Breeds 2 (18 page)

“My Lord,” Haley whispered, and his ears visibly moved. “And here I was worried about the coat.” A joke, and a bad one. She hoisted up the coat to his upper shoulders and searched for wounds, any wounds from the early morning, and found nothing. There were bloodstains inside the coat but nothing else.

Haley released the material, allowing it to drop.

“Well, that’s not right,” she whispered. She faced the man and studied his earnest features. He studied her in return. “You should be––should be delirious with pain. I saw your back. You looked like you’d been skinned with a cheese grater.”

She retreated to a beanbag chair, one she’d lugged all the way from the trash of Marty’s Home Fixin’s, and plopped down in it. She tapped her temples and concentrated on the events in the alley.

The man wearing her coat watched her, and for long moments she sat and thought about what she’d seen that morning. She’d been attacked, and her pulse rate had certainly been rushing, but she’d seen his back, even
grimaced
at his back.

And now look at it.

Haley massaged her temples. The first two years of the last nine had been a horror show, wherein her memory only permitted selected peeks when she was asleep. Those two dark years so long ago had started when her husband and daughter died in a highway car crash outside of Dartmouth. A drunk driver had rammed into Chris’s car from behind, spinning him like a clumsy top, a full three-sixty degrees, and right into the opposing traffic lane.

Where a huge diesel transport hit their vehicle dead center, mashing them like potatoes.

Or so the police informed her that afternoon. She could summon the memory too fast, too well. The smell returned to her first, always the smell, of spaghetti sauce cooking in a pot, and garlic bread in the oven, wafted by her frozen form in the doorway as the police officers’ solemn faces informed her at once something very bad had happened. The worst kind of bad. Haley had been a single child herself, both of her parents gone to Cancer. She had no relatives known to her and no one to turn to, so it really wasn’t a big surprise that, upon learning her man and her six-year-old daughter would not ever be coming for supper… well… she went a little crazy. She remembered being admitted to a hospital, some needles, counseling (a little), and pills––many, many pills, as bright as candy on a cake. To this day she still believed Chris and Terri had visited her while she was cat-scratching at the ward’s walls, telling her all would be well, and that they waited for her to return home.

Those two years had been the worst. Times were better now, but the sense of loss, of emptiness, remained. She had lost all drive, all desire to continue with her job at the bank, and over time, most of her friends. From that life, anyway. She stopped interacting with the old world. She walked Halifax’s streets, doing things that needed to be done to survive, but sometimes just doing things. Taking things. Chemical things. Drugs that had summoned elaborate dreams where she and Chris and Terri still lived in their house, talking about what they would do after supper. In time, the dreams would hit her while she was wide awake and sober, fooling her with false realities. Four years after coming clean and swearing off drugs, the hallucinations still struck at times. Unexpected times.

Haley’s hands dropped from her face and she considered the silence, wondering about the man in her scrounged easy chair.

“You’re real,” she announced.

The guy stared back.

She leaned forward and poked his forearm. He frowned at the unnecessary prodding, but otherwise didn’t react.

“That’s it, then,” she said and rubbed her cheeks. “I imagined the road rash. Maybe even the car hitting you. Definitely the road rash. Not the first time. Won’t be the last. I could tell you stories. Hoo-boy, could I.”

She chuckled, showing chipped teeth in dire need of dental attention.

“They weren’t real. Well.” Haley stood and sighed with relief. “You hungry?”

No answer. She should have realized that by now.

“Well, okay, listen. I’ve got some things in the kitchen. Not much but…” She would share. “And maybe while you’re eating, I’ll slip on down to the shelter there and pick out some clothes for you? Some sneakers, too? Can’t have you walking around town with your tackle swinging in the wind.”

That brought about a smile, and for the second time, the man flashed a wan, uncertain smile right back at her.

“You stay there.”

She got up and went to her modest kitchen, remembering the bloodstains. That sent a confused vibe through her person. There was blood on the coat. It sure as hell wasn’t her blood.

The realization stopped her in the doorway. She looked back into the living room.

He returned her questioning stare.

The knock at the door summoned Kirk from the kitchen. He peeked through the peephole, saw a man he didn’t recognize, and opened the door.

“You Doug Kirk?” the visitor asked.

Kirk caught himself staring. The man at his door stood roughly eye-to-eye with him, but the collection of scars covering his face could make a person wonder if he had dove headfirst into a wood chipper. A five o’clock shadow had bare runnels through it, reminding the Halifax warden of claws. A razor had done an equally fine job on the guy’s scalp. The gray eyes were as pure as smoky glass.

“Yeah,” Kirk said.

“Something wrong?” the man asked with a half-smile, showing white teeth.

“Just wondering… if I should call the cops now or later.”

The stranger chuckled and shrugged his wide shoulders. He wore a fall leather jacket that might have been stitched together from the best cuts of a bunch of baseball catcher mitts.

“I get that a lot,” the bright-eyed man said. “I’m Nick Dyer. I’m the last visitor to come calling, I think.”

“Come on in,” Kirk said and got out of the way.

“Just in time for lunch, I smell?”

“Yeah, sure,” Kirk closed the door.

“Excellent, looking forward to some fine Halifax cuisine.”

“You’re from where?”

“New England, mostly. Milo, Maine, recently. Representing.”

“Ah, well, all I have on are––”

“Roast beef and veggies,” Dyer said, looking around the interior. “A feast.”

“Not exactly cuisine.”

“I was just sayin’ that. Anything you got and are willing to share, I’m down with. There were no meals on my flight.”

In the living room, Carma threw back the curtains to sunlight inside. Dust scattered and rode the currents. She turned upon hearing the exchange, and hitched her hands on her hips upon seeing Dyer.

Who nodded affably at her.

“You’re Dyer?”

“I am.”

“You’re it, then,” she said and lifted her chin. “We’re all aboard. For better or worse.”

“For the better,” Dyer said and looked around. “Where’s everyone?”

“Out hunting,” Kirk said and earned a scowl from the pack leader.

“Out hunting,” Carma repeated.

Dyer nodded in approval. “Yeah, okay. So where do you want me?”

“Hold on here. I’ve got people coming back soon. You’ll go out with the next wave.”

“Okay. Sounds good.”

Morris walked out of the bedroom, buttoning up a black shirt that hung over a rumpled set of jeans much too short.

“Jesus Christ, you’ve got Big Foot in here,” Dyer exclaimed softly.

“Fuck off, Nicky.”

“Fun to see you, too,” Dyer said, with that now familiar half-smirk. “You’ve shaved, I see. Can’t say it’s an improvement. You look like a bald testicle.”

“Yeah,” Morris scoffed and looked to Kirk. “You got anything bigger? Feel like I jammed my boys into a sock. Awfully tight in the crotch.”

“No, I do not have anything bigger. And that’s a favorite shirt of mine.”

“You two know each other?” Carma asked.

“This guy?” Dyer pointed a finger at Morris. “Who doesn’t know him on the east coast? He pops up every now and again like a fuckin’ communicable rash. And most folks prefer the rash.”

Kirk smiled at that.

“Morris likes crossing the border unannounced,” Dyer said slyly. “Without notifying the proper authorities. And sometimes takes to snacking on chickens like they’re noisy popcorn.”

“I was drunk.”

“So, anyway,” Dyer continued, unfazed. “The first time I met him is still my fondest memory. Picture Morris, chicken feathers flying, freaking out some poor folks about twenty-five, twenty-six miles outta town. I pick up his scent and converge. Well. Long story short, excitement ensued. Ask me sometime about the scars on my chin and my ass. Over beers. Or a bottle of Captain Morgan. And why do I smell dead people?”

That left the other three wardens quiet.

“In the bedroom,” Carma said. “Baxter Ryan.”

“Baxter?” Dyer’s good humor evaporated. “Baxter’s dead?”

“I put him down,” Carma said. “This is what we know…”

After a history recap that lasted almost ten minutes, the apartment door opened and Janice and Cyler returned from their hunts. The disruption left Dyer noticeably quiet, Kirk saw, and when introductions were made, the Maine warden remained affected by the news of Baxter’s death.

Janice Glover’s attention, however, was centered on the up and walking Moses Morris.

“Holy shit,” she said, “the hell happened to you?”

“I got better,” Morris deadpanned.

“Okay, let me rephrase that. How’d you get better so fucking fast?”

“Ladies don’t swear,” Morris said and walked for the kitchen, but Janice stepped into his path.

“And dead slabs shouldn’t be walking. Last I saw you, you were just a lump under some bloody sheets. Now look at you. As fresh as a daisy and modeling new clothes. Anyone else not find this goddamn unusual?”

“I think it’s goddamn unusual,” Cyler commented.

“Yeah,” Carma said, “I think it’s time you reveal your secret.”

“What’s going on?” Dyer asked, attention switching from one talking head to the other.

Janice gestured to Morris. “This guy was a bloody carcass this morning. I mean he was a chunk of meat. And now look at him.”

Morris’s back straightened, his features darkened. He wasn’t enjoying Janice’s line of reasoning and it showed.

“But wait,” she said to Dyer. “To fully appreciate how much damage he took along with Ezekiel and Bax––who isn’t with us anymore––go take a look at Ezekiel in the bedroom.”

Dyer glanced at Morris, then back at Janice. Without a word, he slipped into the bedroom containing the recuperating Ezekiel. The Pictou Warden stared down at the smaller woman, and Janice stared right back, unafraid. Dyer returned as Mausler and Bryce entered the apartment. They, too, showed surprise at Morris’s health.

Even Dyer studied Morris with a critical eye. “What’ve you been eating?”

“Nothing,” Morris replied sourly, meeting Kirk’s worried look. The question was a glib one, just a quip, but the Maine warden had no idea of how close it struck home.

“You’ve been doing something,” Janice said.

“Damn straight,” Ian Bryce said. “You should’ve been laid up for a few days at least. Not hours.”

“Ezekiel is gonna take at least a few days with that throat of his,” Dyer said, inspecting Morris’s frame.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Morris said. “I feel fine. I heal fast. What can I say.”

“Hell, how can I get a part of that?” Sam Mausler asked. “Anything that can speed up the process is a good thing.”

“Exactly,” Janice added. “Which is why I want to know how come he’s healed so quick.”

Kirk cleared his throat. “Listen, we really don’t have time for this. There’s a monster out there and we only have a short time before he awakens. Morris heals fast. All right, but is that a bad thing? I don’t think it is. And frankly, neither should any of you. Right now, it’s the least of our worries.”

That instilled silence about the room and a few suspicious glances.

“All right,” Janice said. “It’s not a priority right now. But Morris, we know something’s wrong here. You think about that. If you got something to say, you better say it now. Especially since we’re going after a monster. God as my witness, I can smell the indecision off you. It’s unnatural.”

“Back off, Janice,” Kirk heard himself say. “You’re talking to a warden there.”

Janice regarded him, a question hooking an eyebrow, and the tension in the room swelled. “Why are you defending him?”

“I’m saying back off, is all. If Morris has anything to say, he’ll say it. I was with him the whole time.”

“Didn’t you say you were in the truck the whole time? Which is why you got away without a scratch?”

Kirk winced inside.

“Something’s off here,” Janice said to Carma. “Something definitely not right. And Morris knows exactly what’s not right.”

Morris took a breath. “Look. Let’s figure things out after we bag that bastard out there.”

“Think you’re up for it?”

“Always up for it.”

A sharp smile unzipped across Janice’s face then, suggesting she would be more than ready to hear his story.

“All right,” Carma said, releasing the building tension in the room. “Whatever it is can wait. He’s healed. We’ll need him. We’ll need Ezekiel, too, if he comes back from the dead in time. This hunt’s only just started.”

She glanced in Kirk’s direction. “Let’s eat.”

The smell of food cooking steered them away, but Morris shared a look with Kirk. The wardens knew
something
was off. They wouldn’t let it go until they found out what it was. Kirk and Morris knew it.

Carma met the Halifax warden’s eyes as she walked past him. That one glance informed Kirk that the pack leader also knew something was off about Morris.

And Kirk knew she fully intended to find out what it was.

Haley held up a large brown sweater that might have belonged to a fisherman and inspected its lovely pattern. She checked the tag, saw that it was an extra-large, and stuffed it into a weathered green eco-bag hanging off the crook of her left arm. She moved to another clothes rack filled with T-shirts, noticing a few other people furtively moving amongst the aisles of goods. Of all the shelters in Halifax-Dartmouth, the one at the north end of Barrington was the best. An old brick and mortar community hall built in the early seventies, the basketball court had been transformed into an all-in-one clothing pit stop. Divided into women, men, and children’s sections, one could peruse the aisles of clean, used clothing, take what they liked, and get the items checked off a list at a volunteer’s table. The shelter used the same system for its distribution of food, and Haley reminded herself to bring home a few edibles if she could find them. The activity placed her in a good mood. She’d missed shopping for another person.