Hey everybody! I’m working diligently on getting Dog World: Gone to Hell edited by the awesome Janet Sked no less, and I wanted to drop a treat for my DW peeps. Here is the intro. I’m currently also working on Dog World: Reclaiming Hell in between editing so I’m hoping to have that done soon. In the meantime I wanted you, my faithful fans, to know that I am on the job and as usual, the slaughter continues.
Maryville Tribune – February 17, 2005 – Maryville, PA.
Husband Iraq War vet sought in questioning of murdered family
Police are seeking the public’s assistance in locating Maxwell Trideau in the connection of the brutal murder of his wife, Evelyn and two children Darren, 7, and Giselle, 4.
Evelyn Trideau was found by her parents after not having contact with their daughter for over a week. While Maryville Police spokesperson Darlene Jacobs has not disclosed the condition arriving officers found the deceased or what area of the house they were discovered, an anonymous source close to the investigation state that the family appeared to have been mauled to death by multiple canines.
There was no sign of forced entry into the residence and the whereabouts of Maxwell Trideau was unknown then as now. Though police are not confirming he is a suspect, they are calling him a person of interest and the Bureau of Investigations is assisting in locating the 29 year old National Guardsman.
Trideau, a Pennsylvania National Guard sergeant with the Mike Company, 127th Combat Engineer Battalion, had returned from a second tour in Iraq two weeks previously and was readjusting to civilian life, according to those closest to him.
“I can’t believe Max would do this,” stated Patty Trideau, Maxwell Trideau’s sister. “Max was the kind of guy that believed in family. I refuse to believe that police may even consider him doing this.”
What information the authorities have released indicates funds were withdrawn from the family’s shared checking account three hours after Evelyn, Darren, and Giselle Trideau’s time of death, according to the Frederic County Coroner’s report. As of yet, no one has stepped forward with information on Maxwell Trideau’s whereabouts.
Authorities stress that Trideau is only wanted for questioning as a person of interest in the death of his family and in the possibly related death of Margaret Drang, 47, of Newberry. Drang, an ER nurse at Maryville GeneralHospital, was found half of a mile away in the middle of the intersection of Grand Blvd and Madison St by officers responding to a disturbance call from a concerned neighbor.
Drang was discovered with neck wounds consistent with those found on the Trideau family. She was pronounced dead on arrival by ER officials at St.CeceliaHospital.
Authorities speculate that Drang may have been carjacked on her way home by the same assailant or assailants…
Partial transcript of final contact with US Marine Corps patrol lost in Angua, Iraq 27 June 2004. Transmissions end at 2037 local time.
Zulu two-four (lead vehicle in convoy): Zulu two-six, be advised we have civilian activity three hundred meters forward. Boswell doesn’t like their looks. We’re going increase speed. Over.
Zulu two-one (last vehicle in convoy breaks in): Six, we got activity to the rear. Should I engage? Over.
Zulu two-six: What’s their status, five? Hostile? Over.
Zulu two-one: Unknown. It just looks like a bunch of kids and some women running after us. Please advise. Over.
(An open microphone catches of someone mentioning child decoys before IED attacks. Silence and then static mixed with Iraqi voices in the background and an unidentified American voice asking, “What the fuck are they saying?”)
Zulu two-six: Wave them off. Like we’re going to have any candy at fucking 2230. It’s night, for the love of Christ.
(Unidentified voice jokes about not using correct net protocol. The OIC, Lieutenant Mark Kieri laughs. Unintelligible conversation follows before mic is cut off.
Zulu two-four: Two-six, did you see those civvies when we passed them? Talk about creepy as shit.
Zulu two-one: Yeah, Tui saw them better than we did. He said once the kids got within a hundred feet of them, they ran off like they were terrified of the guys. Anybody understand what the kids were yelling?
(There is twenty-one seconds of silence on the radio. The silence is broken by possibly the OIC making a joke about a camel being “pimped” out for cheap. There is laughter before Marine PFC Charles Halveric speaks. PFC Halveric was one of the Marines riding in Zulu Two-one He used the convoy’s open net to communicate with the others.)
Halverick: I’m thanking who-gives-a-fuck that none of you pricks took time to learn this shithole’s bitch babbling language.
Zulu two-six: (You have something to add, Halveric? If not, clear the net.
Halveric: Roger that, Lieutenant.
(Ten seconds of silence)
Zulu two-six: One, six. What’s your problem? You’re all over the road. (Eight second silence) Aw, shit! One! You guys okay? Four, one’s had an accident. I’m flipping around to check it out. Four, establish perimeter security while we assist. I’m calling this in.
(Seventeen seconds of silence. The next voice is Lance Corporal Samuel Vhimes, Zulu two-four’s turret gunner.)
Vhimes: Aw shit, aw shit. Angua, this Zulu two-four, do you copy?
(Sergeant Albert Serling communicates with Vhimes over personal radios at this point.)
Quinton: What the fuck was that? What the fuck were those things? (Heavy breathing and gunfire can be heard mixed wild animal noises.) Jesus Christ! Have you raised Angua yet? Fuck! (close-by automatic gunfire drowns out back ground noises) We’ve got to fall back. C’mon, Vhimes. We’re leaving.
(Running and gunfire. Audio filters pick up what is believed to be deep distant laughter and what can only be described as growls.)
Vhimes: Angua, this is Zulu two-four, do you copy? We’ve come under attack, by… I don’t know what they are, but we’ve lost two-one and two-six. All vehicles are overrun and we are on foot, heading… (pause) Where the fuck are we?
Quinton: (Gunfire) Fuck if I know. (Panting) I dunno. About half a mile southwest of last check point maybe. (Gunfire) Fuck. I’m reloading. Are they sending help or what, Vhimes?
Vhimes: I’m trying to raise them, Sergeant. I’m not getting shit. (Pause) CampCopperhead, do you copy? Over.
Unknown voice on net: No one’s coming. You’re fucked and you know it. (Voice is deeper and gruff and is a 79% match for that of LCpl Vhimes.)
(Brief angry muttering and gunfire is heard before Vhimes changes to emergency frequency) Any station this net. Any station this net. This is… (Animal roar is the last thing heard before transmission ends.)
From the personal notes of Dr. Renee Reyes, concerning patient Zellar, Carla K – Patient Number 1056713, Pine Hills Mental Health Facility, Bismarck, North Dakota
Yesterday I was assigned an interesting patient. Patient’s name is Carla Zellar, an AWOL Private First Class in the US Army. Ms. Zellar is an Iraq theater combat veteran that is displaying clear symptoms of PTSD. She is also a mass murderer that has been classified as a terrorist threat by the Department of Homeland Security.
Ms. Zellar’s PTSD is interesting in the aspect that she believes the enemy she fought overseas wasn’t affiliated with the now defunct Iraqi military or even any known insurgent activity. Offhandedly I want to classify her as. I know that’s blunt and politically incorrect, but Ms. Zellar is utterly convinced that the human race is soon to be at odds with werewolves. Normally I don’t so much as blink at a patient’s mention of werewolves, but with the casualty list that Ms. Zellar has single handedly created accompanied by the sincerity she’s exhibited is nothing short of mesmerizing.
I mentioned above that I would offhandedly classify her as a sociopathic, schizophrenic paranoid but for details of her story. From her initial injuries, to her stay and subsequent escape from TriplerArmyHospital in Hawaii, to her tracking and killing multiple people I have found myself cringing at what she claims she has done. “Claims” is an inaccurate word as her actions have been proven.
Also, Ms. Zellar’s mannerisms aren’t typical of someone in need of mental help. She distinguishes right from wrong as clearly as distinguishing dry from wet. But when she speaks about the werewolves she’s fought and killed, there is strength of conviction, a will, and an attitude that does not come from someone mentally ill. But I also don’t believe she belongs in a prison cell. Ms. Zellar is sick, though I don’t know how quite to define her sickness.
My first session with Ms. Zellar was what I would expect from any aggressive patient. She started by speaking first and asking, “Do you believe in werewolves, Doctor?” Her voice was calm, but I did sense her underlying aggression.
“I’ve learned to keep a very open mind about the world,” I answered. “The popular theory concerning werewolves is that they are a manifestation of mankind’s inner beast wanting to be let loose.” I chuckled then followed with a joke about how Hollywood and Stephanie Myer have managed to domesticate and beautify the werewolf.
“I’m a Private First Class in the US Army, Doctor.” Her response was non-confrontational and crisp. “Miss is for civilians. You should believe in them. They overran my post from within. Rolled right over us and,” she paused, “one did a number on me.”
“Bad enough.” She manages to show scars on her back and right side. “I got the better of him. It would’ve been worse, but I guess I got lucky. Aren’t you going to ask me about my parents?”
“That comes later. Now, you say that a patrol or something to that effect returned to your base infected?”
“Do you know how I took out that pack at the warehouse?”
Please, Ms… PFC. Let’s stay on topic. The base was infiltrated by infected soldiers returning from a routine patrol, correct?”
“The patrol was just the trigger to the ones already inside. Ironjaw was lousy with the vermin.” Ms. Zellar grins at me. “I fucked one silly, getting the stink of his poodle sweat and cum all over me. I used that to get by the guards to plant my explosives.”
I try to direct the conversation back to her attack in Iraq.
“Hell with that, Doc. I’m not comfortable with discussing my weak moments with you. I’d rather talk about my victories. Aren’t you curious as to what I did with the poodle I banged?”
I must admit that Ms. Zellar was wearing on my nerves for personal reasons at this point. “No point in asking. I assumed you killed him?”
The laugh she lets out is whimsical. It was unexpected. “You bet I killed him. I drove my knife into his throat and proceeded to dig for the floor from there.”
I ended the session fifteen minutes later. She seemed pleased to have killed all she did. Ms. Zellar should be in the care of authorities I trust. I don’t care much for the alphabet soup that is vying for her, but I’ve run with Karol Mueller of the Bismarck PD in the past. I know she will contact someone that will care for Ms. Zellar. With the axe she has to grind against the enemy, I hope to God that I never end up in her sights.
The war comes home
Bobby Yates was 8 years old and doing what many his age was doing, enjoying SpongeBob Squarepants, when the shrill tone of the Emergency Broadcast System took the place of SpongeBob’s bleating laughter. Instead of Patrick Star acting as stupidly as usual, Bobby hears a male mechanic voice. “This is the Emergency Broadcast System. A national state of emergency has been declared. Please stay in your homes and remain close to a radio or television for more information. This is not a test. This is the Emergency Broadcast System. A national state…”
“Mom, what’s this?” inquires Bobby curious as to why the ludicrous undersea character had been replaced by a blank screen with a red band at the screen’s bottom. The red band is actually a banner, scrolling words so fast that he doesn’t have a chance to read them.
Bobby’s mother, Laura comes into the living room and stares at the television, reading the scrolling message. She reads the banner with her hand over her mouth. The President and Vice President of the United States have been assassinated and the nation is under attack. The Secretary of Health and Human Services had been sworn in as President minutes earlier. Laura can’t comprehend what she is reading. This is most certainly not a test.
Laura reaches for the remote, but pulls her hand back startled at the sudden appearance of what she wants to say is a CNN anchorman. “This is supposed to be Nickelodeon,” remarks Laura without any thought.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” says the sixty-something well dressed man. “At 7:52 PM, Eastern Standard Time, cities around the globe, including WashingtonDC and New York were victims of a nuclear strike. Who or why is yet unknown, but hours before the attack both the President and Vice President were assassinated by what was reported as their own Secret Service details. The Speaker of the House had just been sworn in as President before the nuclear attacks. The Presidency falls to the Secretary of Health and Human Services, Amanda Stone. President Stone was in Freemont, Ohio visiting family at the time of the attack. President Stone’s first act was to declare a national state of emergency and institute martial law. Military forces are mobilizing to reinforce National Guard…”
The man ceases talking and presses a finger against the ear piece in his right ear. To Bobby it looks as if he’s trying to force his widened eyes from their sockets while trying to peer outside of the television set.
“I’ve just been told that San Francisco, Los Angeles, Boston, Miami, and Colorado Springs just to name a few have come under attack by…” He wipes his brow with a kerchief before resuming. He doesn’t look to believe what he is about to say. His tone is low. “Those cities have been attacked by air and land elements of the United States military. Reports are coming in that other cities across the globe are facing the same crisis.”
The screen goes black momentarily and then flares to life with the face of a rugged yet handsome soldier in his mid-fifties with a grey flattop haircut. He’s shown from the chest up and he’s wearing his dress uniform. The jacket is adorned with ribbons that stop two inches from his epilate and that space is taken up by various paratroopers’ wings and an Army Combat Infantryman’s badge. He looks like a soldier instead of what he is.
The sight of the soldier sends chills through Laura Yates. She instinctively grabs Bobby and holds him close.
“Good evening. I am Brigadier General Karl Vance, formerly of the United States Army.” The distinguished looking soldier smiles and there is no warmth or kindness in it. “Effective immediately this planet falls under my control. As you have no doubt heard, I’ve got air and land power making my point known across the world. And that point is that I can haz your cheeseburgers. All of them.” Vance laughs and this time there is no mistaking the malevolence he holds for those watching. “Sorry about that folks. That was just a little humor for the internet nerds that are undoubtedly watching on the internet. I have that too. No more World of Dorkcraft for you.”
Vance stands and the camera focuses on him entirely. He’s in an office and Laura hopes that somewhere some military unit is getting a strike team together to stop this man that she is inexplicably terrified of. She hopes they will break in through his office window and end this nightmare that she and millions of others know he has started. But no help comes.
Vance walks to the window of his office and looks out. “The world is mess ladies and gentlemen. It’s a mess and you’re to blame. Hell, I’m not going to stand here and say I’m going to make things better for you. Hell fuck no. I’m making it better for me, and for those like me.” Vance unbuttons his jacket and take it off. He removes his tie and unbuttons his shirt.
“I’m sure many of you have seen the Howling. It’s an okay film, but they never showed what that asshole was shooting at. Sure you know what was on the other side of that rifle, but you didn’t get to see it.” Vance is smiling and it’s that rarest of smiles of genuine joy for him. “Now you’re gonna get to see it.”
Vance bows forward and grunts as his shirt and pants strain against his growth. Laura hugs Bobby closer and tries to shield his eyes, but he fights past her hands.
Laura can’t explain how Vance is growing hair or how his limbs are becoming more muscular and longer or how his chest is able to expand before popping the buttons across the room with force enough to break glass. What is more horrifying to watch is his face contort and groan as a muzzle forces its way forward, stretching the skin and darkening even as his teeth become long enough to scare a saber tooth tiger into pissing itself.
Before Laura can identify what Vance has become, he speaks.
“I’m a werewolf, ladies and gentlemen. Myself and my associates are now running this show. As I speak this is being broadcast across the globe and anybody that doesn’t have access to the internet or a television or radio will soon know what I’m all about. You’re militaries are fragmented and they don’t know who to trust. You don’t know who to trust. In the coming days you’ll meet those like me that will tell you that they’re here to protect you. News flash, kiddies. They’re not looking to protect you. They’re just hungry.”
Vance resumes sitting at his desk and he folds his hands, looking like a hell-spawned furred vicious patrician. “My fellow… well, not fellow as I’m your superior. My future feed bags. Welcome to your Hell on Earth.”
Laura looks blankly at the screen. She doesn’t have to worry about Bobby seeing anything. He has his face pressed into her chest and he is crying.
The camera returns to the new desk. The older male is there, but different. Someone is behind him trying to comb his hair. It isn’t until the wolf like face joins the man’s that Laura understands that the anchor is dead.
The face is wearing a Chicago Police Department uniform. Like some dogs, the face appears to be smiling.
“Are we on,” growls the werewolf cop.
“Yeah,” answers an off screen voice.
“Hello everybody. Welcome to Dead Night News.” The werewolf cop laughs at its terrible joke. Laura screams and so does Bobby.
All content is copyrighted 2011-1014 by Jason McKinney Reproduction is prohibited unless otherwise authorized by the author.