FEVERCHAIN 2

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

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Again, Emily S Hurricane has generously provided her fantastic narration. Enjoy!

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I stop at the grocery on my walk home and buy the best organic peanut butter available, assuming smooth, not crunchy, is her preference. Apples are trickier. Yellow? Green? Redyellow? No one likes Red Delicious. More like Red Nasty. But what if she does? Granny Smith? I like those but… Fuck it—Honey Crisp. Organic, whatever. The most expensive apples because I’m romantic like that. It’s why I’m broke. Whole grain seed crackers to go with it. Gwen seems like the whole grain type. As for myself— Hot Fries.

But I don’t want stained fingers or weird breath so I put them back. I replay how Gwen was ripping my uniform off with her eyes and buy a tin of mints instead. Total: $17.97.

Smokey greets me at the door, yowling a husky’s hello. Yeah, I bought him instead of a car.

I can hardly get inside because he’s nudging, sniffing, nipping my pocket. “You’re not stealing my wallet,” I tell him.

Clyde turns from where he’s seated on the couch, rewatching an Eagles game. From years ago, by the quality of it. “Whatchu got Bianca?”

I glance in my paper bag. “Lady products.”

He makes a face and turns.

I beeline to my room with Smokey but my mom leaps out from the kitchen. “The Dyers came in?”

Oh Jesus. “You saw that?”

“I was telling Shane about how my car’s been shaking and saw Wade’s Jeep. Then I see Gwen walk up from the woods or something—how ‘bout that haircut?”

I try to move around her.

“Wait! What did they want? They just order drinks? I wanted to come in but Shane had me on hold. You handle everything ok?”

“Yeah, Mom. They just wanted water.”

“What was Wade doing there?”

“Just… wanted to catch up.”

“Catch up? Oh my god, he still likes you, Bun.” She pokes a finger in my grocery bag. “Why are you taking peanut butter to your room? You got an eating disorder again?”

“Uh oh,” Clyde adds.

“No. Can I go to my room now, Mother? I’m almost thirty.”

Mom recoils. “Jesus! You’re only twenty-six, still a baby. Ok, one more question. Gwen’s haircut?”

I gently, firmly push her aside.

“Is she a transgender now?”

I ignore her and shut my door. Can’t believe this is still my fucking life. I grab a Tootsie Pop from my stash to take the edge off, put on my headphones, and open my laptop. I blast hyperpop and go to Snoopers.com. I’ve used it before, so I enter my other email for another free trial. I shamelessly type in Gwen Dyer’s name and demographic info.

Click!

Holy shit! She has a criminal record? It’s probably super speeding. I try to click, but I have to pay for that. I whip out my wallet.

Again, Smokey jumps on my bed and goes crazy for it, smelling the bills and whining. “I know, buddy, I know.” I pat his butt so he sits.

Turning back to my screen, I put in my credit card info and pay the ten bucks. Criminal record, warning: could be inaccurate. Oh thanks for telling me that after I paid. Criminal trespass conviction, last year. But where, what, why? This only raises more questions.

Bad breakup, Wade said.

I crack my lollipop and tongue for the tootsie. Find Gwen’s cell number and create a contact for her in my phone, overly cautious not to tap the call button once finished. Find her address from Keno, Oregon. Look that up. Rustic. Pretty country but nothing going on. Less going on than here. Back arrow, scroll. What happens in Keno? Outlaw biker gang violence? Click.

ALL-FEMALE BIKER GANG APPREHENDED FOR RECKLESS GUNFIRE, HUNTING VIOLATIONS, POSSESSION AND DISTRIBUTION OF DRUGS IN KLAMATH FALLS.

Oh.

THREE SUSPECTS MISSING: RAINY WILLIAMS, SIENNA DANVER, ANNA BAUDELAIRE.

There’s a photo of Rainy Williams attached. One half of her head is shaved, showcasing a shiny cragged scar on her scalp. There are police sketches of Sienna and Anna, and they’re depicted as equally feral-eyed and frightening.

I control F. Gwen doesn’t appear to be associated. But—an all-female biker gang? In Keno? She must’ve had some interaction with these people. She must’ve slept with one of them. She must’ve dated one of them. She totally dated one of them and some shit went down. But that feels off. Gwen was always such a goody-two-shoes. I mean, all she did was play soccer. And she’s vegan. Vegans don’t do drugs. Not the hard ones, anyway.

Two knocks strike my door. Smokey’s ears perk. “Dinner’s ready,” Mom says, subdued. “Spaghetti.”

“Thanks, I’ll be a minute.”

She cracks the door, looking sheepish. “Bun, I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful.”

I close my laptop. “You knew Gwen was here?”

“Yeah, honey. I haven’t seen her but Kim told Theresa and Theresa told me that she came home for Thanksgiving and decided to stay because she got diagnosed with lupus and everything.”

I sit up. “Lupus?”

“Yeah, like Selena Gomez.”

↟↟↟

I deliver Sheriff his pork roll egg and cheese and black coffee, one sugar. We call him Sheriff because his last name is Christodoulopoulos. His first name is Constantine, but that feels too informal and I would want to call him Constance.

I have one earbud in playing a blood-pumping electronic: You think of me foreva (forevaaa). It’s late morning, Friday. I have peanut butter, apples, crackers below the counter. I keep checking on it like it’s a holy shrine or some kinda summoning. It’s not like Gwen said she was coming for sure, but it seemed that way. Not like she has a job or school or anything. I wonder what she does all day, now that she doesn’t play soccer. If she’s bored, I could help with that.

I should text her.

Never needed you, never needed you, promise me you’ll fall apart, ah-ah.

Shouldn’t I?

“Hi,” I type. “It’s Bianca. Got that peanut butter.”

Send.

I’m fucking manic. I want to dance. I’m organizing utensils to the beat, clink, clink, clink, clink. No more Pepsi for me today.

The diner door chimes. Three strangers appear from the mist and enter together. An older Black man wearing outdoor gear, his hair and beard short cropped and white. He’s holding a computer tablet armored with a heavy-duty case that’s covered in tiny droplets. There are two young people behind him, they look about my age—an Asian woman with bright green highlights and a white guy with a thin mustache and Jeffery Dahmer-glasses. White guy is wearing a UPenn rain parka.

“Good morning,” the older man calls out, to no one in particular.

“Mornin’,” Sheriff says. “Saw you in my newspaper.” He lifts up the gray folded sheets in his hand and smirks under this thick stache.

“Sheriff Christodoulopoulos!” The stranger beams and approaches where Sheriff is seated on the counter, his two followers close behind. “I was told you might be here, and you’re just the man I wanted to see. I’m Dr. Leo, and these are my students, Erica Sun and Dustin Wood.”

I pause my music and ready three menus.

Sheriff gestures to the barstools beside him and the strangers slide in, patting the damp off their waterproof coats.

“I wanted to confirm with you—hunting season ends in nine days, correct?”

Sheriff lifts his mug to his lips. “If that’s what the website says for zone twenty-four point five.”

“Well,” Dr. Leo chuckles, glancing at his students, “what I’m really asking is whether we can rely on the hunting ban between seasons while we nail up some rub pads and collect samples.”

“Coyote scat?”

“Coyote scat. We’ll be flagging their high traffic areas.”

I slide the menus over slowly, not wanting to interrupt. Or draw attention to myself. It doesn’t work.

“Hi there,” Dr. Leo glances at my name and raises his brows ever-so-slightly, “Bianca.”

“Hi.”

“If you aren’t too busy, my students might have some questions for you.”

Questions? For me?

Erica smiles. “Yes, just one second.” She pulls a notepad and pen from her giant coat pocket. “Um, what’s your name and how long have you lived in Pinetown?”

“Uh. Bianca Panco and twenty-six years—my whole life, basically.” I blink. “Are you guys journalists?”

“No! Not at all. We’re studying ecology. We’ll be in Pinetown and the surrounding area for a couple of weeks, studying the adaptability of eastern coyotes, and the evolutionary dynamics between them and competing groups, like humans. We got pinged by the Wildlife Alliance that the coyotes here have been particularly aggressive in recent weeks, so we’re going to collect some DNA and study their behavior.”

“The petting zoo attack,” I muse aloud. “At Pineworld Adventures.”

“Exactly!” Erica exclaims, as if slaughtered bunnies and ducklings are wonderful. “Super abnormal. In broad daylight, in front of humans and only scattering after gunfire. That’s extremely aggressive coyote behavior, especially in a very rural area.”

“I mean, we’re not that rural.”

“It’s just a broad classification,” Dustin chimes in, straightening his serial killer specs. “We’re thinking of incorporating our findings into our larger study of urban versus rural coyote behavior and adaptation.”

“Cool.” I bite my lip. “Um, I have a husky. We let him outside in our fenced backyard; we have a doggy door. Should I do something about that?”

“A husky?” Erica brightens. “Oh, can I see a picture, please?”

“Sure.” I take out my phone, look for any replies, nothing, then puppy pics. “His name is Smokey.”

“He’s precious! Beautiful coat.”

“I would lock the doggy door,” Dr. Leo says. He looks at me pointedly. “Don’t leave him outside unattended, certainly not at night.”

“Ok.” I pull back my phone to text my mom the same IN ALL CAPS.

“Three coffees, then?” Dr. Leo twirls his finger around, and the students nod.

When I return with their orders, I notice that Dustin has laid photographs of coyotes on the counter. He looks at me over his steaming mug. “Seen any recently?”

Erica clicks her pen.

I shake my head. “Not recently.” There’s a photograph of a coyote in a traffic laden city street, mid sprint between cars, eyes glowing white. “There are coyotes in Philly?”

“Certainly,” Dr. Leo says. “The eastern coyote is highly adaptive, thrives in a variety of habitats. Partially because it’s a hybrid—mostly western coyote, mixed with Great Plains wolf, eastern wolf, even domestic dog DNA. They won’t be going away anytime soon, so we humans need to learn how to live alongside them. The results of our study will help inform practical advice on how to ethically coexist with these creatures. And, well, the rest is in the newspaper,” he laughs.

I didn’t know about the hybrid stuff, or the impending coyote takeover of the world.

“Whelp,” Sheriff rises and stretches. “Sounds like we may have to extend hunting season after what you folks find.”

Dr. Leo shifts. “Well, let’s not underestimate the utility of trapping and relocation.”

The chimes ring and the door bursts open. Ms. Pileggi speed-hobbles in, hysterical under her red wig: “SHERIFF! SHERIFF! PEANUT IS DEAD!”

The diner turns to her, the new center of gravity. I put a hand over my mouth. Mom appears from the kitchen. We regard each other, communicating the same, wordless thing: Peanut the Chihuahua never stood a chance.

Pileggi falls into Sheriff’s arms, sobbing. He looks remarkably uncomfortable. “MY PEANUT WAS EATEN ALIVE! OH GOD IN HEAVEN, SHERIFF, DO SOMETHING!”

“Ms. Pileggi, what am I supposed to do? Arrest a coyote?”

“SHOOT ‘EM!” Pileggi screeches.

Dr. Leo pounces. “Madam! Did this just happen?”

She regards the trio of strangers suspiciously, but nods.

“Did you see it happen?”

“I heard it.” Her face crumples, a tear trailing through the powder on her cheek.

“Where?”

“My front yard.” She points out the window and places the heel of her hand on her head, causing her wig to slip. “I should’ve had him on a leash, I knew it, but he’s such a good boy. He wasn’t even far from me when those animals came.” Ms. Pileggi takes a rattling inhale. “I thought they’d eat me next!”

“May we photograph the scene?” Dr. Leo asks.

“Who are you?” Pileggi cries.

“These folks’ll help you. They’re from the Ivy League.” Sheriff nods at them and sneaks out the door.

Dr. Leo gives her the same spiel, but this time with a noticeably more anti-coyote tilt. Smart move. As the four of them leave together, Erica and Dustin don’t make enough of an effort to hide their excitement.

Mom places a hand on my shoulder. “I’m gonna call Clyde. Tell him to make sure to keep Smokey inside or on a short leash.” She hesitates. “And to carry his gun.”

“Jesus,” I say.

“Don’t worry, Bun. Smokey’s a lot bigger than Peanut.” Mom eyes the newspaper on the counter. “Are those UPenn people really gonna help?”

“Seems like they want to help the coyotes more than us.” I don’t think that’s totally fair, but I’m not sure how coexistence is an option. Of course, I’m thinking of my Smokey. Still, it’s strange. Smokey is definitely not far from what a coyote is, just domesticated.

Dr. Leo’s right. We can’t just kill them all. We turned their vast woodlands into our tri-state area, so some of this is to be expected.

The day passes, and disappointment follows every door chime. Gwen never responds. No read receipt, nothing. I start to worry that she was eaten, too. But the more likely reasons gnaw at me.