First moon, p.30
First Moon, page 30
part #3 of Bane County Series
Culley stood atop a long, folding table, holding up his hands, attempting to address the clamorous room. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he pleaded to the yammering crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, please,” Culley shouted louder, with little affect.
“SHUT UP!” Deke yelled at the top of his lungs, and a hush quickened over the room. He looked at the sheriff, a conceited smile ghosting his lips. Offering a faint bow, Deke motioned his hand toward Culley. “Go ahead, Sheriff,” he said amiably, feigning a sense of tact.
Great, Culley thought. Nothing like winning their hearts and minds.
“Ladies and gentleman,” Culley said, speaking loudly. “You all know me. I’ve been your sheriff for thirty-six years. I hope you also know that I am one of the most level-headed individuals you’ll ever meet, and I keep the best interest of the county in mind with every decision I make”—he cleared his throat—“As most of you are aware, something terrible has taken place tonight, and is still happening as we speak. The town of Silver Canyon . . . is under siege.”
The room erupted into an uproar. Culley was instantly bombarded with a deluge of questions. As he raised his hands, attempting to quell the tumultuous onslaught. He heard the word “terrorists” being bandied about.
I wish it were that simple, Culley mused.
“Please,” Culley shouted, “Let me explain.”
An enormous man in a plaid, red-and-black flannel shirt stood at the front of the crowd. Culley knew him well: G.W. Hollander, a local rancher. G.W. turned to face the crowd, lifting his large, calloused hands above his head. In a deep, booming voice, he said “Quiet! Let the sheriff speak,” and the raucous crowd slowly calmed.
Culley nodded his thanks to G.W. “What I’m about to tell you,” Culley went on, “will seem unbelievable, and I’m sure that most of you will think I’ve gone off the deep end. But I swear to you on everything holy—it’s the God’s honest truth”—Culley took a deep breath and then continued—“There are animals, creatures actually, that live in The Refuge. I know a lot of you ol’ timers have heard the legends over the years, I know I have. People have talked about werewolves living deep in the mountainous forests north of town for as long as I can remember. In the beginning—like most of you—I scoffed at those ridiculous tales.”
A faint murmur began to rise within the crowd of anxious onlookers.
Culley said, “I stand before you now, to tell you—unequivocally—that those old legends are true; I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Right now, as I am speaking with you, a horde of giant beasts are attacking our town.”
The crowd became too loud for Culley’s voice to be heard. “Quiet!” Culley pleaded loudly. “Quiet down. Listen to me. Listen!” The clamor slowly faded. Apparently, the majority of the townspeople believed what Culley was telling them. They took him at his word.
“We have to stay inside the gymnasium until after sunrise.” Culley explained. “These creatures are nocturnal; their eyes can’t abide bright lights. We’ll be safe as long as we stay within well-lighted areas.”
“What about everyone else?” a woman’s voice appealed from the crowd.
“Yeah,” another voice called, sounding annoyed. “What about the people who didn’t come here tonight.”
Culley held up his hands, trying to mollify the growing frustration. “Hopefully, if people with backup generators keep their homes well-lit, they’ll remain safe.”
“What if they don’t?” a woman called.
A man with a bold voice hollered, “If this is really true, why in the hell didn’t you warn people sooner?”
A chorus of distressed voices burst from the crowd:
“Yeah!”
“Yeah!”
“That’s right!”
“How come?”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“You should have told us!”
Culley felt heat rising in his cheeks and his stomach turned sour. He had been asking himself that same haunting question for hours. Logically, he knew the answer, it was simple: he knew that no one would have believed him; he would have been thought mad. But now, in his heart, after witnessing all the horror and death that had overtaken his town, he wondered if he’d been wrong.
Even if only one person had believed him, if he could have saved just one more life, it would have been worth the overwhelming amount of ridicule he would’ve received from the community. On the other hand, if he had announced to the entire town that an attack by werewolves was imminent, would nearly three hundred people have shown up at the gymnasium for the night?
Doubtful.
No. By keeping the truth from the townspeople and luring them to the gymnasium by other means—he had saved lives. Culley raised his hands, begging for a brief respite in order to respond. G.W. Hollander once again quieted the crowd. “Let the man speak!” he hollered.
Culley looked out at the sea of unhappy faces peering back at him. He took a breath, steeling himself. “I understand that you’re upset,” Culley consoled. “If I were in your shoes, I would be upset too. But before you pass judgement on me, I’d like you to ask yourself one simple question—would you be here right now?”
Culley looked around the room; all eyes were on him. “If I would’ve come to you and explained that werewolves would be attacking our town tonight, and asked that you come to the gymnasium for the evening—would you be here right now?”
He looked around the room once more. Now only about half of the people were looking at him. The rest were looking down, pondering. “Would you be here right now?” Culley reiterated loudly. “Or would you be out there”—he pointed to the door—“getting ripped apart by a pack of ravenous beasts.”
Now nobody was looking at Culley. They all knew the answer to his question: Hell no. Nobody would’ve shown up tonight. And more than likely, a petition would have been proposed to put Culley in a rubber room somewhere.
In a deep voice, loud enough to be heard across the room, G.W. Hollander said, “I think we all own Sheriff Culley a debt of gratitude for saving our sorry, ungrateful butts tonight.” He extended a large hand to Culley. “Thank you, Neil.”
Culley grinned at the old rancher and shook hands with him. “No, G.W., thank you.”
G.W. returned Culley’s smile, and said, “What can I do to help?”
Culley’s smile faded. He shook his head dejectedly. “I’ll need to put together a large group of volunteers,” he said. “After the sun comes up, we’ll need to search the town for people in need of medical care—as well as the dead.”—Culley sighed heavily—“I can’t even imagine what we’re gonna find.”
NOT A SINGLE BODY. After sunrise, when Sheriff Culley and his group of volunteers scoured the town for the dead and injured, not a single body was found. Even the body of the man who had been killed in the car crash with Culley’s cruiser was missing. Outside the Silver Linings Gospel Church, where Bryce and Jackson had killed the werewolves, they found nothing. The bodies of the two beasts, as well as the four parishioners who had been killed were gone. The only thing that proved the vicious siege had even taken place were the tattered remains of smashed houses throughout the town . . . and the blood—lots and lots of blood. It would take days to discern how many people had been lost.
Some of the townspeople who had elected to remain in their homes for the night, those who had backup generators, had . . . seen things. Horrible things—impossible things—right outside their windows. They were the kinds of things that made a person question their sanity. They were also the kinds of things that made a person grab their cell phone and shoot a video.
The advent of this simple technology would put a stop to the beasts’ anonymity. The werewolves’ invisible reign of terror would soon come to an end. It wouldn’t be long before the attack on Silver Canyon made front-page news. There was no stopping the information age.
Bryce and Jackson spent the entire morning with Culley and his large group of volunteers, combing the town for survivors. By noon, all efforts had been suspended. It had become abundantly clear that the beasts left none behind. As horrifying as that was, Bryce and Jackson felt a certain sense of relief. If someone had been bitten, and survived—well . . .
After ending the search effort, Bryce and Jackson went with Culley to the Shambles Wash bridge. The utility companies had been hard at work since daybreak, doing their best to restore power and phone service to Silver Canyon. They had finished ahead of schedule. At about 12:45 p.m., they gave Culley the heads-up, they were preparing to make the connection. Everyone waited by the edge of the deep ravine with bated breath. Then far in the distance, they heard the faint sound of cheering. The power was back on in Silver Canyon. The other utilities had been restored as well: phone lines, internet, cable TV, the works.
“Thank God, and all the saints and angels,” Culley declared. “I don’t think my nerves could have survived another night.”
Jackson smiled, patting Culley on the back. “Now all we need is a bridge.”
Culley rolled his eyes. “Like I said, a week to ten days—if we’re lucky.” He motioned to Deke’s cruiser. Culley had commandeered it since his was totaled. “Come on, let’s head over to the office. I can’t leave Deke alone for too long, he might piss somebody off.” They all piled into the car and headed back into town.
Deke was removing something from the computer printer when they walked into the room. He had wasted no time getting back to work. Taking a seat at his desk, Deke waved the paper at Jackson’s face. “Do you know what this is?” he asked in a snide, condescending tone.
“A pamphlet from your doctor explaining erectile dysfunction?”
Deke sprang to his feet so fast his chair tipped over behind him. “This is the Kelley Blue Book estimate for the Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor you destroyed—asshole.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Deke,” Culley moaned, placing a hand on his forehead. “The power’s been back on for ten-damn-minutes, and this is what you’re working on?”
“That cruiser was paid for with taxpayers’ hard-earned dollars,” Deke insisted. “He can’t just—”
“It’s fully insured!” Culley bellowed. “Zero deductible. Just let it go—Jesus.” Culley took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Deke, why don’t you take the cruiser and, go . . . patrol something.”
Deke gritted his teeth and stormed out of the sheriff’s office. Bryce looked at Jackson, and said, “That guy is more consistent than the tides.”
“He is devoted,” Jackson assured. Then he turned to Culley. “I’m glad to hear that your car was fully insured with no deductible. I’m starting to run a little low on funds these days. I haven’t taken any jobs in the past three months.”
“Oh, you’re not getting off scott free,” Culley insisted, with a sly grin. “You’re buying me a new megaphone.”
Jackson snorted a laugh and nodded. “All right, fair enough.”
Bryce walked over to the counter. “Is it okay if I make a pot of coffee, Culley?”
“God, yes,” he said. “I’m dying for a cup.”
As Bryce readied the coffee machine, he figured it was as good a time as any to tell the sheriff about sending the werewolf’s tooth to Iggy and the discovery of the virus. However, it was the part about matching Richard Cain’s DNA to the werewolves that had truly shocked Culley.
“Holy Jesus,” Culley exclaimed. “And you’re certain about all this?”
“As certain as death and taxes,” Bryce assured. Then: “I don’t know if it’s something you wanna share with your friend in Sonoma County but, we were kinda hoping you might give him a call, just to see what’s happening with Richard Cain.”
Culley pursed his lips, nodding slowly. “Sure, I’ll give Travis a call,” he said. “But I think I’ll hold off on telling him about the werewolf DNA. At least, for now.”
WHILE CULLEY TALKED WITH TRAVIS CREED in Sonoma County, Bryce and Jackson used the sheriff’s landlines to make calls of their own. For some reason, they still couldn’t get a cell signal in town. Apparently, the cell tower on the town’s side of Shambles Wash had been damaged during the outage. They figured it must have been a power surge or something. Unfortunately, there was no way for the phone company to reach the tower to initiate repairs, and it would be another week to ten-days before the temporary bridge was erected.
Bryce called Annie, who informed him that she had left a half-dozen voicemails on his cell phone, worried sick because he hadn’t returned her calls. Apparently, she had also spoken with Bryce’s grandparents who had given her just enough information to scare the holy hell out of her. She had read Bryce the Riot Act for keeping her in the dark.
Jackson had called the grandparents, filling them in on what happened and letting them know that they were okay. He checked on Fate, of course. Grandma said the big dog may have put on a couple of pounds over the past day, living off of a healthy supply of left overs.
After about ten minutes, when they noticed Culley had hung up the phone, Bryce and Jackson ended their calls, as well. They made their way over to Culley’s desk and took a seat. There was no doubt that the news was bad. The bleak appearance of Culley’s face said it all.
Travis Creed had brought Culley up to date on the news from Sonoma County, and in turn, Culley shared it with Bryce and Jackson. Richard Cain was still on the loose, with at least three murders under his belt. Travis now believed that Cain was carrying some kind of disease that drove people mad, turning them into bloodthirsty cannibals. Travis felt that Blake and Linda Moorland had been infected by Cain, and now they, too, were wanted for the murder and cannibalization of Deputy Martin Happ. The Moorlands were also wanted for the assault of four teenage boys, who were now missing and feared infected as well. One of the boys had even bitten his own mother. She was now missing, too.
Bryce and Jackson were both horrified beyond belief. It was far worse than they could have ever imagined. “God, help us,” Bryce breathed. “It’s an outbreak.”
EPILOGUE
Hungry Moon
WHEN SHE FIRST HEARD THE NAME “Druid Hills,” she had envisioned a group of long-robed, hooded individuals, gathered around Stonehenge . . . chanting; or whatever it was that Druids did—sacrificing virgins, perhaps? As it turned out, Druid Hills was simply a historic residential suburb of northeast Atlanta.
Located only ten-minutes from Midtown in downtown Atlanta, Druid Hills was a picturesque community with a somewhat cosmopolitan feel. An endless variety of shops and restaurants hemmed its manicured sidewalks around Emory Village, with historical remnants of the past providing an added touch.
The breath-taking architecture of revival-style homes could be found throughout the rolling, tree-lined neighborhoods, drawing their inspiration from various historical designs: Colonial, Georgian, Tudor, only to name a few. The properties were large in many areas, and homes were set back far from the street; lush English-inspired gardens were commonplace, and the area was peppered with countless public parks and open green-areas.
Druid Hills was home to Emory University, one of the world's leading research universities, with an enrollment of about fifteen thousand students. It was also home to the headquarters of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention—the CDC.
The first time Shearon Santiago saw Druid Hills, she knew she wanted to live there. She had been taken aback by its historic charm and beauty, and it was within cycling distance of her new position with the CDC. The only question was: how in the world would she afford it? A chance meeting with an elderly lady at a local café had provided the answer. Shearon had been renting a small guest house at the rear of the woman’s vast property for the past four years.
Shearon Santiago—called “Sherry” by her friends—was born in Ponce, Puerto Rico in 1981 to a middle-class family. She had two brothers, both of whom were older than her, and one younger sister, the baby of the family. Her father owned a small fleet of commercial fishing boats—which provided them with a good living—and her mother worked as a nurse at one of the island’s community health centers. It was her mother that Shearon had taken after. As soon as she was old enough, she began doing volunteer work, alongside her mother.
Shearon received her MPH (Master in Public Health) degree from Ponce Health Sciences University, with extensive coursework in epidemiology. With the first hurdle of her education now completed, Shearon had made a difficult decision: she would be moving to Florida. It would mark the very first time she’d left her island home.
With help from grants and student loans, Shearon moved to Gainesville, Florida, where she attended the University of Florida College of Medicine. Although funds were tight and she worked part-time jobs to support herself, she still managed to perform volunteer work at the local free health clinics. Shearon earned her MD, Doctor of Medicine, in just three years’ time—then she moved on to her next challenge.
Each year, about six hundred individuals applied for the CDC’s EIS fellowship. The Epidemic Intelligence Service’s two-year postdoctoral training program was highly sought-after by health professionals interested in applied epidemiology. It was also a coveted stepping-stone for advancing a person’s career. Former EIS officers were in high-demand within the healthcare industry. Alumni could basically write their own ticket to just about any job they wanted.
Of the six hundred initial applicants, only about two hundred were invited to CDC headquarters for a series of interviews. Of these, only about seventy-five were selected for the fellowship. At any given time, there were roughly one-hundred-fifty EIS officers active in the training program—and as fate would have it—Dr. Shearon Santiago had been welcomed into their ranks.
After the completion of her intensive two-year fellowship with EIS, Shearon once again had a choice to make: Would she take her extensive skills into the private sector, where she would certainly earn more money; or would she join one of the numerous governmental health care agencies who were clamoring for her service. After a great deal of deliberation, Shearon decided on a third option: she would remain at the CDC.
