The Montauk Monster by Hunter Shea

cat. Paw structure is way off for that. Dogs? Maybe, but what breed? Some unknown mix, like a wolf-dog? They can get pretty big. But they can’t tear off oven doors or snap thick furniture in half. Those hoofprints just can’t be. Bovines and canines wouldn’t work together. Think, Anita, think.”
    Dalton’s light touch on her shoulder made her jump.
    “Sorry,” he said. He looked terrible. His hair was a mess and he’d sweat through his uniform. His eyes, they told the entire story. Whatever had happened would stay with him for a very long time. “Do you think I’m right? I mean, this has to be the work of an animal.”
    “It is, but I honestly can’t tell you what kind. Nothing makes sense. There are things that look normal, familiar, and others that defy logic. I’m going to take plenty of hair samples as well as the broken glass from the window. There’s blood on some of it. That should tell me more.”
    He angled her out of earshot of the Sullivans. He looked desperate, angry. No cop wanted to lose one of their own, especially before their very eyes. Dalton needed a flesh-and-blood bad guy, someone he could pursue, capture and make sure they paid. She wasn’t so sure he was going to get what his every instinct desperately needed.
    “Best guess, Anita. What are we dealing with?”
    She reached for her ponytail and twiddled the end between her fingers. “Off the record?”
    “Completely.”
    “Everything I see, it looks like some kind of hybrid. They may give the base appearance of dogs, but in essence, they’re not. It’s like someone raised generations of different breeds, selecting the largest, strongest and most violent to create the next-gen until they ended up with a monster. Think of a pit bull dosed with gamma rays.”
    Dalton’s eyebrows went up so high, they were lost in the tangle of hair that had flopped onto his forehead. “Did you just say these are Hulk pit bulls ?”
    Anita sighed. “I said it’s like that. Now you know why I asked if this would be off the record. If you tell this to anyone, they’ll think I’ve lost it.”
    Dalton stared off into the kitchen. She knew his mind was still at the beach, still searching for Henderson. A team of police and firefighters had been sent down to look for him. It must have been hard for Dalton to not be there. “You wouldn’t be the first,” he said.
     
     
    Man, it was a perfect night for fishing. The sound was calm, the air had cooled from the heat of the day and the moon was all he needed to see by. Dan Hudson was in fisherman’s heaven.
    If Jamie wanted to ride his ass about his staying out late with his pals at the Rotary Club a few nights in a row, he damn well wasn’t going to sleep on the couch and beg her forgiveness in the morning. It was better to catch a bucketful of fluke and flounder and enjoy the peace and calm of the evening.
    He’d explained they were all putting in extra time for the CF fund-raiser, which was mostly true. But put a room full of guys together with access to liquor long enough and things were bound to get—happy. Since he had the day off tomorrow, he hadn’t felt the need to stop at three beers. By the time he’d realized he needed some time to sober up for the drive home, he was already two hours late.
    Dan checked his watch. Almost three in the morning. The salty air did wonders for the early onset of his hangover, keeping his headache from splintering his skull. His Suncruiser rocked lightly. He could see the lights of the boatyard on the shore. When it came to night fishing on his relatively small bay boat, he’d learned the hard way to stick to the sound rather than the ocean. Especially when he’d had a few drinks in him.
    Reaching into the Coleman cooler by his feet, he pulled out a Bud and popped the top. Hair of the dog never failed.
    He was tempted to turn on the radio and try to catch that Coast to Coast show, the one that talked about aliens and ghosts and government conspiracies. He