VI

  The Mountain Prophet was the only station broadcasting from close enough to be listenable these days. The Forestry Service’s horseshit radar grid rendered everything else static from dusk to dawn and scratchy at best during the day. Not that Moose minded; the music was to his taste, and Walton Ennis’s voice was like comfort food for the ears, smooth, rich, and reliable – just what you needed when times got rough.

  Moose took a series of deep breaths and weighed the medicinal patch in his hand, working up the courage to slap it on. Every US Armed Forces Regenerative Agent was its own special breed of nightmare, and RA-9 was no different.

  Sheila huffed from the passenger seat, “Are you okay?” Her ears twitched with worry.

  He shot the hulking Tibetan Mastiff-Husky mix a pained smile. They were parked by the side of the road next to the Game Lands, the back of the Jeep crowded with gear. “I’m alright. Just medicine – you know how it is.”

  “You should put peanut butter on it.”

  “Yeah. If only we had some.”

  She barked her agreement.

  Fuck it – wasn’t going to hurt any less a few minutes from now. At least it wasn’t The Juice; he’d have preferred death to riding out a dose of that again. Literally, he’d added a stipulation to his living will that if the only available treatment was RA-17, then they were to let him die.

  That was a good point, actually. Moose had taken bags of Juice before; what was he doing dreading a measly patch of RA-9? He pressed the wet side of the regenerative agent onto his forearm, right above where he’d shot through it to kill the tunnel wolf, and turned the music up before his muscles started to seize.

  “Sing me through it, Chris Isaak.”

  Moose pulled the lever of his seat and leaned all the way back. Thirty minutes and he’d be fine, he reminded himself. Just half an hour of hell, and vengeance would be his to take.

  Sheila whined in distress at his pain as the burning started to come on, laying her head on his lap. As happened every time he used one of these patches, he marveled at how distinctive the sensations were, like microscopic, electrified needles being inserted slowly millimeter by millimeter up and down the nerves from the point of contact. There was nothing quite like a USAF Regenerative Agent for fucking your whole day up. Even after the pain dissipated, he'd be nauseous until tomorrow, and, of course, there would be the sleep paralysis – another long night with dead men standing at the foot of his bed.

  It was a bit concerning that there could be no doubt he was using real-deal RA-9. Moose didn't know where Troyer had sourced the highly controlled compound from, and he didn't want to know. Whatever the explanation, it was a problem firmly outside of his tax bracket. Either Troyer had a legitimate source for the patches, and he was an active-duty spook, or he'd bought them from the black market. It called for willful ignorance either way. A man didn't live long and well in this world by asking questions.

  “Ooh! Voice of an angel. That was Blue Hotel by Chris Isaak, and you’re listening to The Mountain Prophet, the second most popular Appalachian shortwave specialty station in the country—”

  “Y’all still ain’t cracked that number one spot? Well, hell, no justice in this world, I tell ya.”

  Moose let out a sigh of relief, the jovial banter taking some of the edge off. The aged speakers of his Jeep could do nothing to diminish the rich baritone of Walt Ennis and the pleasant Kentucky drawl of his guest. He loved when TomTwain was on; the man oozed charisma.

  Walt chuckled. "That's right, folks, you already know that voice! We have a very special guest hailing from the hollers of Kentucky but calling in from West Virginia today, ready to fill us in on the rash of Mothman sightings. It's medium extraordinaire, Licensed Special Responder, novelist, private investigator, and sometimes field reporter, Thomas Clemens, better known as TomTwain—"

  “Don’t forget mediocre poker player and excellent lover; the two things every man ought to aspire to be.”

  “Why, those go without saying, don’t they, Thomas?”

  “Shoot. Probably right about that, Walt. But just in case, if there’s any ladies or card sharks that would like to call in and let the people know, the number is 582-6—”

  “Hey! That’s my personal number, Tom!”

  “Is that—” Both men burst into laughter. “Oh, man, it’s good you stopped me, Walt. That was not a bit; I would have said the whole thing. My bad. It’s been a long week of investigating and interviewing, in my defense.”

  "Quite alright, Tom. If leaking my phone number is what it takes to hear that delightful drawl, then I'd take it every time. It's a pleasure and an honor, sir."

  “Please! The pleasure an’ honor is all mine. I’ve been listening to your dulcet tones since I was a wee lad, wanderin’ ‘round, throwin’ rocks at wasp nests. The thought that I can share these airwaves with one such as yourself is a real treat.”

  “Tom, you would have been twenty when I got my start in radio.”

  “Yes, sir, but I was young o’ heart back then, as evidenced what by the throwin’ rocks at wasp nests and all.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Back then? No longer young of heart, eh, Thomas?”

  “Alas. I’m old everywhere save up top. That’s right, folks, breakin’ news from the Mountain Prophet, your man TomTwain’s got a baby brain. Ya heard it here first.”

  Walt chuckled. “Speaking of breaking news, I believe you have updates for us from the scene of these newest Mothman sightings.”

  “Listen to you wranglin’ me back on topic; that’s why you’re a pro, Walton. But that’s correct, and unfortunately, it’s bad news.”

  “Oh, Heavens, really? So there’s a calamity on the way, then?”

  “No, no. It’s bad news for you and me, what with us bein’ huge Moth-heads. It’s great news for West Virginia! I ain’t finished doin’ my business, but it’s sure lookin’ like a bad case of mass hysteria down here. Me and you, though, we’re just goin’ to have to keep on believin’, ‘cause far as I can tell, we won’t be gettin’ any hard or fast confirmation on whether or not the Big Dusty One is real. Not this time, at least.”

  “Ah, rats! Well, got to take the good with the bad, hm? Break it down for us, though. What exactly have you found so far?”

  Moose tried to keep listening, but the burning needles had made their way into his inner ear, making a crackling sound as the compound worked to heal whatever lingering damage was left from the fight in the cave. He kept himself from checking the time. The clock would only confirm that he was far from the zenith of pain and would stretch the experience into subjective hours. Instead, he sank his hands into Sheila's thick fur, kept his eyes closed, and tried to make out what he could of the radio. Frankly, it was just nice to hear the chatter of the two men; it could get lonely out in Dudlin, more so than ever now that half the town had moved away, and the Helcats had killed most business at the Hunting Lodge.

  He had to force himself to lean forward and turn the volume up when the topic turned to Salem Cooper, though.

  “Am I correct, Tom, in that you’ve confirmed with the Cooper family that they want you to look into their missing son here in Dudlin?”

  "Yes, sir. Wish it was under better circumstances, but I will be headin' up to the gentle, rollin' hills of Pennsylvania soon as I'm done down here. There is a…minor complication, guess you could say. The Bulletin to look for the young man has been taken up already. Now, that's fine – I wasn't lookin' to get paid for the work. It's just a bit of a professional faux pas to edge in on another LSR's job. People get hurt that way. Too many chefs, see."

  “Oh. Wow, I thought it would be months before that happened.” As did Moose. “Do you have any information on who took the Bulletin?”

  "I do, and that's why I said it was only a minor complication. She seems like a pretty stand-up lady, a firefighter out from California way, name o' Lift-Off. Major league super, big, big-time heavy hitter, got a whole bag o' tricks. And I don't know if you've been close to a wildfire, but it takes a special kind of person to make a livin' out of them. Anyway, our powers don't got any overlap, so I can't see her puttin' up a fuss about me, but regardless, Dudlin's in good hands, I'd say."

  “Gosh, I’m sure the town’s breathing a sigh of relief hearing that. You mentioned her powers – I don’t suppose you could elaborate on just what she can do.”

  "Hey, for you, Big Walt, no problem. Got the LSR database pulled up right now. Let's see—"

  Moose tore the keys from the ignition and threw his door open with a growl. Lift-Off may or may not have been territorial, but he was. Like hell, was he about to let some Californian tourist avenge his dogs and Salem Cooper before he could.

  It took so long to suit up in his current state, partially paralyzed with paroxysms of pain every few seconds, that halfway through, Sheila ended up pushing him over and laying her body over him until he stopped trying. That was fair; he'd been being stubborn. She was a good girl.

  Once the thirty minutes on the patch were through, and all he had to deal with was the near-crippling nausea, Moose pushed her off him and returned to putting on the elaborate, multilayered Japanese all-terrain warfare armor he’d had the Guns&Ammo in State College order for him. He would have moved on the cave sooner – there were an uncomfortable number of amateurs poking their heads in – but he wanted to wait for this specifically. It was slashing-resistant, piercing-resistant, reinforced around his spine and knees, chemically sealed from the neck down, came with a built-in harness, and could regulate his body temperature so long as it was charged. He’d spent over half his savings on it. He might have asked Troyer to pick up the check, but technically Moose was supposed to be convalescing at home for another week.

  His arm still hurt. According to the doctors, it was a miracle it was still attached, but he was sure it would be fine. The Rangers had asked more from him than this, and the RA-9 had already taken it to mostly functional. There was some loss of dexterity, but Moose could shoot and fight with both hands. He’d make do.

  There'd been a Code Orange in the night, and there was currently a Code Red, yet he could still see fresh signs of people everywhere he looked. Unbelievable – Sheila informed him that there were at least five still out here soaked in sweat and stinking of construction equipment. Did no one in Dudlin have a survival instinct? He could only hope that none of the locals had found the new entrances into the cave system that he and Sheila had yesterday, but that was probably wishful thinking. Rednecks could be dangerously competent when properly motivated.

  Moose couldn’t say why he cared about being the first to explore the cave, only that he did. Perhaps it was a psychological effect from his superpowers, or perhaps it was masculine pride, but either way, he had to do it. He’d told Dale Cooper that he’d find his son or at least give his wife confirmation of his death, and until he did – him, personally – then his failure the night of the boy’s disappearance would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  A brisk hike took him and Sheila to the other side of the hill where the 'formal' entrance to Salem's Cave sat. Did it make more sense to breach the cave system through there? Maybe, but he wasn't eager to set eyes on that accursed statue or the way she guarded again. Besides, the Army had made him learn to trad climb; he might as well get some use out of the skill.

  The 'informal' entrance to the cave was a gash in the earth at the bottom of a sinkhole. Coming through it, was a faint blue glow and the occasional dull flapping of bat wings belonging to the creatures Sheila had sniffed out to lead them here the first time. He hadn't been able to see how deep the cavern below was – even the sinkhole had been too treacherous to attempt without gear – but Moose had brought two hundred and twenty feet of rope with him. If it was deeper than that, then, well, he'd just be back tomorrow, he supposed.

  "Alright, darling," he said after triple-checking everything was in place, "find somewhere to hide if a Helcat comes, but otherwise guard the hole."

  Sheila huffed an affirmative. Many dogs didn’t take well to compound orders like that, but she was a clever girl.

  Saying a quick prayer to a God he couldn't say either way if he believed in, he got to it. He tied off the first anchor point through the thick roots of a living tree. That probably wasn't going anywhere, but for good measure, once he was halfway down the sinkhole, he stuck a friend in a crack in one of the freshly exposed boulders and clipped himself to that as well.

  Fear wormed its way into his head as soon as he hit the bottom of the sinkhole. A surprising number of soldiers had died rappelling before, and here he was, about to do it into a one hundred percent cursed cavern that he hadn’t inspected in the least.

  “Come on.” He slapped his cheeks a few times. “You’ve got this.”