When the beast tilted its head backward again and howled, Bernard couldn’t help but imagine the pain of being eaten alive.
Bernard wiggled and pushed against the creature’s thick, fur-covered chest, freeing himself slightly. With one fluid swipe, the monster pinned his shoulder to the ground with its talon-like claws. Bernard winced and groaned as the claws sank into his flesh. He thrashed with his free arm, but the beast was too strong, and his struggling did little to ease the agony.
The creature lunged forward for the kill. Bernard cringed. His bladder let loose. But before the beast could rip out his throat, it yelped, pulled away, and crashed to the ground at Bernard’s side. As the creature scurried toward the brush in retreat, Bernard saw the yellow fletching of a familiar tranquilizer dart protruding from its neck. And then the creature disappeared.
Bernard scrambled for his flashlight and shined it in the direction from which the dart had come. Two of his men closed in, guns raised. His breath stuttered from his mouth in one relieved sigh. His men ran past him in pursuit of their game. One of them slowed long enough to ask him if he was okay.
Bernard nodded and shouted, “Just get him.” He watched his hired soldiers disappear into the brush. He looked around, checked that his wounded shoulder still worked, and then realized he was still lost.
While he was hoping no other beasts were near, a sudden popping sound burst from behind. He looked up through a gap in the trees and saw a flare light up the morning sky. He sighed. The flare was a signal that part of his team had succeeded in eliminating the rest of the male inhabitants. More importantly, it told him the direction back to the village. He left his two soldiers to continue their pursuit in the forest, reloaded his weapon with a fresh clip from his waist, and headed toward the green flare floating back to earth beneath a small parachute.
When he reached the village, several of his men were standing around the bonfire where the mission had begun Not counting the two soldiers that were out tracking Bernard’s furry prize, his men were three short.
“Where are the others?” he shouted as he approached.
“They didn’t make it, sir.”
Perhaps the news of the loss of several of his men should have weighed heavier on him than it did, but he was too excited for the coming possibilities.
“What did you do with their bodies?” he asked.
“Threw them in the fire with the rest of the kills, as per protocol, sir,” his soldier answered.
“Very good.”
The sun had completely risen before the other two members of his team returned, dragging an unconscious tribesman in a net.
“You did well, boys,” Bernard greeted them and made his way to the sleeping tribesman. He reached through the netting and patted the tribesman’s forehead. The yellow tranquilizer dart protruded from the back of the native’s neck. Bernard chuckled. “We’ll call this one The First.”
This wasn’t a very clever name, he had to admit, but Bernard didn’t consider himself much of a creative man.
“Are there any females left?” he asked.
“A few,” one of his men answered.
He pointed to three of his most trusted men. “You stay here. When we get back to the chopper I will send in the company. We will build an interim camp and keep the females here in case we ever need a new subject. Complete extinction, after all, wouldn’t be very good for business.”
They nodded their agreement.
He smiled. “If all goes as planned over the next eight or so years, the ‘90s are going to be quite the prosperous decade for the WereHouse.”
2
DOG FIGHT
1993
THE out-of-the-way abandoned factory was the perfect spot for the night’s festivities. The most nerve-racking part of Howard’s trip was actually getting to the games. His driver had assured him everything checked out, but he knew driving into the middle of nowhere at night in his flashy Cadillac limo was somewhat risky. He could easily be walking into an elaborate set-up for a robbery or kidnapping for extortion.
But the lure of seeing something few had ever seen was too enticing to pass up.
“Are we crazy coming out here, Joseph?” he asked his driver.
“Relax, sir. I told you I checked everything out. The promoter has the cops in his pocket. You have nothing to worry about. Just enjoy yourself and win some money.”
Howard sunk back into the plush seat of his limo. He was still nervous, but he was equally excited. His first sight of the old factory relieved some of those nerves, but not all of them. The stretched limos, Rolls Royces, and other expensive cars let him know he was in the right spot.
Joseph pulled up to the rundown factory’s front entrance. A doorman hurried to the car and opened Howard’s door. “Good evening, sir,” the man said, offering his hand. “Welcome to the Dog Park.”
Howard accepted his hand and pulled himself from his seat.
“Right this way, sir.” The man led Howard through the door, along a decrepit hallway, and into a bustling, wide-open room. The walls were clean and freshly painted, which gave the musty factory an almost new-building feel.
The crowd of tuxedo-wearing men and gown-wearing ladies made Howard feel at home. He saw his friend and one-time mentor, Harley, across the way and hurried to him.
Along the wall behind Harley was a row of voting-style booths with lines of people stretching into the crowd. Next to the farthest right booth was a sign that read Minimum Bet: $25,000. Howard smiled. Yes indeed, this was where he was supposed to be.
“Harley, you old fart,” he shouted as the older man made his way through the crowd. “How the hell are you?”
Harley’s hair had obviously been dyed brown, though his eyebrows were left grey and overgrown. “You’re cutting it close, Howard. You’d better place your bets. The fights start in five minutes.”
“I don’t know any of the dogs. Which one you got your money on?”
Harley looked around to make sure no one was listening and motioned Howard closer. “I put a hundred grand on a dog named Borg. I’ve heard from some close friends that he has won two previous tournaments. That makes him basically a lock in these kinds of fights.”
“Borg, huh? What, is his handler a Trekkie or something?”
Harley shrugged his shoulders, probably having no idea what the hell Howard was talking about. Howard clapped his hands together. “Borg it is. If you’ll excuse me.” He rushed to the betting line.
With a half million dollars spread between a few combatants, he shuffled his way back through the crowd toward the front where three separate, circular rings were enclosed in waist-high block walls.
The concrete floor within each of the three rings had been jack-hammered down to the dirt and the painted white block walls were stained with red.
“Why are there three rings?” Howard asked no one in particular. “I don’t want to watch three fights at once.”
The gentleman standing next to him leaned in and shouted over the crowd, “Pit bull fights take place in the factory on most weekends. They use all three rings for those.”
The crowd quieted as the function’s promoter entered the center ring with a uniformed police officer at his side. Howard was relieved his driver had been right about cops being on the WereHouse payroll. The promoter held a microphone and wore a smile.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming out tonight. We have a treat for you. My name is Bernard Henderson, and I welcome you all. Tonight’s tournament will be unlike anything you have ever witnessed. It will be violent, and I must admit, quite bloody.”
As he spoke, two bikini-clad models walked between the rings and into the crowd, passing out clear plastic ponchos, safety goggles, and surgical masks to everyone. When one of the girls got to Howard, he snatched a coat from her outstretched hand.
The announcer added, “Masks and goggles are mandatory. We don’t know everything about these beasts and sharing blood with them isn’t the best idea.”
> Howard grabbed the gear from the model. He put on the goggles and joked, “This ain’t no Gallagher concert.”
She ignored him, continuing down the line.
He slipped the jacket over his shoulders and the hood over his hair.
The ringmaster continued, “Without further ado, let’s get on with your first fight.”
Harley made his way through the crowd to Howard’s side. He now wore a similar raincoat and goggles, and had his surgical mask pulled down over his chin. He had two glasses of champagne with him and handed one of the glasses to Howard. He said, “Hurry and drink this before the start.” Howard downed it with a swig. Harley also finished his glass, dropped it to the floor, and tugged his mask over his face. “You ever seen one of these creatures in person before?” he asked.
Howard shook his head. “No, but I’m thinking of buying one for my boy.”
For the previous three weeks since Howard had found out he was coming to the fights, he had felt like a kid at Christmas time. As he waited, he realized he was shuffling from foot to foot in anticipation. Harley chuckled and patted his shoulder.
Six men wearing army fatigues and carrying assault rifles filed from the doors and surrounded the ring. Howard felt a little more secure, though not much. The far double doors swung open and a man tugging a long chain passed through. Attached to the end of the chain was the most magnificent creature Howard had ever seen.
The creature stood on his hind legs, revealing his true height which was at least two heads taller than his handler who was by no means a small man.
He roared like a lion, and the sound echoed throughout the factory. His ears were mangled stubs like a fighting pit bull champion, and scars replaced some of the fur around his face. He snarled with bared teeth from his exaggerated, wolf-like snout. His chest was thick and powerful, though his gut appeared emaciated like he was starving. Howard wondered if starvation was what made him so ferocious before a fight. Rage-filled spittle dripped from his jowls, and Howard couldn’t have been happier.
As the creature passed along the front row of spectators, he snapped and swatted his claws at them in a rabid display of hate. The women of the crowd shrieked, the men recoiled, and Howard laughed out loud.
The creature’s handler zapped him with a cattle prod which only seemed to anger the beast even more. The handler jerked the chain leash and continued dragging him along the isle and into the main ring closest to Howard and Harley. The handler fastened the creature’s chain to a hook mounted to the floor and climbed back out of the ring.
“Oh. My. Lord,” Howard mumbled.
“I know what you mean,” Harley said with a playful elbow to his ribs.
A different handler led another beast through the double doors and into the ring. The two creatures stared at each other from opposite sides.
Howard turned to Harley, unable to contain his excitement. “I thought these things were supposed to be docile,” he shouted over the crowd’s roar.
“They are,” Harley answered. “The WereHouse sells some of the beasts that haven’t been broken yet to the black market. But don’t get too excited; if you want one, it’ll cost you ten million, the way I hear it.”
Howard balked at the price. “Why would anyone spend such money on a creature that could be slaughtered at his first fight?”
“The money from the bets, especially if your beast manages to win once or twice, will more than cover your expenses. Now, shut up and watch. I think the grayish one with the scars around his snout is Borg.”
Howard fixed his eyes on the ring, and more specifically, on Borg. He was a fine creature, the finest creature that ever existed. Three of the six guards trained their weapons on Borg, while the remaining three aimed at Borg’s opponent.
An announcement from the intercom echoed the words that would forever be burned into Howard’s brain. “Unleash the werewolves.”
The hooks in the ground released with a clank. Without hesitation, as if the two creatures had heard that clank before, they launched at each other in an explosion of claws and teeth and blood. Their chains tangled around them as they rolled against the wall.
The yelps and wails of the fighting werewolves were unnerving and painful to Howard’s senses, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. He shoved his hands over his ears. Harley nudged him with a chuckle.
Each rip of flesh and wail of the beasts made him cringe, and though he wanted to close his eyes, he wanted to watch even more. Blood splattered across his raincoat and speckled his goggles. He was in awe, unable or unwilling to wipe the crimson drops from his plastic eye protection.
As quickly as the battle began, one creature stood victorious over his foe. Beneath him, Howard’s pick—Borg, the unbeatable favorite—gasped his last breath while his blood poured from his carotid artery into the dirt. The victorious werewolf gave a deafening roar, and the crowd cheered.
What Howard had just witnessed was the single most exhilarating and amazing sight he had ever seen. His heart pumped almost through his ribcage. His hands shook and his lower lip quivered. He lowered his hands from his ears.
Harley leaned in. “Pretty incredible, huh?”
Howard couldn’t answer; he nodded instead. He had been to more dog fights and cock fights than he cared to remember, and nothing had ever pumped him up in such a way.
Harley grinned and said, “Just think, we still have six more fights to go tonight.”
Howard could hardly contain his excitement. “WereHouse,” he whispered, “where have you been all of my life?”
The handlers removed the victor, along with the dead werewolf carcass, and dumped bleach onto the pooled blood where the loser’s body had been. Two more handlers led two more werewolves into the ring for the second match. Howard didn’t care if he lost all of his bets as long as this night never ended.
3
CHRISTINE
2011
BILLY gave Christine all kinds of shit about missing his morning scrambled eggs and pepper jack cheese. No matter how hard she tried to convince him that the firehouse cook would save him a plate, he grumbled about how terrible reheated eggs tasted. He had a point, but she would never admit it.
It wasn’t Christine’s fault that the previous crew didn’t do their job and now she and Billy had to do it for them. She would be sure to let them know about it the next time she saw them.
The morphine on hand had expired at midnight, and since morphine was a narcotic, protocol dictated that Christine and her partner, Billy, had to replace it ASAP at the neighboring firehouse where their coordinator was stationed.
“Medicine is good for at least six months after its expiration,” Billy mumbled. “Six more minutes wouldn’t matter.”
“Liability, Billy.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Today was Christine’s day to drive the medic truck, which she preferred since she hated the tediousness of writing the reports. She glanced at Billy who sat slouched in his seat with one foot on the dashboard, his annoyance not lost on her. He was twenty-two years old with a ton of growing to do, but when it came down to life and death, he was as good as they came. That’s not to say it wasn’t tough for Christine to get past his smug smile and arrogant swagger, because it was. Especially after he proclaimed himself a cocksmith at their first meeting.
When she overheard him refer to her as a cougar with the other guys in the firehouse bay that same day, she was ready to hold his head in a bucket of water. She bit her lip instead and let him know she wasn’t that old. After a few seconds, she snapped, “In fact, I’m only 10 years older than you.” But he had grown on her over the year since they first met, and she now felt the same affection for him that she would for a little brother.
He was brash, there was no doubt, but she learned to roll her eyes at his many sexist comments from, “Look at that ass,” when they passed a young lady to, “I’d like to be her bicycle seat.” Because, inevitably, five minutes after making one of these annoying comments he
would be comforting an elderly lady who had woken up to find that her husband wasn’t breathing. When it came down to the job, Billy shined.
He broke his hungry, pouting silence in his own impersonal way. “Still dating Roger?”
“He’s a jerk and a cheater,” she answered.
“Yeah, I know,” he said.
“You know? You know? If you knew, why didn’t you tell me?”
Billy shrugged his shoulders. “You’re a smart girl. I knew you’d figure it out.”
“Oh, well, thanks a lot. I’ve wasted six months and you’ve known all along? When did you get so smart?”
He shrugged again.
She tried to hide her annoyance, in the same way she did at least three times every shift, but he had long since learned to read her body language. She stopped at a red traffic light next to a dog park that seemed unusually crowded for such a chilly afternoon. He leaned forward, trying to get her attention. “Hey now, Cougar, don’t get upset with me.”
“Put on your seatbelt,” she snapped and looked toward the traffic light. Though she stared at the light, she still saw his huge grin out of the corner of her eye. “I told you not to call me that,” she added.
“Did you watch the Buckeyes yesterday?”
“Yeah. I’m glad they won. Working in Columbus after they lose isn’t much fun.”
He leaned past the center console until his face was between hers and the windshield.
“Stop it, Billy.” She leaned closer to the driver’s side window, looking past him at the still red traffic light. He followed her movements with his own head. Finally, she shoved his face away. “What are you, a sixth-grader? I’m trying to drive here. You know I hate when you do that.”
“Come on, Chris. Is it that time of the month?”
Tamed Page 2
