Killer Instinct

Killer Instinct
Copyright Demented Thinking Productions 1998

Through  his entire adult life Grady Ruthledge cowered to no one, and he wasn't  about to start tonight. Granted, when he was a small child he cowered  in the sight of his father brandishing a switch as rage tore through  his overgrown facial features. But, not on this night. Not on the night  Grady had won the most prestigious award in the inner circles of  lawyers and judges. This was his night and he wasn't about to let  anything or anyone screw it up for him. Grady had become his own man  and slithered out from under daddy's impersonal thumb. No, not  tonight. It was perfect and nothing would sway Grady otherwise.

Grady  plopped on a green park bench within the confines of the nasty, dirty  city and fished into his black trench coat for his prize of prizes.  Pulling it out and admiring the craftsmanship of the small trophy,  Grady rubbed it profusely as if it was a magic lamp indicating a  instant genie that would pop out and grant Grady three long awaited  wishes. Easily slipping it back into his coat, Grady took a deep breath  of the night air allowing the smog, smoke and steam to milk his lungs  into a coughing fit. As Grady's swallow of life eased he thought he  distinctly heard a scuffle in the bushes behind the park bench he sat  upon.

 As  he turned up the darkened street, his senses came to an upright full  alert position. Ruthledge scoped the alleyway noticing ever nook and  crevice as he stepped into the tiny corridor of street only drug  pushers and criminals he usually prosecuted presided. Try as he might,  Grady could not shake the impenetrable eyes, which he felt following  his every move. His pulse raced and beads of cold sweat broke out on  his forehead.

His  palms became sweaty and he licked his lips, as he looked frantically  around for a weapon, any kind of weapon he could use against the  stalker who now invaded his good evening. Anything would do, a lead  pipe, some garbage, hell, he'd settle for a shoe left behind for his  amazement and discovery by some old bum too drunk to realize that he  had one shoe on and one shoe off. Right now what Grady needed was an  edge, some kind of life preserver to swing down and pluck him from the  depths of eternal drowning as nothing else could. Instead, he found an  old wooden spoon with battle scars of it's own wedged deep into the  spoon edge itself. It looked like hell and as if someone had used it  for a teething ring, but it would have to do. Ruthledge gripped the  spoon tightly in hopes it's demeanor alone would be enough to scare off  the most unfriendly visitor, but knowing deep down inside it would be  no match for what he was about to encounter.

He  waited. He waited for what seemed like years before he heard quiet  scuffling noises and labored, heavy, stale breathing projecting from  the opposite end of the blackened alleyway. Licking his dry lips, Grady  gripped the wooden spoon tighter until his fingers bled through red and  then white. Random thoughts cruised through his head with an ineptness  that was startling. The beast was coming and it was hungry.

Ruthledge  stood with his back to the cold brick wall holding his breath without  realizing it wishing this nightmare would just go away and leave him  alone. It seemed as though days ago Grady had won that silly award and  at this moment it really did not seem all that important to him anymore  even though it had only been a few panicked moments before. Tightening  his trap-like grip on the spoon, Grady prayed the creature would give  up looking for him and leave as he crouched behind a cardboard box.  Grady instinctively knew his prayers would not be enough considering  this particular beast had a better sense of smell than others and it  would surely find him snibbling like a baby behind a box of all things.  "The late and great Grady Ruthledge reduced to tears in a dirty alley  behind a cardboard box. Wonderful headlines," Grady breathed.

Grady  Ruthledge broke out into a cold sweat as the wooden spoon slipped from  his hand making a penciled thunk sound on the pavement. Quickly picking  up the only weapon of choice, he hoped the unfamiliar sound went  unrecognized and unnoticed by his immediate companion. It did not.  Grady's eyes shifted left and then right looking for what would be the  last thing to see him alive and kicking. He poured sweat now and could  not hold on to his own stomach contents much less the spoon even though  he held true to it.

Before  he could move, blink, think, or breathe the beast was upon him, licking  its lips and drooling piles of spittle on Grady's already soaked  forehead. Grady gasped and completely forgot about his mighty spoon as  he dropped it to the concrete again.

The  man sized creature appeared to study Grady Ruthledge as though he was  some kind of science project dredged up from a past biology class. It's  lips parted and it bared its sharp fangs voicing a low, guttural growl,  which expelled from somewhere deep within in its huge, hairy throat.  The monster's eyes blazed red with the hint of brown they normally  were. Grey and black fur covered the creature's entire body and a rank  smell drifted into Grady's lungs as he gagged back the vomit, which was  threatening to spew from one end of the alleyway to the other. It was  half man and half beast, but at that very moment Grady swore it was  more a beast than any man he'd ever seen in his life.

As  the monster seized Grady Ruthledge it occurred to him that it was a  beast of the old legends he had heard and read about as a small child.  Once when he was seven he intermingled into a conversation of older  elders of the community talking about the curse of the werewolves in  these parts. But never had he dreamed for one second there was an  inkling of truth to these wild tales, until now. In a moment the wolf  was upon him, tearing and ripping his flesh and arms out of their  sockets. Grady uttered his last, weak plea for help and laid helpless  as the werewolf finished what it started only moments before.

Three  blocks away Simon Wright heard Grady Ruthledge's final cries descending  through the night air followed by an eerie silence and he knew it was  time to get moving before it was too late. He glanced at his wristwatch  and made a minor adjustment hitting the stopwatch button. As Simon  threw on his hat and coat, he quickly rechecked all his gear for any  disturbances or glitches that may hinder his ability to protect himself  from the oncoming onslaught. He had everything, his gun; or weapon his  father would of said, silver bullets with a spare cartridge, his Hank  Aaron baseball bat, and a silver handled hunting knife his father had  given to him on his first hunt at the ripe young age of fourteen.

Simon  had rigged his leather trench coat especially for all these items and  more. On some nights, when the moon was completely full and he had some  reason to believe he would encounter more that one beast on the prowl,  Simon would carry an extra 12 gauge shotgun under his coat and his .45  pistol, just in case. Simon Wright cautiously stepped out of his tiny  apartment and while taking a deep breath generating fresh air over his  lungs, he felt exhilarated for the struggle of life and death would  soon be upon him as it always was once a month during the full phases  of the moon. Simon silently strolled down the metropolis sidewalk  moving quickly to the destination he heard the last screams coming  from. He walked carefully and fully alert with his hands poised just  above the butt end of his .357 magnum revolver.

Every since Simon was a small child he'd heard the same stories Grady Ruthledge did and he took them a little more seriously. Simon came from  a long line of hunters. His father, his grandfather, and many more  Wrights down through the ages of every walk of life were hunters of the  night. Like any other man in his late thirties Simon held down a  daytime job. He was a respected gunsmith, which was also a trade passed  down from father to son in his family. It was somehow easier to produce  a silver bullet if you were a gunsmith by trade yourself, whether than  having to worry about the numerous questions that would be asked about  the melting and making of several different calibers of bullets by an  outsider. An outsider would raise an eyebrow of suspicion and Simon  certainly did not need that. Simon made this decision the moment he  took the prized hunting knife from his father, accepting his job as a  hunter and a gunsmith. It was a living and Simon actually liked it. It  wasn’t bad. It paid the bills and Simon never wanted for a thing.

Simon  moved swiftly and silently, darting in and out of alleyways with a  speed and endurance most mortal men did not possess let alone dream of  while keeping a vigilant lookout for the creature he would soon come  into contact with. Half an hour had passed and he had found nothing to  clue him in to the beasts last whereabouts. Finding Grady’s broken and  bruised body lying in a pool of its making, Simon sensed his blood  beginning to pump faster into its chambers. The usual goose bumps rose  on his sweating arms and the tiny hairs at nape of his neck began to  prickle and dance alerting him he was not alone in the dirty, drab  alley. Spinning around faster than he intended to, Simon caught his  balance just in time before he completely toppled over like an absolute  fool. With it’s bloodied teeth bared and growling deep from within it’s  throat the beast spoke, “Well, it seems we meet again, hunter.” Blood  dripped from it’s bottom lip as it spit out the word hunter like it was  foul and distasteful. The enormous creature’s eyes blazed a bright red  with undaunted fury upon Simon as it appeared to examine him from  inside out.

In  amazement that the beast even spoke to him, Simon stuttered, “I…it…it  would s…seem s…so.” As he tried to place where he’d heard the voice  before even as distorted as it was the beast saw its opportunity and  flung itself upon him in a rage. Simon quickly thrust the baseball bat  upwards without thinking holding off the gnashing teeth temporarily  with all his might and strength. He fumbled in his pockets while he  held off the beast for anything that would inflict some damaging harm  to his attacker. Blindly finding his knife, Simon punched it up through  his jacket and into the awaiting belly of the creature jerking it in an  upwards motion as far as it would allowably go. The werewolf howled in  fury and pain. Yanking the knife out in a frenzy, Simon hopped up from  the ground and began his hasty retreat. Blood gushed out of the open  wound as the animal let out a high pitched scream wallowing in it’s  agony. The beast slowly got up with some difficulty holding it’s innards  in place and scurried off into the inane shadows all the while  swearing, “I’ll get you hunter! You haven’t seen the last of me yet!”  The growling screams faded into the moonlit night as the beast traveled  further and further away from Simon.

Deciding  he’d had enough excitement for one night, Simon staggered back to his  one room apartment slightly dazed and with extreme caution. He  re-gained more of his strength the closer he came to home and he began  to relax a little. While he drug out his keyring with shaking hands, he  glanced over his shoulder keeping a close eye out for anymore surprises  even though he knew his internal senses would alert him to danger  before his eyes perceived it. He unlocked the two deadbolts on the  barred iron gate and started on the steel door. Fumbling with the lock  he quietly mumbled to himself, “Damn it, Simon, get it together.” As he forged the last key into the fifth deadbolt on his front door he  couldn’t help but think he knew his attacker. The sound of its voice  echoed in his head like a song played too much on the radio.