by John Ringo
And Special Agent in Charge Castro had nodded, agreed that was extremely unfortunate, then drawn his sidearm and shot Miss Odette right between the eyes. On her porch. In broad daylight. He didn’t even bother trying to make it look like a suicide. It was Castro’s way of leaving a message to the practitioners, that MCB New Orleans had been lenient under his watch, but he was getting really sick of this shit.
Besides that, Juliette got her Saints tickets, but most importantly Team Bertha won bragging rights.
Another full moon was upon us.
Earl had some business back in Cazador, so Ray and Trevor were in charge. We hoped it wouldn’t be like last time, but we hadn’t managed to find the werewolf assholes who were biting people—Earl had said they knew how to cover their tracks with wolfsbayne—so odds were we’d be facing a whole bunch of new loup garou again. Plus, more out of control hoodoo raising shamblers and growing giant monsters like Miss Odette had warned of. So safe bet was that it would suck.
The plan was this. We’d break into two man teams. Ray was adamant that we would not be going in solo and whenever possible we’d use a full team. At least six by preference.
When that was trotted out I’d raised my hand.
“I get Milo! As long as he’s not driving.”
While I was in the hospital we’d gotten some new recruits. They weren’t new to MHI, just New Orleans.
Everett Christiansen was tall and slender with thick, curly, beautifully styled short beige hair. He had that look. I could tell he was going to be competition for ladies at incidents. He was a real shotgun-aholic. Had a Beretta he seriously thought could take down anything in the world. Thought sub-guns were for pussies. His sidearm was a Bren Ten which he also thought shit gold.
I wasn’t sure we were going to get along. He had that tall guy attitude. He was from Chicago and thought anywhere else was pussy work. Chicago had the baddest monsters in the world. He was kind of snotty about Mo No Ken.
I was looking forward to seeing his expression at Maurice’s in three days. Assuming he survived.
Fred Ramsey was shorter than I am, had really beady blue eyes and, a curly black beard and long black hair he wore in a pony-tail. He had the definite feel of a cut-up which I was fine with. He was built like a carrot. Narrow waist, really weirdly broad shoulders. I almost asked him if he was actually a dwarf and did he count for PUFF. He’d taken a transfer from California ’cause he was “sick and tired of granola eaters getting in the way of killing monsters.” Must be even worse than Seattle.
Brent Waters was a big, heavy-set, good ole’ boy from North Carolina which he pronounced “Noath Cahrlahner.” Brown beard, bald, he had a perpetual roll of chew in his left cheek. Beechnut Wintergreen was his preferred chew and he always had stashes when he went out on call. He had been working the Carolina teams and took the transfer ’cause things were slow and he was looking for the PUFF.
A freaking Winchester lever action .30-30 of all damned things was his primary. He did his own silver reloads. I was looking forward to him trying to keep the damned thing loaded in the crunch. Not to mention I told him he’d better have a couple thousand rounds already reloaded. He laughed. I told him I was serious.
And that gave us seven again. The Magnificent Seven since I was the only wannabe samurai. With the seven from Cazador we had fourteen. Should be enough, right?
I’d invited Milo to join my personal ritual for preparing for the full moon. He’d been working pretty steadily the last week but was willing to play along.
He was sort of uncomfortable going to a Catholic church, but he was glad that at least I was giving religion the old school try. He lectured me on sins of the flesh all the way to dinner and I pointed out I was far more of an expert on the subject, thank you. I had to explain the concept of shriven. He didn’t think much of it. Mormons. Can’t live with ’em and they’re heavily armed so killing ’em’s actually sort of tough.
We had our last supper at Marchal’s. Milo wasn’t really into fancy food but he agreed it was good eating. The restaurant wasn’t crowded at 3PM but during our seven course meal various people stopped by and wished us luck.
Milo was starting to get the picture that it might be a bit different.
After the fine meal which I washed down with wine and Milo washed down with a Coke—because yes, apparently they can drink caffeine—we drove out to Lake Pontchartrain to watch the moon rise.
“This isn’t a bad ritual, Chad,” he finally admitted.
“I know you’re supposed to live for the next world not this,” I said, seriously. “We see enough hell on earth, I try to find as much heaven as I can in the middle.”
“I suppose there’s some sense in that.”
“I think you’re a great guy, Milo. I’m glad you’ve got your faith. Just can’t quite wear a hair shirt myself. Or green socks with sandals for that matter.”
“Hey, my sandals are super comfy. Besides, I wear hiking boots when I’m working.”
“Actually, if there’s one thing I’d change it would be your wardro—”
The phone rang. The moon was up. And it starts.
* * *
Tilford Road was typical suburbia. Lower middle class working neighborhood. Single story ranch homes, mostly brick. The one New Orleans touch was most of them had barred windows.
The loup garou dad had gotten the whole family, again. One of the sons had managed to make it out of the house and onto the roof using a ladder then cleverly pulled it up. Problem being, loup garou could make that jump.
Milo was shining a spot out the open window trying to spot the werewolf. Three of our cars were patrolling the area.
“Hoodoo, if you’re listening,” the scanner squawked with Juliette’s voice. “Code seven two, Tilford Road. Code Seven-two, Spain Street. Code Seven-two, Saint Charles Avenue, uptown. Code Seven-Two, Eleventh Street, Gretna. Code Seven-two, Wichers Drive, Merera. Code Nine-six, General Fochs. Call me. Unit Nine-four, respond Ten-niner…”
There was a flurry of shots. .308 by the sound of it. From behind us. Then some pistol.
“Werewolf’s down,” Katie radioed.
“You’re waiting on coroner, then,” I radioed back. Katie had taken Brent Waters, the big North Carolinian, as her partner. “We’re out of here.” I hit the lights and sirens and peeled out.
“I’m trying to find those streets,” Milo said, unfolding a map and putting on the overhead light.
“Trevor will give assignments.” We had barely started. So much for Ray’s hope of six men at each event.
The phone rang and Milo picked it up. He listened for a second.
“Okay, we’re on it,” Milo said and hung up. “We’re supposed to go single team on the werewolf on Spain Street.”
“Seventh Ward it is,” I said skidding through the turn onto Lake Forest Boulevard.
“Where is Spain Street?” Milo said, looking back and forth at the map. He let go of it for a second and the wind whipped it out the still open window. “Son of a…gun!”
“Spare in the glove compartment,” I said, laughing. “I’m good to the 10. Not sure which is the best exit off the 10. So you’ve got ’til then.”
I put in a cassette as I blew through the red light at Crowler. This called for some Golden Earring. Right turn and the damned Honda that thought it had the right of way should have paid attention to the sirens. He stood on his brakes and honked his horn. I gave him the FINGr and kept going.
“Take…Elysian Fields,” Milo said a couple of minutes later.
“Damnit,” I said, sliding right through three lanes from the left. I cut off a Caddy that stood on its horn. I swear to God it was the same asshole who’d asked me for directions last full moon. I nearly lost Honeybear getting onto the exit but the tightened up shocks held it together. Then I was on the off-ramp and going like a bat-out-of-hell. I stood on the brakes as we came into the intersection and stopped at the light in a cloud of blue. I made a mental note to get new tires. There was heavy t
raffic this time of night on Elysian.
“Go…left,” Milo said, moving the map back and forth again. It’s like he’d never heard of folding them.
“I know go left. What then?”
It was one of those funky intersections with a median in the middle of the road you had to go about fifty yards and there were all these freaking lanes…
I just drove out into the oncoming traffic slowly and dared them to hit me.
When it was clear the front cars were getting the picture I floored it to the other side and repeated the performance.
“I think…” Milo said, still trying to figure out the New Orleans map.
“I’d let you drive but you drive like an old lady.”
“I do not drive like an old lady. Just because I am a decent, cautious, driver does not mean I drive like an old lady.”
“You just described an old lady,” I said cruising down Elysian Fields Avenue. I thought that was apropos. The Green Lands. I was mostly looking for blue lights. I knew Spain Street was around here, somewhere.
“It’s left,” Milo said, suddenly. “Turn left.”
I’d just passed a cross-street. The next one was one way, the wrong way. And it had traffic.
“Buckle up,” I said, turning left, across on-coming traffic into Johnson going the wrong way on a one-way street. Again. This was becoming a pattern even I didn’t like.
“Oh, he…ck, no!” Milo shouted, putting both hands on the roof, like that was going to help.
“Hey, we’re right by the office,” I said, reaching down and picking up a canteen. I opened it one handed as I weaved through oncoming traffic at about 45. “Thought this area looked familiar.” I took a drink. “Keep an eye out for Spain,” I added.
“There!” We nearly crashed into a station wagon. It hit the brakes and its horn. Didn’t the idiot see the violet lights? “There! Turn right!”
“Now, where on Spain?” I asked as we got onto Spain in one last blare of horns. It was a long street and I wasn’t seeing any blue lights.
“How the heck should I know?” he asked, shuddering. “You are f…insane, Chad. Billions of blistering blue barnacles in a thundering typhoon!” he shouted.
“What?” I said, looking around. “What kind of a cuss is that?”
You could tell there was hoodoo in the neighborhood. Spain Street was a street street. It was one of those places cars should be cruising up to corners to do deals. There were always people peacefully sitting on their porches, walking down the street carrying a Bible or just standing on the corner minding their own damned business. The kind of place where some guy just jumped out of nowhere and did a smack down.
The ghetto in other words.
And there were always people out on the street, especially this time of night. This was getting on to prime street time. But not tonight. They were locked up tight behind barred windows and heavy doors. ’Cause there was hoodoo in the night.
I nearly got T-boned crossing Robertson. But in a few blocks we saw the NOPD car, buttoned up tight.
“What’s the last report?” I yelled through his closed window.
The cop cracked his window a bit.
“Headed over towards Urquhart,” he yelled then closed his window.
“Shit,” I swore, doing a three-point turn and nearly getting hit by an old Chevy. I hit my “AROOOGHAH!” siren and the guy held up his hands as if to say “Sorry!” He’d finally noticed the purple lights. I needed some on top and back.
I headed back to Urquhart then started cruising slow looking for any sign. Nothing.
“Screw this,” I said, stopping at the corner of St. Roche and Urquhart. I got out and pulled out a bull-horn from behind my seat.
“Best get up and out,” I said. St. Roche is another one of those double one-way, large median in the middle, tree lined roads. Nice place. Big live oaks, shady. Pity it was in the ghetto.
“Why?” Milo asked, getting out.
“’Cause we got at least three more loup garou running around and a vampire,” I said, holding up the bullhorn. “We don’t got time for this shit. Let’s try some challenge howling.”
“You have got to be kidding,” Milo said. “Okay, If you’re going to try to piss off a werewolf, how about we do it somewhere we don’t have a bunch of people driving by on a busy street catching our stray bullets and being witnesses?”
“That’s…” I sighed. He was right. “The bathroom is the most dangerous room in the house.”
“Huh?”
I picked a smaller street, drove down it a bit, until it looked quiet, and parked. We got out. I turned the bullhorn on, put it up to my lips and howled.
Oh, wow, it was loud. Not as loud as those damned frogs, but really loud.
“That oughtta bring him out.” Then I howled again, turning in place to get the sound spread around.
“That is the worst werewolf call I’ve ever heard in my life,” Milo said, disgusted. “It sounds like someone’s got your testicles in a vice.”
There was an answering howl from somewhere northeast. It sounded pissed. This was its territory. Other loup garou were not welcome.
“What were you saying about my awesome wolf call?” I asked.
“That it’s idiotic?” Milo said.
I howled in that direction and added a growl for good measure. The loup garou howled back. It was closer.
“You are officially insane,” Milo said, shouldering his rifle.
Then a howl came from the southeast. It was closing in. I turned that way and howled.
Suddenly it was there. The werewolf appeared on the roof of the nearest house. It jumped off the top of the house in an enormous leap. Milo even got off a couple of shots while it was in mid-air. Then he had to dive out of the way because the werewolf crashed right into the middle of Honeybear’s roof.
It hit and skidded on Honeybear, its dagger-like claws ripping the hell out of my roof. But Milo must have managed to wing it, because it rolled off, leaving bloody smear.
“Oh, you did not,” I said, dropping the bullhorn and lifting my Uzi.
Then it was back up, wounded and pissed. I riddled it with an entire magazine of .45 silver hollow points.
“Oh, Honeybear,” I said, rubbing my hands on the roof. “Did the big bad wolf hurt you?”
“You are too weird to even…” Milo said, getting up and shaking his head.
“At least I don’t wear green socks with Birkenstocks,” I said.
“Those are my casual wear.”
“Cover my six, please.” I reloaded, took a drink and shook my head. “Never a cop when you need one. You okay?”
“All good,” Milo said.
As the werewolf died, it changed into a middle-aged black woman. She was skinny but flaps of skin indicated she’d recently lost a good bit of weight.
I picked the bullhorn back up and did a couple more calls. No response.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll call dispatch. Seems like that was the only one in the area.”
I’d had to put the cooler in the back with Milo riding with me. I pulled out a can of Budweiser, popped it open and picked up the phone.
“The hoodoo gone, Mister Hoodoo?” someone called from one of the houses.
“Looks like it,” Milo yelled back.
And in seconds we were in the middle of a mob.
* * *
I was talking to Tremaine from Sheriff’s Office SIU while Milo was trying to persuade a guy in his twenties that, no, he didn’t need anything.
“No, thank you,” Milo said as the guy showed him that he had first class crack. “I don’t do drugs.”
“Did a howl,” I said. “Don’t think there’s any more around.”
“People round here know if there’s hoodoo,” Tremaine said, taking off her helmet and rubbing her hair. “We’ve got a bunch already tonight. Seems worse than last month.”
“I gots weed, too, man,” the guy insisted, pulling out a nickel bag. “You want it, I gots it. Primo stuf
f, man. Colombian.”
“We’re working on tracking down the source,” I said, taking another pull on the Budweiser.
About sixty people were gathered trying to get a glimpse of the dead lady. There was blood spilled down my door and into the seat. That was going to suck. We’d covered the body with a sheet while we waited on coroner. Speaking of which.
“Any word on coroner?” I asked.
“They’re busy as hell,” Tremaine said. Like Shelbye, when she got tired her accent got nearly unintelligible and she’d occasionally break into French. “Three other loup garou and a big kill over in Metairie and we just got a report from 4th in the Garden District.”
“Seriously, I can hook you up, man,” the guy insisted. “You want girls?”
“Look!” Milo said, losing his temper. “I don’t want your crack or your hookers or your crack hookers or your hooker crack! I’m annoyed and I’m armed!”
“Who’s the red headed kid?” Tremaine asked. “He new?”
“New here. Milo’s actually been a hunter longer than I have.”
“He don’t look like much.”
“His hobbies are climbing mountains without ropes and interpretive bomb making,” I said.
“Just say no!” Milo shouted at the dealer. “You should listen to Nancy Reagan!”
Tremaine’s radio squawked. She listened for a bit then shook her head.
“Coroner’s over on Kerlerec. They want to know if you can transport to the morgue.”
“Okay, that’s even got me boggling,” I said.
“Hey, it’s cool, man,” the drug dealer said, holding up his hands. “Just bidnett. I know there’s something you wants, man!”
“I don’t have room in the trunk,” I said. There were too many weapons and explosives in there. “Could throw her in a body bag and carry it over on the hood I guess.”
“Even for New Orleans that’s a bit much,” Tremaine said. “If you’ve got the body bag, I’ve got the trunk space.”
“You got any bottled water?” Milo asked, giving up and realizing until he bought something from the guy he wasn’t going away. “Like spring water? In a sealed bottle?”
