A shot rings out across the night. People flinch and pretend they haven't heard. That's how things are here. You see nothing; say nothing and you never hear anything. I'll be honest with ya folks it makes being the sheriff awful difficult.
Before the phone even rings I'm out of my chair and pulling on my coat. Bessie, god bless her, tells me to be careful. She quit asking me not to go years ago. I tell her I always am, pick the phone up and say. "Where is it this time?"
Carmichael jabbers down the line at me, "I-i-its bad chief, i-i-its old man Rogers . . . "
I haven't heard the lad stutter in a long while, not since he found the Robinson girl face down in the stream, best part of her missing. Sometimes I think we've let this go on too long, that it's time to make a stand. But who would listen to an old man like me? Let alone join him on a suicide mission.
That's what I think about as I drive through the empty streets, I put the curfew in place twenty year ago and it's saved hundreds of lives. It's a little harsh to say that those it hasn't saved should've known better but it's true. Go out on a night like this and you're asking for trouble.
Swinging into the Rogers' place, I flick the spotlights on flooding the yard with light. Banishing the shadows, you can't be too careful out here.
Carmichael, god bless him, had locked himself in his truck. Guess I would've done the same thing in his shoes. Not sure how much protection the windows woulda give him but it's all about feeling safe sometimes isn't it? He gives me a sheepish wave and climbs out. I fish my shotgun off the backseat and join him.
Read any book worth a damn and they'll say you need silver bullets to kill a werewolf. I'm telling you now folks a twelve gauge will do just about the same job and is a hella lot cheaper as well. We tried silver back in the '60s damn near blew my annual budget and my hand off. We have tried pretty much everything you can think of and a few things I'm pretty damn ashamed of.
We sidle over to what's left of Rogers; he's sprawled on the porch steps. Gun lay at the bottom. Best I can tell he was running and damn near made it to the door. Got a shot off, missed and paid for it. It's a damn shame, I liked the old coot.
I'm walking back to the truck to get a body bag when I see it, a big mean old bastard staring right at us. Shouldering the shotgun I stare straight back at him. It pads at the gravel, weighing me up before charging at me, I let him get as close as I dare before sending him straight back to hell.