Where
was
Helen?

Swimming beyond the tide, blood sluiced between his fingers.

In two months, he’d killed and devoured people in Louisville, Broomfilled, Lafayette, Longmont and Boulder. He’d killed his girlfriend. He dreamed he was a blood fish when he was a werewolf, a scattered array of meaningless, nightmare images he couldn’t understand. The police had yet to find him. They weren’t dealing with anything human. This was different. They weren’t looking for anything that lived in an apartment.

Trying to ignore it, Harper returned from a night of killing. He was naked, covered in blood. He fell back on the couch and threw his arm over his eyes.

*

All he knew was what Corey told him: it was Monday.

Hey, Stupid! It’s time to get up!

Reluctant and groaning, he crawled out of bed. Waking up a bit more, he took a long hot shower, put on the Benny’s Cola uniform, and grabbed the keys to the Volvo. Funny, the chill in the air. He thought he’d turned the heater up. It had been colder than usual in the apartment lately. Harper corrected this by simply wrapping himself in more blankets.

He locked the door behind him, unaware of the broken window. Even awake, the dominance of sleep pressed close from all sides.

The dark, early morning was quiet and still. February sent a cold dagger into his eyes and ears. Where was his forgotten carapace when he needed it?

Traipsing down the steps, Harper breathed warm air onto his hands. Once at the car, he fought the door of the Volvo, trying to open it, but it was frozen shut. He cut his fingers and knuckles on the jagged ice. The tips of his fingers throbbed. The cold made it even more painful.

After howling at the stupid car for ten minutes, Harper got the door open and stepped inside, revving the Volvo to sporadic life, only now he couldn’t close the door.

“Stupid piece of rust-bucket-shit—” Harper said, tugging on the door to make it shut.

The engine threatened to die. He gave it some gas, listening to the
chug-chug-chug
of the engine

Here a chug. There a chug,
Harper thought.
Like the engine. Couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t, but it went. The Volvo is a Golden Book.

Harper surprised himself by laughing, trying to make light of the situation. He steered the car out of the parking lot, down the road, but he had to hold onto the door with one hand to keep it closed.

Once at the warehouse, in the employee parking lot, he brought the Volvo to a breathless stop.

Stepping into the cold, Harper slammed the door. It still wouldn’t shut.

“Stupid piece of Golden Book shit,” he said.

He was in a pissy mood already. The bad start to the day made him irritable. The cold wasn’t helping, either.

He left the door open and shuffled across the parking lot. Snow drizzled on his head and shoulders.

Are you here?—
he asked from far away. Or was that someone else?
I don’t feel here at all. I am somewhere, not among the living. Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?

Once at the doors, he stepped inside. Cynthia sat at the reception desk, though it took him a second to recognize her. She was donning a Goth look for the week, chewing loudly on a piece of gum. She’d died her hair black. Thick, black mascara made her one of the undead. Wasn't that the craze these days? She examined her black fingernails. Silver charms, bracelets, and earrings sent shafts of light in all directions, blinding Harper, and making him grumpier.

“Hey, Harp?” Cynthia said. “Feeling any better?”

Harper nodded, not looking at her. He put the heel of his hand to his temple. “Still feeling all these knots and twists inside my head.”

“Harper, you sure you’re all right?” she asked.

“Yeah, jeez!” he said. “What is this? I’m not crippled or anything?”

“Okay!
Sorry!”
Cynthia looked as if she wanted to throw the phone at him. “
Jerk!”

Harper ignored her and went to the break room. He punched his card: 6:12 am. He was late.

Stupid, golden piece of—
he thought.

Harper made a detour to the bathroom and stepped inside. He needed to relieve himself. His bladder hurt suddenly. Andy Templeton, the driver who’d taken his route, was washing his hands at the sink. Harper nodded in Andy’s direction.

“’Morning,” Harper mumbled.

Andy nodded. Harper didn’t know it, but Andy was watching him carefully.

Harper stopped in front of the urinal and unzipped. He tried to lose himself in a private moment. He closed his eyes, yawned, and tilted his head back.

When he closed his eyes, the cycle went haywire again. One second he was Harper Ellis, delivery driver, relieving his bladder, perfectly content to smile as he took a piss. The next, he was a savage, hairy, towering monster with a will of its own…

His mind reeled through space. Stars came to life in his mind one by one. He hurtled through the physical miracle at impossible speeds, curling in and out of himself.

Rockets and flares exploded through his brain, bouncing across his eyes. Flashes of lightening, hot spikes stabbed his skull.

Andy Templeton, looking at Harper in the mirror, widened his eyes in horror.

Harper grabbed his head between hairy, claw-filled hands. He stepped away from the urinal, a golden fountain of urine arcing through the air.

“
Harper! Harper!”
Andy cried. “
Oh, Harper! You all right? You’re pissing all over the place! Jesus Christ! What’s the matter?”

The uniform split at Harper’s pant legs, up the middle of his back. He was
The Incredible Hulk.
The werewolf coming to the foreground took only seconds. He sat back on his haunches and lifted his snout to the ceiling. Harper howled, the sound cracking the tiles in the bathroom. The mirrors shattered.

Andy Templeton screamed in his own right and bolted from the bathroom. The door shut slowly behind him.

The werewolf whipped its head in Andy’s direction, smelling sweat and fear. It tore the door from its hinges, and slammed into the opposite wall, making the hallway tremble. Harper loped after Andy. The man was running down the hallway like a marathon racer. He passed Cynthia, her mouth hanging stupidly open, watching the scene unfold. Andy opened the door leading into the warehouse and disappeared inside.

Cynthia, finally noticing Harper, began to scream.

But Harper caught up quickly. He was furious in his thirst for blood.

Ignoring Cynthia, he crashed through the warehouse door, sending it off its hinges as well. Andy didn’t make it far. Harper was on him seconds. He grabbed the man by the collar, lifted him off the ground, and sank his teeth into his shoulder. Coppery blood splashed his mouth.

Andy Templeton—similar to Helen—was soon confetti, blood splashing the walls and floor.

Coworkers screamed and fled. Jason Toofey stared in open-mouthed shock. Others stood paralyzed, mouths agape.

Jason had been taking a break by the pop machine when Harper burst through the door. He was standing only two-feet from the monster now. The werewolf plucked him off the floor and threw Jason—all two-hundred and forty pounds of him—into a towering stack of two-liter bottles. The collision made the top pallets teeter, waver, and fall. Bottles exploded, burying Jason Toofey in a colorfully loud splash of fizzling soda. Two-liters spun, shooting Benny’s Cola in all directions.

No need for the moon to play when we have all this,
a thought went off in Harper’s brain.

A paralyzed, sixteen-year-old girl Harper didn’t recognize stood several feet to his right, a new recruit, perhaps.

Harper grabbed her by the neck and bit her in half, slurping blood and flesh down his throat. When he was done, he lifted his snout to the ceiling and howled.

*

Sitting at his the desk—with pictures of he and Pop at the shooting range—Corey Vanderpool (Boss to his associates) knew this day would come. He knew it, in fact, from the moment Cynthia started screaming.

Corey stood up, pushing the chair back across the floor. The first thing he did was check the .38. It was loaded. He put it snugly back in its holster. He did not use the snap. He’d always joked about someone getting killed in this place someday, but he’d never been serious.

Corey’s brows came together and bolted from his office. He noticed the soda pop first, fizzing and twirling to a halt. Orange, grape, lemon-lime, root beer, and regular made a sticky, widening pool across the warehouse floor.

A hairy, gargantuan monster was licking its fingers on the other side of the warehouse. It stood by the door leading to the lobby. Blood, in a slapdash, lunatic array, spread across the walls, the floor, the garbage can, and the soda machine.

Corey hadn’t moved quickly enough. He hoped
someone
had made it out of here alive. Yes. He could still hear Cynthia screaming…

For a second, Corey didn’t think about the gun. It didn’t even cross his mind.

The monster sniffed at the air, paused in its enjoyment, and turned toward him. Blood coating its chest and face. It looked at Corey Vanderpool, and their eyes locked.

He’d interrupted its quiet feeding. Lips pulled back, snarling, the beast revealed a row of bloodstained teeth.

Didn’t you say something earlier about Billy the Kid? Josey Wales,
Corey thought.
Harper said something about it. Or
had
he?

Not wasting a moment, the beast loped toward him, howling loud enough to make the moon smile.

He remembered the gun. If he didn’t hurry, he’d be too late…

Corey brushed his jacket back, reaching for the .38. He pulled the gun out, aiming it at the creature’s chest.

They’re not silver bullets,
he thought.
I hope it’s enough that they’re not silver bullets. Oh, God, please! This is what you spent you’re whole life for, dad! Wish me luck!

Six times, he pulled the trigger. Two steered off course. Three took the monster in the chest. The other sank—dead center—in its forehead.

Its howl cut to a whimper. It collapsed to the floor, skidding to a stop just shy of Corey’s polished shoes.

Werewolves, Pop?
Corey thought, frowning.
You never told me anything about werewolves.

It was either that or make you think you
were
Billy the Kid,
his dad answered.
I thought, with our family, this might be easier. You know what you have to do now?

Corey couldn’t believe it. He didn’t trust the animal, that it was dead already. He kept a safe distance, walking around it, reaching into his pocket. He loaded another six rounds. If any of those movies he’d seen as a kid were true, it would have one last gasp, reach for his leg, something. But it didn’t.

The monster shifted, transforming with mystical, magical grace. As werewolf lore will undoubtedly prove, it was a human form again.

Only Corey didn’t believe it,
couldn’t
believe it, didn’t
want
to believe it, yet it seemed to make perfect sense.

“Oh,” Corey said, looking down at Harper. “
Damnit.”

Corey knelt and brushed a lock of hair out of Harper’s face. The bullet had done damage, but not enough to disfigure him. A single trail of blood spilled from the hole in Harper’s head.

Corey thought of Helen. He prayed, but knew in someway she’d suffered a similar fate. He reached out and drew Harper’s eyes closed. Corey stood up.

’
You gonna sit back and watch them turn this town into a carnival of freaks?

This was the way, from generation to generation, handed down again and again…

If nothing, he owed it to Harper to find out what had happened. He’d liked Harper, liked him quite a bit. He felt a pang of sadness when he looked down at the man, but he didn’t have time for sentimentality, not now.

“Say ‘hi’ to Helen for me, Harpsey-chord,” Corey said. “I have a little business that needs takin’ care of.”

Corey Vanderpool did not holster the gun right away, but kept the safety off. He went back to his office and opened the desk drawer, rummaging through a secret supply of ammunition. He’d have to go home and grab more guns. He could empty his savings account and buy all the ammunition and firepower he could. He had to start somewhere.

He wished Pop were here to help him.

It was snowing as Corey stepped outside. He made his way to the car. The sun lit the sky to the east, despite the gray drapery of clouds. In the cold February morning, Corey heard the lone cry of a wolf. Trying to keep his cool, he searched for the keys to the Buick.

Another howl pierced the still, winter air, a lament for a lost brother, an angry cry promising vindication.

Corey started the Buick, backed out of the lot, and drove down the road. It was at that moment he remembered Cynthia. She was still alone in the warehouse somewhere. The girl had, he realized, finally stopped screaming, however. Maybe she’d fainted…

Corey cursed, stopping the car, and turned around, driving back to the warehouse. He parked in front of the entrance, hurrying back inside.

Cynthia sat on the floor behind the reception desk, back against the wall. Her head was slumped to the side, eyes closed. She
had
fainted, but she looked unharmed. She was breathing at least.

Corey picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. He hurried outside to the Buick. He set her carefully onto the passenger seat and shut the door. He went around to the driver’s side, got in, and shut the door after him. Cynthia slumped over to his side. He lifted her head carefully and positioned her against the passenger window. Corey started the car and peeled out of the parking lot.

“Now’s a hell of a time to be
sleeping,”
he said.

Howling wolves split the sudden fury of the storm.

Idledale Community

It’s not that I
enjoy
swearing, for fuck’s sake! Dad taught me it’s not polite. Swearing, he always said, makes people look and sound stupid. So, I try not to swear. But this town? Christ, Jesus! I don’t know!