Ard

By Ken Moens

A small Belgian town gets stirred up something fierce when a few of its inhabitants are killed in quick succession. All evidence links the savagery to an unidentified wild animal...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ken Moens
• Release date: Dec 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310971471

Book preview

Ard

KEN MOENS

Copyright 2016 Ken Moens

Published by Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to purchase their own copy from their favourite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

1

THE WILDERBEAST OF WITBORN EAST

A curtain of darkness has fallen over Attenhoven, thicker and more prevalent than any other recent night. The visible sliver of the moon struggles to illuminate the neighbourhood, before diving behind the shifting clouds for respite. The silhouettes of the trees can barely maintain their stature in the howling wind, swaying like the bristles of a brush that paint the horizon an even deeper shade of black. The streets are all but abandoned, none of the lanterns are alight, and the houses too appear dimmed and doused. Except for one.

One medium-sized worker’s house has no trouble keeping the surrounding area lit. A warm yellow light, flickering with bright blue intercuts, rays over the front lawn through the living room windows. The muffled sounds of a television show can be heard through the walls.

Thank you all for watching! Good night, everybody!

Applause fills the living room, antiqued and badly maintained. A thin layer of dust coats the oakwood furniture, decorated with porcelain child angel statuettes, photo frames of grandchildren and globe-trotted memorabilia. Baroque paintings of all sizes adorn the walls. The room’s kept alight by a pair of burning table lamps that steep the furthest corners of the room in shadow. It doesn’t take long for the applause to give way to a jaunty television show theme.

An elderly man in a tracksuit slouches in a leather armchair aimed at a bulky CRT television set. His legs, wrapped in a pair of sweatpants, lie stretched out before him on an assorted pouf, while his hands lie folded on his chubby belly. He mindlessly gazes at the screen, the only other light source in the house.

Next to his armchair is a small complimentary table that upholds an empty beer bottle, two television magazines and a flashlight that’s placed face-down onto the table’s glass. As the show’s theme draws to a close, so does the electricity. With a heavy thud, the only powered house on Witborn Street falls silent too.

Fucking piece of shit...

The old man takes the flashlight from the table and clicks it on, sliding his other hand into his right pants pocket to grab a cellphone. He puts on his slippers, heaving himself out of the seat while speed-dialling a number before scuffling through the living room. Dial tone.

The sudden silence instils fear into the old man. It’s not the thought of thievery –no person would be out in this weather voluntarily– or even the darkness that puts him on edge, but rather the wind. He can hear it violently slamming into the trees behind his house. He can hear it ramming into the doors and shutters. Still a dial tone.

He reaches the cellar and goes down the creaking wooden stairs, unnerved by his every step that reverbs across the pargeted walls. It’s at the far end of this tight basement, past all sorts of bottled beverages and canned vegetables, past a big boiler and working equipment, that the old man reaches a generator connected to the electricity cabinet. A jerry can stands beside it. He reveals the meter stand of the generator with his flashlight, correctly set to emergency only. The oil level is only a little under half. Finally, the dial tone skips over.

David.

The old man inhales, ready to start his querulous account when he is cut off by a friendly female voice.

... Is currently not available. Please leave a message after the beep.

A beep follows swiftly.

David, it’s me, begins the old man, as he squats near the generator. Listen, your generator isn’t working like it should. When there’s a black-out, it can run for about half an hour before it just stops... I’ve had it die on me two nights in a row now so I’m thinking that perhaps it isn’t installed properly?

The old man sighs deeply.

I don’t know, when you’ve got the time, could you stop by and check it out for me?

Before the old man can say goodbye, a savage roar rattles him. Loud and menacing, outside yet nearby. His breath is stilled as he tries his best to place the sound. Was it the wind? It couldn’t have been. It certainly didn’t sound like a dog. He ends the call, as he fearfully scuffles back to the stairs, his flashlight fixed on that open basement door. Whatever it was, it didn’t sound friendly.

His ears are eager to pick apart each and every sound, but the wind masks too much. Step by step he creeps back up the stairs, flashlight and eyes still focused on the basement door. Shadows are dancing, straight and sharp. Just the shadows of the doorframes, nothing’s there. He moves forward, just a few more steps now to reach the hallway. Perhaps it was a car that passed by? He doesn’t understand much of modern cars anyway. It could be. That’s probably it. He reaches the hallway.

He skims the welcome hall with his flashlight, bathing the walls in a cold, blueish white glow that reflects in the French doors leading to the living room. His breathing gets louder, though he’s still not sure about what he heard. The next sound, however, cuts through his bones. Harrowing and hair-raising. A familiar man’s voice screams his lungs out for one second before being silenced.

The old man doesn’t hesitate, and hurries to the front door. The wind knocks the door out of his hand upon opening, causing it to slam into the wall. A few leaves and some dust follow the gust inside. The old man guards his face with his hands as he ventures outside, flashlight firmly in hand, moving towards his neighbour’s house.

Dimi?? the old man yells, trying to out-sound the howling wind.

The air feels thicker. The streetlights start flickering for a brief moment, flooding the environment with an orange light. Fences of barbed wire that separate the fields at the other side of the two-lane street are rocking back and forth. Power lines and even the poles that hold them do the same. A heavy thud in Dimi’s back yard makes the ground quake, as if the earth itself produced a thunder strike. Aided by the brief period of illumination from the streetlights, the old man spots something big and hairy speeding to the trees behind Dimi’s house. Despite its size, it’s fast and nimble, but the old man can barely catch a glimpse before a clattering of the power lines cause the transistors to explode, taking the streetlights down with them. He pays no mind to it, and rushes to Dimi’s front door. A neighbour from across the street putters to his porch, firmly tying his bathrobe while gazing at the sight.

The old man furiously rings the bell and knocks on the door with his fist.

Dimi, are you alright?! he feverishly yells. But there is no answer.

The commotion draws other neighbours out, swarming to Dimi’s house with flashlights drawn.

What’s going on? What was all that ruckus? the first concerned neighbour.

I don’t know, the old man replies, but I think Dimi’s in trouble.

The commotion lures more neighbours to Dimi’s front yard. Concerned wives marvel at the scene from their own front doors, holding their children in front of them, or holding them back altogether. Other curious youngsters peer from behind the curtains of their rooms.

I’ll go check around back! yells one of the neighbours as he follows the garden path that runs along the side of the house. The old man gives up on the door, leaving it for a few younger gents to start bashing it in, first by shoulder, then by foot. Another one phones the emergency services.

Dimi?! they yell almost in unison, Dimi, open the door!

The old man, meanwhile, sidles to the right window, and lurches over the shrubbery below the sill to knock on the glass. Still no response. And like any other house, it’s pitch black inside. He shines his flashlight through the window, revealing a slippered foot lying on the carpet. A loud bang, the door cracks. Concerned neighbours rush into Dimi’s house as the old man casts his light deeper into the house, bringing more of the grisly scene in picture. The home owner lies torn to shreds on the floor. Parts and innards are strewn about, the carpet stained with a big puddle of blood. He shudders in disbelief.

2

DON’T MAKE A SCENE

Witborn Street is suddenly lush with life and light, a shrill contrast to what it was like an hour ago. The wind has settled down somewhat, but still manages to pack a mighty wallop sporadically. Around Dimi’s house, a wide perimeter has been sealed off with police tape and patrol cars, whose flashing lights work in conjunction with generator-powered floodlights to keep the scene lighted. Curious bystanders, eager to catch a glimpse of the whispered bloodshed, shamelessly document the happenings with their smartphones while commoving each other with inaudible hearsay. The handful of stationed officers manning the perimeter throw a guarding eye over the lot.

The sound of a car horn divides the bloodlusting mob in two. A simple Volvo station wagon –an older model whose age must reach the double digits– cautiously rolls up to an opening in the police lint that’s guarded by two officers. Left is Ferdi Vermant, in his early forties with a rather stern face, black hair in a medium regular haircut, and a thick moustache that spans the entire height of his philtrum. To the right stands Veerle Gidoux, a young woman in her mid-twenties. Her blond hair is cut in a shag, with traces of black running through it. She seems determined but unnerved.

The driver rolls down the window. Behind the wheel sits Miriam Seghers, an ordinary-looking woman in her late thirties. She’s dressed in a black woollen sweater wrapped in a thick, unzipped khaki cotton coat, and tight blue jeans. Her curly brown hair is let loose, reaching down to her shoulderblades. She has a small but noticeable scar, like three scratches, on the left temple. Her eyes betray a hint of tiredness. So do the three empty coffee cups stacked in the cup holder. A metal attaché case lies on the passenger seat. Ferdi steps to the window, and bends over to address Miriam.

I’m here to see detective Grovendael, she says firmly.

You must be Miriam Seghers. he replies. Miriam just nods with a confirming ‘Mhm’ while she deactivates the blue flashing light on her dash along with her gps.

Go right on through, she should be in the hallway.

Ferdi signals to Veerle with a swirling index finger. She spots the message and steps aside along with Ferdi, allowing Miriam to slowly roll into the perimeter. The sides of the car show a slew of official government logos that read ‘Federal Public Service - Health, Food Chain Safety and Environment’. She brings the car to a halt, turns off the ignition and sighs deeply.

What am I even doing here? she asks herself, before grabbing her metal attaché case from the passenger seat and getting out.

As she follows the thick electricity wires over the brick path to Dimi’s front door, she spots something that sends her nerves into a flurry: a coroner is standing just outside the front porch, pinching the remaining half of a burning cigarette between his index finger and thumb. The man himself seems nice enough, meeting her eye contact with a smile and a friendly nod, but he’s dressed in a uniform instead of a suit. That only happens when the body is non-presentable. Their way of saying a complete bloody mess. He says nothing as she passes him through the open front door. Instead he looks straight forward, bringing the cigarette to his lips to take another pull.

The hallway of Dimi’s house is a intimate affair with one upward staircase to the left of the front door, one set of closed double doors to the right and one more closed door at the far end. The walls are plastered with a brownish paper. A coat rack to the immediate left is holding two cheap-looking jackets; a thick winter jacket and a thinner spring blazer. A malnourished dragon tree houseplant stands lifelessly in the immediate right corner. The floor is laid with a checkered black-and-white tile set. The stains and footprints prove that it hasn’t had a proper scrubbing in a good long while.

Directly ahead are two more officers dressed in uniform: Vincent Demarco and Luc Dollebie. Vincent is the younger one, darker skin tone, deep brown eyes and pitch-black hair. Luc on the other hand is a rather portly fellow, with a five-o-clock shadow, a mean widow’s peak that leads into a buzz cut, and bright blue eyes. They are taking notes while discussing the situation with two detectives: Sara Grovendael and Laurens Heckenbreker. Both dressed in casual clothing, both have their backs to Miriam. Sara is doing the talking while the men listen intently, until Vincent notices Miriam. His distraction spurs Sara to turn her head around.

Miriam? Sara asks, as Laurens turns around as well.

Miriam Seghers, yes. Miriam replies. Sara deftly approaches her.

I’m detective Sara Grovendael. This is my partner, detective Laurens Heckenbreker. I’d shake your hand but, you know... she says authoritively.

Sara wears a black turtleneck sweater underneath an open woollen light grey mantel, and tight snow washed jeans. She has natural dark blond hair, tied into a ponytail, and only a minimum of make-up on her. Laurens is dressed in a zipped-up fur-lined pilot jacket and a dark pair of jeans. He has a clean shave and a cut that’s trimmed at the sides but tousled at the top. Both of them don latex gloves that have some traces of blood on them. Laurens notices how Miriam’s eye falls on his fur-line.

Don’t worry, he utters pre-emptively, it’s fake. Sara shoots a firm look at Laurens, who meets her eye with a shrug, before addressing Miriam again.

I’m glad you could be here on such short notice. Sara continues.

Yes well, it doesn’t happen every day that I’m sent to a crime scene. Miriam quips casually.

True enough, this isn’t something we normally do, but this lies outside the scope of normal procedures.

Laurens offers Miriam a pair of latex gloves.

You’ll need these, he adds.

Miriam sets her attaché case down and takes the gloves, but can’t hide her confusion.

I’m sorry, I haven’t even been briefed. In fact, I haven’t heard much of anything. I’m not sure how I’ll be able to help--.

We wouldn’t have asked if we didn’t think you could help. Sara interrupts, as she opens the double doors that lead to the living room. For now, you might be our leading lady. So to speak. However, I must warn you that what you are about to see will upset you.

Miriam doesn’t pay much attention as she tails Sara and Laurens into the living room, absent-mindedly looking down while slipping on the latex gloves until Sara stops her dead in her tracks, putting her fingertips on Miriam’s breastbone.

Be mindful, Miriam. she says, as she looks to the ground. Miriam follows Sara’s sightline, and notices how she almost tripped over a severed leg. The big, meaty chunks that remain of Dimi Neyters, a fifty-three-year-old slob of a man, lie before her, connected by a trail of grume on the floor that runs from the living room carpet to the sliding door at the far end of the open kitchen. Spats of gore droop from the walls and furniture, some of it even dribbles from the ceiling and the iron chandelier that hangs from it. The burning floodlight at the head of the living room drapes everything in a dramatic contrast that makes the blood look almost black. A chill runs down her spine.

Oh my God... Miriam gasps.

We believe this man was killed by an animal, Laurens begins, and we need your help figuring out what it is, if it could attack again, and how to possibly trap it.

Miriam is awe-struck. Whatever Laurens said went in one ear, and out the next. Sara picks up.

Do you have any idea what kind of animal could do this?

Miriam shakes her head unwittingly.

Could a bear do it? she asks in an attempt to focus Miriam.

Uh... A bear? A bear...

Miriam, Sara says reassuringly, I need you to concentrate.

Miriam struggles to regain composure. A bear... she mutters to herself. ... Would you excuse me for a moment?

Miriam leaves the room with wide steps.

Still think this is a good idea? Laurens prods, drawing a deep sigh out of Sara.

Give her a break, she’s not used to these sights.

You make it sound like I am.

Miriam storms out the front door, deeply breathing in the fresh air. A few feet outside, she bends over retching, and puts her hands on her knees to help the air to reconvene. The coroner approaches her and takes a small metallic box out of his pocket that he presents to Miriam.

Here. Rub this under your nose.

It’s not the smell... replies Miriam between the hyperventilation.

Trust me, says the coroner, it will help.

Before Miriam can accept the gift, Sara rushes out of the house to join Miriam on the brick path.

Miriam, she begins, we could certainly use your help in there.

Miriam looks around. All those curious faces. All those blood-lusting bystanders.

Please don’t make a scene, Sara asks, one is more than enough...

Miriam regains herself when the power switches back on, illuminating the houses down the street one by one. Ferdi moves to a power generator, and switches it off to kill the floodlights.

Just in time... jokes Sara while drawing a soft smile. Miriam nods, and hesitantly follows Sara back into the house.

Both ladies rejoin Laurens in the living room, now lighted by the house lamps. The room itself has a rather spartan furnishment: one large squab sofa with crumbs of chips between the cushions, a coffee table smeared with beer can rings and a widescreen plasma television that shows small cracks in the screen. There’s a rack that holds an impressive LP collection and a variety of sordid DVD's. Next to it stands a vitrine that shows wartime memorabilia: miniature tanks, insignia’s, a bayonet and some Bowie knives. The living room leads straight into an open kitchen with a small table and one chair.

Miriam sets her attaché case own near the severed leg.

Reviews for Ard

[Linda Tonkn · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Don't know if this book was translated but if so it was badly done and if not then badly written. Didn't have the patience to get through it.