Free Breeds by Keith C. Blackmore

Morris’s ability to sleep. A large, sun-shaped clock not thirty feet down the fairway kept drawing his attention.
    3AM.
    3:15.
    3:36.
    Sleep. Kirk closed his eyes and emptied his head of troubling thoughts. They nagged at him like tiny, biting mouths. He knows we’re comin’. Morris nailed that piece of truth. He’s got time to get ready.
    He’s got plenty of time to get ready, Kirk’s mind corrected him. The old wolf already had Kirk underestimating his chances and he didn’t like it in the least. The others no doubt had taken Borland lightly as well. Seconds passed and Kirk realized he’d opened his eyes again. He forced them shut, struggling with the tension in his chest, convincing himself two wardens could do the job. Borland knew they were coming. They’d be careful going in. They had to be careful.
    “Hey. Dickhead.”
    Morris. “Yeah?”
    “Time to get moving.”
    Kirk blinked and rubbed his face. The sun clock showed a little after seven in the morning. Cloud cover prevented the sun from getting through. Morris struggled to his feet and faced the day.
    “Shit,” Kirk heard, prompting him to twist around in his seat.
    Underneath a gray-black sky, snow fell in a slant and plastered the wall of glass and the parking lot beyond.
    “Shit,” Kirk agreed.
    His eyes fell upon the information booth not twenty paces away and the young man just depositing a steaming cup of java on the counter.
    Despite the weather, the two men were in luck. Neither Kirk nor Morris carried cell phones, perhaps the one thing they had in common besides their Were affliction. The guy at the info booth answered Kirk’s questions and gave him access to the booth’s land line. A woman answered the phone, took Kirk’s information, and promised that Perry––the taxi driver––would indeed be heading out of town later in the day. Perhaps even earlier if he could manage it, to beat the incoming fury of the storm, but that depended upon how many locals would be heading out that way. She informed Kirk that, at the time of the call, there were only two other bookings.
    The two men from Nova Scotia went back to their chairs and waited.
    Airport staff walked into work and stomped their feet free of snow, but the display boards glared cancelations in red as St. John’s battened down the hatches.
    Two hours and a couple of mini-shop sandwiches later, Perry’s cab service pulled up to the arrival doors. The all-white, ten-person carrier van smoked exhaust in the frosty air, while heavy beards of slushy ice hung off the vehicle’s mud flaps. A wooden storage unit for extra luggage sat on the roof and, as far as Kirk could see, they were the only ones waiting for the rig.
    Perry appeared around the rear of the van wearing only jeans, sneakers, and a plaid insulated jacket, the kind woodsmen wore in the fall. He checked his tires before walking to the sliding doors and entering the airport. A Winnipeg Jets stocking cap covered his head.
    Perry zeroed in on the two men immediately, stopped in his tracks and near yelled, “Youse headin’ out to Amherst Cove?”
    Kirk and Morris got moving.

10
    Alvin Peters woke to the sound of snow scratching at the window. Dread filled him; he didn’t want to leave the comfortable cocoon of blankets he’d heaped on his bed the night before, which his considerable body had heated during the night. The clock stoically stated the time as 12:11 PM, which pulled a groan from deep within his throat. He stretched under the layers of cotton, creasing the blankets with his feet before they popped out the bottom end. Cold air made contact with his massive frame.
    “Awww shit,” he muttered, the fat rolls on his throat giving his voice an interesting treble. With effort, he threw back the mounds of quilts handmade by his deceased mother. Exposing his naked self to the cold air, he labored to a sitting position with a grunt and went through his morning ritual of scratching at fleshy crevices, bulges, and