Full Wolf Moon

37

They began racing down the gravel path toward the highway. Already, Feverbridge had vanished into the darkness ahead.

“What happened?” Albright asked as they ran. “Were you right — about what you mentioned when you called me, I mean?”

“It’s even worse than I thought,” Logan replied. “The resynthesized serum wasn’t administered to the dogs. Feverbridge gave it to himself.”

“Are you saying that was him who ran in front of my truck just now? But he died six months ago.”

“No. He killed a backpacker six months ago, a loner nobody would miss. Threw him off the top of Madder’s Gorge. His daughter Laura misidentified the body to make people think Feverbridge was dead, so the scientific community who’d always scoffed at his work would leave him in peace — that was her explanation, anyway. Ever since, she told me, they’ve been trying to find a way to reverse the effects of what he did to himself.”

“Which was what, exactly?”

“Inject himself with a highly potent and hybrid strain of Zephraim’s moon-sickness.”

“Holy shit. How did he do that?”

“I don’t know all the details. I assume he modified a DNA sequence to introduce new genetic code into his genome — a single gene, or more likely a series of genes. In essence, he managed to simulate the effects of a multifactorial inheritance disorder.”

“A what? How is that even possible?”

“It’s the other cornerstone of his research: introducing a mutation into otherwise normal genetic code, specifically to cause metamorphosis. But we can worry about the details later. Because the most important thing is that he’s not reverting to his old self, as he’d originally intended — if anything, he’s getting worse. He’s behind the four recent murders, and he seems to be getting more violent all the time.”

They reached the road and paused for a moment. “Should we call in the cavalry?” Logan asked as he checked to make sure a cartridge was in the chamber of his gun.

“You mean, Krenshaw? It would take him forty-five minutes to get here.”

“What about those troopers down the road, guarding the Blakeney compound?”

“It would take ten minutes to get them. And they’d just get in the way, slow us down. The longer we delay, the more chance Feverbridge has of killing again. Look, we’ve got a fresh trail to follow — and I can see it from here.” With his torch, Albright pointed across the road, where some brush had been torn free from the surrounding tree limbs.

Albright rushed across the road and plunged into the woods on the far side, Logan at his heels. With the aid of Albright’s torch, and the light of the full moon, they made their way through a maze of branches and heavy brush. More than once, Logan stumbled over an exposed tree root, protruding invisibly from the forest floor.

“It’s a herd path of sorts,” Albright said. “He’s been this way before.”

Now they entered a dense section of woods literally choked with pines. Logan forced his way forward, following Albright, who had slowed slightly in order not to lose Feverbridge’s track. The heavy pine needles scraped along Logan’s limbs as he pushed through them. Once, Albright lost the trail and they had to backtrack until he found it again. The pine forest descended into a muddy gully, which they splashed through before climbing the far bank. Suddenly, they broke free of the forest and found themselves on the remains of an ancient railroad, small trees growing up from between its rotting ties. It ran left and right, rails rusted and half covered in weeds, the screen of trees encroaching on both sides.

“What is this?” Logan asked, panting for breath.

“Private railroad,” Albright answered. “Rail was once the primary mode of transport, both for passengers and freight. Back in the late nineteenth century, there were dozens of operators. Died out in the thirties with the automobile. I think this was the Adirondack and Lake Champlain.” He knelt over the crumbling tracks, which shone an eerie yellow in the moonlight. “Look,” he said, pointing to a pair of ragged, muddy footprints. “They’re heading west, toward Desolation Mountain.” He took some of the mud between his fingers, rubbed it carefully. “This has been here less than five minutes. Seems like we’re gaining on him.”

“That hardly seems likely—” Logan began, but Albright was already running down the tracks, his rifle — slung over his back — bouncing crazily between his shoulder blades.

Logan dashed after him. Albright had at least twenty-five years on him, but nevertheless he found it hard to keep up. Jogging along the abandoned rail line proved more difficult than he’d expected: the ties were spaced at just the wrong distance for running, and the interstices were full of brambles, weeds, and treacherous sinkholes.

The muddy tracks grew fainter, and Albright slowed accordingly, but he did not stop. Now and then he would lance his torch left or right, shining it over the unbroken flanks of forest that threatened to engulf the line.

After about a quarter of a mile, Albright came to a dead halt. He shone his torch around more slowly and carefully, scanning the dark woods. “There,” he said after a minute, pointing to the left side of the tracks toward a stand of American beech. Logan had no idea what Albright had picked up, but he dutifully followed the man as he went tearing into the woods. Up ahead, he thought he could faintly make out the sound of crashing. His grip tightened around the handgun. He wondered for a moment what they would do if they caught up with Feverbridge — and then, almost immediately, he realized he already knew.

They scaled a height of land, then came out into a tiny clearing, ringed on all sides by beech. Ahead, rising above bare branches maybe half a mile away, was another fire tower — but unlike the one at the research site, this one appeared to be intact. It was a vast metal skeleton, perhaps two hundred feet tall, with a covered room at the top and a fire-escape-style ladder that switchbacked up its center from bottom to top. But Albright had taken off again, and Logan could not pause to examine it further.

“Phelps Fire Observation Station,” Albright said over his shoulder. “Abandoned, of course.”

Crossing the clearing, the moon above them bright with a surrounding swath of clouds, they entered the woods on the far side. Logan could no longer hear any sound ahead. Despite the occasional slowdown or false lead, he was truly impressed by Albright’s knowledge of woodcraft. Whether through the tutelage of his father, Nahum Blakeney, his own youthful experience, or a combination of all three, he was somehow able to follow a trail that, to Logan, looked invisible.

The stand of beech gave way once again to pine, even thicker than before. “Strange,” Albright said, stopping to examine a newly broken branch at shoulder height, fragrant with sap. “He’s circling around to the south. It’s almost as if he’s doubling back—”

And at just that moment there came a sudden burst of sound to their right; the pine trees shook violently; and a creature of nightmare exploded out of the forest and onto them.