FULL MOON
FEVER
By Randy Romero
On Wednesday, March 20th,
Shannon Mills went missing.
On Thursday, March 21st,
after an extensive search, the police found her body. What remained of it.
Shannon wasn’t the first. But
“Pistol” Pete Dixon was going to see to it that she was the last. No more
innocent blood would be shed. Not under Pete’s watch.
Pete was a hunter. He fired his
first gun before he even had a license, before he even knew how to drive a car.
His father would take him out into the woods every weekend during hunting
season. And when his father fell ill, his uncle filled his shoes and took Pete
along on his hunting exhibitions. Uncle Andrew even bought Pete his first
rifle. Now, Pete had more rifles and shotguns than an armory.
Pete was the first to recognize the
pattern and brought it to the attention of the local authorities, who were none
too receptive or appreciative of Pete’s amateur police work. But nonetheless,
he had given them something to work with.
People were disappearing from
Cherrywood on the night of every full moon. The pattern was undeniable. Before
Shannon Mills, it was Lynn Redgrave. And before Lynn, it was Gary Schneider.
The town, including the local
police, immediately assumed it to be the work of a serial killer, though Pete
suspected otherwise. He thoroughly studied the tracks at the last scene. It
wasn’t a bear or a fox, not even a deer.
The prints resembled a wolf’s paw prints, but the tracks were
wider and deeper than any wolf he’d encountered. He couldn’t clearly identify
the species. But whatever it was, it was big, and it was hungry. Very, very
hungry. And it was only a matter of time before it made another appearance to
satisfy its appetite for flesh and blood.
***
Friday, March 23rd. Pete
stepped out onto his front porch with a steaming mug of black coffee, leaned
down, and dusted off the newspaper resting in the grass. The manic headline was
plastered all over the front page, right above the blurry, distorted images of
Shannon Mills’ grisly remains.
FULL
MOON KILLER STRIKES AGAIN IN CHERRYWOOD!
Pete sighed, took a big sip of
coffee that singed his tongue, and lit a smoke.
“Damn fools,” he said, shaking his
head for no one but the birds to view his dismay. “A serial killer? You could
only be so lucky. Nope, this is something bigger. Something the likes of which
you simpletons have never seen before.”
Pete dropped the newspaper back in the grass, then dragged
himself back inside. That’s enough reading for today, he thought. He
checked the calendar and skipped ahead a bit. April 19th: The next
full moon. That was when their “killer” would strike again. And when they did,
Pete would be ready.
***
April 19th. The town of
Cherrywood was on high alert. A mandatory curfew was in effect. No one allowed
to venture outside after dark. No exceptions. Not even for Pete Dixon. But Pete
was never really good at following orders or playing by the rules. The local
cops knew him well enough.
Pete’s dark blue pickup coughed up
exhaust as he rolled into the parking lot of the Palace Diner, his tires spitting
up gravel.
He exited the truck and went inside,
took a look around. The name belied its interior. It was anything but a palace.
But it was also the only diner in town, so it wasn’t like the locals had any
other options.
Warner, a gruff, chain smoking man
with coke bottle glasses and a ruddy complexion, was manning the register. The
sun had set and ushered in a gloomy, dismal twilight. Warner was getting ready
to close out the register and lock up before the cops starting forcing everyone
off the streets and into their homes.
Much like the aging Warner, the diner had been lost in time.
The countertops were faded marble, the windows perpetually coated in dust that
the eighteen wheelers kicked up whenever they blew through the service road.
Padded booths with cracked, torn upholstery that Warner had sutured together
with black electrical tape. A pie rack adjacent to the register, revolving to
display the three-inch wedges of sweetness, topped with meringue or whipped
cream.
Warner still sold cigarettes. Not a cigarette dispenser. You
don’t see too many of those cigarette machines nowadays. He kept them behind
the counter so anyone could come in and request a pack of cancer sticks along
with their greasy hamburgers or fried eggs and crispy bacon.
“Pete,” he nodded in recognition.
“Pack of smokes, Warner. And a big ass cup of coffee. It’s
gonna be a long fucking night.”
“One big ass cup of coffee coming right up.”
Bryce Tibbets was sitting at the counter. He finished his
meal, paid his tab, and sauntered past Pete, bumping shoulders. They exchanged
words before Bryce stormed out in a huff. Warner gave Pete the thumbs up, gave
him his big ass cup of coffee, unfiltered Camels, and wished him luck. He knew
what Pete was prepared to do that night.
***
Pete’s
house was a hunter’s wet dream. Two gun racks lined with rifles and shotguns on
opposite sides of his garage walls. A solid oak gun rack mounted to the back
wall of his living room, too (for good measure, Pete would say). And mounted
above the mantle of his fireplace, rested the head of a 12 point buck. A
coyotes head to the left, a wolf’s head to the right.
He went to the garage and pulled a
twelve-gauge rifle and a Remington double barrel shotgun from one of the racks.
He loaded both and put them into his gun bag. Then he walked to his work bench
and retrieved his Glock 19. They didn’t call him “Pistol” Pete for nothing. As
skilled as he was with a rifle, as much of a pro as he was with the shotgun,
nothing matched his pistols. The gun was his default weapon of choice.
The moonlight shone through the
garage window. It was time to make his move. He popped the clip from his Glock
19 and inserted a new clip that housed special ammunition. Silver bullets. He’d
went out of his way to acquire them on short notice.
Pete flinched at the sound of glass
shattering from his living room. It sounded like a bowling ball being hurled
through his window. He rushed to the living room, pistol in hand, and gasped at
the shocking sight.
The bipedal beast stood on two legs.
Its chest was a vest of blood-matted fur. Its wet snout snapped open to reveal
its jagged teeth. A low, guttural sound emanated from within. It was growling
and licking its lips at the sight of its next meal.
The beast charged across the living
room with abnormal speed.
Pete only had one chance.
He stood his ground, raised his
pistol, and fired a single shot.
The beast folded and collapsed,
blood oozing out onto the bearskin rug in the center of the room. Its snout sunk
in, slowly disappearing. Its claws retracted. The hair vanished from its body
as he reverted back to human form.
What remained was the naked,
lifeless body of one Bryce Tibbets. Sirens emanated in the distance. He saw the
flashing lights through the shattered living room window as the cruisers pulled
into his driveway. They kicked the door in and Pete tossed his pistol aside and
raised his hands on their command.
***
Pete was antsy, agitated. He sat
alone in the white interrogation room for several hours, fidgeting in his seat.
The hum of the fluorescent lights was maddening. He knew the local police were
watching him through the two-way mirror. But that wasn’t what bothered him.
What concerned him was how he was going to explain this to the police.
Sheriff Ferguson entered, flanked by
two of his officers. He dismissed them with a wave but ordered them to stay
close.
He took a seat on the opposite side
of the plain wood table.
“Pete,” he said, his voice quiet,
somber. A hint of disappointment. He’d known Pete for years. And he never
thought Pete would be capable of murdering a human being.
“Sheriff, I know how this looks. But
I can explain.”
“I’m sure you can. But I’m not
interested in your excuses. We know everything. You know Warner? He has a
police scanner, listens in on our calls when he gets bored. He heard the news
on the scanner and called in. I know you and Bryce Tibbets weren’t exactly best
buddies. And I know there was an altercation at the Palace Diner this evening.
It doesn’t look good, Pete. Not good at all.”
“I didn’t kill Bryce Tibbets.”
“Then who did?”
“I killed the man who was once Bryce
Tibbets. But when he came crashing through my living room window, he wasn’t
Bryce. He was a monster. A…”
He stopped himself. Dare he use the
word werewolf? Who would believe him? Certainly not Sheriff Ferguson. Certainly
not the officers under his command. And certainly not a judge or jury. All he
wanted to do was keep the people of Cherrywood safe. And now he was going to be
fighting for his very life.
“You have a lawyer?” the sheriff
asked. Pete nodded. “Good. You’re going to need one. I have no choice but to
charge you with the murder of Bryce Tibbets.”
They rolled his prints, took his
belongings, fitted him for an orange jumpsuit, and stuffed him into a cold,
dank cell. Outside, the moon blazed like a ring of white fire. And somewhere,
far off in the distance, he could hear the unmistakable howl of the beast.
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