Beneath a Winter Moon (45 page)

“You did your best—what we need is that kerosene. It would sure brighten things up,” Thomas said.

“I’ll run and grab a couple of them.”

“I’ll watch your back…especially if you think Alastair is headed our way.”

Delmar set his rifle down and ran towards the shed, around the smoldering remains of the cabin, slipping in the thick mud as he rounded what had been the kitchen. He returned moments later, lugging two round, metal, five-gallon containers. Together, Thomas and Delmar dumped the kerosene onto the logs, watching as the flames burned higher and brighter.

Delmar placed a hand on Thomas’s shoulder as they stood admiring their work. “There,” he whispered loudly. “Did you hear it?”

Thomas frowned. He hadn’t heard anything at all, but Jack must have. He stood facing out in the same direction as Delmar, his tail tightly curled and his body stiffened, perfectly still, his blue eyes glistening against the firelight.

“Jack hears him,” Thomas said. “That’s good enough for me.”

They stood, ready, and a few more minutes passed without the howls, but then the werewolf made its presence known as a low and lingering howl echoed through the forest. “Jesus,” Thomas said. “He’s not far, now.”

Another howl permeated the night air, this time from some distance behind them, behind the remains of the cabin. “Maybe like the flames are working,” Thomas said.

“Maybe so,” Delmar answered. “He is circling, I think—I think he’s unsure. He’s hesitant—probably because of the flames. Maybe that is why he ran from the cabin, after all.”

Thomas frowned. “You just said that he’s hesitant. What makes you say that…how would you know?”

Delmar turned toward his friend, looking into his eyes. “I can feel him.”

Thomas took a step back. “What do you mean?”

“I am sorry. I—I don’t know how or why but I feel like he must have connected with me somehow when he bit me.”

There it was. The subject that both men were avoiding. “You mean you can understand it?”

“Now, not quite, but I have to tell you—it’s all I can do to stay here with you right now. It’s like something’s calling me—maybe he’s calling me. I know, I know—it’s crazy, but I swear to you, it’s real.” He paused. “That’s what happened to me back there. I’m connected to him. Fuck me, I hate myself.”

Thomas took another step back. Jack stayed by his side and whimpered softly.

Delmar suddenly shook his head. “No—no, Hero, I’m not going anywhere. I just had to tell you—you had to know in case we have to fight and I go all stupid again. It’s not my fault.
I’m
not doing it.”

Thomas did not know what to say. The howls continued, but they didn’t sound any closer.

“My bite wound—it’s healed completely. My ribs—I’d have sworn they were cracked and now they are fine. My cancer? Thomas, I think it’s gone. It’s just like in the damned movies. Man gets bitten, wound heals immediately, man knows he is cursed.”

“Wait…” Thomas said.

“I feel good, Thomas,” Delmar confessed. “I feel
too
good,” He held up a hand to ward off Thomas’s reply. “Just listen. My senses are better—I can hear things that you can’t—I can see into that wood line, Thomas.” He gestured over the fire and into the far away forest. “I’m infected—cursed—whatever the hell you want to call it.” He lowered his head for a moment. “And we both need to come to terms with it before whatever happens, happens. You need to know that I might not be in control anymore—I might become the enemy.”

Thomas’s eyes were mist. He wanted to argue, but Delmar’s summation had won the debate before it could begin. He didn’t know what to do.

Delmar suddenly pointed. “He’s here. See? Right over there. Look for the eyes.”

It was the steam from the beast’s breath that Thomas saw first.

A piercing howl erupted from its throat, echoing through the forest and night sky like thunder…as if Thor himself had come and struck the earth with his mighty hammer. Thomas jumped; startled so badly that he almost lost his footing.

Thomas hooked Jack’s leash to his belt once more, to keep the dog from going after the werewolf. Thomas promised himself that he would remove the leash if it looked as though they would lose the fight—and he hoped Jack would run.

Thomas and Delmar lifted their rifles and fired. This time, Thomas was prepared for the recoil of the extraordinary weapon, and managed to hold his position as both barrels of the 10-gauge fired. The werewolf moved—fast. It leapt sideways and backward into the black, and neither of the men could be sure if any of their rounds hit their mark. They crouched, slowly rotating their bodies, looking for the beast. Thomas flipped open the breach of his rifle and the two spent shells sailed past his shoulder. He quickly replaced them with two more. By the time that he snapped the breach closed, the werewolf quickly reappeared, standing opposite the remains of the cabin. Thomas was ready to fire, aiming just below the werewolf’s red eyes, when he heard a low moan from Delmar. Thomas kept his rifle ready, but glanced over at his friend. Delmar had dropped to his knees and let his rifle fall into the wet mud. Thomas stepped sideways until he stood over him. He looked down to find Delmar looking up at him, his eyes, pleading. “Shoot him, Thomas. You have to kill him…now,” he yelled.

Thomas took careful aim and fired one of the barrels. The werewolf howled in pain as it leapt, and even now, the sound made Thomas shiver. Thomas was ready for the beast as it leapt away. He fired the second round where he thought the werewolf would land, and once more, he heard an unmistakable howl of pain. He knew his first shot had been dead-on and by the sound of the howl, the second had hit the werewolf as well.

“Don’t let him….don’t let him get any closer. You have to keep him away,” Delmar said, now leaning over, his hands in the mud as he rested his weight against them.

“Easy, now,” Thomas stammered. He didn’t want to admit to himself that he now felt a fear rising inside him—a fear of the man he had called friend for as long as he could remember.

“You just might have to kill me,” Delmar said, his voice shaky.

Thomas reloaded his rifle as he stood over Delmar. “Enough with the crazy-talk bullshit. I need you to get your ass off the ground and help me!”

“I can barely move. If I do, it won’t be to help you, Thomas. I want to go into the forest. I want to get away from you.” He sat back on his knees, his powerful form sagging, the look on his face, pathetic. “If I run, shoot me—because I will be running to that bastard out there, and I don’t think I could stop myself.”

 “You don’t know that …”

“The hell I don’t,” Delmar snapped. “And pretending is only going to make it worse. You have to promise me, Thomas…swear to me…do not let me go out there and become what Alastair is.”

Thomas didn’t answer. He could not afford this right now. He could hear the werewolf growling and grunting as it continuously circled—perhaps waiting for the fires to die down just a little more.

“SWEAR IT!” Delmar shouted.

Thomas’s timid reply was drowned by another blood-curdling howl.

“Oh shit—keep him away! Kill him!”

Thomas was taken aback by the tone of his friend’s voice. The words came out almost garbled—guttural. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, lifting the huge rifle high into the air. He brought it down hard onto Delmar’s skull, just above the temple. It was a powerful blow, and as Thomas watched his friend topple over into the mud, he was afraid that he might have done more than simply render the man unconscious. Jack whined loudly, startled by and perhaps fearful of his master’s actions.

“There isn’t time for this, damn you!” Thomas yelled at his friend’s unconscious form. Then he froze…not because he saw the werewolf again, but because Jack had taken several steps backward, and now stood directly in front of Thomas, at the end of his leash—facing
away
. He looked like he was poised to strike, having ceased the whines and the whimpering as he now stood growling and snapping furiously.

“Oh, you clever bastard,” Thomas whispered to no one. He could not prevent the nervous chuckle that escaped from his lips. “You’re behind me aren’t you?”

A roar echoed from somewhere behind Thomas as he ducked and whirled around at the same time, firing both barrels of the rifle as his body leveled out and went down. He saw the massive shape prepare to dive for him, but instead, the werewolf was thrown backward, as if shoved by an unseen force. Thomas struggled to release Jack, finally managing to unhook the D-ring. “RUN!” he shouted to the Husky, but instead of running, the dog leapt over him and onto the back of the werewolf. The beast was struggling to stand when the dog landed on him, tearing at the back of his throat. The Husky was no mountain lion, however, and no sooner had he landed on the werewolf than he careened off, but still hanging onto the creature’s throat.

The werewolf did not know what to make of this. He had encountered these creatures before, he knew instinctively, but that same instinct lead him to believe that all animals of this type would cower before him, and should be no threat, especially from a single of them. He howled in pain and reached back to grab the dog, managing to yank him free with one hand. He slowly pulled the dog toward his jaws, holding Jack by the scruff of his neck. Jack’s jaws snapped at the werewolf and his legs and paws kicked frantically in the air as he tried to find a hold. The werewolf looked into the dog’s blue eyes—puzzled by the small, inconsequential creature’s tenacity and boldness. The beast cocked his head to one side and stared at the dog for another moment, then, his bewilderment forgotten, opened his powerful jaws.

“NO!” Thomas screamed, firing both barrels into the werewolf’s midsection from less than five feet away. He felt relief wash over him as he saw the beast drop Jack into the mud. The werewolf howled as he fell, tortured by the massive lead rounds as they blew a gaping hole into his gut. He staggered and fell, trying to reach Thomas with the razor sharp claws as he went down. Thomas threw the rifle down and scrambled to pick up another. He dove, crossing the distance between himself and the other weapons, landing in the mud beside them. He pulled the
Winchester
to his chest, pointed it at the werewolf as he once more tried to rise. He fired round after round, many of them slamming home into the beasts massive torso. He saw black blood gushing from the hole that the 10-gauge rounds had created, and he felt some hope…even though the beast began to rise.

Thomas rolled in the mud, picking up the
Nagant
rifle. He fired a round from the prone position, missed, and pulled the bolt back, ejecting the spent round, then slammed the bolt home, driving another into the breach, all while scrambling to his knees. The werewolf was standing now, and the hole in his side was almost closed. My God, Thomas thought. He is healing right here before my eyes. He could not hold the beast back much longer, he knew, so risking the loss of time, he slowed himself, taking careful aim at the werewolf’s nightmarish head. He fired.

The werewolf felt his teeth shatter, and knew exquisite pain as a portion of his lower jaw exploded, bits of bone and teeth blasting into his left eye. He roared in pain and hatred, bringing a hand up to his mangled face. He felt the sting of defeat once more, as the instinct kill gave way to that of survival. With a single, sharp howl, he leapt backward, rolled, and was up again, bolting over the small fire that separated him from the forest.

Thomas fired another carefully aimed round, and knew it hit the mark as the werewolf stumbled forward, off balance, as it made it to the edge of the forest. “HA, HA!” Thomas shouted in manic glee. “Fuck you! I got your number, you bastard! Yeah—fuck you! RUN!” He gasped, felt his knees buckle, then dropped to them, his chin falling to his chest. He choked, and a loud sob involuntarily leapt from his throat. “That’s right, fucker,” he said, gasping for breath again while holding back another sob. Mud and sweat dripping from his face. “That’s right. Run,” he whispered.