Dallas put an arm around his friend’s shoulder. “No way, buddy. No way. But even if they do, your old pal Dallas is the Hero of Trappersville. I’ll kick their alien asses straight back to Uranus.” He barked a laugh at his own joke and pulled Stanley down the aisle, cart wobbling under the weight of their game time goodies.
“Now c’mon. Let’s go watch some football.”
Chapter 16
The dream had changed.
It had started the same. Dallas rode the crowd’s upstretched hands, laughing and drinking as they sang their song.
Ding-dong the vamp is dead. Mean old vamp, wicked vamp. Ding-dong the wicked vamp is dead!
Like always, he felt the brittle edge of their laughter. Like always, he felt the slow-brewing terror, and like always, still closed his eyes. Opening them, he expected to be back in the bathroom from his high school days, Joey en route to sticking the red-headed kid’s head in the toilet. This time though, the recurring nightmare threw him a curveball. Stepping into the bathroom stall, he saw trees all around. Branches bent like gnarled fingers grasping at the sky were backlit by the full moon. The air was heavy and still with the promise of a deep snowfall. Odd, guttural sounds pushed their way through the tree trunks, lurching in lopsided circles around him and causing the hairs on his arms to stand on end. When he looked down, he was shocked to realize just how much hair there was.
Pulse racing, he snapped his head around and saw a flickering fire deep in the trees. Long, loping strides took him on a sideways path through the trunks and brush, circling closer to the orange glow. As he closed the final distance to the edge of the shadows, Dallas saw a solitary man crouched with his back to the flames, waving an old six-shot revolver at the darkness beyond his campfire’s light. The noises around Dallas ripened and seemed to be very close, too close. Heart pounding, Dallas realized they were actually coming from him.
Must be allergic to the smoke, he reasoned.
“Hey buddy, maybe you could put that pistol down and help me out with a tissue.”
Dallas spoke the words, but they didn’t come out right. Either that, or someone’s dog was barking and growling so loudly that he couldn’t hear himself talk. Rather than doing the polite thing and helping out a stranger with a stuffy nose, the man trained the pistol on Dallas and fired three shots in rapid succession.
Dallas smelled flint and gunpowder, felt the air shift, and heard the soft whines of two bullets whizzing past. The third buried itself deep in his shoulder. Dallas had been shot before and remembered the pain clearly. He’d made the mistake of taking Stanley on deer hunting trip. They’d barely made it twenty yards into the woods when Stanley dropped his rifle and sent a .22 bullet straight into Dallas’s rear end. It had hurt like the dickens and really pissed him off, but was surprisingly not the terrible experience he’d always imagined getting shot must be. Hitting his thumb with a hammer hurt more. Banging his shin on the coffee table hurt more. That bullet though, not so bad.
The dream bullet was nothing like what he’d experienced in real life. It felt like a rusty railroad spike had been soaked in salt and lemon juice right before being jabbed into his shoulder by an angry giant. His whole arm felt like it had been drenched in lamp oil and set aflame. His chest constricted, his jaw clenched. He tried to scream but heard only a loud, angry growl.
The dreamt pain pulled Dallas awake with a start. Frantic, he pulled at the covers of his bed. Grasping his shoulder, he looked for the blood he was sure must be there. When he found none and realized he wasn’t actually in any pain, he collapsed back to the mattress with a shaky sigh.
“Geez, I hate nightmares,” he muttered. A glance at the clock informed him there was still plenty of night left, but there was no way he was going back to sleep. Instead, he sat up and walked over to the bedroom window. Pulling up the venetian blinds, he looked out on the woods behind his house. While some leaves still clung stubbornly to the trees, most had dropped in concession to the coming winter. The resulting view of the night sky was sliced into a jigsaw puzzle by a myriad of dark, slender branches. A few clouds drifted across a field of stars and a half moon hanging so low it was only visible through the trees.
Dallas scratched at an itch on his thigh and gazed at the moon. Slowly, so slowly, it fell toward the earth below. He was still staring at where it had been when the sun’s first rays washed across the horizon, painting the new day with ominous reds and golds.
Chapter 17
“Gear up, newbie. It’s hunting season.” Randall turned from Dallas’s front door and walked toward where his moped waited by Dallas’s truck.
“You coming or what?” he called back over his shoulder. “Colton says we’ve gotta move quick.”
“Shit yeah, I’m coming,” Dallas hollered. “Gimme a sec to grab a few beers for the road.”
Randall had called Dallas about twenty minutes prior. Apparently, a boo hag had turned up and was feeding on the late season campers near the Wolf River. Favoring speed over a detailed plan, the Society decided to meet near where it was supposedly holed up instead of at the regular camp. After calling, Randall had hauled ass to Dallas’s place so he could lead him back to where rest were waiting. He’d found Dallas dressed in black work boots, black jeans, a black turtleneck under a black, canvas windbreaker, and a black knit stocking cap which Dallas pulled down over his face, proudly displaying that it was actually a balaclava, not just a stupid hat.
“I got some of my old eye-black from my football days, too. Figured I’d black out my eyes so nobody sees me coming,” he explained to a perplexed Randall.
He had also spray-painted an old tool belt black and strapped it around his waist. On it, he’d affixed a five-pound hammer, penlight, Maglite, Leatherman tool, his hunting knife, half a roll of silver duct tape, and a matt-black whiskey flask.
Randall had whistled through his teeth when Dallas answered the door.
“You look like Batman and Tim the Tool Guy’s D.I.Y. lovechild,” he chuckled. “What are you planning to do with all that stuff?”
The look Dallas gave Randall was sympathetic.
“I know you been doing this for a little while, but I can see why Colton’s looking for new help. You gotta be prepared, right? Covert ops? Surgical strike? Get in, get out, get drunk, get laid, that’s how Big D rolls. You think I’m diving into a nest of, a nest of, um. You know, a nest of… Say, what are we hunting, anyway?”
“Boo hag.”
“Gesundheit.”
“No, we’re hunting a boo hag.”
“Doo rag?”
“No, boo hag, you twit. Kinda like a vampire, but they eat life force from breath, not blood. Sometimes mistaken for skin walkers since they don’t have skin of their own and are fond of taking someone else’s to wear for a bit.”
Dallas nodded authoritatively. “Well, that just proves my point. You think I’m diving into a nest of boo hags with nothing but my sunny disposition?”
“A boo hag. One. Not a nest,” Randall explained slowly, rolling his eyes. “Aletia found a body, minus its skin. We checked with the local clinic and learned a couple of campers stopped in thinking they had Lyme Disease. You know, fatigue, nausea, fever, sore joints. The thing is, none had tick bites. Ergo, boo hag,” he sniffed, giving Dallas another long look.
“Good timing for you, anyway,” Randall continued. “It’s about time you stopped free-loading and went on an actual hunt. Also, you never know when we’ll need some duct tape,” he added with a sneer.
“Damn right, you don’t,” Dallas shot back. “And let me tell you, it is always, always better to have duct tape and not need it, than to need it and not have it.”
Gesturing impatiently, Randall motioned for Dallas to get a move on and stomped over to his moped. Since the little scooter could only go about forty-five miles per hour, it was over twenty minutes before they turned off the main road.
“If it’s so damn important, why the hell is he riding a mobility scooter?” Dallas complained, wrestl
ing with the urge to drive over Randall and leave him in the dust.
When Randall did finally turn of the road, he headed down a narrow, rutted trail through the trees. Dallas navigated as carefully as possible behind the bouncing moped, wincing as branches scraped the sides of his baby. A few minutes later, they had apparently reached their destination. Randall dismounted and rolled the little moped back onto its kickstand. Draining his second beer, Dallas flipped the empty can into the back seat and belched loudly as he rolled to a stop.
“You know,” Randall observed as Dallas stepped down from his truck, “Some people might think you have a drinking problem.”
“Is that so? Well, some people should remember that I have a roll of duct tape, and I know how to use it if some people don’t shut their yaps.”
“I don’t want to end up dead or worse because you’re too drunk to do your damn job,” Randall retorted, face going red.
“Where are you from, anyway?” Dallas asked. “Obviously not Wisconsin. There ain’t no such thing as ‘too drunk’ here. Hell, they should just put beer in the bubblers. Now, where the hell is everyone else?”
Even as Dallas was asking, he knew they were close. The smells of the woods and the nearby river rushed through him. Mixed in with all those smells, he easily identified Colton’s sweat and Aletia’s perfume. Another snuff, and he realized there was something else. A bitter smell that puckered his mouth and made him pinch the bridge of his nose.
“Holy stink bombs, Randy. What’d you have for breakfast?”
“I didn’t fart,” Randall replied, indignant.
“Uh huh, and the Pope ain’t naked under that robe. It’s okay. Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, and I suppose when you’re riding that toy scooter you can just let ‘em fly whenever you want. Common courtesy though, is that you don’t rip one when someone’s standing right in the flight path, okay?”
“I said I didn’t fart,” Randall stressed.
“Well, if that’s so, what the hell is that stench?”
Colton’s boots crunched over the fallen leaves on the forest’s floor.
“What does it smell like, Dallas?” he asked.
“Oh, hiya Colton. Smells like Randall farted, which he totally did but won’t own up to.”
“Like a fart that someone who had a double-cheeseburger topped with Fritos and tabasco sauce might have?” Colton asked.
Dallas took a tentative sniff and nodded in awe. “Actually, yeah. I’d say that’s just about right.” He looked at Randall with disgust. “Fritos and tabasco on a cheeseburger? What’s wrong with you, man?”
Colton held up a hand to stop Randall’s retort. “It wasn’t Randall. That’s pretty impressive, Dallas. Not many people can smell a boo hag unless it’s really close by, especially when it’s in a borrowed skin suit. You’ve got a remarkably good nose. Now cut the chatter and move out.”
Turning, Colton strode through the trees with Dallas and Randall following close behind. The smell in Dallas’s nose grew sharper and waned as the breeze shifted. Coming up on a large pine tree, Colton stooped and pulled aside an old, green Army blanket that had been camouflaging a small pile of supplies. Reaching down, he selected two wooden stakes, a sauce pan, and a tin ladle. He handed one stake to Randall and slid the other into his belt. Stake secured, he extended the pan and ladle to Dallas.
“The hell is this?” Dallas asked, indignant. “Are boo hags allergic to SpaghettiOs? Am I supposed to just ladle out a batch of monster-killing oatmeal?”
“They don’t like sharp noises,” Aletia explained as she materialized from behind a nearby hedge. “You’re going to flush it out so we can kill it.”
“You want me to stand there hitting a pot with a spoon while you guys have all the fun? No way! No goddamn way!” Dallas crossed his arms across his barrel chest, flexing his biceps for emphasis.
Sauntering up to stand next to Dallas, Aletia slid an arm around his waist.
“I know it looks muy complicated. Don’t worry though. You’re a smart guy. Sometimes, it’s easier if you count to four over and over and hit the pot every time you count. You can count to four, can’t you?”
Dallas’s eyes pleaded with Colton, but the other man just shook his head.
“This is your first hunt, Dallas. I know you took out that vampire, but that was part luck, and you know it. We don’t barge in half-cocked. We’re professionals.”
Dallas held the sauce pan and ladle where everyone could see them clearly.
“Professionals?”
“Look, I understand how you’re feeling,” Colton said, “but this isn’t up for discussion. If you want to help, do as you’re told. If you can’t do that, go wait in your truck.” Colton’s eyes had gone hard, and his tone brooked no argument.
For a tense moment, the two men squared off, neither moving, neither blinking, but each throwing buckets of testosterone at one another. Randall’s eyes flicked back and forth, seemingly eager for the fisticuffs that seemed inevitable. Finally, Aletia broke the tension by grabbing another stake from the pile and sliding it into Dallas’s tool belt between his Maglite and the carabineer holding the duct tape.
“C’mon, Colton. You’ve seen him train. He can take care of himself. Here, Dallas. If it comes at you, stake it just like you did with el vampiro.”
Colton didn’t look happy, but he shrugged.
“Just be ready, Dallas,” he grudgingly sighed. “If there is no other option, you have permission to engage. Now,” he turned to address the group. “The boo hag took a camper’s skin and moved into their tent. The other folks haven’t the foggiest that there’s a monster in their midst, but they’ve been providing late-night snacks for the hag. Won’t be long before it has to change skins, which means another innocent’s on deck to be dead.”
He let that sink in for a moment before continuing. “Tia scoped the campground. There aren’t that many people camping this late in the season, and everyone’s out fishing or hiking. Boo hags usually sleep during the day, so we should be able to get in, stake it, and be gone before anyone’s the wiser. Dallas, you’ll go around the back of the tent. Randall and I will be waiting out front. When it bolts, we’ll take care of it.”
Looking hard at Dallas, Colton continued. “If it does double-back and go for the pot-banger, Dallas will take care of it and Tia will watch his back. Agreed?”
Randall kicked at a clump of leaves. “Fine.”
“Aletia?” Colton asked and was rewarded with an incredulous sneer.
“It was my idea, Colton. What you do you think?”
Colton nodded and extended his hand, palm down toward the forest floor. Randall and Aletia followed suit, placing their open hands palm-down on top of Colton’s. Realizing a game time huddle was about to happen, Dallas added his hand. As his palm came to rest on top of Aletia’s, Colton spoke, his already deep voice taking on a resonance that held Dallas in thrall.
“Hear me. We are the light that keeps shadows at bay. When darkness gathers, we must not fade. Bright, we burn to light the way and never let our brethren stray. Warriors are we with shining blades. When darkness gathers, we will not fade.” With a quick pump, they pulled their hands apart, and each clapped a fist to their breast. Dallas hastily mimicked the gesture, a wide grin splitting his face.
Like suiting up for the big game in high school, pulling on the jersey before the bowling finals, or grabbing a pack of condoms for a night on the town, the Society huddle made Dallas thrum with anticipation. As the group fell into line behind Colton and started their trek through the trees, Dallas bounced next to Aletia’s shoulder.
“This is exciting,” he whispered loudly.
“Shhh,” she replied without turning.
“Like, really exciting. We’re gonna bag a boo hag! I didn’t even know what a boo hag was yesterday, and today I’m gonna bag one!”
“Shush, Dallas. Not now.”
Dallas made it a few more steps without speaking.
“Are they ugly?�
�� he asked. “They smell ugly. I’ve had some nasty farts in my day, but nothing that smelled like Fritos-tabasco burger farts.”
“Callate! You really have to shut up now, Dallas. We don’t want to spook it.”
Finally taking the hint, he wrestled with his curiosity and managed to stifle it until Colton raised a hand and the group came to a stop. Turning, the hunter pulled out a sheet of folded paper and began to carefully unfold it while speaking in a low-pitched voice.
“Intel says the hag nabbed a solo camper on lot eleven and took over the site. Ditched the body about two miles downstream under a fallen tree, around here.” His calloused finger poked the paper, which turned out to be a crude drawing of the campground. Colton’s finger indicated a point near a squiggly line that Dallas correctly determined was the Wolf River. Stretching along the bank were a series of rectangles numbered one through fourteen. Camp site eleven was on the down-river side of the campground and fairly secluded.
“We’re going to split up now. Aletia, you take Dallas in about halfway and find a place to sit tight. Dallas, you’ll continue around the back side of the site. The camper’s got a big, fancy tent facing the river. Sneak up from behind. Move soft as you can until you’re about thirty feet or so out and then wait. You’ll know we’re in position when you hear a black throated blue warbler call, like this.”
Colton tipped his head to Randall. In response, Randall pursed his lips and made a high-pitched buzzing.
“Zee-zee-zeeee. Zee-zee-zeeee.”
Randall smiled at Dallas, every inch of him oozing smug. “Just one of my many talents.”
Dallas rolled his eyes in response. “Oh sure, you’re very talented. I can see why they keep you around.”
“Not now, you two,” Colton snapped in a harsh whisper. “When you hear that, Dallas, you bang on that pot like nobody’s businesses for a few seconds and then get back and stay out of sight, got it?”
Dallas nodded. “Yep. I sneak up, Randall does his mating call, I bang the pot, then get back under cover.”
Monsters in the Midwest (Book 2): Northwoods Wolfman Page 10
