Free Blood and Rain by Glenn Rolfe

but there it was—up ahead, running quickly along in the shadows of the pines.
    Lights and sirens came from up the road. Joe grabbed the radio. “It’s coming your way, on your left, just in front of the trees. It’s big, and it’s fast.”
    He saw the deputy suddenly slam on his brakes. Both Hines and the rookie, Curry, stepped out of the car, taking aim at the woods. Between the deputies and himself, Joe saw what he couldn’t believe.
    There it stood—the beast’s monstrous form perfectly silhouetted in the moonlight. Joe stopped short of where the beast reared. He climbed out of the Range Rover and went for his revolver, ready to aim. The monster made its move without hesitation.
    Curry stared in shock and awe as the creature launched itself in the air and crashed down on Hines’s cruiser. The weight of the large beast’s impact smashed out the car’s side windows and crumpled the roof.
    Hines stepped away from the vehicle and tripped over his own feet before falling in the middle of the road.
    Curry squeezed his eyes shut and pissed his pants, also blindly discharging his weapon. He completely missed the beast as it slashed its elongated, fur-covered arm across his face, neck and chest. One of its large claws caught his jugular, leaving the twenty-two-year-old rookie dead in seconds.
    Joe fired once, twice, then three times, nailing the beast directly in its wide, muscular back. The beast shook with each shot and dropped forward, falling out of Joe’s sight as it crawled down the cruiser’s trunk and dropped behind the car.
    Hines froze. He was laid out flat on his back in the middle of the road, staring wide-eyed at the abomination.
    Joe wanted to yell to him, to ask him what he could see, but then thought better of it. Randy Hines had not moved since falling down and was probably in shock. Yelling to him might only draw the attention he was sure that he himself owned since he had shot the thing, back to his other deputy and unnecessarily put the man in mortal danger. It was best to move slow and cool.
    Joe wasn’t even halfway around the side of the car, where the body of rookie Brett Curry lay dead in a pool of blood, when the beast arose as best as it could.
    The monster growled, sounding more like a wounded dog than a massive creature. Joe stared up into a dark pair of flickering eyes and caught a glimpse of something familiar. It let out a howl that instantly turned his blood cold.
    He fired the last three silver bullets from his revolver, burying them into the chest of the beast. The howl died in its throat. Its bulk dropped backwards. The eyes closed, it lay there motionless.
    Joe wasted no time reloading the silver bullets from his belt clip into the gun. He moved past the body of Curry and stood before the monster. His mind half expected the thing to lunge back up instantly and rip his head off. Without a second thought, he emptied the weapon into the chest and head of the creature lying before him.
    Joe pulled a silver flask of Jameson from his coat pocket. He took a swig and reveled in the burn trickling down his throat. He would need to man up and pay his former mentor a visit. Stan had helped him before and would prove most resourceful if this situation blossomed into what he thought it would. Another full moon bloodbath was not on his list of things to do this summer.

Chapter Ten
    Stan Springs dreamt of the old night watchman at the Augusta mental health facility, Harold Barnes. He watched Harold’s eyes strain as he gazed through the bright ray reaching from his flashlight.
    Stan had had this dream before. Harold had passed away the year Stan left the psychiatric hospital, but lived on to die over and over again in Stan’s dreams.
    This time Harold walked right over to Stan’s hiding place just behind the pond. The dumb bastard normally had the sense to flee. Stan would give chase, but usually Harold’s old legs carried him quick