"That's the truth. It was a raid at dawn. A meth lab in a trailer park. Some bikers had holed up there. They'd been there for a while. For some reason, the raid never could get approved. Bureaucracy or some bullshit. But we were ready to go in. Everyone knew they were cooking there. You could smell it down the highway. The team went in there, ready for a fight. They were running on adrenaline instead of thinking and following protocol. Everybody got sloppy. Some tweaker came at me with a broken bottle of cheap rum. Got me pretty good."
"You take him out?" Whitey asked.
"Yeah. Yeah, I did."
"Is that why you quit the SWAT team?" Hank asked.
"No. This was nothing. I quit because it was a boy's club. A bunch of adrenaline junkies in a locker room, just waiting to kill somebody."
Whitey grew quieter, a bit grimmer. "Do you know what motorcycle club they were with? The bikers?"
"They weren't Black Goats. Never heard of those assholes outside until today." She turned to Varney. "But you have."
Varney nodded slowly. "I have."
"Me, too," Whitey said and the room froze. Both Hank and Bullet put down their glasses and stared at him. "Well, they weren't werewolves or anything. Didn't need to be. Those fuckers are scary enough without changing under the full moon." When no one spoke, he took a deep breath and collected his thoughts.
"I used to ride with the Hessians, out in San Bernadino. This was a long time ago. August of 1973, I guess. We thought we were the cocks of the walk, let me tell you. And in a way, we were. I was a nasty son of a bitch, myself. Beat down some gas station attendant outside of Frisco. Used a bicycle chain on the poor fella. Yeah, I was a real shit. God himself couldn't take me in a bar fight. And if things got too nasty, I had my Bowie knife and my .38. I'd done a bit of time in the clink by then. And now, me and old Tommy Blaze were trucking sixty kilos of white powder heroin. Had my sidecar packed full. It wasn't a legit job, as far as delivery runs go. The bosses, they didn't know. This was just me and Tommy. We'd double crossed some Cubans and ran off with their product. Thought we were gonna be rich, selling it to some fancy nightclub fucker in Palm Springs.
It was a good drive. Had a wicked sunburn, but man, it was the high life, just thinking about all of the things I was going to do with my share. We'd hooked around through the Santa Rosa Mountains to avoid the fuzz on the interstate. We stopped. Middle of nowhere. Tommy had to take a piss. Kid had a bladder like a baby. So I was sitting there having a smoke, enjoying the day when they came up on us. About twenty of them, heading the other way down 74. Now this was Hessian territory and they knew it. We were flying our colors and nobody was gonna fuck with us. Not here. Hell, I was worried that it was one of the bosses of our M.C. and that we'd get busted working outside the gang. They'd have cut our damned balls off for that.
But they weren't Hessians. No. It was that bearded mother fucker outside, Gideon, looking just like he looked today. The long hair, the cane. Like an undertaker in an old horror movie. They rolled up on us as casual as could be and I knew right then there was gonna be trouble. Ain't a one of them looked right. It was in their eyes, the way they moved. Didn't seem to be human. I was too worried about our haul, though. By the looks of these guys, they were going to take it all and leave us for dead. Or at least after busting us up pretty good. And I couldn't go for my pistol quick enough. They came down on me ready for a fight. So I had to sit there and wait for Tommy to get back from his piss. I made a little small talk and then got horsey with them, telling them to fuck off and waving my dick around. Didn't seem to bother them. They just watched. Didn't laugh. Didn't puff up like we were gonna throw down. They just sat there, looking at me with those weird Goddamn eyes.
So Tommy comes out of the bushes and they were on him. I jump up and one of them puts a boot in my gut. They grab Tommy and are kicking me around in the dirt. I could feel stuff moving around inside that wasn't supposed to be. Ribs busting, all that. They were strong. Didn't strike me then, but yeah, they were stronger than any fella had a right to be. I figured it was PCP. They stopped kicking me and held me down. They tied Tommy up to a tree. Gideon went to work on him with a hammer. Popped his kneecaps off. Just dug them right out of his legs. Tommy kept screaming and screaming, telling them they could take the drugs. They didn't say a word, though. Still didn't laugh or get mad. Just went at it like they had a job to do. Then they took a Zippo and burned out his eyes. Real slow like. I could hear them boil and pop. Tommy had quit screaming by then. His mind just broke into a hundred damned pieces.
Gideon wiped off his hands, climbed back on his ride, and headed off down the highway. They didn't touch the drugs. I dropped Tommy at a hospital, ditched our haul on the side of the road, and kept riding all the way to Tribes. Haven't set foot in California since."
Everyone let that sink in. It felt like they were on a life raft that was slowly taking on water. And they just let it happen. Swallowed up.
"Thanks for the pep talk, Whitey," Hank said, and lowered his head again.
"Listen," Bullet said, and rose halfway from her chair.
"I don't think I need to hear any more, guys," Hank said, not bothering to look up.
"No, dammit. Listen."
They did. Somewhere in the hallway was a squeaking noise. It was quiet and repetitive, echoing off of the marble floors. Bullet opened the office door and looked out into the ER. "Oh no."
Everyone followed and stepped out into the hallway. At the far end of the ER, near the gaping hole in the wall, was Lane Oliver. The old man shuffled along, pushing his IV pole in front of him. The wheels squeaked. "Mr. Oliver!" Hank said.
Mr. Oliver looked over his shoulder, but ignored them. He kept going across the threshold. The single frond of wolfsbane that lay there caught in the wheels. It stuck there as he moved into the parking lot. The lot seemed empty, but dozens of pairs of eyes gleamed from the darkness beyond. He began to call out to the wolves. "Hello? My name is Lane Oliver. I'd like to talk."
"The wolfsbane..." Bullet said.
They moved in unison across the floor, Hank in the lead. "Mr. Oliver, come back inside."
The old man still ignored him and stood there with his pale, bony ass exposed under the sodium lights. He leaned heavily on the IV pole, looking around. "Hello? I know you're out here."
And then they came. They'd been there all along, hiding in the landscape. They dropped from the tree and emerged from the bushes. In seconds, Mr. Oliver was surrounded. The things looked at him with eager, curious eyes. Some salivated. They sniffed and circled him. "My name is Lane Oliver," he said. "I . . . I'm very sick. I'm dying."
Gideon came forward. The mass of gray dreadlocks swayed in the night breeze. It was smiling. Hank and the others stopped in the middle of the ER and Hank watched the wolfsbane get shredded beneath the wheels of the IV pole. He hissed involuntarily, like someone who witnessed a car crash.
Mr. Oliver continued. "I need help. Please. I don't want to live like this. I don't want to die like this. I'll do whatever you like. But you have a gift. I want you to share it with me. For God's sake, please."
Gideon moved to the front of the pack. He dwarfed Oliver. With his paws on the man's shoulders, he leaned in and ran his tongue up the man's neck and across his face. Oliver held his hands up, but didn't move away. "Please . . . " he said, his voice just a cracked whisper.
"Dammit, Ollie," Whitey said.
Oliver didn't have time to make another sound. Gideon's maw snapped around the old man's throat. He gave Oliver a quick shake, ripping open his neck, and tossed him to the others. The pack swarmed. Ravenous snarls. Blood sprayed. Lane Oliver disappeared into the mass of claws and teeth. The IV pole clattered to the ground.
"No!" Hank screamed, but it was Whitey that ran forward.
The wolves pulled and tore at Oliver with their teeth, with their claws. His flesh peeled like rotted cloth and his insides spilled out. Another werewolf, the skinny one named Harlan, skittered forward and lapped up the entrails from the a
sphalt. Oliver was pulled into raw pieces. He didn't scream, but spasmed. His mouth opened and closed, but no sounds came out. Only blood.
Whitey ran into the parking lot and fired both barrels of the shotgun. Some of the werewolves scattered. Others turned to face him, ready. Hackles went up. Bloody fangs gleamed in the dim, orange light.
Bullet drew Castle's 9mm and fired two shots into the pack. "Whitey!"
Whitey broke the shotgun open and ejected the shells. He took a few slow steps back, realizing what he'd done. And that he was out of ammo. Gideon threw his head back and howled. Hank felt his blood go thick and cold. Whitey grabbed the shotgun by the barrel and swung. It smashed against the side of Gideon's head. The gray werewolf didn't flinch. He looked down at Whitey who now held the ruined gun in his hands. Gideon swatted Whitey. Whitey's body bent impossibly sideways. Bones snapped and he was thrown from his feet. The giant, Panzer, caught him in the air, smacking him to the ground. Another ran up, latched onto Whitey's arm, and gave him a shake. The arm turned to red jelly. With a whip of her neck, the thing tossed Whitey into the air again. Another caught him. They batted him about. Whitey hit the asphalt and tried to crawl away. One arm dragged uselessly, connected only by mangled tissue. They caught him again and tossed him around.
"God damn you!" Hank screamed.
Bullet unleashed a flurry of shots at anything that wasn't Whitey. The wolves shrugged off the bullets and turned to them. A dozen smiling monsters.
Varney put himself between Hank and the werewolves and faced them. "You should run now."
"Where?" Bullet asked as she checked the clip.
Varney stared straight ahead into the pack. "I wasn't talking to you."
Panzer bowled towards the group in the doorway. Hank felt her roar vibrate in his chest. The side of her face was disfigured, a mottled, hairless patch where the skin fused together from the silver nitrate. Varney stood calmly, ready to accept them all.
Hank looked to Bullet. "Go!"
Bullet shoved him aside and fished a tiny bottle sealed with a dropper from her pocket. "Wait."
Panzer's feet sent tremors through the floor. She barreled towards Varney. Bullet wound up and hurled the bottle. It hit Panzer between the eyes and burst. The hulking werewolf shrieked. She tumbled forward and slid past Varney. White plumes of smoke and flames erupted on her head. Bullet drew the gun again and emptied the clip into Panzer's skull. The giant bitch shrieked and swatted. Hank smelled burnt hair and roasting flesh.
Another wolf surged in. Varney stopped it with a swipe across the face. The front of the werewolf's head vanished in a cloud of brain and bone. He grabbed yet another by the throat and threw it into the advancing pack.
Bullet ran back. "Come on!"
Hank followed her down the hall. "More silver nitrate?"
"Yeah. Concentrated. From the lab."
"We don't have any more, do we?"
"Nope."
The emergency lights in the West Wing flickered. A repetitive boom echoed down the hall. The shutter at the end of the corridor was buckling inward. The sound came from other rooms, too, along with tearing metal and smashing glass. Claws appeared through the cracks in the door. A wolf poked its gnashing maw through. The cacophony was deafening but the panicked rush of blood in Hank's ears was almost louder. The door at the end gave. A tide of werewolves spilled into the hallway. Other doors to empty patient rooms flew open. Some were smashed from their hinges. More wolves. They snorted and shook their heads, trying to rid themselves of the effects of the wolfsbane. They filled the hallway, tumbling and grappling over each other.
Bullet grabbed him by the arm. "This way!" She pulled him into the storage room and locked the door behind them.
Hank scrambled in the darkness, trying to find anything that resembled a weapon. The door rattled in its frame. Hank held up a green handled mop. It was the only thing he could find, but he found that the fear was gone. It was gone and in its place was cool certainty. He would fight. They would be overwhelmed. They would die. That was the equation. He didn't shake. He didn't feel his bowels loosen. He faced the door and listened to it splinter. With a frenzy, claws dug into the wood on the other side.
He smelled alcohol and thought that it was funny in a sad and miserable kind of way. That the scent of his crutch would come to him now, now when he needed it and absolutely did not need it and had an empty flask in his back pocket. Sure, he wouldn't mind a swig or ten. Why not? It might make the coming disembowelment a bit easier, right? There was something not quite right about it, though. It wasn't the smell of a barroom or his bedroom after a night of exuding it from his pores. It was clean. It was antiseptic. And there was a hiss.
Bullet spun the valves on the bottles of ether. They hissed in harmony and Hank took a deep, heady breath. The room grew fuzzy and sleepy and it felt good. Yes, he'd just lay down on the floor and let the vapors take him away. That was much easier. The damned things could eat him and he wouldn't know and wouldn't care. Fine. Yes. Dreamland. Bullet had the right idea. He dropped the broom. A hinge from the door shook loose.
Bullet jumped up and pulled the ladder down from the ceiling. The tanks were spewing gas now and the room was filling with beautiful ether and Hank thought of a girl, Wendy - Wendy? Was it Wendy? - painting her nails in his condo and the smell that the acetone gave off and how it was one of his favorites, like gasoline. He breathed in again.
A hard slap across his cheek ripped the reverie away. It blasted the fog out of his brain and his teeth chattered together. "Stop it! Hank! What the fuck are you doing? We have to go."
She pointed to the ladder and the moonlight that crept in through the trapdoor to the roof. With a shove from Bullet, Hank stumbled towards it. His fingers already felt numb and detached as he grabbed the rusted rungs. The clear, cold air crawled down into his lungs, fighting with the invisible fumes of ether. Hank climbed. Bullet shoved him upwards. He looked down to see the top of the door to the closet snap in half. Panzer was there. Her face was smoking and mutilated. A snarl belched from between fused lips. She burst into the room.
Bullet planted a hand on his ass and pushed him upwards. "Fucking move!"
Hank clambered up and out onto the roof. The air was thick with smoke. To the east, the sky glowed. The trailer park. "Jesus . . . "
He turned and yanked Bullet up from the portal. Beneath her, the werewolves clawed their way up the ladder, under, around, and on top of each other. Panzer's hand closed around Bullet's ankle. Bullet screamed and kicked the thing in the face. Once. Twice. Three times. Panzer released and fell back down, taking the rest of the werewolves with her. Hank went to slam the trap door shut.
"Wait!" Bullet rifled through her pockets. "Where is it? Where is it?"
She pulled out a Blue Bunny matchbook and showed it to Hank. She grinned. "I was a bouncer there."
Hank wanted to laugh, but if he started, he felt that the hysteria might bubble up from his core and overtake him. Bullet lit a match and put it to the rest of the book. It flared. Down below the scent of ether mingled with hot musk. Panzer was lumbering back up. The face was a mangled mass of rage and scorched flesh. Bullet dropped the matchbook into the opening.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The man they called Varney let them swarm him. He tore through them with glee and he hoped they could see him smiling. The smile masked the aching, the weariness. He wasn't as fast as he used to be and had only a fraction of the strength. The stench of the soil was still on him, as were the marks left by the crucifixes. These were burns that scorched him to his very bones. And that's where he felt it the most. It was a weakness that was the weight of centuries. He felt heavy and everything hurt and while the tequila had indeed been refreshing, he needed more sustenance, but not from these things. Not from animals. He'd drank from the one tied to the bed only out of necessity. While the damned things tried to weigh him down with sheer numbers, part of him wished he had drained Ms. Boulet, the doctor, and the old man. Then this wouldn't matter. It
wouldn't matter that whenever he struck down one of the wolves that three more took its place. It wouldn't matter that by the time their pack had thinned, the first he'd felled were starting to stand again. The part of the butcher would be his to play all night. But he could hear it, their flesh stitching back together only moments after he'd torn them open. The bones popped back into place and the blood pumped more quickly to nourish the ripped and battered tissue. It was a losing battle. But it felt good. Even at his slowest, he was faster than they could comprehend. He'd dart around the shadows of the room, moving into place, felling two, then vanishing. Each slip into the shadows left him that much weaker, but it was worth it. It was the killing that felt good, that kept him moving long after his old bones and flesh had given up. It was a tickle at the base of his skull and a dull electricity in his teeth.
By inches, they took him. There were pains he hadn't felt in decades and it was alarming and exquisite. His skin opened up, just peeled away like old wallpaper, and his coagulated, black blood decorated the floor or dripped from their teeth. He was sure that every bite to them tasted like bile. The things curled their lips and hacked up bits of rotted tissue and when they did, he tore into them. He pulled muscle free and liberated organs, gouged out eyes and severed limbs. Still, they came. By inches.
Then he smelled the ether. He felt the heat. The shockwave knocked him from his feet. He saw hair and skin stripped from their bones in an instant. They didn't have time to scream. White heat, then black smoke.
***
Rudy heard the explosion a fraction of a second before the heat washed over him. He thought he was dead. He thought that hell itself had opened up to suck the world down into it. The ground shook and his ears rang. The driver's side window of the wrecker exploded inwards above him and the truck rocked. He screamed his voice ragged and covered his head. More explosions. Canons went off all around him in a chain and the heat intensified. Looking up, he saw the leaves of the tree over the parking lot catch fire and knew that the entire world burned. A wave heavy with the smell of smoke and burning plastic and hair came. The hospital sounded like warring thunderstorms. The noise had its own weight that bore down on him followed by a shower of debris. Bits of brick and wood pelted the truck and landed on the hood and in the ditch. A burning chunk of plaster hit him in the back and immediately scorched his shirt and the skin beneath. He jumped to his feet to swat it away and everything was fire. Everything was hell.
The Black Goat Motorcycle Club Page 17
