Blood and Rain (2 page)

Chapter Two

Nick Bruce spent his Saturday night tuned in to Art Bell reruns on 1420 AM. The features on paranormal and unexplained events that
Coast to Coast AM
offered exclusively were right up his alley. Since graduating from the University of Maine in Orono back in '97, he'd been a freelance writer for a variety of magazines and papers. His big break came just prior to graduation, with his piece on the Full Moon Monster of Gilson Creek.

Back then, he had moved home, intent on saving up enough money to get an apartment in Portland, but after the first attacks on Old Gilson Creek Road that spring, he discovered a homegrown obsession. His vivid imagination, soaked with hours upon hours of
Coast to Coast AM
and years of reading the likes of King and Straub, went to work on the possible creatures that could cause such damage.

The picture that graced the front page of the
Coral County Sentinel
was enough to make sparks fly. The McKinneys' wagon looked like it had been rammed by a Mack Truck. Once Sheriff Fischer announced that they had been attacked and killed by either a mountain lion or bear—neither of which had bothered a soul in Gilson Creek as far back as he could recall—Nick's interest peaked. Admittedly, part of it was just a fun concept for his supernatural-based brain. The fact that the incident occurred under a full moon only fueled his fancy. He decided, for kicks, he would get a police scanner and wait out the next full moon.

He was shocked when the call came in about the bodies in Paulson Park. He grabbed his camera and cruised down to the crime scene, unprepared for what he saw.

He managed to blend in with the other reporters from the county and get close enough to the scene to snap the portrait that launched his career with the
Crypto Insider
. Unfortunately, the gruesome photo and the article he penned about the Full Moon Monster also landed him on the sheriff's shitlist. Hell, it practically branded him as a heartless sensationalist, with almost every other member of the community.

He left the Creek the following year, but after a defamation lawsuit last month from a prominent Portsmouth, New Hampshire, politician that he may have labeled a cultist, he'd been forced to move back home with his mother.

Tonight, for old times' sake, and maybe hoping for a little supernatural luck, he busted out the old police scanner. Stationed in his new basement office, researching for his latest bit on the old haunted hotel out on Route 5, he was listening to Art Bell talking about J-Rod and Area 51, while eating a chimichanga which nearly got stuck in his throat when the call came across about the body on Christie Road.

Lady Luck and the full moon above. Nick Bruce grabbed his cell phone and car keys, determined to make up for his Portsmouth fuckup.

Sonya Fischer reached for the canvas booklet of compact discs sitting at her feet. She was sick of her boyfriend's unwarranted love of the band Disturbed. If she was spending another Saturday night cruising around the bumfuck roads of Gilson Creek, she was doing it in style.

Alex caught her reaching for the booklet. “Hey, what do you think you're doing?”

“I wanna go retro,” she said. “Keep your eyes on the road.”

“What are you looking for?”

“I really like that oldies mix your uncle gave you,” she said, flipping through the pages of discs.

She despised most new hard rock music, and especially loathed Disturbed. Thank God for Alex's Uncle Ted. Besides looking a lot like Hugh Jackman, he worked at the local rock radio station and played guitar in the Broken Exes. They were amazing. Alex had snuck her into a show a couple weeks back at a rock club called the Rusty Nail over in Hollis Oaks. Since then, his uncle had been bombarding him with one awesome classic rock mix after another, many of which had already migrated to her house.

Alex ejected the disc and handed it to her.

“Okay, you win,” he said. “One thing though—if we're going to listen to it, we gotta crank the hell out of it.”

Sonya loved to get her way. She put the disc labeled “Raise Your Fist” into the car stereo.

“Come 'ere,” Alex said. “I'm being a good boyfriend, aren't I?”

She released her seat belt, slithered closer to him and touched her lips to his neck.

“I think it's only fair that if you get to pick the tunes, I get something in return,” he tried to barter. “You know,
quid pro quo
?”

“Oh yeah.” Sonya kissed his neck. “You mean
besides
being in the company of the prettiest girl in town?”

“Well that goes without saying.” He pulled her close with his right arm, keeping his left on the steering wheel of his beloved black-and-gold 1986 Camaro.

She ran her hand up his thigh and stopped just as the first chords of Autograph's “Turn up the Radio” came blaring from the speakers. She pulled herself away and relatched her seat belt.

“Hey, where you goin'?” Alex said.

She loved it when he pined for her like this. “We've got to leave something to do when we get to Kim's,” she said.

Sonya gave him her most promising smile and started to sing along with the chorus of a song that was twice her age. She would not let on just how amped up she actually was to get to Kim's too. She remained cool, but on the inside she was doing cartwheels, thinking about the night ahead.

Kim Donaldson had been Sonya's best friend since the third grade. Kim's parents had split up a couple of years back, and since her mom worked mostly second shifts at the laundromat, they had a place to hang out with plenty of unsupervised time, like tonight. What more could a couple of kids getting ready for their senior year ask for?

Sonya looked over and saw Alex's pouty bottom lip.
Boys—they can be so sensitive.
She would definitely make it up to him.

Sonya skipped ahead on the mix and found a nice ballad. Surprised by the beautiful piano intro from such hedonistic rockers, she laid her head against the window, reached over and held Alex's hand, and watched the rain coming down as he eased the Camaro onto Old Gilson Creek Road.

A feeling of dread passed through her as she stared out at the torrent thrashing against the windshield. Lightning blazed across the night, momentarily illuminating the starless sky above, and was followed by a monstrous boom.

She'd never liked thunderstorms. The sudden blast made her shiver. It felt unnaturally strong. Behind the wall of dark clouds, a full moon patiently waited for its chance to reveal its pale-yellow face. She could handle black cats and walking under ladders, but full moons harbored bad luck in this town.

A string of horrible deaths in Gilson Creek had coincided with what her mom used to refer to as “the bright side of the dark side”. She was only ten when the three kids from the high school were attacked in Paulson Park, but to this day it was still the subject of all kinds of foolish talk within the halls. Werewolves and Bigfoot.

She remembered asking her father about the rumors. He'd told her it was just a wild animal, that the kids at school watched too many monster movies. He'd laughed, but his eyes hadn't seemed to get the joke.

“You okay?”

Sonya gripped Alex's hand. “Let's just get to Kim's.” She looked into the black forest outside her window. “I don't like being out in this weather.”

Chapter Three

“What are we looking at, Sheriff?”

Shit.
Joe knew there was more to his sour stomach than the horror scene he and Deputy Hines had before them. As if the dead body and a fallen tree blocking off one of his main routes through town weren't enough, now he had to deal with this annoying dipshit.

“Hello, Nick. Looks like trouble followed you home.”

“I heard the call on the police scanner. Is it a car wreck?”

“You always rush out to car accidents in horrible weather like this?”

“Only when they coincide with a full moon.”

Joe should've known. Not even home a month and here he was. He wasn't sure if Nick Bruce still worked for the
Weekly World News
's ugly New England cousin, the
Crypto Insider
, but he could see the kid's hungry eyes yearning for a comeback. Joe wasn't about to hand it to him.

“As you can see, we have a tree down, and this is an active crime scene, Nick. I'm going to have to ask you to head back the way you came in.”

Nick sheltered his eyes, squinted through the rain and nodded toward the car with the second tree on its hood. “Do we know what happened to that guy?”

Joe sighed. “Listen, Nick, I said this is an active crime scene. Your freak-out rag doesn't exactly qualify you as press. I need you to—”

“Just one more thing and I'll go. Anything— Holy shit, is that a part of the driver?”

Nick pulled his cell phone from his jacket. Joe slipped forward and bumped Bruce's arm. The cell phone bounced off the blacktop and plopped into a puddle next to the side of the road.

“Hey! What the hell?”

“Sorry about that, Nick.”

“Yeah, right. You did that on purpose. You're gonna have to pay for that.”

“Send me the bill.”

Joe turned back to the real mess on his hands—the mutilated body in the Accord and the tree lying across his road. He shouted back over the sound of the rain, “Road's closed until further notice.”

“Fucking Fischer,” Nick Bruce ranted to the interior of his car. He cast a glance at the ruined cell on his passenger seat. “Bullshit.”

Fischer's dislike of him wasn't unfounded. Nick's graphic crime scene photo in the
Crypto Insider
had caused a frenzy in town, but that was seven fucking years ago.

He headed back toward town empty-handed. Rain hammered his windshield, the wipers tried desperately to keep visibility at more than nothing. An eighteen-wheeler passed in the opposite lane, splashing enough water to obliterate his sight of the road.

“Come on, man, what the fuck?” He slammed his hands on the steering wheel.

Have fun turning that goddam big rig around when Fischer blocks your ass.

The road came back into its brief intervals of clarity with each pass of the wipers.

Boof!

The car pulled hard to the right. Nick's white knuckles clenched the steering wheel.

“What the fuck now?” he steamed. He knew what it was.

Goddamn flat tire.

He pulled the car to the shoulder. Park Street was just another minute up ahead. He opened the door, stepped out into the downpour, and grateful that he had brought his trench coat, he moved to the passenger side of the car.

Flat as shit, his right front tire lay in defeat beneath the steel rim. He stomped through the mud on his way to the trunk, popped it open and checked for a jack and a spare. He could see the handle for the secret compartment where the car companies liked to hide the little toy tires. He thought it was funny that these big companies imagined that keeping the possibility out of sight would preserve that worry-free mind-set on long drives.

Hauling the spare from the trunk, Nick put it on the ground and rolled it to the front of the car.

He trudged back to the trunk to retrieve the chrome jack he'd never used. Mud and excess water were already penetrating his sneakers and soaking his socks.

A short struggle with the lug nuts and he was able to liberate the flat tire. He got the jack in place and the car up enough to free the ruined wheel. He put the doughnut in its place and strategically tightened the lug nuts, being sure to cross from one to the other as his father had shown him.

Hunched before the freshly dressed wheel hub, he considered what he thought he'd seen on the side of the road—it looked like a chunk of flesh resting in the mud—and thought of the sensational full-moon tie-ins he could use for an article. He could have a good payday on his hands.

Would've been even bigger if I'd been able to snap that picture.

Nick didn't have a chance to move before he heard the growl. His spine tingled milliseconds before the animal at his back slammed him face-first against the wheel well. Stars exploded in his vision; then his front tooth jammed into his top lip.

There was another loud, guttural growl. He reached out for the jack encased in the mud and felt an immense pain tear through his forearm.

HONK

Bright lights tore through the darkness. The thing that attacked him grunted and disappeared into the tree line.

The encroaching truck stopped.

“Buddy, hey, buddy, you okay?” a male voice said.

Nick's head swam for the shore. Thoughts of tetanus, rabies and amputation passed by like cars down I-95. A hand was on him, helping him to his feet.

“Hospital…” he managed.

“Not this way,” the man said. “Road to Hollis Oaks is closed off. It'll take a bit longer to get around through Jackson.”

“Can you give me a lift…to my house…in town?” Nick steadied himself with his good hand on the hood of his car. The world and the crap weather came back into view.

“Looks like it gotcha.”

Nick gazed drunkenly toward the blood dripping down his hand.

“Not sure what in the hell that was. Big son of a bitch. You're lucky I came back around when I did or it might have finished you off like that other fella up the road.”

“What…what did it look like?”

“Not sure. Big and hairy. Eyes shinin' like two fat yella moons. I scared it off.”

Mike Ouellette needed to get up. The whole world seemed to be coming down around him. He'd crawled beneath the children's slide in an attempt to remain as dry as he could. The downpour was too much. It was coming through from every which direction. He curled on his side, pulled the collar of his dirty denim jacket tight against his neck and clutched the fifth of Popov vodka for dear life.

Too far from his own house, he knew he should climb out from under the slide in the playground and try Gil Laverty's. Gil owned the tavern on Brighton Circle. He sometimes let Mike stay on his couch. Usually when nature got nasty and he was too drunk to stumble home, like tonight.

The booze was making his head spin. He wasn't sure he could climb to his feet. Instead, he closed his eyes and sent a little prayer to the Lord. “Please, Jesus. Don't lemme drown out here tonight. Not unless ya have ta.” A warm grin spread across his face. Lightning lit up the world beyond his closed eyelids. A thunderous boom answered. The storm was right over town.

A shuffling sound from the trees off to his right caused him to open his eyes. “Huh?”

He propped up on his elbow and tucked the bottle of vodka against one of the legs supporting the slide. He scanned the swirling trees for signs of movement. A shadow emerged.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no…” Old Mike's heart hit Mach 1.

He'd forgotten what day it was. He knew this day every month. How could he have forgotten today? All these years, not one slipup, whether sloshed or otherwise. He always knew to find someplace safe to sleep during the full moon. Tonight, he fucked up.

He didn't have a chance to scream. The beast flew at his extended arm. He felt its incredible strength and fury as it clawed into the flesh just above his elbow and pulled. He watched the rest of his arm detach from his body. He managed a high-pitched moan as the monster's ugly yellow eyes lowered into sight.

Old Mike tried to push himself down and out, and even got his bottom half out on the other side of the slide. He heard the growl in harmony with the next blast of thunder. The paw of the monster palmed his face, its nails puncturing the flesh under his jawline.

Dragged out from under the slide by his face, Old Mike's last fleeting thoughts were of Gil Laverty's gentle hazel eyes and toothless grin.
Should've known better, Gil.

The werewolf burrowed its snout into his stomach.

The storm screamed for him.

The big rig he'd cursed earlier, and its driver—Tom, Don…or one of those names he couldn't remember—drove him into town and dropped him off at his home. Nick rushed inside without a thank-you, grateful his mom hadn't returned from her boyfriend's. He snatched her half-empty bottle of whiskey from the kitchen counter and staggered to the bathroom.

He took a swig from the bottle and held his injured arm over the pristine porcelain sink. The wound was black.

Don't let it be rabies, don't let it be rabies…
He hated needles, knew about the series of gut punctures the doctors would have to deliver.

The alcohol splashed over the wound. He screamed at the intense burning in his ravaged forearm, stumbled backwards, and plopped down upon the toilet.

He slid to the linoleum floor and crawled to the cabinets under the sink. His mom kept the first aid kit under there. His arm shook as he unrolled the gauze and wrapped the wound. He should have cleaned the bite properly, but hoped the booze would kill whatever the goddam animal left behind.

Animal.
He never even saw the damn thing. It could have been the same animal responsible for whatever happened out on Christie Road…or something worse. He took another swig from the bottle of Jack and tried to wash the thought away. He'd have to go to the hospital in the morning.

Nick kicked off his shoes, worked his way out of his wet jeans and hauled the bottle of Old No. 7 to bed with him. He placed the whiskey to his trembling lips and accepted its fiery blessedness over his tongue.

Three swallows later, he put the bottle on the nightstand and looked at his alarm clock: 12:22 a.m.

He needed to call AAA to collect his car, but suddenly felt sick to his stomach. The room began to spin. His eyes fluttered. His head hit the pillow. He stared at his bandaged arm and allowed the whiskey to numb him to sleep.