FEVERCHAIN 19

Lesbian werewolves, et cetera. FEVERCHAIN is a contemporary horror-romance serial set in the fictional Pinetown, New Jersey.

Voiceover by Emily S Hurricane, who makes this cast of characters come to life!!!

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Too afraid to watch Smokey shift into a grown man, I lead him by the collar to Mom’s bathroom when he starts pacing and panting. Put his bed cushion in there with his water bowl and kibble. Then consider how Gwen’s diet has changed. Maybe I should be giving him the human fare. Food fit for humans, I mean—jeez. I boil some rice with frozen peas and carrots and make a peanut butter sandwich for him. Of course right after I stick the food in there he devours everything at once. “Don’t puke.”

What the fuck am I going to do during the next full moon with Smokey? I have to move out. Like, for real this time. Can’t talk myself out of this one. Oh yeah Mom, that guy, don’t worry about him. Gwen and I got a third who wears nothing but a dog collar. It’s totally chill. Also, you’ll never see him and our husky in the same room.

But I’m grateful he’s here, even as he bellows wordlessly and beats on the door. Guard dog. Or some sorta guard… the point is, I’m not alone.

I try to comfort myself with that fact, TV strobing as I morph myself into a tight ball on the couch. Try to sleep, but every time I do I remember when I dismounted from Rainy’s motorcycle and handed her my helmet. She’d flipped it over and made a show of snorting whatever I’d left of myself in there.

I can’t tell Gwen any of it. Can I? She’d try to run or fight or do something reckless. Then I would be blamed, and Mom—she’s still vulnerable. Rainy had made it clear enough; she knew where to find us.

It’s hopeless. I have to hide the truth from Gwen. Again. Can’t be free from this shit for a moment. I can only hope that the biker gang will back off after they get the Dyer inheritance and move to Canada. Rainy’s story is credible, after all. I’d seen her digital “WANTED” poster myself.

Gwen would go with them, and that gives me more dread than relief. Imagining myself so separate from her makes my chest ache, even if it’s for the best.

Pale light filters through cracks in the blinds that I’d thought I covered with curtains, blankets, and towels. Morning already. I’ve done nothing but stare at the screen, processing zilch, picking my toenail polish off. Wishing my life was normal—like the people in commercials.

I don’t think anyone else was killed last night according to News 12 New Jersey, so that’s a win. Yay.

THUMP. Weight slides against the bathroom door. A strangled howl. “Smokey?” I rush to remove the chair I’d wedged under the bathroom’s doorknob.

Smokey-man is on his side in the fetal position, snout lengthening, hands collapsing into paws, ribs cracking and clicking into a fresh-forming compact spine. His hips lift and legs bend, his tail regrows, looking like a giant rat’s until the fur returns. I note that he’s also neutered as a man, which is probably a good thing—ew. His eyes are wide and vacant, he foams a little at the mouth, moans, high and breathy between low gurgles. Rapidly becoming familiar and uncreepy. He recovers just as quickly, jumping up to lick and nip at my hand excitedly. I feel bad I’ve been depriving him of affection, but realize it would be a bad idea for him to bite me too, and draw back. I also realize his entire left side is wet from lying in a puddle of piss.

He turns to the hallway, aims for my bedroom and wags his tail. “Sorry buddy, you have to go back in the bathroom…” I herd him in, and he starts to pant anxiously. “I’m gonna come back with a Milk-Bone and bathe you, okay?” He sits on the bathmat and mews, showcasing his lower front teeth as he tries to relax. “Thanks.” I’ve always pretended like he understood me, but now, who knows. Maybe he sorta does. Should I teach him how to read?

BRATBRATBRATBRATBRAT against my bedroom window. Then the predictable: BARKBARKBARKBARKBARK. I close my eyes but the noise doesn’t let up. I have to go and see.

Gwen is in the glass pane, pine needles in her hair. She’s glancing behind herself and smacking my window. I’d locked it.

I wait for her to really look at me. When she does, she lifts herself and presses her tits against the glass: “I’M NAKED.”

“Jesus.” I lift up the window a crack and she finishes the job with her super strength.

“What was that?” she asks, breathless. “You’re not gonna let me in when cops are around? I’ve been running—” Water streams from her expensive furniture eyes. “I’ve been having a real shit time, Bianca.”

I inspect her sides or anywhere else for injury. I flip her around, she lets me. Her ass almost distracts me from my task. “I’m—I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Are you okay?” She whips around. “Why do you sound like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like a… dying robot.” Gwen embraces me. Exhaust and pinesap. I breathe in her breath and want to cry. “Bianca, I’m so sorry.” Her hand pets my tangled bedhead and I feel her tense. She smells the hair along my temple, behind my ear, on my middle part. Then she cups my face. “What did she do?”

“Who?”

“Rainy.”

I move to close the window but Gwen does it, not breaking eye contact.

“She came to tell me you were okay,” I say. “That they took the bullet out of you and were gonna make sure you didn’t get caught.”

“No one would tell me where she went. What did she want with you?” Gwen sniffs. “Did you wear her hat or something?”

“No I—she took me on her motorcycle.”

Gwen growls and rakes her hands through her hair. “What did she do?”

“I just told you.”

She sits on my bed, hands smearing dirt on the comforter. I don’t even care. “She’s messing with me. Why did they come here? Why do they give a shit? Oh, by the way.” Gwen smiles sour. “Erica is with Rainy. She told them about us. I couldn’t even do anything about it. Rainy and my ex and the other bitch she cheated on me with came all the way here to fuck with my shit.”

“Rainy told me they were just passing through,” I say to the wall.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t believe a word of that. Something is up.” She looks at me. “We need to get out of town.”

“Gwen.” I shuffle to the bed. “You know you’re a missing person, right?”

“Good.”

“Your family’s funeral is this Saturday.”

She makes a face like I’d just stuck a turd under her nose.

“Catherine Von Bergen is dead,” I say.

“Okay?”

“Llama lady. Overalls. Goats. Ring a bell?”

“Not really.” A flush spreads over her chest. “I mean, I know the farm.” Gwen lies back and sighs. “Can we stay in bed all day and do nothing?”

“I have to bathe Smokey first. He pissed himself, but it’s not his fault. He’s a wereman.”

“I’ll help you.” Gwen blinks. “He’s a were-what?”

↟↟↟

Two days later and I’m back wiping the confetti counters of the diner. What can I say? The town needs us Pancos and our greasy comforts. Mom wants to support how she can.

Morning pours in golden. I avoid looking at the window with the black tarp taped over it, a hole in my world. The biker gang stole the sixty dollars we’d left in the register. We don’t have a lock box. Never thought we would need one.

The loss from the register is nothing compared to the cost of fixing that window. I think they wanted to break something, just to hurt us. To scare me, probably. Fucking whatever.

Emilio is here, wearing a neon green cast. Crutches rest against the stool beside him. He’s gotten us all to sign his leg so he “doesn’t look like a loser” at school. Mom asks him a million questions about his healing process, scheduled physical therapy, etc. Her face is toasted from the Bahamas cruise. She and Clyde made it back here, to hell, yesterday.

Unfortunately, Mom told me that she and Clyde got even closer on the ship; the alone time took their relationship “to the next level.” “I was so stressed because you weren’t responding, and he was helping me through it. He’s such a rock, really. So solid—” And so on. Gag Central Station.

I should be happy for her.

Mom didn’t find out about the animal attacks until they touched land. There has been much crying and hysterics and more crying and hysterics at my lack of reaction. My ‘dying robot’ voice.

Gotta figure out how to rebuild myself.

Gwen sets a firm hand on my wrist. “You’ve been cleaning that one spot for a while.”

I scoff, flop the rag on the counter. I’m frustrated she won’t acknowledge her murder of Catherine von Bergen. If there’s nothing to explain, just predator and prey, I’d rather her say so. I’m sick of mysteries. Sick of them. But she’s stonewalling me, going to make me ask the question point blank: you killed her, didn’t you? I haven’t had the strength for that.

Yet in some ways, I’m proud of Gwen. She did go to the police… to lie. Told them she didn’t see the attack on her family, but thinks it was the coyotes (she’s got a grudge against them, I swear) because some chased her. She followed Pitch Pine Path until she “got lost,” then found her way to my place days later… somehow missing all the police and park rangers everywhere…

Didn’t make much sense, but nothing does lately. They’ll probably want to talk to her again.

Now Gwen’s staying at the Dyer house with her grandparents and aunt. I’m going there tonight to help her pick out an outfit for the funeral tomorrow.

A glare out the window draws my eye. Sheriff’s patrol car putters in, earlier than usual. He approaches the diner, haggard and hungry. No sense of mission in his step, which relieves me as the handcuffs on his pants jingle-jangle.

“Morning,” he coughs. His mustache is crooked in a half grimace. He approaches the chrome and red-cushioned stool like it’s a life raft. He plants himself two seats from Gwen.

“Whatever you want, it’s on the house,” Mom says with a sad smile.

“Appreciate that, Elena, but it’s just my job. I know we weren’t ready for this. I wasn’t—” He clears his throat. Looks at Gwen with wet eyes. “The mayor was a good friend of mine. I haven’t had the chance to tell you personally, I’m sorry.”

“Uh.” Gwen gulps. “Thanks.”

Sheriff’s mouth opens, but he just inhales sharply and stares at his hands, stache quivering.

The door chimes with the vigor of a newcomer.

A plucky woman with a full face of makeup and amber highlights clacks inside on impressively high heels, a giant rectangular phone glowing in her hand and indicating she’s on a call. “Excuse me, are you—” The woman takes a moment to look at each person sitting in the diner, her black-lashed eyes going so wide they might pop out and dirty up the floor I just mopped. “Excuse me. My name is April Spencer, and I’m with South Jersey Today.”

“Christ,” Sheriff mutters. Mom sets down his generous mug of coffee, nearly spilling it.

The reporter clacks closer. “I want to ask how you all are doing, considering the recent deaths.” She unsubtly snaps a photo of us with her phone. She’s got the audio turned up and everything, nails clicking loud against the screen. “Sheriff Christo…doloo…”

“No updates.” Sheriff slurps loud.

“Well, I do have questions for these young ladies. And gentleman. If you could share anything about what you’ve experienced, it would mean a lot.”

Emilio straightens in his chair and whispers to himself: “Jersey Devil.”

Mom, meanwhile, pats my shoulder and turns to the stranger. “You can put that camera away and be a customer, or you can get the hell out.”

The reporter lowers her phone. “I didn’t mean to offend—”

“You did!” Mom shouts. “You did, so you go and tell your friends they’re not gonna be let in here unless they put the damn cameras away.” She shakes her head with disgust. “Have some respect.”

April Spencer clamps her lined, glossy mouth, and clacks to the exit. Once outside, she talks on the phone, peering at us through the window beside her white SUV.

I touch my lips. Can’t remember the last time I wore makeup like that.

“They’re everywhere,” Sheriff laments. “ABC. CNN. NBC. EFG. WXY and Z. The whole damn alphabet is here.”

“Sheriff,” Mom begins. “We can’t have them crowding…” She looks between Emilio, Gwen, and me.

“I’m taking interviews.” Emilio’s gaze darts between the door and the woman outside. “Maybe somebody out there will believe me.”

“Kid,” Sheriff begins. “If I go out there and say, yup, it’s the Jersey Devil, you know what’ll happen? I’ll lose my job.” He flicks his silver badge.

Emilio slams his fist on the counter. “Did you find my camera?”

“Got other priorities at the moment.”

“Shoddy police work.” Emilio grits his teeth. “I remember its eyes! I caught it on video! I’m telling you, it wasn’t just an animal. Find my camera and it’ll prove it.”

“Even if I could believe you, I already told you.” Sheriff sips his joe. “It is what it is.”

Emilio turns to Gwen. “Don’t you believe me?”

She looks ill. “Sure.”

That doesn’t validate him enough. His pleading eyes meet mine. “Binks? Didn’t it attack you? I saw the news—”

“I think we should change the subject.” Mom attempts sternness, still flushed from yelling at the woman. Or maybe that’s the sunburn.

Emilio keeps his dark eyes on me, adamant.

“I didn’t see clearly,” I sigh. “It was, like, traumatic. So drop it.”

His head droops, limp shag exaggerating his disappointment. “It wasn’t a freakin’ bear…”

Silence like a wet, scratchy blanket falls over us. Sheriff says he’s in a bit of a hurry to meet up with animal control, so Mom bustles into the kitchen to make him a pork roll egg and cheese saltpepperketchup to-go.

“Bianca.” Gwen’s jaw clenches. One of her knees is bounce-bounce-bouncing.

“What is it?”

“Make them go away,” she whispers. “Please.”

“What?”

Emilio’s shag flicks rightward. “Huh?”

Sheriff eyes us over his steaming mug, then gazes beyond us, gray brows rising.

“Yo!” Emilio points at the windows. My chest tightens. Too afraid to look.

A horn honks outside. Another. Another. Tons of unfamiliar cars are turning into the diner, blocking Emilio’s dad from picking him up for school. There’s traffic. In Pinetown. In March.

Gwen slaps her hands over her ears and retreats to the bathroom before the next car horn blares.

Sheriff again calls upon a higher power to ask for assistance. Or just to curse.

I watch in horror as vans with satellites stuck to the top crowd our tiny parking lot. Other cars start to park on grass and the street; you’d think it was summertime during Pineworld Adventure’s Annual Jamboree. April Spencer looks at me through the window and waves. Expensive cameras and cellphones surround the diner, their operators drooling over Pinetown’s unexplained deaths.

The culprit, after all, is still at large. Actually, she’s locked herself in the bathroom.

Emilio, ecstatic, hops from his seat onto one leg and uses the counter to balance as he adjusts his crutches under his pits. He licks his thumbs, swipes each eyebrow. “My time to shine.”