3

  Bellows and Forman arrived in Blackland shortly before lunch. The drive had been long and agonizing, and Forman was not shy about voicing his annoyance at both hunger and fatigue. Bellows was intent on getting the lay of the land first. The two went by the school, and found it to be in session, so Forman contented himself with photographing the memorial and the outer building.

  When they finished Bellows conceded to allowing for lunch, which the two ate at the Waffle House. No one seemed to pay them any attention as they walked in, and after their meal Bellows decided to attempt his first interview. “Excuse me,” he said cordially to an older man on his way out. He explained the purpose behind his visit and produced a release to be filmed, which the man declined. “What were your thoughts on the 2007 massacre?” Bellows abruptly asked.

  “No comment,” the man said.

  “It didn’t affect you in any way?” Bellows pressed.

  “No, I mean, no comment.”

  “Sir if you could just-”

  The man pushed past them and stalked off back to his truck.

  “Come on,” Bellows ordered, as they walked off. They tried in a dollar store, at a gas station, and at the library, with the same results. Other than another man who said that his granddaughter was killed, and a young woman who claimed to have lost a brother they received nothing even remotely usable. The exasperated pair finally decided to check into the motel. While they went through the process at the counter Bellows tried one more time with the clerk, whose English skills degraded rapidly when questioned. “Well fuck,” Bellows finally snapped to Forman. “Let’s go ahead and try the Sheriff.”

  Around the same time that Bellows and Forman headed to the justice center Slatamont, Wilkins, and five of their friends from the University of Texas arrived to inform the department of their protest. Slatamont was determined to do everything as legally as possible, thus minimizing the likelihood of being arrested for lacking a permit or some kind of bullshit charge. When she walked in, already tired and sore after the drive up from Austin, she saw an animated man at the desk. A bored looking middle aged fellow with a camera was the only other occupant in the lobby, so Slatamont sat down and waited for her turn at the window.

  Ketchum had been from one end of the county to the other, and it was barely one o’clock. After making sure TARP would be squared away when they arrived for their night shift, he had returned to headquarters to deliver evidence to the desk clerks. TARP’s last raid before the mission change had resulted in over a dozen charges, and three of the arrestees in the house they had busted were looking at federal charges. The evidence had been checked out for the district attorney’s office that morning, and now Ketchum was returning it.

  “Lieutenant,” the woman behind the front desk window asked him quietly, “when you’re done can you see about that man over there?” she nodded toward Bellows, who now leaned against a wall. “He says he’s a reporter.”

  “Sure,” said Ketchum, his eyelids feeling like lead and his head involuntarily drooping over the desk. “As if I don’t have enough to deal with.” After he was done he glanced through the glass into the office behind the desk, desperately looking for someone he could pull rank on, but he found no one. Thus, he straightened himself up and approached Bellows. “Lieutenant Ketchum,” he said, shaking hands. “I understand you need some help?”

  “Gar Bellows. Yeah, I needed to ask someone here about the massacre.”

  Ketchum blinked, and paled, upon hearing that. “Let’s go to my office,” he said. After Bellows mentioned Forman Ketchum got visitor badges for both of them, then buzzed them into the building itself and led them down the hall to his office. Once they had positioned chairs in front of his desk Ketchum continued. “You said you’re reporters, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Who’re you with?”

  “The Albuquerque Sentinel,” said Bellows.

  “Albuquerque?” Ketchum’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s a long drive.”

  “You’re telling me,” Forman groaned.

  “And you’re here just to ask about 2007?” Ketchum sounded incredulous to the whole idea.

  “We’re doing a follow up article,” said Bellows. “I don’t know about any Texas papers covering it so here we are.”

  “You must have quite an interest in it.”

  “Oh yes,” Bellows nodded emphatically. “Definitely. We have an intense interest. We haven’t had much luck around here though.”

  “Were you expecting a warm welcome?”

  “Well it’s just no one has answered our questions for the most part. We’re trying to get personal accounts, and memories, and a sort of-”

  “I’m afraid you won’t get anywhere here asking about that night. People don’t want to talk about it, especially not to strangers. I know a few people have given interviews over the years, but I don’t remember who all they were. I think a few are dead, and some moved, so I can’t help you find them. I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing, but it’s a small and a close community here. People don’t want to dwell on the past.” He shrugged at that, as if to solidify his message, though the last sentence was a lie. People had been living in the past around here all five years since the tragedy.

  “Well, what about the incident at, ah...” Bellows consulted a notepad, “51 El Gordo Street?”

  “What about it?” Another shrug. “That’s being investigated. I don’t even know who’s looking into it, it’s so new. But listen, if you need a statement on either that or the ceremony on Saturday our public affairs officer can help you. I can give you his card.” Ketchum opened a desk drawer and shuffled through it.

  “No thank you... Lieutenant, wasn’t it? We came here for answers, not canned statements and misdirection, and we’re going to get them.”

  Forman jerked his head around to stare at Bellows.

  “Excuse me?” Ketchum exclaimed, sitting up. “What are you talking about?”

  “I was hoping you would at least act like you’d help, but we’re going to find the answers about that school no matter how people feel about it. We have a right to know.”

  “I can’t stop your quest for ‘truth’ or whatever, but I’d be careful, Mr. Bellows,” Ketchum warned sharply. “If you start harassing people you’re going to see a lot more of these uniforms,” he pinched the upper breast of his green class B shirt to emphasize it. “And if you mess with some of these people you’ll have more problems than that.”

  “Thanks for your concern, but we won’t be threatened. Let’s go.” He tore off the visitor badge, as well as Forman’s and threw both across the table as he walked out. Ketchum made no move to get up. In fact he did the opposite, slumping forward and staring at the wall. Who the hell was that guy? He thought to himself. There was a knock on the door, and Ketchum reluctantly asked whoever it was to come in.

  “Mr. Ketchum,” said another clerk. “There’s someone else at the front, if you could-”

  “Yeah,” he sighed. “I’m on my way.”

  Ketchum was looking down and mumbling as he walked up to Slatamont. “One, two goddam days from the end of the world and they pile this- hello, good afternoon.” He looked up, tried to smile, and extended his hand. He introduced himself as he had with Bellows, and got right to the point. “So, what’s your business here?”

  “I came by to let your people know my group and I will be protesting at that ceremony on Saturday.”

  Ketchum nearly blurted out another obscenity right then and there. He managed to hold his tongue though, and let his disbelief take over instead. “May I ask why?” he said through clenched teeth.

  “I heard about your cops killing gray wolves here, and I want you to know we won’t stand for it.” She thrust a pamphlet into his hand, which he didn’t bother to actually look at. He thought about how to dissuade her. This was a tough one. “Look,” he said. “I don’t know where you get your information Miss, but I’m afraid you’re misinformed. There aren’t any grey wolves in Texas, there never have been any in Texas, and what we’re killing definitely isn’t those. No one’s even sure what it is, but it’s dangerous, trust me.”

  “Mr...,” she looked at his name-tag, “Keth-um?”

  “Ketchum.”

  “Mr. Ketchum, I’m an environmental science major, I think I know a grey wolf when I see one.”

  “And have you seen one of these?” he asked.

  “Well, not personally, no, but-”

  “You’re thinking of Canis lupus, right?” Ketchum was suddenly grateful for Michetti’s lecture. That would stop at least one of her tangents.

  “Well... yes. I’m-”

  “We actually have a biologist from the FBI who specializes in those at one of our stations, now I can set up a meeting with her for you-”

  “No, no thank you. I don’t feel like this is going anywhere. Can we legally protest or not?”

  “Yes,” said Ketchum. “Just don’t get too close to the ceremony itself if you do. You do realize what it commemorates, right?”

  “Yes, but I’m really not convinced that it was a wolf that killed all those people. I never have been.”

  There was no way on earth Ketchum was going to open that can of worms, so he reiterated that, yes, she and her flower children troupe could protest if it was that important to them. That seemed to satisfy her, and she left, walking down the stairs and to an old van in the parking lot. Ketchum was relieved that at least the conspiracy rabbit hole was dodged. As with many high profile tragedies, the Blackland Massacre had generated competing theories, models, and guesses as to what really happened, both during the attack, leading up to it, and the general time surrounding the deaths, period. A variety of proponents insisted that the attack was actually done with experimental military technology, that the canine was telepathically controlled, that Jews, Freemasons, Republicans, or Democrats were behind the massacre, or even that it had never happened in the first place, but was instead elaborately staged by the federal government for nefarious purposes. Ketchum had no interest in trying to sort through the myriad ideas people had regarding what was to him just as personal a horror as it was to anyone else in the town. And besides, there actually was a conspiracy at play here, though he doubted anyone would ever hit upon the truth of the matter. He, Davis, Judge Theophilus Reinquist, and Bryce Mendoza, the county district attorney, were the only locals he was aware of who knew the full story about the werewolves, unless he still counted Alvarez as a local. Regardless, only a handful knew, and none of them, including him, were interested in talking. The wild extrapolations some yokel in a trailer in Missouri came up with were a better misinformation campaign than anything that could be engineered.

  He tracked down Jeebkate, and informed the sergeant about the reporters and the new age students, then returned to his office, where he decided he would call Alvarez when TARP came in for their night shift. If the interlopers were planning to be at the ceremony then Fisher might as well incorporate them into his response plan. Ketchum sighed and cursed again as he considered everything going on in this normally quiet community. “Too much,” he moaned, glasses flung on his desk and his head in his palm. “Too fucking much.”

  TARP arrived at the Airbase right as the Sun was setting. Alvarez was on the phone as they walked in. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. OK, I’ll tell him. Out.” He turned to Fisher. “Ketchum wants you to know a couple of reporters and some hippies showed up saying they’re going to protest on Saturday, he wants us to keep an eye on them.”

  “Let me get this straight,” said Fisher. “You’ve been telling all of us for the past two weeks how dangerous all of these dogs are, and what’s going to happen if they attack, and now Ketchum wants us to worry about a bunch of granola munchers?”

  “All we really need to do is make sure eyes are on them,” said Alvarez. “He’s just got a lot on his plate. I don’t know if he’s thinking straight right now.”

  “He’d better be,” said Fisher. “We need him to be on point for the weekend. All right, let’s go to work.”

  The rest of the team already had their long guns ready, with the exception of Bascomb, who was working with Michetti on analysis this night. The others piled into a Tahoe and were off, heading for an area of dense woods near the Grayson County line where they hoped to catch the pack asleep. As they pulled out of the lot no one paid any mind to the sedan that trailed behind. Light traffic was normal around this time, and the car was a good distance behind them.

  Bellows followed the Tahoe for several miles outside of Blackland, while the skeptical Forman played with his cellphone in the passenger seat. Marky Forman had not changed his opinion that the entire trip was a fool’s errand. He had seen reporters like Bellows come and go. They were invariably young, though not necessarily idealistic, though every one of that stripe was convinced he was the next Ernie Pyle. Forman had practically lost patience with it all. He needed dependable reporters and steady work, as he had a family to feed, and even if he hadn’t, he never would have been interested in gallivanting around the country chasing bizarre stories no one would care about anyway. He was starting to doze off when Bellows suddenly cut a right turn onto a dirt road, and the washboard texture of the path rattled Forman awake. “What are you doing?” he snapped.

  “They went off the highway about a quarter, maybe a half mile back,” Bellows explained.

  “This is Deliverance territory,” moaned Forman, glancing furtively at the woods that enveloped them. “Are you sure those were cops in that truck?”

  “Did you see those little lights over the license plate?”

  “No.”

  “Well they were there. Those were emergency lights. It’s definitely a cop’s Tahoe.”

  “Whatever you say.” Forman closed his eyes again, though the rough driving made him feel compelled to sit upright.

  Bellows had noted a young woman leaving the motel after he and Forman checked in. Moreover, he had noted her outfit: khaki 5.11 tactical pants and a blue polo, the standard “not a uniform” uniform of cops everywhere. Bellows was less sure of what to make of the man who left with her. He was in street clothes, but both clearly didn’t belong to the area, and when they left in a black Charger covered in antennas Bellows knew he had to follow them. It was his reporter’s instinct, he supposed, the same instinct eventually told him it would be worthwhile to wait after the pair stopped at a squat building in a lonely field with a helicopter outside. It had taken thirty minutes for a different group to emerge and drive off in the Tahoe, but Bellows saw the man from earlier with them, and whatever they were doing, he was sure it would inform his eventual story.

  When they turned off the road Bellows, not wanting to make himself too obvious, had opted to slow roll up the empty paved road until he found another turn off, and, assuming it would put him in the general vicinity of the cops, he took it. There was no moon, nor stars. Inky clouds were rolling in, threatening rain, but for now the hard packed surface was as dry as regolith, and clouds of dust blew over the rental car while it bounded over the rocks and hard dirt clumps of the barely carved path. Bellows wasn’t paying attention to the road though. He was scanning, left, right, and in front, looking for the headlights of the Tahoe.

  The Tahoe Bellows was after actually had its lights off. Fisher was using the spotlight thermal to scan the woods, looking for any quadrupedal signatures. Brantwood and Bocker were shining red lights on a map which was overlaid with the satellite thermal data. According to the intel they were not far from where the wolves had been the previous night.

  “Hey,” Jebbins whispered. “I hear a vehicle.”

  “Were not far from the road,” said Fisher.

  “No, Sarge, it’s on the dirt road.”

  Fisher cracked the driver’s window and listened. His hearing wasn’t what it once was, too many rocket launcher deployments and firefights without earpro had seen to that, but after several seconds he could make it out. Whatever kind of vehicle it was, it was going too fast for the dirt road. From the direction of the sound Fisher guessed it to be on a finger of the road network that was to their north, where the path curved back after deviating from the highway. “Whatever,” he said, adjusting against his armor in the seat. “I don’t even know how the property rights work out here. It’s probably just a coon hunter or some teenagers fucking.”

  “It might spook the wolves,” Alvarez said.

  “Or flush them out,” suggested Bocker.

  “That stands more chance of turning into a clusterfuck than helping us,” said Fisher.

  “There’s nothing out here,” said Forman.

  As annoyed as Bellows was with the man, Forman was right. There was no sign of the police truck, and Bellows was starting to think he had torn the front bumper partially off a half mile back. There was also no sign of anything human made along the road. He decided to stop and listen for a few minutes, then head back to the motel. He was starting to get tired anyway.

  “What are you doing?” Forman demanded when Bellows rolled the windows down.

  “Listening.”

  “Do you have to? There’s a million bugs out here.”

  “It’ll just take a minute.”

  Forman slumped in the seat and swatted at a some mosquitoes. The woods were almost unbearably quiet. Mist was rolling in along with more clouds, and soon enough it was nearly impossible to see beyond the head lights. “I’m telling you Gar,” said Forman, “it’s time to get out of here.”

  “OK,” Bellows conceded. He wanted to say the trip was a bust, but his pride and assurance in what they were here for would not allow him to admit defeat. Still, he supposed they had lost this battle, and so he looked to the rear of the car to figure out how to turn around. It was then that he noticed something out of the corner of his left eye.

  Fisher had been watching the lights for almost fifteen minutes now. They were less distant with the sudden intrusion of the mist, but they were still sitting, a good hundred or so yards away. “What are they doing?” he whispered for the third time.

“Should we walk over there and tell them to get lost?” asked Jebbins.

  “I’d rather we didn’t get out of the truck,” said Fisher. “Those animals are out there somewhere.” The lights began to waver, and Fisher could make out the dim red glow of the tail lights. “Ah, now they’re moving,” he said.

  Bellows hit the brake when he saw it. The form was gray and amorphous, standing just at the edge of his vision. It was humanoid, that much he could make out.

  “What is it?” said Forman.

  Bellows put a finger his lips and pointed. The two stared for several seconds, straining to make out details of whatever they were dealing with. Forman finally spoke again. “What do you think it is?”

  “I’m not-”

  Then it lunged. Bellows saw the boy in full as he rushed at the car. He was nude, gangly, coated in what appeared to be blood, and moving with an awkward and clumsy motion, like a crippled puppet. There was no sound as he homed in on them, but Bellows was suddenly aware of the youth’s face. Eyes as white as mountain peaks stared him down. Both were saucer wide, while the mouth stretched agape, like a silent continuous scream. Bellows found his voice, and the accelerator. “Holy shit!” came his hoarse cry as he slammed down on the gas, sending the car spinning in a reverse donut. When it stopped and the dust cleared he pushed down again, hardly even checking to make sure they weren’t pointed at the woods. They took off like a racehorse, and neither of them even noticed when their heads pounded against the roof.

  As Fisher watched the lights spin and listened to what sounded like the start of a drag race, he decided it was time to do some investigating. “All right, I’ve had enough, let’s see what these yokels are-”

  The ghostly figure sprinted in front of them just as Fisher flipped on the headlights. “What the fuck?” Fisher exclaimed, summing up the general feeling in the truck. At that moment he decided to hell with the mystery vehicle and took off back toward the highway, heading the boy off.

  Bellows still had the windows down, and it was only because of that that he heard the howls. His heart was pounding so hard it was difficult to hear anything beyond the immediate trip, and the wolves shooting in front of the car were just as much a surprise as the teenager had been. They bayed, snarled, and snapped at the car, and Bellows accelerated again. He was driving far too fast for the road now, and the car slid and fish tailed as it hit sandy spots, then careened off large rocks when it found those. Forman was jerking his head around like a terrified bird. The animals had them surrounded.

  Fisher was switching between the gas and brake almost every second, trying to maintain control while Bocker and Brantwood shined flashlights out the side window, looking for the kid.

  All at once the woods cleared and they were back at the highway, and Bellows had to slam on the brakes to keep from skidding onto the blacktop with no idea whether anyone was coming or not. This sudden braking placed him almost square in front of the Tahoe, and after being drawn to the lights the next thing Fisher noticed was the pack of canines.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Oh shit!” Fisher shouted. He slammed on his own brakes while trying to veer left as far as he could on the narrow path. As they ground to a halt the sedan cut a hard left and hit the road back to town. It sped away so fast it was merely a red point on the horizon before Fisher could even decide who to chase.

The wolves had run into a field on the other side of the highway. Another stretch of woods marked the end of the farmland, but the field was a good nine or ten acres wide. Fisher gunned the truck after the animals and made it almost halfway across the expanse before they disappeared into the black trees.

  “Ah, chinga tu madre!” shouted Alvarez, who often lapsed into his native language when angry and stressed. He pounded the dash. “Mierda!”

  “Hey look!” shouted Bocker, pointing ahead.

  The men stared as the teenager from before sprinted into the trees after the wolves. For several full minutes, there was silence. Not one sound penetrated the tense atmosphere. Then, a few drops of rain splattered across the windshield. They were followed by a pattering and consistent shower. By the time Fisher turned around and put them back on the road to Blackland, it was a downpour.

  Bellows and Forman barely noticed the rain as they bolted into their room at the motel and slammed the door. Each glanced at the other and came to the same conclusion. They both looked fit for an autopsy table. Ashen, wide eyed, hair plastered to their faces the way corpses’ sometimes appeared. “Listen,” said Forman, voice creaking despite his mental efforts at keeping control, “let’s just get out of here now. Whatever’s going on here they can have it.”

  “No way!” protested Bellows. “Besides I’m not driving in this, and neither are you. Whatever’s going on here we’re still going to get to the bottom of it. I don’t know what was up out there tonight but-”

  “Exactly! You don’t know, I don’t know either, and I don’t want to know!” Forman exclaimed. “There’s something really weird in this place and I don’t want any part of it. Can we at least leave in the morning?”

  “No.” Bellows voice was firm, even. “We’re staying long enough to solve this, and at least long enough for that ceremony. You don’t like it? Tough shit.”

  “You’re an idiot! We’re going to get killed!”

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” said Bellows. “We’re going to stay, do our jobs, and be just fine. We’ll get something out of this too, don’t worry.”

  Forman knew the things Bellows was looking to get out of this horror pantheon, and just now he wanted nothing more than to tell Bellows to take this job, his award lust, and this whole bizarre county, and shove them all up his ass. But he couldn’t do that and he knew it. Bellows wasn’t his boss, but he was the lodging, the transportation, and more than likely a brown noser to Gettings, who could fire him. He could not afford to lose this job, and they both knew it. Forman also knew that as a result he could not let his bluff be called, so he backed off, got ready for bed, and tried without a shred of success to forget the unnerving events of this wretched night. He lay in bed fitfully, his brief snatches of sleep populated with wild hell hounds and eternally screaming, mutilated zombies.

  It was a well-known fact that Blackland High School was haunted. How could it not be? In the years following the tragedy virtually everyone in the town had seen, or heard, or simply felt, that something was off about the pedagogical Waterloo. Evans had never believed in the supernatural, until he was forced to. Over the past five years he had seen faces staring at him through the windows, strange balls of light that moved wildly around the building, and odd noises or smells in the vicinity. The deputies had gotten used to all of this, and it was now something of a standard to familiarize new officers with the goings on, as well as a decent test of whether they would stick with the job.

  Tonight, Evans intended to introduce Rialto to the specters. She was going to give up one way or another, this might just make it easier for him to rid himself of her. His Hypersport crawled to a stop on the old grounds of the gym. Now covered in grass, it was reputed to be the most haunted area of the complex. Nearly fifty students had been in the old gym, most of the bodies were found piled around the doors, fifty people trying to force their way through a thirty-six-inch hole, grimly frozen the way they had died, like some modern Herculaneum. Evans rolled down the windows and sat in silence, confident that something from the next life would momentarily intrude into the still Texas night. Rialto was clearly trying not to appear nervous. He had told her as little as possible about tonight’s task, but made it clear what they were trying to see, and of course, she knew what had happened here.

  It was odd, Evans reflected. She froze up, terrified, when faced with the prospect of fighting a one hundred thirty-pound man. But she was apparently just as frightened at confronting something that, to Evans’ knowledge, had never harmed anyone. He didn’t know if they even could harm anyone. True, if push came to shove guns wouldn’t be much use against ghosts, and anything your gun couldn’t kill was certainly scary. But Evans wasn’t worried by ghosts, not anymore. He just wished they would leave him alone. Sometimes he thought coming out here was some kind of exposure therapy, perhaps he was seeking some closure, or forgiveness, from fifty-two dead people he couldn’t help. But if five years didn’t fix him, he supposed nothing would, making these journeys nothing more than an exercise in masochism. He was beyond caring about such pains though. Let the ghosts of those kids haunt him as much as they wanted. Evans had dealt with everything, or at least he thought so.

  They waited around thirty minutes, with Evans staring at the school absentmindedly, and with increasing consternation. Where were they? He hadn’t seen a thing. This place wasn’t exactly Old Faithful, but he could be reasonably certain that he would encounter something most nights. On previous trips he and other deputies as well had encountered glowing orbs flitting around the parking lot lights, gaunt, pale figures staring at them through the windows, and strange noises that tugged at the edge of audibility, just slight enough to leave him wondering if his imagination was to blame for everything, maddening in their inconclusiveness. One night Umberto even claimed he had seen and heard one of the ghosts at the same instant, a girl who let out a piercing scream and ran across the dim ruins of the gym before vanishing at the edge of the intramural field. Evans had been skeptical of anything that extreme, but the muddy streaks left by Umberto’s Charger lighting out for the town had been readily apparent the next morning. As a result of such incidents the school, despite its normally quiet solitude, was not a favored place for the deputies to hide, even in groups. Its mystery and reputation made it safe from their irreverent night meetups, if not from their curiosity. But regardless of what each individual man or woman believed about the supernatural, the school was too restless, too unsettling, to be a place to relax on duty. The nearest passed out or Youtube watching deputy would not be found within less than a couple of miles from it. He gave it five more minutes, then he abruptly whipped his car around and drove back towards the country. Evidently even the ghosts of this county didn’t like Rialto. They drove in silence down a barely paved service road behind the school, with Evans, as was typical for him, speeding along faster than the road merited. Part of it was anger, as usual, part was the enjoyment he took in driving a hypercar. It was one of the only vices he allowed himself. Alcohol and cigarettes were all but verboten for him these days. He didn’t want to end up like Alvarez.

  Up ahead, shrouded under a grove of heavy trees, something suddenly appeared in the middle of the road, right at the end, where the rough surface made a sharp right turn. Evans blinked hard. It just showed up, he hadn’t seen it walk out there. He slammed on the brakes, planting them in a cloud of dust as the car stopped. The thing was just beyond the reach of his headlights. He decided to use that to his advantage, just in case it was something hostile. He cut the lights.

  “What are-”

  “Shut up,” he ordered, quietly. Evans kept a thermal monocular in his car, which was useful for night surveillance, but which he used often as not to watch deer or foxes undetected on boring nights. He booted it up, slowly opened the door, and eased out. He adjusted the lens and zoomed in on the figure. There were a few details he could make out, but it stood in such sharp contrast to the trees behind it that it must have been cold as a frigid lake, despite the warm night. It was a female, freezing black on the screen. He could only stare as she looked straight at him and grinned. Evans felt his blood go as cold as the girl. “Fuck me,” he breathed, so quiet Rialto wouldn’t have heard it had the frogs of spring not gone suddenly quiet. She knew better than to say anything, she just looked over at him. Evans noticed the movement and looked at her with an intensity that burned through the air. He motioned for her to open her own door. This she did, and Evans passed the scope to her. She propped her glasses on her head, stared through the scope for a few seconds, then finally let out the breath she had taken when she looked through it. “Holy shit,” her response was every bit as quiet as Evans’.

  “Holy shit!” Rialto exclaimed. As if she could hear them, or perhaps because she actually could, the girl, still smiling, began walking forward. Her steps were slow, but determined. They were noiseless, and each footprint was black cold, something supposedly impossible. Evans no longer needed the thermal to tell that it, or she, was moving. “Get in the car,” he ordered.

  Rialto jumped in and slammed the door. Evans did the same and hit the headlights. The girl stopped for a moment at that. Mist, or something resembling it, rose around her. She was deathly pale, peppered with blood, damp brown hair cradling her chest. She started forward again. Evans didn’t know whether to drive forward or back up. He sat, knuckles white on the wheel, staring. His right hand instinctively slid down the wheel, toward his gun. He inched the car forward, slowly, thinking somehow she was human, knowing it wasn’t possibly true. The car trudged on almost imperceptibly. It rolled close in, very nearly touching her knees, and she locked eyes with Evans. She was so young, he thought. So young, but there was a hard, sharp edge to those eyes. Who was she? He no longer noticed that the car was still rolling, didn’t notice that the windshield was almost touching her...

  She was moving through the car, he realized with a start; slipping down the middle as if it was not even there. No impact, no feeling, just cut through the body of the vehicle like it didn’t even exist. The interior lit with a greyish aura that struck them as blinding in the darkness. “Fuck!” Evans gunned the vehicle, tearing down the road and barely making the turn. He drifted around it and kept going, kept roaring over the unimproved pike until the lights of the town were visible, until he felt sure that the girl was well behind them. He half stood on the brake, bringing them to a grinding halt, obscuring their surroundings with dust.

  “What the hell was that?” Evans barked. Now he was the one trying not to show how unnerved he was. He was also reevaluating his threat assessment of spirits. They were both white as sheets, and both were breathing like runners. Evans gripped the steering wheel like it was the throat of a killer and sped off, not looking back, and not saying a word. It was freezing in the car, the feeling of what they had just witnessed hanging on them like the mariner’s albatross. This was easily the most extreme of these encounters he had ever experienced or even heard of. He thought he recognized that girl, but he couldn’t be sure which victim she was. Did this have something to do with the impending anniversary? he wondered.

  He didn’t have the answers though, and he didn’t want to think about it. He felt sick. Evans shook his head, and wondered how his wife was going to take this one. It had been a mistake to come here, he saw now. He should have recognized it was a bad idea from the beginning, but his sadism had won out. He wanted Rialto to endure another test, now it had backfired. Whatever they had seen was obviously residual, one of the damned ghosts leftover from the tragedy. And like an idiot he had opened himself to that tragedy anew, opening a faucet and inviting the horror to rush into him like chilling water, painful against the body. He slowed down, nearly standing on the brake, breathed hard and turned towards the window, watching the dim lights of the town ahead flicker and waver in the breeze. He watched his reflection in the window, glancing at Rialto out of the corner of his sight, ensuring she kept her head down. He couldn’t let her see him crying.

  Alvarez, Fisher, Jebbins, Brantwood, and Bocker were seated in the Waffle House bar, glum as the clock approached three and sheets of rain coated the plate glass windows. After another fruitless night, and the bizarre things they had seen each man was at his wit’s end. “Square fucking one tonight,” spoke Alvarez, finally breaking the silence.

  “What was that out there?” asked Fisher.

  “He was like the guy I saw,” said Jebbins, though he wasn’t about to bring Alvarez’ theory about that up before Fisher.

  Fisher shook his head. “What I really want to know is who that idiot was that ruined it for us. There were at least half a dozen out there, all gone now. If I find that jackass he’s going to be the bait next time. Of course, there won’t really be a next time, will there? We’re out of time.”

  “Better start getting the big guns ready,” Jebbins suggested.

  “Yeah, yeah, we’d better,” said Fisher.

  The other two glanced at him, but had nothing to add to the opinions. They simply agreed, mutely.

  Alvarez spun in his seat, not content with watching his eggs fry. He stared out through the mist, beyond the parking lot and into space.

  Something caught his gaze, out of his peripheral vision, enough movement to draw his focus. He recognized it immediately, but could not believe it. Nevertheless, there it was, a shot of fur disappearing behind the wall of an alley. “Hey,” he turned to Fisher, “there’s one outside.”

  “What?”

  “One outside,” said Alvarez. “It’s going behind the shopping center.”

  Fisher was already sliding off his stool. “Come on.” He drew his Glock, as did the others. “We’ll be right back,” he told the panicked waitress, who was not about to argue the bill with armed men. They tried to ignore the rain, though it hit like a freezing brick wall, soaking them through in seconds. Alvarez felt water pooling in the hood of his sweatshirt. He rubbed droplets from his eyes, and slicked his hair back to keep it from his face. It was dark as a tomb, and he immediately regretted coming out. They were at every disadvantage, but if anyone was outside, unlikely as it was, they had to protect them. He kept his gun close to his chest, held it down in the standard sul position as they approached the alley. It was a partition between two buildings in the shopping plaza, and Fisher signaled for them to spread out. “Jebbins, Alvarez, take the other side,” he ordered. “Everyone else with me, we’ll enter here. And for Heaven sake’s confirm your targets!” he hissed as quietly as he could in the deluge.

  Alvarez punched his weapon out as he entered the alley, flashing his light once in a vain attempt at spotting the enemy. Lights were a contested and misunderstood area of close quarters fighting, and Alvarez worried that he would merely reveal his position to the animal, but he could also potentially blind it while he had a clear shot. It was a tradeoff he willingly accepted. He saw nothing in the flash, and pressed on, controlling his breathing. The alley split in a T-intersection ahead. He signaled for Jebbins to go left, and the deputy nodded. They cut around their corners in unison, lights flashed once again.

  Jebbins caught a flash of fur in his view, right between his glowing tritium sights. He fired, chipping the brick of one of the buildings and catching the others’ attention, but missing his target, which slunk off behind the building. Alvarez turned back and headed for Jebbins. Fisher, Bocker, and Brantwood were on the opposite side of the buildings when they heard the shot. “Son-of-a-bitch,” muttered Fisher.

  “What now Sarge?” asked Bocker.

  “Around the side,” he answered. “Keep pushing, make sure the bastard doesn’t sneak up behind us.” Fisher knew the thing wouldn’t go down with one shot, which meant Jebbins had missed.

  They had to stick to their current route or risk either teeth or bullets to the ass. Alvarez caught up with Jebbins, who had miraculously done the smart thing and held the corner until backup arrived.

  “Got one,” said Alvarez, clapping Jebbins’ shoulder. Jebbins nodded and they plunged ahead. They caught the rush of tail heading around the other side, and Jebbins fired again, neatly clipping the brick and mortar corner of the wall. “Shit,” he cursed.

  “Push,” ordered Alvarez. They stopped at the corner, each pulling their gun back to their chest and holding position. Neither saw anything.

  “Ray, what have you got?” asked Jebbins.

  “Clear,” said Alvarez.

  “Clear,” replied Jebbins. Where the hell was this thing?

  Alvarez reassessed his bearings. Fisher, Bocker, and Brantwood would be coming around his side. He clapped Jebbins’ shoulder. “Go.” They advanced, crawling along the brick wall. Alvarez forced his hair out of his eyes once again. The rain was blinding. He gripped his pistol hard, grateful for the rubber grip he had added. He was shaking from the twin forces of water and epinephrine. At least it wasn’t cold out.

  He heard something. A whoosh of air. Panting, maybe? It was coming from farther down the alley, farther than his flashlight could penetrate. He looked at Jebbins. Jebbins nodded. He heard it too. Alvarez counted with his fingers. One, two, three. They darted around the side of the building, exposing themselves to the open field behind.

  It was standing there, staring them down, panting and licking its lips. The response was almost instantaneous. Both men unloaded their guns into it, dropped their empty magazines, and reloaded in a second. The sound reverberated across the wall behind them as the odor of gunpowder cut through the soaking downpour. Just that fast it was gone, sweeping into the dark as Fisher and the others came running. It disappeared as quickly as it had shown itself, blackening into the night at the speed of a cheetah. The rain continued to blast down as the men stared after it, all shaking and soaked to the bone. Alvarez felt like cursing. Instead, he merely glanced at the others in an expression that spoke volumes. No one had any words, they simply slunk back to the restaurant, tired and angry.

  When they got back in, Fisher pulled out his phone and called Ketchum. “Hey, Ralph,” he said. "Hey, we got into a situation at the Waffle House." That sounded stupid even as he said it, unfortunately it was the short version of what had just transpired. “We’re fine,” he continued, as the others sat down, flooded the booth under them, and listened to Fisher trying to explain. “Shots were fired,” he was saying. “No, I don’t think we hit... OK. No, I’ll take care of it. Yeah, see you tomorrow,” he cut the call and redialed, this time to Arredondo County dispatch, to request that deputies respond. When that was done he walked over to the counter and asked the shaking clerk how much he owed, then paid for five additional coffees for the team. He sat down with the others and listened to the water dripping out of the booth. When the waitress gave them their drinks Fisher opened his mouth to say something, then stopped himself and said simply, “fuck.”

  “Fuck,” Jebbins replied.

  Brantwood nodded, “fuck.”

  Alvarez looked around the table, then replied, “fuck.”

  “Fuck,” agreed Bocker.

  That was the extent of the conversation until the other lawmen arrived. A sergeant and a much younger officer finally entered and began interviewing the men. “I don’t think we hit anything other than some brick walls,” said Fisher. “No windows, or anything like that.” He approximated where it had all happened for them, and the sergeant examined their handguns, though he did not take them, as there were no dead humans this time, and the department did not care as much about an abortive animal killing effort. “We’ll need statements from all of you,” the sergeant told them.

  “Can we email those to you, when we get back to base?” Fisher asked.

  “Sure,” the sergeant wrote down his address, confirmed that nothing more was needed, and told them all to have a good night, though it was, of course, too late for that by now.

  TARP arrived back at the airbase less than thirty minutes later. Michetti was the only one still there, she was at her workstation, though no one was interested in what she was doing. The men sat down at their own PCs and went right in to typing their memorandums.

  Michetti looked over their plastered hair and clothes wet as if they had gone swimming and suspected something eventful had occurred. “What happened?” she asked.

  She received no answer, other than Alvarez holding his hand up. “Just a minute,” he ordered, looking intently at the screen.

  Michetti went over and looked over his shoulder at the report. Gradually, the picture of the early morning action came into focus. “Damn,” she whispered behind Alvarez.

  At length, the others finished, sent the memos in, and left. “See you guys tomorrow,” said Fisher, walking out. He was the last to leave, and Alvarez lit a cigarette as he completed his own duties. “What a shit kicker of a night,” he said, leaning back.

  “So you saw a werewolf outside, and you went out in a storm with just handguns?” Michetti demanded.

  “All we had on us,” he replied. “We had to do something.”

  “Why? Why go after it?”

  “It was like a personal challenge,” Alvarez shrugged. “The bastard was daring us.”

  “So was it some macho thing?” Michetti was getting angry now. The idea of stupidly charging in to such a situation was incredible, especially contrasted with Alvarez’ normal caution.

  “Of course not,” he said. “We’re too old for- well maybe for Jebbins or Bocker it was, but they have us old guys to reign them in.”

  “A lot of good you did at that. If these things are as smart as you think, it might well have all been a trap.”

  “I doubt that,” he said. “I wouldn’t rule it out, but I doubt it.”

  “Regardless, it was foolish.”

  “Yes,” he sighed. “It was. So what? Are you worried about me?”

  “Of course I’m worried about you.”

  Alvarez stood, half stopping in a stooped over pose as he rose up. Pain shot through his knees and back. “Let’s go back to our home away from home,” he said.

  Michetti, still clearly unhappy with him, logged out of the computer, gathered her things, and ran with him to the car. They said nothing on the ride back to the motel. Alvarez was staring as best as possible through the windshield, while the wipers worked on full speed, but accomplished little. He relaxed somewhat when they reached Blackland, where the sodium lights illuminated the road. They pulled up to the motel, and Alvarez turned to Michetti. “You want to go to my room or yours?”

  “Let’s just go to yours,” she said.

  The two rushed in and turned on the lights. Michetti sat down on the bed while Alvarez went to the bathroom. He stripped off the wet clothes and threw them betwixt the doorway onto the shelf across from the small washroom, not particularly caring if Michetti could see him or not. Next he got into the shower. He closed his eyes, began washing his hair, and felt a cold breeze wash over his body, powerful enough to flush his face. He jammed it under the hot stream and opened his eyes. The ghost of Jenny stood in front of him, staring him down.

  “Shit!” He jumped back, grabbing the faucet to avoid slipping.

  “Rough night?” she asked.

  “You have no idea,” he said. Or perhaps she did, he had no idea what the ghosts could see, though Jenny certainly seemed aware of events in the area.

  “Try me,” she said.

  “You already told me it’s hell, being like you,” he said. “Sorry, but this isn’t easy either.”

  “How do you keep fucking it up?”

  “I’m a beaten down, old alcoholic, that’s how.”

  She took a step up to him, looked into his eyes, and grabbed his hair. He felt the sensation, but the long strands did not move. Her touch was freezing, and he felt like throwing up for a moment. Her eyes were an abyss. He felt an eternal terror he desperately wished to avoid looking into them. They were deep, grey, and as dead as his own must be.

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” she said. “You’ve killed plenty. There’s only a few of us left.”

  “We don’t have the time, dammit!” he snapped. Her nipples brushed his own breasts like thorn pricks as he flinched. “There are still too many to kill them all in a few days. And that’s all we have. The bastards gave us a shoestring timeline and now we’re all going to die for it.”

  “You have to try to stop it.”

  “I’m trying my best. But it won’t work and we both know it.” He snatched his head away from her grip and sagged against the shower wall. “Estar de la chingada. Llevarselo a alguien la chingada. So, what now?”

  “You keep on,” she suggested. “You couldn’t stop this life if you wanted to. You’re a cop, and you’re going to fight like one no matter what. Kill as many of us as you can, and don’t die first.” She smiled, a thin, rictus movement of her purple lips.

  “You’re a demanding bitch,” he said. He turned off the water, slid the curtain open, and looked at himself in the blurry, steam coated mirror. Ledbetter cast no reflection. He had no idea what the rules, if any, were for ghosts on such matters, nor was he concerned about it at the moment. She was still standing next to him, however. Alvarez was unperturbed by their nudity, and Jenny did not seem to care either. He grabbed a towel and held it towards her. “I don’t guess you need this,” he said, managing something resembling a smile.

  She returned the expression. “Afraid I don’t. There’s a lot you don’t need when you’re dead. It’s liberating, I suppose.” There was a rush of air as he turned and began drying himself. Every hair on his body stood up as the frigid gust took her away, and he looked over his shoulder to confirm her departure. He sighed and returned to his activities. When he walked out Michetti was doing something on her laptop, but she closed it after several minutes and opened a drawer, from which she extracted a pair of his shorts and a T-shirt. While she undressed from her own soaked work clothes Alvarez pulled underwear on beneath his towel, looking down at the floor all the while in case she was feeling modest. “You know,” he said without looking up, “you should be worried about everyone else. You should be worried because we’ll never kill all of these things in time.”

  “All right then, I’m worried about both of us,” she sighed. “Look, I like you a lot Ray, but you undervalue yourself. You’ve listened to too many people trying to put you down. Maybe you tried not to listen, but you picked up on some of it. These people here don’t control you, and they damn sure underestimate you. And you’re underestimating yourself now.”

  “So you think I can kill fifty plus wolves in two days?”

  “No. No, of course not. I’m just saying we will get through this. Let’s get some sleep. We can figure this all out tomorrow.”

  Alvarez knew that was a good idea. He was certainly too tired to continue arguing. He put on sweatpants and a T-shirt, and glanced over at her.

  Michetti had finished changing and his clothes practically fell off of her slender body. Alvarez smirked at the image of it. They laid down next to each other on the bed, and Alvarez started to relax. The adrenaline was being purged from his system, leaving behind numbing, overbearing fatigue. He breathed deeply, feeling as though he was floating now that the heavy gear was off.

  He saw Jenny briefly, as he fell asleep. She said nothing, she simply stood in a corner, visible in the shadow only due to her extreme paleness, her body transected by a mottled sliver from the rain prismed light that splintered through the window, and smiled at him.

  The rain bore down still as the clock approached four a.m. The miserable weather was perfect for the assignment, however. Berrocal and Sainz had been watching the room since Alvarez left. They took turns of vigilance, wearily eyeing the place until Alvarez and some skinny bitch showed up and ran inside. It was time to act. They would not get a better chance.

  Their steps were silent as they sneaked along the covered walkway. Berrocal held a sledge hammer in his left hand for the door. In his right was a chrome plated 1911. Sainz was armed with a Taurus of some sort, and a MAC-11 in case Alvarez was able to fight. They couldn’t take any chances.

  Just before they reached the door to the cops’ room Berrocal stopped short, froze so suddenly Sainz rammed into him. He bit back a curse and slapped Berrocal on the head, but the man did not move. Sainz looked past Berrocal’s shoulder then, and saw why he had stopped.

  A young girl, naked, bloody, corpse gray, stood in front of the door. She was bladed toward them but turned her head to stare. Her lips were blue as a frigid lake. Soaked, stringy hair dangled in front of her face. Berrocal wouldn’t be distracted by this strung out cunt. “Fuck off,” he whispered in English.

  She smiled back, and shook her head. Berrocal reasoned that he could deal with her quietly enough, and he raised the hammer to make a rush for her head-

  The blow caught him totally by surprise. The lupine form had rushed from behind the parked cars across from the rooms, and it slammed Berrocal into the cinder block wall so fast he could not even cry out. The snout pressed into his abdomen, and his lower body contorted and felt like a balloon being squeezed. The weapons went flying, he slumped when the animal pulled back to go for Sainz. Berrocal could not scream, could not speak, could not even grab a breath. He floundered like a dying fish as Sainz yanked his guns up. Those guns flew off as well, as the wolf snapped against his arm like a bear trap, then reared back. Strangely, it did not follow the attack. Sainz did not stay to question it. He made for the car, clutching his arm, ignoring all else.

  Berrocal was not so lucky. It grabbed him; hot breath bellowed down his shirt as the razor teeth dug into his shoulder and snapped his collarbone. His last view before it dragged him into the woods behind the motel was the car peeling onto the road and disappearing like the abandonment of hope. He smacked against trees as it pulled him through the mud and dead leaves. He found his voice and tried to scream, but then its paw was on his throat, smashing the larynx, and he was kicking, digging furrows in the ground and slapping blindly, snatching at the damp fur.

  He was nigh blinded by rain, but caught snatches of action revealing gruesome origins for new and myriad pains. Everything below his waist looked to be a smattering of loose viscera. An anvil swipe took off his left arm. It released his throat long enough to bite his head, and he saw ragged strips of skin flapping loose before blood covered his eyes. He could neither see nor breathe now. He groped with what control remained, but it was worthless. His muscles started to yield, bowels and bladder released, and just before consciousness finally alighted, he tried for a final scream. All that issued was a gurgling whimper.