Bestial (24 page)

“Are you all right?” she asked.

Christian had pushed himself to the back of the van, and he was nearly hidden in the darkness. “I think so—”

The first of the beasts slammed into the truck. Then another, and another. They leaped up on the side, growling and sniffing for an entrance. Some of them shoved at the sides of the vehicle, but, as before, they couldn’t get in.

While the creatures pounded on the walls in frustration,
Chesya crawled over to where the boy sat. Rick moved behind her, placing an assured hand on her shoulder.

“You’re … normal. Like us,” Chesya said.

“Yeah. I think so. I haven’t changed into one of them. Not yet, at least.”

“I’m Chesya, and this here’s Rick. We thought we were the only humans left. What’s your name?”

“Christian,” he said. “Christian Wright. And it’s good to see you too. Nice to know there’s … someone else left out there. And thanks for opening those doors. You could’ve left me outside. It would have been the smart thing to do.”

“No.” Rick grinned at the kid. “I don’t think we could have done that. What about your family, Christian? They change too?”

“I don’t know. I … I left them a while back … sorta ran away. It’s a long story.”

“Well,” Chesya laughed over the angry howling outside the truck. “We have a long night ahead of us. Those things aren’t going away until morning. . . . Well, I’m not really sure how they work yet, but it seems like they only change at night.”

“I think it’s the moon,” Rick said. “Like werewolves.”

“You’re part right,” Christian said. “It
is
like a werewolf.”

He gave them an edited account of his life as a runaway, telling them he’d met an old Frenchman who’d helped him through some rough times, who’d given him meals and a warm place to stay.

Chesya raised her eyebrows. She could read between the lines. The boy had sold himself; he possessed as little self-esteem as any prostitute.

She could tell by the sad, knowing look in Rick’s eyes that he wasn’t buying the “kindly old gentleman” bit, either. It confirmed her idea that Rick’s “bad boy” status was mostly just an act, covering up hidden layers. In fact, he displayed a rather surprising amount of empathy.

Christian wrapped up his PG-13 account of his NC-17 story, and he told them about the leather-bound journal he had dropped. “I think all the answers are in that book. Jean kept a detailed record
about what he called lycanthropes, and he had hunted one down in Siberia.”

“Hunted down a werewolf?” Rick asked.

“Yeah, I think so. I’ll need to get the journal in the morning so I can finish it, but there’s a naked man in a cell up there on the third floor of the Bio-Gen building, and he changed into one of those monsters while I watched. He started to tell me a story, but then he began mutating, so I only got the beginning.”

“He’s still there?” Chesya asked.

“As far as I know. I think Jean captured him and brought him here for experiments. Jean believed that lycanthropy was a genetic disease. I kinda deciphered that much. They were probably testing him, observing him, trying to cure him. I think something backfired. They created something in the lab, and I think it started all of this. Maybe released it into the air somehow, like an airborne virus.”

“See?” Rick said. “I told you it was some kind of virus.”

“Yes, you did,” Chesya acknowledged.

“So what happened to you guys?” Christian asked. “You look like you’ve been through hell.”

Rick and Chesya related their own story, and Christian listened attentively as they interrupted each other, sparring with their words while making the whole thing sound like some wonderful adventure. Rick cleaned it up for the boy, but turnabout was fair play. Chesya watched the kid, saw him yawn in a huge, theatrical manner, and something stirred within her, something protective and (she hated to even think the word) maternal. The boy had been through so much, ever since he had entered adolescence. The release of the Lycanthrope Syndrome was merely the icing on a spoiled and rotten cake.

By the time Rick and Chesya had completed their tale, all but a few beasts had deserted the Brink’s van, loping off in search of some other form of dinner. The truck had stopped rocking, and the sounds from outside had dulled down to a few yips and growls here and there.

With a yawn, Chesya accepted the fact that they were safe for the night. She hadn’t realized she was so sleepy, but now that her
adrenaline had stopped pumping, she could feel her muscles aching and her eyelids drooping.

“I think we should all get some rest,” she suggested.

“Sounds like a damned good idea,” Rick said.

The boy nodded, although he could still feel his heart racing in his chest. He knew he was secure inside the impenetrable Brink’s truck with these people. The chase that evening had taken almost everything out of him. He rested his back against the side of the truck, wondering if he could ever sleep again.

He was snoring within two minutes

SEPTEMBER 18, 2:40 A.M.

C
athy had assembled a makeshift bed (more of a nest, really) out of several old blankets and curtains she’d discovered in the attic. She still occasionally overheard the beasts outside her house, but she was so exhausted that she couldn’t pay attention to them. They were reminders on the fringe of her tired mind, grace notes to the evening’s debacle.

Lying down in her pile of blankets, she mashed a few into the semblance of a pillow and dropped her head upon them. She pulled a dusty velvet curtain over herself to keep out the chill, luxuriating in the softness of the fabric. She couldn’t remember when she had banished these curtains to the faraway kingdom of the attic, but she was glad she had. The material was warm against her skin.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and the bizarre concerto of animal sounds that surrounded her began to fade, a decrescendo of the horrors that lurked outside.

And she felt the familiar breath of Karl against the back of her neck.

Karl, the betrayer, the pervert, the husband.

“Hello, Cathy,” he whispered. The puffs of air disturbed the downy hairs that trailed down her neck to her spine. A chill swept through her.

Turning over, she snapped her eyes open. Karl’s eyes were white, occluded by mysterious cataracts. He was nude, but he was tucked beneath her covers with her, his cold body pressed against hers.

Backing away from him, she said, “You’re dead.” Her voice was quiet, overwhelmed by a fatigue that pressed down on her like a heavy weight. She knew she should leap from her nest and run for
the nearest exit, but she was too tired to even consider such a move.

This was her dead husband next to her.

She had killed him hours earlier. She’d smeared the entire bathroom with his blood.

She refused to believe he was here, cozying up to her.

Then again, the world was full of such conundrums now. What was one more?

He smiled at her, the familiar, self-effacing, charming grin he reserved for his happiest moments. “Come on, Cathy. You have to concede that I’m here. Look …” He shook his hands free of the covers, exposing pale, white skin. “Nothing up my sleeve. No wires. No tricks. Just me and you.”

“I killed you,” she hissed.

“And a damn fine job you did of it, too.” He shrugged. “Something less messy would have been preferable, but you work with what you’re given. I’ve always loved that about you.”

“Have you, really?” The sarcasm dripped from her lips like poison.

“You’re a good woman, Cathy. I know I never appreciated you very much during our marriage, but I always respected you.”

“By screwing our son?” Saying the words aloud gave them flesh, rescued them from the mists of rumor. She realized she sounded shrill, like her mother, the shrewish wife she had never wanted to become. Lowering her volume a bit, she said, “You really did it, didn’t you?”

“I had needs.” He shrugged.

“Needs? Jesus Christ, you raped your own child.”

“Oh, Cathy … it was sometimes worse than that.”

“You bastard.”

“Hey, I admit it—I was a fucker.”

“I want you to go away.” She closed her eyes and turned her back to him.

Karl touched her shoulder, and his fingers burned her skin, frostbite from his caress infecting her. “Like you want all problems to go away, Cathy? Like you wanted my problem to go away?”

“Shut up,” she said. It was a feeble, impotent protestation.

“You ignored it, and it didn’t vanish. At least, not until Christian
ran away. Not until we lost our boy forever. You know you had your chance to confront me. You didn’t take advantage at the time, and he’s gone now, isn’t he? Out there someplace. Do you ever wonder if he’s even alive?”

“Please … please shut up.” The first tear fell from her eye.

“Has he survived through this cataclysm? Did he find refuge somewhere? Tell me, Cathy, do you ever think about him?”

She focused on the moonlight that spilled into the room from the window, immersing herself in its blue security.

“I always think about Christian. He was a good boy.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

“You’re tellin’ me.”

“Please,” she begged, and he was silent. “I didn’t want to believe that you could do such a thing. Even when all the evidence pointed in that direction … I couldn’t allow myself to think that you were abusing our son, that you preferred our boy to me. It was the wrong thing to do, but I closed my eyes to it. If I didn’t take notice of it, if I never actually acknowledged the sin, then it didn’t exist. Did it? Did it?”

“Oh, my dear, it existed. I was there.”

“Now … Christian … out there … someplace …”

She buried her face in the makeshift pillow as sobs wracked her body. No longer concerned with appearances, with what the neighbors might think, she wept for the loss of her son, for her inability to confront her husband and stop the abuse.

“I’ve … I’ve lost him,” she admitted, saying the words aloud for the first time. “I’ve lost my son.”

The cold hand that was stroking her back evaporated into a cool mist. “You can still find him,” Karl said, wispy and far away. “It isn’t too late, because Christian’s still alive.”

The condensation on her back dried, and she turned over. Karl had disappeared. He left a cold space where he had lain. Through the window, she could see the first orange reconnaissance of the sun as it began to rise.

Was it a dream?
she wondered.
Or did he really visit me
?

Standing and stretching, she moved to the window. Bodies dotted the perfectly gardened and trimmed landscaping of the nearby
houses. Several floated facedown in the man-made lake, which reflected the sunrise in all of its Van Gogh glory.

Cathy decided it didn’t matter whether he was a ghost, or just some figment of her subconscious. The words he had spoken were true.

Her son was alive. She knew it with that unswerving, maternal certainty that came to her sometimes … that materialized within all mothers in times of strife.

Christian was alive. Out there.

And she was going to have to find him.

Somehow.

SEPTEMBER 18, 5:30 A.M.

C
hristian awoke with a start, and it took him several moments of panic before he realized where he’d been sleeping. The world seemed topsy-turvy, on its side, and there were others here, snoring away their own bad dreams. Dawn was breaking outside the Brink’s truck, and tepid sunlight streamed in through the gunports in the sides of the truck where men had once upon a time held shotguns … modern-day turrets.

He shifted, trying to lean against the back of the vehicle. (Or was it the bottom?) He moved slowly, quietly, so as not to wake the others. Peering through the murkiness, he could see they were spooning, as though they were lovers. The man had his arm draped casually over the woman, and she had the faintest of smiles on her lips.

He wondered if these people, who had also resisted the change into monsters, were to become his companions. He’d tried not to warm to them last night, but there was something about being with your own kind. He felt safe with them, almost comfortable, in a way he hadn’t felt since his father had taken those first dreadful steps into his room at night.

Thinking of his father again, he sensed the tears building in his eyes. Long ago, he’d taught himself that to cry was to display weakness, and any show of vulnerability on the street was a flashing sign, evidence for the stronger to pounce and prove their dominance. It was a form of street Darwinism. The strong certainly did prevail over the weak. But if they didn’t realize you were fragile, they tended to leave you alone until they could be certain. Therefore, tears, like any exhibition of a troubled mind, were forbidden.

They were flowing pretty freely now, though. He cried silently, using his sleeve to wipe his nose.

In the safety of the Brink’s truck, he could let himself go, could think about all the things he hadn’t allowed himself to consider since he had run away.

Like whether his mother was still alive … or whether his father was.

Christian found himself hoping his mother had survived. Even though she had ignored his accusations against Karl, she hadn’t willingly contributed to the abuse.

They had been so close as he had grown up, especially during his early teen years. He had been able to speak with her about subjects that he’d never dare to broach with his father. Often, he’d share a bowl of popcorn with her, lean up against her warm side, and watch an old movie on the late show. She’d seemed to welcome the intimacy, sometimes kissing the top of his head, often mussing his hair with a laugh. She had always enjoyed the classic romantic comedies, costarring Hepburn and Tracy or Doris Day and Rock Hudson. Christian had also taken pleasure in the frivolous films, laughing at the jokes and feeling as though he was peering through a keyhole at a lost time.

As he rested in the Brink’s truck, he thought that perhaps his mother had enjoyed the films for a different reason; maybe she was searching for some proof of happily ever after. He had noticed the chasm that was opening between his parents, had always sensed its cold wind blowing in their chilly conversations. It had remained on the periphery of his adolescent attention, always just out of sight.