A bright moon
painted the desert’s surface pewter. Here and there, dark spots soiled the
landscape like oil spills. Most of the bodies had been taken before the troops
were ordered to leave. They carted away the corpses, bulldozing the zombies
into mass graves, until radios chirped with urgent orders deploying the
soldiers to the bigger threats that erupted in the main cities like a chain of
angry volcanos.
Monsterland was
extinguished, its carcass left for the vultures to pick, the exhibits silent as
a tomb.
The dead
president and his equally dead entourage were whisked away on Air Force One,
along with the dark-clad special operatives that came and left like the brisk
desert wind that now howled through the empty streets.
A gate screamed
in the silence, slamming with a reverberating smash. The uneven gait of someone
with a physical challenge filled the void. The scrape and plod of his limp
echoed against the wall of mountains framing the theme park. His labored
breathing huffed as he made his way down the streets.
A door creaked
loudly as it was blown by the wind. He stopped, his distorted figure
silhouetted in the pale moonlight, his body turning silver. He looked at the
broken glass littering the pavement like diamonds, then up to the still,
pre-dawn sky. He considered the sun peeking over the jagged horizon in the
east, its golden light painting the dips and hollows of the hills. Soon the
coming day would chase the darkness away.
Time was the
enemy now. He had to move faster, or it would be too late. He picked up his
pace, lurching along the winding road. A keening howl ricocheted through the
streets, bouncing off the walls. It sounded like a ... no, he thought, it
couldn’t be. The werewolves were all dead. Destroyed by Vincent Konrad when
he made their heads explode.
The old man
paused, listening for it again, and was not disappointed when the animal
whimpered. He gauged it to be inside the defunct vampire exhibit. He moved
toward the entrance. The storefronts had been destroyed. A few body parts lay
on the pavement, as if people had discarded them in a rush. He heard the
scraping of paws on the street and a shiver went down his crooked spine.
He knew the
werewolves were dead; he had seen it with his own eyes. A figure detached from
the shadows. Igor flattened himself against the wall. He watched it move
stealthily down the street, stopping when it scavenged a morsel of rotting
flesh. It looked up to stare at Igor, its eyes glowing in the darkness.
A coyote? He waved a hand, dismissing it. It had to
be a coyote; it was too small to be a wolf, too big to be a dog. The beast
twitched its ears, then resumed its meal.
Igor knew the
coyote was not a threat, and he continued his mission. His lame foot hit a can,
sending a cacophony of sound like an explosion in the deserted park. The beast
dropped the bone it was gnawing on, sniffing the area. Its iridescent eyes
searched the streets.
It could be a baby wolf, Igor thought, keeping himself as still
as possible. He felt it watching him, even from this distance. It was not a
threat, yet.
Igor skittered
away, hugging the walls of Monsterland, putting as much distance as he could
between them. Not an easy feat, considering his distorted hips. He muttered to
himself about carrion and the wind. His eyes darted nervously, scouring the
hills, not exactly sure what he was looking for. Adrenaline coursed through his
veins. His heart pounded so loudly he was certain that the creature watching
him could hear it too.
His feet
stumbling to a halt, he bent over, gasping for air, cursing Vincent and those
meddlesome teenagers, as well as the rest of the world.
The beast gave another mournful howl that
went right through him. Igor glanced at his empty hands, berating himself for
not bringing a weapon. He searched his surroundings for anything to protect
himself.
Then he saw it,
one of the axes they had on almost every corner. All of them had been pulled
from their protective cases. One was lying in a pool of coagulating blood, the
blade long gone. He picked up the broken axe handle, turning in a semicircle.
He was ready for an attacker.
A new, larger
outline made his heart quiver with fear. It crouched in a corner, its snout
covered with blood. This one was bigger, not a coyote, a wild wolf. Wait,
he thought. Weren’t the gray wolves of California all but extinct?
Igor narrowed
his eyes. The beast was a light reddish brown and not the silver gray of a
wolf’s pelt. A chain hung from its neck, the pendant of a werewolf’s head
dangling, emerald eyes flashing. What was it? Was it a mutant coyote? A wolf? Some
weird hybrid, he wondered for a minute, his breath harsh in his ears. They
watched each other soundlessly.
A hybrid
then. He’d heard about
them, a rare mixture of wolf and coyote. What did they call them? Coywolves
...? or was it Woyotes? He shrugged indifferently. Perhaps someone’s pet,
he decided. Igor’s mirthless laugh came out like a snort.
The coywolf
stood still, its ears alert, its head cocked as if it was observing him.
Igor dropped the makeshift weapon, calling
out, “Eat the rest of your meal, you dumb beast.”
The animal continued to watch him, its two
front paws on the remains of a zombie’s chest.
Igor wiped his
forehead, waiting, his eyes coming back to search the village, confirming it
was empty, except for the carrion eaters like the coyotes and vultures. He
looked up, noting the circling predators waiting for him to move on.
“Interrupted
your meal,” he chuckled. Just the local scavengers looking for food.
That was all; the shadows revealed nothing else. Satisfied he was alone, he
moved on. He had work to do.
Raised all over the country, I'm a interesting mix of East Coast meets West Coast with a little bit of Southern thrown in, just for good measure. I married a sexy man in uniform who let me spawn and am now raising a mutinous army of hell raisers that I created myself, all while he defends our country. I drink too much coffee until it's late enough to drink too much wine and am sexually frustrated for your freedom. If you see me online, I'm probably sitting in a closet, hiding from my kids. 
Fluent in sarcasm, Supernatural, and song lyrics, I like talking to people and finding what makes them tick, though that probably has to do with the Psychology degree. I’m up before the sun because my kids don’t sleep, chugging tea and coffee to keep my eyes open and my brain semi functional. Being married to a man in uniform means I’ve lived a lot of places, survived seeing my husband for half the amount of time I’ve been married, and spent a lot of time raising my kids alone. 
