Steel And Poppies

Hunters

Trent Corr sat on a soft old fashioned armchair. His huge hand grabbed some sweets from a crystal bowl, and stuffed them into his mouth. His feet, wrapped in dusty snake-skin boots, rested on the cherry wood side-table.

The square built American looked entirely out of place in the cosy surroundings of a Victorian estate. On the sofa beside him, looking as much as a cowboy as Trent, was Earl Parker. Earl was wearing the same spacey outfit, but he was taller and his clothes were a lot cleaner. He was well better mannered than his companion, and it wasn’t hard to see who of this duo was the brains. But Earl didn’t team with Trent for his cleverness.

“Would you like some shortbread with your tea?” Mary Driscoll offered. “I made them myself, just this morning.”

“Thank you, my dear!” Her husband Bob smiled at his wife. The garage owner turned his attention to his two guests.

“You see, gentlemen” he explained. “We have tried to take out the lot of them ourselves, but, well, it seems we’re getting too old for this.”

Earl nodded. “They are not to be messed with, these beasts! Need ta’ be wary and quick!” He talked in a broad southern accent. “You say they’re tame?”

“Yes, yes indeed!” Bob confirmed. “They are even driving cars, can you believe that! And they seem to have enslaved some humans.”

Earl looked up. He had never heard of werewolves keeping humans as pets. The other way around, yes. But this was new.

“What makes ya think that?” He wanted to know.

“There was this girl with them. She was human. She claimed to be a hunter herself, and that she had tricked the beasts into trusting her. But then, she helped them escape!”

“Interesting.” Earl mused. “Are you sure, they were what you think?”

“Absolutely!” Bob seemed to be a little offended that his story was doubted. “Wait, I show you something!”

He looked over to his wife. “Mary, my dear, be so kind and get the poppy, will you?”

Mary looked confused for a moment, and then turned to go. “Oh, yes, the poppy!”

She vanished into a kitchen to look for it, while there was an awkward silence, between the three men, which was only interrupted by the crunching sound of Trent’s teeth crunching the sweets.

Mary returned with a single dried flower. She handed it to Earl, who looked at it sceptically.

“This is a mottled poppy.” Bob explained. “It’s a very rare breed. It’s usually white, but it gets these red dots whenever the breath of a werewolf touches it’s leaves.”

Earl nodded. “I heard of these. Thought they were a myth.”

Mary smiled. “My family grows them for generations now.”

Earl handed the flower to Trent, who sniffed at it, and shrugged, handing the flower back to Earl. “I ain’t believin’ no shit!” He claimed. “Just tell me where’s to find ’em!” He crooked his finger as if he was firing a gun.

“Do you know where they are from?” Earl asked.

“They didn’t tell, but their names are Daniel and Emma Smith. Not an uncommon name but a found out, that there is a Daniel Smith living with his family in Stoneybridge.”

“And you’re sure it’s them?”

“It fits perfectly. Stoneybridge is about 48 Miles from here, in the heart of the Northumbrian forest. If I were a foul creature of the night, I would hide there too. Lots of places to hide in.”

Earl grinned. “Well, I think it’s time to pay a visit to the Smiths then, eh Trent?”

Trent just grunted in approval.

Two hours later, the two Americans drove along the back roads of the Northumbrian forest. Earl was behind the wheel, his driving accompanied by a constant stream of complaints, in which at least every second word was fuck. He had a hard time driving on the left, and the fact that the car had a manual gear box didn’t help either. “And then they put the fucking wheel on the fucking wrong side of the fucking car!” Earl had complained. More than once, he had entered a roundabout the wrong way, which, when his wasn’t the only car, had led barely avoided crashes and even more swearing on Earl’s side. To make matters worse, he had insisted on getting what Trent called a man’s car, in this case a big Japanese pick-up. When they entered the village of Bellingham, Earl had begun to wonder, if that sissy guy at the car rental might have been right: Twice already, they had to make a detour, because their monstrous car was too big to take the corners.

Yet, he felt a bit better, when he saw the white road sign directing them to Stoneybridge.

“Eh’ Trent, there it is!” It took him a while to manoeuvre across the narrow bridge that led into the village.

Trent spit through the open window. “Wha’s this? Open Pants, Minnesota?”

When Earl stopped the truck on the village square, they drew everyone’s attention. Had the mysterious girl that had lately shown up sparked some peoples imagination, these two cowboys would be talk-of-the-town within minutes.

Earl approached an elderly woman, who stared at him, as if he was an alien, who had just climbed out of a spaceship.

“Howdy, lady. Is there a motel or something ’round ’ere?”

The woman remembered her manners. “Oh, there’s a bed and breakfast at Bertie’s pub over there.”

Earl tipped his head. “Thanks, ma’am.” And he waved Trent to follow him.

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