Monsters in the Midwest (Book 2): Northwoods Wolfman (24 page)

Chapter 35

Dallas
had never seen Lois look so nervous. It had taken a few days for Stanley to
help her gather the necessary ingredients, which was longer than she wanted.
The Society and the next full moon were both getting closer by the minute. Lois
worried that if they didn’t get it done right that night, she’d have her hands
full with werewolf Dallas and people trying to kill werewolf Dallas. Also, each
passing day meant Randall was getting more and more dead.

“He’s
in the freezer. What’s the worry?” Dallas had asked.

Lois
squeezed the bridge of her nose, frustration plain in the gesture. “The longer
the host body is dead, the harder it is for the soul to take hold. If that
wasn’t an issue, I could’ve dug up any old body for Herb. It’s supposed to be a
freshly dead body. I just hope we’re doing this soon enough.”

Following
her instructions, Dallas and Kevin cleared a patch of earth in his back yard
and dug a shallow grave. Night had pulled its dark curtain across the horizon
by the time they were done, adding to Lois’s concerns. Since Herb was a
vampire, he had to be safely back before the sun rose. It’d be a cruel joke
indeed to resurrect him only to watch the poor guy burn in the morning sun.

“How
long do you think it will take?” Dallas had asked, earning a terse reply that
it would take as long as it would take, and could he please just be a good dog
and do what he was told. He shelved the rest of his questions and followed her
list of preparations.

Soon,
a folding table held a small collection of herbs, the heavy book of spells
she’d shown him, and Dallas’s electric crockpot. A bright orange extension cord
snaked its way back to the outdoor outlet. It had taken him close to half an
hour to scrub the chili and goulash grime from the inside, but Lois had
demanded that it be spotless. While Dallas was up to his elbows in dish soap,
Kevin and Stanley had painstakingly recreated the intricate pattern Dallas had
seen on Lois’s coffee table. When they had finished, a strange latticework
crossed over and around the shallow grave like a six-foot wide dreamcatcher
made of salt and colored sands.

Preparations
finally complete, the witch, werewolf, Sasquatch and alien abductee stood in a
circle around the grave containing Randall’s corpse. An air of expectation made
the already quiet evening seem unnaturally silent.

Lois
gently set the Milwaukee’s Best can that held Herb in the center of the pattern
directly above the corpse that rested below.

“Are
you sure about this, Herb?” she asked. “I mean, I think I can do it. It’s just
that, well, if I screw something up, I have no idea what will happen.”

Even
though he sounded like a busted little transistor radio, Dallas was touched by
the genuine emotion he heard in Herb’s reply.

“Lois,
you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever know. From the first day I saw you
walk into Ronnie’s, I knew you were special. I love you no matter what, but I’m
really not worried. You’re going to do great.”

Heavy
tears welled up in Dallas’s eye. His ignorance had sent his best friend to an
early grave, broken the heart of a wonderful woman, and thrown him into a
sixty-proof quagmire of guilt. Now though, there was a chance that the things
he had broken could be made whole.

“He’s
right, Lois. Randall’s just another beer can. You did it once. You can do it
again,” Dallas said, voice gruff with uncharacteristic emotion. Stanley’s head
bobbed in agreement, and Kevin gave a hearty thumbs up. Lois took a deep breath
and nodded. Then things got weird.

First,
she raised her arms up over her head. Tipping her head back, she looked up at
the darkening sky. Her eyes shifted back and forth like she was imploring each
and every awakening star to fall so she could wish for luck. The moon had
already risen, its pale, cratered face a silent witness to the events far
below. Dallas’s eyes traced along the dark sliver on its edge, a sickle shadow
holding the wolf at bay. He could feel the moon in his bones and for a moment
understood why entire oceans would rise and fall at its whim. Maybe Stanley had
the right of it. Maybe that strange orb really was a god holding an invisible
leash looped around Dallas’s neck. It gave him a strange sense of comfort. The
thought of being inexorably tied to the whims of some ancient god was better
than having his life turned inside out by a hunk of dead rock endlessly
floating through space.

Coming
out of his reverie, he returned his attention to Lois. Her arms were still
raised, and her head was still tilted toward the night sky, but her eyes were
now closed, and her lips were moving. Even with his preternatural hearing,
Dallas couldn’t make out any words. Listening harder, he realized he couldn’t
hear anything except the sound of his own breath. Even that sounded impossibly
distant.

For
what seemed like an eternity, that was all there was. The soft sighs of his
far-away breath and Lois, statuesque in the starlight and silhouetted by the moon.
All of creation seemed focused on those two things. Then a new sound emerged, a
meandering hum so low in tone that Dallas wondered if purely human ears would
even register it. The hum seemed to come from all around him, but some part of
him recognized its source. When he looked at Kevin, he saw the mild-mannered
Sasquatch smiling and swaying gently from side to side.

Lois’s
eyes opened as she noticed too. Her lips continued to move through their silent
mantra, but a gentle smile pulled at the corners, and the worry that had
furrowed her brow started to dispel. Without warning, Stanley began humming as
well, a surprisingly sweet alto that caught the cadence of Kevin’s tune and
complemented it. The two threads, deep melody and lilting harmony, unraveled the
silence around them. It was haunting and beautiful, thawing parts of Dallas
he’d never known were frozen, shining light onto the parts he’d never known
were shrouded in shadow. It was also, he realized, incomplete.

He
took hold of his self-consciousness and set it aside. Softly clearing his
throat, Dallas added his own song to theirs. At first, his wordless tenor ran
against the grain of the tune. Soon though, he found his song moving along with
Kevin’s and Stanley’s, the hopeful harmony weaving a warm blanket around the
group.

Lois’s
arms seemed to gather up the song and pull it close to her chest. Holding it
there, it radiated warmth and vitality. A softly glowing, shapeless pillow of
life. Slowly, so slowly, she opened her arms. The radiance dispersed, rolled
down across the fresh grave, and sank into the upturned earth.

Lois
turned to look from Dallas to Stanley and finally, to Kevin. “Thank you. Truly,
from the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

Her
hands wove an intricate pattern while she spoke softly. “
Suthlan mo kalpussen ra.
Life, we affirm you and celebrate you with
song. Be here with me, be strong in me, be mine to hold, and mine to give.”

Turning
her attention to the crockpot, she dipped a finger in the simmering water and
brought it to her lips. With a satisfied nod, she added pinches of spice and
clumps of herbs to the water and stirred it gently with an old wooden spoon.
The resulting smell exploded in Dallas’s nose and coated his throat, causing
him to gag. Stanley started to wheeze, and even implacable Kevin chuffed. Only
Lois seemed unaffected as her voice slashed out, each syllable a harsh
challenge.

“Rathu pronsetha dur. Shum taren.
Koth!”
she cried.
“Death, we refute you. Your place is not here, your time is not now. Be mine to
scatter and mine to banish.”

A
wailing moan rose up. A thousand haunted, empty voices cried out from the
depths of the afterlife, a mournful chorus of loss and ruin. Lois opened the
heavy book. While reading aloud from a marked page, she stirred the contents of
the crockpot. Each thrust and pull of the wooden spoon formed a counter-rhythm
to her voice. As Lois spoke and stirred, stirred and spoke, a heavy steam
boiled up. Shapeless at first, it stretched and coalesced into a hundred
different forms, thickening and clinging to the spoon’s handle like a heavy
syrup. Still, the myriad voices wailed and cried, becoming louder and louder as
Lois pushed and pulled at the heavy liquid.

Suddenly,
Lois pulled the spoon free and threw it to the ground. Grasping each side of
the pot, she tried to lift it. For a long moment, she strained, gritting her
teeth, flexing her arms, stretching her back, but the pot wouldn’t move.

“It’s
too much!” she sobbed. “I can’t do it. I can’t!”

Not
understanding what was happening but knowing what was needed, Dallas strode
forward. Meeting Lois’s frantic eyes, he took her hands away and placed his own
on the sides of the familiar, old crockpot.

Damn strange bucket of chili,
he thought, watching the heavy
liquid heave and roil of its own accord.

“What
do I do?” he yelled.

“It
has to be poured on the grave,” Lois shouted back, her voice barely audible
over the tornado of wails and moans whirling around them.

Well, that’s easy enough,
he reasoned, grasping the sides of
the pot and lifting.

A
memory of the World’s Strongest Man contest popped into his mind. Dallas, Herb,
and Stanley sat around the T.V., watching mountains of muscle on two legs flip
tractor tires, toss logs, and pull airplanes. If only this was as easy as that.
Trying to move the crockpot was like trying to shot put a boulder. Dallas heard
his tendons creak and teeth grind. He felt tiny fractures start to form in the
crockpot’s molded plastic sides where his fingers and palms pressed. Despite
his Herculean effort, the pot didn’t budge.

“Can
we skip this part?” he asked loudly, only to see Lois shake her head madly back
and forth.

Well, crappers. When a thing needs
doin’, you just gotta do it. Even if it sucks.

The
moon, so close to full, inundated Dallas with its cold avalanche of reflected light.
He opened himself up to it and let its strange power soak through him. Feet
spread, he squatted down and wrapped his arms around the pot. Commanding each
and every muscle he had to stop being such a pussy and man-up, he lifted.

Inch
by unforgiving inch, the crockpot raised up from the T.V. tray. Dallas arched
his back and flexed his legs. A foot shuffled forward, followed by another.
Step by painful step, each one leaving a deep impression in the soft earth,
Dallas moved forward until a voice cried,

“Now!
Dump it now!”

A
final heave, and the crockpot tilted forward. The viscous liquid poured forth
and burned the grass when it hit the ground. Pulled by unseen forces, it
followed and filled in the intricate pattern until the entire criss-crossing
shape was full of churning, black liquid. Dallas felt the crockpot go suddenly
and amazingly weightless as the final drop spilled free. The shift was so
sudden he stumbled backward and landed on his rear.

The
voices reached a crescendo as they formed an invisible tornado above the grave.
Spinning with a violence that threatened to tear the whole of Wisconsin apart,
they centered above the small can of Milwaukee’s Best and dove down, down,
down.

The
silence that followed was so complete that Dallas feared he’d gone deaf.
Looking around in a panic, he was relieved to hear Kevin whimper and Stanley
sob.

“Is
it over?” Stanley begged. “P-please say it’s over.”

“SCARYUH,”
Kevin added, huddled into a giant, furry ball.

Dallas
looked to Lois. She knelt at the edge of the pattern, face expressionless as
she watched the strange liquid bubble and churn.

“Almost,”
she finally whispered. At the sound of her voice, the liquid suddenly sucked
straight down into the dirt like a giant drop of water on a drought-starved
field. Everyone held their breath and waited for whatever was supposed to come
next.

When
the hand pushed up from beneath the dirt, Lois gave an involuntary sob of
relief. When the next hand pushed its way up, Dallas and Lois sobbed in unison.
Soon, two forearms were free, followed by two elbows. The arms squirmed and
reached and finally found the leverage to push a head free. A dark haired,
widow’s peaked head with milky eyes and a mud covered goatee.

Randall’s
reanimated corpse pushed itself inch by muddy inch from his grave. His torso
cleared the ground, followed by methodically churning legs. His mouth stretched
and a moan poured out, a solitary version of the wails that had rocked the
countryside a few moments before.

 
“Shit!” Dallas yelled. “Zombie! Zombie! Get me
a hockey stick! It’s a frickin’ Randall zombie!” Scrabbling to his feet, he
readied himself to confront the new monster as it rose up and shuffled a step
forward.

Kevin
sobbed and made for the trees, his heavy feet thumping the ground. Stanley
started screaming and ran back and forth, waving his hands in a panic.

“I
don’t got a hockey stick! I don’t got a hockey stick,” he cried in a manic
voice.

Dallas
cursed as the zombie took another shambling step forward. “Fire poker, tent pole,
whatever. Just get me something pointy!”