Read Online Bewere the Night by Ekaterina Sedia - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ekaterina Sedia
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then there was another rattling, the hard clack of two rocks coming together as if they’d been stepped on.
Kilgore pulled his head away from the barn door and reached for the gun that hung under his left armpit. He was a practical man, and he saw no good reason to ramp up slowly.
Another big twig broke, and another knocking set of rocks sounded like footsteps to The Heavy. “Josh, Mark. That’d better not be you. ” But the pace of the motion told him it wasn’t made by anything two-legged. There were four feet . . . moving at a sharp and regular clip.
He revised his guess. Not feet, perhaps. “Four . . . hooves?”
He listened for the firm, approaching patter. The creature was tracking around back, to the right. Kilgore tracked around to the left, keeping the barn between him and the thing that was crawling out of the gully.
The Heavy kept his eyes on the ground and his ears on the edge of the property, at the line where the creek run-off turned and flowed through a row of trees. His squint told him where to tiptoe past the building’s corner and how to miss the watering trough. His ears detected a wet snuffling sound and the hard, knocking clatter that, yes, sounded like hooves.
As Kilgore circled the barn, the thing circled too, intrigued enough to follow but not bold enough to charge.
“Here, critter-critter,” he called softly. “Come on out and get me. I’m just a slow, fat man. I’m easy pickings for a bad old thing like you, and I’m a real hearty meal. Are you hungry?”
He narrowed his eyes and peered through the night.
“Come on, now. Come out and let me get a look at you.”
Around the back of the barn there was a covered storage area that came up to Kilgore’s thigh. He put his left hand down on it and tested the wood. It might hold. It might not. But he was running out of barn and he was going to have to make a stand someplace. The platform was as good a defensive position as any.
He stopped his retreat and lifted one large leg. “Shit,” he mumbled, and he said it a couple more times as he hauled himself up. But then he stood, and the storage lid held. It didn’t want to. It bowed and creaked underneath four hundred and fifty pounds of man plus all his supplies.
Kilgore dropped the duffel bag and unzipped it, all the while trying to keep quiet so he could listen.
Around the corner, something big was tracing Kilgore’s scent trail.
The Heavy pulled out his Bible. It was way too dark to read so he stuffed it into his belt, and the book bent against the strain . . . but he liked feeling it close. He held up the gun and aimed it down at the corner where the inquisitive snuffling was coming up fast. Mark had been right. Its head was low to the ground.
He shouldered the bag again.
It was too dark to see anything with real certainty, but near the earth there was motion in the nighttime blackness. Something blocky congealed, creeping snout-first from behind the edge of the building.
One dull red eye sparked into view. It blinked and the scarlet dot flickered, and focused, and turned to face the man on top of the storage box lid.
The second eye came around, and behind it came a high set of peaked shoulders.
The eyes locked on Kilgore and they brightened with greed.
“What . . . a werewolf?” he asked, knowing this guess couldn’t be right. The shape was all wrong, the joints and muscles were strung together differently.
It snorted and scraped its hooves beneath its body.
The suddenness of its momentum almost took the Heavy off guard, but not quite. This wasn’t his first rodeo, so to speak, and his trigger finger answered the charge with three rounds fired quickly and directly at those vicious little eyes.
The thing screeched a piercing objection. The bullets knocked the creature away from its path and it shook itself like a dog but it didn’t go down. Instead, it went forward—head set low and set barreling—into the storage bin.
Two boards busted
Kilgore pulled his head away from the barn door and reached for the gun that hung under his left armpit. He was a practical man, and he saw no good reason to ramp up slowly.
Another big twig broke, and another knocking set of rocks sounded like footsteps to The Heavy. “Josh, Mark. That’d better not be you. ” But the pace of the motion told him it wasn’t made by anything two-legged. There were four feet . . . moving at a sharp and regular clip.
He revised his guess. Not feet, perhaps. “Four . . . hooves?”
He listened for the firm, approaching patter. The creature was tracking around back, to the right. Kilgore tracked around to the left, keeping the barn between him and the thing that was crawling out of the gully.
The Heavy kept his eyes on the ground and his ears on the edge of the property, at the line where the creek run-off turned and flowed through a row of trees. His squint told him where to tiptoe past the building’s corner and how to miss the watering trough. His ears detected a wet snuffling sound and the hard, knocking clatter that, yes, sounded like hooves.
As Kilgore circled the barn, the thing circled too, intrigued enough to follow but not bold enough to charge.
“Here, critter-critter,” he called softly. “Come on out and get me. I’m just a slow, fat man. I’m easy pickings for a bad old thing like you, and I’m a real hearty meal. Are you hungry?”
He narrowed his eyes and peered through the night.
“Come on, now. Come out and let me get a look at you.”
Around the back of the barn there was a covered storage area that came up to Kilgore’s thigh. He put his left hand down on it and tested the wood. It might hold. It might not. But he was running out of barn and he was going to have to make a stand someplace. The platform was as good a defensive position as any.
He stopped his retreat and lifted one large leg. “Shit,” he mumbled, and he said it a couple more times as he hauled himself up. But then he stood, and the storage lid held. It didn’t want to. It bowed and creaked underneath four hundred and fifty pounds of man plus all his supplies.
Kilgore dropped the duffel bag and unzipped it, all the while trying to keep quiet so he could listen.
Around the corner, something big was tracing Kilgore’s scent trail.
The Heavy pulled out his Bible. It was way too dark to read so he stuffed it into his belt, and the book bent against the strain . . . but he liked feeling it close. He held up the gun and aimed it down at the corner where the inquisitive snuffling was coming up fast. Mark had been right. Its head was low to the ground.
He shouldered the bag again.
It was too dark to see anything with real certainty, but near the earth there was motion in the nighttime blackness. Something blocky congealed, creeping snout-first from behind the edge of the building.
One dull red eye sparked into view. It blinked and the scarlet dot flickered, and focused, and turned to face the man on top of the storage box lid.
The second eye came around, and behind it came a high set of peaked shoulders.
The eyes locked on Kilgore and they brightened with greed.
“What . . . a werewolf?” he asked, knowing this guess couldn’t be right. The shape was all wrong, the joints and muscles were strung together differently.
It snorted and scraped its hooves beneath its body.
The suddenness of its momentum almost took the Heavy off guard, but not quite. This wasn’t his first rodeo, so to speak, and his trigger finger answered the charge with three rounds fired quickly and directly at those vicious little eyes.
The thing screeched a piercing objection. The bullets knocked the creature away from its path and it shook itself like a dog but it didn’t go down. Instead, it went forward—head set low and set barreling—into the storage bin.
Two boards busted
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