Wolf Land Read online

  An unholy predator on the prowl!

  The small town of Lakeview offers little excitement for Duane, Savannah, and their friends. They’re about to endure their ten-year high school reunion when their lives are shattered by the arrival of an ancient, vengeful evil.

  The werewolf.

  The first attack leaves seven dead and four wounded. And though the beast remains on the loose and eager to spill more blood, the sleepy town is about to face an even greater terror. Because the four victims of the werewolf’s fury are changing. They’re experiencing unholy desires and unimaginable cravings. They’ll prey on the innocent. They’ll act on their basest desires. Soon, they’ll plunge the entire town into a nightmare. Lakeview is about to become Wolf Land.

  Wolf Land

  Jonathan Janz

  Acknowledgments

  First off, a warning. This novel started out as one thing and turned into something quite different. I don’t apologize for the graphic content in this book, but I do like readers to know what they’re getting into. This one, friends, is dark—probably darker than anything I’ve ever written.

  If you’re still interested in reading the tale, you should know about a few people who helped it come to be. The first and most important individuals are my family: my wife, my boy, and my two daughters. If you know me, you know how much they mean to me. Their love and laughter make me the happiest man alive.

  Thank you also to my mom, my grandma, and my grandpa. You are amazing people who’ve never wavered in your support of me.

  Three other people I’d like to thank are Don D’Auria, my wonderful (and patient) editor at Samhain; Louise Fury, my confidante and agent; and Fred Godsmark, the North Carolina audio guru who has been incredibly good to me.

  Other members of the Samhain team who have supported me more than I deserve are Amanda Hicks, Mackenzie Walton, Jacob Hammer, Kaitlyn Osborn, Tanya Cowman, Christina Brashear, and Matthew Woolley.

  I wish I could thank all the readers and writers who have responded so positively to my me and my work, but for now I’ll limit it to just a few: Tim and Tod, the best pre-readers a guy could have, and who both made essential contributions to this book; Mark Sieber, for being a good friend; Kristopher Rufty, Brian Moreland, Hunter Shea, and Russell James, who have been with me from the beginning and have become cherished friends; Tim Waggoner, another great friend; Bryan Smith, who always has time for me; Ronald Kelly, whose support has been extremely helpful to me; and Joe R. Lansdale, who is always kinder than he has to be. Most of all, I want to thank Brian Keene. I love his books and learn from them, but what I appreciate most of all is how he has treated me and my family. I can never repay all you’ve done for me, Brian, but I hope you know how much it has meant to me. Thank you.

  Oh, and one more thing. The names and locations mentioned in this book are almost entirely fictional. The physical description of the bar, however, is fairly accurate. If you ever find yourself there, you can count yourself lucky. The ambiance is nice, and the bands are great too.

  Dedication

  This one is for my in-laws, Abe and Ursula, who are wonderful people, who treat me like their own son, and who will hopefully never read this book. If they do, they might reconsider their daughter’s taste in men.

  …One legend, dismissed for centuries as apocryphal, was deemed veracious by several important folklorists of the medieval and Renaissance eras. Though the accounts differ in some respects, they dovetail with regard to the following particulars:

  There lived a trio of sisters in a remote, densely wooded region of what is now known as Belarus. Predictably, the small village of Berstuk was brutally patriarchal and treated women despicably—especially attractive young women like the Antonov sisters. One sister had flowing golden hair, the other two black and red. Since very little is known of thirteenth-century Berstuk, folklorists differ regarding the sisters’ motivations for what would follow. One source claims that all three sisters were serially abused—sexually or otherwise—by their male family members. Another source hypothesizes that it was Divna, the eldest sister, who sought retribution for a rape at the hands of a village elder, and who coerced her two younger sisters into joining her quest for revenge.

  Whatever the case, the entire village of Berstuk was thriving in the spring of the year 1202. By the summer of the same year every last man, woman and child had been slaughtered by what were at the time called vucari, or what are now referred to as werewolves.

  Were this account isolated to a wildly superstitious peasantry, the tale of the Antonov sisters would warrant little further investigation.

  Yet for the next half millennium there exist accounts of three voluptuous sisters—blond, black, and red-haired—wreaking havoc throughout the forests of Russia, Eastern Europe, even mid-eighteenth century France. In each account there are three young women of extraordinary physical beauty, and each account ends with startling violence. If indeed the Antonov sisters were lycanthropes, they were lycanthropes of the sort that did not age, that feared no authority, and that killed without remorse.

  The last trace of Divna and her sisters might be found in the tale of an 1883 transatlantic voyage that ended with a nightmarish vision: a British steamer—the Prosperity—running aground in Boston Harbor with its entire passenger list of ninety-two travelers and crew members decapitated. In many cases, the bodies had been devoured by what the perplexed American authorities deemed “wild animals”.

  If the murders were indeed committed by the Antonov sisters, it is the last known record of their horrific exploits. There have been no accounts of them since…

  Dr. Clark Lombardo Coulter PhD

  Lycanthropology

  Part One

  Marked

  Chapter One

  A few hours before she witnessed the slaughter of her former classmates, Savannah was shoveling down her second bowl of spaghetti. “Maybe I’ll just stay here,” she said.

  From the other side of the kitchen, Barb Callahan looked at her without sympathy. “You always eat this much when you’re nervous?”

  “I hate wearing lipstick anyway. This’ll motivate me to wipe it off before I go.”

  “That was supposed to be a half-hour ago.”

  Savannah eyed Barb, who stood across the sleek quartz island from her, nursing a glass of Riesling. The vision was slightly incongruous. In her mid-fifties, her brown hair showing some gray, Barb was six-foot-two and broad all over. If she hadn’t known the woman better, Savannah would’ve pegged her for a beer drinker. Or maybe tequila.

  “Jake will be fine,” Barb said.

  Savannah dropped her fork with a clatter and crossed her arms. “I didn’t say anything about Jake.”

  “I’m just taking away the excuse before it occurs to you.”

  Savannah arched an eyebrow. “Do you always have to be so ruthless?”

  “I’m babysitting, aren’t I?”

  “Yeah, but that’s because you enjoy it.”

  Barb sipped her wine but didn’t otherwise answer.

  Savannah glanced toward the living room, where Jake was playing with Barb’s considerable collection of Lincoln Logs.

  Barb said, “You’ve already said goodbye to him. Twice.”

  Savannah spread her arms. “Maybe I want to again. Is there something wrong with that?”

  “When you’re being chickenshit, yes.”

  “Hey!”

  “You told Joyce you’d be there tonight, right?”

  Savannah looked away, shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “And she hardly knows anybody else at this shindig.”

  “She knows Short Pump a little.”

 
“That’s one of the worst goddamned nicknames I’ve ever heard.”

  “It’s what we’ve called him since high school.”

  “Most people are idiots in high school.”

  Savannah fished her compact out of her purse, studied her reflection and frowned. “Some don’t get much smarter afterward.”

  “Can’t argue with that.”

  Savannah made a face, shook her head. “But that’s the problem. It’ll be just like high school.” She reached out, fiddled with the strap of her purse, but made no move to pick it up. “The reunion’s next week. I don’t see why we have to hang out the week before too. Isn’t once painful enough?”

  “Why don’t you quit bullshitting and admit you’re afraid of seeing Mike again?”

  Savannah compressed her lips. “That’s not what I need.”

  And it wasn’t. Not remotely.

  Yes, she and Mike had been a thing back in high school, and yes, she’d assumed they’d get married after graduation. But what irked her—no, what wounded her deeply—was how wrapped up Mike was with everything that had gone wrong in her life. The disappointment at being abandoned by him after high school. The muddled college years. The return to Lakeview. Then the pregnancy and her parents’ nightmarish ostracizing of her and Jake, like they were in seventeenth century New England or something.

  Now here she was, ten years out of high school, working a thankless job, with only three real friends in the world—Joyce, Barb, and Short Pump—though Short Pump hardly counted since he wanted in her pants.

  Barb was staring at her.

  “What?” Savannah asked. “More criticism?”

  Barb’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t just about Mike, is it?”

  Savannah heaved a shuddering sigh, marched over to the wine bottle, and poured herself a glass. She downed a third of it in a swallow.

  “Easy on that stuff,” Barb said.

  “I’m not going to wrap my car around a telephone pole. I just need to calm my nerves.”

  “What do you have to be nervous about?”

  “Not being a good role model for Jake.”

  “What, drinking?”

  Savannah rolled her eyes. “It’s just…I should be doing more with my life. I’m tired of working for a misogynistic lawyer who thinks I’m too stupid to alphabetize files.”

  “Are you?”

  Savannah saluted her with a middle finger.

  “So find another job,” Barb said.

  “Where?” Savannah gestured toward town. “At McDonald’s? The Super-Wal-mart?”

  “You’ve got a degree.”

  “In graphic design,” Savannah snapped. “How many graphic design jobs are there in Lakeview?”

  “I wouldn’t think very many.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So move.”

  Instead of answering, Savannah took another sip of wine.

  Barb said, “Your folks have long since moved away, and they were assholes to begin with. You’ve only got a few friends. What’s keeping you here?”

  Savannah crossed her arms, stared at the older woman. “What do you want me to say? Fear? Cowardice? Being a slave to routine?”

  “Can I choose all of the above?”

  “This isn’t helping.”

  “Who says I’m trying to help?”

  “Barb, you don’t understand—”

  “I understand your life didn’t turn out like you wanted it to. You hitched your wagon to the wrong horse.”

  “That’s a lousy way to put it.”

  “You’re only what, twenty-eight? Your boy’s young. He hasn’t even started kindergarten yet. Why not move now?”

  Savannah’s mouth worked mutely for a moment. She blew a lock of blond hair out of her eyes. “Okay, where?”

  “Somewhere with more opportunity than Lakeview.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Throw a dart at the map.”

  Savannah slouched on the island, exhaled wearily. “I’m late.”

  “Then get your ass in gear. Poor Joyce is probably having to fend off advances from that Weiner guy.”

  Savannah chuckled. “His name’s Weezer. And he’s not that bad.”

  “Unctuous little creep is what he is.”

  Savannah left the half-empty wine glass on the counter and grabbed her purse. At the doorway she looked back over her shoulder. “You ever thought of being a trifle more sympathetic?”

  “You mean enable you to wallow in self-pity? Nope. Not in my nature.”

  Savannah strode over and crouched beside Jake. He’d erected a knee-high tower of Lincoln Logs, the structure impressive but alarmingly bowed in the middle. He had the blue plastic roof poised over the tower, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration.

  Savannah knew where this was going.

  “Jakers?” she said. “Can Mommy put the roof on for you?”

  “I can do it,” Jake said, his eyes never wavering from his task.

  He dropped the roof from a distance of perhaps three inches, but the impact was forceful enough to collapse the tower to ruins. Jake made a fist, punched his leg. His lower lip quivered.

  “It’s okay,” she said, removing the roof from the rubble. “Can Mommy help you rebuild your tower?”

  “It’s a haunted house,” Jake said. “The one at Beach Land.”

  “Ah,” she said, clearing the foundation and beginning the job of restacking the logs. “Is it a scary one?”

  He nodded. “The scariest place in the world.” He joined her in rebuilding the structure. After they’d worked for a minute or two, he said, “Mommy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks.”

  She kissed his forehead and continued to stack the logs. The bonfire could wait a little while longer.

  Duane hated being designated driver. Especially for Weezer. Glenn was never too rowdy when he drank, but Weezer…there was no predicting what kind of behavior Weezer would exhibit when he got blitzed.

  Glenn braced an elbow in the passenger window of Duane’s royal blue Chevy Silverado. “You talked to Savannah lately?”

  Duane glanced at him. Glenn’s tone had been too casual, too inflectionless.

  You’re not going to start that again, are you? he wanted to ask.

  But instead, Duane said, “She said she’d come if she could find a sitter.”

  From the backseat, Weezer said, “Tell her to drop her kid off at that dyke’s house.”

  Duane winced. Jesus. He asked himself for perhaps the thousandth time why he still hung out with Weezer. The guy made racial jokes, discriminated against all kinds of people. On many occasions, Duane had suspected him of having impure thoughts about girls who were far too young to be daydreamed about.

  As if to confirm this misgiving, Weezer said, “Any high school chicks gonna be there tonight?”

  Glenn shook his head. “For Christ’s sakes, Weezer.”

  “What?” Weezer asked. “I didn’t say I was gonna do anything with ‘em.”

  “Right,” Duane said. “You just want their opinions on the current state of music.”

  “Shit, I don’t need opinions on that. Music today sucks ass.”

  Duane fell silent, deciding he couldn’t argue with that.

  But Weezer was not to be put off. “You had sex with girls back in high school, Glenn. What makes it so different now?”

  Glenn half-turned in his seat. “Do I really need to explain it to you?”

  “I’m asking, aren’t I?”

  “The difference,” Glenn said, an edge to his voice, “is that I’m not in high school anymore. Am, in fact, a decade removed from high school. Which is why you need to stop talking about this shit.” He shook his head. “You keep it up, we’re going to have to register you as a sex off
ender.”

  Duane laughed.

  “Don’t see what’s so funny, Short Pump,” Weezer said. Duane stiffened at the utterance of his nickname. “You know you’d go for some young hottie if she showed an interest in you.”

  Duane’s fingers tightened on the wheel as he took a left onto County Road 250. “I wouldn’t if she was underage. That’s just sick.”

  “Shit,” Weezer said. “With a belly as big as yours, you can’t be too choosy. Am I right, Glenn?”

  Glenn’s face was expressionless. “I think you need to stop drinking, Weezer. You’re already being an asshole.”

  “That’s the problem with the world,” Weezer said meditatively. “Not enough honesty. I say what’s on my mind, and you two get all high and mighty on me.”

  Duane glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “That’s because you’re being disgusting.”

  Weezer glugged from the beer can, wiped his mouth. “‘Disgusting’? Man, you know how prissy you sound?”

  Duane focused on the road, resolved not to let Weezer put him in a bad mood.

  But Weezer wouldn’t shut up. “You know, Short Pump, if you worked out a little more, lost some of that weight you’re carrying, you might get some pussy now and then. You’re what, six-four? Think how good you’d look if you were built like me and Glenn.”

  Glenn grunted. “Weezer, you’re built like a scarecrow.”

  Weezer chugged more beer. “Least I’m not obese.”

  Duane felt sweat beads forming on his upper lip. One of these days, he thought. One of these days I’m really going to snap.

  And like a stubborn turd that refused to be flushed, a memory of Duane’s parents arose. The day he’d gotten cut from the junior high basketball team, the coach having told him he was too passive to contribute. Duane had made the mistake of relaying the coach’s words to his parents. He’d hoped his mom and dad would—for once—support him, but when he saw the looks on their faces he knew they were only going to make him feel worse.

  His dad: “I told you he wouldn’t make it.”