Breeds (11 page)

Taking his time, Borland stopped and rested one hand on the bed frame, claws dramatically sinking into the wood, splintering it with a frightening crack. His curved teeth clacked. Marble eyes blazed in the dim light.

“What have you done?” Kirk asked, fear and awe flooding his words. He wiped his eyes free of blood and took a deep, steadying breath. The old bastard no longer had a knife on him, but he didn’t need one. He had his fangs.

Silver and fire were the two known methods of dispatching a werewolf in accepted lore. But a third way existed, unknown by mortals, and feared by
Weres
.

That being the jaws of their own kind.

More to the point, having one’s throat
ripped out
by another werewolf.

Kirk swallowed, feeling terror well up inside his chest. He had no time to effect his own transformation, and Borland in his freakish half-mode was infinitely stronger. Then Kirk caught a whiff of something, masked by the smell of soot and blood, but there all the same. Borland smelled it as well and cocked his head towards the outer door. His lips curled back in hatred and he spun just as an enormous wolf crashed into his midsection in a snarl of rage, sweeping both figures out of sight.

The wind blowing harder than ever, Ross plodded alongside wispy curls of white snaking over a snowy road. He’d bundled up in his black-and-yellow snowsuit and thermal gloves before getting into the car with Officer Sheard, and even though a few gusts battered his back and hurried him along, it was nothing. He was on his last leg home, perversely enjoying being out in a blizzard that was just beginning to rage.

He envisioned Officer Sheard’s profile in his head. The ol’ gal wasn’t anything to look at, but for some reason, the more he thought of her, the more attractive she became. Had to be the uniform, he figured. Still, he might just call the station a little later, use the weather as an excuse to make sure she got back safely. Maybe even strike up a conversation. It wasn’t like he had many other choices of women. Or opportunities, for that matter. Sounded better than developing a gambling problem.

A gunshot jerked him from his mulling, stopping him in his tracks. Staring into the storm and seeing very little, he yanked down his snowsuit’s hood to better hear.

Seconds later, a second blast.

Then a third.

Ross stared in the direction of Upper Amherst Cove, knowing the shots came from somewhere between where he stood and the hill, wondering if old Borland had found snow partridges around his cabin. If so, Ross expected the man to be dining only on feathers and buckshot.

He turned onto the road leading to Upper Amherst Cove and trudged through snow already three or four centimeters deep. One set of tire tracks disappeared into the storm, while two sets of fresh boot prints headed in the same direction as Ross. Someone else out for a pleasant afternoon hike.

But the gunshots made him curious.

He walked on, past the graveyard on the right, and stopped when the boot prints departed from the road and went onto Breadbox Pond. Ross stared, feeling the cold creep into his body, and wondered who Borland might have visiting him. On
this
day of days. And why the shotgun salute.

The wind teased him with the ghostly fragment of a shout, too short to recognize. Ross stood there in the forming blizzard, waiting for something. Nothing came. He fidgeted. Borland wasn’t a friend, although Ross knew of him and respected the boundaries of the man’s property. But three shotgun blasts on the arrival of quite possibly the decade’s, mayhap century’s, worst storm made him uneasy.

If anything, he supposed a quick check on Borland wouldn’t offend the old codger. Just to make sure he wasn’t face down dead or dying on his kitchen floor. It was the neighborly thing to do.

The winds lashed about, attempting to twist his head from his shoulders. Snow caked to his sides, taking the brunt of the gale. Ross spied nearby telephone lines bucking, as if twanged by lightning. It was getting right unpleasant out here.

Swearing at himself for unfounded worrying, and knowing it would bug him well until he knew otherwise, Ross started in over the pond.

Morris had transformed into a monstrous three-hundred-pound wolf. He appeared like a beast on steroids and he had
landed
on top of his foe. Borland grabbed the werewolf’s bloody mane at the last possible second and held the snapping, flashing muzzle at arm’s length. A paw and foreleg kept Borland’s own teeth back and for seconds, the two yowling beasts wrestled across the main room of the cabin. Wooden chairs crumpled. The table upended. Cups and plates rattled onto the linoleum and
still
they grappled, dusting up the ash and soot and rolling over chunks of wood. Borland twisted and finally got on top of the enormous werewolf, its body four times the size of a normal animal and thick with muscle, but before he could rain down blows, Morris raked the old
Were’s
winter clothing to shreds with his powerful hind legs. Another savage kick bounced Borland off a wall.

Righting himself, Morris stayed low to the floor, growling like an idling chainsaw and blocking the entryway. Borland’s chest heaved with the effort expended, while his clawed stomach bled and pattered the floor with darkness. One second more and Morris would have disemboweled him utterly. Horribly wounded, Borland hunched over, claws up and flexing, waiting to pounce.

Every movement Morris took, blood leaked from the cavernous hole still in his torso. Paw prints glistened darkly on the linoleum. He hobbled, lopsided from one foreleg that ended in a raw stump. The severity of Morris’s wounds equalized the fight. At full strength, the werewolf would’ve torn Borland apart in any form.

Bleeding profusely, Kirk pressed himself in the bedroom’s doorway and met the soulless eyes of Borland. No words were spoken. There was no need. The fight was just about to enter the third and final round.

“
War
,” Borland growled through fangs and he made a truly evil attempt at smiling. He flourished a claw at Morris’s head, urging him to attack. The werewolf flinched. Kirk saw the terrible, dripping wounds of his partner and wondered how long he could last.

“Morris,” Kirk breathed, taking gulps of air to clear his head. “I’ll keep him busy.”

The werewolf growled.

Borland’s eyes flickered between the pair, uncertain. He reached around his back and yanked forth a second knife just as Morris propelled himself forward with whatever strength was left in his hind legs. The great beast plowed its muzzle into the old man’s ruined midsection and chomped down on whatever was available. A scream of agony erupted from Borland. He crumpled inwards and a livid torrent of things best kept inside a person spilled over the werewolf’s broad head. Borland shrieked and twisted, and brought up his knife, the silver flashing. Kirk leaped for the weapon as it stabbed deep into Morris’s shoulder. The werewolf thrashed as if electrified. Kirk slammed into them both, taking them all into the kitchen. Silver scythed out and licked his chest to the bone, opening him up with a hiss. He gripped Borland’s knife wrist and twisted it around, glimpsing the evil effort on the monster’s face. Kirk forced the blade down, aiming for an eye. Borland dug long claws into his side, groping for kidneys and rendering him breathless.

Then the Newfoundlander was yanked from underneath Kirk like a moldy rug. Morris, far from finished, clamped down on his victim’s ankle and pulled back, shattering the bone like kindling, twisting it like a cheap chew toy. The werewolf backed up against a wall, jerking his head from side to side, ripping Borland’s foot off. The old man yowled and pushed himself up against the doorframe to his kitchen.

Kirk crawled on hands and knees to put distance from the combatants––and jerked his fingers away from a glowing silver Bowie lying amongst the junks of wood. Energy flared inside his wrecked body as he snatched up the weapon and stood into a knife fighter’s crouch, returning to the fray. The old
Were
snarled at them both, livid with pain and rage, frothing at the corners of the bear trap of his mouth.

Morris crept in on the right, his eyes flaring murderously.

Kirk did the same on his left, Bowie poised in an overhand grip.

Then, as if entering the heart of the tempest, where time slowed, Borland’s expression softened. He chuckled almost good-naturedly, coughed, and bared stained and broken teeth.

“Wait, y’fuckin’… peckerheads,” he grunted and placed a red hand over the gruesome hole Morris had ripped in his belly. “Them I’se killed? The first one. Weren’t no warden.”

This paused the pair.

“They’ll be… after ya, one day,” Borland croaked, struggling to form the words around his canine fangs. His eyes flickered from one to the other. “Young shits. Like yerselves. The moment… ye grow a backbone.”

Kirk glanced at Morris. The werewolf hunched up, preparing to leap.

“When ye… reach my age. Ye’ll see. The lies.” Borland licked his teeth, nodded, and winked. “Jus’ wait.”

He emptied his lungs in a lengthy sigh then, in one final, weary breath of defeat. There was no last stand. No more resistance. Borland simply sat and wheezed, slumped against the doorframe, bleeding, and waited. He looked to the snow-covered window, as if longing to see the ice and snow over the water one last time.

Morris went for his throat.

Kirk charged in and stabbed, pounding silver into whatever wasn’t wolf hide.

Somewhere halfway across the pond, along twin boot tracks, Ross stopped in the swirling snow and marveled in horror at what he was hearing. Growls and yips of rage and pain stabbed the air––short, discordant notes piercing the ghostly voice of the blizzard. Ross stood there on the ice, sensing he had split the distance to Borland’s cabin. He kept trudging through drifts with violently smoking crests, very much aware of the growing unease in his guts… and the budding fear of what he might find.

The winds cut across the open expanse of the pond, raging against him, seeking to sweep him off his feet or freeze his blood solid. Ross disappointed the elements and forged ahead.

Minutes later, the dark shape of Borland’s cabin appeared in the heart of the blizzard. Ross halted and grimaced. Wood or rope groaned in the gale and for a moment, that eerie sawing of fibers caused his whole person to buzz with fright. Summoning reserves of courage he didn’t know he possessed, he pushed forward, fearful of frost fairies or displaced yeti bursting out from under the snow and grabbing him.

Shredded clothing materialized out of the frosty gloom, clumped around a starburst of blood. A heavy leather duster lay crumpled nearby, along with the remains of what looked to be a sweater and jeans. Motorcycle boots, intact, lay in a heap. The walnut handle of a shotgun jutted out of a small drift, nearly swallowed in white. Ross stared at the gruesome scene, his fear doubling, forcing him to take a moment to steady himself. There was no body, or perhaps it was already covered over by the snow. He decided it was safer not to touch anything, and was goddamn glad he thought of it. Blood, boots and something else all headed towards––

A startling creak of wood spun him around and he fixed on the ruined mouth of Borland’s cabin.
Jesus H. Christ
. Ross figured a linebacker must have been fired from a cannon into the door, shattering it asunder. A length of wood dangled from the upper frame, creaking with each gust and tapping out a soft code on the cabin’s bulk.

No sound came from the wrecked doorway. The trail of blood and tracks ended at the front steps.

Ross cleared his throat. “Hey!”

And waited. When no response came forth, he called out again. “Hey! Borland! Yer blueberry wine blow up on ya?”

Nothing.

Sweet Jesus, Ross did
not
want to venture into that wooden cave. A good Samaritan he could be, but not a fucking exorcist
.
And right now, it looked a sure bet that the Devil himself had risen up with a couple of his demonic buddies and kicked the unholy shit out of Walt Borland’s cabin. A blast of wind teetered him, chilling him to the bone, and when he righted himself, his attention went back to the destroyed doorway and the cabin’s boarded up windows. Alberta was looking better and better to him with each passing second, but Ross Kelly wasn’t a person of half measures.

“Borland! Y’old fucker! You in there?”

The wind answered.

If Borland was inside, he wasn’t in a talkative mood.

Shaking his head, Ross wished to God he’d picked up a cell phone yesterday. Or the week before. He’d have one surgically implanted after this episode. He highly doubted Borland had a phone. Then he spotted what looked to be a knife in the snow, and again swore off touching the blade.

“Borland!” Ross pleaded and his shoulders slumped. “Goddamnit.”

Bending his legs to his will, he forced himself to walk towards the beckoning hole in the cabin, knowing he wasn’t going to like what he found. No sir. His fear gauge spiked. His breath came fast and he readied himself to blaze a trail back over the ice if he had to hightail it. Ross wasn’t proud. He might be a recluse, but he was pragmatic about situations and knowing when he was in over his head.

He climbed the few steps to the cabin, as reluctant as a child about to cross a darkened bedroom floor, to see if there really was a monster lurking in the closet. Squinting against the crosswinds, he gazed inside.

“Oh… my…” Ross’s eyes widened.

With his winter boots pointed to the ceiling, Borland lay on his back and looked as if he’d been the main course in somebody’s gory luau. A knife hilt stuck out of his chest, right where his heart would be, but the very addition of the weapon appeared like overkill. To Borland’s right, amongst a floor coated in a nauseating soup of blood, guts and wood junks, a stranger lay in a denim coat with a stained polar bear collar. His chin rested on his chest, clothes drenched in maroon.

To the left of Borland…

Well. Shit.

There were no wolves on Newfoundland, at least according to the Department of Wildlife. Ross himself had never come across any sight or sign of the animals in his time outdoors. He recalled the last documented wolf sighting had occurred decades ago, when animal biologists suggested the beasts could have reached the island by floating over on pans of ice. There had been cases of coyote hybrids that resembled wolves roaming the wild, since the two species could potentially interbreed, and it had been only a year ago or so when a local hunter (Ross knew the guy, lived in Bonavista) shot and killed an animal with mixed genes. That specimen had weighed a paltry eighty pounds and, prior to being identified, had sprouted considerable speculation as to whether there were more of the animals on the island.