Forgotten moon, p.19
Forgotten Moon, page 19
THE WEREWOLF SMELLED the scent of blood. Deep within the cavernous depths of his lair, the tempting aroma called to him, urging him to rise. He made his way to the surface through a twisting warren of inky-black tunnels that extended for miles in every direction. As he neared the entrance, he could see that the sun still shone in the western horizon, and the moon had yet to rise.
In the dark recesses of his hidden lair, the beast paced; a deep, rumbling growl filled his chest. He glared angrily toward the bright entrance; he was trapped by the light of day. His large, reflective eyes were made for the darkness, bright light was blinding to him, even painful.
The werewolf recognized the blood-scent that carried on the evening wind. It was the blood of a boar; but it held little interest for him—he only ate flesh that pleaded for its life.
Raising his long snout, he found another scent: this one did hold his interest. Anger and rage filled the beast; he had encountered this strange scent before—the human who had deceived him.
Drool poured from the beast’s mouth at the thought of killing this man, making him suffer. He longed to savor this human’s torment, as well as his flesh.
Time seemed to stand still, as the beast grew more and more impatient. Like a caged animal he paced and growled, and waited for darkness to fall. With each step, his rage grew for this human, the one who had deceived him. Soon, the feast would begin.
The light of day slowly retreated, and the first beams of moonlight crept through the entrance of his lair. The werewolf made his way outside into the night, feeling its cool embrace. The human’s strange scent was heavy in the air, and though it came from far away, he knew exactly where to go.
The werewolf tried to contain his bloodlust: the urge to run quickly toward the kill. He wanted to savor this hunt, and so, he skulked slowly and silently through the moon-painted forest. It would not be long before he found his prey. The human would be made to suffer; he would take his time with this one.
The beast followed the strange scent to the edge of a small box-canyon and peered into the deep ravine. His quarry was below him, hiding in the bushes: a rabbit cowering in a briar patch. Although the human was hidden, the beast’s keen sense of smell pointed to the brush-pile as if it were a beacon.
There was another scent, as well, an oily, metallic fragrance. The werewolf had encountered this smell before; the human had a weapon. Perhaps the beast would attack quickly after all.
The cliff was too high for him to pounce, he would need to circle around, and enter through the mouth of the canyon. There would be no escape for this human; there was nowhere left to run.
THE FULL MOON ROSE and a pale-yellow light entered the small box-canyon. Bennett felt a sense of relief as his visibility improved. He was happy to see the moon’s ascent into the eastern sky, though it also filled him with anxiety. The thought of what he hoped would happen next, was extremely disquieting.
Bennett wrinkled his nose and stiffed at the air. A terrible stench had found him. It smelled like week-old road-kill on hot summer asphalt.
The wind must have shifted, he thought.
He looked to the trees that lined the rim of the canyon. Their leaves were as still as gravestones, not a breath of wind. In fact, the entire forest had grown still; even the trilling of insects had stopped. The silence was extremely disconcerting and raised the hair on the back of his neck.
As quickly as it had arrived, the putrid odor seemed to fade away. Bennett had no idea what the smell was or where it had come from. The hideous odor of the beast was the only detail that Bryce McNeel had neglected to mention when he told Bennett of his encounter with the creature.
The sharp crack of a dried twig rose from the darkness. Bennett hunkered down and slowly raised his rifle. He peered down his barrel, across the iron sights, aiming toward the bloody hindquarter in the tree. There was just enough light to see, and he had a clear shot. He rested his rifle on the tree branch he had placed and steadied his aim. The sound of that twig had jabbed his heart with a bolt of adrenaline; he could feel it knocking in his chest.
Fear placed its lifeless hand on Bennett’s shoulder and whispered an icy breath into his ear . . . Its coming.
He had spread dry leaves and twigs all along the blood-trail for just this purpose: to give himself a heads-up. Nothing’s coming through here without making some noise, he had told himself. His mind pictured those giant feet; the ones that made the huge footprint by the pond, and the bloody print on the highway. Bennett now imagined those same hideous feet stepping on that twig and snapping it. An uninvited chill surrounded him.
He attempted to remain calm, but his heart wouldn’t stop racing; and when he tried to take a calming breath, he noticed the foul odor had returned. Another dried twig popped loudly in the darkness, then another, and another still. Leaves crunched underfoot. Something moved in the darkness. He peered into the distance, straining to see in the wan light of the moon, but after about forty or fifty yards, his vision began to blur. Light and dark seemed to meld together, coalescing into a shadowy wall of gloom.
Bennett aimed his rifle at the darkness and listened intently. He could hear the slow and steady gait of something creeping toward him. Large clumps of bushes and briars spotted the floor of the canyon, providing cover for an animal trying to hide.
Why would it hide? He wondered. It doesn’t know I’m here.
Bennett had poured the blood-trail along a clearing down the center of the canyon, so he would have a clear view of the animal approaching. Something wasn’t right. He could hear it moving closer, but he didn’t see anything. Bennett suddenly felt very foolish for putting himself in this position.
What the hell was I thinking?
About thirty yards away, a massive dark shadow bolted from behind a thorn-bush and rushed toward Bennett. He tried to draw-a-bead on his target, but it was moving too fast, jinking from side-to-side, dodging between bushes and large rocks. As the beast came closer, Bennett saw clearly the hideous creature that approached. With a loud gasp, he tried to wrap his mind around what he was seeing . . .
Fucking werewolf!
Sighting-in on the massive beast, Bennett squeezed the trigger. A fiery flash lit the night, as a tremendous blast echoed from the canyon walls. The bullet had hit the werewolf at the last possible moment—in midair—just as it pounced. The impact from the high-powered round had slammed the beast aside, sending it into a large clump of bushes.
Bennett heard a resounding whap when the bullet hit home; he had also heard a loud yelp. The bushes where the beast had fallen thrashed violently for a moment, but then fell as silent as a cemetery. Bennett quickly worked the lever of his rifle, loading another round.
Keeping the muzzle of his rifle trained on the dense briar, he fumbled for the small flashlight in his pocket. His heart was pounding against his ribs and he suddenly realized that he wasn’t breathing. The overload of fear-pumped adrenaline made it feel as though his body was vibrating. He had never been so afraid.
He held the flashlight under the fore-stock of his rifle, gripping both in his hand. Sighting down the barrel, the beam of light followed the muzzle wherever he aimed. He played the light through the bushes where the werewolf had fallen; he couldn’t see or hear anything. Cautiously, he moved closer, straining to see.
His flashlight caused a brief reflection in two amber eyes. It was the last thing he saw before he found himself flat on his back with the werewolf on top of him. His rifle and flashlight had flown out of his hands from the impact of the massive beast; they landed in the bushes behind him. The werewolf had pounced so fast, he never saw it coming.
Bennett screamed and cursed, and pounded the beast with his fists. He had forgotten about the large Bowie-knife on his belt in his panic. It was all in vain; the beast pinned him to the ground with a single clawed hand. When Bennett realized the futility of his actions, he stopped struggling and glared into the werewolf’s eyes.
With every ounce of anger he could muster, he released a thunderous scream of defiance directly into the beast’s face. At first, the werewolf actually seemed surprised, but then, in a furious rage, it wrapped its cavernous maw around Bennett’s skull and cracked it like an egg. Bennett’s provocative scream had most likely saved him a great deal of torment.
The creature devoured his brains and skull first. Bennett’s body twitched and shook violently, and then slowly faded into the stillness of death. Enraged by the lack of sport, the beast fell upon him; rending him to shreds, gulping down flesh and bone in large, rapacious bites. Very little remained after the werewolf’s gluttonous butchery, he had utterly devoured Bennett’s body.
As he left the flesh-strewn canyon behind, the creature’s blood-boltered body glistened brightly in the light of the moon. Now replete with the flesh of man, the beast reveled in the mistaken belief that he had killed the human who deceived him.
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, a crimson-hued sky heralded the rising sun; the creature made his way into the depths of his hidden lair. The rifle bullet had torn a large hole in the werewolf’s shoulder, but it was of little concern; he knew it would heal quickly. The beast had no idea why his wounds healed so rapidly—he only knew that they did.
He had no knowledge of the fibrin- and platelet-rich blood that flowed through his veins, no understanding of the unique clotting-factors that sealed his wounds almost instantly with a tough, fibrous scab that eliminated blood loss.
He was unaware of the rare, regenerative gene that his body possessed, enabling the rapid proliferation of new tissue, or that the powerful antibodies in his bloodstream could stave off even the worst infection. The werewolf only knew that his wounds would heal—and tomorrow night—he would once again hunt the flesh of men.
CHAPTER 11
Tracker
BRUCE FLETCHER looked at his watch for the hundredth time; it was a few minutes before noon. He had been pacing around his office and looking out the window for the past couple of hours.
Where the hell is he?
Bennett had said he’d be back a little after dawn, and if he wasn’t back by noon to call the sheriff. Fletcher had felt concern for his friend when Bennett entered The Refuge yesterday, it seemed like a bad idea to go in there alone, but he had kept his mouth shut. Now, he had to call Sheriff Culley.
With a gusty sigh, Fletcher picked up the phone and called the sheriff’s office. He disliked Sheriff Culley, thought he was a pompous, tight-assed son of a bitch, who thought way too much of himself.
Culley answered the phone: “Sheriff’s office.”
“Neil—this is Bruce, over at the game warden’s office.”
“Hey, Bruce,” Culley said, forcing a cheerful tone. “How’s it going, bud?” He didn’t care much for Fletcher, either.
“Neil . . .” Fletcher said somberly, “I think we may have a problem.”
Sheriff Culley was furious when the game warden relayed what Bennett had done, and that he was now missing.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he said sharply, slamming down the receiver. He called Irene Murphy and asked her to come in early to answer the phone, he was gonna be gone the rest of the day. Then he called his wife to cancel their regular Friday-night dinner and a movie—she had not been happy.
Culley made his way into the equipment room and grabbed a rifle and his go-bag—a small backpack with everything needed for just such an occasion—and then he headed out the door.
It was about 12:20 p.m. when Culley parked his cruiser in The Refuge parking lot; he saw that Bennett’s truck was still there. Sitting in his car for a moment, he peered through the windshield toward the dense, forbidding forest, pondering Bennett’s idiocy.
Culley stepped to the rear of his car and placed his patent-leather duty-belt and revolver into the trunk. The heavy belt would weigh him down and he didn’t need all the accessories. He removed his .30-30 Winchester and his go-bag, then reached down and felt the front pocket of his jeans; he wanted to make sure he had his pocketknife.
The old Barlow jackknife had belonged to his great-grandfather. His father had bequeathed it to him when he was a young boy; it was Culley’s good-luck charm, and he never went anywhere without it. He slung the backpack and rifle onto his shoulder and made his way to the game warden’s office.
Small talk was at a minimum when the two men met, neither had the patience for it. Their dislike for each other was set aside as they focused on finding Bennett.
“Is there anyone else in The Refuge?” Culley asked.
“No . . . not for the past three or four days,” Fletcher said, glancing at the sign-in sheet.
“Good. That’ll make him easier to track.”
“Of course, people sneak in all the time,” Fletcher pointed out.
Culley nodded.
“He had a backpack full of raw meat with him,” Fletcher added, “said he was gonna use it as a lure.”
“Is that right?” Culley said. “Anything else I should know about?”
Fletcher shook his head, and then asked, “You want me to come with you? Might not be a good idea to go in there alone.”
“No thanks,” Culley said sharply. “I can move faster on my own. Plus, I need you to stay here and close The Refuge; just keep people out.”
Fletcher frowned. “Until when?” They both knew Culley didn’t have the authority to close The Refuge; it was federal property.
“Until I get back with Bennett,” he snapped. Then he turned and stomped out the door.
“Asshole,” Fletcher muttered.
Culley headed into the wildlife refuge and began searching for Bennett’s trail. When he was a young boy, his father had taught him the art of sign cutting, a term that the old-timers used for tracking; and Culley could “cut the sign” with the best of them. He had also attended several NASAR (National Association for Search and Rescue) training courses, and short of a bloodhound, there wasn’t a better tracker in the county.
He entered The Refuge and moved in a wide arc, searching for fresh sign. Most of the tracks were old, easily identified by their rounded edges and the debris that filled them; but two sets of tracks appeared somewhat fresh and both headed in the same direction.
Culley had a good idea which set of tracks belonged to Bennett; he would have been wearing a heavy hunting boot. The other tracks were a lightweight hiking boot; something that a tourist would wear.
He followed both sets of tracks to the point where their trails began to separate. Fortunately, one track fell atop another, and showed their age; he smiled and followed the hunting boots north.
Being all alone in the remote wilderness gave Culley time to think—and considering the current state of affairs in Bane County—he had plenty to mull over. In the past two months, eleven people had gone missing—or had been killed—and the people of Silver Canyon were frightened.
First, two backpackers had disappeared, and with the amount of blood found at the scene, Culley knew they were dead. Then, Wendy Walker disappeared without a trace, and two weeks later, James Clark—or what was left of him—was found dead on the highway. Soon after, four campers went missing at Lake Argent, and three more backpackers had vanished less than two weeks ago. It was crazy; Culley had never seen anything like it.
Now, Bennett’s missing, he worried.
He dropped to one knee by the burbling riffles of a rock-filled mountain stream, examining one of Bennett’s tracks in the muddy silt.
He forded here . . .
Seeing the deep, misshapen track near the water’s edge had prickled the hair on the back of Culley’s neck. It reminded him of another track that Bennett had shown him: a giant, muddy footprint at the edge of a small pond, near the campsite of two missing backpackers.
An impossible footprint.
It was the same footprint that Dalton Morrow had sketched on a piece of paper; the same bloody footprint that Bennett had pointed out on the highway next to James Clark’s body. Culley rose and shook the crazy thoughts from his head; none of it was possible. There would be a logical explanation for everything; he just needed to find it.
Hopscotching from stone to stone, he tiptoed across the shallow, purling stream and disappeared into the verdant wilds of the thickening forest. He was closing in; the tracks were getting fresher.
He had a good idea where Bennett was heading; the trail had gone in the same basic direction since entering The Refuge. The tracks had snaked around the rugged areas, taking the easy road, but they always returned to the same heading: toward a well-used game-trail adjacent to several small canyons.
Good place to set a trap, he thought.
Culley was pissed that Bennett had pulled a stunt like this—going after a dangerous predator all alone—but he sincerely hoped to find his friend unharmed. The more he thought about it, he figured that Bennett must have injured himself—maybe he’d fallen and broken a leg—and Culley would find him trying to hobble his way back home.
What a pain in the ass that’ll be, he thought. I’ll have to build a travois, and drag his sorry butt out of here.
The coppery smell found Culley’s nose at the exact same moment his eyes settled on the blood-trail at his feet. His pulse quickened at the amount of blood he saw leading into the distance.
“Bennett!” Culley shouted, his voiced echoing along the ridgeline. He listened intently, turning in a slow circle. He unslung his rifle, cocked the hammer, and fired a shot into the air. Again, he listened: hoping that Bennett would fire a shot in kind.
Nothing . . .
He worked the rifle’s lever, chambering a new round, then gently lowered the hammer and continued along the trail. While the amount of blood on the ground was disheartening, something about it didn’t look right. The blood was fresh, no older than twenty-four hours; but it was partially covered with old, dry leaves that had fallen from their trees much longer ago than one day. It didn’t make any sense.
Culley located one of Bennett’s boot tracks; it was in a bare spot on the ground, free of grass and leaves, and made a clean impression in the soft soil. He narrowed his eyes at the boot print, peering at it intently; a faint smile played at the corner of his mouth.
