Chapter 5

The Blood Moon

Chapter 5: The Blood Moon

July 1993

“Wolves? Wolves? Wolves in this part of Connecticut?!” Scoutmaster Scott said in his big, booming voice the next morning. “There are no confirmed wolf populations in any part of Connecticut, Wendell. The last one was seen hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Sometime in the 1700s. You probably heard a coyote.”

Scoutmaster Scott was all smiles again and back to acting like a game show host.

“I don’t think coyotes howl like that, Scoutmaster,” Wendell said quietly.

“Of course they do! We can do a course on canine communication when we get back. How does that sound?” Scoutmaster Scott asked. “Anyway, you’ve got a big day ahead of you. How about you have breakfast with your friends?”

As morning turned to noon, and noon gave way to the afternoon hours, Wendell couldn’t believe how quickly the day raced by. One minute, he was climbing trees, hitting the bullseyes on every target, and rowing himself across the lake. The next, he was back at the campsite and filling a plate with dinner.

Scoutmaster Scott must’ve talked to K.C. that morning because the whole day he was less of a kiss up than usual. For the first time ever, he didn’t hover around the scouts as they went from activity to activity.

“Scoutmaster Scott probably told cheese breath to lay off,” Brad muttered to Wendell and Rodger as they finished eating their dinner. “It’s about time if you ask me. He needs to make some friends and get a hobby.”

“Oh, you mean hovering around us every minute of the day isn’t a hobby?” Rodger grinned back.

Wendell didn’t chime in. It felt mean. It felt like making fun of him. If K.C. was really friendless and lonely, didn’t he deserve compassion?

Being a scout was all about having a community and doing good daily. So as they cleaned up dinner, Wendell offered K.C. some of the handmade fudge and cookies his mom packed for him to share with his troop. K.C. lit up as he took one of each. He thanked Wendell profusely as if Wendell donated his kidney.

So when K.C. beckoned Wendell and Rodger over as DJ started strumming his guitar to kick off the campfire songs and stories, Wendell didn’t think anything of it.

“I heard you two talking to Scoutmaster Scott and Junior Assistant Scoutmaster DJ yesterday about an injured dog you found,” K.C. said.

“Yeah, and he’s not a coyote or rabid,” Rodger insisted.

“It sounded like you two wanted to go help him,” K.C. said.

Wendell didn’t like the direction this conversation was going in. Rodger picked up on it, too.

“We’re just as concerned as anyone would be,” Rodger said innocently. Wendell admired Rodger’s poker face.

“I’m just saying. I know what it’s like to be a dog lover who cares about helping a hurt dog. If my Golden Mr. Hyde was limping and struggling, I’d want to do everything in my power to help him,” K.C. asserted.

“You have a Golden Retriever named Mr. Hyde?” Rodger asked skeptically.

“My mom is a huge Robert Louis Stevenson fan. We also have a gray tabby named Long John Silver,” K.C. said.

“She has good taste in books,” Wendell said.

After making sure the Scouts and Scoutmaster Scott were still distracted by DJ playing guitar and singing, K.C. leaned in closer to the boys. “I’d understand if you wanted to go check on him or her again… and I wouldn’t tell Scoutmaster Scott,” K.C.’s hot cheese breath was even hotter and cheesier up close. Wendell tried to not breathe it in.

“You wouldn’t tell on us?” Rodger asked doubtfully.

“No, and, even better, I’ll cover for you,” K.C. said, holding up his right hand in the three-finger salute, “Scout’s honor.”

Wendell and Rodger looked at each other in shock. K.C. chuckled at their reaction. “See, I can be cool too,” he said.

* * *

That night, like the night before, with the huge blood red moon floating high above them, the Scouts took turns telling scary stories.

As DJ finished his story, K.C. tossed a pebble into the fire.

It was their cue to go. Rodger first, then Wendell.

Wendell couldn’t believe how easy it was for them to sneak away. As he crept to the treeline in the same direction he and Rodger went the first time they went to the amusement park, he kept expecting Scoutmaster Scott to holler their names or to charge over to them and drag them back to the campfire by their elbows.

But no. He was just as riveted by the terrifying tales as the Scouts. By the time they moved on to the moon and star viewing activities, Wendell hoped he and Rodger would have the dog with them and be back at camp. Rodger was determined to bring the dog back to camp with them to prove to Scoutmaster Scott that he wasn’t a dangerous beast.

Wendell, for as much as he wanted to spend alone time with Rodger, wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Armed with a first aid kit and a flashlight, Rodger led the charge. These were the same trails they walked yesterday, but they seemed more sinister under the moonlight, with shadows pooling and flitting around them. Every snap and crackle of brush under their feet sounded gunshot loud.

Wendell clenched his jaw in anxiety. He felt like at any moment, they could be ambushed by sharp-clawed, sharp-toothed predators.

Maybe some of those screams that supposedly carried over from the mountains were cougar cries. Even though cougar attacks were rare, they were known for silently stalking their prey before attacking them from behind with a kill bite to the neck.

Wendell gulped and rubbed the back of his neck.

“We’re not going to get killed by bears or mountain lions, Wen,” Rodger said, as if he read Wendell’s mind.

“I know,” Wendell said in a shaky voice. He hustled to catch up with Rodger, so they could walk side by side.

“He’s got to be around here somewhere,” Rodger said, looking high and low in the surrounding area for any trace of the dog. “He can’t go too far with his hurt paw.”

With all this quiet one-on-one time together, Wendell didn’t want to waste it. He knew what he had to do.

“I need to tell you something, Rodger,” Wendell started. He said it out loud to hold himself accountable. There was no backing out now.

“I… I like you, Rodger. Like you, like you. It’s okay if you don’t like me back, but I don’t want to keep it to myself anymore,” Wendell said.

Rodger stopped abruptly.

“I’ve kinda known that you’ve liked me for a while now, Wen. I think I just needed to hear you say it.”

“How?” Wendell gasped.

“You always gave me the best birthday presents. Kinda hard not to notice that,” Rodger smiled shyly.

“So you like me too?!” Wendell asked, hardly daring to believe it.

Rodger nodded. His cheeks were bright pink.

“Do you… can we … umm… want to have our first kiss?” Wendell stammered.

Rodger’s face turned even redder, and he nodded harder.

“Okay. I’ve never done this before, so I might not be good at it,” Wendell prefaced.

“Same,” Rodger said in a tiny, squeak of a voice.

“Okay, here I go,” Wendell said. He slowly approached Rodger like Rodger was a scared fawn about to bolt away from him.

“You’re not going to leave your arms like that, are you?” Rodger started to laugh.

Wendell nervously laughed back.

Then both boys were really laughing.

“Okay, okay, okay, I’m ready now, and I won’t be weird about it,” Wendell asserted.

“That’s the spirit!” Rodger pumped a fist.

Rodger’s lips were soft and sweet, and Wendell tasted the graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate he ate. The kiss was over in all of five seconds.

“How was that?” Wendell asked eagerly.

“Sticky… all the smores we ate,” Rodger blushed.

“Better than popsicles,” Wendell teased.

“Want to hold hands?” Rodger asked, holding his palm out. “I really like your new hair cut by the way. I didn’t tell you sooner because I didn’t want you to think I was being weird.”

“It’s called a wolf cut,” Wendell said.

Eerily, Wendell heard what sounded like howling in the distance.

“Scared dogs can still bite,” Wendell said suddenly. “If we do find the dog, even if he’s hurt, he can still hurt us. Maybe we should go back to camp and see if we can bring K.C. back with us.”

Yeah, Rodger said he was limping, but that didn’t mean the dog couldn’t lunge and lash out with his sharp teeth and nails.

“He can barely walk, Wen,” Rodger squeezed Wendell’s hand. “And if we turn back now, would you really want to come back a second time?”

The howling noises intensified. They sounded louder and closer. Gutteral and growly noises like ones Wendell heard last night began to accompany the howls.

A sinking feeling and wobbly jelly legs overcame Wendell.

“Dogs d-don’t make th-that noise…” Wendell said in a quivery voice. He took his hand back from Rodger and hugged both arms tight around his aching stomach.

Even though it was a balmy summer night, Wendell suddenly felt cold all over, like he just walked into the ice cream section of the grocery store. Everything got uncannily quiet. It felt like the space around them was holding its breath and watching them.

The huge, red moon above them didn’t feel cool anymore. It felt ominous and unsettling. It fet wrong.

“Let’s go back,” Wendell urged. “That dog has probably been out here a long time. He doesn’t need us!”

“We might be the only ones who can help him! I’ve had my Dog Care merit badge for years now, and we just finished that big first aid course. It’s not like he can drive himself to the vet!” Rodger appealed.

“You seriously think bandages and ice packs can fix a broken paw!?” Wendell cried.

“We can try,” Rodger insisted.

The howling in the distance finally ceased. Screaming took its place. It didn’t sound supernatural either. It sounded human, and it sounded close.

“I think that’s the guys at camp!” Wendell exclaimed.

“Do you think they’re playing some kind of game?” Rodger asked.

Both boys froze and listened. A sick, queasy feeling, and dread smothered Wendell. No. Those weren’t joyful or excited screams. They were screams of terror. It was painfully obvious that something was wrong.

“I need to go back to see what’s happening!” Wendell cried.

“I’ll keep going ahead for the dog! Meet me back here when you’re done!” Rodger said. He swooped in to give Wendell a kiss on his cheek. The boys hugged each other tight.

Wendell didn’t want Rodger to let go. But the screams grew louder and more frantic. He had to go.

Wendell wanted to run as fast as he could and scream for Scoutmaster Scott and the rest of the Scouts. He wanted to holler, “Guys! I’m here,” with every fiber of his being, but his instincts demanded he stay as quiet as possible.

With his mouth shut tight, Wendell stuck to the tree line. Obscured by the branches and brush, he saw the most horrific sight. A pack of dog-like creatures was savagely attacking his troop. The beasts made the most unnerving and bloodchilling guttural noises and growls. Wendell could practically hear their teeth snapping as they opened and clamped shut their drooling jaws.

It didn’t feel right to call them dogs, because they looked unlike any dogs Wendell ever saw. They were bigger and more grotesque. Something about them was wrong. It was another deep, instinctive feeling.

“I can’t… I can’t save them…” Wendell whispered to himself. His eyes filled with tears. His heart pounded in his ears, and he fought the urge to vomit. “I can’t… I can’t go out there…”

Scoutmaster Scott screamed, “DIEGO! DIEGO! THE BOYS! TAKE THE BOYS THAT WAY!” before he was tackled by one of the giant, black shaggy dogs.

Wendell only ever heard Scoutmaster Scott call DJ by his full name, Diego, once before. He cried harder and stuffed his fist into his mouth. He bit it to keep himself from sobbing. His whole body shook, and the tears flowed harder, blurring his vision and smearing out the carnage being unleashed on all of his friends and fellow scouts.

I can’t do anything, Wendell thought to himself. I can’t do anything. The helplessness was enough to make him scream inside. He felt like he was being torn apart limb by limb.

If he stepped foot beyond the tree line, he’d be running straight to his death and into the bloody teeth and jaws of the monstrous dog beasts.

Rodger. He needed to find Rodger. He needed to tell Rodger not to go back to camp.

Wendell pivoted and sprinted back the way he came as quietly as he could, wincing as his sneakers crunched over branches and leaves and brush. He held his hand, studded with puncture marks from his teeth over his mouth and nose to smother his ragged breathing. His skin quickly grew moist and clammy from his hot, heavy breath.

He wanted to wipe it on his shorts, but didn’t trust himself to keep his breathing quiet without his hand there. So he tried to ignore it sticking to his skin.

He kept running, running, running, and before he knew it he was back at the abandoned fun park.

There was no sign of Rodger or the injured dog Rodger set his sights on.

Wendell wanted to whisper-cry out for him, but then he noticed the dark fuzzy shapes and shadows prowling around the edges of the park. The way they slunked around was like oil in water. Slick and seemingly boneless at times. Wendell’s heart beat louder in his ears and his stomach cramped and twisted. He felt nauseous and shaky again, like he was hit with a bad case of the flu.

It was those freaky dog creatures again. But these ones were smaller. Wendell also got the sense that they thought differently. Maybe they didn’t have the brute force of the hulking beasts that were attacking Wendell’s troop back at the campsite, but they were still a threat. If they weren’t as big, that meant they’d have to be smarter about how they launched their attacks.

Wendell tip toed around the spinning tea cups and dragon roller coaster. He had a close call when he was attempting to pass by a bumper car rink, and froze statue still until the dog creatures, their stiff spiky looking ears perked up, bolted somewhere Wendell couldn’t see. He hoped and prayed it wasn’t Rodger they were going after.

His hand smothering his nose and mouth again, Wendell crept past the concessions stands and down the alleys with the carnival game booths. He was sneaking by a water gun target shooting game with the weathered and worn painted ducks when an idea hit him.

Be prepared was the Boy Scout motto, and right now Wendell wasn’t.

He needed something to protect himself. His bow and arrow would be the best self defense, but it was back at the campsite. He continued to hunch down and side step his way past the game booths until he finally found the one he needed: the balloon dart booth. Rusted nails studded the wall and tiny pieces of old latex balloons pockmarked the splintered wood.

He slipped into the booth and slowly, steadily opened all of the drawers and cabinets until he found a stash of darts. There were less than a dozen, and they were rusty with the plastic tail feathers peeling off, but they would do.

Wendell yanked one of his socks off and shoved the darts into it.

He needed to find Rodger, then he needed to find a place for them to hunker down and hide. The old water ride with the dried-up channels was their best bet. He could probably find a tight crawl space or a control room where they could squeeze themselves, where the dog creatures couldn’t reach them.

Wendell heard Rodger before he saw him.

In a low voice, Rodger said, “C’mere boy! I’ve got you.”

“Rodger,” Wendell whispered.

Rodger, clueless to Wendell’s presence, snapped his fingers and clicked his tongue at the crouching dog.

“Rodger!” Wendell whispered harder. He waved his hands widely, trying to snag Rodger’s attention without raising his voice any louder.

“You’re okay, you’re okay, I’m just gonna take a quick look at your paw,” Rodger crept closer. The dog pulled back, hackles rising. His lips pulled back and he bared his teeth.

The oily black shadows of one, two, three, four, five dog creatures began to circle the area, drawn to the snarling dog and Rodger like a magnet.

As if in slow motion, Wendell watched as the injured dog revealed himself as uninjured. He stood to his full height, putting all of his weight on his supposedly injured paw. Like a pack of wolves, these devious dogs were working together to set a trap, and both Rodger and Wendell found out too late.

Wendell didn’t know it at the time, but the look of terror on Rodger’s face as what was about to happen to him dawned on him would sear itself into his memory. It would haunt his dreams for weeks, months, and decades after.

“RODGER! RUN! GET AWAY! NOW!” Wendell screamed at the top of his lungs. “RUN DAMNIT!”

“WEN!” Rodger screamed back, he scrambled to get away, but as fast as his reflexes were, the dog creatures were faster. The dog that pretended to be injured launched himself at Rodger. He threw the boy’s body around like he was a rag doll and not a human. The other dogs joined in and moved so furiously fast, Wendell could barely see Rodger through their coarse, dark fur.

“GET AWAY FROM HIM! ALL OF YOU!” Wendell screamed. He grabbed everything in sight, sticks, stones, junk from the broken down rides and carnival booths, and pelted them with them. He threw faster and harder and faster and harder, screaming as he did.

Two more demonic dogs joined the melee and fought over Rodger’s prone, unmoving body.

There was no mistaking it. Rodger was a goner. If he wasn’t already dead, he would be any second.

Sobbing and choking and struggling to breathe, Wendell sprinted away from the boy he loved, a boy who was murdered in cold blood by these unholy beings.

He wasn’t going to be another victim. This wasn’t going to be the last night Wendell was alive. “I’M NOT GOING TO DIE, GODDAMN YOU ALL, I’M NOT GOING TO DIE!” Wendell screamed.

He wished he had his inhaler. Breathing was getting harder. He wheezed and choked, and black edges started creeping into his vision. He wished he had Rodger, the boy he loved with him, running hand and hand together. He wished he had Wylan, but for all he knew, Wylan was lying dead somewhere in the woods too. Just like Scoutmaster Scott. Just like DJ, and K.C., and Brad, and everyone else in the troop.

“NO NO NO NO NO!” Wendell chanted as he choked, ran, and sobbed.

He sprinted into the first tunnel of the dried-up water ride. It was echoey inside, but empty… or at least Wendell thought it was empty, until he took a turn into a side tunnel. A wolf-like creature emerged. It was bigger than the taxidermied pack of wolves Wendell saw at his favorite natural history museum. It reminded him of the prehistoric direwolves and megafauna he learned about.

It lunged and Wendell pivoted, fleeing for his life. His ragged breathing filled the shadowy space. His sneakers slapped and echoed against the stones, as did the unmistakable sound of the massive wolf behind him, gaining on him.

Feet flying, he tripped and fell hard on his knees. He screamed in agony, as the stones stripped away a layer of his skin. Bleeding and bruised, he scrambled to his feet, sprinting to the other end of the tunnel.

The monster wolf lunged again when suddenly another wolf, nearly as big as it attacked, and hurtled towards him. The two beasts tore at each other, teeth snapping and fur flying. The fighting beasts made the most monstrous growling, snarling, and gutteral noises. One of the dog-like creatures from outside, joined the fight. Wendell instantly recognized it as the creature that pretended to be injured. The creature that killed Rodger and was covered in his blood.

The dog that pretended to be injured broke away from the fighting. He set his inky, black eyes on Wendell. His bloody furred mouth peeled back and he snapped at the air, ready to chomp into Wendell.

But this time, Wendell was ready. Quick as a flash, with one dart in his left hand and one dart in his right hand, Wendell plunged both into the dog’s eyes as hard as he could. It screamed and backed up, and suddenly its entire body seized up and spasmed. Yellow frothed out from its mouth and it clumsily tried to run, only to collapse and go stock still.

In awe, Wendell stared at the dead dog creature. He did that. He did that? What sort of darts were these? No, what sort of dogs were they?!

If the other two beasts worried they’d share the same fate, they didn’t show it. They attempted to lunge at Wendell again. A third dog creature, suddenly interupted with a loud, ringing howl. This one was small and gray. He had patches of missing fur and was covered in scars and scratches. He was scrappy, and looked younger than the other dog like creatures.

He blocked the duo, once, twice, three times.

For a wild and crazy moment, Wendell felt like the dog was trying to protect him.

Turning his back on these creatures could mean sudden death, so Wendell dropped to his butt and scooted backwards down the tunnel, still facing the creatures.

The fighting between the three creatures intensified. The small one went harder and faster. He ripped out one of the wolves throats, then the other. Their bodies heavily thudded to the ground. Ignoring their bloodied, mauled bodies he turned to Wendell and hard stared at him.

Wendell was vaguely aware of a rush of warm urine joining the blood seeping out from his ruined knees.

One, two, three, four howls from below snagged the creature’s attention. His bloodied mouth snapped at the air. He pawed at the ground, and tilted his head back and howled long and hard.

Wendell’s entire body shook.

The creature turned tail, seemingly ready to join the ranks of the other howling creatures … only to whip around.

“No, no, no, no,” Wendell moaned. He crawled backwards faster and faster and faster, his sneakers shrieking until his head cracked against the wall. Black stars surged into his vision. He frantically groped the back of his head, hoping he wouldn’t find blood. He didn’t. But he wasn’t safe yet.

The howling outside grew louder and more frantic. The creature trotted up to Wendell. It almost felt … playful.

“G-go a-away!” Wendell cried. He threw one dart, then another. It dodged both and lunged at Wendell. Its yellow teeth clamped down on Wendell’s left ankle, sinking in so deep they snapped against his bones. When it released, it left a sticky, mucousy, gluey, yellow saliva.

The creature howled again, then sprinted away. From the sounds below, it was fighting the other creatures again.

Wendell clasped both hands around his ankle as blood gushed. He tried to scramble to his feet, but with how deeply the wolf’s teeth sunk in, his leg spasmed, and he collapsed harder onto the ground. With shaky, jerky hands, he untied his sweaty neckerchief and tied it around his profusely bleeding ankle.

“I need to ge-get up, I need to go, I need to ge-get up, I need to go,” Wendell stammered to himself. His body was heavy, and he felt freezing all over. Blood soaked the neckerchief. His whole body trembled and spasmed. He attempted to take in a shaky breath, only to vomit and vomit again.

Then, everything went black.

Wendell gasped as if his head was held underwater, and he finally broke away for air.

“Wen!” Aurora grabbed both of Wendell’s hands and squeezed them.

“Rodger!” Wendell croaked.

“Rodger?” Aurora echoed.

“Rodger’s body was never recovered. I saw him die, but his body was never identified,” Wendell rushed out, “It was like he vanished. But if Rodger survived, why would he be threatening me? And why now?”