Breeds (15 page)

“Just pissed off,” Kirk roared back. “
This
is fucking
mental
.”

“Cabin’s right there.”

And like magic, the wind dropped out just enough to allow the snow screen to falter. The cabin lurked not ten feet away, and threatened to disappear any second.

“Move on then,” the Halifax native said as he climbed to his feet.

Ross did and Kirk followed, but when he reached the front of the cabin, he paused and motioned for the Newfoundlander to keep moving. Kirk looked out into that swirling, stinging wall of dark white, to where he’d first wrestled with Borland. His knife was out there, not ten feet from the entrance. He fumed for a moment, and then started his search. Ten seconds later, with his hands feeling as if they had been fused into crystal, he located his knife. There were blades inside the cabin, but they weren’t
his
blade, and a warden’s knife was his badge. He stooped, picked the weapon up and slipped the length into its sheath, still fixed to his belt behind his back.

Ross yelled above the savage wind. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Kirk shouted back, approaching the cabin.

But Ross lifted the shotgun and didn’t look so helpful anymore.

“Y’know, when I walked in here,” Ross began, “I saw a bloody mess in the snow, a shotgun, which I have, and a big ol’ knife.”

“That’s my knife,” Kirk told him.

“And where is it now?”

“I have it. In a belt sheath, behind my back.”

Ross watched him, wrestling with the best course of action. “Get in here,” he finally said.

Relieved, Kirk entered the dwelling and stomped his feet clear of snow. Ross kept one wary eye on him as he arranged the furniture against the doorway, shielding the interior from the brunt of the storm. Kirk’s attention was divided among several things, until his eyes fell on the prone form of Morris.

“Well, what do y’think of it all?” Ross eventually asked.

Kirk sighed. “Don’t know. But that shed’s fucked up.”

“This whole place is fucked up. Which leads me to something else, since you’re feeling better. Maybe you can explain what the hell happened here? And why is Borland dead, ‘cause right now, you’re looking like a murderer.”

In the shadows of the cabin only dimly illuminated by the orange, skull grin of the stove, Kirk faced the man. “I can’t tell you anything right now.”

“Why?”

“Look, you want to call in the police. Let’s get to that phone you wanted. You keep the gun, too, if it makes you feel better. And here.”

Against his better judgment, Kirk pulled out the Bowie and offered it.

Ross eyed it for a moment before cautiously taking it from the man. “It’s gonna take a lot more than just this––” Ross stuck the weapon down his boot “––to make me feel better. You said it best. This is all fucked up. And look…”

Kirk did, in the direction of Borland. His fangs and claws had disappeared, and his face had taken on a pasty gray that, in the growing dark, looked absolutely morbid. Ross moved around the cabin, bending and picking up scattered, red-cased shotgun shells, keeping the weapon lowered but pointed in Kirk’s direction at all times.

Careful. Not that Kirk blamed him.

“Leave the knife,” Ross said, nodding at the weapon jutting from Borland’s chest.

“Wasn’t going to touch it.”

“Your prints on that?”

Kirk exhaled and chose to not say a word.

“Silence admits guilt, or something or other,” Ross stated.

“There’s more to it than what you’re seeing.”

“Yeah, well, I’m seeing a goddamn eyeful. He wasn’t a favorite around here, but he was a member of the community, and here he is stabbed to shit and his throat chewed out. And then finding a shitload of missing dogs out in his store, which makes him look pretty fucking guilty of something. I’d say you owned a couple of them animals, faced off against Borland, and things got dirty. Am I close?”

Faint ribbons of light flickered across Kirk’s face. “Something like that.”

“So then,” Ross’s face became pensive in his attempt to sort things out. “Why the hell did Borland have…
fangs
and claws? And where the hell are they now? And what the sweet Jesus is
that
thing doing here?” He gestured at Morris.

The questions fell into a void of silence, filled by the dreary caterwauling of the wind.

“Let’s go make that call,” Kirk said.

“You think that’s going to help? ‘Cause I’m not sure you’d be too hot to get to a phone. At least,
me
getting to a phone. And calling the cops.”

Though his face didn’t show it, Kirk winced inside.

“Let’s…” He faltered and took a deep breath as his blood loss took him for an unexpected ride. “Look. Look at me. I’m shitbagged. I can barely walk right now and you have my knife. We can’t stay here. Let’s just get to that phone. It’ll make you feel better, right? Bringing the cops in on this? Get them to sort things out?”

Ross nodded. “Yeah.”

“All right, then.” Kirk hesitated. “When you’re ready.”

“I’m ready. You go on ahead. I’ll be right behind.”

“Storm’s whipping up shit out there.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Flipping up his collar and fastening it in anticipation of the cold, Kirk pulled down his stocking cap with red hands. He cursed himself for not bringing gloves. Ross pulled the furniture away from the door and gestured for Kirk to get moving.

Outside, the storm enveloped them with an unbelievable fury. They sunk into the swelling layers of snow. Kirk stopped and glanced back, swaying in the wind.

“Go straight!” Ross shouted.

Kirk did as told.

They walked away from the battlefield of the cabin, and when Kirk looked over his shoulder after a dozen paces, the structure was nowhere to be seen. Ross stood only five steps at his back, but the stormy twilight almost rendered him invisible.

“Go!” he repeated.

Kirk got to walking, plunging his hands into his ruined coat. At least Borland hadn’t sliced up his pockets. He struggled through drifts up to his knees, trying to ignore the chill gnawing into his limbs.

“You know where we’re going?” Kirk yelled over his shoulder.

A snow-blurred shadow stepped in close. “Hell no. But we’re on a pond. A small one at that. Sooner or later, we’ll hit shore and from there we follow it ‘til we see the road. It’s close to the edge. No problem there.”

“Unless we get lost.”

“Lost?” Ross asked with a trace of dismay. “How can we get lost?”

The woodsman stomped forward then, taking the brunt of the blinding snow, ignoring Kirk for the moment. Perhaps he saw something the Halifax man didn’t. Kirk set his jaw and tried very hard to ignore the smoldering pain in his chest and ribs. He struggled to keep close to his companion’s back, to utilize the slipstream. The woodsman plunged into the heart of the maelstrom. Being out in a storm of
this
magnitude, with Kirk’s own senses whirled by a field of freezing, stinging static, suddenly gave him a begrudging appreciation for the Newfoundlander.

Kirk hoped things would work out for them both.

Lashing sheets of gray obscured Ross’s back at times. The man was only five feet away, but visibility was next to nothing. Kirk stumbled at times, hands ripping from his pockets to plunge into the freezing snow, gnarling them into flesh knobs. He got to his feet with effort, noting that Ross waited for him like a black beacon, near invisible in the storm.

Relief surged throughout Kirk when they finally reached the road.

“Was that hellish or what?” Ross asked, standing in snow just past his ankles.

“That was something.”

“Gets better,” Ross said, straining to be heard. “Uphill from here a little ways, but the trees along the road will break the wind.”

Looking in the direction of the pond, all Kirk could see was a wall of harsh smoke.

“Almost dark,” Ross declared. “Let’s get going.”

This time, he waited until Kirk got beside him, and both men walked abreast of each other up the easy grade. Neither spoke, and for that, Kirk was thankful. It took most of his energy just to keep on walking. A craving made itself known. His body needed fuel to complete its ongoing repairs. He needed to eat. Preferably meat.

He tried hard not to look at Ross.

I am not a monster. I’m not.

The hill steepened while a thick, natural fence of timberland rose with gothic might on either side of the road. Minutes later, Ross pointed with the shotgun. There, almost hidden by the storm’s breath and choked with snow, was a small lane, almost undetectable. They forged ahead and it eventually opened up into a small clearing. A stark white house squatted in the middle, and an old shed stood on guard to the left of the single-story building. Blowing snow raged across the scene like tattered flags.

Full dark was no more than ten or fifteen minutes away.

“There she is,” Ross exclaimed and motioned Kirk to keep up. He did, out of fear of developing frostbite.

It appeared as if Borland hadn’t visited his home in a while. The bottom half of the front door was partially buried. A bleached blind had been pulled down, leaving a gap only a few fingers wide.

Ross tried the knob. “Locked.” He glanced back at Kirk. “Is breakin’ and enterin’ still, like, illegal when the guy’s dead?”

“Good question. I don’t know.”

“I’m hearin’ a lot of that from you.”

“What do you want me to say? Break in the window?”

Ross considered it. Then he shrugged and stooped to peer inside the house.

“Hey…” he eventually said, snow blowing around his head. “There’s something in there.”

Kirk sniffed the air. Dog. And that crazy underlying taint he’d smelled at Borland’s cabin. “Might be a dog.”

“No…” Ross trailed off. “It is. I can just make it out. A little one. Damned peculiar, though.”

“Why is that?”

Ross grimaced as he cupped a hand to the glass. “Little fella is just watchin’ me. Not makin’ a sound.”

A bad feeling uncoiled itself in Kirk’s gut. “Maybe it’s just friendly,” he said, not believing his own voice.

“Maybe, but––” Ross backed away. “Take a look.”

Kirk replaced him at the door and peered inside. Two rooms just inside the entryway, and a short hallway leading straight to the archway of a kitchen, as a blade of light on the other side of the house bounced off a countertop. The place appeared all but empty and sterile, like an empty morgue.

Then he spotted the animal. A black outline of a dog––a little one as Ross had said––just below the countertop. Kirk almost missed it. The animal stood motionless, as if sculpted from hardwood, watching the strangers just beyond the front door.

“You see it?” Ross asked.

“Yeah.”

“Small dog.”

“Yeah, small,” Kirk agreed, recognizing the animal as a breed of terrier. But it wasn’t barking at them, and the scent from the thing rankled Kirk’s nose, even behind the frosted door. His eyes told him it was a regular dog… but it didn’t entirely
smell
like one. The thing could be growling, but he wasn’t sure, not with the winds raging around them.

“We can head on down to the next house,” Ross suggested.

“What?”

“It’s not far from here. Fifteen-minute hike through this slop.”

Kirk straightened. “But this is Borland’s house.”

“Yeah, but I’m not comfortable with breaking in. The law’s so fucked up I don’t know if breaking into a dead man’s house and calling the cops will get me arrested. Regardless if he’s been stealing dogs.”

“I’ll do it then.”

“You’ll break in?”

“I don’t care.” Kirk shrugged. He truly didn’t, except for escaping the weather. His hands were forming into blocks of ice.

He peeked inside once again, searching for the dog in the shadows.

It wasn’t there anymore.

Unsure if he should be worried or not, Kirk started for the work shed.

“Might be an axe or something around the woodpile,” Ross shouted after him.

Kirk stomped through drifts and halted after passing the corner of the house. The strange smell had suddenly grown even stronger. He turned towards the backyard of the house.

There, standing in the growing darkness, was a short, stocky man.

A short, stocky,
naked
man.

Kirk blinked at the freakish sight. Steam issued from a mouth swathed in shadow, and the guy’s eyes gleamed eerily even at this distance. His upper frame heaved with exertion, and even draped in snowy gloom as he was, there was no mistaking the solid musculature.

Without warning, the brute charged.

Kirk took two steps back, spreading his hands for the potential tackle. “Hey!
Hey!
”

The human cannonball bounded across the snow, ripping up the windswept designs with every step. Kirk’s voice left him in a gasp of horror. His legs weakened. Thoughts stopped. The stampeding attacker closed in, facial features becoming visible in the evening’s dying radiance. For an elongat second, Kirk beheld the wide, insane eyes––golf balls of blackness pricked by needle points of light and malice. Below this, lips were pulled back in a snarl, revealing a set of long, canine teeth.

And hands ending in curved claws.

“Jesus––” Kirk sputtered.

Just as the monster leaped.

Ross wasn’t sure what the hell was happening. The guy––he realized didn’t even know his name––stopped and stared just before a little naked dude barreled into him. Both figures launched into the air and landed in an explosion of white powder. They wrestled. Someone screamed, long and hard, just as he heard the chuffing of snow to his left and the ragged, if not
excited,
expulsion of breath.

Ross jerked the shotgun up into the face of his own attacker a split second before he crashed into him. Both rolled into the snow, the freak on top, actually trying to bite through walnut and steel with a set of teeth that belonged in a vintage bear trap. Ross pushed, forcing the face back, energized by a jolt of fright when he saw the shocking eight balls that served as the thing’s eyes.

Bright orbs that fixed on him.

The creature crashed into Kirk and landed on top of him in the snow. He lashed out with his arms, pushing the thing’s fanged maw back, screaming for Ross to
shoot it, shoot it
, but Ross wasn’t shooting, so Kirk took matters into his own hands just as the monster clawed at his face. He trapped the fright’s left wrist in a joint lock and twisted, forcing it nose-first into the snow. Stretching the trapped arm out, Kirk fought to get his legs under him while the
Were
––as it could only be some fucked up breed of
Were
he was fighting––struggled to get free. Kirk wasn’t about to let that happen.