W is for WEREWOLF
“You new in town?” The bartender
asked more out of politeness than actual curiosity. He set the beer on the bar
top and dabbed at some moisture with a towel. Besides, there was no one else in
the joint, and with the way the white sky was starting to crumble and flake to
the ground outside, there wouldn’t be many in for the rest of the evening.
“Yeah,” the guy said, curtly. “Just
moving through. Looking for a job. Thought maybe I’d find something over at
KPM.”
KPM was the foundry on the west end
of town. It had become the life-blood of the community, now employing a good
third of the town and several of the smaller surrounding communities. And those
who didn’t work there owed the success of their businesses to the vitality that
it helped stimulate.
“Yeah, they’re always hiring. Thing
about factory work: one guy gets sick of it and quits, there’s always three
more willing to step into his place on the line.”
The stranger didn’t say anything;
he just sipped at his beer. He had an odd look about him. Nothing measurable,
nothing that raised any caution, but almost as if he’d had a gut ache or a
fever but was trying to ignore it.
“Say, uh, don’t take offense,
friend, but are you ok? You look like you might not be feeling well. You want
me to call a cab or something?”
The stranger produced a noticeable
shake. Maybe it was the chills, maybe he had a flu coming on.
“Naw, I’m—I’m alright. I just…can
you point me to the restroom?”
“Yeah, sure,” Bud said. “Back past
the Pabst sign. That corner over there. Take a right around it. Second door on
the left.”
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
After fifteen minutes had lapsed, Bud began to get concerned. Maybe the guy
slipped out the stock room door and skipped out on paying for his drink. So it
was a three-dollar beer, no big deal. But there was a principle to the thing.
Or maybe he was really sick. Like really sick. Maybe he needed help.
Bud wandered back to the restroom.
The door was unlocked. He rapped his knuckled against the door. “You alright in
there? Your beer’s getting warm.”
No response. After waiting and
listening for a second, Bud pushed the door open. The room was empty.
Now he was angry. So the guy did
skip out.
It was against OSHA standards and
building code, but maybe he’d have to start locking the rear door while he was
open. He only used it for deliveries anyhow, and they came once every couple of
days, and early in the afternoon. After that, the only one to use it was
himself after he’s closed up for the night. Should an inspector pop in, he
could always run back and unlock the thing.
There was a clink of glass in the
stock room.
So, he thought, the guy hadn’t left
after all. Maybe he’d ask to use the bathroom and then head to the stock room,
help himself to some top shelf liquor or something.
The rotten slob…why, he was going
to get a good wake up.
“Hey, stranger. I think maybe you
should come out. Come out now and pay for whatever you grabbed, and we’ll call
it even. No cops.”
No response from the darkness. Just
a smell. A heady musk redolent of a wet dog. Bud reached around the doorway and
flipped on the light. The clinical paleness of the single fluorescent shop
light flickered to life and buzzed like an angry wasp.
There was another noise. More
clinking.
“Look, friend,” Bud growled. “I’m
past irritated. Out you go. Let’s go. I’m counting to ten and then I call the
cops.”
There was a low bestial growl.
Something came out from behind a stack of empty liquor bottle boxes. It was too
quick to see clearly what it was, but Bud felt it. Felt the hot, sour breath on
his face, felt the icy razor slice of something sharp and fringed with bristly
fibers seconds after he realized it had cut him.
His vision purpled and flooded with
spots and he lost consciousness. He heard a loud howl as he faded.
* * *
A middle aged man, his
flannel-covered gut distended over his camouflage pants, sat down at the bar. “Where’s
Bud?”
The stranger set the man’s beer on
the bar top in front of him and wiped at some moisture with a hand towel.
“Bud left town for a while,” the
bartender said. “Something about needing a vacation. Guess the stress was
really killing him.”
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