Ravenous (22 page)

He opened his mouth to reveal large fangs. And then, with ... popping and ... and crunching sounds, his face ... it
elongated
. The lower half of his face jutted outward. His nose became two twitching, glistening black nostrils at the end of a snout.

Debra and Rose kept screaming.

The man's face darkened, and I realized that was because he was very rapidly growing hair all over it. His height suddenly increased, right before my eyes. The tattered clothes that once hung off his body in loose strips were now tight because his body had thickened and become quite muscular.

The screams were awful. Now, along with Debra and Rose, the maid, Mrs. Blevins, screamed, too, and there were more screams coming from the other servants.

The man slapped my face. That was what it felt like at first, a simple but very hard slap. And then my slapped face began to bleed, and blood ran into my eyes and mouth. He slapped me again and again, all the while his thin, black lips grinning around all those sharp teeth. All I knew was that I was in terrible pain and bleeding badly. But I had to do something, I
had
to. Something irritating seemed to be attached to my face—several small hanging objects clung to my cheeks and forehead, dangling annoyingly. I did not realize at the time that it was torn skin dangling from my skull.

I do not remember much from that point onward. Mostly flashes of things. Blood splattering the walls. The sight of my wife's throat torn out and gushing and spurting blood. My daughter's clothes torn, her bare pregnant belly sliced open. I remember seeing them play catch with the bloody infant, then they took it apart and ate it, all three of them, sharing it among themselves.

I do not remember much. But I remember
that
.

I remember enough. More than enough.

And who was causing all this bloodshed? Was it two strange men and a strange woman? No, not anymore. They were no longer human. They were three monsters. Three tall, hairy, fanged, clawed
monsters
.

I woke up in a hospital, raving about werewolves. They drugged me, I went under, and slept for a few more days. When I came to again, I knew better than to tell the truth. If I did, they would most likely put me away. Instead, I described the two men and one woman who initially came into the house. They had me look at some mug shots, and I identified all three of them. Common criminals.

But that was down the line a ways. First, I had a few operations on my face. They did their best, but ... it was too far gone ever to be made normal again.

I sold my house, I liquidated everything. I led a relatively humble life as I did a lot of reading on the Internet about werewolves. I became very familiar with the legend, but I found that it had little to do with the truth. I set up a lab and hired scientists, all of whom signed non-disclosure agreements. I set them to work on the problem.

I have hunted down and killed the woman, and one of the men.

The remaining man who killed my family was Irving Taggart. And he is here, in Big Rock.

 

* * * *

 

Hurley had stopped eating halfway through Fargo's story, and now stared at him across the table. The inner chill that had hit him earlier had grown worse.

“I'm very sorry about your family,” Hurley said quietly. “I intend to find Irving Taggart, and when I do, I'll do my best to see to it that he's charged with that along with everything else.”

Fargo chuckled as he closed his eye and slowly turned his head back and forth. “You will not be catching him, Sheriff Hurley.” He opened his eye. “That is not to say you aren't
good
enough to catch him. If he were just another human being, I have every confidence that you would, indeed, bring him to justice. But he is not. He is a very dangerous animal now, Sheriff Hurley. And he leads a growing pack of other very dangerous animals. He must be tracked down and killed like an animal, or he will continue to kill and eat people, to spread his monstrous virus, and to create more animals like himself. That is what I have been doing for the last fifteen years—tracking werewolves wherever I can find them. Fortunately for us, in my trek across the country, I have not encountered many. That means they have not yet settled in, they haven't really dug in their heels. Not yet. But they could, and it could begin right here in Big Rock.”

“But, Mr. Fargo, I can't just—”

“Irving Taggart raped and infected Emily Crane when she broke down beside the road,” Fargo said. “We know that much. Emily Crane then—I'm guessing, now—killed and ate her family. Am I right about that, Sheriff?”

Hurley hesitated a moment, then said, “Her, um ... her husband. Her children weren't home.”

Fargo said, “Did you find the remains of a pet? A dog, or a cat?”

Hurley lowered his eyes and stared at his walnut shrimp. He did not want to admit that he had found the cat. He still had not decided yet whether or not that detail would be released to the press.

“You did,” Fargo said, his deep voice low. “Was it a cat, as you thought?”

Hurley gave the slightest of nods.

“Yes. It fits the pattern. Emily Crane was infected, and a couple days later, she was overwhelmed by a hunger for bloody raw meat. She was most likely given sedatives after the attack, and they slowed down the process, which is why it took a bit longer than usual. Typically, it happens within twenty-four hours. The raw steak or hamburger, or whatever it was she ate, did not satisfy her, because it was not warm and alive. She wanted fresh meat. Hot, pumping blood. She found it in her cat. Then her husband. My guess is that she insisted they have sex first, because that is part of what she craved, as well. Physical contact, orgasm, release—these are the other things for which the werewolf hungers. A very savage release, because it was very likely at that point that she began to eat her husband.”

“Uh, look, you've already ruined my dinner.” Hurley sat back and pushed his plate away.

“I am sorry, but this is not a time to be delicate. You have a virus to contain, Sheriff.”

“If I
believe
you.”

“Oh, no, not at all. You have a virus to contain whether you believe me or not.” He smiled. “It is simply a matter of whether or not you decide to do something about it before more and more people contract it, and spread it.”

Crushed ice coursed through Hurley's veins.

What if he's right?
he wondered. As unlikely as it seemed, that thing on the lawn in front of the Cranes' house gave some support to what Fargo said. Hurley had looked at it, listened to it dying. It
had
been Emily Crane—and it
had
been half ... something else.

But what?
he thought. Was it true? Could such a thing be possible?

Hurley said, “What are you going to do if I don't believe you? If I ignore you, tell you to go away?”

“I will continue to do what it is I do. I will track Irving Taggart down and kill him before he can rape anymore women and spread the virus. I will do my best to hunt down the others and kill them, as well. That will be easier once Taggart is dead. As I said, he links with them telepathically and has a good deal of control over them. Once he's dead, they will be weakened and confused. I will endeavor to make up for what you will not be doing. But I am just one man. You have an entire force at your command. With all that manpower, with the two of us working together, I think we could shut this virus down quickly. But it will take resolve, Sheriff. And great determination.”

“Resolve and determination? To go around killing people because we
think
they're actually
werewolves
? That
takes
resolve
? I'll tell you what it takes, Fargo. It takes a fucking psycho to do that. You want me to go through town and wipe some people out, just do some wholesale slaughter. You want me to—”

“I want you to
stop
them, Sheriff, before they over
take
this town, and then the next town, and the next. Before the infection spreads and becomes a nationwide plague.”

Hurley closed his eyes a moment, rolled them once behind his eyelids, and said, “And how does such an infection spread ... he said, asking for it.”

“Haven't I told you yet?” Fargo said. “I thought I had. Well ... it spreads insidiously and quickly, Sheriff Hurley, because people, in the end, have learned nothing. It spreads easily because people have become complacent and not only fail, but
refuse
to take the precautions that only a couple decades ago were so—”

“Look, could you spare me the lecture?”

Fargo nodded once. “I'm sorry. The myth has it that it's passed through the bite. Not so, not at all. Besides, if one of those things starts biting you, it's going to
eat
you, so a virus is the least of your problems. No, this is more clever, more subtle. It is passed by way of the werewolf's other hunger, its other savage need.” He arched a torn eyebrow over his good eye and smiled, although his disfigurement made his smile rather grotesque. “It is sexually transmitted, Sheriff Hurley.”

Hurley froze. His lungs became blocks of ice in his chest.

Something about those words ... the idea of some horrible virus that was sexually transmitted ... something new and unknown that turned people into bloodthirsty monsters ... it chilled him to the marrow of his bones.

Then Hurley remembered who he was listening to—Daniel Fargo: werewolf hunter.

Hurley stood and tossed his napkin onto the table. He leaned in and grabbed his jacket, put it on, and said, “I don't want to see you around during this investigation. During
any
investigation. Is that clear? If you show up, I'll arrest you for interfering, and anything else I can think of, and I will put you in
jail
. Is that understood, Mr. Fargo?”

“Clearly you are unable to admit to me what you've already—”

“Don't tell me what I'm thinking, either, dammit! I hate that. It pisses me off, and I'm already pissed. What you're asking me to do—I'm tempted to arrest you right now. In fact—” He quickly produced a pad and pen. “Where are you staying in town?”

“The Beachcomber Motor Lodge. Would you like to see my driver's license?”

“Please.”

Fargo removed his wallet, slid the license out, and handed it to the sheriff. Hurley copied down the relevant information from the license and handed it back. Fargo put it away again

Hurley put the pad and pen away, then stabbed a finger at Fargo. “Don't leave town. You'll be hearing from me regarding the investigation into Emily Crane's death. In the meantime, stay away from me and my deputies. If you show up in the course of this investigation, or any others, my deputies will be instructed to arrest you on sight, just for showing up.”

“Actually, I don't believe you can do that,” Fargo said, frowning.

Hurley bent forward at the waist and said, “Well, it doesn't
matter
whether you believe it or not, you
will
be arrested.” He turned and took broad steps to the front of the restaurant. Mrs. Lee was at the register. “I'm in a rush, Mrs. Lee. You have my card number, just charge it, with the usual tip. And could you please have those leftovers packed up and sent over to the station for me?”

Always smiling, she nodded. “Of course, Sheriff, I'll have my son drive it over right away.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Lee. Give my best to your family.”

He left the restaurant and walked into the damp cold of the parking lot outside. The sea smell on the air came with a chilling bite. He wanted to slam a door, or put his fist through something. He hated it when people thought they knew what he was thinking, as if he were so predictable he could be read like a newspaper comic strip. And he hated crackpots who interfered with investigations.

Hurley took a few deep breaths, let them out slowly. Then he unlocked the door of the SUV, and got in.

Werewolves
, he thought, and that icy chill fell over him again, a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. It reached him in places the winter weather could not.

He thought of that hideous thing on the Cranes' lawn—the big, lolling breasts, the fat belly. Emily Crane.

Werewolves,
he thought again.

This time, he turned on the heater, and turned it up high.

 

 

 

27

 

Jason's Story

 

 

Hurley stared at the boy for awhile, holding his cap in his right hand, his right wrist held before him with his left hand. He did not want to believe he'd really heard what he thought the boy had just said.

He pulled the green, vinyl-upholstered chair in the corner over to the bedside. The pale blue curtain had been drawn all the way around the Emergency Room bed, so they were alone, just Hurley and Jason Sutherland. Hurley sat down in the chair. He suddenly felt tired, and his knees felt weak. He sat on the front edge of the chair, both hands holding his cap between his spread knees.

“A, uh ... a
wolf
, you said?” Hurley said, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat.

The wounds on Jason's face and arm had been cleaned, stitches had been administered, and bandages applied. The white bandages covered his forehead and right cheek, and his upper left arm was wrapped in pristine white, as well. His dark hair sprouted in all directions, with strands of sparkling white in it.

When Hurley first had entered the room and pulled the curtain around the bed, Jason had been smiling. He'd said he felt surprisingly good, and that the doctor said his wounds weren't as deep as they'd first thought, and would probably heal well. He'd been in good spirits, a little goofy from the painkiller. Until Hurley asked for a detailed account of everything he remembered. Then the young man's mood had darkened.

“That's right,” Jason said. “A wolf.”

“There was a wolf ...
inside
the Crane house?”