Bestial Page 8
“All those people,” she muttered.
“Nobody could still be alive in there,” he said, staring slack-jawed into the eye of the inferno, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the blaze.
“Hey, do you hear that?”
“What?” Rick asked, still stunned.
“I hear voices, from over there.”
She pointed north.
Rick strained his ears, listening. He could indeed hear voices, dim and far away.
“Come on,” he said, pulling Chesya forward by the hand. They raced up the hill, dodging sinkholes, corpses, and the spidery people in the shadows. The sound grew louder, until they had sprinted five blocks.
They could also hear a loud mechanical sound, and they headed east for another block. The noise issued from the Lone Wolf Café, a small diner and corner bar. This area didn’t seem to be as thoroughly ravaged as Sixth Street. Automobiles were parked in the street, instead of crashed into each other. None had hopped the curb and been totaled along the sidewalk. No buildings seemed ready to fall on them, and the fire damage was minimal.
Pressing the door open, Rick heard the sounds grow louder, and he recognized the mechanical puttering. “It’s a generator,” he shouted, stepping into the café. Chesya followed cautiously. A bell announced their entry, tinkling softly over the sound of a man’s voice. She locked the door behind her.
“A television,” she said, taking a seat at the lunch counter.
Above the cooking area was a thirty-two-inch TV, and an announcer sat at the news desk of Channel Five. Rick scanned the room and saw nobody, so he cautiously moved down the aisle. The counter and stools were on his right-hand side, and booths lined the opposite flank near large, unbroken windows. The tinny voice of the news anchor followed him.
“The generator must be back this way,” he said, pushing aside a curtain at the end of the café. “Yeah, there’s a room back here. Looks like the owner has an apartment …”
He stopped suddenly, the sound of the generator very loud in his ears and the stench of burning gasoline filling his nostrils. On the floor before him lay a dead man, a gun in his hand, his legs twisted over each other, his brains decorating the white sofa behind him. A few feet away, slumped in a chair, was a middle-aged woman, the left side of her face missing where the man had shot her.
Fighting the urge to vomit, Rick backed out of the little apartment. He could almost taste the stifling death in the room.
Chesya had found her way around the counter and had opened a walk-in freezer.
“Hey,” she said. “You find the owners?”
“They’re dead.” He took a seat at the counter, turning his face toward the TV set. “Killed themselves rather than face each other in the daylight.”
“Oh, Rick, I’m sorry. You saw them?”
He nodded.
“. . . until further details arrive, we are trying to piece together what occurred last night …,” the talking head on the television said.
Chesya pulled food from the freezer: slices of ham, a carton of eggs, milk. Setting them on the counter, she turned on the grill. “I can make us some food as soon as this heats up. Are you hungry?”
He hadn’t thought about it, but he hadn’t eaten in nearly a day. As if on cue, his stomach rumbled. He nodded at her, still thinking about the owners, who had wanted to die before they saw anything else.
“Eggs and ham all right?”
“Yeah.” His voice seemed hollow, smaller, lacking all of the bravado he’d been managing to fake.
“You’ll feel a little better when you get something in your stomach,” she said, holding her hand over the warming grill. “That was always my mama’s philosophy. Then we can sit and think this out, watch the news, and see what’s actually going on out there.”
He nodded, hungry and salivating over the faint smell of food. Taking a stool at the counter, he placed his Glock next to the salt and pepper shakers, comforted a bit by its proximity. There were still, what, eight shots remaining in the clip?
Their eyes moved to the anchorman, who sat behind a desk, in a white shirt, circles of perspiration around his armpits and across his chest. He had not waited to have his hair or makeup completed, and he seemed waxy and pale under the studio lights.
10
SEPTEMBER 17, 10:45 A.M.
NEWSCAST
GRAPHIC: Emergency Bulletin … Channel 5 News …
(Music cue)
RUNNING BANNER: … alternating emergency shelters as added by authorities …
(Cue anchor)
FRED MIKELSON: Good morning. Fred Mikelson, Channel Five News. Channel Five will continue its emergency coverage of what has been christened Lycanthrope Syndrome by authorities everywhere. News is still sparse, but we will strive to keep you informed of any new discoveries and relate any safety precautions you should take. On the banner below, you’ll find the names of hospitals or shelters where you can find medical attention, food, and clean water. You’ll have to excuse us. We’re working with a skeleton crew here at the station, but we will do everything we can to keep you informed.
To recap, as night fell yesterday, most of the human beings in the tricounty area mutated into werewolf-like creatures, leaving only a few people unchanged. There was no indication of what caused this sudden transformation in over ninety-five percent of the population, but it has resulted in terrible chaos and loss of life.
It’s difficult to believe that this has happened, but we have exclusive Channel Five footage from a surveillance camera outside Fountain Square.
(Cue footage—roll tape)
Black-and-white, shaky, silent footage shows heavy traffic in the streets stopping, several cars bumping into each other. One car veers wildly to the left, running over a couple holding hands and slamming into a wall. There is movement within the cars, shadowy and indistinct. A few doors open, and people stumble out of their automobiles, tearing at their clothes as more traffic piles up around them.
MIKELSON: As a warning to our viewers, some of this footage is shocking and graphic, and if small children are watching, we advise that you send them to another room. As you can plainly see, the transformation seems to have occurred in everyone at roughly the same time.
(Tape rolling)
A man falls on the hood of a car, ripping off his shirt, exposing his naked back. Odd shifts in his skeletal structure are clearly seen, as is the sprouting of thick fur along his bare skin. He seems to be struggling with the transformation, shuddering as though caught in an epileptic fit.
MIKELSON: From what we can tell, the metamorphosis begins between the shoulder blades. You can see the way the back changes, the bones relocating beneath the skin as he starts to grow hair over his body. As he turns, you can see the way his face elongates into a snout. Witnesses have stated that the sounds of crunching bone can be heard during this process. Observe the way the ears seem to stretch, fold themselves forward into concave shapes, similar to a dog or a bear. Can we slow this bit down, Alan? Thanks.
(Tape rolling)
The man’s mouth opens, and the tape crawls in slow motion, a frame at a time. His teeth seem to push outward from bleeding gums, making room for longer, sharper fangs that shove their way past the normal teeth. The old teeth remain, crowded into a growing maw that makes room for the additional dental work. The hair distends a frame at a time.
MIKELSON: The entire process seems to take about two to three minutes. The resulting hybrid appears to be similar to a wolf, but with bear-like aspects, especially in the way they rear up on their hind legs. The claws appear to be a little more than an inch long, and the teeth about three to four inches at their largest. The animal, once completely transformed from the human, is aggressive and carnal.
(Tape rolling)
The creature flips itself to its four legs on the hood of the car, smashing the metal beneath heavy feet. Whipping its head from side to side, it pounces upon a woman who was in the process of transforming. It rips out her throat in a single, massiv
e bite. She claws for a moment, then dies as the beast feeds on her. Blood shoots across the street in an arterial spray. Behind them, others have changed and are racing through the stalled cars, attacking other animals. Several of them begin copulating, the male thrusting from behind, the females raising their heads to the night sky and howling silently. Some of the females fight back, clawing and biting, but the males continue their incessant pounding.
(Tape stop)
MIKELSON: We have in the studio Doctor Ralph Graver, a specialist in the behavior of mammals, especially wolves. Doctor Graver, let me start by being blunt. Are these actually werewolves?
RALPH GRAVER: No, Fred, I don’t believe they are, although they display some of the distinctive physical traits of wolves—the pointed ears, the elongated canine snout. This is something else altogether.
MIKELSON: Like what?
GRAVER: In Eastern European mythology, the werewolf is an offshoot of the lycanthrope, a mystical human who can shape-shift into a large animal, like a wolf or bear or lion. Although the European lycanthrope can only be killed using silver, whether pummeled to death by something silver or the infamous silver bullet, these creatures last night could be killed in any manner that a human could. Many were torn apart or shot by regular bullets or run over with cars. Still, there could be a grain of truth in these myths, and it would be easier if we simply refer to them as lycanthropes. It’s as good a name as any.
MIKELSON: It does appear as though all of them changed back this morning in the daylight. What can you tell us about these creatures’ behaviors?
GRAVER: Very little, as of yet. We need to study the people who have changed, as well as the ones who didn’t. From the tapes I’ve watched, it seems that they become extremely animalistic, lacking anything resembling human social faculties. They exist simply to kill, eat, and reproduce. They seek to fulfill only the basest needs of ourselves and of the animals these creatures seem to emulate.
MIKELSON: Food and sex?
GRAVER: Yes. I believe that’s right, but we should know more in a few days. I do want to warn people that tonight there will be another full moon, just like last night. Taking precautions wouldn’t be such a bad idea, especially if they have family members who did not transform yesterday.
MIKELSON: Doctor Graver, just what effect does the full moon have on the transformation?
GRAVER: Once again, we aren’t sure. It could have something to do with the wavelength of the moonlight during a full moon, a physical catalyst to the change. Then again, several werewolf myths maintain it’s related to the effect of the moon on tides. The blood is affected in a similar manner, you see? In any case, there’s a full moon tonight, and there will be a full moon for a few hours on the following night. It’s best not to take chances. If you didn’t change, it’s very important that you relocate to one of the shelters that we’ll soon announce. We are in the process of setting up these shelters for such people, safe houses where they can sleep tonight. We need to interview them, to find out why they are immune to the metamorphosis. We also need to be sure they remain safe, even if that means hiding them someplace.
MIKELSON: We’ll know more about that later, as the mayor, the vice mayor, the chief of police, and even this station’s manager are still missing.
GRAVER: Well, if they haven’t shown up yet, they’re probably dead.
MIKELSON: Um … thank you, Dr. Graver. More later. As a reminder, the rolling banner below shows places where you can receive medical attention as well as eat breakfast. Volunteers and staffers in these locations can tell you where to go in case the moon actually does bring about this metamorphosis tonight.
So far, we aren’t sure about the extent of this epidemic. Phone lines are down, as is the electricity in most areas. We have managed to e-mail a fellow television station in London, and they report that there’ve been no occurrences of Lycanthrope Syndrome in Great Britain. This is also the case with affiliates in Mexico and Australia. Our stations in New York and Los Angeles report that there have been no sightings. In the meantime, we have sent a reporter with a camera to the Ohio River, where several people have reported sustained gunfire and explosions. When he returns, we hope to have more data, but it seems as though, so far, the phenomena is limited to the immediate Cincinnati area. Stay tuned. …
11
SEPTEMBER 17, 11:55 A.M.
When Christian saw the damage the beast-men had inflicted upon his city, he could think of only one man who might have answers. Since living on the streets, he knew only one smart person: the old Frenchman who paid him for sexual favors—Jean. He was a scientist. He would know what was causing this insanity.
Christian knew where the old man lived, having eaten there, showered there, and sometimes done business there. Tracking down the old man was going to be difficult for him, as it added a lot of baggage. Still, if he was going to survive—unlike the people he was stepping over in the streets, who were now just mutilated corpses—he would need someone who could guide him. He would need an adult, even if it was some old dude who liked young guys.
He could, of course, return home, but the monsters that dwelled there were far more daunting than the ones that had run wild in the streets. The werewolf-things seemed to have gone away in the daylight, but his father’s face always seemed more sinister in the morning, his true visage hidden behind a smile. Christian had promised himself that he would never go back home, never have to withstand that life again. He would rather die.
Christian had learned to trust the old man, sensing something out of the ordinary about the way Jean treated him. Trust was a scarce commodity on the streets of the city. Once earned, it wasn’t easy to dispatch. He’d misplaced his trust before—in his father, who had raped him and handed him over to other pedophiles. Once, he’d trusted his mother, but she’d been so busy looking the other way and attending social functions that she never noticed the bruises or the bleeding.
Christian had been on his own for long enough that he felt he couldn’t trust anyone. Unscrupulous johns had beaten him and stolen his money. Bashers had chased him into dark alleys and kicked and clobbered him to a bloody pulp, their cries of “faggot” ringing in the night. Policemen often ignored him, or—worse—demanded favors for their discretion.
But Jean Cowell, this old guy with a boy-toy fixation, had given Christian access to his apartment, his showers, and his food, bundling meals for him to take back to the warehouse. He had even offered to move Christian into his place, to take care of him, like a father, but Christian had already escaped the clutches of one father-rapist, and he didn’t think he could live with another. He’d always believed that if worse came to worst, he could crash in the old man’s extra room, but he hadn’t arrived at that desperate point yet.
Until today.
He leaped over puddles of blood to reach the classy apartment on Fourth Street, trying not to trip over any bodies, not to step in the remains of some poor soul. The farther he walked into the downtown area, the harder it became to avoid the corpses.
Jean’s home was on the corner of Fourth and Plum, only five blocks away from the warehouse where Christian lived in his elevator. Still, it took almost an hour to reach the building. Cincinnati, it appeared, had erupted into a bubbling volcano of chaos.
He climbed over cars that were stalled in the streets, their batteries run-down, doors gaping open. Once, when leaping back onto the ground, he put his foot through somebody’s rib cage. The crunching sound made him sick, and the ribs seemed to clutch at his foot. He shook his leg violently to extract himself from the corpse’s terrible grip.
At several points he encountered other people, lost souls who muttered to themselves, their eyes wide with shock and suspicion. One old lady, the left side of her face covered in blood, said a rosary while she fondled herself. A young couple threw a brick through the front window of a camera store.
Christian tried to steer a wide path around them, preferring to trust only in himself. He’d had altercations with cra
zy street people before, and they were always stronger than they looked. Many of them were drug addicts, or they were mentally deranged in ways he’d never understood. Better to stick to the opposite side of the sidewalk and avoid dark alleys.
He didn’t see any of the beast-men on the streets. The sun was shining, and if he looked into the sky, at the buildings towering around him, he could almost pretend nothing strange had occurred. Only a few shattered, smoking windows near the top of some skyscrapers spoiled the effect. He wondered how those windows had broken. Had people leaped from them?
Every few minutes he heard gunshots, usually from the Kentucky side of the river. A loud boom drowned out the rifle cracks. He wondered what wars were being waged beyond his vision.
When he reached the apartment complex, he noticed the door was ajar, barely hanging from one hinge. The awning over the entrance had been torn down, and the bit of fabric that remained flapped lazily in the breeze, a tattered, clawed mess. The doorman wasn’t on duty, and there didn’t seem to be anyone manning the desk in the lobby, so he tiptoed across the marble floor, amazed at the wreckage that had once been furniture, chairs and end tables. Now it was reduced to rubble, the pieces flung about the corners of the room.
The electricity was still out, so he couldn’t take the elevator. Sighing, he thought, Twenty-six fuckin’ floors. Jean, you couldn’t live near the bottom, could you? Oh well, may as well get started. This could take a while.
His steps echoed in the stairwell, which was surprisingly devoid of dead bodies and garbage. The silence was creepier than the gibbering of the crazy people in the street.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he ascended to the sixteenth floor; he stopped, his hand clutching the rail, his breath coming in fast pants. The air was stifling and hot.
In the middle of the landing, near a small window, someone had dropped a Raggedy Ann doll. It lay faceup, its empty eyes staring at the ceiling, its mouth stitched into a moonstruck grin, arms and legs akimbo. As Christian leaned over the doll, he saw a single drop of blood on the floor beside the doll’s head, about an inch in diameter. It was a shocking reminder that things were seriously amiss with the world, that families, including small children, had recently dashed down these stairs, possibly running for their lives.