They Stalk the Night, page 18
Hoyt’s and Sawasky’s comfortable retirement plans were riding on skimming cash off this business for a few years. But the heavy risk burdened the sheriff and game warden with paranoia.
Andy Sewell kept glancing at them, and Hoyt remained wary of him. The last reporter who’d tried to expose their poaching business had been Thelma Hopkins from the Observer. Hoyt had spotted her in her car, taking photos of him and Sawasky during a back-road meeting with their hunters. The sheriff and warden had jumped into the SUV and drove after Thelma. During a reckless car chase, Hoyt ran her car off the road. It rolled a few times then crashed at the bottom of a ravine. As Thelma was dying in the wreckage, Hoyt and Sawasky grabbed her camera and computer. They set fire to the leaking gas. That day, as the two lawmen had watched the woman’s body consumed by fire, they realized how far they were willing to go to keep their business secret.
They weren’t about to behave stupidly tonight. Whatever Kujak and that idiot Nash were fighting about could wait. Hoyt and Sawasky would get there eventually and deal with their latest crisis.
* * *
Kujak came back into the butcher room, carrying Joey over his shoulder. He laid the young man’s body on one of the tables. With quick slashes of his claws, Kujak ripped off Joey’s clothes, stripped him naked.
Nash looked away, unable to watch. He heard the familiar sounds of an animal grunting and tearing meat with its teeth. Nash couldn’t take it anymore.
I have to put a stop to this.
Fuck no, don’t go out there. Stay hidden.
He clutched his gun, so terrified he was on the verge of tears.
Then a large shadow filled the door’s window.
“Nash, I know you’re in there,” Kujak said, but his voice sounded deeper, the words trailing with a guttural wetness. “I can smell you.”
“Go the fuck away!” Nash shouted back. “I’ve got a gun.”
The large shadow moved away from the door.
Nash had backed into a corner in his office. From this position, he couldn’t see much beyond the window into the butchering room. The window looking into the skinning room showed no sign of Kujak, just the half-eaten moose on the floor.
All seemed quiet for a long moment.
Then a chair exploded through the door’s window, crashing into the office.
Panicking, Nash fired his handgun at the door.
An arm with a monstrous hand reached in through the shattered window and unlocked the door, turned the knob.
Nash shot Kujak in the arm. Growling, Kujak kicked the door open and charged toward Nash with a ferocious speed. Before Nash could shoot again, the gun was ripped from his hands. Kujak’s big clawed hands gripped into Nash’s shoulders. Next thing he knew, he was lifted off his feet and hurled through the office window. Glass rained all around as Nash landed hard on the blood-stained floor of the skinning room. Badly cut and bruised, he got to his feet. He grabbed the first weapon he could find, a cleaver.
As Kujak stepped into the skinning room, Nash ran to the other side of the moose carcass and wielded his cleaver. “I’ll fucking kill you, man!”
Kujak stopped a few feet away. His face was partially hidden by the parka hood. Only his bloodstained mouth was visible. His lips were gone, the flesh chewed off. His mouth was all teeth, sharp and jagged as icicles. His throat made a guttural sound as he chewed.
“Holy Jesus!” Nash searched for an exit. The only way out of the room was to get past this beast that used to be his friend.
Kujak charged toward him, picked up the moose carcass off the floor, and hurled it out of his way. The antlers’ tines slashed Nash’s cheek.
Touching a hand to his bleeding face, Nash backed against a wall. He chopped the air with his cleaver. “Stay back, motherfucker!”
Kujak burst across the room with the speed of a bear. Nash swung the square blade down into the humped muscle of his friend’s shoulder, where it stuck. Kujak only glanced at it before driving a clawed hand into Nash’s belly.
Blood spurted from Nash’s mouth. His knees gave out. He collapsed forward against Kujak’s chest.
After a period of blackness, Nash became aware of a cold wooden butcher table beneath his naked body…Joey lying beside him…a hooded shadow standing over Nash, holding the cleaver…a scream escaping Nash’s throat as the blade chopped down….
* * *
Rachel’s face stung from Roddy’s slaps. She sat on the couch, crying, holding a cold beer can to her bruised cheek.
“If Dylan saw you hit me, he’d kick your ass,” she said to her boyfriend.
Roddy chuckled. “That skinny twerp? I’d like to see him try. ’Sides, like usual, your boy’s not around.” He was in a foul mood because the joint they’d been smoking was now just a dead roach in the ashtray. They were out of weed and almost out of beer. All the stores had closed tonight, so no booze run to restock. Roddy was taking his anger out on her. He finished his can of Bud, then took the one she’d been holding against her face.
Rachel couldn’t believe her life had ended up so miserable. When her husband, Ben, was alive, she’d been happy. Now, drunken days and stoned nights blurred together. She often forgot her husband’s face and had to pull out her shoebox of old photos to remember Ben. She’d completely lost touch with their son, Dylan. He hardly ever stayed home anymore because he hated Roddy. Why am I with such an asshole? Rachel asked that question often but never found the courage to leave Roddy. She thought of her father-in-law, who seemed to be the only member of Ben’s family who still cared about her.
I should have gone to the center with Sam.
When Roddy’s attention was occupied with a show on TV, Rachel cautiously picked up her phone from the coffee table and casually made her way into the kitchen. She started dialing.
“What are you doing?” Roddy was standing behind her.
“Calling Sam to come get me.”
“The hell you are!” He snatched her phone and ended the call. “Sam’s not your family anymore. I am. And you’re staying here with me.”
“Give that back.” She tried to grab her phone, but he walked backward into the den and held it away from her, then stuffed it in his jeans pocket.
Rachel felt the wood floor beneath her feet begin to vibrate. A picture on a wall shook as if a train were coming, only there weren’t any trains near Hellum. Behind Roddy, something large and fast ran past the back sliding glass door.
Rachel yelped and stepped back. Her hand shaking, she pointed. “Something’s out there.”
“What the fuck was that?” Roddy turned around and looked out the door toward the fenceless backyard that sloped down to a creek. “I don’t see nothing…wait a minute. Are those animal tracks?” He opened the sliding glass door and stepped out. Winds were so strong his long hair blew sideways.
Without his coat on, Roddy hugged himself as he struggled to walk without stumbling.
Rachel ran to the open sliding glass door. She felt tempted to slam it shut and lock him out there, but he would freeze to death in minutes. Sure, she hated the asshole sometimes, but she loved him too. “Roddy, get back in here.”
“Hold on.” He looked down at the deep impressions in the ground. “Fuck me. What kind of animal made these?” A thick mist rolled in around him suddenly, concealing the entire backyard, clouding the windows.
Again, the boards beneath Rachel’s feet tremored. Roddy must have felt it too, the stampede-pounding in the ground, because he looked off to his right. He cried out as a giant blurry shadow ran past the door. Right before her eyes, Roddy vanished. There one second, gone the next.
Screaming, Rachel slid the back door closed and hid behind the couch. Her whole body shook from fright as whatever had taken Roddy came back moments later. It was right outside. She heard scraping against the glass door. Snorting and a low, rumbling growl.
Rachel peered around the end of the couch. Dared to look out the back door. Inside the whirling white mist, she barely made out a hunched-over shape. Eyes glowed like circles of white fire.
Rachel sobbed, hiding, waiting her turn to be killed.
* * *
Driving deep into the woods, past barbed-wire fences entangled in briars, Sheriff Hoyt followed a narrow, rutted road until it dead-ended within the compound of tin buildings on Nash’s land. He parked his county sheriff’s SUV and shut off the engine. He and Sawasky remained in their seats for a moment, surveying the situation. All seemed quiet, except for the winter storm shaking the surrounding tree branches. It sounded like a hundred deer antlers clacking together. In the open lot between the buildings, there were puddles of fresh blood pooled across the snow. Not unusual for game hunters.
“The boys must have gotten back with their kills,” Sheriff Hoyt said.
“Don’t see Kujak’s truck,” Sawasky said.
“Tire tracks are fresh. He was here.”
The two officers got out and walked past Nash’s and Joey’s trucks. Off to the left, the refrigerated outbuilding was open. The skinned deer and moose carcasses that normally hung on hooks, waiting to be processed, were strewn across the ground. It looked as if bears had gotten to the meat, dragged them out and had themselves a feast. All of that valuable venison was ruined.
Sawasky said, “Jesus, did those damn idiots forget to close the meat locker?”
Sheriff Hoyt was so angry all he could do was frown and shake his head.
As they approached the largest sheet-metal building – the deer-processing shop – Hoyt’s pulse quickened. The front door was broken off its hinges and hanging open. Inside, the lights were on. Some overly cheery song with sleigh-bell jingles was playing on the radio.
“Nash! Joey!” Sheriff Hoyt entered through the doorway first. One of the butcher tables was on its side. On the floor lay a moose carcass that looked like scavengers had taken bites out of its neck and back.
Drawing his pistol, Hoyt stepped around its antlers. He felt the breath pulled out of his chest when he saw what was on the other table: two naked human bodies, both dismembered by a cleaver. Their muscles had been ravaged down to the bones. The faces were unrecognizable. Judging by the bald head of one and blond hair of the other, Hoyt knew these remains were of Nash and Joey.
“Oh, god, my sister’s boy….” Sawasky grabbed a post to keep from falling. Hoyt caught hold of his partner’s arm as Sawasky went into shock.
* * *
As his truck sped down the wooded back road, Kujak looked at his strange white eyes in the rearview mirror and cursed at the beast within. “Goddamn, you motherfucker! Why Nash and Joey? They were my friends.”
He couldn’t believe he had slaughtered them so brutally, then ate them in a gluttonous fever.
Kujak shook his head. “No, I can’t eat any more. You can’t make me.”
In the mirror his fiery eyes blazed brighter. The three claw marks on his forehead burned with unbearable pain.
His stomach rumbled. Kujak’s fingers grew longer around the steering wheel. His arm and leg bones stretched painfully, made popping noises. The truck’s cab became cramped as his spine lengthened, pressed his arching neck against the ceiling. His hunger wouldn’t stop. His hollow belly ached as if the last of the meat he’d eaten had been sucked into a vacuum.
Kujak thought of all the places he could go to find fresh prey – the Ice House Tavern, Greta’s Diner, the neighborhoods with houses of families. Thinking about all those beating hearts, all that fresh meat, whetted his appetite, but Kujak hungered for more than flesh. He wanted to devour those who’d done him wrong.
Chapter Twenty-One
The plastic ties fastened around Dylan’s wrists chafed his skin. He, Stig, and Gordy were held captive in the back room of the main double-wide trailer at the Pipe Village. The three sat on the cold linoleum floor, their backs against a wood-paneled wall, their breath visible in the frosty air. Dylan’s and Stig’s wrists were bound in front. Gordy’s wrists had been tied behind his back and additional ties placed around his ankles because he had stupidly tried to fight the pipeline workers. The security guard had taken away their phones, so Dylan had no way of calling his grandfather to get him out of this mess.
Now their captors were conversing in the common area down the hall. Dylan pushed a button on his hearing aid, turning it up as loud as it would go. The men’s voices were still muffled through the trailer’s walls and door. The wind whistling through the broken windows didn’t help.
“What are they saying?” Dylan asked.
Stig scooted closer to the room’s partially open door and peered through the crack. He listened a moment. “They’re arguing about what to do with us. One guy says he didn’t sign up for this. He wants to let us go. The redheaded G.I. Joe guy says they need to detain us until he talks to Thornhill.”
“We’re totally fucked,” Gordy whined. “The damage we done, man, Thornhill’s going to call the sheriff. Hoyt’s gonna have to lock us up.”
“Shit,” Dylan said, scared and disappointed in himself. “My grandfather won’t bail us out this time. They’ll send us to the pen for sure.”
Stig said, “Going to prison is the least of our problems.” He looked nervous, and Stig Skagen never showed fear.
Outside, the muffled voices grew quiet.
“They ended their meeting. Shit, someone’s coming.” Stig returned to sitting between Dylan and Gordy.
The redheaded guard armed with a rifle opened the door and stepped inside. White stitching on the chest of his red coveralls depicted a dog paw logo and WATCHDOG WILDERNESS SECURITY. His name patch read TEX. He sat on a tattered sofa in the office area and lit up a cigarette.
Stig licked his lips. “Can I bum a smoke?”
“No,” Tex said gruffly.
“How long you gonna make us wait?” Gordy complained.
The guard shrugged. “Not up to me.”
“This is fucked-up, man,” Stig said. “We need to get out of here.”
“You have to let us go eventually, don’t you?” Dylan said.
“Let us go right the fuck now,” Stig demanded, “or we’ll say you kidnapped us.”
Tex chuckled and blew out smoke.
Dylan shivered. It was so damned cold in here. Wind blew in through the holes in the windows. Broken glass covered the floor. Scattered about the room were the rune-marked stones they’d thrown into the trailer.
Dylan leaned toward Stig’s ear and whispered, “What did you mean by ‘going to prison is the least of our problems’?”
* * *
Sam had noticed on his phone that Rachel had attempted to call him. Dylan’s mother had hung up before he could answer. Something was wrong. His daughter-in-law only called him when she had a problem. He tried her number several times but got no answer. So he got back in his Bronco and drove through the winter squall to her neighborhood. With nearly everyone taking refuge at the community center, the village felt empty and dreary. Not a car on the road. Every business, including the twenty-four seven gas station, was closed. All the houses were dark, except one. Light still glowed from the curtained windows of Rachel and Dylan’s home.
Sam climbed out of his vehicle with his crossbow. He knocked on their front door. When no one answered after a minute, he turned the knob and pushed open the door.
“Rachel? Roddy?” he called out. “It’s Sam.”
Again no answer.
He entered cautiously, afraid of what awaited him inside. Dark, cluttered den to the left. Lamplit living room straight ahead. The TV was on, but muted.
Their cars were in the driveway, so Rachel and Roddy couldn’t have left.
Sam pointed the beam of his crossbow’s flashlight down the dark hallway to his right. “Hello, anyone home?”
A closet door at the end of the hall flew open. Rachel rushed toward him. “Sam!” She was still in her robe, pajamas, and slippers. Her whole body trembled.
Before she could reach him, he raised his bow. “Stop! Stay there.”
She froze in the middle of the hall. “Don’t shoot. It’s me, Sam.”
He shined his light on her hands, examining her fingernails. Then he spotlighted her face. She squinted in the glare and turned her head. Her dark, messed-up hair partly covered her eyes and mouth. In some cases, people who had been clawed by a demon transformed into one within seconds, while others suffered bleeding eyes and took longer to turn.
“Move your hair from your face,” Sam said.
She brushed the strands away. Her eyes were dark brown, wet with tears. Her lips looked chapped, but otherwise normal.
“Now show me your hands.”
She held them out in front of her. No signs of claws. No frost on her skin either.
Sam sighed and lowered his bow. “Come here.”
Rachel hugged him and completely fell apart. He held her while she cried into his shoulder. “It was here, in our backyard. It got Roddy. He’s…he’s gone.” When the tears finally subsided and she was able to speak, she pulled away, wiping her eyes. “The creature came right up to my back door. Pressed its hand against the glass. Thought for sure it was going to kill me.”
“Did it enter your house?”
She shook her head. “It stayed at the back door for several minutes. Then the fog blew away and the creature was no longer there. I don’t know why, but it spared me.”
Sam felt grateful. “Let’s find you some clothes then get you to the center where it’s safe.”
