by William O’Donnell

 First, his eyes opened on darkness.  As his vision grew accustomed, he sniffed the air, his whiskers twitching. A hint of that heady female musk tickled his nose. Uncurling his tail from around himself, he languidly arose from the stone floor and leapt away, his red eyes chips of hellfire. The night was his--
 --He stopped short. Something was different. The usually ever-present tang of ozone had gone. Light shone brighter, also,  the ambient moonglow caroming off the pale walls .
 When he hopped out of his usual exit, he shifted off balance. The wide vista before him wasn’t home.
 The flat desert, dotted with saguaro and the odd tumbleweed, stretched out before him until it met the black expanse of sky. Lost, he frenziedly darted his head to and fro, trying to get his bearings. He’d been the last of his kind, but he’d had a home. Now, even the small comfort of familiar surroundings were denied him. He gazed at the sliver of moon, and howled.
***
 Rona had taken a bong hit just before she’d heard the noise.  What with her toking, and Steve making a lot of noise, she’d wondered if she actually heard anything at all. She closed her eyes again, letting herself blush at the sensations of what he did to her. Again, then, she heard it.
 “What the hell was that?” She muttered, exhaling sickly sweet smoke.
Steve mumbled, his mouth otherwise occupied.
 “Steve!” She pushed his head out from under her skirt.
 “What?” He blurted, his overcharged libido now idling. “I was doing it how you like--”
 “No, not that!” She lightly swatted the top of his head. “Didn’t you hear that noise?”
 “What noise?” He asked, bemused.
 “Ask a stupid question.” She paused, taking another hit from the bowl. “Really, it sounded like an animal or something.”
 “Probably just a coyote. You know, you shouldn’t smoke this shit if it makes you hear things....” He grabbed the bong for a healthy toke of his own.
              ***
           He followed his nose to the source of the scent he’d picked up,  a kind of hansom or other carriage. Strange, though, that it didn’t need horses. The smell he’d noticed came right from the interior. The odor had almost been overpowered by some variety of cloying scent he’d never encountered before. He still managed to track the hint of odor to the source of the sweet smell.... Close, now, a few leaps would get him here.
***
 Their drug-addled reflexes barely acknowledged when the convertible’s top ripped wide open. They couldn’t even move, could only gaze in awe at the red-eyed fright lunging at them. Rona choked out a hoarse scream. Steve lunged for her, but the thing knocked him backward with a careless wave. He opened his mouth to cry out, but no sound came. Steve’s vision blurred, and Rona’s shrieks soon faded also.
***
 “What a mess,” Hazel Brin looked down through the tattered ragtop at the teenager stew inside the Mustang. Their bodies had been ripped to shreds, the bones had even been broken and emptied. Dead bodies had never gotten to Hazel, not even when she’d been a lowly deputy. Not that she’d show it if they did get to her.
 “You know how many these two make, Harlow?” She asked her lowly deputy, who barely managed to hold down his midnight snack.
 “Seven, Sheriff.” He gulped.
 “Seven in three weeks. What a mess,” Brin repeated, lighting a cigarette. Saying nothing then, she and Harlow merely watched as the coroner’s staff gingerly put the remains into body bags.
 The opening London Bridge festival had gone off without a hitch, but Brin sure was paying for it now. Not as bad as those kids had, though.
 Pacing a rough circle around the savaged car, she stopped, crouching.
 “Harlow,” she called out.
 “Yes’m,” the answer came.
 “You see any footprints?”
 “No, ma’am.” Brin leaned closer to the dirt, squinting again.
 “Damned odd.” She straightened, rising to his feet. No footprints whatsoever, just sand-- lots and lots of sand.
***
 Stepping out of the taxi, Friedrich Wulfram gasped. He hadn’t expected the little Arizona town to assume the mantle of tourist trap as quickly as it apparently had. Kiosks hawking various London Bridge-related knickknacks proliferated, selling everything from London Bridge T-shirts to London Bridge keychains. Tacky as all hell, Wulfram thought, but it’s not my town. Or my country, even.
 After manhandling his luggage out of the trunk, he threw a few crumpled bills in the cabbie’s general direction before dragging his gear away. Finally letting his baggage drop, he took off his battered khaki fedora and mopped his brow. He’d make his “base camp” at a local motel. Once he settled in, his hunt would begin in earnest--
 “Hey, Marlon Perkins!” Wulfram jumped. “Yeah, you!” Someone shouted, beeping a car’s horn. “You wanna get out of the middle of the fuckin’ road?”
 Stepping out of the irate driver’s way, Wulfram lifted his arm, giving the universal signal. Welcome to Lake Havasu....
 ***
 “Help you?” the gunshop clerk asked around a lump in his cheek. Wulfram scanned the counters, noting the pistols and rifles on display, violence under glass.  A scratchy Roger Miller record played on a ragged turntable.
 “’England Svings,’” Wulfram grinned. “I’ll be hearing zat a lot, Ja?”
 “Ja-- I mean, yes.” The clerk turned his head, spitting behind the counter. “What with the Bridge and all....” After a pause, he spoke again.
 “Ain’t from around here, are you? You’re European.”
 Wulfram nodded.
 “You’re German, ain’t you? From Germany.”
 “Yes,” Wulfram answered, tiring of twenty questions. “Now, if--”
 “Does everybody dress like Marlon Perkins over there?”
 Wulfram steamrolled over the question. “I need a look at your hunting rifles....”
***
 He awoke to purpling wounded skies of dusk, uncurling from his sound sleep. In tune with the primal beat of his heart, and the relentless growl of his stomach, he leapt from its hiding place again, haring off into the evening.
***
 Simone Derris drove, her fingers tapping the wheel in time to the Connie Francis song on the radio. They’d meet Stu in town, and everything would be OK. The less time spent out here, the better. That “Ripper” character scared her shitless, not just for herself, but for Ike, too. She glanced back at him, noting a pout.
 “Oh, no....” She muttered.
 “I have to go, Mommy.” He whined, kicking his legs against the seat’s back.
 “You just went!”  Simone whined back
 “I gotta go again!” He rocked back and forth against the seatbelt strap. ‘I really gotta go.”
 “You’re just going to have to hold it in, Isaac.” She explained. “There are no bathrooms around here.”
 “But I gotta pee! I can’t hold it--” He started blubbering, tears pouring down his red cheeks.
 “All right, honey,” Simone answered, false cheer in her voice.
 She pulled the VW Beetle over at a safe spot, then reeled her pride and joy out to try to find a stand of bushes somewhere.
 “Sweetie,” she cooed. “I’ll be right over here, if you need anything.”
 “O.K., Mommy,” he toddled away.
***
 His whiskers twitched, catching the scent of young meat, a calf. Starting to salivate, he prepared to pounce. The little boy stumbled into view, unzipping his fly. The boy urinated, finishing with a relieved sigh. When the boy started away, he moved, not giving its prey time to scream.
***
 Simone stubbed out her fifth cigarette nervously. Where in Christ’s name was Ike? Nervousness ate at her. It was still light out, but she had a bad feeling. She’d looked all over for him, with less-than-successful results. How could he just disappear like that?
She wasn’t going anywhere until she found--
 From out of nowhere, a giant blur plowed into her. Warm droplets splashed her face as the obscure shape shadowed her field of vision. Only when she wiped at the moisture did she realize what the stuff really was and why it was so warm. Her legs buckled, and she toppled to the abrasive carpet of sand. Two red points of light gleamed  before darkness swallowed her whole.
***
 Wulfram sat in the artificial brightness of the coffee shop, devouring Eggs Benedict and coffee. After his meal and some last-minute preparations, he’d be ready to engage in his own personal safari--
 Someone swung into the chair opposite him.
 “Evening,” Brin smiled.
 “Fraulein,” Wulfram smiled, sipping his coffee. “Is zere somesing I can do for you, or is my magnetic personality impossible for you to resist?”
 “I think I can tear myself away,” she dryly remarked. “I just like to find out things about new people in town. Plan to stay long?”
 “No.” He finished his eggs.
 “Come for the Bridge?” Noticing the bulge at the foreigner’s armpit, she leaned forward.
 “Yes, among ozer sings.”
 “Such as dressing up for a safari?”
 Wulfram just shrugged, smiling inscrutably. Just then, a red-faced man in coveralls  stumbled into the coffee shop, bringing the effluvium of beer along with him. His eyes alit on the sheriff, and he tottered toward the table with a piteous cry.
 “Hazel--” He bawled. “Oh, my God!” He tumbled into another chair at their table.
“Simone and Ike! They’re-- they’re dead!”
 “Calm down, now, Stu. What happened?” Hazel put a hand on his arm.
 “I went looking for ‘em-- Oh, Jesus! I drove around outside town for hours--” He sniffed back tears, “I just found Simone’s car, then I looked for them on foot. I didn’t find either of them, but I found a lot of fucking blood!” He broke down then, covering his face with his hands.
 “Where, Stu?” Brin asked. “Where did you find the car?”
 “A few miles out of down, along Sixty-Six....” Any words he’d said after that got drowned out by his riotous sounds of grief. Hazel stood, running out the door.
 Wulfram stood, letting a few bills drop to the table before following her. He’d just managed to open the cruiser’s passenger door and jump in before Brin pulled away.
***
 “You’re crazy!” She gawped. “There are so many things to not believe about this story, I don’t know where to start.”
 “Vhy not start,” he offered, “by giving me ze benefit of ze doubt.”
 “I’m supposed to believe that you’ve spent your whole adult life hunting imaginary creatures that have actually turned out to be real? What kind of asshole do you take me for?”
 “I don’t sink you’re an asshole!” He exploded. “I’m totally in earnest!”
 “If that’s so, then you’re the asshole! And if you can’t see that, you’re a bigger asshole than you take me for--”
 “I’m distressed at ze increasingly anal turn zis conversation has taken--”
 “Don’t get cute, Jungle Jim!” She snapped. “Just listen--”
 “No!” Wulfram shouted. “You listen! My collection is real. My menagerie of ze myzic is nearing completion. Every specimen from ze Australian bunyip to ze Eastern dragon is stuffed und mounted in my study--”
 “Next to Nessie and Bigfoot, I’m sure.”
 “Nessie vouldn’t fit.” He corrected her.
 “Christ on a pogo stick!” She spat, then fell silent.
 Wulfram finally broke the awkward pause.
 “Ze only creatures I need to collect are ze Celtic banshee, and Springheel Jack.”
 “Springheel Jack?” Her eyebrows furrowed.
 “A kangaroo-like humanoid vhich vas believed responsible for attacks on London’s townspeople during ze late Eighteen Hundreds. It vould leap out from darkness und attack people mit his dagger-like claws.”
 “Supposing I believe this particular cowpie of a story,” she smirked. “Wouldn’t  it be dead by now? I mean, it’s been about a century since that Springheel Jack julienned his way through Victorian London. Wouldn’t he be a little out of shape for hack and slash?”
 “Apparently not,” He answered equably. “Reliable sources close to me haff been keeping tabs on Jack Vhen his activity in London stopped, zey vere most curious as to vhy. Finally, zey correlated ze missing London Bridge mit ze lack of Springheel Jack’s activity. Zen, I put two und two together--”
 “I think I can guess the rest.” She commented. “You think this Springheel Jack is killing my townspeople now?”
 “I know so.”
 “Whatever you say.” She sighed again. “I still think you’re either retarded or crazy--” Something indistinct but massive slammed into the car’s hood.
 “What the fuck is that?” She shrieked, starting to draw her service revolver. As the pistol’s hammer snagged on the holster strap, the windshield’s glass shattered inward. She just barely managed to shield her face.
 The patrol car shuddered to the roadside, giving up its electrical ghost with a grimly final grinding buzz.
 Grabbing her CB, she started to call for backup. A look out the ruined window told her that would be fruitless. The creature’s attack had ripped the antenna clean away.
 “Shit,” She murmured to herself, then spoke aloud. “You OK, Wulfram?” She snapped, grabbing at her holster. The gun wasn’t there, it had finally jostled loose from its leather. “Wulfram?” As her fingertips searched the floor for her pistol, she chanced a look to him.
 His body, studded with glass shards, slumped against the seat. A series of slashes across his neck and chest freely fountained his life away.
 “I’m not one to say ‘I told you so.’” He smiled through endorphin fog.
 “If you did,” she put a hand on his forehead. “I’d deserve it.”
With her other hand, she clasped the slack fingers of his bloodied right hand.
 “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” She sadly shook her head. “I would have liked to know you-- Friedrich.”
 His smiled faded, his face creasing.
 “My nose itches,” he sighed his last exhalation.
 His eyes remained open. Spooked, Hazel shut them.
 Recalled Wulfram’s underarm bulge, she groped under the khaki vest for a shoulder holster. She withdrew a vicious-looking sawed-off double barreled shotgun. After checking the shotgun’s load, she pulled shells out of the loops on the dead hunter’s vest.
 She began to climb out of the accordion that used to be her car. Setting her foot down corkscrewed pain throughout her body.
 “Motherfucker!” She whispered harshly, not wanting to draw the monster’s attention. She’d take it down on her terms. If she had to play the waiting game, so be it. She’d be ready.... She leaned against the stove-in paneling of the police cruiser.
 With a snort she awoke, her entire body sore, her leg afire with pain. Disoriented, she wondered how long she’d been unconscious for. Where was she? What happened?
 Something rustled, moving near her. Red eyes glowed in the darkness. Frenzied, her fingers scoured the ground for the guns-- for anything that would serve as a weapon.
 As her fingers closed around the shotgun’s grip, Springheel Jack leapt for her.
The light from the blast traced the creature’s form in a fiery nimbus. Kangaroo and human present in its features, it wore a ragged outfit of a Victorian gentleman. Its face locked in a snarl, it howled, spraying drool at Hazel when it flew backwards from the force of the blast. Once it landed, Hazel shot it again for good measure.
 It jittered a spasmodic St. Vitus’ dance, then slumped down.
 Sheriff Brin lit a cigarette, the slid down the side of the car. She had enough smokes in her pack to last until somebody found her. If somebody found her.
 She’d certainly become an ace at the waiting game. Good thing, too.

END