LYCANTHROPY  Contestant

“Remind me again why I don’t have a quiet office job,” said Detective Hardy.

The constable beside him laughed, a short, bitter sound. He squinted up into the rain falling from the black, menacing sky then looked back down at the corpse lying in the alley. Watery blood ran from numerous gaping wounds, reflecting the streetlight.  “The glamour?”

Hardy echoed the constables humourless laugh. “So let’s see. Male caucasian, around twenty-five, fit looking. Multiple lacerations and bite marks. Throat torn out. Discovered by a wino. That cover it?”

The constable nodded. “The wino was in quite a state, shouting about a monster eating someone.”

Hardy raised an eyebrow, glancing to the end of the alley where the constable’s car was parked. The constable’s partner stood there with a bedraggled old man. The old man had his back to the alley, his shoulders visibly trembling. “He saw the attack?”

“So he says. He turned into the alley and saw the monster. He screamed, the monster ran, he ran too. He found us right outside the alley. Those are some pretty massive bite marks?” The constable sounded almost impressed.

Hardy nodded.

“Even an German Shepherd wouldn’t have a mouth that big.”

Hardy sighed. “Well, let’s ask him some questions.”

As they walked Hardy looked at the constable. There was a broad cut down his right cheek, still leaking blood. The rain washed the blood pink over his collar. “What happened to you?” Hardy asked, trying to light a cigarette without it getting wet.

The constable raised one hand to stroke the wound. He smiled at Hardy.

“A little fracas earlier on. Nothing serious.”

Hardy shrugged. He let it go as they reached the constable’s partner and the trembling wino, terror still evident in the old man’s eyes.

“Can you tell me exactly what you saw?” he asked. He drew deeply on his cigarette.

“I- d-don’t know,” the old man replied, his voice gravelly from years of drinking and smoking whatever he could find. He looked nervously at the constable. “I heard this growling and crunching and saw this beast! I screamed like a girl the second I saw it and… I musta made it
jump, cuz it just bolted.” He looked at the constable again, fear bright in his eyes.

Hardy glanced at the constable, who grinned at him. “What do you mean by beast?” Hardy asked the wino.

The old man raised both hands. “Like a giant dog or a wolf, only it stood on two legs like a man.”

“Sounds like a werewolf,” the constable said with a smile. His partner chuckled quietly. The wino whimpered.

Hardy laughed. “A werewolf!”

The constable looked at him sharply. “You don’t believe in werewolves?”

“Certainly not!”

“So what else could have made bite marks that big?”

Hardy shrugged. “I have no idea, but it wasn’t a werewolf!”

The constable smiled, a disturbing twist to one side of his mouth. Hardy stared at him for a moment, then looked to his partner. The constable’s partner smiled softly and shrugged. He had dark eyes that glittered in the low light. “Did you call the homicide team?” Hardy
asked.

The beep of a car horn prevented the need for an answer as two more cars pulled up. Hardy went and spoke to the men that climbed from the cars, grimacing at the rain. He pointed down the alley. The men nodded. Hardy returned to the constables and their charge. “You better
take him in.”

“I don’t wanna go!” the wino said quickly, eyes wild. His hands started trembling violently.

Hardy smiled. “Standard procedure. We got to get a proper statement from you.”

The constable squeezed the wino’s shoulder. “We’ll take good care of you.” His smile was broad as he opened the back door of his car and helped the old man in. He and his partner got in the front and they drove slowly away. The old wino looked back as they went, his ashen
face bright in the dark frame of the rear screen. Hardy ground out his cigarette in a puddle as he watched them go.

A homicide photographer paused as he passed Hardy. “Who were those two uniforms?” he asked, gesturing after the car.

Hardy shrugged. “No idea. I’m on temp assignment in this district.”

The photographer stared after them. As they disappeared from sight he said, “I don’t recognise them.” He set the flash on his camera and strolled on, leaving Hardy alone in the pouring rain. Hardy chuckled to himself as he walked to the street, using an unusually long fingernail to pick a small wad of red flesh from between his teeth.

________

©2010 Alan Baxter

Alan is an author living on the south coast of NSW, Australia. He writes dark fantasy, sci fi and horror, rides a motorcycle and loves his dog. He also teaches Kung Fu. Read his short stories, novella and novel extracts at his website - www.alanbaxteronline.com - and feel
free to tell him what you think. About anything.

LYCANTHROPY CONTESTANT

Kinsel waited patiently to kill.  He crouched behind a cluster of trees, peering into the gloom of the forest.  The trees were dark, the shadows even darker, blacker.  If it weren’t for the pale light of the full moon sifting down through the trees, he wouldn’t be able to see the narrow trail twenty feet in front of him.  He was grateful for the light.
 
The forest was alive with sounds.  Crickets chirped seemingly all around.  Night birds cawed endlessly.  Something shuffled through the leaves and underbrush to his right.  Sweat poured off his face, but he remained steady, in control.  He gripped his handgun and focused forward.  He watched the trail, silent and alert, his muscles tensed.  He knew his prey – a tall, dark haired man named Allan Parker would soon come jogging toward him along the trail.  Then he would pounce.
 
Kinsel had been a contract killer for nearly twenty years now, and it never surprised him to see his schedule practically fully booked all year around.  Lucky for him there never seemed to be a shortage of people with deep enough pockets who wanted others dead and out of the way.  Even the failing economy that had plunged the whole country into a deepening recession had done little to hurt his business.  Murder for hire, it seemed, was a recession proof industry.
 
It’s a good thing too, he thought.  With two kids in college and an ungrateful wife who spends money like water, I need all the money I can get my hands on. 
 
A loud cracking of branches broke his reverie.  The sound was close, directly ahead.  He raised his gun and took aim.  He searched the shadows, his forefinger curling tighter around the curved steel of the trigger.  He held that position, poised, waiting…
 
Nothing happened.  Mr. Parker never appeared.  After another minute or so, Kinsel decided that it must have only been an animal and lowered his gun.  He wiped the sweat from his eyes and looked off to his left.
 
The Parker Mansion was clearly visible in the distance through the dark foliage.  Floodlights illuminated its stone exterior, its steeply pitched roof threatening to pierce the stars.  An upstairs window shone with light, and he focused on that.  Despite the distance and the gently shifting trees, he could clearly see the shapely silhouette of Suzanne Parker standing before the window.           
Probably waiting to hear the gunshots and her husband’s screams, he thought.  Suzanne Parker had hired Kinsel to kill her husband.  During their only conversation, she had told him that Allan enjoyed nighttime runs through the vast woods at the east end of their property.  As soon as he heard that, Kinsel knew where the deed would take place.
 
A second figure appeared at the window.  Silhouetted against the light, the woman’s big breasts and perfect hourglass figure were clearly defined.  She was several inches taller, and her hair was much longer than Mrs. Parker’s shoulder length curls.  The second woman placed a soft hand upon Mrs. Parker’s shoulder.  The two women faced each other.  After a brief hesitation, they fully embraced, and as they kissed, Kinsel felt a sudden stirring in his loins.  Now there’s a motive, he thought.  Wants her hubby gone so she could have unfettered love with her girlfriend.  Nice.      
 
Just as he looked away to refocus upon the trail, a deep menacing growl rumbled through the forest.  The tiny hairs on the back of his neck bristled.  Instinctively, he raised the handgun and prepared to empty the clip.  A soft breeze rustled the trees, carrying with it the pungent, musky odor of wet dog and sweat.  He frowned against the stench and crouched lower.  He scanned the woods, feeling his pulse quicken.  It had to be a bear, he thought.      
 
Then he looked ahead, and his eyes and his gut told him that it wasn’t.  Shock pulled his mouth agape.  Terror froze him in place.  The creature that stood in the middle of the trail was something that he’d read about in horror magazines as a kid, but never thought he’d encounter as an adult. 
 
Covered in thick, dark fur and standing about nine feet tall on its hind legs, the beast loomed like a nightmare.  Its massive head sat atop big, round shoulders.  Its heavily muscled chest puffed out with each throaty breath.  A slim waist flowed into its two huge, powerful rear legs.  The creature stepped closer, and its long black claws scraped and tore at the hard-packed earth.  Kinsel gaped in horror at the creature’s face.  Two sunken, soulless eyes peered out below a heavy brow.  A long snout jutted out from its face.  A hungry, salivating leer split the monster’s mouth wide, and its huge white fangs glinted in the moonlight. 
 
Kinsel’s heart hammered.  Knots of terror churned in his belly.  A thought so outrageous suddenly occurred to him and he hated even considering it.  This is Allan Parker, he thought, and he is a werewolf.  Ridiculous.  Werewolves do not exist.  As if it had heard his inner thoughts and rejected it, the creature reared its head back toward the full moon and let out a long, deep, penetrating howl.         
 
It’s distracted now.  Shoot it! his mind screamed.  Kinsel fought back against the debilitating fear, released a howl of his own, and squeezed the trigger until the gun clicked empty…
 
It did nothing.  It was as if the gun shot blanks instead of heavy, hollow-point loads. 
 
The creature absorbed the rounds and leveled its mean glare in his direction, emitting a deep, throaty growl in anticipation of its feast.
 
Then it pounced.
 
From the open window of the master bedroom, the loud, painful screams of a terrified man pierced the summer night until wet, snarling sounds drowned them out.
 
Mrs. Kinsel stood naked at the window, peering out into the night.  She gazed into her lover’s eyes.  “It worked.”
Mrs. Parker grinned.  “At least Allan is still good for something.”
            
___________

© 2010 John Connors

 John Connors lives in Pennsylvania with his wife, Jaime.  He has several published credits with his first professional sale forthcoming in W.W. Norton’s Hint Fiction Anthology.  You can visit him online at www.johnlconnors.wordpress.com