A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters - Martin Harry Greenberg [94]
THE WOOLY MOUNTAINS
Alexander B. Potter
Harold bats long eyelashes at me and snuffles my hair. I give his nose a gentle push. “Yes, hair is tasty. No, you cannot eat it.”
The llama snorts and stamps, ears twitching. He pushes past me, stops, stamps again. I follow, but he refuses to move further.
Sheep clump to my left in a jostling mass. I scan the pasture. Couldn’t be a coyote. Harold would already be kicking the interloper into the next county. A few more feet and a dark blot on the grass up ahead catches my eye. Flies hover over it.
Standing over the remains, only two small clumps of bloody wool identify it as sheep. The rest is eaten beyond recognition. Or possibly attacked with a chainsaw. Lots of blood, lots of bits.
“Hell.”
“You’re sure it’s not normal predation?” Dean settles across from me, stirring his coffee.
“I thought maybe, when I heard about the other attacks, but Harold takes care of coyotes. That’s all we’ve got.”
“Thought you said we have bear? Harold wouldn’t—” He breaks off, eyes narrowing. “Or were you just trying to scare me?”
“Would I do that? A macho, fearless guy like you?”
“You’re mocking me.”
“Mock mock mock.”
He smacks my hand with his spoon. “So no bear?”
“Actually, yes. Unlikely though. Black bear are shy and mostly after garbage. No one’s had any tracks. Normal predators leave tracks. No, I’m thinking Uncanny.”
His spoon taps a nervous beat. “Werewolves?” His hand makes an abortive reach for the scars on the left side of his face, then stills.
“I don’t . . . think so.” Wolves and sheep. He isn’t the first to suggest it. But something doesn’t ring right. “Werewolves leave tracks, the locals know better than to take livestock, and we’re hardly running short of deer, as the garden can attest. Zombies maybe? They don’t fall under the Integration Policies. All that shuffling around might wipe out tracks, and sheep have fairly large brains.” I catch Dean’s arched eyebrows and clarify, “By volume.”
“But there hasn’t been a zombie alert in Vermont in ages, right?”
“Nine months. Bernie put them down.”
Dean grins. “Bernie? For a guy in his seventies, he wields a mean shotgun.”
“You better believe it. He offered to teach me when I first got here and he saw I didn’t ‘have a man around.’ And realized I wasn’t likely to get one.”
“He gets it? Is that why he hasn’t assumed we’re a couple?”
Our closest neighbor took a shine to me the day I arrived in Vermont a year ago, but hasn’t much more than nodded to Dean since he moved in two months back.
“He asked about us, but seemed relieved when I confirmed his initial impression.”
“Relieved you’re a lesbian?”
“Relieved because he likes me, and doesn’t trust you.”
“What did I do?”
“Showed up with a penis. I don’t think he trusts many men. Lot of daughters, remember. Fathers with daughters get cagey around pretty young men like yourself.”
“Not like I’d have designs on his daughters.”
“I think he figured that out, too.”
“Astute.”
“Definitely. He used to be part of the Service, you know. Though he wouldn’t shoot a werewolf to save his life, even before Vermont instituted the Policies. Always made me wonder . . .” I trail off, but fall short of elaborating on my suspicions in deference to Dean’s nerves. “Anyway. Dead sheep.”
“Vampires don’t make any sense.”
“Gnomes are out of the question and ghouls don’t deal in animals.”
“Dragon?” Dean hazards. “They don’t pay attention to any policies, do they? Could account for the lack of tracks.” He mimes an attack from above with one hand swooping down, fingers curved, but I’m already shaking my head.
“Don’t be silly, everyone knows there aren’t any dragons.”
“Oh, right. They’re a New Hampshire problem. You told me.”
“They’ve never crossed the Connecticut River yet; I doubt they’re starting now.” Who the hell knows why, but