Cargo

         Wendy Jo heard things.
         There were never words, not in the traditional sense, just vague whispers in between gusts of wind, or subtle coded messages in the rhythmic patter of the rain on the roof. Sometimes the low hum of the refrigerator would tell her that the milk had gone bad, or the frantic buzz of the flies clinging to the screen of the kitchen window would let her know that her husband was on his way home.
         Wendy did not consider herself to be the bearer of some supernatural gift, she just figured that she listened harder than other folks. The past two years with Frank had taught her the importance of listening hard. She had learned to listen to the tempo of his words to surmise if it was safe to talk to him, to listen to the rise and fall of his footsteps in the hall to determine if she needed tell Christopher to go outside and play.
         These days, however, she no longer needed to listen. She simply heard. She heard the steady approach of the robins in early spring, and the quiet awakening of the butterflies as summer began. And late at night, as she lay on the couch awaiting Frank’s angry return, she heard the colorful melody of her son’s dreams.
         On some nights, especially Friday evenings when Frank went drinking with his factory cohorts, Wendy Jo was able to shut out most of the sounds of the world with a hot cup of tea and some soft music. She began her Friday night ritual as usual, tucking Christopher into bed before setting the old copper kettle onto the stove and searching the cupboard for the last chamomile tea bag that had somehow fallen behind the sugar. Her fingers had just reached their target when the sound hit her.
         It was distant, but clear, the shrill cry of rubber on skidding across pavement, followed by the sharp wail of twisting metal. She ran to the window, her tea forgotten.

         Light.
         Just moments ago Ross’s entire being had cried out for it. Now, as moonlight poured through the broken metal doors and flooded the trailer, he found himself wanting to retreat from it. It did not take long for Ross to realize that the invading moonbeams were not the source of his pain. The collision had flung him across the empty trailer. He could feel the bruises blossoming across his already frustrated flesh, ignited by his violent dance through the toppling truck trailer.
         There was no way to tell if he lay on the floor of the trailer, or the ceiling. He dared not command his limbs to move, for fear that the muscles he had worked so hard to develop would not respond. While his body lay still, his mind did not.
         The memory of what had lead to this moment was just out of his reach. He remembered the steady patter of falling water, the sweet smell of liquid soap, the hazy sheen of steam rising over white tile. He remembered the ache in his muscles, not like the pain he felt now, but the satisfying burn of a good workout. That was all there was, the gym showers, the brief sting of a needle in the back of his thigh, and then the metallic darkness.
         The moonlight, snaking steadily into his broken prison, snapped his attention away from his clouded memory. He watched as pale streams of it settled down around his bruised limbs. The light somehow seemed to have weight and substance, slithering across his arms, tickling his thighs, pressing down on his chest. It seemed to seep into his pores, filling his insides with a sudden, unfamiliar warmth. As if in response to this invasion of moonlight, Ross’s muscles began to contract.

         Wendy Jo stood on the front porch, her eyes scanning the newly paved road. She had seen accidents on this twisting country path before. She had even lived through two, but she knew before she even spotted the overturned truck that this one was different.
         Any other time she would not have been able to take two steps into the front yard without being accosted by the sounds of amorous crickets and hungry black birds. This evening however, was silent. The peculiar silence that hung in the air was not just the absence of sound, she couldn’t help but think, but almost like a living entity, some great invisible form swallowing up the usual Friday night chirps and squawks.
         She was able to make out the form of the truck, just a few hundred yards down the road. It lay upside down, a slain metal dragon with tires for claws. Walking toward the wreck, she quickly realized that the evening’s peculiar silence extended well beyond the borders of her yard.
         By the time she reached the huge upturned cab of the truck, she had already begun to mentally prepare herself for whatever gory state the driver might be in. The driver side door hung open. She took one more deep breath, her mind filled with imagined images of displaced limbs and protruding bone, before standing on her toes and peering inside.
         Empty.
         At least that meant the driver must have survived, she thought, unless of course he had had been thrown from the truck. She turned and scanned the countryside for a body (hoping not to find one). Then she heard it.
         It started as low growl, much like the rumbling of an empty stomach, coming from somewhere in the battered trailer. At first, she was able to dismiss the sound as a product of the evening breeze. Within seconds however, it grew louder, the growl gradually becoming a fevered howl that echoed through the metal confines on the trailer.
         Wendy Jo ran.
         The guilt kicked in as soon as she stumbled into kitchen. Obviously there was some wounded farm animal in the back of the truck, and she had run away like an idiot. But, her mind argued, that didn’t sound like any farm animal, wounded or otherwise. No, there was nothing she could have done anyway. It would be best to call the police and let them figure out what was making that awful noise.
         Before she could pick up the phone, Wendy suddenly became aware of a familiar angry heartbeat. She turned. The form standing in the doorway of the kitchen shoved all thoughts of the wreck from her mind. For the first time in five years she hadn’t heard him come in.
         “Frank,” she stammered, “I didn’t realize you were…”
         “I don’t what the hell is wrong with you tonight,” he began in an unsteady drunken rhythm. “You left the tea kettle boiling over on the stove and there’s sugar all over the counter. I nearly burned myself taking the goddam thing off the stove…”
         As words continued to spill out of her husband’s mouth, Wendy found herself distracted by a new sound, the shrill clang of ripping metal.
         “And meanwhile you’re outside somewhere doing god-knows-what, while I’m trying to clean up your mess…”
         As Frank continued his slurred verbal assault, Wendy’s ears tracked the distant clack of claws on pavement.
         “Are you even listening to me?!”
         From somewhere near the house, she heard a low guttural moan that rose into a growl. Without thinking, she gestured for her husband to be quiet. Infuriated, Frank’s drunken rant became a string of disconnected shouts. “Do you know how hard I work…Do you think I like the factory… Always daydreaming…I don’t ask for much…Who do you think you are…This is my damn house…”
         Loud as they were, these words never reached his distracted wife. Her attention was focused on the deep raspy breathing that emanated from the hallway behind him.
         “Dammit, will you listen to …” Frank halted his onslaught in mid-sentence, suddenly hearing the source of his wife’s distraction. He started to turn, more annoyed than afraid. “What the he…”
         A pale claw tore his words from him. Wendy glimpsed a brief spray of scarlet from Frank’s torn throat before he collapsed onto the kitchen floor with a hollow thump. She turned her attention upward. It stood in the doorway, a naked mix of fur and flesh. Wendy’s body stood frozen with shock, but her head reeled with memories of fairy tale wolves and long forgotten nightmares.
         It stared back at her, cocking its narrow head to the side like a confused dog. Its muscled torso, more human than not, was stained with both bruises and erratic patches of dark fur. It lifted a claw, still dripping with the red of her husband’s throat, to its face. As the man-beast examined its hand, Wendy reached behind her back, her fingers closing around the handle of the teakettle. Just as she prepared to throw her copper weapon, however, the creature let out a pained howl, turned and bounded down the hall and into the night. Wendy let the kettle fall onto the floor with a dull clang, and ran to check on Christopher.
         The four-year-old was sitting up in his bed, apparently waiting for her. She sat on the edge of the bed and wrapped an arm around him. He looked up at her with dark brown eyes that were too old for his face.
         “He was here, wasn’t he Mommy?” he asked.
Wendy Jo started to ask what he meant, but realized suddenly that while she had never seen the awful creature from the kitchen before, she had heard it. Her son had dreamt about it for months.
         Outside, just beyond the newly paved road, Ross ran.