Lycan-Dope

The gunshot echoed through the forest, sending birds screeching into the moonlit sky.

Landyn Wilkinse yelped and jumped. He knew tonight might end in gunfire, but that didn’t mean it didn’t send a lightning bolt through his nervous system. With his rifle gripped in both hands, he located the direction of the bang and started running. He crashed through the undergrowth, branches whipping and ripping at him. His mounted flashlight sent dizzying shadows leaping across the greenery around him. ‘MARSHAL!’ he yelled. ‘YOU OKAY, MAN?’

‘HEY! LANDYN! OVER HERE! I GOT THE SONOFABITCH!’

His heart thumped in his throat, pulsing against his Adam’s apple. His breaths came in short and fast. This job had been dangerous, but it looked over already. Landyn ran towards the sound of his friend’s shouts.

Marshal Darwine waved at him from the clearing. He stood between the embers of a dying fire and a small one-person tent. He had a wild grin and pumped his rifle in the air one-handed. The light on his gun shone like an Olympic torch. ‘I DID IT! I DID IT! I GOT HIM!’

A snake of unease uncoiled itself in Landyn’s gut. Something wasn’t right here. He slid to a halt before Marshal, sweat cold and damp on his neck and around his armpits. ‘What?’ he asked, out of breath. ‘What do you mean?’

Marshal stepped aside and gestured to the open tent like a man opening up a theatre’s stage production. ‘Take a look for yourself, good buddy.’

Landyn frowned. A werewolf? In a tent? It might make sense if the beast had tried to distance himself from the local village. But the monster that had terrorised them didn’t seem to care for the carnage it caused. That sort of beast wouldn’t isolate itself like this. It didn’t add up. He shined his light on the tent and saw the crimson stains. ‘Oh my God, Marshal. What did you do?’

Marshal grinned. ‘I killed the werewolf.’

On shaking legs, Landyn crouched down and peered into the tent. Blood, brains, and fragments of skull painted the rear of the canvas. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t point his rifle at another human being like this. He would only do that if he planned on shooting that person. But the other guy was already growing cold in this case, so it didn’t matter. He glanced back up at his buddy. ‘And what makes you so sure that he was the werewolf?’

Marshall shrugged. ‘A silver bullet killed him. Silver bullets kill werewolves. Ergo, he was a werewolf. It’s axiomatic.’

Landyn inhaled. He blinked a few times and tried to find the right words. ‘Marshal…’ His voice trailed off. He tried again. ‘You shot him in the face, man! I mean who wouldn’t that kill? His dying doesn’t mean that he was a werewolf, for God’s sake!’

Marshal recoiled. The joy faded from his eyes, and his grin disappeared. He fiddled with the bolt handle of his gun. It clicked and clacked in the still of the night. Not even crickets chirped, nor owls hooted. All was silent except for the gentle whisper of the wind through the leaves. ‘Huh.’

Landyn stared in through the open flaps of the tent. The corpse lay in a yellow sleeping bag dotted with big blobs of blood. There were other accoutrements, such as a lamp and a rifle. The same sort of things they had packed with them. ‘Oh Christ, Marshal,’ he whispered.

Marshal ran a hand through his hair, leaving it in disarray. He started to pace back and forth beside the dimming campfire. ‘Ah, well, actually, you see, when I was a kid, I saw this circus with this guy who could catch bullets with his teeth. That sorta fella wouldn’t die from a bullet to the head.’

Landyn kicked the boot of the corpse. The leg had a horrible dead weight. ‘Yeah, but Marshal, this fella doesn’t look like circus folk. What would the circus be doing out here in the woods? Where are the rest of the performers? And the guy needs to be awake for the trick to work. But it doesn’t matter, we’re getting sidetracked!’

Marshal swallowed. A hollow click sounded. All colour was draining from his face, and his eyes seemed hollow and sunken. The bags beneath seemed much darker against his pallid complexion. ‘So, what are you saying Landyn?’

Landyn, still crouching, using his rifle as support, pointed into the tent. ‘I’m saying you didn’t slay the werewolf. What you did was assassinate an innocent man in his sleep. And look, he’s got a gun with him. What kind of werewolf needs a gun? Check the chamber.’

Marshal pulled a troubled face but complied. He crouched down and reached for the dead man’s hunting rifle, sliding it away from the motionless body. He drew back the bolt.

Landyn knew what Marshal would say before he said it. He groaned and closed his eyes.

Marshal swore. ‘Silver bullets. So that means—’

The world felt like it was starting to tilt and wouldn’t stop. Landyn held on to his rifle – its butt planted in the dirt – to keep from keeling over. He clutched his weapon in a white-knuckle grip. ‘He was out here hunting the werewolf too.’

‘And that means—’

‘You murdered someone. A person. A normal person. Like us. Like you and me.’

‘Oh God. Oh God! And that also means—’

‘Yes, th—’

A soul-shattering howl split the night, slicing a caesura into his words.

Landyn shivered as ice poured into his veins. Gooseflesh rippled across his arms and up the back of his neck. The animal’s call had come from close behind them. The hunters had become the hunted. He looked into his friend’s eyes and saw the same terror he felt. When he spoke, he did so in a tiny voice that didn’t seem like it belonged to him.

‘The wolf is still out here with us, and we’ve let it know our location.’

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Saturday, February 10, 2024

Written for the February 2024 #BlogBattle: ‘Axiomatic’