Ice baths, road construction, taxes. Dallas kept his face carefully blank while running his mind through a mantra of turn-off’s.
Papercuts. Pat Sajak.
Clearing the last obstacle, Aletia’s run slowed to a trot, then a walk, then a confident saunter that ended back where he was standing.
“Like that,” she said casually while Colton and Randall clapped and whistled.
“Yeah, um. Looks like you’ve done this a few times,” he managed, walking awkwardly up to the start of the course. “So now what? I just close my eyes, count, and then go for it?”
“Exactamente,” she answered. “The boys will go easy on you this time. Focus on getting the right attacks in on the right monsters.”
Dallas nodded, closed his eyes, and started to count.
“Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.”
Opening his eyes, he was shocked to see Randall standing about ten feet in front of him, paintball gun already pointed at his chest. His surprise was rudely followed by three rapid pops coinciding with three sharp jabs to his chest.
“You little bastard!” Dallas roared, wrapping his arms across his burning chest.
Randall merely shrugged. “Now you know how it feels to get shot with a paintball. Didn’t want you tensing up during the run-through. Fear of getting hit is always worse than getting hit,” he explained in a patronizing tone. “Now count again. I promise I won’t take any cheap shots.”
Shaking off the stinging in his chest, Dallas glared at Randall, closed his eyes, and counted.
“Twenty-six, twenty-seven…”
Dallas heard the click of the trigger. Eyes still closed, he crouched and rocked to the right. A whistling split the air where his head had just been, but he was already moving to the first obstacle. Opening his eyes, he made it to the low wall, ducked into its offered protection, and picked up the first weapon.
“Oh, come on!” he complained, holding the ping-pong paddle. Rustling through his recent memories, he knew it was supposed to represent some type of religious talisman, but he had no idea what to do with it. After a short, annoyed sigh, he cocked his head and listened. The birds had gone silent again, hiding from the commotion. He could hear the rustling leaves but nothing else. Breathing deep to slow his racing heart, he listened harder and was rewarded with a myriad of tiny sounds. The slight scuff of a shoe shifting on dirt, the flapping of the tarp draped over the demon dog. Inhaling through his nose, the sounds intermingled with a million smells. Pollen swirling in the breeze, a small puddle of oil beneath the pickup, sawdust and wood glue, Aletia’s sweet perfume, and Randall’s sour breath. It was all there, each obstacle, each person, each bug, and blade of grass. All there, and he didn’t even need to look to see it.
Dallas’s mind went refreshingly blank. Gone were his attempts to remember all of the monsters, all of the weapons, all of the rules of the game. He simply thought of nothing and opened himself up to the hunt. Ping-pong paddle in hand, he attacked.
He had no clue what the first plywood monster was supposed to be and didn’t much care. A quick thwap to what he assumed was its head with the paddle was followed by a well-placed kick to its center, knocking it over and back a good five feet. A paintball gun popped, adding a strange percussion to the music of the clearing. Twisting, he moved with an apparent languidness that belied his true speed as paintballs sailed past.
After high-stepping through a series of tires and belly-crawling under a few strands of barbed wire, he reached the next obstacle. It was designed to resemble a picket fence separating him from three ornery-looking zombies. A hockey stick rested innocently within reach. Grabbing it, Dallas jabbed two of the zombies between the eyes with its blunt end before reversing it and swinging the blade at the third’s neck. Caught up in the moment, he didn’t realize his own strength and was mildly surprised by the explosion of splinters as the plywood cracked and the hockey stick shattered. Tossing it to the side, he loped off to the left and headed for a stack of hay bales.
Leaping, he cleared the bales, rolled, and came fluidly to his feet, growling with pleasure as he ran toward the Cyclops. Randall hastily jumped out from behind the plywood, giving Dallas a brief sensation of déjà vu before he had to shift left and right to avoid Randall’s barrage of paintballs. Nearing the Cyclops, he snatched up the wooden spoon, scooped out the bean bag eye, spun in a quick circle, and launched the bag from the spoon straight at the retreating Randall. The bag hit with such force that Randall cursed, stumbled, and went down in a heap.
“Tag! You’re dead!” Dallas whooped, running past the grumbling man.
Next up were the onryo, a manticore, the demon dog, and others he either couldn’t recall or couldn’t be bothered to recall. Either way, each monster was vanquished according to Dallas, and with each kill, Dallas felt himself swell with purpose. This is how it was supposed to be. He was a goddamn hero, and he would keep the town safe, his friends safe, Lois safe, no matter what it took.
With another athletic jump, twist, and roll, he easily avoided a fresh hail of paintballs. Colton had finally decided to reveal himself and was doing his best to wing Dallas and slow down his mad assault on the remaining monsters.
“Goddamn it, sit still for a sec,” he heard Colton grumble under his breath.
Dallas wasn’t worried about Colton. The click of a trigger and quick blast of compressed air gave him plenty of time to shift and avoid the paint-filled projectiles. He didn’t even have to think about it, which was good because all of his attention was on the monster up ahead.
The Hollywood vampire loomed large in his vision, glowing eyes, white fangs, jet-black hair, and matching cape. Dallas saw it and his imagination exploded, a rapid-fire panorama of visions retelling a story he’d told himself a thousand times before. Poor Herb, walking up to his house after working at Ronnie’s or maybe bowling. A dark shape in his peripheral vision, then some blood-drinking fiend biting deep into his neck. He imagined Herb begging the demon to stop, pleading for his life, and then dying right there in his front yard or maybe in his crummy kitchen. Then that demon, that fiend, that monster, doing whatever it was vampires do to make more vampires, and Herb rising up, no longer Herb but something else, something sinister, something dangerous. It all started with that beady-eyed vamp, that one right in front of him, the one he’d finally caught up to. Now, at long last, he could avenge his friend’s death.
Dallas hit the plywood vampire cut-out like a flannel-clad wrecking ball. One fist lashed out and shattered the widow-peaked head, sending glaring eyes and snarling fangs in opposite directions. The next fist punched straight through the cut-out’s chest, wrapped up a fistful of billowing cape, and pulled it back through the fist-sized hole. Grabbing both shoulders, Dallas rammed a knee up and was rewarded with a satisfying crack as the plywood busted into two ragged chunks. Raising the torso up over his head, Dallas slammed it down to the ground and started to stomp. At some point, he noticed the wooden stake. Grabbing it, he dropped to his knees and slammed the stake down on the vampire’s chest. Over and over again, he stabbed the painted wood while plywood splintered and the pointed stake in his hand blunted down to a rough stub.
“Dallas! Stop it! Hey, stop!”
Die, die, die, die, die! he raged, a maelstrom of hate and retribution driving each blow.
Something grabbed his wrist. Snarling, he sent Colton sailing ass over teakettle. Another figure stepped into his view. Dallas barely had time to register long legs, curved hips, and an arm rapidly twirling something before strong cords tipped with metal balls wrapped around him and pinned his arms to the sides of his chest. Something heavy hit him in the small of his back, knocking him forward. Landing awkwardly, he heard his shoulder pop and felt a lancing pain spider across his back. Like gas on a fire, the pain fueled his burning rage before it was doused by a bucketful of water being dumped on his head.
“Yerblaaaughhhh!” he sputtered, water streaming down his face.
“Are you done?” Colton yelled bac
k. “What the hell was that? It’s a practice course, not a Full Metal Jacket psycho field trip.”
“I got to use my toy on the company after all,” Aletia commented with a grin.
Stunned and confused, Dallas lay in a pile, arms pinned and shoulder throbbing, and tried to slow his ragged breathing.
What did just happen? he wondered. I was just running the course. Just doing what I was supposed to do, wasn’t I?
“Well, what good is practice if you don’t take it seriously?” he asked, more than a little indignant. “Dammit, I think I dislocated my shoulder. Could someone get these damn ropes off of me? Hurts like a bitch at this angle.”
Colton eyed him skeptically while Randall spit in the grass and shook his head.
“I gotta make a new vampire now,” Randall complained. “That was a good one, too. Took me like three hours to paint it. Untie him or not, I don’t care, but he owes me a new plywood vamp.”
Colton walked over, rubbing his own shoulder from the impact of his fall. “Well, passion isn’t a bad thing, I guess. I’m just not used to recruits being so enthusiastic. You’re stronger than you look too. Also good, as long as you remember whose team you’re on.” Fiddling with the ropes, he freed Dallas from the constraints and handed the corded whip back to Aletia.
“What’s that thing called, anyway?” Dallas asked her. “I figured you had a little S and M streak, but had no idea it could do that.”
“Bolas. Es realmente grandioso, no?” she replied, giving them a quick twirl for effect. “Been around since forever. Inca used them, South America cowboys, Spaniards, you name it.” Squatting down beside him, she held up one of the metal weights attached to a braided leather cord.
“These can be swapped out depending on what you’re hunting. Limestone weights inscribed with the right Egyptian hieroglyphs can bind a mummy. Silver does a nice job of subduing werewolves. Wood weights have their uses, too. You just better make sure you’ve picked the right wood. Rowan, ash, oak, whatever. Right wood, no hay problemas. Wrong wood, es un problema.”
“Nice to see you’ve got such a keen eye for good wood,” Dallas quipped, his former humor returning. “Now, before the next lesson, I need a little help here.” Standing awkwardly, he waved with his good hand while trying not to move his left arm.
“Randall, I’m sorry I smashed up your vampire. I guess it struck a nerve and old Dallas, he struck right back. Important thing is comeuppance. How’d you like to get even-Steven?”
Randall squinted suspiciously, eyes shifting from Dallas to Colton and back. “Boss?”
Colton merely shrugged. “I think I know where he’s going with this, and yes, you have my permission to hurt him. What do you need, Dallas? Would a sturdy doorframe work for you?”
Dallas sighed in anticipation of the impending pain. “Yeah. I guess that’ll do fine. Let’s get it over with, so I can run your little course again.”
“Better idea,” suggested Aletia. “Let’s get it over with, so we can have a drink.”
Dallas looked at the small circle of his new companions and smiled back. Despite the silly name, he figured he was going to like this Society just fine.
Chapter 13
Setting a dislocated shoulder sure gives a man a powerful thirst, Dallas observed while working on his third beer.
After reaching the decrepit cabin on the edge of the clearing, Dallas had braced his shoulder against the door frame and given Randall specific instructions. Pull back on his arm and body check him into the stud at the same time. Dallas would never know if Randall just wasn’t any good at that sort of thing, or if he intentionally took three attempts before Dallas’s shoulder gave a satisfying pop and snapped back into the socket. He did know that each attempt induced enough pain to stun a rhino, and that Randall had giggled while Dallas screamed and writhed. Third time really did pay all though. Once his shoulder was put right, the wave of relief gave him gooseflesh all the way down his body followed by a definite need to drink.
Despite its sorry state, which included a half-collapsed roof and windows grinning broken chunks of glass like a geezer’s leftover teeth, the cabin was surprisingly cozy. A circle of camping chairs, a few coolers, and some lanterns occupied the space beneath what was left of the roof. A small propane stove sat off to the side surrounded by a small collection of pots and pans still containing the remnants of an earlier meal. Colton had opened one of the coolers and, to Dallas’s great delight, displayed a healthy number of ice cold beers. Accepting one gratefully, he’d collapsed into a chair and set himself to drinking.
“Hot damn! What a day,” he whooped. “I haven’t had that much fun since I don’t know when.”
Aletia took the chair next to him. Clinking her beer can against his, she drained half the can before saying, “The obstacle course is a small part of the training we do for new recruits, but important, none the less. Monsters tend to be faster and stronger than humans. We need to make sure we can keep up.”
“‘Cept for zombies.” Randall cracked his own beer and took a seat. “Zombies are slow. Even a Twinkie-chomping lardo can usually get away if they need to.”
“Maybe for a bit,” Aletia said. “But remember, zombies don’t get tired. They’ll keep coming. If your trasero isn’t used to running farther than from the Barca Lounger to the fridge and back, you’ll get tired, and then you’re dead.”
“Sure, sure,” Randall agreed. “Obviously, if you’re a fat ass and don’t got a weapon, but who’d ever be without a weapon? Seriously, just bottleneck ‘em in a doorway, get a long, pointy something-or-other, and take ‘em out one by one. Even fatty boombah-latties can do that.”
“Ignore Randall,” Aletia advised, returning her attention to Dallas. “He refuses to lose an argument, no matter how stupid. Point is, we put new recruits through this training to gauge what kind of shape you’re in and how much training you need.” She leaned in with a smile that was more than just friendly. “Seems like you could go all night and hardly break a sweat.”
Dallas felt his face flush, which was weird. He didn’t usually have enough self-awareness to worry about getting embarrassed. Wiping his suddenly sweaty palms on his pant legs, he gave what he hoped was a charming smile and not a goofy grin.
“Oh yeah, damn right I can! I’m like the night train.” Tipping his head back, he started to sing.
“The thought of you is driving me insane, come on baby, let’s go listen to the night train!”
“That’s good,” Colton’s voice spoiled the moment like a chaperone at a middle school dance. “Because we’ll be doing the course in the dark tomorrow night.”
Chagrined, Dallas returned his attention to his current beer. “So Aletia here was saying that’s just part of the training. What else do I need to do?”
Colton looked thoughtful for a moment before asking, “How would you kill a zombie?”
“Head shot or fire,” Dallas replied quickly.
“Vampire?” Colton asked.
“Stake to the heart or fire.”
“Werewolf?”
“Silver. Could be a bullet, could be a blade, and um… Maybe fire?”
“Chupacabra.”
Dallas paused and scratched his head. There was one on the course. What was it they used again?
“Cyclops?”
Dallas brightened. “Oh! The wooden spoon!”
“Not just any wooden spoon. It has to be carved from the oldest branch of a Kermes oak from the island of Crete,” Colton reminded him.
“Oh. Right. Old oak Crete spoon. Got it.”
“Onryo?”
“A twig!” Dallas said authoritatively, followed a moment later by a less convinced, “Um, with cherries?”
“Sprig of cherry blossom blessed by a Shinto priest,” Colton corrected, “but it can’t be any old cherry blossom nor any old monk with plastic prayer beads and a postcard from Buddha. What I’m getting at here is that hunting monsters is a complex business. There’s a boatload of book learning in your
future.”
Dallas grinned. “Nah. I’ll let Stanley do that.” Finishing his beer, he looked at his watch. “Speaking of, time flies when you’re kicking ass. I gotta head back, or Stanley’s gonna think I was the one abducted by one of his aliens.”
“Stanley?” Aletia asked, eyebrow raised.
“Aliens?” Randall asked, deadpan.
“Uh, yeah. Stan’s a buddy of mine. Thinks he got abducted by aliens back in high school.”
“Did he?” Colton asked seriously, brow furrowed.
Dallas started to laugh and then realized that maybe it wasn’t such a crazy notion after all. His definition of normal had stretched a bit recently.
“Well, I guess that’s a question I can’t right answer. He swears it’s God’s own truth, and who am I to rain on a buddy’s alien parade?”
With a shrug that conveyed Dallas wasn’t prepared to waste any more brain cells on the issue, he continued.
“Stanley’s a weird guy, but he’s a good one to have around when you need to lose at bowling or win at Jeopardy, and he just loves book learning. I’ll bring him round at some point, but right now, I should get out of here. I’m starving, and a couple of cold ones ain’t gonna do the trick.”
“You need a ride back?” Aletia asked, looking up from under dark lashes.
Dallas considered all the connotations of the invitation. His libido started to hoot and holler, but it had been an eventful day, and he had a lot to process.
“Nah,” he managed after a brief internal struggle. “A little walk through the woods will do me good. See y’all tomorrow.”
And with that, Dallas rose and strode from the cabin, heading back into the trees. He wasn’t concerned about getting lost in the dark. A neon trail still blazed whenever he snuffed the air. Following his scent from the previous day, he made his way back toward Cecil’s, mind awhirl with more thoughts than he was accustomed to thinking at one time.
Chapter 14
The next week went by in a blur. When he wasn’t fixing furnaces for the folks around town, Dallas would drag Stanley to the little cabin in the woods for training and learning, learning and training.
Monsters in the Midwest (Book 2): Northwoods Wolfman Page 8
