George Washington Werewolf

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• Epilogue
  
• About the Author
  

GEORGE WASHINGTON WEREWOLF

by Kevin Postupack

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Published by:

DEEP KISS PRESS

Copyright (c) 2011 by Kevin Postupack

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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Cover design by AMERIKAN HIPSTER

Cover painting: Gilbert Stuart (1755-1828)

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“All his features were indicative of the strongest and most ungovernable passions, and had he been born in the forests he would have been the fiercest man among the savage tribes.”

—Gilbert Stuart, Washington’s portrait painter

The sound of horses’ hooves against the frozen snow echoed in the crisp air, a frantic pounding as the carriage rider gave the poor lathering beasts the whip. The air was so cold it froze Bonndorf’s nostrils to the point where he almost couldn’t breathe. His chest hurt when he inhaled, like ice water poured into his lungs. And his hands were sore from clutching the reins, his mother’s wooden Rosary beads dangling from his fingers.

“Take the reins,” he said, holding them out to Willy his young nephew. And as soon as Willy took hold, Bonndorf wiped his nose with his glove. Then he brought out the silver flask from within his heavy bearskin coat and put it to his lips. There it was, the warmth flowing down to his gut, radiating outwards through his body like rays of the sun. He turned to Willy and saw the clouds of breath coming from his mouth. The horses were racing, almost out of control. It was all Willy could do to hold onto the reins.

“Here, let me have them,” he said. And within seconds they were going faster still. The moon was full and high in the sky, and everything was coated in layers of white, gray, and blue depending on the shadows from the trees. Sometimes the road was barely visible. At other times when the moon broke through the trees, it lit up like daylight until every rut and pothole could be seen, like black pits in the snow and ice. But the full moon was exactly what Bonndorf was worried about.

The
Schwarzwald
, the Black Forest, was older than time itself, and for centuries the stories were told of the devils and demons, the creatures unearthly and undead who lived in these woods. Bonndorf had heard the tales, spun against firelight when he was a child, these nightmares in the form of bedtime stories that his parents told to him, to his brothers and sisters, these same stories that had been passed down through generations. So as he grew up, he kept his distance from the woods because many had gone into the forest and were never seen again. But now as a grownup himself, he had no choice. He ran a carriage service and the quickest route to most destinations was through the
Schwarzwald
. But every time he went beneath those trees, so old and sad and evil, he held the Rosary in his right hand (because the left hand was
sinistra
, as the Italians say), praying over each bead and then beginning again until the last tree was behind him.

And on the nights of the full moon he remembered the stories of what the French call the
loup-garou
, the man who turns into a wolf. The lycanthrope. The werewolf. No one he knew had ever
seen
such a creature (though the tales persisted through all the years that he had lived in the shadow of the forest). And when the moon was full, the people here always stayed indoors where it was safe. And then there were the slaughtered cattle, the horses and dogs. Even
he
had seen those, and occasionally a man. Their bodies half-eaten, torn up, ripped to shreds, left in pools of blood the days following the full moon.

Again Bonndorf took out the whip. Holding it high overhead he brought it down on the horses’ flesh, the sharp slap heard above the thumping hooves. He had a bad feeling tonight, something he couldn’t explain, like when you find yourself in the middle of a dream that you can’t escape from. A nightmare where you try to move but you’re paralyzed, where you try to scream but only air comes out in soundless whispers. And then you feel it, the hot febrile skin, the desperately pounding heartbeat, the sweat against the sheets as you lie there motionless, at the mercy of whatever it is that’s coming.

“We’re almost there,” he said to his nephew.

Bonndorf normally never took the coach out on a full moon, but this fare paid him three times the usual fee on the condition that they leave tonight and at once. Something about a matter of honor, an impending duel at dawn. And he could tell by a glance that this man had made the right decision, as most likely he wouldn’t give a good account of himself if he kept his early morning appointment. And besides, Bonndorf needed the money. And with three times the pay he thought this job might finally put him ahead of the game. But now as the moon loomed overhead he began to regard the coins in his pocket less and less.

“We’re almost there,” he said again, although this time it was for himself. A glance over at Willy, at his nephew’s face, his skin the ghostly pallor of mortified flesh. The naked limbs of the hardwood trees were skeletal hands reaching towards them. The sound of the wind, the moan of the frozen trees, the ice straining beneath the hoof beats were like something about to snap in two. He knew the horses couldn’t keep up this pace for much longer, especially in this cold, but he kept hoping he'd reach the clearing that was still two miles off. Although right now he wished for it after every bend. He wondered to himself what time it was. Two in the morning perhaps? The time when even if one is safe in bed strange things are liable to happen. When you listen for a footfall and try to remember if you bolted the door shut before blowing out the candle. When your mind wanders to those places that are best left undisturbed, unvisited, as if just by you realizing this makes the worst things possible.

Bonndorf shook his head to dash these thoughts. Another mile, he said to himself, we can make it another mile. But suddenly the horses raised their heads in a peculiar way. They turned to the side as Bonndorf saw a shadow appear in the corner of his vision. And then there was a great collision! He felt it in the reins as the horses fell over themselves at full gallop. An agony of broken limbs and death cries as the coach careened forward until it struck the fallen beasts. Bonndorf felt himself hurtling through the air as he heard the screaming animals, the splintering wood crying out against the trees. Seconds later he was on the frozen ground against a tree. He saw the blood in the snow, blood from his forehead, and then the horrible mess of the dead mangled horses and the coach lying upside down in pieces, torn horseflesh hanging from its broken boards, the lifeless body of the man who had hired him amidst the debris.

“Willy!” he called out. “Willy!” His nephew’s name disappeared in clouds of breath. “Willy!” And then he saw his body crushed against a large boulder, the boy’s limbs twisted into a position that only the dead can tolerate. And as he felt the tears forming in his eyes he saw the shadowy shape again, moving slowly by one of the horses. He watched it move like an animal, methodically like some powerful beast as it tore into the horse’s dead flesh. And at that moment a cloud passed from before the moon and light illuminated the scene. And as if feeling the moonlight the dark shape turned and faced him. Bonndorf sat there in the bloody snow as these eyes that seemed to glow red pierced into his own, and deeper still, into his soul as the gray light revealed its shape. Like nothing he had ever seen, resembling a wolf but huge, muscular, with a large furry hump on its back and claws on its feet as big as razors. And for a moment it stood there gazing at him through the moonlight, with a piece of what had been his lead horse in its mouth. And for a moment Bonndorf sat there petrified. He couldn’t even breathe, and he might have been mistaken for a tree or an inanimate object had not the cloud of breath escaped his lips. The animal still fixing his gaze dropped the horseflesh onto the ground as its lips parted, as its teeth came together in a growl of such menace that Bonndorf felt his own hot urine steam through his trousers. This was no wolf. So the stories were true, he said to himself. He tried to close his eyes as the beast moved forward, but he couldn’t. He was mesmerized, as if he were the prey now that gives itself up to the predator. He felt for the Rosary but it was gone. And then he saw it a few feet away; the rosewood beads and the silver cross reflecting the moonlight, but then stomped into the snow as the creature took a step closer. Bonndorf stared at the clouds of breath coming from the beast’s unholy mouth as it opened its jaws wide, and he heard the snow crunch beneath its feet as it leapt into the air.

The
Auguste Villard
weighed anchor at Cherbourg the day of the full moon’s wane. With twenty-seven days between full moons the voyage to America was made without incident in twenty-three, with barely a storm to speak of as it crossed the Atlantic. And it was a beautiful sight as it dropped anchor at Philadelphia. Triple masted with lean lines and indigo with canary yellow trim. It was only four years out of the shipyard at Marseilles and the ocean had still not gotten the better of it. But the rumor was that one of its passengers was here at the personal request of General George Washington, someone he hoped would help turn the tide of war in favor of the Colonials (or those damned “Rebels”, depending on where your allegiances lie). But since France was still officially neutral it landed without incident and was unmolested by the Redcoats, who had occupied Philadelphia since September of the previous year. And as the passengers disembarked and the cargo was unloaded a curious figure appeared, shouting orders at the deckhands, admonishing them to be careful as they carried what looked to be a large disassembled iron cage, followed by a slew of crates and divers baggage. But this was hardly unusual, considering the figure was decked out stem to stern in the tricorne hat, powdered wig, waistcoat, breeches, silk stockings, and buckled shoes of a nobleman. What
was
unusual was that the man who presented this figure was a dwarf of no more than three and a half feet in stature. And that he barked out orders and that they were obeyed meant that there was someone else, someone powerful behind him who the deckhands would answer to if they didn’t hop to it.

And as the men made sure they didn’t drop anything, one of the crewmembers, an able seaman named Vincent Bertin from Saint Gaultier, ran down the gangplank into the arms of his American wife of two years, Margaret Dorothea Bertin, nee Margaret Mayhew. “Of the
Philadelphia
Mayhews!” she had joked when they first met. Her father was a saloonkeeper, her mother a laundress, and she was a seamstress. But now with two children she stayed at home to care for them as her husband was off at sea.

“Oh I’ve missed you so!” she said between kisses. “How was the voyage?”

“Uneventful,” he said.

Vincent had learned English as a boy when his father apprenticed him to a shipbuilder friend in Liverpool, England. But after awhile the son realized that he was more the sailor than the builder and he signed on with
L'horizon
, a schooner out of Calais. And now he was with the
Auguste Villard
.