FICTION BY CHRISTOPHER RYAN

Christopher Ryan writes fast-paced stories with humor and heart. His “horror tale in verse” It’s Been a Privilege was published in 2025 by Alien Buddha Press, which recently also published his narrative poetry collection America, We Need to Talk. Through his independent press company, Seamus and Nunzio Productions, he published over 40 authors in seven volumes of Soul Scream Antholozine, a combination of anthology and magazine elements celebrating hybrid horror. Additionally, he released Rebecca Cuthbert’s Creep This Way—How to Become a Horror Writer, Alex Simmons’ play Sherlock Holmes and the Hands of Othello, as well as four of his own novels including two supernatural police procedurals, Mallory and Gunner City of Woe and Mallory and Gunner City of Pain, a high school horror thriller, Genius High, and a near-future divided America thriller, A Simple Rebellion.

His short stories and essays have been published in horror, mystery, crime, and pop culture anthologies. He is a member of the Horror Writers Association and the Mystery Writers of America. Find him on social media at thischrisryan and as co-host of the Tell the Damn Story podcast and YouTube show, now moving toward its 400th episode.

Check out his website at chrisryanwrites.blog.

BEASTS
by Christopher Ryan

As two tall NYPD detectives emerged from a darkened path, a uniformed cop nodded his chin toward a covered corpse. “Meet Augustus Collins Beauchamp. Has work ID from some Wall Street firm. Out for a late run along the Hudson, gets his throat ripped out. Perfectly nasty crime for the Monster Cops!” 

Both ignored him. The lankier of the two, Detective Frank Mallory, tugged slightly at his pants before lowering himself onto his haunches. With a gloved hand, he lifted the sheet, studied the grisly remains. Thirty-something blonde male. Fairly fit. Throat was a mess but the face showed no bruises or lacerations, just a slight line of indentation along the temple. “Were the glasses recovered?”

The uniform brightened. “Knocked off during the attack is my guess. Over there.”

Mallory rose and walked close to a black railing, scrutinized the area. He indicated splashes of blood angling away. “Blood sprayed away from this spot as opposed to the body’s current location, where the corpse bled out. The crime happened here.”

Mallory’s partner, Alberto “Gunner” Gennaro glanced at his phone. “Fuck me running! Mal, we gotta go. There’s another. Same M.O.”

The uniform seemed delighted. “Four in the same night? Media’s gonna be all over you guys!”

The detectives updated the arriving Crime Scene Unit, then looked back at the grinning uniform as they headed for their car. “Full report to us by end of shift.”

The grin dropped off the uniform’s face.

Gunner chuckled, “Monster cops.”

Mallory sighed. “I hate that.”

“I know, right? We’re monster detectives.”

“Shut up.”

*****

The fourth call was on the upper east side. The partners pushed their way silently through a mob of media.

“Are these vampire attacks?”

“Is it true you’re hunting a chupacabra?”

“Can you tell us who is leading this liberal death cult?”

Mallory noticed Gunner glance up. He did likewise. Clouds parted overhead where a full moon glowed. Mallory waited until they were alone in a highly polished, ascending elevator, then eyed his partner. “Don’t say it.”

Gunner’s grin was wide and full of mischief. “Honest wager; how many times will ‘full moon’ get worked into their ‘Breaking News’ stories?”

“We work cases, not myths.”

“Damn right.” Gunner followed him out of the elevator. “We leave myth making to the local media.”

*****

Jonathan “Jake” Thompson sat on a couch with zip-tied evidence bags over his bloody hands and feet. He didn’t seem to notice.

Mallory and Gunner pulled up chairs next to him while another Crime Scene Unit finished up around the wife’s body in the kitchen. “Mr. Thompson, I am Detective Mallory. Can you tell us what happened here?”

The husband eyed the detectives longer than was comfortable, then said, “Call me Jake.”

Gunner leaned in. “Jake, buddy, what happened to your wife, man?” 

The husband seemed in shock, but was able to talk. First red flag, Mallory noted.

“I came home from a business dinner to find my new bride bleeding out against our brand-new fridge.” Jake blinked, pushed the performance energy up. “I applied pressure on her neck but it just kept gushing. When her pulse got weak, I tried pumping her heart, like you see on TV. Pounded on her chest. It just splashed more on my face. In my mouth. I couldn’t save her.”

As Gunner kept Thompson talking, Mallory walked to the Crime Scene Unit, whispering to one of them, “We need samples from under the husband’s fingernails, his mouth, and between his teeth.” 

The Crime Scene detective nodded, speaking as quietly. “See his blood-covered phone? When we got here, this piece of work was already lawyering up.” 

Mallory nodded. “Bag that too, please. Get the samples, then ship him to our squad room ASAP.”

“Understood.”

Gunner approached Mallory, “Gonna check the rest of the apartment.”

Mallory nodded, then moved to view the victim. 

Gunner wandered out of the living room, past the small bathroom, and into the only bedroom, casing it for weapons, a written confession…anything to explain the madness outside. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. A basket of folded laundry. Dry cleaning still in the plastic wrapping. Neatly made bed. A book on a night-table. Polished shoes, one pair black, one brown.

“Wait.” Gunner went back to the book. The cover featured a dog with savage, yellow eyes. “No, not a dog.” Gunner read the title, then murmured, “Ya gotta be shitting me.”

The title was Werewolves on Wall Street—How Unleashing Your Animal Self Can Make You Rich.

Gunner took a few pictures, then fished an evidence bag out of his sports jacket pocket. With gloved hands, he snapped it open, slid the book in, sealed it, scrawled pertinent information on the label, slipped it into his jacket pocket, returned to the kitchen, and went looking for his partner.

Mallory, as usual, was absorbed in studying the corpse. He quietly updated his partner. “Evelyn Thompson died in the same manner as the other three. Major trauma to the throat.” He indicated a cluster of particularly ragged tears below the right ear. “If pressed, I’d guess those are multiple bite marks. Crime Scene will swab Jake’s mouth, take an impression of his teeth.”

A Crime Scene detective going through the kitchen garbage pail’s contents spoke over his shoulder. “He damn sure practiced enough.”

The detectives stepped carefully to the refuse spread across the counter. The investigator indicated an orange, a grapefruit, and a thick, uncooked steak. All exhibited bite marks of varying depth.

Gunner took more pictures. “This is huge, buddy. Thanks.”

“Goes to planning and intent. Well done,” Mallory said, then walked out of the kitchen with Gunner.

In the car, Gunner gave Mallory the evidence bag from his pocket. “Jake’s been pursuing self-improvement.”

Mallory read the cover. “Let’s stop by the Barnes and Noble on Third and 87th to pick up our own copy.”

Gunner pulled into traffic heading for the book store. “You start howling, I’m taking away your reading privileges.”

Mallory ignored the joke. “We also need comparative analysis on these bodies ASAP. You need to behave this time.”

“I always behave when we go to see The Ghoul.”

“Gunner.”

The bigger, sloppier detective wiggled his eyebrows knowing it always broke Mallory’s morose demeanor. It almost worked.

*****

“Detective Gennaro, what is my name?”

Gunner reddened. “Dr. Mortimer Ralstein, sir.”

“I’m not The Ghoul,” he said, his pale, gaunt features wearing their usual elaborate frown. “See how easy that was for you?”

Dr. Ralstein was the most senior forensic pathologist in the New York City Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, with thirty-two years of spectacular service. He handled the Special Cases Unit’s cases, especially those brought in by Mallory and Gunner, whose track record for catching truly odd murders consistently intrigued him.

“One of my duties here,” he once said to the detectives, “is to use medical science to dispel every element of the supernatural your bad luck drags into the People’s Morgue.” 

He stood at the center of a large examination room surrounded by a quartet of gurneys on which four corpses lay, sheets folded to reveal each victim’s face and neck. “Interesting case. No two wounds are identical. However, similarities exist.”

He spread his hands to indicate the corpses. “Each exhibits a full range of bite wounds, including contusion, laceration, incision, avulsion, and artefact.”

Gunner wrote quickly. “Avulsion and what? Define the last two, please, Doc.”

“Avulsion is removal of skin. Artefact indicates that pieces of the body have been bitten off.” 

Gunner kept writing. “Charming.”

The forensic pathologist grumbled, “Nothing could be further from the truth, detective.”

“Just a bit of sarcasm, Doc.”

“Save it for the squad room.” 

Gunner spoke what he pretended to write, “Dr. Ralstein is a big meany.” 

The medical examiner might have cracked a smile, but quickly turned his back to them so Mallory couldn’t be sure. The doctor continued, “Murder of this level of savagery requires sober attention, detective, especially since my initial inspection of these wounds strongly suggests that we have multiple assailants.”

Mallory joined him next to the first body, with Gunner a step behind. “How so?”

“My theory stems primarily from the varying angle of attacks. DNA tests should confirm a variety of assailants, but in the meantime, observe the markings on the first victim. These tooth scrapes, rips, and tears all angle downward. Clearly the attacker was taller than this unfortunate woman.” 

They moved to the next corpse. Ralstein continued. “Victim two’s wounds indicate he and his attacker were approximately the same height and the attack was significantly more violent. Multiple bites, some partial, others deep and savage. This man struggled, which suggests his assailant was powerful, indeed.” 

They crossed to Augustus. 

“Wounds here suggest the third attacker was quick and efficient. There is little indication of struggle. The two parties might have known each other, perhaps intimately.” 

Ralstein led them to Mrs. Thompson. “These noticeably deeper wounds indicate that her attacker was the most dedicated to his goal, as chilling as that may be.” The M.E. turned his penetrating gaze onto the detectives. “I hear you have a suspect for this one. The husband, I am told.”

Mallory nodded.

The doctor raised a bony index finger at the detective. “Lean on him, especially if you have evidence we can use as leverage.”

Gunner looked up from his notes. “Doc, you don’t usually weigh in on investigations. Why now?”

“Because, detective, these bodies demonstrate murderous organization with an agreed upon methodology. I shudder to consider how many others are meant to suffer similar grim deaths.”

*****

Mallory’s phone vibrated as they reached their car. His expression tightened when he saw the caller’s ID. Detective Edward “Tizzie” Dunn, another member of the Special Cases Unit,was a pain in the ass to anyone with whom he came into contact. “Hey, Spooky, we got your number five. Almost.”

As Gunner slid behind the steering wheel, Mallory put the call on speaker. “Almost?”

“The nice woman whose neck this nanootz tried to eat was carrying Mace!” Tizzie sounded like Christmas morning. “Blasted him right in his wide-open mouth. Got the eyes, too. Then she proceeded to kick the living shit out of the creep. When unit cars got there, she was hammering her Doc Martins into his groin. Whenever he covered up the jewels, she’d pepper spray him in the mug again until the jerk pawed at his burning eyes. Then our girl went back to kicking.”

“Responding officers didn’t stop her?” 

“Took four of our guys to pull her off the—heh heh—assailant.”

Mallory ignored Tizzie’s glee. “Have both brought to the squad room, please.”

“Way ahead of you there, Kolchak. This girl can’t wait to give her statement. Claims to know her attacker and the cult doing all this.”

Gunner glanced at Mallory. “Cult?”

“It gets even better for you ghostbusters…”

Mallory put an edge in his voice. “Tizzie…”

“Nah, nah! She’s saying it’s just every-day greed! Sorry, boys, no Scooby Doo shenanigans for you two tonight! How’s that for good news? Hah? Who’s your hero now?”

Mallory clicked off.

Gunner laughed, began driving. “We’ve got schmucks biting necks for profit now?” 

“Let’s reserve judgment until we hear her story,” Mallory said, picking up his new copy of Werewolves on Wall Street. “Though, potentially, it could tie in with this.”

Gunner hit the lights and sirens, stomped on the gas. “I’ll drive; you read it to me aloud.” 

*****

The near-victim paced at the far end of an interrogation room. “Are you two the huevóns I’m supposed to give my statement to? Think I have my whole night to wait on your sorry asses?”

Mallory sat down across the table from her, indicated she should do the same. “We apologize,” he said quietly as she plopped down in a metal chair. “With all due respect, you would have been victim number five tonight.”

“All the more reason to see me ASAP,” she tapped a gorgeously detailed nail on the table. “I got the info you need.”  

Mallory leaned toward her. “Can you tell us what happened, please?”

“One of the up-and-comers at the Exchange started a side hustle ‘teaching’ pendejos how they can achieve success beyond their limitations. Become Wall Street alphas. There’s a book assigned for the class and everything.”

Gunner interrupted, “We already have a copy.”

She sneered at him, continued speaking to Mallory. “Tells them to buy suits they can’t afford, get a lame whiteboy hairstyle, weird pointed manicures, all that. This grifter is supposedly teaching them to tap into their—get this—inner animal selves to gain a business edge. You ask me, they just gave themselves permission to be angry, self-righteous pricks.”

Mallory placed the book between him and the witness. “Did your attacker say anything about what was supposed to happen tonight? Was that covered in the book?”

“Something about bringing the wolf out in negotiations.” Her nails tapped the table again. “Tonight was supposed to prove they were in touch with their—I can’t believe I’m saying this shit—werewolf selves.”

Gunner blurted, “By eating people?”

She jutted her chin at the door. “Ask the pendejos in lock up.” She wagged her head dismissively. “Or Benjamin Lonney.”

Gunner stopped writing. “Who?”

She tapped the book’s author line looking at Gunner like he needed Hooked on Phonics. “The author of this trash, and their teacher.”

Mallory leaned further forward. “And would you know where we might get in touch with Mr. Lonney?”

Amazingly, she did.

*****

Benjamin Lonney conducted his ‘cabrón class’ in the back room of a bar just off Wall Street. The detectives entered the surprisingly well-appointed tavern with their gold shields held high. Mallory stepped to the bartender; murmured Lonney’s name. The bartender kept her hands in plain sight and inclined her head toward the back room. 

A quick walk down a short hallway led them to a rear dining room. Mallory and Gunner entered, holding up their shields. “Police. Don’t move.” 

The man they suspected to be Benjamin Lonney stood in the center of four tables crowded with adult, white, male students. He had thick brown hair, sharp facial features, and whiskers beyond a five o’clock shadow.

Lonney ignored the two detectives. “And when you make that final commitment to your transformation into a true alpha, it never leaves you. In every negotiation for the rest of your life, you’ll know you are capable of doing more than the pathetic sheep to achieve dominance.”

Lonney finally took notice of the detectives, his lively blue eyes appraising them as he might an appetizing steak. “This is a private class,” he announced. “Is there something we can do for you?”

Gunner smiled just as carnivorously. “Oh Benny, you’ve done so much tonight already.” 

Mallory spoke with calm deliberation. “It would be best for the class to take five. No one is dismissed, but we will speak with Mr. Lonney first.” 

Lonney’s grin was downright predatory. “I think not.”

He gestured casually. His students rose as one and attacked, some leaping over tables, others knocking chairs aside, all of them raising hands, forming claws, their jaws widening as they closed in on the detectives.

Gunner tasered the nearest would-be wolf and pepper sprayed two others. But Mallory wasn’t so nice.

Mallory pulled his service gun from a shoulder holster and another clipped to the small of his back. He aimed center mass at two attackers. They leaped for him. He fired, hitting both in their chests. They landed hard and did not move. The detective calmly aimed at the next nearest attackers.

Mallory whistled and the earsplitting shriek filled the room. Everyone froze. Except Lonney. He threw a chair at Mallory, who jumped out of the way. The remaining students charged the detectives, lunging to bite and tear them apart.

As they fell under the weight of ferocious bodies, Mallory’s whistle was answered. Uniformed officers swarmed the back room from all access ways. Easily two for each student, whose snarls were replaced by shrieks as they were tazed, beaten with batons, and forcefully torn off of the detectives.

Those not writhing from the electrical currents coursing through them did their best to tear out the uniformed officers’ throats. The cops weren’t having it. One shoved his baton into an attacker’s mouth until he choked. Another used the butt of his Tech-Nine to shatter snapping teeth. Some cops were bitten and slashed with manicured nails. They responded with deafening gunfire.

The hellish fusillade grew exponentially.

Lonney got a bloodbath, just not the one he wanted. He ran, savagely shoving two uniforms aside and plunging through a rear exit. 

Mallory and Gunner gave chase. This rear exit hallway was oddly unlit. The darkness slowed them; unnervingly loud growls stopped them cold.

There was an all-too-human scream of surprise. Another of pure fear. Then the slashing began. The sound of flesh torn asunder was accented by ferocious gnashing of teeth and shrieks of frantic pain.

The detectives turned on their flashlights.

Spread across the hall near the closing exit door was Lonney, torn to pieces. The detectives hurried past his severed arms, a still spinning head, a ragged torso and tattered organs. They hesitated at the bloody, massive bare footprints leading to the exit, then burst through the door, guns drawn.

The back alley was empty except for three more huge, dark red footprints.

“They just stop,” Gunner said.

Mallory aimed his flashlight at the corner wall opposite them. “No they don’t.”

Ten feet up, there was a partial bloody print on claw-slashed brick. At twenty feet there was another more to the left. At thirty it seemed both landed together, digging deep, splashes of blood staining the brick wall, then nothing more.

Gunner moved his light to the left of the last mark, along a roof there but couldn’t find whomever left the prints. “Lonney’s class violated something’s copyright.”

“Don’t start—”

A distant howl silenced Mallory. A moment later the night filled with another yowl, further away. The detectives exchanged glances. Mallory sighed. “I hate that these paranormal cases always find us.”

Gunner patted his partner’s back, glancing at the sky.

Far above the alley, the full moon shined on just another New York City night.