See Spot run … FOR HIS LIFE … in today’s story by Edward Ahern. Dreadward’s tale is sure to make readers think twice about walking their furry friends at night. I, for one, will be sticking to daylight hours, as close to the madding crowd as my two little hellhounds will permit …
The Dog Walkers by Edward Ahern Several people told me it must have come down from the woods, after the brutal cold that killed off the deer. Some said it was a feral dog. Whatever it was, something was attacking town dogs when they walked out at night with their owners. Jeb Haskins was the first, on a snow-free January night, circling the block with his cockapoo around ten in the evening. As Jeb told me: “Fritzi had just done her business, and I was bending down to pick up her poop. This animal blur ran behind me, grabbed Fritzi, and pulled the leash right out of my hand. Fritzi screamed, my God it was awful to hear her scream like that. I fell over, and by the time I looked up she was gone, leash and all.” “Did you notice anything else?” “Nah. I got to my feet, took out my cell, and hit 911. The cops were there in five minutes, but they never found my dog. Animal control told them there was no reports of loose or prowling animals.” Fairfief is a doggy town, with every fourth family owning one. The rules are strict — licenses, rabies shots, leash law, poopy-scooping, the works. Neighbors learn the dogs’ names before they ask what the owners are called. So they were shocked when Danielle Creighton’s pit bull was taken next. She cried when she told me. “Roscoe and I went out around eight that evening, after the snow stopped. This — thing charged us and bit Roscoe in the neck. He tried to bite it back, but it shook Roscoe like a puppet. I still can hear his neck snap. The thing was patchy gray-brown, four legs, big, heavier than me, dead black eyes. No, it didn’t attack me. Ignored me. Picked up Roscoe in its jaws and carried him right off. And Roscoe was fifty pounds. I was screaming, shaking so bad I couldn’t move. That’s where Jim found me. He called the cops. Oh, and it stank really bad, worse than skunk.” Twice was often enough for the police to put on two extra patrols and the first selectperson to issue a warning to residents, pretty much ignored. Until after the third attack. George Benson had begun carrying a thick blackthorn cane with him on his night walks with his dog. The short-haired pointer was nimble quick, just quick enough according to George that it dodged the animal’s first lunge. “I swung the cane with my off hand, caught the thing flat on its back. It spun and bit into my right wrist, crunching bone. I yelled — okay, screamed — but held onto Fritz’s leash. The animal bit into Fritz’s back and broke it. It dragged me three yards before I knew enough to drop the leash… My wrist has to be fused, my fingers are clawed, can’t write with them anymore… The animal? It looks like — like a coarse haired, low-slung black panther. No ears, I don’t remember any ears. And big. Really big. And really smelly, almost made me puke.” A dog-owning cop volunteered to walk his animal through the afflicted town districts, and did. Although he was in plain clothes, the only thing noticeable was passing motorists warning him to get his dog inside. People changed their habits, as much as they could, walking their dogs in daylight. But canine bowels aren’t ruled by clocks, and some residents still slipped out, trying to stick to well-lit streets. Alfred Newsome was reported to be second amendment self-reliant, refusing to be intimidated. Bozo, his Rottweiler, was trained as a guard dog, and he had a carry permit for the Glock holstered under his jacket. Neighbors said that Bozo was walked every night at 11pm, no matter what the weather, just before Alf went to bed. That Monday night, in lightly falling snow, Alf and Bozo apparently sortied as usual. They never returned. Another dog walker, early that next morning, found disturbed snow, and two blood pools. Alf, dead, Glock still in hand, was centered in the second pool. The other blood pool held nothing. The dog walker also noticed the tracks of a large quadruped, and said there was some kind of faint stink. A forensic expert from the state and a veterinarian from Yale were called in. The blood patches were determined to be Alf’s and a canine presumed to be Bozo. The third set of tracks, from a large animal, were shaped more like a bear than a wolf but left claw indentations like those of a cat. A tracking dog was brought in from the next town and sniffed the spoor, but whined and refused to follow the scent away from the scene. The unknown tracks, pointing back toward the woods, disappeared on a snow-cleared street. Alf had been bitten only once, where his right shoulder joined his neck. The bite had been twisting, tearing muscle loose and severing the carotid artery. He would have died in minutes. As all that was investigated, police brought in a hot air blower and cleared the ground around the attack. They found three shell casings from the Glock, and twenty-seven hair follicles. Twenty-six of the follicles were determined to be human or canine. The twenty-seventh was closest genetically to a wolverine. That’s when I was called in, one of few specialists besotted enough to devote themselves to the vanishing populations of northern latitude carnivores. It helped that I was also an animal tracker and live-trapper. After conducting the string of interviews, I questioned the test results. “No way. There hasn’t been a wolverine here since the ice ages, and a big male maxes out at sixty pounds, tops. It couldn’t carry off a dog almost its own weight.” “Look, Mr. Singletary — Frank — we’ve triple checked the testing. If it’s not wolverine, it’s something close.” Cooke, the police chief, sounded both annoyed and worried. He really needed help. “Sorry, it’s just that except for the northwest, wolverines don’t exist in the lower forty-eight states. The sows dig into deep-pack snow to have their pups and nurture them, more snow than you ever get in Connecticut. Something else attacked several dogs and killed a resident.” The chief looked worried. “What’s your initial guess?” “I try not to make them. But didn’t it strike you as odd that it didn’t try to eat any of the dog walkers?” “Yeah, it did.” “And so a first guess might be that it’s a human that likes the taste of dog but doesn’t want to become a cannibal.” Chief Cooke snorted. “The bites! The animal shape.” “I know, Chief, it’s weak. It also doesn’t gibe with the four-legged tracks leaving the last killing. A human wouldn’t be able to go into that stance and drag off a fifty-pound dog in its teeth. At least not very far. But I’ve never encountered an animal, wolverine, bear, or wolf with these behaviors.” “So what does a wolverine do?” “They’re fond of carrion, it’s a lot easier to catch. And they’re never found in human settlements. They’re aggressively solitary.” I had a thought. “When does your dog pound put down their unadopted dogs?” “No idea.” “Let’s find out. Once we’ve got a dead dog, we’ll let it rot for a couple days, then put it out in one of your neighborhoods.” “The neighbors wouldn’t tolerate it.” “I think they might, if they think it’ll keep their dogs safer. Assign one of your officers to me. He can make sure I don’t break any rules and provide daily reports.” “Not sure I have anybody left. Let me see what I can do.” *** He was a she. Officer Thelma Friedrichsen, twenty-five-year veteran of the force, desk job until her retirement at the end of the year. She used a cane, stumping into my work space. When I raised an eyebrow, her lips puckered. “Don’t call me Thelma. I go by Crash.” I reraised the brow. “It was a traffic detail. I was waving traffic around a stalled car when a panel truck smacked into my left leg. I got a limp and a bunch of money from his insurance company. I’d rather have the leg back.” I nodded. “Appreciate the help. Do you like dogs?” “Never owned one, so I’ve never bonded.” “That’s good, we may have to kill a couple of them.” “I’ll leave that to you.” We smiled at each other. Crash had trimmed-back fingernails, wore no jewelry, had short hair, and almost no makeup. Except for the gimpy leg she looked pretty buff. I liked her, although my suspicion was that she might not be all that fond of men. “If it’s a consolation, there won’t be much paperwork. Just what the chief insists you put in.” She smiled again. “So what’s first?” “First for you is easy, you get to sit in the squad car and listen to me climbing through deadfalls.” The smile disappeared. “Because you don’t think I can handle the trek?” “Nah, because I know what I’m looking for. You’ve got city eyes. I’m looking for scat, disturbed earth, game trails, that kind of stuff. But if I break a leg you get to haul me out.” “That’s okay then. Where do we start?” “I’ve been over the town maps. A lot of the wooded areas are nature trailed, which means lots of people and dogs, which means no self-respecting predator is going to take up residence. We’re checking out the gnarly bits, the densely overgrown sides of hills and ravines, the back end of the town dump. And I need to do it for two towns, the critter doesn’t know about the town line between Fairfief and Westpost.” “You were right, you should do that.” “Like I said. Oh, and we spend a few nights sitting shiva on a dead dog. Ready?” *** We spent the next week of alternate daylight hours with me picking up ticks and burrs and Thelma playing phone games while listening to me grunt on the walkie-talkie. I found traces of half a dozen coyotes and five times that many deer. We spent the alternate nights with an increasingly stinky dog carcass. I carried a dart gun with enough happy juice to knock out a grizzly. The first night I thought I sensed motion in the darkness outside the street lights, but when I checked there were no tracks, just footprints in the snow. The next dog watches were even quieter. The chief again questioned if I was worth my fee. The day after I finished Round One, another dog was taken. Robbie Benson, a teenager bribed to walk a neighbor’s dog after dark, saw something rushing at him and threw the leash at it. “No way I was getting mangled. Not for twenty bucks a walk. It could have the dog.” He was untouched, but had only a fuzzy recollection of what had scooped up the bichon frisé. When I pressed him, he admitted that he’d been open-air toking when the attack happened. So useless, except that he remembered the rank smell. And that gave me my next idea. I spent five thousand dollars of town money on overnight shipments of smells — bear, wolf, wolverine, both anal glands and urine. Then I brought in Danielle, George, and Robbie and had them separately go through sniff tests. Every one of them said the smell was closest to wolverine, which was, of course, impossible. Impossible. Which forced me back to a place I didn’t want to go. I got out of our car, walked far enough away that Crash couldn’t hear me, and dialed a number from memory—to Rankin Inlet in Nunavut. He picked up on the second ring. “Hello, Frank.” Creepy. He always knew it was me before I told him. “Hello, Jordan.” Jordan Aglukark was an Inuit shaman, although he despised that term. “You’re calling me for the advice you still don’t believe in?” “I am, Jordan. But first, you are well? Your family also?” Jordan laughed, the throaty noise almost shaking my cell phone. “I am, thank you, and you remember your manners only when you are in serious trouble. Tell me what is happening.” I did, in great chunks of unfiltered detail. I wanted his take on the known facts, not my half-assed assumptions. There was silence for a couple minutes before he spoke. “Give back whatever money you haven’t already spent, Frank, and leave. Now.” “But the town…” “The wendigo is not interested in Fairfief, Frank, or a few pampered dogs. It restrains itself only briefly from man flesh. That could be you. And you do not have the powers to combat it.” “I’m not afraid of an animal, Jordan.” He sighed. “What does it matter if this is a man behaving as an animal or an animal acting like a man? It is the same monster. If you must stay, do nothing, hide until the warm months. It does not like to be hot, and might leave on its own.” “But the wolverine…” “Is just an avatar, or perhaps a suit made of wolverine pelts. No wolverine would live in man country. Do you still have what I gave you?” “I do, in my suitcase.” “It does not serve to protect a suitcase. Wear it.” Crash was staring at me from the squad car. My expression must have worried her. I put on my best casino face and listened while Jordan told me, in singsong voice, about the wendigo and what it was capable of doing. When we hung up, I shivered. I still couldn’t believe in an implacable, insatiable man-eating demon, but, like Jordan, I couldn’t believe this was a wolverine. When I got back into the car, Crash reached over and touched my arm. “You looked like an ex-wife was asking for more alimony.” “Almost as bad. I asked a guy for advice about our little problem and what he gave I didn’t like.” “And what was that?” “If I ever get drunk enough, I might tell you. Drive, please, while I try and think.” Jordan had to be wrong. I’d already staked myself out with a dead dog and nothing had happened. Except. Except I hadn’t been alone and had been near a sturdy car with a witness who might be able to call it in. According to Jordan, the Wendigo always carried off its prey, leaving no remains or evidence. If Jordan was right, I needed to be alone after dark, dog optional. But there’d been no threats, no malice shown to me. I mentally dope slapped myself. Any threat would tip me off and hint at a man-like killer. Once Crash had dropped me at my motel room I went online. It’s possible but expensive to purchase silver bullets. For a little over $1500 I was able to order ten silver-slugged .38 rounds and book overnight delivery, no personal questions asked. There was no way the chief was going to pay, so I used a credit card. Then I tried to put together a logic chain, and after a couple hours and a double hit on some rough-edged bourbon I began to get workable ideas. I’d been granted computer access to town records and started there. Once I’d sifted things down to a half dozen possibilities I called in a favor at homeland security. “Sam?... Frank… Yeah, we were lucky on that one… Look I need you to pull some info for me — my eyes only, so no record or blowback… Yeah, yeah, I know, okay, here’s what I need…” Just before I went to bed, I rummaged through my suitcase and found the little deerskin pouch that Jordan had given me. I’d never opened it, but the contents rattled, so I was guessing it held tiny bones. Feeling stupid, I put it on. *** It took two more days to receive and winnow the information. Meanwhile, another dog was ripped loose from its owner, this time two blocks from my motel. And shortly after the 911 call afterward I got a call of my own. My number was known only to the police department, so someone had gone to a fair amount of trouble to get it. The voice was masked. “You’ve got questions about the dog killings, I’ve got answers. We need to meet alone.” I knew enough to play along. “Okay, when?” “Tomorrow night.” “Not good for me. A night later, on Friday.” “The longer you wait, the more dogs die.” “Can’t be helped. Call me back Friday and tell me where to meet.” The phone went dead. I immediately dialed Crash. “I need you to do me a favor. You need to send a prowler car out tomorrow morning and pick up someone for a surprise interrogation.” “How do you know they’ll be home?” “I’m guessing he’s a night owl who doesn’t much like bright days. And I need you to be behind the one-way glass when I talk to him.” “Okay. Who is it?” I told her and got a whistle in return. “Are you going to explain that to me?” “Just a hunch. It’ll come clear in the interview.” “Okay.” The next morning I was sitting in the interrogation room wondering if I wasn’t making a terminal mistake. “Okay, Mr. Haskins, thank you for coming in.” “Not sure why I’m here. Dog’s been gone a long time now.” He was dressed in floppy clothing that hid what I suspected was a meth addict thin but stringy-strong body. “Yeah, about that. You apparently got the dog a few days before it was taken, from the pound. Pity. You barely had time to start to bond with it.” Jeb shifted slightly in his seat. “Yeah, that was a shame, but it hurt less when I lost her.” “Yeah. We did some background checks on the people who’ve lost dogs. You moved in with the cold weather, in November, a couple months ago.” His expression went from politely civil to sullen. “So?” “Nothing. Trying to get away from those Canadian winters?’ “You have something against Canadians?” “Me? Not at all. Spend most of my work life up there. But you’re not quite Canadian, are you? Listed as First Nation. Which one?” “Ojibway.” “That’s what the paperwork shows. Funny, though, we checked tribal records and they don’t list you.” “We don’t get enough government money to keep good records.” Haskins had extended his fingers over the edge of the table and onto the top. The nails were thick and furrowed, the fingers spatulate. They turned pale as he pressed them down. “What’s this about? I’ve told you all I know. Go catch that thing.” I nodded. “We’re trying. Some funny things coming out of the investigation. Everyone else that had a dog taken told us about the rank smell that hit them. Except for you, Mr. Haskins. Except for you. Maybe all that cologne you wear kept you from smelling something else.” Haskins sat wordlessly for half a minute. Then, “Since you seem to be done trying to intimidate me, I’ll be leaving. But here’s something to keep in mind. This animal, whatever it is, may just be waiting for the right human to attack and carry off. Someone worthy of its efforts. Bonne Chance, Mr. Singletary.” Haskins walked out and a few seconds later Crash stumped in. “What the hell, Frank? You’re trying to make that skinny bastard as the dognapper?” I remembered Jordan’s comment, that Wendigos were always gaunt, as if they could never eat enough, no matter how much they killed. But I couldn’t tell Crash that. “He’s a loner, no family, some odd circumstances, nah, I guess not, but he’s as close as I’ve gotten.” “Pretty thin. You want a multiple beer dinner with me?” “Sure. You buying?” “Don’t be stupid, you’ve got the expense account from the chief.” “Oh, yeah, I forgot.” “Like hell you did. Mulligan’s at six thirty?” “Done.” *** We held ourselves to four beers apiece, both drinking from the bottles. After the food but before the third beer we got personal. “You married, Singletary?” “Was until six or seven years ago. I was away all the time on projects, she got lonesome, then un-got it with someone else. You?” “Different story, same result. He was nice, timid almost. Realized I liked living together, but not the man, not really. I set him free.” I nodded. “Got anyone now?” “I did, but she moved out of town.” I nodded again. “Good luck next round.” Which I ordered. By the end of Round Four I’d almost told Crash what I was going to do. But I didn’t want her at risk. Which was silly, considering she could maybe outpunch me. We parted ways and I drove slowly back to my motel. The call came in just after I got into the room, which made me think the motel had been watched. “Singletary.” I couldn’t identify the masked voice as being Haskins’, but then even I could do a decent job hiding my vocal identity. “Yeah.” “You still want to know what’s going on?” “Yeah.” “Westpost, 11pm, back lot of Desainti Tire. Be alone, I’ll know if you’re not.” “So I’ve heard. I’ll be there.” Whoever it was clicked off. If any of what Jordan told me was true, I was going against a creature faster, stronger, and more prescient than I was. And I had a mini bag of bones and untested silver bullets. Not fair. It took a while for me to un-jangle my nerves, but I made it into sleep. That next morning, when Crash came by, I said, “Listen, I’ve had something personal come up, so no dead dog detail tonight.” She said nothing, which meant she knew my lie was bullshit. Then, “Okay. Don’t do anything stupid.” The day passed in twinges, me mentally playing out all the ways things could go really wrong. Crash’s body language said she noticed—cops for all their hard exterior are good at reading moods. I reminded myself that animals sense both fear and confidence, and if this thing was as animal as Jordan predicted, I needed to keep both emotions unsensed. Successful hunters do that, holding mental position as a neutral observer until the instant of firing. And I did not want to be the creature losing. That night, as I approached Desainti’s, I checked parked cars, looking for the one registered to Haskins. But it wasn’t there. And it wasn’t in the back parking lot either. Nothing was, except a dumpster and me and my rental. The one overhead light in the lot was out and the night was overcast, leaving everything in heavy shadow. I got out of the car and stood in the middle of the lot, giving myself as much open space as possible. The .38 special was palmed in my right hand. There was a light breeze from the north, and I put my back to it, trusting my nose to tell me of an approach while keeping my eyes downwind. According to Jordan, a Wendigo could climb like a squirrel, but there was nothing for forty yards but chain link fencing, a dumpster, and the rear wall of Desainti’s. The dumpster behind me smelled of burnt plastic and decomposing food. I waited twenty minutes without moving, just shifting my weight from foot to foot. If I moved, I’d lose focus. And that’s when it almost got me. A gentle wind gust brought a stronger than usual aroma of dumpster. I turned my head enough to see a hairy thing with Haskins’ face rushing at me. He was naked, and even in the dim light I could see talons and predatory teeth. He hunched his back into a bow and dropped to all fours, bounding at me in ten-yard hops. As he came closer the smell of wolverine took over from the aroma of rot. I pointed the .38. “Stop!” He did, and stood erect. Except for his hairless face and hands his body was draped with long, wispy fur. “Finally, Singletary. You’ve come out of hiding. Make it worth all my effort.” “Your effort?” “There is no pleasure in killing fat, slow men. But to kill and eat another seasoned hunter, ah, that’s rewarding. You think you’re armed and protected, fine, let’s go through our moves.” The animal in front of me steamed with sweat despite the 20 degree night. It’s metabolism probably let it move half again faster than I could. If I shot at where it was, I’d miss. And I had all of five shots. I fingered the deerskin pouch and it laughed. Its incisors and canines glinted. I couldn’t tell if the claws and fangs were artificial or natural, and realized it didn’t matter. “That teepee nostrum can’t help you. I’m not human. Make your move or I will, let’s not dither.” It bent into its curve-backed, four-legged stance, its head at the height of my rib cage. I kept my focus deliberately blank, putting my left foot forward and keeping the gun back a little, making it harder to swipe. I applied sudden trigger pressure without firing, and it didn’t move, as if it could sense my faux intention. I took several slow steps toward it, giving myself a closer and bigger target, but it backed off sinuously, maintaining the distance. When it had been Haskins it’d been right-handed, and I took a full step to my right, toward his hopefully weaker side. It smiled. “How I love the nuances of our game.” If the wendigo jumped it would probably clear me and be able to attack while I was swinging around. If I gave it the first move, I was probably dead. I swung the gun slightly off target to my right, then swung it back as fast as I could, pulling off one shot. The sound was deafening in the empty lot. It jumped opposite to my swing, the slug missing it by a couple feet, then in the same move, crouched lower and leaped at me. I jumped in at it and stabbed with the folding knife I’d kept in my left hand, trying like hell not to think about it. The knife poked into tough skin, not deep enough to be a serious wound, but maybe enough to be maddening. As the knife went in the wendigo raked talons into my right forearm, tearing muscle and veins. The gun dropped onto the ground. “I will taste you soon.” It moved slowly in toward me. I shifted the knife so the tip pointed toward the ground, in faint hope that I could stab its shoulder or neck. And then the wendigo got shot. As the slug went into its side it let out shrill keen that hurt to hear. “Not fair, not right!” it screamed. “Ambush. But you had no knowledge.” Just then another slug went into its leg. “No over, Singletary, not over. I will meet you in the woods.” Despite two slugs in its body it pounced off, leaping over the cyclone fence without effort. I was holding my forearm tightly, trying to keep the blood loss down, when Crash drove into the lot. She got out of the car and hobbled over. “What the hell, Singletary?” “Thank God you followed me. I’ll tell you while you drive me to the ER.” And did, sort of. I kept any supernatural conjectures to myself, and described Haskins as a meth addict with a taste for dog. “But all that hair? That crouch? Those leaps?” “Amazing what a deranged guy can do with a costume and fake nails.” And that’s where it was left. They found some blood spatter at the scene that wasn’t mine, but decided it was a contaminated sample with peculiar properties. Haskins never reappeared. They found long hairs in his house that tested close to wolverine, put out an APB, and gradually forgot him. They were able to sew my arm back together, and it recovered most of its function. Crash was reassigned and began looking into a bar she could open after she retired. I called Jordan and told him what had happened. His tone was somber. “The Wendigo cannot be killed by lead slugs. It has an unfinished combat with you, and will find you again, perhaps here in our woods, perhaps in another town in winter. You must prepare for a good death.” “How can I prevent it?” “Move to Florida, perhaps. But even then, on a rare freezing day, I would hide in crowds.” Happy landings, Singletary! Don’t forget to pack your sunscream! See you next time, fright fans! ABOUT THE AUTHOR Edward Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had over three hundred stories and poems published so far, and six books. Ed works the other side of writing at Bewildering Stories, where he sits on the review board and manages a posse of six review editors. Visit his Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.
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