Breeds (6 page)

Great
, Kirk thought, eyeing the little furry bastard in return. The animal started to whine as if a blow torch had been applied to its puckered ass. Cats instinctively knew him, hated him. The owner glanced down at the cage and nudged it with his foot, eliciting an indignant feline squeal. When the line moved ahead, Kirk gave it some slack, wanting to keep a gap between him and the cat.

“What’s up with you, huh?” the owner muttered, stooping to check on the animal. “What’s going on, buddy? You okay? Huh, you okay, buddy?”

Kirk could almost taste bile bubbling at the back of his throat. Cats weren’t anyone’s
buddy
. Still, he managed to keep his composure for the thirty minutes it took to check into the airline, enduring it all: the sights, the sounds, the monotony, and especially the
smells
. His stomach protested with a nauseous warning, but he avoided a scene.

When the cat’s owner checked in, the airline official lifted the traveling cage and plopped it on the conveyor belt, getting a panicked
raow
out of the little feline fuck. It made Kirk feel a little better.

As promised, a business-class ticket waited for him. And Kirk curtly answered all the check-in person’s questions.

“How many bags?” the uniformed man asked. “Just the one?”

Kirk nodded.

“Place it on the belt, please.”

He complied, thinking about the silver-bladed Bowie secured in the bag. Kirk had gotten a handmade, wooden carrying case, the length of a custom pool cue, to transport the weapon anytime he had to go through security checkpoints, not that he had to go through a lot of them. Just having the blade in the bottom of the plane in a box satisfied any sniffing security types.

“I’m sorry, sir, but it looks like your flight’s been delayed due to the snowstorm.”

“Snowstorm,” Kirk repeated and rolled his eyes. He glanced over his shoulder, through the thick runnels of people behind him, glimpsing a spattered window beyond, and groaned inwardly.
Weather.
He took the proffered boarding pass from the guy. A bad feeling twisted his guts as he walked to the glass keeping the storm at bay and overlooking the parking lot. It had snowed steadily as he took his taxi in, and he’d heard about the charging storm front on the radio, but at no time did he think the flight would be delayed. The weather would have to be truly wicked. After a second, he decided he might as well get comfortable somewhere.

Deserted seats lined a section of wall well away from the food courts and souvenir shops. Kirk sat down on one end, placing his back to the broad wall of brick and windows, and then bent over as if he were atop his porcelain throne at home. He killed time by inspecting his hands, the floor, and the gathering weather beyond the thick panes of glass. The people he ignored, even when they parked themselves on nearby chairs for moments before moving. And while the airport steadily filled with delayed travelers, not one sat directly next to the large outdoorsman type with the thick untrimmed beard and the polar bear hide collar. There was a wildness lurking there, a primal aura which no one could endure at length or felt brave enough to challenge.

The sky darkened. Night slid in, cold and blowing. Kirk twisted around, one leg up on the next chair, and gazed sullenly out at the weather.

Something kicked the toe of his boot.

Kirk glanced up and met the sullen glare of Morris, the neck of a black Special Forces sweater disappearing under a beard that made his own look like a soggy duster.

“Moses,” Kirk greeted warily.

The black-eyed glare deepened. “Hey. Don’t fuckin’ call me that. Told you last time.”

“Last time was how many years ago?”

“Don’t remember. But I remember tellin’ you then and I’m tellin’ you now.”

Kirk set his jaw and glanced back at the deepening night.

Morris took that as an invitation, so he lowered himself onto a seat three over from the smaller man.
Moses Morris
. Kirk sensed the deep woods monster behind him and remembered their first meeting ten or twelve years back. A frame heavily corded with muscle. Short, black hair and a wild shovel of a beard, all edged with silver. From what Kirk noticed a second ago, the brute still wore the same clothes he’d picked up at an army discount shop… except for the leather trench coat. Kirk had no idea where he’d gotten that. Wasn’t interested in asking him. Wardens weren’t the most sociable of the order. None of them were, really. But not only did Moses embody the brooding “don’t touch,” ass-kicking type, he
oozed
intimidation like bear spray and bad cologne. Even though Kirk had his back to him, he still
felt
the leather-clad Sasquatch back there, and wasn’t happy about it in the least. It was hard to relax when a fucking ogre planted himself only an arm’s length away.

The Halifax County native didn’t fear much, but Morris made him uneasy. He had to admit however, if there ever was a monster Kirk
had
to have along with him on a killing, it was Moses Morris.

Killing
.

The word stuck in his craw like a stubborn chicken bone. Ordinarily he did as he was told, but he didn’t like the idea of retiring a warden past his prime in unknown territory. The fact that the old man had already killed two of the order wasn’t lost on him, either. Could Borland have really gone crazy?

“Whattaya think about it all?” Morris rumbled from behind. Kirk took a moment to realize the ogre had actually spoken. He half-turned around.

“About what?”

“Strawberry picking under the goddamn arctic sun. The fuck you think about what?”

Kirk exhaled, checking his own temper. “You think here’s a good place to talk?”

“I’ll talk where I fuckin’ want.”

“We’re in a fuckin’ airport. Amongst––” Kirk dipped his head at the masses of people in motion.

Morris flexed his jaw as if tonguing gristle out from between his teeth. “They got better things going on.”

Kirk took a few seconds to process this.

“So?”

“So what?” Kirk asked.

“Whattaya think about it all? Jesus,” he grated and shook his head.

Kirk didn’t take kindly to shit. Especially attitude shit from a warden based out in Pictou County. “Hey, you muzzle that shit or you can be damn certain I’ll make calls when this is all over. Damn straight someone’ll be interested how you are on a job.”

Morris didn’t answer right away.

“They know,” he eventually muttered, his words as thick and final as flowing cement. “D’Christ you think I’m here? Though I wonder why you’re here. Regardless, we’re… we’re the fuckin’ back-up in this story. Reinforcements. Power sanders authorized to smooth things out. That’s what I think.”

Kirk thought that, too. “Yeah.”

Morris didn’t say anything more, which left Kirk in a bad mood.
Fucking Moses Morris
. He didn’t need this shit. Didn’t need Morris. It was why wardens operated alone, to avoid the power struggle between two or more pack leaders attempting to establish dominance over the other. Morris exuded hard ass with every click of his motorcycle boots. Kirk sighed. The Elders were sending over a scalpel and a sledgehammer and neither respected the other’s mode of operation. Kirk turned back and stared off into the storm, trying not to ponder too hard about the task given to them both. His feelings were too conflicted on the matter.

They sat and stewed in the airport, hearing droidish announcements overhead. The falling snow drew Kirk’s attention, mesmerizing him, infusing him with a longing to be anywhere else.

People moved in a peripheral blur.

Morris sat behind him, breathing like a cast iron furnace about to explode.

Snow fell quietly in the dark. A light flurry, really, but Borland sensed it was only Mother Nature biding her time. The old girl was gathering her strength, brewing her storm so that when the time finally came to dish it, more than a few meteorologists would freak out. Not Borland. Storm weather relaxed him. He remembered coming from Ireland, crossing the Atlantic in the summer of 1792, on a merchant marine filled with young Irish Catholics traveling towards a new life on the island. Two storms pummeled the ship during that three-week voyage. Borland had been much younger then, full of piss and vinegar, eager for bloody hunts under new moons. While most of the travelers suffered during the stormy weather, Borland tied himself down and enjoyed the ride, screaming insanely through ferocious dips and rises as the ship rode out mountainous swells.

Memories. He was different now. Older. Had more battle scars across his back and balls than a pack of pit bulls bred for fighting in underground parking lots. But he still looked forward to the storms of most seasons (though admittedly, not so much the winter anymore) as they reminded him of that initial crossing.

Borland sat at his table and reminisced by lamplight. To fill the silence, he growled out low, vengeful bars of
“We’ll Rant and We’ll Roar”
while he cleaned a twelve-gauge shotgun, relishing the smell of the oil he used. It was an old, close-range weapon, with a worn walnut stock and smooth sliding pump. The gun metal in between the wood gleamed black, showing off fine scratches. He’d bought the shotgun from an old fisherman and, over the years, took the time to modify the firearm as he saw fit. He’d sawed off both ends, shortening the barrel and the stock, and smoothed the rough edges with sandpaper. Then the plug came out, expanding the gun’s ammunition capacity from three shells to five.

When he finished with the cleaning, he pieced the weapon back together with the care and patience of a man handling something with great respect. He placed it across his lap and reached for a box of ammunition, feeding the firearm one shell at a time until full. When he finished loading the shotgun, he held it with both hands and admired its lines.

The Elders would scoff at him for owning the cannon. It was beneath them. No
Were
would ever use one. The Elders decreed such weapons unclean and passed their contempt unto the younger ones. Not Borland. He enjoyed the weight, the promise of destruction, and the visual menace of the shotgun. But mostly, he used it because the Elders said not to. And it would be a cruel surprise for any warden coming through his front door.

A tickle in his throat got him coughing, light at first, then hard. He pressed the shotgun into his lap and bent over it, emptying the bile from within his gut. Speckles of fluid burst from his lips with every barrage. The fit subsided, and he wiped his mouth with a shaky hand. He reached for the glass of whiskey he’d poured earlier, and gulped down a mouthful as if it were cold tea. Composing himself, he placed the weapon on the table and stared at the windows of his cabin. He went over a mental checklist. After he’d fed the dogs, he’d reverted back to human form and lugged wooden planks inside the cabin. In the morning, he intended to nail them over the windows, bolstering the defenses of the cabin. A sinister smile spread across his harsh features. It wasn’t the only thing he had planned.

Tomorrow night. He’d fire his salvo off tomorrow night, right in Upper Amherst Cove, and wake the world.

A feeling of closure overcame him then, and he held his glass of whiskey in a soft, considering grip. Old he’d become, and many things he’d seen in his years, to all come down to… this. Slaughtering his own kind. Walter Borland didn’t regret that. He was never one to back down from a fight. Besides, the Elders had fired first. The memory of the first killer to come for him shimmered in his head. Same story as Blackbeard, just a guy looking to do some hunting. Borland had smelled the lie before it was even on the air, and had killed the young shit pretty much the same way. Had to turn his back to get the youngster to draw, but he’d seen the flash of silver in the dark mirror of his cabin window, had heard the rustling of cloth, and had put the pup down.

Borland blamed it on change. Changing times. And he wasn’t willing to change with them. Threw it all back into the faces of the Elders who weren’t wise enough to leave him alone.

But that was only part of it, Borland admitted, though he’d never say it aloud. Not even to the walls surrounding him.

Things had become… strange.

Little things, that crept up on him with the years. Thoughts of slaughter, and of harvest, going back to the old days, when they’d all come over on the boats—not only from Ireland, but from England and Scotland as well. No rules existed then. No order. Not for
Weres
. One only had to be careful. He had been but a boy then. A full grown man, but a boy in the ways of the
Were
.

Then in the early 1900s, the Elders decided that change was necessary and brought laws into effect to preserve the secrecy of their existence and to protect the human herds as well. Observing the new ways had been a struggle for Borland. Having to move every twenty years to avoid questions, to avoid suspicion.
Weres
aged slower than regular folks and in his time, he figured he had done perhaps a near dozen tours of the island, living in areas the farthest from the last to avoid any awkward meetings. Switching places with the other traveling wardens at times. Outliving the humans until none remembered him the next time he walked into town.

Until now. Now he was through with moving. Knew it in his bones. Knew that the Elders would try and put him down when he refused. They couldn’t have one old hound go against the grain, go against their law.

Of all the island, he liked this cove best.

Borland sucked in a quiet, reflective moment of melancholy, remembering that his time on this earth was nearly done, of the wild hunts over hills and valleys awash in moonglow. The savage taking of lives.

Nearly done.

The wind picked up, sprinkling the window with snow. Flames flashed brightly behind the grilled mouth of the potbellied stove, its heat throwing back the cold and making the cabin creak. He loved this old place. He supposed if he was going to perish on this earth, it made him content to know he got to choose where, and on what terms.

The lamplight dimmed.

Borland considered it for several long seconds, fragments of time never to be had again, but he wouldn’t dare spend them any other way. Then he took his leave and decided to head to bed early. Get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, he’d finish his work.