Not Going to Make It

Not Going to Make It

         “Alright honey, put your grandma back on the phone,” he smiled.  “Okay, I’ll pick you ladies up later and we’ll go to her first recital and then we’ll go to dinner after.”  “Yes, I know, we’ll go to the place with the homemade ice cream...” finishing his conversation with his wife, the Sheriff got out of his car and strode over to the rookie inspecting the moving van that sat abandoned in a remote field. 

         “How long has it been missing?” the Sheriff asked. 

         “I don’t know, it hasn’t been officially reported missing yet sir.  Old man Marsden found it when he was looking for a couple of lost cows” the rookie replied while jotting some notes.

         The moving truck looked like it had been sitting there undisturbed for some time by the layering of yellow pollen on it.  On the ground around the driver’s side door and the rear of the truck was a mass of now-dried mud that revealed a struggle.  But there was something strange in that mud, there were marks that looked like they were made from claws.  The rookie took more notes down until the Sheriff called him over to another spot nearby.

         Pointing them out, “Look, drag marks leading to the back of the truck.”

         But the rookie was distracted by something else on the ground…

         “What is that?  Is that dried blood?” the Sheriff asked him.

         The rookie dug a little bit to pull it from the dried earth where the blood had pooled, but it was unmistakable, “It’s a tooth!” 

         “It’s pretty sharp, and it doesn’t look human,” the Sheriff said as he examined it, “I’ve never seen this before and I’ve been hunting for 30 years.”

         Surveying the field, the Sheriff had an unease come over him.  “Did you check for ID, or the back of the truck yet?” 

         “I found a registration, says here it belongs to a Nathan Black from New Jersey, but I didn’t check the back of the truck, I was waiting for you.”

         “Well, let’s crack it open.”  The Sheriff shook the feeling off and headed towards the truck. 

         The rookie took the bolt cutter from his trunk and proceeded to cut the chain that locked the back.  When he opened it up, it was mostly filled with marked boxes.  It looked like someone was moving, because the boxes were marked as “Kitchen”, “Living Room”, “Bedroom”, and so on, and many with “FRAGILE” across it. 

         He hopped up inside the truck, and thought he heard a noise, but brushed it off as wind – that is, until he heard it again.  It sounded like a low growl coming from behind some boxes in the back of the truck.  Looking back at the Sheriff, the rookie unholstered his gun.

         “What’s the matter?  You look like you gone white.” the Sheriff told him. 

         The rookie crept towards the back of the truck feeling quite uneasy.  He heard a slow, smooth growl, and this time he was sure.  From behind a couple of boxes a dark, hairy figure stood up tall.  The rookie felt the blood rush from his face and a white hot fear flood his entire body.  Green eyes pierced through his with a deadly stare...he knew what was coming. 

         In a flash, the Sheriff heard several shots, a loud scuffle and muffled, choked gurgles.  He called out to the rookie but got no response.  He could barely make out blood spatters on the truck walls.

         That unease swiftly returned, the Sheriff tried to shut the doors as quickly as possible, but it was too late.  He felt hot breath on his neck and knew he wasn’t going to make it home tonight.  Then a clawed grip around his middle and in an instant he was dragged inside screaming.