Breeds 2 by Keith C. Blackmore Page B

woman was using tweezers on yon tree over there. They bagged what they could, I imagine, and hauled it off to Halifax.”
    Kirk didn’t bother looking. “Halifax.”
    The man smiled. “Yeah. Guess they’ll inspect the body down there. Try and figure out the cause of death.”
    “Thanks,” the warden replied, senses whirling. He fumbled for the keys and started up the truck, allowing one last, thanking nod at the accommodating neighbor.
    Spinning dirt, Kirk racked the pickup into reverse and got the hell away from the cabin.
    As trees fluted by, the singular thought of Oh shit ran circles in his mind. He was no longer feeling sick. That sensation had been replaced. Someone had done the impossible––a fairy-tale nightmare deeply rooted in legend and fear, the expressly forbidden.
    Someone had decapitated a werewolf.
    A werewolf could only be killed by silver, fire, or having its throat ripped out by the jaws of another werewolf. The magic that enabled them all to transform––for better or for worse––possessed an even darker side, a sinister side, unleashed only upon the first transformation. Or when the were had its head separated from its body.
    A body which would eventually regrow the missing bauble.
    Kirk’s foot pushed down on the accelerator, urging the machine to fly.
    He had to get back to Morris.
    They had to contact the elders.

11
    The truck made it back to Morris’s cabin, but Kirk believed the rugged dirt road had claimed every vital part needed for the vehicle to ever start again. He stopped on the front lawn, right at the cabin door, and nearly snapped the gearstick in half upon placing the pickup in park. Kirk leaped from the machine to the steps and crashed into the front door. He barged into the Pictou warden’s dwelling and halted just beyond the threshold.
    Morris remained in his easy chair and cocked an eyebrow at the intrusion. He had donned a pair of cut-off jeans and sandals and administered several medicinal beers, the empties collecting at the chair’s base. A half-emptied case was well within reach of his right arm. His skin appeared to be in even better condition than before, and black fuzz had sprouted from his scalp.
    “We have to contact the elders,” Kirk blurted. “Bailey had his head blown off.”
    “Wha…” Morris trailed off in disbelief. “But that means… what?”
    “You know what.”
    “But that’s only…” Morris faltered in the distressed glare Kirk fixed him with. “That’s only a fuckin’ legend .”
    “It’s enough for me,” Kirk said and pulled out his phone. “You good with this?”
    Morris shrank back in his chair, the Bad Dog decal of his shirt partially obscured by wrinkles. “No. But, yeah. Do it.”
    Kirk speed-dialed the elders’ number and slapped the unit to his ear. “Yeah, it’s Kirk in Halifax. Call me when you can. It’s urgent. Real urgent. A real fuckin’ emergency.”
    He hung up and immediately plucked a beer from Morris’s case without asking. Morris didn’t stop him.
    “Holy shit…” the Pictou warden whispered.
    Kirk answered by popping the beer tab and chugging half the can’s contents.
    “You think it’s possible?” Morris asked with uncharacteristic fear.
    “That Bailey will go on a fuckin’ rampage once he regrows his head? Only happened once, right?”
    “Supposedly.”
    “In 1202.”
    “The year of the Fourth Crusade. The––the sacking of that city.”
    “Zabor.”
    “Zadar,” Morris corrected.
    Kirk drained the other half of the beer and tossed a crumpled can into the case. He quickly extracted another and Morris joined him.
    “This shit doesn’t work fast enough,” Kirk complained.
    “I’m through half a dozen,” Morris said. “Now I’m suddenly sober.”
    “Should call again.”
    “You called already.”
    “Why haven’t they called back, then?” Kirk shouted. He glanced out the window.
    “Fuckin’ slow down and breathe,” Morris ordered. “They’ll call. They always call.