Marcus Pelegrimas: Howling Legion

Thirty miles east of Kansas City, Missouri

Interstate 70 cut across Missouri like a belt that was hitched just a bit too high upon the state’s hips. The drive from St. Louis shouldn’t have taken more than three or four hours, but thanks to miles upon miles of orange cones, closed lanes, and detours, it took that long for Bob Rothbard to see any open road. Then again, nobody native to that area would have expected anything else during the middle of summer. There was even an old joke that the four seasons in Missouri were winter, autumn, spring, and construction. Unfortunately, construction was also hot.

Unrelentingly sticky heat seeped in through the cracks of Bob’s overly accessorized SUV like tendrils invading his air-conditioned sanctum. It crept through the vents and pulled beads of sweat down his wide, rounded face. Dark circles spread out from his armpits and dotted his light blue dress shirt. Tugging at the buttons running down his chest, he flapped his shirt to work up something of a breeze beneath the starched cotton.

Just as he was about to reach for the radio, Bob remembered the new remote controls he’d recently added to his steering wheel. Considering how much he paid to install the added convenience, he’d be damned if he would go back to doing things the old way. He ran his stumpy fingers over the little buttons that operated the cruise control, headlights, and garage door before finding the miniaturized controls dangling just low enough to scrape his right knee whenever he made a sharp turn. Grunting as he tried to push a button without hitting the one beside it, he finally unleashed some Creedence Clearwater Revival that was loud enough to put a smirk onto his face.

Bouncing his knee and slapping the steering wheel as close to the beat as his chromosomes would allow, Bob gazed at the road he’d all but neglected during his tussle with the radio. Not that there was much to miss. Missouri was scenic in parts, but his view for most of the day had been marred by cement dividers and flashing signs warning him about the next set of dividers. One sign told him to slow down to 50 mph, but he ignored it. No cops were in sight. There were no workers to be found. Creedence was playing. He wasn’t about to stop for anyone.

Bob sang in the wrong key, injecting lyrics he’d misinterpreted since the first time he’d ever heard the song. Getting into his performance even more, he slapped the wheel hard enough for his left pinky to knock against the button that had been installed for easier access to his headlights. When his lights flicked off, he cursed and tried to find the switch again.

He accidentally pressed the garage door opener.

The side of his hand hit the radio control.

His left knee crushed the cell phone attached to the dash by a wire bracket.

Bob finally got his lights back on just in time to swerve away from the shoulder and back onto the road. His heart raced as he overcompensated for his lapse. His hands wrapped tightly around the only two clear spots on the steering wheel and his eyes soaked up everything in front of his SUV. The skies had darkened enough for the newly paved highway to blend in with the flat ground on either side of it. Because the vehicle raised him comfortably above the common folks in their little cars, and his lights had been accidentally flipped to high beam, he could see all the way to the next green mile marker on the side of the road.

A car in the oncoming lane flashed its brights and honked in a polite little beep, so Bob lowered his window and flipped the guy off. Fully satisfied with himself, he raised the window, turned up Creedence and slammed into a mountain of black fur that took up his entire lane.

Bob’s air bag exploded from his steering wheel and hit him in the face like a prizefighter wearing a canvas pillow around his fist. The SUV’s front end groaned as the back end lifted up off its tires, hung there for a second, and dropped back down again. He pulled in a breath, but immediately regretted it. His back and neck hurt like hell and he thought he might have broken his nose. The bitter, coppery taste of his own blood trickled down his throat.

Bob pushed the air bag away from his face. The more pain he felt, the more he flailed to clear his line of sight.

“What the hell?” he grumbled. “Did I hit something?”

As soon as the air bag was out of his way, he looked through his cracked windshield. A glow appeared upon the pavement and grew as it brought along the roar of an approaching engine behind him. The roar was quickly joined by the blaring of a horn and the squeal of tires.

Realizing his window was up, he tried to lower it, but could only get it down halfway. That was enough for him to stick his chin to the opening and scream, “Go around me, asshole!”

His engine was still running but sounded rough. The moment Bob touched the gas pedal, the SUV shuddered and lurched forward. He steered for the side of the road while mentally calculating how badly he’d be screwed by the local mechanics.

“I swear to Christ,” he growled as he slammed the SUV into Park and pulled the door handle, “if this is because of some damned deer or an idiot drunk, there’s gonna be hell to pay.”

It took some work, but Bob managed to get the door open. After wrestling to get free of his seat belt, he got out to survey the damage. He winced at the pain in his legs, gingerly touched his blood-smeared nose, and grunted, “Could’ve been worse.”

A few more cars sped past, all of which made sure to give him plenty of space as they continued along their way. Bob knew well enough that he would never have stopped if the situation were reversed, but swore under his breath at the fact that nobody stopped for him. He swore even louder when he saw the mangled fender, broken headlight, and cracked grille on the front of his beloved SUV. Wisps of smoke curled from the engine and something under the hood rattled. Even though he didn’t know a lot about cars, he knew sounds like that were always expensive.

Now that he was looking at the front end of the SUV, he could see long, wiry strands of black hair snagged upon the mangled grille.

“Damn animal,” Bob grunted. “I knew it. At least I killed the son of a bitch.”

Looking around to verify that statement, he realized there was no carcass on the pavement. He squinted toward the shoulder of the highway but could only see a shadowy outline of some trees and a few buildings much farther along the road. About a hundred yards away a billboard from the Missouri Department of Transportation promised SMOOTH ROADS AHEAD in friendly, illuminated letters.

Another car whipped by, splashing its headlights upon mile marker twenty-six. The flash caused Bob to shade his eyes and shift his focus back to his vehicle. As he walked around to get a look at the passenger side of the SUV, he skidded on the unpaved shoulder.

Something moved a bit farther off the road. Seconds later a pair of crystalline eyes caught a faint glimmer from the starry sky. By the time Bob realized the creature behind those eyes was running toward him, there was nothing he could do about it.

The beast’s torso had the mass of a bear, but was shorter in length and wider around the chest. Its front legs were just over half as long as its hind legs, and all four paws were capped by claws that dug trenches into the gritty Missouri dirt. Its eyes flashed in the light of another approaching car, and before Bob could cry out to that fellow motorist, the beast had knocked him flat onto the ground.