Chapter 1: Pearly Whites
Chapter Text
Count Von Dyer dodges the swing of Hellboy’s stone fist; it collides with the wall in a burst of debris, leaving a crater in the red brick beneath one of the Count’s prized tapestries. Von Dyer hisses indignantly, flashing his inch-long fangs, then scurries quickly away, scuttling up the wall like a giant gecko in Victorian-era velvet.
“Oh no you don’t!” Hellboy barks and takes off after him.
Getting a running start, Hellboy leaps from couch to table to sacrificial pedestal then hurls himself up onto the mezzanine. He tumbles through the momentum and comes up still running. They make it nearly a full circuit around the mezzanine before Von Dyer, anxious for escape, dives over a banister into open air. As he does, his form begins to morph and change. Thinking fast, Hellboy rips a tapestry from the wall and leaps out after him, velum panels spread out wide like a parachute and engulfs the Count just as his body dissolves into a swarm of bats.
Hellboy crashes through an oak banquet table with all the grace of an elephant falling from orbit. He groans, pushing back up and to his feet one limb at a time, knees and back popping the whole way. A thousand angry bats writhe, trapped inside the tapestry. Hellboy lifts it up over his head and slams it down. Repeatedly. Angrily. Letting out all the night’s frustrations, of which he has many.
Finally, the tapestry comes down on a jagged oak shard sticking out of the table, and a cacophonous shriek of agony rings out, the painful tones of a thousand squealing bats condensing to a single voice. Hellboy releases his grip, and the thick panel falls away to reveal the form of Count Antony Von Dyer, the 380 year old vampire who terrorized New Orleans’s French Quarter for the past 120 years, shrivels away to ash and dust with a steak from his own table driven through his heart.
Hellboy lets his breath out, relieved, and steps out of the crater, onto the table, and then the floor. He rolls his arm where he landed on it, gives it a twist, and pops it back into place with a wincing groan.
“Mmph. Gonna feel that tomorrow,” he mutters.
The banquet doors burst open, and Agents Cole and Andrews rush in, guns at the ready. At least, they look like Cole and Andrews if the two agents were covered head to toe in blood like they’d been submerged in a pool of it. They do a quick sweep, adrenaline fading to confusion until they finally focus on Hellboy, alone, standing over a pile of dead vampire dust.
“You get him?” Agent Andrews pants, out of breath.
“Yep.”
“You okay, boss?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, thank God, it’s over,” Agent Cole exclaims and stoops over, hands on her knees to catch her breath and wipe the blood out of her eyes.
“You guys good?” Hellboy asks, barely hiding his bemusement.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” the two agents say in unison.
Hellboy enters the shop through the back room. He doesn’t bother to knock. Madame Obi said she would be expecting him, so he is not surprised to find that she is.
Madame Obi is a matronly woman, small, dark-skinned, and round-faced with tightly braided hair held back in a colorful head wrap. She could be anyone’s aunt, mother, or grandmother; her arms are decorated in cords, bangles, and rings of all shape, size, and material, each one baring a trinket, bone, shell, or symbol of importance. She sits at her card table lit by a dozen colored candles, a suite of tarot cards spread out before her. Hands folded beneath her chin, she reads the cards with one sharp brown eye and the other a ghostly, milk white.
“T’ank ye for yer help wit’ t’e Count, Hellboy,” Madame Obi says warmly, her voice smooth and warm with the accent of the island where she was born. “We owe ye a great deal for removin’ t’at evil from our lives.”
“My pleasure. I hope you and your family can rest easier now that bloodsucker’s not creepin’ around.”
“We certainly will.”
Madame Obi gathers the cards and shuffles them back together on the side of the table. As she stands, she flicks her wrist inward then holds out her hand in a single quick movement. In it, as if appearing from thin air is a small satin pouch tied shut by a leather cord.
“For yer troubles,” she says.
Hellboy raises his hand to decline. “I’m afraid the B.P.R.D. doesn’t take payment.”
“Is not for t’e B.P.R.D. Is for ye, Hellboy.”
Hellboy nods, but before taking it he reaches into a pocket of his large, tan trench coat and produces a sack of his own. Made of clear plastic and not much bigger than a sandwich bag, it’s filled with pale, dusty ash. The final remains of a troublesome vampire, as much as he could scoop up without being questioned. Madame Obi’s face lights up.
“I can’t take a payment, but how’s about a trade?”
“Yer a sweet t’ing, ye are.” Madame Obi accepts the gift of ash, and Hellboy takes the satin pouch and slips it into his coat pocket. “One day I hope to repay ye with all t’e good fortune ye’ve given me.”
“Just happy to help a friend of my father’s.”
“And now a friend to ye, ever an’ always.”
Madame Obi motions her hand to the card table. The candles flicker softly, glinting off the intricately beaded cloth covering it.
“Can a friend intrest ye in a readin’ of yer future? Is the least I can do.”
Hellboy chuckles. “That depends. Is it gonna tell me where the next monster I need to slay is?”
“Only one way t’find out.”
Knowing better than to decline the manbo twice, Hellboy takes the seat opposite hers. It creaks under his weight, and he sits sideways for the sake of his tail. Madame Obi opens one of many small doors in a wooden cabinet and removes a stone bowl with both hands. As she walks back to the table, Hellboy watches as her head scarf begins to shift and turn in the low light, its colors morphing into a speckled pattern while the coils wind downward, and a small constrictor snake descends to sit loosely around her neck. Madame Obi drapes a hemp cloth with runic patterns atop the table and sits. In the bowl, Hellboy sees small bones from some unknown creature alongside shells, painted stones, a claw, a shark’s tooth, and other tiny trinkets.
She tips the bowl towards him.
“Choose one,” she says.
Hellboy reaches into the bowl with his right hand and picks the bone he likes best. It’s a simple long bone, maybe from an arm or leg of some small animal, clean and chalky white. The little python flicks its tongue, a glimmer of pink in the candlelight; one of its eyes is black, the other milky and blind.
“Open yer heart to t’e spirits, my boy. Now, give it life.”
He lifts the bone and exhales a slow, deliberate breath onto it. The snake around Madame Obi’s neck slithers down her arm as she accepts the bone back from him. It winds its way down to her wrist, and, as one, Madame Obi and the snake breathe onto the bone in turn, seeming to whisper without words. Candles dance all around them. The bone is returned to the bowl, and Madame Obi chants a soft mantra while shaking it gingerly in all directions (left, right, back, forth, up, down), then tosses the contents out onto the table.
Hellboy sits back and watches where the bones fall. The one marked as his falls near to him. Small round stones clatter across the table, one even bumps the stack of tarot cards, and a shell seemingly leaps from table to ground. A black bear claw lands last, and it falls almost perfectly across Hellboy’s bone as if hooking onto it.
As Madame Obi looks over where things have fallen, she knits her fingers together. The snake slithers from one of her arms to the other, and she guides it back around her neck. She doesn’t speak. Merely reads. Finally, she closes her eyes, lets the breath from her nose, and looks up at Hellboy.
“Yer a strong one, Hellboy. I don’t envy t’e life ye’ve lived,” says Madame Obi.
“I’d tell you all about it, but it’s something of a long story.”
“Indeed.”
“Is there a highlight reel you can give me? I don’t mean to rush, but I’m expected back at the helicopter soon.”
Madame Obi shakes her head and unknits her fingers. “I see darkness, on t’e path leadin’ forward and from t’e path behind. A difficult choice t’ make, an’ lives in t’e balance no matter what ye choose.”
“That’s actually pretty par for the course these days.”
“I see. T’is, however. . . .” Reaching out, she takes the bear claw from where it rests over Hellboy’s bone and holds it up. It’s chipped and worn, but the dark edge glints softly in the glow of candles. Still as sharp as the day it was taken off the paw. “T’is concerns me. Somet’in’ dangerous is comin’ for ye, Hellboy. Its claw is at yer t’roat, an’ if yer not careful, is gonna find ye first.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have coordinates for that by chance . . . ?”
“No, honey, I’m afraid t’as not how t’e bones work.”
“Wonderful.”
“But, if ye keep one eye open. . . .” Madame Obi says, reaching over to the stack of tarot cards. Two slashes mark the stone that bumped the deck, so she takes two cards from the top. Revealing the first, she presents Hellboy with The Hermit. “. . . even in t’e dark, ye can still find whatever it’is yer lookin’ for.”
Hellboy takes the card in his left hand, leaning forward to examine it. On its face, a wizened old man carries a staff and lantern, using both to guide his way forward. Alone on an unclear path, his thoughts are all that keep him company.
“What exactly am I looking for?” he asks the manbo, looking at her with his bright, yellow eyes.
Madame Obi looks at the second card, and her expression changes to something Hellboy can’t quite read. Her face resolves, and she presents it to him. A skeleton sits astride a white horse, a crownless king lies dead, and the bishop and the children pray.
Death.
“I’m afraid is not just what yer lookin’ for, Hellboy. Is what’ll be lookin’ for ye, too. Change is comin’, as surely as t’e moon.”
Hellboy sits back and lets the breath out of his chest, feeling then just how exhausted he is from a full night of chasing a vampire around New Orleans. He wishes fortunes like this still surprised him. And that they were more direct.
“And here I was hoping I’d hit my quota of chaos for the week,” he mumbles tiredly.
“Chaos an’ change run hand-in-hand. Ye cannot ‘ave one wit’out t’e ot’er. When chaos finds its way to ye, Hellboy, it’ll be comin’ wit’ teeth.”
Unknown Location
Kawuneeche Valley, Colorado
Tammy lies back against Ethan’s body, her fiancé’s arms looped loose yet protectively around her. In front of them, a warm, low campfire crackles, shielding them from the nipping cold. Every few minutes, a pinecone will pop from the heat of the flames and send out a little burst of embers. Above them, a bright white moon casts its eye over endless mountains and a wide valley filled with scattered pines.
“Are you sure we’re not going to get in trouble being out here tonight?” Tammy asks, craning her head back to see his face.
“Of course not! The ranger said it was fine,” Ethan lies, taking a sip from his flask for a little extra warmth.
He’d been sure to use his body to block the No Overnight Camping notice while Tammy signed them in at the ranger station, and then sneakily signed them back out with a later time while the ranger was distracted. It was genius! No one would ever know they were out here.
Grinning smugly, Ethan kisses his fiancée on the cheek, and he says with no shortage of satisfaction, “We’ve got the whole park all to ourselves~”
Smiling, Tammy turns around and gives him a kiss on the lips. Last night was their anniversary, and the festivities would carry over into tonight. Peaceful, romantic. Just the two of them, things are perfect in every way. The night is quiet, and the skies are clear with a full moon bright enough to light up the entire valley.
Feeling frisky, Tammy’s hands wander down Ethan’s body, over his thick parka towards his belt. Ethan hums, pleasantly surprised. His body swiftly reacts, getting hard in his jeans. No sooner than Tammy has pulled the belt out of his pants completely, she stands up and darts off into the woods cheering like a wild animal.
“Gotta catch me first!” Tammy yells, buckle jingling as she waves it aloft like a trophy.
“Hey, get back here!” Ethan laughs. Ambling half-drunken to his feet, he staggers after her.
Tammy is not a runner, so she goes neither far nor fast, but a tipsy Ethan is easy to outrun. She hurries into the woods, zig-zagging around trees and high-kneeing her way over a fallen log or two. Behind her, Ethan’s laughter and noisy stomping thunders through the sparse vegetation. The valley is wide and open, bearing few trees and fewer places to hide. Thinking fast, Tammy ducks behind a tree and covers her mouth to stifle her laughter. She holds her breath and listens for Ethan.
The breeze is soft and chilly; their fire was as much for warmth as for atmosphere. Tammy listens to the crickets chirping. Or. . . . Wait, where did the crickets go? For that matter, where did all the other sounds go? The woods have gone silent all of the sudden. As much as Tammy likes peace and quiet, this feels wrong. Eerie, even.
Peeking out from behind the trunk, Tammy looks around. Wasn’t Ethan right behind her?
“Ethan? Ethan, where are you?” she calls out. Did he get lost? They only went maybe ten or twenty yards from the campsite. Surely that’s not far enough to get lost? Maybe he fell? Oh no, what if he’s hurt?
Stepping out from behind the tree, Tammy retraces her steps back towards camp, searching the ground for Ethan splayed out over or behind a log. The moon provides ample light to see by, enough she doesn’t even need her flashlight.
A crunching sound draws her attention. Tammy follows what must be Ethan’s footsteps tromping on the ground, but there’s a strange wetness to them. Like branches breaking under water.
“Ethan? What are you doing all the way over here? I went that way, you silly—ooph!”
Tammy is cut off when she trips over a log. Her hand lands in something sticky and wet. Gross! Had Ethan peed here? She wipes it on the sleeve of her parka and is startled by the dark streaks it leaves behind. Disgusted but curious, Tammy takes the flashlight from her pocket and flicks it on. The bright light blinds her for a moment, but her eyes adjust to see a viscous red substance streaked on her jacket and sticking to her hand.
The crunching brings her suddenly back to the surroundings, heart pounding so fast in her chest that Tammy doesn’t even feel that she’s touching the ground anymore. It’s loud. So loud. So close. Tammy points the light, and what she sees can only be described as a nightmare. Ethan is lying there in the gravel, arms limp above his head, blood painting his lips and chin ruby red. His eyes are wide open as his body twitches, lips quivering only for more burbles of blood to dribble out of them. His body moves because it is being shaken by a gigantic, hairy thing crouched over him.
Tammy gasps. And is instantaneously horrified by the sound she’s made.
The creature wrenches its face out of Ethan’s belly, pulling out long loops of eel-like intestine. Huge, slathering canine teeth rip apart squelching mouthfuls of flesh and organ meat. The light hits its face, and in that flash Tammy sees blood painting its brown, wolfish head all the way to its ears. Its eye dilates to a sharp slit. The creature jerks, dropping Ethan’s thigh from its—oh God, it has hands—and looks right at her. Its jaw opens wide, and it unleashes a monstrous sound somewhere between a howl and roar.
Tammy screams and throws the belt at it. She doesn’t know how she does it, but she runs. Runs so fast she flies over the ground and out of one of her shoes. Back to camp, screaming, sobbing the whole way. She makes it to camp, feeling, knowing the creature is behind her. The fire is still going. Tammy dives into the tent, frantically tugging at the zipper to close the door behind her, but it snags again and again from her clumsy yanking.
“Come on, come on!” she wails.
Finally it closes, and Tammy digs wildly through her and Ethan’s belongings for their phones. She finds Ethan’s first. The lock screen opens to a picture of the two of them blissful on the day they got engaged. An anguished sob rips through her chest. Outside the tent, the creature howls. Tammy weeps, eyes burning with tears of madness and mind-splitting terror. Her fingers tap frantically at the lock code, but wet blood prevents the screen from registering properly.
Tammy screams. “COME ON, OPEN!”
It’s a nightmare. It’s all a fucking nightmare. Ethan is dead. Eaten alive by a fucking werewolf and she can’t even open his fucking phone!
She gets it open. Her shaking hands swipe desperately to open the phone app, but the blood smears won’t register on the screen.
Outside the tent, heavy movement tromps over dry ground. The growl is right outside.
Tammy can’t breathe. Her heartbeat is in her toes. She can’t stop shaking. The phone app opens. Her heart surges with hope. She types.
9—1—1—
A pop-up freezes the screen. Battery life is at 20%. Press Okay to continue.
Tammy looks up. A monstrous, bipedal shadow with towering, triangular ears looms over the tent, cast by the campfire just outside.
Tammy screams.
The tent collapses as a massive shape falls on top of her. Roaring, grunting, growling, nostrils snuffling around. Nylon shrieks as claws tear it open. A massive jaw snaps shut on Tammy’s left hand, crunching through bone like a celery stalk. She screams louder. The jaws jerk hard, jolting Tammy’s arm from its socket and pulling her halfway out of the hole that’s been made. The jaws snap shut again, crunching the bones of her forearm, and Tammy’s hand and half her arm come away in the creature’s mouth. Blood sprays. Muscle and tendons tear free.
“Oh, God!” she sobs.
Seething red eyes meet hers, glinting yellow-green in the firelight. Its giant, wolfish head is crowned from behind by the full moon. It bares its teeth. The head lurches forward, jaws wide open, and the last thing that goes through Tammy’s brain is, Monsters are real, followed swiftly by its teeth.
Chapter 2: Something Borrowed
Chapter Text
The blaring train horn jolts Reese awake. She snaps up and spits at the opposite wall, mouth drenched in the coppery taste of blood and intestines. Her stomach twists, and she heaves over onto her knees and retches. Mercifully, nothing comes up. She checks her hands to be sure it was just a dream. No blood, and Reese is alone in the gently rocking train car.
Reese sits back on her knees to rub the sleep from her eyes. Thin slivers of gray morning light peek in through the wooden slats and tell Reese it’s time to wake up anyway. She rolls up her sleeping bag and checks empty snack wrappers for crumbs, still wearing her boots and jacket from the night before. She’s fully packed in under twenty seconds. Just needs to tie her ragged brown hair back into another ponytail and through the back of an old White Sox baseball cap to keep it in place.
With bag on her back and one hand braced on the container wall, Reese grabs and heaves the sliding door open. Light and wind rush in, and Reese shields her eyes against the cold.
The horizon glows a dull, rising gray beneath whispy tufts of pink-edged clouds. When she’d closed the door last night, it had been in the desolate wilderness of a Colorado valley, rubbing elbows with herds of wild elk and dry pine trees. Here, the cold wind pouring into the train car is filled with the fragrances of alfalfa, corn, wheat, and hickory, elm, oak, and cottonwood trees.
Reese breathes deep. Holding the handrail, she hangs herself out the side of the container, shielding her eyes with her free hand to try seeing up ahead. The cold bite of the air stings her eyes and nose. There’s no better wake-up call than cold morning air, but there’s also no sign of a train depot, either. Alfalfa and corn fields stretch as far as the eye can see: an ocean of pale, swaying green painted in the gray-gold of a rising sun.
Reese takes a seat above the step ladder and settles in to watch the dawn.
The world passes by as the train rumbles along. The first signs of civilization appear just as slivers of true sunlight crest the horizon. First comes a street parallel to the tracks, then a bridge, then a train crossing, its flashing bars holding traffic at bay. Reese notices a school bus behind the gate. Grabbing the door handle, she stands and stretches out into the open air. Windows all along the bus’s side snap down as a dozen tiny heads poke out, bouncing and pointing as they see her. Reese flourishes her hat as the train passes, laughing at their giddy faces and the bus driver’s surprise.
The door of the pawn shop dings as Reese steps in. The teller, a wiry, middle-aged man, offers a muted greeting when he sees her: shabby and travel-worn with dirty clothes and dirtier hair. She wastes no time and approaches the counter.
“You g-uys buy jewelry?” Reese asks. Her voice cracks on the second word; she hasn’t spoken aloud to another person in weeks, so her vocal cords aren’t quite ready.
“Depends on the piece. What do you got?”
Reese produces a crumpled wad of torn, blue nylon from her pocket. Unwrapping it carefully, she unveils a ring. A grand oval-cut diamond sits atop a simple but elegant sterling silver band, framed on either side by two smaller diamonds. Where Reese hopes the teller will be impressed, he instead hardly reacts.
“Didn’t make it to the altar, huh?” he says cuttingly. He eyeballs the ring and Reese’s ragged appearance with suspicion.
“He left me,” Reese lies.
He picks it up between calloused, stubby fingers and holds the ring under a magnifying lens. His face scrunches as he inspects the tiny details.
“Got some damage. The big stone’s loose and the band’s warped.” He tests the three diamonds with the tip of a long, boxy-looking device. The bar on the side lights up all the way to red three times: diamond. Reese’s heartbeat quickens. “What’s all this . . . gunk under the stones?”
Reese shrugs. She’d tried washing it in a stream, but it was too painful to hold for very long. Having it in her stomach was akin to eating a white-hot coal, and throwing it up the morning prior had been a relief.
“I’ve been travelling a long time. Haven’t had the chance to really clean it.”
“Hmm. Well, it’s too roughed up to sell as-is, but I can buy it for scrap.”
Shit. So much for pay-day.
“How much?” Reese asks.
“I can do $60.”
Reese’s brain flashes to candy bars, socks, soap, and a cheap bottle of vodka, but she keeps her wits about her. Frowning, she makes a show of snatching the ring back and bundling it quickly into the nylon rag.
“No shot in hell! The little diamonds alone’ll go for twice that and you know it,” she snaps.
The teller rolls his eyes. “Look, miss, it’s policy. We gotta be able to make a profit on stuff like this.”
“I don’t give a damn about your policies, and I ain’t no fuckin’ miss. After the hell I’ve been through with this thing, I want a fair cut for my misery.”
“Alright, alright.” He relents, putting his hands out to de-escalate. “Take it easy, no need to shout. I can do $100.”
“$150.”
“$110.”
“$145,” Reese pushes.
“$125, but that’s as high as I’ll go.”
“Fine.”
Reese pushes the rag back towards him, and he takes the ring. A few minutes later, Reese has more cash in-hand than she knows what to do with, and she beelines it for the mom-and-pop looking diner down the road.
Park Ranger Fernandez knows there’s trouble when she pulls into the parking area at 0430 hours and sees a Range Rover still parked in the far corner of the lot. Outside of business hours. That damn Todd must have half-assed his walkthrough yesterday to have missed this.
An hour later after getting Todd on the horn, he’s there helping Fernandez figure out who the hell stowed away in the park so they can start a search. He figures out it was a young couple, early twenties, recently engaged. The young-and-dumb type, Fernandez figures.
By 0605 hours, two more rangers and a deputy sheriff have arrived to assist in the search and to dole out punishment where needed.
Fortunately, the search does not take long. The couple’s campsite is maybe thirty or so yards off one of the more popular trails. Unfortunately, by 0653 hours the sun is coming up and Rangers Fernandez and Todd can say with confidence that there are no survivors. Todd is beside himself, babbling into the walkie about blood and “bits of their bodies,” clogging up the channels so no one can get a word in edgewise.
Fernandez is sick at the sight of it.
Carnage. It’s the only word that makes sense.
The nylon tent is torn to ribbons, once blue now stained with streaks and splotches of coagulated blood the consistency of jelly. A dismembered portion of arm hangs out what may have once been the tent door; it’s the only limb still attached to what used to be a female torso. The male isn’t a mystery for long. He’s maybe a dozen yards up a game trail, and he’s gone to almost as many pieces as the girl has.
Fernandez has the stomach for carcasses, but this isn’t like butchering a stag. This wasn’t a bear. Hell, it wasn’t a family of bears. No lone wolf would do this, not even a pack, and there’s a snowball’s chance in hell of it being a bobcat, panther, or some mangy coyotes. Fernandez has only one thought: that she has no fucking clue what did this.
But she’s got a friend who might.
With Ranger Todd still babbling on the radio, Ranger Fernandez steps off to the side and away from ear shot. She makes a call. The phone rings three times, and a familiar voice picks up, sounding tired and surprised. It’s been years.
“Ximena? Is that you?”
“Hey, Héctor. Yeah, it’s me. Look, I know this is out of the blue, but I got something . . . weird here, and I didn’t know who else to call.”
“What do you mean ‘weird?’”
“You remember Gros Ventre.” It isn’t a question.
A pregnant pause follows. There’s audible movement down the line as former Search and Rescue Officer Héctor Vargas gets out of bed. There’s no way he wouldn’t remember. Not after what their team found on that mountain.
“I remember,” is all he says.
“It’s that kind of weird. Only this time I think you know some people who might be able to do something about it.”
“Can you send photos?”
Fernandez takes two of the campsite and one of the body up the path. She knows he’s got them by the noise he makes.
“Christ. . . . Does local PD know, yet?”
“They’re on the way.”
“Preserve as much of the site as you can—and-and send me more photos. We’ll get a team there soon.”
Vargas rushes down the corridor, bare feet platting as he runs. He’d been in such a hurry, he hadn’t even thought to put on shoes or a shirt, just grabbed his robe off the floor and ran out into the hall in his shorts. For that matter, he hadn’t even stopped to consider who he would bring it up to first. Director Manning? No, he’d just be ticked at getting woken up over an unsubstantiated theory. Vargas needs another agent to weigh in, and he needs it fast.
He grabs the first person he runs into who’s up and about this early in the morning, literally in this case.
“Hellboy! Hellboy-Hellboy-Hellboy—!” he says in a rush after nearly bulling the big, red half-demon over. Hellboy has to catch him to stop Vargas falling over his own feet, out of breath from running.
“Whoa, where’s the fire, V?” Hellboy cuts in, startled by the other man’s furor despite looking like he just flung himself out of bed. Vargas is an outgoing guy, sure, but this is a frenzy.
“No fire, no fire, but I need you to look at this.” Vargas shoves his phone screen in Hellboy’s face, and the half-demon has to bend backward and take the phone from his hand just to see what he’s looking at. It’s a photo of somewhere outdoors; there are trees and bushes and a bunch of blue and white and red fabric spread around and— Oh, yeah, that’s definitely a dead body. “A friend in Colorado just sent me these. It’s two missing campers from last night. They’re torn to pieces.”
“I see that. It’s terrible, sure, but why does that matter for the bureau?”
“Just look at the bodies. How the campsite is ripped apart. My friend confirmed nothing in her area is capable of causing damage like this!”
Okay, Hellboy is a little interested by that, but it doesn’t inherently mean anything supernatural is behind it.
“Vargas, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a really pissed off bear,” Hellboy says.
“No, she confirmed it. They’ve been keeping tabs on the animals in this region for years and nothing—not even a bear—has a mouth big enough to take bites that big.”
Hellboy’s brow furrows. Looking more closely at the third photo, one of the ranger’s boots is in frame to provide size reference. The boot is dwarfed by a clear and massive bite taken out of the second camper’s thigh. Flesh is torn clear down to the femur and visible gashes have been left in the bone. Lack of gnaw marks suggest it was made by a single, powerful bite.
“You trust your friend enough to take her word for it?” Hellboy asks, all skepticism gone from his voice.
“I trusted her with my life for nine years before I joined the B.P.R.D. She saved my ass on Gros Ventre.”
Hellboy nods. He remembers that mission well. If this friend of Vargas’s was there that day, too, Hellboy would be glad to put his trust in her judgement.
He hands the phone back to Agent Vargas. “What do you think did this?”
“I can only think of one creature causing this kind of damage,” Vargas says gravely. “Hellboy, last night was the full moon.”
Vargas sees the realization dawn on Hellboy’s face, and a sympathetic chill travels into his bones.
“I think there’s a werewolf here in Colorado, and it just killed two people.”
“Oh, crap.”
Chapter 3: What the Red Marks Meant
Chapter Text
The diner smells so good it physically hurts. Sausage and eggs and onions, garlic, bacon and hashbrowns and maple syrup and burning griddle grease. All of it sizzles in Reese’s brain. Plates clatter on tabletops, a cutting knife shrills on its plate two tables away, coins crash onto plastic register drawers as open mouths chew and laugh and crunch and squish and chatter out conversations that feel like they’re happening inside her ears.
Reese’s leg bobs restlessly while a muscle in her thigh twitches. The table is hard yet slightly damp and her hand sticks to the faux leather seat. Her palm and fingers itch where she touched the ring earlier. It’s a sensory nightmare, but she’s so damn hungry.
A waitress appears; she’s young, blonde, couldn’t possibly be a day older than nineteen, wearing a white button-up and a black apron. Kelly, her nametag reads, and she greets Reese with a pot of coffee and a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Good morning. What can I get started for you today?” she asks.
“Uh, just coffee and water for now. I still need more time on the menu.”
“Sure thing.”
She takes one of the mugs already on the table and pours it in front of Reese. Reese grabs a little dish of creamers and sweetener packets and dumps in every sugar pouch there, then she empties as much creamer as can fit in the mug without overflowing it.
“Uhm, while I have you, I do have a question though,” Reese hazards, looking up. “I just hopped off a train like an hour ago. Could you tell me where I am?”
Kelly hesitates, and Reese doesn’t miss the near instantaneous look of judgement go through the young woman’s eyes. The mental profile she already built of Reese changes from a shabby hiker to homeless and possibly crazy and therefore probably not going to leave a tip.
“You’re in Louisville,” Kelly says, her tone markedly flatter than three seconds ago.
“Kentucky?”
“No, Nebraska.”
“Where is that?”
“You don’t know where Nebraska is?” Kelly says incredulously, her face visibly scrunching down her nose at the question.
A sharp shot of irritation flares, and Reese locks her jaws on that candor and bites right back with, “No, I know the fuck where Nebraska is. Where the fuck is Louisville?”
The girl is taken aback, startled, possibly not even realizing she’d come off as rude, and suddenly Kelly can’t take her eyes off that glimpse of Reese’s teeth.
“A-about thirty minutes south of Omaha?” Kelly stutters.
“How many miles is that?”
“Maybe twenty? Give or take a few?”
“What else is near here?”
“Well, we have Casa Del Sol, BW’s Bar and Grill, and the Platte River State Park.”
Reese perks at the mention of a state park. “Is the park very big?”
“Well, it’s . . . it’s no Yellowstone, but I imagine it probably goes most of the length of the river.”
“And where is it from here?”
“Just north up Main Street on the other side of SR-50.”
Reese nods. “Thank you. Sorry for snapping. I’ve been travelling a long time, and the last few days have been especially rough.”
“No worries. Are you, uh, . . . some kind of travel blogger?” Kelly asks hesitantly, looking more closely over Reese’s clothes possibly in search of a camera phone or go-pro.
“No, nothing like that. I just travel for me,” Reese says, pretending like she knows what a travel blogger is. She takes a deep draw of coffee and hands the menu back to Kelly. “I’ll have the Deluxe Pancakes, please. With extra bacon. And if you could leave the coffee pot, that’d be great. Save you a million trips on refills.”
“Sure.”
Kelly writes down the order in her little booklet and leaves the carafe, returning a short time later with a new dish of sugars and tiny cups of creamer.
Alone, Reese makes room on the table and takes out a map from her backpack, pausing once to scratch viciously at the silver burn on her hand. The map folds are deep and worn through in some places, leaving the lamination open to water damage. It needed to be replaced years ago, but Reese isn’t about to get a new map until she physically can’t read this one anymore. Besides, every place she’s ever been is marked on it. It’s as much a travel guide as it is a ledger of everything she’s ever done in the past twelve years.
Twenty miles north to Omaha, maybe less, Reese thinks, tracing her fingertip downward until she finds Louisville. Directly next door to, yep, Platte River State Park. That’s way closer to a major city than Reese would like, but she still has a few weeks to figure things out. She just got here. Might as well enjoy the food. Explore a little, maybe. Besides, Louisville is a tiny town, like really tiny, barely even a village. A small population is good, but a state park is better. New faces are a novelty in a town like this, but with any luck they’ll forget all about Reese when she leaves.
If things go well, maybe she’ll spend a couple months here. Earn some money, fatten up before the snows hit, then gun it south and hopefully be somewhere warm for winter. Baton Rouge is nice in winter, or maybe this year she should try San Angelo, Texas. There’s a lot of emptiness in Texas, but a lot of trigger-happy gun owners, too. There’s a great big X over Pasadena for that very reason.
Kelly reappears before Reese even realizes how long it’s been. She quickly sits up and pulls away a corner of the map to make room for the plates Kelly brings. Christ, that bacon smells incredible, and the pancakes are massive! Reese’s tongue physically stings as her mouth begins to water.
“Here you go.” Kelly scans over Reese’s map with intense interest. There’s a bit of joke in her tone as she asks, “What’s all this? Planning to leave town already? I thought you just got off the train.”
“Just figuring out where I am. And where I’ll be going next.” Reese grabs two links of sausage and a bacon strip with her hand and shoves them in her mouth. Holy fuck, that’s so good.
If Kelly has any commentary on Reese’s table manners, she’s too distracted to say anything. The map is absolutely peppered with drawn-in markings and shorthand notes with arrows pointing to specific places. The marks have been done with different types of pen, pencil, and marker interchangeably over a long length of time, no doubt telling stories Kelly couldn’t possibly imagine.
“Have you . . . been to all these places?” Kelly asks, gesturing to a swath of personal notes that stretch from east coast to west. Her tone is suddenly full of wonder.
“Uhm, the marked ones, yeah. I like to keep track of the good spots,” Reese answers, a little flustered by the interest. No one’s ever really paid this close attention. She’s careful to drop a napkin to cover up some of the history.
“That’s amazing. I mean, the only other place I’ve been is Omaha, but you. . . . You’ve been all over the country it seems.” She glances at Reese. “All by train?”
“Well, no. . . . I mean, trains are easiest but they only go certain places. Other times I hitchhike, or if I can’t find a ride I’ll just say ‘fuck it’ and walk.”
“What’s the farthest you’ve ever walked?”
Reese chews over a bacon strip as she considers. “Appalachia.”
Kelly blinks. “As in the—?”
“Appalachian Trail.”
“Oh.” Kelly leans back a little, staring into space as she tries to reference that with her own personal experience. “That’s got to be, like, over 500 miles . . . to walk. . . .”
“Something like that. I wasn’t counting at the time.” Reese uses her fork to cut off a section of syrup drenched pancake and stuffs it in her mouth. Fuck, yeah, that’s amazing.
“And what are these?” Kelly waves a finger at a dark red dot, then motions her hand to indicate more. There are several red dots all over the map: one in Carlsbad, NM, another in Joshua Tree, CA, then in Big Sky, MT, Denali, AK, Weeki Wachee, FL, Kawuneeche, CO, and half a dozen others. “Favorite places?”
Tension pulls across Reese’s jaw, and she folds the map back up and tucks it in-between herself and her bag.
“Bad memories,” is all Reese says.
Taking the hint, Kelly sobers up and smiles politely. “I’ll go get you some more sugar packets.”
“Thank you.”
Notes:
The way to her heart is through her stomach lol
Chapter 4: Turbulent Findings
Notes:
Content Warning: This is an autopsy chapter and contains graphic descriptions of corpses.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Dr. François Antoine jolts as turbulence heaves his stomach into his throat. Both of his hands fly out to brace on the wall and, consequently, on Agent Hellboy seated next to him. Hellboy casually looks down at the doctor’s hand white-knuckling the sleeve of his right arm. Bemused, he allows it while Vargas, across from them, looks out the helicopter’s tiny window to hide his grin.
The turbulence passes, and Dr. Antoine cautiously returns both hands to the seatbelt straps crisscrossing his torso.
“You okay there, doc?” Hellboy speaks into the microphone of his headset. The cacophony of the helicopter’s rotor blades is deafening even with the ear protection.
“Oh, I’m just peachy!” Dr. Antoine spits out, his bald, cinnamon complexion looking notably pale. He mutters, not for the mouthpiece to hear, “. . . stuck in this death-trap with you two heathens. . . .”
“Aww, don’t be like that, doc! We thought you’d kill at the chance to come with us!” Vargas half-shouts, having to speak louder due to a malfunction in his headset. “There could be a bona fide, in-the-flesh werewolf down there and you’re telling me you don’t wanna be the one to discover it?”
“The chances of these maulings being the result of a genuine lycanthrope attack are so infinitesimal it borders on laughable, Agent Vargas. I could prove your poor campers were killed by a bear with a couple photos and one cast of a bite mark. You did not need to drag me out here with you.”
Vargas dismisses the remark with a wave. “Ah, come on! If it really is a werewolf, you’d never forgive yourself for skipping out. Besides, you stay cooped up in that lab for 25 hours a day. You gotta get out once in a while or you’ll go crazy!”
“Getting out in the world hasn’t stopped you from losing all your goddamn sense,” Dr. Antoine returns, bracing himself against yet another jolt of turbulence. “I’m perfectly content in my quietude!”
“There’s no research venue like the wilderness, doc.”
“Agent Vargas, if there truly is a lycanthrope out here, I am going to feed you to it!”
“Haha! That’s the spirit!”
Hellboy laughs at their exchange while the helicopter leaps again.
Internally, Hellboy truly, honestly, sincerely hopes it is not a werewolf. Give him vampires, give him cave trolls, give him grootslang, yetis, rusalkas, goblins, or the Jorōgumo herself, just don’t let it be a werewolf.
Of all the creatures Hellboy has been tasked with destroying in his lifetime, werewolves are among the worst. Not only are they fast and strong, their aggression is second to none. A lycanthrope is savagery given form. As though all the pent-up rage of a wild animal were bottled up for an entire month only to be unleashed for a single night, it kills like it has catching up to do. Their only saving grace is how reliably they die when shot with silver bullets or hit with a dart full of wolfsbane poison. That and how uncommon they are; although, that is also testament to how rarely their attacks leave survivors.
Additionally, spending the majority of their life in human form means werewolves are nearly impossible to sus out. Outside of the full moon, they are indistinguishable from ordinary humans. Literature suggests when in human form, a werewolf still has heightened senses, superhuman strength, and all the same traditional weaknesses, but the bureau can’t exactly go around testing silver on people, and the B.P.R.D. has never been able to capture a werewolf for study. All attempts have failed in spectacular, bloody fashion.
But the toughest part about fighting werewolves, in Hellboy’s opinion, is how they die. Because when a werewolf dies, it reverts to human form. No matter how monstrous or savage the beast is, as a human it could be anyone: a young wife, a buff gym teacher, a white-haired grandmother, a skinny yoga instructor, or a beer-bellied construction worker. Hellboy has always left a werewolf hunt with the cruel feeling of having just killed an innocent person, not a monster hellbent on ripping his throat out.
Over their headsets, the pilot, Agent Kimura, speaks up from the cockpit.
“Alright, gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. We’ll be putting the seatbelt sign back on as we begin our descent shortly. Wind speeds are picking up to 21 knots at 1,500 feet, so make sure you’re strapped in good,” she says smoothly, making some adjustments to the switches on the dashboard.
A pit of worry sets like a lead brick in Dr. Antoine’s stomach, and he fumbles to adjust his mouthpiece to speak. “Wait, what was that? What does that mean?”
“It means keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times! It’s gonna be a bumpy ride!” Vargas grins. He takes care to squish back against the seat and tighten his shoulder straps.
“Sit back and enjoy the ride, doc,” Hellboy says.
Hellboy feels the shift in his stomach as the helicopter begins to descend. Dr. Antoine’s expression flips as his color changes, skin paling all the way to the crown of his head. Vargas cheers while the airframe jumps and shudders, and Hellboy finds himself being grappled by the good doctor yet again.
The helicopter settles on the landing pad with a jolt, and Dr. Antoine throws the straps off himself. Hellboy and Vargas remove their headsets and unbuckle just as Dr. Antoine gets the door open and draws a deep gasp of fresh air. A Latina woman with a dark red complexion and tight, curly hair ducks outside looking startled, half expecting him to lose his cookies on her boots. Dressed in forest greens, sunglasses, and a wide-brimmed hat, she stoops low beneath the helicopter blades. Vargas and Hellboy exit quickly, ushering along Dr. Antoine. The moment they’re free of the gale, Vargas and the woman embrace.
“It’s so good to see you,” Vargas says, releasing Fernandez from a tight squeeze.
“I just wish it were under better circumstances,” she says in kind.
Fernandez then comes face-to-face with Hellboy. She freezes in place and stares at . . . just . . . everything. From his apple red skin to the horn stumps on his forehead, his massive right hand, hooves, and the . . . oh, shit, that’s a fucking tail. He’s a demon. A literal, actual devil. She hadn’t just dreamed it up back then. He’s really real.
Hellboy holds his left hand out; he wears an onyx rosary like a bracelet on that wrist. Realizing what he means for her to do, Fernandez takes his hand and shakes it firmly.
“You . . . you must be Hellboy,” she says, awestruck. “We met once before.”
“On Gros Ventre, yes. You’re Ximena Fernandez. Vargas refreshed my memory on the flight here. Your snare trap was the only reason we stalled that wendigo long enough to kill it. We both probably owe you our lives,” Hellboy says.
Fernandez blushes, the compliment dragging her back to her senses. “Oh, um, thank you, and you’re welcome.”
Dr. Antoine extends his hand last, and Ranger Fernandez shakes it, too.
“Doctor François Antoine, MD, PhD, head of Lycanthrope Studies.”
Her expression pales. “You— You really think it was a werewolf that did this? A real werewolf?”
“My dear, I assure you, I am here to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that it was not a werewolf that killed your poor campers,” he says confidently. Immediate relief comes over her. “I understand you have the remains inside?”
“Yes, Sirs, right this way.”
Fernandez shakes away the stars and ushers the three B.P.R.D. agents up the hill toward the ranger station. The building and parking lot are deserted save for Ranger Fernandez’s own personal vehicle. Everyone, even the deputies, were sent away on higher orders within an hour of her call to Vargas. Only the coroner was permitted to stay to conclude his investigation, and Fernandez was left alone to await their arrival.
Inside is typical of the average ranger station. Green and khaki painted walls sport photographs of the rangers, flyers about wildlife and fire safety, maps of local hiking and biking trails, parking areas, the path to the lookout tower, fire risk level for the day, and a handwritten notice advising visitors of No Overnight Camping. A bulletin board lists pinned testimonials talking about their visit and what people saw. It’s a quaint place, full of the smells of the outdoors but also a pungent note of something sour underneath. Hellboy knows it all too well: dead flesh.
Leading the group towards a back door with a sign that reads Rangers and Park Personnel Only, Fernandez leaves her hat and sunglasses on the counter and speaks while she walks, “We don’t exactly have a morgue here, but one of the deputies and I were able to clear some space in the walk-in until the Medical Examiner got here. He already ruled cause of death as animal attacks to close the investigation, so you guys will have free range until the families arrive tomorrow.” Reaching to open the door, Fernandez hesitates and looks back at them. “All I ask is if you do any dissecting, please return the bodies to their original states as best you can. Things are gruesome enough; I don’t want any more indignities inflicted on these poor souls.”
Vargas and Hellboy have no intention of touching the deceased. That leaves Dr. Antoine to nod stoically.
“You have my word,” Dr. Antoine replies.
Fernandez leads them inside. The kitchen has indeed been cleared out. Without any signs of food, it looks remarkably clinical with its double basin sink and stainless-steel surfaces. Fernandez continues towards the rear of the room to a large steel door, opens it, and steps in as Hellboy holds the door open. She emerges from the walk-in refrigerator with a rolling cart, a black bag balanced on top. The very first thing that shocks Hellboy is how small the bag is; it’s not much bigger than a toddler. She collects a second rolling cart with another bag on top. The second bag is closer to full size but with a notable empty space in the middle of two halves.
Fernandez wheels both carts into an open space in the room created just for this purpose. She hesitates without making any further move. Rather, she steps away, wringing her hands unconsciously. Dr. Antoine is already putting on two layers of gloves and a facemask.
“This is them. . . . . This is all we recovered from the site. The bodies are—” She swallows past a lump in her throat. “—a man and a woman. Their names are. . . . Her name was Tammy Ryan. His was Ethan Edgewater. Both 22 years old, recently engaged. They signed the hiker’s registry at 2:15pm yesterday, and now they’re. . . .”
Fernandez trails off as Vargas places a gentle hand on her shoulder. She clears her throat to disguise the shake in her voice.
“Where is the attack site?” Hellboy asks, changing the topic.
“Roughly two-and-a-half miles north down one of our more scenic routes. We left it as undisturbed as we could,” Fernandez says.
Hellboy nods. “We won’t worry about that until we know more.”
Dr. Antoine sets up a spot for his things on the nearest counter along with a provided copy of the Medical Examiner’s report. Among the supplies he brought are a long metal probe, safety sheers, a set of scalpels, and a recording device which he activates.
“Ranger Fernandez, with your permission I’d like to proceed with the exams,” he says clinically.
Fernandez hesitates, but she nods.
Before Dr. Antoine opens the first bag, he pauses with his hand on the zipper. Then, he looks to Fernandez again, face unreadable behind mask and glasses. In a gentle tone that catches Vargas somewhat by surprise, the doctor says, “You truly don’t need to be here for this part, my dear.”
“I-I’m alright. You guys are the professionals. Tell me what you need and I’ll do it. Anything to solve what did this,” she says.
Dr. Antoine unzips the smallest bag first and peals back the sides. Vargas and Fernandez both reflexively look away, but Hellboy does not. Not even as the odors of dead blood fill the air with a sour, metallic tinge. Like rotting fruit and old pennies. It’s important to Hellboy that he observe all aspects of his cases. Knowing what a creature is capable of is crucial to understanding what he is up against. This animal, it seems, is capable of many gruesome things.
Dr. Antoine narrates his actions to the recorder on the table, calm and clinical. “Initial examination of first subject: subject is female, early twenties, athletic build. Remains consist of upper torso and a partial pelvis; site personnel advised the head was not recovered and a search yielded in negative results. The right arm is attached though shows signs of what appear to be defensive wounds: significant lacerations are present on distal ulnar region, as though the subject raised her arm in defense. The right leg is present but unattached, apparently severed just below the femoral head. Subject’s left leg is absent entirely, also unable to be located. A portion of the left arm is present but also unattached; limb terminates at the proximal humerus as well as proximal to the ulnar and radial styloid processes. The lumbar spine and pelvic girdle are present and visible. Clear signs of mastication are observable throughout the remains.”
Leaning over, Dr. Antoine then places his hand into the base of the torso where the naval would be were there any skin. He inserts his arm up to the elbow inside the body cavity, pauses to feel, then removes it almost completely bloodless.
“Both thoracic and abdominal cavities are void of internal organs.”
Ranger Fernandez’s face goes green, and her hand flies to her mouth.
“Excuse me, I’m gonna . . . go check. . . .” She begins to speak but trails off and swiftly exits the room.
Hellboy and Vargas exchange sympathetic glances, and Vargas steps out to check on his friend. Hellboy approaches the opposite side of the table where Dr. Antoine continues his examination, unbothered by all else going on around him.
“Smaller abrasions on the dermis appear consistent with postmortem predation. Ranger Fernandez, did you—?” He lifts his head only to see that she is gone. Nonplussed, he instead looks to Hellboy. “Agent Hellboy, would you mind checking the Medical Examiner’s notes for me please?”
“Sure, what am I lookin’ for?” Hellboy collects the folder of copied notes and returns to his place opposite the exam table.
“Check for references to scavenger activity, please.”
“M.E. says . . . uh, yeah, right here. Says, ‘small lacerations observed at the . . . proximal humerus head consistent with scavenger predation.’ Says that a Deputy H. Thornton saw a fox eating on the bodies when they got there along with some crows.”
“That would account for these smaller lacerations here at the cervical stump.” Dr. Antoine presses his fingers at the base of the neck where the collarbones meet. The flesh there is ragged and brownish-red. Coagulated blood still shines like overly thick, reddish black Jell-o. The stench is of rancid meat.
“Think you can tell what did this, doc?” Hellboy asks. His eyes are pulled back to the pelvis which has been picked clean several inches up the spine, leaving the pelvis itself suspended from the torso like a macabre pendulum.
“I can tell you it wasn’t a fox. Or coyotes for that matter. Mountain lions are more likely to drag their prey away to feed in seclusion. I suppose it could have been a pack of wolves, but there would be more individual bite marks if it were. More than likely this was a bear. Would have to be a rather large bear, though, or a strong pack of wolves,” Dr. Antoine adds at the end as though it were an afterthought.
“Why do you say that?”
Dr. Antoine waves him forward for a closer inspection and indicates the stump of the unattached upper left arm. “You see here? The tissue margins are jagged and uneven, and the muscle fibers vary greatly in length. This arm wasn’t cut off, it was ripped off. Given the consistency of the pattern, I’d say it was done in a single, powerful motion. Wolves can dismember a carcass in minutes, but they don’t quite have the jaw strength to pull that hard and that quickly. Which is why I’m more inclined to believe it was a grizzly bear. There’s also this.” He indicates the other end of the arm which stops just above the wrist; the damage there is more even, less jagged, but the tips of the bones show thin, spidery cracks at the stump. “The tissue damages here are more consistent with a quick, jagged cut, but this crack pattern on the bone suggests more of a crushing action.”
“What cuts and crushes at the same time?” Hellboy asks.
“Teeth.” Dr. Antoine pulls the top layer of gloves off and into a brand-new pair. “Specifically, the cutting teeth of a large carnivore. One with a bite force powerful enough to crush bone and enough strength to rip an arm off in one go.”
Dr. Antoine approaches the second body bag. Opening it to the knees, both men are surprised to find the face of a young man, eyes closed with some blood around his mouth. Fully unzipped, the body is largely intact, the only thing missing being the portion of stomach between sternum and pelvis.
“Initial examination of second subject: subject is male, early twenties, robustly built. Subject is almost completely intact with little to no damage to extremities. Abdominal cavity is open. Iliac fossa and sacrum are visible, and—” Like with the first body, Dr. Antoine inserts his hand into the opening of the abdominal cavity. This time, he inserts his arm halfway to the elbow before removing it, his gloves returning with a bloody film. “—a manual examination of the thoracic cavity shows internal organs above the diaphragm are still present. The subject does not appear to have defensive wounds of any kind.”
Dr. Antoine leans both hands on the table and rests his weight on them. Letting his breath out, confusion breaks through as he looks between the two bodies.
“Curious,” he murmurs, “it’s very curious. . . .”
Hellboy says the part both of them are thinking, “Okay, so how come he’s pretty much in one piece but she’s all ripped apart?”
“I have no idea.” Dr. Antoine shakes his head. “If it truly was wolves, we would see similar patterns of injury on both bodies. Even on two different victims, wolves will go after roughly the same body parts on one as on the other. A bear would do similar. Why consume so much of one but not the other?”
Dr. Antoine looks to Hellboy as if for the answer, but the half-demon shrugs.
“Filled up on breadsticks and couldn’t finish his dinner?” he jokes.
Dr. Antoine does not laugh.
Determined despite his bewilderment, the doctor continues his exam, this time by palpating the body manually. He starts at the lower torso, feeling the ribs with his fingers as he makes his way gradually up.
“I am now palpating the second subject’s remains in attempt to locate signs of further injury. Pressing on the sternum yields some resistance, confirming my suspicion that internal organs above the diaphragm are still present inside. However, sternum and manubrium are both—” He presses down on the chest, and his hand sinks into the ribcage with an awful squelch. Hellboy exclaims in shocked disgust. “—soft to the touch. Small bumps and perimortem bruising along ribs nine through six appear consistent with breakage, as though from some sort of crushing force. I am moving higher up to palpate the clavicle . . . shoulders . . . neck and— Ah.”
His hands freeze with the tips of his fingers around the back of the neck. Curious, cautious, he feels about more thoroughly before withdrawing.
“Agent Hellboy, would you help me flip him over, please?”
Hellboy sets the folder aside to assist. Taking one shoulder while Dr. Antoine steadies the deceased’s head, the two gingerly maneuver the body onto its front.
“There you are,” Dr. Antoine says, sounding triumphant.
Hellboy sees what has him more animated. On the back of the man’s neck is, well, it’s not a bite so much as it’s been completely bitten out.
“Examination of the body’s posterior has revealed the catastrophic excision of the cervical spine: vertebrae C2 through C7 are entirely absent. The jagged nature of the tissue margins suggest abrupt tearing while fracture patterns on the distal atlas indicate a crushing action.” Taking his metal probe, Dr. Antoine stoops to measure the size of the bite with ruler etchings along its side. “Assuming abrasions to the bone are the result of a bite, measurements would indicate a muzzle width of approximately . . . five-and-a-half—no, six inches.”
Dr. Antoine hesitates before his next motion, and Hellboy does a mental double-take at that number. As Dr. Antoine stands up straight, he moves his gaze back and forth between the two human corpses slowly. Thoughts seem to move at a mile a minute in his brain as he attempts to manifest the dimensions of a creature with a muzzle that size. The attempt alone dizzies him.
“That’s pretty big for a bear,” Hellboy remarks. He measured a hunter’s trophy once as a nosey kid. It had been touted as exceptional for a black bear, but the skull in its entirety only measured maybe eight inches across. For a muzzle alone to be nearly that size, the head of the animal that killed these two campers had to be. . . .
“It’s singular,” Dr. Antoine says, stars in his eyes. Then an epiphany. “Oh!”
When he doesn’t immediately elaborate, Hellboy presses him, “’Oh?’ What’s ‘oh’ mean?”
“I think I know what happened.”
“Well don’t just stand there, share with the class!”
Dr. Antoine begins by gesturing to the body of the man. “By the nature of subject two’s spinal injury and complete lack of defensive wounds, his death was likely instantaneous. Numerous species of large cat are known to ambush their prey from behind. Although these attacks are unlikely to have been perpetrated by any large cat species native to North America, the powerful bite from a large carnivore would easily sever the spinal cord. In this case, the creature’s sheer strength allowed it to bite the cervical spine out entirely. This man was dead before he even felt the bite. Then, being struck from behind, he fell forward with the weight of the animal on top of him, crushing his sternum and breaking several ribs. The creature could then simply feast at its leisure.”
“Gruesome, but that doesn’t explain what happened to her.” Hellboy gestures his right hand to the eviscerated girl.
Without a word, Dr. Antoine steps around to the woman’s corpse. Headless, missing a leg, and with only one arm still attached, her lower spine hangs off like a ghastly metronome. Her skin is littered with deep gashes and entire chunks of flesh missing.
“I believe she interrupted its feeding,” the doctor says, voice reverent for the gruesomely dead. “The first kill happened so fast the creature did not have time to eat more than his abdominal organs before Ms. Tammy here stumbled upon it. Ravenous, enraged, or possibly protecting its kill, it attacked. The defensive wounds on her arms suggest she attempted to fend it off. This explains the substantial damage to her arms and body as opposed to the male. In its frenzy from the attack, the animal consumed more of her body. Mr. Edgewater’s remains are likely more intact because the animal was simply no longer hungry by the time it was done with her.”
The scene of the attack plays out in Hellboy’s mind like a horror movie. Imagining the screams and terror, he wishes these poor souls had met with a kinder death.
“So, it was a werewolf then,” Hellboy concludes.
To that, Dr. Antoine sighs. His top layer of latex gloves produce a rubbery noise as he peels them off, inverted, and disposes of them in the same garbage can as the first. He disposes of his facemask in a similar manner.
“I’ll concede the creature responsible for these kills would have to be both large, highly aggressive, and voracious, but I see nothing present to convince me these attacks weren’t simply perpetrated by a large grizzly bear,” Dr. Antoine says flatly.
“Huh. And here I would’ve thought the werewolf-guy would be happy to say his favorite beasty was out here causin’ havoc.”
“The chances of this being a genuine lycanthrope attack are miniscule, Agent Hellboy. If I got my hopes up for every autopsy the B.P.R.D. dragged me out to, I’d be a very drawl and disappointed man.”
Hellboy snorts. “Like you aren’t already?”
Dr. Antoine glowers and makes to retort, but the door opens and Agent Vargas re-enters with Ranger Fernandez cautiously following behind him.
“How are things going, doc?” Vargas asks.
Dr. Antoine shares a condensed version of his findings, but Hellboy can’t shake the part of his brain that’s dissatisfied with the doctor’s conclusion.
“. . . despite the exceptional nature of the attacks, I’m afraid I find no reason to believe this wasn’t the result of a grizzly bear mauling,” Dr. Antoine states.
Vargas makes a noise of general dissatisfaction. “¡Mierda! Eres un idiota y lo sabes.”
“Don’t you speak to me in that tone of voice, young man!”
“We’re the same fucking age!”
As the two begin to bicker, Hellboy notices a strange expression cross Fernandez’s face. Her brows knit together, seemingly confused. She speaks up but is drowned out by the two men shouting back and forth at each other, Vargas arguing there’s no way a bear did this to two people and Dr. Antoine insisting he knows better. Fernandez tries again to speak but goes unheard, her frustration growing.
“HEY!” Hellboy booms. His voice reverberates off the walls, startling Vargas and Dr. Antoine so efficiently that the doctor jumps, both rendered silent. Hellboy nods to Ranger Fernandez, and their attention is hers. “She’s got somethin’ to say.”
“Thank you,” she says. Then, to Dr. Antoine, “I’m sorry to disagree with you, doctor, but there are no grizzly bears in this valley.”
Dr. Antoine frowns, features scrunching with skepticism. “You’re sure? I would think this area would be full with them.”
But Ranger Fernandez shakes her head.
“Grizzlies were driven to extinction in Colorado in the 1950s, and the last one sighted was shot dead by a hunter in 1979.”
“Hm. What is the likelihood of a lone one making it this far south from Wyoming?”
“A snowball’s chance in hell.”
Dr. Antoine considers this new information while looking over the corpses, seeming to chew it over with a great deal of dissatisfaction. Seeing she’s getting nowhere, Ranger Fernandez asks a question that takes everyone by surprise:
“Well, what about the handprint?”
All three men’s eyes snap up.
Vargas and Hellboy say at once, “The what?” as Dr. Antoine simultaneously asks, “What handprint?”
Fernandez gestures to the man’s body.
“The one on his thigh,” she says, incredulous that it could have been missed.
Dr. Antoine hurries to the remains. Finding the right thigh vacant of damage, he unzips the black body bag all the way and pulls the edge aside and— There, in the colors of indigo and mauve, sits bruising in the clear and obvious pattern of a large handprint. Not merely large but enormous. With trembling arms, Dr. Antoine hovers his hand directly over the mark. It dwarfs his by an order of magnitude.
Speaking aloud for the recording device to hear, a new edge has risen in Dr. Antoine’s tone, “Examination of the second subject’s left flank has yielded perimortem bruising in the shape of a . . . a large handprint. The print appears to have been made by the right hand of an unknown entity. Each digit averages a length of seven to eight inches; offset is what clearly appears to be an opposable thumbprint five inches in length. Present at the tip of each finger mark is a small laceration consistent with the presence of a single claw extending no less than one to one-and-a-half inches from the terminus.” His voice trembles slightly by the time he announces his ultimate conclusion, “This injury was sustained at time of death, and it was clearly not administered by a bear of any genus. Ranger Fernandez, I am now able to conclude with confidence that these attacks were indeed carried out by a lycanthrope.”
Notes:
I had a lot of fun writing this one, both with the terminology and getting to expand on Dr. Antoine a little bit. Him getting to confirm a werewolf attack is like watching his favorite team go to the playoffs! XD
Chapter Text
Reese tips her head back and breathes into the wind. The smells of the forest and the river fill her senses: greenery, loam, the silty shore muck, white-tail deer, asphalt, metal, pollen, tree sap, and a thousand others. Reese leans her arms against the railing, looking out over the distance for miles and miles in all directions, eyes shielded by the overcast of clouds. The steel observation tower is pretty large for public access, maybe 80 feet high with a footbridge that extends across the river to a beach area, and boasts a panoramic view of the river to the north, Louisville to the south, and to the east and west endless flat plains as far as the eye can see.
It’s peaceful up here. Quiet. The wind chases away the sounds of the parking lot, leaving only hints of people behind.
Leaning her elbows on the rail, Reese pillows her chin in her hand and closes her eyes. With the steady, cold breeze and the smells of the woods, she can easily imagine herself on top of a mountain. Above the tundra line where the air is thin and she feels like she can breathe—truly breathe. In a place like that, Reese knows peace. Knows freedom. Away from a world of chatter and eyes that won’t meet hers, there’s peace in the silence. Of chittering birds and buzzing insects, where the wind creaks the trees and raindrops tip-tap patter-pat on the roof of her tent.
A tune of music draws Reese out of the wind, and she looks down to see a gathering of people under one of the covered picnic areas below. Streamers and balloons and people of all shapes and sizes bustle about. A banner unfolds across two posts: HAPPY BIRTHDAY NANCY!
With a wistful smile, Reese sits down, fits her arms and legs between the gaps in the railing, and dangles her legs to watch. The smells never quite reach her, but the cheering does. Someone arrives and celebration rings out. The music grows and drink glasses clink. The Happy Birthday Song is sung. Children run around playing in the grass as adults drink, eat, and mingle. A father throws Frisbee with the kids until another joins. Balls are thrown and more adults join in, someone is tackled, and everyone cheers.
Time passes, and one by one Reese watches parents collect their children. Decorations and food get packed up or thrown away, and the last dregs of the party filter away towards the parking lot. Reese pulls her legs in and climbs down eight flights of stairs. Some remnants of the party remain: a kid’s orange sock, a red plastic cup rolling in the breeze, and bits of tape still stuck to the posts. Reese checks the garbage cans and finds bounty in the scraps they left behind. There are a couple partially eaten burgers, burnt hot dogs with no buns, and some un-finished bags of chips. She scarfs them all down but ignores the soda cans at the bottom; super doses of sugar like that make her head feel weird.
After that bin has been picked through, Reese licks ketchup off her fingers. She moves to check the other, then stops when something under a table catches her eye. It’s a doll. Reese wipes her hands on her pants and picks it up. It’s a cheap thing, made of hard plastic with yellow hair like fishing line and a painted-on face and clothes. Its arms and legs twist stiffly, and there’s dirt on its face where it was laying facedown on the concrete, but it smiles nevertheless. That hollow, placid smile meant to appeal to children.
Reese thinks about the kids from the party and if she saw any with a toy like this, but she can’t recall. Maybe it belongs to a little girl. Maybe she’s asleep on the car ride home, no idea what’s even missing until she wakes up and cries without it. Or maybe she won’t notice at all, and it’s just a cheap hunk of plastic purchased at the store that morning to placate a tantrum. Or maybe it’s a little girl’s favorite toy in the whole wide world.
Reese thinks about a little girl. In Reese’s memory, she’s still seven years old, missing a tooth and wearing pink pajamas with lions on them. She holds Reese’s hand in the dark.
I’m cold, sissy. I wanna go back inside.
Don’t be a baby. You want to see a shooting star, don’t you?
Smoothing down the doll’s hair, Reese sets it on the table then goes searching in the other garbage can.
Running her hand along the trees that border the path, Reese notes the different textures of bark. Coarse and chunky live oak, rough and wavy cottonwood, and smooth eastern redbud with their pink petals scattered on the path like a wedding carpet. Clouds overhead shroud the woods like a blanket and while they don’t quite threaten rain yet, they block the sun from warming the air.
Every region has its own scents. Nothing precise or that can really be explained, but Washington is different from Florida is different from Arizona is different from Virginia. It’s in the thickness of the air. The scents of the soil and the pollen. How the humidity makes the air taste thick and dryness makes it harsh in the lungs. Here, the air is not thin or thick, but the ambient smell of moisture tells her it may rain in the next few hours.
The sounds of running water draw her along the path, and Reese finds, of all things, a waterfall. Not a big one, maybe ten feet high. A stream flows its way down systems of shallow roots to a small, craggy pool at the top. From there, it tumbles down many layers of flat rock with sections that stack like a ladder. At the bottom, the water billows down into a little lagoon only a few inches deep full of leaves and sticks floating in the current.
Reese rolls up her sleeve and puts her hand under the water. It shocks her with cold and leaves as much silt on her skin as it washes away. Behind the waterfall is a gap where the stone at the base has eroded, leaving a hollow a few feet high. Without hesitation, Reese crouches down and crawls inside. The water roars in here, almost deafening. The space is barely taller than she is crouched, and the graffiti on the walls tells her many people have been here before. Reese can’t help feeling she’s found a secret that other people share. Who she now shares it with.
In a flash of mischievous thought, Reese wants to write something, too. Her name perhaps, or a message. Something clever like “fuck” or “bitch” or “lol.” But then the rational part of her brain kicks in, and she knows it would be best to leave no sign at all.
Still. I can be a little immature, she thinks with a smirk and takes a piece of old sidewalk chalk out of her bag and draws a smiley face on the ceiling amidst all the graffiti.
Reese makes to crawl out of the hollow but freezes when a rustle of movement catches her eye. She ducks back inside. Someone comes down the path.
“Slow down, Jess!” Paul calls out, struggling to keep up with his girlfriend.
“Try telling that to him,” Jessica says, laughing nervously as Bandit drags her forward.
Bandit, a two-year-old brindle Pitbull, pulls like an ox at the plow. His breath pushes against the harness with his nose to the ground, seeming to have caught scent of something. Feeling too guilty to rein him back, Jessica allows herself to be pulled down the slope that leads to the waterfall. Once down by the water, Jessica is able to regain control of her dog and allow Paul to catch up. Bandit remains at the very end of his leash, sniffing at the water with interest.
“Ah, well, at least he found us a nice spot,” Paul says while looking around.
“What is this place?”
“I think the map said it was called Stoney Creek Falls.”
Jessica thinks it is rather pretty. A perfect little stop-off point on their way through to Omaha; Bandit had just needed a potty break, and she and Paul were happy to stretch their legs.
While admiring the scenery, Jessica feels arms wrap around her middle as Paul begins to kiss under her ponytail. She giggles, ticklish, and ducks away shyly.
“Aw, come on, isn’t it such a pretty place? So nice and romantic~” Paul hums behind her ear.
“We’re out in public. What if someone sees?”
“Who’s going to see? There’s literally no one around us right now.” Paul grins. “Might as well make the most of it.”
Agreeing, Jessica turns her head and Paul leans around and kisses her. Bandit barks. They ignore it, but when he pulls Jessica’s arm, it forces them to pay attention. Bandit’s ears are high as he looks directly at the waterfall, body straight and hackles raised.
Paul is amused. “What’s the matter, bud? You want one of those sticks or something?”
Bandit whines. The dog pulls against his leash, head down to smell the stepstones that lead across the pool. He picks his head up and barks again, and Paul takes his interest more seriously.
“Something in there, bud?” Paul asks.
Thinking he understands, Paul steps across the first few stones, and Bandit barks in greater earnest.
Jessica moves as quickly as the wet ground and her very much not waterproof trainers and yoga pants will allow and grabs Paul by his jacket sleeve. She struggles not to get pulled over as Bandit attempts to drag her to the waterfall.
“Hey, hold on! What if it’s an animal in there?” Jessica protests.
“It’s not like it’d be a bear or anything. At worst, it’s a raccoon,” Paul says nonchalantly.
“So? Raccoons have rabies, don’t they?
“No, they don’t, I read their body temperature is too low for that.”
Bandit barks, and Jessica and Paul hear the unmistakable sound of a stick crack over the rushing of water. They look around, assuming it came from the woods around or above them, but a sense of unease creeps in. The feeling is magnified when Bandit’s excited whine becomes an anxious whimper, and the Pitbull backs away.
“Come on, let’s head back to the car,” Jessica says, her tone shaky as she happily allows the dog to bring her to dry ground.
But skeptical Paul doesn’t budge. “Don’t you want to at least see what it is?”
“No, Paul. No, I don’t.”
Paul dismisses her lack of adventure. Following the stepstones to the wall, he shines his phone light under the ledge. It’s dark back there and his light isn’t very good; the rushing water makes it nearly impossible to see anything. He shines it towards the back, and a pair of eyes flash at him. Paul jumps, a sharp shot of fright jolting his chest, and he quickly returns to Jessica and the safety of their Pitbull. Yellow-green and piercing, the eyes had blinked at him.
“You’re right, Bandit looks ready to go. Let’s get back to the car,” he says hurriedly.
Jessica, unnerved by his sudden change of heart, looks at the waterfall. An eerie feeling comes over her and, although she can’t pinpoint the reason why, feels like she’s being watched. Even Bandit seems eager to move on.
As they walk away up the trail, Jessica feels it’s important for her to inform him, “Paul, that right there is why the white guy dies first in horror movies.”
“I know, I know. . . .”
Reese tosses the stick back into the pool once the couple is gone and climbs out. Hiding behind the falls had been a mistake; she should have just walked away like a normal fucking person. Now her left side is damp, and her clothes aren’t likely to dry out while she’s still wearing them.
The couple and their dog left a scent behind. The man’s smell is like beige and body odor, hers is a sharp floral perfume, and the dog smells like, well, a dog. The perfume irritates her nose, and Reese no longer cares to stick around.
Leaving the waterfall behind, Reese walks into the woods. No paths, no trail markers, no stone-bordered walkways. Just woods. The deeper she goes, the older the forest becomes. Birds flit past overhead as the buzz of insects grows louder. One mile, then two miles, then three. Farther, deeper. Down slopes and up hills, across streams and over fallen logs. She walks. The scents in the air shift so subtly and so gradually she hardly notices, but it’s there.
Eventually, Reese finds the perfect spot nestled beneath the shady bows of a towering live oak and with sloped ground that will allow drainage. Reese unshoulders her backpack and sets up. Her tent is a simple forest green, two-person, with a single aluminum pole across the top, a rain fly, and scattered patches filling in scattered holes. Reese has set it up so many times, she’s done in under two minutes.
The scent in the air shifts as the humidity suddenly rises and the breeze changes direction. Rain is coming. Reese tugs the rainfly down tight and tosses her bag inside. Going around the immediate area, she gathers up as many sticks as she can carry while also stuffing her pockets with acorns. By time the first drops of rain slap against the canopy, her cargo pants are heavy and her arms are full. She wraps the stick bundle in an old purple poncho to keep them dry and falls backwards into the opening of her tent, groaning aloud with relief.
After-tent time is Reese’s favorite time. It means she can finally sit the hell down and rest her weary feet.
Pulling off her hat and boots, Reese stretches out inside the tent. It’s not terribly wide, but it’s plenty long. She stretches out her shoulders, her back, and her hips. Leaning forward and left, a muffled pop releases the tension in her pelvis, and Reese moans.
“Ohhh, that’s the ticket,” she mutters to herself.
Reese unloads the acorns out of her pockets and rolls them all into one corner. She spends the next several minutes blowing up her sleeping mat one lungful at a time, taking breaks when she gets lightheaded, then lays out her sleeping bag on top of it. Next, she ties a paracord line across the interior and, after wiggling out of her jacket and pants, drapes them over to finish drying.
The pattering of rain on top of the tent begins to grow from a light tap to a steady hum. Larger drops and acorns fall from the canopy overhead and smack against the nylon like they mean to knock it down. Reese checks the patches for leaks and is satisfied she’ll be dry for another night. The temperature drops noticeably, but she doesn’t mind it, yet. She sets a collapsible rubber bowl under the edge of the rainfly to catch water.
From her backpack, Reese also takes out an old CD player and a set of white earbuds. She puts the wires over one shoulder, able to hear it just fine, and hits play. It resumes at the song she left off at.
—aradise City
Where the grass is green and the girls are pretty
Oh, won’t you please take me home?
Reese drums along with invisible sticks, singing and bobbing her head to the music. She sparks up a joint with an old Bic lighter and begins cracking acorns and digging the meat out into an empty tin can.
Notes:
Fun fact: the waterfall is based on a real place (with some fictional liberties of course)! Platte River State Park's Stone Creek Falls
MemMoodring on Chapter 1 Sun 17 Aug 2025 06:34PM UTC
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