Animal Behavior and Other Tales of Lycanthropy (13 page)

“Enough!”

The gang parted to either side of the room and a man in a white tuxedo and top hat stood at the doorway. His face was painted white in a skull pattern and framed by ropy dreadlocks. Even with the crowd, Murphy’s keen nose told him this stranger was no man. Masked underneath the rum and tobacco was the faint scent of brimstone. The dog whimpered and stepped back.

“Baron Samedi, I presume,” Murphy said and several of the men were startled at the sound of his menacing voice.

“Very good,” said the man. “You are a marvelous creature. I am surprised, though, that you so easily work with the thing that killed your mother.”

Hot air whooshed through Murphy’s nostrils as he tried to keep his anger in check. He knew he could lay to waste everyone in the room, tear them limb from limb and leave nothing but quivering piles of flesh in his wake, but he could not guarantee the Doberman’s survival, the first living creature to show him any sort of compassion in nearly half a century.

“And how touching that you brought that mangy mongrel with you. I should have killed that whimpering pest when I had the chance.”

The beast within Murphy growled its displeasure with the statement. “If you’re truly the loa of resurrection and sex, why the parlor tricks?”

The Baron let loose a deep belly-laugh that seemed to reverberate in his throat. “A supernatural creature is asking me if I’m real. What a trip. First, I do not have dominion over the souls I do not escort to Hell, and secondly, you have any idea how much trouble the undead are?”

Murphy just stood there, barely listening and plotting his next move. He thought about clawing his way through the crowd, but thought he’d stand a better chance protecting the dog if he just plowed through the wall.

“No?” the Baron continued. “Then let me show you.” He extended his right hand toward the dead woman. The Baron’s eyes reddened like hot coals on a fire.

The woman sat up and her face contorted in a vicious snarl. She grabbed the Haitian man closest to her and sank her teeth into the back of his neck, and pulled him on top of her.

“Help me, Moliere,” the man pleaded as he struggled to pull himself up, but the woman’s cold legs wrapped tightly around his waist. He managed to put two rounds into the side of her waist, but as more of his blood coated her face and bosom, the less strength he had. “Please,” he said before blood filled his airway and the struggle came to an end.

The other men stepped away from the bed and back peddled toward the door as the woman shoved the dead weight off her and onto the floor. She perched herself on all fours and mashed her teeth together, letting loose an animalistic growl.

Just great!
Murphy looked at his clawed hand and hoped all he needed to do was destroy the creature’s brain.

Baron Samedi’s eyes glowed with Hellfire once more and the dead woman’s flesh ignited in flame. The zombie rolled off the bed and writhed on the floor as the flames consumed her flesh. The heat from the fire caused Murphy to shelter his face with his arm. Just as it appeared, the fire vanished and left nothing but ash.

“As you can see, true zombies are unruly. Death is cold. Icy. The undead are not ravenous for food, but the warmth that living flesh provides as it slides down their gullet. Though momentarily at best, living blood warms them and when a victim’s flesh no longer generates that warmth, they search for their next victim. Any more questions?” he asked Murphy, who couldn’t think of anything but getting out of there unsinged. He hadn’t expected that kind of power. “I’ll take your silence as a no. Now, a creature such as yourself should be working with me, not against.”

“What exactly are you doing here, and in that body?”

“This weak-minded soul invoked me in hopes of accomplishing the American dream. I swallowed his soul and in turn his friends and cohorts will reap the benefit of his sacrifice so long as they are loyal and serve their purpose.”

The henchmen, one-by-one, exited the room as if sensing the imminent confrontation.

“You should join me, Murphy Crane. Together we can find your wayward father and bring him to justice.”

My father!

“Yes. He’s still out there. Don’t you want to punish him for raping your mother? For leaving you two without so much as a warning?”

Murphy had heard enough. He wasn’t about to stand there and let this arrogant pig dredge up over a hundred years of repressed memories. He lunged forward, claws outstretched and ready to rip flesh from bone.

With cat-like reflexes, the Baron grabbed him by the wrists, spun him around, and playfully kicked his backside. The force sent him stumbling forward and Murphy could tell the man had held back, but how much he didn’t know.

The Doberman leapt into action and was swatted away with a backhand. It crashed into the wall and lay still on the floor.

“NO!” Murphy roared and attacked again. Once more his hands were caught before they could rip the Baron asunder, but this time he was kicked in the gut. The strength of the blow sent him hurling backward. He hit the wall behind him with such force the brick collapsed under his weight and he fell two stories to the ground. His leg twisted at the knee, broken. Crumbled brick rained down on him as he sat up to right the leg. He grabbed the leg with both hands and jerked it back in place and let loose a howl. Within seconds, the pain was no more.

The Baron’s men came running out of the building, guns blazing. Hot lead pierced his hide, but they were nothing more than a nuisance. He charged headlong into the mob; his arms flew wildly as he passed through the crowd. His razor sharp nails tore through muscle; limbs dropped and throats sprayed arterial fluid. Within the span of a minute, the Haitian gang had their numbers cut in half. The surviving members either fled back into the building or ran off, leaving their weapons behind.

“Enough of this,” the Baron said, standing in the center of the hole in the wall. He jumped down. His body descended slowly—ghost like.

Murphy watched him closely.

When his feet touched the ground, he extended his hand toward the sky. “I want to see your full power.”

With the wave of his hand, the dark shadow covering the final crescent arch of the moon receded. Murphy’s heart thundered in his chest upon seeing the soft glow of the now full moon. The animal within stirred, demanding release. He grabbed the buttoned folds of his shirt and ripped the fabric off his expanding chest. His face elongated into a muzzle. Muscles bulged. Bones cracked and popped out of their joints to reposition themselves in unnatural angles. Hair sprouted from every pore.

“Yes . . . now show me your power so that I may make it my own.”

The wolf leaned back on its haunches and howled at the moon before dropping to all fours and running headlong at the Baron. The Baron twirled his body out of the beast’s way, grabbed it by the scruff and used the spiral momentum to toss the beast into the air. It crashed through another brick wall. The gang members inside screamed and ran deeper into the building.

“Disappointing.” The Baron approached him methodically. He punched the wall as he stepped through the opening, sending a stray brick straight at the beast’s head.

The beast showed its agility by catching the brick with its teeth, then crushed it between its powerful jaws. Tiny stone particles spilled from its lips. Not sure of what its next move should be, the beast waited for the Baron.

“What’s wrong? You tired of playing with me already? All right, I’ll make the next move.”

The Baron ran at the wolf; the wolf ran toward him. They collided. The wolf’s right paw was caught, but the left clawed down the Baron’s chest. Deafening screams filled the air. The wolf dropped to its knees and covered its ears. It stared up at Baron Samedi and saw the screams did not come from him, but from
within
him as if a window to Hell had been opened and the tortured souls called out for help. The Baron clasped his hands together and raised them high above his head, then brought them down upon the beast’s skull.

The wolf fell to the ground, darkness creeping over him. It struggled to stand, but received another crashing blow.

We cannot win
, Murphy thought.
He is the lord of the dead. He can’t be killed.
What am I to do?
Then he remembered the practice of the Jivaro people of the Amazon rainforest and how they used to shrink the heads of their enemies to trap their soul inside. It was a long shot, but he had no other alternative.
But how am I going to get close enough to remove his head?

No sooner than he thought about it, the Doberman came running out from the shadows and clamped its teeth onto the Baron’s calf. As the Baron knelt down to pry the dog off, Murphy lunged upward and clamped his powerful jaws around the base of the Baron’s neck and bit down. Blood pooled along his gum-line and filled his mouth as his teeth pierced and severed the flesh. The head fell to the ground and rolled away. The body slumped to its knees. More screams and white smoke billowed from the open wound and Murphy caught the shapes of faces within it. A green flame ignited along the neckline, searing the flesh closed and the screams were silenced.

Murphy scooped the severed head with his open maw and ran off. In full wolf form, Murphy traversed the city in the shadows and via rooftops. With the best of his ability, the Doberman kept up the pace using the streets below.

As the morning sun rose over the horizon, Murphy hopped the fence to his backyard. He lived in a bungalow near the beach, a modest residence for the perpetual bachelor. There, the transformation reversed. The claws, teeth and hair receded and a calming peace came over him as the beast went dormant once more. The Doberman barked from the other side of the fence. Murphy walked toward the gate with the severed head tucked behind him covering his bare backside and his left hand concealing his manhood. He peered over the fence, and with the coast clear, he lifted the latch, opened the gate, and whistled for the dog. The Doberman came bolting around the corner and once inside his yard, Murphy secured the gate and made his way toward the back door. He kept a spare key under the doormat for such occasions.

Once inside, he placed the head on his kitchen counter and went to get dressed, but not before lighting a fire in his stone fireplace. He could feel the Baron’s gaze on him as he walked away, but he didn’t care. It would be something he’d need to get used to, though. He stepped out of his closet, fully clothed, to the Doberman sitting at his bedside, tail wagging.

“You hungry, boy?”

The dog barked.

“Suppose I’m going to have to come up with a name for you, huh?”

He stood, tail still wagging.

“No dog food, I’m afraid, but I got a ham bone in the fridge you’re welcome to.”

The dog ran off to the kitchen.

“Guess that settles it.”

He followed the dog into the kitchen, and retrieved the ham bone he had been saving to make pea soup. “I’ll get you something with more substance after I take care of our little friend.” He handed it over and the dog trotted off to the center of the living room.

With the dog happy, Murphy pulled out a pot from a cabinet under the counter, filled it with water, and put it on the stove. He set the temperature to high and grabbed a knife from its cradle. Then, with his free hand, he grabbed a hand full of dreadlocks.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he said as he stared into the unblinking eyes of the Baron. “No cocky retort? I’m surprised. Let’s not put this off any longer.”

He turned the head around and jammed the blade into the base of the neck, then made a slit up to the back of the head so that he could peel the skin and hair from the skull. Then, carefully, the eyes and lips were sewn shut. By the time that was done, the water was boiling and ready. He dropped the head in, covered the pot, and set the timer for ninety minutes.

This’ll give me time to get some sand and stones
, he thought.

* * * *

Murphy made it back from the beach with three minutes to spare. He had collected enough stones and sand to finish his shrunken head. None of his belongings were chewed up by his new roommate and he was very pleased. On removal from the pot the head was a third of its size, the skin rubbery to the touch. The stones went into the water in its place.

Grasping the dangling flesh of the neck and sliding his fingers into the folds, he turned the skin inside out, scraped off all the adhering flesh, and then turned the skin right-side-out. He sewed a slit up the neck line, then removed the hot stones and shoved them into the neck, not caring about scalding himself; time was of the essence if he was to trap Baron Semedi’s soul inside the head. He rolled the stones inside the bag of skin until the head shrank to a point where the stones could no longer move. He returned the stones to the boiling water to reuse them, and filled the head with the sand collected on the nearby beach. Once the stones were hot enough, he took one and applied it to the outside surface to seal and shape the head’s features. When a stone was cool to the touch, he took another and continued to work until he was satisfied. Then he singed off the fine facial hairs.

“There, that looks like you, or rather the man you stole from this world. Don’t worry. I’ll reapply your ceremonial war paint.”

The Doberman suddenly stood up and ran to the back door, barking.

“What is it, boy?” He looked out the window to see five walking corpses, men and women in various stages of decay, and one legless zombie crawling, his flesh bloated and covered in seaweed. The group surrounded the bungalow. He held the shrunken head at eye level. “Guess they don’t call you the lord of the dead for nothing, but how far does your influence reach?”

He darted to the front of the house and found another four shambling zombies closing in on his white picket fence. Murphy recognized one of the females by her clothing: a jogger reported missing two weeks ago. Her shorts were ripped in the middle and he’d bet anything she had been raped. Given her condition, cause of death was undeterminable, but it was clear she’d been abducted and ditched as suspected. Her legs and arms had deep chunks of flesh missing, a sure sign of animal mauling. Her skin was dry, wrinkled, and pressed tightly against her bones, the decay heightened by the Florida heat. Murphy felt a tinge of guilt for not checking the neighboring woods to his house, but the area was nowhere near where she was last seen.

Couldn’t have known, but I’ll be paying each neighbor a visit when this is over
, he told himself. He looked to the sky. The sun had just cleared the horizon. He heard a scream come from his neighbors, and though he wanted to help them, he had bigger problems and couldn’t afford his secret getting out.

“Looks like we’re trapped,” he said to the Doberman still standing at his side. He walked over to the fireplace and hung the shrunken head over the open flame to cure, then pulled down his shotgun from over the mantle. He looked to the dog and said, “Think we can hold out ’til nightfall?”

The Doberman barked in agreeance.

Murphy smiled as the perfect name dawned on him.
I think I’ll call you Moondoggie.