hunter, Daniel Fargo. The stranger was hunting werewolves in general, but one man in particular—the dead man who had walked out of George’s morgue. The idea that Big Rock had become infested with werewolves was one thing coming from the odd stranger with his scarred face, but when Hurley had become convinced, George began to worry. Hurley had been a reasonable, calm, clear-thinking man, the kind of guy George had listened to, taken seriously. So when he started saying there were werewolves in town, George had listened. Closely.
Now Hurley was dead. A lot of people were dead. Hurley and several of his deputies had died in an explosion and fire that had taken place in an old abandoned house. That was the official story, anyway. According to the Sheriff’s Department, the house was being investigated for possible drug activity. A meth lab had been set up in there, and while the deputies were investigating, the whole thing had blown sky-high. Although he wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, George did not believe that story for a moment. There had indeed been an explosion in the old Laramie house on Perryman Road, but George did not believe there had been a meth lab in there—he believed it had been a set-up to hide what really happened. He wasn’t sure what that was and he had not waited around to find out. Nor had he waited to see what would happen after the deaths of Hurley and all those deputies, after the abrupt disappearance of Daniel Fargo—he’d simply walked away from his life.
When his father died in 2005, he’d left George the family cabin in the mountains above Big Rock. It was secluded and spacious, but run-down. In February, George had poured a large chunk of his savings into quickly building up the cabin, locking it down, and stocking it with food and weapons. Shortly before his death, Hurley had mentioned that, according to Fargo, the old myth of silver bullets effectively dispatching werewolves was true. So George had gone to coin shops in all the surrounding towns and gathered up silver coins and bullion, purchased the proper tools and equipment, and melted the silver down. Then he’d inserted bits of silver into the tips of hollow point bullets for his .45 automatic and 30.06 rifle, which he kept loaded and ready. He’d been holed up in his cabin ever since, sleeping most of the day and being vigilant at night, starting at the slightest sound, wondering if they would ever find him up there.
It had not been only the deaths of Hurley and all those deputies back in January that had sent George running. It had been the new sheriff, a man who apparently had come from nowhere to take over for Hurley, calling himself the “interim sheriff” until the next election rolled around. He was a tall, slender man with a black patch over his left eye, and George had seen him before. His name was Irving Taggart, and George remembered the sight of him laid out on the table in the morgue with his left eye missing, hairy and bearded, unbathed and stinking, and quite dead. If all the animal attacks and deaths that had taken place in Big Rock back in January weren’t reason enough to get the hell out, George decided that having a dead man as sheriff certainly was, and he’d wasted no time in packing up and leaving. He only wished he could go farther away, but he had nowhere to go.
Deputy Merrick’s face seemed so stern beneath those big black sunglasses. Unable to see his eyes, George couldn’t shake the fear that they were locked on him . His heart drummed in his chest and his palms were slick against the steering wheel.
Then Merrick turned right onto another street and disappeared.
George heaved a sigh, his body deflating with relief. He picked up speed for a bit, until he drove past the Seventh-day Adventist church on Crozier Street. The church’s parking lot was full and others parked on the curb as church-goers made their way into the church, some crossing the street and forcing George to slow. An
Now Hurley was dead. A lot of people were dead. Hurley and several of his deputies had died in an explosion and fire that had taken place in an old abandoned house. That was the official story, anyway. According to the Sheriff’s Department, the house was being investigated for possible drug activity. A meth lab had been set up in there, and while the deputies were investigating, the whole thing had blown sky-high. Although he wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, George did not believe that story for a moment. There had indeed been an explosion in the old Laramie house on Perryman Road, but George did not believe there had been a meth lab in there—he believed it had been a set-up to hide what really happened. He wasn’t sure what that was and he had not waited around to find out. Nor had he waited to see what would happen after the deaths of Hurley and all those deputies, after the abrupt disappearance of Daniel Fargo—he’d simply walked away from his life.
When his father died in 2005, he’d left George the family cabin in the mountains above Big Rock. It was secluded and spacious, but run-down. In February, George had poured a large chunk of his savings into quickly building up the cabin, locking it down, and stocking it with food and weapons. Shortly before his death, Hurley had mentioned that, according to Fargo, the old myth of silver bullets effectively dispatching werewolves was true. So George had gone to coin shops in all the surrounding towns and gathered up silver coins and bullion, purchased the proper tools and equipment, and melted the silver down. Then he’d inserted bits of silver into the tips of hollow point bullets for his .45 automatic and 30.06 rifle, which he kept loaded and ready. He’d been holed up in his cabin ever since, sleeping most of the day and being vigilant at night, starting at the slightest sound, wondering if they would ever find him up there.
It had not been only the deaths of Hurley and all those deputies back in January that had sent George running. It had been the new sheriff, a man who apparently had come from nowhere to take over for Hurley, calling himself the “interim sheriff” until the next election rolled around. He was a tall, slender man with a black patch over his left eye, and George had seen him before. His name was Irving Taggart, and George remembered the sight of him laid out on the table in the morgue with his left eye missing, hairy and bearded, unbathed and stinking, and quite dead. If all the animal attacks and deaths that had taken place in Big Rock back in January weren’t reason enough to get the hell out, George decided that having a dead man as sheriff certainly was, and he’d wasted no time in packing up and leaving. He only wished he could go farther away, but he had nowhere to go.
Deputy Merrick’s face seemed so stern beneath those big black sunglasses. Unable to see his eyes, George couldn’t shake the fear that they were locked on him . His heart drummed in his chest and his palms were slick against the steering wheel.
Then Merrick turned right onto another street and disappeared.
George heaved a sigh, his body deflating with relief. He picked up speed for a bit, until he drove past the Seventh-day Adventist church on Crozier Street. The church’s parking lot was full and others parked on the curb as church-goers made their way into the church, some crossing the street and forcing George to slow. An
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