CHAPTER 6: I'M SORRY

I’M SORRY


A gentle breeze blew in, from a north to south direction, bringing in the cool air off of Lake Erie; moonlight from a full moon bathed the well-manicured landscape of the All Saints Cemetery, shining on the smooth polished granite tombstones and mammoth mausoleums. The fragrance of azaleas hung in the air. The cemetery was five miles southeast of Cleveland, OH. A lone figure, sticking to the shadows, scaled a low stone wall and landed on the other side. Taking a knee, he scanned the area to his front, searching for the slightest movement. The shadow figure stepped out into the moonlight, dressed all in black, and wearing night vision goggles.

The shadow took a last scan of the area around him. The silent figure wore a double shoulder holster under a Tac vest; a wooden stake was visible underneath. The figure readjusted a sawed off shotgun slung over his right shoulder, then reached up and removed the night vision goggles. Blazing blue eyes stared forward from under a lock of slightly graying blond hair. He faked a smile under a mask of tiger striped camouflage face paint. The man breathed in a short gasp of the salt air, trying to stifle the wave of emotions creeping into the chiseled exterior of his face.

“I’m sorry for not coming to see you lately! Victoria…Christina, I’ve missed you both so much.” A silent tear ran down his cheek. “I’m sorry, I could not protect you, Victoria I…”

The wind changed directions, blowing in from the west. “Wet Dog…”

He spun around, the shotgun off his shoulder and in his hands. He fired as he faded to his left. Red eyes set in a huge head with a long snout, the beast bolted out of the shadows into the light. The beast was huge, with muscles and tendons that looked like steel cords shoved under the skin of the three hundred plus pounds of death. The werewolf took the full blast into its leather and steel breastplate. The twelve-gauge hardwood and silver pellets ripped through organs and tissue, the silver moving through the bloodstream as he leapt, battle-axe in hand. The man pumped and fired again, the blast caught the beast in the side as it went by, dead, crashing to the ground in a great heap.

The man rolled right as he heard bushes move, the second beast was on him in an instant, slashing him through the Tac vest. He winced as he fired the shotgun, and spun clockwise dropping it and burying a wooden stake, embedded with pure silver, into the heaving chest of the creature. The man crescent kicked the werewolf, catching him in the jaw as it snapped at empty air. A fifty caliber Desert Eagle gripped in his right hand. The man fired twice, hardwood bullets filled with silver nitrate hit the beast in the neck and chest knocking him back into a hedgerow of azalea bushes, a leg stuck out twitched once and stopped.

The shadow holstered his sidearm as he reached down and picked up his shotgun, then went into the bushes and retrieved his stake as the werewolf started to change into human form. He walked over to the gravesite he was visiting; a blood streak swathed across the face of the grave, two names still visible.

Victoria Douglas Christina Douglas
Born: April 8th, 1967 Born: March 24th, 1987
Died: June 23rd, 2002 Died: June 23rd, 2002

"Beloved wife and Cherished Daughter
You will be missed, always”

Sergeant Major Ryan Douglas reached into his cargo pocket and pulled out a plastic cylinder; twisting off the cap he produced two long stem red roses, his set of dog-tags, and a Congressional Medal of Honor. The Sgt. Maj. gently placed the items in front of two pictures set in plastic at the base of the grave. The blood from his wound trickled down his jungle boot and pooled at his right foot.

Ryan touched his wife’s picture, her long, brown hair, beautiful brown eyes, high cheekbones, and the full lips; he remembered how soft she was to hold. He then gently touched the image of his daughter. She had long blond curly hair, deep blue eyes; she always brought love and kindness to a man who has seen so much death. Ryan stood up, turned and reloaded his weapons, placed the night vision goggles back on a wet face, and as he steeped off, he left a puddle of blood where he stood; he then disappeared over the stone wall.

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