FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Wendy Torrance was much frazzled now, as she made her way down the large white staircase leading into the Colorado Lounge. The twisted sensations she felt inside her mind had driven her to push through her family's small room, and now, she had to know where he was, where Jack was.

"Jack?"

She whispered, for she did not want to know on some level, but then again, she had to. Danny was very sick, and leaving him upstairs with breakfast, and Looney Tunes, may have been a mistake. Her maternal duties, though, edged otherwise, as Wendy reached the last step, and faced across the massive lounge, turning left, facing the wide, glass windows onto an endless, swirling blizzard outside. Her, Jack, and Danny were captive here in the Overlook Hotel, which had been a great chance for her husband, her tall, white wolf, all 185 pounds of sheer muscle, and wonderful writing talent, to move on with their lives, after near self-destruction in Vermont only months ago.

Jack's raging alcoholism had cost Wendy and Danny almost everything, not just including their lives. Security, shelter, even just a reason for existence, had been at stake; then Stuart Ullman, the pompous, yet admirable, badger, who Jack had known from before those "dark years" of drink, had offered Jack a winter job as caretaker of the Overlook Hotel for the winter months. The news had excited the both of them, and even Danny, although just a little, at the beginning, he had seemed melancholy, set back.

"Mommy, I don't want to go," had spoken Danny, their four-year old son the day before they were to leave their small apartment in Boulder for the enormous resort hotel deep in the Rocky Mountains. "I want to stay here." Jack had been sitting at the breakfast table, eating a blueberry muffin, drinking coffee, and smoking a cigarette, when Danny had said that. Wendy had remembered quite clear the somewhat seeming little conversation between her son and his father following his pleas.

"Danny, we're all going to be together, son! There's nothing to worry about. And isn't your friend, Tony, looking forward to going?" Danny had shaken his head; his tiny white wolf cub cheeks an off-white cream cheese color. "Doc, what's wrong?"

"I don't know, Daddy," Danny had expressed through the film of cigarette smoke, holding on tight to Jack's red and black checkered work shirt.

"Well, we're all going to have a real nice time."

Wendy remembered that same night, before leaving for the Overlook, in their old apartment, B16. Jack and her had made love, a soft, deep intimate kind that had been long forgotten when he had been deep in his spirits of beer, and whiskey, when he would come home smelling like roadhouses on the sides of dirty avenues, and the time when he had broken Danny's arm after finding that he had destroyed his original play manuscript. She recollected the plunge of his tree-like, sweet candy member, soaking into her love nest, wet and sopping with a desire so ancient she had forgotten she could even come again. They had made a mess of the bed, and the bedroom, for that matter, and now, just two months later, Wendy had to wonder still if she was pregnant with another child.

However, at the present moment, inching through the Colorado Lounge, the tall, muscular she-wolf now felt diminutive, and pale, like Danny had the day before moving up here, to be secluded by these monstrous mountains, and all the snow, the feet, the endless feet of blocking snow, and the change in Jack . . How could she think he had been drinking again? This place was dry. Bone dry. Stuart Ullman, and Dick Hallorann, had both said it was. So, how? Yet, somebody had hurt Danny; yes, someone, or something, had attempted to kill her

(their)

little boy, and now, all that Wendy had between her and a Jack that had almost, she had feared, torn her head off the previous night when she had suggested they take Danny off the mountain, well, the Louisville Slugger bat gripped tight and sweaty in her shaky, big paws, did not seem enough all of a sudden.

Outside, the fierce winds picked up to a screaming howl, as Wendy passed under the balcony that led to the elevators and stairwells to the west wing underneath. "Jack?" asked Wendy again, a little louder, but still little more than a whisper, as her shaking green eyes zipped left to right. The hurried roar outside, and her own pacing breath, laced with a thick, sweaty fear, were all that could be heard to her, as she turned around, and began to walk towards Jack's writing desk, and his Royal typewriter.

Since Jack had gotten sober almost seven months prior, he had been talking about, and writing an outline for, a collection of science fiction short stories that would be his rebooting piece, his chance to rekindle the fires of his writer's realm, and she had believed in him, had encouraged him, and felt that, here, with the simple job of maintaining the basic behind-the-scenes operations of the Overlook Hotel, he would have had much time for rewriting his own life, in his own lines.

A large WHAP slammed against the monolith-like pane glass window to her right, as she stopped in front of her husband's typewriter, and for a moment, for quite a few moments, long moments,

(MY GOD)

the repeating mantra that gazed up at her with a dead, yet somehow crackling, stare, a fury red, black, and buzzing, leaped from the paper left in the rollers, and branded eternal deep into her retinas:

LOST IN WHISKEY WHO SHALL I SEE

LOST IN BEER WHAT SHALL I FEAR

LOST IN WHISKEY WHO SHALL I SEE

LOST IN BEER WHAT SHALL I FEAR

Wendy Torrance clicked the paper up more, to read the same lines, over, and over. A sudden feeling of being watched came over her, and before she had a chance to turn around, she screamed a piercing shriek that followed his shrewd interrogation.

"How do you like it?"

"Jack."

Jack Torrance, six feet tall, wearing a tall black hoodie, bright blue jeans, and dirty tan work boots, stopped at the typewriter, hands coiled, but relaxed, sure, ready. "How do you like it?"

The wind and snow outside increased in intensity, its howling now a fatal roar, sounding everything else out, the machinery inside the Overlook Hotel, all the old memories of the first few weeks spent together when things seemed alright, when board games were played, pleasant, whole conversations were shared, and meals were consumed together, as a family ought to enjoy them. All of those ghost-noises were gone now, as Wendy moved backwards around the right corner of the large writing desk, her large she-wolf teeth clicking, her eyes brimming with little tears, her lips twisted in uncertainty, as her husband, this destructive devil,

(he tried to KILL our son, our Danny, I KNOW IT)

inched towards her large, shaking body, tremors causing it, and the Louisville Slugger, faded in its wood but now alive and gleaming, alive and present, in our hands, for her life.

"What are you doing down here?" asked Jack, his eyebrows raised high, his large, wolfish mouth in a stupid I-want-to-tear-your-guts-on-the-floor-right-now-grin, his gray hair on the top of his small, square head disordered.

"I . . I want to talk with you," squeaked Wendy, as she realized, with a long-ago certainty now made manifest, that she was mouse, and he was CAT. She continued to pace back slow, afraid to make a sudden rushing move. Despite her thick size, and the fact that she outweighed her husband by almost fifty pounds, the fact was, these mere facts no longer mattered. For now, she could hear other voices, other noises, inside the Overlook Hotel, coming to life . . . the heavy laughter of long-ago party guests, their long laughter high-pitched shouts, huge howls that placed Wendy's neck fur on spiky edge. The hotel, too . . it seemed, well, older, as if time itself were losing its battle to move forward in its usual natural flow, and she would be trapped in this nightmare with Jack and Danny forever. "I . . . I,"

"You are concerned about Danny, aren't you?" inquired Jack, with a menacing hiss that spoke a smooth control of the situation at hand, a well-rehearsed line, complete manipulation, a set trap for Wendy.

"Y . . . yes!"

"And are you fucking concerned about me?"

"Oh, Jack, what are you talking about?" gasped Wendy, as they started to make their way toward the maple grand piano, and then, the large white staircase, which would lead to the small room, where Danny

(Danny? Is Danny OK?)

remained, locked in his mind-spell, maybe "seeing" all of this

(no, impossible).

With a hot snort, and a large, violent leap, Jack cut the distance between himself and Wendy in half. Wendy yelped amazing and loud, throwing up the wooden bat in front of her. "Have you given a single moment's thought as to my responsibilities to my employers here?" roared Jack. "For one moment, have you stopped to think that I have signed a letter of agreement, a contract, in which to complete my responsibilities until May?"

Again, Jack leaped, and now his sharp, filed claws aimed right for Wendy's throat, intent on tearing her jugular and drinking her sweet blood, until he could get to his son, Danny, and sacrifice him, and then, and then . . and then, he would get his promotion. An inch and a second before he could pierce her throat, however, he felt, or rather saw, a booming tomato light flash, as Wendy came down and bashed the right side of his head in with the fat tip of the Slugger, causing his ear to come almost free of its attached head, a skinny river of trickling blood leaking from the wound.

"Oof!" went an unconscious Jack, as Wendy leapt backwards, the bloodied bat falling from her sweaty paws. Now she had to do something with him, she thought. But what?

The pantry, the pantry in the kitchen, would be a "prison" for him, until . . until when? Until, she did not know, but she had to hurry, and hurry fast, with Jack already moving around a little bit.

Thank God for her sake, Jack was not so heavy, as she began to pull him along the Colorado Lounge's tile floor, around the corner, and into the kitchen towards the pantry door, where, across the way, stood the chef's door, locked up for the winter, DICK HALLORANN, HEAD CHEF, in big, black letters. Five minutes had passed since she had taken Jack to the door, but he was already attempting to get up again, yet not all conscious, as he fell down, and tumbled on his nasty gash. "Oahhh," moaned Jack, in dismay. "Gra-dee . . Grady, I need you," whispered Jack, and that name brought a cold knife of blacked-out horror to Wendy's heart, as she had heard that name before, from Stuart Ullman, telling Jack how Delbert Grady had slaughtered his family ten years ago, in madness. Was Grady still here? It was possible, but now was no time to think about it, as Wendy pulled the handle to the pantry, and yanked.

Nothing. She yanked again, and nothing.

"C'mon, goddamnit! Open!"

She yanked the metal handle that should have let her inside, gave her permission to give Jack as a prisoner for a while, until she could get Danny and run, run. But, no, the Overlook was having its goddamned way, and she would die here, Jack would kill here with one of the long, sharp kitchen blades attached to the magnetic strip above the dual stove.

Wendy continued to yank, and a vibrating howl left her dying throat, her legs rubbery and ready to fall, when she saw the bolt

(!BOLT!)

holding the handle back. She yanked the small silver bolt out right away, and flung the door open. Right then, Jack opened both eyes, and saw with great disturbance, what his wife was going to do to him. She was going to keep him from doing his job, and that could not be allowed.

Wendy reached out for Jack's hoodie collar, and yanked back, propelling the two of them at full force against the inside part of the pantry door, a heavy and thick wooden thing, which made a giant THUD as they both slammed against it, like two professional wrestlers going in for the final climax, the kill.

"What do you think you're doing!" screamed Jack, as Wendy tried in vain to crush him, to hold him down so she could lock him in. But, first, she had to get out herself, without letting him leave. Options for defense appeared slim, but then she saw what could be used as a prayerful distraction, and she took the full boxes of Calumet baking powder leaned against the right side of the wall near the open pantry threshold, and commenced to launch them towards her maniac husband.

The second box slammed right against Jack's snout, pushing it in against his face, causing more blood to gush outwards, spraying the black pantry floor with what looked like Heinz ketchup. "Oh, you BITCH!" cried Jack, as Wendy ran outside the pantry, and jammed the door close, slamming the bolt down, and then fell, as a multitude of great, salty tears fell onto her pale blue skirt.

Then, a large BOOM cracked against the other side of the pantry, and caused the quaking she-wolf to leap and grab a carving knife from the upper magnetic strip.

"WENDY, YOU BITCH, GET ME OUT OF HERE! GET ME OUT OF HERE, GODDAMNIT!!!"

Feeling somewhat safe now, with Jack safe out of her and Danny's path, she spoke as calm as she could, to an invisible, yet not unheard, Jack. "Jack, I'm going to take the SnowCat today to Sidewinder, or try to anyways, and get Danny to a doctor. If I get to one, I'll send one for you. "

Wendy turned the corner to walk back through the Colorado Lounge, when she heard a painful, yet triumphant, yowl exit the solid pantry door. "Wendy? You're not going ANYWHERE! Go check out the SnowCat and the radio, and you'll see what I mean. GO CHECK THEM OUT! GO CHECK THEM OUT!!!" ripped the monster wolf from his cage.

A hellish, sinking look of dread capsized Wendy's heart, as she started to clutch at her chest, running towards the front door of the Overlook Hotel's lobby. Outside, the snow was falling so thick; it seemed like a white television screen, which nothing could get through. With the continuous generating wind gathering force, chaos ensued as much outside as had inside, where she had just gotten away with her life.

As Wendy began to see the small garage where the SnowCat was kept, she slipped on the tiny slope towards the door, and stumbled. Upon the entrance to the dank, brown shelter, she rose up with a small hobble, and peered inside the front of the snowmobile, its hood now raised, and its battery now gone, disappeared.

Falling to her knees again, the weeping she-wolf dropped her self-defense tool on the ground, curled up into a little ball for a second, and howled small and weak. It seemed now that they were all going to die up here, and help would not come.