Best New Werewolf Tales (Vol. 1) (9 page)

Buck Cooter and his gang ignored Rayleen’s screams for mercy as they drove into the thick, black woods borderin’ Full Moon Falls. In fact, I think her shrieks might’ve been, to them animals’ ears, like high-pitched cheers goadin’ ‘em on.

They proceeded to have their way with her.

All six of ‘em.

Again and again. And again.
All night long.

When they was done, they dumped her on her daddy’s doorstep. Left here lyin’ there like yesterday’s garbage, all bloody, bruised, and barely breathin’.

* * *

That’s not the worst of it, though. Oh, no––

What them sumbitches did to Rayleen that night was just the beginnin’ o’ her ordeal.

Ya see, there was somethin’ the citizens o’ Full Moon Falls never knew about Buck Cooter and company.

We knew they was trouble. No doubt about it. What the old-timers called “bad news.”

What none of us had known, before that night––was that them bastards wasn’t even
human.

They was a pack. A pack of––
things.
Supernatural, hell-spawned creatures that ain’t supposed to exist outside o’ Stephen King books or them cheesy monster movies we all used to love watchin’ over at the Full Moon Drive-In.

Poor lil’ Rayleen. Nobody deserves what happened to her.

It shouldn’t have even been
possible.

* * *

So––what’s all this got to do with you?

Oh, I think you know.

Here––I want you to put the barrel o’ my gun in your mouth.

Yeah. That’s it. Slow and easy––

Suck on it. Just like you made her do.

It took me thirteen long years to find all o’ you. Travellin’ from state to state. From Kentucky––to Tennessee––Georgia––South Carolina.

The huntin’ skills my daddy taught me when I was younger? They’ve come in purdy handy throughout my quest, as if I have to tell you.

Some o’ you were already down n’ out, by the time I got to you. Gut-shot in bar brawls, shanked in prison. Livers eaten away by a lifetime o’ hard drinkin’. All that was just fine with me, o’ course, though I’d be lyin’ if I said I didn’t wish I’d got there sooner, so
I
could be the one who pulled the trigger, or stuck the blade in and twisted it.

Funny, though, ain’t it, how every single one o’ your gang
survived
such confrontations unless they involved
silver.
Maybe you just
barely
survived, but you were still alive––

At least till I came callin’.

Now––finally––there’s just you. And me. Right back where we first started. I should have known
you
would never leave Full Moon Falls. You love it here, don’t you? Wouldn’t wanna live anywhere else in the world than here. You’ve got your truck, your trailer, your case o’ Pabst Blue Ribbon, and your black-and-blue wife back home (does
she
know what you are, I wonder?). This place––this life––it’s all you ever wanted.

You’re gonna die here too, ya know.

You’re the last. The last o’ your pack, you piece o’ shit.

I found you.

* * *

Rayleen couldn’t help what you fuckers did to her. She couldn’t help endin’ up pregnant, with a litter o’ lil’ monsters squirmin’ around inside o’ her belly––yippin’ and whinin’ every time the moon was full––

You want to know what they did to her, when they was ready to come out?

There were
nine
of ‘em.

Them things ripped her apart.

They chewed their way right out of her.

* * *

Open wide, Buck.

Eat my last silver bullet.

This is for my sister.

THE TROJAN PLUSHY

DAVID BERNSTEIN

The courtroom was silent, the air thick with anticipation, as the foreman stood. The elderly man looked at the judge who was peering over his spectacles awaiting a verdict. All eyes of the room rested on the foreman. He cleared his throat, breaking the room’s silence like a sad drum roll before a dangerous act.

“We, the jury, find the defendant, not guilty.” Brad Raling closed his eyes, putting his head to the table. He heard none of the reactions from his side or the defendant’s. He’d gone to another place, a place only he could reach, deep in his mind. He felt his attorney pat his arm, bringing him back to reality. Brad shrugged the man off. “Leave me be,” he grumbled.

Brad thought he had the man who murdered his family. The police arrested him; all the evidence pointing a guilty finger at the man, but an unthinkable act swooped in and ruined it all. A fucking recall. The damn breathalyzer––a new model, recalled due to failed meter readings. The man who killed his wife and daughter––Brad’s reasons for living, was free.

Brad lay in bed for the next few weeks, drinking, throwing up and then drinking some more. He had vacation time and cashed it all in. With the bereavement leave, he totaled a little over a month of time off from his job.

People came to his house, dropped off food, cards, and gave their apologies. He hated looking at them, their sorry faces. What did they care, they simply got to return to their wonderful lives, grateful they weren’t him.

One visitor, his neighbor Marcy Conrad, proved different. The woman hardly left her house. She was a hermit, a recluse. The neighborhood kids thought her to be a witch. She wasn’t a witch, but she certainly knew one.

“Oh, Miss Conrad,” Brad said startled, as he opened the door to retrieve the morning paper.

“Morning, Bradley,” she said, her voice scratchy as if damaged from years of smoking. “I baked you a pie, apple.” She held out a plastic bag, revealing yellow-stained teeth as she smiled.

“Thank you,” Brad said, accepting the gift. His mouth began watering as the sweet aroma of baked apples and cinnamon entered his nostrils. The pie smelled delicious, but there was no way in hell he’d eat anything from that woman.

“Good day,” she said before turning around and walking away.

Brad had always thought the woman strange, but at least she had a caring heart.

Inside, Brad went over to the trash-can, opened the lid and was about to toss the bag with the pie into it, when he noticed a card inside the bag. He removed the card, placing the pie on the counter. Taking a seat at the kitchen table, he read the card.

Neighbor,

I can only imagine how you’re feeling. Your sweet, sweet, tender daughter and loving wife were savagely mauled by a monster. There are more paths to finding justice and avenging the dead than the means of which our flawed legal system allows. I know how you’re feeling. You want justice! Vengeance! I know of someone who might be able to help you. Go to 105 Cremlock Wood Lane and ask for the righteousness you and your dead loved ones deserve.

The old bat was crazy; a smirk breeching his face as he tossed the letter into the trash along with the pie. Grabbing a bottle of gin, he meandered over to the couch and flicked on the television. He began gulping the liquor until he nearly choked at the image he saw––Martin Biggs, the man who slaughtered his family. He turned the volume up. Each word the man spoke sent shivers of ice down Brad’s spine.

Martin was smiling, happy. He had his arms wrapped around his wife’s and daughter’s shoulders as they stood proudly at his sides. He spoke about the legal system and its just ways.

“I’m indeed sorry for Mr. Raling’s loss, but my family and I just want to move on. We’re looking forward to our lives returning to normal. Thank you.” He took no questions, turning away from the cameras, got his family into a car and drove off.

Brad’s fists were clenched, his right hand wrapped around the bottle’s neck. His face had become a deep shade of burgundy, salvia dripping from his mouth, like that of a wild, mongrel dog. He stood; the image of a content Martin Biggs––family man, the person responsible for his family’s demise, branded into his mind forever. Brad reached back, muscles tensed, and threw the gin bottle across the room. The glass shattered as it collided with the wall, knocking a picture of his family to the floor.

He walked over to the picture––the glass in the frame cracked––stepping on fragments of broken gin bottle, unaware and feeling no pain. Picking up the picture, he stared at it, tears welling in his eyes. He brought a finger to his daughter’s face, caressing it, then his wife’s. “I shall avenge you both,” he whispered. He walked to his bedroom, hugging the picture to his chest, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind.

Two days later, Brad found himself knocking at the door of 105 Cremlock Wood Lane.

* * *

Martin left his office shortly after six p.m., coming down from the high-rise on 23
^rd
Street and 5
^th
Avenue. His week had been filled with catch-up work, his own court case having taken up much of his valuable time.

It was his daughter’s birthday and he hadn’t personally gotten her a thing. His secretary purchased the card, his wife bought the bicycle, but he felt he needed to get her something, something from him to her.

As he turned left to walk up the sidewalk, he saw an elderly woman standing behind a small cart filled with plush animals. He’d never seen her or her cart before and thought himself in luck––his daughter, like all children, loved stuffed animals.

As he approached the cart, the old woman’s features presented themselves with clarity. Her skin was weathered like rough leather, and she had large sunken bags under her eyes as if she hadn’t slept soundly in months, but it was the grotesquely hairy mole on the end of her nose that attracted the most attention. If Martin didn’t know better, he’d thought she was a witch. Shaking the crude thought from his mind, he stopped within a foot of the cart.

“Hello,” the old woman said.

“Hi,” Martin replied quickly, his eyes on the merchandise.

“Shopping for your daughter?”

Martin paused, looking at the old woman. “Yes, how’d you know?”

The woman cackled. “Why else would a handsome young man such as yourself be looking at stuffed animals?”

Martin smiled. “Got me there.” He saw tigers, dogs, cats, bears, zebras, lions, turtles, rabbits, and dolphins. “Quite an assortment you have here.” The old woman grinned.

As Martin continued to search, his face scrunched in indecision, the old woman spoke.

“Here,” she said, holding out what appeared to be a cute little dog. “Girls love stuffed animals, they should all have one.”

Martin hadn’t a clue as to what kinds of stuffed animals his daughter liked or had, but a doggy seemed like a safe bet––and essential to a young girl’s collection. “I’ll take it,” he told the woman, reaching into his pocket and handing her a ten dollar bill, as the sign indicated the price.

Later that night, Martin and his wife presented their daughter Mindy, with her gifts––the card, the bike, and the plush doggy. The young girl was excited, jumping up and down and telling her parents how much she loved them.

“So you like the doggy?” Martin asked.

“It’s not a doggy, Daddy. It’s a wolf.”

“Oh,” he said, clearly having had no idea what type of animal he’d purchased. “Well, do you like your wolf?”

She smiled up at him, her face bright with joy. “Yes, I love him very much.”

* * *

Brad sat on his sofa; his .45 resting next to him. He flipped through the channels looking for, and not finding, a certain news story. It had been two weeks since he’d paid––dearly––for the witch’s services. He wanted results. Angered and half in the bag, he dialed the old hag’s phone number.

“Yes?” she asked, answering the phone.

“When’s it going to happen?” Brad asked, his speech somewhat slurred.

“Soon.”

“I paid a lot,” he said, staring at his left wrist, where his hand used to be.

“Patience my dear. All in good time.”

“I’m not sure how much longer I can wait. I need this to be over. I’ve marred my body for this, sacrificed more than enough. I want results.”

“Losing an eye and a hand is a small price to pay for what you asked.”

Brad felt as if tiny spiders were crawling across his flesh, his anger quickly fading. “Fine,” he said, trying to sound stern. “Just get it done.”

* * *

Mindy rode her new bicycle every day and slept, hugging Bumpkins––her new teddy-wolf, close to her heart every night.

Three weeks after his daughter’s birthday, Martin and his family sat at the kitchen table, enjoying a splendid, home-cooked meal.

As darkness fell across the land and the full moon glowed brightly in the night sky, Bumpkins began to stir. Its nose twitched as its limbs wiggled; unnatural life starting to flow.

The plush animal was nestled, like a newborn, between two fluffy pink pillows on Mindy’s bed. Its body began to grow––arms and legs elongating. Claws, like fine daggers, protruded from its paws. The soft brown fabric that was its fur, lengthened, becoming shaggy like a mangy dog’s. The onyx button eyes turned crimson, as if filled with blood. Fangs, menacing, long and thick like that of a saber tooth tiger’s, grew from its mouth.

At full length, and very much alive, the creature let loose a low growl, saliva dripping from its maw like a rabid beast. Raising its head, it sniffed at the air. The creature’s targets were nearby.

Having only a few hours of life, the full moon its power source, the wolf-creature galloped out of Mindy’s room and down the carpeted steps.

It halted at the bottom, seeing its victims ahead. How lucky it was that all its prey were together in one area. The beast charged, its claws ripping up the parquet flooring.

Martin’s wife, who had been carrying a ceramic tray filled with chocolate cake, screamed when she saw the creature. The tray fell, shattering against the kitchen’s tiled floor. Pieces of cake crumbled and scattered like soil from a potted plant.