The Black Goat Motorcycle Club

by Murphy, Jason

  "Doc?" Whitey asked.

  Hank looked up at the man, who seemed to have shrank a good twelve inches throughout the day. The old redneck was an imposing figure, even with his Santa Claus beard, but now, in the dying light, he looked small. Whitey pointed at his own face. "You got . . . "

  Hank wiped the towel across his face. It came back soaked red and dirty with viscera. He tried to ignore it and kept wiping. Their bubble of silence in the hospital crept up on him. It intensified the shakes like a dip in ice water. He spoke before it choked him. "So . . . what the hell? They have wild animals. Was that a wolf or a mountain lion or what?"

  Bullet and Whitey exchanged skeptical glances. "I think we all know damn well what that was," Whitey said.

  "That doesn't make any sense, Whitey," Hank said.

  "Nope. Not a whole lot about today does, though."

  "Bullet?"

  Bullet just shook her head and looked down at the floor. Hank saw she still held Castle's Glock and felt a bit of relief. She spoke, but her voice was thin and quiet. "I don't know, Hank. I don't know what that was. But it doesn't matter. I just want to keep it - them - from killing us."

  "I guess you can use that?" Hank nodded to the gun.

  She held it up, checked the clip, and slammed it back into place. "Yeah. Yeah, I got this."

  "I disagree, Bullet," Whitey said.

  They both looked at him. He continued, "It does matter."

  "What?"

  "It does matter what those things are. We need to know how to kill them. And if they're werewolves, well. . . I didn't pack any silver bullets, I'm afraid to say."

  "What did you see, Whitey?" Hank asked.

  "Me? I was back here. I don't understand. You were the one who - "

  "I know, but . . . it was all so fast and . . . just tell me I'm not losing my damned mind."

  "You ain't, Doc. I promise you. That was a damned wolf that walked like a man. You saw what was happening out in that parking lot. They were changing under the full moon. That's what the fella in your office was talking about when he said 'You know what tonight is.' Tonight's the full moon. And we're right in the middle of a real shit-show now."

  Hank shook his head. "We just . . . we have to get out of here."

  "Ain't going through those doors. Is there a helicopter on the roof, Doc? 'Cause that might be our only chance."

  "Has anyone found the kid? The Solis kid?" Hank asked.

  Whitey shrugged.

  "Jesus..." Hank said and turned to face the near-catatonic nurse. "Simone? Where's the boy? Have you seen him?"

  He grabbed her by the shoulder and forced her to look at him. She just stared at his face, uncomprehending. "Simone. Where is Rudy? Is he okay?"

  She shook her head. "He was in there with mi tio. Mi tio was so hungry."

  "With who?" Hank asked.

  Whitey stepped in and said quietly. "Her uncle. Mi tio. She's checked out, Doc."

  Bullet headed down the West Wing, calling out over her shoulder, "Check the east hall!"

  "Shit. Whitey, check the ER. Make sure he's not hiding in there or something," Hank said and jogged down the East Wing.

  Hank threw open every door. Each room was quiet, cold, and dark. "Rudy? It's okay! It's safe now. Kind of."

  Ten rooms. Each one was small, only holding one bed. The sheets were pristine and stiff. Otero had Nate change them every three days, even if no one had so much as looked at them. Hank was nearing the end of the hall when he heard Bullet call out.

  "Hank!"

  The tone of her voice. Until now, they'd spoken in hushed tones. Bullet yelled. Hank ran. Whitey met him at the nurse's station intersection.

  "Nothing?" Hank asked.

  Whitey just shook his head and followed. Bullet poked her head out of Whitey's office at the end of the hall. Her eyes gleamed with fear. Hank's legs went soft and he was amazed they still carried him. He followed her inside and saw the storm door over the window was cracked open. He'd locked it himself earlier. Bullet was staring outside, motioning for him to look. He joined her, seeing nothing but Whitey's wrecker and the sick halos of the parking lot lights.

  "What? What is it?"

  Bullet pointed. "There. In the ditch."

  From over their shoulders, Whitey muttered, "Oh, God damn, no."

  Hank leaned in and squinted. Crawling through the rocks and trash and weeds was Rudy. The kid was on his belly, moving agonizingly slowly. His head bobbed up now and again as he looked in the direction of the Goats.

  Hank rapped on the window to get his attention. Bullet grabbed Hank's wrist and wrenched him away. "No! They'll hear you."

  "We've got to get him back in here, Jan."

  She put herself between him and the window. "If you make noise to get his attention, they'll hear it. They'll see him. Right now they haven't. He's got a chance."

  "Some fucking chance," Whitey said.

  The three of them huddled around the window. Rudy inched along. He was being careful, Hank had to give him that, but the ditch was shallow enough that if any of the bikers - or whatever the hell they were - paused to look, they'd see him. He crawled into a thick patch of fiddleneck stalks. They rustled and Hank bit his lip as he imagined the dry rattle and the stalks snapping like firecrackers. The tips of the weeds waved over the rim of the ditch. Hank heard Bullet's breath catch and stop in her throat. There was no wind outside. The gnarly, dry lengths of fiddleneck thrashed, no matter how slowly Rudy moved through them.

  "What in the heck is going on in here?"

  Hank yelped and turned to see a wraith standing in the doorway. It was white on white, nothing but a wisp, and for a moment, he thought it was some new, horrible thing come to terrorize them - a ghost or some shambling ghoul. It spoke again. "Y'all are making it tough for a fella to get some rest in here. If there was a party, I wasn't invited to it."

  "Mr. Oliver," Bullet said, and rushed to the man.

  He stood there, judging with his sunken eyes. Every bit of him was cancer - thin and sick with a gown that barely clung to his emaciated frame. He leaned on the wheeled IV pole for support. Two bags swung from it, one for hydration, and the other for morphine. Bullet grabbed the crook of his arm to support him. He shook it off.

  "I think y'all know how much I need my rest. All this racket's pretty darned rude, if you ask me."

  Whitey laughed.

  "What's so funny, Whitey? I hope nobody laughs at you when you're waiting for The Lord to call you home."

  Hank snickered, sending Whitey into another round of chuckles that he tried to unsuccessfully suppress.

  "I don't see what's so funny now."

  Bullet again took him by the arm and shot Hank and Whitey a stern look as she lead him back to his room. "I'm sorry about the noise, Mr. Oliver. Let's get you back to bed. I'll get you whatever you need."

  "I don't ask for much, but that sure isn't any way for a doctor to behave. I'm a sick man."

  They shuffled back to his room next door. The laughter bled out of Whitey's office and Hank suddenly felt cold. They both drifted back to the window. Rudy was still hidden, but hadn't gone far. At this rate, it would take him hours.

  "So what do we do, Doc?"

  "I don't know. I really don't."

  "We can't just sit here and watch him."

  "And we can't go out there. That'll get us all killed."

  Whitey clutched at his shotgun. "If they see him, I'm going out there."

  They sat in silence and watched the boy. He'd sit quietly for long periods of time, so much so that at one point, Hank was afraid the boy had been murdered while he blinked. But he'd move again, moving an arm out a millimeter at a time. Next door, they could hear Bullet and Mr. Oliver's muffled voices.

  Over that, footsteps.

  They echoed down the corridor. Slow. Deliberate. Loud, like hard-soles sounding off of marble. Whitey and Hank just looked at each other. Fear kindled in their eyes and they shared it, gathered around it like a campfire. Neither one of them mo
ved. The footsteps drew closer, but their cadence was awkward. Sometimes there was a shuffle; sometimes, a stumble.

  "Dr. Renard," the voice said, and it was thick and sleepy.

  Nurse Otero.

  Hank stepped into the hallway to see her weaving left and right as she made her way to them. She would lose her balance and catch herself on one wall, then wobble drunkenly over to the opposite.

  "Dr. Renard."

  He went to her and caught her by the arm before she could face-plant again. "What is it, Simone?"

  "Mi tio. He wants to see you."

  "Your uncle? Simone, your uncle isn't here."

  She became still. A calm washed over her. She looked up into his eyes. "He's in your office. Do not ignore him."

  With an angry flailing, she shook free of his grasp and turned to stumble back down the hall. Hank turned to see Whitey standing in the doorway, looking just as perplexed as Hank felt.

  "She thinks that Varney fella is her uncle?"

  "I guess so."

  "You going in there, Doc?"

  Sickness curdled in Hank’s stomach again. "I don't know what else to do."

  "What's he want?" Whitey asked.

  Hank clenched his hands into tight little fists and let the tension shock the rest of his body. It was how he sobered up before hitting the road on nights he had no business driving. Now he used it to burn out the fear. "Let's find out."

  Whitey nodded, if reluctantly. The hair on the back of Hank’s neck tickled at the thought of walking back into the lobby. It was an abattoir. He could smell it, even all the way down the hall. Then he heard the jingling of metal. Otero was standing at the precipice of the lobby now, where the pools of blood and torn flesh ended and the marble of the hallway floor began. She was staring down at the keyring in her hand. She idly handled them, as if she'd walked into a room only to forget why.

  Hank walked over to her and gingerly reached for the keys. She snatched them away and her face twisted into rage. "Mine! These are my keys."

  "Okay. Okay," Hank said softly, and held his hands up in surrender.

  Her shoulders were hunched now and the lines in her face had turned her into some kind of crone. "It isn't your office anymore, Dr. Renard. It's mine. It's my office."

  "That's fine, Simone."

  Her voice cracked. "It's Nurse Otero. And you will respect me."

  It was all he could do not to punch her right between her damned eyes. This was the real Simone Otero. This was what lurked beneath the sheen of professionalism. It was this bitch that he hated. Now, scared to the breaking point, she fell back into what she knew best. Hank liked it better when she was crippled with terror.

  "Okay, Nurse Otero. If . . . your uncle wants to see me, how do you expect me to get in there? You locked it."

  She looked down at the keys in her hand for a minute longer. The pieces slowly came together. "I'll let you in."

  The snarl came again, sharp and poisonous. "But you will respect him. Show him more respect than you did me, Dr. Renard."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  6:42 PM

  The office was a womb of darkness. There were no emergency lights inside. Instead, a lone candle sat on what had been his desk. It filled the room with the scent of apple pie. Mingled with it was stale rot. As Hanks's eyes adjusted, he could see the aftermath of Varney's rage. Chairs were smashed. In the corner, a splintered chair leg was driven through Hank's framed Rat Pack poster. And there were claw marks in the dark wood that lined the walls. Deep, inhuman gouges.

  Hank stood at the threshold, but couldn't make himself go further. The shadows were too thick. He couldn't see Varney. Otero held the door open and stepped aside, carrying an air of regal officiousness.

  "Come in, Doctor," a voice said. Again, it seemed to come from the air itself rather than any specific point. It was tremulous and alien, both a thing from the darkness and from the recesses of Hank's mind.

  Then Hank saw him. Varney was sitting at the edge of desk, just at the halo of light cast by the candle. He wasn't there a moment before and hadn't just moved there. Hank was sure of it. He was just suddenly there. He sipped from a glass and on the floor next to him was a bottle of Hank's tequila. He'd hidden it in a cabinet, along with others, months ago and was kind of surprised that Otero hadn't tossed them all.

  "A glass?" Varney asked and gestured to the bottle.

  Hank's mouth began to water and he felt his nerves spark. "Yeah. I'll take a glass."

  Varney raised the bottle and filled another glass halfway. Hank could only stare at the long, black nails at the end of the bone-thin fingers. Gently, as if baiting him, Varney slid the glass across the desk and motioned to a chair. The need for the drink and the fear of going deeper into the black clashed, drawing fresh sweat down his spine. He clenched his fingers again and bit the inside of his cheek. He forced himself to take calm, even bold, steps across the room and sat in the chair. In spite of the forced bravado, his hands shook. He wasn't sure if it was fear or need. The tequila was smooth and warm and he ushered that warmth through his body, closing his eyes. When he opened them, Varney was watching. He could see the eyes, far away stars in an empty void, and the hint of a smile. Still, the shadows clung to him, thick and tenacious.

  "It's a fine drink. Tastes of caramel," Varney said.

  "Don Julio 1942. I don't drink a lot of tequila, but I like that one. I'm surprised it's still here." Hank felt the words spill out of him. Nervous conversation to fill the dark.

  Varney cocked his head, almost imperceptibly.

  "Oh. It's Otero. She claimed this office once she got a key. I figured she'd thrown out all of my booze."

  Varney nodded and looked around. "Yes. I smell her in here. It smells of . . . entitlement."

  Hank chuckled. "Yeah. That's Simone."

  He swallowed hard and was again aware of the man's presence. It was like a heavy emptiness in the center of the room, drawing everything in. He couldn't just see and hear him, he could feel him. Varney knew it. It was in the way he sat, the way he spoke, and sipped the tequila. He knew Hank was scared. He was used to fear. Hank stared straight ahead at the desk. "What did you do to her?"

  Varney shrugged languidly. "What was needed."

  She was bleeding, he wanted to say. Why was she bleeding? Why does she think you're her uncle? What did you do to her mind?

  Instead, Hank just nodded and took another drink from his glass. Varney watched, studying him. "Ask," the man finally said.

  Hank took a deep breath. "What's going on? What do they want?"

  "Me."

  "Why?"

  "A very old grudge."

  "Why don't I just give you to them?"

  It didn't sound nearly as confident or tough as he'd hoped. His voice warbled. The tequila sloshed in the glass as his hand trembled.

  Varney was unfazed by the threat. "Because you know that won't help you."

  "Why?"

  "They like to chase."

  "We're just fun to them? A game?"

  "Yes. A distraction, like a stray dog abused by wicked children. They will bore of you before long, Doctor."

  Hope, if only a dim spot of it, flickered. "You think they will? They'll leave us alone?"

  Now it was Varney who laughed and it was a sound that made Hank's eyes water and his blood thicken. "You're smarter than that, Doctor."

  Hank sank deeper into his seat. The weakness of defeat pulled him down and he felt the rest follow. Tears and sweat and tremors came anew. "I'm having trouble . . . I'm having difficulty understanding this. I saw them. I saw them turn into wolves. Didn't I? They just turned. And that's impossible. But I saw it."

  "Yes. Vucari scum."

  Hank wanted to reach out and grab him, to look him in the eye and make him explain it. "Then I saw it. They did turn into . . . werewolves?"

  Varney scoffed now and straightened in his seat. "They did. It's Gideon, is it not? That would explain much. They're base and they embrace man's basest nature. To me, they w
ere hardly ever men, just beasts masquerading as men until the moon was full. Even now I can hear them, rutting and shitting wherever they please. It offends me. They're capable of more, yet they run towards being so much less."

  "Then you're not one of them?"

  "Cum indraznesti! One of them? Do I seem like one of them, Doctor?"

  "No. No, you're not. But I still don't understand. None of this makes sense. None of this is real. I'm a doctor. I'm a man of science. I - "

  Varney laughed. Every other sound withered. "A man of science? You? I've known men of science, Doctor. You're not one of them. You're a thing that repeats rituals. You see a rash and consult your textbooks. You witness symptoms - as a fortune teller examines tea leaves - and make a prediction. You're no man of science. You're a shaman. And not a very talented one. You're a shaman without a plan to save your flock."

  Hank felt his mind swimming in Varney's voice. He slugged down the last bit of tequila, almost missing his mouth, and slammed the glass on the table. "We'll figure something out."

  Hank stood and felt Varney's smile gleam through the shadows. "Oh, will you? Not with me in here. I can help you, Doctor. I've warred with Gideon and his kind in the past. Granted, I am somewhat . . . feeble."

  Varney held up his own hand and studied it. It was greenish in the candle-light, still shriveled and bony. The fingers twitched.

  At the door, Hank paused. "No. No, I think you'll stay in here for a while."

  It hurt to say it. His voice was weak and broken. He had to drag the words from his throat. He wanted to say yes, throw the door wide, and give Varney everything he asked. But he did not. So long as he didn't look back at the man, Hank resisted.

  "You think you have a choice in the matter?"

  "Do you?" Hank asked, motioning to the sigil on the door.

  "Oh, one of Solomon's scribbles? It's . . . inconvenient."

  A boom, like thunder erupted from the emergency room. Hank started and fell back against the door as the boom was followed with the groaning of metal. Across the ER, he could see the shutter begin to buckle. "Bullet?"