Monsters in the Midwest (Book 2): Northwoods Wolfman

by Burtness, Scott

  “I don’t know what was on the card, Stanley, and I can’t find it. Oh, well why didn’t you say that you have it? Crap on a cracker, you’re making this tough. Okay. ‘Turn twenty-two at two-hundred-twenty-two.’ A code, and you cracked it. Hooray. What? Oh, yeah. ‘Turn to two at two to two.’ Channel two, two minutes before two. Clever, and you’re right. That’s exactly when the garage sale weirdy guy made them comments about being contacted and being special.” Dallas’s brow furrowed in deep thought.

  “Hell, I’m glad I caught that. Damn right that guy was trying to contact me. I’ll bet… Hmmm. I’ll bet he’s C.I.A., or F.B.I., or Special Forces, maybe even NASA. Holy hell, Stanley,” Dallas breathed, possibilities exploding through his mind.

  “I’m a shadow recruit. Damn right, I am. I bet they got terrorists all over, and they need someone to take out the local cell. Like MacGyver. The A Team. That’s gotta be it, and they need me.” Dallas started to pace with excited energy. “They need me. The guy said that. ‘You’re needed.’ That’s what he said.”

  Dallas nodded between sips from the flask.

  “Well, sure you helped, Stanley. They knew that when they saw me. I’m a good delegator. The important people can’t be doing everything in a situation. Oh, by the way, that’s what they call it when shit hits the fan. A situation. Now I just gotta connect with the main unit. Which would be. Um. Huh… I don’t suppose you know where the main unit is?”

  Dallas listened again, his face a mask of concentration. “No shit, Sherlock! Of course they wouldn’t just blurt that out over the T.V. Obviously, the guy gave the next piece of code. For when I get contacted again. By them. So I can. You know. Break the code.”

  Dallas nodded again. “That’s what I said! Probably a question that I have to answer right. Exactly. Now,” he continued in a no-nonsense tone. “Why don’t you tell me what you got for the answer, and I’ll let you know if that’s right…”

  As Dallas listened to Stanley and scribbled on a half-torn envelope, he smiled at the sense of purpose swelling in his chest and wondered when he’d be contacted again.

  Chapter 5

  The morning sun was in his eyes when he woke, and something much less adult than Porky’s was playing on the T.V. Unfazed by spending another night on the bedroom floor, Dallas sat at the foot of the bed, giggling at Ernest Scared Stupid for a few minutes before rubbing his face and pulling himself to his feet. The bed was more of a recreational accessory to be used with company. If he just needed to get some shut-eye, it didn’t matter if he landed on the bed, couch, floor, his pickup’s back seat, front seat, the back yard, the front yard, whatever. One of the wonders of alcohol was how it made anywhere into a perfectly fine place to sleep. Only downside was waking up.

  Fall was shaking leaves off the trees, a stern reminder to the Wisconsin Northwoods that winter wasn’t far off, so folks in the area were getting their furnaces ready. After making his rounds, he headed back to Stein’s for an early dinner and maybe a game of pool. As he walked across the parking lot, memories of hustling some out-of-towners with Herb came to mind. Dallas and Herb had squared off against a couple of mullet-heads in Vikings jerseys. Dallas had taken the lead, and they played the hustle like pros. After schooling those purple-clad posers for every bill in their Velcro wallets, Dallas, Herb, and Stanley had celebrated by emptying Stein’s beer cooler. It was, Dallas recalled fondly, an awesome night.

  He was halfway through the parking lot en route to Stein’s front door when he stopped abruptly. He would not think about that monster. That demon. He was going to get a drink, shoot pool with whoever wanted to shoot pool, and not think about that night. With a deep breath to shore up his resolve, he made his way into Stein’s and staked out a space at the bar. Soon, the whiskey shots and beer chasers had floated his unwanted thoughts back to his unexplored subconscious where they belonged. He was a goddamn hero, and if any other blood-sucking monsters showed up, he’d give ‘em what for, just like he did with… with…

  “…the vampire. That’s good to hear,” a voice close to his ear said.

  Dallas didn’t remember saying anything out loud. “Wasshat? Yoush talkin’ t’me?” he asked. As his eyes focused on the face in front of him, he thought he recognized the man. Widow’s peak, scraggly goatee. Not a local, that was for sure.

  “The vampire. You’d give them what for just like you did with the vampire. I know all about it, Dallas.”

  Dallas’s face split into a grin. “GODDAMN HERO!” he roared, slapping the bar.

  “Dallas, I need to ask you a question,” the man said, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you know how bad things can get?”

  Dallas leaned back and squinted at the man. How did he know this guy? Oh, I probably fixed his furnace, he reasoned.

  “You bet I do,” he answered. “You don’t replace your filter, s’gonna cut your effin. Your effinsee,” he tried again and then licked his lips and said carefully, “efficiency. By like, five pershent.”

  The man frowned, his mouth working for a moment. Apparently reaching some sort of internal decision, he asked again, “Do you know how bad things can get?”

  Was the guy a little deaf or something? Dallas was still trying to place his face. Guy probably worked up at the paper mill and couldn’t hear so good anymore.

  “Yes. I. Do.” Dallas spoke slowly and loudly. “Change. Your. Furnace. Filter. Every. Year.”

  A look of understanding crossed the man’s face. Thank Christ, Dallas thought. He couldn’t stand idiots.

  “Okay, buddy. Nice chatting. You have a g’night now,” Dallas offered, returning to the rocks glass of whiskey requiring his more immediate attention.

  “You’re right. This ain’t the best place. Too many people. I’ll be in touch again.” With an approving nod, the man stood, clapped Dallas on the shoulder, and headed out of the bar.

  Hmph, Dallas thought as he took a drink, simultaneously waiving to Stein for another. Another happy customer.

  Some indeterminate amount of time later, Dallas staggered to his truck, Deloris. The raised up four-by-four Dodge was the love of his life. It had a custom electric blue paint job, chrome jaws on the grill, and matching chrome fenders, running boards, bed rails, and exhaust, and windows tinted black as night. He’d named the truck after the first girl he’d ever slept with. She was tough, sexy, and scary as hell, so it seemed like a natural fit. Giving Deloris an affectionate pat on the rear bumper, he belched and resumed his song.

  “Packers! Go, you Packers, go and get ‘em, Go, you fighting fools upset ‘em,

  Smash their line with all your might, A touchdown, Packers, Fight, Fight, Fight, Fight!

  On, you Green and Gold, to glory. Win this game the same old story,

  Fight, you Packers, Fight, and bring the bacon home to…”

  “Do you know how bad things can get?”

  Dallas acted on reflex. He grabbed a wrist and yanked, pulling the voice’s owner off-balance and driving his face into the side of Deloris. A wet thwump preceded the appearance of a slobber mark on the truck’s electric blue paint. Bouncing off the truck, the man recovered, crouched, and swept a leg out, catching Dallas behind the knees. Dallas went down with a curse, rolled, and pulled himself to his feet, the flurry of motion ending in a well-placed punch connecting with the man’s jaw at the exact moment that fifty-thousand volts coursed through him.

  Dallas stiffened and fell over again with a high-pitched scream-turned-gurgle. The volts charged through his veins like a swarm of ornery electric eels, standing his hair on end and leaving his toes numb. The stranger massaged his jaw, cursed, and looked around the lot before leaning over the still twitching Dallas.

  “What the hell is your problem?” he whined, glaring down through squinty eyes. “Shit. It feels like you broke both sides of my face.”

  Dallas looked up in disbelief. “Me? You frickin’ attacked me. What did you expect me to do? Send you flowers?” Wincing, he lifted his shirt and stared at the burn
ed skin with growing indignation.

  “And you tased me? What kind of pussy uses a taser? Well, you should’a kept the juice flowing. You should’a killed me,” he advised, voice raising in volume. “But you didn’t. You blew it, and now you’re in a world of hurt.” Dallas pushed himself to his feet, turned his profile to the stranger, and raised his fists.

  “You got two options here. Try to do that again, and I beat you bloody, or run for your frickin’ life. And just so you know, if you run, I’m taking my girl Deloris here and driving right over your punk ass, backing up, and spinning the tires.”

  The man dropped the taser, put his hands up, and took a slow step backward.

  “Hey, calm down. I just wanted the password, that’s all. Things were fine before. Why are you being such an asshole about the password? It’s protocol.”

  Dallas lowered his fists and squinted. Password? Protocol? Revelation sparked. “Wait a sec, you’re him. The T.V. guy. That’s you!”

  The man glanced around the dark lot. “Shhh. Yes. Now just give me the password, and let’s get outta here.”

  Dallas considered the man carefully, thinking back on his earlier conversation with Stanley. “You ain’t looking to get your furnace fixed,” he reasoned slowly. Pieces falling into place, Dallas realized he was talking to a bona fide member of the C.I.A. Or F.B.I. Or maybe NASA.

  Why do they have so many letters, he grumbled to himself.

  “No sir. Sharp guys like you don’t worry about the furnace. Oh, wait. You like letters. You don’t worry about the HVAC,” Dallas conspired with a heavy wink. “And yeah, I got your password.”

  The guy never saw the punch coming. Dallas slugged him so hard in the gut it doubled him over, his breath coming out in a pained, “Uff!” before he slumped back against the side of the truck.

  “That’s for the taser. Now to answer your question, things only get as bad,” he paused and patted his pockets. “Um, things only get as bad,” he stalled, shoving his hands into first his front jean pockets, then his back pockets. Finding what he was searching for, he flourished a torn and much-folded envelope, pulled it open, and read out loud.

  “As you’re willing to let them. Which, by the way, you totally shouldn’t have let me gut-shot you like that. I expected more from you C.I.A. fellas.”

  Widow’s peak looked up at Dallas, still catching his breath after getting floored by the cheap shot. Already squinty eyes narrowed even further as he replied, “C.I.A.? Oh no, Dallas. I’m part of something much more important. Something you can be a part of too, if you stop acting like such an asshole.” Standing, the man brushed gravel from his jeans and straightened his shirt.

  “You got the password. Hooray, you passed the second test. Can’t say I’m too impressed though. It was one of our easier ones.” Reaching some sort of decision, the man grudgingly extended a hand.

  “Randall. Warrior of the Society.”

  Dallas shook the offered hand on reflex. “Dallas. Owner and Proprietor of That Blows HVAC and goddamn Hero of Trappersville.”

  Randall nodded. “We know who you are.”

  A testosterone-soaked silence descended between the two men.

  “So. What now?” Dallas finally asked.

  “Now you need to reflect on things, Dallas. Might help you get your bearings.” With that, Randall turned on his heel and walked to an orange and yellow moped parked in the shadows. It wasn’t until after Randall had sputtered off into the night that Dallas noticed a familiar, white rectangle lying in the dirt by Deloris.

  “Find us. You’re needed,” he read aloud after picking it up. “Find you? Why bother? Every time I turn around, you pop up like a sneaky ninja with a taser.”

  Turning it over, he discovered that it was different from the first card. Instead of a cryptic message on the back, it had a cryptic map. At least, it seemed map-ish. Cartoon trees, drawings of triangles on boxes, a few squiggly lines, and a small “X” covered the card’s back, but there were no names or anything else to indicate where the map was supposed to be.

  Dallas ground his teeth in frustration.

  “Frickin’ C.I.A.” he grumbled, shoving the card into his back pocket. “Lucky for me, I got a Stanley.”

  Chapter 6

  Petro Patterson’s wasn’t really on the way to Stanley’s, but it was a worthwhile detour. If Dallas was going to suss out mysteries and the like, he needed brain fuel. The waning moon and rising sun shone down on Patt’s parking lot as Dallas pulled into an open spot out front. He put Deloris in park alongside a well-used pickup truck just as the owner ambled outside, plastic bag in one hand and keys in the other.

  “Nice looking dog,” Dallas offered as he stepped down to the pavement, referring to the old golden retriever standing ramrod-still in the bed of the truck. “Hey there, buddy! Who’s a good dog?” he called. In response, the dog just stared, tail straight out, unmoving.

  “Name’s Bo. Had him since he was a pup,” grinned the truck’s driver as he leaned back to pat the dog’s head. “He’s famous, too. You heard about the vampire in these parts?” he asked with a chuckle and a sly wink.

  The remnants of Dallas’s morning buzz drained away, replaced with a sort of nothingness.

  “Sure. Everyone ‘round here’s heard about that,” he replied, the forced nonchalance making him momentarily dizzy.

  “Bo here met him. In the flesh,” the man said with a note of pride.

  Dallas shrugged, feeling for all the world like someone else was moving his shoulders. “How’d you know it was him?”

  “Paper. I come up this way a lot from Madison to fish. Nice to page through the local tabloids. Saw that red-headed guy’s picture with the big headline, ‘Wisconsin Vamp Ravages Town,’ and I knew I’d seen that face before. Then it hit me. He was here pumping gas. Yessir. Bo’s a regular celebrity now,” he chuckled. “Vampires in Wisconsin. Too funny.” Reaching back to scratch the dog’s ears, he asked, “You a dog fella, too?”

  Dallas’s forced smile faded as the dog added a low-throated snarl to its unyielding stare. “Uh, not really. Although if I was gonna get a dog…” I wouldn’t get some overbred mongrel that’s only good for catching Milk Bones and Frisbees, he thought, staring right back at the dog while scratching a sudden itch on his thigh.

  Bo’s low snarl stopped, replaced suddenly with plaintive whines. Tail wrapping between its legs, the dog licked the man’s hand as it wriggled backward in the truck’s bed.

  “Huh. Guess Bo ain’t feelin’ too social, mister, no offense,” the man said with a quizzical look at Dallas. “Well, we’ll be on our way then. And don’t forget to tell your pals you met an honest-to-God celebrity,” he added with a good-natured laugh. “Vampires. What’ll they think of next?”

  Mood thoroughly ruined, Dallas watched the man back out of his spot and drive off.

  “Well, at least Bo didn’t have a taser.” Putting it from his mind, Dallas entered Patt’s and made for the beer cooler.

  There’s a certain sameness to roadside gas stations in rural America which Patterson’s embraced. Tchotchkes clung to every inch of available space, encouraging shoppers to empty their wallets and walk away with nothing of value to show for it. Dallas remembered the way Herb used to go on and on about roadside gas stations. The guy loved them and had this crazy idea that if the rest of civilization fell and only roadside gas stations survived, everyone would pretty much be ok. The memory hurt like a bruise, the kind of hurt that you just had to deal with because nothing could make it go away. He continued past the aisles, drawn to the hum of the coolers while nineties pop music bounced and jarred the soggy space between his ears. A twelve-pack of beer and a few jerky sticks later, he was at the counter.

  A young teenage girl leaned by the register, watching reruns of some teenie-bopper crap on a small television behind the counter. When the girl continued to favor the T.V. instead of him, Dallas cleared his throat.

  “Today, please?” he asked politely.

  “Whatev’s,�
�� the girl replied. A bright yellow tipped finger pressed the register keys, each jab expressing complete indignation at the girl’s lot in life.

  Trying to stifle his impatience, Dallas’s head turned and eyes roamed, a newly captured animal exploring the confines of its cage.

  “Sorry. Screwed up,” he heard the girl say without looking up. “Gotta re-ring you.”

  “Uh huh. Okay,” Dallas responded, impatience coloring his tone. Still his eyes continued to rove, cigarette rack to jerky display to Slurpee machine to newspaper stand to magazine rack, only to start the circuit over again. The ding of each key on the register clanged against his eardrums, wearing on his already thin patience. Frustrated, he pressed his lips tightly shut and drew a deep breath in through his nose. When the smell of dried beef filled his nostrils, it eclipsed every other thought.

  “You must really need this jerky,” he heard the girl say. Perplexed, he cocked his head to one side as he looked at her.

  “I can like, hear your stomach growling. So I’m guessing no bag, right? You’re just gonna scarf these down?” the girl asked, looking up at him with interest.

  Dallas rested a hand on his gut and cocked his head to the other side. His tongue flicked out and around his lips, followed by a jaw-popping yawn as his eyes locked on the jerky stick she was holding toward him. Dropping into a squat, hands firmly on the floor between his boots, he looked up and watched the girl lean forward over the counter. Her eyebrows drew together in confusion while the jerky stick drooped forgotten from her hand. Focused solely on the jerky, he chuffed, licking his lips again and scooting a smidge closer to the counter.

  “Um,” the girl said, voice gone brittle. “So, no bag?”

  Dallas blinked, looked down at his boots and back up at the girl. What the hell? he wondered, wiping a small tendril of drool from the corner of his mouth. Making a show of tying his already-tied boot laces, he stood and passed a twenty over the counter.